and give no warning to her flight
Title: and give no warning to her flight
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: Dean and Ben, the night Dean hits the road.
The tarp over the Impala lets in a little bit of light. Not much, just a dull greenish-yellow glow, like being underwater. It smells like leather and burnt plastic inside, something sharp underneath that reminds him of Dean.
Dean used to sleep in here sometimes, when he first came to live with them. Ben's not supposed to know that. Ben's not supposed to know a whole lot of things, but he's not as dumb as some people think. He knows that their old neighbors thought that Dean was weird, that he drank too much, that he didn't know the right things to talk about at barbeques. He knows that Dean has nightmares, bad nightmares, and he knows about the stack of dusty old books with titles in different languages that's been piling up in the trunk of the Impala.
He knows that sometimes Dean would come downstairs in the middle of the night with a bottle of whiskey and sit in the front seat of the car drinking it. Sometimes he'd talk to the thin air in the passenger seat. This was back before he bought Sid's old truck. Before there was a tarp over the Impala, and Ben isn't supposed to know about any of it.
He hasn't done it in a long time, anyway. The new neighbors don't think anything's weird about him.
This isn't the first time Ben's come outside to sit in here. It's a good place to think. He's not digging around in the trunk and the tarp is covering all the windows, so when Dean ducks underneath to rap on the glass, he jumps about a mile in the air.
Dean taps the glass again. He doesn't looks mad, so Ben rolls down the window. "It's not my fault."
"Sure," Dean says. "You just accidentally teleported out here."
"Does that happen for real?"
"I thought I told you to stay out of the car."
"I was just--" Ben stops. Dean usually puts up with more excuses than Mom, but something tells him that now isn't the time. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah, yeah. Come on. Get out."
Ben slides out onto the floor of the garage. It's rough under his socks; he isn't wearing shoes."Are you mad?"
"Nah," Dean sighs. "I'm not mad. Listen, Ben--I'm sorry, dude. I've been a real--"
"--jerkwad?" Ben finishes.
"Something like that. I just worry, okay? About you and your mom."
"We're okay." More okay than Dean, he thinks, but he's not gonna say that.
Dean ruffles his hair. "I know."
He's wearing his leather jacket, the one that's been folded up in a box for months. It's an awesome jacket, scarred and old and rough-warm and Ben kind of wishes he'd had the guts to dig it out and try it on at least once, because it's kind of looking like he missed his chance. Dean hasn't worn that jacket since the first night he came here, and Ben might not know everything, but he isn't stupid. "You're leaving, aren't you?"
Dean doesn't try to deny it or anything. That's what's cool about Dean. He doesn't treat Ben like a kid most of the time. "Yeah, bud. I'm leaving."
Ben bites down hard on his lower lip. He's not gonna cry, jeez. "Okay. I mean, that's cool."
"I'll be back," Dean says. He lifts a hand and it just hangs in midair for a minute before he reaches out to ruffle Ben's hair. "I promise."
It's not like Ben's never heard one of Mom's boyfriends say that before, but this is Dean. He's different. "Will you teach me how to shoot before you go?"
"No."
"But it could be important. I mean, what if something happened?"
"Your mom has a gun." And yeah, now they're back to Dean not treating Ben like a kid most of the time. "She can handle it."
"But I could--"
"Ben. The answer is no."
Dean learned to shoot a gun when he was six. He's the one who told Ben that, even, rambling drunk that he probably doesn't even remember. He doesn't really drink anymore. Not much. Not enough to get Mom worried.
She used to worry a lot, but she's been happy lately. Or she was happy, until Sid and Mari died and they had to move three towns away. And Dean started getting weird. And now he's leaving.
He'll be back. He said he'll be back, and he wouldn't lie to Ben about that. His hand is heavy on the back of Ben's neck, guiding him back toward the house. Ben glances over his shoulder at Dean's car, the shape of it still hidden under the tarp. "When you come back, will you teach me to drive the Impala?"
