Work Text:
Good, harsh scents greeted Dean: motor oil, diesel, gas and, in this case, antifreeze. The sharp smell of burnt sugar was fading. The leak was old. It pushed the soapy smell of the silver and ketamine he’d mixed with his coffee into memory - though his tongue still itched from the burn of it hidden by the piping hot liquid. He stood at the back entrance to the garage and just breathed. Like Home.
The closest thing to a home was Baby on the road, always ready to roll, and in the recent years since Mercy had found her place, the solid construction of her garage, always still standing concrete walls. The closest he ever had to home was Mercy’s garage and the car. Both shared the same scents. The car less so, but it had the army men in the vents and Metallica for his other senses. Different, but both grounding. This garage wasn’t the loud bangs, bad jokes and Zee’s German accent, hard and grumpy. Damn, the thought made him miss Bobby and with a shake of his head, he looked up at the man that had somehow snuck too close for comfort.
The stranger was still a few good feet away, safe by other’s standard. Dean knew how fast a man could cross that distance. He also knew many things faster than men. The muscles in his neck tightened, but he kept his jaw loose, his lips pursed.
“That is a beautiful car. Why anyone would name it after a deer, though, is beyond me: it’s far too scary to be a deer,” the stranger commented without prompting. He gestured a shrug behind Dean towards the impala, parked beside a fuel pump. Dean tried to get a read on the man, but none came readily. He knew the man was older, but, not how old. His skin was sunburnt brown, his hands worn leather. He reminded Dean of something he couldn’t place. The man seemed human in his movements. Each step was just barely exaggerated with a touch of swagger. Proud of his work, probably. Far as Dean could tell, almost normal and probably harmless… And the guy was right, his car was beautiful. That meant, though, the stranger had been watching him. Dean hadn’t come straight from the car, but from back behind the office, having come through the fuel station.
The man added, “Saw you step out of it and I started drooling.”
Dean was immediately incredibly uncomfortable at the man’s possible insinuation about his own beauty. “Yeah… It’s my baby,” he admitted, chuckling nervously. He bit down the sharp retort, the defensive slap. Dean felt the need for space, holding his breath and struggling to calm. He forced himself to turn his back on the stranger. He could feel instinct bubble under his skin in protest. He hadn’t drunk enough of his coffee.
He was still on edge. He stood there, breathing slowly, telling his wolf that the man didn’t rank a challenge, that he could be ignored and left in Dean’s blind spot. Dean pushed down the instincts that could turn a conversation into a bloodbath. He stepped towards the bay doors, creating space for his bare flank. The other man seemed to sense his discomfort and stepped away.
The man moved towards an old Gremlin. Ugliest, nastiest car to ever grace the road. Dean swallowed down his disgust. He swore the man smirked at his revulsion. Something in his posture, his coloring, and his demeanor made Dean’s heart hurt. He tried to swallow down the memory it dredged up, mouth dry. He had been thinking about calling Mercy when he pulled up. He wouldn’t, though, because he was a mess of uncertainty and emotion. Intruding on her territory would be unkind.
Dean shifted his feet, standing by the entrance and squared his shoulders to his hips, turned slightly away from the man and towards the nightmare someone tried to pass off as an automobile. Dean’s wolf wouldn’t stand for being run out by a stranger. He would either lash out or he would stand firm. Standing firm was safer for everyone, so Dean couldn’t back up further, not yet. He dug in his heels and made idle chit-chat. “They are horrible cars,” he replied, for lack of anything better to say.
“Perhaps the worst thing the American Motor Company ever made. Gives life to all the bad Ford jokes. This car means something, regardless. It will get a sweet girl in a tight spot from here into a new life. Sometimes a purr or a thundering roar aren’t what the world needs. Sometimes it needs ugly little imps to help make shoes,” the man replied.
It reminded him once more of Zee and Bobby, but Dean sensed far less efficiency and iron and far more affection in the man’s casual conversation. The girl mattered for some reason. Dean had a hint that the mechanic didn’t know her well, but she still mattered. Mercy was like that. Strangers could matter to her. Sam did that too, sometimes.
