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“What in the hell are you wearing?”
Dean’s all smiles when he turns toward Sam’s question. “Was I supposed to fancy up? We’re just going to the bar, right?”
“Dude, it’s eighty degrees outside. You can ditch the leather jacket”, Sam explains with a smile of his own.
Sam hates that jacket. Dean loves it. Still. They’re both in their twenties and Sam’s at least ninety-nine percent sure they’ll never leave each other again for as long as they live. Nonetheless, there will almost certainly never be a world where the two of them agree on stupid shit like outerwear and flavored sodas and how to fold socks.
As Dean removes the offending clothing (with a dorky shimmy of his shoulders that’s supposed to be fake sexy but is almost real sexy on account of how desperately in love with him Sam is), he stares at his brother. Spinning around once, he asks, “How’s this? Better? Are we having ourselves a one-shirt-only kind of evening?”
It’s a moment, a small and seemingly ordinary one, but to Sam, it’s perfect.
He would never ever have asked Dean that question eight months ago, when he first showed up here in Palo Alto after weeks of text and email negotiations. Just for a visit. Just for a day. Or the time after that, when it was just for a night. They spent almost as much time tip-toeing around potentially dangerous landmine words or questions than they spent actually in conversation. The explosion would have to occur eventually, it was unavoidable, but they managed to hold out until visit four (just for the weekend).
Now, Sam doesn’t remember it as an explosion, only because he has the benefit of hindsight. An explosion leaves death and chaos and destruction in its wake. Weekend four had brought down more walls Dean and Sam even knew they had. Possibilities that had once been shrouded in shame and guilt are now part of the foundation of their relationship. Arguing isn’t the end of the world. The sky doesn’t fall if one thing or another doesn’t work out as planned.
Sam can make a joke about Dean not wearing his jacket when they go out to the bar. Even though Dean knows that Sam hates the jacket because it’s John’s and that means something different to him. That’s not a fight, it’s not a big deal, it’s not even a small deal. Dean can make a joke about Sam spending all his free time in the library and Sam won’t sulk or pout or punch his brother in the face because Sam knows Dean doesn’t begrudge him this opportunity, this experience.
Tomorrow, they’ll wake up in the same bed. Dean will leave. But he’ll come back some other time. Probably soon. California winters are nice.
A balled up pair of underwear hits Sam on the ear (who taught this guy to aim?), shaking him out of his thoughts and depositing him back in the same room with Dean.
“You having a seizure? Stroke? Acid flashback?”
And Sam laughs, and tells Dean he’s gross, and Dean makes a lewd joke, and a predictable but unnecessary argument ensues about who will be the designated driver.
They’ll end up just walking to the bar anyway.