Theory

By Alone Dreaming

Rating and Disclaimer: See chapter one.

Warnings: Slightly mature topics, bad language, angst, dorky humor

Dedication: To Steph, for the smiles and laughs, and to Emi for getting a kick out of it.

Author's Note: This is actually six of twenty but somehow I got off. Trying to get you guys, see if you noticed. I was looking at my author's notes and wondering why I didn't re-read them. Did some messing up. Anyhow- chapter six of twenty is here. Still unbeta'd. Enjoy.

"I can still taste you in my mouth," he whined from the bathroom. "And it's just fuckin' wrong."

He heard Sam make a noncommittal noise from the room and gave his teeth another vicious scrub. Over the front teeth, then down to the molars, then around the area followed by his tongue; repeat process. Spitting the toothpaste suds into the sink, he noted blood with them and decided that it was another reason to whine. He picked up the toothpaste, spread more of it onto the bristles, and started to brush again.

"This is so not cool," he garbled. "Urgh… How the hell am I supposed to get chicks when I taste like my little brother?"

"How would they know?" Sam asked, his voice dripping with irritation.

He paused, and leaned out of the bathroom. "Dude, they just know it."

"Whatever," Sam grumbled, not looking up from his computer. Then, he mumbled under his breath, "No possible way they could know."

He raised an eyebrow and went back into the bathroom. "Not true, Sammy," he garbled. "They know. They've got this intuition and it totally turns them off. I've got proof."

"It's Sam," his brother grunted. "The only way they could know is if they kissed the both of us."

He wrinkled his nose and pulled his bottom lip down. Deciding it wasn't clean enough, he squirted the toothpaste directly onto his teeth. "That's nasty," he said, not bothering to wipe off the toothpaste that dribbled onto his chin.

Something snapped in the bedroom and he peered around the corner to see what it was. Sam was holding a broken pencil in his hand, his eyes fixated on the screen. He could tell that his brother wasn't reading the words though. His face radiated a myriad of emotions, the two most prominent irritation and anger, but he couldn't help but note that grief was there too. The slight tremble of Sam's shoulders and the way his hand was squeezing the pieces of the pencil, he could tell that his brother was struggling not to explode on the spot.

Maybe he'd pressed a little too hard.

"Pencils don't grow on trees you know," he commented lightly, discarding his toothbrush in the sink and wiping his chin. "Need to be careful with them."

Sam didn't answer immediately. Instead, he released the pencil from the white knuckled grip and took in a deep breath. "Next time, Dean," he said, his voice wavering. "I'm just gonna let you drown."

"You don't mean that," he replied, hovering in the doorway. His lips twitched. "I know you don't."

Sam glared at him, and he could see, underneath it all, the lingering fear. "Wanna bet?"

"Fifty bucks," he offered, "says that you'll bail me out next time my ass is on the line."

Sam just shook his head. A smile crossed his lips and he muttered, "Stupid jerk," under his breath. He would've retorted with, "Cranky bitch," but his little brother was using the phrase rather affectionately and, considering how upset Sam had been two seconds before, he didn't push it. Instead, he decided that maybe flossing would take away the lingering remnants of Sammy and went back to the bathroom to test his theory.

The fact was, he didn't know that Sam would save him again. Just like how he didn't know if they'd ever find their Dad, or kill the Demon. It was similar to how he wasn't sure about when they would get their next meal, or if the credit card would work one more time, or if they'd both escape the next hunt unscathed. In fact, it was almost identical to, though he'd never admit it, how he wasn't sure if the girls could really tell if he tasted like his brother or if they just didn't like him. He wasn't sure of anything at all. He hadn't been since his mother died pinned to the ceiling.

But hell, he'd be damned if he didn't have a lot of theories.