FIC: Five Things Chevy Winchester Could Never Tell Her Father.
Title: Five Things Chevy Winchester Could Never Tell Her Father.
Author: moment_of_sen / Sena
Characters: OFC, non-graphic Dean/Sam
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: a couple of swearwords, Wincest.
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: Nope, still havn't managed to steal them. Dang. Chevy is mine and Willow's tho.
Notes: Here you go then, my dear estel_willow, here is your request. Hope you like!
Five Things Chevy Winchester Could Never Tell Her Father.
1.
Chevy could remember the first time she met Dean Winchester. She was seven and he'd seemed huge to her, towering over her, straight and strong and completely unlike the thin, flinching form of her uncle. She'd looked down at his boots and thought about how sturdy and tough they looked, just like the rest of him, and wondered what her uncle was thinking by giving her away like this.
And then he'd knelt down in front of her, coming down to her level and meeting her eyes, and his face was friendly and his eyes kind.
"Hello, Chevy," he'd said, and smiled at her. "I'm Dean. I guess I'm your dad." She'd been torn between laughing and crying, and had flung her arms around his neck, inhaling the scent of him. Worn leather, gunpowder, dirt, sweat, motor oil. And right then she'd felt safe from the scared, weak uncle and overbearing, drunk, abusive grandfather she called her family.
She'd known the smell of home and safe right then.
She couldn't tell him that because she didn't know how.
2.
When Sam and Dean sat in the front of the Impala when they were driving places, Chevy sat in the back, half asleep and curled into the leather upholstry. The gentle movement of the car lulled her, rocked her in its safe embrace.
"We can't keep her, Dean. She's a child. With what we see every day-"
"I'm not abandoning her, Sam. She's my daughter and my responsibility."
They'd thought her asleep, and they spoke in hushed tones. Sam sounded worried, Dean the very pillar of unshakable confidence. There was no arguing with that tone, but Sam tried anyway, like he always did, as she was to learn.
"But Dean, the monsters, dragging her with us from town to town, what about school? It's just not fair on a child, not fair to put her through that."
"Like we went through it, you mean? I think we turned out okay."
"That's not the point."
"It is the point, Sam. You don't want her ending up like us: dead-beat, drifter, no-hopers without a place to put our feet. But I'm tellin ya, dude, I'm not going to just toss her aside like her mother did. She needs family."
That right there was trust and love, and Chevy wasn't afraid of being left behind any more. She couldn't say it aloud though. She fell asleep.
3.
Chevy hated Vegas. Hated it with the burning of a thousand fiery suns. Hated having to live with her mother (Maggie) and her step-father (Dwight), hated her school and her stupid friends, hated her baby brother who smelled and made messes and was fat and stupid, hated that her mother called her Rosey and not Chevy. Her mother never really forgot that Chevy hadn't wanted to come back. She'd tried so hard for a while to make her daughter happy, but Chevy sat and didn't talk and watched out the window, aching for the sight of the black Impala, hear the cheerful, strong voice of her father telling her to get a move on, we're running late and we don't wanna keep Bobby waiting; the smell of leather and sweat in a hot car as Dean sang loudly to Blue Oyster Cult and drummed the steering wheel, Sam rolling his eyes but secretly smiling.
Eventually, Maggie stopped trying. Dwight felt unsettled by Chevy; he was a big man, but he was a coward, and there was enough of her no-bullshit father in her that put him off-centre and therefore made him annoyed at her. He played with his son, made the fat little booger laugh and play games, while Chevy watched and wished her dad was here to do the same for her. But Maggie had driven him away, threatened him, made it so the last time Chevy'd ever hugged him properly was outside the restroom in a Wendy's as Sam tried to stall for time and she bawled on his shoulder, not understanding, not comprehending just why she had to go with the mother who had abandoned her once already and might do it again.
But then, sometimes, Dean rang her from some distant pay phone, his voice reassuring even down the phone line.
"Hello, Chevy!" he said brightly, and Chevy would cling to the phone, her only direct contact with the man who had been her family for one whole, good year. "How're you doing in Vegas, sweetheart?" And she'd think, I love you I hate you why did you let me go I hate it here come back for me I miss you, but she'd say, "Same as always, Dad."
