Disintegration

"Okay. Stop compressions."

He'd known as soon as he'd found his father on the floor like that, but the boy in Sam had still hoped, up until this moment. All of the air seems to have gone out of the room, the people and medical equipment around him fading out of perspective and importance as his vision tunnels down to the sight of his dad lying vulnerable and exposed in the middle of all of these strange faces and invasive hands.

No, is the solitary coherent thought he can muster, repeating over and over in his mind. Unstoppable, like a leaky faucet he can't completely shut off. No, no, no no no nonono. His numb fingers flex around Dean's upper arm and a tingle spreads up his limb into the tense muscles of his shoulder. His entire body is stiff, held immobile since sliding to a sudden stop in the doorway with his brother in tow.

Dean is seemingly boneless in Sam's grasp, white-faced and breathing heavily. "Come on, come on."

No, no, no. Not now, not like this. Not like this. Sam swallows the sudden lump in his throat.

"I'll call it. Time of death, ten forty-one AM."

Sam can't remember the doctor's name and nothing could be less important as he watches the man step away from his duty of bringing his father back to life like he did with Dean. He feels a sudden rush of hatred for him, gaping silently. Next to him, Dean inhales sharply.

Setting the paddles aside, the doctor turns to them. "I'm sorry – "

"Screw 'sorry.'"

Sam might be at a loss for words but Dean's reaction is immediate and emotionally violent, maybe more so than he should be capable of in his currently barely standing – let alone conscious – state. He pulls away from Sam with a surprising burst of strength, takes a step towards Dad and one of the nurses reaches out to him with an unknown intent. Help him, stop him, doesn't matter; he bucks like a bronco at her touch, stumbles on weakened legs that haven't seen action in two days and would maybe hit the floor if not for Sam re-establishing a vice-like hold on his upper arm.

Dean is still a patient, and he needs to get it under control before the hospital staff does it for him; pin him down and jab a needle in his arm and stuff him back all nice and tidy in his own bed. Sam sure as hell isn't going to say as much, is well beyond having that kind of control over what his body does. He hasn't tried to move from his spot at the threshold, doesn't think he could speak if he wanted to, can only stare at his father's motionless – LIFELESS – body.

"Sir – "

"Screw you, too, doc." Dean's words are stronger than his body; Sam can feel him shaking like a leaf beside him, slowly slumping, alarming the nurses enough to close in, their intent fairly obvious at this point.

Everything is blurry, buzzy, and faraway, and through the haze there are only two things Sam is sure of: his father is gone, is really GONE, and the sensation of pain in his fingers from the iron grip he still has on Dean's arm, the only thing keeping either of them standing.

Day One

Dean's alive, suddenly and inexplicably, but he's in far from perfect condition, physically speaking. He still can't remember anything about the reaper – a fact that has Sam terrified Dean will drop at any moment – which is frustrating, and most likely owing to the concussion. His face and arms are peppered with cuts and scrapes from the crash, and the gash splitting his forehead turns Sam's stomach every time he looks at it. He's weak, pale, and looks like he was on the losing side of a raucous bar fight, but he's alive and that's what matters. That's what matters more than anything else right now. He lies stiffly where the hospital staff has overpowered and manhandled him back into bed, even managed to reinsert an IV. The last time Sam glanced in a mirror, well, he doesn't look much better.

"Are you sure you don't remember anything?"

"I dunno, Sammy."

"You hungry?"

"I dunno, Sammy," is Dean's quiet, monotonous response to every question.

The doctor pulls Sam into the hallway, apologizes again before getting down to business and telling him they want to keep Dean another night for observation. He's not at all surprised, what with the whole waking up from a coma he wasn't expected to survive, but neither of them can stomach another five minutes in this building, let alone an entire night.

"Please, doctor…" Again, Sam blanks on the man's name. "Please. My brother and me, we just want to be with our family." It's sincere and convincing and not untrue, and Bobby's on his way anyway. In response he gets warm eyes and a sweaty hand on his arm. And pity. Heaps of pity. Truckloads of pity.

Bobby arrives too late to do much of anything but lay a strong hand on the shoulders of a couple of boys who really need it, and to do it without the pity. He perches in a corner, trucker hat pulled low on his head, hiding his weathered face in shadow.

"Sam. Sammy, you hearin' me?"

