Fic: A Leaf From His Book
Dean comes in with coffee, breakfast - apparently already caffeinated with how chipper he's being.
"You aren't ready to blow this pop stand yet?"
Sam yawns, stretches, kicks off the warm covers. "I didn't think there was a rush."
Dean shrugs. "The road calls."
"Well, we need to stop at the library before we hit the highway."
"You're kidding," Dean says, crumbs flying out of a mouth stuffed with donuts. Strawberry jelly leaks out onto his hand and he wipes it on the corner of the table. Sam makes a face, but doesn't comment.
"No, I need to return those books on local history," Sam says, crossing the room to grab his coffee, peers out of the blinds to glance at the weather, thinks about what clothes to throw on. It looks like rain.
"Just leave them here."
"Dude, no - we're not leaving them here for someone to throw away." In Sam-world, it is tantamount to book burning, which he has a problem with even when said books are cursed.
"So take them with us. I don't want to hit rush hour traffic outside Des Moines."
Sam snags some clean clothes, his shaving kit. "Last time I mentioned keeping a book - one book - you told me you didn't want the Impala to turn into a book-mobile."
Sam cuts Dean off before he can interject that Sam did keep the book anyway. "Look, we borrowed them, we're returning them. The entire reason a library works is that the books are there for free."
Dean gives him a look that deters him from starting a lecture on the importance of libraries as a social institution.
"Besides, if another hunter ends up needing these books to get rid of something, do you want to be the reason they don't have it?"
That shuts him up.
:::
:::
Two hunts down the line a needed book can only be found at a Barnes & Noble. Dean sits and has three coffees, hits on the barista, while Sam tries to figure out how the hell the retailers are shelving these books. Dewey Decimal does have his place in society.
Eventually, he finds it. They're running low on cash, credit cards are practically all maxed out, so Sam stuffs the book in the front corner of his hoodie when no one is looking.. Over the past few months, he's stopped fighting as much about the morality of stealing. He tells himself that it isn't that Dean is rubbing off on him. And - B&N is a large corporation, after all. They can take the hit. When his conscience pipes up that it is the author of the book who is going to lose out, he assuages the guilt with the thought that he is saving lives.
:::
:::
They hunt the bastard of a sprite they needed the book for. Dean ends up with a knee that was twisted halfway around from the looks of it. Sam's got a nasty cut deep into his hand that gapes wide every time he tries to make a fist. Dean bullies him into stitches, as if there was a question about it, the sleeve of his hoodie sodden with his blood.
He's sitting there having fishing line tugged through his skin when his older brother starts in on the book.
Annoyance as a distraction technique. It works.
"So, we gonna return the book to the store?"
Sam feels the pull of the stitch, squints one eye to look at his hand, the tabletop becoming shiny and wet as he drips onto it. He takes another swig of whiskey. "The book I stole? I can see that going real well."
"What - so you go in with your big dewy eyes and you tell the emo chick behind the counter that you really like her eyebrow ring, and by the way - you forgot the receipt, but can you return the book anyway..." Dean trails off and waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
"Are you trying to get me laid or get us cash?"
"Can't it be both?" Dean smirks.
Sam's about to say something about how Dean is calling him a whore, but he's not stupid enough to give his brother the encouragement.
The needle goes through again and Sam's thumb twitches.
Calm as anything his brother holds his wrist steady, "Hold still. Almost done."
There's a pause where Sam is concentrating way too much on how much blood is trickling out. Dean must have noticed too, because he's hurried up a bit.
"So, why is it okay to steal from the store, but not the library?"
"Huh? I dunno, just is." Sam swallows thickly, feels dizzy. Dean reaches into the duffel next to him and comes up with a bottle of water, untwists the cap and smacks it down in front of Sam.
"Drink."
Sam takes a few sips of water and feels a bit better, the cool, easily flowing water a remedy to the nausea induced by the warm, clotting slime he feels covered in - is covered in.
"You gonna answer my question?"
Sam lets out an irritated huff. "Fine, a library is paid for by the taxpayers, the books are purchased or donated by the town. If everyone kept whatever books they wanted, the whole system would fall apart."
Dean flicks his eyes up from his handiwork for a moment. "Credit card fraud involves taxpayers too, Sam. We take from the bank, they raise rates for everyone to offset the losses."
Sam raises an eyebrow. "Weren't you the one who called that the Hunter's Tax, what they pay for us keeping them safe?"
Dean grins at him and pulls the needle again. "Whoever said that is clearly a genius."
"Yeah, of course." Sam snorts, "Are you trying to convince me that stealing is good or bad? I would think you'd be glad I was coming to see your way of thinking."
Dean doesn't answer, just gives Sam's wrist a squeeze. "Done."
