Summary:  With their father gone and the future uncertain, the boys struggle to pick up the pieces.
Spoilers & Credits:  Another post-Devil’s Trap fic (written before Season 2 aired) because I am obsessed. Truly. I blame Kripke. The title is from the Matchbox 20 song.
A/N:  Thanks beyond words to Faye and to Kaly, who have been much, MUCH more patient with me than I deserve.
Disclaimer:  I own nothing. Nothing at all. More’s the pity . . .

"It’ll be okay," Sam said for the eight billionth time and Dean would have punched him – left cross, hard to the jaw and straight on till morning – if he hadn’t still had the cast.

Even so, he seriously considered it before pushing himself up and walking haltingly from the porch.

He didn’t want platitudes and he didn’t want sympathy and he’d thought Sam would have known better by now than to even offer such ridiculously trite words. And in that damned voice, that soft, I feel your pain and I can help voice that Sam used to wheedle information and calm victims in the aftermath.

Dean wasn’t a victim. He had nothing at all in common with the people they’d helped on hunts who had lost . . .

He was nothing like them. And Sam couldn’t feel his pain.

Sam didn’t get it. He’d never gotten it – and Dean had made more excuses for him than anyone – but it had never been more apparent than now. Dean had never hated him more than he did now. He’d never known he was capable of hating Sam until now. But that’s what it was – hatred, fury, a bitter rage that kept the taste of bile in his mouth and made his hands tingle.

Sam’s tears had seemed so agonized and heartbroken afterwards, but they were an affront. Sam didn’t grieve like Dean grieved. He didn’t miss him in the myriad ways that Dean missed him. Sam, who talked of healing and moving on and what Dad would have wanted – as if he’d ever known, much less cared, what Dad had wanted.

Sam had no idea.

They’d gone to Bobby’s because there was nowhere else to go. Missouri wasn’t even a consideration. They’d lost enough members of their fragile brotherhood already – no way were they bringing this to her doorstep. Bobby at least knew what they were up against. And he still had the demon trap emblazoned on the ceiling. It didn’t make them safe, but it afforded them more protection than they could have found anywhere else. Given their injuries and their lack of transportation, they needed all the help they could get.

Their daily lives fell into a pattern of newly ingrained motions and old, familiar habits. Dean rose with the sun, followed Bobby out to the garage and took on the painstaking process of piecing together the mangled remains of the Impala. Gone was a lifetime’s worth of easy grace, now that his leg refused to bend properly and his arm was cast from wrist to above the elbow. Just a few hours of work made him blindingly tired and if he moved too fast or pushed too hard, he could feel the shadow of demon fingers twisting into his chest. But he pushed anyway.

Sam slept little – plagued now by more nightmares than ever. He never talked about them and Dean didn’t ask. But the bruises grew beneath his eyes in inverse proportion to the fading of the rather spectacular array of colors that marked the rest of his face. When the stitches came out, Sam had an angry-looking, five-inch scar that ran from his forehead to his temple. When his hair grew back, it covered it, for the most part. He let his bangs grow even longer.

Every day, Dean watched Sam go out, away from the cabin and the car and Dean, knowing without being told that his help there wasn’t wanted. Dean wasn’t sure what Sam was doing, but he could guess it had something to do with figuring out how to control his . . . abilities. It wasn’t a topic Dean could bring himself to address.

They grew further apart by degrees.

Dean just couldn’t talk to Sam anymore, couldn’t listen to him talking about the future and plans and research. Sam was slow to take the hint, but eventually the look in his eyes changed from sympathy and concern to understanding and resignation. It didn’t make Dean feel any better, but the tingling in his hands finally started to fade.

Dean was always tired now. Sometimes it felt as though the demon had tapped into his internal circuitry and stolen something as physically permanent as his father had been – some spark of life or energy that he couldn’t seem to replace. The tiredness came from his very bones; his soul ached with it.

But today, there was another kind of tired – pains in his back and a cough in his throat and a head that felt heavy and cotton-filled. The seeping cold of December rain didn’t help. Still, habits were habits – and at the moment, habits were the only comfort Dean had. He threw on a coat and was reaching for the door when Sam laid a hand on his arm.

"You don’t need to go out there today."

Dean pulled away without looking at him, fingers still wrapped around the doorknob. "I’m fine."

