Basically just a lot of paragraphs extolling the often overlooked virtues of Dean Winchester. Young Sam's POV.
Kind of an exercise in stream of consciousness writing for me so, kindly overlook grammatical errors.
Don't own Dean or Sam.
Mild language and mentions of underage drinking.
"If you look in the mirror and don't like what you see, you can find out first hand what it's like to be me." ~My Chemical Romance
Everything in this room is white. The rock-hard, plastic chairs are braced with a metal frame and bolted to the white tile floor, like the designer was being prepared in case some chair thieves decided to show up. The walls are a screaming, sterile field of blank white and fluorescent lights beat down from above, their barely audible buzzing echoes in my ears like some kind of insidious insect.
My eyes are practically watering from the brightness in the room and I wonder if it's possible to get a few shades paler just from sitting in the presence of that cold, glaring light for a few hours. Like the opposite of getting tanned. Getting paled...bleached...whitewashed? My mind slips off the rails for a bit as I try to think of a suitable antonym for 'tanned'.
"What time did we get here, Sam?"
Dean's voice snaps me back to reality.
"About noon." I say, looking at my brother.
He's trying to review his notes, rifling through the pages I'd highlighted for him, but he keeps looking around and readjusting and clearly not getting very far.
"Do you want to review the flash cards I made you again?" I ask, thinking if nothing else it might distract him from his nerves a little bit.
"I forgot to bring them." Dean says.
I sigh, watching the other people getting ready for their tests and drift back into my thoughts.
There's an aura of restrained panic that permeates every corner of the room. People from around Dean's age to much older sit hunched over their notebooks, reviewing last-minute notes, talking to friends or family members and wiping sweaty palms on their jeans.
I self-consciously tuck my AP homework inside my binder along with my college applications, it doesn't seem an appropriate thing to be working on in this environment.
A curvaceous woman in a skin-tight pantsuit comes out into the room and stands in front of us, barking instructions.
"All personal items must be put in this plastic bag before entering the testing facility, absolutely no electronic devices allowed. No cell phones, pagers, walkman's or audio recorders of any kind are permitted in the testing area. If you need to go to the bathroom you should go now, as you will not be allowed to leave the room once the test begins."
Beside me Dean is still shifting uncomfortably in his seat, looking way too nervous.
I wish I could transfer over a little of my faith in him, make it translate into self-confidence. I believe in him. He's got this.
My brother is brilliant.
I've seen him take cars apart and put them back together again without consulting a single manual.
He taught himself to work on the Impala the first time it broke down in a way that was too complicated for dad to handle.
Dad taught Dean the basics, how to change tires, oil, spark plugs, air filter, brake pads and drums-all the maintenance-but when the transmission failed the first time, Dean laid under that car for days in Bobby's driveway. He was covered in grease and sweat and barely stopped to eat and cursed a bit every now and then, but, really, he just enjoyed himself more than seemed possible or decent in that situation.
At the end of the week he had that car shifting through its paces like a well-trained dressage horse, had the engine purring clean and steady and smooth as silk. He was only 15 at the time.
I've seen my brother strategize on hunts, working out the best possible method to take down some rogue spirit or other. I've seen him lay out every single detail, provide for every eventuality, plotting it like a skilled writer without the slightest hesitation.
For awhile I thought it was some kind of magic, the way Dean could practically predict the future, just through his powers of common sense and planning.
The glaring paradox of his ability to plan complicated take-downs of monsters from start to finish, and yet, not realize that if he moved his queen to this or that space on the chess board he was putting himself in checkmate, always amazed me.
There are thinkers and there are do-ers and my brother is nearly one hundred percent a do-er. He's a common-sense, blue-collar, white-knuckled, man of action and he's brilliant about things that don't come out of books.
I think to myself that, while I'm the one reading the books, Dean is the one that books will be written about.
I've watched him do things throughout the years that seemed superhuman, seen him far surpass dad and me in so many ways.
We sit for over an hour in this halogen nightmare of a room, until, finally, the testing begins, and they call the applicants back to an inner room, one at a time.
"Dean Winchester." They call out when Dean's turn finally rolls around and he's trying to act cool, but I can tell he's secretly dying inside. Test anxiety met it's perfect host when it found my brother.
"Wish me luck." He says with a nod, hiding a tiny tremble in his voice.
