You probably know by now that most hunters live on the road and travel light. It cuts down on transit time if you can just go straight from one case to another without having to make a trip back to a permanent location for supplies. Most people also think it's safer, and I'd have to agree, to a certain extent. You're going to get monsters, officers of the law, and maybe even normal people chasing after you at some point (if you're any good, at least), and they'll have a much harder time finding and eating, arresting, or killing you if you don't have a fixed address. Whether or not you spend more than a few minutes there every couple of months, even a mongrel werewolf - pure id, no higher brain function - will know it's your den, and that, eventually, you'll come back.

Living out of a car and sleeping in a motel room (or that same car, if you're being really thrifty) is definitely safer and easier, but only physically. You might not give a lot of thought to how losing your home will affect you emotionally. Those few of us who were born into the life, into the travel and the drifting, definitely don't. But pulling up your roots, no matter if it's by choice or necessity, hurts you. You might not feel it right away, but I can guarantee you will eventually.

- Welcome to Hunting, Sam Winchester

"You know you're limping, right?"

Sam stopped for a second. He felt the sun pouring down on him as he thought his way down to his calves and feet, and consciously shifted his weight. Sweat pooled on his neck, under the heavy weight of his hair, as he started walking again - this time really thinking about it, so he didn't end up favoring either of his two perfectly-good legs. Rocks and dust moved against the soles of his boots, and his feet hurt.

"No," he replied. "I didn't know that."

"Well, you're real bad about it." Sam glanced at Dean as he breezed past him, making it to the top of the bald hill they were climbing almost a full minute before Sam did. Sam kept his eyes on him as he got steadily closer. With the sun behind him, he was just a black silhouette with his hands on his hips. Sam didn't need to see his freckled skin to know there wouldn't be so much as a drop of sweat on it. Even in spite of the denim, flannel, and canvas he was covered in.

"Maybe you should have me practice walking, then." Sam was trying hard not to pant. He'd like to think he was in pretty good shape, for a guy who'd spent the last seven years writing books in a cabin, but it was boiling out here and this hill was really steep. Plus, the duffel bag full of heavy weapons and targets slung across his back was making things difficult. "Instead of shooting. I know how to shoot." He stopped for a second, and did his best to make it look like he was thinking instead of catching his breath. "In fact, I might've been able to shoot before I could read."

"Knowing how big a nerd you are, I seriously doubt that." When Sam finally reached the top of the hill, Dean took the duffel from him; Sam wondered why he hadn't just carried it himself. "And sure, you can shoot, but any moron can aim and pull a trigger. Takes a little more to actually hit stuff...which you can't."

"I can hit stuff." He didn't bother mustering up the energy to sound defensive. Just sat down on the nearest, least-dusty rock as Dean unzipped the bag - and forced himself not to leap back to his feet when the heat of it almost instantly seeped through his jeans and boxers. It wouldn't burn him, but god, was it ever unpleasant. He hated Nevada.

"Sure," Dean agreed. He was kneeling on the ground, apparently still unaffected by the heat, and frowning at the shooting targets as he pulled them out of the bag. "With a shotgun. At close range."

"I'm fine with a pistol, too. And a rifle."

"Not when I asked you to show me how 'fine' you were." He tore the plastic wrap off, sending a couple rectangles of heavy cardboard with targets printed on them straight to the sun-baked dirt. "Couldn't hit a big-ass tree from twenty feet away with a single shot." He picked up a rectangle, frowning at it. "So, do we, like, tape these to stuff, or...?"

"Didn't you buy some kind of stand to put them in, too?" Dean went back to digging through the bag. "I already told you I was tired then. And off-balance."

"Yeah, we need to work on your stance," Dean agreed. He'd found the stand-thing, a frame and legs made out of plastic and metal, and was now trying to figure out how to unfold it. "I'm guessing you practiced all of one time in the last decade, but you were gimpy when you did it, so you've gotta unlearn that."

"Dean, c'mon. It's hot." Sam ran a hand through his hair. His fingers came away wet. "Could you maybe try to be less of a dick?"

