Out Of the Night That Covers Me, Part 2

[mickeym]

~~~~~

It's been four months since the world didn't end bloody or in a blaze of fire and destruction, and other than a couple walks in the courtyard behind the main wing of the hospital, Sam hasn't been outside. He stands just outside the doors, breathing in and out slowly, an even, measured rhythm to trick his mind into ignoring the anxiety of standing outside.

He hears the rumble of the Impala even before he sees her; low, grumbling purr like a giant cat waking from slumber. It's almost as comforting to see the car, all sleek, black lines, as it is to see Dean behind the wheel. He stands and stares for a few moments, until Dean ducks his head to call out the open window,

"Well c'mon, Sammy. I know I'm pretty, but I ain't getting any younger sitting here."

Sam snorts. Such a Dean-thing to say. He tosses his bag into the backseat and folds himself down into the passenger seat. "Home, James."

"You're not nearly as funny as you think you are, dude."

"Funny enough," Sam counters, staring out the window as Dean guides the car out of the parking lot and onto the street.

Kansas was ground zero for the final showdown, finishing things where they first began. Sam's not entirely sure where they are now; somewhere along the east coast, probably, but hell, Sam was barely conscious those first couple of days after they put Lucifer down. Dean could've driven them anywhere and he wouldn't have noticed. He keeps looking, eyes scanning the landscape hungrily, noting the streets and cars and people, and the signs here and there that yeah, the world came close to ending. Close, but not quite.

"Where are we, anyway?"

Dean looks over at him, eyes hidden behind shades. "New London, Connecticut."

"Oh, wow. Really?"

Dean shrugs. "Wanted to get the hell out of dodge after everything was done. I hit the first major interstate heading east, and then headed north when I ran out of east. Southbound was blocked," he adds. "Probably still is. There was a lot of damage all over the place, especially right along the coast – earthquake-type damage. So I just went with the first main road that was functional and kept going. I'd planned on looping around and heading back west a bit, or maybe further north, but things—happened."

Things.

Sam happened. He remembers, more-or-less, them stopping somewhere. Needed to get some food, something to drink. Dean was still pale and trembling, shooting troubled glances toward Sam in the rearview. They went into a bar, restaurant, something. Someone said something to one of them, and Sam snapped.

"How'd you get me out of there?"

"Clocked you a good one on the jaw," Dean says with a small smile. "You went down like a ton of bricks; I threw your ass back in the car and drove until I couldn't keep going." He tips his head toward the window. "This is where we ended up."

"Huh."

The rest of the drive is quiet. Dean hums along with radio – surprisingly not cock rock, but something more bluesy – and Sam watches out the window. He sees some areas that look damaged and abandoned, and a lot more that don't. Some businesses are obviously closed up and gone, but there's a McDonald's they pass that's open, as well as a Starbucks.

"Guess it would take more than the apocalypse to end McDonald's or Starbucks," he says, and Dean snorts in laughter.

"Or Wal-Mart."

Two more turns and then they're on a side street, off the main drag, and Dean's guiding the car into a driveway. "Home sweet home," he says, bringing them to a stop in front of a stand-alone garage.

Sam remembers Dean saying it was like a cabin. The structure in front of him doesn't look very cabin-like; really it mostly looks like a small, neat Cape-style house. It has a tiny porch on the front, and he glimpses what is probably a deck off the back.

"It's cute," he says finally, when it seems like Dean's waiting for him to say something. "Does it, is it furnished? You said you were squatting?"

"Yeah. I found it driving around one day, getting a feel for the area. I think the owners probably just loaded up the family car and took off; no one's been back and I've been staying here for over three months." He leads the way up the steps and unlocks the door, and Sam blinks.

"You have a key? How?"

"Called a locksmith and told 'em I'd lost my keys, and wanted the lock changed."

Sam laughs.

Inside is dim and cool, even though it's fairly warm outside. The floors are hardwood, with a couple of area rugs scattered around. There's a sofa and a reclining chair, and a couple of tables – plus a nice-looking, largish TV against one wall. A fireplace. Through the archway looks to be a kitchen and dining area; off to the side of the front door is a staircase.

"Two bedrooms upstairs, across the hall from each other, with the bathroom in the middle. Both got beds and dressers, and there were sheets and stuff in the hall closet. I got rid of everything that seemed like personal stuff that got left behind. Boxed it up and took it down to the church down the street; they're running a shelter for folks who got displaced." Dean glances at his watch. "I seriously gotta get going, so I'm not late—there's stuff in the kitchen to eat, and you can just poke around. I'll be back in a couple of hours."

He's not going to ask. He's not going to ask. He's not—"Where're you going?"

"Just an appointment I need to keep. But it's on the other side of town, and traffic gets wonky sometimes."

Sam nods. "I'll—be here, I guess. See what's on TV."

"No cable. Sorry, man. But there's DVDs. Cabinet under the TV." Dean cuffs Sam upside the head – gently – and smiles. "Glad to have you home, Sammy. Been boring without having your ass around."

Sam manages a half-smile. "Thanks, I think."

Dean's out the door before Sam can say anything else, and for a long moment he feels a lot like he's felt coming down from the rages these last few months: empty and alone, just yawning darkness opening up before him.

He shakes himself impatiently and throws his bag over his shoulder. The staircase is steep and narrow, typical of older houses, and Sam wonders idly when it was built.

The bedrooms are nearly identical: both have big beds, bigger than Sam's had in a long while, with a nightstand and lamp, and matching dresser. The only difference at all is the room to the right has a set of bookshelves in it. After a quick glance at the other room, which is clearly where Dean's been sleeping since the bed's messed up and there are things scattered around, Sam goes into the empty room and sits down on the bed. For the first time since his sophomore year at Stanford, he has a room of his own and a bed that looks like it'll fit him comfortably and be comfortable – and he doesn't want it.