It takes buckets of effort but Sam turns his head to meet his brother's eyes, meets the scraped and bruised side of Dean's face instead. He's propped up in bed with an arm wrapped once again protectively around his middle, pleading with Sam in that painfully low tone without looking at him. Sam can only imagine the way Dean is feeling but it must be nearly the same as he is, himself. Lost, confused, drained, like he's coming apart at the seams. The way Dean glances over and quickly averts his eyes tells Sam his brother is barely keeping it together. Just wants to see if he has Sam's attention.

Dean is at a horrible disadvantage, can't physically run from this with the way he's trussed up in a hospital bed and Sam has to bring him back from whatever dark place his wandering mind is taking him because his legs can't.

"I'm sorry," Sam says, his voice a hollow rasp that feels as unfamiliar as it sounds. "I'm here."

"Yeah, well, I don't wanna be anymore."

Sam rubs his hands on his thighs, warming them on the denim. "I know, Dean. I know. But…" There's no having this conversation, the one they need to have, not here and not with Bobby in the room. There's no making Dean understand the way his recovery looks to everyone else when it's so heartbreakingly difficult for Sam to see the situation for any more than it is, so obviously due to something only they would understand, so he continues lamely and without conviction, "but they want to keep you overnight for observation – "

"Screw them, Sammy." Dean's still looking out of the window, won't chance a glance at his baby brother. "I want out of here, now. I'll do it myself if I have to."

"They're just trying to help you, Dean." It's what Sam is supposed to say, without any real weight behind the words.

"Then they should have saved Dad."

They couldn't. "They tried."

"Sammy." Dean finally turns his head for real. The look in his eyes is so unfamiliar, so out of place on his abrasive big brother. "Please."

Sam's head bobs, eyes drawn to that nauseating tear in the flesh of Dean's forehead. No use arguing; the fight in him is gone, died along with their father, at least for today. "Okay," he says softly, against his better judgment.

Bobby's eyes widen but he doesn't voice any disapproval. "I'll handle the paperwork," he says instead, rising stiffly and leaving the room with heavy footsteps.

Dean's only been awake – only been ALIVE – for a handful of hours, and Sam is on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop and Dean to drop with it. He can't bear the thought of losing them both. Dean needs to be in a hospital, under careful, professional, CONSTANT care and supervision until someone with a medical degree from a prestigious university can tell him with absolute certainty that Dean won't drop dead anytime in the foreseeable future. Sam knows this, but there are other things they need right now, both of them.

Bobby had already told Sam and Dad they could stay with him at the house for as long as they needed to, with Dean laid up in the hospital, and his place is the only plan Sam can make any sense of for the time being. They have nowhere else to go, and no way to get there if they did.

Dean lingers outside the house until the sun goes down completely, walking a long, slow circuit around the mangled, blood-splattered remains of his Impala.

Day Two

Sam knows it makes him a bad son to feel this way but he's been told as much so many times that knowing it for sure barely stings. If he can only have one of them he's glad it's Dean, but Dean is obviously feeling otherwise, would give his life back if it would change things. His eyes have taken on that dark, faraway look that usually means the kind of dangerous thinking Sam wishes he wouldn't do. He would be lying if he said he hadn't spent the night plagued by the same unwanted thoughts.

They burn the body because it's what he wanted, what he always told them to do when the time came, but Sam doesn't like it. Mom burned and something about this feels wrong to him. He wants a proper burial and some kind of service for Dad, a headstone to match the one Mom's family put up that they've never visited. A fresh pang of guilt fuels the desire to have a tangible thing by which he can remember the man. This feels too much like eliminating the evidence of John Winchester's hard-fought life, everything except the two of them and what's left of the car.

"It's what hunters do, Sam," Bobby agrees quietly with Dean.

"But – "

"He had unfinished business, Sammy," Dean says with his back to Sam.

The demon. Of course this is about the demon. He feels young and stupid, trying to leave his father something to hang onto from the other side, a reason to not pass on. Assuming he's in a position to pass on, and not stuck…somewhere. But that's a conversation for another day.

Bobby helps with the pyre because he's the only one at full physical strength. Both brothers are sore all over from the crash, and Dean can barely hold up his own head, let alone lift and stack logs and broken tree limbs. When they finish, the sun is just about gone, along with any warmth the day held. Sam fetches their jackets from the house and Dean is slow to accept the worn leather coat.

It's all I could find, Sam apologizes silently. The three men stand awkwardly and shivering at odd distances from one another. It's obvious Bobby wants to stay for what's next and while Sam wouldn't mind the support, it's even more obvious Dean is really not okay with that, for reasons he won't voice.

