Beware of: Language, angst, schmoop, and ellipse abuse.

"We save our lives in such unlikely ways."
-Neil Gaiman

Chapter 8

They're two hours away from Kansas City and the silence filling the truck cab is unnerving, tense. Dean can feel questions and thoughts bouncing around in his head like ping pong balls – he wonders if Sam's feeling the same thing. Then he wonders if Sam's feeling anything at all, if his head is still in hell, or if Sam hates him, or if he's just happy to be out. Then Dean wonders how they're going to soldier on. He wonders what in the hell they're supposed to do now, with the broken bond between them, hell, and the apocalypse riding on their coattails. And Christ, he wishes Sam would just say something so he could at least get an idea...

"How long was I dead?"

Dean physically jumps and then shifts in his seat, trying to mask his surprise. He suddenly finds this moment ironic, because now that he's heard Sam's question, he wishes Sam had never opened his mouth.

"Thirteen hours, give or take a few." He says his words carefully, keeping his voice at an even tenor to camouflage his residual anguish and fear.

A beat passes, and then another one.

"A week in hell," Sam says and nods slowly, Dean can see it from the corner of his eye, "Felt like a lot longer. Felt like I was there for months."

Dean doesn't say anything because he knows, and really, there isn't anything he can say other than "I know." But Sam already knows that.

"How'd you even find me?"

Dean smirks humorlessly, "Funny story, that."

Then he tells Sam. He tells him about Zachariah's dick move and the future, about Castiel, the virus, and about his batshit insane doppelganger. Then he tells him about Lucifer.

"Oh."

"Oh?" Dean repeats dumbly, altering his attention between Sam and the road, "I just told you that we're heading for a shit storm in five years, in which Lucifer wears you to the prom, and all you have to say is 'oh?'"

Something dark and desolate flashes across Sam's face, but it's gone before Dean can stare into it. He's glad he doesn't get the chance to read into it because even that quick flash gave him shivers.

"I didn't say yes in hell. I'm not saying yes on earth," Sam finally says with a half shrug, his voice robotic and factual, like he's rattling off trivia about the presidents or something.

He wonders if this is what it's going to be like from now on, with Sam saying things that Dean doesn't have a response to or things that he feels like he has to apologize for.

Then Sam inhales and it shudders like he's trying to hold back tears. Dean's attention is immediately centered on his brother again.

"Do you-" Sam starts and then exhales fully, regaining composure, "Do you want to split up again? When we get to Kansas City?"

Dean has to remind himself to breathe and to pay attention to the fricken road, because Sam just came back from the dead, and the last thing they need is a car crash. He forgot to tell Sam that he wants them to hunt together again. By the time he'd realized that's what he wanted, Sam had already been dead. Then the vital piece of information got lost somewhere between revenge and blood.

"We should just pick a hemisphere…stay away from each other, for good."

"We're better off apart."

"Dean, don't do this."

"Bye, Sam."

"No, we're not splitting up. Not now, not ever again," Dean half growls.

From his peripheral vision, Dean can see Sam frown and stare. He can literally feel Sam's reluctance, which is only confirmed when Sam says, "Dean, if this is a guilt thing…"

"No," Dean protests fiercely, his head already shaking, "It's not about that. God knows I have enough of it, but that's not it. I just…I was wrong, Sammy. We never should've split up and it's not because of what happened to you."

Sam stares some more, Dean can feel it on the side of his face. Then he sighs and knows that Sam will never be satisfied with some half-assed answer. Never has been, never will be.

"Look, it took a DeLorean trip for me to remember it, but we're not better off apart, never have been. Me n' you…we're all we have. If this is the end of the world, we should go down fighting it together, the way it's always been," Dean pauses and glances over at Sam, who's stayed silent the whole time, "I was getting ready to tell you that when Cas told me what happened. I shouldn't have said what I said to you on the phone. I'm sorry."

A moment passes by, and then another, before Sam quietly responds, "Thank you."

They ditch the truck and torch it in an empty field once they're close to Kansas City. Dean worries that the fire and the heat will send Sam into another post-hell anxiety attack, but Sam just stands there with him and watches. They'll have to leave soon. Once the fire burns hot enough and eats through enough metal, the truck will explode, and Dean plans on being long gone before that happens. Explosions tend to lead to hospitals and cops, both of which Dean does not feel like dealing with.

But for the moment, they just watch it burn.

The fire roars. Dean can feel the heat of it on his face, it's almost uncomfortable. The frame is hidden behind a wall of blazing orange, and from inside, the metal and rust twists and pops from the temperature. Smoke billows from the orange, twisting upwards, almost as black as the sky. That's what gasoline does, it burns black and orange, sometimes red. Dean knows, he's started a lot of fires over the years.

Despite the toxicity of the scene, the fumes and the smoke that Dean knows can't be good for the environment, this feels right. That damn rust bucket is the last piece of the puzzle, the last physical shred of evidence that knows that Sam died and that Dean killed. It isn't much, but torching it seems like a good place to start picking up the pieces, and gluing them back together.

The fire spreads until the truck is no longer visible. Next to him Sam shifts, brushing their elbows against each other, "We should leave."

"Yeah."

They start walking. The road is dirt and empty, the only light they have is from the blaze that they're getting further from, and the stars. When they're further down the road, far enough that they can't see the glow from the fire anymore, they hear the truck explode. They don't say anything. They don't even blink.

When they finally get to Kansas City and back to the motel that Dean was yanked out of, morning is breaking the skyline.

…And the Impala has three parking tickets on the windshield.

