For the past three hours, Dean has been tinkering with the motor for the second hand snow blower he bought off of their next door neighbor. Wrist deep in grease and surrounded by a semi-circle of worn parts, he begins to wonder if he should just chuck the whole thing in the rubbish bin and shovel by hand. But the very real concern over how many hours of his life would be spent clearing the four steps to the house, the drive-way, the short path to the sidewalk and, of course, the sidewalk itself, prods him to continue.
Let's face it. They live in freakin' South Dakota. It's December.
Enough said.
The various parts are laid out on the coffee table in the living room, mocking him with their stubborn refusal to cooperate in any way. He doesn't understand it. He can put entire cars together from scratch, but a little POS snow blower is driving him out of his mind. He takes another sip of beer, grits his teeth, pushes his sleeves up above his elbows and dives back in.
He absolutely refuses to let the stupid thing get the better of him.
In the kitchen, Sam is standing at the sink finishing the dinner dishes. Dean pauses a minute to smirk at the royal blue latex gloves on his brother's hands as he pulls plates from the rinse water and slots them in the dish drainer. When Dean had assigned dishwashing as one of Sam's chores, his little brother had insisted on buying the gloves in blue instead of the more common blinding lemon yellow, as if that little color distinction would make the fact that he is wearing them in the first place any less girly.
A slightly snarky comment of "Watch out for your manicure, Princess," had been received less than enthusiastically.
The sink is on the far wall of the kitchen, meaning that Sam has his back to his brother in the next room, but Dean knows the kid well enough to correctly guess that the boy is wearing his bitch face. The low volumed grumbling assures it, even before he hears the distinctive splash of water that heralds the second attempt to scrub the pot that Dean burned the pasta in.
"Temper, temper, Sammy boy," he teases, taking his mind off of the frustration of being bested by a baby motor by poking the bear that is his broody sibling. He is rewarded with the expected 'bite me' and snorts in amusement.
"And, language," he adds for good measure, ducking as Sam, with lightening speed and Winchester ingrained accuracy, whips a soddened towel at him. He balls up the towel and flings it back towards the counter where it splats next to the sink, never touching his brother.
Sam's formerly irritated hazel eyes relax and a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, recognizing the distraction for what it was. He turns back around and resumes the gooey task, a quietly uttered 'jerk' under his breath that is not so silent that it doesn't prompt its verbal twin 'bitch' from the other room.
He and Dean have fallen back into their comfortable banter with an easiness that belies all of the hurt and harsh words that had been between them a few weeks ago. Sam is truly so grateful that he sometimes has trouble breathing.
It's not the first time he has been the recipient of Dean's unconditional forgiveness. They are brothers after all, and even brothers that are as close as the two of them are bound to fight occasionally. Especially as Sam has inherited more than just his hair color and dimples from their father. He possesses John's temper in spades and also his father's determination to dig in his heels when he thinks he is right.
But, time and again, Dean's fierce love for the two most important people in his life wins out, no matter how much they lash out at him or drag him into the middle of their own private family war. Sam has experienced this time and again, but that last fight is the first time that he has put the devastated look on his brother's face that has made him so angry at their father for doing so in the past.
That realization just crushes him and he wonders if he would have been so capable of forgiveness if the tables had been turned. Then he chides himself, knowing as well as he knows his own face that the tables would not ever be turned.
His big brother would never treat him so callously.
Sam turns around slightly and sneaks a glance into the living room. Dean is quietly sitting on the couch, the guts of the prehistoric mechanical beast still splayed out in every direction. But his brother's face is calm and his eyes are dancing with humor, as if enjoying a private joke. With a surgeon's precision, he picks through the little pieces of metal arranged on the drop cloth, his left knee bopping along in tune with whatever classic rock song is playing in his head at the moment.
Sam lets a little chuckle escape and Dean's mouth smirks a bit more as he reaches for another screwdriver. He doesn't turn his head to meet Sam's stare. Just sits there and tinkers and the younger boy doesn't realize how long he has been watching until Dean speaks.
"That's right, Sammy. Drink in the awesomeness that is me," he snickers cockily, and Sam knows that he is being teased again. He blushes a little at getting caught gawking and is thankfully saved by the tinny ring of the wall hung phone.
***
Dean laughs to himself, having just busted his little brother for the peeping tom act. Not that he minds, really. It's been a long long time since Sammy looked at him like that.
When he was only a tiny thing, Sam watched him with that intense big-eyed wonder, as if Dean was his own personal superhero. Dean remembers the days of strutting around like a peacock, his own little chest puffed out proudly, as his baby brother hung on his every word and gesture. At one point, Dean could have told the little boy that he could lasso the moon for him, and Sammy would have believed him.
But those days were far gone. Dean had lost his hero status right around the same time that Sam had lost his faith in their father.
