Supernatural fic: About a Man (episode tag/missing scenes for "About a Boy"
Some missing scenes for s10e12: "About a Boy," from Tina's point of view.
About a Man
“You know before, I thought you were just another drunk.”
*****
The sixth time Dean mentioned his little brother, Tina asked what his name was. Dean’s eyes softened noticeably as he answered “Sammy,” then laughed ruefully. “No, he hates that,” he amended. “It’s Sam.”
Dean didn’t seem at all likely to really be an old pal of poor J.P., Tina thought. She supposed that was why she wanted to talk with him in the first place-idle curiosity combined with the fact that he was the hottest man she’d encountered in weeks. She had certainly not expected him to be so engaging, showing an endearing sweetness at odds with his general air of ruggedness. He deflected her more personal inquiries with practiced deftness, she shrewdly noticed, but she was pretty sure that when he spoke of his brother, he was telling the truth-perhaps more than he realized himself.
“Do you see him often?” she asked. She was mildly surprised when he appeared to be privately amused at this banal question. A gently secretive smile appeared on his face as he answered.
“Yeah,” he said. “We, uh-” he shook his head slightly as he broke off and concluded, “Maybe too much.”
Why would you say that, she wanted to ask, when you so clearly adore him? She watched his heavy-lashed eyes flick over the growing number of shot glasses in front of him and thought, Maybe he disapproves of you. Are you a disappointment? Like me?
“Are you two alike?” she asked instead.
“God, no,” Dean replied immediately. “He’s like, a genius, you know? He’s always been smart as a whip. He went to Stanford, full ride.” The admiration in his tone was inconsistent with the faintly guilty look in his eyes. Huh, Tina thought. What happened there, I wonder?
“Wow, really?” she said. “What’s he do now?”
“Oh-research, mainly. Really obscure stuff; I don’t understand any of it.”
Tina smiled to herself as she imagined this disapproving younger brother, prim and professorial, possibly a bit hipster-ish, probably good-looking if he bore any family resemblance to Dean at all. She filed this image away carelessly-after all, she did not expect to ever see Dean again, let alone his brother-and the conversation veered, a bit unexpectedly, into a discussion of crappy childhoods, in which Dean could match her, point for point.
*****
Her first thought when she saw Sam was He doesn’t look at all like how I imagined him, Dean, which would have been reasonable had she not been transformed into a teenager and tied to a chair in a crazy cannibal’s kitchen. Who apparently was a witch, and not just any witch, but the witch from freaking “Hansel and Gretel” herself.
She had plenty of time to look at Sam after Dean had put away the witch, for Dean made a beeline for him first thing, and for a minute or two they were oblivious to her. As the adrenaline drained away from her, she noted that Sam was certainly very good-looking, though in a different way from Dean, and why hadn’t Dean mentioned how enormous he was?
“Dean-” Sam protested as his brother examined his pupils, “I’m not concussed; I’m okay.”
“Yeah, I don’t want you to throw up in the car, that’s all,” Dean snapped.
“Me? What about you?” Sam retorted, and there, in the set of his mouth, just before he turned to look at her, was a hint of the prissiness Tina had imagined. She raised her eyebrows, and he blushed as he scrambled to his feet, his upper arm still firmly held in Dean’s grip.
She was shaky on her feet after they freed her. “Sorry,” she murmured. “It’s a lot to take in.” Her adolescent voice sounded incredibly strange in her ears. She peered up at Sam, who offered her a gentle smile along with a steadying hand-evidently he had plenty of experience at this sort of consolation-and she felt a bit patronized by his warmly avuncular manner until she recalled that she was in a fourteen-year-old’s body.
“We’ve got some stuff to take care of, so can you sit tight for a few?” Sam requested, and she was content to keep quiet and watch the brothers rummage through the house for hex bags, which they burned, and old books, which they appropriated.
I was wrong, Sam, she thought as she saw them interact with the ease and efficiency of perfectly-matched partners. You don’t disapprove of your brother-he’s your whole goddamn world. Why doesn’t he see that?
