Arizona is mother-effin' hot in the summer, but it was a good choice for places to settle, when it came time to make a decision about that.

Dean still thinks about that time, when they had to decide. Had to, because there just wasn't any other option, really. He doesn't play well with corporate America, but Sammy does, so they went where there'd be a good job waiting.

Besides, now he's used to it, the heat feels good. Settles down into his bones and burns some of the chill off; chill he carried around for so many years.

"You're gonna get sunburned if you don't put some more lotion on." Sam's already doing it though, before Dean can even make a move toward the bottle. "It's too dangerous to get burned these days, doofus. You want skin cancer?"

"Stupid little cells wouldn't even dare," Dean growls, but shifts anyway so Sam can get the spots across his shoulders he couldn't reach.

"You'd be surprised what those 'stupid little cells' would dare," Sam counters. The lotion's smoothed into Dean's skin now, but Sam keeps rubbing, stroking, drawing patterns on Dean's back. "You don't need to tempt fate anymore, Dean. It's bad enough you're--"

"Shut it," Dean says, not meaning to put quite such a snap in his voice--but it does the trick. Sam shuts his yap, which is of the good--but he also takes his hands away, which is of the bad. The silence hangs between them, thick and heavy like Louisiana summers and it makes Dean want to squirm. He wishes this could not be an issue between them; not after this long.

He forgets at times, forgets to track how long it's been, but knows it's measured in years now. Time that he's used to learn how to adapt, how to be useful again, how to stop being bitter and angry. "Sam, I." The apology sticks in his throat, and Dean's not even really sure why he thinks he should apologize or if that's really what he should do. "It's okay," he says finally. "Y'know? It's not all that bad, and it could be a lot worse."

I could've lost you, instead. What's my eyesight in comparison to that?

He doesn't say that out loud, though. For one thing, that's like giving Sam carte blanche about touchy-feely topics and there's only so much emoting Dean can comfortably do, even in his own head. The other thing is, it's easier to show Sam how he feels, than to say it. Words aren't always his best friends; he's more an action sort of guy.

For a minute Dean thinks Sam isn't going to let it go that easily; he stays quiet and distant and Dean finds himself counting heartbeats, finally breathing when Sam inhales in that way he has, right before he's going to say something.

"Sure," is what Sam says, so much meaning packed into that one tiny word. But he puts his hands back on Dean's shoulders, draws him backward until Dean's pressed against Sam, back to chest. It feels good, warm skin-on-skin, drops of sweat springing up between them from the heat and their closeness.

The quiet feels good, too, settling in and around them. Dean tilts his head, trying to figure out where the sun is, now. It still feels brighthot against his face, but that's sometimes deceptive, out here where it's always hot, even at night.

"What time is it?" He asks finally, giving it up in favor of the more direct route.

"Way past dinner time," Sam says, voice low and soft, words sliding in Dean's ear. "You hungry?"

"Always." He almost says it straight-faced, too, except for that tone he hears in Sam's voice. "Got anything for me?"

"Dunno, didn't you just have that for breakfast? And lunch?"

"Breakfast, yeah. I don't remember lunch." Sam's snort against his neck makes Dean wriggle; that tickles a little too much to ignore. He wiggles again when Sam tickles him deliberately; light strokes along the waistband of his shorts, feathery movements up along his ribs. "Dude--that's not fair. I can't reach you."

"All's fair in love and war," Sam intones solemnly, tickling once more before shifting backward a bit and pulling Dean with him. "Sorry, I was at a funny angle and the stucco was poking me in the kidneys."

"Such a wuss." This is really nice; warm sun on his face, warm Sam behind him. It strikes Dean as kind of funny that for such a big guy, for all that he is and means to Dean, that that one little word -- his name -- is enough. Sam. Sure, there are others. Brother. Lover. Partner. Friend. But Sam…covers them all. "Seriously, though, what time is it?"

"Why, you got a hot date?" Sam rubs his knuckles along Dean's jaw, and caught up in his own thoughts and the emotions tumbling through him, he turns his head enough to brush a kiss over them. Sam strokes again, lingering, and when Dean turns his head just a notch further it's Sam's mouth waiting for him, warm and welcoming.

Sammy had something sweet and spicy just a little while ago; Dean can taste cinnamon, and smooth, maybe ice cream? He thinks there's still some Ben and Jerry's Cinnamon Buns up in the freezer. It's the perfect blend, though, Sam, and a trace of spice, with the cream sliding rich and soothing over everything. Dean licks at Sam's tongue, chases it with his own, hungry for each tiny taste he can get.

"I wanna watch the sunset with you," he whispers against Sam's mouth, nipping when Sam pulls away. "Is it time yet?"

Sam is silent for so long that Dean wonders if he's mad or sad again; then long arms pull him impossibly close, verging on squeezing.

"It's time," Sam says, and his voice is rough, a little gravelly in Dean's ear. "It's starting down, now."

Dean settles back, turning his face upward again, and listens to Sam describe the brilliance of a desert sunset: rich, deep red, like a slash of paint tossed across a canvass. Layered over it is purple--lighter, but majestic, fading into a scarlet color where it touches the red.

"The mountains look like dark shadows against it, though--kind of leeching out the color. But further down, like in the dips and valleys, it's not so much shadow as a really deep, dark purple. Like wine."

"Best sunset ever," Dean says, when Sam falls silent. It's cooler now, and he can hear the beginnings of night music starting up around him.

"Yeah." Sam tucks his fingers into the waistband of Dean's shorts. "It really was."

The deck tile is cool under Dean's legs, where his towel shifted, but everywhere else he's warm, and best of all, when he closes his eyes he can see the sun setting, casting the two of them in shadow as they sit there, together.