Title: Fix Something
Characters: Sam & Dean Winchester
Rating: T for language
Word Count: 2970
Genre: H/C
Warnings/Spoilers: S10 spoilers, very specifically for 10.05.
Summary: They are men of letters, not speeches. Second (Start Somewhere would be #1) in what I suspect might become a series revolving around the brother utilizing the written word rather than speech and written at least partly in epistolary format, with which I have had considerable experience in other fandoms but not this one, so I'm treading lightly.

A/N: Written for the prompt below on LJ's ohsam November 2 commentfic meme. Anon wanted it set post-S8, preferably S10, and I wanted to explore how Dean Winchester went from properly horrified at the opening lines of The Road So Far to (adorably) head-bopping during what I would have thought would be one of the more traumatic songs in the episode.

Original prompt: I was always very frustrated how Sam's self-worth issues addressed at the end in season 8 didn't seem to be followed through. So I'd like a fic where Dean and Co. realizes that Sam has a poor opinion of himself/or a false opinion of what others think of him.

NOTE: Formatting is wonky here on this site, so feel free to hop over to my LiveJournal, kcscribbler, to read it there. It's much easier to read and is formatted much better in that entry.

Driving off into the sunset's all very nice and poetic and a little weirdly uneventful, for them, but the reality of it is that they've become a little spoiled lately with their "we time" and even Dean is out of practice; meaning, he's not going to chance crashing his baby by trying to drive through the night on no sleep. They putter through the countryside in comfortable silence until a little after midnight, when Sam blinks out of a doze as the rumble of the engine shuts off.

Dean's door shuts, letting in a blast of cool night air, and Sam reluctantly follows suit into the soft neon glow beneath a motel sign, stretching gingerly as he unfolds himself from the passenger seat. His bad shoulder informs him in no uncertain terms that just because he's permitted to remove the sling now does not mean he's meant to be flung through the air and land on it atop a concrete basement floor, and he massages the knots and strained ligaments with a groan, jaw clenched tightly against the pain.

Dean raises an eyebrow and then flicks him the keycard before picking up all four duffle bags. "Just get the door, Gramps."

Sam glares at him sideways, jamming the keycard into the slot with more force than is necessary. The sensor beeps belligerently, turns red.

"Today would be nice, Sam."

His head hits the door with an audible thud, as he jabs the card in once more, making sure the arrows are pointed in the correct direction. This time, the sensor blips green, and the handle turns easily. He stumbles in, flipping the light switch on the way, and holds the door for Dean, who hauls in their entire stash and dumps it on the bed farthest from the door before flopping onto the other, face down.

Sam sighs, lets the door shut behind them, throws the lock and deadbolt (wow, a real working deadbolt in addition to an actual keycard – Dean's still trying to overcompensate for his time as a demon), and then starts rummaging through the weapons duffle for the salt canister.

Dean's email ringtone chirps repeatedly, muffled by three layers of flannel and cotton.

He's just done salting the window when Dean's snort of laughter draws his attention back to the bed. His brother's propped up on his elbows, scrolling through something on the phone.

Tossing the empty canister into the trash can, he debates – they are still just slightly out of sync, and something so stupid and small as this shows it more than anything. He doesn't even know if he should sit on the bed and ask to see, or if he should ignore it and wait for Dean to offer information.

It's ridiculous, how unsure they are; like two people trying to build a relationship from scratch, instead of knowing each other for years – but then, perhaps that's what they're doing.

He clears his throat, and settles for middle ground, leaning over with one arm on the bed. "What's so funny, Dean?"

Dean grins, and tosses him the phone, spinning it across the cheap quilted coverlet. His eyebrows waggle up and down in exaggerated dramatic effect. "The kid sent us pictures, Sam. In case we want to 'post them' somewhere. The hell is Instagram?"

Sam snorts. He scrolls down the list, quirking a smile here and there at the dozen or so photos of the strange musical, taken by the photographer the girls had in the wings. Dean stretches, yawns, and then begins to rummage through his duffle for clean sleep clothes.

Sam pauses. "What are these PDF attachments?"

"DON'T open those!"

The warning comes a little too late, as Sam's far more adept at technology than his brother, and he's already got one opened; he takes one look at the "fanfic" title and summary information and tosses the phone back on the bed, cackling his head off.

A well-aimed dirty sock hits him in the face. "I did not ask the little perv to send those, Sam!"

Sam deflects another sock with a pillow, still laughing, before he schools his face into total seriousness. "Dean, you know as your brother I will always completely support your life choices," he says, eyes wide and innocent.

Dean's current choice involves a gesture he would never have made in a school full of underage girls, before he disappears into the bathroom and locks the door, all the while making threats that Sam takes seriously enough to retreat from the field of battle or else risk finding Jello mix in the shower head in the morning, or something equally juvenile but no less effective.

Still smiling, he turns his attention to warding the room, a task soon completed with sharpie and pocketknife, leaving him more time than they normally have in a motel room of an evening due to there being no weapons to clean from this case. While tired, he is not yet sleepy; he napped in the car, and his shoulder still throbs with a dull ache. After dry swallowing two aspirin, he boots up his laptop to add the notes about Calliope to his ever-growing digital archive.

