NightDrive

They're in deep shit this time, no getting around that, and Dean's foot is lead. There's no question as to how screwed they are. Their pictures are everywhere, Sam might as damn well be a giant, the car tends to draw a crowd in a small town, and Dean tends to draw a crowd in any town.

Getting pulled over is a serious non-option right now and, as if he doesn't know that, he puts up with a lot of side seat driving. Like Sam is Lord of the Gas Pedal. Like Dean hasn't been driving this car since he was thirteen. He shuts Sam up with the radio dial. It pisses him off but he'll get over it. Dean's not dicking around right now and he can't put enough miles between the Winchesters and Green River County. He drives east because north would be too obvious, something that even after twenty minutes he can't make Sammy understand.

They drive and drive and drive, pausing only for gas, newspapers, and to relieve bodily functions. He pays at the pump with a brand new card from the trunk. Hendrickson's good, Dean's sure he has most of the names they've previously used, and he's not paying cash and putting his handsome face on anyone's security cameras.

Dean's not sure exactly how long they've been driving; feels like a lifetime and the clock on the dash has been blurry for awhile. He knows they're not as far as they could be. They've been taking any available side road and retrace miles at a time before turning around again. Sam says he's being paranoid. Dean says he's serpentining, employing covert ordnance tactics. Sam calls him a geek.

They finally stop at a place way off the road. Like, a state and a half off the road. The sun has come and gone again by the time they stumble upon some ratty little mom n' pop somewhere on the Tennessee/Virginia border. It's barely more than a trailer equipped with the luxuries of a heat lamp and running water. They only stop because they're both running on empty: Dean's seeing double and Sam's about ready to eat the leather wrapping the steering wheel. Dean lets a lot slide, but he's not letting Sam eat the car.

It's just past midnight, and the blinking, buzzing open twenty-four hours sign on the door opens to an otherwise empty establishment. The sixty-something man behind the counter looks like Death himself in the harsh florescent lighting winking in and out. He treats them like he hasn't seen a living, breathing soul in days, and Dean thinks this just might be the case, as a good quarter-inch of dust coats most available surfaces. They share a look as Sam blows a gritty cloud from the tabletop in the back they've been lead to. It sucks, but they can't risk anything more exposed.

Twenty minutes later two light bulb-baked burgers sit between them, half-eaten. It had been close – REALLY close – and there's a kind of nervous, silent tension in the air. They're quiet, tucked in a corner. Now that they've stopped, everything that had been trailing them a few feet behind the bumper crashes into them and settles large and heavy in their heads and guts, making hunger a distant memory.

Sam thinks it's just minutes until their luck finally runs out. Dean thinks, Dad never would have let it get this far. Loyalty above the smartest thing, yeah, but if anything, Dad had CPS on his tail, not the feds. Dad wasn't ever the one that slipped up; that was always Dean. Five-year-old Sammy tended to wander and no amount of lectures including the words "don't talk to strangers" could keep him from being the attention-seeking ham he was. It seemed like Dean could never keep a good enough eye on the kid.

Some things don't change.

This time Sam's got the spread of newspapers, moving carefully and thoroughly through each one, and he's the one with the laptop. It's a much easier and lazier way to hide your face; ducking behind the monitor versus bringing up a flimsy fold of paper. Dean's face is still colored with quite the spectrum of bruises, and he's feeling a little self-conscious even though the elderly couple represents the only other people in the building.

Sam looks deep in thought, eyes searching the National News sections of Arkansas and Tennessee papers for his own name and picture. He's chewing on the tip of his straw, and he looks tired. It's not right. It's too fair. Sam doesn't want this. Sam wants school and a life, and now he's national news with the FBI on his ass and that doesn't bode well for university readmission.

But lucky for that part of Dean's conscience, they've got bigger problems now.

"Uh oh."

Sam says it in that way he has when he knows what he has to say is either going to scare Dean or freak him out, and just maybe if he acts like their imminent death is about as noteworthy as a sale at Tire Barn Dean won't freak out quite so much.

Dean looks up from the news site he's been pretending to read. "What?"

Sam swallows, moves plates and glasses aside, pushes a section of newspaper across the table. It's one they'd picked up at a BP in Cookeville that afternoon. "Looks like we're not the only ones on the run."

Dean peers at the blurb, so small it's nearly covered by Sam's index finger, from around the laptop. He only has to read the first few lines before he shoves the paper away with disgust. "Man, cops SUCK."

