With You I'm Home

AN: After posting my 2x21 coda Fade Out, the amazing Wildfire's Flame presented me with an idea that absolutely had to become a fic (thank you so much, hope you enjoy this!). It isn't necessary to read Fade Out first, but I imagine a few things in this story might make more sense if you do. So, here's a short kind of sequel revolving around the idea that ever since Cold Oak, when Dean held his dead brother in his arms in the backseat of the Impala, he's got a problem with sitting in the back. This is set a few months after Sam's resurrection, so in early to mid-season 3.

Supernatural isn't mine.

Enjoy!

"You've got to be kidding me."

"I'm dead serious."

"No. Uh-uh. Absolutely not."

Dean stared at his brother in horror as Sam wrenched open the back door of the Impala with one hand, using the other one to keep Dean semi-upright. The younger Winchester panted under his brother's considerable weight.

"Man, your back must be killing you. There's no way you're driving." Sam carefully shoved Dean towards the car.

"I'm okay to drive, just toss me the keys," Dean protested. He was fine as long he was in the driver's seat. That was where he belonged. He twisted in his brother's grip but stopped dead in his tracks when the movement caused yet another spike of pain in his back.

"Nope, can't do that," Sam said way too confidently, obviously having noticed Dean's pained shudder. "And I sure as hell don't want you whining all day because sitting shotgun is too uncomfortable."

"Dude, you won't even let me sit shotgun?!"

"Don't be a baby and stretch out in the back."

"Stop mothering me," Dean griped and shot his brother what he hoped would pass for a glare. But he couldn't be sure with all those black dots dancing in his field of vision. Maybe he wasn't okay to drive after all, but he'd never admit to that.

Sam huffed. "I wouldn't have to be mothering you if you weren't moving at the speed of a sloth." Another lukewarm glare in Sam's direction. "It's either this or an ambulance, your pick," he concluded.

Dean grunted in offense but didn't find it in himself to protest. Sam was exaggerating, of course. But he wasn't entirely wrong either, Dean internally conceded. He didn't need an ambulance, that much he knew, but maybe he did need some kind of medical attention, what with the excruciating jolts of pain in his back every time he so much as moved his pinky. But this was just lumbago, right? He was no young man after all. Well okay, technically he was, but he was pushing 30 which was almost 40 which kind of equaled 50 in hunter years. Cut him some slack.

Alright, maybe this wasn't entirely about his age. Or at all. Maybe it was about how their latest simple salt-and-burn had turned out to be less simple and more annoying. It had resulted in Dean getting casually smashed into a concrete wall by a vengeful spirit. Oh yeah, vengeful she had been. The brutal impact had knocked all the air out of his lungs and his vision had instantly whited out with the explosion of pain, rendering him completely and utterly useless.

Thanks to Sam's rational thinking, the ghost had been finished off quickly afterwards. Still, as far as Dean was concerned, it would have been nice if his brother had burned the remains about ten seconds earlier because then Dean wouldn't have to deal with the splitting pain in his back right now. If he didn't know better, he'd say his spine had been snapped in half by the way every single movement caused him agony he wouldn't wish upon anybody. The only good thing about all this was that, aside from some bruises, Sam had been left unscathed for once.

Thank goodness. That was a tiny miracle, considering Sam's lifelong streak of bad luck.

Since it was just Dean hurt this time, there was one less worry on his mind. Sam was fine. Which he was beyond grateful for, but it also meant that all of Dean's focus was directed at the maddening pain in his back. Just great. Okay, maybe he was whining a tiny bit. But the short trip from the cemetery to the Impala had already felt like a marathon of torture, only that Dean hadn't been running but crawling.

Need or no need, he really didn't want to see a doctor. Neither was he interested in being at the mercy of his brother's erratic driving, usually targeting all the potholes he could find. This was Dean's car after all. His ride, his rules. So, it was his call who was driving, naturally. Plus, the mere thought of being sidelined to sit in the back where—

"Ow!"

