Rust - SPNspiration - Impala POV
Title: Rust
Rating: G
Pairing: None, Gen.
Warnings: Maybe character death? This is after Sam & Dean have passed on.
Summary: After Dean and Sam were gone, I was left alone and waiting. Impala POV, post SPN.
A/N: Written for spnspiration for my Inanimate Object POV square. This is a work of fiction; it's unbeta'd and something my mind came up with at 1:30 in the morning! It was inspired from this tumblr post.
Rust.
Rust and dust was now the life. There hadn’t been an open road or a warm body inside for far too long. They were gone now; first they had been too old to drive and Dean had spent hours cleaning and oiling my body, turning over the ignition and sitting with me in silence, listening to soft rock and my engine purring. Sam would join him sometimes and they would sit in silence; I would reminisce with them.
The angel would come at times, his eyes sad as they trailed over me, his fingers trailing against my hood before he would disappear into the small house my family had retired to. He would take me out sometimes, Dean smiling in the passenger seat with my windows opened wide.
Then he came alone. He sat on the hood, his knees tucked to his chest, and he cried.
It was a while before I saw anyone again.
Without Dean to check and poke and fix and oil, I sank into the ground, my tires flattening and rims sinking into the earth. Rain, then snow, then sun had my paint cracking and rusting and peeling. The angel would come; he held onto two worn out jackets, twisting the fabric in his hands and he would stare, frozen for hours, until he disappeared with a fluttering of wings.
He never came closer, his fingers never brushed my hood, and I sat, rusting and waiting.
I remembered what it was like, flying through the night with the boys riding inside, singing and laughing. I can still feel their warmth, their blood and their tears against my worn leather insides. I can smell the grease and gun powder still embedded in my floors. My outsides are failing, weather and time a cruel reminder, but my insides remember.
The neighborhood around me expanded, families and couples moving around and surrounding me with the laughter of children. I remember when the boys were children, Sam with his GI Joe’s, Dean with his comics. People mill around, I can see them passing by with curious glances, but none come close.
“Dad,” I hear the voice behind me, creeping closer to my trunk. Fingers brush against me, the rust scraping and burning as it peels and flakes and falls. “I think… I think I found it,” the woman was whispering, her hands moving down my sides, fingers curling around the handle.
The angel appeared; out of sight, clutching the jackets, watching.
“I don’t know if it will drive, it’s locked,” the woman circled, staring with wide eyes. She left, the angel left, and again I was alone.
Rain that night, cold and harsh against the decomposition of my flanks.
“Is this it, Dad?” The woman was back, an older man with her, his palm flat and warm against my side.
“I never thought I would see her again,” his voice was old with age, but his eyes as they stared through my windows, peering inside, were familiar. Memories stirred. “Dean was the best father I had, even if it was only for a little while.”
“Let’s see who owns this place, I’m sure they’ll sell her to us,” the woman turned back to her own car, the man who used to be the small boy Ben, trailed his fingers over the door once more before following.
The angel appeared, and he approached. Slowly, he reached for my handle, pulling open the door with ease despite the dirt and grime and rust.
“You’ll be safe,” his voice was thick with emotion and he laid the jackets against my seat, fingers caressing the worn weather. I felt warm; oil and gasoline and fluids pumping through my veins. He knelt on the worn leather and leaned over the seat back, his fingers trailing over the D.W. and S.W. etched into my flesh. He pressed his palm there, it glowed, and with a soft flutter he was gone.
I waited; my wheels were full, my engine loosened. When they returned, Ben smiled and shook his head, his hands trailing over my smooth exterior before slipping behind the wheel and turning my ignition. I purred to life, laughing, screaming, and crying in relief.
Ben was silent as he pulled the first jacket from the seat, rubbing the material between his fingers. He looked in my glove box, behind each visor, and turned to the back. His eyes caught the initials, and the black seared wings below them, and he smiled.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to track you down, Dean would’ve been right pissed at you being left like that.” Ben’s hands twisted around my wheel and he pulled me into gear, reversing out onto the street.
The pavement was hot and hard underneath my wheels, the warm body inside of me was singing along to the classic rock on my radio, and I belonged.
