I own nothing except my OCs, and even then they aren't actually copyrighted. I just wanted to give someone a happy ending, for once in this angst-filled, everyone-dies-and-has-daddy-issues, completely wonderful show.
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1.
Elaine flopped onto the bed and switched on the tv. She flipped through the channels aimlessly, too tired to really care. Thank God it was Friday.
Gabriel toddled into the small apartment bedroom, clutching his sippy cup and a half-eaten Fudgey Wafer. He reached up to her and she pulled him onto the bed, deftly swiping the cookie from his already chocolate-stained fingers. It was a marvel, really, how quickly he could locate the nearest source of sugar. They hadn't been home for more than twenty minutes, and she'd hid the box again that morning––on the top shelf of the cabinet.
"Hello, my miracle boy," she cooed, bouncing him playfully on the bed.
He squirmed, like any self-respecting three-year-old when hugged by his mother. "We a'ready said 'Hi'," he pointed out.
Elaine smiled. "I can't say 'Hi' again? After all, I didn't see you all day."
"No," said Gabriel firmly. "We say 'Bye' when I go to school in the morning, and 'Hi' when you get me in the afternoon."
"Okay," she agreed. "No greetings at home." She was so grateful that Gabe was happy to be left each day with nothing but a "Bye!" and a hand-wave. She often felt like she was the one suffering separation anxiety, instead of her son. If only she didn't have to work all day...but rent was always due, and the alternative was pulling the night shift.
Gabriel had already switched his attention to the tv, oblivious to her reverie. She glanced over. It was the news again––more bloody murders, of course. 'If it bleeds, it leads.' At least they weren't in the City this time, but some crazy killing spree jumping around America. So check that, she supposed: they weren't in New York yet.
Gabriel was frowning at the screen
"What's wrong, sweetie?" she asked, reaching for the remote. Little kids shouldn't be exposed to this sort of violence, she'd read somewhere. It could hurt their growing minds.
"It's wrong," he said, clutching his sippy cup. "The news people are wrong."
"About what?"
"The Win-ches-ters." He pronounced the name carefully, copying the announcer's Network accent. God knew Elaine didn't talk like that, born'n'raised in Brooklyn.
"How are they wrong?" she humored him.
He swiveled to face her, bright green eyes filled with all the seriousness a three-year-old could muster. Those were from his dad, wherever that one-night-stand got off to––not that she regretted one minute of it, now. "They're nice people," he insisted. "The Win-ches-ter brothers are good. They don't just kill people."
"And how do you know that?" she asked lightly, alarm and confusion warring in her thoughts.
"Because," Gabriel replied, as if that answered everything in the world. He hopped off the bed and waved his cup, moving on with life. "Can we have macaroni an' cheese for dinner now?"