Chapter Text
“Vulnerability sounds like truth and feels like courage. Truth and courage aren't always comfortable, but they're never weakness.”—Brene Brown
Like an unfortunate amount of things in Sam Winchester’s life, the act of running is polluted by bad memories.
It’s training with dad and fleeing monsters and the metaphorical aspect of turning his back on people all wrapped up in a package that also doubles as exercise he actually enjoys. It’s a damned conundrum.
But hey, it makes him feel better. It works.
Outside the bunker it’s pouring buckets—enough to make the ground muddy down to the three-inch mark—and that’s the only reason Sam’s running the halls inside (it’s not because the rain weighs him down and freezes his bones and sends his heart racing, it’s not). At least in the bunker he’s not at risk of losing his shoes in the floor. Well, probably. Maybe.
He takes the turn through the war room and barrels down the other hallway. Dean’s figure, slumped over a collection of guns that he’s in the process of cleaning, is in the corner of his vision for a moment before brick blocks him from sight. Sam follows the curve of the hallway, down into the guts of the bunker, past the doors for all the bedrooms and several storage rooms. Sam sucks in breath after breath, pushing.
Running.
He takes the curve of the hallway a little faster than he should, and the treads on his shoes have been worn down so much that he slips, just a bit. He catches himself on the wall and keeps going.
Jumps a couple steps, hits just hard enough that his knees complain, runs down a dead end, slows and twists, skids just enough that his heels bump up against the door at the end and he needs to crouch and press his fingers to the floor so he can take off again.
Back up the steps, he takes a left, pushing off the wall to bounce back from the sharp turn. He comes to the four-way, takes another left, and follows the curve around until he can take a right and end up back at the same spot.
He tells himself that it’s just good practice for the hunt, tells himself that running the halls like this is prepping (even though he only does his erratic run in the bunker, only when he’s trapped in those halls and it feels like something’s after him, someone with a hammer and a vengeance and—).
When he hits more stairs, he launches up them, and on the last one his shoes slip out from under him. He shouts in alarm as he trips and reaches out his hands to catch himself. His palms and knees hit first and momentum propels him forward. He takes a second, chest heaving, just to hold himself there.
“Sam?” Dean’s voice calls, echoing through the halls (and he doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t), “You okay?”
“Fine,” He yells back, shifting his weight to get off of his hands. He kneels back and glances at his palms. Scraped up and bleeding just a little. When he pulls himself upright, he pulls up the legs of his running pants and sees that his knees are the same story. He sighs and puts a hand up against the wall to brace himself for a moment.
Then the wall shifts under his hand and he almost goes toppling over again.
Blinking, Sam steps back.
A grating sound fills the air as brick and mortar scrape across the ground, the wall splitting in two to reveal a new hallway. One by one, lights flicker on down the corridor, and a clunk, followed by a humming, indicates that the electricity and plumbing are kicking into gear.
“Sa-am?” Dean yells again, closer and more concerned.
“I’m fine!” He yells back, hesitantly taking a step away from the new doorway.
“What was that?” Dean questions, still closer.
“Uh,” Sam, says, licking his thumb to start rubbing at the blood on his hands, “secret passage?”
Dean turns a corner and comes into view, gun in hand. Once he spots Sam, he relaxes, moving to tuck the gun behind his back. He raises an eyebrow at Sam who gestures helplessly at the entrance, née wall.
“Huh,” Dean says, blinking, “that wasn’t there before.”
Sam rolls his eyes, “Yeah, no, duh.”
Dean pulls a face in Sam’s direction and steps close enough to peer down the hallway, then turns around and grins, “Well, Short Round, ready to look for fortune and glory?”
“You wish you were as cool as Indy,” Sam says, scowling, as he pushes past Dean.
“You wish you were as cool as Indy,” Dean replies, voice fading as he realizes that it’s not a particularly good comeback. Sam ignores him.
The hallway stretches out in a straight line, a door at the end marking a dead end.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Dean says, stepping back out of the hall to peer around the corner, “Shouldn’t the kitchen be here?”
Sam thinks about it, trying to place the layout of the bunker on top of where they are.
“Uh, yeah. Think so?” It doesn’t really make sense.