"You gotta learn how to shoot," Dean replied, although at least he did sound a little apologetic now. He was gone for a second, popping into view way across the flat top of the hill (did that make it a butte instead of a hill? Sam wasn't even sure what a butte was), and then he was back, having left behind a target on top of another hot rock. "Or get better at it, at least. 'Cause you're not hunting 'til I know you can kill something to save your life, and you're not getting anywhere near the First Trial 'til you've hunted again."

"Fine." Sam guessed he understood Dean's reasoning, and that he was being protective, not controlling. "I still don't get why we can't do this at a shooting range. There're only about a million around here."

"Too crowded." That'd become a common response from Dean in the months since they'd left Sam's cabin and, eventually, Bobby's scrapyard. "Here. Load it."

A handgun and a box of ammunition landed in Sam's lap. Both were familiar. Unlike the targets, they hadn't bought them at the local sporting goods store. Dean had grabbed them when he'd gone back to Sam's cabin to get the notebook the fate of the world more or less depended on, among other things. According to him, the place had been trashed, which Sam had been expecting. It must've only been demons, and stupid ones, in there by the time Dean went, though, because none of his weapons had been taken - not even the Kurdish knife. Hunters (or more competent demons) would've grabbed everything, especially that.

Sam had the gun (a Glock; small and light) loaded in about thirty seconds. He'd always been good at that, courtesy of the roughly one billion hours his dad had had him spend field-stripping every kind of weapon imaginable when he was younger. He glanced up at Dean with a raised eyebrow when he was finished.

"So you don't need to work on that, at least," Dean noted. "C'mon." He helped Sam to his feet, and Sam hoped that how glad he was to be off the rock wasn't too obvious. He followed Dean a ways past the duffel bag, then watched as he dragged an X in the dirt with the toe of his boot. "Stand here. Show me your stance again."

Suppressing a sigh, Sam did as he was told. Feet planted (equally firmly, he made sure), chin lowered, gun raised and arms straight. He saw Dean studying him out of the corner of his eye, his own arms folded.

"Okay, well, you're not as bad as you were last time," he admitted after a little while. "You're self-correcting. That's good." He moved in. "Couple things, though." He corrected Sam with gentle touches. "Your life's gonna be a whole lot easier if you don't lock your elbows. And you don't gotta aim to the right of whatever you're trying to hit."

"Sorry. Guess I was thinking of archery."

"We'll probably end up covering that, too, but guns are more important." Dean took his hands away, apparently satisfied with Sam's stance now. "Wait one sec. Don't shoot yet."

Sam turned his head to see Dean digging into one of the pockets on his jeans. The one he knew he'd started keeping rubber bands in recently. He rolled his eyes.

"My hair's fine, Dean," he told him.

"It's one good breeze away from falling into your eyes," Dean replied, stepping up behind him. He swept his hair back with one hand and wrapped the rubber band around it with the other, movements smooth and practiced; he got all the loose strands in one go, which made Sam suspect he used telekinesis, too. The rubber band caught and pulled slightly at his hair, just like they always did, but wearing actual hair ties (or, god forbid, scrunchies) just felt too...girly.

"There's not gonna be one good breeze. The wind hasn't blown the whole time we've been here," Sam pointed out, though he stood still and let Dean put his hair in a ponytail anyway. "I'm starting to think this entire state's just dead air."

"Desert, end of summer," Dean responded. He stepped back as he finished. "Happens sometimes."

I miss the mountains. Sam thought it, loudly, but didn't say it. He'd kept from whining so far - just barely - and he'd rather not start now. "Wish we could go somewhere cooler."

"Gotta stay out west," Dean reminded him. "East's crawling with demons, not to mention hunters who hate you. And me, but that goes without saying."

Sam grimaced. "Don't remind me."

"Guess we could go north," Dean continued, walking backwards until he could stink down onto a rock of his own, "but north means forests, and forests mean more monsters." He looked around, maybe checking for cars or hikers. Sam couldn't imagine anyone dumb enough to be out in this heat, though. Besides them. "Same with big cities."

"I know." Dean seemed to have a hard time remembering that Sam had grown up hunting, before the wendigo had gotten hold of him. And that he'd stayed in the life even after he'd been hurt. "Can I start shooting now, or...?"

"Sure, so long as you don't want the headphones," Dean said with a shrug.

