At The Ballet
Title: At The Ballet
Author: familybizness
Summary: Dean goes to the ballet and has feelings.
Word Count: 1020
Author's Note: I was feeling sentimental, I don't know.
Apparently you dress up for the ballet.
Dean’s got a suit, but it’s been in the trunk of the car for about six years and smells like gunpowder, so Christa borrowed one from her brother. Matt’s broader in the shoulders than Dean is and the jacket hangs stupidly on him. He looks like an idiot.
It’s worth it, though, because Christa’s wearing this red dress that’s tight and pours all the way down to the floor and is backless almost to her ass, and she’s walking in front of him, hell yeah.. He lets her pull ahead a little farther under the pretense of waiting for the usher to tear their tickets. That dress doesn’t stand a chance when he gets her home.
(Honestly, sometimes the best part is knowing he’s going to be allowed to tell Sam this stuff, and no one is pretending Sam’s not a little bit jealous, so that part of their life is normal and angels and demons can suck it. Ha ha, little brother, I’m fucking the hot girl.)
(Sam’s fucking the dead girl and the angel and crying about hell to the hot girl. Just in case Dean was considering feeling good about it.)
The Center for the Performing Arts is in this old building that looks like a school and a church had an illegitimate child and that child took growth hormones (which Emmy might need, don’t forget to call the doctor tomorrow). The chairs are red velvet covered and kind of gross, and Dean squeaks his up and down a few times until Christa swats him with her program and says “act your age.”
He flips through his own program. “When does she come on?”
“Not until the end of Act One.”
“Can we get popcorn?”
“It’s not a hockey game, Dean.”
“When…”
She shushes him. The orchestra’s starting to play.
Dean shuffles his feet back and forth in Sam’s dress shoes (his had blood on the soles, big deal, like anyone was going to be looking at the soles of his shoes, for fuck’s sake, but apparently we don’t wear blood to the ballet, Winchester, show some class for once in your life so he’s stuck wearing Sam’s fucking canoes because Matt’s were too small and Cas doesn’t like shoes and only has flip-flops). He needs to get Cas some sneakers. It’s fucking winter and the guy’s got the immune system of a Sam and Sam gets sick when Cas does, so no.
Christa’s arm is cold against his, so he shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over her shoulders and she smiles and mouths thank you.
The show begins, and Dean’s lost right away, because, you know, who actually cares what some German girl in the nineteen hundreds or whatever the hell this is got for Christmas? She’s super rich, he gets that. Maybe that’s why she has a ballet about her. Anyway, this part’s boring, and he wants a drink, but in that gentle alcohol would be fun way, not the way that makes his skin crawl and his muscles twitch and makes him look up the locations of liquor stores on Sam’s laptop and hate himself. It’s sort of nice, like this. It’s not a craving, it’s just a desire. It’s easy to say no. He’s powerful. He’s invincible.
He should probably call Paul tomorrow.
The thing is that Sam and Cas are home alone with the twins tonight, and they’ve never done that before.
The thing is that Jude’s wheezy little cough sounds so goddamn much like baby Sammy, and Dean had fucking forgotten that sound existed, and how is he going to do asthma baby all over again and is there any-fucking-thing left of his heart at the end of this?
The thing is that Dean retired and the hits kept coming, and he’s been a hunter all his life, you know? And maybe hunting just never had anything to do with how hard it is sometimes. Maybe it’s just like this.
God knows it is for Sam.
How long is this thing, anyway?
“Look,” Christa whispers, and nudges him a little.
The stage is filling with pale girls in light blue, their hair slicked back in tidy knots off their faces, arms up, spinning, and in the middle of them, dreadlocks woven and braided up behind her, Kylie.
“Snowflakes,” Christa hisses in his ear.
The outfit looked stupid when Kylie tried it on at home, big hula-hoop skirt and puffballs hanging from her arms, and he teased her, but when she jumps the skirt (it’s a tutu, Dad!) does this cool rise and fall thing that kind of does make her look like she’s floating back to the ground, so yeah, okay. Tutu.
“Isn’t she great?” Christa’s crying, he can tell by her voice.
They’re close enough, his vision’s good enough, he knows his girl well enough that he can see the smile she’s struggling to hide - and then she runs forward and does this fucking giant leap right at the front of the stage, fuck yeah, Kyla, and just lets it rip.
Dean pumps a fist in the air.
“That’s my daughter,” he explains to the couple that turns around to give him a dirty look. “That one. That’s my daughter.”
The wife rolls her eyes at him like no one cares who your daughter is, but obviously everyone cares because look at Dean’s little girl. There are twenty-four snowflakes on that stage, and Dean can only look at Kylie. She’s the best one up there. She’s the only one who’s smiling.
She’s his.
After the show he grabs her before Christa can and hoists her over his head and yells, “This is my daughter!” and Kylie kicks her pointed toes in his face and says “This is my daddy!”
That night he holds Jude in one arm and the little baby nebulizer in the other and says, “your big sister’s going to be a famous ballerina,” and Jude grips Dean’s finger in his fist and breathes.
