"O my dearest, nothing but shadow there
where you walk with me through your dream:
you tell me when the light returns."

- Neruda, Sonnet XXI.

Jody stares at the bills in her hand and thinks she might never become a good mother.

"Ready?" Bobby had asked her before the finalization hearing, before they completed the adoption process. They barely had a blink of sleep the previous night and it was showing. At least Donna was there, distracting the boys and by that, taking an enormous weight off Jody's shoulder. She nodded, wound too tight to say it once again. Yes, she was ready to become a parent on paper, she was already one at heart. But she might have overestimated her abilities.

Parenting didn't prove to be much trouble in those first six months. Therapy was going well, Dean ditched the knife sometime after Sam's eleventh birthday and Bobby had been elected to resident best friend ever since he showed Dean his priceless T206 Honus Wagner baseball card. Dean was going to start high school in September and they began sleeping in their own rooms with only occasional relapses. Jody felt high on life, back then. Now, only two months later, despondency is her second name.

It's just, everything seemed to collapse on them after that near perfect day when they got permanent legal custody. Bobby had a car accident that almost put him into a wheelchair. He came out of it with a broken femur and a concussion that made him a grouchy hedgehog, but the hospital check, the cancelled vacation and the scare weren't the worst of it by far. As it turned out, Dean got so hung up on the idea that it was his fault for some reason, that he had a setback and some of the delusions started filtering back. He cut up his Chemistry teacher's handbag and broke her perfume, because he thought she was a witch. He beat up a bully twice his size, saying he was a golem. He got detentions, bombed the first couple of his tests and refused to get out of Sam's bed at night. Drunken fights became a habit, and Jody had to ask Castiel for more frequent sessions before it got completely out of hand. It was an endless turmoil. Take last Thursday, for example. Dean stumbled home hours after curfew, three sheets to the wind and itching to cause havoc. It was raining, cold and merciless drops, but he stayed out in the yard, yelling at them from afar.

"Just go on! Come here and hit me like they always do! Keep hitting until I can't move anymore, just do it, I'm asking." He shouted and threw an empty wine bottle at a pile of chassis. Only fifteen and already breaking glass and Jody's heart.

She was crying a little. Wanted to run out into the mud and drag him inside, but she was afraid Dean wasn't sober enough not to attack her with something sharp and dangerous. She wouldn't, couldn't fight her son as if he was a criminal. She remembers how Bobby gritted his teeth and threw aside the cane he had to use until his leg got its strength back. "You are dancing on a real fine edge, boy." He warned and limped down the porch steps.

Dean cackled like a maniac, spreading his arms. "Am I? And what are you gonna do about it?" He spun around, stumbling in his drunken gait. "Come on, then. I'm waiting! Take off that fucking belt and give me what I fucking deserve! Punish me!"

He was openly crying by then, voice scraping from all the shouting, and geared up to fight his way into a hospital. What he was not prepared for was getting tackled into a puddle of dirty rainwater by his brother. Sam pushed his way past Jody, ran out of the house and body checked him with unforeseen force, disregarding his own safety.

"Why - can't you - stop?" Sam hissed and slammed him down into the ground once more, before wrapping himself around his torso and going slack.

After that, it took quite a lot of time to get Dean inside, take his wet clothes off and tuck him in. He was so drunk he passed out halfway and by the time they had him in bed, Sam was shaking like a leaf in his soaked jeans and shirt. When Jody spotted him, she cursed and rushed him into a hot shower, hoping against hope that he didn't catch a cold. "We are gonna get through this together." She told him and stroked the hair away from his forehead. "I know it, Sam."

She's still positive they can do this, with or without antipsychotic drugs, but that conviction is thinning fast. And it might wear out today, depending on the explanation she gets about the fifty bucks missing from her wallet. She stares at the rest of her money, puts it on the table and wipes her eyes. They knew the kind of baggage they were going to pull on themselves by adopting these kids. Now, it's time to deal with it the best she can.

"Did you take the money, Dean?" She pins him with the question as soon as he comes down from his room.

Dean slumps into a chair at the dining table and mutters a confirmation. "Yes." At least he is honest.

