Blood Brothers, for leah_elisabeth
Title: Blood Brothers
Recipient: leah_elisabeth
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Show level violence and gore
Word Count: 2700
Author's Note: A huge thank you to my awesome beta - you know who you are! I've tweaked and tinkered so all mistakes are mine. Thank you also to the mods for hosting such a wonderful challenge; I've had all kinds of fun.
Summary: - End!verse future fic. In a desolate world, Sam and Dean seem to be on separate journeys. They don't know where they're heading, or what they're searching for, until a hunt changes everything. Hurt!Sam and also Hurt!Dean.
Blood Brothers
It's an instinct, a gut reaction. Sam just knows somewhere deep inside that someone's watching him.
His shoulders tense but Sam carries on working. He won't stop until the tractor's engine turns and he's ploughed the field like he was told to do, sweat and blood slicking his hands as he loosens a bolt.
“You're Dean's brother.”
The mention of Dean's name wedges a knot of emotion into Sam's throat, tight and suffocating. He hasn't heard the name in so long.
But it's not a question, and it's said with such certainly that Sam can't help but turn around, hands still gripping the wrench as he squints to look up at the main house.
The guy is sitting on the wraparound porch, scratching at his thick white beard, smoke swirling out of his pipe. “You work too hard, like you're punishing yourself. A loner, who don't say much. Just like your brother.”
It's hot, and Sam can feel the sun burn blisters onto his skin. He's got so many questions, but he doesn't know where to start, or even if he has a right to ask.
“He left just before you got here.” The old guy says, reading Sam's mind like it's the easiest thing in the world. “There was a croate sighting in Hope Springs. We're gathering men and supplies from the surrounding settlements; then we're taking a truck to check it out. But Dean wouldn't wait, charged outta here like his ass was on fire.”
Sam looks over the acres of working land that surround the house, imagining Dean helping to raise the barn, sow crops, and maybe even work on the tractor in front of him.
He doesn't remember much about the early days, but Sam knows he hasn't seen his brother in years. He hears things about Dean as he passes through settlement after settlement; following his brother when he can, but always from afar. He's never been this close before.
The guy's rocking chair has a squeak as he rocks back and forth. “He left alone on foot a couple of days ago.”
It's been a lifetime since Sam knew exactly what he's supposed to do, or exactly where he's supposed to be. It's so clear now that it feels like a calling, like he's physically being pulled towards his brother.
Sam licks his lips, nods his thanks or maybe his apologies for leaving a job unfinished, and then places the wrench into the rusty toolbox and closes the lid.
“You got a death wish, boy?” The guy yells, leaning forward on his rocking chair, elbows resting on his knees as he blows out a perfect circle of smoke from his chapped lips.
Sam shrugs. “He's my brother.”
Because it's always been that simple, and that complicated.
The guy's gaze bores into Sam. Then he sighs and pulls out an old rifle and some shells from behind his chair. “I know who you are, Sam. I know exactly what you did.”
It's not the first time someone has recognised him, and it won't be the last. Sam swallows thickly, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He nods, ready for whatever's coming next, because he said Yes and destroyed the world. He deserves everything that comes to him.
“He's on a mission, that brother of yours. He doesn't know what he's looking for, but I'm pretty sure I do.”
The guy hands Sam the rifle and shells, and then adjusts his trucker cap before taking another puff of his pipe.
“Just go get that bull-headed brother of yours out of trouble.”
Sam nods, standing soldier-straight and tall. “Yes, sir.”
XoXoX
Sam walks. For hours, for days, and he doesn't stop.
Sometimes, he gets a bad feeling deep in his gut and he runs until he can't breathe, until he throws up bile onto the roadside, blisters bleeding and heels rubbed raw.
It rains, which is good because Sam didn't bring any water.
He doesn't see any cars. Doesn't see any people. But there's crows circling ahead and Sam doesn't want to think about what that could mean.
His mind wanders.
He's never heard of any croates surviving this long. There were culls. There were battles. But after a few years they just started dying, and by then there weren't enough people left to give a shit, let alone question or research it.
Maybe this was all part of Lucifer's plan. A cleansing? Survival of the fittest? An extermination? Sam has no clue. Lucifer might never have lied, but he was selective with what he allowed Sam to know.
“Look at what you did, Sam. Isn't it beautiful? This is your world now, and as a reward, as a thank you, I'm going to allow you to live in it.”
