Little Negative Of Hopes Refined for cherie_morte
Title: Little Negative Of Hopes Refined
Author: geckoholic
Recipient: cherie_morte
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none
Author's Notes: Not the fic I set out to write... /o\ And it seriously lacks on the banter the recipient asked for (in fact, there kind of isn't any). But I hope she'll like it anyway. ♥
Summary: Late at night in a college bar, Jess talks and Dean listens.
"Hey, Winchester, next round's on you."
Even though Dean knows he's not the one being talked to, the name startles him. He doesn't hear it all that often anymore, not since he got out of school. Too much pretending and too many aliases, too few people who actually know his full name.
Sam, though, must hear it all the time. Everyone here at Stanford knows who he is, at least by name.
Safely hidden from view in a booth in the back of the college bar that Sam, a few of his college buddies, and - get this - what appears to be Sam's girlfriend chose to spend the evening in, he watches Sam turn towards the scrawny, dark blonde guy who said it. The kid used to be Sam's roommate, Dean knows that from an earlier time he came here to check on his brother, but he doesn't remember the name. Peter or Tom or Nick, or something equally ordinary.
Sam shakes his head. "No way, man, I'm already late. I mess up the presentation for Jennings tomorrow, and I can take the next bus home."
It's just a random turn of phrase, but Dean feels as if someone punched him in the gut. Yeah, Sammy, as if, he thinks bitterly and takes a pull of his beer.
"C'mon, Sam. You could do that in your sleep. Stay a little longer, and spend some of that scholarship money for a good cause: me!" Peter-Tom-Nick grins and points at his chest in an exaggerated, drunken gesture.
But Sam's already gathering his wallet and jacket, makes to sit up. "Sorry, answer's still no. You'll just have to buy your own beer." He turns to his girlfriend. "Jess, I'll be heading home. You gonna stay?"
She nods, and he kisses her goodbye and leaves.
Dean's about to get up, follow Sam to wherever 'home' is now, but he decides against it. College boy or not, Sam's been raised as a hunter and Dean would have to keep close in the dark; Sam'd know he was being followed. And it's still early, enough time left to get hammered, slink back to the car and sleep it off before heading north to meet up with Dad.
So he stays. Watches Sam's friends clear out one by one, until it's just the girl left. She sits there alone for a little while, sipping on a coke, and Dean's just considering following her home instead of Sam when she looks up and meets his eyes. Dean quickly averts his gaze, but it's too late. She's already getting up and starts in his direction.
And, oh shit. The option of making a beeline for the door is out; he has yet to pay his drinks, the barkeeper's been eyeing him suspiciously all evening, no chance to do a runner, and he'd have to walk past her anyway.
Her face is determined when she strides towards him, chin lifted upwards, confident and firm. She's either going to call him out for being a creep, or he's about to be hit on by his baby brother's girlfriend. No way this isn't going to end awkward.
"Been enjoying the view?" She plants herself directly in front of his table, arms akimbo.
"I, uh. It's not what it looks like," Dean stammers. Yeah, smooth. If she didn't suspect any bullshit before, she will now.
And sure enough, her expression darkens and her eyebrows shoot up, silently demanding an explanation.
Dean runs through a dozen possibilities of lying his way out of this one , but then it occours to him that it might be an opportunity. He straightens, clears his throat, and does his best to put on an honest and sincere expression. Shouldn't be too hard to make it convincing, he's about to tell the truth after all. "You're Sam Winchester's girlfriend, right?"
"What's it to you?"
"I'm his brother." It's a gamble, Dean doesn't even know if Sam's talking about him and dad or keeping them under wraps; the latter seems much more likely to him.
But she smiles, knowingly. "Dean, right?" She taps his knee to make him slide further into the booth, make room for her, and sits down when he does. "So you didn't work up the courage to talk to him this time either."
Dean's taken aback. "He knows?"
"Of course he knows. You're the one who taught him how to spot a tail ." Her smile grows conspiratorially. "But don't worry, I don't think he spotted you this time, and I'm not going to tell him. Unless you want me to?"
