Matchmaker
K Hanna Korossy
"So let me get this straight," Sam said doubtfully. "You…want to go to a coffeehouse."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "Dude, what part of coffee don't you understand?"
"Uh, the part where it's four dollars a cup and there are twenty different flavors."
"So I'll order it large and black. They'll figure it out."
"You do know they don't have pie or donuts in here, either, right?"
Doubt flickered in Dean's face before he steeled himself. "I can have a bran muffin or whatever crap they're serving."
"Right." Sam gave him a long look. "Fine, whatever. It's your money. Or…" he swiped the credit card from Dean's hand, "…Jonathan Fogerty's."
Dean plucked the card out of his hand, gave him a smirk, and led the way inside.
Sam had been right. They were in Ivy League territory, and the plush chairs were bound in leather, the walls lined in books, and even the students were dressed in designer casual ware. In his dusty leather and torn denim, Dean stuck out like a neon sign.
Not that that had ever fazed him a bit. He walked with a confidence that Sam sometimes envied and had almost forgotten in his years of school. It was a self-assuredness that had made him feel protected as a kid, irritated him as a teen, and soothed him now in his grief. This was the big brother who could make everything all right, and twenty-two-year-old adult or no, Sam had never needed that so much before.
Dean put in his order, ignoring the barista's patronizing squint, then beckoned Sam to take his turn. Sam hadn't even looked at the offerings yet, and stammered through his own request. Dean's mouth twitched, and Sam elbowed him in the side preemptively. Self-confidence was one thing; smug was another.
They retrieved their wide ceramic cups a few minutes later—Dean with a brief sneer—and two huge muffins, one blueberry and one…chocolate chip? Sam was obviously meant to choose one, and while he wasn't hungry, he didn't feel like arguing and took the blueberry one. Then they glanced around the place, looking for a seat.
They weren't in the middle of a case, for once. They'd laid to rest a homicidal phantom hitchhiker the night before and the laptop—Dean's technically, but Sam had co-opted it—sat heavy in the satchel on Sam's shoulder waiting to find another hunt. But they weren't gathering local information, so Sam was surprised when Dean pointed him to one of the few empty pairs of seats…next to a brunette with a pile of books. Well, they could always pull the chairs a little away, maybe, and keep the conversation vague. Sam would probably mostly be online anyway. He headed over to the table.
"Can I, uh…?" He indicated the chair next to the girl as she looked up.
"Sure, go ahead." She gave him a smile and a wave.
He smiled back and sat down…and only then discovered he was a brother short.
Not that Dean was far. No, he'd already managed to ingratiate himself with one of the other tables that had an empty seat…and three shapely co-eds. They were flirting with Dean, who was enjoying himself so much, he didn't even seem to mind sharing his muffin.
Terrific. Sam rolled his eyes and pulled out his computer.
He got engrossed enough that he was startled when the back of a hand smacked his shoulder. Sam glanced up, to realize he was alone at the table and Dean was standing over him, frowning.
"I think I have a case," Sam said absently.
"I think I raised you wrong—dude, did you not see the way she was looking at you?"
"Who?" Sam said blankly, then it clicked. Oh. The choice of a university coffeehouse suddenly made a lot more sense. "Dean…"
Dean straddled the seat next to him. "Sam," and he was suddenly completely serious. "It's been three months. There's nothing wrong with just—"
"Dean." He stared tightly at the computer screen, feeling his eyes burn.
There was a sigh, then the rustle of Dean peeling the paper from Sam's untouched muffin and tearing off a piece. "Tell me about the case."
"Nine victims of—" Sam broke off, swallowing. "I'm trying, all right? I'm just…I'm not ready."
Dean shoved his chair around so it bumped up against Sam's, shoulder pressing lightly into his back. "Nine victims? Tell me it's not another ghoul—those things are nasty, man."
It shouldn't have made him feel better, but it did.
00000
It took the second phone call in as many weeks before he figured it out.
"Sarah," Sam said carefully, glancing at the just-closed motel room door. "Did Dean ask you to call?"
There was a brief pause, then the slightest cooling of her voice. "Wow, Sam, nice to hear from you, too."
"No, it's…" He scrubbed a hand through his hair. He liked Sarah—really liked her—enough that he'd stayed in touch and spent hours talking to her since Dad had died, Dean not being up to listening. But the timing of her calls, the way Dean always seemed to make himself scarce just before the phone rang… "I want to talk to you," he said softly. "I really do. I just…I think Dean's trying to pawn me off or something."
"Maybe he's just worried about you."
Sam barked a laugh. "Seriously? I don't know half the time if he even realizes I'm here."
"That's not what he told me."
