SPN FIC - Well-Rounded
There are extra-curricular activities...and then there's this craziness. His brother, playing a dead kid. In a stupid thing called Our Town.
Like that makes any kind of sense at all.
CHARACTERS: Dean (age 20) and Sam (age 16)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 500 words
WELL-ROUNDED
By Carol Davis
"What the hell for?" Dean groans, because this makes no sense to him, no sense whatsoever, no matter which direction he tries to look at it from. Soccer he could justify (sort of), because of the fresh air and exercise. The whole "teamwork" thing, though hunting doesn't generally call for a whole lot of that. Not unless you figure a team is two people. Maybe three.
Sam, of course, is pissed off.
"It looks good on an application," he insists.
"An application for what? Dork of the Year? You've kinda got that sewn up already. No need to gild that lily."
"College," Sam says.
"That again?"
"I'm going to college, Dean. You can turn up your nose at it all you want, but I'm going. And you know what? You might have had a chance at it, too, if you paid any attention at school. If you bothered to be more well-rounded."
"Well-rounded," Dean echoes.
"They like that. They want you to have had a variety of experiences."
"Which would include playing a friggin' dead kid, in a PLAY."
Sam's bitchface seldom hits Defcon One, but it's definitely sliding in that direction. Head for the shelters! Dean thinks. Scramble the fighters!
"You tell anybody you ganked a friggin' dead kid two weeks ago?" he challenges.
"And why would I do that? Huh?"
"Because it's impressive?"
Our Town, Dean thinks as Sam goes stalking off across the yard, headed for God knows where. He doesn't bother calling after his brother; the last time he did that, added one final salvo to the mix, Sam didn't come back for three hours.
Friggin' Our Town. The kid could at least pick something a little more…
What the hell kind of a title is Our Town, anyway?
Sam comes wandering back about an hour later, sucking soda out of a big yellow cup.
"They got tickets to that thing?" Dean asks.
"Why?"
Dean shrugs. It's tough holding up in the face of that much scorn, but… Well. Shit. He's Dean Winchester, for crying out loud. "Figure I could be a little more well-rounded. If I at least knew what the stupid thing's about."
"The human condition," Sam says.
"Screw that, then. I'm gonna go see Fight Club again. You got lines in this thing?"
"No."
"So you just stand there."
"Sit," Sam mutters.
"And you'd rather do that than go help somebody. You'd rather do that than be a -"
Sam's mouth opens. He had a response all fired up and ready to launch; that's obvious, but instead of saying it, he jams his lips together and stares off at nothing. Probably doesn't notice that he's starting to squash the paper cup, he's holding it so tight.
"Yes," he says finally, but it's not convincing.
"That's what I thought," Dean observes, and as Sam crashes his way into the house, screen door slamming shut behind him, Dean leans back in his lawn chair, intent on admiring the clouds scudding across a brilliant blue sky.
* * * * *
Like that makes any kind of sense at all.
CHARACTERS: Dean (age 20) and Sam (age 16)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 500 words
WELL-ROUNDED
By Carol Davis
"What the hell for?" Dean groans, because this makes no sense to him, no sense whatsoever, no matter which direction he tries to look at it from. Soccer he could justify (sort of), because of the fresh air and exercise. The whole "teamwork" thing, though hunting doesn't generally call for a whole lot of that. Not unless you figure a team is two people. Maybe three.
Sam, of course, is pissed off.
"It looks good on an application," he insists.
"An application for what? Dork of the Year? You've kinda got that sewn up already. No need to gild that lily."
"College," Sam says.
"That again?"
"I'm going to college, Dean. You can turn up your nose at it all you want, but I'm going. And you know what? You might have had a chance at it, too, if you paid any attention at school. If you bothered to be more well-rounded."
"Well-rounded," Dean echoes.
"They like that. They want you to have had a variety of experiences."
"Which would include playing a friggin' dead kid, in a PLAY."
Sam's bitchface seldom hits Defcon One, but it's definitely sliding in that direction. Head for the shelters! Dean thinks. Scramble the fighters!
"You tell anybody you ganked a friggin' dead kid two weeks ago?" he challenges.
"And why would I do that? Huh?"
"Because it's impressive?"
Our Town, Dean thinks as Sam goes stalking off across the yard, headed for God knows where. He doesn't bother calling after his brother; the last time he did that, added one final salvo to the mix, Sam didn't come back for three hours.
Friggin' Our Town. The kid could at least pick something a little more…
What the hell kind of a title is Our Town, anyway?
Sam comes wandering back about an hour later, sucking soda out of a big yellow cup.
"They got tickets to that thing?" Dean asks.
"Why?"
Dean shrugs. It's tough holding up in the face of that much scorn, but… Well. Shit. He's Dean Winchester, for crying out loud. "Figure I could be a little more well-rounded. If I at least knew what the stupid thing's about."
"The human condition," Sam says.
"Screw that, then. I'm gonna go see Fight Club again. You got lines in this thing?"
"No."
"So you just stand there."
"Sit," Sam mutters.
"And you'd rather do that than go help somebody. You'd rather do that than be a -"
Sam's mouth opens. He had a response all fired up and ready to launch; that's obvious, but instead of saying it, he jams his lips together and stares off at nothing. Probably doesn't notice that he's starting to squash the paper cup, he's holding it so tight.
"Yes," he says finally, but it's not convincing.
"That's what I thought," Dean observes, and as Sam crashes his way into the house, screen door slamming shut behind him, Dean leans back in his lawn chair, intent on admiring the clouds scudding across a brilliant blue sky.
* * * * *