This was written to a sweet prompt over at hoodietime's autumn-themed comment fic meme on LJ. I have decided that comment-fic memes pretty much rule the day. And I want to marry hoodietime for having them.
Disclaimer: I disclaim. Supernatural is not mine.
God, Fiona needs to quit her job.
That's what you keep saying, chicken shit. She shakes her head at herself. Truth is, it's just so damn comfortable sitting behind this counter. This safe, safe counter. Staring out the storefront windows and drinking shitty coffee, watching people scurry by. Wondering what they're up to, if it's something better than what she's doing right now. She's willing to bet it is.
It's not like working at a video store is backbreaking work, or even work at all. Her boss at Casablanca Movies is pretty chill. But still, she kind of feels like Bridget Fonda in that movie where she's slinging lattes at a coffee shop, talking about how she's twenty three and she feels like she needs to do something really bizarre before she gets too old, like she's running out of time.
Yeah, that's exactly where Fiona's at: Twenty-three, and spinning her wheels. She doesn't have a clue what she's doing with herself. It's her own personal bone that she's been picking with herself these days.
Everyone walking by outside look like they can't wait to get to their destinations, like they have something really good waiting for them.
Well, now she's really depressed.
Fiona glares back down at her newspaper. She's doing a crossword, trying unsuccessfully to come up with a six letter synonym for dismay that begins with the letter 'a.' It's starting to mildly piss her off because the word is on the tip of her tongue and she can't get at it. It turns out it doesn't really matter anyway, because two seconds later her attention is ripped away when the bell above the door suddenly jangles like a thing possessed. She snaps her head up just in time to see a kid come darting into the store. He looks young, maybe ten or eleven, his hair disheveled, face reddened from the cold. He's also panting for breath, like he's been running.
And he's holding onto a pie…pumpkin, from the looks of it.
It's almost cute, and if Fiona were the maternal type (she's not) she would be squealing with delight over this boy (she isn't). More than anything, she's just curious. The kid is holding onto this pie like it's the last of its kind on Earth. The sole pie on the planet. The thought makes her snicker a little and for no reason, but she suppresses it. "What are you, um, doing?" she asks, tries to be casual about it. She's not exactly experienced with children.
The kid whirls around to peer out the storefront window before he answers. When he turns to Fiona his eyes are wide and serious, imploring.
"Please," is all he can say before he sees something through the window and he dashes down one of the closest aisles, ducking down low and disappearing from view. Fiona doesn't even have time to process what happened before the bell above the door starts going ballistic and Fitzgerald, the owner of the small grocery store up the street, comes charging in. Fiona tries not to wrinkle her nose at the sight of him: She dislikes the man intensely and refuses to buy even so much as a carton of milk from him. He yells when he talks to you and he uses the word 'faggot' constantly; Fiona hates that word.
"Is he here?" he demands, puffing and heaving for breath.
"Who?" she asks, unconsciously bracing her feet.
Fitzgerald wipes his nose on his hammy forearm. "The little faggot who stole my pie. I saw someone come in here." His voice is a boom; just the sound of it offends her.
Fiona flinches, then bristles. "Me. I just had a smoke."
He stares at her, pig-like. "Are you sure?" he bellows, looking at her like he's not even positive she's capable of thought. He smells greasy.
"Of course, I'm sure," she returns coldly, going over to the returns bin and checking for any movies that may have been dropped off. The bin is obviously empty but it gives her a good excuse to turn her back on him. When she doesn't turn back around the bell finally jingles again, signaling his departure.
The kid pops up instantly, ready to bolt. He's already measuring the distance between himself, Fiona, and the door. He meets her eye, though, and doesn't so much as waver in the slightest.
"Thanks," he says, watching her like he's waiting for her to make the first move.
"No problem," Fiona tells him. "I'm not in his fan club, myself. I'm sure he deserved to get his pie taken." The kid offers a brief flicker of a smile in return, and Fiona considers that the end of it and returns her attention back to her crossword, frowning. She's still stuck on it. She barely notices him come up to the counter until he speaks in a tentative voice.
"Appall," he offers, turns to go. Fiona glances down, chagrinned that this kid may have got it before her, and checks it. Of course, it fits perfectly. She looks back up, watches as the boy moves towards the door and out her life.
Well, fuck. Now she's curious, chagrinned and unsettled.
