Title: Two Is The Loneliest Number (Since The Number One)
Wordcount: 5688
Rating: NC-17 (explicit sex)
Summary: The thing about fire is that eventually it stops burning. The thing about Winchesters is that they've got plenty where that came from. Set in a season 2 shaped place.

~*~*~

Dean twists in the backseat, makes shuddering little noises he'd bite back if he were awake. He's naked but for bandages, swathes of white across skin smeared black. Sam hasn't had time to clean more than the wounds.

He pulls over in Pennsylvania, in Amish country. Dean whines, high and soft, shifting, eyes darting behind his lashes. Sam has been driving for twelve hours, Sam has been driving for six states, Dean has been. Dean is. He's not good.

Sam changes the bandages on his wrists, cloth stained and dried, lets it soak in holy water just to peel them off. Checks his legs, peels back the edges of long white strips and has to turn away into the bushes for a minute. When he turns back, there's two young men a dozen feet down the road, watching quietly. He didn't hear them coming. His head is slowly fading out, white noise, frantic static hiss of deandeandeandeandean.

He carries Dean in his arms to their farm, lays Dean at their hearth and wants to sob at how he turns away from the warm fire. The father turns Sam away, sits him down and washes his hands in cool clear water from the handpump. The man is solemn and grey, and Sam wants to trust him. Dean is always in sight, bandages changed and injuries cleaned. There are three little girls trying to peer in at them, scolded away by their mother. Zu ihrem Schlaffzimmer, mach' schnell. She murmurs in old words of giving a bed to Dean, Jonas can sleep on the hearth, and Sam doesn't protest. He's going to take what he can from these people, take what Dean needs, and it's wrong and he doesn't care.

***

Dean sleeps restlessly, without waking. Sam holds vigil. The farm is silent in the way only the wild green earth can be, noisy in the way only places without pavement can be; the crickets and frog sing fit to burst, raucous and wide awake. A wild cat calls, somewhere distant. The embers of the banked fire crackle like dry paper, settle now and then. And Dean kicks at the blankets, sweating in the chill night.

"Daddy," Dean whispers, hoarse and tiny and broken, consonants rounded in sleep like an infant's first words. Sam finds his cell phone, tucked into a nearly-forgotten pocket, dials and holds it to Dean's sleeping ear. The furrow in Dean's brow eases at the sound of their father's voice, worn into too-familiar grooves. When it beeps, Sam puts the phone to his own ear. Just holds it for a moment.

"I love you," he finally says. It's small, and the words don't mean what he wants them to. "I just... you know that. I love you."

He hangs up. Dean sleeps. Quiet, quiet, hush.

***

The father's name is John and Sam can't look at him anymore. The sons' names are Jacob and Josiah, and they sit with Sam sometimes. When he brings Dean out into the grass, sits with Dean's head in his lap, soaks up the sun and the green and the sky. He knows better than to think he can stay like that all day, think he can eat and not work, so he only uses what he can make himself in a day. He helps a bit with the planting to replace what he takes, mostly apples from the wild orchard; Dean eats a lot of applesauce, a lot of crushed antibiotics. Sam is never sure if Dean ever wakes, just spoons a little bit at a time and strokes just under his chin until he swallows.

They leave before Dean talks, before he opens his eyes and means it, before he ever really wakes at all. Sam had gone out to the outhouse, and when he came back John was standing over Dean. It made Sam's blood curdle in the worst way, that still and broad-shouldered silhouette looming over his brother's bed. Neither of them said a word, they said nothing, but Sam drove off the next day, Dean in the backseat with a quilt curled around him. It's beautiful. It'll get bloodstained sometime in the next month. Sam would put money on it.