"Dean – "

"Damn it."

Sam makes his sour lemon face at Dean and checks to make sure Grams and Gramps aren't listening, then leans forward, forearms resting on the tabletop. He's working really hard to look more pissed than worried. "What? They couldn't hang on to us but you think they can keep a guy like Gordon locked up?"

Dean's eyes are like fire. He's ALL pissed. "Do NOT even put him on the same level as us, Sam."

"He's got years on us, man. Gordon's been hunting for a long time. Probably not even the first time he's broken out."

"Yeah. And he's probably bookin' a beeline right for you." Dean checks his watch and rubs a hand over his tired eyes. He should've gotten coffee.

"Us."

Dean shakes his head. "And he's got a full day's head start." He reaches for his wallet; there's no time to thumb war over the bill. "We should move." And, damn it, because he could really use some sleep.

He was arrested in Indiana and stayed there because he's been stealthier than they ever have; something that really pisses Dean off. Gordon didn't have any previous charges for which he needed to be extradited to another state. Preferably one really, really far away from where they currently are.

Indiana. He's not that far.

A full day's head start. Dean can only assume Gordon already knows where they are. He has his own Roadhouse connections. Ellen's already been on the receiving end of quite the earful, has enough sense not to be giving away their whereabouts. And even so, she doesn't know where they are. But Gordon's a tracker. They haven't stopped moving in almost twenty-four hours, sure; but that's hardly anything new. Hardly anything Gordon doesn't understand. He knows how to track things on the move.

Things. He thinks of Sam as a thing.

Dean doesn't have a fucking clue where he's driving, he's just driving. Nowhere seems safe. He's got one eye on the road and one in the rearview, doing calculations in his head, trying to figure out how long it will take Gordon to find them. He'd found Sam in Lafayette plenty quick; just as or maybe even faster than Dean himself. His mental map is extensive from years on the road; Coulda jumped on 65 right to 74. And then 75 cuts right through Kentucky, then 40…and we just pulled offa 81…it was more than manageable. It was a goddamn ten-hour drive, tops. He shoots a glance at Sam, who's quiet in the passenger seat, his lips moving, face screwed up in thought. There's no doubt in Dean's mind that he's doing the same thing.

Gordon's had the time, has the motivation, and is the kind of guy who knows how to acquire the means. He's after Sam, and he's not getting him.

You hear that? You're not getting him.

The gunshot takes the air out of the back right tire with a crack and a pffsss audible over whispery treble of the lowered radio. On instinct, Sam pulls his head in and scrabbles for the gun in the glove box. On instinct, Dean spins the wheel, keeping the car out of the ditch. He lays on the accelerator and the Impala squeals forward.

He knew it was enough time.

"Dean – "

"It's just a warning shot, Sammy." The Impala is screeching, dragging and sparking on that rear rim and it physically hurts Dean to hear it, but he knows it's going to hurt a hell of a lot more if he doesn't get their asses out of there.

Sam raises his head just slightly, holding the .45 like he's actually going to do something with it. "What? Dean, he's shooting at us!"

Dean glances at the speedometer. Seventy-five goddamn miles per hour. The rim is toast. "No, he shot at us. We're in a moving car. He knew he would only get one shot off before we were out of range." He wanted to take out the car, take the air out from under them. Fucker.

Sam looks at Dean like he's suddenly seven years old again. Like he's never hunted in his life. "So we're clear?" He sounds hopeful. He's knows it's a far cry from reality, but he's hopeful.

Dean's eyes are fixed on the rearview, waiting for headlights.

"Dean?"

"No, Sam, he's gonna follow us and finish the job. He's gonna be comin' up on us in about five minutes." His eyes move over to Sam for only a fraction of a second, all he cares to risk at the moment.

They're losing speed, skidding more than anything, and Dean curses, slams a fist into the steering wheel. It's late; they're practically the only ones on the highway, and his baby is sending out a constant come-and-get-me flare of a target.

Without warning Dean jerks the wheel to the left, sails them right off of the road and down into the ditch.

Sam braces a hand on the dash as he's lifted off of the seat. "Shit, Dean! What are you doing?"

Dean jerks the car between two trees, tries to give her as much cover as he can here off of the road. He brings her around in a sickening one-eighty so she faces the road and jams his foot on the brakes. The Impala lurches with a metallic spin from that back tire that turns Dean's stomach. "We can't keep to the road, Sam. We're just gonna have to chill out here for the night and haul ass in the morning."

