A/N: While this is the post-apocalypse-speculation fic, I feel that I should explain something. This was written after I had just seen 4x20 and the promo for 4x21 and 4x22. I took some guesses as to what would happen based on said promo and left it deliberately ambiguous in certain places since the season wasn't over. I actually think that it still kind of works, now that the season is over and we've seen it all. And hey, if season 5 looked anything like this, I'd be happy.

The highway stretched out before him, the Impala the only one on the road. They'd passed the last exit a little while ago, weren't due for another one for at least ten miles. Night had fallen and it was warm enough to roll down the windows, cool enough that A/C wasn't needed. The radio was playing Foreigner a little too loud, and Dean reached over and switched it to another station. Bad Company's Shooting Star popped, the song midway through, and he turned down the volume and returned his hand to the wheel.

He kept his eyes on the road as a car came up from behind him, headlights bright in his rearview mirror. The car slid into the left lane, and even now, two weeks after everything, Dean still tightened his fingers around the wheel. Castiel had promised, but.

The car zoomed past them harmlessly, and Dean allowed his grip to loosen. The tail lights soon faded from view and it was back to an empty road. Only when the road straightened out did Dean dare to glance over to the passenger seat.

Sam slept on, head resting against the glass. The road turned a little rough, and he murmured and frowned, turning a little in his sleep. Years of practice made it easy for Dean to reach into the back seat, tug his earlier discarded jacket forward, and roll it one-handed into a makeshift pillow. Checking to make sure the road was really empty, Dean turned it towards the right shoulder of the lane, then tilted the wheel to slowly drift to the left. Hands came off the wheel to gently pull Sam away from the window in order to tuck the jacket underneath his head. The frown slid away, and Dean easily took the wheel as the car finished sliding into the far left lane. Risky, but years of practice made it easy.

Then again, Dean had had years of practice doing all sorts of risky things for Sam.

The memories of the imbroglio of pain and fighting from two weeks ago drifted through his mind, unbidden, unwanted. Words had been hurled, fists had been thrown, and sides had been chosen. Even now, Dean's stomach turned and twisted. He'd never imagined it going down the way it did. It still felt like a nightmare, like he was still in hell having to watch Sam become something else. The roller coaster of emotions he'd felt had only made it worse. Betrayal. Grief. Anger. Hurt.

He hadn't really thought they'd make it through. Him or Sam. The world.

But somehow they had. Somehow they were still alive.

The exit was announced, the headlights shining over the symbols for food and lodging. Dean moved back over into the right lane. It was heading towards midnight; they needed a real bed.

Lights from the town appeared next, and he debated whether he should wake Sam now or there. One last glance at Sam made him pull off onto the exit ramp, his hands both on the wheel. Give the kid a few more minutes; he was sleeping soundly, something neither of them really did anymore.

They would, though. Dean knew they would. If they could find their way back to the brotherhood that always seemed to be there underneath it all, they could damn well sleep peacefully through the night. They deserved that much, at least.

The first motel Dean spotted looked relatively well maintained, and better yet, the vacancy sign was on. The office lights were bright against the brick walls of the motel, and Dean pulled up right next to the door. The car was left on, and he slid carefully from his seat, shut his door even more carefully, and made his way inside.

Once the keys were his, the drive down to their room took all of thirty seconds. He took his time closing the car up: radio switched off, window rolled up, lights off, key twisted and taken out of the ignition. The rumbling beneath him stilled, and Sam shifted slightly but didn't wake. Dean pocketed the key and debated leaving Sam in the car while he unpacked.

No, not a good idea. Even as he knew what Sam's reaction would be to waking up alone in the car, he winced and forced his own chest to relax. Two weeks, and they still were a little hesitant to go anywhere without the other. There was still a tension when they were together, a lot like it had been when Sam had left Stanford and they'd formed a team again. Same feeling of betrayal, hurt over words said, getting to know the other all over again.

When it had come down to the final line, though, while the end of the world was a possibility and angels and demons pulling at their arms and souls, they were still brothers. It was the only thing that had saved them both. Not just from death, but from damnation, too. They'd saved each other.