He drives to Missouri, all in one go, caffeine and sugar singing dervishes in his blood. Cassie gasps when she sees him, goes stone-cold silent when she sees Dean, pale and sweaty against black upholstery and patchwork quilt. She doesn't ask, just holds the door open and lets him settle Dean on the couch. He goes back out for the first aid kit, fresh bandages, knows Dean at least is safe with her. He considers that and opens the trunk, pulls out the .40 his father gave him when he was eight and afraid of the dark. She doesn't want it, but a hard glance at Dean makes her take it. He shows her how to make it safe, how to chamber a round, how to drop the clip when it's empty. There's a small holster for it, belt-clip, easily hidden under the back of her shirt. He makes her draw it two dozen times before he's satisfied it won't catch, finally goes to Dean and strokes a hand across his fever-sweaty brow.

His wrists are infected. His back, too, in places, raw scrapes gone red and white. His legs are still clean, but those are what sends Cassie into the kitchen, clutching the sink and breathing hard before she can come back and help. They clean him, head to toe, with fresh sponges she gets from under the sink. She sets a pot to boil, cleans the old bandages in it, murmurs about talking to someone at the hospital. Sam sits on the floor with his back against the couch and closes his eyes. He can rest here. She'll keep an eye on Dean, she loves Dean. He can...

***

He wakes when a hand lands on his head, clumsy and fumbling. He twists to check on Dean, as automatic as breathing, winces at the pull in his back. It's dark, but Cassie let him stay sitting on the floor, as close to Dean as possible. Dean's still sleeping, just shifting to his side, no change.

Dean's eyes flutter open.

Sam's on his knees, fumbles for Dean's face, and Dean looks right at him. Follows his finger, even, lets him fumble for a pulse just to be sure. Sam buries his face against Dean's shoulder, doesn't realize he's crying until Dean curls fingers into his hair and holds him tight.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispers, afraid to break the silence but needing to have it said. "I'm sorry, Dean, I wasn't - I didn't get there fast enough, I'm so sorry."

"Shh," Dean breathes, and Sam just cries against him, everything pouring out. He's been so scared, worried, alone - but Dean's awake now. It's going to be okay.

Sam gets him water, finds pudding in the fridge, bread. Tries not to stare at him. Tucks the quilt around him even though it doesn't need it, because he can't give Dean clothes yet, they'd dig into his back. Dean can't get comfortable as it is, even after Sam gives him Demerol from their last hospital stay. Dean makes horrible high noises every time he moves, can't stop shifting, so Sam gently presses the side of his neck, holds the artery shut in quicktime one-two, and Dean's eyes flutter closed. It hurts to put his brother to sleep again, but he needs to heal. And Sam can't stand seeing him in pain.

***

Sam keeps expecting Dean to turn to him and hiss accusingly, "Where were you?" He flinches from it every time he's near Dean, ashamed at himself, because he would deserve it. He should have been there. He should have been there before - before they -

Cassie's given them a bed, doesn't say anything about how they curl up together. Sam can't help it, needs the comfort of being next to his brother. Dean needs it too, he thinks, has to guess by the way Dean always looks nervous when Sam comes into a room and relaxes just after; the way he reaches for Sam the moment they lie down to bed; the way he'll wake from a sound sleep if Sam tries to ease away. It's almost too much sometimes, the trust. He doesn't deserve it, should never have left even though Dean told him to.

"It's not your fault," is what Dean finally whispers, his hand in Sam's hair in the middle of the night. It catches Sam by surprise, right between the ribs, digs the breath out of him like a gut-knife. "It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have convinced them I was telling the truth. They wouldn't see it."

"I'm sorry," Sam says, because there's nothing more he can say.

The next night he wakes when Dean slides out of bed, slow and careful, trying not to wake Sam or hurt himself. He pretends to still be asleep, breathing slow and easy. Dean fumbles through Sam's jacket, clattering keys and buttons. The phone glows sharp blue, lighting Dean's drawn face. He stares at it for a moment, then sinks onto the edge of the bed and lifts it to his ear.

Their father's voice is not what Sam was really expecting, and he almost flinches. The words don't matter anymore, just the voice, rough and strong. It beeps.

