Hope for Happiness, for Madebyme_x
Title: Hope for Happiness
Recipient: Madebyme_x
Rating: Gen
Word Count: 2.5k
Warnings: brief mentions of past trauma, swearing
Author's Notes: Thanks so much for the wonderful prompts. Hope I did justice to it.
Characters: Sam, Dean, doggie pal
Summary: After Sam falls ill and loses the use of his legs, Sam and Dean retire. For good this time. It's not easy (it never is), but they make their own way.
Things never work out the way they’re supposed to.
The forces of evil, the big bads, yadda yadda yadda… it never goes down the way anyone predicts it to.
Sam knows this well. He’s been privy to the fickle twists and turns of fate and the universe for as long as he can remember. He’s seen gods fall, he’s seen the little men win. He’s been beaten down and raised up and struck down again more times than he can recall.
Thing is, he’s gotten pretty fucking old. He’s got a lot of memory of that shit. He’s not sure it makes him wise, or an expert, or anything like that, really, but he’s got some damn good foresight. Comes from all the looking back and hindsight he’s done.
Forty’s old for a hunter. And Dean? Forty-four is ancient for one. Christ. They’ve both got smile lines--actual smile lines. Sam was certain they’d end up with frown lines. Or, you know, become ashes in the wind, stuff like that.
But really, no one was expecting the angels to return to heaven, or for the two of them to have a chat with the spirit of their dead mother, or for things to just… simmer down. Well, relatively speaking. Seems like shit is always really fucking close to boiling over.
They should have seen it as a sign. The world’s not ending for once? Pack it up, boys. It’s not in their blood to answer that kind of call, though, and they pushed on. Witches still stirred up trouble, demons still ran amok, friend and foe alike still backstabbed and attacked and supported them.
It’s a bit blurry for Sam, with all the illness, but he knows he always had Dean. He’d thought he didn’t quite a few times, thought he could see his rope’s end, only to be pulled to salvation by familiar, freckled hands.
It’s a lot. Sam does a lot of thinking about it.
Like now, for example. Dean hasn’t woken up yet and it’s one of those days where Sam knows he’ll need his older brother’s help getting out of bed. He hopes they can spend some time out on the porch.
It is the anniversary of the day they hung it all up, anyway. Sam thinks they both deserve a nice, quiet moment.
Well, anniversary of the official end. In reality, it was a slow, agonizing transition, particularly for Sam.
He really hates hospitals.
He’s felt chronically ill his entire life in some form or another. Aching joints, bruised organs, more concussions than he can count… he really shouldn’t have been surprised when cancer saw the opportunity and went for it.
It wasn’t… well, it was pretty awful, but it was nowhere near the worst thing Sam had experienced. It was only stage three Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, and he only had to go through a couple of rounds of chemo before he entered remission.
Still, he lost thirty pounds, some of his hair, and most of his strength. It was something he never really recovered. Dean likes to call him “stick-boy” now, though it’s often accompanied by a shadowed look or a swift change of subject.
It’s kind of fucked up but Sam is a bit grateful for the forced leave. He likes being smaller. He’s not a big soul, he really isn’t. It feels better to have his body mirror that, even if he is a bit frail and will probably pass away before Dean does.
And quiet. Quiet and stillness and loneliness. Sam’s been given those in excess. And maybe he’s always been more of an introvert, for he appreciates the solitude more than he can say. Plus, he can be alone with Dean. He doesn’t think there are very many other people who can safely say they can be alone with other people around.
Without Dean, the silence would be oppressive, the illness would’ve won, he would’ve become bitter and not at all magnanimous.
Dean’s his brother-soulmate-best friend. Sure, they’ve been through the roughest shit possible, have had the primal forces of the Earth doing their best to separate them, but it’s not just not in them to leave each other. Not in the way they were raised by their father, not in the way they’ve always had their backs. Once you make sacrifices for someone in rough times when it’s much easier to leave them in the dirt, a blood bond is secured. And Dean sacrificed for him from age four onward. Sam’s been trying his best to return the favor all his life.
Sam’s lost track of his thoughts. Nostalgia and softness. That’s all he is now. He’s okay with that.
Oh, right. Recovering from months of sickness. Smallness. It’s one of those things where he damns their name. They didn’t take the hint. They tried one more hunt, sort of a farewell tour thing, though they both knew the lifestyle would keep calling to them all their lives.
