AN: HAPPY NEW YEAR!!
This is nothing more than an indulgent, schmoopy take on a tried-and-true trope. As Janice once said, they're popular for a reason. I will warn you that this time of year makes me impossibly sappy. Wear your boots when reading this one!
Speaking of Janice, she once again offered beta skills and insights and the encouragement to actually post this story, since I wasn't sure about it.
Since I don't always think to say it, you should know that I cannot get emails or PMs through fanfiction dot net, nor can I respond to either. That's why I try to respond to comments at the end of the next chapter.
With that said, I completely missed responding to Long Live BRUCAS in a recent story and I'm sorry. Also, if beverlycat is reading this, your comment touched me. Best of wishes to you!
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The soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts. – Marcus Aurelius
There were many, many wonderful and amazing things about living in a secret bunker warded against all kinds of evil crap and packed full of enough bizarre books and artifacts to keep an entire museum staff happy and busy for a lifetime. The safety of having a place to lay their heads and the emotional security of having a home base were undeniably appealing. Even Sam was learning to let go of his long-time fear that he'd never be allowed a home. Not to mention enjoying the space, actual personal space that was their own. And the lack of utilities and rent were definite advantages.
And Sam appreciated the repository of knowledge more than he could have imagined. Dean might tease that he was always working, but the fact was Sam loved learning and reading, and almost any arcane topic you could imagine was touched on somewhere in the expansive Men of Letters athenaeum.
Said information and artifacts had saved their lives more than once. However, there were drawbacks, too.
Especially at first, Sam really missed having windows. Despite the sheer size of the place, it still felt a little claustrophobic sometimes. And it was hard waking up every morning in total darkness until you turned on the bedside lamp. Dean claimed the only thing he didn't like was that there was no way to get pizza delivered. But he made it clear that that little inconvenience was far outweighed by the many advantages of their home and all of its amenities.
The biggest problem, however, is that many of said "amenities" were actually very dangerous. And while the Men of Letters had loved to catalog and investigate ad nauseum, their system could be difficult to decipher and there was apparently a big pile of information they simply assumed anyone who was in the bunker would already know and didn't bother to record anywhere. Navigating it could be a big challenge, and sometimes a dangerous one.
Add that to a distracted Dean and you had a bad combination. He had a bad habit of forgetting that the items scattered around their home weren't your average knickknacks and maybe you shouldn't just touch whatever you feel like because you never know what you could unleash, Dean. Yeah, it had happened more than once. Once to Sam, too, but far more to the older and more impulsive Winchester.
In this case, neither of them noticed anything was different right away. Not until the next morning.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Sam shuffled into the kitchen. He'd gotten caught up in a fascinating book on fjölkyngi, an obscure system of mysticism, and the various specialties among its practitioners (he'd had no idea that there were so many) and had spent most of the night reading.
Shit, I hope we have coffee, Sam thought blearily, only vaguely noting that his brother was sitting at the kitchen table. He dug out a mug blindly.
"Of course we do. You bought that freaking giant bag of it when it went on sale, remember?" Dean was probably studying him, but Sam didn't look up, just gratefully moved toward the coffee maker, which he finally registered was nearly full. "Did you stay up all night?" Dean asked, then snickered. "Nice hair."
Sam blinked and managed to get his mug full without spilling any of the liquid heaven by dint of having a lot of experience of doing pouring said liquid while mostly sleeping. "I got a little sleep," he complained. "And shut up about the hair." At least I don't run around in boxers, socks, and a dead guy's robe.
"You shut up," Dean grumbled back, wrapping himself more firmly in his new favorite piece of attire. "If you actually slept you wouldn't be so grumpy."
There wasn't a lot to say to that because it was true, so Sam just focused on his coffee. He made a grunt that he hoped Dean interpreted as thanks for making the coffee.
"We're not even on a case and he can't get his head out of a book long enough to sleep," Dean muttered as he walked out.
Between the second-person pronoun and the transparent fondness in the words Sam figured out that he hadn't been meant to hear that, so he ignored it. After all, he really was kind of grumpy.
Dean had errands to run, so Sam spent the morning working on organizing the area of the library on Scandinavian witchcraft because whoever had done it before clearly didn't know their fala from their gygr. He had to work hard not to get sucked into some of the tomes because there was just so much information he'd never known.
He hardly looked up when Dean came back announcing he'd successfully completed his errands. Sam did roll his eyes at Dean's declaration that he needed to "pee like a racehorse" as he hustled past.