"Dad," Dean rasps, slow and tired and hurting and Sam's chest aches at the sound of him. "Dad, I messed up. I messed up bad. Sammy's safe, but I. I thought they'd understand, see that the girl was the one killing all those women, but. I was wrong, Dad." His voice cracks, speeds up, desperate. "They tied me up, Dad, kept me for a few days in a cellar, and then they dragged me out in broad daylight and tied me to a stake, and they started putting down kindling, Dad, I was so scared and I didn't know where Sammy was, if they had him too, and they - they -"

Sam can't stand it anymore, sits up and puts his arms around Dean, leans up against his bark-raw back and whispers just behind the ear the phone is pressed against, "I came and got you, Dean. I've got you."

He drags Dean back onto the bed, gently smothering feeble protests, and the hand pushing against his chest eases until it's just touching, just feeling his heart. Trembling. Sam holds him close, blue glow of the phone forgotten between them, lays kisses on Dean's brow like benediction until Dean tilts his face up, salty-wet and desperate, so desperate.

Sam kisses him, kisses his brother, slow and safe and strong until Dean gentles, until the rasp of his breath eases, until they're both shaking with feelings they dare not name. Sam wants, wants to touch, wants to kiss Dean all over until he's whole again, until the burns on his legs are no more, until the desperate scrapes of his back are healed, until his wrists don't betray his fear, until he's no longer Sam's Joan of Arc. He doesn't. Just kisses, easy and soft and warm, until they fall into clouded sleep.

***

He wakes to Cassie walking down the hall, sharp clack of clunky heels ringing out morning, wake up, gotta get to work. She'll be gone for nine hours, stop for groceries after work, talk around and pick up leads. She's gonna try to find out what happened to Dean, she can't help herself, curiosity in her blood like hunting is in theirs.

He's not even aware of frowning until Dean's lips smooth out his forehead, the bridge of his nose, brush across his eyelids butterfly-light. He catches Dean's mouth with his eyes still shut, doesn't want to see his brother's face in this. It isn't right. It's what they have, together.

"Come on," Dean finally murmurs, Sam's hand across the side of his face, hiding him away. "Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey."

Sam has to laugh at the old rhyme - it makes him think of autumns long gone, Dean shaking him awake for school. They never grew up together; he's always just been catching up.

"Don't think I can cook eggs, Dean," he murmurs happily, and when he finally opens his eyes it's to Dean, always Dean, eyebrow quirked and lips curved. "I always break them. Pancakes might work, though."

"Pancakes are good," Dean agrees, but then he leans their foreheads together, puts a hand on Sam's up-tilted hip and says in his low serious voice, "You with me, Sammy?"

"Always," Sam says, and it's not shameful if he has to bite his lip to keep it from trembling, if Dean licks the small hurt away. They rise to greet the day.

There's pancakes and milk and scrambled eggs, although Dean has to help lick the mixing bowl clean. He gets batter on his nose, licks it off with a curled stretch of tongue and an eyebrow waggle. Sam tries not to laugh, mouth curled down into a smile, gives up and snickers.

He'll be alright. Dean will be alright. Sam would give anything to be sure of that.

***

When Cassie gets home, Sam's relieved of duty. He knows he shouldn't think of it like that, like taking care of Dean is something he's duty-bound to do, but he doesn't know any other way of expressing you take care of him while I take a break. Changing of the guards, day shift to night watch.

Sam goes for long walks, smiles and nods at passersby, finds himself down by the swamp. He sits and stares at it, waiting for it to rise up against him, but it's just a swamp. Stinking of death and decomposition, but that's the natural order of things. It almost smells like home, rot and decay, but it lacks the sulphur smell of matches and gasoline. Somewhere behind him there's noise and living, traffic and shopping and all things ordinary. Sam shakes with the desire to go, to blend in with the crowds and smile inoffensively and laugh bright and easy at simple things. He doesn't. He sits by the swamp and watches a blue heron stalk slow and graceful. It should have some special meaning, something about life going on. It doesn't. It's just a bird.

He goes back to Dean.

