Disclaimer : I don't own Supernatural, just borrowing them for a ride and promise to put them back in good condition.
A/n : OMG someone's actually reading this? Ok, um, I'm new and this is my first fanfic so be nice! Read on ...
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Regret Rien (Regret Nothing)
Sam yawns and stretches his long legs under the brown, wooden table, glaring at the small, yellow bulb flickering above his head. His eyes are watering from staring at the old, fading parchments for too long and Bobby has sucky lighting in his living room. The wooden-backed chair is not sweet to his back and neither is the seat to his ass.
A small noise emerges from Bobby's spare room and Sam almost panics. Dean doesn't know that he stays up every night, going through Bobby's ever-expanding book collection, searching for a way out of this. He'd be pissed if he knew, so Sam sits still for a while before rocking the chair backwards, balancing it on only the back legs, his wide palms spread on the floor, preventing the chair from falling backwards and takes a look at the door that he's left open. He sees Dean's head turning on a pillow, a shaft of moon-light falls on his cheekbones, making him look pale and deathly.
Then, Dean snuffles in his sleep and Sam rights the chair, turning a page and making notes in a small black book he bought at a cheap store. It had wet pages at the back but Sam had taken it anyway, because the little, gap-toothed girl behing the counter had smiled big at him and had nodded.
Dean mightn't admit it under alien torture but Sam had seen him ruffle up the girl's hair and slip her a couple of bills, unnoticed.
Sam sighs, his breath lifting his bangs off his sweaty forehead and gets back to work. On the very last page, he's been marking small Xs, one for each day after the - the Thing (Sam doesn't want to say it, the childish fear that it might become true if he says it out loud still prevailing) and Sam counts the Xs, his heartbeat rising with each one until he realizes that it was nine. He breathes out a sigh of relief. He still has 356 days left.
Shifting uncomfortably, he leans toward the leather-bound book. Life isn't a bed of roses. Literally. And Sam's too tired to be angry.
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There's a poltergeist in Arizona - piece of cake, Dean says, flashing a grin at Sam - and they've taken care of it just as quickly as Dean says they would.
Dean's driving back to Bobby's, like it's routine, like it's home. Sam doesn't complain but rolls down the windows when Dean tells him to, breathing in the fresh, after-rain smell of the country.
Dean's speeding up, pushing down on the accelerator, that awful AC/DC song blaring and the wind rushing by ruffles up Sam's brown hair, pulling it all over his face one second, and pushing it back the next. Dean starts to zig-zag across the highway and it's a good ten minutes before Sam's realizes that he's laughing hysterically, hands fisted in Dean's leather jacket, yelling," Dean, stop!"
Dean grins at him and doesn exactly the opposite.
They pass by a trooper and the Impala instantly slows down but the guy asks them to pull over anyway. The trooper bends to look into the window and Dean does the whole," Problem, officer?" complete with pouting lips and fluttering eye-lashes; Sam has trouble keeping a straight face when he realizes that the guy is actually swallowing.
Before long, Dean is once again driving like the devil and both of them flip the officer off in their rear-view mirror, laughing like the world's a comedy show.
They're behind a green Volkswagon - the color makes Sam's head ache - and Dean wrinkles up his nose at the toddler in the back-seat. They end up making faces at each other and Sam smiles.
It's nightfall by the time they reach Bobby's house and both their heads and the heels of their palms are aching from head-banging and drumming on the dashboard, Dean's voice is raw from hollering 'Highway to hell' and Sam's ankle is bruised from stamping too hard to the beat, but Dean still beams at him. And it looks like thank you.
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Sam remembers the time when he never went to sleep unless he'd related his entire day's events - fortune and misfortunes - to God and thanked Him for everything. He doesn't anymore, not ever since Dean's made the deal, because if there really were angels, if there really was a higher power or something, they would've prevented this.
Because Dean was a good guy, they were both the good guys and God would've helped them.
Dean, Sam thought, knew this long before he did, because of Mom.
Although, at the end of the day, no matter how mad he wanted to be at God, no matter how much he didn't want to believe, Roy le Grange's face flashes before his eyes and he knows who exactly it was who pointed Dean out in the crowd of three-hundred odd. Dean's soul was so good, he couldn't be missed.
Always casting his own needs aside, burdened by someone else's shit, it isn't much of a life that Dean leads, but it's precious to Sam and he'll do anything to keep it safe. Because if there was one person who didn't deserve hell, he answers to the name Dean Winchester.
Sam is lying on the bed, adjacent to Dean's, so lost in his own thoughts that he almost misses the soft mumur of Dean''s voice.
" ... sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeulorum. Amen."
He joins in halfway and once they're done, looks at Dean's face which turns towards him, just a hint of red on his cheeks and Sam smiles.
Dean pulls up the blanket a little and grins back - a flash of white in the dark - like Sam's offered him the world. But, then again, to him, Sam really is the world.
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Dean's limping from a sprain - those nasty, little spirits, he'd grins ruefully - and Bobby had yelled at both of them good, long and hard, because they'd taken off in the middle of the night, like a couple of teenages, to Cape Girardeau and had messaged Bobby from there.
Being yelled at by Bobby reminded Sam of the times they'd stood at the kitchen counter, their dad cursing enough to make Satan blush. Dean had laughed it off but Sam had pulled Bobby aside later and had apologized thoroughly, even offering to clean up the house and taking Bobby's grunt as forgiveness.
"Why?" Bobby'd asked, finally getting some satisfaction when Sam'd scrubbed the house dry. Sam had shrugged, remembering the way they'd laughed and laughed at Bobby's spluttering," It was for fun. Just for kicks. Dean didn't mean to worry you."
And both of them share a secretive smile when Bobby's living room is neat and the fireplace's wood re-stacked. Dean just rolls his shoulders, sips his beer and pretends he doesn't know what's going on.
Dean gets lost in thought sometimes, staring off into the distance for minutes at a time and Sam thinks about the time in Cape Girardeau when Dean went "to check something out" and returned an hour later, scrubbing a hand over his face.
He doesn't ask what happened with Cassie but instead, lays his arm across Dean's shoulders and sits with him until Dean snaps out.
Then Dean smiles, and in that smile Sam recalls sunny afternoons, silvery bikes, bruised knees, cookies, hot towels fresh from the dryer and Dean pats his knee, letting his fingers linger," It's okay, Sammy."
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A/n : Well? Was it okay for a first fanfic? Review and tell me!!