notes: so I still write, rather aggressively- I'm just terrible at cross posting stories between websites. For whatever reason it's always seemed that Destiel is the main ship for our fandom on this site, where as Samifer is less welcomed here and better received on Ao3. Not to say that all of you who find me have been anything other than absolutely lovely *^_^* but it's obviously not as popular of a coupling.

so, here's the first parts of a story I started a while back. It's not my regular fluff for these two fools. It's got a bit more weight and plot to it, but it's something that I've enjoyed working on so far~

The yellow gas station lights bounced off the water beading over the Impala's windshield, destroying Sam's view of the pumps with a thousand wet starburst. He could smell the petrol as John filled up the tank. Familiar scent that was sweet and sour all at the same time, and just one more thing that he hardly even noticed any more. Years on the road, sitting in the back seat beside his brother, there was no end to the things that you could learn to ignore.

Except Dean wasn't in the back seat with him now. No, he was slouched instead across the shotgun seat like he was melting into it, becoming one. The hundred and ten percent humidity, that only ever seemed to grow worse at night, getting to him after their third day down in the bible belt.

From his own dark corner where he'd taken up residence over this last day or so, Sam could see the back of his brother's neck was wet with sweat, same for the collar of his shirt. Soaked through despite how cool he was still trying to play it.

Louisiana was going through some kind of heat wave that was record breaking, among other things- and none of them kind to the Winchesters.

"Roll down your window." Sam kicked the back of his brother's seat.

"It's raining." He said tonelessly, not even bothering to lift his head.

Sam rolled his eyes towards the aluminum overhang that sheltered the gas pumps. "There's the… the roof thing over the pumps," he groused, kicking again. "It's stuffy as fuck in here."

"Watch your damn mouth." Dean said by route, automatically.

But Sam was bristling, just a few months over seventeen, and one of his favorite games was to push at his boundaries. Stretching to the edges of his cage and rattling the bars a bit. Looking to see if he could find new ways to make John go red in the face.

The old man must have been able to hear them through the glass, because he was suddenly knocking with a knuckle against a window and scowling darkly at his youngest.

Sam only rolled his eyes and stretched out a bit more, not liking how the small of his back stuck to the leather of his seat. The heat was clinging to him like a second skin. Like some kind of sentient creature trying to crawl inside of him- and there was no way to run from it.

Dad had left the keys in the ignition on Dean's request. Some feeble attempt at keep the vents running, even though they had nothing at all like an AC in this mobile home of theirs, and all it served to do was stir up the stagnant air while they were stalled here at the station. Refilling the gas tank and getting a late dinner of chips and Slim Jims.

It was nearly midnight, and they'd been running themselves a little ragged these past few days. Dean and John taking turns driving . All of them sleeping in the car when they could as they hauled ass across countless county lines hunting something unnamable with empty eyes and a wide, hungry mouth. It flew faster than the Impala could follow- but still they tried, relying on the trail of half eaten bodies that the police kept turning up in the strangest of places.

They were all of them exhausted. Worse for wear from the hellish few days strung out on the road with this heat.

Always with this heat.

Without the hum of the highway, and the complementary traffic that went along, the inside of the car was almost deafeningly quiet.

"Turn on the radio at least." Sam aimed one last kick at his brother's back with the old seat rocking between them from the impact.

And Dean growled, teeth showing in a tired kind of snarl. But he'd never really been able to tell Sam no to anything, so he still reached out to punch the dial, flooding the cab of the car with the little local radio station pumping out the golden oldies like it was still 1973 and all there was were new ideas and free love.

'When I was grown to be a man-' the voice in the radio told his story with cheer, ' and the devil would call my name- I'd say now who do, who do you-'

Dean jammed a finger down on the dial, changing stations.

"Hey, I was listening to that." Sam sat up, tugging at his brother's sleeve.

"Simon and Garfunkel? Not on my watch, Sammy." He ignored the tugging with a well practiced shrug, twisting the dial until he found a heavy drum line. "I raised you better than that."

He kicked the seat again as John got back in the car.

