Title: Catalyst
Pairing: Sam/Dean, but can be read as gen.
Rating: M (swearing).
Summary: Meg Masters was just an ordinary girl. Still managed to have an effect on the Winchesters though.
Disclaimer: Just borrowing.
Warning: Mild spoilers for season one episodes Scarecrow and Shadow.
It was easy enough to track the broad back of Sam's daggy khaki jacket through the crowd, but when Dean actually caught him he pulled up short. Whatever had made Sam go striding off on his freakishly long legs without a word, Dean hadn't expected to be some…
hot chick.
Some hot chick who was touching Sam and smiling up into his face like she'd known him forever. Dude? Dean didn't know her. He dialled up the wattage on his smile, cleared his throat (subtle) and nudged Sam's shoulder.
She didn't even glance at him, just kept nattering away at Sam about some guy called Michael Murray. Sam spared him a sideways glint of slanted blue, then his attention snapped back to the girl.
Damn.
She was like some variety of weird, attention-sucking… flea.
Dean coughed loudly and thumped Sam's shoulder.
"Dude. Cover your mouth."
Oh, he knew that tone. Had used a variation of it himself on occasion, when some pesky third wheel was making a nuisance of herself, right when her hotter, and (usually) drunker friend was all set to take a walk with the pretty stranger.
She sounded like she was trying to freeze his blood. He blinked down at her, then smirked. The intimidation factor is somewhat reduced when you're a pint-sized blonde cutie.
And Sammy wasn't going anywhere with any strange girls Dean hadn't pre-selected. Or something.
Sam gave him a full glance then, the first one in about five minutes from a guy who seemed to have trouble breaking eye contact most days. Dean cased him quickly but Sam was already looking away, introducing the girl reluctantly (reluctantly, the little bitch) as Meg.
"Ohhhh… this is Dean," smirked Little Bitch MK II.
Some people just react negatively once armed with that intel, Dean's never wasted time trying to figure it out too hard, but he can usually tell right away when it's gonna happen. And this? Was one of those times.
Screw it. He'd already made up his mind to dislike her.
He barely heard his own glib comment, even as he said it, and was about to haul Sammy off to the bar in search of shots and less hostile chicks.
Gatekeeper here. Do not pass go. Do not collect a notch on your belt courtesy of my brother.
But the next thing out of Meg's mouth froze him with his hand halfway to grabbing the back of Sam's jacket.
"Nice. How you treat your brother like luggage. Why don't you let him do what he wants to do, stop dragging him over God's green earth?"
And yeah, he's used to being bitched out for the way he treats Sam. BY SAM. Not by random girls in Chicago bars who know his brother how and from where?
Sam makes vaguely soothing noises at Meg, flaps his hands a little, looks slightly pained.
"Oh-kay," Dean says, backing up and trying to eyeball Sam, but again with the not looking at him properly thing.
"I'm gonna get a drink now," he says dismissively, aiming the words at Meg. He doesn't turn till he reaches the bar, then half-spins, the hissed So who the hell was she? already on his lips, when he realises – Sam hasn't followed him.
In fact, Sam is still across the room, entering pushy little Meg's number into his phone.
Sammy? Cruising for a hook-up? Frogs ain't raining from the sky.
Found a new shoulder to cry on, did you, Sammy? One that doesn't fart or hum Metallica at the really D&M parts of D&Ms.
Gone and got himself a girl to bitch about his family to. That's what the little snot's done. Again.
********
"Who the hell was she?"
"Who, Meg? Met her on the side of the road in Indiana. We were going to run off to California together."
There is laughter in Sam's voice, pocketed between words, and a lightness to his step Dean hasn't seen in a while.
It makes Dean more annoyed, despite the cool night air in the carpark clearing his head a little.
"And what the hell was she sayin'? Huh? That I treat you like luggage? What, you been bitchin' about me to some chick?"
Sam shrugs. "It was after that fight we had, and you'd taken off to the Stepford of farming towns and almost got yourself eaten by a scarecrow."
