Dean shows up at the motel eight hours after he'd left it that morning. That's five hours after Sam got back from the library, four hours since Dean's last phonecall, and three hours since Sam started worrying in earnest.

They're in Torino, California, an ancient mining town nestled in the shrub and sand of the Mojave desert, and Sam's been put on research duty while Dean took the Impala out to trawl the sides of the empty, heat-shimmered highway, looking for the huge cracks in the earth that have been appearing and disappearing for the last month, swallowing motorists and travelers and innumerable jewel-toned lizards.

Dean had said he'd be back "in a few," which in Dean-speak could mean anything from a few minutes to a few days, but Sam had expected him back by the time he'd returned from the poor excuse of a town library, arms piled high with old mining blueprints and photocopies of yellowed newspaper.

"You still out there?" Sam had asked when Dean had picked up his phone.

"Uh, yeah," Dean had said, sounding distracted. "Yeah, still here."

"You find anything?"

"Found some stuff, but… this place is weird, Sam, I dunno."

"Weird? What do you mean, weird?"

"Nah, nothin'… just, I keep getting turned around, and the Impala's all freakin' dusty and… anyway, whatever. I'll be back soon."

"You okay, dude?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sure. Uh, I gotta go, Sammy."

And then he'd hung up.

Sam had tried calling him back about an hour later, but the phone went straight to voicemail, and Sam did his absolute best not to panic, but an hour and half and twenty-five fruitless calls later he was getting pretty fuckin' nervous.

"That's it," Sam had said to the motel wall. "You've got another fifteen minutes, and then I'm coming to get you."

Except Dean had taken the car. And this wasn't exactly the type of town to have cabs, or busses, or even more than three working vehicles.

Sam had left the air-conditioned motel room and gone to stand outside by the edge of the road, hot orange sun beating down on the yellow sand and black pavement, the air so thick it felt like he was chewing it when he took a breath in.

No cars went by, not one, but Sam stood there until his shirt was soaked through with sweat, staring down at the horizon, willing his brother's car to come trundling into view.

Until finally, it does.

"Where the fuck where you?" is the first thing Sam says as Dean climbs out of the Impala, and he thumps his brother once on the shoulder.

Dean almost goes down.

"Woah, woah," Sam says, grabbing at his elbow, "hey, you all right?"

"M'fine," Dean says blearily, swats at him. "Jus' tired. 'N hot."

Sam steps back to let Dean pass, and he sees that he's caked head-to-toe in sand and dust, his hair frosted beige, boots grey, badly sunburned face bright red under a layer of grit.

And then he notices that it's not just dust – its –

"Is that soot?" Sam asks, reaching out to Dean's cheek.

"Burned 'em," Dean says with satisfaction. "Burned 'em all. Fuckin' miner ghosts. Got trapped inna shaft like a hunert years ago 'n motherfuckers thought they could mess with me but no, noooooo…"

Sam grips Dean's arm because all of a sudden Dean's swaying on his feet, talking like he doesn't even notice the oval his head is tracing in the air, and then his eyes go wide and his mouth flies open and he's doubled over, gagging strings of yellow bile onto the pitted pavement of the parking lot.

"Fuck," Sam says, realizes that there are no sweat tracks in the dust on Dean's face, which means Dean hasn't been sweating, which means, "fuck, Dean, please tell me you brought water with you, please tell me you brought water."

"No water," Dean says indistinctly. "Oh, fuck, my head."

"Oh, no, no, no, no," Sam says uselessly. "Dean, you fucking idiot, we need to get you inside and in the shower."

"Yeah, 'm dirty," Dean agrees.

"That, and you've got fucking heatstroke, you moron."

"Aha," Dean mumbles into Sam's shoulder as Sam manhandles him inside. "Thought somethin' was a little off."

"I can't believe you drove back like this," Sam says, worry driving him to nag.

"Why'nchtu tell me to take more water, huh?" Dean demands, aggrieved.

"Oh, lemme think, 'cause you're twenty-six years old and I foolishly keep expecting you to act like an adult instead of a four year old? Arms up."

Dean puts his arms up obediently and Sam wrestles his t-shirt over his head, winces at the angry red of his brother's chest and back.

"You took your shirt off?"

"It was hot."

"You're fair-skinned, Dean, you know how bad you burn!"

"Ouch."

"Yeah, ouch is right. C'mon, tub."

"Nah, Sam, 'm fine, just needa nap and a glassa water and it's allll goooood…"

"No, Dean, you need to get in the tub or I'm calling an ambulance."

"They got ambulances all the way out here?"

"I don't know. Move it."

Dean lets Sam push him into the bathroom and into the water-stained porcelain tub, and Sam wrestles his boots off and then turns the water on, makes sure it's cool but not cold, and leaves Dean huddled underneath it, still in his jeans, head tilted back and mouth open.

"Here," Sam says when he comes back. "Drink this."

Dean takes the Gatorade Sam had bought the other day and stuck in the mini fridge, and he takes a long gulp, gasping a little.

Sam reaches up to turn off the water, and Dean shivers a little as soon as it stops. He looks like a kid, wet hair matted down to his head, soaking wet jeans, face sunburned and new freckles spread across his nose and cheeks.

"I knew I was bein' an idiot," Dean says suddenly as Sam is tucking icepacks underneath his armpits. "I knew I shoulda gone and got some water or somethin', take a break."

"Great," Sam says sarcastically. "At least you knew."

"But they kept turnin' me around," he says sorrowfully. "And then I found 'em, and what was I s'posed to do Sam, huh? I knew I could end it."

"You shoulda waited and come and gotten me," Sam says. "That's what you should have done."

"Guess I forgot," Dean mumbles.

"Here, put this between your legs," Sam says, handing him an icepack, and Dean shudders but he nestles it into his groin. "What do you mean, you forgot?"

"I dunno," Dean says. "Fuck, thas cold."

"You forgot me?" Sam asks, doesn't know why he's pressing the issue.

"No, Sam… jus' forgot there was anyone else. Not used to't, thas all. Don't get pissy."

"I'm not pissy," Sam says, and it's true, all the figurative piss just drains out of him, and he sighs. "Can you get up, get onto the bed?"

"I'm all wet."

"That's okay, Dean, it'll dry. You should probably be lying down."

They get Dean into the bed with a minimal amount of trouble, re-arrange the icepacks, and Dean guzzles down the Gatorade while Sam fans him with a newspaper, trying to get the water to evaporate so Dean'll start sweating again.

"This is kinda nice," Dean smirks. "'M like the Queen of Sheba, here, you fannin' me 'n shit."

"Yeah, Dean. You're a queen."

"Peel me a grape!" Dean commands.

"Drink this water, first, how 'bout."

Dean drinks the water, his eyes starting to drift closed, and Sam rustles up a thermometer and takes his temperature. It's a little high, but nothing major, and he'll survive. That was never a question – they've dealt with heatstroke before, and not once did Sam doubt that Dean would be okay. He's going to be absolutely fine.

Which doesn't quite explain why Sam still feels like crying.

"Don't do that again, you jackass," Sam mutters as Dean yawns, already half-asleep. "I'm here, okay? So call me next time."

"Next time," Dean says.

"Right, well, hopefully there won't be a next time."

"Or maybe you won't be here," Dean points out, eyes shut, body relaxing.

"I will," Sam says fiercely. "I will."

And he thinks he's making a promise.