fic: driven
Title: driven
Author: Puchuupoet
Word Count: ~1170
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened, completely fictional.
Notes: Un-beta'd. Thank you to playthefool and cho_malfoy for the encouragement ♥♥ Vague spoilers for S6 (aired episodes)
Dean drives. It's the only reaction he has, to slide into the seat, fingers gripping the key too hard and jamming his thumb on the ignition. Sam's behind him and he doesn't care this time. Sam's behind him, left in the hotel room researching the next case and Dean's going out to grab them dinner. Except he's not; he's running away. As far as he's able to before his grip tightens and he turns the car around and heads back.
This time the turning point is conveniently next to a rest stop, some low-lying flat area down the embankment next to a river. Dean's careful, doing his best to avoid potholes in the packed dirt as he makes his way to the closest parking spot.
There's a Jeep and a couple of trucks, the owners spread out on the back with their lawn chairs and newly bought tackle boxes. A couple of sedans containing families, the kids running around on the thin grass pockmarking the area next to the lot. They're playing tag or something, until one of the girls starts crying when she gets tagged too hard, a solid smack to her shoulder. Dean keeps driving past her, her family, until he's reached the far end where no one else is.
He doesn't know what he's doing here, parking the Impala on the edge of some unknown river in the middle of the country. Just that it's the farthest away he's able to bring himself to get from Sam; any farther would be desertion, but staying any closer would be suicide.
Dean pushes the door open, getting out of the car with a groan. His body's grown to the shape of the seat, the slouch of leather mimicked in his spine and he can feel it when he's pulling himself out of a grave or crouching down, reloading the shotgun. Doesn't mind it, just means he's connected to something else, that same way he can still feel the trail of Cassie's fingers down his chest or the way Sam's stubble scraped against his cheek. The Impala's his, always has been, and they've been wearing each other for years. It's just starting to become more obvious the older they get.
He makes his way down to the water, boots sinking into the mud and making a sucking noise when he tries to move. He doesn't fight it, stays still and tries to relax. He can't bring himself to turn his back to the stretch of the rest area to his left; too much like turning his back on humanity and even he admits it's a stupid thought. But he can still hear Sam's voice in his head, won't ever be able to get that out of there, and finds that he's not sure what he's looking for. Can't cut himself off completely, despite that churning wish to burn rubber and get the fuck out of Dodge. But it won't be the same, never will be, not after all is said and done. Hell is one thing, soulless is another, apathy is something completely different.
And Dean knows how hard it can be. To push yourself to give a crap; not only for the people around you, but about yourself as well. That waking up every morning can be the hardest thing asked of a person, cause that just means another day of the same bullshit, the same effort being put forth and hoping for the best.
It got better for him though, knowing that Sam was there for him. And when Sam left, knowing that as long as he treated her well, she'd be there by his side, faithful and loyal to the end. And now Sam's back but not quite, and the car's been making a ticking noise that has Dean worried and there hasn't been enough time for it all. With Hell and family and Alphas and Sam. Sam, awkward and forcing himself to shape to Dean's memories. Except Dean doesn't remember him like this: agreeable and smirking, eager to get out there and kill.
He unsticks his boots from the sloppy mud and heads back towards his girl. Slides into the backseat though, tilting his head back to rest against the top of the seat back. If he closes his eyes he can shrink himself down, until his feet barely reach the floor and Sam's spread out on the seat next to him, his head in Dean's lap.
If Dean concentrates he can move his head to look out the window, see fields of wheat instead of crying children and can smell the rubber and tar rising up from the asphalt in the heat. Hears his dad whistling along to the staticky radio station, the music swooping in and out as Dean watches the shadows of the telephone wires race along the ground in sync.
He can hear his dad promise a couple more miles til food, and how Sam shifts at the sudden noise. If Dean focuses, his eyes screwed shut, he can almost remember the way Sam's hair feels between his fingers as Dean covers his head, petting him back to sleep. Like corn silk, sleek and smooth and falling in Sam's face.
There's a sharp bark of laughter, shocking Dean awake before he hears a solid thunk, the Impala shuddering from the impact. It's a rubber ball, no damage done but the kid's staring at Dean wide-eyed, mouth parted until Dean shakes his head with a smile. The boy blinks before cautiously smiling back, grabbing the ball a moment later and running back towards a pale blue minivan.
Dean shakes his head, willing himself to wake up from the brainfog he's fallen into. A split second decision has him hefting himself over the front seats, rolling headfirst into the driver's seat. The landing jars a laugh from him, the sound echoing in the Impala and he's reminding of how long it's been since the car's heard honest laughter.
He gets himself settled, pulling his legs into the wheel well and straightening his jeans out. There was a steakhouse back off of the main highway several miles back, and Dean's pretty sure that the menu's big enough to include salads.
The Impala starts easily, the initial rev of the engine causing some of the fishermen to turn around and look her up and down. Dean does his best to keep an even smile as he drives past them, nodding his head back at one of the men.
When he pulls out on to the highway and sees a clear blacktop in front of him, he lets her go. Pushes her until she's growling back and fighting his grip, wheel trembling against his palm as they do their best to avoid the potholes and bumps in the asphalt. Dean focuses on the road ahead, the small glare of the semi a couple miles off, the flash of a yellow Hummer in the rear view mirror. One step at a time, and the journey will be over soon enough.