4.
Running away shouldn't have been so easy.
Chevy left the day after her fourteenth birthday, every cent she had hidden in her backpack along with her pyjamas, a toothbrush, a bundle of letters from her father and uncle, her favourite clothes and the gun she'd stolen from Dwight's drawer. She wasn't stupid. She knew there was stuff out there that liked to prey on lonely girls. The trouble was, there were people in her own home that liked to do that too. Not Dwight but a "friend" of his, and Maggie didn't know about it, but the last words Dean had ever imparted to her daughter were, don't be afraid to fight and she wasn't about to stick around and wait for the man to make his move on her.
So she double-checked the postmark on the last letter from Dean she'd recieved the day before, and got on a bus that took her from Vegas to Texas, from mother to father, from fear to trust. She almost cried when she laid eyes on the familiar car with the Kansas plates in Sunnyvale, and had to circle it twice to make sure it was The Impala and not just a black Chevy. And it was, it really was, it was safety and home and relief. Some guys had noticed her then, and crowded her, jostling her back against the car. She dropped their leader with a knee to the gut. She was a Winchester.
"Hey you punks, get away from my car!" Dean and Sam came sweeping in to save the day, sending the guys scattering with Chevy's wits as she stared at the man she hadn't seen in five years, the man she'd run away to find. He stared right back, Sam at his side like he always was, and then crossed to her and pulled her into a tight hug. He was a little older, a few more creases on his face, and missing a finger from one hand, but he smelled the same and he was Dean, Dad, home, safe.
"Chevy, what are you doing here? How did you find me?" And she couldn't answer because she was trying not to cry, and she was a Winchester and stronger than that.
5.
They were sitting in Bobby's kitchen after Bobby and Sam had gone to bed when Chevy asked Dean if he ever got lonely. Dean gave her a funny look and said, no, he had Sam and Chevy to keep him company. So she'd said, I mean, do you ever get lonely, and then it had clicked and Dean laughed and told her that she wouldn't approve, and it was actions like he used that had got her conceived in the first place.
Chevy nodded and accepted it, but felt a little sad for her father, watching as he went to his bed in the room he shared with Sam, heard the soft voices and then the silence that was too much like people trying to be silent.
Maggie had told her that her father was a degenerate, and that sooner or later, types like that ended up in jail and they liked it. Chevy hadn't known what she meant, then.
Years passed. Chevy grew up, learned to hunt, went to school because Dean made her; he wanted her to go to college and get the education he'd never gone after, and then when she was qualified she could decide if she wanted to rejoin him and go back to hunting.
And always, they were there, Sam and Dean, Dean and Sam. Inseperable and undefeatable, since the Demon was gone, their father reduced to an invalid, and everything Sam used to want from his life well and truly gone. So they hunted together, they fought side-by-side, they raised Chevy and ran scams and hustled pool and drank together. When Dean gave her the candy-apple red '69 Thunderbird, he also gave her a hug and apologised for not being able to give her a normal life, a home with a father and a mother and a white picket fence, said sorry that Sam was the closest thing she had to a proper mother.
Chevy shook her head and laughed, because how could she tell her father that she knew her whole family was messed up and freakish? That she'd known, since she'd found them again at fourteen, that Dean and Sam weren't completely just brothers? That she'd seen it every time Dean had thrown Sam's hands off him after waking curled together, every stray meaningful glance, every time Sam stood too close, bending his head towards Dean when they spoke, and that one time when she'd come home too early from school one afternoon and had frozen, her hand on the doorknob, listening for a moment to the unmistakable sound of two men fucking before going to the park for two hours and blasting her eardrums with Black Sabbath until she wasn't completely freaking out any more and went home to find her father and uncle casually researching in the kitchen, their ankles touching under the table?
So she said, "See ya in the holidays, Dad, we'll go hunting," instead of, I know, and it's okay, it took me a while but I'm okay with it, hugged him tightly, and went to college. Let him think he'd managed to keep his secret from her, or not. She wasn't about to burst his bubble.
