dead leaves and dirty ground, 1/1, gen, Dean Winchester

[obeetaybee]

dead leaves and dirty ground
Gen
1350 words
Dean knows this car from hood to trunk. It’s his first love, his home away from home, his vehicular soul mate. No one understands him the way the Impala does.
Set during season 1, Dead Man's Blood. A remix of Rust by the crazy talented tifaching. Beta by the lovely and talented dotfic, everything is right because of her. Mistakes are all mine.




dead leaves and dirty ground

“Hey, and Dean, why don’t you touch up your car before you get rust. I wouldn’t have given you the damn thing if I thought you were going to ruin it.”

Dean takes a deep breath, waves of intense heat flaring through his chest.

And then Sam, the little shit, laughs. Dean knows what the old man’s doing. Christ, he’s been doing stupid shit like this since Sam was three and learned what the words no and why meant. It's always been easier taking it out on Dean instead of Sammy, because Dad knows Dean would never talk back.

Hell, even as a toddler Sammy loved to argue.

But to accuse him of letting it go to rust, of ruining the Impala, it was like Dad kicking him in the nuts and then laughing in his face.

Dean opens his mouth and closes it, wanting so fucking much to tear his father a new asshole, but years and years of conditioning kick in and he shoots it down, reins it in and mentally puts the fire out. He takes a deep breath and stares at his father’s retreating back, wishing for once in his life he could be like Sam and just speak his mind.

Trailing his fingers over the coke bottle lines of the car, he stares at his reflection in the window, his face white with anger. A cold breeze blows against his back, churning dead, brown leaves across the road. He curls his fingers into the roof’s drip cap and breathes slowly, trying to calm his racing heart, staring down at the dirty ground.

It's no excuse for the laughter, but Sam never knew what it was like to have a home, to have Santa place presents under a Christmas tree in the front window. He's got no memories of the family gathered around the dinner table or their mother at the kitchen sink, her long blonde hair flowing down her back. He knows he should let it go, ignore how Sam’s laughter burns.

Especially since it was Dean listening to his father’s commands that saved Sam’s life in the first place.

Dean only remembers little things about the house in Lawrence before the fire. He recalls standing at the bottom of the staircase, his tiny hand barely touching the banister, the forever steps stretching into the darkness above him. He remembers the scary basement, and the aluminum swing set out back. His mother used to push him higher and higher, and Dean yearned to hold out a hand to touch the sky, so sure the fluffy white clouds were just out of reach.

After the fire, he remembers the sanctuary of the car.

He leaned against his father's side on the hood of the Impala, the red and blue lights from the emergency vehicles swirling colored shadows on the houses in the neighborhood. They watched the smoke pour from the upstairs windows, listening to the fire hiss, the water from the hoses slowly killing the blaze.

Neighbors he never met huddled on surrounding lawns, bathrobes tied tight and whispering to one another, hands on their faces in shock. Dean's eyes were dry, trying to block out the memory of his mother on the ceiling, burning. The licking flames reached for him too before his father shoved Sammy into his arms and told him to run.

When the fire was out and the trip to the hospital over, he lay curled in the back next to Sammy’s car seat, the vinyl cool under his cheek, soft like his mother’s touch. Ignoring the sounds of his father’s hushed sniffs from the front seat, he stared up and out the rear window, the stars and moon above his nightlight, the rhythmic thumping of the car tires hitting the joints in the highway his lullaby. He didn’t speak, but he knew the car understood every word he left unsaid.

The Impala became the home that mattered to him, the only constant in the life of their nomadic family, some weeks never sleeping in the same place twice. Hell, he remembers some nights sleeping in the car because Dad couldn’t find work and money was almost non-existent. He remembers one early morning huddling together with his dad in the front seat. John taught him how to load a gun, break it down and put it back together again over and over, Sammy sleep sweaty and quietly snoring in the back seat.

Once, on a never-ending road trip Dean complained, “I’m bored,” and Dad pulled the owner’s manual out of the glove compartment.

He flicked it into the backseat and said, "Practice your reading."

Dean huffed, but he read and reread that booklet until the sun slipped below the horizon and it became too dark to see. Afterwards, whenever he couldn’t sleep, their reality more terrifying than any nightmare he could ever dream, he’d open that book and click on a flashlight. Dean would read until he had specifications, chassis data, engine options and transmission codes hard-wired into his brain.

Dean knows this car from hood to trunk. It’s his first love, his home away from home, his vehicular soul mate. No one understands him the way the Impala does.

It’s where he had his first kiss with Chrissy at twelve, pressing her against the backdoor, instantly hard and ready to shoot his load when her tongue touched his. Dean consecrated the car with his blood at thirteen after a Black Dog hunt went FUBAR. His fingernail marks are still in the backseat from the night Jenny, the sweet, sweet seventeen year old babysitter Dad hired to watch Sammy gave him his first blow job at fifteen. And Sarah, beautiful Sarah, raising her skirt and spreading her legs in the front seat, welcoming him between her soft, naked thighs on the night of his sixteenth birthday.

He can’t count the number of times he drooled on the seats while sleeping. He even puked his guts out on the floorboards once when the old man was stuck on a road with no shoulder and couldn't pull over. Dad drove one handed, his head swiveling to look over the seat every ten seconds. His father cursed him up and down, swearing Dean was never drinking Mountain Dew and eating Slim Jims, Pop Rocks and Easy Cheese again. Thankfully, Spring was in full bloom, the smell lingered and forced them to drive with the windows down for days afterwards.

She’s all he had left after Sam went to California for college and Dad took off to hunt alone. Dean never realized how much he longed for his fucked up little family together until they all went their separate ways.

And now they’re back together and the song remains the same. It’s pathetic and familiar and everything he’s wanted since pulling Sam out of the fire in Palo Alto. Dad gripes and barks orders, Sam challenges them and Dean, he does what he’s always done, obeying without question, the perfect little soldier.

Sam stares at him over the roof of the Impala. "What?"

Dean rubs a hand down his face and says, "Nothing, Godzilla. Just get in the car." He shakes his head and waits until Sam shuts the driver side door before pulling his open, the creaking hinges welcoming him home.

Dean will leave it for now, save the sound of Sam’s laughter and the cold burn of his anger for after the hunt. For when he’s got Sam alone and Dean can throw a punch or two and remind him once again how many times following Dad’s orders saved their lives.

He allows himself a moment to imagine pushing his father’s face down against the black taillight surrounds, daring him to point out any impurity he can find. There’s not a speck of rust to be found on this car and never will be as long as Dean Winchester breathes.

He slides into the car and slams the door behind him, deciding to let it all go.

Time’s a wasting and they got a nest of vampires to kill.