mickeym

Title: It's Not Nothing If It's All You Have
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~1000
Warnings/Spoilers: Implied post-series, after Dean's deal has come due.
Disclaimer: Sadly, not mine. They'd have more fun if they were.
Notes: Written, of course, because I have other things I should be writing. Many hugs and props to

leighm and

rivers_bend for looking this over and making some suggestions that made it that much better. Hope y'all enjoy.

It's been a quiet night in the bar, all things considered, and you're hoping it'll stay that way. Sure, quiet means not as many tips but you're tired and it'd be an okay trade-off, tonight.

You wipe down the counters at your end of the bar, then turn to watch Jackie at the far end. She says something to the big guy sitting by himself, then nods and pours him another shot. When she joins you a few minutes later you nod in his direction. "What's his story? I see him in here all the time, but he never talks to anybody."

Jackie gives you a half-smile. "Sam? Yeah, he's in here most nights. And you won't see him talk to anybody--'cept me. Oh, and this one other guy who comes in, once in a while. Like, literally, once a year."

"For real? Once a year?" Jackie nods, and she looks totally serious. Hell, she's worked here for the last decade, so you guess she would know.

You study Sam from the distance of the bar, trying to figure out what kind of barfly he is. He's an older guy, you think -- though it's hard to tell for sure. He could be anywhere from thirty to fifty, though you're guessing it's closer to fifty, given the silver threading through his hair and the weariness he wears like a coat. He's not bad looking; just the opposite, in fact, and you can't understand why he's alone, because even with that world-weary feeling coming off him, there's something very intriguing about him.

His hand shakes a little when he raises his glass, and you see the cane resting beside him, leaning against the bar, and you wonder what happened. Who he is. Why he sits in here, night after night, nothing for company but a barmaid, a bottle of scotch, and a battered, worn book laying in front of him.

Jackie takes a break just before midnight, and Sam's still sitting in the same place, this time staring ahead into space, empty glass in front of him. You sling your towel over your shoulder and saunter over to him, casual smile in place.

"Get you a refill?"

He glances over at you immediately, but it takes a minute before he responds, eyes focusing on you. He shakes his head, then glances at his watch and nods. "Sure. Scotch. Neat."

"Comin' up." It only takes a minute to get his drink and in that minute you've lost what little focus you had from him. You watch him turn inward again, eyes drifting away from you, and know any chance you had to chat him up has disappeared.

A few minutes past four -- and less than an hour before you close -- the door opens with a gust of chilly wind that makes the pile of napkins you set on the bar shift and ruffle. By the time you glance away from the inventory you're doing, the door's closed and there's a lone man making his way across the room, moving toward Sam.

Sam's the only patron left in the bar; the only other person besides you and Jackie. You've been watching him off and on all evening, but your eyes are drawn to him as the other man approaches, because for the first time all night, Sam sits up straight, a flash of something lighting his eyes.

You drift slowly closer to Sam's end of the bar, in time to hear the other man say in a low, rough voice, "Happy birthday, Sammy."

Sam turns on his barstool, his face open and alight, one hand coming up in time to touch the other man's chest. "Dean. Dean. God, I."

"Shh. I'm right here, Sam." And the man Sam called Dean leans in and kisses Sam -- takes his mouth in a kiss so tender, so loving, you turn away in embarrassment, because that wasn't something meant to be seen by anyone but them.

"Been so long," Sam says, voice half-whisper, half-groan, when Dean releases him.

"I know. Christ, I know, Sammy." Another kiss, one you can almost feel, heat and slick, sweet chase and tease of lips and tongues. Sam will taste of scotch, but Dean...you don't know what Dean tastes like.

The words come unbidden, into your mind: Heat. Heat and burn, smoke and fire.

His kisses singe and incinerate, each touch smoldering, just this side of painful.

You blink and Sam and Dean are kissing again, rough, biting kisses like they can't taste enough of each other, fast enough.

Sam stands, slipping off his barstool, no sign of palsy anywhere; standing easily without the cane he needed even to go to the restroom. The silver streaks in his hair fade as you watch, the lines and weariness in his face smoothing out, easing away.

For a moment you think this must be what Sam really looks like: young, carefree, so in love it hurts. You hear the whisper of cloth-against-cloth, skin touching skin, with the harsher whisper above it, words that hardly make sense: "One day a year, it's not enough. It's never going to be enough, Dean."

Dean's voice is thick, raspy, and you wonder at that; at the hint of tears and pain. "It has to be, Sam. It's all we get, and it's better than nothing."

You wonder what they mean, why there can't be more than one day, one time a year, but when you look up, over to where Sam's sitting, they're gone.

~~~~~

It's another quiet night in the bar, and again, it's okay. You have a lot to do, and even more to think about.

The door opens with a squeak and a creak, no gust of wind tonight. Just the door.

Sam leans heavily on his cane as he shuffles in, the silver in his hair gleaming in the lamplight. When he nods at you, you see the weariness hanging over him.

Three hundred and sixty-four days to go.

~fin~