Reflex

Even through the tinny reception of his phone, Sam can vaguely detect the sounds of Dean cranking up the volume on the AC/DC tape in the Impala radio. He smiles at the noise before plugging the ear that isn't glued onto the receiver and ducking into a somewhat quiet corner of the streets he's wandering through. The flickering vacancy sign of their current motel is already in sight if he looks through the filter of a few tree's leaves and looks for the tell-tale neon lights advertisting rooms.

"It's just a little cut." Sam explains through the phone, referring to the gash on the forehead he's still sporting on his forehead from their last hunt. It burns in a dull, rhythmic manner, like a bruise settling in after a few hours of throbbing. He touches it with the tip of his thumb and brushes his hair over the dried blood crusting down his forehead even though the shadows do a decent job of eclipsing his injury. Dean's incredulous tuts falls through the earpiece.

"Just get back to the hotel, okay, Sammy?" Dean says, and his tone is mildly short.

"Dean, it's just a little–"

"Ever told you that you suck at lying?" Dean inquires teasingly. Sam rolls his eyes as his smile takes a u-turn.

"I think you did, probably the same time you told me that I throw like a five-year-old girl." Sam says. He taps his fingertips impatiently against the phone and keeps walking. He's battered in the post-hunt manner that he normally always is, an aching back, a bruise on his knee, and slices cutting through the fabric of his jacket.

The silence coursing through the phone indicates that Dean clearly doesn't have a witty comment to reply with. For once in his life, he doesn't have an argument. Sam grins, and the slice on his forehead stretches.

"I'll see you soon." Dean says gruffly.

"Yeah, bye," Sam mutters, and then, out of nowhere, almost like a reflex, he adds the unexpected and entirely unnecessary, "I love you."

He pins his lower lip between his teeth hard enough to draw blood the moment after he feels the words slip from his lips. He curses silently into his fist. Sam wants to crush the phone in his fingers as he can practically hear Dean gaping on the other end of the conversation.

"Uh… Dean?" he murmurs quietly. He's almost afraid to hold the phone close to his ear. The thought of simply hanging up crosses his mind, but Sam really doesn't want to deal with the fallout in person at the motel.

He takes the silence to swiftly sort through the loitering thoughts in his subconscious that like to make themselves apparent at very innoportune times and look for the reasoning his brain might have sporadically erected that made blurting out a confession over a goodbye on the phone an astute idea. Married couples said things like I love you to each other at the end of middle-of-the-day phone calls to the point where it was daily and almost meaningless because it came out as a routinely timed reflex. Things like that slipped out when people conceal well-kept secrets and accidentally feel  the privacy of their personal life fall from their grips as what might become a potential mistake.

Even if this is Sam's epiphany to realize that Dean is more than just his brother in his deep, deep, never-been-dug-up-before subconscious, the only thing frightening Sam right now is the unspoken reply he was waiting for. He expects shouting, nervous laughter, real laughter, disgust, pity, but definitely not a mimicked psychologist's sigh and a halcyon discussion where Dean tries to fruitlessly understand the meaning behind Sam's words. Dean is not notoriously known as a glorified therapist.

"Dean, say something, please." Sam says, and his fingertips press into the phone, resembling a snowman's hue. The volume on the typically rowdy and boisterious streets surrounding him is quiet, an invisible knob turned to mute to zero in on Dean's breathing and the palpations of Sam's heart. He shuts his eyes tightly. He quickly weighs his options. The worst-case scenario is Dean's repulsion, which would hence create irreparable tension between the two brothers, while the best-case scenario is Dean brushing it off lightly with a few good-natured teasings and jokes. Sam prays for the latter.

"Yeah, I know, Sammy." Dean's voice finally answers.

Sam doesn't know whether to be relieved, confused, or slightly irked. He raises his eyebrows even though he knows the phone won't pick up his perplexion.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Sam ventures. A second later he regrets asking.

The other end of the line is silent once again until at last, Dean sighs heavily.

"You just gotta make it cheesy, don't you, Sammy?"

Sam chuckles timidly, raking his fingers through his hair. There hasn't been a diatribe of hatred or the resounding beep of an ended call yet. If anything, there's been nothing but subtle apprehension, and suddenly the phone feels like a barrier between communication the two of them should be experiencing right now.

"It's my specialty." He responds dryly.

Dean's next reply is brimming with unbridled potential, even though the younger brother knows that it can go downhill. Some hills are steeper than others. He twirls a lock of hair around his thumb nervously.

"It means I love you too."

A smile that could make the whole world sunny without contributing to global warming rips at Sam's lips unstoppably. Not that Sam even understands why, this is creepy and wrong, but it definitely beats rejection. He grips the receiver with a sweaty palm and grins.

"For some twisted reason." Dean adds, but there's a teasing edge to his voice. Sam finds the air in his mouth to chuckle.

"You are a friggin' jerk." He says through his smile.

"Love you too, bitch."