Fic: The Many Faces of Dean Winchester (PG, Gen)
I ficced again. Oops.
Title: The Many Faces of Dean Winchester
Rating: PG
Category: General, no pairings
Fandom: Supernatural
Warnings: Um, kinda schmoopy? I guess? And Dean says "hell".
Disclaimer: Not mine, blah, blah, cake.
Notes: While my other fic explosion from earlier today will probably never see the light of day, this one is actually something I like. It's been sitting around on my harddrive for weeks with only three half-assed paragraphs, but finally I made something of it. Go me! \o/
Thanks, ![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
purple_sax09 for the unintentional encouragement and cid2065 for saying, "WHERE IS THE REST? FINISH IT." ♥
Wordcount: 999, bitches.
Sam has always sort of wondered why people find Dean so inscrutable.
Maybe it’s a by-product of spending every waking moment together, but Sam’s always found Dean to be very scrutable. Almost to the point where he wishes Dean were a little less obvious about everything.
Because, honestly, how can anyone miss the smug quirk of Dean’s lips every time he gets away with something even slightly naughty? Or, when he’s trying to be funny—usually failing, Sam thinks fondly—and realizes one of his jokes has gone flat, the way his entire body pauses just for a second and the smarmy smile on his face slowly flattens.
Sam has a whole mental catalogue of Dean-expressions, in fact, since there are so many of them, and, on occasion, he’s had to tell the difference between I will kill you and I will kill you if you ever scare me like that again, Sammy, damnit.
His first week at Stanford, though he’d rather die than admit it to anyone, Sam had very carefully gotten himself plastered, sat down at his desk, and typed out a list of his favorite Dean-expressions, starting at the end and working his way toward the beginning.
Also very carefully, Sam had made sure not to include foot-notes. Even he would not sink to such horrible, drunken depths.
An Index of Dean-Expressions
By Sam Winchester
10. Before his first cup of coffee, when he scrunches his eyebrow together and tries to look serious, but only ends up looking like a deranged raccoon.
9. After a particularly gooey hunt, when he realizes he’s gotten slime all over his favorite shirt and his lip curls up like he can’t believe anyone would dare.
8. When he pisses off someone with too many biker friends by taking their money and comes running out of the bar full tilt with a huge smile on his face, laughing like a loon.
7. Right before he falls asleep and his face is pinched, like sleep is something he has to work hard at.
6. The little kid smile he has when he gets a new cassette tape or gun and he can’t believe his luck.
5. When he’s trying to pretend he’s not admitting that anyone else could be right and his lips stick out like a platypus bill.
4. During the research stage of a case, when he’s all scrunched up in a library chair and he’s trying to balance a pen between his nose and his mouth to entertain himself.
3. When he glances up at someone while his head is still tipped down and, for a second, he looks exactly like he did at twelve.
2. That laugh of his when someone shocks him into amusement, a cross between a bark and a giggle.
1. His warm eyes and the tiny quirk of his lips when he thinks no one’s watching him watch his little brother.
Sam has only ever caught the last one by accident once or twice, right before Dean turns his head away or slips back into his automatic frown, but Sam knows that is definitely his favorite Dean-expression.
---
“Sam, where the hell did you put my jean shirt?” Dean yells, half of his body in the trunk of the Impala. There’s a dull thunk and a string of colorful cursing before Dean appears in Sam’s line of vision, rubbing his head and wearing what Sam likes to think of as his I am so frustrated I could eat my jacket glare.
Sam shrugs. “I didn’t put it anywhere. You were the last one to do the laundry. Why do you want it so badly, anyway?”
“Because I want to wear it,” Dean says.
“That’s a stupid reason,” Sam says, just to provoke him.
Dean’s glare increases in intensity, becoming his I will eat you glare, and Sam is almost surprised his clothes are still intact. With a vicious snarl, his brother dives back into the trunk, throwing various scraps of cloth and paper out behind him. It looks like that one time Dean’s locker exploded in high school.
“What are you smirking at?” Dean demands.
“Oh, nothing,” Sam replies innocently as he starts fiddling with the laptop, looking up obituaries and checking email. Junk mail, junk mail, newsletter, junk mail, “enlarge your penis now!”, junk mail, newsletter.
Fifteen minutes later, Sam is startled out of his computer-induced daze by a hand slamming down the laptop’s screen and nearly squishing his fingers. He looks up, ready to yell and bitch until Dean buys him something, and is immediately stopped short by the look on his brother’s face. He doesn’t have a name for that look.
“Dean?” Sam asks cautiously. “Hey, man, what’s up?”
“I do not look like a deranged raccoon before my first cup of coffee,” Dean growls.
It takes a minute, but as soon as he figures out what Dean is talking about, Sam tries to sink down in his seat and look as small as he can. God, where the hell did he find that thing?
“I-it’s...I mean, it was just—” he stutters, sinking lower when he sees the paper printout in Dean’s hand. His face feels hot, like it might explode and shower everyone in a five foot radius with Sam-innards
Now that Dean’s gotten going, he’s on a roll. He starts ticking points off on his free fingers.
“I do not purse my lips like a platypus; I do not balance pens on my face—”
“You completely do—” Sam starts to protest.
“Shut up,” Dean cuts him off, leveling the paper at him like a knife, and Sam knows it’s just as dangerous in his brother’s hands. He shuts up.
Dark green eyes sweep over the printout again, and just as Sam is about to start squirming or biting clean through his finger, Dean leans over him and bumps their foreheads together gently.
“Love you, too, little brother,” he says, voice soft and warm like a secret.
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And why can't you write more schoomp like this that totally tears my heart out? Dear Gods, this was wonderful.
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Seriously, poor Sam must've been MORTIFIED. But it's still adorable. I love the last line.
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