Sammy points, finger trembling with the righteousness of the very young. "He started it." Dean's eyes narrow into mutinous slits. "Did not!" "Did so!" "Did not!" If teeth grinding were an Olympic sport, John would have the gold. "Do not make me stop this car." "Daaaaaaaaaad..." "So help me, Sammy, I'll pull over and leave you both to the first bogey I see." He's pretty sure he means it, too. *** I-90, 70 miles east of Ames, Iowa when Dean realizes a great truth about himself and his world. He's not sure why he never realized it sooner.
"Just because you have no taste..." Dean flips his sunglasses down and gives Sam his most hangdog expression. "The motherfuckin' Yankees, Sammy." "Uh, hello, look at their players. DiMaggio, The Babe, The Rocket, Gehrig, Jeter..." "Tell me you did not just mention the great Iron Horse to Derek fucking Jeter." Eyebrow raising is a weapon, and Dean wields it like a pro. "Sammy, Sammy, Sammy..." Sam shifts, long legs trying to find non-existent room in the front seat. "I wasn't, I was just...saying that the Yankees have a long tradition of great players." "Yeah, paid for with blood money." "Hey, just because you backed the losingest team in baseball history..." "Kicked your team's asses in 2004 and won the World Series, thankyouverymuch –" "For the first time in 86 years, was it?" "And you're slipping there, college boy. I don't think losingest is a word." "Maybe it should be." "Only if we put your picture in the dictionary next to it." When Sam spreads his hands out, he takes up most of the front seat. "Just 'cause I like a winning team..." "Baseball's not about winning." "What's that you always used to say...oh yeah. Everything is about winning." Twin dimples, identical to Dean's, appear when Sam smirks. "Anyone who says different is just a loser." *** Highway 83, headed east, 150 miles outside Tuscaloosa, Alabama when John starts to pray for the first time in years.
"Yes, Dean?" "Where do babies come from?" Once upon a time, he and Mary had joked about this very thing. "Well...uh..." "'Cause Peter Thomson said that his Dad said that they came from outer space, but I don't believe that. Sammy's not an alien, is he? Is he?" "Um..." Dean's eyes grow as round as saucers as he twists to face his brother. "See, Sammy, I told you that you were a freak! Martian freak!!" Sammy's lower lip juts out. "Am not!" "Are too!" "Am not!" Only another 146 miles, praise God, and John guns the engine. *** Juncture of Highways 16 and 20, just outside Worland, Wyoming, and anything's better than thinking about the fact that the wind chill factor has dipped below zero.
Sam grins, wide and competitive. "I Am The Walrus." "Goo goo g'joob." Dean returns the grin. "Tuesday's Gone." "Gimme Three Steps." "More Than A Feeling." "Hitch A Ride." "Very good. Busting out with the rare tracks, I like that." Sam warms his hands over the vent. "Bite me." "No, really, I'm touched that you remember your roots." "How could I forget? That's all we listened to growing up." "Sammy..." When Dean shakes his head, it carries all the weight of a funeral dirge. "You listen to Death Cab For Cutie now." "They were Jess' favorite band." "Uh huh." "Shut up." *** Middle of nowhere, Kentucky, Highway 60, and John would have cheerfully faced a Reaper and a crazed water demon rather than spend another minute in the car.
Sammy's face scrunches into a mutinous frown. "Tiny Toons." "Muppet Babies." "Tiny Toons." "Muppet Babies." "Tiny Toons, stupid." Dean hits Sammy's arm. "You're stupid." Sammy hits back. "Nuh uh, you're stupid." "Am not, you're..." Did other single parents have this problem? "Enough. You're both wrong." "Nuh uh." "Uh huh. Nothing beats the original Looney Tunes, boys." Even at nine, Dean's the master of the eyeroll. "Oh, Dad, you're so old..." *** They're not lost, precisely, they know they're somewhere off of Highway 40, but they're not sure if they're in Pennsylvania or West Virginia (not that it really matters), and stopping to ask for directions while they still have gas is not an option.
Sam doesn't bat an eyelash. "Terms?" "Loser does laundry for a month." "Done." "That's my boy. But none of those freaky Hindu demons with the whacked-out names." Sam deftly pops a handful of M&Ms into his mouth. "Wasn't it Dad who said we should know them all?" "Yeah, well, Dad's not here." Dean slaps at Sam's hand when he reaches for the bag again. "And you just like showing off." "Hey, four years've got to be good for something." *** Highway 789, about 30 miles north of Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado, and maybe this particular trip wasn't, in retrospect, such a good idea on John's part.
"Yes, Dean?" "I hafta pee." Sammy pushes his way between the front seats. "Me too!" "I just asked you both at the last rest stop if you had to go." Solemn eyes look up at his through inexpertly trimmed bangs. "Didn't hafta then. And I reeeeallly hafta go, Dad." "Yeah, me too!" Patience is a virtue, patience is a virtue. Which would work, except that John knows he's not a virtuous man. *** Highway 301, near Brunswick, Georgia, and they can both smell the salty brine of the Atlantic hovering in the muggy air.
"So, what, I could twiddle my thumbs while you bounce skank waitress of the day?" Sam shakes his head and goes back to studying their map. "No thanks." Dean's fingers beat a steady tattoo along the steering wheel, chiming along to the beat. "We really need to get you laid." "So says the man who thinks commitment is paying for a night instead of an hour." "Hey! I have never paid for sex." There's disbelief, and then there's Sam's rendition of disbelief. "Never?" "NO." "And what about --?" "That was a freebie, man." Dean pops his neck, cocky grin in place. "She liked me." Sam just nods. "Well, I didn't see her asking you." Sam snorts, and it sounds like pity. He doesn't bother to look up. "That's because I have standards." "Hey, I have standards." "What, breathing?" "I think that's a pretty important requirement." *** The sun is setting heading west on Highway 2, between Mackinaw City and Escanaba, Wisconsin, but there's still enough light to see.
"Not yet, son." "Okay." The pause lasts for all of four seconds. "Now, are we there?" "Not yet." "Okay." Another four seconds. "Dad, now –" "No, Dean, not yet. Play with your brother." "He's sleeping." John doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at the disgust in Dean's voice. "Oh." "He's still a baby. I'm not." John fees the lump in his throat and, knuckles white around the steering wheel, drives on.
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