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Title: Two Little Ducks
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kellifer_fic
Rating: G
Category: SPN Gen, preseries (Dean 17, Sammy 13)
Warnings: None
Wordcount: 1,648
Summary: John finds out just what Dean gets up to on a Friday night.
The thing is, John loves a mystery and the thrill of the hunt but some things are just too bizarre.
Dean had just hit seventeen, had the Impala for his own and in all other ways that mattered seemed be a normal, well-adjusted teenager. Just over the last two months there’d been some oddness and John was trying to reconcile it with who he’d assumed Dean was turning out to be.
It was nothing bad per se, and the evidence John had been collecting relatively harmless if viewed separately, but the amalgamation was troubling.
First there was the fact that Dean was willingly taking his brother out with him. John remembered a time not too long ago where he would practically have to staple Sammy to Dean’s back to get him to take his kid brother anywhere. Now Dean arrived home on a Friday afternoon, tugged Sammy off the couch or wherever else he’d spread out with his homework and ignored the protests.
Then there was the appearance of random home wares and decorative touches.
John had known from a fairly early age that Sammy longed to settle, to put down roots. He dragged his heels and kicked up a fuss every time they had to move. Dean on the other hand had seemed to take to the nomadic lifestyle, often getting tense and restless before even John. He’d never been a nester so the fact that their house now had a blender, rugs, art prints and a number of other appliances was concerning.
Then there was the smell.
John knew what a boy smelled like after a night on the town, even with the opposite sex, and that wasn’t it. The smell was definitely familiar but John just couldn’t peg it. The fact that Sammy had picked up the same distinctive odour had been the thing to decide John on his current course of action.
Which brings him here, sitting in his truck outside what looks like a community hall, strung with old Christmas lights and bustling with activity. On approach, John had thought maybe it was an under-aged disco. It would go some way towards explaining Dean’s willingness to take Sammy along with him, if they could separate once they reached their destination with groups of their own age. The majority of people milling about are somewhat older than what you’d expect to see if this were the case however.
John takes a deep breath, knowing there is only one way he is going to find out just what the hell is going on.
He slides out of the truck and jogs across the street. As he moves through the gathered crowd and then the thrown-wide doors everything becomes clear.
John spots Dean sitting at one of a dozen rows of folding tables, towards the center of the space. He zigzags his way through until he is almost directly behind his oldest and then claps a hand on his shoulder. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Dean stiffens and spins, as much as he can in the plastic chair he’s perched on without tipping it and himself all the way over. Almost immediately he hunches, as if he can hide the evidence of what he is involved in, face flooding fire truck red.
“Are you playing… Bingo?”
“Legs Eleven!” a jovial voice calls from the front of the room and there is the sound of dozens of thick markers thumping on pages. John sees Dean’s internal struggle. He is mortified at being found out and at the same time his hand drifts as if of its own accord towards his own comically thick marker.
“No?” Dean tries; shading deeper red and John snorts and drops himself into the chair by Dean. It creaks with his weight but holds as he leans forward to see the vast array of bingo cards Dean has fanned out before him. Everything falls into place, the random home wares, the smell which was floral but musky just like his Grandmother and…
“Where’s Sammy?” John asks, realising he’s still missing a piece of the puzzle.
Dean ducks his head as the small cage of balls at the front of the room is spun again and the Caller in a festive bow tie announces the number twenty nine, feeling fine!.
“Dean?” John prods, head turning to scan the room for his youngest, finally spying him at the table loaded with biscuits, cakes and other assorted refreshments. As he watches, Sammy is swarmed by a gaggle of ladies, all intent on pinching a cheek or ruffling their hands through his hair. Sammy ducks and weaves admirably and ends up being ejected from the group fairly loaded down with enough sugary treats to feed ten men. Sammy is beaming but his expression settles into confusion when he spots his father.
Sammy makes his way over, showing a grace that John has yet to see when he’s running drills and unloads the food onto the table, careful not to get any on Dean’s careful array of playing cards. “More?” Sammy asks and John almost chokes, wondering just how either of his sons could put away what is already on the table, let alone more.
Dean looks uncertain, glancing at John before he sighs and nods. Sammy grins and takes off, not in the direction of the refreshment table though but towards another table off in the corner, manned by two efficient looking women, one with frosted blue hair and one with purple.
“Cards are fifty cents a pop,” Dean explains as John watches Sammy sidle up to the table, looking shy. John has never known Sammy to be shy a day in his life. “Sammy goes up and the women slip him an extra couple every time,” Dean finishes, real amazement in his voice. “Not to mention if I even go near the cake table I get death glares.”
While he’s been talking, Dean has picked up his pen again and his attention has drifted back to his cards. When the next number is announced, Dean scans and marks off the numbers he has with a swift pock, pock, pock.
