Title: 'Semantics' or 'Shoot First'
Author: seraphina
Chapters: One-shot
Rating: T for language
Disclainer: Not mine

A/N: First fic in this fandom. Feedback is appreciated. Enjoy!

Sam likes to think that he's a level headed kinda guy; that despite the nomadic upbringing with the demons and the poltergeists and the ohmygodEVIL, he's reasonably well adjusted. It comes in handy, because let's face it; you can't judge a book by its cover and in the Winchester family business, that's important. Butt ugly doesn't necessarily mean malicious and baby-faced by no means makes an innocent, and it's during those moments of indefinable grey, when it could go either way, that it pays to have the patience to leave the safety on for that extra second, just to be certain.

However, there are all those other times when everything is pure black and white; when there's absolutely no doubt left in your mind and you'd be stupid not to fire off a round or two of rock salt, silver bullets, carbon-tipped crossbow bolts, or all three, just to be safe. Some things just look undeniably diabolical, others smell it, and when it comes to a select few, all it takes for you to pump your 12 gauge is to hear the damn thing.

Dean Winchester doesn't realise just how lucky he is that their weapons are stowed safely in the trunk of the Impala, because right now, his impression of Brian Johnson almost has his younger brother scrabbling for the crucifix he knows to the be hidden in the passenger seat visor.

Shoot to Thrill never sounded more like a chorus of hell spawn to Sam than it does now, yet he can't help the beginnings of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. As much as he bitches and bemoans the fact that Dean's collection of cassettes (he hasn't even started on the issue that they're still listening to cassettes for Christ's sake!) leave a lot to be desired, they are oh so Dean and for that reason, he'll put up with them. Just like he puts up with everything else about his brother that really, really irks him, because Dean his family and all he has left.

Sam's pretty sure that his idea of 'home' was fairly abstract from an abnormally young age. He remembers being in grade school (although which one, or even which state it was in, eludes his memory) and his class being asked to draw a picture of their homes. Most of the other kids produced a colourful variation on a theme; a yellow square, red roof, door in the middle with a window either side, and the obligatory chimney, complete with #2 pencil looping smoke whether their actual house had one or not. Sam's drawing had stood out in stark contrast being the only one without a building in sight. He doesn't remember it exactly; doesn't remember if he'd included dad in the masterpiece, but he knows for certain that Dean was there in all his yellow scribble-haired and six-fingered glory.

He's startled from his reverie when the volume on the cassette player suddenly diminishes as the track ends and Dean clears his throat. After 5.17 minutes of screeching, Sam's surprised his brother doesn't need a drink of water. There's a bottle at his feet but he's not offering.

"Keep your eye out for a mail box," his brother says, eyes flicking quickly to Sam, then back to the road.

"What for?" Sam asks, frowns and shifts in the passenger seat, bracing elbows against black leather and pushing his upper body forward slightly as he scans the sidewalk anyway. He grunts in pain as a hand reaches across and releases the latch on the glove compartment and it hits his knees, then sends a glare in Dean's direction. Not that it matters because Dean's eyes didn't leave the road during the whole manoeuvre. He just nods his head in the general direct of the now open compartment.

"Filled out some new credit card apps' and need to send 'em."

Sam falls back against the seat and grabs the pile of paper before slamming the door up a little harder than is necessary. Flicking through the forms one by one, he can't help but roll his eyes. There's got to be at least half a dozen there, each name different.

"Xiang Li Su?" he says and he can't help but notice that he's somehow managing to sound more incredulous each and every day when really, shouldn't he just be getting used to this? "Dean...this is wrong. There's got to be another way. Can't we-"

He's cut off as the forms are ripped from his grasp followed by a quick 'talk to the hand' gesture. "Can it, Jiminy," Dean says as he cards through the applications that are now in his lap, eyes flicking up and down between them and the road, making sure everything is in order. "You wanna eat, don't you? Besides, society owes us. All that evil we kill...dude, we're doing them a favour. The Man won't miss a few hundred bucks here and there."

"Yeah, well you try telling that to 'The Man' when we're picked up for credit card fraud," Sam snorts but doesn't argue further and even starts looking for a mail box again. Besides, Dean's right, but Sam's not going to admit that...ever.

Obviously, Sam's comment doesn't deign further response because all of a sudden, the volume's hiked back up and Dean is screeching along to What You Do For Money Honey which seems fairly apt.

"Think maybe you need to gargle some holy water or something, man," Sam says loud enough to be heard over the music.

He sees Dean frown out of the corner of his eye. "Huh?"

"Either that or I need to perform an exorcism on your ass." He raises and eyebrow at Dean's confused expression. "Dude, you sound possessed and I'm pretty sure you're going the right way towards waking the dead and really, I don't think we need that right now."

Dean scowls as only Dean can and says "Fuck you," before cranking the music up even louder.

Sam smirks. So yeah, he's resigned himself to the fact that he's willing to put up with Dean no matter what, but they're still brothers, and it's his duty to shit stir, really. Besides, it's fun, and Dean will get his own back and it's the one constant in his life. But he can deal with that, because there's no place like home, and Dean's it.