Love and War

Summary : A trip to a car museum turns into a near disaster… Sam never did have as much luck with cars as Dean.

Disclaimer: Completely not mine. Just borrowing.

This story was previously published in Brotherhood 2, a zine just for Supernatural nuts like us. It was written to go with this set of stories, however, so I thought I'd better post it along with the others.

This is an even shorter story than my norm, but hopefully you'll enjoy it.

Chapter One


"Sam… I think I've died and gone to heaven."

Dean moved farther into the car museum, a sprawling warehouse in a newer section of Tupelo, Mississippi, birthplace of the King of Rock & Roll. They were just passing through, finished with one job and on the way to nowhere in particular. Not surprisingly, when given the choice, Dean had picked cars over Elvis for their day off.

Dean walked slowly, his hands reverently running along the line of rope set up to keep people away from the cars. Sam watched him, a knowing smile on his face, as his brother stopped every few feet to study the informational plaque and then the car, moving this way and that, bending down or standing on tiptoe trying to see only Dean knew what.

There were ancient cars that looked like no more than a buggy with the horses removed and an engine strapped on, all the way to more modern, almost ridiculous-looking showpieces that had never seen a road in their life. There were old Fords, Cords, Packards, Cadillacs, Auburns, Chevys, Rolls, Duesenbergs, and on and on.

The second Sam had found the brochure in their hotel room, he'd known this would be Dean's kind of place. They had precious few chances to unwind. If Sam could find something to give his brother a few hours enjoyment, he was grateful. Any boredom he might suffer was worth it when he saw Dean rubbing his hands together as he walked along the rows of cars, itching to look under the hoods.

Dean stopped in front of the next car in line, staring in silent awe at something Sam wouldn't have looked at twice.

"You're not gonna cry, are you?" Sam laughed.

"Sam, I know deep down you're really a girl, but can you show some respect?" Dean pointed toward the car that, frankly, looked kind of dumpy to Sam. "You're standing in the presence of greatness."

"If this is holy ground, maybe you should take your shoes off," Sam suggested, trying to keep a straight face.

"And maybe I should've left you at the motel," Dean grumbled. "Go stand down that way. Your ignorance is offending her."

Sam chuckled and moved on down the line, hearing Dean mutter what sounded suspiciously like "heathen." As he neared the end of the row, Sam was surprised to see an elderly man sitting in a 50s Packard. He was in the driver's seat, his expression far away, lost somewhere in the past. After several more seconds, the man seemed to notice him and looked up expectantly.

"She's a beauty," Sam offered.

"Yes, she is." The man nodded, but his expression was odd, still troubled and distant.

Climbing over the rope, Sam stepped up to the car and looked in the passenger window. "Sir, are you okay?"

The man ran his hands over the steering wheel, still not looking at Sam. "Sure. I'm just fine. Everything's fine."

He didn't look fine, though. He looked kind of like a senile guy who'd wandered away from the nursing home, pale and shaky. Sam opened the car door, slipping into the passenger seat. The interior was surprisingly spacious, and he silently thanked the Packard Company for the leg room. "Was this your car?" he asked.

"Of course not," the man answered with a shake of his head as if Sam had asked a silly question.

"Did you have one like this?" Sam pressed, and again the gentleman shook his head.

"Drove one once. Just once."

"Sir, are you feeling all right?" Sam asked again.

"Michael," the old man said wearily, resting his head back against the seat like he could barely hold it up.

Sam was afraid the guy was going to pass out. "Michael, do you need me to call an ambulance?"

Sam jumped when Dean appeared at the open passenger side door and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Sam, I appreciate the blatant disregard for authority and all, but I don't think they want us in the cars, man."

"Just hang on, Michael," Sam said, digging in his pocket for his cell phone.

"Sam, who you talking to?" Dean asked.

Sam didn't bother to look up, flipping the phone open. "Calling 911 for Michael here."

Dean quickly reached in and put his hand over the phone to keep Sam from dialing.

"What are you doing?" Sam demanded angrily, smacking his brother's hand out of the way.

"Dude, there's no one here," Dean answered. "You're sitting in a car talking to yourself."

"What?" Sam turned back toward the driver's seat and gasped. Michael was aiming a revolver straight at his forehead. Sam froze, the cold steel of the gun pressed firmly against his skin.

"Sam?"

He hardly heard Dean's voice, all his attention on the gun in his face.

"Sam, what's wrong?" Dean barked, ordering him to answer.

"I've got a delivery for you, Bob," Michael said lowly.

Sam's eyes widened as Michael's finger tightened on the trigger. He heard the report of the gun, then the world went dark.


A little teaser… More tomorrow. I suppose I could post it all at once, but where's the fun in that?