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Sam passed out on the end of a long sigh, face smoothing out and his chin lowering into the quiet hush of shadows, his grip on the back of Dean’s neck falling away. Dean stayed, propped above, hand trapped in the warmth between their bodies, his blood cooling. His arm trembled with held strain; he’d drawn it out, as long as he could in the cramped humid air of a two-man tent. He’d made it good. He knew how to do that at least. He dropped his head to Sam's chest, broad and damp through his shirts and thick with the smell of sweat and smoke, his brother at the end of a long day, strong and familiar. Deep breath. Home.
It had been too long, too long. Christ, it was like he was in mourning.
He smothered that feeling hard. Wiped his hand on the outside of the sleeping bag and shuffled backwards, covering Sam up as he went, grabbing the other bag for himself and the lantern too. Zipped the flaps shut to keep the heat inside and stood, buttoning his jeans carefully over his dick, sticky and full, still. Never even took his boots off. Sweat on his brow, his throat, and the night cold and black. The fire was low, coals thin. He should have banked it. He'd followed Sam into the tent without thinking about much else.
Sober. Or half a six pack, which was the same thing. He broke the fourth free and tossed the cap into the embers, knocking up a little puff of orange. Rebuilt the fire with kindling and a log and wrapped the open bag as a blanket around his shoulders, sat on the cooler and let the night settle around him and the fire rouse itself, glow against his face, dry him out. No reception on his phone. No crisis or game or conversation to carry him through, just the shit his mind usually cooked up for him. He replayed the tent a couple of times, crawling into the space Sam made for him, Sam’s thumb at the point of his jaw, pulling him up and in, the softness of his mouth. The heat of his dick. Sam had gasped when Dean brought them together, wordless and grateful. Dean couldn't see where gratitude came into it, from Sam's side.
The beer went down easy. The Mark, barely an itch. He fed another log to the fire. Under the crackle all the various forest creatures talked to each other in familiar chitters and hoots. They never came up into the Rockies any more. Through Denver with the windows wound down on the thin air they had passed an Army Navy Surplus and it had got Dean thinking about trips up here as a kid, in the snow, hard and cold work what with drills and training and survival but at night the three of them sitting together around a fire, quiet, muscles aching, would grip him in such a deep and piercing contentment that he would struggle to know what to do with himself. Is that why he’d chosen Colorado to stop, that memory? Let’s take our we time in some mile-high backcountry and think about the good old days, before I screwed it all up?
Smother it. Breathe. His eyes stung from the smoke and he tilted his head up to the stars and drew in a deep cold lungful of the mountains. Finished his beer, started another. It’d be good to sleep. He had half a fifth in his bag, over by the tent. Ten minutes or so, when his ass was flat enough to push him up to his feet, he’d start working on it. Tomorrow he’d go back down to the city and grab camp chairs and a few bottles of something stronger than PBR. Nothing much else was gonna do it.
Rustling in the tent, a chesty cough that dragged at Dean’s ribs too, pulled him down. A long pause. He scrubbed at his face and sighed, tipped forward enough to reach between his legs and lever another bottle from the cooler and waited. Eventually Sam came out, unbent himself like an old man and then stretched backwards in a freaky C, groaning. Shoved his feet into his unlaced boots and came over, took the proffered beer in his bad hand, and then cupped his other tight around the back of Dean's skull and bent down and pressed a shocking kiss to the top of his head, through his hair, so firm and sure it spiked a wild panic all up through Dean’s gut and cracked his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut and leaned hard into it until Sam released him, straightened and stretched again and parked his ass across the way on a log cut for the purpose. Dean blinked after him, reeling. Over the fire, through the haze of the smoke. Sam’s big jacket hung on his shoulders like a shawl, collar high. He wasn't wearing the sling. He felt a long way away.
A drink to settle his nerves. His voice, after a while, could be trusted. “Your arm okay?”
Sam nodded, eyes on the flames. His stubble was black in the firelight, his skin warm. It took away that bleached, dog-tired look on his face, made him almost normal. Two weeks ago Dean had looked at his tall and hollow brother and thought that although it might be amusing to play with him, break a few bones, maybe tell him some home truths, the funniest thing would be to not care about him at all, to let him thrash around weak and soppy and pathetic. Failing that, he’d thought it would be nice to see Sam’s brains hit the wall.
“Thanks,” Sam said, breaking the air, lifting the bottle like he was startled to find it in his hand; cleared his throat, twitchy smile flashing. Even from six feet away Dean could see his eyes shining, and after he drank he swiped at his cheek and set his jaw down at the fire and said, quiet, “I missed you, man.”
More lead in his chest. “Sam.”
“I'm good, I just.” Sam shrugged, with his good shoulder. Something old and difficult tucked into the corner of his mouth and his hair lank, scooped behind his ears. “I missed you.”
The logs shifted against each other, bark glowing, losing purchase. Six weeks. Not that long in the scheme of things. Long enough.
“Yeah,” Dean said, eventually, digging his thumbnail into the damp and pliant label on his beer. That month plus, Dean hadn't missed him. What was there to miss? He was done with it. He’d spent most of a year missing his brother like a phantom limb, missed his body and his patience and the full-strength beam of his attention and had woken up free of that, free of Sam, free of missing anything at all. He’d had the time of his life fucking and drinking and killing, showing his ass in every way a grown man could show his ass. He'd had Crowley for company. Lucky him.
Sam had lifted his gaze and was watching him, steady. “I’m here. If you wanna talk about it.”
“Ah, you know how it is, Sammy.” Rough. He pushed it hard into a joke. “What happens in demontown stays in demontown,” and Sam smiled fast enough that Dean knew it would happen anyway, over tomorrow’s fire or up at the lake when they got there, the bare cheap bones of it all that he could stand and then months or years down the line he'd spill it all and find out Sam knew anyway, both the details and what any of it meant, that he could be that person, a person who didn't care about Sam. Of all the people he’d become and all the people he had yet to be; he never imagined that was in him. “You wanna talk about it?”
Sam curled his mouth like it had a bad taste and leaned forward, nudged a log deeper into the fire. “You know what I want, right now? Hot apple cider. You remember? In the snow?”
His eyes back on the flames, not avoiding Dean, just absorbed. Meditative. Even with the pounds lost and the dregs of a cold lodged in his lungs and the last few months etched into him he was beautiful. He’d sat at the kitchen table with coffee cradled in his hands and listened to Dean’s half-desperate we time pitch and said, mildly, you know where might be nice? There’s a lake near Mount St Helens, and had gotten back in a car with Dean. He’d pulled Dean out of the fire after Dean had done his best to burn and he’d bought Dean jerky at three different Sinclairs along the way and just now he’d thrown an ankle over Dean’s leg to tie him down while Dean took care of him. He was here, and somehow he was grateful. It was nuts. It was too much for Dean to believe without pain and it was too much to deserve or even understand but he’d take it.
Dean levered himself up, lifting the cooler, circled the fire and sat down again, shoulder to shoulder. He couldn't look over. Eyes fixed on the dirt, Sam’s worn boots next to his, laces trailing. “Cider in the snow, huh. What are you, seven?”
“Sometimes,” Sam said. Dean could feel his gaze.
“Yeah,” Dean said. His throat tight again. He drew his lip between his teeth, and breathed. A log in the fire dropped, puffing up a cloud of sparks that billowed and rose like a gasp, sucked up and out in the thin air. Smoke, fire, owls, pine, beer flat on his tongue; his brother at the end of a long, long day. Here, and grateful. “I remember.”
::
The end