"Does it?" Sam asked, He looked over at Dean as they drove down the highway.

"Does what?" Dean asked.

It was then that Sam remembered that they hadn't been in the middle of a conversation. He was asking a question based on a conversation they'd had weeks ago. Actually, only a remark he'd made to Dean more than a few weeks ago. They hadn't even been talking for the past hour or so that they'd been driving down this road.

He should be sleeping. He didn't want to be sleeping, but he should probably be sleeping. Dean probably wanted him to sleep. The windows were mostly up, the radio was mostly down, the bench seat was pushed back a notch more than Dean usually liked it, so that Sam had a little more room to be comfortable. He should be sleeping.

He wasn't tired though. He should be tired. Maybe he was tired. He should probably be tired. He'd had his soul back forty seven hours now, but he'd only slept two normal nights of sleep; apparently, his body wasn't trying to make up for the year or more of never sleeping at all. He thought it would. But it didn't seem to be.

Okay, well, maybe not 'normal' sleep. Although, well, maybe it was normal sleep, normal for a Winchester: short, choppy, shot through with nightmares and panicked stillness. Yeah, that could be normal sleep. For a Winchester. So maybe –

"Sam? Does what?"

Oh, right. He was talking to Dean. He'd asked him a question. Now Dean had asked a question back. Sam needed to answer that question.

"Does it still bother you?"

Actually, a doughnut would be nice right now. Chocolate frosted with cream filling. That would be good. With coffee. Black. All that sugar needed black coffee. Maybe he'd ask Dean the next town they came to if they could stop and get a doughnut. And coffee. Coffee would be good. Not that he was tired, he wasn't tired, but coffee would be good. Coffee and a doughnut would be really good. He wasn't really a doughnut person, not the way Dean was a pie person. He'd eat a doughnut if it was there, but he never craved them. This whole past year or more, he'd eaten only from hunger, never from appetite. He'd forgotten what it was like to enjoy food, to anticipate eating a favorite meal or appreciate a shot of good liquor. So, eating a doughnut would be nice. And coffee. Black coffee –

"Sam? Does what still bother me?"

Oh, right. He was still talking to Dean. He was still trying to ask that question. He still wasn't being clear enough. Dean didn't sound annoyed though. He only asked like he was only asking what Sam meant.

Maybe Sam shouldn't be trying to have a conversation right now. He wasn't tired - he wasn't - but his brain felt heavy, and thoughts and memories and ideas were spinning around like grainy splotches in a wobbly kaleidoscope. That maybe wasn't the best frame of mind to be having a conversation or trying to have a conversation or –

"Sam?"

Oh, right.

"Does hell still bother you?"

Or maybe he shouldn't be asking about hell. Because - you know - it was hell. Dean never liked talking about hell. No, Sam shouldn't have asked about hell. Knowing whether or not hell still bothered Dean wouldn't change anything, would it? If Dean even did asnswer, which he wouldn't, he was probably going to say 'no' anyway which meant really it did still bother him, but even so Dean would say 'no' and that was going to mean –

"Is my book still in the trunk?" Sam asked then, instead. He'd meant to shortcut the 'hell' question, but he didn't even really know where this particular question came from. Dean wouldn't know what book he was talking about. Sam wasn't even sure what book he was talking about, except he remembered reading a good book back, way back, back - back before - before –

"Everything of yours is still in the trunk." Dean said.

And that was nice, wasn't it? Nice was that feeling, wasn't it? The feeling that if the book was there or if it wasn't, it was okay because for that whole year that Dean thought - really believed – that Sam was dead, he hadn't thrown out any of Sam's stuff.

And so what that really meant was that anything Sam needed, or wanted, even a chocolate covered doughnut – or maybe that was too much sugar. Maybe he should eat some protein. Psychological distress was every bit as physically draining as physical distress so his body had to really be in metabolic overdrive for all he was going through so maybe he should eat some protein to compensate. Maybe the next place they stopped, the next town they came to, he'd get something protein – something like -

"Did you know that peanut butter was actually invented a thousand years B.C.E?" Was the next something he said to Dean. Which was a weird something to say. Another splotch from the wobbly kaleidoscope.