Sam's eyebrows jump as he looks wide-eyed at the road. "Isn't he gonna figure that out?"

Dean doesn't sugarcoat it. "Probably."

"Wh – " Sam faces Dean, one hand still on the dash. "We can't just sit here all night. We should grab what we can and – "

"We're not leaving the car."

"But – "

"We're NOT leaving the CAR." Damn it, Sam, why didn't you let me take him out when I had the chance?

Everything's quiet after that. A few cars race past in the wee hours of the morning, but none are Gordon's. Dean knows this doesn't mean the bastard wasn't out there. His classic is most likely still chillin' in an impound lot. Probably stole a car, trying to keep off of the radar, as fugitives tend to do. The smart ones, anyway.

Dean's shoulders never once relax. Sam never once loosens his grip on the handgun at his side.

They sit awake and watchful until the sun to start peeking over the opposing treetops. Then Dean twists the keys in the ignition. Sam has to get out and push the wounded car out of the mud the rim has sunk into, and Dean can't bear to look at it.

They've ditched him for now. They continue their aimless driving, nothing in mind but to keep moving. They could be drawing closer to Gordon for all they know, but Dean doesn't let them stop for more than eight hours at a time.

They pick up a pattern: sleep during the day and drive at night. There's too much they're running from now, and the daytime hours just make everything too visible. The main criterion for their motel rest stops has become thick curtains keeping out the offending sunshine. Sam hasn't driven in days; Dean wants to be the one behind the wheel, the one in charge. He got Sam into all of this, he feels the very least he should do is get him out. And he will get him out.

Sometimes when they stop Dean actually sleeps, and when he does he's no longer fisting the hilt of a BFK under his pillow, but the familiar grip of his .45. Sam jokes about it, tells him he should superglue the damn thing to his hand and be done with it. Dean wonders how funny Sam's gonna think it is the next time Gordon pops up.

Sam keeps checking the official sites he's hacked into to see what's going on with regards to their escape. They're somewhere in Michigan when Sam works up the courage and tells Dean, if they're really serious about this, they should ditch the car. The Impala is loud, purrs like a lion on crack, and people glance when they rumble down a street. It's easy to remember and even easier to identify.

He's starting to get scared, because Dean is distant and quiet, bags under his eyes, double-fisting coffee at every gas station they stop at. Sam's sure his blood has been replaced completely by caffeine by this point. He feels a need to take something out of the equation, something that will make Dean less wary and pale and let him take a break. He can't move in the passenger seat without smashing discarded Red Bull cans on the floor beneath his feet.

Sam tries to explain all kinds of things. He doesn't know which angle will work better, so he works both: Gordon and the FBI.

Gordon's seen the car. He knows what it looks like. He knows what it sounds like. "He's a hunter, Dean."

Dean's shoulders tense but he doesn't respond.

Dean's got an expired license and registration, but both have the name Winchester. He tells Dean about data bases, gets pissed at the silence he hears in return and shows Dean on the laptop. He tells Dean, "FBI plus manhunt equals nationwide APB."

Dean tells Sam, "Sam. No."

And Sam knows better than to bring it up again.

"It's been weeks, Dean," Sam says one night. Things are quiet on all sides. They haven't been nabbed by a state trooper, haven't been snipered by Gordon. They haven't called the roadhouse, haven't worked a single gig. They just move.

"I didn't know we were working with a time limit," Dean replies dryly, and adjusts his body on the bench seat.

Sometimes he wishes he could be a kid again. Not wetting-the-bed young, but young enough to still get popped in the mouth for saying "fuck." Back when taking care of Sammy wasn't quite so complicated. It was keeping him fed, keeping him in the motel room. Not keeping him from a life behind bars and out of the hands of crazies.

Even Dean has his limits. He's getting restless, and isn't prepared to let this snag knock them anymore off course than it already has. Another week goes by, quiet, and he starts to acknowledge Sam when he reads loudly from the computer screen, trying to get Dean to take on a hunt. Another couple of days pass, and he agrees to look into some weird shit going down in Illinois.

Gordon will find them. It's not speculation, but a fact, and neither of them questions it. Just one more person itchin' to gun them down.

"It's my job to bring you in. Alive's a bonus, but not necessary." Hendrickson will find them. Gordon will find them.

But for now, they drive.