OMG This story now officially has the highest number of reviews one of my stories has ever got! *sa-woon* The Denizens, they are so naise to me. Might it crack... (hushed whisper)... 400?
Warning: This chapter contains traces of brotherly schmoop; it's not my forte, but Leahelisabeth wanted it (all part of the Sam-In-A-Box idiom, apparenty). If you don't like, it's ALL HER FAULT...
CHAPTER TWENTY
What is brotherly love?
The answer to that is...
Look, it's complicated, and on the face of it doesn't always make a lot of sense.
Brotherly love is described in philosophy as being an unfeigned love for one's kin. Science describes it as a manifestation of the ancient instinct to protect the wellbeing of the pack as a whole, even unto the cost of an individual's life, in order for those selfish little bits of code, the genes, to be passed on to progeny, and thence posterity. Throwing intelligent self-awareness into the mix complicates things enormously. You only have to look at the interactions of brothers who are usually deemed to get along well to see that.
Especially if you're looking at the poster boys for complicated familial relations who occupied that borrowed trailer.
It's either kind of sad, or kind of hilarious, that the only one in that trailer who has something approaching what might be called a 'normal' relationship with his siblings is Jimi. And he never even met his father.
If an intergalactic student of sentient behaviours arrived, perhaps from Planet Frood, to look at brotherly interactions in certain parts of the Western world, he or she would probably be initially bewildered, even after having spent some time preparing a literature review prior to undertaking field work:
'The ground-breaking work of B'goola et al. (23,455.1a) is generally accepted as the working basis for describing much of North-Western sentients' interactions between male siblings. This has been expressed in general but succinct terms in B'goola and Therban's Paradox,which states: 'The more brothers really care for each other, the more they seem to try to avoid demonstrating that care while making it manifest' (B'goola and Therban, 23,678). This was elaborated in Gleergl's Corollary: 'The more affection they feel for each other, the less likely they are to express that affection in typically affectionate ways, such as demonstrative physical contact or verbal expression' (Gleergl and B'goola, 23,721a). Later work suggested strongly that the disparity of ages of sequential siblings, which is usual in this species due to the prevalence of uniparous incubations (Dergle and Mingax, 22,989a), often has consequences for later interactions between brothers. The complexities of the 'senior brother' and 'junior brother' relationship are only just now beginning to be unravelled, and are turning out to be far more complex that the echo of the male progenitor – offspring relationship suggested by Oodef (23,772a). There may be an analogous sense of responsibility (Oodef 23,772b) and/or a sense of authority (Oodef and Stafflig, 23,775), which may find expression as concern for the welfare of the junior, which the junior brother may reject or welcome – the acceptance of this dynamic is now believed not to be so much as an absolute of one or the other, but to exist somewhere along a continuum between the two (Stafflig et al., 23,782).
This project will examine the expression of attachment between bonded senior and junior brothers through three major mechanisms: name-calling, physical altercation, and pranking. The aim of this project is to dissect the nuances via which these activities, which are more usually associated with adversaries, are used to indicate fondness and love between male siblings...'
(Which just goes to show that, across the universe, post-grads everywhere have eyes bigger than their candidature times and research budgets. The second universal reality of theses is that the finished product bears very little resemblance to what the initial proposal outlined, but because this is acknowledged everywhere, when such a candidate turned in a thesis entitled 'The Place Of The Plastic Spoon In Male Sibling Rivalry And Affection: Implications Of Electronic Social Media In Deviation From The Male Progenitor-Progeny Echo Model Of Relation', nobody would be at all surprised, and the post-grad would have learned a valuable lesson about biting off more than you can masticate.)
The practical demonstration of B'goola and Therban's Paradox that played out in that borrowed trailer would've had any Froodian sentient behaviouralist flapping their floopers in delight, sending s-mails frantically back to the Faculty with ideas for post-grads, and preparing their acceptance speech for the peer accolades that were sure to follow.
When the circus people heard the shots, they had come running to investigate. Dean gave a bare-bones explanation of what had happened, being concerned only with the fact that his traumatised baby brother, who appeared to have gone as limp as some of Nonna's linguini in the wake of his clown-car squishing, needed his attention. Grandma Jefferson, Rhonda the horse trainer and Nonna Martello examined the scene, and quickly ascertained what had been going on. Grandma Jefferson and Rhonda gasped in horror, then set about deactivating the altar. Nonna had gingerly picked up the thick, malevolent-looking grimoire that Ramone and his coven had been using, glanced at a couple of pages, then hissed in disgust. She made the sign of the horns over it to avert the omen, then tore it in half with her bare hands, spitting on the shredded tome before it was burned with all the clowns' occult paraphernalia.