"Never used 'em before." Sam checked to make sure the gun was lined up correctly, squinting. It was bright up here. Hot and bright. He should've brought sunglasses...did he even own a pair? "Told you not to buy them."

He fired. Three shots in quick succession - grouping, like his father had taught him. The gun kicked against his hands, the recoil familiar and almost comforting, and his biceps automatically tensed to counteract it. Muscle memory in action.

The cardboard shivered, so he knew he'd hit it, but between the light and the distance, he couldn't quite tell where. The air was shimmering, too, where heat was rising from the ground. And now there was sweat in his eyes, which was bothering him way more than his hair ever would have been able to. He'd been about to fire again, but first he lowered the gun and wiped his eyes with one forearm. He'd barely gotten the gun back up before Dean stopped him again.

"Wait, wait, wait." Sam heard him push himself up off of his rock and come over. "Don't shoot." Sam looked at him. He kind of had to, when Dean stepped in front of him and nudged his left leg with one boot. "You're favoring it again."

"Oh, my - " Sam dropped both hands and glanced up at the sky. The gun landed heavily against his thigh, and he realized that he hadn't switched the safety back on. It was basically pure luck that he hadn't just blown a huge hole in his own foot. But then, at least, he would've had a reason to limp. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

"'Course not. It's not your fault." Dean looked at him with something a lot like sympathy. Probably as close as he could get to it right now. Sam knew he was impatient. And inhuman. "It's just the way you've been used to moving and standing for almost a decade. You're not gonna break those habits in only a couple months...plus, the left one's still weaker than the right. We gotta keep working on that."

"I don't even know what I'm doing wrong," Sam admitted. "You wanna...help me out?" He gestured vaguely to his legs. "I've still got a dozen shots left. Might as well take those."

"At least," Dean agreed, before putting his hands on Sam's waist. He jerked back almost as soon as he touched him. "Jesus, Sammy. You're soaking."

Sam's lips thinned. He really wasn't sure how he felt about that nickname. His dad had used it, too, and it just sounded weird coming out of Dean's mouth - especially because he knew and had just kept on using it. But, yeah, now that he mentioned it, his T-shirt did seem to be sticking to him pretty bad. And he'd even worn a lighter-colored one.

"Uh, yeah," Sam replied. He could feel the sun on the back of his neck, bare now where Dean had put his hair up, and wondered if he shouldn't've worn sunscreen. But that was another thing he wasn't sure he had, and he didn't even remember the last time he'd burned. He tended to tan instead. "It's boiling up here."

Dean frowned. Sam recognized it: it was the special, guilty frown that popped up on Dean's face whenever he realized that he'd forgotten Sam was human and, therefore, about a million times more fragile than he was. Sam usually saw it at least once a day. He couldn't fault Dean for letting the fact that he was made of very high-maintenance meat slip his mind; after all, they'd been together a few months, but before that, Dean'd spent over a thousand years with other demons.

"Sorry," he said. "Should've thought ahead and brought water. You wanna call it a day?"

"I'm fine," Sam replied. "You're right: I've gotta improve my aim. And I already told you that I've got twelve bullets left in here." He waggled the gun. "Fix my stance and let me finish this up."

"Okay." Dean still looked concerned when he grabbed Sam's hips again and adjusted him, making him put more weight on his left side. To Sam, it felt like he was off-balance now, like the majority of his weight was resting on his left leg. He knew Dean had just equalized him, though. "Soon as that clip's empty, then, I'll go grab the target and we can see how you did. And then I think we'd better get you outta the sun."

"All right," Sam agreed. Partly to humor Dean and partly because he was remembering the rattling, leaking swamp cooler back in their motel room more fondly by the minute. He also wished Dean hadn't mentioned water. He'd kill for a bottle right now.

He aimed again, pulled the trigger. The gunshots echoed across the desert around them. Sam wasn't worried about the local sheriff showing up to investigate. First of all, they were pretty far outside town, and second of all, he heard shots all the time. People came out here to shoot at cans or scorpions or targets, like they were doing. Apparently, there just wasn't that much to do in this town. And nobody else liked the shooting ranges, either.

