AN1: Hey! This chapter is dedicated to KKBELVIS, a fantastic author who was kind enough to suggest a chapter using a 'grain of sand'. I really hope you enjoy, Karen! Thanks for the idea!

Shout-out to my reviewers: xenascully, TinTin11, Cainchan, Writing For The Wall, Tango Eight, BlueEyes444, Lujayn, Twinchester Angel, sarahsrr, CeCe Away, KKBELVIS, and Marianna Morgan

AN2: If any of you have suggestions or ideas, please let me know! My muse seems to have taken a break, so I'm open to anything you have to offer. Thank you!

THE GRAINS OF SAND

Looking up from the papers in front of him, Dean looks over at Sam, hunched over his laptop, forehead creased in concentration. He can hear his brother's fingers typing furiously on the keyboard, and doesn't miss the growl of frustration a few seconds later.

"Having a little trouble, Sammy?" Dean says, smirk evident in his tone. Truth be told, he'd hit a dead end with the research as well. Holed up in another cheap motel, they'd been working non-stop for the past day and a half on finding some kind of trend in the events they were investigating.

"It's Sam," the younger Winchester huffs. "And I've done everything I possibly can. I've looked everywhere for more information, but every damn time, the search comes up dry. I don't get it!"

Dean shrugs, stretching his arms high above his head and yawning. "Same here, dude. I swear, this town is where information comes to die."

"Must be," Sam replies noncommittally. His eyes are still scanning the screen in front of him. "Thank God this isn't something life-threatening. Just a bunch of dicks getting what's coming to them. Probably just a spirit with a sense of humor. Hell, maybe it isn't supernatural at all."

"I don't know, dude. Some of those guys' accounts…" Dean shudders involuntarily. "I know I definitely wouldn't want to be them."

Sam's mouth rises in a half-smile, and he gives a soft chuckle. The sound is euphonious to Dean, stirring a tenderness in his chest he'd almost forgotten was there. After a few moments of watching his brother, Dean clears his throat.

"Hey, Sam," he says carefully. "What do you say we blow this popsicle stand and take a trip?"

Sam looks up, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "A trip? In the middle of a job?"

With an exasperated groan, Dean stands up and begins pacing the room. "We've been going from hunt to hunt for weeks! God, I'm pretty sure we haven't had a decent night of sleep in at least a month. That's all we do anymore. Hunt, research, eat, hunt, research, eat. Sometimes, we even forget to eat! I need to eat, Sammy. I need a nice, big, juicy quarter-pounder. With pickles. And lettuce. Extra cheese. Oh, and that honey-mustard sauce drizzled-"

"Dean!" Sam says impatiently.

"My point is we can't keep this up anymore. We're gonna go crazy," Dean continues. "We need a break. Remember the old days, when we'd just drive out to the middle of nowhere and sit on the Impala for the night? Let's do it. You can't tell me you wouldn't appreciate some time off."

Sam sighs, contemplating the idea. The prospect of just driving and driving and not stopping for anything…Just Dean, the faithful Impala, and maybe a few cold beers for company…Dean was right. It'd be just like old times…

Except it would never be just like old times.

They could drive and drive and drive for hours, look at billions of stars, and drink themselves into oblivion. But none of that would change the fact that there was no going back. Angels, demons, death, heaven, hell…it would always be there, lingering in the backs of their minds.

"Sam?" Dean questions. He must have asked me if I wanted to go. "I'm not really into monologues here. I'm looking for an answer."

Aren't we all…

"Yeah," Sam responds, "I guess a break would be nice."

Dean pops up, putting his duffel bag on the bed and grabbing everything in sight to shove into it.

"So where are we headed?" Sam asks curiously.

Dean just smiles that 'I-have-a-secret' smile. And though Sam rolls his eyes, he inwardly acknowledges the warm tinge of familiarity that flutters deep in his chest.

. . .

"Are you taking us to the beach?" Sam asks curiously, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He'd fallen asleep hours ago, and it seemed as if Dean had driven through the night. Dean has dark smudges under his eyes speaking a tale of sleepless hours.