"I put it aside for Bobby's birthday cake." It's futile to threaten him in any way or aim for a guilt trip, she knows - she has been reading a lot lately. Tried to make sense of this whirlwind while keeping both herself and Sam afloat. She read and learnt and learnt and read, but she has to conclude that making sense helps nothing at all. Dean is silent as a grave. "Say something, please."

He glances up at her, then bows his head in defeat. Apologetic body language, headstrong resistance. She rubs the bridge of her nose. "Why? I just don't understand. Is there something you need? Talk to me, darling." What is she doing wrong? Sometimes it feels like the answer is everything.

"Jody…" Her name and the hacking cough that follows cuts her thoughts off.

"Sam!" She jumps and turns to see him by the stairs, wrapped up in a heavy blanket, eyes feverish and hair matted to his forehead.

"I'm sorry, it was my fault. Please don't punish him." He begs, voice raspy and dry as the Atacama.

"Are you… are you sick?" It's a rhetorical question, he can hardly stand on his own. And damnit, she knows how that happened. That night, if Jody paid more attention to him, if she took him to the bathroom right off, if she was a better mother… How did he even hide it? Granted, it was the weekend, but... She should have known. She should have. Where's her sixth sense?

"Sorry." Sam sniffs, the corners of his mouth drooping. "Are you going to send us back?"

"What?"

"Dean bought some medicine and tried to cure me on his own, but I still need a little more time… Just a few days, I swear..."

Jody gapes. "You think I'll send you away because you got sick?"

"Happened before." Dean speaks up for the first time, rapping his knuckles on the table.

Jody's rendered speechless. Eight months together and it seems as though nothing changed. They don't get it that this is truly forever, not yet. "Oh Sam." She holds out her hands. "Come here, let me hug you."

She pulls him in tight and rubs his back, rocking back and forth. God, what a rollercoaster ride. "You are my children, okay? I love you. Forever. Even if you are sick or reckless or make me cry. I knew it since I met you."

Sam burrows into her chest and nods against her shirt. A chair scrapes on the tiles - Dean stands up and comes over to her. He's staring at his shoes until Jody reaches out and cards her fingers through his hair. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again." He mumbles and produces a bunch of wrinkled bills from his pocket - the change from the pharmacy.

They could still go get a cake with that, but Bobby's not that fond of them anyway and Jody has an idea. She curls Dean's fingers back around the money and smiles at his astonished expression. Looks like her remaining hope can survive this intact. "What do you say we make him a pie instead?"

Sam likes to keep a tally of the things he will write poems about once he figures out how to avoid unintentional bathos. He has a journal with a little lock - not a diary, that's for whiny girls pining after their classmates, it's a journal - and he writes his thoughts in that. It's full of memories and secrets, but he rarely has inspiration to go back and read what he found important when he started jotting them down a year ago, because he is so much more mature than he used to be and he thinks differently now. Like, he would not say tomato soup is the best meal ever (since it's Jody's broth) and in his mental library, thick caterpillars have migrated from "stuff to throw at Dean" to the "nope" section. Today, however, he has to sit on the plane from Sioux Falls to Los Angeles for three more hours, so he decides to examine how the previous Thanksgiving's list looks like.

- a hug from Donna
- Madison's shiny bracelet
- pigeons huddling on the school's rooftop
- the mole between Dean's pointer and thumb
- Ceasar salad
- Dean's lips covered in lipstick (note to self: get evidence next time!)
- cobblers
- the sounds of a sleeping house
- cool lore Garth read about vampires (ballad?)
- biting Dean's wrist while wrestling

He frowns at his words and takes a quick glance around before scratching out that last one. No one needs to know he found the taste of Dean's skin interesting. Overall, it's a pretty lame list in his opinion, so perhaps he had better tear out the whole page. This month, he's bound to have better moments to try rhyming about anyway. He is eleven and a half now, has an awesome family and he is going on his first vacation, to California, no less. Salad isn't that fascinating anymore. This would be the happiest day of his life, if only Dean stopped freaking out in the seat next to him.

"Don't wanna die, don't wanna die, don't wanna -" He has been like this ever since they took off, muttering to himself with his eyes squeezed shut.