Using a gun, even to hit a target that wasn't charging at him with fangs and claws bared, was like riding a bike (although Sam had never actually learned to do that): he'd never forgotten and it came back easily. He was relieved. He hadn't wanted to admit it, but Dean had been right about him not practicing his marksmanship all that much while he'd been living at the cabin. He just hadn't really seen the point. He was never going to hunt again, and he wasn't going to have to shoot anything unless it got close enough for him to practically be able to do it with his eyes closed.

He counted the shots he'd fired, because his dad had pounded the importance of that into him when he was still in grade school. He lowered the gun once the last round was out of the chamber. Dean - who'd been focused on the target, eyes having flickered to black when Sam wasn't looking - glanced at him.

"Done?" he asked, eyes returning to normal with that insect-wing sound that Sam had gotten so used to recently.

"Done."

"You didn't do half-bad. Lemme show you." He left, blinking across the hill. Sam didn't even have time to eject the empty clip from the gun before he was back, cardboard target in hand. "See?"

Sam took it when Dean offered it to him. The stand was still attached to it, so it was heavy, and it was black, so it was hot. He eyed it critically. He counted ten bullet holes, and only six were inside the concentric neon rings that'd been printed on the cardboard. None had hit the center.

"You got more than half into the target, at least," Dean pointed out, tone encouraging.

"Yeah, but my aim's still not great," Sam replied. "I need to get better. I mean, some things are like humans, where they'll go down just so long as you put enough bullets in the head or trunk, but with werewolves and skinwalkers, you have to hit the heart. And that's a pretty small target."

"That's exactly why we're doing this," Dean agreed. "But you did way better than I thought you would today. No offense." He took the target back from Sam and separated it from the stand, dropping both into the bag. "We'll keep working on it. Might try to come out here early in the morning next time - you're looking pretty red. And wet."

"It's called 'sweat,' Dean," Sam replied. Seemed like they'd switched attitudes at some point - Dean was optimistic about Sam's shooting ability, and Sam had just admitted that he needed more practice. Maybe it'd been seeing the target, the physical example of what he could and couldn't do. "Humans sweat when they get hot. Remember?"

"I remember that you're gross," Dean said. He held the bag open for the gun, and Sam double-checked that it was empty before putting it in. He'd eject the clip, and then probably reload it, later. "All kinds of crap comes outta you."

"At least I don't smell like rotten eggs." When Dean reached for his shoulder with his free hand, Sam shook his head and took half a step backwards. "I told you - I don't want you teleporting me anymore unless it's an emergency."

"Nobody around to see, but fine." Shrugging, Dean brushed past him on his way to the edge of the hill, and Sam followed.

"You didn't like being teleported when you were human," Sam pointed out, as he began picking his way down the side of the hill. It was steeper going back down than it'd been coming up.

"Not by angels." To his credit, Dean stayed right by Sam the whole way down, keeping the strap of the duffel bag on his shoulder with one hand and steadying him with the other. Even though he could've teleported straight to their car on his own, or just sprinted straight down the hill without knocking a single rock loose. Sam definitely wasn't anywhere near that sure-footed. Dean had to have stopped him from faceplanting on those same sharp, sandy, sun-heated rocks at least half a dozen times.

"Shit!" Sam burned himself on the chrome handle of the car when he grabbed it - it felt like a stovetop. He had to use a handful of his T-shirt to open the passenger side door, and he grimaced as he practically fell inside, the black leather feeling a lot like the rock he'd sat on right after reaching the top of the hill. Maybe a little softer. "Turn on the air conditioning. Now."

"Gonna take a little while to cool down," Dean reminded him, tossing the bag into the back seat before climbing in behind the wheel.

"Wouldn't if we had a car that'd been made in this century." Sam ran his fingers through his hair, heavy and damp, and swore silently to himself as they caught at the base of his short, messy ponytail. It wasn't until he'd yanked the rubber band out and shaken his hair loose that he realized Dean hadn't even put the key in the ignition. Because he was too busy glaring at him. "What?"

"Never mind. I'm not having this conversation with you again." Sam raised his eyebrows briefly, and looked away. That was fine with him. He was starting to feel a little sick to his stomach, and the last thing he needed right now was yet another repeat of Dean's "everything that came off the line after 1980 is crap on wheels" lecture. "You'd think you'd appreciate it, seeing as it's your damn car."

