Spn fic: Actions speak louder, Sam/Dean, pg-13

[withimpunity]

title: actions speak louder
pairing: Sam, Dean
rating: PG-13
words: 1088
disclaimer: The boys belong to Kripke, I just like to play with them.


The room was quiet save for the re-run of Roseanne Sam had finally stopped channel surfing at, serving only as white noise to help him unwind and take his mind off of the day they'd had. He was exhausted; no, exhausted didn't even begin to describe how Sam felt. Every muscle and every tendon, hell, every damn bone in his body ached so bad they felt like they were on fire. A shower had helped a little, but he still winced every time he shifted on the bed, ignoring Dean's pointed looks and mocking eyebrows. Getting rusty, Sammy boy?

Sam laid his head back against the headboard, the discomfort of the wood digging into his skull barely noticeable underneath the rest of the pain, feet dangling off the end of the queen size bed. Beside him, Dean was unwinding the way he always did after a particularly nasty, near-fatal-for-one-or-both-of-them days. He had his guns laid out on the comforter in front of him, arranged not by size, but by favorite: double barrel, Desert Eagle, Colt 1911, black Beretta, silver Beretta, sniper rifle. Sam watched out of the corner of his eye as Dean picked the double barrel up in two hands, appraising it carefully, running his fingers along the length of both barrels. He watched him caress the smooth metal like he was worshiping it, eyes darkening in concentration. This was a ritual for him; holy, sacred. This was the closest Dean came to religion.

Sam didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until it all came out in a loud puff of air, catching Dean's attention. He cleared his throat nervously when Dean's eyes flicked up at him, his mouth twisting at the corners, but Dean stayed silent, unwilling to interrupt this sacred time. Sam thought about looking away or pretending that he was more interested in the mindless television in the background, but he knew Dean, knew that if he really didn't want him gawking at him he would've said something. It was strange, but Sam couldn't take his eyes off of his brother. He felt like he was intruding on something private, something that Dean normally wouldn't share with anyone. The fact that he was allowing him to be a part of it spoke volumes.

Sam's eyes followed Dean's hands, watching as Dean sprayed one barrel with oil, running it through with a bore brush, doing the same to the second, the look in his eyes so intense Sam almost forgot to breathe again. Dean's deep, throaty chuckle shook him out of his daze.

"That Roseanne," Dean muttered, wiping down the outside of the gun with a small, white cloth. "What a bitch." He chose the Desert Eagle next, pursing his lips at his reflection in in the shiny metal before checking to make sure he'd emptied the clip. When other eight year olds had been doing their math homework, memorizing times tables and simple fractions, John had Dean memorizing gun safety and taking apart a handgun, labeling each part before putting it back together again. When other dad's were taking their sons out to the ballpark for an afternoon of bonding, John and Dean sat at the dinner table together after putting Sammy to bed, cleaning guns and talking about how one day, they would all belong to Dean.

Dean had a relationship with these guns, Sam realized. For the longest time, they were all he'd had. When everyone else had abandoned him. They were what had kept him alive this long. They were the only thing he could depend on. Sam thought maybe he was finally starting to understand his brother.

"You love them, don't you?" He blurted out, feeling a little ridiculous even as the words left his mouth. Dean looked up briefly, one eyebrow raised slightly higher than the other, then his eyes fell back onto the silver gun in his hands.

"More than's healthy," He laughed softly, pulling the once white cloth out of the bore of the forty-five, black now with grease. "They're pretty much the only reason I'm still sittin' here breathing air, Sammy. "

Sam smiled and nodded, like he could ever imagine what it had been like for Dean those four years he'd been gone, going on hunts just like these with nothing but his guns as backup, Dad half-way across the country on his own mission. It scared him and it pissed him off, a little at Dad, but mostly at himself.

"You trust them..." Sam started, knowing where he was going, but not knowing if he was ready for the answer just yet. "You trust these guns more than you trust me?"

Dean sat the Beretta down carefully and looked up, frowning at him. "Why you have to do this, Sam? Why you always gotta make it into some Freudian psycho-analysis bullshit? They're just guns, okay?"

"No," Sam argued, his voice soft, yet firm at the same time. "They're not just guns, Dean. It's okay, though. I get it."

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes, emptying the clip out of the silver Beretta. "Fabulous. Now shut up."

"I just want you to know," Sam continued, despite Dean's obvious hatred for any more communication. "You can trust me, Dean. I've got your back. You know that, right?"

Dean groaned and held the unloaded gun to his temple.

"That's not funny," Sam grimaced.

"Sorry man, but you're killing me anyway." Dean laughed and set the gun down in front of him. " Look. I know you're my brother, I know you've got my back. Do we have to talk about it all the time? You're interrupting my zen time, dude."

"Sorry," Sam smiled, scooting down on the bed to get comfortable, fluffing up a pillow to lay his head on as he pulled the covers up under his chin,watching Dean complete his ritual. He fell asleep to the sounds of bristles sliding into metal and the soothing click of magazines sliding out of their slots, and back in again when Dean finished cleaning them.

In the morning when Dean went out for coffee and muffins, Sam realized it was the first time he hadn't slept with a weapon of some sort under his pillow, ready at any moment for whatever might come after them. This was the way Dean communicated, Sam realized, not with words, but with actions. And this one said, I trust you Sammy.

Comments

[roseganymede.livejournal.com]

I love you.

X a million.

Your Winchesters are so spot on, to the littlest detail, like you've been fangirling them for years ;) Dean, oh, Dean. With the ritual and the dependence on the controllable and letting down his guard just a little for little brother. Sam's fascination with finding out, bit by bit, what makes his brother tick, knowing him again, guilty for leaving, and the last paragraph? Kill me, why don't you? ;)

Did I tell you that I love you?

<3

[oh-mcgee.livejournal.com]

Oh goodie! I was waiting to see what you thought!

Your Winchesters are so spot on, to the littlest detail, like you've been fangirling them for years

YOU ARE SO THE BEST. Seriously you give the best compliments EVER AND I LOVE YOU FOR IT.

This was actually supposed to be Sammy watching Dean cleaning his guns and getting turned on and porn ensuing, but the emotionally constipated Dean muse took over and this was the result. ;D

[roseganymede.livejournal.com]

The Dean angst muse is quite good at taking over - "Overcompensating" was supposed to be a porn romp too ;) I still say you write some gun!porn though ;)