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Title: Impossible
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Dean, Sam, John
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1000
Warnings/Spoilers: Weechesters! No spoilers.
Disclaimer: Fanfic, for fun, not profit.
Summary: For the third round in![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_las. The prompt was "Who Knew An Impala Could Fly?". It was remarkably hard for me to come up with an idea, especially considering the prompt was mine. *headdesk* I'm happy with what I ended up with and I got two positive votes for it! Which is very pleasing.
The Impala bucked through a snowdrift, fishtailing on the icy road underneath. Dean's eyes locked with his father's in the rearview mirror for a second, then another drift almost wrenched the steering wheel from the older mans hands. John's eyes snapped back to the dark, snow-covered road. His low curse echoed through the car. It gave Dean an odd sense of comfort to hear it. His dad had been so quiet, so desperate the past few days. Anything other than curt commands and terse questions was a welcome change.
Sam moaned and twisted in Dean's arms, kicking off the blanket draped over him. Sweat glistened on his face and neck. His damp clothes clung to him. Feverish eyes, overly bright and unfocused, blinked open. "De'n?" The name was quiet and rough. A frightening change from the usually bright, seven-year-old voice that greeted him.
"Shhh. It's all right, Sammy." Dean soothed, pushing aside the wet bangs stuck to Sammy's forehead. "I'm here."
"Don't feel good, Dean. I'm cold." He frowned. "Cold."
"I know, Sammy." Dean struggled to pull the blanket back over Sammy, tucking it carefully around him. The back windows of the Impala were completely fogged over and ice was beginning to form in the corners. Even with the heater at full blast, the Impala wasn't a match for the subzero temperatures outside. Dean wrapped his arms around his brother, frightened at how someone who was so very hot could complain about being cold. "I got you, Sammy."
"T'anks, Dean." Sammy smiled up at him, face flushed. "Thirsty. Water, please?"
Dean fished the water bottle off the floor and helped Sammy drink. Some water dribbled onto the blanket and Dean's supporting arm. "Sorry, Dean." Sammy tried to wipe the water away with a shaking hand. "Sorry." He let his head fall back again and his eyes slowly closed.
Dean almost snorted. It never failed to amaze him how damn polite Sammy got when he was well and truly sick. Give the kid a minor cold and he was whiney and obnoxious and demanding, but once he started with 'please' and 'thank you' and 'sorry', well, then Dean knew there was really something wrong.
And that 'really something wrong' started three days ago right in the middle of the worst December ice storm that Ashland County had seen in more than two decades. Unseasonably warm and fierce winds off of Lake Superior coated everything with a thick, deadly ice that wasn't predicted to melt until March. To make things worse, a second storm had immediately blown in from the west dropping the temperatures well below zero and dumping more than two feet of snow on top of the layer of ice.
Dean and his dad had spent those past three days watching Sammy grow sicker and sicker, trapped in a single room cabin with only a fireplace for heat. When Sammy's temperature spiked out at 103 and the storm looked to be slacking, John packed them all into the Impala and headed for the Ashland Hospital.
They were only 80 miles away from the town but they'd been driving for hours already. The Impala bucked and swayed unnaturally as it fought through the ice and snow drifts. Dean listened to the moan and strain of its engine with the same anxiety as when he watched Sammy's ragged breathing. They needed both to survive.
A jolt shook the car and his dad swore as he struggled to keep control, working the break pedal and gas in quick staccato pumps. The impala fishtailed, then spun, eerily silent as it slid across the smooth ice-covered road. Dean felt oddly weightless, time suspended for a moment as he clutched Sammy close and waited for the inevitable crash. There was none. The engine gunned, the car straightened and they were moving forward again. John was hunched, knuckles white on the wheel, staring intently into the tunnel-like whiteness ahead of him.
"Again, Dad." Sammy’s weak voice broke the silence. "Make her fly again, Dad. Please?"
The engine roar stilled a bit as John looked into the rearview. "What?"
"That was fun." Sam's feverish eyes were spookily bright. "Make her fly again. Promise"
John laughed and Dean could hear a bit of his own panic and worry in the sound. "I don't think… Maybe later we…" He faded off, then, "Yes!"
Dean jerked his eyes away from Sam and saw street lamps out the front window. The headlights momentarily illuminated a "Welcome to Ashland" sign. A second sign, this one with a large 'H' and an arrow pointing to the right, stood next to it.
"We made it, Dean. By God, we made it."
The city streets were better than the roads and they made it into the Emergency drive-up in ten minutes. Once the attendants got over their shock of having anyone appear out of the storm, they moved quickly to get Sammy set up on a bed, with a scary number of IVs and monitors attached to him. They assured them that Sammy would be fine, but that it had been a near thing. They all agreed that the near 100-mile drive through the blizzard had been an impossible feat, but they also agreed it had saved Sammy's life.
Dean sat next to his brother, holding his hand. It wasn't nearly as hot as it had been in the car. Sammy looked over at him, his eyes much less bright and manic. "You heard him, Dean. He promised. He said he's make the car fly again." He smiled and then drifted off to sleep. "Fly."
Dean smiled across at his dad, who frowned in return. "I'm supposed to make the Impala fly?"
Dean merely shrugged and laid his head down on the edge of Sammy's bed, suddenly aware of how exhausted he was. He couldn't wait to see how his dad managed that one. But if anyone could make the Impala fly, Dean knew, it would be John Winchester. His dad did the impossible all the time.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Dean, Sam, John
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1000
Warnings/Spoilers: Weechesters! No spoilers.
