Homecoming

They're fifty seven miles east of the state line when Sam finally sees a smile tug at his brother's lips. Five days of grousing, complaining and general irritability seemed to evaporate away, as they headed further into South Dakota, and finally closed in on their destination.

The snow began to fall heavier against the wind shield, prompting a concerned grimace from Sam, who for once was in the driver's seat. Dean shifted irritably in the unfamiliar territory of the passenger side, and began to drum his fingers in an impatient rhythm against the door. The radio had long since been reduced to nothing more than a static drone due to the storm that currently raged. The two cassette tapes that had been played on loop for the duration of their drive were now deemed less appealing than the heavy silence that had descended upon them - some eighty miles and two rest stops ago.

Squinting against the night sky and the swirling mist of white flakes that engulfed them, Dean released a heavy hearted sigh and cast a derisory glance down at his left hand.

Slowly clenching his fingers into a fist, he winced at the tight, dull pain that the gesture provoked. He plucked in annoyance at the bandage that surrounded his wrist and hand, and muttered under his breath at the sheer indignity and inconvenience his injury had caused.

What had promised to be little more than a simple salt and burn had ended in the older Winchester being tossed unceremoniously from the top of a rather grand, yet entirely rambling staircase. As the ancient bannister railing had given way immediately upon impact, Dean had been sent tumbling down an entire flight of stairs, inflicting a deep gash to his forehead and a sprain to his left wrist.

After finally giving in to Sam's demands to go to the ER, Dean had left the hospital with four sutures to his forehead and a tightly bandaged wrist; the latter of which threatened to put pay to his plans to drive across two snow bound states to get home for his impending birthday.

Taking pity on his brother, and immediately realising the true reason behind his desire to return to their now permanent base at the old car yard, Sam had offered to drive them the three hundred and seventy miles from their hunt in Wisconsin.

Now, some thirteen hours later, and slowed by the considerable snow fall, the Impala was creeping steadily through the ice and snow, with less than a mile to go before it reached their destination.

Casting his brother a brief, sideways glance, Sam bit back a knowing smile and repeated an earlier offer, "You know, we could have waited for the snow to ease off a little... there was a strip-club next to the motel."

Despite Sam's general disdain for such establishments, he knew his sibling had never shared this particular opinion, and a trip to a strip club had become as much a birthday tradition for Dean as cake and candles were for the rest of the arguably less warped population.

"Nah," Dean shrugged, reaching up and rubbing the back of his neck as his eyes searched out the lights of the house that were now slowly coming into view, "I told you, Sammy... I just want to get home."

"Wow," Sam grinned, feeling his lips tugged into what could only be construed as a mocking smile as he once again thought over the strange impossibility that Dean had actually passed up the chance of a couple of cold beers and a strip show.

Immediately catching Sam's mocking tone, Dean pointedly ignored his gaze and tried to unsuccessfully quell the burning sensation he felt colour his cheeks, "Shut up."

"Hey, I didn't say anything," Sam stated innocently, holding up both hands as best he could, as he kept a grip on the steering wheel.

"Whatever, dude," Dean griped, suddenly smiling as the car came to a stop in front of the looming, slightly dilapidated house. Almost immediately at the sound of the engine, a light illuminated one of the upstairs windows, and seconds later, a second light flickered on in the kitchen.