[Fic] Good Mileage | PG | Sam/Dean, Impala
In honor of Chevrolet's 100th Birthday, I was inspired to write this little piece. :)
GOOD MILEAGE
Sam/Dean (mostly implied). PG. 700 words.
With Chevrolet turning one hundred, Dean and Sam quietly celebrate the only real home they have.
By now, they’ve driven more than one hundred miles, but it’s not like they’re counting. Sam’s slouched on the passenger side, where the leather - already shaped to his thighs - feels more comfortable than it has in the last few months. With the windows rolled down, Sam’s hair blows across his cheeks and forehead. Dean looks over every other minute or so, smirking when strands get caught in Sam’s mouth. But Sam doesn’t roll up his window, no matter how annoying the whip-flutter of the breeze gets.
The drive was Dean’s idea, mutually agreed upon as a way to celebrate the Impala’s significance the best way they knew how. By driving her one hundred miles through northern Arizona, chasing the sunset as they go.
They’d been planning to bunk down in New Mexico for the night before continuing west, but after catching the news on the bar television at the taqueria where they grabbed dinner, Dean hadn’t wanted to stop and Sam, pliant on fresh guacamole, didn’t argue.
The Painted Desert is fifty miles behind them, but the last rays of sunlight are illuminating nearby hills and distant mountains in bands of sienna and red; the entire landscape is like something out of one of Sam’s calmer dreams in which red isn’t the color of torment and terror. Part of him is glad they haven’t stopped driving yet - Sam doesn’t exactly look forward to whatever’s waiting for him in REM sleep. With the two-lane highway beneath the Impala’s wheels, Sam can almost pretend that he’s left his issues somewhere in Texas, putting more miles between him and hellfire with every passing minute.
And that’s the essence of what the Impala means to Sam. Beyond being the closest thing to home he has, as well as the metal and heat counterpart to his flesh and blood brother, the Chevy has always carried him. Carried him away from Stanford in pieces, and towards his dad with a newfound sense of family. The Impala took him and Dean on the hunt, and powered every escape. And now, when the car’s too recognizable to use during hunts in major cities, Sam is relearning how to treasure the constant vibration of her engine through the chassis. Up his legs and into his heart.
Sam’s aware that the majority of that comfort comes from the driver, Dean’s steady hand on the wheel. The Impala’s not the easiest car to drive if you’re not used to the pull and drag of her, but Dean’s got a magic touch. And not just with cars, either, Sam finds himself thinking with an appropriate degree of cheesiness. His brother’s hands are sure, intelligent, and he never forgets the best way to make a machine, or a body, jump into his touch.
Suddenly Sam’s glad for the cool breeze; it tempers the flush he can feel creeping up his neck. He doesn’t want to clue Dean in to his arousal because he doesn’t want the car to stop. Dean might pull over and the miles would cease to fly by. Darkness would fall further while they slaked themselves on one another, moving together but not moving forward.
They can fuck later, and it’ll be something else to keep Sam’s mind from descending into madness. That’ll be the right time for Sam to stop moving and finally get lost, because he’s never been aimless so long as he’s sitting in the passenger seat of the greatest car ever made. Next to the most infuriating man he’ll ever meet. The worst, and the best.
But until they get to the next roadside motel - the next sagging mattress with a nauseatingly patterned comforter that will suffice as a home until they get back in the Impala tomorrow - Sam’s okay with the current heading. Dean’s humming off and on, right hand creeping closer to Sam’s thigh with every mile marker they pass.
Happy Birthday, Sam thinks to the car as they cruise by another roadside diner built next to a strip of rooms under a neon sign. Seems like Dean’s thinking along the same lines as he is. Onward ‘til morning, then.
Sam squeezes the leather seat and sees Dean’s mouth turn up. He sends a smirk back.
And thanks.
FIN.
GOOD MILEAGE
Sam/Dean (mostly implied). PG. 700 words.
With Chevrolet turning one hundred, Dean and Sam quietly celebrate the only real home they have.
By now, they’ve driven more than one hundred miles, but it’s not like they’re counting. Sam’s slouched on the passenger side, where the leather - already shaped to his thighs - feels more comfortable than it has in the last few months. With the windows rolled down, Sam’s hair blows across his cheeks and forehead. Dean looks over every other minute or so, smirking when strands get caught in Sam’s mouth. But Sam doesn’t roll up his window, no matter how annoying the whip-flutter of the breeze gets.
The drive was Dean’s idea, mutually agreed upon as a way to celebrate the Impala’s significance the best way they knew how. By driving her one hundred miles through northern Arizona, chasing the sunset as they go.
They’d been planning to bunk down in New Mexico for the night before continuing west, but after catching the news on the bar television at the taqueria where they grabbed dinner, Dean hadn’t wanted to stop and Sam, pliant on fresh guacamole, didn’t argue.
The Painted Desert is fifty miles behind them, but the last rays of sunlight are illuminating nearby hills and distant mountains in bands of sienna and red; the entire landscape is like something out of one of Sam’s calmer dreams in which red isn’t the color of torment and terror. Part of him is glad they haven’t stopped driving yet - Sam doesn’t exactly look forward to whatever’s waiting for him in REM sleep. With the two-lane highway beneath the Impala’s wheels, Sam can almost pretend that he’s left his issues somewhere in Texas, putting more miles between him and hellfire with every passing minute.
And that’s the essence of what the Impala means to Sam. Beyond being the closest thing to home he has, as well as the metal and heat counterpart to his flesh and blood brother, the Chevy has always carried him. Carried him away from Stanford in pieces, and towards his dad with a newfound sense of family. The Impala took him and Dean on the hunt, and powered every escape. And now, when the car’s too recognizable to use during hunts in major cities, Sam is relearning how to treasure the constant vibration of her engine through the chassis. Up his legs and into his heart.
Sam’s aware that the majority of that comfort comes from the driver, Dean’s steady hand on the wheel. The Impala’s not the easiest car to drive if you’re not used to the pull and drag of her, but Dean’s got a magic touch. And not just with cars, either, Sam finds himself thinking with an appropriate degree of cheesiness. His brother’s hands are sure, intelligent, and he never forgets the best way to make a machine, or a body, jump into his touch.
Suddenly Sam’s glad for the cool breeze; it tempers the flush he can feel creeping up his neck. He doesn’t want to clue Dean in to his arousal because he doesn’t want the car to stop. Dean might pull over and the miles would cease to fly by. Darkness would fall further while they slaked themselves on one another, moving together but not moving forward.
They can fuck later, and it’ll be something else to keep Sam’s mind from descending into madness. That’ll be the right time for Sam to stop moving and finally get lost, because he’s never been aimless so long as he’s sitting in the passenger seat of the greatest car ever made. Next to the most infuriating man he’ll ever meet. The worst, and the best.
But until they get to the next roadside motel - the next sagging mattress with a nauseatingly patterned comforter that will suffice as a home until they get back in the Impala tomorrow - Sam’s okay with the current heading. Dean’s humming off and on, right hand creeping closer to Sam’s thigh with every mile marker they pass.
Happy Birthday, Sam thinks to the car as they cruise by another roadside diner built next to a strip of rooms under a neon sign. Seems like Dean’s thinking along the same lines as he is. Onward ‘til morning, then.
Sam squeezes the leather seat and sees Dean’s mouth turn up. He sends a smirk back.
And thanks.
FIN.