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withimpunityTitle: Something You Can't Replace
Pairing: None; gen. Wee!chesters
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1805
A/n: title from a Coldplay song
Summary: Sammy doesn’t understand why Dean doesn’t want him to talk to the kids at the bus stop. Then he does.
“Don’t forget your lunch,” Dean gives a slight nod at the paper bag sitting on the counter as he pulls his books underneath his arm and grabs his keys from the hook on the wall. He glances at the clock on the stove as Sammy slips his arms through his Spiderman backpack and pulls the paper sack off the counter, peering inside as he follows Dean out the door.
“I don’t like bologna,” Dean hears him pout behind him and rolls his eyes, hears paper crinkling in Sam’s small fists as they walk to the bus stop.
“You liked it fine yesterday,” He crooks his head around as he slips the chain with his house key on it around his neck.
“Well, I don’t like it anymore,” Sammy snaps, sticking his tongue out as he reaches up and pushes his hair out of his eyes for the third time since they left the apartment; Dean makes a mental note to trim it after they get home from school. Kid’s hair grows faster than mold on leftovers.
“Well tough,” Dean growls as he combs his fingers through his hair, trying to make it look like he actually remembered to brush it this morning. Honestly, he doubts he’s even wearing a cleaning shirt. He can‘t remember the last time they made a trip to the laundry mat. “It was buy one get one, so that’s what you’re having this week.”
“But Dean,” Sam whines, pursing his lips into an unmistakable sign that a tantrum is soon to follow. “I hate bologna. Its gross and it looks like something Mrs. Newton’s kitty threw up on her steps.”
Dean sighs; Sammy’s voice is getting to that pitch, the one that says the waterworks are just around the corner, and Dean knows if he doesn’t do something quick-like, the lunch he made is going to be ground into the concrete underneath Sam’s feet and he’s going to have to pay for a school lunch, which means he won’t be able to buy them a snack after school, and he’s been craving those little powdered donuts since yesterday.
“I guess bologna is pretty gross,” he stops for a second, flashes Sammy a crooked, big brother grin. “Hey, maybe you can swap the chocolate chip Kudos I put in there for somebody’s pb and j?”
Sam nibbles on his bottom lip for another moment, and Dean can tell the exact second the storm recedes; Sammy’s eyes brighten as his shoulders relax, his tiny fingers uncurling from the brown paper bag that was two seconds from being chucked on the ground. He lets out a deep breath as Sam starts walking down the sidewalk again. Another crisis averted.
They wait under the huge oak tree by the Circle K on the corner, just the two of them, just like every morning. Sammy asks if they can go stand with the rest of the kids, just like he does every morning, like he thinks one day Dean’s going surprise him and say, “Yeah sure, Sammy. Go ahead, let’s pretend to be normal today.” Dean just shakes his head and opens his notebook, spends the time waiting for the bus doodling protection runes on the back of his geography notes while Sammy wanders around, stuffing acorns in his pockets. When he gets them down perfect, Dad’s going to let him do them in salt. And after that, he might let him go with him on a routine salt and burn. Dean hasn’t been this excited since he made his first sawed-off.
That’s when he hears it. Its not an unfamiliar sound to hear at the bus stop, a group of giggling girls, deeper laughter belonging to boys his same age, but when he looks up to see who they’ve singled-out to be the victim of their morning bullying routine, his eyes fall on a short, mop-haired little boy with holes in his shoes and an old white shirt with an airplane on the front and a large spaghetti oh stain somewhere on the bottom.
Sammy.
Dean leaves his books underneath the tree as he walks over to the curb where they’re ganging up on Sam, two boys a year or two younger than him and a girl chewing her gum like she‘s afraid its going to get away from her. Another group of kids watch from a few feet away, like an audience, like this is some kind of sick entertainment for them. Dean’s nails gouge the skin inside his palm as he approaches them, looking only at his brother for the moment. His fingers curl around Sam’s shoulder softly, turning him away from the kids bullying him.
“You okay?” He asks quietly, feeling a red hot stab of rage surge through him when he notices the tears welling up in Sammy’s eyes. “Go back over to our tree, Sammy. Kay?”
Sam’s lip trembles, but he nods and twists the loose straps on his backpack as he walks back over to sit under the oak tree; Dean’s thankful that he listened this time, but something tells him Sammy had been trying to return for a while and these little shits wouldn’t let him.
