A/N: As promised, here be schmoop. By the bucketload. There may even be a few chich-flicks ahead, so watch your step... Huge thanks to my beta's, Catzeye and RoweenaC who caught more typos, tense changes and just plain bad english than I care to remember, to all the people who put this story on alert – your silent lurking has made this all worth while. And of course, hugest thanks to Swellison who ordered up this little jaunt in the first place!
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He leant against the window, stared through his reflection at the sagging trees on the other side of the small park, bare branches dripping in the rain.
"Sam?"
"Yeah."
He didn't move as he answered her, felt his voice catch in his throat, raw from talking for so long.
She deserved more than his silence, deserved some further acknowledgement, maybe a resolution drawn from thin air. Instead, he blinked, saw the afterimage of his brother burned into his mind, pale and scared and young in the bed, one hand locked around the rails, the other clutching the amulet he wouldn't let them take off.
"Sam, I'm sorry."
He smiled at that, weakly, bitterly.
"Nothin' else you can do, Amanda."
"I know. Still. I wish I could help."
"Yeah. Thanks."
He watched the doctor go in the glass, tried to feel grateful.
Just felt tired.
Sighing, Sam pushed away from the wall, trod the familiar path back to the small room at the back of the clinic. His shoulders rounded as he leant against the door frame, too worn, too weary to bear his own weight. He couldn't stop his lips twitching up in a frayed smile as he peered into the room; saw his brother curled on the bed, face unlined and peaceful under the marks of tears as he slept. The younger man rolled his shoulder across the scratched, chipped paint of the frame, shuffled to the chair drawn up by the wall beside the bed and dropped into it. The cushions were moulded to him by now but it was still hard and uncomfortable, a little too short and a lot too far away from his brother but he didn't dare scoot nearer.
He rubbed a hand ruefully over the bruise on his hip from the last time he'd tried to do just that and Dean had woken up fighting with every weapon he had, including the bulky cast enveloping his left leg from toes to kneecap.
Propping his elbows on his knees, resting his head in his hands, Sam just breathed, listened to his brother doing the same. It felt oddly lonely when he'd first realised that Dean had stopped the faint snore that he'd woken to so often in the last eighteen months, a thin whistling sniff, and he missed it acutely.
"Dammit, Dean," he whispered into his fingers, ground shaking hands into his eyes.
"Where's my Dad?"
His brother's voice was ragged, torn apart by grief and Sam choked on hysteria, looked up after a moment to meet thin slits of bloodshot, empty hazel. He shook his head, wanted to reach out but Dean still held himself rigid, wary.
"I don't know how to do this, man," Sam murmured, saw confusion cloud the grief for just a heartbeat before it turned to iron again. Dean glared at him, rolled over and hunched his shoulders up under the thin blankets, burrowing down into them. The younger man reached out, skimmed a hand an inch above his brother's trembling shoulder, then let it drop without ever making contact.
"I'll be out front with doctor Lee, Dean. Alright?"
He thought maybe Dean nodded, wondered if his brother even heard him and turned, walked out of the stifling room again. He found the doctor slouched wearily in front of a microscope, blinked away the memory of leaning against a counter and the bemusement and euphoria he'd felt when she told him his blood was clean.
"Anything?" he asked, hitching himself up to perch on the edge of the table. She startled a little, pulled back from the microscope and rubbed a hand through her hair, shorter than it had been in Oregon.
"There's no sign of anything in his blood work. No toxins, no foreign substances. No sulphur." She looked sideways at him as she said that and he grinned lopsidedly, wearily.
"That's something."
The wheels on her chair squeaked as she rolled back to face him, eyes serious and dark. He had a sinking feeling, knew what was coming and tried to stall it.
"I wanted to say thanks again, Amanda."
She blinked at him, shrugged it off but he could see the edge of fear still running through her hands, remembered the shock of it in her eyes when he'd turned up on her doorstep in the middle of the night in a stolen car with his brother curled against him and almost oblivious with pain. They'd kept in touch since River Grove, just enough for him to know where to find her, not quite enough for her to be comfortable with two battered, broken hunters begging her for help. He hadn't taken the time to call her first, worried she might freak out if she'd had time and call the cops before they got there.
Their faces were still on the news now and then, Dean and Sam Winchester: jailbirds.