~~~~~

Sam's just sitting down at the table when the door opens. Dean's grinning and sniffing the air as he makes his way into the kitchen. "Make enough for me, too?"

"Yeah, there's plenty—still on the stove." It's nothing fancy, just a tuna casserole thing with a small salad, but it sounded good. Comforting. Sam still remembers Jess making tuna casserole when she wanted what she called 'comfort food', and somewhere along the way it became that for him, too.

Dean serves himself and grabs a beer out of the fridge, glancing at Sam. "You want one?"

"Nah. Not sure how alcohol mixes with all the crap I gotta take." Which reminds him, and he digs around in his pocket for the pills he's supposed to take when he eats dinner. He breathes in when Dean walks past him to sit down, but there's no hint of perfume, or anything like that. Maybe a whiff of cigarette smoke, but nothing else. "How'd your whatever go?"

Dean looks up from his plate, eyebrow raised. "Fine." He shovels a couple mouthfuls in, chugs half his beer and belches, then says, "you start work with me Tuesday."

"Tuesday? Not Monday?"

"Monday's Labor day. No work."

"It's September? Already?" Sam sets his fork down. "Really?"

"Well, yeah. You spent the summer in the loony bin, dude. Didn't you know that?"

Sam shrugs and pokes at his salad. "Time kind of passes differently in there. Especially when you're zonked out on sedatives, or out of your mind in general."

"I guess." Dean tilts his head. "We could go to the beach this weekend. Get you some sun. You're kind of pasty pale, Sammy."

Saying Sam's surprised by that would be like saying the Grand Canyon is a huge hole in the ground. He blinks at Dean for a minute, mouth opening and closing but no words coming out, and Dean waves his hand around, says, "never mind. It was just an idea."

"No—it's. That'd be great. You gonna invite your girlfriend?"

Dean freezes, fork halfway to his mouth. "Girlfriend? Huh?"

"Isn't that where you're going, your meetings or whatever?" Wow. Sam's pretty sure he hasn't felt this awkward in years. His face heats up when Dean keeps staring at him, a half-smile teasing one corner of his mouth up. Sam clears his throat and looks down at his plate. "Never mind. Just, if you want to, that's fine."