Dean walks back in, nudging Sam aside as he glances back down the hall. With a shrug, Dean opens a door and looks briefly inside.
“Books,” he says, shutting the door again and immediately moving to the next one on the left.
Sam, intrigued, glances at the door number. Something sparks in his brain and he breathes out, “Oh.”
Moving to the closest door on the right, he looks at the number and a grin pulls at the side of his mouth.
He opens the door, flicks a massive light switch, and heads inside.
“More books,” Dean says, slamming shut another door.
“Hey,” Sam calls, walking past a writing desk with a typewriter sitting precariously balanced on the edge, “You remember when I was trying to find that room that one guy referenced in the back of that journal?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, followed by an, “Oh, hey, cool,” as the sound of another door opening hits Sam’s ears.
“No wonder I couldn’t find it,” Sam says, “it was right here.” He stops in-between two bookshelves and skims the visible titles of the books on them.
“We’ve got a woodshop,” Dean says in response, voice muffled by the walls between them.
Sam trails a finger along the spine of a book without a title absentmindedly and feels a little shiver run down his back. He glances at the things around it, marking its place in his mind as he turns to head back out of the room, turning out the lights and closing the door.
Several somethings go clattering to the ground and Sam flinches before heading toward it. He leans his head into the room Dean’s in and is greeted by the sight of Dean shoving tools back into a leather bag that must have fallen to the floor.
“Cool,” Sam says, glancing around at the ancient equipment and the stacks of wood lying haphazardly around the place.
Dean glances up and nods, smiling in the way that shows off his wrinkles.
One more scan of the room and Sam moves on to the next. Several warning signs gleam at him as he turns on the light, and he carefully moves back.
“Cursed object storage,” he hollers in Dean’s direction before turning the light off and closing the door. That’s not something he particularly wants to tackle today.
The next door is farther down, and he passes two doors on Dean’s side of the hall before he pulls back and asks himself why it’s Dean’s side of the hall. Almost like he’s back to being eleven-years-old again, he screws up his face and blatantly opens a door on the left side of him.
More storage, this time mostly empty.
He closes the door and shamefully heads to his original destination. When he tries to turn the knob, nothing happens. He frowns at the door—number 42—and shoves his shoulder against it. The door gives way with a bang, and he follows it through, mostly on accident. He steadies himself and feels up the wall for the lightswitch.
The lights flicker on and he breathes in a sharp breath. This definitely is taking up too much space to be here.
It’s a forge.
The bunker has a forge.
Out of all the things for their bunker to have, Sam supposes, a forge is not all that out of place. It stands alongside a dungeon and an infirmary large enough to replace the local hospital, so strange rooms are not out of the equation.
It’s just . . . weird. He’d always pictured the Men of Letters as, well, scrawny nerds. Not exactly the traditional image of blacksmithery.
“We’ve got a forge,” he shouts, belatedly.
“A what?” Dean shouts back.
“A forge,” Sam yells, raising his voice.
“Cool,” Dean replies, and another clattering sound rings out, followed by several choice words.
Sam snorts and moves into the room.
There’s supplies everywhere. Half-finished projects too—an Aquarian star the size of Sam’s bed with one side of a triangle missing, a circle of iron that might have been on its way to becoming a devil’s trap, and a few books, one with parts of its cover overlaid with gold foil. Sam picks his way through the room, notes the hammers spread across the various benches, dodges around the giant anvil the the middle of it, and makes his way to the forge itself.
The glaring lights overhead send light glinting off the carvings in the brickwork around the forge.
Sam’s Ancient Greek is a bit rusty, so he’s not sure what the full sentence above the forge says, but he’s pretty sure Khalkeús, Polúmētis, and Aitnaîos all refer to Hephaestus. Not surprising—the Men of Letters were fairly obsessed with the Greeks, as far as he can tell. There’s a Symbol of Loki carved into one of the bricks. A clay pot with a spider carved into it sits directly next to the forge, and Sam makes a mental note to avoid touching that if at all possible. Never know what’s cursed and what’s not these days.
The other bricks have words and symbols carved onto them too. Sam’s not sure about most of them, but one he does recognize. The Enochian word for fire.
“Huh,” he says aloud, reaching out to trace his fingers over it.
