Wherever We're Together That's My Home
Sam/Dean
PG-13. 6725 words.
Future-fiction, domestic
(for spuffy-girl)
Normalcy has always been Sam's plight. Normalcy for Sam's sake has always been Dean's.
It's no secret to either of them that most of the decisions Dean makes – even the moronic ones – are for Sam. To Dean it sounds so absurd when you lay it out like that. As if the two of them are Thelma and Louise, as if Dean really can't endure society outside the realms of his brother…
It's not like he can't function on his own. He's not codependent. He's not needy - no, that's Sam's territory. He stays with Sam because it makes sense. It's habitual. Well, it's more than that but he'd never admit the reasons out loud.
Sam's believes that they're together because of love and mutual feelings and other healthy relationship factors that are supposed to keep love's eternal flame burning.
Dean tells Sam he stays for the sex. "Where else am I going to find another 6 and half foot woman?" Well, the sex and emotional security.
Truth is he stays for Sam, because his brother fills up every blown away gap in his body, every missing piece; Sam is the missing link to all the lonely feelings.
The mind-blowing sex? That's a bonus.
*
Eleven o'clock at night is way too late to be calling, which is why when Bobby answers with a, "what now, idiot," it doesn't come as a surprise.
"Bobby. Hey, I know it's late, but Sam and I are outside Chattanooga and I want to take you up on your offer." It's a shot in the dark, even Dean knows that, but this is Bobby he's talking to and if it's one thing Dean's sure about it's that the man can't say 'no.'
"Yeah? What offer," he asks as if he has no clue that the conversation they had yesterday ever took place. "You better be talkin' about Jim's place outside of Camp Jordan."
"That'd be the one," Dean cups a hand over the end of the receiver and turns around to make sure that the bathroom door is still tightly shut. "What'dya say, Bobby?"
"I say it sounds a hell of a lot better than the two of you camping out here."
*
Dean can't stop staring at Sam's mouth.
They've been driving for forty minutes and for the past half hour his brother has had a crumble of Oreo stuck in the corner of his smile.
Sam's asleep of course, passed out the minute they hit the highway; grandma over here at 31 is all the fun of an epileptic 80-year-old. The moment the car gets into motion its all lights out for Sammy.
Sitting at a four-way stop with no one around is Dean's perfect opportunity. He leans over and with one slick lap of the tongue that beautiful chocolate morsel is swallowed and gone. The action receives a moan from deep within Sam's throat, along with him lazily slapping himself in the face.
"And that," Dean announces, louder than necessary, gearing the car back into drive, "Is why I don't like you eating in my car." He looks over towards the passenger side to see if Sam's even listening. "Crumbs everywhere."
"Where are we?" he asks and it's stifled between a yawn. The balls of his sneakers hike up to rest on the dashboard but Dean immediately knocks them down with a quick shove.
"In po-dunk no-wheres-ville, Tennessee. Dirt roads and all." They make a final turn down a curving gravel path that leads to a turnabout near the bottom.
"I thought you said you were taking me somewhere nice."
"I am."
"Desolate farms and dusty roads, that's our oh-so-secret destination?"
"I only bring you the finest, Sam," Dean says with a lop-sided grin. "Hello Camp Jordan."
*
The house isn't what Dean expected. First off it's more of a summer cottage than a "hut on the lake" as Bobby so graciously put it.
The way Bobby described it you'd think he was talking about a refugee tent in the middle of Yellowstone. But looking at it from the outside, it doesn't look half bad; hell, it looks nice. All those hours Dean spent imagining how he'd have to slave away renovating the place just to make the space livable isn't necessary anymore. Solid doors, strong siding . . . curtains, Dean notices as he peers at the windows before heading back to where Sam's lugging the bags out of the trunk. It's doable. It's comfortable. Sam is going to love it.
'He better,' is all that Dean can think. 'And he better pay me back big time. Preferably with pie and sex.'
"Are we brining everything in?"
"No," Dean says as he takes Sam's left hand into his own, lifts the other one that's resting on the trunk of the car and leads him across the gravel. He's walking backwards, kind of stumbling over the larger stones on the ground and he doesn't care that Sam's staring at his shit-eating grin with a look of total confusion. "Close your eyes," he orders.
