There’s the car, and music, but there’s not just that. There’s quiet, too, and motel rooms, and the bunker with every surface polished and shining, and a cabin, in the forest, with a late-summer sun streaming through the windows. A world that feels clean and new, and real enough that Dean’s lungs expand with fresh, sweet air, and he stubs his toe on the way in to the bedroom and it hurts like a son of a bitch, and behind him, Sam laughs.
A cabin. They’ve been in cabins before, but this one isn’t one of them, or at least not any one specific. A queen-sized bed that’s nearly big enough for both of them–a washed-to-death quilt over the top and pillows that sink lazily under Dean’s head when he flops down. Sam follows, quieter, moving up over the mattress and over Dean’s body, and they’re both of them in their jackets and jeans and socks, their bodies warm. Alive. They feel alive, in a way that Dean hadn’t thought–he hadn’t known. He didn’t think it was gonna be like this. He didn’t think it was gonna be anything for him at all, and to think that–that Sam–
“Hey,” Sam says, quiet still, and his knuckles brush Dean’s cheek and Dean closes his eyes, feels them. It hasn’t been that long. He still remembers how it felt–in the barn–but at the same time that’s decades ago, centuries ago. Sam’s forehead against his is–is now, and real, and here, and Sam’s breath against his face is hot and smells sorta like beer, and Sam’s lips against his cheek–dry, chapped, like Sam’s lips are always chapped. Dean’s always telling him, Carmex, but Sam doesn’t listen. He didn’t listen.
“Holy shit,” Dean says, laughing suddenly only there’s tears in his voice, and that’s dumb because this–this sure as shit ain’t sad, not even a little, not even a bit.
Sam says, “Yeah,” and Dean grips Sam’s jacket and hauls him closer, their legs tangling and his face tucked down against Sam’s shoulder, and it’s getting wet there but Dean’s sure Sam doesn’t mind. “Yeah,” Sam says again, softer, and he cups his hand behind Dean’s head and oh–god–it’s like a hot sharp sweet needle is pressing right up through Dean’s chest, through his heart, up to his throat, pinning him in place, making this all he can feel. Sam’s skin against his temple, his jacket against Dean’s face. His solid, familiar breathing, the rhythm Dean’s run his life to, as long as Dean’s life mattered at all.
After a minute–a minute? an hour–it’s calmer. Dean’s matching his breath to Sam’s, and it’s… comfortable. It’s a golden afternoon. A breeze, in the window, and a windchime somewhere, and birds. Dean turns his face and his nose is up against Sam’s throat, and he’s taking in his own muggy air but it feels okay. Feels like days past, in the best kind of way.
Sam’s fingers brush over the back of his neck. “I missed you,” Sam says, very softly. Dean’s eyes squeeze tight. A thumb traces the back of his ear. “Every day. Every–” A swallow. A grip, soft but firm. “I did what you said. Dean? I did it.”
Dean pushes up on one hand. Sam looks–
“I know you did,” Dean says, even if he has no idea. It’s the faith he has, in his gut. In seeing Sam’s eyes, familiar and true, decades rising up behind them but content, despite it all. “I know. You did good, Sammy. I want to hear all about it. Every dumb-ass detail. You ever go on Jeopardy? Take up golf?”
Sam huffs. He lifts a hand and frames Dean’s face in it. “I’ll tell you,” he says, sort of raw. Sort of easy, too. His smile’s crooked, but sweet. “We’ve got time, right?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, wrapping a hand around Sam’s wrist. He smiles, heart-full. “Yeah, we got time.”