If he is honest with himself, he would have to admit how much he is still hurt by the words that his little brother threw at him during that whole debacle last month. But, he has never been particularly honest with anyone except for their father, and then with Sam once the cat was out of the bag about what John really did during his near constant "business trips". He certainly has never extended the same courtesy with himself.
Especially when life in denial is so much less painful.
So he has fallen back into the comfort of light bantering and teasing with his rapidly growing sibling. His easy acquiescence provides the necessary fuel to keep their relationship humming along smoothly.
He knows that Sammy is sorry, truly sorry for what he said. The kid had been walking on eggshells around him for weeks, taking extra pains to be helpful around the house, never complaining about Dad's training schedule or extra studies. Most of all, he had been practically tripping over his canoe-sized feet to show appreciation for anything that Dean did for him.
It's clearly overcompensation and they both know it. Dean just wonders if the remorse stems from his brother feeling bad about hurting him or more because a kink in their relationship threatens the borderline "normal" life that they have created here.
He doesn't allow himself to ponder on that particular distinction for very long.
It wouldn't matter anyway in the end. Regardless of any verbal daggers that Sam has thrown at him, Dean would never think to unbalance the carefully crafted life that he has created for them for these precious few months. He made his little brother a promise and, where his family is concerned, Dean always keeps his promises.
Tonight's light hearted volley has lifted some of the ache from his chest, his smile, as he fiddles with the motor, is genuine. When the phone rings, his heart stops for just a fraction of a second as it always does with incoming calls. Holding his breath, he hopes that their father is not in trouble somewhere while Dean sits in the warm living room playing happy family.
Only a handful of people have their landline number and most of them are not the kind to call just to shoot the breeze. So he watches as Sammy grabs the handset from the wall and answers it, trying not to detect the minuscule lilt of breathy fear that has also inserted itself in his brother's greeting.
"Hello?"
When he watches Sam become decidedly uncomfortable, he jumps to his feet, but then the kid scowls at him and waves him off, pointing at his own chest to let Dean know that the call is for him and it is not any sort of fresh hell that their damaged family will have to manage.
Dean raises an eyebrow, curious as to the identification of the party on the other end of the line, and hopes that maybe it is Brian. Although things have thawed enough between his little brother and his formerly closest friend to the point that he has wheedled out of Sammy that they are at least speaking again, Sam still has not brought the other boy home to resume their previous study sessions. Nor has he asked to be allowed to go over there.
"Hey Alex. What's up?"
Alex?
To the best of Dean's knowledge, they don't know an Alex. No hunter goes by that name and it's not as if they have any third cousins running around to touch base with. He mentally runs the list of boys in Sam's class and falls short there as well.
Curiouser and curiouser.
It's not that Dean is opposed to giving the little twerp any privacy. Hell, he wouldn't have wanted anyone breathing down his neck at that age. He just doesn't like any unknown quantities in their inner circle. He's always made it a point to know who Sam associates with and, with Dad's mandate on the terms of their stay here, Dean is taking that responsibility even more seriously than usual.
But he decides not to press the issue just yet. There will be time to grill Sam after the call and, stubborn or not, he will talk. Dean sits back down and resumes his tinkering, keeping one ear on the side of the conversation that he can hear. He is already picking through proven methods of interrogating his little brother.
Sam has a particularly sensitive tickle spot below his left ribs and he folds like a cheap suit when big brother unleashes the spider fingers.
"Yeah, I heard about it. I..uh..don't think I'll be able to."
Pause.
"No. I..um..I can't. I...uh..have extra AP study sessions then."
Dean throws his brother a quick glance. Sam smolders from the undue amount of eavesdropping and turns slightly, putting his back to his brother even as he starts to wrap himself in the extra long coiled phone cord. Watching the kid's tense bristling, Dean frowns, hoping that whoever this Alex is, they aren't trying to get Sam involved in something dangerous.
A routine interest in his little brother's affairs ratchets itself up a notch and now Dean is determined to get to the bottom of the conversation. Sam doesn't respond well to a machete approach to information gathering, so he plays it cool, leaning back into the couch cushion and casually sipping at his beer.
"Yeah, okay. See you later."
Sam unwinds himself from the phone cord and hangs up, moving back to the sink with a little more speed and determination than he normally exhibits towards finishing his chores. He picks up the discarded Brillo pad and starts to scrub at the burnt pot with a vengeance. Dean stares at him for a second and then downs the rest of the beer. He gets up from the couch and strolls into the kitchen, discarding the empty bottle into the paper carrier on the floor by the trashcan.
Sam works over the pot as if he has never seen anything so interesting, pointedly ignoring his brother standing two feet away from him as Dean opens the refrigerator door and peers inside as if he has all the time in the world.
Scrub Scrub Scrub
"Remind me to pick up eggs tomorrow. We're almost out," Dean says casually as he rifles through the shelves. A short grunt from Sam is the only acknowledgement he gets, the frenzied scraping of the steel wool against metal grating on his nerves. He pulls out another beer and closes the door, twisting the cap off and turning to lean back against the countertop as he takes a sip.