“Whoa,” Dean shouts, “Sam, come see this!”
Sam jumps and then takes another look around the room, ignoring the bubble of something in his gut as he heads out.
Something twinges in his heart as he turns out the light, and he reluctantly turns away.
“We’ve got an armory,” Dean yells in excitement, and Sam shuts the door.
That night, after a dinner of leftover enchiladas, he and Dean head their separate directions for bed, lights dimming, just a little, once sunset hits outside—not that it’s visible, clouds still swarming the sky and pelting everything with water when Sam goes out to check.
Sam settles in at his desk, twisting in the chair, hopelessly looking for a comfortable position the seat’s just not willing to provide. He bends over his laptop and starts sorting through emails.
His calves twinge, and he flexes them, wincing. After they worked their way through the armory, they’d finally made it to the door at the end of the hallway and found a spiralling staircase instead of a room. Going up that many stairs, especially after his run and not stretching, just about killed his legs. It was worth it though—once they made it to the top, high enough that both of them were certain they had to be somewhere in the defunct factory the bunker exists under, they found a hatch that opened up into a greenhouse. An actual, somehow still functional greenhouse.
Even Dean had been excited about it.
Some kind of massive ivy had taken over pretty much all available space, including the floor, but Sam’d found a few struggling plants underneath the vines. Witchcrafting plants, mostly, the hardy kind, with magic properties that tended to flourish under any circumstances.
They’d spent so long in there that they ended up finding out how the plants were still alive—sprinklers overhead drenched everything.
Dean hadn’t been happy, and Sam nearly brained himself on a shovel trying to get cover.
Sam brings his leg up to his chest, stretching. He holds it for a count of ten as he skims through Biological Anthropology Monthly, then switches to his other leg.
He should go to bed. He knows it.
He ends up slamming the laptop shut and wandering back down to the so-dubbed “secret hallway.”
Sam goes to head into the book room he’d looked through before, but hesitates, hand hovering over the doorknob. He glances down the hall and finds himself moving before he can really think through it.
The door to the forge is just as stuck this time around, but he’s braced for it now. He squints as the lights turn on, blinking reflexive tears out of his eyes.
Something pulls him toward the tables—curiosity or something deeper—and he trails fingers over tools he doesn’t know the names of. His eyes flicker to the few books spread around, and he leans over the closest one, covered in gold foil lettering.
Soul-mate Magicks; An Experimental Exploration.
Sam’s breath catches in his throat, just for a moment, the way it does whenever someone says something that hits too close to home—“Lucifer,” “Clowns,” “Love Potions.”
When they first moved in, Sam skimmed his way through as many books as he could handle. There were some topics that just didn’t have much relevance at the moment he was reading them, so those got pushed to the back burner while others got some special attention.
Books about soulmates? Those ended up next to demons, archangels, and blood in level of relevance.
In the main library, Sam found a total of three books with references to soulmates. Two of them briefly mentioned the idea while discussing rituals and the other had a chapter on Cherubim with a two-page speculative essay on how soul bonding occurs. Nothing particularly relevant there.
But here, right in front of him, in shiny gold font, is a book on soulmates.
Sam runs a thumb over the damaged skin on the palms of his hands and inhales, pulling a stool out from under the table to balance on as he reaches out. Careful fingers curl around the cover and pull it open. Inside, the Aquarian Star is inked in blue, just off-center. Sam’s still not sure if that’s a kind of library stamp or a symbol of the writer being a part of the Men of Letters—only some of the books in the bunker have it.
Another page turn, and he’s found the author. One Walter Henshaw, with about a million titles after his name. Sam takes a moment to trace a finger over the W at the top before turning the page again.
Soul-mate Magicks; An Experimental Exploration
A study conducted by Walter Henshaw
Subjects discussed within experiment will remain anon. throughout, as per request.
The following details experiments taking place in the years A.D. 1906—1908.
Observer’s notes:
I, Walter Henshaw, first saw potential for this experiment when subjects were identified to be soul-mates (see: Bradshaw’s Divergence for identification practices). As prior experimentation by Portman et al. suggested that souls in contact with each other would produce a different form of energy than the singular soul exists as, I was intrigued by the idea of creating an environment in which two souls could regularly produce said energy without harm to the subjects. As such, the identification of soul-mates was an open door to possibility.
