[SPN]: January Sun
4,488 words.
PG-13, Gen.
Sam, Dean, OFC, Wee!chester.
Disclaimer: Anything recognisable does not belong to me.
A/N: To celebrate my birthday, I'm posting fic. Enjoy.
Summary: December Jones sits on the front porch, chalk in one hand and paper doll in the other. Inside, the television blares midday self-help programs but no one listens. Chalk dust kisses the wood and blankets her fingers, pale pink, blue, yellow and white. It’s wedged under her nails and she doesn’t think it’ll ever come out. Across the road, the house come alive, breathes light and bright and a boy waves at her from the passenger door of a big black car.
January Sun.
What month were you born in? she asks him; and dawn breaks yellow-orange over the tops of broken houses.
--
December Jones sits on the front porch, chalk in one hand and paper doll in the other. Inside, the television blares midday self-help programs but no one listens. Chalk dust kisses the wood and blankets her fingers, pale pink, blue, yellow and white. It’s wedged under her nails and she doesn’t think it’ll ever come out. Across the road, the house come alive, breathes light and bright and a boy waves at her from the passenger door of a big black car.
--
Sam, says John, grab one of those boxes would you.
It isn’t a question. It never is. And it isn’t a box of clothes, or toys, or books and video games (it never is either); but ammunition and rosary beads and old wax candles. Sam turns, catches sight of a girl across the road. He waves.
--
Chalk in one hand and a paper doll in the other, she doesn’t really have anything else. So she draws circles and lines and they don’t make pictures, they make languages and spells and promises. She wishes she knew a witch to teach her the proper way, instead of this childish game. Inside, the television blares, but her father is passed out, a bottle of Jose clutched between sweaty fingertips and another playing peek-a-boo from under the worn down armchair. She wipes her own hand on her dress and it smears pink blue yellow white along off colour lace. There’s chalk dust under her fingernails, and across the road a car pulls up, large and black and heavy and terrifying, but December watches it stop, and all she feels is safe.
--
Sam, says John, I mean it- grab one of those boxes, help me and your brother out.
Sam waves, and Dean smacks him upside the head, mutters Macking on some girl already Sammy, you little go getter. Sam blushes bright pink and picks up the box with his head kept down.
--
The house has been empty for as long as December can remember, but not ‘cause it itself is haunted. This town is a ghost town of the living, and no one wants to live here. This is where spectres exist in drawn out memories and glasses of bourbon. This is where people come to drink and smoke and gamble out the last of their days. They don’t come here to have any kind of future. In this town, wives leave their husbands and daughters are left on the front porch with the last birthday presents they’ll ever receive.
But the two boys and their father move a few bags and even fewer boxes through the door of the house across the road, and the house breathes again, light and bright. Beneath December, the varnish fades and the wood sits cold to rot.
--
Dean makes two trips to the car and back before he notices Sam waving. There’s a little girl across the road, younger than him but older than Sammy; and she peers through broken white railings at them. Dean attempts a smile, smacks Sam on the head, picks on him about macking on some girl and goes inside again with a box under one arm. All in a day’s work it seems. Out of the corner of his eye, the girl goes back to her drawing.
--
Her father has never hit her, despite how bad he sometimes gets. Even drunk, her daddy is not mean, just sad and never all there, and it falls to December to put sausages in the oven for both of their dinners. Sometimes she’s able to find some lettuce and make a semblance of salad to go with it. But though her father’s never hit her, he has stopped apologising. She feels better for that, doesn’t feel so helpless. Instead of thousands of sobbed out phrases based around sorry, he’ll go shopping when she leaves grocery lists on the kitchen counter, sober for a few hours so that his daughter can take care of them when he doesn’t. Sometimes at night (but not always) he’ll sit on the floor at the foot of her bed and sob into the duvet, ‘cause she knows he doesn’t want to ever hurt her. She wants to scream when this happens, because he does anyway, can’t help it; she’s hurt ‘cause her father is crying and December doesn’t know how to stop it.
Sometimes she wishes she knew a witch to teach her the proper way.
So instead, she makes up languages in chalk on rotting wood, but nothing ever changes, nothing ever gets better.