"It was my dad's." And up until several months ago, no one had driven it since he'd died. It'd spent the last seven (nearly eight) years sitting in Bobby's scrapyard, the battery slowly draining and the paint flaking. Sam hadn't thought about it since moving to the cabin. He'd been embarrassed as hell when, shortly after leaving the hospital for the first time, he learned that Bobby had paid to have the damn thing towed all the way from Vermont to South Dakota. All his stuff had already been take out of it, and as far as he'd been concerned, it just could have stayed at the remote trailhead where his father had parked it. Or an impound lot, eventually.

He'd grown up in it, but it hadn't meant anything to him once his dad died. In fact, he hadn't even liked looking at it because of the memories it brought up. Of two perfect legs, having a family, being useful. He'd never been into cars, anyway. Didn't even really like driving all that much. He'd learned at ten, but only because he had to.

Bobby, on the other hand, had definitely been into cars. After all, before hunting - and even during, to a certain extent - they'd been his career: fixing, scrapping, buying, selling. His idea of a relaxing afternoon was replacing an engine (and drinking, but that might've come along with hunting. Or losing Dean. Or both). He'd never quite managed to spark that same kind of love in Sam. It shouldn't've come as a surprise that he'd been more successful with Dean.

"Shame you didn't inherit his good taste," Dean replied, a little bit of acid in his voice as he finally started the car up. The 1967 Chevrolet Impala. Sam had forgotten its real name, might never have known it, but Dean had made sure that he'd learned it when he found the car tucked away in a remote corner of the scrapyard. Where Bobby had put it, understanding how Sam felt about it. Sam had still been healing at that point, from Gordon and the swarm of demons that'd descended on his cabin, and Dean, bored, was exploring his childhood home. "Sorry."

"For what?" Sam wasn't sure which was more annoying: when Dean forgot that he had emotions and physical needs, or when he overcorrected and assumed that everything was either going to kill him or trigger a massive breakdown. Like he didn't have plenty of his own triggers.

For example, the exploring. Most of the time, it just put him in a bad mood. He didn't seem to be able to put into words what upset him more: the things that'd changed or the things that hadn't. He'd been ecstatic when he found the Impala, though. Started spending his days - and most of his nights, too - restoring it, because they needed a car. It took a while for Sam to tell him he was already familiar with it, though Dean figured out it'd used to belong to a hunter when he found the space for an arsenal in the trunk.

Sam tried to argue that something less flashy would be better, but Dean wouldn't budge. Especially once he knew it was technically Sam's car, and that it wasn't any lingering grief or bad memories that was making him reluctant; the years had deadened a lot of his negative associations with the car. Dean was pretty practical when it came to everything but cars. And music. And food and alcohol. It was kind of a relief he couldn't eat or drink.

If Sam was being honest, he missed living alone. Or living with roommates who were more like pets or prisoners than equal partners. He wouldn't go so far as to say that Dean was obnoxious, but...it was an adjustment. Especially because they were living in one small space after another and he'd realized a while back that he hadn't known Dean all that well beforehand.

All the vents in the car were aimed at the passenger side, since Dean always drove and never got hot or cold. They started blowing warm air on Sam as soon as the engine turned over, and he narrowed his eyes. It dried the sweat on him, at least, but it definitely wasn't pleasant. The temperature in the cab didn't start dropping in earnest until they'd nearly reached town, and by that point, of course, it was useless.

Back at the motel, Sam made a beeline through the humid dimness of their room to the bathroom, twisting only the right knob in the shower cubicle and leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor for now. There were no windows in here, so the darkness was almost complete, but he didn't bother turning on a light before stepping in under the icy spray. He was going to keep his eyes closed, anyway.

Over the sound of water hitting the preformed plastic, Sam heard Dean come in and drop the duffel bag on their bed. It was hard to tell, but he thought he unzipped it and took care of the gun Sam used. And the bullet-riddled target. Then he moved towards the bathroom.

Sam hadn't even thought to close the door, but Dean knocked on it anyway. "Can I come in?"