***

Cassie catches him on his way out one afternoon - he always waits for her to get home, because Dean should never ever be left alone to his own devices. She's changed lightning-fast into her jogging outfit, but she doesn't run, just walks slow and casual at his side. He finds himself shortening his stride like he does sometimes for Dean, but Dean is inside the house taking advantage of not having a babysitter and probably breaking open all his scabs at that very moment. Sam doesn't dare go back to check on him, though; Cassie has that look, that one that says she'll rip you to pieces if you contradict her. So he keeps walking.

"Hurricane Creek, Mississippi," she says finally, and fire licks up Sam's spine like a brand. He knows he's giving himself away in the automatic clench of his fists, the way his eyes dart around the street looking for a threat. He really, really wants to go back to Dean now. She gives him a knowing look, steps steady and unhurried, keeping him there next to her as they head toward the swamp. "Little town, barely a spot on the map. It burned down ten days before you showed up on my doorstep, char right up to the town limits." She stops there, waiting for a response. He doesn't give one.

"Sam," she finally says, and Sam thinks that might be the first time she's ever said his name. Dean eclipses him. "Sam, what happened?"

"Nothing," he says tightly, nails digging into his palms. They're down by the swamp now, staring down at where the truck had risen from the muck like a bloated corpse. It's the only supernatural activity this town has ever seen, and Sam knows what he has to do. "Listen, Cassie," he says softly, all the anger at that dead village twisting right into fear without pausing, "You two could still work out. This is - he can't go hunting for a while. You could..."

"I'm not going to hold him down," Cassie tells him gently. Sam flinches anyway. He feels like she heard the silent Take care of him for me he'd been trying not to say. "You know him. He'd never be happy in one place."

"He'd be safe here," Sam says, but even he can hear the childish petulance in his voice. He shakes his head. "Even - even if it's just for a little while."

"Maybe for a little while," Cassie finally allows, but he can tell from the way she looks out of the corners of her eyes that this isn't the end of it.

***

Sam comes back from his walk one day to find Dean outside, Cassie's car gone. Dean's waiting for him, sitting on the porch with his hands between his knees, watching him come up the road slow and unsure. He stands in front of Dean, faces him head-on, flushes at the once-over Dean gives him. He doesn't know why his first thought about that look is filthy, searingly hot. He wants to take Dean's hand, pull him to his feet and kiss him slow and sure, but Dean isn't Jess. Dean stands, turns his back to Sam, walks up the steps careful and slow. He doesn't look back for his brother, but he doesn't need to. Sam's right behind him even though his hands are shaking, palms sweaty, heart in his throat.

Dean leads him to their room. Sam's barely aware of the rest of the house, but when Dean steps across that threshold he can't bring himself to follow. Dean finally looks back. "Sammy," he says, soft and urgent, and Sam has to respond to that, has to go to him and brush the backs of their hands together. Dean's the one that links their fingers together, awkward and bony, the one that leans forward and hesitates.

Sam kisses him, but Dean's the one that softens his lips and tilts his head, makes it good. When Dean turns his face away, eyes shut with that intense look he gets when it's too much too soon, Sam sucks in one sharp breath and wants. He pushes Dean back until there's no farther to go, nips at his lips and licks them open until Dean gasps and his hips rock forward, eyes squeezed shut. Sam can't help it, he wants so badly, just presses Dean back against the wall and takes. Holds him still when he tries to turn away, when he tries to breathe without breathing in Sam.

Dean makes small noises, tiny things Sam would never hear if he weren't so close, if they weren't gasped into his mouth. It's nothing he ever expected from his brother, this softness, and he thinks this vast possessive warmth must be how Dean feels about Sam. He cups one hand against Dean's cheek, a thumb digging into the soft place just over Dean's hip, presses so close there's nowhere left to stand. Dean sets a hand on his shoulder, just resting, even as he glides his tongue over Sam's parted lips. Sam's the one to pull back, now, away from the fierce intensity that Dean's mouth brings. He mouths a line of open kisses down Dean's shoulder, teeth and lips and tongue, until there's cloth in the way; then he thinks of Dean naked and it's a whole new burst of unexpected heat, the desire to just touch, skin to skin, sweaty and fragile.

