"The tint of wheat, of ivory, of tears,
things of leather, of wood, of wool,
archaic, faded, uniform,
collect around me like walls."

- Neruda, Unity

Who would have thought a sheriff's retreat could be fun? Jody sure had a healthy bit of scepticism about it. But all in all, they had an amazing weekend. It was good to catch up with Doug (and Donna as his plus one) and she and Bobby could finally spend some quality time together. She loves her boys to death, but sometimes they all need a little time away from each other, like all parents with older children do. God, they grew up so fast, didn't they? She remembers how she used to bend down to give Sam a hug – now she's lucky if she doesn't get scooped up and swung around a foot above ground when they embrace. And Dean… If he was beautiful as a boy, he is even more so as a man. It's incredible how much he healed since they got him out of the system, how strong and well-adjusted he became. Jody can't be prouder. He's not flawless, she knows. There are scars, visible or not, that won't ever disappear. But he lives with them with a smile on his face now, he can admit the reason why they are there with his chin held high and… Oh, now look at her, getting all teary-eyed just because she hasn't been home in three days. She can't help it, though – just the sight of Dean's car parking in front of the house has her smiling in joy. She can imagine them inside, scrambling to hide dirty dishes and empty chip bags, throwing laundry at each other. She has been a witness of this many times before and it never stops amusing her, even if she has to appear strict in front of them in order to keep their rowdiness in check.

"Glad to see my house in one piece." Bobby mutters as they get out of his truck, like he does every single time they leave both of the boys home. That just means he's glad to be back. Jody rolls her eyes and takes the bags of groceries they picked up during the drive back, then makes her way up the porch steps.

What greets them inside leaves her speechless. First of all, the place is spotless, not a thing askew. Shoes and boots lined up perfectly in the hallway, coats on the rack, floor shiny. Second, there's dinner on the table. At least that's obviously take-out – Jody would have considered calling a doctor if it turned out to be home-cooked. Something is amiss. What did they break, she wonders? Must have been something expensive – her Grandma's old porcelain kettle? She puts her bags on a chair and has just enough time to share a flummoxed look with Bobby before Sam bounds down the stairs and flings himself at her.

"Hey, Mom." He grins and gives her a kiss on the cheek. It's sweet and makes her heart melt, but he rarely ever calls her Mom and something about his smile strikes her as odd. Nervous.

She frowns and grabs his shoulders to hold him at arm's length. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course."

"I bet." Bobby grumbles. "Where's that brother of yours?"

To her astonishment, Sam flushes. "Dean is, ah, he's asleep –"

"Not anymore." Dean cuts in from the doorway, confident smile in place. "Hey, guys."

Sweet Jesus. He is a complete mess. He has a bruise on his jaw, half-healed scratches on his cheeks and a swollen, split bottom lip. His neck is covered in purple-green bitemarks. There are dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes and he's in his most comfortable clothes, which must mean he has other wounds on his body that he's trying to hide. He drops into his seat and makes a show of not acknowledging his appearance, but it's pointless, his nonchalance deflects neither their bewildered stares, nor Sam's guilty fidgeting.

"Dean." Sam hisses, but it's too late, the cat is out of the bag.

"Sweetheart, can you please get the med kit?" Jody asks him, a lump in her throat. She should be used to this, she figures, patching Dean up, but it never gets easier. Sometimes there's a long enough break that she begins hoping, gets lulled into an illusion that he is going to stay out of trouble for good. But it never lasts. She wonders how many injuries had gone unnoticed over the years, how many he suffered through thinking that was the right order of things. Sam shoots Dean a hangdog look, sad puppy face asking for forgiveness. Poor boy, he must think he is responsible for not keeping his brother away from danger, despite her continuous insistence that they are their own men, not each other's wards. One thing she could never get into their heads. Dean grins at his brother as he passes, reassuring cheekiness in his gaze, but it quickly turns into a wince as soon as Sam has turned his back. His battered lip starts bleeding again.

"Dean…" She sighs and pulls out a tissue to dab at the dripping blood. Dean closes his eyes for a moment, tilting his head to give her better access. At least he lets her help this time.

"Bar fight." He mumbles.

Jody pokes at one of his bitemarks with her free hand. "Was it a vampire bar?" She smiles fondly. The corners of Dean's eyes crinkle in amusement.