A few minutes later, hearing the sounds of bags rustling, Sam guiltily thought he should help put the groceries away. Before he could offer, though, Dean hollered, "You just keep geeking out – I've got this. You put everything in the wrong places anyway."
Sam was more than happy to comply. He was even happier to halt his efforts later when Dean appeared with a tray full of mouth-watering food. "Fajitas?" he asked gleefully. He didn't eat a whole lot of red meat, but he always made an exception for Dean's beef fajitas.
Sam loaded up a plate and took a huge bite, humming in appreciation with his mouth full. Damn, can Dean cook!
Dean frowned at him. "What?" he asked exaggeratedly.
Sam swallowed and grinned. After all this time, he wasn't about to apologize to Dean for a lack of manners, especially not the way Dean usually ate. "'S good," he answered and took another bite, just as big as the first.
Dean just shook his head and took his own bite but didn't entirely disguise a pleased smile at his brother's praise of his culinary skills.
They weren't talking, just inhaling food, so Sam let his mind drift back to some of what he'd learned about the specifics of how afjölkyngisberendr, or magic-bearer, was different from akunattumadhr, or magic-knower, and both were distinct from agerningamadhr, or wizard…
"He is the ultimate geek," Dean said, interrupting Sam's internal monologue. "Can't stop talking about magic crap even to eat."
"I didn't say a word!" Sam complained.
"I didn't say a word," Dean contradicted. "You wouldn't shut up about your…"
Both brothers froze. Until the argument, neither one of them had opened their mouths except to eat. And yet…
"What, uh, magic crap do you think I was, uh, talking about?" Sam asked, trying to still the thrum of worry that was starting to make him itch.
Dean swallowed visibly, his gaze never straying from Sam. "Um. Weird words, like names of IKEA furniture. And how someone who knows magic is different from a wizard."
Holy crap. They could read each other's minds.
Dean's unspoken response was laden with expletives, and Sam agreed with every word.
After an argument that was only partly aloud and that clearly illustrated the dangers or having someone else able to hear the things you'd normally censor before spewing, Dean admitted that the situation might be his fault. Sam very carefully, very deliberately thought nothing of blame, just show me so we can fix this.
"This" turned out to be a very innocent-looking jar with a rough, reddish surface and an Egyptian god depicted on its surface. It looked very old but not especially magical. Of course, lots of magical -- or cursed -- stuff didn't look magical and/or cursed until some --. Sam quickly shifted his train of thought before he thought something he could not take back, but he didn't miss the annoyed scowl Dean tossed in his direction, so he wasn't really sure he'd caught it in time.
Dean admitted (out loud) that he had moved it while searching for more kitchen gear. It had immediately started to glow lightly but hadn't done anything else. In his defense, the jar was in the same room that they'd located such perfectly mundane items like a turkey roaster. When nothing disastrous happened in the next hour or so, he had pretty much forgotten about it.
"That's Thoth," Sam mused, studying the inscription under the picture without touching the jar.
The whole thing was indeed glowing, which Dean assured him it had not been before he'd touched it.
"That's what I Thoth," Dean joked, but Sam didn't roll his eyes because his brother was obviously feeling guilty. He didn't have to be able to read Dean's thoughts to know that.
They used the edge of a book to nudge it into a lead-lined curse box. Sam sealed the box and wondered if it could really be that easy.
"Apparently not," answered Dean glumly, evidently having caught the thought.
They carried the whole box to the library to begin research. Sam started in on the archives, since Dean thought even less of the Men of Letters' system of organizing than Sam did and refused to try to figure it out since he had "a resident geek" to do the work. Dean got to work on the laptop to see if he could track down the smaller symbols to the ones below Thoth's feet, since Sam didn't recognize any of them. They appeared to be old Egyptian hieroglyphics, but none of the most common ones found in tombs.
"You know, your joke about Thoth wasn't very far off reality," Sam said suddenly, no longer studying the card in his hand. "He was, or maybe is, the god of wisdom. So, the god of thought...maybe that's why he's on something that can make us hear each other's thoughts."
Dean hummed and leaned back in his chair. "You know I touched that thing before I ever went shopping yesterday but I didn't catch a thought from anyone when I was out, and I was surrounded by people."
"Huh. Maybe it only works when we're close to it."
"Let's get out of here and find out. A road trip is so much better than research!" said Dean gleefully. "Let's go out for Winnie's for steaks. In the interest of solving the case, of course."
