Genre: gencest not-curtainfic
For: madebyme_x , who wanted Sam & Dean final moments together for a snowflake challenge wishlist. What happened is more like... a weird fever-dream of bittersweet non-finalities? I hope you enjoy anyway.
Title from Lorca, Romance Sonambulo
Smells like sandalwood, Sam says from the bed, and Dean says you would know that, princess, because that's what his hair's smelled like all these years, or no-- it's cedar, or some other damn tree that's green all the time. Sammy still looks so young, the bastard; gray in his hair like threads of melting ice, not even there really, like he freaking magicked it or something; always has had something in the blood, that kid, not the demonic thing, something else that bruises and breaks but keeps on coming up again, living and kicking.
Dean holds his hands. It's OK Sammy. It's OK now. He can smell it too.
We're not gonna die in a wreck, Dean says, or in an explosion--
We're not gonna fade away, either, Sam says and looks over at him, watches him glance at the sun dropping in the west, over the flat fields and through the windshield as she moves, his baby, their home of homes, their settlement.
This was years ago. When they were just beginning to understand it, the power of the mundane. Before they pulled any great levers but after they were boys.
Saplings in the bones and something sweet on the wind.
Let's go, Sam says. He's carrying a backpack, but his body has never felt so light, so open and unafraid. There's a forest, deciduous then mixed, one they've walked before, run through on one of their accidental tours--
of heaven, that is.This seems different.
Sure, Dean says, and shoulders his own pack, takes Sam by the hand.
This is different. Needles underfoot. Soon they'll come to a road.
Hey, Sam says, you awake?
Yeah, Dean says, are you?
Dean was dreaming:
Sam lives on top of a windswept hill with his always-knocked-up psychic ex-hunter wife, Swallow. Dean doesn't know how many kids they have now, they always seem to be in the trees, or they are trees, or birds, at least some of the time. Swallow always knows when he's coming, even before Sam does, standing on the windy wraparound to greet him with a glass of lemonade laced, light, with whiskey and horsemint. Dean, she says, her hair out like floss in the southerlies, her belly round as a rock, it's been too long. Though it hasn't been long at all.
He told Sam about it, the weird fairytale dream, one night when he was drunk, or feverish, poisoned, both or all three, and Sam laughed, said--
Dude, it's a bird, Dean said, and Sam made a Sam-face, furrowed up, mopped his brow or some, and it was forgotten.
In the dream, Dean said:
Are you happy, Sammy?
I'm happy, Sam says. A kid is dangling from his arms, locked there swinging, then flapping off like a bird. Boy or girl, hard to tell. Green-blonde locks full of leaves, made for wind.
He's got your hair, Dean ventures, and his brother smiles so warm, like August'll never end.
I had a dream once too, Sam says, one time when they're driving a long drive. I mean--the same kind of dream you told me about. We lived on this dude ranch, or you know, just a ranch, in Wyoming, and--
yeah, Dean says, figures.
We had three daughters between us, Sam says, I had this ex-wife who was a librarian and also a medic or a search-and-rescue person or something; she had a white mother and a Cheyenne father. Your daughter's mother was a hunter, I think, long gone.
Yeah, Dean says, what were their names.
Sam looks at him.
The daughters, Dean says.
Johnny, Darby-Marie, and your daughter, Jane, called Callie, for Calamity. She looked a lot like you, only prettier.
Dean makes a face at him, hey, I'm pretty.
Really bad mouth, Sam says, worst cusser I ever heard.
That's pretty creative, Dean says, and specific.
Sam goes soft-serious, looks at the road.
They were all hunters, Sam says, and they drove around in a truck with a big sign on it, "Winchester Roofing and Siding." Not.
All hunters, Dean says.
Yeah, says Sam, and there were sigils everywhere on the ranch, like brands, but if there were angels and demons and god and the devil--they were all quiet, you know, like they were in the grass and the big sky and the dirt and the pine trees.
Hm, Dean says, were we happy.
I think so, says Sam.
We've had a lot of death scenes, haven't we, Dean muses, half-gone on something local and woody and decent. Aromatic, almost. It's a rocking-chair thing to say, makes him think of Westerns. Mesquite. Pine. Campfire. Homestead.
Yeah, Sam says, think I'm dead now.
I think we can do better, Dean says, tips a glass in Sam's direction.
The bunker is solid around them. It's been a long trail, long day. Whole years of long days. Sam grunts assent. Dean looks over at him with his head dropped and his hair spread out on the table, hair-forest grown wild over the borders of war-room states, wind rattling, brother and brother and brother.
Dean sleeps too.