"I'm not closing my eyes," Sam laughs.
"Come on. Close 'em."
"No way," he smiles. "You're gonna lead me into the lake or make me step in dog shit. I know exactly where your second-grade mindset is, Dean."
"You're no fun, you know that?"
Sam just shakes his head with a roll of the eyes and Dean makes a show of wiping his palms on his jeans before cranking open the door. "Ladies first," he says, and Sam, so used to the jab, walks on in without so much as a huff.
When Dean follows in, the first thing he notices is wood. Everything within view from floorboards to ceiling is paneled with slabs of wood. There's nothing wrong with that, Dean decides, just a little overwhelming to be firstly introduced to an actual cabin instead of tasteless motel décor. The place itself is a bit dusty; though through the bay window's dirt dusted panes the view to the lakeshore is crystal clear. From where the two of them are standing it looks like the kitchen could use a proper cleaning, but the sight itself – of him and Sam standing in an honest-to-god house – fills Dean's chest with an unspeakable feeling that can't be described.
"So what now?" Sam asks with genuine curiosity. "Is this where we're staying for the night?"
"This, my brother, is where we're staying for themonth." He walks a few steps deeper into the kitchen, turns his back on Sam – who is staring at him like a breathless guppy– and starts to investigate the contents of the not-plugged-in refrigerator.
"Ah… what?"
"What?"
"What do you mean we're staying here for a month?"
"This is where we're staying for the month, Sam," he says with slow deliberation. "Don't think I can make it much clearer than that."
"We're… why?"
"Because I thought you'd want to. Because I thought you'd like it. I thought that maybe we could try our hand at normal for a while." He wants to venture into the utility room to make sure the heater still works. However, when he pivots around to head deeper into the house he realizes Sam is still staring at him with a lax jaw. The look on Sam's face is absolutely priceless; he's gazing attentively at Dean as if the words don't make sense. Dean takes a mental note to remember this solitary snapshot forever.
"Wait… "Sam starts then pauses, then opens his mouth to start again. And just like that it's as if the light bulb has finally clicked on. "Wait, this is ours?" He's looking around the cabin now in an entirely different light. He turns in place, lets his eyes drink in the full picture – the fireplace, the open deck, the stout staircase that leads to an upstairs landing...
In two seconds flat he's across the kitchen, chest pressed firmly against Dean's, arms wrapped securely around his back. He doesn't say anything, just nuzzles the underside of his brother's chin, smiling against Dean's skin when he feels his brother's arms reluctantly reach up to enclose his waist. He uses this rare moment – of Dean confined - to press sloppy kisses around his face. The apples of Dean's cheeks are his favorite, the way the heat resides there, drowning Sam in every touch he's allowed to give.
"Okay Sammy," Dean says after a minute. "A man's gotta breathe." He starts to pull away but Sam hangs on even tighter. He lets his brother press his mouth to his as a final parting, Sam's small lips fitting perfectly between his own. "Unless you're planning on bringing this little love fest to the bedroom I say we go get some food before we starve to death."
"How did you do it?" Sam asks, breathless and wide-eyed. He rests his large hands on Dean's shoulders, holds him at arms length. "How'd you find this place, Dean?"
"Bobby," Dean simply states, shaking Sam off. "Now come on, daylights burning."
The brisk whip of the January wind greets them as they step outside. Before heading off they pause for a minute near the water's edge to savor the moment of peaceful quiet. The trees are in their winter glory, the Tennessee hills stare proudly back at them from across the shore.
"Thank you," Sam whispers when they're settled in the car, and its said so quietly Dean almost misses it.
He looks at Sam, sees the honest sincerity in his eyes, the sparkle that plays behind his smile, and it's enough to make him know that he did good. That beautiful happiness - that special contentment that makes his brother thrive - well it's something Dean would kill for. And if squatting in an empty cottage is all he has to do to put that smile on Sam's face then of course he's going to make it happen.
He'd do anything for his brother.
No questions asked, no explanations needed.
