Angel Tears, by Mickey M.
Title: Angel Tears
Author: Mickey M.
Pairing No pairing; it's Gen (wee!Winchesters)
Word Count: ~850
Rating: G
Spoilers/Warnings: None. Pre-series.
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made.
Summary: Sam wants to know what salt is.
It's not the first salt line Dean's ever laid; not by a long shot. But it's the first one he's done by himself, without John holding the bag with him, helping to balance it.
Dean bites his lip in concentration, tipping the bag just so, under John's watchful eye. He glances up once, an unspoken question, and John nods.
"Just like that, Son. Remember to make sure it's thick, and make sure you keep it unbroken. Don't worry if it's not straight--that doesn't matter."
Dean nods and looks back down at the squiggly line he's poured; it looks a lot like a thick, white snake wriggling across the floor. In the muted sunlight every freckle on his face stands out and John misses Mary so bad it's a physical ache that sweeps through him rendering him dizzy for a minute.
"I'm going to do the windows in the bedroom while you finish up here, Dean. I'll be back in just a minute--holler if you need me."
"Yes, Sir."
So solemn now; John wishes for the rambunctious, wild boy of a year and a half ago. He watches for another moment then turns from the room, stepping over Sammy, playing with a couple of Fisher Price Little People in the doorway between living area and bedroom, still blissfully unaware of things like salt lines and why they're so important.
~~~~~
John detours to the bathroom when he's finished in the bedroom, and as he drops the toilet seat back down he remembers all the times Mary nagged him to put the damn seat down, John!, and he gets hit by another wave of sorrow and grief, and anger. Once upon a time it was rage, black and thick and suffocating. Time has tempered it, banked the embers so it's slow-burning, smoldering, but never gone.
There's so much to do, so much to learn and to teach. Sammy's too young yet to do anything more than trail behind them, but Dean…Dean's turning into a proper, little soldier.
Sammy's voice rings out, high and light, pitched into a question. He wakes with a question on his lips and goes to sleep at night that way. It exhausts John, trying to break the information down into Sammy-sized bits.
"'Zat?"
"Salt lines." Dean's voice holds a note of impatience, suggesting Sammy's asked more than once. Probably in the last two minutes.
"Why?"
"F'r protection."
Dean's surveying his work, even as John's doing it from the doorway. The line is wiggly and untidy, yes, but it's thick and unbroken--just as it should be. He watches sturdy little shoulders straighten in pride and is just about to step forward to congratulate Dean on a job well done when Sammy pipes up again.
"Why?"
Small shoulders slump and Dean heaves a sigh that's much too grown-up sounding for a child who isn't even seven yet.
"It keeps us safe, Sammy."
Sammy tips his head to look at the funny lines, then back to look at Dean. "Why?"
John watches Dean chew his lip for a minute, face screwed up in thought. "'Cos salt, it's pure, so it makes us safe." He sits down on the floor, inside a circle of sunlight, and pulls the bag close to him, then pats the floor beside him. "C'mere."
Sam sits obediently--but then, he would. He does anything Dean tells him to. He points to the bag. "'Zat?"
"That's the salt, see? Gimme your hand." Dean reaches in and draws out a pinch of the stuff, then sprinkles it onto Sammy's outstretched palm. "It's all dry and feels funny. Know why?"
"Why?"
John leans against the doorframe, listening with interest. This is a good opportunity for both Sam and Dean--learning and teaching all together.
"You know when you cry, how it's salty when you lick your lips?"
Sammy nods. "Tastes funny."
"Yep." Dean smiles. "Salt is dried tears, Sammy. When the angels -- like mommy -- cry? The tears dry up and that makes salt. An' then someone comes along an' scoops it up into a bag so we can pour it out into lines to make it safe for us."
If Sam asks anything after that John doesn't hear the question. He's too busy trying to breathe through his own tears, burning hot and wet behind his eyelids and stinging when they hit his face. He reaches up to wipe them away, remembering other tears he's wiped away: Mary's, Dean's, Sammy's when he was a baby. Dean's taken to wiping Sammy's tears for him, in the last year.
He's crossed the distance between him and his boys before he's even aware he's moving, and pulls both boys into a hug. Sam smells like apple juice and baby shampoo; Dean smells like sunshine and salt under the same. John breathes in deeply and holds both boys against him for a long moment, until Sam squirms to get free. Dean tips his head back and looks at John, green eyes somber and searching.
"You okay, Daddy?"
John wipes his eyes once more, and smiles like his heart hasn't broken into a hundred tiny fragments. "I'm good, Dean."
