[ Either Dean didn't realize the Impala he found in the scrapyard here belonged to a previous version of himself, or he didn't care - though of the two, the latter is far more likely. As the years wore on on Baby, so they also did on Dean's soul. The passage of time and utter deterioration manifested physically in the form of Baby's demise, the warmth of his soul fading to icy blackness as the Impala rotted a few feet away.
Dean let Baby die, as Sam so accurately stated, but it wasn't because he wanted to, it wasn't because he enjoyed the decline. With every part stripped away from his precious vehicle, the one thing in life he loved as desperately as Sam or Cas, a piece of himself was stripped away, too. The battery was needed, the glass in the back windshield, the tires. She became a husk, a shell of what she used to be, a dying star - much like her driver.
If she could speak, she would say that it was alright, that she understood, that there were more important things that her parts were needed for. Dean cried when he pulled the battery out, when he took the doors off, but after that he hardened, and it became routine to strip her down when something was needed. She'd forgive him anyway, if asked, but then again - nobody ever did.
He grew colder and crueler, more and more selfish with every passing day; it's little wonder that he didn't bother to mention the Impala's existence when he found it to his other self - much like he never bothered to outwardly tell Sam or the other Dean that they existed. If he could keep these things as close to his chest for as long as possible, he would. He was irritated enough when Cas slithered over there, and while Dean recognizes that he cannot control anyone, his anger doesn't abate. It's stowed instead, carefully plugged in a bottle, combustible and fragile, and locked away. It's not a new coping mechanism, not really, but the volatility of his anger has tempered somewhat. There are new chances here, he thinks, and people that show him there is more than the life he left behind.
He's changing, slowly but surely. And the new seats in Baby's backseat mirror another sealed up fracture in his heart, molten gold shining in the multitude of cracks. Dean eases Cas back against them, the seats smooth and supple like new, smelling of leather. Hands smeared in grease slip up under Cas' shirt, skirt over his skin, trace and count his ribs as Dean meets his kisses. He breathes Cas' name against his lips; already this time is different, less urgent, less drunken fumbling, less frantic. Dean takes his time, palming Cas' ribcage, dragging his fingers up, taking his time as he savors the feel of warm skin under his fingers. ]
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Dean let Baby die, as Sam so accurately stated, but it wasn't because he wanted to, it wasn't because he enjoyed the decline. With every part stripped away from his precious vehicle, the one thing in life he loved as desperately as Sam or Cas, a piece of himself was stripped away, too. The battery was needed, the glass in the back windshield, the tires. She became a husk, a shell of what she used to be, a dying star - much like her driver.
If she could speak, she would say that it was alright, that she understood, that there were more important things that her parts were needed for. Dean cried when he pulled the battery out, when he took the doors off, but after that he hardened, and it became routine to strip her down when something was needed. She'd forgive him anyway, if asked, but then again - nobody ever did.
He grew colder and crueler, more and more selfish with every passing day; it's little wonder that he didn't bother to mention the Impala's existence when he found it to his other self - much like he never bothered to outwardly tell Sam or the other Dean that they existed. If he could keep these things as close to his chest for as long as possible, he would. He was irritated enough when Cas slithered over there, and while Dean recognizes that he cannot control anyone, his anger doesn't abate. It's stowed instead, carefully plugged in a bottle, combustible and fragile, and locked away. It's not a new coping mechanism, not really, but the volatility of his anger has tempered somewhat. There are new chances here, he thinks, and people that show him there is more than the life he left behind.
He's changing, slowly but surely. And the new seats in Baby's backseat mirror another sealed up fracture in his heart, molten gold shining in the multitude of cracks. Dean eases Cas back against them, the seats smooth and supple like new, smelling of leather. Hands smeared in grease slip up under Cas' shirt, skirt over his skin, trace and count his ribs as Dean meets his kisses. He breathes Cas' name against his lips; already this time is different, less urgent, less drunken fumbling, less frantic. Dean takes his time, palming Cas' ribcage, dragging his fingers up, taking his time as he savors the feel of warm skin under his fingers. ]