AN: Finally getting around to another installment of this Wyoming universe. I'm fond of it. Especially after the first half of Season 8, with all that tension between Sam and Dean... Here's hoping the rest of the season brings them together again.

No slash intended. Part 2 coming soon.

Be in my Eyes, Be in my Heart

Part I

Sam's listening to Dean's heart. Big, heavy head on brother's chest. Dean's swept back Sam's mane of hair and has it gathered in his hand. Other hand on Sam's back. Sam's hand loose on Dean's bicep. Dean's heart beats steady in Sam's ear, and Sam closes his eyes to feel it with his whole body, feel the rhythm of air flowing in and out his brother's lungs, the rise and fall of Dean's chest beneath him. If Sam listens long enough, he'll slip into a kind of trance, into a level of consciousness where there's no thought, just him and Dean.

Dean rakes his fingers through Sam's hair from the scalp, and Sam opens his eyes again.

"You asleep, Sammy?" Dean says, the sound of his voice echoing through his chest.

"No," says Sam. "I thought you were."

"Almost."

"Want me to get up?"

"You're fine."

"Not too hot?"

"Comfortably warm," says Dean with affection.

"You can breathe okay?"

"You ask me that every time, and every time, the answer's yes."

"Just making sure," says Sam.

They do this on a fairly regular basis: cuddle. The heart listening's less frequent. It's something they tend to want when they're feeling vulnerable for some reason, when one wants the visceral reassurance that his brother's alive and well and here with him.

This time, it was a car bomb at the garage where Dean works. Sam didn't know anything on his way to the clinic, just that there had been an explosion and his brother was taken in. He had forgotten what that kind of raw terror felt like. From the moment he got the phone call from Lou's wife at the hardware store to the moment he saw Dean sitting on the bed in his clinic room, Sam was pure fear. He didn't even make it to the bed, just slumped against the door jamb of Dean's room and slid down into a crouch. Dean had to go to his side and hug him, as Sam's whole body trembled out of his control and his breath started coming in fast, short huffs and tears of relief flowed down his face and into his beard.

"It's okay, Sam," Dean murmured. "It's okay. Jesus. I'm fine. Hey. Look at me."

Sam did.

"I'm fine." Dean took Sam's hand and pressed it to his own cheek. His skin was warm under Sam's palm. A few minor scratches on the right side of Dean's face, but the older Winchester, up close, did look fine. Full of color, green eyes bright and reassuring. On his knees in front of Sam.

Sam pushed forward and wrapped his brother in a crushing hug, then pulled back just enough to take Dean's head in both hands and smash a kiss into Dean's forehead. Cas showed up a minute later, breathless, looking down at them and saying, "Dean?"

The angel drove them home because he didn't trust either brother behind the wheel in the state they were in. That was an hour ago. The brothers have been in Sam's bed since. Dean's clothes still smell faintly of smoke and fire, that smell that's been following them around since November 2, 1984. But Sam didn't want to wait for Dean to shower and change. Pulled his brother into Sam's room and onto the bed, face still sticky with dried up tears.

"You can't go back there, Dean," Sam says.

After a beat, Dean tells him, "It's my job, Sam."

"It's not worth your life."

"Not saying it is. But you're getting carried away. We just gotta find out what happened and why, fix it, and we're good."

Sam could start in on his theories about the bomb, but he doesn't want to ruin the mood right now. He doesn't want to fight with his brother. He just wants to be with Dean. Listen to Dean's heart.

"You're going to have to let Cas have me eventually," Dean says. "Poor guy."

"I know," says Sam. "But I'm not done yet."

Silence for a while. Then, Dean says, "Sometimes, I wish you didn't love me so much."

"Shut up."

"I mean, don't get me wrong…. I'm grateful. I just hate seeing you upset like that. Like this. All because of me."

"Then, don't get yourself killed."

"It wasn't on my list of things to do today, trust me."

"Dean," Sam says softly, almost whining.

Dean hushes him and starts rubbing his back. "I'm here, Sammy," he says.

