Supernatural fic - "Walk With You In Dreams" (Part Three)
See the masterpost for summary, disclaimer, and previous parts.
Dean could remember the exact moment he realized he loved Carmen.
They had been on one of their Saturday drives.
They had been dating for two months, and Dean was spending more time at her place than his own bachelor pad. It was forgone that he'd wake up in her bed on a Saturday morning.
When Dean had a bad week at the garage, Carmen wouldn't try to talk him out of it. She didn't ask him to talk about it. Instead, she woke him up around lunchtime on Saturday by jingling the keys to the Impala next to his ear. Dean would get up, dress, and they'd hit the road.
Driving was therapeutic to Dean. It relaxed him. The open road, a badass car, classic rock pounding from the sound system. That was Dean's heart-to-heart. Carmen understood that about him, and she made him take the time to enjoy the road. She'd pack a lunch for them, and for the first half of the ride she sat in the passenger seat and said nothing. She let Dean work it out, get away from the week and bask in the road. When he'd left his mood behind, she was there for him.
Dean would find someplace to pull over and stop. That time, it was a patch of field. There were no signs of people as far as the eye could see. Lunch was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and potato chips. Not exactly fine dining, but Dean wasn't picky and PB&J traveled well in the car when Carmen had no way of knowing how long it would be before Dean stopped.
The real treat of the meal were the two long-neck beers of Dean's favorite brand.
By the time they finished eating and were nursing the last of their beers, Dean was laughing and couldn't remember what had been so bad about the week he'd just escaped. Carmen was playful and touchy.
And then Dean smiled as they both perched on the hood of the Impala when a great idea came to him. "Hey, Carmen… you ever seen the Whitesnake music video?"
Carmen took a swig. "Mmm… which one?"
"The one… you know… David Coverdale's girlfriend on the hood of the jaguar."
"Oh… yeah, sure," she answered, not sure where this was going.
Dean beamed and looked down meaningfully at the black hood beneath them.
Carmen busted out laughing. "No way!"
"Come on… please?"
He expected to beg and plead a lot more and her still not do it, but Carmen thought about it a second, then stood and purposefully handed him her beer.
"Seriously?!" Dean almost squeaked.
Carmen kicked off her shoes and put a foot on the front bumper. "Stand back."
Dean practically leapt off the hood and turned to gape.
Carmen carefully crawled on to the hood, blushed three shades darker, then just went for it. She writhed and plastered herself to the hood in about a dozen different poses, and Dean supposed it did look pretty silly (especially since Carmen was in jeans and a faded shirt from her college days), but he had never seen anything so erotic in his whole life.
Carmen finally couldn't keep a straight face anymore and started laughing. She laid splayed on her back on the hood, legs bent, arms thrown open, and hair fanning over the sleek black paintjob as she laughed her heart out to the sky.
That was even hotter.
Dean put down the beers on the ground and went to the Impala. Carmen tried to get off without putting dents in the hood (and seriously, at that moment, Dean didn't care), then she was sliding right into Dean's waiting arms.
Carmen tucked her face against his shoulder, body still shaking with laughter. "I can't believe I did that."
But she had. For him. Because he'd had a shitty week and she wanted him to feel better. She'd let go her inhibitions and done something embarrassing and spontaneous because she knew Dean would like it.
That was the moment Dean knew he loved Carmen.
*************************
Bit by bit, Dean starts to ignore the chicks in the bars. At first he found one here, another there, that he thought he could make do with. But the qualifications each girl must meet expands, the qualified applicant pool narrows, and eventually it's all but over before it starts because no babe in a bar is ever what Dean is looking for.
He's looking for dark hair, brown eyes, luminous smile… and someone who will dance on the hood for him. He doesn't doubt there are any number of women he could talk on to the hood, but it would be too easy and they'd make the act cheap, the performing tricks of shameless prostitutes. Whether selling for money or beer, it made no difference.
There's not a single one of those bimbos he wants putting a knee in his baby. He'd want to shoot them the first second the Impala's metal gave a thud of protest. Dean honestly thinks the Impala would protest on principle, because he knows she would only let Carmen do that to her.
The last few times he tries with women, because he's lonely and he wants contact and needs sex, it's a painful series of wrongs… they look wrong, taste wrong, smell wrong, move wrong. He leaves the encounter feeling guilty for sleeping with someone less than the woman in his dreams. She deserves better than to stand with such unworthy competition.
Sam starts to really worry, because Dean not interested in women is one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse in his world, but Dean won't give Sam any clues why all the women who were good enough before are beneath him now.
Dean doesn't explain that every woman on earth is now held to an impossible standard.
The Carmen Porter measure.
*************************
When Dean walks out of the old record store and heads for the Impala, Sam doesn't know what to expect. There is a staple brand and type of music Dean would pick, and Sam figures he'll just be happy Dean with adding some variety to the collection. It will be mullet rock, but new mullet rock. Dean has an ungodly tolerance for listening to the same dozen tapes forever, and Sam likes something new now and then. Even new mullet rock. Sam will take what he can get.
"So?" Sam asks when Dean gets in the car. He is hoping Dean might show a little enthusiasm. He's been so low-key since the djinn incident. Sam can't remember the last time he saw Dean smile, and that really bothers the youngest Winchester.
Dean pulls a scratched and battered cassette tape case out of the small paper bag, opens it, and sticks the cassette in the Impala's player. He turns the dial on the volume.
Music begins to spill forth from the speakers. It is Dean's brand of mullet, but Sam isn't as versed in the rock of 80s as Dean.
"Who is that?" he asks.