Bobby takes in the look on Dean's face with a wordless nod to Sam and backs away from the clearing, the crunch of dry leaves and sticks under his boots crashing through the otherwise silent woods. Dean keeps his back to them both, staring at the body lying wrapped and waiting for the lighter in his pocket. Dad's lighter.

"We can still bury him," Sam tries one more time, last ditch effort, voice thick.

In response, Dean flips open the Zippo, ignites a flame that seems much too small to carry out the task being asked of it, and lets it fly into the heart of the dry woodpile, because they have to be men now and that means Dean makes the decisions. Sam has one selfish, wayward thought as the fire gains momentum: if he'll ever be the one to make decisions. He tried once, and he ended up in the same place he'd fought so hard for so many years to leave.

So much of his life, very nearly all of it, has been spent following orders. Dad's orders, which dissolved into shouting matches and fights, some much more recently than he would like. With Dad burning before his eyes, he struggles to hang onto the memory and the feeling of their last moment together. His father asking, nearly pleading with him to not fight.

"You okay, Dad?"

"Yeah, I'm just a little tired. Hey, son, would you, uh, would you mind getting me a cup of caffeine?"

Sam hears it over and over again in his mind, every time thinking, he knew. He knew he was going to die and he wanted Sam out of the room. Sent him for a cup of coffee he knew he was never going to drink.

Hindsight, Sam, he thinks bitterly as the hungry flames eat up the outline of his father's body. Corpse. He never should have left the room and he knows that now. Fat lot of good it does now. Maybe if he had been there, maybe he could have stopped…whatever happened in the time it took to get that pointless cup of coffee. Whatever got to Dad while Sam was standing like a dumb fuck in the cafeteria line and Dean was weak as a kitten in his hospital bed. To hell with whatever responsibility Dean is shouldering himself; this is on Sam. Dad being dead is Sam's fault.

Hot tears well in his eyes as recalls that weary smile, so out of place on the John Winchester existing in Sam's recent memory, the kind of expression not seen on their father since they were kids, a glimpse of the warm affection he's desired for so long, and he'd dropped his guard and done what was asked of him without question, without a moment's hesitation and now Dad is dead.

Sam needs to talk it out, figure out exactly what the hell happened while he wasn't in the room. Dean is being far too quiet to not know something. "Before he…," he starts, the wall coming down as he speaks, tears weaving warm trails down both cheeks. "Before, did he say anything to you? About anything?"

"No. Nothin'."

He's lying, and this is a fight Sam wouldn't ordinarily have the self-control to keep himself from starting, but this night is for Dad. He bites his lip and blinks the tears away. He squints and it hurts, the swollen bruise surrounding his eye resisting even the smallest movement. He knows there is virtually nothing that will drag his brother away from the fire before it burns down completely, but knows with an even fiercer certainty that Dean is in no condition to be out here much longer, not to mention his own condition. He's very nearly past the point of feeling, let alone caring about, his own aches and pains but that's his card to play, has been his pocket ace his entire life. All Sam has to do is shift his weight, wince, and put a hand to his bruised face.

Dean wipes a hand over his own face, getting rid of any evidence of emotion, and bumps Sam with his elbow. "Let's get you up to the house," he says, barely above a whisper and rough as granite. He won't look at him, just turns and begins the long trek back up to the house.

The sting in Sam's eyes and the hot, tight sensation of his face being pulled linger long after they walk away from the fire.

The lights in the house are dark and they don't hear a peep from Bobby. They split a twelve-pack on the cluttered back porch, drawing the night out as long as they can in a silence that is neither comfortable nor tense. They're just being, just two brothers in pain trying to make it through the worst night of their lives. Once the beer is gone, once the fire burns out and they go into the house and the night is over, all bets are off. A new chapter begins and Dad is really gone and neither is ready for that to happen just yet.

Dean's face is a mask, is a locked airtight seal on the cargo hold where he keeps his thoughts and emotions, or at least the ones that would cause him to feel weak. All of the things he refuses to speak about with anyone, even and especially his brother. Sam's most prominent memories of his father aren't particularly warm and fuzzy but Dean's clearly are, and it might help to ease the guilty ache inside to hear some of them.

"Dean," he tries, speaking more to the aluminum can warming in his hands than to his brother. The name is barely more than a strangled sound struggling in his throat but it does the trick. He catches Dean's jerk in his peripheral vision.