Scrub Scrub Scrub
"So, who's Alex?"
A pause, lasting just a fraction of a second, betrays Sam's unease over the question, but he pushes past it and renews his efforts with a vengeance.
Scrub Scrub Scrub
"Just someone from school."
Dean frowns and shakes his head slightly at the vague answer. Sammy is acting far too nervous over the call for it to have been anything that innocent.
"What did he want?"
Sam turns towards him and scowls. "None of your business, Dean," he snaps. At Dean's withering glare, he backs down and returns to the pot. Patience wearing thin, Dean waits another half a minute before pushing the issue.
"Sam," he growls in the voice that their father uses and which leaves no room for debate.
His little brother huffs, clearly annoyed that he has to explain himself, and Dean silently concedes that his father is right in that they have allowed Sam to become a little spoiled. At this point in the conversation with John, Dean would be spilling his guts about every detail of the phone conversation as well as confessing to the size of the porno stash underneath his bed.
Sam's teenager pride demands that he posture a bit more before caving, and he does so until the glare in his big brother's eyes threatens to blind him. He throws the pot back in the sink and crosses him arms, his whole body bristling with attitude.
"The theatre club at my school is doing a winter production of 'Our Town'. Alex called to ask me if I was going to try out for a part."
Dean raises an eyebrow in surprise. It's such an innocent vanilla answer that he can't help wondering if there is more than Sam is letting on about. A more discomforting question is whether or not the kid is flat out lying to him.
"That's it?" he asks incredulously and Sam sighs, still affronted, and nods.
Not persuaded, Dean channels John and fixes Sam with a stern look, crossing his own arms and showing his kid brother that he means business.
"So, if I were to go into the school tomorrow, I could ask that cute blond secretary and she would tell me all about this play, right?"
Sam throws him a scowl, his hazel eyes wide and flashing with anger. He rips off the ridiculous gloves and hurls them to the floor before stomping out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Above his head, Dean can hear the kid banging down the hallway and into his room. He is about to follow and verbally flay the little bitch for running off on him when he realizes that there is an absence of Sammy's trademark door slamming. So he waits.
A minute later, the stomping returns in full force and Sam bangs down the stairs, the ancient boards underneath his feet groaning under the abuse. The boy's face is flushed a deep red and he is oozing hostility out of every pore as he thrusts a lime green sheet of paper into Dean's chest before resuming his crossed arm stance.
Dean grabs the crushed paper and smooths out the wrinkles as he reads. Sure enough it is an announcement of the play and he skims through the information, his eyes resting on the words listing an Alex Logan as the assistant casting director. He feels slightly guilty for having doubted his brother's honesty, but he is still not convinced that he has been told the whole story. Sam's tension and mannerisms are clearly hiding something.
"Okaaaay. So, is this something that you want to do?" he asks, really because he has no other idea as to what he should say here.
"No," Sam snaps, a little too quickly, before turning around and bending to pick up his gloves from the floor. He puts them back on and returns to the sink to finish cleaning the pot. Dean frowns and clears his throat, wondering what it is that has his brother so on edge about a stupid school play.
"C'mon, Sam. All you little geek boys like putting on costumes and running around," he teases, trying to break the tension in the room. "It could be fun. Why don't you think about it?"
Sam's shoulders stiffen as he puts the pot in the dish rack and pulls the plug out of the drain, watching the soapy water whirl around as it empties. He is quiet as he grabs a sponge and mops out the sink before pulling his gloves off and staring out the window in front of him into the darkness of the winter night.
"Sam?" Dean's voice is quiet, concerned.
Sam lets out a heavy breath, his lips pursed into the scowl that has become his regular face when he is around his father. "Forget it," he spits out. "Besides, aren't I grounded indefinitely?"
The last words are accompanied by a sneer and Dean is stung by the harshness of them. He regrets having said that. It wasn't exactly the message he was trying to convey at the time, his worry and concern over his brother's safety forefront in his mind.
"Sammy, you know I didn't mean it like that," he answers defensively. "I was just tired and upset that night. You can do this play thing if you want to."
His little brother snorts and stares at the floor like he was hoping to be swallowed up by it. "Yeah, sure you didn't," he snaps back and Dean feels like he's been slapped. "And even if you didn't mean it, Dad did."
Dean's head shoots up and frowns in confusion. "Dad? When did he tell you that?" This piece of information is news to Dean and he wonders why neither of them have mentioned it to him.
"When he picked me up for court that day. He told me that I couldn't leave the house without you for the rest of the school year."
There is a monumental amount of bitterness in the boy's voice as he says this, and Dean is more than a little pissed off. He wonders how much of Sam's quiet behavior since then has been attributed to their father's mandate and knows that it has probably left the poor kid feeling like a trapped animal. He fumes, knowing that if John is not careful, Sam will choke on the leash around his neck and struggle that much harder to escape them both.
