Diary of a '67 Impala (chapter 4/?)
Title: Diary of a '67 Impala
Author : Shyriann
Rating: PG-13 (violence)
Characters: Sam, Dean, John
Summary: Later that night, Dean's 18th birthday.
A/N: Sorry this took so long to get up, real life's been getting annoyingly in the way of my relationships with the boys. Already have chapter 5 started, hopefully it won't take another 2 months to get done.
He’d spent the entire afternoon with her. He’d taken his last few dollars to the nearby auto part store and come out laden with bags full of supplies. When they’d gotten back to the house, he’d parked her in the sun and carefully laid out his treasures. His brand new key had coaxed her ignition into the run position, and after he’d found a classic rock station, she’d sung Skynrd and AC/DC and Alabama to him while he’d worked on her.
He had the hands of a man who’d spent countless hours under her hood bonding with a father who earned a living in grease, torque and pistons. An hour later, she had new air, oil, and fuel filters, new wiper blades, and fresh anti-freeze. She’d drunk down five quarts of clean oil, as well as half a quart each of transmission and power steering fluids. Now, he was waist-deep under her hood, freckles standing out across his bare shoulders and grease smeared across one cheek. He was finishing up with gapping her spark plugs, tightening the last one back down and wiggling the wire in place. Wiping his hands on a rag, he eyed the timing gun skeptically.
“Hey, Dad?” Dean turned toward the open kitchen window, voice a touch nervous.
It took a moment for John’s face to appear behind the screen. “Finished already?”
“Not quite. I just gotta check the timing, and, uh… you umm… You wanna gimme a hand?”
She could see John’s grin even through the haze of the screen, and feel his delight at being asked for help on something that he was an expert at and that would give him a chance to spend some quality time with his son. By the time Dean had the toolbox straightened back up and all the discarded boxes and cartons cleaned up, John was there beside her. His steady voice guided Dean’s uncertain hands until that nagging tick in her engine was just a memory. She purred contentedly while her boys laughed and talked under her hood. The summer sun warmed her to a sort of trance like sleep that was her norm during down-time.
She was startled back to alertness some time later by a spray of icy water hitting her fender. A shriek of laughter exploded from Sam a moment later as Dean turned the hose on him. Running and throwing of sponges and soapy water ensued, and she supposed after a while, that she was clean enough, if only by accident. Sam and Dean were too busy trying to drown each other to pay much attention to her undercarriage, but she’d trade a dirty bottom for the sound of laughing Winchesters any day. Eventually the drowning attempts were cut short by Sam being tackled bodily into the grass and stripped of his shirt, which Dean wound into a tight cord and used to mercilessly smack Sam’s flanks with a series of whip cracks. Wet and welted, Sam won the battle by picking up the bucket of soapy water and pouring it over Dean’s head, snatching the shirt from his sputtering brother’s hand, and running into the house with a crow of triumph. She heard John bellow something about wet carpet, and Dean chuckled beside her before retrieving a dry towel and rubbing her down until she was shining and immaculate.
Towards twilight, she was awakened again by the sound of arguing and the screen door slamming.
“Please, Dean? I won’t get in the way. I’ll go sit by the concession stand or something. You and Vicky won’t even know I’m there, I swear.” Sam had the big guns out. The puppy dog eyes that never failed to melt Dean into compliance with his every whim were large and luminous in his face, and his voice was pitiful and pleading. She knew before she heard the rest of the conversation that Dean was done for, and his baby brother would get his way.
“Sam, it’s a date. As in a guy and a girl. Not a guy, a girl, and an annoying little brother who never manages to have the attention span to stay lost for an entire movie.” Dean sighed, running a hand across his face. “It’s my birthday, Sam. Dad gave me the car. What I’d like you to give me is two hours alone with Vicky Anderson’s D cups. Is that too much to ask? Don’t you have homework or something?”
“No. My homework’s all done. And it’s Thursday. You know what that means.” Sam’s face crumpled into an expression somewhere between panic and nausea.
She knew what Thursday meant. It meant that both younger Winchesters would fall into bed exhausted from their ex-marine father’s insistence on physical training at night once a week. They would run until they were nauseous, then do sit-ups and pushups until their muscles failed before being dragged out into the woods nearby to be hunted by John. If he “killed” them before they found him, they would run another mile before being allowed the respite of unconsciousness. Apparently, Dean would be spared this week, on account of his birthday. If she was a betting car, she’d bet that Sam would have it worse than ever if he had to face John’s training without his brother to buffer them.
