Can't sleep, clowns'll eat me.
Jul. 30th, 2007 09:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rahmiSeaica~! Your clown fic is finished. It's angst. And crack. That's pretty much given, right?
For references, this is what's in IT. If you didn't know that. *grins*
Title: Twelve Clowns in a Ring
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Wee!Sammy and Dean Winchester
Pairings: None
Summary: "Going to live in the circus. They have clowns and beers and tiggers and lions, Dean!"
Sammy's sitting in the middle of a small forest of trash bags when Dean gets home. There's at least half a dozen books scattered all the way into the kitchen and a trail of clothes leading from the bathroom (Sammy's raiding the dirty clothes heap again) to Sammy's chubby hands. It's pretty clear that Dad is not, in fact, anywhere near the apartment and hasn't been for at least, oh, a good five minutes, maybe? Sammy's a messy kid.
There is, however, a note attached to the inside of the door (Dean, don't let Sammy have dessert; he ate half the gallon of ice cream before moving on to your purple crayon. Again. I'll be back by dark), so Dean's good on that front. He just doesn't know whether to ask Sammy what the heck he thinks he's doing or ignore him entirety.
Dean blinks, meets his little brother's eyes, and decides that whatever it is Sammy's doing he can keep on doing it. Anyway, Dean has homework he needs to do.
"I'm gonna go make a snack," he tells Sammy, "Have all this junk cleaned up by the time Dad gets home so I don't get in trouble for it, okay?"
Sammy catches his lower lip in his teeth and nods, "'Kay, Dean."
There's a lot of shuffling and the sound of plastic rustling around in the other room, but Dean doesn't really care about that. He has to read about stupid Hannah and how she's a palindrome or whatever it was.
He's still puzzling through the first few pages of it, nibbling absently on a peanut butter and banana sandwich, when the noises in the other room stop and little feet stomp their way towards the kitchen.
"Dean?" Sammy's voice, interrupting his stupid reading assignment and Dean puts his book down with a happy sigh. He wouldn't get in trouble for not finishing his homework if he could blame it on Sammy.
"What's up, squirt?" he asks. Sammy chews on his lip some more and shifts from one foot to the other; Dean stops fussing with his book, alarmed, when he takes in Sammy's body language. He blurts out, "You gotta pee?" while scrambling up from the table.
The door to the bathroom liked to stick hard enough that Sammy can't open it himself if he'd pulled it closed the last time he'd used it. Dean's cleaned up enough potty accidents to last him three lifetimes and as soon as Sammy's old enough he's gonna tease him about it until he dies of embarrassment, but for right now? He just really doesn't want to have to clean up pee again.
Sammy just shakes his head though, one of his hands reaching up to tangle in the mat of curls at the back of his head. Which meant that Sammy was nervous about something. Definitely, time to put the book away, Dean decides with an internal grin, no more homework for tonight. Dad would write him a note or something when he got home.
"Need help," Sammy finally mumbles.
"Whatcha say?"
His little brother's got these huge dark eyes, Dean knows; they look almost exactly like that puppy in the alley out back and they work the same way. It's stupid that he falls for them so often. Dean's moving even before he hears the half grudging, "Please."
Sammy has everything he owns stuffed into two small, clear garbage bags, Dean realizes. Everything. He can see the book on supernatural creatures squished against the side of one bag, the top of Sammy's favorite blue sweater peeking out the top of another. Sammy's packed up like Dad had just told them they had to book and fast, and Dean slowly puts his sandwich on the arm of the couch as Sammy goes to stand in-between his bags.
"What're you doing, Sammy?"
"Packing. I need help moving stuff, please Dean," Sammy tells him seriously.
"Uh, we're not leavin' yet, Sammy. We got until Christmas, remember?" Sammy's all of four, so, no, he might actually not remember. He's a smart kid though, already reading about ghosts and ghouls all by himself, so Dean doesn't think it can really be that.
"Going to live in the circus," Sammy declares, "They have clowns and beers and tiggers and lions, Dean!" Sammy's eyes light up while he talks and Dean's almost distracted enough by the slurred animal names (beers? Really? Beers? Bears didn't sound anything like beers, not really) to not realize that Sammy's talking about running away from home.