"Hey." The old man rumbled and turned the ignition. But that seemed to be all the objection left in him. Too tired for much of anything else.

Dean's head lolled to one side. "Think maybe we stay in a motel tonight?"

"Don't have the time to waste." John pulled out of the station and the rain started to fall against the windshield again, back onto the highway, just a long, black, wet strip of tar that blended with the night.

"Sam needs a shower." Which oddly sounded less protective and more like a complaint coming from his big brother, and Sam scowled from his back corner of the car.

"We all need a shower." John sighed.

"Few hours of sleep in a real beds wont change the fact that we don't know where the damn thing is..." Dean urged, and Sam watched the way the two older men glanced at each other almost like it was a code that he would be able to crack if only given enough time.

Miles went by and Sam could only see the back of his father's head, but he could imagine the tired, pinched lines of his face. He always looked tired these days.

John didn't say anything, and neither son was dumb enough to press the matter. Suggesting something was quite different than openly challenging the old man, and they both knew better.

With a sigh just loud enough that he was sure to be heard over the hum of the road and the music that had been left running, Sam lay himself down across the back seats. Spreading out. An old sweatshirt he'd stolen from some Lost and Found box about three High Schools ago got wadded up under his head to serve as a pillow. Familiar as anything else in his life at this point.

The windows were fogged a cold slate color, murky and opaque, streaked through as rain drops were dragged sideways with the force of the wind as they tore down the highway. Leaving nowhere. Headed nowhere. The streaks from the rain made the windows look like they had bars on them.

Sam closed his eyes, shutting out the delightful imagery that his teenaged, angst riddled brain chose to provide.

He woke up as Dean tugged on one of his pant legs. Monstrously large, warm hand, pawing at his ankle. The car had stopped moving. Watery glow of cheap electrical lights steady outside the car windows.

"Come on, Sammy. Don't make me haul your sorry ass into the room. 'm too damn tired."

"We got a room?" But he wasn't waiting for the full answer, dragging himself out through the door that Dean had opened. Unfolding rather gracelessly from his curled, cramped position, because his legs couldn't have even been half this long last year and he was still trying desperately to get used to the length and all the things that he no longer fit in.

The motel had a large sign facing the road, promising creature comforts like AC and CABLE and SWIMMING POOL. Only half the letters had burnt out, so the message they were conveying seemed sort of cryptic and vague.

Though to be fair, all Sam wanted was a bed at this point.

Something remotely horizontal.

Preferably with some kind of padding- though it wasn't a deal breaker.

Vague was more than ok with him.

He almost missed catching the backpack that his brother tossed him as they stumbled side by side to the room that seemed to be theirs for the night.

Sam sank onto the bed nearest the door, backpack still over one shoulder. His head had missed the pillows by about half a foot and he didn't even care. "Where's Dad?"

"Securing the perimeter." Dean smacked at his feet, pushing his filthy tennis shoes off the bed. "Go shower. You smell like ass."

"And you're such a pleasure." But a shower did sound good. And being clean would make sleeping so much nicer in the long run. No dirt between him and the scratchy, over bleached sheets. Yeah, he could get back up for that.

The water was lukewarm, and the clothes that he changed into afterwards were passably clean. Not that it mattered all that much considering that the room was pretty much the same temperature as outside, and upon dressing Sam had almost immediately started sweating through his shirt.

His brother pushed past him almost the second the door opened, clumsy and considerably less graceful than two ships in the night, as they fought for room in the small doorway.

"You use up all the little shampoo on your princess hair?"

"Shut up." Getting a trim wasn't exactly at the top of his to do list. And as his big brother ran a hand through his hair, tossing his head from side to side like you'd do with a dog, Sam kind of sort of was glad he hadn't gotten around to it. But he had to keep up pretenses. Expectations and all. "Knock it off."

"Go get some sleep while you can." As tired as he must have been, Dean still grinned at him. Looking up at Sam just a bit because for nearly a year now 'older' had no longer meant 'bigger'. "I'm sure we're starting back up again first thing in the morning."

Sam leaned up against his side of the door frame, relenting the other half to his brother. Finding the proximity too warm, and too close, but it made whispering much easier.