The following study examines the experiments done with the two subjects in regard to their capacity for soul-magicks when given symbolic locations for said energy to be stored. It is safe to say that the success of this experiment surprised even myself.
This study has been approved by first-chair members and reviewed by the Board of Experimental MoL studies.
Sam rubs his knuckles over the desk and leans back on his stool, hooking his feet around its legs. He turns the page and nearly jumps out of his skin. There, on the page in front of him, is a detailed drawing of a ring.
A very familiar ring.
Sam flicks the book shut and tucks it under his arm as he stands up. He zigzags his way out of the forge and has to stop himself from running back to his room, settling for a quick walk.
There, he places the book on the desk in front of him, turning back to the diagram. He pulls open a drawer and starts rifling through the mess.
When he and Dean moved in, there’d been little reminders that other people had lived here too. Things left behind, momentos and such. Sam hadn’t given a second thought to the pair of rings he’d found in a small box on the desk he ended up claiming as his, tossing them—and several other things—in a drawer and forgetting about them.
He shifts a file of papers out of the way and finds the little wooden box. He pulls it out and examines it. Nothing of note.
With another glance at the book, he flips open the lid and tilts the box to dump the two rings into his hand. He holds them up to the light and flicks his eyes between them and the picture.
No doubt about it, they match—bronze workmanship, with a blue sapphire in the middle and tiny symbols surrounding it, incredibly detailed.
When Sam had first seen the rings, he’d been reminded of his dad’s class ring that hung out in the Impala’s glove box for years. Now that he’s looking at them though, he can see the blatant otherness.
There’s something in the weight of them, something that pulls at his gut. He sets them carefully down beside his closed laptop.
Sam spares a moment to look at the clock, shrugs to himself, and settles in, turning to the next page of the book, the rings glinting in the light of the lamp.
When Sam wakes up, he has to peel his cheek off of the third-to-last page of Walter Henshaw’s greatest work to blearily squint at the clock. It shines 11:39 at him and he frowns. Last he’d checked it had been something like five in the morning. Then it really registers and he pushes himself away from the desk, shaking his head violently and rubbing his eyes.
It’s been awhile since he’s stayed up all night reading, and even longer since he’s slept through more than six hours.
The soreness of his body—back complaining about his chosen sleeping position and legs still pained from yesterday—convinces him to get moving. He stumbles out of his room and down the hallway to the kitchen. Music’s playing somewhere in the distance, something about Sweet Rosalie, and when Sam manages to make it to the kitchen, Dean’s there, making a sandwich with the last of the lunch meat.
“Morning,” Dean says, grinning, “how late were you up?”
Sam grunts in his general direction, annoyed with anything close to chipper, and makes his way to the coffee machine.
Dean snorts and takes a bite of his sandwich, moving to sit at the table, “Just sayin’, maybe you’re getting a bit old for all-nighters, huh?”
Sam doesn’t have enough brain power to do anything except raise his middle finger.
“You’re a grouch without coffee,” Dean grumbles through a mouthful of food.
Grabbing his mug—the one without the chip in it, thank you very much—Sam pours his coffee and moves to sit across from Dean, wincing at the movement.
“You okay?” Dean questions, scrolling through something on his computer.
“Fine,” Sam says after a long moment where he imagines a sip of burning-hot caffeine working its way into his bloodstream, “Sore.”
“Shouldn’t sleep like a dumbass then,” Dean says.
Sam raises an eyebrow.
“What,” Dean shrugs, “You weren’t up, I got worried, went to check on you. Thought maybe the world was ending.”
“Funny,” Sam says, deadpan, before blowing carefully on his coffee, ignoring the impulse to smile at the thought of Dean checking in on him. Not like that’s anything new, they both do the same thing. It’s weird when you’ve got so much history with death that it’s the go-to assumption.
The music’s still playing when they fall silent and Sam hovers over his mug, staring off into space somewhere over Dean’s shoulder. He digs his fingernails into his knee and contemplates the book—the implications. He thinks, for a moment, about heaven.
Then he moves to pour himself the last of the cheerios.
