DISCLAIMER: I do not own Supernatural, nor do I own the characters. They belong to Kripke and CW.

A/N: Thanks for stopping by to read this. It's going to get... interesting. I'm putting it up here to test if it'll work out or not. Enjoy!

Sam and Dean had been on the road for 53 hours, and in their reluctance to stop, had only made three pit-stops at equally sketchy interstate diners that had flickering neon signs and all served sludge for coffee and greasy food with a side of slop.

It was just them, the impala, and the sleek expanse of black pavement that stretched on infinitely. These were the times that made Dean appreciate their lifestyle, how even when the entire world was after them – angels, demons, fbi, cia, leviathans – they could hit the open road and forget about their troubles, if only for one night. For all of the things he'd been cheated out of throughout his life, Dean felt pretty lucky that he wasn't an ignorant fool who was rooted in an office building, living through books and fiction.

The folky strains of Credence Clearwater seeped through the Impala's speakers, loud enough to leak out the open windows and get caught in the back drift, creating a surround sound that flowed as one with the car. Dean's discarded leather jacket, which had been shoved into the backseat after the sun had begun beating down upon the open plains, had fallen onto the floor, completely covering up the box of mix-tapes.

"What in the world are these?" Dean exhumed the moldy cardboard box out of the Impala's trunk, and examined the unfamiliar cassette tapes with a critical leer.

"Oh those, they're nothing. I got them from you – from Bobby, for you, I mean." Sam said, rubbing one of his hands on his neck, avoiding meeting Dean's eyes.

Dean hefted the box onto a nearby stool, and began sifting through the tapes. He got a wicked twinkle in his eyes.

"Sammy, are these mix tapes?" he asked, examining the un-labeled tapes in the box.

Sam cleared his throat, and tried to look busy, shuffling through the trunk.

"Oh, Sammy! How thoughtful!" Dean said mocking as he normally did, but he stopped short when he noticed Sam's clenched jaw.

Dean set the tapes back in the box and walked over to Sam, and reached out with his left hand to jostle his shoulder, "Sammy? Sam?"

"You were gone." Sam said, eying the box of cassette tapes.

"…"

"You were gone," Sam said, the words slipping through his teeth like a hissing snake, "you were irrevocably gone, Dean. I had to do something to keep me from cracking. It was the closest I could be to you, without digging up your grave and lying beside your rotting corpse!"

Dean said nothing, and flinched when he saw the raw pain burning in Sam's eyes when he turned around.

There was nothing he could say to apologize – his death had obviously left a deep scar that could never go away.

For five minutes, they stood stationary, warily watching each other's movements, as if one of them would crack.

"…Can I listen to them?" Dean said, cracking a smile that barely even reached a smirk.

Sam let out a scoff, "I'm not your owner Dean, do whatever you want!" And just like that, things had gone back to normal.

Eventually Dean had listened to them and cringed – he hadn't heard music that bad since the single school dance he had attended, but it was so much the essence of Sam, that Dean kept them anyways.

The sun was blazing high overhead, but Sam was fast asleep, his head lolling against the seat, with both legs jammed against the low dashboard, spread open in a v-shape to get optimum room, and Dean found himself getting distracted – obviously by how uncomfortable Sam must be, not anything strange like how tantalizing the in-seam of Sam's jeans looked.

A blaring car horn awoke Dean from his… distractions, and he quickly swerved out of the way of an angry black truck. Honestly, just because the car was big and had buff wheels was not an entitlement for drivers to be aggressive assholes.

"Fuck you too!" Dean said, glaring at the vehicle that sped around the next turn and barely kept from overturning into a ditch, "that's what you get."

"Mnnf" said the talking ball of hair, sitting in the passenger seat, as it came into consciousness.

Sam, the hairball, sat up and stretched, forgetting he was in a car, and weakly hit Dean in the face with an outstretched limb. The hair monster let out a confused hum.

Eyes still closed, Sam opened his palm and patted what he had hit, and Dean spluttered.

"Sammy, not when I'm driving!" Dean said and he got a slap from the offending hand, "Hey, watch it! I make money with this"

Sam retracted his hand, grumbled some more, and opened his eyes, rubbed them, then looked again, "Wow this looks exactly the same as when I went to sleep."

"Tell me about it. I've almost been wondering if I'm driving in circles."

"Hey, can we stop soon?" Sam asked, and Dean slowed down a bit.

"What? I mean, sure, but why?"

"Mmm, I dunno. Just a feeling."

Dean wanted to comment on Sam's feelings, but it's been a sore spot since well, Sam lost his soul and got it back.

Not even halfway through the next Bad Company song, Sam perked up, "Here! Let's stop here, Dean."

"Calm your girly pants, Sammy. Are you sure? It looks a bit run-down," Dean said wearily, eying the dirty, deserted diner with skepticism.

"Come on Dean, it looks no different than any other roadside diner. Unless you're… scared?" Sam said, teasing.

Dean huffed, but pulled into the dingy parking lot, pulling into the nearest spot with screeching tires, before putting it in park.

"Was that necessary?" Sam said, clenching his jaw.

"Was what necessary, Sammy? Are you feeling okay?" Dean said with a smirk, putting on a coy look.

Sam glowered, but he had a skip in his step. Dean shook his head.

The rectangular building was barely bigger than a trailer house, and it was ten times as dirty, covered in a thick layer of dirt. The front was covered in grimy windows, with cheap, napkin-like curtains on the inside to obscure the gazes of leery drivers. There was only one door, with the atypical white shades that never opened or closed, with a fuzzy brown welcome mat sitting in front.

"Y'know what they say Sammy, appearance is everything. If they skimp on the outer, they'll skimp even more on the food!" Dean said, with a lilt of jocularity in his voice.

Sam flipped his hair, "We've had worse. And if I don't eat right now, I might be sick."

Dean shook his spikes, and pocketed the Impala's keys in the front right pocket of his scratched up Levi's.

"The things I do for my brother," he said, taking one last glance at his baby, before grabbing the gritty door knob and stepping into the dilapidated diner.

TBC…