They can make this work. They have to.
Author: Puchuupoet
Word Count: ~1170
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened, completely fictional.
Notes: Un-beta'd. Thank you to playthefool and cho_malfoy for the encouragement ♥♥ Vague spoilers for S6 (aired episodes)
Dean drives. It's the only reaction he has, to slide into the seat, fingers gripping the key too hard and jamming his thumb on the ignition. Sam's behind him and he doesn't care this time. Sam's behind him, left in the hotel room researching the next case and Dean's going out to grab them dinner. Except he's not; he's running away. As far as he's able to before his grip tightens and he turns the car around and heads back.
This time the turning point is conveniently next to a rest stop, some low-lying flat area down the embankment next to a river. Dean's careful, doing his best to avoid potholes in the packed dirt as he makes his way to the closest parking spot.
There's a Jeep and a couple of trucks, the owners spread out on the back with their lawn chairs and newly bought tackle boxes. A couple of sedans containing families, the kids running around on the thin grass pockmarking the area next to the lot. They're playing tag or something, until one of the girls starts crying when she gets tagged too hard, a solid smack to her shoulder. Dean keeps driving past her, her family, until he's reached the far end where no one else is.
He doesn't know what he's doing here, parking the Impala on the edge of some unknown river in the middle of the country. Just that it's the farthest away he's able to bring himself to get from Sam; any farther would be desertion, but staying any closer would be suicide.
Dean pushes the door open, getting out of the car with a groan. His body's grown to the shape of the seat, the slouch of leather mimicked in his spine and he can feel it when he's pulling himself out of a grave or crouching down, reloading the shotgun. Doesn't mind it, just means he's connected to something else, that same way he can still feel the trail of Cassie's fingers down his chest or the way Sam's stubble scraped against his cheek. The Impala's his, always has been, and they've been wearing each other for years. It's just starting to become more obvious the older they get.
He makes his way down to the water, boots sinking into the mud and making a sucking noise when he tries to move. He doesn't fight it, stays still and tries to relax. He can't bring himself to turn his back to the stretch of the rest area to his left; too much like turning his back on humanity and even he admits it's a stupid thought. But he can still hear Sam's voice in his head, won't ever be able to get that out of there, and finds that he's not sure what he's looking for. Can't cut himself off completely, despite that churning wish to burn rubber and get the fuck out of Dodge. But it won't be the same, never will be, not after all is said and done. Hell is one thing, soulless is another, apathy is something completely different.
And Dean knows how hard it can be. To push yourself to give a crap; not only for the people around you, but about yourself as well. That waking up every morning can be the hardest thing asked of a person, cause that just means another day of the same bullshit, the same effort being put forth and hoping for the best.
It got better for him though, knowing that Sam was there for him. And when Sam left, knowing that as long as he treated her well, she'd be there by his side, faithful and loyal to the end. And now Sam's back but not quite, and the car's been making a ticking noise that has Dean worried and there hasn't been enough time for it all. With Hell and family and Alphas and Sam. Sam, awkward and forcing himself to shape to Dean's memories. Except Dean doesn't remember him like this: agreeable and smirking, eager to get out there and kill.
He unsticks his boots from the sloppy mud and heads back towards his girl. Slides into the backseat though, tilting his head back to rest against the top of the seat back. If he closes his eyes he can shrink himself down, until his feet barely reach the floor and Sam's spread out on the seat next to him, his head in Dean's lap.
If Dean concentrates he can move his head to look out the window, see fields of wheat instead of crying children and can smell the rubber and tar rising up from the asphalt in the heat. Hears his dad whistling along to the staticky radio station, the music swooping in and out as Dean watches the shadows of the telephone wires race along the ground in sync.
He can hear his dad promise a couple more miles til food, and how Sam shifts at the sudden noise. If Dean focuses, his eyes screwed shut, he can almost remember the way Sam's hair feels between his fingers as Dean covers his head, petting him back to sleep. Like corn silk, sleek and smooth and falling in Sam's face.
There's a sharp bark of laughter, shocking Dean awake before he hears a solid thunk, the Impala shuddering from the impact. It's a rubber ball, no damage done but the kid's staring at Dean wide-eyed, mouth parted until Dean shakes his head with a smile. The boy blinks before cautiously smiling back, grabbing the ball a moment later and running back towards a pale blue minivan.
Dean shakes his head, willing himself to wake up from the brainfog he's fallen into. A split second decision has him hefting himself over the front seats, rolling headfirst into the driver's seat. The landing jars a laugh from him, the sound echoing in the Impala and he's reminding of how long it's been since the car's heard honest laughter.
He gets himself settled, pulling his legs into the wheel well and straightening his jeans out. There was a steakhouse back off of the main highway several miles back, and Dean's pretty sure that the menu's big enough to include salads.
The Impala starts easily, the initial rev of the engine causing some of the fishermen to turn around and look her up and down. Dean does his best to keep an even smile as he drives past them, nodding his head back at one of the men.
When he pulls out on to the highway and sees a clear blacktop in front of him, he lets her go. Pushes her until she's growling back and fighting his grip, wheel trembling against his palm as they do their best to avoid the potholes and bumps in the asphalt. Dean focuses on the road ahead, the small glare of the semi a couple miles off, the flash of a yellow Hummer in the rear view mirror. One step at a time, and the journey will be over soon enough.
They can make this work. They have to.