They drive and Victor doesn’t wonder where. Behind them is the smoldering scrap heap that used to be a helicopter. Behind them are broken trails of salt and lines of power spray painted on the floor. Behind them are bodies, burnt and shot and worn to death: his boss, his coworkers, the fucking sheriff, innocent bystanders. His partner.
Behind them is Victor’s whole life.
Tomorrow he’ll worry about all of that by not worrying about it. It’s not his first trip on the trauma train, the tracks are laid and worn. Nightmares, insomnia, a bit more drinking, nothing he hasn’t dealt with before. Maybe this time it will be even easier than normal. He can bury it under the logistics of a new life: hitting up Walmart for clean underwear and a toothbrush, stealing some whiskey for his morning coffee before asking about new IDs, working to ditch his rookie card, getting his own damn car because like hell he’s staying in the back seat longer than he has to.
But that is all for tomorrow. Right now he’s on the wrong side of an adrenaline crash, body buzzing itself to exhaustion but not quite there yet. Right now Sam and Jess are mirrors of each other, heads against the windows, faces slack with sleep. Right now Dean is driving with the radio low, singing along under his breath, the melody of some half-known tune sinking under the drone of the tires and the rumble of the engine until it is just a low hum of sound shaking his bones. Right now he can see the first hint of dawn, stars dimming on the horizon.
Tomorrow, tomorrow he'll deal with it all. But tomorrow is not here yet, in this timeless, thrumming dark, the space between one life and the next. Victor closes his eyes, shuts out tomorrow and savors this strange reprieve. When he opens them again, the sun is red and heavy on the horizon. Tomorrow is here and he is ready.