Attack of Lil-Dean.
Another birthday. My love and thanks to innie_darling for brainstorming where all these snippets are headed -- you rock my crazy world, woman. This is number four in the series, rated PG for a tiny splash of spicy language. Holy crap, this is the amount I have to write EVERY DAY to complete Nano this year. That's like a short story a day. *gulp* Hope you enjoy!
Eighth Birthday
Ninth Birthday
Tenth Birthday
IV.
The plows are out when he hits town, but the snow is still falling, and he has to drive a lot slower than he feels like going. One guy in a bright blue cap stares at him from the cab of his plow, such a classic what-the-fuck look that Sam almost laughs, because yeah. Biggest snowstorm in umpteen years and nobody out on the roads but snowplows and one dude in an Impala with no chains. Nobody stupid enough to drive but himself.
He glances at his watch and lets a little relieved sigh escape. It’s still early, not even ten yet. Plenty of time.
The little yellow house looks washed out by the brilliance of the white snow, and lights shine in the windows. Sam swallows a rush of gladness and pulls into the driveway.
When he climbs out, a snowball pelts him in the back of the head.
“What the fu -“
Dean gives a warning whoop before tackling him, and Sam reels into the side of the Impala, gasping and slipping in the snow. “You made it!” Dean crows, arms looping around Sam’s neck and nearly strangling him.
“Course I did,” Sam wheezes. “Dude, you’re killing me.”
Dean lets up, and Sam gazes at his grinning face. No hat - of course - and cheeks flushed with cold and excitement. “Did you grow another inch the past week or something? I could swear you were shorter when I left.”
Dean draws a breath to reply, and a snowball whistles out of nowhere, smacking him in the back. “Oh MAN,” he breathes, spinning around. “You are DEAD.”
Chris Burns peeks over Mel’s Volvo and snickers. Dean takes off, and then Sam can’t see them anymore, just the crunch of boots in snow, and then Dean yells about Chris being dead meat.
Sam listens. He isn’t sure about Chris. Dean’s eleven today, and Chris is already thirteen, older and amiable enough around Dean, but there’s a funny little sullen look he gets around grownups. Sam isn’t sure he likes that look. It’s sort of the look Dean himself got sometimes when they were kids, right before Dean came up with a plan to cherrybomb a mailbox, or the time he filled the Ashland High School principal’s car with water on a night when the temps got down to around minus 15. He’d gotten expelled for that one, to no one’s surprise, and Dad had nearly stroked out he’d been so pissed, but Dean had told Sam privately later that they were leaving in a few days anyway, and besides, dude, the LOOK on that asshole’s FACE. Worth it, totally fucking worth it.
Sam thinks maybe Chris isn’t such a good influence. But there have been no ice-sculpture cars yet, no exploded mailboxes, and Dean likes him. So.
He takes his bags from the trunk, and the box for Dean, and goes inside.
“Thought I heard you come in,” Mel says, wiping her hands on her jeans while she walks out of the kitchen. She looks warm and pretty, no makeup, hair pinned up untidily and escaping in sweaty little tendrils on the back of her neck, and Sam grins and cups her face in his hands, ignores her hiss at how cold his fingers are and kisses her mouth without saying anything at all.
Mel’s already fed herself and Dean - birthday burgers - but she heats up some stew for Sam, and there’s a cake from the bakery on Oak. Chris evidently went home, finally, and Dean’s attention is split between the cake and the box Sam has left sitting on the couch in the living room.
“Sorry I’m late,” Sam says through a mouthful of bread. “The snow. God, it was really coming down up in the mountains.”
“Snow day tomorrow.” Mel gives Dean a fond look and he nods enthusiastically. “Already came on the news. No school.”
“How’s English?” Sam asks.
“It’s language arts.” Dean’s plate is empty, and he reaches out and gets a fingerful of frosting off the cake. “Okay, I guess. Same old.”
“Anything you want to ask me about?”
Dean gives him an injured look. “It’s my birthday, man, gimme a break. Besides, no class tomorrow.”
Sam exchanges a grin with Mel, and Dean’s eyes wander back to the couch.
“Come on,” Sam says gently. “Open your present.”
