fic: the greatest hits of mullet rock
THIS IS ALL FLESHFLUTTER'S FAULT. SHE ENCOURAGED ME. And you should probably all read The mullet is more than a hairstyle to share the pain to understand the inspiration from whence this sprung.
The greatest hits of mullet rock
PG-13 for distressing themes and implied Ash/Impala(/mullet), 2600~ words.
(don't worry, OTPers; Dean/Impala is the true romance of the piece.)
The Impala grows a mullet, Dean suffers great emotional distress, and Ash saves the day with his penis.
When Sam first notices it, leaning up against the car as he watches Dean buy gas station candy, it’s just another layer of grime, dust-coloured and soft as sand; pretty weird for the never-ending corn-fields of Iowa, sure, but not exactly the weirdest thing Sam’s ever seen in his life. He thumbs at the roof, and frowns as it doesn’t wipe off, but doesn’t really pay it any mind beyond that.
“Man,” he calls, with a loose grin, the second Dean’s back within hearing range. “Have you and your baby had a falling out or something?”
Dean, tossing his candy up into the air and catching it again, shoots Sam a look of blank incomprehension. “Huh?”
“The car,” Sam says, jerking his head towards the roof. “Last time you didn’t spend your life obsessively washing it was ‘cause you broke your hand.”
Dean throws Sam his candy bar without looking, already focussed on inspecting the Impala and tutting at the dust. He rubs a hand across the roof, glares down at his fingers as they come away clean, and mutters, “Fucking Iowa,” with a light in his eyes that speaks of soap and water and compulsive waxing.
“Yeah, Dean,” Sam snorts, folding himself back into shotgun. “Iowa’s out to get you.”
*
By the next morning, it’s started growing
It’s also their day off, the downtime between finishing one hunt and finding the next, and Sam is spending his precious free time on an extremely leisurely lie-in when Dean wakes him up with a shout.
“Sam!” he calls, voice muffled by distance and filled with despair, and Sam jerks awake already preparing himself for the worst. Doom, death, beheadings, whatever; what he isn’t expecting so much for is for Dean to come barging back into their room seconds later and grab Sam by the elbows with slick, soapy hands, dripping water all over his bedclothes.
“’sawhat?” Sam says, with all the eloquence he can muster. “Water spirit? Soap... thing?”
“No. What? C’mon, man--” is all Dean says, distractedly, hustling Sam up and out of the room
“Hey, wait, at least let me put on my pants...” Sam trails off as Dean shoves him through the door, taking in the scene. It’s like a carwash battlefield: bucket overturned, a single sponge lying forlornly in a bubbly puddle, and the Impala slap-bang in the middle of it all with a-- with a something on its roof.
“It’s not hair,” says Sam, eventually. “Cars don’t grow hair.”
“Then what is it, genius?” Dean snaps out.
Sam diplomatically lets the aggression slide, given the circumstances, and takes a cautious step towards the Impala. The whatever-it-is rustles gently in the breeze; it’s an inch or so long, the same dusty colour as the whatever-it-was the day before, and it doesn’t respond when Sam lays a careful hand on it. He takes that as a good sign.
“Might be some kind of grass,” he says. “Seeds get picked up the by wind, settle on the roof, take sprout.”
“Overnight? On a car?” Dean sounds sceptical, and when Sam turns back to him, he’s glaring down at the car-grass like it’s a personal affront. There’s an edge of concern to his expression- of hurt that the world could even do this to him, after everything else- and just looking at it kind of makes Sam want to hug his brother.
“We-- we could try mowing it,” he suggests, instead.
*
Two hours later, all they’ve gained are some really stiff fingers and a pair of broken nail-scissors, thanks to Dean stamping on the things in frustration. No matter how much they cut, the grass-- okay, okay, the hair just keeps growing back.
Sam isn’t going to mention it first, but he’s pretty sure it’s growing longer.
“Let’s just go,” says Dean, with a detached kind of calm, after he’s given Sam’s bent former-nail-scissors one last, good kicking. “This motel’s probably cursed, or something, yeah? When we go, the hair’ll go too, yeah?”
