Fic: Five Things That Never Happened to the Impala (SPN, gen, PG)
Look, here I am finishing my thesis draft. *looks shifty* What?
Title: Five Things That Never Happened to the Impala
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG for language
Pairing: gen, unless you count Dean/Impala
Summary: Five ways that the Impala might have lost her Dean.
Notes: I wrote the first three of these a couple of months ago when I couldn't sleep one night. I knew there were supposed to be five, but when I woke up in the morning, I couldn't remember what the other two were. It took a while for them to come back to me. Unbetaed. 1366 words.
1978
“Sorry, Mr. Winchester,” says the man, all smarmy smile and ugly suit, looking at the grease under John’s fingernails as if he knows something about him, about them. “I just can’t sell it to you for that kind of money. This here’s a great car, could last you a decade or more if you treat it right. I’m not going to sell for less than it’s worth.”
Mary puts a hand on his arm, and John bites down on his anger. The car’s ten years old, black paint dull, and after a test drive around the block, John’s pretty sure the previous owner rode her clutch like a pony. It’ll need replacing. And the alignment’s way off, which could mean something bad for the tires, even though they feel fine when he kicks them. She’s a good car, maybe a great car, even, but not right now, and John knows for damn sure he doesn’t want to be doing business with an asshole who will try to talk the price up on the basis of her potential. Mary’s fingers stroke in at his elbow, a little ticklish, and he glances at her.
“We have a little extra to spend, John,” she says, and he puts his hand out to touch her belly, not yet rounding.
“We’ve got something extra coming in soon, too,” he replies, and she smiles until the little creases at the corners of her eyes come out.
“Thanks anyway,” he says to the asshole in the bad suit, and walks away with his wife on his arm. The truck will hold out for a little while yet.
1996
“You want a car, Dean, you have to earn enough to pay for it,” Dad tells him, and Dean wants to fucking hit something because how can somebody who runs credit card scams for a living say one single word about him needing to make an honest wage?
Instead he says, “Yes, sir.” And he’s glad Sammy’s not around to hear his defeat, that his too-smart little brother’s still at school with the chess club or whatever. He’s the only person who could maybe begin to understand how bad Dean wants the car, and he’d ask all the questions Dean can’t fucking deal with right now. “So, what are you going to do with her?”
John’s gone back to cleaning loose salt out of the sawed-off. “Trade her in. Get something that can carry more.”
You could fit a body in the trunk already, Dean doesn’t say. “Right,” he replies, and goes out into the parking lot to say goodbye.
2002
“Dean, no.”
“Look, just shut the fuck up and take the keys. It’s a hell of a long walk to California.”
Sam purses his lips, and Dean can’t tell if he’s about to smile or fight it some more. It’s kind of neither. “I have money for a bus,” he says calmly.
“Don’t want you always having to take the bus. The bus does not impress the ladies.” He looks at the car and chokes for a moment, because he really does love her, just not as much as he loves his little brother. “She impresses the ladies. They hear her purr and the panties just start dropping.”
Sam makes a disgusted sound. “There’s not enough disinfectant in the world to get me into that backseat with a girl.”
“Fuck off, Sam. I’m always careful when it comes to my car.” My car. He can’t believe this may be the last time he’ll ever call her that.
Sam’s silent, watching him.
“Look,” Dean sighs, grabbing Sam’s wrist and pressing the keys into his palm. “If you have the car, you have no excuse not to come visit sometimes.”
“I know,” Sam says, and the coldness in his voice is probably the most painful thing Dean’s ever heard, a knife twist in his gut. He wants to rip the keys from his baby brother’s hand, wants to holler at him and storm off the way that Dad had because Jesus fucking Christ, how did Sam grow up so ungrateful? But he can’t do it, knows if he leaves it like that he’ll regret it forever. “Dean…”
Dean looks at him, and even though Sam’s grown four inches in the past year and a half and he towers over Dean like a goddamn tree, his face is five years old again, the first time some kid told him he was a freak who didn’t even have a house. “You have the car, you have to visit,” Dean repeats, making it clear this time. “I have to make sure you’re treating her right.”
“Okay,” Sam says, and his fingers close around the keys.
2006
“Dean, it’s impossible.”
“Shut up.”
“No. Look at me, Dean. Even if you fix the car, it’s not going to bring Dad back.” He says it as if Dean’s an idiot, as if he honestly thinks…
“Fuck you, Sammy. Okay? That’s not the point.” He lays a hand against the rear fender, perfect, undamaged. If he keeps his hand on this strip of metal and closes his eyes, he can remember her like she was, practically feel her purring.
