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Several miles beyond the Rest Stop, still heading west somewhere near Monticello, Illinois, the sleek lines of the Impala had taken a sudden right turn, the sun's rising light reflecting blindly off her passenger side, as the car now speeds north into sights long since unseen from within her faintly tinted windows. The faded Chevelle had followed, looking just exactly like one of those fastidious and unrelenting clouds of dust that necessarily follow in the wake of a windstorm. Ruby rides low in the black leather bucket seat of her great big red boat of a car, and sees no alternative but to follow on the intrepid course.

Oh, yes. Indeed. Just let it course on through then, now. Let it. When anticipation's lines run without abandon in the audacity of such a detour, then there has to be an assurance that the force behind this livid whim is somehow self-aware. Something's certainly conspiring with all her wanton glee. Indeed, somewhere there's a confidence that all that's happening is exactly what must be.

From almost a mile back, she can tell. Raw human emotion, when emanating from a soul so potentially volatile that one can sense its energy from even miles and miles away, such grief must soon implode. Any temple can crumble after all, no matter how well built. Just some little time, however, before this red-hot sizzling intensity spills over and then cools, and hardens- leaving a charring residue which falls away to become crushed into millions of dusty dry fragments of ash. All fires burn out eventually, and then nothing's left to take its place but the incomprehensible haze of defeat and its cloudy pain-filled aftermath.

Immortal binds rarely exist anywhere in this universe; stark naked emotion usually blinds most souls to the real state of things; and members of families do not necessarily sustain eternal connection to each other.

There's nothing ahead but chaos, she can tell. After taking a heavy drag from her cigarette, she cracks open the window to flick the ashes out on the roadside. Ash is made up of so much burnt out residue, becoming veritably insubstantial as it's blown into the atmosphere. Ash is all Dean Winchester's going to be once this business is over with.

From almost a mile back, she can tell.

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Whispers of burgeoning leaves, breathless, new and fervent in the morning air, state their piece in sporadic gusts which sweep through this deciduous forest, on through the sliding upgrades of earth that here define the banks of the Vermillion River. The terrain in this place has always been rugged and wooded, though not wholly forsaken of anything civilized. Immediately beyond the moistened earth and woods there lie, along outstretches of dry prairie, the cultivated fields and hearth-warmed homesteads of central Illinois.

The Vermillion is a tributary, both lying in wait for something extraordinary and rolling along with mounting ripples of trepidation towards the future. The banks of the Vermillion cradle a lazily coursing stream that runs north- quite contrary to most of the rivers in North America- draining towns like Chatsworth, Long Point, and Pontiac of the elements and any such flow, the waste from the scattered humanity that scrapes a precarious living along its shores. Like all matter fluid, it travels and transforms. The Vermillion's unique direction eventually merges it headlong into the steady and unrelenting force of the Illinois River.

The old Route 66 actually passes through Pontiac, though it's not used as a fare way for travel anymore. Sam guides the Impala alongside it as the soybean and corn fields whip past on the approach into town. Soon the outer edges of Chautauqua Park can be seen, with its familiar quaint little bridges, playgrounds and pavilions. Further into town Sam can glimpse other little parks strewn here and there amongst the tree-lined blocks of pretty old houses. In the center of town is a town square with an old-fashioned looking courthouse- a four-cornered red brick building trimmed in white and gold. Stretching further the town's boundaries to the west are apartment complexes, shopping centers and motels reaching all the way to I-55.

As he passes through the center of town, Sam allows himself a small smile, remembering how Pontiac's claim to fame was that it was the setting for the movie "Grandview, USA"- how this cozy and homey atmosphere was just ideal for such a film. Streets flicker by, faintly familiar, verging on nostalgia, and he can still remember Pontiac's courthouse. Sitting smug as Livingston County's seat, it's the place where court has always been held in the area. It's the building that he and his brother had walked into within just days of Sam having received his first driver's license. It had been approximately three weeks after Dean had been slapped with his third speeding citation in as many months.