He shakes his head and turns away, reaches for the napkin that serves as a placemat and starts to knead it between thumb and index finger.
There are a few moments of uneasy silence, then she heaves a sigh. "He misses you, you know?"
Dean swallows. He's got the feeling that he's supposed to say something to that, but all of a sudden his throat is too dry to get any words out.
"It's not that he talks about it often, and he's too stubborn to call you. Family trait, I suppose. But he really does does, he really miss you." She pauses and Dean can feel her eyes on him, waiting for a response, but he can't turn back around to look at her. "There's a photo of you, him and your dad, it's framed now and stands on a cupboard in our living room. Every so often I catch him standing there while we talk about this or that, stroking it." The conspiratorial smile makes a comeback. "But don't you ever mention I told you that."
He knows that photo. It used to be his, kept on the bottom of his duffle like a treasure, and he assumed he'd lost doing laundry or something.
"Is he..." Dean clears his throat. "He's doing good, yeah? Courses and all?"
"Yeah. He's smart, but I don't have to tell you that, do I? And he's working hard, really takes this seriously." She goes on, keeps talking for a while, about their friends and the apartment, and the part time jobs they both have to pay for it. About Sam's courses, and his teachers, and about how bad a cook he is.
Dean listens, not paying much attention to the academic details but drinking every bit of information in. He's long since lost track of time when she gets out a pen, scribbles something on the back of a receipt, presses the little slip of paper into his hand and gets up.
"I have to go. He'd never admit to it, but I'm sure he's currently lying awake and waiting for me to come home. And as you probably heard, he's got a presentation tomorrow." She winks. "It was nice to meet you, Dean."
He holds her back, a hand on her arm. "Thanks. For, just -"
Before he can embarrass himself by stammering some more, she interrupts him. "You're welcome." She gives him another warm smile, then turns to leave.
It's not until after she's out of the door that he unwads the receipt. There's a phone number on it, and the words 'call him', underlined twice. Dean folds it carefully and puts it into his wallet.
It's still there when he pays Sam his last visit at Stanford a year later.
Author: geckoholic
Recipient: cherie_morte
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none
Author's Notes: Not the fic I set out to write... /o\ And it seriously lacks on the banter the recipient asked for (in fact, there kind of isn't any). But I hope she'll like it anyway. ♥
Summary: Late at night in a college bar, Jess talks and Dean listens.
"Hey, Winchester, next round's on you."
Even though Dean knows he's not the one being talked to, the name startles him. He doesn't hear it all that often anymore, not since he got out of school. Too much pretending and too many aliases, too few people who actually know his full name.
Sam, though, must hear it all the time. Everyone here at Stanford knows who he is, at least by name.
Safely hidden from view in a booth in the back of the college bar that Sam, a few of his college buddies, and - get this - what appears to be Sam's girlfriend chose to spend the evening in, he watches Sam turn towards the scrawny, dark blonde guy who said it. The kid used to be Sam's roommate, Dean knows that from an earlier time he came here to check on his brother, but he doesn't remember the name. Peter or Tom or Nick, or something equally ordinary.
Sam shakes his head. "No way, man, I'm already late. I mess up the presentation for Jennings tomorrow, and I can take the next bus home."
It's just a random turn of phrase, but Dean feels as if someone punched him in the gut. Yeah, Sammy, as if, he thinks bitterly and takes a pull of his beer.
"C'mon, Sam. You could do that in your sleep. Stay a little longer, and spend some of that scholarship money for a good cause: me!" Peter-Tom-Nick grins and points at his chest in an exaggerated, drunken gesture.
But Sam's already gathering his wallet and jacket, makes to sit up. "Sorry, answer's still no. You'll just have to buy your own beer." He turns to his girlfriend. "Jess, I'll be heading home. You gonna stay?"
She nods, and he kisses her goodbye and leaves.
Dean's about to get up, follow Sam to wherever 'home' is now, but he decides against it. College boy or not, Sam's been raised as a hunter and Dean would have to keep close in the dark; Sam'd know he was being followed. And it's still early, enough time left to get hammered, slink back to the car and sleep it off before heading north to meet up with Dad.
