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“Here, grab these!” Dean said, throwing a stack of worn out books on Sam’s bed. Sam was quick enough to move and avert a pointy edge.
"What the hell Dean? You almost hit my leg!” Sam wailed at the sudden attack.
"Whatever. Check’em out. I was looking for the nerdiest I could find. I guess‘s not much… ‘S all I could, you know, afford." Dean was shaking off his damp jacket. A silent, persistent rain caught up with him on his way back to the motel.
"...you mean, ‘steal’...” Sam flipped the first book over - “An Introduction to Organic Chemistry”.
"...from the school’s library…" he concluded, judging by the marked plastic wrappings of the next piece of literature, named “The great Guide to America’s Flora”, volumes one and two.
"Yeah well if you can’t get to school, school will get to you. Or something. Guhh what a depressing thought!” Said Dean, throwing himself on the hotel bed, kicking off his wet shoes.
"Easy for you to say. ‘S not like you’re the one who’s stuck here all day long listening to out friendly, unapologetic neighbors…” side-eyed Sam his older brother.
"Oh, no, please, do tell. All I got today was Ms. G. as prime entertainment, and let me say it’s not much to go on.” Grimaced Dean.
But Sam wasn’t paying attention. He was meticulously going through the pages of “The great Guide to America’s Flora”, volume one, flipping each page with great care and utmost concentration.
Dean stared at his brother, as the boy mumbled to himself new names of various plants and trees, his eyes scanning the pages - steady, efficient.
He watched him carefully going over the worn pages, absorbing the information. Dean could see in his mind's eye, how Sam was literally craving for a notebook, a pencil, to write down his own little notes and comments.
As his eyes wondered over the scene, Sam flipped a page, and a slim clip of papers slid out of the book and landed, feather-like, on the floor.
It was of different coloring and size, an alien object, tattered and very, very old.
"What is this?" Asked Dean, shifting closer.
Sam picked it up and read out loud, "The Hobbyist, Issue 4, 1957. The Japanese Paper-Folding: A taste from the bestseller by Florence Sakade". Sam looked at Dean, a bit confused, but more than anything - excited.
"What? What is it?" Dean was too curious now.
"Dean, this is so cool! Look! It's how to make all kinds of stuff from paper! Like, animals, and, you know, stuff!" Sam gleamed, shuffling through the scarce pages of “The Hobbyist". "I think it's called Origami.", he added.
But then his face fell. "Oh."
Dean had enough of the mystery. He walked over and set by his kid brother and looked over his shoulder.
"It's flowers. All of it." Sam said.
"…I wanted a kangaroo…" childishly remarked Sam, uncharacteristically. Dean scanned him, surprised, "…but I guess flowers are ok, too…"
"Dude, flowers are so for girls. No way we’re gonna make paper flowers." Huffed Dean, moving aside, crossing his arms in detest. “And why in hell would you wanna do that. I mean, it’s absolutely useless.”
But Sam had his methods of convincing when he wanted to.
"Dean… please? Please…?" He nagged, "I'm bored. Like, really bored. I've been watching crap TV for hours, common...!”
Dean rubbed at his eyes, groaning. "Ok, ok. I guess. Can't harm. But we are gonna need some paper… So you gotta be ready to sacrifice that, what is it, "Chemist's Organs"?... was it?"
Sam beamed, a huge smile spreading over his face like flowers in bloom.
Dean watched that smile, a bit paralyzed.
Just smile, is all I need you to do just smile for me sometimes ok Sammy? Any flowers. Paper, plastic, wooden, iron. I’ll get them all for you. Just smile?
"Organic Chemistry…" Sam corrected enthusiastically, ripping Dean out of his imaginary space and into reality, and the dingy motel room at the end of the last corridor they were occupying. "I mean. There are always new books on this subject every few years anyway… So it’s not like, one of a kind..."
“Brainiac,” Was Dean’s sharp, yet affectionate, response.
Sighing, he pulled out a small folding knife from his boot, and carefully opened the huge chemistry tome on its first page.
Because that’s how Dean was with a mission on his hand - methodical. Sam watched him, admiring.
The first page Dean cut out fell silently on the floor. The second one gave out a small rustle. The third flew five feet away. Sam snorted.
Dean smiled, encouraged. He kept on cutting the pages, carefully, until half of the book was lying on the floor, pages over pages of text and small depictions of various molecular models.
“That would be enough for a small garden, yup!” Dean declared, going down on his knees to collect and stack the pages.
Sam agreed in a silent nod, sliding down the bed to sit by his brother.
“Ok. Ummm. Lets start with... this one? I guess...?” He pointed at the first design described on the yellowish paper of the Hobbyist, something that resembled a simple rose.
Dean agreed. “Good as any.”
Determined and focused, the two of them began studying the diagrams, as if it was crucial to their own survival, a thing of great importance.
Sam’s little fingers battled the folds while Dean’s much more adult, experienced joints helped him with the curves and flips; the scientific text loosing all meaning, warping and distorting, becoming a delicate pattern on their gracious little creations. Roses, upon roses, upon roses.
The first few were a bit squashed - deformities, really. The more they folded, the better they became at it; the livelier were the roses - the wider was Sam’s smile.
Very soon, with almost no talk but a lot of pointing and shuffling, they had a pile of white-text-covered roses on their hands, and all their paper was gone.
It was getting late. The rain was now consistent and thick, yet very silent - it was effectively hushing away all the sounds and the noises of the motel, erasing the outdoors.
Cutting us off here by ourselves just us and all this paper alone alone alone only silence around us like the static of a broken tv in black and white and I just want this to last forever just us just us just us...
...and their mission was over. Dean proudly watched as Sam made the last fold and gently placed his flower atop the others.
“Dean?”
“yeah?”
“We are out of paper...” He snickered.
Dean grinned. Then, mischievously, he turned to the pile of their just-made roses, grabbed a handful and threw them up.
Sam laughed, as a small shower of paper flowers fell on him, its petals pointy and ticklish, some of the stems coming off on their way down, giving in to gravity. One of the flowers had the audacity to land in Sam's hair, sticking out gracelessly.
Dean snorted and reached over to Sam’s face, tucking the unruly flower over his little brother’s ear.
“Here you go, Samantha. A flower. As beautiful as you!” He said, as if reading out from a script - probably did, too - a random memory of some soap opera he watched kicking in.
Sam shrugged the cubical sentiment out of his hair, catching it as it fell, “Dean! You jerk!” he yelped, but kept the flower in his lap, his face covered behind his bangs, his expression obscured.
Dean cleared his throat.
“Hey, you want me to cut us some more paper...?” He proposed, looking around, not looking not prying I’m not aware I don’t know you are blushing I’m sorry I didn’t mean too I just wanted you to be happy -
“Yes.”
Sam’s answer was very silent, but also very definitive. Dean looked him over. Then, carefully, he dragged over the remains of the tortured chemistry book, and took his knife to it, finishing the job.
The second half of that book was dedicated to making a pile of what could be best described as lilies.
As the rain was thinning out, sometime around midnight, both Guides to American Flora became a blossoming mountain of dahlias, sunflowers and tulips of all colors.
By sunrise, the pages of the Gideon Bible became a small batch of yarrow, made by their own design.
A ray of morning sun crept in, breaking on the wet window, falling on a garden of paper flowers, and two boys sleeping in the middle, entangled, undetachable, like thorny vines.