Learning Things We Already Knew (The Remedial Education Remix) [Supernatural; Sam/Dean]
Title: Learning Things We Already Knew (The Remedial Education Remix)
Author: mollita
Summary: Sam looks like the guy Dean sometimes forgets he ever knew.
Rating: PG
Fandom: Supernatural
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: They're not mine.
Title, Author and URL of original story: Where I'll Be Tomorrow, by luzdeestrellas
Dean can practically hear his father's voice in his head: I know I taught you better than that. Which is true; his father had spent years hammering into his head about a thousand and one ways not to be a careless idiot about hunting.
Trouble is, his father taught him a hell of a lot more about keeping Sam safe, the importance of it, the obligation of it. So sure, on second thought it hadn't been such a hot idea to launch himself between Sam (who'd been well-armed with rock salt and probably fully capable of getting off a clean shot) and the ghost of Buford Cox (who wasn't much more fucked up in the present day than he had been just after the Civil War, what with his penchant for slicing up whores when he wasn't too busy organizing raids on reservation land).
But on first thought -- or automatic pilot, more accurately -- it had seemed like the best idea ever, because there'd been a sword arcing toward Sam and Sam had seemed a second off in his reaction time, and if there'd ever been anything more deeply ingrained in Dean than stepping in harm's way to spare Sam the blow, he would be at a loss to name it.
Besides, it wasn't like getting skewered himself had been part of the plan, such as it was. And besides, the sword had only grazed his side; granted, grazed him like a hot blade set to butter, but grazed nonetheless, and in the end good old Buford had gotten two facefuls of rock salt and Dean had still been plenty helpful in burning the fucker's bones.
Hell, he'd even thrown the match. So he feels at least a little entitled to his annoyance at Sam's muttered insults (--total idiot, Dean, you know that? I think I really did get all the brains in the family --) and he doesn't exactly try to stifle his response (Pay more attention next time, huh? Then maybe I won't need to go one on one with Inigo fuckin' Montoya just to save your ass.)
Sam just glares at him and ties off another suture with gentle hands. But he shuts up, at least, and for awhile the only sounds are his steady breathing, the slosh of liquid as Dean swigs whiskey straight from the bottle, faint hisses each time the needle slips through flesh. Sam finally finishes and smears ointment over the wound before taping gauze over it, and no sooner has Dean grit his teeth and sat up does he slug Dean in the jaw and send him sprawling on the mattress again. "Ow! The fuck, dude."
"Inigo was a good guy, moron," Sam grumbles. He throws a wet, blood-stained washcloth and it lands on Dean's chest, cold.
"Whatever," Dean mutters. He starts to sit up again and thinks better of it; black spots swim across his vision as he stares at the white ceiling of their motel room and he wonders just how much blood he lost. "Like I'd know, anyway. You were the one who insisted on watching that girly crap."
"Fuck you."
"Ask nicely."
Sam throws a pillow at him this time. Dean just lets it stay where it comes to rest, half-covering his face, and closes his eyes and sleeps.
They take the next day off, the Sunday, the Super Bowl. Dean sleeps later than he normally would and when he does wake his head is throbbing, deep pain pounding below his temples, his body's angry sulk at the abuse it's been put through. Sam has the decency to look contrite, at least, when he hands Dean aspirin and coffee and stale donuts, so instead of griping Dean chews slowly on dry, crumbling cake and says, "Wanna hit a bar for the game?"
Sam is already fixated on his laptop screen, doesn't even look up. "Sure," he says absently. He doesn't care about football, never has; Dean gave up on the issue years ago. Sam has always preferred talking to brute force, has always hated using his body as a weapon. Dean never could figure out how to explain that there could be grace and strategy involved in knocking down a bear of a man, or that they played their own version of the game every day of their lives. You go out and you get a thing done, he'd always wanted to explain, and usually you try not to let anything scary knock you down while you do it.
Usually. Doesn't matter whether it's life or football, Dean figures; sometimes you throw yourself in harm's way just because that's how you do the job, because that's how you were taught to play the game.
Sam spends most of the day on the computer, scouring news feeds. In the afternoon they walk the few blocks to a sports bar they saw when they first hit town, stake out a table in the back with a decent enough view of one of the televisions. They eat cheese fries and nachos, and drink round after slow round of cheap beer, and Sam tells him about articles he flagged for closer attention. There's been a rash of kids institutionalized in Ann Arbor, Sam says, nearly a dozen teenagers going suddenly, inexplicably crazy. He leans forward over the table, his posture pulled taut with the stress and worry of having work on the mind.
