SPN FIC: You Remind me of You
Title You Remind me of You
Spoilers None, I think? If you’re already familiar with the For Keeps ‘verse, you’re golden.
Genre AU, For Keeps ‘verse
Summary They were leaving in the morning.
Warnings life-after-the-wall
Disclaimer I wish.
Author’s Note This was intended to be The Roadtrip Story That I Keep Meaning to Write for For Keeps, and then I realized that this “intro” kinda works on its own. I’ve been beating the crap out of the boys lately, thought I’d give them a break.
Also? This is like when fandoms collide. I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to wink at one of my old fandoms, a fandom which, I think, Supernatural owes at least a little bit of props to. Really, any post-1970s TV show with “buddy” male leads should tip their hat. Can you guess the fandom? Can you?
Some guy in Bay City, California, some retired cop who won the lottery (literally), ordered a custom ’74 Ford Torino. He was neurotically detailed in his specifications, said he wanted it to be like the car he had back when he was a detective. It was a bitch of a job: red paint, white racing stripe. The red was this weird, borderline gaudy shade that Dean had to special order from Ford, and even then, they made it very clear that this color was out of circulation, had been for decades. Honestly, they were kind’ve dicks about it.
Dean called the guy, Dave, who sounded more East coast than West, despite the area code that popped up on the caller ID. Dean said, “Hey, so, Ford is being a bitch about this paint. Now, I can do a different shade of red, or, you know, I was thinking, this car would look amazing in black. I have this metallic paint sitting around the shop-“
“It has to be red. That red. Do what you have to, kid. I’ll pay what I have to. ”
So Dean did what he had to, and he had to admit, the candy apple red paintjob turned out to be pretty awesome. Pretty tacky. But pretty awesome. “Guy said he worked undercover. How could anyone possibly go undercover in this thing?” He wiped his hands on a rag and Sam just blinked at him, cocked his head in Castiel-like curiosity toward the red monstrosity parked in the middle of Dean’s shop.
Bobby just shrugged, “You and Sam got along fine for years with the Impala.”
“The Impala doesn’t look like a neon sign on wheels.”
“The hell it doesn’t.”
Dean arched an eyebrow, “Bobby. This thing looks like a striped tomato.”
“Is it what the man wanted?”
“I think so?”
“Boy, you better know so before you deliver it. How much is this guy paying?”
“A lot.”
“How much is a lot?”
Dean made a noise somewhere between a cough, a gag, and a sneeze and Bobby grinned, clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m gonna go get supper started. It looks good, Dean.”
Dean moved around the dim garage, putting tools away and looking for the damn cat, “Where’s your cat, Sammy?” Dean peered behind one of the Torino’s tires, then behind a tall red toolbox, “She’s earning her keep, dude. I haven’t seen any mice around here in ages.” He paused, shrugged, “Not live ones, anyway.” The cat was fond of leaving mutilated corpses on the chair in Dean’s office. He was touched by the gesture, in a screwed up way.
Sam quietly rounded behind the Torino, carefully guiding his hands over the trunk, the rear fender, over the roof and down the side of the passenger door. He opened it slowly, carefully; running one hand down the edge of the door as though to check for damage.
“Sammy?” Dean had a pile of rags destined for the washing machine in the storeroom. He sat them off to the side and rounded the car, “You okay?”
Sam slid into the passenger seat, fresh vinyl (Dean wanted to get the guy leather, but he insisted on vinyl) creaking beneath his weight. Dean was used to this sort of thing with the Impala, finding Sam curled in one of the seats. He didn’t even bother locking her if she was just parked in the yard.
Sam ran his hands over the alien dash. He wasn’t so rabid about keeping a hand on the amulet anymore, though heaven help you if you tried to get it off of him. His hand found it when he was agitated or tired, fingers tangled in the leather thong while he slept or the brassy horns digging into the skin of his palm under the force of his grip in mid-nightmare.
“This isn’t our car, dude.”
Sam made no show of noticing Dean’s comment.
“You wanna take her out? We can hit up the DQ. It’s Thursday.”
Sam ignored him, pressed the pad of his index finger against the black surface of the dash and doodled something. It took a few moments of squinting until Dean realized what the shape was. He knelt and leaned into the car, gently turned Sam’s head so that he was making eye contact. Sam’s brow furrowed and his cheek twitched, but he held Dean’s gaze. He was getting better about that too.
Dean flicked the soft material on the ceiling of the Torino, near the dome light. “I got it. It’s on the ceiling, under the fabric.”
Sam squinted, moved his hand to idly trace around the dome light. Dean took his wrist and guided it over the lines he knew hid beneath the black material, the circle and the star and the corresponding sigils.
“It’s safe. I promise. I don’t let one go out if it’s not safe.”
Sam blinked back, somber and still. Dean smiled and brought their foreheads together, “Now what do you say we go eat dinner, hit up the DQ for a peanut buster parfait, then come home and go to bed. We’re gonna hit the road early tomorrow, goin’ to California.”
Dean pulled back a little, squeezed the back of Sam’s neck and brought his hand around to smooth the gray at his temples. He stopped looking for traces of his brother a long time ago, found that he had more success after he stopped searching. He said quietly, “You always liked California.”
