are we all such fragile things?

the blondie & the beheading

Inside the car is eerily silent, save for the gentle humming of the engine and the occasional sniffles from myself. The downpour has subsided into a gentle mist more than anything, and the sky is a refreshing pallet of pastel oranges and blues. There's some grainy mullet-rock playing beneath the sheen of white noise. Something about a Black Betty having a child (bam-a-lam).

I squirm anxiously in my seat. When Sam had first opened the door to get into the car, Dean had yelled at him to go back into the motel room. But Sam deliberately disobeyed and sat himself right in the passenger seat, waving for me to get in as well. Dean yelled at me, too, but Sam was saying threats beneath his breath that apparently got Dean to shut his cakehole.

We drive for what feels like forever. I started thinking to myself, if this is such an emergency then why isn't Dean flooring it? Then that's when we pass a speed limit sign and I barely have time to read it, convincing me that he actually was flooring it. The concept of so confidently breaking the law sends a surge of adrenaline through my veins that forces me to lean back against the cool leather.

I could get used to this.

Except according to Dean, I won't be getting used to anything. He doesn't want me around longer than I have to be. And since it's crystal clear that none of us are going to be sleeping anytime soon, I wonder if they'll drive me straight up to Strafford to find my dad.

But how do we even know he's there? What if he high-tailed it up into Canada, or further down the states? For all we know, we could be heading into a dead end.

I don't think that would be such a bad thing. I really, truly do not want to go back to him after what he did. And when I start to think about it, I feel like I'm drowning. Like water is filling up my lungs and the pressure is collapsing my chest. Like every time I breathe, I'm just another step closer to death. If Sam and Dean didn't take me back to Strafford, I would be just fine.

Then again, I don't know what these two do. For all I know, they could be drug smugglers, or fugitives, or wards of the state. I'm way too young to go to jail. The prisoners, they'd eat me up in a heartbeat... and leave no crumbs.

I'm knocked back to consciousness when Dean slams on the breaks and throws my head forward. I gasp in pain at the unholy cracking noise that comes from my neck. Dean looks like he wants to give me a shit-eating grin, but he's too busy turning around to yell at me.

"Here are the rules, shortcake—" he starts, finger in the air like he's about to list something out on his hand.

"I'm not sure how I like that nickname..." I interrupt. He glares at me. I clear my throat for him to continue.

"Do not get out of this car. Do not touch anything in here. Do not mess with the keys or any other controls, do not move, don't even breathe too much. And if you see cops pull up, for God's sake, duck."

I let out a deep sigh and roll my eyes. Dean is so boring, sucking the fun out of everything. I'm not even entirely sure why he's giving me all these rules. Whatever he and Sam are about to storm into, it sounds dangerous.

Dean leaps out of the car and slams the door behind him. He goes around to the trunk for a moment, then I see him pass the window again with a bag slung over his shoulder. As Sam is rustling around to get out, I lean my head on the window.

"What are you two even doing?" I ask. "What's so... dangerous, or important, that I have to be chained here like a sad dog?"

Sam tries to shell off a comforting smile. "It's just 'cause he doesn't want you touching his car. It's his baby." He gets out and stretches his long legs, poking his head in real quick to say one last thing. "Don't sweat it, kid."