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.
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.
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.
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.
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.