Dean's train of thoughts was abruptly cut off by another white-hot stab to his back when his boot bumped against the Impala's tire. He hissed, almost tempted to curl himself into a ball on the floor to ease the pain, except that would just multiply his agony. So, he just squirmed, then held still, shallowly breathing and squeezing his eyes shut. He vaguely realized Sam's grip on his arm tightening.

"Dean?" a familiar voice filled with concern rang out right next to his ear.

"Hmm?"

"You okay?"

Damn. He hated hearing the sorrow in his brother's voice, hated making him worry. No way was he going to increase Sam's worrying by admitting how bad the pain was. That meant no medical professionals whatsoever. He just needed a good night's rest and a buttload of ibuprofen and he'd be as good as new. But truth be told, right now, he wouldn't be driving in his condition.

Sitting in the back of the car suddenly seemed like the lesser of many evils.

"Fine," Dean muttered breathlessly, grudgingly accepting defeat for what it was. "It's just … bruises."

He was fine. Totally fine. Nothing was broken, he was sure of that, and that would have to do.

"Uh-huh." Sam didn't seem convinced but didn't press.

Dean, still standing but hunched like a ninety-year-old man, opened his eyes to a suspiciously blurry version of the Impala's backseat. The black leather bench seat was spacious enough to give him a chance to lie down. It really would be more comfortable than sitting in front. So, yeah, to any other person, the backseat might have looked inviting. And if this was just about his pride, he might have caved in happily. To Dean though, the sight of the backseat suddenly awakened memories he'd unsuccessfully tried to erase from his brain for months now.

And now he remembered vividly why he did so not want to sit in the back under any circumstances.

Sam. Dead. Cradled in Dean's arms in the backseat of the Impala.

Cold Oak.

He blinked, gulping down a lump that had just magically appeared in his throat. Even in that gloomy night, the darkest of his entire life, he'd known right then and there that the image of his brother's corpse in the Impala would haunt him for the rest of his life. But he hadn't seen any other option. No way in hell could he have left Sammy in that nightmare of a ghost town for even a minute longer. Carrying him to the Impala had seemed like the only thing that had made sense at the time.

And now here he was, harshly confronted with that night again. A chill ran down his spine.

Damnit. In secret, he'd sworn to himself that he'd never let Sam sit in the back ever again. Until now, he hadn't consciously thought about what this might do to himself. He'd just avoided the entire issue. He'd never even admitted to himself that there was an issue. But now denial was no longer an option. His current injury wasn't life-threatening or any more serious than their usual after-hunt-messes, but it was painful enough for him to be forced to sit in the back of the car. Which he now knew with absolute certainty was unacceptable.

"Is that really necessary?" Dean quietly complained again when Sam maneuvered him another agonizing inch towards the backseat.

His eyes flicked to the side, meeting his brother's assessing gaze. He wanted to protest some more, maybe even plead to be allowed to sit somewhere else, anywhere, he'd even take the trunk at this point. But damn, he could barely move. His entire back was sore and even his limbs felt so stiff that bending down seemed impossible. Even if he'd never admit to it, he was only on his feet now because Sam was holding on for dear life.

There was no way around it. Dean was going to sit in the back of the car.

Crap.

But there was no reason to tell Sam about how much he hated the idea, how much he was freaked out right now. Terrified. He held his breath, careful not to let his rising anxiety show too much.

"Yes, it is necessary." Sam's eyes softened as he adjusted his strong but gentle grip on Dean's shoulder. His expression was more than a little worried, but there was also warmth and sympathy in those hazel orbs. "Listen, I know you don't like this."

The petulant child he was, Dean muttered, "You're damn right I don't."

You just don't know the true reason.

Sam smiled quickly, something dark flashing in his eyes for a split-second. It was gone before Dean could wrap his head around the mystery that was his brother's gaze.

Huh, maybe you do know.