Sam thought it would wear off in a minute, but nothing seems to improve and Jody is sitting with Bobby on the other side of the aisle. "We're not gonna die, Dean."

Dean wheezes. "Shut up."

Sam sighs and flips his journal closed. "You can hold my hand if you want." He doesn't expect his brother to accept the offer, but to his amusement, Dean latches on with a vice-grip and that is that. Another snippet for Sam's collection of not-poems.

Jody's friends have a huge house in Santa Ana with bright green lawn, a friendly dog and a pool and everything. It's warm and sunny outside, even though it's November, and Sam vows that if he ever gets to go to college, he's going to come here, to California, so that he will never feel cold again. It'd be a dream come true.

After dropping their luggage at their place, they all pile into an expensive car that has Dean in rapture and hightail it to Huntington Beach. Dean's still morose from the flight and kind of a pain in the ass, but Sam can't bring himself to care. It's a beautiful day and he's so happy his cheeks hurt from smiling. This is the first time he sees the ocean. The cornflower water and its white waves, the sound as they lap against the shore. It's huge, infinite. Sam's blown away by how insignificant the sight makes him feel. He spends minutes just gawking, taking it in and filling his heart with the joy that something this magnificent exists. Then he turns into a little boy and just wants to do everything all at once, hunting crabs, collecting shells, swimming, laughing, running.

They spend hours playing fetch with Claire, the dog, and chasing each other with the promise of a cold dunk if one of them catches their prey. Dean wears an unbuttoned, billowy shirt and swim trunks that bare more skin than Sam has ever seen outside of the shower. His freckles are coming out within minutes under the sun and Sam finds himself staring at them, spellbound. He never realised how much they fit Dean's eyes, but it's impossible to miss them now.

By the time they collapse in the sand, Dean's cheeks have a pinkish hue, already burning, and Sam wants to run his fingertips over them to touch their warmth. "Fuck, it's hot here." Dean complains, rubbing his sweaty chest. His eyelashes glow white at the tips from the light.

Sam gulps, suddenly touch-starved. He'll have to buy a new journal. "Why don't you take your shirt off?" That earns him a tired glare. "I mean, no one else is around. Just me."

"Jody and Bobby are over there." Dean points at the deckchairs where the adults are in various states of sleep. He didn't use to be self-conscious of his scars back when they lived in Kansas. Sam misses it sometimes, the easy confidence he radiated 24/7. Castiel is convinced it's going to come back, but it's still depressing to see him reluctant to show his body.

A light, salty breeze comes from the ocean and strokes through Sam's floppy locks. He straightens his legs and pours warm sand over his knees, watches it wash over them and stick to the wet patches. He grabs another handful and starts piling it on the hand Dean's leaning on. Somewhere behind them, Claire yips at a flock of gulls. Jody is laughing at Bobby's face as the beer slips in his hand and spills over him. Sam traces a fingertip along the circle where Dean's wrist disappears into the sand and soaks in the sunshine. "I really like it here." He confesses.

Dean's thumb twitches in response. The grains go tumbling down. "Yeah, 'cause you get a tan while I can hop into LA to audition for the new Hellboy movie. They would save a lot on makeup."

Sam bursts out laughing and ends up giving in to that urge he has been feeling this whole time. He shifts to the side until he is plastered over his brother's back, arms around his shoulders. Dean allows about three seconds of that before he twists in the embrace, yanks him over onto the ground and the wrestling match is on, sand flying everywhere. It's the best Thanksgiving Sam could dream of.

Missing a week from school is totally worth it if they can have this. They have delicious festive meals, go to the beach every day and enjoy the brief respite from the late autumn cold that's waiting for them back home. (Home - how nice it is to have a place to call that now.) Then Dean meets Bela Talbot and it all goes to hell.

She is pretty and older, almost eighteen to Dean's fifteen. Her cat-like eyes, coy smile and sensuous curves turn heads left and right, but she chooses to sink her claws into Sam's fool of a brother and Sam resents the hell out of her for it. He knows Dean had girlfriends before. Hell, he knows he had sex too. But it's not the same to watch it go down in front of his eyes, on the first real vacation they have ever had, when all Sam wants is a good time with the most important person in his life. It's not that they do overt stuff, they don't make out in plain sight or anything. But Dean sneaks out at night and Sam knows why and that's enough to ruin everything. Dean is an asshole.

