Dependable Old Girl by Luvscharlie

Warnings: A little tame sex talk. Takes place in Season 5

A/N: Originally written for the prompt experiences of driving at the spnwriterlounge community on Live Journal

I still remember what it felt like to be thirteen and to slide behind the driver's seat when
Dad wasn't looking. To feel the steering wheel beneath my hands and imagine what it might be like to drive the car out on the open road. When I touched the steering wheel and imagined those miles rolling by, the world quite literally at my fingertips, it was euphoric. Well, not that I knew the meaning of that word back then. I sort of thought euphoric and orgasmic were the same thing, which would make me giggle like most thirteen year olds do at the thought of coming or farting or, you know, anything of the sort. Come to think of it, not much has changed there. Well, except I now know the definitions of euphoric and orgasmic… not that there's all that much difference in the meanings now that I think of it.

Anyway…

I remember the first day Dad let me drive her. I was fourteen, so while not quite legal, our family does do things a little different. I mean, you can't really blame him for thinking he might need me one day to drive the car and provide a quick getaway. Life's tough when you're constantly hunting things that others can't even fathom the existence of.

I was so excited, so jumpy that Dad kept having to take control of the wheel and yank her back between the lines.

But after the first time, I got better. You know, the more I talk the more I think the gap between driving and sex closes. You start off clumsy and inexperienced, too excited to do much the right way, but with practice and patience, you gain a little more confidence and a lot more patience, and you get better at it. Eventually it becomes second nature as you master the skill. And never doubt that I have mastered both. Hey, modesty never was one of my better traits. If you're good at something, I say you should take pride in it. And nevermind that pride cometh before the fall nonsense. Hell, the world's crumbling around us anyway might as well do it properly and go down bragging, right?

But getting back to my baby. I always did think she was a beautiful. Sammy never understood her. He always wondered why we kept the same old car. Other families got new cars (of course, other families also didn't sleep with holy water beneath their pillows), so why couldn't we? I was always staunchly opposed to any suggestions of getting rid of the Impala. She was family. And if any family member was getting ditched, I always voted that we toss Sammy out the back window. He should be thankful that Dad vetoed the idea or I might have been inclined to see if his scrawny tail would bounce off the highway. Of course, Dad squelched any discussion of getting rid of the Impala, as well as any suggestion I might have made about Sammy and that back window. I was grateful, at least, that he didn't want to get rid of the Impala… I reserve judgment on his decision about troublesome little brothers. What? That was a joke. Jeez.

I think that's why Dad gave her to me, his precious Impala. He knew that I understood her, that I appreciated her beauty, and that I wouldn't douche her up with ipod jacks or any kind of nonsense like that. He knew I'd respect her and the music Sammy tries to force her to play is not respectful. Shameful is more like it. She's a metal girl all the way.

I never thought it would turn out this way; that she'd be with us long after Dad had gone. But she's far more than a car. She's somewhat of a time capsule, though it's my memories that she holds. Those precious memories of Dad jerking back the wheel because I was wandering across the yellow line, or memories of me riding shotgun because little brothers had to sit in the back, and boy, did I feel ten feet tall and bullet proof sitting next to my dad.

So I guess that's why my attachment to her has only grown stronger over the years. Cause in a world where mothers, fathers, friends (and even little brothers) are all too mortal, she's something I can hold on to. When she dies, I need only to lift the hood and make a few adjustments to get her purring once more and back on the road again. Her metal, paint and chrome are far more dependable than those fragile shells we humans wear to protect our too short lives. And me, well, I need something substantive to hold tight when this world becomes too much to handle.