Chapter Text
can two walk together, except they be agreed?
Amos 3:3
Dean likes sunsets.
Maybe that makes him a basic bitch, or some other, more creative insult people would hurl his way if they knew.
Sticks and stones. Won’t change anything.
He looks at his watch, pinches the frayed curtain to pull it away from the window over the kitchenette table where he’s sitting with the last crumbs of his late lunch. The January Michigan sky spreads still and uneventful over their little dump of a motel, and Dean still has a couple of hours to make this day not suck.
“Hey.” He balls up a paper napkin and throws it at Sam, who’s stretched on the bed with a dog-eared book that he should have returned to a library a couple of states back. “Shrimp.”
“Not a shrimp,” Sam mutters, a now automatic response to the old nickname, which, really, doesn’t fit anymore, not after his latest growth spurt put them at the same height.
Fifteen and gangly, Sam’s still growing, and sometimes Dean’s afraid he’s growing away from him.
He shakes the thought out of his head.
Today isn’t going to suck, and that’s that.
“Let’s go back to the park,” he says, drumming his fingers on the sticky table. “Check for any stragglers.”
Sam looks up from his book.
“I just finished getting the last of the melon head’s brains out of my hair.” He shudders, grimacing, one hand flying up to pat down his overgrown bangs.
“You should shave your head,” Dean suggests, “make sure there’s nothing left.”
Sam glares at him and gets back to reading.
Dean pins a crumb on the table with his fingertip, the hard crust poking at the soft pad.
“Dad would want us to be thorough,” he tries.
Sam’s head snaps up.
“Dad’s lights-out,” he hisses, not that it’s news to Dean. Dad often celebrates their successful hunts hard enough to remain unconscious for a day afterward.
“Well, last night was busy.” The gang of melon heads was, objectively, a bitch to track and hunt.
Sam glowers.
“You’re making excuses for him,” he says, unimpressed.
Dean doesn’t want to dive any deeper into this conversation.
“C’mon, Sammy,” he says, swiping the crumb off the table and standing up. “It’ll be an adventure. Just the two of us.” He bites his tongue before he can add anything else and turn this into a chick flick.
Sam’s eyes track him as he goes around the room to collect his cleanest flannel and pull it on. If Dean reads him correctly, he’s going to say yes in about five, four, three, two—
“Fine,” Sam groans, dog-earing the book further and putting it on the nightstand. “Let’s go freeze our balls off.”
Dean pretends to look for something deep in his duffel until he’s sure his goofy smile has gone down.
He loads silver bullets into his clip and checks that Sam does, too, even though they both know there aren’t any stragglers left after their last night’s raid. As far as excuses go, it’s one of Dean’s flimsiest, but Sam goes with it, so that’s okay.
“We’re taking the car,” Sam notes with a flat, semi-judgmental acceptance after Dean sneaks the keys out of Dad’s room. The man doesn’t even stir.
“Of course we’re taking the car.” He grins and pats the Impala’s roof. “Told you: it’s an adventure.”
It’s a little bit more than that, not that he’ll acknowledge it out loud.
The drive from the far edge of Stevensville to the Grand Mere State Park is an almost underwhelmingly short one. Dean would love to go for miles with Sam in the passenger’s seat, bitching about his speeding habits, about his choice of music, about his stinking socks. He’d love more time in his favorite car with his favorite person in general, the two big things that define happiness in Dean’s life, light on good things as it is.
“Why did we stop?” Sam asks, when Dean parks on the shoulder, about half a mile from the park entrance.
“No fee if we go in on foot,” Dean explains, pocketing the keys and climbing out of the car.
Sam heaves a deep, teenage-weary sigh and joins Dean outside.
It’s after five in the evening, and the temperature dips into the mid-twenties, sending them both shivering in their thin jackets. Maybe communing with nature in a wintry Michigan isn’t the best idea when you can’t afford proper coats, but Dean isn’t famous for his good ideas.
They walk down the Grand Mere Road toward the park, past the small parking lot and down the trail, marked by a tiny, wonky sign.
