Author's Note:
Ok, have backed away from the misunderstood weirdo humour of my last one, 'Illegitimi Non Carborundum', and gone back to normality, writing-wise. Please let me know if it's any better.
This is a tribute to two of my favourite guest stars in the series – the Impala, who never gets enough full-on screen time, and the Random Armadillo. This is for my dad, always the best person in the world to talk cars with, and my sister, who always reads my stuff, no questions asked.
ONE
The Impala was making short work of the dark highway, politely ignoring the driver's attempts to pretend he was in charge. She followed the slight bends and twists, rumbling over the shallow ripples in the surface, chewing up the miles easily.
Dean drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, humming along to the music quietly. He put his hand down and turned the music up a notch, using the palm to bang time on the centre of the wheel, starting to mutter along with the lyrics.
"Don't even think about it," Sam muttered tersely, keeping his eyes on his phone. He concentrated on the screen, watching the e-mails scroll by, refusing to look up and verify the annoyed look his older brother would be throwing his way. "And don't make that face at me. I've heard 'Enter Sandman' four times today, and I am not in the mood."
"Oh I'm so sorry," Dean said soothingly. "What would you like, some Britney Spears?"
"I'd just like something that isn't Metallica!" Sam protested. "Really! Do you have anything else in that box?"
"Sure," Dean huffed, reaching over and pulling the glovebox open. He rifled a hand in, pulling out the first thing that felt like a plastic cassette box. "How about…" He pulled his hand back, flicking his gaze at the case before looking back at the patch of road lit by headlights. "How about Led Zeppelin?"
"How about a smack in the head?" Sam shot back. Dean dropped the tape into his lap and huffed.
"You got any tapes?"
"No. All my CDs are in storage at Stanford."
"Well then, I'm real sorry Sammy, but looks like we're sticking with Metallica for now."
Sam slid the plastic pointer back into the slot in the phone, putting it in his lap slowly. He rolled his window down, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
"There, see? Just calm down," Dean said irritably.
Sam reached over and pushed the eject button on the player. He snatched the proffered cassette and raised it to the gap in the window.
"Woah woah woah!" Dean cried angrily. "Don't you dare!"
"Oh I'm sorry, is this annoying you?" he said maliciously.
"Gimme my tape!" Dean snapped, putting a hand out while trying to watch the road.
"What, this one?" Sam said, offering it to him. Dean snatched at it but Sam yanked it back.
"Saaaauum–"
"Oops!" he grinned as he flung the tape out of the window. Dean slammed his hand back against the wheel, clamping his mouth shut tightly. Sam leaned forward and snapped the radio off. "Now I swear to God Dean, if you dare turn that thing back on before we've stopped for gas, I am gonna give serious thought to setting fire to the rest of your greatest hits of mullet rock," he warned.
Dean stared at the road.
He didn't say a word.
Not one.
"Well now," Sam sighed with a complacent grin, "We can enjoy a nice quiet ride to the next pit stop, can't we?"
Dean's grip tightened on the steering wheel, squeezing it to within an inch of its life.
The Impala winced under his death grip. She loved Dean, knew he loved her, and yet the pressure on her wheel was excruciating. A thousand epithets and pleas for mercy came screaming from her frame, cursing whoever or whatever had caused the human currently clutching at her – with a grip that could have throttled a Wendigo – to exert so much pressure.
But Dean's ears were neither capable nor ready to hear the misfortunate Chevy's cries of protest. He stared at the road, feeling his anger seep out through his fingers slowly, making sure he hung onto the steering wheel to prevent him from simply stopping the car and forcing his younger brother to hunt for the fallen cassette. Preferably with his biker boot up his arse.
Sam settled back, took a deep, satisfied breath, and lifted his phone again with a big smile.
Rosalea was thirty-two, bored out of her mind, and wishing she had another job. She looked up at the office window and was also pleasantly surprised to see what appeared to be an almost mint-condition 1967 Chevrolet Impala glide into the car park. She got up from her stool, walking to the window and looking out, listening to the resonant glug-glug as it came to a rest and the tail lights went out.
She watched with growing interest as two figures got out, the taller one from the passenger side slamming the door unnecessarily. She watched as the two young men walked into the small office and dumped their duffles at their feet.
