Mystery Spot
MYSTERY SPOT
The next stop they make, Sam walks into the motel room with every weapon that they have. He sets them on one of the beds, pulls a chair closer to the comforter and starts cleaning them all.
There is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about that, except for the fact that Dean’s usually the one in charge of that particular task and, when he does it, he never takes the whole damn thing with him.
More disturbing than that, is the way Sam completely disconnects with every thing around him when he starts cleaning those weapons. He goes to so far away that he actually jumps and points the gun in his hands at Dean when Dean, tired of the silence, clears his throat.
“T’hell, man?!”
“You’re here,” Sam whispers, slowly lowering the gun. It sounds like a surprise to him, like Dean hadn’t been there for the past three years.
“Where the hell would I be?” Dean asks, still dumbstruck at the fact that Sam had actually pointed a gun at his face.
“Gone.”
The single word is said with such longing and desperation that Dean finds himself crossing the room and shoving the weapons aside so that he can sit on the bed, in front of his brother. “I’m here.”
Sam’s eyes fill with unshed tears and he looks down, because all of a sudden the gun-oil stain in the rag in his hands is way more interesting than Dean’s intense gaze.
“I’m here,” Dean repeats, holding Sam’s shoulders. In the quiet of his mind, he curses the trickerster for putting that look in his brother’s face.
Sam slowly leans forward, not stopping until his head is resting against Dean’s, his tears finally failing to baptize them both. “For now.”