It smells like summer. That charred smell of someone nowhere nearby barbecuing, and forest fires, and dusty wind.
Sunlight, filtering through low hanging clouds, slides into the room between the slats of dust-coated venetian blinds. Sam is reminded of one heady July when he and Jess had spent almost every day lying in bed in their underwear and kissing lazily, but mostly not moving. The memory makes him melancholy, but brings the slightest of smiles to his lips.
The sound of the Impala's engine grumbles loud enough to rattle the windows in the motel room, and Sam hears Dean slam his way from the car toward the room, and the door bursts open like it always does. Heyyy Sammy, he says. Playful grin like always. Got some lunch! Even some of that cup salad crap you like! What are you lookin' so happy about?
And it's true, Sam can't help but smile. He shakes his head. Nothing, Dean. And Dean laughs at him and ruffles his hair and it's a lot like old times—back when Sam's bangs hung in his eyes and Dean still wore their father's too-big leather jacket. Like when they lived in motels and hotels and the 1967 Chevrolet Impala. They still hop from room to room, more often than not. But of course, they can rest assured that the Men of Letters headquarters awaits their return, even as they trace their way through a strange town in a new state, looking for monsters to kill.
Sam shakes his salad in a cup—and he doesn't really like them so much as tolerate them. He'd rather have a real salad with fresh vegetables but he figures that even this is better than a constant stream of hamburgers and "Chinese" food. He watches Dean destroy his own meal—with such fervor Sam laughs just a bit, to himself. He always pretends to be disgusted, but really he likes to watch Dean eat because Dean so clearly enjoys it.
Where's Cas?
Sam regrets asking the question the second it slips from his lips. But it's too late now.
Dean looks down at his sandwich with a twist of his mouth. In the car, he says. Needed some "alone time" whatever the hell that's supposed to mean.
Yeah, Dean never really got that concept. That sometimes certain people need to be alone, to recover themselves. Even when he himself needed that solitude, he still didn't understand.
Sam sighs. Don't be so hard on him.
I know, Sammy, but sometimes it's difficult.
Sam nods. He understands. The two interact like comets. Like lightning, and thunder, and earthquakes, always orbiting around each other like planets and sometimes they crash together and it's either a beautiful thing or it breaks one of them, or both. Sam wonders when they will finally be allowed to just slowly melt together. They've spent the past forever drifting close and drifting apart and weaving and he wishes that they could just be. For their sake.
And so he could relax, just a little. Watching them tread so gingerly, after all, leaves him exhausted.
He smiles, tired, and when Cas slinks through the door with slumped shoulders he pretends not to notice how close he sits beside Dean on the opposite bed. They deserve all the comfort they can get.
