rivers_bend

Title: A Slipper Worn to Threads
Words: ~1800
Rating: R (language and sexual situations)
Pairing: Sam/Dean (pre-series and S1, no underage)
A/N: balefully knows that sometimes the ends justify the mean, and for that, I thank her. You should too. That said, any proof-reading errors are mine.
Summary: Sam and Dean see the world as though through different telescopes.

For rejeneration, who deserves presents and lovely things. I'm not totally sure this qualifies as the second, but it's certainly the first ::smile::



"Why is this such a problem for you, Sammy?"

"Why isn't it a problem for you?"

Dean has his back against the passenger door, knee up on the seat and arm across the back, fingers just close enough to feel the day's heat radiating off Sam's shoulder contrasting with the evening breeze coming through the window. A study in casual, despite the fact that Dean's little brother is a complete and utter fucking mystery.

Sam's a teenager, behind the wheel of an American classic, and is he itching to get started? No. He's sitting wringing his hands in his lap like he's scared the car, or Dean, is going to bite him if he breaks anything.

"It's not a problem, because I trust you, Sammy," Dean says. And he does. Not sure Dad feels the same, which is why they're out here, but Sammy doesn't need to know that.

"Jesus, Dean. I think if I'm old enough to drive the car, I'm old enough you can call me 'Sam', okay?"

"Ok," Dean answers, not rising to the bait. He's been spelling Dad on long drives since before he turned thirteen, and Sammy, Sam, is going to be fifteen in a couple of months. It's time he learned how to drive.

"I trust you, Sam," he says again, emphasizing the grown-up moniker. "But I'll trust you a hell of a lot more if you let me teach you how to drive instead of you having to learn the hard way with me or Dad too hurt or something to take the wheel.

"This is fucked up, Dean. Seriously, seriously fucked up. You know that, right?" Sam shoves his hands through his hair. "I shouldn't have to learn how to drive two years before any of the people in my class because at any moment my dad or my brother might come back with his arm ripped half off or something."

Dean just looks at him, waiting. Not saying, Get a grip, will you? or The kids in your class would probably kill to sit where you're sitting.

Sam glares, and pinches his lips in disapproval, but they do twitch a bit when he finally wraps one hand around the wheel, with the other turns the key, and hears the Impala growl to life.

That twitch makes Dean bite back a smile, and his frustration level drops a notch. "That's it," he says. "Just a little gas, and then foot back on the brake before you put 'er into drive."

~**~

"Why is this such a problem for you, Sam?"

"Why isn't it a problem for you?"

The note on the table just asked them to do some chores while Dad was out. But the second Sam saw it he started yelling about how Dad can't leave them alone for five minutes, is always making them jump through hoops. Dean's getting sick of explaining himself to his brother. Sick of Sam arguing with every little thing Dad says.

"Because he's our father; because he knows what he's doing; because it's his job to protect us," Dean says, voice rising despite his best efforts.

Sam mutters something Dean doesn't catch. "What's that?" Dean asks.

Waving a hand angrily, Sam says, "I said, 'Bullshit.' It's your job to protect us. It's his job to get us into the shit you keep protecting us from."

"That's bullshit, Sam," is all Dean has in answer, though he's sure there should be something more.

Sam ignores him, just scoops up his backpack and heads out for wherever he goes to do homework these days now they're back in a motel room and always under each others' feet.

It is bullshit though. If Dean were any good at protecting him, Sam wouldn't have had to loop the backpack over his left shoulder, favoring the right, which has a graze across it and down to his collarbone from where Dean tripped and pushed him into a tree while they were running from a crazy hermit Dad thought might be possessed. The scar Sam still has on his shin is where a flying piece of glass caught him when Dean was showing off shooting bottles when Sam was only ten. Those things aren't Dad's fault—he'd skin Dean if he knew about him showing off with the gun, and he'd warned Dean not to get too close to the hermit's cabin.

Dean was the one who froze up when the Striga had Sam, the one who was behind the tool shed betting dice with Archie when Phillip Duke was punching Sam in the face on the playground, the one who let Sam try to make toast on the hotplate so he burned himself.

Dean does a crap job protecting him. Sam's just stubborn. He's got it wrong.

~**~

"Why do you care about all this, Sam?"

Why don't you?" Sam looks completely mystified. "Don’t you want to be more than this?" He gestures at the bed where Dean's cleaning the weapons.

