maychorian (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
maychorian) wrote2009-09-16 11:47 pm
maychorian) wrote2009-09-16 11:47 pm
Entry tags:
Rain Falling Down Short #2
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: Rain Falling Down Short #2
Author: Maychorian
Characters: Bobby, Jimmy, Dean (mentions of John, Sam, Castiel)
Category: Gen, AU, Pre-Series, Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: PG-13
Warning: (skip) References to child abuse. Language.
Spoilers: Through S4. Previous stories in 'verse.
Summary: School is torture for Jimmy. Bobby tries everything he can.
Word Count: 1710
Disclaimer: This is my Father's world, but it's Kripke's playground.
Author’s Note: Part of the Rain Falling Down AU.
Rain Falling Down Short #2
The school bus pulled up outside the salvage yard in a puff of dust and a whine of aging brakes. Bobby, standing on the porch waiting, winced and wished they would maintain those yellow beasts right. Soon enough the boys emerged out of the dust and sound, small and colorful in their long-sleeved shirts and blue jeans. Dean ran toward the house with his tiny backpack in one hand, floppy hair flying out behind him, and Jimmy followed more slowly, gripping the straps of his pack, which was properly and decorously exactly where it belonged.
"Sammy?" Dean asked breathlessly, barely pausing on the porch long enough to give Bobby an imploring look. He pointed toward the back of the house, and Dean was off, eager to see his baby brother.
"How was school?" Bobby asked the other boy, still several feet away.
Jimmy just grunted, continuing past him into the house and to the kitchen, where he set his backpack on a chair and sat down at the table.
And really, it was sort of a dumb question. The answer was always the same. Bobby asked anyway, in a vain hope that it would change someday, but he knew what that pained little grunt and glum expression meant. Jimmy was nothing if not eloquent in his silences.
Bobby heaved a sigh and followed the boy into the house.
School was torture for Jimmy. Bobby did his best to not feel like a horrible ogre for making him go. Even John Winchester, who was one of the toughest sumbitches Bobby had ever met, got kind of melty-eyed when he had to take the boys to school and Jimmy got that tragic expression on his face.
Nothing Bobby tried seemed to help. The teachers at the school all knew him by name, and usually said, "Hello, Mr. Singer," the moment they picked up the phone, before he could identify himself. They told him how the day had gone, patiently listened to his suggestions, bit their tongues at his gruff intimations that maybe they could be doing a better job at helping this damaged kid re-adjust to life without an abusive foster dad. Nothing they tried seemed to make a difference.
If Dean talked a little more readily, Bobby would be getting daily reports from him, too. He knew that Jimmy liked having Dean there, though, even if he couldn't say it. It just didn't seem to make school any better for him, that was all. Every day Bobby fixed a good breakfast and had a snack waiting when the boys came home, hoping that food would take some of the edge off. He started buying Ding Dongs for Jimmy's lunchbox, too.
Ding Dongs.
Bobby didn't even like Ding Dongs.
But Jimmy did. Jimmy loved anything remotely chocolatey. And Bobby...well, he had already pretty much turned his life upside-down for this boy. Plastic-like snack cakes just felt like the final, irreversible step. He had a kid now, and the kid took priority. Over everything.
It wouldn't be so bad if he just knew how to help him.
Worst was homework. Jimmy twisted himself up into knots over it, every single day. He sat at the kitchen table with papers in front of him and pencil in hand, all hunched up and often holding his stomach. "Let me help you," Bobby offered every day, in various wheedling tones, but the boy always shook his head.
"I have to do it myself."
Which probably meant that he wasn't letting Castiel help, either, and Bobby had to struggle damn hard to push down his frustration at the kid cutting off a part of his own mind. It made the poor child so miserable. And there wasn't a thing Bobby could do about it. This utter helplessness had to be one of the worst things he had ever felt, and he felt it every day.
The boy didn't even get bad marks. They weren't amazing, but they weren't terrible, either. Plenty of little smiley face stickers. Jimmy was gloomily convinced that this couldn't last, though, that every new assignment was going to be a failure.
Dean, being in kindergarten, didn't usually have homework. Very occasionally he had a worksheet which he took care of on the way home, scribbling with the paper on his lap or against the window. He had much better things to do. The minute Dean stepped off the bus (or out of Bobby's truck or his daddy's Impala), he raced to the house to see how Sammy was doing. While Jimmy sweated and struggled his way through hours of white knuckles twisted in his hair or knotted around his pencil, Dean played with his baby brother or followed John around. Or, sometimes, Bobby. He seemed to understand that Jimmy needed to be alone, that he needed to do it "all by himself."