Fiona swallows a little thickly. She's not sure why this is, but suddenly she feels like she should ask what he's doing, why he's stealing a pie, of all things. Before she knows it she's moved from behind the counter and is stepping in front of the kid's path.
"Hey, are you –" she searches blankly for the right word. Hungry? Alone?
"I'm fine," he blurts out, cutting her off. "Thanks again." He starts heading towards the door again and for some reason her hand shoots out, beyond her control. She grasps him lightly on the shoulder, stopping him. When he turns to look at her she almost loses her nerve and very nearly forgets what she's about. He looks way too serious to be a kid.
"You know," she says. "I stare out these windows a lot, and I've never seen you before. You from around here?"
The kid shakes his head, takes a slow step back. "I've got to get back," he tells her, as though that's all the explanation that's needed.
"Back where?"
"To my brother." He takes another step to the side, and Fiona puts her hand out again. He tenses up at her touch.
"I'm sorry that I ran in here," he says in a careful voice, "but please don't call the cops. Please let me go." But it doesn't really sound like he's asking.
Now Fiona definitely is starting to get confused. She isn't sure why she can't leave it alone, this weird nagging feeling she's getting. All she knows is she hears alarm bells.
"Is it just you and your brother? How old is he?"
The kid looks at her, appraising. "Fifteen."
"Where are your parents?"
The kid flinches. "Dad's out right now."
On Thanksgiving? Fiona couldn't afford to go home for Thanksgiving this year, so she's pretty much declared this one a non-holiday in her books, but she can't help but feel more than a little sad for the kid. It's not right, when you're that young. You should have a Thanksgiving.
She makes a quick decision, acts on it before she can change her mind, or even think about what she's proposing.
"Tell you what," she says. "Let me take you home."
The kid goes downright steely. "I know the way back on my own, thanks."
This is where Fiona brings out the big guns. "Well, it's that or I can go ahead and call the police about your pie thievery and they can take you home instead." She folds her arms and rocks back on her heels, satisfied with herself and not really understanding why.
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This has got to be the stupidest, nosiest thing I've ever done. Fiona thinks once or twice about saying to hell with it and calling the whole thing off. If her boss finds out she closed the store in the middle of the business day she'll have some explaining to do. Maybe she'll even get fired. Good, she thinks before she can stop herself. Maybe that will be the kick-start she needs to do something else for once.
Besides, she has this crazy feeling.
She glances down at the kid, who seems way too old, way too serious for his age. She clears her throat. "So I'm Fiona," she says, a little awkwardly. They haven't really said much the whole walk. The kid looks up at her quietly and holds onto his pie.
"Sam," he offers.
"How old are you, Sam?"
A look that vaguely resembles distrust passes over Sam's face briefly. "Eleven," he answers at length. That pretty much exhausts all of Fiona's previous experience with talking to children. Things go quiet for another minute before she turns back to him and gestures at the pie.
"You, uh, like pumpkin pie?" God, she's bad with kids.
Sam responds more communicatively than she expected, however. He shakes his head and his expression gets a little intense. "No," he says. "I don't. It's for Dean."
"And Dean's your brother?" Fiona remembers him mentioning that he had a brother and she grasps at it in an effort to keep the conversation moving. She can see that she's hit a nerve or something, though, because Sam suddenly shuts down. He makes a small, affirmative nod but doesn't say anything. He just stares ahead of him, frowning as he walks.
"Sam," Fiona tries again, prodding gently even though she has no clue why she's so concerned about it. "Are you and Dean…in trouble?"
There's no response from the kid for a while after that, just long enough for Fiona to wonder if he was ever going to talk again. Then the kid heaves a world-weary sigh and hangs his head slightly, as though ashamed to be talking about it.
"Dean's in trouble," he admits. "But it's not like that. He was sick when Dad left town on a business trip and he's getting worse, not better. Dad could be…a little bit longer before he comes back and Dean hasn't been eating, and it's Thanksgiving and he loves pie, so I thought…But we don't really have the money for much while Dad's – away." Sam flushes and looks away, like he's already said more than he'd intended. And he might have: Fiona's crazy feeling has suddenly morphed into a kind of dread. She's becoming more and more certain that something's really, really wrong.
"How much further?" she asks Sam, quickens her pace.