So he stays. Watches Sam's friends clear out one by one, until it's just the girl left. She sits there alone for a little while, sipping on a coke, and Dean's just considering following her home instead of Sam when she looks up and meets his eyes. Dean quickly averts his gaze, but it's too late. She's already getting up and starts in his direction.
And, oh shit. The option of making a beeline for the door is out; he has yet to pay his drinks, the barkeeper's been eyeing him suspiciously all evening, no chance to do a runner, and he'd have to walk past her anyway.
Her face is determined when she strides towards him, chin lifted upwards, confident and firm. She's either going to call him out for being a creep, or he's about to be hit on by his baby brother's girlfriend. No way this isn't going to end awkward.
"Been enjoying the view?" She plants herself directly in front of his table, arms akimbo.
"I, uh. It's not what it looks like," Dean stammers. Yeah, smooth. If she didn't suspect any bullshit before, she will now.
And sure enough, her expression darkens and her eyebrows shoot up, silently demanding an explanation.
Dean runs through a dozen possibilities of lying his way out of this one , but then it occours to him that it might be an opportunity. He straightens, clears his throat, and does his best to put on an honest and sincere expression. Shouldn't be too hard to make it convincing, he's about to tell the truth after all. "You're Sam Winchester's girlfriend, right?"
"What's it to you?"
"I'm his brother." It's a gamble, Dean doesn't even know if Sam's talking about him and dad or keeping them under wraps; the latter seems much more likely to him.
But she smiles, knowingly. "Dean, right?" She taps his knee to make him slide further into the booth, make room for her, and sits down when he does. "So you didn't work up the courage to talk to him this time either."
Dean's taken aback. "He knows?"
"Of course he knows. You're the one who taught him how to spot a tail ." Her smile grows conspiratorially. "But don't worry, I don't think he spotted you this time, and I'm not going to tell him. Unless you want me to?"
He shakes his head and turns away, reaches for the napkin that serves as a placemat and starts to knead it between thumb and index finger.
There are a few moments of uneasy silence, then she heaves a sigh. "He misses you, you know?"
Dean swallows. He's got the feeling that he's supposed to say something to that, but all of a sudden his throat is too dry to get any words out.
"It's not that he talks about it often, and he's too stubborn to call you. Family trait, I suppose. But he really does does, he really miss you." She pauses and Dean can feel her eyes on him, waiting for a response, but he can't turn back around to look at her. "There's a photo of you, him and your dad, it's framed now and stands on a cupboard in our living room. Every so often I catch him standing there while we talk about this or that, stroking it." The conspiratorial smile makes a comeback. "But don't you ever mention I told you that."
He knows that photo. It used to be his, kept on the bottom of his duffle like a treasure, and he assumed he'd lost doing laundry or something.
"Is he..." Dean clears his throat. "He's doing good, yeah? Courses and all?"
"Yeah. He's smart, but I don't have to tell you that, do I? And he's working hard, really takes this seriously." She goes on, keeps talking for a while, about their friends and the apartment, and the part time jobs they both have to pay for it. About Sam's courses, and his teachers, and about how bad a cook he is.
Dean listens, not paying much attention to the academic details but drinking every bit of information in. He's long since lost track of time when she gets out a pen, scribbles something on the back of a receipt, presses the little slip of paper into his hand and gets up.
"I have to go. He'd never admit to it, but I'm sure he's currently lying awake and waiting for me to come home. And as you probably heard, he's got a presentation tomorrow." She winks. "It was nice to meet you, Dean."
He holds her back, a hand on her arm. "Thanks. For, just -"
Before he can embarrass himself by stammering some more, she interrupts him. "You're welcome." She gives him another warm smile, then turns to leave.
It's not until after she's out of the door that he unwads the receipt. There's a phone number on it, and the words 'call him', underlined twice. Dean folds it carefully and puts it into his wallet.
It's still there when he pays Sam his last visit at Stanford a year later.