A/N: Finally some happy Winchesters + LOTR fic! Set vaguely Season 1.

Dean sprains his ankle out in the foothills of Boulder, when the vengeful spirit of a goldminer threw him up against one of the tombstone-like Flatiron slabs. They hole up in a motel called the Chalet, which would be a far cry from its namesake if it weren't for the view.

The view. It's all snow-capped crests and a valley of houses, stone and sky. Stanford-Sam and his Stanford-friends would have hiked it. But Sam Winchester just killed a ghost there and would have left, if it hadn't been for Dean's ankle.

"It isn't even broken," Dean complains, poking at his swollen limb until he winces with pain. "What the hell."

"Leave it alone," Sam scolds. He has one of those headaches that radiates from the base of his skull, too little sleep and too-thin air up here at high elevation. They've got to chill for a week. Sam knows sprained ankles and Dean's bravado. A week is the least he can ask for. It's only fair. Someone has to take care of Dean.

"Go get me some food, bitch," says Dean, hobbling towards one of the double beds. The quilts are scratchy polyester in a serape-like print. Sam's eyes burn just looking at them.

"Don't whine about what I get."

"Well, then. Don't get crap."

On this exchange, Sam heads out. They're in the crappier side of Boulder, because motels and food are cheaper there, and they've long been toughened up to sketchy neighborhoods.

Sam wishes it weren't gray February, dour even when the afternoon sun is shining. Sam wishes he could turn back time, even if he doesn't know what he'd do next.

Jess said she'd always wanted to go to Colorado. Sam wonders how she would have survived here, a golden California girl, in this sharp bright air.

He'll never know.

…

He buys subs, and some of Dean's favorite snacks, and also some apples because hell, who knows the next time he'll be the one in charge of groceries?

There's a video rental store across from the supermarket. Sam scratches the back of his neck, shifting the pinch of the plastic bag to his other hand.

A week.

Dean's not going to be able to put weight on his damn ankle for a week.

…

"All three, huh?"

"Yeah…how long's the rental?"

The girl shrugs. She has a lip-ring and maroon hair and pretty brown eyes. Sam feels her checking him out, a little, and it aches in the space between his ribs, the hollow Jess's very existence used to fill.

"I'll give you a deal, because it's February, and these will take you awhile. Back by Saturday?"

"Sure thing," Sam says. If he were Dean, he'd give her a wink, or something.

But Sam's not Dean. That's what gets him into half his messes in the first place, and out of all the others.

…

"It took you long enough," Dean says, grumpily, from the window. He's watching the mountain peaks like they're going to start moving in the folds of twilight. His mouth is a little agape, because Dean may be twenty-seven and a bit, but he never loses his fascination with the bold and reckless side of nature.

Sam takes the words to mean, I was lonely, though they're only three months in this thing together, three months from Jessica and Sam's old life, and so he can never quite be sure. Once he used to know his brother like a well-read book. Now he wonders if he knew him at all, in the ways that counted.

"I got movies." Sam pauses. They've talked a about a lot of things since—since—but the memories that track right up to the edges of before, right up to the edge of Sam leaving for Stanford…

That's a box Sam doesn't often dare open.

So he pauses, clears his throat, and tries not to think of their broken promises. His broken promises. How they were supposed to be two nerds at a midnight showing, not two thousand or more miles away from each other in Decembers that feel too close but too far.

"Gimme." Dean flops onto the bed, which joggles his ankle and makes him swear. But he opens the bag Sam hands him.

"Dude." Dean's voice is suddenly quiet. The room is golden in the sunset light through the windows and Sam suddenly wishes he could bring himself to say that he is sorry.

"Yeah?"

"They have extended editions?"

And there it is. Because they promised in January, but Sam left before December. It seemed unimportant then, just another movie, but it had always been their favorite fantasy escape, in the long car rides, the longer summers, and longest of all, the nights in motel rooms like this one. It had been something they were going to share.

And here it is. A second chance.

"Thank God this place has a DVD player," Dean says, and he tosses the remote to Sam, but he doesn't toss the DVD, cradles it in his hand for a second. "You saw them in theaters, right?"

"Yeah."

"Me too."

"Pretty awesome, right?" Sam tries for a smile, and is gratified that Dean returns it. Dean picks up the pillows on his bed and beats them into submission, arranging them so that he can lean back against them and prop his ankle up out of harm's way.

He's left room for Sam.

Sam sits down, sets a bowl of chips between them. Dean will hog them, and Sam will bitch about it, but not enough to distract them from what they're about to see.

Enough movie to last a week, Sam thinks, as the opening credits roll and the haunting music starts.

But in the end, they binge them almost back-to-back, and if they roar with approval through the battle scenes, keep up a running commentary through the rest of it—

Well. It's a crap motel at the edge of the mountains, it's February, and nobody tells them to shut up.