Sam had almost forgotten what it's like, living on the road like this. Living with Dean like this. Day in and day out. It takes about six months for it all to come crashing back.

The honeymoon had to end sometime. Sam is just surprised it lasted for as long as it has.

Life as a hunter, life with Dean, is like a sine wave stretching out into infinity. Highs and lows. Car chases and gunfights and evil spirits � moments in which Sam's adrenaline surges so high he thinks he's going to die from it � with long periods of dull nothingness in between.

The rush of those rare flashes of excitement only makes the stretches of inaction seem even more boring.

Sam isn't sure if those crazy life-or-death moments are what's driving him, day after day, or if it's the hope that someday those moments will all go away. Sometimes he's worried about life after hunting � if such a thing exists � and what it will mean when he finally gets where he wants to be and finds it's a desert full of nothing.

Is he afraid of boredom or craving it? Sam isn't sure.

On the road, the low points are almost as bad as the high, actually.

It's those times � when Sam and Dean have nothing to do, no lead to follow � that they start to get on each other nerves. Dean becomes antsy and irritable. Sam is equally on edge and he can't help but be drawn into Dean's bad moods, like matching sound waves that crash together and amplify into a sonic boom. It can get to the point where anything Dean says or does makes Sam want to strangle him.

And really, spirit possession and shapeshifters notwithstanding, he and Dean have gotten along amazingly well � given their track record � these past few months. Between Jess and finding Dad and going back to Kansas and Meg and Max� Sam had almost forgotten.

Almost.

It isn't until it finally happens that Sam realizes he's been waiting for the shit to hit the fan for almost two months now.

They have been at the same motel in Tennessee for four days, hanging around town and doing nothing much. Researching on the public library computers and reading newspapers and not much else.

It starts off as a small fight, really. Dean bursts into the motel room, complaining about Sam tracking mud into the car, and Sam refuses to get up and clean it because he didn't do it. And the whole thing somehow escalates into them yelling at each other so loudly � "fucking selfish ingrate," "idiotic lazy bastard" � the people next door bang on the connecting wall, shouting at them to shut up already.

At the interruption, they stop yelling and stare at each other for a second. Both are flushed in the face and breathing hard. Dean looks like he wants to kill him. Sam can't say he feels any differently.

Dean grabs his jacket and leaves the room without another word, slamming the door behind him.

Sam gets in the shower, feeling so angry he thinks he's going to choke from it.

* * *

When Sam gets out of the shower, half an hour later, Dean isn�t back yet. Sam isn't surprised.

Sam is still sort of pissed off, but he realizes that he actually feels better. Like he can breathe. The other shoe finally dropped. And maybe they're going to get on each other's nerves more now, but Sam is okay with that.

That grace period in which they didn't have these stupid petty fights had just been weird. An anomaly, and if Sam didn't know any better, it was almost like Dean was holding back on him. Had he been trying to keep Sam with him by being nice? But a Dean that pulls his punches is not Dean at all, and Sam hadn't known what to do with him.

Now, it finally feels normal.

By nature, Dean isn't built to sit still for long. When there's no monster to bash, or when he and Sam get into a fight (the two usually coincide), he goes and disappears for the entire night � picking up any girls he can, getting into bar fights, scamming pool players, and cleaning up at poker games.

Sam knows, without having to ever ask and without Dean ever telling him.

He actually appreciates it when Dean leaves. They both need breathing room sometimes; they had learned that a long time ago. It's better that Dean takes off every now and then, for both of their sanities.

After those nights, Dean always comes back to the motel around noon, looking like death, and jumps into the shower without a word to Sam. Then he climbs into his bed, in his underwear, skin still damp, and sleeps the rest of the day.

So when the door creaks open at two in the morning, Sam puts his book aside and reaches for the semi-automatic under his bed, not expecting Dean to stumble into the room with pink lipstick smeared all over his face, his arm around a giggling blonde girl.

"What are you doing here?" Sam demands, straightening back up, leaving the gun where it lay.

"Hey, Sammy," says Dean with the careful articulation of a drunk person trying not to sound drunk, "meet Linda."

Sam forces a humorless smile at the blonde, who laughs in response, pressing her nose into Dean's shoulder and hiccupping. Sam repeats, "What are you doing here?"

Dean manages a slow wink at him.

