Tree Hill, a little place in North Carolina, irrelevant to most, unknown to many. Utterly boring to the driver of the 1967 Chevrolet Impala speeding down the asphalt. The engine rumbles pleasantly, music to Dean Winchester's ears. Well, music near drowned out by the real thing, Metallica blasted forth from crackling speakers.
"Sammy!" Dean shouts suddenly, directed to his little brother, slouched fast asleep on the bench seat near the passenger door. No response proves to be forthcoming, prompting a repeat from Dean. "Sam!"
"Soulda known that not answering you wouldn't work," he grumbles, straightneing, lids opening, sleep blinked from foggy brown eyes.
"Dude," Dean comments, "you were out."
"No Dean," Sam is quick to argue, tone sharpened with obvious disapproval, "with this racket I'm surprised I can even hear myself think." With that, he reaches out, turning the knob with such force, Dean winces, pondering inwardly if Sam will actually manage to twist the knob off the ancient appliance. The guitar solo lowers to a so much less enjoyable whisper.
"Actually, Sam," Dean replies, darting a quick glance away froad the road, directed at his brother, "if you could hear yourself think that would imply some sort of schizophrenia and then some hunter would have to beat your ass... that is, if another monster didn't beat me to it. In a more biblical sort of way, if you know what I'm sayin'."
A long sigh gusting like a gale force wind from Sam's diaphragm, he comments dryly, "You're never going to let that go, are you?"
"Me? Let something go? Naw, I like to bother you too much."
"It was one time," Sam declares firmly, jabbing his index finger toward the sky, shedding emphasis, "one time. And what stays in Vegas, a trip you made me go on, happens in Vegas."
"Actually, you got that wrong."
Dark brown eyebrows furrow against the bridge of Sam's nose when he snaps, "What?"
Dean explains, swiping his hand through the air, indicating a reverse motion, "The saying is what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."
"Whatever," Sam barks, arms crossed against his chest, "it's still stayin' there."
Unable to cage a chuckle, Dean shakes his head, "Not if I have anything to do with it."
While Sam huffs, crouched as far as he can get against the passenger side door, the Impala zips past the sign, Welcome to Tree Hill North Carolina, Home of the Ravens.
"By the way, Sam," Dean comments suddenly, "the monster I remember was Margi the witch from Detroit, jus' saying."