~fin~
Author: Mickey M.
Pairing No pairing; it's Gen (wee!Winchesters)
Word Count: ~850
Rating: G
Spoilers/Warnings: None. Pre-series.
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being made.
Summary: Sam wants to know what salt is.
It's not the first salt line Dean's ever laid; not by a long shot. But it's the first one he's done by himself, without John holding the bag with him, helping to balance it.
Dean bites his lip in concentration, tipping the bag just so, under John's watchful eye. He glances up once, an unspoken question, and John nods.
"Just like that, Son. Remember to make sure it's thick, and make sure you keep it unbroken. Don't worry if it's not straight--that doesn't matter."
Dean nods and looks back down at the squiggly line he's poured; it looks a lot like a thick, white snake wriggling across the floor. In the muted sunlight every freckle on his face stands out and John misses Mary so bad it's a physical ache that sweeps through him rendering him dizzy for a minute.
"I'm going to do the windows in the bedroom while you finish up here, Dean. I'll be back in just a minute--holler if you need me."
"Yes, Sir."
So solemn now; John wishes for the rambunctious, wild boy of a year and a half ago. He watches for another moment then turns from the room, stepping over Sammy, playing with a couple of Fisher Price Little People in the doorway between living area and bedroom, still blissfully unaware of things like salt lines and why they're so important.
~~~~~
John detours to the bathroom when he's finished in the bedroom, and as he drops the toilet seat back down he remembers all the times Mary nagged him to put the damn seat down, John!, and he gets hit by another wave of sorrow and grief, and anger. Once upon a time it was rage, black and thick and suffocating. Time has tempered it, banked the embers so it's slow-burning, smoldering, but never gone.
There's so much to do, so much to learn and to teach. Sammy's too young yet to do anything more than trail behind them, but Dean…Dean's turning into a proper, little soldier.
Sammy's voice rings out, high and light, pitched into a question. He wakes with a question on his lips and goes to sleep at night that way. It exhausts John, trying to break the information down into Sammy-sized bits.
"'Zat?"
"Salt lines." Dean's voice holds a note of impatience, suggesting Sammy's asked more than once. Probably in the last two minutes.
"Why?"
"F'r protection."
Dean's surveying his work, even as John's doing it from the doorway. The line is wiggly and untidy, yes, but it's thick and unbroken--just as it should be. He watches sturdy little shoulders straighten in pride and is just about to step forward to congratulate Dean on a job well done when Sammy pipes up again.
"Why?"
Small shoulders slump and Dean heaves a sigh that's much too grown-up sounding for a child who isn't even seven yet.
"It keeps us safe, Sammy."
Sammy tips his head to look at the funny lines, then back to look at Dean. "Why?"
John watches Dean chew his lip for a minute, face screwed up in thought. "'Cos salt, it's pure, so it makes us safe." He sits down on the floor, inside a circle of sunlight, and pulls the bag close to him, then pats the floor beside him. "C'mere."
Sam sits obediently--but then, he would. He does anything Dean tells him to. He points to the bag. "'Zat?"
"That's the salt, see? Gimme your hand." Dean reaches in and draws out a pinch of the stuff, then sprinkles it onto Sammy's outstretched palm. "It's all dry and feels funny. Know why?"
"Why?"
John leans against the doorframe, listening with interest. This is a good opportunity for both Sam and Dean--learning and teaching all together.
"You know when you cry, how it's salty when you lick your lips?"
Sammy nods. "Tastes funny."
"Yep." Dean smiles. "Salt is dried tears, Sammy. When the angels -- like mommy -- cry? The tears dry up and that makes salt. An' then someone comes along an' scoops it up into a bag so we can pour it out into lines to make it safe for us."
If Sam asks anything after that John doesn't hear the question. He's too busy trying to breathe through his own tears, burning hot and wet behind his eyelids and stinging when they hit his face. He reaches up to wipe them away, remembering other tears he's wiped away: Mary's, Dean's, Sammy's when he was a baby. Dean's taken to wiping Sammy's tears for him, in the last year.
He's crossed the distance between him and his boys before he's even aware he's moving, and pulls both boys into a hug. Sam smells like apple juice and baby shampoo; Dean smells like sunshine and salt under the same. John breathes in deeply and holds both boys against him for a long moment, until Sam squirms to get free. Dean tips his head back and looks at John, green eyes somber and searching.
"You okay, Daddy?"
John wipes his eyes once more, and smiles like his heart hasn't broken into a hundred tiny fragments. "I'm good, Dean."
~fin~