Dean drove down the impala down the highway, his once-hopeful eyes focused and his jaw taut. He didn't relax, even though they'd just finished a case. There's always some other freaking thing that wants us dead, he thought, and a wave of memories crashed down on him so fast he nearly swerved off the road. "Whoa, Dean, are you okay?" he heard his baby brother ask.
"Yeah," Dean said, his voice wavering, still out of his control, just like so much else in his life. He cleared his throat, and tried to focus only on the road again, not those God-forsaken memories. All those people, those friends he got killed and hurt, when he was thrust back into life again by those damn angels. His overwhelming guilt passed back into his consciousness, and the words your fault echoed through his brain. He forced them away even as visions of Jo, Ellen, Bobby, Dad, and countless others filled his brain, until Sammy appeared beside them. His willpower was strong, but even his subconscious knew his weak spot was and would always be his little brother.
"But I tried," Dean whispered, letting his body get the better of him. He cursed his lack of strength and grimaced, unable to get himself to relax.
"What?" Sam said sarcastically. "Are you talking to yourself now?"
"Shut up, Sammy," Dean growled, then suppressed the memories once again as his poker face returned. He turned to Sammy and reassured his normality with a nonchalant "So what's the next mo-fo we gotta kill?"