Diary of a '67 Impala Chapter 3/?
Author: shyriann
Pairings: none (this chapter)
Characters: Dean, Sam, John, Metallicar
Rating: PG (profanity)
Warnings: This is pretty fluffy. A little angst, I promise I'll make the next chapter hurt again.
Disclaimer: Still trying to bribe Santa, no dice on owning anything.
Summary: Dean thinks John forgot his birthday.
She sat in the driveway of the house John had rented for the month, enjoying the sunshine. She could hear children playing down the street, dogs barking in the distance, and birds and bees making bird and bee noises in the greenery. It was strange, and unusual, but she liked it. It was much less lonely than the innumerable motel parking lots where she usually slept. People walked dogs down the block and paused to admire her, sometimes even stopped John or Dean in the front yard to ask about her. Like any beautiful girl, she soaked up the attention and gleamed.
They had been here for two weeks, in the same spot. Long enough for Sam to meet a nice girl down the street, who Dean called “Sam’s little girlfriend” and Sam called “Becky.” Long enough for John to have unpacked her trunk and moved half of his arsenal into the house. Long enough for Dean to have grown restless and irritable. Today, as the sun began its slow descent below the horizon, Sam was tossing a ball against the side of the house and Dean was sitting on the front steps near her nursing a stolen beer.
“You know, if Dad catches you with one of his beers he’s gonna murder you. “
Dean ignored him and took another swallow.
“Muuuuuuuurrrrrrder,” Sam drew out.
Dean snorted and rolled his eyes.
“Probably wouldn’t even bother to shoot you first, just salt and burn. Salt. And. Burn!” Each word was punctuated by the ball striking the house. Sam broke into laughter as he cracked himself up. “Wow, what a great mental picture, Dad chasing you down the street with a salt shaker and a match.” Dean couldn’t help but grin as his little brother collapsed to the grass in a fit of leftover giggles.
“Yelling, ‘Come back here, boy! It’s just gonna hurt more if you make me chase you!’ like he did that time you tried to hide in your room from the spanking you totally deserved,” Dean mused.
“Not my fault he left a can of spray paint where a bored eight year old could reach it,” Sam replied.
“Still can’t believe you spray painted devil traps on the Impala’s doors. Though, I guess it was a pretty good idea, just shitty execution.”
She agreed. So had John. He had painstakingly disassembled her doors after he’d scrubbed the paint off her and drawn protective wards on the insides of all four of them, carefully drawing around the mechanisms of her windows. She had grumbled for three weeks after that, until John had pulled her into Bobby’s junkyard. She’d had a moment of panic, thinking he meant to get rid of her for being uncooperative, but he had simply ushered the boys inside. When he’d come back out with Bobby’s buffer in hand and lovingly polished her black paint back to a brilliant shine, she’d been torn between relief, satisfaction, and grumpiness at his having took so long. Two hours later Dean’s face had split into a grin as he approached her, running a small hand lovingly down her fender. By the time they left Bobby’s two days after that, she felt beautiful again, and had totally forgotten being angry with her boys.
Sam rolled back to his feet before bending down to retrieve the ball. As he looked up, his eyes widened in slowly dawning horror.
“Dean,” he hissed.
She thought Dean probably knew what Sam was looking at even before he turned to follow Sam’s gaze. She knew his hunter’s reflexes were quicker than the half hearted attempt he made at hiding the empty bottle behind his leg. And certainly the feeble attempt at a guilty look was not the best one he could come up with.
John’s eyes took in his sons, took in the empty beer bottle, took in the defiance lingering behind Dean’s eyes. He stared at Dean for a long moment. His eyes never left his eldest son’s as he spoke. “Sam, you mind taking the drum beat somewhere else? I’m trying to do some research in here.” His voice was carefully neutral. When Sam nodded, John turned and shut the door behind him without another word.
“Holy crap,” Sam hissed at Dean. “That was close!”
Dean was staring off into the distance and didn’t seem to hear his brother. Sam looked at him with his head cocked for a minute, then threw the ball straight at Dean’s head.