*****
The ticket office of the bus station was crowded, so she stood at the window to watch the Winchesters leave. She had sensed that they were anxious to be alone with each other, all the time that they were shuttling her around to find her a backpack and a change of clothes, as well as print her a fake Kansas driver’s license (she didn’t know why Sam had made an odd strangled noise when he saw the name-“Tina Swift”-that Dean had put on it), which listed her age as 19.
“It won’t stand up to scrutiny, so just flash it,” Dean had advised. “You can pass for nineteen, I think-right, Sam?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Sam had said. “If you do something with your hair.”
Dean had laughed. “Don’t listen to any hair advice this guy gives,” he’d quipped, earning himself a roll of the eyes from his brother.
Now, as Tina watched through the slats of the blinds, they were talking earnestly, standing too close together next to their car. At one point Dean’s head bowed, and Tina caught a glimpse of Sam’s face as he turned away. She felt a little jolt of sympathy as she was suddenly reminded of her mom’s face when she had been told the results of her own father’s biopsy. Her mother had been a resolute pessimist, and she had been surprised not by the diagnosis, which she had expected, but by the realization that she’d still had enough hope to cause her pain.
*****
She thinks of them often.
Sam crops up at odd moments (whenever she sees a very tall man or a jar of marshmallow Fluff, for instance), but she thinks of Dean every day-every time she sees her youthful eyes staring back at her in the mirror. If she gazes long enough, her eyes no longer look young, and she supposes that the expression of years of fatigue in her face, rather than her makeup and severe hairstyle, is the reason she can generally pass for a small adult instead of a child.
She thinks of Dean, wiry young Dean in his oversized hoodie battering at the bars on the window, or quick-wittedly bantering with the old woman with one eye on his brother, or brandishing the hex bag with an unaccountably sorrowful countenance, but most often she thinks of Dean as she saw him that afternoon in the bar-an ordinary, charming, world-weary man, with laughter on his lips and regret in his eyes.
***end***
(also posted at AO3: About a Man)
About a Man
“You know before, I thought you were just another drunk.”
*****
The sixth time Dean mentioned his little brother, Tina asked what his name was. Dean’s eyes softened noticeably as he answered “Sammy,” then laughed ruefully. “No, he hates that,” he amended. “It’s Sam.”
Dean didn’t seem at all likely to really be an old pal of poor J.P., Tina thought. She supposed that was why she wanted to talk with him in the first place-idle curiosity combined with the fact that he was the hottest man she’d encountered in weeks. She had certainly not expected him to be so engaging, showing an endearing sweetness at odds with his general air of ruggedness. He deflected her more personal inquiries with practiced deftness, she shrewdly noticed, but she was pretty sure that when he spoke of his brother, he was telling the truth-perhaps more than he realized himself.
“Do you see him often?” she asked. She was mildly surprised when he appeared to be privately amused at this banal question. A gently secretive smile appeared on his face as he answered.
“Yeah,” he said. “We, uh-” he shook his head slightly as he broke off and concluded, “Maybe too much.”
Why would you say that, she wanted to ask, when you so clearly adore him? She watched his heavy-lashed eyes flick over the growing number of shot glasses in front of him and thought, Maybe he disapproves of you. Are you a disappointment? Like me?
“Are you two alike?” she asked instead.
“God, no,” Dean replied immediately. “He’s like, a genius, you know? He’s always been smart as a whip. He went to Stanford, full ride.” The admiration in his tone was inconsistent with the faintly guilty look in his eyes. Huh, Tina thought. What happened there, I wonder?
“Wow, really?” she said. “What’s he do now?”
“Oh-research, mainly. Really obscure stuff; I don’t understand any of it.”
Tina smiled to herself as she imagined this disapproving younger brother, prim and professorial, possibly a bit hipster-ish, probably good-looking if he bore any family resemblance to Dean at all. She filed this image away carelessly-after all, she did not expect to ever see Dean again, let alone his brother-and the conversation veered, a bit unexpectedly, into a discussion of crappy childhoods, in which Dean could match her, point for point.
