Riding with the Winchesters
Featuring David Ball's "Riding with Private Malone"
"I was just out of the service, thumbing through the classifieds, when an ad that said 'Old Chevy' somehow caught my eye. The lady didn't know the year or even if it ran, but I had that thousand dollars in my hand…"
Jason Lockwood crossed through another ad with his pen, sighing in frustration. He had been searching the classifieds for weeks now ever since he got back from active duty in Iraq. During the worst of the war, he had made a promise to himself that if he ever got back home, he would sell his apartment and live on the road. He had always wanted to see the country, traveling from town to town, settling down for a few weeks in a charming town before moving onto the next.
Jason had never been one to really settle down. He'd had a few girlfriends in the past, but they had never stuck. He had never actually wanted marriage; life on the open road—that was the life for him. But when the war in Iraq happened, he had felt the need to enlist. He had wanted to do some good in this world, help people. He still felt that way, actually, but now that the war was over, he didn't know where to direct those energies. He would hit the road and figure it out on the way.
He had sold the apartment a week ago and was renting a motel room until he found the perfect car for the road. So far, nothing. There weren't many people privately selling cars in 2030. He was getting to the point where if he didn't see one by the end of the week, he would just pick the best deal.
Jason turned to the next page, skimming the first ad, the second, the third, before the fourth made him stop and pause. The ad read:
Old Chevy. Black.
Good condition.
Needs slight maintenance.
$5,000.00
670-555-0143
Jason stared at the ad, seemingly mesmerized. The lack of information in the article was disappointing, but "Old Chevy" just seemed to call out to him. He picked up his phone and dialed.
"It was way back in the corner of this old ramshackle barn with thirty years of dust and dirt on that green army tarp…"
Jason followed Katie Black out to the garage behind her house. As Katie unlocked the door and led him in, Jason caught sight of a green army tarp covering a behemoth.
Jason's enthusiasm sparked at the sight. Oh, this has gotta be a beauty. Only the classics were ever this big.
All manner of dirt and filth covered the tarp. It had obviously been sitting in her garage for a while.
"How long have you had it?" asked Jason.
Katie shrugged. "It came with the house. We came out to the garage to pack away extra boxes, and we saw it in the back corner. The realtor said we could keep it, but we don't need it."
Jason looked back over at the old tarp in growing trepidation.
"And when I pulled the cover off, it took away my breath. What she called a Chevy was a '66 Corvette…"
Jason walked over to the car, grabbed hold of the tarp, and pulled it down onto the floor. As the tarp fell away, shining black metal and chrome met his eyes. Jason's breath caught in his throat.
No way… he thought. An Impala?
Jason slowly stepped towards the classic, eyes roving over the perfect polish, the wonderfully dent-free frame, the silver "Chevrolet" emblazoned on the grill, the tear-free leather seats…
No one has one of these things anymore, he thought. Sixty-three years, and yet still so badass.
Jason looked back at Katie, thinking there had to be a catch. No one just gives away a fully restored, functioning '67 Impala for five thousand dollars.
"And it works?" he asked.
Katie held the keys out. "See for yourself."
Jason took the keys and opened the driver's door, sliding into the seat and pushing the key into the ignition. With a mighty roar, the Impala burst to life, purring underneath the hood. Unable to help himself, Jason eased his foot onto the gas, revving the engine. The engine's roar grew with each step on the gas, sounding relieved at the chance to get on the road again.
Jason froze suddenly, looking into the backseat with a frown. He could have sworn he heard a holler of excitement. After a moment of nothing happening, Jason turned back to the dash, glancing down at the odometer.
"Ooh…" breathed Jason, "you sure got around, didn't you?"
Again, he thought he heard something faint from the backseat, only it was a chuckle this time.
"I felt a little guilty as I counted out the bills, but what a thrill I got when I sat behind the wheel…"
Jason propped the hood up and inspected the engine, which looked like it only needed a few new parts.
Whoever had her last obviously took real good care of her, he realized.
His inspection of the car revealed very little wear and tear and no damage. He closed the hood and turned toward Katie.
"I'll take her," Jason told her, pulling his wallet out and taking out the hundred dollar bills he had brought.
"She's yours," said Katie with a smile, accepting the money. "When will you be able to come pick it up?"
"I'll go ahead and drive it home," Jason told her.