“Rain cleared up some,” Dean informs him, “But it’s still muddy out. Figure we can hang out unless something comes up.”
Sam nods his agreement, fidgeting with the scrapes on his hands as he thinks about what he’s gotta do.
An hour later, Sam finds himself screwing up his courage as he walks into the library where Dean’s on his laptop, looking at who-knows-what.
“Hey, I need you to try something,” he announces, jiggling one of the rings in the hand that isn’t in possession of the other.
“What?”
“Just something, stand up.”
Dean kicks back from the table dramatically, dragging himself to his feet like it pains him to do so.
Sam holds out his hand, the second ring in the middle of his palm, “Put this on.”
Dean grabs it, and Sam takes the opportunity to rub at the ring on his own hand, twisting it around his left middle finger—the only one it doesn’t threaten to slide off of immediately.
“What is it?” Dean asks, sliding the ring onto his right pointer finger.
Sam doesn’t bother to answer, knowing he only has a slight window where Dean might not toss the ring back at him or sock him in the jaw. He moves forward, wrapping his arms around Dean’s shoulders, digging his chin in.
“Uh,” Dean says, frozen in place, “You...okay?”
“Yeah.”
“So…” Dean puts his arms up and pats Sam’s back before resting his hands on Sam’s shoulder blades, “Why are we doing this?”
“Because,” Sam says, soaking in the moment. It’s been a while. The longer he can make it last … Well, it’s good for the magic. That’s all.
“Because…” Dean repeats, shaking his head enough to move Sam’s, “You’re not dying, are you? You do know I was joking about that earlier, right?” He sounds a little shaky under the snark, and Sam feels guilt swell in his chest.
“No, not dying,” Sam inhales and finally glances at his hand. The ring’s changed, now giving off a barely noticeable blue glow. Success. “Experiment. Hold on a minute.”
Dean sighs, and Sam’s sure he’s about to get some lecture on girliness or manhood, but instead, Dean just relaxes, shoves Sam’s arms, and leans into the hug. He squeezes a bit too tight, but Sam might be doing the same, so he doesn’t bring it up, just breathes through it.
Watching his hand, he sees the ring’s glow grow brighter. After a good thirty seconds, the ring starts to warm on his finger. Sam sighs and relaxes his grip. Dean follows, and they step back from each other to regain their bubble.
Sam decides to ignore all the rules of their hugs—for science—and reaches out again instead of brushing it off, grabbing Dean’s wrist, and flipping his hand over to see the gem. Next to each other, the rings’ glow merges together and brightens.
“Whoa, what the—” Dean says, taken aback.
“Men of Letters had some research on this thing. Wanted to test it out. We might be able to do some low-level magic now.”
“With what,” Dean says, snatching his hand back and taking a couple steps away, frowning, and brows furrowing, “the power of hugs?”
Sam shrugs, using his opposite hand to fidget with the ring so he can avoid eye-contact, “Basically. It’s—it’s something with soul power.” Not a lie. Just not the full truth, “I thought it could be useful.”
“So…” Dean trails off, kicking his chair back so he can sit in it.
“So…” Sam mimics, twisting his ring around on his finger.
“So what?” Dean asks, settling back into his chair with a huff.
Sam blinks a couple of times, rolls his neck until it pops, and then grabs his own chair, making sure there’s some space between him and Dean “So what, what?”
Dean spreads his hands out, exasperated, “The hug, what’s it for?”
Grabbing the pen and notebook he’d left on the table the day before when he was trying to translate an old Hebrew text, Sam flips to an empty page and starts scribbling.
“That was what, thirty seconds? Forty maybe? Then the rings started to glow,” he mutters, noting it quickly.
“Sam,” Dean says, serious enough that Sam can’t help how his head pops up and his spine stiffens to ramrod status. Dean crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow.
With a sigh, Sam slumps back in his seat and caps his pen, starting to fiddle with it, tilting it back and forth between two fingers.
“Okay, so,” he says, glancing off somewhere over Dean’s shoulder, “the rings are old Men of Letters relics, they made ‘em right here in the Bunker, I think.”
“In the forge?” Dean asks.
“Uh, yeah, I think. Anyways, uh, Men of Letters, or one guy at least, did experiments with ‘em. With, uh. . .” Sam tilts the pen faster, watching it blur, “With soulmates.”
