SPN FIC - Conquering Christmas Mountain
As requested by quickreaver -- baby Sammy's first time sledding! Or ... well ... cardboard boxing. :)
CHARACTERS: John, Dean (almost 6), Sammy (20 months)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: G
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1162 words
CONQUERING CHRISTMAS MOUNTAIN
By Carol Davis
"Dad," Dean said. "There's a mountain. There's a whole mountain."
He was on his knees on a chair in front of the window, pressing his small hands against the pane, leaving rows of prints in the thin layer of frost. Sam was squashed in beside him (Sam's most normal position, be it in the car, a bed, a diner booth, anywhere), pressing his tiny nose to the glass and recoiling from the cold, laughing.
Some Christmas, John thought.
They could have gone to Jim Murphy's - Jim had, in fact, invited them - but there was someone in New Mexico who might know something. And it would be a mistake to let the boys burrow in at Jim's, surrounded by a sense of home they would have to walk away from. Better this way, this small Christmas in a small-town motel. A tiny tree atop the dresser, some toys the boys had played with for a while and then abandoned in favor of creating patterns in the frost.
They were resilient, John thought. Adaptable.
He often wished he was.
"Mountain?" he said to Dean, pushing aside the cluster of old books that had come courtesy of someone who knew someone.
Dean rapped the window with a knuckle. "Out there. See?"
Hands tucked into the warmth of his pockets, John strolled closer to the window and took a look. The world out there was white (where it wasn't dirty), buried beneath a night-long snowfall that had to amount to a foot or better. The county plows and salt trucks were still at work clearing the roads; for the past twenty minutes or so, someone manning a pickup with a plow blade had been doggedly clearing the motel parking lot - pushing the snow down to one end, into what was indeed a mountain.
At the edge of his vision, John could see Dean watching him.
"Could check it out, I guess," he said.
The pickup would be gone by the time he got the boys into boots and coats, hats and mittens, he figured, and it was. Sam, in John's arms, stared goggle-eyed at what was to him something entirely new and wondrous, and struggled to be set free. When John set him down on the ground - still covered with a thin layer of glazed, crusty snow - he scrambled a step or two, slipped, and went down on his butt. He seldom cried when he fell, and didn't now; instead, he stared up at John with a look of affronted indignation.
As in, What the gold-plated HELL, Dad.
Grinning, John reached down, hoisted him up and set him back on his feet. "Go," he said to Dean. "I got him."
The heap at the end of the lot was a good six feet tall, closer to seven in a couple of spots, and easily climbable. Dean, who'd been a born climber right from the get-go - often to the dismay of both of his parents - threw himself at the base and quickly clambered up the slope, hooting when he reached the crest and flinging his arms toward the sky, the four-foot-tall Edmund Hillary of southwestern Oklahoma.
"I'm up!" he crowed. "See me, Sammy? I'm all the way up!"
Sam, for no reason John could fathom, was completely unimpressed. He gave Dean only a moment of attention, then went back to scowling at the unfamiliar terrain beneath his feet. The extra layers of clothing had him flummoxed, too, probably all the more so since he was happiest dressed only in a t-shirt and a diaper. He'd been walking steadily for a couple of months now, and could run when it suited him, but barefoot on the carpet and booted in the snow were two entirely different situations.
"Sammy!" Dean shrilled. "Sammy, look!"
Sam took a frowning, tentative half-step forward, then seemed to say Screw it to the entire proposition and hunkered down into a crouch that eventually turned into a sit, his feet splayed out in front of him. When John reached for him, he wrinkled an eyebrow and said firmly, "NO UP."
"Hey, Dad!"
Atop his own private Everest, Dean was flapping a mittened hand toward the far end of the motel, where the lids of a row of bright blue (and well-battered) Dumpsters offered the only splash of color anywhere nearby. What the boy was so interested in, John couldn't see - then he noticed the big sheet of cardboard spread across the top of one of the bins. A flattened carton of some kind, John guessed. It had held paper towels, maybe, or toilet paper.
