Hello there! Yes, I know this has been done before haha. But I just couldn't resist. I love the Ian!pala concept :P I am going to try and write this a little better than some of the fics I've read about this, with more little details about everyday life for the Winchesters too. And of course, all the fallout of when a car turns into a human :)
Hope you like this!
Updated Author's Note: Hi everyone! I am constantly astounded by how much attention this has gotten! I've revised a lot of this now, and have added a little bit more to it. I decided to take down the frequent author's notes in the beginning of most of the chapters, but wanted to give a big thanks to everyone for reviewing, favoriting/following and even just for reading. Thanks guys :)
Note- I have a potty mouth. Sensative eyes don't read.
The red and blue glow from the sign of this particular motel had been shining in his face all damn night. Not to mention that stupid buzzing from the neon that just wouldn't cease. All night. No wonder this particular room had run extra cheap. As far as Dean knew, his middle name was "No Sleep."
Dean 'No Sleep' Winchester.
Sounds about right.
He let out a groan and rolled over in his bed. The shitty mattress creaked, and somehow Dean had gotten his legs tangled in the scratchy yellow blanket that might have been soft twenty years ago but basically felt like the abrasive side of a sponge now.
He breathed in and smelled the god-awful scent he was too familiar with; the ghost of a cigarette smoked in here a week ago, no doubt as some sleazy man smoked it next to a hooker, the cloying scent of cheap soap that was used to cover it up, and to top it all off, the overlaying scent of dirty dog. How pleasant.
"Sammy," Dean groaned, his voice rough with sleep. "Hey, you up?" The eldest Winchester ran his hands through his short hair and scrubbed his face in his palms, feeling his stubble scratching. Dammit, he needed a shave.
"Shut up." Sam shot back irritably, taking a pillow and shoving it over his ears.
"Fine. I'm pickin' up breakfast for you." Dean swung his legs to the side of the bed with a creak and scooted off, stood up and stretched, locking his fingers together and reaching skyward, moving his arms from side to side and cracking his back, letting out a satisfied moan as he heard the pop in his spine. He dropped his arms and itched his ass through his plaid boxers as he started walking to his duffle with his clothes.
He pulled on jeans and shrugged his brown leather jacket on over his black and red ACDC shirt he'd worn as pajamas. Maybe he'd head down to the store, pick up two coffees for him and Sam, a few donuts for himself and a egg sandwich (whole wheat bread like Sam liked, the fuckin' pansy) and come back. Hopefully his little brother wouldn't be so irritated by then.
The keys jingled as he snatched them up from on top of the peeling mini-fridge. He pulled open the door and stepped outside into the crisp morning air, the chill immediately waking him up as he felt himself getting more alert already. Maybe he wouldn't even need that cup 'a joe today.
He whistled and held the key between his fingers, getting ready to jam it into the driver's side keyhole and wrench open the door.
He stopped short. He'd been just going through the motions, muscle memory and all that jazz. And now that he looked- his car was gone. Just…fucking gone. The sharp silver line of the key was jabbed into absolutely nothing.
Where the hell is my car? Dean began to feel panicked as blood pounded in his ears.
Then, he heard a moan.
What in the hell…? Dean looked down at the parking spot at the source of the noise.
There was a man there, lying there on his side, curled into a very loose version of the fetal position. The stranger let out another small, pained moan an rolled onto his stomach, one of his ears pressed to the cracked, sun-bleached asphalt. Dean observed the profile of his face; he had relatively pale skin and a strong, straight nose. Over his (closed) eyes were dark and thick eyebrows to match the heavy black stubble sprouting from his cheeks. The curve of his jawbone was so sharp you could cut cheese with it.
Dean whipped out his handgun and cocked it, feeling his panic quickly manifest itself into anger.
"Who are you, and what the hell have you done with my car?" Dean demanded, his voice so low and rumbling one might consider it to be a growl.
The man lifted his head just a little from the asphalt and his pale blue eyes slid to the barrel of the gun. He finally twisted around, squinting and shielding his face from the harsh glow of that damn motel sign in the barely-sunrise. One side of his face had asphalt grits pressed to his pale cheek.
