The bar is full of grizzled mill workers sharing a beer after the late shift, cigarette smoke and the din of low conversation fills up the empty space. Sam and Dean sit in one of the corner booths, fresh off a hunt and looking ragged around the edges as they share a celebratory beer and meal.

A few women hang around the bar, chest hanging from low shirt-lines, and Sam half-expects Dean to slide from the booth and flirt with them just to show he can, but this isn't the time for that. They're pressed together side by side in the narrow seat by the knowledge that they've just fought the darkness and made it through, that they're both alive and relatively unscathed.

A trucker with a grey-tinged beard and faded, worn clothes steps up to the jukebox, presses a coin into the slot, hits a few select buttons, and Turn the Page starts playing softly over the hum of the bar. Sam's never been much of a fan of the classics, but it seems to fit tonight, like the jagged edges of a puzzle piece finally smoothing out until it fits perfectly with another. Threading his fingers through Dean's, Sam leans close and murmurs, "Dance?"

Dean nods, looking surprised but not displeased, and they slide out of the booth together to stand in the small clearing towards the center of the bar. This kind of back-water hick town isn't the place to do this sort of thing, but they don't worry about that as they crowd into each other's space and start to move along with the slow beat.

Sam lets Dean lead the dance, just getting swept away by the smooth roll of their hips and the smell of Dean's skin so close to his nose. A tinge of smoke still clings to both of them like an afterthought of their hunt and Sam leans in closer to inhale it, so used to it by now that it almost resembles home.

"Smell good," Sam mumbles into Dean's ear.

Dean chuckles and lays an open-mouthed kiss to Sam's temple, a brief press of lips against his skin that's over far too soon for Sam's liking. "You too."

Some of the patrons of the bar have started staring, their eyes boring into the back of Sam's head as they glare at the couple. Sam ducks his head into the crook of Dean's neck and says, "I think we're getting their attention."

Dean gives a minute shrug. "Let 'em stare. We can kick their ass if we have to."

Sam closes his eyes and relaxes against his brother's front, lets Dean support his weight as he rests. "You're sleepin' on your feet, Sammy," Dean says. "We should head back to the room."

"Just wait," Sam mutters, voice thick with tiredness. "The song's almost over."

"I didn't know you liked to dance." Their movements are a little stunted now that Dean's practically holding Sam upright, but they continue to sway in a half-dance until the last guitar chords cut through the air and the bar falls into relative silence.

Sam forces himself to stand on his feet as Dean leads them back to the booth for their jackets. "Only with you," he says and gives his brother a warm smile.