Dean stepped outside and moved around to Sam's door, opening it smoothly. His brother slid out, still asleep, and Dean caught him with a single hand. He'd caught Sam with the same hand two weeks ago, even while blood had flown and screams had resounded.

Despite being gentle, Sam still woke with a start, eyes wild. “It's okay,” Dean instantly soothed, and Sam's eyes whipped to his. “We're okay, Sam, just stopping for the night. Little place in the middle of nowhere, but I did see a pancake place when I came off the exit. There's a shopping mall, too, few chain places we can stock up at tomorrow after breakfast.”

All inane, silly things, but the panic in Sam's eyes receded with each softly spoken word. His breathing evened out, and Dean even thought he saw sleepiness creep back in. “C'mon, bro, let's get to bed,” he said quietly, and Sam gave a small nod and climbed out. Bags were taken out of the trunk, the car was locked up, the door to the motel opened. The room was a little too cool, but Sam didn't notice and Dean didn't care. The cool felt welcome, and the system supplying it was mercifully silent.

They each took their time in the bathroom, undressing and redressing, brushing teeth and staring at their reflections. The door was always left open now, an unspoken agreement from a week and five days ago when one of the doors at their motel of the night had gotten jammed. There'd been hysteria on both sides, Dean trying to find a way in, Sam trying to get out from the enclosed space. Twenty minutes and a cracked door later, Dean had gotten in, pulled a trembling Sam to his feet, and taken his little brother outside to the big, wide parking lot. They'd camped outside that night in an empty field by the highway, though neither of them had slept. In the morning, Sam had indicated that he'd been fine, and even managed a ghost of a smile when Dean's guilt had stayed firmly lodged in his throat.

They both had their demons from the past few months. Things that had seemed so critical, so worth fighting each other over, were now stupid, trivial, and meaningless. Nothing was worth the other's life. That was something they'd both been reminded of two weeks ago.

The feeling of sliding in under cool, clean sheets still made Dean sigh. From the bed farthest from the door, Sam shook his head, and Dean would've sworn there was a tiny twitch of his brother's lips. Two smiles in two weeks; Dean felt amazed.

“G'night, Sammy,” he said softly. Sam nodded back at him and nestled down into the bed. Dean gazed at him for a long moment, then let his head relax into the pillow.

Two smiles in two weeks, but no words since the night it had all come crashing down around them. They'd both gotten checked out by the hospital that night, and the doctor had said besides the obvious injuries, they were both fine. Sam was physically able to speak.

Mentally, though.

He'll talk when he's ready to, Bobby had told him when Dean had called him the day after the bathroom incident. Kid's as wrecked as you are, Dean. He'd thrown in, Tell Sam I'm not mad, all right, and that I want to see his stubborn ass. Just glad he's alive and okay; nothin' else really matters besides that.

Dean had told Sam. Sam had shaken his head so violently that Dean'd been afraid it was going to fly off. Every single time Dean brought up visiting Bobby, Sam turned white and shook his head until Dean said he wasn't turning the car towards South Dakota. It didn't matter if Dean told Sam everything was forgiven and that Bobby still thought Sam was family and always would; Sam still refused each time.

He knew what was going through Sam's head, even though his brother was beating himself up over something that was already forgiven and forgotten. Bobby called for updates, offered to talk to Sam even if Sam didn't feel like talking back, but the phone was always refused, leaving Sam curled up against the car door. Dean had considered turning it on to speaker phone once, but had figured there'd been enough betrayals between them. He didn't need to add another one, albeit a minor one, to the list.

He drifted off before he realized it, and found himself waking up when a piece of sun came through the almost-fully-closed curtains. Dean squinted and turned away from the light, already knowing he was too awake now to go back to sleep. In the next bed over, though, Sam was restlessly shifting, and the frown was just starting to form between his eyebrows.

Dean pushed the covers away and stood, lightly pressing Sam's shoulder and softly called, “Sam, wake up. It's almost seven.”

Sam jerked under his hand, but his eyes weren't wide and scared when they opened. They still immediately sought Dean, and Dean gave him a quick grin. “Pancake house down the road has to be open by now,” he added, and Sam's lone raised eyebrow of feigned exasperation had Dean feeling solid ground beneath his feet again.