As if summoned by thought, John appeared on the front steps, dressed in boots and camouflage and ready to put his youngest boy through the wringer. “Sam, you ready to go? Get a move on, you got school in the morning.”
Dean looked at his brother’s wide, pleading eyes, swore under his breath, and grabbed Sam around the neck with one arm. Anyone who’d known him less than his whole life would believe the smile he slid onto his lips. “Actually, Dad, I thought I’d let Sam take me to a movie for my birthday. If that’s alright with you?” She heard a strangled sound escape Sam as Dean squeezed him tight and ruffled his hair with his knuckles. It was a signature move guaranteed to start a fight under any other circumstances, and Dean was taking advantage of Sam’s disadvantage to abuse his brother mercilessly. She suspected there would be a wedgie involved before the night was over. Wedgies were the epitome of Dean’s assertion of dominance over his little brother, and he handed them out with joy, although sparingly. “There’s a drive-in just outside of town. Playing Sexy Zombie Nurses from Outer Space or something like that.”
“I thought you had a date,” John stated as if Dean had just tried to tell him the sky was green. Nothing dissuaded him from quality time with his girlfriend of the week.
“Yeah, well,” Dean said with smooth, practiced disappointment. “She cancelled on me. Sick, or something. I wasn’t really paying attention.” Dean grunted as Sam elbowed him in the side. “But hey, I can get Sammy some sex-ed and nightmares all in the same spot, it’ll be great,” he added with a smirk.
John looked suspiciously between his two sons, obviously not buying a word of it. Dean slipped on his famous megawatt smile, the one that could charm an officer out of any ticket and made girls’ clothes fall off. Sam amped up the eagerness in his puppy-dog eyes, and turned them on his father. John, smart enough to know when he was facing a battle that wasn’t worth fighting, sighed and waved an arm at her. “Alright, alright. Get going, then. I want you home before eleven, not one minute after.” The boys scrambled to her doors wearing matching grins, Sam bouncing a little in the passenger seat that he rarely got to occupy. “And Dean,” John added.
“Yes, Sir?”
“Watch out for your brother.” Dean nodded solemnly and started her up.
They’d stopped by Vicky Anderson’s house, and with the combination of Dean’s devastating smile and Sam’s solemn promise, had convinced her that Sammy would not be interrupting her quality time with Dean’s lips. Vicky had gazed at her in appreciation as she’d approached the passenger door, and Dean had taken a moment to introduce her. “Nineteen Sixty-seven Chevy Impala,” he said, using her full name. “Just got her today. Beauty, isn’t she?” Vicky had nodded mutely, blue eyes transfixed.
Sam stared at them both like they were crazy, rolling his eyes as he leaned out her rear window. “Jesus, it’s just a car, Dean. C’mon, we’re gonna miss the movie.”
Dean patted her fender gently after he opened the door for Vicky. “Don’t listen to him, Baby. You know you’re my favorite girl.” She rumbled with satisfaction as he turned her key.
The Drive-in was massive and crowded. The sign at the gate proudly announced that it was the biggest theatre in four counties and boasted room for over two hundred cars. The huge lot was close to full, cars spaced carefully apart, though really only their doors and fogged windows gave the illusion of privacy. The movie was actually Event Horizon, as Sam noted aloud. They’d arrived just in time for the movie to start, and Dean had carefully maneuvered her to a spot in the back on the far side of the field from the concession stand. Once she was parked, Dean had merely glanced into the back seat with one raised eyebrow, and Sam had gotten out without a word. Pretty Vicky Anderson had been engrossed in the movie’s opening scenes of a spaceship bearing a quantum singularity drive, and had missed Dean’s hand sliding down Sam’s spine as his brother got out. Baby had felt the small switchblade tucked into Sam’s jeans digging into her seat on the ride here. Dean had simply nodded at his brother with a grateful smile, a thousand words silent between them as Sam nodded back.
She watched Sam make his way to the concession stand and was mildly amused as Dean immediately turned to Vicky and turned up the charm. His smile was deadly, and no woman, cheerleader or waitress, whom he aimed it at, had ever stood a chance. He leaned toward Vicky with intent, practicing his art with skill and a soft, rumbling voice. Baby knew the effects of his gentle, capable fingers. They had stroked her with loving tenderness as he’d washed and tuned her a thousand times. She also knew that no matter his tactic and skill, he would probably only get to second base with Vicky, because Vicky was a Nice Girl. She was familiar with Dean’s smooth, expert advances, and one base per date was the standard for Nice Girls. Any faster than that and they had a tendency to bolt home to their daddies, any slower, and Dean lost interest. His longest relationship to date had been six dates, three of which had ended in fogged windows and rocking struts. At nearly an hour into the movie, Dean had his hand firmly ensconced under Vicky’s sweater, his fingers tracing across her skin and his lips grazing her exposed throat. It would take an act of god to break his concentration.