He darts his eyes to Dean and watches as comprehension floods his expression, followed by his ears turning a soft red.
They don’t talk about it. It’s one of those things—they just . . . don’t. It’s bad memories and uncomfortable honesty all wrapped up in one non-Winchester-approved pile of regret.
Sam focuses in on the pen again and sniffs, “Uh, anyway, the, uh, the people they did the experiments with, they—the rings picked up on stored energy and they, eventually, turned that into helpful magic.”
“What kinda magic?” Dean asks, voice gruff, his arms crossed even tighter against his chest.
Lifting a shoulder, Sam gives a half-smile, “Small stuff. Healing small cuts, moving things around . . . telekinetics, opening doors, that kinda stuff.”
Dean leans back and nods a little, eyes unfocused, “Could be useful.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Sam says, “been plenty of times where a little boost could’a been helpful on a hunt.”
“So, how’s it work? The whole ju-ju part of this?”
“I, uh, I’m not sure,” Sam admits, softly, “that part was pretty unclear. The people they did the experiments on, they used Latin phrases, I think.”
“Okay,” Dean says, putting his hand up next to his face and examining the ring. He shrugs and points the finger it’s on at Sam, “Ventus.”
Nothing happens, except Sam pursing his lips at Dean.
“What’s the wind supposed to do?”
Dean shrugs, dropping his hand back to the table, “Dunno. It was the only word I could think of off the top of my head.”
“Ventus was the only word you could think of?”
“Oh, shuddup.”
Sam rolls his eyes.
“Oh, go on, if you’re so good at it,” Dean offers, rolling his eyes right back.
“Uh,” Sam says, blinking, his mind going blank for just a touch too long for his liking, “Ignis?” He points in the general direction of a candle they left on a bookshelf after performing a spell in the library.
Dean sucks in a breath and turns to watch the candle with Sam, and for a split second, they have hope on their faces.
The candle sits and very obviously does not catch on fire.
Dean turns back around, “Oh, great one Sam. And seriously? You coulda’ lit this whole place on fire if it worked.”
Sam’s ears go pink, and he brings his hand back down to fiddle with the pen, “Was better than yours.”
“Nuh-uh,” Dean counters, scowling.
“Yeah-huh,” Sam argues, taking the cap back off the pen to note what they tried.
They go back and forth for a while, trying out different words and phrases. Sam switches languages a few times, and Dean strings together nonsensical sentences like it’s going out of fashion.
Eventually, they both run out of things to try, and Sam’s paper is nearly filled with crossed out words.
The rings stay their dull bronze color until Dean reaches out and smacks Sam’s hand down from trying to move a lamp with Sumerian, trapping it on the table. Just as Sam tries to pull back, muttering, “Ow,” the rings start to glow again, that dull blue that could almost be overlooked.
“Well,” Dean says, pulling his hand back quickly, “pretty obvious that your rings don’t work.”
Sam swallows that down and tries not to take it as criticism, even though that’s what it feels like.
“It was just an idea,” he says, shrugging, slumping back in his chair and tucking his arms across his chest and under his armpits.
“Eh,” Dean says, “We can’t all be that girl from that Danny DeVito movie.”
Sam frowns, “What Danny DeVito movie?”
“You know,” Dean says, waving a hand absentmindedly, “Where he plays the bad dad and the principal's a bitch.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know,” Dean repeats, frustrated, “We watched it somewhere near Frisco. That chupacabra case where you screwed up your ribs and we were stuck in the motel for a week?”
“That time you ate tamales for a week straight and the room was nearly uninhabitable because of your gas?”
“You’re one to talk,” Dean says, jutting out his chin.
Then, Sam remembers.
“Matilda,” he says, bringing a hand up to his forehead so he can bop the palm against it.
Dean nods and opens his mouth to confirm Sam’s declaration, but is interrupted by the candle from the bookshelf across from Sam floating gently through the air in front of him. It bobs a bit, then drops down to the table in front of Sam, who’s busy staying frozen in the exact same spot, hand somewhere in the vicinity of his ear, and mouth agape.
“Uh,” Dean voices after a few long moments of stunned silence, “I guess it works?”