"What about your car?" she asked.
"This is my car," he replied. "I had to take a cab to get here."
Katie smiled. "Oh, well, then, have a good day. Enjoy."
"I will," said Jason appreciatively as he opened the driver's door and got in.
He sat there for a moment as Katie went back into her house, just gripping the wheel. He couldn't describe the feeling he got sitting in the car, but he couldn't wait to hit the open road.
"I opened up the glove box, and that's when I found the note. The date was 1966, and this is what he wrote. He said, 'My name is Private Andrew Malone, and if you're reading this, then I didn't make it home. But for every dream that's shattered, another one comes true. This car was once a dream of mine. Now, it belongs to you. Though you may take her and make her your own, you'll always be riding with Private Malone…'"
Jason reached over to the glove box, deciding that his first stop should be the license office.
Please let there be a title, he begged.
As he rummaged through the glove box, he came across an old, faded, unmarked envelope. He slid it open and pulled out a piece of paper, starting to read:
"I'm not one for writing a Dear John letter, so I'm just gonna jump right in.
"You get to be the proud owner of my baby. Consider yourself lucky. You wouldn't have gotten hold of this car if it weren't for my line of work.
"My brother Sam and I went off to fight an important war, one you'll most likely never hear about. But you're probably alive today because of us. I wrote this letter in the off chance that we wouldn't make it back, which—what do you know?—I was right.
"I don't know who you're going to be, but I do know one thing. Sam and I never really had a real home. We basically grew up on the road, so the Impala became our home. It means more to us than you'll ever guess.
"What I'm trying to say is, you better take care of this car…or I'll be back for you. And, no, I'm not kidding.
"That being said, enjoy. Just know that whatever you decide to do with her, you'll always be riding with the Winchesters.
Dean Winchester
"P.S. Don't freak when you look in the trunk. Consider it an emergency kit."
Jason frowned at the post script, but found his attention drawn to the second to last paragraph.
"Wow, this Dean doesn't kid around when it comes to his car," Jason muttered.
Again, Jason heard a faint chuckle, this time less deep and in a more joking tone.
"Well, it didn't take me long at all. I had her running good. I love to hear those horses thunder underneath her hood. I had her shining like a diamond, and I'd put the rag top down. All the pretty girls would stop and stare as I drove her through town…"
Jason worked for a week to get the engine back to like-new condition. It was going very well; no rust to get rid of on anything. The trunk had been a surprise, though.
After getting the title in his name that first day, Jason had parked the Impala in the motel parking lot and opened the trunk. He had found a giant arsenal of some of the weirdest stuff he'd ever seen. Not only were there about ten to fifteen pistols and shotguns, but there were machetes, several bags of salt, a dream-catcher or two, a bag of weird charms on necklaces, several knives—including this really wicked looking one with an antique handle and strange symbols on the blade, some jugs of water and a few other odds 'n ends. What seemed to be the most out of place was a pouch with a few feathers in it. But these were feathers Jason didn't recognize at all. They were huge and black that seemed to shimmer with metallic blue when he moved them.
Jason had, for some reason, decided not to empty the arsenal or report it to the cops. Like Dean had said, some of these things might come in handy one day in an emergency. And besides, if these two brothers had been some sort of serial killers, they were long dead. Even so, Jason didn't really get a "psychotic murder" vibe about them.
So, Jason had set about getting the car ready for the road, replacing parts and tuning the engine.
There were times when he thought something was going on with the car. He would be working under the hood when the exact wrench he needed would suddenly be sitting on the edge of the hood. Or when he turned back to the tool box after an hour of working, a cool beer would be sitting next to it on the pavement.
After Jason thought he had everything taken care of, he took the Impala out for a spin through town to make sure it sounded okay. He even got a few appreciative stares. But when it really got fun was when he took her out on the back roads and gunned the motor. And—oh, boy—did those horses sound awesome.
"The buttons on the radio didn't seem to work quite right, but it picked up that oldie show, especially late at night. I'd get the feeling sometimes if I turned real quick, I'd see a soldier riding shotgun in the seat right next to me…"
Jason had first headed west towards California once he hit the road. The Impala had turned out to be the perfect road trip car: plenty of space and horsepower. Even when he had to stop for the night before he could get to a motel, the backseat was plenty roomy.
