Mayhem, Movies, and a Right Bad Sick Impala

by CornishGirl

When the Impala comes under attack in a series of baffling automotive catastrophes, Dean freaks out. Is his baby cursed? Sam doesn't think so—who or what would curse a '67 Chevy Impala?—but, as always, he is his big brother's stalwart support. Can Sam and Dean save the Impala? [Impala!Whump, Dean!Angst, non-stop brotherly banter, and Texas-isms!]

The Impala has been wrecked and rebuilt several times, and each time has hurt Dean down deep in his soul. But what if the car was actually attacked by some malevolent force?

In the middle of arid West Texas, the Impala experiences a series of baffling automotive catastrophes. Dean is so freaked Sam thinks his brother may have a stroke or a heart attack. Then the EMF meter goes off, and a desperate Dean becomes convinced his baby is cursed. Sam doesn't think so-who or what would curse a '67 Chevy Impala?-but, as always, he is his big brother's stalwart support. Can Sam and Dean save the Impala? Will Dean stop hyperventilating in time to rescue his baby? Will they solve a case that is the most perplexing they've ever encountered?

For giggles, grins, and chuckles. (And maybe a laugh or two.)

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Mayhem, Movies, and a Right Bad Sick Impala

---

Behind the oh-so-familiar wheel of his best girl, Dean cast a quick glance at his brother. "I don't know, Sam—you really think it sounds like our kind of thing?"

They were heading east from a job in Southern California. Sam glanced up from the laptop balanced precariously on his thighs, steadying it against the rough asphalt highway. "We talked it through. I thought you agreed this is something we should check out. It fits our parameters."

"Parameters, huh?" Dean hitched one shoulder in a half-shrug. "I dunno."

Sam scrunched his brow. "What, so now you don't want to go? We're over a thousand miles into the trip and you've changed your mind?"

Dean heard the faint undertone of exasperation in Sam's voice and didn't really blame him for it. He had agreed to go; he had agreed it sounded like their kind of thing. There were times when Dean didn't think a newspaper article, or a story online, sounded promising—if that could be considered a good thing, considering often dead humans were involved—and times when Sam didn't think so. Theirs was always a mutual decision, though occasionally a little arm-twisting was required, and the employment on both sides of the most effective weapon: expressive, imploring eyes.

Dean gazed through the windshield as the road unspooled beneath the Impala's tires. "I just . . ." But he trailed off, chewed at his bottom lip. "I don't know, Sammy. It's hard to explain."

Now Sam's voice took on a note of patience, as if he'd dealt with this many times before. "It's hard to explain you don't want to check out something that is right up our alley? I don't get it."

Dean heaved a sigh, held an inner debate, then steadfastly refused to look at his brother. "It's just a feeling."

"Spidey senses tingling?" But Sam did not mock despite the lightness of his tone; each of them, for very good reasons, had learned to trust gut reaction. And even their hard-nosed father had been steadfast in claiming it wasn't woo-woo shit, but instinct, and it should never be ignored.

Dean shifted against the seat. "Well, it's probably stupid. I dunno."

"Listen, I'm okay if this is of major concern. But usually you wait until we're actually at the job." Sam closed the laptop with finality and set it on the seat between them. "It would have been nice if you'd had this feeling before we left the bunker."

"Well, we had to go to Cali anyway, and we're not that far from home. Half a state."

"Except the state is Texas, which is kind of like four states altogether."

Dean glanced at him, weighing Sam's expression. "So I guess you don't feel anything."

"Mostly, I feel hungry. It's been a long time since breakfast."

"Well, whose fault is that? You should have chowed down on a hotdog when we gassed up."

"Dean, those were shriveled, dessicated, tasteless husks of something that may or may not have been actual meat."

"Oh, c'mon." Dean had eaten one of those shriveled, dessicated husks, cradled in a dry bun only slightly mitigated by mustard, ketchup, and relish. "They weren't that bad."

"Ask your stomach in another hour," Sam suggested, "and pray we're near a bathroom."

Dean, who prided himself on a cast-iron stomach, shifted uncomfortably in the seat and did a literal gut-check. It was true that now and then convenience store food did not sit well with him. And now that Sam had said the worst could happen, he began to fear it might.

Suggestible, much? Because, yeah, now and then he was suggestible, though he took great pains to hide it from Sam. "My stomach can digest anything with no aftereffects."

Sam emitted a sharp, chopped off noise of amused disagreement. "Yeah, right. I'm in the same car, remember? I kinda know about those aftereffects: bodily emissions."

"Well, at least my bodily emissions aren't toxic. Dude, you could clear out an entire theater."

"If I'm stuck eating bad hotdogs, maybe so!"

"Burritos," Dean said. "Those get you every time, Sammy. In fact, I remember—" But he cut it off abruptly. He felt a catch-and-gasp in the engine, an uneven vibration in the accelerator pedal.

They'd gassed up an hour before. The needle read just below full. Baby sucked fuel, but not quite this fast.

"Oh, man," he moaned. "Don't tell me we got bad gas."

"Well, you may have bad gas, but I skipped the hotdog, remember?"

Dean shot him an irritated glance. Sam liked to jerk his chain sometimes. "Not bad human gas—bad gasoline. She's hiccuping."

Sam shook his head. "Look, I know you love this car, but you do realize hiccuping is human trait, not something a vehicle does. You're anthropomorphizing."

Dean had half his mind on the car, but he was always alert to Sam's sometimes devious put-downs. His little brother could be a clever bastard. "I don't think that's a word. You made it up, just to jerk my chain."

"I'll pull it up on the computer if you like."

Well, hell, he'd lost that one. His brother was bringing in cyber backup. "I am not anthropo—what did you say again? And what is it? I need to know what it is so I know if I'm doing it."

Sam looked at him. "It's when you talk about a thing, or an animal, as if they are human. Like Disney did with all those cartoons, like Bambi. Trust me, you do this all the time with the car. Non-stop. I mean, you named it Baby."

Dean felt his little brother was verging on heresy. "Well, what would you have named her?"

"Something tough. Something aggressive. Something that pops."

"What pops?"

"Well . . . Gibraltar."

"Gibraltar? Gibraltar? Are you kidding? Who would name anything Gibraltar? And why would you want to desecrate my car?"

"It's not desecration. It's not even an insult. It means she's a rock."

Dean decided that was a compliment. The Impala was a rock, but he wasn't sure Gibraltar sounded tough or aggressive.

And then the engine stuttered again and the car actually shook. Dean gripped the wheel. "Didn't you feel that?"

"Maybe it's a rough road. There have been a few potholes here and there."

Dean felt again the vibration through the wheel, felt the accelerator give briefly beneath his booted foot. Sensed something like a shiver. "Jesus—I think we got bad gas. In which case, we're screwed."

"Because of gas?"

This question reminded Dean all over again that his brother knew next to nothing about cars other than that they required a key to turn them on, a wheel to steer them, and fuel to make them run. Well, except that Dean had given him some pointers back when he knew he was going to hell, and Sam was sharper than he used to be. But still.

"Yes, because of gas! If it's bad enough, I'll have to drain the whole tank, clean out the lines, maybe replace the fuel filter, even the fuel pump. It can screw everything all to hell. Consider it a bad case of Montezuma's revenge. You have to purge everything!

Then the Impala coughed and jerked, and Sam admitted he felt that.

"Nooooo," Dean crooned, as he reached out to stroke the dash. "Please, Baby, don't be sick."

The car did not listen. The car coughed again, and died. Right there in the right lane of the highway.

"Whoa," Sam said. "That's dramatic." He twisted in his seat to check if anyone was immediately behind them. "At least we're clear for the moment."

Dean hit the emergency flashers and aimed the slowing Impala toward the side of the road, steered her carefully onto the shoulder. "No no no," he mourned, applying gentle brakes so the car could coast quietly to a stop. "No, Baby, no."

Sam wasn't mourning. He was being practical, which was always his default. "Could we be out of gas?"

Dean knew he himself was not practical when it came to the Impala. Which is why he felt snappish. "No, we're not out of gas. I filled it up at that convenience store."

"All the way?"

"Yes! You saw me."

"Well, no, technically I didn't. I went into the store."

Trust his brother to be so precise. "I filled her up, Sam. The pump shut off."

"Maybe it malfunctioned," Sam suggested. "Meanwhile, here we are at the side of the road—what do you want to do?"

Dean shook his head, certain. "Even the gas gauge said it was topped off."

"Well, if it wasn't the pump, maybe the gauge malfunctioned."

"Sam. You know better. Baby doesn't malfunction."

Sam looked at him. "All cars malfunction sometimes, Dean. Even this one. I ride in it, too, remember? And currently the car's not running and we're stuck at the side of the road. That's a malfunction."

Dean turned the key. The engine gasped, coughed, stuttered and hiccuped, but did not start. He tried again, with the same result. Then he threw open the door on a grind of metal and irritation, climbed out, stalked around to the front of the car, unlatched and shoved the hood up.

He was aware when his brother joined him. "What are you doing?" Sam asked. "Even I know this is not where the gas tank is."

Dean's mouth twitched as he pulled the dipstick. "You know, you could have worked a little harder in auto repair class in high school."

"Why? I had you and Dad to take care of automotive issues." Sam shrugged. "It just was never my thing. There were classes you didn't care for, too."

Cars whipped by as Dean laughed. "Yeah. All of them—well, except for auto repair, shop, P.E. And engineering was fun. I passed those."

"Dean, I have to say this, because I do know a little about cars. Why—"

But Dean cut off the question. The car was sick, and he out of patience. "Not much. But what?"

Now Sam was annoyed. "I know you don't check the oil when it's gas that's the problem."

"Shows what you know." Dean walked around to the back of the car. His brother joined him as he flipped up the license plate, unscrewed the gas cap, balanced it carefully on the trunk lid.

Before Sam could protest, Dean wiped the dipstick off on his brother's shirtsleeve.

Sam, as expected, was appalled. "Hey!"

"Sometimes you gotta take one for the team, Sammy." Repressing a smile, Dean inserted the clean dipstick into the neck of the gas tank and fed it down until only the looped handle protruded. He swished it a little, then brought the it back up. Fluid ran down the slender metal wand, dripped onto the sandy shoulder. Dean didn't even have to sniff to smell it; it permeated the air. "See? Gas!"

Sam was inspecting his sleeve. "I can't believe you stuck an oil dipstick in the gas tank, let alone on my shirt!"

"It's called improvisation," Dean said. "We should pick up some siphon tubing at the next auto parts store, or truck stop."

"So," Sam said, "it's established that we're not out of gas. If you smell it will it tell you if it's bad? "

"You can't smell bad gas, because the bad part is water in the tank. You know it based on how the engine runs."

Sam nodded. "How it hiccups and coughs."

"Now you're anthropo—whatever. It kind of shakes, rattles, and rolls." Dean shook the dipstick clean of gas. Sam backed up hastily until he was out of reach. Dean smirked at him, then pulled a bandana from his pocket and wiped the wand. "You are such a girl sometimes."

Sam shot back, "Do you even know how sexist that is?"

"Sexy?"

"Sexist," Sam enunciated with some asperity.

Grinning, Dean walked back around to the front of the car and ran the dipstick into its accustomed tube. "I slept with a girl mechanic once."

"Huh," Sam said. "Right up your alley. You must have had a lot to talk about between the sheets."

"Well, she sure as hell knew how to get my engine running.

"Jesus," Sam muttered, "I walked right into that one."

Cars continued to zip by. Dean lowered the hood, latched it. "Well, let me try to start her again." He did, without success. He banged on the steering wheel, then apologized. Sam was standing outside the passenger side, so Dean ducked down to see his face. "Where's the next town?"

Sam ducked down, too. "Dean, I'm aware that I am many things, and I realize my computer know-how far exceeds yours, but I am not a human GPS unit."

"We have one of those in the laptop, don't we?"

"A human?"

Dean sighed. "Get in. Do your Google-fu."

Sam bent down to climb in, picked up the laptop from the seat. "Google has nothing to do with the GPS unit."

"Google has a search function."

"It's not gonna give us what we need." Sam settled the computer in his lap and lifted the top. "Well, unless we use Mapquest, but we really need a specific starting place for that."

"Do what you do. Make it work." Frustration accelerated. "It's my car, Sammy!"

"Don't we have a map?" Sam asked. "You know, like old-fashioned paper?"

Dean looked at him, then spoke very deliberately, as if his brother was verging on idiocy. "Even a paper map needs a specific starting place."

Sam spoke as slowly, as if his brother was verging on idiocy. "And if you remember the name of that little town we stopped in for gas, you can find the next town. And there's a mileage scale on the map."

