I am cleaning up my computer (again) and found all these half done stories, short ones, where the boys are by the side of the road or sitting on the hood of the Impala (like they so often do in the show) and talking stuff out… like on the show (those are my fav moments) *clears throat* anyways… so I'll post those stories I have and because I'm OCD like hell, I'll post those stories in one post called: Impala On The Backroads.

So the 1st story is this one and whenever I'll write another one like it, I'll just post it here.

I OWN NOTHING! NOTHING... and I'm sorry for all the grammar/spelling mistakes.

TITLE: Make A Wish

"Come on, make a wish."

Dean's voice is gruff, the third bottle of beer settling nice and easy in his belly and the night air fresh and smooth wrapping itself around him.

"Huh?"

's like Sam has no ears, the kid never hears him with all this important stuff.

"A wish, man."

"Why?"

Dean sighs into the beer bottle; the sound too loud in the eerily quiet night. Sam always with the 'why's'. Why this, why that, why left, why right. It was annoying when Sam was a kid and it's still annoying now when he's… older.

"'cause there was a shooting star," he points at the dark sky littered with sparkling stars, "and normal people make a wish whenever they see it." He looks at his brother that's sitting still and tense - always so tense - next to him with the beer bottle hanging from his hand next to his thigh.

Sam's eyes are weirdly bright and his voice suspiciously soft and: "'m not normal, Dean. Never was... apparently." and the way Sam smiles, that quick smile that is not a smile at all, but just a way to stuff the tears back inside… it makes Dean look back to the sky.

It's safer to look up there.

He takes another sip, the beer warm now, but it still chills him to his bones and when the silence wraps itself too tight around his chest, squeezing the last air out of his lungs, he says: "Well Sammy, neither am I. We're both freaks, how many times do I need to tell you that, huh?"

Sam smiles… the real smile, not the one that's forced and faked and stuffing other shit down when it appears.

The real one, teeth and all.

"Yeah."

"Hell yeah."

The clink of half empty bottles echoes through the night.

"Get me another beer, bitch."

"Get it yourself, jerk. 'm not your slave."

"Ha, you're my little brother… that automatically makes you," he hits Sam's calf with the empty beer bottle, "my slave."

Sam rolls his eyes: "I want a rain check on that falling star…"

The End.