"Bingo," Dean replies, managing to shoot his brother a sly grin. "We're only about an hour out from the shore."

"Want me to drive?"

"Wouldn't dream of it, Sammy."

Sighing deeply, Sam settles back into his seat and follows the passing road with his eyes.

. . .

"Well, here we are, Sam. What do you think?"

Sam chuckles incredulously. Leave it to Dean to drive them halfway across the country just to see some trashy abandoned beach.

"This is your idea of the beach? Dean, you realize this place has probably been out of use for decades." Sam says, looking at the collapsed lifeguard chair and rusty 'Keep Out' sign on a nearby fence—also collapsed.

"Ah, Sammy, you need to learn to look past the surface. This place is perfect. No one around, just the sea and us. We can stay all night if we want to. That's the beauty of it. There's water and sand and a nice place to park my baby. What more could we ask for?"

Sam considers this before shrugging and walking toward the shoreline. He doesn't need to glance back to see Dean's triumphant grin.

Within minutes, the two are settled in the sand, drinks in hand, eyes on the horizon. Silence fills the air, but it's a comfortable silence, familiar. It's not the awkward silence of uncertain thoughts or the tense silence of an emotional argument. It's the soft silence of two brothers, alone but together, needing nothing but each other's presence, the rolling sea, and the night sky.

And Sam and Dean Winchester are soaking up the moment.

Sam leans back, arms outstretched behind him, holding his weight and digging into the sand beneath him. The gritty grains press into his skin with gentle force. He can feel the rough edges and scratched surface of each little particle. Each beaten little morsel. He can feel—Each. Broken. Little. Grain.

The rough specs feel suddenly sharp, digging into Sam's palms. He swears he can feel blood seeping from his hands into the sandy surface. Squeezing his eyes against the vague memories bearing down on his mind, he clenches his fists. Little morsels of sand slip through his fingers, sliding away and joining the sea of lookalikes.

These minuscule grains of sand have been crushed, tumbled, drowned, broken, worn down, and God knows what the hell else…But they're still there. Almost unseen, barely existing, yet there.

But how much more can the tiny grains take before they're diminished into nothing? What will it take for the infinitesimal granules to simply be gone?

Heaven? No. Hell? Apparently not.

How much more can they take?

How much more can they take?

Sam swallows, trying to hold back the thoughts and emotions raging against the wall like a wave smashing against the shore. He can feel sand beneath his nails.

"Man, this is something else, Sammy." Dean's voice jolts Sam out of his thoughts. He looks over at his brother, who sets down his bottle. Dean's hazel eyes are far away, fixed on the rolling waves. Then, Dean turns his head toward Sam, a genuineness in the gaze that hits Sam like a 20-footer.

Sam nods silently, eyes locked with Dean's.

A small smile graces Dean's lips. Not the cocky grin Sam's sees on every hunt. Not the mischievous grin he saw a day ago, when Dean first thought of the trip. It isn't his fake grin or his secretive grin or his bitter grin or his 'you're dead' grin or even his 'this ain't so bad' grin.

This is a different one. This is a smile Sam hasn't seen in a very long time, one that happened a lot when they were younger and faded in frequency as life went on. As life beat them up.

This is Dean's happy grin. Dean is happy. Not fake-happy or grudgingly happy. Dean is genuinely happy.

Which, in spite of himself, makes Sam happy. Because yeah, maybe in life they'd drawn the shitty straw. Nothing has ever been easy, and they have to fight for every damn thing worth keeping. They've been crushed, tumbled, drowned, broken, worn down, and God knows what the hell else…

But they're still there.

Almost unseen, barely existing, yet there.

With no cajoling on his part, Sam's lips curl into a smile to match his brother's. He wipes his hands gently on his jeans, expelling the last of the sandy grains from his palms.

Yeah, life beat them up. And life probably won't stop beating them up, at least not for a while.

But they are there.

More importantly, they're together.

And if only for the moment, that's all that matters.