He could see the hibernating bear shape of their father on the second bed- John already snoring loud enough to shake paint from the walls. And Sam missed the days when the boys were too young to help on hunts and he'd leave them alone for a week or two. Sam missed not having to share a narrow queen sized bed with his brother.

"So where are we?"

"Made it all the way to Mobile while you were doing your Sleeping Beauty thing in the back seat."

They'd crossed state lines. Sam found that most of the time when he fell asleep they tended to cover substantial distances.

"You think we can talk Dad into checking out the morgue in the morning for a few hours, see if that… whateveritis has been through here?" Because if Sam didn't get a break from that backseat he was going to lose it.

Dean yawned, not even bothering to cover his mouth on account of what a classy gent he was. "Yeah, yeah. I'll suggest it- but I'm not making any promises." A hand came up and tousled Sam's head again.

And if Sam ducked down a bit, just enough to make it easier for Dean to manhandle him, well, there wasn't really any harm in it.

.:.

Breakfast was a mix of things from the vending machine and whatever Sam could forage from the wheel well of the Impala before John took the car and went to go check in with the morgue and the local police. He left his boys with instructions to do some restocking, with a list that read more like the inventory of a serial killer's basement than anything close to what a normal person would go to the store for.

Sam was so happy to be on foot, even though it was practically in the triple digits before ten o'clock, with a heavy bag of questionable supplies in his arms. Rope, salt, saw blades, iron nails. Hardware stores were like toy stores for hunters. You could find just about everything you needed in one place.

Just about.

"You know what I love about the south?" Dean asked with a grin, then kept on, not waiting for an answer. "You've got voodoo and hoodoo in every city. Hell, almost on every street corner. Don't got to dig like you would if we were up in like... Wisconsin or something."

Which was fair. Once up North, it had taken Sam and Dean nearly four hours to find a place that sold white candles made with animal fat instead of bee's wax. But out here they were in some cheap, rundown, wrong side of the tracks part of the city and there were dead chickens hanging in the storefront, and chalk marks and salt lines laid down along the doorway of a little shop hardly a mile from the motel they were staying in.

Sam liked the convenience.

Dean did too, right up until they walked in, and then his big brother just liked the cute girl behind the counter. White cotton dress falling off her narrow, dark shoulders. Long, black hair pulled up in a thick braid, and almost no curves to speak up, but a beautiful smile on quite kissable looking lips more than made up for all those sharp angles.

Being seventeen was hard on Sam, and something as simple as a sideways smile from a pretty girl was enough to instantly removed any thoughts of what they'd come in here to buy. Lucky for him he didn't have to put two ideas together because Dean was a pro at this. Well practiced in talking to beautiful creatures. And most likely a lot closer to her age, which didn't hurt things.

Not an ounce of hesitation as he sauntered up to the counter. Dean gave her some very sincere sounding line, and she giggled.

Sam went to go stand near the back of the store where there was an oscillating fan. He'd already seen this show. One too many times. He practically knew his brother's lines by heart. Couldn't replicate them with any kind of success at all. But he still knew them all, and didn't need a front row seat.

They left almost half an hour later, with more candles than they'd needed, chalk, willow extract, and quite a few other odds and ends that weren't on the list John had given them. Like the girl's number. What the hell was Dean even going to do with her number? He didn't own a phone, and they wouldn't be in town for more than a few more hours. Maybe it was pretenses though. Just part of the flirting process that Sam still didn't fully understand.

Dean kept glancing back over his shoulder as they walked back to the hotel. These long, lingering looks, like he hoped to catch another glimpse of that girl.

Sam sighed, just about annoyed as a teenage boy could be. "Was all that really necessary?"

"It's a quality of life thing, Sammy. You'll understand when you're an adult."

"I am an adult."

"You're a fine imitation of one- but until you get your card punched, you're still just a kid."

Whatever comfortable peace they had through the shared joy being free of the car for a few hours was gone just like that.

