ultraviolet9a | Understand

>>Understand

TITLE: Understand

AUTHOR:

ultraviolet9a
SPOILER: General spoilers for both seasons, mostly for Season 2 esp the finale.

GENRE: Gen.

CHARACTERS: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, some OC I can’t mention.

SUMMARY: It would spoil everything. But this is about Sam. And it’s about Dean. But…not…the way you might think. And it moves towards a climax.

RATING: PG-13
FEEDBACK: Dude…duh.
DISCLAIMER: You kidding me? If I did own them I’d feed them cheesecake and hide them in my closet.

NOTE:

theladyscribewas distributing plot bunnies for adoption. I stole the wee on that said “I have a brother. His name’s Dean Winchester”. Which also tied in with

found_fic_spnprompt nr 5.

“I have a brother. His name’s Dean Winchester.”

“Son…”

Sam lifted his open palm as if to tell him to stop. He had to find the right words, the words that could talk and hold his brother, the words that would tell how Dean Winchester walked in bowlegs and bright smiles and thought he was God’s gift to women, and goddammit, if Sam was to judge by the way they reacted to him, maybe he just was.

Words were important. Didn’t have to dwell in mojo and spells, didn’t have to be four years in a fucking law school to know that.

Somewhere in the pool of human language, there had to be the right words to dress Dean up, the feral tom-cat he was. He fucked a lot, he ate a lot, he grinned a lot, he fought a lot, tooth and nail and bite and fist. Seemed to have cat’s lives too, the way he always thought his were expendable.

Words like on the drawing of Batman Sam drew in the third grade For Dean, cuz he’s the best big brother in the world and how dad kept it stuck on the fridge for a week till they moved out again and it somehow got lost. Words that could tell how Sam felt when he found the drawing tucked away frayed and tattered in Dean’s shoulder bag after all these years.

There were words like princess and bitch that could be dealt with jerk. There were words like Sammy and those couldn’t be dealt with, there was nothing to deal with there. Just the occasional it’s Sam, cuz dude, seriously, what would the point of having a brother be if you didn’t bitch and fuck about, no?

Dean’s name the first word Sam said, according to dad.

“Sam…”

“Wait.”

Words were tricky little bastards and he had to catch them.

He had to find the right ones that would make faded memories spring back to life, of Dean feeding him, bathing him, reading him stories, playing with him, helping time pass along with all those miles in the back seat of the Impala.

Clearer memories that carried scent and fucked-upness, of hunts and teenage angst and Dean giving Sam a few pointers on how to score with Letty in the janitor’s closet, and dude, of course Sam knew, it was mortifying, his bro telling him how to get in Letty’s pants? But, come on. Sam was just younger, ok? With pimples and height and long legs and arms he didn’t known half the time what to do with and the tongue always saying the wrong words around girls. Cuz words…words were important, even back then, and oh god, how much had Sam laughed when Dolores had refused to put out for Dean because Dean had accidentally called her Annie.

Words. Important. Even syllables, like Sam laughing that at least he got the name’s girl right, and the syllables of Dean’s chuckle when he let Sam walk half a mile behind the car just cuz he kept on wondering how on earth Dean could have gotten the name so far off, not like he called her Darla or something, but Annie? Not one syllable matched to Dolores and no, walking hadn’t been fun, but seeing Dean all hot and bothered had been worth it, or so he told himself even as he massaged his sore leg muscles.

Fresher memories that needed words to restrain them, keep the life of them toned down just like Dean did with Sam and dad, keeping the balance between them like a fucking see-saw. A memory that burnt like a fresh scar of Dean watching Sam’s Greyhound leave for Stanford and Sam could swear he kept on dreaming about the way Dean looked his first months there, had to dig deep in his nails not to call him back, cuz if you didn’t burn a bridge, it’d always be there for the walk-back.

Memories blazing like fire and scorching like one, on ceilings and nightmares and back on the road and Dean his safe anchor of sanity and all that mess, all that fucking mess and the fucking demon, and Dean never complaining.

There had to be words for this, words for how much weight Dean carried on his shoulders, words for how he carried Sam’s own and was thankful for the chance he had to do it.

“Sam…”

“No, it’s important,” Sam said and no, his hands weren’t shaky, they were just like his mind, trying to grope and catch the right words and syllables and spin the true tale, of how Dean was like just one skin trapping pain as the pyre burnt, of how pain turned to rage as he smashed his baby (one and only time ever), of how Dean never let go, but held on, always held on to Sam.

Cuz there had to be words. There had to be words that could contain the love and joy Dean was made of, with his singing on top of his lungs miles stretching ahead and his no chick flick moment comments and his wise cracks, in the way he grinned and flicked Sam’s ear when Sam was bitchin’ that fuck off, this job blows, getting in prison is just fucking stupid, you know, Dean?

Important. It was important to say everything right, and there was so much to cram into words that seemed too few and he still hadn’t said that Dean was a goddamn hero, with his offer to figure everything out and keep Sam safe, with the way he always tried to follow a code he set for himself, hunting things, saving people, the family business, keeping his debts clean and it didn’t matter that he looked all glowing and alive when he had to lie and hustled pool and could fool even the best con artist in the world, because in his heart Dean wasn’t a conman but a knight, grimy, world-weary knight, and the ends mattered.

How could Sam fit all that in sentences and make him see? Of how Dean held him when he died screaming his name before darkness swallowed Sam whole. That he didn’t let go and brought him back throwing his life on the table without even blinking. That he made the one true bullet fly and not miss. That he never missed, not with his heart.

It was important that he’d see. It was important that he’d get it. Sam put his palm back down. Opened his mouth.

“I have a brother,” he said. Words slipped away as quick as time, as 365 days, 52 weeks, 12 months. As one year, the crossroads, Sam’s defeat. Sam knew there were no words that would ever describe Dean waiting for the hellhounds saying Don’t worry about it, Sammy.

Words were important. Sam understood them, even if they were never told. Like I love you.

And truth…truth was important too. Even if it gutted him.

“I had a brother,” Sam said, words tripping in his mouth, then rushing out like a stream. “And I lost him. So you gotta understand, Bobby. You gotta understand. I’m opening the gate again. Cuz there’s no fucking way I’m leaving him down there. Please understand, Bobby. I’m getting him back. With or without you so you either stand by my side or you stand aside, cuz I swear on my brother’s soul, Bobby, nothing will stop me.”

“Sam…”

“Do you understand, Bobby? Do you?”

“You had a brother,” Bobby simply said. He understood them too, even if they were never told. Like I’ll have a brother again. Conman, see, always hearing the world see-saw from words to deeds.

“I had a brother,” Sam said and closed his fingers around the Colt.

-The End.

SIDENOTE: big hugs and cheesecake to e313who helped me decide that determination works better than desperation when your name is Sam.

Also? Dean and Dolores incident? I’ve mentioned it before in The Opposite of Talking. One of these days I’ll have to flesh it out.