--
Once bags have been kicked under the beds and knives placed under their pillows, the boys are free to do what they please.
Just don’t go too far, stick together and be home before dark.
Yes Sir, they chorus, and slip their shoes on by the front door. They’re careful not to disturb the salt line.
The girl across the road is still there.
--
Nothing ever changes, nothing ever gets better. And even though she’d like it to change (it’d be nice if it changed); she’s far too used to disappointment. Change would just be strange and uncomforting.
The boy called Sam looks left right left again and runs out like a shot across the road, comes to a stop at the edge of the path where it hugs brown and pale green lawns. December stands, hands still clenched around paper and chalk. They stare at each other until Sam smiles wide, darts forward and up her porch steps, pauses before his shoes can pass the first of her symbols. His brother hesitates at the base of the stairs until Sam turns and smirks at him.
Come on Dean. Or are you just chicken?
December giggles and Sam grins at her, a dirt smudge across one cheek. Dean flushes slightly, plants one foot on the wood and joins his brother.
Hello, says Sam; I’m Sam- and this is my brother Dean. He looks back at him. Dean, say hello.
Dean gives a small wave and mutters hi. Sam looks up at him for a moment, smug around the mouth.
What’s your name? he asks her.
December, she replies. December Jones.
--
Dean watches the markings on the porch out of the bottom of his eye. Some of them he recognises even though they’re not quite right; like misspelt Latin phrases that are used for pronunciation (and nothing more Dean- if you were to write these out, they’d be useless, so they’re only to get you saying them right) and it makes him a little uneasy. The little girl, December he knows now, blinks at him with eyes the colour of cloudy days and says They’re not right, I know. Sometimes I wish I knew a witch to teach me the proper way.
No, he says and shakes his head, You don’t want a witch, witches can never be trusted.
Sam gapes up at him and whispers Dean! You’re not supposed to say things like that! And yeah, Dean knows that, doesn’t really know why he said that, only December’s eyes are big and grey and really, she brought it up first anyway and Dean kinda feels like she’s okay; like she’ll get it, and won’t ask questions. He knows he’s right when December looks back at him, tucks the paper doll down against the door frame and smiles.
A breeze picks up and blows chalk dust over his shoes.
--
What month were you born in? she asks him, and the dark and cracked tiles of roofs bounce the yellow-orange light of dawn between them.
January, Dean says. I was born in January.
--
December Jones sits on the front porch, chalk on one hand and Sam’s hand in the other. Inside, the television blares midday self-help programs and she, Sam and Dean all listen, making jokes on words they don’t understand and laughing at the positive energy therapy. Cough snigger cough. They make tally marks on the doorframe every time the phrase You Can is said. There’s chalk dust under all of their fingernails.
It rained the other day, so December grabbed a broom and swept off the front porch, collected a bucket of water from what came spilling over from the gutter and washed the wood down. Her father went shopping, brought home a new box of chalk and an extra pack of sausages, and since she wanted to treat Dean and Sam she put lettuce and tomato on the list as well.
Now, she sits clasping Sam’s hand, a bowl of pasted chalk dust and water on the ground between them. Dean is next to them, drawing his own markings (so much more meaningful than hers) on the recently washed down wood. December dips her finger back in the bowl and returns to Sam’s wrist, paints up the inside of his arm to his elbow, dips her finger in the bowl and paints back down. It’s Sam’s turn to do her next, and then they’ll play Witches and Hunters and run laughing down the road until Dean catches them, letting them go when they promise they’ll use their magic for good.
Their father is away, but her father is still here (for now, though he didn’t bring a bottle back in the other day’s shopping) and he watches them through the screen door with a half smile.
Be home before dark December, and she nods, smiles when Dean turns and says I’ll make sure she is sir. Sam wriggles impatiently, and she lets go of his hand and holds her own out.
He dips his fingers in the bowl.
--
I’ll make sure she is sir, and he does, keeping an eye on the horizon and the other on his brother and December. She’s a strange sort of girl, and he’s told her too much already, about what they do and why their father isn’t here right now and he’s even told her, as best he can, about their mother. She didn’t draw away, just stood there with big grey eyes and listened. In the half light of dusk, after he sent Sam back across the road to get into pyjamas and wash his hands for dinner, he stood with December under the old oak by the cracked pavement, and when he told her that he didn’t know how to take care of Sam properly, she had stood on her toes and kissed him lightly on the tip of his nose, said he didn’t have to know, ‘cause he knew already.