He recognizes that jerk, that startle Dean uses to communicate, pump the brakes, Sam. His brother is already giving his own beer an appraising look, like he's trying to decide if he should risk the time draining the can or give it up for lost and cut out while he can. He's not ready, doesn't even know what Sam's going to say – hell, SAM doesn't even know – but know he's not ready to hear it or be expected to respond.

Dean shakes his head with a wince, trying to tell Sam "no" without having to actually tell him.

"Dean – "

"No." Out loud this time, gruff and trying to sound like John Winchester, with an authority he's inherited but not had the time to grow into yet.

Sam finds himself growing annoyed, nearly irritated, by what Dean is already trying to do, the role he's trying to assume the very next day. "Okay," he says quietly, because he's already committed to giving him the one night. He can still see the last glow of the fire through the tree line at the end of Bobby's yard.

They stay on porch until they both lose sight of the flames. Sam's had enough to drink to make the physical pain recede enough that when Dean suggests he turn in, he goes.

Day Three

Sam wakes slowly, painfully, head pounding and face aching and to the smell of the smoky campfire cloud he'd laid down with. He drags himself out of the bed in Bobby's guest room and finds himself fully clothed, didn't even kick off his shoes. He pulls on a clean shirt, scrubs the ash from his face with a shaky hand and smooths his hair before moving slowly to the front of the house, bracing the occasional palm on a wall or doorframe to steady himself. Bobby's at the kitchen table, two steaming mugs in front of him.

Sam's mouth quirks in a grateful half-smile as he sinks into a chair. He draws a coffee cup into his hands and inhales deeply. Bobby brews some strong coffee. "Dean up yet?"

Bobby raises his mug, gestures to the screened door behind Sam. "Never went down."

Sam frowns and turns to see his brother in the same position, in the same lawn chair on the back porch as he left him last night.

Day Four

Sam begins the day with an offer to help with the car for maybe the seventh time. Dean is still sorer than he'll admit, is obviously having a rough time with the heavier pieces he's been hauling around the yard when he isn't obsessing over the journal. He tells Sam, "No," low and quiet and with that adopted air of authority.

Sam can understand his not wanting to share; the car is just about all he has left of Dad. The car, the frustratingly cryptic journal, the leather coat which hangs on the back of one of Bobby's kitchen chairs like an unwanted item. Dean hasn't looked at it in two days.

Sam stays standing by the side of the car, trying to force Dean to look at him, at the very least. Dean keeps his head down as he walks around the front bumper. His left foot catches in the dirt and he stumbles, braces himself against the hood.

By the time Sam is in a position to help him, Dean's already gone back to fiddling with the car, squatting by the rear bumper. He waits with a pounding heart by the pretzeled frame of the Impala until Dean finally looks up. "You okay?"

"Yep."

"Wanna talk about anything?"

"Nope."

Sam swallows. "Bobby wants to drive down to Lincoln, see if we can find Dad's truck."

Dean gives a barely perceptible bob of his head.

"You wanna come?"

"Nah."

Sam shifts his weight, not satisfied. "We'll only be gone a few hours. Just…Dean, just…"

Dean finally looks up from his work. "What is it, Sammy?"

"Just…don't do anything stupid while we're gone, okay?"

Dean wipes his hands on a greasy cloth and squints. "Like what?"

Like the stupid kind of crap Dad would have pulled. Sam shakes his head. "I'm not gonna give you any ideas if you don't have them already."

"Okay."

"Dean."

"Hmm."

"Promise me you'll be here when we get back."

Dean sighs and sits back on his heels. "I'll be here, Sammy. M'not goin' anywhere." He disappears once more within the mangled confines of the Impala. "Don't have anywhere to go."

Sam doesn't believe him, not completely, but they're all each other's got, so he figures he has to. Even so, he's almost surprised to find Dean in the same spot when they return from the frustratingly silent drive in which Sam failed to extract any information from Bobby. No one will talk to him. There aren't really sides here, but it sure feels like he's on Dean's.

Bobby parks the truck on the opposite side of the junkyard from the Impala. Sam would rather do his work next to where Dean is, maybe bond a little over a couple of beers while sorting through Dad's things, but Dean wants nothing to do with it.

"If you want to root around in Dad's things, that's all you," he'd said. "Leave me out of it."

