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"You remember what it was like?" Dean asked, looking over at his brother and catching the subtle gray that shone at his temples in the light of the fire. They were camped out in the middle of nowhere, stars spread in an endless blanket above them. Sam held a marshmallow on a stick high over the flames, letting it turn warm and golden; every single one came out just perfect up here.
"Hm?" Sam asked, pulling the marshmallow back and letting it cool. "Remember what?" His face was half-obscured in shadow from the low flicker of the campfire. A log crackled merrily and split, sending a shower of sparks up into the air.
Dean shrugged, skewering his own marshmallow from the bag between their feet. "Bein' a kid, man. Tellin' stories and runnin' around like animals, screaming up a storm." He leaned forward, felt the heat from the fire deep in the bones of his hands and knees. "Seems like a thousand years ago, sometimes." Hell, maybe it was.
Sam hmmed again, thoughtful. He didn't answer for a long time, and Dean's eyes unfocused as he watched shifting licks of flame dance over the logs. He'd chopped the wood himself earlier, could still feel the rough calluses from where he'd held the hatchet between his hands; it felt good. Crickets chirped in the tall grass around them.
He pulled his marshmallow from the flames. On Earth, it would've been black and inedible by now; here, though, it was just two shades past toasted – exactly the way he liked it. He slid it off the stick and popped it between his lips, letting the caramelized sugar melt over his tongue.
"D," Sam said, finally, and Dean looked over at his brother before it even registered that he hadn't heard that voice in a long, long time.
Dean's breath caught in his throat so hard it hurt. Sam was there, sitting curled up on his camping chair, chin tucked up against his knees. His hair was lighter, shaggy curls falling over his forehead, and when he smiled—shy and sweet—he was missing a tooth.
His little brother was really, actually little, maybe 8 years old, and he looked just like a memory. Like knobby knees in the small of Dean's back on cold nights, like goofy grins and sticky fingers after ice cream, like army men and Legos and a hundred-million questions about anything and everything. "How—?" Dean asked, amazed.
Sam grabbed another marshmallow with little hands and bit into it. "I dunno," he said. God, his voice. "We can do whatever we want here, right?" He laughed, and it was like magic – a kid giggle full of joy and self-indulgence. He stood up from his chair, and Dean realized he was wearing a baggy Lynard Skynard t-shirt that had once belonged to their dad. His shorts were too long. There was a band-aid on his right knee.
"C'mon, Dean!" Sam whined. "Try it! You can do it!"
Dean took a deep breath in and closed his eyes, fighting every impulse he had to keep staring at his baby brother, afraid he might lose him the second he looked away. He thought of the warm glass of the passenger window under his cheek after a long drive in the sun. He thought of the smell of motel A/C and pool chlorine. He thought of quiet libraries and sparring in dusty backyards and pigging out on burgers and fries while monster movies played on the old TV. Mostly, though, he thought of Sammy.
"Hey, there you are." Sam's voice floated to him, much closer now than he'd been when Dean closed his eyes. He slid them open again, finally, and his kid brother's face was only inches away, long lashes feather-light over bright pink cheeks, expression curious and delighted.
Dean felt so good, warm and excited, and full of energy. He stood up and found that he was taller than his brother now (again). He let out a laugh that sounded both foreign and familiar to his ears. Dean threw his arms out and wrapped them around Sam's skinny shoulders, pressed his nose into Sam's hair. "Heya, Sammy," he breathed.
Sam hugged him back, tiny fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt. Then he pulled away and looked up at Dean; a billion stars shone in the mirror of his big, hopeful eyes. "You wanna play flashlight tag?" he asked, tongue poking out between his teeth.
Dean grinned wide and easy. "You bet, kiddo," he said, and then he pinched Sam's ribs, thrilling in the high squeal of laughter that escaped from his brother's throat, and chased after him with a brand new flashlight in his hand that hadn't been there a moment before.