Throw in a reminder of a night he knew she'd just want to forget, and all he'd dared do was drive the four hours to Vinita, Dean hunched in the corner of the back seat, still crying out for Sammy. He'd waited until his brother slipped into a quiet, restless doze before calling Bobby, found him in Lexington, Kentucky, begging him to drive the roads around the town they'd been staying in, her taunt ringing in his ears. He'd rather roll that precious car of his right off a cliff than hit you.
Dean hadn't even responded to the hopeful lie that the Impala was safe, just drifted silently in the back seat, only whispering endlessly, so quietly Sam had to strain to hear him. Sam finally figured out as they crossed the state line with the sun rising behind them that in the last dream Meg had thrown him into, Dean had found his little brother too late.
By the time Dr. Lee had taken them into the clinic, x-rayed, reset and splinted his brother's leg and dosed him with morphine for the agony he was still riding from the poison, Dean was lucid again. He still didn't recognise Sam, just kept asking for John, kept grieving for Sammy.
Bobby's call, nearly seven hours after he'd promised to hit the road and find their home again, was a welcome distraction.
"Sam? I found her."
His stomach dropped right down to his boots and he couldn't find his voice.
"You there son?"
"Yeah. I… uh. Is it… she said he rolled over a cliff." he blurted it out in a rush, eyeing his brother from the doorway, wondering if Dean remembered even that. Bobby sighed, a soft huff down the line.
"Demons lie, Sam. You know that. That didn't even count as a hill. Car's on her roof, wedged in the trees but there's not much damage. Bit of bodywork, new windows, maybe a split radiator hose."
"So she's okay?" He didn't realise he'd borrowed his brother's usual pronoun for the car until Bobby snorted.
"Old girl'll be fine. I'll get her right side up, load her onto the flatbed and haul her back to the yard."
"Thanks, Bobby."
'Take care of him, and I'll fix her up, drop around to you boys. Won't take more than a day or two.'
When he'd told his brother that Bobby had the Impala, Dean had just looked blankly at him for a beat, went back to staring through the rear window of the Ford. The plastic sheeting over the opposite door flapped as Sam drove, the jury-rigged repairs to the slashed tyres shuddering through the steering wheel in his hands.
The only thing he noticed was the hollow gaze raking over the dark outside.
He'd forgotten this side of his brother, rarely seen, stubbornly shutting himself away in sleep, locking away the hurt, walling it up behind his anger at a world he didn't want to acknowledge.
Sam sighed, mirrored Amanda's gesture and scrubbed a hand through his hair, wincing as it caught in the tangled mass. He still kept finding scraps of leaf litter, hadn't dared leave his brother's side for more than the quickest of showers.
"You're welcome. Sam..."
Here it comes.
"You have to understand. There's nothing physically wrong with Dean. The poison's run its course and his leg will heal just fine. He just… he's like an amnesiac, I guess."
Sam snorted.
"Yeah, except what he does remember is screwed to hell."
"I don't pretend to have the faintest idea of what happened to him, of what that…" she trailed off, swallowed and spat the word out like it hurt - "demon did to him, but he might not be able to come back from this. There's nothing physical to heal to make him better, I don't have a magic wand to wave."
"He's getting better, Amanda. He has to."
He was sure of it, had to be. There'd been just enough glimpses of his brother through the confusion and desperate loneliness to let him hope. She just looked at him silently for a long moment, and Sam listened to his heart beat steadily in the quiet, wondering when it had gotten so hard to have faith that Dean would be fine.
"He has to," he breathed again, slipped off the counter and wandered back to his brother's side, feeling the emptiness beside him grow with every second he was away.
Sliding back into the hard, uncomfortable chair felt like coming home and finding everything had been moved while he was gone.
"Hey dude," he murmured, settled down with his boots propped on the bottom rung of the bed frame, slouching so his head was on a level with the middle of his brother's back. Dean stiffened at his voice, didn't answer and didn't turn, just stayed buried in the blankets. They sat there while Sam watched the shadows through the window shift and change, growing longer as the day turned. Absently, Dean reached down to scratch at the top of his cast, short nails scritching at the plaster until Sam tutted.
"Hey. Quit pickin' at that."
The other man stilled again but his shoulders were relaxed, the tight curve of his spine loose as he shifted in the bed, rolling half to his back, twisting his head to stare at the ceiling. Sam tipped his own head back until it rested on the top of the chair, an odd companionship in both of them taking in the cracked plaster.