Dad never let them touch his things. His bags had always been off-limits, especially the weapons. Dean won't breach that boundary, won't pull one zipper or unfold a single piece of paper outside of the journal they've already been given, because that's how it was with Dad and with Dean it's all about respect.

Sam had nothing of their father's and now he has everything from the truck, everything John Winchester has – had – to his name, and he takes his time going through it. They haven't been close in a long time, haven't spent more than a few days together over the past four years, and it doesn't feel like he's violating Dad's privacy.

He moves meticulously, almost clinically, through the contents of the truck. Starts with the easy stuff; there are three bags in the bed, along with the aluminum chest Dad had installed for weapons storage. He doesn't find anything he wouldn't have expected. His clothing and meager possessions are remarkably, though unsurprisingly, similar to Dean's. Of course, it's probably the other way around. The weapons don't interest him much, but he does set aside a couple of the older knives he remembers as mainstays from the first weapons duffel when he was a kid. For sentimental reasons, he supposes. Just wants something of Dad's, and Dean already has most things worth passing down.

He opens the driver side door and hops up into the cab, heart rate picking up as he prepares himself to dig through the more personal items Dad had. The picture of the three of them from that first motel room in Jericho is tucked into the visor, with a photo of Mom, maybe college-age. Sam has no memories of his own but in pictures, she's beautiful.

This is the part Dean has a problem with. Not the weapons, which he'll end up snaking into his own bags eventually, anyway. An assortment of trinkets and trash litter the floor mats and fill the center console. That's life on the road; the interior of the Impala looked similar, pre-semi. The console contains two dollars and fifty-seven cents, four sets of pens and notepads from unfamiliar motels in various states of use, and three keys.

He reverently lines everything up on the ground on a cleanish work rag from the garage. He's not quite sure what he was expecting to find, but it's a bit of a letdown so far. As private a man as John Winchester was, there's sure to be a payoff somehow. He pops the glove box and removes the paperwork for the truck and cigar box presumably filled with the same sort of fake identification Dean has. Under the box are three cheaply made flip phones, antiquated by today's standards, and a stack of prepaid phone cards rubber-banded together. That's everything. He might as well be rummaging through his brother's things, a thought both sobering and angering. What the hell was he expecting? He's thrown this very thing in Dean's face a dozen times.

Sam sits back with the phones in his hands. It's hot outside, stuffy in the truck, but he'd rather stay uncomfortable and alone than share this moment. Dean doesn't want to be in this with him and he's worried Bobby will tell him to leave his father's things in peace and his mysteries as mysteries.

A rap on the window draws his attention. Dean stands outside the truck. "Bobby says to call it a day." His dark eyes roam the collection on the rag on the ground. Sam can't tell for sure, but he looks about as disappointed as he feels, himself. "If you're done meddling."

Sam's fingers flex around the plastic casing of the cell phones. "Yeah. I'm done."

Day Five

Dean is bent over on the couch, looking comfortable on the plush, sinking fabric if not vigorously rubbing his temples with both hands. It's no wonder why, with Dad's journal splayed once more on the surface of the squat coffee table, same as yesterday, and the day before that. He seems to feel Sam's presence on the threshold of the room, drops his hands to fall between his knees in a gesture of surrender. "You need something?"

"Your head hurt?" Sam won't get a straight answer but should ask anyway, what with the brotherly obligation and the concussion and the fact he should be dead and all.

"Nope. Feels peachy. You need something?"

"You finding anything in there?" Anything. Anything with regards to what, exactly? The contacts in the journal have all turned up dead, unreachable, or unhelpful. Dad's notes are impossible to decipher but that hasn't stopped Dean from pouring over the pages every night. Dad was worried about where the Colt was, and now it's nowhere to be found. They have no Colt, no information, and no hope.

And no car, Sam notes, taking in the grease stains on Dean's face and tee.

"No." Dean stands, folds the journal closed, loose papers stuffed and crumpled in a way very unlike Dean, always so respectful with Dad's things. Sam is making an equal lack of progress with the cell phones; he can empathize with his brother's frustration. The air is heavy with the things they don't know.

Dean taps the journal against Sam's chest, forcing him to reach up and grasp it to keep the book from falling to the floor. "Tag. You're it."

