Like Riding A Bike
Ξ August 25th, 2007 | → | ∇ PG, Supernatural, fanfic, gen |
Title: Like Riding a Bike
Author: Astrothsknot
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Pairing: Gen
Spoilers: for Pilot
Disclaimer: Eric Kripke owns the boys, not me.
A/N: Partly takes place Christmas 1982/October 2001
Beta by Pheebs1
It struck me the other day, that Sam and Dean probably can’t go bikes. Dean was probably just at the age of getting his first bike, lost in the fire. He’d never have had another one. Sam would never have learned to go a bike as a child, John wouldn’t have sanctioned something that took away time from research and drills. And this jumped in my head while I was out with my son on our bikes.
In which Sam and Dean Winchester learn to Ride a Bike
Stanford isn’t hard for Sam in terms of money. A lifetime of ingrained habits just doesn’t go away. 6am Run. 7am Breakfast. These are constants. There’s other routine necessities -shopping, studying - that are fitted where they need to go, and other things that substitute, a friendly game of darts for target practice. That kind of thing.
He’s spent all his life watching the pennies, so frugality isn’t a problem. He’s not too proud to shop in goodwill shops, and he always finds the best bargains in the store. Sam’s ends always meet. They might not tie, but they always meet.
But one thing will kill him and it’s the fucking logistics of it all.
“Everything is so far away from everything,” he complains one night in the bar. “I’m always running and I’m always late.”
“So that’s why you’re a skinny bastard,” says Luis. “Take the bus.”
“Yeah, cos there’s buses on campus,” snorts Sam. He’s got a biography of Sylvia Plath in front of him, and there’s a photo of her modelling clothes for the student magazine. “She had nice legs, you gotta give her that.”
“It was all the cycling she did,” replies Luis.
“What?”
“Says there, ‘cycling furiously about the campus’.” Luis takes a swig of his beer. “I owe you for the fake ID you got me. Let me work it out.”
Sam wouldn’t have thought anymore about the conversation, had Luis not turned up at his door two days later….
“What the fuck is that?” Sam snorts.
“It’s my old bike,” say Luis. “Mom’s bought me a new one. I was gonna sell it, but, I figured it would solve your problem.”
“I can’t take your bike, man.” Sam protests weakly. “You could use that money.”
“You shop at goodwill, you can take the fucking bike.” The way he says it, Sam knows Luis is about to get offended and he really doesn’t want that.
Deep red, face burning, Sam accepts the bike. “Hey,” he says. “I could always get a job as a courier. Just like on Dark Angel.”
Luis nods. “Yeah, that Alec guy is hot! Think what a bike’ll do for your ass.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my ass, and I’d rather have Jessica Alba’s ass, thank you.”
Luis shakes his head. “Wouldn’t suit you.” He pulls out a chain and a key as he turns to go. “More of my cast-offs. I gotta blaze!”
“Oh, God,” groans Sam. He looks at the bike and wonders if holy water or rock salt would be best.
***
The light crashes on, and a way overexcited bundle leaps onto the bed. “MOMMY! DADDY! HE’S BEEN! SANTA’S BEEN! AND HE’S LEFT ME A BIKE!!
John wearily sits up. He’s only had two hours sleep. “A bike, huh, Champ? Watch Mommy’s tummy.”
“Sorry, baby!” Dean leans down, and kisses Mary’s swelling belly. He’s about to kiss her, when John picks him up. “Mommy needs to sleep. She‘ll come down later.”
“Why doesn’t she give the baby hot milk when he doesn’t sleep? And a cookie. You do that when I don’t sleep.”
“Not while he’s in her tummy. Let’s see this bike.” John holds his son close, loving the feel of the warm body against his. He tightens his grip, until Dean protests, “Daddy, you’re squashing me!”
They come into the living room and propped up against his recliner, is a gleaming silver Chopper. John sets Dean down, though Dean grabs his hand, and hauls him across the floor to the bike. “I think you should check it over, Daddy. Just like the cars at the garage.” He says this so solemnly that John’s not sure if he should laugh, melt or just check the damn bike.
“I’ll just get my tools.”
Mary finds them like that half an hour later. She’s come down with a camera in her hand because she knows John will forget. She photographs them checking the air pressure in the wheels, tightening the handlebars and making sure the horn works for the umpteenth time. She could have told them that works.
“We got ourselves a little mechanic here, Mommy,” says John. “Another fifteen years, and maybe it’ll be Winchester and Son over the garage. What’cha say to that, Deano?”
“I don’t like cars. I want to be a fireman when I grow up. When can we take the bike out, Daddy?” Dean demands impatiently.
“When it’s light.” Mary is laughing. “And you’ve got some clothes on.”
Dean is glued to the window until it’s light out. He looks at John, who sighs, and nods. Together they take the bike to the street, and Dean gets on. Then a thought strikes the child. “I haven’t got training wheels!” He gasps in horror. “I’ll fall!”
“You don’t need training wheels, son. You’ve got me.”
***
“That’s it! pedal, Dean, pedal!”
“Don’t let me go!”
“I won’t, son. Keep pedalling…..You’ve almo-” Dean looks back, and wavers, going down in a tangle of legs and wheels. John races to him, stricken at the betrayed look on his child’s face. That fact that every parent does it, and it’s for the child’s own good, doesn’t absolve the lie or the betrayal. For every parent, it’s the first of many.