Dean’s eyes never so much as flickered from whatever nothing he was looking at. One moment, there was a hard rubber ball flying at his temple, and the next moment, there was the sound of hard rubber striking the palm that had suddenly appeared in its path. Dean dropped the ball in the grass next to him and kicked it halfheartedly back towards Sam. The only indication that he heard the door re-opening behind him was a slight tightening around his eyes and tensing of his shoulders.
John stepped back out and closed the door quietly behind him. He sat down on the top step next to Dean and took a swallow of his own beer. Dean sat tense and silent beside him, still staring at nothing across the horizon. John turned to look at him, studying his son’s profile for several minutes before reaching behind him and producing a second, unopened beer. He held it out toward Dean without a word. Dean turned to look at him, eyes wide and startled, mouth agape.
“This doesn’t mean I condone you drinking. You’re only eighteen,” John finally said. Dean shut his mouth with an audible click, eyes going even wider for a split second before shutting down behind a mask of indifference. “But since I know you’re going to, I’d rather you didn’t try to hide it from me.” John and Dean looked at each other as if they’d just met and were trying to size each other up. John took another swallow, gestured at the unopened bottle still gripped in Dean’s white-knuckled hand. “I will not, however, look the other way while you waste my hard earned money letting good beer get warm.” Dean’s face cracked into a tentative smile as John took the bottle from his hand and popped the top off on the edge of the step.
“Happy Birthday,” he said, as he handed it back. She knew about birthdays. It meant today was the anniversary of the day Dean had come off the assembly line.
The wave of guilt that rolled off of Dean struck her with a tangible force. She could see anger and defiance seep out of him as he relaxed slowly, still looking at John’s profile. He took a swallow of his beer before lowering his head.
“You thought I forgot,” John rumbled softly, hooking an arm around his son’s neck and pulling him in for a teasing half-hug.
“Yeah,” Dean whispered.
“I thought you forgot,” Sam piped up, irritation and sarcasm coloring his tone. “I was even gonna play look out while he had his first rebellious act of defiance.” He cringed as Dean’s head snapped up. “Guess I kinda failed on that one already, though.”
John studied his youngest, rebellious since his first breath, with a scowl. “How many push-ups can you do in a minute, Sam?”
Sam blanched, smile sliding off his face. “Forty-eight, last count.” He glanced at Dean, then back at John. “Sir,” he added.
“Lose the hostility, or it’ll be eighty by the end of the week. Got me?”
“Yes, Sir.”
John sighed, digging in his pocket and finally drawing out a small box. He turned back to Dean, paused like he wanted to say something, then finally just thrust the tiny box at Dean. “I didn’t forget. I got you something.” She could feel the tension radiating off him in waves, colored with a hint of fear. John was afraid Dean wouldn’t like his present.
Dean took the box, surprise written across his face, and confusion behind his eyes. It was the kind of box people put jewelry in. Other than the necklace Sam gave him, which he never took off, Dean didn’t wear jewelry. She wondered what could be in it. Dean took another swallow of beer before setting the bottle on the step beside him and opening the box. He stared into it, slack-jawed, for several seconds before looking up at John with wide eyes.
“Holy shit, Dad,” he said in a whispered voice full of awe.
Dean looked from John to her, to his hand, to her, back to John. Slowly, reverently, he reached into the box and pulled out a brand new set of keys.
She repressed a honk of joy. Now Dean had his very own keys, which meant he could go places with her without John, just the two of them. John took good care of her, had taken care of her almost since she’d come off the assembly line. He had washed her, oiled her, tuned her up. But John didn’t touch her with soft, reverent fingertips, or gaze at her with admiring, longing eyes. John didn’t look at her the way Dean did.
“I already signed the title, whenever we get back through Kansas you can stop at the tag office and get it transferred over,” John said with a grin. “You’ll still have to drive your old man around for a while, which means you’re stuck going on every hunt with me till I get another set of wheels. Think you can tolerate that?”
“Are you kidding me?” The expression in Dean’s wide green eyes made him look like a five year old who’d just been given a puppy. “Dad, are you fucking kidding me?”
Sam laughed, and John grinned wide enough to shed ten years from his face. “She’s all yours, now.” He ruffled Dean’s short hair affectionately. “I expect you to take care of her.”
Realization struck her at John’s words. He hadn’t given Dean a spare set of keys.
She was now officially Dean Winchester’s car.