"He isn't coming back, is he?"
Dean said it so quietly, Sam almost missed it. His throat dried, ached as he struggled to swallow against the betrayal in his brother's question.
"I'm sorry, Dean."
It was all he could say. Dean nodded slowly in the corner of his eye.
"What's goin' on?"
He wanted to laugh, wanted to cry, didn't know where to start.
"There was a demon. A year ago almost, we exorcised her, sent her back to hell. Six months ago, she possessed me until you and Bobby exorcised her again. This was… revenge, I guess."
"The only thing I give a rat's ass about is seeing you burn," Dean breathed and Sam's head snapped up.
"What? Dean, what did you say?"
Dean shrank back from him, lips clamped shut.
"Dean, what do you remember?"
He was up, leaning over the edge of the bed without quite knowing how he'd even gotten there, his hands fisting the blankets so tightly he thought they would tear. His brother shoved over on the bed, to the far side, away from him, and that hurt fiercely, bitterly, but he didn't care.
"Dean!"
"I don't know!"
"You remember it, you remember her don't you? Come on, Dean, think!"
"I don't –"
"You remember, you have to! What did she say to you?!"
He didn't realise he was shouting so loudly his voice cracked until his brother wailed back at him, almost screaming, "I don't know!" Sam flinched, stared horrified at Dean as he teetered on the edge of the bed, one fist up, shaking in front of his face, the other dragging at the sheets. "I don't know! I found where they took Sammy but it was just like before, he was dead again, just like in the house and with the Skinwalker and the Shtriga and I don't understand! I remember him dying, again and again and I remember saving him and I don't know which one's real!"
"Oh god," he breathed as his brother dissolved into helpless tears. "God, Dean." Sam reached out blindly, caught at his brother's arm as he started to tip over the edge of the mattress and tugged him back to the middle of the bed. Dean slumped into him, shaking with the sobs that tore through him, soaking Sam's shirt in moments. The younger man tucked his head down into his brother's hair, pulled him closer and just held on, finally understanding what had happened. All the close calls, all the near misses and the miracles and she'd twisted them up, turned them upside down and made his brother live through them again in some warped and tragic universe.
"Sam?"
He jerked his head around enough to see Amanda in the doorway, eyes wide, hair mussed from her rush.
"He's stuck," he murmured to her, guilt ragged in his confession. "He's stuck because he was in the middle of one of her nightmares when I stopped her, and now he can't wake up."
"What? Sam, you're not making sense."
He blinked, felt his brother's hair scratch against his jaw as he tried to gather himself, to understand.
"You said there was a hallucinogen in whatever it was she gave him, right?"
"Yes. It was about the only thing I did recognise."
"She must've…" He trailed off, putting it together in his head as he tried to make sense of the confused morass of jumbled memories and delirium. "She must've worked a spell, maybe? So she could control what he saw. Used my memories from when she possessed me in Texas, and then changed them so I died. He kept seeing me die, over and over." He was talking more to himself now, working it out slowly, putting the fractured jigsaw together and not liking the picture he found at all. "When I got into the cabin she was touching his head, like she needed contact to control the dreams? I shot her away from him but it didn't stop. He got stuck in it. Oh god, Dean. I'm sorry."
Vaguely, he saw Amanda shake her head in disbelief and leave, hugging herself. All he really knew was his brother, shattering to pieces against him.
He held on for hours.
Slowly became aware that Dean wasn't crying anymore, hadn't been for some time. His fists were still tangled in Sam's shirt, his head still tucked under Sam's chin but he was still, drained. Easing out from under Dean, he scooted his brother back on the bed, propping one hip against it when Dean stirred and twisted his handfuls of shirt tighter.
"I'm here, man. I'm right here."
"Don' go."
It was sleepy, slurred and it choked him up completely.
"I'm not going anywhere Dean. I promise."
"Leavin' me. Keep leavin'."
Peering at his brother's face while he waited for the lump in his throat to break up, Sam wondered if Dean was even awake at all.
"Not this time," he soothed when he found his voice again. "I'm staying right here."
Dean sighed, hands slipping free of Sam's shirt to rest loosely on the pillow. Sam closed his eyes for a moment, stared at the dark and leant against the bed, weary, but the rage that had been boiling inside him since he'd figured out what Meg had done now faded to a dull simmer. Opening his eyes again, he watched his brother sleep, casted leg propped awkwardly against his good one, shoulders twisted the other way.
