Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, Supernatural or any related characters. Potter belongs to JK Rowling, and Supernatural belongs to Kripke.
Author's Note: A funny little prompt (for the actual prompt you can go to my livejournal—didn't want to give too much of the story away by listing it here) given to me for the Wishlist 2011 challenge. A note on setting: this is post HP book 7 (but pre-Epilogue), as for Supernatural… I think this could be placed somewhere in Season 4. I don't plan to mention anything specific, but just to give you an idea. Oh, and"#" denotes a scene change.
He Can Fly (Repeat)!
Dean wasn't sure when, exactly, the wheels of his beloved Impala had ceased to touch pavement. It might have been somewhere in the middle of Blue Oyster Cult's "I Love the Night," or it could have been right at the end of Jefferson Airplane's "White Rabbit." All Dean knew for sure was that, once he had noticed it (which was at precisely seven feet, he guessed, off the asphalt), he couldn't stop it.
"What that frickin' Hell?"
Dean's grip on the steering wheel tightened as he was gradually able to peek inside the upper stories of passing buildings. His breathing was becoming rapid as he tried everything to get the car to go lower—braking, accelerating, even just leaning dramatically forward. But nothing worked and soon the top of the Impala was skimming cloud. Somewhere, way in the back of his head, he knew that it wasn't going to really do any good, but Dean still took just a moment, lifted his hands off the wheel, and locked all the doors.
"Damn, damn, damn. What the Hell?" he muttered over and over until it was almost like a chant.
Afraid that the car would just plummet, Dean kept his foot steady on the gas, and his hands tight on the wheel. The skyline flew by him undisturbed, with Dean's stomach rolling as he was able to look down and see the tops of high hills and small mountains. He jerked the wheel—he wasn't sure why—and the Impala made a desperate right turn just before beginning a nose-dive.
Dean screamed. He wasn't proud of it, and he was pretty sure it sounded kind of girly. But he screamed, pulled back on the wheel like he'd seen pilots on movies do (although, for his car, it did nothing), and put his foot on the gas. He was still in a spiral moments later as something small and hard hit him in the back of his head. He ignored it, pulled the wheel to the left, and gassed it again. He pulled out of the descent and rose once more. Once the Impala was steady—and again, too high—he tried to replicate what had caused his descent. This time, though, with a bit more gentleness. However, all it did was make it turn, gradually, to the right.
He whined, glad that no one was with him to hear it. The throbbing on the back of his head became a bit more pronounced as he reached back to rub the spot where that random thing had collided with him. His eyes searched in front of him, trying to find the culprit, and came to rest on his cell phone sitting on the dash. He blinked, reaching slowly for it.
"Let me have service," he muttered as he grabbed it and flipped it open.
Before he could even locate the signal bars on the screen, he flew past a blinking cellphone tower. He nodded, dialing in Sam's number.
"Well, all right, then," he said.
Precisely twenty seconds before Sam's cellphone rang, he became painfully aware that he was being watched. Normally, this would have made his guard go way up, ready to take down whatever evil seemed intent on destroying him. But, as Sam allowed his eyes to search the tables of the outdoor diner/café hybrid he had stopped at to get Dean's requested pie, his gaze landed on the one figure that was oh-so-obviously staring right at him. Sam couldn't explain it, but there was just something about this man—with his bright ginger hair, round face, and eyes full of curiosity—that was entirely nonthreatening. So, when Sam saw Dean's name flash up on the ID of the phone, he answered it without a second thought to the leering ginger-haired man.
"Dean, where the hell are you, man? Your pie's gonna get cold," Sam said by way of greeting.
"Shut up and listen, Sammy. I've got… I've got a problem. A big, big problem," Dean replied.
No comments about the state of his pie? Sam's brow furrowed.
Sam blinked and looked around. There was no Impala in sight, and the only oddity was the ever-staring Ginger Man.
"What are you talking about?"
Sam listened as Dean explained, as quickly and as huffily as possible, his ordeal with his now flying car. Sam nodded along, fully aware that his brother couldn't see him, and when Dean finally stopped, he sighed.
"So… what do you think it is?"
Dean growled, "I don't know! If I knew, I might be able to fix it… Jesus… Sammy, I just got passed by a duck."
"Must've been one hell of a speeding duck. I've seen the way you drive."
Sam managed to hold back all but a few snickers. Going serious once again, he sighed.
"You're in a flying car. I've never heard of something like this."