"I just don't get it at all" Sam comments as they both run up the steps, almost 10 minutes late for court, "why would you let it happen once, let alone three times? Three traffic tickets, Dean! You know Dad's been thinking about giving you the Impala before your 21st birthday- I mean, why screw up now?"

"I did not let myself get those tickets, Sammy." Dean glances back, "They were thrust upon me." He pauses to adjust the waist on his dress pants and straighten his tie. He turns back to Sam, his lips pursing a sideways smirk, "It's all part of the conspiracy, my bro. When you grow up, you'll understand these things."

"Yeah," Sam says as he sprints up the steps behind him. "Whatever."

Upon exiting his way out the other end of the town, Sam feels himself honing right toward their destination, as if drawn there like a magnet.

They'd been in a pretty copse of woods a few miles outside of the town's limits, Sam remembers, his mind still holding pictures of that velvety black night almost a decade ago. Late spring of his sophomore year, nearing the end of their three month stay in this place: when dad, having just wrapped up a werewolf hunt in the area, had taken both himself and his brother camping one dark Friday night under the new moon. Sam can still grasp the excitement his 16-year-old self had felt as he'd gathered the few remaining insects due for his biology class final project, come due the following Monday. A few of the jars used for gathering were lined up neatly in front of their tent, and the cardboard platform aligned with each of the already 50-odd pinned insects adorned handsomely with each scientific name tagged below, looked impressive indeed where Sam had carefully leant it against a tree trunk nearby.

They'd built a small campfire, and the three of them were roasting marshmallows, sitting Indian-style around the warm glow. They had a dozen or so bottles of beer and a fifth of Jack Daniels handy at their side. This was actually the very first time in his life Sam had ever drunk alcohol. His dad must have been in a highly benevolent state of mind that evening. For Sam remembers having twisted the cap off his third bottle of beer, then glancing over at John, who merely winked at him with a watchful eye, letting him know it's all okay, at least this once.

Meantime, his brother shifted restlessly, occasionally taking large swigs from the beer he gripped tightly in his hand, surreptitiously glaring sideways at a jar containing Sam's prized specimen- a praying mantis- which happened to be miraculously still moving, though rather sluggishly, bowing its head and folding its front forelegs in repetition per the signature motion for which it's named. Tenacious, even, despite having a pin stuck through its torso and a cotton ball saturated in rubbing alcohol locked within.

"See this is what I'm talking about, boys" John declares before placing a thumb in his mouth to lick the remainder of his marshmallow, "ya have to plan your camping trip just right—check weather forecasts, pack exactly what you need- no more, no less- scope out just the right spot, and for godssake-," he stabs his index finger forward before pausing to take healthy sip of whisky, "you gotta always check the phasing of the moon!"

A lightning bug suddenly at that moment flew right by in front of Dean, and he deftly snatched it out of the air with his free hand. He studied the flickering glow for a moment before setting his beer down. Timing the light just right, he twisted the insect around his left pinky finger, creating a glow ring. He then looked over at Sam with a smirk on his face, wagging his eyebrow …

"So how do ya like that? - A ring of fire, um… fly!" He grins, "pretty awesome eh, Sammy??"

"It's called bioluminescence, Dean," Sam tells him, trying with little to no hope of success to put his brother in his place. "I already have one of those pinned to my board over there."

"Hah! Well mine's all glowing and yours is just burnt out and dead."

""That's a female lampyridae- and her torso lights up in answer to her mate's own flickering. Trust me, the light on yours is going to dim within a few short moments."

"Just how many more of them bugs do you really have to collect there, Sammy?" John asks with just a little hint of impatience in his voice.

"A few."

Dean gazes wistfully a moment longer at the rapidly dimming glow on his finger before looking back at Sam and frowning. "Lamper, what?"

"Lampyridae is the scientific name for lightning bug. I'm supposed to identify, classify and properly name each insect I collect – And I already have over the required 50 already completed on my board, so everything I do tonight is extra credit," he says proudly.

Dean slowly nods, then pursing his lips tightly together, flicks his eyes sideways to indicate the praying mantis in the jar.

"Let that one go, then."

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