Luv Ya like I love my pet fish Fluffy!
P.S.- I don't have a pet fish! =O
I have NO beta! Sorry for the inconvenience! hope u like it!
ENJOY!
I keep forgetting to write a Disclaimer so here goes...
Disclaimer: I own neither Sam nor Dean. If I did, a heart attack would abruptly occur and I would be left for dead, drifting into a hollow, dark place where the sun doesn't shine, the moon doesn't glow, the dew of grass doesn't shimmer, and the Winchester boys aren't present. I would then- rather miraculously, really- rise from the dead and join the Winchester brothers once more. Days later after I resurrected I live on only to fall into the depths of hell once more. Depressed, I would rot in the cells of Satan for hundreds of thousands of years, waiting for the day to roam the grounds of Earth, only to meet my wonderful Winchester boys again. If only I owned the boys, claimed them as my own, then I could make them do some Winchester, supernatural magic to bring me back to the land of the living. Unfortunately, I do not own Supernatural, or the Winchester boys, so everything I said is pretty much null and void.
How was THAT for a disclaimer?
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Sam. Dean couldn't help but smile. There was something about the name, something significant he couldn't quite grasp. Like a bird perched on a tree, taking flight right before you snatch it. He considered the name, mulling it over hundreds of times in his head. He very possibly heard the name from before, he felt like he had somehow, somewhere, but he just couldn't remember. Dean huffed to himself. It didn't matter anyway. He's never met this Sam in his life, there is more than just one Sam.
After the small introduction, the questionably 19-year old kid came from behind the bar, hands in his pockets. Sam gave him a glance of recognition and went back to the wineglasses. The kid pulled up the slab and moved over to Sam, carefully inspecting the glasses. It was obvious the kid wasn't a perfectionist; he had that look about him that if he had found a spot of dirt he wouldn't make a fuss. More likely he would just laugh and pop Sam a good one and tell him to fix it. Neither were necessary, however, because the look on the kid's face proved enough. He had expected perfection, and that's what he got. There's wasn't a speck of dust on any of the wineglasses, and the kid wasn't the least bit surprised.
"You okay?" the black-haired boy asked as he turned to Sam. He looked concerned, like he expected Sam to break and crumble from so much pressure, like it was expected from just anyone.
But Sam wasn't just anyone, Dean reminded himself. He responded to the boy with the same sense of calm as always, "Yeah."
The young man nodded, not entirely convinced, and Dean watched as he looked over Sam's shoulder. Sam looked at the man questioningly, then followed his line of view. The black-haired kid walked past Sam to the other side of the bar and looked below the cabinets, out of Dean's line of sight. He made a tsk tsk tsk sound with his throat and shook his head slowly.
"He's awake."
The venom in the kid's voice was apparent. He had a visible distaste for the man, for obvious reasons, of course. The more Dean watched the young man another, more prominent anger seemed to glow in the kid's eyes, maybe a malicious need for vengeance, a seeking of revenge. His hands were clenched into tight fists and were shaking profusely. As if the man had done something else, something before he came into the bar today. His eyes were slits with his eyebrows pointed downward. Most would translate this as anger. Why? Because that's damn sure what it was.
Sam frowned, but otherwise made no move of dissatisfaction. He set down the wineglass he had currently been sanitizing and gingerly wiped his hands with a spare cloth. Throwing it over his shoulder, he sauntered over to the kid, inspecting the big man. Dean leaned forward for a better view and saw the now conscious man's bug eyes bulging out of his sockets as he eyed the kid bartender, Sam. Sam held out a hand, grappled it onto the man's muscular shoulder, and hoisted the man to his feet in one, swift motion. He staggered ever so slightly, but regained composure relatively fast. Dean heard a low, strained growl reverberate near his ear, only to realize minutes later it was his own. He bolted his mouth shut quick, but that didn't stop Sam from looking questioningly over his shoulder.