Bobby saw him watching the older boy, though, big green eyes wide and worried. Dean worried all too often, Bobby had noticed. Natural, perhaps, after what he'd experienced, but still a hard thing to see in someone so young.
One day, though, Dean didn't do his worksheet in the car. Glancing in the rearview mirror, Bobby could see the little boy holding the paper firmly in his lap, occasionally glancing at Jimmy. The older boy stared out the window, sad and distant, arms tight around the backpack in his lap. At home, Jimmy trudged to the kitchen, as usual, and Dean went to check on Sammy.
But a few minutes later Dean was back, climbing up next to Jimmy where he sat at the kitchen table, morosely eating his after-school snack of celery sticks with peanut butter and raisins. Bobby stood discreetly at the sink, pretending to rinse some dishes that were already sparkling clean, watching the boys out of the corner of his eye.
Silently, Dean set his worksheet on the table and slid it over where Jimmy could see. He was kneeling on his chair, leaning over the table on his elbows so he could look in the older boy's face. It was a sheet of numbers, Bobby saw, one through ten lined up top to bottom on ruled lines with dashes down the center, two solid numerals followed with dotted ones, then blank places to continue practicing. He'd done the same sort of work when he was Dean's age many years ago, and children of the next generation would no doubt do the same.
Jimmy looked at the sheet, then at Dean, entirely without comprehension. He finished chewing his last mouthful and swallowed, then tilted his head to the side, watching his little friend. "What is it, Dean?"
So gentle, the boy was. He was always gentle, but particularly so with little Dean and Sammy. That was one thing Bobby had never been as a kid. His childhood had been rough and tumble, neighbors and cousins wrestling in the dirt, running with the dogs, bothering the chickens. But Jimmy was the gentlest boy Bobby had ever seen.
Dean tapped the paper and pushed it a little closer, giving Jimmy an expectant look.
Jimmy's forehead wrinkled up, and that old familiar frown stole across his face, making him look too old, too serious. Almost like Castiel, but Bobby knew that this was still Jimmy, small and hurt and lost. "I don't understand."
Dean pursed his lips, letting his head bow in exasperation. Then he looked up again, his ridiculously long lashes shading his eyes. "Show me."
Jimmy blinked, large and slow. "Show...you?"
"Show me." Dean pushed the paper closer, making it bend against Jimmy's arm. "I don't know how. You hafta show me."
Jimmy sat back, abruptly trembling. "I can't, Dean... I...I'm no good, I'm not good enough for...for..."
"Jimmy." Dean reached over and poked him in the side. "I seen you do it. You got numbers alla time. Show me."
Bobby went still at the sink without realizing it, just watching the little tableau. He all but held his breath, waiting for an answer.
Poor Jimmy was getting tearful already, breath speeding up, hands shaking where they gripped the edge of the table. He just couldn't believe that he could handle even this simple task correctly. And it would kill him to fail Dean, just kill him.
"Jimmy." Dean tilted his head to the side and looked up at him with his huge eyes and sad little face. "Please."
Well, that did it. Jimmy held out for a moment longer, but then he was nodding, the movement jerky but sincere. "Okay. Okay, I'll try."
He pulled the paper a little closer and pointed at the first number. Both boys ignored the way his finger shook, wavering over the thick black lines. "All right, so, you see, with this one you start at the top and draw a line to the bottom...."
Bobby blinked and stared at the kitchen window for a moment, then went back to pretending to wash the dishes. He listened to Dean asking his short, pointed questions, to Jimmy shakily answering, hesitantly at first but then with a touch of confidence.
And that was the beginning.
The next day it happened again. Dean didn't have homework, so he brought Jimmy something else and wouldn't leave him alone until he got an answer. He wanted Jimmy to read to him, or tell him about frogs, or explain why Bartholomew was so itchy behind his ears. It was always something. And every day, Jimmy grew a little more easy, a little more confident, a little stronger in himself and his abilities.
Bobby Singer still didn't believe in angels. But he was starting to believe in miracles. And this golden-haired little boy with his green eyes and his quiet questions and his enormous heart—he was definitely one of them.