"No, you’re not. You’re sick and it’s cold out and the car will still be there tomorrow.

Why don’t you go back to bed? Get some rest? I’ll bring you – "

And maybe it was the fact that he’d never liked being told he wasn’t up to the job at hand. Or maybe it was hearing that voice again, that gentleness and I know what’s best for you that hid so poorly just below the surface of the words.

Or maybe it was just that Dean needed to finally say what he’d been thinking for months, ever since that night in Chicago.

He turned on Sam, eyes flashing. "You know what, Sam? Just lay off, all right? I’ve been taking care of myself for a pretty long time. I managed four whole years without you around, and I think I can manage now."

Sam had that mulish look that said he was digging in for the long haul and not about to take no for an answer.

But this wasn’t about Dean being sick.

"Just leave, Sam. Just go. It’s what you’ve wanted to do all along."

Sam reared back a little at that, looking surprised and ready to protest, but Dean wasn’t having it.

"And don’t even think about staying for me because I don’t want you here."

Something in him broke as he said the words. For a moment, he was panic-stricken. I didn’t mean it, Sammy. I don’t mean it . . . I take it back . . .

But he couldn’t. Instead, he walked out the door into the rain.

This time, Sam didn’t try to stop him.

He stayed in the garage for hours, not working, not moving, just bracing himself for what was to come. He knew Sam would be gone when he returned. Sam’s things would have disappeared as though he’d never existed and there would be no goodbye or see you soon or I’ll call. It was over.

It had been doomed from the beginning. Sam had never intended to stay. He would go back to his normal, apple-pie life and Dean would go back to . . . Dean would go back. Back to the road and the hunt and the only version of normal he could really remember. The only version he had ever wanted, except that Sam would no longer be in it.

But when he went back to the cabin, Sam was still there. He hadn’t left.

And he didn’t leave.

The chasm, though, grew wider.

If Bobby noticed – and how could he not? – he never said anything. He was equally solicitous of both of them, which was to say, not at all. He assigned them daily chores around the property and held them to their tasks. His required both of them at the dinner table, but always seemed to find a way to make himself scarce as soon as the food was served, leaving them with no one to break the silence.

Despite his best intentions, Dean found himself missing the sound of Sam’s voice. But he still couldn’t bring himself to say anything. It’s only a matter of time, his mind whispered. It’s easier this way.

He was on pins and needles, constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop and wondering what Sam was waiting for.

"You seen your brother?"

The question caught Dean off-guard. And awakened in him a fear he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in weeks. "Not since this morning. Why?"

"I haven’t either." Bobby gave him a pointed look and Dean was up and moving before Bobby could say anything else.

It took longer than he would have thought to find the small copse of trees set about a mile north of the cabin. Bobby’s property was extensive and mostly undeveloped, and Dean had never tried to follow Sam or figure out where it was that he went. Then, too, walking wasn’t exactly painless yet. Trying to cover a lot of ground in a short amount of time had him panting and pressing a hand to his chest.

He finally found Sam sitting with his back against a deer-stripped tree trunk, head clasped in his hands. As Dean rounded on him, he saw that Sam’s elbows were braced against his knees and he was rocking, just slightly, back and forth.

"You all right?" Dean’s voice was gruff and it occurred to him that it had been days since he had last spoken to his brother.

Sam nodded but didn’t lift his head.

"You’re a shitty liar, Sam."

Sam didn’t answer and Dean lowered himself awkwardly to sit beside him. The ground was damp and cold beneath them, but neither seemed to notice.

Long moments passed with no other words spoken. Dean watched the sun slowly sink as it filtered through the tree-dotted landscape. He glanced at Sam occasionally, but Sam’s eyes stayed closed. The rocking had stopped, though, which Dean took as a good sign.

He cleared his throat, not sure what he was going to say, and was surprised when what came out was, "I’m sorry."

"It’s okay." Sam’s response was quick and even, but he didn’t look up and there was no ease in the space between them.

"I should have – " Dean stumbled over the unfamiliar words. "I shouldn’t have said what I did."

"I’m not leaving, Dean."

"I don’t want you to stay because of me."

Sam finally looked at him then, his expression a mix of disbelief, hurt, anger, and – if Dean didn’t know any better – pity.

"Why else do you think I’d stay?"

Dean didn’t know what to make of that. Sure as hell, it wasn’t the answer he’d expected. He was defensive before he could even think about what Sam meant.

