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Good apple pies are a considerable part of our domestic happiness.
Jane Austen to her sister Cassandra, 17 October 1815
On a certain afternoon of blueberry sky and peachy sun, Sam Winchester pies his brother’s face out of sheer joy.
He can’t help it, he’s so happy. Also deems it mild revenge on Dean, who spent much of the last decade hitting Sam with his apple pie life mantra that Sam would twist and mock in his head when seething with resentment over Dean’s refusal to partake of it. Go live the lime key pie life, Sammy. Go live the cheeseburger life (with double onions), the Thai fry life, and once, on the memorable occasion of them co-watching porn after they busted the Men of Letters’ stash of vintage hashish, the pizza guy life. Now, though? The life is theirs for the taking. Chuck neutered, Jack upgraded and (a sober but solid guess) reunited with his angel dad. And Dean in peace, finally - dipping a toe into the future to Sam’s fierce approval (Dude, you’re such a cheerleader. Can’t wait for you to break out the pompoms).
So Dean buying them that cornucopian amount of pie has to be a sign. And Sam, sign talker extraordinaire, answers by shoving all of that soft sweetness into Dean’s mouth and nose. And then… and then he loses his head. Says “I’ve wanted to do that for a very long time” and places his mouth on Dean’s startled lips as if to usher his brother into their warm, human, breathing, limitless range of possibles. No God left to smite them; humankind their debtor; taboo yesterday’s thing. The sun everywhere, and Sam’s wild lightness of heart.
When he pulls back, his brother’s eyes are glistening and his face - well, if freckles could blush, Dean’s would be radiant. He ducks his head, Dean’s go-to betrayal of shyness, and Sam gives him his peace. Holds his own, too. Why talk? They have all the time now. He savors the sweetness on his lips, and the day, and the brusque, sturdy warmth entrapping his hand between Dean’s palms. The wildness flows in Sam - heady - giddy - the intimation that their joint experience is boarding a new plane, warm, unscript -
“We need a hunt.”
Sam flinches sharp. Dean looks up; looks at him from the intricacy of nerves, green and quickdraw mind that’s all Dean, but is also Sam’s for the reading. And Sam reads him. A hunt, a last rumble that will leave them topped with endorphins and high on their own sweat, the necessary booster for Dean to race him for some nondescript motel’s bed, singular. One last hurrah to hurtle them and Baby past that final, vertiginous edge, Winchestyle.
“Tell you what,” Dean is saying, the rough edge of thirst to his voice. “Let’s give Dad’s journal one last go. Finish where we started, okay? Tie the loop. And then…”
He can’t say it, he is trembling, all nerves and renewed faith. And Sam can't answer, but he can look. It’s been fifteen years and his dewy sensitive eyes have seen enough to grow calloused, but Sam still knows how to make them say what his words cannot. Because it was always one last hunt with Dad. There was always to be a contented after past some last go at evil, only it never came: even after Dad got hauled by a pearl and the scruff of his neck to Consequenceland and saw his sons’ future, he must have kept hunting. I can’t settle for the afterlife, Sam’s eyes plead with Dean, humid under the sun, and Dean’s breath gives a broken exhale - the merest sound, but his voice picks up on it directly.
“Or,” he says. “Or, screw the hunt. Let’s finish these bad boys and start tout court, eh, Sammy?” And with that Dean picks up another slice of pie, one-handedly, and lifts it to his open mouth.
“To life,” he says, mouth wide and grinning, past his first bite at the apple.