Isolated snippet.
This isn't a WIP, or anything but a self-indulgent nod to my inability to entirely let Little!Dean go for good. Not a sequel to "Under a Haystack," just a glimpse of what might have come later, if Dean hadn't reverted back to his grownup self. And, of course, an SUV hadn't come barreling out of nowhere. NOT A SEQUEL, just a random snippet. One day I might do the epilogue with the photos and stuff, but not right now. Apologies; I have too many irons in the fire. Just thought -- aw, no denying I really and truly loved writing Little!Dean. Unbetaed, because -- just a ridiculously self-indulgent snippet. Em
On Dean’s eighth birthday, Sam bakes a cake. It’s lopsided, but otherwise okay, and Dean blows out his candles and eats two big slices, doesn’t complain about the less-than-professional look of his cake or the fact that it’s just the two of them. Sam hasn’t met any of Dean’s friends at school, although he’s seen him talking to a couple of boys when he picks him up at three. He isn’t sure if those are friends or not. If Dean actually has any friends. He doesn’t talk about them, if so.
Sam scrapes frosting off the plate with his fork. “Did you want a party?” he asks, while Dean guzzles the last of his glass of milk.
Dean shakes his head. “That’s okay.”
They didn’t have birthday parties when they were kids. Sam’s never been comfortable with the concept. A cake, sure, and he’s gotten Dean a great number of presents they normally couldn’t afford, bankrolled by their father’s occasional checks. Sam’s working, but it’s hard to make it on his paycheck alone. The house is a little on the pricey side, but Dean has Medicaid, and they scrape by.
“We’ll have a party next year,” Sam announces, feeling sort of sad, and Dean shrugs and asks, “Can I have another piece of cake?”
“May I.”
“May I have another piece of cake.”
“If you eat any more cake you’ll barf, Dean. No more cake.”
Dean’s expression darkens. “But it’s my birthday!”
“Dean -“
“Didn’t even have a party.”
Sam sighs. “Did you want one?”
“No. They’re all dickwads anyway.”
Sam thinks about the next conference with Dean’s teacher, about his tendency to curse when things don't go his way, or another fight during recess, another stiffly uncomfortable half-hour spent listening to Mrs. Richardson say that Dean was a bright boy and obviously very capable, but he just doesn’t APPLY himself, and that MOUTH, my goodness, and so on and on until Sam can nod gamely and say, “I’ll have a talk with him, ma’am. Sorry about this.”
Next time he wants to say, Dean is Dean. He’s not a regular kid. He cusses like a sailor when he’s pissed, he thinks with his fists a lot of the time, and yeah, he’s smart. But he goes to class every day, and he makes decent grades, and frankly, I’m proud of him. He’s a damn good kid, and he’ll grow up to be a damn fine adult, of that much I can be absolutely sure, and so just lay the hell off him, would you?
Sam leans his chin on his elbow and waits for Dean to look at him. “Okay,” Sam says softly. “Birthdays only come once a year, right?”
“Right!” Dean grins and holds out his plate.
After Dean’s bedtime is the quiet part of the night, when Sam can catch up on email, keep poking at the question of what the hell he’ll do with himself after this. He’s thinking about school, but for whatever reason law no longer really interests him. In fact he isn’t sure it was ever law that did interest him; it was the solidity of the profession, the innate respectability, that was key, he thinks now, and that isn’t the greatest reason to commit to years of more classes and many tens of thousands more dollars of debt, right?
So he has dozens of booklets, pamphlets, letters, every university in California and a few from Oregon and Washington state, another handful from Nevada, and nearly every evening after Dean’s asleep Sam picks through them, tries to think what exactly he wants to DO with himself. Only nothing’s really occurring to him. He should move them to Palo Alto, finish at Stanford, at least. But the idea of Stanford is oddly colorless. There is no room for him amongst his old friends, with a child in tow. He has responsibilities now, another person to watch out for, take care of. It isn’t the same, and it will never be the same. The world, and Sam, have moved on since Stanford.
He’s poking at a catalog from the University of Redlands when Dean calls his name. Dean’s sitting up in bed, just a dark shape muffled by covers, and he sighs when Sam sits on the edge of his narrow bed.
“What’s the matter?” Sam asks. “You okay?”
“Don’t feel so good.”
“Might have eaten too much cake, buddy. You think?”
Dean nods. “Yeah.”
Sam turns on the lamp. “You gonna hurl?”
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t make it in time for the toilet, but Sam catches it in a wastebasket, thinks wryly that he had this coming, he IS the adult here, after all, and he knew better than to let Dean sweet talk him into three gigantic slices of chocolate cake. He pets Dean’s back and wipes his mouth when it seems like he’s done, and tucks him back into bed.
“Feel better?”
Dean gives a halfhearted nod. “Sammy?”
“Yeah, Dean.”
“Did Dad call?”
Sam keeps on smoothing the covers that don’t need smoothing, and presses his lips together. “Not tonight, buddy. I’m sorry. You want to call him now?”
Dean looks uncertain. “Think it would be okay?”
“It’s your birthday, Dean, of course it’s okay. It’s always okay.”
Dad doesn’t answer, of course, but Dean doesn’t seem too disappointed. More philosophical than anything else, and he settles down after they’ve hung up, makes a face when Sam kisses his forehead.
