Title: Two by Two

Disclaimer: Not mine, don’t sue.

Summary: Sam/Dean Wincest. Part of the Still Life ‘verse. Dean has a thing for pairs. Oneshot. Complete.

Feedback: Is love.

A/N: More randomness. Little bits and pieces from this ‘verse keep emerging, and this one is really kind of fluffy.

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Dean has a thing for pairs. Sam notices this one day when they come in from taking a walk. He always takes the opportunity to get Dean into the fresh air after it’s rained for a few days. He is worried about Dean’s health being fragile, so Sam doesn’t let his brother go out unless the weather is good. But it’s strangely pleasing to watch Dean’s utter fascination with the puddles of water all over the place, how he sinks his boots down into the wet dirt road. Sam decides now is not the time to be concerned about Dean messing his clothes up. Now is when he should just watch and enjoy Dean discovering the world all over again.

“Sammy,” Dean’s smile is brilliant, “it’s nice.”

Sam nods and reaches out his hand. “Don’t slip over.”

Dean looks at him questioningly. “Don’t?”

“I mean, be careful you don’t fall.”

“Oh,” he fixes his eyes on the ground and then squats down, just keeping his balance. He sinks his fingers into the mud. “It’s soft, Sammy.”

Biting his tongue, Sam gets down next to Dean and gently draws his hand away from the ground. “Don’t touch the dirt, Dean,” he says gently, pulls a tissue out of his pocket and wipes Dean’s fingers clean. “It’s not good to touch. Okay?”

“Okay, Sammy!” The sarcasm in Dean’s voice surprises Sam, but when he looks into his big brother’s eyes there is just the smiling expression he’s used to. He grins back and rubs Dean’s cold hand.

“We should go inside soon.”

“No! It’s nice,” Dean gets up deliberately and makes his way to a puddle of water, treading right in it before Sam can say a thing against the idea. He turns and smiles at Sam crookedly. “See?”

“Yeah, Dean, it’s very nice. But you’re cold. Come on.”

Dean pouts at him. “Not cold.”

“You are. And I am, too.”

“Sammy cold?”

Sam nods and offers Dean his hand again. “How about it?” It looks like Dean is going to go along with him this time, but just as he lifts his arm, he loses concentration. Sam hates how this happens. Dean can be focusing so hard and then it’s like a switch flips in his brain and he is onto something else. He stares off down the road, eyes glazing over. “Dean,” Sam tries. He rolls his shoulders back and approaches Dean. He’s standing, frozen, staring. “Dean?” Shaking his shoulder, Sam examines the nearly blank look on his face. There is a tremor of pain in the way his lips are set, just slightly open. Sam strokes his hair. “Come inside.”

Dean doesn’t stop looking at whatever he sees in front of him. “Dean,” he says at last and a huge shiver runs through his body.

Sam puts his arm over Dean’s shoulder. “What is it?”

“Run,” Dean whispers and suddenly he’s looking at Sam with all this anger building on his face, “why? Why?” He lifts his hands and grabs Sam’s jacket. “Why?” His question breaks up and becomes a lot of incomprehensible noise that tears Sam apart every way.

“Shhh, slow down,” Sam tries to make sense of it, “what are you trying to tell me, come on, you can get it.”

Dean leans forward so his head is against Sam’s shoulder. “Why... one day... Dean running... down here... you know?” He shakes his head. “Me. Me. Running.”

“You were running?” Part of him loathes it when Dean remembers things from the past like this. Things that hurt him and make him feel inferior now. “Like, when we were kids?”

He nods, then demands, annoyance seething through his words, “Why not now? Son of a bitch.”

Oddly, that brightens Sam outlook. Just a little. “Dean, you’ll get to running again. You know when we used to race? We can do that again soon.” Sam is referring to games they haven’t played in ten years, but he hopes that Dean can recall those. The happy times.

Dean moans softly. “Soon?”

“Real soon.” He has no right to promise such a thing. But he does. “It’d be too dangerous to run now, anyway. How’s about we just go on in and get something nice and warm to drink? Sound good to you?”

Dean doesn’t respond. Sam rubs his back gently and breathes in the clean, cheap shampoo scent of his brother’s hair.

Inside, Sam gets Dean sitting down on a kitchen chair and pulls his boots off for him to avoid the inevitable irritation that this minor action will cause Dean. He gets so frustrated when he can’t manage the laces, and Sam would find him some easier footwear but he has a feeling that Dean wouldn’t go for the boring shoes that the nurses at the hospital suggest.

“Relax your feet, Dean;” Sam tells him, “it’s really hard to get these things off, y’know.”

Dean kicks his leg out and almost catches Sam in the mouth at the same time. When Sam pulls away to reprimand him, though, Dean has this sweet, slightly devilish, grin that tells Sam it was no accident. More and more these little glimpses of the Dean that Sam always knew are coming out, and it gives Sam hope and terrifies him at the same time.

If Dean then could see Dean now... Sam trembles at the thought. “You...” Sam yanks both Dean’s boots off and gets up, kissing him on the cheek. “Good. Now wash your hands and I’ll fix us some cocoa.”

