DISCLAIMER: NONE OF THESE CHARACTERS ARE MINE. PLEASE R&R. FLAMES WILL DONATED TO THE KJBWFF (KILL JUSTIN BEIBER WITH FIRE FOUNDATION).

The old car had been on the edge of town for as long as anybody could remember, rusting away in a junkyard with a sign that read "Singer Salvage" if you bothered to look close enough. One of the neighbors, an old lady who'd stayed single for as long as she'd lived there, would swear that the man who lived there was a psycho who tossed a girl-thing (she didn't know what it was) into a wood chipper.

The car rested in a place of honor, set apart from the other wrecks rotting in the yard. It was still (almost) standing, besides the fact that its tires needed air. Nobody cared enough to fill her tires anymore, though. They just left her to rot.

Her once-beautiful black coat has rusted away, leaving a shell of a car behind. The windows were broken, shattered long before anyone could remember, besides old Jodi, the crazy woman in the old house. She'd built it back up after the fire and after Bobby Singer was shot, carefully recreating everything; even the books. She lived there, alone, occasionally selling parts to people fixing cars but mostly off "hunting" as she called it, until she got in an "accident" and shattered her ankle to the point that she couldn't ever run again. Most people say she's nuts, she's lost her mind in her old age, but you should believe her, because she tells the truth. She'll tell you that the old car, a 1967 Chevy Impala that played home to the two boys who saved the world now serves as their headstone. She'll tell you that the windows were shattered when an angel cried for a pair of dead brothers who died too young and too broken. She'll tell you about the old rock music, about the monsters they hunted, about everything, if you only promise to believe her.

The doors to the car are still there, with the little toy soldier shoved into the doorframe, its plastic slowly washing from green to the neutral color of the plastic underneath. They say that on a windy night, you can hear Legos rattle in the air vent, and that if you open the doors to the Winchester's home, you'll find a pair of initials scrawled into the car: D.W. and S.W.

Some people say there's a C. there too, but it's faded.

The car always smells a bit like sulfur, and every so often a round-faced Scottish guy called Crowley will show up and stare at the car before disappearing while muttering about a moose and a squirrel. Some say if you look close enough, you can see a wing pattern burned into the seats, the leftovers of a dead angel who loved humans so much that he'd died for them.

The car doors separate her from the outside world, keeping safe the memories of the Winchesters, a pair of brothers who fought to save the world from things we deny exist. They're warded with all sorts of symbols that look vaguely Satanic, even though any hunter worth their salt can tell you that they're actually for protection. There are weapons shoved in her doors, left there so that Sam and Dean would never be unprotected, even if they weren't able to open the false-bottom of the trunk.

And she'll sit there forever, under the careful watch of the sun (and maybe, just maybe, a demon), and she'll mark the place where two heroes are buried, still wearing plaid, closed behind the permanently-locked door of a pair of mahogany coffins.