AN: Thank you so much for those who reviewed. I have decided to continue the story. This is going to be another short part and then it'll be awhile before I update again (since I've decided to get the story at least 2/3's done before I continue to update). Again, this is not beta'd, so any and all mistakes are mine.

Our Hell, Chapter 2

"C'mon, Sammy. You have to eat." Dean got no reply, which didn't exactly surprise him. They were in a new motel, because Dean couldn't pay three days in a rent by the hour motel. The new motel wasn't much better, but it at least had hot running water and looked like it had actually been cleaned before they had entered it.

It had been three days since the demon had returned Sam's soul, and Dean didn't really know what to do anymore. Sam seemed to have three states of mind, and Dean found that couldn't seem to handle any of them. When Sam had first woken, the screams had gone on for hours, and at the end, his screams had resounded in Dean's head all night.

Sam's actions were inaction. He would stare quietly at Dean, and if Dean asked him something, he would only get one-word answers in reply. 'Are you hungry?' 'No.' 'Do you want to sleep?' 'No.' 'Are you sure you're okay?' 'Yes'. Dean never asked more than that. He wanted to. He wanted to ask Sam what happened, what he remembered about being with the Demon.

Dean didn't know anything about souls. He didn't know if they could hold memory, or if a soul could be aware of who a person is or does. A body was different. It had a mind to make sense of the things around it. A soul…Dean didn't know anything about that, but he wanted ask.

Sometimes, when Sam would wake from sleep, he didn't say anything, or do anything. He would sit and stare vacantly into space, not moving one inch. It seemed so much like the time when Sam's soul had been taken that Dean had panicked, shaking Sam's body roughly. This would only bring on another state of mind for Sam; one that Dean didn't know how to handle.

Sam would come to himself screaming, thrashing. He would then get on unsteady legs and try to throw anything within his reach. He would yell at Dean, telling him to go away and leave him alone. He would scream obscenities that, at a later time, Dean would be impressed with.

Dean would try to calm him down and the first time he did that he received a sharp elbow in the eye. Sam would end up in a corner, his head turned towards the wall, his hand seemingly trying to claw through the wall.

This wasn't what worried Dean the most, although it was certainly high on his list. What worried Dean the most was the fact that Sam didn't remember these…episodes or whatever he was supposed to call them. Sam would fall asleep in the corner and wake up with no memory of what happened, asking Dean what happened to his eye or why the lamp was broken.

Right now, Dean was dealing with the state of mind number one. Sam was aware of what was going on, but he didn't seem to care. Dean was trying hard not to lose his temper, because this was probably the twelfth time that Dean was trying to force food down Sam's throat.

Dean found that he couldn't handle any of it. It took every ounce of will power not to shake Sam, tell him to snap out of it. All he wanted was things to be like before. Times before were still tense, the secret that John had entrusted with Dean weighing down on him. But they were still better than this.

Better than the guilt that threatened to choke him, better than the argument that kept running through Dean's mind about how even this was better than Sam being dead. And it didn't help that both his and Sam's cell phone was ringing constantly. Dean didn't know who was calling, and for once didn't care. Right now his main priority was Sam. Because right now, Sam was the way he was because of the deal Dean made.


"What are you doing?" Dean didn't like what he was seeing. He was gone for thirty minutes, stocking up on supplies, and he came back to find Sam packing.

"Joshua called, I guess. There's a hunt he needs help on in Colorado. I told him we'd be there." Sam was still packing, his voice soft, and his gaze steadily avoiding Dean's.

"Sam I don't think you're ready to…" but his words were cut off by Sam throwing Dean's bag at him. It was already full of his stuff.

"If we leave now we should be able to get there by late tomorrow," Sam looked out the small window, at the sun that seemed to be shining too bright. He didn't say anything else and instead walked towards the door.

Dean shook his head, and was about to say something else but he stopped himself. It could be good. Getting back to the hunt. After Dean's near death experience hunting seemed to be the only thing that brought him comfort, and maybe now that will work with Sam.

Dean nodded and grabbed his bag full of newly bought supplies as well as his hastily packed bag, and headed towards the car. He was trying to convince himself that it would be okay, and that life would get back to normal. But thoughts of their last adventure kept haunting him, and would probably do so for the rest of his life.

