Regarding Baby
Dean x Reader Summary: Baby might be cursed. She might want to kill you, especially when you’re near Dean. And you have no idea why. Genre: Romance, Humor, Fluff Word Count: 4.5K
Okay, realistically, it could be worse. A lot worse.
Unfortunately, knowing that doesn’t make it feel any less shitty.
You glance around, clasp your fingers together, and hope the ground will just swallow you whole. The odds are low, sure, but in your line of work, they're never zero.
The floor does look pretty sturdy, though. About as sturdy as the fucking mess you walked into with your own two feet.
On second thought, maybe you should just grab a shovel and dig yourself a hole deep enough. Why wait for divine intervention when you can handle the burial yourself?
“Oh my God, I'm gonna be sick.”
Oh, look at that. Dean's here.
"Oh–Jesus Christ!”
And Sam, of course.
Already gathered here for your soon-to-be funeral.
You do hope they brought a shovel.
“Hey, guys,” you say, forcing a friendly chuckle. "What's up?”
Silence.
Deafening silence.
They’re just staring at the space next to you, eyes wide in complete horror.
You start to shuffle away instinctively, trying to escape the crime scene. But you don’t make it two steps before Dean locks his eyes on you. “The hell happened to my car?”
“Uh… this is gonna sound stupid,” you say, laughing nervously. “But it was self-defense.”
Sam and Dean glance between your spotless self and the wrecked car, clearly not believing a word you're saying.
“Look at her!” Dean exclaims, stepping closer. His hands hover over the shattered window, the side mirror dangling by a thread, literally.
“My poor Baby,” he whines, caressing the dented side, scratches running deep. A small whimper almost escapes him.
Sam, the only one still logical in this disaster, frowns at you, a hint of judgment in his voice. “What do you mean—self-defense?”
“Well… Baby tried to kill me.”
Sam frowns at you and looks back at the car, trying to figure out what he’s missing.
Dean, on the other hand… he’s too emotionally involved to hear a word. There’s a slight delay before the words finally register, and about ten seconds later, he turns back to you, still cradling his precious. “My Baby would never do that.”
You narrow your eyes because he’s indirectly calling you a liar. So, of course, you do the only reasonable thing: risk your life to prove a point.
You step closer to the car, daring it to strike again. Inch by inch, you get right up next to it, smug as hell. And... nothing happens.
You glare at the Impala, give it a half-hearted punch just to wake it up. And then another, stronger this time.
Still nothing. Zero reaction.
Great. Now you look like a car abuser.
Dean’s eyes land on you, horrified. “Would you stop hitting my car!?”
So, about that shovel… don’t you even worry. Dean will handle it himself.
—
Dean locks himself in the garage with the victim all day, and when he does get out, he's clearly in a mood, looking like a grieving widower. Not that you blame him… but, you know, you're the real victim here, and no one seems to care.
His precious Baby will live. He will fix her up, give her a bath, pat her hood, whisper something tender, and she’ll be good as new.
You, on the other hand, almost became a chalk outline on the ground. And Dean hasn’t even looked at you long enough to confirm you have all your limbs.
It's almost surprising when you hear a faint knock on your door, and Dean is the one standing behind it.
He shuffles on his feet and almost doesn't meet your eyes when he speaks. “You should stay away from the car," he says.
You stare at him for a beat.
Really?
After everything today, that’s his opening line?
You’ve officially reached your limit, and you start closing the door, firmly ending this ridiculous conversation.
But he stops it with his hand and looks right at you. “I mean it,” he repeats. “Don’t go near her.”
Your patience snaps just a little.
“So help me God, I will kill both of you if you don’t let go of this door.”
Dean blinks at you, clearly taken aback. “…Why are you angry? I'm just saying-”
"I won’t touch your stupid car ever again,” you snap. “Next time she tries to kill me, I’ll just let it happen so you can hold her hand at my funeral.”
He looks so perplexed that you actually manage to shut the door. Briefly.
Then it swings open again with a lot more strength.
“I’m not done,” he says, trying to step closer.
You make a break for the hallway, but he catches you without even trying, bracing his arms on either side of you. Not rough. Just firm. Inescapable.
“Would you listen to me for one damn minute?”
Okay… if he keeps holding you like that, maybe you'll listen.
You do have your principles, strong ones, but you're also very weak when he's towering over you like that, so strong and so close.
Your resolve falters just enough to allow him to continue.
“Baby’s cursed,” Dean says, and you almost can’t believe he actually said it out loud. “I’ve been trying to figure out why she’d attack you all day long. And… uh… the artifacts we carried last week—I think one of them touched the car.”
