Finishing a hunt was undoubtedly one of the best and the worst feelings in the world. The brain would switch off and routine kick in, letting Sam's mind wander. He thought of nothing special. Sometimes it was a hot shower, food, or which vile combination of colours their next motel room would be. Sometimes it was that face that formed the all too familiar lump in his throat: Jess's face. Mostly it was nothing. And Sam would just let the nothingness consume him as he followed Dean to the impala, his feet dragging slightly in his hard wearing boots.
His hands, often bloody, bruised and sore, would crack the firearms onto the safety catch, working expertly and without thinking. He'd help Dean pack the firearms into the trunk and fumble to put his hand gun in his jacket pocket, almost half asleep. It seemed ludicrous that he could've been fighting a demon or ghost just five minutes ago. They would walk; some days stumble, to their sides of the car and climb in, inhaling the ingrained scent of alcohol, sweat and dirt that had been there since they could share the passenger seat. The seats themselves would be cold and soothing.
Before Dean started the car, he would dig around in his leather jacket or among the old sandwich wrappers in the storage spaces to find a bottle. If they were doing well, they might have a cooler containing half a dozen beers, wedged between duffel bags and weapons in the trunk. They were never doing well enough for that anymore, so nowadays it was a shared bottle of anything. Lately it had been whiskey, but Sam's eyes were always too gritty with sweat and sleep, and he could barely muster up enough energy to drink, let alone to figure out what he was actually pouring down his throat. After he'd taken a gulp, he would hand the bottle back to his brother who would take another swig and sigh, wiping his grimy hand across his forehead to catch the salty droplets. Only then would Dean turn the keys in the ignition and the impala would shudder into life.
The sound was so well known to the Winchesters: the exhaust pipe would splutter and the boys' ancient lego shoved down into the vents, rattle as they'd settle into their seats. Sam had long since given up asking his older brother if he wanted to sleep, because, no matter how knackered Dean Winchester looked, driving his car was just as soothing and restoring to him as a nap was to Sam. Sometimes they would ride in silence. Sam liked to let the rhythmic rumble of the engine lull him into a state of half-sleep, and Dean would listen, calmed by his brother's slow, heavy breathing.
Sometimes they'd talk: little compliments like 'nice one back there', or questions that never probed too far: 'you good?' 'yeah', always answered by the same lie. They were never good, not really. More often than not, there'd be music playing, softly, because Dean knew that Sam would never like the song. Secretly however, Sam had come to love whatever cassette tape Dean had to offer. The elder of the two would hum along, singing, almost inaudibly, the occasional word or phrase. Sam, who had always been captivated by the world outside, would stare out the window with a blank look on his face. He'd watch the fields pass by if it was day, or the yellow lights, suspended from lamp posts that the darkness concealed at night, or the stars... And sometimes, on a dark, cloudy night, just the never ending black.
Occasionaly his eyes would focus and he'd catch sight of a man with a haggard face staring back at him from the glass. It always surprised Sam when he realised it was himself. Behind him, he'd be able to glimpse Dean, one hand on the wheel, eyes focused on the road. Just by a half second glance, Sam could tell how his brother was coping. Long ago; so far away that it might have been a previous life, Sam would have seen a twenty seven year old (or thereabouts) man, clean shaven and sitting upright in the leather seats, his green eyes still gleaming with adrenaline and yearning for another case. Now, all Sam would see was a man in his early thirties, at least by earth timings, slouching just a little. The leather jacket that had once made him look more masculine and tough now seemed to envelop and nearly swamp him. The clothes Dean wore were old, because they never had the time or energy to buy some new ones. Dean's eyes looked darker nowadays, and the eager, charismatic sparkle they'd possessed was now just a memory. His sharp jaw line would be rough with week old stubble and, maybe it was just Sam's poor recollection, but he could have sworn that his brother's cheeks had never been this gaunt or pale.
It happened, every so often, that they never reached their motel. Dean would pull over, exhausted, and turn the keys in the ignition. The impala would tremble into silence and the abrupt change in rhythm would cause Sam to raise his head from the crook of his arm. His long hair, damp with sweat and grime, would fall over his eyes, warming Dean's heart, although he never showed it.
