A/N: I'm not a fan. It's actually reformatted from a larger piece I'm working on, and I like it better in the original, but that would require too much explanation and it would totally ruin the story if I decide to post it later. So here. Like I said: I'm not a fan of this one.

Sam stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, clothes still muddy and slightly askew, hair tangled and matted, and his face unreadable except for the sorrow that he couldn't quite contain completely. Bobby was out collecting a few more items they would need for their next hunt, so his house was nearly silent except for the constant tick of a grandfather clock in the corner as Sam watched the two on Bobby's sofa.

Dean and Cas were out cold. Dean was on his stomach, shirtless, with off-white bandages holding together several gashes on his back from where Sam had finished patching him up not fifteen minutes ago. His light brown hair was mussed and dirty, though it still glinted gold in the fading evening light that slipped between the living room curtains, and he was snoring softly with his face pressed against Cas' chest.

Cas was sprawled on his back underneath Dean, his head tilted at a slightly awkward angle against the arm of the sofa, with one arm flung over his head, his hand dangling down the side of the sofa, and his other wrapped firmly around Dean's midsection, fingers tight against Dean's skin as if holding him in place. One of his socked feet was still firmly planted on the floor.

Sam shifted his weight as Dean suddenly jerked a bit, almost waking, but not quite, and pulled his arms in to where their chests were pressed together. Dean's fingers bunched the dirty, white cotton of Cas' undershirt - the normal button up, tie, and coat having been discarded elsewhere between the arrival at Bobby's and his subsequent nap. Cas unconsciously answered Dean's movements with his own; he wrapped both arms around Dean, tightening his grip, and grunted as he shifted their legs into what looked like a painful knot, but must not have been because both men slept on.

Sam's eyes flickered to both of their faces. Dean's was softer, more peaceful, in sleep, as if he wasn't constantly fighting against a juggernaut named "Fate." He looked younger... almost. Cas' face appeared more human; his lips weren't pursed in eternal existential contemplation and his wide, piercing blue eyes were hidden, eliminating the alien-like expression that separated him from the rest of humanity. Both men's chests expanded and contracted in tandem, and had Sam been able to hear them, he'd bet money that their hearts were damn near in sync too.

After everything those two had been through together, it wouldn't have surprised Sam in the least. Dean and Cas balanced each other out. Cas provided the reason to Dean's passion, and Dean provided the skepticism to Cas' blind faith. They were an odd pair, admittedly. But still.

A soft, tired smile lifted the corners of the younger brother's lips - one of which was split and crusted over - as he toed off his shoes and approached the sofa. It was a rare occasion that he got to see both men so unguarded. Dean had always been Sam's older brother, so Dean had done his damnedest for Sam, from the time they were kids, to keep it together, to stay strong, to never show weakness. Dean was always one for compacting and compartmentalizing his life, which meant that usually Sam only got to see what Dean wanted him to see. And Cas - Cas was still an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a taco. To Sam he was still a foreign being: a guy who showed up and provided help from heaven occasionally...almost a consultant of sorts. He'd gotten to know Cas better over the past several months, but it was clear that there was a bond between the angel and his brother that Sam would never understand, and that Cas would always be more open and unrestrained with Dean than he would with anyone else. But Sam didn't mind. Dean and Cas were... Sam sighed. That was just it. Dean and Cas just were.

They existed wholly separately and apart, but neither of them really seemed complete without the other. Dean would never admit it; he'd never admit that when Cas was gone, his mind was never completely on the task at hand, or that he worried and was generally bitchier when he hadn't heard from Cas in a couple days. And Sam knew most of all, Dean would never admit that he was head-over-fucking-wings for the angel. Never. But Sam also knew, that just because Dean never said it, didn't mean that Cas didn't know. Cas knew without a doubt, Sam was sure of that, and Cas felt the same way. Sam wasn't sure that Cas would ever admit it out loud, but between the two, he felt the angel was the likelier one to break the nonverbal agreement. Though regardless of whether it was ever uttered in so many words, the gestures and the expressions were there.

Sam removed Dean's one remaining sock, tossing it towards his boots by the door while shaking his head with silent affection at the sight of both men's feet dangling over the edge of the sofa, and then snatched a pillow from Bobby's recliner and managed to finagle it under Cas' head with out waking him, preventing a monster crick in the fading angel's neck when he awoke later.

Sam stepped back to look at them just a little longer before he showered and started dinner, allowing himself just a few more quiet moments without having to save the world, without having to avoid certain death, and without his brother's jibes about watching Lifetime or needing a tampon.