Then she sent him back to Sam, hope and a kiss tucked into his pocket. Sam was waiting for him, a smile on his mouth and socks half hanging off his feet.
--
It’s another few days before she tells them about Peter Pan. She sits on the porch and waits for them, the book in her lap and her bucket of chalk beside her. Sam bounds across the road without looking left or right, or left again and drops to his knees in front of her, eyes wide as his fingers reach out and glide along the worn cover. Dean follows down with a smirk, keeps his knees up and rests his elbows on them, watching Sammy and the way he reverently strokes the spine and the edge. December grins at Dean and hands Sam the book; he flips it open, scans the pages one by one and lingers on the pictures.
It’s Peter Pan, she says, and Sammy looks up at her.
Who? He asks.
Peter Pan, she repeats.
The boy who never grew up, interjects Dean, and December watches the look in his eyes.
It’s yours to read, she says, you’ll like it. It’s about a boy who can never grow up, and he meets a girl who is forced to, and they fly away together and have an adventure in another world.
They can fly? Says Sam, and Dean smirks at him. All they need is fairy dust, squirt.
Sam snorts a little at that, but grins toothily at Dean. Will you read it to me Dean?
Dean nods, softens the smile at his brother. ‘Course Sammy. Tonight, before bed. Sam’s own smile grows wider and wider until December thinks it has to hurt, but then he turns back to her and says Thank you, Decca, all bright and happy. Dean catches her eye and smiles at her too, mouths thanks and tells Sam to run home quickly and put the book safe on the kitchen table. Sam does, and December can still see the look in Dean’s eye. He’ll read it to Sam, change his voice for different characters, maybe even act out the sword fighting scenes. He’ll tell the story about the boy who never grew up, even though Dean grew up far too long ago.
--
Sam, the little brat (but Dean loves him anyway) can read and read well, has been doing so for a fair few years now and could probably get through Peter Pan all on his own with the exception of a few words, of which he has a dictionary for (that he actually asked for as a birthday present, the weirdo). Dean loves him anyway. But it’s been a while since Sam asked him to read at bedtime and it’s something he’s kind of missed; but don’t tell anyone, ‘cause Dean’s gotten really good at knife throwing and he’ll gut you if you breathe a word.
That night, Sam sits cross-legged with his elbows perched on his knees and his chin perched in the cup of his hands, facing Dean, who lays against the headboard, feet stretched out in front of him and the book on his lap. Every so often, Sam leans forward, rocks up onto his legs in order to see the illustrations properly, and Dean will pause in reading and they’ll pick out the exact moment of text the picture is showing. Dean gets halfway through the third chapter, his mouth a little dry and throat a little sore before Sam falls forward, face mashed into Dean’s side, fast asleep with his mouth hanging open.
Dean thinks about leaving him there ‘cause it looks real funny, but Sam would bitch in the morning ‘cause that position? Can not be comfortable. Besides, Dean knows for a fact (from first hand experience) that the kid drools in his sleep. So he slips out from underneath Sammy and lays him down gently, pulls the blankets out and over and tucks him up tight and warm. Small kiss to his forehead and Sam snuffles and buries his nose in his pillow.
Less than ten minutes later, Dean’s crawling into his own bed and he falls asleep to the thought of Sam flying away from him and growing up without him.
--
Sam and Dean’s father has been absent for one week and five days, with the exception of three days ago when he rode up in his big black car, said hello to them, smiled at December and Sam and called Dean down off her porch for a moment. They speak a few words by the door of the house across the road, and Dean returns to them with a half frown, scuffing his shoes along the cement. He stops when he hits the bottom of the steps and December can’t help but think of the first time she met him (Come on Dean, or are you just chicken?).
Dean says Dad’s tired, and says He’s gonna sleep for a few hours. We’ll need to be back for dinner though.
