Author Note: So, I did a thing. I finished the first draft of my book. All the thanks in all the land to Nova42, who kept me on track and, more importantly, put up with me for 4 days while I made this happen. She might tell you that I was a poor sport about losing a rather intense game of SPN Monopoly, but who's to say really? There were no witnesses. Unless you count the cows grazing in the field right next to our cabin. And when I say "right next to" I mean they were staring at us through the front door from like 20 feet away.

Oh yeah-and also, here's another fic! Just a little tag for "Nightshifter". One of my all-time fave eps! Nova also tells me that this is technically my 150th SPN fanfic, and that occasion is going to be marked by a longer, S14 AU story I'm going to get working on while I let my book marinate for a few months.

Rest Stop

Sam has never been able to fall sleep easily in the car the way his brother can, but when they finally pull off the highway almost twenty-four hours after leaving Milwaukee, he crawls into the backseat, jams a wadded jacket against the door, and is asleep within minutes.

He wakes some time later to a thud, a curse. It's still dark and his head pulses with the nauseating ache of too little sleep, so he guesses that less than an hour has passed since they stopped. They'd driven all day and through most of the night, stopping only when Dean's chin was dipping, and he started to swerve. Sam hadn't taken a shift behind the wheel only because the swerving had woken him from his own accidental doze against the door.

Sam lies still, listening for cues in the tight, controlled breathing of his brother from the front seat. "Dean? Y'all right?"

"Yeah. I just…moved."

The shapeshifter had put up one hell of a fight, gotten in a few good licks before Dean jabbed the silver letter opener into its chest. The fist-sized splotches coloring his cheek and forehead were glaringly obvious, but when they'd hurriedly changed out of the SWAT gear, Sam had also gotten an eyeful of the blossoming bruises across his brother's side, chest, and right shoulder. Nothing broken, but it's no wonder he's achy now, stiffening up.

"Need me to get you something from the trunk?" he asks.

There's ibuprofen in the glove box, and Dean has popped at least six since they hauled ass out of Wisconsin, but it sounds to Sam like his brother is in the kind of discomfort that calls for the good stuff.

"Dean?" he prods when there's no answer.

"No. I'm good."

Now that he's awake, Sam is registering how cold it is. It's not like they haven't slept in the car here and there, but January isn't an ideal time for it throughout most of the country. He tugs the sleeves of his shirt over his wrists and stares up at the ceiling, listening for a sign that Dean has fallen back asleep.

He knew they were in trouble after Baltimore, but Sam hadn't expected it to bite them in the ass so soon. Dean had the car with him when he was picked up at the Giles's house, which means the feds have a description of the Impala. It also means that Sam needs to initiate a very serious conversation with his brother about ditching the car once Milwaukee is well behind them in the rearview. Temporarily, of course, because any other suggestion will likely leave him with a broken nose. He thinks Dean may have gotten there himself already, considering the fact they're parked in an empty gravel lot off an access road well-hidden from the highway.

Sam nearly drifts off again, but a grunt from Dean blows his eyes open. He heaves himself upright and peers over the bench. Dean looks miserable, twisted toward the seatback with a hand tented over his face and his legs crumpled in awkward angles against the driver's side door. The bruises from the shapeshifter's fists are really coming to color now. They really should have stopped earlier.

"Gimme the keys."

"Sam, I said I'm fine."

"And I said give me the keys."

Dean sighs and uses the seatback to haul himself into a seated position, grunts when he reaches to pull the keys from the ignition. After he hands them over with the petulance of a five-year-old, he flops back against the seat, sticking his left hand in his right armpit as though stabilizing his shoulder.

Sam narrows his eyes. "You're sure it didn't come out?"

"For the last time, Sam, yes."

"Okay, okay. Hang on."

Outside the car, the pre-dawn chill hangs heavy and wet. Sam hikes his shoulders, ears perked to the far-off sounds of the highway in the distance. Inside the trunk are the hastily bundled SWAT outfits, a nondescript pile of black fabric unless you know what you're looking for. The weapons are a different story—he has no idea what they're going to do with the guns. Sam shoves it all aside and digs into the bags until he unearths the pills he'd scored at that clinic when he broke his hand.

He knocks a pill into his palm, then adds another, then decides to hang onto the bottle, just in case. He finds a chemical ice pack too, just in case. Sam shuts the trunk one-handed and slides back into the backseat. He drops the keys onto Dean's chest, extends the hand with the pills.

"Here."

Dean grudgingly accepts, then shakes his head. "Two'll knock me out."

"You got someplace to be?"

"Sam, if they find us—"

"Dude, we drove like twenty-two hours straight to keep that from happening. We're in the middle of nowhere, four states away." He squints down at his brother. Dean is pale where his face isn't blackened, sprawled across the front seat in angles that are no doubt uncomfortable but meant to keep pressure off multiple deep bruises. "And if the cops do find us, what exactly is your plan? To fall down from exhaustion and make it easy for them to haul you back in?"

Dean huffs and opens his mouth to argue, but Sam doesn't give him a chance.

"I'm beat, man. We need to get some sleep, and then figure out what's next with clear heads." He grabs a bottled water from the floor mat and hangs it over the seatback.

His brother rolls his eyes as he takes the bottle. "And you call me bossy," he mutters, but he tosses back the pills, follows them with a swig of tepid water.

Dean grimaces as he works to find a comfortable enough position, keeping mostly on his left side. Sam activates the ice pack and wordlessly dangles it over the seat. Dean takes that too, molds it around his wrenched shoulder.

"How's my face?" he asks when he catches Sam staring.

"You've had worse."

"I really hate those freakin' things."

Sam raises his eyebrows. "Yeah, it's kinda starting to feel like it's mutual." He yawns into his fist. "You good?"

"Yeah, I'm good."

He nods and sinks back onto the bench, the upholstery squeaking beneath his legs as he bends them to fit. Sam's eyelids feel heavy, but he fights the sleepy tug, wanting to make sure his brother isn't doing the same thing. Dean has stilled, but Sam isn't convinced that's a good sign. Dean has been quiet, and that way lies dangerous thinking.

"Sucks about Ronald."

"Yeah," Dean says, his voice tight. He'd taken the man's death about as well as the shapeshifter's fists.

"What's this fed got against you anyway?" Sam asks, too tired to keep the words from slipping between his lips.

"Hell if I know, man." Already, Dean sounds breathy, less strained. "Maybe he just never got laid in high school and he's overcompensating."

But Sam can hear it in his brother's voice. This guy got to Dean, touched a nerve. He found them too quickly in Milwaukee, which is probably why Dean drove until he literally no longer could. He'd been rattled from the jump, but it had taken hours for Sam to pull any information from his tight-lipped brother.

"He tried to rattle me. Thought he knew something about Dad. I dunno, Sammy. He was a dick."

Sam hates this guy from using their father to get to Dean, and he's worried that the agent knew enough about them to do it. He chews his lip as he watches the reflection of the rising sun bounce off the window above his feet. "This is gonna be fine, right? Dean?"

The pills have done their job, and the only response Sam gets is light snoring.

Sam swallows, laces his fingers together atop his chest and finally allows his eyes to close. Yeah, he tells himself, trying to sound convincing. This is gonna be fine.