The peroxide and Neoporin are out of reach and the instant Dean stands up to go get it the bad knee buckles, balking at the assumption it would take weight. Sam reaches out to grab his older brother, but Dean manages to keep himself upright, hopping up and down awkwardly, releasing a surprised guffawat hollering his nerve endings are doing.
"Shit, dude. I told you we should have iced it right away!"
"Bleeders come first," Dean says, still hopping.
No, Sam comes first, Sam almost says, but he bites his tongue - tries to get used to this weird feeling of angry gratitude for a brother who always puts him first, even when he shouldn't. Instead he stands up, ignoring a pretty awesome head rush, and pokes his brother lightly in the chest.
"Sit. I'll get it."
"I'm fine," Dean says, but he sits down anyway.
Sam grabs the peroxide, Neosporin and an icepack while he's at it. He hands the icepack to Dean first, lets him know with a look that Dean is going to be icing down his knee if he wants to continue bandaging up Sam's hand.
Dean rolls his eyes, but pulls a chair closer and elevates his leg on it, places the icepack gingerly on the knee.
"Happy?"
"Delighted." Sam sits back down and lets his brother finish up his hand.
:::
:::
Three days later, Dean can't fit his jeans or his sweats over the swelling, and the bruising is...intense. Several large purple hematomas are knotting the front and back, like a mobster went to town on him with a baseball bat. Sam's been watching him try to get around on it for days, shaking his head the whole time.
Dean pulls up a pair of Sam's wide-leg jeans, scowling as he belts them tightly. "This is friggin' ridiculous."
Sam has to stop himself from laughing, because - yeah, Dean looks like he's playing dress-up. This is golden Little Brother teasing material. Like manna from heaven. If he does that, though, there's no way he's going to meet his goal of getting Dean to the urgent care clinic.
"No more ridiculous than you hobbling around for three days. Seriously, dude, I think you might need a brace or something, just while it heals. You need to get checked out."
Dean screws up his face in protest until Sam adds, "I'd like my pants back sometime this century."
Sam insists on taking the driver's seat, but just on principle. No one likes driving themselves to the ER. Dean makes a move to get out of the car, but Sam tells him to wait and starts searching through things.
"What are you looking fo
"What'd you do with that book? If we're going to be waiting awhile, figure I can read something."
"...the book?" Dean asks, something nearly sheepish in his tone.
"Uh, yeah. 'Fae of the Cornfields' or whatever it was called. Did you stick it in the trunk?" Sam's hair hangs in his eyes as he leans over the back of the seat, long arms pawing through the bags stowed on the floor of the backseat.
There's a pause of silence.
"I, uh, dropped it off at the library before we left town."
Sam looks up sharply from his search, letting out a grunt of exertion as he pushes himself back over the seat to face his brother. "You what? Dean, that wasn't a library book."
Dean is blushing. "Yeah, well, you said they work on donations, right? So, I'm like the Robin Hood of Literacy, so what?"
Sam stares at his brother for a moment, as if not comprehending what he's seeing.
He's rubbing off on Dean.
Huh.
Sam snaps out of it. "Okay, let's go inside."
He helps Dean out of the car, stooping low to put his arm around Mr. Reading Rainbow so he doesn't have to put as much weight on the bad leg. They limp toward the entrance of the urgent care clinic, spring air crisp, the smell of cherry blossoms about to bloom.
"I'm Robin, so y'know that makes you Maid Marian, right?" Dean jibes, even as he trips over the hem of the too-long jeans.
Sam snorts. Dean calling him a girl is old hat now, predictable.
"How about Will Scarlett, instead?" Sam leans down and re-cuffs Dean's pants before they add a broken face to the reasons why they're here.
Dean looks down at Sam, frowning slightly. "No way. Did you even see the movie? Will Scarlett was kind of a douche to his big bro."
Dean lets it linger there, the unsaid, that Sam is not a douche as far as Dean is concerned. Sam feels like he was just given the hugest compliment possible.
Sam stands up, puts his arm around Dean again and they resume the slow pace forward. "You're basing your entire view of the Robin Hood mythology on a Kevin Costner movie. That's just sad, dude."
A few steps and Dean's face tightens, he lets out a slow exhale through clenched teeth.
"Okay, how about Little John?" Sam asks, poking Dean to get his attention.
Dean takes a couple of deeper breaths, the oldest pain management trick in the book. "Big dude who kicks a lot of ass? Yeah, we can go with that."
Sam feels a squeeze on his shoulder. He's not sure if that's Dean displaying some manly form of affection or simply trying to balance as he gimps along.
It doesn't matter.
Years apart and there is still that easy flow, a stride that Sam never found at Stanford. It's come back quicker than he ever imagined it would. That day to day sense of belonging.
This is Robin Hood and his Merry Men. You stick together, because no matter where you go - this is home.
They'll take the best of each other and keep moving forward.