Title: My First, Second, and Third Loves
Prompt: Written for drabblewriter on livejournal: "Supernatural, Dean +/ any, one accident the Impala just couldn't come back from."
Ben runs away afterward.
Which just makes it a million times worse, because then Dean has to chase him down.
Forty-eight hours flying after a bus in a stolen car.
Lisa's soft sobs emanating from his cell phone every time he had to pull over for gas.
The build-up of nerves and worry and anger.
Dean is relentless.
He finally-finally-catches up.
There's a figure sitting on the floor of a far-away bus station, huddled in his denim jacket with nothing but the clothes on his back and whatever had been in his wallet.
The lump of blue cloth squeaks when Dean's boots enter its line of vision.
"Benjamin," Dean issues through tightly-locked teeth.
The bundle makes a choked noise as it slowly unfolds. Worried, fearful eyes don't quite meet Dean's. "Yes, sir."
And Dean yanks the teen upright and into his arms. Ben makes a soft "omph" sound as he collides with Dean's chest, and Dean does his best to squeeze the kid's breath right out of him.
After a second, he pushes Ben away, holding him out at arms-length to look his son over. There's a shallow gash over Ben's left eye, and a bruise along the underside of Ben's chin. The kid is all sorts of stiff, but he's also been sitting in a bus station for three hours.
It's nothing short of a miracle, and Dean pulls Ben back into the tight hug, swearing softly.
After a long moment, Ben tentatively hugged him back. Dean carded a hand through short hair, pressing a kiss to the top of the kid's head because the situation warranted actual physical affection with a possible side of never letting his kid go again.
"I'm sorry," Ben whispered, dry sobs wracking his body as he clung to Dean. "I'm sorry."
"You better be," Dean growled into his son's hair.
"I'm sorry."
It was a miracle. Nobody should have survived that crash. Dean had seen the Impala. He had heard the reports from the rescue workers first on the scene. Any other driver . . . any other car . . . and the crash would have been fatal. Except a skinny seventeen year old of a certain height angled just right to be protected by the exact curve of metal . . .
"I'm sorry," Ben continued to croak. The kid couldn't cry; he'd probably used up all his tears during the self-imposed exile.
"I'm sorry too," Dean murmured.
Because the Impala is gone. The last trace of Dean's old life-his only tangible connection with his old family-is scrap metal beyond any sort of repair. No amount of work could restore it. The Impala is gone, but she hadn't taken his kid with her.
That was Dean's baby. Always looking out for him.