"I don’t need you."

"Yeah? Well, what if it’s me who needs you? You ever think about that?"

But Sam was lying. He had to be.

They don’t need you – not like you need them. Dean knew – had always known – that what the demon had said was true.

The look Sam gave him now was unreadable. Or maybe Dean just didn’t want to read it.

Before he could decide, Sam had pushed himself up and was walking back to the cabin with measured steps. A hand was still pressed to his forehead, and in the haze of the late afternoon sun, his shoulders looked slumped in defeat.

The next day, Sam was gone.

Dean noticed the absence of Bobby’s truck before the absence of his brother.

They had not spoken at all after their conversation the day before, and Sam had gone to bed almost immediately after eating. Dean, for his part, went to the garage at first light and didn’t emerge until Bobby called him for supper.

He realized then that the truck was still missing. He didn’t want to ask but couldn’t help himself.

"Sam went to town?"

Bobby eyed him over a piece of chicken that was so charred it was almost unrecognizable. He chewed for an inordinately long amount of time before answering.

"He’s gone. Thought you knew." But Bobby’s expression clearly said otherwise.

Acid pooled in Dean’s stomach that had nothing to do with the pale imitation of a meal Bobby had set before him. You told him to go. You told him to go. The damning words swirled in his brain and for a few seconds, the world went white. He pushed away from the table and stumbled his way to Sam’s bedroom, panic once again clawing at his throat.

But Sam’s things were still there. His duffel was missing, his phone, his knife, his boots . . . but there were still clothes and books and the journal that Sam had kept since he first realized that the prophetic nightmares were more than just a one-time occurrence. Dean didn’t understand. Why would Sam have left so much behind?

Unless . . . unless . . .

Bobby was still calmly chewing when Dean came back to the small dining room.

"Where did he go?" He hadn’t intended for the words to sound so accusatory, but Bobby didn’t seem to take offense.

"Arkansas."

No other information was forthcoming, but Dean still felt a curtain of dread settle over him. He leaned low over the table, his face mere inches from Bobby’s.

"Why?"

Bobby speared another piece of chicken. "Had one of those visions or whatever you call them. Said to tell you he’d be back in a few days and not to worry."

And with those words, Dean’s world again fell apart.

Sam, being Sam, hadn’t made things easy. He hadn’t given Bobby a specific destination, hadn’t left any notes, and was frustratingly unreachable on his cell phone. Dean left no messages. He didn't trust himself to not explode as soon as he heard his brother’s voice over the sheer stupidity of what Sam had done. But he knew Sam would see his name on the caller ID. He wasn’t sure what kind of a response to expect. So far, there had only been silence.

Instead, Dean basically tore apart Sam’s room looking for any sort of clue. He finally found it in Sam’s journal. The most recent entries weren't helpful – mostly just Sam’s speculation about the demon. Even if there had been time, Dean wasn’t sure he would have wanted to read it.

Against the first blank page, though, Dean could feel the imprint of lines that he hoped formed a name or directions, some kind of a trail to follow. He took a pencil and rubbed it over the paper, straightening when he could finally make out the word "Farewell."

"No," he breathed. He can’t be gone. He can’t be. He’s not . . .

He shook his head, making himself focus. Sam wasn’t saying goodbye, not like this.

He went back to his own room and plugged the name into a search engine on the laptop. Farewell, Arkansas. A small town in the Ozarks.

Beyond a hastily printed set of directions, it was all he needed.

Theirfather’s pickup was sitting in Bobby’s yard, parked in the same spot where it had been unloaded from the tow truck. The tires were new, and it was polished and gassed up. Dean knew Bobby had taken special care with it – it practically gleamed.

The only thing missing was a part that even Bobby couldn’t replace.

The truck was his father’s the way the Impala was Dean’s. He’d been a passenger in it only a handful of times, and he had never been behind the wheel. Driving it felt a little like walking on his father’s grave.

But Sam had Bobby’s only vehicle that wasn’t a tractor or a picked-over beater purchased for spare parts. Dean forced away all thoughts about his father and the wrongness of being where he was and focused on the route and his brother.

Time passed interminably, the drive south through Nebraska and Oklahoma a blur of farmland and flatness. He called Sam every hour, growing more and more agitated when each attempt was greeted only by Sam’s voicemail. He wouldn’t put it past his brother to simply ignore him, especially given the way their last conversation had ended.