Dean rolled his eyes, then nodded. "Yeah, that would work—if we remember the name of the town where we stopped. Do you?"

"No."

"Well, neither do I. It sucks."

"Well . . . at least we know it's in Texas."

"Hah to the hah," Dean said. "But give it a try, Sammy."

Sam typed, waited. He typed again. Waited. A line appeared between his eyes.

It was never a good thing when his brother frowned at the computer. "Well?"

Sam shook his head, looked up. "I think we're in a dead zone. There's no connectivity, and I'll bet our phones don't work, either."

At that, Dean pulled out his cell and tapped the phone icon. When nothing happened, he raised it to the roof. When still nothing happened, he climbed out of the car and stuck the phone up in the air at the end of a rigid arm, then turned in a circle.

"Mine says no service," Sam relayed. "We're probably between cell towers."

Dean lowered his arm and glared at his phone. Then an idea occurred and he climbed back into the car with a sharp "Hah!"

"'Hah to the hah?"

"No, just a single hah of discovery. Like Archimedes and eureka."

"Wow. I'm impressed. What's the eureka moment?"

"Radio, Sam. If I turn the ignition on, even without the engine running, maybe we'll find a nearby radio station that will tell us where we are."

He did that. All he got was static. He spun the knob. Static, or utterly dead air. Dean dropped the F-bomb.

"So much for Archimedes. Look, Dean, I know you'd rather fix this yourself, but it's time to call Triple-A and have them come out."

"We're not members."

"Maybe we should be."

"I know this car inside and out, Sam. Nobody knows this car better than I do." Dean gazed at his brother. "And I have to ask this—are you all right?"

Sam was taken aback. "What? Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"

"You suggested we call Triple-A."

"Yes, because it's a practical idea." Sam was clearly baffled. "But why are you asking if I'm okay?"

"Because we can't call anyone without a working phone."

Silence reigned a long moment. Then Sam deflected by typing again, but ended up shaking his head. "Dead zone."

"Which was also a movie starring Christopher Walken."

"Well, maybe we'll have to walken our way out of here."

"Crap," Dean muttered. "Well, we can try to flag down a car, ask how far the nearest town is. Maybe they'll even give us a ride." He caught Sam's incredulous stare. "What?"

"Who the hell is going to stop for us?" his brother asked. "Seriously."

Dean frowned. "Why wouldn't they stop for us?"

"Dean, I'm 220 and damn near 6'5". You're 6'1" and, what, 185?"

"One-ninety," Dean corrected. "So what?"

"Who is going to stop for two strangers our size out in the middle of nowhere?"

Dean mulled that over. "I'll put the hood back up. That's the universal signal for a broken vehicle."

"I repeat: Who is going to stop for two strangers our size in the middle of nowhere? With or without a universal signal. We look like what cops warn people about. Don't stop on the highway if things look suspicious."

"I don't think we look suspicious." He chewed at his bottom lip, then brightened. "I know. You can go stand on the shoulder, roll up a pants-leg, stick your leg out and strike a sexy pose. With the breeze wafting through your hair."

Sam stared at him in utter disbelief. "Where the hell did that come from?"

"A movie."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Of course it's a movie."

"Claudette Colbert in It Happened One Night. She and Clark Gable were hitching. Nobody stopped until she flashed a leg."

"I'm not flashing a leg, Dean!"

Dean shrugged. "They won't be able to see the hair on it until they're close up. And it's a very long leg, so it's sure to get attention."

"They're not going to stop when it looks like a perfect set-up for a robbery," Sam pointed out. "Or car theft by hijacking. Two big guys, a black muscle car with a trunk full of weapons, including a grenade launcher. We don't exactly look like Little Mary Sunshines. Yes, we look suspicious."

But Dean's mind was on something else. "You know, I still want to use that launcher someday," he mused. "Meanwhile, we don't have to show anyone our trunk. And even if we did, we have a secret bat-compartment."

"With a devil's trap painted on the inside of the trunk lid," Sam reminded him. "Batman never did that and they'll think we're Satanists."

"Well, we kind of are. Being as how we've both met him. But since nobody's going to see inside the trunk, it doesn't matter."

Sam raised his hands in surrender. "Fine. But it's your idea. You go stand at the side of the road. You roll up your pants-leg and flash a leg."

"It won't work with me," Dean said.

"Why not? Not that it'll work, anyway, but why not with you?"

"I'm bow-legged."

Sam brows rose up under his hair. "What difference does that make?!"

"You never know," Dean said. "All those drivers might have something against a stranger who's bow-legged."

"Dean, no one—oh, never mind." Sam set his laptop on the seat beside him, got out of the car, bent down to catch his brother's eye. "But I'm not rolling up my pants-leg. That's just stupid. What guy is going to stop for a man who looks like an idiot hanging around the side of the road with one pants-leg up and the other down?"

"Doesn't have to be a guy, Sam. A woman would be fine."

"No woman driver is going to stop for us. For all they know, we could be dangerous."

"We kill demons and monsters. We are dangerous. Just put on your earnest, innocent Sammy face and use the puppy-dog eyes. And put the hood up."

"What, you're staying in the car?"

"I look dangerous, Sam."

Sam stood back up and Dean could no longer see his expression. But he had a pretty good idea what it was.

His brother went to the front of the car, put up the hood, then stood at the side of the road. Whenever a car appeared on the horizon, he waved both arms in the universal 'Stop; we need help' gesture.

Dean leaned out the window. "You look like you're trying to direct a plane. All you need are those paddles."

Cars continued to drive by, regardless of Sam's human semaphore impression. Plenty of pale faces turned to look at him and at the car with its dangerous occupant, but no one stopped.

Dean tried his cell again. No service. He tried Sam's phone and got the same response. He next attempted to start the engine, but nothing happened. No high-pitched grind of a bad water pump, no clicking of a dead battery. Just—nothing.

"Dead zone, dead car," Dean muttered. He leaned out the window. "Maybe you need to dance a jig."

Sam dropped his arms and turned back to stare at him. "Would you stop for a very tall man dancing a jig at the side of the road?"

"Well, if it ever happens, I'll stop."

"Good for you. In the meantime, no one else is stopping. In fact, most of them are moving into the left lane like we're contagious."

Dean heaved a sigh, threw open the door, climbed out. "Guess we'll have to hoof it."

"We don't know which direction is best."

"The mile markers tell us how far from the state line we are."

"This is Texas, Dean. It would take us a year to walk to the state line."

"But there will be a town somewhere before that." Dean shrugged. "Look, we know that we gassed up something like a hundred miles ago. I'll head that way, and you head the other."

"You're walking a hundred miles? That'll take you until next month."

"I walk faster than that. Nah, I'm just hunting a cell signal. Won't have to go that far. And it might only be two miles for you in the other direction. I'm giving you a break, here."

Sam thought about it. "Maybe. Yeah. It could work."

Dean nodded. "And as we go we can stick out our thumbs and hope someone's willing to pick up a lone man instead of two dangerous-looking guys. So, if you find a town, you can catch a ride back in a tow-truck, haul the Impala to a garage."

"While you're walking in the other direction?"

"Yes, because that's the plan." Why could his brother not see the sense in the plan? He planned successful attacks on demons all the time. "You can get the tow-truck driver to head down the road and find me, pick me up."

"Before he puts the car on the flatbed, or after we find you?"

Dean considered that for a split second, discarded it. "Have him put the car up first. I don't want to leave her sitting out here on her own any longer than we have to. She'll be lonely. So, when we get a signal on our phones we can check in with one another. You find a town or a gas station, call me."

Sam sighed. "Yeah, okay." And he turned, striding east in what Dean called his seven-league boots, leaving behind the wounded car and his bow-legged brother.

Dean called after him, "And try not to look dangerous! Maybe you can hunch down, or walk on your knees so you look like a nice girl instead of a sasquatch!"

Sam stuck a hand behind his back and flipped off his older brother.

Dean sighed, patted the Impala's hood. He opened his mouth to speak to the car, then thought maybe he was about to anthrophize—or whatever the hell that was—but he decided he didn't care. "Hang on, Baby, I'll be back for you as soon as I can."

He timed his sprint across the highway so he wouldn't get flattened by an eighteen-wheeler, or even a Honda, and started walking westward. It took him maybe twenty yards before he realized the hike would not be entertaining. West Texas was flat, made up of wide open spaces and miles of nothing. Well, unless an armadillo wandered out of the weeds and got splatted on the highway. That would be interesting.

He walked. He checked his cell on a regular basis. He stuck out a thumb whenever he heard a car approaching from behind. He even swung around and walked backward, assuming his most innocent expression. Sam had told him it never worked, but Dean pointed out that it worked with chicks all the time.

"Maybe a hot chick will stop," he mused aloud.

No chicks, hot or cool, stopped. No men of any temperature, either. Plenty of pickup trucks bearing flag decals featuring the lone star passed him by.

"Hey!" Dean shouted after one truck, its bed filled with hay bales. "I thought cowboys were supposed to help when people are in distress. That whole Western legend thing. And anyway, you probably have forty-two rifles in the gun rack. What have you got to lose?" Then he reflected that a cowboy might feel that Dean, who looked dangerous, could be a threat with guns so handy.

Marching onward, he checked his cell again, muttered imprecations beneath his breath. "What happened to all the wonderful coverage these phone companies keep telling us about?"

But maybe Sam had been picked up already, or maybe his brother had come across a town or a lone gas station. Maybe it was just a matter of being patient. Sam and a tow-truck could be on the way to pick him up right now.

Meanwhile, Dean had given them an assignment, so he kept walking. He figured he had about ninety-eight miles still to cover. Possibly it would take until next month. "C'mon, Sammy, there's got to be a town or a cell tower closer to you."

And so there was. About a ninety minutes after Dean had begun his trek, he heard honking. He turned, walked backward, saw a flatbed tow-truck on the other side of the highway heading west, bearing a gleaming black Impala.

And it drove on by.

"Hey!" Dean began waving his arms like a human semaphore.

About fifty yards down the road, the truck pulled into the median, timed its entry onto the highway, and headed east. Relieved, Dean stopped walking.

He got out of the way as the big truck pulled up in the shoulder, saw 'Joe-Bob's Garage' scrawled on the door in red paint. Sam threw open the door. "There's a garage about five miles up."

"Figures," Dean muttered. "I should have picked east."

He climbed up into the truck beside his brother, thanked the driver, peered attentively back through the rear window to check that the car was safe.

"This is Joe-Bob," Sam said helpfully.

Joe-Bob instantly reminded Dean of Bobby, in age, beard, and cap. With a drawl stringing out his words, Joe-Bob declared, "Yeah, I figure nobody's gonna pick up two guys as big as you. You might be dangerous."

Dean longed to say 'Dangerous this' with an appropriate hand gesture, but restrained himself. He put on his friendliest smile. "You don't think a girl would stop for this face?"

Sam let his head drop and hid his face behind a curtain of hair.

The driver eyed Dean closely as he turned over the engine. The tow-truck emitted a diesel rumble. "Well, seein' as how you're still walkin,' I'm guessin' the face didn't work. But it is right pretty, I'll give you that. If you had your brother's hair, I might wanna marry you." And he pulled out onto the highway.

Sam lifted his head and snickered. Dean did not; nor did he dignify the driver's statement with a comment. He looked at Sam sitting very close to him. The truck was big, but so were they. "So—did you roll up your pants-leg like I told you?"

"No, Dean, I did not roll up my pants-leg."

Joe-Bob shot Dean a puzzled glance. "Why would he roll up a pants-leg?"

"To flash some leg," Dean answered. "You know, like Claudette Colbert."

"Who's she?"

Dean sighed inwardly. Did no one watch classic movies any more? "An actress. In a movie she flagged down a car by flashing a well-shaped leg." He paused. "It's a very famous scene, with Clark Gable."

Joe-Bob grunted. "Wouldn't work out here if a man flashes a leg. They'd just think you're some kinda nutcase. Now a lady's leg? Damn right I'd stop."

"Even if she's bow-legged?"

"Those legs are good enough, don't matter to me."

"Figures," Dean muttered.

"Your brother says you think it's bad gas."

"Maybe," Dean said. "She coughed and hiccuped, shook a little. Sounded bad."

"Could be," Joe-Bob observed. "Well, we'll take a look when we reach the garage. We'll just drain her, run some clean-out through her, fill her up and see how she goes, and you can pray you don't need a new fuel filter or pump 'cuz that's expensive. An hour, give or take, to find out. You two can maybe grab lunch up at Maybell's place. Home-cooked food. Real tasty."

Dean brightened. "Pie?"

"The best in all of Texas, and that's coverin' a mighty big stretch of land."

Dean nodded. "Okay. Maybell's it is."

