Just Wondering
Cas calls early that morning, gravelly voice vaguely explaining the presence of some sort of End of the World-related creature in New Mexico, where he says he'll meet Dean and, by default, Sam before hanging up. Automatically, the Winchesters are on the road, again, too tired to turn up the mixed tape drifting from the Impala's speakers. Dean leaves most of the work of driving to his trusty car, his focus wandering to more important things, like angels and demons and how much it sucks that he and Sam are constantly on the run to and from both.
He's willing to bet Sam would agree that all things supernatural are a pain in the ass and, at this thought, glances over at him casually. From this angle, a stranger might think Sam is sleeping; after all, his eyes are shut firmly against the growing, morning light. He has his chin propped in his palm, his elbow resting on the door, and his breathing is steady. That same stranger might think Sam's mind is at peace, that for now, at least, there's no inner turmoil to be had.
Dean knows better.
There's a knot in Sam's square jaw, where he's clenching his teeth hard enough to cause pain. His thick brows are knitted together in pensive concentration, and Dean watches as his mouth twitches into a pursed glower. It's not a nightmare--Dean's seen what those look like--though most people would probably say their waking lives are more terrifying. Unhappily, Dean recognizes this countenance as Sam's "thinking" face, the one that usually results in some dramatic conversation, during which Dean has to assure and reassure Sam that everything he's screwed up so far can be fixed, that the damage they've both done isn't irreversible.
Dean hates those talks, so he decides to do something about it--to interrupt the chain of thought wrapping around his little brother's brain. Hell, this is as good a time as any to ask the question he's been pondering for awhile now.
He moves his gaze back to the desolate stretch of road ahead; his baby's taken them maybe seven miles without him noticing. "Hey, Sammy?"
Sam opens his eyes, immediately sensing Dean's peripheral observation, and he worries at the tone in his voice.
"Can I ask you something?"
Something. There are about a hundred issues that make up the proverbial elephant sitting in the backseat, and Sam feels a flutter of panic in his chest. Will Dean bring up the fact that Lucifer wants to wear Sam like a costume to a party? That Michael wants him? Maybe he's thinking Sam might still be craving demon blood, or he still doesn't trust him because he's the Cain of their brotherhood. Is Dean concerned that there's obvious tension between Sam and Castiel? That they caused Bobby's paralysis? Or does he simply want to talk about the body of the pachyderm, the Apocalypse? Sam knows these things are on both their minds, but talking about them . . . Somehow, contrary to what he used to think, talking makes it all seem a lot worse.
Still, he can't compel Dean to keep whatever he has to say inside; that's a time-bomb waiting to happen. "What is it?"
Dean shoots a curious stare in Sam's direction, maintaining a grim facade. "What look are you going for?" he deadpans, but unfortunately for his ploy, Sam's confused and almost relieved frown is all it takes to get him smirking.
"Uh . . . what?"
Dean slaps on a fake, sober expression. He's out of practice and having a hard time choosing how to go about the banter, but he starts by giving Sam a critical once-over and then gestures with his right hand at his shaggy head. "The hair? How long has it been since you cut it?"
This scrutiny is only teasing; even Sam can tell Dean doesn't mean anything by it, and the corners of his lips quirk upward through muscle memory. "You're really asking about my hair?" he queries, still somewhat doubtful; it's like they're testing the waters of repartee for the first time, and though he will never admit it to Dean, Sam's nervous.
"Yeah." Dean nods emphatically, encouragingly. "It's kinda . . ." He grimaces in place of an adjective. "Are you letting it grow on purpose? The last time you cut it's gotta be before I went to Hell, at least."
"So?" Sam plays along cautiously, enjoying the lighter, if ruder, side of his brother--a side he either hasn't seen or hasn't responded to since Ruby. "A guy can't have long hair now?"
Dean's gaze slips over to make sure Sam isn't genuinely offended before he sarcastically avows, "Oh, don't get me wrong. It looks great." He even tosses in a thumbs up for effect.
Sam raises his eyebrows challengingly. "Maybe I think it does."
"I do, too!" Dean agrees with enthusiasm, now into the full swing of messing with Sam. "And when you grow your mustache, and you can be the next John Bonham!"
"Who?" Sam's hoping his pretended ignorance will get Dean riled up.
But Dean overcomes disbelief quickly, used to Sam's lack of knowledge on such matters, and takes his grip off the wheel to air drum the beat of the Zeppelin coincidentally playing on his tape, all his teeth in view as he waits for Sam's reaction.
Sam just scoffs at the pantomime and rebuts, "Okay, just 'cause I don't look like G.I. Joe doesn't mean--"
"Hey," Dean interjects forcefully, "my hair isn't that short."
"It's short enough, Soldier." Sam mock-salutes, and even though the debate is close to escalating, their eyes meet; and in that moment, they're both on the verge of laughter and unable to do anything but grin at each other, and it feels like old times, tossing insults over the back of the front seat while their dad drove and carried all the weight they didn't yet understand.
Dean breaks the spell first to watch the road, but he's still smiling.
Sam is, too, as he leans back comfortably, sighing before giving a real answer. "I guess I just never thought about cutting it . . . Haven't had time." He finishes on a more serious note than intended, and predicting the direction that could go, he appends, "Although, you know, the mustache is something to consider." He hears Dean chuckling his disapproval at his left and feels a little bit of that weight lifting off his shoulders. "Why'd you ask, anyway?" he inquires with anomalous nonchalance, head lolling to the side to view Dean's response.
Dean takes one look at Sam's relaxed face, the twinkling in his eyes, the way he's slouching against the upholstery contentedly, and he decides it's best that he keeps his motives to himself. "Just wondering," he replies smoothly, reaching out to turn up the volume of his music, and he can't help but add before he succumbs to the power of rock, "Bonzo."