Dean springs to his feet, and Sam thinks wanly about how he’s growing out of those jeans already while he takes Mel’s hand, walks out to where Dean is already examining the bulky box, frowning a little.
“Careful,” Sam says, settling into the loveseat and making room for Mel. She fits snugly under his arm, and he touches her hair and adds, “It’s fragile.”
Dean darts him a look, then rips into the paper a little more carefully.
It’s packed in foam, and for a second Sam can see Dean trying to figure out what it is. And then his expression clears, the foam gives under his prying fingers, and he takes it out.
“Wow,” Dean says breathily. “Holy shit.”
Inordinately pleased, Sam doesn’t even bother to say anything about the cussing. “Had it made for you. Guy up in Yakima. You said you needed something better than the rental, right?”
Dean’s jaw is hanging, his look unflatteringly dumbfounded. He looks young and sweet, handling the guitar as if Doug had built it out of spun glass instead of wood. “Oh man,” Dean breathes. “Jesus. Awesome.”
“You impressed even me,” whispers Mel, and kisses Sam’s ear. “When did you set this up?”
“I was up there a few months ago. The thing in White Swan.” Sam smiles and keeps on watching Dean while he carefully tests the strings, adjusts a peg. “Wanted to buy the one he had, but he said he’d build me a new one.”
“It’s gorgeous. I think I’m jealous.”
“Hey, you don’t even play the guitar.”
“With an instrument like that? I’d learn, believe me.”
Sam laughs softly and listens while Dean’s fingers strum out a chord, and then another.
Dean’s bedside lamp is on, and Sam pauses in the doorway to his room, aware of the cool presence tucked into his back pocket. “Still awake?”
Dean gives him a sleepy smile. “Yeah. How was your trip?”
They talk like this sometimes, when Mel’s already in bed. Quiet, more honest than they are in mixed company, although Sam has never been able to outright lie to his wife. Embroider the truth a bit, maybe. She thinks this was a hunting trip, and it was a hunting trip. But Sam hadn’t shot any deer, hadn’t ever been a threat to any natural living creature, and Dean is still the only person who truly knows what that means.
“Good,” Sam says, walking over and sitting on the edge of Dean’s bed. Dean’s room is a mess of gadgets and comics and posters, CDs and DVDs and computer crap that all speak to a certain level of overindulgence on the part of his family. Mel comes from money, and Sam’s earning an embarrassingly good paycheck at the company. He may have sold out to the man, but the man is making it pretty damn worth his time, really. And Dean has everything an almost-teenage boy could want: cell phone, brand-new Nintendo Wii3, an MP3 player the size of a toenail that plays the equivalent of three thousand LPs. Crazy.
But times like these, all the stuff is just stuff. There’s really just himself and Dean, Dean who is growing so fast these days Sam sometimes has trouble seeing the little boy in the army-drab tee shirt whose bare foot nearly broke his nose four years ago. The feral little animal is gone; this Dean is a lot more savvy, but without the tinfoil edge of harshness he had once learned from their father. This Dean isn’t as hard as that one, but not as soft as the boys he hangs out with in school.
“Got what I came for,” he tells Dean now, and sees Dean’s teeth flash in a satisfied grin. “Maybe you can come with me next time.”
Dean sits up, nodding so fast he looks like one of those toys with the bobbing heads. “You know it,” he exclaims. “I’m so there.”
Sam nods and takes a deep breath. “I got you something else,” he says slowly.
Dean watches him, no longer sleepy, eyes bright with surprise. “No shit?”
“No shit.” Sam reaches back and draws it out of his pocket. The sheath gleams in the lamplight, smooth leather tooled with symbols, the product of several hours’ work out in the workshop attached to the garage.
“It isn’t new,” he continues, while Dean takes the knife and unsnaps the sheath, draws out the shining blade. “You had it. Years ago.”
The curving knife reflects a jarring procession of images, Dean’s chin and a disembodied green-hazel eye, the plaid of Sam’s shirt. Dean nods slowly, reverently. “It was mine,” he whispers.
“Yeah. I thought you should have it back.”
Dean’s grin is gone; he looks sober and a little worried. “Thanks.”
“Keep it under your pillow. Just in case,” Sam says. “You know.”
Dean nods.
