Prompt: Supernatural, the Impala, actually she'd much rather drive around with a pair of normal people who didn't spill blood on her seats and get her tossed around by angels every other week.
Baby is one awesome car. There's no denying it. She's black, she's shiny, she's got leather seats; she's a friggin' classic muscle car, man. She's got a good-looking driver, another good-looking passenger, good music, and there's an armory in her trunk.
She is one cool car.
She's not perfect. No, far from perfect. She's got millions of miles on her odometer (she'd stopped counting somewhere around Kentucky the 230th time across), she's got maybe ten original pieces left in her (especially after that first crash), she eats up gas like a dumped chick gobbles up chocolate, she creaks and she groans, and she hates being so goddamned ancient.
She's not that old in years, but it's the mileage, baby.
Cold winters, when Dean coaxes her through sheets of falling snowflakes, and piles of snow on the roads, she pushes along, heater sputtering sporadically as she goes. It's times like these when she dreams.
She dreams of rest, of a warm tarp covering her, of being inside. She dreams.
Dark nights, one or both of her boys bleeding out on her leather seats, Dean's driving weaving side to side from the loss of blood, she dreams.
She dreams of spilled juice, children's laughter. She dreams.
Tires squealing, metal screaming, things, angels, people, monsters being thrown into her, denting her, turning her over, crashing her. It's times like these when she dreams.
She dreams of being driven on special occasions, taken to classic automobile shows, being oohed and ahhed over. She dreams.
But when they're on the road, just her, Dean, and Sammy, Baby doesn't mind so much. It's a long road ahead of them, but it's times like these when she remembers. She remembers little Dean and baby Sammy in her back seat (sometimes spilling apple juice, orange juice, cookie crumbs), laughing and giggling, cocooned in the safe confines of her big leather seats. She remembers Dean's exuberant pride when someone stops and admires her. It's good to be admired; she knows she's a goddamned pretty car, and she knows Dean enjoys keeping her looking this good. She remembers that year of being locked up in the garage, covered up, put away like all of Dean's memories of hunting. She remembers how lonely she'd felt until he'd finally taken her out of storage and she remembers how it felt to be just the two of them again, driving out on the open road.
She remembers all this and thinks, "Maybe this life isn't so bad after all. Maybe this week they won't bleed on me or crash me. That would be a nice change. Maybe normal is overrated."