John wonders how Dean will feel in 20, 25 years time, when it’s his kid with the cut knee. Probably as shitty as he does right now.
“Daddy…” In between sobs…..”You let me go….”
“You were pedalling, sweetheart! You almost had it!” John sweeps up the crying child, carries him into the kitchen, sets him on the counter while he gets the first aid box. “Let’s see if milk and a cookie can fix legs as well.”
Dean munches on his cookie while John wipes the cut clean, then kisses the top of the plaster. “Magic Kiss,” smiles John. Mary started it. He lifts Dean down to the floor. “I want to go back out on my bike, now,” he says, bottom lip trembling with resolution.
“That’s my boy,” grins John.
***
Dean doesn’t learn to cycle that year. It’s not for want of trying, because John always tries to find time in every day when it’s him and Dean and the bike. John takes the training wheels off - he got them so that Dean can ride his bike when Mary comes over with the buggy to give John his lunch.
Most days, John takes His Boys out so Mary can have a bit of peace, and watch those godawful daytime soaps and chat shows she likes. He pushes the buggy and Dean cycles alongside. “Race you,” says John, and he runs with the buggy. Dean pedals hard, and Sammy giggles, right from the stomach, the way babies do. Nobody ever remembers who wins.
***
Sam doesn’t tell anyone he can’t ride a bike. It’s the first one he’s ever owned for a start, and in the places where he spent his childhood, it wasn’t needed. A steady hand and a good eye, certainly, but not cycling.
The day after, or rather the night after, Luis gives him the bike, he takes it down to where he runs. “I can do this,” Sam mutters to himself. “I can shoot out a squirrel’s eye at fifty feet. I can do this.”
He gets on the bike, realising….“Houston, we have a problem.” The seat is far too low, and his knees are almost up at his ears. “It’ll just have to do,” Sam decides, and pulls up the right pedal, ready to cast off.
He’s lucky if he gets a foot. He just can’t get the rhythm, and his foot misses the left pedal entirely. His foot hits the ground just in time. “Dammit.”
Sam tries again with the same result. The bike stutters along for a hundred metres before he manages not just to miss his footing, but catches the pedal, sending himself flying. “Not the first time I’ve hit the deck. Won’t be the last,” Sam tells himself out loud, before giggling. “First time there’s not been a poltergeist. That‘s something.”
He unravels himself from the frame, checks it over for damage. It’s fine. He breathes a sigh of relief. “Don’t think Luis would be too happy if I killed you this early.”
He’s come to the top of a small hill, and an idea hits him. Then his phone rings.
***
Dean and his father are parked just across from Sam’s building. Dean takes out his cell and calls his brother. “Hey, Sammy! How’s it going?”
“Hey, Dean! It’s going great! I just got back my first assignment, and I got an A+!” Dean can feel his brother’s smile all the way down the phone.
“Well that’s great, Sammy, but you know what they say. All work and no play, makes Sammy a dull boy!”
“Luis says thanks for the ID, by the way.”
“Well, tell him he can thank me in person. I’m parked right outside your building. Where’re you hiding? I don’t see your light on.” Dean peers up at the apartment he knows is Sam’s. “You at the library or something?”
“Yeah, the library. I’m at the library.” Sam thinks for a moment. Last thing he wants is Dean to see him with the bike. “Dean, the bar we went to last time - I’ll meet you there, OK, ‘bout half an hour.”
“I could come get you.”
“No!” It comes out more forcefully than he intended. “I’m sorry ma’am, I’m using that book.”
“OK, bro. Half an hour.” Dean hangs up, and turns to his father. “You could come.”
“I’ve said everything I’m going to say. Here,” says John, going into his pocket, and bringing out a roll of notes. Dean reckons there’s around a thousand dollars in there. “See him right.”
“This is stupid, Dad.”
“This job in Modesto should be over in a few days. There’s something fairly big brewing in Athens, Ohio.” John starts the car. “I’ll get you then.”
Dean shakes his head, reaches over and grabs his bag. “Bye, Dad.”
“Bye, son.” There’s warmth in the voice.
***
Sam brings up the right pedal again, perches right on the hill. He casts off and …..
WHEEEEE!
Sam flies down the hill, motion stopping the bike from falling. It gives him time to get his foot on the left pedal. He begins to pedal, just to get into the habit, rather than moving the bike. He’s still pedalling when he hit the bottom of the hill, and instead of stopping and falling, Sam can feel resistance as the chain begins to power the wheels rather than the descent. “I love you, Newton!” Sam yells, triumphant. “I’m fucking cycling!”
He’s so drunk on motion, that he doesn’t notice that he’s just come out of nowhere, nearly colliding with the Chevy. “Stupid kids,” mutters John, as he stalls.
That’s not Sam’s only problem. “How’d I stop this thing?” He doesn’t even realise he’s said it aloud. “Brakes! I’ll brake!”
He pulls on one of them, and next thing he’s lying winded on the sidewalk and everything’s hurting. “Am I dead? Can’t be. Too much pain to be dead.”
Dean’s leaning over him. “Dude, next time, pull the back brake.”
***
Four years later, Dean and Sam are listening to a message from John.
“Y’know there’s EVP on that,” says Sam.
“Not bad, Sammy. Kinda like riding a bike, isn’t it?” Dean shoots him a brief grin.
Sam smiles, just a little, and shakes his head.
