Title : Brothers and Bar Tabs
Spoilers: None
Summary: Sam takes a forced break, and we get an outsider's perspective. Set after "Faith" and before "Provenance." Includes an OFC, but no pairings - don't worry!
Disclaimers: -closes eyes and wishes really, really hard- . . . . nope. Still not mine.

A/N: Posted this at LJ a while ago. Thought I would share here now.

Thanks just isn't enough to offer you, Faye, but it, and all I have, is yours.

---

She'd been eyeing him from across the room for nearly an hour, drawn in by . . . something. She couldn't say his eyes, because she hadn't seen them yet. Couldn't say his ass, even if she'd been inclined to admit it, because it had been pretty firmly planted on the barstool beneath him since before she'd arrived.

There was nothing striking about him from this angle, other than the fact that he seemed unusually tall, even sitting down. His hair was a shade too long to be fashionable, his clothes not remotely trendy. Between them, they hid everything – the strength of muscles possibly lurking underneath, the potential beauty of a shoulder, a collarbone, a long, corded forearm . . .

He was hunched over, leaning on his elbows, his posture not really screaming stay away so much as very firmly recommending it.

Still, she was drawn in, though not by anything obvious, even to her.

The crowd didn't magically part, but she wove her way through it eventually, swerving around table corners and hastily retracted limbs. "Sorry, excuse me." Her murmurs drifted away like the clouds of smoke she had to duck occasionally, with people paying them about as much attention.

Her "Is this seat taken?" was utterly lacking in anything resembling coyness, but it was just as well, since he didn't seem to hear her.

She caught the bartender's eye, sliding a glance to her right and saying, "I'll have what he's having."

A bottle of beer and a double shot – whiskey or bourbon, she couldn't tell – appeared before her. She took a sip and felt it burn a path down her esophagus. Bourbon.

At least it wasn't tequila.

She glanced at him again, but he wasn't looking at her yet. He wasn't looking at anything, really, just rolling the beer bottle slowly from one hand to the other, pausing every other roll to take a healthy swig. He had big hands, long fingers. A little weathered-looking, and she imagined an array of callouses lining his palms. She waited until he'd finished the beer and ordered another before she spoke.

"Come here often?"

She almost laughed at the comical expression on his face as he turned to her, two parts Who me? and three parts You've got to be kidding.

"I know – not very original."

He grinned then – small and so quickly she would have missed it if not for the size of the dimple that adorned his cheek. It lasted the briefest of seconds longer than the rest of his smile and then he ducked his head, not meeting her eyes.

"I didn't think people really said that."

"They're called cliches for a reason." She nudged him, just barely touching her arm to his. He pulled away, fractionally. Again, no screaming, but a pretty solid rejection nonetheless.

"I take it you're not here for the nightlife."

His eyes flicked her way and she felt him sigh. Nope, honey, there's no avoiding me, so you might as well not even try. She focused on his hands again as the new bottle moved a little faster from one to the other.

"I'm . . . taking a break."

There was a flatness to his words, and she knew instantly that this break had not been his idea.

"Kicked out?"

He finally looked at her – surprised and a little chagrined. "Something like that."

"Girlfriend?" She hadn't seen a wedding band.

He seemed to fold into himself a little more, making himself smaller. How can a person that tall DO that?

For a moment, she didn't think he was going to answer, and she started mentally sifting through other topics, ways to keep the non-conversation going.

"Brother." So quiet she almost didn't hear it. So many layers for such a small word.

She nodded, pretending to understand.

"Driving each other nuts, huh?"

He laughed once, a forced sound wrapped in as many layers as his words had been. "You could say that."

"It happens. Me and my sister, we fight all the time. Can't be together five minutes before the fur starts flying. But we'd die for each other, you know?"

He was really looking at her now, his eyes piercing. The corners tipped out like some exotic cat's, and his irises were bottle-green and wide.

"Yeah." His voice faltered and he cleared his throat. "I know exactly."