If that was the case, then cast or no, Sam was going to be thoroughly re-acquainted with Dean’s fist as soon as he caught up to him.

If it wasn’t . . .

Dean couldn’t bring himself to think about it.

Dean crossed the border into Arkansas in the pitch dark of early morning, one of the few cars still on the road. If he’d plotted the directions right, he had about 90 miles to go – but it was 90 miles of narrow, unlit mountain roads.

By the time he reached Farewell, dawn was just starting to peak over the horizon. The new sun gave him a headache, burning into eyes that had not spent so many hours open in a long time. Fatigue was pulling at him – he was nearly dizzy with it – but there was no time to rest. Sam had at least a 12-hour head start, and the clock was still ticking.

He drove slowly down the town’s only main street, looking for Bobby’s blue ’74 International – or a hopefully mint-condition ’83 little brother. But he didn’t see signs of either.

There was no motel and no library. His only options were the small diner and City Hall – a one-roomed brick building that didn’t look remotely as important as the name made it sound. Neither were open yet, so he pulled into a parking lot and dialed Sam’s number again.

When it clicked to voicemail this time, he couldn’t stop himself from speaking. "Sam, if you get this . . . Just call me. Soon as you can."

He flipped the phone shut and pressed it to his forehead.

You’d better be okay, Sam, or I’m going to kick your ass.

The diner opened promptly at six. Dean gave them ten minutes to get a pot of coffee brewed and then plopped himself down in a booth. The laptop, a local newspaper and his father’s journal were spread out before him.

He ran delicate fingers over the worn leather binding of the journal. Unlike the truck, he was intimately familiar with it. He and Sam both had read it cover to cover more than once in the past year.

It was the first time he had opened it since John died.

Dean could hear his father’s voice, deep and somber in his ear, as he re-read the opening words. I went to Missouri to learn the truth. He wondered if his father had known then that the truth would never bring him any peace.

"What can I get you, honey?"

A woman’s voice interrupted him. Dean turned an automatic smile on the waitress and ordered a cup of coffee and toast. Another time, he might have grinned when she brought a plate of grits and a glass of juice to go along with his order – after all, it was usually Sam who inspired love and affection in the over-50 set. But he couldn’t meet the sympathy in her gaze. Instead, he tucked the cast under the table and ate as quickly as he could, scattering a few bills when he rose so he could bypass the cash register.

The newspaper had been a bust – no real news articles, unless he counted wedding and birth announcements and advertisements for used cars and farm equipment. There was a story about the high school’s plan to hold a fundraiser for a new athletic field, and another about the town’s oldest resident, who had died at the ripe old age of 97. Definitely nothing supernatural going on there.

The laptop and journal hadn’t turned up much else. As states went, Arkansas was relatively spook-free. There were smatterings of ghost sightings and the frequent appearances of the Gurdon Light, but no harm had ever come from any of it.

What had brought Sam here?

Morning slid to afternoon and finally evening with no other answers and the growing certainty that the last words his brother would ever hear from him had been I don’t need you.

Dean pulled the truck over on a quiet stretch of State 311. He was too tired to keep driving, but he couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping in an empty motel room. It seemed too final. Like he’d given up. Like Sam was really gone.

There was a sudden, unbearable pressure in his lungs, in his head. He ducked his chin, trying to slow his breathing, and was mortified when a sob escaped instead. He folded over the steering wheel, the shuddering feel of his own tears foreign and harsh.

He’d maintained a thin veil of control since that day in the cabin. One day that seemed a lifetime ago – that was a lifetime ago. John’s lifetime.

Such a thin veil to cover up the grief and the pain and the memories. Memories of begging his Dad to not let the demon kill him and feeling like his heart was being squeezed, his insides melted, twisted, ripped apart. Memories of whispering don’t you do it Sam and the sudden, horrific impact of metal-on-metal as the semi rammed the side of the Impala. Memories of the even more sudden and horrific impact of Sam’s quiet voice saying the unthinkable . . . He’s gone, Dean. We’ve lost him. There was nothing they could do.