Dean huffs out a laugh, smacks him gently upside the head. "You don't quit, do you?"
"How old were you when you learned to drive?"
"Old enough."
"Younger than me?"
"That's different."
"Why?" Ben asks. "I could drive. My feet reach the pedals. I bet I'm taller than you were when you were twelve, anyway."
"Yeah, probably," Dean says. "Doesn't matter. Just 'cause I did a lot of dumb shit when I was your age doesn't mean you're gonna get away with it."
"Like saying 'shit'." They're almost to the front door and he drops his voice on the last word. Mom's been threatening to wash his mouth out with soap if he doesn't quit cussing. Not that Ben really thinks she will, but he doesn't want to push it too far, just in case.
"For example."
"Or hunting."
"Okay, look." Dean sits down on the edge of the stoop, pats the plank next to him. Reluctantly, Ben sits. There's a big white house across the street, cracks in the walk to the driveway and the lawn is dry and yellow. The lawn at their old house was always green. Dean took care of it. He said he was gonna take care of this one too--said it just sat too long without anybody looking after it--but he's not. He's leaving. "Hunting--it's not like a story, okay? It's not just for fun. Most of the times it pretty much sucks, to tell you the truth."
"I know all that," Ben says. Jeez. Dean showed up at their house looking like a crazy person because of hunting. Something killed Sid and Mari. They had to go into hiding. He knows it's not a game. "But you're going."
"Yeah. I have to."
"Because of your brother." He doesn't say, Because you love him more than us. He doesn't even think it. Not really.
"Because--" Dean sighs. "Yeah, partly. But there's work out there that needs to get done, and I know how to do it."
"I could learn to do it."
Dean's quiet for a long moment. When Ben glances up at him, he's gazing at the ugly white house across the street, but it doesn't really look like he's seeing it. His eyebrows are pulled down low and his mouth is pursed. He looks thoughtful. "If," he says, then stops for another long time. "Ben, you're just a kid, dude."
"You were--"
"I was just a kid when I got in the life," Dean interrupts. "I didn't get a chance to just...you know, do kid stuff. Ride a bike. Play baseball. Go to school."
"School sucks."
"It's a lot better than the alternative," Dean says. "Trust me. Go to school. Work on your curveball. Look after your mom. Be a kid." He stops for a moment. "Maybe, uh. Maybe when you're older we'll talk about this again, okay? But not now."
He looks like he's not sure he wants to be saying that even while the words are coming out of his mouth. It's a complicated expression that Ben doesn't quite know how to read, like the one Mom wore when she was on the phone with Nana three nights ago and saying that she couldn't tell her their new address.
Scared. Dean looks scared. It makes Ben's stomach feel squirmy and unpleasant. "Okay," he says finally.
Dean breathes out a sigh, relaxes just a little. "Good."
"You should still teach me how to drive your car when you get back, though."
The rest of the tension drains out of Dean, and he laughs, shakes his head. "You are one stubborn little jackass, anybody ever tell you that?"
"Just you," Ben says, grinning. "Mom's gonna make you put money in the swear jar if she hears you."
"You gonna rat me out?"
"You gonna teach me to drive?"
"I'll think about it," Dean says. He braces himself against the porch railing to stand, reaches down to give Ben a hand up. "Come on. Dinnertime."
"When are you leaving?"
"Later on tonight. Thought I'd get a meal in first."
"Are you--" he bites down on the rest of the sentence.
Dean pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "Ben, I'll be back. I promise."
Ben nods, mutely, and follows him back inside.
***
Later that night, he stands on the porch and watches the Impala pull out of the driveway. It doesn't really look like it belongs. Too shiny-sleek and cool for this normal little street.
Dean sticks a hand out the window to wave, and then there's the sound of Zeppelin cranking up, the low rumble of the engine as the car accelerates around a turn, and he's gone.
The sound of the engine lingers, though, and Ben stands there until he can't hear it anymore.