The trail takes them up and down the high sand dunes that make this park less attractive to idle tourists. Snow spreads generously over the sand, mixing with it, creating a half-crunchy, half-slippery texture under their feet. Clumps of spiky brown grass are scattered here and there, with bare trees reaching up into the milky sky.
No one else is in the park, most people sagely preferring the warmth of the indoors or other, more crowd-friendly locations than this almost-wilderness.
It suits Dean perfectly.
They huff and puff their way toward the shore, an under-a-mile walk turned into a feat by the irregular terrain. Sam bitches under his breath, but Dean tunes most of it out, letting his brother’s voice melt into a nice background noise.
“I can’t hear you!” he yells cheerfully when he reaches the last roll of the dune before the descent to the lake.
“I said I hate you!” Sam yells, and Dean laughs, hurrying down the snow-sand mix.
Lake Michigan roils, unsettled, its low, tough waves rippling the dark surface. Across the shore, a strip of broken ice stretches, big translucent chunks piled over each other, and Dean bends to get one. He weighs it in his hand, the cold gripping his bare fingers, before chucking it into the lake, where it lands among the floating bits of ice, rolled up and down by the unquiet water.
Sam joins him, scuffing the tip of his boot at the ice. They don’t say anything for a few long moments, but it’s a comfortable silence, even with Sam’s bitching lurking just under its surface.
“C’mon,” Dean says, stepping backward until he finds a good, snow-free spot to drop onto. “Take a break.”
“I thought we were looking for stragglers,” Sam says, but he plops onto the sand right next to Dean.
“Yeah, sure,” Dean says noncommittally and wraps his arms around himself, shivering against the cold.
The sun slouches down, and the lake looks like it’s straining up to meet it, the ice shards reflecting the thinning light.
A tiny fluffy bird with a black cap flits across the sand, tilting its head at Dean and chirping something cantankerous, like it’s wondering what he’s doing on its beach.
Dean waves a shooing hand at it, but truthfully, he doesn’t have an answer to its unstated question. He’s not following Dad’s orders, he’s not even here on family business. This excursion is pure whim, something he doesn’t quite understand himself.
His life isn’t built for whims. It’s designed around loss and vengeance and hardship, founded on struggle and developed in fights. He exists from one case to another, saving people and hunting things, and in between, in the short stretches of downtime, he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
Clean guns. Sharpen knives. Spar. Practice. Look for a new case.
Not lounge on some lake shore with his little brother in tow, distracting him from his own training.
“Dean?” Sam pokes his bony elbow at him.
“Yeah?”
“There are no stragglers, are there?”
Dean grins at him. Sam huffs and digs his elbow into Dean’s side, but it doesn’t feel as sharp through all the layers.
Maybe this is the wrong thing to do, but Dean is far from the guy who always does the right thing.
He wants this, today, right now. A brief pause, a little slowdown, an evening of nothing but air and water and brother.
Before them, the waves keep rolling, dark and somber, the cold visible on the restless surface. Dean wonders what it would feel like to drown in them.
Sam picks up a stray stick and swipes some of the snow off a patch in front of him. He starts drawing in the sand, movements short and steady.
“Here.” He offers the stick to Dean after he’s done.
Dean looks at Sam’s initials grooving the grayish sand and takes the stick.
“Dumbass,” he says, but he adds his own set to Sam’s.
They’ve been here, and it doesn’t matter that the next snowfall will leave nothing of their mark, turn them into boneless ghosts.
Most of their marks on this world are transient, except for those they carry with them, like their toys stuck in the Impala’s parts, merged with it now, inextricable. The most important, of course, are the marks they make on each other, and Dean doesn’t mean the split lips from each other’s fists.
He hopes he’s got a more permanent trace in his brother’s soft, glowing soul.
As for him, his soul is mostly just a vessel to carry Sam.
The sun dips further, the sparse clouds spreading above the horizon, their bellies starting to pick up a rosy hue. As the day melts, the wind gains, its freezing tongues brushing up Dean’s throat, and he rubs his hands in front of himself, blowing hot air over his fingertips.
Sam squirms in place, like he’s sitting on a hedgehog, his big eyes fixed on his squiggly initials in the sand.
