“Pancakes,” Dean announces when he emerges dripping from the lake. “With sausage and bacon and home fries. Man can’t live off berries along, Sam. Don’t talk crap to me about American Indians or whatever.” He runs a hand through his hair, spiking it up like when he was 26 and merely Sam’s big brother. For a moment it’s like time has rolled backward a decade or more, except when Sam looks at him and thinks *how could I ever live without you?* it’s with the bone-deep knowledge that he couldn’t.
“What? Is there something in my hair?” Dean demands, and Sam realizes he’s been staring, covers it up with the lie, “A very fetching lily pad,” and five minutes later he’s covered in mud and trying to prevent Dean from grinding lakeweed into his hair—finds himself nearly laughing for joy at the same thought.