A/N: A silly, little story about love. Dedicated to Bobo a.k.a. my brother.
The L Word
"You okay, Dean? You look tense."
Dean shrugs and lies something about getting old. The truth is, he's been a little strange since the asylum. No, not strange, as in he's still infected with crazy, but strange . . . as in . . . Well, let's just say he wishes it was wraith witchery going at him now, instead of . . . instead of this.
It's not like it's a bad thing, really. In fact, most normal people--he can't relate--would probably want to pat him on the back or maybe give him a hug or--Ooh! Share gossip over a big bowl of chocolate and ice cream! . . . like he's some kind of girl.
Huh? Lost you? All right, to the point. It's just . . . for once in his life, Dean has an overwhelming urge to express his--his . . . you know . . . You don't? . . . Ugh, okay. His feelings.
Just thinking about it makes Dean irritated and jittery, and Sam's commenting obliviously on his tenseness, which is supposed to keep him from expressing himself all over the place.
So, see? See why he wishes it was crazy? Crazy he can handle. Crazy is all in a day's work.
Non-apocalyptic angst and emotions and that little nudge in the back of his brain telling him to just say something, already? Not what he's used to.
And--surprise, surprise--it's not even Sam forcing him into it.
Well, no . . . That's not entirely true. Sam did start it.
But there's no puppy-dogging or bitching about keeping everything inside. Not this time.
This time, it's all Dean.
Hell, maybe that wraith did do a lasting number on him, 'cause he can barely sit in the Impala with Sam without blurting out what he's been thinking for the past week.
Note to Dean: stop letting Sam get drunk.
Or high.
Whatever.
'Cause he either makes Dean promise something undoable, looses Lucifer, or, worst of all, tells Dean he loves him.
Seriously, man. Taboo.
It's basically their dad's fault, Dean knows, but if you mention Daddy Issues one more time, he's gonna--
John never said the L word to his boys--except the few times Dean can remember before The Fire--so it only makes sense that Dean is completely uncomfortable with such language.
And Sam should be, too, but the kid's pretty much been bursting with chick flickery since Jessica, so Dean's not necessarily shocked at this development.
For Dean, though, it's just a matter of reciprocity. You know, giving back what you get when you're in a relationship.
Wait--not that Dean's in a relationship with his--
It's not like--
He just--
You're sick . . .
In their very platonic and brotherly relationship, Sam and Dean have maintained a balance of self-sacrifice and confession and betrayal and tears shed, so their drama totals are mostly equal. Well, they were, before the asylum.
Now, Dean's wondering if maybe he should level the playing field, just tell Sam--tell him back. It's not like he doesn't know it, anyway, right?
Only, Dean's used this four-letter word maybe three times in the entirety of his abnormal life--not counting those roundabout utterings he's prone to pretending never happened--and didn't really mean it, either. Does he even know what it means to mean it?
He knows if he says it now, as he drives and Sam looks over a newspaper in the passenger seat, he'll really, truly, honest to God, feel it. Sam's practically Dean's whole world; how could he not feel something for him? He's on the verge, the words on the tip of his tongue--
When trepidation sets in, even though he's supposed to be Mr. Macho. Sam's the girl in their siblinghood (Dean tells himself), and if the girl only says "I love ya" when she's on drugs--
And that's another thing; does it count if there's no "you?" "I love ya" is something you could say to anybody, right? Especially followed by a boop to the nose; right?
Ah, hell. Dean's not convincing you, and he's definitely not convincing himself.
Sam's passed out on the door, long legs crooked awkwardly between the seat and the glove box, and Dean gets probably his most brilliant idea of all time.
Because Sam said it while he was under the influence, Dean can totally say it back while Sam's unconscious. Fair is fair, just like when they were little.
Dean's all but huzzahing at the ingenuity of his plan, but he calms himself down enough to speak nearly normally. "H-hey, Sammy?" he questions, a tremorous test-run.
Sam doesn't even twitch, and Dean grins. Remember, this is all for the sake of reciprocity . . . and to keep Dean's feelings from killing him slowl--
Keep your theories to yourself!
He clears his throat as quietly as he can, glancing across the upholstery nervously. "Uh, I . . . I--" Quick breath-- "LoveyouSam."
It's almost inaudible and unintelligible, hurriedly rasped in Sam's direction, but all of a sudden, this weight is floating off Dean's chest and out through the seams of the car. He's twice as relieved by the fact that Sam probably didn't even hear him, and he smirks in satisfaction before lead-footing till he's going twenty over the speed limit, Baby purring in acknowledgment of his glee.
Of course, he doesn't know that Sam still can't sleep fully since the start of the End of the World. He doesn't notice--doesn't think to look for the appreciative smile that eases its way across Sam's face . . .
Hey, you won't tell him, will you? 'Cause that could be kind of uncomfortable . . . and embarrassing.
Oh? Oh, good. Glad you agree.
A/N: "It's okay 'cause you're my brother, and I still love ya . . . Boop." --Sam, Interrupted
1/27: I feel like this is totally canon-based, but I might be forgetting some rare moment in which one of the three Winchesters blurts his love for another of the three. Please let me know if this is the case, because I will need to re-watch such a moment religiously and then pretend it never happened for the premise of this fic.
Edited 1/31: Thanks to everyone who reviewed with responses to my above concerns (as well as everyone who reviewed, period, or even just read all the way through--you make me smile). I have thusly altered one line in the fic to fit canon. Win!