There wasn't any reason to. They're between cases; Sam's busy digging up dirt on Dick Roman—Dick; Dean can't even think of the guy without clenching his fists tighter around the steering wheel, without gritting his teeth and working his jaw—and Dean . . . well. Dean tried to help, but sitting in a motel room brooding over a collection of newspaper clippings and print-outs, spending his days staring at the face of the man he wants dead, wants to see hurt and broken and bleeding and dying because he took away the one thing in Dean's life that was whole still . . . it didn't really work out. Earlier tonight, after Dean had once again snapped at Sam for admittedly no reason whatsoever, Sam told him to get out, go get another room, catch some sleep, shoot holes into the fireplace, whatever would make him chill out. So Dean grabbed the car keys and left. Shooting holes into the fireplace isn't his style; he prefers going for a drive. This red '72 Mustang isn't the right car, though.
He didn't really intend to head to Sioux Falls, but nonetheless found himself going west on I-90 within less than an hour of leaving Clear Lake, the small town where Sam and he crashed for their Dick Roman research marathon. He resigned to his subconscious choice of destination when he passed Worthington, and now thinks that maybe this isn't even such a terrible idea. Even if seeing Bobby's old place won't help--which, if he's honest with himself, he's fairly certain it won't--he can check on the Impala, make sure she's fine, maybe take her out for a spin to make sure the battery won't go flat. Go for a short drive in the right car. That actually might help.
He takes the exit off 29, and after a few turns the Mustang is bouncing up the dirt road to the scrapyard's entrance. Dean's eyebrows are pinched together in a frown; the suspension on this car is terrible. But then, the suspension of all cars they've been driving the past few months was terrible. He pulls up in a free space between half a Camaro and the remains of a totaled Toronado, then kills the engine. Sits there and listens to the dead quiet of a South Dakota winter night. No birds, no crickets. No sounds from the house that used to stand at the end of the driveway, and which is now no more than a couple of charred walls and a lot of black, crumbled wood. No sounds at all.
Except that's not quite right. His frown deepens as he cracks the Mustang's door open, listens intently. He can hear the chatter of a radio from nearby. The monotone voices are hard to mistake for anything else. He gets out of the car, his right hand going to rest on the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans as he uses his left to quietly push the car door closed. Quiet as he can, he walks further up the driveway, and isn't surprised when he spots a light glinting out between the ruins of the least damaged part of the house. Someone's squatting in there, in the hallway leading up to the backdoor, which the fire miraculously didn't touch.
Awesome. He works his jaw, narrows his eyes. The anger's irrational. He's squatted enough himself to know that most of the time, squatters are more careful with the property than the owners themselves. In this case, there isn't even an owner anymore. Hasn't been for a few weeks. He doesn't want to think about that. Instead, he pulls his gun out, starts moving around the house, careful to walk on the grass to avoid his boots crunching on the gravel. Turns the corner of the house.
The anger he feels at the sight that presents itself now is less irrational. It's Bobby's backyard, an open gravel field leading up to the backdoor. The yard itself is filled with old car bodies, stacked three to four cars high with a broad gravel alley down the middle. The car that's parked closer to the house—or what used to be the house and is now a burned-out wreck save for the small cabin someone assembled out of the remains of the hallway—is not an old, empty shell, though. Black, sleek lines with chrome detailing, headlights on and aimed at the half-open door, Dean would recognize this car anywhere. Because she's his. And that's not where he left her.
He doesn't quicken his pace; if anything, his movements become even quieter, even more careful. He slides along the side of the car towards the door, grits his teeth even harder when a brief glance at the dashboard reveals a clump of exposed wires. Whoever's squatting here, he has half a mind to just put a bullet in them and be done with it. The Impala is his. You don't get to touch her, to take her and hotwire her and use her and then move into Bobby's house as if it didn't use to be someone's home. As if it never meant anything to anyone. Actions like that invoke consequences.
He steps into the light of the headlights at the last possible moment, pushes the door open all the way and points his gun at the ramshackle excuse for a bed that's sitting against a wall in the hallway cabin. "Don't move."