Headed in, intending to salt and burn a riled-up spirit, and certainly did not expect an ambush from demons.
More turmoil in hell, more power shifts, more stupid things that they’d gotten tangled up in.
Sam remembers the turning point with a crisp clarity that his other memories have not afforded him. They were in the house of the haunted, being backed into a corner by egotistical demon general pricks and Sam wishes he could change the channel. It’s all the same after so long.
They did their “talk-the-talk” thing and lulled the demons into a sense of false victory, booked it up the stairs, found a window and hauled ass onto the roof. They could see the Impala resting shiny and sweet. All it’d take is a quick crawl from the main roof onto the roof of the porch and then landing in the bushes. Sam knows how to land from big falls without breaking anything major. He’d traded a quick look with Dean and established a specific route across the roof with only a nod and a shrug.
Demons are pretty damn fast, though, and their window of time to safely make it to the car and book it was pretty small. Nothing they hadn’t handled before.
But Sam really was not anticipating to be pushed.
It was, literally, all downhill from there. He’d scrabbled around like a prey animal, struggling for purchase, but none of the shingles held. A last-ditch attempt to hold onto the gutter ripped it straight from the house, and Sam tumbled down onto the pavement.
And broke his damn back.
His memory ends there. It’s all pain and numbness in terrifying juxtaposition after that. Dean hardly speaks of that day, but Sam knows for sure that Dean saved his life, none of the vessels of the demons survived, and that Dean has four new scars on his arms and torso.
Back in the hospital, but not for long. Nothing they can do, if it had been a different circumstance, so so so sorry. Really. Physical therapy, a wheelchair, and Sam had to learn a new way of life.
It wasn’t the first time.
Dean took no chances after that. Cabin in the woods, warded to the gills and hundreds of miles from any major city. Supply runs are an all-out expedition. Dean has a garden and he’s actually pretty fricking awesome with vegetables. A natural green thumb.
It’s made Dean less wild. For a while, Sam had been certain Dean would never fully recover from purgatory, from all the losses suffered, but their retirement has been kind to him. He’s smoother around the edges and quieter, contemplative. Hands out hugs and noogies with more ease. Talks more, too. Says more real things.
Maybe that’s partly Sam’s fault. He broke down one night. It was all on his back, oh the irony. He still thought of Dean as a bit of a lion, and he’d caged him. It felt like Dean wanted out and away, wanted a brother who wasn’t humpty-dumpty and graceless and birdlike. Sam was useless, not good if they ever came under attack, and endlessly sullen.
And, you know what? Sam had been holding shit in for years. Years and years of unresolved problems and guilt and anger and offense. And, true to the Winchester way, it all came out at once.
Dean didn’t hit or punch. Dean didn’t raise his voice. Dean didn’t drink or storm out.
He stayed with Sam. Sam, out of his wheelchair in a fit of indignant rage, sitting on the floor with his atrophied legs sprawled in front of him.
Dean sat beside him and tossed a casual arm around him. Promised Sam he was here for good, and not only that, he was happy. Honestly happy. Didn’t think he remembered the emotion.
After that, Sam knew they had a new mission in life, one that was familiar, but new: to survive. Things had been turned on their head and they had to make it through. They had to fade into obscurity, let friends believe they were dead, and forge a new way forward.
Neither of them felt like they had to go out in a storm of fighting and killing anymore. They both wanted the same thing: safeness and happiness. To experience satisfaction.
Dean helped Sam with physical therapy. Sam learned how to talk without withholding things. It’s funny--he knows people view him as the more open brother, more in-tune with his emotions, but the truth of the matter is that he’s all fucked on the inside.
So he talked with Dean. About depression and anxiety and fear and burning self hatred and all that good stuff.
And it fucking helped. Miraculously, Dean talked back. Dean shared his shit about feeling so scared, so worried for Sam, nightmares, on and on. They got all their demons out in open and promptly exorcized them. Sam doesn’t cut anymore, swears he doesn’t.
A year passed. Another. More and more.
Five years of reparations and a calm lake and trimming paths in the woods wide enough to accommodate Sam’s wheelchair. He’s grateful he and Dean were already raised living in a box together. It makes Dean helping him dress and bathe himself less of a traumatic experience. He really doesn’t mind.
