Believe In You

(dean)


Dean’s religion is Sam. He worships Sam's long square fingers, the thick veins in Sam’s arms. He loves that when Sam gets really hot, he leans his forehead against the car window and the glass fogs up instantly but Sam never sweats. How he likes the blue flavour of lollipops best because they make his tongue look crazy. He loves that Sam is an awful drunk. He loves that Sam insists on the huge difference between Hot Topic and Abercrombie & Fitch, Coke and Pepsi, Mark and Donnie Wahlberg. Sam is the first person he turns to for help.

(sam)

He’s not in love with his brother. It’s just that Dean is the only constant in his life. He’s grown up in a world where nothing is certain – location, friends; not even death is absolute. Someone might come back as a vengeful spirit. His father was always gone. The only thing he’s ever known for sure is Dean. He’s not a phone call or an email away – he’s right there, in reach. Maybe that’s why there’s a pull between them, like they’ve been magnetised.  A sixth sense to tell them when the other is in trouble. The ability to see through each other’s lies.

It’s one of the reasons he left. He couldn’t imagine an existence where he didn’t have Dean in his blood.

But at Stanford, none of the music sounded right and every guy over six feet made his heart pound and none of the alcohol at parties was strong enough. (Dean always told him that the sure-fire cure to a cold is a hundred-proof shot of whiskey.)

Then Dean showed up, fierce grin and sharp grip and a task. Four years without his brother and everything came back stronger than ever. The constant need to watch the other’s back, the code words, the phone constantly glued to their ears. The shock of being back with Dean never really wore off.

He’s not in love with his brother. He just wants to know certain things. Like how Dean would react if Sam were to suck on the joins of Dean’s fingers and slide his hands under Dean’s shirt and bite his neck.
 

(dean)

Dean stumbles into the room with blood on his hands and face. Bar fight gone bad, he tells Sam.

“And when do bar fights ever go well?”

He drags Dean over to the sink and turns the hot water on. He unwraps the soap from its plastic covering.

“C’mon.” He takes hold of Dean’s hands and starts to scrub the blood away. “How many were there?”

“Three.”

“Three on one, that’s cutting it close.”

“Yeah, you gotta feel sorry for them.” Dean grins, tasting copper in his mouth. Sam sees the blood on his teeth and flinches. He hands Dean his toothbrush.

“Scrub that out, would you. It’s making me nauseous.”

Dean does, only because Sam is watching him. When he spits the last mouthful of red-tinged toothpaste into the sink, Sam wets his hand under the tap.

“This might sting.” He presses his hand to Dean’s cheekbone.

This feels like South Dakota. He was nine years old and they were too far away from the nearest motel, the three of them spending every night in the car. It was the first time Dean had ever seen an electric fence. John had warned him not to go near it.

“What’ll happen?”

“Nothing good, can promise you that.”

Dean had waited until John was out of sight. He clasped the fence in both hands. A second of build up that he felt in the air around him, and then a hammer slammed into the side of his head.

This feels like South Dakota all over again. His face is heating up and he’s not sure if it’s from the hot water on Sam’s hand or if it’s just Sam’s hand. His mouth is slack and he swipes a hand over it. He wants to say something to break the silence. He wants to pull Sam towards him. He wants to push his hands through Sam’s hair that’s getting longer all the time. Wants to make a pattern of tooth and nail marks across Sam’s chest and stomach and thighs.

“Well. Um. Thanks for helping me clean up.”

Sam flinches. His hand drops from Dean’s face and he turns away. Dean wonders what he did wrong.

“Yeah. Well. Next time, clean up your own fucking mess.”

Just like that, Dean feels his heart break. His knees buckle and he jerks forward with his hand protectively over his chest.

Once again Sam has displayed the innate ability to hit Dean when he’s down. It feels worse every time.

(sam)
 

It’s been hours since either of them said anything. He can’t believe how clear the air is out here. They spent three weeks in San Francisco. Besides the fact that it was Madison’s home town, it just didn’t sit right with Sam. Three weeks of city traffic and rush and smog and now the desert; a colour palette reduced to different shades of red and brown. Sam is sure that they could drive for days and not reach the other side of this huge state.

There’s a sound like a gunshot and Sam is immediately upright, looking around for danger. Dean is swearing and his voice sounds strange in the silence.

It’s the tyre.

“Goddamn blow out.” Dean lets loose another stream of obscenities and Sam feels distinctly uncomfortable. They pull over to the side of the road, crunching to a stop. Dean slams out of the car. Sam sits still for a moment, listening to the engine tick as it cools.

He doesn’t know much about cars, despite the fact that he was practically raised in one. He knows how to break into a car and shut down the alarm and hotwire it in under five minutes. But he still doesn’t know anything about fixing them. So while Dean bends over the hood of the car, brow furrowed, Sam just hovers uselessly, fingering the crucifix in his pocket.

Sam bought the crucifix at a second-hand store. The choice was between a clunky wooden rosary and a rainbow-coloured plastic thing, the kind they give out at kids’ Christian camps. He wished there were a cool silver one or at least plain metal. You get what you get.

He keeps it in his jeans, and when times are at their hardest, his hand steals down to touch the crucifix. He draws strength from his faith in something invisible, the same way he draws strength from the weight of a shotgun or a flask of holy water in his hands.

“Would you quit playing with that thing, already,” Dean mutters, squatting down to jack up the tyre.

Sam leans against the hood. “Look, I know you’re not the most religious of all guys. But have you ever even considered the possibility that there might be a force at work here that’s bigger than us?”

“Uh, yeah. It’s called the supernatural, Sam.”

“I’m not talking about the purely evil. I’m talking about God.”

There’s a beat, then Dean says shortly, “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s stupid, that’s why not. You honestly think there’s someone in the sky, right now, watching over us? And not just over us, but spying on us? Every little thing we do?”

“I don’t know why it’s so hard to believe, Dean. Everyone has to believe in something.”

 “I never…I never thought I needed to find religion. To believe in something, the way you do? Give it all up for something we can’t even see? I could never do that. I’d never be able to believe in God. There’s no room in me for that.”

“No room? Why?”

Dean inhales deeply, looking up at Sam.

“Because all of me...it’s taken up with believing in you.”

Sam has grown up knowing three things for sure: his name is Sam, his mother is dead, and he loves his brother Dean. He loves Dean drunk and he loves him sober. Loves him awake and asleep. Loves him when he’s eating cereal and pulling on his jacket. Loves him crouching in an alleyway, stalking something awful and nameless. Loves him thrown to the ground, limbs splayed and mouth open in a surprised shout.

Sam has spent his whole life searching the skies and praying before he goes to sleep, but this moment, this may be the closest that he has ever felt to God.