Eternity Enshrined in a Single Saturday Afternoon

Tomorrows Dust

Sam was incredibly unpredictable. Dean wasn't sure where he'd learned it. Sparring with their father was almost a synchronised dance. It was useful training for sure, and hard physical work had always made him feel good - comfortable in his skin-, but Dean would be the first to admit that it could get... not boring exactly, but not thrilling either.

Fighting with Sam, on the other hand, was exhilaratingly animalistic. The boy was a creative genius. He'd start one thing and effortlessly change it halfway through. And he always landed on his feet. ('You sure ya don't have cat genes, you freak?' 'One more Hello Kitty reference and I swear I'm gonna kill you, Dean.')

Whenever Dean tried anything like jump-kicking and changing it mid-flight, he ended up with sprained-whatevers and a bruised ego.

('You looked like one of those flying squirrels.'

'Am not a flying squirrel,' Dean had mumbled petulantly.

'No,' Sam agreed. 'You were a crashing squirrel.')

But Sam, shit, that boy was made for it. Fighting seemed the only time when he shut off his gigantic brain and let himself be led by his instincts. It made it terribly difficult for Dean to predict what Sam was gonna do next, and how he could best defend himself and counterattack.

('Dude, I thought you were gonna duck.'

'Yeah, well, I thought you were gonna kick instead of punch.'

'Shut up and keep the ice pressed to your face, its not gonna work if you just breath on it. ... Dean ...uhm... I'm sorry, by the way.'

'Are you crazy?! You were great!'

'Ice. Face.' But the little fucker was smiling droopily at him.

'Yeah yeah. Me tarzan. You Jane.')

Dean always fell one step behind and that forced him to learn to be faster and stronger and be more creative himself. He needed to think on his feet. Dad taught them the moves, but Sam inadvertently taught him how to survive. If Dean fought according to Dad's script, Sam would be making a completely different movie; one where Dean was getting pounded into the dirt. He had to let go of what he knew, and become the fight. It was challenging and wild and fun.

It was one of the things he missed most when Sam went away to college. Both panting and circling each other, Sam watching him with that amused glint in his eyes, observing and assessing, always looking for openings and opportunities. Dean was stronger and more experienced, but Sam had an edge of sheer sneaky brilliance.

Whenever Dean felt most alone, lying on his back on a dingy mattress in a motel in just another Bumfuck-nowhere-ville that Dean couldn't be bothered to remember the name of - Dad off on a hunt somewhere - he'd close his eyes and picture his little brother; imagine their fights and the thrill it would give him.

He'd fall asleep with a smile on his face, because besides remembering the adrenaline coursing through his veins he also recalled the pride in his brother he'd felt (I raised him and I did something right), and the smirks (come get me, sucker) and the friendly claps on the back ('You okay?' and 'You did good') and the overwhelming sense of belonging (home, home, home). What made him sigh quietly in his sleep was reliving the throbbing sensation of being able to capture eternity in a single Saturday afternoon.

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Contrary to popular belief, I am not dead. However, I could always use some reviews to liven me up. ^^ Please leave a comment, they always mean a lot,

Huggels, TD