Two nights before they fly back, he snaps. It turns ugly real quick. "Don't you see how it makes me feel?" He yells across the room after fifteen minutes of venomous fighting, unconcerned whether they hear it on the other side of the house or not. "You leave me here to rot every night! And I can't sleep, because I'm so worried about your sorry ass."

"The fuck is wrong with you?" Dean bites back, voice laced with ire. "I'm finally having a good time after a shitty year and you go ruin it with this bitching."

"I'm just trying to look out for you!"

"Do you even know how to have fun?" He screams and throws his jacket at the door. "'Cause I don't think so. Sometimes I feel like if it wasn't on paper, I wouldn't even believe you are my brother!"

The words ring in the frosty silence that descends between them. Dean's panting like he ran a marathon, but Sam finds it hard to breathe all of a sudden. 'Cause that's it, the truth, something neither of them mentions or they try to gloss over it when it comes up. They don't look like brothers. While Dean is fair-skinned and tawny with green eyes, Sam is brown and tan; while Dean is athletic and strong, Sam is short and wiry, and he hates it. He hates it so much. He wants to be like Dean. He wants people to look at him and say 'hey, that must be Dean's brother, let's give him a noogie', not 'oh, they are adopted, remember? poor boy'. Yes, he is adopted, but not to Dean, Dean is his flesh and blood, his only constant. He belongs to him, and not because of a stupid piece of paper. But it's still true and it hurts. Sam tries, but he is different, his hair, his eyes, his personality - and now it seems like even Dean gives up on him… on this unbreakable connection Sam needs so much.

"I'm so sorry." Dean whispers and takes a hesitant step forward. "I didn't mean it."

"Of course you did." Sam's voice wavers. He wipes at his eyes, angry and crestfallen, but the tears tumble over his fingers, his cheeks, his nose, drop onto his shirt. "We are nothing alike."

Dean is by his side in an instant, cupping his face in his calloused hands. "And that's a good thing! Man, I'd hate it if you were a fuckup like me."

"If you don't feel like my brother, then there's no reason for you to love me anymore, is there?" Sam cries. "But then who's going to love me in this world?"

There's no stopping it, the exhaustion and the pain crush into him and he sinks to the floor, chest aching from the sobs he tries to keep inside. Dean follows him down and wraps his arms around his shoulders. "Sammy…"

Sam can't even see his face anymore, the world has become blurry and distorted. He just wants to be left alone. "I'm sorry that I'm such a disappointment -"

"Shit, no! Just stop talking. You are not a disappointment, never. God, Sam…" Sam is wallowing in his sorrow so hard that it takes two seconds to register that Dean is kissing his temple. When it finally does, his body tenses up, then goes entirely limp, his weeping slowing down to a trickle. They never do this. Hugs, yes, but kisses… He can't remember the last time he got one of those. It makes him hiccup.

"You know I suck at this." Dean mumbles into his hair. His chapped lips slide down to Sam's cheek, then he pulls back to whisper into Sam's ear. "Come on."

He is leaning in to press another kiss there, but Sam turns at the last moment and their mouths align. Once again, they freeze. Dean is a hair's breadth away, eyes at half-mast, and the butterflies residing in Sam's stomach flutter to life. The tip of their noses touch - it's the closest Sam has ever been to another person. He can't blink the remaining wetness off his eyelashes, because he can't tear his gaze away from the strips of green staring at him. He leans forward, thinks 'maybe…', gets so close he smells the sweetness, but Dean jerks away and flops onto his back with a frustrated exhale.

And just like that, Sam is cold and a little terrified again. Did he…? Was it wrong? Does Dean hate him? Are they okay? "Dean?"

Dean sucks his lips into his mouth and kicks at Sam's foot without looking. "You are the worst goddamn cockblock, little brother. Now gimme the fucking remote."

The knot in Sam's throat loosens and dissolves into nothing. They are okay. Dean's not angry anymore. He called Sam little brother. He is not going out to have sex with Bela tonight and he might not use the other bed if Sam lets him choose the channel. Sam waits for his heart to settle, then smiles and throws the device at Dean's stomach. "Screw you." He says, layered with tentative affection.

