CHAPTER TWO: BREAK THE NEWS

When Sam got in to Lawrence the first thing he did was stop in at Bobby's place. The older man always felt better if Sam came by immediately after a hunt, just to reassure himself that Sam was still Sam and he hadn't done anything stupid to attempt to bring Dean back. Although four months had passed since Dean's run-in with the hellhounds, the memory was still as sharp and fresh in his mind as if it'd happened yesterday.

Bobby was sitting on the porch when Sam rolled his '69 Chevy Camaro into the gravel driveway. Once he turned the key and the rumble of the engine faded away, the familiar sounds of the Singer house took over. A country song could be faintly heard from inside, funneling out through the screen door, and Bobby's boots tapped on the rickety wooden porch as Sam jogged up the steps.

"How'd the hunt go?" Bobby asked as Sam leaned against the railing and took a swig of the waiting bottle of beer. It was practically a tradition to take a drink of holy water-laced beer after a hunt, as if the tattoo wasn't enough to assure Bobby that Sam wouldn't get possessed.

"Fine. Nothing I couldn't handle."

The two drank in silence for a couple of minutes, waving at a few familiar friends who drove by, before Bobby finally cleared his throat and averted his eyes from Sam's.

"I've got somethin' to tell you," Bobby began. "And I need you to hear me out before you go runnin' to Carly."

At his girlfriend's name, Sam straightened, worry lines etched on his forehead. "Bobby, what's going on and what does it have to do with Carly?"

"Dean's back."

A bird chirped from a nest built in the corner of the porch roof. A car rumbled by, kicking up gravel. The song on the radio switched over to something by Kenny Chesney. But Sam didn't look away from Bobby like...like he'd kicked a puppy or something.

"That's a sick joke, Bobby," Sam finally uttered.

"It ain't no joke, boy, and don't accuse me of making light of your brother's situation!" Bobby stood up and got closer to Sam, not breaking eye contact. "He's back, Sam. I don't know how and I don't know why, and I don't think he knows much himself either. He just showed up at my door and stuck around for a little while before he got it in his mind that he wanted to go see Carly."

"And you told him where she was?! Bobby, Dean's gone! He's in Hell-get it through your head! That was probably some shape shifter or a sick demon possessing his body, and you sent him to Carly!" Sam grabbed his keys and set off toward the Camaro.

"You think I was stupid enough to send him off without checking all that first!" Bobby called after him. Just before Sam peeled off and set off towards Carly's apartment, Bobby added, "Don't believe me if you want, Sammy, but that man at Carly's is your brother!"

The Camaro blasted across town and it was either sheer luck or a gift from the angels that Sam wasn't pulled over. His speedometer showed speeds that rivaled Interstate speeds down Main Street, and when he squealed to a stop in the parking lot he cursed at the sight of the Impala.

He rocketed up the first set of stairs and ran into Mrs. Cook, the old woman who made a habit of delivering him and Carly pies weekly.

"Oh, Sam!" She grinned up at him and, although he was antsy to get up to the third floor, he paused. "How was your business trip?"

"Fantastic, Mrs. Cook. If you'll excuse me, I'm in a hurry to get to Carly, but I'll be sure to stop by later."

"Oh, yes, go!" she called as Sam set off up the next flight of stairs. "Oh, wait, Sam, I just remembered!" He paused and sighed. "A gentleman stopped by asking for a Carly about an hour ago. I'm not sure if he's left or not."

"Thanks, Mrs. Cook. I'll see you around."

When Sam finally reached 3B and tried the door, it was locked. He frantically patted his jacket pockets and was about to insert the key when the door pulled open, and there was Dean.

Or the asshole pretending to be Dean.

"Sammy." Dean grinned at his brother, who was breathing heavily and looking at him like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. Not that Dean blamed him. "I'm back, man." Dean opened his arms and stepped towards Sam with the intention of hugging him.

Sam, however, was having none of it. He pushed "Dean" aside and stepped into his girlfriend's apartment. Seeing Carly unconscious on the couch, in the shirt she always wore when Sam was scheduled to be arriving home, his shirt, caused him to fume. He turned back to "Dean" and glared at him.

"What did you do to her?" he bit out.

"I didn't do anything," Dean insisted. He held his arms out, gesturing to himself. "Sammy, it's me. It's Dean. I don't know how I'm back, I don't know who pulled me out of Hell, but it's me. If you need proof I'm willing to guzzle holy water and poke myself with a silver knife."

"Let's do it, then."

Following proof that Dean was in fact Dean, which still wasn't enough for Sam, who then thoroughly interviewed him to reassure himself that it really was his brother, they hugged it out.

Sitting at the table with a pizza ordered from Pizza Hut, some paper plates, and a liter bottle of Mountain Dew, there was no time for the Winchester brothers to catch up on four months of missed time together. Instead they analyzed all the possibilities of what could have possibly raised Dean from Hell.

With no solid answers or even ideas, the only comfort Sam found in the conversation was that Dean didn't remember his time in Hell. It was a tiny spot of light in this dark situation.

By eight o'clock they were both nursing beers. It was some girly drink with a lime aftertaste, but it was all Carly had in the fridge and the situation felt semi-familiar to the Winchester boys, and right now familiarity was all that was getting them through.

"So I think we might be ignoring the elephant in the room," Sam finally announced.

"What's that?" Dean knew exactly what Sam was talking about, but was trying to push it away. He didn't want to think about the possibility that he'd left a door open before going to Hell, and Sam had taken full advantage of it.

He didn't want to think about his little brother with the girl he still loved.

"Carly."

They both peered over the half wall separating the living room from the kitchen. Carly hadn't yet stirred, but had at some point rolled onto her side. It was a familiar sight to both Winchester boys.

Dean remembered when he'd dated Carly all those years ago. She'd been so sweet, so shy and innocent and such a contrast to his drinking and flirting ways. Now, though, he and his brother were drinking lime beers they'd found in her fridge and she was waiting home for her new boyfriend in little more than his too-large shirt.

A lot had changed, obviously.

"Yeah, before we get into that," Dean sighed after averting his eyes from Carly's familiar smooth, long legs, "why's she going by Carly Dunn now?"

Sam shrugged. "She doesn't want to be associated with her father, I guess. The guy's always been a worthless drunk, but things have gotten a lot worse these past couple of years. He's in and out of jail more than we cheat death. Or, y'know, don't." Sam eyed his brother. "So you really don't remember anything? About Hell?"

"I've been getting flashes more and more frequently. When I crawled up out of that box six feet under I didn't even remember the hellhounds, but now I remember that and bits and pieces of Hell are coming back to me." Dean paused, shuddered. "It was awful, Sammy."

The boys sat in silence following that, but it didn't take Dean long to down the rest of his beer.

It was a little after nine o'clock when they heard Carly beginning to stir. She grunted and the couch springs squeaked as she moved around.

Dean looked over at Sam to see how they should approach this.

"I told her you were dead," Sam mumbled, casting his eyes back down.

"Well." Dean put his empty beer bottle down and rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans. "I guess now's as good a time as any to break the news, eh?"

"How much of the news?" Sam spat through gritted teeth.

"All of it."