"Awfully generous of you, but I was thinking just you and me." Dean kicks Sam's ankle under the table, and Sam jerks, then jerks again when he bangs his shin against the table leg. "Seriously, Sam, girlfriend? Way to be subtle, dude. If you wanna know what I'm doing, just ask."

"Because you're so eager to share stuff?" He sounds cranky, even to himself, and Sam stabs his fork into his salad. "I did ask you, earlier," he points out. "You blew me off."

"I did." Dean leans back in his chair and lets loose with another belch; one that Sam's certain should make the walls shake. He scowls at Dean who smiles calmly back at him. "Only 'cos I didn't have time to get into it if you had questions. So ask me again."

Sam eyes Dean warily, because he's really not up to being messed with and how often does Dean just offer up information about himself without a catch? "So, where'd you go, earlier?"

"I had a counseling appointment."

"You had a—what?"

Dean tips his head back and drains his beer, then gives Sam a look. One that clearly says Sam's an idiot. "Counseling appointment. I've been going for a while now."

"Really? Why?" It's not like he doesn't know Dean has issues – with a capital I – (and he's not throwing stones; facts are facts) but never in a million years would Sam have pictured his brother willingly, voluntarily, going to therapy sessions.

"Yeah. Just, y'know. Didn't want you to be all alone in your crazy."

Sam chokes out something that could be either a laugh or a sob, he isn't sure, then manages to grit out, "thanks, I appreciate that."

"You better. Therapy is expensive shit. 'S why I've been working a shitload of overtime." The legs of Dean's chair make a rough scraping noise when he pushes back from the table, and he reaches for both their plates as he stands. "You done? Or want more?"

"Nah, I'm finished."

"You didn't eat much." Dean's frowning at him, just a little, and the urge to stand up and press a kiss to the wrinkled spot between his eyes is almost overwhelming. Sam looks away.

"Not really that hungry, I guess," he says softly. Dean's spent the last three, almost four, months working who knows how many hours a week to pay for Sam's hospital stay and so they could get better, and maybe they can have a future where people and monsters and demons and angels aren't constantly trying to kill them.

It'd be a nice change.

"You, um. Making any progress with—stuff?" There's a noodle on the table, and Sam pokes at it with his fingernail, trying to ignore all the crap suddenly racing through his head again; all the taunts from all the demons, and the angels, the way Ruby played him, the way he and Dean played each other and pushed each other, hurt each other over and over again.

"Some." Dean's scraping the plates clean, and the sound of flatware against cheap porcelain is grating and sharp, like a spike driving down into the center of Sam's mind, slicing through images and memories. He lifts his head to look at his brother, but Dean's moving back and forth at the counter, running a sink of soapy water and rummaging through a cabinet for something. So domestic, so settled; he has a routine and he's comfortable with it, and Sam feels like a damn outsider. A visitor in his brother's home, even if Dean says it's his, too. He can't decide if that feeling makes him sad, or angry, or both.

"Sam?"

Something warm and wet hits his cheek, and Sam jerks his head up, wiping at it. Soap bubbles. "Huh?"

"You still with me?"

"Yeah—why?"

"Because I've been talking for like five minutes here, and you haven't commented or grunted, or anything. You looked like you were zoned out."

"Sorry. Was just thinking, I guess. Kind of tired."

"So go to bed." Dean sounds so calm, so fucking reasonable, so—God. Sam doesn't even know what. But it's pissing him off, and it's not good for him to get pissed off. He snorts at that, thinking you wouldn't like me when I'm angry, and laughs out loud at that. Dean eyes him, obviously unsure what to think. "Sam? You losing your mind for real?"

