“For all we know,” Sam said softly, “this is Hell. This is what we can’t stand.”
“No,” Dean said quickly. “Mariah Carey would be playing on eternal repeat on some sort of unseen Muzak system if this was Hell. I can’t say anything will ever be all right, but this isn’t the worst, Sammy. We’re still here and…”
He didn’t say it. He’d been about to echo Sam’s earlier sentiment, about being together. He didn’t need to. Sam knew.
“Hell wouldn’t let me keep you, Sam,” Dean said.