A/N: To eschew obfuscation, a concourse is like a car show. However, a concourse is judged by groups of overly neurotic men that wander around toting clipboards and awarding points for cleanliness and the overall presentation of the car. They even check the inside of the exhaust pipe for excessive dirt. Seriously.

Oh, and we know the license plate doesn't fit the year of the show, but it seemed fitting.

Dean stared out at the road ahead, the Impala's headlights cutting a pale yellow swath through the darkness. Zeppelin drifted from the speakers and his thumb absently tapped along with the beat to Hey, Hey What Can I Do? He threw a glance over at Sam to see him hunched over a flashlight, beam trained on a newspaper article.

"Talk to me about this ghost," Dean said.

Sam glanced up. "From what I can tell, it looks like your standard issue spirit. Three people have been found with slashed wrists and the word 'traitor' carved on their chest. All three were found in locked houses, and all live within two miles of each other."

"Alright, so pissed off spirit sneaks into people's houses, slashes their wrists and carves them up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Who's patient zero?"

"Christy Cummings," Sam answered. At Dean's grin Sam rolled his eyes and continued. "She killed herself three weeks before the first death."

"Lemmie guess, Girl, Interrupted slit her wrists."

"Yup."

"Yahtzee. Looks like we got ourselves a grave to desecrate, Sammy."

"The graveyard sits on the far quarter of a big plot the county uses for fairs and stuff. Turn here. We can park in the abandoned field."

Dean turned off at Sam's instruction and stopped in the middle of the field, hidden from the road by a small copse of trees. They exited the car and retrieved their weapons. As Dean began to walk away, Sam called him back.

"Aren't you going to lock the car?"

"You see something I don't? This place isn't exactly teeming with locals. Besides, who'd be stupid enough to steal my car?" He waggled his eyebrows, but Sam saw a dangerous glint in his eyes that sent an involuntary shiver down his spine. Who would be stupid enough to steal Dean's car? They'd be dead at any rate. He shrugged and followed his brother into the darkness.

(***)

Bernard Hinkle, proud judge for the Mid-America Classic Car Enthusiast Concourse (or MACCEC for short), settled a contented hand on his slight paunch. He took a breath, eagerly inhaling the delicious and distinct scents of polish, leather, exhaust and morning air as they mingled above the field. Participants were already beginning to trickle in and Bernard watched them with avid interest. His eyes slid over the curvaceous quarter panels, buffed chrome and great swaths of polished paint. He felt a curl of pleasure slide through him, so exquisite was the flawlessness before him. This weekend was his favorite out of the entire year. He looked forward to it with the avid interest a meth-head might show his next fix. He jonesed for it desperately until it finally arrived and afterward he was left with a shattering despair he often found inescapable. His psychiatrist proclaimed it unhealthy. But he knew better. For this one weekend he was faced with true perfection. Nothing else in life could compare.

Pride put a bounce in his step as he wandered up and down the field. He feasted on the gamut of Chevys, Fords, Buicks, Lincolns, Dodges and all manner of American Muscle that had gathered. As he rounded a small copse of trees, he saw her.

Glimmering in the midmorning light like a sleek, dangerous shadow was the prettiest 1967 Chevrolet Impala Bernard had ever had the pleasure of eyeing. His heart stopped in his chest, sweat broke out across his mottled brow and his hands shook. His clipboard fell to the ground, pen soon to follow. He took a shaky step toward the exquisite specimen and then another. Refusing to blink for fear of the car disappearing, Bernard drew ever closer. With the reverence of an obsessed lover, he ran a quivering hand down her glossed flank. The rims shone brightly in the sunlight and shadows danced over the hood, making the black paint seem to flicker and come alive before his eyes.

He dared to circle the magnificent beast. As he neared the trunk, he caught sight of the license plate: KAZ-2Y5. He suppressed a shiver as he gazed upon it, knowing beneath the thin sheet of aluminum lay her gas tank, a proverbial door into her mechanized and most private inner workings. Bernard lingered a moment, sweaty fingers trailing across the chrome bumper. He shook himself and continued on. Meandering down her flank, he took a moment to appreciate the curve of her haunch as it tapered into the passenger door. He continued on, catching his reflection in her spotless windows and couldn't help the grin that broke out on his face. He circled around to the front. The glistening grille grinned sadistically and Bernard felt weak at the knees. He gazed upon her sculpted countenance, a shiver of anticipation running the length of his spine as he imagined what the purr of her powerful, glorious engine would sound like. He resisted the urge to fall to his knees and bow before the awe inspiring machine before him. He had never seen the likes of her before and he was beyond head over heels in love.