“Yeah,” Sam says, slowly dropping his hand to pick up the candle, “Guess so.”
“So what was the magic word?” Dean says, scoffing, “Matilda?”
Sam’s pen goes flying off of his notebook and slams itself into Dean’s outstretched hand. For a moment, all they do is blink at the pen and then stare at each other. A smile creeps its way onto Dean’s face, and Sam can’t help but match it.
“This is gonna be fun,” Dean says, closing his hand around the pen to shake it a few times.
A book and a rubber-banded stack of index cards go flying next, and then Sam’s pen again, when he grabs it back from Dean to start writing notes and Dean gleefully shouts, “Matilda,” at the top of his lungs and yanks it back. Sam holds his hand out for it and says, “Matilda,” in a normal speaking tone, but nothing happens. He tries again, then with a book halfway down the table. Dean laughs at him until he tries to pull the same book toward him and nothing happens for him either. Sam grabs his hand and watches the rings, but there’s no glow.
“Outta juice,” Dean says, tugging his hand back. For a second, they stare at each other, and then Dean grins. He stands up and grab’s Sam’s upper arm, yanking him upright. Sam follows the tug, a little confused, and gets pulled right into a squeezing-tight hug.
“Uff,” he says, muffled, “need to breathe.”
Dean’s grip lessens, and he adjusts their stance, putting one hand on the back of Sam’s head and pressing until Sam’s nose hits his shoulder. Sam hunches over, shuffling his feet, and brings his hands up to hug back. He glances at his watch and starts his mental count.
Fifteen seconds in, and Dean gets a little twitchy. He shifts his weight, then his head. Their ears slide next to each other and Dean’s gets caught behind Sam’s. Sam pulls back, and both of their ears bend weirdly, then unhook themselves from each other. Dean snorts, so Sam digs his nose into his shoulder and tightens his grip, squeezing hard.
“Hey,” Dean says, “don’t crush my ribs.”
“You did it to me,” Sam complains, relaxing his arms.
“Doesn’t mean you get to do it back. Older brother privilege.”
Sam huffs and rolls his eyes hard, hoping Dean can feel it. He’s pretty sure he does, because a moment later, Dean knocks their heads together and rocks his weight, pulling Sam off balance enough that he shuffles his feet in alarm and grabs onto the back of Dean’s shirt for something to hold onto.
Dean starts laughing and Sam shifts his head to dig his chin in, hard. Dean continues to laugh, but slaps the back of Sam’s head in response. Sam moves his hand and digs a thumb in between Dean’s ribs. Dean jumps, so he does it again.
“Hey,” Dean says, slapping Sam’s head again, “knock it off.”
“Make me,” Sam grumbles.
That’s the wrong thing to say, because a moment later they’re in the strangest tickle war Sam’s ever been in, both of them holding tight and digging fingers in where they can manage to. Dean shifts his weight again and Sam follows, ready this time. He scrunches his neck back, trying to stop Dean from gripping fingers there, and spins them around to make Dean the one off balance. It backfires when Dean’s leg catches behind his own and they both go stumbling into the table, hips slamming into the side of it.
“Ow,” Dean says, straightening back up, “okay, okay, no more.”
Sam rolls his eyes and follows Dean’s lead, loosening his grip so that they’re just gently hugging again. They stay like that for a few breaths, chests heaving against each other. Then Dean pats the back of Sam’s head a couple times before letting go entirely. Sam follows suit, and they back up, both of them automatically turning to lean against the table. Dean’s the one who reaches out for Sam’s hand this time.
They both stare at the glow of the rings.
“Is it just me,” Sam begins, “or is that. . .”
“Brighter than last time,” Dean finishes, nodding.
“Huh,” Sam huffs, dropping Dean’s hand and reaching out for his notebook and pen, “the uh, the book did say that longer times, uh, touching, increased the power.”
They both glance down at their watches at the same time.
“So,” Dean says, “touching. Not just hugs.”
Sam shrugs, “Yeah,” he worries his lip, lies, “wasn’t very specific.”
“Huh,” Dean offers. They stand there for a moment, and then Dean nudges his shoulder, holds out a hand, and grins, pointing to the book at the other end of the table.
“Matilda.”