Sam stared at Dean's body in the moonlight shining through the window of the motel. The lines of his body were highlighted, angles of his cheekbones made more striking, and his green eyes seemed pale, otherworldly.
"So fucking beautiful."
Dean turned his head to look at Sam, and trailed his fingertips along Sam's chest.
"Yeah you are, Sammy."
"I meant you."
Dean's expression changed, as he continued tracing patterns in Sam's skin.
"Not gonna be forever, you know."
"Chances are we'll die before we get old." Sam kissed Dean's neck.
"What if we don't?" Dean rolled on his side and pushed himself up one arm. "What if we beat this thing? Retire? Way I eat, I'd put on 40 pounds in a year without all the running and fighting we do. What if…"
Sam shushed Dean the best way he knew how—with his mouth. He kissed Dean so soft and sweet, it made him forget to breathe.
"I get it. Right now, we're… well, we're fucking gods, Dean. We're young, strong, perfect bodies, no wrinkles…"
"Speak for yourself."
Sam rubbed his thumb along Dean's jawline.
"So yeah, you're beautiful. But you'll still be fucking beautiful when you're fat and grey."
Dean made a wry face, like he didn't believe Sam.
Sam placed his hand on the side of Dean's face. "I mean it. I hope I'm lucky enough to watch you get old. See the lines on your face come in. Feed you pot roast and beer, and rub your big ol' belly. Because every wrinkle, every extra pound, is time with you I never thought I'd get. Every one is all the years you'll have spent with me, living a good life, an easier life, not being a snack pack for hellhounds."
Dean's eyes stung, and he blinked hard and fast. "Sammy?"
"Grow old and fat together? Aching joints and losing our hair? Fuck, Dean." Sam traced his fingers over Dean's mouth. "You'll never be more beautiful."