"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean utters quietly, reaching out squeeze his brother's shoulder. "I didn't know."
Sam recognizes the honesty in his brother's tone and words and finally lifts his head up, peeking out at Dean from underneath his shaggy fringe of hair.
"It's okay. It doesn't matter."
Dean grabs his other shoulder and gives the kid a little shake. "Hey. It does matter, Sam. If you want to do this, I'll square it with Dad. Don't worry about it."
Sam just shakes his head sadly, a rueful smile on his face. "Yeah, sure." He pulls away from his brother's grasp. "I'm not interested, so you don't have to bother." After another few seconds of silence, Sam turns away from his brother's probing stare. "Can I go now? I have homework."
Dean nods and watches as the boy shuffles out of the room. There is more going on here, and he is going to find out what the whole story is. He grabs his beer from the counter and downs it, sad that the comfortable mood of earlier in the evening has just been shattered with one stupid phone call.
***
Trekking through the foot deep snow in below zero weather, Dean is glad that his earlier insistence on getting Sam new boots and a warmer coat has been justified. Their father usually insisted on clothes and boots designed more for speed and movement than practicality or warmth. The heavy parka that his little brother is wrapped up in would be a hindrance if he was fighting off a Wendigo, but for today's excursion, it is perfect.
They plod along amidst the rows of trees and cheerful little groups of families as Dean leads them further on. He is smiling and gripping the ax in his hand like a child with a shiny new toy, ignoring the broody sulk of the boy dragging behind him. They trudge on for a few more minutes until Dean stops short in front of his quarry, his whole face beaming.
"What do you think of this one, Sammy?"
The boy shrugs, his attention off somewhere in the distance, clearly not interested in participating. Dean frowns, the ax now hanging limply in his hand. He wants to reach out and smack his little brother in the head for being such a killjoy, but he reins in his temper, reminding himself that picking out a Christmas tree is supposed to be fun.
"C'mon, Sam. Don't be like that. Do you like this one or not? We could keep on looking."
Sam shrugs again, thinking that he would rather be back at the house studying for his calculus test. It's not that he doesn't appreciate his brother's attempt to inject some Christmas cheer into their little household, but ever since that miserable time in Broken Bow when their family was practically ripped apart, he has nothing but bad memories of the holiday and would prefer to just let it pass by. This year, Dean seems hell bent for leather on celebrating and, while he appreciates his brother's efforts, he would just rather not bother.
Dean just shakes his head, already a little worn down by Sam's attitude. It was like pulling teeth to get the kid into Bobby's truck this morning to make this trip and his surly sibling barely said a word during the entire ride out. Determined to not let cranky pants spoil the day, he pulls on his work gloves and starts to hack away at the tree trunk.
Ten minutes later, he has felled the chubby green bush. He grabs it by the trunk and throws a glare over to Sam. The boy pisses and moans, but he grabs the top and helps Dean drag it out to the entrance where Dean pays. In disgruntled silence, they tie it in the back of the battered pick up and climb back in for the drive home. For a few minutes, Dean tries to keep up a friendly conversation, but after no reasonable replies, he drops it, more than a little annoyed.
Once they reach the house, Sam grudgingly helps to unload it and drag it into the living room. Together they wrestle it into the squeaky rusted stand that Bobby loaned them. Bobby has also provided a box of dusty ornaments and lights. Sam doesn't ask where they came from. He doesn't really care. Dean does, though. He knows without asking that they come from a time when Bobby had a wife to decorate a tree with. The old hunter doesn't mention this when pressing the box into his hands, but Dean understands just how much of a sacrifice it is for him to do it.
When the tree is finally stable in the stand, Sam tries to dart for the stairs, but his brother stops him.
"Sammy, wait. Don't you want to decorate it?"
Sam scowls, wanting nothing more than to go up to the sanctuary of his room and bury himself in his textbooks, turns around to tell Dean just that. But Dean's eyes are hopeful and Sam feels ashamed of himself. His brother asks so little of him and the least he can do is hang ornaments for an hour if it makes him happy. He pastes a forced smile on his face and reaches into the box and starts to untangle the old lights. It's worth the effort when Dean grins from ear to ear and darts off into the kitchen.
When he returns, he's carrying two mugs and a plate of Sam's favorite sugar cookies. He puts them down on the coffee table and then crosses the room to where their portable CD player is plugged into the wall. He presses 'play' and smiles when the notes of 'All I Want' start playing. Sam doesn't pay any attention until he picks up on the familiarity of the voice and frowns in confusion.
"Styx?"
Dean is now grinning like a Cheshire cat as he holds up the case identifying the CD as 'A Classic Rock Christmas' and the sight finally breaks down Sam's obstinacy and he laughs. Only his brother would be able to procure something like that. In a more charitable mood, Sam takes the mug of eggnog that Dean offers him and sips. The unexpected fire of spiced rum chokes him for a second and he sputters much to his brother's amusement.
