First owner is idiot, there’s no other way to put it. I mean, who in the holy spark plug buys a 427-engine car for Sunday drives… to bingo!?
Bastard sold me when, after 2 years of stiff driving, I choked on him. But come on? Can you really blame me for my death by boredom?
After three years stuck in a used cars parking lot, a girl starts to wonder about her attributes, thinking no one’s buying.
Until him. First words out of his mouth were ‘Hey, baby… look at you, looking so young and beautiful!”
And I was in love.
Second owner turns out to be some other guy other than my one true love, leather-jacket-guy.
This one, John-twitchy-left-foot-Winchester, ain’t that bad. Talks to me, treats me with the best fuel a girl could ask for and cleans my engine like a pro. He’s not leather-jacket-guy, but he’s a fine man.
His wife doesn’t like me. Calls me death trap. I cough my exhauster on her whenever I can. She kicks me in the tires. It’s a friendly war.
I yield when her belly grows big and there’s some talks about babies.
Gonna be a family car! Eat that Buick.
He’s here! I don’t really understand how, given that he was a full grown man when I first met him and now there’s not that much of him, but he’s here!
Dean. That’s what John and the wife call him. My Dean. My one true love.
He’s nothing but a lumpy little thing that cries a lot and likes to fall asleep listening to my engine. Yeah, you betcha that’s a fine sounding engine I got!
But I tell ya one thing: that boy lets loose one piss or puke on my leather and I’m calling the whole love thing off!
He peed on me! The little prick went and soiled my fine leather with that leaky, tiny pipe of his! Oh, my holy exhaustion tubes… I smell!
Built for strength, they said.
Built for endurance, they said.
Built to last a lifetime, they guaranteed.
And no where, in any of those advertisements, did they say that I was built as a frigging DIPPER!
Put a lid on that kid, John, or else… I won’t be responsible for how bad your hands are gonna get next time you touch my hood.
And don’t ‘oops!’ me. This was all your fault!
There’s water leaking from my wipers. Or maybe its residual mist from the firemen’s hoses.
It’s not like a car can cry, but right now, listening to John’s quiet sobs, the baby’s wails and Dean’s silence… I whish I could.
The wife, Mary, is gone. They don’t talk about it, so I don’t know much, but I know that fire was involved somehow. I could see the flames from where I was parked in the street.
I was close enough to feel its heat, close enough to get ash stuck in my engine. It left a bad taste behind.
I’ve been turned in to a frigging caravan. That’s the only way to put it. I mean… there’s people sleeping, eating, frigging living in me… so what does that make me?
Or maybe I’m a badass, gangs’ta wheels… carrying a load of guns and weapons big enough and dangerous enough to be a war tank, so maybe that’s what I am now.
Or perhaps a damn ambulance, because believe me, I’ve done everything those prissy white ladies do, except for blaring my horn while I speed to the ER with someone bleeding on my leather.
I help though… that’s all I asked for.
I can’t stop smiling. Well, I wouldn’t be able to, if I had a mouth to begin with. But my front bumper is definitely arched upwards. So, that kind of counts, right?
I know I should be worried about short legs, and weak hands... even about small necks that can’t quit raise heads above my dashboard. But I still smile.
Dean drove me today for the first time. I mean, he’d ‘drive’ before, sitting on John lap and resting his tiny little legs on his, feet never reaching the pedals, but today... today it was just him and me.
Think I’m shaking. Feels like I’m shaking. Maybe there’s something wrong with my bumpers.
It can’t be because Dean almost fucking died on me… no, it can’t be that.
Because if it were that, then it would mean that I’m screwed worse than I thought, because there is no way, no way in hell, that I’m ever gonna survive if that idiot boy dies on me.
And to sit here, outside the hospital, waiting to know if he’s alive or dead… it’s worse than having four flat tires and a busted carburetor. While driving across a field of mud and shit.
If he dies on me… I’m gonna kill him!
I feel like I just left the assembly line. Giddy as a new born.
Today’s the day.
John’s been muttering about it for weeks now, talking to himself when he’s alone with me, telling me about how fast his boys grew, how Dean will soon be old enough to have his own car, how it will help their job to have two cars, how he’ll make sure that the boy treats me right, how I must assure him that I’ll keep his boy safe.
When I realize what he’s saying, I don’t think my tires touch the road for a whole day!