You gape at him. Not just because he’s holding you, but because he believed you enough to spend the whole day digging for answers. Your chest tightens a little.
“I need you to stay away from the car, all right?” He repeats.
His hands leave your sides, and your sanity returns just enough for the most important question.
“Why? Why is she trying to kill me?”
He swats your question away, but doesn't quite meet your eyes when he replies. “Just – I dunno. Doesn't matter,” he says curtly. Then he softens a little as he continues, “Listen… how’re you feeling? You okay?”
Well, you do feel better now that he asked, so you nod.
Dean exhales, sounding relieved. “Good. That’s good. Now get some sleep, alright? Lemme know if you need anything.”
—
You’ve been avoiding the Impala for weeks now. Every hunt, every town, every dusty stretch of highway… you steer clear of her. And yet, the longer you’re on the road alone, the more you feel the ache. It’s not just the car itself; it’s what she represents. Home. Safety. Memories of road trips, laughter bouncing between the front seats, quiet moments in the backseat when the world outside starts to fade.
Driving alone is hollow. The road stretches endlessly, gray and lonely. You miss Dean in the front seat, his occasional glances from the rearview mirror, the way he hums along to a song he knows you secretly love. You miss Sam too, with his endless facts and gentle prodding that makes the hours pass faster.
Sometimes, you catch yourself staring at the empty passenger seat, wishing to be elsewhere, wishing the road could carry you back to those little pockets of comfort, those small moments that felt like everything.
And yet… you resist. Patience, you tell yourself. One day, you and the Impala will be reunited. One day, you’ll slide into those leather seats, close your eyes, and let her hum you to sleep.
One day.
---
When Dean walks into the motel room, you’re already buried in research, eyes skimming pages for any clue about the creature haunting this town.
“Anything?” you ask without looking up.
“Nah. Maybe Sammy’ll be luckier,” he replies, leaning against the doorframe. Then his gaze drifts to your hand, clutching your neck. “You still in pain?”
“My neck’s killing me,” you murmur. “Must’ve slept wrong.”
Dean slides closer, voice soft, a faint edge of concern threading through it. “C’mon… stand up straight. Just like that…” His fingers replace yours on your neck, pressing into the tense muscles with deliberate pressure. The heat from his hands spreads down your shoulders, loosening you up, teasing out knots you didn’t realize were there.
You catch your breath at the sudden relief. It’s intimate without words, the way his thumbs glide along the tight lines of your neck, the gentle stretch as he nudges your shoulders back. Every touch is firm and careful, but there’s something personal in it, a closeness that makes your chest tighten and your thoughts stumble.
“Relax… that’s it,” he murmurs, voice low. The warmth of it drifts down your spine as he works through the stubborn knots, each press sending shivers across your nerves. You hum softly, eyes fluttering closed, letting yourself sink into the moment, into him. The world shrinks to the press of his fingers, the heat radiating from his palms, and the quiet intimacy of being cared for like this.
Then—a roar.
The Impala’s engine. Full blast.
Your eyes snap open. Dean yelps, stepping back, hands raised like he’s negotiating with someone holding a gun. “Baby! Hey! Calm down! Nothin’ happened!”
She revs again. Louder. More insistent.
Dean throws his hands in the air. “Oh, for crying out loud!” He rushes outside, crouching beside the car, patting her hood, whispering in a voice so soft it’s almost reverent. “Easy… yeah, I get it. I'm sorry, okay? Just… calm down.”
You press your face to the window, watching the absurdity of it all.
Dean’s knees hit the asphalt as he pleads with her.
Finally, the engine dies, and he staggers back inside, running a hand over his face, eyes avoiding yours. “Alright… I’m taking another room. I don't think she wants me here.”
You stare, dumbfounded, no words coming out.
You can’t even glare at the cursed car for ruining your massage. Not yet. Not when she’s still clearly in charge.
—
Hours pass before Sam heads back, and in the meantime, Dean has moved the car across the street and is now texting you from the next room.
Sam steps inside, looks around the space, then drops into the chair across from you. “Where’s Dean?”
“Uh, the room next to ours," you reply. “Baby was a bit upset."
Sam tries and fails not to look at you like a criminal. “Why? What were you two doing?"
"Nothing."
He snorts and shakes his head. “Yeah, sure. Because that’s totally how this works. He’s supposed to stay away from you. He knows that.”
What?
You don't want to cut this conversation short, so you nod at him in agreement. "Right, he does know that.”