"Dean, it's only for half an hour tops. I'm gonna get you some pain meds, then we'll head straight back to the motel. You'll survive thirty minutes in the back of the car, won't you?"

"This is humiliating."

"You'll live."

Dean tried for a snort but utterly failed. "Depends on your driving. You always tend to—"

"Okay, that's it, grandpa. Get in," Sam ordered with a chuckle.

The younger man grunted as he carefully pushed Dean another inch forward, then let go of the door to support his brother's back while gently guiding him down to the seat.

Dean didn't notice any of that though because he was busy breathing through the nausea settling in his stomach at the movement. Pain spiked through his entire body like a razor blade chafing his raw nerves. He wasn't sure if a scream had just been pushed from his lips or if it was just in his head. How could he scream if it felt like there was no more oxygen left in his lungs to even breathe? On top of that, his head was suddenly stuffed with surprisingly noisy wool. A shrill ringing reached his ears as darkness descended.

00000

An all too familiar sound filtered into his awareness. Shreds of words drifted in and out. A faint voice blended in with the annoying high-pitched sound until it superseded it, bit by bit ending the unpleasant queasiness in his head.

"—ean, you with me?"

Sam. Sam was talking to him, probably had been for a while, from a few feet away – or a mile, it was hard to tell with all that mush in his brain. And there was something else, a quiet rumble, a kind of vibrating, soothing sound—

"'mpala?" Dean asked in confusion, surprised by how raw his voice sounded.

It did sound like her running engine. And it also kind of smelled like the Impala, like leather and gun powder and something else that seemed familiar but that he somehow couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Yeah, where else would we be? Did you smack your head back there?"

"No," Dean grumbled in annoyance but wasn't quite sure if he had. He'd definitely smacked something if the throbbing in his back was any indication. Oh yeah, it was definitely his back.

He focused on his surroundings again, his thoughts too hazy to figure out what was wrong here. Because something was wrong. It looked like—that's when he noticed he didn't see a damn thing. When exactly he had closed his eyes, he had no idea, and that fact was more than a little irritating. He lifted his heavy lids, blinking against the considerable brightness of the scenery … overhead? Gears were turning in his head until realization dawned. Vengeful spirit. Concrete wall and an explosion of pain. Crawling back to the Impala. That about summed it up.

And now he was half lying down on his aching back, half sitting – propped up on something soft and comfy – legs drawn up because the Impala had apparently shrunk a size or two since he was a kid. Bleary eyes were staring at the ceiling of the car.

And yes, he was sprawled out on the backseat.

Oh shit. Sam had shoved him into the car and had draped a shockingly heavy blanket over him. Even without consciously thinking about why this was important to him, he realized that there was no way to escape. He was trapped in the small space of the car with nothing but silence and a weight on his chest. His heart sped up a notch, his mind reeling. The walls suddenly seemed to be closing in on him and—

"You okay back there?"

No!

"Yes."

Dean exhaled shakily, his gaze flickering to the source of the somewhat comforting voice. He blinked against the dizziness – which, by the way, was annoying and unnecessary, he was already lying down for Christ's sake – slowly focusing on the familiar form sitting in the driver's seat. Sam quickly glanced over his shoulder, his eyes bright and his smile brief. Despite his vision still being a little fuzzy around the edges, Dean recognized the expression as an all too familiar mix of relief and worry. The only part of Sam he could see, his head, then turned to the road again.

"We've been on the road a while, won't be for much longer," Sam said.

"Huh? How?" Dean asked, swallowing hard.

Oh no, he must have lost some time. After a crappy hunt, they had been standing next to the Impala like five seconds ago, right? Or maybe it had been five minutes? What if it was hours? Losing track of time was scarier right now than he'd ever admit. Losing time was like back when—

Sam sighed. "You fainted on me."