It's a while later that Sam realizes that he's clenching his jaw so tightly that he’s bitten a chunk out of his tongue, the bitter taste of iron flooding his mouth.
He walks. And with every step he takes he thinks about his brother; about pie, the Impala, Led Zepplin, prank wars, and fireworks.
He doesn't usually let himself wallow in memories of Before. It's a luxury he doesn't deserve.
XoXoX
The first thing Sam sees is a car on fire; a diversion, and it's got Dean's name written all over it.
Sam holds out the rifle, clicks off the safety, and scans the surroundings.
Hope Springs is a small town, a ghost town. The main street has a diner, a grocery and hardware store, and a bar. Windows are broken, doors are hanging off hinges, paint is peeling off walls, and the store signs are so sun-faded that Sam can barely read them.
Tumbleweeds are blowing down the only road the town has, the road Sam's following. That's when he hears the gunshots.
Sam runs, legs aching with adrenaline as he sprints full speed. There's two more shots and they all come from the bar.
He's there before he knows it, the tip of the rifle poking around the bar's doorway. He can hear a scuffle; the dull thud of fists beating into flesh, the snap of breaking wood and glass shattering.
Pushing his energy to the tips of his toes, Sam throws himself around the corner, his finger hovering over the trigger of the rifle.
He sees a dead-eyed croate, and it's holding a broken bottle that it's about to smack down onto a guy’s head. The guy's fingers are clawing into the croate's skin, nails raking down its arms and neck as he tries to grab the bottle.
Sam doesn't think, he just fires. It's a perfect head shot, blood and brains fly and the croate hits the floorboards with a thud, clouds of dust exploding into the stale air.
Time stops as he watches the guy turn around, face pebble-dashed in blood. He knows it's Dean, but it doesn't feel real. Nothing has in a long time.
Dean's face is blank, emotionless. There's a scar running along his jaw, curling up his chin, and his eyes are different, still green, but dull and not at all like Sam remembers.
“Down!”
Sam ducks; it’s automatic, hard-wired into flesh and bone. That's when he sees the shotgun, their Dad's shotgun, lying by his feet.
Without thought, he picks it up and throws it to Dean before tucking himself up and rolling out of the line of fire.
There's three shots, one after the other, and Sam hears three bodies smack onto the floorboards. He pulls himself to his feet just in time to see Dean race forward and stab a kid croate, a red-headed girl with pigtails. Dean doesn't even flinch when her blood splatters onto the wall in an obscene modern art pattern.
There's a snap of splintering wood behind him, and a swarm of croates charge in through the windows and door.
Sam raises the rifle and fires. The croates are murder-hungry and they keep coming, and Sam and Dean keep firing, and for a moment they're working together like the well-oiled team they used to be, and it's like the last few years have been erased.
Just as suddenly as they arrived, the croates stop coming. It's eerily quiet, and a steadily growing pit in Sam's stomach tells him it's not over yet.
To Sam's right, where Dean's standing, there's a crash followed by a shower of glass. Dean grunts and then he's on his knees; the shotgun falls to the ground and Dean follows, hitting hard. He doesn't get back up.
Sam spins around just as the croate stabs whatever's left of the bottle forward. There's a sharp pain low in his side, and then Sam's pulling the croate down to the ground. The fall punches Sam's lungs empty but the momentum gives him the upper hand, and now he's above the croate, looking down at its face as he pummels it, raining blow after bloody blow as the world seems to fade, his ears ringing, his brain chanting Dean's name.
He doesn't stop until his knuckles are raw and the croate is long dead.
Shaking away the grey hue in his vision, Sam looks to his right and sees his brother lying in a growing pool of blood.
“Dean!”
He crawls across the floor towards his fallen brother, glass and wood splinters piercing the palms of his hands and his knees.
Sam finds the head wound behind Dean's left ear; it’s long and deep enough to bleed this badly. With shaking fingers Sam searches Dean's pocket until he finds the handkerchiefs Dean always keeps on him for situations exactly like these.
He ties two handkerchiefs together in a crude knot and wraps it around Dean's head, and then applies pressure.
“It's gonna be OK. It's not that bad, Dean. It's not that bad.”
XoXoX
The sun has fallen by the time Dean wakes, moonlight streaming in through the window of the bar.
Dean's lying on the floor, Sam's threadbare jacket tucked under his head. Sam watches his brother's gaze hover around the room, like he's putting all the pieces of the last few hours and days together.
