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Fall was the best season of all: long morning runs in the woods without the heat of the summer lurking between the trees. Winter was far away, the memories of long and mild summer nights still present. It was a special kind of melancholy, leaves painted umber and gold and red before creating a soft rustling path under Sam’s feet.
It was good like that, Sam decided. Little puffs of condensed breath in front of him while he was running through the early morning. There was something else he loved about fall. It was difficult to catch, difficult to wrap his mind around. It was the smell of freshly fallen leaves and cold, crispy air.
It made his mind swim with memories: an almost forgotten hunt in early October, colorful woods, and the smell of burnt flesh lingering in the air, adding new layers over the peaceful atmosphere that once had been unviolated nature.
He had patched Dean up after the hunt, and they had been sitting in front of the small cabin, surrounded by broad-leaved trees – the taste and smell of burnt flesh slowly fading to make space for something better: the smell of fall, dried leaves mixed with Dean’s scent of gun oil, sweat, and cheap soap and the slightest note of dark chocolate – well, putting it into words, thoughts, was really making him sound like a weirdo. But Sam swore this smell was the best he had ever known.
He should make Dean come here with him; then he could have it all at once: Dean, the leaves, maybe a campfire in the evening. That's what they did last time, right? Having a campfire, heating some cheap-ass soup over the fire to convince Dean to eat as much as possible, he needed to be strong enough for their way back to civilization.
They had kissed that day, still sitting at the fire, burnt wood now overshadowing the clean smell of fall. But in a good way, not in a burnt-skin way. It had soothed them, had made everything more peaceful. They had been at ease, content.
It had not been their first kiss. And obviously not their last, Sam thought with a bright smile. Not that he had known back then. Dean had really been in a bad condition. Many opportunities for last kisses, yet here he was. Running through the woods, a scene worth painting (apart from his sweaty self). Yellow and brown; golden, red, and orange.
It went well together, Sam thought: Dean and the leaves. Dean and fall. Dean sitting by the fire, cursing about the lame-ass tinned food, but allowing Sam to look at his wounds and press little kisses against his neck. To rest his head on Sam’s chest late at night when the fire was nothing but a fading glow and the crisp night air was creeping into their bones – none of them ready to move their asses back into the dusty cabin.
And suddenly he was running faster, speeding up, the first fallen leaves rustling under his steps as if they wanted to encourage him: Faster, stronger, you can do it. He is waiting for you.
Sam brushed away the sweat from his face, and the feeling of the silver ring against his cheeks, then mouth, made him smile. In a couple of days the smell of freshly fallen leaves would have faded. Dean’s smell would still be around. They could have it all, the campfire, the little moments of enjoying fall together-together, as Dean would say. The little whispered love confessions Dean was suddenly so fond of. Brave enough. The shared rings were always a reminder that they belonged together-together, that it would always be him and Dean.
Once back in the bunker, Sam stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Dean was busy mixing up different types of flour. He had told Sam earlier this week that it would surely earn him the first place at the next baking competition when he started to think out of the box, be creative, and do unusual stuff. Sam had only rolled his eyes at him, and mumbled “sure” leaving Dean not really satisfied. But despite Dean being unnerving at times with his focus on creating the best pie (or bread, or burgers) the world had ever seen and despite being an annoying big brother, Dean would always be the love of his life: adding that special scent to freshly fallen leaves in the woods.
Sam ignored the surprised glance Dean was giving him and quickly crossed the room. “Dude, you smell–,” Dean started but was shut up by Sam, who was giving him a long kiss, tasting Dean directly from his lips. They kissed, long, and Dean’s complaints were muffled by Sam.
“What was that for?” Dean asked with one of these ‘I know what we will be doing today’-grins.
Sam smiled. He squeezed Dean’s hand, the one with the silver ring. “I was just reminded of what we have now. What do you think? Wanna improve your baking skills over the campfire tonight?”
Dean was already up to complain, because seriously, Sam, you don’t aim for the first prize with bread-on-a-stick, but then he noticed Sam’s smug expression, the dimpled smile, and his worried expression softened. “Remember when we went for the wendigo in the middle of nowhere … you patched me up by the fire?”
Sam’s smile even widened. “Thought you wouldn't make it. But here we are.” He gestured with his hands somewhere to the door, meaning the bunker, their home. The fact they had left the life as a hunter to plan to sit by the fire just because it was a fun activity, not something life-saving. They were about to do it just because.
“Here we are,” Dean repeated, staring into the void, as if overwhelmed by memories. Sam pulled him into a hug. “You know, there are a few more activities we can work on improving,” Dean hummed between kisses.
“Outdoors?” Sam playfully bit his brother’s bottom lip.
“Yes, you know, making love by the fire.”
“Dean Winchester – making love? What happened to the no-chick-flicks?”
“It’s alright, these are Sammy-flicks. I can deal with them.”
Sam smiled against Dean and into their kiss. They were still here. And that was good.