Seven
Title: Seven
Rating: G
Spoilers: Pilot
Disclaimer: I don't own the Winchesters or SPN. Yet.
Notes: Thanks to
montisello for the beta. In related news, I think the ice has gone to my brain.
Summary: "All right, Dean," John spoke to the apparently empty house. "You've left me no choice. I'm going to have to go room to room."
Seven
“All right, Dean,” John spoke to the apparently empty house. “You’ve left me no choice. I’m going to have to go room to room.”
Next to him, Sammy gasped. He was only three and wasn’t real tuned in yet, but odds were he knew that his brother was in trouble. Sammy’s thumb flew to his mouth. The habit was nearly extinct but it flared up every now and then, when he was nervous. Like if his Dad was threatening his big brother.
John sighed. Sometimes his youngest could really make him feel like an ass. He didn’t want to threaten Dean. He didn’t usually have to threaten Dean. And it would appear that Sammy didn’t like it any more than he did. He was sucking on his thumb now like the opposable digit had all the answers. John rubbed his forehead and knelt down next to his son.
“Go ahead, Sammy.” He didn’t have to say it twice. The next thing he knew there were forty solid pounds of pre-schooler on his back and a free arm choking off his windpipe. “Two hands,” he managed to squeak out. Sammy shifted his weight like he’d been taught, releasing his thumb, and dropping both his arms a little lower on John’s chest. “Good boy,” John said, reassured by the presence of two chubby little hands-one of them a little sticky-digging into his USMC t-shirt.
John looked around the small house he was currently renting in Sioux City. It was a little worse for wear, but it was in a safe neighborhood with a good elementary school. The place wasn’t well insulated, though. Right now, two weeks before Christmas, John could feel a persistent draft. He’d re-caulked the windows and put in new weather stripping but there were some things that he would never be able fix despite his best efforts.
And that made him feel like an ass, too, like the frigid air was some sort of indictment of his ability to look after his children. That, and the fact that he couldn’t locate his own son at the moment. He’d taught Dean how to hide in case of monster, home invasion, or CPS and right now John wished he hadn’t done such a crackerjack job.
“Final warning, Dean.” He knew it wasn’t going to work, but it was only fair. On his back, he could feel Sammy heaving a sigh. Well. It was nice to know that his other son had such faith in him. Sammy’s dimpled fists tightened their grip. John doubled his resolve. He was, as Singer had once said, a little contrary.
Sweeping the house was a little harder with Sam on his back. Every time he bent over, the weight shifted and a couple times he almost went ass over teakettle. It would have been hilarious if he weren’t really starting to worry about Dean. Between them, his kids were going to give them an ulcer. And they weren’t even driving yet. But, his hand to God, he was doing his best. He kept them in clean clothes and decent food. He hunted when he knew his boys were safe at Bobby’s or Jim’s. At home, he limited himself to research.
And he’d recently procured a full-time gig at a garage in the suburbs. His boss was an honest guy whose best mechanic was out on maternity leave. He was willing to pay John under the table for the next couple months with the promise of at least part-time work come spring.
It was a good deal, a lucky break they didn’t often get, and day before yesterday he’d been forced to walk out on a busted radiator. John was pretty pissed about having to ditch work. But if he was being honest with himself, half of his frustration was just worry. He’d lit out of that garage like a bat out of hell and laid rubber twice on the way to Dean’s school. John tried really hard not to badger the secretary who’d been nice enough to call him, but he wasn’t entirely successful. Either way, he got fast-tracked to Dean.
His son was sitting there outside the nurse’s office with his knees pulled up to his chest. He was tugging absent-mindedly on his ear the way he had as a baby. It made John’s stomach hurt a little. He’d expected Dean to be in one of those hard plastic chairs outside the principal’s office wearing a black eye like a badge of victory, not here on a cushioned bench with an unmistakable look of defeat.
“Dean-o,” he said softly. Dean’s head straightened immediately. He looked flushed, sullen and more than a little guilty. “What happened, bud?”