*
They're at Louie's Bar for a round of pool and some beer. Tillie's Diner had some pretty awesome burgers but the entire place was alcohol-free, which was kind of a buzz kill but hey, welcome to small town etiquette.
Dean's ordering up round three of Jim Beam, which means by this point he's not only getting a little sloppy, he's also loosing his normal inhibition. He's leaning into Sam's space – probably closer than he realizes – as he nostalgically fingers the shot of whiskey in his hand.
"That's the second time this week I've gotten turned down by a hot chick." He knows he's being ridiculous. He shouldn't care if some random girl isn't interested. But lately it's been every girl that's uninterested. The sleazy gestures and smooth talking don't seem to be cutting it anymore. The past few weeks have been nothing but strikeouts. "Why don't I get hit on as much as I used to? Fucking sucks dude, getting old."
"You're not old," Sam repeats for the second time tonight. He's said the same line so many times lately that it's starting to roll off the tongue without effort.
"You're just saying that because you're old too."
"I am not old!"
"Well at least I still get hit on more than you do." He takes a final gulp of the alcohol, lets the familiar burn sting as he swallows it down. "Anyone can take one look at you and know you won't put out."
"Oh and you will, huh?"
Dean ignores the comment, ignores the fact that Sam knows just as well as he does that he'd never fool around. He'd never do that to Sam, not after everything the past five years have brought them. It's all about the game, now. All he wants is as least one offer – one offer he can refuse with pride.
He slides the empty shot glass across the counter and winks at the bartender with a signal to pour one more. He reaches across Sam for the bowl of chips and shoves a big handful into his mouth. "Like that girl over there," Dean mumbles through the food; some pieces fly out and Sam turns his head to avoid the worst of it. "She should be all over me by now." He swallows hard then reaches in for another heaping handful.
"Maybe," Sam says tilting his bottle towards the chips, "it's because you're not as fit as you once were."
That stops Dean in his tracks. His jaw is hanging open enough to show the content of mashed up food inside.
"You're not 26 anymore, Dean."
"You sayin' I'm fat?"
Sam puts his hands up in mock surrender. "All I'm sayin' is you've put on a few pounds over the years. Not that I blame you," he says with a playful smile. "Getting older and all that. Metabolism ain't what it used to be."
"Fuck you. I'm just as fit as I've ever been."
"Uh-huh," Sam says taking a sip of beer. "Whatever you say, Fabio."
"I am fit," he sulks, eyes wandering down to scowl at his torso. He fiddles with the waistband of his jeans and glares up at Sam like it's entirely his fault that his fingers poke into the flesh a bit deeper than normal. "And even if I'm not as svelte," he combats, "I'm still hot."
"You don't hear me complaining."
"I think girls aren't hittin' on me 'cause I'm intimidating looking. It's that whole 'bad-boy' thing, makes them nervous."
Sam tries not to spit out his beer, bites his bottom lip to stop the motion. He wants to laugh but he won't. He can read Dean's mind and below his brother's buzzed chatter there's hint of an actual search for acceptance. With Dean's birthday coming up the need for Sam's approval - that he's still just as worthy of attention – is what he's wanting to hear. Dean at 35 is just as stunning as Dean at 18. Some things get better with age and Dean happens to be one of those beautiful rarities. Sure there are a few more eye crinkles and a little less muscle, but it's in those insignificant details that Sam finds appeal. Whether his brother ever truly believes it or not, he's more than worthy of anyone's attention.
"Dean," Sam begins, and he scoots a bit closer. "I think the reason these girls here aren't asking for your number is they're all assuming you're already taken." He cranes his head lower to meet Dean's eyes, waits for the words to sink in. "I think it's giving them the wrong impression when you're hand's halfway down my back pocket."
"Oh," Dean says and he whips his hand out of Sam's jeans so fast he almost smacks the guy standing behind him. "Didn't even know I had it there."
"Like I said before," he places himself so his legs are between Dean's knees, "you don't hear me complaining." His hand curls around Dean's neck; fingertips pressing against freshly trimmed baby hairs.
"What are you doing?"
"Claiming my territory."