Dean flushed, embarrassed that he got caught doing something so senseless. He was growling. He wasn't a damn dog, what was he thinking? Sam probably realized what he was doing before he himself did. Actually, now that he thought about it, it felt weird, not knowing what you're doing while someone else has for God knows how long. It takes some getting used to, but he didn't plan on it happening again. Hell, he was a hunter. He's supposed to know every single move, including his own.
Dean kept up a complete wall - foreclosure, stoic, facade - the whole enchilada. Or the whole taco, depending on your level of conformity. The large man's eyes were filled with as much vengeance as the other, black-haired kid, yet his gaze wasn't focused on him, but Sam. Sam's face was anything but emotional as he eyed the man with a disinterested inspection. The man had several bruises and a cut lip, but other than that he was overall still fine, and still possibly quite deadly.
Dean was hesitant with the situation and even went so far as to moving his seat and relocating it somewhere closer to the man and Sam...and the other kid, whose name was still unknown. What if the older man just hadn't been prepared, wasn't aware of a thing called the "element of surprise". Now that he knew what Sam could do, what he was capable of, maybe he'd take him more seriously, fight up to par. No doubt, Sam was deadly as hell, but this man definitely had a few advantages that you could hardly ignore: age, size, experience, his need for superiority, and an unquestionably hurt ego, which would send any man on a rampage. All these things the man was more matured in, while Sam was unequivocally still a teenager, no matter how much his eyes told differently.
The big man took a purposely intimidating step forward, entering Sam's "personal bubble" in only half of that. Sam's upper lip curled upward in distaste and the man's, in contrast, grew into a wide grin.
"Hopefully I'll be able to fuck him up more next time," he laughed. "Literally."
Sam flinched violently, turning away to look at the floor. The jet-black haired kid grit his teeth and gave the older man a good punch across his cheek, his knuckles scraping at the skin. The man fell to the ground, hitting his head on the tabletop with a grunt. Not quite down for the count, the kid gave one solid kick to the gut, then another. The man groaned, laid his head on the hard floor, and was knocked cold. Or he just fell asleep, you never knew with these people.
When Dean turned to look at Sam next his hands had turned to fists and he was suddenly towering over the man's body, his shoulders trying to sustain the sudden emotion. Slowly, he bent to lean beside the man's ear and whispered something inaudible. Dean cursed silently to himself, leaning forward in his seat to no avail.
Not a moment later and Sam was standing back up, the black-haired boy standing beside him supportively.
"All right, Sam, let's get this guy on the street. I'm tired of seeing this guy's ass." The kid sneered, grabbing onto the man's shoulder and waited patiently for Sam to recover and grab the legs. Together, they hoisted the man onto his feet - well, kinda, he's still technically unconscious- and hauled him out the front door. They didn't throw him out the door, but it came in a close second. They walked a few yards away from The Braders' entrance and dumped him on the street. Even if he was still out for vengeance for whatever the hell happened, when he came to, he probably wouldn't even know which way's up. Dean smirked as he finished the last of his beer in one gulp. This had been a very eventful day. There was some ass-kicking, unconsciousness, the meeting of Sam - whom he's still quite curious about - consciousness, than unconscious once again, and some throwing-out-the-doorness. All happening at this bar in a time-span of maybe one hour. He checked his watch: 6:45. He whistled softly, it had been longer than he expected. Maybe he did more thinking than he thought.
He shrugged it off. It's not like he had a curfew, and it's not even that late. Besides, they still had to wait a few weeks until the full moon, when the werewolf made an appearance. Still, they needed to do some followup work.
Dean grunted in annoyance, swirling his empty beer bottle around.
"Problem?"
Dean looked up to see Sam back behind the bar, serving up a beer for an elderly man to his left. He hadn't heard him come back, and probably wouldn't have even known he was there until he looked up. He was getting soft.
"Haven't you asked me that before?"
Sam's lips turned upward, not a full-on smile but, then again, Dean had the feeling they didn't come around too often. He wasn't exactly Mr. Sunshine here. It was more of an almost smile, the sides of his lips just barely curving upward. Nevertheless, it seemed to ease Dean's heart in a way he couldn't really explain.