Someday he'll get over his conscience enough to just break down and use a fake credit card to buy an iPad; it would be so much easier to tote around and use in his efforts to continually update the Men of Letters' database.

He's about halfway through his account of the case when the bathroom door opens, expelling a cloud of steam and his brother, in a less disgruntled mood than that in which he had entered. Dean still swats him upside the head with a rolled-up towel as he passes, but that is the extent of his ire.

"Picked a good one this time, the tub actually drains," he remarks dryly, stuffing his jeans and shirt into their laundry duffle.

Sam grunts non-committally in response, eyes glued on the screen as he concentrates on finishing the entry.

He jumps halfway out of his chair when Dean's hand comes down heavily on his left shoulder.

"Jesus!"

"Whatcha writin' there, Sam-stee-el?"

"Knock it off, Dean," he mutters, shoving his brother's hand off in annoyance.

"Geez, somebody didn't take his Midol yet. Thought you were the one who said that disgrace to the name of music back there was – oh, and I quote, 'kind of charming.' So why the stinkface?"

Sam sits back with a sigh. "I'm just tired, Dean."

Privately, he's a little curious as to why his brother isn't more emotionally drained by this case; of the two of them, he would have thought Dean would be more affected, but that does not appear to be the case. Sam knows he should not be surprised, however. Though initially far more horrified at the subject matter and their lives being bastardized in such a fashion, Dean had eventually accepted the young actresses and their enthusiastic dreams with the same generous, unselfish kindness that Sam well remembered being extended to him, when he was no more than a shy, gawky teenager with dreams far bigger than their lifestyle or bank accounts would ever permit.

Dean has always been good with children, and it is that innate kindness shown in this last case, which proves to Sam more than anything else that his brother truly is back – that the demon inside has been vanquished, despite any lingering, shadowy doubts he might have in the heat of the moment here and there. His brother actually ended up enjoying himself, Sam thinks; there is no other reason why he would give his cell phone number to a civilian, and nothing else would make him so relaxed, so at ease, after such subject matter as this case made light of.

Sam is grateful his brother is so well-adjusted after their case, no question; the trinket hanging from their car's rearview mirror has done more to seal the breach between them than weeks of careful tiptoeing and measured diplomacy have. But in consequence, his own difficulty assimilating the events seems more pronounced by comparison.

Dean has withdrawn to the dresser, eyeing him warily. He picks up the ice bucket, but Sam waves a hand wearily, knowing without speech what he's doing and feeling even more guilty for his own moodiness. "I'm good, Dean. Heat's better for the shoulder, anyway, and I have a heat wrap in my bag if it gets bad enough."

Dean shrugs and drops the bucket with a plasticky clatter. He ambles over to the television, picks up the remote and the channel guide, digs through his duffle for a semi-squashed can of Pringles, and then casually wanders back to the bed, where he squirrels into a comfortable position, propped up on several pillows and socked feet wiggling comfortably over the edge of the cheap footboard. Sam is well aware of his brother's scrutiny the entire time, and wants to both laugh and smack him for it. Dean is still trying far too hard, and while Sam loves him for it, it also drives him more than slightly crazy.

Dean's phone chirps again, and Sam glances at it reflexively before tossing it to his brother.

"You've certainly got a hardcore fan in Marie," he observes with a raised eyebrow, as Dean scrolls briefly through the email.

"Mmh, she's just fishing for inside information on 'unpublished Edlund manuscripts.'" Dean rolls his eyes, tosses the phone onto the nightstand. Green eyes flick mischievously his direction. "And for the record, she was a total Sam-girl, bro." The statement is punctuated by the loud crunch of a chip.

Sam cringes. "TMI, Dean."

His brother points a chip fragment at him in emphasis, dropping a fine spray of crumbs on the bedspread. "Y'should have heard it. 'My sweeeeet, brave, selfless Sam'." Dean's falsetto ends in another crunch as the second chip meets its fate. "Freakin' hilarious, man."

Sam pulls the laptop back in front of him. "Yeah, hilarious," he mutters, highlighting a line of text to paste into a different paragraph. 'Cause why would anybody be a fan of Sam in those books?

There's a very awkward silence which lasts long enough that Dean finally stops eating because the crunching is just too jarring in the stillness, and Sam shifts uneasily in his chair, debating whether or not to bring up what is really on his mind. It isn't fair to Dean, what he's doing; his brother has been nothing but just that – be his brother, kind and caring and cheering, since they arrived – and it isn't fair to him, for Sam to continue like this without explanation, without asking for help. He cannot expect the entire burden of this relationship-reset to fall upon Dean alone; he must also participate, if he wants them to move forward. Why is he finding this so difficult?

Behind him, the television turns on, at a weirdly considerate low volume, almost a white noise, so that it won't disturb him as he continues to work. The gesture alone makes the words blur in front of him, and he rapidly blinks them clear, clenching his jaw to stay focused, in the hope that the work will help to clear his mind. At this point, he's more than finished with his entry about Calliope, and he's now cross-referencing any other past occurrences where she has appeared in the Northern Hemisphere just to keep himself busy.