Rating: G
Pairing: None, Gen.
Warnings: Maybe character death? This is after Sam & Dean have passed on.
Summary: After Dean and Sam were gone, I was left alone and waiting. Impala POV, post SPN.
A/N: Written for spnspiration for my Inanimate Object POV square. This is a work of fiction; it's unbeta'd and something my mind came up with at 1:30 in the morning! It was inspired from this tumblr post.
Rust.
Rust and dust was now the life. There hadn’t been an open road or a warm body inside for far too long. They were gone now; first they had been too old to drive and Dean had spent hours cleaning and oiling my body, turning over the ignition and sitting with me in silence, listening to soft rock and my engine purring. Sam would join him sometimes and they would sit in silence; I would reminisce with them.
The angel would come at times, his eyes sad as they trailed over me, his fingers trailing against my hood before he would disappear into the small house my family had retired to. He would take me out sometimes, Dean smiling in the passenger seat with my windows opened wide.
Then he came alone. He sat on the hood, his knees tucked to his chest, and he cried.
It was a while before I saw anyone again.
Without Dean to check and poke and fix and oil, I sank into the ground, my tires flattening and rims sinking into the earth. Rain, then snow, then sun had my paint cracking and rusting and peeling. The angel would come; he held onto two worn out jackets, twisting the fabric in his hands and he would stare, frozen for hours, until he disappeared with a fluttering of wings.
He never came closer, his fingers never brushed my hood, and I sat, rusting and waiting.
I remembered what it was like, flying through the night with the boys riding inside, singing and laughing. I can still feel their warmth, their blood and their tears against my worn leather insides. I can smell the grease and gun powder still embedded in my floors. My outsides are failing, weather and time a cruel reminder, but my insides remember.
The neighborhood around me expanded, families and couples moving around and surrounding me with the laughter of children. I remember when the boys were children, Sam with his GI Joe’s, Dean with his comics. People mill around, I can see them passing by with curious glances, but none come close.
“Dad,” I hear the voice behind me, creeping closer to my trunk. Fingers brush against me, the rust scraping and burning as it peels and flakes and falls. “I think… I think I found it,” the woman was whispering, her hands moving down my sides, fingers curling around the handle.
The angel appeared; out of sight, clutching the jackets, watching.
“I don’t know if it will drive, it’s locked,” the woman circled, staring with wide eyes. She left, the angel left, and again I was alone.
Rain that night, cold and harsh against the decomposition of my flanks.
“Is this it, Dad?” The woman was back, an older man with her, his palm flat and warm against my side.
“I never thought I would see her again,” his voice was old with age, but his eyes as they stared through my windows, peering inside, were familiar. Memories stirred. “Dean was the best father I had, even if it was only for a little while.”
“Let’s see who owns this place, I’m sure they’ll sell her to us,” the woman turned back to her own car, the man who used to be the small boy Ben, trailed his fingers over the door once more before following.
The angel appeared, and he approached. Slowly, he reached for my handle, pulling open the door with ease despite the dirt and grime and rust.
“You’ll be safe,” his voice was thick with emotion and he laid the jackets against my seat, fingers caressing the worn weather. I felt warm; oil and gasoline and fluids pumping through my veins. He knelt on the worn leather and leaned over the seat back, his fingers trailing over the D.W. and S.W. etched into my flesh. He pressed his palm there, it glowed, and with a soft flutter he was gone.
I waited; my wheels were full, my engine loosened. When they returned, Ben smiled and shook his head, his hands trailing over my smooth exterior before slipping behind the wheel and turning my ignition. I purred to life, laughing, screaming, and crying in relief.
Ben was silent as he pulled the first jacket from the seat, rubbing the material between his fingers. He looked in my glove box, behind each visor, and turned to the back. His eyes caught the initials, and the black seared wings below them, and he smiled.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to track you down, Dean would’ve been right pissed at you being left like that.” Ben’s hands twisted around my wheel and he pulled me into gear, reversing out onto the street.
The pavement was hot and hard underneath my wheels, the warm body inside of me was singing along to the classic rock on my radio, and I belonged.