Look at that. I wrote something. God, it feels good to write. Okay, never mind. I've been writing. It feels good to finish something. Even though this doesn't really count because it's a oneshot and that seems to be all I can finish these days and isn't that sad?

I've seen a lot of people indulging in gross sobbing and heartache and despair over this last episode, what with Bobby dead, and Dean, and everything. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It was depressing. But…

Man, fuck all this angst. Let me give you a little bit of hope for a change, like this episode gave me.

They haven't done this in a while.

Sam looks down at the beer in his hand and can't help but think it's nice that some things never change. This used to be their thing. Their 'bonding' time, cold beer after a job well done.

Although now Sam can't really say he feels good about Dean drinking, considering the sheer amounts of alcohol his brother's been consuming over the past weeks, but this at least is different. This isn't Dean binging, trying to drown the pain and the grief and the desperation. This is just him, quiet, enjoying a pastime they've had forever, and for the first time in just as long Sam feels he really has his brother sitting next to him again.

He knows, after all. He knows what these last few months have cost Dean. He knows that for every step toward stability he takes, Dean cracks just a little bit more. He's working to regain his sanity and Dean is losing his. And he hates it. He hates that it's happening and he's so fucked up he can't do a damn thing about it. Dean had given him that, stone one, and he's been building on it, but where is Dean's rock?

He probably gave it to Sam. Just like everything else.

Damn it.

Anxious, he sneaks a look at his brother. Dean looks…relaxed. Sort of. At the very least more at ease than he has recently, like he's finally managed to get a handle on himself and put his game face on. It's not exactly comforting, but it's reassuring. Hopefully by the time Dean finally cracks, and Sam's almost sure he will, he'll be well enough to handle it. He'll be strong enough, stable enough, sane enough to give his brother the support he so desperately needs.

"We did good, huh?" he says, because he needs to say something, wants Dean to know he is proud, that for all the shit they've been through, they can still do the job like in the old days and come out on top. At least, compared to angels and the apocalypse and all that other so-above-their-pay grade crap.

"Yeah," Dean agrees, and he sounds like he believes it, "We really did."

Sam feels a little smile creep over his lips. "It's nice, you know? Just, plain old hunting. I missed monsters."

Dean gives him a funny look, eyebrow raised. "You missed monsters? How hard did they hit you?"

"You know what I mean. Just, compared to other stuff. It felt like finally being back on familiar ground."

Dean scoffs a little. "Can't deny that." He takes a swig of his beer.

Sam does the same, and gazes up at the sky. It's blue, and clear, and it soothes him. Looking at the sky he can almost believe that the world is totally fine, normal. Nothing wrong, nothing waiting, just the vast blue and all the people under it.

Him and Dean under it.

A nudge to his shoulder catches his attention and he looks over to see Dean watching him.

"You okay?" he asks, with that same edge in his voice when he's worried Sam's hallucinating, but more subdued.

Sam nods. "Yeah. Just enjoying the scenery. Makes it feel like the world's not going crazy."

Dean winces a little. "Yeah, we wish."

Sam can't help a wince of his own, wonders if he just put his foot in it, but Dean's body language doesn't read tension, still as loose as it was a minute ago, so he hopes he dodged a bullet.

He suddenly feels like he owes Dean an assurance, like his brother is so often giving him.

"Dean?"

"Hm?" Another swig.

Sam licks his lips.

"I'm here."

There's a pause, and Dean looks over at him. Sam meets his gaze.

"I'm here," he repeats, with a quiet firmness, trying to convey his meaning through the words. He ruthlessly squashes down the part of him that wants to automatically add, 'aren't I?' like when he's scared and uncertain what's real. He tells that part to believe it. This is real. This is real and he's here with Dean, because for all of what Lucifer did to him in the cage, no way could he come up with a reality like the one Sam's stuck in right now. Leviathans? Lucifer's not that creative.

He wills Dean to understand, to know that he grasps, most of the time anyway, that he's here and he knows it. It's just that he's weak, and scared, and sometimes can't help but doubt, but he's working on that. He's going to overcome it, damn it, one way or another.

Because he believes in Dean. He has to. And every time he didn't everything got fucked up and he was up to his eyeballs in regrets.

So he believes. That much is certain.

Something softens in Dean's eyes a little, and Sam's heart leaps when he realizes Dean does get it. He can almost feel the other's relief.

"Of course you are."

Sam smiles and takes a drink of his beer.

This is what he wanted. This is what he missed and he hopes, god , he hopes that by the time this whole fucking mess is finally over and done with he'll still have this. He'll pray for it. Angels and God be damn, he'll pray for it.

