Hey, everyone! Leafeh here, reporting for duty. Thanks for stopping by.
Basically, one of my friends got me hooked on Supernatural a few months ago, and seeing as I don't have the guts to write current-day fanfiction, I'm sticking my story far in the future. This way, I can avoid messing with those Winchester guys, unless my brain forces me in a different direction.
This first chapter is more of an exploratory chapter, and I may re-work it entirely, but it should be helpful. I'll be writing this thing in episode format once the action starts picking up, so if you have any ideas for an episode, send 'em my way. Anything goes, seriously. Let me know what you all think!
A rock clanged off the rusty hood of a car and tumbled to the dirt, joining a few of its fellows next to the wheel. Another followed. A lonely noise like the scraping of an empty trash can trailed each stone to the ground as a group of boys tossed them half-heartedly, regarded in disinterest by one girl with brown hair in a ponytail, for the express purpose of hearing the metal protest. It was a bored kind of day. They'd already been past the car twice. It was a vintage car - one of the kinds people'd forgotten the name of - sitting on the wayside of the back road on their path to school, tangled in dead grass and weed-trees. As far as anyone cared to know, someone had parked it there years ago and taken off, leaving it to be eaten up by dying foliage. The patches of rust that had marked the years had enveloped the car, leaving it a pale sun-bleached red.
The pack of boys and one girl kicked around the patch of dirt for a few more minutes; then they left for their respective homes, seeking a more entertaining time than could be afforded by an old junk car. They moved off down the dirt road. The car squatted in their wake, left alone again in the hazy cast of sundown.
Devon's garage and the lot outside was packed with cars. Most of them were old - decades old, even. One of them, a scuffed 1980's Ford pickup with bent rims, had been kicking around for close to a century. They sat together like huddled refugees, their dead engines magnifying the silence as Devon's boots crunched through the gravel. The late sunlight gleamed off their hoods and struck her eyes, forcing a squint from her as she maneuvered among them toward her father's small house.
The house was bland and modest, only half the size of the garage- just a one-story wood structure with half a front porch and a dangling light bulb over the door - but the smell wafting from it was Devon's favorite combination of metal grease, pine and the beginnings of one of her dad's razzleberry pies. Her hazel eyes lit up and she bounded up the front steps with a grin, hoisting her backpack over her shoulder. Her dad met her at the door with a similar smile.
Wendell Rorschak was a big man - muscular, hazel-eyed like his daughter, with an unruly crew-cut of black hair and a half-grown beard darkening his chin. He opened his arms for her, and she pulled in a deep breath full of the dusty-flannel smell of his shirt. "How's the day been?" She loved hearing her dad's husky workman's voice.
"Boring, as usual." Devon dropped her school things on the couch and pulled her long tawny hair out of its ponytail. "I smell pie." She headed directly to their tiny kitchen, followed by a trail of Wendell's deep chuckles.
The pie was really her mother's recipe, but since she'd moved away, Wendell had had to take over the baking of pies. Zoe Rorschak had never liked the recipe, but her ex-husband and daughter loved it. Devon would come home to the smell of raspberries and blackberries baking under a sugary crust at least once a week. The pie was a dietary staple in the little Rorschak household.
Devon cut herself a slice and sat down at their two-chair kitchen table, followed by Wendell holding an equally large slice. This was where the honorary pause always fell, when both of them would wait for the other to start the conversation, even though Wendell always did.
"Well," he began with a forkful of pie filling, "I got a new client this afternoon. Nice fellow. Brought in that '89 Cadillac out in the lot." "The new red one? I noticed that. Think you'll have the parts for it?"
"For a blown carborator? Oh, yeah. Owner's nice as anyone I've met, but he doesn't know jack about cars, 'specially old ones like that '89. Makes me wonder how he's kept it running so long." Wendell shook his head in bafflement.
"Maybe he got it from someone else?"
"Yeah, maybe. Think he said somethin' about his usual mechanic bein' outta' town. Dunno who else around here'd have the know-how for old boats like ours, but maybe it's a family thing."
"Well, if you want my help, you know where to find me." Devon stacked her plate in the sink and made to retrieve her school things.
"Yeah. Math again." Devon slipped into her room and left the door open a crack, listening to the sound of her father's boots mussing around the kitchen, then traipsing out the door toward the car lot. Cross-legged on her quilted bed, she turned to her books and began laying out some paper.
Half an hour later, books closed and stacked in perfect order, Devon pulled on her boots and trumped out to the lot. The sun was down, leaving the sky a clear inky blue, and a row of industrial street lights glazed white fluorescence over the field of cars. She found her father clanking around under the hood of a 2007 Toyota, arms greased up to the elbows. Hair tied back once again, she rolled up her sleeves and joined him.
Two miles away, wrapped in shadows, the rusted Impala sat hunched in a thicket. Somewhere inside the dashboard, a cricket chirruped. A hand reached out in the darkness and ran along the rim of the driver's door. It paused at the handle; made as if to open it - then slid on past it, down the length of the car. Soft footfalls circled the trunk. A sigh breathed out into the dark.
"Thank you for taking care of them," a voice murmured. A slight breeze rose and swept the words into the air, caressing the leaves into motion. When it settled, the voice and the footfalls were gone.
Alone, the cricket resumed its number.