“They made me leave class,” he said. “I didn’t want to, I promise. They made me leave class.”
“Hey,” John said, taking a seat next to him. “Don’t worry about it. No skin off my nose. Okay?”
Dean nodded and looked at John like he was expecting something or wanted something. But John had no idea what the hell it was. So he ruffled his son’s hair. The nurse came by, explained that Dean was running a temperature and that his teacher had mentioned a cough. John felt like an ass some more. Then he signed Dean out of school and took him home and put him in bed.
Two days later the cough wasn’t any better and neither was the fever. John got home from work and Dean was huddled up on the sofa in an Indian blanket, watching Bonanza. The leftover spaghetti for lunch was untouched in the fridge and on closer inspection, Dean wasn’t really watching the Cartwright boys so much as half-dozing in a febrile way.
John said something about taking Dean to the doctor. He’d turned his back for a quick second, to locate Sammy and make sure the back door was locked. When he turned back around, the couch was vacant and Dean was nowhere to be found.
Rookie mistake, Winchester.
And now John was more than a little annoyed. All of the usual places had come up empty: under the sinks, the bathtub, every closet, under the bed with its collection of Halls’ wrappers and dust bunnies, the crawl space in the entryway, and even inside the kitchen appliances. Why Dean would choose the defunct dishwasher, John couldn’t say, but he’d always encouraged his son to improvise.
Like the time he’d come home to discover their motel room looking like the inside of a VW van circa 1968. The place was covered in small tie-dyed squares, like somebody’s grandma had started smoking the ganja and decided to update her doilies. They were everywhere: over the back of the sofa, the crappy coffee table, haphazard patchwork on the bedspreads, and even laid over the lampshades. The place looked like an opium den.
John had found his boys on the kitchenette floor with a roll of paper towels and a collection of Styrofoam bowls filled with various shades of food coloring. Dean was helping Sammy tie up the paper towels in different twisted patterns, dipping them carefully in the various colors, and laying them out to dry on the linoleum.
“Dean?” he’d asked. “What the hell is going on here?” Sammy’d laughed, clapped, and displayed his latest masterpiece. And Dean had wiped one blue arm against his forehead, grinning like he’d just rebuilt his first transmission.
“We didn’t have any eggs.”
“What does that have to do with the price of tea in China?”
Dean was still smiling. “Dad. It’s Easter. Sammy’s sitter said something about dying eggs, but we didn’t have any. So I improvised.” He looked around him. “Come on, it was a pretty good idea. Am I right?”
John had agreed and then gone to the head. Part of him had wanted to sit on the floor with his boys and spend the evening there. But the other part.
John, come on. This is a pretty wonderful house. Good neighborhood, big yard, nothing we can’t fix ourselves. Am I right?
Come on, Winchester. This is the perfect wedding. You, me, a Justice of the Peace. Hell, I might even paint my nails. No frills, no family, just witnesses. It’s exactly what we want. Am I right?
He had splashed cold water on his face with unsteady hands. It was uncanny. What had Dean learned in the four years he had known her? What was innate, genetic? Like the way his eyes smiled in a perfect miniature of his dead mother.
Baby, come on. It’s a great name. Tough, lots of character. And people will never know if we named him after James or Martin. Besides, look at his pink little face. He looks like a Dean. Am I right?
John was jolted out of his reverie by the immediate fact that he was choking again. “Two hands!” he rasped. Sam was more reluctant to release his thumb this time. And he was starting to make that miserable snuffling noise that always presaged a total meltdown.
“Where are Dean?”
“Where is Dean.”
“Right.”
John sighed. Sammy had a gift, he really did. Dean was in here. Somewhere in this house was a kid with a hacking cough. Come to think of it, it was a little curious that John hadn’t heard him in a while. He’d made plenty of noise last night… Oh Dean, you clever little bastard.
“We got him, Sammy,” John pronounced and retraced his steps to the bedroom. It was harder this time because he had to get all the way down on his belly with Sam still clinging to him like a howler monkey. The cough drop wrappers should have been the only clue he needed, John thought ruefully and looked up at the underside of the mattress.