Dean didn't care about any of that. All he cared about was looking after his Sammy, which required some serious big brother TLC, reassurance that he was there for his baby bro, and, in accordance with the principles of B'goola and Therban's Paradox, some merciless teasing.
"Now, don't you get any ideas, you perv," Dean instructed as he deposited Sam on one of the beds and started pulling his unresisting brother's jacket and overshirt off, while Sam watching him with an expression that made him look like a five-year-old whose big brother was carefully dabbing antiseptic onto a scraped knee, "I'd much rather be doing this with Cindy, and no matter how girly your hair is, there is no way I can pretend that your gigantic Sasquatch carcass is her."
"Deeeeeean," whined Sam, partly out of being compared to one of Dean's lady friends, and partly out of relief that his big brother was there to make everything better.
"Stow it, Francis," Dean gave Sam a small smile as he worked his brother's boots off, "Probably the best way to cope is if we both close our eyes, and I'll pretend you're Cindy, and you can pretend I'm Sophie. Oh, Sammikins," he went on in a falsetto tone, "Oh, let me run barefoot through your sideburns, can we leave the light on this time, pleeeeeese?"
"Jerk," mumbled Sam, collapsing obediently onto the bed when Dean pushed him gently. The four archcanines jumped onto the bed and snuggled into his sides.
"We shall perform heat pack therapy," announced Michael, "To speed your recovery."
Jimi whuffed quietly, and honked soothingly on Oinker Stoinker, while Dean did his best to massage some life back into Sam's limbs.
"Where are you sore, Sam?" asked Raphael solicitously.
"Everywhere," replied Sam. "Ow!"
"Your own fault for having such hairy legs, dude," Dean sniggered, massaging his way up Sam's calf. "Crap, this leg is seriously seized up. Heat pack therapy here, guys." Raphael scuttled to change position, and snuggled himself up against Sam's leg.
"You're making me smell funny," Sam whined.
"Maybe, but it works," Dean told him firmly, starting on the other leg, "Trust me. Cindy's mom mixed this batch up just for you, so you'll get massaged with it whether you like it or not."
"There's something weird about getting massaged by your big brother," Sam insisted. Dean stifled a smile; his little brother was practically pouting in token resistance to having his big brother take care of him.
"It could be worse," Dean warned him, "Nonna Martello tried to elbow her way in here, insisting that she could do this for you. Said she had to do all sorts of physical therapy for her husband as he got older and the strongman act got harder on his body. She's a scary lady, Sam. She has hands that could burst tennis balls. Hell, she has hands that could burst baseballs."
"She is not a lady I would want to cross," agreed Sam.
"Well, you're definitely on her good side," Dean informed him, working at a particularly resistant knot and making his little brother yelp, "Because she has left a dish of pasta and meat sauce for you, and given me strict instructions to make sure you eat it all." He glanced at the table, where several bowls and plates wafting delicious aromas had been left. The circus people were very grateful to the Winchesters, and decided to say it with food. Cindy and Sophie were running interference on the constant stream of visitors wanting to ask after Sam's welfare, telling everybody that he would be fine and just needed some time to rest and recover. "And Sophie made you a nice soothing hot chocolate. Says it's a wonderfully soothing brew, with a few pinches of spice in it."
Dean helped Sam sit up, and he sniffed at the hot drink. "It smells good," Sam ventured, "Smells like cinnamon, and nutmeg."
"Nonna said it would be good for you, too," Dean added, "And you don't want to piss her off. You'd better drink it."
Sam tasted it. It was delicious.
"You should try this," Sam waved the mug, "It's really good."
"Nah, I got Dr Daniels' Ethanol Based Cure For Everything," Dean smirked, producing a bottle of said elixir. "Now, lie down again, before I get Nonna in here to make you. Heat therapy detail, deploy!" The archcanines scuttled to snuggle up to a limb each.
"What about you?" asked Sam, "You're bleeding."
"It's just a scalp wound," Dean said dismissively, touching his forehead and seeing blood on his fingers, "You know what those are like, a tiny nick gushes like a geyser."
"I should look at it," insisted Sam, yawning.
"You can in a few minutes, once your chocolate has gone down," Dean told him. "I'll just get the first aid kit, okay?"
" 'K," mumbled Sam, his eyes drooping shut.
Dean headed to the Impala, and when he came back in, Sam was snoring gently. He grinned, and pulled the quilt over him. The archcanines rearranged themselves as Dean opened the kit and a small mirror, and began to dab at his wounds with peroxide, hissing occasionally.
"So, Sophie's hot chocolate seems to have done the trick," observed Gabriel.
"Kid's hated clowns forever," Dean replied, wincing. "He was really shaken up. A bit of rest will do him good."
"Uh-huh," nodded Gabriel. "And you didn't think to tell him that it was actually Nonna Martello who put the pinches of spices into his drink?"