"Do we need to have a talk, son?" Bobby grunts. He has his worried face on, but it resembles his angry face a little too well and Dean tenses up under her hands. "Those… marks. You didn't get them from a girl, did ya?"

"No." Dean admits with an expression Jody thought – hoped – she would never see again. The expression of a trapped animal, fierce and ready to snap, a last-ditch attempt to hide how vulnerable a position he is in.

Bobby nods. It's not a surprise. Dean is none too subtle about his conquests - they knew he looked both ways, just did not address it directly before. "You know that there's... that we got no problem with that. But we ain't gonna stand by doin' nothing while someone's hurting our boy." He says, and that's when Sam comes back.

Everything goes still. Dean's face pales and he looks at Sam with something akin to a plea. Castiel warned them about this, that the impact of his past might drive him into other unhealthy relationships, but it always seemed to be a distant possibility, not something that leaves Dean bleeding and bruised in their kitchen. But these "bar fights" are getting way too frequent to be plausible. Even so, Jody wants to kick Bobby for going for that question straight away, because as much as she wants to know, they didn't talk about how to approach the issue. Is he truly having an abusive relationship with another man? They can't just jump into assumptions and throw accusations at him, that will drive him away.

"He's not hurting me." Dean says at last, still eyeing his brother, as if saying 'See? He isn't. No need to hunt him down.' Sam bites his bottom lip but stays silent as Jody takes the kit from him.

"We're worried about you." Bobby barrels on.

"It was a bar fight." Dean insists, scowling. He's too defensive, they won't get anything out of him tonight.

"Just checkin'." Bobby backs off. He must have arrived at the same conclusion.

"Just remember that we'll always be here if you want to talk, okay?" Jody adds, grabbing the liquid bandage.

"There's nothing to talk about!" Dean snaps. Sam opens his mouth, then thinks better of it when Dean glances back at him. Looks like Jody might have a better chance with him if she wants to know what's going on.

"Alright, darling." She soothes and begins applying the antiseptic to Dean's busted lip. It's no use pushing while he is dead set on protecting whoever did this to him. But this is not over. Hell no, it's not.

It's a thousand miles from Sioux Falls to Pittsburgh. Fifteen hours of driving on an endless highway, swishing past Chicago and Lake Michigan. Sam wanted to fly, because skipping a day of school is sacrilege in his books, but damn if Dean sets foot on one of those death traps again. So, it's fifteen hours on the road and a sulking little brother for him. Dean is rather happy with these results.

He has been driving all day and there are two hours left to go, but he barely feels the ache in his limbs. He's way past the peak of it and reached the numb exhaustion period now. The hardness of Baby's leather seat doesn't register anymore, there's probably a dent shaped like his ass in it by now. Sammy's asleep, has been for the last couple hours. His legs are squashed against the dashboard, knobby knees jammed to the glove compartment, neck stretched to its limits to let his head lean against the window. That's gonna be one hell of pins and needles. Ugh. Dean winces in sympathy.

It's amazing, how he grew up into this giant man from the blond, blue-eyed baby he is in Dean's recovered memories. It makes Dean inexplicably proud, especially when he gets to see or touch his tanned skin, those unblemished planes that are silky-soft under his palm, not a ridge or bump on them, nothing ugly in sight. Sam's like Baby, sleek and strong. A trustworthy companion, a marvel, an anchor Dean wanted all his life. Home.

And a goddamn nerd who's too clumsy to be trusted with Baby's brakes for more than an hour.

"Rise and shine, Sammy!" He yells and twists the knob of the stereo to blast Motörhead into the deserted night.

Sam jumps upright with a yelp of pure terror and promptly bangs his shins as he tries to straighten up. "Ah, Jesus Christ, I'm gonna kill you." He moans plaintively.

"Can't hear you!" Dean grins and presses his foot a little harder to the gas pedal.

Messing with Sam never fails to rev his engine. There's an empty road ahead of them, Baby's purring like a cat, Sam is paying attention to him again and they are gonna raid whatever's left of their food. Good times. This could only get better if his left forearm stopped itching. He has scratched it up last night and it prickles under the long-sleeved flannel shirt he pulled on to cover the bandage. He rubs a careful hand over it and winces, glad that Sam is rooting around in his bag and has no chance to notice the gesture. With any luck, he will be able to hide the wounds until they don't look like he tried to check if his bone was made of metal (which he did). Having a hard time doesn't mean he should cause Sam one.

He turns the volume back down and slaps at Sam's shoulder. "Gimme a sando."

