AN: A bit short and wandering (much like its author), but I wanted to play around with second person a bit. Huge thanks to my dearest Sparkie for her help and encouragement with this one!
You hear the word so much, it wears on your mind. Because as simple as home is (four friggin' letters, shouldn't be that complicated), it's such a broad thing. It's a small word, but it's not. It's something bigger, more infinite, more important than a lot of other words. It's something you think about but never really think about.
But when you do (think about it), you realize that you don't really know where home is, or even what it is. Lawrence, Kansas is where everything started, but you don't think of it as much more than a tragedy smeared across a nightmare like thick, dark blood (leaving nothing but a congealing stain of revenge and pain).
With the exception of a few houses (Bobby and Pastor Jim and all the people that you think of as family but are afraid of how that makes you hurt), the only home base you've known is the last room of some decrepit motel destined for bankruptcy. You don't have a mailbox or a driveway, no front door, no picture windows.
You and Sammy are, for all intents and purposes, homeless. Your baby is as close as you'll ever get to anything like home, and when you think about it, that kinda sucks. Because Sam deserves a home (maybe even you deserve one, too).
Sam makes a low noise. When you look over, his head is rested against the window, mouth slightly open, breath coming in long, even streams. The kid's probably been out for the past sixty miles at least. You're not complaining; he needs the rest (so do you, but someone's gotta drive). Another soft snore drifts out, and you can't help but shake your head with a smirk.
That's when you realize you know exactly where home is, what it is, what it means.
Home is a long ride in the Impala, when you look over and see Sam asleep in the passenger's seat. It's the flash of green flecks in his eyes when he smiles, the imprint of dimples when he laughs. Home is the look of concentration Sam gets during research, bent over books or a laptop screen. Home is when he calls you jerk, but means so much more. It's when you call him bitch without telling him that he's the only thing you're really proud of (it's when you don't have to tell him because he already knows).
Home is the chick-flick moments and tight embraces, but it's also all the little things, the little moments, the ones that don't matter (but matter more than anything). Home is when Sam's just there and being Sammy.
Home is a long ride in the Impala, not caring where you're going as long as you're getting there together.
"Dean?" a voice mutters groggily. A newly awakened Sam stretches his arms (looking like a sleepy twelve-year-old, and you really love that about him, how he manages to make you feel so good just by being there). He gazes blearily out the window. "Wh're are we?"
A hint of a smile dances across your lips.