Sam died. Dean drove.
Mile after mile, town after town, potential job after potential job. All melted away under the Impala's tires, as the driver fixated on nothing except the road ahead of him.
Sam died. Dean drove.
The funeral was the last contact he'd had with human kind. Apart from the occasional car on the road, there was no one around. The Impala was a ghost, moving endlessly down the back roads of the US, a blue shadow against grey tarmac, forever roaring down the highways, stopping only occasionally when the driver had to relieve himself.
Sam died. Dean drove.
Four years. Four years they were together, after Sam came back, after Jess died. Four years, of being not one, but two. Two parts of the same organism, the same entity.
And now one was in the ground, and the other was on the road.
Sam died. Dean drove.
The BlackBerry Sam had picked out for him was dumped in a Dumpster, somewhere outside Tacoma, unknown and unanswered, a small square of light in the darkness of the can. The most frequently dialed was Bobby. No one picked up, but still the little screen lit up, and the tiny electronic buzzed in the darkness.
Sam died. Dean drove.
He contacted Castiel once, screaming at the sky behind a convenience store that had close down two decades ago.
The angel appeared before him, the same intelligent eyes peering out from beneath the same untidy mop of black hair, the same trench coat bunched around his shoulders.
Dean gestured unsteadily with the wine bottle in his hand, his words slurred, his eyes bloodshot.
"Bring him back."
Castiel's face was impassive. "I can't."
Castiel stood there as Dean yelled at him, hurling the bottle against his chest, saying nothing as cheap wine left a stain on his beloved grey coat.
It went on for an hour, but eventually Dean collapsed to the ground, cutting his hands on the broken glass.
"Please. Please, bring him back."
Castiel's answer did not change. "I can't."
Dean didn't shout this time. He just whispered, tears dripping onto the cracked and dirty pavement.
"He must be-Hell. He can't go through it. He doesn't...doesn't deserve it."
"Sam's not in Hell."
"What?"
Castiel bent down and pulled Dean to his feet. He swayed drunkenly on his feet, and almost fell before Castiel caught him by the shoulder.
"Sam is not in Hell. I know that much. He's in Heaven."
"He is?"
"The angels judged him to be true, despite his blood, with my help. He will forever rest in Heaven. Do not contact me again. I owe you nothing."
Castiel disappeared, and Dean slumped among the glass, a smile on his face.
Sam died. Dean drove.
It was dark in Indiana when the doorbell rang. Ben was in his bedroom doing homework, and Lisa was chopping vegetables for dinner.
She moved cautiously to the door, wondering who it could've been at that hour. She opened her door to find Dean Winchester on her front porch, his left hand rubbing the back of his head.
He looked up, and though his eyes were miserable, he was smiling.
Lisa hugged him, and invited him inside, closing the door firmly behind then.
Sam died. Dean drove home.