![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lunabee34It's hard for me to describe this fic. There's a Sam/Jess vignette and one Sam/Dean and all the others are gen, but for me, this whole fic is about Sam/Dean, the dynamic of their relationship as brothers, and Sam's misconceptions about Dean. It's rated Adult, mostly for language. Warning: POV shifts. Some vignettes are written from Sam's POV, others from Dean's.
5 Times Sam Winchester Was Utterly, Completely Wrong
1
“You walk out that door, boy, don’t ever come back.”
Sam feels his jaw drop, and he knows he looks ridiculous—frozen in the middle of a flailing gesture with tears in his eyes that he can’t help. “Are you kidding me, Dad? I get accepted to Stanford and you disown me? What is wrong with you?”
Dad steps closer to him, eyes narrowed, voice low and dangerous. “Don’t take that tone with me, Sam.” Sam flinches and the skin on his arms goosebumps, but he stands his ground.
Dean’s slumped against the wall, staring at his shoes with his hands shoved in his pockets down past the wrists. So fucking typical. Dean knows Dad’s wrong. He knows it, but he won’t say a damn thing. Sam doesn’t get Dean. He doesn’t understand how his brother can be all Rebel Without a Cause one minute, with his car and his girls and his cops-can-blow-me attitude, and then toeing the line and saying “Yes, sir” and doing whatever the hell Dad says the next. Sam wonders how Dean can live that way, polar opposites crammed into the same skin.
Dad, Sam gets. His father’s not a man; he’s a mission. Whatever tenderness he had in him burned in Lawrence with Mom, leaving behind this one drive, flame-hardened and immovable.
“Why can’t you be happy for me, Dad? Is vengeance more important to you than your own kids?”
Total silence for nearly a minute, like the hush before a squall or the stillness of prayer, and then, “Get out of my house.”
Sam laughs, ugly and harsh. “This isn’t your house. This is the Econo Lodge. And, don’t worry. I’m leaving.” Sam hefts his duffel to his shoulder, shaking his head in disgust when Dean won’t meet his eyes.
He slams the door behind him. I’ll never look back. The walk to the bus station is two miles down a back road, thirty minutes of mosquitoes and treading through hot, wet air. I’ll never live like that again. The temperature in the bus is arctic, its windows fogged over, and Sam draws a pentagram in the condensation, lays his cheek over it and tries to sleep. I’ll never miss them.
2
“Let me see that one.” The ring is slender, delicate, a thin filigree of white gold on navy velvet. Sam holds it in his hand and he can barely feel its weight, just a cold whisper of metal that gradually warms in his palm. Sam wonders how it will look on Jess, imagines its slip of shine on her tanned finger and smiles.
That night Sam dreams. He sees Jess immobilized on the ceiling, her face devoid of color and an undulation of fire ribboned around her body. Sam can smell her burning and taste her ashes on his tongue when they fall into his open, screaming mouth.
He jerks awake. The sheets are twisted in a sweaty rope around his left forearm and Jess hovers over him concerned. Sam almost clocks her before he comes back to himself, before he knows who she is, who he is, again.
“Sam, baby, are you okay?” Jess strokes down his arms, gentling him, unwinding him from the shroud of his sheets. She’s so beautiful in the almost-black of their room, her hair a staticky sleep-rumpled halo, mascara smudged under her eyes. Sam grabs her and holds on. He knows he’s leaving bruises on her shoulders, but Jess doesn’t make a sound. She just clutches right back, until Sam’s heart stops racing, until he can breathe again .
“Nothing. It’s nothing,” he says. “Just a dream.”
3
“She has got it bad for you, dude.” Sam giggles into his beer like a freaking twelve year old girl and Dean wants to knock him one, but doesn’t. Yet.
“Whatever, Sam.” He takes a long pull of PBR and tries to ignore Jo standing behind the bar and pulling her hair up off the sweet curve of her neck before letting it fall back down again.
“Whatever my ass, Dean. I heard you in the shower singing REO Speedwagon like the worst American Idol audition since William Hung.” Sam sprawls back in his chair, smug and satisfied. “It’s my new ringtone.” He flips open his cell and hollers, “Hey, Ash, call me!”
Dean jumps over the table, tackles Sam to the ground and wrestles the phone from him, but not before it rings. The recording’s mostly a loud whoosh of running water, but Dean can hear himself underneath, singing from the hair as it were, and just when he thinks this couldn’t get more mortifying, Ellen’s snickering and feeding quarters to the jukebox. Dean hauls Sam up by the collar, tosses a wad of cash on the table and then proceeds to manhandle Sam into the passenger seat of the Impala.
“Sam, I’m only gonna say this one more time. I am not interested in Jo.”
“Okay, dude. Sorry. I just thought you liked her, that’s all.”
