Title: Too Many Miles
Author: Moonfairyhime
Rating: T, minor swearing
Disclaimer: I don't own the lovely Winchester boys.
Summary: Sometimes, the road is too long. Especially when your brother makes comments like "Dude, isn't forty-two the answer to everything?".
Feedback: I'd really appreciate it
Author's Notes: Some of the things mentioned in this fic really happened to me. Proceed at your own risk. Slight spoilers for 1.09, "Home". Hugs and kisses to gravigirl123 for beta-ing for me.

Sam knew that Dean was going to drive him crazy. Especially since their next case was in Florida and they were driving there from Maine. It had taken them ten hours to get to New Jersey (Sam just loved construction) and he knew it was going to take roughly sixteen more hours to get to Florida. As Sam attempted to stretch out in the passenger side seat of the car, he wondered how long it would take Dean to come up with his next inane question. Sam loved his brother, he really did, but playing "I Spy" through two hours of construction was not his favorite way to pass the time. Especially, when in those two hours, they managed to go about twenty miles.

"Hey, Sammy, do you think you could predict tomorrow's lottery numbers?"

Sam gave Dean a look that clearly read 'I don't feel like dignifying that with a response and how are we related again?'. Sam then checked his watch; it had taken Dean about twenty minutes to come up with his next question. That was a new record.

Dean laughed. "No, really, Sam, what do you think tomorrow's lottery numbers will be? We're getting low on cash."

Sam rolled his eyes. He knew that Dean wouldn't give up until he answered. "Fine, I predict tomorrow's lottery numbers will be 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, and 42."

"Dude, isn't forty-two the answer to everything?"

Sam sat straight up and stared at his brother. "You read Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy?"

Dean shook his head. "Nah. Snuck into the movies once and saw it. I was in between huntings and you were at Stanford and therefore couldn't amuse me." Dean then reached over and ruffled Sam's hair. Sam batted his hand away. "Besides, Sammy, you're our resident bookworm. How many times have you read that book?"



"Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is a novel. Something that has over 70,000 words is generally considered a novel."

"...Sammy, you scare me."

"Why? I was in Stanford for Pre-Law. We're supposed to know weird things like that. And to answer your previous question, I've read the novel twice."



"You're just as much as a geek as I thought you were." Dean began to reach towards Sam.

"Dean, if you so much as touch a single strand of hair on my head, I will break your hand."

"Sammy, I'm hurt." Dean retracted his hand and began to concentrate on driving again.

"No, you aren't. But you will be if you touch my head."

"...Hey, Sam, aren't those numbers from that show "Misplaced" or something?"

Sam was about to bang his head against the Impala's dashboard when Dean grabbed his arm. "What Dean?"

"Do not bang your head against the dash. You'll dent it."

"Heaven forbid something happens to the car. You may drive me insane, but as long as your car is okay, all is right with the world."

Dean began to soothingly talk to the car while glaring at his brother out of the corner of his eye. Sam decided he'd rather take a chance with the shit he'd seen in his dreams and fall asleep rather than watch his brother talk to the car.

"AHHHH!" Sam shot awake and immediately guzzled half of the water bottle that had been sitting on the floor of the Impala for a good two weeks. Dean raised his eyebrow; he had wondered where that water bottle went. Sam checked his watch; he had managed to get almost two hours of sleep.

"What is it, Sammy? Did Timmy fall down the well again?"

"I hate you."

"Hate you too, bitch. Did you have another vision?"

Sam ran his fingers through his hair. "I hope not."

When Sam didn't continue, Dean rolled his eyes. "Sam, I am not Dr. Phil. For one thing, I'd have to age about thirty years and for another thing, I'd have to lose these devilish good looks. What did you dream about?"

"I dreamt I drank a bottle of hand lotion. I reached out for a water bottle, half-asleep, and ended up drinking a bottle of hand lotion. Hand lotion doesn't taste that great, by the way."

"Well, we know that dream isn't coming true."