"Son of a bitch," Dean mutters as he yanks the slips of paper off the windshield, "Awh, man, this sucks. This is gonna be like, eighty bucks…"

Dean pauses as he catches sight of Sam. Sam's standing at the passenger side, his big hand is resting on top of the car. His eyes are squinty and undeniably wet and bright. Dean swallows the lump that's formed high in his throat.

"Sam?"

Sam blinks like he's coming out of a trance, and runs his hand down the side of the car until it rests on the door handle. He shrugs, "Just never thought I'd see her again."

It gets harder to swallow the lump that is now golf ball size. Dean wonders how he's even breathing.

Sam frowns, scrunches his nose as he looks at the tickets in Dean's hand, "You're lucky you didn't get towed."

Then he gets in the car, leaving Dean blinking on the sidewalk.

They find a motel on the other side of town. Dean wants to put this entire part of the country behind them but he can't remember the last time he slept between his trip to the future and hunting Sam's killers.

The morning sun is burning bright so they close the shades after they salt the entrances. The room has a green cast from the sun spilling through the olive curtains. When Dean walks, he can see dust particles whirl in the dull light. Sam's sitting on the bed furthest from the door. His clothes are still bloodstained and rumpled, his hair matted and skin shallow. Dean knows he doesn't look any better himself, worse, even. When he'd paid for the room the clerk had looked at him with wide, horrified eyes.

"Theater production," Dean had said, hoping that the guy wouldn't call the cops, "Damn syrup is impossible to get out."

The room's so quiet that Dean can hear Sam breathe. After Cold Oak, he remembers being more attuned to Sam's breathing than ever. He felt like he could hear his sibling take in and expel air even in the loudest of environments. He wonders if it'll be like that this time too. Dean's gut clenches. There never should've been a "this time."

"We need clothes," Dean suddenly murmurs into the silence.

"I guess," Sam responds before they fall back into stillness again.

Dean sighs and sinks onto the bed opposite of Sam. They're so close that their knees almost touch across the space.

"It's weird, right?" Sam asks, staring at nothing in particular.

"What is?"

"We weren't talking. Probably weren't going to see each other again..."

Dean can feel panic clawing inside of his chest, threatening to make him bleed and hurt.

"I haven't seen Sam in, hell, five years."
"We never tried to look for him?"
"We had other people to worry about."

"...But we still ended up four hours away from each other. Garber and Kansas City are basically a stone's throw away."

"Yeah," Dean replies and then cringes when his voice comes out rough.

Sam tilts his head in question but doesn't say anything.

Dean stares, let's his gaze sweep over Sam, calculating, remembering. There isn't a mark on him and Dean's grateful for that. He doesn't know if he could stare at the bruises or the scars every day for who knows how long, and not feel sick to his stomach. Dean's never going to be able to get that picture out of his head; Sam hanging from the ceiling, covered in blood and bruises, skin tinted blue. It's never going to go away. It's going to be tucked in with his nightmares from hell, a stain he can never scrub out, a piece of his soul that he can never get back. Dean's been through a lot of pain, both physical and emotional, but nothing compared to seeing Sam like that.

"You're staring at me."

Dean blinks as his face colors slightly, "Yeah, sorry."

Sam's look softens from amusement to understanding, "Dude, I get it. I went through it too, remember?"

He'd rather not, but yeah, Dean remembers. Even with all the shit that was going on with his brother and Ruby, Sam still went through the disbelief stage. He still had the moments where he was Dean's shadow, when he did nothing but stare until Dean said something.

This time is different though. This time is so different.

Dean wonders what would've happened if Lucifer hadn't brought Sam back. Would he have tried to save the world? Would he have let it rot? Said "yes" to Michael? He wouldn't have been the same man, that he knows for sure. Even if he hadn't killed, he would've been short a little brother. He's already seen what that leads to.

"You're doing it again," Sam says with a tired smile on his face.

This time, Dean doesn't respond, just offers a small, equally exhausted smile back.

"I get it, you know."

Dean's eyes snap to Sam's, and he immediately knows that they aren't talking about staring anymore.

"Sam…"

"You promised we'd deal with it later."

Sighing, Dean nods. Now is not the time to be breaking promises, no matter how much he might want to, just to avoid this conversation.

"I want to be mad about it, be…something, but I get it, Dean. I do. I know revenge better than anyone," Sam says as he holds Dean's gaze, "I know what you're thinking and I don't. I don't hate you for it."

Dean huffs humorlessly, "What I'm thinking. What I'm thinking is those sons of bitches killed you in cold blood, and I turned around and served it right back to them. I want to regret it but I can't because when I think of you…the way you were, I lose it, man. I lost it."

Sam swallows and nods, as he looks down at his hands. There's still blood clinging to his cuticles.

"You remember when you said that it scared you, the things you were willing to do for your family?" Sam asks, "It still scare you?"

Dean swallows, "Yeah. Yeah, it does."

"Me too. I'm not saying it's right cause I think we both know it's not, but…as long as you're still scared, you're not like them. You're not like Tim."

Dean doesn't know if he should hug his brother or cry. Right now, at this moment, he can't remember why they split ways. He can't figure out why things went so wrong or why he even cared in the first place, because this is his brother. This, right here, is the person he practically raised and watched grow. This is the brother he went to hell for.

But he doesn't hug him or cry (he swears it's just dust in his eyes) he just smiles, "You've used up your chick flick quota for the year, dude."

Sam smiles back, a full dimpled one, because he knows when Dean's saying "thank you" and all the other things that Dean rarely says out loud. This is one of those times.