Title: All Heart

Author: BlackWingedbird

MAJOR language warning, standard dis

Author's Notes: This is an answer to Amy's and my own challenge, to write a story about Dean getting a new car. I urge you all to (if you don't know what it looks like) Google it when you're done. If you know me at all, you know I just couldn't resist.

Dean finished sawing through the end of his steak and set down the knife, jabbing the hunk of meat with the fork in his other hand. He pushed it through a pile of mashed potatoes and gravy, then brought it up to his mouth and ate it, chewing slowly. Appreciating. Savoring.

Across the table from him, Sam stared openly, his own BLT forgotten in his hand.

"What?" Dean huffed with his mouth full. He swallowed in one gulp and washed it down with cold beer.

"Eat much?" Sam asked with a slightly disgusted look on his face. "You look like you're having an orgasm or something."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "And how would you know what that looks like, pervert?"

Sam immediately dropped his gaze, remembering about his sandwich and looking it over critically. "I don't, I just- I mean…"

"Hey, one of you guys own that black Impala out there?"

Dean looked up at the middle-aged man. He stood uncomfortably at the end of their table, shifting his weight as he looked between the Winchesters. Dean grinned at him. "Kansas plates? Yeah, it's mine. Gorgeous, huh?"

"I think it's being stolen."

There was a split second delay of comprehension, then Dean jumped up. "Shit!"

He exploded out of the booth and darted behind a waitress, making a bee-line for the door. Everyone in the diner watched him go with interest; he was the fastest moving thing they'd seen all day. Dean shoved his way through the door and a bell jangled loudly over his head. People on the other side jumped back to get out of his way.

"Hey!" He shouted, sprinting towards the stranger sliding into the Impala's driver's seat. "Get back here!"

The stranger, spooked by the yelling and the well-built young man barreling towards him, slammed the door shut and revved the engine once, fumbling with the gear shift before finally dropping it into drive and stomping the gas pedal to the floor.

The Impala growled loud and deep as the tires spun wildly in the gravel parking lot. Dean skidded to a stop, throwing an arm up to protect his face as rocks and dust pelted him. He turned, his face and hands stinging, and watched from the corner of his eye as the Impala- his Impala- drove off without him in a cloud of gray dust.

"NO!" He yelled, taking off in a run after the car. "Get back here, fucking thief! That's my car!"

The brake lights flashed before the Impala turned onto the highway, fishtailing once in both directions, then with another explosion of horsepower, the car sped down the road and into the setting sun.

Dean slowed to a jog then finally a stop as the Impala became nothing more than a black, shimmering speck on the horizon. His legs felt like Jell-O and he brought a trembling hand to his eyes, panting hard. What the hell was he gonna do? Fuck! Asshole! That was his car, Damnit!


Sam reached out tentatively, snagging Dean's shoulder lightly. "Dean?"

He jerked his arm away and turned, kicking up dust and rocks with his foot. "Son of a bitch!" His mind was reeling with the audacity of what had just happened and his body was humming with adrenaline. He paced, cursing to himself and trying to figure out what he should do now.

"What do we do?" Sam asked, which only annoyed Dean further. "Do we call the cops?"

"No cops!" Dean yelled. He stopped and glared at Sam, noticing all the patrons watching through the diner's large glass windows. So much for stealing a car and hunting that bastard down. "You know we can't call the cops," he growled, pacing again. "What are you gonna tell them, that 'Yes officer, that's my car but no- I have no idea how all those GUNS AND KNIVES got in the trunk'!" He smacked Sam on the shoulder for good measure.

Sam moved back a step, glancing embarrassedly to the diner. "Will you calm down?" he snapped. "People are staring!"

"Let them stare!" Dean shouted, waving a hand in the air. "Stare at the poor guy who just got his car stolen! What a loser! I'm glad that's not me! I wonder what he's gonna do? Let's watch and find out!"

"Okay, Dean- you need to calm down."

"Fuck you- IdoNOTneedtocalmdown!"

Sam moved closer, narrowing his eyes. "Get a hold of yourself. It's just a car. We'll figure something out."

Dean stopped, suddenly hearing his own words and feeling just a tad maniacal. He sucked in a deep breath, running his hands through his short-cropped hair. "Okay." He breathed out, then breathed in again. Calm. Slow. Easy. Slow. "Okay. You're right. We'll figure something out."