And now that veil was torn. The spider web of cracks that had traced the veins under Dean’s skin for so long were blown open, blown apart, and he was shattering. He squeezed the wheel until his knuckles were white and pain lanced down his arm. He still felt the sting of tears in the creases of his eyes but he ignored it, ignored the hitch in his chest and the way his shoulders hunched as he tried to shutter the gaps that only Sam could fill.

He would find him. He would find Sam and bring him home. There was no other way.

Sleep came in fits and starts and Dean was on the move again before dawn. He had no leads to research, so he retraced his steps and then sought out the side roads that seemed to lead either to nowhere or in circles.

It was nearly evening when he finally saw it, his mind so fogged with tiredness that at first, it barely registered. But when he blinked, it was still there – Bobby’s impossible-to-miss robin’s egg blue truck, parked in the tiny lot of an even tinier motel that stood like a lone weed in a garden of stones, far off the beaten path.

Dean jerked the truck into the adjoining space, not even bothering to lock it before he was pounding on the door. There was no immediate answer, and it took every ounce of control he had to make him pause long enough to listen for sounds of movement. All his hunter’s instincts were trained on the opposite side of the door, but there was nothing, not even a whisper.

He pulled the lock picks from his pocket and knelt awkwardly, his knee not wanting to give. The tools were harder to manipulate with the cast on, but at least his fingers were uncovered. Still, it took a fair amount more time than usual before he felt the latch click.

The door opened to darkness and Dean was immediately grabbed and slammed against the wall. The door banged shut and he felt an arm pressing hard over his chest. He leaned against it and felt the prick of something hard digging into the soft skin at the top of his throat.

He made himself still, but not out of fear. He knew whose hand held the knife.

"Sam?"

He heard a sharp intake of breath and the pressure against him was suddenly gone. He reached out blindly for the light switch, recoiling from the instant brightness. He caught only a glimpse of Sam’s face before Sam staggered toward the bathroom. He was on the floor, next to him, just as Sam started to retch.

The spasms seemed to last for hours before Sam collapsed back against the tiled wall. His eyes were fever-bright and he was gasping, but when he reached out for Dean’s arm, his grip was strong.

"Dean . . ." Like he’d expected him, all along.

"Are you hurt?" He barely listened as Sam tried to answer, already searching for himself.

No blood, thank God. There had been too much blood already.

Nothing appeared out of place, but Sam always wore so many damned layers, and he was struggling weakly against him now, pushing Dean away.

"Stop, it, Sam! I have to – "

"Lights."

Dean just looked at him in confusion for a moment and then it sunk in. He pulled the cord for the bathroom and then crossed back to the main door to turn off the overhead switch.

Once his eyes adjusted, he could just make out Sam’s outline. His knees were huddled to his chest, his head buried in his arms and as Dean made his way back, he could see Sam rocking, just as he had at Bobby’s.

"Come on." He put his good arm around Sam’s back and hauled him up, caught momentarily off-balance when a majority of Sam’s weight fell against him. He maneuvered them both to the more rumpled of the two beds, easing Sam down and pulling the covers over him. Sam was beyond speech, but he reached out a hand. His shaking seemed to ease marginally when Dean took the hand in his.

He perched on the edge of Sam’s bed, not offering anything other than the hand Sam seemed unwilling to release. Not for the first time, he was at a loss. He had no clue what Sam needed – what would help or what would hurt.

But he was here, at least. And Sam wanted him here.

For the first time in weeks, the distance between them disappeared and they were brothers again.

The room was so dark that it was hard to know how much time had passed. But from the way his back groaned in protest when he sat up, Dean figured he’d slept at least a few hours, twisted toward the end of Sam’s bed with his feet still on the floor. Sam had finally released Dean’s hand from his death grip, and he was curled into himself, head buried in the pillow. He was shivering.

Dean laid his hand briefly against Sam’s forehead. It was papery and over-warm, and even in sleep, Sam flinched away from him as though the light touch caused him pain. Dean reached to the other bed without turning to pull the other set of covers over Sam’s trembling body. He ghosted a hand over Sam’s hair and then limped into the bathroom, his knee still stiff. He made sure to close the door before turning on the light.

He emptied his bladder and washed his face, swirling some of the water around in his mouth before spitting it out. He wasn’t refreshed, but he felt more like a human being. He wasn’t sure if he was really ready to face Sam, but at the moment, Sam wasn’t ready to face him either. He should have been relieved, but his stomach was in knots: fear or anticipation, or – more likely – both. He avoided his reflection and turned the light off again before he opened the door.

