So... I'm actually working on a longer story. We'll see if it gets anywhere. In the meantime, I'm writing a ton of Jess/Sam fluffy things, not a single one of which I like enough to post here. Eventually I'll fix them. I really like the idea someone gave me of making Hidden Talent into a series of Jess/Sam moments... I'll start that once I think of a better title for it.;-) Anyhow, this is little and exists because inspiration for larger writings is currently hiding at the top of a tree and won't come down.
Warnings: Sad. Fluffy, I suppose, in a roundabout way, except the fluff is probably made of tissues.
Disclaimer: Sam and Dean are not mine. Not even a little bit. I still think they need a hug, though.
Winchesters don't cry. That fact had been drilled into Sam and Dean from an early age. At eleven years old, Dean could handle a row of stitches without a sniffle. At thirteen he sat dry-eyed, teeth clenched, through minor surgery to remove shrapnel, conducted by his father and without anesthetic. Sam was not far behind, and by the time both were teenagers they were so used to ignoring pain that they had to remind each other to look after injuries.
Winchesters don't complain. Dad would be gone for days at a time, and Dean learned from the tender age of four years old how to take care of a sobbing and needy infant. He learned how to cook and how to clean, how to handle money, how to drive a car, how to clean and dress a wound and splint a broken bone, how to handle adults with a little too much interest in the ten-year-old boy with the eyes of an old man.
Bruised and exhausted from a night's hunting, the boys would tug long sleeves over their arms, gingerly shoulder their backpacks, and head in to school to pass a test they hadn't had time to study for. They would grin through the pain when a friend punched them jokingly on a sore shoulder, and spend their lunchtimes catching up on homework instead of eating, though they'd had no breakfast, and probably no dinner the night before.
Winchesters don't talk. Rather – they spoke often. Sometimes in casual tones, light with laughter at a shared joke. Sometimes with tension, whispered commands, almost inaudible under the click of a readied gun. Sometimes with tenderness, because John was not immune to his boys' pain even as he ignored it. He would gruffly reprimand them for letting themselves into a vulnerable position, but the gruffness was tinged with a gentleness and love that he could not bring himself to voice plainly.
That reticence was catching. Sam had always been the touchy-feely one of the group, and living among normal people for two years had only accentuated that side of his nature. Jess was always willing to talk it out, and Sam had reveled in the openness.
Dean had inherited his father's stoicism. Admitting emotions was the first step to letting them overwhelm you, and that was weak. John Winchester did not tolerate weakness. Voicing pain, fear, concern or love reminded you of all the reasons not to do whatever it was you were doing, because if you were a Winchester, what you were doing usually consisted of pain and fear for either yourself or someone you loved, which was worse. Strength did not acknowledge such feelings. Strength did not complain and did not cry, did not sit down and "talk it out" when things got rough. Strength just kept going, and Dad had taught them to be strong.
Winchesters don't spill the secret. Even Sam had respected that rule. In two years among the "normal" world, he had managed to keep his childhood a foggy image that sketched out school, a few friends, and a dad who moved a lot. Part of it was a desire to keep his "normal" life separate from hunting, but a part was simple habit. The family business stayed in the family.
Even their father had respected that rule to the exclusion of all else. The moment a teacher got too curious or a neighbor started peeking too often through the curtains, they left. They rarely left a hunt unfinished, but it had happened on occasion, when someone got too close.
That was the other thing. Winchesters don't get close to anyone. They don't depend on anyone, and they certainly don't develop feelings for anyone. Dean had himself convinced that this was a personal choice. He loved the freedom that came with one-night stands – a pretty girl in this town, and a prettier girl for the next. Cassie… He also had himself convinced to not think about her. Her name was only on his phone because he hadn't gotten around to deleting it yet.
Jess had been Sam's first true connection with someone outside his family. He'd had a few superficial friends growing up, a few girls who flirted with him and kissed him and thought themselves clever when he smiled at them with dimpled cheeks and his hair falling into his eyes. They didn't realize that he let them flirt because in a month he would be gone and none of it would matter.
With Jess, he found something he never knew a person could have. She was always there to study with, or watch movies with, or play games with, or drive around with for hours, going nowhere. The only other person he'd ever had in his life with such consistency was Dean, and Dean subscribed steadfastly to the unwritten rule of superficial communication. It was hard to feel close to Dean, although Sam knew he was.
Winchesters don't cry. Not when they're hurt, not when someone else is hurt, not even when their baby brother lies dying in their arms. They don't complain about the pain that protests every movement, and they don't make sentimental speeches about the hole Sam is about to leave in Dean's life. They don't talk at all, only reflect on how much less this would hurt if they'd expanded rule five to include family too. Love is dangerous. Love provides a fertile breeding ground for every weakness John Winchester had conditioned his boys against for over twenty years.
They deny the pain, they deny the words, but they can't deny the feeling. Not when there is a dampness tracking down both their cheeks, and it's not raining.