Sam glances down at the Impala’s roof; it’s not even been a day, and already he’s starting to feel like, somehow, the hair is watching them.
“Yeah,” he says. “Okay. You’re probably right, Dean. Let’s go.”
He isn’t saying anything until Dean brings it up first, but-- he’s pretty sure the hair is laughing at them, too.
*
It’s gone dark by the time they give up, in mutual and silent agreement as the first motel in forty minutes comes into view on the horizon. Dean pulls into the near-empty parking lot and just sits for a while, hands tight on the wheel as he glares blankly at the check-in office in front of them.
“I don’t think we can drive away from this one,” Sam says gently, after a minute’s silence.
Dean grunts and, after another, shorter pause, kills the engine. He scrubs a hand across his face, muttering, “You get us a room. I’m gonna--”
Sam goes without a fuss, willing to give his brother the space he needs. By the time he gets back with a room key- after what felt like an eternity of confirming with the guy at the desk that, yeah, their car has hair- Dean’s gotten out of the Impala and is leaning up against it with his arms folded on the roof. Driving’s just made the hair grow, Sam notes; now it’s long enough that Dean’s elbows are completely obscured.
He doesn’t bother asking if Dean is okay, just waves the key with a rattle and turns towards their room-number, listening to the sound of Dean’s footsteps a few paces behind his own.
Dean breaks the silence first, once he’s tugged his boots off and claimed the least-saggy mattress. “Could be a werewolf,” he says.
Sam frowns. “Werecar.”
“I mean, teeth like that could totally puncture a tyre, right?” Dean soldiers on, ignoring Sam’s contribution to the disscusion. “And, I dunno, werewolves heal pretty fast, don’t they? Maybe the tyre healed itself up before we could notice, and now we’ve-- we’ve got a monster-car hybrid, growing hair and fangs and shit.”
“But cars don’t have blood.”
“Coulda got into the oil,” Dean retorts. There’s an edge of hysteria to his voice. “Or worked its mojo some other way, I dunno. Things probably work differently with cars. Maybe the werewolf pisses on them or somethin’. Oh God, maybe my baby’s gonna start eating people.”
“Cars don’t have mouths either,” Sam reminds him. Definitely hysteria. Taking care not to make any sudden movements, he sits down next to Dean on the sagging bed and lays a tentative hand on his shoulder. “You’ve been driving all day, man. Get some sleep. I’ll see what I can find out.”
He boots his laptop up, watching as Dean shambles around the room, brushing his teeth and stripping down to his underwear and occasionally pausing to say “I’m telling you, werewolves, man” until Sam obligingly opens up all his bookmarks on werewolf lore. Ten minutes later, Dean’s safely under the bedcovers and making soft, little sleep noises, and Sam opens up Google and begins the search for heavy-duty shears instead.
*
The next day, it takes one look out the window for Dean to pass the car-keys mutely to Sam.
“Beer,” he says, distantly. “Get me beer. We need lots and lots of beer.”
There and back is a two-hour-drive, in a car with three or four inches now of floppy, spiky hair, and maybe in some other situation Sam would put up a fight at Dean’s command. As it is, however, he takes the keys without a word of complaint.
Two hours later, he closes the curtains firmly and together they get really, really drunk.
*
They don’t go out again until the next morning, and by then it’s-- there’s no other word for it- it’s a mullet. The roof of the car is covered in the usual thatch of brown hair to which Sam had kinda been growing accustomed; but at the back, it’s gotten so long the rear window is entirely covered, ends brushing the top of the trunk, and Sam is pretty fucking sure the tendrils are waving at him, despite there being no wind.
When Dean emerges from their room, one look at the car is all it takes before he sits down heavily on the ground. He lets out a low, pained noise and buries his face in his hands.
“C’mon,” Sam says. “It’s not all bad--” He has to pause and think about it, before he adds, “Hey, at least it’s not a perm.”
