Chronicles of a Dark Steed

In the same vein as 'diary of a dog' and 'diary of a cat', seen in a million chain emails across the world. I wish I could say I'd been drinking or that there was Nyquil involved. Dedicated to my own poor, recently-dented car, whom I lavish Dean-like attention on. Written for the spn_gen ficathon.
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(c)2006 gekizetsu

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Okay, well, they're gone again. So I have nothing to do but sit here at another freakin' curb and look hot. I can do that. Dean never parks me under trees, which means less chance of precipitation of the sparrow kind.

Sam slammed the door again. Sam's just never learned to get out the right way and college didn't help him. When he was little he always slammed the door, yeah? John yelled, Dean yelled, the little booger kept slamming the door. I'm the only one who ever understood - one of my doors weighs as much as little Sam did then. That's Detroit steel, bitches! He had to slam. Now he unfolds out of the front instead of scrambling over the seats, but he does it with this weary reluctance and drags himself out instead of stepping in one smooth motion like Dean does. Sam's not comfortable with cars even though we've been really familiar over the last seven months. Kid practically lives here. Sleeps in the passenger seat more than in any hotel room even though his knees nearly reach my dash. I like that because I'm such a selfish bitch. I'm the only one who holds him while he sleeps these days.

Dean keeps checking the mirrors like he's not sure it'll always be his own reflection looking back and Sam finds the landscape fascinating and I feel his breath on the windows like I feel the tension in Dean's hands on the wheel.

You'd think these kids would have more conversations while we're covering half the damn world. Especially since John isn't with us and they don't have to do the tough-guy act in front of their dad. Dean doesn't know how to stop the tough guy act anymore because he's never taken a break from it, and Sam just isn't willing to go back to it, so now they're on this really uneven keel. Dean plays tapes and Sam sleeps, or they argue over maps, or they theorize about the ways to catch ghouls in mid-graverob. Dean suggests playing dead to attract them; Sam says Dean smells bad enough to pull it off, bicker bicker. Lots of avoidance and semantics and french fries with these two. The total amount of genuine emotional substance has maybe been six minutes in seven months, tops. They rush past it like it might burn them, and it probably does because they get so, so much wedged into those small moments. You're my brother and I'd die for you.

I hear every damn thing they say. Wouldn't you like to hear half of it. A couple of quarts of the right oil, and we'll see.

I will tell you that Dean keeps forgetting I'm not really his car. Possession is nine tenths of the law, and boy are we nine tenths and three quarters, because John is not getting me back. I'll quit. I swear it. I'll go to the goddamn salvage yard first, because even I've forgotten I'm a car since this road trip started. Me and the boys. I will admit the truck thing...was not cool. Not Dean's fault, though. He drives like a lunatic sometimes, but it keeps the engine clean. That's the last dent I ever want. There was almost one on my hood, after that thing with a particular someone...

Nah. I'm not ready to talk about that. Let's just say I prefer it when I get waxed the traditional way.

Thirty years of Winchesters is pretty good.

Hold on, is the door of that bar opening...? Never mind. It's not them. Sometimes they come running so I've gotta be ready to go. Dean pisses people off shooting pool or darts or whatever it is you two-leggers do in those places. I've obviously never been. All I know is they have to leave bars at a run more often than any other place. Dean is usually laughing and Sam is usually scolding, but he ends up laughing, and I occasionally have to do the steering myself. Damn goofballs. It's a good thing they keep me tuned or we couldn't outrun the cops, and we'd get pulled over, and then someone'll want to look in the trunk. Or the glove compartment. Or the compartments in the doors. I think even the visor has a couple of things no one in their right minds would want to see, and don't forget under the passenger seat, and my back seat flips up when handled a certain way. That probably sounds dirty, and I really don't care. We all know what back seats are good for.

I'm not jealous or anything.

There's also something in my right front hubcap. I don't really care, but if Dean doesn't keep the pressure up in that tire, and he tries to straighten another curb on that side, I'm not responsible.

Where were we? I have way too much time to think. You know what's great? New asphalt. Damn, I love stretches of new road. These boys carry a lot of salt around, but they forget how much my undercarriage hates it.

Oh, here comes Sam. He looks worried. He's got his sweatshirt-hood up and now he's just going to sit on my hood. Which is still warm, by the way, since they haven't been gone all that long. Well, he's not that worried, because now he's lying face up on my hood with his feet still braced on the ground. I don't mind, but Dean's going to come out here and kick him.

I often hear Dean before I see him, and today's one of those days. He's far enough off that I'm only getting part of it, something about 'you' and 'not again' and...yeah, the rest is just a lot of cursing. Sam's laughing a little, I can feel it. Dean's quit yelling until he's closer, and then there's a demand that starts with dude and ends with what the hell is your problem? I had a good thing going, in there.

Sam calls Dean an amature, which is really not the way to go. So Dean is hovering over Sam now with the Glare of Asskicking, and then Sam says off duty cops. Neither of them say anything for a moment, then Dean says nuh uh! and it degenerates into another marathon of one saying something and the other disagreeing just to be disagreeable, which I have listened to in varying forms since Sam learned to talk. Sam's first word was Dee , by the way, because n's were tough for him at first. Still a lot of yuh-huh and nuh-uh going on for no reason...good, Sam finally breaks it with you've never been good at spotting them because you just snub them everywhere you go, like dad.

Dean says Sam -

You didn't spot them but they spotted you, Sam says. You go in there casing everything and not everybody gets what you're up to, but a cop would, and you never catch on when you're being cased back because you're all about the kill. I'm just being eyes in the back of your head. They were watching you hustle and trying to decide if you were worth their time.

Dean doesn't say anything back for once, and Sam keeps lying on my hood. This is kind of fun.

Then they're both looking back toward the bar, lifting their heads the same way I've seen batches of whitetail deer do it, all synchronized grace and muted alarm. Sam rolls up off my hood without using his hands, working on nonchalance because two guys have come outside. My boys don't say another word but Sam is getting in the passenger side with an ease he never reaches when getting out, and Dean runs a hand along my hood and up my weather stripping as he walks around and slides in. I don't need any warmup time, so we pull away from the curb all smooth and badass. I'm not exactly nondescript, but I can disappear when necessary. We've been avoiding cops more than usual ever since the skinwalker thing. I swear on my axles that I would never have let him behind the wheel had I figured it out fast enough. I could have backed over him or something.

I think this is I-82, we were here earlier, there's a bunch of those damn road cones about a mile up. Hate those little sonsabitches.

Well, Dean says, you know.

Sam says You're welcome.

So then of course that's all the talking there'll be for a good long while. I keep catching Sam singing along to AC/DC and I think he's doing it again now.

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