“Listen, whatever it is—just… don’t do it again, alright? Not until it’s over.” His voice is half big-brother, half exhausted-babysitter. And before you can demand to know what “it” even is, he barrels on into case talk, flipping open a lore book with all the enthusiasm of someone who hasn’t slept in two days.
The real issue is, it never seems to be over. Whatever spell they're trying to reverse this curse, it needs the most impossible ingredients, and it's already been more than a month with no changes.
You’d suggested Dean park Baby in the garage for now, use a different car until they fix things. He’d looked at you with this tragic expression and whispered, “I tried... She didn’t like that.”
The man said it like Baby had keyed the other car in retaliation.
—
A couple more days go by, then a couple more, and you finally work up the nerve to knock on Dean’s bunker door. When he opens it, the first thing he does is whip a glance down the hallway, like Baby’s about to come barreling around the corner with murder in her headlights.
Then he seems to realize how ridiculous that would look, shakes his head, and focuses back on you. “What’s up?”
“I haven’t seen you in three days.”
You pout because, at this point, your pride is dead and buried. “Are you avoiding me now? Because of the car?”
He shrugs, but his eyes flick back to the hallway again. Then he takes two entire steps backward. “Just in case,” he says.
Right.
You’re so fed up with this whole mess, you could scream into a pillow.
“Why does she want to kill me, anyway?” you demand. “I’ve never done anything to her—well, besides that one time. Maybe I should just talk to her.”
“No,” he says instantly, and even moves toward you before catching himself. “Just—no. Stay away from her, okay? Lemme handle it.”
“You keep saying that,” you mumble, frustration and sadness mixing into something embarrassingly pathetic. “But I just…”
You feel lonely. Pathetically, achingly lonely. He used to always be there, a steady presence in your life. Now you’re lucky to spot him across the hallway once a day.
Your shoulders drop. You cast your eyes down. “Whatever,” you breathe, then turn away before your voice can crack, retreating toward your room as quietly as you can manage.
—
A few more days pass, heavy and quiet, and then, suddenly, everything goes wrong and you find yourself sprinting through the woods, lungs burning, legs shaking.
Branches tear at your clothes as you run towards the only thing that can help. The only thing that can save him.
The trees break suddenly, and there she is.
The Impala.
Your heart stumbles at the sight of her, gleaming black in the dim light.
The instant she registers you, her engine roars to life, low, furious, almost wounded. A sound that vibrates through your ribs.
You freeze, breath shaking.
Fear coils tight in your stomach, but you move anyway.
Hands raised, palms open, you slowly step toward her. “Listen,” you begin, and your voice cracks instantly. “Please… just listen.”
The engine growls again. She could crush you in a heartbeat.
But she waits.
“You care about Dean,” you say, your throat thickening. “I know you do. And that's why I'm here.”
Another step.
Your legs tremble, but you keep going.
“I know you don’t like me. I know you don’t want me near him.” A harsh breath escapes you as you keep moving. “But he’s in danger and he needs help... I need what’s in your trunk, and I can’t get it without you letting me.”
“Please.”
A whisper. A prayer.
“Please, Baby. I’m begging you. Whatever this curse is doing to you, whatever it wants you to do to me, you know I’m not lying. We don’t… we don’t have much time. Please. Dean needs you.”
For a long moment, there is nothing.
The forest holds its breath.
So do you.
Then—
A soft mechanical click.
The trunk unlocks.
It rises slowly, as if it takes effort… as if she’s fighting something inside herself to let you in.
Your chest tightens until it hurts, and you step forward carefully, reverently, to gather everything you need.
The trunk never wavers, the hood never drops. She does not threaten you.
She chooses not to.
When you have everything, you stop. You look at her, really look, and your throat tightens. Because this isn’t her. Not truly. And she’s trying, she's fighting. For him.
You reach out and rest your hand against her side, gentle, grateful.
“Thank you,” you whisper, voice breaking. “Thank you, Baby.”
Then you turn, heart heavy but determined, and you run.
—
A few hours later, you stumble back into that clearing, half-carrying Dean with Sam. His weight sags heavily between you both, his boots dragging through the dirt. He’s in bad shape, so bad your tears haven’t stopped since the moment you reached him. They blur your vision now, hot and constant, slipping down your cheeks as you hold him tighter.
His eyes are barely open.
His breathing comes in shallow, broken pulls.
There’s so much blood you don’t know where it’s coming from anymore… his shirt soaked through, Sam’s hands slick with it, your own arms painted red up to the elbows.
Sam tries to push you back the moment the car comes into view. “Stay here,” he pants. “Let me go first.”
