SPN FIC - Crossroads
He's not focused, they say. Doesn't care enough about his schoolwork. Doesn't care about the long term, about his future. But he's got his future all laid out -- and he's made the right choice.
Hasn't he?
CHARACTERS: Dean (age 17), Bobby
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 500 words
CROSSROADS
By Carol Davis
"Son," Bobby said quietly.
Dean bristled at the word - did so in spite of the fact that Bobby's voice was laden with a pure and tangible sadness, the kind of grief people took on if they'd lost somebody, or figured all that was left to do was pull the plug. What do you care? struggled to get out, be laid there on the table between the two of them, but Dean held it back, too weary of the whole thing to let this turn into another debate, another bickering match in which he was outgunned only by virtue of his age.
"You'll be sorry later on." They'd tried that on him.
"Never knew you to be a quitter."
Dean stared at his hand, laid flat on the tabletop. Ached to drum out a soft rhythm on the scarred wood, to repeat the gesture that had gotten him into trouble two hours ago.
Disdain, they said it was.
Lack of respect.
Not that, though. Never that. Too much respect, maybe. Too much regard for the opinions of the people who liked to tell him he didn't measure up.
He spent a long time looking at his hand, at the table, at a solitary ant making slow progress toward the crumbs left over from lunch.
"Kind of wish people would stop telling me I need a frigging high school diploma to do this job," he said finally, voice low, and he could hear in it that same plain sadness he'd heard in Bobby's.
He waited, but Bobby didn't respond.
When he looked up, met the man's gaze in weary challenge, Bobby looked away. Seemed to find something of interest on the wall behind Dean, midway up, though there was nothing there.
Just a wall.
"Had a hope," Bobby murmured.
"For what?"
"That you'd pick something else," Bobby said, and his gaze swung back and caught Dean's. "That you'd pick anything else. Something other than this."
His voice broke on the last word.
Then he was on his feet, up so fast that his chair wobbled hard and came close to toppling over. It righted itself, finally, but Bobby didn't.
"I don't -" Dean said.
Trying for stubbornness. Conviction. Something.
"Anything," Bobby told him. "You could be anything you put your mind to. Any goddamn thing at all. And you pick this nest of crap."
The heartbreak in it made Dean blink.
"I'm good at it," Dean said.
"And that's all that matters, ain't it?"
Bobby looked at him hard. Dead on.
"Yeah," Dean said.
He heard the rise in it, the uplift that brought it close to being a question. He should have been more firm about it, should have said Yes, SIR! and meant it. But the sorrow looking at him from across the room gave him nothing to prop any decision against. Gave him no leg up off uncertain ground.
He was no son of this man.
Years later, he would wonder what would have happened if he had been.
* * * * *
Hasn't he?
CHARACTERS: Dean (age 17), Bobby
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 500 words
CROSSROADS
By Carol Davis
"Son," Bobby said quietly.
Dean bristled at the word - did so in spite of the fact that Bobby's voice was laden with a pure and tangible sadness, the kind of grief people took on if they'd lost somebody, or figured all that was left to do was pull the plug. What do you care? struggled to get out, be laid there on the table between the two of them, but Dean held it back, too weary of the whole thing to let this turn into another debate, another bickering match in which he was outgunned only by virtue of his age.
"You'll be sorry later on." They'd tried that on him.
"Never knew you to be a quitter."
Dean stared at his hand, laid flat on the tabletop. Ached to drum out a soft rhythm on the scarred wood, to repeat the gesture that had gotten him into trouble two hours ago.
Disdain, they said it was.
Lack of respect.
Not that, though. Never that. Too much respect, maybe. Too much regard for the opinions of the people who liked to tell him he didn't measure up.
He spent a long time looking at his hand, at the table, at a solitary ant making slow progress toward the crumbs left over from lunch.
"Kind of wish people would stop telling me I need a frigging high school diploma to do this job," he said finally, voice low, and he could hear in it that same plain sadness he'd heard in Bobby's.
He waited, but Bobby didn't respond.
When he looked up, met the man's gaze in weary challenge, Bobby looked away. Seemed to find something of interest on the wall behind Dean, midway up, though there was nothing there.
Just a wall.
"Had a hope," Bobby murmured.
"For what?"
"That you'd pick something else," Bobby said, and his gaze swung back and caught Dean's. "That you'd pick anything else. Something other than this."
His voice broke on the last word.
Then he was on his feet, up so fast that his chair wobbled hard and came close to toppling over. It righted itself, finally, but Bobby didn't.
"I don't -" Dean said.
Trying for stubbornness. Conviction. Something.
"Anything," Bobby told him. "You could be anything you put your mind to. Any goddamn thing at all. And you pick this nest of crap."
The heartbreak in it made Dean blink.
"I'm good at it," Dean said.
"And that's all that matters, ain't it?"
Bobby looked at him hard. Dead on.
"Yeah," Dean said.
He heard the rise in it, the uplift that brought it close to being a question. He should have been more firm about it, should have said Yes, SIR! and meant it. But the sorrow looking at him from across the room gave him nothing to prop any decision against. Gave him no leg up off uncertain ground.
He was no son of this man.
Years later, he would wonder what would have happened if he had been.
* * * * *