A/N: Explanations, decisions, and a Bobby cameo.

"We were in New Mexico. We'd just hunted down this witch and when we got back to the motel… I don't know, we just started fighting about nothing." Sam sighed. "It was stupid. We were both exhausted, adrenaline was wearing off, and suddenly we were just fighting. I left to cool off. When I got back…" He cleared his throat. "When I got back, the witch I'd thought was dead was very alive and very pissed. She had you pinned to the floor, almost smothered. She was… She had this small glass bottle in her hand, glowing blue, and she was just putting the cap in it when I came in. I went after her but she…" He waved a hand. "And I hit the corner of a wall, hard. When I came to, you were breathing but still out." He picked at a fingernail. "I thought… maybe you weren't going to wake up. And then you did, and you stared at me and said 'who the hell are you?'"

Dean frowned. "I don't remember that."

"You were pretty out of it. That whole night and the next day you kept falling asleep mid-sentence and then waking up and staring at me. 'Who the hell are you?' I was beat, concussed, kind of out of it myself. I called Bobby but he was backup for some other hunter and couldn't come. And I kept trying to figure out how I was going to explain everything, especially if you couldn't stay awake for more than five minutes at a time, and then I started wondering… Was it just going to stay like this? Where you couldn't hold on to any memory at all? And if you were, what was I going to do?" Sam stared down at the dirty motel carpet between his bare feet. "I was flipping out, man," he admitted quietly. "I'm glad you don't remember."

Dean waited a moment, feeling the heaviness of the pause, then prompted, "What then?"

"Well, then you started staying awake for longer periods of time, but you still didn't remember anything." Sam stood and rubbed his fingers together, examining the upper corners of the room like he was looking for cue cards. "We were right on the border of Arizona, and… I don't know, man, I don't know where the idea came from but once it came it wouldn't go away, this idea that one of us could have a normal life. Arizona's pretty damn quiet. I don't know why but it is, and I thought, well, of all the places to start fresh, why not somewhere that doesn't have poltergeists in every attic?"

"So you dropped me off at the side of the road? That's cold, man."

Sam chuckled humorlessly. "I explained everything; you just didn't remember it five minutes later. Hell, you were about ready to jump out of the car anyway- 'Who the hell are you and where are we going?'" He almost wiped his hands on his jeans, then thought better of it, and wandered over to a window to pull aside the curtain. "Wow. Dark out. That took a little longer than I thought it would. I guess I shouldn't be surprised."

Dean leaned over his raised knees and rubbed a hand over his mouth. "You, uh, you mentioned Jo and… Helen?"

"Ellen."

"Right, Ellen. But you said before you only had Uncle Bobby to talk to."

"Yeah, well…" Sam bit his lower lip. "She- Ellen, that is -didn't like this idea. The not-telling-you idea. She thought it would end badly. I mean, Bobby thought so too, but he…" He grimaced. "I guess he was probably just humoring me."

Dean shrugged. "Could've ended worse."

"That's pretty generous. This could've gone sideways in so many ways."

"Stop it, okay? You were doing your best."

"And now what? You know… well, not everything, but- enough." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean, it was hard for me at Stanford, knowing what I knew. It's gotten worse since then. In the world, I mean. Hell, we didn't run into demons until five years ago."

"There's an obvious answer." At Sam's quizzical look, Dean gestured at the motel room around them. "We go back to hunting as a team."

A multitude of emotions flashed over Sam's face too fast to catalogue. "Dean…" he said finally, voice like broken glass, halfway between an exhale and an appeal.

"Sam, don't take this the wrong way, but you're clearly not doing so hot by yourself. You're twitchy, you still look like death warmed over… I may not remember all the stuff I used to know but that's no reason I can't relearn it. And don't you dare use the word 'normal' again," Dean added quickly, holding up a hand. "I do not want to hear it."

"Dean-"

"C'mon, man." He smiled and spread his arms. "Sounds like we never had 'normal' anyway, and we turned out all right. Maybe it's not all it's cracked up to be. Anyway, to hear you tell it, the world's going to Hell in a handbasket; you could use the help, right? And I am nothing if not a quick study."

Sam blinked rapidly, shifted on his feet, then stilled. His shoulders dropped, the line between his eyes disappeared, and he threw back his head and laughed. He ran his hands through his too-short hair to clasp them at the back of his head, grinned, and nodded. "Okay," he said, and he sounded about ten years younger than he had at any point previously. "Okay. We can do that. But not yet. You have much to learn, my young Padawan."

Dean's matching grin turned into a grimace. "Oh boy."