"I'll drop you boys off there, then head back to the garage. Give you a call when I know somethin'."

Dean heard Sam's snicker again; he knew damn well what Dean's reaction would be. Dean looked at the driver and tried to be polite. "If you don't mind, I'd like to watch you take her off the flatbed."

Joe-Bob squinted. "Boy, I been taken cars off tow-trucks for forty years."

Dean cleared his throat. "I'll just keep an eye on her."

"He loves this car," Sam put in. Dean just knew his brother was about to jerk his chain. Sam had that look. "He even calls her 'Baby.'"

Joe-Bob hooted. "Baby? Baby? That's no name for a big muscle car!" he glanced at Dean. "What the hell were you drinkin' when you come up with that?"

Dean stared steadfastly out the windshield. "It just kind of—happened."

Joe-Bob grinned, shook his head."All right, then, I'll let you watch me unload Baby."

Dean drew in a breath and heaved a long-suffering sigh.

---

At the garage, Joe-Bob worked the flatbed controls, began tipping up the platform. Dean, standing beside the big truck, watched anxiously with gritted teeth.

"You gotta relax before you pop a vein, Dean. He's been taking cars off of tow-trucks for forty years."

Dean fidgeted. Folded his arms. Unfolded them. Squinted. Chewed his bottom lip. And all the while his brother just grinned and watched him, snickering now and then. But Joe-Bob was as good as his word. Once the chains and tie-downs were unhooked, the Impala slid gently off the slanted bed, settled onto the ground.

The driver gave him an amused glance. "That good enough for ya?"

Dean shot him a glowering look, then nodded grudgingly.

"Okay. We'll push her into a bay, see what we got. Maybell's is up a mile, this side of the road. Take your time. I'll give you a call."

They were halfway to Maybell's when Dean's phone rang. He thumbed it open.

"It's Joe-Bob," Joe-Bob said. "Ain't nothin' wrong with this car."

Dean stopped dead. "What?"

"She's runnin' just fine. I checked her just in case before I put her in the bay, and she started right up. That's a big engine you got in there."

"No hiccups or coughing?"

"Runnin' smooth as a baby's butt. And I let her idle for awhile to be sure. Now, I can drain her, run clean-out through her, you want me to, but that'd be a waste of your money."

Dean briefly marveled that a garage owner was saving them money instead of gouging them, looked at Sam, pulled the phone away from his mouth. "He says she's fine."

"I got that," Sam said dryly. "So, we going to Maybell's, or heading back?"

"Heading back," Dean answered promptly. "And then we can drive to Maybell's and have us some home-made pie."

---

Maybell's turned out to be as good as Joe-Bob said. Dean sat back in the booth with a happy sigh and patted his belly as he remarked to Sam how full he was.

"Better than convenience store hotdogs," Sam noted.

Dean slid out, pushed to his feet. "Okay, the car's fine . . . let's get going. I figure we're, what, four hours away from where the case is?"

"Five," Sam said. "I checked the GPS. We're out of the dead zone."

Dean dropped enough money to the table to cover both meals and a decent tip. "Head 'em up, move 'em out; move 'em out, head 'em up; move 'em out, head 'em up, Rawhide."

Sam was startled as he unfolded from the booth. "What the hell is that? What are you heading up and moving out, and why?"

Dean went out the door as the entrance bell jingled. "It's the theme song to Rawhide, the TV show."

"When? I don't remember any Rawhide."

"Before your time," Dean explained. "Well, before mine, too, but there's this magical thing called reruns. It was on late, though, and you were always asleep by the time it came on. I only got to watch it when we stayed over in Wyoming that couple of months—and only when Dad was gone—but I saw enough." Dean paused. "The song's about cows, Sam. You know . . . cattle drive? Back in the day they didn't have trucks hauling livestock all over the country."

Sam walked out the door behind him. "I know we're in Texas, but I don't imagine they're holding cattle drives anymore."

"You don't know that, Sammy. It is Texas; they could have one every Friday. Meanwhile, Rawhide gave us one of the biggest stars on the planet. Played the ramrod, Rowdy Yates."

"Who did?"

"Clint Eastwood."

"Clint Eastwood was on a TV series?"

"Gave him his start." Dean unlocked the driver's side, got in, reached across to unlock shotgun's door. "It was before the spaghetti Westerns and the monkey movies."

Sam got in, pulled the door closed on the familiar grind. "You loved those."

"I love all Clint Eastwood movies." Dean turned the key, listened very critically for several minutes, finally nodded. "Smooth as a baby's butt."

---

They were perhaps five miles down the road when the car developed an odd, muted thumping sound, began to shudder and veered to the left. Dean cracked a prodigiously loud "Crap!" and steered the Impala to the shoulder, braking gently.

"Even I know that feels like a flat tire," Sam observed.

Dean was disgusted. "It is, dammit."

"We got a spare?"

"Of course we have a spare. Jesus. Limping on a flat tire can ruin the rim, and that costs an arm and a leg and a right kidney, so yes, we have a spare."

"What about the left kidney?"

"You lose that and the other arm and leg on a second rim." Dean threw open the door and stood. "Get out of the car, Sam. I've got to jack her up, and I'm not doing it with your 220-pound ass in her."

Sam sighed and climbed out. Dean opened the trunk lid, started pulling up compartments, including the one holding all the weaponry. Tucked way underneath was the spare tire. He spun the center bolt holding the spare to the chassis, pulled it, then grunted as he heaved up the tire. "Jack?"

"It's Sam, actually."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Sammy."

"Yes, I'll get the jack."

Dean dropped and bounced the tire, rolled it to the left front. He stroked the hood. "Sorry, Baby. I'll get you back on four legs soon enough."

Sam brought the jack, handed it over. He knew better than to offer to help. Dean once said he feared Sam might drop the car off the jack and kill himself. Or his big brother.

Dean jacked up the Impala, spun the lug-nuts off, pulled the wheel, inspected rubber. "Well, hell," he muttered. "Hole in the sidewall."

"Ah, then not fixable. See, I know that, too."

"I'll have to buy a new tire. Dammit."

It took about fifteen minutes to change out the tire, and Dean put the blown one back into the trunk along with the jack.

---

A half hour down the road, the Impala blew the right front tire.

"Nonono!" Dean cried. "Nooooo!"

"Again?" Sam was astonished. "What is wrong with this road? Or are the tires just old?"

"The tires aren't old." Dean was half pissed, half worried. Two tires? "They've got maybe ten thousand miles on them."

"Is that young, as tires go?"

"Young enough." Dean rolled the Impala to the shoulder, braked gently, then threw it into Park and sat there staring out the windshield. Then he emitted a growl of frustration.

After a moment, when he made no more sounds, not even words, Sam asked him what the problem was.

"Now we have no spare. It's on the left front." Dean got out, shut the door, rounded the hood, stared accusingly at the right front as his brother climbed out. Together they stood there gazing at the damage.

"Whoops," Sam said. "Sidewall again."

"Now I gotta buy two tires!" Dean put hands on his hips and looked at his brother, who was pulling his cell from a pocket. "Do we have a signal here, or are we in another dead zone?"

"Yes, we have a signal, and I'm calling Joe-Bob. We're not all that far down the road; maybe he can bring us two new tires. Or haul the Impala back to the garage so you can inspect what he's got in his racks, because, you know, you're psychologically unbalanced about the car."

"I am not! I'm just careful. I'm committed to maintaining a deep, meaningful relationship." He paused. "Man, this sucks. It means we'll have to burn one of the fake cards. I hate to do that to the guy. He seemed nice, even if he does think Baby's a stupid name."

"How much cash you got on you? I think I have about sixty bucks."

"That might buy about an inch of tread," Dean shook his head as irritation flared more decisively. "I put only the best on Baby, and they go for almost two-hundred dollars apiece—"

"For tires?"

"—and you really should replace all four when you lose one. But all I've got on me is forty dollars."

Sam's tone was dry. "I realize this is heresy, but what about a used tire? A retread. I see signs for them all the time at stations."

The desire to refuse with some vehemence rose, but Dean contained it. Such a thing was heresy, but it might do until they could score some cash and at least replace the retread with a new tire, if not all four. Then the retread would become the spare. It decidedly went against Dean's preferences, but he finally nodded. "Okay, call Jim-Bob."

"Joe-Bob."

"Call John-boy, for all I care. Just get him out here." Dean grimaced. "Oh, man—we gotta pay for a tow again!"

"See, if we had Triple-A—"

"Shut up, Sam."

"—we wouldn't have to pay for the tow."

Dean ignored that low blow. "How much did you say you had?"

"Sixty."

Dean laced his hands palm-down over the top of his head, elbows sticking out. "That's not gonna cut it. After the tow, I don't think we'll have enough for a tire even with no tread on it."

"Maybe he'll make us a deal. Partial payment, we send him the rest."

Dean dropped his hands and stared at his brother in disbelief. "No one in his right mind would do that for total strangers. Especially if they're big and look dangerous."

Sam shrugged. "He seemed helpful. They're like that in Texas, I've heard."

Dean sighed deeply and gave up. "Call him and ask."

Sam called, said 'uh-huh, uh-huh' a few times, mentioned maxed out credit cards, what cash they had, glanced at Dean as he listened, then nodded, pressed the phone against his shoulder so he could speak freely without Joe-Bob hearing him. "He said he'll sell us a retread for twenty bucks if you pick it out from his rack, or fifty if he just brings any old tire."

"Less if we go there than if he comes here?"

"Yes, because otherwise he'll have to tow you. He knows you are careful about the car, though he may not realize it's a truly deep and meaningful relationship."

Dean ignored that, too. "Can't he bring out several tires for me to pick from?"

Sam narrowed his eyes. "You know if he does that you'll wonder what tires he left behind."

"Well . . . yeah." Dean scrunched up his face, stared into the distance, nodded. "I would."

"He's going to give us a discount on the tow if that's what you opt for. It's under ten miles, so twenty-five bucks."

Dean's eyebrows jumped. "Why so cheap? He'd make more money if he brings a tire out."

"Because some people are just nice. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

"Right about now, a gift horse would save us a tow."

"Dean."

"I know, I know. Be grateful and shut my mouth."

"You won't be able to shut your mouth, but at least be grateful."

---

Joe-Bob whistled 'Okie from Muskogee' as he scooped up the Impala once again, locked down all the chains and tie-down webbing that held the car securely atop the flatbed, gave Dean a cheery smile. "I been loadin' and unloadin' cars for forty years."

Dean scowled. "I heard you the first time."

"Well then, let me do my job and you do yours." Joe-Bob paused. "What is it you boys do for a livin'?"

His brother opened his mouth to answer, but Dean beat him to it. "We're paranormal investigators."

Sam nearly swallowed his tongue, but turned it into a cough. Meanwhile, he shot Dean a pop-eyed glance laden with an implicit WTF?

"Para-what?"

"Paranormal investigators. We study the supernatural."

Joe-Bob removed his cap, scratched at his head. "You mean—like Ghostbusters?"

"Like Ghostbusters," Dean affirmed. "We're on our way to Roswell."

His brother stood very stiffly by Dean's side, and Dean knew Sam was still not entirely convinced his big brother had retained his sanity.

"Roswell," Joe-Bob said.

Dean nodded. "Where the flying saucer crash-landed."

Joe-Bob studied them both. "Guess you boys can't read a map."

Sam had one eye closed and his mouth all sucked up, which Dean knew was his brother's way of telegraphing that Dean had said something really, really stupid.

"Why?" Dean asked. "Why would you think that?"

"Because Roswell's in New Mexico, and you're half a state beyond it."

Dean grabbed at straws. "We're taking the scenic route. See a little of the Great State of Texas."

"Can we just go?" Sam asked, and Dean heard a trace of exasperation in his brother's strangled tone. Okay, yeah, he was sometimes hard to take when the Impala was in jeopardy.

"Well, I reckon," Joe-Bob said. "But if you boys want a new map, I'll be glad to sell you one cheap."

"No thanks," Dean answered. "We've got a GPS in the computer."

"That so?" Jim-Bob asked. "What's its name?"

Dean stared at him. "What?"

"You named your car. Didn't you name your GPS unit? "

Sam said, "Helga."

Dean just turned his head and blinked at his brother.

Joe-Bob squinted. "That ain't American, I don't think."

"Actually, it's Scandinavian," Sam began, and Dean just knew Sam was about to launch into one of his educational lectures. "Very Norse, but also used in Germany."

Joe-Bob eyed him suspiciously. "What's wrong with an American name?"

Sam and Dean looked at one another, then Dean jumped into the silence. "I lost a bet. My brother named it. Her. I'd have gone with Dolly, maybe Loretta. Or Reba."