Sam opened his mouth to argue that they didn't need steaks after having fajitas for lunch, but he decided against it and just nodded. It was nice to have an excuse to get out, and Winnie's was only about a twenty minute drive away and had really good food.
Halfway to the restaurant, Sam remembered the really good mandarin orange chicken salad they had.
Dean groaned. "Not only do you have no idea what to order in a steak house, I can still hear what you're thinking," he complained.
They were disappointed (maybe even crabby) enough that the meal didn't go well. At all. Dean thought frankly pornographic things about his T-bone, so Sam recited the periodic table. Dean switched to Van Halen lyrics, so Sam switched to conjugating Latin verbs. Then Dean decided to play dirty and started listing all of the most disgusting creatures they'd even come up against, but it only gave Sam ideas. He began to silently recite the mating habits of Snallygasters.
The sound of a throat clearing made both men jump. The waitress was standing near their table smiling awkwardly. "Uh, can I get you anything else?" she asked, making Sam realize that they'd been glaring at each other silently for who knows how long.
"No thanks," he mumbled at the same time Dean did. The blush on Dean's face matched the one Sam could feel on his own.
"Hey." Sam sat up straighter as soon as the waitress had moved on. "I just realized something that might be helpful." Dean cocked a questioning eyebrow. "The only things I've gotten from you are words. So, either that's all we can, um, receive, or you don't think all that often."
Smug asshole, Dean thought immediately, his face going blank. Just because you're the smart one doesn't mean I don't do much thinking. "Oh, is that so?" he asked aloud.
"Wait, wait, Dean, you're misunderstanding," Sam said immediately, much more upset with Dean's opinion of himself than with the insult. "That is not what I meant at all. I meant that I haven't seen any pictures or gotten any feelings or anything like that. You're not a words guy, so I just assumed there's a lot that you're thinking that I don't catch." He frowned and concentrated, putting as much sincerity as he could into his thoughts. I might be good with book knowledge, but I still realize that you're a genius.
"Actually, you're wrong," Dean answered, his expression now more thoughtful than upset. "Just now, I got a, well, like a taste of what you were feeling. I could tell you were upset and meant what you were thinking about me." The corner of his mouth twitched. "I wanna try something."
"Dean!" Sam said too loud for the quiet restaurant. An image – a memory from many years before – of Bobby, surprised by their middle-of-the-night visit, answering his door holding a shotgun and wearing nothing but his cap, had appeared in Sam's mind as clear as day.
Dean, the bastard, was laughing at him uproariously. "I guess that worked," he said, uncaring of the eyes that were on them thanks to their antics. "Let's get out of here. We need to figure this out."
They both focused very carefully on the music on the drive back to the bunker.
Once back, they performed a few experiments. Distance made a difference. When they were at opposite ends of the bunker, they couldn't sense anything, but they could literally feel each other's presence as they came closer. With focus, they could send each other pictures. (And Sam so didn't need to see that image of Dean with the twins and instantly retaliated with a picture of Dean after a Jersey devil dropped a...uh...load on his head as it flew off.)
With even more work, they could send snippets of emotions. They couldn't seem to send anything else, not even sound. (Sam couldn't have explained it really, but when he caught Dean's thoughts, he didn't "hear" Dean's voice, he simply knew what the thoughts were and that they were from Dean.)
Putting the jar in a more powerful curse box did nothing, nor did a purification ritual or a hex-breaking potion. The jar didn't break when Dean "accidentally" knocked it to the floor. It didn't mind fire or a sledgehammer or a bullet, either. Nor did it stop glowing. Sam was starting to think Thoth's stupid bird face was smirking at him, and even if that thought came from Dean, he was fully on board with it.
Nothing they tried allowed them to prevent the other from sending them thoughts or prevent their own thoughts from leaking out. That worried Sam more than anything else they'd learned. It was all a bit amusing (if unsettling) now, but what would happen when they got truly angry at each other? They were both masters of wounding with words when pissed off. What damage could they do with their angry thoughts? What if this was irreversible?
Dean sent Sam a look that let him know he'd caught that thought.
Yeah, it's weird, and it could get bad. But it would be hella awesome for hunting.
Dean sent an image of the two of them ambushing what had to be a dozen foaming-at-the-mouth werewolves, working in perfect sync.
Hella awesome? What are you – twelve?
Shut up.
They'd given up on experimenting and were researching when something else occurred to Sam. "What if practicing just makes the connection stronger? Doesn't it already feel like it's getting easier?"
Oh, crap. Yes it does. Dean nodded. "And what if anyone who comes close to that thing gets the ability too? You really want anybody else in your brain?"
