Road's End
Title: Road's End
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam and Dean
Word Count: 3115
Summary: Settling down was Sam's idea.
Warning: SHMOOOOOP OH MY GOD, THE SHMOOP.
Notes: For oddishly. Here is your requested curtainfic, m'dear <3 Betaed by the wonderful alwaysenduphere.
[mood music]
"Maybe we should get curtains," Sam says one afternoon, standing back to examine the windows with an overly thoughtful expression.
Dean snorts from the kitchen; he doesn’t even look up from unpacking the groceries. "We don’t need curtains."
"I was thinking maybe something lacy."
Dean mutters, "I’ll give you lacy."
"That doesn’t even make sense," Sam protests, attempting to sound annoyed, but his lips twitch into a smile, giving him away. He turns back to the window stroking his chin in thought, and he looks absolutely ridiculous. Dean is about to point this out when Sam finally says, "Blinds then."
"Seriously." Dean lifts his head, dropping Sam’s girly salad dressing to the counter. "What is this sudden obsession with window dressings?"
"I just don’t feel comfortable knowing the entire world could pass by the house-"
"Cottage," Dean grumbles miserably, as he has at every opportunity since Sam found the For Rent ad in the newspaper - two bedroom, single-story house in a picturesque little town in Nebraska called Road’s End (and what the fuck, Sam, could you be more literal?).
Sam’s definitely biting back a grin now. Dean swears if Sam laughs, he’ll punch him in the nose.
"The entire world could pass by the house," he overemphasizes the word, and his shoulders shake with bitten-back laughter and yeah, Dean is definitely going to punch him in the nose, "and see me naked."
"Kinky. And the street isn’t large enough for the entire world."
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, "You’re missing the point entirely."
Dean arches an eyebrow. "You’re saying I’m wrong?"
"Dude!"
"Fine!" Dean throws up his hands, because this ridiculous conversation has gone on entirely too long already. (Not because he wants to keep that smile on Sam’s face. Not at all.) "Buy curtains, Jesus. You’re paying for them. Curtains," he grumbles, shaking his head and walking back towards the kitchen, and Sam’s mouth pulls into a wide grin.
Dean doesn’t punch him in the nose, but it’s a close thing.
--
Settling down was Sam’s idea.
Traveling down an open road with nothing but the sun and the wind at their back - no Leviathans, no Lucifer; just Sam, the Impala, and blacktop that stretched for endless miles - and Sam turned to him and said, "Maybe we should stop for a while."
Dean looked at his brother then, at that easy, relaxed grin, and he couldn’t help but agree.
--
Sam buys little packets of seeds the next time he goes into town. He stops at the local greenhouse, asks the woman behind the counter a million and one questions, then comes home and plants them in the back garden.
Dean watches all of this with amusement, standing in the doorway with a beer in his hand.
"Put your back into it," Dean quips, and Sam turns with his little shovel still the dirt, his expression caught somewhere between annoyance and barely restrained amusement. He’s wearing pink, floral printed work gloves (because they were the only ones left in the store and because Dean dared him to). He has a smudge of dirt down the center of his nose, and his hair is sticking up in all sorts of directions, and he looks so ridiculous, Dean can’t help but burst into laughter.
He isn’t laughing anymore, however, when Sam harvests his freakin’ vegetables and makes Dean eat a salad with every meal.
--
"We should go meet the neighbors," Sam says out of the blue, and Dean raises his arm to wipe the sweat from his forehead with a raised brow. Mid-summer morning and the sun is already hot enough to fry an egg. Or just his skin.
"Sam, when do we ever go out of our way to talk to the neighbors?"
Sam shrugs. "It’s polite."
"It’s weird, weirdo."
"That was the best you could come up with?"
Dean opens his mouth then closes it several times before settling on a grumpily mumbled, "Shut up."
Sam snorts, shaking his head at the bowl of vegetables he’s currently covering with saran wrap at the counter. "You don’t have to come with me."
"Yes I do. They could be axe murderers or shapeshifters or yuppies."
"Dean."
"Are you bringing them vegetables?" Sam hunches his shoulders up and doesn’t answer and holy shit, he’s blushing like some virginal, teenage girl on her first date. "Oh my God, you’re bringing them vegetables. It’s like we’re not even related."
Sam huffs, ducking his head as he grabs the bowl off of the counter. He hip-checks Dean harder than absolutely necessary as he opens the back door.