Bernard glanced about, desperate to find her owner, to find the man who showed her such reverence. He wanted to view the soul that was worthy of her glorious beauty. His gaze bounced from car to car, hardly bothering to rest on the other polished yet now worthless cars. He couldn't seem to find anyone that looked as though they owned the Impala. Observers passed it by, nodding admiringly at her as they did. Bernard felt the irrational impulse to lash out at them. She deserved more than a nod, for Christ's sake! She deserved so much more.

In that moment, as if a lightning bolt had struck Bernard, he realized his purpose. His purpose at the MACCEC was to judge cars, yes, but this year he had been imbued with a higher calling. It was his duty, nay, his destiny to judge this impossibly gorgeous Impala and give her the winning certificate she so rightly deserved. He seized his clipboard, rejuvenated and revitalized. In a flurry of reverent motion, he set about judging the Impala, all the while acutely aware that even he was not truly worthy.

(***)

Dean and Sam began their arduous and pain filled journey back to the Impala. Dean sported a split lip, a rather impressive gash on the side of his face and a cracked rib; all courtesy of the ghost of Christy Cummings. Sam had earned himself a sprained ankle, a nearly broken nose and a black eye. The two of them staggered back, covered in graveyard dirt, sweat and blood. Both brothers avidly looked forward to being able to sink into the comforting seats of the Impala and limp their way home to warm showers and sleep.

It was nearing noon when they reached the part of the field they'd left the Impala on. The sprit had taken an alarmingly long time to gank. As they left the cover of the trees and walked onto the open field, both brothers froze.

The field was no longer deserted. It was filled with cars, dozens of them, all shining examples of classic American muscle. Sam's eyebrows scurried up into his hairline as he watched the motley groups of people wander about, appreciating the cars and chattering to their owners who lounged nearby in lawn chairs. He stood stunned for a moment before the reality of their situation came crashing down upon him like a ton of bricks. He looked down at himself and Dean. They were covered in mud, bleeding from various wounds and toting sawed-off shotguns, handguns, knives and shovels. Sam wasn't sure they could look any crazier. He grabbed the back of Dean's jacket and tugged him behind some trees before someone spotted them.

"Dude, did you see all those cars out there?" Dean asked. The awe in his voice was clear.

"Dean, do you see all those people? We can't walk out there dressed like this…"

Dean frowned, looking down at himself. "Well, we'll just have to—" He stopped midsentence and Sam immediately glanced up at him. It took a lot to render Dean speechless. He followed his brother's eye line and realized what Dean had seen.

Oh no, he thought. Visible now that a group of gawkers had moved on, was the Impala. She was parked across the field, as she had been before. But now she was surrounded by a group of people, all appreciating her. Sam watched as a man with a clipboard—obviously a car show judge—reached forward to lay an appreciative hand on the hood.

Don't do it, man, Sam pleaded. No, no, no. Dean'll rip your hands off. The man ignored Sam's silent plea and rested a hand on the Impala's gleaming hood. Sam sighed inwardly. The man was a goner. He hazarded a glance in Dean's direction and resisted the urge to back away. Fury shot in angry, heated sparks from Dean's eyes and the muscle in his jaw fluttered. Sam watched as his brother's hands clenched into fists and he had just enough forethought to grab the back of Dean's jacket before he had the chance to charge toward the concourse judge and punch him in the face. Dean turned an angry glare on Sam and Sam nearly released his brother out of instinctive self preservation. Dean was livid.

"Sam," he said dangerously. "He touched my car."

"Yeah, I saw it, Dean. What are you gonna do, go shoot him in front of all those people?"

The look in Dean's eyes confirmed Sam's statement.

"Dude," he said, hands raised in a placating gesture. "Calm down."

"Calm down? He touched her, Sam. No one touches my baby without my say so."

Sam opened his mouth to further mediate when he glanced over and saw the concourse judge had opened the driver's door and was fumbling about for what Sam knew was the hood release. Oh shit.

"That's it," Dean warned, standing. "He's a dead man."

"Dean, wait!"

Dean was off before Sam could stop him. Sam paused to stash their weapons; the last thing they needed was some hapless car-lover discovering their mini arsenal. He let out a small sigh of relief when he saw Dean hadn't thought to grab his knife or a shotgun. At least he wasn't packing.

Belatedly, Sam realized his mistake. Dean still had his Cold 1911. "Shit, shit, shit!" Sam muttered, sprinting after his brother. So much for their standard issue ghost hunt.