TBC...
Chapter 2
Pairings: none (this chapter)
Characters: Dean, Sam, John, Metallicar
Rating: PG (profanity)
Warnings: This is pretty fluffy. A little angst, I promise I'll make the next chapter hurt again.
Disclaimer: Still trying to bribe Santa, no dice on owning anything.
Summary: Dean thinks John forgot his birthday.
She sat in the driveway of the house John had rented for the month, enjoying the sunshine. She could hear children playing down the street, dogs barking in the distance, and birds and bees making bird and bee noises in the greenery. It was strange, and unusual, but she liked it. It was much less lonely than the innumerable motel parking lots where she usually slept. People walked dogs down the block and paused to admire her, sometimes even stopped John or Dean in the front yard to ask about her. Like any beautiful girl, she soaked up the attention and gleamed.
They had been here for two weeks, in the same spot. Long enough for Sam to meet a nice girl down the street, who Dean called “Sam’s little girlfriend” and Sam called “Becky.” Long enough for John to have unpacked her trunk and moved half of his arsenal into the house. Long enough for Dean to have grown restless and irritable. Today, as the sun began its slow descent below the horizon, Sam was tossing a ball against the side of the house and Dean was sitting on the front steps near her nursing a stolen beer.
“You know, if Dad catches you with one of his beers he’s gonna murder you. “
Dean ignored him and took another swallow.
“Muuuuuuuurrrrrrder,” Sam drew out.
Dean snorted and rolled his eyes.
“Probably wouldn’t even bother to shoot you first, just salt and burn. Salt. And. Burn!” Each word was punctuated by the ball striking the house. Sam broke into laughter as he cracked himself up. “Wow, what a great mental picture, Dad chasing you down the street with a salt shaker and a match.” Dean couldn’t help but grin as his little brother collapsed to the grass in a fit of leftover giggles.
“Yelling, ‘Come back here, boy! It’s just gonna hurt more if you make me chase you!’ like he did that time you tried to hide in your room from the spanking you totally deserved,” Dean mused.
“Not my fault he left a can of spray paint where a bored eight year old could reach it,” Sam replied.
“Still can’t believe you spray painted devil traps on the Impala’s doors. Though, I guess it was a pretty good idea, just shitty execution.”
She agreed. So had John. He had painstakingly disassembled her doors after he’d scrubbed the paint off her and drawn protective wards on the insides of all four of them, carefully drawing around the mechanisms of her windows. She had grumbled for three weeks after that, until John had pulled her into Bobby’s junkyard. She’d had a moment of panic, thinking he meant to get rid of her for being uncooperative, but he had simply ushered the boys inside. When he’d come back out with Bobby’s buffer in hand and lovingly polished her black paint back to a brilliant shine, she’d been torn between relief, satisfaction, and grumpiness at his having took so long. Two hours later Dean’s face had split into a grin as he approached her, running a small hand lovingly down her fender. By the time they left Bobby’s two days after that, she felt beautiful again, and had totally forgotten being angry with her boys.
Sam rolled back to his feet before bending down to retrieve the ball. As he looked up, his eyes widened in slowly dawning horror.
“Dean,” he hissed.
She thought Dean probably knew what Sam was looking at even before he turned to follow Sam’s gaze. She knew his hunter’s reflexes were quicker than the half hearted attempt he made at hiding the empty bottle behind his leg. And certainly the feeble attempt at a guilty look was not the best one he could come up with.
John’s eyes took in his sons, took in the empty beer bottle, took in the defiance lingering behind Dean’s eyes. He stared at Dean for a long moment. His eyes never left his eldest son’s as he spoke. “Sam, you mind taking the drum beat somewhere else? I’m trying to do some research in here.” His voice was carefully neutral. When Sam nodded, John turned and shut the door behind him without another word.
“Holy crap,” Sam hissed at Dean. “That was close!”
Dean was staring off into the distance and didn’t seem to hear his brother. Sam looked at him with his head cocked for a minute, then threw the ball straight at Dean’s head.
Dean’s eyes never so much as flickered from whatever nothing he was looking at. One moment, there was a hard rubber ball flying at his temple, and the next moment, there was the sound of hard rubber striking the palm that had suddenly appeared in its path. Dean dropped the ball in the grass next to him and kicked it halfheartedly back towards Sam. The only indication that he heard the door re-opening behind him was a slight tightening around his eyes and tensing of his shoulders.
