Hands, Eyes, Hearts - A Collection of Supernatural Drabbles

11 // Home (Impala)

Warning: This fic contains mentions of abuse and suicidal thoughts. They're glancing mentions at best, but if those themes disturb you, don't read this.

Also I should probably warn you that this one is feelsy as fuck. Just sayin'. 

Home is a set of four wheels, and the irrepressible stink of leather and motor oil.

"It smells like a truck stop in here," Sammy mutters. Dean would have to agree with him.

They're slouched in the back seat, Dad at the helm, something on the speakers turned down so low that it's only the vague impression of mullet rock. High end like fizz on soda. Dean makes the same noise through his teeth.

"Knock it off," Dad rumbles. He can hear a toilet flush from three blocks away, Dean would swear it.

Sam takes up the hissing with a defiant air. Dean arches a brow at him. Kid is seven, but he's got attitude. He stands up to John like there isn't a three-foot discrepancy there, like their Dad couldn't just pin him to the ceiling and carve him like a pumpkin.

Dean admires that, but keeps that feeling at a safe distance, one hand on Sammy's shoulder just in case he needs to yank his little brother away from the knife.

He jabs an elbow at Sam instead. Soft flesh through soft cotton, and a little grunt.

Sam pokes him back.

A flurry of smacks and touches erupts in the back seat, and John turns up the music. He'll give them five minutes.

Home is black paint, gleaming chrome, and a leather-bound steering wheel.

No crumbs on the seat. Dad is adamant, and Dean is being as careful as he possibly can while maneuvering his plastic fork around in the triangular container. It's not too difficult--this is really, really good pie.

Sam is poking at the wilting lettuce on his grilled chicken sandwich. The look of remorse and discontent on his young face is pretty funny.

Dean swallows. "It ain't gonna get any greener," he says.

"It's brown in places," Sam grimaces.

"So pick it off." Dean is chasing the last beautiful clump of filling stuck to perfectly flaky crust. "Toss it on the asphalt."

"I shouldn't have to try this hard to get a decent fucking meal!" Sam explodes. He's twelve. He also picked the absolute worst time to say the word that Dean expressly told him was not on your life to be said in front of Dad.

"Sam," John says from just outside, eminent thunder.

Sam has frozen on the seat.

"Wad up your t-shirt between your teeth," Dean mutters to him, trying not to move his lips. "It won't hurt as bad."

Sam's face is working in a series of gymnastics between sad and infuriated, scared and pissed.

"Don't say anything," Dean pleads with him. "Just take it and come back, and I'll fix you up when we stop."

"He's wearing the clip buckle belt," Sam says wearily, not even trying to hide that he's talking to Dean. "You're going to have to stitch it here." He shifts toward the passenger door as Dad reaches for it, his face a storm. 

"Get the kit," Sam says. "It's on the right side."

Dean knows where it is.

The door opens, and Sam is yanked roughly out.