He's standing right in front of the headlights in the hope of disorienting the squatter enough to not be able to take proper aim, in case they're armed. He also doesn't really care, though. One false move, and all he has to do is pull the trigger. He's a very good shot.
no subject
There wasn't any reason to. They're between cases; Sam's busy digging up dirt on Dick Roman—Dick; Dean can't even think of the guy without clenching his fists tighter around the steering wheel, without gritting his teeth and working his jaw—and Dean . . . well. Dean tried to help, but sitting in a motel room brooding over a collection of newspaper clippings and print-outs, spending his days staring at the face of the man he wants dead, wants to see hurt and broken and bleeding and dying because he took away the one thing in Dean's life that was whole still . . . it didn't really work out. Earlier tonight, after Dean had once again snapped at Sam for admittedly no reason whatsoever, Sam told him to get out, go get another room, catch some sleep, shoot holes into the fireplace, whatever would make him chill out. So Dean grabbed the car keys and left. Shooting holes into the fireplace isn't his style; he prefers going for a drive. This red '72 Mustang isn't the right car, though.
He didn't really intend to head to Sioux Falls, but nonetheless found himself going west on I-90 within less than an hour of leaving Clear Lake, the small town where Sam and he crashed for their Dick Roman research marathon. He resigned to his subconscious choice of destination when he passed Worthington, and now thinks that maybe this isn't even such a terrible idea. Even if seeing Bobby's old place won't help--which, if he's honest with himself, he's fairly certain it won't--he can check on the Impala, make sure she's fine, maybe take her out for a spin to make sure the battery won't go flat. Go for a short drive in the right car. That actually might help.
He takes the exit off 29, and after a few turns the Mustang is bouncing up the dirt road to the scrapyard's entrance. Dean's eyebrows are pinched together in a frown; the suspension on this car is terrible. But then, the suspension of all cars they've been driving the past few months was terrible. He pulls up in a free space between half a Camaro and the remains of a totaled Toronado, then kills the engine. Sits there and listens to the dead quiet of a South Dakota winter night. No birds, no crickets. No sounds from the house that used to stand at the end of the driveway, and which is now no more than a couple of charred walls and a lot of black, crumbled wood. No sounds at all.
Except that's not quite right. His frown deepens as he cracks the Mustang's door open, listens intently. He can hear the chatter of a radio from nearby. The monotone voices are hard to mistake for anything else. He gets out of the car, his right hand going to rest on the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans as he uses his left to quietly push the car door closed. Quiet as he can, he walks further up the driveway, and isn't surprised when he spots a light glinting out between the ruins of the least damaged part of the house. Someone's squatting in there, in the hallway leading up to the backdoor, which the fire miraculously didn't touch.
Awesome. He works his jaw, narrows his eyes. The anger's irrational. He's squatted enough himself to know that most of the time, squatters are more careful with the property than the owners themselves. In this case, there isn't even an owner anymore. Hasn't been for a few weeks. He doesn't want to think about that. Instead, he pulls his gun out, starts moving around the house, careful to walk on the grass to avoid his boots crunching on the gravel. Turns the corner of the house.
The anger he feels at the sight that presents itself now is less irrational. It's Bobby's backyard, an open gravel field leading up to the backdoor. The yard itself is filled with old car bodies, stacked three to four cars high with a broad gravel alley down the middle. The car that's parked closer to the house—or what used to be the house and is now a burned-out wreck save for the small cabin someone assembled out of the remains of the hallway—is not an old, empty shell, though. Black, sleek lines with chrome detailing, headlights on and aimed at the half-open door, Dean would recognize this car anywhere. Because she's his. And that's not where he left her.
He doesn't quicken his pace; if anything, his movements become even quieter, even more careful. He slides along the side of the car towards the door, grits his teeth even harder when a brief glance at the dashboard reveals a clump of exposed wires. Whoever's squatting here, he has half a mind to just put a bullet in them and be done with it. The Impala is his. You don't get to touch her, to take her and hotwire her and use her and then move into Bobby's house as if it didn't use to be someone's home. As if it never meant anything to anyone. Actions like that invoke consequences.
He steps into the light of the headlights at the last possible moment, pushes the door open all the way and points his gun at the ramshackle excuse for a bed that's sitting against a wall in the hallway cabin. "Don't move."
He's standing right in front of the headlights in the hope of disorienting the squatter enough to not be able to take proper aim, in case they're armed. He also doesn't really care, though. One false move, and all he has to do is pull the trigger. He's a very good shot.