A/N: I dedicate this fic to my own siblings, who are everything a big sister could ask for, and more. And I thank Wave Obscura with all my heart for accepting again to be my beta.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything Supernatural related.
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Sam swore, and Dean diverted his eyes from the TV screen, where lovely couple Brenda and Tom were skating together on a frozen pond, under the starry night sky, a most romantic setting. Ha, we all know how this kind of thing ends…
Sam was sitting cross-legged on his bed, absorbed by the task of sorting their clothes for the big washing of the month – or so to speak; the rule was that they waited until they had no other choice, and the day it happened became laundry day. The Winchester way consisted roughly in separating clothes in three piles: "still wearable", "must be washed", and "to be thrown away."
"Everything okay, Sammy?" Dean asked dutifully.
Sam raised his eyes from his work to glance at his brother. In theory, it was Dean's turn to take care of the laundry, but he'd hurt his back during their last hunt. There were only so many times a guy could be thrown against a wall without too much damage. Sam had forced him to lie down all evening, going so far as threatening him: "Get on the goddamn bed or I finish breaking your spinal column with my own hands!"
Dean had ended up giving in – not because Sam was now bigger and stronger that him, not at all, but because he was a wonderful older brother who put his kid brother's peace of mind above everything. He had decided that if he was resting, he was resting, which meant not doing anything, Sammy. If he was bedridden on Dr. Winchester's orders, he might as well make the most of it. Sam had flared his nostrils and put on that stiff, tight-lipped expression he always wore when Dean turned his own logic against him, but he had complied without anything more than a mutinous glare, judging that laundry couldn't wait any longer – Dean had started stealing some of his clothes.
"Another T-shirt lost," Sam complained, waving the piece of clothing accusingly at his brother. "And the rest aren't doing great, either."
"Occupational hazard, Sam. And better to our clothes than to us, right?"
"Yeah, but sometimes it's our clothes and us."
Dean pretended not to notice the pointed look Sam was casting him. It made him feel uncomfortable and twitchy. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the concern, but he had he enough of his brother treating him lately as if he was as breakable as one of those small porcelain thingies.
"I'm just sick of our clothes betraying everywhere that we're homeless people," Sam went on sullenly.
"What the fuck are you talking about? We're not homeless people!"
"Uh, Dean, sorry to break the news to you, but technically yes, we are. Home-less. Hear the emphasis."
"Yeah, but…"
Dean trailed off, and turned his attention back on the television, sulking a little. To him, homeless people were those wrecked guys sleeping under bridges, covered with cardboard. The brothers slept in beds, had a laptop, a kickass car, and enough weapons to hold a siege.
He focused on the glowing screen. Brenda's husband had just come back unexpectedly from his trip in New York. The situation had gotten more complicated, obviously, but Dean wondered if Brenda and Tom had ended up sleeping together. Distracted by Sam and his melodrama, he had missed the end of the skating night.
"Dean…"
Dean recognized the tone, from way back in their childhood. Slightly whiny, lost and needing him – whatever Dean was doing at the moment, he didn't have any other choice than to drop everything, and focus all his attention on his little brother.
"What?" he groaned.
He wasn't obliged to be nice about it, though.
"What did you think, the first time you saw me?"
Ok. This was going to be one of those nights.
"It was love at first sight, Sam. Time slowing down, violins playing, and everything."
Dean didn't need to turn his head to know what the expression on Sam's face was. It was the one meaning "I'm serious, Dean."
"Dean, I'm serious."
He knew his brother; sometimes so well it was even a little scary. Of course, the rest of time, he didn't have the slightest idea of what was going on in the kid's head.
"When aren't you serious? And what kind of question is that, anyway?"
"When Mom and Dad brought me back from the hospital, what was your first thought? Were you… happy? Intrigued? Disgusted? I don't know…"
"I don't remember. I was little."
"You were four years old. You remember other things from that time."
"Yes, but it's blurry. There're a few details that stand out. But I don't really remember the day you came home, or what I was thinking. Even before you were born, I don't know how I felt about being a big brother."
It was strange to think about how much being a big brother, being Sam's big brother, defined who he was now. But it was difficult to find authentic feelings from back then, when he'd spend the last twenty-three years watching over his younger brother, protecting him, loving him more than life itself, years that were coloring his memories. He remembered well thinking much later – after – that Sam was the most adorable baby in the world, but there was no way he was admitting this to his brother.
"You really don't remember anything? I mean, it's okay if you hated me…"
Dean blinked. He hadn't seen this one coming.
"Why would I have hated you?"
"It's common, with the arrival of a new baby, that the older sibling react badly, and hate the younger. It's normal, it's all right if you thought that…"
Dean grabbed the remote control to lower the sound of TV. The movie could wait, it was not as if the scenario was very complicated. His brother was hunched over the piles of clothes as though he was involved in the most absorbing task in the world. Alright, something was hiding behind this seemingly innocent question, and it was Dean's job to dig out what it was. Not as easy as it sounded when one thought about how much Sam usually enjoyed talking.
