Ficlet: Therapy (Gen, PG)
Title: Therapy
Characters: Gen - Wee!Dean
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me, sadly.
Beta: zooey_glass04 beta-ed despite having no time in her life. Thank you, darling!
Summary: Pre-series. Dean hates therapy. He has his reasons.
Therapy
The door is very loud as it closes behind him, and Dean shrinks further into himself, away from her reaching hand.
"It's okay, Dean." Her voice sounds sweet but firm, and Dean knows what she really means is You have to stay and do what I tell you. "Your daddy and your baby brother are just going to wait right outside while we talk again. Why don't you go sit down in your seat?"
Dean doesn't look up at her, is careful to keep his eyes on the floor all the way to the little plastic chair next to the table. The chair is yellow. The table is red. Dean thinks he'd probably hate them, if he had any hate left over.
She sits down on the floor on the other side of the little table, and Dean shifts his gaze to the table top. There's paper laid out on it, and crayons.
He really, really wishes Daddy hadn't made him come back here again.
"Now then," she says, "why don't we start by drawing something that's happened this week? Can you do that, Dean? Draw me something you've done, or something you've seen, or something you've thought about since the last time we saw each other. Okay?"
Dean stares at the pieces of paper and doesn't move.
"I'll go first, then," she says, and picks up one of the crayons. "Yesterday..." She sketches quickly as she speaks, drawing the words out. "I spoke to my father." Green and red and yellow. Dean doesn't look.
"Now then, your turn," she says. Dean feels her eyes on him and lowers his head further.
She wants to help you, Daddy had said. Be good, Dean. Do what she tells you.
He doesn't want to draw, doesn't want to show her any part of him. But he picks up one of the crayons and draws a piece of paper towards him. It takes him a moment to decide what his picture should be, because he's not going to draw Sammy or Daddy, not for her. Finally he draws a cake, quick and messy.
"Ah, yes, it was your birthday this week, wasn't it, Dean?" He can hear the smile in her voice. "Did you have candles on your cake?"
There had been candles. Mrs Jones had baked him a birthday cake and put candles on it, and he'd stared at them when she lit them, tiny golden flames. He hadn't eaten any of his cake.
"Okay, good," she says. "I'd like you to draw me a picture of the fire, now. The fire from that night."
Dean puts his crayon down.
"Dean," she says. Her voice is firm again. "You can either tell me about what you saw that night, or you can draw it. It's up to you."
He stares at the table and shivers. He can't tell her, doesn't know where the words have gone, and wouldn't give them to her even if he did. He doesn't want to draw this for her either.
Be good, Dean.
Slowly he picks up the yellow crayon, and hears her draw in breath.
The flames he draws are sharp and jagged, yellow then orange then red, filling the page. He focuses on the crayons and tries not to look.
"That's good," she says. "But it's not all. You saw something else that night, didn't you? Draw it for me, Dean."
He saw a lot of things that night, things he doesn't like remembering - saw his home vanish, saw his Daddy cry. Saw...
"Draw it for me," she insists.
Dean swallows, and picks up the yellow crayon again. Fiddles with the edge of a flame, biting his lip.
"I see lots of cases like yours," she tells him, her voice lower. "Families ripped apart by fires. But none of them had - you're unique, Dean, do you know what that means?"
You're special, Mommy used to say. You're special, Dean. So you've got to be careful.
"Special is one word for it." He knows if he looks up she'll be smiling again. "You're different. You break all the patterns. And I want to know why."
He looks up at her.
The table almost topples over as he scrambles to his feet, and then he's running for the door, reaching up for the handle. He can hear his own breathing, frantic little gasps as he struggles with the door, and then it's open and he's out and he doesn't stop running until he collides with Daddy's legs.
"Whoa, easy, Dean," Daddy says, his hand coming down to touch Dean's head. He stands up, and Dean immediately slips behind him, hiding as best he can, because he can hear the tap tap of her footsteps coming closer.
"Is he -?"
"It's really a good sign," she says. "Children react to grief in all sorts of ways, and if he's starting to express that rather than locking it inside himself, that's real progress."
Dean clings on to Daddy's legs, and wisheswisheswishes Mommy was here.
"I'd like to see Dean again in a week," she tells Daddy. "Please make an appointment with my assistant on your way out."
"Okay," Daddy says. "Thank you for your time. C'mon, Dean, time to go."
Dean lets Daddy take his hand and draw him out of the room, then Daddy sets Sammy's carrier down, and Dean stays close to it while Daddy goes across to talk to the man at the desk.
So you've got to be careful. And if you see anyone with black eyes, you run, Dean. You run and you find me and you tell me right away, do you understand?
"All set," Daddy says, picking Sammy's carrier up again. "Let's go."
Dean follows silently, because he doesn't know what else to do. He can't run and tell Mommy, not any more.
He really wishes Mommy was here.
~*~
ETA: There is now another ficlet in this verse, Where There's Smoke.
