Sam Winchester:
While Dean is more inclined to drown his pain in the bitter fumes of alcohol, I prefered to be more subtle. I liked to press it down between the pages of old leather journals, and iron it into the stiff collar of a fed suit. But regardless of how much I buried myself in the job, no matter how many monsters I've killed, or demons I've exorcised, the pain never goes away. So, I took a page out of Dean's book, and I chugged down another "this-will-definitely-be-the-last" beer, and rub my temple as I leafed through the yellowey pages some long forgotten hunter had scribbled upon.
I knew he'd come back, I mean, how many times had this happened before? I had faith in him, I always have. But I had been so alone. Cas was gone, probably with Dean, wherever that is. Bobby was dead, and not even his ghost was around anymore. I didn't have anyone.
During times like this, I'd find my mind flitting back to Stanford. I'd see myself looking at the crappy dorm room beds, but I'd see the most beautiful girl stretched out on it. Jess, with her blonde curls cascading off the edge of the too-small mattress. So small, in fact, that it was impossible for us to sleep in it together without every curve and angle of our bodies pressing together. Not that we would have ever slept another way.
I'd let the worries of the hunt and the pains of loneliness get washed away in the memory of her smile, and her bright bubbly laugh. I remember one night, I had come in to see her sleeping, blanket tossed haphazardly about, her long tan legs snaking around the edges. Her cell phone laid in her hand, blinking frantically about a message. She tried so hard to wait up for me when I was out late studying, but she could never make it past two. I slid off my jacket, and raised my shirt over my head, tossing it onto the floor. My hand turned around something in my pocket, a little band of silver. I thought about waking her up, asking her that question that had been gnawing at me. But I chickened out. I took the ring out and put it in the box, hidden deep beneath a mountain of t-shirts. God, I wished I hadn't.
The pleasant memories vanished, like they always did, and they were replaced by the flames, the sirens, and the last seven years of my life tumbled into my mind in a cacophony of nightmares. I squeezed tight at my right hand, pinpointing the half-circle scar An old habit, from when Lucifer was hanging out in my head. Of course, it didn't work. That scar was old, and didn't hurt anymore. Funny thing, how the body can scar and remove the pain, but the mind scars and just amplifies it.
With a sigh, I closed the journal, and flicked off the light. In the dark, I blundered over to my bed, and crawled into it. There was still something inherently wrong about only having one bed to the motel room. In the daze of the last few beers I'd had, sleep came quickly.
Dean Winchester:
It was almost like the kid wanted to be found. But, now that I thought about it, maybe he did. He was so obvious though, or maybe that was just because I'd practically taught him everything he knows. I stuck a wire into the cheap doorknob, and it opened like a charm. I gripped the doorknob, and took a breath, hesitating before opening it. I realized I had know idea what Sammy was going to be like. I could hope for the best. A well-adjusted, healthy, move-along Sammy. But I could also hope to fly to the moon.
And to be honest, I wasn't all bright and shiny either. I wasn't even close. I had spent the last year in Purgatory, fighting for my life. Everything I'd ever killed, lurking in the dark. It was nightmarish, and I'd been alone the whole time. When I'd first realized where I was, there was a little consolation in the fact I had Cas. I had back-up, even if it came in the form of a crazy pacifist angel. But the son of a bitch was gone within minutes. And I was alone. But so was Sammy, so I had needed to get out.
I fought tooth and nail everyday. It was almost like being out on the hunt, except it was every second. I barely slept, and when I did, it was for minutes at a time. For a while, I looked for Cas. If anyone could get us back, it would be him. I couldn't find him. I went for months without seeing anyone but the faces of vampires, werewolves, and every other thing that goes bump in the night.
And I'll be damned if I didn't kill them all. Every single last son of a bitch there way.
I finally found Cas, beaten and broken down. He was covered in dirt, from those ridiculous hospital scrubs, to the trenchcoat he never took off. He had a wild look in his eyes, and almost ran away when I found him. I had to pin him to the ground, oh and I beat the shit out of him. He deserved it. And to be honest, I'd gone a little crazy myself out there on my own.
I don't know how Cas did it. His weird angel mojo or something acted up. Everything turned that weird bright white, and I was back, flat on my ass on some pavement. I caught my breath and came to my senses and stood up. My head pounded like a drum, and I desperately wished for some beer. I couldn't find Cas, but at that moment, I didn't really care. I needed to find Sam. I needed to find Sam. I needed to find-
I snapped back into the real world, and realized why I was here. I was here to get back to my brother. I couldn't just disappear and let him down. Hell, I'd let him down enough already. I couldn't do it to him again. I turned the door handle, and was met with a gun to the face.
"Sam! Sam, it's me!"
Sam and Dean Winchester:
Sam almost dropped his gun, but years of training weren't going to leave him that quickly. "Dean?" He asked incredulously, his brow furrowing in disbelief.
"It's me, Sammy. I promise. Test me all you want. Silver, salt, borax." Dean held up his hands in surrender.
Sam still felt suspicious, and flicked on the motel room light, backing up with his gun still trained on Dean. He threw him a flask of holy water, and Dean poured it along his forearm. Sam nodded and handed him the borax and silver knife. He knew it was Dean. Who else would know exactly what motel he would be at and which room? No one knew him better than this brother. However, one could never be too sure.
Dean went through the motions, and Sam looked at him with concern as he cut into the already scarred forearm. There were a lot of fresh scratches and bruises. When Dean finished proving himself to be the real thing, Sam dropped the gun and pulled him into a hug.
The two squeezed each other tight, trying to fit a year of absence and the resulting emotions into a few prolonged seconds. Sam never wanted to let his brother go again. He never wanted to see the man he looked up to, even years later, disappear out of his life again.
Dean never wanted to let his brother go again. His little punk-ass baby brother, who he had always taken care of, shouldn't be alone. He'd let Sam grow up over the years, but nothing could kill the need to watch out for him.
The two separated, and Dean and Sam ignored the wetness in each other's eyes. They both wanted to know what had happened to the other, but now was not the time. Sam wasn't sure what to say, and Dean just carefully eyed Sam's collection of beer bottles.
"You've got to be exhausted, dude." Sam finally muttered. "I've only got one bed." Sam's voice dropped greatly in volume. "Kinda got used to it, you know."
"Well, then I call dibs." Dean smirked.
Sam let out a laugh. "No way! I paid for it." He elbowed his brother out of the way as they fought to land on the welcoming mattress first. God, he was glad to have his brother back.
Dean fell onto the bed first, and sprawled out, letting out a deep sigh. He closed his eyes, and sank into the pillows. He wanted to melt into the sheets and never move again.
However, he was moved very abruptly as Sam rolled him over onto one half of the bed. "Move. We're sharing."
Dean would have protested, but he didn't really mind sharing a bed with his moose of a brother this time. He rolled off momentarily to turn off the lights, and within minutes, both boys were snoring loudly.
At some point during the night, and neither boy could remember when, Sam had curled into Dean's chest. He didn't fit next to his brother like he did when he was little, that memory left behind by many a growth spurt, but something was still comforting about the low sound of Dean's breathing.
To other people, it may have seemed strange, two grown men lying so close. To the Winchesters, however, it was a small glimpse at something so complex, irrational, distorted, imperfect, yet intrinsic to them. They were both screwed up, with more problems than they could ever name. Despite all that, they had one, positive constant in their lives. They always had each other.
So it was not a slightly too big man curling up to a gruff alcoholic. It was not two lovers embracing one another. It was not even two friends sharing a motel bed. It was two brothers, who had gone through so much, finding a long deserved solace in each other, and nothing could ever take that away from them.