"And we're not hunting a damn thing until your leg's out of the cast. Hold what you've got." Sam left the room for a minute, then reappeared with a duffel bag which he dropped onto the bed and through which he rummaged. He tossed a clean outfit onto the bedspread before saying "Ah ha!" and pulling out an overstuffed leather book. His fingertips trailed down the front of it for a moment as he smiled. "Here, catch." He tossed the book.

Dean caught it and opened it gingerly. Photos, drawings, and clippings were attached to worn pages covered in uneven writing and coffee stains. "The hell is this?"

"Dad's journal. I think I mentioned it. It's got all kinds of information in there on things he hunted, things he thought should be hunted, other hunters…"

"His handwriting is kind of awful." Sam laughed again. "Is there a reason we didn't rewrite this?"

Sam blinked. "I, uh… Well, it never occurred to me." He frowned. "And there's some inaccurate information in there, too. Shit. I didn't really…" He rubbed the back of his neck and laughed softly. "I dunno, I guess… I dunno. Maybe because it's… Dad's, you know?"

Dean considered. "Yeah, I guess I can see that."

"Shit. Maybe we should." Sam peeled off his t-shirt and jeans, then pulled on the clean ones. "Maybe that's something you can work on while we're at Bobby's."

Dean looked up. "We going there?"

"Yeah, I mean, we've stayed there before. I'm sure he'll be up for it." Sam picked the jeans back up and emptied the pockets, pulling out his phone. "I'll call him, see if-"

"Uh, Sam? Having paid for the damn hotel room, can we sleep in the damn hotel room?"

Sam paused, looking chagrined. "Sorry, I'm kind of…" He laughed again. "Ready to go, you know?"

"Yeah." Dean smiled. "I can see that, too."

Dean closed the motel door and paused. Sam was standing in front of the open trunk, chewing his lower lip. "What? Something wrong?"

"Huh? Oh, no, I just… uh… Was there, uh, stuff you wanted?"

Dean looked at him blankly. "Stuff?"

"Yeah, you know, clothes, tchotchkes- stuff."

He had to think about it. "Nope."

Sam blinked. "Really?"

"You still got my clothes from before, right? I mean, you didn't, like, torch them or anything?"

"No, why would-"

"Then we're good."

"Nothing? Really?" Sam smirked suddenly. "You don't want that ceramic cat-"

"Get in the car."

"Dude." No response. "Dude. This is killing me."

Sam slapped his hand away from the dial. "Don't. Touch. The radio."

"Saaam… How can you stand this?"

"It's not that bad. Anyway, I had to put up with your music for years."

"I don't remember doing that- why must you punish me for it?"

"This isn't that bad!" Sam's irritated frown smoothed out into a smirk. "House rules, Dean. Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole."

Dean slumped in his seat. "God, that's something I used to say, isn't it?"

"Yep."

"Dammit."

Dean humphed loud enough that Sam looked up from his lunch. "What?" The joy in the back of his eyes was at complete odds with his annoyed tone.

"I'm thinking a little hiatus until my cast comes off is going to be good for both of us." Dean shook his fork meaningfully. "You need to eat more. And your hair needs to grow out, too. You look ridiculous."

Sam shook his head, trying and failing to conceal a smile. "You are still such a jerk."

"Don't be a bitch." Sam looked up so quickly Dean jumped. "What? What is it?"

Sam laughed, smiled, looked away. "Ah, nothing."

Between traffic, detours, meals, and sleeping, Sam shook Dean's shoulder and stage-whispered, "Dean, we're here," at about three in the morning.

Dean cracked an eyelid, took in rusted cars and hubcaps rigged to the side of a house, and found it hard to summon the enthusiasm he'd felt earlier. "I hope the beds are comfortable."

"They are." Sam groaned as he climbed out. "Hell, I'd take a wooden floor after twenty hours in that car." He stretched, shoulders popping, then opened the trunk and pulled out his duffel bag. "C'mon."

Dean half-fell out of the car, his leg making its status as 'broken and not happy about it' loudly known. "Ow, dammit. Are we being quiet?"

Sam chuckled. "He'd probably shoot us if we tried to be quiet. Honestly, I'm surprised he hasn't come out with a shotgun- you always kept the Impala purring."

"You son of a bitch! So you haven't been taking care of my car?"

"I've been trying, man, but I've been a little busy-"

The front door opened right in front of Sam, startling both brothers. "The hell have you been?"

"Bobby." Sam dropped his duffel and stepped forward, wrapping the older man in a tight hug.