(***)

Bernard groped about for the hood release, relishing the feel of the leather beneath his right thigh as he perched on the driver's side door. The car had been unlocked. The owner was nowhere in sight. Bernard knew it was against regulation rules, but the car was so beautiful that it deserved to be on full display. He knew that when the owner returned and Bernard presented him with the concourse certificate, all distress would fade away.

His fingers found the hood release and pulled, a shiver running through him at the satisfying, muffled click of the hood as it popped open. He shut the door and rounded the car, pulling the safety catch under the hood and exposing the engine to the eager crowd of admirers. He suppressed a gasp as his eyes rested on the polished, tuned, and treasured engine block. He was only dimly aware of the crowd of onlookers as they 'oohed' and 'ahhed' their fill and moved on. He let them leave, even relished their absence as he and the Impala were left alone. His eyes were filled only with the powerful grace contained in the engine, the silent threat of massive strength innocently concealed by the valve covers and exuded from every hose, bearing and part within.

Bernard sighed involuntarily. He couldn't help it. The car was simply sheer perfection. In a moment of unabashed desperation, he wished he were taller than his modest 5' 6" so as to better peer into the engine bay without straining his back.

He suddenly became aware of an awkward sensation. It was as if someone were watching him keenly. He unburied his head from the engine and turned around. A squawk of surprise escaped his chapped lips before he could stop it. A man was standing directly behind him, close enough to invade his personal space. Bernard glanced up to his face… and up and up. Bernard swallowed as he finally craned his neck far enough as to see the man's face. He was a young man, perhaps in his mid twenties or just scratching thirty. Bernard gazed upon him with bitterness—he was handsome, frustratingly, inhumanly so. Bernard felt all the more inadequate in his company, both in stature and looks. Nervously, he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and tried not to think about how sunlight had the frustrating tendency to reflect off his bald spot. Bernard squared his shoulders and met the man's eyes.

If Bernard possessed any sense of self preservation, he would have seen the lava-hot inferno of hatred and rage boiling in the man's vibrantly green eyes. But he was a hermit by nature, obsessed with cars and disenchanted with humans. That being the case, he missed the man's obvious ire and interpreted him as a cocky upstart in need of straightening out.

He took a step back, taking in the full picture of the man standing before him. The man was dirty, Bernard noticed—alarmingly so. Mud stained his jeans in dark swaths, painting shivering patterns on his black t-shirt and was even caked under his fingernails. Bernard noted a cut on his lip and forehead. Who is this guy? Bernard wondered. Drugs had to be the answer; no normal person would wander about looking as though he just crawled from the grave.

"Yes?" Bernard demanded impatiently.

The man smiled eerily. "What are you doing?" he asked icily.

Bernard swallowed. "I'm examining this car. This is a concourse. You do know what that is, don't you? People bring their cars to be judged. It's a highly prestigious honor."

"You mean people actually let arrogant, mouth breathing dicks like you touch their cars?"

"What?"

The man moved faster than Bernard could see. One moment he was staring up at him and the next he was pressed up against the car. The man's forearm was at his throat and his eyes glinted dangerously.

"Listen up, douchebag. No one—no one—touches my car. Comprende?"

"Hey!"

The shout drew their joint attention. Another man jogged up to them and Bernard nearly melted with relief. "Help!" he called to the approaching man. "Get this lunatic off of me!"

The man jogged over and Bernard resisted the urge to gawk. The newcomer was even taller than the muddy nutcase. He had to suffer from gigantism, surely. He had a good four inches on Grumpy (as Bernard dubbed the one currently trying to kill him). Bernard watched in horror as the giant put a hand on Grumpy's shoulder, drawing him away in an obvious gesture of familiarity. Of course they knew each other. It was just Bernard's luck.

The giant led Grumpy back a few steps and Bernard righted himself, straightening his jacket purposefully. "Who do you two think you are? I should get security!"

Grumpy took a dangerous step forward but was halted by Giant's hand. "Dean," Giant admonished. He turned to Bernard. "I'm really sorry. He's had a long day. All we want is to get our car and get out of your hair."

"Public parking is across the lot," Bernard sniffed.

"Um, okay. We're not in the public lot."

"How did you get in then?"

Giant's eyebrows rose. "We drove?"

Dean, as Bernard now knew him to be called, stepped in front of Giant. Somehow, though he was physically shorter, he seemed infinitely more dangerous. "Get the hell away from my car before I break your nose," he threatened.

"Dean."

"Sam, he is leaning on my damn car. Leaning on her. No one touches my fucking car, end of story!"

