Lar ||| Supernatural

Wherever You Go, There You Are (And Other Lies About Roadtrips) (A Hard Road Remix)
by Lar

EMAIL: HERE
RATING: PG-13
PAIRING: Gen
DISCLAIMER: Kripke, you Magnificent Bastard, they are all yours.
SUMMARY: A life measured in miles.
A/N: written for the SPN Remix Challenge.
Original Story: Wherever You Go, There You Are (And Other Lies About Roadtrips)
Original Author: azewewish


---

May, 1984

Dean sits in the back seat, one hand on the window, the other clutching a cupcake carefully. Beside him, his brother is asleep in the carseat, smudge of chocolate still marking the curve of one baby-fat cheek. The sun's been down for a while now and the sound of tires on the road is like a white noise in Dean's head. It makes him sleepy, head nodding and then jerking upright again.

John catches the movement in the rear view when he checks behind him. "You gonna eat that, little man?" he asks, his voice raised just loud enough to startle Dean from his trance. "Go on, eat up. Never knew you to hold onto somethin' sweet so long."

"Sammy didn't get a candle," Dean says as he looks at the baby in the seat and then to his father. His eyes are wide, shadowed beneath them in a way that makes him look older than his years. "I'm saving mine so he can get a candle to blow out."

John clears his throat, hands tightening on the wheel. His plans for driving straight through are gone just like that and he nods. "Good thing he's got you lookin' out for him," John says and Dean smiles.

It's worth the delay.
-----

January, 1995

"Stop kickin' the seat!" Dean flings his arm blindly over the seat, waving it as a warning.

"I'm not." Sam shifts on the back seat, long legs stretching from one uncomfortable position to another. The car was not made to fit anyone comfortably for journeys measured in days and not minutes.

John sighs, weary of the complaints before they even begin to amp up into something loud. "Both of you stop your arguin' or you'll be runnin' laps for the next five miles."

"Yes, sir."

There is ten minutes of blessed silence. John listens to the muted sounds coming from the headphones Dean is wearing, reminded yet again that he should have fixed the damn radio the last time they stopped for a job. It's been three weeks without music. The soundtrack of Dean's bitching and Sam's whining lost its shine 20 days and 20 hours ago.

There's a pot hole in the road that John has to swerve to avoid and Sam swears from the back seat as his books slide to the floor in a tumbled mess. John frowns, looks into the rearview in time to see Sam punch the seat in frustration, his mouth a tight line. For one moment their eyes meet, locked for all the time John can afford to look away from the rough surface of the old back road. Then Dean's halfway over the seat to make good on his threat and Sam's pushing him back.

The tires leave skid marks when John whips the wheel to the side and pulls over, braking hard enough to throw Dean forward and bounce Sam against the seat. "Out," he snaps and turns to glare at them both. "Out, right now."

"Dad-"

"Now! Five miles." He meets Dean's hurt eyes with the same blank gaze he gives to Sam's angry expression, waiting without comment for them to get out of the car and get moving. He knows that they'll fight the whole damn time they're running. He also knows when they get back in up the road some, he'll have worn them out enough to shut them up for the next few hours. He watches their breath, clouds of white as they zip up their coats and start moving, and sits there until they round the curve.

The silence in the car feels heavy and wrong.

-----

August 2003

"I can take the bus," Sam says again, looking out the side window.

Dean's answer is to turn up the radio until the speakers crackle, as if he's trying to imprint the noise into Sam's skin. He pushes down on the accelerator and the Impala obediently moves faster. In the brief quiet between songs, Dean informs Sam that he's not riding any fucking bus.

"Fine." Sam lifts one hand, gesture of surrender, and slides down lower in the seat. The sun is bright, the air is humd and if there is a cop on the stretch of road between here and whatever stopping point Dean decides to choose, they are completely screwed. He doesn't need to look at the dashboard to know that Dean's driving too fast; the car tells Sam everything he needs to know. He grew up in this thing, learned its sounds and rhythms the way other kids learn their mother's voice and their father's moods.

Dean may love this car but Sam's connected to it, too.

"Don't worry, Sammy, you won't miss anything," Dean says suddenly, his hands clenched tight to the wheel. Sam can see his knuckles turn white and then pink as he releases his grip.

"Dean, don't start," Sam says with a sigh, rubbing one hand over his eyes. They feel gritty from road dust and heat. He pinches the bridge of his nose and when he lets go, he sees Dean's staring at him. "Seriously, I'm tired of having this conversation with dad, I don't want to have it with you, too."

"Meant you won't miss anything at school," Dean tells him, his jaw tight. "We'll be there before you gotta check in."

Sam flushes, guilt rushing over him instead of annoyance. Dean snaps off the radio, leans into the driver's side door, his elbow out the window. The apology that Sam wants to give sticks in his throat in the sudden quiet, harder to say when it's not shouted over "Enter Sandman" or "Iron Man." He's sure, in that moment, that he's going to have too much silence in his world the minute he steps out of this car and into his new life.

--end

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