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Hands on the steering wheel. Three o’clock, nine o’clock. Elbows close to your body, Sam. The rearview mirror shows you everything behind you so you’ll never be caught off guard when a car tries to overtake you.
Sam, sweating and jittery and eleven years old. Dean cracking a soda can open, fizz seeping over the steel edges and splashing onto Dean’s jeans. Fuck, he says, and Sam stares at his hands. Unnatural on the steering wheel. Three o’clock, nine o’clock. Dean reaches over and turns the keys in the ignition. So fucking loud.
You’ve got this, you’re a natural at everything. The soil is damp and smells like rain, streaks of raindrops tracked on the windows, Sam’s foot keeps slipping off the pedal in these shoes that he’s wearing but he’s too scared to tell Dean. Afraid to disappoint him. He knows what Dean is going to say: I told you to wear my shoes, Sam, you should’ve listened.
Sam is eleven and he’s sick of having to listen to everyone.
The Impala is alive beneath them, their father asleep in the motel room, grown worn and weary from hunts that stretch out longer now than they ever used to before. Something is happening, dark clouds overcast and Dean’s mouth is wet, thin trail of soda seeping from his chin to his neck.
Rearview mirror, Dean reminds Sam again. The black shirt really brings out Dean’s eyes. The book Sam is reading has a boy kissing a girl after he asks her to do a trust fall and she complies. Does Dean know what a trust fall is.
Foot on the pedal, hand on the gearstick. You have to see everything, Sam, you have to be aware of everything. If you see an obstruction a few metres away from you, start preparing to switch lanes before it’s too late. You’ve got this, remember New York? You can do this.
You can do this. Remember New York? You can do this. I got you, Sam, I got you, just trust me. You can do this. Sam, fuck, I fucked up, I’m sorry.
You have to see everything, Sam. Rearview mirror.
The steering wheel is strangely heavy and Sam’s arms hurt and he’s gasping for air. Shallow breaths. His chest is tight, lungs knotted like he’s been passive smoking for hours. Constricted airways, teeth sinking into the inside of Sam’s cheek. Dean is bleeding out in his passenger seat. No longer eleven.
“Shotgun,” Dean had weakly whispered, laughing to himself, bloody fingers curling into the handle of the Impala and Sam doesn’t understand what Dean thinks of himself. Yanks the door open. No hospital, Sam.
Back to the motel room. Dean with his arm around the back of Sam’s neck, refusing to put any of his body weight onto Sam like Sam is still eleven with wishbone ribs, like Sam isn’t bigger and taller and stronger than him. Dean is clutching his side, bullet in his gut and Sam is shaking, eyes brimming with tears because he’s no longer eleven but his brother might die and that certainly makes him feel like he’s eleven.
Do I really have to learn how to drive.
Dean is drenched in the yellows and pinks of the television, corner of his mouth smeared with ketchup. Sam could lean over and just lick it off but Dean would kill him. Dad would kill him. Sam’s lips close over the top of the straw and asks his brother again. Do I really have to learn how to drive.
“Of course, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Dean asks, eyebrows furrowed because it sounds like Sam is questioning orders. Refusing to run the drills. Sam runs his thumb along his bottom lip, the way their dad does.
I just mean — I have you, right? You can just drive me around forever.
Splinters, cracks in Dean’s face. Like things are changing and he didn’t quite realize it until then. Dean’s eyes search Sam’s face for moments, mouth slightly open like he’s thought of something to say but refuses to. Sam’s heart pounds under the cage of his ribs. Dean closes his mouth and turns the volume up on the television. Shiny green eyes.
If Sam hadn’t learned how to drive when he was twelve, Dean would’ve died tonight.
Bottle of whiskey, Dean’s shirt hastily yanked up to reveal smooth, hard planes of his stomach, small cinched waist. His big brother, smaller than him. Sam’s mouth is dry. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Sam says and Dean braces for impact. Whiskey pouring over the open wound and Dean hisses, eyes screwing shut. Blood and alcohol all over Sam’s twin bed.
“Get it out, fucking get it out,” Dean’s chest heaving with terror and Sam gets on his knees. This is nothing like how Sam pictured it would be when he kneeled for his brother.
Tweezers dipped in the whiskey. Dean takes a swig from the bottle, sweat on his philtrum and Sam’s hands are shaky. Bloody.
Sam was twelve when they did their first trust fall. They didn’t kiss.
Sam on his knees, tweezers picking at his brother like it deserves to. No one deserves to. A silver bullet, glinting in the moonlight as it’s extracted and blood gushes out of the wound. Tidal waves. A whimper escapes Dean’s mouth. Sam still on his knees.
Eye of the needle, thread. Sam’s knees hurt from having to support his body as he stitches up his brother. Silver bullet heavy in Sam’s jeans pocket. Messy sutures, Dean’s skin bunching like it’s just skin and not a piece of Dean and Sam lowers his teeth to bite the thread. Tie it off. His heart pounds in his chest, thousands of miles an hour.
Dean is pale-faced, eyes flared as he leans back. Does it hurt, Sam asks as he stands up, legs groaning in appreciation but he doesn’t care about that. “I’m fine,” Dean answers, leaning back against the headboard. Trying not to pop any stitches. Tshirt back down. “Can you get me something to eat?”