"He didn't need to know that," Dean said dismissively, "What he needs is sleep."
Gabriel whuffed in amusement. "He's gonna pull the mother of all bitchfaces if he finds out you roofied him," he noted.
"Well, he won't find out unless somebody tells him," Dean answered equably, "And if you do, I will take you to the local veterinarian, Doc Woolley, lovely lady, and she will perform a little operation on you that is often performed on male dogs who demonstrate annoying behaviours, and will have you howling soprano for the rest of your mortal tenure."
"You wouldn't!" yipped Gabriel. "You wouldn't! You couldn't! My big brothers would protect me! You saw what we did to that Ramone goon? They won't just sit by and watch you have me mutilated!"
Michael looked thoughtful. "This operation would render him less annoying?" he pressed.
Raphael considered the idea. "It is an intriguing and, I must admit, somewhat tempting idea," he nodded.
Lucifer cocked his head. "She sounds like a most resourceful person," he opined, "If she can do what Father cannot. Perhaps there is more to humans that I have been prepared to believe."
Gabriel's ears drooped. "Guys?" he whined, "Guys? You're... you're kidding, right?"
"You can be really annoying, Gabriel," Dean pointed out. The little Jack Russell began to whimper.
"Oh, very well," humphed Michael. "Dean, should you try to render Gabriel less annoying, we will, as his big brothers, be forced to take action."
"Indeed," Raphael agreed, "We shall collaborate, and act in concert..."
"Ha!" barked Gabriel. "Suck on that, Winchester!"
"To sit on him, so that he does not escape," finished Lucifer.
Dean snorted in amusement as Gabriel glared at his brothers.
"I totally hate you all," he grumbled, settling against Sam's arm.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Sam woke up a couple of hours later, surrounded by gentle snoring. The archpooches were clustered along one side of him, and Jimi stretched out on the other. Dean was at the table, cleaning his favourite gun. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty," he grinned, "How you feeling?"
"Better, I think," answered Sam, experimentally twisting his neck.
"Thanks to my awesome massage skills, and the heat pack team," Dean said, "I'll heat up your pasta. Actually, unless you're a small army, I think the rest of us might have to give you some help with it."
Sam sat up carefully to avoid disturbing the snoozing dogs. "What about tonight's performance?" he asked.
"The show must go on, but it's going on without us," Dean told him firmly. "And, I'm happy to say, without any evil levitating clowns."
"Why did it have to be clowns?" muttered Sam.
"Because the universe hates us, that's why," Dean answered.
Michael sat up and yawned. "You are awake, Sam," he commented, "Are you feeling better?"
"Yeah, thanks," replied Sam.
"We smote Ramone," yawned Lucifer, getting up and stretching.
"We did vent our righteous wrath on his worthless being," nodded Raphael.
"Rest assured, bucko, that piece of shit will never play the piano again," grinned Gabriel.
Dean dished up the excellent pasta that Nonna had prepared, put down dinner for the dogs, and had just settled back on the bench sofa with his bowl, when there was a sudden flap of trench coat.
"Hello, Dean," said Castiel.
"Gaaaaah!" gurgled Dean, almost choking on a piece of meatball, "Cas, how many times can I say it? Personal! Space!"
"My apologies." The angel looked down at himself. "Dean, why did you fling a quantity of pasta at me?"
"How about because you scared the shit out of me by landing practically in my lap, genius?" griped Dean. "That was my dinner! That was Nonna Martello's pasta! You are wearing Nonna Martello's pasta, Cas! That's practically a crime against cuisine right there!"
"Again, my apologies for interrupting your dining." Castiel shrugged, his vessel was clean, and he handed the bowl of pasta back to Dean.
"I don't want to eat that after you've been wearing it," sulked Dean. With a barely perceptible sigh, the angel waved a hand. The bowl of pasta disappeared to be replaced by a plate containing a double cheese baconburger and fries. "All right!" Dean enthused, "Angels of the Lord rock!"
"Hello, little brother," Michael looked up from his dinner.
"Would you like to try some of this pasta?" Raphael enquired. "The business of ingestion is more... delightful than I would ever have believed possible. Have you tried it? If not, you must."
"I would be pleased to share with you," offered Lucifer, "As this vessel is quite small, and does not need so much. Nonna Martello is an exceptional human being, a very talented person."
"The Wise Ass would definitely approve," Raphael licked at Lucifer's ear affectionately.
"Yo, little bro," Gabriel gave him a doggy grin and licked meat sauce off his muzzle, "How's Dad managing? Has he been to see Danael yet? I'd love to be a cherub on the wall for that encounter..."
"Hi, Cas," Sam greeted their visitor, "What's up?"