"You ate all of yours."

"I have an emergency stash."

Sam's eyebrows disappear into his bangs. "Where?"

"Front pocket." Dean smirks, waits for it, one, two...

"You fucker! I needed that book, I have a test on Monday."

"Loosen up, Sasquatch."

"Dean!" Sam whines. He is no fun, really - who brings an AP History book to a weekend trip?

"Alright, alright, relax. It's in the trunk."

Sam sighs in relief and throws Dean's last sandwich at his chest. It's a real challenge, unwrapping it with one hand, but Dean knows the trick from the countless days he travelled alone fleeing from the very same situation he is in now. It's kinda ironic. He uncovers the bread in time with Sam's hand landing on the back of his neck, and he is too distracted by the contact to notice the sizeable green leaf sticking out from under the ham.

"Fuck." He says through his mouthful as soon as his teeth sink into it. "She forgot to ditch the salad."

Sam snickers and draws a nail down to the knob of his spine. "Nah. Jody remembers everything. She just wants you to eat something healthy for one."

"Meat is healthy." Dean grumbles, trying to swallow the bite without chewing or gagging it back up. "I eat plenty of that. Take yesterday –"

"Sorry to tell you, but cheeseburgers don't contain all that much actual meat. They are made of –"

"Nope, don't wanna hear it."

"- scraps, sinew, synthetical stabilizer-"

"Dude, shut your cake hole."

Sam laughs, pulls his hand back and munches on his extra healthy bio rabbit food crap or whatever he's eating. Carrot buns with lentil sprouts or something. Dean stares at his own tasty meat-lover mayo sandwich and the abomination laughing at him from the middle of it. It's gonna crunch under his teeth if he takes another bite. It's gonna taste like water and grass. It's gonna be fucking disgusting. He wrinkles his nose. He's not a lamb, for Christ's sake!

"You want it?" He holds it out for Sam.

His answer is a muffled guffaw. "Hm, do I?"

"Come on, take the goddamn salad. Too much green stuff makes me sick."

"Uh-huh." Sam smirks at him, but he takes the sandwich and stays awake for the rest of their ride.

By the time they get to a suitable motel, it's dark and their contagious yawning has got so bad that they are constantly opening and closing their mouths. Dean's still hungry, though, and the diner across the street has a glowing neon sign proclaiming they have the best pancakes in town. He elbows Sam in the ribs and grins - pancakes! - and gets a put-upon sigh in return.

It's downright freezing outside. The cold stabs at his nose and cheeks with icy needles as he gets out of the car and stretches his legs, the wind makes every breath feel like a huge gulp of tap water. Dean's ears are in danger of falling off. Sam has produced a knit hat from somewhere, the cute kind that leaves tips of his hair curled up around its edge, and his off-white woolen sweater suddenly looks like the warmest thing ever. Dean's icicle fingers twitch to reach out and find sanctuary in it.

The waitress working the graveyard shift is a petite brunette with killer curves. She gives them a muffin for free after Dean leers at her over the rim of his glass, and tells them her name is Carmen, same as the prettiest model's in the first, uh, magazine he owned back in Kansas. (What a coincidence!) The glare Sam gifts him with would make a lesser man's gut smolder into ash, but Dean revels in it and fantasizes about the bites he's bound to get tonight. God, he loves to be roughened up that way. They give him that painful edge he craves, the bit of hurt that Sam denies him most of the time. But Dean knows which buttons to push - his brother is a jealous little bitch and nothing, nothing nettles him more than Dean's obnoxious flirting.

He is contentedly stuffing his face, thinking of nabbing Sam's warm hat for himself when Sam pokes his index finger with his own. "What is it?" He asks, then gestures at the fork swinging up and down in Dean's hand. "You always do that when you have something on your mind."

Why is he so freakin' observant? Dean scowls and draws his initials into the maple syrup on his food. He didn't want to tell the news just yet. Wanted to do it somewhere where they wouldn't have to keep themselves in check. He's not sure how Sam is going to react, but he hopes he'll be happy. "I got a job in Palo Alto."

"What?"

Dean doesn't dare look up from the mangled remains of his pancakes. "Bobby's friend, Rufus… He said he could use someone who knows how to handle classic cars. Would pay me well, too. But." And here comes the catch. "He needs me there by March, so I gotta move out early."

"I didn't get an acceptance letter yet." Sam says, tone flat.