Hell, no! Sam thought of their friends and acquaintances rifling through his deepest thoughts like Lucifer had and swallowed hard. Dean nodded at the look on his face. "I know it's late, but I'm going to stay up a little longer to see what I can find out," Sam said, reasonably calmly, he thought.
"I'll make the coffee."
It was what Jess would have called the "wee, small hours" when the page Sam was reading suddenly started to smoke.
No, his skin was smoking. He could smell it, then he could feel it. He was stretched out to the point that he was sure his shoulders were out of joint and possibly his knees and ankles too. His skin hissed and bubbled in the heat. He could still see the book in front of him, the wooden table surface, Dean dozing with his face propped up on one hand, but it was overlaid with a hellscape of meathooks and twisted, burning chains. Sam couldn't feel the chair beneath him, but he could feel his lungs searing inside him. He tried to scream and merely wheezed. A shadow fell across him and he looked up to see the laughing face of Alistair. A realization finally allowed him to break free of the illusion.
"Holy shit!" Sam bounded to his feet, sending his chair crashing over backwards.
Dean jerked awake so hard that he nearly fell off his own chair. He jumped to his feet, too, a gun in his hand and a wild look on his face. "Hell dream. Yours," Sam explained abortively. He was deliberately trying to slow his breathing.
Dean dropped a few expletives and carefully put the gun back in its place under the table. "Sorry," he said.
For me "catching" that or for not telling me you still have nightmares? Sam thought, then decided that they were far too tired to do any kind of reasonable job shielding their thoughts. He picked up his chair and set it gently in place. "I think we should grab a little shut-eye and start again in the morning," he said, ignoring the unnecessary apology.
But the seeds had been planted and Sam shouldn't have been surprised that Dean was crashing through his bedroom door not much more than an hour later, pulling Sam from a dream of the Cage based on a very real memory of Lucifer and Michael playing tug-of-war with Sam's intestines.
There was no sleeping after that.
The next day involved a lot of research and a lot more avoiding each other. Sam sought out Dean when he'd finally found and translated (with a great deal of help from a powerful translation program) some research notes. They belonged to a German guy who'd been studying what he'd called the Kommunikationsamphore because in German, you simply stuck words together willy-nilly.
"This guy Joe Hartlieb was studying the jar thing," he announced without preamble. "He was an Egyptologist, I think. Anyway, he knew what it was designed to do, but it hardly worked at all. He and another Man of Letters could only catch a word or two from each other and they had to come back and touch the thing every thirty-four minutes or so just for that. Joe wanted to see if it would work better between two people who were more attached. From what I can tell, he was looking for a husband and wife to test it on, but his notes just stop there. Either he quit or –"
"Or Abaddon happened," Dean finished, scratching at his cheek. "I'd say we're past 34 minutes. Wonder how long it lasts for…" soul mates. Yeah, they never said those words out loud since Ash had first planted the idea so long ago. Saying it was just too weird. "I mean, it might still wear off," Dean mused, his uncertainty coming through loud and clear.
Sam sighed. "I'm gonna see if I can go back farther and figure out where the thing came from and maybe even how it was made. You make any progress on figuring out how to destroy it?"
"Not really," Dean admitted. "Though Crazy Huey might be able to get us some C-4 to try. But I did track down someone who might be able to translate the scratchings on the jar thingie. There's a prof at Boise State that thinks it's a hybrid Sanskrit and ancient Egyptian. He's going to write me back once he's had a chance to really look at it."
Nice! Dean was awfully good at this for someone who claimed to hate research. It wasn't a revelation but still struck Sam sometimes. He quickly shut down the thought and the admiration that went with it but wasn't sure if he was fast enough to prevent Dean from catching it. "Sanskrit? That can help me on my search, too."
"While I'm waiting, I'm gonna grill up some tuna sandwiches," Dean declared, and Sam looked at him in surprise. He'd had a tiny, fleeting thought of an amazing tuna melt panini he'd had in Boise but hadn't thought it was strong enough for Dean to "hear."
"You don't have to do that," Sam countered immediately. He loved tuna, but Dean was ambivalent toward it.
Somebody's gotta feed you, kiddo. "You want yours in the library?"
Sam could only nod, feeling oddly emotional.
There were other moments like that through the day, though they were interspersed by things Sam really didn't want to hear. At one point, Sam had caught the mental version of singing the ankle bone's connected to the shin bone/the shin bone's connected to the knee bone… He'd gotten the impression of soap and had fled to the gym, realizing that Dean was in the shower, singing about body parts as he washed them.