“Happy birthday, Dean,” Sam says thickly. “I love you, kiddo.”
Dean accepts his hug without complaining, uttering a soft, “Love you too,” against Sam’s shoulder.
Eighth Birthday
Ninth Birthday
Tenth Birthday
IV.
The plows are out when he hits town, but the snow is still falling, and he has to drive a lot slower than he feels like going. One guy in a bright blue cap stares at him from the cab of his plow, such a classic what-the-fuck look that Sam almost laughs, because yeah. Biggest snowstorm in umpteen years and nobody out on the roads but snowplows and one dude in an Impala with no chains. Nobody stupid enough to drive but himself.
He glances at his watch and lets a little relieved sigh escape. It’s still early, not even ten yet. Plenty of time.
The little yellow house looks washed out by the brilliance of the white snow, and lights shine in the windows. Sam swallows a rush of gladness and pulls into the driveway.
When he climbs out, a snowball pelts him in the back of the head.
“What the fu -“
Dean gives a warning whoop before tackling him, and Sam reels into the side of the Impala, gasping and slipping in the snow. “You made it!” Dean crows, arms looping around Sam’s neck and nearly strangling him.
“Course I did,” Sam wheezes. “Dude, you’re killing me.”
Dean lets up, and Sam gazes at his grinning face. No hat - of course - and cheeks flushed with cold and excitement. “Did you grow another inch the past week or something? I could swear you were shorter when I left.”
Dean draws a breath to reply, and a snowball whistles out of nowhere, smacking him in the back. “Oh MAN,” he breathes, spinning around. “You are DEAD.”
Chris Burns peeks over Mel’s Volvo and snickers. Dean takes off, and then Sam can’t see them anymore, just the crunch of boots in snow, and then Dean yells about Chris being dead meat.
Sam listens. He isn’t sure about Chris. Dean’s eleven today, and Chris is already thirteen, older and amiable enough around Dean, but there’s a funny little sullen look he gets around grownups. Sam isn’t sure he likes that look. It’s sort of the look Dean himself got sometimes when they were kids, right before Dean came up with a plan to cherrybomb a mailbox, or the time he filled the Ashland High School principal’s car with water on a night when the temps got down to around minus 15. He’d gotten expelled for that one, to no one’s surprise, and Dad had nearly stroked out he’d been so pissed, but Dean had told Sam privately later that they were leaving in a few days anyway, and besides, dude, the LOOK on that asshole’s FACE. Worth it, totally fucking worth it.
Sam thinks maybe Chris isn’t such a good influence. But there have been no ice-sculpture cars yet, no exploded mailboxes, and Dean likes him. So.
He takes his bags from the trunk, and the box for Dean, and goes inside.
“Thought I heard you come in,” Mel says, wiping her hands on her jeans while she walks out of the kitchen. She looks warm and pretty, no makeup, hair pinned up untidily and escaping in sweaty little tendrils on the back of her neck, and Sam grins and cups her face in his hands, ignores her hiss at how cold his fingers are and kisses her mouth without saying anything at all.
Mel’s already fed herself and Dean - birthday burgers - but she heats up some stew for Sam, and there’s a cake from the bakery on Oak. Chris evidently went home, finally, and Dean’s attention is split between the cake and the box Sam has left sitting on the couch in the living room.
“Sorry I’m late,” Sam says through a mouthful of bread. “The snow. God, it was really coming down up in the mountains.”
“Snow day tomorrow.” Mel gives Dean a fond look and he nods enthusiastically. “Already came on the news. No school.”
“How’s English?” Sam asks.
“It’s language arts.” Dean’s plate is empty, and he reaches out and gets a fingerful of frosting off the cake. “Okay, I guess. Same old.”
“Anything you want to ask me about?”
Dean gives him an injured look. “It’s my birthday, man, gimme a break. Besides, no class tomorrow.”
Sam exchanges a grin with Mel, and Dean’s eyes wander back to the couch.
“Come on,” Sam says gently. “Open your present.”
Dean springs to his feet, and Sam thinks wanly about how he’s growing out of those jeans already while he takes Mel’s hand, walks out to where Dean is already examining the bulky box, frowning a little.