"Be nice," Sam hisses and Dean shoves him out. He knows how to behave himself, thank you very much.
The closest neighbor is a little old lady who lives just down the road. Dean sees her sometimes on his way into town, sitting on the porch with a cat in her lap or out in the garden with a pair of shears, pruning her roses. She always smiles and waves when he passes by, and Dean always waves back, feeling vaguely ridiculous.
Her name is Mrs. Beetee, for Christ’s sake; she’s all smiles when Sam offers her the bowl of vegetables, and she actually invites them in for fresh-baked apple pie. Dean never thought this happened outside of Stepford novels or fifties television shows, and it’s all too ridiculous for him to even bother commenting on, so instead, he bumps his shoulder against Sam’s and says, "I take back what I said, neighbors are awesome."
Sam rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning.
--
Not long after that, Sam starts working at Road’s End’s single, tiny library a few times a week. He’s there all the time anyway, the giant geek.
Amelia, the cute librarian behind the counter, gives Dean dirty looks every time he comes in with a cup of coffee or lunch for Sam, like he’s defiling the books just by looking at them. She smiles at Sam, though, and it doesn’t escape Dean’s notice.
"Dude," he says, elbowing Sam in the ribs, and Sam scowls, glancing up from the pile of books he’s sorting to follow Dean’s gaze.
Sam raises his eyes to the ceiling like he’s praying for patience - a pointless endeavor on multiple levels - and shakes his head.
"No, Dean." His voice is the long-suffering one of little brothers everywhere, the one that never fails to make Dean grin impishly and try to annoy him even further.
"Why not? Your mood might improve if you got laid every once in a while."
"She wouldn’t be interested."
"Why, are you too much of a man for her?" Dean wiggles his eyebrows and leers.
"Exactly." Sam smirks, crossing his arms while Dean takes that in, waiting for it process.
Dean opens his mouth, then pauses, letting Sam’s meaning sink in fully. The joke is all too easy to make, but what kind of brother would he be if he passed up such an open opportunity? "Well with all of that floppy hair, I can see how she might mistake you for a woman."
Sam rolls his eyes, not even bothering to satisfy him with a response as he takes one of the piles of books towards the stacks.
He purposely leaves a newspaper open on the book cart, so when Dean glances over, he sees the Wanted ad for the local bakery at the center of the page - Cashier for hire, occasional assistance in the kitchen, no experience required. Dean shakes his head, ripping out the ad and shoving it into his pocket. His brother is anything but subtle.
Dean waves to Sam and goes down to the bakery anyway. Not like he has anything better to do.
--
Sam never says anything about the ad. He nods encouragingly when Dean tells him he got the job, then starts meeting Dean at the bakery when he gets out of work. He sits at the counter, drinks a cup of coffee, and speaks to the owner’s daughter, Mariah, completely oblivious to her blatant flirting.
The first time it happens, Dean’s boss pulls him to the side with his eyebrows raised. "Should I worry?" he asks, and Dean laughs, even though he knows it’s the absolute wrong reaction.
"Mark, she’s about as subtle as getting smashed in the head with a two-by-four, and even then, Sam probably wouldn’t know what was happening. He’s harmless, I promise."
Mark raises his eyebrows, not fully convinced.
"I don’t think Mark likes me," Sam says to Dean one night in the car, and Dean shakes his head, bemused.
"That’s because he’s waiting for you to defile his daughter."
Sam spits his coffee all over the dashboard, staring at Dean in shock.
"You’re cleaning that up," Dean mutters, because yeah, okay, he sort of asked for it. Totally worth Sam’s reaction, though.
"She’s seventeen!"
Dean rolls his eyes, cutting the engine as they pull into the driveway. "Oh, come on, Sam, tell me you didn’t know."
Sam makes a strangled sound. Then, he narrows his eyes.
Dean isn’t sure what exactly happens over the next twenty-four hours, but when Sam takes his usual seat at the counter during Dean’s next shift, Mariah gives him the glare of death, fills his cup and walks away without a word.
Mark’s grin is absolutely diabolical. He gives Sam a refill on the house.
--
Every so often, Dean leaves for work and finds a dog in the front yard.
Becky lives across the street from Mrs. Beetee and her ridiculously delicious pie. She has identical twin girls she’s been raising on her own and has never read any of Chuck Shurley’s Supernatural novels. Thank Christ.