Dean sits up and switches the TV to the Grey's Anatomy reruns. He is smiling too. "Back at ya."

Cas had the odd habit of categorizing his mornings as countries ever since he was a little kid chasing bees in the garden. Yesterday was Canada (chilly air, yellow-brown leaves, clear sky), the day before that, England (gloomy rain and a cold seeping into his joints). His last Spain-day was in the beginning of September and his gloveless fingers are missing it something fierce. He glances out the window of his office, sees a cyclist and thinks, France - but only because he ate a baguette and that puts today automatically in the long list of France-days, regardless of the weather. Maybe, he should revise his system, because his preference in pastries is not a random variable, therefore the outcomes do not conform to normal distribution. Before he can determine the required changes, there's a knock on the door - first patient's here. Which means Dean Winchester, tough cookie extraordinary.

"Good morning, Dean." Cas smiles at the kid and gestures at his usual place on the sofa. Dean nods back and throws himself down with a sigh, which is a good indicator that he is bothered by something. Castiel sits in his chair, just about to ask, when the door cracks open again and the brilliant eyes of his assistant peak inside.

"Sorry, Dr. Novak, I forgot to give you your coffee." She says and tip-toes over to his armchair. It's a completely unnecessary measure, since Dean is seated across from them and he is nothing, but alert at the moment. He would not be awakened from trance by a noise if he is not in one.

"Hannah, we talked about this." He sighs. "No need for formalities."

She nods and tugs at the lapels of her grey blazer. She's dressed in a tight, formal skirt and her eyes are very blue and sharp. Castiel is intrigued by them, by the patterns of her irises, so he stares back, watches the pupils dilate and contract, until someone - Dean, oh, he's here - clears his throat. Hannah flushes and puts the to-go cup on the low table with the houseplant. Then there's a bit of an awkward silence before Cas remembers the imperative social norms and nods. "Thank you. I'll go back to work now."

Hannah beams and rushes out of the room, leaving Cas alone with a smirking teenager who thinks hair gel is still a go and a beverage that gives him figurative hives. Yikes, Cas hates coffee.

"Hannah, huh?" Dean remarks as a conversation starter.

"She is my new assistant."

Dean's grin widens. "Bring you coffee often, Cas?"

"She is a dedicated employee."

"I bet." Dean replies and breaks into boisterous laughter. It's a beautiful sight in and of itself, but given how rough a start they had, it's almost like a mirage. Castiel finds himself smiling along until Dean sobers up and starts an uncharacteristical bout of hemming and howing. "Can we talk about something private?" He asks at last, hands tucked under his thighs.

Cas raises an eyebrow. "I thought we were already doing that."

Dean's mouth opens, then closes again for a few abortive attempts at speaking, before he licks his lips and blurts out. "Have you ever kissed a guy?"

It's not as sudden a question as one would think. Patients often inquire after their therapists' sexual orientation or practices, sometimes signalling their own availability. It's the absolute taboo to indulge them in this aspect, but Cas has a hunch Dean is not asking for that. Thank God. Not that Castiel could give him pleasant stories about his various ways of courtship... He doesn't have a good track record in relationships. His college girlfriend, April, was just about ready to kill him at the end - and he is in quite a predicament now as well. The signs of attraction he has been detecting in his assistant's behaviour have left him discombobulated so far. The nature of her interest is yet to be determined. He would rather not talk about Crowley either, the doom of Castiel's visiting professorship in Edinburgh, even if Dean wants to learn about male on male interactions. No, best not share this sort of personal information with a patient. However, Castiel has splendid results in giving advice to teenagers in puppy love, so they could stick to that.

He gives Dean a playful look and tries to stir the focus back on the boy. "Have you?"

Dean blushes beet red, shaking his head. "But I wanted to."

"Why not then?"

"I chickened out."

