"On this desolate road, well I tend to forget

About you and I.

And I'll fight to survive through this thunderous life

When we're not side by side."

-Of Space and Time, City and Colour

The darkened road stretches out in front of Dean like a blank slate of endless possibilities. It could take them anywhere. A turn here, a turn there, and a whole new array of destinations arise. Here, driving, he is in control of his fate. He loves driving at night. The solitude of it becomes peaceful rather than lonely. He plays soft rock at a barely-there volume and stares out in front of him, car driving smooth on the blacktop.

The stars above shine bright, more pronounced out here in the middle of nowhere than when Dean drives through a city. He likes the way their shine reflects off the top of the Impala and off little puddles along the road that mark the presence of rain not long ago.

In the backseat, Sam is sprawled out, dead to the world. Dean doesn't know how he manages it with those gangly legs, but Sam can sprawl and sleep on that padded leather like nowhere else on earth. Maybe because he'd been raised sleeping in this exact car on long drives from hunt to hunt. Wouldn't surprise Dean a bit. This car had been their home more than anywhere else, whether or not Sam would ever willingly admit that out loud.

They drive over a bump and Dean stiffens, waiting for one of his passengers to wake up. They don't. Not that Dean would have minded. He would have grinned, made the same smartass beauty sleep comment he always did, and then laughed so hard at himself anyone else still asleep in the car would have been abruptly awoken.

But the bump goes over smoothly, all irony in the world collapsing on that single descriptive phrase. Sam just sniffs loudly, groans a few unintelligible words, and rolls slightly. His left side is now squashed against the seat in a way that will leave huge crease marks on his face, which Dean is eager to tease him about. He also drools slightly and Dean rolls his eyes into the mirror and ignores it the way he always does where a sleeping Sam is concerned.

In the passenger seat, Cas does not shift at all to indicate he felt the bumpy road beneath the Impala's steady wheels. His face is turned from Dean slightly, leaning against the cool pane of the window. Every time he breathes out the glass fogs up and fades away again, confirming for Dean that the guy is actually alive and and just sleeping, not dead. The mix up is easy where Cas is concerned. He sleeps like it's a competition and those damn people in comas aren't going to take away his shot at first place.

At the same time, these are the moments when Cas is at his most vulnerable. Not that he spills secrets in his sleep or wanders up to tall places and teeters near the edge like he's some whack job on Ambien. He just looks so absolutely human asleep.

Awake, there's still a distant gleam of something bigger, of awe-inspiring, ground-shaking power, deep in his blue eyes. It lurks, but it is ever present. Just a symbol that the soldier of god is still in there. Asleep, Cas is a guy in Dean's old jeans, a worn green henley, and a thick jacket which sometimes doubles as a pillow. His hair gets mashed up on one side and it stays that way for hours. His eyes twitch when he dreams and his fingers sometimes reach out, desperate for safety in a touch.

For now, he is just slumped. One hand is up behind his head, an attempt at making his position comfortable, while the other lies flat across his stomach. His heavy boots have been toed off and tucked under the dashboard so his sock-clad toes curl and uncurl at the steady stream of heat Dean has blowing on them.

Dean thinks maybe Cas dreams of flying at night, because his face will pull back and then relax, a smile curling gently into place, and then he'll lean his head forward like a dog having his face blown back by the wind on a drive. Dean wishes he could capture that moment, that exquisite expression of relief and happiness, and have it saved somewhere forever where no one but him could ever look at it.

Instead he glances at his fallen angel once or twice every couple of minutes to just soak up what he can. He hopes if he stares enough the world will freeze-frame around them and he can just exist staring at Cas that way until the lights in the sky go out for good and the universe disappears around them. Cas's eyes will open slowly. He will look at Dean, a flicker of that content smile will pass over his lips, and Dean will smile back and that can be the end of it all.

Thoughts like these are what keep Dean driving. He drives through the whole night musing on the idea of him and Cas going out like candles, gone for good, smiling at each other. He thinks that would be his ideal way to go, when the day comes. Much better than going out in a blaze of glory, Borormir style, with bullets riddling him like tissue paper, the way he had always imagined before. Before Cas.

Beside him, Cas shifts in sleep and his eyes blink open.

"Ah, good morning, Sleeping Beauty," Dean says. "Feel pretty enough yet?" Cas rolls his eyes and smiles, sitting up with a yawn as Dean laughs, long and hard, jolting Sam awake in the backseat. He smacks Dean's headrest goodnaturedly and Dean smirks, still looking at the road out in front of him, just hoping it takes them someplace great.