SPN: Firefly Run 1/1
SUMMARY: Dean is still cursed to be mentally a child every weekend, so the brothers find a home. A happy memory from the past reaches up and tickles Sam, giving him an idea....
Based on the following picture by kiramaru7
FIREFLY RUN
Sam couldn't resist the smile as he drew the covers over his six-foot tall brother with the mind of a three year old - and saw the right thumb slide immediately between the pursed lips. "You okay, buddy?"
Dean shrugged, and Sam rubbed circles between his shoulderblades. "I know, buddy. I miss him, too."
Dean sighed deeply and Sam felt the tense shoulders relax. "He is comin' home, right?"
"He called this afternoon," Sam assured him. "His business is going well, and he hopes to be back some time tomorrow. He said to let you know he loves you."
Even looking at the back of his head, Sam could hear the smile in his brother's voice. "That's great. I love him, too." He yawned, his whole body shaking with the force of it. "Love you, too, Sammy."
Sam patted his shoulder. "Love you, too, sport. Get some rest, now."
The overgrown little boy sighed happily and Sam felt the moment his brother slid into sleep - the shoulder muscles relaxed completely under his hand.
With a fond smile, Sam ran a gentle hand over Dean's ungelled, soft dark blond hair.
Part of him was genuinely going to miss this when this curse ran its course. Sam pushed himself off of the bed and walked down the hallway to the stairs as his brain rewound the events that led to that tender moment.
It had been witchcraft, but it was very hard to be angry when a lonely, precocious five year old girl had just wanted a friend. She had found her grandmother's spell books and had tried to cast a spell to get her next door neighbour to be her friend.
Unfortunately, the Winchester brothers had gotten wind of the strange spells that were being cast, seemingly at random, and had come to investigate. Instead of the child next door, the spell had hit Dean - instantly reducing him to the mental age of three.
The grandmother had seen the entire thing and, while she could not remove the spell, she was able to mitigate it so that it only was active three days a week and that it only lasted one year. The brothers had not been able to destroy the tiny witch -- for how do you punish a child for wanting a friend? So, the grandmother had taken steps to destroy her powers.
The final spell the elderly witch would ever cast created a supernatural fire that destroyed the grimoires and scrolls of spells. And she had resolved, since there was no more spellwork, to work on allowing her granddaughter to have a normal life.
For the first few months, the brothers had tried to sustain their nomadic Hunter lifestyle. But it had quickly become apparent that Dean at three was a handful and a half, and showed Sam beyond a shadow of a doubt what he had always suspected from his own childhood - three year old boys needed a stable home beyond a mobile Impala.
Fortunately, he had one place he knew where they would not only be safe, Dean would have a fantastic time. One phone call and one long drive later, the brothers had pulled into the safe haven of Singer Salvage.
And now, two months later, they were still there. Bobby had had to go help Rufus out on a case, so the brothers were alone on this warm midsummer's night.
Sam walked down the stairs and checked the doors and the wards. Finding the doors all locked, the guard dog fed and the wards set, he went into the kitchen and gathered the dishes from supper.
One of the things Sam appreciated about Bobby's house was the fact that when he was there alone, Bobby saw no point in wasting time washing dishes. So he had invested in a dishwasher.
Sam loaded it and then filled the sink to wash the four dishes that couldn't go in the dishwasher. As he finished them and drained the sink, he glanced outside and saw a swarm of fireflies gathering in the growing dark.
He froze, watching them blink to their fellows on the ground. A smile tugged at his lips as a memory flickered into life.
Sam knew in this memory he couldn't have been older than eight. Dean was still telling him that Dad was gone on "jobs" instead of "hunts", so it clearly was before that Christmas that Sam had read Dad's journal and learned the truth.
The eighth summer of Sam's life was when Dean had shown him the fireflies.
Sam remembered Dean shaking him awake. "Dude," he remembered him grinning, "the fireflies are running!"
"Fireflies are bugs," Sam had reminded him, rolling back over. "They fly."
