Missing Scene: Sammy Is Going to Stanford (Dean POV)
Rating: T (bad language)
Genre: Pre-series, Angst
Summary: What we didn't see - the fight when Sammy left for Stanford
Author's Note: Double beta'd by
astrothsknot and
senorcoconut. I still don't own any of the Winchesters, tag-nabbit.
Missing Scene: Sammy Is Going To Stanford (Dean POV)
Dean sensed something was up with Sammy the second he and his father stepped through the door after their hunt.
It was in the tense line of his shoulders, the way his head hunched down, as if protecting himself from a blow; it was in the way his eyes lingered on Dean as he watched him go through the routine of returning from the hunt, dropping the duffle in the kitchen and grabbing a beer from the fridge. John just nodded curtly at Sam, not noticing the heaviness in the air - the feeling of wrongness - and headed for the shower to wash off the dirt and blood coating his burly form.
Dean popped open his beer, casting cautious eyes on his brother. “Did ya finish your work, Sammy?” he asked casually.
“Yeah,” Sam muttered, the stiffness from earlier melting away when it was just he and Dean. “How did everything go?” he asked worriedly, picking briefly at the tears in his brother’s shirt.
“Dad got the worst of it,” Dean admitted. “I think I’m OK.”
Sam pressed his lips together into that familiar line, as if holding back a thousand words that wanted to tumble out beyond his control. Mutely, he tugged Dean’s shirt up over his head, falling into his routine with an accepting grace. Pulling out the First Aid kit, he carefully washed the scratches marring his brother’s perfect skin, gently applying the first aid cream, ignoring his brother’s slight hisses of discomfort as he taped the wounds closed. With the nonverbal communication they’d developed over the years, where the squint of an eye and a tilt of the head meant I’m glad you’re not dead, Sam brushed Dean’s shoulder with his own, letting Dean know how he felt. Leaning heavily against the countertop, Dean turned his head to his brother and whispered, “What’s wrong, Sammy? Tell me.”
Sam opened and closed his mouth, his eyes softening. “I-I’m sorry, Dean. I wanted to tell you for so long….”
“What the fuck is this, Sammy?” John demanded, storming into the kitchen, his hair still wet, with a piece of paper clutched tightly in his grip. “You’re not going!” Dean held his breath, the ominous presence of his father filling the kitchen and making the world suddenly tilt off its axis.
“It’s Sam,” his brother stated with deadly intensity. “And I am going.”
Dean looked between the two of them, brow furrowing in confusion. “Dad, what’s wrong?”
“Your brother,” John spat out, “went and got himself into Stanford.”
Dean’s face broke into a broad smile, as pleased with his brother’s accomplishments as if he’d done it himself. “Really, Sammy? That’s fantas….”
“It’s not fucking fantastic, Dean,” his father growled. “Don’t you know what this means?” The open space in the kitchen suddenly felt oppressive, as if all the air were being sucked out to fuel his father’s rage.
Dean’s face fell when he reached the same conclusion as his father. Sammy would be gone, away at a college where he couldn’t protect him anymore. Dean’s eyes flicked over to his brother, noticing the stubborn line of Sam’s jaw as he ground his teeth together.
“I got a full scholarship, Dad,” Sam stated clearly. “You don’t have to pay for anything. I got it! Not you and not Dean. It’s mine.” His brother looked triumphant, as if he’d finally achieved something that no one on earth could dare degrade as not good enough, do better, be stronger - all those phrases that littered their childhood from the time they could aim a gun.
“You’re a part of this family, boy, and you do what I say,” John commanded, crushing the paper in his hand. Dean winced, hunching in on himself, feeling the Sammy-storm gathering beside him.
“I’m not a little boy anymore! Just because I don’t say, ‘Yes, Sir’, ‘No, Sir’, ‘Whatever you say, Sir,’ like Dean does doesn’t mean I don’t deserve this!” Sam saw Dean’s face fall and the hurt look creep into his eyes. “Dean…,” Sam murmured apologetically.
“You never listen!” John roared. “I don’t know where that comes from! You’re nothing like me or your mother….” The room fell deathly quiet at those words, Sam’s face blanching.
“And how would I know?” Sam asked bluntly. “You keep fighting this battle for a woman I don’t remember. Would she want me to give up this chance? To waste my time in backwoods bars and motels, looking for some sign of a monster that may not even exist?”