Joe-Bob gifted Sam with a narrow-eyed stare. "You shoulda listened to your brother."

Sam shot Dean a stink-eye, then gave in gracefully. "Yes, sir. I don't know what I was thinking."

"Okay, " Joe-Bob said, "we're burnin' daylight. Let's git 'er done."

"Oh my God," Dean said in a hissing whisper as Joe-Bob made his way to the driver's door. "They really say that!"

"Just get in the truck, Dean."

"Let me check the tie-downs again."

"The car is fine. Get in the truck so we can go."

"But Sammy—"

"Dean."

Dean gave in, because Sam was big and dangerous. He climbed up into the big flatbed tow-truck, seated himself next to Joe-Bob, and Sam got in behind him.

Joe-Bob reached into a hip pocket, pulled out a flat, round tin. He offered it. "You boys care for some chewin' tobacco? It's Skoal. Or are you Copenhagen boys?"

Sam made a sound in his throat and literally recoiled in disgust, which was rude, Dean felt, so he stepped in to save the situation. "We gave it up for Lent."

"You boys Catholic, then?"

Dean crossed himself and launched into Latin. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immunde spiritus, omni satanica potestas, omnis—"

Sam interrupted hastily, elbowing Dean into silence. "And blah blah blah, so on and so forth, yadda yadda."

Joe-Bob shrugged. "Sounds Greek to me."

Sam once again sent Dean a hard, meaningful side-eye that said, without even speaking, that an exorcism ritual wasn't exactly appropriate under the circumstances. Dean just shrugged. You never knew.

"I'm Southern Baptist, myself," Joe-Bob announced, and started the tow-truck. He turned on the radio, smiled as he nodded. "And there's some Dolly for you right now. It's an oldies station. You know 'Jolene'?"

"Uhh, no?" Sam shot his brother another WTF glance.

Dean nodded enthusiastically. "Love me some Dolly Parton."

Joe-Bob tucked a healthy pinch of dark powdered tobacco inside of his lower lip, stuffed the tin back into his hip pocket. "Shoulda named your GPS after Dolly."

"We could always rechristen her," Dean offered.

Joe-Bob looked at him. "Maybe you could rechristen your car, too. 'Baby'? What the hell kind of a name is that for a man to come up with?"

Dean firmed his jaw. "It's what she wanted to be named."

Sam rubbed at his forehead like he had a headache, stared out of the passenger window.

"What she wanted to be named?" Joe-Bob asked skeptically. "Did you, what—channel her, or somethin'? I heard about that. Sounds Satanist to me. You boys into that New Age shit? Is that what happens when you're—" he paused for effect, as if making air quotes, "—paranormal investigators?"

"It's a living," Dean noted, and wished that were true.

"Now I've heard everything," Joe-Bob declared. "Well, you get back on the road, you go west, not east. You'll find Roswell back thataway."

"Thank you," Sam said meekly.

---

Dean studied the used tires in Joe-Bob's rack back at the garage, pulled a few out, inspected them, bounced four, rolled them, ran his hands over the sidewalls, pressed a penny into the tread.

Sam, who had been growing increasingly restless, asked him why on earth he was sticking a penny into tires.

Dean waxed eloquent. Now he was the experienced instructor. "If the top of the tread hits between Lincoln's head and the rim of the penny, you don't want that. You want it to cover as much of Lincoln as you can. Tread is a good thing, Sam. You want tread."

"How do you even know that?"

"How do you even know Helga's a Scandinavian name? And why the hell would you name a GPS unit?"

"Well, he asked. I had to make something up."

"He was being sarcastic. You could have said something appropriate like: 'Why the hell would you name a GPS unit?'"

Sam glanced around. In a strident whisper, he asked, "And why the hell did you tell him we're paranormal investigators?"

"Because demon-hunters doesn't have the same ring to it, and then he'd really think we are Satanists. Plus, I knew he wouldn't believe me."

"Then why don't we tell everyone what we do?"

"Because some of 'em might believe us. We can't be too careful." Dean patted the tire. "This one will do. Let's git 'er done."

---

Joe-Bob allowed Dean to drive the Impala into the open bay. He said it was against insurance rules, but he wasn't about to cause a man to have a coronary. Once out of the car, Dean watched critically as the lift suspended the car over the pit. Joe-Bob hopped down, said it was easier on his back than squatting beside the car, used a power impact driver to remove the lug-nuts with a high, loud, ear-bending whirring sound that made Dean think of NASCAR, pulled the old tire off and put on the equally old replacement tire, except it didn't have a hole in the sidewall.

"Hate to leave you boys without a spare," Job-Bob commented, accepting Dean's offer of an arm to help him out of the pit. "How much cash did you say you have left?"

"Not enough," Dean said morosely. Then he brightened. "Is there a pool hall in town?"

"There's a bar up the way that has tables." Joe-Bob peered at him suspiciously. "You figurin' to hustle some local folks out of their hard-earned cash?"

"Straight pool," Dean replied. "No hustle. Cross my heart and hope to die." And he made the sign of the cross again, which wasn't really appropriate for the quote, but he thought it would do.

Sam's stare was wide-eyed and hard. Winchesters never said such a thing, considering both of them had died. Dean just shrugged.

"Across the road from Maybell's," Joe-Bob told them. "And I'll hear about it if you're hustlin'. Remember, I got your car."

Dean was horrified. "You're holding my car hostage? Maybe we should just take her now, and forget about the spare!"

Joe-Bob leaned over, shot a stream of brown tobacco juice onto the garage floor. "Suit yourself, boys. But this road's tough on tires."

"Dean," Sam said meaningfully.

Dean scowled at Joe-Bob. "Okay. Straight pool, no hustle, and I'll buy us another retread. Well, unless I win enough, in which case I might buy a brand new tire."

"Meantime, you boys owe me forty-five bucks for the tire and tow."

"Thanks for the discount," Sam said earnestly. "That's very generous of you."

Dean pulled his wallet, dug out two twenties, which left him broke except for change. He shot a glance at Sam, who pulled his wallet and added a five-dollar bill to the pot. Joe-Bob accepted it, tucked the cash into a pocket. "See you boys later. Good luck at the table."

As they set out on foot for the bar across the road from Maybell's—Dean reflected they hadn't done this much walking for a couple of months, what with hiking up and down the highway—he put out his hand and made a gimme gesture with his fingers. "Let me have it. Gotta have a stake."

Even Sam's tone could do bitchface. "It's fifty-five dollars, Dean. That's all we've—I've—got left. I'd kind of like to eat at some point. And we'll have to buy gas down the road."

"We'll buy gas on my winnings."

"If you win."

"There's no 'if' about it, Sammy. Just 'when'."

Sam ignored that and thought it over. "I'll give you forty bucks. That's it. I'm holding fifteen back for food."

Dean glared at him. "Fine. Forty bucks. They'll think I'm a lightweight for sure. Give me twenty, and when I'm tapped out I'll look pitiful and ask for the other twenty before I whip their asses."

"Dean, that's hustling. You told Joe-Bob you wouldn't do that."

"Okay, okay. I'll run it to a hundred, and quit. No hustler quits at a measly hundred bucks. That'll get us a new tire—well, a retread—and down the road we can use one of cards, get new tires and some more cash."

"More tires? Why? Won't these work?"

Dean cast him a scornful glance. "I told you, it's best to replace all four. And would you rather have brand new boots, or old ones from a thrift store worn by some total stranger who might have foot fungus?"

Sam blinked at him. "Dean, our boots did come from a thrift store, and our feet haven't developed any disgusting maladies. " He paused. "Unless yours have, and you're not telling me."

"My feet are fine, Sam. They are pristine feet. The point is, I don't want my baby on retreads any longer than she has to be. Retreads can come apart at high speeds."

"So drive at slow speeds."

Dean did not dignify that with a reply.

---

At the bar, they found a couple of guys shooting pool against one another in a friendly game. Dean instructed Sam to buy two beers, and when Sam looked mutinous about spending food money, Dean reminded him that if they didn't buy any alcohol they would look like hustlers. Because why else would you come into a bar to shoot pool and not drink?

Dean wrapped up his case by saying, "We can always buy convenience store hot dogs. They're cheap."

Sam scowled, bought the two beers, wandered back to the pool tables and handed Dean a bottle. Dean proposed a game, and the taller of the two men—dark-haired, wearing paint-stained pants and a wrinkled shirt—agreed to play. "I got twenty bucks," Dean offered, and slapped it down on the wooden table rail. As the two men stared at him, Dean cleared his throat and said, "Or we can play for quarters."

It would take all night for him to amass a hundred bucks in quarters, but hey, if that's what it required, so be it. Money was money, and they could always stop by a bank and swap out the quarters for bills.

"Naw," the taller man said, whose lower lip was distended over a plug of tobacco. "I'll go ten bucks a game. So that'll buy you another when I take the first ten off you." He smiled broadly and displayed tobacco-stained teeth.

Dean agreed, and promptly lost the first game. Then he lost the second. He assumed a pitiful expression and turned to his brother. "Sammy, help me out. Loan me a ten. Better yet, a twenty."

Sam knew the drill. He employed a worried tone. "Dean, that's our food money. It's all we've got after paying Joe-Bob for new tires."

Tobacco Teeth perked up. "Joe-Bob's helpin' you boys out?"

Dean nodded. "Hole in the sidewall. Two of 'em; can you believe that shit? Joe-Bob was nice enough to cut us a good deal on a tow and retreads."

The man nodded. "He's like that. But I gotta tellya, no sad story is gonna keep me from bustin' you on the table. You wanna play for five instead, and call it when I win?"

Dean shot the man a squinty-eyed scowl. "Who says you're gonna win?"

Discolored teeth were on display again. "Why, I do, son."

Dean put away the next three games, dropped one, won two more. Tobacco Teeth bummed some money off his pal. At a hundred bucks, as the men stared at him under conspicuously lowered brows, Dean dropped the pool cue on the table. "That's it, boys. It'll cover what we owe Joe-Bob, and get us on down the road."

Tobacco Teeth was surprised. "You callin' it?"

"I can't risk losing," Dean explained, regret incarnate. "Most will go to Joe-Bob" —a nice touch, he thought, keeping the money in the local economy, though the cash would actually go into his pocket "—and we need to hit the road. I'll just take the hundred, and go."

"Joe-Bob's a good man," Tobacco Teeth opined. "He don't cheat people, even strangers."

Sam said, "Seems like, these days, an honest man is hard to find." He paused. "Present company excluded, of course, except for my brother."

Dean shot him a withering glance, then picked up the pot and tucked the bills away. "Thanks, boys. Nice playing with you. We'll run down to Joe-Bob's and get my car out of hock, then head over to Maybell's for dinner."

"Might see you there, then," Tobacco Teeth said. "Good food. Best in the county."

Outside, Sam said, "I didn't know we're going to Maybell's."

"We're not. We're going to pick up the car and get the hell out of Dodge."

Sam said, "Toad Suck."

Dean almost tripped. "What?"

"Toad Suck. It's the name of the town."

Dean narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "You're bullshitting me."

"Nope."

"Who names a town Toad Suck?"

"Probably someone who names his car 'Baby.'"

Dean scowled. "Well, that's better than Helga."

---

When they got back to the garage, they found it closed for the night.

"But it's only four-thirty!" Dean cried. "And my car's in there!" He strode to the closed and locked bay roll-up door, cupped his hands around his eyes and peered through the glass insert at the Impala. "Oh man! He's put her in jail." Then his tone sharpened. "Call Joe-Bob. Get him over here to unlock the garage. I want my car."

"You call him. It's your car."

"But you talked to him before. You've established a relationship."

Sam shook his head. "Look, I know you're not exactly the poster child for actual romance, but talking to a garage owner about a car is not a relationship!"

"Not that kid of relationship," Dean clarified. "A verbal one."

"Dean, you're losing perspective on this."

"I can't help it, Sammy. It's my car!"

Sam shook his head. "You're incorrigible."

Dean was not insulted. "Yes."

Sam pulled his phone out of a pocket, hit the dialer.

From somewhere in the garage office, a phone rang.

Dread and disbelief blew up in Dean's gut. "No," he said. "NoNoNo."

Sam disconnected, waited a moment, called again.

The office phone rang.

"No!" Dean shouted. "What's his home phone? He's got to have a home phone. Everybody has a home phone."

"We don't."

"I want his home phone!"

Sam put a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Dean, you're freaking out. You know what happens when you do this. Remember when Bela had the Impala towed?"

"There's got to be an emergency number around here somewhere! You never know, someone might blow up the pumps. There's got to be a number." Dean jogged from bay to office, looking for a sign displaying the emergency number. "Do you see a number? Anything?"

"No. Look, we'll just stay the night, get it in the morning." Sam paused. "Take deep breaths."

