Ok, here we go. A post about my new found Fandom. Supernatural. :)
And NO NO NO I have not given up or lost ANY love for James... that will never happen. I am, if anything, uber loyal.
I don't have a beta. But then again, Only friends can read this anyway. I ain't got the guts to post it in an open forum.
Dean loves his car. His midnight classic growling and purring like a big black pussy cat. Faithful and true, his baby starts every time, no matter how cold, no matter how hot, no matter the rain or sleet or vampire chasing you. If you dive into Dean’s girl, she’ll start for you. She’ll bare dents in her hood for you, she’ll take claw marks on her fenders to protect you. Like a rolling suit of armor; a chariot with 350 horses under her. She’d even take being T-boned by a semi truck for you. (Though, OUCH that hurt!) All you have to do is keep her full of gas and keep her oil changed and keep her battery charged. Dean’s girl will do battle for you.
The ’67 Impala was already an old girl when Dean was born, but like anything old, there is certainly wisdom in her. Worn into her cracked hide seats and smooth steering wheel, spread out over the expanse of her mammoth black hood, she tells stories of the road in the rumble of her V8.
To own a car older than you are, you have to love it. Dean changes her oil himself, because the thought of someone else messing around under her hood gives Dean the same feeling some dude feeling up his girlfriend would. Dean watches the fellow at small town muffler shop as he puts a new exhaust system under his baby with the keen eye of a father scrutinizing his daughters first date. Dean knows every squeak, every rumble, every knock and every quirk about her.
She is poetry in black and chrome to Dean. They don’t make cars like her anymore. Style, weight, power; Dean’s girl is a big girl, Heavy. The way most people want a tank, nearly two tons, over six feet wide and, bumper to bumper, she’s over 17 and a half feet long. And she’s got a 5 body trunk. You could put a whole compact car in his girl’s booty. Talk about junk in the trunk. Yet, Dean’s girl is slick black and sleek, she slips through the night like a shadow; her low growl a natural part of the landscape.
Dean’s car is more than just a vehicle. Dean’s car is home. He can’t even begin to number the times he’s slept in her. Her seats molded sensuously to his body over time. Her comforting smell of leather interior and the heady perfume of her heated engine block; hot motor oil and exhaust are all her own. She handles in a swoop as familiar as his favorite gun in his hands. And when he tromps the gas peddle; he knows just how loud and how long her gait will take to thunder to a roar – zero to sixty in about 9 seconds- fast for a big girl.
Dean loves to drive around in his girl with the windows down and the music blaring along with the song of her engine purring. Dean’s Impala isn’t a car he drives for status or flash. His girl isn’t a Barbie plastic car for a Hollywood plastic pretty boy asshole or a self-indulgent jerk off. Dean’s girl is an American muscle car for an all American boy; made of cast iron and American steel. Oh sure, other cars were faster, but in Dean’s mind, none compares to his lady. She is his darling, his sweetheart, his first love. She is his baby. And she takes all the punishment he can dish out to her. His love for her passed down by tradition from father to son, like good teeth and hero’s guts. She is big and mean and all his.
Most of all, Dean loves the Impala because she is the one thing in his life, that no matter how badly broken, he can always resurrect her.
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