“Sam!” Dean knelt, laying the shotgun across his knees, and hauled Sam up to a sitting position. “Are you okay?”

Grimacing, Sam felt the back of his head. He had fallen on his back, hard. Damn it, those leprechauns packed a punch. He was never going to underestimate little green men again. “Yeah…”

“Good, cuz I’m gonna kill you!” shouted Dean, punching him in the shoulder, hard, to emphasize his point. “Fucking listen to me when I tell you not to do something!”

“They were leprechauns! How was I supposed to know?”

Seriously. Leprechauns? Who knew that leprechauns turned into vicious demons when you tried to retake the treasure they had stolen? Sometimes, their life was too weird, even for them.

“Because I told you!” Punch. “Fucking listen to your elders for once.” Punch.

“Ow, fuck, Dean, stop it! I got the point.”

Dean stopped punching him. “Good.” But he still looked angry, brow furrowed and thunderclouds in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, okay?” But Sam knew by now that apologies didn’t do much, couldn’t mend anything, not between the two of them. He said it, anyway.

Dean didn’t meet Sam’s gaze as he helped Sam to stand. He drew Sam’s arm around his neck and they walked out of the gold mine together, Sam leaning on Dean.

“Hey, can we get some ice cream?” Sam didn’t really want any. He was testing.

“What are you, four?”

“Come on.”

“You’re such a pain in the ass,” said Dean, which was Dean-speak for ‘yes,’ and Sam knew that Dean wasn’t really angry with him at all.

Sam really didn’t think it was possible, but they were lost.

Dean rarely got lost, and Sam admitted reluctantly that Dean had a pretty good sense of direction. Plus, driving back and forth across the country gave you some familiarity with most of the major highways.

But they were lost.

Which meant that Dean, who assumed “getting lost” was just something that happened to other people, was well and truly pissed off. He almost took it as a personal affront, like the road was doing it on purpose to them.

And, given their line of work, Sam thought that might be a possibility.

Still. “Maybe you should just pull over and ask,” said Sam, after they passed the same post office for the sixth time.

“Maybe you should fuck off.”

“Are you seriously giving into that male stereotype of not wanting to ask for directions?” Sam demanded. He gestured out the window. “This is crazy. This town is only so big. We can’t be lost in an area that’s smaller than my college campus.”

They had only meant to drive through, grab lunch and buy some more supplies, but it was like the town was one of those crazy paintings with stairs that went upside down and paths that lead to nowhere.

“I’m not asking for directions because. We’re. Not. Lost.”

“Dean.” Sam watched the post office come up again for the seventh time.

“God damn it!” snarled Dean, and he pulled over and got out of the car, seething.

Sam pocketed Dean’s credit card, letting out a small sigh of relief when the ticket agent accepted the card without question. He really didn’t feel right about using these fake credit cards, but what other option was there?

Dean was waiting for him by the gate, duffel bag in hand. He looked agitated, chewing on his lip and glancing around constantly. “You got the tickets okay?” he asked as Sam approached.

“Yeah, they had some cancellations at the last minute, so we’re good.” Sam handed Dean his ticket and then paused, looking at his brother closely. “You sure you’re all right?”

“No, I’m not all right,” snapped Dean. He took a breath, and continued, in a lower voice, “We’re about to get on a plane that’s doomed to crash. That doesn’t spell ‘all right’ to me, Sam, not by a long shot.”

“I told you, you don’t have to come. I’ll do this alone.”

“Like hell you are.”

The flight began boarding, and Dean gave his ticket to the flight attendant. That was when Sam knew Dean was seriously freaked out, because the flight attendant was just Dean’s type, and Dean didn’t even give her a second glance.

“You’re doing the right thing, you know,” said Sam, handing his own ticket over and following his brother through the walkway. “You’re helping to save a lot of people.”

Without even turning around, Dean said, “I’m not doing it for them, idiot.”

Sam stood in the walkway for a moment, dumbfounded, until the girl behind him pushed his shoulder, saying, “Hey, what’s the hold up?”

“Sorry.” Sam followed his brother on board.

They were somewhere in South Dakota. It was morning, and the sunlight was mild, but it seemed to pierce right into Sam’s brain. He squinted, and wondered where he had left his sunglasses. They probably got burned up in the fire.

Thinking about that fire, that night, only made the pain in his head worse.

“What’s wrong?” Dean glanced over at him.

Sam didn’t reply. He stared out the window at the rolling farmland.

Dean took a hand off the wheel to reach over and feel Sam’s forehead.

“Stop it,” said Sam, shoving Dean’s hand away. Jesus, he wasn’t ten anymore. Sometimes it seemed like Dean forgot that little fact. But Sam really couldn’t muster the energy to be mad this morning. “I’m not sick.”

“Well, if you’re not sick, then stop PMS-ing on me.”

“I have a headache,” muttered Sam, if only to shut Dean up. “I think the lack of sleep is getting to me.”

Dean didn’t say anything, but he punched the tape player off, and the noise of Black Sabbath stopped abruptly. The resulting silence seemed to swell and fill the car, but Sam was glad for it. At least the blood pounding in his skull seemed to lessen a bit.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Don’t thank me yet,” said Dean. “I’ve only had one cup of coffee. You’ve got to entertain me until I wake up a little more.”

“There once was a man from Nantucket—”

“No limericks!”

Sam sat up in his bed, panting, sweat slicking his skin. The nightmare was already slipping from his mind, but he remembered fire and blood. He felt cold and hot at the same time, sort of like when he had the flu.

Dean was sitting by the window, drinking a bottle of Mountain Dew and cleaning their guns. The weapons glittered in the moonlight. Dean didn’t say anything, but Sam knew Dean had been watching him sleep.

