for callsigns

Home has been many places, over the years.

Sam thinks of the backseat of the car, snuggled up against Dean while Dad drove them through the night, or the sleepy little town in Mississippi where they stayed for several months while Dad researched and then took care of a complicated haunting.

Or the apartment they had in Missoula, when he was eight, and Dean beat up the fifth grader who'd been picking on Sam, teasing him about his curls.

The first home he ever had, that he doesn't remember.

A dorm-room at Stanford, and later, an apartment in Palo Alto.

Too many motel rooms to remember, as they criss-crossed the country.

Pastor Jim's parish house in Blue Earth, the year Sam started middle school. They stayed there for almost a year, Dad coming back in between hunts, taking them out on hunts when they weren't in class.

But however often it changed, and wherever it was, it was also always one thing.

Dean.

Sam can't remember a time when Dean wasn't there; when Dean wasn't there for him. He isn't able to differentiate 'home' from 'Dean' -- they're one and the same.

Home right now is right where he is, snuggled into Dean's arms. It's cold in here; even colder outside. There are blizzard warnings all over the place, and the snow's been coming down thick and heavy for hours. The heater in this ratty little motel room will probably crap out long before the storm does, so they've tucked towels in around the windows and doors and now they're curled up together in one bed, with the covers from both beds piled over them.

"You okay?" Dean's nose is cold, and he's rubbing it right behind Sam's ear.

"Yeah, why?"

"You been quiet in there." Dean taps one finger against the side of Sam's head and Sam snorts and turns his head, nipping at the finger. "Hey, no biting. You bite, and I'm gonna wanna get naked and horizontal, and then we freeze to death and it's all your fault."

Sam blinks. "I--what?" When Dean takes a breath like he's going to say it all again, Sam cuts him off by kissing him. "We could probably generate enough heat," he murmurs against Dean's mouth. It's all talk, though; it's way too cold in the room to even think about taking anything off.

Dean tightens his arms, twined around Sam's waist, and leans back a little. Sam goes with him, shifting until he's in a semi-prone position, head against Dean's chest. There are too many layers between, but Sam's listened to Dean's heartbeat all his life. He knows it better than his, and the sound soothes and comforts him, no matter what.

That's home, for him.