We might kiss when we are alone / When nobody's watching
We might take it home / We might make out when nobody's there
It's not that we're scared
It's just that it's delicate
-Delicate, Damien Rice
Sam is looking at the floor of their hotel room, hands folded in his lap where he sits in the creaking, leather chair by the windows. He's staring down at the tattered, vomit green carpet that's probably older than him and Dean put together. Patches of it worn so thin that it looks like it's the site of the most unorganized archaeological dig in the history of mankind.
"We're not gonna make it, are we?"
It's not even really a question. It's a statement of certainty that Sam's only structured that way because he has an audience. Surprisingly though, despite how sure he is of the fact that they're all headed towards their true, final end—no get-out-of-the-afterlife-free cards this time—his voice is calm as he speaks. Even and measured, as though he'd just informed the rest of Team Free Will that it was raining outside, or that he'd chosen to wear a blue shirt today instead of a red one.
"Probably not," is Dean's answer, and he is equally matter-of-fact about it. Though there's a slight wobble in his voice that suggests he's not exactly looking forward to their demise.
It had to happen eventually though, right? They've been brought back from death and Hell too many times, gotten away lucky on even more occasions than that. It's about time the last of the Winchester clan cashed in their chips.
Cas doesn't look like he's about to argue with them. "I would say that it's statistically unlikely we'll survive, even if we do succeed," he says, and as usual his tone is free of any significant inflection. One glance up at his cold blue gaze though, and Sam can see that angel powers or not, he's worried, too.
This thing they're facing… it's strong and massive enough that it could swallow all three of them down without even pausing to chew.
"That's… encouraging." Sam tries for a smile, but his cheeks push back when the corners of his mouth attempt to hoist themselves upwards. He glances at the bedside clock, and sees that it's 2:48 p.m. Twelve minutes until their scheduled departure time. "Well," he says, slapping his knees and standing up. "Guess we'd better get loaded."
Turning so that he's got his back to his two comrades, Sam checks and double-checks the map they've got laid out on the small, round table at the front of the room. Snatches up his pistol to make sure the clip is fully loaded after the bit of target practise he'd done last night to help massage a bit of the pre-apocalypse tension out of his mind. He's about to tuck his gun into his jeans when he realizes that the room has been silent for a while now. That Dean and Castiel aren't speaking to him, and that they aren't speaking to each other, either.
Despite this, Sam has this odd, tugging feeling at the base of his skull. As though there's a conversation occurring just six feet away from him, but it's all being accomplished without a word.
Before he has a chance to ask about it, he hears Dean clear his throat. "Uh. Sam, you uh… just about finished there?"
"Yeah," he says, glancing over his shoulder at them with a curious frown. "Why?"
"Would you…" Dean trails off, and Sam can almost hear him gulping back his next breath. "Could you give us the room, for a minute?"
"What?" The question rides out of his mouth saddled on a laugh. He's pretty sure he misheard some portion of that. Pivoting on his heel, he meets his older brother's gaze. "What do you mean, give you…"
And that's when he notices that during the few moments where his back was turned, Dean and Castiel had closed the distance that existed between them. Even now, they seem to be drifting towards each other at the languid but determined pace of two tectonic plates. Shaving away the space, millimeter by millimeter.
For whatever reason, Sam's gaze then follows the line of their arms, and hidden in the shade of both men's jacket sleeves is something he's never seen before.
Dean has the index finger of his right hand threaded around the pinky finger on Castiel's left.
Startled and confused by the sight, he looks up at Dean again. Those mossy green eyes have hardened into emerald stones. His lips are pressed into thin lines. He lifts his chin and takes a deep but quiet breath, looking as though he's bracing himself, ready to spit hot oil at Sam if he speaks even one syllable of criticism.
"Oh," is all he can manage to say, though. What else can he say? He's not distraught by this revelation. He isn't disgusted or disturbed or in any way freaked out. Of course he isn't.
Mostly he's stunned. Because here they are, about to drive four hundred miles towards what they all agree is going to be the final fight of their lives, and Sam is only just now finding out that Dean and Cas are…
Hell. With this little to go on he doubts he could give it a fitting title, so he isn't even going to try and guess at it. But they're something to each other, at least. Something that Sam hadn't been informed of. That one or both of them didn't want to tell him about until…
Until they were all sure they were about to die.
Were they… was Dean that worried about what Sam would say, or think?
Damn. Damn.
Okay. No. Back up. Maybe—hopefully—that part of it is just a coincidence.
Before he answers Dean's request though, Sam looks between them, a faint tenderness blooming across his features. "How… how long have you…?"
There must be a curve in his voice that puts Dean at ease, because he threads all five of his fingers together with Cas' at that. Gripping him so tight that even from this distance, Sam can see the dusty white snow caps on his knuckles.
No answer is given, though. Just a solid stare.
A long time, it says.
Cas opens his fingers, flexes them, and then curls them around Dean's hand again.
But not long enough. Not nearly.
Feeling something tight and fuzzy in the pit of his chest, like a pair of mitten-coated hands is squeezing his heart from inside his lungs, Sam nods at them. Gathering up the map and his cellphone, he makes his way towards the door. Glancing at them again only as he pulls the structure closed behind him.
The two of them are already facing each other. Cas' hand is cupping Dean's elbow, and Dean's free hand grips the lapels of Cas' trench coat (version 3.0). Dean is murmuring softly as his forehead falls forward to meet Castiel's. Smiling at him, more with his gaze than his mouth, Cas responds with what Sam is fairly certain is Enochian.
The door clicks shut behind him, and he hears Dean bark out a quick string of words. Probably an argument against some fatalistic statement by the angel.
Sam makes himself busy around the Impala, recounting their supplies in the trunk, checking the oil and the washer fluid, picking out a cassette tape he thinks Dean will be in the mood for at a time like this.
Not Zeppelin. That won't come out until the last fifty miles of their trip. For the start of it, he thinks that maybe The Band is a good choice. Something with a little less rock, and a little more roll.
He looks up when the motel room opens again. Dean and Cas walk out, and Sam can tell that they're in battle mode now. The softness he'd spied on their faces ten minutes ago is gone- tufts of cotton replaced by cast iron.
Even still, Sam can see the evidence that they shared more than just hushed words with each other. One side of Dean's shirt is caught up in his waistband when it used to be hanging loose. Cas' tie is now leaning in the opposite direction, and where before his hair had its typical caught-in-a-wind-storm appearance, now it looks like he tied himself to a tree in the middle of a hurricane.
Keys dangling from his fingers, Dean walks around to the driver side of his car. He looks at Sam, then Cas, and back to Sam again before dropping his gaze to the handle of his door. "All right," he rumbles. "Let's do this."
[-End-]
A/N: As a (hopefully) budding writer in this fandom, reviews are always welcome- good, bad, or otherwise. In any case, I do hope you enjoyed this, and thank you for reading!