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And I thought my place was gross.
This. This is far grosser.
Sam takes Fiona to the Dirty Boots Motel, the type of establishment that has hourly rates. He leads her right under the buzzing neon sign and down to the far end of the building. The motel is dilapidated and she very nearly trips on the slanted steps leading up to their room door. The place looks beyond dodgy. She can't believe that kids are staying here.
Sam slides his key into the lock of room 87 and gives it a furtive turn. When he cracks the door open the sound of ragged coughing spills out to meet them. Fiona follows Sam inside as he puts the pie down and goes over to one of the single beds and turns on a bedside lamp, speaking in low tones.
"Dean?"
There's a huddled figure on the bed, swathed in blankets. The sound of hoarse breathing fills the room. Fiona swallows.
This looks really bad. What the hell was she thinking, coming here?
Sam is pulling the blankets down from his brother's head, exposing the boy's face. He's flushed and disoriented, eyes glittering with fever. He's also obviously very good-looking.
"Dean," Sam tries again. This time Dean registers that his little brother is saying his name, and he laboriously turns his head and looks at Sam as he struggles to sit upright. He makes it only halfway before he starts to collapse back down. Sam has to push and pull him into a somewhat sitting position, propping him up with pillows.
"S-sammy," Dean mumbles, reaching out a shaking hand and patting at him clumsily. "What're you-" he breaks off into a coughing fit. It sounds wet and tearing and definitely painful. Fiona clears her own throat hesitantly to announce herself. Dean's eyes swivel over to her, jerking in surprise as he notices her for the first time. His eyes widen and he opens his mouth to question her, but he dissolves into another round of choking and gasping.
This time Fiona comes right up over to the bed, feeling ridiculous and more than a little intrusive.
"Hi, I'm Fiona," she tells him, and then adds for no reason whatsoever, "I work at the video store down the street from here."
As intense as Sam's stare may be, Fiona is completely unprepared for Dean's. She feels like he can sum up her parts with one look; she feels distinctly uncomfortable under his scrutiny. She can see caution and wariness written all over his face, plain as day.
Dean doesn't shake her proffered hand. Feverish eyes slide over to Sam. "Explain, dude."
"Dean, I had no choice," Sam says, sounding chastised. "I had to bring her here or she was going to call the cops."
Dean frowns. "Whaddya mean? What the hell did you do?"
A small chin juts out, trembling slightly. "It's Thanksgiving, Dean. And you've been so sick, and Dad's – away," his voice drops tremulously, and it takes him a second before he continues. "I just…I wanted to do something nice for you."
"He stole you a pie," Fiona supplies helpfully. "Pumpkin, in fact."
Dean's eyebrow twitches, a slow smile breaking across his face. In that instant, Fiona can see just what a gorgeous kid he is. Then he's suddenly coughing again, curling forward in a desperate attempt to breathe. Then he starts making a weird, wheezing, gasping sort of noise in between the coughs, and he looks like he's struggling to stay upright without help. Fiona instinctively reaches down and places a steadying hand on his bicep; she can feel the heat pouring off him. She doesn't need to put a hand to his forehead to know he's absolutely burning.
Christ, he's really sick.
Fiona is completely out of her depth, here. She's an only child, was never a babysitter or anything. She literally has no clue what to do with sick kids.
And yet.
She throws a quick glance around the room. The kitchenette looks like it's been used sparingly. Some of the cupboard doors are open, and apart from a couple of boxes of cereal and some canned stuff there's not a whole lot of groceries. Fiona's heart sinks like a brick as her stomach drops away.
"Sam," she asks, daring to sit on the edge of Dean's bed so she can face the boy as she talks to him. "How long has your dad been away?"
"Don't answer that, Sammy," Dean hisses, tensing. He gives Fiona a heated glare. "That's none of her business. We're fine," he manages to spit out before he dissolves into another round of coughing.
Sam clamps his mouth shut. As much as Fiona would like to push the subject she knows that there won't be any answers forthcoming, at least not for the time being. She changes her tack.
"How long has Dean had this cough?" she asks, and this is a subject that Sam is much more willing to pursue.
"He keeps getting colds, so he's been coughing for a long time now. But it started getting really bad a couple of weeks back. Dad said if Dean's not better by the time he gets back he's going to take him to a doctor."