Dean soaks the front of his shirt splashing water around as he washes the dirt from his hands, and Sam watches out of the corner of his eye. He smiles. When Dean thinks he’s done a good job, he turns around and holds his arms out for Sam’s approval. Sam nods and kicks his own sneakers off a couple of feet away from Dean’s muddy boots. He catches a flicker of discontent in his brother’s eyes, but thinks very little of it. So often Dean gets lost in thought, though Sam tries to draw him out of it as much as possible. He just hates the idea of Dean thinking, wondering. Sam has no idea what Dean thinks about.

“Hey, now, Dean...” Sam begins.

Bobby interrupts Sam’s attempts at catching Dean’s attention, comes in and glances at the mud on the floor and the water all up the sleeves of Dean’s shirt. “See you were taking in the sun,” he says flatly.

Dean looks at Sam and then back at Bobby. “Want... want... Sammy makes...” he starts off and grits his teeth before continuing, “Sammy... is making cocoa. Want?”

Smiling sadly, Bobby shakes his head, “No, thanks, Dean. I just wanted a word with your brother, if that’s alright.”

For a second it seems as if Dean is going to make a big deal out of this, but he doesn’t. He just stands there and lets Bobby turn Sam away so they can talk a little more privately. They both know that there’s no way Dean’s going to leave the room.

Bobby puts his hand on Sam’s back in a gesture of support that Sam appreciates more than he can say, and asks, “How’re you?”

It kills Sam, that question asked with such care. They have a small, strange family here, and it means so much to Sam. Every little scrap of kindness means so much. “I’m good. Why?”

“Well, you’ve been quiet.”

“I’m just concentrating on Dean. He’s really coming along.”

“So I see.”

Sam glances at Bobby, who smiles.

“I’m being serious, Sam. You think I don’t remember what he was like a few months ago? He couldn’t talk. Couldn’t walk. You’re workin’ a miracle.”

When Sam turns back around to check on Dean, he has mud all over his hands again. He is using his shirt to wipe off Sam’s sneakers. Sam watches, feeling Bobby’s disbelief. “Some days are better than others,” Sam admits and asks, louder, “Dean, what’re you doing?”

“Cleaning,” Dean tells him, not looking up.

“Okay... why?”

“So they can go two,” he squints at Sam, “two...”

“Together?”

Dean nods. “Together. Two. Together.” He holds up two dirty fingers.

Sam is too floored to be angry about the mess. He goes and kneels next to Dean. “How many are there, Dean?”

“Two,” he says, and frowns, “right? Two...” he picks up his boots and pushes them against the wall, “and two,” he shoves Sam’s sneakers alongside them. “Right?”

“Yeah... yeah, that’s right,” Sam glances at Bobby, “two,” he mouths. This is literally the first time that Dean has shown any interest in numbers. It seems like a big development to Sam, although he doesn’t know exactly why. It doesn’t change that much. “Two and two,” he says.

Dean smiles warmly. “Two and two,” he echoes and leans against Sam, “one,” he holds up a finger and presses it to Sam’s nose, “one,” he points to himself, “is two?”

Mute, Sam can only nod.

After that day, Dean becomes fixated. Their jackets must be hung side by side. Their toothbrushes must be placed together in a cup. Sam’s thick books and Dean’s blank notebook, the one Sam picked up for him in hopes that Dean would take an interest in reading and writing, are stacked on the table together.

Even Bobby’s possessions get paired up. Amulets and sawn off shotguns. Sam shrugs by way of response to Dean’s bizarre behaviour.

“One, one, two,” Dean says, whenever Sam raises his eyebrows, “you see?”

Sam tries to figure out how important this is. Dean is sitting on the floor, his legs stuck out at an angle which looks vaguely awkward, putting their freshly laundered jeans side by side in two separate piles. “Yeah... you like pairs.”

Dean’s face crumples. “No! Two. Look,” he stares at Sam intently, as if he’s teaching an especially stupid child, “Sammy. Dean. Two. Like, like,” he holds up both his hands, “one, two. See?”

Sam gets down on the floor, down on Dean’s level, so that they can see eye to eye. “Dean...”

“Look!” Dean insists. He’s getting worked up about it and Sam thinks he understands, but he doesn’t want to. Two. There are two of them, and they’re happy. Therefore, according to Dean’s incredibly, unbelievably, skewed logic... everything has to be in pairs. Everything has to be one and one and make two.

“I get it,” Sam says, with an effort. “I get it, Dean. You and me. One and one makes two,” he smiles, focusing on the positive side, “how’d you get so good at numbers, huh?” It hurts Sam to listen to his brother’s simple beliefs because he knows that they’re just broken down versions of how Dean has always seen things to be. They go together. They are better together. The two of them.

Dean smiles at the jeans he’s pushing into mounds. “Not good.”

“Yeah, Dean, you are good. It’s...” he’s not so eloquent about this. He spends so much time taking apart what he wants to say so that Dean will understand him. “You are damn good.”

It’s enough. Dean laughs unevenly and pushes his hands against Sam’s chest. “Damn... good... damn... good.” He says this so happily, his skin flushing pink at the praise. “One. One.” He looks at Sam shyly and yells, “Two! Sammy...” he presses the area just over Sam’s heart.

Sam reaches over and touches his hand to Dean’s heart, feels it beating, regular. Strong, even. He says, “And Dean.”

Dean holds up two fingers to Sam’s lips. Sam closes his eyes, and kisses them.

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End

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