Sam's still laughing, and he can hear the hysteria in it. Feels it bubbling up inside him, spurring it on. He laughs harder, hardly able to breathe, and God, it's making his ribs ache and his stomach hurt, but he can't stop. All he can do is let it roll up through him and out, like a pressure cooker whose lid finally came off. Distantly he's aware of Dean saying his name again, calling it a couple of times, and warmth wrapping around his arms, clenching tight, and everything vibrating. Shaking. Dean's shaking him, his mouth moving. Sam. Sammy, stop. Sam, c'mon.

It doesn't end all at once. Sam feels the hysteria drain out of him slowly; it's replaced with a deep sadness welling up from far down inside him, and the laughter gives way to tears. He's not sure how long he cries before he becomes aware of Dean hanging on to him, holding on like he's afraid Sam's going to rise up and float away. He's standing in front of Sam, hands heavy and hot on Sam's shoulders, anchoring him to the here and now. As the tears fade and everything else comes back into focus, Sam hears his brother whispering, "…s'okay, Sammy. You're gonna be okay. I gotcha."

Dean startles when Sam shifts, but he doesn't move away. He holds on, hands sweeping over Sam's back, rubbing at tense muscles, ruffling the short hairs at the nape of Sam's neck. Sam's face feels hot and wet, and he leans forward to rest his head against Dean, breathing slowly and deeply, trying to remember all of Dr. Daniels' instructions about calm breathing, calm body, calm mind. Dean holds him close, and it's the most comforting thing Sam can imagine right now. Dean smells good, rich layers of sweat and aftershave, that hint of tobacco, the malty scent of beer. He smells like home, and safety and everything good in Sam's life, and Sam can't help but wiggle just a little closer, moving his head to take a deeper, fuller breath.

There's a quick gasp above him, then Dean's voice, heavy with amusement. "Did you just wipe your nose on me?"

Sam hiccups once and draws back enough to look up at Dean. "Absolutely not."

"You totally did. Admit it." Dean's looking down at his shirt like he expects to see gobs of snot dripping down or something. Sam just snuffles and leans back, missing Dean's touch as soon as he lifts his hands. "You okay now, Sammy?"

"I think so, yeah." He sighs and rubs at his eyes, sore and swollen from all the crying. "I think I'm gonna take a shower and go to bed."

"Sounds like a good plan," Dean says, pulling away completely and heading back to the sink. Sam wishes he had the strength to reach out the way he wants to, to pull Dean into an embrace.

He's too afraid of what might happen, to try. Too afraid of what he might do if Dean rejects him.

~~~~~

Lucifer is huge, all-encompassing, all-consuming, filling him up and swallowing him down. There's nothing left of him, just black hunger, hatred, a rabid wish of moremoremoremore until there's nothing left of him, nothing left of anything, it's all been swallowed down to disappear into that overwhelming blackness--

"Sammy, c'mon , wake up—"

Hands. Hands on him, shaking him, poking and pushing at him. Dean. Dean's shaking him. Sam squints up, trying to figure out why Dean's there. "Wha--?"

"I think you were dreaming, man." Dean's voice is rough, night-time gruff, and he clears his throat. "You kept yelling, I don't even know if it was words, just, yelling."

Sam rubs his eyes, still sticky and stinging from earlier, and blinks until Dean's face swims into focus in the weak light. "I was—yeah. Nightmare," he adds, probably unnecessarily. "Sorry I woke you up."

"Eh." Dean releases him and it's then Sam realizes he's sitting right on the edge of Sam's bed, miles of nearly-naked warm skin so close. "It's a little past five, so it's mostly morning. You wanna get up and we can get around for the beach? Or you wanna try and sleep some more?"

Sam's tempted to say, I'll sleep if you lay here with me, but doesn't. Instead he yawns and stretches, shaking his head to try and get the dreams of Lucifer out. "We could get up. I don't feel like sleeping anymore."

"So what was the nightmare?" Dean hasn't moved yet, just sits there warm and inviting, and God, Sam wants. He shakes his head at Dean, not ready to talk about it. Not sure he can talk about it.

"Just, nightmare stuff."

"Uh-huh." Yeah, that probably wasn't terribly convincing. Sam wouldn't believe himself, either. Dean gives him a steady look for a minute, but Sam just stares back, stalemate, until Dean stands up and heads toward the door. "Get your ass in gear, Sammy."