Bernard gawked at Dean and Sam. "You think that this specimen of beauty, this emblem of perfection, actually belongs to you? You two look like the homeless drunks that sleep in the stairwell of my building. You aren't worthy of this exquisite, precious car!"

Sam's eyebrows rose. Dean's knitted over his eyes as they burned with anger. "That's it," he muttered. "I'm done with Bilbo here trying to keep me from mycar." He reached into his jacket and retrieved something that glinted in the sunlight. Bernard squinted as he tried to see what it was. With a jolt of fear he realized it was a gun. Dean reached down and chambered a round. "How about this?" he asked. "You step the hell away from my car or I'll blow your brains out."

(***)

"Dude," Sam said, laughing. "Stop glaring at the guy. He won't burst into flames. He's just some stuffy judge. Let it go."

Dean continued to glare, hands white knuckled on the wheel. Sam could see he was stewing; his jaw muscle jumped rhythmically, his green eyes shooting daggers at the judge's retreating back.

"He touched my car, Sam. He touched her."

"Dean…"

"You expect me to stand by while some pudgy, Dr. Phil look alike molests my baby? He was all over her, Sam. Pressing his fat, ugly mug up against her windows and peering inside like some rapist creep—"

"Dude! Your attachment to this car is seriously scary."

Dean ran a gentle hand across the dashboard, his fingers tripping across the stitching lovingly. "S'okay baby, I won't let that dick touch you again. Promise."

"You two want a minute? Or can we just get out of here?"

"Amen to that." Dean twisted the key and the Impala's engine roared to life. He paused a moment, suddenly frozen in place. "You gotta be kidding me," he said.

"What?" Sam glanced around wildly, wanting to leave without incident and clearly being denied his wishes. As per usual.

"We're stuck here."

"What?"

"We're stuck, Sam! We're trapped in this clusterfuck until the circus is over."

It was then that Sam noticed they were indeed stuck—surrounded on all sides by other cars. He could see now that the cars were numbered, numerically designated to make arrival and dismissal nice, quiet and orderly. It would be too easy to just let people leave as they pleased.

"Shit," Sam deadpanned.

Dean was silent a moment, scowling darkly. Sam almost expected a storm cloud to materialize over his brother's head, pelting his scalp with freezing rain and periodically shocking him with miniature bolts of lightning. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "I want to shoot something," he said suddenly. "Can I shoot something?"

"No! Dean, calm down. It's only a car show."

Dean seemed to deflate. He killed the engine and sagged back against the seat, an arm resting on the door. "I'm fine," he muttered. "I'm good."

Sam resisted the urge to take Dean's gun, knowing it would only piss him off more.

"How long do these frigging things last, anyway?" Dean asked tiredly. He scrubbed a palm over his face and Sam saw him wince as his thumb brushed the cut on his face. Abruptly, Sam was reawakened to the harsh reality that they were still covered in blood and graveyard dirt. If they were going to wait out the car nuts, they couldn't walk around looking like serial killers.

"Give me the keys," he said.

Dean glanced up. "Why?"

"Cause we look like murderers and need to change, that's why." Dean slapped the keys into his palm and he left the car, quickly getting to the trunk and pulling some spare clothes out of their duffels. He tossed a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt at Dean, holding his own bundle. "There's a set of bathrooms over there. Change."

"Yes, mom," Dean snarked. He followed Sam to the bathrooms. Minutes later they emerged, significantly cleaner with the bulk of blood and dirt scrubbed from their abused faces. Sam leaned against the Impala, feeling less conspicuous. He glanced at his watch, noting that arguing with the judge had only eaten up an hour. How long do car shows run, anyway?

Twenty minutes later, Dean huffed an annoyed breath, straitening from his lazy slouch against the Impala. "What are we doing?" Dean asked.

"Waiting?" Sam answered, confused at Dean's tone.

"Exactly. We're standing here waiting when there's practically acres of automotive porn sitting right in front of us."

Sam chose to ignore Dean's phraseology, becoming alarmingly used to it. "You want to go look at the cars, Dean?"

"Hell yeah I wanna go look at some cars. Put those gigantor legs to use, Sammy. Come on."

Sam smiled, despite Dean's ribbing. Dean never had been one for waiting. While it made Sam slightly itchy to wander around—they could be recognized—he was tired of waiting too. And the look on Dean's face assuaged his paranoia. For one afternoon they could be a normal pair of brothers. For once they weren't out to kill something. They were just brothers at a car show, admiring the automobiles as the sun hung overhead and oldies blared from speakers across the lot. They wandered slowly onto the wider paths crisscrossing the car lot, mingling slightly with the other car enthusiasts as they walked.

