A/N: One of these days I'll write something over 1,000 words. Until then, enjoy.
Disclaimer: Nope. Not mine. Not enough man-hugs to be mine.
Sam watches Dean from the passenger's seat of the Impala like he always does. Rush is playing, and, in a moment of benevolence, he doesn't complain when Dean turns it up a little too loud. Instead, he rolls down the window and lets the breeze ruffle his hair, the smell of dry Wyoming air filling the car. The tension that had lingered in the air since Dean had first showed up in Sam's kitchen has dissipated, leaving behind a sense of something Sam can't really describe. They're not on a case; there are no ghosts to hunt, no monsters chasing them, and no demons hanging over their shoulder. Just the purr of the engine and the road beneath them, flying by as the world narrows to a solid blur on all sides and a really bad song.
Occasionally his brother drums along on the steering wheel, humming under his breath. Sam watches as Dean downs the last dregs of his coffee, throwing the empty cup into the backseat. Sometimes Sam looks back there and sees a miniature coffee cup graveyard, which he then has to clean out. Dean's leg shifts and the Impala responds smoothly. They're going fast simply because they can, a luxury they haven't had since Sam was a kid and Dean was just learning how to drive. Sam relaxes against the headrest and look at Dean with half-shut eyes. He tries to muster up a glare when Dean starts singing, intentionally off-key and obnoxious, but it morphs into a sleepy smile at his brother's infectious grin. Shutting his eyes, Sam breathes in the familiar smells of leather and Dean. It's early enough in the day that he can sleep, so he does.