Dean and I… we were born to be together. I know it sounds cheesy, but it’s my journal, my thoughts, my cheese… so suck it up!
It’s like my whole life, before I reached his hands, was one continuous curtain of thick, gray fog, a waiting limbo while I waited for him to be ready to be mine… waiting for me to be his.
His hands are gentle on my steering wheel, his feet sure and steady on my pedals and the things he does to my valves… the man has magic on his fingertips.
I’m happy as a school bus.
Said goodbye to Sam today. I liked the kid, was used to him ridding shotgun with Dean. I think I’ll miss him.
Me and Dean sit in the parking lot of the bus station for a long time after the Greyhound carrying Sam drives away. For a while, I think that maybe Dean fell asleep on his seat, because, yeah, I’m comfortable like that.
Then I see how wrong I was.
There’s water in his eyes, round stains of salted liquid that fall unchecked on my steering wheel. Those are gonna leave a mark...
We stay there for a long time after Dean’s eyes dry up.
Dean’s drunk. Or banged his head real hard. Or bleed out someplace else, before climbing in to my seats. Or just doesn’t care anymore.
I’ve experienced all of those before and I can never tell the difference between them because the result is always the same.
The road is empty, thank the holy fender-bender for that, empty enough for my wheels to have room for the wide zigzagging that Dean is pulling off of me.
The trees are coming awfully close though.
I do something I never done before. I kill the engine. Before he succeeds in killing us both.
Fire again. For something so dangerous, humans seemed to be rather reckless with it.
Though, if I’m understanding Dean’s mutterings and half veiled words right, there’s nothing human about these flames.
I hear ‘yellow-eyed-demon’, Mary and John a lot and start wondering if this fire and the one of twenty-two years ago aren’t related somehow. Someone’s dead here too. A young woman.
Sam’s back though. For now.
He feels as sad as John did back then, when we lost Mary. I remember my promise to him then, to keep John’s boy safe. Decide to extend that to both of them.
I failed my promise. Couldn’t keep them safe.
We rode in to the dead of the woods, Dean, Sam, John and something else that I couldn’t name but that made me feel dirty inside.
I drop them at an old abandoned cabin and rest my weary wheels, trying to shake the bad feeling that sets deeply in to my pistons.
When they get back, John’s bleeding; Sam’s hands are tight and sweaty on my steering wheel and Dean…
I speed as fast as Sam pushes me, faster than I can, but I’m not fast enough to escape the truck.
I come too slowly, like waking up from a deep sleep. All around me, there’s nothing but dead cars. I fear the worse.
Last thing I remember is something smashing against me, my frame yield under brute force and thinking ‘I’m not strong enough to protect them from this much damage’.
And now I find myself in a car graveyard. Granted, it’s a familiar graveyard, Bobby Singer’s yard, but a grave place none the less.
Dean’s not here. I don’t know where he is, and it’s not like I have working wheels to go search. Sleep claims me again.
Dean attacked me today. He’d never done that before.
I had been feeling better later, bashing under all the attention he was giving me, slowly fixing us both back to being whole, carefully searching every nook and crank of my inner workings to get me road worthy again.
And then he turned a crowbar on me. I could feel it smashing against my trunk’s door over and over and over again.
It’s not like I can feel pain. But it twists my inner cords to see him broken like that.
In the end, it’s just one more piece to mend.
I’m back on the road again. And holy fuel! did my boy do a good job or what? I look better than those fancy Mercedes! New racing wheels, shiny rims, a new painting job that makes me want to never see a pigeon ever again and my engine... I can’t even tell you about the things he did to my engine. I feel twenty years younger (not that I felt old before, let me just stress that point), but I sure was needing this full-body ‘face-lifting’.
I love that boy... have I mentioned that before? Now I just whish he truly as happy as he pretends to be.
I can tell something’s wrong just from the way Dean’s fingers grip my steering wheel.
If he’s happy and relaxed, his grip is light and his fingers dance across the leather of my steering wheel to the rhythm of whatever music’s playing; if he’s excited or anxious, more often than not, I can feel his nails biting in to me; if sad or in pain, his palms sweat.
I can never feel when he’s angry. He doesn’t take it out on me, except for that one time.
When we stop in the middle of nowhere and he walks out, I know it can’t be good. And then I hear his talk to Sam about John’s death and my engine breaks a little.
There’s something evil sitting on my leather seats.