Fiona watches Dean as he struggles and coughs. Dean watches her back with sharp-edged suspicion.
"Thanks for walking him home," he tells her icily. "But you can go now. We're good."
But they're not. He's not, but Fiona knows for a fact that she's not welcome. Dean's cold expression has made that much abundantly clear. All the same, she's not going. She's already come this far.
Goddamn it, it's Thanksgiving, after all.
"Dean," she says as gently as she can. "I think you need to see a doctor – you're sick. Let me drive you."
Dean shakes his head. "You can't make me," he croaks vehemently, voice giving way as he speaks.
"Maybe you should," Sam urges softly, hesitant. He keeps throwing quick, unsure glances Fiona's way. "You're-"
"Sam!" Dean barks, raspy. "Stop. Talking." Sam falls silent, showing an amount of restraint that Fiona wouldn't normally think an eleven year old could possess. Once again, she finds herself examining Sam, surprised. She feels the same way looking at Dean, too: These kids are older than their years. She doesn't even get the chance to say anything before the older brother is up on wobbly legs and headed straight for the bathroom. He barely makes it to the toilet in time before he starts retching.
Sam shoulders past Fiona in his haste to get to Dean. He's rubbing his older brother's back and talking to him softly. Dean spits into the bowl, moans. Then he goes limp and Sam barely has time to catch him before he hits the linoleum. But Dean's boneless and heavy, too heavy for Sam to pick up off the floor by himself and so it's Fiona who has to throw a baking-hot arm around her shoulders, pull him up to his feet and somehow bodily haul him back to bed. He's somewhat awake by the time she's got him laid back down, blinking in confusion.
Fiona gets up and goes to the kitchenette, grabs a glass and fills it with water. "Here," she tells Sam as she passes it to him. "Make sure he drinks at least half of this glass. Small sips." Sam is glad to be doing something; he turns back to Dean with the water in hand. Fiona spins around and faces the sink, listening to the kid gently coax his older brother.
"Dean. Dean? Wake up, just for a second. Okay?"
Fuck. Holy fuck.
What is she doing here? Fiona claps a palm to her forehead and starts to rub her head, the way she always does when she's two seconds from freaking out. For one, Dean is obviously sick as a dog. And Fiona is really out of touch with the whole nurturing the sick bit, let alone adding kids into the equation. And to top it off there remains the mystery of the absent parents. Everything about this situation is just telling her to mind her own business and just get going, already. She feels like she's way in over her head. I can't do this. I shouldn't have come. She turns and strides over to the bed, ready to look down at the sweating, shivering wreck tangled up in the blankets and tell him that she's made a mistake, and surely there must be someone they can call? She looks down at the teenager, shaking with fever and looking up at her with a faraway expression. She opens her mouth to say the words she's got hastily strung together in her head to implement her exit strategy, but Dean speaks first.
"Mom?"
Oh, Christ.
Fiona feels her chest tighten in a way she's never felt before, except for when she sees those ASPCA commercials and they zoom right in on a poor suffering animal's face, abused and neglected and shivering from want of love and won't you give? Won't you help stop their suffering? That's exactly how she feels right now, like she's looking at an animal in pain, hurting and not understanding why it's in this condition. It's then that Sam sidles up closer to Dean, hands reaching nervously, and taps his brother carefully on the shoulder. He sounds fearful.
"Dean, no. Mom's dead, remember? Dean?"
Oh, Christ. That right there is the clincher, the final kick in the teeth.
And it's Thanksgiving, goddamn it.
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A chef she's not, but Fiona can make damn good sandwiches. She doesn't skimp on the rye bread – she buys the marbled kind. She picks up some thinly sliced turkey from the deli at the grocery store a few blocks away (who happens to be one of Fitzgerald's main competitors) as well as some bacon, cranberry sauce, and other sandwich fixings. She grabs mash potato mix, frozen veggies, and calls it a good deed. On the walk back to the motel she surprises herself when she discovers that she's actually apprehensive that the boys may have bolted in her absence.
But it didn't happen, and Sam lets her back in when she knocks. He tries not to eye the groceries as he helps her carry them in. When his stomach gives him away and lets out a loud growl he looks embarrassed, and Fiona's heart nearly breaks right there.
Dean is sleeping fitfully, muttering and tossing his head. Fiona sees that there's Tylenol sitting on the nightstand. "Has he had any lately?" She asks, indicating the pill bottle.
