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That summer, their father scarcely brought them along on hunts at all. It was an odd period of time where the streaks of white trails in the sky took place of gnarly gashes on their arms; when the burning of an exterminating fire came second to South Dakota’s oven of a land. But most baffling to the boys was the utter lightness in their hearts and the lack of burden in their nearest future.
They gradually understood the change in themselves, and then, quicker, understood that Bobby had seen it all along, if the amused smirk he directed at the restlessness told them anything. Every morning they kicked at each other and tangled their legs under the table, trying to work out the tingles of white-hot impatience in their bones. That kind of unease was good for trailing down a werewolf—not so much for trying to scarf down pancakes without driving Bobby absolutely crazy.
Sam came around to it first. The mellowness in the corn-sweet settled down into his back, which had taken on a boyish slouch a week after staying there. His incessant need to touch and smack at any junk he saw sputtered out jarringly—One day, he was holding a stick, ready to make music against one of the red and brown cars crumbling in Bobby’s yard. And suddenly, his hand stopped before any clack or clang, unsure of his own actions like he’d only been doing it reflexively that whole time.
Much of his down time was spent on Bobby’s porch after that.
Dean was far more resistant, and effectively so, for a good while. After he and his brother ate breakfast, swept up the study, and washed all the dishes, he’d hunker down in one of the maroon Chesterfield couches in the living room and start writing. In complete chicken scratch, the determined little fourteen year old conjured up outlines and plans for the hunts he and Sam were likely to go on “very, very soon”. Bobby didn’t entertain it, though he didn’t deny Dean either. Sam, on the other hand, no longer felt inclined to hide his disinterest and spent most of his time outside, growing tan and windswept under the sun.
Eventually, Bobby began to feel miserable for both the boys. Sam’s involuntary solitude and Dean’s self-enforced isolation were no doubt wearing out the both of them, who didn’t like to be apart for very long. And, in truth, Dean had been beginning to drive Bobby crazy between the constant monster-related questions and the near illegible hand-writing. So, he created a clever addendum: either Dean go play with his brother for a change or Bobby would start him on writing practice so his “journaling” endeavor would work.
The next morning, after chores, Sam and Dean were snuggled up in the loveseat dozing off under high noon’s glow.
Bobby had to grow used to the lack of running around in the house—and moping. He had rathered there’d been one or the other, but for a good while, he worried the boys would never decide between hyperactivity and lethargy. Eventually, Sam stopped dragging his fingers through the blankets of dust topping every book he could manage to read. Dean didn’t wait by the landline every evening manifesting a doting paternal call. The two reunited under their newfound love for long stretches of tall grass, and found amusement in towering bundles of corn.
Sam and Dean formed halos in the grass when they laid down side by side, staring at nothing but the clear blue sky. The heat was so harsh, so alive that they swore it must’ve been coming from way underneath them too, from the bright, molten center of the earth.
Dean had vocalized this, and Sam had nodded before calling him an idiot. It was far too hot to be angry, so Dean kissed his brother’s head instead and buried his nose into Sam’s bleached hair. He was in no rush to be unchallenged and correct. Time in South Dakota was like syrup, after all. Or maybe it was the sticky honey that lingered on their lips from the pecan pie Bobby brought in from town. Or the caramel Sam and Dean found in a drawer—there were so many drawers in that old house.
But every few days or so, planes would slice through their infinite ether, leaving faded crosses and twin lines between clouds.
“Chemtrails,” Dean murmured.
Sam licked his dry lips, absent-minded and as pink as he could be, probably still a bit drunk off of the sugary lemonade he’d downed before running outside. He blinked a few more times before Dean got the fulfillment of his brother’s furrowed brow.
“Chemtrails ain’t even real, Dean,” he said, and Dean bit back a snicker, because about three months ago, the word “ain’t” coming from Sam Winchester’s mouth would’ve sounded like a damn sin.
“Oh, yeah?” Dean got a kick out of goading him on, even if he couldn’t stand the impending nerd rant. In the few and far between moments that he wasn’t kicking it somewhere with Dean he was hunched over books at the local library about hunting, science, romance—all that and then some. Sam was the only kid in America who tried to grow smarter over the summer.
“Oh, yeah.” Sam replied, because to him, it was all so obvious. His teacher had told them about claims like that. Flat earth, faked moon landings, all that jazz. “‘Sides,” he began, face thoughtful this time. “God wouldn’t let that happen.”
“God…?” Dean frowned, then grinned. “Me, or the guy upstairs?”
“Dean!”
“Sam-my!” He whined back. Then, silently, he wracked his brain for why Sam was even so faithful in the first place. God felt as ridiculous to Dean as chemtrails felt to Sam.
“Nevermind,” Sam said before Dean could even try to harass him about his Protestant bent. He didn’t want to be offended by his older brother. Not over Him.
Dean rolled his eyes as he watched Sam’s face twist into a constipated, pouting look. Sam looked away as Dean’s eye narrowed in concern immediately afterwards.
Both brothers laid there in silence, angels in the tall grass, with holy sweat rolling off their temples.
A silent wish passed between them, and it was carried off in the wind, skating between the tassels of corn and floating up into the highways of contrails jutting from plane motors.
I hope autumn will never come, those two boys dreamt.
That summer, their father scarcely brought them along on hunts at all. It was an odd period of time where the streaks of white trails in the sky took place of gnarly gashes on their arms; when the burning of an exterminating fire came second to South Dakota’s oven of a land. But most baffling to the boys was the utter lightness in their hearts and the lack of burden in their nearest future.