Thereās the car, and music, but thereās not just that. Thereās 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 Deanās 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. Theyāve been in cabins before, but this one isnāt one of them, or at least not any one specific. A queen-sized bed thatās nearly big enough for both of themāa washed-to-death quilt over the top and pillows that sink lazily under Deanās head when he flops down. Sam follows, quieter, moving up over the mattress and over Deanās body, and theyāre both of them in their jackets and jeans and socks, their bodies warm. Alive. They feel alive, in a way that Dean hadnāt thoughtāhe hadnāt known. He didnāt think it was gonna be like this. He didnāt think it was gonna be anything for him at all, and to think thatāthat Samā
āHey,ā Sam says, quiet still, and his knuckles brush Deanās cheek and Dean closes his eyes, feels them. It hasnāt been that long. He still remembers how it feltāin the barnābut at the same time thatās decades ago, centuries ago. Samās forehead against his isāis now, and real, and here, and Samās breath against his face is hot and smells sorta like beer, and Samās lips against his cheekādry, chapped, like Samās lips are always chapped. Deanās always telling him, Carmex, but Sam doesnāt listen. He didnāt listen.
āHoly shit,ā Dean says, laughing suddenly only thereās tears in his voice, and thatās dumb because thisāthis sure as shit aināt sad, not even a little, not even a bit.
Sam says, āYeah,ā and Dean grips Samās jacket and hauls him closer, their legs tangling and his face tucked down against Samās shoulder, and itās getting wet there but Deanās sure Sam doesnāt mind. āYeah,ā Sam says again, softer, and he cups his hand behind Deanās head and ohāgodāitās like a hot sharp sweet needle is pressing right up through Deanās chest, through his heart, up to his throat, pinning him in place, making this all he can feel. Samās skin against his temple, his jacket against Deanās face. His solid, familiar breathing, the rhythm Deanās run his life to, as long as Deanās life mattered at all.
After a minuteāa minute? an hourāitās calmer. Deanās matching his breath to Samās, and itāsā¦ comfortable. Itās a golden afternoon. A breeze, in the window, and a windchime somewhere, and birds. Dean turns his face and his nose is up against Samās throat, and heās taking in his own muggy air but it feels okay. Feels like days past, in the best kind of way.
Samās fingers brush over the back of his neck. āI missed you,ā Sam says, very softly. Deanās eyes squeeze tight. A thumb traces the back of his ear. āEvery day. Everyāā A swallow. A grip, soft but firm. āI did what you said. Dean? I did it.ā
Dean pushes up on one hand. Sam looksā
āI know you did,ā Dean says, even if he has no idea. Itās the faith he has, in his gut. In seeing Samās eyes, familiar and true, decades rising up behind them but content, despite it all. āI know. You did good, Sammy. I want to hear all about it. Every dumb-ass detail. You ever go on Jeopardy? Take up golf?ā
Sam huffs. He lifts a hand and frames Deanās face in it. āIāll tell you,ā he says, sort of raw. Sort of easy, too. His smileās crooked, but sweet. āWeāve got time, right?ā
āYeah,ā Dean says, wrapping a hand around Samās wrist. He smiles, heart-full. āYeah, we got time.ā
