SPN fic: Everything changes...
Title: Everything changes...
Author: maharetr
Fandom/rating: SPN, G, Gen
Spoilers/warnings: None
Word count: 630
Sammy's been hovering in Dean's peripheral vision for at least a minute before he clears his throat.
Dean finally looks up from his work, wrestles his groan down into a sigh and raises an eyebrow. The white shape in Sam's hands resolves itself into a piece of paper now that Dean's looking at it directly. It sparks his curiosity a little, but not enough to justify the interruption, so he doesn't actually say anything, just raises the other eyebrow.
"I, um, I wanted to talk…to tell you, before I told Dad."
Dean smiles brightly. "Yeah, because things starting out like that always end well."
Sammy practically winces, which gives Dean enough pause to put down the Berretta and nod to the chair across the table.
"Spit it out," he says, not as harshly as he could have.
"I…" Sammy says again, and there's an undercurrent of misery there. Dean takes mercy on him, wiping at least some of the gun oil off his fingers, and reaching for the paper.
"What, you've lost your 4.0 GPA?"
For a moment, a smile makes it through the gloom in his eyes, and he thrusts the page awkwardly at Dean's outstretched hand. The letterhead says everything Dean needs to know, but he keeps staring at the paper like he can will the words away, make the letter and everything it brings with it combust into ash, into nothing.
Dear Samuel Winchester,
We are pleased to have the opportunity to offer you…
"Well, shit." Dean says finally. He drops the letter on the table, and Sammy snatches it up, folding it carefully, stashing it in the waistband of his jeans like a handgun. Dean flashes to the image of Sam trying to fight Dad off with it, and has to close his eyes to banish the image.
"I got a scholarship," Sammy says almost inaudibly, as if Dad could hear them from two states away. "A full ride."
"A scholarship," Dean echoes, trying to marshal his thoughts. "When the hell were you finding the time to make applications? You didn't just apply to Stanford, did you?"
"No, I… I applied to a lot of places; did it in study hall, mostly."
"Any of these other places offer?"
"Yeah…" The quirk is back, and Sammy looks down at the table, reaching out and tracing the barrel of Dean's Beretta with a fingertip. "Most of them."
There's a hollow place in Dean's chest, and it's expanding out to his arms, numbing his fingers, making it hard to talk.
"This scholarship? Is it still a 'we would like to offer you?' or is it a 'thank you for accepting?'"
"The latter," Sammy whispers, as if it would be somehow less painful if delivered quietly.
"Ah," Dean says. He snatches at his cleaning brush, but it only emphasises how much his hands are shaking, and he can barely hold onto it is as it is. He drops the brush and spreads his hand flat on the table, fighting the urge to rub a palm over his face.
"This is going to kill Dad," Dean says, but he can't look up as he says it.
"I'm sorry," Sammy whispers, and he sounds choked. "Dean, I'm so sorry."
Dean breathes in, forcing himself to straighten: lifting his shoulders and head, contorting his lips into what he prays passes for a smile.
"Yeah, well, I can't say I didn't expect it, you big geek."
Sammy exhales hard, and a grin comes out with it along with a babble of relieved words. Dean lets it wash over him, and all he can think is that they've got less than thirty-six hours until Dad's due back, and that's not nearly enough time to figure out a way to head off this particular storm front.
Author: maharetr
Fandom/rating: SPN, G, Gen
Spoilers/warnings: None
Word count: 630
Sammy's been hovering in Dean's peripheral vision for at least a minute before he clears his throat.
Dean finally looks up from his work, wrestles his groan down into a sigh and raises an eyebrow. The white shape in Sam's hands resolves itself into a piece of paper now that Dean's looking at it directly. It sparks his curiosity a little, but not enough to justify the interruption, so he doesn't actually say anything, just raises the other eyebrow.
"I, um, I wanted to talk…to tell you, before I told Dad."
Dean smiles brightly. "Yeah, because things starting out like that always end well."
Sammy practically winces, which gives Dean enough pause to put down the Berretta and nod to the chair across the table.
"Spit it out," he says, not as harshly as he could have.
"I…" Sammy says again, and there's an undercurrent of misery there. Dean takes mercy on him, wiping at least some of the gun oil off his fingers, and reaching for the paper.
"What, you've lost your 4.0 GPA?"
For a moment, a smile makes it through the gloom in his eyes, and he thrusts the page awkwardly at Dean's outstretched hand. The letterhead says everything Dean needs to know, but he keeps staring at the paper like he can will the words away, make the letter and everything it brings with it combust into ash, into nothing.
Dear Samuel Winchester,
We are pleased to have the opportunity to offer you…
"Well, shit." Dean says finally. He drops the letter on the table, and Sammy snatches it up, folding it carefully, stashing it in the waistband of his jeans like a handgun. Dean flashes to the image of Sam trying to fight Dad off with it, and has to close his eyes to banish the image.
"I got a scholarship," Sammy says almost inaudibly, as if Dad could hear them from two states away. "A full ride."
"A scholarship," Dean echoes, trying to marshal his thoughts. "When the hell were you finding the time to make applications? You didn't just apply to Stanford, did you?"
"No, I… I applied to a lot of places; did it in study hall, mostly."
"Any of these other places offer?"
"Yeah…" The quirk is back, and Sammy looks down at the table, reaching out and tracing the barrel of Dean's Beretta with a fingertip. "Most of them."
There's a hollow place in Dean's chest, and it's expanding out to his arms, numbing his fingers, making it hard to talk.
"This scholarship? Is it still a 'we would like to offer you?' or is it a 'thank you for accepting?'"
"The latter," Sammy whispers, as if it would be somehow less painful if delivered quietly.
"Ah," Dean says. He snatches at his cleaning brush, but it only emphasises how much his hands are shaking, and he can barely hold onto it is as it is. He drops the brush and spreads his hand flat on the table, fighting the urge to rub a palm over his face.
"This is going to kill Dad," Dean says, but he can't look up as he says it.
"I'm sorry," Sammy whispers, and he sounds choked. "Dean, I'm so sorry."
Dean breathes in, forcing himself to straighten: lifting his shoulders and head, contorting his lips into what he prays passes for a smile.
"Yeah, well, I can't say I didn't expect it, you big geek."
Sammy exhales hard, and a grin comes out with it along with a babble of relieved words. Dean lets it wash over him, and all he can think is that they've got less than thirty-six hours until Dad's due back, and that's not nearly enough time to figure out a way to head off this particular storm front.