(End)
Next: I Feel the Failure of Protection in My Bones
Title: Rain Falling Down Short #2
Author: Maychorian
Characters: Bobby, Jimmy, Dean (mentions of John, Sam, Castiel)
Category: Gen, AU, Pre-Series, Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: PG-13
Warning: (skip) References to child abuse. Language.
Spoilers: Through S4. Previous stories in 'verse.
Summary: School is torture for Jimmy. Bobby tries everything he can.
Word Count: 1710
Disclaimer: This is my Father's world, but it's Kripke's playground.
Author’s Note: Part of the Rain Falling Down AU.
Rain Falling Down Short #2The school bus pulled up outside the salvage yard in a puff of dust and a whine of aging brakes. Bobby, standing on the porch waiting, winced and wished they would maintain those yellow beasts right. Soon enough the boys emerged out of the dust and sound, small and colorful in their long-sleeved shirts and blue jeans. Dean ran toward the house with his tiny backpack in one hand, floppy hair flying out behind him, and Jimmy followed more slowly, gripping the straps of his pack, which was properly and decorously exactly where it belonged.
"Sammy?" Dean asked breathlessly, barely pausing on the porch long enough to give Bobby an imploring look. He pointed toward the back of the house, and Dean was off, eager to see his baby brother.
"How was school?" Bobby asked the other boy, still several feet away.
Jimmy just grunted, continuing past him into the house and to the kitchen, where he set his backpack on a chair and sat down at the table.
And really, it was sort of a dumb question. The answer was always the same. Bobby asked anyway, in a vain hope that it would change someday, but he knew what that pained little grunt and glum expression meant. Jimmy was nothing if not eloquent in his silences.
Bobby heaved a sigh and followed the boy into the house.
School was torture for Jimmy. Bobby did his best to not feel like a horrible ogre for making him go. Even John Winchester, who was one of the toughest sumbitches Bobby had ever met, got kind of melty-eyed when he had to take the boys to school and Jimmy got that tragic expression on his face.
Nothing Bobby tried seemed to help. The teachers at the school all knew him by name, and usually said, "Hello, Mr. Singer," the moment they picked up the phone, before he could identify himself. They told him how the day had gone, patiently listened to his suggestions, bit their tongues at his gruff intimations that maybe they could be doing a better job at helping this damaged kid re-adjust to life without an abusive foster dad. Nothing they tried seemed to make a difference.
If Dean talked a little more readily, Bobby would be getting daily reports from him, too. He knew that Jimmy liked having Dean there, though, even if he couldn't say it. It just didn't seem to make school any better for him, that was all. Every day Bobby fixed a good breakfast and had a snack waiting when the boys came home, hoping that food would take some of the edge off. He started buying Ding Dongs for Jimmy's lunchbox, too.
Ding Dongs.
Bobby didn't even like Ding Dongs.
But Jimmy did. Jimmy loved anything remotely chocolatey. And Bobby...well, he had already pretty much turned his life upside-down for this boy. Plastic-like snack cakes just felt like the final, irreversible step. He had a kid now, and the kid took priority. Over everything.
It wouldn't be so bad if he just knew how to help him.
Worst was homework. Jimmy twisted himself up into knots over it, every single day. He sat at the kitchen table with papers in front of him and pencil in hand, all hunched up and often holding his stomach. "Let me help you," Bobby offered every day, in various wheedling tones, but the boy always shook his head.
"I have to do it myself."
Which probably meant that he wasn't letting Castiel help, either, and Bobby had to struggle damn hard to push down his frustration at the kid cutting off a part of his own mind. It made the poor child so miserable. And there wasn't a thing Bobby could do about it. This utter helplessness had to be one of the worst things he had ever felt, and he felt it every day.
The boy didn't even get bad marks. They weren't amazing, but they weren't terrible, either. Plenty of little smiley face stickers. Jimmy was gloomily convinced that this couldn't last, though, that every new assignment was going to be a failure.
Dean, being in kindergarten, didn't usually have homework. Very occasionally he had a worksheet which he took care of on the way home, scribbling with the paper on his lap or against the window. He had much better things to do. The minute Dean stepped off the bus (or out of Bobby's truck or his daddy's Impala), he raced to the house to see how Sammy was doing. While Jimmy sweated and struggled his way through hours of white knuckles twisted in his hair or knotted around his pencil, Dean played with his baby brother or followed John around. Or, sometimes, Bobby. He seemed to understand that Jimmy needed to be alone, that he needed to do it "all by himself."