Dean listens to Sam and watches the game with divided attention, agrees they should probably check that one out. He's in a strange mood, tired and quiet. His side aches, muscles exhausted from hours of favoring the left, going so far to avoid aggravating the wound that he created a new problem. His jaw, too, is tender and sore; Sam pulled the punch but not enough, and Dean flexes his lower jaw occasionally just to set off the sharp spark of pain it causes. Sam catches him at it once, rolls his eyes silently. When the waitress comes by again, Sam buys the next round.
By the time they leave, though, Dean has a healthy buzz going, his mood good and his body relaxed even in its soreness. It's fucking cold outside, the wind carrying the sort of sharp chill that feels like sandpaper across the flesh. Dean doesn't actually mind all that much; it's been a good day, easy in a way that they've both badly needed, and Sam's shoulder jostles his every few steps with an occasional brush of warmth.
"It's not necessarily that Peyton Manning's one of the Devil's minions," Dean says absently, as they're walking the last block to the motel. A small snort from Sam focuses his attention on continuing the thought, drawing it out, pulling at the thread of a conversation that died two hours ago. "I mean, necessarily. But maybe we should check it out, you know?"
He expects something, even if he's not sure exactly what. That's how it goes: he offers, Sam counters, they negotiate back and forth until the entire deal devolves into a quick round of cheerful name-calling and a truce until the next round.
Instead Sam is silent, and Dean looks over to find Sam staring at him, a strange look on his face. For a second he thinks Sam has had a vision - a painless one, thank God, but it sure as hell looks like something has popped into Sam's head and thrown him for a loop. Dean pulls one hand from the warm cocoon of his jacket pocket to wave it in front of Sam's face. "Sammy, are you listening to a word I'm saying?"
Sam blinks, his expression relaxing into something thoughtful, vaguely content, abruptly more unconcerned than he's been all day. "I'm really not," he says easily. "I wouldn't worry about it, though. I normally only listen to one in every thirty words you say."
Bingo; game on. Dean smirks and shrugs. "That's why your IQ's so low, kiddo."
Sam's laugh is low and free, his breath clear of the shuddery hitch of trying to get enough air into cold-constricted lungs. Again he fails to keep up his end of things, but Dean can't bring himself to mind. He's struck by how Sam looks, by an all too rare glimpse of someone young and happy, a kid with hope, the brother he used to take for granted as a part of daily life.
Sam looks like the guy Dean sometimes forgets he ever knew.
And at the same time he looks like a stranger, a curious new acquaintance reaching to map the contours of Dean's face as if it's unfamiliar terrain. Dean doesn't know what to make of it, this twist, this juxtaposition of old and new, and all he can come up with is to watch Sam carefully and ask, "Uh, Sam. What are you doing?"
Used to be he never had to ask Sam questions like that. Used to be Sam would cough up an answer to anything he did have to ask, but he doesn't this time. Dean tries again. "What are you doing, Sam?"
Sam's face settles into a hint of a smile, a fleeting ghost of amusement that doesn't quite belong. "Learning," he says lightly. There's a tiny note of surprise in his tone, as if he's processing his very own epiphany. His thumb sweeps across Dean's lower lip, strips of dry skin dragging against each other. "Try not to freak out."
And then Sam shuffles close and kisses him. Lips cold, breath warm -- Sam kisses him and this is not, this is not how it's supposed to go. This is not what every day of Dean's life since he was four years old has been leading up to. It's everything wrong in the world and nothing right, but at the same time it's Sam.
It's a knot of contradiction that Dean can't untangle, not while Sam's hands are palming his neck, not while Sam's mouth is steady and firm against his. Sam said he was learning but it's the other way around; he's teaching Dean things neither of them should ever know.
Things a small, terrified part of Dean thinks they might have already known for years.
Hell if he isn't damn good at the job, too. Dean is frozen with it, overwhelmed. There are things he might do automatically when someone kisses him, and there are things he might do when Sam is acting strange, and until now the lists have been pretty mutually exclusive. Interestingly enough, merging them doesn't provide more options, just seems to take them all away. He stands stock-still, lets Sam imprint him with an understanding of everything that comes along with a first kiss so long in coming: the sharing of air, the sure and determined press of lips, the instinct to pay attention or risk missing something important.
Then Sam whispers, "Dean," against his mouth, effortlessly, as easily and naturally as living from one instant to the next. And Dean realizes, he remembers: there's nothing here he could possibly miss. Only Sam, who he's often felt he knows better than he knows himself, who's all he has left, who's the first and last reason he bothers living from one instant to the next.
Only Sam, the most familiar territory there is. Dean gives up, gives in, gives himself over. Sam shifts closer and kisses him harder, and Dean kisses him back, and it's like coming back to a place he's never actually been.