“Shit,” Dean said. He let go of his death grip on the bed slats and dropped with a thud onto the dusty floor. The impact nearly knocked the wind out of him. He curled up on his side, coughing in a moist rattling way that made John’s stomach churn.
“Out you go.” John reached under and scooped Dean out. On his back, he felt Sam’s hand loosen again, thumb destined for his mouth. “Two hands,” he said preemptively. Then he helped Dean up to the bed. Dean reached into his shirt pocket and popped another lozenge.
“I woulda made it,” Dean insisted, like Steve McQueen looking at the barbed-wire border. He was pulling on his ear again, spoiling the effect.
“Not a chance,” John said and braced for resistance. “Look, I know you’re not happy about this, but it’s time to go see the doctor.”
“We don’t have one here,” Dean admonished.
Crap. He was right. “That’s okay. There’s a doc in the a box around the block.” The urgent care clinic was closer than the ER. It would cost a little more, but they were much more likely to look the other way when it came to details like valid ID.
“Can’t we just wait?” Dean looked up at him through slightly glassy eyes. John wasn’t sure, but he thought he could hear a wheeze in his son’s breath even now.
“I don’t think so, bud.”
“Just until tomorrow. Please. Tomorrow we can go to a regular doctor. Just one more night. I’ll totally feel better in the morning.”
John knew Dean was bargaining with him. And maybe in a perfect world, it wouldn’t fly. But it was hard to disbelieve him. Dean did a lot around the house. He took care of Sammy and he kept an eye on his Dad, too. Dean pulled his weight and then some.
“I don’t know,” John said. But he was getting ready to cave and they both knew it. Dean wiped his nose on his sleeve and gave his best ‘give me a break here’ smile, complete with eyebrow quirk and dimple. But then he sneezed, muffled it in the elbow of his shirt.
“I know, I know,” he admitted. “But come on, Dad. It can wait twelve hours. Am I right?”
And in that moment, the impression, the memory was so strong he had to blink just to see who was smiling back at him. Am I right? Dean was seven going on eight going on forty and yeah, he pulled his own weight and then some. But tonight he was just a kid a fever and a bad cough. And his dad was home today. So maybe he didn’t have to pull all his own weight right now.
“Coats. Car. Doctor. Now.”
Dean knew an order when he heard one-and thank God he hadn’t figured out how to disobey those yet. He went to get his coat. Sammy slid down John’s back like some kind of marsupial and went in search of his own jacket. Sammy’s was red and fluffy. Dean’s was flannel-lined canvas. Just like his Dad’s. John thought that over until Sam approached, pink little hands opening and closing in the familiar plea to pick me the fuck up already, dude. John sighed.
“Two hands, Sammy. Both of ‘em. Okay?” Sammy nodded and scrambled back up on his dad. The nylon of his down coat made little squeaky noises. Still on his knees, John looked over at his elder son. At Mary’s first born. He was tired and sick and defeated and completely miserable. John didn’t know whether to take his hand or pat him on the back or rustle his hair. But it was one of those parenting moments where something needed to be done.
Baby, come on. It’s a great name.
John reached out an arm towards Dean. He didn’t say anything, just tilted his head back a little bit. Dean didn’t smile, but he blinked pretty hard and pushed a hand across his eyes. Then he almost knocked John over, flinging himself at his dad with the full momentum of his mass. Dean coughed into his dad’s chest and John could feel the rattle in his own sternum. He could feel his son’s temperature through the cotton of his shirt and the clamminess of his hands on the nape of his neck. John reached down an arm to help support Dean so he didn’t have to hold himself up alone.
“Okay,” John said. “Okay.”
He struggled to his feet, Sam on his back, Dean on his front with his head and face buried where John couldn’t see him cry in tiredness or frustration or just the burden of being seven years old and a Winchester at the same time. It was hard work, John remembered that, so he didn’t say a word.
Just slowly shouldered his family out the front door, into the icing snow, and towards the Impala.