It…
Oh. Yeah.
With the still-disgruntled Sam riding one hip, John hiked to the row of Dumpsters and plucked the cardboard loose, glad to see that it wasn't crumpled or stained. It was the perfect size for what Dean had in mind, with flaps useable as rudders, thick enough to ensure it would hold up for a number of trips down Christmas Mountain. Dean did everything but clap in glee when John brought the box to him. He'd already tamped down a small launch pad at the top of the snowpile, and was beaming as he put the makeshift sled in place and settled himself aboard.
Smiling, John stepped aside to give his son a good, clear run. Cardboard flaps gripped in his red-mittened hands, Dean rocked a bit to slide the box forward, tipped over the edge, and went careening down the slope whooping with joy, finally skidding to a halt halfway across the parking lot. With no time wasted, he hauled the box back up to the peak and soared downhill again.
Sam regarded the process with thin-lipped suspicion and a fistful of John's jacket.
"I can take him, Dad," Dean offered at the end of his fourth trip. "I'll hold on tight."
"Seems like he's not too big a fan of the snow," John said, because Sam had showed no sign of wanting to further investigate the cold white stuff. When Dean responded to that with a skeptical snort, John eased Sam gently away from his hip, expecting him to burst into a squall of protest, mildly surprised when Sam allowed himself to be handed over to Dean and nudged into a seat atop the cardboard box. Nodding, Dean settled into place behind his brother, legs wrapped around Sam's smaller form.
"Hold on, Sammy," he instructed.
They landed in a sprawl midway across the lot, maybe ten feet from the back end of the Impala, Sam flat on his back, slack-jawed, staring up at the sky. He could not possibly have been hurt; he was far too well padded by all that extra clothing. He looked somewhat stunned, though, as if the breath had been knocked out of him. Dean and John stood on either side of him, watching him. John fully expected him to haul in a breath, turn beet red, and start to howl.
Instead, Sam said, "More," and scrambled quickly and easily to his feet.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: John, Dean (almost 6), Sammy (20 months)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: G
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1162 words
CONQUERING CHRISTMAS MOUNTAIN
By Carol Davis
"Dad," Dean said. "There's a mountain. There's a whole mountain."
He was on his knees on a chair in front of the window, pressing his small hands against the pane, leaving rows of prints in the thin layer of frost. Sam was squashed in beside him (Sam's most normal position, be it in the car, a bed, a diner booth, anywhere), pressing his tiny nose to the glass and recoiling from the cold, laughing.
Some Christmas, John thought.
They could have gone to Jim Murphy's - Jim had, in fact, invited them - but there was someone in New Mexico who might know something. And it would be a mistake to let the boys burrow in at Jim's, surrounded by a sense of home they would have to walk away from. Better this way, this small Christmas in a small-town motel. A tiny tree atop the dresser, some toys the boys had played with for a while and then abandoned in favor of creating patterns in the frost.
They were resilient, John thought. Adaptable.
He often wished he was.
"Mountain?" he said to Dean, pushing aside the cluster of old books that had come courtesy of someone who knew someone.
Dean rapped the window with a knuckle. "Out there. See?"
Hands tucked into the warmth of his pockets, John strolled closer to the window and took a look. The world out there was white (where it wasn't dirty), buried beneath a night-long snowfall that had to amount to a foot or better. The county plows and salt trucks were still at work clearing the roads; for the past twenty minutes or so, someone manning a pickup with a plow blade had been doggedly clearing the motel parking lot - pushing the snow down to one end, into what was indeed a mountain.
At the edge of his vision, John could see Dean watching him.
"Could check it out, I guess," he said.
The pickup would be gone by the time he got the boys into boots and coats, hats and mittens, he figured, and it was. Sam, in John's arms, stared goggle-eyed at what was to him something entirely new and wondrous, and struggled to be set free. When John set him down on the ground - still covered with a thin layer of glazed, crusty snow - he scrambled a step or two, slipped, and went down on his butt. He seldom cried when he fell, and didn't now; instead, he stared up at John with a look of affronted indignation.