“Oh God,” Dean moans into his hands.
Sam crouches down next to him, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. “And we can rule out werecar now, I think,” he continues, bracingly. “I’m pretty sure no country’s werewolf lore involves mullets. That’s pretty weird, even for us.”
“Oh God,” Dean moans again, sticking with what works.
The tendrils, Sam notes as he pats Dean’s trembling shoulders, are definitely waving at him.
*
For all the car-mullet thing has officially become a We’re Not Talking About It topic, Sam’s pretty sure that they’re both bracing themselves for the worst the following morning, after another night of useless investigation into curses, hairdressers and gardening supplies. Sam doesn’t really know what could top ‘oh, my car has grown a mullet’ in the awfulness stakes- mostly he’s just praying like hell they won’t wake up to a perm- until he stumbles blearily out of the door early the next morning to be met with--
Well.
To be met with the sight of a bald guy kneeling behind the be-mulleted Impala, pants down and cock in hand and a seriously perplexed look on his face as he frowns down at the exhaust pipe.
Sam goes numb. His blood runs cold. There is always- a little part of him thinks, distantly- there is always something worse than your car growing a mullet, and that is the discovery that someone else wants to fuck it.
“Sam?” calls a voice from behind him, jolting him out of his horrified reverie. Too late, sunk too deeply into his own little well of personal despair, Sam realises that Dean is awake and up and already coming out of the door.
“Don’t look!” he shouts, spinning around to block Dean’s path. “Oh God, don’t look, Dean! You don’t need to see this!”
Dean opens his mouth, to defy Sam or question him or maybe just yawn; Sam doesn’t wait to find out. Instead, he grabs Dean by the shoulders and begins to push him back into their room, because there are some things in life you just have to shield your brother from, and this is one of them.
And for a second it seems like it’s going to work, like Dean’s still sleepy enough to be moved and Sam’s desperate enough to move him. It’s the mullet-loving, car-fucking, sexual-deviant-guy-ohgod who ruins it all, of course.
“Sam, Dean!” the bastard says, drawing them both to an abrupt halt. “Man, sorry about this. You know how it is, yeah?”
Dean frowns, squinting up at Sam and then peering around his shoulder. “Was that Ash?”
“I... I think it was,” Sam whispers. It’s all blood-gone-cold, numb despair again, and he’s helpless to resist when Dean pushes him out of the way and steps out onto the parking lot.
“Oh, hey, Ash. What you done to your hair, man?” says Dean. There’s a pause, and then Sam can feel the moment when what Dean’s seeing catches up with his brain and Sam’s already moving as-- “THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING TO MY CAR?”
Sam grabs Dean around the waist before he can even begin charging, dragging him back in a skid of gravel and flailing limbs. It probably must look kind of hilarious, the way Dean strains against Sam’s grip with his out-stretched hands grabbing at the air- like sheer force of will might close the distance between his fingers and Ash’s neck- as he shouts, “I swear to God, you lay your dick on her, or in her, or by her, or anything-- you look at my baby wrong with that thing, and I will end you! Fucking let go of me, Sam! He’s defiling our family’s honour, goddamn, fuck--”
Ash doesn’t seem particularly perturbed by the verbal onslaught. He chuckles and waves a hand-- his free hand, the other still firmly wrapped around his cock-- and grins up at them from where he’s kneeling. “I guess this kinda seems a bit weird, huh? Don’t worry, man. ‘s just my baby. I can fuck her back.”
The noise Dean lets out at that is half scream of rage, half boiling kettle. Sam’s dragged forwards behind him, grappling to pin down Dean’s flailing hands as he shouts, “Dean! Dean, wait! Look- Ash has no mullet. The Impala has a mullet. Maybe-- dammit, stop hitting me-- maybe there’s more to this than... you know, than car-fucking.”
At that- at last- Dean stops wiggling. He’s breathing heavily, practically trembling with tension in Sam’s arms, and when he speaks again his voice is cracked with the effort of not yelling. “Okay,” he says, tightly. “Okay. Gimme an explanation, Ash. And make it fucking good.”
