Sam would say that killing a monster pretending to be Paris Hilton was the weirdest hunt he'd ever been on, but then he would be lying.
Right now, he and Dean aren't on a hunt—Dean is actually at a homemade pie bakery, citing it's one of the best he's ever been to (Sam assumes it was probably from when he was at Stanford, because he doesn't recognize the place)—and Sam is outside, sitting on a wooden bench.
"Sammy!" He hears Dean call. Sam turns to see Dean holding up a bag emitting the strong smell of pecans and apples. Dean grins.
"Pie!" He exclaims happily, like a little kid, and Sam smiles. In the wake of the apocalypse, Dean had begun to stop smiling like that—Sam made sure to remember the small moments when he did. He wondered if he should try to make more of an effort to remember to buy pie for Dean.
At least now Dean wasn't acting as if Sam was the bane of his existence. Sam blamed himself for the apocalypse—because he had been the one who'd killed Lilith, no one else—and he knew it was his fault. He didn't need Dean to remind him.
Sam knew he'd probably never get back Dean's trust completely, after the demon blood, but he could try. He would try.
Who could he depend on, if not his older brother?