Fic: Better Days
Title: Better Days
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Mary/John, Dean
Prompt: found_fic_spn 034
Summary: Dean has an ear infection, John can't work a toaster and Mary's had better days.
Disclaimer: I own DVD's, not characters or concepts.
Mary’s day began around five in the morning when Dean started howling for her. John, who loved being a parent when it involved tossing around a football or reading bedtime stories, was more than happy to let his pregnant wife waddle off to deal with it. In fact, as Mary clambered out of bed he muttered something which sounded suspiciously like “Have fun with that.”
Dean, it turned out, had thrown up in bed, and was still sitting there in the middle of his soiled bed sheets, all gross and feverish. By the time Mary stumbled back into her room after cleaning Dean up and putting on an emergency load of laundry, John was still sprawled snoring exactly where she’d left him. He was smiling a little in his sleep and Mary considered smothering him with a pillow. It wouldn’t be murder, not really. Aggravated assault and hormones at worst. He rolled over, murmuring her name, and she settled for wapping him with the pillow instead. “Rise and shine, Marine,” she barked. “If I’m up, so are you.”
***
At breakfast Mary discovered that her husband could not make toast. Grill? With pleasure. Fix a car blindfolded? No problem. Work a simple kitchen appliance? Apparently not. She was only gone for as long as it took to transfer Dean’s bedding from the washer to the drier, but in that time John had somehow managed to set the toaster on fire. Dean sat at the table, wailing along with the smoke detector with his hands over his ears and tears running down his face, while his father was attempting to tease the flaming bread from the machine with a fork. It wasn’t working. He was lucky it wasn’t electrocuting him either.
“Mary,” he pleaded, holding the toaster out to her with a desperate, little boy expression.
Mary just sighed as she unplugged the machine, shook the toast out into the sink and doused the flames with tap water. The toaster’s insides were blackened in a way that did not bode well for its continued use. She’d chugged the last of the milk along with a plate full of Jalapeño peppers during a midnight craving, so cereal was out too. The only other available breakfast food in the house was oatmeal, the sight of which had been making her queasy since her third month. She sighed again as she put a pot on. This just wasn’t her morning.
***
The doctor’s office wasn’t anywhere near as awful as Mary had thought it would be. Sure the waiting room had been filled with diseased, shrieking children and out of date parenting magazines, but they hadn’t had to sit there long. The doctor took Dean’s temperature, shined lights in his ears, made him say “ah,” and less than an hour later they were their way to the pharmacy with a prescription for antibiotics. Mary was actually thinking she might make it home to see her soaps when a loud pop interrupted her thoughts. The car veered sharply to the left and Mary went with it, steering the Impala onto the shoulder.
The front left tire, it turned out, had blown. “Just great,” Mary grumbled as she studied what was left of it. She was so pregnant she could barely bend over to tie her shoes; working the jack was going to be fun. Mary smiled at Dean’s curious face in the rear window as she went to get the jack from the trunk, only to realize there was no point. Whatever had gotten the front tire had gotten the rear one too and they only had the one spare.
Mary fished Dean out of the backseat and joined him on the Impala’s hood. Why couldn’t cars have little phones in them, she wondered. She could just call John, and they’d be all set. Instead, it was a mile and a half to the nearest gas station and Mary wasn’t looking forward to waddling that with a sick kid in tow. Mary felt her eyes beginning to water. It wasn’t even ten yet and already it was the day from hell.
“Don’t cry, Mommy.” Dean leaned his fever-warm head back against her shoulder and looked up at her with enormous eyes. “It’ll get better.”
“Yeah?” Mary wiped at her cheeks.
The little boy nodded solemnly and pointed where the beat-up blue pickup was pulling off the road just in front of the Impala. Maybe Dean was right. Maybe things really were looking up.
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Mary/John, Dean
Prompt: found_fic_spn 034
Summary: Dean has an ear infection, John can't work a toaster and Mary's had better days.
Disclaimer: I own DVD's, not characters or concepts.
Mary’s day began around five in the morning when Dean started howling for her. John, who loved being a parent when it involved tossing around a football or reading bedtime stories, was more than happy to let his pregnant wife waddle off to deal with it. In fact, as Mary clambered out of bed he muttered something which sounded suspiciously like “Have fun with that.”
Dean, it turned out, had thrown up in bed, and was still sitting there in the middle of his soiled bed sheets, all gross and feverish. By the time Mary stumbled back into her room after cleaning Dean up and putting on an emergency load of laundry, John was still sprawled snoring exactly where she’d left him. He was smiling a little in his sleep and Mary considered smothering him with a pillow. It wouldn’t be murder, not really. Aggravated assault and hormones at worst. He rolled over, murmuring her name, and she settled for wapping him with the pillow instead. “Rise and shine, Marine,” she barked. “If I’m up, so are you.”
***
At breakfast Mary discovered that her husband could not make toast. Grill? With pleasure. Fix a car blindfolded? No problem. Work a simple kitchen appliance? Apparently not. She was only gone for as long as it took to transfer Dean’s bedding from the washer to the drier, but in that time John had somehow managed to set the toaster on fire. Dean sat at the table, wailing along with the smoke detector with his hands over his ears and tears running down his face, while his father was attempting to tease the flaming bread from the machine with a fork. It wasn’t working. He was lucky it wasn’t electrocuting him either.
“Mary,” he pleaded, holding the toaster out to her with a desperate, little boy expression.
Mary just sighed as she unplugged the machine, shook the toast out into the sink and doused the flames with tap water. The toaster’s insides were blackened in a way that did not bode well for its continued use. She’d chugged the last of the milk along with a plate full of Jalapeño peppers during a midnight craving, so cereal was out too. The only other available breakfast food in the house was oatmeal, the sight of which had been making her queasy since her third month. She sighed again as she put a pot on. This just wasn’t her morning.
***
The doctor’s office wasn’t anywhere near as awful as Mary had thought it would be. Sure the waiting room had been filled with diseased, shrieking children and out of date parenting magazines, but they hadn’t had to sit there long. The doctor took Dean’s temperature, shined lights in his ears, made him say “ah,” and less than an hour later they were their way to the pharmacy with a prescription for antibiotics. Mary was actually thinking she might make it home to see her soaps when a loud pop interrupted her thoughts. The car veered sharply to the left and Mary went with it, steering the Impala onto the shoulder.
The front left tire, it turned out, had blown. “Just great,” Mary grumbled as she studied what was left of it. She was so pregnant she could barely bend over to tie her shoes; working the jack was going to be fun. Mary smiled at Dean’s curious face in the rear window as she went to get the jack from the trunk, only to realize there was no point. Whatever had gotten the front tire had gotten the rear one too and they only had the one spare.
Mary fished Dean out of the backseat and joined him on the Impala’s hood. Why couldn’t cars have little phones in them, she wondered. She could just call John, and they’d be all set. Instead, it was a mile and a half to the nearest gas station and Mary wasn’t looking forward to waddling that with a sick kid in tow. Mary felt her eyes beginning to water. It wasn’t even ten yet and already it was the day from hell.
“Don’t cry, Mommy.” Dean leaned his fever-warm head back against her shoulder and looked up at her with enormous eyes. “It’ll get better.”
“Yeah?” Mary wiped at her cheeks.
The little boy nodded solemnly and pointed where the beat-up blue pickup was pulling off the road just in front of the Impala. Maybe Dean was right. Maybe things really were looking up.