Between the cases they find and the ones Dean's plotted out like he's Dad's social secretary, they stay plenty busy. Sam finds himself doing a little headbanging in the car, rocking out to Dean's music - indestructible as a cockroach - even when he's in the passenger seat with an open book on his lap. Dean's even ceded driving rights occasionally, looking only a little put out at not having the steering wheel to tap along to the beat.
Even on their hunts, Sam's no longer half a step behind his brother, but keeping step with him, alongside of him. Starting with the werewolf in Fresno, his is the hand that deals out death; he fires killshots and swings knives as if this is all he's ever known, exhilarated by the feelings of triumph and glory that rocket through him. If this is how hunting makes Dean feel, the whole world his to save or destroy, righteous and vengeful, then it's no wonder that Dean was the original evangelist, preaching the word of the Hunt, dismissing as unimportant the lesser pleasures of school, the normal life, and the real world. The mundane world, where people live their lives in shadow, unaware of whose sacrifice saves them, once and always.
Dean seems content to let him take the lead, dropping back and fashioning himself anew into the wingman he'd once been for Dad, and Sam supposes there must be a kind of comfort in that for Dean, finding peace in the memory of old obedience, of faithful love. Dean's maybe not quite as sharp as he once was; there's too much that's taken a toll on him, and it's not like there's time to stop and let everything heal up properly - neither one of them would be able to sit still for long enough.
Sam decapitates the siren, convinced he is right where he's supposed to be, doing what he was meant to do. He's never been more sure of anything in his life. Dean's wry voice streaks through his head - Nice moves, Sammy. Like riding a bike, huh? - and there's a grin - the old, mischievous, sparkling grin - on Dean's weary face.
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