Sam follows him into his dreams, but these dreams are never sexual. It's always just him and his brother in the Impala, some familiar song on the radio, and the plains placid and impressionistic outside. Dean would crack a joke or make some observation, and Sam would laugh, his laugh like a gunshot, his presence radiant, burned into Dean's mind like a brand.

Nrghhh...How pretty was that! I'm listening to Craig Armstrong's Piano Works, and this fic read like that, all lilting and melancholy and shadowy.

Very lovely Lass!