Another time, Dean had wandered through the room and stopped to glare at Sam, who'd only then realized that he had the chorus of Shakira's Hips Don't Lie on repeat in his head. And after a few too many images of Miss July, 2010, Sam sent Dean a very clear picture of himself cutting his toenails with Dean's favorite knife (which he'd never actually done but knew would squick out his brother).
Things had briefly devolved from there and soon they both stomped off to far ends of the bunker for a much-needed break from each other.
In between the juvenile moments, though, there were a few that were unexpectedly sweet. Sam was deep into what evidence told us about prehistoric mysticism when he clearly caught, always been so smart. I know he'll figure this out accompanied with the image of himself in the same posture – huddled over a book – at no more than 10 years old. He hadn't even realized that Dean was nearby until the thought had hit him.
Later, it occurred to Sam that having his brother in his head once in a while was far from the worst thing that could happen. He's the only one I'd trust with my thoughts, anyway. He couldn't be positive Dean had caught the accidental thought, but from the way his posture had changed, Sam was pretty sure he had.
But damn if Sam would be embarrassed by it. Maybe it was about time Dean heard something good about himself.
He was a little embarrassed a few hours later when he found Dean in the "Dean cave" looking comfortable and relaxed in a way that in years past only happened when he was working on the Impala, and usually only then when it was at Bobby's. Before he could censor it, Sam thought, it's so good to see him like this. He deserves a real home.
Sam felt himself go red, and it only got worse when he got back, so do you, dumbass because he could feel all of the...well, love...under the words. Sam stammered and forgot why he'd come and left in a hurry. Dean didn't even mock him for it. Yeah, this could get very awkward very fast if they couldn't find a way to shut it down.
Perhaps it shouldn't have been surprising that they found some answers at almost exactly the same time. Or even that the original goal of the spell on the jar was designed for silent communication for hunting. Hunting animals, sure, but hunting nonetheless.
Dean's professor contact said the spell was a "bridge-builder" and that the words below the frieze also warned that it would wear off on its own. An ancient book Sam found indicated that some cave and rock paintings might have had the same goal and effect but weaker. (Seriously – how cool was it to think of veritable cave men using the same spell to help them take down a woolly mammoth?)
While nothing spoke of soulmates, it was known that fluorite negated the spell in case it was unwanted, lasted too long, or was activated accidentally. Or, you know, all of the above.
Nice work.
Nice work.
Their thoughts overlapped each other's. Sam couldn't help but smile and Dean smiled right back.
Sap.
Jerk.
Bitch.
"We have fluorite. I saw a whole bin of it in a storeroom," Sam said before he ended up grinning like an idiot. "We could probably just bury it in there."
Dean sucked on his teeth. "Think we could blow it up anyway? Boom-boom Huey came through." Pretty please? Pleeeeeeeeeeease?
Sam should say no. Should be the responsible one and point out that not only was the spell not harmful, but they should hang onto it just in case they needed it at some point in the future. "We don't want to activate it by accident again," said Sam slowly, waiting in vain for his responsible, adult side to make an appearance. "But since we're" soulmates "brothers, you know, repeated use could have consequences…"
Please, please, please. Let's make a big boom! Dean looked like an excited puppy, a thought that Sam buried deep since he didn't want to get punched.
Why the Hell not? "Okay."
Dean whooped. "Tomorrow, then. I'll go to pick the stuff up from Huey. I can be there and back by noon I bet."
"Let's both go. Blowing it up outside will be a lot more fun than using the blast chamber." Yeah, the bunker had a small blast chamber, but it was opaque and muffled most of the sound of an explosion. And what was the fun of that?
Dean grinned. "You read my mind."
Sam groaned.
It was late, so they got ready for bed and Sam volunteered to sleep in the infirmary which was far enough away from Dean's room that they should be able to avoid any dream-sharing. "You know you'll miss your memory foam and whine about your back for days if you sleep there," he teased.
"Now you're going to milk this for sympathy for days," Dean accused right back.
The cot was as uncomfortable as advertised, but Sam was tired and he slept without any dreams he remembered – his or Dean's – so that was a plus.
The drive to Huey's could have gone better, but it could have gone worse, too. On the way, Sam and Dean had an entirely silent argument about whose contacts were weirder. (As odd as Huey was with his weapons fetish, there was a curse-box maker that Sam knew who would only talk to maybe three people and who had a pet chupacabra, so the argument came out pretty much even.)