"Public, Sam," and he's glancing around like a deer in headlights.
"Don't care," is all he says before he's angling his mouth to steal a kiss. To his surprise Dean parts his lips like an invitation and though the contact is short-lived – thanks to Dean's insecurity and the curious stares of people around them – it warms Sam's heart to know that Dean trusts him enough to let him do this – even just once.
Though, of course when the contact is broken Dean's embarrassment turns to irritation and he's mumbling something about need to take a leak with a blunt shove past Sam's chest.
Sam just smiles because despite his finest efforts the guy will never change. And as much as his brother may drive him crazy, he's more than happy to take Dean as is.
*
Watching the last ten minutes of Back Door to Hell slowly turns into a marathon of good Jack Nicholson flicks.
They're in the front room near the side door – the only room with a working television set and a mediocre DVD player. Dean starts off on the worn, flannel sofa, though two movies in he reluctantly moves to the thrown-together "bed" on the hardwood floor. Sam announces he needs something soft to lie on – the chosen item of comfort being Dean's body, to which Sam dragged him down and laid him on the floor pillows.
Dean's now wrapped in a warm blanket of Sam, the only form of heat he really needs as his brother's skin is pretty much the equivalent of a heater in July. The width of Sam's body shields every part of Dean from the surrounding cool air; long limbs entangle with his own, Sam's head is cradled on his chest like a solid weight of comfort. He'd deny the truth of the feeling until he's blue in the face but if he's honest with himself moments like this feel like actual happiness. In moments like these Dean can wholeheartedly declare he's happy.
"Don't fall asleep," Dean nudges the back of his brother's hair with his nose. "Let's go upstairs to the bedroom."
"No," Sam pathetically moans and Dean knows it's a lost cause.
"Sammy," he whispers. "Come on, baby."
"Mmm."
"Nice warm bed upstairs."
"Tired," Sam whispers back and he rotates his body so he's face down in the crook of Dean's arm.
"Tomorrow," Dean starts, readjusting his legs so they're not pinned down, "tomorrow I'm gonna make this place feel like home." His fingers trail up the length of Sam's spine; even through the t-shirt fabric he can feel every well-known mole of his brother's anatomy. "I'm thinkin' about repainting the upstairs and I'll pick up some food at the store to stock the fridge and I'm definitely, definitely getting rid of that god-awful comforter. No way we're sleeping on birds and floral."
"K," Sam slurs and his free hand involuntarily squeezes Dean's bicep.
"Don't drool on me, dude," he breathes into Sam's ear as a final 'goodnight'. He leaves one hand on the small of Sam's back; the other remains gently entwined in a mess of brown hair.
It doesn't take long for Dean to fall asleep. His dreams are consumed with ideas of the future – more specifically a house they can soon call a home.
*
The next morning Dean leaves a torn post-it on the kitchen counter. It's close to 8 a.m. and though he'd rather be face down in a pillow he has work to do.
S –
You sleep like the dead, man.
I'll be back later. If you leave you better take your phone with you this time. I'm serious, Sam.
Egg McMuffin in fridge.
- D
Spending money that isn't theirs is kind of the Winchester way of life.
First stop on the to-do list is the hardware store where two hundred dollars drops like pennies. Top of the 'must buys' are primer, paint, and a drill. After that it's a quick pit stop at the local grocery store. The cart is stock full of cold cuts and chip bags, microwaveable pizza bites and a nicely prepared pre-packaged chicken Caesar for Queen Sammy; donuts and a 12-pack nicely round off the other necessary food groups and after that it's home sweet home.
"Shoes off," is the greeting he receives upon entering.
"What is that? Pine?"
"'Forest Grove,' actually," he says while he pushes a stray wisp of hair out of his eyes.
"Should have known you'd be cleaning by the time I got back."
"Hey, someone has to. Food?"
"All here," Dean says holding up four full bags. "Sam, I was thinkin' –"
"That can't be good…"
"I was thinkin'," Dean repeats with a scowl, "that we could drive around town today – you know, get a real feel for the place." He sidesteps around the moth-eaten mop Sam's towing about. The grocery bags he sets on the pristine tabletop. He smiles down at the mirrored reflection that cleanly smiles back up at him. "Whatd'ya say, Gomez?"