"Sammy!" Dean had insisted, flinging the covers off his protesting little brother. "A firefly run is when they get so thick it looks like the stars ran down to kiss the ground!"
Interested despite himself, Sam had gotten up and hastily thrown on some clothes. He had entered the kitchen to find Dean drying out a jelly jar. A glance out the window had revealed the lawn twinkling like one of those Christmas lights displays Dean had taken him to see half a year earlier. ".....whoa...."
"Somethin', huh?" Dean had grinned at him. "Let's go."
The rest of that night was one of Sam's fondest childhood memories. The fireflies had danced in and out of the jar for hours, sending faint glows onto the delighted faces of two absolutely capivated young boys.
Sam grinned as the memory stirred warmth in his chest. He grabbed a jelly jar from the refrigerator and dumped the grape jelly into a bowl. Quickly washing out the jar, Sam dried it as he jogged back up the stairs.
Curse or no curse, muscle memory was muscle memory. So Sam stood at the foot of the bed and shook Dean awake by the ankle.
Instantly, Dean's hand shot under the pillow as he jerked upright and blinked in sleepy confusion at the empty hand that emerged.
Sam shook his head fondly, ridiculously glad that he remembered to remove the Bowie knife whenever Dean was the Kid. Most of his memories seemed to be intact - if filtered through a three-year old mind - but there was no way Sam would let a child handle weapons. "Hey," he said, sitting down beside his brother.
"Sammy?" Dean asked around a yawn, reaching up to rub his eyes. "What..."
"C'mon, buddy. Time to get dressed."
"S'it mornin' already?"
"Nope." With a huge grin, Sam held up the empty jar. "The fireflies are runnin'."
Dean flung himself forward and hugged Sam tight for a second. Then he was out of bed and throwing on his clothing at warp speed.
After Sam reminded him to put on his shoes, the brothers raced downstairs and outside, where Sam took point navigating through the Salvage Yard to the field beyond.
And there, two overgrown kids lay enraptured for hours while fireflies danced in and out of the jelly jar, their glow softly illuminating twin expressions of absolute delight.
END
Based on the following picture by kiramaru7
FIREFLY RUN
Sam couldn't resist the smile as he drew the covers over his six-foot tall brother with the mind of a three year old - and saw the right thumb slide immediately between the pursed lips. "You okay, buddy?"
Dean shrugged, and Sam rubbed circles between his shoulderblades. "I know, buddy. I miss him, too."
Dean sighed deeply and Sam felt the tense shoulders relax. "He is comin' home, right?"
"He called this afternoon," Sam assured him. "His business is going well, and he hopes to be back some time tomorrow. He said to let you know he loves you."
Even looking at the back of his head, Sam could hear the smile in his brother's voice. "That's great. I love him, too." He yawned, his whole body shaking with the force of it. "Love you, too, Sammy."
Sam patted his shoulder. "Love you, too, sport. Get some rest, now."
The overgrown little boy sighed happily and Sam felt the moment his brother slid into sleep - the shoulder muscles relaxed completely under his hand.
With a fond smile, Sam ran a gentle hand over Dean's ungelled, soft dark blond hair.
Part of him was genuinely going to miss this when this curse ran its course. Sam pushed himself off of the bed and walked down the hallway to the stairs as his brain rewound the events that led to that tender moment.
It had been witchcraft, but it was very hard to be angry when a lonely, precocious five year old girl had just wanted a friend. She had found her grandmother's spell books and had tried to cast a spell to get her next door neighbour to be her friend.
Unfortunately, the Winchester brothers had gotten wind of the strange spells that were being cast, seemingly at random, and had come to investigate. Instead of the child next door, the spell had hit Dean - instantly reducing him to the mental age of three.
The grandmother had seen the entire thing and, while she could not remove the spell, she was able to mitigate it so that it only was active three days a week and that it only lasted one year. The brothers had not been able to destroy the tiny witch -- for how do you punish a child for wanting a friend? So, the grandmother had taken steps to destroy her powers.