But you shake your head, voice trembling. “Trust me. Keep going.”
Baby revs the second her headlights catch you– sharp, furious, like she’s ready to tear the clearing apart piece by piece. The ground hums under your feet as she growls, metal vibrating with warning, with something twisted by the curse.
But then—
Sam drags Dean forward.
And she sees him.
Her engine chokes mid-growl.
Then she lets out a sound you’ve never heard from her before… low, wounded, almost pleading. A sound that cracks something open inside you.
She whines again, louder this time, as if calling for him.
And then a soft yellow glow begins to pulse beneath her frame.
It spreads upward slowly at first… then faster… brighter… until her entire body is wrapped in a golden haze that flickers and swells like a heartbeat. The light intensifies, filling every curve of her metal, building pressure until suddenly—
It shatters.
A burst of warmth, wind, and color rippling outward across the clearing, washing over trees, leaves, dirt. It takes the air from your lungs, but it brings something else too. A sense of stillness. Of clarity. Of release.
And you know.
You don’t know how, but you know.
The curse is gone.
Baby fought it off.
For Dean.
Together, shaking, you and Sam lift Dean into the backseat. You climb in after him, pulling him onto your lap, cradling his head against your shoulder. Your hands press against his wound, desperate, pleading.
Sam throws himself into the driver’s seat and steps on the accelerator so hard the world lurches.
There are no words in the car.
Only Dean’s shallow breaths…
your quiet, broken tears…
and the soft hum of Baby’s engine, steady and urgent, like a prayer whispered into the dark.
—
The weeks go by, and Dean slowly recovers, surrounded by the stark white walls of the hospital. In the meantime, you take it upon yourself to care for Baby because she deserves it.
There’s no curse anymore, and you know she’s just metal now, nothing alive pulsing inside her. But after everything that’s happened, you’ve grown incredibly attached to her, and you want to treasure her as she deserves, until Dean can do it himself.
You’ve always understood the quiet reverence he holds for her, Sam too. For most of their lives, that car has been more than a vehicle; she’s been home, the one constant thread tying them to something solid beyond each other. She’s always been there, right from the very beginning.
Life to them has never existed without Baby.
And now, apart from the ties she has with the guys, you feel your own bond blooming quietly each time you look at her. You let her know in small, gentle ways… a soft pat to her side whenever you’re near.
Then the day comes. Dean steps outside the hospital, and his eyes immediately find her.
“Oh, Baby, I missed you,” he murmurs, hands reaching for her. And he inspects her with the sharp, assessing eye only he has. “Sammy, you’ve stepped up your game, man. She’s pristine.”
His brother chuckles from behind him. “I got nothing to do with it.”
Dean’s gaze finds you instinctively, eyebrows raised, waiting for confirmation.
“What can I say?” you reply, a small smile tugging at your lips. “She grew on me.”
He smiles back, genuine and half-surprised, and then hands you the keys Sam just gave him.
“What?” Your voice wavers with disbelief.
“Go ahead,” he says simply. “Always figured you’d drive her someday. Looks like that day’s today.”
Not once has he said this, not once have you driven her before. Tears prick at your eyes as you slide into the driver’s seat, Dean settling beside you. You take her in from this new perspective, seeing her as Dean does, feeling the weight of his trust.
After a quiet pat to the steering wheel, you finally turn the key in the ignition.
—
“So… Baby’s curse. What was that all about anyway?”
It’s been long enough that Dean probably assumes the topic’s buried for good, but you’ve never gotten closure and it gnaws at you. Before that day when you’d been forced to hurt her, you’d always been careful, respectful. Of her. Of him. Never letting a scrap of food touch her seat, never leaving a mark with your shoes.
You’d even drunkenly kissed him once, right on those seats, to thank him when he came to pick you up after a night out. The image of Dean and Baby, waiting for you like that… it had done something inexplicable to your heart.
Maybe that’s what had upset her.
The point is, you need to know.
As soon as the question is out of your mouth, Dean almost chokes on his beer, and he lowers his legs from the table, looking for the stability of the floor. “...You know, just a normal curse.”
“How is your car trying to kill me normal?”
“You know Baby,” he says matter-of-factly, though his voice is just a little tight, “she cares about me. And the curse must have played with that. Made her think you were someone to watch out for, you know?”
“Why? Why would your car be upset if you give me a massage? That’s crazy ex-girlfriend behavior.”
His eyes widen, just for a moment, before he forces a normal expression back onto his face. “Does it really matter? I mean… It’s over now, right?”
And in most ways, it is over.