Or a scream. A panicked, cutting scream bearing his name.
“Cut it out… Dean!” At this distance it was quiet, barely a whisper of sound over the noise of the movie through rolled up windows, but she felt Dean freeze like a snake waiting to strike. Vicky opened her big blue eyes and looked at him quizzically. Her murmured sound of question was met with a hissed “Shh,” and her pretty face screwed up into an expression of annoyance. By the time the shouted cry came the second time, Dean was already standing beside her, one hand braced on her roof, scanning the field for its source.
His eyes locked on Sam, nearly a football field away.
Sam’s shoulders collided with the side of the concession stand as his scrawny, fourteen year old frame was shoved violently by a dark-haired teenager nearly twice his size. His face darkened with rising fury as the bigger kid shoved him again. She could hear them shouting, though she couldn’t make out words. By the time the third shove came, Dean had her flying backwards in a spray of gravel. Pretty Vicky Anderson squeaked something frightened and unintelligible, completely ignored by Dean as he slammed her shifter into Drive. She gave an angry roar as she focused all four hundred twenty-seven cubic inches of her massive engine into a single purpose. Four hundred sixty pounds of torque per cubic foot wrenched her tires into motion so fast that her front end came off the ground, and she roared toward the fight on her back tires like an angry bear. It took less than seven seconds to clear the distance to Sam, and she was screaming through the back of the lot at sixty miles per hour before her front tires had even touched back down. Seven seconds was an eternity as she watched a second boy grab Sam from behind, leaving his stomach exposed to the fist that lifted him off the ground. Sam collapsed to his knees, gasping, as the bullies’ entourage joined in with scathing jeers. She slid sideways and came to a neck-snapping halt as Dean threw open her door and launched himself at Dark Haired Bully.
The bigger boy never saw what hit him. The crowd that had gathered backed up in a wave away from her skidding arrival and then rushed back in like a tide as Dean flew fist first into Dark Haired Bully’s face. Blood hit the wall behind them in a spray of hot crimson and the kid went down like a sack of wet Jell-O. Dean dropped to his knees on top of him, fist rising and falling again and again, cold rage contorting his beautiful face into something deadly and frightening. Dark Haired Bully’s friends watched the blunt force trauma for three heartbeats before snapping out of their stunned stillness and joining the melee. Tall Skinny Blonde kicked Sam in the ribs, earning him a yelp of pain and Dean’s attention. Dean’s leg kicked out, catching Tall Skinny Blonde just behind the ankles, and sending him crashing flat to his back, breathless. Fat Buzz Cut took one look at his two downed friends and charged Dean like a raging buffalo. He caught Dean in the side with his shoulder, both of them flying into the gathered crowd, knocking down bystanders like bowling pins. That was when all hell broke loose.
Baby had seen her share of fights in dark parking lots, and bar room brawls through tinted windows. She knew how one person getting shoved into another immediately made them the target of further violence, but she had never seen anything like this. There were approximately twenty people gathered around the fight in the beginning, curious rubberneckers who couldn’t resist a little entertainment at Sammy’s expense. Dean and Fat Buzz Cut had taken out about eight of them, shoving them backwards into other spectators, who in turn jostled passing bystanders. The bystanders, in turn, shoved back, escalating the ambient tension into an angry mob. Within moments there were pockets of wrestling and shouting spreading outward from her like a virus, fists flew in repayment for accidental slights, and Sam was all but forgotten. Innocent Bystander Number Forty-Three got punched in the face for no particular reason at all, and when he landed in a bloody heap across the hood of another car, the car’s owner got out and joined the fray. Bodies bounced off her fenders and blood coated her hood, and Pretty Vicky Anderson was curled into a tiny ball in her passenger seat screaming wordlessly.