It's like coming home, at last.
end
Author: mollita
Summary: Sam looks like the guy Dean sometimes forgets he ever knew.
Rating: PG
Fandom: Supernatural
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: They're not mine.
Title, Author and URL of original story: Where I'll Be Tomorrow, by luzdeestrellas
Dean can practically hear his father's voice in his head: I know I taught you better than that. Which is true; his father had spent years hammering into his head about a thousand and one ways not to be a careless idiot about hunting.
Trouble is, his father taught him a hell of a lot more about keeping Sam safe, the importance of it, the obligation of it. So sure, on second thought it hadn't been such a hot idea to launch himself between Sam (who'd been well-armed with rock salt and probably fully capable of getting off a clean shot) and the ghost of Buford Cox (who wasn't much more fucked up in the present day than he had been just after the Civil War, what with his penchant for slicing up whores when he wasn't too busy organizing raids on reservation land).
But on first thought -- or automatic pilot, more accurately -- it had seemed like the best idea ever, because there'd been a sword arcing toward Sam and Sam had seemed a second off in his reaction time, and if there'd ever been anything more deeply ingrained in Dean than stepping in harm's way to spare Sam the blow, he would be at a loss to name it.
Besides, it wasn't like getting skewered himself had been part of the plan, such as it was. And besides, the sword had only grazed his side; granted, grazed him like a hot blade set to butter, but grazed nonetheless, and in the end good old Buford had gotten two facefuls of rock salt and Dean had still been plenty helpful in burning the fucker's bones.
Hell, he'd even thrown the match. So he feels at least a little entitled to his annoyance at Sam's muttered insults (--total idiot, Dean, you know that? I think I really did get all the brains in the family --) and he doesn't exactly try to stifle his response (Pay more attention next time, huh? Then maybe I won't need to go one on one with Inigo fuckin' Montoya just to save your ass.)
Sam just glares at him and ties off another suture with gentle hands. But he shuts up, at least, and for awhile the only sounds are his steady breathing, the slosh of liquid as Dean swigs whiskey straight from the bottle, faint hisses each time the needle slips through flesh. Sam finally finishes and smears ointment over the wound before taping gauze over it, and no sooner has Dean grit his teeth and sat up does he slug Dean in the jaw and send him sprawling on the mattress again. "Ow! The fuck, dude."
"Inigo was a good guy, moron," Sam grumbles. He throws a wet, blood-stained washcloth and it lands on Dean's chest, cold.
"Whatever," Dean mutters. He starts to sit up again and thinks better of it; black spots swim across his vision as he stares at the white ceiling of their motel room and he wonders just how much blood he lost. "Like I'd know, anyway. You were the one who insisted on watching that girly crap."
"Fuck you."
"Ask nicely."
Sam throws a pillow at him this time. Dean just lets it stay where it comes to rest, half-covering his face, and closes his eyes and sleeps.
They take the next day off, the Sunday, the Super Bowl. Dean sleeps later than he normally would and when he does wake his head is throbbing, deep pain pounding below his temples, his body's angry sulk at the abuse it's been put through. Sam has the decency to look contrite, at least, when he hands Dean aspirin and coffee and stale donuts, so instead of griping Dean chews slowly on dry, crumbling cake and says, "Wanna hit a bar for the game?"
Sam is already fixated on his laptop screen, doesn't even look up. "Sure," he says absently. He doesn't care about football, never has; Dean gave up on the issue years ago. Sam has always preferred talking to brute force, has always hated using his body as a weapon. Dean never could figure out how to explain that there could be grace and strategy involved in knocking down a bear of a man, or that they played their own version of the game every day of their lives. You go out and you get a thing done, he'd always wanted to explain, and usually you try not to let anything scary knock you down while you do it.
Usually. Doesn't matter whether it's life or football, Dean figures; sometimes you throw yourself in harm's way just because that's how you do the job, because that's how you were taught to play the game.
Sam spends most of the day on the computer, scouring news feeds. In the afternoon they walk the few blocks to a sports bar they saw when they first hit town, stake out a table in the back with a decent enough view of one of the televisions. They eat cheese fries and nachos, and drink round after slow round of cheap beer, and Sam tells him about articles he flagged for closer attention. There's been a rash of kids institutionalized in Ann Arbor, Sam says, nearly a dozen teenagers going suddenly, inexplicably crazy. He leans forward over the table, his posture pulled taut with the stress and worry of having work on the mind.