“What?” Dean asks, nudging Sam’s shoulder with his.
“Um.” Sam’s cheeks redden, and it’s not the cold.
He reaches into his jacket, glancing around surreptitiously, as if to check that Dad hasn’t followed them here. Dean’s curiosity gets piqued.
“‘Sup, Sammy?” He knocks his knee against Sam’s. “Got something to show me?”
Sam’s chin jerks and he casts a quick look at Dean, half-mortified.
“Here,” he mumbles, digging something out of his jacket and shoving it at Dean. “Happy birthday.”
Dean doesn’t even look at the thing, just gapes at his little brother who, apparently, remembered.
They don’t celebrate birthdays as such; don’t celebrate much of anything. Life on the road with barely enough money to keep them fed doesn’t lend itself to family traditions or big festivities or other shit normal people get. It’s fine, Dean’s made peace with it a long time ago.
Sometimes you gotta sacrifice something if you intend to keep doing good in the world, and that’s not a thing Dean needs to think about.
“Sammy,” he breathes, wondrous, and Sam shoves the thing in his hand at him again.
Dean looks down at it, fingers closing around smooth, thick glass.
“You like?” Sam asks, sounding five years younger.
“Glencraig?” Dean reads the label on the bottle. “Are you kidding me?”
Sam’s lips tip up and down and up again.
“That’s good stuff, right?”
Dean brushes a reverent hand down the bottle’s neck.
“The best,” he confirms. Dad doesn’t even splurge on Glencraig. “Do I want to know how you got it?”
Sam looks him right in the eye, steady and calm.
“No.”
Dean nods.
“That’s my boy,” he says and ruffles Sam’s hair.
Sam swats at him with a laugh, and Dean sets the bottle on the sand carefully to roughhouse with him a little, limbs tangling with limbs. He gets Sam in a headlock and Sam bites his forearm and their initials get smudged by their jerking feet but it’s okay.
He lets go of Sam, both panting, the cold chased away. Sam’s eyes sparkle green, his cheeks dimple, and Dean wants to hug him to his heart and keep him there, maybe forever.
“Okay.” He clears his throat and focuses on the bottle, twisting the cap off. The sharp tang of alcohol reaches his nostrils, a welcome addition to the clean smell of winter water. “Cheers,” he says and brings the bottle to his lips.
The whiskey slides down his throat like an Olympic bobsleigh team, and he can hear the audience of his brain cells cheering. Cool and smooth, with just the right amount of bite, it lights him up from the inside, soft warmth spreading through his body.
Sam reaches out a hand with a grabby gesture.
“Oh?” Dean makes a show of considering. “Ain’t you a bit young, buddy?”
Sam gives him a withering look from under his lashes.
“You were sprinkling whiskey on my pacifier,” he reminds Dean.
“Don’t say I never did anything nice for you,” Dean says and hands the bottle over.
Sam’s lips wrap around the bottle neck, soft and shining, and Dean loses his breath for a second, hit with the solid reality of this fleeting moment.
He and his brother, sitting on a Lake Michigan shore, celebrating his twentieth birthday, forgotten by their Dad, forsaken by their universe.
No one but the two of them, here or there or anywhere.
It could be sad, to someone else, but to Dean? It’s almost perfect.
They keep sharing the whiskey as the sun shuffles through its descent. Gold spreads across the sky, burning and soothing at the same time, some of it reflected in the ice crystals floating on the waves.
The park whispers its wintry tale around them, empty but not hollow. A bird of prey zips through the air, a sharp straight line of purpose, and Dean tilts his bottle at it in the spirit of camaraderie. Something snaps in the distance, a busy rabbit running over a branch perhaps, searching for food or shelter. The sky blooms with darker tones, as the sun continues on its way down, deep purples splashing over the white-gray canvas.
Dean looks at the bottle in his hand, the light buzz of the alcohol in his blood rendering him sentimental. The thing about this is, it’s not just damn fine whiskey that he’s holding. It’s a declaration, a signed and sealed announcement that Sam’s making.
Prim, solemn, geeky Sam—ready to break a bunch of laws to get Dean something Dean likes, to show Dean that he’s seen, he’s known, he’s loved.