And Sam shuts his eyes again because he doesn't want to look at the wall. He wants senses full of Dean. As big brother rubs his back the way he's been doing since Sam was a baby, Sam feels the ache of love in his own chest. He can't believe how many times he went through this when they were hunters.

Somebody called the tow company when they noticed the vehicle abandoned on the side of the road, not far from the outskirts of town. Wyoming plates. The doors were unlocked but no keys. It wasn't until Dean hotwired it in the big driveway at the garage and immediately recognized the tiny beeping of the detonated bomb that it became obvious something was wrong. Lucky for him, he dived as far away from the car as he could in the five seconds before it blew up, rolling on the concrete out of hunter's instinct.

Sam and Dean can't imagine anyone in town wanting to hurt them or anybody else, which leaves two possibilities. An outsider planted the car hoping to hurt someone random or somebody at the garage in particular, or they're dealing with the supernatural. Dean's inclined to think this is a hunt. Sam believes it's the doing of a malicious person.

"Nothing about this points to the supernatural," Sam argues over breakfast the next morning. Dean's got the day off and Sam's shift at the saloon doesn't start until seven PM. Castiel excused himself from the church daycare until tomorrow.

"Who plants a bomb in a car and leaves it randomly outside of town limits, on the off chance somebody decides to mess with it?" says Dean. "There was no way to know who would end up starting the car or when, which means the psycho just wanted to carry out a random act of violence? Why?"

"Who knows why? People kill strangers every day in this country. They don't need a reason."

"I'm not buying it. That crap may happen all the time in big cities, but in towns like ours? Come on. Most people don't even know we exist." Dean sips on his coffee, which he drinks black with one sugar. "I want to get over there before the sheriff does and run an EMF scan, see if I can find anything out of the ordinary. That's all."

"Well, you're not going alone," says Sam.

"Fine."

Cas glances from one brother to the other as he picks at his food.

Dean looks up at him. "What?" he says.

"Nothing," says Cas.

"Cas, what?"

The angel hesitates. "I don't want you to be mad at each other. Not after what happened yesterday."

Sam and Dean look at each other.

"We're not mad," Dean says gently. "We just don't see this the same way."

"I'm not trying to be pissed at Dean," Sam adds. "I'm just…. scared for him. I don't want him going anywhere near that car or the garage until we know what's going on. But if he wants to check it out today, I can't stop him."

Castiel nods.

They finish eating in silence.

Not much left of the car. It's black and charred, the concrete stained beneath it. It smells of fire and chemicals, even in the fresh, cool Wyoming air. Lou and his wife aren't around, which suits Dean just fine because he doesn't need to explain himself or his EMF meter. He scans the skeleton of the car but doesn't get a reading. Castiel watches him, hands in his jacket pockets, standing next to the garage office door. Sam searches the grounds for anything unusual, wishes he could get inside but Dean doesn't have a key.

"Sam," Dean calls.

"Yeah," says Sam.

"Come over here and tell me if you see anything. Extra pair of eyes never hurts."

Sam goes to the wreckage and starts working slowly around it in a circle, inspecting it for traces of a ghost or a demon or a monster. He shakes his head when he's done. "Nothing. It's burnt to a crisp. I don't know what could've made it through the fire, even if there was something. Wish we could find pieces of the bomb….."

"Yeah, me too." Dean grimaces at the car. "But I wouldn't know where to look and I'd rather not get caught tampering with the evidence."

"It must've been up front, if it was hooked into the ignition," Sam says.

"Maybe," says Dean, mapping out the anatomy of a basic sedan in his head and trying to imagine where the bomb would've logically been based on wiring. The front end of the car isn't significantly more burnt or damaged than the back. Even after a blast powerful enough to torch the whole vehicle, one end would've sustained more damage than the other if the bomb wasn't centered. Dean's no explosives expert, but that line of thinking seems logical to him.

"If you've exhausted the inspection, I'd like to go," Castiel says from a few yards away.