“It’s my baby, man,” Ash sighs, looking suitably chastened. “You know, business up front, party in the back. She gets antsy sometimes, sneaks out on me, it’s Hell trackin’ her down. Guess she wanted to go drivin’ this time.” He throws them a rueful grin.
Sam can feel his mouth hanging open. He closes it, and has to swallow a couple times and shake his head slowly before he can speak again. “Are you saying that-- Ash, is your mullet sentient?”
“Just a little bit,” says Ash.
“I. You--”
“That’s great, Ash, that really is,” Dean interrupts, saving Sam from the difficulties just forming words is presenting him with right now, “but you still haven’t explained why the hell you’ve got your dick out and pointed at my car.”
Ash blinks. He glances down at his dick still in his hand, then back up at them. “Well, I gotta fuck my hair back,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Dean lets out a half-giggle. Sam kinda knows the feeling.
“She likes the intimacy,” Ash continues, oblivious to the effect he's having. “Makes her feel, y’know, loved and all that shit.”
In Sam’s arms, Dean is beginning to shake again, ‘though whether it’s from suppressed rage or hysterical laughter Sam can’t quite tell. He tightens his grip, anyway, mostly for his own comfort.
“Loved,” Dean says, in a choked kind of voice. “Of course.”
“So if you guys could...” Ash waves his free hand vaguely, and jerks his head towards the waving tendrils of his own, apparently-sentient hair. “She’s not really a fan of voyeurism. Makes her nervous.”
It’s all the prompting Sam needs. He backs up through the door still hanging open, drawing Dean protectively along before him, and then stares down blankly at the doorknob. Dean is, eventually, with his arms still pinned down awkwardly at his sides, the one who reaches out and closes the door. It’s another long pause before either of them can speak.
“We still got any beer?” Dean says.
“Lots,” says Sam. “Lots and lots.”
*
The next morning, Ash is gone, and the mullet has gone with him.
They find a used, slightly oily condom by the side of the Impala, and agree, silently and as one, to never speak of it again.
THE END.
The greatest hits of mullet rock
PG-13 for distressing themes and implied Ash/Impala(/mullet), 2600~ words.
(don't worry, OTPers; Dean/Impala is the true romance of the piece.)
The Impala grows a mullet, Dean suffers great emotional distress, and Ash saves the day with his penis.
When Sam first notices it, leaning up against the car as he watches Dean buy gas station candy, it’s just another layer of grime, dust-coloured and soft as sand; pretty weird for the never-ending corn-fields of Iowa, sure, but not exactly the weirdest thing Sam’s ever seen in his life. He thumbs at the roof, and frowns as it doesn’t wipe off, but doesn’t really pay it any mind beyond that.
“Man,” he calls, with a loose grin, the second Dean’s back within hearing range. “Have you and your baby had a falling out or something?”
Dean, tossing his candy up into the air and catching it again, shoots Sam a look of blank incomprehension. “Huh?”
“The car,” Sam says, jerking his head towards the roof. “Last time you didn’t spend your life obsessively washing it was ‘cause you broke your hand.”
Dean throws Sam his candy bar without looking, already focussed on inspecting the Impala and tutting at the dust. He rubs a hand across the roof, glares down at his fingers as they come away clean, and mutters, “Fucking Iowa,” with a light in his eyes that speaks of soap and water and compulsive waxing.
“Yeah, Dean,” Sam snorts, folding himself back into shotgun. “Iowa’s out to get you.”
*
By the next morning, it’s started growing
It’s also their day off, the downtime between finishing one hunt and finding the next, and Sam is spending his precious free time on an extremely leisurely lie-in when Dean wakes him up with a shout.
“Sam!” he calls, voice muffled by distance and filled with despair, and Sam jerks awake already preparing himself for the worst. Doom, death, beheadings, whatever; what he isn’t expecting so much for is for Dean to come barging back into their room seconds later and grab Sam by the elbows with slick, soapy hands, dripping water all over his bedclothes.