Dean removed his face from the locked glass office door, glared at his brother. "I'm not leaving her in there all night on her own. That's desertion."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You know, you're kind of being a drama queen about this. The Impala's perfectly safe. It's in a locked garage."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "You say that because you're not a car guy. Car guys understand. Car guys know the truth. Car guys grasp the magic. And no car guy would leave his car locked up overnight when she's perfectly healthy." He paused. "Maybe I can call 911."

"You're not calling 911 about a car!" Sam cried. "They have serious things to do, like saving lives!"

"If I stroke out over this, they'll be saving my life!" Dean pulled his phone from a pocket. "I don't care, I'm calling."

"Dean, this is ridiculous."

"So sue me." He dialed, waited, someone answered. He adopted a worried, anxious tone along with a faint twang. "Hey there, I need some help. It's my great-Aunt Gertie . . . she's right bad sick, and I gotta get there soon. Trouble is, my car's in Joe-Bob's the garage. She's good to go, but I got here too late and he's gone home. Can you help? Can you maybe call him at home for me, or give me his number? I can't find one."

Dean listened to the response, tacked on more nonsense about great-Aunt Gertie. After a moment he disconnected.

"Did you get his number, or are they gonna call him?"

Dean said, "They told me they're more concerned about saving lives than rescuing a car locked in a garage."

"What about great-Aunt Gertie?"

"I guess she gets to die." Dean leaned his forehead against the glass door. "I want my car, Sammy."

"We don't always get what we want. We'll just wait till morning, pick it up then."

"I don't want to wait." Then Dean lifted his head as a solution presented itself. "Hah! We don't have to!"

"Well, what are you going to do—break in?"

Dean smiled.

"Oh, no. Dean—no. You can't break into Joe-Bob's garage."

"Watch me." And Dean pulled his lockpick kit from a pocket.

"We're on the main drag," Sam protested. "The sheriff or a deputy could drive by at any time. You're gonna get yourself arrested!" He paused, then added in a dramatic tone, "She wouldn't want that, Dean."

Dean was working the lock, paying no attention to his brother. "Who wouldn't want what?"

"The car!" Sam hissed. "Baby wouldn't want you to risk your freedom!"

"It's worth risking my freedom in exchange for hers."

"Oh, for God's sake!" Sam was utterly disgusted. "It's a car. It's a car. Do you want to go to jail over a stolen car?"

"You can't steal what you own, Sam." The tumblers clicked, and Dean, grinning cheerily, returned the pick kit to his pocket. "Okay, you hit the bay door controls, and I'll back her out."

"You're making me an accessory."

"You're my brother. You're always an accessory." Dean opened the office door, slipped in. A backward glance showed him his accessory still standing outside wearing a classic Sam Winchester bitchface. Dean cracked open the door. "Get in here!"

"This is wrong, Dean."

"You get your ass in here or I'll leave you standing by the side of the road and it'll be Burkittsville all over again."

Sam smirked. "That didn't exactly end so well, Dean. You damn near became a scarecrow. I saved your ass, remember?"

"It's my car," Dean implored through the partly open door. "And it's not like we're running out on the bill. We already paid Jim-Bob."

"Joe-Bob."

"Jim-Bob, Joe-Bob, a boy named Sue-Bob. Come on, Sam."

Dean went to the pegboard full of keys, found those belonging to the Impala as Sam finally came in behind him. Dean dangled said keys pointedly in his brother's face, instructed him again to find and operate the bay door control, and went for the Impala.

Sam did eventually find the control, raised the wrong door, dropped it again, raised the other one, and Dean backed the Impala out of the bay. Sam hit the control once more, went back through the office and climbed into the car. He pulled the door closed on a metallic screech. "Joe-Bob's going to know what happened."

Dean shook his head as he changed gears and wheeled the car out onto the dark street. "Joe-Bob may just think someone stole it."

"I don't think that'll work when we're nowhere around, Dean. Because if the car really were stolen from this garage, you'd be out front hyperventilating, screaming maledictions, and threatening to hunt down and shoot whoever stole it."

"Well of course I would! But what's he gonna do, Sam? We paid the guy!"

"You broke into his garage. You left it unlocked. Now someone else could go in there and steal very expensive tools."

Dean wanted to pound his head against the steering wheel, but that would interfere with driving, so he didn't. "Look. It's done. We'll go on down the road, find a motel, head out again in the morning."

"He might call the cops on you."

Dean's shout was frenzied. "We didn't take anything other than my own damn car!"

"Wow," Sam said. "You just insulted your baby."

"Well, why don't you power up Helga and find us a motel."

---

Sam and Helga found a motel, but the Impala died before they got there.

Dean began to hyperventilate as he coasted to a halt on the shoulder of the highway. He clutched the steering wheel until his knuckles were white, stared through the windshield with eyes stretched wide, felt the frustration building in his body. He feared he might even implode.

Sam, watching him, said, "I can call 911, tell them great-Aunt Gertie died and you're having a stroke."

Dean got out of the car, opened the hood, stared into the engine.

Sam came up beside him, but not within reach of any sort of blow. "Dean?"

"What?"

"You can't actually see anything in there. It's dark."

"There's a moon."

"Not enough of one."

"Then get me a damn flashlight!"

Sam handed him the one he'd already taken from the glovebox.

Dean turned it on, inspected the engine under the circle of light. The flashlight flickered and dimmed. Dean banged the head against the heel of his hand. "Don't you die on me, you piece of crap."

The flashlight died.

Sam was smart enough to hold his tongue.

Dean did not. He reeled back from the car, tipped his head back, stretched out his arms and wailed to the heavens, "Why are you doing this to me?" Then he snapped back to attention. "I'll call Cas."

"Cas knows as much about cars as I do, Dean. Maybe less."

"He's an angel of the Lord. He's healed us lots of times."

"I don't think angels heal cars. Besides, Cas would have to drive here. Since we haven't got enough for a motel—plus, it's not wise to engage in fraud when we're stuck in a town—it's better just to sleep in the car, then call Joe-Bob in the morning."

Dean shook his head decisively. "We are not calling Joe-Bob."

"Why not? We need a tow."

"Because he'll be really pissed we broke in and got my car, even though it is my car and we paid him."

"Dean—"

"You found us a motel. Find us a garage. Another garage."

Sam murmured something Dean couldn't hear, marched back to the passenger side, slid in and opened the laptop. Dean waited impatiently, glaring furiously at every car that passed them.

Sam got out of the car again.

"You find anything?" Dean asked.

His brother stopped out of reach. "We're in a dead zone."

Dean's chest heaved. Sparkles danced at the edges of his vision. He drew in a massive breath and expelled it on a string of various vulgarities, taking pretty much everyone's name in vain except his own, his brother's, and his car's. He invented entirely new configurations of swear words and insults. Just about the time he was on the verge of passing out from hyperventilation, Sam grasped his elbow, steered him back to the driver's side, pushed him down onto the seat.

When he got his breathing under control he looked at his brother squatting outside the car. After all that hard breathing and swearing, Dean felt very tired. "What are we going to do, Sammy?"

Sam adopted his soothing tone. "We'll call Joe-Bob in the morning. We're not that far from Toad Suck. It's closer than Ding Dong."

"Ding Dong? Ding Dong? Ding Dong is a town?"

"Yup."

Dean sighed. "The same guy must've named both places." He slid down and dropped his head back against the seat. "How are we going to call Joe-Bob if we're in a dead zone? And no one will pick us up because we look dangerous and you're too tall."

"Right now, you look pitiful. Anyway, you walk in one direction, I'll walk in the other, and one of us will get a signal and make the call."

Dean muttered another vulgarity. "I don't want to walk. I don't want to call Joe-Bob."

"What are you, three?"

"Give me some credit. I'm at least five. Look, let's try for Ding-a-Ling."

"You face down monsters, Dean. Why don't you want to face Joe-Bob? And it's Ding Dong, not Ding-a-Ling."

Dean ruminated a moment. "I'll bet the witch is dead there."

"What?"

"The Wicked Witch, Sam. Wizard of Oz. The Munchkins sang the song when the witch melted. 'Ding dong, the witch is dead."' Dean snickered. "I remember how grossed out you were when the other witch's legs in those striped stockings curled up and got sucked under the house after the tornado dropped it on her."

"I don't remember that!"

"It was a traumatic experience. You probably blocked it from your mind."

Sam's tone was dry. "Try the car again, Dean. Maybe it'll start."

Dean tried. The car didn't start. He leaned forward and quietly, repeatedly, knocked his forehead against the steering wheel. Then he looked at his brother, still squatting beside the car. "We've got no food, and I'm hungry."

"We've got beer in the cooler."

Dean brightened. "Liquid dinner. That'll do."

---

In the morning, Dean got a good look under the hood and nearly cried.

"What?" Sam asked. "Is it bad?"

"The electrical system's fried. It was probably smoking last night before it quit, but we were in motion." He banged the heel of his hand against the engine. "Damn damn damn."

"Well then, we'd better start walking."

Sam headed toward Ding Dong, Dean back toward Toad Suck. About a mile down the road, he got a signal. "Oh man, I don't want to call Joe-Bob!" Then again, maybe Sam had already reached him. He scrolled to Sam's name, called him.

The call did not go through. Sam was apparently still in a dead zone.

Dean swore, made the dreaded call. Joe-Bob answered.

Dean mouthed a silent F-bomb into the air, then summoned a confident tone. "Joe-Bob, it's Dean Winchester."

"You boys broke into my garage last night and took your car out of there, didn't ya?"

Dean winced; yes, the man was pissed. "Well, we really needed to get on the road, Joe-Bob. Our great-Aunt Gertie's right bad sick."

"Right bad sick, huh? I don't think I've heard that combination. Bad sick, I've heard, and downright sick, but this is a new one. You sound like an idiot."

Dean winced.

"I'm sorry about your great-Aunt Gertie, bless her heart." Joe-Bob clearly didn't believe a word. "So why are you callin' me?"

"Uh, the car died. Electrical system's shot."

"Bless her heart, too. You want me to come pick you boys up?"

"Yeah. She's not going anywhere. "

"How far out are you?"

Dean looked around, found a mile marker about twenty yards away, walked to it. "We'll, I'm at 336. Sam's on his way to Ding Dong."

"Why is your brother on his way to Ding Dong? Toad Suck's closer."

"We couldn't get a signal. He went one way, I went the other."

"Well, I'll come fetch you, but you broke into my place so I'm not cuttin' you any kind of a deal. It'll be fifty for the tow."

Dean winced again. That would slice their funds in half. Maybe they'd have to use the card anyway, depending on the repair bill. "Fair enough."

"I know you boys'll want to get back on the road to reach great-Aunt Gertie before she kicks the bucket. I'll be along in a jiffy."

Dean closed the connection, and the ringtone sounded.

Sam. "You get through to Joe-Bob? I just tried him, but it was busy."

"He's charging us fifty bucks for the tow, and God knows how much to rewire her."

"Well, you can't blame the man."

"I told him we needed to get to great-Aunt Gertie."

Sam's sigh was loud enough to be heard over the phone. "And where exactly does great-Aunt Gertie live? You know—just so we have our stories straight."

"Louisiana."

"Where in Louisiana?"

"Uhh, Frog Vomit?"

"Frogs don't vomit, Dean."

"I'm pretty sure toads don't suck, either, but they still named the town after it."

---

Joe-Bob came and loaded up the Impala as Dean watched anxiously, then told them to get in the truck right quick because they were burnin' daylight. His former laconic affability had vanished. Dean didn't really blame him, and he knew Sam didn't.

Eventually Joe-Bob pulled into the garage yard, turned off the engine, looked at Dean seated next to him. "No damage to the lock. You boys pick it?"

Dean scratched at the back of his head, then confirmed.

"Well then, why the hell didn't you relock it when you left?"

Considering they always broke in, not out, Dean hadn't thought of that. It would have been a smart move. The car would still be missing, but no one else could have gotten in.

He was afraid to hear the answer. "Anything missing?"

"Nope. You boys're damn lucky I didn't call the sheriff on you. Would have, was anything missin'. You just don't do that to a man."

"That's what I told him," Sam said.

"Hey!" Dean cried. "You just threw me under the bus!"

"Well, it's true."

"But great-Aunt Gertie's right bad—well, she's sick, and we need the car."

"Uh-huh." Joe-Bob spat into a cup. "Where's she at?"

Dean figured the guy wouldn't believe in the imaginary town any more than in the imaginary great-aunt. There might actually be a Frog Vomit, so he couldn't take the chance. "Baton Rouge."

"Well, replacing the wirin' harness may take me awhile, then there's maybe the fuel pump and filter. What year is this car?"