He looked up at the townsfolk and smiled. "Anyone care to give us a ride to our motel?"

The faces disappeared.


Three days later saw the boys walking through the suffocating heat waves rolling off the blacktop of Vinnie's Used Car Lot, insurance check in hand. The triple zeros had taken some of the sting out of losing the Impala, but there would always be a Chevy-shaped hole in Dean's heart. He could only pray that the jackass who stole her fingered the unregistered weapons enough to cover Dean's and Sam's own. Through some slick internet manipulating, Sam fixed it so the license plate was registered to a Mr. Jack Spice, deceased as of ten years ago. They had to cut their losses on the weapons. Whatever money was left over from a new car would go towards rebuilding their arsenal. They had been lucky Sam had carried Dad's journal into the diner that night, or else they would have lost something no amount of time or money could replace.

Dean fanned himself with the check as he walked down the row of crappy cars. They were neither old nor new- just cheap, drivable machines for people who didn't care what it looked like so long as it had four wheels and moved. A '98 Sonoma- too girly. A '96 Accent- too foreign. An '01 Accord- too plain. Dean sighed. This totally sucked.

"This is the third place we've been too," Sam complained from behind him. "Can't you just pick something?"

"No, Sam, I can't. A car is special. Especially a Winchester car. We live in it- it can't be just any old piece of shit, it's gotta have heart." He let his fingers trail over the hood of a Jeep as he passed. Too gay.

"Heart?" Sam echoed. "If I remember correctly, heart only gets 10 miles to the gallon and is impossible to be inconspicuous in."

"Ghosts don't care if we're inconspicuous, Sam."

"It also means an air conditioning that only works half the time, no CD player, no electric anything and adding a quart of oil every thousand miles!"

He whirled, causing Sam to stop. "You're missing the point. It was the memories, Sammy. All those afternoons at the body shop, breathing in paint fumes and getting smeared with oil, watching Dad pour his heart and soul into getting that car to start- you remember that afternoon? When finally, after months of spending all his free time at the garage, it finally started up? You remember how proud he was? We ordered pizza that night and ate fucking dinner with that car. Never mind all the times it's saved our asses after that." Dean took a deep breath. Maybe he had lost something irreplaceable after all. "So quit bitching about her shortcomings. She was a damn fine car and you know it."

Sam was silent for a moment, all liquid puppy eyes and unspoken apologies. He blinked and nodded curtly, glancing away then back again. "Paint fumes? Is that what's wrong with you?"

Dean presented his middle finger before turning and stomping away.


"Dean, wait," Sam called, laughing. "I'm sorry, I-"

Dean gasped. "There it is."

He stopped, feeling his heart swell with excitement as his eyes roved over the long black body. His breath suddenly left him and he floated forwards, hand outstretched like he was approaching the Holy Grail. "This is it… this is my car."

The 1969 Dodge Charger sat at the end of the row, its nose jutting out past the line of cars as if to boast, 'I am special.'. The tires were big and deep black, encircling perfectly kept silver wheels. The body of the car was long and wide and screamed of power. The hood was long didn't have so much as a fucking swirl mark. Two doors took up the space of a modern-day car's four. The windows were clear and the roof reflected the bright afternoon sunlight like a priceless onyx stone. Dean trembled as he stood before it. It called to him.

"You want this one?" Sam asked incredulously, shattering the aphrodisiac-like silence. "I bet the gas mileage is even worse than the Impala's was." He kicked the tire and Dean cringed.

"Dude- step away from my car."

"Well it's not yours yet- and don't I get some say in this? I mean, I have to ride in it too."


"Why not?"

Dean eyes were tearing up. Damn sunlight. He blinked and the car blurred, shimmering brightly. He swallowed the lump in his throat. "It-" He stopped, clearing the squeak from his throat before continuing. "It's my check- my name's on it. My car." His voice was a whisper. "Mine."

"Ah- you boys found my newest prize!" A loud, obnoxious voice preceded the car salesman, who was probably Vinnie himself. "It sure is a beaut, isn't it?" He stopped beside Dean, hands on his hips, and admired the car.

Dean slapped the check against Vinnie. "Here. I'll take it."

Vinnie looked down, catching the check as Dean moved away. He read the dollar amount and looked at the brothers. "Sold."

It was the single most beautiful word Dean had ever heard.