Even if he had peanut butter, he could still have the doughnut. Or maybe he could get a peanut donut. That wouldn't be as much sugar and he could get a lot of cream in his coffee. Or he could get a lot of cream anyway, even if he got the frosted doughnut. But no, black coffee would be better. Not that he was tired, because he wasn't, but -

"Are you hungry?" Dean asked, and Sam brought his attention back to the conversation. Dean had that slightly bemused, slightly incredulous smile on his face that he usually got when Sam was a little drunk or a little high on painkillers or really pissed at something that turned out later he was really wrong about. Dean looked a lot like Dad when he looked like that.

"I'm not making any sense, am I?" Sam asked, and he was surprised that he could actually form the question.

"Yeah, you are."

Dean meant it; Sam recognized the tone. They were in the car, driving, Sam was talking gibberish, and Dean was making sense of it. Which was nice.

After all that time, years, since Dean came back from hell even, all that time of not ever connecting between them, not really, and maybe not even wanting to connect except maybe actually always wanting to connect only not knowing that and trying hard in all the wrong ways to make it happen some other way when really the only way that was ever the way to really connect between them was always being just honest up front and not letting things go too wrong too long so maybe –

"Yes."

"That's what I said." Dean said. "Yes - you are making sense. Exhausted-out-of-your-mind sense, maybe. But sense."

But that wasn't what Sam said. Or it wasn't what he meant. Was he referencing another conversation again? No, this one felt recent. Immediate even.

"No - yes."

Because Dean had asked a question and so Sam was going to answer that question. He thought he was answering it. Well, yeah, he was answering it; he just wasn't being clear what he was answering. So – but – if he was making sense, if Dean was making sense out of what Sam was saying, then he'd know what Sam was answering for and Sam wouldn't – shouldn't – have to dig around his mind to remember what he was answering 'yes' to.

What was he saying 'yes' to?

"'Yes' you're hungry?" Dean asked.

Oh, right.

"I'd like to eat something."

Sam wasn't sure that could actually be categorized entirely as 'hunger'. It had been so long since he'd enjoyed eating anything. Even before hell, really. Before Dean's hell. He couldn't enjoy anything back then, knowing what was waiting at the end of that year. He'd eat, he'd sleep, he'd hunt and work, but it hurt. It was agony to watch the days burn away and be no closer to saving Dean. Sleep was as restful as white water rafting, alcohol was bitter, food was as good as ashes. Nothing was good because at the end of every meal, at the foot of every bed, in the bottom of every glass, there was hell. Dean's hell.

"Sam?What do you want to eat?" Dean asked. He sounded like he'd asked it once already.

"Does it?" Was what Sam answered with. Because maybe knowing the answer to that would make some difference, although Sam couldn't figure what difference it would make. Except maybe all he really wanted was Dean to be honest with him about it and that would be the difference that Sam's psyche seemed intent on. Honesty, openness, truth, talking.

Maybe it was just talking he wanted, needed, and about what didn't make any difference. Maybe he just wanted to hear Dean's voice. Wanted to want to hear Dean's voice. Because he hadn't enjoyed that at all either all this time they'd been back together. Hadn't enjoyed Dean's company, his sarcasm, his humor, his strength.

"Can we go to a movie?" He asked then, instead. Because if what he wanted was to enjoy being with Dean – well, hell didn't have a place in there, did it? So he shouldn't want Dean to answer that question, or any question, about hell. Should he? Hell shouldn't have a place with them, now.

Except it did, because hell was part of both of them now. Each of them separately and both of them together and a movie wasn't going to change that, but it wasn't going to make it any worse, either, was it? So, why not a movie? Why not a movie and a doughnut and some coffee and reading a good book and just sitting with his brother?