"No shame in that. I didn't have the guts to say no to this coffee either, even though I don't like bitter drinks." Cas admits and in turn, Dean stops picking at his cuticle. He looks conflicted about the topic, which holds obvious importance to him, and Castiel wouldn't be surprised if he was losing sleep over it. This is a good thing, actually. Not the lack of sleep, of course, but the shift in interests from demons to kissing. If Dean has the mental energy to start the normative steps in teenager development, they are back on track to finish his therapy.

"He must be pretty awesome." Cas comments and means it. Anyone who catches this boy's eyes beyond simple physical appeal has to be special.

Dean lets out the sigh of the lovesick. "Yeah." His gaze flickers to Castiel's, then skitters away just as fast. "I don't know if he likes me back or not."

Oh, the petal plucking. Effeuiller la marguerite. "Does that mean you like him?"

The corners of Dean's mouth twitch in a small smile and he blushes again. "I guess. It's complicated." He shrugs and turns just enough for Castiel to spot the small furrow between his brows.

Oh. So that's the main problem, of course. "You feel guilty about it." A curt nod. "Because he's a boy?" Dean bites his lip and his eyes fall shut. He shakes his head. Looking at his metacommunication, a potential trouble occurs to Cas and he has to grip the armrests of his chair in alarm. They really don't need more abuse in Dean's equation. "He's not an adult, is he?"

Dean wrinkles his nose and shoots him an affronted glare that almost makes him laugh, his relief tangible. "Why do you feel guilty, then?"

"I'm not supposed to want him." A pause. "I would be a burden anyway."

"Dean. You don't have to put everyone before yourself. It's okay to want things that aren't laid out before your shoes, it's okay to take. If you want that boy, you can woo him and let yourself be happy. Nobody has a right to stop you."

Dean's response is a doubtful chuckle. "You have no idea how bad it is. People wouldn't approve."

"You don't always need their approval." Homosexuality is not a sin, nothing to feel guilty for. Castiel has to get it across. "It's okay to love who you love. It's nobody's business, but his and yours."

Out of all their sessions, Dean has never looked this uncomfortable before. "I wanna talk about something else."

Cas could force the issue, get to the bottom of it, but Dean has had a rough patch and he wants to give him some leeway. "Okay. You can choose a topic."

Dean clears his throat, then takes a gulp from the glass of water Cas always prepares for their sessions. This is the first time he even touched it. His hands are trembling. "How… How is Sammy doing?"

"He is doing well." Cas watches his reactions, but they don't supply him with the piece he is missing, nothing adds up. Why so nervous today? "Hannah had the pleasure to shake his hand yesterday."

"Really? He hasn't told me. That's great." Dean's smile is a flittering thing, a jittery flash. "Did he, uh… Do you two talk about me?"

Cas frowns and tilts his head sideways. "What are you curious about?"

Dean shrugs and clears his throat again. "Just wanna know what he thinks about… stuff."

Perhaps it's about Dean's fluctuating self-confidence. "He looks up to you, Dean."

"I feel like we are growing apart."

Cas nods. Insecurity, like he thought. "That doesn't have to be a bad thing. It's natural - you are both developing your own selves and identities. What you may perceive as him being distant might just be him stepping out of your shadow." Dean takes another sip of water. Castiel smiles. They can work these nerves out, he knows. "Be patient. He's not going to leave you."

Sam had his last therapy session three days ago and he is itching to make Jody call and get him one more appointment. It feels strange that he doesn't have a therapist to share his difficulties with. He got used to thinking in terms such as 'gotta tell Castiel this' and 'don't forget to bring that up'. Although, it's sort of liberating too. In the last few months, he had been hiding some of his thoughts, so at least Cas can't prod at them anymore.

He is lying on his stomach and reading The adventures of Tom Sawyer in his bed, his brain slowly leaking out of his ears from boredom, when he hears a series of rapid footsteps and his brother drops all over him. Sam huffs and struggles to take a breath with 140 pounds on his back. "Get off!" He squirms.

Dean titters into his ear and swipes the book aside. "It's my birthday, Sammy boy. No school stuff on my birthday."

"Deeean." He whines. Dean has been saying things like that since this morning - 'no rabbit food on my birthday, put those carrots back', 'no Nat Geo today' - it's starting to grate on Sam's nerves. What is he allowed to do? Stuffing his face with chips and soda and belching at monster truck shows? "It's almost midnight, your birthday is over. Let me read in peace."