He picked his way across the room, avoiding obstacles as much for Sam’s sake as for his own, and stepped outside. Tendrils of early morning fog rose from the concrete walkway. The air was moist and cool and it slid over him like a balm.

It had been three days since Sam had left South Dakota.

Dean grabbed his duffel from the truck, along with the standard weapons, a little shocked that he hadn’t even thought to get them the night before. Then again, finding Sam, helping Sam, had been just a little more important at the time.

He locked the truck and went back to the room, this time easing into his own bed before letting sleep claim him.

When Dean awoke the next time, Sam was up, too. He heard the ping of bedsprings as Sam stood, sat abruptly, then stood again. He watched as Sam made his way to the bathroom, wobbly and listing like a newborn colt, his hand seeking the wall more than once as he strove for balance.

There was the sound of running water and then nothing. Enough time passed for Dean to worry, and he’d just started to move when Sam emerged, dropping into a chair rather than returning to the bed. He'd left the bathroom light on, and in the faint glow, Dean watched him prop his elbows on the table and press long fingers to his forehead.

He stood carefully and made his way to the other chair.

"How’re you feeling?"

Sam was still rubbing his head and his voice was hoarse, but Dean believed him when he answered, "Better." At least Sam was coherent this time.

"You going to tell me what happened?" He hadn’t meant to start off confrontationally, but he couldn’t help it, the agonizing guilt and fear that had been keeping him going for the past three days finally manifesting.

"It was just . . . too much, you know? Brain overload." Sam gave a weak, self-deprecating laugh. His fingers moved to his temples.

"The vision?"

Sam started to nod and winced. "That and getting here and the exorcism."

Dean smiled a little sardonically. "Now you know why I don’t let you drive."

Sam laughed again – still weakly, but a little easier this time.

"So – an exorcism? By yourself?"

And with that, the ease was gone.

"It wasn’t complicated. Just a poltergeist, but one of the kids was . . ."

Sam didn’t finish, but Dean guessed from the shadow that flickered over Sam's face that that was what the vision had involved.

Sam started again. "I still had those herbs we got from Missouri. And there was a rite in Dad’s . . ."

He faltered again and didn’t say anything else.

Dean let the silence tick on for a beat or two.

"So, this is the way it’s going to be now? You ditching me and dealing with the visions on your own?"

Sam shook his head once, then stopped, raising his hands helplessly.

"You . . . I . . . I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t plan to do this without you, but you were . . . " Sam’s voice cracked a little, but they both pretended not to notice. "You wouldn’t talk to me.”

He let his hands fall just as helplessly. “I didn’t know what else to do."

"You could have told me, instead of just packing up and leaving." Dean was up and pacing before he knew he was going to be. He could feels his hands tingling again and curled them into fists. "Damn it, Sam! You didn’t even answer your phone. What was I supposed to think?"

He stopped pacing as abruptly as he started. "You were just gone." The unspoken again hovered in the air between them.

A grimace wrinkled Sam’s face. "The phone's broken. It was in my pocket when I – when I was at the house. I have to get a new one."

Dean snorted without a trace of humor and shook his head. "Yeah. You do that."

Sam sighed and cupped a hand to his forehead. His shoulders were slumped in the same posture of defeat Dean had seen the last time they’d spoken.

"Dean, I don’t know how to fix this. You’ve got to . . ." Gone was the soft, placating voice that had been Sam's default setting since the accident. It had been replaced – usurped – by a broken-glass sound that Dean never wanted to hear again, especially not from his brother. "Just tell me what you want. If you want me to go, I'll go."

Dean sat heavily on the end of Sam’s bed. He looked at Sam – really looked at him – for the since they’d left the hospital. He took in Sam’s pallor and the tiny lines of pain around his eyes and mouth, the stiff line of his neck, the faint white shadows that flanked the edges of his scar. Sam looked older than he remembered – tired in a way that sleep alone couldn’t cure and broken in a way that time wouldn’t completely heal.

Dean knew those feelings well.

He realized, maybe for the first time, that the last few weeks had been hard on Sam, too.

He ran a hand through his hair and struggled to find the right words. "I want . . ."

He swallowed, then made himself continue. "I want Dad to be alive. I want things to be the way they were." Always and always. Why were things only whole in the past? "I want to know what the hell comes next."