~~~~~

After breakfast – and Sam's not so out of it that he doesn't notice Dean eating Raisin Bran, and holy shit, is this really his brother? – they throw together some sandwiches and put them into the cooler along with some sodas and some beer. Dean tosses in a bag of potato chips, and Sam grabs a couple of bananas off the counter (seriously, Dean bought bananas at the grocery store? Sam wonders if he needs to do an exorcism).

The sense of surreal continues when Dean tosses what is obviously a pair of board shorts at Sam, muttering, "I hope they fit your gigantic ass. Probably end up looking like short-shorts or something." Sam flips him off and goes to change.

The shorts fit just fine, as it turns out.

They load everything into the Impala's trunk: cooler, a couple of towels and an old ratty blanket Sam thinks has been in the back of the Impala since it first rolled off the assembly line.

They head up the coast, instead of hitting the local beach, Dean whistling tunelessly as the radio stations fade in and out. Sam watches out the window and is hit with the memories of a thousand different road trips over the years. It's simultaneously a painful ache and a welcome warmth to realize the only road trips they're likely to take anymore will be ones like this: for fun, because they want to.

"We're done hunting, aren't we?" He asks after thinking it over for a while.

Dean looks over at him, mouth set into a small frown. "Probably. Least for a while. Got shit we need to work out…and Sammy, man," he shakes his head. "I'm tired, you know? Tired of that life."

"What happened to the family business, saving people, all that?" He's not trying to pick a fight, not really. But for as far back as he can remember, Dean was all about hunting.

"Been telling you for a while that I was ready to be done. And after all the crap in the last couple of years. I dunno, man. It's like we have a second chance, and honestly? I want to settle down. Maybe it won't last, I don't know. But I'd like to try. The fight's over for us. Let someone else deal with it."

"Huh." It's so far from the it's never going to BE over, there will always be evil to fight Sam remembers Dean telling him a few years ago, a lifetime ago it feels like, that it's hard to process.

"That's all? Just 'huh'?"

"Well, not sure what else I could say to that." Sam shrugs. "To be honest, I feel like I woke up and stepped into some sort of twilight zone or something."

"What d'you mean?"

"You're like Mister Domestic-man, now, eating bran cereal and buying fruit and vegetables and washing up the dishes—and you're wearing shorts, Dean!" Sam swallows down the hysteria that seems to still be lurking just beneath the surface. "It's just a lot to take in all at once. Then you tell me you're – we're – done hunting, and I keep wondering who you are."

Dean smiles, but it looks strained. Uncomfortable. "Well, I've had a few months to make the adjustment. While you were hanging out at Brookside." There's a pause, and Sam can almost see Dean trying to figure out which words to say. "I've been done for a while, Sammy. I stayed in it because you stayed in it, because you were determined to find out what the deal was with Azazel. Then there was the whole thing with you dying, and me going to Hell, and all the shit that came afterward, and enough's enough, man. I've watched you die – killed you myself, one of the those – and I don't want to keep doing it. If you want to keep hunting—"

"I don't," Sam says, the words out before he realizes it. "I really don't." He's kind of surprised to realize he really means it.

"Okay, then. Let's just…enjoy our second chance, or whatever it is."

Sam snorts. "I think we're probably onto our third or fourth chance at this point."

"Whatever, dude. Whichever number it is, let's enjoy it. Okay?"

"Sure." Sam nods. It feels like a resolution of sorts, and maybe that's appropriate, too. It's not a new year, exactly, but it might as well be, with the getting out of the hospital thing. New year, new life, new chance at that new life. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

It might be his imagination, but it seems as though Dean's hands tighten on the steering wheel, just a little. Sam waits another beat or two, then says, "Raisin Bran? Really?"