He takes a step back, pulls Dean with him, and it's like Dean read his mind - already pulling at their shirts, nimble fingers tugging at the buttons of their pants, thick heavy silver ring rubbing against Sam's stomach. Sam bites back a groan, muscles jumping uselessly. Dean grins, quick lighting flash of teeth, jerks the layers of Sam's shirts back off his shoulders, locking his arms behind his back in a thick tangle of fabric. Sam surges forward anyway, presses Dean back against the wall with mouth and knee and chest. Dean's fumbling at the back of his waistband, low groan drawn out between their mouths in shared panted breaths, and Sam can't fucking take it anymore. He drops to his knees, open jeans riding low on his hips, bites at Dean's zipper until shaking fingers work it open for him, brush against his cheeks almost tenderly. Dean's bare, flushed and hard, dark brown curls smelling of sharp, clean musk, of Dean. Sam kisses the tender skin of thigh and groin, nose pressed close, caught up in a well of - fuck, everything he's ever felt for Dean, about Dean, helpless and needing.

Dean's fingers slide against the back of his neck, lift loose sweat-damp curls, just cupping and holding gently even though his dick is jerking against Sam's cheek insistently. Sam can't deny him this, so he presses lips and tongue one last time to the thin curls of Dean's thigh, peeled-back denim dragging against the corner of his mouth. He pulls back, doesn't look up at Dean's face, licks his lips and breathes deep and thinks, There was never any going back from this.

Dean's dick is hot on his tongue, long wet stripe from base to tip. They're both panting, Dean's fingers hot and heavy on the back of his neck, urging him closer. He licks, feels out the shape of his brother's cock with his mouth, almost forgets about actually sucking until Dean whispers, "Sam, Sammy, Sam - ah - Sammy..."

He sucks as much of Dean as he can, chokes and tries to pull back even as Dean's hand clenches hard on his neck, holds him in - he swallows hard, keeping what's in his stomach down, and Dean stutters a groan and his hand goes loose and willing. Sam pulls off and coughs, swallows again. Dean makes a little noise, worried, so Sam leans his forehead against Dean's solid gut. He takes it slower, now, gradual push in and out, slick-wet in increments. Dean's so damn hard it has to hurt, solid and thick, spine curled down around Sam. His knees start to give, sliding him down the wall, so Sam finally wriggles his arms free and holds his hips, holds him up, moans at the feel of Dean's body under his hands. Fuck, it feels good, the arch of his hips, the planes of his body sharper here. Dean groans back, and something in the flesh cradled between his palms and in his mouth makes Sam think, He's about to come. He pulls back until only his lips are wrapped around Dean's cock and sucks, hard, tongue darting and sliding, and Dean makes a noise between gritted teeth and comes in Sam's mouth. The first taste is horrible, and the second worse; his mouth is full and Dean makes another almost pained noise, so he swallows and swallows and it's the most awkward, unromantic moment of his life. Dean gasps a breath like he'd forgotten how, coming down, so Sam pulls back and grimaces at the last of the aftertaste, swallows quick to keep it down. Awkward. Dean kisses the crown of his head thoughtlessly, quick breath rustling his hair. Sam waits. He doesn't quite know what he's waiting for.

Dean finally shifts, finds his feet. Sam leans back to give him room, looks up at him without really thinking of anything, but Dean's eyes go stormy and he cups the side of Sam's face, thumb tugging at his sore lips. Sam considers that, flicks the tip of his tongue out against Dean's skin. Fingers tighten against his jaw, almost pleasurable against the ache, guide him up onto his feet. Dean pulls him down for a kiss, and that's better, the taste of Dean peeling away the bitter-sour film on his tongue. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, now that Dean can stand; they fall uselessly at his sides. The only place they're touching is the kiss, Dean's fingers tight on his jaw.