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: Dean and Ben, the night Dean hits the road.
The tarp over the Impala lets in a little bit of light. Not much, just a dull greenish-yellow glow, like being underwater. It smells like leather and burnt plastic inside, something sharp underneath that reminds him of Dean.
Dean used to sleep in here sometimes, when he first came to live with them. Ben's not supposed to know that. Ben's not supposed to know a whole lot of things, but he's not as dumb as some people think. He knows that their old neighbors thought that Dean was weird, that he drank too much, that he didn't know the right things to talk about at barbeques. He knows that Dean has nightmares, bad nightmares, and he knows about the stack of dusty old books with titles in different languages that's been piling up in the trunk of the Impala.
He knows that sometimes Dean would come downstairs in the middle of the night with a bottle of whiskey and sit in the front seat of the car drinking it. Sometimes he'd talk to the thin air in the passenger seat. This was back before he bought Sid's old truck. Before there was a tarp over the Impala, and Ben isn't supposed to know about any of it.
He hasn't done it in a long time, anyway. The new neighbors don't think anything's weird about him.
This isn't the first time Ben's come outside to sit in here. It's a good place to think. He's not digging around in the trunk and the tarp is covering all the windows, so when Dean ducks underneath to rap on the glass, he jumps about a mile in the air.
Dean taps the glass again. He doesn't looks mad, so Ben rolls down the window. "It's not my fault."
"Sure," Dean says. "You just accidentally teleported out here."
"Does that happen for real?"
"I thought I told you to stay out of the car."
"I was just--" Ben stops. Dean usually puts up with more excuses than Mom, but something tells him that now isn't the time. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah, yeah. Come on. Get out."
Ben slides out onto the floor of the garage. It's rough under his socks; he isn't wearing shoes."Are you mad?"
"Nah," Dean sighs. "I'm not mad. Listen, Ben--I'm sorry, dude. I've been a real--"
"--jerkwad?" Ben finishes.
"Something like that. I just worry, okay? About you and your mom."
"We're okay." More okay than Dean, he thinks, but he's not gonna say that.
Dean ruffles his hair. "I know."
He's wearing his leather jacket, the one that's been folded up in a box for months. It's an awesome jacket, scarred and old and rough-warm and Ben kind of wishes he'd had the guts to dig it out and try it on at least once, because it's kind of looking like he missed his chance. Dean hasn't worn that jacket since the first night he came here, and Ben might not know everything, but he isn't stupid. "You're leaving, aren't you?"
Dean doesn't try to deny it or anything. That's what's cool about Dean. He doesn't treat Ben like a kid most of the time. "Yeah, bud. I'm leaving."
Ben bites down hard on his lower lip. He's not gonna cry, jeez. "Okay. I mean, that's cool."
"I'll be back," Dean says. He lifts a hand and it just hangs in midair for a minute before he reaches out to ruffle Ben's hair. "I promise."
It's not like Ben's never heard one of Mom's boyfriends say that before, but this is Dean. He's different. "Will you teach me how to shoot before you go?"
"No."
"But it could be important. I mean, what if something happened?"
"Your mom has a gun." And yeah, now they're back to Dean not treating Ben like a kid most of the time. "She can handle it."
"But I could--"
"Ben. The answer is no."
Dean learned to shoot a gun when he was six. He's the one who told Ben that, even, rambling drunk that he probably doesn't even remember. He doesn't really drink anymore. Not much. Not enough to get Mom worried.
She used to worry a lot, but she's been happy lately. Or she was happy, until Sid and Mari died and they had to move three towns away. And Dean started getting weird. And now he's leaving.
He'll be back. He said he'll be back, and he wouldn't lie to Ben about that. His hand is heavy on the back of Ben's neck, guiding him back toward the house. Ben glances over his shoulder at Dean's car, the shape of it still hidden under the tarp. "When you come back, will you teach me to drive the Impala?"