“Dean, you can’t just bury yourself in this and pretend nothing happened. We need to get out there, find out what Dad knew. There’s still evil to be fought. The demon’s still out there, and it’s not as though it’s just waiting around for us.”
Dean strokes the edge of the trunk. “And what do you propose we do without a car, huh, college boy? Rent a camel? Buy a bicycle built for two?”
Sam looks at him like he’s deranged. “Bobby’s got other cars, Dean. Cars that don’t need to be rebuilt from scratch. I’m sure he’d let us take one.”
Dean’s fingers clench. “And what about her?” he asks softly.
“You know Bobby’ll keep it- her for us. Just until we have more time.” Sam’s voice is coaxing, but there’s an edge to it: hunger, desperation, the same thing Dean had heard there in the days after Jess’s death. “Then we can come back and you can do it right.”
And it’s Sam, the only thing he loves more than the car, so he gives. “We’ll ask Bobby,” he says reluctantly.
Sam’s eyes clear a little. “We’ll come back,” he tells Dean, as if that’s enough of a reassurance, and heads back to the house.
We’ll come back, Dean thinks, leaning his cheek against the roof of the car. “We’ll come back,” he tells her, and he means it with all his heart.
2009
Sam washes her every other Sunday, finds someplace with a spare garden hose and soaps her up in meticulous circles, frothing intricate patterns over the roof. He rinses her off, and dries her with a soft cloth. He tried waxing her a couple of times, but the wax smelled so much like his brother’s old leather jacket that he had to stop. Now he goes to carwashes that offer that sort of service when she starts looking dusty, or he notices rain’s running streaks across the hood instead of beading like it’s supposed to. He keeps her clean, at least. He notices these things. He wipes down the seats after any case with slime or more than a pint of blood involved, and he takes pride in the look of the car, more than forty years old and still running strong and sure.
Bobby’s taught him everything Dean didn’t about fixing her: sparkplugs and checking the fuel line and just what to tighten if she starts making that juddering noise again. Sam feels competent working on her, a good, strong, healthy feeling, and those have been few and far between in the last couple of years. Bobby calls up to ask how he is, and sometimes Sam just doesn’t answer, guiding the Impala along two-lane state highways with rusty numbers and produce stands at their edges, twenty miles over the speed limit.
He washes her every other Sunday. He changes her oil every three thousand miles. He keeps the fast food wrappers confined to a trash bag in front of the empty passenger seat. And he never, ever calls her “baby.”
~fin~
Feedback is love.
Title: Five Things That Never Happened to the Impala
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG for language
Pairing: gen, unless you count Dean/Impala
Summary: Five ways that the Impala might have lost her Dean.
Notes: I wrote the first three of these a couple of months ago when I couldn't sleep one night. I knew there were supposed to be five, but when I woke up in the morning, I couldn't remember what the other two were. It took a while for them to come back to me. Unbetaed. 1366 words.
1978
“Sorry, Mr. Winchester,” says the man, all smarmy smile and ugly suit, looking at the grease under John’s fingernails as if he knows something about him, about them. “I just can’t sell it to you for that kind of money. This here’s a great car, could last you a decade or more if you treat it right. I’m not going to sell for less than it’s worth.”
Mary puts a hand on his arm, and John bites down on his anger. The car’s ten years old, black paint dull, and after a test drive around the block, John’s pretty sure the previous owner rode her clutch like a pony. It’ll need replacing. And the alignment’s way off, which could mean something bad for the tires, even though they feel fine when he kicks them. She’s a good car, maybe a great car, even, but not right now, and John knows for damn sure he doesn’t want to be doing business with an asshole who will try to talk the price up on the basis of her potential. Mary’s fingers stroke in at his elbow, a little ticklish, and he glances at her.
“We have a little extra to spend, John,” she says, and he puts his hand out to touch her belly, not yet rounding.
“We’ve got something extra coming in soon, too,” he replies, and she smiles until the little creases at the corners of her eyes come out.
“Thanks anyway,” he says to the asshole in the bad suit, and walks away with his wife on his arm. The truck will hold out for a little while yet.
1996
“You want a car, Dean, you have to earn enough to pay for it,” Dad tells him, and Dean wants to fucking hit something because how can somebody who runs credit card scams for a living say one single word about him needing to make an honest wage?
Instead he says, “Yes, sir.” And he’s glad Sammy’s not around to hear his defeat, that his too-smart little brother’s still at school with the chess club or whatever. He’s the only person who could maybe begin to understand how bad Dean wants the car, and he’d ask all the questions Dean can’t fucking deal with right now. “So, what are you going to do with her?”
John’s gone back to cleaning loose salt out of the sawed-off. “Trade her in. Get something that can carry more.”
