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The world as a whole is somewhat emptier than it used to be, but Sam finds himself constantly amazed at how little things have changed.
The cities have been abandoned, but people farm the surrounding countryside. Gasoline is harder to come by, but there are still places people will trade it. The sky is more a burnt-out rust color now than it is blue, but it's still the sky, and the sun still shines down from sunup to sunset.
Most importantly, Sam and Dean still drive their car across the continent looking for people to save and evil to hunt.
The Apocalypse has come and gone, and of course the brothers Winchester had front row seats for every dramatic twist—enough so that there were whispers from the skeptical: quiet voices among the other hunters wondering suspiciously why that always seemed to be the case.
But when the endgame finally came, no one could question what side the Winchesters were on. Especially not when Sam stepped up and single-handedly sealed Hell and its King away with nothing but a steely look, a flash of power and his brother at his side.
Especially not when the world didn't quite end, and Bobby Singer broke the resounding silence with a triumphant shout.
Other hunters leave them alone now, because Sam and Dean prefer it that way. They keep in touch with Bobby through the slow but revitalized postal service. And they make sure to stop in whenever their travels drive them near the newly rebuilt Roadhouse with its home brewery out back.
But for the most part, Sam and Dean travel alone. It's a road they prefer.
- — - — - — - — - — -
"I'm hungry," Dean declares, fidgeting in the passenger seat and staring at the sunlit horizon like it might cough up something more interesting if he glares at it long enough.
Sam rolls his eyes instead of answering, because Dean already ate the last of their trail mix. They've got military rations in the trunk, but if they hold out a few more hours they might make it to the farming community just west of Des Moines, and maybe they can find a home-cooked meal instead.
"Hey!" Dean exclaims, whacking Sam in the arm with the back of his hand. "You see that?"
Sam follows his brother's gaze, and the sight makes him arch his eyebrows high in surprise. There's an enormous RV on the shoulder ahead, listing slightly to the side, and when Sam looks closer he sees a figure at work replacing a tire. The roads between cities are pretty barren now, and it's the only other vehicle they've seen in two days.
"We should see if they need help," says Dean. What he means is 'Maybe they have food,' but Sam smiles and obliges. He uses his turn signal even though there's no one out here to care, and pulls off the road and onto the shoulder behind the bulky motor home.
"Need a hand?" Dean calls, already out of the car by the time Sam kills the engine.
"No, thanks," Sam hears a startlingly familiar voice respond as he steps into the road. "It's all finished, just need to—Holy fuck!"
Which draws everyone up short at once, and Sam grins in pleased surprise when he recognizes the figure. He can see Dean's expression brightening into silent amusement, while the man—glasses on his face and a thick beard on his chin—darts his startled gaze back and forth between them.
"It's Ed, isn't it?" Sam asks. "Ghosthunters or… Ghostfacers or something?"
"Wow. Um. Naw, it's just Ed now. What are you guys doing here?"
"Just passing through," says Dean. They're on their way to a hunt, actually, but no reason to share more than necessary. "Could ask you the same question, though." Sam can tell his brother is just as curious as he is to know how the self-proclaimed ghost expert survived the End of Days.
He's about to ask if the guy is alone when the RV's side door bangs open and a high, bright voice asks, "Ed, we good or what? Harry's getting all worked up about road pirates." Sam snickers at the absurdity—all things considered, the remnants of the world have remained remarkably civilized. Bandits and thieves are practically unheard of, but leave it to this bunch to worry about pirates.
The girl stops suddenly when she notices the extra faces, her eyes wide and dark in the afternoon light.
"Guys, you remember Maggie?" Ed says with a stiff gesture. Sam nods, grateful for the reminder of her name. He's pretty sure he wouldn't have been able to recall it on his own.
"Hi," says Dean, and Sam can read genuine warmth in his brother's smile.
Silence descends, dry and unfamiliar. Sam waits it out patiently. He and Dean can get back on the road and keep right on driving if they're not welcome here, but he's still relieved when Maggie finally speaks.
"Do you guys want to come in for a beer?" she asks, glancing back and forth between them as Ed drops to his knees and slowly jacks the RV back to the ground.
"Sure," says Dean. He answers too quickly, and Sam struggles not to smirk as his brother backpedals with, "That is, if you're sure. We wouldn't want to intrude."
But she waves them along and ushers them through the banging side door as Ed gathers and stows his tools in the back.
The RV is as big inside as it looks from the outside: tall and deceptively spacious. There's a small, bolted-in table with bench seats on three sides, and on the opposite wall a low, flat couch. More importantly, there's a fridge, and Maggie moves straight for it as Ed follows them inside and gives Sam and Dean a shove towards the small table. Sam scoots in first, all the way around the corner, so that Dean can settle in beside him.
"Holy shit!" comes one more familiar voice, and even though Maggie's words already confirmed the guy was alive, it's still an odd sort of relief to see Harry climb up from the driver's compartment in front. "How did you find Winchesters in the middle of Iowa?"
"Dumb luck," says Maggie, and then she's passing around chilled bottles of some new, post-apocalyptic local brew. The bottles are mismatched sizes, labels bright but haphazard, and Sam and Dean both take satisfied swallows as their three hosts settle onto the couch.
Sam is trying to think of a way to break into the renewed awkward silence when Dean startles him by asking, "Why are you guys being so nice to us?"
"Why wouldn't we be nice to you?" asks Harry, face scrunching in genuine confusion.
"We just figured there might be some hard feelings," Dean hedges with a shrug. "You know. After last time. The Morton House and all that."
"Oh," says Ed, pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. "You mean that time you used an electro-magnetic gizmo to erase the footage that was going to make us rich and famous and prove to the world how awesome we were?"
"Yeah," says Dean. "That."
