Normal (Dean Winchester fanfiction) ON HOLD

Chapter Two

June 2013

My time at the garage after work has grown to be my favorite part of the day.

At first, it just started out with me returning things of Dean's that he had accidentally left in my apartment when he would come over for dinner or to watch a movie. I would stay and chat, and then next thing we knew, his shift would be over and the day would be gone. Now, even if I come empty handed, I hang out with Dean and watch as he fixes up cars and rearranges his tools, a habit he'd grown into.

We fell into routine like how the ocean falls into the routine of tides. It never ceased, and it didn't ever stop for anyone. I'd sit on the spinning stool that creaked too much when it spun, no matter how many bolts you tightened or how much grease you applied. One day, I suggested that the guys get a new one, one that didn't groan when you sat in it and one that's seat didn't sink automatically, and one that's seat cover hadn't lost it's color from constant and relentless use. When I'd suggested it, the guys looked at me incredulously.
"It's part of the shop motif," Barry said, giving me a pointed look. I laughed at that.

I look at Dean, legs swinging from the old, squeaky stool, and observe him as he sits under the hood of an old Honda Civic, it's rust on the rims and the bumper nearly fallen off. To be honest, the owner would probably be better off scrapping the car, if you could even call it that, and getting a whole new one. Anything would be better than the silver rust bucket that sits in the garage.

Dean huffs, leaning against the car ms staring down at the engine, his garage shirt tied around his wait, leaving him in just a grey t-shirt that's now smeared with grease and other car fluids. He shakes his head, green eyes closing and his muscles relaxing in defeat.
"Would it be wrong for me to just tell her it's dead and that she should just chuck it?" Dean asks me sincerely, looking at me in exasperation. I smile with a shrug.
"Tell her this is what happens sometimes when you take in something broken. Sometimes, it's just not worth fixing," I shrug, and his face shifts from exasperated to a look of incredulousness.
"Did you just turn a junk car into a life lesson?" He asks, leaning away from me and eyeing me up and down. I smile wider.
"I'm a girl of many talents," I reply, and he nods, turning back to the car, a hopeless look on his face.
"If that's what you want to call it," He mutters under his breath. I throw a nearby balled up grease rag at him, and we both laugh.

I look down at my phone, and find that his shift has ended. Once I tell him, he nearly jumps to hang up his shirt and slip on his jacket, which I constantly pester him for wearing. "It's summer," I tell him. "You're going to die of heat stroke."

But he just never listens. He never takes that stupid jacket off unless he's inside or working. I wait for the day that we go somewhere fancy, and I walk in on him slipping on that stupid jacket over his suit. He'd never think any different of it; he's got the fashion sense of a mole.

I keep calling the jacket stupid, it's not really. It suits him. The black makes his skin look tanner and brings out the green in his eyes. When you hug him when he wears it, it's soft and worn down from tireless use, especially in the elbows and on the sides from where he swings his arms when walking. It suits his personality, too, with his recklessness and carelessness.

I hop down from the stool, a loud creak emitting from it from the new lack of weight. Dean ushers me outside, saying that we may get caught leaving the scrap pile on it's own. I laugh as I slide into my car, Dean sliding into his Impala, both of us tearing out quickly. Free Bird by Lynyrd Skynyrd plays, and I sing along softly to it, a smile on my face that seems to have lingered since the day I met Dean.

When we go upstairs, I'm still softly singing the Lynyrd Skynyrd song, thundering up the steps. According to Dean, Grungy doesn't seem to be planning to fix the elevator any time soon, making this place a curse for people with furniture or luggage. When Dean learned my appointed name to the apartment complex owner, he double over laughing, unable to breath.