"I know."

"What if I don't make it?"

"You will."

"What if I don't?" Dean sighs in exasperation. He has absolute conviction in Sam's abilities, he knows Sam can get into any prestigious college he wants. But he can't articulate that better at the moment and Sam takes his pause as something completely different, of course. He scoffs. "Are you backing away again? Is that it? Hoping I won't get in and the distance will separate us?"

"No."

"Don't you see how much I…" He runs a hand through his hair, then drops it and fixes Dean with a raw look. "Stop trying to give me an out. I'm not gonna change my mind."

"Okay." Dean mutters. Nowadays, he finds himself more often than not just nodding along, a pushover to Sam's demanding will. It's in his nature not to show his weaknesses, to project confidence, but inside he's conflicted, unsure – and it's easier to pretend he is not bothered by this consuming pace than voicing the doubts he can't grasp even in his own mind. It feels as though this thing between them is a scalding flame that sizzles and escalates every time they touch, drives them into things they aren't ready for. They crash together then pull away, only to go back to tearing down barriers the second their shock leaves. It's the weirdest honeymoon period he has ever experienced.

"I'm serious." Sam says and there's a promise in his voice that stirs a different sort of hunger in the pit of Dean's stomach.

They leave before Carmen discovers Dean threw out the napkin she scribbled her number on. Sam offers to get their bags, so it's up to Dean to get them a room. He slumps against the counter half-dead on his feet, expects a potbellied, sweaty guy to come and ask if he's bringing a "lady friend". Instead, he finds a kid, quite a young one too. It takes him aback enough that when the boy recites "King or two queens?" he gapes and panics.

"Two queens." He blurts out and hightails it outta there as soon as the keys are slapped into his hand, Sam's mockery be damned.

Their room is smaller than a foxhole and has ugly ass wallpaper with smiling cacti on it. The bathroom is a health hazard - Dean is glad Sam brought his flip flops, cause simply looking at that floor gives him athlete's foot. There's only one tiny heater crammed into the corner furthest from the beds. Sam arches an eyebrow at it.

"Gonna be a cold night." He remarks.

"We can cuddle for warmth." Dean says, cause he is generous like that, and waggles his eyebrows out of habit. Then it occurs to him that they probably would have slept in the same bed anyway, and the thought chokes his laugh before it can make it out of his throat. He kept ignoring that mind track on purpose. If he ponders over it too long, he's gonna start freaking out. They didn't talk about it, but he knows what Sam hopes from this trip and… Better not overthink it. Let's just leave things spontaneous.

"We can." Sam replies, eyes wide and earnest, and turns the lock on the door.

When Sam's sweater hits the floor, Dean has the puzzling urge to pick it up and coax Sam back into it. He is sprawled on one of the beds now in his unbuttoned shirt while Sam is standing at the foot of it with the sort of nervous excitement Dean was beginning to think he wasn't capable of. He's wringing the edge of his own top in his hands, which is purple and probably the gayest thing he has ever worn. There's a dog on it.

"Nice shirt." Dean comments drily.

"I'm not - I know this is a good time, but..." Sam clears his throat, scuffing his socked feet on the carpet.

Thank God. "Me neither." Dean smiles, relieved beyond belief.

Sam blows out a breath that might have been a chuckle and sinks down to the mattress, straddles Dean's lap. "I thought I was ready." He shrugs, then presses his lips to Dean's before they can make this any more embarrassing.

His fingertips ghost over Dean's exposed belly in jittery circles, then travel up his torso to Dean's cheeks, frame them in a gentle hold. He leans even closer and peppers wet kisses all over them, then down Dean's throat to his collarbone and back. Dean closes his eyes and cranes his neck to the side, pushing on Sam's head. He has no self-control left after the day he had, and the thought of new marks drive him crazy. He can feel Sam's teeth as they graze his skin, he can feel the strength of his jaw and he wants it so much to clamp over his flesh that he's lightheaded from it. But the pressure doesn't come - Sam's touch stays tender and slow. Dean pants, stifles an incoherent whimper.

"Bite me." He growls. "C'mon."

"No." Sam nuzzles his pulse point. "I figured it out, Dean. No more pain."

Dean squirms and buries his nose in Sam's hair in frustration. He takes a deep breath of Sam's scent, of the fragrance of his soft locks, and develops an instant addiction. He inhales again.

Sam snickers. "Are you sniffing me?"

