Challenge issued by: Spontaneity
Word Count: You can bet it's 700
Disclaimer: I only own enough to catch a ride outta here.

An Idjit's Guide to Hunting: The Car

Once upon a time there was evil… that's still there…

Nah, I won't pretend this is a fairy tale. Traveling the backwaters fighting scum of the earth, y'all bound to notice one peculiar fact. It's pretty straightforward, if you ain't an idjit.

Wendigos don't care if the Mrs. wants you home by seven. Fangs don't care if you left the oven on at home. In short, my friends? You ain't got a home. You got a job that drags you kicking, and often screaming, to the ends of the earth.

So listen closely you idiots who are still knee deep in this hunting nonsense. If y'all got any illusions about a glamorous lifestyle that ends at home with your feet warming by the hearth: think again.

Witches are liable to steal your heart if they're peckish, so home is not where your heart is.

Home is your car.

Do not forget this.

I reckon I ought to explain to you thick skulled amateurs out there exactly what I mean. Here is your fairy tale.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

I once knew a fella by the name of John Winchester. Facts is, I ain't seen him round here in a while. But you can always spot him a mile away by his car. He's got a 1967 Chevrolet Impala, model number 4 with a V8 big block engine and over 190 horsepower. Black as my morning coffee, and just as smooth.

She is a damn fine lady.

Anyway, before I get sentimental, I should also inform you that Winchester has two surly sons. One's a short kid with a mop of hair, called Sam. The other one's a smart ass who goes by the name of Dean. They're annoying as hell now, but mark my words they'll grow up to something one day.

And the reason they're still alive despite John's creative parenting? The car keeping 'em safe.

This one time, down in the dusty side roads of Texas there was a black dog that had a fondness for chaos. It was the hottest summer on record when the Winchesters rolled into town. John set them up in a motel for the week, a particularly nasty dump that didn't value cleaning up too much. The boys protested of course, it was poor excuse for a home. Unlike the Impala, it did not feature air conditioning or a plethora of good music.

I'd bet money those kids is smarter than their daddy.

Anyway, John took off into the woods armed with his gun, brawn, and brain. Wasn't nearly enough. Dean got antsy waiting for his dad, probably because his kid brother was driving him nuts. In the motel sweating bullets, they pondered the fate of their father. Long into the night, at about sunrise Dean took action. He couldn't risk loosing his dad.

Don't let Dean fool you. Boy's got green eyes and the devil's smile but he's a clever little bugger. He took the keys to the Impala and prayed. By luck, his legs managed to reach the pedals. Sam was too young to look after himself and was forced to come along.

Sucking on his thumb, eyes wide in wonder, Sam will still swear that was the most fun he ever had in the front seat of the Impala. Dean didn't stop at the tree line but kept pummeling right on. Nearly knocked down half the forest afore they found John all torn up, limping by the trees right as the black dog came rounding the corner.

The Impala, lady that she is, pinned down the beast while John shot the sucker. Dean covered Sam's eyes from seeing the blood hit the head light.

After that, John was a bit more careful about where he left the keys and the cases he took.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

In short: Take care of you car, your home, and she'll take care of you. Sam and Dean have grown up in the Impala. I assume it'll be Dean's soon. It's the only home he's ever known.

Y'all feel free to stop by Singer Salvage Yard if you need a tune up for your home or just a tale before carrying on. Am happy to oblige.

Good luck hunters.

…the end…