Sam's not unaccustomed to his brother making any number of disgusted faces and/or sounds as he eats from the lighter fare or vegetarian menu when one is available, but halfway through this particular dinner, he catches Dean staring. Not at his plate, which, come on, TOFU, and that's like fish in a barrel, but at him. It's a childish, dangerous, curiosity-killed-the-cat kind of look he hasn't seen on his now-chronically-stoic big brother in years, and it has Sam instantly on edge, like one shoe has dropped. Dean's still working on his burger, the meat rolling in his mouth like a cow, and Sam can appreciate the irony. Just not the look. He swallows a mouthful of sparsely dressed spinach salad and dares to venture, "What?"

"Hmm. Nothin'." More loud, graphic chewing, then a thoughtful frown. Dean shifts to a one-handed hold on his cheeseburger and then on his seat. He digs into his jacket pocket and pulls out his cell phone, thumb working the device like a sixteen-year-old girl and studies the screen for a long silent moment, alternating glances up at his brother. "Huh."

"What?" Sam asks again, letting his fork lightly clatter to the edge of his plate.

The smallest quirk of Dean's greasy lips, and Sam knows he's landed a boot square atop one of the landmines he's been so carefully sidestepping for years. "Just seeing if I can use any of these pictures to figure out how many years you've got left with hair on top."

Sam leans in, very nearly too caught off-guard by these childish antics coming from his mid-thirties big brother to be properly offended. Very nearly. "What the hell now?"

Well, now he's just egging Dean on. Just downright asking for it. Good one, Sam. "Yeah, like a progression. Like the kind of thing they show on those infomercials for hair plugs and shit."

Sam can feel the constant, delicate tickle of the long swoop of his hair against the sides of his neck. Not that he hasn't noticed his hairline is little further back than it used to be. He certainly has hair to spare. "What are you talking about?"

Dean holds up his hands, innocent to the end. "I'm just sayin', maybe the name isn't the only thing you got from Samuel. Maybe there's a reason you wear your hair so long. I don't know, just an observation."

Sam's hand twitches, intent to rise to his traitorous hairline, but he overcomes the instinct, knows his brother is screwing with him and won't let him win.

Dean lifts his beer to his lips, nearly choking on the brew as he fights a losing battle against the urge to laugh.

Sam is pretty sure his brother is screwing with him.

Is hoping his brother is screwing with him.

"Wha – Dean, that was our exit."

"No, we need 70 to get to Junction City."

"That WAS 70."

"That was 79."

"There is no 79."

Dean scoffs, gives Sam the kind of look a guy who knows the roads gives the kind of guy who doesn't. "There's a 79."

"Yeah, there is," Sam relents, "like five states east of here. That was not 79."

"Says who?"

"Says the guy who just watched the sign for 70 go flying past." Sam shakes the crumpled, ancient paper in his hands. "Says the guy who's holding the friggin' map."

"Sam, that map came with the car. That sign said 79. Hand to God."

Sam grins, already double-checking the directions on his smartphone like a sideseat-driving chick. "No, it didn't."

"What are you talking about? Yes, it did. Sam, I know these roads like the back of my goddamned hand."

Sam bends on the bench seat, grabs a sticky, shiny slip of paper from the floor mat and holds it up. "Read this."

Dean shoots a sideways glance at his brother. "That's the gas receipt."

"No shit. Read it. What's the phone number?"

Dean squints. "1-800-KISS-MY-ASS? Don't you think I should be paying attention to the road?"

Sam nods emphatically and drops the receipt, fighting back a Cheshire cat grin. "Yeah, I do, actually, because if a semi-truck hopped the median and came at us head-on, I'm not sure you'd see it coming."

Dean's nostrils flare and he takes his right hand off of the wheel to cuff Sam in the back of the head. "Did you see that coming?"

Sam chuckles in that annoying, high-pitched whine he gets when he's feeling damn good about himself. "You're pretty spry for an older fellow."

Dean shakes his head. "Don't make me pull this car over."

Sam howls with laughter, actually holding his sides, and leaves Dean rethinking his choice of words. "You HAVE to pull this car over," Sam says, sucking air. "We have to go back to the exit for 70."

"We haven't hit 70 yet," Dean says through gritted teeth.

"Those glasses we used to see the Hellhounds? We could get some real lenses for 'em. They were cute."

"I don't need friggin' glasses, Sam. We haven't passed our exit yet."

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

Dean responds in kind. "How many am I holding up?"

Author Note: Blame this one on the now-empty bottle of wine currently to my right. You are my bitch this year, NaNoWriMo!