Communication has never been Dean's strong suit. He has always been better at talking with his fists than his words. Which is why Dean appreciates how much can be said between him and Sam without saying a word.
It started out of necessity when they were children, needing more than occasional secrecy from their father. Sometimes you had to let your brother know to keep his mouth shut with a single look, or else verbal fights would break out.
I know you heard me crying. Bring it up and I will never speak to you again.
Sometimes Sam would get out of hand, and Dean's barely concealed concern for his brother would be the only thing keeping the younger Winchester in line.
Dad's gonna throw you out if you don't stop.
Sam's tired expression had come home to stay at a young age, and Dean had learned quickly how to read its subtleties. He had to know if Sam was just tired from lack of sleep or tired from lack of normalcy.
I'm tired of this hunt. Of this town. Of everything.
Dean could occasionally convince John to stop for the night when Sam gave him that look. Sometimes Sam had to settle for a pillow made of Dean's jacket.
Now, seated across from him at their table in this week's motel, Sam has a similar expression. Dean knows he's tired, and it's barely after breakfast. He hasn't moved from his chair since he finished eating, which was a while ago. The computer blocks most of Sam's face from Dean's view, but Dean knows that Sam is scowling. Sam's scowl is practiced and covers his whole face with its menace. All Dean needs to see are Sam's eyebrows, knitted together in concentration, to know that Sam is frustrated and in need of a break. So he kicks Sam in the shin. The younger Winchester's face appears over the top of his laptop, and Dean can conclude that Sam was indeed scowling. The look he gets burns right through his skull.
Dean, don't.
Dean pulls his keys from his pocket and dangles them in front of Sam's face.
I'm bored, you're boring, let's get out of here for a while. You can even drive.
Dean's wicked grin has pierced the scowl on Sam's face, although he is desperately trying to maintain it. Dean watches as Sam narrows his eyes at his computer, and can tell without seeing that the corners of Sam's mouth are starting to turn upwards. Dean kicks him again. The look he gets is intended to be serious but falls short of its mark. Sam is giving in.
Dean! I really need to finish reading this.
It's Dean's turn to scowl. Sam can be such a child. The child in question kicks Dean in an attempt to ramify his seriousness. It's totally ineffective. Dean gives him a knowing look, keys still hanging from one finger.
You've been staring at the same page for twenty minutes. Like Hell you're finishing that right now.
Sam rubs his hands over his face. Looks at Dean. Looks away to hide his smile. Looks back. Snatches the keys from Dean. Dean feels like fist bumping the air. He doesn't even mind that Sam is driving, and probably picking where they go. Even if all Sam does is take them to get coffee.
Being able to communicate without speaking has its rewards when you have no privacy. Dean starts the conversation by raising his eyebrows at Sam.
This lady is crazy.
Sam retaliates with a chastising frown, and finishes with an eyebrow raise of his own.
Dean, she's our only lead. Do you have anything better?
Dean scoffs. He knows Sam is right and Sam knows he knows. Sam is unbearable to watch as he attempts to comfort their screwy eyewitness. His face is all puppy dog eyes and sincere smiles. No wonder old ladies eat up his words. Dean's had enough of this.
He excuses himself with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. Sam looks at him, sincerity tainted with concern for himself.
Don't leave me here with this crazy lady.
Dean's plastic smile is joined by a shrug. A shrug so slight only Sam would notice because Sam is watching for it.
Someone has to stay with her. She's our only lead.
Being able to make Sam eat his own non-verbal words feels good, since it's usually Dean doing the word eating. As Dean walks out of the diner, he passes the window next to which Sam is sitting. Sam fixes him with a poorly concealed bitch face.
Jerk.
Dean can't hide his smugness as he strolls back to the car.
Bitch.
When Sam finally arrives back at the motel, Dean greets him with an open beer and an eyebrow raise.
How'd it go with our totally reliable witness?
Sam's bitch face is in its prime, and Dean focuses on looking concerned to keep from laughing. Laughing in Sam's face would only make him more angry and terrible to work with, so Dean keeps quiet. Sam rolls his eyes at Dean's obviously fake concern and takes a swig of his beer.
She was crazy.
Now Dean can't help but smile.
I told you s-
Sam cuts him off mid facial cue by shoving past and throwing his computer on the bed. Dean hears the sigh escape from Sam's lips and decides to dial back a bit with the gloating. The slump of Sam's shoulders and the way he's rubbing his eyes tell Dean that the kid is exhausted.
I know, okay? You said she was crazy, and she was. But you know what? Talking to her was better than doing nothing. I spent all day researching, and you went off and picked up chicks at the bar. So don't give me this crap, Dean.
Of course, it's impossible for Dean to tell if that's exactly what Sam is thinking. If those were Sam's thoughts, then nine times out of ten Sam would be right. Judging by the way Sam is aggressively downing his beer and looking everywhere but at him, Dean is sure that his guess is close. He grabs a newspaper off of his nightstand and throws it to Sam. Even though he isn't looking, Sam catches the folded newspaper with ease. His immediate reaction is to scowl at Dean. Dean rolls his eyes and throws up his arms.
Just read the damn article, Sam.
As Sam points his scowl at the paper and starts reading, Dean heads over to their tiny fridge. He knows when Sam gets to the good part because his eyebrows arch in surprise. Dean gets to feel smug for the second time that day. When Sam looks back at him, all traces of anger have been washed away.
Is this… a new lead?
Dean cracks open another beer.
Oh yeah. You're not the only one who can do research, Sammy.
Sam gives him the puppy dog stare. Dean bends to this look every single time, and Sam knows it. That bastard.
I shouldn't have been suck a jerk earlier. I know you do just as much work on a case as I do. Maybe more.
Dean tries to look casual but he knows Sam can see right through him, can read him just as well as he can read Sam. Sam shouldn't be giving him apologetic looks when it's Dean's fault that he's angry. Dean is thankful that he doesn't have to say out loud what he thinks, that Sam will just know. That Sam always knows.
Me too. Let's forget about it. I don't want you to be angry.
Dean throws Sam another beer and turns on their crappy T.V. from the kitchen. Sam seats himself at the foot of his bed and waits for Dean to find something bearable to watch. Dean settles on a baseball game as he hunkers down in his own bed. Tomorrow they will follow Dean's new lead, and hopefully have this case wrapped up by the end of the week. Dean doesn't want to think about where they will go next. He looks to Sam as if he has answers. Sam just smiles, a slow, lazy smile that takes over his whole face.
This, drinking beer and watching the game together, this is good. We should do this more often.
Dean feels Sam's smile infect him and soon he's covering his face with his arm to hide the fact that he's grinning like an idiot. He hears Sam laugh into his beer can and decides that Sam doesn't laugh enough. Neither of them do. Dean makes up his mind then and there that the next case will be in a town with a professional football stadium. Or a cool museum that Sam could lose himself in for hours. With this new resolution in mind, Dean jumps up from his bed, throws Sam the remote, and grabs his laptop. He settles himself on Sam's bed and receives a questioning look from the bed's occupant. Dean rolls his eyes as he finally has to ask something out loud.
"So Sammy, when was the last time we went to a Chiefs game?"