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[ this is the car ]
So yeah. Maybe Dean´s got an unreasonable attachment to his car. There are reasons.
This is the car he used to dream about when from the time he was thirteen years old. This is a 1969 Impala. It´s a sweet ride.
This is the car he picked out, the first car he ever owned, and he plans on owning it forever. He might retire it one day, when it´s engine starts sputtering and the starter starts skipping. He might get some younger, finer car, that goes faster and has a better sound system. Might get a car that actually has a cd player. But this is his first car, and he´s never letting it go.
This is the car he´s poured his own blood, sweat, and tears into, and no one´s ever touched its engine but him.
This is the car where he got his first blowjob. After a skinwalker job, the girl so turned on by the way he´d looked when he´d told her he´d gotten it, he´d killed it. Long curly blonde hair that tickled his stomach when she rucked up his shirt and bit his side. Fingernails that dug into his thighs when she unzipped his jeans and started to suck him. There´s a tear in the passenger side seat as evidence and sometimes he looks at it when he needs to remember something good.
This is the car he drove to New Orleans in, his first solo job across the country from where his Dad was, and even if he´d come back to find his father gone, it was still the best job of his life.
This is the car that always starts when he wants it to, when he needs it to. He always laughs when he watches a movie, thinks to himself that he´s never once pounded the steering wheel, never once pleaded for it to start, please god just start. He´d never had to, because she always just had.
This is the car he kicked so hard he sprained his ankle when his Dad told him Sammy was leaving.
This is the car he fucked Jenny Pearson in, seat too small to do any kind of special maneuvering and leather too sticky, and when he´d come he´d hit his head on the roof and her shoe had fallen off out of the window.
This is the car he was driving when he told Cassie what he did for a living, hands clenching the steering wheel, jaw clenched so tight he could barely get the words out. The engine purring, the seat vibrating under his ass, the only thing that made it possible for him to not reach for her when she got out and didn´t look back.
This is the car that let him outrun that cop in Granville when he was so hard up he´d stolen two bags of chips and a 20oz Coke from a Circle K.
This is the car he sat in for four hours after a job one night, shaken by the fact that the woman he´d saved had looked so much like his mother that it made his bones ache. The leather seat beneath him felt like a lap and the seat belt felt like an arm and when he´d finally stopped shaking it held him together until he´d gotten to the hotel room.
This is the car that had chased down so many demons it deserved a paycheck of its own.
This is the car he´d been leaning against when Jasmine Carlisle had kissed him outside of the poolhall. The door handle digging into his ass, glass fogging up around her hands as she propped herself up. It was cool behind him even when he was hot, kept him grounded and reminded him that it didn´t matter how much he honestly liked her. This was just a girl in a town, and he didn´t get to stay.
This is the car he sat in when he left Sam at the bus terminal and it never told a soul that he´d cried the whole way home.
This is the car that Sam bled in when he was 15 years old and had been beaten so badly his eyes were swollen shut. It had gotten them all the way to the hospital and then it had gotten Dean to Tommy Svenson´s house where he´d snapped the kid´s arm back so hard it had broken in three places.
Most importantly, though, this is the car that will never leave him, and that´s the only thing in his life that he´s absolutely sure of.
So yeah. Maybe Dean´s got an unreasonable attachment to his car.
There are reasons.