"Le'me get a look atcha." When they pulled back, Bobby frowned as he stared at Sam's hair. "The hell did you do to your hair?"

Sam sighed. "I cut it."

"With what, a Swiss army knife?"

"For God's sake-" Sam turned to Dean and gestured. "Dean, this grouchy, over-critical-" Bobby slapped the back of Sam's head. Sam grinned. "-hospitable, avuncular gentleman is Bobby."

Dean smiled nervously. "Hey."

"Oh, that's not gonna cut it-" Bobby crossed the porch in two strides and pulled Dean into a bear hug. "How are you doing, son?"

Dean froze, then awkwardly hugged back. "I'm… all right, I guess."

"Well." Bobby released him, stepped back and looked him over head to toe. His eyes gleamed in the weak indirect light from indoors. "I guess under the circumstances…" He shook himself and gestured for them to go inside. "You boys must be exhausted. Beds're all made up for you."

"Thanks, Bobby. C'mon, Dean, I'll show you."

They were halfway up the stairs when Bobby said, "Hey Dean…"

Dean turned. "Yeah?"

Bobby looked up at him appraisingly. "Why're you here?"

"What?"

"Hunting, I mean. Why are you hunting? Sam's probably told you a hundred, hell maybe a thousand times that this life…" He chuckled dryly. "It ain't much of a life. So why'd you choose it?"

Dean thought about it, then shrugged. "Several reasons, really. Saving the world by shooting things sounds pretty fun. Cool scars, cool car, no societal expectations, flexible hours. Plus, y'know…" He nodded at Sam and grinned. "The pay is fantastic."

At the quizzical look he got, Sam muttered something about 'poolsharking' and 'credit card fraud.' Bobby laughed and Sam smiled and shrugged, like 'what are you gonna do?' "You know what, Sam?"

"What?"

Bobby looked between the two of them, a stupid grin on his face. "He's adorable."

Sam laughed, probably louder than he should have. Dean frowned. "Why do I get the feeling I've missed something?"

"You did," Sam said between snickers. "I'll explain tomorrow. C'mon, bedroom's down this way."

Sam dropped his duffel bag at the end of his bed with a deep sigh. "God, I'm so glad we're here." He kicked off his shoes and flopped down on top of the blankets. "I think I'm gonna sleep for the first week," he mumbled through the pillow.

"Sounds good to me," Dean said, taking off his own shoes and trying to decide if he was awake enough to get out of his clothes. Deciding he was not, he followed Sam's example and just laid down on top of the apparently hand-stitched quilt. "I like him," he said.

"Who, Bobby?"

"Yeah."

Sam sniffed. "Good thing, too."

Dean shifted, trying to make another decision quickly, before Sam fell asleep. "Hey, uh, Sam?"

"Mm?"

"I gotta ask, man, not that you'll know any better than me- hell, maybe you'll be a worse judge."

Sam turned his head so one half-open eye was over the pillow. "What is it?"

Dean sighed and rolled onto his side. "Is it weird that- Look, for that year I was alone, I had a hell of a time getting to sleep every night. I'd fall asleep for like, an hour, then wake up and lay awake for another hour, fall asleep…" He waved a hand. "Rinse and repeat."

"Mm-hm?" Sam blinked at him, clearly struggling to stay awake.

"And then once I knew about you, I'd stay awake worrying about you. Sometimes for hours."

Sam frowned. "Really?"

"Yeah, but ever since you told me about what's out there… I dunno, man, I don't get it but I sleep like a rock. Is that really weird?"

Sam smiled sleepily. "I dunno, man. You slept like a rock before. Maybe it's normal for you?"

"Yeah." Dean rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. He had a feeling in the pit of his stomach, almost like a sense of impending doom, but it wasn't that. Excitement, maybe. Or something. "Okay. Normal."

"G'night, Dean."

"G'night, Sammy."

Sam made an indignant sound before burrowing into his pillow again. Dean smiled and was asleep in under five minutes.

A/N 2: So that's Bad Company! Hope you enjoyed; if you did, please review!

A sequel (thus far called Good Company cos I think I'm funny like that) is... in the works. Not going very well, but in the works. A playlist is also in the works. Sort of. Reviews and messages and whatnot do encourage the process, so...

Anyway, thanks for reading.

A/N 3: It's 2019. My life is currently in shambles. Good Company sits in my Google Drive's Fanfic folder, untouched for three years. I open it periodically to stare at it, sigh, then close it again.

I'm proud of this story. I treasure every review. And if I ever climb out of the pit I'm in right now, I'll give the sequel another go. In the meantime, Bad Company stands alone.