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The bunker kitchen was surprisingly quiet when Sam wandered in, aside from the dripping and gurgling sounds of the excessively fancy coffee maker Dean had insistedthey buy. And that Dean had then insisted upon decorating with bright red Christmas bow because it was “festive”.
“Coffee can be a work of art, Sammy,” he’d said, before delicately placing the box into their IKEA cart. Granted, he still let Sam pick out his favourite kind of coffee whenever they went grocery shopping together - always Folgers. Dean would pester him endlessly about it, explaining all of the fantastical and different settings and brews the coffee maker was capable of, then complaining that it was being wasted on cheap, crappy coffee. “I dunno man,” Sam would say. “It just kind of tastes like home.”
That seemed to shut Dean up every time.
Sam’s rubbed his face as he thought about it, feeling the roughness of his morning stubble. He let out a laugh that even surprised himself - they’d grown so fucking domestic since moving into the bunker.
He hopped up to sit on the kitchen counter, content to just wait in the peace and quiet until the machine beeped to signal it’s completion. He was still a little bit groggy from his long night of sleep - it was something he hadn’t gotten for a long time and, quite frankly, hadn’t expected to get again for even longer. Bouncing his legs forward and backward off the lower cupboards, he smiled. At that moment, sitting and just waiting for a morning cup of coffee, no big worries in the near future, in the place he’d grown to know as home, he finally felt content.
“What’re you smirking at, weirdo?”
Dean’s voice rang through the kitchen as he walked in, wrapped in his favourite dead-guy robe, his hair still wet from the shower. Sam huffed out a laugh and ran a hand through his ever-growing hair.
“I’m the weirdo? You’re the one wearing the dead-guy robe.”
“Now Sammy, a man’s not a weirdo for appreciating the fine things in life. Even if they did belong to a dead guy.”
Dean wandered over to the cupboards above the coffee maker, pulling out the same mug he used every day. Which he refused to acknowledge as a teacup, even when Sam pointed out the matching floral saucer that came with it.
The coffee maker beeped just as Dean set his “mug” down on the counter.
“Awesome,” Dean said to no one in particular. He took a moment before pouring his coffee to pull the cream from the fridge, all while sporting the same dopey grin he’d had for the past few weeks. It made Sam’s heart warm.
Dean always used to talk about how much he loved the hunting life, how he was meant to be on the road, drinking shitty gas station coffee and barely getting by on hustling pool - living in the only way he knew how. In the past few years, though, he’d slowed down on the talk. Sam knew most of it was just that anyway - talk.
Watching the happy way his brother padded around the kitchen, calmly preparing himself a cup of coffee fresh from their specialty maker - just one of several appliances Dean had picked out for them - wearing a goddamn bathrobe and not having a worry in the world, Sam knew that this was the life meant for Dean.
Dean finished mixing his coffee to perfection and leaned back against the counter as he took that first sip.
“Damn, that’s good,” he said. “I know I harp on you for your taste in coffee, but you know, I actually think you might be right.”
“What do you mean?” Sam asked.
“Tastes like home.”
Sam abruptly jumped off the counter then, causing Dean to set down his coffee down on instinct. The kitchen may be bigger than they had been used to growing up, but Sam was a big guy and Dean didn’t want to spill his drink because of too many large limbs in the vicinity. Sam closed the space between them and pulled Dean in for a close hug.
Dean seemed surprised at first, but quickly relaxed and wrapped his arms around his little brother. They’d never really had these kinds of moments when they were younger, but the more they grew, the more it seemed that they needed them. So whenever one of them acted, the other would gladly oblige.
“Everything okay, Sammy?” Dean asked when the embrace went on longer than expected. He wouldn’t be the first to pull away, though.
“Yeah,” Sam responded quietly. He released his hold on his brother, but didn’t put any space between them. He looked down into the green eyes that he’d know for so many years as a friend, a confidant, a protector, and he smiled again. “Everything’s great.”
Dean smirked back at him, letting the two of them take the moment to do nothing but hold one another’s gaze. In their closeness, he could feel his brother’s warm breath on his face. Dean’s eyes flicked around Sam’s face, taking in just how much he had grown over the years, how strong his jaw had become, how there was an ever-present hint of stubble, how sharp his cheekbones were without the touch of baby fat they used to have.
“Hey Sammy?” he said, not intending for it to come out as a question.
“Yeah, Dean?” Sam replied, and Dean decidedly ignored how short of breath he seemed to be.
Dean broke the moment as he reached behind him to grab the bow off the coffee maker, laughing as he placed it atop his brother’s head.
“You’re my Christmas present this year.”
And if the bitchface he received in return fell from Sam’s face as quickly as it arose, he wasn’t going to say anything about it. They were happy.