Like most things I write, I have no idea where this came from. For some reason, I feel as though I should apologize in advance...
If anyone were to ask, Dean would say that he thinks of the Impala as a slightly more badass Batmobile, the navy jacket he sometimes wears because of the extra pockets as a manlier version of the Batbelt. Never, in a million years would he admit he once envisioned the secret weapons compartment in the trunk of his beloved Chevy as a twisted version of Mary Poppins' carpetbag.
In his defense, it kind of makes sense. I mean, the old broad was always pulling crap out of that thing. Growing up, he was always surprised when his dad would open the trunk and conveniently have whatever they'd need right there in the Impala.
In truth, he's only seen the movie twice. The first time being when he was in school and a substitute thought it'd be better to let Julie Andrews entertain the kids than to force them to write their spelling words. The second time had been in a hospital waiting room, waiting for the doctors to finish putting Sam's wrist in a cast, but that doesn't count because there was only one TV and the stupid sign said 'please do not adjust volume or change the channel.' He didn't really have a choice.
So yes, the first time Dean made the embarrassing comparison he was about ten years old. It hadn't lasted long, just a fleeting little thought that made him laugh and cringe at the same time. After a while, he kind of forgot about it, other things like puberty, girls, guns, and his messed up family forcing it to the back burner of his mind.
But then, a moment at a carwash brought it all back. He was parked in the back near the last vacuum cleaner, car angled so that no peering eyes could see what they were doing. They had been forced (forced, because god knows Dean didn't want to do it) to carry the last body in the trunk. Even wrapped in a trash bag, there had still been fur, and blood, and something slimy all over their duffle bags. Not to mention the grass and dirt that decided to settle into the trunk's carpet.
Long story short, the car needed cleaned out. Dean had left the front to Sam, letting his little brother struggle to retrieve the fast food wrappers from beneath the seats as he worked through quarters to clean out the grass. Looking around to insure that no one was watching, Dean propped open the weapons department, deciding now was a good a time as any to organize the necessary mess.
Knives, guns, ammunition, silver, salt, a box of condoms, books, protection charms, what is that… underwear, what the hell? Five minutes after opening the thing, the thought crosses his mind again. Mary friggin' Poppins. Damn.
His jacket's laid over the roof of the car, the many pockets bulging with an eclectic variety of odds and ends: bullets, rock salt cartridges, batteries, gum, EMF reader, a driver's license or two, a pocketknife, lock pick set, hopefully a ten dollar bill, car keys.
Yeah, so maybe he's like Mary Poppins. But more like a twisted, hard-core, lethal Mary Poppins on Meth, not of the umbrella wielding, carousel riding variety.
So what if Sam caught him whistling a familiar tune, the re-written words playing along in is head?
A spoonful of rock salt makes the Sonuvabitch go down, the Sonuvabitch go down, the Sonuvabitch go…
It's not like he's gonna admit it. Not out loud at least.
Well?