He hears a grunt from the other bed and gets onto his elbows to look over at Dean. Dean meets his look and rolls his eyes.
“How long you been up, just lying there?” Dean asks, voice still sleep-gruff. He flops onto his back and stares at the ceiling.
Sam shrugs his shoulders. “You know I don’t mind,” he says, listening to the noise of rain pattering across the roof. “Happy anniversary.”
Dean chuckles. “Sentimental sap,” he teases. “I didn’t buy you any roses.”
Sam scoffs. “Help me up, you asshole.”
“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” Dean says, “Nag, nag, nag.”
Dean helps him upright, an arm steady at his back. In one fluid, practiced moment, they’ve got Sam into his wheelchair with dignity in tact. “Don’t make me punch you,” Sam threatens, rolling toward the dresser. Dean pats him on the back and fucks with his hair and dances out of reach.
Their morning routine is familiar and peaceful, worn but loved like a quilt. They get dressed and Dean cooks a mouth-watering breakfast of eggs (from their own chickens, isn’t that something?) and toast. Milk’s fresh, too. It’s weird as all hell, but Sam’s learned to appreciate the gifts that life imparts on them in moments like this.
Dean cleans up after them and moves behind Sam, wheeling him onto the porch. Sam doesn’t protest. He gets parked in front of the ramp into the yard and Dean drags a lawn chair next to him and drops down with a quiet huff. He hands Sam a bottle of soda. Sam smiles down at it, taps the neck of it against Dean’s. They drink.
“Did you let Eurydice out?” Sam asks, staying quiet but heard above the rain sounds.
Dean dips his head. “While you were brushin’ your teeth,” he says. “You wanna call her back?”
Sam nods. He straightens and hears Dean laugh at his left. “Eurydice!” he calls, projecting out into the misty woodlands, hearing his voice echoing back to him. “Girl, come!”
There’s a static quality to the wait. After a minute passes, Sam grows anxious. Dean senses it.
“Dude,” he says, “she can’t resist you. She’s coming.”
Sam nods. “She’s coming,” he repeats, more to convince himself.
It’s only seconds later that a beast of a dog comes barrelling out of the trees. She’s got the look of a damn wolf, and the strength and vigor, too, but she’s a mutt. She found them as a pup, skin and bones, close to death. No way Sam could’ve resisted, and Dean fell in love with her, too.
She leaps for Sam, and from an outsider’s perspective, it looks rough and jarring, but Eury knows Sam. She’s affectionate but gentle, putting her paws in his lap and licking at his face but being careful and measured all the same, keeping most of her weight off of him.
Sam giggles. “Hi, hi, hi,” he cooes, letting his voice pitch high as he pets and ruffles her flank, pressing his face against hers. She’s panting and her entire body is trembling with the force of her tail-wagging. She makes tiny noises of greeting and presses her nose into his neck, snuffing.
He pets her until she’s calmed down a bit. She steps down and Dean says “hey, wait-” before she’s on him with the same vigor. Dean fights to look annoyed and indifferent but he’s clearly under her spell. A wide, youthful smile wins out and Sam savors the moment, revels in it with all his might. Dean’s eyes crinkle up and he scritches Eurydice’s ear. Her mouth’s open in a doggy grin and Sam has never been more grateful for the family he’s got, for the love that’s given to him and readily returned.
It’s something he can hardly believe. Something that doesn’t feel real, even after all the years of therapy and healing.
He knows he’s a different person when he realizes he doesn’t think he’s undeserving. No, this is a life for him that he will embrace with open eyes and open arms. He’s growing back into himself, and his confidence, and his energy. He’s felt for a long time like he died in his twenties, but now he’s been brought back to life--by Dean, by his dog, by everything.
Eurydice goes through her greetings and curls up at Sam’s feet, content to watch the storm build and traverse the acres ahead of them. They dip into a comfortable, contemplative silence, and Dean’s chair is close enough that their elbows frequently knock. Sam likes the reminder.
He’s alive. Dean is, too.
And they’re really, truly, living, and Sam feels like it can last. Like he can be a real human being.
“Happy anniversary,” he says again, just above a whisper and with a note of solitude.
Dean gives him a worried once-over but settles, smiling gently at Sam. He’s okay. They’re okay. “Happy anniversary, kiddo,” Dean says.
Sam hears the first roll of thunder and leans back, closing his eyes.
