My rambling notes: This is...gibberish. After learning horrible, terrible news (My sister-in-law [best-friend-ever] and brother [best-brother-friend-ever] are moving at the end of the summer. How dare they chuck states between us? *cries*) I was full of pent up angst. I had to get rid of it somehow. I still don't think that's a good enough excuse for how blatantly blah this is. Like it hasn't been written a million times before, a bazillion times better. But whatever.
Disclaimer: Never was mine, still not mine, never will be mine, m'kay, Pumpkin?
Warning: I don't know, maybe that it's so ridiculous you should haps' not even read it?
"Winchesters don't get scared, Sam." Dean met his five year old brother's wide, hazel gaze. "This is very important. Do you understand?"
Sam's lip quivered once before flat-lining. "Winchesters are not scared of what's under the bed." He repeated faithfully.
It wasn't exact, but it was close enough, so Dean smiled, proud. "That's right. Never forget it, Sam, and everything will be just fine."
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"You scared, Sammy?" Dean whispered, tightening his grip on the sawed-off shotgun their father had left them with. Basic but effective with both Supernatural and anything else stupid enough to try screwing around with Winchester offspring.
Sam sniffed once. "No." A little a defiant shake of the head here, little jaw jutting there.
Dean grinned and ruffled his nine year old brother's mop of hair. "Atta' boy."
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Dean skidded to a halt, twisted around, eyes darting around until they focused on the lanky form of his fifteen year old brother. "Come on, Sam. The Dog's gonna get away!" Dean growled. Now was not the time for Sammy to throw another I'm-a-grown-up-tantrum.
For a half second, something flashed through Sam's eyes. It was gone just as fast, and Sam gripped his handgun tighter, moving forward.
"That's my boy." Dean grinned, and darted after the Black Dog again.
If Dean had really been watching his younger sibling, he would've noted the fact that it had been stark terror in his brother's eyes. But Dean brought down the Dog and his Dad shared a beer with him in celebration.
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"Come on, Sammy. You can do better." Dean chided, knocking Sam's hand aside. Newly seventeen and Sam was taller than Dean now, taller than Dad, too, but he was thin and willowy, all bones and no agility. Still easy for Dean to knock around.
Sam was clumsy and unfamiliar with his own body, and it wasn't the pretties sight Dean had ever beheld, that was for sure.
"I'm trying, Dean," Sam ground out, and Dean rolled his eyes, throwing a couple jabs at his kid brother. It was Sam's saying of the month. The younger boy spewed the excuse for every mistake, and both John and Dean were getting sick of it real fast.
"Not good enough," John interrupted for his sideline coaching. "Take him down, Dean, and then run some laps, both of you." With coffee cup in hand, John disappeared back into the house they were renting.
Dean nodded at his father's receding form, "Yes, sir." He turned back to Sam. "You heard the man. Let's finish this and hop-to. I got a date with Georgia at six," And Dean licked his lip, briefly thinking of the cashier that worked at the only store in town.
Then Dean tossed Georgia and her long red hair out the window and warped into his sparing mental state, as easy as breathing these days. He was entirely focused on Sam, on his every move, so he knew the exact second when things changed drastically in his brother.
When insecurity became steady, and awkwardness became dexterity. When Dean knew, without a shadow of a bout, that he was going to get his ass handed to him on a silver platter, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Something bright and glassy flared behind Sam's eyes, and Sam moved so quickly, Dean barely had time to blink.
There were five flashes of motion, and Dean suddenly found himself on his back, pinned by his geek of a brother, the ground hugging Dean uncomfortably.
Dean was in shock. Sam leaned over him, still trapping Dean, panting lightly, eyes vivid. For a second, Dean stared up at Sam in awe, and Sam stared back, fierce and Hunter, and where the hell did this come from?
Then Sam jumped up and was moving, looking just as shocked as Dean, slipping away before anything could be said.
"That's my Sammy," Dean wheezed, straggling to his feet. He was so proud—Sam had moved like nothing else, all smooth, controlled strikes that left no movement for Dean to retaliate. It had been something like watching a cobra strike. Nothing but lethal and dangerous. Sleek. Dean had been entranced, captivated by the trained Hunter that had unexpectedly flared to life not two minutes ago.
Dean was so proud—but a very, very tiny part of him was sick.
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"No, Sammy, come on," Dean tried again, holding his hands up helplessly. He wanted to be angry—wanted to scream and rave and kick Sam's ass into next week. But he just felt wilted and tired. There was no more energy for hateful words; the Winchesters had enough of those as it was.
"No, you don't say that to me, Dean. You don't say that to me." Sam was on a rampage and there was no stopping him now. The battle to end all battles. Sam swung his hands around wildly. "I'm sick of this—it's killing me, Dean, because it never stops. There's no breaks and no end. Never. I can't do this anymore." Sam twisted away, shoulders heaving, and he wasn't screaming anymore. He sounded just as broken as Dean felt.
"Sam. Just—tell me why, Sammy. Stay with us, Sam. Please." Dean was begging now, but leave it to Sam to break down every last wall Dean had ever forged. Dean's throat itched and his eyes burned but he refused to cry—crying was for wimps. Dean had his pride, after all.
Sam's shoulders hunched for a second, and Dean was sure Sam would disappear into the night and he would never see his eighteen year old brother again. But then Sam's head slowly turned until Dean could just make out his brother's bright gaze.
"I'm sick of being so damn terrified, Dean, that's why,"
Dean blinked, swallowing painfully. That was…unexpected. Winchesters weren't scared. As a rule, they just weren't. Didn't happen. 'Scared' and 'Winchester' didn't mix, just like water and oil. But Sammy had always been different, more sensitive, like he had to make up for what his father and brother lacked.
For once, Dean wondered what that felt like, for Sam to haul all the crap that the older Winchesters refused to admit. Maybe Sam was terrified for the three of them, scared for Dean because Dean wasn't scared for himself, scared for Dad because Dad wasn't scared for himself.
Dean tried to open his mouth, to grind out an answer that could salvage this whole screwed up situation but Sam stiffened, gripped his bag tighter, gave a gurgled, "I'm sorry," before his long strides were carting him off into the night.
That was it. For a half second, Dean forgot what breathing was, why that motion was useful, exactly.
Now Dean wouldn't have to make half-full pledges, and Sam wouldn't have to keep up while hunting down things that existed only in ghoulish fairytales, and where brothers didn't have to physically assault one another. He had just lost his Sammy to Stanford and the promise of a life without gut-wrenching, bone-chilling fear.
And, honestly, could Dean say he was surprised?
Fin
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