"'67."

"Huh. Not many people drivin' a car almost fifty years old. You been takin' good care of her." He opened the door, climbed down. "What with you bein' paranormal investigators, I'm beginnin' to think she's cursed. Now hop out, and I'll roll her off."

Sam climbed out and Dean followed him. In a vehement undertone, he said, "My car's not cursed."

Sam's dimples appeared with his smile. "It would be ironic if it was."

Dean scowled at him. "I'm going to run the EMF over her just to be on the safe side."

"Right in front of Joe-Bob?"

"We're paranormal investigators. Paranormal investigators can do that in front of people. Besides, he already thinks we're batshit crazy."

"And you want to convince him of that?"

"My car's not cursed, Sam!"

The Impala was on the ground. Joe-Bob looked at them from the other side of the flatbed. "What's an EMF?"

Dean swore beneath his breath, while Sam donned his earnest face. "Electromagnetic field sensor. It detects supernatural energies."

"It does, huh?"

"Well, it's supposed to." Dean tried to sound disingenuous just to allay suspicions. "But we haven't had much luck with it."

Sam nodded. "You know, a lot of people think we're batshit crazy."

Joe-Bob spat tobacco onto the ground. "Well, I think you boys are full o' bullcrap. You told me you were going to Roswell. Now your great-Aunt Gertie's right bad sick in Baton Rouge, clear in the other direction. Maybe you oughta get your stories straight before you embarrass yourselves. " He paused. "Meanwhile, I want to see this electro-whatever."

"EMF," Sam supplied helpfully.

Joe-Bob waited. Dean finally went to the trunk, opened it, retrieved the EMF unit.

"Huh," Joe-Bob said. "Looks like one of those old Walkmans."

"It is," Dean confirmed. "I reconfigured it."

"Maybe that's why it don't work."

Dean sighed, powered up the unit, pointed it at the Impala.

All the red lights went off like fireworks, and it emitted a screeching, squealing sound.

Dean froze in disbelief, then slowly looked at his brother. Sam wore the same kind of expression.

"Don't tell me." Joe-Bob's tone was infinitely dry. "It's workin' now. Detectin' all that supernatural energy."

"Uh, yeah." Sam's smile was a little weak.

Joe-Bob looked at Dean. "It's a Walkman. You've rigged it to light up and make noise just to trick gullible souls. " He spat a stream of tobacco juice. "Now, you get on down to Maybell's for breakfast, let me get at the car, and I'll call you with an estimate."

Dean promptly said, "I want to drive her into the bay."

Joe-Bob narrowed his eyes. "I'm not lettin' you back into my garage. Now git."

"Come on." Sam elbowed him. "I'll grab the computer. Let's let the man work. Maybe great-Aunt Gertie will have a spontaneous recovery."

Scowling, Dean placed the EMF unit back into the trunk, closed it, and began to stride aggressively toward the road.

---

They'd barely slid into a booth when Dean leaned forward over the table urgently. "I'm telling you, my car's cursed." It was stated very urgently because they'd argued about it on the way to Maybell's, Sam accusing Dean of flip-flopping on the issue like a politician. "The EMF went off like a house afire. Baby's cursed!"

"And I told you that something is going on," Sam agreed, "but I don't think it's cursed. I mean, who would curse a car? What would curse a car? I think it's just bad luck."

Dean waved a hand. "Get on the laptop and look it up. Maybe there's a curse for cars and we just don't know about it."

"You're being ridiculous. Again. Still."

"Hey, I didn't believe in angels, remember? And look where that got us." He waved his hand again in a get to it gesture.

Sam raised interrogatory eyebrows. "What do you want me to do? Put 'cursed car' in the search field?"

"That, and whatever else you think might work." Dean pulled a menu from between the sugar jar and a hot sauce bottle. "There's something going on. I want to know what it is. Hell, my baby could burn up next time from whatever this is."

"Without us in it, preferably." Sam opened the computer. "While I'm doing this farce of a search, tell the waitress I want a spinach-and-cheese omelet, a side of hash browns, whole wheat toast—butter, no jam—and coffee."

"We're in Texas. They may not have omelets."

"Everyone has omelets, Dean. They're ubiquitous."

"That sounds like a disease. Is it related to—morphizing?"

"It's not a disease, and it's not related to anthropomorphizing." Sam turned on the laptop, thought for a moment, typed something in, murmured, "Car curses. Cursed cars with malevolent intent. Cars that kill—no, that'll pull up accidents. Infested cars. Evil cars. Angry cars."

"I don't think cars can get angry. You're anthropomorphizing."

"Well at least you got it right that time." Sam went back to typing. "Brothers who are freaking out."

"My car's cursed, Sam! What else should I be doing?"

"Well, I don't think they can be cursed, so we're even." Sam tried another search. "Look, Dean, all I keep getting are references to Stephen King's Christine—book and movie—which was about a possessed car. I don't think the Impala's angry or possessed.

The waitress arrived bearing coffee, a pad and pencil. She was middle-aged, slightly plump, wore a neatly-pressed pink uniform, had twinkling blue eyes and orange hair. "Howdy, y'all. My name's Ruby. And if I may say so, each of you boys is a fine figure of a man—hope that don't embarrass you." Her face went a little pink. "What can I get you this mornin'?"

Dean's eyes had popped wide as she spoke her name. Immediately he recalled the image of a slight, dark-haired demon in the chapel proclaiming the coming of Lucifer while Lilith lay dead by the altar. After a moment, adopting an emotionless expression, he looked at his brother.

Sam was a little tight around the mouth as he met that look, clearly expecting Dean to laugh or make a joke.

Not gonna, Sammy. Not gonna touch that one.

When Dean said nothing, Sam then smiled up at the waitress. "Good morning, Ruby."

Dean figured food was a safe topic for discussion. "Do you have omelets? I don't think you have omelets, but my brother says you do."

Her eyes twinkled merrily. "Why hon, why would you think such a thing? We've got everything in Texas! Now, omelets? We serve 'em with chilis: jalapeno, Hatch, New Mex Big Jim, Rocatillo, Espanola, Mirasol, Guajillo—well heck, I could just go on and on!"

Dean blinked. "There are that many chili peppers in the world?"

"Why, hon, I think there are probably hundreds of 'em. Now, what kind do you want in your omelet?"

"I'm not having an omelet." Dean pointed. "He's having the omelet."

Sam ignored his big brother. "Spinach-and-cheese."

"We got hot sauce, salsa, and picante sauce on the table." Ruby pointed to the bottles with the end of her pencil. "You could spice that up a little."

Sam contemplated the bottles warily, then cleared his throat. "Thank you."

Dean said, "I'll have scrambled eggs, pancakes, country potatoes, bacon, and buttered white toast with blueberry jam." He paused. "Are there chili peppers in the coffee?"

Ruby laughed. "Why no, hon. You don't ruin good black coffee with condiments."

Dean felt a wave of relief. "Okay, then."

"Comin' right up," Ruby promised, and took herself away.

Dean pointed at the computer. "Keep looking, Sam. There's got to be something about cursed cars."

Sam woke up the laptop and started typing again, skimmed a few pages, then stopped abruptly. "Holy crap."

"What?"

"Gremlins."

"The movie?" Dean asked. "I remember Gizmo. He kept saying 'Bright light! Bright light!' But you missed that one, too. You were always asleep when the good stuff came on."

Sam offered no comment, just frowned as he kept reading.

Dean knew that look. "What? What is it?"

"Huh," Sam said in something akin to surprise and discovery.

"What?"

"So get this." Sam read it aloud. "'A gremlin is a creature commonly depicted as mischievous and mechanically oriented, with a specific interest in aircraft. Gremlins' mischievous natures are similar to those of English folkloric imps, while their inclination to damage or dismantle machinery is more modern.' " He looked at Dean. "In World War II, any time something mechanical broke down, soldiers blamed it on gremlins."

"Jesus," Dean said. "My car's got a gremlin?" He clutched at his head. "My car's got a gremlin!"

Sam went back to reading. "' Gremlins were also thought at one point to have enemy sympathies, but investigations revealed that enemy aircraft had similar and equally inexplicable mechanical problems. As such, gremlins were portrayed as being equal opportunity tricksters—" Sam grimaced, "—taking no sides in the conflict, and acting out their mischief from their own self-interest.'"

"But—why would one of these things pick on my car?"

"Probably because they find it fun to do this stuff."

"Fun? Fun? To screw with my car?"

"They're mischievous, Dean."

"I don't care what they are. How do we kill it?"

"I don't know," Sam replied. "They're not exactly real."

"Not real? Of course they're real—and one of 'em is screwing with my car!"

"Dean—" But he broke off when Ruby arrived with plates, set them down with a flourish.

"Can I get you boys anything else?"

"No thanks," Dean replied, giving her his best grin so she'd think he was an even finer figure of a man. "I think we're good."

"All right. You boys let me know! I'll keep the coffee comin'."

Dean waited until Ruby was gone, then leaned forward again, lowering his voice to a vehement whisper. "Gremlins aren't real? You saw what the EMF did! And anyway, how many things have we killed that nobody believes are real, but are? That's what we do, Sam!"

Sam looked thoughtful.

"Google it," Dean instructed. "This thing's riding around in my car screwing with it. Find out how to kill it." He paused, turned it over in his mind. "You know, in the movie bright light could kill a mogwai. That's how the good gremlins defeated the bad gremlins. Gizmo opened a skylight and the sun melted Stripe."

"Who's Stripe?"

"The bad evil gremlin."

"Bright light melted him?"

"Yup."

"Oh. A vampire gremlin." Dean gave him stink-eye, and Sam shrugged. "We know better, but folklore says light kills vampires."

"Folklore isn't screwing with my car, and Gizmo wasn't a vampire! He was a mogwai."

"You know, it could just be coincidence, Dean. Cars do break down."

Dean leveled his best glare. "You don't have bad gas, two flat tires, and a fried electrical system within thirty-six hours by coincidence."

"Joe-Bob said the gas was fine."

Dean slid out of the booth. "I'm going over there right now. You coming?"

"Dean."

"I want to check the EMF again, then kill me an evil bad gremlin."

"Dean."

"What?"

"It's daytime."

"Yeah? So?"

"If it's light that kills gremlins, it won't come out in the daytime."

Dean's phone rang. He looked at the screen and recognized Joe-Bob's number, answered. "You get her fixed?"

"Nope. It'll be tomorrow."

"Tomorrow! Why tomorrow?"

Joe-Bob said, "My great-Aunt Gertie's right bad sick."

Dean dropped the F-bomb.

Joe-Bob wasn't impressed. "I'm waiting on a wiring harness. It's coming from Ding Dong."

"How far is Ding Dong from here?"

"About a hundred-and-fifty miles," Sam said.

"About a hundred-and-fifty miles," Joe-Bob said. "And I got another car here needs work. The harness arrives and I get the time, I'll do my best to fix your car, but it'll likely be tomorrow." He paused. "We got a motel 'bout a block up from Maybell's."

"Okay," Dean said tightly, and disconnected.

Sam's expression was suspicious. "I recognize that look. What are you thinking about doing?"

"We are going to wait until it's dark and break into the garage again and shine every damn spotlight we can find on my car. That's what I'm thinking."

Sam sighed. "Stripe or no Stripe, we don't know that light actually kills a gremlin. That was a movie, Dean."

"It's worth a try."

Sam shook his head. "We light up Joe-Bob's garage like that, and people will know something's going on."

"We'll work fast and get the hell out of D—Toad Suck. On the way to Ding Dong. Maybe we'll go as far as Frog Vomit. Christ, these names!"

"Frog Vomit isn't a real place."

"How do you know that, Sam?"

"There is a Frognot, though."

"Let's go. We're going."

Sam's brows slid up. "Can't we have our breakfast first?"

"No, we cannot. I want to go talk to Joe-Bob, talk sense into him."

"Why?"

"He's holding my car hostage."

"He's repairing your car. And you can call him right from this booth if you want to negotiate disarmament terms, and then we can stay and eat breakfast. Besides, you just talked to him. He's waiting on the Ding Dong harness."

After a moment of hilarity, Dean pointed out that 'Ding Dong harness' sounded like bad bondage.

Sam almost choked on his coffee.

Dean sat down again. "You know, there's more to BDSM than handcuffs and ball-gags. There's this thing called shibari. Japanese rope bondage."

Sam coughed, cleared his throat. "You know this how?"

"I was sleeping with this chick who was a little kinky. She had a book on it." Dean thought back. "She liked to wear a Zorro mask."

"And did you do it?"

"What, wear the mask?"

"The rope thing."