Disclaimer: Fanfic, for fun, not profit.
Summary: For the third round in
spn_las. The prompt was "Who Knew An Impala Could Fly?". It was remarkably hard for me to come up with an idea, especially considering the prompt was mine. *headdesk* I'm happy with what I ended up with and I got two positive votes for it! Which is very pleasing. The Impala bucked through a snowdrift, fishtailing on the icy road underneath. Dean's eyes locked with his father's in the rearview mirror for a second, then another drift almost wrenched the steering wheel from the older mans hands. John's eyes snapped back to the dark, snow-covered road. His low curse echoed through the car. It gave Dean an odd sense of comfort to hear it. His dad had been so quiet, so desperate the past few days. Anything other than curt commands and terse questions was a welcome change.
Sam moaned and twisted in Dean's arms, kicking off the blanket draped over him. Sweat glistened on his face and neck. His damp clothes clung to him. Feverish eyes, overly bright and unfocused, blinked open. "De'n?" The name was quiet and rough. A frightening change from the usually bright, seven-year-old voice that greeted him.
"Shhh. It's all right, Sammy." Dean soothed, pushing aside the wet bangs stuck to Sammy's forehead. "I'm here."
"Don't feel good, Dean. I'm cold." He frowned. "Cold."
"I know, Sammy." Dean struggled to pull the blanket back over Sammy, tucking it carefully around him. The back windows of the Impala were completely fogged over and ice was beginning to form in the corners. Even with the heater at full blast, the Impala wasn't a match for the subzero temperatures outside. Dean wrapped his arms around his brother, frightened at how someone who was so very hot could complain about being cold. "I got you, Sammy."
"T'anks, Dean." Sammy smiled up at him, face flushed. "Thirsty. Water, please?"
Dean fished the water bottle off the floor and helped Sammy drink. Some water dribbled onto the blanket and Dean's supporting arm. "Sorry, Dean." Sammy tried to wipe the water away with a shaking hand. "Sorry." He let his head fall back again and his eyes slowly closed.
Dean almost snorted. It never failed to amaze him how damn polite Sammy got when he was well and truly sick. Give the kid a minor cold and he was whiney and obnoxious and demanding, but once he started with 'please' and 'thank you' and 'sorry', well, then Dean knew there was really something wrong.
And that 'really something wrong' started three days ago right in the middle of the worst December ice storm that Ashland County had seen in more than two decades. Unseasonably warm and fierce winds off of Lake Superior coated everything with a thick, deadly ice that wasn't predicted to melt until March. To make things worse, a second storm had immediately blown in from the west dropping the temperatures well below zero and dumping more than two feet of snow on top of the layer of ice.
Dean and his dad had spent those past three days watching Sammy grow sicker and sicker, trapped in a single room cabin with only a fireplace for heat. When Sammy's temperature spiked out at 103 and the storm looked to be slacking, John packed them all into the Impala and headed for the Ashland Hospital.
They were only 80 miles away from the town but they'd been driving for hours already. The Impala bucked and swayed unnaturally as it fought through the ice and snow drifts. Dean listened to the moan and strain of its engine with the same anxiety as when he watched Sammy's ragged breathing. They needed both to survive.
A jolt shook the car and his dad swore as he struggled to keep control, working the break pedal and gas in quick staccato pumps. The impala fishtailed, then spun, eerily silent as it slid across the smooth ice-covered road. Dean felt oddly weightless, time suspended for a moment as he clutched Sammy close and waited for the inevitable crash. There was none. The engine gunned, the car straightened and they were moving forward again. John was hunched, knuckles white on the wheel, staring intently into the tunnel-like whiteness ahead of him.
"Again, Dad." Sammy’s weak voice broke the silence. "Make her fly again, Dad. Please?"
The engine roar stilled a bit as John looked into the rearview. "What?"
"That was fun." Sam's feverish eyes were spookily bright. "Make her fly again. Promise"
John laughed and Dean could hear a bit of his own panic and worry in the sound. "I don't think… Maybe later we…" He faded off, then, "Yes!"
Dean jerked his eyes away from Sam and saw street lamps out the front window. The headlights momentarily illuminated a "Welcome to Ashland" sign. A second sign, this one with a large 'H' and an arrow pointing to the right, stood next to it.
"We made it, Dean. By God, we made it."
The city streets were better than the roads and they made it into the Emergency drive-up in ten minutes. Once the attendants got over their shock of having anyone appear out of the storm, they moved quickly to get Sammy set up on a bed, with a scary number of IVs and monitors attached to him. They assured them that Sammy would be fine, but that it had been a near thing. They all agreed that the near 100-mile drive through the blizzard had been an impossible feat, but they also agreed it had saved Sammy's life.
Dean sat next to his brother, holding his hand. It wasn't nearly as hot as it had been in the car. Sammy looked over at him, his eyes much less bright and manic. "You heard him, Dean. He promised. He said he's make the car fly again." He smiled and then drifted off to sleep. "Fly."
Dean smiled across at his dad, who frowned in return. "I'm supposed to make the Impala fly?"
Dean merely shrugged and laid his head down on the edge of Sammy's bed, suddenly aware of how exhausted he was. He couldn't wait to see how his dad managed that one. But if anyone could make the Impala fly, Dean knew, it would be John Winchester. His dad did the impossible all the time.