Dean was Achilles surrounded by the Trojan army. He’d regained his feet and his fists flew with bone-breaking force, crumpling anyone who got within reach. She could see at least six unconscious bodies at his feet, and in the middle of them, crouched beneath the protective shield of the warrior’s legs, was Sam. Bystander Number Eighty-Five got shoved toward Sam, and Dean caught him by the throat with a warning glare before kicking him back into the crowd. Sam finally caught his breath and stood, back to back with his brother. Tall Skinny Blonde had gotten his feet back under him and after a moment of weighing his odds, made the wrong decision and charged Sam with a murderous look. Sam stepped backward and to the side, forcing Dean to turn with him, using his assailant’s own momentum to send him face first into the concession stand. Dean startled as the blonde body landed next to him, then risked a glance back at Sam, who grinned impishly. Sam pulled the switchblade from his waistband and pointed it warningly at Fat Buzz Cut, who was just rolling to his feet. Dean shook his head with a wry smile, and both brothers began to fight their way, back to back, towards her open door.
They had nearly made it to her when the first of the flashing lights arrived.
Within moments, a dozen cruisers from the local police and county sheriff’s office had blocked every exit. Mace and tasers were wielded with brutal efficiency, and after only a few minutes the crowd had been subdued to a dull roar of grumbling and pained moans. It didn’t take long for people to start pointing towards the concession stand, and soon a half dozen uniformed officers had Sam, Dean, and all of Dark Haired Bully’s entourage in handcuffs. Eventually, Pretty Vicky Anderson’s daddy came to take her home. Once everyone in handcuffs got loaded into the back of cruisers, the crowd began to disperse and the lot began to empty. Baby watched the other cars drive away and felt a bit singled-out at being the only car to leave strapped to a tow truck. As much fun as it was to be up high on the flatbed where she could see for miles, she was not amused at being chained down.
She was dumped unceremoniously in the grass of the county impound with an impact that made her springs creak. She sat grumbling to herself next to a truck that reeked of manure and was missing half its grill. Apparently whatever had smashed its front end had also knocked it stupid. The truck was terrible company, and by morning she was hot, bored, and more than ready to have her tires on real asphalt. She couldn’t remember being as happy as the moment she heard her boys approaching.
“Inciting a riot, Dean? Are you kidding me?” John’s anger was hotter than the sun on her hood as he stomped towards her. Dean and Sam trailed along behind, guilt plastered on both their faces.
“They’ll never make that stick,” Dean mumbled. “I didn’t say anything.”
“That may be true, but it doesn’t change the fact that if I hadn’t fixed Sheriff Moultrie’s transmission for free last week, they’d still be inventing charges to throw at you.” John stepped in front of Dean, bringing his son to a halt. “Keys,” he demanded, hand extended.
“What? No, you can’t-” Dean stopped at the warning gleam in his father’s eye. “Dad, it’s my car!”
“Not until you get to the tag office with that title, it isn’t. And that’s not going to happen for three weeks. We should be back from the Harpy job by then and until then, you’re riding shotgun. You're lucky I don't just let them hold you for uncommon stupidity till I get back. Although that's probably not a crime in this backwoods damn county." John’s hand bobbed once for emphasis. "Now, give me the keys, Dean.”
Dean grudgingly handed his brand new keys over to his father, throwing a murderous glance over his shoulder as his brother choked on a repressed snicker. John turned his glare on his younger son.
“And you,” John growled, “don’t think for a second I’m buying the story that the cops did. Dean doesn’t own a switchblade.” At Sam’s slack-jawed surprise, he continued. “That’s right. Your brother managed to convince them it was his, despite several eye-witness accounts that put an illegal weapon blatantly in your possession. You’ll have three weeks of quality time detail cleaning every piece of equipment we don’t take with us to decide whether or not you want to thank him for keeping you from having a juvenile record.” John wrenched open her door, turning back to Dean. "I told you to watch out for your brother, not get him arrested," he snapped. With that, he plopped heavily into her driver’s seat, and slammed it hard enough to make her hinges hurt.
“Why’d you do that,” Sam hissed at his brother. “They can give you ninety days as an adult for that switchblade, Dean.”
Dean slid a mischevious grin beneath wounded eyes and locked it into place before turning to Sam. “On top of what they’re already trying to stick me with, what’s it matter?” He turned Sam by the shoulder and pushed him towards her rear door. “Get in.” Sam’s eyes were grateful even while guilt seeped out of him. Dean let his hand slide from Sam’s shoulder down to his waistband as Sam bent to crawl into the back seat. “The point is, it’s my job to kick your ass, and nobody else’s.”
She had to admit, Sam took his wedgie with grace, and if he saw the tears in Dean's eyes, he was kind enough never to mention it.
