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Seventeen states, four violent poltergeists, three thousand miles, one fucking mean ass sonofabitch skinwalker, twenty-one cheap motels, one very embarrassing evening with a succubus that he's never going to be allowed to forget so long as Dean draws breath, six silent phone calls, three horny college cheerleaders, twenty-eight stitches, two flat tires, and three hundred and sixty-five nights of really bad dreams later, Sam's definitions are changing.
"Well, that was close."
"Close? Close? Are you out of your fucking mind? You call that close?"
"Close enough to shave with, dude."
"That thing almost took your fucking head off!"
"Aw, Sammy, were you worried?"
"Yeah, right. Let's get out of here."
"You were worried. That's so touching."
"Fuck you. I was just worried your fat head would roll down in the sewer and I'd have to crawl down there to get it."
Ordinary is a flirtatious diner waitress and hot coffee and hoping the credit card goes through this time. Business as usual is badly-folded maps and sharp knives and well-cleaned guns. Grief is lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember the way she laughed, the way she tasted, the way she smiled in her sleep. Anger is a wordless message, an untraceable number, a caller unknown.
"That's it? More coordinates?"
"Yeah. That's it."
"Well, where is it?"
"No idea."
"Gonna look it up?"
"Why? So we can jump up and hurry off without the slightest idea what we're walking into?"
"Look, man--"
"Because we both know how well that worked last time."
"Okay. Point."
"I just don't think--"
"--we should look anymore?"
"I didn't say that. Just that--"
"I get it. Well, what do you think we should do?"
Peace is a cool, quiet night in the middle of nowhere, a six-pack of beer on the hood of the car, a conversation about nothing very important and no particular place to be when the sun finally rises.
"Shooting star."
"Where?"
"Gone now."
"You make a wish?"
"I'm not a little kid anymore."
"Your loss. Can I have your wish?"
"It doesn't work like that, dumbass. Besides, I know what you'd wish for."
"What would I wish for, genius?"
"That park ranger, who was totally not into you."
"Was too."
"She was not. So not your type."
"Dude, I dig chicks with Smokey the Bear hats."
"Tough. Made my own wish."
"What is it?"
"If I tell you, it won't come true. You know the rules."
"Whatever. Rules are stupid."
"Still not telling."
Fear is watching your own hand pull the trigger -- once -- twice -- again.
"That...looks like it hurts."
"No shit, Sherlock. Ever heard of 'rubbing salt in the wound'?"
"Look, Dean, I--"
"I'm tired. Hit the light, would'ya?"
"Dean--"
"'Night. Don't let the bedbugs bite."
Purpose is a full tank of gas and a creepy little town, people you can help and another reason to get up in the morning. Happiness is a bitchy fight that turns into a round of insults that turns into wrestling like you're a couple of rowdy kids again that turns into uncontrollable laughter echoing from the walls of a twenty-four-hour laundromat on Main Street in East Bumfucksville, Oklahoma. Envy is a scrawny pimple-faced geek whose ass you saved saying confidently that he's going to be a big-shot lawyer someday.
"I'm not even going to ask where you learned to do that."
"Stanford."
"Fuck. Really? They teach you that in college?"
"Sure. Drinking Your Smartass Older Brother Under The Table In Less Than Two Hours And Waking Up Without A Hangover 101. Most popular class on campus."
"Open those curtains and I'm going to kill you."
"You hungry? Want breakfast?"
"Mention food again and I'm going to kill you."
"What was that girl's name? Deliah? Darla? She was totally into you, man. Of course, I'm not exactly sure she was actually a she--"
"Say another word and I'm really going to fucking kill you."
"I mean, she was -- whoa, dude, put it away. Knife back under the pillow, there's a good boy. These motels hate it when you get blood all over the carpet."
Safe is knowing that somebody's got your back and has since you were too young to remember, even if you were too angry to see it until now.
"I'm sorry, sir, you can't--"
"No -- you have to let me--"
"Sir, you're bleeding. Sit down here and let me--"
"No! I can't -- let me -- what are they doing?"
"Sir, you have to calm down."
"Don't tell me to fucking calm down! He's my brother, damnit!"
"I know, I know. The paramedics are taking care of him. Is there anybody we can call for you?"
"Any -- no, no. It's just him -- just us."
"Can you tell me what happened? Did you see who attacked you?
"I didn't see it -- them -- I don't know--"
"It's okay. It's okay. Calm down. Here, hold this to stop the bleeding."
"Is he -- where are they going?"
"Come on, son. You can ride to the hospital with us."
"But he--"
"He's going to be fine. Needs some patching up, but he'll be okay. Now sit down here before you fall over and the two of you have matching nasty knocks on the head."
Normal is the next exit on the interstate, a green sign on the highway, a photograph in the wallet, a fading farewell in the rear-view mirror, a nice place to visit but maybe, just maybe, you wouldn't want to live there.