No words would be exchanged, and Dean would join the younger Winchester in sleep, his head swimming with alcohol and the sudden absence of adrenaline. There would be quiet now, except for their breathing, which seemed to synchronize some way through the night. The music, if there had been any, would now just be a tune in Dean's mind and the only noise that would penetrate the peace would be a cricket or a solitary car, zooming past; its headlights casting odd shadows inside the impala.
When they woke, their voices would be thick with sleep and stale whiskey, so not much talking was done. That wasn't to say they didn't communicate with a caring glance that the other never saw but only felt. Their faces would have odd red patterns pressed into them: a button shape for Dean, as he always fell asleep on the arm of his leather jacket; and a larger circle for Sam - the outline of his chunky watch. They'd grunt sleepily, shifting in their seats before finally gaining enough energy to sit up properly.
It was Sam's job to feel his way beneath his seat and drag out the first aid kit. They tended to the wounds that hadn't deemed urgent enough the previous day and would brush their teeth with toothbrushes that were God knows how old. The back seats were always littered with rubbish and their possessions. There'd be empty food wrappers, bottles and cans which the brothers were careful to keep separate from the shoebox of precious cassette tapes and large stack of maps. Old denim duffel bags filled with clean clothes would have been chucked somewhere there too, along with a plastic carrier bag holding some food they'd have picked up at a gas station.
In the contented silence, Sam would get out his laptop and scour the internet for another case while his brother would attempt to clean the back seats of his car and re-order the many weapons in the trunk. He would do a kit check, and make a mental list of all the things they would need to stock up on: empty shells to fill with rocksalt, bandages, alcohol... They always needed more alcohol. Whatever injuries they had sustained would be hurting them, no doubt about it. The pain was mutual and shared, but so was their unspoken rule about not bringing it up. To the untrained eye, it would seem as though they didn't care about the other's suffering, but the truth was that they cared so passionately that it wasn't necessary to give comfort verbally, or even physically. The fact the other was there and knew the pain existed was more than enough comfort for the brothers.
They would take a quick walk at the roadside to stretch their legs, and tighten their shoes which they'd loosened the previous night for comfort. Then they would start driving. Now, Dean would play the music a little louder, and Sam's mouth would twitch into a smile so rarely seen in the moments directly after a hunt. His long arms would reach into the back seat and grab a map of the area. He always spoke briefly the day after a hunt had finished: 'case in Oregon, looks like a demon'. Dean trusted him enough to make the right decisions now, and then Sam would say: 'next left' or 'go right' or something to that extent.
Once in a while, one of their deep voices could be heard saying 'hungry' or 'tired'. To an outsider, it sounded like they were playing at being three years old again, but they would often be so tired or emotionally run down that one word would be all they could manage. Dean would always pull over at the next roadside cafe or motel they passed.
The motels were the best. Hunger, Sam could deal with. They seldom ate on cases anyway, being too consumed by the job to give any thoughts to their stomachs. It was fatigue that Sam couldn't handle. Despite it being early in the morning, Dean would check them in and they'd trudge to the room. With a tradition Sam had kept from when they were kids, he always let Dean choose his own bed. There was no logic in why two men in their thirties would do this, but Dean always got dibs on the bed he wanted and Sam took the other. In fact, the brothers had never known anything different.
Dean would swing his bag onto his chosen bed and hit the shower. Sam on the other hand, would strip off his jeans and boots and climb into bed, vowing to wash when he woke up. His brother would soon fall into bed, dressed in clean boxers, droplets of water clinging to his hair and dripping down his back.
It would be late afternoon or so when they woke. If it was anytime sooner it would be because someone had called them about a case. Dean would leave in search of food and the younger Winchester would haul himself into the shower. Clean shaven and fresh smelling, he'd pull on clean clothes and hunch over his laptop, searching for a case.
Dean would return sooner or later with sweet smelling burgers, and, if he was feeling nice, a salad for his brother.
Soon they'd find a case, and drive off, music playing loudly and them talking, a sort of excitement in their voices. They'd find the location, talk to the witnesses, police, and people who knew the victims. They'd search the area for sulfur and EMF readings, and eventually come up with multiple theories that they'd narrow down to one. Then, in a blur and a hot rush of adrenaline, they'd fight the monster and kill it. Panting, the brothers would catch each others' eyes and silently thank whoever was out there that they had finished another case and were both still alive and kicking. Then their brains would switch off and routine would kick in, letting their minds wander. They thought of nothing special, simply because they had nothing special in their lives. They only had each other.