Surreptitiously, Sam watched Dean as they walked. His brother's stance was relaxed and casual, but Sam knew he was having way more fun than he let on. As they wandered Dean paused occasionally to talk to some of the owners, leaning over the engine and nodding as the various enthusiasts displayed their pride and joy. Strangely, Dean seemed alarmingly in his element. Sam could never picture Dean willingly participating in a car show—as he adamantly asserted: no one touched the Impala—but Sam could see that for once Dean was actually enjoying himself like a normal person would. Sam knew that if Dean did have a normal life, he'd undoubtedly find time to attend an auto show occasionally.

It almost made Sam bitter that his brother wouldn't be able to do such a thing.

"Sam."

He looked up and saw Dean staring at him. He realized he'd unconsciously stopped walking.

"Dude. You look like someone shot your puppy."

"Sorry. Just thinking." Sam shook himself.

"I think we left the Midol in the car."

Before Sam could retort, a squawk of microphone feedback drew their attention and everyone else's to a small stage to their right. It was decorated with some uppity banners, 'MACCEC' boldly emblazoned across the front. A podium stood front and center. Sam recognized the short man at the podium as the concourse judge they'd tangled with earlier. The small man tapped the microphone again and everyone groaned as feedback screeched through the speakers.

"Apologies," he said, struggling to pull the microphone low enough so he could speak comfortably. "Hello everyone and welcome to the Mid-America Classic Car Enthusiast Concourse, or the MACCEC for short. My name is Bernard Hinkle, Senior Judge and Festivities Coordinator."

"Festivities coordinator?" Dean groaned. "You gotta be kidding me."

Bernard continued. "This year, as with every year, we are awarded the privilege of judging some of the finest examples of classic, American, automotive innovation. For all of you that have attended, I extend the sincerest thanks for allowing us to view your cars. How about a hand, everyone?"

"Kill me now."

"Dean."

"As you all know," Bernard rambled, "The conclusion of the MACCEC always walks hand in hand with announcing a winner. The MACCEC award goes to the car with the most heart-stopping beauty, the fieriest passion and an abundance of endearing soul. It's not always easy to announce a winner, but I feel that this year's victor stands a grade above the rest.

"This year, I have the pleasure of presenting the award to a car so magnificent that the moment I laid eyes upon her, my heart fluttered to a stop. Held within her graceful lines are trembling waves of power, of ultimate beauty potent enough to bring a man to his knees. She's a heartbreaker, this one. Peerless, she stands alone, and in her glorious solitude, I present this award to shed some light on her unadulterated magnificence."

"My ears are bleeding," Dean grumbled. Sam had to agree. Bernard was clearly unhinged. Dean's obsession with the Impala was a bit fanatic at times, but Bernard was nothing short of full blown crazy on legs.

"The winner of the 2012 Mid-America Classic Car Enthusiast Concourse is the dangerously gorgeous 1967 Chevrolet Impala, number 34!"

"Number 34?" Sam repeated, brows furrowed. "Isn't that…"

The brothers looked over in time to see Bernard trot over to the Impala and place a gold cup on the grassy ground beside her front left tire. He held a certificate of recognition in his hand, grinning gleefully.

Sam looked over at Dean and blinked. Dean looked as though he was suffering from cardiac arrest. A scowl darkened his face, but an insane sort of glee had settled in his eyes. His hands clenched and unclenched beside him. His left eye twitched. The effect was disturbing enough that Sam took a step back. "Dean…?"

"Sammy… What's happening?"

"You won a car show, Dean.

"Damn it, Bilbo!" Dean suddenly growled. "Stop touching my damn car!"

Sam looked over. Bernard was leaning a hand on the Impala's hood once again. The man never learned. "Dean…"

"My baby won!" Dean looked over at Sam, his rage having dissolved into a sort of parental glee one usually reserves for a child's first report card. "She won, Sammy. I'm so proud of her!"

Before Sam could call Dean out on his serious disconnect with reality, Dean jogged off toward the Impala. He reached Bernard and plucked the certificate from the man's fingers.

"I'll take that," Dean said. Bernard made to protest and he shook his head, subtly pulling his jacket back to give Bernard a glimpse of the gun in his waistband. "Suck it up and smile and I won't break all of your fingers after this is over."

Bernard visibly paled a shade but rose to Dean's promise. He seized his hand and pumped it vigorously, smiling and nodding at the other car owners that swarmed to congratulate Dean. Sam grinned from the sidelines, taking in the expression of exuberant pride on Dean's face and knowing that he wouldn't hear the end of it for a while.