Just so he can keep his back turned, so he doesn't have to face his brother and those too-knowing eyes.

And it would have worked, had an Instant Messaging window not popped up in the lower right corner of his screen, several minutes later.

DW052813 is online.

DW052813: Was it something I said?

Sam blinks, guesses all the variations on his brother's name were already taken by over-eager Edlund fangirls, briefly wonders what the numbers mean, and then just stares in dismay at the window, debating whether or not to answer.

Oh, what the hell. They tend to do better when they're not talking face to face, anyway.

Realsamwinchester: Are you seriously IMing me from your phone ten feet away?

DW052813: Ignoring the question, so it was something I said.

Realsamwinchester: It's not.

DW052813: Dude, you don't really have a crush on Cas?

Sam nearly chokes on his tongue.

Realsamwinchester: GOD NO

DW052813: …

DW052813: Ok so what else could I have said to get that look?

Realsamwinchester: What look

DW052813 is typing

His phone pings, and a moment later a picture downloads, showing a bedraggled puppy huddled under a park bench (looking forlornly out at the conveniently-placed photographer). Sam tries not to smile.

DW052813: That look ^

Realsamwinchester: It's nothing, Dean.

DW052813: ~[o_O]~

Realsamwinchester: Why are you waving at me

DW052813: I thought that was hands on hips

Realsamwinchester: Nope. 8P

DW052813: Freakin weird alphabet people

DW052813: Anyway

DW052813: Sam

DW052813: Sam

DW052813: Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaam

Realsamwinchester: What

DW052813 is typing

DW052813 is typing

DW052813: Was it what I said about Marie when she was talking about you?

DW052813: Sam?

DW052813: Because I meant the whole fangirl thing was hilarious like in general

DW052813: Not that it was hilarious that she would pick you to fangirl over

DW052813: I mean that was obvious

Realsamwinchester: What?

DW052813: It lives!

Realsamwinchester: Stop being a jerk

DW052813: Stop thinking you're any less of a hero in those god-awful stories than I am or anyone else, moron.

Realsamwinchester: …

DW052813 is typing

DW052813: Thought so.

DW052813: When are you gonna learn I know you better than you think I do, Sammy?

Realsamwinchester: Do you, Dean? Have you read those stories? You're the hero in all of them, Dean. I'm the one always straddling the line between light and dark, always making the wrong choices with the best intentions, always failing no matter what the effort involved was.

Realsamwinchester: I mean, the whole Edlund saga ends with me in the Cage for all eternity to pay for my crimes – that's where the author chose to end it! You got a happy ending and I got an eternity in Hell, trapped with two archangels, thinking the last things I saw were my own hands killing Bobby and Cas and most likely you too! You don't even know what it's like to not be the hero, Dean. You can't possibly know.

DW052813 is typing

DW052813 is typing

DW052813: Maybe you're right.

DW052813: But I know what it's like to not be your hero any more, Sammy. And all I know is that hurts like Hell never did.

Sam pulls one hand off the keyboard to dash a sleeve across his eyes.

DW052813: But for an overgrown geek who cuddles up too close to his literature, you suck at analyzing those books, Sam, if you can't see what everyone else does, including those girls back there. You've always been the glue that holds this family together – and you've always been the compass that keeps me pointed in the right direction. You can't see how important you are because you're too busy trying to save everyone else around you.

DW052813: And whether you think you're the hero of the story or not, kid, the fact remains that there is no story without you – and more importantly, even if there was a story without you, nobody'd want to read the boring crapfest.

Sam chokes on an emotionally-charged, nearly hysterical giggle, and leans his chin into the palm of one hand, pecking out words with the other, smile reflected softly in the screen.

Realsamwinchester: That your professional literary review, is it?

DW052813: Damn right.

Realsamwinchester: Thanks, Dean.

DW052813: You can thank me by never bringing this case up again. Ever. I can't get that Road So Far song out of my head.

Realsamwinchester: :)

Realsamwinchester: BTW, what's with the numbers? 052813? Coordinates?

DW052813: Date. May 28, last year

Realsamwinchester: What happened last year?

"It's the night you agreed to drop the Trials," Dean says quietly from behind him, the first words either of them have spoken aloud in over an hour.

Sam turns in his chair, looks curiously across the short expanse of carpet to the bed, where Dean still sprawls, fidgeting with the Pringle can. His brother glances up at the scrutiny, but holds the look almost with defiance.

"The first time in, like, years, we both said screw Destiny, screw the bigger picture, let the world burn if it wants but we're both gonna live to see it go up in smoke? Hell yeah, it's a date to remember." Dean gives him a wicked smirk that could light the match in question, though his eyes are gentle.

Sam closes the laptop lid with a dull click and joins his brother on the opposite twin bed, ignoring Dean's squawk as he steals the nearly-empty Pringle can on his way by.

"Here's to watching the world burn, then," he murmurs, and salutes the television, and his brother, with a rattle of broken potato chips.