"Water under a very large bridge, my friend," says Ed, waving a hand dismissively.
"You look surprised," says Harry, and the look on his face somehow manages to look puppyish and self-important all at the same time. "Maybe we're just bigger people than you gave us credit for." Dean snickers quietly at that, and Sam elbows him in the side.
"Oh, please," says Maggie, eyes rolling skyward. "Bigger people? We were totally pissed. You guys seriously wronged us. But then the Apocalypse happened."
"And that… changed your minds?" Sam asks, suddenly even more confused.
"Yeah, well." Maggie shrugs and picks at the label on her beer. "We would've died if it weren't for the stuff you taught us. Kind of hard to stay pissed after that."
"Well I'll be damned," says Dean, a lazy, genuine grin splitting his features.
It's almost sweet, and it's enough to make Sam feel generous—so after he tips back the last of his drink, he says, "You know, you guys helped us out once."
"Uh, yeah," says Ed. Then when his brain catches up with his mouth he asks, "How?"
Sam throws his brother a sideways glance, silently asking how much they should confess. It's a little embarrassing, after all. Dean might not want to admit to the angel-induced amnesia that left them reliant on the Ghostfacers' online how-to guide. But Dean just shrugs amiably, and Sam has to agree—what harm can it possibly do?
"Those videos of yours—"
"The ones that had such flattering things to say about us," Dean cuts in with a smirk.
"Right," continues Sam. "Those. They helped us solve a case right before everything went down. We probably couldn't have done it without you."
Ed and Harry both nod like that's the most natural thing in the world—Ed strokes his beard and Harry strokes his imaginary beard, and both are wearing the same self-satisfied expression.
"I don't get it," says Maggie, and ignores them when the two give her a horrified look.
"What's not to get?" asks Harry. "They needed our help. We saved their lives, maybe the whole world."
"But why did you need our help in the first place?" Maggie presses, eyes locked determinedly on Sam and Dean. "Everything in those videos we learned from you."
"We didn't have our memories at the time," Dean says with a wink. "I was some marketing schmuck, and Sam was an I.T. monkey, and we didn't have the first clue about hunting ghosts."
"Wow," says Ed, and again they lapse into quiet.
Sam glances around the trailer and catches Dean doing the same. There are posters taped to the ceiling and along the minimal wall space—dragons and elves and several buxom 'vampire slayers'. Action figures line the window sills, pasted down presumably, and in a box in the corner he can see crosses and rosaries and bottles of water.
"So," Sam finally breaks into the silence. "How did you guys do it? Survive, I mean. It's not like there was a lot of warning before the Rapture went down."
"There was enough," says Harry, and the arm he drops across Maggie's shoulder seems like an entirely unconscious gesture. "Right before the internet fried, we started seeing all kinds of crazy stuff in the Ghostfacers site forum."
"So we packed up all the rock salt and shotgun shells we could find, and we hid out in the nearest church basement," says Ed.
"Holy ground," Sam murmurs.
"Other people came," adds Maggie. "Lots of them. And then nastier things, but we kept them out. By the time the all-clear sounded, we were starting to think it would never end."
No one asks Sam and Dean the next natural question: 'What about you guys?' The whole world already knows that story.
"There was another guy on your team, wasn't there?" Dean asks, curious but sympathetic. "Did he make it?"
"Spruce?" says Ed. "Oh, sure, Spruce is fine. He didn't want to leave the church, so he and some of the others stayed to start a monastery-slash-truckstop. It's a good place to refuel and get supplies."
"Huh," says Dean with a considering look.
"So where were you guys headed before you got a flat?" Sam asks, trying to steer the conversation back to lighter topics.
"Blain," says Maggie. When she doesn't immediately expound with a reason for that particular destination, Sam knows better than to ask.
"Well," he says instead. "We should probably get back on the road if we want to reach Des Moines by nightfall."
"Yeah," Dean agrees, setting his empty bottle aside and standing up. "Here, take this," he says, fishing in his pocket and handing Ed a piece of paper. "That's Bobby Singer's address. If you need to find us, you mail him. We try to keep in touch."
Handshakes are a contorted affair in the tight space, until finally Sam breaks for the door, Dean close behind him and Ed standing to follow them.
"You guys stay safe," says Sam.
"You, too," says Ed.
"Hey," says Dean, pausing with one foot on the stairs while Sam stands waiting on the pavement outside. "Looks pretty cozy in there with only one bed."
In his peripheral vision Sam sees Ed blink, wide and startled as his face turns pink.
"We… take turns," he says, and Sam stifles a smirk.
- — - — - — - — - — -
By sunset, they've skirted the barely populated suburbs and aimed west, pulling into a dirt lot at the edge of a slowly sprawling village that's larger every time they return. Sam feels easy and relaxed with Dean's hand resting at the nape of his neck, fingers carding through his hair in a comfortably familiar gesture.
"Let's get some food and some sleep," Dean says. His eyes and smile are soft. "Got a lot of research tomorrow."
Sam groans and stretches as he puts the car into park. "I liked research a whole lot more when we had the internet to work with," he says with a scowl.
"Builds character," says Dean with a teasing grin.
Later, as they settle to sleep on a lumpy bed beneath borrowed sheets and blankets, Sam whispers, "I'm glad they have each other." He's wondered, on occasion, if everything they've lost has been worth it. So much sacrifice, to save what sometimes feels like useless bits and pieces of the world that was before. But tonight there's a warm confidence heating his chest, telling him that it's been worth every second. He hadn't realized just how much he needed that tangible reassurance.
"You're such a sap," says Dean. "Stop being a chatty bitch and go to sleep."
"Love you, too, jerkface," says Sam, and he lets quiet, forgettable dreams pull him under.