Maybe they could even sit out and look at the stars tonight because it'd be dark when they got out of the movie and Sam wasn't tired, really he wasn't, and even if he was he could sleep in the car, couldn't he? They could both sleep in the car if they had to because they'd done it before, lots of times, and really, the back seat could be comfortable if he found just the right way to get himself all tucked in there.

As long as he didn't put his boots on the seat and get Dean bent out of shape that he might get dirt in the car. Like that was a catastrophe or something.

Maybe he could get new boots. These boots weren't too worn, but a new pair of boots would be nice. The next town they came to, he'd look for a store. A real store to buy real boots. Dad was always particular that they always get new boots, properly sized, because feet are important. If you lose your feet, even to a blister, you lose a lot that was really important. It was always good to have a spare pair of boots.

It was hard to find boots in his size though. Especially in smaller towns. And they were headed for a smaller town now if the cow field they were parked next to was any indication of what was coming up.

Parked? Why were they parked? Did he miss another part of the conversation?

He looked at Dean and Dean was leaning back against the driver's door, with a look on his face like he was only just waiting for Sam to catch up to what was going on. Or maybe waiting for Sam to slow down so that he could catch up to Sam.

"It doesn't all fit." Sam said. Did that make sense? Dean would make sense of that, wouldn't he?

"It doesn't have to all fit, Sammy. The pieces can go wherever they need to go. I just want to keep track of a few of them."

"I'm not tired."

He wasn't. He wasn't tired. So why was Dean asking about that? Except - was Dean asking about that? What was he asking?

Or if not a doughnut, maybe a bagel. Except a chocolate frosted cream doughnut sounded really good. And coffee. Black coffee. Not that he was tired -

"Yes, you are tired. You're exhausted. I'm just interested in what happens between now and dreamland."

"Christmas won't be on a Saturday again until the year 2021."

Okay, maybe not the most relevant thing to say in their present train of conversation. But it was true, and truth was the most important thing, wasn't it? That and taking care of your feet. Because nothing was worse than having to hike a couple of miles with a blistered foot or an ill-fitting shoe or - well, there were worse things than that, of course there were. But in the everyday, normal, mundane world of things that were bad and worse, a blistered foot was worse and -

"You're not exhausted, you're in a talking coma." Dean said. And still he had that bemused look on his face like Sam wasn't being a total weirdo with all of his out-of-nowhere thoughts.

How long had it been since Dean smiled at him - at him, at Sam, not what Dean was supposed to believe was Sam - like he was happy just to be there with him, like being together was the best thing and he wouldn't want to be doing anything else.

"Sleep isn't as good as I thought it would be." Sam said. Even if he was - maybe - tired.

"Hey, I was there these past two nights, too. I know it's not. You still need it."

The past two nights. Sam didn't want to remember them. He'd slept, but he didn't, but he did, but all it was, really, was two nights of dozing off and slamming awake and trying to pick reality out of the shards of memories and nightmares and realizing that the hell of what was real wasn't much different from what was real about hell and good socks were just as important as the right boots and maybe a vanilla frosted doughnut with chocolate cream would be good too as long as there was coffee, black, and -

"Sam."

Oh, right. Dean was talking to him. Or he was talking to Dean.

"Can't I sleep in the car?" Sam asked.

"I don't know. Can you?"

Oh, gee. That was one of those verbal parries that Miss Endres, one of Sam's fourth grade teachers, had employed whenever a student asked 'can I' when they should've asked, 'may I?'

"You know -." Sam started, but Dean cut him off.

"Sam - honestly, if whatever you're going to say isn't about sleep or hunger, I don't think I'm up to it right now."

Oh, right. Sleep and hunger. That's where Dean's side of the conversation was right now. Not hell. Not peanut butter. Not - well, peanut butter was food, so that might fall under the heading 'hunger'. And really - if they went to a movie, Sam could get popcorn and that was food and for maybe ninety minutes they could forget about hell between them and then they could look at the stars and sleep in the car, both of them, because -

"You need to sleep, too." Sam said. "You were awake all of the past two nights with me."

Dean rubbed his eyes and looked away, out the windshield.

"Yeah, well, when you sleep, I'll sleep. That's how this works."