"How do you even sleep like that, man?"
It wasn't exactly a new question, weighted with old familiarity he'd almost forgotten at Stanford, thin humour between himself and John whenever they'd found Dean jammed into a corner somewhere even a contortionist would think twice about, sleeping peacefully. Yawning, Sam wobbled over to his chair, sank into it with a groan and this time it didn't feel strange to scoot the chair closer, lift heavy boots to the end of the mattress and rest one elbow on the bed, just brushing his brother's hand. It felt like home.
He buttressed his aching head with his free hand, blinked slowly at Dean as he slept, only the slow rise and fall of his chest giving away any sign of life, tracks drying to nothing on his cheeks. Sleepily, Sam noticed that his brother's freckles stood out more now, the way they had when they were kids and wondered if the dream (his brother) that Dean was trapped in really had the power to change him physically.
He's just pale, dumbass.
He frowned a little at the voice that sounded way too much like Caleb for comfort, let himself doze, waking every time Dean stirred, waiting until he'd settled into that scarily complete stillness again before drifting away. Time skipped, caught in snatches in the flickering hands of the clock, in the shadows that turned slowly across the floor. Faintly, he was aware of Amanda checking on them, made himself mumble some kind of answer to her questions until she took the hint and left them with a spare blanket draped over his shoulders.
Finally, Dean rolled over and met his eyes, open and honest, and Sam felt something loosen inside at the trust in them.
"Mornin'," he murmured, watched Dean choose between sullen anger and loneliness for the familiar stranger sitting at his bedside every time he woke up.
"Morning, sunshine," he finally answered and Sam smirked, rubbed sleep out of his eyes. His brother mirrored him, easing to his back again with a small wince that lingered in his blank, tired stare. Sam shoved to his feet, restless, wandered over to the window chewing at a fingernail, wished he knew how to get his brother back.
"You're okay, Sammy, it's alright. I've got you."
The whisper was old, mostly forgotten memory that kept slipping through the cracks now. He frowned, chased after it, desperate to remember more clearly, hoping that somewhere in the past he might find the miracle he was praying for.
"You came back, I remember that," he breathed, absently watched a few cars splash past outside, the rain keeping the streets mostly empty. Heard the rustle of sheets as his brother twitched and turn away, shutting him out again. "They broke the window. I didn't move, just like I promised but they just broke the window and came straight in. They were grabbing me…" Winced as he saw hands coming at him, too many, dark faces twisted with hate as he scrambled back, too small to stop them just snatching him up and bundling him out through the shattered glass. "We were outside when you started shooting." Remembered the slam of bullets against the walls behind them, remembered one man go down, screaming, clutching at his leg and bright, bright blood in the sun. "You slowed them down and then Dad showed up. I thought he was just like one of the monsters from his journal, he was so mad." He huffed out a laugh, remembering John's face when he'd finally dragged Sam away from the heap of unconscious cultists, Dean still screaming at them, "My Dad's gonna kill you! He hunts things like you down and eats you for breakfast!"
He glanced back at Dean, hoping, turned back to the window and dragged in a lungful of the stale air in the room when his brother didn't answer.
Let it out in a rush when Dean whispered, "He took us out for ice cream, but Sammy wanted pie."
"Yeah. You remember it, Dean?"
"I don't… don't know. I remember finding the van, few miles down the road. It was empty except…"
Sam didn't move, stayed at the window, felt his brother's eyes on his back, barely heard him whisper.
"You had cherry pie."
"Yeah, I did. You had apple. Dad had the biggest slice of pecan pie I've ever seen."
"Which one's real?"
He turned at that, saw his brother watching him, eyes raw and lost.
"This one," he answered in a whisper, hoped Dean could believe it. He stood there in silence, listened to his brother struggle with it as long as he could stand. "Hey," he finally spoke up. "Wanna blow this joint for a while?"
Dean stared at him and nodded slowly.
An hour later Sam gaped as his brother ploughed through a dish piled high with pie, whipped cream and fresh fruit. He picked at his own plate, smiled at the waitress when she refilled his coffee and plopped another soda down in front of his brother.
"You boys doin' okay?"
"Yeah. We're just fine."
He watched Dean grin around a mouthful of pastry and cream, dropped his fork onto his own plate and sat back.