He squinted at Dean. He rubbed the little black grits from his cheek, Dean's gun tracing the movement of his arm as Dean held his whole body tensed. He tugged at the lapels of his worn black leather jacket, tilted his head to look from shoulder to shoulder. He then glanced down at the black combat boots on his feet, curiously reached out and flicking a shoelace as if in disbelief.
The guy rubbed his eyes with his fists, and squinted again at Dean analytically.
"You high or somethin', buddy?" Dean asked irritably after a few moments of awkward silence as this man did his strange routine at gunpoint.
Finally, the stranger licked his parched lips and spoke up unsurely. "Dean?"
His voice was low and rumbly, with gritty, underlying pops that rumbled into his words from the back of his throat. "Holy shit. Dean." His grey-blue eyes widened and he flattened both palms next to him, his arms shook as he tried in vain to stand up. His legs in their black denim didn't quite seem to be cooperating, like a clumsy baby deer. He gave up with a frustrated huff and sat back down.
Dean tensed and backed away. "How the fuck do you know my name?!" He demanded, shaking the gun once to show the guy he meant business.
The stranger didn't try to stand up again, and instead settled for stretching his long legs out in front of him, those clunky combat boots pointed skyward and showing off the very worn-down soles. He planted one open palm on the dirty asphalt and the other hand ran through his shock of dark tousled hair.
"Dude. Hair." He seemed astounded, running his hand through the unruly black locks once again, just to be sure it really was what he was feeling. "Well. I'll be damned."
Dean realized this man had probably flown the cuckoo's nest and crash landed in this parking spot. But he still didn't know how this guy knew his name. He still didn't know this stranger's name, dammit.
"Tell me who you are. Then, you're gonna tell me where my car is." Dean full-on growled this time, coming much too close and pointing the gun just inches away from the man's head of messy dark hair.
"Whoa, whoa." Black-leather-jacket threw up his hands, pale palms exposed in innocence, wearily looking down the dark barrel of that gun once again. "No need to get all gunsy with me, Sundance. Put that thing away before you shoot someone's eye out."
Weird. Dean's dad used to call him Sundance, back when he'd been a little kid and just learning how to use a gun. But there was no way this stranger would have known that, right?
Dean set his mouth in a line and stubbornly refused to take the gun away. "Why are you sleeping in a parking space?" He hoped maybe he'd get an answer this time.
The guy shrugged, touching his temple gingerly with two fingers. "No friggin' idea. Your guess is as good as mine, brother. I have a killer headache, though, if that helps."
Dean frowned even deeper, crouching down and finally letting the gun dangle in his palm as he squatted in front of the guy with his elbow balanced on one of his thighs.
"What's your name? And no fucking around this time and avoiding the question."
"I don't know." The stranger answered, screwing up his face and squeezing his temples. "Ah. Fuck. So this is pain."
Dean growled again and nudged the cold metal of the gun onto the guy's arm. "Spill. Or I spill you all over this goddamn pavement."
"Oh God, Dean, I'm shaking in my boots." The guy shot back snarkily, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He huffed and went back to rubbing his temples. "And I told you. I. Don't. Know."
"Wrong answer." Dean said through gritted teeth.
"Fine. Okay. So, are we talking model number or...?" He began, confused, and trailed off, searching Dean's face as his pale eyes flitted back and forth. "You gotta help me out here."
Dean looked absolutely pissed. The man reached up and ran his fingers through his black hair again in thought.
"Okay, okay. Um, lemme think...maybe K-A-Z two-Y-five? Or.." He kept talking as Dean shot him a death glare. "C-N-K eighty Q-three? No? Dude, c'mon. I don't know what you're looking for here."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Don't get smart with me, buddy."
The man sighed. "Look. I know you enough to know this is going to grind your gears. You don't have to trust me. I don't expect you to trust me. And I don't really expect you to believe me either."
Dean huffed out a frustrated, cranky puff of air. "Try me."
The man furrowed his heavy brows, his grey-blue eyes still squinting from that light of the damn bright neon sign that screamed 'MOTEL', and had this expression on his face like he really, really wished he had an easier way to say this.
"Well, Dean," He huffed out, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes and rubbing, finally letting his hands fall with a faint smack onto his thighs. "You and your brother call me 'Baby.' "