“’sawhat?” Sam says, with all the eloquence he can muster. “Water spirit? Soap... thing?”
“No. What? C’mon, man--” is all Dean says, distractedly, hustling Sam up and out of the room
“Hey, wait, at least let me put on my pants...” Sam trails off as Dean shoves him through the door, taking in the scene. It’s like a carwash battlefield: bucket overturned, a single sponge lying forlornly in a bubbly puddle, and the Impala slap-bang in the middle of it all with a-- with a something on its roof.
“It’s not hair,” says Sam, eventually. “Cars don’t grow hair.”
“Then what is it, genius?” Dean snaps out.
Sam diplomatically lets the aggression slide, given the circumstances, and takes a cautious step towards the Impala. The whatever-it-is rustles gently in the breeze; it’s an inch or so long, the same dusty colour as the whatever-it-was the day before, and it doesn’t respond when Sam lays a careful hand on it. He takes that as a good sign.
“Might be some kind of grass,” he says. “Seeds get picked up the by wind, settle on the roof, take sprout.”
“Overnight? On a car?” Dean sounds sceptical, and when Sam turns back to him, he’s glaring down at the car-grass like it’s a personal affront. There’s an edge of concern to his expression- of hurt that the world could even do this to him, after everything else- and just looking at it kind of makes Sam want to hug his brother.
“We-- we could try mowing it,” he suggests, instead.
*
Two hours later, all they’ve gained are some really stiff fingers and a pair of broken nail-scissors, thanks to Dean stamping on the things in frustration. No matter how much they cut, the grass-- okay, okay, the hair just keeps growing back.
Sam isn’t going to mention it first, but he’s pretty sure it’s growing longer.
“Let’s just go,” says Dean, with a detached kind of calm, after he’s given Sam’s bent former-nail-scissors one last, good kicking. “This motel’s probably cursed, or something, yeah? When we go, the hair’ll go too, yeah?”
Sam glances down at the Impala’s roof; it’s not even been a day, and already he’s starting to feel like, somehow, the hair is watching them.
“Yeah,” he says. “Okay. You’re probably right, Dean. Let’s go.”
He isn’t saying anything until Dean brings it up first, but-- he’s pretty sure the hair is laughing at them, too.
*
It’s gone dark by the time they give up, in mutual and silent agreement as the first motel in forty minutes comes into view on the horizon. Dean pulls into the near-empty parking lot and just sits for a while, hands tight on the wheel as he glares blankly at the check-in office in front of them.
“I don’t think we can drive away from this one,” Sam says gently, after a minute’s silence.
Dean grunts and, after another, shorter pause, kills the engine. He scrubs a hand across his face, muttering, “You get us a room. I’m gonna--”
Sam goes without a fuss, willing to give his brother the space he needs. By the time he gets back with a room key- after what felt like an eternity of confirming with the guy at the desk that, yeah, their car has hair- Dean’s gotten out of the Impala and is leaning up against it with his arms folded on the roof. Driving’s just made the hair grow, Sam notes; now it’s long enough that Dean’s elbows are completely obscured.
He doesn’t bother asking if Dean is okay, just waves the key with a rattle and turns towards their room-number, listening to the sound of Dean’s footsteps a few paces behind his own.
Dean breaks the silence first, once he’s tugged his boots off and claimed the least-saggy mattress. “Could be a werewolf,” he says.
Sam frowns. “Werecar.”
“I mean, teeth like that could totally puncture a tyre, right?” Dean soldiers on, ignoring Sam’s contribution to the disscusion. “And, I dunno, werewolves heal pretty fast, don’t they? Maybe the tyre healed itself up before we could notice, and now we’ve-- we’ve got a monster-car hybrid, growing hair and fangs and shit.”
“But cars don’t have blood.”
“Coulda got into the oil,” Dean retorts. There’s an edge of hysteria to his voice. “Or worked its mojo some other way, I dunno. Things probably work differently with cars. Maybe the werewolf pisses on them or somethin’. Oh God, maybe my baby’s gonna start eating people.”