Once he had gotten onto the open road, the strange occurrences seemed to double. The first day, a box had suddenly slid out from under the passenger side of the bench seat. After pulling over, Jason had discovered it to be a box of classic rock cassette tapes. He had been listening to them ever since. Every once in a while, Jason would hear an echo of laughter or a faint exclamation of "Bitch!" followed by an equally exclamative "Jerk!"
There was even one time when Jason was checking his rearview mirror and could have sworn he saw two men in the backseat. When he turned to look, no one was there. He had only gotten a brief glimpse, but he had clearly seen their faces. One was a green-eyed man in his late thirties with short, spiky brown hair and a cocky smirk on his face. The other was a slightly taller man a little younger than the other with darker brown hair down to his shoulders and kind hazel eyes.
After that incident, Jason found his gaze constantly drawn to the rearview mirror in hopes of catching them in it again.
"It was a young man named Private Andrew Malone, who fought for his country and never made it home. But for every dream that's shattered, another one comes true. This car was once a dream of his back when it was new. He told me to take her and make her my own. I was proud to be riding with Private Malone…"
It was about a month of sightseeing on the west coast before Jason found the newspaper he had bought that morning open on the passenger seat to the obituaries. One in particular was circled. Jason looked around in confusion before picking the paper up and reading. The article was about a young woman in the neighboring county who had been brutally murdered in her locked apartment.
Jason tossed the paper into the backseat, shaking his head in sadness at the tragedy and putting the key in the ignition. The paper came sailing back up onto the seat next to him.
Jason spun around towards the backseat, but no one was there. He looked down at the paper, the girl's circled obituary staring up at him.
Jason sighed. "Alright, you win. I'll go." He turned the car on and began backing out of the space. "Don't know why I'm doing this, though." He headed out of the parking lot and down the road towards the town.
"One night, it was raining hard. I took the curve too fast. I still don't remember much about that fiery crash…"
After spending a few hours at the funeral home and reception, Jason had discovered some things about the woman's death that just didn't add up. Every door and window in her apartment was still locked from the inside, the alarm was still set, and strangest of all, she had died from internal bleeding without any sign of physical damage. Oh, sure, her insides were ripped up pretty good, but she had not a scratch or a bruise anywhere on her skin. It was as though something had reached right through her chest and torn her up.
Something about the whole thing nagged at Jason, causing him to decide to check the apartment out after dark when no one was around.
"Someone said they thought they saw a soldier pull me out. They didn't get his name, but I know without a doubt…"
Jason walked into the apartment, shining his flashlight everywhere. As he made his way through the living room, a cold breeze tickled the back of his neck, causing him to spin around in alarm. No one was there, but something didn't feel right to him. The next second, a deep, somewhat familiar voice called out from the darkness.
"Look out!"
Something collided with Jason, pushing him against the wall and up it. Jason looked down to see a pale, decrepit woman holding him up in the air.
"Get out!" she screamed.
Her hand plunged through his chest, wrapping around his heart. Her figure seemed to flicker with his heartbeat. Jason yelled in pain before a shot rang out, and she disappeared. Jason dropped to the floor, a hand to his chest as he panted.
"Heads up, Jason!"
Jason looked up to see two men in the room, each holding a shotgun. The shorter one tossed a third in his direction. Jason caught the gun, trying to see who they were, but it was too dark to make their faces out. He had a feeling, though, that he knew them from somewhere.
"Look alive," said the shorter one. "She comes at you, shoot!"
Jason stood and aimed the gun into the darkness in anticipation, his military instincts kicking in.
The woman flickered into being by the front door, and the taller one shot at her, but she disappeared. The next second, she was standing right in front of him. Without hesitation, Jason unloaded a shot into her face. She disappeared in a cloud of vapors and stayed that way for a while before appearing behind the tall guy and raising her hands. The tall guy went flying and actually fell through the door like it wasn't even there.
"SAMMY!" the other man yelled, shooting the woman. "Run! Run!"
Jason didn't need to be told twice. He didn't even pay attention if he was slamming doors in these guys' faces or not. Jason jumped into the Impala to find the two guys already in the backseat. Jason hit the gas and tore back towards his motel.
"Holy crap…" Jason gasped.
"Breathe," one of them said. "You'll be fine."