His gaze didn't fall away this time and she silently thanked her invented sister for giving her the perfect in. Her only siblings – if you could call them that, and Lord knew, she hated it when her mother did – were a pair of Lhasa Apsos that had been added to the family on her parents' 20th wedding anniversary. But he didn't need to know that.

He was gripping the beer bottle now, his huge hands engulfing it. She hoped the glass was strong enough to hold up.

"You two . . . had a fight?"

"He . . . had a headache. I was getting on his nerves."

His lips pursed at that, chin jutting forward. It was a defensive expression, but she recognized hurt feelings when she saw them.

"I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it. It's hard to be nice when you're in pain."

He laughed – a rueful sound that could have been that's the understatement of the year.

"Does he get them often?" She got the feeling that it was more than just a simple headache.

His expression darkened and he frowned. "Too often."

He turned away from her again, releasing the strangled bottle and bringing the shot to his mouth. One long swallow and it was gone.

Right. New subject.

I haven't seen you around before. Did you just move here?"

"We're passing through." His tone was final this time, conversation over.

She gathered her thoughts for a moment, regrouping.

There was nothing for her here, that was obvious. He wasn't going to be offering her a drink or a dance or a nice, slow ride home with a couple of interesting stops along the way. And to be honest, broody wasn't really her type, for all that his eyes (and God help her, those hands) had her heart beating just a little bit faster, had her skin whispering touch me.

So. Under normal circumstances, she would have already moved on. Plenty of fish in the sea and all that, and she wasn't exactly undesirable bait.

But she stayed, still drawn, still wanting something, or maybe just wanting to give something, although she wasn't quite sure what. All she knew was that she didn't want to leave him, not yet.

"Where're you headed?" She could see him shift, could sense the annoyance he was trying valiantly to suppress.

"Not sure yet. We haven't really made a plan."

He kept his eyes on the beer bottle, and she could tell he was hoping she would take the hint and go. Oh, honey. You're going to have to try a lot harder than that.

Must be nice – just traveling around. No connections, no plans . . ."

He seemed to still at her words, his body steeled against some unseen force.

"It has its moments." His voice was even, but there was an off-note buried underneath.

"You've been on the road a while?" It was pure speculation, but now that she was up close and personal – or at least, as much as he was allowing her to be – she could see a kind of weariness hovering. He seemed worn, a little ragged around the edges.

"Better part of a year."

"Wow. Long time."

He snorted. "Seems like it sometimes."

"What made you decide to do it?" He looked at her questioningly, and she felt a little swell of victory. At least he was paying attention. "I mean, leave the whole normal life routine and hit the road?"

His focus drifted to some obvious but faraway sorrow. She sucked in a breath at the hollowed look in his eyes.

"I . . . lost someone," he said softly.

She bit back the automatic, "I'm sorry," hoping he would continue.

"My brother – he rescued me." It was an odd choice of phrase. "And now we're . . . here." He pressed his lips together, not saying anything else, and she wondered how much had happened between then and now.

She tapped her fingers against the bar, thinking.

"My sister and I drove cross-country two summers ago." It had actually been her friend, Megan, who had moved from Richmond to Los Alamos, but they'd talked about it enough for her to fake it. "It was incredible."

He made a small "hmph" noise that she chose to interpret as encouragement.

"You wouldn't believe the things we saw. And the people! We definitely had a lot of stories to tell."

And . . . nothing. She'd given him the perfect opening, and he hadn't even responded. Come on, honey, work with me.

"How about you? You must have seen a lot."

His hands were gripping the beer bottle again. "Not really."

Okay, then. Why was she still here, exactly? She couldn't really begin to fathom. But she couldn't bring herself to leave, either.

He raised a finger, summoning the bartender for another round. He surprised her by lifting his eyebrows, silently asking what she wanted.

"The same," she requested, and he surprised her again by telling the bartender to put it on his tab. Maybe there's something here after all.

But his demeanor didn't change. He merely tipped the shot glass back in one smooth motion and then laid it gently on the polished wood. She mirrored his movements, trying to decide what direction to take next.

"So, tell me about your brother."