Dean ignores him in favour of toppling them both onto the floor. Sam hits his elbow, right at the point that makes his entire forearm go numb and tingle with pins and needles. "Ow, you ass." He moans in pain and clutches at the sensitive spot.

There's a tug on his wrist. "Come out to the yard with me."

"Now?"

"No, on a freakin' blue moon, of course now!"

Sam sprawls in a manner he dubbed as 'the lazy starfish' and looks at his brother. If he didn't know better, he would say Dean was on edge. Huh. Did he wait until Jody and Bobby fell asleep? That wouldn't bode well for Sam. Besides, it's below freezing out there, he doesn't wanna leave his room. "It's cold." He pouts.

Dean stands up and digs his big toe into his ribs. "Don't be a pussy."

"Are we having a prank war?" Sam groans and starts crawling towards his wardrobe. If this is a part of some elaborate plan, Dean is so going to regret messing with him.

"Jeez, it's my birthday. Just wanna show you something."

Sam faceplants into the puffy coat he tugs off his desk chair. "Okay." He mutters and tries to gather the willpower to stand up and find a sock.

In the yard, the moon is bright and almost full, casting looming shadows on the ground. There are absolutely no stars visible and Sam can't spot anything even remotely interesting in walking distance. He wonders what Dean is going to pull. Something scary? Well, Sam is not afraid in the dark, so he's gonna enjoy seeing Dean's expression after his stupid prank fails.

"Let's sit here for a sec." Dean says after they walked a good fifteen meters away from the house and hops on the hood of a wrecked Ford. With a hint of trepidation, Sam climbs up next to him. Is it gonna collapse under him or what? "I like to come here to think sometimes. Feels safer than a closed space." Dean explains, then clears his throat and looks down at his lap. "So, uh… Cas told me to try… to try saying stuff to you first."

That sounds serious. Sam's heart falters. What if it's about his secrets? Did Cas realise what he was hiding? "Stuff?"

"Yeah. Like, a conclusion, you know? So this is it, I guess. I'm gonna say it outright." Dean takes a huge breath, then tips his head back to stare up at the moon. "Demons don't really exist. There are monsters in this world - but they are a hundred percent human. When I - when they hurt me, it wasn't because of magic or a big, complex plan to take over the world. They were bad people and that's all." Sam watches the fog of his warm exhales dissipate in the chill around them and feels his throat constrict. How it must hurt, admitting that the suffering was pointless, just someone's sick game. It was hard enough for him, he can't even imagine the kind of work getting Dean to this point took. He shuffles closer and puts a hand on Dean's arm. Dean's eyes jump to his, shiny and honest, and hold his gaze. "You are not in danger anymore. You are safe."

Sam tightens his grip. "Yes, I am." He whispers.

"I know now that I had… some problems in my head. Delusions and shit. We both did. But they are gone now and I'm glad for that." Dean says, just as quietly, and bends his head down. "So glad, Sammy."

It's nothing like the last time they came this close. The night is a solemn blanket over them, still and silent. There are neither tears nor shouting, just Sam's pulse pounding in his ears. They don't look at each other, not really, just sway forward inch by inch until there's nothing between them and their foreheads touch. Sam inhales the crisp air and slides his hand up to Dean's chest, presses on the bump of the amulet. Dean's breath is a puff of mist on his lips, unsure. Sam's not.

"Me too." He closes his eyes and lets it happen, gives in to the pull he feels in his entire body and kisses Dean on the mouth.

It's only a peck, an innocent gesture of comfort, but there's much more behind it and Sam thinks Dean understands. In this moment, he feels it crushing into him, their life after the fire, the things Dean did, what they went through, that aimless drifting. He's aware of its weight in his bones, and how it drains out of him when there's a tiny answering push and Dean turns his head to fit them closer together, warped puzzle pieces, never close enough. Sam's future poems flit through the gaps between his fingers. Dean's thumb on his chin, his cold nose digging into Sam's cheek, the scent of his skin around them, his thudding heart under Sam's palm, the moonlight, softness, warm chest, stuttering exhales, Sam's first kiss. Sensory overload.