A/N: This just kind of popped into my head-the thought of Dean asking about Jess, and then Sam asking back...and Cassie kind of coming up without coming up. This kind of wrote itself. I kind of like it.
Usual disclaimers apply-not mine, not slash.
They make it about ten miles out of Palo Alto (Sam counts) before Dean brings it up.
'Course, there's a hundred and one thousand other subjects that might be discussed, such as "Two years since we've talked" or "Why did Dad leave you on your own?" or "Aren't you ever going to come back?" from Dean and "Aren't you ever going to leave?" from Sam.
But this is a Winchester family roadtrip (Edition 2,047,853 or something, Sam thinks) and Winchesters and functional don't fit in the same sentence without a heavy-duty negator sandwiched in between.
As in, "Winchesters are not functional."
"Winchesters are dysfunctional."
"Winchesters would not know what functional was if it knocked out their teeth."
So. No big topics. Nothing that Sam really wants to know about Dean, or wants to know if Dean wants to know about him.
Just—the inevitable. Because this is also Dean, so Sam had been expecting it. Recognized the eyebrow tilt and the quirk of the lip and the glint in the eye that precede the oh-so-casual remark, "So. Jessica."
"Jessica," Sam affirms.
Dean's lips blow out a silent wolf-whistle. "Credit my own taste and teaching for your choices, Sammy-boy."
"Yeah, whatever. And it's Sam."
"Gotta love the Smurfs," Dean murmurs, which sounds like a nonsequiter except that it isn't. He's got that faraway look in his eyes like he's imagining—
No. Just no.
Sam wants to smack him. Sure, Dean isn't the type of guy who would (knowingly) steal his brother's girl—but still.
"Seriously, Dean?"
Dean does that thing with his eyebrows, that Sam's always been unable to pinpoint…it's either an apology, or a casual flipping off. Maybe both. "Can't blame a man for looking."
Sam grinds back a sigh. He's off-rhythm, and it's hard to remember just how he always knew to look behind that flippant, hedonistic, carefully crafted shell of Dean's, how to see who is brother really is.
If the real part is still there. Sam wonders if two silent years have crumbled it. Wonders if it's his fault.
"Where'd you meet?" Dean asks, switching lanes one-handed, a long-ago mastered skill to which he would still no doubt add the addendum, like a boss. Dean loves his own driving abilities.
Sam knows this, and Sam feels a flicker of guilt at his irritation of a moment ago, and a surge of hope as he ponders the simple question. Dean actually cares. Cares about Sam's life.
He squints into early morning light. "Art history class."
Dean scoffs softly beside him. "Art history? Like, classical paintings and crap? Say it ain't so."
"It was fascinating, actually."
"Right."
"She kept saying hi to me." Sam shrugs. He's a bit subdued, telling this, and chalks it up to the fact that it's Dean and two years and why the hell did Dad leave you and more important things to talk about, because then he doesn't have to think about the dreams (nightmares) that are haunting his sleep.
"I'm impressed." Dean switches hands, left on the wheel, right rubbing the back of his neck like he's tired. Sam's forgotten about this—just how long his brother will go on driving, no stops. No sleep.
At least he's got someone to talk to, for a few days.
"Impressed?"
"Yeah. You made it work, Sammy."
There's something in his tone that Sam catches, a faint undercurrent of…memory? Pain? (He's gotten too rusty to figure it out).
"Dean," he begins, hesitantly, but trying not to sound it, "Did—um, what about you?"
The easy, rhythmic tapping of Dean's fingers against the wheel stills. A tiny change. A monumental one. "What about me?"
Sam tries to make his tone teasing, not prying. "You got a girl?"
The laugh is too quick, too sharp. The smile, too shiny. "You'll have to be more specific. State? Town? Bar? Because dude, there was this place—"
Sam shuts down a description of the details as decisively as he always has. "No. No. Obviously, man, I didn't lose any sleep wondering if you'd had a problem picking up chicks. I meant something more…you know, serious. Like a commitment."
As soon as the question's out of his mouth, he realizes that even objectively, it's pretty stupid. Dean, commitment? To a girl in one place? What would they do, send postcards? The only constants in Dean's life, Sam knows, are the Impala, Dad, and Sam—except, well, not really Sam anymore. Or even Dad, it seems.
No wonder the car's so well looked after.
Dean's answer, when it comes, does nothing but confirm his suspicions. "Me? Settle down? No way." But Sam's not so rusty as he was five minutes ago (it's all coming back), and he sees Dean duck his head down, look away, always away…but not before Sam catches a glimpse of the raw pain in the lines of his jaw, far back behind his eyes.
So.
It's hard to wrap his head around, Dean with a girlfriend lasting longer than a few weeks…or days…Dean, who's been pretty strict about the one-night-only deal since high-school.
Two years.
Dean needs somebody to live for, always has. With Sam gone and Dad going, is it any wonder that he finally let himself shift his loyalties from immediate family to the possibility of a future one?
Not that it worked out. That much is clear.
Sam doesn't know what to say. Can't bring the conversation back to him and Jess, which, nightmares notwithstanding, is a pretty perfect relationship. Certainly can't find a way to get Dean to talk about what happened.
It's then that Sam knows. He hasn't gotten rusty at telling when something's wrong with his brother.
He's just forgotten how to fix it.