A/N: Just a little one shot about a trucker who's seen our favorite '67 Chevy Impala on and off throughout the years. Season 5, sometime after Hammer of the Gods.

Warnings: Some language towards the end.

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I Make my Home Along the Road

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Dan Burbury had been driving the 40 route, east to west and west to east, for nigh on twenty glorious years. He loved that road like it was his own. Sure, there were easier routes. 80 at least took you through something other than cornfields and desert every now and again. But it wasn't I-40, and you couldn't get those sunsets and good-hearted folk anywhere like you could in the heart of the homeland.

He'd been running the route with his faithful rig damn near long enough to see the changes of the world around him. He'd watched little towns spring up and flourish, some of 'em not so much as they dried up and folk moved on.

He'd seen people come and go in his favorite diners along the route, his favorite truck stops and gas-ups, and the few family-run motels he stayed in when he could find 'em. Few of those folks even remembered him back, and somewhere along that beautiful stretch of endless pavement and golden fields, he'd built a little family of strangers sprinkled here and there.

But his favorite road relatives were two boys in a beauty of a restored 1967 classic Chevy Impala.

First time he'd seen that beaut had been in the spring of 91, roaring along the highway with an engine made of gold. There'd been a man behind the wheel, stern faced and age-weary. But in the back had been two little boys, propped up beneath the rear windshield and making faces at the drivers passing by.

Dan had honked his horn for those two boys, waving at their smiling faces as the car raced out of sight.

The next time he'd seen it, he'd been surprised to do so. Sure, as a trucker he saw all sorts of repeat folk on the road. Commuters that made the same stretch over and over again, sure as he himself did. Most of the cars passing by weren't recognizable enough to stand out in memory, though, even if they did make the same passing more than once.

But not that '67 Impala or those two grinning boys.

They weren't in the rear window this time, but the youngest one was watching the world pass by beneath a mop of brown hair and mopey eyes. Dan gave a little wave, and the kid perked up, smiling toothily at the taller rig.

Dan saw that car off and on throughout the years, idly wondering now and again what that father did for a living that drove his kids all over the country. Boys must be lucky, getting to see so much of the country at such a young age. Hell for raising kids or schooling, though.

One day, he heard the rumble of that Impala coming up his left side before he even saw it, driving with the window down as he often did in the cool Fall breezes of the west.

There were only two of 'em in the car this time. The father and the oldest son. Dan frowned as the ride passed by without notice. He wondered where that toothy little boy and his mop of brown hair got off to.

The next time he spotted the classic car, there was only the one son behind the wheel. Somehow, it seemed wrong for him to be alone in a vehicle that had clearly been home to a little family for so many years.

It was a long time after that, year or two at least, before Dan saw the car again. There was a man sitting passenger side, with a mop of brown hair and a mopey expression, and Dan caught himself smiling like a fool.

There was that little kid, all grown up.

He pulled the loud horn on his rig, and the kid's head shot over to him. Dan gave a nod, tipping the edge of his cap to the boy he'd watched grow up on these roads. The kid just looked at him funny and his brother sped up and off down the highway.

Ah, well. Not everyone on the road remembered him like he remembered them. And that was just fine.

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Dan bit into the jelly donut his old lady kept telling him would be the death of him as he paid for his mid-morning meal and the hot cup of joe he desperately needed. It'd been a rough week on the road. Rough year, really. There always seemed to be sirens out, ambulances rushing by; crashes every other day, some the worst he'd ever seen. And his buddy on 44 was still telling tale of the route shutting down for a whole week and a half outta Missouri. Some quarantine on a town outside of Springfield, or something like that.

Whole world seemed to be tilting on its side these days.

He grabbed at his ballcap and ran a hand through his hair as he pushed out of the gas station door with one shoulder and headed back for his rig and the daily grind. Something pulled him up short though, as sunlight glinted off black metal and he heard the beautiful rumble of a muscle car even before he spotted it.

It was that '67 Impala, sure as day, pulling into the truck stop.

Dan couldn't help the grin on his face as those two boys climbed out. But the smile faded at the state of the two. The younger trudged away from the car and all but dragged himself into the station. He passed the trucker on his way, and the slump of his shoulders and the hang of his head…

Dan Burbury didn't know heads from tails about these boys. He'd never met 'em, never spoke a word to them or their daddy. But he'd grown up with them on the road, and it pulled at his heartstrings to see the kid that used to smile up at him and wave at passing trucks and play with toys in the back window of that classic car look so damn defeated.

His feet were moving before his mind had a mean to make them, and he found himself standing on the other side of the beauty and the man who took such good care of her before he knew what he was going to say.

"That's a beaut of a car."

"What?" The older brother looked up, surprised at the sudden company like he wasn't aware of the world around him. He spared a tired smile down at his baby, but his heart was hardly in it. "Yeah…thanks."

"Rough day?"

The man laughed a humorless sound. "You could say that."

"What do you and your brother do that keeps you on the road all the time?"

The kid in front of him suddenly stiffened, and he went from tired to alert in the span of half a second. Dan realized his mistake as the kid's gaze snapped on him, suddenly suspicious and wary. His hand moved to his waist, and the trucker wasn't too stupid to guess what was back there.

He gave a nervous laugh of his own, realizing his broadband, home-town friendly approach probably came off creepy as hell to a stranger who didn't work small town, rural USA.

"Sorry, man," he tried for a genuine smile, not wanting to put the kid off any more than he already had. "I've seen this car before, handful of times actually. I run the 40, east to west, west to east. Been running it for near twenty years now."

He patted the roof of the restored classic with appreciation. "First time I saw it, you and your brother were just kids playing in the back seat. You used to wave at me."

He laughed, though it died off awkwardly when the man before him continued to seem wary.

"Well, uh…you and your brother take care of that car, now." Dan gave a nod, shuffling a bit self-consciously before he tipped his coffee at the kid and headed back for his rig.

As he climbed into the truck, he watched the younger of the two come back out. They climbed into the car and pulled away, wasting no time in hitting the road once more.

Dan looked at the crucifix hanging from his rear view mirror, giving it some thought for the first time in far too long. He hadn't prayed much in recent years, not near as much as he used to. World just felt like it was getting worse, and no one was up there. Least no one who cared. But his old lady had hung it up a decade ago and it seemed wrong to take it down. She'd said he'd be looked after with it there.

Hell, he may not know those boys, but if two people needed a stranger looking after them…then he was the man to do it.

So he sent up a prayer that those two would pull through and hoped someone was listening.