"Easy kiddo," Dean teases as he drinks from his own mug.
Sam blushes and suddenly his face is all little boy grins and innocence again. Once in a blue moon, after a job well done on a hunt, John will let Sam have a beer, but he has never been allowed to try hard alcohol.
"Dude, Dad would freak if he knew you let me have this," Sam laughs in the same conspiratorial way he would when they were much younger and Dean had snuck him a forbidden treat.
Dean just smiles at him, happy that his brother is finally happy. There isn't even a full shot of the rum in Sammy's mug, but it doesn't matter. He's the cool big brother again. The one that spoils him and runs interference with their father. Not the one that helps John keep him in captivity, regardless of the protective motivation behind the method.
They munch on the cookies and hang the slightly faded glass balls, talking easily about nothing in particular as the festive music plays in the background. When the tree is lit, Sam tries to coax another spiked drink out of his big brother but is shot down quickly. He doesn't complain, especially when Dean refills both mugs with virgin nog. Dean lets him order out for pizza and, as they eat, his big brother gives him his full attention while Sam enthusiastically rambles on about his upcoming AP classes.
By the time Sam heads up for bed, they are both in a peaceful happy mood, evidenced by Sam shoving Dean's shoulder affectionately as he heads for the stairs. Watching his brother's retreating figure, Dean's smile falters as little as he hopes that this is the year he can give Christmas back to his little brother.
****
You're pronouncing that all wrong, you know."
Sam looks up from his Latin book to glare at his brother. Dean is sitting on top of one of the washers they are using and reading Guns and Ammo.
"You can't even read it, Dean," Sam replies testily, reminding his brother of one of his few failings as a hunter. "How do you know I'm saying it wrong?"
Dean glances up from his magazine and cocks an eyebrow, giving Sam a no-nonsense stare.
"I can read the words just fine, smartass," Dean snaps back. "What's more important, I can speak it correctly. An exorcism isn't going to work if you put the emphasis on the wrong syllabel of a word."
He pauses to let his reprimand sink it, which it does when Sam scowls and buries his head back into the book.
"Try again."
Sam takes a deep breath, willing himself to keep his temper in check and refrain from popping his brother in the mouth. Because the laundromat is empty, they have taken the opportunity to practice Sam's Latin linguistic skills. Their father is coming into town tomorrow and he will be expecting Sam to have completed the study assignment that was set for him last weekend when they were together on a job. Sam would rather just work on his physics homework.
At his brother's insistent prodding, Sam picks the rite up again and struggles through the first few passages while Dean listens. He is halfway through when the glass door swings open and a girl's voice calls out to him.
"Hey, Sam!"
The classical language's words stick in his throat and he drops the book like it was on fire, scrunching his eyes up in discomfort as his face flushes a bright red.
Damn
The girl's greeting has caught Dean's attention and he watches her bounce in and approach his visibly rattled brother. She's cute, in a wholesome, book smart sort of way. Her wavy brown hair is pulled back in a floppy ponytail that seems to work well with her face and she has enormous ice blue eyes that give Sam's puppy dog orbs a run for their money. Her body is petite, but she apparently has the strength to carry around a bulky stack of report cover boxes fairly easily.
Sam is still blushing furiously, but he manages to lift his head up enough to croak out a quick greeting. Dean has not seen the little geek this uncomfortable in ages.
"Hi."
The girl smiles widely, showing off perfect white teeth, and she deposits her boxes on the table that Sam is working at. Making her way over to his side, she peers over his shoulder and tries to get a glimpse of the book he is hunched over.
"So, what are you reading today?"
Sam shifts slightly in his seat, clearing his throat awkwardly. For a minute, Dean thinks that maybe this girl is some over rambunctious admirer and starts to intercept until he sees a sheepish grin cross his brothers face. He realizes quickly that Sam definitely likes the bubbly brunette and backs off.
"It's um..Latin," Sam answers quietly and even though he is not looking at the girl, his face pleads for understanding.
Fortunately, Dean seems to be right in that she is a female version of his geek boy brother. She squeals and her face is almost stretched to the breaking point by her smile.
"Latin? That is so neat! I didn't even know the school offered it."
Sam shifts in his seat again and throws Dean a nervous look. His big brother shrugs and nods, giving him the go-ahead.
"Um...the school doesn't teach it. My Dad is kind of old fashioned. He insisted on me learning it."
The girl looks clearly impressed and she beams at Sam. "That is so cool. Your Dad sounds awesome."
Out of habit, Sam bristles at the praise of his father and it rankles on Dean's nerves that even now Sam can't be grateful for something that John had taken pains to teach them. Annoyed, he decides that Sam's free pass from humiliation is over with that slight on their Dad. He scowls and clears his throat loudly making Sam stiffen, knowing that his brother is now expecting an introduction.
