Driving the Impala through the mountains at night was something Dean enjoyed immensely. The world splayed beyond the hood, down the sloping road and into the valley below, a glittering tangle of lights like an over-decorated house in suburbia at Christmastime.

When he was a child, it was one of the few bonding moments he shared with his father. With Sammy soundly asleep in the backseat, Dean would crawl up to sit on the passenger's side, stealing an hour or two with the dad he barely knew, despite all the time they spent together. His father would tell him about the bands he liked, and occasionally told stories about his mother. Sometimes they talked strategy, and John gave him more training, words of advice and stories of lessons learned the hard way. All the while the cities sparkled. The lights in Texas were the same lights in Maryland; Illinois and New York looked the same by moonlight. John softened in those late hours on deserted roads, acted more like the father he had wanted to be, and much less like the drill sergeant he became after Mary's murder.

"Dad, tell me a story about Mom." Dean said quietly, one chilly night in November as they sped along the California coast, the lights reflecting off the ocean, making the frigid waves twinkle.

John heaved a tired sigh, but smiled affectionately at his oldest son. "Your Momma was the most wonderful woman I ever met. She loved to bake." John chuckled. "One Christmas, she helped bake pies for the Food Bank's free meal for the homeless, and for the hospital in town. She baked all day, every day, for a week. Ferried dozens of pies around, and as a thank you, they made her a giant card shaped like a slice of pie, and all the people who ate some signed it. She cried when the volunteers brought it to the house." John's voice cracked, his eyes watered, but the tears didn't fall.

A tiny warm hand landed on John's arm, and a small voice piped up from the backseat. "S'okay Daddy, Momma's in heaven now, makin' pies for the angels!" Sam was so young then, not more than 3 years old. Dean and John cracked up, and Sammy giggled along with them. Only Dean saw the tears finally free themselves from John's eyes. They rolled slowly down his cheeks, the streetlights catching them and making them glow before they disappeared.

Dean shook his head to clear it of the old memories, and glanced at his brother, asleep in the passenger seat. Sam always looked like an overgrown child with his long hair, but even more so when he slept, his face smooth and untroubled. His lips curled gently into a smile. As they crossed the state line, Dean suddenly twisted the volume knob, "Devil Went Down to Georgia" screaming from the abused speakers. Sam bolted upright, smacked the top of his head on the roof of the car, and Dean cracked up at his brother's shocked expression, illuminated by the streetlights on the sides of the highway.