Happy birthday, pheebs!
When the Fourth of July rolls around, Sam stops talking and Dean swipes two sets of earplugs while he waits for his change and the bag holding the deck of cards he’s buying. They hole up in the motel room early, before dusk, and put in the earplugs, lock themselves into silence. They don’t want to hear the fireworks they can’t bear to watch; they never want to look up again and see something bright and beautiful burning above them.
Dean shuffles the cards, strong fingers quick and easy, light glinting off the hairs scattered across his hands. Slowly, slowly, he widens the distance between his golden hands, no longer just shuffling but defying laws of physics. He looks up at Sam with his card-playing smile, a grin so sincere in its untrustworthiness that it negates its own warning, becomes an irresistible beacon to any man with money in his pocket.