After picking up the supplies from Huey, they drove far enough from civilization to be safe (because they didn't really want to get arrested for possession of explosives or even breaking noise ordinances).
Sam dumped the jar out of the curse box they'd carried it in while Dean made the rest of their preparations. Sam could've sworn that Thoth's stupid bird face was laughing at him, and he comforted himself that it wouldn't be around for much longer. He arranged a bunch of fluorite crystals around it. He might actually miss the accidental glimpses into Dean's thoughts, not to mention the hints of feelings that they didn't ever speak aloud: the love and admiration and appreciation that they had for each other. The things they knew but didn't say.
Dean began to make fart noises inside Sam's head, probably in response to Sam's sappy thoughts. Yeah, there was plenty he wouldn't miss, too.
Dean laughed like a four-year-old when the explosion went off, and Sam was surprised to find himself laughing, too. There was something viscerally gratifying about creating an explosion.
When the echoes were gone, Dean stared hard at Sam for a long moment. "What's the matter?" Sam asked. "Are you having a stroke or something?"
"You didn't hear that?" Dean asked cautiously in return.
"No. Can you hear this?" Sam asked. He thought as loudly as he could Dean burns the bacon and wears banana-scented after shave. (Hey, it might be immature, but Sam knew what kinds of things would get a rise out of his brother.)
"Not a whiff," reported Dean with satisfaction. "Now we celebrate." He opened one of the boxes they'd unloaded from the car. He chuckled low as he revealed the contents. It was full of M-80's and a few other (definitely illegal) fireworks and explosive devices designed more for noise than destruction.
Maybe Sam should have put a stop to it or pointed out that they weren't teenagers, but he found he couldn't in the face of such transparent delight. "Okay. Where are we doing this?" he asked and discovered that Dean's smile could get even wider.
Sam collected the remnants of the jar and shoveled them and the bits of the fluorite together back into a curse box. Dean cleared the undergrowth away from an area with no trees to close by. They might be immature idiots, but they wouldn't be irresponsible. Or at very least, they wouldn't start a forest fire.
Soon, the forest was echoing with booms loud enough to feel inside your chest. Sam watched Dean more than he watched the explosions. He remembered doing this in reverse so many years ago on the fourth of July when they set off much less lethal fireworks. Sam had been aware that Dean was watching him, but his joy had outweighed any teenage embarrassment. He hoped that this time Dean was feeling every bit of that same joy and wished, just a little, that he could still read his brother's mind. There had been moments where it was very disturbing. (Dean was banned from so much as thinking about any of his "special" magazines while he was within 100 yards of Sam. When he disobeyed, Sam had mentally promised that if he kept it up, he was going to wake up some morning after getting drunk and discover he had a tramp stamp that said spank me. Dean had complimented Sam on his creativity but had mostly behaved after that.) But mostly, there were moments that they actually got to hear how their brother thought and felt about them. It was more of a revelation than it should have been and left Sam feeling warm and settled in a way he hadn't in...a very long time.
There was an incredibly simple solution, Sam realized. It was so dumb that he laughed aloud. Dean caught the sound and turned to him. He was happy that Sam was happy. That much was obvious. But – duh – they needed to start saying that kind of crap out loud. As simple in theory as it was hard in practice. Sam couldn't make Dean do it, but he could lead the way.
"This is great, Dean!" he said instead of keeping it inside. "It's stupid, but it's fun." He laughed again because what good was a laugh that you kept to yourself? "It reminds me of – what was it? 1996? – when you surprised me with all those fireworks. That's one of my favorite memories." Sam tilted his face back to look at the early evening sky, keeping his expression open and relaxed and hoping he hadn't said too much.
Dean didn't recite an exorcism or call Sam names, so he took it as a win.
Dean bumped his shoulder against Sam's and answered. "Yeah? Mine too." They just stood for a few seconds, then Dean shot him an impish grin. "Wanna light the next one? Crazy Huey said it would bust your eardrums out."
"Nah, you do it," said Sam. Dean had obviously been hoping that would be the answer. He ran over to the ruined area where he'd lit the rest. He held up the lit match theatrically before touching it to the fuse and hustling right back to Sam's side. They covered their ears and grinned together at the ground-shaking boom that probably scared animals 10 miles away.
I love you, Dean. I'm really glad you're my brother, Sam thought. Dean might not be able to read his mind any longer, but Sam was pretty sure he knew anyway.
* * *
AN: Everything about fjölkyngi, which is a system of Nordic mysticism, came from arithharger dot wordpress dot com.