"Sky lights up for you, baby boy."
Sam scoffed, his palm sending pinpricks of the faintest tickling sensation through his wrist and forearm upon meeting the scruff staking recent residence on the planes of his brother's face. "You're drunk."
It was okay, really, that that was Sam's immediate conclusion, the only summary that held Dean's ramblings within the lines of sense. Not that he was wrong, by any means. Hit the nail on the head, actually. But when Dean looked at Sam and then back at the blanket of stars behind them, there was a technicolor rainbow pulling itself by a grappling hook of white hot atmosphere from the ground into the air, as high as he could see. Just for them. Just for Sam.
Sam couldn't see it. Sam couldn't see a damn thing but Dean, traditional Thanksgiving intoxication pulsing through him, standing in front of him and then pushing against him, holding him flush to the side of the Impala and kissing him breathless.
Dean wasn't even there anymore. Not mentally, anyway. The second his lips collided with Sam's, his mind shot out his mouth and into the orange-red section of the sky that only his eyes could detect. He felt it immerse itself in the astronomical matter above him and let the shimmering dust squeeze and squeeze until it felt as though it would implode. But it never did. Instead, it wrung itself dry, and every thought that leaked and bled from its crevices was wound so tightly around Sam that it had no room to breathe save for around the single syllable of his name. Thank you for him, god, thank you, don't deserve him, promise to protect him, promise to keep him safe, promise to love him forever, love him so much, so good, so beautiful, so fucking right, everything, he's everything. "Happy Thanksgiving, Sammy."
"Happy Thanksgiving, De."