With a groan, Dean reaches for the makeshift bandage that's still tied around his head. Sam stops him, his fingers wrapping around Dean's wrist. “You got hit pretty hard.”
It takes a while for Dean's eyes to connect with Sam's. But Sam lets him stare, lets him have all the time in the world to just look.
Dean looks older, there's grey hair around his temples, and the fine lines that once bracketed his eyes are now thick grooves. But it's the scar along his jaw that catches Sam's attention.
“Happened in Michigan. Cas died.”
It sounds bitter, like an accusation rolled up in emotionless, need-to-know fact. Sam waits for the game-face to slip, but it doesn't. Maybe it’s a permanent feature now. Maybe it needs to be.
Sam drops his gaze and swallows deeply, his eyes stinging as he blinks the tears away.
“You bleeding?”
Sam looks down at his hands, flaking with dried rusty-coloured blood. His jeans are covered in it too; so is his shirt. But is it his? He's had blood on his hands for so many years he can't tell the difference any more.
He thinks about his own blood mixing with Dean's; the unclean tainting the clean. He thinks about playing blood brothers when they were little kids, Dean's new penknife nicking his finger in the woods behind a bungalow they rented in Idaho. Maybe Sam cursed them both that day.
A hand slaps his cheek, snapping his head to the side. “...hear me?”
Dean's frowning at him and trying to sit up, blood streaking a new river down his neck. Sam pushes him back down, or at least he thinks he does. Everything feels kinda loose and untethered, like it's all drifting away.
“They're coming with a truck.”
Sam's pretty sure he says it out loud, but then his vision dims to sketchy outlines, and he can't hear what Dean's saying, just watches his lips as they curl and curve around inaudible words.
He can feel Dean's calloused hands wrap around his face, can feel Dean shaking him.
But Sam's focus is on his brother's eyes. There's something there that was missing before, and Sam can't look away as the green of his irises gets brighter and brighter, more alive.
XoXoX
He doesn't remember waking up, his eyes are just open and he's looking around a room he's never seen before.
He knows he's alone, can feel it in the stillness of the room. It's dark, and through the open window Sam can see the sun sinking lazily into the horizon. He's shirtless and a light breeze skips over his skin.
He sees a glass of water by his bed, and there's a neat row of stitches low on the left side of his belly. The stitches have his brother's signature, small and tightly packed together, just like so many others that Sam wears on his battle-worn body.
For some reason this one makes him smile.
He swings his legs out of the cot he's been lying in; a sharp pain explodes in his gut and for a horrifying second he feels like he's gonna throw up. He swallows thickly, and the room spins a little but his head is clear, which means he must have been out of it for a while.
He grips the nightstand as he pulls himself up, wincing as he tests his legs before he shuffles barefooted along the dusty floorboards, fingers tracing a crack in the plastered wall.
Kids are screeching outside and there's a large fire on the yard in front of the house, flames reaching high into the darkening sky. Dean's standing on the porch, a chipped mug in his hand as he looks out over the dark shadows of the field, a stark white bandage wrapped around his head.
To his left Sam sees the old guy's rocking chair, and knows exactly where he is.
Dean's shoulders are relaxed and he looks at home, looks like he belongs. Sam wonders what he's thinking, wonders how different this man is from the one he used to know.
Sam walks up next to Dean, shoulder to shoulder, but his brother doesn't turn to look at him, just passes Sam the mug in his hand. It's some sort of homegrown tea, hot but not at all sweet. It tastes good.
Sam passes the mug back to Dean, who takes a sip.
The first firework lights up the night sky with exploding colours of the rainbow, crackling and fizzing, the air filled with the ooohs and ahhhs of the audience below.
A rocket soars high into the sky, and they both lift their heads to see it explode into a shower of golden sparks that fade to nothing. And like it was yesterday, Sam remembers lighting those fireworks with his brother on 4th of July back in 1996, lets himself wallow in the memories of laughter and joy. All of it.
Then Dean flicks his gaze over his shoulder, and they just stare at each in other silence. Dean looks him in the eye, like he's trying to find something he lost, like he's trying to say all the things that Sam wants too, but doesn't know where to start.
Then the corner of Dean's lip curls, just a little, his eyes so big and bright they reflect the fireworks. “It's gonna be OK, Sammy.”