“Cars don’t have mouths either,” Sam reminds him. Definitely hysteria. Taking care not to make any sudden movements, he sits down next to Dean on the sagging bed and lays a tentative hand on his shoulder. “You’ve been driving all day, man. Get some sleep. I’ll see what I can find out.”
He boots his laptop up, watching as Dean shambles around the room, brushing his teeth and stripping down to his underwear and occasionally pausing to say “I’m telling you, werewolves, man” until Sam obligingly opens up all his bookmarks on werewolf lore. Ten minutes later, Dean’s safely under the bedcovers and making soft, little sleep noises, and Sam opens up Google and begins the search for heavy-duty shears instead.
*
The next day, it takes one look out the window for Dean to pass the car-keys mutely to Sam.
“Beer,” he says, distantly. “Get me beer. We need lots and lots of beer.”
There and back is a two-hour-drive, in a car with three or four inches now of floppy, spiky hair, and maybe in some other situation Sam would put up a fight at Dean’s command. As it is, however, he takes the keys without a word of complaint.
Two hours later, he closes the curtains firmly and together they get really, really drunk.
*
They don’t go out again until the next morning, and by then it’s-- there’s no other word for it- it’s a mullet. The roof of the car is covered in the usual thatch of brown hair to which Sam had kinda been growing accustomed; but at the back, it’s gotten so long the rear window is entirely covered, ends brushing the top of the trunk, and Sam is pretty fucking sure the tendrils are waving at him, despite there being no wind.
When Dean emerges from their room, one look at the car is all it takes before he sits down heavily on the ground. He lets out a low, pained noise and buries his face in his hands.
“C’mon,” Sam says. “It’s not all bad--” He has to pause and think about it, before he adds, “Hey, at least it’s not a perm.”
“Oh God,” Dean moans into his hands.
Sam crouches down next to him, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. “And we can rule out werecar now, I think,” he continues, bracingly. “I’m pretty sure no country’s werewolf lore involves mullets. That’s pretty weird, even for us.”
“Oh God,” Dean moans again, sticking with what works.
The tendrils, Sam notes as he pats Dean’s trembling shoulders, are definitely waving at him.
*
For all the car-mullet thing has officially become a We’re Not Talking About It topic, Sam’s pretty sure that they’re both bracing themselves for the worst the following morning, after another night of useless investigation into curses, hairdressers and gardening supplies. Sam doesn’t really know what could top ‘oh, my car has grown a mullet’ in the awfulness stakes- mostly he’s just praying like hell they won’t wake up to a perm- until he stumbles blearily out of the door early the next morning to be met with--
Well.
To be met with the sight of a bald guy kneeling behind the be-mulleted Impala, pants down and cock in hand and a seriously perplexed look on his face as he frowns down at the exhaust pipe.
Sam goes numb. His blood runs cold. There is always- a little part of him thinks, distantly- there is always something worse than your car growing a mullet, and that is the discovery that someone else wants to fuck it.
“Sam?” calls a voice from behind him, jolting him out of his horrified reverie. Too late, sunk too deeply into his own little well of personal despair, Sam realises that Dean is awake and up and already coming out of the door.
“Don’t look!” he shouts, spinning around to block Dean’s path. “Oh God, don’t look, Dean! You don’t need to see this!”
Dean opens his mouth, to defy Sam or question him or maybe just yawn; Sam doesn’t wait to find out. Instead, he grabs Dean by the shoulders and begins to push him back into their room, because there are some things in life you just have to shield your brother from, and this is one of them.
And for a second it seems like it’s going to work, like Dean’s still sleepy enough to be moved and Sam’s desperate enough to move him. It’s the mullet-loving, car-fucking, sexual-deviant-guy-ohgod who ruins it all, of course.
“Sam, Dean!” the bastard says, drawing them both to an abrupt halt. “Man, sorry about this. You know how it is, yeah?”
