Levels of Devotion
A/N: This little ficlet is set during a scene in 4.01, so there are some very mild spoilers for that, but everybody has surely scene that episode by now! There is no real pairing, but you could see it as Wincest if you wanna. Characters and plotlines do not belong to me, but it is my biggest Christmas wish that they did! Please R&R! Thanks!
The moment Dean's eyes land on her, his heart starts to beat double time and his pulse quickens.
He suspects that the awe-struck facial expression he has plastered on makes him look like a smhuck. He also doesn't care.
They exchange pleasantries, all the while Dean is shamelessly oogling her. He can't help it.
She's all sharp curves and unspoken promises. She's just like he remembered. Dean did remember.
He could never forget her. Not even after all the crap he went through down in the pit. He was amazed by just how much of his memory was still intact.
Hell was a bit fuzzy. Like the day after a particularly large binge, he kept getting glimpses of fragmented moments spent down below. He was fairly confident that if he tried, he could have recalled everything. But who would want to remember something like that? He sure didn't. He'd left that hangover haze stay for as long as it could linger.
He pushed the gory thoughts from his mind and returned his focus back to her.
He hesitates for a beat, blinking in confusion, because, hey, that's new.
Dean can feel his blood pressure rising. He turns to Sam with a murderous look and tells him off letting this happen to his baby. He had expected Sam to look after her in his absence. This is only one of the first signs that Sam is no longer his Sammy. This Sam belong to no one, cares for no one but himself. This Sam is a total stranger. Dean tries to shake the feeling, and it's easy enough since this is only the beginning of their end.
He turns back to his baby and has her opening up and purring for him in no time. The familiar little noises she makes when she really gets goin' would have made him one hell of a happy boy had it not been for that goddamn shit of Sam's drowning out those precious sounds and threatening to bust his eardrums.
That's the final straw. He fixes Sam with a death stare.
"Seriously?"
"What?"
"Seriously?" Dean clenches his jaw, his face is pulled tight, and there is no missing the hurt behind his eyes.
He doesn't answer the questioning look that his brother gave him. He lets the subject drop as he switched gears and peeled out of the motel parking lot.
For a good stretch of road, all he could think about was how he had expected more from Sam. His little brother's death had destoryed him. He had kept Sam's body even when the smell of the corpse was too much to bare. He refused to salt and burn him, refused to accept that his brother was gone. He'd sold his soul, for what it was worth.
What had Sam done in return? He'd swam in a sea of women and douched up Dean's car.
Dean didn't want to admit it to himself, but he was disappointed by how well Sam had coped.
He chanced a glance over at Sam. There was no small smile pulling at his lips. He didn't seem over-joyed to have Dean back. He seemed more eager to find the demon who had brought him back.
It stung. It did. He'd never say it out loud, but his feelings were hurt. Sam should have made his baby a timecapsle of Dean's memory. He should have continued to play the same albums over and over, because yeah, they got on Sam's nerves, but they'd make him think of his big brother. He should have kept her polished and waxed. She should have been in pristine condition when Dean returned to her. That's how it should have happened.
Maybe he was really the sentimental one, not Sam.
The thought sickened him.
His hand migrated up to his neck, slender fingers sliding over the amulet's rope. He thought of how Sam had been wearing it the whole time, figured it had to count for something.
So, Dean let it go.
But he made a mental note to write a will next time he thought he was going to bite it. That way Sam would have a detailed outline of exactly how his baby ought to be treated.