Sam closed the cabinet he had opened and shifted over a couple inches to open the next. He fished out a plate, and turned to hand it over to Dean. He held it a moment too long, and when he let go, he shifted his focus abruptly. Reaching for one of the beers, he twisted the cap off and took a long sip.
"So." He set the beer down and sat opposite his brother. He felt safe, with the table between them. They hadn't had a chance to really talk, since they'd ended up drawn to this war. Dean came from a point in the past so far back Sam barely remembered it.
As if they needed further proof how screwed up their lives really were.
Without the distraction of emotional attachment, Sam could look back on it with an objective stance. After a while, it all looked so absurd as to not be possible. Maybe Dean was the lucky one, not living past 2007. They hadn't met the angels yet, and killing demons was second nature. Ah, those were the days, Sam thought.
"So," he said again, pulling his attention back to the cold beer in his hands.