Warnings: swearing, possible mutilation of the Impala (I’m very sorry)
Word Count: 1.8k
Summary: Maybe it wasn't the best idea to accept a gift from a witch with a wicked sense of humor...
read on ao3 read from the beginning
A/N: hiya guys, this is chapter 4 for @spnclassicbingo ’s challenge. And even though I didn’t write it thinking of April Fool’s day, it kinda fits, so I hope you have as much fun reading as I had writing this chapter :) I’m really sorry for what I did to the Impala though, please forgive me. If you wanna know what happens next, just stay tuned for the next chapters ^^
Maybe they should’ve checked the cassette tape case before they put the tape into the deck. Maybe they would’ve seen the little note inside the little plastic case if they’d done that. And maybe, just maybe they would’ve decided against this particular cassette. Or at least this one particular song on it.
Looking back, it was kind of obvious. Nancy did have this look of adoration when they were standing in front of the Impala. It was followed by a barely there smug smirk, now that Dean thinks back to that moment.
She also had this amused, knowing expression when Ella handed Dean the cassette of her father.
What Dean hadn’t thought of at the time though, was that Ella must’ve given Nancy the tape before she offered it to Dean, to ask for permission, and that Nancy is a witch after all. A witch with a cruel sense of humor. A very cruel sense of humor.
But they are on very high spirits after their day of celebrating little Tim’s birthday, jumping around inside the giant bounce house, drowning in the massive ball pit, and eating too much cake and way too many muffins for their own good, so, without thinking much about it, Dean shoves ‘Bruce Springsteen - ‘84’ into the cassette deck and hits the play button.
The first song on the tape is ‘Born In The USA’. As soon as the first notes blast through the speakers, Dean nods his head to the beat, broad smile on his face, left arm hanging loosely out of his open window, tapping on the outside of the driver’s door, right arm relaxed on the wheel. It only takes him until the first chorus to sing out loud, whereby...if you’re particular about it, you can't necessarily call it singing, but rather bawling.
Dean slams both his palms on the steering wheel. “Boooorn-” he snaps his head towards his brother- “in the USA, I was-” another clap against the leather wheel- “Booorn in the USA…”
The off-key singing of his older brother doesn’t stop Sam from joining in, and they both belt out the whole song at the top of their lungs, smiling and laughing and thrumming the beat against the dashboard and the steering wheel, while driving off into the sunset.
They are almost forty minutes into their drive when the tenth track starts to play, “Well now you may think I'm foolish, for the foolish things I do…”
Dean turns the volume down a little and says, “Man, I love Springsteen. Ella’s dad really had a good taste in music, didn’t he.” He smiles a slightly sad smile to himself, feeling infinitely sorry the little girl had to lose her parents. At least he still had his father and his brother. And this car. But Ella’s in good hands now at Nancy’s, he thinks. She’s got a whole new family of amazing people around her who will for sure help her deal with her loss and with finding new happiness.
“Well honey it ain't your money…” Sam’s voice interrupts his wallowing in memories and he turns up the volume again, “'Cause baby I got plenty of that.”
Both brothers chorus the next lines in unison, amused, contented grins covering both their faces, “I love you for your pink Cadillac, crushed velvet seats, riding in the back, cruising down the str-”
Dean stops singing when his fingers feel something weird all of a sudden, and he hits the brakes. Hard. And pulls her over to the side of the road with a jerky yank on the wheel.
“Dean, what the-”
“STOP SINGING!” Dean yelps at his utterly confused brother and reaches a hand out to mute the radio.
It’s nighttime by now, the inside of the impala pitch black, the empty road in front of them dimly lit in the beam of the Impala’s headlights.
Several seconds tick by in absolute silence, only Dean’s gasping breath, forcefully pushed through his nose is audible.
“What’s wrong now, Dean?” Sam asks and, even though Dean can’t see him in the darkness, he knows that his brother has his typical what-the-fuck-Dean eyebrow aimed at him.
“My Baby-” Dean sputters. To be precise, it’s rather a whine than anything else.
Sam waits for him to further explain, but when nothing follows after, except more panicked breathing and a slight shifting in his seat, he asks, “Yeah, so? What about her?”
“Gimme your phone,” Dean demands through clenched teeth, unsuccessfully trying to suppress another whine.
“Why do you need-”
“Just give it to me!”
Sam hands him the required phone after fishing it out of his pocket and Dean immediately opens the flashlight app, lighting up the car’s inside within the fraction of a second.
The dead silence that permeates the entire car is suffocating. Both brothers hold their breaths in shock, as they take in the drastic change of scenery. It’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop. What actually does drop, is Dean’s jaw. Pure horror is written in his eyes, his mouth opening and closing like a stranded fish on land.
Sam’s hysterical snort breaks the silence as he bursts out laughing, hands flailing around and grasping Dean’s shoulder while he desperately struggles for air.
Dean’s hand is shaking when he brings it up to point the flashlight at his steering wheel. No, not his steering wheel, this is so not his steering wheel.
It’s fuzzy fleece.
