Sam gave a furtive glance to Dean, his familiar profile outlined against the glass of the Impala driver's side window. Dean looked tired. He looked old somehow. Sam noticed how the lines of his face had deepened: the sudden crows feet at the corners of his eyes. In a matter of months, it seemed that Dean had gone from boyishly handsome to the haunted look of a combat veteran. How was it even possible for the lines to appear so quickly? Sam thought on it and realized the face probably wasn't lined at all, but that Dean's perpetually half-guarded expressions made it appear that way. The change was startling and Sam hadn't even noticed it until now. Sam's eyes fell on his brother again. The way he carried himself - hell, even the way he was sitting behind the driver's wheel was altered.

Before Dean Winchester always had that wide-eyed enthusiasm, that cocky smirk that always hovered on the edge of his lips. He'd roll the windows down, crank up the same nauseating classic rock tracks and belt them out, happy to be wherever he was going. Happy to be with Sam.

Now Dean sat quietly, shoulders hunched, like the world weighed on them, fingers tight on the steering wheel like he was sailing "Baby" through a rocky sea. His eyes were narrowed, his jaw tight- and Dean, his Dean, was nowhere to be found. Occasionally maybe, in some shadow of his former humor or the appreciative looks he gave to an attractive woman, but his entire energy felt different. It stifled Sam where he sat in the car.

Dean felt his eyes on him and glanced sideways, his eyebrow raising quizzically. "Dude, what?"

Sam dropped his gaze, sank his chin to his chest. "Nothing. Lost in thought."

Dean snorted and rolled his shoulders. He momentarily took his foot off the gas and shifted in the seat.

"Sam," Dean said huskily. " I can feel you staring at me like some crazy Stepford Wife."

"You don't play your music anymore."

Dean looked shocked. "Huh? Well the cassette's in the player." He reached for it and slid it in. "You could just ask, dude."

Sam huffed and shook his head fractionally. Leave it to Dean to not understand what he was saying. Dean fell into silence again, that brooding silence that meant that he was lost in his own thoughts. Sam almost wanted to start a fight. Start something that would elicit a reaction from his brother that would lead to anything resembling normal Dean behavior. Instead, he remained silent and closed his eyes against a sudden swell of emotion.

"Dude." Dean's voice again. The car slowed fractionally. "Are you having your period? What the hell?"

There he was. A glimpse of him, hidden beneath all those layers of pain and stress and guilt. One side of Sam's mouth curved up into a humorless grin. Sam opened his eyes when he was certain he could control his emotions. He looked straight ahead. But he could see Dean glancing nervously at him from his peripheral vision.

"Van Halen songs make you sad all of the sudden?"

"You make me sad," Sam replied, knowing Dean would take it as sarcasm. "Jerk."

There was a very long pause and Sam wasn't sure he'd say it. Then finally in a quiet undertone, "Bitch."

It made Sam tear up again and he had to look out the car window and watch the scenery whiz by. Dean. His Dean. His protector. His anchor. God, he never thought he'd miss the the constant teasing, the penchant for obnoxious behavior, that mischievous light in the green eyes that meant trouble was not far behind. The reckless abandon. The annoying bossiness. The cocky asshole. Sam's chest tightened and he breathed through it. The stranger behind the wheel was silent and Sam realized then that he missed his brother.