It's a stupid fucking orange monstrosity, and Sam doesn't know why Dean insists on taking it back with them. He never liked that car, even before he found out Ruby was a lying bitch; never liked the way the steering was stiffer, more precise than the Impala's, hated the way the passenger seat was too small for him, hated that the engine barely rumbled underneath the hood, hated the damn turning circle which made sure it couldn't handle corners half as well as the Impala could, hated the way the doors didn't squeak, hated the way the car barely rocked when he slammed the door shut.
Somewhere in the back of his head, he registers Bobby agreeing to take it apart and run the parts over with some holy water and a bunch of chalked sigils, stick it in his junkyard until it came in handy. But all he can think is the fact that he has to follow Dean's tail lights and drive the damn thing back to Bobby's place, when he could be sitting in the passenger seat with Led Zeppelin playing loud enough to rupture his eardrums and Dean warm and safe next to him, steady hands on the wheel.
If he drives it back to Bobby's place, he's going to be awake enough to think himself into a rut instead of sleeping it off in the passenger seat. And that's never a good place to be.
---
Of course, that means that by the time they make it to Bobby's junk yard, Sam is operating on less than four hours sleep in about as many days, and he's started to think about bringing Ruby back to life and then killing her, slowly and painfully, with lots of time for screaming. And blood. Lots of demon blood.
It's not like there's a soul in the body for him to feel guilty about, anyway.
He's run through about a hundred different scenarios in his head by the time the asphalt turns to gravel underneath the wheels and the Impala's brake lights brighten as it slows to a stop. They get out, and Dean nods at him once before disappearing inside to find Bobby.
There's a crowbar lying next to a dead-beat Mustang in the corner, and Sam wields it, tests its weight in his hand. It's solid and heavy, rough under his fingertips, and he tosses the end up and down, then without any further thought, brings it smashing down through the windshield of the car.
Ruby loved that car as much as Dean loves his own, and it gives Sam an odd sense of satisfaction to imagine bashing her brains out as the window shatters around the crowbar.
He can blame it on the demon blood, when this is all over.
He can feel his heartbeat jumping as he swings the crowbar up, then down with all his strength on the hood of the car. Gets both hands on it, feeling the burn in his muscles as he smashes his way through the hood, rips holes big enough that he can see the engine. He puts dents in the doors, shatters every window and mirror. The glass sprays out, crunches under his boots, the smaller shards cutting into his hands, but he keeps going until the noise fades out, until all he can hear is his heartbeat in his ears. Until all he can feel is the shuddery numbness of his fingers every time the crowbar slams into the metal.
When he stops, Dean's standing in the doorway with his arms folded over his chest, watching him with dark eyes. Sam's chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, and he meets Dean's gaze, challenges him.
"What?" he said, bracing for a fight, remembering Dean's cutting words echoing through his head.
Dean shakes his head, a small smirk tilting the corners of his lips up, and he shrugs away from the porch to come and pry the crowbar away from Sam's bloody hands. It drops to the floor with a dull clang against the gravel, and it's only then that Sam registers the blood trickling down his wrists from where the glass cut him. Dean swears under his breath.
He drags Sam over the to steps and pushes him down, opens up the first aid kit. "You got it out of your system yet?" he asks, almost flippantly. Sam stiffens, and tries to jerk away, but Dean's fingers tighten around his wrists with a growled, "Stop it, Sammy."
"I'm fine," Sam says, and gives up struggling so that Dean can wash his hands with water and pick out all the shards. His hands are warm and steady as he bandages Sam's damp hands. Dean looks up, meets Sam's gaze with a small smile, offers it to him like a peace offering, and Sam's surprised to feel his own mouth tilting upwards in the first real grin he's given in a while.
"Hated that car anyway," says Dean. His hands are warm where they're cupping Sam's, just holding on to him.
"So did I," he says after a moment, and Dean's chuckle feels like sailing home into safe waters.
That was wonderful. So simple. Just to show Sam with this need to just destroy something, to take out all of his anger, and the ridiculous amount of understanding that Dean has. Great dynamic. Loved it! Kudos! -crazytook
Somewhere in the back of his head, he registers Bobby agreeing to take it apart and run the parts over with some holy water and a bunch of chalked sigils, stick it in his junkyard until it came in handy. But all he can think is the fact that he has to follow Dean's tail lights and drive the damn thing back to Bobby's place, when he could be sitting in the passenger seat with Led Zeppelin playing loud enough to rupture his eardrums and Dean warm and safe next to him, steady hands on the wheel.
If he drives it back to Bobby's place, he's going to be awake enough to think himself into a rut instead of sleeping it off in the passenger seat. And that's never a good place to be.
---
Of course, that means that by the time they make it to Bobby's junk yard, Sam is operating on less than four hours sleep in about as many days, and he's started to think about bringing Ruby back to life and then killing her, slowly and painfully, with lots of time for screaming. And blood. Lots of demon blood.
It's not like there's a soul in the body for him to feel guilty about, anyway.
He's run through about a hundred different scenarios in his head by the time the asphalt turns to gravel underneath the wheels and the Impala's brake lights brighten as it slows to a stop. They get out, and Dean nods at him once before disappearing inside to find Bobby.
There's a crowbar lying next to a dead-beat Mustang in the corner, and Sam wields it, tests its weight in his hand. It's solid and heavy, rough under his fingertips, and he tosses the end up and down, then without any further thought, brings it smashing down through the windshield of the car.
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He can blame it on the demon blood, when this is all over.
He can feel his heartbeat jumping as he swings the crowbar up, then down with all his strength on the hood of the car. Gets both hands on it, feeling the burn in his muscles as he smashes his way through the hood, rips holes big enough that he can see the engine. He puts dents in the doors, shatters every window and mirror. The glass sprays out, crunches under his boots, the smaller shards cutting into his hands, but he keeps going until the noise fades out, until all he can hear is his heartbeat in his ears. Until all he can feel is the shuddery numbness of his fingers every time the crowbar slams into the metal.
When he stops, Dean's standing in the doorway with his arms folded over his chest, watching him with dark eyes. Sam's chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, and he meets Dean's gaze, challenges him.
"What?" he said, bracing for a fight, remembering Dean's cutting words echoing through his head.
Dean shakes his head, a small smirk tilting the corners of his lips up, and he shrugs away from the porch to come and pry the crowbar away from Sam's bloody hands. It drops to the floor with a dull clang against the gravel, and it's only then that Sam registers the blood trickling down his wrists from where the glass cut him. Dean swears under his breath.
He drags Sam over the to steps and pushes him down, opens up the first aid kit. "You got it out of your system yet?" he asks, almost flippantly. Sam stiffens, and tries to jerk away, but Dean's fingers tighten around his wrists with a growled, "Stop it, Sammy."
"I'm fine," Sam says, and gives up struggling so that Dean can wash his hands with water and pick out all the shards. His hands are warm and steady as he bandages Sam's damp hands. Dean looks up, meets Sam's gaze with a small smile, offers it to him like a peace offering, and Sam's surprised to feel his own mouth tilting upwards in the first real grin he's given in a while.
"Hated that car anyway," says Dean. His hands are warm where they're cupping Sam's, just holding on to him.
"So did I," he says after a moment, and Dean's chuckle feels like sailing home into safe waters.
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And, man, I'd give A LOT to actually see this scene! *__*
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Kudos!
-crazytook
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