I’ve tasted it once before, this pure evil, this darkness that smells of dead things, masked inside someone familiar, someone safe. John died that one time; Dean almost bit it too; and I was reduced to nothing more than scrap metal.
My oil turns in to vinegar, imagining what might happen this time around. Dean is not around and, although it’s his hands on me, I know that it is not Sam doing the driving.
I can do nothing but wait and see. Hope. And pray that no one dies this time around.
Sam died. I think.
I thought I had a pretty good grasp of what ‘being alive’ and ‘being dead’ meant for humans, but after being carjacked by a couple of ghosts, giving a lift to a she-werewolf and a confused spirit, being almost smashed to bits and pieces by a phantom truck and actually being smashed to bits and pieces by a truck driven by a demon... I’ve given up.
All I know is that, two days ago, Dean was driving me like he was a mad man, tears in his eyes and a whispered ‘Sam dead’ in his lips and now Dean’s asleep –passed out-, his head slowly bleeding in to my seat and Sam’ driving. Go figure that!
Dean spends a year saying goodbye.
It’s not completely obvious what he’s doing, but I’ve known him long enough to tell.
There’s a big yellow elephant ridding with us, and no one says a word for a very long time.
So, I’m left wondering.
Maybe he’s moving out of the country and can’t take me.
Maybe he’s finally fed up with my old mileage and is gonna sell me.
Maybe he’s sick.
I’m fresh out of maybes when I finally learn the truth.
Dean, my Dean… he’s gonna die. And there is nothing Sam or I can do.
I think we’re both mourning. Neither of us is exactly behaving like ourselves.
Ran out of gas in the middle of nowhere. Sam left me there, in search of a gas station. Didn’t lock the doors.
I can’t seem to shake the feeling of Dean’s dead body, limp across my backseat. Sam can’t seem to shake the grave dirt from under his fingernails.
The passing of the one we loved soiled us both. We’re both a little dead inside.
I’m surprised to see Sam return at all. I was ready to die here, by the side of the road.
The movement of the windshield wipers is hypnotic. I timed myself to it many times, eating up mile of road after mile of road. After awhile, they all look the same.
Now, it’s just there to count the days AD. After Dean.
We travel a lot now. Me, Sam and the thing. He’s even let it drive me once.
If I had any control over my wheels, I would’ve driven myself straight to a car-wash right after.
Sam owns me now. I get that.
And I did promise to keep him safe, as safe as I kept Dean when it was just the two of us.
It happens in a day like any other day. Sam and the thing ride me to some nameless town or another, disappear for a while and come back smelling of sulphur and dead things.
I stopped paying attention after a while. The thing, a demon, I have learned, drives a spit-fire yellow thing that doesn’t even speak English. My hope is that one day they’ll both get in to that car and leave me be.
And then I hear it. The very same words he said to me when we met.
‘Hey, baby… missed you.”
Dean… my Dean is back!
It kind of reminds me of the second time I met Dean. When he was the lumpy little thing that peed on my leather and loved to fall asleep with the sound of my engine.
He’s not peeing on me now, thank Simon and Garfunkel for that! but he still sleeps a lot when he’s inside me.
I should feel good about that, but I don’t. Something has changed about him, about the way he sounds, about the way he touches, about the way he smells.
I whish he’d drive me more rather than use me as a sleeping pill.
Dean is slipping. Like a bald tire on a wet road.
I can feel the exhaustion in him like I was carrying it myself. An extra weight that almost drives him to the ground and I don’t know why, or how to help him.
I thought it was bad when he ‘died’. This is much worse. This is seeing him die, one little piece by one little piece. Everyday.
He cries once in awhile, but not like I have ever seen him cry before, not even when John die. Not even when Sam did.
It’s a sobbing sound that racks me raw and makes me want to lock the doors, turn up the heat and never, ever let him slip away in to the cold world.
But he still slips.
I’m getting too old for this. I mean, I’ve known Dean since he was a little piston size and I have seen him in all forms and shapes throughout the years.
And it’s not like this is the first time he’s used my backseat for... that.
But I had forgotten how it felt to have his bare skin against my leather; forgotten how good it was to feel his emotions and bliss steaming up my insides. Forgotten how hot and bothered a poor old lady can get to have the love of her life sexing up her seats.
And I can’t believe I forgot the mess it leaves behind. Someone’s better clean that spot from my ceiling, mister!