He’s content.
Recipient: Madebyme_x
Rating: Gen
Word Count: 2.5k
Warnings: brief mentions of past trauma, swearing
Author's Notes: Thanks so much for the wonderful prompts. Hope I did justice to it.
Characters: Sam, Dean, doggie pal
Summary: After Sam falls ill and loses the use of his legs, Sam and Dean retire. For good this time. It's not easy (it never is), but they make their own way.
Things never work out the way they’re supposed to.
The forces of evil, the big bads, yadda yadda yadda… it never goes down the way anyone predicts it to.
Sam knows this well. He’s been privy to the fickle twists and turns of fate and the universe for as long as he can remember. He’s seen gods fall, he’s seen the little men win. He’s been beaten down and raised up and struck down again more times than he can recall.
Thing is, he’s gotten pretty fucking old. He’s got a lot of memory of that shit. He’s not sure it makes him wise, or an expert, or anything like that, really, but he’s got some damn good foresight. Comes from all the looking back and hindsight he’s done.
Forty’s old for a hunter. And Dean? Forty-four is ancient for one. Christ. They’ve both got smile lines--actual smile lines. Sam was certain they’d end up with frown lines. Or, you know, become ashes in the wind, stuff like that.
But really, no one was expecting the angels to return to heaven, or for the two of them to have a chat with the spirit of their dead mother, or for things to just… simmer down. Well, relatively speaking. Seems like shit is always really fucking close to boiling over.
They should have seen it as a sign. The world’s not ending for once? Pack it up, boys. It’s not in their blood to answer that kind of call, though, and they pushed on. Witches still stirred up trouble, demons still ran amok, friend and foe alike still backstabbed and attacked and supported them.
It’s a bit blurry for Sam, with all the illness, but he knows he always had Dean. He’d thought he didn’t quite a few times, thought he could see his rope’s end, only to be pulled to salvation by familiar, freckled hands.
It’s a lot. Sam does a lot of thinking about it.
Like now, for example. Dean hasn’t woken up yet and it’s one of those days where Sam knows he’ll need his older brother’s help getting out of bed. He hopes they can spend some time out on the porch.
It is the anniversary of the day they hung it all up, anyway. Sam thinks they both deserve a nice, quiet moment.
Well, anniversary of the official end. In reality, it was a slow, agonizing transition, particularly for Sam.
He really hates hospitals.
He’s felt chronically ill his entire life in some form or another. Aching joints, bruised organs, more concussions than he can count… he really shouldn’t have been surprised when cancer saw the opportunity and went for it.
It wasn’t… well, it was pretty awful, but it was nowhere near the worst thing Sam had experienced. It was only stage three Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, and he only had to go through a couple of rounds of chemo before he entered remission.
Still, he lost thirty pounds, some of his hair, and most of his strength. It was something he never really recovered. Dean likes to call him “stick-boy” now, though it’s often accompanied by a shadowed look or a swift change of subject.
It’s kind of fucked up but Sam is a bit grateful for the forced leave. He likes being smaller. He’s not a big soul, he really isn’t. It feels better to have his body mirror that, even if he is a bit frail and will probably pass away before Dean does.
And quiet. Quiet and stillness and loneliness. Sam’s been given those in excess. And maybe he’s always been more of an introvert, for he appreciates the solitude more than he can say. Plus, he can be alone with Dean. He doesn’t think there are very many other people who can safely say they can be alone with other people around.
Without Dean, the silence would be oppressive, the illness would’ve won, he would’ve become bitter and not at all magnanimous.
Dean’s his brother-soulmate-best friend. Sure, they’ve been through the roughest shit possible, have had the primal forces of the Earth doing their best to separate them, but it’s not just not in them to leave each other. Not in the way they were raised by their father, not in the way they’ve always had their backs. Once you make sacrifices for someone in rough times when it’s much easier to leave them in the dirt, a blood bond is secured. And Dean sacrificed for him from age four onward. Sam’s been trying his best to return the favor all his life.
Sam’s lost track of his thoughts. Nostalgia and softness. That’s all he is now. He’s okay with that.
Oh, right. Recovering from months of sickness. Smallness. It’s one of those things where he damns their name. They didn’t take the hint. They tried one more hunt, sort of a farewell tour thing, though they both knew the lifestyle would keep calling to them all their lives.