The final spell the elderly witch would ever cast created a supernatural fire that destroyed the grimoires and scrolls of spells. And she had resolved, since there was no more spellwork, to work on allowing her granddaughter to have a normal life.
For the first few months, the brothers had tried to sustain their nomadic Hunter lifestyle. But it had quickly become apparent that Dean at three was a handful and a half, and showed Sam beyond a shadow of a doubt what he had always suspected from his own childhood - three year old boys needed a stable home beyond a mobile Impala.
Fortunately, he had one place he knew where they would not only be safe, Dean would have a fantastic time. One phone call and one long drive later, the brothers had pulled into the safe haven of Singer Salvage.
And now, two months later, they were still there. Bobby had had to go help Rufus out on a case, so the brothers were alone on this warm midsummer's night.
Sam walked down the stairs and checked the doors and the wards. Finding the doors all locked, the guard dog fed and the wards set, he went into the kitchen and gathered the dishes from supper.
One of the things Sam appreciated about Bobby's house was the fact that when he was there alone, Bobby saw no point in wasting time washing dishes. So he had invested in a dishwasher.
Sam loaded it and then filled the sink to wash the four dishes that couldn't go in the dishwasher. As he finished them and drained the sink, he glanced outside and saw a swarm of fireflies gathering in the growing dark.
He froze, watching them blink to their fellows on the ground. A smile tugged at his lips as a memory flickered into life.
Sam knew in this memory he couldn't have been older than eight. Dean was still telling him that Dad was gone on "jobs" instead of "hunts", so it clearly was before that Christmas that Sam had read Dad's journal and learned the truth.
The eighth summer of Sam's life was when Dean had shown him the fireflies.
Sam remembered Dean shaking him awake. "Dude," he remembered him grinning, "the fireflies are running!"
"Fireflies are bugs," Sam had reminded him, rolling back over. "They fly."
"Sammy!" Dean had insisted, flinging the covers off his protesting little brother. "A firefly run is when they get so thick it looks like the stars ran down to kiss the ground!"
Interested despite himself, Sam had gotten up and hastily thrown on some clothes. He had entered the kitchen to find Dean drying out a jelly jar. A glance out the window had revealed the lawn twinkling like one of those Christmas lights displays Dean had taken him to see half a year earlier. ".....whoa...."
"Somethin', huh?" Dean had grinned at him. "Let's go."
The rest of that night was one of Sam's fondest childhood memories. The fireflies had danced in and out of the jar for hours, sending faint glows onto the delighted faces of two absolutely capivated young boys.
Sam grinned as the memory stirred warmth in his chest. He grabbed a jelly jar from the refrigerator and dumped the grape jelly into a bowl. Quickly washing out the jar, Sam dried it as he jogged back up the stairs.
Curse or no curse, muscle memory was muscle memory. So Sam stood at the foot of the bed and shook Dean awake by the ankle.
Instantly, Dean's hand shot under the pillow as he jerked upright and blinked in sleepy confusion at the empty hand that emerged.
Sam shook his head fondly, ridiculously glad that he remembered to remove the Bowie knife whenever Dean was the Kid. Most of his memories seemed to be intact - if filtered through a three-year old mind - but there was no way Sam would let a child handle weapons. "Hey," he said, sitting down beside his brother.
"Sammy?" Dean asked around a yawn, reaching up to rub his eyes. "What..."
"C'mon, buddy. Time to get dressed."
"S'it mornin' already?"
"Nope." With a huge grin, Sam held up the empty jar. "The fireflies are runnin'."
Dean flung himself forward and hugged Sam tight for a second. Then he was out of bed and throwing on his clothing at warp speed.
After Sam reminded him to put on his shoes, the brothers raced downstairs and outside, where Sam took point navigating through the Salvage Yard to the field beyond.
And there, two overgrown kids lay enraptured for hours while fireflies danced in and out of the jelly jar, their glow softly illuminating twin expressions of absolute delight.
END