Notes: Tag to "No Rest for the Wicked." There was an extra challenge attached to this E/O Word, and it was to make my drabble longer. The word count is 450 words.

"Dean, get up!" Sam shouted, shoving their things into duffels. Dean rolled over on the bed, groaning.

"What time is it?"

"About 5:30."

"In the morning?" Dean said, pulling the covers over his head.

"Yeah. Bobby called. He got wind of a rawhead wreaking havoc in Indiana."

Dean threw the covers off and jumped out of bed.

"Why didn't you say so? Let's get the hell ouf of this damn snow!" Dean jumped up and got dressed while Sam packed up the rest of their ammo and clothes.

~Several Hours Later~

"Dean, will you cut it out!" Sam yelled, swatting his brother's hand away from his ear. He'd taken to playing "I'm not touching you" by putting his finger as close to Sam's ear as possible. The game had irritated Sam since they were kids.

"Come on, Sammy! You need more laughter in your life!"

"I've been driving for seven hours. I need a nap," Sam grumbled.

"Fine, Samantha, pull over. I'll drive for a while."

Sam gladly pulled over.

~That night, approximately 1:00 a.m.~

"Sam! Down!" Dean shouted. Sam ducked immediately, and Dean shot the rawhead with the taser. The rawhead fried, and dropped to the ground, dead.

"Thank God," Sam said, sprawled out on the floor where he'd dropped. "Let's salt and burn him and get the hell out of here." He pulled himself to his feet as Dean grabbed the salt from his bag and doused their latest kill. Sam poured on the lighter fluid, lit a match, and the rawhead was up in smoke.

"Let's get out of here," Dean said, chest heaving. "I need toget some sleep."

"You need a doctor," Sam replied, looking down at Dean's torso. A large bloodstain was spreading over Dean's shirt. Sam made it to him just in time to catch him. It was time they pay Bobby a visit.

~Two Days Later~

"Dean, loading my shotgun with pepper rounds is not a funny joke," Sam yelled from the living room. Bobby was in his library, reading from a lore book.

"Aww come on, it's a little funny. Ow!"

"Hey! Give it back!"

"Never—ow! Quit doing that!"

"Give me back my gun, then."

"Bitch."

"Jerk.'

Bobby smiled and turned the page in his book. It was like having two kids in the house with Sam and Dean, but with guns. Suddenly he heard a crash from the living room. Sighing, he got up to check on them, wondering what the idjits were fighting over this time. Whatever it was, he was sure it could be forgiven. After all, Dean would be gone in a few months. He'd let them enjoy these good times while they still had them.