Dean is so silent. Silent like he was after Mary died.
I don’t think anyone died now. I might be wrong though. Hard to keep track these days.
Sam is here, breathing, so he’s not it. And I know that blind lady that Sam went to pick up, is safely back at her place. Bobby wasn’t there, but I heard talks about the grumpy man being on vacations.
The thing was here too, earlier, but I don’t think there would be this much fuss if she’d gone back to wherever rotten oil pool she came from.
That other lady, the one that Dean--, the... humm... co-responsible for my STAINED ceiling, is gone though. Maybe she’s the one who bought it?
Sam keeps sending looks in Dean direction, looking like he’s about to say something, but stops himself before any words come out.
I don’t know what I whish for harder: that Sam doesn’t crash us in to a tree with all the looks away from the road or that he gets those words out and helps Dean.
Sam’s driving like a madman and the thing is back on the front seat. I could puke.
The fuel in my pipes feels twice as thick and hard to squeeze past the smallest places inside my engine. Something’s wrong.
This feels too much like when Dean was gone, dead, and the fact that I haven’t seen him get out of the motel room where he and Sam were staying, only makes my worrying harder to swallow.
Sam wouldn’t leave Dean there, I’m sure of it. Sam wouldn’t leave Dean there and take me away. I mean, it’s not like that never happen before, but that one time there were demons involved.
Well, there’s demons involved now... but Sam ever only drives like this for Dean. I just hope that we’re running towards him. Something’s very wrong.
I could ran over those prickly bastards over and over again and not feel an ounce of shame whatsoever. Well, I might feel a bit for my soiled tires, but other than that, I want to see them pancaked!
One minute Sam’s driving me like the devil is on his tail, Dean’s bleeding all over my back seat again, barely breathing as we fly to the hospital, barely getting there on time, and the next thing I know, I’m in a frigging parking lot... going on two fucking weeks!
I don’t even know what happen. I just know that I was loosing my mind there, battery down, doors locked, wheels block and completely helpless to do anything. And Dean... Dean can be dead, for all I know.
And the ones who put me there? They smelled too much like pigeons to be any good.
Dean’s back. Says he missed me; that he’ll never leave me again.
Drives me to the worse looking neighborhood he can find and frigging parks me there! Just like that, like there isn’t a pair of working eyes in that face of his.
I mean... did he even looked around? Did he see the same vandalize cars that I saw as we drove by?
Has he frigging seen me?!! Of course some punks try to steal my sweet ass two seconds after he walks away.
I swear to the Michelin tires... if he doesn’t come back right this instant and stops these pricks from messing up my glass—
Oh... crap! He’s down! Dean’s down!
I swear... I’m gonna find that damn SUV and smoke the crap out of her! Bitch!
Bobby drove my wheels today. I like Bobby, he handles me like a lady. Dean’s lady.
He’s a very smart man.
He’s also pissed. Keeps muttering about ‘idjits’ and ‘frigging angels’ and the ‘damn apocalypse’ and ‘dammit Dean’. He’s not making much sense.
Still I gather that he’s taking me to Dean, which... its kind of leap of logic, but these days, makes all the sense in the world.
Because Dean was the one who (swearing, swirling and swollen) drove me to Bobby’s place, but I’ve kind of given up on trying to understand the differences on where Dean is and where Dean is supposed to be ever since that man with the trench coat showed up.
The air outside feels different. Charged.
The world is a mess. Well, a mess larger than it usually is.
Family doesn’t end with blood, I hear Bobby say plenty of times. Well, it doesn’t end with skin and legs either, because I figured that, at this point, I’ve had more of Dean’s blood on me than any of his offspring will ever have... pints and pints of the stuff. So you bet your bonny ass I’m family!
And family doesn’t get left behind when there’s riots on the streets, and fires springing from the middle of floods and frigging frogs, locustus and all sort of disgusting green things raining from the sky!
Do you hear me?
Get back here!
... Dean? You promise you wouldn’t leave me...
I don’t get out much anymore. Let’s call it... early retirement at the scrape yard.
Honestly, I’m the best looking thing around here, given that I still have my parts and all.
Bobby takes good care of me, but really, there’s only so much that he can do, always seating on that moving chair of his. This many cars hanging around, waiting for someone to take them out for a spin, and the man rides a chair?
I don’t get these humans, I really don’t.