"How do you know that?"

"You never sleep. Anyhow, was the lotion Avon or the crappy hotel kind?"

"Avon... Why are we discussing this?"

"It's better than pointing out that sixty-plus year old man over there in the red, white, and blue Speedo."

"He has got to be over three hundred pounds. Thank you, Dean, for pointing that out."

"Hey, I wanted to discuss your dream. You wanted to find a new topic."

"...You're my big brother. You're supposed to protect me from things like that."

"Sometimes, Sam, it's just nice to share the wealth. Little brother, I never pointed out the..."

"Stop right there, Dean, I really don't want to know."

Dean watched as Sam's fingers reached for the dial of the radio. "Dude, what are you doing?"

"I'm changing the station. If I hear one more drug-addict screaming out a song, my head will explode."

"That'd be interesting to see."

Sam glowered at Dean. "Don't talk to me about interesting things to see. Besides, after pointing out that man in the Speedo, you owe me."

"Fine. Just don't make it some emo Goth chick music."

Sam smirked. "Oh, I won't."

Five minutes later, Sam was enjoying his sweet revenge. He was singing along with Neal McCoy's "Billy's Got His Beer Goggles On" at the top of his lungs and as off-key as he could. Dean had tolerated the George Strait song, didn't mind the Garth Brooks song, but a man could only take so much.

"Look, I promise to never call you Sammy again if you change the station."

"What's the magic word?"

Dean looked at Sam. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Sam grinned. "Every minute of it. Life looks good, good, good... Billy's got his beer goggles on."

"Sam, I will kick you out of this car if you don't stop singing this instant."

"You'd never do it."

"You're making the idea very tempting."

Sam switched off the radio. "Are you happy now?"

"Yes. Where the hell did you pick-up the habit of listening to that music? And can it go back to wherever it came from?"

"My roommate freshman year was a guy named Paul. He was really into country. I just learned to tolerate it. Some songs I really do like."

"You've never mentioned a Paul before. I heard you talking to Paula, but not a Paul."

"That's because Paula is Paul. He became a she in between our sophomore and junior years. It took Stanford a long time to sort out that paperwork."

Dean stared at his brother. "Dude, that didn't convince you to stop listening to country?"

Sam stared back, grinning. "Don't tell me you're bothered because my former roommate is a transsexual."

Dean looked uncomfortable. "No, not at all."

"Dean, you face down the paranormal every day and you're bothered by the fact a friend of mine is a transsexual? You know, Paula is happy to tell anyone about the operation she underwent. It's not that painful, from what she says."

"You listened to him, err, her talk about the operation?"

Sam shrugged. "She was drunk, I was bored, Jess had headed home for the holidays. Paula was always fun; get two or three beers into her and she'd tell you anything. We'd just finished finals for the fall semester, I was bored, and Paula will tell a tale to anyone who listens. So..."

"Dude, you can put the country stationback on if you promise not to continue with the story."

Sam shook his head as he put an AC/DC cassette into the player. Dean relaxed as the familiar notes of "Highway to Hell" began to play. Sam turned around and began to dig through the two-foot deep pile of trash in the backseat, hoping to find a new cassette to listen to after AC/DC was over. "Dean, we're going to have to clean out the backseat sooner or later... No way."

"What did you find, Sammy?"

"The Best of Queen. I thought it was a myth." Sam held the tape between his two fingers and stared at in fear.

"What are you talking about?"

Sam looked at the tape and then at his brother. He dropped the tape back on last week's fast food dinner and shook his head. "Read the novel Good Omens and you'd understand."

Dean frowned, but dropped the subject. "Highway to Hell" ended and a new song began. He sighed and looked at Sam. "Hey Sam?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"Gee, Sam, what are we going to do tonight?" Dean frowned when Sam didn't continue. "Aww, come on, man! You're supposed to say 'The same thing we do every night, Dean. Try to take over the world!'."

This time, Sam didn't resist the urge to beat his head against the dashboard.