"Yeah," Dean says. "We're going." He sticks the EMF meter in his jacket pocket, keeps his hand around it, and meets Sam's eyes over the top of the wreckage. Sam's got that look: the one Dean's seen too many times in his life, a glassy mix of fear and sadness. Dean grimaces and starts heading back to the Impala, which he had to leave here overnight.

"I'm driving," says Sam, catching up to him.

Dean throws him the keys, no argument.

That night, sleeping alone in his bed, Sam dreams. The images are choppy, like a television with a faulty connection. What he's seeing isn't clear, but it feels familiar. Feels an awful lot like Hell. Fire, blood, a faint screech that can't be human. He wakes up unafraid, just a little shaken. Hasn't dreamed of Hell in years. He sits up in bed and freezes when he sees Lucifer in the corner where the door is, arms crossed.

"You didn't really think you could keep Dean safe by pulling out of the job, did you, Sam?" Lucifer says. "What makes you think monsters were the only things that wanted him dead?"

Sam can't find his voice. Can't feel his heart beating. He wants to scream for Dean but all he can do is stare at the face he hasn't seen in over a decade. That sly, muted smile. The skin peeling on the right side of his vessel's forehead.

Lucifer moves toward the bed, arms still crossed. He stands at the foot. The house is deadly quiet. The beginnings of a smirk in his mouth. "You can run to the ends of the earth, Sammy—but you can't protect Dean. This sweet life you got here? It's a fantasy. And it's going to go up in flames just like every other break you ever had."

Sam bolts up in bed, gasping for breath. His eyes search the room wildly but he's alone. He pulls the sheets and blanket open and slips out of his room barefoot, the floor cold beneath him. No way he's falling back asleep right now.

He peeks into Dean's room. His brother's asleep. That eases some of the tension in his chest.

Sam silently moves to the front end of the house, past the big living room where Shooter's asleep on the buffalo rug. He heads into the kitchen, for the liquor cabinet. Pours himself a generous glass of whiskey and sits down at the table. He wonders if Castiel is asleep next door. He doesn't actually know how much the angel sleeps. He could go over there to talk, but he doesn't want to risk waking up the angel if Cas is asleep.

"Hey."

Sam twists around in his chair at the sound of Dean's gravelly voice. His brother's standing in the threshold between the kitchen and the hallway. Dean shuffles toward the table and sits across from Sam, still sleepy.

"Did I wake you up?" Sam says, truly sorry.

"No, I woke up on my own..." Dean always did have a sixth sense about his brother. His brow creases with a frown when he sees Sam's glass. "Dude. Are you drinking?"

"Yeah."

Dean lifts his eyebrows. "At three o'clock in the morning?"

Sam doesn't answer or look at Dean because he knows he can't bullshit him on this one.

"Are you okay?" Dean asks, a little more awake now.

"Yeah," Sam says. "It was just a bad dream."

Dean pauses. "Haven't had one of those in a while. Want to talk about it?"

Sam really doesn't. He knows it wasn't real, just his stupid subconscious fears coming through in the most terrifying persona his mind can imagine. He doesn't want to freak Dean out. Or let on that maybe Sam's fear is about more than just the car bomb. He sips on his whiskey.

Dean leans all the way back in his chair and sags down into the seat with his heavy, big brother sigh, right arm hooked over the chair's top. "Sam," he starts. "Don't make this whole car bomb thing bigger than it is. All right? It was scary, but nothing happened. We don't know if it was even meant for me or not. Everything's going to be fine. Either we'll get to the bottom of it or the cops will."

Sam stares down into his glass. "I know," he says quietly.

"Yeah, you know, but you're not over what happened."

"It happened two days ago, Dean! Not even."

"Yeah, and I didn't even get hurt. What happened to rolling with the punches and keeping our cool? You've let a lot worse than this go as soon as you saw I was in one piece."

"I'm not a hunter anymore, Dean," Sam says, looking into his brother's eyes. "We aren't hunters. We have a life now. A life where we aren't supposed to worry about getting killed prematurely."

"We'll always be hunters," says Dean. "Til the day we die. Just because we aren't out there doing the job, doesn't mean we're different. We got enough books and weapons in this house for a friggin' army of hunters, in case you forgot."

