Title: Trash
Summary: Dean's got a new hobby, one that takes his mind off things and reminds him of happier times. He's just got to hide it from his dad. Too bad he messed up. Pre-series one-shot.
Rating: K
A/N: This idea hit me late last night, and since I finally finished "Never Look Back" (which you should totally check out, if you haven't. It's only on chapter one here), I decided to write it. Hope you enjoy it.
A/N 2: The story's set pre-series, sometime after Sam leaves for Stanford and before John goes chasing the YED.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters, as much as I wish I did.
Trash
He hadn't meant to get so caught up in it at first. He'd just been so bored and- as much as he hated to admit it- lonely. His brother had left to chase after a higher education and that apple pie life that was suddenly so important, and his father was out on another long hunt. They should have known better than to leave Dean up to his own devices.
He'd stumbled upon the crayons by accident. They'd been in one of the drawers, probably left there by some long-ago kid who'd forgotten all about them.
So, they were lonely, too.
He'd grabbed a paper towel and slid the crayons out of the box. He was bored. He needed something to occupy his time while he waited for his dad. He drew a picture.
He took the crayons everywhere after that, desperate to stave off the boredom. Whenever he was alone, he would draw pictures, making sure to tuck them carefully into his duffle before his father got back.
Sometimes, for fun, he would tape the pictures up on the refrigerator. He could remember his mom doing that with stuff he'd drawn back when he was a kid. He could remember the rush of pride that having his artwork displayed and crooned over had brought. He tried to copy it by praising himself, but it just wasn't the same.
He didn't stop trying, though. That was his mistake.
Dean had been in the bathroom when his dad had come home from his latest solo hunt early. The younger man had stepped into the room to find his father staring at the tiny fridge on the counter. "Dad?"
"What is that?" John asked, disgust apparent in his voice.
Dean's eyes followed his father's gaze to rest on his latest masterpiece, a drawing of his family standing in front of the car. "Oh," he said, trying to hide his embarrassment, "um, some kid must have drawn it when his family passed through. It was here when we came, remember?"
"No."
"You must not have been paying attention."
"Why'd you keep it up?" John asked.
Dean shrugged. "I dunno. It's kind of cute." He smiled, despite himself. "Pretty good, actually."
John huffed. "It's trash," he said, crossing the room to rip the paper from the fridge. He crumpled up his son's drawing and tossed into the garbage can. He frowned at the pinched look that crossed the other man's face at the action. "What?"
Dean jumped, as if he'd been caught doing something bad, his expression evening out, as if he'd slipped a mask on over his face. "Nothing. You're right. It's trash."
His father nodded. Later that night, he would lie awake thinking about it, about the look Dean had given him. He would wonder why there hadn't been a child in the picture of the family- three men, one woman, and car- when the drawing had obviously been made by a child's hand. He would think about it, wonder briefly, and then shrug it off and fall asleep.
Dean would think about it, too. He knew the answers to the questions that crossed his father's mind, but he would never supply them to the older man. And he would never draw trash again.
The End. So, any final thoughts? I'd love to hear from you. Thanks for reading!