l o v e ' s . i l l u s i o n s . i . r e c a l l

Love's Illusions I Recall
[by victoria p.]

Rating: G

Summary: For the next three and a half minutes, Dean feels warm and safe and loved.

Spoilers: None

Notes: Title from "Both Sides Now" by Joni Mitchell.

Word count: 985 words

Date: August 28, 2007

When Sam holds his hand out for the keys, Dean's actually tired enough to give them to him, so tired he thinks his eyes might sink back into his skull, just disappear entirely if he doesn't get some sleep soon.

They've outrun the cops from Biloxi, the demons from Fountainebleau, and the crazy chick from Escatawpa who thought Sam was her dead fiancé come back to life (and that led to some awkward moments and a whole lot of brooding until Sam finally fell asleep a hundred miles down I-90, driving into the sunrise).

He's been driving for nearly three days straight, catnapping at truck stops and rest areas for twenty or thirty minutes at a time, before fear of the FBI wakes him again--his knuckles ache from the death-grip he's had on the steering wheel and he's barely able to keep his eyes open long enough to pull them off the road again, slide across the seat and let Sam take over for a while.

He dozes on and off through the late afternoon, jacket balled up under his head and the occasional song or weather report from the radio intruding into his muddled dreams, traffic keeping them from doing more than twenty miles an hour, but he can't even work the energy up to mock Sam for driving like a little old lady going to church on Sunday morning.

The stop-start of the traffic lulls him, finally, into deep, dreamless sleep, and the next time he wakes, the road is open ahead of them and they're flying along at a good clip--Sam's always had as much of a lead foot as Dean does; he just hides it better. The radio is still coming in and out, spurts of some new country shit even Dad wouldn't be caught dead listening to in between bursts of static and hellfire preaching, and once, he catches Sam singing along to some angry chick rock song, but he can't wake up enough to make his mouth move, so he lets it go.

He drifts in and out, snatches of dreams floating through his tired brain. Sam's fiddling with the radio again, and Dean wants to tell him to just put in a damn tape already, when the signal clicks in and there's a woman singing, Rows and flows of angel hair, and ice cream castles in the air. Sam joins in for the next line, soft and horribly off-key, which means it's not anything Dean knows or wants to know, except he does somehow, and the memory hits him with the force of a bullet.

With his eyes closed he can see her, blonde hair spilling down over her shoulders like it's made of sunlight, tickling his nose as she twirls him, her voice full of laughter as she sings, Moons and Junes and ferris wheels, the dizzy dancing way you feel. Her breath is warm on his forehead and smells like coffee and cinnamon, and he laughs with her as they spin, trying to sing along, but he has no idea what the words are, just that they make her happy. He's getting dizzy with the spinning, closes his eyes and rests his head in the hollow of her neck, breathing in the scent of Ivory soap, and for the first time he consciously recognizes that this is why Dad always bought it, even when it was store brand of everything else--because Mom was an Ivory girl all the way, and it's one more way to hold onto her memory.

Part of him wants to reach out and turn the radio off, because he can still remember her smile, the concern in her eyes as she'd told him to get some rest, the dry humor in her voice when he'd offered to mow her lawn, and it hurts to breathe when he thinks about it, what he had and what he lost.

Sam's still mumbling along, but Dean knows this is one of those songs that they never listened to as kids, that Dad raised them on Zeppelin and the Doors and the Stones, switching over to Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline and Hank Williams Jr. when he was climbing down into the bottle to escape the memories. Joni Mitchell and Simon and Garfunkel and even, sometimes, Fleetwood Mac, was always met with flared nostrils, narrowed eyes, and a quick change of the station.

It must be a chick thing, something Jess knew and Sam learned. Dean doesn't recall ever actually listening to Cassie's music; he remembers the roll of her eyes and the shake of her head when Metallica had blared out of the car's speakers the first time he drove her home. They'd spent most of their time bickering and fucking, and he has no idea now if she'd known this or liked it, if she'd have sung it to their kids if they'd had any.

So yeah, part of him wants to snap at Sam, make him change the station to something that doesn't have any memories attached at all--he'd even take some of that droney Coldplay crap he knows Sam only plays to get a rise out of him. But another part of him--and he's not the kind of guy who has an inner child or any Oprah shit like that; his twelve-year-old boy tendencies are right out on display for the world to see, at least according to Sam and every girl he's ever dated more than once--wants to bask in the sudden flare of warmth in his chest.

Sam's next to him, hands steady on the wheel, voice low and soothing as he sings along with Joni Mitchell, It's love's illusions I recall, I really don't know love at all, and they've got nothing but the open road ahead. For the next three and a half minutes, Dean feels warm and safe and loved.

end

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