When Dean turns back to them, all three are still standing there, arms crossed over their chests, looking cocky as all get out, like they’ve never been afraid of anyone or anything in their life. Dean doubts they’ve ever had to be.
“I get it,” He finally says after looking them over, checking out the tall guy’s new, black Jordan’s, and the gold locket hanging around the girl’s neck, all three of them dressed in clean, pressed clothes that smell like Fresh Breeze laundry detergent and the lingering scent of buttered pancakes. “I do. You live on Cherry Tree Lane, mommy drives a mini van and Daddy’s got a shiny new pickup, you go to soccer practice every day after school and play scrabble on family game night. What I don’t get is how you have time to be so bored that you have to entertain yourself by making fun of a fucking first grader.”
The girl on the left nearly chokes on her gum when Dean drops the f bomb, when he doesn’t even flinch when he says it. The guy in the middle at least has the common sense to look shaken. Dean takes a step forward. He’s no taller than any of them really, but he remembers what Dad has taught him; its all about presentation. Intimidation. Knowing for a fact that you can kick the son of a bitch’s ass with your hands tied behind your back and blindfolded. He stares straight through the kid with the spiked blonde hair and says, “Don’t ever talk to my brother again.”
He draws out every word, every syllable, wanting to leave a very long, very lasting impression on these punks. Seriously, who gets off on picking on a six year old? He wishes he had enough time on his hands that he got bored enough to do something like that. The longer he stares at them, the worse his palms itch to just start swinging. They just look so goddamn clean and well-rested, fucking spoon-fed. He guarantees not one of them has ever been woken up at three in the morning to help their father bandage a nearly fatal wound, that none of them has ever had to pawn anything before, they they’ve never had to dodge social services. Dean’s fingers curl into a tight fist by his thigh. They look pretty scared now, and about damn time, he thinks. He wants to hit the blonde wearing too much hair gel first, stand back and watch the blood drip from his mouth and stain his pretty white polo shirt that probably cost more than they spend on groceries every week. But Sammy likes his new teacher and they just moved here three months ago, so he doesn’t.
“We all on the same page?” Dean asks, taking a precautionary step back before he does something he’ll regret, flashing a sardonic half-grin at them before turning around, not waiting for an answer from either of them. He doesn’t need one. The look on their faces is more than enough. They know he’ll fuck them up if they ever mess with Sammy again, and yeah he’ll probably get talked about in every classroom and every bathroom in the school, by the end of the day there will be rumors floating around about how he set his last school on fire or just escaped from juvie, but he doesn’t care. Been there, done that. The look on their faces is totally worth it.
He squats down next to Sam under the tree, notices the transparent streaks of tears on his cheeks and feels the rage flare inside of him again; it burns a hole straight through his chest. He reaches out and pushes Sam’s hair out of his eyes. Again.
Dean wants to ask Sammy what the big kids said to him, but he knows it’ll only make it worse, and he still has to ride to school with the pricks. If he gets suspended from the bus there’s no way he’ll be able to get to school, then social services will get their scent again and they’ll have to pack up and move, again. So instead of asking Sam if the kids were making fun of his ratty sneakers or his dirty clothes or calling their dad a drunk, Dean leans against the tree beside him and they wait for the bus together.
“I’m sorry,” Sammy speaks up a few minutes later; Dean’s not sure he heard him right.
“What?” He shifts to the side to stare down at Sam. “What are you sorry for?”
“For not listening to you,” Sammy mutters under his breath as he pulls a weed out of the ground, dusting his jeans with a sprinkling of dirt from its roots. “I know why you don’t want to talk to them now.”
Dean’s heart aches so bad he forgets how to breathe for a moment. He wants to tell Sammy that’s not it, that not everyone is like that, that he’ll make friends and he’ll grow up to be a normal kid living a safe, pancake and waffles for breakfast life, just like those kids on the corner. Dean blinks and a hot tear runs down the side of his face as he realizes he’d just be lying through his teeth.
The bus’ breaks squeal when it stops at the corner and Dean quickly drags the back of his hand across his face, wiping off the evidence of his heartache. He sits with Sammy on the bus, just like they do every morning, and just like every other morning, none of the other kids talk to them. The only thing different is that this morning, Sammy doesn’t care.