Sam's eyes flickered up to the Ginger-Haired Man, a sudden movement drawing his attention. Sam's watcher's expression had changed. He looked… uninterested… well, like he was trying to look uninterested. His body was twisted to face away from Sam, while his face was still half-way toward Sam's direction. There was still something non-threatening about the man, but Sam's eyes narrowed nonetheless. After all, no one likes to be eavesdropped upon.
"Maybe it's cursed," Sam suggested.
"No. Not my baby," Dean spat.
Sam sighed. "Your baby or not, it's possible."
"No. I would know, Sam. I would just know."
"Well, then, what do you want from me? Where are you, anyway?"
Dean sighed. "I don't know. It looks all weird from up here. Whoa!"
"Had to dodge another duck. Damn things need to learn how to fly."
Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm calling Bobby."
"Do that. And hurry up. I think I'm making my way back to town," Dean responded.
"Stay outta sight, Dean. If someone down here sees you…"
Now, the Ginger-Haired Man was looking skyward, a look of child-like glee on his face. Sam muttered something in the way of letting his brother go, and immediately called Bobby. After a few rings, he responded to Bobby's greeting with, "We've got a problem."
It took Sam only a matter of minutes to explain the situation. The Impala was making like an airplane, and Dean was in it… and didn't like it. This was greeted with a measure of silence from his fellow hunter. Finally, Bobby sighed.
"Sam, is there a guy with really bright red hair sittin' anywhere near you?"
Sam looked up to see the Ginger-Haired Man now looking away in such a manner that it was obvious that he was still listening.
"Yeah," he responded. "But Bobby—?"
"Just hand him the phone."
Sam pulled the phone away from his ear, blinking in confusion at it for just a second. Finally, he stood and crossed the distance between him and the man in just a few paces. Lightly, he cleared his throat. The man blinked up at him, starting just a bit.
"Um… it's for you," Sam said, handing him off the phone.
"Really? Thank you," he said, taking the cell phone, putting it slowly to his ear.
He had a distinctly English accent, and Sam shoved his hands into his pockets as he could only stand by and watch this stranger carry on a conversation on his phone.
"Yes, Bobby, it's me," he said.
A few moments of silence, and the man hung his head. "Yes… I enchanted the car."
Sam thought he could hear Bobby's voice raising, but he still couldn't make out any of his words. The stranger nodded.
"Of course, I will. Yes. Good-bye."
With a sigh, he closed Sam's cell and stood, handing it back to him.
"Ring your brother, Sam," he said. "I'll instruct him on how to land."
Dean was more than a little surprised to answer the phone that announced his brother calling, only to hear a British stranger on the other end. He introduced himself as Arthur Weasley, and he began to tell Dean how to get the Impala back down to earth. He directed Dean to find an empty field—which he did—and told him precisely how to use the combination of gas, brake, and steering to bring the car down. Dean had never been so happy as to feel the small bounce the wheels of his Impala made as they collided with grass. His telephone conversation with Arthur ended with, "Sam and I'll be there momentarily."
Dean had enough time to step out of his vehicle before a loud pop sounded just off to his right. He jumped. Sam and a red-haired man who could only be Arthur had appeared.
"Terribly sorry about all this," Arthur sighed sadly. "America doesn't have the same laws we have across the pond when it comes to enchanting vehicles. And when I saw this beauty… I just couldn't resist."
"Fix… it," Dean growled.
Arthur nodded, not the least bit intimidated. "Of course."
Arthur took out what appeared to be a polished stick and muttered a few words over the Impala. Nodding, he put the stick away.
"It better be," Dean said, jabbing a finger into Arthur's face. "You're lucky I don't freakin' kill you! What the hell gives you the right to go around, echantin' other people's cars?"
"I really am sorry," Arthur said, backing up just a pace.
"Bobby said not to kill him, Dean," Sam explained.
"You know Bobby?" Dean snapped.
"Oh, yes," Arthur laughed. "We're old chums. I used to de-enchant cursed objects he'd send me. Still do, on occasion."
"Whatever," Dean said, yanking open the driver-side door. "Let's go, Sammy."
He entered the vehicle with a slam, leaving Sam to turn and thank Arthur one final time.
"It's no problem. I love flying cars. Unfortunately, something keeps happening to all the ones I enchant. It seems I'll never get to own one of my very own," he sighed.
Sam blinked, casting a cautious glance in Dean's direction.
"You know… Bobby does own that whole junkyard full of cars. Maybe…"
Arthur's face lit up. "Yes! Of course! I'll head there straightaway!"
With another pop, he vanished. Sam grinned. So what if a part of one of those cars happened to get enchanted? There was so many, the odds of them ending up as a repair piece for the Impala… Sam couldn't help but chuckle as he climbed in the vehicle.