You could fit a body in the trunk already, Dean doesn’t say. “Right,” he replies, and goes out into the parking lot to say goodbye.
2002
“Dean, no.”
“Look, just shut the fuck up and take the keys. It’s a hell of a long walk to California.”
Sam purses his lips, and Dean can’t tell if he’s about to smile or fight it some more. It’s kind of neither. “I have money for a bus,” he says calmly.
“Don’t want you always having to take the bus. The bus does not impress the ladies.” He looks at the car and chokes for a moment, because he really does love her, just not as much as he loves his little brother. “She impresses the ladies. They hear her purr and the panties just start dropping.”
Sam makes a disgusted sound. “There’s not enough disinfectant in the world to get me into that backseat with a girl.”
“Fuck off, Sam. I’m always careful when it comes to my car.” My car. He can’t believe this may be the last time he’ll ever call her that.
Sam’s silent, watching him.
“Look,” Dean sighs, grabbing Sam’s wrist and pressing the keys into his palm. “If you have the car, you have no excuse not to come visit sometimes.”
“I know,” Sam says, and the coldness in his voice is probably the most painful thing Dean’s ever heard, a knife twist in his gut. He wants to rip the keys from his baby brother’s hand, wants to holler at him and storm off the way that Dad had because Jesus fucking Christ, how did Sam grow up so ungrateful? But he can’t do it, knows if he leaves it like that he’ll regret it forever. “Dean…”
Dean looks at him, and even though Sam’s grown four inches in the past year and a half and he towers over Dean like a goddamn tree, his face is five years old again, the first time some kid told him he was a freak who didn’t even have a house. “You have the car, you have to visit,” Dean repeats, making it clear this time. “I have to make sure you’re treating her right.”
“Okay,” Sam says, and his fingers close around the keys.
2006
“Dean, it’s impossible.”
“Shut up.”
“No. Look at me, Dean. Even if you fix the car, it’s not going to bring Dad back.” He says it as if Dean’s an idiot, as if he honestly thinks…
“Fuck you, Sammy. Okay? That’s not the point.” He lays a hand against the rear fender, perfect, undamaged. If he keeps his hand on this strip of metal and closes his eyes, he can remember her like she was, practically feel her purring.
“Dean, you can’t just bury yourself in this and pretend nothing happened. We need to get out there, find out what Dad knew. There’s still evil to be fought. The demon’s still out there, and it’s not as though it’s just waiting around for us.”
Dean strokes the edge of the trunk. “And what do you propose we do without a car, huh, college boy? Rent a camel? Buy a bicycle built for two?”
Sam looks at him like he’s deranged. “Bobby’s got other cars, Dean. Cars that don’t need to be rebuilt from scratch. I’m sure he’d let us take one.”
Dean’s fingers clench. “And what about her?” he asks softly.
“You know Bobby’ll keep it- her for us. Just until we have more time.” Sam’s voice is coaxing, but there’s an edge to it: hunger, desperation, the same thing Dean had heard there in the days after Jess’s death. “Then we can come back and you can do it right.”
And it’s Sam, the only thing he loves more than the car, so he gives. “We’ll ask Bobby,” he says reluctantly.
Sam’s eyes clear a little. “We’ll come back,” he tells Dean, as if that’s enough of a reassurance, and heads back to the house.
We’ll come back, Dean thinks, leaning his cheek against the roof of the car. “We’ll come back,” he tells her, and he means it with all his heart.
2009
Sam washes her every other Sunday, finds someplace with a spare garden hose and soaps her up in meticulous circles, frothing intricate patterns over the roof. He rinses her off, and dries her with a soft cloth. He tried waxing her a couple of times, but the wax smelled so much like his brother’s old leather jacket that he had to stop. Now he goes to carwashes that offer that sort of service when she starts looking dusty, or he notices rain’s running streaks across the hood instead of beading like it’s supposed to. He keeps her clean, at least. He notices these things. He wipes down the seats after any case with slime or more than a pint of blood involved, and he takes pride in the look of the car, more than forty years old and still running strong and sure.
Bobby’s taught him everything Dean didn’t about fixing her: sparkplugs and checking the fuel line and just what to tighten if she starts making that juddering noise again. Sam feels competent working on her, a good, strong, healthy feeling, and those have been few and far between in the last couple of years. Bobby calls up to ask how he is, and sometimes Sam just doesn’t answer, guiding the Impala along two-lane state highways with rusty numbers and produce stands at their edges, twenty miles over the speed limit.
He washes her every other Sunday. He changes her oil every three thousand miles. He keeps the fast food wrappers confined to a trash bag in front of the empty passenger seat. And he never, ever calls her “baby.”
~fin~
Feedback is love.