And for the first time, in a really long time, Sam lets himself believe it.
The End
Recipient: leah_elisabeth
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Show level violence and gore
Word Count: 2700
Author's Note: A huge thank you to my awesome beta - you know who you are! I've tweaked and tinkered so all mistakes are mine. Thank you also to the mods for hosting such a wonderful challenge; I've had all kinds of fun.
Summary: - End!verse future fic. In a desolate world, Sam and Dean seem to be on separate journeys. They don't know where they're heading, or what they're searching for, until a hunt changes everything. Hurt!Sam and also Hurt!Dean.
Blood Brothers
It's an instinct, a gut reaction. Sam just knows somewhere deep inside that someone's watching him.
His shoulders tense but Sam carries on working. He won't stop until the tractor's engine turns and he's ploughed the field like he was told to do, sweat and blood slicking his hands as he loosens a bolt.
“You're Dean's brother.”
The mention of Dean's name wedges a knot of emotion into Sam's throat, tight and suffocating. He hasn't heard the name in so long.
But it's not a question, and it's said with such certainly that Sam can't help but turn around, hands still gripping the wrench as he squints to look up at the main house.
The guy is sitting on the wraparound porch, scratching at his thick white beard, smoke swirling out of his pipe. “You work too hard, like you're punishing yourself. A loner, who don't say much. Just like your brother.”
It's hot, and Sam can feel the sun burn blisters onto his skin. He's got so many questions, but he doesn't know where to start, or even if he has a right to ask.
“He left just before you got here.” The old guy says, reading Sam's mind like it's the easiest thing in the world. “There was a croate sighting in Hope Springs. We're gathering men and supplies from the surrounding settlements; then we're taking a truck to check it out. But Dean wouldn't wait, charged outta here like his ass was on fire.”
Sam looks over the acres of working land that surround the house, imagining Dean helping to raise the barn, sow crops, and maybe even work on the tractor in front of him.
He doesn't remember much about the early days, but Sam knows he hasn't seen his brother in years. He hears things about Dean as he passes through settlement after settlement; following his brother when he can, but always from afar. He's never been this close before.
The guy's rocking chair has a squeak as he rocks back and forth. “He left alone on foot a couple of days ago.”
It's been a lifetime since Sam knew exactly what he's supposed to do, or exactly where he's supposed to be. It's so clear now that it feels like a calling, like he's physically being pulled towards his brother.
Sam licks his lips, nods his thanks or maybe his apologies for leaving a job unfinished, and then places the wrench into the rusty toolbox and closes the lid.
“You got a death wish, boy?” The guy yells, leaning forward on his rocking chair, elbows resting on his knees as he blows out a perfect circle of smoke from his chapped lips.
Sam shrugs. “He's my brother.”
Because it's always been that simple, and that complicated.
The guy's gaze bores into Sam. Then he sighs and pulls out an old rifle and some shells from behind his chair. “I know who you are, Sam. I know exactly what you did.”
It's not the first time someone has recognised him, and it won't be the last. Sam swallows thickly, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He nods, ready for whatever's coming next, because he said Yes and destroyed the world. He deserves everything that comes to him.
“He's on a mission, that brother of yours. He doesn't know what he's looking for, but I'm pretty sure I do.”
The guy hands Sam the rifle and shells, and then adjusts his trucker cap before taking another puff of his pipe.
“Just go get that bull-headed brother of yours out of trouble.”
Sam nods, standing soldier-straight and tall. “Yes, sir.”
XoXoX
Sam walks. For hours, for days, and he doesn't stop.
Sometimes, he gets a bad feeling deep in his gut and he runs until he can't breathe, until he throws up bile onto the roadside, blisters bleeding and heels rubbed raw.
It rains, which is good because Sam didn't bring any water.
He doesn't see any cars. Doesn't see any people. But there's crows circling ahead and Sam doesn't want to think about what that could mean.
His mind wanders.
He's never heard of any croates surviving this long. There were culls. There were battles. But after a few years they just started dying, and by then there weren't enough people left to give a shit, let alone question or research it.
Maybe this was all part of Lucifer's plan. A cleansing? Survival of the fittest? An extermination? Sam has no clue. Lucifer might never have lied, but he was selective with what he allowed Sam to know.
“Look at what you did, Sam. Isn't it beautiful? This is your world now, and as a reward, as a thank you, I'm going to allow you to live in it.”