As in, What the gold-plated HELL, Dad.
Grinning, John reached down, hoisted him up and set him back on his feet. "Go," he said to Dean. "I got him."
The heap at the end of the lot was a good six feet tall, closer to seven in a couple of spots, and easily climbable. Dean, who'd been a born climber right from the get-go - often to the dismay of both of his parents - threw himself at the base and quickly clambered up the slope, hooting when he reached the crest and flinging his arms toward the sky, the four-foot-tall Edmund Hillary of southwestern Oklahoma.
"I'm up!" he crowed. "See me, Sammy? I'm all the way up!"
Sam, for no reason John could fathom, was completely unimpressed. He gave Dean only a moment of attention, then went back to scowling at the unfamiliar terrain beneath his feet. The extra layers of clothing had him flummoxed, too, probably all the more so since he was happiest dressed only in a t-shirt and a diaper. He'd been walking steadily for a couple of months now, and could run when it suited him, but barefoot on the carpet and booted in the snow were two entirely different situations.
"Sammy!" Dean shrilled. "Sammy, look!"
Sam took a frowning, tentative half-step forward, then seemed to say Screw it to the entire proposition and hunkered down into a crouch that eventually turned into a sit, his feet splayed out in front of him. When John reached for him, he wrinkled an eyebrow and said firmly, "NO UP."
"Hey, Dad!"
Atop his own private Everest, Dean was flapping a mittened hand toward the far end of the motel, where the lids of a row of bright blue (and well-battered) Dumpsters offered the only splash of color anywhere nearby. What the boy was so interested in, John couldn't see - then he noticed the big sheet of cardboard spread across the top of one of the bins. A flattened carton of some kind, John guessed. It had held paper towels, maybe, or toilet paper.
It…
Oh. Yeah.
With the still-disgruntled Sam riding one hip, John hiked to the row of Dumpsters and plucked the cardboard loose, glad to see that it wasn't crumpled or stained. It was the perfect size for what Dean had in mind, with flaps useable as rudders, thick enough to ensure it would hold up for a number of trips down Christmas Mountain. Dean did everything but clap in glee when John brought the box to him. He'd already tamped down a small launch pad at the top of the snowpile, and was beaming as he put the makeshift sled in place and settled himself aboard.
Smiling, John stepped aside to give his son a good, clear run. Cardboard flaps gripped in his red-mittened hands, Dean rocked a bit to slide the box forward, tipped over the edge, and went careening down the slope whooping with joy, finally skidding to a halt halfway across the parking lot. With no time wasted, he hauled the box back up to the peak and soared downhill again.
Sam regarded the process with thin-lipped suspicion and a fistful of John's jacket.
"I can take him, Dad," Dean offered at the end of his fourth trip. "I'll hold on tight."
"Seems like he's not too big a fan of the snow," John said, because Sam had showed no sign of wanting to further investigate the cold white stuff. When Dean responded to that with a skeptical snort, John eased Sam gently away from his hip, expecting him to burst into a squall of protest, mildly surprised when Sam allowed himself to be handed over to Dean and nudged into a seat atop the cardboard box. Nodding, Dean settled into place behind his brother, legs wrapped around Sam's smaller form.
"Hold on, Sammy," he instructed.
They landed in a sprawl midway across the lot, maybe ten feet from the back end of the Impala, Sam flat on his back, slack-jawed, staring up at the sky. He could not possibly have been hurt; he was far too well padded by all that extra clothing. He looked somewhat stunned, though, as if the breath had been knocked out of him. Dean and John stood on either side of him, watching him. John fully expected him to haul in a breath, turn beet red, and start to howl.
Instead, Sam said, "More," and scrambled quickly and easily to his feet.
* * * * *