Now that was kind of a relief. Yet, Dean almost sat up in protest but reminded himself at the last second that it wouldn't be one of his best ideas. His current position was at least kind of comfortable, if not entirely pain-free, and he wasn't keen on reliving another agonizing spike of pain. So, instead, he held still and tried to at least sound offended when he said, "What? I didn't—"

"Yes Dean, you did. You can stop acting tough," Sam interjected softly.

His brother was just taking an awfully slow right turn, chancing a quick peek at Dean again, in this fraction of a second conveying everything Dean dreaded. Sam looked concerned as hell. He was so worried about causing his brother even more pain that he was driving like a grandma which, for once, Dean was secretly totally fine with.

"How're you feeling?" Sam asked.

Dean managed a humorless chuckle. "Just peachy."

"Yeah, that's what I thought." His brother turned his attention to the road ahead again.

Silence fell as Sam kept driving and Dean kept trying to get a grip on himself. The pain in his back was nauseating. Little did Sam know that, at this moment, Dean's pain wasn't only of a physical nature.

Because being cramped in this place again, a string of agonizing moments he'd tried to drown came rushing back at full tilt. They penetrated the utter silence, raining down on him almost like the drizzle had that cold night in May. The memories of the night Sam hadn't looked at him like he had just now slammed into him. Sam hadn't looked at him at all because his eyes had no longer been seeing.

That fateful night he'd called Sam's name only to be met with deadly silence.

And suddenly it felt like the meant-to-be warming blanket was strangling him. Dean desperately tried to get his breathing in check that was currently spinning out of control. He heard his own thumping heartbeat echoing in his head, and he felt it hammering underneath his ribs. Too fast, too frantic, mercilessly pushing a massive amount of adrenaline through his veins. It burned through him, easily bypassing the pain in his back, creating goosebumps all over his body.

Fuzzy images flashed before his eyes. Of mud, of darkness, of ashen skin. Smells of rain and blood mingled with the phantom sensation of gravity pulling him down. He remembered the massive weight on his shoulders, and the same weight later pressed against his chest. He remembered the sense of helplessness, the crushing terror. He remembered the feeling of grief and emptiness, and of loneliness, so vividly that it hurt on a level much worse than his back hurt right now.

He remembered Sam's deadweight in his arms.

And wasn't it ironic that he found himself in the backseat of the Impala – after all these months of trying to avoid exactly this – because he had a back injury?

Dean was unable to quell a gasp of pain as he hastily pushed the blanket away from him until it crumpled to the footwell. The stabs to his back were overwhelming, and he dropped back into the seat like a sack of potatoes, groaning. And sure enough that was the exact moment he found Sam staring back at him again, worry and anxiety written all over his face.

"Dean?" his brother's weirdly distorted voice reached him.

Dean glanced back, panting, and trying to come up with a distraction or something to say. But the sudden surge of near panic robbed him of his ability to breathe, and he felt hot and cold and heavy and light at the same time. To be precise, he felt like throwing up. It was an all too familiar sensation. But he bravely held his brother's gaze, not even aware of the gray veil slowly tarnishing his vision, until Sam turned his attention to the traffic again.

"You want me to stop?"

Dean thought about it for a second, internally fighting against the panic still threatening to suffocate him. Then he gritted his teeth. "No."

Sam didn't say anything for a moment, seemingly pondering whether he should go along with his brother's stubbornness or not. Because there was no way he hadn't seen the terror in Dean's eyes. After a while, Dean caught Sam's shoulders slumping out of the corner of his eye. "Alright, well, it's only a few more minutes to the motel. Try not to zone out on me again, okay?" Sam's question sounded muffled in the stiff air.

Yet, another question remained unasked – What the hell is wrong with you? – but maybe Sam didn't need to ask what he already knew.

Dean closed his eyes, purposefully slowing his breathing. "I won't."

Well, he wasn't planning to. But the memory of how his little brother had died in his arms still clung to his mind, turning his stomach. God, why was this bothering him so much? At this moment, Sam was alive, he was healthy and breathing, and they were ok. Sam was sitting in the driver's seat, not back here with him, too still, too quiet. And yet Dean was on the verge of a meltdown because his body was back in the place where he'd held his brother's corpse, and his mind was back in Cold Oak.

