It's Gonna Be a Long Drive
Hour One.
“So, Missouri, eh?” said the short, bearded man in the passenger seat, flipping an impish grin at the man driving. His accent (English? Scottish?) drawled out the end of each word slowly. “I remember a lovely summer I spent there with a man named Gary. Had to kill him at the end, of course, can’t have people knowing where I spend my vacations, but it was nice nonetheless.”
The man driving gritted his teeth and turned his green eyes on the other. “If we’re gonna be on the road together for five hours, let’s get one thing straight. We are not friends. You are not telling me about anything you do in your spare time, or whatever, because I don’t want to know. So shut your mouth. Got it?”
The other man rolled his eyes and leaned a suited elbow on the window. “Fine, fine. You lack a taste for fine conversation, but I suppose that’s to be expected from a Winchester.”
Now it was the driver’s turn to look exasperated. “Look, can we just not talk?”
Hour Two.
“You call this music?” asked the man in the passenger seat, looking revolted. “Please. Go to the library. Get yourself some Beethoven.”
“You could’ve just zapped yourself to Missouri, you know. Don’t complain about my music, you made the decision to be here.”
“What, and lose out on all this quality time with you? Never, my dear Dean. Besides, we don’t know what’s in Missouri.”
“What, the King of Hell is scared of something?”
“It’s smart to be afraid of things, Dean. It’s why I’m still alive after all these centuries.”
“Well, I wish you weren’t,” muttered Dean, cranking up the music louder.
“Please, my eardrums have been offended enough.”
Hour Three.
Dean looked over at Crowley suspiciously. He’d been staring out the window quietly for the past ten minutes, and it was making Dean fidgety.
“Hey. Asshat. What’s so fascinating about farmland?”
“You forget, squirrel, that I don’t do this much. Road-tripping. What’s boring farmland to you is a world of possibilities for me.”
“What a great thought,” Dean muttered.
Hour Four.
“…and then he said, ‘I’ll trade you anything for that lanyard’— are you even listening?”
“Nope.”
“Liar. Anyway, he agreed to trade his soul for the lanyard, but what he didn’t know was that his fiancée already had a key to the house…”
Hour Five.
“So what about you, Dean? Got any interesting stories to tell?”
“Nope.”
“Really? All these years… what is it again? Saving people… hunting things… the family business. Surely you’ve got some interesting tale to regale me with as we travel down this weary road.”
“Nothing I’m interested in sharing with you, Crowley.”
“Well, if that’s how you’re going to be…”
Hour Five and a Half.
“—and then the kid comes home, covered in manure, still holding this soggy mess of flowers!” Dean grinned at the memory and Crowley was doubled over in laughter, his seatbelt straining.
“He told me he’d tripped and fallen in a field. In a field, in the middle of Chicago, and he thought I was going to believe it! It was hilarious.” Dean smacked a hand on the steering wheel, still shaking with mirth, his face cracked open in a smile that crinkled his eyes.
“You know, you’re not half bad, Winchester. I only wish your brother was here to tell me stories about you.”
“Yeah, well, he’s not here.” Dean’s eyes immediately lost their brightness. His eyebrows slammed down, and an odd sort of tension corrupted his face.
“Anyway, we have work to do. And I’m not going to tell the King of Hell funny stories while we’re looking for this blade, so… just be quiet.”
Hour Six.
The house looked pretty normal. Of course, nothing in the life of a Winchester ever even approached “normal”, so Dean was fairly suspicious.
He swung the Impala’s door closed, and started towards the house.
“Wait,” Crowley blurted.