"You don't need luck. You can do this."
He files back to the inner sanctum behind the bored-looking guide.
He's all restless twitches and deep breaths and it throw me off because I'm not used to seeing my rockstar brother in this state.
My brother is charming.
I have always envied Dean's way with people.
He's a natural born leader.
I'm a bit of a wallflower, easily overlooked, too shy to speak up, and when I do speak up, half the time, no one's listening.
Except for Dean that is.
And that's probably a huge part of the reason why people listen to him when he talks-he treats everyone like they matter.
Dean can have a group of people in the palm of his hand when telling a story, and he works the mood like he's been on stage all his life. He'll have people on the edge of their seats one minute, laughing another, and crying the next.
He doesn't even mean to, it's just a talent. Charisma radiates from him like good cologne and people come flocking over like flies at a whiff of pheromones.
He could have made one hell of a con artist, and there were a few times when we were younger and dad had left us alone with poor planning and not enough money to last, when he had played that role. Played it like he'd been raised into the profession.
People gave him time, money, and attention, and they were more than happy to fork over their love to my green-eyed, handsome, snake-oil salesmen of a big brother.
If charm were a superpower than my brother could join the Avengers.
But he's got a rebellious streak that runs a mile-wide, and no teacher or authority figure, aside from dad of course, could ever control anything about him.
He can't stick to deadlines or homework assignments, there are much more important things in the world to him. Difficult to work a math problem when you're busy mopping up your dad's blood and playing nurse-maid to your little brother.
It's just not possible for Dean to choose reading a textbook over saving someone's life from the latest supernatural beastie that's reared it's ugly head.
Not like Dad would ever let Dean choose his education over the family business anyway. At least one of his boys had to keep their head in the game, clean up Dad's messes, and that boy was Dean.
I know that what Dean's teachers took for disrespect or laziness, was simply the utter impossibility of cramming, sleep, hunting, recovering from said hunt, and studying, into a twenty-four hour day.
If anyone's gets to skip hunting duties to study it will always be me. Dean makes sure of that. While he fixes up dad, and does the laundry, and makes some kind of food from whatever supplies we have on hand, and fixes the car whenever it breaks down, and cleans the guns, etc. etc. etc., I am allowed the luxury of thumbing through texts, filling my head with facts, scratching away in notebooks, and stealthily preparing for a life away from my family.
Almost two hours have passed and I'm just waiting with my book bag and my anxious thoughts, trying not squirm too much as my butt falls asleep from the hard surface of said plastic chairs.
Dean has to pass four separate tests to qualify for his GED: math, social studies, science, and literacy. He has two hours to take the tests and then he will get his results by mail in three to four weeks.
He takes all of the two hours and when he comes out he looks defeated and tired.
"How did it go?" I hesitate to ask.
"Amazing." He replies shortly and then stalks towards the door.
I follow him through the security people where we get our keys and metal trinkets, back to the revolving doors, and out into the parking lot, where we sit on the curb and wait for dad to come pick us up.
There's another group of test-takers sitting at a picnic table a little ways up, smoking and sharing their thoughts on the material. They nod to Dean but he barely acknowledges them.
"So, what did you think?" I don't want to pressure him but I'm really curious how difficult it was, and if he thinks he passed, even though I can tell from the expression on his face that he's second-guessing (and probably third and fourth guessing) himself.
"What did I think, Sam? What did I think?" He scoffs, a dry, scraping, bark devoid of humor. "I didn't think much, Sam. I guess that's my problem. Monkey with a gun, that's me. You and Dad do the thinking."
There's no talking to him when he's like this, and I don't know what to say to that glaringly incorrect statement, so I just sort of let it hang there and he lapses into gloomy silence.
My brother is kind.
To say my brother is kind is actually the understatement of eternity. He's unswervingly devoted and faithful and selfless. Oh God, is he selfless. Sickeningly so.
I have never in my life seen him put himself before me, or dad, or anyone else for that matter.
Growing up if there was only two-dollars left for food, Dean bought dinner for me and refused to take anything I offered him. I actually thought my brother-yes, Dean Winchester, foodie extraordinaire-had little, to no appetite for the first 10 years of my life, as he quite frequently decline to eat. I realize now that's only when supplies were scarce.