"You gonna finish that?"
Sam smirked, shook his head.
"Knock yourself out."
"Awesome."
Dean dragged Sam's plate across the table, heaped the leftovers into his bowl and shovelled in few mouthfuls before noisily slurping at the soda. Sam rolled his eyes.
"Nice, Dean. Try some manners, huh?"
Dean quirked an eyebrow at him, the expression oddly out-of-place against his smile.
"Sorry if I offended your delicate sensibilities there, princess."
Shaking his head Sam let it go, sipped at his coffee and watched him eat. It was strange, seeing what his brother had been like as a child, even fractured as this version was. The walls that hid away everything Dean cared about were there, but they were softer somehow, almost transparent, with none of the cold cynicism that tempered him now. He found himself missing it, the weight of responsibility for his brother staggering him at odd moments.
He wondered if this was how Dean felt, how his brother managed to keep going.
"Quit thinkin' so loud, Sam."
Sam sighed a little, hid it in his coffee. It felt lonely not being Sammy anymore, but it had been enough of a struggle to get Dean, confused, trapped in two sets of memories and trying to make sense of either one, to accept him as Sam.
"Hey."
He looked up at the quiet, serious tone, found his brother looking at him through dark eyes that seemed almost, almost like the Dean he knew.
"We'll figure it out, okay?"
"Yeah. I know. It's just… it's weird, you know?"
Dean snorted, went back to his pie, muttering around a fresh mouthful.
"You're tellin' me."
Sam looked at the grey sky through the window, at the wet roads reflecting back the trees and buildings around the small square, thought vaguely that it looked like more rain was coming. He drained his mug, signalled for the check.
"C'mon Dean. Finish up. We should get back."
"Yeah. Okay."
They were halfway across the park in the middle of the square when Dean stopped. Sam took a few more steps, waited, half-turned to look at his brother as he gazed blankly at the grass.
"Dean? You alright?"
"Do you think I'll ever forget?"
For a long moment, all he heard was how young Dean sounded, how utterly lost and alone. He took a step back before his mind replayed the words his brother had spoken, and he nearly folded to the ground Dean was staring at so intently.
Will I ever forget all the times I saw Sammy die?
He didn't even have an answer.
"Come on," he said gently, reaching out one hand to cup his brother's elbow as Dean crutched slowly, carefully through the soggy park, not yet quite comfortable on the crutches. "Let's get in before it starts raining, huh?"
In the end, they didn't quite make it, the clouds opening up on them as they got to the end of the block the clinic was on. By the time they got inside, they were both drenched and the question, still hanging over their heads, was forgotten for a while in the rush for hot showers and dry clothes. When Sam emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, feeling vaguely human again, he found his brother sleeping again, face turned to the window, pale and drawn, Amanda just leaving the room as he slipped through the open door.
"I gave him another dose of morphine, a small one."
Sam felt his heart crowd up into his throat.
"The poison?"
"No, no. Just his leg. It's gonna be a long time before it stops bothering him and he's pretty worn out."
The hunter sagged against the wall in relief.
"Sam, get some sleep, alright? He needs you healthy right now."
She took his arm, shook it gently as she spoke and he tore his eyes away from his brother long enough to see the frank appraisal in her gaze. Guilt uncurled in his stomach, even wanting real sleep seemed wrong, like he was letting his brother down somehow.
"Yeah, I know. I will."
She snorted at him, turned back into the hallway and Sam headed for his chair, dropping into his accustomed position, boots up on the bed, one hand resting next to the pillow, head tipped back against the wall. He drifted away staring at the ceiling, wondering if the cracks there really were getting bigger.
A hand on his wrist woke him. Sam went from zero to on-his-feet-knife-in-hand in a heartbeat, blinked wildly at the dark room and tried to free his arm from his brother's grip. His shoulders relaxed as he searched the room and found nothing but the same four walls he'd been staring at for way too long.
"Dean?"
"Sammy?"
Sam froze, held himself perfectly still; certain he might just shatter into pieces if he dared move. Faintly, he heard the knife clatter to the floor.
"Sammy?" Dean croaked again, shaking his wrist a little and he jolted, blinked as the world twisted dizzily around him. He searched for his brother in the shadows, found bloodshot eyes that were old and tired and Dean. Sam tried to speak, couldn't find anything to say, just turned his arm in his brother's hand until he could lock his fingers around the older man's wrist. Dean held on like he was drowning, like Sam was the only thing keeping him afloat and briefly, dazedly, Sam wondered if his own grip was any less desperate.