Before answering him, Sam tipped his had back and opened his mouth, gulping down a few big mouthfuls of the water falling from the showerhead. It tasted metallic and he was aware, as soon as he'd had his fill, that he'd drunk too much too fast and that his stomach would hurt soon, but it'd probably been worth it. He knew he had to have been dehydrated.

"Yeah, sure," Sam told Dean. He spat out half a mouthful of water he no longer wanted. "It's cold, though. I'll probably keep it that way for another minute or two." It still felt good, refreshing, and he wanted to bring up goosebumps before he touched the hot water knob.

"Doesn't make any real difference to me." Sam heard clothes hitting the floor, probably on top of the ones he'd piled there already. Then the cheap, mildewed curtain was pulled aside and Dean stepped into the tiny cubicle with him. "Were you that bad off? That you needed a cold shower?"

Sam shrugged. Dean would be able to see it if his eyes were black, and even if they weren't, he had to have felt it. With how close they were.

"I just got hot," he replied. "It's gonna happen. 'Specially here."

"You really don't like Nevada, do you?" Dean asked, voice teasing. Sam heard a hint of his Dakota accent, too. Nev-ah-da. Kind of interesting how it'd somehow survived a millennium in Hell - Sam had a sudden urge to write about that.

"Ugh." Sam groaned and rested his head against the nearest wall with a loud thud. "It's just so hot. And flat. I didn't have any idea this place was so freaking boring - when I hear 'Nevada,' I think 'Vegas.'"

"You haven't spent a whole lotta time in this state, have you?" Dean observed. He had a hand resting on Sam's back, and it felt hot instead of his usual perfectly-median temperature, so Sam must be finally cooling down.

"I was mostly East Coast and Midwest back when I was active," Sam answered. "South, too. And then I stayed put in Colorado for seven years."

"Pretty sure it was Wyoming, actually."

"Whatever. It was in the Rockies." Sam's right shoulder was starting to hurt, unused to absorbing the recoil from a handgun.

"You're shivering," Dean observed. Realizing that he was right, Sam nudged the cold water down and turned the hot water on. What started coming out of the showerhead was probably only lukewarm, but it burned pleasantly against his near-numb skin. "Getting time to take off again, so we'll be outta here soon. We can head somewhere cooler this time - and less flat. California?"

"California'd be okay." Sam had applied to Stanford University when he was seventeen. Less than a month before losing his mobility and his dad in one fell swoop. He thought about bringing it up, but then decided against it.

"How d'you feel about how you did today?" Dean asked, changing the subject. Sam sighed.

"You know how I feel, don't you?"

"Yeah, but it's a lot easier to understand it when you explain it. You're kind of a mess, emotion-wise." Sam rolled his eyes, but humored Dean.

"Not great," he admitted. "I didn't realize I'd let myself get so rusty. You were right about me needing to work on my aim - I can hit the broad side of a barn, but that's about it."

"I think you're being too hard on yourself," Dean told him. "Again."

"I need practice," Sam replied, irritated. Dean had been the one to tell him that in the first place.

"Well, yeah - but you're gonna get it, and you're probably gonna be just fine with a gun after only a little while," Dean replied. He pulled away from Sam in the dark, and even though he couldn't go far without teleporting, it was eerie. At least until he started talking again. "'Cause you've already been taught, and you were good at it." Sam heard him grab something off the floor, or maybe out of the little alcove shelf sunk into one of the walls. "Plus, even though shooting's a really major part of hunting, it definitely ain't the only one."

"What're you doing?" Sam asked.

"Washing your hair." A cap popped, and a bottle squelched loudly as it was squeezed. "It's gross. It gets gross way too fast; you might wanna cut it."

Sam was shaking his head and making a negative noise in the back of his throat before Dean had even finished talking. He could practically see him shrug.

"Okay, fine. Whatever, Samson." Sam hadn't realized that Dean was reaching for him until he touched his scalp, and he flinched reflexively. Dean didn't comment as he started working shampoo through his hair. "Anyway - hunting. You're basically the best ever at research, which is a huge part. Then you're just fine with knives and axes and machetes, and you're good at sparring. Somebody teach you to use your height?" After Sam nodded, he continued. "Yeah, thought so. You can hit hard and lift basically whatever you're gonna need to, too, so it's a good thing you kept yourself strong." His hands suddenly stopped moving on Sam's head, and he was about to ask him what was wrong when he dropped them, gloved in suds, to his hips and adjusted him for what felt like the millionth time that day. "The top half of yourself, at least."