And it’s friggin’ pink.
The light beam slowly roams across the dashboard, the pink dashboard to be precise , travels to the bench seat in between them, which is, of course, covered in pink crushed velvet, and eventually settles on Sam’s face. Who has one of his giant hands pressed on his mouth. His eyes are wet with tears, the bulging veins on his forehead and both temples are throbbing, his whole head red like a tomato on fire, while he’s trying his darndest not to explode with laughter.
The moment Dean lowers Sam’s phone in resignation and lets his head loll back against the backrest, his brother can’t keep his emotions inside his body anymore and fills the car with whole-hearted sounds of pure joy.
“Oh, shut up, Sammy,” Dean moans in nothing but frustration, “This ain’t fucking funny, man!” He bangs his door open and climbs out of the car, takes a few steps into the night. The man folds over, his hands braced on his thighs. He takes a deep breath, straightens himself and turns around to face the vehicle in its entirety.
The flashlight raises again in Dean’s hand as he slowly approaches the Impala, shining the light over her varnish. Her mother. Fucking. Pink. Varnish.
“Baby…” he whispers, wretched, while he lets his tender fingers run over her hood, tenderly caressing the smooth cold surface, his voice barely working when he whispers a questioning “What-”
That’s all he can get out in his devastated state.
The passenger door opens and reveals an overly exuberant Sam, frantically gasping for air, almost falling out of the car while trying to climb out of his seat, still not able to control his laughter.
The taller man can barely keep himself standing, now that he can see the full extent of the Impala’s condition. And, after a look at his older brother, also the full extent of his condition.
Dean buries his head in his hands, vainly trying to stifle the pterodactyl shriek that presses through his fingers, scrubs them over his face, furiously rubbing his eyes.
Nope. Still pink.
“Oh, come on,” he whimpers and kicks an angry foot into the air.
“Your car...looks….like a...pimp mobile,” Sam manages to stammer out in between his giggles, clasping at his own stomach with one hand. His face freezes in an awkward exhilarated expression for a moment, before he looks Dean straight in the eyes and, followed by the next laughing fit, bursts out, “Oh my God. It’s the Pimpala!”
Dean’s eyes roll so far into his head it hurts. “Ha Ha, Sammy,” he rolls them back to the front and shoots his brother a glare that could kill, if he only tried hard enough, he’s sure of that. “Glad my misery is entertaining you that much. Really. I’m thrilled.”
It takes Sam far too long to catch his breath, to calm down enough to regain (almost) complete control over his face and body again.
A long time for Dean to just stand and stare. Eyes wide open. Still full of disbelief and consternation.
A reassuring pat on his shoulder tears him out of his trance-like state and he stops his absentminded scratching over the scruff on his own cheek to look up at his brother.
“Sammy…. ” Dean downright whines in despair towards Sam’s face, “My car... She’s- she’s... mutilated. Her… seats- and, the steering wheel is- She’s friggin PINK! ” He almost spits at his brother.
Sam gives his shoulder another gentle pat, “C’mon, Barbie,” a bad wink, “I gotta show you something.”
Dean briefly contemplates murdering his brother - thin ice, Sammy, thin ice - but follows him inside the car instead. His death will have to wait.
“Look at this, Dean,” Sam starts, amused smile on his lips, and hands his brother a small note, “I found this in the cassette tape case.”
With a raised eyebrow, Dean takes the proffered piece of paper, scrutinizing the neatly handwritten message:
Hope you take it with humor :)
Ella said she’d like your car a lot better in pink, so I hope you share that opinion
It’ll wear off within 24 hours though, so don’t worry ;)
Best wishes
Nancy
“I’m gonna kill her.” Dean clenches his fists, crumpling up the note in the process. His jaw clenches too, nostrils quivering. “I’m gonna kill her,” he repeats more quietly.
His brother sighs. “No, you won’t.”
“Oh, but I will!” A sharp breath through his nose. A humorless laugh. “My Baby looks like friggin’ Pink Panther’s car, Sam,” he complains, “I can’t just...let this slide.” He claws at his steering wheel and flinches as soon as his fingers meet the squashy, fluffy texture, and immediately pulls his hand back again.
Shit.
“Oh come on, Dean, it’s not that bad,” Sam tries to placate. “‘sides, she wrote that it only lasts 24 hours, right? Man the fuck up-” he slightly shifts in his seat, lets a hand run over the upholstery between them- “and enjoy the crushed velvet.”
There’s exactly two seconds of silence, before both men burst twin snorts through their noses. Even Dean’s grumpy grimace lightens up, the tension in his body decreasing the longer they’re laughing.
“Wow,” Sam chuckles after a while, wipes a tear from his cheek, “I never thought I’d ever say anything like that.”
Dean’s shoulders are still slightly trembling as he keeps giggling, “What, tell me I should enjoy the crushed velvet?”
They exchange affectionate whacks against each other’s arms.
With the utmost reluctance, Dean puts the Pimpala in drive and leads her back on the road, “Friggin witches, man!”