Chapter 3 Next Chapter
Author : Shyriann
Rating: PG-13 (violence)
Characters: Sam, Dean, John
Summary: Later that night, Dean's 18th birthday.
A/N: Sorry this took so long to get up, real life's been getting annoyingly in the way of my relationships with the boys. Already have chapter 5 started, hopefully it won't take another 2 months to get done.
He’d spent the entire afternoon with her. He’d taken his last few dollars to the nearby auto part store and come out laden with bags full of supplies. When they’d gotten back to the house, he’d parked her in the sun and carefully laid out his treasures. His brand new key had coaxed her ignition into the run position, and after he’d found a classic rock station, she’d sung Skynrd and AC/DC and Alabama to him while he’d worked on her.
He had the hands of a man who’d spent countless hours under her hood bonding with a father who earned a living in grease, torque and pistons. An hour later, she had new air, oil, and fuel filters, new wiper blades, and fresh anti-freeze. She’d drunk down five quarts of clean oil, as well as half a quart each of transmission and power steering fluids. Now, he was waist-deep under her hood, freckles standing out across his bare shoulders and grease smeared across one cheek. He was finishing up with gapping her spark plugs, tightening the last one back down and wiggling the wire in place. Wiping his hands on a rag, he eyed the timing gun skeptically.
“Hey, Dad?” Dean turned toward the open kitchen window, voice a touch nervous.
It took a moment for John’s face to appear behind the screen. “Finished already?”
“Not quite. I just gotta check the timing, and, uh… you umm… You wanna gimme a hand?”
She could see John’s grin even through the haze of the screen, and feel his delight at being asked for help on something that he was an expert at and that would give him a chance to spend some quality time with his son. By the time Dean had the toolbox straightened back up and all the discarded boxes and cartons cleaned up, John was there beside her. His steady voice guided Dean’s uncertain hands until that nagging tick in her engine was just a memory. She purred contentedly while her boys laughed and talked under her hood. The summer sun warmed her to a sort of trance like sleep that was her norm during down-time.
She was startled back to alertness some time later by a spray of icy water hitting her fender. A shriek of laughter exploded from Sam a moment later as Dean turned the hose on him. Running and throwing of sponges and soapy water ensued, and she supposed after a while, that she was clean enough, if only by accident. Sam and Dean were too busy trying to drown each other to pay much attention to her undercarriage, but she’d trade a dirty bottom for the sound of laughing Winchesters any day. Eventually the drowning attempts were cut short by Sam being tackled bodily into the grass and stripped of his shirt, which Dean wound into a tight cord and used to mercilessly smack Sam’s flanks with a series of whip cracks. Wet and welted, Sam won the battle by picking up the bucket of soapy water and pouring it over Dean’s head, snatching the shirt from his sputtering brother’s hand, and running into the house with a crow of triumph. She heard John bellow something about wet carpet, and Dean chuckled beside her before retrieving a dry towel and rubbing her down until she was shining and immaculate.
Towards twilight, she was awakened again by the sound of arguing and the screen door slamming.
“Please, Dean? I won’t get in the way. I’ll go sit by the concession stand or something. You and Vicky won’t even know I’m there, I swear.” Sam had the big guns out. The puppy dog eyes that never failed to melt Dean into compliance with his every whim were large and luminous in his face, and his voice was pitiful and pleading. She knew before she heard the rest of the conversation that Dean was done for, and his baby brother would get his way.
“Sam, it’s a date. As in a guy and a girl. Not a guy, a girl, and an annoying little brother who never manages to have the attention span to stay lost for an entire movie.” Dean sighed, running a hand across his face. “It’s my birthday, Sam. Dad gave me the car. What I’d like you to give me is two hours alone with Vicky Anderson’s D cups. Is that too much to ask? Don’t you have homework or something?”
“No. My homework’s all done. And it’s Thursday. You know what that means.” Sam’s face crumpled into an expression somewhere between panic and nausea.
She knew what Thursday meant. It meant that both younger Winchesters would fall into bed exhausted from their ex-marine father’s insistence on physical training at night once a week. They would run until they were nauseous, then do sit-ups and pushups until their muscles failed before being dragged out into the woods nearby to be hunted by John. If he “killed” them before they found him, they would run another mile before being allowed the respite of unconsciousness. Apparently, Dean would be spared this week, on account of his birthday. If she was a betting car, she’d bet that Sam would have it worse than ever if he had to face John’s training without his brother to buffer them.