It's a while later that Sam realizes that he's clenching his jaw so tightly that he’s bitten a chunk out of his tongue, the bitter taste of iron flooding his mouth.
He walks. And with every step he takes he thinks about his brother; about pie, the Impala, Led Zepplin, prank wars, and fireworks.
He doesn't usually let himself wallow in memories of Before. It's a luxury he doesn't deserve.
XoXoX
The first thing Sam sees is a car on fire; a diversion, and it's got Dean's name written all over it.
Sam holds out the rifle, clicks off the safety, and scans the surroundings.
Hope Springs is a small town, a ghost town. The main street has a diner, a grocery and hardware store, and a bar. Windows are broken, doors are hanging off hinges, paint is peeling off walls, and the store signs are so sun-faded that Sam can barely read them.
Tumbleweeds are blowing down the only road the town has, the road Sam's following. That's when he hears the gunshots.
Sam runs, legs aching with adrenaline as he sprints full speed. There's two more shots and they all come from the bar.
He's there before he knows it, the tip of the rifle poking around the bar's doorway. He can hear a scuffle; the dull thud of fists beating into flesh, the snap of breaking wood and glass shattering.
Pushing his energy to the tips of his toes, Sam throws himself around the corner, his finger hovering over the trigger of the rifle.
He sees a dead-eyed croate, and it's holding a broken bottle that it's about to smack down onto a guy’s head. The guy's fingers are clawing into the croate's skin, nails raking down its arms and neck as he tries to grab the bottle.
Sam doesn't think, he just fires. It's a perfect head shot, blood and brains fly and the croate hits the floorboards with a thud, clouds of dust exploding into the stale air.
Time stops as he watches the guy turn around, face pebble-dashed in blood. He knows it's Dean, but it doesn't feel real. Nothing has in a long time.
Dean's face is blank, emotionless. There's a scar running along his jaw, curling up his chin, and his eyes are different, still green, but dull and not at all like Sam remembers.
“Down!”
Sam ducks; it’s automatic, hard-wired into flesh and bone. That's when he sees the shotgun, their Dad's shotgun, lying by his feet.
Without thought, he picks it up and throws it to Dean before tucking himself up and rolling out of the line of fire.
There's three shots, one after the other, and Sam hears three bodies smack onto the floorboards. He pulls himself to his feet just in time to see Dean race forward and stab a kid croate, a red-headed girl with pigtails. Dean doesn't even flinch when her blood splatters onto the wall in an obscene modern art pattern.
There's a snap of splintering wood behind him, and a swarm of croates charge in through the windows and door.
Sam raises the rifle and fires. The croates are murder-hungry and they keep coming, and Sam and Dean keep firing, and for a moment they're working together like the well-oiled team they used to be, and it's like the last few years have been erased.
Just as suddenly as they arrived, the croates stop coming. It's eerily quiet, and a steadily growing pit in Sam's stomach tells him it's not over yet.
To Sam's right, where Dean's standing, there's a crash followed by a shower of glass. Dean grunts and then he's on his knees; the shotgun falls to the ground and Dean follows, hitting hard. He doesn't get back up.
Sam spins around just as the croate stabs whatever's left of the bottle forward. There's a sharp pain low in his side, and then Sam's pulling the croate down to the ground. The fall punches Sam's lungs empty but the momentum gives him the upper hand, and now he's above the croate, looking down at its face as he pummels it, raining blow after bloody blow as the world seems to fade, his ears ringing, his brain chanting Dean's name.
He doesn't stop until his knuckles are raw and the croate is long dead.
Shaking away the grey hue in his vision, Sam looks to his right and sees his brother lying in a growing pool of blood.
“Dean!”
He crawls across the floor towards his fallen brother, glass and wood splinters piercing the palms of his hands and his knees.
Sam finds the head wound behind Dean's left ear; it’s long and deep enough to bleed this badly. With shaking fingers Sam searches Dean's pocket until he finds the handkerchiefs Dean always keeps on him for situations exactly like these.
He ties two handkerchiefs together in a crude knot and wraps it around Dean's head, and then applies pressure.
“It's gonna be OK. It's not that bad, Dean. It's not that bad.”
XoXoX
The sun has fallen by the time Dean wakes, moonlight streaming in through the window of the bar.
Dean's lying on the floor, Sam's threadbare jacket tucked under his head. Sam watches his brother's gaze hover around the room, like he's putting all the pieces of the last few hours and days together.