"Hey," Sam points the dusting rag inches away from Dean's face.
"Just because I happen to prize hygiene doesn't make me your butler." Dean goes to speak but Sam cuts him off, "Or your maid."
"No, it just makes you the woman. I'm glad our roles are clear."
Sam leans the mop against the counter with due care. There's a one mississippi pause before he's lunging towards Dean like a pent up cougar and Dean's ducking the dive with a swift pivot around the table.
For the next twenty minutes it's like a freak version of sparring. One of the chair legs gets broken in the process, along with a deafening tumble of clanking dishware that cascades across the newly polished tiles.
They're both laughing breathlessly by the time Dean's got Sam pinned to the sofa. Sam's gulping for air and Dean's smugly watching his brother wiggle to no avail – knees pressed solidly against thighs.
"Say uncle," he demands.
Sam shakes his head from side to side, chuckling too hard to come up with anything coherent.
"Say it!" Dean shouts and his grinning teeth bite down victoriously on the tender skin of his brother's neck.
"Okay, you win," Sam finally chokes out, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks. "You win!" he laughs, "Oh my god, get off of me you psycho."
"Tell me I'm the best."
"…."
"Say it, Sammy, say 'I'm the best!'"
"I'M THE BEST!"
"Sam."
"Ouch!"
"Say it or I bite harder."
"No."
"Say it!"
"Ahhh! Okay, okay, you're the best! Dean's the best!"
"Knew it," Dean says coyly as he gets to his feet. He pompously breathes against his hand then rubs it against his shirt like he's polishing an apple, like he's the cream of the crop as far as mankind is concerned. "And you said I was out of shape," he scoffs with a pleased grin. "Looks like little Sammy here is the sloth of the family. Missed a few strength training sessions this month, huh bro?"
"Shut up, porky," Sam deliberately jabs with a smile knowing damn well it'll get Dean back into his arms for one more frisky round of play fighting.
*
Fishing lures and singing fish plastered on fake wooden boards embellish every wall of the cluttered restaurant. The menu claims they have the best clam chowder for miles and Tillie herself is in the back serving up freshly baked apple pie every Tuesday night.
Eating here has become a tradition as of late; the table near the back gladly awaits their return night after night.
It's after dessert that Sam's ears hone in the conversation one booth over.
"What?" Dean asks but Sam holds up a finger to shush him.
"I'm telling you, Earl, it was huge!" The man in a scruffy button-down uniform a few feet over is on the edge of his chair, his hands mimicking every added detail of the story. "And don't you tell me it was a bear."
"What else could it have been? A yeti?" His buddy is sitting across from him in bright fly-fishing overalls. He laughs at his own joke, and then starts hacking at the end of it like too many cigarettes have settled in his windpipe.
"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. You won't be laughing when you're the next one that sees it. Took Jack, I'm almost sure of it."
"It didn't take anyone, Frank. Jack's probably spending a few more days down at the ridge. Lord knows he needs a break from that wife of his."
Nothing of use is said after this. Not more than a minute later both men are out of their seats throwing bills down on the table with a final sip of coffee.
"Wendigo," Sam murmurs and Dean nods his head in agreement. "They said 'down by the ridge,' any idea where that's at?"
"Why does it matter?" Dean asks and he takes a cautious look around to makes sure no one is listening in.
"Because," Sam narrows his eyes at him, "we need know where to start looking if we're going to check this out."
"Who said anything about checking this out?"
"… I just thought –"
"Just because there's a potential lead doesn't mean we need to take it, Sam. We're not responsible for every bad thing that goes on out there. We don't have to jump every time we hear the words 'bear attack'."
"So what, Mr. Gung-ho Hunter doesn't want to hunt anymore? Is that it?"
"I didn't say that."
"Then what?"
"I thought this was gonna be our month off, Sam. You and me, together, living as civilians - blueberry pancakes in the morning, Desperate Housewives at night, the whole nine yards."
"Is that what you want?" Sam asks and he's genuinely taken aback. "You're all done?"
