The Road Goes Ever On and On by Luzdeestrellas (gen)

Title: The Road Goes Ever On and On
Rating: PG
Word count: 1,305
Spoilers: For All Hell Breaks Loose Part 2
Summary: Sam turns twenty-five on a Friday, and Dean's still here.

Notes: Thanks to musesfool for looking it over. Title from Tolkien.

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The Road Goes Ever On and On

Sam turns twenty-five on a Friday, and Dean's still here, cursing up a blue streak, dirt in his hair and under his nails, smudged down his cheek and over his eyebrows. He feels like axis and gravity beside Sam, his grin curving bright and dangerous, full of endless possibility.

Sam's only allowed to watch as Dean digs the grave. He's pretty sure he could help without tearing the wound the demon gave him, but Dean still freaks out a little whenever Sam mentions it, so Sam doesn't. He flicks his thumb against Dean's lighter, sends a tiny spark of flame into the sky, and says, "Some time today would be awesome," just so Dean will look up, flip him off, annoyance on his face the way only Dean can wear it, even when he isn't pissed off at all.

"We can't all be ladies of leisure, Samantha," he says, and Sam's still smiling twenty minutes later when he throws the salt in and the flames burn clean and true, a job well done, and another ghost laid to rest.

They drive back to the motel with the windows down, the car full of Zeppelin and Dean's voice and the cool night air. There's no winter left in it, not now; it's all spring and the promise of summer, and Sam wonders if he'll ever stop being giddy.

"Dude," Dean says, heading to the bathroom as soon as they get in, "you're seriously freaking me the fuck out." But he's smiling, too, the circles under his eyes so much less than they were two weeks ago, only standard exhaustion now from working a hunt, instead of from staying up night after night, terrified and trying not to show it, whispering comfort over and over to Sam, because Sam couldn't hide his panic, because maybe doing it later wouldn't be an option. "How about you do something useful and bring me a coffee?"

Sam doesn't. He flops back on the bed, and lets his mind wander, nothing to focus on, beyond their next job--a nest of harpies in Florida--and the suspicious series of accidents Bobby wants them to take a look at in Idaho as soon as they're done with that. There'll be a hundred other jobs after that, and a hundred others after that, because they're still fighting a demonic army. They're still running from the FBI, come to that, but maybe they can find a solution to that, too, only not today. He thinks about vacationing in July, instead, an endless stretch of sand and an ocean Dean would swim in like he owned it, days stretching on and on, like a road he'll never stop following. He thinks about powers he doesn't fully understand and answers they might never really find, and it's okay, because nothing has ever been more powerful than Dean, and Dean is the only answer Sam needs.

He comes out of the bathroom, as if on cue, towel slung low around his waist while he digs in his duffle, so much careless easy grace Sam is stupid with it. He pulls on underwear and jeans, and Sam catalogues everything like it's the first time he's seen it: the shifting constellations of freckles over his shoulders that promise to change again after Dean's spent another summer standing under the sunlight, the three inch scar to the right of his spine, the first time he stood in the line of fire for Sam, that promises Dean will always be there. Sam drinks it all in, strength and warmth and everything Sam wants right there in front of him.

Dean pulls a t-shirt over his head and throws the towel at Sam. "You gonna lie there all day?"

"Might do, yeah." He stretches and throws the towel back at Dean before heading for the bathroom, and Dean stops him with a hand on his shoulder, looking oddly shifty. Sam raises his eyebrows in question, though he isn't exactly sorry to be so close.

"I got you--uh--" He shoves something wrapped in the most frightening shade of pink Sam's ever seen into Sam's hands. "Here."

He doesn't look at Sam straight on, rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed maybe, or just prepared to bolt if Sam decides to hug him, and Sam figures either is a reasonable possibility. They don't do birthdays, not really, separation and grief and loss always in the way before, and last year, Dean had taken them out to celebrate, and Sam had gotten so drunk he'd spent the whole next day throwing up, clung to Dean the whole night, terror eclipsing any victory he might've felt. "It's not much, 'cause...you know, I didn't buy anything before--"

"Yeah." Wasn't like Sam would have cared about his birthday if things had gone wrong, not like he'd have cared about much of anything. "If it's porn," he says, running his finger along one neatly taped edge, "I'm not sharing."

"Right. Like I'd waste perfectly good porn on you."

The Lord of the Rings tumbles out when he unwraps it, new and pristine, nothing like the dog-eared copy Sam used to have. "Dude."

Dean smiles. "You were such a little geek, and I figured it might keep you quiet now like it used to. At least when you weren't trying to make me pretend we were part of the goddamn fellowship, anyway."

Sam flicks it open, remembers finding it for the first time in Pastor Jim's, spending a summer there while Dad chased a poltergeist from one end of the country to the other, and the hours were full of Dean's voice, spilling lazy and comforting over Sam, warm as the Minnesota sun. "Uh huh. As I remember it, the first time I read this, you read it to me."

Dean shrugs. "There were some pretty awesome battles in there, Sammy. You know, cool things, but I drew the line at trying to teach myself Elvish."

"I did not do that." And before Dean can argue, he says, "Thanks, Dean. Really."

"Like I said, I've got to minimise the bitching somehow. Got a whole lot of time on my hands these days." He claps Sam on the shoulder. "Happy birthday, man." He looks up then, and Sam knows it's thanks for saving my ass, and I owe you one (even though Sam still hasn't come close to balancing Dean out, probably never will), and you're still worth it.

Sam has to resist the urge to hug him again, but all he says is, "I'm picking where we eat tonight. Birthday privileges."

They drive out as the sun sets, heading for Florida. Sam's got the stupid wrapping paper tucked at the bottom of his duffle, though he'll cut his own arm off before he lets Dean know that, and the book lying open on his lap. He reads to Dean, AC/DC low in the background, and Dean pretends not to be listening, except now and then he gives himself away--Where's my mathom, bitch? and Dude, Gandalf's powers were kind of pissy. You could totally take him in a fight. Sam keeps turning the pages, and doesn't say anything about how he won't ever let them end like the story, one of them going west without the other, mostly because he figures Dean would probably do it just on principle if he knew Sam still thought of them like something from a book, unbreakable and kind of legendary--at least when they're together.

Somewhere around dawn, Sam starts to drift, and Dean tosses his jacket at him to use as a pillow. "For my thirtieth," he says, as Sam settles against the window, the book still clutched in his hand, "I'll be expecting something spectacular. It's a big deal, you know."

Sam grins. The third of May rises up to meet them, And Dean's still here.


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