2008 Forty-One Days of Metallicar – Days One Through Seven

There's a countdown to the season four premiere happening on LiveJournal, which also celebrates the Impala turning 41 this year. Writers and artists contribute something every day. Last year, I did 40 Impala haiku. This year, so far, I'm doing drabbles: short stories of precisely 100 words in length, not counting the title. What follows are my entries for week one. Subsequent weeks will appear in future chapters.

Day One -- Birthday

"Rise and shine, Sammy!"

"Dean, what the hell …?"

Sam knuckled sleep from his eyes. Dean was almost never awake before he was; Dean considered sleep an art form and always needed coffee to become a fully conscious human. Seeing him awake, alert, fully dressed, and downright cheerful when the sun was barely over the horizon was ample cause for question and surprise. Seeing him smiling in the morning while carrying pails, a sponge, a chamois, soap, wax, and polishing rags boggled the mind.

"Dude: she's forty-one today. It's her birthday." Dean grinned. "I bought the good wax. Let's party!"

Day Two -- Alone

He'd never been fanciful, despite Dad and Dean always teasing him about his imagination. Oh, he'd always been quick to visualize just exactly how things could go wrong on the hunt, right from the first night he realized what his family did. Apart from those very specific worries and the disturbingly vivid images of pain, fear, and loss they could evoke, however, he'd never indulged in imagining things. He'd never invested machines with souls or animals with human personalities.

And yet, forever alone now in the Impala, he heard her engine moan in lonely grief when he turned the key.

Day Three -- Theft

"Okay – this is just too much. They're gettin' way too bold, you ask me; I mean, really, stealing? From right under our noses? Stealing from me? Stealing from HER?

"No, man, I will NOT leave it alone. Messin' with my wheels, man – that's so uncool. I'm not gonna stand for it, I tell you, I'm not. I refuse. I'm gonna hunt 'em down and get 'em back, I swear. I mean, come on, we need what we've got. How are we supposed to work without 'em, hmm? So what I want to know is simple:

"Where are her damn spotlights?!"

Day Four -- Eighteen

He sat behind the wheel, taking a quiet minute alone. There were memories all around him, more than he usually let himself recall. Feeling them unfold, he was surprised to realize how many of them were good ones, moments of laughter and music and even peace. There were ghosts present, but none that needed salt or fire; these blessed him with rare grace, and he closed his fingers around the keys. He knew he'd made the right choice, the perfect choice, of present for his son.

"Take good care of him, girl. He loves you more than I ever did."

Day Five -- All That's Left You

Digital technology made it work. He snuck photos when Sam wasn't looking, printing them at drugstore kiosks while picking up food or beer. Sometimes, he got girls to take silly pictures of him. All of them went secretly into the box in the trunk, the box they'd gotten from home.

He fingered the old photos and crayon art sometimes when loss pressed close: birthdays, mostly. Sammy never did, because they weren't his memories. But he'd inherit that box right along with the Impala soon, and Dean knew his brother; he'd look.

Memories hurt, but memories healed.

He left good ones.

Day Six – Winchester

"Is there any town in Virginia that doesn't claim to have a Civil War ghost?"

"Don't be a spoilsport, Sam; we've checked out less."

Apart from Dean's childish delight in the town's name, Sam couldn't figure out his enthusiasm. There was nothing to go on but overblown tourist legends, but Dean was bubbling over with repressed glee. He'd even washed and waxed the car in the motel parking lot, though what that had to do with a hunt was beyond Sam.

Until he saw the sign.

Flyin' and Cruisin' Festival
Airplane and Auto Show
Winchester Regional Airport
Saturday/Sunday

"Dean ...!"

Day Seven – Pilot

He'd become so accustomed to compensating for things being unbalanced that the return to what should have been normality left him uncertain, like a healed limb freed from a heavy cast but still expecting the weight.

He stole a covert sideways glance to reassure himself that Sam really was in the passenger seat. From the day Dad bought the truck and gave him the Impala, he'd always had Sam riding shotgun. Then came Stanford, and he'd been alone.

Sam was back where he belonged, but now his knees bumped the dash.

Dean wondered how many other ways they wouldn't fit.