“Can we go bike-riding tomorrow?” he asks fuzzily.
Sam grins. “Well, you gotta learn how to ride it first, kiddo.”
“Piece of cake,” Dean says, and they both make faces this time, and laughing, Sam turns out the lamp.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
On Dean’s eighth birthday, Sam bakes a cake. It’s lopsided, but otherwise okay, and Dean blows out his candles and eats two big slices, doesn’t complain about the less-than-professional look of his cake or the fact that it’s just the two of them. Sam hasn’t met any of Dean’s friends at school, although he’s seen him talking to a couple of boys when he picks him up at three. He isn’t sure if those are friends or not. If Dean actually has any friends. He doesn’t talk about them, if so.
Sam scrapes frosting off the plate with his fork. “Did you want a party?” he asks, while Dean guzzles the last of his glass of milk.
Dean shakes his head. “That’s okay.”
They didn’t have birthday parties when they were kids. Sam’s never been comfortable with the concept. A cake, sure, and he’s gotten Dean a great number of presents they normally couldn’t afford, bankrolled by their father’s occasional checks. Sam’s working, but it’s hard to make it on his paycheck alone. The house is a little on the pricey side, but Dean has Medicaid, and they scrape by.
“We’ll have a party next year,” Sam announces, feeling sort of sad, and Dean shrugs and asks, “Can I have another piece of cake?”
“May I.”
“May I have another piece of cake.”
“If you eat any more cake you’ll barf, Dean. No more cake.”
Dean’s expression darkens. “But it’s my birthday!”
“Dean -“
“Didn’t even have a party.”
Sam sighs. “Did you want one?”
“No. They’re all dickwads anyway.”
Sam thinks about the next conference with Dean’s teacher, about his tendency to curse when things don't go his way, or another fight during recess, another stiffly uncomfortable half-hour spent listening to Mrs. Richardson say that Dean was a bright boy and obviously very capable, but he just doesn’t APPLY himself, and that MOUTH, my goodness, and so on and on until Sam can nod gamely and say, “I’ll have a talk with him, ma’am. Sorry about this.”
Next time he wants to say, Dean is Dean. He’s not a regular kid. He cusses like a sailor when he’s pissed, he thinks with his fists a lot of the time, and yeah, he’s smart. But he goes to class every day, and he makes decent grades, and frankly, I’m proud of him. He’s a damn good kid, and he’ll grow up to be a damn fine adult, of that much I can be absolutely sure, and so just lay the hell off him, would you?
Sam leans his chin on his elbow and waits for Dean to look at him. “Okay,” Sam says softly. “Birthdays only come once a year, right?”
“Right!” Dean grins and holds out his plate.
After Dean’s bedtime is the quiet part of the night, when Sam can catch up on email, keep poking at the question of what the hell he’ll do with himself after this. He’s thinking about school, but for whatever reason law no longer really interests him. In fact he isn’t sure it was ever law that did interest him; it was the solidity of the profession, the innate respectability, that was key, he thinks now, and that isn’t the greatest reason to commit to years of more classes and many tens of thousands more dollars of debt, right?
So he has dozens of booklets, pamphlets, letters, every university in California and a few from Oregon and Washington state, another handful from Nevada, and nearly every evening after Dean’s asleep Sam picks through them, tries to think what exactly he wants to DO with himself. Only nothing’s really occurring to him. He should move them to Palo Alto, finish at Stanford, at least. But the idea of Stanford is oddly colorless. There is no room for him amongst his old friends, with a child in tow. He has responsibilities now, another person to watch out for, take care of. It isn’t the same, and it will never be the same. The world, and Sam, have moved on since Stanford.
He’s poking at a catalog from the University of Redlands when Dean calls his name. Dean’s sitting up in bed, just a dark shape muffled by covers, and he sighs when Sam sits on the edge of his narrow bed.
“What’s the matter?” Sam asks. “You okay?”
“Don’t feel so good.”
“Might have eaten too much cake, buddy. You think?”
Dean nods. “Yeah.”
Sam turns on the lamp. “You gonna hurl?”
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t make it in time for the toilet, but Sam catches it in a wastebasket, thinks wryly that he had this coming, he IS the adult here, after all, and he knew better than to let Dean sweet talk him into three gigantic slices of chocolate cake. He pets Dean’s back and wipes his mouth when it seems like he’s done, and tucks him back into bed.
“Feel better?”
Dean gives a halfhearted nod. “Sammy?”
“Yeah, Dean.”
“Did Dad call?”
Sam keeps on smoothing the covers that don’t need smoothing, and presses his lips together. “Not tonight, buddy. I’m sorry. You want to call him now?”
Dean looks uncertain. “Think it would be okay?”
“It’s your birthday, Dean, of course it’s okay. It’s always okay.”
Dad doesn’t answer, of course, but Dean doesn’t seem too disappointed. More philosophical than anything else, and he settles down after they’ve hung up, makes a face when Sam kisses his forehead.
“Can we go bike-riding tomorrow?” he asks fuzzily.
Sam grins. “Well, you gotta learn how to ride it first, kiddo.”
“Piece of cake,” Dean says, and they both make faces this time, and laughing, Sam turns out the lamp.
~~~~~~~~~~~~