"Are you with me?" Dean demanded, voice harsh.
"Yeah," Sam sighed. "I'm with you."
No declarations of love, no sad music. Just them, trudging through each moment. Trying to live, trying to exist, continually. Dangerously codependent, sure, but as long as they had each other, everything would be okay.
In an odd way, it was almost heaven. No expectations to live up to, no where to be, if they didn't want to. Just each moment with each other, breathing, living, feeling.
And if they came together each night, mouths hard and urgent on each other, who was there to judge? Who was there to care, other than themselves?
Waking up each morning, tangled in each other, the scent of sweat and sex and blood in the air, almost made everything bearable.
It was why they could never leave each other. Why, when one of them died, both of them died. Because without each other there to yank the other out of the hell they lived in, that's where they'd be.
They both slammed their door, and Dean started the car up. It was silent, still, and hard. Sam could feel his blood rushing, rushing through his veins, could sense the adrenaline pumping through Dean. Dean, who pressed his foot on the gas until the Impala could go no faster. Speeding through the night, Sam grabbed Dean's arm and held. Everything that they were, everything that they could be, wrapped up in that touch, in that pain as Sam's fingers dug into Dean's arm.
Nothing was real, nothing was relevant but this.