"You don't want to see a doctor, I get it," Sam quietly spoke up again, disrupting Dean's spiraling thoughts. "But I know you're hurting. Let me help you, okay? You've got to take better care of yourself, man. You only have—"

A few months left.

Sam didn't dare finish the sentence. Dean couldn't blame him.

"I know," was all he said.

Dean had clearly heard the fear, the grief, the accusation. Even without opening his eyes and glancing at the backrest of the driver's seat Dean could picture his brother's tense shoulders. His own stupid, selfish deal would be due much too soon. The deal he'd made because of that one gut-wrenching night Sam had died in his arms. The memory had been seared into his brain as a wound that would never entirely heal.

Bringing Sam back had been the only way to get that image out of his head, temporarily, at least.

He'd do it again, in a heartbeat, even if it meant that Dean would be swapping places with his brother, rotting in the ground – or rather in hell. There was no shred of doubt in his mind. Keeping Sam safe was his responsibility after all, his job. Seeing him die before his own eyes had felt like drowning alive, like Dean himself was dying. He hadn't been able to protect his little brother, a failure he would never forgive himself for.

But he had saved him. And that's what mattered in the end.

So, no. He didn't regret his deal, not at all. But he did regret that Sam would be left behind to grieve his stupid, selfish big brother. Sam would be all alone in the world. He would be the only Winchester left. And Dean had done this to him.

Dean's mouth went dry, suddenly overwhelmed by the consequences of his choice he'd tried hard not to think too closely about. But inside he'd already known. By making that demon deal, he had condemned his little brother to the same cruel fate Dean himself had been forced to bear – a life without his brother. A life without each other.

Something pricked at Dean's eyes, so he just squeezed them harder. His breathing accelerated in tune with his heartbeat, and his insides cramped painfully. Again, he wanted out of this car, out of the backseat, right freaking now.

Then again, maybe this, feeling the guilt weighing down on him, was his punishment for being so goddamn selfish in the first place. As if going to hell wasn't enough of a judgement from above. Below. Whatever. Maybe he needed to suffer to make up for his sins. For what he'd done to Sam. For having hurt him.

But it was worth it. Every second of pain he'd suffer was alright with him if it meant that Sam was alive.

He couldn't have let Sam die, no frigging way. Yes, it was cruel to make his brother experience the same agony he had gone through. But at least this way Sam got to live, maybe build a life for himself someday, get married, have kids, everything he'd ever dreamed of. Sam living his life to the fullest, being alive and happy was all Dean had ever wanted. And because of his deal, Sammy now still had a chance at the normal he'd been craving for so long.

Despite his body feeling like it was filled with lead, his head so heavy it almost seemed to crush the pillow underneath, Dean felt warmth wash over him.

He'd made the right decision.

Dean opened his mouth to say something, anything that would make this better on Sam, but closed it again when he found he didn't know anything to say. No apology would make anything better. He knew that Sam was still hellbent on finding a way out of the deal. But Dean had resigned himself to his fate, knowing full well his brother was safe only as long as Dean kept his word – which meant no weaseling out. So, he just lay there on the backseat of the Impala, feeling miserable for so many reasons.

"And I …" Sam thankfully spoke up again at this moment. His voice was shaky, and he didn't seem to get very far with that whole talk-thing either. After a long minute of silence, he apparently settled on ignoring the subject of Dean's upcoming trip to hell for now – thank goodness – telling his brother, "Well, if I had your back injury, I probably would have puked all over the seat by now. I'm glad you just blacked out. Spared you some pain. Also made it easier to get your stubborn ass into the car."

An unexpected rush of relief flooded Dean's chest at his brother's light banter. And honestly, the nasty thought of vomit on his precious car's seats helped him to distance himself a tiny bit from the still simmering panic of currently being in exactly this place. His voice a tad bit less confident than he would have preferred, he muttered, "Don't you ever dare to hurl in my baby. I swear I'll kill you."