Rating: G
Spoilers: Pilot
Disclaimer: I don't own the Winchesters or SPN. Yet.
Notes: Thanks to
montisello for the beta. In related news, I think the ice has gone to my brain.
Summary: "All right, Dean," John spoke to the apparently empty house. "You've left me no choice. I'm going to have to go room to room."
Seven
“All right, Dean,” John spoke to the apparently empty house. “You’ve left me no choice. I’m going to have to go room to room.”
Next to him, Sammy gasped. He was only three and wasn’t real tuned in yet, but odds were he knew that his brother was in trouble. Sammy’s thumb flew to his mouth. The habit was nearly extinct but it flared up every now and then, when he was nervous. Like if his Dad was threatening his big brother.
John sighed. Sometimes his youngest could really make him feel like an ass. He didn’t want to threaten Dean. He didn’t usually have to threaten Dean. And it would appear that Sammy didn’t like it any more than he did. He was sucking on his thumb now like the opposable digit had all the answers. John rubbed his forehead and knelt down next to his son.
“Go ahead, Sammy.” He didn’t have to say it twice. The next thing he knew there were forty solid pounds of pre-schooler on his back and a free arm choking off his windpipe. “Two hands,” he managed to squeak out. Sammy shifted his weight like he’d been taught, releasing his thumb, and dropping both his arms a little lower on John’s chest. “Good boy,” John said, reassured by the presence of two chubby little hands-one of them a little sticky-digging into his USMC t-shirt.
John looked around the small house he was currently renting in Sioux City. It was a little worse for wear, but it was in a safe neighborhood with a good elementary school. The place wasn’t well insulated, though. Right now, two weeks before Christmas, John could feel a persistent draft. He’d re-caulked the windows and put in new weather stripping but there were some things that he would never be able fix despite his best efforts.
And that made him feel like an ass, too, like the frigid air was some sort of indictment of his ability to look after his children. That, and the fact that he couldn’t locate his own son at the moment. He’d taught Dean how to hide in case of monster, home invasion, or CPS and right now John wished he hadn’t done such a crackerjack job.
“Final warning, Dean.” He knew it wasn’t going to work, but it was only fair. On his back, he could feel Sammy heaving a sigh. Well. It was nice to know that his other son had such faith in him. Sammy’s dimpled fists tightened their grip. John doubled his resolve. He was, as Singer had once said, a little contrary.
Sweeping the house was a little harder with Sam on his back. Every time he bent over, the weight shifted and a couple times he almost went ass over teakettle. It would have been hilarious if he weren’t really starting to worry about Dean. Between them, his kids were going to give them an ulcer. And they weren’t even driving yet. But, his hand to God, he was doing his best. He kept them in clean clothes and decent food. He hunted when he knew his boys were safe at Bobby’s or Jim’s. At home, he limited himself to research.
And he’d recently procured a full-time gig at a garage in the suburbs. His boss was an honest guy whose best mechanic was out on maternity leave. He was willing to pay John under the table for the next couple months with the promise of at least part-time work come spring.
It was a good deal, a lucky break they didn’t often get, and day before yesterday he’d been forced to walk out on a busted radiator. John was pretty pissed about having to ditch work. But if he was being honest with himself, half of his frustration was just worry. He’d lit out of that garage like a bat out of hell and laid rubber twice on the way to Dean’s school. John tried really hard not to badger the secretary who’d been nice enough to call him, but he wasn’t entirely successful. Either way, he got fast-tracked to Dean.
His son was sitting there outside the nurse’s office with his knees pulled up to his chest. He was tugging absent-mindedly on his ear the way he had as a baby. It made John’s stomach hurt a little. He’d expected Dean to be in one of those hard plastic chairs outside the principal’s office wearing a black eye like a badge of victory, not here on a cushioned bench with an unmistakable look of defeat.
“Dean-o,” he said softly. Dean’s head straightened immediately. He looked flushed, sullen and more than a little guilty. “What happened, bud?”
