On Borrowed Time

35. The Hounds

PART TWO: BREAKOUT

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: THE HOUNDS

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THE IMPALA, STARLING CITY, USA

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"Three days later another car rolled off that same line. No one gave two craps about her, but they should've. Because this 1967 Chevrolet Impala would turn out to be the most important car... no, the most important object in pretty much the whole universe." - Chuck, Supernatural, Season 5

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There's a soft swish of fabric and a flutter above the dashboard, a caress - fingers running over the mirror hangings? Another swish and a familiar presence is deposited along the back bench seat and the interior is filled with the freshness of floral shampoo. A smell that hadn't frequented the car for a long while. Lips press against the old leather and knuckles graze the floor. Warm breath fans across the seat surface. 

"I don't understand why I can't-" a deep male voice begins, cut off by a silent cohort. "Of course," he says again, confidently. 

"They need you," she murmurs. A shifting followed by a silence. 

"I'm sorry," the male voice pleads - to her, to the invisible cohort? 

"They nee-"

"You won't remember this."

A flutter, a gust that sends the mirror hangings twirling and dancing on an invisible wind. A silence permeated only by the deep breaths of sleep fills the void. Comfortable and familiar since rolled off of the assembly line, as always, the Winchester Motel.  

He came around the corner, as he always does eventually, looking somehow even more worse for wear than before. He jumps out of the rusted blue truck and the group piles out behind him. His grey and blue plaid shirt a reminder of his father before him, his beat up boots and worn jeans nearly identical. He's quick to approach, his face alight with child-like joy. His fingers run the contours of the metal shape with an intimate familiarity only obtained through years of encounters.

And there's Sam, with the same shaggy brown hair he's always had and a red flannel shirt that compliments his brother's. He stands a good bit taller than the rest of the group that piles out around him but that's not all that singles him out. He might as well be leagues away, a defeated look clouds his hazel eyes that seems to almost raise a barrier between him and the others. He makes after Dean and it's clear the weeks to follow will make use of the spacious back seat - his head is bandaged haphazardly. Dean will with a certainty enforce house rules as old as the first day off the line. His joy isn't so obvious but the relaxing of tense shoulders betrays his happiness at seeing home.

Home. But not a home without family.

Then there's the red headed girl - they call her Charlie. Her face is smudged with dirt and dark bruise like shadows ring her eyes. There's a thin red line across her neck that the others refuse to acknowledge. There's a sparkle in her eye that ensures her well-being is fine despite her knotted hair and tired looks. Her eyes linger over the beaten edges of the truck she's just stepped out of.  

There's the one with the crew cut, his eyes search for something else entirely. Longing, hurting, breaking. The mass of black and chrome in front of him does not distract him from that which he seeks. 

There's a blur and a hardly familiar face appears, his features grim beneath his dark, windblown hair. He shakes his head as the others look at him expectantly. 

"She's not where I left her," he explains.

"Allen, you're in shotgun - get us there!" Dean commands, his caressing hands taking on a familiar urgency as they pull the door open. He freezes then, one worn boot inside, hand holding the top of the door and then there's relief. A sigh, a frantic scramble for the back handle and the door is pulled open, cool fresh air breezing through as the dark haired one opens the passenger door.