John is quite simply astounded. He knows most seventeen year olds would spend most of their available spare time with their jeans around their ankles or the pursuit thereof and for Dean to be indulging in something so innocent has left him mystified. “You… enjoy this?”
In his enthusiasm, Dean had obviously forgotten to be embarrassed but he remembers now, hunching over his cards again with his shoulders up around his ears. “I dunno,” Dean says, scrubbing a hand over the back of his head. “I guess.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” John tries, knowing he’s said exactly the wrong thing when the redness creeps back into Deans cheeks. “Hell, gambling’s gambling.” John thinks about what he’s just said, wondering at the kind of example he’s setting by condoning such a thing but he knows when to not look a gift horse in the mouth. There are much worse things Dean could be doing.
“So, this going to take much longer?” John asks and sees Dean’s face draw down into a disappointed furrow. Dean hooks a thumb over his shoulder and John looks where he’s pointing, sees what must be the prize table laden with various forms of crap no one would really want. Except…pride of place in the middle of the table is a large platter.
“Meat tray,” Dean says, tone one of reverence.
With growing boys, John has often found that he has had to sacrifice quality for quantity when it comes to food. There are more meals eaten in roadside diners than he’d like, the rest from whatever can be scraped together from gas stations and twenty-four hour markets after the best of the goods have been picked over by regular nine-to-fivers.
John squints and can see the platter in question has sausage links, bacon, pork chops and what appears to be three steaks right smack in the center, as big as his head. There was a steak house back in Lawrence that John still fantasises about and most steaks ordered on the road are an exercise in frustration, more often than not cooked down so they resemble a lump of coal even if you catch the waitresses attention long enough to ask for bloody, probably to disguise the fact that they are usually only a few steps up from pet food in the first place.
“Uh,” John says, digging around in his top jacket pocket and coming up with a five dollar bill. He hooks Sammy by the scruff of the neck as he arrives back with Dean’s bingo cards clutched against his chest. “Maybe you should go get me some of those.” John lets Sammy drop what he has and then turns him back around to eye him critically. John hooks a finger in the small hole in Sammy’s shirt just over his collar bone and tugs it wider before mussing a hand through Sammy’s already unruly locks. A smudge of chocolate on the cheek completes the picture of pathetic adorableness.
Sammy grumbles but goes, all too aware that he is being used as chum in shark infested waters but not being able to protest. When John turns back to Dean after releasing Sammy, Dean is eyeing him with something like dubious consternation. “What?” John grunts. “You gonna do something, you do it right.”
Author:
kellifer_ficRating: G
Category: SPN Gen, preseries (Dean 17, Sammy 13)
Warnings: None
Wordcount: 1,648
Summary: John finds out just what Dean gets up to on a Friday night.
The thing is, John loves a mystery and the thrill of the hunt but some things are just too bizarre.
Dean had just hit seventeen, had the Impala for his own and in all other ways that mattered seemed be a normal, well-adjusted teenager. Just over the last two months there’d been some oddness and John was trying to reconcile it with who he’d assumed Dean was turning out to be.
It was nothing bad per se, and the evidence John had been collecting relatively harmless if viewed separately, but the amalgamation was troubling.
First there was the fact that Dean was willingly taking his brother out with him. John remembered a time not too long ago where he would practically have to staple Sammy to Dean’s back to get him to take his kid brother anywhere. Now Dean arrived home on a Friday afternoon, tugged Sammy off the couch or wherever else he’d spread out with his homework and ignored the protests.
Then there was the appearance of random home wares and decorative touches.
John had known from a fairly early age that Sammy longed to settle, to put down roots. He dragged his heels and kicked up a fuss every time they had to move. Dean on the other hand had seemed to take to the nomadic lifestyle, often getting tense and restless before even John. He’d never been a nester so the fact that their house now had a blender, rugs, art prints and a number of other appliances was concerning.
Then there was the smell.
John knew what a boy smelled like after a night on the town, even with the opposite sex, and that wasn’t it. The smell was definitely familiar but John just couldn’t peg it. The fact that Sammy had picked up the same distinctive odour had been the thing to decide John on his current course of action.
Which brings him here, sitting in his truck outside what looks like a community hall, strung with old Christmas lights and bustling with activity. On approach, John had thought maybe it was an under-aged disco. It would go some way towards explaining Dean’s willingness to take Sammy along with him, if they could separate once they reached their destination with groups of their own age. The majority of people milling about are somewhat older than what you’d expect to see if this were the case however.
John takes a deep breath, knowing there is only one way he is going to find out just what the hell is going on.
He slides out of the truck and jogs across the street. As he moves through the gathered crowd and then the thrown-wide doors everything becomes clear.
John spots Dean sitting at one of a dozen rows of folding tables, towards the center of the space. He zigzags his way through until he is almost directly behind his oldest and then claps a hand on his shoulder. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Dean stiffens and spins, as much as he can in the plastic chair he’s perched on without tipping it and himself all the way over. Almost immediately he hunches, as if he can hide the evidence of what he is involved in, face flooding fire truck red.
