duchessofcydonia:
It’s gettin’ dark, too dark for me to see
I feel like I’m knockin’ on heaven’s door.
I’m imagining what this must have been like for Dean when they were kids. Sammy’s just on the verge of being too old for hugs, too angry for gratitude, too unhappy for laughter. Dean could see it coming, and he wanted to do something, one last bright shining thing to hold onto Sam’s childishness, to give them one more perfect memory before Sam won’t let him do things like this anymore.
When dad leaves them for the Fourth of July, it’s like a sign. There are fireworks stands up and down the highway and it’s not hard to sneak out under the pretense of a date to buy an entire crate of rockets. Dad will smack the shit out of him for wasting money like this but he doesn’t care because some things are worth it.
It’s hours until sunset and Dean tries to distract himself with the dinner dishes even though that’s usually Sam’s job. His little brother’s no idiot and spends the entire time questioning Dean, growing more and more annoyed as Dean puts him off, until finally the stars are out and it’s time. Sam’s scowl flips into his huge bucktoothed grin once Dean opens the trunk, and then he’s running around the Impala and jumping into the passenger’s seat, yelling at Dean when he takes too long to settle behind the wheel.
He drives them to the field they’ve been using for target practice and Sam snatches the keys from him as soon as the engine quits so he can pull the crate out of the trunk. Sammy’s impatient but Dean forces himself to go slow, to watch, to commit every second of this night to memory.
Sam starts with sparklers, knowing they’re the preshow and that this whole shindig needs to finish with a bang. Dean expects Sam to dive for the rockets the second the smaller pops fade, which means he almost falls over when Sam hugs him, it’s so unexpected. He thinks and he can’t remember the last time their family hugged at all, then kicks himself and hugs Sam back, palms pressing into the sharpness of his angel bones under his hand-me-down hoodie. He doesn’t know what to do or say when Sam finally pulls back to smile at him, and is grateful when his brother breaks the moment to set off the entire fucking crate at once because he’s a Winchester and fire safety is for civilians.
Sparks light up sky, but Dean can’t take his eyes off the colors playing across Sam’s face. He wants to run under the shower with him but he can’t move; it’s like his entire body has shut down, rooting him where he stands, not wanting to interrupt this moment, not willing blink or even breathe, not when he’s watching Sam.
