Chapter One

Sam had another job lined up for them, but wanted to check some info in Bobby's library, so they set a course for Singer Salvage.

"Well, one witch ganked, one crazy old lady saved from the Vengeful Vol-au-vent Maker," noted Sam.

"She wasn't crazy," objected Dean, "I wasn't kidding about the pie. It was magnificent!"

"She patted the car," Sam pointed out, "And she talked to it."

"Her," Dean corrected him, wiping his nose on his sleeve again. "She patted her, and talked to her."

"Exactly," Sam humphed. "Anyone who pats a car, and talks to it, is crazy. Don't do that, it's gross."

"I talk to her," Dean stated promptly.

"The prosecution rests, Your Honour," said Sam smugly.

"You know what your problem is, Sam?" Dean began, "You can't appreciate this car for what she is. She's a magnificent feat of engineering, she's a work of art, she's got a killer body and a heart of steel..."

" 'She' is a piece of machinery, Dean," Sam rolled his eyes.

"She's our home, Sam," his big brother reminded him. He snatched at the corner of Sam's shirt, and tried to wipe his nose with it.

"GAAAAH! Oh, that's gross!" snarled Sam, snatching his shirt away with a good dose of Bitchface #13™ (You Are So Totally Gross I Don't Have A Bitchface Adequate To Convey My Utter Disgust). "So, do you talk to Bobby's house, too?" Sam asked tartly. "Tell it what a lovely porch it has? Stroke the walls lovingly when nobody's looking? Give the door frames a tender caress on the way through?"

"It's not the same thing!" Dean protested. "Bobby's house is a home-away-from-home, a practically-home, a to-all-intents-and-purposes home, but it's not ours! There's things this car has done, and we've done in this car, that make it home in the way Bobby's isn't."

Understanding dawned on Sam's face. "Oh, okay," he nodded. "That makes sense. Yeah, I get it now."

"You do?" Dean looked relieved.

"Totally," Sam affirmed, "Now that you've explained it." He paused. "Bobby's house can't be home, because..."

"Because we grew up in this car," Dean nodded and sniffled once more.

"Because you've never had sex in Bobby's house," Sam corrected him.

"Hah! Just goes to show how much you know," Dean grinned smugly.

"What?" Sam glared at Dean with a horrified Bitchface #12™ (I Am Going To Pretend I Didn't Hear What You Just Said You Disgusting Individual). "You never did!"

"I totally did," Dean grinned even more widely. "While you were at Stanford."

"I don't want to hear the details," Sam growled.

"More than one girl, actually," Dean waved a hand airily. "I know how to be discreet when I want to."

"Dean..."

"One night Bobby came back home earlier than I'd anticipated..."

"Dean..."

"And we were just going to do it in the car, but it was really cold, so we climbed up the drainpipe and in the window – she was a gymnast..."

"Dean..."

"And Bobby's a light sleeper, the guy's a Hunter after all, so to keep the noise down we gagged each other, but that was kind of hot..."

"DEAN!" yelled Sam, with a concentrated Bitchface #6™ (I SO Do NOT Want To Hear The Gory Details Of One Of Your Sexual Conquests, Jerk). "Not! Interested!"

"Okay, okay," Dean subsided. There was silence for a few minutes.

"We did it on your bed."

"Dean..."

"The linen has been changed since then, obviously."

"Dean..."

"Although if you turn the mattress and look at it, you can probably still see a stain that's shaped like..."

"Jerk."

They arrived at Singer Salvage in the middle of the night as they had so often before. Bobby met them at the door, with a gruff "Get inside, ya idjits," before heading back to bed.

"It's probably not a bad thing for you to rest up a bit," Sam suggested, as they got ready for bed themselves. "You're snuffling like a bloodhound tracking underwater."

"I'm fine," came Dean's automatic response, as he wiped his nose on his sleeve again. "It's just a sniffle."

"The last time you had 'just a sniffle', it turned into bronchitis," Sam reminded him.

