25

It wasn't planned. When Sam think back on it, it didn't make him feel happy, or satisfied, it was just a kiss that came naturally—you couldn't even call it a kiss, just a temporary stay of lips on the forehead, and at time he wasn't even sure that it was Dean.

He still remembered what he was thinking back then—that is if he was actually sane enough to be thinking—he though fuck it all, he's gonna take him for Dean. He would never expect in his entire life to see a living, breathing Dean again, even if that's a shapeshifter it's fine, anything's fine as long as he could touch and hold on to. He needed to seize this opportunity, to stay close to him, to talk to him, to breathe the air that Dean was in. As soon as he saw him he didn't know anymore how he himself managed to stay alive in those time he was gone.

The man with short hair and green eyes smiled, he said: "Hiya, Sammy." That tone he couldn't be more familiar with.

Sam didn't have the time to say anything, he went around the interrogation table directly to in front of Dean, and bent down to press his lips on his brother's forehead. Dean's close-cropped hair tickled Sam's chin, he didn't move and even tilted his head up slightly to press himself closer to his little brother, he could feel Sam's hot breath on top of his head.

As he was about to speak Sam covered his mouth with his hands. No one could take this moment away, Sam decided that this person beneath him right now was Dean, he thought he would have a lot to say, but he couldn't think of a better opening that silence.

When Sam replayed this surveillance video he was struck by how short that kiss lasted, less than a second, only fourteen frames in the saved footage. But at that time he felt he had fallen into eternity. He cut these fourteen frames and saved it separately.

The lawyer walking towards him was Lindsey, Dean felt lighter in his heart than he had for many years.

Lindsey brought him burgers, as he bargained with her he deliberated silently how long a sentence would be suitable, and more importantly, would be enough for Sam to calm down. When his coke was almost finished, he made up his mind. Dean handed over his real name to make sure he could stay inside this little cage for a long time, he thought it was drier in here than that semi-basement he rented, at least the window was facing south.

He spilled it all clean, except that he deliberately obscured the existence of a partner, when the name "Sam Winchester" was brought up he showed the genuine emotion of grief. Henriksen said sorry to him, his little brother's death was written all there in the files, so in the following interrogation Dean was the only villain doing evil in the story.

Dean looked down at his handcuffs, he could break free from them in less than thirty seconds, but he didn't have to do so. He sat back and only answered when he was questioned, acting too regular to a degree of being unnatural.

There was a question he didn't quite catch, Dean hesitated whether to ask Henriksen to repeat it or not, all of a sudden he just really don't want to open his mouth. After waiting for a long time and still hearing no answer, Henriksen cleared his throat impatiently, he looked up and saw that Dean's lips were quivering and tears were falling down.

This is a bit peculiar. Henriksen had to admit his discovery of his prisoner's beauty, not knowing what he had asked wrong, he therefor became careful with his manners. He was afraid of breaking him, apparently Dean could now be broken by anything. Henriksen decided to arrange a mental test for him as soon as possible.

"Sorry, I was thinking about my dead little brother."

Henriksen hesitated for a moment: "He's in a better place now."

"Yeah."

Dean smiled, thick tears were pushed out of his eyes.

Dean no longer fought against Sam's will. He felt guilty about Sam, for countless times he had stubbornly tried to tie them together regardless of his brother's feelings. He's gonna act like an adult now. He would no longer trap Sam beside him for his own interest. He even regretted taking Sam away from Stanford in the first place. He had been the one who's selfish all along, and he assumed arrogantly that at least deep down in Sam's heart he thought so too. He was wrong. Dean had realized his weakness so now he gave in, he gave up. He admitted that he was no more than a coward, he no longer pretended to be brave. The only thing that reassured him a little was that Sam was strong enough.

The next day Amelia knocked on the door of the guest room, she had spent the whole night awake and all her things were packed now. Sam on the other hand seemed refreshed and energetic, he said with a untroubled tone: "You stay here, I've got place to go to."

Amelia took off her ring and handed to him, Sam didn't take it, "I don't need this." She threw the ring into the drawer.

Sam quickly packed a few clothes, just those flannel shirts he had bought with Dean and a suit. He then searched the guest room all over again carefully and took all the things Dean had left behind. Finally, he pulled out a large black bag from the deep of the closet. Amelia heard the sound of metal clattering.

"So, goodbye."

"Goodbye, Sam."

They bid each other goodbye in quite a polite and friendly way. Sam found where Dean Smith lived according to the address Henriksen had given him. Dean had the lease to this place renewed, Sam was not surprised at all. There was no garaged, he drove around the neighborhood for quite a while before he finally found a suitable place to park the Impala.

He pushed the door open, immediately the depressing and thick smell had him choked and coughing, it took Sam all morning to dust that tiny room clean. The window was high, leaving almost no angle for sunlight to enter, Sam wiped them clean so that what little light left could shine onto the opposite door frame. A single bed, a closet, and a fridge were crammed into the room, and the fullest thing in here was the trashcan. Sam hung the clothes he brought with him in the closet, he had wanted to throw away Dean's old clothes but hesitated as his hand touched the fabric: they were here by Dean's side when he himself wasn't, if he thought about things in this way he was what he wanted to throw away most in this room.

The fridge was empty apart from the two beers inside, whose date of production marked last December. He opened a bottle and sat down on Dean's bed, there was nowhere else to sit in here. He was facing the door, and he just stared at that little patch of window-shaped dim light. He put his hand on the pillow to prop himself up, and he felt something underneath.

It was a diary, kind of like the one dad had. Sam opened it, there was no Dean's writing in it but instead was full of newspaper clippings about Sam Wesson, his big brother sure had his share of hobbies that were popular back in the eighties. All the lawsuits he had been part of were there. He would have tried to be an actor or a model if he had know Dean was getting all his information on the news, Sam secretly thought to himself. There were one picture in which he was caught in front of camera with a look of despise on his face—Dean called that "bitch face"—and on that photo Dean had drawn an enormous bow on his hair, and when he flipped to the next page there was an exactly same photo, a clean an not-drawn-on version. Sam couldn't help but laugh, he could almost imagine the frustrated look on Dean's face when he was done drawing for he had to go and buy a another newspaper. Dean had become a paranoid for him. He felt this sense of joy, for Dean loved him like this, but his loved seemed somewhat too much: Sam had always knew how much Dean loved him. But to his surprise, even to this day he was still feeling further Dean's love for him like it would never end.

There were still a lot of blank pages in the notebook, like he had said Sam Wesson wasn't exactly a real celebrity. Sam put down his beer, took out a pen, tore a page from the notebook, and began writing a letter.