A/N: This is a slightly altered version of my story on tumblr (LonelyMuses) by the same name. Feedback is welcome!
The lone man stood on the side of the highway, leaning on the trunk of an Impala. The car, much like its owner, had several dents and scratches, but every day, the car would start with the ever-familiar roar of the engine, without fail. It would roll along the long, winding road, eating up kilometre after kilometre under its worn and battered tires. Sometimes the engine would sputter and diminish to awkward hiccups, slowing the car to a halt. Its determined owner always saw to the problem and fixed it with ease, setting out once again to watch the empty landscape crawl by. The car faltered every once in a while, but it never truly stopped, because that was its job; it stood there waiting every morning, ready to do its job again, and likewise, the man did his own. Sometimes it would drive through the entire night, leaving nothing but a trail of the putrid scent of gasoline in its wake, maybe to warn those behind it of the seemingly infinite, vast emptiness that was to come.
The owner of the battered Impala would sit in the driver's seat, upholstered with stained leather. The stains, perhaps, were a testament to the weary travels that the man had endured over the countless years. Every day the man sat in the same seat, the smell of whiskey lingering on his breath, and sweat and grease mixed in with the rough fabric of his jacket. His cold, dead eyes stared at the stretch of road ahead, gripping the wheel so tight that his knuckles paled, a contrast to his golden tanned skin. He thought that perhaps if he stared hard enough, he would be able to see some sign of solace or reprieve from both the boundless lands on which he drove, and his own mind itself. Now with the company of nought but himself, his eyes glazed over to resemble two shards of pale green ice.
Every so often, especially when he stopped for a few hours rest, he would drag his eyes from the road ahead to the empty passenger seat beside him. It was not long ago that another man sat there, tall and broad-shouldered in stature like his companion, but without the jaded, brusque disposition that was present in the older brother. The man, tainted with the impurities of lost innocence, had all the stars of the universe in his eyes, only for them to fall and crash to the ground with unforgiving ruth. He had the eyes of one who has seen too much, went down all the wrong paths, and met every menace of the world face-to-face.
The driver in the Impala had a recollection of another man that used to sometimes sit in the back seat, accompanying the two brothers on their arduous tasks of scavenging and placing back together the pieces of a broken world. This man, with guileless, earnest eyes of cerulean, saw the world in a different light. Unlike the other two brothers, he still had hope for the future, even if it was only the remains of what once was something more profound. He had done things many men could only dream of doing, but with it he had fallen in love with the world, and everything that lay within it.
The lone man, Dean Winchester, driven by nothing but his own demons and an unrelenting hatred for the world, traveled down the abandoned highway. The little trio that had once traveled in the Impala was admittedly a ragtag family; broken and outcast, but still a family no less. And as Dean, the only living proof of what once was, left behind him the legacy of a man of tainted innocence with hopeless eyes turned cold, a righteous brother who was broken beyond repair, and a fallen angel who lost everything, yet was hopelessly in love with humanity and the beauties of the world. It was echoed among every corridor and every beaten path. It was the story of how family conquered evil against all odds; the story of the family that forever became known as Team Free Will.