They were thirty minutes out of Bumfuck when Sam finally said, "You never came looking."
"Little fucker stole all the phones," Dean reminded him. Sam knew this; Sam had been there when Dean tossed Gary into the Dumpster to fish the phones out.
"I know. It's just. There was an idiot teenager walking around in my skin for a day and a half and you didn't notice."
Dean flicked a glance sideways and didn't say anything.
"I thought we were getting better," Sam said with a choked breath. A long inhale, like he was afraid he wasn't getting enough air, a long exhale. "Are we still that badly out of tune?"
A long pause.
"I knew something was up," Dean admitted. "From moment one, I think. But something's always up. You were happy—he was," he corrected.
Sam snorted. "Only time in his life he could breathe easy and have a beer. Of course he was happy."
"Huh?"
"Asthma. Gluten allergy. Beer comes from grain."
"I knew that."
Sam rolled his eyes.
"I thought you were happy," Dean repeated. "You haven't seemed that happy since before Dad died." Coincident with their last prank war, actually, which line of thought had possibilities. Nothing too antagonistic, though—hey maybe if he rigged something elaborate and 'accidentally' tripped it himself... "Except when you're high. Figured if it was real, I didn't want to ruin it by sounding like I didn't trust you."
"She didn't get close enough that I could bite her," Sam said, voice flat. "I would have. I was telling myself it was to get her exorcised or killed before she could go kill you. I was telling myself the psychic shit is all rooted in my psyche, my mind and soul, not my body or blood. I was lying."
"I told the kid I'd torture him if he didn't talk," Dean said abruptly, before he could remind himself why he needed to keep his trap shut. "Thought about doing it anyway. I knew it wasn't you and that's all I cared about." Sam stared. Dean shrugged. "You miss the taste of demon blood. I get it. I miss the feel of it. You trust me, I trust me, I trust you—three for four's not so bad." Beat. "Wish I hadn't fallen for the siren trick again, though. You're my brother and I wouldn't trade you for anything. Even if you are a little bitch."
Sam let his breath out in a whoosh. "Big jerk," he retorted, grinning, you're my brother, I hate you sometimes but that doesn't matter, I love you, you're my life my world my everything, and fuck, when was the last time they said this if the sound of that syllable is so strange? "No one else would know that," he added. "You know. In case."
"Because the world has more than three people stupid enough to rip their soul out of their body." Please let the moment be over. "Man, why couldn't these kids rebel in normal ways, like getting smashed and getting laid?"
"Or fluffy-bunny Wicca or LaVeyan Satanism or running away to college," Sam continued without missing a beat.
"Witches. Hate 'em. Baby witches. Hate 'em worse. Can't even kill 'em."
Sam shrugged. "The only reason I didn't kill him is you said he saved your ass."
There wasn't really anything Dean could say to that. The radio had a cover of "Ace of Spades", so Dean turned it up.
"'Siren trick'," Sam said. "What was it this time?"
"Burger, beer, music, sex. Acting less like hunting's our duty and more like it's our calling. Not that I've been doing much of the last two myself, but—"
"Please God tell me he didn't fuck anyone while he was wearing me," Sam interrupted. The answer was 'yes, he did', so Dean shut up. Sam closed his eyes and sighed. "He did, didn't he. Bet he picked up a dominatrix. At least that explains the bruising. I'd like to bleach my brain clean now." A pause, then, rubbing his arm where Meg's binding link had scarred, "We should look into ways to make sure our souls stay where they belong. There's no way that demon hasn't told everyone she's seen about the loophole she found and I don't want to do that again."
"Me neither." Dean ran over the segue in his mind, looking for the logic, realized, and decided not to ask if Sam thought Meg had had sex while possessing him.
Sam waited a moment. "Music, huh?" He twisted around and leaned over the seat, grabbing something, and when he came up it was his iPod in his hand. "Turn that down a minute, I want you to hear something. Don't say anything yet, and if you laugh I'll shoot you."
Dean turned the music down, curious. Sam stuck one earbud in his own ear, the other in Dean's. "If I'd caught up to you I'd have told you to check this playlist," Sam said, poking at buttons. "Snaked the keys first so you'd have to talk to me, since you were ignoring my calls. He wouldn't have any idea what tape you lost in early May 2007, but you'd get curious that I knew the title track."
The opening notes of "Highway to Hell" played in Dean's ear.
"I made this playlist pretty soon after you died," Sam continued. "All the songs you like but I can't stand the lyrics to. 'Fire of Unknown Origin's on here. 'Heat of the Moment'. 'Sympathy for the Devil' but that's more recent. Most of the Black Album's been moved to this list from—" Sam poked more buttons. "This one." The song switched to "Enter Sandman", and Dean looked over, surprised. "I couldn't listen to your tapes. Definitely not with Ruby riding shotgun. But I couldn't stand not having your music, either. I couldn't lose any more of you than I already had. And it offends my brotherly sensibilities to say this, but your music's really not that bad."
"I knew it!" Dean thumped the steering wheel in victory. "I fucking knew it!"
"I hate you."
"I'm the love of your life and you know it," Dean threw back.
Sam flipped him off, then let his hand flop down to the seat. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah."