"Oscar Wilde?"

The name sounded familiar across Dean's tongue as he repeated it, though he couldn't quite place it. It was a name that had come up a few years back, in eighth grade or so, but for what? Honestly, he couldn't remember. He first thought that maybe it could be a band member he idolized, but no self-respecting classic rock musician would be named "Oscar."

"Yeah," Sam affirmed, a small, beaten library book clutched in his hands. "We're supposed to write an essay on a lesson we learned from his book, but I'm really stuck." Sam looked at Dean imploringly.

"Wait… Ocsar Wilde… That gothic novel… The Picture of Dorian Gray, right?" The scattered puzzle pieces fitted themselves together in his brain. He remembered reading the book four or so years ago, along with that particularly wonderful study session over the book in question. She was a hot blonde—Veronica or Veruca, something along the lines—and they had definitely made use of their time in the library. Together. Alone.

"Yup, you wanna scan through it real quick?" Sam asked, hazel eyes wide as he held out the proffered book.

Dean nodded, and quickly fluttered through the pages. Bits and pieces came back to him, and he remembered disliking the book a bit because it had a bad sense of justice to it. Every character had died in an untimely manner, except for the perpetuator of the whole novel's plot. However, it was overall one of his favorites that he read in high school. He remembered as a freshman secretly delving into the book and admiring the story in prose. Not as difficult to read as Shakespeare, yet not as easy to read as The Lord of the Flies—god, Dean hated that book.

Dean chuckled softly, looking nostalgically at the book. He then glanced up to Sam, who was looking at him expectantly. "It ain't that hard, Sammy," he said, waving the small book at him. "Think: What led Dorian down the wrong path?"

Honestly, Dean had a feeling that Sam knew very well all the questions he was prompted with. He was a smart kid, and Dean wasn't. There was no way that Dean knew what Sam was supposed to do and Sam didn't. Dean had a feeling that Sam was just offering a distraction from the hunt he'd been on yesterday.

They hadn't saved the family. The single mom had moved into the dwelling place of a severely pissed-off poltergeist, and her three kids had gotten in the way as well as her. By the time John and Dean had salted and burned the ghost, it had been too late. They'd returned to the accursed house to find all four members of the small family gutted, their eyeballs torn out revoltingly. Dean had puked there on the premises, and then gotten drunk once they got home. He cried himself to sleep, though Dad had drilled it into his head for hours that they couldn't save everyone. Dean hated it, and would readily take the place of that family. No one that innocent should ever have to die. If it were up to him, no one would ever die.

Their gouged sockets and spilled intestines still haunted his mind, but somehow, with Sammy sitting here and asking him for help that he could actually give, it made most of the nightmarish visions dissipate. Sam was almost fifteen and too smart for his own good, so there was no way that he actually needed Dean's help on this petty English project. It was clearly a ploy to raise Dean's spirits and take his mind off of the dark phantasms that laid in the corners of his brain.

But Dean didn't call him out on his bluff. He needed this distraction, even if Sam didn't need the help. So they sat on John's vacant bed for over an hour, discussing what messages Wilde was trying to get across and why, until Sam had compiled a decent outline for his essay.

"Thanks, Dean," Sam said, a wide smile gracing his lean face. Dean nodded, allowing a small grin to cross his lips despite the pain he was still feeling inside. Sam always made him feel better. If he was fulfilling his duty of taking care of Sam, he was instantly gratified.

"No problem, kiddo." Sam scowled at the nickname, but the action seemed mocking. Dean knew that he secretly liked it.

The younger Winchester flounced, too-long hair flapping wildly, over to the mini table in their kitchenette to start writing his report. Dean watched him for a moment before turning back to the television program he'd been watching. Star Trek was on, and Dean was never one to reject Captain Kirk when he took the screen.

He watched TV in peace while Sammy scribbled away until his eyes drifted downward. Still sitting by his leg was Sam's book, The Picture of Dorian Gray. He looked towards Sam again to make sure he was too engaged in his work to pay attention to him, then picked up the book and started at page one.

It had been forever since he'd read a good book. Picking up a classic like this made him go back to his high school years, when he'd actually given a crap. If the English teacher had set them on a good book, he'd play the "bad boy" role, but secretly be enthralled. He even remembered one of his sophomore English teachers coining the phrase "Reading is Sexy." After he'd dropped out, though, all books he'd previously enjoyed had been strewn from his life. It was nice to actually kick back and read for once.

He was halfway through the book when Sam finished his essay, but the latter didn't say a word, only smiled.

Just a small thing on Dean and books... I plan on making this a multi-chapter story expanding on Dean and his relationship with literature.

Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!