It’s a terribly maudlin thought, but Dean can’t stop thinking it.
“Hey.” He lets his fingers brush Sam’s as he hands the bottle over. “Thank you.”
Sam nods at him, face serious, like he knows what Dean’s thanking him for and he accepts it, with all its weight.
The sun heaves, the colors growing deeper, wilder. Dark, indigo blues join the orchestra of hues, and the ice shards sparkle with crystallized light. For a few minutes, the entire world holds its breath, while the sun, round and impeccable, dives under the water, dragging the day’s worries with it.
As the last of the sun's rays wink out, the true magic starts.
The sky dims, and stars start pricking the darkness with their cheerful twinkling. Dean throws his head back, counting the tiny white dots. The half-moon already hangs in the air, its pale surface starting to illuminate the drowsy world under it.
They finish the whiskey and Dean stuffs the bottle into his jacket, determined to keep it forever, this proof that his little brother walks the world at his side. The cold wind slides down his collar, freezing his back, but he doesn’t want to leave, not yet.
He keeps his eyes on the horizon, where the sun has disappeared, marking the end of another day.
That’s the beauty of sunsets, what Dean looks for when he’s looking for meaning.
Everyone goes to rest. They survived another day, and it feels like relief. Huge, monumental relief. Nothing to fret about anymore, just sit back and relax, be happy that you are still alive, that your loved ones are still alive, that the world still spins.
The colors are pretty, too, but it’s the feeling of giddy satisfaction that Dean chases, that really does it for him.
Beside him, Sam shivers, and Dean peers at him, trying to make out the finer features of his face in the dark.
“You wanna go home, Sammy?” He’s pretty sure Sam’s teeth are chattering, but he lets Sam speak for himself.
“You?” Sam asks, because for today, at least, he’s doing what Dean wants, which is refreshing, not that Dean knows what to do with it.
“I can’t feel my toes,” he says, which is only half a lie.
Sam snorts.
“Yeah.” He stretches his arms out and wiggles his fingers. “I can’t feel my fingers.”
They stay for another half an hour.
It’s the best birthday Dean’s had in his life.
When they get back to the motel, tipsy and full of stupid giggles, Dean thinks they should do this again, next year. Maybe even the next day.
As long as they can watch something beautiful together and do something fun together and exist side by side together, he’ll be content.
*
Sam likes sunrises.
Even when he was just a squirming tiny worm thingy, wrapped in blankets, he’d cry all through the night and calm down at the first ray of sunlight to hit his crib. Dean came to wait for sunrise like the second coming, signaling that he might get some sleep after all.
He knows that Sam wakes up before the sun most of the days, without having to set an alarm clock. It’s just the way Sam’s body works—he rises when the world does, attuned to the natural rhythms of the universe or some such hippie shit.
Dean doesn’t mind until he has to crack his eyes open at ass o’clock and drag himself upright in his bed with the sky still dark outside.
“Oh, hey,” Sam says, popping out of the bathroom, a little bit of shaving cream clinging to his left cheek. “You’re awake.”
Dean groans, highly dissatisfied with this situation.
“You owe me,” he grumbles as he starts pulling himself out of bed.
Sam walks across the room toward his bed.
“You know you don’t have to do it,” he reminds Dean, which is technically true, but only technically.
“I know.” Dean sighs and plants his feet on the floor. Sam stops right next to them, turning around to face Dean. “But you owe me.”
Sam’s face cracks in a smile that makes Dean want to forgive him everything, past, present, or future.
He stands up in one heavy motion and lifts his hand to swipe a thumb over the white dot on Sam’s cheek. Sam blinks, but he doesn’t flinch, his lips parting a little as Dean touches his face. The shaving cream is foamy and warm under Dean’s finger, and he doesn’t need to keep the finger pressed to Sam’s cheek anymore, his task completed, but he can’t take it away. He swipes it over the pinkish skin again, and again, and one more time, and Sam lets him, doesn’t breathe a sigh against it.
Maybe Dean’s still asleep. Maybe Sam is, too.
