Author's Notes: I've always wanted to do an Impala-centric fic, and this was originally only an oneshot. The whole part about the Impala getting a mind of its own came up after I heard a story about second-hand jewelry.
Basically, the story is that jewelry - especially wedding rings - can take on something of the person who wears it, if they wear it long enough. So it's considered bad luck to wear a second-hand wedding or engagement ring, and some really superstitious people (Mum) leave any second-hand jewelry - or jewelry they're getting rid of - buried in a bowl of rock salt overnight. I guess Kripke wasn't the first one to think of salt as a spirit-repellent.
Anyway, on with the fic!
Disclaimer: Kripke owns everything, I'm only borrowing.
Warnings: Gratuitous swearing and freakishness from the depths of my brain. I think that's all.
Dedication: This story is for Dad, Bruce, Ross, Tyson, and the other guys from the wrecking yard.

ONE

Hunting is a job. But it's not like other jobs.
Other jobs, you always have work to do. Some people might say that about hunting too - but there's only so many times you can clean the guns or sharpen the knives, or wash the Impala, or…well, you get the point. It's been three weeks since they've had anything to do, and all that has given Dean time to think.
Thinking isn't his favorite way to kill time. But it's half-past eleven at night, at Shitty Hotel Number I Lost Count 500 Miles Ago, in Small Boring Town Number Fucked If I Know, and there isn't much else to do. There's nothing much for him to read - Sam's books just bore him, and the local library is closed - and there's no research to do. He's cleaned the collection of guns so many times that he's pretty sure nothing is going to get the stink of cleaning solvent out of his clothes. Sam's asleep with his hand in a bowl of warm water and the camera awaiting use. The knives are all razor sharp. The Impala's clean and in perfect working condition. He's not hungry, or thirsty. There's a noticeable lack of women under thirty in this town, and the only bar closed an hour ago.
Insomnia sucks, thought Dean.
Only one thing to do then: drive.

Out here, on the open highway, he was truly free. There was nothing between him and the horizon. A full moon shone overhead, cold light glossing the puddles on the road - it was raining earlier. Not a car in sight, and it was just Dean and the Impala, alone and moving at ninety miles per hour. For once, Dean didn't put the radio on. All he could hear was the roar of the engine, the hum of the tires, and his own heartbeat.
This is freedom, he thought.

To Dean, that's what the Impala's always been. Freedom.
The freedom to go anywhere, without need for a reason. The freedom of the open road. The life of a traveler, moving on when you get bored, never treading the same path. Dean's sure that if he listed every town the Impala's been to, he'd have nearly every town in America.
Wisconsin, Arizona, Wyoming, South Dakota, Colorado, North Carolina, Nebraska, Illinois, Kansas, Louisiana, California...the list drags on. Every state, crisscrossed by the Impala's tracks. Every single town telling a story - whether it be one of a hunt, or of an injury, or of daily life with the Winchesters.
What the hell? I guess I'm drunker than I thought. Dean pulled over as the glow of dawn began to show in the east. The breeze had turned warm, and Dean quickly rolled the windows down. The growl of the engine died as he sat, in silent contemplation.

The Impala isn't just freedom - it's escape too. It's an escape from the mundane. It provides a distraction, to keep his mind occupied in the dark time when he can't let himself think too much. And when they get caught, the Impala is the bridge to safety.
Dean couldn't help affectionately patting the dashboard on that thought. Thanks for bailing my sorry ass out all those times.
He swore he felt the dash buzz under his fingers. Wow. I must be pretty drunk then. Cautiously, he huffed on his sleeve, and then sniffed. All his breath smelt of was dinner – which had been pizza.
…okay then, weird.
He sighed, and turned his head to keep gazing at the slow progression of daylight.

The Impala's more than just freedom - it's safety too. Sometimes, when he lay wounded on the back seat, wadded-up shirts and towels held against him to stem the blood flow, or when he was sick with fever and delirious, he always felt safe – as though someone was always holding him, reassuring him, telling him it would all be okay. The Impala was safety, and the promise of help. It was home too, more than once - the promise of a warm place to sleep, and shelter from the rain and the snow and the cold.
Freedom, safety and home. Memories upon memories are in this car - of the good times, when they laughed and joked, when he lived for the hunt and the adrenaline rush. Memories of the painful times, when he was hurt and clinging to life. Memories of the fearful times when he was racing against the world to save himself, or another.
Memories of the darker times, when his world wavered between fear, anger, hate and pain and sorrow.
He patted the dash again. Thanks for putting up with me.
The dash buzzed again, under his fingertips. Dean tried to shake off the uneasy feeling that there was someone else in the car.