"Hell no. We get tied up too often by bad guys as it is. I don't want to do it for kicks." He nodded reminiscently. "She looked hot in the mask, though." Then he went back to his pancakes. "We'll go see Joe-Bob when we're done."

---

Joe-Bob was not in the office, which was locked, or the bays, which also were locked. Joe-Bob was not in the bathroom. The Impala was in a bay, and unreachable.

Dean peered through the glass insert. "Dammit, that gremlin could be sitting in my car right now, figuring out what he wants to do next. For fun!"

Sam sounded tired. "I'm sure it is."

"Where the hell is Joe-Bob?" Dean looked around as if the garage owner might materialize at any moment. "He should be here."

"He might have had to go home for something. Or maybe he went went out for breakfast. He does have a life without us in it."

"He wasn't in Maybell's."

"He may have gone to some other diner."

Dean pulled out his phone. "He sent us to Maybell's, told us the food was good. Why would he go any place else? I'm calling him."

"If he's not here, he can't answer the phone," Sam said with infinite patience. "And anyway, the tow-truck's gone. He's probably out on a call."

Dean swore, returned the phone to his pocket. "I guess we can park our asses here and wait for him."

"Or you could shoot some pool, make a little money."

"Nah. They'll think I'm hustling. I told them we were just passing through, remember?"

Sam's tone was dry. "I'm sure there are more guys who shoot pool than just those two."

"But they might be there anyway."

"And we might have just been passing through, but your car's broken down. It's perfectly logical that we'd come back here."

"They'll think I'm hustling anyway. I know guys like these."

Sam sighed. "Well, much as I hate to suggest this, we can get a room at the motel. Watch a little TV. See if we can find Gremlins." He waited a beat. "The movie, not the supernatural being."

Dean glared at him. "That's not funny, Sam."

"I want to see a vampire gremlin that melts in the sun."

"He's not a vam—oh, never mind." Dean went back to the bay door, peered through the glass insert once more. "I'm sorry, Baby. But we'll get rid of the evil bad gremlin and be back on the road again."

When Dean lingered, staring morosely into the bay imprisoning his cherished Impala, Sam picked up and tossed a small rock at him to get his attention. "Are we going, or not?"

Dean kicked the offending rock away. "Ten more minutes."

They waited twenty, and Dean complained that Joe-Bob was taking an unreasonable amount of time to pick up a vehicle and bring it back to the garage, if in fact that's what he was doing and not goofing off somewhere.

"Why is it unreasonable?" Sam asked; and Dean reflected that his brother was running out of patience. "There's a hundred-and-fifty miles between here and Ding Dong, and, what, a hundred-and-five to that little wide spot in the road where we gassed up? That's a lot of territory—and you need to calm down before you hyperventilate again."

Yes, Sam was out of patience. But Dean plowed on, because he had right on his side. "He can't be the only tow-truck in two-hundred-and-fifty-five miles."

"It's Texas. Texas is big. He might be."

Dean cogitated more, then realized something vital. "Hah!"

"Hah?"

"He's gotta have a cell phone on him. Let's go to Maybell's and see if they know his number."

Ruby welcomed them back, asking if they wanted more breakfast; Dean said no and asked about Joe-Bob's number. Ruby explained she had no cell number for Joe-Bob because Joe-Bob had no cell phone.

Dean was shocked. "He doesn't have a cell? Who doesn't have a cell? How can he not have a cell? And how does he do business if no one can contact him?"

Ruby laughed. "Now, hon—I didn't say there's no way to contact him. He's got a CB radio. But what all is so important you boys need him that bad?"

"We need our car fixed," Dean said. "It's kind of urgent."

Sam's tone was just a tad ironic, which Dean knew was meant for him. "Great-Aunt Gertie's right bad sick in Baton Rouge."

"Why, bless her heart!" Ruby appeared devastated. "I'll put her in our prayer chain at church."

"She would love that," Sam assured her. "There's great power in prayer."

Dean nodded. "Sometimes the angels even answer. Of course most are dicks, but hey, they can't all be bad."

Sam kicked his brother in the ankle.

Ruby 's expression was baffled. "They're what, hon?"

"Never mind." Sam smiled so his dimples showed. That always got to middle-aged waitresses. "Well just have to wait on him, I guess."

"Well, we got us a CB here. You can reach him that way."

Dean nodded enthusiastically. "Hell—heck, yeah."

"Well, you come on back to Maybell's office. His handle's Rubber Duck. You know, after that song."

Dean wanted to say 'What song?' and What's a handle? and 'Why the hell would anyone want to be called Rubber Duck?' But he did not, because Ruby was nice and he didn't want to be rude to an older woman who didn't know what a dick was.

"Just get on Channel 19, give him a shout out." She paused, inspecting them both. "You boys know how to work a CB radio?"

"My brother built a really cool EMF meter out of a Walkman," Sam explained. "We'll be fine."

"Well, come on, then." Ruby led them down a narrow hall, gestured toward a door. "Right in there."

Sam hesitated. "Maybell won't mind?"

"Lord, Maybell's been dead forty years. We just kept the name. Unless she's a ghost, she won't mind."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. Dean wished he had the EMF meter on him.

"I gotta get back to my customers, boys. Take all the time you need. But sometimes he don't answer right away, dependin' on what he's doin.'"

They watched her walk away, then piled through the door.

---

Dean attempted to raise Rubber Duck, even though he felt stupid for saying such a stupid-ass name over the air. He received no answer. Finally he yelled into the mic, "Joe-Bob! You out there?"

Sam said, "You're supposed to ask if he's got his ears on."

Dean stared at him. "Do what?"

"Ask if he's got his ears on. It's CB-speak." Sam shrugged. "I watched Smokey and the Bandit. So sue me."

"I'm pretty sure he's got his ears on, Sam. They were attached to his head."

"No, that's not—never mind. Give me the mic."

Dean did.

Sam took a breath, then depressed the button. "Breaker one-nine, do you copy? This is—um—Maybell's diner. We're looking for Rubber Duck, come back."

"Jesus, Sam, you sound like an idiot!"

Sam ignored him. "Do you copy? Rubber Duck, got your ears on?"

Static ensued, and Sam hit the squelch button. A voice came clearly over the radio.

"Maybell, this is the Starship Enterprise."

Dean was startled. "The Enterprise?"

Sam waved him into silence.

The voice returned. "I'm not sure what his twenty is. Last I saw, Rubber Duck was headin' east. He may be outta range. Try him again in a bit, do you copy?"

"We copy," Sam said. "Thanks, and Maybell out."

Dean asked, "What the hell is a twenty?"

"It's actually ten-twenty, but everybody abbreviates it. It means a location. Enterprise doesn't know."

"Why is he the Enterprise? Does he think he's Captain Kirk?"

Sam froze a moment in thought, mouth loosening, then looked at Dean with wide eyes. "Nightmare at 20,000 Feet. William Shatner was in it. It was a Twilight Zone episode and it featured a gremlin."

Dean grunted. "Didn't watch that one. Those shows never get anything right."

Sam warmed up to the topic and went into lecture mode. Dean rolled his eyes. "Shatner's character had gotten out of a sanatorium six months earlier, after having a nervous breakdown on a plane. So when he saw a gremlin on the wing and tried to warn everyone, no one believed him. They thought he was nuts. Even his wife did."

"So much for wifely loyalty."

"He got more and more agitated, swearing he saw this gremlin. The audience saw it through his eyes, but didn't know if it was real or his imagination. No one on the plane saw it. In the end, Shatner's character had to be restrained, and after they landed he got hauled away on a stretcher for the looney bin. And then the camera panned up and part of the wing was torn apart."

"So there really was a gremlin."

Sam nodded enthusiastically. "That was the spook factor. The gremlin was real and was screwing with the plane. Shatner knew it, but nobody believed him."

"See? There's a gremlin in my car." Dean grabbed the mic out of his brother's hand. "Breaker—whatever. This the Millennium Falcon. Rubber Duck, you got your ears on? Come on down."

"Come back," Sam murmured.

Rubber Duck did not answer.

"No ears," Dean said in deep disgust, and threw the mic down.

"Well, he's got to come back sometime. But what I want to know is, why are you the Millennium Falcon?"

"Because it's cooler then the Enterprise, and Han Solo calls her 'baby.' Remember the line? 'Hear me, baby, hold together.'"

"Oh. Yeah." Sam nodded; he and Dean had watched Star Wars probably twenty times. "Is that why you call the Impala Baby?"

"It is not."

"Then why?"

"Because . . . nobody puts Baby in the corner."

"You named her after a Swayze movie?"

"Don't you get pissy about Swayze. Roadhouse was brilliant. Plus, he became a ghost, too, so he could keep an eye on Demi Moore—which I wouldn't mind doing myself."

Sam raised his hands placatingly. "Okay. All right. Let's move on. What do we do next? Go back to the garage and wait?"

Dean thought about it. "Nah, let's go get a room. And I want you to download something."

Sam smiled. "Gremlins?"

"No. The Shatner thing."

"It's old, Dean. Black-and-white. We're talking 1959 and early '60s. I doubt it's on the internet."

"Will you look?"

"I will look."

Dean nodded approval. "Let's go. And tonight we go back to the garage and kill that mo-fo."

---

Sam could not find the entire Twilight Zone episode online, but he did find clips on Youtube. Dean watched those, then hooted when he saw the gremlin. "It's a man in a rubber suit and a bad makeup job!"

"Well, yeah. I told you it was old. Not much for special effects back then."

"Gizmo was at least cute!"

"Stop the presses," Sam cried in mock amazement. "My badass big brother actually said he thinks something is—" He made exaggerated air quotes, "—cute."

Dean pointed at the laptop. "Look it up, Sam. He was cute."

"I'll take your word for it. Right now, I want some lunch."

"Maybell's?"

"Maybell's"

"So, you want a hot date with Ruby?"

Sam stilled, then pulled himself up to his full impressive height, wearing his pissed-off face. He spoke through a tight jaw. "Dammit, I knew you'd say something about that! Never pass up a wise-ass comment, right, Dean?"

"Sam. I would have asked you that same question if her name was Little Bo Peep. I always ask you that question."

Sam thought it over and apparently decided he was mollified, because his brother did always ask him that question. "Okay. Let's go. My stomach's growling."

Dean stood up from the table. "Well, at least it's not your ass."

"You're the one who eats dessicated convenience store hot dogs, and then you give off bodily emissions."

"You give off bodily emissions when you eat anything, Sam."

"So neither of us has beans for lunch, okay?"

---

Ruby was thrilled to see them. She brought coffee at once, then asked if they'd reached Joe-Bob.

Dean said no. "He didn't have his ears on."

"Well, he'll come back sometime. He'll have to close up. Now, what can I get you?"

Sam asked for a chef's salad.

Dean ordered beans.

They lingered over lunch for a while, then Dean got restless. "Let's go to the bar. I'll shoot some pool."

"I thought you wanted to avoid those two guys."

"It's perfectly logical for us to be here, because my car's broken down."

"Which was my argument earlier."

Dean shrugged. "Well, I didn't want to shoot pool earlier and now I do, so it makes more sense."

Sam fought his way out of the booth, unfolding his long frame. "Mr. Spock you are not."

Dean dug into his wallet for cash, dropped it on the table. "I'd rather be Captain Kirk, but why am I not Mr. Spock?"

"You are not logical."

Dean squinted at him, then said, "Okay, Uhura. Let's go."

"Uhura was a woman."

"That's my point."

---

Dean was relieved that the two guys he'd hustled were not in the bar. However, no one would play him, and he heard mutters about a pool shark.

"Ah," Sam said. "News travels fast. Undoubtedly it's because we look dangerous—and you hustled the guy."

Dean scoffed; the guys were lightweights. "So we'll play one another. I just want to kill some time, Sam. Joe-Bob's still not answering his phone. Then we'll grab dinner and go over to the garage, see if he's there."

"And if he's still out?"

"Well, when it's dark we'll break in, kill the gremlin, rescue my car, and hit the road."

"We can only do that if we have that BDSM thing."

Dean stared at him. "What?"

"The Ding Dong harness."

Dean chewed at his bottom lip. "You know, I just can't believe he doesn't have wiring harnesses here. This is the only town in two-hundred-and-fifty miles. He's got to have harnesses!"

Sam headed for the door. "Well, then let's go see if he's back, and you can ask him before we eat dinner."

But they couldn't ask him anything, because Joe-Bob was not around. The doors were locked, the lights were off, and he wasn't in the bathroom. Dean called his number, but it rang and rang in the office.

"Shit shit shit. He's got my car, dammit." Dean pocketed his cell. "Okay, it's dark enough. Let's break in and get this thing done. You hold the flashlight and I'll pick the lock."

"The flashlight's in the car, and anyway it's not working."

