The Impala is our Sanctuary

by castiella87

This is barely a fanfic. This is just something I quickly wrote. Obviously this is based on the early days when John was ferrying the kids around. I may write more later. I'm sorry it's so short. Mary, Sam and Dean are only mentioned. This is narration by John.

We are driving. You are both looking out of the rear view window where the view is best. What do you see? Endless motels and diners whizzing by?

Strangers going about their business, their lives going on. Here's a crucifix by the side of the road, a roadside memorial shrine. The plaque is too small to read but it means someone died here. I hope their soul has moved on and gone to heaven.

Every time the Impala's engine stops, you both expect our neverending journey is over. You expect we have reached the end. But each stop is never an arrival, just another pause along the way. A snack, a walk, a drink, a toilet break. I understand why you've been confused all your lives. I suppose every child instinctively wants to settle into a routine of breakfast, school, friends, bike rides, dinner, TV...

The back seat is your safe space. I hurt to the core of my bones from trying to sleep in the rolled back driver's seat. I still haven't found an efficient way to fold my limbs, nor decided which side is more comfortable to lean on.

It was hard at first to learn how to make it from dawn until dark without the props inside our house. I want to get up in the morning and know exactly what I'm doing that day. For years I haven't, and it's still terrifying.

Sometimes I pull the car to the side of the road and I list aloud all the things that are good and all the reasons I must go on. Baseball is good, stolen moments of happiness with you boys, like nothing ever happened, classic rock, endless re-runs of shows I watched as a kid when we get a few days in a motel and I'm not on a job. Ultimately I must go on because of you, Sammy, I must go on because of you, Dean. Now it's okay, I can breathe again. And we go on. I must find the demon that killed your mother. I put distance in front of my face and my body has no choice but to follow in our metal sanctuary. You have no choice but to follow.

Is this how everybody copes, I wonder?

The Impala is now our house, our home. The trunk is the attic, the shed, the garage. The loose chippings of diner parking lots are our floorboards. The windows are our balcony. The backroads are our garden.

In my mind I draw two columns, everything that matters, and everything that does not matter.

"It's okay, it's going to be okay," I tell you both. You've already fallen asleep. "I love you, Mary."