The girl's blue eyes cloud over with irritation, as if Dean is the rudest thing she has ever seen, and she levels him with a glare until Sam speaks.
"Uh..this is my brother Dean," he says quietly, jerking his chin in his brother's direction. He pauses for a second and forces the next few words out, already knowing what the fallout of them is going to be. "Dean, this is my friend, Alex."
And with those few words, it all comes together.
Dean smirks at his little brother who is desperately trying to hide behind his shaggy fringe and jumps off of the washer. He approaches Alex, who is now smiling at him since he has been identified as the big brother that Sam is constantly talking about.
"It's nice to meet you Alex," he greets her, in his friendliest voice. The one saved for grandmothers and friends of John and not the one he uses when he is making a move on a pretty girl. For which Sam is truly thankful.
Sam's gratitude isn't long lasting. He watches as Dean cocks his head to the side, as if he is putting puzzle pieces together, and Sam already knows what his brother is going to say before the words even come out of his mouth.
"So, are you the Alex that's working on that play?" Dean's voice is polite and inquisitive and Sam recognizes it as the con man voice that he uses on the job. For her part, Alex perks up even more and she nods enthusiastically.
"Yeah, I am. Actually, that's why I'm here. I saw Sam through the window and I was hoping to get him to change his mind about tryouts on Wednesday."
Sam is now staring down at the floor, hoping that it will miraculously open up and swallow him whole. He hears his brother snicker and steels himself for more embarrassment.
"Really?" Dean raises an eyebrow and gifts Alex with the smile that always gets his way with pretty girls. "What makes you think Sammy boy would be a good actor?"
Alex's perkiness is contagious and she gushes over. "Oh, well, because when our class read the play in English Lit last month, Sam did a super job with the part of George. It would be so awesome to have him do it up on the stage. Everyone thinks so."
"Everyone?" Dean asks, barely able to keep a straight face, especially when Alex nods with such energy that her ponytail practically bounces off of her head. He turns to his little brother who seems to be mouthing words to himself and realizes, after a few seconds, that Sam is attempting to exorcise him. He is seconds away from losing his composure, so he turns away from them under the guise of emptying their washer and loading the dryer next to it.
Dean listens as Alex continues attempting to persuade Sam to try out. Sam keeps refusing, but Dean knows his little brother and can hear the reluctance in his voice. It's beginning to sound more and more like this play is really something that his little brother would like to do. He stays out of it though, until he hears Sam respond again, this time with a crack in his voice that generally is a precursor to him losing his temper.
"I really can't, Alex. Look, I'd like to, but I have the AP stuff on Tuesdays and my Dad has me doing things on Thursdays."
When Dean turns back around, he can see that Alex is not the kind of girl that takes no for an answer. And he is also pretty sure that it is an answer that Sam doesn't really want to give her. He listens while she calls bullshit on the AP studies and reminds him that he can do the reviews during the study hall that she shares with him and can't help smiling at the way she stands her ground.
"Yeah, well, my Dad still won't let me do it, so it doesn't matter."
Dean hates to hear the defeat in his brother's voice as he makes that admission. It's true that John will probably be fairly pissed by the idea, but Dean is determined that this is the year that Sam gets to do normal things. He still hasn't forgiven his father for confining Sam to the house without talking to him about it. He doesn't expect Dad to confer with him regarding Sam's punishments, but if he is supposed to enforce them, he would at least like the courtesy of being informed.
He walks over to his brother, ignoring the bouncy girl, and puts a hand on the boy's shoulder.
"If you want to do this, Sammy, I'll get Dad to agree to it. I told you that." Dean's voice is clear and strong and it isn't hard for Sam to believe that his big brother will do exactly what he says he will.
Sam doesn't say anything, but when he lifts his head from the table, he is once again the little boy that thought his brother could lasso the moon and Dean's heart skips a beat with forgotten affection.
Alex squeals again and she grabs her boxes, thanking Dean and telling Sam that she expects to see him at the tryouts. She waves goodbye and bounces out of the laundromat, leaving both Winchester boys exhausted from her boundless energy.
When she is gone, Dean reaches out and places his hand gently on his brother's head. Leaning into the infrequent touch, Sam closes his eyes, suddenly feeling incredibly tired.
"You really like her, don't you?"
Sam mutters a quiet 'yeah' and Dean knows that he will do whatever he has to do to persuade their father to allow Sam to have this piece of normalcy.
***
Standing in the shabby bathroom of the motel room du jour, Dean runs a hand over his face as he looks at himself in the mirror. His head is pounding and he knows that it is more from the two day long battle that his father and brother have waged against each other than from the knock on the head that he took when the Black Dog they were hunting batted him into a tree.
He pulls a bottle of aspirin out of his toiletry bag and dry swallows three of them. Grabbing a washcloth from the towel bar, he runs it under the cold water faucet until it's damp and then wrings it out and presses it against his forehead. The soothing coolness is an instant relief from the pounding pain and he takes several deep breaths, willing himself to relax. The blissful escape lasts all of three minutes before the raised voices in the next room start again in earnest. Tossing the cloth into the sink, he shakes his head and turns to exit the tiny temporary retreat to return to his duty as middleman.