Pie. That was it. They needed to get pie. For Dean. And black coffee. Dean liked black coffee. Sam could pretend to sleep, he'd done it enough in the recent past, and if he pretended to sleep until Dean was asleep, then he wouldn't need to sleep and there'd be no nightmares and he could sit out on the hood and watch the stars and he could eat peanut butter doughnuts because Dean should sleep because he hadn't done anything to deserve not to sleep so they'd get pie and not talk about hell because Dean wouldn't answer anyway and even if he did, which he wouldn't, it didn't matter anyway, did it? It didn't matter that Sam's dreams of hell were nightmare's of Dean's hell and not his own, and pie - dammit pie - should be all it took to make hell fall away and leave two brothers as brothers and not the strangers they'd been growing closer to being since Sam couldn't even remember when.

"That doesn't make any sense." Sam finally answered Dean's statement.

"And knowing that Christmas won't be on a Saturday again for eleven years does make sense?"

Christmas, doughnuts, coffee, pie, stars, movies, sleeping in the car, being with Dean.

"It helps everything else make sense."

"Things will make a lot more sense after you've had some real sleep." Dean's tone was cajoling, He wanted Sam to sleep. "So - you sleep, I sleep. You don't sleep, I don't sleep." He looked Sam up and down once and shrugged. "You spit odd bits of trivia out at me, I listen lto you spit odd bits of trivia out at me. .."

He turned forward on the seat and started the car.

"So - peanut butter first?" Dean asked, joking but serious, and Sam knew that in a minute or less they'd be on their way down the road again, looking for somewhere to get him something to eat and he thought he had to know before then. He had to know now.

"Does it?" he asked, desperate, and he made himself not even think about another question after that because knowing the answer to that question was important. It was.

"Does hell still bother me?" Dean asked after a pause and a heavy sigh. He sounded tired. He didn't turn off the engine but he kept the car in park. "That's what you're asking?"

Sam nodded and ignored the wobbly blotches of doughnuts and peanut butter and Christmas calendars that were doing acrobatics in his brain.

"Why do you want to know?" Dean asked after Sam nodded. He didn't sound evasive or angry or anything but just interested in knowing the answer, and Sam kept pushing through the pain and fear, exhaustion and disorientation that his heart and mind and soul were working overtime to divert into visions of coffee and pastry.

Did it matter if the answer to the question didn't make sense, as long as it was the truth? Because it didn't make a bit of sense. But it was the truth.

"If I know, I think I'll be able to sleep."

Dean took in and let out a deep breath, and got that pinched, squinty look around his mouth and his eyes, but - to his credit, Sam thought - he didn't look away like he was maybe trying out answers. He kept his eyes straight on Sam's.

"I gotta tell you Sam - right now, my hell doesn't bother me as much as your hell bothers me. And it's gonna be that way for a while. You took on my hell for me, when I couldn't, and now I'm taking on yours."

Then he put the car in drive and didn't wait for or want an answer.

Pie, then, Sam thought. Pie for Dean and black coffee for both of them and a bagel with peanut butter and a chocolate frosted cream doughnut for him, and a movie and the stars and sleeping in the car because - God - the thought of sleeping inside a tiny room made his skin crawl. Or - no - yeah - a motel room so Dean could sleep too because he needed to sleep. Whatever. It didn't matter. The only thing that mattered right here, right now, right at this moment was Sam sitting next to his brother and being with his brother, and his brother wanting to be sitting here next to him.

That and a doughnut and coffee - and sleep, Sam gave a glance to Dean - and life would be as perfect as he could remember it being in years.

Sam sighed and leaned his head against the window and looked out at the passing farmland, gray barns, and dairy herds. Just as he was about to ask, 'Did you know that the actress who played Auntie Em committed suicide when she was eighty-one?' he felt a big, warm, familiar hand wrap around the back of his neck. Then it was on his shoulder, then on his wrist. And for a little while at least, hell drained out of his soul and into that touch.

Maybe he'd just sleep awhile.

The End.