“They made me leave class,” he said. “I didn’t want to, I promise. They made me leave class.”
“Hey,” John said, taking a seat next to him. “Don’t worry about it. No skin off my nose. Okay?”
Dean nodded and looked at John like he was expecting something or wanted something. But John had no idea what the hell it was. So he ruffled his son’s hair. The nurse came by, explained that Dean was running a temperature and that his teacher had mentioned a cough. John felt like an ass some more. Then he signed Dean out of school and took him home and put him in bed.
Two days later the cough wasn’t any better and neither was the fever. John got home from work and Dean was huddled up on the sofa in an Indian blanket, watching Bonanza. The leftover spaghetti for lunch was untouched in the fridge and on closer inspection, Dean wasn’t really watching the Cartwright boys so much as half-dozing in a febrile way.
John said something about taking Dean to the doctor. He’d turned his back for a quick second, to locate Sammy and make sure the back door was locked. When he turned back around, the couch was vacant and Dean was nowhere to be found.
Rookie mistake, Winchester.
And now John was more than a little annoyed. All of the usual places had come up empty: under the sinks, the bathtub, every closet, under the bed with its collection of Halls’ wrappers and dust bunnies, the crawl space in the entryway, and even inside the kitchen appliances. Why Dean would choose the defunct dishwasher, John couldn’t say, but he’d always encouraged his son to improvise.
Like the time he’d come home to discover their motel room looking like the inside of a VW van circa 1968. The place was covered in small tie-dyed squares, like somebody’s grandma had started smoking the ganja and decided to update her doilies. They were everywhere: over the back of the sofa, the crappy coffee table, haphazard patchwork on the bedspreads, and even laid over the lampshades. The place looked like an opium den.
John had found his boys on the kitchenette floor with a roll of paper towels and a collection of Styrofoam bowls filled with various shades of food coloring. Dean was helping Sammy tie up the paper towels in different twisted patterns, dipping them carefully in the various colors, and laying them out to dry on the linoleum.
“Dean?” he’d asked. “What the hell is going on here?” Sammy’d laughed, clapped, and displayed his latest masterpiece. And Dean had wiped one blue arm against his forehead, grinning like he’d just rebuilt his first transmission.
“We didn’t have any eggs.”
“What does that have to do with the price of tea in China?”
Dean was still smiling. “Dad. It’s Easter. Sammy’s sitter said something about dying eggs, but we didn’t have any. So I improvised.” He looked around him. “Come on, it was a pretty good idea. Am I right?”
John had agreed and then gone to the head. Part of him had wanted to sit on the floor with his boys and spend the evening there. But the other part.
John, come on. This is a pretty wonderful house. Good neighborhood, big yard, nothing we can’t fix ourselves. Am I right?
Come on, Winchester. This is the perfect wedding. You, me, a Justice of the Peace. Hell, I might even paint my nails. No frills, no family, just witnesses. It’s exactly what we want. Am I right?
He had splashed cold water on his face with unsteady hands. It was uncanny. What had Dean learned in the four years he had known her? What was innate, genetic? Like the way his eyes smiled in a perfect miniature of his dead mother.
Baby, come on. It’s a great name. Tough, lots of character. And people will never know if we named him after James or Martin. Besides, look at his pink little face. He looks like a Dean. Am I right?
John was jolted out of his reverie by the immediate fact that he was choking again. “Two hands!” he rasped. Sam was more reluctant to release his thumb this time. And he was starting to make that miserable snuffling noise that always presaged a total meltdown.
“Where are Dean?”
“Where is Dean.”
“Right.”
John sighed. Sammy had a gift, he really did. Dean was in here. Somewhere in this house was a kid with a hacking cough. Come to think of it, it was a little curious that John hadn’t heard him in a while. He’d made plenty of noise last night… Oh Dean, you clever little bastard.
“We got him, Sammy,” John pronounced and retraced his steps to the bedroom. It was harder this time because he had to get all the way down on his belly with Sam still clinging to him like a howler monkey. The cough drop wrappers should have been the only clue he needed, John thought ruefully and looked up at the underside of the mattress.