"Sorry, Dean," she says, slightly out of breath from jogging up the driveway, "Ruby slipped her leash again."
The fact that the dog’s name is Ruby will never, ever cease to be a source of amusement, which is probably why he lets himself get slobbered all over without complaint.
"We should get a dog," Sam says as Becky clips the leash back to Ruby’s collar and leaves with a quick wave over her shoulder.
Dean pushes himself up, brushing the dog hair off of his pants. "Neither of us are here enough."
"We could make it work."
Dean knows Sam’s thinking about the dog he always wanted, knows Sam knows he’s thinking of Flagstaff, and when Sam drops his eyes, shoving his hands in his pockets and shuffling his feet, Dean sighs. That face, Jesus, he feels like he kicked a puppy.
"What about a cat?" Dean suggests, and Sam raises his head, practically beaming.
Just because adopting the damn cat is Dean’s idea doesn’t mean he has to be happy about the arrangement. He bitches about the cost of cat food, the smell of the litter box, and the fur all over every damn available surface, but when Sam finds him curled up asleep with Ariel on the couch, he doesn’t comment.
The resulting picture is Sam’s desktop wallpaper for weeks, though.
--
Dean wakes one morning to find snow on the ground, piled high enough that he would probably sink in to his knees. The snow is still falling in fluffy, wet flakes as Dean reaches up to pet Ariel where she lays staring out the window. He’s about to go pour his first cup of coffee when the sensation of cold and wet slides down his neck. He squawks a wordless protest, sending Ariel running while he jumps back and shakes out the back of his shirt. He jumps again when his bare feet slide in the ice cold, melted snow on the linoleum floor. He raises his head to find Sam cackling, turning and bolting for the yard.
"Bitch!" Dean shouts, and pulls on his boots and a jacket in no short order, chasing Sam out into the snow. Sam has a head start, but he isn’t trying all that hard to escape, and Dean easily overthrows him, tackling him into a snowdrift. He shoves snow down the front of Sam’s jacket, dragging more through his hair. Sam yelps, admitting defeat, but he’s flushed and grinning as he falls back into the snow.
He flaps his arms and legs, then holds out his hand. Dean rolls his eyes, helping him up so he doesn’t ruin his stupid snow angel.
Dean mutters, "Dork," and ruffles Sam’s hair, and he can’t remember ever being happier.
--
It isn’t until one day when Dean’s having the usual at the diner that he realizes he’s been in Road’s End long enough to have a usual. He’s actually reading the newspaper for the news, waving to Becky’s girls giggling at the counter, and it dawns on him that he and Sam haven’t been hunting in almost a year.
He figures the world owes them these months of uninterrupted quiet, but dread still settles like a weight into the pit of his stomach, and he leaves without finishing his breakfast.
When Sam gets home from work, Dean casually suggests a (fake) possible case. Sam unsuccessfully attempts to distract him with a slice of Mrs. Beete’s pie.
He finishes eating it anyway, because anything is better with pie. "I know what you’re doing," Dean says in between bites, and Sam doesn’t freeze, not really. He stops moving each part of his body slowly until he’s completely still and silent.
"What do you mean?" Sam asks, but his eyes skitter everywhere except to his brother.
Dean rolls his eyes because for all of the things Sam has hidden from him over the years, there are moments when he’s still the world’s most terrible liar. "You know, if you wanted to stick around here, all you had to do was ask."
Sam bites his lip, pushing his plate away, his pie only half-eaten. Dean helps himself to the other half, because why waste perfectly good pie?
He swallows the last bite before Sam breaks the silence. He plucks at non-existent lint on his shirt and speaks without looking at Dean. "If I just asked, I didn’t think you would tell me the truth."
And that’s the bitch of it, because as much as Dean wants to argue, Sam has a point - Sam could have asked, and Dean would have answered with his usual brand of sarcasm. Sam would have rolled his eyes, told him to forget he asked anything, and they would have been back on the road in less than a week, regardless of what either of them actually wanted.
Sam finally meets Dean’s eyes. "You’ve been happy, Dean, happier than I’ve seen you since -" Lucifer, Hell, maybe as far back as the damn yellow-eyed demon, but Sam doesn’t need to say any of this aloud. The words hang in the air behind them, weighted down like a lead balloon. Sam swallows and shrugs his shoulders. "I just didn’t want to ruin it."