“Okay,” Dean says, taking his hand away at last. “I’ll, uh—” He jerks his chin at the bathroom and proceeds there before Sam can say anything, good or bad.
Cold water splashed over his face does bring Dean more clarity, and he moves on with his morning routine, fast and efficient.
Spring in Maine is pretty nice, no complaints about that, even when he has to wake up before five in the morning to accompany Sam on his walk. Dad must still be asleep, but he’ll be up soon, eager to continue their search for the particular ghost responsible for the current outbreak of hauntings at Bar Harbor’s Criterion Theater.
Dean’s eager to get on with the hunt, too, but Sam comes first, today or any other day.
He emerges from the bathroom, hair plastered over his forehead, and Sam’s eyes snap toward him, the pink tip of his tongue darting out to wet his lips. Something in that look stops Dean short, something almost as dangerous as a vengeful spirit.
“You seen a ghost, Sammy?” he asks, pulling up a brash smile.
“Bite me,” Sam says, turning away to rummage in his bag, but he’s biting his lip, and his cheeks are flushed.
Dean almost spoils the surprise, shoving the words back down before the right time.
He pulls on his flannel of the day and shrugs on his jacket as he combs his hair back up into its habitual spikes. Sam gets into the full set of his clothes, too, and they slip out of their room, walking briskly across the town toward the pier where their morning adventure is set to start.
The dawn disperses early light through the air, and Dean casts quick glances at Sam’s profile that grows more and more defined. His nose slopes in a soft, pretty line, and his cheeks are still a little round, but his chin is jutted out with all the stubbornness the kid possesses. The bangs that flop over his forehead may be a persistent source of Dean’s nagging, messy and impractical as they are, except they kinda suit Sam, a little rebellious streak that he displays more often than not.
His fights with Dad bring Dean a lot of pain, but they also leave him in awe of Sam’s belligerent independence, his persistent insistence on doing what he wants and, even more strikingly, knowing what he wants.
Dean doesn’t have the same confidence. He’s got Dad to obey and Sam to care for, and he’s got neither time nor energy left for himself. It suits him, it’s his life, he’s got no complaints, except he wonders sometimes, what would happen if he let himself truly want something.
Most likely, it would be something he can’t have, so he doesn’t feel too sorry about not knowing.
His reverie leaves him falling behind a few steps and he hurries after his brother, matching Sam’s long stride. They reach the beginning of the Shore Path and set out on the gravel trail, passing the town’s famous cottage buildings interspersed with lush spring greenery. To their left, islands pop up in the distance, the bay lapping at the shore with a solid calmness.
The peaceful air settles Dean’s roaming thoughts, and he lets himself relax into enjoying the early morning as much as he can enjoy an early morning. Sam’s presence makes it better, like it does with everything, and the surprise weighing down his jacket brings a bit of excitement to replace the grogginess.
Gulls cry to each other, the water plinks, the leaves rustle in the soft wind. The temperature climbs steadily toward the forties, and the narrow path curves around the town with a smooth, tranquil beauty.
All in all, it really is pretty nice.
They find a spot that speaks to them, step off the trail down the slippery stones, and plop down, choosing the less algae-covered ones to park their asses on. Dean wishes for a cup of hot coffee, but he has to satisfy himself with the fresh smell of salt and the promise of a greasy breakfast in a couple of hours when the town wakes up.
Before them, Frenchman Bay stretches vast and marvelous, and Dean longs for summer, for the feel of water buoying his body, the sand between his toes. That’s one of the things he can’t have, so he pushes those thoughts aside and focuses on his brother beside him, the serene look on his face, still so young, so open.
The sun pushes up, a thin sliver of it poking over the water, and Sam’s mouth tips up in a dreamy smile.
“Look,” he says, nudging Dean’s shoulder, and Dean looks, tries to see what Sam sees.
“It’s pretty,” he allows.
A cruise ship languishes a few miles away from the shore, its outline sharpening with the light starting to pour from behind it. It’s another symbol of a life that’s foreign to Dean, leisurely and civilian, maybe not totally free of worries, but certainly not full of life-or-death choices on a daily basis. He drags his eyes away, focusing on the glowing coin of the sun rising in the sky.
