Dean slides the Impala into a space in front of the mall and watches Sam out of the corner of his eye. The younger man manages to slump into a dejected posture despite the crowded space in the front of the car, hunching his shoulders forward and jamming his knees into the glove compartment. Sam Winchester mastered the art of pouting as a child and Dean bites the inside of his cheek to suppress his laughter when Sam tucks in his chin, heaves a exasperated sigh and crosses his arms like a petulant four-year-old.

"Seriously Sammy, you can give it up, that pouty shtick didn't work on me when you were ten; it's not going to work now."

"Then tell me what we're doing."

"Guess."

"Shopping?"

"Nope."

Sam swings his head to the right and spies a salon and day spa. "Sea-weed wrap and massage?"

"Right, Samantha, and then we can braid each other's hair." In spite of his derision, Dean thinks he may try to schedule them both for a massage later that afternoon. He's never had a real massage, even though he has an abiding love of magic fingers. Sure, plenty of professional women have rubbed his shoulders, but they usually wore candy-colored g-strings, spoke in breathy vodka-tinged whispers, and went by names like "Infinity" or "Cheyenne".

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Sam twists in his seat and leans over Dean to look out the driver's side window. The waves of Sam's chestnut hair are less than an inch from Dean's face. Dean stills, the smell of Sam so close is intoxicating; he breathes deep, grateful for the quiet moment but terrified to move, his lungs filled with his Sammy; sunlight, hotel soap, and something earthy and sweet, like pipe tobacco mingled with the scent of fallen leaves.

Dean avoids physical closeness with Sam when their lives are not at stake, opting, in most instances, to maintain a no-man's land of space no closer than the length of the leather bench that stretches between the driver's and passenger's seat of the Impala. Dean yearns to take that final journey, traverse those last few inches but that crossing seems as impossible as embarking on a pilgrimage to the moon in order to stare into the face of God.

While Sam searches the store fronts, Dean considers the graceful planes of Sam's profile and the delicious heat that Sam's skin throws off, like a bon fire on a chilly October evening, his own face flushing with desire while the bitter-cold of reality bites at his back. Dean's palms itch to stroke the bare skin of Sam's neck, roll the pads of his fingers across the grooves of muscle in Sam's chest, suck and bite the fine strip of hair that extends from his navel to the dark thatch between his well-toned thighs. Dean's mouth waters and he tries to think of carburetors and rotten corpses; anything to stop the treacherous teasing and narrowing of the gap between safe and sane and dumb and dangerous that his brother's proximity creates.

The sign advertising the movie theatre inside the mall catches Sam's attention and he sits bolt upright, child-like excitement breaching the wall of his frustration. A trip to the movies was the closest thing to a family vacation that Sam can remember. He learned young to associate the warm aroma of buttered popcorn and the spongy tang of Gumi bears with the relief that came at the end of a job; his father home safe and alive, his older brother free from his too-adult responsibilities for an evening. Sam's face blossoms into a warm smile at the memory of Dean tossing kernels of popcorn at their father and John setting aside the rigidity of his marine-style, survival parenting, his dispossession, and his self-imposed exile to clown and play with his sons.

Later, those evenings came further and further apart as the hunt consumed John's life and their father drew farther away from his children. The inconsistency of John's paychecks meant purse strings strained against the family's constant travel and the needs of two growing young men. Sam grieved the infrequency and eventual loss of those nights and recognized how Dean agonized over his inability to fill that need for his brother with the scant monetary and emotional resources in his possession. Sam loved Dean all the more for the sacrifices he knows now his brother must have made in order to take Sam on a trip to the movies or buy him a meal at Howard Johnson's as opposed to Burger King. Sam's eyes prick with tears as he realizes why Dean only drank coffee while he wolfed down burgers, fries, and a milk shake.

When he was seventeen Sam saw Dean as contradiction heaped on contradiction. Dean was a courageous hunter and a scared child; a drill sergeant and a mother-hen. He was the pain-in-the-ass who forced him to train after he finished his homework but acted as human shield taking abuse from both John and Sam when the father-son dynamic between he and his father turned toxic. Sam saw an object of lust, sex and sin, whose chiseled body riled Sam's adolescent hormones. He also saw a brother who rubbed his back after a nightmare and held a cool cloth to his forehead when he had the flu. Sam turns to Dean, unsure of the steadiness of his voice, and meets his brother's eyes.

Sam sees the smattering of freckles dusting the bridge of his nose and the delicate lines at the corner of his eyes that crinkle when he laughs. Sam witnesses the man that Dean is, not the roles in which Dean has been cast, either by himself, fate or their shattered family. Sam feels as if he is staring into that first dawn, when the world was new and the sun broke the border of the horizon, flooding the earth with light and warmth.

They consider each other, hearts beating in time to the ticking of the cooling engine; unasked questions soak the silent space between them, both men drinking in the presence of the other. Each moment crashes into the next and Dean can't find words, breath, or a valid, rational reason why he shouldn't be sucking Sam's slender fingers or laying a gentle trail of feather-soft kisses across Sammy's eyelids.

Then, the echo of his father's voice rises over the rush of his own pulse, worn gravel and whiskey choked with sadness begging Dean to "Save him. You listen to me, whatever it takes, Dean. You save him because you are the only one who can, and if you fail…"

Captured in the swirl of this unending moment, before he looks away or cracks a joke, Dean allows himself to hope, to wonder, if saving his brother might damn them both. And, as he leans toward Sam, reaching out into the void, crossing the space that separates them, Dean discovers the courage not to care.