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FILL: The Morning AfteryoullsayitOctober 3 2011, 08:38:24 UTC
At the end of it all, when the angels have fallen and the people are burning mad with the Virus, Jo endures the fallout with her fellow Hunters. Miraculously, she is the only one left alive in the rubble.
She rolls painfully onto her side and a hammered gold ring falls to the ground from where it had been resting on her chest. It's a typical, even bland wedding band but she would know it anywhere. It's cold to the touch, and never seems to warm; how could it, after being on the Devil's hand for so long?
Supernatural, the Impala, actually she'd much rather drive around with a pair of normal people who didn't spill blood on her seats and get her tossed around by angels every other week
LOL @ your prompt. Okay, here it is, hope you like.
Baby is one awesome car. There’s no denying it. She’s black, she’s shiny, she’s got leather seats; she’s a friggin’ classic muscle car, man. She’s got a good-looking driver, another good-looking passenger, good music, and there’s an armory in her trunk.
She is one cool car.
But still.
She’s not perfect. No, far from perfect. She’s got millions of miles on her odometer (she’d stopped counting somewhere around Kentucky the 230th time across), she’s got maybe ten original pieces left in her (especially after that first crash), she eats up gas like a dumped chick gobbles up chocolate, she creaks and she groans, and she hates being so goddamned ancient.
She’s not that old in years, but it’s the mileage, baby.
Cold winters, when Dean coaxes her through sheets of falling snowflakes, and piles of snow on the roads, she pushes along, heater sputtering sporadically as she goes. It’s times like these when she dreams.
She dreams of rest, of a warm tarp covering her, of being inside. She
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She rolls painfully onto her side and a hammered gold ring falls to the ground from where it had been resting on her chest. It's a typical, even bland wedding band but she would know it anywhere. It's cold to the touch, and never seems to warm; how could it, after being on the Devil's hand for so long?
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Baby is one awesome car. There’s no denying it. She’s black, she’s shiny, she’s got leather seats; she’s a friggin’ classic muscle car, man. She’s got a good-looking driver, another good-looking passenger, good music, and there’s an armory in her trunk.
She is one cool car.
But still.
She’s not perfect. No, far from perfect. She’s got millions of miles on her odometer (she’d stopped counting somewhere around Kentucky the 230th time across), she’s got maybe ten original pieces left in her (especially after that first crash), she eats up gas like a dumped chick gobbles up chocolate, she creaks and she groans, and she hates being so goddamned ancient.
She’s not that old in years, but it’s the mileage, baby.
Cold winters, when Dean coaxes her through sheets of falling snowflakes, and piles of snow on the roads, she pushes along, heater sputtering sporadically as she goes. It’s times like these when she dreams.
She dreams of rest, of a warm tarp covering her, of being inside. She ( ... )
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Thank you!
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