"I know." The soft compassion Dean heard in Sam’s voice was the same note that had pushed him over the edge days before. But now he could hear what was beneath it, too. Shared pain and loss and confusion and a little bit of fear that maybe Dean himself had put there.

"I don’t want you to go." It would never be easy, saying that to Sam, showing that kind of need. And he felt like he’d had to say it too many times already. But maybe this time, it would be enough.

Sam took a deep breath before he replied.

"Good. ‘Cause I’ve kind of gotten used to riding shotgun." He smiled then, tentative and watery, and Dean felt something inside him give a little.

A few more beats passed between them and then Dean broke the silence again. "Well, you can’t ride shotgun back to Bobby’s, that's for sure. He’ll skin you alive if you don’t bring his truck back.”

He eyed his brother, trying to decide what Sam could handle. “So, what’ll it be? Sleep or food?"

Sam seemed to consider that for a moment and then said, "Food."

They dressed and headed outside, Sam still moving slowly. He stuttered to a halt when he saw the black pickup.

"That’s Dad’s . . ."

"Yeah, Sam, I know."

Dean kept walking. He didn’t notice that Sam hadn’t moved until he opened his door and realized that Sam wasn’t doing the same.

"Are you coming or what?"

"I’m coming." And if Sam sounded a little shaky, Dean was more than willing to chalk it up to the rough day and night he had just been through.

They climbed into the cab and Dean started the diesel engine. It wasn’t the same as the Impala, but it was close enough, for now.

As they pulled out, Dean felt Sam’s eyes on him. He raised a questioning brow as Sam cleared his throat and seemed to work his way around what he wanted to say.

"Are we good? You and me?"

Dean held his gaze for a moment and then turned back to the road. Sitting here in their familiar positions, his hands firm on the wheel and Sam somehow finding a way to fit his too-long legs under the dash, he was trying to remember why he had been so angry in the first place. It had all faded in the rush of panic of knowing Sam was gone and the frantic journey to find him again.

It wasn't Sam's fault – none of it, despite what the demon had wanted them to believe.

And Sam had lost, too. Dean hadn't recognized it in the beginning, convinced that Sam was minimizing Dean's pain because Sam didn't feel it. But he had seen the look on Sam's face when he'd talked about the journal, heard the tremor in his voice when he realized Dean was driving John's truck. Sam had grieved – grieved still. That he processed it differently really shouldn't have come as a surprise to Dean after all this time.

He had to laugh at that. Sam always processed it differently.

The seat squeaked a little as Sam shifted. Dean knew he was probably interpreting his silence as a negative. He started to speak, but Sam beat him to it, his voice tight and low and aching.

"I do need you, you know. I always have. Even when I thought I didn’t." Sam wasn’t looking at him anymore, and his hands were splayed over his thighs as though he was braced for a blow.

Dean clenched his jaw and closed his eyes and told himself that they were just words. They didn't mean anything – certainly not anything significant enough to calm the tingling in his hands once and for all or bring a tightness to his chest that was welcome instead of painful. Definitely not anything important enough to warm him from within or make him strive to commit every detail of the scene to memory – Sam's fingers tense with need, his tone raw and honest, the bond between them suddenly reaffirmed and tangible.

"I . . . " This time it was Dean who had to clear his throat. "I need you, too."

He could feel Sam watching him again, saw it from the corner of his eye. He flicked a glance at his brother. For an instant, Sam's eyes shone with a combination of relief and gratitude and an emotion that the Winchesters never put words to but meant, just the same.

Dean pursed his lips and turned back to the road. "You don’t have to make a big deal about it."

Sam turned back, too. "I’ll try to contain myself." He’d tried to put a sarcastic spin on the words, but hadn’t quite managed it.

Dean let himself grin, just a little. He leaned forward and pushed a tape in the stereo. “Back in Black” came blasting out of the speakers, and he saw Sam wince. He reached for the volume control, but once again, Sam beat him to it.

Sam turned it down quite a bit, but not off, and if Dean didn’t know better, he would swear Sam was tapping a finger in time with the bass. He watched Sam lean back against the seat, watched his eyes slide shut, saw a look of relaxation – maybe even peace – settle over Sam’s tired features.

Dean hadn’t seen that look in a long time.

He leaned back and felt himself relax as well.

They were going to be okay.

Fin