“Cute redhead wouldn’t even give me her name. I’m a sucker for lost causes,” the man added, picking up a work order off the bench to look over the intake paperwork. There was a name on the paperwork. Dean realized the stranger meant ‘Her true name’ and Dean couldn’t blame her. There was more power than anyone wanted to admit in names. “Called herself Annie Tolkien.” The stranger knew a little more than your average mechanic. That didn’t make him not human, though.
Dean felt suddenly restless and more than a little useless. He shifted to look up at the car. It was the kind of project you could take pride in. Nothing had to die to make the world a little better and he could use that. He shifted his shoulders and rolled up his sleeves. “Can I look?”
Something good. Yeah, he could wait a little longer to hear from Dad. Dean could wait a little longer before calling Sammy. He still thinks calling Mercy first is in order.
The stranger chuckled, looked over at him as if studying a curious book, stepped back and nodded. He gave some quick instructions on what needed to be done. He then moved aside to push over a rolling toolbox. Occasionally, he would appear back at Dean’s side with whatever tool Dean had mentioned needing. The stranger seemed to wait for direction. Dean didn’t think the stranger was cautious. Maybe he knew what Dean was and it made him uncertain and careful. Dean’s stronger impression was maybe the man didn’t want to do the work, even if it was only taking apart the air conditioner and flushing out the coolant. Dean saw the work as ridiculously easy. Still, it was a grimy, long job with the compact, poorly made AMC Gremlin and it didn’t help that the color was vomit inducing bright yellow.
Dean wiped sweat from his brow when he was and watched the man pull back his long braids. Dean was sure he’d seen the waist length cords of hair, but somehow he hadn’t really noticed them or that the small ties on each end were pink and purple as if daring someone to comment. Despite how uncomfortable the potential flirting had made Dean, he kind of liked the hair ties and shrugged it off as, ‘To each his own; whatever floats your boat.’
He finished the air conditioner and miscellaneous other repairs. He was left feeling an almost bone deep calm. He wondered if this was what Bran thought he’d get when the Marrok had suggested he find someone to ground him. Dean was convinced a project would have been a better suggestion. He sobered at that thought. He had a project - Find Dad.
He swallowed down anxiety. His father would be fine. John was good, somewhere holed up safe, a pain in Dean’s ass. John wouldn’t be the brick that sent the world tumbling down and it wouldn’t be Dean’s job to put down that particular threat. That belonged to Charles.
Dean pushed down the anxiety that rose as the wall of nausea moved from tight in his throat to the pit of his stomach. He smiled weakly towards the stranger, slipping the last wrench back into the toolbox.
“Thanks,” he finally managed after a long moment. “That gave me some clarity.”
The man turned to Dean and eyed him for a long moment before nodding like the stranger was looking at a project. Dean suspected he was the project. Dean wasn’t sure the man was completely satisfied with the results, still.
“You did good work, I’m sure you’ve got a spot in at least one garage if you ever ask for it. Road gets lonely without people to share it with. Then again, I’m a hypocrite for saying so,” the stranger both praised and goaded.
Dean nodded. He recognized a warning. He could sense it was time to go. The guy was too quiet. He didn’t even breath at normal volume. He didn’t offer Dean money and he didn’t offer more advice.
Dean turned and stepped out into the sunlight, walking back to the Impala. He started to pull his phone, ready to call Mercy, when something drew his gaze. He looked back as the stranger walked out into the parking lot.
The man’s skin shown an oddly metallic bronze, his posture frighteningly solid in a way it lacked when they shared the garage. Long braids hung from his head, down to his waist. Dean had dismissed them before as silly. Now, Dean saw the man and had to look away from his eyes. Those were terrifying, even across the ten feet. He could see them. What he’d mistaken for dark were black. There were not the eyes of the rare demon John managed to case, but somehow familiar and unfathomably old. He wondered if he was watching a ghost as the chill settled in along his spine.
Dean slapped shut the flip phone with a quick snap, shaking his head clear before he ducked back into the car. It wasn’t the right time to call Mercy. She had her life.
He settled into the leather seat and cranked the radio to drown the sensation of walking over someone’s grave - an oddly familiar grave even for a man who dug up the dead professionally. He would talk to Sam about Dad.