Damn, it's cold, thought Sam. He stood at the edge of the ditch, bouncing up and down to keep warm, ignoring the pain coming from his acing body, its bruises, and the small but deep cut above his left eye. He had needed nine stitches in that cut. He was alone except for the tow truck guy and his truck. The hum of the tow cable brought him out of his thoughts. He could hear the large object in the ditch sliding up the side. It took a minute or two, but finally he could see something of the object coming into the open. In another minute, Sam was staring open-mouthed at the heap of metal before him. Holy shit, he thought. Dean was not going to be happy about this.
Sitting in front of Sam was the conglomeration of leather, rubber, and jet-black metal that had once been a black '67 Chevy Impala and the beloved car of one Dean Winchester. Sam could hardly believe that the thing before him had ever been a car. The front end was smashed in, making the hood stick up. The back of the car looked just as bad. The car's sides were also bashed and the doors either wouldn't open or wouldn't close. There was not one piece of glass on the car that wasn't broken. Sam couldn't believe the two of them had survived at all, let alone with only minor injuries.
Sam walked over to the passenger side (or what was left of it) and further opened the already somewhat open front door. The inside looked almost as bad as the outside. The leather seats were covered in gashes from the glass. Sam's own seat was twisted beyond recognition. It's a good thing I got out of that car when I did, he thought. He climbed into the car as best he could and found what he was looking for: his dad's journal. He grabbed the journal and the box of fake IDs and Dean's Colt in the glove compartment. He tucked the items under his arm and the gun in his pants as the tow truck guy walked over to him.
"You were in this car?" he asked, shaking his head.
"Most of the time," Sam replied. "Hey…umm…is there any way this car can be fixed?"
The tow truck guy, whose shirt introduced him as Bubba, looked at him for a few moments, and threw his head back in an extremely amused and hearty laugh. "Son," he said when he had regained control of himself, "it would take a miracle to fix that car. There ain't no way that car is going to run again." Bubba started laughing again muttering, "'Can it be fixed?' he says…that's just rich."
"Ha ha," Sam muttered sarcastically under his breath. "Thanks for nothing."
Bubba had regained control of himself once more. "So," he said, clapping Sam on the shoulder and irritating the bruises forming there, "where can I take you?"
"St. Anne's Hospital, please," Sam replied, getting into the truck. Well, shit, he thought. Dean wasn't happy when the car even had a scratch on it, but that could be painted over and he would get over it. He was not going to be happy about the fact that half of his tape collection was not playable anymore, but they could probably be replaced. He was definitely not going to like the fact that it barely looked like his car anymore, but he would be okay as long as the car could be fixed. But this, the fact that the car was beyond repair, Dean was going to absolutely freak about this.
The ride to the hospital was quiet. Sam was sitting in the passenger seat watching the scenery pass by and wondering how he was going to tell Dean that his beloved car was beyond help. Sam had always thought that Dean's obsession with his car was stupid and childish, but he still didn't want to be there when he told his brother the news. Bubba pulled up to the hospital. Sam got an address for the junkyard and thanked him. Bubba drove off. Sam walked up to the front doors, took a deep breath, and walked in.
Dean was the luckiest guy in the world. Here he had been, lying on a bed, and the most beautiful woman in the world had been waiting on him hand and foot. God, he loved hospitals. He was now dressed and making sure he hadn't forgotten anything. He didn't want to leave the hospital today. While he had sent Sam to make sure his car was okay, he had had to stay behind because of a slight concussion and a dislocated shoulder. Luckily, his little brother had been smart and ditched the car early, getting off with cuts, bruises, sore muscles and nothing more. Dean realized how lucky he himself was too. It could have been a whole lot worse.
"Do you need anything else?" the nurse asked, sounding rather annoyed. No wonder she was annoyed. Dean had been trying to hit on the woman for two days. Dean looked at her. She had gorgeous brown hair and the prettiest eyes he had ever seen.
Dean was about to say that, yes, he desperately needed a beautiful girl's phone number when Sam walked in. "Here, let me save you from him," Sam said. The nurse gave him an all too grateful smile and left the room.
"Come on, Sam. I almost had a number." Dean was almost whining.
"Dean," Sam replied with a smile, grateful to keep Dean's attention off the car for a little while longer, "I think the closest thing you had to a number was a slap on the face." Dean turned to glare at his brother. Man, Sam could be such a jerk. Those few hours that he was going to check on the car were-the car.
"Hey, Sam," Dean said worriedly. "How's the car?"
Crap, Sam thought. He just had to ask about the car. "Heh…funny you should mention the car, Dean," he said. Dean watched his younger brother, realizing that whatever he had to say wasn't good news.
"Sam," he said tentatively, "is my car in one piece?" Sam flinched.
"Yeah, it's in one piece…more or less," Sam said nervously. God, how to tell Dean that his most prized possession was demolished?