"Gents," she said, appreciating her two new guests, even if they looked like they'd each swallowed a wasp.
"Room please," the shorter one asked, putting a hand inside his black jacket, she presumed for a wallet.
"No problem. One bed or two?" she smiled, hoping.
"One," he said. "He's sleeping in the car," he added, gesturing over his shoulder with his head.
The taller one behind him slapped at his shoulder harshly, and she suppressed a smile.
"O-k," she allowed, but the man sniffed.
"Make that two beds. Do you have any rooms with partitions? Or like, the beds so far apart you can't see the other one?" he asked darkly.
"Ah… no, sorry," she smiled, looking at the tall one. She noticed similar looks on their faces and shook her head before looking down the list of free rooms. "You can have number eight. It's on the ground floor, non-smoking. That ok for you gents?" she smiled.
"Peachy," the blonder one remarked, and she smiled.
She slid a clipboard toward him, tapping it and producing a ball pen. She watched him fill in the sheet slowly, her eyes wandering to his face. She looked over at the taller one, who was letting his annoyed gaze wander round the small reception area. She drew her attention back to the writer, watching his hand move over the page steadily. She realised she had lost track of time as he straightened suddenly and turned the clipboard round for her.
She looked down quickly and squinted at the names.
"Paul Rodgers?" she smiled, then read the other one. "And Simon Kirke? Man, they have got to be the worst fake names if I've had here."
"Whut?" the blonde asked, looking at her.
"Ok, first of all? I have a sister and we still do the sibling fight thing too," she smiled. The blonde's eyes twitched from side to side guiltily, making her grin. "And anyone who doesn't recognise members of Bad Company needs a kicking."
The gloom of the reception area was decimated in an instant, the nightlight somehow managing to explode with a cascade of light and warmth, a small nova bursting through the office. The brightness was a shock, a welcome warm moment in which to revel, cat-on-its-back style, for the long moment it took Rosalea to realise the nightlight was not the reason.
The blonde man had simply grinned at her.
She closed a loose jaw and cleared her throat quickly, pretending she hadn't been staring. His mouth was moving and she made herself listen.
"You are a very perceptive lady," he smiled, waving the end of the pen at her, and she reached up and took it off him slowly.
"Am I ever," she breathed. "And it's Rosalea."
"Dude. Bed," the taller one protested.
She turned away and picked up a room key, pausing with her back to the two men as she heard hissed threats and the whoomf of a jacket being slapped. She waited, then turned around again.
"Here," she said, sliding the key over the counter to the blonde one, who now looked a great deal more annoyed than he had. "There's towels and the usual in there. You need anything else, Mr Paul Rodgers, just holler, ok?"
"Uh-huh, think I will, Rosalea," he smiled suavely. The taller one slapped the side of his shoulder and his face flickered with annoyance for a second. Then he pulled his wallet out from his jacket. She cleared her throat and decided she was tired of clocking off by herself. She screwed up her courage.
"Oh no, you can get settled first, then come back and settle up here," she said brightly. "Before I get off. Like about… eleven thirty?"
"Eleven thirty, you say," the blonde one asked with a knowing smile. She found it endearing. Well, if she were being truthful she found it a lot more things too, but some of those things didn't have names that she couldn't spell or pronounce without reaching for her copy of The Karma Sutra.
"Definitely," she managed.
"Then I'm much obliged," he winked, picking up his bag and the room key, turning to go.
She watched the two boys walk off, pulling at her long, auburn hair and twisting it in rings round her finger. She sighed wistfully, then went back to her stool and sat, picking up her copy of 'The Da Vinci Code' and finding her place. She tried to read.
"Hey man, I'm starving. You want anything?" Dean asked from his bed, looking over at Sam. He had his head buried in a thick book, his face betraying his absorption.
"No, I'm good," he muttered. Dean shrugged, getting up to head for the door. "Just make sure you get food and come straight back here. Don't go and get bladdered again," he added sternly.
"Do what?" he asked, stopping by the bed.
"Don't start drinking. This might just be a pit stop, but I'll be looking for fresh gigs in the morning," he added.
"Ooh yes Dad," Dean snapped, turning and looking at his younger brother. "You know what, you're 'holier than thou' attitude is really starting to piss me off," he added. He put his hands on his hips, fixing Sam with a gaze that could have given a demon third degree burns.