The pie suddenly tastes sour in his mouth. He shoves his chair back, and the legs skid on the floor, making Sam wince. "No," Dean shakes his head furiously, "No way, Sam, we are not doing this. Either we’re both happy or neither of us are. You sacrificed your damn soul to save the world. You aren’t sacrificing anything else for me."
"That’s not what I - " Sam cuts himself off, like he isn’t sure what to say, and it’s such a rarity for Sam to be without words that Dean isn’t sure what to do. His hands clench and unclench at his side, and he’s so clearly frustrated that Dean’s older brother instincts kick into high gear. He’s about to tell Sam to forget he ever said anything when his face suddenly relaxes, hands settling comfortably at his sides.
"When was the last time you had a drink?" The question comes out of the blue, and Dean wonders what the hell this has to do with anything, why Sam is choosing now to harp on Dean’s drinking when he just willingly instigated his version of a chick flick moment.
He’s about to rip Sam a new one when he realizes he doesn’t remember. He slowly went from drinking with his coffee in the morning to a couple of beers scattered throughout the day, to one with dinner, if that.
He doesn’t say any of this to Sam though; Sam nods, because he already knows. "When was the last time you even thought about leaving, never mind hunting? Because I haven’t in weeks, since the first morning I woke up without having a nightmare."
The first time Dean slept the whole night through without interruption, he woke to find Sam still fast asleep in bed, limbs sprawled out, face mashed into the pillow. The sounds of Sam startling awake with a stifled scream hadn’t woken Dean out of a dead sleep for the first time in months, and he absolutely did not cry with relief.
Dean asks, "What do you want, Sam?" and Sam huffs a breath, like the answer should be obvious.
"I want you to be happy. And I’m happy where you are, hunting or not hunting - I made peace with our unhealthy codependence a long time ago, and you said it, Dean. It’s both of us or neither of us. So what’s it gonna be?"
Dean stares at him, his giant, pain-in-the-ass, selfless little brother, and doesn’t even need to think about his answer.
He doesn’t say anything, though, just smiles so widely, he thinks his cheeks might crack with the effort. Dean’s actions have always spoken louder than his words.
--
The next day, Dean gets Sam a dog.
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam and Dean
Word Count: 3115
Summary: Settling down was Sam's idea.
Warning: SHMOOOOOP OH MY GOD, THE SHMOOP.
Notes: For oddishly. Here is your requested curtainfic, m'dear <3 Betaed by the wonderful alwaysenduphere.
[mood music]
"Maybe we should get curtains," Sam says one afternoon, standing back to examine the windows with an overly thoughtful expression.
Dean snorts from the kitchen; he doesn’t even look up from unpacking the groceries. "We don’t need curtains."
"I was thinking maybe something lacy."
Dean mutters, "I’ll give you lacy."
"That doesn’t even make sense," Sam protests, attempting to sound annoyed, but his lips twitch into a smile, giving him away. He turns back to the window stroking his chin in thought, and he looks absolutely ridiculous. Dean is about to point this out when Sam finally says, "Blinds then."
"Seriously." Dean lifts his head, dropping Sam’s girly salad dressing to the counter. "What is this sudden obsession with window dressings?"
"I just don’t feel comfortable knowing the entire world could pass by the house-"
"Cottage," Dean grumbles miserably, as he has at every opportunity since Sam found the For Rent ad in the newspaper - two bedroom, single-story house in a picturesque little town in Nebraska called Road’s End (and what the fuck, Sam, could you be more literal?).
Sam’s definitely biting back a grin now. Dean swears if Sam laughs, he’ll punch him in the nose.
"The entire world could pass by the house," he overemphasizes the word, and his shoulders shake with bitten-back laughter and yeah, Dean is definitely going to punch him in the nose, "and see me naked."
"Kinky. And the street isn’t large enough for the entire world."
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, "You’re missing the point entirely."
Dean arches an eyebrow. "You’re saying I’m wrong?"
"Dude!"
"Fine!" Dean throws up his hands, because this ridiculous conversation has gone on entirely too long already. (Not because he wants to keep that smile on Sam’s face. Not at all.) "Buy curtains, Jesus. You’re paying for them. Curtains," he grumbles, shaking his head and walking back towards the kitchen, and Sam’s mouth pulls into a wide grin.
Dean doesn’t punch him in the nose, but it’s a close thing.