"Dean?" he breathed, still not quite sure he believed it.
"God, Sammy," his brother choked out, rolling awkwardly towards him, his cast dragging at the tangled sheets and blankets. Sam shook himself, lurched forward, grabbing at the thick cotton, trying to work it loose; belatedly realising he'd stopped breathing as spots began to dance across his vision. He sucked in air, tugged on their joined hands until Dean rolled further, into his shoulder, and as he found the edge of the blanket, Sam felt hot wetness soak through his shirt. He fiddled with the blanket, smoothing it uselessly, trying to give his brother time.
Finally, Dean pulled back, fingers still locked around his wrist. Sam shifted, hitched one hip up on the edge of the bed, not quite believing he wasn't dreaming.
"Dean?"
The look he saw in his brother's face was all he needed to know he was awake. Devastation, soul-wrenching grief and guilt, but rage too, burning slow and white-hot.
"How long?" Dean asked, voice a little rough and shaky.
"Since she took you? Four days. We've been here for three."
"Where is here?"
Sam frowned. "You don't remember?"
He could have shot himself when his brother paled, swallowed thickly before answering.
"Sort've. Some of it. But it's… hazy. I think, Doctor Lee? From River Grove?"
"Yeah. We were just a few hours from her new clinic, and I didn't want to risk a hospital. Not so soon after Green River. I figured Vinita, Oklahoma was a safer bet."
Dean nodded, twisted his free hand into the blankets.
"Before that. We were in… Missouri?"
Sam rubbed at his brow, pressed the heel of his hand into one eye.
"She must've pulled that out of my head too."
He could feel his brother's heartbeat fluttering against his fingertip, too quick still. It matched his.
They sat there, talking quietly sometimes, mostly just holding on, until the sun crept through the rain clouds and turned the soaked streets to gold. Sometime, in the long, dark hours, Sam finally worked up the courage to ask his brother, Dean, instead of the terrified, lonely twelve-year old who'd been looking out through his eyes for the past three days, what she'd shown him.
"You said... you said I died, at the ranch. Just like in the house and with the Skinwalker and the Shtriga"
Dean just shrugged, gone back an hour ago to twisting the bedclothes into knots, eyes intent on his task as if it was vital. Maybe it was.
"They were just hunts that nearly went wrong."
Sam didn't miss the odd hesitation in his brother's words, could almost hear him adding the qualifier: nearly. He nodded, knew he would never ask again, and that Dean would never tell. He just hoped that one day Dean could forget the dreams.
Three hours later, he was loading Dean's crutches into the backseat of the Impala, listening to his brother flirt with the nurse who'd seemed less than surprised to see two young men emerge from her boss' back rooms. Bobby had kept his distance when he'd unloaded the car from the flatbed he'd driven it down on, telling Sam to bring them both up to Sioux Falls, and soon. The younger man still wasn't sure if the grizzled hunter was just giving them some space, or if he'd been as unsure about how to deal with the scared child looking out through his brother's eyes as Sam was. He shook off the memory, smiled at the heat of the sun on the back of his neck, bright in his tired eyes as he straightened, met Amanda's gaze where she loitered on the steps leading into the clinic.
"Thank you," he mouthed, meant it at last. She shrugged, nodded and blushed, quickly ducking back inside with an irate call for the pretty blonde nurse leaning into the car window. Smirking, Sam slid in through the open driver's door, flexed his hands around the wheel.
"Where we headin', Sammy?"
Dean hadn't called him anything else all morning and he wouldn't have changed it for the world.
"I don't know. I figured we could just head up toward Wisconsin, or Illinois maybe, do a little road tripping and see what comes up."
"You really want to go on a road trip with your big brother? That's sweet, Sammy. I'm touched."
Sam rolled his eyes, started the engine with a roar.
"In the head, maybe."
"Bitch."
"Jerk."
Dean snorted, shuffled down in the seat, digging in the glove compartment for his sunglasses with one hand as he reached for the radio with the other. Angus Young's power chords slammed through the car and Sam chuckled, shook his head and peeled out.
And he couldn't stop smiling.
A/N: That's all, folks. Hope you enjoyed!