Author Notes: Spoilers for 1.10 and 1.11, taking place fairly immediately following 1.11 "Scarecrow." I guess if I had to preface this I'd say it's a prequel to my upcoming mulit-chap, which is going to sound crazy when I add that my upcoming multi-chap is pre-series,. So it's a prequel in the way that it's being published before, with mild notes of what story is to happen, while attempting to keep what I'm planning as close to canon as possible. Okay, now that I've been sufficiently rambly and confusing, I'll just shut up and let you read. :)

It doesn't seem to be bothering Dean, but they're rumbling on maybe forty miles outside of Burkitsville when the silence in the car finally gets to Sam. All jokes and close calls and guilt over rock salt-loaded shotguns aside, something has been eating at Sam for the better part of the morning, and he's not known to be one who's able to keep such things to himself for long. They've had a hell of a week, and he needs to drown out any thoughts that would negatively affect the truce he's just called with his brother, knows himself too well to be disillusioned into thinking they'll make it to dinnertime without having this out if he has nothing better to do than dwell.

Of course, Sam is not permitted to touch any part of this car without Dean's express permission, which has been made clear multiple times over the past few months with varying degrees of head slaps. "You want music?"

Dean sucks in a breath, adjusts his grip on the steering wheel in a manner that suggests the very act of hearing Sam's voice has physically pained him. The sleeve of his blue jacket rides up, revealing a mess of thin abrasions encircling his wrist that Sam hadn't really noticed until now, attention drawn instead to the blue spring flower blossoming around his brother's eye. While the swelling seems to have gone down, the residual headache is clearly raging on, which could explain the lack of tunes and the fact he's been in a shitty mood since they hit the road. Deep creases tug at the corners of Dean's eyes as he squints in the sunlight, but he hasn't made a move for his sunglasses in the glove box. All of it ratchets up Sam's concern, momentarily quells the frustration and clinging sense of betrayal he's been harboring since they climbed into the car.

Dean clears his throat. "Sure. Yeah, if you do."

It's a bluff, and not one of his best. Dean won't stomach being babied, or generally taken care of, any more than he would the thought of light beer. Or possibly, any food or drink at the moment. Sam has to draw him out, nice and slow and stealthy-like.

Because it's not as much fun to call Dean on his bullshit when he isn't in top form.

And he can still squeeze a little enjoyment from this while he's at it. "Cool." Sam flips the knob, immediately filling the car with an earsplitting flush of static, the white noise residing between station frequencies. It's only mildly annoying to his own ears but he's not the one who's probably concussed. Dean recoils with a grimace, lips flattened into a thin line.

Sam takes his time adjusting the dials, searching for a station, while Dean's fingers tighten around the wheel.

"Just turn that damn thing off," he snaps.

Sam turns the knob with a click and pivots with as innocent as expression as he can muster. "Headache?"

Dean purses his lips, sucks in his cheeks. "Yeah."

Sam gestures to the welt under Dean's eyebrow, the bruise covering roughly a quarter of his face. "What did that?"

Dean's glassy eyes give him away more than the hesitation before he answers. "Rifle."

"Barrel?"

"Stock."

"Butt?"

Dean nods stiffly.

"Ouch." Sam hisses sympathetically through his teeth, but Dean had to think about it. He almost smiles, because he knows his beautifully dumb big brother believes that this nugget of honesty will cut Sam off at the pass. Sorry, bro. He stretches casually on the bench seat. "You hungry?"

The growl of Dean's stomach is audible in the otherwise silent car, but it's not one of hunger. Dean swallows a couple of times. "No, not really."

Sam puts a mental check in that box. "We don't have another job lined up. We can pull off for the night if you want."

"What are you talking about? It's not even lunchtime." Just the word has Dean swallowing again.

"Well, it's been a hell of a week, Dean. I don't think a little rest would kill either one of us." He thinks a moment before adding, "You, especially."

"What, cuz you shot me a coupla days ago? Sorry to disappoint, Sammy, but I don't go down that easy." Shut the hell up, Sam, is the translation.

Sam sits back heavily, and after that low blow he's done pulling his punches. "Dean, I am sorry about that, I am, but I'm not talking about what happened in Rockford, I'm talking about the apparent rifle butt to your face that gave you the concussion you're trying to pretend you don't have."