--
Settling down was Sam’s idea.
Traveling down an open road with nothing but the sun and the wind at their back - no Leviathans, no Lucifer; just Sam, the Impala, and blacktop that stretched for endless miles - and Sam turned to him and said, "Maybe we should stop for a while."
Dean looked at his brother then, at that easy, relaxed grin, and he couldn’t help but agree.
--
Sam buys little packets of seeds the next time he goes into town. He stops at the local greenhouse, asks the woman behind the counter a million and one questions, then comes home and plants them in the back garden.
Dean watches all of this with amusement, standing in the doorway with a beer in his hand.
"Put your back into it," Dean quips, and Sam turns with his little shovel still the dirt, his expression caught somewhere between annoyance and barely restrained amusement. He’s wearing pink, floral printed work gloves (because they were the only ones left in the store and because Dean dared him to). He has a smudge of dirt down the center of his nose, and his hair is sticking up in all sorts of directions, and he looks so ridiculous, Dean can’t help but burst into laughter.
He isn’t laughing anymore, however, when Sam harvests his freakin’ vegetables and makes Dean eat a salad with every meal.
--
"We should go meet the neighbors," Sam says out of the blue, and Dean raises his arm to wipe the sweat from his forehead with a raised brow. Mid-summer morning and the sun is already hot enough to fry an egg. Or just his skin.
"Sam, when do we ever go out of our way to talk to the neighbors?"
Sam shrugs. "It’s polite."
"It’s weird, weirdo."
"That was the best you could come up with?"
Dean opens his mouth then closes it several times before settling on a grumpily mumbled, "Shut up."
Sam snorts, shaking his head at the bowl of vegetables he’s currently covering with saran wrap at the counter. "You don’t have to come with me."
"Yes I do. They could be axe murderers or shapeshifters or yuppies."
"Dean."
"Are you bringing them vegetables?" Sam hunches his shoulders up and doesn’t answer and holy shit, he’s blushing like some virginal, teenage girl on her first date. "Oh my God, you’re bringing them vegetables. It’s like we’re not even related."
Sam huffs, ducking his head as he grabs the bowl off of the counter. He hip-checks Dean harder than absolutely necessary as he opens the back door.
"Be nice," Sam hisses and Dean shoves him out. He knows how to behave himself, thank you very much.
The closest neighbor is a little old lady who lives just down the road. Dean sees her sometimes on his way into town, sitting on the porch with a cat in her lap or out in the garden with a pair of shears, pruning her roses. She always smiles and waves when he passes by, and Dean always waves back, feeling vaguely ridiculous.
Her name is Mrs. Beetee, for Christ’s sake; she’s all smiles when Sam offers her the bowl of vegetables, and she actually invites them in for fresh-baked apple pie. Dean never thought this happened outside of Stepford novels or fifties television shows, and it’s all too ridiculous for him to even bother commenting on, so instead, he bumps his shoulder against Sam’s and says, "I take back what I said, neighbors are awesome."
Sam rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning.
--
Not long after that, Sam starts working at Road’s End’s single, tiny library a few times a week. He’s there all the time anyway, the giant geek.
Amelia, the cute librarian behind the counter, gives Dean dirty looks every time he comes in with a cup of coffee or lunch for Sam, like he’s defiling the books just by looking at them. She smiles at Sam, though, and it doesn’t escape Dean’s notice.
"Dude," he says, elbowing Sam in the ribs, and Sam scowls, glancing up from the pile of books he’s sorting to follow Dean’s gaze.
Sam raises his eyes to the ceiling like he’s praying for patience - a pointless endeavor on multiple levels - and shakes his head.
"No, Dean." His voice is the long-suffering one of little brothers everywhere, the one that never fails to make Dean grin impishly and try to annoy him even further.
"Why not? Your mood might improve if you got laid every once in a while."
"She wouldn’t be interested."
"Why, are you too much of a man for her?" Dean wiggles his eyebrows and leers.
"Exactly." Sam smirks, crossing his arms while Dean takes that in, waiting for it process.
Dean opens his mouth, then pauses, letting Sam’s meaning sink in fully. The joke is all too easy to make, but what kind of brother would he be if he passed up such an open opportunity? "Well with all of that floppy hair, I can see how she might mistake you for a woman."
Sam rolls his eyes, not even bothering to satisfy him with a response as he takes one of the piles of books towards the stacks.
