A/N: Warning for language on this one, obviously. Plus, an appearance of the F-bomb.


'Bitch, Jerk' Means 'I Love You'


He's furious. I can almost guess what he's going to say before he even opens his mouth.

"Dean, what have I told you about using my computer?" Oh, yeah. Seething.

"Sam," I return, "you weren't using it. Hell, you weren't even here!"

"That's not the point!"

"Then, what is the point?"

"The point is, every time you use my computer, I get some sort of malicious computer virus!"

I blink at him. "That's what this is about? A computer virus?"

Sam glares, stuffing the laptop into its case.

"Oh, come on!"

He grabs his duffel bag and heads for the door. After another dose of the evil-eye, he finally speaks to me. "Jerk!"

I stand there a moment as a grin spreads across my face. Oh, he's still mad as hell at me and he'll probably be pissy for the next hundred miles or so, but we're good, now.

Following after him, I close the door as I call out, "Bitch!"

- - -

Dean is not happy with me. It's not like I meant to hit him in the head with a fireplace poker - I thought he was the ghost!

"Is your head feeling any better?" I ask, glancing over to where he sits in the passenger seat of the Impala.

"I have a goddamn lump the size of a basketball, Sam," he responds stonily, shifting the position of the rapidly melting bag of ice. Sheesh. He doesn't have to take it personally.

"Dean, look, I already said I'm sorry at least a dozen times."

"It doesn't change the fact that you tried to knock my fuckin' head off, Sam!" Dean cringes miserably as his raised tone makes his headache worse. Moaning slightly, he leans back against the seat.

"It was an accident," I remind him, the heat in my voice dialed down in light of his suffering. "Are you sure you don't want to get looked at? The hospital exit's up ahead..."

"Will you stop, already? What are they gonna do, Sam? Tell me I've got a slight concussion and a nasty headache? Thanks, but I think we already know that."

"It wouldn't hurt to be sure..."


I watch him for a moment. Sensing my gaze, he opens an eye, then the other.

He sits forward suddenly. "SAM!"

I turn my attention back to the road in time to swerve safely back into our own lane and out of the path of an approaching truck.

"Don't you ever put my car in danger like that again," Dean growls, eyes closing as he returns his dropped bag of ice to the side of his head. "Bitch."

I scowl, but keep my eyes on the road ahead. "Jerk," I return.

- - -

My brother and I don't always see eye to eye. He sees things one way, I see them another. It would take me an entire lifetime to count the number of misunderstandings we've had.

Still, he's my brother, and he means more to me than anything in the world. At the end of the day, it's good to know that we're gonna be alright.

The rules to our game are simple.

Dean says, "Bitch."

Sam says, "Jerk."

And I play along, because that's the way we are. It's how we say, "I love you."



A/N: Reviews make writers happy. Happy writers write more--see a trend?