“Are you playing… Bingo?”
“Legs Eleven!” a jovial voice calls from the front of the room and there is the sound of dozens of thick markers thumping on pages. John sees Dean’s internal struggle. He is mortified at being found out and at the same time his hand drifts as if of its own accord towards his own comically thick marker.
“No?” Dean tries; shading deeper red and John snorts and drops himself into the chair by Dean. It creaks with his weight but holds as he leans forward to see the vast array of bingo cards Dean has fanned out before him. Everything falls into place, the random home wares, the smell which was floral but musky just like his Grandmother and…
“Where’s Sammy?” John asks, realising he’s still missing a piece of the puzzle.
Dean ducks his head as the small cage of balls at the front of the room is spun again and the Caller in a festive bow tie announces the number twenty nine, feeling fine!.
“Dean?” John prods, head turning to scan the room for his youngest, finally spying him at the table loaded with biscuits, cakes and other assorted refreshments. As he watches, Sammy is swarmed by a gaggle of ladies, all intent on pinching a cheek or ruffling their hands through his hair. Sammy ducks and weaves admirably and ends up being ejected from the group fairly loaded down with enough sugary treats to feed ten men. Sammy is beaming but his expression settles into confusion when he spots his father.
Sammy makes his way over, showing a grace that John has yet to see when he’s running drills and unloads the food onto the table, careful not to get any on Dean’s careful array of playing cards. “More?” Sammy asks and John almost chokes, wondering just how either of his sons could put away what is already on the table, let alone more.
Dean looks uncertain, glancing at John before he sighs and nods. Sammy grins and takes off, not in the direction of the refreshment table though but towards another table off in the corner, manned by two efficient looking women, one with frosted blue hair and one with purple.
“Cards are fifty cents a pop,” Dean explains as John watches Sammy sidle up to the table, looking shy. John has never known Sammy to be shy a day in his life. “Sammy goes up and the women slip him an extra couple every time,” Dean finishes, real amazement in his voice. “Not to mention if I even go near the cake table I get death glares.”
While he’s been talking, Dean has picked up his pen again and his attention has drifted back to his cards. When the next number is announced, Dean scans and marks off the numbers he has with a swift pock, pock, pock.
John is quite simply astounded. He knows most seventeen year olds would spend most of their available spare time with their jeans around their ankles or the pursuit thereof and for Dean to be indulging in something so innocent has left him mystified. “You… enjoy this?”
In his enthusiasm, Dean had obviously forgotten to be embarrassed but he remembers now, hunching over his cards again with his shoulders up around his ears. “I dunno,” Dean says, scrubbing a hand over the back of his head. “I guess.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” John tries, knowing he’s said exactly the wrong thing when the redness creeps back into Deans cheeks. “Hell, gambling’s gambling.” John thinks about what he’s just said, wondering at the kind of example he’s setting by condoning such a thing but he knows when to not look a gift horse in the mouth. There are much worse things Dean could be doing.
“So, this going to take much longer?” John asks and sees Dean’s face draw down into a disappointed furrow. Dean hooks a thumb over his shoulder and John looks where he’s pointing, sees what must be the prize table laden with various forms of crap no one would really want. Except…pride of place in the middle of the table is a large platter.
“Meat tray,” Dean says, tone one of reverence.
With growing boys, John has often found that he has had to sacrifice quality for quantity when it comes to food. There are more meals eaten in roadside diners than he’d like, the rest from whatever can be scraped together from gas stations and twenty-four hour markets after the best of the goods have been picked over by regular nine-to-fivers.
John squints and can see the platter in question has sausage links, bacon, pork chops and what appears to be three steaks right smack in the center, as big as his head. There was a steak house back in Lawrence that John still fantasises about and most steaks ordered on the road are an exercise in frustration, more often than not cooked down so they resemble a lump of coal even if you catch the waitresses attention long enough to ask for bloody, probably to disguise the fact that they are usually only a few steps up from pet food in the first place.
“Uh,” John says, digging around in his top jacket pocket and coming up with a five dollar bill. He hooks Sammy by the scruff of the neck as he arrives back with Dean’s bingo cards clutched against his chest. “Maybe you should go get me some of those.” John lets Sammy drop what he has and then turns him back around to eye him critically. John hooks a finger in the small hole in Sammy’s shirt just over his collar bone and tugs it wider before mussing a hand through Sammy’s already unruly locks. A smudge of chocolate on the cheek completes the picture of pathetic adorableness.
Sammy grumbles but goes, all too aware that he is being used as chum in shark infested waters but not being able to protest. When John turns back to Dean after releasing Sammy, Dean is eyeing him with something like dubious consternation. “What?” John grunts. “You gonna do something, you do it right.”