As if summoned by thought, John appeared on the front steps, dressed in boots and camouflage and ready to put his youngest boy through the wringer. “Sam, you ready to go? Get a move on, you got school in the morning.”
Dean looked at his brother’s wide, pleading eyes, swore under his breath, and grabbed Sam around the neck with one arm. Anyone who’d known him less than his whole life would believe the smile he slid onto his lips. “Actually, Dad, I thought I’d let Sam take me to a movie for my birthday. If that’s alright with you?” She heard a strangled sound escape Sam as Dean squeezed him tight and ruffled his hair with his knuckles. It was a signature move guaranteed to start a fight under any other circumstances, and Dean was taking advantage of Sam’s disadvantage to abuse his brother mercilessly. She suspected there would be a wedgie involved before the night was over. Wedgies were the epitome of Dean’s assertion of dominance over his little brother, and he handed them out with joy, although sparingly. “There’s a drive-in just outside of town. Playing Sexy Zombie Nurses from Outer Space or something like that.”
“I thought you had a date,” John stated as if Dean had just tried to tell him the sky was green. Nothing dissuaded him from quality time with his girlfriend of the week.
“Yeah, well,” Dean said with smooth, practiced disappointment. “She cancelled on me. Sick, or something. I wasn’t really paying attention.” Dean grunted as Sam elbowed him in the side. “But hey, I can get Sammy some sex-ed and nightmares all in the same spot, it’ll be great,” he added with a smirk.
John looked suspiciously between his two sons, obviously not buying a word of it. Dean slipped on his famous megawatt smile, the one that could charm an officer out of any ticket and made girls’ clothes fall off. Sam amped up the eagerness in his puppy-dog eyes, and turned them on his father. John, smart enough to know when he was facing a battle that wasn’t worth fighting, sighed and waved an arm at her. “Alright, alright. Get going, then. I want you home before eleven, not one minute after.” The boys scrambled to her doors wearing matching grins, Sam bouncing a little in the passenger seat that he rarely got to occupy. “And Dean,” John added.
“Yes, Sir?”
“Watch out for your brother.” Dean nodded solemnly and started her up.
They’d stopped by Vicky Anderson’s house, and with the combination of Dean’s devastating smile and Sam’s solemn promise, had convinced her that Sammy would not be interrupting her quality time with Dean’s lips. Vicky had gazed at her in appreciation as she’d approached the passenger door, and Dean had taken a moment to introduce her. “Nineteen Sixty-seven Chevy Impala,” he said, using her full name. “Just got her today. Beauty, isn’t she?” Vicky had nodded mutely, blue eyes transfixed.
Sam stared at them both like they were crazy, rolling his eyes as he leaned out her rear window. “Jesus, it’s just a car, Dean. C’mon, we’re gonna miss the movie.”
Dean patted her fender gently after he opened the door for Vicky. “Don’t listen to him, Baby. You know you’re my favorite girl.” She rumbled with satisfaction as he turned her key.
The Drive-in was massive and crowded. The sign at the gate proudly announced that it was the biggest theatre in four counties and boasted room for over two hundred cars. The huge lot was close to full, cars spaced carefully apart, though really only their doors and fogged windows gave the illusion of privacy. The movie was actually Event Horizon, as Sam noted aloud. They’d arrived just in time for the movie to start, and Dean had carefully maneuvered her to a spot in the back on the far side of the field from the concession stand. Once she was parked, Dean had merely glanced into the back seat with one raised eyebrow, and Sam had gotten out without a word. Pretty Vicky Anderson had been engrossed in the movie’s opening scenes of a spaceship bearing a quantum singularity drive, and had missed Dean’s hand sliding down Sam’s spine as his brother got out. Baby had felt the small switchblade tucked into Sam’s jeans digging into her seat on the ride here. Dean had simply nodded at his brother with a grateful smile, a thousand words silent between them as Sam nodded back.
She watched Sam make his way to the concession stand and was mildly amused as Dean immediately turned to Vicky and turned up the charm. His smile was deadly, and no woman, cheerleader or waitress, whom he aimed it at, had ever stood a chance. He leaned toward Vicky with intent, practicing his art with skill and a soft, rumbling voice. Baby knew the effects of his gentle, capable fingers. They had stroked her with loving tenderness as he’d washed and tuned her a thousand times. She also knew that no matter his tactic and skill, he would probably only get to second base with Vicky, because Vicky was a Nice Girl. She was familiar with Dean’s smooth, expert advances, and one base per date was the standard for Nice Girls. Any faster than that and they had a tendency to bolt home to their daddies, any slower, and Dean lost interest. His longest relationship to date had been six dates, three of which had ended in fogged windows and rocking struts. At nearly an hour into the movie, Dean had his hand firmly ensconced under Vicky’s sweater, his fingers tracing across her skin and his lips grazing her exposed throat. It would take an act of god to break his concentration.