"My Father – our Father – wanted me to let you know that He is most impressed with your tuition of His eldest children in the meaning of brotherhood," Castiel related, "And He sends His gratitude."
"No Vatican charge card then, huh?" asked Dean wistfully. "Didn't think so."
"As a result, He has asked me to call on my brothers," Castiel went on. "He feels that you have learned what you can from this outing, and that it is time for you to return to your angelic selves."
The four small dogs stared at him.
"But... not before we have finished our pasta, right?" said Raphael hopefully.
"Father says that it is up to you what you do next," Castiel told them, "But He will expect you to take your newfound insights into your future behaviour."
Sam looked at the four archcanines. "Perhaps you can take some time to think about what you do next, guys," he suggested, "There's no rush. After all, you're Archangels. You have the rest of forever."
"I would like... to stay long enough do one more act," said Lucifer slowly.
"I would like that too," agreed Michael, eyeing the contents of his bowl. "After so many people went to the trouble of preparing food for us, it would be rude not to eat it."
"It would be unappreciative of their efforts," nodded Raphael, "And I would like to speak with the Wise One once more."
"Hey, that gives me the chance to go talk to Lursa and B'Etor!" yapped Gabriel happily. "Third time's the charm!"
"Very well," nodded Castiel, "I shall relay your intentions to Father." He paused. "I think He is proud of you all," he added, smiling at his big brothers before disappearing in a flap of wings and a swirl of trench coat.
"Dear old Dad," sighed Gabriel, "You know, the first thing I'm gonna do when I get back home is polish up my trumpet. The acoustics in the Throne Room are really good."
"You dare sound that thing in there, and I will smite you," yapped Lucifer tartly. "I am not over-taxing my Grace again to restore the windows, and I doubt that I could charm the Choir, being so recently excused from Perdition."
"Hey! Hey!" yelped Gabriel. "We've only just been given our Grace back, and you're planning to smite me already? Michael! Raphael! You can't be prepared to let him do that!"
"Gabriel," Michael rolled his puggy eyes, "You so much as fly past the Throne Room holding your trumpet, and we will sit on you while he does it."
"Big brothers suck," muttered Gabriel.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Later that evening, Sophie came to the door to ask after Sam's wellbeing. Dean pushed the bottle of liniment into her hands, waggled his eyebrows at his blushing little brother, and said, "What he really needs is some... pleasurable exertion to stretch those muscles out." Then he grinned hugely, and went to find Cindy, with whom he found some pleasurable exertion of his own, including another go at the reciprocating force-out.
Jimi and the archpooches settled in the Impala for the night, Michael, Raphael and Lucifer deep in thought whilst Gabriel sought out the Dobermans. When he returned bruised, battered and grinning from ear to ear, all he'd say was, "I told you, Klingons like it rough!"
They stayed one more day to perform as The Counterterrierists one more time, then the archcanines made preparations to depart as the Winchesters packed the Impala and readied to set out on their own next job.
"Goodbye then, Dean and Sam Winchester," intoned Michael. "We will take our leave now. This experience has given us... much to think about."
Dean paused. "I won't say it was nice working with you, because it wasn't," he told them, "As far as I'm concerned, you're a bunch of arrogant flying dicks who behave like spoiled children, power corrupts and all that, and if it was up to me, I'd drop you all into a vat of holy oil and light that bitch up."
"Gee, thanks for the pep talk, coach," snuffled Gabriel.
"Gabriel," warned Raphael, "Let it be. For as the Wise Ass explained, an opinion that has been formed on the basis of conduct cannot be reformed by further episodes of the same conduct."
" 'If someone doesn't like donkeys, kicking them won't improve matters'," nodded Lucifer.
"Well, so long, and, uh, good luck with the whole, you know, restoration of Grace thing," offered Sam. "I hope it all works out better for you, you know, the, er, family thing."
"Stay the fuck away from our planet, or we will find a way to end each and every one of you feathery bitches," added Dean.
"Very well," acknowledged Michael. As the Winchesters watched, the Pug, the French Bulldog and the Jack Russell Terrier began to glow, then dissolved in a sprinkling of light like spirals of rainbow fireflies.
"I wonder what they'll get up to," mused Sam.
"So long as they do it on the other side of the universe, I don't care," griped Dean, "Because if the..."
Lucifer remained, looking up at Sam.
"Samuel," he began uncertainly, "My brother Gabriel suggested that I get to know humans before passing judgement on them. Would you be prepared to offer me one last bit of assistance?"
Nearly there, just an Epilogue to go. And possibly, a visit from a certain white van...
Reviews are the Post-Punch-Up Winchester Of Your Choice Willing To Indulge In Enjoyable Exertion In The Trailer Of Life!*
Don't try the reciprocating force-out unless you have a bottle of that liniment handy.