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“So, uh, what were you and Dad laughing about?”
“Hmm?”
“When I got back with the dead man’s blood. Seemed like you two were having a good time.”
Sam glanced at his brother out of the corner of his eye. Dean’s face remained perfectly impassive as he drove; just making conversation, nothing to see here. Sam knew better.
“Oh, that? Ah, it’s nothing,” Sam dismissed. “Just, uh, turns out I had a college fund. The operative word there being ‘had.’” He grinned, inviting Dean to share in the joke. Dean’s returning smile was quick, lasted just long enough to be polite, and then vanished. “You did too, apparently.”
“Apparently,” Dean intoned.
“Yeah.” Sam paused. Something was off, obviously, though he couldn’t even begin to put his finger on it. “Dean, is something--”
“So that’s it then,” Dean interrupted. “You two have just, what, buried the hatchet? You’re good now?”
“Temporarily at least, yeah,” Sam agreed.
“We’ll see how long it lasts,” Dean muttered.
Sam’s eyebrows flew up. “I’m sorry, I must have missed something. I thought you wanted me and Dad to get along.”
“I do.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Dean pursed his lips and said nothing. Ahead of them, their father made a right turn and Dean followed suit. Their ambush spot needed to be isolated enough they didn’t attract any passing motorists but not so far that the nest decided they weren’t worth pursuing. The sun was going down behind them, signaling that they were almost out of time. The fading light cast dramatic shadows over his brother’s face, turning him into a solemn, picturesque statue.
“Maybe I just don’t like getting my hopes up,” Dean eventually bit out.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Dean laughed and it sounded like crunching glass. “Come on, now. This is part of it, too, the honeymoon period. Or don’t you remember?”
Sam did remember, though they were merely passing eyes in the constant storm that ruled his existence starting at age sixteen. They usually came right after Dad came home from a hunt, especially when he’d been hurt, and the terrifying possibility of a dead father overruled any animosity Sam had for the man. Those were the times he just wanted to hug his father and never let go, as though with his arms alone he could hold him in one piece. He never did though. It would have been unseemly. Instead, he’d follow every order to the letter for days... until the orders started grating again. Then they found themselves in another round of shouting matches, like always.
He didn’t think that’s what was going on here, though. It was inevitable that he and Dad would return to verbal blows eventually but he meant what he’d said to his father earlier. He understood the man now, at least a little; in the most awful way, they were the same. No, something else was the issue. It eluded him, dancing just out of reach.
“Dean, what’s this really about?” Sam asked. “I’m lost here, man.”
Dean’s hands clenched the steering wheel. “Nothing. Forget I said anything.”
Sam sighed. “I don’t get it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you want me and Dad to be fighting.”
Dean flinched.
If he hadn’t spent months sitting in that exact spot looking at his brother from this precise angle, Sam might have missed it. Since he had been sharing a car (and motel rooms and meals and just about everything) for month, Dean may as well have shouted his guilt at him with a megaphone.
“Seriously?” Sam gawked. “Dean, I... what the hell?”
“Drop it, Sam,” Dean snapped. “I mean it. Don’t go there.”
“No way, you’ve got to explain this,” Sam insisted. Unbidden, his eyes flicked to the truck ahead of them, as if their father might somehow magically overhear. “I thought this is what you wanted. Us, together, hunting as a family.”
“I do!”
“Then what gives?”
Dean’s eyes shifted back and forth--searching for a plausible lie, no doubt. “Just got used to playing referee, that’s all,” he said, tone artificially light. “You two not butting heads? Must mean the world’s ending.”
Sam stared hard at his brother. The nervous shifting, the way his fingers drummed along the gear shift, the unnatural focus on the road ahead as if Dean hadn’t been driving since he was in single digits--his brother wasn’t lying. He was afraid of being called out.
Used to playing referee.
“Dean,” Sam said carefully, “you know me and Dad need you, right?”
Dean twitched like he’d been jabbed in the ribs. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“That doesn’t change. Ever. Even if we’re... good right now. You’re not just the referee.”
“Yeah, thanks for the pep talk, coach,” Dean replied dryly. “Really feeling the love.”
Sam didn’t take the bait. “You’re a better shot than both of us,” he pointed out bluntly. “And Dad trusts you more than he trusts me. You think he’ll be sending me out on my own anytime soon, even for something as simple as a B&E? No way.” That Sam spent half the time Dean was gone fretting goes unmentioned.
“I’m not five,” Dean barked. “I don’t need you to hold my hand and tell me how special I am.”
Sam was fairly certain that Dean probably didn’t get enough of that even when he was five, but mentioning that now certainly wouldn’t go over well. He needed a different angle. “Fine, whatever. But you know what else is true? You and I are a great team. We took on more in three months than Dad has in a year. If anything, he needs to get on board or get out of our way.”
For a moment, Sam thought he might have gone too hard. But then, a ghost of a smile, genuine this time, passed over Dean’s lips. “We are pretty badass,” he conceded loftily.
“Yeah, we are,” Sam agreed. “So you got nothing to worry about.”
“Who’s worried?” Dean tossed out with a shrug, poorly disguising the lingering insecurity.
Sam chewed his lip, eyeing the bass rhythm Dean tapped out along the vinyl--Metallica, probably. He took the plunge. “Between the two of you, I'd pick you every time to have my back.”
Dean swung around to look at him and Sam wondered if he had any idea how bright his eyes were when he tried not to look eager. He quickly looked away. “Yeah?” he murmured. “Pretty sure most people would say you made a bad bet.”
“Screw them,” Sam said. “You saying you wouldn’t pick me?”
Dean swallowed. “You know the answer to that,” he confessed lowly. “We’re badass, remember?”
The thing was, Sam couldn’t be sure, not really. He and Dean had been hunting together for a little over nine months. Dean and their dad had all three years he was at school, plus the time before he was old enough to hunt at all. Dean’s answer wasn’t a given, not at all. The fact that Dean said it like it was unlocked something prideful and hot in his chest.
Sam didn’t think. He reached out, cupping Dean’s face and cradling it like you would a prized hound’s. Dean pushed back into the touch as Sam stroked along his jawline. “I’d never talk to Dad again if you wanted,” Sam whispered, knowing it wasn’t true. At least, not while the demon still walked the Earth. But he’d lost control of his mouth, tempted by the heady lure of Dean’s devotion. “We could do this, you and me,” he said, thumbing that full lower lip; Dean’s eyelashes fluttered. “After, maybe after, we can--”
Dean violently jerked away--ahead of them, Dad was slowing down. The sun vanished, plunging behind some distant hill. Appalled, Sam’s hands snapped back to his lap. What the hell had come over him? Whatever it was, it didn’t bear repeating.
At least, not while Dad was around. What the man might have seen in his rearview mirror made him queasy.
Sam risked a glance at Dean. His brother looked straight ahead, back stiff as a board, hands reflexively opening and closing.
Blew it, Sam thought. They sat in tense silence as the door of Dad’s truck swung open and the man himself hopped out, gesturing Hurry up! with a little swirl of his fingers. Sam was glad for the escape. But as he reached for the door handle, Dean’s voice, low and gravely, made him pause.
“I’ve got your back, Sam,” Dean proclaimed softly. Before he could reply, Dean was already out of the car, going to get his new orders. Sam didn’t wait long in following. After all, he was on good terms with his father now.
For as long as Dean wanted him to be, anyway.