Sam hesitates. Don’t wanna leave you alone.
“I’ll be fine.” Dean says, and Sam will be right back.
The vending machine whirrs as it spits out chips and a soda. Sam keeps glancing back at the door of their room, on edge like he’s waiting for something to explode or implode. His hands are still stained with his brother’s blood.
Dean is asleep when Sam gets back. Head lolling on his shoulder. Dirty boots propped up on white sheets. Sam would complain but Dean almost died. Sam undoes the laces to Dean’s boots, leaves the soda by his bedside. Forehead matted with sweat, tear tracks streaking down his cheeks and Sam doesn’t know if they’ll ever speak about this again.
One bullet. That’s all it would’ve taken. The sun in Sam’s solar system going out with a whisper and not a bang. Sam runs his blood streaked hands through his hair and tries to breathe.
Dean’s birthday and Sam is at Stanford. Jessica pressed into his side, ringlets of blonde hair whipping in the air as people line up to hug her, wish her a happy birthday. The noose around Sam’s neck is tightening and he needs to get away. Last week, Dean was in Nebraska, hunting a ghoul and Sam needs to call his brother. Wish him a happy birthday.
This is Dean, leave a message. Hey, it’s me. Everything is fine, don’t worry, I know this is the emergency number but I don’t really have the number you’re using right now. Or Dad’s number. Listen, everything’s okay, I just wanted to say happy birthday. Hope you found those stupid pineapple cookies you really like in some store somewhere in Nebraska. Oh, I don’t know if you’re still there, are you? Uh, everything is okay here and I’m really, really drunk. I mean, I’m not but it feels like I am. Can’t believe I’m not there with you for your birthday. I really feel bad about it. You with Dad? Or at least somebody? Get yourself some pie or something, it’ll make you feel better. Not that I’m saying that you’re feeling bad because I’m not there or something, that’s not at all what I’m saying. I’m just saying that you deserve a day off. At least one. I hope it’s today. I hope you’re okay. Don’t call me back because I don’t know what to say if you call me. I don’t like the way we left things but I think it’s too late to try and fix things now. Sorry for punching you, I bet it hurt like a fucking bitch. Someday, come down to California and I’ll let you punch me. Then we’ll be even.
Dean doesn’t call him back.
Sam is no longer at Stanford and he can’t breathe. Can’t think. Constricted airways. Dean was shot. Dad is gone. Sam’s life is falling apart and he can’t even piece himself back together. Shattered glass shards all over the room. They don’t know where Dad is. Dean almost died. Sam’s sun. Sam’s solar system without a sun. The system collapsing in on itself, confused without its center.
Thumb caught between his teeth, Sam looks at Dean now that Dean can’t catch him in the act. Dean’s jacket, bloody and muddied. There’s a problem with the zipper, Sam remembers Dean complaining about it yesterday. Soft curve of his mouth pink in the moonlight and now Sam can’t even remember why he left in the first place.
Was it worth it, Sam, was it worth it?
At that moment, it felt like it was.
Hands on the steering wheel, except Dean has surpassed three o’clock and nine o’clock. They drift in an empty parking lot, tires screeching in protest underneath them and Dean’s eyebrows are narrowed. Lips pinched. Are you watching this, Sammy. Sam is always watching but he doesn’t say this. Nods. Feels the adrenaline course through his veins, nerves frayed and thrumming with excitement as he prays for there to be no scratches on the paint. Their father can’t find out about this, he thinks they’re doing target practice right now.
Rearview mirror. Sam is always watching.
Sam pulls his knees close to his chest like he’s a young child all over again, eyes catching on Dean. Chest heaving. Breathing. Sam lets his eyes close.
Everything bagels. Dean loves his everything bagels. Scrambled eggs spilling out from the edges. A steaming cup of coffee. Crispy bacon bit between his teeth, grease on his mouth and Dean doesn’t need a lot to make him happy.
Sam checks on him in the morning, still breathing, stitches in place and Sam heaves a sigh of relief. Maybe Dean hears Sam move or maybe it’s the discomfort of sleeping against the headboard all night but Dean stirs. Green eyes flutter open and he looks up at Sam, eyes hazy and soft. He smiles. Like he hasn’t in a while now. “Hey, Sammy, thought you were rid of me, huh?”
It doesn’t take a lot to make Dean happy. Dean lets Sam drive under extreme duress, diet soda can fizzing. Splashes onto Dean’s jeans. “Fuck.” Dean mutters and something about it makes Sam laugh. Three o’clock, nine o’clock.
Sam pulls the car over to the side of the road and kisses his brother. A surprised noise in Dean’s throat. Sam’s sun emanating heat and warmth and a wound beneath Dean’s shirt that’s begging Sam to crawl into it and make a home inside Dean.
Dean, thirteen, getting elbowed during kickball. Eleven stitches. Sam thought he was going to lose his brother then. But if your brother stays through that, stays through the time that you leave him behind and punch him and tell him that you never want to see him again, stays through the time when you kiss him the day after he almost died while you’re driving his car, you can live through anything and everything with him.
Sam’s universe expanding beneath his fingers, careful not to pop his stitches. Sam pulls back and tells his brother that he loves him.
It doesn’t take a lot to make Dean happy.
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