"You know you're not supposed to do this." They don't have many rules in the life they live, but this is one of them, established when Dean turned seventeen and suddenly handsome and girls started tripping over themselves to get in bed with him.

("Gross, Dean. Please never have sex with someone while I'm in the room."

"Oh God! You're. Ew. I think I need to dip my brain in lye now.")

And, all these years, Dean has been pretty good about it, considering.

"It's half my room, too," says Dean now. Again with that careful diction. He grins. "Go out for a while, or something."

Sam wants to smack Dean, anger erupting inside him again, wild and unchecked. "I want to sleep," he bites out.

"Fine. Sleep." And Dean pulls Linda to him, and they collapse onto Dean's bed together, murmuring nonsense and laughing, kissing in the messy open-mouthed way that drunk people do.

Then, before Sam even realizes what he's doing, he's up and out of bed. He drags Dean away from Linda, hauling Dean to a standing position before punching him in the face.

Dean clutches his cheek, hesitating for only a second before punching back. Sam staggers from the blow � unchecked by alcohol, it's thrown twice as hard as Sam's punch � and the room spins for a second. His face throbs and burns.

Linda stares at them both with wide blue eyes.

Dean grabs Linda by the arm and marches out of the room for the second time that night.

* * *

Sam wakes up to the feel of something wet and freezing cold on his face. He grabs at whatever it is by instinct, eyes flying open, and he finds himself holding Dean by the wrist. Dean is pressing a plastic baggie of ice to Sam's cheek.

"It's swelling," says Dean, by way of greeting. Dean's own face has a purpling bruise on his lower jaw, and Sam can't tell if Dean is still angry or not. He used to be able to tell, but sometimes Dean seems so closed off now, so far out of reach, that even Sam isn't really sure where Dean retreats to, or why. Dean doesn't sound angry, but his eyes are narrowed and hard.

Sam releases Dean's wrist, but Dean continues to stand there by Sam's bed, holding the ice to Sam's face.

The sunlight outside indicates it's early afternoon. Sam breathes, in, out, and it's quiet enough that he can hear Dean's inhalations, in synch with his own.

"You don't have to," Sam says finally, and Dean shrugs, letting go of the baggie. Sam catches it before it slips off his face, and he watches Dean pull off his t-shirt and go into the bathroom.

After a moment, Sam falls asleep again, one hand pressing the ice to his face, listening the hiss of running water and Dean's absent humming coming from the bathroom. Sam thinks it's Metallica.

* * *

When Sam wakes up again, the bag of ice on his face is gone. He touches his cheek gingerly, and it's sensitive, but not swollen any longer. It's nighttime, and the world outside the window is pitch black.

Dean is reclining on his bed, watching The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly and eating out of a Chinese takeout box.

Sam sits up, and Dean throws a bottle of soda at him. Sam twists it open and gulps down half the Mountain Dew before saying, "Did they find Bill Carson yet?"

"Nope. Tuco is about to torture Blondie." Dean doesn't look away from the television as he spears a potsticker with his chopsticks.

There's these things they're not saying, but they are. And normal people would say Dean is a stubborn shit who never talks about anything important and who always avoids the real issues. But normal people don't see Dean turn the television down low while Sam sleeps, don't see Dean leave a full box of fried rice on the nightstand between their beds.

"Have you been practicing your right cross?" Sam asks after a moment, reaching over for the takeout box and opening it.

Dean tosses a plastic fork over to him. "Nah. Your face just got softer." Only now does Dean look at him, offering a slight smirk.

Sam flicks a few grains of rice at his brother, and Dean ducks out of the way nonchalantly, chewing on his potsticker, and Sam realizes that this is it � this is the calm, this is the inaction, this is the space between � and this is what he's living for. Not for the momentary highs, but the comfortable lows. And the preservation of this feeling is what he's been fighting for, all along.

These are the dips in this never ending cycle, but� It's not nothing. It's not boring. It's� living. With Dean.

"There must be something seriously fucked up about us," remarks Sam finally, "that fighting with each other actually makes us feel better."

Dean smiles, but then immediately winces. "Don't make me laugh, man. My face hurts."

"It was your own fault."

"Hey, Matlock, I didn't start the punching. You did."

And they bicker like that throughout the rest of the movie.

The End