Sam wasn't the only one recovering from two weeks and a day ago. They healed each other. Always had.

The pancake house was just as good as Dean had hoped it'd be, and they were back on the road by eight. No real job on the horizon, no angels on their doorstep yet, and it was all just Dean and Sam, Sam and Dean. Working their way back to SamnDean, one small step at a time.

Not too much tension yet, though a little bit of awkwardness at a few points when the music fell into a lull. Led Zeppelin had been too harsh, Boston too cheerful, and when Bon Jovi had sung out Shot through the heart, and you're to blame, he'd been viciously twisted to another station by the both of them. The lyrics had been too much, and the singer itself was attached to another painful memory. When they pulled their hands away from the radio, there'd been silence until they'd glanced at each other, and Sam had given him a sheepish smile. More of a smile than Dean had seen before: not anything others would call a smile, but a smile to Dean.

Bruce Springsteen had come onto another station after that, and Dean had let it play instead of turning it off like he usually would. Springsteen generally wasn't his thing, more of Sam's, but sometimes it was worth playing. Sam had turned and given him a surprised, confused look, and Dean had given him a sheepish smile in return.

The lift at the corner of Sam's lips had been worth it.

The day was nice, and they pulled off to finish off the leftovers from breakfast. Dean had grabbed beers when he'd stopped to get gas, and he pulled them out now, handing one to Sam. Sam cautiously took one, then gazed at the bottle, then Dean, as if he didn't know what to do. Dean popped the top off of his easily, and the metal clang against the stones sounded familiar. After a moment, another metal clang was heard, and it sounded familiar and right. Dean let his smile take the first sip of the beer.

“Thanks.”

Dean jumped, bottle pressed against his lips to keep from spraying his beer in surprise. After a moment, he swallowed the beer and turned to Sam. His brother's eyes were on his own bottle, but after a moment, they slid back up to Dean. “For...for not giving up on me,” Sam continued. His voice was raspy from disuse, quiet and nervous.

It was still the best thing Dean had heard in weeks.

Dean set his beer down on the top of the car and turned to face Sam. “Look, I...dammit, Sammy, what happened two weeks ago-” and he raised his hands before Sam could take another step backwards, “-just listen to me, it was bad, okay? I know it was.” The worst few days of his life, and Dean had plenty of candidates to fill the position.

Sam still looked ready to run. Dean knew how he felt. “But we made it through even after our mistakes. And yeah, we both screwed up. Trust me. I did and said things I'm not proud of, either.” He took a deep breath and pressed on. “We're still standing. We got each other out of that mess. And we're still brothers. Little strained sometimes-”

“Like now,” Sam interjected softly.

Dean paused and took in the tired slump that had moments before been tension. “But we'll get through,” Dean insisted, voice quiet as he stepped forward. “I promise, Sam. What happened two weeks ago is going to be a bad memory one day, and we're not gonna give it a second thought. I swear.” It would happen. He'd make sure it would happen, for both of their sake's.

Sam nodded, then nodded again, reassuring himself. After a moment Dean retrieved his beer and leaned back against the car. The sun was bright above them, and he considered tossing his jacket off. The silence was comfortable, the tension having faded for the moment. It'd come back. They'd be ready.

And they'd get through it.

Sam looked relaxed, at least a little more so, and after a moment of deliberation, Dean asked, “You, uh, wanna swing by Bobby's? We don't have to if you don't want to, but Bobby really doesn't care about what happened before, he's been worried-”

“Okay.”

Dean stared at Sam, and Sam gave a small shrug. “I guess,” Sam added, voice still hoarse.

No smiles from Sam now, but Dean couldn't help but feel it was still a step forward. “You'll be fine,” Dean said, then paused and amended his words. “We'll be fine.”

They really would be. He'd been thinking it, but saying it made it real. Even Sam was relaxing, his grip on his beer loosening and allowing blood back into his fingertips.

They finished the beer and tucked the bottles back into the cardboard case they'd come in. Dean rolled up his jacket and handed it to Sam, who took it with a nod of thanks and tucked it in beneath his head. The radio was tuned to a station playing AC/DC, and when Sam gave a faint smile, Dean turned the car back towards South Dakota.

END