"You're a dingbat, Sammy." Dean's heart is pounding too loud, like it did the night Dad let him see a ghost for the first time. He feels sick to his stomach and there's sweat starting to come up on his back. Sammy has to be joking. He has to be. "It's a stupid joke, okay? Not funny."
Sammy tugs on one of his bags, little pudgy hands barely making it rock as he grunts. He lets go after a second and turns back to look at Dean with his stupid puppy eyes, like he wasn't giving him a heart attack.
Dean's not helping him move it.
"I miss Daddy all the time," Sammy finally sighs, pouting, "I miss Dean all the time. Always people at the circus. Clowns."
"I'm in school Sammy, it's not like I can stay home with you! And Dad was with you all day today!" Well, most of the day. Dad would have left when Dean was getting out of school, so Sammy couldn't have been alone for more than twenty minutes. "You even getta stay with Caleb when Dad has to go hunting."
"Miss Dean," Sammy says stubbornly, one finger coming up to poke moodily for his nostril. Dean slaps it down without a second thought and Sammy's face pulls up into an expression of such displeasure that he almost, almost forgets about clowns and laughs at him.
Some kids stick their fingers in their mouths when they're nervous; Sammy sticks them up his nose. Which is really, really gross, because after the nose, he goes for the hair again and finding boogers smeared on the back of the couch is icky.
"Yeah, well, it's only for eight hours a day. Suck it up, squirt."
Sammy doesn't get hours yet, Dean knows. He gets minutes well enough ("One more minute, Daddy!" "No! Get your little butt out of that bath right now, Samuel David, before I tan it!" "Daddy! ONE MORE MINUTE!") but hours are too long.
"Look, we'll go... do something. Later. Just, let's put all your stuff away, okay?" He reaches for the nearest bag and has to recoil when Sammy pulls his foot back warningly. "You're such a little brat!"
Sammy looks at him like he's a retard. Oh, Dean's going to thump him later tonight. "Clowns aren't mean. Joey says," his little brother says, and tugs mightily on the bag with clothes sticking out.
Joey's a dead kid tomorrow. Time for Plan B, Dean thinks, and then has to watch Sammy tug the bag a few inches across the floor before he realizes what Plan B could possibly be.
"You don't wanna go to the circus, Sammy," he finally says. Sammy pauses by the door, turns to look at him with a clear "uh-huh!" expression, so Dean plows right on, "Clowns are the worst kinds of monsters ever. Dad didn't want to tell you, 'cause he knew you'd get scared, but clowns eat little kids."
Sammy's eyes are going really, really wide, Dean notices, so he stuffs down sick feeling that's trying to stack on top of the other sick feeling and keeps going. "Clowns'll keep kids for days and eat a little bit every time they finish a show."
There's a bunch of myths running together in Dean's head, ones he mercilessly chops up and rearranges until clowns are full of everything Sammy's scared of. The dark, for one; Dean tells him that clowns keep kids in the dark while they eat them and his little brother creeps into his personal space and clutches his shirt with dirty little fingers (boogers, eww).
Sammy's scared of ghosts too, the real kind and the fake kind in movies, so Dean also tells him that the ghosts of all the kids that the clowns eats scream all night long.
By the time he's done inventing ways clowns are evil Sammy's got his face hidden in his shirt.
He's crying, Dean knows. His shirt is hot, wet, and sticky with Sammy snot and tears, and Sammy was still so little and he was going to beat the snot out of that little brat Joey tomorrow after school for telling him to run away from home.
He puts his arms around the top of Sammy's head and feels like complete and utter crap. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Dean thinks, but he says, "And they also use your guts to make those scary high wire things. So don't join the circus, okay? Clowns are bad."
Sammy nods against his stomach and hiccups.
Dean helplessly pets his hair for a minute; he hates when Sammy cries and he hates even more being the reason for it. But he'd hate it worse if there suddenly was no Sammy at home. "You want some ice cream?" he finally asks.
There's more sniffling near his belly button and then Sammy's little mournful voice floats up asking for chocolate chip.
Of course. They only have vanilla. Dean strokes through Sammy's hair one more time before telling him to go wash his face while he raids Dad's emergency stash of money.
