The bike is a rusty old Schwinn that may have once been purple. The tires were flat and cracked, but Dean hauled it out of the motel dumpster anyway. "Tires are nothing, I can find new tires," he tells Sam. Sam looks dubious. They are 12 and 7, and they haven't seen their dad in five days. John had called on the phone to tell them it would probably be another week at least before he made it back.
The room is paid up, Dean. Just watch your brother. Stay out of trouble.
Room and board are one thing, though, and boredom is another. Boredom is what he really has to worry about. Sam's already burned through the dime paperbacks they have stashed in a duffle except the one with the woman in a torn red dress on the cover because that's Dean's. Now Dean is desperate for something to keep his little brother occupied or else Sam will try to make friends with the lady at the front desk, and if he lets slip their dad left them there alone, they'll be in big trouble.
So. Dumpster. Bike. Tires. Dean's ridden a bike before, years ago when Sam was too little to take on the road, when their dad would leave them at Missouri's or Father Jim's for months at a stretch. Sometimes the neighborhood kids would let Dean have a go on their bikes. Nobody taught him how to ride. It was just trial and error.
But he's going to be there for Sam. Once the new tires are on ("Where did you--?" "Don't ask stupid questions, Sammy.") Dean lifts Sam onto the banana seat and clamps his hands to the handlebars. Sam's little legs barely reach the pedals. Dean gets a roll of duct tape from his bag and fashions makeshift foot straps around each pedal to keep Sam's shoes stable.
"Don't let go, Dean, oh geez, don't let go," Sam whimpers as they begin. Dean holds the back of the seat, his eyes rolling heavenward.
"It's fine, we're not even going fast." He keeps pushing the bike from behind, urging Sam to keep pedaling. The motel parking lot is flat and Floridian. There's no chance of suddenly picking up speed. Still, Sam frets.
"It's too high," he says, glancing down at the asphalt again. "It's too big for me, I can't--"
"Quit freaking, I'm right here." Dean tries for his father's gruff tone, but the sight of his little brother flailing on the bike make him smile and ruins it. "I'm going to let go, okay? And you just keep pedaling and going straight." Sam immediately swerves, the front wheel going wild. Dean laughs and straightens it out. "Pretend the grass is lava. You can't touch the lava. Just stay on the blacktop."
Sam falls that afternoon. A lot. He scrapes up the palms of his hands and his little knees, and Dean is doubled over with laughter by the time the sun starts going down, but Sam keeps climbing back on the bike and saying, "No, I can do it, just don't let go so fast this time."
"Okay, fine," Dean says, holding the back of the seat again. "Just tell me when to let go, okay?"
"Not yet, not yet," Sam pleads as he pumps his legs faster. Dean trots along behind him, his grip loosening. "Dean, not yet!" Sam cries over his shoulder.
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Re: Supernatural - Sam and Dean gen
Date: 2012-03-11 03:11 pm (UTC)The room is paid up, Dean. Just watch your brother. Stay out of trouble.
Room and board are one thing, though, and boredom is another. Boredom is what he really has to worry about. Sam's already burned through the dime paperbacks they have stashed in a duffle except the one with the woman in a torn red dress on the cover because that's Dean's. Now Dean is desperate for something to keep his little brother occupied or else Sam will try to make friends with the lady at the front desk, and if he lets slip their dad left them there alone, they'll be in big trouble.
So. Dumpster. Bike. Tires. Dean's ridden a bike before, years ago when Sam was too little to take on the road, when their dad would leave them at Missouri's or Father Jim's for months at a stretch. Sometimes the neighborhood kids would let Dean have a go on their bikes. Nobody taught him how to ride. It was just trial and error.
But he's going to be there for Sam. Once the new tires are on ("Where did you--?" "Don't ask stupid questions, Sammy.") Dean lifts Sam onto the banana seat and clamps his hands to the handlebars. Sam's little legs barely reach the pedals. Dean gets a roll of duct tape from his bag and fashions makeshift foot straps around each pedal to keep Sam's shoes stable.
"Don't let go, Dean, oh geez, don't let go," Sam whimpers as they begin. Dean holds the back of the seat, his eyes rolling heavenward.
"It's fine, we're not even going fast." He keeps pushing the bike from behind, urging Sam to keep pedaling. The motel parking lot is flat and Floridian. There's no chance of suddenly picking up speed. Still, Sam frets.
"It's too high," he says, glancing down at the asphalt again. "It's too big for me, I can't--"
"Quit freaking, I'm right here." Dean tries for his father's gruff tone, but the sight of his little brother flailing on the bike make him smile and ruins it. "I'm going to let go, okay? And you just keep pedaling and going straight." Sam immediately swerves, the front wheel going wild. Dean laughs and straightens it out. "Pretend the grass is lava. You can't touch the lava. Just stay on the blacktop."
Sam falls that afternoon. A lot. He scrapes up the palms of his hands and his little knees, and Dean is doubled over with laughter by the time the sun starts going down, but Sam keeps climbing back on the bike and saying, "No, I can do it, just don't let go so fast this time."
"Okay, fine," Dean says, holding the back of the seat again. "Just tell me when to let go, okay?"
"Not yet, not yet," Sam pleads as he pumps his legs faster. Dean trots along behind him, his grip loosening. "Dean, not yet!" Sam cries over his shoulder.
"I won't, not yet," Dean agrees, following.