*****
Her first thought when she saw Sam was He doesn’t look at all like how I imagined him, Dean, which would have been reasonable had she not been transformed into a teenager and tied to a chair in a crazy cannibal’s kitchen. Who apparently was a witch, and not just any witch, but the witch from freaking “Hansel and Gretel” herself.
She had plenty of time to look at Sam after Dean had put away the witch, for Dean made a beeline for him first thing, and for a minute or two they were oblivious to her. As the adrenaline drained away from her, she noted that Sam was certainly very good-looking, though in a different way from Dean, and why hadn’t Dean mentioned how enormous he was?
“Dean-” Sam protested as his brother examined his pupils, “I’m not concussed; I’m okay.”
“Yeah, I don’t want you to throw up in the car, that’s all,” Dean snapped.
“Me? What about you?” Sam retorted, and there, in the set of his mouth, just before he turned to look at her, was a hint of the prissiness Tina had imagined. She raised her eyebrows, and he blushed as he scrambled to his feet, his upper arm still firmly held in Dean’s grip.
She was shaky on her feet after they freed her. “Sorry,” she murmured. “It’s a lot to take in.” Her adolescent voice sounded incredibly strange in her ears. She peered up at Sam, who offered her a gentle smile along with a steadying hand-evidently he had plenty of experience at this sort of consolation-and she felt a bit patronized by his warmly avuncular manner until she recalled that she was in a fourteen-year-old’s body.
“We’ve got some stuff to take care of, so can you sit tight for a few?” Sam requested, and she was content to keep quiet and watch the brothers rummage through the house for hex bags, which they burned, and old books, which they appropriated.
I was wrong, Sam, she thought as she saw them interact with the ease and efficiency of perfectly-matched partners. You don’t disapprove of your brother-he’s your whole goddamn world. Why doesn’t he see that?
*****
The ticket office of the bus station was crowded, so she stood at the window to watch the Winchesters leave. She had sensed that they were anxious to be alone with each other, all the time that they were shuttling her around to find her a backpack and a change of clothes, as well as print her a fake Kansas driver’s license (she didn’t know why Sam had made an odd strangled noise when he saw the name-“Tina Swift”-that Dean had put on it), which listed her age as 19.
“It won’t stand up to scrutiny, so just flash it,” Dean had advised. “You can pass for nineteen, I think-right, Sam?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Sam had said. “If you do something with your hair.”
Dean had laughed. “Don’t listen to any hair advice this guy gives,” he’d quipped, earning himself a roll of the eyes from his brother.
Now, as Tina watched through the slats of the blinds, they were talking earnestly, standing too close together next to their car. At one point Dean’s head bowed, and Tina caught a glimpse of Sam’s face as he turned away. She felt a little jolt of sympathy as she was suddenly reminded of her mom’s face when she had been told the results of her own father’s biopsy. Her mother had been a resolute pessimist, and she had been surprised not by the diagnosis, which she had expected, but by the realization that she’d still had enough hope to cause her pain.
*****
She thinks of them often.
Sam crops up at odd moments (whenever she sees a very tall man or a jar of marshmallow Fluff, for instance), but she thinks of Dean every day-every time she sees her youthful eyes staring back at her in the mirror. If she gazes long enough, her eyes no longer look young, and she supposes that the expression of years of fatigue in her face, rather than her makeup and severe hairstyle, is the reason she can generally pass for a small adult instead of a child.
She thinks of Dean, wiry young Dean in his oversized hoodie battering at the bars on the window, or quick-wittedly bantering with the old woman with one eye on his brother, or brandishing the hex bag with an unaccountably sorrowful countenance, but most often she thinks of Dean as she saw him that afternoon in the bar-an ordinary, charming, world-weary man, with laughter on his lips and regret in his eyes.
***end***
(also posted at AO3: About a Man)