"Bite me, Sammy."

~~~~~

Sam nods off in the car, the smooth growl of the car's engine and the warmth of the sun lulling him into a doze.

It's not a deep sleep; on some level he's aware of CCR playing on the radio, and Dean singing along low, almost under his breath, and the occasional bump when the tires hit a rough patch on the asphalt. But it's peaceful, restful, and best of all, it feels safe. It's not the black yawning chasm of night time sleep, when he's by himself in a bed in a room without Dean in it.

He comes fully awake when the occasional bump in the road becomes constant, the tires making a dub-dub-dub sound as the asphalt changes over to something like gravel, or uneven pavement, and sits up rubbing at his eyes.

"You look like you're about six when you do that," Dean says, mouth tilting upward at the corners. "And your hair's sticking up."

Sam reaches to smooth it down then scowls when Dean laughs. "Funny. Such a funny guy."

"I try."

"Don't give up your day job just yet."

They're at the beach; Sam smells the salt in the air, and high above them he hears the gulls screeching at one another. There are brightly colored sun umbrellas, and people of all shapes, sizes, colors and ages running around, laughing and yelling. Kids building sand castles, guys throwing Frisbees back and forth, or chasing girls wearing bright-and-tiny bikinis.

Dean parks them, and Sam gets out slowly, giving his body a chance to stretch and shake off the several hours of sitting folded up. When he looks up, Dean's watching him, looking at him in a way Sam hasn't seen from him in ages. It makes him warmer than even the sun's managed so far.

"You planning to go in the water?"

"Nah." Dean shakes his head. "I don't care if the water's had all summer to warm up, this far north, it's bound to be really fucking cold."

Sam makes a mental note to push Dean in at the first opportunity. Just because.

"Let's go stake out a spot. Did you bring sunscreen?"

Dean gives him a look like he's crazy. "The point is to get some sun, Sammy. You look kinda like Casper."

"Not really wanting to get sunburned, Dean."

"You're not going to get sunburned. Dude, you tan better than I do."

"Whatever." Sam's just not going to waste his breath lecturing about sun poisoning and skin cancer, and how sunscreen doesn't keep you from tanning or whatever, just prevents the bad radiation crap. It's not worth it, because it would go in one ear and out the other, and Dean would still tell him he doesn't need it.

It's actually a pretty awesome day, though Sam leaves his t-shirt on to cut down the sun exposure. He and Dean get talked into joining a group of people playing volleyball, though Dean gets distracted when one of the girls on the opposite side takes her shirt off, revealing the tiniest bikini top Sam thinks he's ever seen. He's pretty sure he's seen band-aids that were bigger, and she's practically falling out of her little scraps of cloth – and Dean totally misses the serve because he's ogling.

There's a tug-of-war afterward, right on the water's edge, and Sam makes sure that when he loses his footing he pushes Dean into the water. It's worth getting splashed to hear Dean sputtering and cussing a blue streak over the very, very chilly water.

They head back to their blanket and towels after the tug-of-war (their team won, which made up for not winning at volleyball), and the sandwiches and chips taste really good, if a little soggy from sitting in the melting ice all afternoon. By the time they're done, and Dean's on his third beer and Sam's nursing a second soda, the sun's starting to set and the noise on the beach is going down as families pack themselves back into their cars to head for wherever home is.

It's nearly dark when Dean pulls a plastic bag out his duffle and nudges Sam. "Wanna see if you can find some driftwood?"

"Why?" Turns out the bag has marshmallows, a couple Hershey bars, and a small baggie of graham crackers. Sam blinks. "S'mores? Really?" He sounds like he's eight, and doesn't even care when Dean laughs at him.

It's one of his most favorite memories, actually, him and Dean huddled around a tiny charcoal grill, holding out sticks with a couple marshmallows each. Dean had to keep pulling Sam's hand back – Sam thinks he was five, maybe – and telling him to wait, that the marshmallows would be better if they cooked just a little longer. He doesn't remember where they were living at that time – Ann Arbor? Maybe. But it doesn't matter. Just mattered that Dean watched Sam watching a show with kids going camping, and toasting marshmallows and making s'mores, and gave him that experience as best he could.