Dean kept his face still, this violation of his mother’s memory cutting him deeply, but he knew why Sam had never understood. “Dad,” Dean interjected softly as he stepped in front of his red-faced father. “Sammy wants this. Maybe we should let him try it out, see if he likes it.” Dean knew the best bet was to get them separated as soon as possible, before the fighting got too loud, too much for him to handle, the truth laid bare for all to see.
“He’s leaving us, Dean. Leaving you. He’s giving up everything we live for!” John seethed.
“No, I’m giving up what you live for, Dad,” Sam stated with disdain. “I never asked for this! I want to be normal! I want to stay in one place and wake up to the same wallpaper and the same street address and the same sights outside my window. I want more! More than this life you’re living. More than this life you’re making Dean live.”
John huffed out a breath, as if he’d been punched in his gut. Dean could see his father gathering his reserves as he stood taller, facing his youngest son. “I order you to stay here, Sam. That is my final word,” John said plainly, the dead tone in his voice warning Dean that things had reached their limit.
Dean turned to face Sam, placing his hands on his brother’s chest, feeling Sam’s heart pounding wildly under his palms. “Sammy, let’s step away from this. We can talk about this later.” He lifted his eyes up to meet his brother’s and whispered, “Please, Sammy.”
Sam turned wounded eyes on his brother. “There’s nothing left to talk about Dean. I’m going.” He leaned his forehead against his brother’s and murmured softly, “I have to go. I can’t live like this anymore.” He turned and started walking towards his bedroom.
“If you go, don’t come back.”
Sam stilled when his father’s clipped tones uttered the definitive damning statement.
John gathered up his discarded coat and stalked out the door, leaving the two brothers standing in the tenuous remnants of their family.
Sam gazed at Dean from across the kitchen, hungrily taking in the familiar lines of his brother’s face, as if memorizing them for a long fast. With a chin tuck and eye blink, Sammy told Dean I love you, big brother before turning and heading for his bedroom to pack. When his little brother’s lanky form - the brother he had bathed when he was a baby, tucked in during those long nights when John was away, and protected as if he were his own - disappeared behind the closed door, Dean slumped bonelessly to the floor and wept for what he had lost.
Genre: Pre-series, Angst
Summary: What we didn't see - the fight when Sammy left for Stanford
Author's Note: Double beta'd by
astrothsknot and
senorcoconut. I still don't own any of the Winchesters, tag-nabbit.
Missing Scene: Sammy Is Going To Stanford (Dean POV)
Dean sensed something was up with Sammy the second he and his father stepped through the door after their hunt.
It was in the tense line of his shoulders, the way his head hunched down, as if protecting himself from a blow; it was in the way his eyes lingered on Dean as he watched him go through the routine of returning from the hunt, dropping the duffle in the kitchen and grabbing a beer from the fridge. John just nodded curtly at Sam, not noticing the heaviness in the air - the feeling of wrongness - and headed for the shower to wash off the dirt and blood coating his burly form.
Dean popped open his beer, casting cautious eyes on his brother. “Did ya finish your work, Sammy?” he asked casually.
“Yeah,” Sam muttered, the stiffness from earlier melting away when it was just he and Dean. “How did everything go?” he asked worriedly, picking briefly at the tears in his brother’s shirt.
“Dad got the worst of it,” Dean admitted. “I think I’m OK.”
Sam pressed his lips together into that familiar line, as if holding back a thousand words that wanted to tumble out beyond his control. Mutely, he tugged Dean’s shirt up over his head, falling into his routine with an accepting grace. Pulling out the First Aid kit, he carefully washed the scratches marring his brother’s perfect skin, gently applying the first aid cream, ignoring his brother’s slight hisses of discomfort as he taped the wounds closed. With the nonverbal communication they’d developed over the years, where the squint of an eye and a tilt of the head meant I’m glad you’re not dead, Sam brushed Dean’s shoulder with his own, letting Dean know how he felt. Leaning heavily against the countertop, Dean turned his head to his brother and whispered, “What’s wrong, Sammy? Tell me.”
Sam opened and closed his mouth, his eyes softening. “I-I’m sorry, Dean. I wanted to tell you for so long….”