“Careful,” Sam says, settling into the loveseat and making room for Mel. She fits snugly under his arm, and he touches her hair and adds, “It’s fragile.”
Dean darts him a look, then rips into the paper a little more carefully.
It’s packed in foam, and for a second Sam can see Dean trying to figure out what it is. And then his expression clears, the foam gives under his prying fingers, and he takes it out.
“Wow,” Dean says breathily. “Holy shit.”
Inordinately pleased, Sam doesn’t even bother to say anything about the cussing. “Had it made for you. Guy up in Yakima. You said you needed something better than the rental, right?”
Dean’s jaw is hanging, his look unflatteringly dumbfounded. He looks young and sweet, handling the guitar as if Doug had built it out of spun glass instead of wood. “Oh man,” Dean breathes. “Jesus. Awesome.”
“You impressed even me,” whispers Mel, and kisses Sam’s ear. “When did you set this up?”
“I was up there a few months ago. The thing in White Swan.” Sam smiles and keeps on watching Dean while he carefully tests the strings, adjusts a peg. “Wanted to buy the one he had, but he said he’d build me a new one.”
“It’s gorgeous. I think I’m jealous.”
“Hey, you don’t even play the guitar.”
“With an instrument like that? I’d learn, believe me.”
Sam laughs softly and listens while Dean’s fingers strum out a chord, and then another.
Dean’s bedside lamp is on, and Sam pauses in the doorway to his room, aware of the cool presence tucked into his back pocket. “Still awake?”
Dean gives him a sleepy smile. “Yeah. How was your trip?”
They talk like this sometimes, when Mel’s already in bed. Quiet, more honest than they are in mixed company, although Sam has never been able to outright lie to his wife. Embroider the truth a bit, maybe. She thinks this was a hunting trip, and it was a hunting trip. But Sam hadn’t shot any deer, hadn’t ever been a threat to any natural living creature, and Dean is still the only person who truly knows what that means.
“Good,” Sam says, walking over and sitting on the edge of Dean’s bed. Dean’s room is a mess of gadgets and comics and posters, CDs and DVDs and computer crap that all speak to a certain level of overindulgence on the part of his family. Mel comes from money, and Sam’s earning an embarrassingly good paycheck at the company. He may have sold out to the man, but the man is making it pretty damn worth his time, really. And Dean has everything an almost-teenage boy could want: cell phone, brand-new Nintendo Wii3, an MP3 player the size of a toenail that plays the equivalent of three thousand LPs. Crazy.
But times like these, all the stuff is just stuff. There’s really just himself and Dean, Dean who is growing so fast these days Sam sometimes has trouble seeing the little boy in the army-drab tee shirt whose bare foot nearly broke his nose four years ago. The feral little animal is gone; this Dean is a lot more savvy, but without the tinfoil edge of harshness he had once learned from their father. This Dean isn’t as hard as that one, but not as soft as the boys he hangs out with in school.
“Got what I came for,” he tells Dean now, and sees Dean’s teeth flash in a satisfied grin. “Maybe you can come with me next time.”
Dean sits up, nodding so fast he looks like one of those toys with the bobbing heads. “You know it,” he exclaims. “I’m so there.”
Sam nods and takes a deep breath. “I got you something else,” he says slowly.
Dean watches him, no longer sleepy, eyes bright with surprise. “No shit?”
“No shit.” Sam reaches back and draws it out of his pocket. The sheath gleams in the lamplight, smooth leather tooled with symbols, the product of several hours’ work out in the workshop attached to the garage.
“It isn’t new,” he continues, while Dean takes the knife and unsnaps the sheath, draws out the shining blade. “You had it. Years ago.”
The curving knife reflects a jarring procession of images, Dean’s chin and a disembodied green-hazel eye, the plaid of Sam’s shirt. Dean nods slowly, reverently. “It was mine,” he whispers.
“Yeah. I thought you should have it back.”
Dean’s grin is gone; he looks sober and a little worried. “Thanks.”
“Keep it under your pillow. Just in case,” Sam says. “You know.”
Dean nods.
“Happy birthday, Dean,” Sam says thickly. “I love you, kiddo.”
Dean accepts his hug without complaining, uttering a soft, “Love you too,” against Sam’s shoulder.