Night rolled over the Impala as she drifted along the highway, the darkness occasionally broken by the headlights of a passing car or a flash of the moon through the trees. The Styx tape in the cassette player had ended about half an hour ago, and Dean was content with the gentle purr of the engine and the soft sounds of his brother breathing in the passenger seat.
They had done well tonight. The world was two shifters shy of what it had been that morning, and a better place for it. Of course, the second one had caught them by surprise, as evidenced by the ribs Dean was pretty sure were cracked and Sam's bloody nose and shoulder. Still, they'd come out on top. Like they always did.
Dean let out a sigh of contentment. This was where they belonged. Forget the angels, the demons, the celestial civil wars. Forget Purgatory and the freakin' Apocalypse. This was it right here—him and Sam on the road, saving people, hunting things…This was home. Sure, they were bruised and bloody and sore, and he could have done without that, but somewhere down the road there was a motel with hot water and a bed to crash in, and they would wash it all off and patch each other up.
Sam's jacket rustled as he moved in his seat, repositioning his head against the window as he slept. Dean glanced over, shaking his head as the glow of a passing street lamp revealed a fresh set of bruises blossoming across the left half of his brother's face. Stupid kid wouldn't've gotten his face pounded in if he hadn't gotten between the shifter and his older brother. Okay, so it had given Dean time to pick up the knife he'd lost when he went down, but still. "Idiot," he muttered fondly.
Sam shifted again, pulling his jacket in tighter, and for a minute he was eight years old again, curled up in the back seat under Dad's too-big leather jacket. Now as then, Dean almost unconsciously reached out and clicked the heat up a couple of notches. He wondered what Sammy was dreaming about. Did he still dream about Jess? That life he'd almost had? Hunters didn't get that kind of life, and he smiled ruefully as he thought that his brother who'd never wanted to be a hunter had learned that before he had. He looked over at Sam again, carefully keeping his mind off of Lisa and Ben. He'd wanted that life for Sam so bad. He'd wanted that life for himself.
But here they were, on a back road in Indiana at one in the morning with a trunk full of guns and rock salt, with no one to go home to, no home that didn't have wheels and an engine, sore, tired, bleeding and hungry, and Dean was…He chuckled softly to himself. Dean was happy. Crazy? Probably so. But happy. And Sam? He cast another look at his sleeping brother. There had been so many fights, so many ups and downs and so much heartache, but in spite of all that, he got the feeling that Sammy was happy too. They didn't have much of anything these days besides each other—which was all they'd really ever had—but that was enough. That was home.
Dean shook his head vigorously—this was straying dangerously close into chick-flick territory. Did he always get this sappy alone with his thoughts? He reached for the radio, but paused when Sam started moving again. He turned his head, grimacing as his shoulder brushed against the door, though he didn't wake. Dean's hand fell from the dial. What would it hurt to let the kid sleep? On impulse, he reached over and softly ruffled Sam's hair, careful not to touch any of the bruises on his face. Sam's grimace relaxed and Dean smiled. "It's alright, Sammy," he said quietly, pulling his hand away. "It's all good."
They passed under another light, this one illuminating a sign that promised a town fifteen miles away. Hopefully they'd find a motel where you paid by the night instead of the hour—those always had cleaner sheets—and maybe an all-night burger joint. For the next fifteen miles, Dean occupied himself with thoughts of red meat, greasy cheese and extra onions. He might even throw some lettuce on there, just to see what happened to Sammy's face when he did.