“What the fuck is this, Sammy?” John demanded, storming into the kitchen, his hair still wet, with a piece of paper clutched tightly in his grip. “You’re not going!” Dean held his breath, the ominous presence of his father filling the kitchen and making the world suddenly tilt off its axis.
“It’s Sam,” his brother stated with deadly intensity. “And I am going.”
Dean looked between the two of them, brow furrowing in confusion. “Dad, what’s wrong?”
“Your brother,” John spat out, “went and got himself into Stanford.”
Dean’s face broke into a broad smile, as pleased with his brother’s accomplishments as if he’d done it himself. “Really, Sammy? That’s fantas….”
“It’s not fucking fantastic, Dean,” his father growled. “Don’t you know what this means?” The open space in the kitchen suddenly felt oppressive, as if all the air were being sucked out to fuel his father’s rage.
Dean’s face fell when he reached the same conclusion as his father. Sammy would be gone, away at a college where he couldn’t protect him anymore. Dean’s eyes flicked over to his brother, noticing the stubborn line of Sam’s jaw as he ground his teeth together.
“I got a full scholarship, Dad,” Sam stated clearly. “You don’t have to pay for anything. I got it! Not you and not Dean. It’s mine.” His brother looked triumphant, as if he’d finally achieved something that no one on earth could dare degrade as not good enough, do better, be stronger - all those phrases that littered their childhood from the time they could aim a gun.
“You’re a part of this family, boy, and you do what I say,” John commanded, crushing the paper in his hand. Dean winced, hunching in on himself, feeling the Sammy-storm gathering beside him.
“I’m not a little boy anymore! Just because I don’t say, ‘Yes, Sir’, ‘No, Sir’, ‘Whatever you say, Sir,’ like Dean does doesn’t mean I don’t deserve this!” Sam saw Dean’s face fall and the hurt look creep into his eyes. “Dean…,” Sam murmured apologetically.
“You never listen!” John roared. “I don’t know where that comes from! You’re nothing like me or your mother….” The room fell deathly quiet at those words, Sam’s face blanching.
“And how would I know?” Sam asked bluntly. “You keep fighting this battle for a woman I don’t remember. Would she want me to give up this chance? To waste my time in backwoods bars and motels, looking for some sign of a monster that may not even exist?”
Dean kept his face still, this violation of his mother’s memory cutting him deeply, but he knew why Sam had never understood. “Dad,” Dean interjected softly as he stepped in front of his red-faced father. “Sammy wants this. Maybe we should let him try it out, see if he likes it.” Dean knew the best bet was to get them separated as soon as possible, before the fighting got too loud, too much for him to handle, the truth laid bare for all to see.
“He’s leaving us, Dean. Leaving you. He’s giving up everything we live for!” John seethed.
“No, I’m giving up what you live for, Dad,” Sam stated with disdain. “I never asked for this! I want to be normal! I want to stay in one place and wake up to the same wallpaper and the same street address and the same sights outside my window. I want more! More than this life you’re living. More than this life you’re making Dean live.”
John huffed out a breath, as if he’d been punched in his gut. Dean could see his father gathering his reserves as he stood taller, facing his youngest son. “I order you to stay here, Sam. That is my final word,” John said plainly, the dead tone in his voice warning Dean that things had reached their limit.
Dean turned to face Sam, placing his hands on his brother’s chest, feeling Sam’s heart pounding wildly under his palms. “Sammy, let’s step away from this. We can talk about this later.” He lifted his eyes up to meet his brother’s and whispered, “Please, Sammy.”
Sam turned wounded eyes on his brother. “There’s nothing left to talk about Dean. I’m going.” He leaned his forehead against his brother’s and murmured softly, “I have to go. I can’t live like this anymore.” He turned and started walking towards his bedroom.
“If you go, don’t come back.”
Sam stilled when his father’s clipped tones uttered the definitive damning statement.
John gathered up his discarded coat and stalked out the door, leaving the two brothers standing in the tenuous remnants of their family.
Sam gazed at Dean from across the kitchen, hungrily taking in the familiar lines of his brother’s face, as if memorizing them for a long fast. With a chin tuck and eye blink, Sammy told Dean I love you, big brother before turning and heading for his bedroom to pack. When his little brother’s lanky form - the brother he had bathed when he was a baby, tucked in during those long nights when John was away, and protected as if he were his own - disappeared behind the closed door, Dean slumped bonelessly to the floor and wept for what he had lost.