Work Text:
Listen to Wish You Were Here, the album; Side One
It’s August—late, and they’re on some back route out in the middle of nowhere. It’s getting dark; the clouds have been sinking into that deep denim blue that appears right after dusk, the still light sky just barely peeking its way through.
The route they’re on is virtually abandoned with only a car or two heading in the opposite direction every half-hour or so. Telephone poles, a smattering of driveways with their mailboxes, and a dense layer of trees have been the only things decorating the sides of the road.
Naturally, Dean is driving. Sam, meanwhile, is shining his flashlight over their case research (a stack of loose note pages and newspaper clippings, along with a couple of books he’d “checked out” from a private college library a couple of towns back).
As driver, Dean’s chosen the music, of course, and he relishes as his old cassette tape copy of the Wish You Were Here album begins to play warm through Baby’s speakers.
Sam’s been engrossed in his research for nearly the entire ride so far, but as of the last few miles, he’s been starting to huff and fidget in the way he does when he’s nearing his research limit, his hands flicking between the pages with less and less patience.
Dean sneaks a peek at his brother out of the corner of his eye. He takes in how exhausted Sam looks and feels the edges of his lips tweak up slightly. Dean clears his throat.
“C’mon, man,” he starts, “Take a break. It’s not like the research is going anywhere, we still have five hours left to go.”
At that, Dean himself gently twists his head from side to side, stretching his neck, and switches his hands on the steering wheel to let his left arm rest on the window ledge. After some more paper shuffling and a grunt, Sam finally sighs and nods in defeat. He piles his materials into a neat stack and slips them onto the dashboard.
“Besides,” Dean continues, a grin creeping onto his face, “You know how good this album is. So, just sit back, relax, and take a listen for a little while, wouldya?” He reaches to turn the volume dial up to a level that he finds adequate to appreciate the music, but not too loud for his little brother’s ears.
Looking back to Sam, Dean sees him wordlessly nod again, shifting a little lower in the bench seat to rest his head on the back as the intro plays. He lightly crosses his arms over his chest as he gets comfortable, and slowly lets his eyes fall shut.
While he’s not the enthusiast Dean is, the many parts of Shine On You Crazy Diamond might Sam’s favorite when it comes to Pink Floyd—in fact, Dean would say he knows it for sure even though Sam’s never once voiced the opinion. The drums come in, and he catches Sam’s fingers tapping to the beat.
Instantly, Dean’s whole body starts to fill up to the absolute brim with this…feeling, proud and all encompassing, that he has felt for his brother for as long he can remember.
He’s trying to watch the road, but how can he when Sam’s actually listening to his advice for once?
Dean stares best he can between quick cursory looks ahead. Sam’s brows twist up as the chorus swells, then knit back down together for the sax solo, his head bobbing almost imperceptibly a moment later as the drums pick back up.
Suddenly he finds himself wondering what his little brother is thinking about as he listens—what he might be feeling. Dean thinks of his childhood: being with his father, the three of them, together, out on the open road—their dad’s classic rock one of the only constants in their life. And now a thin stand in for the father they’ve lost.
Sam’s throat quivers and Dean’s eyes snap to the movement. He wonders if his brother is feeling the same heartache at these familiar chords.
A car passes by.
Dean finally rips his eyes away and plants them firmly back on the road. He bites his cheek. If he’s not careful, he’s gonna kill them both by having been too enthralled by his own little brother to actually pay attention to where they’re going.
But a little while later, as the sky gets a little deeper and Welcome To The Machine plays haunting and buzzing and bright through Baby’s sound system, he turns back again to see Sam looking at him through lazily lidded eyes. Dean feels the hair on the back of his neck prick up.
He glances quickly back to the road. When he looks back, he notices Sam’s lips are parted ever so slightly and the street lamps that pass every few hundred feet cast an amber glow on him that turns his messy, too-long hair into a wavy, wispy halo around his face. And Sam’s just…watching him drive.
Dean’s stomach flips and he feels his throat start to close up. He clenches his jaw and again forces his eyes forward, Sam’s gaze heating up the side of his face as Dean stares ahead, looking but not seeing.
They’ve only been at this together again for a couple years since that night in Sam’s apartment back at Stanford, but Dean knows in his gut that, even after everything, he’s just as hopelessly taken with his little brother as he’s ever been. Maybe even more so now.
Still, as he flicks his eyes back over only to catch Sam’s again, his baby brother’s pupils dilating and Dean’s mouth going dry, he’s been starting to think, lately, that maybe—just maybe—Sam is just as taken with him.
The road disappears beneath them. Another car passes by.
Dean says nothing. And neither does Sam.