Brother's Proverb [Supernatural Fanfiction]

Reoccuring

Two hands grabbed Sam's shoulder from behind and slammed the chair to the floor. The world flipped and Sam tumbled into darkness. He was still conscious enough to remember his last words and before his eyes rolled back into eternal sleep, a cold splash of water closed in around his head and his back smacked into a solid surface.

"Sam! Sam!"

Another slosh of freezing water hit Sam in the face, sending his eyes flying open. In a loud gasp, Sam flung upright and smeared the water off his face. "God dammit, Dean! Why the hell did you do that?"

Standing in front of the dripping younger brother, with one hip dropped in a no-care kind of way, Dean tilted his chin upward with a lopsided smirk. "You were calling my name out in your sleep. Creeped me out." He tossed the pail aside and raised a questioning eyebrow. "What kind of dream was it?"

Shivering, Sam pushed himself off the floor and raked his brown hair off his forehead. In a disconnected voice, he whispered, "I don't know. But it doesn't matter. It was just a dream." Gathering his senses and remembering he had a reputation to keep, he jerked the wrinkles out of his flannel shirt. He cleared his voice loudly, adjusting his pitch in a lower range. "What have you been doing?"

Dean walked over to the bedside table and picked up an empty foam box, which he balanced on a flat palm. With his other hand, he pointed to the box as if he was about to open an advertisement and moved his head up and down in approval. "Ordered Chinese from a two-star diner."

"How was it?"

Tossing the box aside and flopping down on the bed, Dean said mournfully, "It was disgusting. It smelled better than it tasted. Had a spicy sort of scent. I think. I would've saved you some, but it was getting cold and I don't like to throw food away." Dean quickly gave Sam two, soft brown eyes in hopes to make amends. He extended his fist and showed his knuckles.

Sam's eyes dropped halfway and he glowered at Dean. How hard was it to save one serving of food? It wasn't like Dean was malnourished. "I am not fist-bumping you."

With a toss of the hand and a purposeful loud sigh, Dean pursed his lips as if Sam had been the unreasonable one. "All right, sorry 'bout that."

Breaking away from the growing grudge, Sam meandered into the bathroom to change his soaked clothes. "I'll pick something up on the road." He flipped on the light and stood indecisively in front of the mirror. Looking at his water stained shirt and then at the shower, he began wondering if a cool shower would erase the nightmare and remind him everything and everyone was where they rightfully belonged. The latter sounded more enjoyable.

Sam, unlike Dean, strived to maintain normalcy and hold onto the fragments of human emotions and sentiments. If he had had it his own way, he wouldn't have been gallivanting across the globe hunting supernatural beings and putting up with the carefree attitude of his older brother, but instead, he would have been practicing law and settling down with a wife and child.

Sam thought he could have escaped the family business and blended into society-- tricking himself into believing he wasn't different. He had seen what being a hunter does to someone; he had seen it infested in Dean's heart, making him immune to the violence, the horror, and the darkness. There didn't seem to be a speck of fear in Dean's eyes, then again, with as many times as Dean had experienced the tortures of Hell, it only made sense he would find a way to callous himself against such evil.

As Sam waited for the water to heat up in the shower, he returned to the mirror and began organising his shaving instruments on the sink. He and Dean had been living for a week in a dusty, mite-filled motel in hopes to find a fallen angel. They weren't sure if the angel was still hiding on the other side of the ribbon-barbed wire fence-- just behind the motel-- or had already given himself over to the Darkness. But since their spirit tracker hadn't told them differently, the two brothers shacked up and waited until one of them had an idea that would lure the angel out to speak to them.

"You got a text message," Dean hollered from the other room.

"You answer it. Not like you don't know the password," Sam replied as he cupped a cold pool of water in his hands. He splashed the water in his face, chasing the shaving cream away. As the water trickled down his square, structured jaw, he reached out to the towel rack beside him and snatched the cloth hanging there. He dried his face and walked over to the shower to check the temperature. It was still cold.

Refusing to shower in icy waters, Sam turned the faucet off and returned to the other room with a slight frown and a displeased wrinkle between his brows. Upon entering, he caught Dean standing by the curtain with his left shoulder pressed against the wall and his legs bent slightly from the knees. Sam also noticed a silver handgun fitted, puzzle-perfect, in Dean's hands. Knowing his brother only brandished a gun when something suspicious was going on, rather than a foolish wave of paranoia, Sam crouched and crept up behind Dean. "Hey, what's wrong?"

Dean moved the curtain aside and peeked out the window. Seeing something, he ducked back and rammed into Sam, who in turn, shoved him away so hard, Dean stumbled in front of the open window. Sam let out a sharp gasp and snatched Dean by the collar and yanked him back. Flashing a pair of unamused eyes at Sam, Dean straightened his jacket and explained in a breathy whisper, "The tracker started beeping like crazy, so, I'm guessing they've come to claim the angel. We don't have a chance to save him now. There's probably..." Dean stopped and glanced out the window again to confirm his calculation, "...there's probably a league of demons out there."

"Then, what's with the gun?" Sam inquired, tapping the top of the weapon.

Offended at the thought his brother doubted his cleverness, or at least wasn't taking him seriously, Dean hissed, "It's not just a gun, okay? I built it as a water gun to fire--,"

"Holy water, gotcha. You think it'll work on them?"

"Maybe. Maybe on a few. Maybe on none. I don't know. But I spent six hours on this son of a bitch and I'm not going to just throw it away!"

Sam patted Dean's agitated shoulders and smirked. "No one's saying you can't use it. How are you going to 're-load' it?"

"I'm wearing a compact backpack filled with the water and has a line running from it to the base of the magazine, up through the grip, into the barrel."

"Nice. What's the fps?"

"You don't know want to know. What did your text say?" Dean nodded his head in the direction of the bedside table at Sam's blinking mobile.

Sam walked over to the table and scooped up his phone. He slid the top half of the phone up, revealing the keypad in preparation to type back. The screen was on the front of the phone, as well as the message. Being more interested in what was happening outside, Sam scanned the message and found it of no significance to his current situation. But before shutting his phone off, a flickering message appeared on the screen.

Sam's brows stitched in confusion. This message had no sender address, nor was it centred in the programmed format. Usually his messages ran left to right, but this one was perfectly centred and in a different font he had never seen before. The letters were shaped and molded in strange curves and lines; it was as if someone had written it with a calligraphy pen, but kept having his elbow nudged on each letter. Sam examined the writing closer and soon, he identified the handwriting to have been written by some species other than a human. With a tightening throat and clammy hands, he read the message:

Sealed deal

A shuddering breath escaped his lips as the lurking memory of his dream reared its head. Before he had time to fully connect the two, Dean let out a whoop and dashed from the window with an excited grin.

"They're running now. Let's go!" Dean busted through their motel door and vanished down the hall.

Sam stayed behind, his eyes fixed on the blinking screen. Giving himself a moment, he cradled the phone between his hands and hovered his thumbs over the keypad. Exhaling slowly, he replied honestly, "Ive made no deal." After the message successfully sent, Sam grabbed his backpack and rushed after Dean. As he bolted down the hall and to the stairs, a sinking feeling came over him and he wished he had not taken the time to respond. Those few seconds could have just cost Dean his life.