They’re supposed to be bonded; to laugh together and tease mercilessly. They’re supposed to be petty and selfish and angry; to get into yelling matches over the first shower and wrestle for the last bowl of cereal. They’re supposed to be angst-ridden with hormones, and be dramatic and protective. They’re supposed to reminisce and share bad jokes and be sympathetic. They’re supposed to be brothers.
And they are. But to describe them just as brothers is like hiking so far into the mountains that your lungs struggle to take in the thinning air and your legs are steps from buckling, and gazing over the vast expanse of a snow-capped range, and calling the sight a hill.
The laughter is followed by a red tint spreading over cheeks. The comfort comes through wordless conversations between a pair of green eyes and brown wisps hiding hazel flecks. Tears and anger are soothed by two knees brushing and a hand over the other’s heart. The sparring and horseplay often end abruptly with the roughest shove yet and a locked bathroom door. A father’s wrath and hurtful words are assuaged with tangled limbs in a too-small bed and a ratty Zeppelin shirt to absorb the tears. But the crumpled up hidden papers at the bottom of Sam’s duffle bag? The only cure for that was the rumbling of the Impala down a dirt road, in search of a neon sign and a pretty girl to numb the emotion.
Also here on Ao3-Â http://archiveofourown.org/works/5277800
