Author's note: Fragments of this have been languishing on my hard drive for- well. A long time, because I suck at finishing things, as some people already know. ;D
Set, I would say, a few hours before Dean and Sam meet in the Pilot.
If you spot any mistakes, they're all mine and feel free to point them out so I can fix shit. ?
Reviews are greatly loved and appreciated, but I'll settle for hoping at least someone enjoys this short word vomiting exercise. Cheers! 3
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The bridge is old, rusted in more places than not and quite possibly not suited to carry two tons of rumbling vehicle and the weight on Dean's shoulders. But it's not the fear of falling through that keeps him still for a while, ignition on, the engine's purr a background noise that sends slight vibrations coursing through his limbs to concentrate around hips and wrists. Dean stations his baby just off the road and looks at the steely construction, lets his hands fall away and rest in his lap. Resists the urge to clench or twist his fingers under the onslaught of caffeine induced jitters. It's a good spot as any to take a break and god help him, he's entitled to a few minutes of nerve gathering before he takes them one more mile closer to Palo Alto.
It's a fact, not bitter complaint, that you can't change the world around you. Can't fix it and can't bill it, no matter the sleepless nights and blood and knives under motel pillows. You kick and you bite and you fight, you leave your mark where you can and try not to dwell on close calls and lives that technically aren't on you, but are, in all the ways that matter. But you can't change the world; it is big and violent and it's self-sufficient. It moves, day in and day out, shedding skin without a second thought and it doesn't need you, however loud you scream. You're the one who needs the world, the one who can't afford the luxury of letting go. So you change.
Dean can't fix the road beneath his feet, seal the cracks and worn out holes that don't quite gape, but are unmistakable once your attention drifts and you meet. When it's not life and death and Dean can breathe and not taste looming danger and bloodshed in the back of his throat, he takes it easy on his girl and lets her glide as smoothly as possible, lets her sing and set the pace. When she needs it, Dean fixes her and prays it to be enough. The world is relentless and they need to keep going, so they change.
Dean rarely stands still longer than is needed to get the job done or get enough rest to do the job. If asked, he might say it's momentum that's been building up since he was four and is now an unyielding force at his back, pushing; the truth is, it's more of an undercurrent in his blood, a low constant whisper of fear and sticking to the only thing you know. Or, on occasions where John isn't by his side to do it in person, his father's voice in his head demanding action because- there are people dying out there, and would you want another family to go through hell so you could laze about? It's here, now, all of it; with him in the car but not yet strong enough to propel him. One more handful of courage and they'll be off.
He doesn't have a home so his fingers wrap tightly around the steering wheel and he breathes, liar.
The world doesn't mind, doesn't warm itself and invite him in. So he calls her home, redefines the word because there's no one around to argue against it. He calls her home because sometimes everything is too big and too loud and imminent, and there are more traces of the Winchesters in her system and on her body than there are in the house he once lived in.
Dean fills her trunk with weapons and bloody handprints and bodies whose smell always lingers, sticks to her skin longer than it has any right to. She takes it and doesn't leave for Stanford. She remains solid around him and doesn't take off to chase demons, inner or otherwise, without him.
He needs her because when she bleeds, his heart clenches but doesn't chip and break. She is stronger than him, made for the world that was forced on him before he'd been old enough to realize it. Because she protects him in ways he cannot protect her, and hasn't he earned the right to some selfishness?
Dean knows her, in a way, like he knows his own body. The scars and missing pieces and what malfunctions under wrong circumstances. She's had these tires since the end of last summer, and when the grooves on them wear enough she'll slip a bit in heavy rain and his left forearm will develop a barely there ache, having been hurriedly set in her backseat when he was sixteen and a losing party in a match of reckless teenager vs. wall, from straining to keep her straight. He knows how big of a clearance there is in her steering gearbox by the way the wheel plays in his hands.
When you grow up traditionally homeless, you either fold to the ground or redefine the word.
Dean knows her, in that conscious way one knows something that's learned, and in much subtler ways his body has integrated her surfaces, sounds, movement. A person would call it muscle memory, but if Dean were to admit to thinking about it, he would say it's something different. Love, maybe, or just more.
The temptation is there, to reach into his pocket and get the beat-up cellphone out. He wouldn't have to look even, to think, knows his fingers would type out the number flawlessly in less than two breaths. Experience has taught him this vital information; three and a half seconds under normal conditions, a bit longer when he's falling-down-drunk. Sammy had been his number one on speed dial ever since Dean knew what speed dial was, before he shagged ass to college. These days, it's John's spot. Partially for convenience, and partially because Dean doesn't want to forget and press the button on instinct, only to listen to the endless ringing. The few times it happened, before he wizened up and switched the positions, were more than enough.
At least, when he gets there, if the door gets slammed in his face he can always pick the lock.
Dean breathes;
drives.