Dean couldn't see but kind of feel Sam's posture relax a bit, a brief chuckle filling the air. It was a comforting sound. Yet, the older brother couldn't help but cringe at his own idle threat. Nice choice of words, idiot.

And that brought him right back to involuntarily focusing on something other than vomit soiling the Impala's upholstery. Namely the deep red stains he'd scrubbed out of her only a few months ago.

Sam's blood.

Dean sucked in a shuddering breath, his heart again almost punching through his chest. He was trying to think of anything but Sam's blood. Anything but the utter silence he'd endured that night. Anything but how his heart, soul and mind had shattered into a million pieces while he'd held his dead brother in his arms in the backseat of the Impala.

"You alright?" Sam's quiet voice startled him.

Again, no!

Again, "Yes."

Dean cleared his throat, willing his heartbeat to calm down. He didn't open his eyes though, too afraid he would be seeing nothing but red if he looked at the interior of the Impala right now.

"It's just …" Dean croaked out, releasing a slow breath. Thank God he had the back injury as an excuse to how miserable he was feeling. He hoped Sam would buy that it was just this. "Had a fleeting memory of when you were five and you could no longer hold in the contents of your stomach on that trip through … Ohio, was it?" he lied, even though the thought now did make him relax to a degree. "Dad was so pissed."

Sam didn't seem to notice Dean's lingering discomfort, or he expertly mastered to pretend he didn't which Dean was glad about. His little brother snorted. It was another one of those tiny sounds that managed to ease some of the pain in Dean's heart.

"Yeah, he was. But dude, you're the one who's been drooling on the leather for the past twenty minutes."

That annoying comment almost made him smile. "I'm just copying you," Dean quipped, then frowned. "We've been in the car for that long?"

He carefully opened his eyes again, bracing himself for a horrible sight. Huh. No red, just black leather seats and the gray material of the ceiling. His heartbeat slowed down a notch as he pushed his head upwards an inch, holding his breath so the pain wouldn't be so bad. It still hurt massively anyway.

"Yeah," Sam confirmed.

And suddenly, faint tunes of a song he knew by heart reached his ears. Sam must have just fumbled with the radio. The music grew a bit louder, just loud enough for Dean to hear the lyrics but not loud enough to aggravate his aches.

"Metallica?" he mumbled, the familiar soundtrack tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"You want me to turn it down?"

"No," came the instant reply. Music was good. Anything but stifling quietness was. He listened to the song and turned his head to see the back of his brother's head. The sight of the overgrown strands was oddly reassuring.

Sam hesitated only for a second, then said, "Thought you'd like some music. But you've been out like a light earlier. Didn't want to disturb your beauty sleep."

"Shut up," Dean growled, the tightness in his chest easing some more.

His brother huffed, the messy locks bouncing up and down in tune with his amusement. "Feeling crabby, huh? Well, you might like to hear that I already drove by a minimart and got you some things."

Dean raised an eyebrow even if his brother currently couldn't see his expression. Okay then, he must have been really out to not have noticed Sam had stopped the car for a grocery store trip. "I hope you got me the good stuff," he said.

There was a moment of silence. Even the music had died down in between songs at this very moment. For the fraction of a second, Dean wanted to crawl out of his skin but tried to calm his anxiety by gluing his eyes to a particularly rebellious flick of Sam's hair.

"Yeah, well, without hauling you to a doctor the best I could do was Tylenol," Sam thankfully filled the devastating quietness again. Just hearing his slightly rebuking tone was music to Dean's ears. Anything coming out of Sam's mouth that wasn't a death cry was, actually.

Sam's head slightly turned in his direction again. "But there's some other good stuff in there."