Dean grunted. "I'll bet the gremlin got at it. Now, what's this thing look like?"

"I don't know, Dean! I'm not sure anyone does."

"Well, it's probably not a man in a rubber suit."

"No, probably not."

"See? That's logic for you." Dean pulled out the lockpick kit. "Okay, I'll have to do this by feel." He squatted down outside the office door, found the lock, eased the picks into it.

After a while, Sam said, "This is taking you longer than usual."

"That's because I can't see what I'm doing!"

"There's a moon."

"Not enough of one!"

Sam loomed over his brother's shoulder, effectively blocking what little moonlight there was. "So, are we going to relock the door when we leave?"

"Hell no. If someone else comes along and steals tools, bully for them."

"You seem to have changed your mind about Joe-Bob's goodwill."

"He threatened to call the sheriff on us, and he's bullshitting us about not having a wiring harness—"

"You don't know that, Dean."

"—and he's late! I want to kill this thing and get my car out of this place. It's bad juju."

"Can you rewire the car? If you had a harness?"

"Of course I can rewire the car. Who the hell rebuilt her about fourteen times? But I don't have a harness with me, or I'd have done it on the side of the road." The tumblers clicked. "Yahtzee!" Dean stood up, pushed open the door. "We need to find a flashlight, then dig out every work light Joe-Bob's got. Some of those are damn bright."

Sam slipped in behind him. "I hate to be a killjoy, but this might not work. Those were movie gremlins. They're a little like demons, out there."

Dean frowned into the darkness. "Who are? Gremlins? I thought you said they were mischievous. Demons aren't mischievous."

"No, I mean Hollywood filmmakers. They lie."

"All fiction is lies, Sam. That's why it's fiction." And then Dean bumped into something at hip level, and swore. "Where's the counter? Is this the counter? He probably has a flashlight under the counter."

Sam clicked on a flashlight. "He does."

"Hah! Okay, let's go. The bays are through here."

The Impala's hood was up. Dean opened the driver's side door, looked under the dash.

Sam, who was aiming the flashlight where his brother directed, asked if he saw anything.

"Yes. I see a perfectly good wiring harness."

"Then he fixed it."

Dean took the flashlight from Sam's hand and played it over the work tables, tool chests, shelving, peg boards. "Ah-hah!"

"Work lights?"

"Work lights. Big suckers, too." Dean went into the corner, pulled out a work light with a bright yellow casing, passed it to Sam, then grabbed another for himself. "Major wattage. These ought to work just fine. Plug 'em in."

Something crunched in the door between office and bays. Joe-Bob drawled from the doorway, "Well, I see you boys have got it figured it out. Didn't think you were that smart."

Dean stilled for a moment, then aimed the flashlight at him. The rifle barrel glinted. He thought about it, then went ahead and asked. "Why?"

Joe-Bob spat tobacco. "For the money, of course."

Dean was astonished. "What, for a twenty-five, fifty-dollar tow? That's not exactly big time."

Joe-Bob smiled. "I was gonna charge you a helluva lot more for the wiring harness and fuel pump. Small time raises no suspicions, but you keep comin' back here, it adds up." He motioned with the rifle. "Put those lights down."

And that order convinced Dean he was on the right track.

Sam was on an entirely different track. "It's Sue-Ann LeGrange all over again. She had a tame reaper, Joe-Bob's got a tame gremlin."

"It's not exactly tame," Joe-Bob observed. "It's more like we've come to an understandin'. You see, gremlins live on gas and oil, and I have plenty of that. I feed it, it does what I tell it to. Besides, it has fun screwing with people's heads."

"We filled her with bad gas before we got here." Dean said pointedly. "That doesn't fit your story."

"Damn right it does. It rides a car up to Frognot a hundred miles west, gets aboard an eastbound car, comes on back to me when I tow the car in."

"That was Frognot?" Sam asked; and Dean thought that was beside the point.

"It wasn't bad gas," Joe-Bob said. "It wasn't a fried electrical system. It wasn't even two blown tires. You only saw and felt what the gremlin wanted you to. They screw with your head just for fun."

Dean was pissed. "So you took two perfectly good tires off my car and replaced them with retreads. And the same with the wiring harness."

Joe-Bob spat again; the habit was really becoming annoying. Like witches, it was unsanitary. Joe-Bob smiled. "Got it in one. I'll sell 'em as sound rubber—better than retreads—and charge a helluva lot more." He gestured with the rifle. "Now, you boys put down those lights, and I'll let you leave with your car. I got no reason to harm you. Sure, you can go to the sheriff, but he won't believe you. Nobody in town'll believe you. Any more than the folks on the plane believed Shatner in that Twilight Zone episode. You just get on out of town, and you'll be fine."

Dean blinked at him. "You know about that show?"

"I made it my business to know about gremlins."

Sam was intellectually fascinated, which annoyed Dean. "How did you find it? How did you capture it?"

"It found me. Started messin' with my jobs. Screwin' up my power tools. Hell, I don't know where it come from. But my granddaddy fought in World War II, and I remember him tellin' tales about gremlins gummin' up the machinery. I figured out what this thing was. When my gas and oil started disappearin' for no good reason, I knew what was goin' on. So I told it I'd give it fresh 20-weight-50 oil, high-test gas, and would make sure the bay lights were off at dusk."

"Sam?"

"Go."

Dean blasted Joe-Bob in the face with 500 watts of work light, temporarily blinding him. Sam stepped in and grabbed the rifle.

"Sam—any rope?"

"Duct tape'll do." Sam found some as Dean made Joe-Bob sit down in the floor. Tight wraps around wrists and ankles, and a couple of strips over his mouth did the trick.

"We'll let you go," Dean told him. "Oh, you'll get to spend the night here in the dark, but come morning someone'll find you. Eventually." He turned to his brother. "Grab your light, go to the other side of the car. We'll hit it inside and out with these babies."

They raked the interior with lights first, then dropped to their bellies and poured illumination throughout the undercarriage.

A shadow crossed Dean's line of sight. "Sammy, you see that?"

"Where?"

"It ran up along the driveshaft. Crap. Okay, you stand up and hit the engine, the interior, and I'll stay down here and light up the undercarriage some more."

"What about the trunk?"

"Well, there's a devil's trap on the inside. I think the trunk's off-limits."

Sam stood up, started running the beam all over the topside of the car. "Dean! The engine!"

"Hit it with all we got, Sammy!"

They did. They flat nuked the engine.

Something shrieked, fell down through the engine and plopped onto the floor. With two work lights on it, the black hairy blob the size of a Chihuahua melted and turned into goo. It bubbled, stank, dissipated into an oily smear.

"Wow," Dean said. "Smells like one of your bodily emissions."

"You had the beans."

Dean grinned in delighted wonder. "It worked. Just like in the movie!"

Sam pitched his voice high. "Bright light! Bright light!"

"You sound like an idiot, Sam. Like you sucked on helium. Meanwhile, I'm going to take four of Joe-Bob's best tires and put them on the Impala."

"That's theft, Dean."

"He owes us."

"He can set the sheriff on us."

Joe-Bob made a muffled noise of agreement behind the duct tape.

Dean scowled, said, "Okay, but I'm putting my perfectly good tires back on. Why don't you relieve Joe-Bob of the money we paid him. That's not theft; it was our money first."

Sam did that while Dean found the Impala's original two tires leaning against a wall, rolled them over to the car, pulled the retreads off and replaced them with good rubber. "Okay, find the control for the bay door. I'll back her out of here, and we'll go on to Ding Dong."

"Well, I guess this is why you had a weird feeling about the case," Sam observed.

"Huh," Dean said, "Maybe so." He waited a beat, then asked, "Does this make me psychic, like you used to be?"

"I don't think so. I mean, you weren't force-fed demon blood as a baby."

"True. Okay, let's get the hell out of here." Dean dropped the hood, patted it, climbed into the car and started her up. In the confines of the closed bays, the Impala's rumble was deafening. Dean smiled, stroked the steering wheel. "That's what I like to hear."

The bay door rolled up behind the car. Dean backed it out, then Sam climbed in and pulled the car door shut. Dean swung the Impala into a turn, flipped on the headlights, headed her out toward the highway.

"Why did you let him know we're going to Ding Dong?" Sam asked. "He might set the sheriff on us regardless."

"Because we're not going to Ding Dong. We'll go on to the town after that. It'll be on your GPS, right?"

Sam opened the laptop, typed in commands, waited. Then he burst into raucous laughter.

"What?" Dean chanced a glance at his brother as he drove through the darkness. "What's so funny?"

"Bigfoot lives!"

"What the hell, Sam? What does Bigfoot have to do with any of this?"

Sam was still laughing. "It's the town after Ding Dong."

"The town is Bigfoot?"

"Yes."

Dean scoffed. "Come on, what is it really?"

"Bigfoot! Here." Sam turned the laptop toward Dean. "Take a look for yourself."

"I'm driving, in case you hadn't noticed."

Sam swung the computer back, typed. Began to chuckle.

"What now?" Dean asked. "Did you find a town called Yeti?"

"Almost. I pulled up weird place names in Texas. "There's also a Hogeye, Zipperlandville, Bug Tussle,and Nameless."

"Nameless?"

"Also Uncertain."

Dean thought it over. "Well, these Texans sure don't seem to know what they want, do they? Nameless. Uncertain. They seem to lack confidence."

"And then there's where the case is. Kermit."

"Kermit is a perfectly normal name. It's nothing like Tug Bussle—"

"Bug Tussle."

"—or Ding Dong, or Nameless, or Bigfoot."

"But Kermit is more than a town in Texas. Kermit is also a frog."

Dean thought that over. Finally he said, "Well, I wonder if he vomits."

Sam closed the laptop. "After the job's done, we could go on to Baton Rouge."

Dean, frowning, glanced at him. "What's in Baton Rouge?"

"Great-Aunt Gertie's in Baton Rouge."

"Sam."

"Ruby's put her in the church prayer chain."

"Then I'm sure great-Aunt Gertie will be just fine, and we don't have to go to Baton Rouge."

Dean turned on the radio. The station featured a soaring, mellifluous, Texas-accented male voice, talking about angels of the Lord heralding the Second Coming.

He turned the radio off. "Angels are dicks."

---

~ end ~

---

A/N: Several things. First of all, every place name in this story is real. (Well, except for Frog Vomit.) All but one are in Texas; Toad Suck is in Arkansas. I just had to use the name. However, I have no clue where any of these towns are, and I kinda doubt they're in a nice neat line as I have portrayed here.

The CB jargon is accurate (I had one in my truck) and the song referenced was "Convoy," by C.W. McCall. William Shatner did star in "Nightmare at 20,000 Feet," and the episode was deemed so terrifying that they cut out the gremlin scenes in a re-release. I saw the original broadcast. It really *was* scary. (Not by today's standards, though, and certainly not by Supernatural's.) The car stuff is real; I used to work on my truck, and Google-fu is your friend. I did have the distinct privilege of seeing smoke come out of the engine on my pickup while in a long traffic line at a red light, and when I jumped out and threw up the hood I watched all the wiring melt. Plus years ago, a friend named his GPS Helga because her computerized voice sounded vaguely Germanic; another friend's CB handle was "Millennium Falcon." Also, after my introduction to the "Wizard of Oz" in childhood, I refused to watch the witch's legs in their striped stockings curl up beneath the house because it was Really Icky and scared me.

I have no idea what gremlins eat. I have no idea what they look like. But I'm pretty sure they exist because a lot of cars break down out in the boonies, and gremlins are probably responsible for dropped cell phone calls, too.

Texas is very big and you can't go to any restaurant in the state without tripping over chili peppers. Many of them cause bodily emissions. (This is a salute to an SPN gag reel; the episode "Yellow Fever," and comments made by Jensen about Jared, who were both born and live in Texas, where armadillos get splatted on the highways.)

There may or may not be a great-Aunt Gertie in Baton Rouge. If there is, I hope she's not right bad sick.

The movie "Gremlins," produced by Steven Spielberg, was released in 1984. It starred an incredibly cute mogwai named Gizmo who shrieked "Bright light!" any time light hit him, and spawned hundreds of fuzzy, big-eared dogs being named after the character. (Mogwais are not, as far as I know, vampires.)

Lastly, I had hoped to post this on 9/24/2016, which marked the second anniversary of my return to fanfic after thirty-plus years away. But the story just kept growing and growing because Sam and Dean had a lot of snarks to snark. As for my decision to return to fanfic?

The devil made me do it.

If you can find it in your heart (or "hoart", as Texans might say) and you have time, please let me know what you think of this story. It's close to my hoart! 8-) (No, I am not a Texan. But I live in Arizona and have been to, or through, Texas many times. Good people!