"What the hell was that?" asked Jason, finding that the more pressing of his two questions.
"It was a spirit," said the other.
"Spirit?" asked Jason. "As in, ghost?"
"Well, what other kind of spirit is there?" asked the first guy.
Jason looked in the rearview mirror as they passed a streetlight, the light catching their faces.
Jason's jaw dropped. "You…I know you guys."
"Yeah, we know," said the shorter one.
"Who are you?" asked Jason.
The shorter guy was suddenly sitting next to him in the front seat. "Dean Winchester." He jerked his thumb into the backseat. "And that, of course, would be my brother Sam."
Jason stared at him as long as his driving would allow. "Dean and Sam Winchester? But…you're dead."
"Duh," said Dean. "What, you thought we could teleport or something?"
It suddenly clicked as Jason looked in the rearview mirror at Sam. "You're ghosts."
Sam nodded. "Yeah. We're ghosts."
"And, what, you're haunting me?" asked Jason.
"No," said Sam. "Not you."
"So, you are haunting someone?" asked Jason.
"You know, it's funny," began Dean. "There were times when I wondered if I ever became a ghost, what would I end up being attached to for eternity. But with the Impala being our home our whole lives, it kinda fits that this is what we'd get stuck to. Not to mention, with our line of work, we ended up bleeding all over this thing more than once."
"You're…haunting the Impala?" asked Jason.
"Trust me, if you knew us, it'd make sense," Sam told him.
Jason thought for a moment, putting some of the pieces together: the weird arsenal in the trunk, the way they knew how to deal with spirits. "So, your line of work…you're the Ghostbusters, or something?"
"Yeah, or something," muttered Dean.
"We're hunters," explained Sam. "We hunt down evil stuff that most people think are urban legends and folklore."
"And that includes ghosts?" asked Jason, looking pointedly at them.
"If they kill people," Sam clarified.
"We've also taken down vampires, demons, shapeshifters, changelings, djinns, werewolves, angels, leviathans, zombies—" Dean listed off.
"Whoa, whoa," Jason interrupted. "Did you say angels? There's such thing as evil angels?"
"You mean besides Lucifer?" Dean pointed out.
"He's the devil," said Jason. "He doesn't count."
"Well, either way, we took care of him, too," said Dean.
"You did?" asked Jason with wide eyes. "How?"
Sam chuckled bitterly. "Long story."
Jason shrugged. "I got time."
"It was a young man named Private Andrew Malone, who fought for his country and never made it home. But for every dream that's shattered, another one comes true. This car was once a dream of his back when it was new. I know I wouldn't be here if he hadn't tagged along. Yeah, that night I was riding with Private Malone…"
Jason stood over a fire crackling down in the open grave, watching Ruth Levinson's bones burn.
After hearing the Winchesters' crazy life story—from their mother Mary's deal to the supernatural war that had killed them, they had told him how to get rid of the woman's ghost. A quick internet search, and they were on their way. As he had dug—and they'd intermittently helped when they could—he had thought long and hard about where to go from there. He was a military man through and through, just like their father John had been. There really only seemed to be one path.
"So, where to next?" asked Dean as they began filling in the grave. "You gonna burn the Impala to get rid of us?" His expression clearly said that he dreaded a positive answer to that.
Jason took a moment to answer that. "No."
The brothers looked genuinely surprised at that.
"I'm keeping the car," Jason told them. "After all, what's a hunter without his arsenal?"
"Wait, you mean, you want to…" asked Sam.
"Yeah, why not?" said Jason. "A road trip can only keep me busy for so long."
"Are you sure?" asked Sam. "It's not as great as it sounds."
Jason nodded. "Ever since the war ended, it's been like something's missing. I was born to help people. It's what I wanna do."
Dean shrugged with a smile. "Alright, then."
"Besides," Jason concluded, "I got good company."
He gave them a smile, which they returned, before going back to filling in the grave.
"Oh, thank God I was riding with Private Malone."
Jason hit the gas as Dean belted out the chorus of "Wanted Dead or Alive" from the backseat. The three of them were headed to what looked like a werewolf case in Forth Worth, Texas. Jason knew he was in for a rough road, but he knew he had a good team. What better partners than the brothers who had saved the world, like, four times?
Yeah, Jason was proud to be riding with the Winchesters.