Sam drinks until he drains his glass, as Dean looks away. Sam gets up to pour himself a little more whiskey, then pauses with his hands flat on the counter top, shoulders hunched around his neck and head bowed.

"You're used to safety," Dean says. "I get it. I am too. And we're still safe, Sam."

"You don't know that," Sam murmurs.

Another beat of silence. "Keep your fear proportional. That's all I'm saying."

"You could've died. I think my fear's pretty damn proportional, Dean."

"Sam, after everything we've been through, you should be less afraid of death than anyone on earth. I wonder if it'll ever even be permanent for us."

"Don't be stupid," Sam says softly. He pours a little whiskey into his glass.

Dean stands up after a moment—goes to wrap his arms around Sam's chest from behind him, lays his head on Sam's shoulder. Sam's whole body tenses up, then deflates like a pierced balloon. He closes his eyes, feels Dean warm and solid on his back, holding him up. When he finds his voice, it's a whisper: "We're supposed to make it just like everybody else. We're supposed to get old and be happy all the way there and die when our bodies give out. We're in our forties, Dean. I'm not losing you for another forty, God damn it. I'm not."

"I know, Sammy," Dean says. "You won't."

Short shifts all around on Friday.

Lou lets Dean off at the garage around noon, and Dean only goes after he's done what he can to convince his boss there's something else he could do. "Let me scrub out those stains," he says to Lou, eyeing the black burn marks in the driveway where the wrecked car used to be.

Lou shakes his head. "Lorraine'll do it."

"Aw, Lou, you can't let her clean that up. Gimme half an hour, I'll get it done."

Lou wags his hand in a "get lost" motion. "Go on, Dean. Have a good weekend."

So Dean puts on his leather jacket over the mostly clean jumpsuit he's wearing, gets into the Impala, and goes west deeper into town.

The children at the parish daycare always get out early on Fridays, right after lunch. They're already snapping the buttons on their puffy jackets when Dean steps in. Cas meets his gaze with those bright blue eyes, standing at the back of the room with Darlene, the pretty twenty-nine year old redhead who works at the daycare with him. Dean still can't tell, after near five years, whether she thinks he's too old for her or not. He's just shy of two decades older, by three or four years. Hell, he can't decide if he's too old for her either.

Dean smiles a little at Cas and waits by the door as the kids line up, a few of them going over to Cas and Darlene for hugs. Even Dean has to admit it's cute, how sweet on Cas the three and four year olds are. He has yet to figure out how the angel went from clueless to kiddie whisperer in a matter of a year or two.

"Hi, Dean," Darlene says as she and half the kids reach him at the door and she starts guiding them outside. There's a small red bus idling on the curb outside, ready to take them home.

Dean nods with a smile.

"Good to see you well. I heard about what happened."

"I'm fine," he says. "Good to see you too."

She steps out into the chilly air.

"What are you doing here, Dean?" Cas asks, rounding up the last of the children.

"Lou let me off for the weekend. I couldn't tell if he was being nice or just wants more alone time at the garage."

"Are you going home?"

"No, that's why I swung by. Thought I'd see if you want to hang out in town a while. Maybe catch up with Sam whenever he's off."

"He's usually done at the store by one o'clock on Fridays," Cas says.

Dean follows him outside, and Cas locks up the daycare. He and Dean stand side by side near the door, until the bus pulls away and into the road, Castiel waving back at a few of the children who wiggle their hands at him. They watch Darlene walk to her car, hands in the pockets of her bright red coat.

"She seeing anybody?" Dean asks, jutting his chin out in her direction.

"Dean," says Castiel with a tone that's a little chastising but mostly warm.

"What? I'm just curious."