The Impala's more than freedom, safety and home. It's part of the hunt - a part that has stayed with him always. In true hunter's tradition, it was passed down. From a dying hunter to John, from John to Dean.
One day, from Dean to Sam. The day it all ends.
The dash seemed to buzz again, and he got the odd feeling of a mental punch in the shoulder. Don't dwell on the negative. You've still got plenty of time.
Dean's mouth twisted into a smile, but there was no amusement in it. It' was the same empty smile he had when Sam left - in that time when he fought to fill the sudden emptiness in his life. With Dad gone, solo hunting was finally an option, but there's not much you can do alone. He hunted, he drank, he drove, and he seduced every girl he could manage to. He filled his life up with sex and hunting, and for a time that filled the space.Now, even that didn't seem to help enough. There was a wall growing between him and Sam, and nothing he could do would stop it.
The dash buzzed angrily, and he was pretty sure someone just whispered something to him. Quit being so depressed. You've got Sammy, that's what counts.
I wish that was all that counts, he thought morosely.
Gradually, he dozed off, and fell into a dream of being lost in a maze of black metal and chrome, following a whispering voice with an invisible source that he could barely hear above the rumble of an engine.

As he sat there, the sun rose slowly, and cars begin to move along the road. Dean didn't realize that he'd fallen asleep until the phone woke him up with Smoke on the Water.

"Snuh?"
"Dean, where are you?! I woke up and you were gone!"
"Oh...I, uh, couldn't sleep. I went for a drive."
"You'd better get back soon."
"Why, is something up?"
"No. Besides that you took off in the middle of the night and didn't even leave a note."
"Whatever. I'll be a couple of hours."

He ended the call and rubbed his eyes. Geez, weird night.
With a sigh of regret, he twisted the key in the ignition, and turned back out onto the road.

--

Sam's heart skipped a beat as soon as he woke up. Something is wrong.
He looked across, and Dean's bed was empty. It took him all of ten seconds to realize that he had also knocked a bowl off of the nightstand. It shattered on the floor.
"Shit! Dean?!"
No reply.
No sound from the bathroom - he's not in the shower. It's too early for a breakfast run. A look out the window confirms that the Impala's gone too. Oh no...
Wait, his bag's still here. He wouldn't take off and leave all his stuff behind.
Sam grabbed his cell phone and rapidly dialed Dean's number. Pick up Dean...

When he heard the Impala's engine, the worry was alleviated. He could recognize that sound anywhere.
A long time ago, that sound heralded Dad's return from a hunt. Sometimes bloody, sometimes bruised, always exhausted but with enough patience left to deal with an over-excited kid. Later, that patience would evaporate, and he'd come home to a pair of moody teenagers who'd bicker relentlessly until he lost it.
Later still, and that sound would irritate Sam. He'd hear it sometimes, imagined, or he'd hear a car that sounded close, and he'd clench his teeth and ready himself for another attempt to keep his family away. But they never came.
He knows that Stanford hurt Dean badly. Now, he regrets never saying goodbye, just tearing off halfway across the country and cutting off all communication – he had even destroyed his old cell phone and gotten a new number. But he knows that Dean would've handled it with the same stoic silence. Winchesters just don't talk about their feelings.
He's pretty sure that he knows what Dean filled the years with - hunting, booze, and women. Not necessarily in that order either. Sam filled those years with study, study, Jess, and more study. Books and knowledge kept him distracted for the most part, and when they couldn't, he had Jess.
Then Jess died, and there was no way of turning his back on hunting any more. He'd been dying for revenge, and he started to understand how Dad had felt after Mom had died. Now he knows why their father pushed them to hunt. He wanted to have revenge, and if he couldn't then he wanted his sons to have that opportunity.
Maybe Dad knew, he thought, and then shook his head. No. No way. That's…impossible.
Nevertheless, the thought nagged him.

Dean looked tired when he entered the hotel room. No matter how often Sam reminded himself that Dean wasn't even thirty yet, when he was tired he looked twice his age. The crow's-feet around his eyes stood out, as did the lines around his mouth. Sam had gotten used to the frown lines between his brother's eyes – Dean had already had frown lines when he was a teenager.
Any other day, Sam would demand an answer, want to know why he went off driving and didn't even leave a note, but things have changed. Sam respected Dean's privacy - some things are best left unasked and unanswered.
Anyway, it's not like he'd tell me.
Dean flopped down on his bed, looking like he was ready to go to sleep. Sam opened his mouth to mention that they were supposed to drive on to Tallahassee today, but as soon as he heard Dean's soft snoring, he realized it was pointless. Waking Dean up when he was exhausted was like trying to turn lead into gold.
Sam dropped back onto his own bed, and dragged a novel from his bag - Richard Matherson's I Am Legend. How oddly appropriate, he thought.