**
It's not even an hour later and Sam is sitting on the end of his lumpy bed in the dilapidated rented room. He is shaking, whether it's anger or fear, Dean doesn't know. The kid's holding a hand against the cheek that their father had slapped fairly hard before storming out and, not for the first time, Dean wonders what goes on inside his normally smart brother's mind.
Right now, he would really love to finish kicking Sam's ass, but he refrains, afraid that he will be unable to stop if he starts. Instead, he grits his teeth and yanks open their first aid kit. He pulls out a cold pack and snaps it until the chemicals inside activate. Crossing the room, he holds it out for the little bitch, not trusting himself to say a word. Stupidly, Sam refuses it at first, his injured pride bringing out his inner asshole. Dean growls dangerously and thrusts it in the kid's face. Sam will either use it or have it shoved someplace uncomfortable.
"Take it," Dean hisses and waits until the kid wises up and gingerly pulls it out of his hand. Sam holds it up against his cheek and he looks so wrecked that a small part of Dean's anger recedes.
Dean paces in front of Sam like a caged panther and each pass sets the boy more on edge. Sam knows he should be be afraid right now. His big brother is rarely this angry and, when he is, it doesn't bode well for him. The few times it has happened, Dean had damned his father's consequences and showed Sam why men twice his age and size have backed away from him in a fight.
"You on Dad's side this time?" Sam asks quietly, already knowing the answer.
"You're damned right I am!" Dean snaps back at him, and Sam recoils a little from the vehemence in his brother's voice, but Dean is not done with him. "If it had been me, I would have knocked your freakin' teeth out! I ever catch you talking that way about Mom again, I will end you myself, you hear me? I don't care how mad you are at Dad."
Sam turns his head away to face the wall so Dean can't see the tears that start to well up in his eyes. He presses the cold pack tighter to his face and nods slightly. Wisely, he keeps quiet until Dean's pacing stops. Knowing that this means that his brother's anger level is starting to lower, he pushes his luck and whispers a quiet 'sorry'.
"Yeah, well, I'm not the one you should be apologizing to."
Sam knows what his brother wants him to do, but he isn't going to. Yeah, he is sorry that he threw their father's obsession in the man's face by invoking his mother's memory, knows that this is the one thing that is guaranteed to set the old man off, but here they are, on Christmas Eve, in some shithole motel instead of the little house in Sioux Falls where their Christmas tree and the ham Dean picked up from the butcher are waiting for them. So, he is not sorry he has argued with his father, just for the manner he did it in.
Dean knows it too. He can see by the stiff posture of his stubborn little brother that the kid has no intention of making peace with their Dad. His irritation starts to rise again and he has to get out of that room before he makes himself an only child.
"I'm going out. You bolt the door after me and get your ass into bed. I'm tired of this crap, Sammy."
He waits for the grudging nod and then storms out into the night to find their father.
**
It didn't take long to track down John Winchester. As is his habit, he is sitting alone in a corner table of the bar nearest to the motel. When Dean saunters in, he sees his father slumped in his chair, looking like he took a punch to the gut, his barely touched beer sitting in front of him. As Dean passes the bar, he signals the barmaid for a bottle for himself and crosses over to his father's table. Without a word, he joins him and they sit in silence for a few minutes until Dean's drinks arrives.
Dean grabs the neck of the bottle and takes a long swallow. When he puts it down, his father finally looks up at him and the pained face that he gives Dean is the exact version of the one his brother had when he stormed out. It's just thirty years older.
"He didn't mean it, Dad," Dean says quietly, not looking his father in the eye.
John snorts softly and shakes his head. "Yeah, he did."
And Dean doesn't know how to respond to that. They both know that John is right. The barmaid returns to their table and plops a bowl of peanuts in front of them. Technically they are only for the people sitting at the bar, but she thinks that Dean has the most beautiful eyes she has seen on a man and she's hoping to get him to notice her a little more. On any other night, he would be all over it, but right now he is too embroiled in his family drama to satisfy any primal urges that he is feeling.
"I don't know how to get through to him anymore, Dean. Does he really hate me that much?"
Dean hates to hear the notes of sadness and self doubt in his father's voice. His Dad is the strongest man he knows and the man's pain is killing his oldest son.
"He doesn't hate you, Dad," he protests and, to his credit, he truly believes with his entire soul that what he has just told his father is true. Sure, Sammy may be a surly spoiled kid, but Dean needs to believe that underneath all of that hostility, he loves their father.
John doesn't respond. Doesn't want to. He needs to believe Dean's words just as badly as his son does, the weight of the alternative crushing him.
"He okay?"
Dean nods and takes another swig of beer. "Yeah, he's alright. He's in bed."