"Sam."

He startles a little, not expecting Dean to speak, but the sound of his voice, quiet, tired, thoughtful, makes his chest ache. God, he's missed his brother.

"Yeah, Dean?"

There's quiet for a long moment, Dean's hand tilting his bottle so the liquid inside rotates in small circles, his eyes focused on the present for once.

"When this is over," he speaks again, soft inflection in his tone, "Let's get a house."

…

Huh.

Well, whatever he'd been expecting, that's the absolute last thing he thought he'd hear. Hell, forget last thing, it wasn't even on the list.

His shock must show on his face (and why wouldn't it, because Dean's words are utterly baffling), because Dean snorts and smirks a bit.

"Really," he insists, "Let's get one. If we make it through this alive, let's just get a place. Somewhere quiet and out of the way, where we can just unwind."

"Dean," Sam can't help it, he laughs a little, "You really think we can give up hunting?"

"God no," Dean admits, "We tried that, remember? It never works. Something always comes up. Inevitably. Always."

"Then what are you saying?"

The elder shrugs. "I'm just saying. Wouldn't it be nice? We've never had a home before. Never needed one. But don't you want one? Plenty of other hunters, they have one. They may not spend a lot of time there, but they all have somewhere to go back to."

"Dean, we're not exactly other hunters. Most of those hunters were regular guys with regular lives who had something happen that brought them in. We didn't. We've lived in a car our whole lives."

"So? We could still do it. We could just have a place of our own. True, we'll probably never stop hunting, not until we're dead," he pauses, a funny look on his face that morphs into a sardonic grin, "stay dead," he corrects, "but we could have somewhere to go back to, to regroup. Somewhere we won't have to worry about hotel fees, and what people are thinking about how long we stay or what we do. We'll be paying for something that will be ours, and we can do whatever we want there."

He had to admit, Dean's idea had appeal. And Dean made it sound so easy.

"But what about the money? Scamming isn't gonna work for that, and if something goes wrong it's a liability."

"So we find work. We make honest money and use it to pay for it. Then it doesn't matter. And it's not like we don't know how to make aliases, never mind that no one would ever believe we'd actually buy a place. No one would think to look for it. It'd be our secret."

Sam sits there and thinks about it. A house. Dean sounds like he really means it. Something they could call theirs. A real home, for the first time in their lives.

Well, that's it. Now he knows beyond any doubt that this is real. Because no crazy imaginary Dean would ever suggest something like that. No fake Dean would offer something like that, because not only would it give away that something was up, but it's something that Sam's wanted so long he forgot he wanted it at all. He abandoned it forever the day their dad died, when it was just him and Dean and their car, and that was enough.

And isn't it laughable that that is what assures him this is the real thing? A fantasy that for him was on the same scale as a fairy tale. Completely unbelievable.

"You want that?" he questions, because he wants to be sure.

"Yeah, Sam," Dean affirms, "Maybe not for the reasons most people do, but I want to think of it as a goal. I mean, I never seriously thought I'd live this long. I guess technically I didn't, but since certain circumstances keep forcing us back in the game and we have to live anyway, why the hell not? Do something for ourselves for a change. With our luck we'll probably survive this whole thing just out of spite."

Sam has to agree, as yanking their chains and setting them against impossible odds does seem to be a favorite pastime of all things great and cosmic.

The bitches.

A house. A real house, with just the two of them. If they live that long.

Fuck that. Sam will live to see it just on principle.

"Okay," he declared, "I'm game. But only if you promise me something."

Dean hesitated from taking another swig, eyes swinging in his direction. "What?"

"Whatever happens from here on out, we end this like we started it. Together. Win or lose. I won't make you…no, won't let you do this without me, and you know I can't do it without you."

Dean looks somewhat taken aback, and Sam charges forward.

"So if you're serious about this house, it's you and me, or not at all. No one of us dies and the other moves on bullshit. It's done. We can't do it, so we may as well accept it."

There's a brief silence, and then Dean's lips twitch, and he's smiling, no, he's outright grinning. The sight of it warms Sam from the inside out. Their lives suck, there's no denying, and they'll probably always suck, but if he can have this, he doesn't care. Take a page out of Dean's book: something kicks you in the ass, kick it back.

"Deal," his brother concurs, and lifts his beer to tap it against Sam's, sealing it like a handshake.

Okay, he thinks. They have a plan. All they have to do is kill the Leviathans (somehow) and save the world (again).

No worries. He has Dean. Even when they were at odds, they've always come through. Alone they don't have a chance. Together? They have a shot.

So he'll win. He's here, damn it, and he's going to make that enough.