Headed in, intending to salt and burn a riled-up spirit, and certainly did not expect an ambush from demons.
More turmoil in hell, more power shifts, more stupid things that they’d gotten tangled up in.
Sam remembers the turning point with a crisp clarity that his other memories have not afforded him. They were in the house of the haunted, being backed into a corner by egotistical demon general pricks and Sam wishes he could change the channel. It’s all the same after so long.
They did their “talk-the-talk” thing and lulled the demons into a sense of false victory, booked it up the stairs, found a window and hauled ass onto the roof. They could see the Impala resting shiny and sweet. All it’d take is a quick crawl from the main roof onto the roof of the porch and then landing in the bushes. Sam knows how to land from big falls without breaking anything major. He’d traded a quick look with Dean and established a specific route across the roof with only a nod and a shrug.
Demons are pretty damn fast, though, and their window of time to safely make it to the car and book it was pretty small. Nothing they hadn’t handled before.
But Sam really was not anticipating to be pushed.
It was, literally, all downhill from there. He’d scrabbled around like a prey animal, struggling for purchase, but none of the shingles held. A last-ditch attempt to hold onto the gutter ripped it straight from the house, and Sam tumbled down onto the pavement.
And broke his damn back.
His memory ends there. It’s all pain and numbness in terrifying juxtaposition after that. Dean hardly speaks of that day, but Sam knows for sure that Dean saved his life, none of the vessels of the demons survived, and that Dean has four new scars on his arms and torso.
Back in the hospital, but not for long. Nothing they can do, if it had been a different circumstance, so so so sorry. Really. Physical therapy, a wheelchair, and Sam had to learn a new way of life.
It wasn’t the first time.
Dean took no chances after that. Cabin in the woods, warded to the gills and hundreds of miles from any major city. Supply runs are an all-out expedition. Dean has a garden and he’s actually pretty fricking awesome with vegetables. A natural green thumb.
It’s made Dean less wild. For a while, Sam had been certain Dean would never fully recover from purgatory, from all the losses suffered, but their retirement has been kind to him. He’s smoother around the edges and quieter, contemplative. Hands out hugs and noogies with more ease. Talks more, too. Says more real things.
Maybe that’s partly Sam’s fault. He broke down one night. It was all on his back, oh the irony. He still thought of Dean as a bit of a lion, and he’d caged him. It felt like Dean wanted out and away, wanted a brother who wasn’t humpty-dumpty and graceless and birdlike. Sam was useless, not good if they ever came under attack, and endlessly sullen.
And, you know what? Sam had been holding shit in for years. Years and years of unresolved problems and guilt and anger and offense. And, true to the Winchester way, it all came out at once.
Dean didn’t hit or punch. Dean didn’t raise his voice. Dean didn’t drink or storm out.
He stayed with Sam. Sam, out of his wheelchair in a fit of indignant rage, sitting on the floor with his atrophied legs sprawled in front of him.
Dean sat beside him and tossed a casual arm around him. Promised Sam he was here for good, and not only that, he was happy. Honestly happy. Didn’t think he remembered the emotion.
After that, Sam knew they had a new mission in life, one that was familiar, but new: to survive. Things had been turned on their head and they had to make it through. They had to fade into obscurity, let friends believe they were dead, and forge a new way forward.
Neither of them felt like they had to go out in a storm of fighting and killing anymore. They both wanted the same thing: safeness and happiness. To experience satisfaction.
Dean helped Sam with physical therapy. Sam learned how to talk without withholding things. It’s funny--he knows people view him as the more open brother, more in-tune with his emotions, but the truth of the matter is that he’s all fucked on the inside.
So he talked with Dean. About depression and anxiety and fear and burning self hatred and all that good stuff.
And it fucking helped. Miraculously, Dean talked back. Dean shared his shit about feeling so scared, so worried for Sam, nightmares, on and on. They got all their demons out in open and promptly exorcized them. Sam doesn’t cut anymore, swears he doesn’t.
A year passed. Another. More and more.
Five years of reparations and a calm lake and trimming paths in the woods wide enough to accommodate Sam’s wheelchair. He’s grateful he and Dean were already raised living in a box together. It makes Dean helping him dress and bathe himself less of a traumatic experience. He really doesn’t mind.
