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They followed the river for a while on their way to the interstate, and Sam stretched his legs out in front of him. He wouldn't admit it, but the Impala beat the Charger in terms of leg room. Maybe it'd be nice to be able to rest some during the drive, to doze while Dean drove. He hadn't been able to do that in a long time.
"So," Dean said, and Sam tensed for a moment before he went on to ask, "what sorta stuff have you been hunting? Anything interesting?"
"First one I ran across was this demon," Sam said. "Real low level son of a bitch, not all that powerful, but it'd gotten a hold of this little town in Illinois, maybe two hours out of Chicago, and it didn't give a crap about the apocalypse not happening, it didn't want to give up its seven square miles of land."
Dean nodded. He tapped one thumb against the steering wheel in time with the music, even though it was turned down low. "How'd you get it?"
"Trap in a cellar," Sam said, and told Dean the rest of the story as well: trying to see if it knew anything, and then exorcising it, and explaining a little to the town about what'd happened to them before hitting the road again. Dean kept nodding, and he listened to the next hunt (poltergeist), and the next (werewolf), and the next (pair of spirits), until he pretty much heard the greatest hits version of the past year.
"And that's when we ran into the djinns," Sam finished, and shrugged. It was almost sunset by now, and, going south, the entire car was full of light. "You know about everything since then."
"Busy year," Dean said. He shook his head, smiling a little, and Sam smiled back, sitting up straighter. This line of work might pay for shit, but there was always something to do.
"Yeah, I guess."
"You know what it reminds me of?" Dean glanced over, holding Sam's gaze for a long moment, then turned back to the road.
"Hmm?"
"Sort of like me, after I got out of Hell." He looked at Sam again, his eyes bright green in the sunset. "You remember that?"
Sam frowned. "What's your point?"
"I've done this before, man," Dean said. He kept ten-and-twoing it, not breaking eye contact with the horizon, but Sam looked away from him anyway. "Work so hard there's no time to think about anything else." He paused, and Sam heard him swallow. "I'd rather you freaking talk about it for five minutes than work yourself to death, is all."
Sam closed his eyes. When he opened them a minute or so later, the view was largely the same — just grass and their side of the road, dotted every so often with billboards.
That wasn't what he was doing. He remembered Dean after Hell — Dean who always had booze on his breath and stashed somewhere on his person, Dean who slept in his boots if Sam didn't pry him out of them first, Dean who thought he was like the things they hunted. Sam's childhood was a master class in suffering from PTSD, and Dean had still freaked him the hell out, after he came back.
Sam wasn't doing that. He was just busy, these days, and he was good at hunting. He would've thought Dean would be — maybe not anything as dramatic as proud of him, but at least satisfied. Dean'd lectured him on the family business too many times to turn around and give him the same look they'd seen on Cas's face, the one that said you've disappointed me.
Sam glanced back at Dean. He could only stare at the sunlight on the line of Dean's jaw for a moment, the way it lit up the stubbled curve of his neck, and then he snorted and looked out the front of the car. They were clearly not doing that anymore, and Sam still wanting it was just one more way he could let his brother down. Just what he needed.
"Man, when did you start trying to have deep conversations with people about their feelings, anyway?" Sam asked.
Dean shook his head. "Weird year, I guess."
"You can say that again."
They drove through at a burger joint, once it got fully dark. It was hardly the first meal Sam had eaten in the car recently, but he hadn't been able to use both hands in a while. He squeezed ketchup onto his fries, holding his hands over the open bag so Dean wouldn't gripe about spills, and tried not to listen to Dean's half of a conversation with Lisa. They talked about Ben, the house, and what Sam guessed was Lisa's new job, and Sam kept eating, one fry after another, until he hung up. Ketchup was awesome.
"Cas's going to hold it together up there," Dean announced later, sort of at random, while he turned the tape over. He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. "He's gotten this far. He can keep going."
Sam snorted, and Dean glanced at him sharply, then asked, "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Can he keep it up for the rest of eternity?" Sam asked. Dean raised an eyebrow at the wording, and Sam rolled his eyes. "He's up against some pretty big names here. Cas doesn't exactly have a ninja turtle named after him."
"Optimism, great," Dean said.
"I'm trying to be realistic," Sam said. "It's not like we can use the same plan on them again, and that was the only thing we had."
Dean sighed but didn't say anything. Forget trying to find the rings again, or any of the rest of it. Sam had Dean backed up against the wall with him back then, more fully that he'd ever had Dean before. With this new Dean, this brother he didn't know, at his side — no, Sam didn't want to think about it at all.