Title: Reconnect
Author: Jycaegima
Fandom: Supernatural
Set early Season 1 Spoilers for Skin
Warning: Blink and you miss it Wincesty overtones
Notes: I seriously have not written anything in a God's age, so comments, criticism, even flames are welcome, if they can somehow manage to help me improve.
Summary: Sam never quite knows how to take Dean anymore.
"Did you know I got married once?" Dean asked casually over runny eggs.
Sam spit out hit coffee, spewing it across the chipped Formica table. The grizzled waitress frowned at him over the empty counter. Sam wiped his mouth quickly. Dean just kept looking at him, placidly stirring bacon into his scrambled eggs.
"Are you serious?"
"Yep."
"Let me guess—a 48-hour bender in Vegas?"
"No, Sammy. It was-"
"Atlantic City?"
"No."
Sam started tapping his knee against the underside of the table. He waited a few moments, staring at his brother's grin.
"Okay when? And who and why—and, seriously, why?"
"Indiana, a girl, and to end a curse." Dean grinned again and Sam had the distinct urge to run to the car and unwind all of his cassette tapes.
"Could you be anymore succinct?"
"Yes."
"Dean!"
"There was a nasty phantom slaughtering young men. It always attacked at moonset and by the time we arrived seven had been killed."
"I still don't see how this--"
"Shut up Sam and I'll tell you."
"We did the usual research and couldn't find a damn thing. Plus, the town only had a population of 350, so it wasn't like we were inconspicuous."
"Inconspicuous?" Sam snarked.
Dean glared at him, "Wow—you really do think I'm a moron, don't you?" He stood and tossed some cash on the table, then strode out of the diner.
Sam looked down at his plate, feeling chagrined and a little guilty. Ever since returning from Stanford, he had slowly been realizing how much he and Dean had drifted apart. He still trusted his brother with his life and he knew the feeling was reciprocated, without question. The big things were still solid between them, but the everyday routines had broken down. Sam couldn't read Dean anymore and that had a habit of biting him in the ass.
Sam gulped down the last of his coffee, gave a rueful smile to the waitress, and walked out.
"What was she like?" It had been two hours of Motörhead at earsplitting decibels, Dean punctuating every drum solo on the steering wheel. Sam was bored out of his skull, watching endless fields of tobacco pass.
"Who?"
"Your ex-wife."
Dean wrinkled his nose and popped open the glove box. Exchanging Motörhead for AC/DC, Dean glanced at Sam warily.
"Technically, we're still married. I mean, I guess not now, since I'm legally dead, but it's not like either of us filed for divorce."
"Dean!" Sam screeched, "How could you just marry some poor girl and blithely walk away. I can't-"
"Sammy-you might want to stop before you swallow your whole leg. That poor girl was four years older than me and one of the scariest fucking witches I've ever met."
"Witch as in new-agey or Glinda?"
"Witch as in Bad Willow on the rag."
Sam decided to keep his mouth shut for a while. Dean was once again keeping time, softly humming along with Bon Scott. Sam bit at his lower lip and sighed. It seemed like no matter what he said, he kept putting his foot in it. He leaned his head against the cold window. He also felt a little jealous that some random girl got such a commitment out of his brother, whatever the circumstances. Sam grimaced again, and decided not to look at that reaction too closely.
"So there was a phantom and a curse?"
"Yeah, and a coven who knew what was going on."
Sam rolled onto his side and watched Dean sink into the other bed. Dean threw his arms over his head and wiggled down into the bedspread. Sam tracked Dean's movement, his throat suddenly dry and sticky. After a few uncomfortable minutes, Sam coughed softly and Dean growled. Turning toward Sam he whispered, "If I finish telling you the story, will you go to sleep Sammy?"
Sam rolled his eyes. "You do get that I am not eight years-old anymore, right?"
Dean exhaled and under his breath said, "Sometimes it would be so much easier if you were."
And so it went. Mile by mile, story after story, Sam learned Dean all over again. It wasn't until the third tale, a month and a half later that Sam finally caught on.
This one was about a pretty little barmaid in Iowa who had been possessed by her newly-dead bitch of a grandmother. Sam had chided Dean about his callousness, but it didn't have its previously angry, grief-ridden edge.
That night, wrapped in three flannel shirts and sprawled on the cold back seat, Sam remembered the most important facet of his brother that he had somehow forgotten. Dean always got his point across, even when it seemed that he was spouting absolute horseshit.
Every anecdote, once Sam pared away Dean's flourishes, was about family, about loyalty, and about absence. Sam smacked his head softly against the door. Dean had, in his own inimitable way, been telling Sam how much he had missed him.
Sam peered over the seat at his brother, Dean's features tense even in sleep. His brother's body under his coat was littered with faint scars. Each scar was a landmark, with which Sam could mark his own life. The ones that he didn't know the stories of pointed to his departure.
Sam twisted back into the leather seat and sighed softly. Shaking his head, he softly muttered, "No chick flick moments, my ass."
End.