He purposely leaves a newspaper open on the book cart, so when Dean glances over, he sees the Wanted ad for the local bakery at the center of the page - Cashier for hire, occasional assistance in the kitchen, no experience required. Dean shakes his head, ripping out the ad and shoving it into his pocket. His brother is anything but subtle.
Dean waves to Sam and goes down to the bakery anyway. Not like he has anything better to do.
--
Sam never says anything about the ad. He nods encouragingly when Dean tells him he got the job, then starts meeting Dean at the bakery when he gets out of work. He sits at the counter, drinks a cup of coffee, and speaks to the owner’s daughter, Mariah, completely oblivious to her blatant flirting.
The first time it happens, Dean’s boss pulls him to the side with his eyebrows raised. "Should I worry?" he asks, and Dean laughs, even though he knows it’s the absolute wrong reaction.
"Mark, she’s about as subtle as getting smashed in the head with a two-by-four, and even then, Sam probably wouldn’t know what was happening. He’s harmless, I promise."
Mark raises his eyebrows, not fully convinced.
"I don’t think Mark likes me," Sam says to Dean one night in the car, and Dean shakes his head, bemused.
"That’s because he’s waiting for you to defile his daughter."
Sam spits his coffee all over the dashboard, staring at Dean in shock.
"You’re cleaning that up," Dean mutters, because yeah, okay, he sort of asked for it. Totally worth Sam’s reaction, though.
"She’s seventeen!"
Dean rolls his eyes, cutting the engine as they pull into the driveway. "Oh, come on, Sam, tell me you didn’t know."
Sam makes a strangled sound. Then, he narrows his eyes.
Dean isn’t sure what exactly happens over the next twenty-four hours, but when Sam takes his usual seat at the counter during Dean’s next shift, Mariah gives him the glare of death, fills his cup and walks away without a word.
Mark’s grin is absolutely diabolical. He gives Sam a refill on the house.
--
Every so often, Dean leaves for work and finds a dog in the front yard.
Becky lives across the street from Mrs. Beetee and her ridiculously delicious pie. She has identical twin girls she’s been raising on her own and has never read any of Chuck Shurley’s Supernatural novels. Thank Christ.
"Sorry, Dean," she says, slightly out of breath from jogging up the driveway, "Ruby slipped her leash again."
The fact that the dog’s name is Ruby will never, ever cease to be a source of amusement, which is probably why he lets himself get slobbered all over without complaint.
"We should get a dog," Sam says as Becky clips the leash back to Ruby’s collar and leaves with a quick wave over her shoulder.
Dean pushes himself up, brushing the dog hair off of his pants. "Neither of us are here enough."
"We could make it work."
Dean knows Sam’s thinking about the dog he always wanted, knows Sam knows he’s thinking of Flagstaff, and when Sam drops his eyes, shoving his hands in his pockets and shuffling his feet, Dean sighs. That face, Jesus, he feels like he kicked a puppy.
"What about a cat?" Dean suggests, and Sam raises his head, practically beaming.
Just because adopting the damn cat is Dean’s idea doesn’t mean he has to be happy about the arrangement. He bitches about the cost of cat food, the smell of the litter box, and the fur all over every damn available surface, but when Sam finds him curled up asleep with Ariel on the couch, he doesn’t comment.
The resulting picture is Sam’s desktop wallpaper for weeks, though.
--
Dean wakes one morning to find snow on the ground, piled high enough that he would probably sink in to his knees. The snow is still falling in fluffy, wet flakes as Dean reaches up to pet Ariel where she lays staring out the window. He’s about to go pour his first cup of coffee when the sensation of cold and wet slides down his neck. He squawks a wordless protest, sending Ariel running while he jumps back and shakes out the back of his shirt. He jumps again when his bare feet slide in the ice cold, melted snow on the linoleum floor. He raises his head to find Sam cackling, turning and bolting for the yard.
"Bitch!" Dean shouts, and pulls on his boots and a jacket in no short order, chasing Sam out into the snow. Sam has a head start, but he isn’t trying all that hard to escape, and Dean easily overthrows him, tackling him into a snowdrift. He shoves snow down the front of Sam’s jacket, dragging more through his hair. Sam yelps, admitting defeat, but he’s flushed and grinning as he falls back into the snow.
He flaps his arms and legs, then holds out his hand. Dean rolls his eyes, helping him up so he doesn’t ruin his stupid snow angel.
