Dude, I'm batman

[What do you have to lose?]

“You sure you’re feelin’ up to this, Sammich?”

“Yeah, I’m alright now,” Sam said. He ducked his head a little and Dean could see the shame all over his face. To counteract it he punched him in the shoulder a little.

“I just don’t you suckin’ down my blood while you’re s’posed to be watching my back.”

“Dean-I wouldn’t-“ Sam started and then rolled his eyes, exasperation taking the place of shame. Dean could handle that.

“Right,” he dismissed and prepared to get down to business, leaning forward so his elbows were on his knees. They were in the basement and it had been marked up with runes, hiding them as effectively as they knew how from everyone and everything. Castiel was helping a little on that front but he’d warned he couldn’t hide them for long, not without someone noticing. “No matter what happens we stick to the plan. You get that hurt assed puppy look on your face and I’m punching you anyways,” Dean smirked.

“Yeah, got it,” Sam smirked.

“We’ve got to sell this con and everybody’s got to buy it,” Dean reinforced. This was sort of the con of his life and if any one of them slipped up the world wouldn’t just burn, Dean, Sam and Castiel would burn with it.

“I know, Dean,” Sam assured him again.
Dean glanced down at his watch and up at the ceiling chalked with runes. “I’ll talk to your giant yeti ass when this all over, Bitch.” Oh yeah, Dean was upset and nervous. He was stringing insult after insult.

“You better,” Sam warned him. “Jerk.”

They stormed up the steps yelling and screaming at each other but Sam didn’t through the first punch until they were in the kitchen, clear of all the runes and in full sight of anyone who might be paying attention. They crashed through the living room, managing to smash the coffee table in their wake and it never crossed Dean’s mind that he was going to have to apologize for that to Brooke. Before this was over, they’d all have much bigger things to apologize for.

[Argue]

Sam’s nose is huge. Dean knows this because he is taking pictures of it close up with his camera phone. Sam grumbles, turns over and lets out a snore that would make the Impala envious. Dean rolls his eyes and moves back over to his bed. He sends the pictures to Brooke—because for some reason she wants pictures of Sam’s nose and flips through channels on the TV.

Twenty minutes later, Sam’s doing his best impression of a V8 engine and Dean is still bored. He takes some more pictures of Sam sleeping, sends them to Claire this time and then he sees the plastic spoon on the table. Dean is stealthy like a ninja—or Batman—as he slips the spoon in Sam’s mouth and takes some more pictures. Sam grunts, snorts and then wakes up flailing when Dean starts taking pictures.

“God Dammit Dean!”

There are days Dean would swear that’s Sam’s favorite phrase. He’s also faster than Dean ever gives him credit for. He’s half way across the room when Sam brings him down in a tackle and they’re rolling across the room, punching each other.

“Ow!” Sam yells when Dean catches him in the eye. “What the hell?”

“I was bored,” Dean says as he lets Sam up. He’s got a goofy ass grin a mile wide on his face.

‘What the fuck really?’ is written all over Sam’s face as he pushes himself up off the floor.

“Come on, Sammich. That was fun.” The words are a little slurred because Sam’s elbow caught him hard in the lip and it’s swelling up.

Sam just shakes his head, a chuckle coming out despite the effort to keep it to himself. “Why pictures?”

“Dude I sent ‘em to Claire. Especially that one of your-“

His words are cut off when Sam slams him into the wall and they go down to the floor, fists flying again. Dean’s laughing like an idiot.

“Christ, boney knees,” he says between gasping laughter.

Dean’s not bored anymore but then again, neither one of them are sleeping.

[Who do you work best with?]

The tension that runs between the two of you like a trip wire just waiting to trigger an explosion melts away in the thick of a case. Your backs against each others, guns raised and flash lights held above the guns. Tension still exists but it binds you together, tighter than wire or tape, tighter than glue or a weld. This is what you were raised for and more importantly in ways that no one will ever understand, this is what he was raised for; need and circumstance, blood and responsibility have wound you both together so that neither of you know exactly where one ends nor where the other begins. Trusting him is in your bones, protection is in your soul and that’s why you take a couple of steps in front him, your body angled just a little so that you’re in the line of fire. You like to pretend he doesn’t know what you’re doing because that’s part of protecting him; hiding all the bad things from him, even if he’s becoming one of the bad things.

There’s an unearthly scream and talons rake your shoulder.

“Sammy!”

You dropped the flashlight and you can’t see him but you can still feel him at your back and the crunch of bone against rock isn’t his. Somehow you know that because instinctively you would know what the crunch of his bone sounded like. You would know the smell of his blood because it smells like yours and the metallic scent that makes your stomach twists isn’t his blood.