“Shit,” Dean said. He let go of his death grip on the bed slats and dropped with a thud onto the dusty floor. The impact nearly knocked the wind out of him. He curled up on his side, coughing in a moist rattling way that made John’s stomach churn.
“Out you go.” John reached under and scooped Dean out. On his back, he felt Sam’s hand loosen again, thumb destined for his mouth. “Two hands,” he said preemptively. Then he helped Dean up to the bed. Dean reached into his shirt pocket and popped another lozenge.
“I woulda made it,” Dean insisted, like Steve McQueen looking at the barbed-wire border. He was pulling on his ear again, spoiling the effect.
“Not a chance,” John said and braced for resistance. “Look, I know you’re not happy about this, but it’s time to go see the doctor.”
“We don’t have one here,” Dean admonished.
Crap. He was right. “That’s okay. There’s a doc in the a box around the block.” The urgent care clinic was closer than the ER. It would cost a little more, but they were much more likely to look the other way when it came to details like valid ID.
“Can’t we just wait?” Dean looked up at him through slightly glassy eyes. John wasn’t sure, but he thought he could hear a wheeze in his son’s breath even now.
“I don’t think so, bud.”
“Just until tomorrow. Please. Tomorrow we can go to a regular doctor. Just one more night. I’ll totally feel better in the morning.”
John knew Dean was bargaining with him. And maybe in a perfect world, it wouldn’t fly. But it was hard to disbelieve him. Dean did a lot around the house. He took care of Sammy and he kept an eye on his Dad, too. Dean pulled his weight and then some.
“I don’t know,” John said. But he was getting ready to cave and they both knew it. Dean wiped his nose on his sleeve and gave his best ‘give me a break here’ smile, complete with eyebrow quirk and dimple. But then he sneezed, muffled it in the elbow of his shirt.
“I know, I know,” he admitted. “But come on, Dad. It can wait twelve hours. Am I right?”
And in that moment, the impression, the memory was so strong he had to blink just to see who was smiling back at him. Am I right? Dean was seven going on eight going on forty and yeah, he pulled his own weight and then some. But tonight he was just a kid a fever and a bad cough. And his dad was home today. So maybe he didn’t have to pull all his own weight right now.
“Coats. Car. Doctor. Now.”
Dean knew an order when he heard one-and thank God he hadn’t figured out how to disobey those yet. He went to get his coat. Sammy slid down John’s back like some kind of marsupial and went in search of his own jacket. Sammy’s was red and fluffy. Dean’s was flannel-lined canvas. Just like his Dad’s. John thought that over until Sam approached, pink little hands opening and closing in the familiar plea to pick me the fuck up already, dude. John sighed.
“Two hands, Sammy. Both of ‘em. Okay?” Sammy nodded and scrambled back up on his dad. The nylon of his down coat made little squeaky noises. Still on his knees, John looked over at his elder son. At Mary’s first born. He was tired and sick and defeated and completely miserable. John didn’t know whether to take his hand or pat him on the back or rustle his hair. But it was one of those parenting moments where something needed to be done.
Baby, come on. It’s a great name.
John reached out an arm towards Dean. He didn’t say anything, just tilted his head back a little bit. Dean didn’t smile, but he blinked pretty hard and pushed a hand across his eyes. Then he almost knocked John over, flinging himself at his dad with the full momentum of his mass. Dean coughed into his dad’s chest and John could feel the rattle in his own sternum. He could feel his son’s temperature through the cotton of his shirt and the clamminess of his hands on the nape of his neck. John reached down an arm to help support Dean so he didn’t have to hold himself up alone.
“Okay,” John said. “Okay.”
He struggled to his feet, Sam on his back, Dean on his front with his head and face buried where John couldn’t see him cry in tiredness or frustration or just the burden of being seven years old and a Winchester at the same time. It was hard work, John remembered that, so he didn’t say a word.
Just slowly shouldered his family out the front door, into the icing snow, and towards the Impala.