It was Hell.


One Week Earlier

"It should be a quick job. A spirit in the middle of the desert. Can't put up that much of a fight," Dean tapped his hands on the steering wheel. Sam hadn't been talking to him much lately, and Dean might have been happier if he knew that there was probably a reason to it. A reason that probably that was rather negative, and had something to do with Dean himself.

Things had been tense lately, there was no denying it. After the hospital, after their father…well, they had been getting into one fight after the other. One argument after another and both their nerves were wearing thin. But Dean found that he liked the arguing better than the silence. And maybe that's why he started so many of them, because it was better to argue to than to be in silence with his thoughts tormenting him.

"Do you know what kind of spirit it is?" Sam's voice was soft, barely above a whisper. Dean didn't have to look over to know that Sam was staring out the window.

"Not really, but I'm sure it's nothing we can't handle. It somehow lures cars off the road. They drive fifty miles into nowhere, and then their bodies turn up a week later on the side of the road. The cars are usually still in the middle of the desert, and there's no signs of any other vehicles or cars coming to or from them. There's no tracks or anything. It's been happening for the last hundred years."

"What do the police say about it?"

Dean shook his head, "oh the usual. They think it's some serial killer. Doesn't matter that it's been happening for a hundred years. They suspect somebody just took over the killing or something. Top notch detective work, as usual."

Sam snorted, but didn't say anything. Dean sighed in frustration. "Okay Sammy. Spill."

Sam didn't say anything, and instead just stared out the window. Dean gripped the steering wheel tighter. "Sam, so help me…if you don't tell me why your acting like you're PMSing then I'm just gonna drop you off in the middle of nowhere!"

Sam didn't do or say anything at first. "I was just thinking, maybe we should have taken that job in Texas."

Dean groaned. They had just spent the last day and a half arguing about which hunt to go to, and finally Dean had given in and agreed with Sam that the spirit in Nevada took precedent. And now Sam was obviously trying to drive Dean insane by agreeing with him four hours after the argument had ended.

Dean knew he couldn't even reply to Sam, because if he did he knew that the words out of his mouth were ones he would probably regret later. And the last thing Dean wanted to do right now was issue an apology.


Present Day

Twenty hours in the car and Dean could count the number of words said on one hand. The only stops made were ones to fill up the car with gas. Now they were in Colorado, and Dean could barely keep his eyes open, and there was no way that he was letting Sam behind the wheel of his car. So, that only leaved the option of finding a motel.

Dean sighed, and glanced at his brother. He was sleeping, which Dean guessed he should be thankful for. He didn't know what he would have done if Sam had one of his violent episodes inside the car.

He pulled into the first motel he saw. He gently padded Sam's arm. "Sam. Sammy! C'mon. We're gonna take a little break." Sam groaned and Dean took that as a sign that he was awake. He got out of the car and headed to the motel office. It was just about 11:50 p.m. and Dean picked up his pace. Most motel offices closed at either 10 pm, or midnight. Dean hoped this one was one of the latter ones.

It took five minutes to get everything squared away and he was back at the Impala. He picked up his bag. Sam hadn't moved. Dean sighed again, and closed his eyes. 'I can do this. This hunt will put everything back on track.'

Dean pulled open the passenger door, and paused. Sam was awake, but was staring vacantly out the window. Dean clenched his jaw and dropped his bag. "Sam, Sammy." Dean waved his hand in front of Sam's face. There was no reaction. Breathing in deeply, Dean took Sam's arm and tugged gently. Sam moved, but still gave no acknowledgment of Dean. It took several minutes to maneuver Sam out of the car and another ten to get him up stairs to their motel room.

Sam didn't react to anything. He walked where Dean guided him but nothing more. Dean didn't quite know what was worse: Sam's violent outbursts or this complete catatonic mode. Dean walked Sam towards the bed and sat him down. He took off Sam's socks and shoes. The jeans took a bit longer but they came off. Soon Sam was under the covers, but he still stared at the ceiling.

Dean felt tears prickle at his eyes and shut them, not wanting to let go at this moment. He reached down and put his hand on Sam's forehead. "It'll get better, Sammy. I promise."