I've wanted to write this schmoopfest for years. This is a reversal of the prompt that brought me into this fandom. I put the prompt at the end.
I do not own the Winchesters. This was written for fun, not profit.
Not beta-read because it's sooo schmoopy and doesn't even have a plot. Any remaining errors are mine.
Cross-posted at Archive of Our Own. I added a bit over here since I realized that I had switched POV without realizing it in one section. (Oops!)
At first, he didn't remember. Nothing made sense. Grief had leached Sam's world of color, leaving behind only muted swirls of gray and black.
After the funeral, when repeated showers had left him with only a faint hint of smoke in his hair and thin stripes of charcoal beneath his fingernails, it crossed Sam's mind. But by then, he didn't care.
Despite an afternoon of digging through charred rubble, Sam and Dean had found nothing of his collegiate life to salvage. All of Sam's meager belongings had gone up in flames; every creature comfort he'd ever had was gone, save Dean.
It didn't matter. Nothing mattered now except finding the thing that had killed Mom and Jess.
It wasn't until they had been on the road for over a month that Sam began to wonder how long he could keep this up without telling Dean. Up until now, the hunts had been simple, or at least, uncomplicated. But they'd stumbled onto a case with a vengeful ghost that was heavy on research.
Rumor had it that Robert Brown was a cruel man in life, and an even crueler ghost in death. The Winchester brothers had managed to trace back at least three Robert Browns in town lore, but when they started to ask the probing questions, the townspeople clammed up. The Browns were a respected founding family, they were told. No one should speak ill of the dead.
Dean's working theory was that every generation of Browns had terrorized the community, why not burn all three? Sam had insisted that they find the right Robert Brown lest they get caught desecrating multiple graves in the same town.
Untangling the Brown family history led to hours at the local library. That was when Sam realized that maybe he should have talked to Dean about this particular problem sooner.
Sam looked up from the page he was on and sighed. He rolled his neck from side to side before settling back down to read.
Dean studied his brother. He knew something was up with Sam. Grief was one thing; it weighed his brother down and left him quiet and pensive.
This restlessness was something else entirely. Dean stared at his brother over a table covered in thick, dusty tomes and tried to figure out what was wrong.
Sam was frowning into an old city directory, chewing absently on a pen while tapping one foot. His brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed as he scanned the entries. The sullen expression on his face reminded Dean of their father, not that he'd ever say so to Sam.
Dean shook his head. Normally, his kid loved research. Part of why he'd humored Sam about researching the Brown family was because he knew Sam needed a distraction. Digging into a problem like this was a sure-fire way to make Sam Winchester happy, or at least let him forget about his worries for a few hours. Sam usually threw himself into his books with such gusto and passion that Dean used to tease him that he'd lose his virginity to a library one day. Jibes like these were supposed to be countered with a frown or an eye roll and a bitch face.
But not today. This morning, Sam had simply rubbed his temples and snapped, "This would go twice as fast if you'd just help me." The wounded expression on his face - as if his older brother was torturing him by making him do research - had led Dean to plonk down across from Sam in the library with a gusty sigh.
When Sam fidgeted again, Dean stopped taking notes about the case. Instead, he jotted down his observations of Sam: short-tempered, sullen, taking frequent breaks, rubbing at his eyes ...
A memory of John slotted into place in Dean's mind: Dad holding his notes in the same way as Sam with the same deep scowl, right before he ...
Dean started at the realization. He quickly sifted through the available facts. Sam had been away - a lot could happen in a couple of years. Sam had gathered up the things he'd urgently required when he'd left for that fateful weekend with Dean, but he clearly hadn't taken everything. Now that Dean was looking, the answer seemed obvious. And while Dean knew that he couldn't fix Sam's grief, he could help with this.
"Hey, man, I'm headin' out for a bit. Want anything?"
Sam looked up at him, eyes bloodshot and bleary. "Advil?" he whispered.
Yahtzee, thought Dean. He nodded at Sam. "You bet."
Sam plowed his way through the available city directories, twenty years of microfiche, and started in on a centennial celebration of the town. His eyes burned, his head ached, and he was never so happy to see his brother return with a can of Coke and a bottle of Advil.
Thankful that the librarian wasn't a stickler about drinks near the books, Sam cracked open the can. He downed a third of the soda and three ibuprofen in one gulp. "Thanks, man."
Dean nodded. "Picked you up a couple of other things, too," he said, handing his brother a paper sack.
Sam frowned at him, taking the bag, but quickly grinned when he pulled out a large package of peanut M&Ms.
"Hey," he said, his smile wavering. "There's only half a bag here." He shook the yellow package at his brother.
Dean shrugged. "Got hungry."
Sam rolled his eyes. Peering into the grocery sack, his gaze widened when he realized what remained.
"What the -" he started, and then Sam stopped abruptly, his cheeks turning a flaming pink. How did Dean know?
Sam's expression confirmed Dean's suspicion that this was not the best time to joke around with his baby brother. "I got a couple different kinds so you could see what works best. I figured we can pick you up some real ones later if we need to." Dean tried to catch Sam's gaze, but his brother was studiously refusing to make eye contact. "I'm guessing that you lost yours in the fire?"
Sam did look up at that. His nod was small, almost imperceptible.
"Okay, then," Dean said. He picked up a book that looked like a homemade photo album. "I'll start on this Brown family history and see if I can't figure out where the Roberts are buried. Maybe we should burn all three of them for good measure, huh Sammy?"
Sam shook his head with a faint smile. He was now wearing one of the three pairs of cheap reading glasses that Dean had bought at the only drug store in town. They looked good on the kid. The pink in his cheeks had almost faded back to normal.
Sam resumed reading. With a smug sense of satisfaction, Dean noted that the little crinkle between his brother's eyebrows had finally relaxed and Sam was no longer frowning into his books.
His brother looked up, and caught Dean staring. Sam dropped his eyes. "Thanks, Dean," he mumbled, sounding sheepish.
"Those working out okay for ya?" Dean asked gently.
"Almost perfect," Sam admitted. He pointed at a printout he'd made earlier at the microfiche reader. "You think this might be our guy?"
Dean let the discussion about Sam's glasses drop. There'd be plenty of time for teasing him later. First, Dean had to harass Sam about keeping secrets and drag him off to one of Wal-Mart's eye clinics.
But for now, the Winchester brothers had a body to salt and burn. Or maybe three.
I was inspired to write my first Supernatural story, Never Show Weakness, after reading The Better to Gank You With by Zana_Zira. That story was actually a prompt fill for the Winchester Festival of Hurt/Comfort community on LiveJournal. The original prompt read:
"While Sam was at Stanford, Dean's vision started going fuzzy and he ended up going to the optometrist for a prescription (per John's orders). Once he picks up Sam from school and they're back on the road again, he tries to be all sneaky about taking his contacts out at night and putting them on in the morning, hiding the case for his glasses, whatever."
I've always thought it would be fun to flip the prompt, since there aren't enough stories with Sam in glasses.