They kiss and kiss, tongues sliding against each other, messy and messier until it's just desperate, until Sam can't help shifting closer. He needs to touch Dean, to be touched by Dean, and it's the first time he thinks that maybe this is as much for himself as it is for Dean. A hand touches the rise of his hip, startling and cold, and Sam shudders and whines. Dean smiles against his mouth, soft curl of lip, pushes him back and back until he trips onto their bed. Dean follows, elbows and knees and grace, and they laugh even though it hurts. Pain means it's real. Sam catches Dean under the arms, drags him up to lie across Sam so they can kiss again, playful now and biting. Teeth clack together, fingers dig into jaws, and then Dean spreads his legs and plants his knees next to Sam's hips and grinds so hard it hurts. Sam's spine arches, head falling back and mouth falling open, trying to gasp against the sharp pleasurepain of Dean. Coming is a surprise, catches him off-guard and with his eyes wide open, staring up at Dean's laughing smile.

***

When Sam gets up, Dean is gone but he's left blood behind on the sheets.

He finds Dean just when the panic starts to get to be too much, so he just stops when he sees Dean's feet sticking out from under the car. Just stops and sways, lets the building tension drain out and leave him shaking. Dean pushes out and sits up before Sam is really ready to face him, sees him standing there with god-knows-what on his face. They don't say anything, but Sam shoves his hands in his pockets and shuffles over. Dean has this look on his face, his Brother Look, the one that's not quite disapproving or disappointed or relieved, but is somehow all those things at once. Sam hates how Dean can make him feel like a kid in an instant, one look all the reminder he needs to go back a decade and a half.

"Left the oil filter on the porch," Dean says gruffly, so Sam gets it for him, crouches down to watch him fuss with his baby's underbelly. His hands are dark with grease and oil, nimble and strong as he tightens nuts and bolts and caps. Sam hands him whatever he needs mostly by guesswork, anticipating where his hands will go next. It's easy to settle into this well-worn groove, comforting and stable. Sam almost forgets why he was so intent on finding Dean, why he came out so scared he could barely see.

There's no easy way to start this conversation, so he jumps in. "You bled."

"Yeah, 'bout that time of the month, Sammy," Dean says irritably. "I'm fine."

"Really." Sam should know better than to push, he really should. He's never been able to stop. "Stand up."

"Busy," Dean says sharply, fussing with something just to stay under the car, so Sam grabs his ankles.

"Don't make me pull," he says darkly. He wouldn't, wouldn't risk tearing Dean's back open again, but this is just another game of chicken, raising the stakes until they're too high to risk.

"Fuck you," Dean says, but after he's kicked away Sam's hands he wriggles out and stands, hands out from his body to display himself. "Fine, what? What the hell do you want, Sammy?"

Sam doesn't bother to reply, just yanks back Dean's sleeves to check his wrists, spins him around and shoves him against the hood to jerk up his shirt, and there's the culprit - Dean's back is cracked open again, new scabs forming over old ones, tracing out the places in between new scars. Dean swears and tries to push him away, but Sam grabs the back of his neck and shoves him down against the black paint. He's gripping too hard, has to be hurting Dean, doesn't quite care.

"You stubborn bastard," he snarls, kicking Dean's feet apart when he tries to get leverage, "of course you have to prove you're fine, of course you have to fuck it up worse just to say it never happened. It happened. We fucked, Dean, and it hasn't changed a goddamn thing."

"Shut your mouth," Dean starts, voice rough with pain and the shame of coming up on the bottom of the heap, but Sam gives him a shake and snarls, "I fucking hate this, Dean. I'm sick of pretending nothing ever happened, acting like it's always a goddamn game."

"You think this is a joke?" Dean snaps, disbelieving even with his face pressed against his car, and that's not it. That's not the goddamned half of it. "You've gotta be kidding me. Yeah, it happened, but I sure as hell wasn't looking for it, Sam. Don't you even try to put this one on me. I didn't wake up one bright morning and decide, 'hey, today's a great day to fuck my brother.'"