At first, she thought she'd pushed him away completely. But then he seemed to soften.

Either he'd had enough to drink or she'd finally chosen the right topic. The words came forth haltingly, but in volume.

"He's . . . he's kind of a goofball. Lots of bad jokes, kind of full of himself. That sort of thing." He toyed with the label on the beer bottle, now, a little smile on his lips that she was pretty sure he was unaware of.

"But he's really smart, you know? He built this –" He seemed to catch himself. "He knows a lot about a lot of things. History, geography, physics. Cars. Women."

He chuffed a laugh, and she joined him. "Ladies' man, huh?"

He actually cackled a little at that, obviously reliving a memory or two. "He'd like to think so."

"And you two get along pretty well? Tonight notwithstanding, of course." She nudged him again, and this time he didn't pull away.

"We – we don't always see eye to eye, but we're brothers, you know?"

She didn't, but she could guess.

"I couldn't do it without him." Whispered and starkly honest and she could feel him bracing against some private pain.

"And what about you?" she prompted. He turned to her quizzically and she realized in that moment that he didn't spend much time thinking about what he brought to this relationship. A little hero-worship going on here.

"Could he make it without you?"

That private pain again. Damn if talking to this boy wasn't like navigating a minefield. And she thought she had baggage.

"He's had to." There was something so raw in that admission and she could feel his eyes boring into hers, seeking censure for sins she had no knowledge of.

"Well, something tells me things are different now," she offered gently.

He stared for a moment and then nodded, his head bobbing up and down in that way people had when they were just on the wrong side of tipsy and their coordination wasn't truly their own.

"I try to watch out for him. He doesn't make it easy, though." His sigh was a little mournful and it took him a minute to shake off whatever little melancholy had gripped him.

"Siblings. What can you do?" A nice, generic comment that she knew he couldn't argue with.

He nodded again. She started to slide her hand toward his, hoping to capitalize on the shared moment, and feeling vaguely like she was approaching a skittish animal.

His phone rang suddenly, startling them both. He fished in his jacket pocket, pulling the phone out and flipping it open with a hint of concern. "Dean?"

The words were muffled, but she got the gist of them. " . . .you been? . . . the morning . . . Get your ass home."

The brother, then. She expected some sign of animosity or defiance. Instead, his face lit up.

The intensity of his true smile – white teeth bordered by the parentheses of his dimples, those brown-green cat's eyes sparked with a potent combination of relief and joy – was almost overwhelming. He was beautiful. Breathtaking. And she knew what – or rather, who – had given him that look.

She turned from him, caught by the sudden sentimentality of tears. She blinked them away.

He was already standing when she turned back, hands fumbling as they pulled bills from a wallet that had seen better days.

"I've got to get back. My brother is – "

"He missed you."

He ducked his chin, hiding a flush of embarrassment, but he didn't disagree. The smile was still vivid.

"He's feeling better." He took a step and then stopped, his hands almost extended toward her.

"Listen, I want to . . ." He seemed to be at a loss.

She smiled, taking his hands in hers and pulling him in and down. She kissed him on the forehead, lingering as she felt the fringe of his bangs and the heat of his skin beneath her lips.

She backed away, giving his hands a squeeze before she released them. He looked at her searchingly, and she could almost hear the thoughts churning in his head – ways to let her down easy.

She gave him a wink and pushed him toward the door. "You take care of yourself. And your brother, too."

His eyes were serious as he answered. "I will."

It sounded like a promise. She was pretty sure it was.

With that, he was gone, long legs carrying him out the door in quick strides.

She picked up his shot glass, still faintly warm from the imprint of his fingers. She hailed the bartender, waving it. "One more for the road."

As she felt the now-familiar tingle of heat spreading through her chest from the alcohol, she made a memory. Of strong hands and cat's eyes and a love big enough to light up the world, if that angel's smile was any indication.

She hoped his brother realized how lucky he was.

Get your ass home .

She hugged the glass to her heart, still feeling the lingering warmth there, and was suddenly sure he did.

Fin