"I believe I have." He set the beer in front of the old man, who seemed especially slow to get his arthritic hand to wrap around the beer bottle, but seemed nonetheless thankful. "You want another beer?" Sam asked, glancing back at Dean.
"Why not?"
Dean rarely ever drank to the point of excess, and he knew his limits, except for a few occasions, which always seemed to end badly, by the way. In his lifestyle, everybody's a victim, plain as day. What matters is how you go down, and he sure as hell wasn't dying because he was drunk fighting a vampire.
Maybe he decided on another beer because he didn't want to leave. Maybe Sam was keeping him here. Maybe he would feel today as more of a victory if he got more out of Sam. He no doubt was curious of Sam's own lifestyle.
Setting a beer in front of Dean, Sam said, "I notice you've changed seats. Was there a problem with the other one or were you feeling paranoid?"
Dean gave a hearty grin. "I wanted a better view."
"Did you now? I'll remember to look for you the next time something comes up so you can get yourself a front row ticket."
Dean's smile seemed to slowly decrease in size. This couldn't have been his first fight, and it surely wouldn't be his last. What if, next time, the kid bartender wasn't so lucky? What if he was outnumbered; his kickass skills could only take him so far. What if he gets hurt and he's all alone in some deserted alley? What would happen if, one day, he didn't show up to work?
Sam noticed the look on Dean's face, the conversion from happy to sad, but seemed dazzled as to why it was there. Why would he be sad, he was probably wondering. Dean guessed that Sam saw nothing wrong with his previous comment, that it just hit a soft spot for Dean because it reminded him of something painful. When, in actuality, it was just the fact that Dean's wariness of Sam's well-being was so excessive he felt like he was going to explode.
"So do you go to school near here?" Dean had decided to the leave the issue for another time, mull things over when he's in the confines of his bed so he didn't waste time with Sam.
Sam said nothing for a long moment. He was currently drying his hands off with a paper towel, his nimble, scrawny fingers being rid of the moisture along his fingertips. "I don't go to school."
This seemed to catch Dean off guard, which was damn hard to do, leaving him in a bit of a daze. What? He had previously thought every kid went to school, like it was required at something. Was working at The Braders a full time job since he didn't go to school, or was there something else he worked on outside the bar?
Sam eyed the questioning look Dean had before working up a frozen margarita. He placed whip cream on top, added a cherry, which seemed like two odd topping in Dean's opinion, and handed it to a woman to his right with sleek black hair. She seemed to have an animalistic look about her as she eyed Sam, possibly undressing him with her eyes. Dean clenched his fists, but made no further move. Her shot at anything later tonight proved ineffective as Sam kept up the same blank expression. She huffed, grabbed her frozen margarita, and dashed off, leaving the money on the bar. Sam, being his usual elegant self, picked up the money and placed it under the marble tabletop, inside a small cabinet.
Sam seemed to tune back to Dean's conversation and rested his arms on the counter. "I'm no Bill Gates. School isn't exactly an option right now."
All Dean could think to do was nod, never one for words. He paused slightly, both externally and internally, as he replayed Sam's comment, twisting it around and looking at it from different angles. By saying he was "no Bill Gates," did he mean he wasn't smart, or he wasn't rich? Because Bill Gates was sure as hell both. Seeing as how his current occupation was at a local bar, he could see how the kid bartender wasn't loaded, but never could he see him as unintelligent, it was as impossible as getting Eve away from the damn apple - fucking impossible.
Sam seemed especially modest to say even that; Sam had to have some faint knowledge he was above average in nearly everything - so Dean thought, at least - so why not school, too? There was this deep, uncomprehendable intelligence that lurked behind those blue eyes, and it scared Dean. Well, not necessarily scared Dean, but you had to wonder. What knowledge did he have that he wasn't willing to share to the world? Was he so neglected, so isolated from everyone that he kept everything he was ever aware of to himself, leaving him stuck in his own shell, alone with only his thoughts, to the point where one day he just exploded?