They take the Impala down the road to the hardware store and wait outside, leaning on the trunk of the car with hands in their jackets, until Sam comes out at 1:05. They decide to walk two blocks to the Miracle Diner and have lunch. They order coffee for the table, orange juice for Cas, eggs and toast and sausage and blueberry pie for Dean, tuna melt and a side of cherry tomatoes for Sam, turkey BLT and hash browns for Cas. The three of them tucked up into a window booth, Sam and Dean next to each other and Cas across from them. Sam and Dean knock their inside legs together under the table, just to touch. They're hip to hip, and it's comforting.

"More coffee for you boys?" their waitress asks when she stops by their table.

"No, thanks, Pat," Sam says with a friendly smile.

"But we could use some water," says Dean.

"No problem," she says. Already halfway to behind the counter, she asks, "How's that pie, Dean?"

"Awesome. Thank you."

"Did the sheriff call?" Castiel asks the brothers.

Sam and Dean shake their heads. They gave the sheriff's office their home number and both cell numbers; they're supposed to be notified of anything the cops find about the bombing.

"Probably on Monday then," Castiel says, finishing the last of his hash browns and sipping his juice.

"Yeah, maybe," Sam says quietly.

Dean gives a look but it's a brief one. The waitress brings them a pitcher of ice water.

The brothers both look up when a stranger walks into the diner, the bell on the door tinkling. He's as tall as Sam, maybe taller, wearing a worn out trucker's cap, jeans over work boots, flannel buttoned over shirt and a sandy-colored jacket. He hasn't shaved in days. He has a thin face and dark look in his eyes. Must be Sam and Dean's age but looks older. His skin looks dirty and weathered. They watch as he sits down on a stool at the counter, far enough away from them that they can keep an eye on him without being too obvious.

Sam's still wary of strangers after that bar brawl his brother was in a few months ago. Maybe it's that or maybe it's him on edge generally, but this guy makes Sam acutely aware of the fact that he's in between the stranger and Dean. He'd like to keep it that way.

Next to him, Dean's pretty relaxed but looks at the strange man with suspicion of his own. Cas sees his face and looks over his shoulder, then back at Dean. "What?" he says.

"Finish up," Dean says. "And we'll get out of here."

The brothers spot the stranger's truck parked right outside the diner, one they haven't seen before. A burly, black Ford between five and seven years old, by Dean's estimation. They walk back to the Impala and Sam's truck side by side in front of the hardware store. Cas gets into the Impala and rolls his window down, as Dean and Sam stand at their own driver's doors looking at each other over the Impala's top.

"Home?" Dean says to his brother.

"I got the bar at seven," says Sam. "But yeah. Let's go home."

Sam follows the Impala, the only two vehicles on the road for most of the thirty minutes to their property. He can see Dean and Cas through the rear window, and all he can think as they drive is how he'd like to take Dean and Cas, pack up the Impala, and go away for a week or two. Until that stranger's gone. Until the sheriff knows something about the car bomb. Until the knot in Sam's chest eases up.

He wakes up first on Saturday morning. That's fairly typical, but this time, Dean having more to drink last night than usual is a contributing factor. Sam thinks he wanted to loosen up, let go the last of the tension from surviving that bomb. Sam didn't protest, just served him his drinks. He didn't want Dean to come to the bar to see him through his shift, but Dean insisted. And if Sam knows Dean, it must've been because of that stranger. Dean's protectiveness doesn't always beat out Sam's, but it usually does.

Sam starts the coffee, drinks cold milk out of one of the glass bottles in the fridge, peers out the window above the kitchen sink and sees a cloudy sky. He feeds the dog breakfast and turns on the radio to listen to his favorite local talk station. The weekend morning host has a bit of a cowboy accent that Sam finds soothing. He does the dishes in the sink as he waits for the coffee and wipes down the kitchen counters. He's going to let Shooter outside to run around and relieve himself, and have his cup and a bite on the porch the same way he does every Saturday and Sunday if Dean doesn't beat him to it.

His cell phone starts to ring, and he doesn't recognize the number. When he answers the call, he's surprised to hear Kendall.

"Sam?" she says.

"Kendall?" he says, not too familiar with her voice.

"Yeah, it's me. I hope I didn't wake you up."

"No, not at all. I'm just getting ready to have breakfast. Dean's still asleep, are you trying to reach him?"