Dean grips the steering wheel more tightly, grinding his teeth, and Jesus he’s gonna need one of those infomercial foam guards after a couple more months with Sam. “Well,” he says, “you thought wrong. She’s just a kid.” He doesn’t say, Of course I like her, dumbass. She’s pretty and she’s not weak. She knows the job and she knows what it means. The risks. And I could maybe even love a girl like her, have something with her. But I can’t watch out for her and you too, Sammy. It’d split me wide open. It’s always gonna be you, Sammy. Every damn time.
4
Sam thinks when it comes right down to it that Dean will kill him one day. Doesn’t matter how many times Dean tells him he’s a full-on retard for thinking that, Dean still sees it in his face. This simple, stupid trust that Dean’s the strong one. That he can do what even Dad couldn’t.
Dean knows Sam’s never really understood him. Not even now, after more than a year packed together in the Impala and one shitty motel after another with never any space between them. Dean knows that’s mostly his own fault—the way he takes everything raw and terrifying and shoves it down inside himself, turning up the collar of his jacket against knowing it.
Dean believes in keeping his promises, make no mistake about that. He just believes some promises trump others. Like turning over his baby’s keys and letting Sam drive. Like I’m looking out for you, Sammy. Like the silent weight of his hand on Sam’s shoulder, saying I’m here. I’m here.
5
Sam watches Dean constantly. He watches him drive, his thumbs beating the drum line of “Back in Black” on the steering wheel. He watches him flirt with every girl they run across, even the dead ones sometimes, and then never up the ante beyond a leer. He watches Dean sleep, the unguarded vulnerability of his face belied by his under-the-pillow grip of a silver blade.
Dean catches him at it now and again. Shoots him this What the hell, freak? expression and Sam looks away. Scans the map or pages through Dad’s journal or whatever. Until the next time.
Lately, Dean’s looking back. Like tonight. The job’s done and nobody died. No blood spilled whatsoever. Sam didn’t even get bitchslapped around any. So they’re drinking at the local club on the grateful frat’s tab and Sam’s dancing for once, pressed up close to this tiny redhead and letting her grind into him. Sam won’t take it anywhere, but he’s drunk and loose hipped and he’s having a good time. Dean’s leaning over the pool table in the corner, watching Sam dance, something desperate and almost jealous on his face before he finally turns away.
Sam still hasn’t figured Dean out. He doesn’t know exactly what Dean wants, but he’s sure it’s not what Sam’s wanting now. What Sam’s been wanting since Dean didn’t die the second time. The slow slip-slide of skin on skin and wet, open-mouthed kisses across the shoulder blades. Waking up in the middle of the night with his thigh thrown over Dean’s, his palm flat on his brother’s chest. Marking Dean enough with his teeth, with his mouth, with his bruising hands until Dean’s skin reads Mine and Always and We are the same, you and me.
5 Times Sam Winchester Was Utterly, Completely Wrong
1
“You walk out that door, boy, don’t ever come back.”
Sam feels his jaw drop, and he knows he looks ridiculous—frozen in the middle of a flailing gesture with tears in his eyes that he can’t help. “Are you kidding me, Dad? I get accepted to Stanford and you disown me? What is wrong with you?”
Dad steps closer to him, eyes narrowed, voice low and dangerous. “Don’t take that tone with me, Sam.” Sam flinches and the skin on his arms goosebumps, but he stands his ground.
Dean’s slumped against the wall, staring at his shoes with his hands shoved in his pockets down past the wrists. So fucking typical. Dean knows Dad’s wrong. He knows it, but he won’t say a damn thing. Sam doesn’t get Dean. He doesn’t understand how his brother can be all Rebel Without a Cause one minute, with his car and his girls and his cops-can-blow-me attitude, and then toeing the line and saying “Yes, sir” and doing whatever the hell Dad says the next. Sam wonders how Dean can live that way, polar opposites crammed into the same skin.
Dad, Sam gets. His father’s not a man; he’s a mission. Whatever tenderness he had in him burned in Lawrence with Mom, leaving behind this one drive, flame-hardened and immovable.
“Why can’t you be happy for me, Dad? Is vengeance more important to you than your own kids?”
Total silence for nearly a minute, like the hush before a squall or the stillness of prayer, and then, “Get out of my house.”
Sam laughs, ugly and harsh. “This isn’t your house. This is the Econo Lodge. And, don’t worry. I’m leaving.” Sam hefts his duffel to his shoulder, shaking his head in disgust when Dean won’t meet his eyes.
He slams the door behind him. I’ll never look back. The walk to the bus station is two miles down a back road, thirty minutes of mosquitoes and treading through hot, wet air. I’ll never live like that again. The temperature in the bus is arctic, its windows fogged over, and Sam draws a pentagram in the condensation, lays his cheek over it and tries to sleep. I’ll never miss them.
2
“Let me see that one.” The ring is slender, delicate, a thin filigree of white gold on navy velvet. Sam holds it in his hand and he can barely feel its weight, just a cold whisper of metal that gradually warms in his palm. Sam wonders how it will look on Jess, imagines its slip of shine on her tanned finger and smiles.
