Pairing: Sam/Dean (Wincest)
Warnings: very light incest
Summary: Life on the road is strange. Sometimes, it's not the supernatural kind.
Word Count: 871
A/N: Happy birthday, Sam Winchester! I feel like celebrating with a bit of fluff. Title is pretty much literal, though I've edited actual happenings here and there to make them more Winchester-friendly. Betaed by the ever-awesome immortal_lights.
They're stuck in the middle of a blizzard.
It's not exactly Dean's favorite way to spend the day. The Impala is crawling along 1-70 at fifteen miles an hour and even that feels too fast, car rocking from side to side with each gust of wind. Dean can't see more than ten feet in front of him.
“Dean. Dean! Stop.” Sam points to something ahead of them in the road. Dean stops, and the car doesn't go off the road, which is a bit of a miracle.
“Is that--” He squints. “Dude. Tell me that's not what I think it is.”
“Yeah. Yeah, Dean, there's a cow in the middle of the road.”
“... Why is there a cow in the middle of the road.”
“The snow must be higher than the fences now. Guess we just have to wait for it to move.”
It doesn't move. Mostly, it seems content to stare at them with big, beady black eyes. It's going to be buried in snow if it keeps that up. It doesn't seem to care much.
“Cows normally have eyes like that, right?” Dean asks, giving Sam a sidelong glance.
“Oh my god, Dean, the cow is not possessed.”
The cow is probably possessed. Ten minutes go by. Nothing happens.
Dean would throw holy water on it, but it would probably freeze in midair.
He officially hates Iowa.
At a gas station in Kearney, Nebraska, Dean nearly gets beaten up by a ninety year old man.
It's so not his fault.
He's taking a while to pump, sure, but he's been driving for nineteen hours with next to no break and not nearly enough coffee, and it's not his fault that the guy is impatient as hell and doesn't understand that sometimes people have three credit cards rejected in a row and have to take the time to search for more. The search is kind of a pain in the ass and distracting besides, so when he hears the sound of someone launching into a long and creative bit of swearing, he doesn't realize it's directed towards him until he's face to face with one very tiny, very pissed off old man. The guy is red in the face and has a scowl that means business.
Dean is about to try and say something to pacify him, but the guy honest to God brandishes a cane at him and all he can do is hold his hands up in surrender and make his escape.
Sam laughs at him for the next thirty miles.
“Come on,” Dean says, scowling at him. “What was I gonna do, punch him? It's like getting in a fight with a little kid, you can't actually hit them unless you wanna look like an asshole.”
“You are an asshole,” Sam says, not looking at Dean because every time he does he starts laughing again.
“Shut up, am not.”
In Crook, Colorado, a town with four streets--two paved, two gravel--and an old-fashioned general store that has a cat sleeping in the candy bin, Dean doesn't get robbed. Given the town's name, he's feeling pretty lucky about that.
In Honesty, Ohio, a place that barely even exists, someone corners him in an alley and tries to get his wallet.
It's either the universe snickering at him or another trickster. Dean gets more suspicious of strangers for a while, just on principle.
“I like New Jersey,” Sam says.
They're passing through Edison and the Garden State is living up to its name, green and lush with the sky a deep blue overhead. Dean has the windows rolled down, enjoying the breeze. It's a good day. Still, it pays to be cautious about statements like that.
He splashes Sam with holy water, just in case, and then himself, because he actually agrees on this one.
It's all the diners. It has to be the diners.
Near Milan, Michigan, there's an electronic road sign. Instead of announcing road construction or delays, it just says “FREEE.”
A mile later, Dean sees a “PRISON AREA DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS” sign.
Sam starts snickering.
“We should look into the local records on the way back,” Sam says.
They're just past Beckley, West Virginia, taking the 77 south to a haunting in Charlotte. Dean turns the music down and looks over at him.
Sam points. Off to their right is what looks like a runaway truck ramp, but it slopes down instead of up, and unless it was designed for maximum amounts of trucker death it probably wasn't supposed to end in a cliff.
“...I hope somebody got fired for that one,” Dean says, staring.
“We should look into the local records,” Sam repeats, giving him a lopsided smile. “Just a hunch.”
In Virgin, Utah, Sam kisses him by the side of the road.
It's not the strangest thing to happen to him lately, supernatural or otherwise. It doesn't even make the top ten.
He kisses back.