Sam gritted his teeth in frustration, not sure if he was mad at himself for doing it or Dean for pointing it out. He was just...fed up, after only a few months of having normal, intact muscles in both legs. A sudden pain in his gums forced him to relax his jaw before he broke one of his teeth off at the roots.

"Maybe I should start jogging again," he said, trying to sound casual and not that upset a second before he remembered that demons were empaths. It probably would've failed even if Dean hadn't been able to sense his feelings, though. "I used to almost every day when I was a teenager. Better hold off on it while we're still here, though; heat stroke's about the last thing I need right now."

Dean didn't respond. Not right away, at least. He just cleaned Sam - his hair, his body, then his face. They almost always showered together, even though Dean didn't need it nearly as much as Sam did, and Dean almost always washed him. Sam was still waffling back and forth on how he felt about that. On the one hand, it was soothing, but on the other, it was also disempowering. It made him feel like a little kid or a pet in a lot of ways. Not that either of those were a wholly inaccurate way to describe his relationship with Dean.

He never told him to back off and let him take care of himself, though. Because it was nice, and made him feel protected and loved, and helped him relax. All things he'd been starved for over the past few years. So of course this time was no exception.

"I'm sorry," Dean said eventually. He wasn't really scrubbing Sam anymore. Mostly just letting the water rinse him off. "It was my fault you had such a hard time up there. Like I said before, we should've brought water. And you were right - I really was being a dick."

"Drop it," Sam grunted. He'd been feeling better, standing under the drizzle of warm water with his eyes half-closed, but Dean's apology brought some of his annoyance back. "Either it'll click for you one day, that I'm human, or it won't. And it's not that big of a deal if it doesn't."

More silence from Dean. Sam assumed he'd hurt his feelings (he knew Dean had plenty of his own, even though he claimed that most were weird and stunted) and made a mental note to try and turn down the bitchiness. Especially when Dean spoke again, changing the subject.

"You hungry?" he asked.

"Not really. I'm okay for now." Sam had gotten a salad at the local restaurant they'd hit before heading out into the desert. He never had much of an appetite when it was hot, and he always felt weird eating in public with Dean. Who never ate.

"Let's take a nap, then," Dean suggested. "I know you haven't been sleeping well, so it wouldn't hurt you to catch some Zs." He touched him. Not washing or correcting, just touching. "Plus, it'll hopefully be cooler when you wake up. Maybe we can get more done."

"Okay." Sleep didn't sound so bad. Sam twisted both knobs until they shut off, then swept the curtain back and stepped out of the cubicle. He hadn't thought to put a towel or anything down - he'd been too focused on cooling off. So he dripped directly onto the tile.

The light flicked on. Dean. Sam squinted, reminded of the sunlight on top of the hill until his pupils adjusted. At least he could see to grab a towel and start drying himself off. Dean followed him, stepping around the piles of clothes on the floor. The bathroom, like most motel bathrooms, was only slightly larger than the average postage stamp, so there wasn't enough room for both of them. They stepped out into the larger room under a silent agreement. The evaporative cooler in the window vibrated and dripped, and the humidity it filled the room with made Sam's skin feel damp even after he'd finished toweling off.

"We're gonna have to do laundry again soon," he commented, nodding at the clothes on the floor as he stepped back into the bathroom to hang his towel up. Dean groaned loudly.

"I hate laundry."

"I know you do." Sam gathered the clothes up. His own were still damp with sweat, which really was gross, Dean was right. He dropped the boots in front of the bed and started stuffing the rest into their laundry bag. It was made of heavy canvas, which was a good thing. It probably would've split at the seams by now, otherwise. "You're lucky you weren't at my cabin that long. You would've hated doing dishes and cleaning the bathroom and scrubbing the floor and changing the bed even more."