"Dean?" Sammy asks later that night, tucked up against him as they watch reruns of Bewitched. There's a tub of finished ice cream on the couch next to Dean and a half finished one melting into the slurry Dean likes best; dinner had been ice cream and most of a jar of little cherries, because Dad had gone out hunting.
Dean didn't actually have to be at school tomorrow (he'd been right about not having to do his homework, at least, and he tries to balance that out with the fact that he'd made his little brother cry), so the plan is to fall asleep on the couch and hope Bewitched makes Sammy dream about a woman who can twitch her nose instead of killer clowns.
"Yeah, Sammy?"
"Is Daddy hunting the clowns?"
No. "Maybe. But don't ask him when he gets home, okay? Dad's kinda scared of them too."
Sammy nods solemnly. Dean thinks that this is going to come back and bite him in the butt later.
He tucks Sammy more firmly into his side and watches the freaky woman twitch her nose.
P.S. Now with bonus paragraphs!
Sammy wakes up that night screaming about clowns and ghosts. It sets the tone for the rest of the year. Dean refuses to take any responsibility for it and kicks the ground and mumbles whenever John asks about it.
After Sammy turns into Sam (he gets emo bangs and everything; Dean privately considers it like one of those stupid little Pokemon evolution thingies, "Sammy has reached level thirteen! Sammy has evolved into Sam!") he tries to read IT, just to prove that he isn't scared of clowns anymore. He makes thirty pages the first night.
Dean wakes up in the middle of the night because it's the first time in years that his little brother crawls into bed with him.
He swallows down the sarcasm, because he still feels kind of bad for inspiring the terror even if Sam has a shitty memory and can't remember why the hell he's so scared of clowns. Also? It's kind of nice having his baby brother curled up back in his arms, though he'll stab anyone who says it. Including Dad.
He lies on his back and pats Sam on the head until his brother stops shivering and goes back to sleep.
Of course, the next morning he shoves the book under the pillow Sam's comandeered and Sam spazzes right the fuck out over the killer book following him around, but that's in the morning. He's an awesome big brother at night.
The End. Ahahaha, I so wanted to write fluffy lighthearted fic. And then this came out. Man. *facepalm* The extra paragraphs are fluffish, right?!
For references, this is what's in IT. If you didn't know that. *grins*
Title: Twelve Clowns in a Ring
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Wee!Sammy and Dean Winchester
Pairings: None
Summary: "Going to live in the circus. They have clowns and beers and tiggers and lions, Dean!"
Sammy's sitting in the middle of a small forest of trash bags when Dean gets home. There's at least half a dozen books scattered all the way into the kitchen and a trail of clothes leading from the bathroom (Sammy's raiding the dirty clothes heap again) to Sammy's chubby hands. It's pretty clear that Dad is not, in fact, anywhere near the apartment and hasn't been for at least, oh, a good five minutes, maybe? Sammy's a messy kid.
There is, however, a note attached to the inside of the door (Dean, don't let Sammy have dessert; he ate half the gallon of ice cream before moving on to your purple crayon. Again. I'll be back by dark), so Dean's good on that front. He just doesn't know whether to ask Sammy what the heck he thinks he's doing or ignore him entirety.
Dean blinks, meets his little brother's eyes, and decides that whatever it is Sammy's doing he can keep on doing it. Anyway, Dean has homework he needs to do.
"I'm gonna go make a snack," he tells Sammy, "Have all this junk cleaned up by the time Dad gets home so I don't get in trouble for it, okay?"
Sammy catches his lower lip in his teeth and nods, "'Kay, Dean."
There's a lot of shuffling and the sound of plastic rustling around in the other room, but Dean doesn't really care about that. He has to read about stupid Hannah and how she's a palindrome or whatever it was.
He's still puzzling through the first few pages of it, nibbling absently on a peanut butter and banana sandwich, when the noises in the other room stop and little feet stomp their way towards the kitchen.
"Dean?" Sammy's voice, interrupting his stupid reading assignment and Dean puts his book down with a happy sigh. He wouldn't get in trouble for not finishing his homework if he could blame it on Sammy.
"What's up, squirt?" he asks. Sammy chews on his lip some more and shifts from one foot to the other; Dean stops fussing with his book, alarmed, when he takes in Sammy's body language. He blurts out, "You gotta pee?" while scrambling up from the table.
