Golden
The country lane stretches through a corridor of trees bright with autumnal color. Broad branches form a canopy overhead, copper sun-washed in the late afternoon sunshine. The river of dark asphalt and its grassy banks are flecked with fallen leaves, gold, orange and tan. Between brown columns of bark, swaths of farmland stretch into the distance, the geometry of harvested fields randomly punctuated with houses and barns.
Dean lifts his foot from the accelerator, lets the Impala coast to a standstill. There's no one behind them on the road for as far as the eye can see, and no oncoming traffic. There's only warm light and rich color. After the rush of air through the driver's side window, this is breathlessly still. No, not quite...he hears the silken rustle of leaves fluttering and a rhythmic creak of branches like an unseen rocking chair.
The engine and the classic rock song cease in unison. Sam looks up from the book he's been engrossed in as his brother unfolds himself from the vehicle. Glances out the window in confusion: no diner, no stranded motorist, no rampaging sasquatch---there's nothing he can see that might have prompted Dean to stop the car in the middle of the road.
Dean takes a deep breath, sniffing the air, looking back the way they came. It's just as serene as the road ahead. He hears the tone, not the words of his brother's staccato questions. "Everything's fine, Sammy," he says. And it is.
Unlike his brother, Dean isn't counting down the time he has left. What's the point? The only schedule he keeps track of is when his baby is due for her next oil change---currently, it's about 400 miles away. They're headed up to Bobby's, and he can take care of it there while Sam ransacks Bobby's library, still searching for a deal-breaker..
Meanwhile, they've been driving through country that brings a scent of woodsmoke through the window, smoke untainted by lighter fluid or necrosis. Probably somebody in one of those farmhouses is burning leaves, because it isn't anywhere near cool enough for a fire. Okay, so it isn't the Grand Canyon, but it's scenic enough that he notices it, him, the guy who's all about getting from Point A to Point B as fast as he can.
Even though he never expected to greet thirty in his profession, there's still something solemn about knowing that this is going to be his final autumn. It embarrasses him a little---Sam's the one who's big on Hallmark moments and stopping to smell the flowers, and here he is, standing in the middle of the road, gazing around at the foliage like it's suddenly a big deal. They're just leaves and trees, for crying out loud!
A low chugging noise intrudes on his contemplation of himself in relation to chlorophyll. Looking back the way they came, he spots a vehicle pulling out from one of the narrow veins that opens into this broader thoroughfare. Red, a truck or station wagon...when it gets closer, Dean smiles appreciatively. It's an aged pickup---not quite a Model-T, but close. The radiator cap is a raised chrome disc on the forward end of the louvered hood. The hood is long and narrow---Dean knows if he could see the engine, the cylinders would be in line; the V-8 didn't come along until a couple decades later.
The motor's rumble blends with the sighing of the boughs as the truck brakes to a halt beside them. Amazingly, there's no sign of rust on it anywhere, no dings or dents, and time has mellowed its enamel to a brick red patina. The elderly man behind the wheel has a lined, leathery face and snow white hair. He leans over and cranks down the window on the passenger side. "You need help, young fella?"
"No, sir, I just, ah---stopped to look at my tires. Thought she was pulling a little."
The old man nods. "I hear those newer cars will do that," he agrees sagely. "I wouldn't know. My Rosie runs straight and true, always has."
"Beautiful truck," Dean says, meaning it. To him, the antique truck is every bit as magnificent as the scenery, although it's funny to hear the Impala being called a "newer" car---although she's a lot younger than Rosie, he has to admit.
Her driver beams with pleasure. "She sure is. My daddy bought her new the same year my momma had me, but I think she's holding up a little better!" He pats the dashboard with a gesture Dean knows well. "They don't make 'em like her any more."
"Looks like you've taken good care of her." The bed of the truck is a box bolted to the axle with fenders like clam shells, the flat window glass probably isn't shatter-resistant. He can see into the cab, and there's no radio in the dash. Did they even have radios back when Rosie was built?
"My daddy always said, 'Take care of your tools---'" 'and your tools will take care of you', Dean finishes silently. He grew up hearing that, too, although John Winchester was usually referring to guns and knives.
"How long do you have?" the white-haired man asks, and Dean feels a chill run over him. How did he know---? He doesn't want this nice old guy to be something bad. "If it's far to where you're going, you might want to stop at the gas station by the interstate and have it looked at. It's just eight miles up the road; I can follow you up there if you think you might not make it."
"Thanks, I appreciate the offer." Of course that's what the guy meant. It's not like he's walking around with an expiration date stamped on his forehead! "It's fine, I'll just drive a little slower."
"Good. Too many people today don't take time to enjoy the journey. Then again, I've lived here all my life. Haven't done a whole lot of traveling, too busy trying to raise crops and kids. Been going up and down this road for a long, long time." The good Samaritan waves a thin hand to indicate the colorful panorama.
"This is my favorite time of year, and the older I get, the more it means to me. My grand-pappy planted the trees on our side of the road, and they'll be here when my great-grandchildren are my age, and beyond. Me, I'm a leaf, just passing through." He chuckles with a wheezy little rasp at the end, and Dean feels something in his chest constrict.
"It was good of you to stop, sir. I'm sorry I blocked the road."
Rosie's owner smiles at him, a gentle ivory crescent. "No harm done. Take care of that car of yours." He pulls away as Dean swallows hard. Watching the faded red truck recede into the distance, surrounded by yellow, orange and russet leaves, he's got something stuck in his throat.
"I didn't notice the car pulling," Sam says as Dean settles himself behind the wheel again.
"Automotive genius that you are," Dean replies. His voice is a little huskier than usual. "Did you get a look at that truck? Sweet!"
"Uh, it was red. Are we having a problem with the car?"
"Nah. She'll get us to Bobby's." He pats the dashboard fondly. "Then I'll take care of her."
"If you say so." Sam's attention returns to the arcane volume on his lap. Dean turns the key, filling the quiet lane with the thunder of 425 cubic inches of power, accompanied by a crisp guitar line.
The glossy black car cruises through the glorious display of autumn, a wake of golden leaves swirling behind her.
"---we are stardust, we are golden, we're caught in the devil's bargain,
and we got to get ourselves back to the garden---"
-- "Woodstock" by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, lyrics by Joni Mitchell