It was midafternoon by the time Dean felt safe to stop. Even then, he pulled into a KOA in Iowa rather than risk recognition by a motel owner with a national news channel. Sam didn't say anything. Sam hadn't said two words to him since handing him the SWAT gear back in Milwaukee, and Dean couldn't seem to muster any conversation himself. So he parked the car and tossed the keys to Sam, going into the main office to pay the site fee.

When he came back out, Sam had the grill going already, and was warming his hands over it. Dean watched him for a moment, but Sam apparently still wasn't in the mood to talk, so he popped the trunk and took out the tent, the poles, the stakes and the sleeping bags, and set to work. The tent was a good size, and they had a small space heater that they could heat it with, so he wasn't too worried about the weather. They'd made do with less.

He set up everything inside the tent, hearing Sam's footsteps receding once he got inside. Jesus, the kid had been waiting for any chance to get away from him, hadn't he? He leaned against the nearest pole and slammed his head against it sharply, sending vibrations through his skull, reawakening the headache the shifter had lit there several hours back. He did it a few more times for good measure, then fell on his side limply and thought about Dad. Twenty-two years they'd been doing this gig, and Dad had never brought the FBI down on them, not once. Jesus Christ. Two years under Dean's command, and they were top priority, worthy of SWAT teams and helicopters and their own goddamned agent.

He heard Sam coming back and the ripping of plastic, and relaxed a little. Okay, he'd just gone to get grub. That was reasonable. That didn't mean he hated him, or blamed him for the loss of his last chance to be normal. As soon as he thought it, he shook his head in disgust. It was the loss of Sam's life, and all he could do was sit in here and worry about being blamed. Fuck that. It was his fault, he'd take his licks.

Crawling out, he smiled a little at the hamburgers on the grill, and the buns Sam was toasting alongside them. How gourmet. "Hey," he said gruffly, and Sam looked back.

"I got dinner," he replied neutrally, laying the spatula aside and sitting down on the ground. "Burgers all right?"

"At this point, tuna salad would be all right." Sam quirked an eyebrow. "Means hell yes." He sat down across from Sam, head throbbing. "I'm sorry," he said at last, looking at the ground. "Didn't mean it to happen like this."

Sam was silent for a long minute, then got to his feet. "I'm gonna go get us some booze. I think I need it." Dean flinched a little as he walked past, then got up to turn the burgers. By the time Sam had returned, they were done, and he handed one to his brother as Sam set the beer on the table. They ate and drank in silence, and even the sounds of nature were muted; no other campers were out at this time of year, and it was too late in the evening for birdsong. Dean stared at the tabletop, tracing the furrows in the wood, running through everything he could do, anything he could do, to make this all right.

"When the time comes," he said at last, quietly, "and this shit with the demon is over, if we're still alive… I'll tell the feds it was all me. I'll tell 'em I killed Jess, brainwashed you into coming along. You get a half-decent lawyer and they can spin a good psych defense out of that. There's no forensic evidence linking you to any of this shifter stuff, it was my gun, my fingerprints on the letter-opener. Hell, even back in Baltimore, they were willing to cut you loose if you gave me up, so even if they give you a hard time, you'd get a sweet deal for your testimony-"

"Shut up," Sam cut in, setting his beer down and staring at him with so much intensity that Dean could hardly take it. "I'm not selling you out, so shut up."

"You'll have to," he replied, shaking his head. "There's no point in both of our lives being over, and I never planned on seeing thirty anyway. Wasn't thinking lethal injection, but it all ends the same way, no matter how it goes down."

"Stop it!" Sam snapped, getting to his feet. "Goddammit, Dean. Get up." He looked up at Sam quizzically, but slid off the bench and stood. Sam glared at him for one long moment, and then he moved, and then something hit him so hard that he couldn't see for a second, black and gold blossoming in his vision. He took a step back blindly, blinking several times, and finally Sam cleared in his sight, rubbing his knuckles and still glaring at him. And then he was being hugged so hard he couldn't breathe, Sam's arms a vise around his back, and his voice shaking as he whispered, "We aren't going anywhere that we don't go together, you got that?"

"Sam, I can't let-"

"You're gonna have to," Sam interrupted him, and his hand came up to clutch the back of Dean's neck. His fingers were cold, and they dug in so hard it was painful, but Dean hardly registered it. "The only reason you're in this mess is because I insisted we go help Becky and Zack. It's my fault we're here, and I'm not gonna let you take the rap for it."

"It's not your fault," Dean said quickly, shaking his head. "It's just the job, it's the way things happen sometimes…"

"Dude. Stop." Sam ran a hand through his hair. "Dean, I told you, there's nowhere else I want to be. There's nothing else I want to be doing. I've decided to hunt, and I've decided to hunt with you. This thing with the feds, we might beat it, we might not. We might have to get out of the country, and if it comes to that, we'll do it. But I swear to God, if you try to turn yourself in after we kill this yellow-eyed son of a bitch, I'll put a bullet in my head before they get that needle in your arm." Dean stared at him, wide-eyed, speechless, and Sam nodded once, sharply. "Good. Now sit the fuck down and drink your beer." Dean felt his lips quirk, and Sam raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Nothing." Dean slid back onto the bench, picking up the longneck and taking a swallow. "Out of the country, huh? What did you have in mind?"

"I hear there are lots of hot chicks in Saskatchewan," Sam replied, straight-faced, and batted away the napkin Dean threw at him with a grin. "Mexico, asshole. We'll pull a Shawshank Redemption, run a little taco stand, hunt some chupacabras…" Dean grinned back and held out his beer. Sam clinked his own bottle against it, and they watched the sun fade out of the western sky, drinking in companionable silence, until all the fear and doubt had faded with the day.