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Cascade

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It wasn't a cupid. It wasn't a were. It wasn't any other goddamn thing that went for the heart first, because it was so friggin' symbolic, or so tasty, or both.

Dean unzips.

It wasn't--

Sam puts his head out of the shower, soaked, sweet; the soap was like, olive and sage, or lemon and some-green; everything steamed, greenhouse or spa; so Sammy.

What--don't flush, Dean!

Because flushing while your brother was in the shower wasn't the oldest play; wouldn't affect things here, anyway; nice place, nice plumbing; kind that used to be above their paygrade.

Did they have a paygrade? America said no. America didn't know what was coming, never did.

Dean!

It's not a were, Dean says, not-helpful; shrugs the jacket, sheds the shirt.

What are you--

Over-hip tug. Stiff denim hits the tile.

Dean steps into the shower; a little warmwater wave, muscles in.

Dean!

Gotta move things along, Sammy. Save water, ya know. California.

Sam stops, soap-spot next to an eye, then gives, makes the brotherspace right under, right next-to.

Nice place. Big shower. Sage. Glass glinting.

Something leaving holes for hearts, not far off.

They are thirty and thirty, plus some each, naked not for the first time, but--

how much time, really, before the dark takes it apart again; how much.

Drought. Lonely desert roads; glittering cities. Canyon. Mesa-memories. Green irrigants. Out there.

In here.

Dean scrubs sage along the hairline. Sam's hand lands at his collar, other one turns him, flattens sternum-wide, spans what makes him tick.

It's a god again. Heart-eating. Sam says.

Yeah. Could be.

Sage. Soap. Glass glinting green.

Sam blinks, keeps 'em shut, holds him still.

The water comes down; brother, brother, water, light; hotel, heart-sounds; hearts, cascade.