"I'm gonna sleep through it," Sam says. He's facing the sea and he's nodding slowly, like this is a big decision he's been pondering for hours.
Dean wants to reach over and brush the too-long, wind-mussed hair back from Sam's face, but he doesn't. He picks up a handful of sand and lets the grains slide between his fingers. "Sleep through what?"
"Through the sunrise tomorrow." Sam nods again, then he looks at Dean. The sunset is rosy and bright: Sam is squinting but not quite smiling. Dean can't quite figure out that look on Sam's face, but for the first time in a long time he doesn't mind. "I've been thinking about it. You know, whether or not I wanted to see it. But I'm pretty sure I'm gonna sleep."
"Okay," Dean says slowly, the syllables drawn out and lazy. He's had a lot of years of practice putting "I'm agreeing with you only because I think you're a crazy person and am worried you might bite but not in the sexy-fun way" into that one word. It's a Winchester family skill; Sam only picked it up too because he learned from the best.
Sam does smile at that, a slow and easy grin spreading across his face. He leans back on his elbows and stretches his legs out long, digs his heels into the sand. "I didn't think there'd be another one," he says. "I wanted to make sure."
Dean's not going to let that grin slip off Sam's face. "You know the sun rises every day, dude. That's, you know." He waves his hand illustratively above his head. "Astronomy and shit. Didn't they teach you anything in school?"
Sam shakes his head. "It doesn't count if we're not here to see it."
Sam's voice is still hoarse – too much smoke, too many screams – and the bruises are still vivid along his jaw, around his neck, and suddenly Dean's having trouble breathing.
He gets it. He knows damn well what it feels like to believe there will never be another sunrise. ("It's dark," he's learned to say whenever everybody asks him, whenever curiosity about Hell outweighs their allies' better judgment. "It's dark and hot and worse than you think." Sam doesn't ask anymore.) He just didn't think – all these months, all this time the world has been fighting to survive and they've been fighting right there with it, ever since the last seal fell – even when there was nothing else to hope for, nothing else to fight for, the one thing that kept Dean on his feet was the determination that Sam would never know that feeling. He thought he could manage that, even if everything else fell apart.
"Hey," Sam says. He touches Dean's shoulder. "Stop that."
"What?"
"Brooding," Sam says.
Dean turns to glare at him, and Sam laughs.
"Yes, you are," Sam says. "That's my job, so stop it. We won. You won. We saved the world."
"The whole world," Dean agrees, because that will never not be cool. "The whole fucking thing."
He sighs – and ignores Sam's fond eyeroll – and leans back, falling into the same comfortable position on the sand. It's getting darker but the air is still warm, pleasant and salt-scented, the surf gentle and quiet. There's nobody on the beach except them, nothing in the encroaching darkness except stars and a restful night. Dean closes his eyes and breathes deeply. He wonders if he's just imagining it, the way the air tastes better on this side of the apocalypse.
"I just hope," Sam begins quietly.
Dean waits, eyes closed, relaxed. Sam is a warm, solid shape beside him, familiar and no more than inches away.
"I just hope the world doesn't decide to repay us with a freak tidal wave," Sam says. "That would really suck."
Dean lets out a completely undignified snort of laughter, but he doesn't bother stifling it. There's nobody but Sam for miles around.
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Sam/Dean - on a deserted beach at sunset
Date: 2009-07-30 04:03 am (UTC)Dean wants to reach over and brush the too-long, wind-mussed hair back from Sam's face, but he doesn't. He picks up a handful of sand and lets the grains slide between his fingers. "Sleep through what?"
"Through the sunrise tomorrow." Sam nods again, then he looks at Dean. The sunset is rosy and bright: Sam is squinting but not quite smiling. Dean can't quite figure out that look on Sam's face, but for the first time in a long time he doesn't mind. "I've been thinking about it. You know, whether or not I wanted to see it. But I'm pretty sure I'm gonna sleep."
"Okay," Dean says slowly, the syllables drawn out and lazy. He's had a lot of years of practice putting "I'm agreeing with you only because I think you're a crazy person and am worried you might bite but not in the sexy-fun way" into that one word. It's a Winchester family skill; Sam only picked it up too because he learned from the best.
Sam does smile at that, a slow and easy grin spreading across his face. He leans back on his elbows and stretches his legs out long, digs his heels into the sand. "I didn't think there'd be another one," he says. "I wanted to make sure."
Dean's not going to let that grin slip off Sam's face. "You know the sun rises every day, dude. That's, you know." He waves his hand illustratively above his head. "Astronomy and shit. Didn't they teach you anything in school?"
Sam shakes his head. "It doesn't count if we're not here to see it."
Sam's voice is still hoarse – too much smoke, too many screams – and the bruises are still vivid along his jaw, around his neck, and suddenly Dean's having trouble breathing.
He gets it. He knows damn well what it feels like to believe there will never be another sunrise. ("It's dark," he's learned to say whenever everybody asks him, whenever curiosity about Hell outweighs their allies' better judgment. "It's dark and hot and worse than you think." Sam doesn't ask anymore.) He just didn't think – all these months, all this time the world has been fighting to survive and they've been fighting right there with it, ever since the last seal fell – even when there was nothing else to hope for, nothing else to fight for, the one thing that kept Dean on his feet was the determination that Sam would never know that feeling. He thought he could manage that, even if everything else fell apart.
"Hey," Sam says. He touches Dean's shoulder. "Stop that."
"What?"
"Brooding," Sam says.
Dean turns to glare at him, and Sam laughs.
"Yes, you are," Sam says. "That's my job, so stop it. We won. You won. We saved the world."
"The whole world," Dean agrees, because that will never not be cool. "The whole fucking thing."
He sighs – and ignores Sam's fond eyeroll – and leans back, falling into the same comfortable position on the sand. It's getting darker but the air is still warm, pleasant and salt-scented, the surf gentle and quiet. There's nobody on the beach except them, nothing in the encroaching darkness except stars and a restful night. Dean closes his eyes and breathes deeply. He wonders if he's just imagining it, the way the air tastes better on this side of the apocalypse.
"I just hope," Sam begins quietly.
Dean waits, eyes closed, relaxed. Sam is a warm, solid shape beside him, familiar and no more than inches away.
"I just hope the world doesn't decide to repay us with a freak tidal wave," Sam says. "That would really suck."
Dean lets out a completely undignified snort of laughter, but he doesn't bother stifling it. There's nobody but Sam for miles around.