Day Six

Sam is repaying Bobby's hospitality by playing housemaid, dusting bookcases that haven't been dusted in months, maybe years, washing dishes after silent meals eaten in scattered corners of the farmhouse. He would run a vacuum over the frayed rugs if he could find one, settles for an old corn broom he discovers in a corner of the garage, working out the dirt and debris with short, rough strokes. It's all an attempt to pass time that's passing too slowing. He's been trying to crack Dad's voicemail accounts, feels horrible thinking he didn't know the man well enough to break into them by now.

Dean doesn't make a single French maid joke, just steps gingerly around the random patches of hardwood or rug not covered with dust. "Car's almost done. Coupla days."

"Yeah?"

"Need a few parts. Bobby's been on the phone, found 'em for me."

Sam doesn't say anything at first, doesn't trust himself enough not to start that fight he's still struggling to avoid. This is the first day Dean's color is even close to normal, the first day he's standing completely upright without wincing, the first day he's said more than ten words to either he or Bobby. He frowns, leans on the handle of the broom. "Can I come with you?"

"No."

Sam knows so easily what Dean is going to say, he almost recites the word along with him. Doesn't make it any easier to hear. "Dean – "

"I'll be back tomorrow, Sam." Eyes down, tone flat. He moves through the room towards the guest room at the back of the house, the one they've been sharing when Dean decides to sleep.

Sam follows on his heels, the floodgates buckling. He misses his big brother. It's only been a few days but it almost feels like he lost Dean along with Dad and he'll do anything, say anything to get him back. "You can't keep shutting me out like this, Dean. He was OUR dad, not YOUR dad." His temper always gets the better of him, despite his good intentions.

Dean is already putting a bag together, roughly sets it aside and turns. Sam knows he's crossed a line, but he's no stranger to stepping out of bounds and to get Dean to talk to him he'll cross them all. "Look, Dean – "

"Sam," Bobby calls suddenly from down the hall. "Come help me put something together for lunch." It's hardly a suggestion.

Dean raises his eyebrows, pulls closed the zipper of his bag. Sam sighs and lets his hands slap against his thighs, backing slowly out of the room.

Bobby's at the sink when Sam enters the kitchen, defrosting a pack of hot dogs under the tap. "Have a seat." Like he's in trouble, but not really. He's not their father, and not looking to act like it.

"I know I went too far," he says softly, sinking into a chair and shooting a conspiratorial glance down the hall. "But he won't talk to me, Bobby." The sound of the front door shutting punctuates his statement. Even without a 'goodbye.'

"You're a good kid, Sam. Always were. And you're a smart kid, so I know that you know when you left for school, life didn't stop for Dean and your dad. And it sure wasn't sunshine and roses."

Sam lifts a shoulder, equal parts irritated and embarrassed as Bobby places a cold beer in front of him.

"There were rough times, Sam. Some real bad days. I know you miss your daddy. Hell, I miss him, and the last time I saw John I had an itchy finger on the trigger."

"Bobby…"

"Dean and John had a complicated relationship, one neither of us could hope to understand, Sam. It's been six days. You have to give 'im some time."

Sam nods, takes a sip of the beer.

Bobby pops the top of a bottle for himself. "Now," he says, tossing the cap onto the counter and settling into the chair across from him. "If you want to talk about your dad, let's talk."

Day Seven

Dean's not back, not answering his phone, not returning Sam's calls.

"You're makin' it worse every time you call him."

Caught in the act, Sam sighs and tosses his cell phone onto the bedspread. "He's making it worse by not answering."

"You're never gonna stop bein' disappointed in people, you keep holdin' them to the standards you set for them."

"He said he'd be back today. I'm holding him to the standards of polite society."

Bobby chuckles and moves down the hall. "Yeah, that sounds like your brother, all right."

The swelling around Sam's eye has receded enough that he can blink without a sharp flare of pain. Without that pain to focus on, he starts to feel it in other, more important places.

Day Eight

Sam wakes with a start to late morning sunshine spilling over his face and the muted sound of classic rock through the windowpane over his head, and that can mean only one thing.

He'd been up until three in the morning working on the voicemail passwords, and finally hit pay dirt. And as much as he wants something he can share only with Dad – alive or dead – it's time for Show and Tell. He pulls a cleanish v-neck tee over his head and grabs up the phone from the dresser on his way out of the room.

"How's the car coming along?" No use for pleasantries. Besides, it's not like they parted on wonderful terms.

"Slow."

There are all sorts of things Sam wants to say, wants to ask Dean were the hell he was, why the hell he didn't answer the damn phone. But Dad's last wish was to not fight, and Sam can give him that much. For now.

End.