Dean mutters, "Dork," and ruffles Sam’s hair, and he can’t remember ever being happier.
--
It isn’t until one day when Dean’s having the usual at the diner that he realizes he’s been in Road’s End long enough to have a usual. He’s actually reading the newspaper for the news, waving to Becky’s girls giggling at the counter, and it dawns on him that he and Sam haven’t been hunting in almost a year.
He figures the world owes them these months of uninterrupted quiet, but dread still settles like a weight into the pit of his stomach, and he leaves without finishing his breakfast.
When Sam gets home from work, Dean casually suggests a (fake) possible case. Sam unsuccessfully attempts to distract him with a slice of Mrs. Beete’s pie.
He finishes eating it anyway, because anything is better with pie. "I know what you’re doing," Dean says in between bites, and Sam doesn’t freeze, not really. He stops moving each part of his body slowly until he’s completely still and silent.
"What do you mean?" Sam asks, but his eyes skitter everywhere except to his brother.
Dean rolls his eyes because for all of the things Sam has hidden from him over the years, there are moments when he’s still the world’s most terrible liar. "You know, if you wanted to stick around here, all you had to do was ask."
Sam bites his lip, pushing his plate away, his pie only half-eaten. Dean helps himself to the other half, because why waste perfectly good pie?
He swallows the last bite before Sam breaks the silence. He plucks at non-existent lint on his shirt and speaks without looking at Dean. "If I just asked, I didn’t think you would tell me the truth."
And that’s the bitch of it, because as much as Dean wants to argue, Sam has a point - Sam could have asked, and Dean would have answered with his usual brand of sarcasm. Sam would have rolled his eyes, told him to forget he asked anything, and they would have been back on the road in less than a week, regardless of what either of them actually wanted.
Sam finally meets Dean’s eyes. "You’ve been happy, Dean, happier than I’ve seen you since -" Lucifer, Hell, maybe as far back as the damn yellow-eyed demon, but Sam doesn’t need to say any of this aloud. The words hang in the air behind them, weighted down like a lead balloon. Sam swallows and shrugs his shoulders. "I just didn’t want to ruin it."
The pie suddenly tastes sour in his mouth. He shoves his chair back, and the legs skid on the floor, making Sam wince. "No," Dean shakes his head furiously, "No way, Sam, we are not doing this. Either we’re both happy or neither of us are. You sacrificed your damn soul to save the world. You aren’t sacrificing anything else for me."
"That’s not what I - " Sam cuts himself off, like he isn’t sure what to say, and it’s such a rarity for Sam to be without words that Dean isn’t sure what to do. His hands clench and unclench at his side, and he’s so clearly frustrated that Dean’s older brother instincts kick into high gear. He’s about to tell Sam to forget he ever said anything when his face suddenly relaxes, hands settling comfortably at his sides.
"When was the last time you had a drink?" The question comes out of the blue, and Dean wonders what the hell this has to do with anything, why Sam is choosing now to harp on Dean’s drinking when he just willingly instigated his version of a chick flick moment.
He’s about to rip Sam a new one when he realizes he doesn’t remember. He slowly went from drinking with his coffee in the morning to a couple of beers scattered throughout the day, to one with dinner, if that.
He doesn’t say any of this to Sam though; Sam nods, because he already knows. "When was the last time you even thought about leaving, never mind hunting? Because I haven’t in weeks, since the first morning I woke up without having a nightmare."
The first time Dean slept the whole night through without interruption, he woke to find Sam still fast asleep in bed, limbs sprawled out, face mashed into the pillow. The sounds of Sam startling awake with a stifled scream hadn’t woken Dean out of a dead sleep for the first time in months, and he absolutely did not cry with relief.
Dean asks, "What do you want, Sam?" and Sam huffs a breath, like the answer should be obvious.
"I want you to be happy. And I’m happy where you are, hunting or not hunting - I made peace with our unhealthy codependence a long time ago, and you said it, Dean. It’s both of us or neither of us. So what’s it gonna be?"
Dean stares at him, his giant, pain-in-the-ass, selfless little brother, and doesn’t even need to think about his answer.
He doesn’t say anything, though, just smiles so widely, he thinks his cheeks might crack with the effort. Dean’s actions have always spoken louder than his words.
--
The next day, Dean gets Sam a dog.