John stepped back out and closed the door quietly behind him. He sat down on the top step next to Dean and took a swallow of his own beer. Dean sat tense and silent beside him, still staring at nothing across the horizon. John turned to look at him, studying his son’s profile for several minutes before reaching behind him and producing a second, unopened beer. He held it out toward Dean without a word. Dean turned to look at him, eyes wide and startled, mouth agape.
“This doesn’t mean I condone you drinking. You’re only eighteen,” John finally said. Dean shut his mouth with an audible click, eyes going even wider for a split second before shutting down behind a mask of indifference. “But since I know you’re going to, I’d rather you didn’t try to hide it from me.” John and Dean looked at each other as if they’d just met and were trying to size each other up. John took another swallow, gestured at the unopened bottle still gripped in Dean’s white-knuckled hand. “I will not, however, look the other way while you waste my hard earned money letting good beer get warm.” Dean’s face cracked into a tentative smile as John took the bottle from his hand and popped the top off on the edge of the step.
“Happy Birthday,” he said, as he handed it back. She knew about birthdays. It meant today was the anniversary of the day Dean had come off the assembly line.
The wave of guilt that rolled off of Dean struck her with a tangible force. She could see anger and defiance seep out of him as he relaxed slowly, still looking at John’s profile. He took a swallow of his beer before lowering his head.
“You thought I forgot,” John rumbled softly, hooking an arm around his son’s neck and pulling him in for a teasing half-hug.
“Yeah,” Dean whispered.
“I thought you forgot,” Sam piped up, irritation and sarcasm coloring his tone. “I was even gonna play look out while he had his first rebellious act of defiance.” He cringed as Dean’s head snapped up. “Guess I kinda failed on that one already, though.”
John studied his youngest, rebellious since his first breath, with a scowl. “How many push-ups can you do in a minute, Sam?”
Sam blanched, smile sliding off his face. “Forty-eight, last count.” He glanced at Dean, then back at John. “Sir,” he added.
“Lose the hostility, or it’ll be eighty by the end of the week. Got me?”
“Yes, Sir.”
John sighed, digging in his pocket and finally drawing out a small box. He turned back to Dean, paused like he wanted to say something, then finally just thrust the tiny box at Dean. “I didn’t forget. I got you something.” She could feel the tension radiating off him in waves, colored with a hint of fear. John was afraid Dean wouldn’t like his present.
Dean took the box, surprise written across his face, and confusion behind his eyes. It was the kind of box people put jewelry in. Other than the necklace Sam gave him, which he never took off, Dean didn’t wear jewelry. She wondered what could be in it. Dean took another swallow of beer before setting the bottle on the step beside him and opening the box. He stared into it, slack-jawed, for several seconds before looking up at John with wide eyes.
“Holy shit, Dad,” he said in a whispered voice full of awe.
Dean looked from John to her, to his hand, to her, back to John. Slowly, reverently, he reached into the box and pulled out a brand new set of keys.
She repressed a honk of joy. Now Dean had his very own keys, which meant he could go places with her without John, just the two of them. John took good care of her, had taken care of her almost since she’d come off the assembly line. He had washed her, oiled her, tuned her up. But John didn’t touch her with soft, reverent fingertips, or gaze at her with admiring, longing eyes. John didn’t look at her the way Dean did.
“I already signed the title, whenever we get back through Kansas you can stop at the tag office and get it transferred over,” John said with a grin. “You’ll still have to drive your old man around for a while, which means you’re stuck going on every hunt with me till I get another set of wheels. Think you can tolerate that?”
“Are you kidding me?” The expression in Dean’s wide green eyes made him look like a five year old who’d just been given a puppy. “Dad, are you fucking kidding me?”
Sam laughed, and John grinned wide enough to shed ten years from his face. “She’s all yours, now.” He ruffled Dean’s short hair affectionately. “I expect you to take care of her.”
Realization struck her at John’s words. He hadn’t given Dean a spare set of keys.
She was now officially Dean Winchester’s car.
TBC...
Chapter 2