"Just trying to figure out why you smell like a girl." Dean teases, even though Sam doesn't remind him of a girl in any way. He smells pure and earthy, but not like flowers or a bucket of fruit.

He gets a grope in retaliation and jerks up in surprise, grunting. Sam groans – he's not one to keep his voice down – and paws at Dean's waistband with frenzied hands. "Can I…? Dean, can I -"

"Okay." Dean might as well just pass out already.

He hears the sound of his own zipper, then there's a sharp tug on his clothes and Sam's hand wraps around him like a warm vice, slides up and down with minute twists over the head. It's kinda dry and nothing all that special in technique, but it's Sam, and Dean is tired and loose - it's not gonna last long.

Sam turns his head until his mouth is pressed against Dean's ear and his breath blows warmth into the shell of it. "Is this okay?" He asks, voice trembling. His thumb swipes circles around the tip, smears the tiny droplets of wetness around, and Dean shudders through a wave of pleasure that gets close to make him moan. "Do you like it?"

"Yeah." Dean replies and nudges Sam into a kiss. Sam hums into it and grinds down, squeezing tighter, and Dean spills over his own stomach a split second later, eyelashes brushing Sam's cheek as his eyes fall shut and welcome the darkness of blissful oblivion.

In his defense, Dean has been driving most of yesterday. It's not his fault that he left Sam hanging last night, it's the fault of Sam's awful driving skills. If he had been been able to treat Baby with the care she deserves, he would have received… something. A very sloppy something, probably, 'cause Dean was ready to keel over at that point. He still feels a little bad about it though when he wakes up in the morning, especially because Sam is propped up on the other bed and fucking around on his phone, face bored. He's not wearing the purple dog shirt anymore and his hair is wet - he must have taken a shower. Dean yawns and stretches, rolls out of his bed and into Sam's in one (smooth, not awkward) move. Sam ignores him, even after he wraps his arms around his waist. No matter, Dean's not gonna apologise. No way.

"What you got there?" He mumbles into Sam's stomach instead, trying to strike up a conversation. "Sa-am, what are you reading?"

"A travel guide."

"Of what?"

Sam pinches his ear. "Pittsburgh, you dimwit."

"Why?"

"Because we are spending a day here?" He says, as if staying the night obviously meant going sightseeing. "There's this botanical garden –"

Dean bolts upright. "Whoa, whoa, stop right there. This isn't a freakin' school trip. We're here for a concert."

"And you wanna spend all day lazing around in a rundown motel room? No, thanks. I'll check out at least one of these places."

"You're not going anywhere alone."

Sam's eyes threaten to roll out of his head. "Oh geez. I'm almost eighteen, I can take care of myself."

"Like hell you can."

"If you don't stop treating me like a kid, I'll grab my stuff and start hitchhiking back home."

Fair enough. If they keep doing… what they are doing, Dean has to bring some equality into it. Has to let go of some of the control. (Not that he is going to admit it.) He leans away to rummage around in his bag, then drops his find into Sam's lap.

"What the… A fake ID?" Sam gapes and pushes Dean's grinning face away. "Get away from me, you smell."

Dean kisses him anyway. "Figured you'd like to drink something stronger than root beer and OJ."

"Cool." Sam grins, mollified. Then - "Gene Simmons? Dean, I'm gonna get busted after five minutes."

Dean waves it off. "That's a good ID. Ash made it himself."

"Stoner Ash?"

"Do we know another Ash?"

"Great."

"Don't be a mood killer, Sammy. It'll be awesome."

It is awesome until Sam gets wasted on beer. It's ridiculous, annoying and absolutely unmanageable standing in a crowd that's intent on starting a mosh pit. The show's not yet over, Ozzy's still screaming their heads off on stage, but Sam has already tried to kiss him three times and people are taking notice. Dean has to manhandle him out of the arena long before the concert gets to "Paranoid" and it feels like a total waste of time that they have come here. It's a good thing that at least Sam is a pliant drunk. He giggles when Dean pushes him into the motel room and spreads his arms wide, as if embracing the tacky decor and taking delight in it.

"We should keep trav'ling. 'S great." He slurs and sheds his coat, hat and sweater for Dean to pick them up. Then upends the artificial flowers on the nightstand.

Dean grabs him by the scruff before he can unplug the bedside lamp and electrify himself. "Sit the fuck down."

Sam pouts. "You're bossy."

"And you are a goddamn lightweight."