With a groan, Dean reaches for the makeshift bandage that's still tied around his head. Sam stops him, his fingers wrapping around Dean's wrist. “You got hit pretty hard.”
It takes a while for Dean's eyes to connect with Sam's. But Sam lets him stare, lets him have all the time in the world to just look.
Dean looks older, there's grey hair around his temples, and the fine lines that once bracketed his eyes are now thick grooves. But it's the scar along his jaw that catches Sam's attention.
“Happened in Michigan. Cas died.”
It sounds bitter, like an accusation rolled up in emotionless, need-to-know fact. Sam waits for the game-face to slip, but it doesn't. Maybe it’s a permanent feature now. Maybe it needs to be.
Sam drops his gaze and swallows deeply, his eyes stinging as he blinks the tears away.
“You bleeding?”
Sam looks down at his hands, flaking with dried rusty-coloured blood. His jeans are covered in it too; so is his shirt. But is it his? He's had blood on his hands for so many years he can't tell the difference any more.
He thinks about his own blood mixing with Dean's; the unclean tainting the clean. He thinks about playing blood brothers when they were little kids, Dean's new penknife nicking his finger in the woods behind a bungalow they rented in Idaho. Maybe Sam cursed them both that day.
A hand slaps his cheek, snapping his head to the side. “...hear me?”
Dean's frowning at him and trying to sit up, blood streaking a new river down his neck. Sam pushes him back down, or at least he thinks he does. Everything feels kinda loose and untethered, like it's all drifting away.
“They're coming with a truck.”
Sam's pretty sure he says it out loud, but then his vision dims to sketchy outlines, and he can't hear what Dean's saying, just watches his lips as they curl and curve around inaudible words.
He can feel Dean's calloused hands wrap around his face, can feel Dean shaking him.
But Sam's focus is on his brother's eyes. There's something there that was missing before, and Sam can't look away as the green of his irises gets brighter and brighter, more alive.
XoXoX
He doesn't remember waking up, his eyes are just open and he's looking around a room he's never seen before.
He knows he's alone, can feel it in the stillness of the room. It's dark, and through the open window Sam can see the sun sinking lazily into the horizon. He's shirtless and a light breeze skips over his skin.
He sees a glass of water by his bed, and there's a neat row of stitches low on the left side of his belly. The stitches have his brother's signature, small and tightly packed together, just like so many others that Sam wears on his battle-worn body.
For some reason this one makes him smile.
He swings his legs out of the cot he's been lying in; a sharp pain explodes in his gut and for a horrifying second he feels like he's gonna throw up. He swallows thickly, and the room spins a little but his head is clear, which means he must have been out of it for a while.
He grips the nightstand as he pulls himself up, wincing as he tests his legs before he shuffles barefooted along the dusty floorboards, fingers tracing a crack in the plastered wall.
Kids are screeching outside and there's a large fire on the yard in front of the house, flames reaching high into the darkening sky. Dean's standing on the porch, a chipped mug in his hand as he looks out over the dark shadows of the field, a stark white bandage wrapped around his head.
To his left Sam sees the old guy's rocking chair, and knows exactly where he is.
Dean's shoulders are relaxed and he looks at home, looks like he belongs. Sam wonders what he's thinking, wonders how different this man is from the one he used to know.
Sam walks up next to Dean, shoulder to shoulder, but his brother doesn't turn to look at him, just passes Sam the mug in his hand. It's some sort of homegrown tea, hot but not at all sweet. It tastes good.
Sam passes the mug back to Dean, who takes a sip.
The first firework lights up the night sky with exploding colours of the rainbow, crackling and fizzing, the air filled with the ooohs and ahhhs of the audience below.
A rocket soars high into the sky, and they both lift their heads to see it explode into a shower of golden sparks that fade to nothing. And like it was yesterday, Sam remembers lighting those fireworks with his brother on 4th of July back in 1996, lets himself wallow in the memories of laughter and joy. All of it.
Then Dean flicks his gaze over his shoulder, and they just stare at each in other silence. Dean looks him in the eye, like he's trying to find something he lost, like he's trying to say all the things that Sam wants too, but doesn't know where to start.
Then the corner of Dean's lip curls, just a little, his eyes so big and bright they reflect the fireworks. “It's gonna be OK, Sammy.”
And for the first time, in a really long time, Sam lets himself believe it.
The End