Hey, I hope this isn't too late for the meme... I tried writing this days ago, but it was only until tonight as I'm hopped up on cold medicine that it worked.
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Sam knew that Dean loved to drive. Specifically, Dean loved to drive the Impala. Sure, he loved hunting and he loved women (frequently and uncomfortably loudly), but Sam knew that Dean was never as open and happy as when he was behind the wheel of his baby.
Sam never took to driving like Dean did. By the time he was sixteen he'd already driven the Impala a handful of times, all of which were a result of his dad and brother being incapacitated by one nasty creature or another. The only thrill that Sam ever got out of driving were on the rare occasions that Dean looked to him afterward with a proud smile, the way Sam imagined that most dads would. But most of the time Dean spent his time with his foot pressed to an imaginary brake pedal and his hands gripping the upholstery and Sam found the experience less than rewarding.
Sam hadn't driven the car in months, and not once since Dean rebuilt her. So, when Dean turned to Sam that night with a wince and a, “hey, you wanna drive back?”, it caught him blindsided.
He should have anticipated it. They'd just finished up a relatively easy hunt, yet another in a long line of haunted houses. The body had been underneath the floorboards, but before they could take a match to it the ghost made one final appearance, and she was pissed off. So pissed off that when she threw the boys against the walls of the crumbling house, Dean had managed to dislocate a shoulder.
As for himself, Sam had been too busy making sure that the throbbing pain in his chest was just bruised ribs and not internal damage, and he hadn't thought through the logistics of Dean driving them back to the motel with only his left hand.
“Uh,” Sam replied thoughtfully. “You don't want to?”
Dean thrust his right shoulder forward, arm cradled against his chest. “Dude.”
“Right,” Sam said. “Uh, keys?” He reached out a hand blindly, eyes drawn to the car.
Dean dug them out of his jeans awkwardly and slapped them into Sam's palm. “What happened to your set?”
Sam shrugged. “In my bag.” Back at the motel.
Dean was already tuning him out as he wrenched open the door and flopped into the passenger seat. Sam took a deep, steadying breath and moved around to the driver's side. He folded himself into the seat, moved the steering wheel. He was readjusting the rear view mirror for the third time when Dean spoke up from shotgun, where he was lying back with his eyes shut. “It really works better if you turn her on.” Dean cracked open one eye and waggled his eyebrows.
Sam gave into an eye roll and took his hands off the steering wheel, trying to ignore the way they shook. This was nothing. Sam drove all the time. He missed the keyhole on his first try and Dean snorted despite his eyes being closed.
With a press of the brake and a twist of his wrist, the car roared to life. It was louder than it should be, added to the rushing in Sam's ears. The sound made him flinch, made something inside him hurt with pressure. His breath caught mid-gasp. He avoided looking at Dean in the back seat... no, the front. Dean was in the front. He slid his eyes over and yeah, there was Dean, but then he checked the rear view mirror and Dean's face, streaked with blood, stared back. He snapped his eyes forward, refusing to look back at the passenger side, but the heavy presence of his father weighed on his soul. Sam choked on his breath as the crash of shattering glass and squeal of rending metal filled his ears. He couldn't breathe. He grabbed for the door handle with hands suddenly devoid of strength, fumbling wildly before something gave and he tumbled out onto the grass.
With shaking limbs, he pulled himself a few feet from the car, breath still catching in his throat. A wave of nausea rolled over him and he gagged.
Then there were hands on him and Dean's worried voice sinking in as the rushing in his ears faded. “...hurt? Shit, Sam, come on, where did she get you?” Steady hands moved him off his hands and knees until he was seated, head lolling forward as his chest heaved.
FILLED: Baby You Can Drive My Car (1/3)
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Sam knew that Dean loved to drive. Specifically, Dean loved to drive the Impala. Sure, he loved hunting and he loved women (frequently and uncomfortably loudly), but Sam knew that Dean was never as open and happy as when he was behind the wheel of his baby.
Sam never took to driving like Dean did. By the time he was sixteen he'd already driven the Impala a handful of times, all of which were a result of his dad and brother being incapacitated by one nasty creature or another. The only thrill that Sam ever got out of driving were on the rare occasions that Dean looked to him afterward with a proud smile, the way Sam imagined that most dads would. But most of the time Dean spent his time with his foot pressed to an imaginary brake pedal and his hands gripping the upholstery and Sam found the experience less than rewarding.
Sam hadn't driven the car in months, and not once since Dean rebuilt her. So, when Dean turned to Sam that night with a wince and a, “hey, you wanna drive back?”, it caught him blindsided.
He should have anticipated it. They'd just finished up a relatively easy hunt, yet another in a long line of haunted houses. The body had been underneath the floorboards, but before they could take a match to it the ghost made one final appearance, and she was pissed off. So pissed off that when she threw the boys against the walls of the crumbling house, Dean had managed to dislocate a shoulder.
As for himself, Sam had been too busy making sure that the throbbing pain in his chest was just bruised ribs and not internal damage, and he hadn't thought through the logistics of Dean driving them back to the motel with only his left hand.
“Uh,” Sam replied thoughtfully. “You don't want to?”
Dean thrust his right shoulder forward, arm cradled against his chest. “Dude.”
“Right,” Sam said. “Uh, keys?” He reached out a hand blindly, eyes drawn to the car.
Dean dug them out of his jeans awkwardly and slapped them into Sam's palm. “What happened to your set?”
Sam shrugged. “In my bag.” Back at the motel.
Dean was already tuning him out as he wrenched open the door and flopped into the passenger seat. Sam took a deep, steadying breath and moved around to the driver's side. He folded himself into the seat, moved the steering wheel. He was readjusting the rear view mirror for the third time when Dean spoke up from shotgun, where he was lying back with his eyes shut. “It really works better if you turn her on.” Dean cracked open one eye and waggled his eyebrows.
Sam gave into an eye roll and took his hands off the steering wheel, trying to ignore the way they shook. This was nothing. Sam drove all the time. He missed the keyhole on his first try and Dean snorted despite his eyes being closed.
With a press of the brake and a twist of his wrist, the car roared to life. It was louder than it should be, added to the rushing in Sam's ears. The sound made him flinch, made something inside him hurt with pressure. His breath caught mid-gasp. He avoided looking at Dean in the back seat... no, the front. Dean was in the front. He slid his eyes over and yeah, there was Dean, but then he checked the rear view mirror and Dean's face, streaked with blood, stared back. He snapped his eyes forward, refusing to look back at the passenger side, but the heavy presence of his father weighed on his soul. Sam choked on his breath as the crash of shattering glass and squeal of rending metal filled his ears. He couldn't breathe. He grabbed for the door handle with hands suddenly devoid of strength, fumbling wildly before something gave and he tumbled out onto the grass.
With shaking limbs, he pulled himself a few feet from the car, breath still catching in his throat. A wave of nausea rolled over him and he gagged.
Then there were hands on him and Dean's worried voice sinking in as the rushing in his ears faded. “...hurt? Shit, Sam, come on, where did she get you?” Steady hands moved him off his hands and knees until he was seated, head lolling forward as his chest heaved.