"Oh really?" Sam said innocently. "I didn't notice. You know, you could try to be less of an ass at times."
"Oh really."
"Yeah really," Sam snapped, dropping the book from his line of sight. He thought for a long moment, then huffed and sat up properly on the bed. "You know what? It's Friday night, and I have really had enough of you. All we do is drive around together, eat together, sleep in the same room – it's worse than being eight again!"
"Oh I see, so living with me is too much like having family," Dean snapped sarcastically.
"No Dean! Living with family is having room, having private space, not having to listen to you bang waitresses and counter girls in their next-door offices!" he cried angrily.
"Oh come on, Sam! You're just pissed cos you don't do it too!"
"There's a reason I don't waste my time, Dean!"
"Maybe cos you'd have to take that stick from your ass first?" Dean snapped, his face a picture of anger, and Sam slammed the book down.
"Ok. Right. Fine," he said curtly, going to his bag and pushing the book inside. "I'm thinking this is about where we part company for the weekend. You stay here and do whatever you want to that counter girl and anyone else who takes your fancy – screw the entire population of this weeny state if you really want. I'm going to do a little walking and thinking, and generally chill out before we kill each other," he stated firmly.
"What? You're just taking off?" Dean scoffed, folding his arms.
"No, I'm saying I want the weekend off from you," Sam snapped, swinging the bag onto his shoulder. "Come on, don't tell me you don't want two days to yourself, instead of your idiot younger brother hanging round your neck like a millstone?" he said hotly.
"Well… no," Dean said awkwardly, and Sam blinked. "Look, dumbass," he began again angrily, "you don't have a car. And if you think you're touching my Impala–"
"Dad's Impala!"
"If you think you're touching my baby you better think again."
"Never even thought about it," Sam lied firmly. "I'll be back Monday."
"Wait – you're actually going?" Dean asked quickly. "Seriously?"
"Seriously." He walked to the door, putting his hand on the doorknob and turning it.
"Fine. Go do something frivolous, Scully. I'll just sit here and try not to get caught up in the usual saltin' and burnin' excitement," Dean said caustically.
"Stop with the red-headed woman jibes! It wasn't funny the first time!" Sam fumed.
"It was an episode of 'The X-Files'," Dean said, suddenly shifty.
Sam hesitated. "What?"
"It was on a re-run a few nights ago, man. Scully goes away for the weekend and stumbles onto something exciting, and Mr Spooky spends all weekend firing pencils into the ceiling."
Sam huffed. "Well that's going to be you. I'm just going to be relaxing and not getting angry over your stupid tape collection."
"We'll see. I plan to be blind drunk and/or gettin' laid by midnight," Dean grunted. "Just cos I can."
"Really, dude, TMI."
"Which bit?"
"Every bit! I'm sick at the sound of your voice!" Sam protested.
"Well go then!"
"I will!" Sam shot back. "Don't die!"
"You don't die!" Dean shouted.
"Fine!" Sam snapped.
"Fine!"
Sam opened the door and walked out, slamming it behind him. Dean waited, but all he heard were Sam's footsteps retreating down the hallway loudly.
He made a strangled sound in his throat, wiping two hands over his face before walking to the window and pulling back the curtain.
The parking lot was cold and dark, just a few simple lights showing the position of the Impala and the scant few other cars therein. He spotted Sam's jacket and duffle crossing the tarmac and chewed on his lip thoughtfully, watching.
Sam, heading away from the motel with quick, determined strides, suddenly lifted a hand and waved it high above his shoulder, not even turning round.
Dean shook his head slightly, letting go of the curtain and turning to look back at the motel room. He walked back to his bed, hopping on and getting comfortable on his back, folding his arms and resting against the headboard. He surveyed the room for a few silent moments.
"Pain in the ass brothers," he snorted. "He'll be back here in an hour, bored and cold."
He nodded to himself, then sniffed and picked up the TV remote.
"Now let's talk about entertainment here," he breathed. He flicked on the TV, sniffing and starting to hop the channels just slowly enough to check for anything interesting. His thumb paused and he grinned.
"That's what I like to see – little bit of Firefly on a Friday night. Mmm… Gina Torres."