"No. No, I need to talk to you," she says.

Sam can't imagine why. "Okay. What's up?"

"I know what happened at the garage. Dean didn't tell me, but I heard it on the radio. I've just been so busy since Wednesday, I haven't had time to call him, and I was sort of waiting to see if he would call me….. You know how that goes."

"Well, I'm sure he planned on talking to you about it," Sam says in his best reassuring tone. "He probably just didn't want to scare you. He's fine. Made it out with a couple scratches, or I would've called you myself."

"Thanks," she says. "I figured his was fine. Was there any….. sign of who might be responsible?"

"No. We're waiting for the sheriff's office to get back to us, with anything they find. They took the car into possession on Thursday. Dean and I poked around before they hauled it away, but we didn't find anything either. Supernatural or natural."

She blows out a breath.

"Kendall, are you okay?" Sam says, standing with his mug of coffee in his free hand and hoping he doesn't wake Dean with the sound of his voice.

"Sam," she says. "I got a situation on my hands….. And I'm afraid it could blow back on Dean. I don't know if that bomb was my fault….. I hope like hell it wasn't. But it's possible. I can't deny that it's possible."

"What are you talking about?"

"If I'm straight with you, you gotta promise me you won't tell Dean what's going on."

"Kendall—"

"You have to promise, Sam. If I wanted him to know, I'd be calling him, not you."

Sam frowns. He really doesn't like keeping secrets from Dean. That's never gone over well for him. "All right. I promise."

"I hold a man to his word," Kendall says, and sounds so much like Ellen Harvelle in that moment, it hurts Sam's heart. She sighs and continues. "Years ago, I was seeing this guy. He was a part-time hunter."

Sam scoffs. "How the hell is somebody a part-time hunter?"

"Beats me. But he was, back then. Anyway, it wasn't serious to me. I liked him okay, the sex was decent and reliable. The only reason I kept seeing him as long as I did is because I prefer one steady man at a time over lots of one-night stands, if I can get it. You know?"

"Yeah, I do," Sam says sincerely. He's pretty sure Dean agrees too, these days.

"I'm only telling you this so you understand it wasn't emotional for me," says Kendall. "It wasn't romantic. It was sex."

"Okay. I'm listening."

"I thought he saw it that way too. But I was wrong, Sam….. Just when that natural drift started to really set in, with the time apart and whatever, he started calling me and leaving these angry messages. I had to hang up on him when I broke it off because he was out of control. He was such a jerk about it. I changed my number after that, just to avoid any more annoying calls, and never heard of him or saw him again….. Until Monday."

Sam starts in his chair. He's sitting at the kitchen table now. "He found you? At home?"

"Knocked on my front door at eight in the morning," Kendall says. "I almost had a heart attack."

"Geez. How the hell?"

"I don't know. It's not like he was a stand-out tracker. And I haven't been active on the hunting grid lately any more than you and Dean. I got a few friends from back in the day, but….. They don't know this guy. I can't figure it out."

"So what happened?" Sam says.

"I didn't let him into my house, for one. We talked on the porch. He said he never stopped thinking about me, always hoped he'd see me again, wanted to start over. He's quit hunting too, except an odd job every now and then. I couldn't believe it. Course, I turned him down. He tried arguing, but I wouldn't have it. He demanded to know if there was somebody else—as if that's any of his damn business—and eventually I said yes, just to get him off my back."

"Did you tell him about Dean?"

"I didn't use his name," Kendall says. "But shit, Sam. This guy shows up at my farm on Monday, and Dean finds that car bomb on Wednesday? Maybe it wasn't specifically meant for Dean, but….. I wouldn't be surprised if this son of a bitch is the one responsible for the bomb."

"Only good lead," says Sam.

"I don't want Dean to know because I don't want him getting involved. I can handle my own crap, Sam. Okay? I don't need your brother coming to my rescue. But if this dude really has a few screws loose and he finds out about me and Dean….. I'm afraid of what he might do."

