Only four of the six underwater pool lights are illuminated. Two of those are clouded with a greenish film. Dean doesn't want to ask Sam what it is.

That leaves the pool lit in dull splotches of blue neon, the water not much cooler than the muggy Alabama night air, but still a relief.

"Heads up!" One of the curly-mopped brats at the other end of the motel's outdoor pool chucks a fluorescent orange ball towards Sam. It plops and bobs in the water right in front of him.

Sam snaps it up. "Can I play?"

"Sure," says the oldest of the brats; to Dean he looks a little younger than Sam's thirteen years. There are three of them--definitely siblings--hopping around at the shallow end, while their dad leans on the opposite side of the chain link fence by their wood-paneled van and watches with weary, road-trip eyes.

Sam swims away leaving Dean with the darkest end of the pool to himself. Dad hadn't specifically forbidden going for a swim while he was away, salt-and-burning his way through a nasty patch of ghosts down towards the Florida panhandle, and Sam was the first one in the water tonight, jumping in with the kind of carefree laugh Dean would give his right arm to hear every day.

The chlorine level is so high Dean's nose is tingling, his pores loosening up in the heat and soaking in the chemicals. He's weightless and not just from the buoyancy of his body in the water.

Sam's smiling, Dean can see it even in the dark. White teeth because Sam doesn't mainline coffee like Dean does and he's the only one in the family that uses dental floss the way it's meant to be used and not for cleaning weapons. Taller than the other three kids in the pool, Sam's long reach makes him king of monkey-in-the-middle; he's never the monkey for long.

Dean floats in aimless patterns, looking up at the chalkboard sky where the stars have been wiped away by smog and distant lights. Nothing to see but the occasional distant flicker of a plane or the close buzz of an insect flying across Dean's vision. Splashes fade as the water laps around Dean's ears, everything dull in the humid air.

A small wave is the only warning before someone yanks on the back of Dean's trunks and dunks him. Warm water covers his face; Dean won't open his eyes underwater but he knows Sam's there, skinny legs within reach when Dean spreads his arms.

It's tempting to stay submerged where noise can't penetrate. Dean's ears still hurt from long days driving cross-country, the tires screaming on the asphalt and truck horns blaring. The physical not-quite-silence of being three feet under is a balm.

Smaller hands take hold of his shoulders and tug, bringing Dean back up into the air.

"Gotcha." Sam grins.

Dean wipes water from his face. "Are you done playing?"

Water droplets fan out when Sam shakes his head. "Can we stay out here a little longer?"

He can't object and Sam spins around happily, his waves surging around Dean's torso. The dim pool lights crack and move along the water's surface, murky reflections lighting fragments of Sam's face in deep-sea greens and navy blues, heavy shadows covering the rest.

"Boys, time to head in!" The man leaning on the fence coaxes his sons out of the pool. The youngest waves back timidly--Sam had teamed up with him against his older brothers--but the others have already forgotten Dean and Sam.

With the pool and the night to themselves, Dean relaxes even more. A light breeze kicks up across the parking lot and over the water. It doesn't chill his skin, merely creates the sensation of motion and Dean falls backward into the water again, floating until Sam swims up next to him.

"Stand up, I wanna try something."

Sam pushes until Dean's knees are bent, feet on the rough, coated bottom of the pool. He clambers up, standing with his feet on Dean's lower thighs, his fingers tight around Dean's hands for balance.

"What're you trying to do?"

"Just watch," Sam says, steadying himself. "Let go when I count to three."

He counts and Dean releases his hands. Sam pushes away and back-flips ungracefully into the water, whooping when he surfaces and swims back. Dean lets Sam do it again and again, pushing off his knees in youthful aquatic acrobatics, until his little brother is panting, slower to climb up each time.

"It's getting late, Sammy."

"Just a little bit more, okay?"

There's no point in even pretending to resist; no one's waiting disapprovingly in the room. Not even a motel bed could be as comfortable as the water, smooth undulation that lulls Dean into a half-sleep while Sam glides from end to end using the long strokes Dean taught him.

Somehow Dean sees this late-summer night as different from all the rest, hanging by its own thread among the long weeks of travel and toil, hunting and hurting. Nothing he can do will make it last but as his eyes follow Sam across the pool, Dean tries to let go of his thoughts and just be.

Eventually Sam gets tired and Dean is there for him to anchor to. Letting Sam touch him is easy; his long arms fold around Dean's shoulders, Sam's slight frame collapsed against Dean's back. Their bodies move together in a frictionless slide, Sam yawning into Dean's ear. Sam is weightless; Dean drifts until he comes to the shallow end of the pool and leans against the wall.

One of the four remaining lights flickers out, nothing supernatural about the way the algae-covered bulb brightens then dies, leaving three to stand against the darkness.

"Let's head in."

Sam nods sleepily and lets Dean drag him towards the pool steps. The little motel towels can barely dry them off, too short to wrap around their waists.

In the room, Sam's the first to fall into bed--Dean's bed, he notices--leaving Dean to hang the poor excuses for towels.

"You can't sleep in your trunks," Dean says, prepared for Sam to complain but Sam gets up and shucks his shorts by his duffel bag, yanking on the first pair of pajama bottoms he comes to. The wet shorts get left on the carpet, chlorine-heavy water rapidly seeping into the stubby brown fibers.

Fifteen minutes later, Dean's beside Sam in his bed, swim trunks hanging over the rusty shower-rod in the bathroom. Sam's already asleep, limbs inching closer to Dean each time he grunts and shifts until his clammy cheek is resting on Dean's bare chest.

The television is muted; not even Dean recognizes what's playing, but he looks down at Sam illuminated by the screen. Growing up so fast Dean can't make sense of it, once more helpless to slow the parade of time in order to keep his brother by his side.

No delusions, no idealizations; Dean knows Sam is going to leave him--leave this--someday and he'll never be prepared for that. He'll never tell Sam, merely hope that whatever force separates them isn't permanent. Fate and family will always bring them back together; he'll keep his fingers crossed.

Pushing the hair back away from Sam's forehead, Dean lays his lips softly on the warm skin. He barely understands the drive that makes him do it, but he doesn't pause to question it, letting the soft intimacy he can only show at moments like this wash over him like a gentle wave.

When the feeling recedes, it's just Sam and Dean needing no one else, alone on a hot summer night in the South. Finally, Dean closes his eyes.


FIN.