Light bounces in your eyes and then angles up at the ceiling once before arcing across your eyes again to the ground. He’s crouching in front of you, the heel of his hand pressing against the deep gashes in your shoulder and it hurts and it’s right and it’s home and it’s the way everything is supposed to be.

“You okay?”

And you are because he is. Whatever wounded you is dead and you don’t want to ask how he did it because those are things about him that scare you now so you nod instead and clap your free hand to his shoulder, pushing—half pulling yourself to your feet.

“Me? I’m smokin’ Sammy,” you say and you know your words are too bright, too cocky, too wrong, too everything but they usually are these days.

“Let’s get out of here. I want to look at your shoulder and I need a shower.”

“Thought I smelled something. You gotta start taking those more than once a week, Sammich.” Because insults and snapbacks are easier than asking why your baby brother has blood all over him, blood that’s not his or yours and why you only heard one scream, the crunch of bone and a wet, fleshy pop. Those sounds are etched in your ears and your brain, squealing somewhere in the back like nails on a chalk board. You never heard a gun fire, never smelled burnt powder and you know Sam doesn’t have a knife. Whatever happened, however that monster died, Sam did it and you know that and it’s eating away at you faster than what was in that cave ever could.

The walk back to the Impala is slow and you lean on Sam more because you can then because you need to. Using your brother as a crutch makes some of the horror go away because no matter what happens, no matter what he becomes or what you become, he’s still the person you work best with in the world. The person you’ll stand beside against everything else. It’s what you raised for. More importantly it’s what he was raised for.

Week 5 [Dare: Fall asleep with someone]

This was in part inspired by the cuddle meme. Only Dean doesn't cuddle. Most of the time. Obviously takes place a couple of days after Mary's death.

His head doesn’t even hurt anymore. He’s pretty sure Dad’s does though. Sammy has been crying pretty much since Mom died and Dean doesn’t get why Dad is so angry about it. Sam is just doing what everyone else wants to do. He can get away with it because he’s a baby. The floor creaks and Dean knows without opening his eyes that Dad is pacing the floor with Sammy again even though it hasn’t really helped the last couple of days. Sammy just has to cry himself to sleep then they’ll all get a few hours before the baby wakes up crying again. Dean knows it but Dad seems to have forgotten it.

The first wrapped sounds of ACDC bubble through the room before they even out. Dean cracks open one eye to confirm that it’s his Dad singing Highway to Hell to his baby brother.

“Momma always sang Angels watching over me to him,” Dean says from the mess of blankets that he’s made of the motel bed.

“Yeah…well she ain’t here so he gets ACDC.” Dad’s voice carries more regret then bite. “Go to sleep, Dean.”

And he doesn’t argue that he can’t, not with the way Sammy’s still crying because unless you’re Mom, you don’t argue with John Winchester. Mom that’s not there anymore. Dean hides deeper in the blankets and pulls a pillow over his head. It doesn’t shut out the way Sam cries but Dean’s not sure he wants Sammy to quit crying. At least it’s a reminder that he’s there and Dean did something right. He took care of Sammy.

Highway to Hell breaks off, Sammy’s still crying and Dean peeks out from beneath the pillow to see Dad holding the baby up high above his head. Sam’s still wiggling and crying.
“Come on, Kiddo. I need a break. I lost her too,” Dad says to the baby and Dean wants to tell him baby’s not that smart. Sammy doesn’t understand. He figures Dad knows that though, he’s just going a little crazy from all the crying. Dean’s eyes go wide as Dad moves toward the bed and he holds his breath, trying to be completely still so he won’t know he’s awake.

“It’s okay, Dean. I know you can’t sleep with all this noise.”

He shoves the pillow off his head and looks up to Dad who’s still got Sammy cradled in one arm against his chest. Baby is still crying his eyes out and Dad looks like he wants too.

“It’s okay,” Dean says. “You can.” Because if Dad cries then it means he can cry and he’s been waiting to cry since the fire.

Sam lets out a high pitched wail that signals the start of a real crying jag and Dean watches a look come over Dad’s face that he doesn’t know. The shock of having Dad plop Sammy down in bed next to him is chased away by the complete and total surprise of Sammy’s quiet. The baby isn’t crying. Instead he’s staring up at Dean with wide, wide eyes. That wide-eyed look is reflected in Dean’s face but it’s directed to Dad who’s just laughing right now.

“You take care of your brother, Dean. I’m gonna be right outside. Just yell if you need anything,” Dad says, already half way across the room. Dean wants to ask him to stop. To stay just a little while longer but he’s got a job. The most important job he’ll ever have. His hands look little smoothing across Sam’s forehead, his baby brother tucked in bed next to him, snuggled in the crook of his arm. Dean presses a sloppy kiss to Sam’s head.

“Don’t worry, Sammy. I’ll take care of you.”