Dean carefully pulls the impala over to the side of the road and shifts into park, but he can't bear to kill the engine yet. His fingers hovered over the key, still slotted in the ignition, and he listens intently to her purr, abruptly intent on branding the noise into his memory because he's afraid he'll forget even after practically growing up in this car's backseat, even after singing ACDC in time with her rumble for as long as he can recall, even after falling asleep to her humming lullaby as they cruised down the thousands of miles they'd seen together.
But then Dean glanced at the empty passenger seat and turned the car off without a second thought.
No sooner did her rumble sleep than a sharper, almost overwhelming roar reached his ears from down the highway, and Dean's heart sank. Right on time. He extracted the key from the ignition with a sort of desperate finality and ducked out of the driver's seat, actively aware of the squeak the door made when it opened. A few feet away, a sleek, powerful motorcycle skidded grandly to halt. Dean had to admit it was a beautiful vehicle—flawless paint job to efficient mechanics.
A loner's ride.
It's rider tugs off his helmet and meets Dean's eyes, but thankfully has enough respect to notice the shadows and red rims on his face to make conversation. It's one of John Winchester's old friends, a face that Dean dimly recognizes. In one smooth motion, the guy tosses Dean the helmet and keeps his hand extended. Dean ignores the burning ache in his own heart and drops the helmet on the ground, the Impala's keys in the guys palm. The guy just nods, raises his hand like he's going to clap Dean on the shoulder, drops it after a second thought, and treks towards the impala. Dean knows this is probably the last time he'll ever see his baby and yet somehow resists the urge to caution the man on the maintenance or shit. Instead, he hops on the bike and starts the engine.
Tears smart in his eyes. The noise of the engine is deafening and unfamiliar, too powerful. Dean revs it anyway. There's power in her. Speed. Balance. It's a nice ride.
Dean fully thumbs the throttle and doesn't look back, because looking back is dangerous as his heart twists in to knots. The wind blasts in his face, all stinging choking burning dust and blurring the barren landscape into a tan and brown mess until the only thing to look at is the dark fuzzy strip of asphalt to follow.
Dean just drives. Doesn't know where he is, doesn't care, doesn't care about finding out. For once he doesn't plan for the future, doesn't think about hunting. Just blindly follows a blank line of highway going anywhere. Because Dean doesn't have a radio, a steering wheel, a backseat. Not even a shotgun seat. Nope.
All he's got is a full tank and an empty heart.
So he drives.
After all, why does he have to have a passenger seat if he doesn't have his brother?
I saw this thing where Jensen was talking about a dream he had regarding SupernaturaL. This was his dream. Review!
