Things That Never Happened
AU. Bold Sammy talking, ItalicBold Dean talking.
Summary - the winchesters killed the ceiling!demon when dean was 19 and everyone went back to their merry little lives. except for dean. who still hunts. (as he always will) \
Just a musing brought to life. (though half way through it nearly became wincest porn to amuse me. but dont you worry. i did eventually stop laughing and stop imagining smut and went back to the actual plot line)
--
You can never predict
when hes going to come, but you can always feel when his presence in
the house. You'll creep down the stairs in the middle of the night to
find him staring out a window silhouetted by the moonlight. He always
turns as your foot leaves the last stair and give you that Hey Sammy grin that youve never seen replicated.
You
still have no idea how he gets into your house, youve never seen the
telltale smudges on any of the windows, and the door locks are always
in pristeen condition and the chains and bolts always latched firmly
shut. Sometimes you have to stop yourself from thinking that maybe he
really is dead and what youve got left is this looking-for-a-hot-cup-of-coffee-and-your-soft-couch spectre, that has always left before your family wakens in the morning.
So
you make him your coffee and he leans agains the counter in the dark,
the soft light of appliances illuminating the scar that runs from his
eyebrow and down his cheek, a scar that wasnt there three months ago
when he last stopped by for coffee.
You talked to Dad?
He grins, not a Hey Sammy grin, a dont-be-a-fucking-moron grin.
I havent talked to the man for fourteen fucking years, im not about to start now.
Theres a something in his voice that makes you pause, you want to believe its just a bitter something, a bitter at his father, bitter at him, bitter at the whole goddamned world something , but the way hes leaning against the counter, leaning on it too goddamned heavily, you worry. You want to turn the lights on, but youve learnt from fourteen fucking years experience that Dean doesnt like the lights on, that Dean will leave as soon as the lights turn on and thats something you dont want to have happen. Theres something in the back of Dean's mind that makes him shy from the light, and he knows he couldnt handle being in Sammy's normal perfect life. He has a hard enough time being in Sammy's home when everythings drenched in the blackness of night, and the air is heavy with the dark.
You know thats why he parks the impala so far away, so he doesnt wake up the neighbourhood, Sammy's family, with his loud inappropriate car and his why-didnt-you-tell-me-you-had-a-brother presence. You think about asking him if he's okay, but thats number two on the Makes Dean Uncomfortable list, and you dont think you can go another three months on the ten minutes of Dean youve had. So instead you continue the conversation, because although its awkward and full of omissions and rephrasings, its still safer than asking your brother if he needs help.
Hes getting married.
Dean looks up, the green digits on your microwave gives his eyes a surreal possessed look.
Her name's Missouri. She's.
Your voice doesnt crack, youre merely pausing for effect. lies.
She's from Lawrence.
I know.
He knows.You cant even begin to work out how, maybe he's been keeping tabs on their father, maybe he knows shes from lawrence, maybe he knows her or maybe he knows how hard it is for you trying to to skirt around painful subjects. You dont know. Dean's always held more knowledge than should be humanly possible.
I think he wants you to. Its . Its in April.
You always have trouble putting together these sentences. he wants you to come, its in the spring, in april.
You think he'll let me be best man?
His way of saying no, not likely, no-way-in-hell-sammy.
Silence
resumes. Your cup is empty and the way he's staring in his, idly
swirling it around, youd say his may as well be empty too.
Do you want another?
You ask and he shrugs, a gesture you out, then pushes off the counter with considerably more effort than should be required.
Dean.
You try not to add a question mark at the end.
Im fine, Sammy.
He might be. But the way he is obviously stopping his arm from curling around his side makes you doubt it.
Dean.
He looks at you, a wry grin on his face.
Im fine, Daddy.
Hes mocking and you so didnt just sound like your father just then.
Dean.
Okay so your voice is doing that i-dont-believe-a-word-youre-saying-young-man voice youve had to use on your own son.
Sam.
His voice is telling you he doesnt want you to see whats wrong, doesnt want you to go off on another rant about how dangerous hunting is, because dammit dont you think he knows that already?
You wanna sleep on the couch?
You throw him a compromise.
He shrugs again, and you have to force yourself not to help him to the couch, and instead go and grab a blanket, then on a second thought, a torch and the first aid kit from the bathroom.
He has lowered himself onto the couch by the time you get back, sinking himself its softness, eyes close, head resting back. One of his eyes cracks open as he hears you coming, he gives a snort and shakes his head in amusement as he sees the first aid kit in you hands, but, thankfully, doesnt protest or complain. Instead he takes the blanket from you and bundles it at one end of the couch, shrugs out of his wearing-thin leather coat, then lays down. You kneel down beside the couch and he pulls up his shirt to reveal a hastily bandaged stab wound to the side of his lower back. Its not a vital-organs-in-distress sort of stab, more of a you-will-probably-bleed-to-death-if-you-dont-stitch-it kind of stab. But theres only fresh blood on his shoddy bandage and shirt, so you have to presume he has given it some attention.
I cant reach it, to sew the bitch up.
He says it quitely, and you look up at his hunching shoulders and wonder what his face looks like when no ones watching. Luckily for him, you mightnt be accurate with a bow any more or be able to shoot a shotgun single handed, but you can sew the ten, eleven, fifteen stitches needed to keep your only sibling away from death's cold inevitable hands. Your stitches are neat and well done, considering you havent done this since the time before last time that Dean stumbled around your living room, gashes neck and shoulder, almost a year ago. He doesnt mention the pain, even when you dump disinfectant on the wound, he instead makes bad jokes about him being shirtless, on your couch, with you on your knees, and just about anything else that comes to mind as he picks at the maroon leather of your couch. When youre finished, you put a stick bandage over it and leave your hand on his scarred back for a second too long, but he seems to be in a forgiving mood, because he doesnt mention it as he rolls over and pushes his shirt back down.
Go to bed Sammy, youre tired.
He
doesnt say thankyou, because that would be awkward and last time he
did, you burst into tears because of a whole lot of things that wasnt
him him thanking you, and he hasnt thanked you since. You give his
shoulder a playful push, because a pat would be too chickflick-y and a
hug would probably break his brain, and walk into the kitchen to clean
up trace-of-dean, the now dirty coffee mug, the small smudge of blood
on the counter.
When you walk back out hes asleep, or at least,
youre pretty sure he is. And you find yourself sinking into the couch
opposite him, content to watch over him as he sleeps in what is
probably the most comfortable place hes been in since last time he was
here. Suddenly your half an hour every couple of months isnt enough and
you run your hands through your hair and rub your face to stop the
prickling in your eyes, Dean would make it a point to wake up just when
youre crying over him. asshole.
Sometime after the three
hours you spent watching him, when you sunk into sleep, and the three
before sunlight starts shining through the window, that he had been
standing in front of, he leaves and you wake up with a blanket
draped carefully lovingly over you and a knife on the coffee table, hilt sticking out from beneath the tv guide.
You reach out and grab a hold of it, cradling it and admring the fine craftmanship and the happy 28th birthday sammy.
And you know that all the feverish checking of obituaries, missing
people and scanning of even the slightest bit of news about Dean
Winchester, all the long nights of that youve spent, and will spend
again convincing yourself that youve done the right thing, that you
love your wife, and children, all the worry, all the lies and
he-asked-about-you's you tell your dad when you speak to each other and
all the goddamned not knowing that comes with having Dean as a brother, its all worth it, even if it is only for an hour or two every couple of months.
Because he's still your brother.And youre still his.
-
:3