The younger Winchester bristled, shoulders hunching forward as he walked. Where did his brother come up with these euphemisms? Sam wasn't even positive that they were talking about what he thought they were talking about. "I… I've had my card punched."

Which pulled a startled laugh from Dean, all bright and disbelieving. "By yourself doesn't count."

"You're such a jerk sometimes."

Dean grinned at him and took one of the bags, more evenly distributing the load. "You like it."

"No one likes it."

But Dean just kept on grinning.

Undaunted by the dirty looks, or the name calling, or the heat.

That was at least until John returned. Then it was all tight lipped answers. No sirs, and yes sirs- and Sam hated this version of his brother.

Much prefered the one who'd he'd spent the morning with. All warm smiles and open laughter. Like they were still kids and things weren't getting worse, and more unbearable by the day.

.:.

"What is he doing?" Dean leaned back over the front seat enough to whisper to Sam, even though he didn't take his eyes from their father as the man wrote with chalk over the hood of the Impala. A rather blasphemous act if ever there was one- but it was John's car… who was going to yell at him for it?

"How should I know?" The afternoon heat was oppressive, pooling in the stilled car as they sat on the side of the highway. Sam was being baked alive and whatever nonsense John had gotten himself up to really just didn't register all that high right now.

"You're supposed to be the smart one."

Sam actually smiled at the almost complement. "You want me to go out there and ask him?"

And Dean must have gotten the joke because he laughed as he shook his head. "Hell no." He glanced back at Sam, and then they were both laughing.

John slid into the driver's seat, frowning at his boys, but he didn't ask. Which was for the best, because they would have had a difficult time explaining that the idea of Sam going out and having a normal conversation with him was enough to send the brothers into borderline hysterics.

Funniest damn thing that Sam had heard in at least a month.

But the humor faded as the road started to blur past them, wind rushing in through the windows and whipping Sam's too long hair around his face, into his eyes. They were back on the hunt again. Back into their normal routine.

"Did we get a lead?" Dean asked as they took the junction that lead them from the 98 to the 29, straight south into De Soto National forest.

"We got the name of a hunter who might be able to help." Which was more of an answer than John usually gave.

Dean made eye contact with Sam through the sideview mirror, all kinds of doubt and confusion. But his little brother didn't have much of an explanation so he just shrugged and leaned up against the window, watching the landscape slip past faster and faster until it was just a blur of green. They rolled through De Soto and all those trees and swamps did little to ease the heat. Even without the rain this afternoon, the humidity was still smothering and Sam could feel sweat running down his temple, grazing the edge of his left eye. They passed a lake that didn't seem to have a name, just stunningly bright water that looked so inviting Sam wanted to cry, and then they were changing freeways again, going back North and it was anyone's guess where the old man was taking them.

He dozed, head sliding loose along his shoulder, knocking lightly against the window now and then and startling Sam back awake. By the time he opened his eyes the sun was dipping behind the tree line, casting long shadows that were almost comforting in the way that they practically obliterated any detail from the landscape. Far as he could tell they were still out in the park. The roads paved in only the loosest sense of the word, dusty and uneven and the Impala's shocks didn't seem to be having a fun time with it.

"Is this guy like… a park ranger or something?" He asked with a yawn, sleepily puzzling over why and how anyone could live out in the literal middle of nowhere.

Dean looked over his shoulder and shook his head slightly, an odd little frown and it was obvious that in sleeping, Sam had missed out on some kind of important conversation.

He straightened himself against the seat, tugging the lap belt into a more comfortable place around his hips. Slightly more awake, and not as hot as he'd been when the sun had been bearing directly down on top of them, Sam found that the world outside didn't really have much more detail now than when he'd gone to sleep. It was just trees. Trees and no ranger stations or cabins, or anything that would show a human living out here who might know how to help them hunt down the whateveritis.

That detached, isolated thought seemed to work as a summons of a kind, because no sooner had the lack of other humans crossed his mind than the car's headlights suddenly slid over a lone figure walking on the side of the road. The guy hardly even glanced over his shoulder as the Impala bounced and jostled on by him. There was a brief impression of long legs, dark jeans, something big and heavy looking slung over his back with a strap crossing over the chest of a white tshirt- then they'd passed him and the late evening shadows let him fade to less than a ghost as Sam squinted through the car's back window.