Dean heard some rustling before a brown paper bag appeared in his field of vision. Sam carefully tossed it in his lap, then turned towards the windshield again. And suddenly, the so familiar smell Dean hadn't quite been able to place earlier grew stronger. Just like that, his chest warmed, and his heartbeat slowed down to an almost normal rhythm.

He stared at the miraculous paper bag for what felt like twenty hours but was just a few seconds.

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When the pieces finally clicked, the ghost of a smile cast over Dean's lips. How the hell hadn't he immediately noticed what the smell was? Well, he really must have been more exhausted than he thought. Even so, now he was instantly sobered up. He peeked into the paper bag to confirm what he'd figured out by now.

"You got me fries?"

Sam laughed. "Yeah. Curly, the way you like them."

Dean's smile grew wide, yet his insides lurched uncomfortably. "Uh … I'm not really sure I can stomach them right now," he admitted.

In a way, he was kind of disappointed – hell, he expected Sam to be disappointed. His little brother was doing everything he could to make him feel better, he played Metallica and he even got him those stupid curly fries he loved, and Dean couldn't even fully appreciate the small gesture. But instead, Sam surprised him by saying matter-of-factly, "I know. But you still have a thing for the smell, don't you?"

Yeah, he did. Dean nodded.

What would have been lavender, coconut, vanilla, or some other kind of crap for other people, was fries, burgers, and bacon for Dean. Smells that calmed him. He'd known them all his life as constant companions on long drives. He did dig the smell of greasy junk food, yes. And that's one of the things that had been starkly absent the night Sam had died. Just like there hadn't been any music or chatter, he'd also sorely missed the smell of food usually accompanying their road trips. He'd missed sitting in the driver's seat. He'd missed his little brother's laughter.

But that night, everything had been different. Everything had been wrong.

And apparently – Dean had no clue how – Sam was aware of those details that had been off that night. Or maybe Sam just knew his brother better than anyone in the entire world. Because the smell of cheap, greasy diner – or in this case, gas mart – food was just as nauseating as the pain in his back was, and yet, it soothed Dean in a way not much else could. This was the Impala's signature odor, the scent of his life.

"They didn't have burgers, but there's some coffee in there, too," Sam added, slightly turning up the volume of the music. Now it was Zeppelin instead of Metallica which was just as well.

Dean smiled to himself, tempted to hum along. Instead, he breathed in a bouquet of leather and gun powder, and the sweet fragrances of greasy fries, and coffee. This was heaven. And it was then that Dean almost forgot about the crimson stains he'd scrubbed out of the backseat. He almost forgot about the phantom weight on his shoulders He almost forgot about the devastating quietness ringing in his ears that fateful night.

Almost.

He would never ever forget how everything had fallen apart inside him. He would never forget the crushing feeling of despair. But this, the Impala – filled with Sam's laughter and the sounds of classic rock, accompanied by the smells of greasy food and caffeine – that was home.

Dean breathed deeply, soaking up the warm comfort all these little details were providing.

And once again he found himself wondering. Sam couldn't possibly know how Dean had been feeling about sitting in the back again. He hadn't exactly been aware when the trauma of his death had been inflicted on Dean, and the older Winchester had never filled him in. Why would he? And yet, Sam just seemed to know. Or feel. He knew what was going through his brother's mind, how Dean had been on the verge of a panic attack just a few minutes ago. And he also knew exactly what to do about this.

Oddly, it totally worked. By now, all the anxiety-inducing adrenaline had fizzled out of Dean's system.

Instead, Dean felt pride, and joy, and actual happiness well up inside him. As well as he knew Sam like the inside of his pocket, so did Sam know him. Well, more than two decades of brotherhood, living side by side, could do that to a person.

A smile was now firmly plastered on Dean's face, and it even widened to a grin when he rifled through the contents of the paper bag. Apart from fries, coffee, and a bottle of surprisingly highly dosed Tylenol, he found a small plastic box filled with ...

