Sam's hand stops almost automatically, suspended in mid-air. There's a good-sized pause. Then, with a disbelieving snort of puh-lease, whatever, Sam's hand rebelliously continues on its previously scheduled path.
"I'm serious," Dean says again, casting Sam a quick sideways glance, this sort of gleam flickering dangerously in his eyes. "Don't touch it."
Little brother Sammy takes a long moment to think about it, then ultimately decides that wrath o' Dean isn't worth eighty minutes of audible bliss. He slumps into his seat, throwing his mix CD of angsty rock music to the join the fastfood cemetery on the floor below. He looks at Dean. "You've got issues, you know that, right?"
"Hey, man, I know the crap you listen to. That crap will not blare outta these speakers," he says, patting the top of his dashboard lovingly.
Sam shakes his head, chuckling just so. "You've gotta drop this thing."
"Your car obsession, man! I'm telling you, it's unhealthy."
"Dude, this car is a classic! We're talking vintage, fine, fine sleek--"
"It's a car! It's one purpose in life is to drive us from Destination: A, to Destination: B! Sorry," he adds, "but I'm not seeing anything even remotely worth worshiping about that. I mean, I've seen occults with more sense than you."
Dean looks highly offronted. "You're too uptight, Sammy," he decides. "Too straight-thinking. You gotta let all that go."
"Let it go?" Sam looks like he's stiffling a laugh, his lips pursed together tightly. "Uh huh, right. So I do that, right, let it go, then I'm gonna... what? Crank out issues of Weekly Mechanic and--"
"Dump your frilly girliness and your--" he peers down at the floorboards, saying with a sarcastic snort, "Dashboard Confessional contemporary mix, then, yeah, you might actually start resembling something like a man."
Now it's Sam's turn to don the 'offended' look. "Hey, hang on now," he says, straightening in his seat. "Who says you have to drool over a sports car--"
"Sports car?!" Dean says, looking horrified.
"Or whatever to be considered a man? I mean," he goes on, "the fact that I'm risking my neck out there every night has to give me some kind of credibility, right?"
"Dude." Dean stares at his brother, all Where did I go wrong? with the older brother disappointment. "You are such a girl."
There's some sputtering on Sam's part, before he finally manages a shouted, "Am not!"
Dean just eyes him critically. "Real convincing, Samantha."
Sam's eyes narrow, but his words are weak. "You're an idiot. Really."
"Aw, and now I've gone and offended her. Please tell me you're not gonna cry. It's the tears that always get to me."
"I'm not--" Sam huffs, then, wisely, snaps his mouth shut and slumps back into his seat. Arms folded across his chest all sullenly and petulantly. "Just drive."
"Lady with an attitude," Dean snarks, shaking his head ever-so-solemnly.
Sam glares. Hard.
"Woah," Dean says, a hand lifting in the air in some form of mock-placation, "okay, then. Obviously it's that time of the month--"
"I'm seriously about two seconds away from clocking you."
"With those dainty lady fists--ow!" Dean shoots Sam a dark look, and Sam stares back in that You so totally asked for it non-apologetic way, his wide eyes pretty much on the same page. "Okay, okay. Dropping it now." With a shake of his shoulders that unkinks the kink in his bicep where he was punched for no good reason, Dean looks towards the road again.
It doesn't take long before he starts to smile, which takes even less time to turn into a low chuckle, which eventually makes its way into being a full-out, this-could-seriously-cause-a-massive-accident laughter.
Sam's staring at him, all confused and not knowing what to do. "What?"
Dean quiets quick. "Nothing," he says, fast. A smile tugs at his lips. "Dad did always want a girl, though."
And Dean just laughs.