Or a scream. A panicked, cutting scream bearing his name.
“Cut it out… Dean!” At this distance it was quiet, barely a whisper of sound over the noise of the movie through rolled up windows, but she felt Dean freeze like a snake waiting to strike. Vicky opened her big blue eyes and looked at him quizzically. Her murmured sound of question was met with a hissed “Shh,” and her pretty face screwed up into an expression of annoyance. By the time the shouted cry came the second time, Dean was already standing beside her, one hand braced on her roof, scanning the field for its source.
His eyes locked on Sam, nearly a football field away.
Sam’s shoulders collided with the side of the concession stand as his scrawny, fourteen year old frame was shoved violently by a dark-haired teenager nearly twice his size. His face darkened with rising fury as the bigger kid shoved him again. She could hear them shouting, though she couldn’t make out words. By the time the third shove came, Dean had her flying backwards in a spray of gravel. Pretty Vicky Anderson squeaked something frightened and unintelligible, completely ignored by Dean as he slammed her shifter into Drive. She gave an angry roar as she focused all four hundred twenty-seven cubic inches of her massive engine into a single purpose. Four hundred sixty pounds of torque per cubic foot wrenched her tires into motion so fast that her front end came off the ground, and she roared toward the fight on her back tires like an angry bear. It took less than seven seconds to clear the distance to Sam, and she was screaming through the back of the lot at sixty miles per hour before her front tires had even touched back down. Seven seconds was an eternity as she watched a second boy grab Sam from behind, leaving his stomach exposed to the fist that lifted him off the ground. Sam collapsed to his knees, gasping, as the bullies’ entourage joined in with scathing jeers. She slid sideways and came to a neck-snapping halt as Dean threw open her door and launched himself at Dark Haired Bully.
The bigger boy never saw what hit him. The crowd that had gathered backed up in a wave away from her skidding arrival and then rushed back in like a tide as Dean flew fist first into Dark Haired Bully’s face. Blood hit the wall behind them in a spray of hot crimson and the kid went down like a sack of wet Jell-O. Dean dropped to his knees on top of him, fist rising and falling again and again, cold rage contorting his beautiful face into something deadly and frightening. Dark Haired Bully’s friends watched the blunt force trauma for three heartbeats before snapping out of their stunned stillness and joining the melee. Tall Skinny Blonde kicked Sam in the ribs, earning him a yelp of pain and Dean’s attention. Dean’s leg kicked out, catching Tall Skinny Blonde just behind the ankles, and sending him crashing flat to his back, breathless. Fat Buzz Cut took one look at his two downed friends and charged Dean like a raging buffalo. He caught Dean in the side with his shoulder, both of them flying into the gathered crowd, knocking down bystanders like bowling pins. That was when all hell broke loose.
Baby had seen her share of fights in dark parking lots, and bar room brawls through tinted windows. She knew how one person getting shoved into another immediately made them the target of further violence, but she had never seen anything like this. There were approximately twenty people gathered around the fight in the beginning, curious rubberneckers who couldn’t resist a little entertainment at Sammy’s expense. Dean and Fat Buzz Cut had taken out about eight of them, shoving them backwards into other spectators, who in turn jostled passing bystanders. The bystanders, in turn, shoved back, escalating the ambient tension into an angry mob. Within moments there were pockets of wrestling and shouting spreading outward from her like a virus, fists flew in repayment for accidental slights, and Sam was all but forgotten. Innocent Bystander Number Forty-Three got punched in the face for no particular reason at all, and when he landed in a bloody heap across the hood of another car, the car’s owner got out and joined the fray. Bodies bounced off her fenders and blood coated her hood, and Pretty Vicky Anderson was curled into a tiny ball in her passenger seat screaming wordlessly.