He stretches his arms over his head, pops his back, lets the breeze blow his bangs off his face and gets an eyeful of the stars shining faintly through the night haze of city lights.
Dean fights down the urge to poke him in the ribs. Or pull his hair.
Or tackle him into the bitumen.
He hates it when Sam gets like this.
Honestly, he'd prefer Sam being girly and angsting and playing gloomy music, and looking at Dean with puppy dog eyes like he can make everything all right… to a Sam who suddenly, and without so much as a by-your-leave, drops his brother a dozen or so places down his list of most important things and/or people in the Galaxy.
"Well, is there any truth to what she's saying, Sam?" Dean asks coldly. "I mean, am I keeping you against your will or something?"
Sam turns his head and tucks his chin down, hides his smile in his shoulder.
"Bit presumptuous, Dean," he says, the laughter there again, snaking between his words like oil.
Dean really would like to hit him about now.
"The day I don't want to be here anymore, you'll know, Dean. 'Cause I won't be here anymore." Sam flicks the words at him as casually as he flicks his hair out of his eyes.
Dean drops his head forward, rocks on the balls of his feet, and glares at Sam from under his brows. He can all but feel his own eyes go flat and dark.
"Yeah? Well, the day I get tired of being landed with your sorry ass may be comin' sooner than that."
He has Sam's attention (finally). For a moment Sammy looks a bit chocolate-lab-puppy-in-the-headlights and Dean feels savagely satisfied that his Truly Pissed Off face is still somewhat alarming to Sam.
Then Sam's nostrils flare and his mouth tightens. "Hey Dean," he says, tone surprisingly mild, "you realise you just undercut your reason for being pissed in the first place?"
Hopping mad would about cover it. Dean has that khaki piece of crap down off Sam's shoulders and pinning his arms before he can jerk away. Dean backs him into the side of the Impala, hand at his throat, hand flat on his belly.
And Sam looks back at him for the first time all night.
Sam is hitched breath and dark blue eyes like a dozen clichéd things (stars, sapphires, star-sapphires), wide open. Afraid? Yes, just a little.
Dean is the inability to say a dozen clichéd things he'd rather eat his own gun than admit to thinking, is uncomfortable feeling, mocks the shit out of Sam for saying, because, dammit, the kid has no dignity and too much guts.
Hasn't been saying much of anything lately.
Other people's derisive laughter is an ugly sound.
Sam shakes gently under his hands, then asks in a slightly choked-off voice if they're going to stay like they've been turned to stone in the middle of a mugging all night.
Dean presses forward into him, pressing him harder into the side of the car. Fingers tightening a little at Sam's throat, just to make his breath hitch again, because, fuck, Dean could hear that all day. Sam's shirt is riding up under Dean's left hand, the skin underneath soft and very warm under the layers Sam dons before he'll go outside.
Sam's trying to talk around the hand on his throat, and he's still laughing. Sort of. His voice is thick and strained.
"You know, I get it."
"Yeah? Good for you, sweetheart," Dean growls, then loosens his fingers grudgingly as an afterthought. "What do you get?"
"This is your version of cuddling." Sam actually manages to snicker, which Dean can't help but acknowledge is kind of awesome for a half-strangled person.
He lets Sam go with a string of muttered obscenities and stalks off across the carpark. He gets about halfway then stops and looks at the sky for a moment, and makes a beeline back to Sam, who has been watching him warily and steps away from the car.
Dean jerks open the passenger side door and stands holding it, glaring. Sam's doing that chin-to-shoulder thing again, but he brushes past Dean and gets in the car.
Dean slams the door and stands there breathing heavily for a moment.
**********
He tries to focus on driving and staying pissed at Sam. The latter never comes easily to him, but especially not when the kid is scrunched up against him, knees against the dashboard, ridiculous hair practically tickling Dean's face. And humming some freaking Bon Jovi song. Looking all guileless and sweet, and also deeply, secretly amused.
You see, officer, it's like this… haven't you ever patted a puppy or kitten that was so friggin' adorable you had to grit your teeth to keep from squeezing it to death? Yeah, well, imagine that they were Sasquatch-sized, then try to resist.