Note: This chapter was originally called, "P.S. Sorry about your sketch, Love Sammy." Because Sam actually did tear up the pic, but I changed that. Now the title sucks, but the story is a little more in character. :P
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Part 4: "Worth It"
Dean, hair still damp from his shower, was on the edge of his motel bed, flipping through his sketchbook in preparation of refining the latest comic he'd drawn. And he came across the sketch he'd drawn of Sammy as Superboy. It'd been torn out of the sketchpad, and a little angrily from the looks of the jagged line.
He blinked a couple time, and then he scowled and questioned, "Sam, what the heck did you rip out this page for?"
Sam turned away from his laptop, and rested his arm on the back of the desk chair to give himself a little more balance. "Oh, yeah," he said, sheepishly, "Sorry about that, man."
Dean stared at his brother, incredulously. "Did you want to keep it, or something? What the heck?"
Sam cleared his throat, looked like he was about to blush, and replied, "I was angry. I know you wanted to draw Dad. I almost tore it up..."
He sat there for a moment, and then shrugged and took the page and ripped it up neatly and quickly, crumpled the pages together and tossed it in the trash.
"Oh, my God, Dean!" Sam exclaimed, "Why'd you do that?" He got up, and went over to the trash and rescued the paper.
Dean shrugged, "It's not like it's worth anything."
"What?" Sam retorted, "You're not serious."
"Dude, get over it, it's just a piece of paper with graphite on it."
Sam stared at him momentarily. "It doesn't matter how much it's worth, man, it's your art. I mean-- You can't just-- Dean--" Dean smirked at his brother's sudden lack of eloquence.
"I know I suck, Sammy. You don't have to pretend." He ducked his head, closed his drawing pad, set it aside, then changed his mind, picked it up, rose, and headed to the trash can with it.
Sam intercepted him, grabbing the book away and exclaiming, "Whoa, what's up with you? You don't suck, Dean. You're far from sucking. In fact, if you practice a little more, I'm pretty sure your stuff could be worth something in a few years. Stop underestimating yourself!"
"Give it back," Dean growled, on the defensive again. That darned sketchbook kept making him feel like a dweeby teenager with coke-bottle glasses, that were bandaged up with a spare bandaid... not that that described him as a teenager. He'd never been a dweeb, even if he'd always been an outsider. "I'm gonna throw it away."
"Dude!" Sam said, looking like he did when Dean was proposing a hair-brained plan. Well, Dean wasn't in the habit of admitting sometimes his plans could be foolhardy, but actually, he was rather aware of when they were. "You are not throwing this away. Sheesh. Have a little confidence in your ability. I mean, the newspaper printed one of your comics already. I can't believe you'd think they'd do that if you weren't any good."
Dean pursed his lips like Sam had the habit of doing. "I want it back, right now, neanderthal, or I'm going to kill my future nieces and nephews before they even have a chance to swim upstream."
It was Sam's turn to purse his lips, but still he held the sketchbook up and away from Dean's grasp. "You'd kick me in the nuts just so you can throw your sketchbook away? Fine, I'll give it to you, and then I'll get it out later."
"You're not gonna get it out later," Dean declared, "Cause I'm gonna fricassee the sucker. Flambe a la Deano!"
"Uh, huh," Sam drawled. "All right," he said, and shrugged, handing the sketchbook back to Dean. "Go ahead."
Dean took the notebook and stared at it. Then he dropped it into the trashcan and got out his lighter. He lit the flame and leaned down... but found himself holding the thing until it got hot enough that he had to close it.
"You do it," he said to Sam, and turned away.
Sam scoffed. "No, Dean." He tapped Dean's shoulder, and when he turned around, he saw that Sam had retrieved the sketchbook from the trash.
"I swear, Sam, you are the most stubborn son of a--"
"You're welcome," Sam interrupted, then went back to sit in front of his laptop. "Now hurry up and get that comic done before we have to start singing for our food."
"Talent Agent," Dean insulted, but he sat back down on the bed.
"Art-lover," Sam tossed back to him, with a shady grin.
Chuckling under his breath, Dean opened his sketchbook and found the last page he'd drawn....
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