Dean was Achilles surrounded by the Trojan army. He’d regained his feet and his fists flew with bone-breaking force, crumpling anyone who got within reach. She could see at least six unconscious bodies at his feet, and in the middle of them, crouched beneath the protective shield of the warrior’s legs, was Sam. Bystander Number Eighty-Five got shoved toward Sam, and Dean caught him by the throat with a warning glare before kicking him back into the crowd. Sam finally caught his breath and stood, back to back with his brother. Tall Skinny Blonde had gotten his feet back under him and after a moment of weighing his odds, made the wrong decision and charged Sam with a murderous look. Sam stepped backward and to the side, forcing Dean to turn with him, using his assailant’s own momentum to send him face first into the concession stand. Dean startled as the blonde body landed next to him, then risked a glance back at Sam, who grinned impishly. Sam pulled the switchblade from his waistband and pointed it warningly at Fat Buzz Cut, who was just rolling to his feet. Dean shook his head with a wry smile, and both brothers began to fight their way, back to back, towards her open door.
They had nearly made it to her when the first of the flashing lights arrived.
Within moments, a dozen cruisers from the local police and county sheriff’s office had blocked every exit. Mace and tasers were wielded with brutal efficiency, and after only a few minutes the crowd had been subdued to a dull roar of grumbling and pained moans. It didn’t take long for people to start pointing towards the concession stand, and soon a half dozen uniformed officers had Sam, Dean, and all of Dark Haired Bully’s entourage in handcuffs. Eventually, Pretty Vicky Anderson’s daddy came to take her home. Once everyone in handcuffs got loaded into the back of cruisers, the crowd began to disperse and the lot began to empty. Baby watched the other cars drive away and felt a bit singled-out at being the only car to leave strapped to a tow truck. As much fun as it was to be up high on the flatbed where she could see for miles, she was not amused at being chained down.
She was dumped unceremoniously in the grass of the county impound with an impact that made her springs creak. She sat grumbling to herself next to a truck that reeked of manure and was missing half its grill. Apparently whatever had smashed its front end had also knocked it stupid. The truck was terrible company, and by morning she was hot, bored, and more than ready to have her tires on real asphalt. She couldn’t remember being as happy as the moment she heard her boys approaching.
“Inciting a riot, Dean? Are you kidding me?” John’s anger was hotter than the sun on her hood as he stomped towards her. Dean and Sam trailed along behind, guilt plastered on both their faces.
“They’ll never make that stick,” Dean mumbled. “I didn’t say anything.”
“That may be true, but it doesn’t change the fact that if I hadn’t fixed Sheriff Moultrie’s transmission for free last week, they’d still be inventing charges to throw at you.” John stepped in front of Dean, bringing his son to a halt. “Keys,” he demanded, hand extended.
“What? No, you can’t-” Dean stopped at the warning gleam in his father’s eye. “Dad, it’s my car!”
“Not until you get to the tag office with that title, it isn’t. And that’s not going to happen for three weeks. We should be back from the Harpy job by then and until then, you’re riding shotgun. You're lucky I don't just let them hold you for uncommon stupidity till I get back. Although that's probably not a crime in this backwoods damn county." John’s hand bobbed once for emphasis. "Now, give me the keys, Dean.”
Dean grudgingly handed his brand new keys over to his father, throwing a murderous glance over his shoulder as his brother choked on a repressed snicker. John turned his glare on his younger son.
“And you,” John growled, “don’t think for a second I’m buying the story that the cops did. Dean doesn’t own a switchblade.” At Sam’s slack-jawed surprise, he continued. “That’s right. Your brother managed to convince them it was his, despite several eye-witness accounts that put an illegal weapon blatantly in your possession. You’ll have three weeks of quality time detail cleaning every piece of equipment we don’t take with us to decide whether or not you want to thank him for keeping you from having a juvenile record.” John wrenched open her door, turning back to Dean. "I told you to watch out for your brother, not get him arrested," he snapped. With that, he plopped heavily into her driver’s seat, and slammed it hard enough to make her hinges hurt.
“Why’d you do that,” Sam hissed at his brother. “They can give you ninety days as an adult for that switchblade, Dean.”
Dean slid a mischevious grin beneath wounded eyes and locked it into place before turning to Sam. “On top of what they’re already trying to stick me with, what’s it matter?” He turned Sam by the shoulder and pushed him towards her rear door. “Get in.” Sam’s eyes were grateful even while guilt seeped out of him. Dean let his hand slide from Sam’s shoulder down to his waistband as Sam bent to crawl into the back seat. “The point is, it’s my job to kick your ass, and nobody else’s.”
She had to admit, Sam took his wedgie with grace, and if he saw the tears in Dean's eyes, he was kind enough never to mention it.
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