By Jess MacIntosh
Previously titled The Hours before
Revised ( a little) polished.
Sam and Dean and Fate
Sam reads for pleasure, which no longer confounds Dean, who is content with bad television for his downtime. Sam will haunt a library in a town if they plan to stay for a few days or a used bookstore if they are passing through.
Dean sprains his thumb channel flipping.
They travel easily these days, no longer fearing possession, hell-hounds, hell, or demon blood, and go about their jobs like well-honed workmen. Sam prefers research still, but looks forward to the fight as well.
Dean prefers the fight.
In spite of his fried, deep-fried, dipped in grease, pie-dominated diet, Dean is still in trim fighting shape, and still wonders how Sam can support his large, well-muscled frame on rabbit food and chicken.
Sam tries not to watch Dean chew.
There is no music but Dean's music, no matter who is driving.
Dean always gets the bed next to the door.
They still bicker, and sometimes quarrel, but never fight; fearing to be separated at the final hour they tread lightly in the presence of the gods of confrontation.
They laugh much more than they did in the first years after their reunion.
In spite of Dean's will, and Sam's best intentions, they have an occasional chick-flick moment.
They know Time does not heal all wounds, though it is rare these days that Dean awakes with his father's voice in his ears, or Sam's heart stops at the sight of a golden head in a crowd.
Dean likes waitresses and nurses and loves easily and leaves that way as well, having made no promises and told no lies.
Sam, too, makes no promises and tells no lies. But he cannot think of love as recreation and indulges only if they have stayed in one place for a while. His heart always has to be entangled.
But perhaps that is why it is Sam, and not Dean, who has unknowingly fathered three children in three different states.
They are exceptionally beautiful, happy children (two girls and a boy) who are adored by their mothers and sincerely loved by their stepfathers. They will lead remarkably unremarkable lives, untouched by any taint of Winchester darkness.
The Impala is repaired, and repaired again, and neither brother complains about gas prices, no more than they would complain about having to eat. The black car is home, it is family.
They share, equally, M&M's and trail mix.
They visit Bobby and Ellen, who have found gruff love in each other and who have surprised everyone with a little sister for Jo. Jo coddles the baby far worse than Dean ever coddled Sam, or so both brothers think. Hunting is no longer a part of the Singers' lives, and the brothers do not linger, promising to visit much more than they do.
Sometimes, in larger towns, they will go to a movie or a sports event.
Adrenaline-junky Dean loves the geometric symmetry of evening baseball games. Gentle-natured Sam relishes the titian clash of hockey.
They have been sheriffs and bank guards, repairmen and doctors, teachers and farmers and once, to Dean's great delight, badass bikers. Sam enjoys it more than he thought he would but still complains.
They have cleaned each other's wounds, stitched each other up, sat vigil at each other's bedside. A few times they have awakened in the same hospital room.
They will not live to be old men. They will go down in their prime, a warrior's death, victorious in the heat of battle, engines revved to the max. It has been promised them, though they are not sure who has promised and they never speak of it. It is a reward for faithful service and they know it is as true as Dean's aim and Sam's visions.
Secretly, they pray they will go together—death does not terrify them but loneliness does.
They thrive in the knowledge of their fate. They take great pride in what they have accomplished no longer regretting what they have not.
Sam will watch television if there's sports on.
Dean reads for pleasure, if it's porn.