Author: moment_of_sen / Sena
Characters: OFC, non-graphic Dean/Sam
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: a couple of swearwords, Wincest.
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: Nope, still havn't managed to steal them. Dang. Chevy is mine and Willow's tho.
Notes: Here you go then, my dear estel_willow, here is your request. Hope you like!
Five Things Chevy Winchester Could Never Tell Her Father.
1.
Chevy could remember the first time she met Dean Winchester. She was seven and he'd seemed huge to her, towering over her, straight and strong and completely unlike the thin, flinching form of her uncle. She'd looked down at his boots and thought about how sturdy and tough they looked, just like the rest of him, and wondered what her uncle was thinking by giving her away like this.
And then he'd knelt down in front of her, coming down to her level and meeting her eyes, and his face was friendly and his eyes kind.
"Hello, Chevy," he'd said, and smiled at her. "I'm Dean. I guess I'm your dad." She'd been torn between laughing and crying, and had flung her arms around his neck, inhaling the scent of him. Worn leather, gunpowder, dirt, sweat, motor oil. And right then she'd felt safe from the scared, weak uncle and overbearing, drunk, abusive grandfather she called her family.
She'd known the smell of home and safe right then.
She couldn't tell him that because she didn't know how.
2.
When Sam and Dean sat in the front of the Impala when they were driving places, Chevy sat in the back, half asleep and curled into the leather upholstry. The gentle movement of the car lulled her, rocked her in its safe embrace.
"We can't keep her, Dean. She's a child. With what we see every day-"
"I'm not abandoning her, Sam. She's my daughter and my responsibility."
They'd thought her asleep, and they spoke in hushed tones. Sam sounded worried, Dean the very pillar of unshakable confidence. There was no arguing with that tone, but Sam tried anyway, like he always did, as she was to learn.
"But Dean, the monsters, dragging her with us from town to town, what about school? It's just not fair on a child, not fair to put her through that."
"Like we went through it, you mean? I think we turned out okay."
"That's not the point."
"It is the point, Sam. You don't want her ending up like us: dead-beat, drifter, no-hopers without a place to put our feet. But I'm tellin ya, dude, I'm not going to just toss her aside like her mother did. She needs family."
That right there was trust and love, and Chevy wasn't afraid of being left behind any more. She couldn't say it aloud though. She fell asleep.
3.
Chevy hated Vegas. Hated it with the burning of a thousand fiery suns. Hated having to live with her mother (Maggie) and her step-father (Dwight), hated her school and her stupid friends, hated her baby brother who smelled and made messes and was fat and stupid, hated that her mother called her Rosey and not Chevy. Her mother never really forgot that Chevy hadn't wanted to come back. She'd tried so hard for a while to make her daughter happy, but Chevy sat and didn't talk and watched out the window, aching for the sight of the black Impala, hear the cheerful, strong voice of her father telling her to get a move on, we're running late and we don't wanna keep Bobby waiting; the smell of leather and sweat in a hot car as Dean sang loudly to Blue Oyster Cult and drummed the steering wheel, Sam rolling his eyes but secretly smiling.
Eventually, Maggie stopped trying. Dwight felt unsettled by Chevy; he was a big man, but he was a coward, and there was enough of her no-bullshit father in her that put him off-centre and therefore made him annoyed at her. He played with his son, made the fat little booger laugh and play games, while Chevy watched and wished her dad was here to do the same for her. But Maggie had driven him away, threatened him, made it so the last time Chevy'd ever hugged him properly was outside the restroom in a Wendy's as Sam tried to stall for time and she bawled on his shoulder, not understanding, not comprehending just why she had to go with the mother who had abandoned her once already and might do it again.
But then, sometimes, Dean rang her from some distant pay phone, his voice reassuring even down the phone line.
"Hello, Chevy!" he said brightly, and Chevy would cling to the phone, her only direct contact with the man who had been her family for one whole, good year. "How're you doing in Vegas, sweetheart?" And she'd think, I love you I hate you why did you let me go I hate it here come back for me I miss you, but she'd say, "Same as always, Dad."
