Right Outside
Summary: There was this one time...
Category: Things might most definitely happen, probably, somewhere considering relativity and all that nonsense.
Timeline: Season 37.
Characters: Sam & Dean
Wordcount: 480
Rating: PG
For Hannah, who knew them when they were babes. (Hi, Hannah.)
Dean still liked the bottle, though he didn’t rely on it as much nowadays. And besides, washing away the gray wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be anyway. He could still catch the eye of his prize just as fast - faster, Sam said - when he let his temples show the maturity that his smile betrayed.
As for Sam, his was white now, well mostly, and he could still run his hands through it, long waves of it tossed as haphazard and reckless around his furrowed features as it ever did.
Someday, he would think the jokes about Moby Dick were funny. There was just enough time left for that.
Often, they would sit on the porch at the cabin in that rancid, seedy way that stories about old folks home go and they would talk, or not, about all the things that they’d seen or heard, or said, but they would never really talk much about what they actually did or didn’t do.
What they didn’t do was a short list, one of them might say offhandedly and that was their signal to each other that fifty years (who's counting) was still too soon sometimes. Not that it mattered now.
They would sit there even when a brilliant fall was in fifth gear, as Dean liked to say, and the trees were bare and the dead leaves were running over the tops of the cars, spinning lively cartwheels over the ground and into everything they weren’t supposed to; when the lean, chilly light was barely comfortable in the metal lawn chairs between the hours of one and three in the afternoon.
There were enough of these days left. But there was no story anymore. They were together, and would be for a while longer and then longer again, but there was nothing more to say, nothing new to add. Not now that, hey, there was nothing more to take away.
Sam came from his place, Dean from his. Sometimes the scars would fade as they crossed over into their fated respite, sometimes the wounds took some time to heal. Sometimes they helped each other, sometimes they fought. Mostly they landed together in the middle and tried to forget about the rest.
It was comfortable, the rhythm of it. Nothing to be afraid of and nothing to lose. It was good. It was alright.
It was okay.
No, really.
“Hey,” Sam said one day, and his head rolled slightly in Dean’s direction. Then he was silent.
A smirk evolved through what felt like years across Dean’s face. This hadn’t happened in way too long, and Dean’s pockets only had room for one thing when it did. This was the best part. The metal around his finger was literally the best feeling in the world.
After all, there was still one bullet left on his keys.
Dean smiled. “Hey what.”
Category: Things might most definitely happen, probably, somewhere considering relativity and all that nonsense.
Timeline: Season 37.
Characters: Sam & Dean
Wordcount: 480
Rating: PG
For Hannah, who knew them when they were babes. (Hi, Hannah.)
Dean still liked the bottle, though he didn’t rely on it as much nowadays. And besides, washing away the gray wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be anyway. He could still catch the eye of his prize just as fast - faster, Sam said - when he let his temples show the maturity that his smile betrayed.
As for Sam, his was white now, well mostly, and he could still run his hands through it, long waves of it tossed as haphazard and reckless around his furrowed features as it ever did.
Someday, he would think the jokes about Moby Dick were funny. There was just enough time left for that.
Often, they would sit on the porch at the cabin in that rancid, seedy way that stories about old folks home go and they would talk, or not, about all the things that they’d seen or heard, or said, but they would never really talk much about what they actually did or didn’t do.
What they didn’t do was a short list, one of them might say offhandedly and that was their signal to each other that fifty years (who's counting) was still too soon sometimes. Not that it mattered now.
They would sit there even when a brilliant fall was in fifth gear, as Dean liked to say, and the trees were bare and the dead leaves were running over the tops of the cars, spinning lively cartwheels over the ground and into everything they weren’t supposed to; when the lean, chilly light was barely comfortable in the metal lawn chairs between the hours of one and three in the afternoon.
There were enough of these days left. But there was no story anymore. They were together, and would be for a while longer and then longer again, but there was nothing more to say, nothing new to add. Not now that, hey, there was nothing more to take away.
Sam came from his place, Dean from his. Sometimes the scars would fade as they crossed over into their fated respite, sometimes the wounds took some time to heal. Sometimes they helped each other, sometimes they fought. Mostly they landed together in the middle and tried to forget about the rest.
It was comfortable, the rhythm of it. Nothing to be afraid of and nothing to lose. It was good. It was alright.
It was okay.
No, really.
“Hey,” Sam said one day, and his head rolled slightly in Dean’s direction. Then he was silent.
A smirk evolved through what felt like years across Dean’s face. This hadn’t happened in way too long, and Dean’s pockets only had room for one thing when it did. This was the best part. The metal around his finger was literally the best feeling in the world.
After all, there was still one bullet left on his keys.
Dean smiled. “Hey what.”