"No, I'm not done, I just want a break." And for once it's the god's honest truth. There's never going to come a day where he'll want to stop hunting altogether. He's a hunter. It's not only what he does it's who he is. Down to the very core – the blood that pumps through his veins – has established that since the day their mom got pinned to the ceiling. Hunter until the day he dies, him and Sam both. And lucky for them the job market is always open. The world continues to crumble despite their best efforts and people are always going to need saving.
What Dean wants, however, between the jobs, between them putting their lives on the line, is a break. What he wants is for Sammy to have a real home. The more he thinks about it, it's what he wants too.
"Wendigo, Dean," Sam's snapping his fingers to get Dean back to the present. "It'll take, like, two minutes tops. Compared to all the shit we've been through, killing this thing will be like swatting a fly. What? Why are you staring at me like that?"
"I buy you a house and you'd rather hunt?"
Sam snorts at that. "You didn't' buy me a house, Dean, you borrowed one."
"Whatever." He flicks a sugar packet at Sam and it hits him in the forehead between the eyes. "Same thing." His fingers flex to grab another but Sam pegs his hand to the table.
"So are you in?"
"Of course I'm in," Dean says with fake irritation. "I'm always in. And by the way, you have a huge chunk of strawberry jelly on your lip."
Sam grabs a nearby spoon to check out his upside down reflection.
"What is with you lately," Dean flicks another sugar packet at Sam's chest. "I swear its like you need a bib when you eat."
"Who does that sound like, I wonder?"
"Speak for yourself, asshole."
Sam lowers the spoon and leans across the table, eliciting a raised eyebrow from Dean. "Get it off for me," Sam whispers in a voice he hopes sounds alluring.
"You have two legs, get up a grab a napkin yourself."
Dean, obviously, isn't one for subtle hints. Sam clears his throat, leans further across the surface and brings his voice down a few octaves when he says, "I was thinking you could use your mouth, actually." The dimples of his cheeks stand out strong and proud and he can tell by the reaction that finally Dean gets it, the way his eyes widen almost comically.
"Oh," he grins, "Always thinkin', Sammy," he whispers as his body gravitates forward.
"Use your tongue, not your lips," Sam breathes against his cheek and Dean's breath hitches before the tip of his pink tongue darts out to subtly trace the corner of Sam's mouth.
"Got it," Dean says as he swallows like it's an accomplishment.
Sam's still hovering halfway across the table when he asks as an afterthought, "Do we still have jelly donuts at home?"
"Uh, maybe, why…?"
"Just thinking' of other ways we can have fun tonight…" He trails off and Dean can see the mischievous glint in his eye. "Other body parts you can suck jelly off of…"
Dean's leg involuntarily jerks forward as his eyes squeeze shut. A satisfied moan is already forming deep in his throat.
"Dean! Eww!!!" Sam shouts with a soft kick to his brother's shin. "At least wait until we're at home if you're gonna orgasm!"
"Jesus Christ Sam!" Dean barks out just as loud, covering Sam's mouth with his hand. "I don't think they heard you the next town over!"
Sam's cheeks flush crimson and sure enough the elderly couple in the back – the only other customers in the vicinity – are gaping at them like they're having sex right there in the open.
"Let's go," Dean snaps and Sam follows behind with the check.
He can't be sure, but he's almost certain they get a wink from the cashier as they pay the bill. And poor Aunt Tillie in the back is staring at Sam with a face of thunder that clearly states they're not welcomed back in here for a long, long time.
*
The Wendigo uses its strength to advance at night.
This one is out for sustenance, Dean can tell, and the son of a bitch is using its clever tactics to mismatch tracking patterns. At one point they lose their position in relation to the main road but soon enough the smell leaking from a nearby den tips them off on the creature's location.
They caught a glimpse of the freak as he circled them a mile back. Compared to the last dude they'd burnt, this one doesn't look too tough. He's smaller than the other, younger, maybe, and definitely less experienced. That's not what concerns Dean. What has him reluctant is the truth that comes to surface when the two of them hunt as a team; the truth of the matter being that lately they're not a team; Sam can do this on his own.
