It's Elementary, My Dear Sammy

It was nice having a Batcave. Some place that wasn't a skeevy motel room, or an abandoned house they broke into for a night's sleep when they were low on funds, or even Baby's leather seats. Here he even had a room of his own. And a bed that remembered him.

"Dean . . ."

He was lost in a magazine while sprawled upon the couch, ass planted firmly in cushions with heels of bootless, sock-clad feet propped on a coffee table, and at first Sam's tone didn't truly get through. His was a very absent response because his brain had not yet disengaged from the magazine. " . . . huh . . . ?"

"I mean, really . . . why are we even still alive?"

The magazine actually wasn't the latest issue of Busty Asian Beauties, but held his attention nonetheless. It was cars, and engines, and after-market parts. Which, he supposed, kind of applied to the busty Asian beauties; probably there were some after-market parts going on there, too.

Still mostly absent from Sam's kamikaze, depth-charge conversation opener, he ventured, "Uh . . . is this supposed to be an initial embarkation upon a philosophical discussion of some esoteric Zen-like semantic structures?"

After a minute, Sam said, in a complex mix of wonder and worry, "That almost sounded like you know what you're talking about."

Dean looked up from the magazine. Sam was seated at a slab of oak table in the library not far from where he himself inhabited a couch. He cast his younger brother a look across one shoulder, along an arm splayed atop the back of the couch. "Yeah, okay, so I only have a GED . . . but you're a college drop-out."

Sam raised an index finger in the air as if he intended to score points. Which probably he did. "But I dropped out of Stanford, Dean."

"Oh, are we going to start bragging on the quality of the schools from which we did not graduate?"

Sam's expression claimed victory. "You've got to get in to drop out."

"Go have more beer," Dean directed, scooping up his own bottle from the coffee table. "Seriously, you drive me frickin' nuts with this kind of BS. 'Why are we still alive?' Is that any kind of question a normal person asks?"

"I asked it, didn't I?"

Dean tried to latch back onto the article he was reading. "In what possible world would you be considered normal?"

"But think about it, Dean. Really. I mean, why aren't we dead? Permanently!"

Dean heaved a sigh. "Because I keep saving our asses. Okay, okay . . . yeah, you've done your part, too. I can afford to be magnanimous. You have, I will admit it, saved my ass a few times. But come on, Sammy . . . we both know who the family hero is, here."

"Dean, you died over 100 times in one day. Well . . . a series of days. A series of Tuesdays. Plus, there are the other times. Hell, I've lost count. But I'm pretty sure you've been dead at least 115 times."

Dean lifted his gaze from the page and directed it back across his arm. "What in the hell is your point, Sam? Is there a point? Because it doesn't sound like it. It sounds like you're just rattling around inside your Gigantor brain again, which is never a good thing. I've known it to be dangerous, in fact. Now and again."

Sam plowed ahead. "Look - you've died, I've died . . . and how many times have we been thrown across rooms? How many times have we been beaten up, stabbed, shot, kicked, pounded into the ground, hauled off to hell or purgatory . . . I mean, come on!" Sam thrust himself up from the table, scraping back the chair, and strode into the alcove where Dean read. He dropped down into the couch facing his brother's. "I mean, really? Seriously? Have you thought about it?"

Dean gave up on the magazine. He tossed it aside, folded his hands across his belly, and stared at his brother. "Okay, I get it . . . this is because you just turned 30, right? And now you're navel-gazing?"

Sam raised his arms in the air, let them drop back down. Hands slapped against his thighs. "It's just . . . look at us, Dean. Yeah, we're in our 30s . . . where will we be in ten years? That is, if we're even still alive."

Dean studied him. "Is your just-turned 30-year-old ass working up to a lecture on mortality? 'Cuz I'd rather see the movie."

Sam made a sweeping gesture. "Look at this. We are surrounded by books on every kind of lore there is, books that would go for millions on eBay, books collected by intelligent, educated men, and the journals . . . for what? So we can kill things? Stop the Big Bad?"

"Sam . . . "

"I was going to be a lawyer. A lawyer, Dean. Not an ambulance chaser, but . . . " He tipped his head back, stared blankly at the ceiling. "Oh crap, I don't know."

"You wanted to help people."

Sam brought his head upright again to meet his brother's eyes. "Yeah. Yeah. I did. And the law can help people."

"So do we, Sammy. Every time we take a monster off the chessboard, we help people."

"I know. I know. It's just . . . not what I expected life to be like."

"Your life."

"My life," Sam agreed. "Yeah, Dad didn't leave you much choice."

"Oh, I had a choice. And I made it. This?" Dean's waving, indistinct hand gesture encompassed the bunker. "This is a Christmas tree, Sam. It's the lights and the ornaments and the gift-wrapped presents. It's really cool. But it's all just trappings." He hitched himself more upright, set his feet on the ground. "It's us, Sam. That's what counts. And it may not be a courtroom, but it ends with the same result."

Sam's brows lifted. "What result?"

"Justice. One way or another." He shrugged. "It doesn't need thought, Sam. Whether you're an 18-year-old college boy, College Boy, or a 30-year-old adult." He amended it so it couldn't be perceived as a compliment. "Semi-adult. Maybe one day a week. For, oh, three hours."

Sam thought about it anyway. Sighed. "Saving people. Hunting things."

Dean smiled, recaptured his magazine, slumped back against the couch. "The family business."

Sam was silent for long moments of pondering until he arrived at a conclusion. Or more like a question not quite phrased as a question. It was a Sam-ism, designed to establish that he didn't really think the topic was concluded but was unprepared to argue that it warranted further exploration. For the moment. It might come up again. Pretty much probably would. "But I still don't know why we're alive."

Dean thought the answer was obvious as he once again settled crossed legs upon the table, drank beer, and tried to find his place in the magazine. "Sammy, word of advice . . ."

Sam's grunt was intended as a question.

Dean rubbed idly at his left shoulder. "Don't ever look a gift angel in the mouth."

~ end ~

A/N: In the interests of canon and accuracy, perhaps I should state that I have not actually *seen* any couches in the bunker. Tables everywhere, but no couches. However, that place is so massive that I decided there may well be a nice little sitting area with couches we haven't seen yet, or that Sam and Dean might actually bring some in. Because, really, while Sam undoubtedly lived in the library at Stanford, these days they are very much couch-and-feet-up-on-the-table kind of guys.