Pairing: None; gen. Wee!chesters
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1805
A/n: title from a Coldplay song
Summary: Sammy doesn’t understand why Dean doesn’t want him to talk to the kids at the bus stop. Then he does.
“Don’t forget your lunch,” Dean gives a slight nod at the paper bag sitting on the counter as he pulls his books underneath his arm and grabs his keys from the hook on the wall. He glances at the clock on the stove as Sammy slips his arms through his Spiderman backpack and pulls the paper sack off the counter, peering inside as he follows Dean out the door.
“I don’t like bologna,” Dean hears him pout behind him and rolls his eyes, hears paper crinkling in Sam’s small fists as they walk to the bus stop.
“You liked it fine yesterday,” He crooks his head around as he slips the chain with his house key on it around his neck.
“Well, I don’t like it anymore,” Sammy snaps, sticking his tongue out as he reaches up and pushes his hair out of his eyes for the third time since they left the apartment; Dean makes a mental note to trim it after they get home from school. Kid’s hair grows faster than mold on leftovers.
“Well tough,” Dean growls as he combs his fingers through his hair, trying to make it look like he actually remembered to brush it this morning. Honestly, he doubts he’s even wearing a cleaning shirt. He can‘t remember the last time they made a trip to the laundry mat. “It was buy one get one, so that’s what you’re having this week.”
“But Dean,” Sam whines, pursing his lips into an unmistakable sign that a tantrum is soon to follow. “I hate bologna. Its gross and it looks like something Mrs. Newton’s kitty threw up on her steps.”
Dean sighs; Sammy’s voice is getting to that pitch, the one that says the waterworks are just around the corner, and Dean knows if he doesn’t do something quick-like, the lunch he made is going to be ground into the concrete underneath Sam’s feet and he’s going to have to pay for a school lunch, which means he won’t be able to buy them a snack after school, and he’s been craving those little powdered donuts since yesterday.
“I guess bologna is pretty gross,” he stops for a second, flashes Sammy a crooked, big brother grin. “Hey, maybe you can swap the chocolate chip Kudos I put in there for somebody’s pb and j?”
Sam nibbles on his bottom lip for another moment, and Dean can tell the exact second the storm recedes; Sammy’s eyes brighten as his shoulders relax, his tiny fingers uncurling from the brown paper bag that was two seconds from being chucked on the ground. He lets out a deep breath as Sam starts walking down the sidewalk again. Another crisis averted.
They wait under the huge oak tree by the Circle K on the corner, just the two of them, just like every morning. Sammy asks if they can go stand with the rest of the kids, just like he does every morning, like he thinks one day Dean’s going surprise him and say, “Yeah sure, Sammy. Go ahead, let’s pretend to be normal today.” Dean just shakes his head and opens his notebook, spends the time waiting for the bus doodling protection runes on the back of his geography notes while Sammy wanders around, stuffing acorns in his pockets. When he gets them down perfect, Dad’s going to let him do them in salt. And after that, he might let him go with him on a routine salt and burn. Dean hasn’t been this excited since he made his first sawed-off.
That’s when he hears it. Its not an unfamiliar sound to hear at the bus stop, a group of giggling girls, deeper laughter belonging to boys his same age, but when he looks up to see who they’ve singled-out to be the victim of their morning bullying routine, his eyes fall on a short, mop-haired little boy with holes in his shoes and an old white shirt with an airplane on the front and a large spaghetti oh stain somewhere on the bottom.
Sammy.
Dean leaves his books underneath the tree as he walks over to the curb where they’re ganging up on Sam, two boys a year or two younger than him and a girl chewing her gum like she‘s afraid its going to get away from her. Another group of kids watch from a few feet away, like an audience, like this is some kind of sick entertainment for them. Dean’s nails gouge the skin inside his palm as he approaches them, looking only at his brother for the moment. His fingers curl around Sam’s shoulder softly, turning him away from the kids bullying him.
“You okay?” He asks quietly, feeling a red hot stab of rage surge through him when he notices the tears welling up in Sammy’s eyes. “Go back over to our tree, Sammy. Kay?”
Sam’s lip trembles, but he nods and twists the loose straps on his backpack as he walks back over to sit under the oak tree; Dean’s thankful that he listened this time, but something tells him Sammy had been trying to return for a while and these little shits wouldn’t let him.