The door to the bathroom liked to stick hard enough that Sammy can't open it himself if he'd pulled it closed the last time he'd used it. Dean's cleaned up enough potty accidents to last him three lifetimes and as soon as Sammy's old enough he's gonna tease him about it until he dies of embarrassment, but for right now? He just really doesn't want to have to clean up pee again.
Sammy just shakes his head though, one of his hands reaching up to tangle in the mat of curls at the back of his head. Which meant that Sammy was nervous about something. Definitely, time to put the book away, Dean decides with an internal grin, no more homework for tonight. Dad would write him a note or something when he got home.
"Need help," Sammy finally mumbles.
"Whatcha say?"
His little brother's got these huge dark eyes, Dean knows; they look almost exactly like that puppy in the alley out back and they work the same way. It's stupid that he falls for them so often. Dean's moving even before he hears the half grudging, "Please."
Sammy has everything he owns stuffed into two small, clear garbage bags, Dean realizes. Everything. He can see the book on supernatural creatures squished against the side of one bag, the top of Sammy's favorite blue sweater peeking out the top of another. Sammy's packed up like Dad had just told them they had to book and fast, and Dean slowly puts his sandwich on the arm of the couch as Sammy goes to stand in-between his bags.
"What're you doing, Sammy?"
"Packing. I need help moving stuff, please Dean," Sammy tells him seriously.
"Uh, we're not leavin' yet, Sammy. We got until Christmas, remember?" Sammy's all of four, so, no, he might actually not remember. He's a smart kid though, already reading about ghosts and ghouls all by himself, so Dean doesn't think it can really be that.
"Going to live in the circus," Sammy declares, "They have clowns and beers and tiggers and lions, Dean!" Sammy's eyes light up while he talks and Dean's almost distracted enough by the slurred animal names (beers? Really? Beers? Bears didn't sound anything like beers, not really) to not realize that Sammy's talking about running away from home.
"You're a dingbat, Sammy." Dean's heart is pounding too loud, like it did the night Dad let him see a ghost for the first time. He feels sick to his stomach and there's sweat starting to come up on his back. Sammy has to be joking. He has to be. "It's a stupid joke, okay? Not funny."
Sammy tugs on one of his bags, little pudgy hands barely making it rock as he grunts. He lets go after a second and turns back to look at Dean with his stupid puppy eyes, like he wasn't giving him a heart attack.
Dean's not helping him move it.
"I miss Daddy all the time," Sammy finally sighs, pouting, "I miss Dean all the time. Always people at the circus. Clowns."
"I'm in school Sammy, it's not like I can stay home with you! And Dad was with you all day today!" Well, most of the day. Dad would have left when Dean was getting out of school, so Sammy couldn't have been alone for more than twenty minutes. "You even getta stay with Caleb when Dad has to go hunting."
"Miss Dean," Sammy says stubbornly, one finger coming up to poke moodily for his nostril. Dean slaps it down without a second thought and Sammy's face pulls up into an expression of such displeasure that he almost, almost forgets about clowns and laughs at him.
Some kids stick their fingers in their mouths when they're nervous; Sammy sticks them up his nose. Which is really, really gross, because after the nose, he goes for the hair again and finding boogers smeared on the back of the couch is icky.
"Yeah, well, it's only for eight hours a day. Suck it up, squirt."
Sammy doesn't get hours yet, Dean knows. He gets minutes well enough ("One more minute, Daddy!" "No! Get your little butt out of that bath right now, Samuel David, before I tan it!" "Daddy! ONE MORE MINUTE!") but hours are too long.
"Look, we'll go... do something. Later. Just, let's put all your stuff away, okay?" He reaches for the nearest bag and has to recoil when Sammy pulls his foot back warningly. "You're such a little brat!"
Sammy looks at him like he's a retard. Oh, Dean's going to thump him later tonight. "Clowns aren't mean. Joey says," his little brother says, and tugs mightily on the bag with clothes sticking out.
Joey's a dead kid tomorrow. Time for Plan B, Dean thinks, and then has to watch Sammy tug the bag a few inches across the floor before he realizes what Plan B could possibly be.