That night Sam dreams. He sees Jess immobilized on the ceiling, her face devoid of color and an undulation of fire ribboned around her body. Sam can smell her burning and taste her ashes on his tongue when they fall into his open, screaming mouth.
He jerks awake. The sheets are twisted in a sweaty rope around his left forearm and Jess hovers over him concerned. Sam almost clocks her before he comes back to himself, before he knows who she is, who he is, again.
“Sam, baby, are you okay?” Jess strokes down his arms, gentling him, unwinding him from the shroud of his sheets. She’s so beautiful in the almost-black of their room, her hair a staticky sleep-rumpled halo, mascara smudged under her eyes. Sam grabs her and holds on. He knows he’s leaving bruises on her shoulders, but Jess doesn’t make a sound. She just clutches right back, until Sam’s heart stops racing, until he can breathe again .
“Nothing. It’s nothing,” he says. “Just a dream.”
3
“She has got it bad for you, dude.” Sam giggles into his beer like a freaking twelve year old girl and Dean wants to knock him one, but doesn’t. Yet.
“Whatever, Sam.” He takes a long pull of PBR and tries to ignore Jo standing behind the bar and pulling her hair up off the sweet curve of her neck before letting it fall back down again.
“Whatever my ass, Dean. I heard you in the shower singing REO Speedwagon like the worst American Idol audition since William Hung.” Sam sprawls back in his chair, smug and satisfied. “It’s my new ringtone.” He flips open his cell and hollers, “Hey, Ash, call me!”
Dean jumps over the table, tackles Sam to the ground and wrestles the phone from him, but not before it rings. The recording’s mostly a loud whoosh of running water, but Dean can hear himself underneath, singing from the hair as it were, and just when he thinks this couldn’t get more mortifying, Ellen’s snickering and feeding quarters to the jukebox. Dean hauls Sam up by the collar, tosses a wad of cash on the table and then proceeds to manhandle Sam into the passenger seat of the Impala.
“Sam, I’m only gonna say this one more time. I am not interested in Jo.”
“Okay, dude. Sorry. I just thought you liked her, that’s all.”
Dean grips the steering wheel more tightly, grinding his teeth, and Jesus he’s gonna need one of those infomercial foam guards after a couple more months with Sam. “Well,” he says, “you thought wrong. She’s just a kid.” He doesn’t say, Of course I like her, dumbass. She’s pretty and she’s not weak. She knows the job and she knows what it means. The risks. And I could maybe even love a girl like her, have something with her. But I can’t watch out for her and you too, Sammy. It’d split me wide open. It’s always gonna be you, Sammy. Every damn time.
4
Sam thinks when it comes right down to it that Dean will kill him one day. Doesn’t matter how many times Dean tells him he’s a full-on retard for thinking that, Dean still sees it in his face. This simple, stupid trust that Dean’s the strong one. That he can do what even Dad couldn’t.
Dean knows Sam’s never really understood him. Not even now, after more than a year packed together in the Impala and one shitty motel after another with never any space between them. Dean knows that’s mostly his own fault—the way he takes everything raw and terrifying and shoves it down inside himself, turning up the collar of his jacket against knowing it.
Dean believes in keeping his promises, make no mistake about that. He just believes some promises trump others. Like turning over his baby’s keys and letting Sam drive. Like I’m looking out for you, Sammy. Like the silent weight of his hand on Sam’s shoulder, saying I’m here. I’m here.
5
Sam watches Dean constantly. He watches him drive, his thumbs beating the drum line of “Back in Black” on the steering wheel. He watches him flirt with every girl they run across, even the dead ones sometimes, and then never up the ante beyond a leer. He watches Dean sleep, the unguarded vulnerability of his face belied by his under-the-pillow grip of a silver blade.
Dean catches him at it now and again. Shoots him this What the hell, freak? expression and Sam looks away. Scans the map or pages through Dad’s journal or whatever. Until the next time.
Lately, Dean’s looking back. Like tonight. The job’s done and nobody died. No blood spilled whatsoever. Sam didn’t even get bitchslapped around any. So they’re drinking at the local club on the grateful frat’s tab and Sam’s dancing for once, pressed up close to this tiny redhead and letting her grind into him. Sam won’t take it anywhere, but he’s drunk and loose hipped and he’s having a good time. Dean’s leaning over the pool table in the corner, watching Sam dance, something desperate and almost jealous on his face before he finally turns away.
Sam still hasn’t figured Dean out. He doesn’t know exactly what Dean wants, but he’s sure it’s not what Sam’s wanting now. What Sam’s been wanting since Dean didn’t die the second time. The slow slip-slide of skin on skin and wet, open-mouthed kisses across the shoulder blades. Waking up in the middle of the night with his thigh thrown over Dean’s, his palm flat on his brother’s chest. Marking Dean enough with his teeth, with his mouth, with his bruising hands until Dean’s skin reads Mine and Always and We are the same, you and me.
