holdmesamthatwasbeautiful:

Dean is packing his
duffle when he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and for the fraction
of a second, he’s convinced that a stranger is staring back at him.

He straightens his
back and looks again. He hasn’t looked at himself in the mirror a lot, these
past years – not much to see, he’d figured. Now, he looks.

New scars. The
same guilt-ridden tautness in his shoulders. He doesn’t look young anymore: the
fullness to his mouth that has been there has faded, the lines around his eyes
are sharp and tells tales of sleepless nights full of whiskey. There used to be
a playful gleam in his eyes, but he realizes now that he’s lost it somewhere
along the road: he looks somber and tight jawed, and there’s a touch of grey around
his temples.

He looks like John
had, the last years of his life; tired and pinched, the planes of his face a
little mean looking.

Dean looks away.

“Hey.”

Dean turns around.
Sam’s watching him, standing in the door opening with his arms crossed over his
chest. He smiles softly, and Dean’s heart flutters in his chest; nothing’s changed, there.

“What are you
doing?” Dean asks.

“Same as you,” Sam
says easily and steps into the room, one eyebrow arched. “Admiring the view.”

Dean scoffs out a disbelieving
laughter and feels his cheeks go a little warm. “You’re cheesy.” His eyes
flickers back his reflection again. He adds in a murmur: “Ain’t that much of a
view anymore, anyway.”

Sam walks up
behind him, and Dean’s breath catches a little in his throat when Sam’s fingers
curl around his waist. It’s a little softer these days, and he bites his lip as
his gaze drops to the floor.

“Dean,” Sam mumbles
into his ear, his warm breath sending shivers down his spine. “Look up for me.”

Dean does. He
stares at them in the mirror: Sam’s behind him, one arm wrapped around Dean’s
waist, his long hair falling in a soft curl around his face. He still looks
young, Dean thinks: his mouth is still pink and soft, his gaze glittering. He
looks like something Dean doesn’t want to tarnish.

“Do you know what my
biggest fear has been?” Sam asks quietly, running his knuckles softly against
the scruff of Dean’s jaw.

Dean’s eyes meet
Sam’s in the mirror, and he shakes his head. “No.”

Dean feels Sam
swallow, his grip around Dean growing a little tighter. “That I never would get
to see you like this,” Sam says. Dean almost, almost, misses the tremor in his voice. “That I wouldn’t get to see
you age. Dean, I’ve been so terrified I’d have to go on living, without you.
With just. With just the memory of your young face, while I grew older.”

Dean’s fingers find
Sam’s; braids them together. “Sam.”

“You have no idea,
do you,” Sam murmurs. “Just how beautiful you are to me like this. You’re. You’re
alive, and ageing. Dean, you’re so perfect.”

Sam turns Dean
around gently, lifts his chin, and Dean feels like he’s sixteen years old again;
melting into Sam’s arms, just as powerless as he had been all those years ago
when he’d first realized how gone he
was for his beautiful baby brother.

Sam’s mouth is hot
against Dean’s when he whispers: “Never been more in love with you.”

Dean throws his
arms around Sam’s neck. They kiss, and it’s so simple and perfect, and when
Dean’s fingers tangle in Sam’s hair, he thinks: I need centuries more of this.