Long gone are the days of big brother Dean chasing away the scary things that go bump in the night. Sometimes he wonders if what Sam said is true – that validity spoken when he was possessed by the siren all those years ago - that Sam is a better hunter – stronger, smarter. Sometimes he can't help but feel inadequate, despite what Sam tells him, especially with how bright his brother shines.
Sam's hightailing it down the hill two giant strides at a time, legs effortlessly dodging the dead branches that litter their path. When he reaches to the bottom he signals to Dean for him to stay put.
"There's not enough room for both of us inside."
"Sam!"
"I got it," He says softly and before Dean can pull him back by the collar he's squeezing through the cramped entrance, gun cocked and ready.
For a moment all is silent. The quiet before the storm, the short-lived pause before the showdown.
Dean's standing at the threshold with his flare at the ready, a minute away from sprinting inside when the smell of burning flesh reaches his nose. There's a stream of smoke barreling out past his face and a second later there's Sam – breathing hard with only one small scratch along his chin.
"Finished," he exhales as he shakes the sweaty hair out of his eyes. "Fried him extra crispy."
"Already?"
"Yeah."
"It's dead?"
"Yeah," he coughs, smoke billowing around his nose. "He was pretty stupid, backed himself into a corner with no way out." He tosses Dean the extra flare gun to put back in the duffel. "See, easy as pie. Like I said."
"Yup…" Dean mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. "Easy as pie." He sighs out a breath with his front facing the trail. He's already four yards ahead by the time Sam starts walking.
It's a long hike back to the car in silence.
*
The rain starts to pelt down in icy drops the minute they find the Impala. Dean still hasn't said one word, just keeps his eyes on the road like he's in full concentration, and Sam's not about to push. The swish of the wipers along with the steady pound of rain lulls Sam's head into a sleepy somber. He lets his head fall back against the headrest and sticks his palm between his knees to keep from instinctively reaching out to grasp Dean on the shoulder.
*
"Alright," Sam says the minute they get inside. "Start talking."
Dean pretends not to hear. He continues to saunter in silence only breaking to say with a fake smile, "Gonna hop in the shower," where he takes the stairs one heavy foot at a time.
Sam busies himself in the kitchen, staying downstairs to keep from confronting Dean until he's more relaxed by the warm shower. He washes the dishes from last night, scraping the hardened chunks of Dean's famous lasagna off the bottom of the steel pan. He waits for the sound of the water turning off to go upstairs and change into one of Dean's old t-shirt and a pair of boxers. He slips into bed with a contented sigh, the soft cotton of the newly purchased sheets smooth and soothing against his skin.
The steam balloons out from the bathroom like a cloud of dry ice by the time Dean opens the door, damp hair tussled, towel slung around hips. Dean reaches for his boxers – in an actual drawer for once – naked backside facing the bed all the while.
When Dean drops the towel Sam tries not to stare, tries not to get distracted, just pushes his wire-framed reading glasses further up the bridge of his nose and continues to scan the next chapter of his book.
It isn't until Dean's settled under the covers and Sam's re-reading the same line for the millionth time that he turns to face his brother. "You wanna start or should I?" It gets the response Sam was expecting – Dean looking up at him like he hasn't got a clue. "Look," Sam says with a sympathetic frown, and he turns on his side so he can look in his brother's eyes. "I'm sorry that I took the upper hand on this one. I shouldn't have cut you out of a good shot without asking. I shouldn't have made you stay back while I went in. Next hunt you take the lead, okay?"
"I'm not lookin' for an apology, Sam. You didn't do anything wrong."
"Then why are you pissed at me?"
"I'm not pissed."
"Then what –"
"Nothing," he cuts off. "Nothings wrong, okay?"
"Obviously something's wrong, Dean. Hey," Sam gently grips Dean's arm to keep him from turning over. "Come on, man. Just because you shut me out doesn't mean I'm going to let this drop. You know I'll keep asking."
"Just because you keep asking doesn't mean I have to answer." In the midst of turning over he catches Sam's eye, sees the sting his words cause. "I'm fine, really," he quickly kisses the wrist that holds his shoulder. "Those crinkles in your forehead are going to stay like that if you keep making that face."