But a small thought lingers in your mind, persistent and quiet. While the curse is gone, something about Baby lately feels… alive.
Do you have proof? No, not really.
Has anything tangible happened to confirm it? Again, no.
But that feeling persists, stubborn, refusing to be ignored. It’s not a bad feeling, nothing like the curse; it’s innocent, teasing, as if she’s quietly reminding you that she’s still very much here. But, considering the severe lack of evidence, it’s probably entirely in your head.
Like the time the passenger door nudged you straight into Dean’s arms.
Like the time your seatbelt got stuck… until he came closer and put his hand on it to let you out.
Yeah, it must be your vivid imagination, and not the car trying to set you up with her owner.
And then it happens again, just another totally random coincidence, when all the doors of the Impala refuse to unlock, trapping you and Dean inside at the worst possible moment. Right when you’re angry at each other, when the only thing you want is to get the hell away from him.
But the doors won’t budge. The car won’t start. And as the rain begins to drip down the windows, you’re forced into those seats with no escape.
Dean sighs long and loud, resting his head on the wheel after his last failed attempt. “C’mon, Baby,” he mutters, half-angry, half-pleading. “Don’t do this to me now.”
But the stubborn little thing doesn’t listen. You sit trapped on the side of some middle-of-nowhere road, arms crossed, staring everywhere but at him. The storm worsens, lightning flashing, thunder rolling in the distance, and you slide down the seat, resting your head against it.
And then the heater dies too, if Dean’s string of curses is any proof.
Without a word, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over you as he settles beside you. You push it away, grumbling that you “don’t need his stupid jacket,” but he just sighs and lays it over you again, stubborn as ever. Eventually, you stop fighting it, glaring out the rain-streaked window from under its warmth.
“I don’t even know why you’re pissed at me,” Dean mutters, voice low. “You can go date that douchebag for all I care.”
“I’d love to, if I could actually get out of here,” you shoot back, purely out of spite. “I swear your car does this shit on purpose.”
He scoffs. “Yeah, well, you should be grateful. You could be stuck with Captain Grabby Hands right about now.”
“Well, at least he cares about me… not like someone else.”
That one hits. A flash of anger crosses his eyes, quick, sharp, matching the lightning outside. “Are you talkin’ about me right now? Why the hell would you say something like that?”
You turn your back on him again, slumping into the seat. “I don’t wanna talk anymore.”
Dean reaches out and grabs your arm, not hard, but enough to pull you back toward him. When you finally look up, there’s no anger left in his face. He looks… almost hurt. “Who said I don’t care about you? Have I ever said anything like that?”
You look at him from beneath your lashes, his jacket still pooled in your lap, and shrug. “You don’t care about me the way I want you to care,” you whisper. Then you try to turn away again. “Can you let me go now?”
He does. His hands fall away immediately. But when you risk another shy glance at him, he leans in and kisses you, soft at first, almost hesitant, like he’s giving you one last chance to pull away. The shock only lasts a heartbeat before you’re kissing him back, breathless.
Your heart jumps, your stomach twists, everything inside you is tightening all at once as his hands settle at your waist. He pulls you closer, closer still, until you’re practically on his lap, your back brushing the wheel, your fingers buried in his hair to keep him near.
“Been dying to do this,” he murmurs against your mouth, his voice low and rough, his hands gripping just a little tighter like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. His nose brushes yours. Your breaths mix in the dim, rain-soaked air, and he’s breathing just as hard as you are, just as undone.
“Tell me you’re not goin’ back to him,” he whispers, his mouth barely a breath from yours.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you breathe. “Wanna stay with you.”
And the relief that breaks across his face is so raw, so unguarded, that he pulls you in and kisses you again, deeper this time, certain, almost desperate, like he’s been holding himself back for far too long and doesn’t plan on doing it another second.
The heater kicks back on… eventually, followed by the rest of the car, and you laugh against him in disbelief. “See? I told you she does it on purpose.”
He hums, kissing you softly. “At least she wants me near you now. You have no idea how much it sucked staying away from you.”
“Trust me,” you murmur, letting yourself melt a little against him. “I know.”
—
The Impala gets checked from wheel to wheel, top to bottom, and there’s nothing to be found. No curse, no ghost haunting her. She seems perfectly spotless, although you can swear the headlight winked at you after you and Dean had your moment in the car.
That could be your vivid imagination, once again.
Or maybe… just maybe, Baby has grown fond of you, the same way you’ve grown fond of her. And, in her own quiet way, she’s looking out for you, keeping you safe and happy, just like she’s done for Sam and Dean all these years.
---
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