Sam nods. "About an hour ago. I gave it to him right after you left." His eyes drift over to the bed, disconsolate. "But I don't think it's helping. He's still really hot."
A reading from the thermometer attests to the fact. Dean's fever is over a hundred and three. Fiona props him up and pushes a glass of water to his lips. He bats at her weakly, his hands barely brushing her before they fall back down and he slumps forward, breathless and coughing. "Gotta take Sammy to school," he murmurs weakly, turning his face away from the water.
"Later," Fiona tells him in a low, careful voice. "You can take him later. Drink this and go back to sleep first."
When he's done, she lays him back down and puts a cool washcloth on his forehead before turning to the task of unpacking the groceries, all the while marveling at herself. She can't believe she's keeping her shit together. A young kid and his scarily ill brother, an absentee father and a dead mother: This is a crisis, if Fiona's ever seen one. And she is about as experienced with dealing with crises as she is with children. Sam hangs back with his brother for a moment longer before he comes up to her and silently starts helping her.
"Fiona?"
"Hm?" She's squinting at the packaged mash potatoes, reading the directions, and she's surprised when she feels a touch on her arm. She lifts her eyes and meets Sam's gaze and he has a strange, unreadable expression on his face.
"I don't know why-" he begins, stops, then tries again. "I mean, you didn't have to do this. I just…Thanks. Really." The kid bends his head, hiding his face as he puts the loaf of bread on the counter.
Out of the blue, Fiona wants to cry. She swallows past the lump in her throat.
"I don't really know why, either," she tells Sam. "But I'm glad I did."
Sam returns the same, shaky smile she's sure she must be giving him, herself.
"I'm glad you did, too."
It doesn't take long to put together turkey and bacon sandwiches, mashed potatoes, and veggies. Fiona's sure to make extra for them to have afterwards, even though she's not positive it will both of the brothers eating them: Dean can't even look at the food without turning green. Somewhere along the time between when Fiona arrived with the groceries and when she gave Sam his first plate of food the older brother has softened towards her. He watches appreciatively during a period of lucidity as Sam munches away on his sandwich between heaping mouthfuls of potatoes, and he even feels comfortable enough to lie down and dowse off, leaving them to the scary movie marathon that's playing on the horror channel.
It's the strangest thing, but laughing with an eleven year old at Sweet Henrietta as she emerges from the fruit cellar is one of the most relaxing things she's done in a long, long time.
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Dean's stint of lucidity proves to be brief. They're not even half an hour into the movie before he starts yelling incoherently and thrashing with clumsy, inarticulate limbs. Sam jumps to his feet in a second and is right there at the bed before Fiona can blink.
"Dean! Wake up, Dean," Sam says in a taut voice. "It's okay, you're okay." The kid is beyond worried, that much is clear. He's been throwing furtive looks Dean's way in between Bruce Campbell's one-liners, searching for signs of life. Once again, Fiona is struck with how grown up Sam seems.
Dean twists his head on the pillow, blinking up at his younger brother with bleary eyes. "S-Sammy?" he asks thinly, confused.
"Yeah, Dean. 'S me."
"Where's Dad, Sammy?" Dean asks in a strangled voice, and Sam's unease visibly amps up.
"He's not here right now. It's just us and Fiona."
"Dad's hunting?"
"Yeah, Dad's hunting, Dean."
Fiona slowly comes up to stand over Sam, watching as he gives his older brother a drink of water. Dean gulps at the water as though he hasn't had anything to drink in days until he suddenly starts spluttering and choking. Fiona reflexively grabs the wastebasket and sticks it under Dean's face just in time before he vomits up all the water he's just swallowed. When he's done he starts to collapse, listing dangerously over the edge of the bed, and if it weren't for Sam's quick hands the teen would probably have tipped right off. That's about all that goes right: Dean's unconscious and he's burning hotter than ever, his teeth chattering loudly as he shakes and shivers. His breathing is terrible and loud.
Sam looks up at Fiona with wide eyes, blatantly afraid. "I don't know what to do," he says in a soft, scared voice, and Fiona's heart breaks just a little more.