John sighs heavily. He is so tired. The effort it takes to battle with his baby boy is more than he has in reserve most days. Every day he thanks God for Dean and the unconditional support and understanding that his oldest son gives him. Without him, John doesn't know how he would have survived the past seventeen years.
The fact that it is Christmas Eve does not escape John's notice, contrary to what his youngest thinks. He had every intention on being with his boys for the holiday, but this hunt showed up out of nowhere and it was a nasty one. He is grateful for the competent assistance of his boys and grateful for the chance just to be with them, but he is consumed with the guilt of knowing that he has pulled them away from the first real home they have had since the fire.
Without preamble, he pulls a wad of cash out of his pocket and slides it over to Dean. His son looks at it, confused, and John has to prompt him to take it.
"Merry Christmas, Son," he says, his voice warm and deep. "I figured a couple months worth of rent on the house is more useful to you than anything else right now."
Dean shakes his head and tries to push the money back over to his father, but John puts out a hand and stops him.
"Take it, Dean. I'm your father and I want to put a roof over my sons' heads for a while, okay?"
Dean recognizes the pride in his father's voice and nods, pulling the money back and stuffing it into his jacket pocket.
"Yes, sir," he answers automatically, and then softer, "Thanks, Dad."
Dean's look of undisguised affection warms John up more than any wool blanket or heater ever could. He would like nothing more right now than to put his arms around his boy and hold him tight like he did when Dean was just a little guy, but restrains himself. Gestures like that make Dean uncomfortable at the best of times and it hasn't really been a good day. Later, when his son is asleep, he'll allow himself to kiss Dean's forehead as he has often done over the years and hope that his son knows how much he is loved by his old man.
Dean has always been so easy to love. He has always basked in any amount of attention that John could give him, always forgiven him for his multiple mistakes as an inept single father. Always supported his mission to hunt down the thing that ripped his family apart.
Sammy, well, Sammy was harder. As soon as he could speak in full sentences, he began to question everything that his father said and did and, truthfully, John didn't always have the answers. It's not that he loved Sammy any less, his boys were both equal in his heart, but his youngest took more energy. But it seemed that no matter what he did, or how hard he tried, John's littlest boy just didn't look at his father with the same unadulterated love that he got from his eldest. So, John tried harder, even when, to his shame, it was at Dean's expense.
It never seemed to help. John and Sam were like two identical magnets. Aligned in temperament so completely that they couldn't help but push the other away no matter how hard Dean tried to put them together. Like a man waiting for the other shoe to drop, John held his breath for the moment that the wall between them drove his baby away completely.
"Dad," Dean's voice asked for his attention, "Sammy really wants to do that theatre thing." Dean's eyes were averted as he pled his little brother's case, and John knew that he was asking for this for himself as well as Sam. "It's important to him. And he must be pretty good. They gave him the lead."
John felt his eyes widen at this news. When Sam brought up the subject earlier in the day, he had failed to mention this small tidbit of information and John found himself wondering why the boy would keep it to himself when asking for his permission to participate.
"I'll keep an eye on him, I promise. We'll make it work."
Dean finally raises his head and John sees his own eyes staring back at him, begging for this. Dean doesn't beg for anything unless it is for his brother and he knows that this is something important to both of his boys. So, even though Sam's behavior doesn't justify any leniency on his part, John nods his head.
"Okay. I'll sign the permission slip tomorrow," he acquiesces, comforted a bit by the genuine look of gratitude and relief on his oldest son's face.
**
It's after midnight when the two older hunters make their way back to the motel. Dean has a pretty good buzz going, but that half drunk beer that was on the table when Dean got to the bar was the only one that John ordered. Alcohol couldn't take away all of his pain and he didn't try to force it to when he knew it was useless. When they get inside the room that the boys are sharing, Dean stumbles into the bathroom and John walks quietly over to the bed where Sam is sleeping.
In his sleep, his curly hair framing his face angelically, Sam looks much younger than his actual years and John finds himself wistfully remembering a more peaceful time with his littlest boy. He sees the still slightly pinkened cheek and his stomach roils with guilt as a tear slips out of his right eye. Bending over, he entwines the fingers of his right hand in the dark brown curls and gently brushes the hurt cheek with his lips.
"I'm sorry, kiddo," he whispers and then he straightens up, hearing Dean coming out of the bathroom. Dean is exhausted and more drunk than he admitted to. With a small smile on his face, John helps his oldest into his bed, surprised when Dean allows him to pull the blankets up to his neck. It only takes a minute for the older boy to fall into a deep sleep and John takes the opportunity to give his forehead the kiss he had planned on earlier.
As he makes his way towards the door and back to his own room, he looks at his slumbering sons one more time and thanks God for their safety and good health. It's the best Christmas present that he can be given.
"Merry Christmas, boys. Daddy loves you," he mutters in the silence of the room before letting himself out and locking the door up tight with his key.
****