Author's Note: This story was written shortly after the release of the first teaser for Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., long before the pilot episode aired. I was not among the lucky folks attending SDCC! I felt the characters have a natural fit.
Remember, don't touch Lola!
Dean saw it the moment he stepped out of the diner. How could he miss it, after all?
Parked neatly next to the Impala was a gorgeous red 1962 C-1 series Corvette, polished to a loving shine. Every part of her was beautifully and painstakingly maintained and cared for - Dean couldn't help but grin as he examined her in closer detail.
The Impala would always be Dean's first love, but this beauty was obviously someone else's Baby. His fingers were itching to check under the hood and get a look at the engine, but he manfully contained the urge. Instead, he contented himself by inspecting her exterior, taking in the four gleaming headlights (same as Baby - it was a thing back then), the prominent black grill with chrome surround, the chrome rocker panel moldings. Whoever owned this car put some serious money into her, to keep her so well-maintained.
Dean seriously hoped it wasn't just some rich guy who paid a mechanic to keep her tuned.
Chuckling quietly, he walked around the free side of the Corvette to take a look at her interior. The inside, he noted with a pleased smirk, was just as lovingly maintained as the outside, the instrument panel clean and polished, and every inch practically glowing with the care put into it.
"Don't touch Lola," a bland voice interrupted his admiration.
Dean held up his hands demonstratively.
"No hands," he reassured the stranger, who was standing at the hood of the Corvette, holding a packet of chocolate donuts. Dean almost frowned as he took the other man in: middle-aged, average height, receding brown hair, plain black suit and white shirt paired with a diagonally striped tie. All in all, he gave off the vibe of a corporate drone, someone who worked with numbers all day - boring job, boring life, boring person: just forget about me, I'm no one. Exactly the sort of person Dean normally loathed.
Was 'Lola' an attempt at compensation for an existence in the endless cubicle grind, perhaps a midlife crisis? If she was, he had surprisingly good taste for an office monkey.
The man's lips stretched into a bland smile, his blue eyes blinking slowly.
"Your Impala is a beauty," he noted in that same dry tone; he could have been remarking on the weather, or the traffic. "1967. Classic."
A swell of pleasure rose in Dean's gut, and he couldn't help but grin with pride. "She is, isn't she? More than forty years old, hasn't let me down yet."
"I can see she means a great deal to you," the man replied amiably. Dropping the pack of donuts into his jacket pocket, he extended his hand toward Dean. "Phil."
Dean shook the proffered hand, noting with some surprise the strangely familiar calluses roughening the other man's fingers. "Dean."
Phil's phone chirped, and he pulled it out of his pocket to check the screen briefly. Probably the office, Dean thought with a smirk, to judge by the way Phil's lips twitched with just a shadow of annoyance.
"I'm sorry, I have to go. Duty calls. It was a pleasure to meet you, Dean," he said as he climbed into his Corvette - Lola, Dean reminded himself in amusement.
"Yeah, right back atcha," Dean replied as he stepped back from the Corvette.
The other man smiled, ever so slightly, as he slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses before turning on the car and pulling out of the parking spot. Dean turned away, chuckling quietly.
"Oh, and good luck on the hunt, Mr. Winchester," Phil called in that same bland tone.
Dean felt the blood drain from his face as he whipped around just in time to see the bright red Corvette roar off into the distance. "Son of a-"
Who was that guy?