Strange place and time for a walk.

Neither John or Dean said anything, and Sam half wondered if he'd seen anyone at all.

But two miles down the road, when the trees were even thicker, little fireflies darting around like stars caught in the foliage, Sam saw the man again. Same side of the road as before, but walking backwards now so he could face the car coming towards him.

One pale arm stuck out.

One long thumb up in the air.

Asking for a ride.

And it couldn't be the same guy.

It couldn't.

There was just no way for him to have gotten ahead of the car.

...but out here, in the growing dark, what were the chances of passing two hitchhikers on the same road?

The man's face shone pale in the headlights as the Impala rolled past him. Though Sam hadn't seen the face of the first person, so he had no basis for comparison. All he had was a flash of a toothy smile and the impression of pale eyes under light colored hair, as John drove onward, not even slowing down.

Sam slunk lower into his seat, folding his arms over his chest and for the first time in months the gesture wasn't because he was feeling sullen. It was to keep himself still against the sudden creeping feeling that made his skin prickle.

Two more miles (he'd been counting the roadside markers, so Sam knew for sure that it was two miles exactly) of road under their tires, and there on the side of the road, walking backwards so he could face the oncoming car was that long legged man with one arm stretched out like he was waiting for the car to come close enough to hug.

And Dean had to see the guy too, because he was suddenly sitting forward in his seat, straining against the belt to try and get a better look at the apparition as they drove past.

Except they didn't pass him.

The car was slowing. Gravel crunching under the tiers.

"Is he serious?" Dean asked no one in particular, though his words seemed to sum up the general feeling of bewilderment that he and his brother were sharing.

Sam's hands were already fumbling under his seat for the rocksalt loaded shotgun that he kept there. The weight in his hands was oddly reassuring.

It was just a ghost.

Had to be some backwoods, hitchhiking ghost, was all Sam could think. And he hadn't wanted a closer look. Would have been fine if they'd just kept on rambling down the road, driving out to meet whatever help that John seemed to think that they could find out here. But the car came to a stop, and Sam got to watch as the man jogged towards them.

"Dean," their dad's voice was startlingly loud, "get in the backseat with your brother."

If it was a choice between his brother, and Mister hitchhiker, then yeah, Sam would gladly take the former- but what he'd really like is if they just kept driving.

They were supposed to hunt the spooky things of this world.

Not offer them rides.

The cabin light glared on as Dean popped open his door and hopped out. Dean had always been a bit too good at following orders.

"Hey, thanks for the ride, man." Which was significantly more casual than Sam had ever heard a ghost be, then again, the man who slid into the front seat was a lot more coherent and lucid than most ghosts that he'd ever seen.

Which to Sam meant, quite simply, this might not be a ghost.

Logic prevailing, Sam was open to alternative options, though his hand stayed comfortably on the butt of his gun as he slid down the seat to give room to Dean. Stoney faced brother of his that seemed just as reluctant about this whole business, settling in beside him.

"Thanks," the man said again, glancing over his shoulder to the boys in the back. "You have room back there?" But it wasn't a query as to their general health as he started to pass his bag back over the bench seat.

Sam found himself grateful to his big brother who had peace of mind enough to get his hands on the thing to help maneuver it down to the floor boards. Seeing as all that Sam could do at that particular junction in his life was to stare fixedly into the palest blue eyes he'd ever seen. The thing that the man had been carrying wasn't a duffle bag but a hard black guitar case that settled with a very weighty, very unguitar like sound against the youngest Winchester's right shoe.

"You carry that thing all the way out here?" Dean was asking with one of those good old boy smiles that he did so well, seemingly unshaken. "It's freaking heavy."

With a grin towards Dean the stranger said, "that, my friend, is because it's so full of mercy."

With a wink towards Sam the stranger turned back to face the road as the car started to move again.

And nowhere in all of his expansive vocabulary could Sam find the right collection of words to describe the very strange feelings in his stomach.