Dean finally got tired of listening to the Bob Seger tape and glanced over at his brother. Sam's head was bent studiously over some hard covered book he'd picked up from God knows where. "What are you reading over there, nerd boy?"
Sam answered with a huff, his partially grown out bangs falling over the slope of his high forehead. "It's about memory. How children don't really remember things until age four."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "That's stupid." He watched the landscape glide by them. "I remember lotsa things before friggin' four."
Sam nodded. "I think I do too." His forehead wrinkled. "I'm pretty sure I remember crapping my pants."
Dean's eyes lit with mischief. "Well, that probably happened yesterday, so..."
Sam gave a reluctant huff of amusement, turned his eyes up from the book. "What's your first memory?"
Dean fell silent, the gears of his mind visibly turning, fraught with pictures. "Mom. I think...Smiling at me in the living room of the old house." His voice was fond. "Just an image of her with a big round stomach. Your fault, Sammy."
Sam snorted. "Yeah. I think that was Dad's fault."
Dean's eyes tracked sideways again to read Sam's expression. "How about you?"
Sam's gaze turned inward. "I'm the same way. It's just an image...stained gold shag carpet and a whiskey glass and Dad's leg. He had on a pair of jeans. He was at a chipped laminate wood table...I remember sort of looking at it and looking up and he was cleaning his rifle."
Dean fell silent.
Sam turned his head to watch him, genuinely puzzled. "What?"
"Nothing." Dean's shoulders were tight for a minute before he smirked. "Did you at least drink the whiskey like any self-respecting Winchester?"
Sam snorted. "I think I decided to get a later start on the alcoholism than age two."
Dean shook his head in mock disapproval. "Your loss, Sammy. Your loss."
"Yeah," Sam looked out the window. "My loss."