Author Note: It wasn't my turn, but I couldn't help myself. Also, is anyone else as excited about this season as I am?

Callback

Sam feels kind of like a kid again.

Alone and hunched over on a bench, waiting to catch sight of the Impala. School bells long past rung.

Gimme 20, had been the last text he'd received from his brother. Sam wants to give him shit about texting and driving, but then again, Dean can do just about anything and drive. And maybe he's not in a position to be giving Dean shit about much.

As always, he hears her before he sees her.

The rumble of the engine is a familiar and overdue comfort, like bundling up in a dryer-warm blanket, and the glint of chrome as the Impala turns the corner is a sight for Sam's sore eyes.

And, damn, is he sore.

As she coasts to a stop at the curb, Dean hooks a wrist atop the steering wheel and leans forward to peer up at Sam through the open window. "You look like crap, little brother," he says by way of greeting, looking almost amused, with a tired smile tugging at his lips. Like it wasn't his hands that made these marks.

Might've been his hands but it wasn't HIM, and that's what makes it so easy to smile back as Sam stoops to return the sentiment, bracing his hands on the door. "Right back atcha."

Dean's maybe not obviously physically wounded, but drawn and pale in a way that screams of exhaustion, of marks and bruises that aren't so easy to see. So much so that Sam should really feel more hesitation about dropping onto the passenger side and allowing him to remain behind the wheel. But Sam himself can barely stand without wobbling and his brother's tolerance for pain and stress is near superhuman levels. Where others will hit the wall, Dean laughs and plows through with half a tank left.

Dean raises his eyebrows and glances around the otherwise empty street. "So, you wanna get in the car, or..."

Sam doesn't bother going around to the trunk, just tosses the weapons bag onto the back seat. He drops into the car and takes a moment to settle on the bench, kicking aside a few empty Styrofoam to-go cups on the floorboards.

"So," Dean says again, pointing the car the way out of town. "Fire and holy oil?"

Sam nods, breathes a, hopefully, nonchalant sigh. "Yeah."

"What made you think to try that?"

"I corralled one of the infected who wasn't all the way gone yet. Guy kept babbling about being unclean, like, biblically. Gave it a shot looking into purification rituals." He hopes it comes out as easy as he aims for. If there's one person he can't lie to, it's his big brother.

"Same stuff that traps angels?" Dean asks, ever the skeptic.

"Yeah, I know. But I saved about a dozen people, so I figured this wasn't one I was gonna look in the mouth, you know?"

The tired smile is back, pulling at Dean's upper lip. "First half of the bumper sticker, right?"

Sam smiles. "You're damn right." There isn't any part of his body that isn't demanding attention, and he squirms against the stiff leather. "What about you? What about the baby?"

He can't quite cobble together the words to describe the look that crosses Dean's face. "Yeah, I don't have such an easy explanation for that one."

There's nothing easy about Sam's explanation for the cure, in truth or in words, but Dean looks like just enough crap that he keeps his mouth shut. Whatever this Darkness is or wants or plans, this is just the beginning, and they need to work together. Like old times. Sam sees no benefit in pushing and prying and driving his brother away again.

"Man," he says, instead of asking for clarification, "I want to eat, sleep and take a shower, and for the life of me I can't figure out which needs to come first."

"Oh. Right." Without taking his eyes off of the road, Dean raises up off of the seat and throws his right hand over the high back of the bench. When he pulls his arm back, there's a greasy paper bag in his hand. He drops it without ceremony into Sam's lap.

Sam stares down at the delicious-smelling offering before turning his wide eyes to his brother. "You...got me breakfast?"

"I'm not sayin' its five-star quality or anything. Or even hot. Had to pick it up a few towns back, cause of the..." Dean waves his hand around his head in general acknowledgement and description of the Darkness-infected town. He notices Sam staring at him, frowns. "What?"

"Nothin'." Sam shakes his head, goes to work digging out one of three barely-warm breakfast sandwiches. "It's just...been a hell of a long time since you treated me like your little brother."

"Oh, God," Dean groans. "Are we gonna hug?"

Sam chuffs out a laugh. "No, we're good. I'm just saying."

"Okay, good. Because, dude, you smell like a toilet."

"Speak for yourself, man," Sam says around a mouthful of lukewarm sausage and doughy biscuit.

Dean looks comically offended for just a moment, then drops his head to sniff his own ripe-smelling shirt. "Yeah," he concedes with a grimace. "Showers it is."

Sam laughs, takes another bite of his first sandwich. "S'only gonna be an hour to get home, and the windows're down, man. Just drive."

And now it's Sam's turn to raise an eyebrow as he catches Dean staring. "What?"

"Nothin.'" Dean shakes his head slowly, and it's weird, seeing him smile this often. "S'just the first time you've called the bunker home."

"Well," Sam says, taking long enough a pause to convince himself it wasn't just the exhaustion talking. "It is." His head dips down as he chews, taking in the discarded cups at his feet in a new light. "Was there coffee?"

Dean shifts guiltily on the seat, wrinkles his nose. "There was."

If you want to know what happens after they get home to the bunker, check out "Two-Point-Zero" by BlueRiverSteel.