Sam frowns, But Decca’s making pizza tonight, and it’s true, December is making pizza, because while Sam and Dean’s father has been gone, her own has been here, fingers shaking a little like they’re searching for glass, but she knows they haven’t found it yet. December was going to make pizza, because her father bought olives and cheese and round flat bread and they’ve already got the sausages, but Dean looks torn like he’s not sure how to tell Sam no.
It’s okay Sammy, she says, you’re dad is home tonight, you should spend some time with him. We’ll have the pizza tomorrow. Sam looks like this solves all the problems of the world and nods. Dean gives her a shaky little smile and when she smiles back, he looses the shake.
By the time morning comes, the big black car has left again and with it, Sam and Dean’s father. December makes the pizza for lunch instead, and the three of them sit under the oak and lick cheese off their fingers while her father sits on the porch steps and laughs when Sam throws crusts to the birds.
Sometimes things change; and she thinks that sometimes, things get better.
--
He told her once that she didn’t want a witch, that witches weren’t to be trusted, so he’s been drawing the proper sigils (the ones he knows anyway) on her wood with her chalk; and he knows she’s been watching him, learning and remembering and eventually she copies them exact on her own patch of porch. When she finishes one, he whispers what it means and she whispers it back to him, and then it’s time they drew other things and he makes her laugh when he sketches out horses that look more like cows.
One morning, and they’ve been here for just on three weeks now, Dean wakes before the sun to the sound of tapping on the window and it takes him a moment before he gets it. Tap tap taptaptap tap taptap taptaptap. Dean, wake up. Come outside. And hurry, it's cold. A pause. Bring me a jacket? He tries not to laugh as he slips out of bed, picks up an extra jacket and; why the hell not, a protection charm from his duffle bag.
The air isn’t freezing, despite December’s complaints. But it is before dawn, and she’s only in a single pyjama suit and thin socks, hopping from one foot to the other on Dean’s porch. She takes the jacket out of his hands and puts it on as she sits, her back against the house. She pulls a blanket from her side (asked him to bring out a jacket even though she brought a blanket, little minx) to lay over her knees and Dean sits down beside her.
How do you know Morse? He asks her.
There isn’t much to do around here, she says. Found a few books in the library, never gave them back. One had the code in it.
Fair point Dean thinks, fingering the charm in his pocket. Only… How did you know I knew it?
She looks at him like he’s an idiot for saying that. Because you know a lot of things people our age shouldn’t, why shouldn’t you know Morse code as well?
They sit in silence for a while and December tucks the blanket in tighter around them both, shifts until they’re pressed up tight side by side, leaning against the house.
Dean asks Why you up so early Dek? and almost wishes he hadn’t. December curls forward into the blanket, tucks her fingers in the fabric and her head into where it’s bunched up and breathes out slowly. It’s getting lighter, grey seeping in through black shadows and Dean can make out more of the houses down the street. They look less threatening when they’re not just black shapes.
It’s my birthday, she whispers, the still air of the morning catching it and taking it away from Dean and he’s lucky he hears it.
Oh, he says; then says Happy Birthday, and it feels awkward, like there’s something missing.
She shakes her head, a sad smile playing at the corner of her mouth where Dean can see. My Mother left us today, one year ago. Made me pancakes, then went out and never came back.
Oh, Dean says again; then says I’m sorry.
No need to be sorry. You didn’t make her leave. Dean frowns.
But neither did you. There’s silence. You know that, right Dek? You didn’t make her leave.
He’s not sure if that’s true, but doesn’t believe it could be; and he knows that given half the chance, he wouldn’t want to leave her either. Sam, not having even a remote chance, is still going to hang on like a limpet. December turns her head, looks at Dean from where she’s curled up.
She asks out of nowhere, What month were you born in? and Dean’s taken aback for a moment, not sure how to answer.
What does it matter?
Doesn’t matter at all, not really, she says. My mother used to call me the August daughter. She’s still looking at him, hardly blinking, and her eyes stay grey when the horizon doesn’t.
What month were you born in? she asks him, and dawn breaks gold over the cracked tiles of broken roofs, bouncing light between them.
January, Dean says. I was born in January.
She nods, like it makes sense, smiles a little. You’re the January son.
