Another stand alone ficlet written for the 30 snapshots challenge community on LJ. This is #2 of 30 and the prompt was 'Smell'. Still waiting on my request to be approved so I'll keep sharing them here in the meantime.
The usual disclaimer applies: I don't own the car, the boys or anything to do with the Supernatural show. Just taking them for a little joyride through my imagination.
Hope you enjoy the read!
A Lifetime of Scents
Growing up a Winchester meant getting having to put up with some pretty foul odors. As far back as Sam could remember there had been beer and Jack Daniels on their father's breath. There had always been the chalky, burnt smell of gunpowder and rock salt following them wherever they went. Pungent lighter fluid permeated their father's clothes so he constantly smelled like different burning things. Back then the one smell he liked the least had been the heavy, earthy smell of blood which, unfortunately, had been the most recurring one.
When Dean hit puberty, a full four years before Sam, there had been a whole slew of new gross smells to deal with. It had started with the nostril-frying chemical scent of acne cream and was quickly followed by tangy sweat, overly strong aftershave and the too-sweet perfumes preferred by the kinds of girls Dean spent his time with. It had been enough to leave Sam dreading his own teenage years long before they were upon him.
Later still, when their father felt Sam had become old enough, he had insisted his youngest be taught the ins and outs of the family business. Until then he'd only got the faintest whiff of stale air and disinfectant that could only be from a hospital. After his first hunt and the subsequent visit, the smell never failed to make him want to gag.
Running away to college had brought with it much more pleasant things. The crisp smell of a new book, the warm, hunger inducing aroma of fresh baked chocolate chip cookies and best of all: Jess's 'fresh out of the shower' soapy skin. It hurt that he couldn't remember those things properly anymore without remembering the smell of burning as it all went up in flames. Poor Jess pinned above him on the ceiling. Their ceiling. The sour sulphur on his clothes he couldn't shake off as he was forced to wait outside to be given the news of what he'd witnessed first-hand. The official statement that wasn't necessary, the one that would tell him that life there at Stanford had been closed to him forever.
Being a Winchester meant a lot of terrible things, a lot of awful smells that caused your gut to clench painfully and your muscles to tense uncomfortably. As far as Sam was concerned they were all a fair trade off for the handful of comforting ones that had always been there and never failed to disappoint. The sharp thick scent of motor oil, the old musk of worn leather from a favorite coat, the strong smell of cheap motel soap and hair gel; the Impala and Dean were home and would always be his saving grace.