Author: familybizness
Summary: Dean goes to the ballet and has feelings.
Word Count: 1020
Author's Note: I was feeling sentimental, I don't know.
Apparently you dress up for the ballet.
Dean’s got a suit, but it’s been in the trunk of the car for about six years and smells like gunpowder, so Christa borrowed one from her brother. Matt’s broader in the shoulders than Dean is and the jacket hangs stupidly on him. He looks like an idiot.
It’s worth it, though, because Christa’s wearing this red dress that’s tight and pours all the way down to the floor and is backless almost to her ass, and she’s walking in front of him, hell yeah.. He lets her pull ahead a little farther under the pretense of waiting for the usher to tear their tickets. That dress doesn’t stand a chance when he gets her home.
(Honestly, sometimes the best part is knowing he’s going to be allowed to tell Sam this stuff, and no one is pretending Sam’s not a little bit jealous, so that part of their life is normal and angels and demons can suck it. Ha ha, little brother, I’m fucking the hot girl.)
(Sam’s fucking the dead girl and the angel and crying about hell to the hot girl. Just in case Dean was considering feeling good about it.)
The Center for the Performing Arts is in this old building that looks like a school and a church had an illegitimate child and that child took growth hormones (which Emmy might need, don’t forget to call the doctor tomorrow). The chairs are red velvet covered and kind of gross, and Dean squeaks his up and down a few times until Christa swats him with her program and says “act your age.”
He flips through his own program. “When does she come on?”
“Not until the end of Act One.”
“Can we get popcorn?”
“It’s not a hockey game, Dean.”
“When…”
She shushes him. The orchestra’s starting to play.
Dean shuffles his feet back and forth in Sam’s dress shoes (his had blood on the soles, big deal, like anyone was going to be looking at the soles of his shoes, for fuck’s sake, but apparently we don’t wear blood to the ballet, Winchester, show some class for once in your life so he’s stuck wearing Sam’s fucking canoes because Matt’s were too small and Cas doesn’t like shoes and only has flip-flops). He needs to get Cas some sneakers. It’s fucking winter and the guy’s got the immune system of a Sam and Sam gets sick when Cas does, so no.
Christa’s arm is cold against his, so he shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over her shoulders and she smiles and mouths thank you.
The show begins, and Dean’s lost right away, because, you know, who actually cares what some German girl in the nineteen hundreds or whatever the hell this is got for Christmas? She’s super rich, he gets that. Maybe that’s why she has a ballet about her. Anyway, this part’s boring, and he wants a drink, but in that gentle alcohol would be fun way, not the way that makes his skin crawl and his muscles twitch and makes him look up the locations of liquor stores on Sam’s laptop and hate himself. It’s sort of nice, like this. It’s not a craving, it’s just a desire. It’s easy to say no. He’s powerful. He’s invincible.
He should probably call Paul tomorrow.
The thing is that Sam and Cas are home alone with the twins tonight, and they’ve never done that before.
The thing is that Jude’s wheezy little cough sounds so goddamn much like baby Sammy, and Dean had fucking forgotten that sound existed, and how is he going to do asthma baby all over again and is there any-fucking-thing left of his heart at the end of this?
The thing is that Dean retired and the hits kept coming, and he’s been a hunter all his life, you know? And maybe hunting just never had anything to do with how hard it is sometimes. Maybe it’s just like this.
God knows it is for Sam.
How long is this thing, anyway?
“Look,” Christa whispers, and nudges him a little.
The stage is filling with pale girls in light blue, their hair slicked back in tidy knots off their faces, arms up, spinning, and in the middle of them, dreadlocks woven and braided up behind her, Kylie.
“Snowflakes,” Christa hisses in his ear.
The outfit looked stupid when Kylie tried it on at home, big hula-hoop skirt and puffballs hanging from her arms, and he teased her, but when she jumps the skirt (it’s a tutu, Dad!) does this cool rise and fall thing that kind of does make her look like she’s floating back to the ground, so yeah, okay. Tutu.
“Isn’t she great?” Christa’s crying, he can tell by her voice.
They’re close enough, his vision’s good enough, he knows his girl well enough that he can see the smile she’s struggling to hide - and then she runs forward and does this fucking giant leap right at the front of the stage, fuck yeah, Kyla, and just lets it rip.
Dean pumps a fist in the air.
“That’s my daughter,” he explains to the couple that turns around to give him a dirty look. “That one. That’s my daughter.”
The wife rolls her eyes at him like no one cares who your daughter is, but obviously everyone cares because look at Dean’s little girl. There are twenty-four snowflakes on that stage, and Dean can only look at Kylie. She’s the best one up there. She’s the only one who’s smiling.
She’s his.
After the show he grabs her before Christa can and hoists her over his head and yells, “This is my daughter!” and Kylie kicks her pointed toes in his face and says “This is my daddy!”
That night he holds Jude in one arm and the little baby nebulizer in the other and says, “your big sister’s going to be a famous ballerina,” and Jude grips Dean’s finger in his fist and breathes.