Then there are all the times he's physically thrown himself in harm's way to protect me, or dad, or even someone we had just met.
All the times he's stayed awake all night to keep watch over us while dad recovered from a hunt or a bender.
There's his natural affinity for small animals and children, how they flock to him and open up to him just like everyone and everything always has, how they instinctively sense a gentle spirit in my big, tough-guy of a brother. Dean Winchester-Van Helsing/Disney princess.
The dichotomy between the killer that comes out whenever something is threatening someone weaker or in need, and the literal ball of love that is Dean at his core, never ceases to amaze me.
We sit on the curb for a few minutes, me lost in thoughts and Dean looking like he just wants to gut something.
Then Dad comes to pick us up and for awhile life goes back to what passes for normal
A little less than six weeks later, Dean's letter comes, forwarded from place to place until it makes it to our current, temporary address.
Dean wordlessly takes it out of the small stack of mail and slips it into his back pocket. He makes some remark about bullshit degrees meaning nothing and pretends to forget about it, but I know he's half dying and half terrified to open it. I know how he's heaped his whole self-worth on this stupid, arbitrary pass/fail test that truly says nothing about my brother's intelligence or the strength of his character.
I mutter a silent prayer to mom that he's simply passed and can move on with his life.
Later that evening I find him, sitting out on the step of the cabin we're currently staying in.
He's got the letter resting on his knee, still unopened, and there's a six pack of beer and two empty bottles next to him. He's got another in his hand.
He's a few months away from 21, but Dean's been drinking for quite awhile now. Chronologically he might be 20, but mentally, Dean's older than anyone I've ever known.
I sit down beside him and awkwardly try to prop my long-legs up. I can't seem to stop growing lately and it's honestly a nuisance trying to figure out the logistics of how to fit myself into most spaces.
After I've gotten myself settled I glance over at Dean.
I nod towards the six pack "Can I have one?"
Dean sighs, and turns around to check where dad is. He sees him still sleeping on the cot through the screen door, then he reaches over and hands me one.
"Don't say anything to dad."
"I doubt he'd even care." He doesn't have much of right to care, I think to myself.
Dean gives me the bottle opener and a disapproving look and I smirk.
"So?" I ask.
"So what?"
"You know what. You gonna open that, or you gonna wimp out?"
"I'm just biding my time, Sammy." Dean takes another sip of his beer and slowly picks the letter up.
He's still trying for apathy "Obviously, it doesn't matter either way. I mean it's not like hunters have to have high school diplomas. I don't remember the last time I had to know any trigonometry to gank a monster or set a bone..." He's rattling on, trying to distract himself.
"Dean." I cut him off with a groan "Open it."
He sighs, still holding the letter and tears it open with one quick motion like he's ripping off a band-aid.
He skims the text with a look of resigned determination and ill-concealed panic, then, a few seconds later, he nods and takes another swig of his beer.
"Well?"
He nods again. "I passed." He states as calmly as he can, a small smile lifting at the corners of his mouth the only indication of his relief.
"Of course you did!" I laugh. "Congratulations, man."
We sit, drinking in silence, looking out at the trees and watching as dusk turns to dark and fireflies flicker out of the woods.
My brother is brilliant.
He will never believe it as long as he lives, and as much as I might try to tell him that he's more than a gun-toting lackey, that he's not just the strong-arm of the Winchester family, he's as much the brains of our operation as I am, and twice the heart.
But he will never really see himself for what he is.
It's one of the most frustrating aspects of Dean's personality, the biggest flaw he has, in my opinion.
How he will never stop throwing himself in harm's way just because he can never understand how valuable of a hunter and, more importantly, how remarkable of a human being he truly is.
That self-hatred, I see it twist across his face every time he looks in the mirror, watch it manifest in his self-deprecating wit, and in his actions; it wrecks him and it makes him reckless.
My brother is many things that he will never see, he's brilliant, charming, kind, and humble and he's always been everything to me.
~End
Can you tell I love Dean? :)
Other than the subjects covered in the test, I have no idea what is required to obtain a GED so I'm sorry for my poor research skills if I was way off on anything about that process.
Thank you all for reading!
Reviews are my favourite and I really try to always respond individually to each of you. If you review as a guest, I'm sad that I can't thank you personally, but know that I really appreciate your feedback!