A series of fics that were inspired by episodes in some way, shape, or form. This was inspired by the Pilot, way back when.

Sammy throws his second hand backpack onto the couch hard enough that the thing splits open along the zipper. Dean rolls his eyes and pins his little brother with a glare; they don't have enough money right now to find a new backpack. Sammy at least has the grace to look semi-abashed by it, so Dean doesn't hit him upside the head. Much.

He reaches over to smack the back of Sammy's head, just to make sure that thought stays put.

"Hey!" Sammy turns to glare at him, little mini version of Dad's hard stare, and Dean's reaching out to hit him again before he realizes it. "Stop it!"

The little brat tries to kick him back, but he just catches Sammy's leg and holds it long enough that his brother almost loses his balance and falls on his butt. When he lets go, Sammy just huffs and crosses his arms (teenage angst kicking in early, Dad likes to say).

Sammy's head is hard enough that Dean's hand has gotta hurt more than the kid's head, but he pats Sammy on top of his messy curls anyway. Kid's a drama queen sometimes. "Don't go breaking my backpack, dingus. You're gonna need it."

"Whatever," Sammy mumbles. Dean rolls his eyes. Textbook example of early puberty, though Sammy turns red and screeches whenever Dean says that. It's why he says it so often, come to think of it. "Can we go see the train yard today?"

Ugh.

Sammy's got this... thing for trains, Dean knows. If he were any older, Dean would call it a hard on to rival a boy's first glance at Playboy. He likes how fast they go, he likes the noises they make, and the freaky little squirt even likes the way they smell.

However, he hates the Impala. Bitches constantly about anything and everything, from the creaking doors ("Dude, it adds character. What are you, some kind of idiotic freak?") to the seats. Dean thinks there's something seriously wrong with a little brother who thinks a train is better than the Impala, but whatever, it just means he gets to worship the Impala all by himself.

He just knows if he shows enough interest in her that Dad'll give her to him eventually. When he's legally allowed to drive, anyway.

"Yeah, sure, we can go see the trains, sparky," Dean says and watches Sammy's eyes light up, because he's a huge dork. "Anything else you want before we go look at all the pretty choo-choos?"

"You're such a jerk!" Sammy says on a huff, but a minute later he mumbles a subdued, "No. Can we go?" so Dean figures he's one this round.

Which is good, because he freakin' hates stupid trains and he has to get his kicks in somewhere.

When Sam takes off for college (and Jesus Christ, he should have seen that coming) and Dad's too drunk or angry to find jobs for them, Dean finds himself purposely picking motel rooms close to train tracks. It's fucking stupid, is what it is, because Dean can't sleep through the whistles and the rumbling now anymore than he ever could, but he finds them stupidly comforting all the same.

He is not, however, so far gone that he's willing to ride one of the damn things. For the most part. So, okay, he snuck onboard a train for a few hours, then jumped off, and hitched his way back to the motel, but that was just thrill seeking. Really. Nothing to worry about and he was not pining for his stupid, argumentative little brother.

Just like he hadn't turned around and expected to meet Sam's downright orgasmic grin afterwards. Little bitch was creepy when it came to trains.

There's a guy with a big, classic black car near where Sam finally ends up getting an apartment. It's not the Impala; even Sam can tell it's not in the same league as his brother's car, but. It's there and it's close by and sometimes if he hangs around long enough the guy who owns it goes on a long drive and he can stand there and inhale the fume.

Which is really kind of disgusting, when he thinks about it, but it almost smells the same. Almost. It doesn't creak like the Impala though, and when he covertly runs his hand across the hood or the trunk the paint is too slick, too new. Blood's never soaked into it, there's never been missing patches of paint, hurriedly fixed, when something acidic had made both Dad and Dean freak the hell out over the car.

There's no faint pot marks in the metal from random monsters and the car's never blaring the right kind of music. Sam still expects to see Dean slouching in the driver's seat every time he walks by.

Sammy's brooding. Understandable, 'cause his girlfriend just fried, but Dean hates it. He wants to freaking' kill something so badly that his fingers are twitching on the wheel. He settles for turning the stereo up loud enough that the sound of Sam beating himself up is drowned out by screaming lyrics.

It's relatively peaceful, if he ignores the fact that his brother's busy trying to assign the weight of the world onto his own shoulders. Dean's fingers tighten again and he opens his mouth to say something stupid, something that'll at least get Sam pissed at him instead of himself.

Then Sam looks out the window and says lowly, "Train."

Dean reflexively looks, and, yeah, there's a train. Big old rusty thing, chugging along ahead of them like some kind of creepy ass bug. He squints a little into the sun's glare to make out the engine, miles ahead of them. "I'm amazed by your observation skills sometimes, Sammy," pops out of his mouth before he even thinks about it, sounding more sarcastic than he really wanted it to.

It's the first time in a week that Sam's shown any kind of interest in anything other than Jess's killer.

"Whatever. Shut up, dude," Sam says back. His eyes are watching the train with a faint hint of that old interest and Dean's about to do something stupid. Or awesome, depending on how you think of it.

"Hey, remember that old argument we used to have?" he asks before Sam can clamp back up.

Sam doesn't answer for long enough that Dean's almost sure he's dropped off into another nightmare just to avoid talking to him, which is harsh, to say the least. Was a time when Sammy couldn't wait to tell him all about the freaky shit going on in his head.

Then his brother mutters, "Trains are better," like he can't help it.

Dean's reaching out to pet the dashboard before the words have even finished coming out of Sam's mouth. "Don't listen to him, baby. I know you're better than a train any day, any time." He takes his eyes off the road long enough to raise his eyebrows at Sam. "Wanna make a bet?"

"No," Sam says decisively, and goes back to brooding. Or, at least, that's what Dean assumes he's trying to do, but it's kind of hard when he suddenly rams the gas pedal into the floor and Sam flails to catch himself before he hits his head on the dashboard. He eases up a second later, still going well into the 80s, and listens to Sam mumble under his breath.

"I bet," Dean says conversationally, "That I can outrace that train in less than two minutes. You owe me three hours of brood-free silence when I do it. Three. Hours." Dean holds his fingers up to demonstrate, purposefully waving four instead of three until Sam snorts and reaches out to fold one down.

Ah, there's a hint of Dean's little brother peeking through the gloom. Sam almost smiles, turning his face away to watch as they slowly (really, really slowly. Dean hopes Sam knows that his two minutes don't officially start until he accepts the bet) catch up to the train. "What happens when your car breaks down from the strain?" Sam asks a second later.

Okay, there's only so much slack he's willing to cut his little brother before he has to shoot him. "Blasphemy!" Dude, his car is so much better than a rusty ass train. Hands down.

Sam's mouth is curling as he floors the gas pedal, the first smile Dean's seen all week, and he laughs and pushes the Impala faster.