"Sam, what's the problem?"
"What problem?" Sam asked, defensive.
"The weird question."
"It's just a question."
"Just a question, right. Stop bullshitting me, Sam, I know you. You don't ask questions like that just to make conversation. No, you brood until you can't keep it to yourself any more, and then you ask me. Just tell me what it is, so we can be done with it."
"Nothing, it's nothing, all right?" Sam was raising his voice, which meant something was definitely bothering him. "I was wondering, it's all." He sighed. "It's not important, just leave it."
Just leave it – as if. When Sam had this vulnerable five-year-old look, the last thing Dean could do was to leave it. But he knew that at this stage it was enough to stare patiently at Sam until he spat it out.
"It's just that…"
Now they were getting to the point. It was about time.
"What you told me, about…" Sam shot a hesitating look at Dean, who knew then that they were about to touch a subject he wasn't going to like. "About the world created by the djinn. You said we didn't get along. Then I asked myself, is the only thing keeping us together this shitty life? Do we cling to each other because we can't count on anybody else? If things had been different…"
Dean's eyes wandered over the cracks on the ceiling. He had asked himself all those questions. He remembered how much it had hurt, to see Sam tensed at his touch, to hear him say that they had nothing in common, because there was some truth in all of it. Sam and he had always been different. Did it mean that they were so tight because they never had any other choice? But it hadn't occurred to him that it would bother Sam, too.
"And you think that if I hated you when you were just born, it mean that I would have hated you later, if we had a normal life? "
Sam looked at him, something close to anguish in his dark eyes. Dean suddenly realized that it had another implication for Sam. If their lives had been different, would Dean be so determined to save Sam? Would he more readily agree to kill him?
"No," Sam answered. "I don't know. It's stupid and irrational. I just wanted to know how you saw me at four years old."
"You were useless."
Sam raised an eyebrow, halfway between amusement and indignation.
"I thought that you didn't remember."
"I don't remember my very first impressions, but I remember I thought you were pretty useless."
"Useless? How's that?"
"Well, you couldn't speak, you couldn't walk, you only slept, drooled and cried. You couldn't play with me. Dad and Mom told me that you were going to grow up, and that we would do a lot of things together, but I was a bit skeptical. So yes, you were perfectly useless."
Sam rolled his eyes, but Dean could see he was refraining himself from smiling.
"Dean, I was only a baby."
"Exactly."
"What do you mean?"
Dean gingerly sat up in his bed to be sure he was looking right into Sam's eyes.
"You were only a baby, and I was only four years old. What did we know about each other? You weren't yet my geek pain-in-the-ass brother with a liking for existential questions."
"Well, thank you," Sam drawled. "I'm touched, bro." The tone was sarcastic, but Dean knew the feelings behind it were genuine.
"You're welcome. You're an idiot, but…" He cleared his throat, and avoided looking at Sam when he finished: "There's really no one I'd rather have as a partner."
Sam granted him one of these sunny smiles of his, the kind he had in his best moments, and it meant "same for me" as clearly as if he had said it aloud. Dean settled again as comfortably as he could against the flat motel pillows, satisfied of the way he had handled the problem. He took the remote control to turn up the sound louder.
"OK, shut up, now. I don't wanna miss the moment when Brenda tells her husband that she's leaving him for Tom."
"You've already watched this thing?"
"No, but I know how it goes."
"Should I be worried that you seem to know the plot devices of chick flick movies so well?"
"Very funny, but I'll let you know that true manliness isn't so easily threatened."
Sam snorted, and rummaged though the clothes. Dean snapped his fingers in his brother's direction, without turning his head from the TV.
"I'm thirsty. Want a beer, woman!"
"Fuck you, I'm not your maid," was the instinctive brotherly retort.
Dean let out a dramatic sigh and straightened up, leaning on one elbow; he winced in pain. Immediately, the look on Sam's face tinged with guilt, and he raised a hand as if to prevent his brother from making another move.
"Okay, okay. Stay put, I'll bring it to you."
Dean lied down again, containing a smile. He hadn't exactly been pretending, the throb of pain in his back was real, but he could have hidden it if he wanted to.
Sam came up to the bed a beer in his hand, looking guilty, slightly worried, and a little rebellious, just like when he was a teenager. Cute.
"You shouldn't mix meds and alcohol," Sam grumbled, holding the bottle out to his brother.
Dean refrained from telling him that he had not taken the painkillers he had given him, and grinned broadly at him. He grabbed the bottle, took the top off with his silver ring, and raised it towards Sam, who was back on his bed.
"Cheers, little brother!"
Sam's middle finger was his only answer. Dean smirked, and took a sip of his beer, savoring a moment of satisfaction. Mission accomplished.