babybrotherdean:

For a few precious hours, they have peace.

Dean figures this is just the calm before the storm that rests on the horizon, with the threat of Lucifer’s return sitting heavy on their shoulders, but it doesn’t seem to matter right now. Right now, they’re safe; they’re cocooned in a tiny bubble of unreality they’ve carved out for themselves, between the bodies that still lay on the bunker’s floor and the message they’ve left for the London chapter of the Men of Letters.

You shouldn’t have come here.

Leave us alone. 

Be afraid. 

And now, finally, they get to rest. It’s just the two of them, curled up real careful in Dean’s bed because his leg is a damn mess and Sam’s still fretting over it, but the important part is the bit where they’re together. Separating is never easy, especially with the possibility that one of them won’t come back, but it’s behind them, and Sam’s safe and whole in his arms, and Dean can finally breathe again.

They did it. They really did it.

“You think they’ll tell stories about this one?” he hums. Turns his face into Sam’s neck and closes his eyes, breathing in the heartbeat that he feels soft and steady under his lips. Keeps talking, real soft. “How Sam Winchester rallied together a rag-tag group of hunters and took down the Brits?”

Sam laughs at him, and his arms curl a little tighter around Dean’s middle, tucking him in close. They’re breathing as a unit, drinking in every moment they’ve got of this in the tiny break they’ve given themselves to rest up before moving forward. They’re only human, after all. “You know how they are. They’ll tell stories about a funny-looking wendigo if they can get anyone to listen.”

“Maybe.” Dean smiles, then breathes out slowly. Allows himself this moment to bask in the victory, because fuck if they haven’t earned it. They deserve to feel good about this, at least for a little while. “I think it’s a better story than most. You gave ‘em something to remember, Sammy. Something to share. I don’t think anybody’s gonna be forgetting what you did any time soon.”

Sam’s quiet, but it’s a good kind of quiet. The kind that means Sam’s all warm inside, maybe even blushing a little. Doesn’t do it as much as he used to, these days, but it’s a damn sight when it does happen. “Could be.”

Dean thinks about that as they drift off together, the name that Sam’s made for himself tonight. Maybe he won’t need to be the boy with the demon blood anymore, or the hunter who let Lucifer out of his cage. Maybe he’ll be able to leave behind every bad thing that people have learned to tie to his name, and maybe they’ll remember him the way that he deserves to be remembered.

Maybe, if they’re real lucky, people will remember Sam as a leader and as a hero. God knows that it’s the very least he deserves. 

RIght now, though, Dean just gives his brother what little he can. He gives him a pair of arms to hold him, and a couple dry kisses to the front of his throat, and somebody to hold while he falls asleep. A heartbeat to listen to and a warm body to soothe him. 

It isn’t much, but for now, it’s going to have to do.