Waking up is fast, this time.
Jolts up, forgets for a moment that he's in the back seat, that his ribs are cracked and his side is stitched and almost dislocates his hip trying not to slide off the bench and into the footwell.
Blinks for a moment, staring up at soft shade dappled across the roof and thinks, simultaneously; I know this place and where's Sam?
The space in the front is empty, he knows it without even looking. He checks, just to be sure, his head is still a little fuzzy and hazy and he wants to be certain that Sammy hasn't fallen into the footwell and gotten stuck under the steering wheel again like he did when he was thirteen, all crane-fly arms and legs tangled through the pedals.
He grins faintly remembering it, him and Dad laughing so hard they couldn't stand up, couldn't even breathe while Sam scowled and swore in a crumpled, squashed up mumble.
Footwell's empty.
His eye catches on a wrapper for a moment, snagged by the way it twists in on itself, pulling his attention down into shady infinity until he drags himself away with an effort of will.
The truck going by, horn blaring on the road behind him might have something to do with it too. Whatever. He peers blearily through the windshield, idly noting the bugs splattered on the glass, three days worth at a guess though he can't remember much of it.
Just Sam dragging him into motel rooms, dumping pills down his throat and smoothing blankets gently over his shoulders as he drifted away.
Beyond the spattered glass, he can see the arc of metal over the gates. Didn't need to see it to know where he was, recognised the smell of this place; jasmine and stone and fresh-turned earth, grief raw in the sun and heat.
Blinks again, shakes his head a little, trying to clear the cobwebs and yawns so wide his jaw cracks three times, one after another, perfect hat-trick.
Still no Sammy.
Shrugs, winces as his ribs shift but he knows where his wayward brother will be. Same place he was last - and only - time he was here. Didn't go into the funeral then, didn't seem appropriate somehow but he waited outside the gates, leaning against the side of car in the soft, dappled shade, waited until the last of the mourners filed out in ragged procession, waited until the sun touched the horizon before he walked slowly in through the tombs and the gravestones and came out again dragging Sam blindly with him.
Climbs out of the car, heat hits like a sledgehammer soon as he's out of the sun and damn if he isn't standing in the exact same spot he was three years ago, same crack twisting under his boots looking like a cursive W struck by lightning.
Doesn't make much sense now, either; when he turns his head to look at it from a different direction it degrades into just another hole in the ground.
Manoeuvres his crutches out of the backseat, cringing as the end of one smacks against the window with a sharp crack. Shunts the door closed with his hip, awkwardly, wobbling as the world tilt-a-whirls around him then he draws in a hot, sun-heavy breath and huffs it out again and sets off.
Crutches through the tombs and the gravestones, gravel crunch-scrunching under ferrules and foot, inscriptions wavering in the heat-haze. By the time he passes between the same black-granite obelisk and the weeping angel, he's panting, mouth dry, sweat dripping from his hair into his eyes.
He stops so fast, he rocks on his crutches, almost goes down in a heap on the gravel and only saves himself by clutching at the angels' cracked wing.
Sags against it, breath hitching in his throat and listens to his brother talk, the way he hasn't in days and miles he can't count now.
There's this look he gets, sometimes. I guess he's always had it, I just never noticed before. Then last year, about a month after... after The Deal we were driving through some mid-West state. Iowa? Maybe. It was just cornfields and straight roads, one-horse-towns at the crossroads and sunlight, and Back In Black came on the radio. He didn't say anything, just... got that look. Like he was trying to fix that moment, that song, that place in his memory. Trying to make sure he never forgot it.
Bites his lip against the smile that wants to twist it, sour and sad and a solid weight in his chest.
Remembers that day, that drive, that moment when the road stretched on forever and the year seemed like a lifetime and remembers holding tight to the feeling, making it indelible in his memory. Not indelible enough though. First time he's remembered it in forty-odd years.
He had that same look at the canyon the other night. Right before everything went sideways. He smiled and I thought 'this was a good idea.' Exactly that. I remember thinking exactly those five words.
A small sigh escapes him, aching and tired.
"Was a good idea, Sammy. It was."
Blinks, and for a heartbeat he stands at the edge of the scar in the earth, years laid bare and stripped away to the bedrock.
This time his throat doesn't ache. Doesn't see innocence burned out of his brother's eyes, doesn't taste beer sour in his gut.
Still doesn't mean to him now what it did then, but hurting and breathless he stares into the memory, loses himself in the rock as it twists and tears its way back, smoothed by the world that turned around it for so very, very long.
Smiles a little.
Whispers,
"It was awesome."
~~*~~
A/N: Well if you made it this far, thanks for sticking with me! Hope you enjoyed the ride, and I'll see you next time...