"It's okay, Sam," she tells him as calmly as she can. "Go and finish your dinner. I'll sit with him." And she does sit with Dean. She sits with him while he thrashes weakly and mutters desperately. She hears him say Sam's name more than once. She sits with him while he coughs and clutches his chest, and holds the wastebasket for him when he chokes on phlegm. It's when Dean's lips and fingernails begin to turn a distinctive shade of blue late that night that she spurs into action.
She suddenly doesn't care how pissed off these kids get at her, or what the consequences will be when their dad gets back. It's all secondary to Dean not dying right then and there. Fiona bends over the couch where Sam is sleeping. He comes awake with a touch on the shoulder and sits up right away.
"Is Dean okay?" he asks, alert.
Fiona takes a second to quell her panic, to try and keep her heart from pounding right out of her chest. No, he's not okay. None of this is okay.
"Sam, I need you to listen to me," she says in the most resolute tone she can muster. "Dean is really sick. You know this. He needs to see a doctor, and it can't wait anymore. You want to do what's best for him, yeah?"
Sam's eyes fill with tears.
"Okay."
It's the way Sam says it; Fiona has never heard so much love in such a small word before.
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It takes Fiona half an hour to run back to her place and cajole her roommate into lending her his car. Ten minutes after that, and she's sitting in the dark parking lot of the motel, leaning forward and squinting over the wheel.
At the far end of the lot, Sam and Dean's motel room door is thrown wide open. A classic-looking car is parked as close to the steps as it can get, black and silent. Its passenger side rear door is also flung open, and a moment later a tall man appears out of the motel room and heads straight for the car, clutching a bundled figure in his arms in a way that reminds Fiona of Sam, holding onto that pumpkin pie like his life had depended on it.
A moment later Sam himself pops out of the motel room, and the way he's following the man leaves no doubt in Fiona's mind that their father has returned. She sees their dad move his mouth down by Dean's ear and say something as he bends down and carefully places his son in the backseat. She watches as the man fusses slightly, making sure that Dean is secure. Sam flutters about outside the car, jumping into the passenger front seat when their dad emerges and climbs in behind the wheel. The car instantly roars to life and races out of the parking lot.
Fiona sits there for a good twenty minutes before she turns the key in the ignition and flicks on her headlights.
The next day the video store is closed, and Fiona actually wishes that it weren't. She could use the distraction.
After a sleepless night, she had returned to the Dirty Boots Motel in the morning only to discover that the occupants of room 87 had already checked out. Fiona is beyond disappointed. As she walks back to her place she considers checking out the hospital. Okay, you're being obsessive. That was obviously their father you saw, and he was definitely taking them to get help for Dean. You freaked him out and he checked them out of there in case you called someone. That's all. Sam is fine. Dean is going to be fine. Just relax.
But she can't relax. All that day, she worries. She burns her toast later that morning worrying. She knocks over her roommate's beer in the afternoon, worrying.
That night, all she can think about is the way Sam looked at her when she'd convinced him to let her take Dean to a doctor. The way he'd trusted her.
Fiona is more than happy to go to work at her stupid dead-end job the following morning. She's usually glad for opening shifts for their own sake, but this time it's different. In the back of her mind she's hoping that Sam will come by. Of course, she knows this isn't going to happen. For reasons she can't articulate, she is absolutely certain that she will never see him or Dean again. It makes her stomach twist.
By the time she's got the register counted and the open sign on the window flipped, Fiona has reconciled herself with the fact that she did what she could for the brothers, and she should just be happy with that. Continue on with her merry little boring life. She allows herself one gratifying moment of self-pity as she goes to the returns bin and checks it for any overnight drop-offs. Sitting on top of the small pile of movies is an envelope, and Fiona reaches for it with a shaking hand.
She doesn't even need to flip it over and read her name written on it with a childlike scrawl. She knows it's for her. She rips the envelope open without hesitation and peers inside, pulls out what appears to be a folded up piece of newspaper. Fiona opens it up and feels tears instantly spring to her eyes when she realizes that it's a cutout of the crossword she'd been working on from the other day, when Sam came racing into the store. When it all started.
The crossword is carefully, meticulously filled out in a child's hand. Below the crossword, a single word:
Thanks.
Fiona ended up carrying that crossword around with her for a long time after that, much longer after she'd applied to university to study to become a pediatrics nurse, even.
End.
Thanks for reading. I'd love it if you reviewed. Big time.