Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: In a few short days, I will own a real live (chopped-down) Christmas tree. But of all things SN-related? I own nothing.
Summary: A fluffy little piece of fluff

I am totally cheating. I posted this on LJ a lifetime ago (well - a few months. Sometimes that seems like a lifetime . . .). However, I did promise a happy fic at some point, and since my muses have not cooperated toward producing anything new, I am falling back on a standby. Hope you all enjoy.

Oh - and the redhead is not me. Swear.

But You Should See the Other Guy

They amble into to a roadside bar, the kind the locals call a honky-tonk – as if such a thing really exists north of Oklahoma. It's the kind of place where there's actually sawdust on the floor and people hum along to songs like "Bubba Shot the Jukebox" without irony. Dean's not a fan of the music, but the patrons are usually hospitable, and they're in need of cash.

For once, Sam keeps the griping to a minimum. In fact, if Dean didn't know better, he would swear his brother is actually looking forward to a night out, or at least a cold beer – especially when Sam leaves the laptop in the car.

Two hours later and Dean's had a good run. A few friendly games and a few more for money, and now he's up nearly two hundred without any signs of animosity. In fact, the pool crew's been pretty affable, and the night's still relatively young. Feeling magnanimous, he goes to the bar to get a couple of pitchers.

When he turns around to find his brother, he's greeted with a shock.

There are days when he can read Sam like a book, when he can all but sense his thoughts, anticipate every word and posture, watch the emotions play out over Sam's face so expressively that they might as well be written with a Sharpie. It's a little heady when it happens and he uses it to his advantage, knowing he can duck and parry accordingly, and stay one step ahead of Sam, his little brother easily led or re-directed, depending on Dean's needs.

Then, there are the other 360 days of the year.

On this particular day, it's a Sam he doesn't recognize, a Sam he honestly might have never seen before. Sam's not only being social (in a bar, of all places) but there's a whole gaggle of people – mostly women, and attractive ones at that – hovering around the table and seeming to hang on his every word.

Dean just watches for a moment, spying unabashedly. His brother – his reticent, earnest brother who usually avoids the whole bar scene as though it's a rare and terrible disease – is holding court, literally presiding, while the crowd looks on as though he's the most interesting creature on the planet. He's clearly at his ease, eyes bright and dimples flashing, punctuating his words with wide grins and wider hand gestures, and Dean is suddenly as captivated as the others.

It hits him like an epiphany that this is the Sam that Jess must have known, must have loved – this relaxed, confident, unfairly tall drink of water that probably would have had all the college girls eating out of palm of his hand and happy to be there, if he'd only noticed. Little Sammy's got the mojo, Dean thinks, a little proud, a little incredulous. Drawn like a moth to flame, he winds his way to the table

As he sidles up, Sam makes a subtle move and the crowd parts. Bemused, Dean realizes the space that's now carved out is meant for him. He leans against a chair, and Sam claps a hand on his shoulder, drawing him into the conversation, making him important just by virtue of his touch.

"Now, if you think that's scary, you should hear some of my brother's stories."

Dean just lifts an eyebrow, not sure what Sam's up to, but ready to pick up whatever line he throws down. They have played so many roles that ad-libbing is second nature, and under the circumstances – because, clearly Sam is not chatting these people up for information – Dean's ready to do a little entertaining. After, of course, he establishes the parameters.

"What have you been telling the nice people here, Sammy?" Dean's grinning like a shark – all teeth, and a little predatory.

"Just about how we got our scars." Sam turns to him, cheeks flushed and eyes squinting conspiratorially, and Dean knows immediately that he was wrong. Two drinks do not have Sam singing karaoke, but evidently they do turn him into a champion bullshitter. Apparently, the game of the evening on this side of the room has been tall tales, and Sam's been taking all the prizes. Dean's more than ready to play, and Sam couldn't have asked for a better partner; after all, when it comes to bullshitting, Dean's taught him everything he knows.

The clock unwinds another hour or three without anyone paying it much mind. There are more spent pitchers on the table now, and a dishwasher's load of glasses. The crowd has grown over the course of the last few stories, and the chairs are pulled close so everyone can hear. From the outside, they look mesmerized, more than a little blown away by both barrels of Winchester charm.

A cute little redhead, who's been inching closer with every punch line, reaches up to point out another mark. "What about this one?"

She bends toward him, brushes the tip of her finger over a faint line that nearly blends into his eyebrow. It disappears in the wrong light and Dean had forgotten it was there.

He remembers how he got it, though, and from the tilt of his chin – a combination of smug and embarrassed that only the King of the Puppy Dog Eyes can pull off believably – Sam remembers too.

Sam was 17 and had finally grown into to his tall frame, muscle at last settling comfortably over long limbs. After months of awkwardness he was easy in his skin, no longer tripping over his feet or ducking his head as he adjusted to his new proportions.

Dean was 21 and knew everything, was ready to light the world on fire and fiddle while it burned. Sam's extra height annoyed the hell out of him (he was pretty sure it always would) and Sam's increasingly confrontational attitude pissed him off even more, but on this night they were synced, as close as they'd been when they were kids and Sam still thought Dean hung the moon.

It had started out as a friendly fight over who would do the dishes. A few choice words escalated to taunts over who was better with the bow, the knives, the guns, and finally hand-to-hand. Of course, the challenges had to be backed up, and they'd ended up sprawled all over the kitchen, engaged in the kind of good-natured mortal combat that only brothers can be.

Dean had the advantage of weight and experience, and Sam had taken his share. But Sam had the advantage of reach and determination, because by-God this time he wasn't going to be bested. When the tables fully turned, Dean had found himself pinned and bleeding and disbelieving that it was at his brother's hand.

Sam had been slightly horrified to see the damage he had done and slightly terrified of what the reaction might be – not just Dean's, but Dad's.

Dean had grabbed a fake insurance card and let Sam have the keys. They made up a cover story about a mugging gone wrong, got Dean his x-ray and stitches, and managed to walk through the door just as their father was coming home.

Obviously, John was going to be a little harder to convince than the overworked staff at emergent care. Worse, Sam's guilt-stricken expression had nearly given them away. But Dean had clapped him on the shoulder as he wove a story about a pool game and a jealous boyfriend and a parking lot fight for honor. John was about to call Dean out on letting someone get the better of him, when Dean gave Sam a wink and leaned toward their father. Low-voiced and grinning, he merely said, "But you should see the other guy."

His eyes meet Sam's and Sam is smiling. And it's not the smile that wooed Jessica or the easy grin that drew the crowd tonight so unerringly. It's the secret smile, the just us smile, the one that only Dean knows. Even their dad has never shared it, though he's seen it once or twice. For a moment, Dean's heart constricts in his chest, and he wonders how he survived the last few years without it. His face lights up with matching one of his own.

"Vicious," he drawls, and the word is warm honey, drawing in the flies. "Yeah, I got worked over pretty good that time. Ten stitches and a hairline fracture on this little bone right here." He taps the corner of his eye like he's thinking.

The redhead's moue of sympathy is almost genuine, and her hand is on his arm.

He tips his glass, raises it in silent acknowledgement of his brother's long ago victory. Sam salutes back, accepting his due. Dean takes a long swig, then winks at Sam and leans in.

The group presses close, ready for a secret, and his voice drops an octave, to just a shade above a smoky whisper. "But you should have seen the other guy."

Fin