Coda to 2.17 ("Heart") and 3.10 ("Dream a Little Dream of Me").
Be My Rock by Whilom
They were walking somewhere, with another hunter, once, and John was a little ways ahead, trading gruff compliments with the gray-haired man who had helped them kill the monster of the week. The men were smiling grimly and setting a steady pace, but they kept an eye on the two boys in the back, a weary Dean and a sleepy Sam.
That's when they were labeled.
"Some boy you got there," the old man said, hitching a shoulder at Dean and sending him a half-grin, the way the solitary showed affection. "Blunt little instrument, eh?"
The hesitant smile on Dean's face melted and his eyes narrowed a little. Sam found himself pulled a little closer.
John didn't say anything, just looked back at Dean and the smear of blood that mixed with the mud on his cheekbone, but kept trudging. They were almost to the car.
"And you," the hunter turned to Sam, eyes still friendly as Dean's grew colder, "what are you going to be? Here you are, out here at such a young age, getting sharper on the hunt watching your daddy and your brother. Lucky one, your dad, having such bright boys to follow in his steps."
Sam's feet were practically tangling at every step with Dean's, but Dean's hand didn't loosen on his shoulder and he was edging his way to John, wanting to put two Winchesters between the threat and Sam.
"Sam's too young to start anything yet in the way of hunting." John's voice was even, but brooked no argument. He glanced at Dean, sending a mental I'm handling this and Sam was allowed to breathe a little. "But he helps a lot with the clean-up."
"No." The other hunter was shaking his head slowly and Dean was really starting to hate him for the thoughtful way he was looking at Sam. "No, I think there you're wrong. Sam's going to be sharp." He tilted his head a little. "Very sharp."
The hunter went down from a swift kick in the knee and Dean stalked past John with Sam in tow, leaving his dad to make the appropriate apologies for his blunt little instrument. His father's throaty growl let Dean know that this was not alright, but Dean's own set jaw and white-knuckle grip on Sam's arm let John know the same—this was not alright.
"What did he mean, Dean?" Sam asked him later, smelling like shampoo and starchy bed sheets.
"Nothing, Sam. It's not important."
But it was important to Sam. Sam, who wanted to understand everything, wouldn't let it go. He took to pointing at the windows of hardware stores, saying, "Look, Dean, there you are! A hammer! You help build things. That's my favorite tool."
Dean grinned. "What are you, then? A monkey wrench?"
Sam's smile was short-lived. "I'm sharp. Like a nail." Sam bit his lip. "One of my friends from school stepped on a nail once. He had to get shot."
Dean stopped walking and looked down at Sam. "No, he didn't get shot. He got a shot from the doctor's office. It's to help with infection. He's just fine now, I'll bet." He huffed like he was annoyed, although he was really worried. They kept walking. After a moment, he said quietly, "And you're not a nail."
Sam's voice was equally quiet. "I'm sharp. I hurt things."
00000
Parent-teacher conferences were a big joke, in Dean's mind. First of all, they were hardly at a school long enough for the teachers to actually get to know them. Second, John rarely went to meet the teachers anyway. This time was the rare exception and only because they were going to leave right after. The Impala was already packed and waiting in the parking lot. Which was why Dean was surprised to find himself sitting in a chair next to his dad as they had a meeting with Sam's teacher, a smiling woman behind a big oak desk spouting on about what a bright boy Sam was. And, yeah, although John did the nodding and the thanking, it brought a flush of pride to Dean's face, because, heck, he'd taught the kid all those things they were praising him for, helped Sam with whatever homework he had before he even touched his own.
"He really is sharp, Mr. Winchester. You should be so proud of his progress."
Dean's throat suddenly felt dry. He looked accusingly at his father who didn't seem to understand that Sam's teacher had just said something wrong, very wrong. Then Sam's teacher smiled and wished them a good day and Dean followed his dad out without a word. These were all just funny coincidences. It didn't mean anything. What would it mean, anyway? Everyone knew Sam was a bright kid. Sharp. Yeah, sure, he was sharp. That old coot didn't know what he was talking about. And neither did Sam's teacher.
But Sam still got a solemn look on his face when Dean got out a knife to cut something in the kitchen or when he pulled out the whet stone for Dad's weapons. "Be careful, Dean," he always said, and then watched Dean with his face screwed up in concentration, as if it was up to him whether Dean cut himself or not.
Once Dean did cut himself on accident and the small burst of pain was overwhelmed by Sam's cry as he stared wide-eyed at the blood from the cut and then ran from the room. It took hours before Dean found him huddled in the corner under the bed with the saggy mattress. It took a half hour to coax him out and even then Sam was stiff as a board, refusing to look Dean in the eye.
"Don't wanna hurt you, Dean. I'm sharp—"
"Shut up, Sam." Dean's voice was more gruff than he meant for it to be, but this was Sam they were talking about—Sam who was anything but sharp, who had always been round cheeks, dimpled grin, big eyes, too much hair. And no one got to tell Sam lies about who he was. He settled Sam on his lap and said again, "Shut up. You're not sharp. That old fart had no idea what he was talking about. I'm eleven years old and I've known you longer. So I know."
00000
Rock-paper-scissors was practically a religion—it was the way they decided everything. Sometimes even John's direct orders—"Dean, go get a bath and then help your brother"—were decided in secret by a few stealthy hand gestures and a muffled groan of disappointment. But there was no argument—rules were rules and rock-paper-scissors was sovereign.
But the next time they played rock-paper-scissors to decide who got which side of the bed, Sam's hand wavered in indecision and Dean's face got a little harder. Daddy's blunt little instrument. Sharp kid you got there.He'd had enough. He smacked down scissors on his palm and waited for Sam who had suddenly gone very still.
"Dean, you—you shouldn't—"
"Hurry up, Sammy."
Slowly Sam curled his fingers into a fist and set it on Dean's scissors.
Both of them knew they'd decided on a lot more than sleeping arrangements for the night.
From then on, Dean always used scissors, no matter what. Bucking the labels, choosing Sam, call it what you want. If anyone asked, Dean shrugged it off. But Sam knew what it meant.