It colors the long smudges of clouds with molten gold that mixes with light grays and tender blues, stretching far above, high and boundless. Dean feels small in comparison, a little ant fussing with his ant business under the majesty of something real, something eternal. He’ll pass away, maybe sooner rather than later, but the sky will stay, the sun will keep rising, the days will keep rolling.
On his right, Sam looks like he’s being kissed by the very sun he loves so much, his eyes shining, a complacent smile gracing his features. Dean envies him a little, but mostly, he’s happy that at least someone in their family can be happy, even if it won’t last long.
Well, this time, he can make it last a little longer, or so he hopes.
He digs into his jacket and pulls the surprise out of it, plopping the thick notebook with a neon pink cover onto Sam’s lap.
“Happy birthday,” he says, while Sam snaps his head sideways to look at him, eyes wide.
“You remembered.” Sam looks surprised, and Dean feels a pang of guilt that the kid even entertained the thought that his brother could’ve forgotten.
“Sweet sixteen,” Dean says with a teasing grin, and Sam ducks his head, switching his attention to his present.
“I like pink,” he says, not a trace of embarrassment behind it.
“I know.” Dean claps Sam’s shoulder. “Girl.”
Sam shrugs his hand off with a huff.
“I don’t need to overcompensate,” he says haughtily. “Unlike someone.”
Dean lets it slide. Today, he’s letting things slide.
“For all your feelings,” he says, nodding at the notebook. Sam cuts him a bitchy look, and Dean ruffles his hair. “I overheard your teacher,” he adds, more serious. “He said you write great essays.”
Sam rubs the garish cover with his thumb.
“Maybe.” He isn’t being modest; just wistful, and Dean’s heart breaks a little.
“You sure got stories to tell, Sammy,” he says, trying to lighten the mood. Sam glances at him, and he spreads his arms in the air. “Sam Winchester—Nobel Prize in Literature. Sounds great, huh?”
Sam shakes his head but he’s smiling.
“And completely unrealistic.” He glides a finger up and down the notebook’s spine.
“Never too late to believe in yourself, kiddo,“ Dean offers, throwing his arm around Sam’s shoulders and squeezing.
Sam extricates himself with another huff, but his cheeks are as pink as the notebook.
Dean takes a moment to enjoy his brother’s flustered face before he reaches into his jacket again for the second part of the present.
“Here.” He hands Sam a classic three-color set of Gelly Roll pens. Red, blue, black—solid and no-nonsense. Sam takes it with something reverent about the flex of his fingers. “Any dick you draw on my face, I’m drawing two on yours,” Dean warns.
Sam glances up, his face one-hundred-percent serious.
“Does that mean I can draw dicks on your other parts?”
Of course, Sam would find a loophole in any of Dean’s rules.
“What parts?” Dean asks, and Sam flushes again, eyes dropping to the plastic case in his hand.
“Just… parts,” he mumbles, sounding like he isn’t pleased with himself for starting this conversation.
Dean goes over the list of his body parts in his head, wondering what about them makes them so terrible to his little brother. He decides to shelve it for the time being and clears his throat.
“The answer’s no,” he proclaims, pointing at the pens. “They aren’t FDA-certified anyway.”
“I know,” Sam says petulantly, and things are back to normal.
He places the pens on top of the notebook, regarding them with something like honest wonder. Dean’s a little sad that they are reduced to scrambling for joy in such simple things, but there’s a bright side to it, too—they don’t need much. Mostly, Dean just needs his brother, and he hopes he’s doing enough to make sure Sam’s not wanting for anything.
The sun hovers high over the horizon now, and the magic of the early hours dissipates around them as the day gains strength with everything it entails.
A couple walks past them down the trail, holding hands and laughing at something. The ease with which they carry themselves, their light steps, their easy mirth send Dean thinking about sharing his life like this with someone, finding something steady and stable to rely on. A girl, rosy-cheeked and brave-hearted, someone who won’t shy away from his tics and troubles, a person for him to care for who will care for him, too.
He scolds himself for the nonsense filling his brain and shoos the thought away.