"I didn't," Sam hisses, except he thinks he did, and the scales in his head must be weighted in Dean's favor because he tips right over from angry to hurting. He tries again, a little weaker, "It wasn't... Dean, I swear it wasn't like that." It sounds like a lie even in his own ears.

"Hell," Dean says. It's elaboration and curse and resignation all at once. Sam's hand is soft against his neck now, and he shifts, turning and sliding until he's sitting on the hood, legs bracketing Sam's hips. He doesn't say anything, doesn't do anything but look at Sam. He doesn't have to. Sam shifts closer, needing Dean to reassure him that he's wrong, that the world is safe, that Dean will take care of him - but he knows he's right, and Dean isn't saying anything, so when Sam's face finally presses against Dean's shoulder he's not entirely surprised to feel the first sob tear out of his chest.

"Hey," Dean says softly, like he always used to when Sam was little, but he doesn't follow it with "everything's fine, buddy." He just pulls Sam closer, one arm curling around his head, breaking the world into Us and It. "Hey," he says again, low and commanding, and Sam knows what it means. It means everything. Dean doesn't say anything else, not even when Sam can't pull away, just clinging and sniffling into Dean's shirt.

Cassie comes home and they're still standing there, leaning against each other like the world's come down around their ears. Sam jerks away when he hears gravel popping under tires, wipes his eyes quickly. Dean hops off the car carefully, slow like he's not sure his legs will hold him up. He dusts himself off, doesn't straighten his shirt where it's still a little scrunched up in back, just nods hello to Cassie as she gets out. He doesn't smile.

***

The bed is too small sometimes. It's not this night - just the right size to hold them close together, blankets piled high around their shoulders. Dean's ankle is trapped between the arches of Sam's feet. Dean's breath is dewy on his throat, soft hush of in and out. He seems bonier in the night, like the muscle and weight melts off him with the sunset. One elbow is sharp against Sam's ribs, fingers curled under Dean's ear. Sam just watches him.

Sam didn't expect to be the one chafing at normalcy. None of this fits, lying in bed with his brother at night, throwing words like fists during the day. He almost misses motel rooms, lumpy smelly beds and packets of instant coffee. Nostalgia, must be. He hates all those things, hates being unbound and in constant motion, but this stillness is unnatural, bodies meant to be in motion screeching to a violent stop. Dean still limps, new skin tender and easily broken, but the scabs are peeling from his back and wrists. He's healing, but he shows no sign of wanting to leave. Dean is content. Sam is jealous.

Sam almost doesn't notice when Dean's eyes slit open, faint glint of awareness beneath his lashes. He's not sure how long Dean has been watching him back. Dean's fingers flex slowly against his side where his shirt twisted up, skin against skin. The response is instant, goosebumps shivering along his arms, muscles jumping, body twisting closer to Dean's warmth. Impulsively, Sam brushes their mouths together, soft and tasting of thick sleep. Dean smiles, more sleep-heavy than Sam has ever seen him, happy. It makes Sam think of Freebird, of rock and the road.

"We should go," Sam whispers before he can think better of it. He shouldn't push Dean to leave this place, not when Dean is so happy.

"'Kay," Dean murmurs, and his smile doesn't fade. He shifts just enough to kiss Sam again, and then his eyes drift shut.

Sam feels like he can breathe again.

***

Dean conveniently forgets the guns in their room, runs back to get them and leaves Sam alone with Cassie. She has that look, the intent need to know that makes Sam wince in anticipation. She helps him fold up the quilt, brushing her fingers against a fresh coffee stain that didn't quite come out in the wash.

"It's been a little while," she says softly, gently, and she glances up at his face when she says it.

"It has," he says, and he manages it without a flinch. "It'll be a while yet, I think."

She smiles, bright and beautiful. He can see why Dean loves her. "Don't forget to write."

They leave with the music rattling the side mirrors. They roar down the road without looking back.