"Whitesnake," Dean grumps the answer, then starts the car.
Part Four
Dean could remember the exact moment he realized he loved Carmen.
They had been on one of their Saturday drives.
They had been dating for two months, and Dean was spending more time at her place than his own bachelor pad. It was forgone that he'd wake up in her bed on a Saturday morning.
When Dean had a bad week at the garage, Carmen wouldn't try to talk him out of it. She didn't ask him to talk about it. Instead, she woke him up around lunchtime on Saturday by jingling the keys to the Impala next to his ear. Dean would get up, dress, and they'd hit the road.
Driving was therapeutic to Dean. It relaxed him. The open road, a badass car, classic rock pounding from the sound system. That was Dean's heart-to-heart. Carmen understood that about him, and she made him take the time to enjoy the road. She'd pack a lunch for them, and for the first half of the ride she sat in the passenger seat and said nothing. She let Dean work it out, get away from the week and bask in the road. When he'd left his mood behind, she was there for him.
Dean would find someplace to pull over and stop. That time, it was a patch of field. There were no signs of people as far as the eye could see. Lunch was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and potato chips. Not exactly fine dining, but Dean wasn't picky and PB&J traveled well in the car when Carmen had no way of knowing how long it would be before Dean stopped.
The real treat of the meal were the two long-neck beers of Dean's favorite brand.
By the time they finished eating and were nursing the last of their beers, Dean was laughing and couldn't remember what had been so bad about the week he'd just escaped. Carmen was playful and touchy.
And then Dean smiled as they both perched on the hood of the Impala when a great idea came to him. "Hey, Carmen… you ever seen the Whitesnake music video?"
Carmen took a swig. "Mmm… which one?"
"The one… you know… David Coverdale's girlfriend on the hood of the jaguar."
"Oh… yeah, sure," she answered, not sure where this was going.
Dean beamed and looked down meaningfully at the black hood beneath them.
Carmen busted out laughing. "No way!"
"Come on… please?"
He expected to beg and plead a lot more and her still not do it, but Carmen thought about it a second, then stood and purposefully handed him her beer.
"Seriously?!" Dean almost squeaked.
Carmen kicked off her shoes and put a foot on the front bumper. "Stand back."
Dean practically leapt off the hood and turned to gape.
Carmen carefully crawled on to the hood, blushed three shades darker, then just went for it. She writhed and plastered herself to the hood in about a dozen different poses, and Dean supposed it did look pretty silly (especially since Carmen was in jeans and a faded shirt from her college days), but he had never seen anything so erotic in his whole life.
Carmen finally couldn't keep a straight face anymore and started laughing. She laid splayed on her back on the hood, legs bent, arms thrown open, and hair fanning over the sleek black paintjob as she laughed her heart out to the sky.
That was even hotter.
Dean put down the beers on the ground and went to the Impala. Carmen tried to get off without putting dents in the hood (and seriously, at that moment, Dean didn't care), then she was sliding right into Dean's waiting arms.
Carmen tucked her face against his shoulder, body still shaking with laughter. "I can't believe I did that."
But she had. For him. Because he'd had a shitty week and she wanted him to feel better. She'd let go her inhibitions and done something embarrassing and spontaneous because she knew Dean would like it.
That was the moment Dean knew he loved Carmen.
*************************
Bit by bit, Dean starts to ignore the chicks in the bars. At first he found one here, another there, that he thought he could make do with. But the qualifications each girl must meet expands, the qualified applicant pool narrows, and eventually it's all but over before it starts because no babe in a bar is ever what Dean is looking for.
He's looking for dark hair, brown eyes, luminous smile… and someone who will dance on the hood for him. He doesn't doubt there are any number of women he could talk on to the hood, but it would be too easy and they'd make the act cheap, the performing tricks of shameless prostitutes. Whether selling for money or beer, it made no difference.
There's not a single one of those bimbos he wants putting a knee in his baby. He'd want to shoot them the first second the Impala's metal gave a thud of protest. Dean honestly thinks the Impala would protest on principle, because he knows she would only let Carmen do that to her.
The last few times he tries with women, because he's lonely and he wants contact and needs sex, it's a painful series of wrongs… they look wrong, taste wrong, smell wrong, move wrong. He leaves the encounter feeling guilty for sleeping with someone less than the woman in his dreams. She deserves better than to stand with such unworthy competition.
Sam starts to really worry, because Dean not interested in women is one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse in his world, but Dean won't give Sam any clues why all the women who were good enough before are beneath him now.
Dean doesn't explain that every woman on earth is now held to an impossible standard.
The Carmen Porter measure.
*************************
When Dean walks out of the old record store and heads for the Impala, Sam doesn't know what to expect. There is a staple brand and type of music Dean would pick, and Sam figures he'll just be happy Dean with adding some variety to the collection. It will be mullet rock, but new mullet rock. Dean has an ungodly tolerance for listening to the same dozen tapes forever, and Sam likes something new now and then. Even new mullet rock. Sam will take what he can get.
"So?" Sam asks when Dean gets in the car. He is hoping Dean might show a little enthusiasm. He's been so low-key since the djinn incident. Sam can't remember the last time he saw Dean smile, and that really bothers the youngest Winchester.
Dean pulls a scratched and battered cassette tape case out of the small paper bag, opens it, and sticks the cassette in the Impala's player. He turns the dial on the volume.
Music begins to spill forth from the speakers. It is Dean's brand of mullet, but Sam isn't as versed in the rock of 80s as Dean.
"Who is that?" he asks.
"Whitesnake," Dean grumps the answer, then starts the car.
Part Four