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When Joshua brought them back, Dean gave up on God. He and Sam got into the Impala heading who knows where, running from angels, running from demons: an apocalypse to stop with no assistance or direction. Or so Sam thought.
Dean knew Walt and Roy well enough: with the threat eliminated, they were going to head for beer, chicks and a dirty motel room for the night - moving on each night until a case comes up on the police scanner. Barely different from how Sam and he lived. Greasy bagged food. Questionable hook ups.
Dean drove them east for five hours.
"We're stopping already?" Sam frowned as Dean pulled into the Cadillac Motel. "Dean. Are you hunting?"
Dean rubbed his face. "No, Sam, we agreed. We've got bigger things. But I was shot, ran all over kingdom come, and found out God is sitting on a beach waiting to watch the world burn. Now, I know how I feel and I know how you look. We're going to get a real night's rest and then we're going to find a way to save this piece of shit planet. Get out and check us in. I'm going to go get take out."
Sam nodded. "Give me your gun."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Give me your gun, or I'm not getting out."
Dean grumbled, leaning forward and slipping his .45 from his waistband. Sam took the gun and reached into the backseat grabbing Dean's green canvas duffle.
"The shotguns too? Really?"
"I'll text you the room number." Sam smiled, "Hurry home. We'll be waiting."
"Ha ha ha," Dean laughed sarcastically, as Sam shut the passenger door in his face. Dean waited for Sam to enter the reception before driving off looking for the closest diner advertising pie.
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Dean stopped on a station playing 1963's The Haunting, leaving it on in the background while they ate at the rickety laminate table. Sam grimaced at the wilted lettuce, and grainy tomatoes posing as salad, picking up his beer and sucking some down, trying to build the fortitude needed to continue eating. Dean smiled brightly as he chewed a large bite of fatty burger.
"Fries?" Dean pushed the styrofoam container towards Sam. The fries soggy and wet with grease.
"I'm good." Sam stood up from the table, taking his beer with him and stretching out on his bed. "You don't think this movie hits a little close to home?"
"Dogma hits too close to home. This? This is nostalgia."
Sam snorted finishing his bottle.
"Another?" Dean offered, getting up to get himself one.
"No." Sam blinked several times. "I'm exhausted."
Dean shrugged, popping the top on his cold one and sitting back down. He flipped open Sam's laptop. Sam looked at him through half open eyes.
"No porn."
"Yeah. Yeah."
Dean browsed the internet for an hour, researching Sports Illustrated's Swimsuit edition. Every so often he glanced at Sam, as the younger Winchester struggled to stay awake before finally giving in and sliding into a comfortable position - slipping into dreamless slumber.
Dean watched Sam for five minutes.
"Sammy, you have to see what this chick can do!" He said loudly. "Sammy?" Dean tip-toed over to Sam's side flicking his cheek. Sam snorted but, otherwise, didn't react.
Dean didn't smile, or laugh. He looked sadly at his brother sleeping with strands of bang falling over his eyes. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I can't let it go," Dean snapped the air vent grate off and pulled out the hidden guns, "and your hiding skill haven't improved since you were six."
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Dean sat in the chilly Impala watching Roy and Walt through their motel window. They were having a drunken argument. Dean looked at his watch. He would've preferred to wait for them to be asleep - fight wounds would be difficult to explain - but time was passing quickly and the drugs in Sam would wear off. Dean checked his gun clip and charged the chamber. He reached for the door handle and stopped.
Roy had thrown his hands up and fallen onto a bed. Walt followed gesturing angrily. Dean waited. The fight was winding down, Roy was trying to go to sleep.
Dean waited. Half an hour. An hour. Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. When he got out of the Impala, he was careful to shut the car door silently.
His hands shook as he picked the lock. The room remained still. Dean slipped inside as soon as he could. Forgetting that they believed he was dead, Dean expected Walt to be waiting behind the door. Both men were sleeping, for now. Dean's heart thrummed loudly against his ribcage. He had killed countless monsters without a moments thought, impulsively freed meat suits of their demons and their lives, but two normal men, fellow hunters he had known, it was more difficult than he'd thought it would be as his rage mounted during the day's drive.
Every time he blinked, though, he could see the shotgun shell tearing through Sam's chest and the blood splattering the wall behind.
Dean pulled the pillow out from under Roy's head and placed it over the startled face, firing two shots directly into his brain. Roy stopped struggling even has he had just begun. Dean left the blood stained pillow where it was, stepping lightly towards Walt. The other hunter slept on; Dean crept closer. Walt sat up quickly, a gun pointed at Dean's heart. Walt's eyes grew wide when he recognized the Winchester standing with a weapon pointing directly at him.
"You? How?"
"I told you I'd be pissed."
Dean fired one bullet into the middle of Walt's forehead, the second hit the bridge between his eyes. Walt fell lifelessly back; Dean released the breath he'd unknowingly held. His whole body was shaking with discharged adrenaline. Dean stared in silence, not really taking in what he had, actually, gone through with. Two human corpses starting to rot because of his actions. He pushed the bile and hatred back down his throat. Other hunters would learn about the deaths, they would understand. Sam was safe from all but the stupidest hunters. Dean nodded checking his clothes and hands for blood splatter.
After the moment of shock, he moved fast. Washing his hands of any residue, wiping down any surface he was near, shutting the door, and driving off slowly, as if he had all the time in the world.
------
Sam was snoring. Dean couldn't remember where he had hung his jacket last night, hoping Sammy wouldn't notice if it was moved. He replaced the bullets missing from his clip, and returned the gun to its hiding place. Dean crawled into bed and pretended to sleep, the sun breaking through the small gap in the curtain. Dean wasn't ever going to be able to sleep that night, no matter how he spent it. There wasn't enough alcohol on the planet to forget Heaven long enough to sleep.