His tone was light, but there was a pang when he mentioned his cabin. Even though he was talking about chores he'd used to hate himself. He could tell Dean picked up on it by the way he didn't say anything. He could also tell that Dean had been hoping for sex when he pulled on a clean pair of boxers and glanced at him just in time to see him visibly wilt. He held back a snort.

"So it's your turn, right?" Dean asked as Sam grabbed a T-shirt. He preferred to sleep in older ones, made soft by hundreds of washes, but Dean hadn't seen fit to bring any of those back to him. They had limited space, after all, and needed to travel light. "To do the laundry."

"You know it's not." Sam collapsed onto the bed, his side of it, with a groan. His feet were pounding. He hadn't noticed it so much in the shower, but now the pain was back.

He heard Dean moving around and a zipper being pulled back, and could only hope he was getting clothes of his own on. Then he grabbed Sam's foot all of a sudden, and Sam managed not to flinch this time.

"Your feet're swollen," Dean noted. "Guess that could be 'cause of the heat." He dropped Sam's foot back onto the thin, scratchy duvet. "Or are you just still not used to wearing shoes?"

"Nope," Sam grunted into his pillow. He was lying on his stomach.

"It's your calluses. They're working against you." Dean climbed into the bed, settling himself right up against Sam. Sam was grateful. He was very aware that Dean didn't sleep, and it never failed to touch him, that he laid with him almost every time he needed to rest. And as often as he craved just a few damn inches of personal space these days, he slept better when Dean was in the bed with him. "They might've helped when you were running around barefoot like a filthy hippie..." He tugged on Sam's hair, still damp. "But not so much now that you're wearing boots all day."

"I hate boots," Sam said, smothering a yawn as he rolled over onto his side. "And motels, and duffel bags, and cars, and Nevada." The light in the bathroom flicked off, leaving them in relative darkness. Harsh desert sunlight still came in under the curtains and around the air conditioner. "And you hate laundry and bathing and stopping for food and sleep. No wonder we make such a great couple."

Dean was silent, not denying that Sam's human needs annoyed him. Sam wouldn't have believed him if he'd tried, so that was okay. He really did want to go to sleep, but he didn't close his eyes just yet, staring straight ahead instead. At the saguaro-shaped lamp, clearly designed by somebody who'd never seen a saguaro - which made sense, they didn't even grow here. A bottle of ibuprofen. His newly-bought cell phone, which he kept forgetting to take with him. The notebook he had yet to open, barely remembering the ritual inside and afraid that it was impossible. And, on top of that, the box that a new charging cable had shipped in, a couple years ago. Small, sturdy, sealed. Held closed with masking tape.

When Dean had brought it to him, along with his other stuff, he'd been confused. It'd just looked like dirt and sticks when he'd opened it. It took him a second to realize that there might be some dirt mixed in, but it was mostly ash and pieces of bone.

"Is this - ?" He'd glanced up at Dean, from where he'd been sitting on his old bed in Bobby's house.

"I knew you buried him by the back door," Dean replied. He'd still had an armload of weapons - rifles, hatchets, machetes - balanced on one hip. Sam's weapons were the only thing he'd retrieved all of. "I got all of him. I think. Wasn't too hard, and I figured you wouldn't wanna leave him there." He jerked slightly, then frowned, obviously feeling the huge wave of emotion that'd just welled up out of Sam. "Shit. Sorry. I really didn't mean to upset you. Want me to take it back?"

Sam shook his head wordlessly, setting the tiny box on his lap. He'd held it there for a long time, and Dean had left him alone. He'd wanted to clutch it to his chest and curl up in a fetal position around it, maybe under the bed or in the closet, but he stopped himself. He'd been giving in to his own massive weakness way too much lately, and he couldn't afford another breakdown.

Staring at the box now, Sam still felt guilty. Both for the fact that he'd let him die - be murdered - in the first place, and because he hadn't even thought about him when he fled his cabin. He definitely hadn't thought about bringing him along. It was downright shameful that he'd had to be reminded by a fucking demon; Vaughn deserved better than that.

"We really oughta get him an urn," the fucking demon commented softly. Sam sometimes wondered if he could read his mind in addition to his emotions. "Bet you could get some real nice pottery around here. Native American-ish."

"No," Sam replied, finally closing his eyes. "I don't have anywhere to put it."