Currently parked in an Arby's lot somewhere on the outskirts of Topeka there sits a black, four door, 1967 Chevy Impala. The car is meticulously kept, the kind of vehicle that men stop to gaze at in awe and the kind of engine that women listen for outside their bedroom windows longingly. This particular Chevrolet Impala also happens to be the single most important object in the Universe. She is well aware of these facts.
She is also, frankly, pissed. As she sits, rusting in the cold and lonely parking lot, the golden light from inside the restaurant illuminates with painful clarity the latest insult to her dignity.
There, just beyond a pane of glass in the warm and nostalgic light of the Arby's, sits her beloved, her man, her driver, with his arm around some…some…blue-eyed piece of ass. Just who did this trench coat wearing floozy think he was, shoehorning himself between Dean Winchester and his one true love? Was he there to comfort Dean through his first broken heart? Had he sheltered Dean through his first stumbling sexual encounters, a constant presence throughout the myriad, meaningless partners? Had this "Angel of the Lord" protected Dean with his very body, allowing himself to be broken and bent in order to keep Dean from harm? The Impala certainly didn't think so. Not like she had.
Dean's laughter was muffled through the glass windowpane, but it still sunk into the Impala like sugar in her gas tank. Go ahead, make him laugh, she thought churlishly. It wasn't like she could put a stop to this brazen infidelity. She was under no illusions. The Impala was merely a car, powerless without her driver at the controls. Oh if only she could flick on her engine and roar. She'd send that usurper running, feathers trembling like the chicken he was. No, instead she gets to watch as Dean ruffles the angel's hair and kisses him on the cheek in a nauseating display of tenderness.
The Impala remains in park and seethes.
"Sisters!" A middle aged woman bursts into a suburban living room. She looks like an average working mother, maybe a teacher, with a color coordinated sweater set and Vera Bradley handbag.
"What's the matter Helen?" demand the other three women, already gathered around a large and time worn spell book on the sofa.
The third most powerful witch in the Topeka coven takes a moment, fanning her flushed cheeks as she calms herself.
"I was tailing the Winchesters, as we had agreed," Helen relays, "And you would not believe the readings I just got off their car."
The witches' expressions grow from puzzled to gleeful as Helen tells them of the Impala's aura. Already spells and hexes are coming to mind. The Topeka coven is small, and mainly benevolent, but really, who can resist a jab at the Winchesters?