4.
Running away shouldn't have been so easy.
Chevy left the day after her fourteenth birthday, every cent she had hidden in her backpack along with her pyjamas, a toothbrush, a bundle of letters from her father and uncle, her favourite clothes and the gun she'd stolen from Dwight's drawer. She wasn't stupid. She knew there was stuff out there that liked to prey on lonely girls. The trouble was, there were people in her own home that liked to do that too. Not Dwight but a "friend" of his, and Maggie didn't know about it, but the last words Dean had ever imparted to her daughter were, don't be afraid to fight and she wasn't about to stick around and wait for the man to make his move on her.
So she double-checked the postmark on the last letter from Dean she'd recieved the day before, and got on a bus that took her from Vegas to Texas, from mother to father, from fear to trust. She almost cried when she laid eyes on the familiar car with the Kansas plates in Sunnyvale, and had to circle it twice to make sure it was The Impala and not just a black Chevy. And it was, it really was, it was safety and home and relief. Some guys had noticed her then, and crowded her, jostling her back against the car. She dropped their leader with a knee to the gut. She was a Winchester.
"Hey you punks, get away from my car!" Dean and Sam came sweeping in to save the day, sending the guys scattering with Chevy's wits as she stared at the man she hadn't seen in five years, the man she'd run away to find. He stared right back, Sam at his side like he always was, and then crossed to her and pulled her into a tight hug. He was a little older, a few more creases on his face, and missing a finger from one hand, but he smelled the same and he was Dean, Dad, home, safe.
"Chevy, what are you doing here? How did you find me?" And she couldn't answer because she was trying not to cry, and she was a Winchester and stronger than that.
5.
They were sitting in Bobby's kitchen after Bobby and Sam had gone to bed when Chevy asked Dean if he ever got lonely. Dean gave her a funny look and said, no, he had Sam and Chevy to keep him company. So she'd said, I mean, do you ever get lonely, and then it had clicked and Dean laughed and told her that she wouldn't approve, and it was actions like he used that had got her conceived in the first place.
Chevy nodded and accepted it, but felt a little sad for her father, watching as he went to his bed in the room he shared with Sam, heard the soft voices and then the silence that was too much like people trying to be silent.
Maggie had told her that her father was a degenerate, and that sooner or later, types like that ended up in jail and they liked it. Chevy hadn't known what she meant, then.
Years passed. Chevy grew up, learned to hunt, went to school because Dean made her; he wanted her to go to college and get the education he'd never gone after, and then when she was qualified she could decide if she wanted to rejoin him and go back to hunting.
And always, they were there, Sam and Dean, Dean and Sam. Inseperable and undefeatable, since the Demon was gone, their father reduced to an invalid, and everything Sam used to want from his life well and truly gone. So they hunted together, they fought side-by-side, they raised Chevy and ran scams and hustled pool and drank together. When Dean gave her the candy-apple red '69 Thunderbird, he also gave her a hug and apologised for not being able to give her a normal life, a home with a father and a mother and a white picket fence, said sorry that Sam was the closest thing she had to a proper mother.
Chevy shook her head and laughed, because how could she tell her father that she knew her whole family was messed up and freakish? That she'd known, since she'd found them again at fourteen, that Dean and Sam weren't completely just brothers? That she'd seen it every time Dean had thrown Sam's hands off him after waking curled together, every stray meaningful glance, every time Sam stood too close, bending his head towards Dean when they spoke, and that one time when she'd come home too early from school one afternoon and had frozen, her hand on the doorknob, listening for a moment to the unmistakable sound of two men fucking before going to the park for two hours and blasting her eardrums with Black Sabbath until she wasn't completely freaking out any more and went home to find her father and uncle casually researching in the kitchen, their ankles touching under the table?
So she said, "See ya in the holidays, Dad, we'll go hunting," instead of, I know, and it's okay, it took me a while but I'm okay with it, hugged him tightly, and went to college. Let him think he'd managed to keep his secret from her, or not. She wasn't about to burst his bubble.