Characters: Gen - Wee!Dean
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me, sadly.
Beta: zooey_glass04 beta-ed despite having no time in her life. Thank you, darling!
Summary: Pre-series. Dean hates therapy. He has his reasons.
Therapy
The door is very loud as it closes behind him, and Dean shrinks further into himself, away from her reaching hand.
"It's okay, Dean." Her voice sounds sweet but firm, and Dean knows what she really means is You have to stay and do what I tell you. "Your daddy and your baby brother are just going to wait right outside while we talk again. Why don't you go sit down in your seat?"
Dean doesn't look up at her, is careful to keep his eyes on the floor all the way to the little plastic chair next to the table. The chair is yellow. The table is red. Dean thinks he'd probably hate them, if he had any hate left over.
She sits down on the floor on the other side of the little table, and Dean shifts his gaze to the table top. There's paper laid out on it, and crayons.
He really, really wishes Daddy hadn't made him come back here again.
"Now then," she says, "why don't we start by drawing something that's happened this week? Can you do that, Dean? Draw me something you've done, or something you've seen, or something you've thought about since the last time we saw each other. Okay?"
Dean stares at the pieces of paper and doesn't move.
"I'll go first, then," she says, and picks up one of the crayons. "Yesterday..." She sketches quickly as she speaks, drawing the words out. "I spoke to my father." Green and red and yellow. Dean doesn't look.
"Now then, your turn," she says. Dean feels her eyes on him and lowers his head further.
She wants to help you, Daddy had said. Be good, Dean. Do what she tells you.
He doesn't want to draw, doesn't want to show her any part of him. But he picks up one of the crayons and draws a piece of paper towards him. It takes him a moment to decide what his picture should be, because he's not going to draw Sammy or Daddy, not for her. Finally he draws a cake, quick and messy.
"Ah, yes, it was your birthday this week, wasn't it, Dean?" He can hear the smile in her voice. "Did you have candles on your cake?"
There had been candles. Mrs Jones had baked him a birthday cake and put candles on it, and he'd stared at them when she lit them, tiny golden flames. He hadn't eaten any of his cake.
"Okay, good," she says. "I'd like you to draw me a picture of the fire, now. The fire from that night."
Dean puts his crayon down.
"Dean," she says. Her voice is firm again. "You can either tell me about what you saw that night, or you can draw it. It's up to you."
He stares at the table and shivers. He can't tell her, doesn't know where the words have gone, and wouldn't give them to her even if he did. He doesn't want to draw this for her either.
Be good, Dean.
Slowly he picks up the yellow crayon, and hears her draw in breath.
The flames he draws are sharp and jagged, yellow then orange then red, filling the page. He focuses on the crayons and tries not to look.
"That's good," she says. "But it's not all. You saw something else that night, didn't you? Draw it for me, Dean."
He saw a lot of things that night, things he doesn't like remembering - saw his home vanish, saw his Daddy cry. Saw...
"Draw it for me," she insists.
Dean swallows, and picks up the yellow crayon again. Fiddles with the edge of a flame, biting his lip.
"I see lots of cases like yours," she tells him, her voice lower. "Families ripped apart by fires. But none of them had - you're unique, Dean, do you know what that means?"
You're special, Mommy used to say. You're special, Dean. So you've got to be careful.
"Special is one word for it." He knows if he looks up she'll be smiling again. "You're different. You break all the patterns. And I want to know why."
He looks up at her.
The table almost topples over as he scrambles to his feet, and then he's running for the door, reaching up for the handle. He can hear his own breathing, frantic little gasps as he struggles with the door, and then it's open and he's out and he doesn't stop running until he collides with Daddy's legs.
"Whoa, easy, Dean," Daddy says, his hand coming down to touch Dean's head. He stands up, and Dean immediately slips behind him, hiding as best he can, because he can hear the tap tap of her footsteps coming closer.
"Is he -?"
"It's really a good sign," she says. "Children react to grief in all sorts of ways, and if he's starting to express that rather than locking it inside himself, that's real progress."
Dean clings on to Daddy's legs, and wisheswisheswishes Mommy was here.
"I'd like to see Dean again in a week," she tells Daddy. "Please make an appointment with my assistant on your way out."
"Okay," Daddy says. "Thank you for your time. C'mon, Dean, time to go."
Dean lets Daddy take his hand and draw him out of the room, then Daddy sets Sammy's carrier down, and Dean stays close to it while Daddy goes across to talk to the man at the desk.
So you've got to be careful. And if you see anyone with black eyes, you run, Dean. You run and you find me and you tell me right away, do you understand?
"All set," Daddy says, picking Sammy's carrier up again. "Let's go."
Dean follows silently, because he doesn't know what else to do. He can't run and tell Mommy, not any more.
He really wishes Mommy was here.
~*~
ETA: There is now another ficlet in this verse, Where There's Smoke.