When Dean turns back to them, all three are still standing there, arms crossed over their chests, looking cocky as all get out, like they’ve never been afraid of anyone or anything in their life. Dean doubts they’ve ever had to be.
“I get it,” He finally says after looking them over, checking out the tall guy’s new, black Jordan’s, and the gold locket hanging around the girl’s neck, all three of them dressed in clean, pressed clothes that smell like Fresh Breeze laundry detergent and the lingering scent of buttered pancakes. “I do. You live on Cherry Tree Lane, mommy drives a mini van and Daddy’s got a shiny new pickup, you go to soccer practice every day after school and play scrabble on family game night. What I don’t get is how you have time to be so bored that you have to entertain yourself by making fun of a fucking first grader.”
The girl on the left nearly chokes on her gum when Dean drops the f bomb, when he doesn’t even flinch when he says it. The guy in the middle at least has the common sense to look shaken. Dean takes a step forward. He’s no taller than any of them really, but he remembers what Dad has taught him; its all about presentation. Intimidation. Knowing for a fact that you can kick the son of a bitch’s ass with your hands tied behind your back and blindfolded. He stares straight through the kid with the spiked blonde hair and says, “Don’t ever talk to my brother again.”
He draws out every word, every syllable, wanting to leave a very long, very lasting impression on these punks. Seriously, who gets off on picking on a six year old? He wishes he had enough time on his hands that he got bored enough to do something like that. The longer he stares at them, the worse his palms itch to just start swinging. They just look so goddamn clean and well-rested, fucking spoon-fed. He guarantees not one of them has ever been woken up at three in the morning to help their father bandage a nearly fatal wound, that none of them has ever had to pawn anything before, they they’ve never had to dodge social services. Dean’s fingers curl into a tight fist by his thigh. They look pretty scared now, and about damn time, he thinks. He wants to hit the blonde wearing too much hair gel first, stand back and watch the blood drip from his mouth and stain his pretty white polo shirt that probably cost more than they spend on groceries every week. But Sammy likes his new teacher and they just moved here three months ago, so he doesn’t.
“We all on the same page?” Dean asks, taking a precautionary step back before he does something he’ll regret, flashing a sardonic half-grin at them before turning around, not waiting for an answer from either of them. He doesn’t need one. The look on their faces is more than enough. They know he’ll fuck them up if they ever mess with Sammy again, and yeah he’ll probably get talked about in every classroom and every bathroom in the school, by the end of the day there will be rumors floating around about how he set his last school on fire or just escaped from juvie, but he doesn’t care. Been there, done that. The look on their faces is totally worth it.
He squats down next to Sam under the tree, notices the transparent streaks of tears on his cheeks and feels the rage flare inside of him again; it burns a hole straight through his chest. He reaches out and pushes Sam’s hair out of his eyes. Again.
Dean wants to ask Sammy what the big kids said to him, but he knows it’ll only make it worse, and he still has to ride to school with the pricks. If he gets suspended from the bus there’s no way he’ll be able to get to school, then social services will get their scent again and they’ll have to pack up and move, again. So instead of asking Sam if the kids were making fun of his ratty sneakers or his dirty clothes or calling their dad a drunk, Dean leans against the tree beside him and they wait for the bus together.
“I’m sorry,” Sammy speaks up a few minutes later; Dean’s not sure he heard him right.
“What?” He shifts to the side to stare down at Sam. “What are you sorry for?”
“For not listening to you,” Sammy mutters under his breath as he pulls a weed out of the ground, dusting his jeans with a sprinkling of dirt from its roots. “I know why you don’t want to talk to them now.”
Dean’s heart aches so bad he forgets how to breathe for a moment. He wants to tell Sammy that’s not it, that not everyone is like that, that he’ll make friends and he’ll grow up to be a normal kid living a safe, pancake and waffles for breakfast life, just like those kids on the corner. Dean blinks and a hot tear runs down the side of his face as he realizes he’d just be lying through his teeth.
The bus’ breaks squeal when it stops at the corner and Dean quickly drags the back of his hand across his face, wiping off the evidence of his heartache. He sits with Sammy on the bus, just like they do every morning, and just like every other morning, none of the other kids talk to them. The only thing different is that this morning, Sammy doesn’t care.
no subject
Date: 2008-05-27 02:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-27 06:41 pm (UTC)