Why would he need anyone? He’s got Sam to hold, to cherish, to look out for.
Nothing and no one will take that away from him, his sacred duty on this planet, his sole task to carry until his last breath.
“Thank you,” Sam says, so raw and heartfelt, Dean doubts for a moment if he’s hearing him right. Sam lifts his eyes, the hazel luminous under the risen sun. “I love it.”
They don’t often tell each other things like this in as many words, and Dean’s stumped as to how to react to this without losing his big-brother dignity. He doesn’t want to dismiss Sam, but to acknowledge how deeply this touches Dean himself feels terrifying, like baring his chest to a werewolf, letting it do what it wants with your heart.
“Yeah,” Dean says, somewhat shaky. “‘Course you do.” He pulls up a cheeky grin. “‘Cause I’m an awesome brother.”
Sam chuckles, hands clasped around his presents.
“You have your moments,” he allows, and Dean’s content to leave it at that.
Sam hides the notebook and the pens in his jacket pockets, patting them as if to make sure they are safe. He reaches down to tug off his sneakers and socks and stands up, his bare toes curling over the stones under them. This is far from a sandy beach, but Sam looks like he’s having the time of his life, walking forward toward the rolling bay.
He steps in, sucking in a breath when his skin touches what must be cold water, but he doesn’t back up.
“C’mon,” he throws over his shoulder, beckoning Dean forward, excitement high in his eyes.
“Pass.” Dean puts his hand up and waves it in front of himself, separating himself from Sam’s crazy.
Sam shrugs and turns back toward the water. He wades in until he’s ankle-deep and stretches his arms high over his head, spreading them wide, like he’s greeting the sun with his entire body. His jacket rides high, and his shirts are already too short for him, and Dean’s gaze catches on a sliver of skin above Sam’s jeans, the visible ridges of his spine, the expanse of solid muscle.
He wants to hug Sam, the urge crashing into his chest like a wrecking ball. It’d be easy, too—stand up, take a few long strides to close the distance, wrap his arms around his brother’s waist, pull him close. No rocket science, no exorcism, no dive into library archives.
Except Dean can’t do that because something about it is so wrong, he feels dirty just thinking about it.
Sam’s too old for hugs now, he probably wouldn’t want Dean pawing at him anyway.
All Dean can do is look at his brother and wonder what goes on in that smart, busy head.
Sam bends down and dips his hands in the water, splashing it over his face. Dean half-expects him to plunge his entire head underwater, but Sam keeps his hair out of the bay’s reach.
When he turns around, his cheeks are glowing and he’s wearing one of the hugest grins Dean’s seen on him. It looks great on him, easy and right. Dean grins in return, leaning back on his hands while Sam makes his way back to his spot next to him.
“How’s the water?” Dean asks, reaching out to swipe the lingering drops off Sam’s temple.
He doesn’t think about it, just does it, but Sam doesn’t seem to mind, so that’s okay.
“Beautiful,” Sam says earnestly and licks his lips that must carry the traces of salt on them.
Dean thinks, briefly, how it would taste.
They sit together as more people pass them, the world around them getting busier. Dean checks his phone but there are no messages from Dad, which means they still have time to dally.
Sam looks downright blissful, face turned to the sun like he’s some plant, replenishing his life force straight from the sunlight. Dean might not get it, but he likes this look on Sam, would fight to keep it there.
“Why do you like sunrises?” he asks, suspending his own preferences and eager to understand.
Sam gestures at the skyscape above them.
“The day’s just starting,” he says, voice ringing with conviction. “Everything is still possible. There’s no past. Time works for you. And you can hope that it might be the best day of your life.”
Dean tries to think in the same vein, but it only makes him sad.
“What if it isn’t?” he asks, maybe crueler than he intends to.
Sam just shrugs without taking his eyes off the sky.
“That’s what the next day is for.”
Dean wants to share his brother’s sunshine optimism, he really does.
Except he’s got an uneasy feeling they’re in for more blood and sweat today with their current case and he can’t wait for the day to end with all of them alive and whole.
Dean likes sunsets. Sam likes sunrises.
What this means is, they are out of sync.