He comes back to the blanket with a small pile of wood, and Dean's found a couple long, thin sticks to use to put the marshmallows on.

The fire crackles merrily, though Sam's pretty sure they're not supposed to have a fire in a non-fire spot on an open, public beach. He hopes no one comes and gives them grief about it, because for the first time in a while the rage feels quiet inside him, though he knows it's probably more illusion than anything else. It's not gone, he knows that much. Maybe it never will be completely gone. Maybe that's what Dr. Daniels was trying to get him to understand: it's not going to go away, so he has to learn how to live with it and manage it, and not let it control him.

"Dude, your marshmallow's on fire." Dean pokes him.

"Oh, crap!" Sam pulls it away from the flames quickly, and blows on it. It's not totally burned, just a little singed on one side. It's okay, he doesn't mind it like that; they're usually gooey and melty inside when they're a little singed.

The s'mores are awesome, all gooey marshmallow and chocolately goodness, and Sam knows he's making little happy noises when he eats his – Dean's snickering at him, and he doesn't care. He makes and eats three of them before relaxing back on the blanket to stare up at the sky sparkling with stars.

"Comfy, princess?" Dean sounds amused, and Sam glances over at him, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"I'm awesome. Obviously s'mores are the cure to all that ails me."

Dean laughs outright, then leans in. "You've got some chocolate—" He wipes his thumb over Sam's lower lip, a slow caress, and Sam doesn't even think, just opens his mouth and licks at Dean's thumb; tastes the salt and smoke mix with the chocolate. Dean groans low in his throat and Sam sucks at his thumb, teeth scoring the flesh, tongue lapping to soothe it. "Sammy, Christ—"

He cuts off whatever else Dean might've said, pulling Dean down to kiss him, tongue pressing against warm, plush lips until Dean opens with a soft moan. He tastes Dean completely, tongue teasing around the inside of Dean's mouth, relearning territory he's never really forgotten; the warm, wet heat he's missed desperately.

Dean looks as stunned as Sam feels when they part, and they stay quiet as they put out the fire and pack things up, and head back to the car.

Sam touches Dean's arm as he turns to move to the driver's side. "Want me to drive?"

Dean hesitates for a minute, then flips the keys over. "Sure."

They stand there for a moment, awkward silence stretching out between them, and Sam gropes for something to say, wanting to acknowledge this thing between them that's been there forever and never really gone away, even when they weren't actively doing anything about it. Mostly he wants to pull Dean close and tell him I love you, I want you, I need you so bad. He's not going to, but God, he wants to.

He settles for just starting up the car, and if they're quiet for the drive back home, at least it evens out into a comfortable silence after a while, rather than the strained, awkward silence right after they kissed.


On to Part Three

Comments

[tifaching.livejournal.com]

"Dean's spent the last three, almost four, months working who knows how many hours a week to pay for Sam's hospital stay and so they could get better," I love so much the "so THEY can get better" Dean's actually trying to work through his own issues, not just Sam's and that can only be good for both of them. And I loved their time at the beach. Just being normal people having a normal time. Done with hunting? Hard to imagine, but I hope they have some time for a good life. On to the next part!

[lelaro.livejournal.com]

best first kiss ever!

[iwrotethissong.livejournal.com]

oh lord, cuddling. i see cuddling!!

[keerawa.livejournal.com]

Sam goes into the empty room and sits down on the bed. For the first time since his sophomore year at Stanford, he has a room of his own and a bed that looks like it'll fit him comfortably and be comfortable – and he doesn't want it.
Followed by him getting some decent sleep in the Impala on teh way to the beach - of course.

Such as sad moment when Dean's washing up and Sam feels like a visitor in his brother's home. But the happy childhood memory of the s'mores, and the fact that Dean knew him well enough to bring those to the beach? There's a lot of joy there.