The bridge is dark and deserted when Dean shoves Sam up against the railing, cursing.
“You think you’re just gonna become some lawyer, Sam? Marry your girl?”
Sam glares down into Dean’s face and feels his heart sting, because Dean spits the words out like it’s some tasteless joke, and Sam’s spent years telling himself that it isn’t.
“Maybe,” Sam says, coolly. “Why not?”
Dean’s eyes gleam beneath the cold lights, his pink mouth curling into a mean sneer as he murmurs: “Does Jessica know the truth about you, Sam? Huh? Does she know about the things you’ve done?”
Sam gasps softly as Dean’s long fingers curl around his neck and Dean whispers against his cheek: “Does she know about the things we’ve done?”
Sam claws at Dean’s arms, whines pathetically because wants to throw Dean off this bridge, wants to dive in after him, wants to drag them out of the river and punch Dean in the face and kiss him until they both bleed.
“Dean, don’t do this to me. Not again, not now. Not when I’m finally-“
Dean looks him in the eye then, stares him down with that glistening green gaze that has made Sam weak since before he knew enough about the world to resent himself for it.
Dean’s thumb is rough against Sam’s bottom lip. “When you’re finally what, Sammy?” he asks, voice low.
Sam closes his eyes, but he can still feel Dean: Warm and strong, smelling of cheap soap and leather.
“Finally over you,” Sam whispers into the small space between them, and he has to fight the impulse to reach for Dean, to keep him close, when Dean lets go of him.
Dean takes a step back, and when Sam finally dares to look at his face again, he wants to cry because Dean looks like he’s searching for a weakness, for a way to hurt him.
Dean looks like he does when he’s terrified.
Sam looks at Dean’s freckled nose, the arch of his eyebrows and the line of his mouth: He looks at the face of the boy he fell in love with all those years ago, before he tells a quiet lie: “You told me to get over you, Dean. So I. I did.”
Dean reaches for Sam again, his hand a wordless plea against Sam’s cheek. Dean’s voice is very, very soft when he leans forward and murmurs against Sam’s mouth: “I didn’t. Sammy, I couldn’t.”
Sam goes weak, because Dean always made him weak, and when he finally kisses Dean, he feels it – he feels like the starless night above them is theirs, soft and forgivingly dark; he feels like the river below flows only for them, and like the smell of soap and leather will stay with him forever.
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