"I probably caught it from you," Dean said dismissively, shaking out Jimi the half-Hellhound's blanket for the dog to sleep on. "Eating all that rabbit food, your immune system can't possibly deal with any diseases, so I caught myxomatosis from you."

Sam gave up. If Dean was going to go all Cleopatra, Queen of Denial, about it, then he'd just have to wait and see what happened. If his brother was going to get sick, it was easier to wait until he felt like crap, then berate him into submission.

...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...

"Dean," Sam shook his brother's shoulder, "Dean, wake up!"

"Wsflgrl?" went Dean, blinking blearily up at Sam. "Whaaa? Hoomf?"

"Dean," Sam said evenly, "Get dressed and come downstairs right now."

"Whumf?" Dean sniffed, and tried again. "Why? We got in late last night, Sam, lemme sleep. You're the one who said I need some downtime."

"Yeah, but, well, you really, really need to see this," insisted Sam.

"Oh, God," groaned Dean, sitting up and getting out of bed, "If you've woken me up to show me that you've got a picture of Jesus on a piece of burnt toast, I will end you."

"No need to rush, then," shrugged Sam, turning to leave. "I guess it's not that important. It's only about your car..."

Dean was flying down the stairs before you could say 'shameless anthropomorphising'.

"What about my car?" he demanded, storming into the kitchen, where Sam was calmly pouring himself coffee. "Sam? What about my car? What's happened with my car? What's..." He glanced anxiously out the window to where he parked the Impala the night before.

Except...

"Where's my car? !" he yelped frantically, "Where the hell is my car? What the fuck happened to my car, Sam?"

"Calm down, ya idjit," Bobby admonished, coming into the kitchen.

"Calm down? Calm down?" shrieked Dean. "My car has vanished, and you want me to CALM DOWN?"

"Dean!" snapped Sam, "Your car has not disappeared!"

"Then, where is my car, Sam?" Dean demanded, "Sam, where is my car?"

Bobby sighed resignedly. "Come with me," he instructed. He headed back to the living room, Dean anxiously on his heels, muttering imprecations against the gods, the fates, and anybody who had anything to do with the apparent disappearance of his car.

"If I find some asshole demon has messed with my car, I swear, I will open a gateway to Hell, and tear it apart from the inside out," he growled, "I will make Alistair look like a Swedish masseuse. I will make Lucifer look like Mother Theresa. I will..."

"Ahem," Bobby cleared his throat pointedly.

Sitting on the sofa in the living room was a middle-aged woman. She was robustly yet athletically built, and wore a pair of chic square-framed glasses, and was dressed in a well-tailored black skirt suit of an older vintage. As Dean came in, she rose, and smiled at him.

"Good morning, Dean," she greeted him, moving to gather him into a fond hug. "Did you sleep well?"

"Meeeeep!" went Dean, too surprised to resist.

"Dean," Bobby began in a patient tone, "I'd offer to introduce you, but really, this... lady doesn't need any introduction. Not to you."

When Dean looked blankly from Bobby to the woman, she offered him a doting smile.

"Of course we know each other! Very well, I might add, but, we've never been formally introduced." She clasped Dean's hand between both of hers. "I am Miss Impala Chevrolet, but I hope that you will call me Kaz."

"Meeeeep!" went Dean.

"Now then," Kaz went on, in a warm but business-like tone, "Why don't I make you some breakfast? Something involving bacon, I'm guessing?"

"Um, bacon would be... great," replied Dean faintly.

"Excellent!" She clapped her hands briskly. "Oh, and Dean..."

"Um... yes?" he replied tentatively.

"Why don't you go upstairs and put some pants on? We don't want you to get cold. I'd hate for that sniffle to turn into anything worse."

I think it's perfectly normal to talk to your transport. I talk to my bikes all the time. Everybody does that, right?... Right?

Reviews are the Interesting Conversation With Your Favoured Conveyance in the Garage Of Life!*

*If anybody is jealous of Kaz, simply because she's had Dean wriggling about underneath her so many times, please try to be more charitable than that.