Sam wasn’t sure what the point was. It wasn’t like Dean could do anything to help him. He had told Dean this before, but that didn’t stop Dean from worrying, even though Dean never actually admitted to worrying.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” said Sam. He grimaced at the sound of his voice. He was parched, and his throat felt like it was coated with sandpaper.

“I will in a minute,” said Dean. He picked up an oilcloth, and paused. “Are you okay?”

The question hung in the air for a long moment, and Sam wanted to say I think I’m going crazy, Dean, but instead, what came out was, “I’m sort of thirsty.”

Wordlessly, Dean reached over and handed Sam the half-empty bottle of Mountain Dew.

“Don’t you want it?”

“I’ll go get another one.” Dean stood, tossing the oilcloth aside. “Go back to sleep if you can.”

He was already out the door before Sam had the chance to say thanks.

Dean slammed a hand against the hood of the car. “Dammit, Sam!” he said, blowing out an exasperated breath. “It’s hundreds of miles in the other direction. Why can’t you just call her?”

“She’s my friend, Dean. They both are. Maybe you don’t understand that, but I want to be there for them.”

And as Sam watched that familiar stubborn twist in Dean’s lips, Sam thought maybe Dean really didn’t understand. All Dean had ever had in his life was his family, and the never-ending blur of faces as he sped out of one town and into another. No unnecessary attachments.

“He wouldn’t murder anyone,” Sam added. “That’s enough reason for me to go. To see what I can do to help. You don’t have to stay in St. Louis if you don’t want.”

At that last bit, Dean made a dismissive wave with his hand, like he was shooing away a fly, as if that wasn’t even the issue. Maybe it wasn’t. “This isn’t our gig, Sam. We’re not Starsky and Hutch here.”

Sam grinned. “Starsky and Hutch?” he repeated.

“You know what I mean,” said Dean, but he was starting to smile too, despite himself. He rounded the car and got in the driver’s seat. Started up the engine. With the Impala purring beneath them, Dean added, “It’s all your fault if those rumors about that chupacabra are true.”

“I take full responsibility for any sudden downturns in the U.S. goat population,” said Sam, and clutched the dashboard as Dean roared out of the gas station, turning the Impala around. Back the way they came.

Sam left the front desk and went outside, motel keys in hand. Dean was leaning on the hood of the Impala, staring into space and smoking. Their bags lay at his feet.

“When did you start smoking again?” Sam demanded. Dean had smoked in high school, until their dad had caught him and then grounded Dean for a month. Mostly for being underage and smoking, but also because their dad didn’t approve of smoking in general.

Sam had assumed that was the end of it, but he guessed Dean had picked it up again while Sam was away at college.

Dean exhaled and the blue smoke from his mouth drifted up and away into the night air. “It’s not like I do a pack a day.”

Sam took the cigarette from Dean’s hand and dropped it, grinding it out with the toe of his shoe.

“Dude!” Dean stared at the ruined cigarette. “The fuck?”

“After all the shit we’ve been through, the ultimate irony would be if you died from lung cancer,” said Sam. He grabbed a couple of their bags and started to head toward their room. “I’d like to reduce the probability of you dying as much as possible, thanks.”

The next morning, Sam woke up to the strong, sweet smell of strawberries.

He glanced over at Dean, who was sitting on his bed, watching the news on mute and chewing…

“Bubble gum?” Sam mumbled. He wondered if he was still sleeping.

Dean blew a particularly huge bubble, until it popped. “Bubblicious,” he corrected.

“Wha…?” Really, Sam had to be dreaming, except that the artificial candy scent of strawberries was everywhere, and Sam was pretty sure he’d never dream that up. He wrinkled his nose. “Why does it smell so strong?”

“Put up with it, dipshit. I’m not about to do one of those 12-step programs.”

Sam rolled over and closed his eyes. He smiled to himself.

Sam was sitting up, reading a battered copy of The Da Vinci Code, which the room’s previous occupants had left behind. It was not very well written, but it was pretty interesting.

Across from him, in the other bed, Dean was already half-asleep. Sam could tell because Dean was curled onto one side, breathing evenly. Not totally asleep yet, but close. Sam watched the steady rise and fall of Dean’s shoulder for a moment, before venturing to say, “Dean?”

“Yeah?” Dean didn’t move, but he still sounded pretty awake.

“Have you ever seen that movie, ‘The Princess Bride’?”

“Does it have Al Pacino in it?”

“No…” Sam, seeing where this conversation was going to go, was now sorry he asked.

“Jack Nicholson?”

“No.”

“Angelina Jolie? Hot chicks with guns?”

“Dean.” Sam tried to sound exasperated, but he was grinning. Dean couldn’t see that, though.

“Then no, I haven’t.” Dean twisted around a little, looking at Sam over his shoulder. “Why?”

“Nothing. No reason.” Sam put his book down and flicked off the light on his side of the room. “It was Jess’ favorite movie.”

Dean turned over again. “Ah, it’s a chick flick.”

“It’s not,” said Sam, somewhat more defensively than called for. “There’s… pirates. And stuff.”

“Right. Whatever you need to tell yourself, Sammy,” said Dean. “Get some sleep, dude.”

“Night, Dean.”

Dean didn’t reply.

Sam lay down and stared at the ceiling. In the darkness, in the shadows of moonlight, Sam could almost reach out and touch… whatever it was that existed between the two of them. Him and Dean. It was palpable, almost physical. Something… warm. Safe.

And Sam knew what he wanted to say, but couldn’t. He couldn’t. It was trapped in his throat like an imprisoned butterfly, flapping and fluttering hopelessly against invisible chains.

But even without ever speaking it, he hoped Dean heard him. He hoped Dean understood.

He thought Dean did.

Because Sam understood now.

The End