Dean exhales in what might have been a laugh if he'd been feeling better, but as it is manages to do little more than graze the very edge of amusement. "I don't have a concussion, Sam. I think I would be the first one to know if I had a concussion."

"How long were you out?"

"Don't know," Dean answers smugly. He has yet to look over at Sam. "It was still light out when I woke up in…" Then he clamps his teeth down around the rest before he gives himself away entirely.

Too late. Sam nods tightly. Transported to a second location without coming to. Awesome. He rolls his eyes. "How long has it been since you've slept or eaten?"

"Probably the same as you. My God, do you have a concussion?"

"So you want me to discount the fact that you're white as a sheet and can barely move?" Sam bobs his head. "Which, it turns out, is exactly the safest way to drive a giant car with a shitty turning radius on a crowded interstate."

"So first you shoot me, then you ditch me, then you bitch about my car."

"Will you stop trying to shake me off this conversation and please just pull over? If you don't want to stop somewhere then at least let me drive for a while."

"Fine," Dean clips. "If it will shut you the hell up." He jerks the Impala to the berm and slams her into 'park.' Before Sam can move he's already thrown himself out of the door and started around the front of the car. Sam's got one leg in the tall grass when Dean stumbles and falls on his palms against the hood.

There it is. Not like he likes to be right or anything. Sam rushes out, holds out his hands to steady Dean if he needs it but keeps them ultimately to himself. He hadn't thought there was a paler shade Dean could turn, but his stubborn brother has gone and found it, crumpled against the grill of the Impala. "You need to puke?"

Dean risks a slow, unconvincing shake of his head. "I'm good."

"Yeah. Yeah, you're good." Sam sighs and slaps a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder.

He's got the lights in the room nice and low, a thin hand towel thrown over the top of the lampshade to dull the stab of the bright bulb. Dean's got a couple of aspirin down the hatch, managed to keep these ones down so far, and a second towel full of ice held to the side of his head, face drawn while pulling in slow, deliberate breaths.

"Need to puke again?"

"Shut up about it, bitch."

"Sure."

Sam leans forward in his chair, laces his fingers together between his knees. He'd told himself not to go at Dean until he was at a hundred percent, but Dean has always been smarter than he's been given credit for. He's very rarely caught with his pants around his ankles, and even with this head injury Sam is safe in assuming Dean is anticipating the inquiry, battling his headache to get a story worked out.

"So how long have you known?" he asks, eyes ready to scrutinize Dean's reaction for every known tell in his repertoire.

"Known what?"

"That it was a demon that killed Mom."

Dean's eyes remain closed but he shifts slightly, licks his dry lips. "Sam, what the hell are you talking about?"

"I saw your face, Dean, when Dad called the other day. When I mentioned a demon, you weren't exactly surprised."

Dean swallows, moves his lips around a few different responses before settling on one and drawing in a deep breath. "Sam, I swear I don't know what you're talking about."

Sam shakes his head, not buying what Dean is selling. "After all of this, you knew the whole time what killed Jess."

"Sam – "

"No, Dean. I don't believe you."

Dean pulls away the homemade ice pack and draws himself up on his elbow, immediately draining any color left from his face. "Sam, I can't make you believe me, but if you wanna treat me like I've got a freakin' concussion, then you gotta give me the benefit of the doubt when I tell you that I have no idea what the hell you're talking about."

Sam sits back in his chair and stares at his brother a long moment, unable to get a good read on him, not sure what to believe. He swallows, frustrated, and flicks his glance away, where it falls on their packs on the table, the corner of the first aid case. "You need anything for those marks?" he asks in a tone signaling surrender, jerking his chin at his Dean's raw wrists.

Dean falls back gingerly against his pillow and rotates his right hand, wincing as the abrasions there shift and pull, but shakes his head. "Nah, it's cool."

"Okay." Sam runs a hand over his face and moves to stand. "I'm gonna get some fresh air. Get some rest and I'll wake you up in an hour."

"Yeah. I know the drill."

"I know you do."

He can't help but think maybe Dean got lucky, running afoul of the butt of that rifle when he did. Or maybe Sam just showed his hand too early. Either way, he knew they'd be lucky if the truce lasted until dinnertime.