It was a rough concept to understand. Dean may not have many real close friends, but he had John, along with a couple other hunters he held dear to his heart - Bobby, Pastor Jim, Caleb, and Joshua were all genuinely good, reliable friends. But, never in a million years, could he consider having nobody to connect with. It was unfathomable, beyond the imagination. Maybe he was starting to get ahead of himself. Sam surely had the black-haired kid to talk to. He knew who the big man from earlier was so Sam must have confided in him for something.
Speaking of the kid...
"Hey, Sam, who's that kid over there? With the black hair?" Dean pointed over to a table of four, who were being served by the kid. He set their orders down, giving them their drinks and appetizers counter-clockwise.
Sam followed Dean's discrete pointing and landing his eyes on the kid Dean was talking about. He turned back to Dean, raising a perfectly curved eyebrow. "Why?"
Dean shrugged noncommittally. "No reason. Just curious."
Sam seemed to read Dean's face for what it was: innocence and curiosity. Sam nodded, turned his head back on Dean. "His name's Troy. He's...been a good friend to me. Trustworthy", Sam said, continuing to clean the counter off with a cloth. Dean nodded thoughtfully as Sam replaced the old man's empty beer bottle for a full one.
He ambled back in front of Dean as Dean took a swig of his beer. He placed his elbows on the counter and rested his neck in his hands, massaging the back of his neck but keeping his gaze on Dean.
"I have a question."
"Shoot," Dean said a mite to quickly.
Sam's face remained thoughtful as he looked into Dean's eyes. He seemed to study Dean for a long time, but all Dean could think to do was look back. He looked into the deep, dark recesses of the kid's mind. It was unfathomable, bewildering, mystifying. All the adjectives that translated to "What the fuck does that even mean?" An enigma of a life, an explicable, unsolvable puzzle.
"Who are you?"
It wasn't meant in an accusing way. It was spoken softly, curiously. Sam's eyes showed defeat and, once again, confusion. Dean watched the clouds of mystification dance around, gleaming visibly in his eyes.
"What do you mean?"
Sam opened his mouth, then shut it, contemplating his words more than what was usually required. Dean watched as Sam broke eye contact for a split second, before maintaining it again.
"Four principles to reading people: establish the baseline, recognize patterns, challenge and refine your assumptions, and above all, make the decision. All humans seem the same, no matter what angle you read them." Sam's heated gaze scrutinized even Dean as he fervently pushed down the urge to squirm in his seat. "You're different."
It was as if Sam was engraining his need for answers on his flesh, under his bones, in his brain. He was the one person Sam didn't know everything about, and he was curious about Dean, intrigued. He wanted to know his story, what made him different, what made him stand out from the rest, that he was a hunter.
Dean knew one of the first rules of being a hunter was keeping your identity unknown. Interact with no one, trust no one, say nothing. A mere shadow. Dean didn't know positively that he could trust Sam, but he was willing to interact, talk, with him. Interacting doesn't mean trusting, and it sure as hell doesn't mean telling the truth.
Dean shrugged, taking another sip of his beer. "I'm just your average Joe."
Sam saw right through it, Dean knew, but accepted it. He nodded, as if he believed Dean, and got up off the counter he had been leaning on. He turned his head, looking up at the small clock that hung just above the front door. 7:31. Sam let escape past his lips a small, nearly inaudible sigh.
He trudged behind the bar and disappeared behind the large block of wood, containing several kinds of alcoholic beverages - it was a bar, afterall. He came back seconds later wearing a black wornout hoodie. Dean heard the kid, who he recently found to be Troy, yell a distanced "See you tomorrow". Sam adjusted the slightly too large hoodie, calling out an "I'll do my best".
"If you need help just call me," came the voice again. Troy stuck his head out from behind the bar before Sam could leave, his gaze dead serious. "Not kidding."
Sam nodded before traipsing over to the front door, messing with the hood of his jacket as he kicked the door open lightly with his foot.
Just before he left, he turned back to Dean.
"Nice talking with you, Dean."
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Insight would definitely help with this chapter; I would LOVE to know for future reference!
It's 2:30 in the morning, I'm only half-coherent, and quite potentially entirely unconscious. As such, I'm going to have to turn in. I hope you enjoyed it. :]