Dean never stops by these days. He’s grown strange, distant, larger than life. He still looks like my Dean, most of the times anyway, but I know it’s not him anymore.
Either way, he has other means of transportation these days. And I sit here. And wait.
Entry ??.??/some year or another
I used to be a family car.
But that was before I became a fight car. That’s right, I know I don’t look like much now, but I used to be what you might call the black horse in which the knights in shiny armor rode in to safe every damsel in distress.
Don’t laugh! I used to be shiny! Back when I had a decent paint job.
And I used to rock! Wheels on the sky! Did I used to rock... best sound in the world, better even than a fine tuned engine, is a fine tuned rock song.
But now all I get is silence.
There’s a war going on outside, you guys can hear it as well as I do. From the way it sounds, junkyards is all that will be standing in the end... we’ll be all that’s left.
And Dean is somewhere out there, right in the middle of it. Without me to protect him.
The thing that looks like Dean but smells of pigeon, came by today. He was carrying Sam on his arms, like that giant of a kid was nothing but a baby.
He looks right at me and for one flitting moment, I was gonna swear that he recognized me. Whatever hope I manage to gather about the end of my retirement years being over, is squashed clean as he walks right to me, his eyes emotionless and empty, opens my rear door, and gently places Sam’s body inside me.
Not one word to me though, not one sign that I still mean anything more to him than handy seats to dump his load. Just a sleeping Sam, to keep me company.
It hurts more than being put under a car compactor.
Sam doesn’t say much these days. He reminds me of Dean in that.
We’re both waiting for Dean to come back. Again.
That’s what Sam and I have in common. We both suffer in silence, waiting for his return. Always hoping for his return.
Bobby joins us now and then, when someone manages to take him out of the house.
Other people show up too. People I never saw before, old friends, old enemies that no longer old grudges. Survivors.
It’s a different world outside; I get a feeling that nothing’s the same. And, despite the loneliness and this empty feeling inside of me, it doesn’t feel like a worst version of the world. Just a different one.
There’s a explosion outside the junkyard, a bright white light that raises the alarms of everyone in the house and almost blows my headlights to Kingdom Kong.
For a couple of minutes I think that this is it. This is the way it ends.
Sam rushs outside, barefoot and wearing nothing but pajama bottoms. Bobby’s standing right beside him—
I look again, working my rusty windshield wipers double time to see it better. Bobby’s STANDING! The sight is so good to witness that for a moment I forget about the impending end.
The look on Bobby and Sam’s face is wrong though. There’s none of the stoic grimness or the bare teeth heroics that I would expect from those two when facing the end-
No. They’re smiling.
And they’re crying like little kids.
Either they’ve gone simultaneously insane or-
“Hey, baby... missed me?”
The woman that brings the new parts to Bobby’s yard is having a hard time taking her eyes off of me.
I grin inside, knowing I still have it. I’m still a traffic stopper, and not in the wrong way.
It’s only when she walks right past me and leans against my side to blaring stare at Dean’s behind and not mine, that I get the clue.
If I had eyes, I would be rolling them right about now. I try with my still busted headlights but the only thing I accomplish is to pop one of them out. It’s embarrassing.
Dean and the woman reach for it at the same time and their hands touch. They exchange mushy looks and I CAN’T EVEN LOOK AWAY!
I’m not worried though... not one bit. Women come and go from Dean’s life like roads bumps. This one will to be soon left behind.
It’s a cute kid. Kind of like a miniature Dean. Same green eyes and all.
I could see myself falling for him as I did for his father. There’s goodness in there too.
But my frame is old, and rust is setting in with a vengeance. I don’t see many more years of road to me.
Still, Dean is all proud and puffy as he introduces me to his son, his boy.
Cute kid, really.
I see diapers on him. I panic.
If he dares to turn his little fire hose one me like his dad did, I swear I’ll…
The whole Impalogs things started because of a 24 hour drabble race at the SPN Writer's Lounge Fanfic Olympics. I needed ideas for drabbles, and I needed them fast. When the idea of giving the car her chance to talk, I fell in love with it.
Almost all of the entries are episode related, starting with 'In the beginning', when Dean convinces his father to buy the Impala, to the 'Pilot' and up to episode 5.01. A few of the entries are not linked to episodes, but are about things that we know happen, like Sam leaving to Stanford. The last few entries set after 2009 are, of course, pure speculation and AU.
Read, share and comment. I love hearing from you guys! Thanks!