Dean huffs out a laugh, smacks him gently upside the head. "You don't quit, do you?"
"How old were you when you learned to drive?"
"Old enough."
"Younger than me?"
"That's different."
"Why?" Ben asks. "I could drive. My feet reach the pedals. I bet I'm taller than you were when you were twelve, anyway."
"Yeah, probably," Dean says. "Doesn't matter. Just 'cause I did a lot of dumb shit when I was your age doesn't mean you're gonna get away with it."
"Like saying 'shit'." They're almost to the front door and he drops his voice on the last word. Mom's been threatening to wash his mouth out with soap if he doesn't quit cussing. Not that Ben really thinks she will, but he doesn't want to push it too far, just in case.
"For example."
"Or hunting."
"Okay, look." Dean sits down on the edge of the stoop, pats the plank next to him. Reluctantly, Ben sits. There's a big white house across the street, cracks in the walk to the driveway and the lawn is dry and yellow. The lawn at their old house was always green. Dean took care of it. He said he was gonna take care of this one too--said it just sat too long without anybody looking after it--but he's not. He's leaving. "Hunting--it's not like a story, okay? It's not just for fun. Most of the times it pretty much sucks, to tell you the truth."
"I know all that," Ben says. Jeez. Dean showed up at their house looking like a crazy person because of hunting. Something killed Sid and Mari. They had to go into hiding. He knows it's not a game. "But you're going."
"Yeah. I have to."
"Because of your brother." He doesn't say, Because you love him more than us. He doesn't even think it. Not really.
"Because--" Dean sighs. "Yeah, partly. But there's work out there that needs to get done, and I know how to do it."
"I could learn to do it."
Dean's quiet for a long moment. When Ben glances up at him, he's gazing at the ugly white house across the street, but it doesn't really look like he's seeing it. His eyebrows are pulled down low and his mouth is pursed. He looks thoughtful. "If," he says, then stops for another long time. "Ben, you're just a kid, dude."
"You were--"
"I was just a kid when I got in the life," Dean interrupts. "I didn't get a chance to just...you know, do kid stuff. Ride a bike. Play baseball. Go to school."
"School sucks."
"It's a lot better than the alternative," Dean says. "Trust me. Go to school. Work on your curveball. Look after your mom. Be a kid." He stops for a moment. "Maybe, uh. Maybe when you're older we'll talk about this again, okay? But not now."
He looks like he's not sure he wants to be saying that even while the words are coming out of his mouth. It's a complicated expression that Ben doesn't quite know how to read, like the one Mom wore when she was on the phone with Nana three nights ago and saying that she couldn't tell her their new address.
Scared. Dean looks scared. It makes Ben's stomach feel squirmy and unpleasant. "Okay," he says finally.
Dean breathes out a sigh, relaxes just a little. "Good."
"You should still teach me how to drive your car when you get back, though."
The rest of the tension drains out of Dean, and he laughs, shakes his head. "You are one stubborn little jackass, anybody ever tell you that?"
"Just you," Ben says, grinning. "Mom's gonna make you put money in the swear jar if she hears you."
"You gonna rat me out?"
"You gonna teach me to drive?"
"I'll think about it," Dean says. He braces himself against the porch railing to stand, reaches down to give Ben a hand up. "Come on. Dinnertime."
"When are you leaving?"
"Later on tonight. Thought I'd get a meal in first."
"Are you--" he bites down on the rest of the sentence.
Dean pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "Ben, I'll be back. I promise."
Ben nods, mutely, and follows him back inside.
***
Later that night, he stands on the porch and watches the Impala pull out of the driveway. It doesn't really look like it belongs. Too shiny-sleek and cool for this normal little street.
Dean sticks a hand out the window to wave, and then there's the sound of Zeppelin cranking up, the low rumble of the engine as the car accelerates around a turn, and he's gone.
The sound of the engine lingers, though, and Ben stands there until he can't hear it anymore.