His face flushed with childish glee and honest gratefulness, he craned his neck a tiny bit to get a better look at the auburn mop of hair behind the wheel. "Sammy, you got me pie? You didn't have to—"

Sam turned around for a second, shooting his brother a grin. "Yeah, I know. But I thought you'd like some for when you're feeling up to eating again." Dean beamed at his brother and opened his mouth, but Sam was faster as he said, "Don't mention it."

And he didn't. It was right there on his tongue though. Thank you. Thank you for everything.

As his brother turned away again, Dean relaxed into the seat, cradling his bag full of treats. All the tension he'd held drained out of him with a swoosh. They were okay, at least for now. He pushed the thoughts of his own demise far away, trying to relish the fact that they were both here, in this moment. Sam and Dean were both alive, together, in the Impala. And as he looked around in the car again, Dean finally saw past the pain and misery he'd experienced here. From his position on the backseat, he could see the initials they had carved into the rear shelf an eternity ago, and the plastic soldier that had accidentally gotten stuck in the ashtray when they were kids. He recognized all the little details that made the Impala his home, their home. And most importantly, he saw Sam, alive and breathing and laughing.

Even though silence then settled over them, it was a companionable one, accompanied by the faint sounds of Dean's favorite music and a familiar homely atmosphere. It was not the heart-shatteringly quiet trip that had been seared into Dean's brain as the worst night of his life. No, it felt normal.

The rest of the short drive to the motel was spent in silence. Dean closed his eyes at some point, fully focusing on the calming sounds and smells. His clumsy fingers subconsciously stroked first the paper bag, then the warm leather under his hands. He was good. He was fine. And when they finally arrived at their destination, Dean actually wasn't hurting so bad anymore.

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"Come on," he heard his brother's voice, and was surprised it came from somewhere behind him. Huh, maybe he'd fallen asleep again.

At this moment, Sam was out of the car and had already opened the back door, now tugging at his brother's shirt. "Hey, I know you want to take a nap, just hang on another minute, okay?"

Dean just nodded and let Sam do all the work. After another not quite pain free thirty seconds of getting pulled out of the car, he was clutched in his brother's grasp, breathless but standing, more or less.

"Our gear," Dean panted.

"Don't worry, I'll get it once you're knocked out on painkillers."

Oh yes. Medication-induced oblivion sounded won-der-ful.

Sam then gripped Dean's arm gently with one hand, snatching the paper bag filled with heavenly goodies with the other and, as if he had more hands than Dean knew about, somehow also managed to slam the door shut. Another second later, the car was locked. Dean kind of hated to be so useless and witness his brother casually doing a zillion things at once, but he was grateful all the same.

"You good to go?" Sam asked.

Dean breathed deeply, the knuckles of his free hand rubbing across his lower back while digging the other hand into the supportive pillar that was Sam's shoulder. He blinked a few times to clear the cobwebs, then glanced back at the backseat of the car that was now only partially visible through the window.

The space looked innocuous enough. Normal, the way he remembered it from before. He tried to burn that peaceful image into his mind, turning away from the Impala.

"Yeah. Yeah, I am."

Dean met Sam's gaze, smiling. As annoying as his pain-in-the-ass little brother sometimes was, he could be pretty awesome as well. His chest warmed and his heart fluttered at how lucky he was to have him.

"And thank you for … just thanks," he said, smirking.

Sam's face lit up with a smile. At this moment, Sam knew he'd helped his brother in more than one way, Dean could tell. No more words were exchanged.

Then the brothers slowly made their way to their motel room, not looking back once. Dean would never be okay with Sam's death, and he would never get over his utter devastation he'd felt that night. But maybe he could finally make his peace with the place he'd held his brother in. As long as Sam was with him, breathing and laughing and living, he could accept all of the Impala as their home again.

Tonight, Dean left behind not only the car, but the bloody memories tied to it.

The end.

AN: Thank you for reading! To me, this was actually kind of fun to write despite the painful themes. Hope you liked this too. What do you think? Drop me a note.