"Kendall, you should be afraid for yourself. He knows where you live, you should have protection up there."

"I have a whole arsenal of protection, Sam. And I don't have a problem shooting him if I have to."

"Well…. I'd feel better if you had somebody up there with you. Anybody. You're always safe in company, when something's after you."

"If I decide I want a bodyguard, you'll be the first one I call," she says. "In the meantime, keep your eyes peeled. I'd tell you to watch your brother, but I know I don't have to do that."

"Hey, Kendall," says Sam. "You never told me this jerk's name."

"Jason Oldham. I'm sure you'll work your FBI magic on him by lunch."

Sam smiles, guilty. He thinks of the stranger at the diner yesterday and wonders. "Do me a favor?"

"What's that?"

"Give me a call tonight before you go to bed, just to check in. Or Dean. Until we're sure Jason's gone, just let us know you're okay."

"I guess I can do that," she says. "You keep me updated on the car bomb, if your brother decides not to mention it to me."

"Deal."

"All right, Sam. Take care."

"You too, Kendall."

"Give Dean a kiss for me," she says with a wink in her voice.

Sam almost huffs a laugh, as Kendall hangs up.

Dean's tuning up the Impala on Sunday morning, portable radio sitting on the cooler next to her front driver's side tire playing his kind of classic rock. The sun's shining, but it's just cool enough for his flannel over shirt. He has the sleeves rolled to the elbows, so he can work. He's in a good mood because it's sixty-something degrees outside, which reminds him of summertime. Singing the lines he knows in each song, humming through the ones he doesn't know.

Sam comes outside, stopping at the top of the porch steps and looking at his brother. "Dean," he calls.

Dean looks over his shoulder at Sam. "Yeah."

"Where's the dog?"

"Cas took him for a run. You get tired of the books yet, want to come join me in this fresh air?" Dean turns back around to face the open hood and the Impala's exposed engine.

"I could read on the porch, maybe," Sam says, smiling. "You talk to Kendall lately?"

"No, thought I'd call her tonight. Why?"

"Just wondering. You haven't been up to see her in a while."

"Yeah, well. She's busy, I'm busy, she's out of town, I'm getting bombed."

Sam's smile wilts. "That's not funny."

Dean glances back at him with a grin. "Lighten up, Sammy."

Sam shakes his head, good mood gone. "What should we do about that stranger?"

"I don't know. What do you want to do?"

"See what we can find out, I guess."

"Who knows, maybe he's already gone."

Sam wishes. It would put him more at ease. He looked up Jason Oldham in as many ways as he could, but the only photograph he could find was at least ten years old, maybe older. The man in the diner might've been him, but Sam can't be sure. He wants to call Kendall back and ask her what Jason looked like, but he feels like maybe he should wait until Dean talks to her, in case she decides to tell his brother her story.

Sam blows a sigh skyward with his bottom lip, sticks his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. He feels more relaxed right now than he has since before the car bomb on Wednesday. Seeing Dean with the Impala, feeling the sun on his skin, the pleasant air, the music on the radio. Sam closes his eyes a minute and breathes. Maybe Dean's right. Maybe everything really is okay.

He looks at his big brother and says with the softness in him, "Hey, Dean."

"What?" Dean says.

Sam doesn't say anything right away, until Dean turns around again to look at him. Then, with seriousness, he says, "I love you."

Dean doesn't smile, just looks at him the same way he did when Sam first told him that after they moved into this house. It used to be that they never said it to each other. The words are flimsy; that was their reasoning. And they're brothers, not sisters. But Sam couldn't hold it back that summer evening, when he and Dean sat on the Impala's hood with a few cold beers, parked right about where she is now in front of the house. He'll never forget the way Dean looked at him in the first ten seconds after the words left Sam's mouth. Like he'd been waiting to hear Sam tell him all his life. Like he didn't already know.

"Love you too, Sam," Dean says, his voice a little deeper than it was a few minutes ago. And somehow, in that moment, standing in the pale sunshine, Dean's face looks the way it did when he was thirty. Sam can see it even under the beard.