Winchester
Written by Samantha Simard, (c) 2010
Title: Winchester
Rating: PG
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairing: Dean, Sam - Gen!fic
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All hail Eric Kripke.
Timeline: Could be set in any season, but I pictured it as Season 1.
Spoilers/Warnings: None.
Summary: Most people didn't share their last name with a gun. Most people also didn't compare their brother to a rifle.
Author's Notes: Hey everybody! It's my first time posting on this site, and this was also my first time writing a Supernatural fic - it's pretty much just a drabble, but it's a start! Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine. Tell me what you think!
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Most people didn't share their last name with a gun. Most people also didn't compare their brother to a rifle.
Then again, despite how hard he'd tried, Sam Winchester was never "most people."
Normally, the comparison didn't even register in his head. It was when Dean was standing in front of him like this, poised and lethal and deadly, that it swam to the forefront of his brain. (Of course, it helped that he had gotten his skull cracked by a baseball bat recently-then it was very easy for his mind to wander.)
Well, maybe he wasn't a rifle specifically; any sort of weapon would do.
The way he stood, ramrod straight, between his brother and an impending threat could reflect a sharpened javelin-the way Dean moved with a grace and fluidity Sam (almost) envied was reminiscent of a homemade flamethrower, quick and able to inflict instant or torturous damage.
Okay, maybe fire wasn't something Dean would want to be compared to. Moving on.
The way he was able to kill, with close to no doubt and little hesitation, was sharp and cutting, like a good throwing knife. The way all of the above could happen in a split second-especially where his brother was concerned-was what really brought the gun part into play.
Coincidence? Sam didn't think so.
But then, there were the moments when he wasn't any sort of weapon-Dean was just there, untying his hands, rubbing the circulation back into his wrists, murmuring gruffly affectionate comfort with a handful of "Sammy" tossed in for good measure.
Carding a hand through Sam's hair, while prodding and performing gentle triage with the other, not apologizing when he hit something that hurt, but also not calling him out on his slight whimpering and jacket-grabbing, either.
Helping Sam limp out of whatever hole he'd been trapped in, settling him into the Impala, driving them back to another nameless motel, all the while making light, teasing remarks that hid his real worry.
He was just Dean, caring and loving in his own weird way, and Sam had found he didn't need much else.
And really, would you expect anything more out of a Winchester? Rifle or big brother, either way.