Sam sank down on the end of his bed, his body suddenly too heavy. "He talked to you? I mean… What did he say?"
"That it's been hard on you and he wants to make sure you're okay. Sam, maybe he can't really…show it right now but he's still trying to look out for you."
Sam rubbed his eyes. He shouldn't have been hearing this from someone he'd known barely a half a year. For all his loathing of any conversation that used the word "feel" in it, Dean had always been willing to talk when Sam needed it. Until, apparently, it hurt more to open up to his little brother than to a near-stranger. Sam cleared his throat. "Did he say anything else?"
A longer pause this time. Then, "He said you want a normal life, and he wants that for you."
There was no one there to see, so Sam let his face fold in grief.
Stupid, idiotic jerk. Sam had only learned in the past year what it cost Dean to let him go, and that had been when Dad was still alive. Dean had no one left now, and he still wanted Sam to be happy, even if it meant sacrificing all Dean had. Why couldn't he see it went both ways now?
"Yeah, I do," he admitted quietly. "But…I'm not ready for that yet, Sarah. This demon, I need to find it and finish it. And Dean…" He needed Sam. And Sam needed him. But he had to tell Dean that before he did anyone else, even Sarah.
They sat in silence together, until Sarah asked about their current case.
It was a half-hour after the conversation ended before Dean reappeared with delicious-smelling Styrofoam boxes.
"Lunchtime."
Sam dropped his thumbnail from his mouth and shoved his laptop aside, helping Dean dish hot meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and roasted vegetables that almost looked homemade. He waited until Dean had taken his first bite before announcing, "Sarah called."
Dean's chewing barely hitched, and he didn't bother swallowing before answering, "Oh, yeah? Still don't know what a girl that hot sees in you."
"Maybe she's hoping I'll settle down soon and have a normal life," Sam said, slicing a carrot in half hard. He didn't look up to see Dean's reaction, but his brother had stopped eating.
"Nothing wrong with that. You always said you wouldn't do this forever, dude."
He looked up then, pinning Dean's shifting gaze. "I also said I wasn't leaving you. Not again."
"Sam—"
"No, Dean. This is what I have to do now, all right? I'm not saying…forever, but I'm where I'm supposed to be. So unless you're gonna drive away without me…" He let a small smile play on his lips.
Dean poked his fork into a pile of green beans. "You'd just follow me," he finally grumbled. "Like you have since you were one."
"Yeah, so, get used to it, man." Sam popped a chunk of meatloaf into his mouth in triumph.
Dean rolled his eyes and kept eating, but with a little more interest than before.
It wasn't exactly talking about it, but in their world it was close enough.
00000
"Wow," Sam deadpanned, looking over the crumbling façade of the building and the burned-out neon lights that spelled B_ck's Ba_. "You wanted to show me a bar."
Dean's mouth curled even though the smile rarely reached his eyes anymore. "Not just any bar," he said pointedly, and reached past Sam to pull the door open. A blast of AC/DC's "Givin' the Dog a Bone" from within almost ruffled Sam's hair. "It's a classic rock bar."
Sam grimaced and shoved the door shut. "Dude, I'm not going in there."
Dean gave him an honestly puzzled look. "Why not?"
"Well, for one thing, I'd still like to have my hearing when I'm thirty."
A shadow passed over Dean's face, gone just as fast. "Who cares about when you're thirty? Carpé diem, Sammy," Dean said with faux levity, and reached for the door again. He swept a hand inside in invitation.
Sam grimaced. But then, when was the last time they'd had an evening to just hang out together, no work, no arguments? If it took a "classic rock bar" turned up to eleven to do it, well, he could stand one night. He steeled himself and preceded Dean inside.
To be fair, it wasn't as bad once you got used to it. And sat in the very back corner away from the jukebox, and had a couple of drinks in you. Sam was definitely feeling less pain by the time he realized that instead of Dean returning from the bar where he'd gone for refills, it was a girl in a midriff-baring checked shirt and cutoffs leaning over him.
"I'm Becky," she said, smiling and sliding a finger along the edge of the booth.
"Uh…hi." Sam gave her a stiff smile, then craned to see past her. Where the he—?
"Your brother said you were sitting back here all by yourself and, well, nobody should be by themselves, right?"
Oh. Sam felt his smile freeze. He finally caught a glimpse of Dean past Becky's shapely hip, his brother leaning against the bar with a pair of shotglasses in front of them, one of them already empty. He was glancing back at the booth while pretending not to.
Sam turned his now-totally insincere smile back on the girl even as he pushed himself out of the booth. "You know what, Becky? I couldn't agree more." He left her staring wide-eyed at him as he stalked to the bar.
"What's the matter, Sammy, she not your type?"