"I'm 190 pounds."

Unbelievable, how the smartest people turn into the stupidest drunks. Dean shakes his head and kneels by Sam's feet to take off his boots. As he unlaces them, a wave of nostalgia smacks him in the chest and makes him falter. He used to do this every single day until Sammy learnt how to do it himself. It took so long to teach him how to tie his shoelaces properly… He always ended up tripping over them and scraping his little knees.

"You're so pretty." Sam whispers above him with disturbing reverence, jostling him out of his thoughts. Dean snorts. "Don't you believe me?"

"Sure I do. Chicks are dropping their panties left and right around me." What a joke. Dean isn't pretty - he's just not a wuss, that's all. Girls dig confidence and a man who knows what he wants. If you have a passable mug to go with that, you can charm anyone around your finger. That's all there is to Dean's game, nothing else.

Sam doesn't think so. He launches himself forward and tackles Dean to the floor, kissing the living daylights out of him. Dean wrenches his mouth away and moans in pain. "You pierced my gut with your elbow."

"Sorry." Sam mumbles and wriggles into a comfortable position to sleep.

"Dude, I'm not a pillow." No answer.

It's quite a feat to get him back up on the bed, but once he's there, head buried in his actual pillow and hands curled around the bars of the bedframe, Dean deems it safe to leave him alone until he takes a much-needed shower. He's barely out of the stall, though, when he hears a tentative call from the other side of the door. He curses and runs back to the beds in nothing but a pair of boxers. "What."

Sam sniffs under the blanket he must have burrowed under. Then slowly, bit by bit, uncovers his right hand.

"Did you just break the bed?" Dean exclaims.

"It was loose already…" Sam mutters and resurfaces to glare at the wooden bar he tore out of the headboard.

Shit. Alright, Dean's gonna put it back, pretend nothing's wrong and hopefully no one's gonna notice it before they pass the city borders. He goes over and tosses the stick on the bedside table, tucking Sam back in. He only realises the fault in that move when Sam's hand darts out and gets a hold of his underwear, yanking down. The fabric strains, ready to rip at the seams. Dean yelps and sits on the mattress before he's forced to stroll around buck naked.

"Sleep with me, Dean!" Sam whines, no doubt meaning it in the literal sense. "You said we could cuddle."

"That was yesterday." Dean grumbles and attempts to extract himself but forgets his bare arms and the scratches he never wanted his brother to see.

Sam, of course, stays just as perceptive of Dean's shit as ever. "What's that?"

"Nothing."

"You hurt yourself again?"

"Sam…"

"You said you'd stop!"

"I didn't say anything. You just assumed." Dean replies mournfully, but Sam doesn't seem to give a fuck about his reasoning. He grabs Dean's wrist and strokes a fingertip over the wounded skin, then blinks, does it again.

"I don't like them." He frowns, reaches out and picks up the highlighter pen lying on top of his textbook on the bedside table.

"What are you doing?" Dean asks, watching shaky neon-pink lines appear between the straight stripes of his scratches. It's the longest time before Sam manages a lucid answer.

"Drawing." He says and presents Dean's own forearm to him with a smile, like he did when they were little and fake tattoos were the shit at their group home. "Do you like my road, Dean?"

"Is that a road?"

"Yeah." He points at a shapeless blot. "That's us."

"Uh-huh. Your hair got a little outta hand there."

His words dissipate like smoke, the joke goes straight over Sam's head. He cradles his drawing to his chest and curls up in a fetal position, essentially trapping Dean's arm under himself. "You have to find help. Promise." He pleads, unshed wetness glistening in his eyes.

Dean purses his lips and lies down next to him, holding Sam's hazy gaze. "Come on…"

"Promise me, Dean. Find a Cas in Palo Alto."

Dean's mouth quirks. "A Cas?"

"You have to promise."

He's not going to remember this tomorrow, Dean tells himself. He just needs to calm down and go to sleep. In the morning, it won't have any significance if Dean tells him what he wants to hear. He just needs to hear it. "I promise." Dean says and kisses his forehead.

Something gives way in Sam's eyes and he settles at last, mind slipping away. "Thanks. Thank you. You are…" Something that Dean doesn't learn that night.

He waits until today shifts into tomorrow before he sneaks into the bathroom and scrubs the looping highway and Sam's shapeless Chevy away, not thinking of promises he's not going to keep. He's completely ineffectual at both.