He hears a grunt from the other bed and gets onto his elbows to look over at Dean. Dean meets his look and rolls his eyes.
“How long you been up, just lying there?” Dean asks, voice still sleep-gruff. He flops onto his back and stares at the ceiling.
Sam shrugs his shoulders. “You know I don’t mind,” he says, listening to the noise of rain pattering across the roof. “Happy anniversary.”
Dean chuckles. “Sentimental sap,” he teases. “I didn’t buy you any roses.”
Sam scoffs. “Help me up, you asshole.”
“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” Dean says, “Nag, nag, nag.”
Dean helps him upright, an arm steady at his back. In one fluid, practiced moment, they’ve got Sam into his wheelchair with dignity in tact. “Don’t make me punch you,” Sam threatens, rolling toward the dresser. Dean pats him on the back and fucks with his hair and dances out of reach.
Their morning routine is familiar and peaceful, worn but loved like a quilt. They get dressed and Dean cooks a mouth-watering breakfast of eggs (from their own chickens, isn’t that something?) and toast. Milk’s fresh, too. It’s weird as all hell, but Sam’s learned to appreciate the gifts that life imparts on them in moments like this.
Dean cleans up after them and moves behind Sam, wheeling him onto the porch. Sam doesn’t protest. He gets parked in front of the ramp into the yard and Dean drags a lawn chair next to him and drops down with a quiet huff. He hands Sam a bottle of soda. Sam smiles down at it, taps the neck of it against Dean’s. They drink.
“Did you let Eurydice out?” Sam asks, staying quiet but heard above the rain sounds.
Dean dips his head. “While you were brushin’ your teeth,” he says. “You wanna call her back?”
Sam nods. He straightens and hears Dean laugh at his left. “Eurydice!” he calls, projecting out into the misty woodlands, hearing his voice echoing back to him. “Girl, come!”
There’s a static quality to the wait. After a minute passes, Sam grows anxious. Dean senses it.
“Dude,” he says, “she can’t resist you. She’s coming.”
Sam nods. “She’s coming,” he repeats, more to convince himself.
It’s only seconds later that a beast of a dog comes barrelling out of the trees. She’s got the look of a damn wolf, and the strength and vigor, too, but she’s a mutt. She found them as a pup, skin and bones, close to death. No way Sam could’ve resisted, and Dean fell in love with her, too.
She leaps for Sam, and from an outsider’s perspective, it looks rough and jarring, but Eury knows Sam. She’s affectionate but gentle, putting her paws in his lap and licking at his face but being careful and measured all the same, keeping most of her weight off of him.
Sam giggles. “Hi, hi, hi,” he cooes, letting his voice pitch high as he pets and ruffles her flank, pressing his face against hers. She’s panting and her entire body is trembling with the force of her tail-wagging. She makes tiny noises of greeting and presses her nose into his neck, snuffing.
He pets her until she’s calmed down a bit. She steps down and Dean says “hey, wait-” before she’s on him with the same vigor. Dean fights to look annoyed and indifferent but he’s clearly under her spell. A wide, youthful smile wins out and Sam savors the moment, revels in it with all his might. Dean’s eyes crinkle up and he scritches Eurydice’s ear. Her mouth’s open in a doggy grin and Sam has never been more grateful for the family he’s got, for the love that’s given to him and readily returned.
It’s something he can hardly believe. Something that doesn’t feel real, even after all the years of therapy and healing.
He knows he’s a different person when he realizes he doesn’t think he’s undeserving. No, this is a life for him that he will embrace with open eyes and open arms. He’s growing back into himself, and his confidence, and his energy. He’s felt for a long time like he died in his twenties, but now he’s been brought back to life--by Dean, by his dog, by everything.
Eurydice goes through her greetings and curls up at Sam’s feet, content to watch the storm build and traverse the acres ahead of them. They dip into a comfortable, contemplative silence, and Dean’s chair is close enough that their elbows frequently knock. Sam likes the reminder.
He’s alive. Dean is, too.
And they’re really, truly, living, and Sam feels like it can last. Like he can be a real human being.
“Happy anniversary,” he says again, just above a whisper and with a note of solitude.
Dean gives him a worried once-over but settles, smiling gently at Sam. He’s okay. They’re okay. “Happy anniversary, kiddo,” Dean says.
Sam hears the first roll of thunder and leans back, closing his eyes.
He’s content.