Dean frowns, squinting up at Sam and then peering around his shoulder. “Was that Ash?”
“I... I think it was,” Sam whispers. It’s all blood-gone-cold, numb despair again, and he’s helpless to resist when Dean pushes him out of the way and steps out onto the parking lot.
“Oh, hey, Ash. What you done to your hair, man?” says Dean. There’s a pause, and then Sam can feel the moment when what Dean’s seeing catches up with his brain and Sam’s already moving as-- “THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING TO MY CAR?”
Sam grabs Dean around the waist before he can even begin charging, dragging him back in a skid of gravel and flailing limbs. It probably must look kind of hilarious, the way Dean strains against Sam’s grip with his out-stretched hands grabbing at the air- like sheer force of will might close the distance between his fingers and Ash’s neck- as he shouts, “I swear to God, you lay your dick on her, or in her, or by her, or anything-- you look at my baby wrong with that thing, and I will end you! Fucking let go of me, Sam! He’s defiling our family’s honour, goddamn, fuck--”
Ash doesn’t seem particularly perturbed by the verbal onslaught. He chuckles and waves a hand-- his free hand, the other still firmly wrapped around his cock-- and grins up at them from where he’s kneeling. “I guess this kinda seems a bit weird, huh? Don’t worry, man. ‘s just my baby. I can fuck her back.”
The noise Dean lets out at that is half scream of rage, half boiling kettle. Sam’s dragged forwards behind him, grappling to pin down Dean’s flailing hands as he shouts, “Dean! Dean, wait! Look- Ash has no mullet. The Impala has a mullet. Maybe-- dammit, stop hitting me-- maybe there’s more to this than... you know, than car-fucking.”
At that- at last- Dean stops wiggling. He’s breathing heavily, practically trembling with tension in Sam’s arms, and when he speaks again his voice is cracked with the effort of not yelling. “Okay,” he says, tightly. “Okay. Gimme an explanation, Ash. And make it fucking good.”
“It’s my baby, man,” Ash sighs, looking suitably chastened. “You know, business up front, party in the back. She gets antsy sometimes, sneaks out on me, it’s Hell trackin’ her down. Guess she wanted to go drivin’ this time.” He throws them a rueful grin.
Sam can feel his mouth hanging open. He closes it, and has to swallow a couple times and shake his head slowly before he can speak again. “Are you saying that-- Ash, is your mullet sentient?”
“Just a little bit,” says Ash.
“I. You--”
“That’s great, Ash, that really is,” Dean interrupts, saving Sam from the difficulties just forming words is presenting him with right now, “but you still haven’t explained why the hell you’ve got your dick out and pointed at my car.”
Ash blinks. He glances down at his dick still in his hand, then back up at them. “Well, I gotta fuck my hair back,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Dean lets out a half-giggle. Sam kinda knows the feeling.
“She likes the intimacy,” Ash continues, oblivious to the effect he's having. “Makes her feel, y’know, loved and all that shit.”
In Sam’s arms, Dean is beginning to shake again, ‘though whether it’s from suppressed rage or hysterical laughter Sam can’t quite tell. He tightens his grip, anyway, mostly for his own comfort.
“Loved,” Dean says, in a choked kind of voice. “Of course.”
“So if you guys could...” Ash waves his free hand vaguely, and jerks his head towards the waving tendrils of his own, apparently-sentient hair. “She’s not really a fan of voyeurism. Makes her nervous.”
It’s all the prompting Sam needs. He backs up through the door still hanging open, drawing Dean protectively along before him, and then stares down blankly at the doorknob. Dean is, eventually, with his arms still pinned down awkwardly at his sides, the one who reaches out and closes the door. It’s another long pause before either of them can speak.
“We still got any beer?” Dean says.
“Lots,” says Sam. “Lots and lots.”
*
The next morning, Ash is gone, and the mullet has gone with him.
They find a used, slightly oily condom by the side of the Impala, and agree, silently and as one, to never speak of it again.
THE END.