Dean guesses he knows what Sam means. Or at least what Sam thinks he means. It's just he's mistaking different with more. It shouldn't sting. After all, Sam hasn't exactly hidden his feelings about hunting, 'specially not in the last few years. But knowing Sam thinks some lawyer or engineer is better than his brother still feels like a kick.

"And you think getting an eighteen hundred or whatever on your SAT is going to make you better?" Dean doesn't keep the scorn out of his words.

"The best is sixteen hundred, Dean." Sam doesn't either.

It's then it hits Dean what all this studying means. Sam's a geek; the good grades don't indicate much, but this is different. He's planning on trying to get into college. Dean goes from feeling kicked to feeling like he's been trapped under a truck.

Tucking the revolver he's just cleaned and loaded into his jeans, Dean leaves the rest of the weapons in a pile where they are. Dad's gonna kill him if he comes back and sees them like that, but Dean couldn't care less. He's shaking when he pulls the door shut behind him, but he doesn't slam it. He doesn't pound his fist on the dash when it takes three tries for the car to start. Sam can do what he wants. Can have his fucking SAT prep and college applications and whatever the hell else he's doing.

Dean drives for an hour, out of town, past fields of some grain he can't identify, and ends up in the middle of nowhere, nothing to see but grass and a few lonely looking trees. Tire tracks head out towards the biggest one, and Dean follows them. Someone—kids probably, though surely there's gotta be someplace closer to home to go drinking—has left a couple six-packs worth of cans and bottles scattered in the grass.

Clear as cable TV, Dean sees Sam tumbling out of the back of some frat boy's car, bottle in his hand, laughing, quoting Milton or some shit. First Dean knows he's got the gun in his hand, there's a bang and he's shot a hole right through the O on a can of Coors. The bottle of Rolling Rock leaning against an up-thrust root is next, and it explodes with a shatter of glass Dean can hear even over the gun's report. Another can, but they're not as satisfying, so Dean uses the rest of the bullets on the bottles. Shards fly everywhere, landing on Dean's jeans and cutting his hand when he doesn't step back far enough on the last one.

"Fuck it," he says when he pulls the trigger on an empty chamber. "Fuck you."

~**~

"Why do you care about all this, Sam?" Dean asks, phone pressed to his ear.

"You wouldn't understand," Sam answers from two thousand miles away. "You never do."

There's nothing left to say if Sam's stopped asking for Dean to explain how they're different, so Dean just hangs up the phone.

~**~

"Why can't you let yourself have this, Dean?" Sam asks from the bed.

Dean's half-way to the bathroom, boxers pulled on hastily as soon as his feet hit the floor, like Sam didn't just spend the last hour feeling up and fucking the very ass Dean is being so careful to cover.

Since Sam came back, Dean's looked, and caught Sam looking, when they had a few too many beers, but they've always looked away again as soon as they were caught. Tonight they're both sober and yet, somehow, they got from sharing a pizza to Sam's arms around Dean's back and his lips driving all the sense out of Dean's head.

And now Sam's acting like there's nothing wrong with what they've done. Like it's perfectly natural to want your brother—to let him—fuck you until you come so hard you can hardly see, and like the next logical step is cuddling afterwards.

Dean wants to ask Sam to explain why this is so easy for him, but he can't. He can't do anything but keep walking towards the bathroom.

When he's washed all traces of Sam off his skin, Dean brings a hot washcloth out and throws it at his brother. "Here," he says, word tight in his throat, and climbs into the other bed. Even with his eyes closed, Dean can see Sam—can translate the sounds of cloth over skin, footsteps past his bed to the bathroom, stream of Sam's urine, water in the sink, footsteps back again, into sights he's seen thousands of times over the years. The image breaks when the footsteps stop too soon and Sam climbs in behind Dean, sliding under the covers and draping an arm over Dean's chest.

"I mean it, Dean," Sam says quiet and low right into Dean's ear. "Why can't you let yourself have this?"

"Why can you?" Dean finally says, once he's managed to get enough air into lungs that feel full of dread.

"Because you're who I trust." Sam kisses the spot behind Dean's ear and Dean tries his best not to flinch. "Because you've always looked out for me. Because you're my family."

Dean wants to turn and say, "That's it! I'm your family, and this isn't how family works," but Sam's holding him too close. His breath is hot on Dean's neck, arm heavy over Dean's ribs, mostly soft cock resting on Dean's thigh. And the thing is, it doesn't feel like a thing that's not working.

Dean takes the hand draped over his chest and intertwines his fingers with Sam's. He gets, now, why Sam wanted normal. Why he always struggled against Dad. Even why he left.

Maybe, if Dean gives it time, he can understand this too.