Dean drives for an hour, and in that time Sam's ribs reposition. His skull corrects itself, lungs clear out, heal -- the hole in the back of his neck heals. The thick, lumped wounds on his face recede, just enough, and he's recognizable even with the fat lip and bruising and crusted swollen brow. He tries to open both eyes, manages just one. The other hurts. Can't open it, but it's throbbing in time with his blood. There's a sheet over his face. He feels so tired, he's not sure for a moment he can sit up.

But he does. Silently, like a stiff old man, he sits up in the back seat, putting his heavy arm over the backrest. He sits like this for a long moment, mouth rancid with blood and bile tastes, eyes red-rimmed.

He remembers a little. A lot soon follows. "Dean?" He croaks, voice like sandpaper. He doesn't look over at Dean, just stares at the passing scenery - shell-shocked into silence, until the numbness in his head goes away. He remembers being ice cold, and the Devil whispering, sad and sympathetic.

He reaches into his mouth, pulls a tooth from the side where they had knocked it out. Stares at it like he's not sure how it got there.

Yeah, he's in shock.