"More or less?" Dean replied. "What…what does that mean, more or less?"
Sam sighed. That dreadful, awful, horrific moment had come. He had to tell Dean. "Dean," he started, sucking in a deep breath, "the car…" His voice fell off.
"Hey, Sam, if it's a scratch, I mean, that can be fixed," he said anxiously.
"Dean, it's a little worse than a scratch."
"A dent? That can also be fixed, Sam."
"Uh…Dean…." Sam's voice dropped a little.
"Is a side bashed in? Because that can be fixed, too." Dean was getting more and more worried. The more Sam was silent, the worse the damage probably was. "Sam?"
"Dean, the car is…" Sam stammered. God, why was this so difficult?
"The car is what, Sam?"
Sam stared at the ground, working his mouth, not saying anything.
"What, Sam? The car is what?" Dean almost yelled at his brother in anger, frustration, and worry.
"The car is dead, Dean," Sam almost yelled back. There. He'd said it, he'd finally said it…and immediately wished he hadn't. A look of shock and disbelief had crossed his brother's face.
"I'm sorry…the car is…what?" Dean stammered in response. His car…his baby…it couldn't be…what Sam had said. If he's joking, I'm gonna kill him, he thought. But another look at Sam's face told him that his younger brother was far from joking.
"Dead, Dean. The car is dead," Sam replied softly. He wanted to tell his brother that he was just joking, to change the subject, anything, mostly because his brother looked like he was about to kill him.
"No," Dean said, shaking his head. "No, the car can't be dead. It's…it's my car…it…it can't be…be…." He couldn't bring himself to say it. His car was not gone. He looked at Sam. "I want to see it."
Sam couldn't bring himself to resist his brother's wishes. "Okay," he said, "but you're not going to like it."
Half an hour later, Dean was staring at the remains of his car, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. "Ah….my…my car!" he exclaimed. He ran around all sides of the car, examining everything, trying to see if there was some way to redeem his beloved Impala. Sam stood quietly behind him, letting his brother have his moment with the car. Unfortunately, others were not so considerate.
"This was your car, son?" Bubba said, walking up behind Dean and putting a hand on his shoulder. Dean just nodded. Then he looked up at Bubba.
"Um…can you fix it?" Dean asked. Sam nearly withered as he stared at his brother. Dean looked like a child whose first pet had just died and was asking his father if he could make the pet wake up again. In a situation like this, it was best to handle it with delicacy.
But Bubba was not a delicate person. He burst into laughter. "Son, it would take the miracle of miracles to make this car work again." Sam's gut fell as he saw Dean's shoulders fall. Thanks, Bubba, Sam thought. You're one great big greasy help.
"Look," Sam spoke up. "Since we obviously can't drive this car, is there someone around here with a car we can drive?" Sam knew that Dean would have to face reality. His car was gone. He wasn't getting it back. It was that simple. Sad, but simple.
"I've got a car," Bubba said. "It's a little beat up, and I ain't doin' nothin' with it. I'll let you have it."
Sam was a little taken aback by the sudden generosity. "Um…thanks," he said, not quite knowing what to say. He started to follow Bubba, but then looked over at Dean, who was still staring at the car. "Dean…" he started.
"Just give me a minute, Sam," Dean said softly. Sam rolled his eyes and walked over to Bubba's office.
Dean stood in front of the heap of metal that had once been his beloved Impala. He just couldn't believe it was gone. He had been through so much in that car. It was…his baby. He found it hard to accept that he would no longer sit in his car and drive down the open road. Dean took a deep breath, and turned to follow his brother. Taking one last look at his car, he thought to himself, Anything but a station wagon, anything but a station wagon.
"Here we go, Dean," Sam said, leaning against the new car. But Dean wasn't looking at Sam; he was looking at the car his brother was leaning against. Sam was leaning… against a station wagon.
"Great," Dean muttered. The two then set about taking everything they could salvage from the Impala and transferring it to the station wagon. Nearly a quarter of their weapons were damaged, and Dean was more than a little upset to find that half his tape collection was missing, but relieved when he found his Metallica tape intact. Luckily, the laptop had been in their motel room. Lastly, Dean pulled the keys, for the last time, out of the ignition of his car. Twenty minutes later, the brothers were ready to go.
Sam tossed Dean the keys. He caught the keys, then looked down at them. He looked back at his car, back at the keys, at the station wagon, back at the keys, then he tossed the keys back to Sam. "You drive," he said. Sam shrugged and climbed in the driver's seat.
Dean climbed into the passenger seat of the station wagon and looked over at his brother as Sam started the engine. "Sam," he said, looking back out the window at the wreckage of his Impala.
"Hm?" Sam said, looking at Dean.
Dean turned to look back at him. "I want the son of a bitch that killed my car." Sam smiled and started the station wagon.