Okay, so to start with, Dean had been strangely happy. Bobby and Sam had almost tried to exorcize him. But ten days was a long time for the post almost-something-but-not-quite cooling down period. It was beginning to grate on Dean's nerves, and he knew he was taking it out on Sammy. He didn't mean to. Somehow, everything was Sammy's fault; the sky was blue because Sam was an annoying oversized dweeb. Dean was shouting and snapping at Sam for everything.
Sam watched his brother sitting at the table in yet another crappy motel room they were renting whilst they were tracking down a possible angry spirit, possible demon in Aspen, Colorado. He was picking furiously at a loose thread on the knee of his tattered jeans, and rocking the chair back and forth, the feet making an irritating rhythm on the , but Sam daren't bitch at him about it. He'd thought Dean had been getting better; there had been a week or so where he had been on cloud nine. Drugs? 'Roids? Sam shook his head at the thought. Dean was built enough – Sam himself was built like a brick shit house, and his brother wasn't as gargantuan as him, but he wasn't Trevor Reznikesque – and sure, Dean was more than fond of a bit of the hard stuff, but not that hard. Top shelf was the farthest he would go. Granted he might over do it on the liquor, he and Sam had sung their way home many a time, but neither of them had ever been stupid enough to dabble in anything that had to be smoked, snorted, popped, injected or otherwise. Sam's little addiction to demon blood aside. Neither of them needed it to be honest. With the things they'd seen in their lives, combined with the fear of something choosing to attack whilst they were under the influence of something that was making them ask a lamp post for the time or a bowl of fruit talk to them, would set them up for a bad trip.
Sam felt like giving Dean a piece of his mind sometimes; a piece of his fist even. He knew it would get him nowhere. Might make ya feel a lil' better, Sammy boy. A slug in the jaw's known to do good to them what needs it. He smiled to himself, pulled out of his thoughts and back to a more stern expression by his older brother moseying over to his bed, kicking off his boots and swinging his legs heavily – and anything but gracefully – on to the bed, grunting with the effort. Sam checked his watch. "Five thirty, Dean? Really?" In hindsight, it was thinking about getting dark outside, the unbroken cloud cover dipping in to a dark grey tone, and looking decidedly pregnant with rain. Sam grimaced, but still fancied a cruise.
Dean muttered something about getting old and waved a hand absent mindedly at Sam in response to the request to borrow the car.
The sun tried in vain now and again to peek through the clouds, and each time it did, Sam would blink his eyes instinctively, flapping for the sun visor, but it did little but obscure his view of the road. He sat up more, and achieved cutting out half the road ahead, but at the same time blocking out the rays of sun, so it would have to do.
Sam loved driving the Impala. He'd never admit it to his brother, whom he liked to tease about how much he loved his car, but if he were being honest, there was a car, then there was a car. And there was no doubting that the '67 Chevvy Impala was a car. Driving it was like an all new - and decidedly legal - state of high. The sound she made and the sheer power was enough to make any normal day to day driver as the proud owner of an every day Ford go weak at the knees.
The Impala had driven Sam and Dean to Jericho, California to the Woman In White; their very first case back together as a team, after Sam had left the family business in favor of college, a career and the hope of a normal life. So much for that idea. She had taken the brothers all across America since then, and she'd been flattened out many a time, even by Dean himself. The car had been through a lot with the brothers, and it had been their Father's before then. Sam felt a pang in his heart thinking about his Father. The reason Sam and Dean had wound up in this line of work. If he hadn't have been killed by the Yellow Eyed demon Azazel back in '73, Mary wouldn't have made the deal. Yellow Eyes wouldn't have come back ten years later in the Fall of '83, in to Sam's nursery, taken Mary's life and John's sanity along with it.
John Winchester became obsessed by hunting down the demon that had killed his wife. It had taken precedence over everything, even his sons. Sam had almost hated him for that. Dean had brought him up, acting as Mother and Father to Sammy, and he could guess now what that had been like for Dean. Dean had never had the chance to do what he wanted, because he had to look after Sam, it was his duty to protect his little brother and keep him trained up in case of an attack. They had been brought up like soldiers, barely allowed a childhood, and Sam felt bitter towards their Father for that. But the more he thought, the more he came to realize it wasn't really his Father's fault. John Winchester had fallen in love. Just as Sam had with Jess. And what had he done after her death, but vow vengeance on the piece of crap that had killed her? Just as Dean had with... Sam blinked. It was dark. He really ought to turn the car around and head motelwards. Dean would be worried. Lisa maybe? Sure, he'd loved Lisa. And Ben. Sam had to admit, Lisa Braeden was a hottie. He smirked slightly, but his head was still spinning. Dean Winchester had fallen in love. He knew he'd seen that look in his eyes. The same look that Jessica had in her eyes when she looked at Sam. The last time anyone had looked at Sam in that way. But he'd seen that look in Dean's eyes, a lot. But not for these past few months. Nothing but that far away pained look. He couldn't be sure, but Sam thought he knew that look. Not Dean... Surely?