Title: Don't ask if you don't want to hear the answer
Genre: Drama
Rating: PG-13 for one bad word
Warnings: none
Character: Sam, Dean
Spoilers: Kinda nothing and everything. Could be seen as a pre-missing scene from Long Distance Call
Word Count: drabble-ish, 300-something
Disclaimer: Nothing's mine. Wish it was but would never write say it out loud.
Summary: See title ;-)
A/N: Beta'd by geminigrl11. Thanks honey... again and again. Remaining mistakes are mine.

Dean is driving. His eyes are glued to the street, the lights of the Impala jumping from one tree to the next on the road side and Sam can feel the howl of the engine beneath his feet. The vibrations make his feet tingle and he resists the urge to put them up against glove apartment. His legs are too long, anyway.

"What are you thinking?" Dean wants to know and Sam blinks.

He thinks about too much but he can't help it. Never could. His thoughts are like little demons, ravaging his mind, ruining the last bit of hope and illusion and naivete he'd once had. And still, the clock is ticking.

He thinks of Dean and the stupid deal. Of the recklessness his brother showed when he played God and defied everything they believed in by offering his fucking soul (his SOUL) to the Dark Side. How's that for a bad karma?

He thinks about how he's supposed to go on, knowing what his brother did for him but not knowing if it was worth it. If HE was worth it.

He thinks about so much, he doesn't even know where to start. Or how to formulate. It's not like he thinks in words. He thinks in emotions, in memories, in logic and in pictures. It's colourful and confusing and really, really loud.

Dazzling.

What a mess.

"Come on, Sammy. Humor me." Dean asks again, throwing a quick glance to Sam whose thoughts are going into overdrive. "What's your freaky brain drumming against the inside of your skull?"

Sam gulps down his worry, his anger and the dull pain in his stomach that's got nothing to do with the brownish salad he'd eaten a few hours ago. The head lights meet a street sign. Urbana, 7 Miles.

His tongue is heavy and his throat is dry from swallowing but he answers anyway.

"Nothing." Like it explains everything.