Dean listens to Sam and watches the game with divided attention, agrees they should probably check that one out. He's in a strange mood, tired and quiet. His side aches, muscles exhausted from hours of favoring the left, going so far to avoid aggravating the wound that he created a new problem. His jaw, too, is tender and sore; Sam pulled the punch but not enough, and Dean flexes his lower jaw occasionally just to set off the sharp spark of pain it causes. Sam catches him at it once, rolls his eyes silently. When the waitress comes by again, Sam buys the next round.
By the time they leave, though, Dean has a healthy buzz going, his mood good and his body relaxed even in its soreness. It's fucking cold outside, the wind carrying the sort of sharp chill that feels like sandpaper across the flesh. Dean doesn't actually mind all that much; it's been a good day, easy in a way that they've both badly needed, and Sam's shoulder jostles his every few steps with an occasional brush of warmth.
"It's not necessarily that Peyton Manning's one of the Devil's minions," Dean says absently, as they're walking the last block to the motel. A small snort from Sam focuses his attention on continuing the thought, drawing it out, pulling at the thread of a conversation that died two hours ago. "I mean, necessarily. But maybe we should check it out, you know?"
He expects something, even if he's not sure exactly what. That's how it goes: he offers, Sam counters, they negotiate back and forth until the entire deal devolves into a quick round of cheerful name-calling and a truce until the next round.
Instead Sam is silent, and Dean looks over to find Sam staring at him, a strange look on his face. For a second he thinks Sam has had a vision - a painless one, thank God, but it sure as hell looks like something has popped into Sam's head and thrown him for a loop. Dean pulls one hand from the warm cocoon of his jacket pocket to wave it in front of Sam's face. "Sammy, are you listening to a word I'm saying?"
Sam blinks, his expression relaxing into something thoughtful, vaguely content, abruptly more unconcerned than he's been all day. "I'm really not," he says easily. "I wouldn't worry about it, though. I normally only listen to one in every thirty words you say."
Bingo; game on. Dean smirks and shrugs. "That's why your IQ's so low, kiddo."
Sam's laugh is low and free, his breath clear of the shuddery hitch of trying to get enough air into cold-constricted lungs. Again he fails to keep up his end of things, but Dean can't bring himself to mind. He's struck by how Sam looks, by an all too rare glimpse of someone young and happy, a kid with hope, the brother he used to take for granted as a part of daily life.
Sam looks like the guy Dean sometimes forgets he ever knew.
And at the same time he looks like a stranger, a curious new acquaintance reaching to map the contours of Dean's face as if it's unfamiliar terrain. Dean doesn't know what to make of it, this twist, this juxtaposition of old and new, and all he can come up with is to watch Sam carefully and ask, "Uh, Sam. What are you doing?"
Used to be he never had to ask Sam questions like that. Used to be Sam would cough up an answer to anything he did have to ask, but he doesn't this time. Dean tries again. "What are you doing, Sam?"
Sam's face settles into a hint of a smile, a fleeting ghost of amusement that doesn't quite belong. "Learning," he says lightly. There's a tiny note of surprise in his tone, as if he's processing his very own epiphany. His thumb sweeps across Dean's lower lip, strips of dry skin dragging against each other. "Try not to freak out."
And then Sam shuffles close and kisses him. Lips cold, breath warm -- Sam kisses him and this is not, this is not how it's supposed to go. This is not what every day of Dean's life since he was four years old has been leading up to. It's everything wrong in the world and nothing right, but at the same time it's Sam.
It's a knot of contradiction that Dean can't untangle, not while Sam's hands are palming his neck, not while Sam's mouth is steady and firm against his. Sam said he was learning but it's the other way around; he's teaching Dean things neither of them should ever know.
Things a small, terrified part of Dean thinks they might have already known for years.
Hell if he isn't damn good at the job, too. Dean is frozen with it, overwhelmed. There are things he might do automatically when someone kisses him, and there are things he might do when Sam is acting strange, and until now the lists have been pretty mutually exclusive. Interestingly enough, merging them doesn't provide more options, just seems to take them all away. He stands stock-still, lets Sam imprint him with an understanding of everything that comes along with a first kiss so long in coming: the sharing of air, the sure and determined press of lips, the instinct to pay attention or risk missing something important.
Then Sam whispers, "Dean," against his mouth, effortlessly, as easily and naturally as living from one instant to the next. And Dean realizes, he remembers: there's nothing here he could possibly miss. Only Sam, who he's often felt he knows better than he knows himself, who's all he has left, who's the first and last reason he bothers living from one instant to the next.
Only Sam, the most familiar territory there is. Dean gives up, gives in, gives himself over. Sam shifts closer and kisses him harder, and Dean kisses him back, and it's like coming back to a place he's never actually been.
It's like coming home, at last.
end