"Fine," Sam sighs, flipping over on his back, "forget it," and just like that he's back to reading. He's on chapter 5 of Wise Blood, some aging novel he found downstairs on the bookshelf, a title he remembers from an English class during his years at Stanford. He wants to point out this one line to Dean, laugh with him about the absurdity of this quote on Lucifer.
"Dean, look at what this – "
"Sometimes I feel like I'm useless."
Sam's finger stays pointed at the timeworn page of the book but his mouth snaps shut. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't understand where the comment came from or what's brought on this self-loathing conviction, so he stays quiet, waits for Dean to elaborate.
Dean stays silent for a moment longer, lost in thought, just staring at the ceiling like it holds all the answers. "I miss being the strong one."
"You are strong."
"When I was bigger than you, when I could protect you, when you needed me."
"What are you talking about, Dean? I still need you. I'll always need you. That's never going to change."
"It's just…" Dean turns on his side, propped up by his elbow. He takes a deep breath like it pains him just to say the words, "I watch you hunt, I watch you go at it on your own and it's like…"
"What?"
"It's like I'm in the way."
"Dean," Sam softly smiles, and he takes his glasses off to rest on the nightstand. "You're never in the way, okay?" He peers at Dean, sees the doubt in his eyes – the same doubt that so easily settles there. He'd do anything to take all those self-inflicting thoughts away.
"Sometimes I wonder if you're the better hunter."
"Hey," Sam says, and he grips Dean's shoulder hard. "It's not about who's better. We're not competitors, we're not against each other. The only reason to hunt anymore is because I have you by my side. It'd be no fun by myself. It wasn't fun by myself."
Dean knows Sam's talking about Hell, those years he was gone, those months Ruby placated him with promises.
"You and me Dean," Sam continues, "together. We're always going to have hunting."
"But that's just it," Dean says and he sits up with his back against the headboard. "What happens after hunting, Sam? What happens when this is all over, when I'm too old to do it? What happens when you don't wanna do it anymore?"
"First off, you're never going to be 'too old.' You'll be doing this on your death bed, Dean - tied up to heart monitors and oxygen tanks." His lips twitch up into a smile when he sees Dean smirk at that thought. "And second of all, if someday we decide we're done – if we don't wanna hunt another day of our lives – who cares? That doesn't change who we are, Dean. That doesn't change what you are to me."
"So I'll always be good-looking and peggable," Dean looks up and questions, cutting through the sap of the moment.
Sam barks out a sudden laugh. "Yeah," he smiles, "you'll always be good-looking and peggable."
"And hotter than you."
"Well, I wouldn't go that far," he sneers then leans over to kiss Dean's forehead as his brother chuckles against his neck. "You know, you're kind of adorable when you're all brooding and pensive like that."
"Oh, shut up," Dean pushes Sam's face away with one hand. "I was not brooding. I do not brood."
"Sure you don't, sweetheart," Sam teases, roughly pinching the flesh of Dean's cheek.
"Knock it off, bitch," He elbows him with a rough thrust then locks Sam's head in a sleeper-hold. His calloused fist comes up to rub against Sam's hair until the ends are sticking out in all directions.
*
Sometime after the blowjob, after the decent make-out session and a few more chapters of Wise Blood, Sam decides it's time to turn off the lights.
The clear Tennessee night sky brings enough illumination through the window for Sam to make out Dean's features. The clear gleam of the moon that streaks its brilliance across Dean's face highlights the bridge of his nose and the shadow that cascades from his eyelashes across his cheeks.
To Sam, Dean has gotten softer in his older age, more apt to let people in, more prone to let Sam love him in a way he's always deserved to be loved. After everything that's happened to them it would be easier to assume the opposite, that Dean would be hardened, that they both would be too cynical to let any feelings bloom. And it has made them skeptical, in some ways. Though, when the two of them are together it's as if they've never been touched by the horrors that have defined their past – no evils can touch them if, at the end of the day, they have each other to turn to.
And that's how it's always going to be.
That's how they'll always soldier on.
Together.