They sit there for a while longer until they hear Sam roll out of bed with a soft thump, and Dean stomach rumbles. He offers her breakfast, says he’ll make pancakes; and when they stand, he hands her the charm (It’s yours to keep, Happy Birthday Dek) and she nods and smiles, traces her finger over the etching. They gather the blanket up and step carefully over the salt line on the inside of the door.
--
Sometimes when Sam looks at Dean, it’s like he’s seeing the sun after a rainstorm. When streams of light fall on anything and everything and the ground glitters from wet. It’s like he lives for Dean’s smile, or Dean’s laugh and when they sit side by side, Sam always leans slightly towards him. Dean is like Sam’s own personal sun, the centre of his world, the one who gives him light and warmth and pancake breakfasts and it draws December in and she’s afraid to let it go. She’s afraid of the darkness that will fall when they leave her; because leave they will, Dean’s already warned her about it though he doesn’t know when exactly it will be. Could be a week, could be a few months, depends on how many hunts are around. School starts soon too… that’s something to be considered.
But she’s also afraid of what this town might do to them. People come here to die, not to live, and the two boys burn so brightly that the ghosts of people’s memories might just want to destroy that. But when she tells this to Dean, he just laughs and says Don’t you worry, they can’t get us. We’ll get them first, that’s what we do. She wants to believe him, wants him to prove it to her but she can’t work up the courage to make it happen. She tries to forget, because if she doesn’t think about it, then her own ghosts can get him and that’s one less problem to worry about.
Her fingers grip the charm around her neck and she wants to give it back, keep him safe so he can keep Sam safe, but she knows he won’t take it, so she draws and draws on her porch and theirs, over and over and over and over until her fingers hurt and chalk dust is lodged under her nails forever and hopes it’s enough.
--
It’s months before Dad says It’s time to move on boys, and Sam spends the day rereading Peter Pan. He won’t let Dean sit with him, but right before dark he grips Dean’s hand tight until it hurts and drags him across the road so he can curl up in December’s lap. They sit like that, the three of them on her porch until well past midnight. Both their fathers don’t say a word, they just bring them blankets when it gets really late.
It’s the first time Dean wants to cry when saying goodbye, but Sam and December do it for him.
--
December Jones sits on the front porch, chalk in one hand and her charm necklace in the other. Inside, the television blares midday self-help programs but no one listens (her father sits outside with her on the porch). Chalk dust kisses the wood and blankets her fingers, pale pink, blue, yellow and white. It’s wedged under her nails and she doesn’t think it’ll ever come out. The sun is shining today and that’s how it should be, but her head feels cloudy with goodbye. Across the road, the house slowly dies, seems to fold in on itself with every bag and box removed and Sam waves at her from the passenger door of their big black car. His brother joins him and they share a look, turn back to her with matching grins and make funny faces across the road until she can’t help but laugh, jump down her steps and across the asphalt without looking left, or right or left again and land safely in their arms.
Their fathers shake hands over their heads, mutter good byes and good lucks and she doesn’t want it to be over, doesn’t want them to go. They whisper It’ll be okay Dek, and when she asks how they know that, Dean says he doesn’t have to know, ‘cause he knew already. But still they leave her, with a smile and a kiss each tucked into their pockets, and hope and two kisses tucked into hers. She stands on the pavement with her father’s hand wrapped up in both of hers and watches the taillights until she can’t see them anymore; and it’s not fair because the sun is shining today, but her head is still cloudy with goodbye.
Her father says Come on August, and she almost protests to that, stops when she sees the glint of laughter in his eyes. She gets it, and it’s so not funny; her name being December (which is a month, of course), but him calling her August because not only is it another month, it’s the month she was born in (and obviously he’s going to be a dork kind of dad, and she plans right away to never let him chaperone anything when she gets older). But she laughs anyway because yeah, it is kind of funny when she thinks about it and so she rolls her eyes, wraps her arms around him, hugs him tight around his middle. He hugs her back. She sighs. Even though Sam and Dean are gone, it’s a nice day today. Makes sense.
The sun is shining, and really; that’s how it should be, being the very first day of January.
Comments are always appreciated :)