"A brunette with Daisy Duke shorts and no inhibitions? Sounds more like your style, Dean." He slid onto the stool next to his brother and stole the other shotglass, tossing it back with a wince. Whiskey. Dad's drink.
Dean shrugged loosely, clearly a little buzzed if still a long way from drunk. "So? C'mon, Sam, let that girly hair down a little—Betsy would do you a lot of good, get your mind off…things."
And there it was: the reason Dean had suddenly turned pimp. Thanks to Sam's own alcohol-greased big mouth, Dean knew he was afraid of turning evil, of his abilities, of Dad's final words. It had been the elephant riding in the back seat of the Impala ever since Sam had found out he wasn't the only special one. And that had been before he'd proved immune to a demonic virus, or had learned Dad's warning to Dean. Dean knew how terrified he was.
Which, in Dean's book, meant one of three plans of action: get Sam to talk about it, which hadn't gotten them anywhere. Plenty of alcohol—check. And a hot chick—double-C-check.
Sam groaned.
Dean misunderstood. "Dude, Betsy—"
"Becky."
"—Becky's not the only fish in the pond. How 'bout that little blonde—"
"Dean, just…no," he growled
"Sammy—"
"Shut up." He felt his face flush as Betsy—Becky—finally got tired of waiting and flounced their way. Sam did the only thing he could think of: he fled outside.
It was a few minutes later before a hand touched the back of his neck. Then Dean was leaning against the Impala beside him, studying the stars, hands in his pockets.
"Late Night Creature Feature?" he finally asked.
"With beer and ice cream and…cotton candy," Sam pushed.
Dean folded in a laugh. "Cotton candy? Seriously?"
Sam chewed his lip and stared defiantly back.
"You're such a girl," Dean said fondly, and started back around the car.
Better than bringing one home, Sam thought. He'd damned enough women in his life already.
00000
It took him longer than it should've to realize what was happening, doubtless in part because he had plenty else on his mind those days, and in part because Dean's libido was running unchecked since he'd gotten his death sentence. So the parade of women his brother introduced him to was nothing that twigged Sam's alerts…until Emma.
Because while Sam had stopped giving blondes a second look since they'd all started reminding him of a long-ago California fire, Emma was his type down to the strappy heels she wore. Tall enough that he didn't have to strain down to look at her, grey eyes bright with life and intelligence, halfway through her Master's in anthro and with an uncle who was a Hunter: she was about as close to the perfect girl for him as Sam could have envisioned.
It scared him a little how well his brother knew him sometimes.
Dean, for all his working his way through every pretty girl in the country between 18 and 30—and then some—had somehow managed to vanish right after introducing Emma. Without a single leer or off-color suggestion. And yeah, that wasn't weird at all.
Except…it wasn't. Not once Sam had begun talking to Emma and awkwardness gave way to easy, interesting conversation.
It hit him halfway through a sentence, leaving him gaping like a fish. Sam gave her a pained smile, held up a finger, and went in search of Dean.
Who was, even less surprisingly, making out with a waitress in the back alley. Sam cleared his throat, waited until Dean looked up, then punched him.
Dean stumbled back against the brick wall and blinked at him in surprise while the waitress quickly made herself scarce. "Wha—?"
"So, what, is she a substitute? It's okay if you die because I won't be alone?"
"Dude. Chill. You don't have to marry the girl—"
"But you wouldn't mind if I did, right?" Sam railed, arms waving. "Would that make you feel better, Dean?"
Dean's head had dropped. "Yes."
Sam almost didn't hear the quiet answer in his anger, but that one word let out all his steam. "What?"
"Yes, okay?" Dean fingered his bloody lip and addressed himself to just past Sam's left shoulder. "Yes, I'd feel better if I wasn't leaving you alone."
Sam's hands deflated back to his side. "So don't leave me."
Dean's head canted up to give him a small, bittersweet smile.
Sam shut his eyes and pinched his nose. "Just…stop, all right? Stop trying to make this easier for me and start making sure you don't have to. Nobody, not Bobby, not my dreamgirl—nobody's gonna make me feel better about losing you, all right?"
They stared at dirty concrete, stained brick, the flickering bulb outside the back door. Everywhere but each other.
Dean finally broke the silence.
"Dude, that was totally your raincheck."
"You're a jerk, Dean," Sam said, exasperated.
"And you're a bitch, bitch. Oh, hey, maybe we should get a dog…"
"Shut up, man."
Emma was talking to someone else by the time Sam returned, but he couldn't seem to mind too much. It wasn't like he had time or desire to start a relationship now.
Besides, he had to go find some ice for his brother.
The End
Tyranusfan also posted our latest round robin this week, "The Familiar, the Witch, and the Winchesters."