"Sometimes I have these dreams where I think they're full of amazing ideas, and then I wake up and realize they're actually pretty stupid."
"Most of your ideas are actually pretty stupid."
"Unlike yours?" Sam asks and Dean's boney knee hits him hard in the thigh.
They're lying in bed, both on their backs, faces gazing up at the cracks in the ceiling that are hardly visible in the darkened room. Dean tugs the blanket lower down his torso, which tugs down even lower on Sam, causing him to shiver when the brisk air hits the hairs on his arms.
"You ever get the urge to just curl up in a salt circle?"
"What?"
Sam continues to stare up above, eyes focused on nothing. He can feel Dean flexing his toes beside him. "You and me curled up in the middle of a layer of salt. A place where no one can touch us, no harm can happen. Safe."
"I don't think salt can save us now, Sammy," Dean says and he takes a deep breath as if the thoughts they're both thinking – the weight of lead on both their shoulders – is pressing hard against his lungs.
"Yeah I know, it's just… I dunno. The symbolism of it all."
"Oh god," Dean moans half-heartedly, "here comes the college babble…"
"I wish it would save us," and the sincerity rings out in his voice. Sam doesn't even respond to Dean's bravado remark, just continues on with his stream-of-the-line thought. "I wish that everything was still that simple – that a basic salt circle would make us safe."
For a while the both of them are silent.
Sam can't tell if Dean's fallen asleep or if he's just as disturbed by the thoughts that continue to haunt their lives. He's about to give up on the deep, late-night confessions and let sleep consume him when Dean shifts position, bumps clumsily against his shoulder.
"You know when we were little," Dean begins, and his voice is so quiet and mellow - so rarely un-harsh- that Sam's ears perk up, "and dad was gone doing god knows what and we'd do the whole fort thing in the middle of the motel?
"Yeah," Sam answers and it's more of a whisper. He's listening intently, can't help but treasure the moments when Dean lets him inside.
"We'd take those awful comforters off the beds and prop up chairs around the T.V. set, and you," he chuckles, "you always had to bring that stupid, raggedy towel with."
"It was my blanket," Sam laughs, and for once in a long while he can feel the smile reach his eyes.
"It was totally a dishrag, man. Plus it stank."
"Well, I liked it."
"Anyways," Dean sighs, and it takes another breath before he can bring himself to go on. "Once you'd fallen asleep I'd sneak into Dad's bedroom and find one of the old duffels he'd left behind and I bring it out and set it right in front of where our fort opened up; and I'd take out one of the salt containers and I'd make a tiny circle around your body. You were so small," he adds as an afterthought and Sam can tell by the lift in Dean's voice that he's smiling at some remembered memory. "I knew the salt wouldn't help any," he continues, "but it made me feel better. Like somehow by me doing that, you'd be protected. Just in case I didn't wake up in time, or something got to me first and you were left alone and helpless." He clenches and unclenches his fist involuntarily under the blankets. "It's stupid, I know."
Sam's hand moves underneath the sheet in search of Dean's hand. He undoes the tight first Dean's making, rubs his thumb over the smooth skin on the back of his brother's hand.
"Every time dad left, I never felt scared," Sam says and his eyes are still fixed on the ceiling – his mind zoning in on flashes of random memories. "I was only curious. Wondering where he'd gone. I knew you were there and that if you were there, there was nothin' to be scared of."
"You, ah," Dean clears his throat, "you scared now? I mean. With everything?"
He takes a breath. Tries not to let the chink in the armor shine all the way through. "You know I'd be lyin' if I said I wasn't. And I know you'd be lying if you said you weren't."
"Yeah," is all he says, but it encompasses everything neither of them wants to say.
"Yeah," Sam repeats and he squeezes Dean's hand in a fierce grip.
"I could sprinkle salt all over you're giant, he-man body if that's what makes you sleep at night," he quips and Sam barks out a laugh.
"Nah, I'm good."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure." There's more behind the question, but now is not the time. "I do kinda wish I had that blanket, though."
"I'm not even gonna acknowledge that statement with a response," Dean counters, and he flips over on his side facing the window and that's how Sam knows that the conversation is over.
It doesn't matter that there's so much left unsaid, that they've hardly graced the surface of the immense ruthlessness that's about to impose on both their lives. It doesn't matter because for tonight, they've made it through one more day.