2006

"Hey," Sam says, carefully casual, like it doesn't matter—"Isn't this…"

Dean doesn't betray himself by his expression. "Yeah."

"You ever—"

"Nope."

Sam waits for a second, contemplating his next move, and also the conundrum of how his brother just picks up and moves on with such apparent ease. Like it doesn't matter.

He stares at Oregon forests—as dark as they ever were—flash by at Dean's highway speeds, and then he says, "I did, once."

A hint of a glance, quick, but not so guarded. It's something. It's Dean's silent version of saying, "And?"

"She's married."

A slight eyebrow lift. "She?"

"Emily."

"Ah."

"She's got a kid." Sam smiles. It hadn't hurt, like he'd once worried that it would. "She named him Sam."

Dean does laugh at that. "Look at the celebrity."

Sam chuckles obligingly, and then tries his luck again. "Rachael—she never married."

"Never's a little harsh, Sam. It's only been what, eight years?"

"Yeah." Sam leans back against the bench seat. "You—uh, we could maybe…"

Dean shakes his head firmly. "Dude. You honestly think she remembers me?"

"Yes."

And to his relief, Dean smiles. "That was a hell of a week," he say.

"They were good days," Sam agrees.

And though they don't stop in Oregon, then, they both remember.