Bobby saw him watching the older boy, though, big green eyes wide and worried. Dean worried all too often, Bobby had noticed. Natural, perhaps, after what he'd experienced, but still a hard thing to see in someone so young.
One day, though, Dean didn't do his worksheet in the car. Glancing in the rearview mirror, Bobby could see the little boy holding the paper firmly in his lap, occasionally glancing at Jimmy. The older boy stared out the window, sad and distant, arms tight around the backpack in his lap. At home, Jimmy trudged to the kitchen, as usual, and Dean went to check on Sammy.
But a few minutes later Dean was back, climbing up next to Jimmy where he sat at the kitchen table, morosely eating his after-school snack of celery sticks with peanut butter and raisins. Bobby stood discreetly at the sink, pretending to rinse some dishes that were already sparkling clean, watching the boys out of the corner of his eye.
Silently, Dean set his worksheet on the table and slid it over where Jimmy could see. He was kneeling on his chair, leaning over the table on his elbows so he could look in the older boy's face. It was a sheet of numbers, Bobby saw, one through ten lined up top to bottom on ruled lines with dashes down the center, two solid numerals followed with dotted ones, then blank places to continue practicing. He'd done the same sort of work when he was Dean's age many years ago, and children of the next generation would no doubt do the same.
Jimmy looked at the sheet, then at Dean, entirely without comprehension. He finished chewing his last mouthful and swallowed, then tilted his head to the side, watching his little friend. "What is it, Dean?"
So gentle, the boy was. He was always gentle, but particularly so with little Dean and Sammy. That was one thing Bobby had never been as a kid. His childhood had been rough and tumble, neighbors and cousins wrestling in the dirt, running with the dogs, bothering the chickens. But Jimmy was the gentlest boy Bobby had ever seen.
Dean tapped the paper and pushed it a little closer, giving Jimmy an expectant look.
Jimmy's forehead wrinkled up, and that old familiar frown stole across his face, making him look too old, too serious. Almost like Castiel, but Bobby knew that this was still Jimmy, small and hurt and lost. "I don't understand."
Dean pursed his lips, letting his head bow in exasperation. Then he looked up again, his ridiculously long lashes shading his eyes. "Show me."
Jimmy blinked, large and slow. "Show...you?"
"Show me." Dean pushed the paper closer, making it bend against Jimmy's arm. "I don't know how. You hafta show me."
Jimmy sat back, abruptly trembling. "I can't, Dean... I...I'm no good, I'm not good enough for...for..."
"Jimmy." Dean reached over and poked him in the side. "I seen you do it. You got numbers alla time. Show me."
Bobby went still at the sink without realizing it, just watching the little tableau. He all but held his breath, waiting for an answer.
Poor Jimmy was getting tearful already, breath speeding up, hands shaking where they gripped the edge of the table. He just couldn't believe that he could handle even this simple task correctly. And it would kill him to fail Dean, just kill him.
"Jimmy." Dean tilted his head to the side and looked up at him with his huge eyes and sad little face. "Please."
Well, that did it. Jimmy held out for a moment longer, but then he was nodding, the movement jerky but sincere. "Okay. Okay, I'll try."
He pulled the paper a little closer and pointed at the first number. Both boys ignored the way his finger shook, wavering over the thick black lines. "All right, so, you see, with this one you start at the top and draw a line to the bottom...."
Bobby blinked and stared at the kitchen window for a moment, then went back to pretending to wash the dishes. He listened to Dean asking his short, pointed questions, to Jimmy shakily answering, hesitantly at first but then with a touch of confidence.
And that was the beginning.
The next day it happened again. Dean didn't have homework, so he brought Jimmy something else and wouldn't leave him alone until he got an answer. He wanted Jimmy to read to him, or tell him about frogs, or explain why Bartholomew was so itchy behind his ears. It was always something. And every day, Jimmy grew a little more easy, a little more confident, a little stronger in himself and his abilities.
Bobby Singer still didn't believe in angels. But he was starting to believe in miracles. And this golden-haired little boy with his green eyes and his quiet questions and his enormous heart—he was definitely one of them.
(End)
Next: I Feel the Failure of Protection in My Bones