Spoilers None, I think? If you’re already familiar with the For Keeps ‘verse, you’re golden.
Genre AU, For Keeps ‘verse
Summary They were leaving in the morning.
Warnings life-after-the-wall
Disclaimer I wish.
Author’s Note This was intended to be The Roadtrip Story That I Keep Meaning to Write for For Keeps, and then I realized that this “intro” kinda works on its own. I’ve been beating the crap out of the boys lately, thought I’d give them a break.
Also? This is like when fandoms collide. I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to wink at one of my old fandoms, a fandom which, I think, Supernatural owes at least a little bit of props to. Really, any post-1970s TV show with “buddy” male leads should tip their hat. Can you guess the fandom? Can you?
Some guy in Bay City, California, some retired cop who won the lottery (literally), ordered a custom ’74 Ford Torino. He was neurotically detailed in his specifications, said he wanted it to be like the car he had back when he was a detective. It was a bitch of a job: red paint, white racing stripe. The red was this weird, borderline gaudy shade that Dean had to special order from Ford, and even then, they made it very clear that this color was out of circulation, had been for decades. Honestly, they were kind’ve dicks about it.
Dean called the guy, Dave, who sounded more East coast than West, despite the area code that popped up on the caller ID. Dean said, “Hey, so, Ford is being a bitch about this paint. Now, I can do a different shade of red, or, you know, I was thinking, this car would look amazing in black. I have this metallic paint sitting around the shop-“
“It has to be red. That red. Do what you have to, kid. I’ll pay what I have to. ”
So Dean did what he had to, and he had to admit, the candy apple red paintjob turned out to be pretty awesome. Pretty tacky. But pretty awesome. “Guy said he worked undercover. How could anyone possibly go undercover in this thing?” He wiped his hands on a rag and Sam just blinked at him, cocked his head in Castiel-like curiosity toward the red monstrosity parked in the middle of Dean’s shop.
Bobby just shrugged, “You and Sam got along fine for years with the Impala.”
“The Impala doesn’t look like a neon sign on wheels.”
“The hell it doesn’t.”
Dean arched an eyebrow, “Bobby. This thing looks like a striped tomato.”
“Is it what the man wanted?”
“I think so?”
“Boy, you better know so before you deliver it. How much is this guy paying?”
“A lot.”
“How much is a lot?”
Dean made a noise somewhere between a cough, a gag, and a sneeze and Bobby grinned, clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m gonna go get supper started. It looks good, Dean.”
Dean moved around the dim garage, putting tools away and looking for the damn cat, “Where’s your cat, Sammy?” Dean peered behind one of the Torino’s tires, then behind a tall red toolbox, “She’s earning her keep, dude. I haven’t seen any mice around here in ages.” He paused, shrugged, “Not live ones, anyway.” The cat was fond of leaving mutilated corpses on the chair in Dean’s office. He was touched by the gesture, in a screwed up way.
Sam quietly rounded behind the Torino, carefully guiding his hands over the trunk, the rear fender, over the roof and down the side of the passenger door. He opened it slowly, carefully; running one hand down the edge of the door as though to check for damage.
“Sammy?” Dean had a pile of rags destined for the washing machine in the storeroom. He sat them off to the side and rounded the car, “You okay?”
Sam slid into the passenger seat, fresh vinyl (Dean wanted to get the guy leather, but he insisted on vinyl) creaking beneath his weight. Dean was used to this sort of thing with the Impala, finding Sam curled in one of the seats. He didn’t even bother locking her if she was just parked in the yard.
Sam ran his hands over the alien dash. He wasn’t so rabid about keeping a hand on the amulet anymore, though heaven help you if you tried to get it off of him. His hand found it when he was agitated or tired, fingers tangled in the leather thong while he slept or the brassy horns digging into the skin of his palm under the force of his grip in mid-nightmare.
“This isn’t our car, dude.”
Sam made no show of noticing Dean’s comment.
“You wanna take her out? We can hit up the DQ. It’s Thursday.”
Sam ignored him, pressed the pad of his index finger against the black surface of the dash and doodled something. It took a few moments of squinting until Dean realized what the shape was. He knelt and leaned into the car, gently turned Sam’s head so that he was making eye contact. Sam’s brow furrowed and his cheek twitched, but he held Dean’s gaze. He was getting better about that too.
Dean flicked the soft material on the ceiling of the Torino, near the dome light. “I got it. It’s on the ceiling, under the fabric.”
Sam squinted, moved his hand to idly trace around the dome light. Dean took his wrist and guided it over the lines he knew hid beneath the black material, the circle and the star and the corresponding sigils.
“It’s safe. I promise. I don’t let one go out if it’s not safe.”
Sam blinked back, somber and still. Dean smiled and brought their foreheads together, “Now what do you say we go eat dinner, hit up the DQ for a peanut buster parfait, then come home and go to bed. We’re gonna hit the road early tomorrow, goin’ to California.”
Dean pulled back a little, squeezed the back of Sam’s neck and brought his hand around to smooth the gray at his temples. He stopped looking for traces of his brother a long time ago, found that he had more success after he stopped searching. He said quietly, “You always liked California.”