"You don't wanna go to the circus, Sammy," he finally says. Sammy pauses by the door, turns to look at him with a clear "uh-huh!" expression, so Dean plows right on, "Clowns are the worst kinds of monsters ever. Dad didn't want to tell you, 'cause he knew you'd get scared, but clowns eat little kids."
Sammy's eyes are going really, really wide, Dean notices, so he stuffs down sick feeling that's trying to stack on top of the other sick feeling and keeps going. "Clowns'll keep kids for days and eat a little bit every time they finish a show."
There's a bunch of myths running together in Dean's head, ones he mercilessly chops up and rearranges until clowns are full of everything Sammy's scared of. The dark, for one; Dean tells him that clowns keep kids in the dark while they eat them and his little brother creeps into his personal space and clutches his shirt with dirty little fingers (boogers, eww).
Sammy's scared of ghosts too, the real kind and the fake kind in movies, so Dean also tells him that the ghosts of all the kids that the clowns eats scream all night long.
By the time he's done inventing ways clowns are evil Sammy's got his face hidden in his shirt.
He's crying, Dean knows. His shirt is hot, wet, and sticky with Sammy snot and tears, and Sammy was still so little and he was going to beat the snot out of that little brat Joey tomorrow after school for telling him to run away from home.
He puts his arms around the top of Sammy's head and feels like complete and utter crap. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Dean thinks, but he says, "And they also use your guts to make those scary high wire things. So don't join the circus, okay? Clowns are bad."
Sammy nods against his stomach and hiccups.
Dean helplessly pets his hair for a minute; he hates when Sammy cries and he hates even more being the reason for it. But he'd hate it worse if there suddenly was no Sammy at home. "You want some ice cream?" he finally asks.
There's more sniffling near his belly button and then Sammy's little mournful voice floats up asking for chocolate chip.
Of course. They only have vanilla. Dean strokes through Sammy's hair one more time before telling him to go wash his face while he raids Dad's emergency stash of money.
"Dean?" Sammy asks later that night, tucked up against him as they watch reruns of Bewitched. There's a tub of finished ice cream on the couch next to Dean and a half finished one melting into the slurry Dean likes best; dinner had been ice cream and most of a jar of little cherries, because Dad had gone out hunting.
Dean didn't actually have to be at school tomorrow (he'd been right about not having to do his homework, at least, and he tries to balance that out with the fact that he'd made his little brother cry), so the plan is to fall asleep on the couch and hope Bewitched makes Sammy dream about a woman who can twitch her nose instead of killer clowns.
"Yeah, Sammy?"
"Is Daddy hunting the clowns?"
No. "Maybe. But don't ask him when he gets home, okay? Dad's kinda scared of them too."
Sammy nods solemnly. Dean thinks that this is going to come back and bite him in the butt later.
He tucks Sammy more firmly into his side and watches the freaky woman twitch her nose.
P.S. Now with bonus paragraphs!
Sammy wakes up that night screaming about clowns and ghosts. It sets the tone for the rest of the year. Dean refuses to take any responsibility for it and kicks the ground and mumbles whenever John asks about it.
After Sammy turns into Sam (he gets emo bangs and everything; Dean privately considers it like one of those stupid little Pokemon evolution thingies, "Sammy has reached level thirteen! Sammy has evolved into Sam!") he tries to read IT, just to prove that he isn't scared of clowns anymore. He makes thirty pages the first night.
Dean wakes up in the middle of the night because it's the first time in years that his little brother crawls into bed with him.
He swallows down the sarcasm, because he still feels kind of bad for inspiring the terror even if Sam has a shitty memory and can't remember why the hell he's so scared of clowns. Also? It's kind of nice having his baby brother curled up back in his arms, though he'll stab anyone who says it. Including Dad.
He lies on his back and pats Sam on the head until his brother stops shivering and goes back to sleep.
Of course, the next morning he shoves the book under the pillow Sam's comandeered and Sam spazzes right the fuck out over the killer book following him around, but that's in the morning. He's an awesome big brother at night.
The End. Ahahaha, I so wanted to write fluffy lighthearted fic. And then this came out. Man. *facepalm* The extra paragraphs are fluffish, right?!
