I drop Bobby at the airport and he gives me a hug, holding on a little longer than I'm comfortable with. He's heading back to Sioux Falls, and I am staying in Pennsylvania with the Impala. He wants me to come back with him, but I won't. I have plans.
I have maps of the area surrounding the mine, and I have cordoned off sections. I am going to search each section until I have been through the entire area. I've been interviewing everyone in the town. I am pretty sure they would all prefer I go back with Bobby as well.
Bobby is worried about me, afraid I am close to the edge again. He's right. I am close to the edge, and if I don't find out what happened to Dean, I am going to fall apart. I just have…I don't know, a feeling? An instinct? Almost like I can still feel him, like some part of me would know if he were dead.
Heading back to the motel, I stop into a gas station and fill the Impala. I grab some snacks for the hour long drive back and toss them in the passenger seat. I go to fire up the engine and nothing happens.
Swell.
I don't know a damn thing about cars, that was always Dean's domain. The Impala makes a metal on metal grinding noise, but refuses to turn over.
Of course this would happen the day Bobby goes back. Bobby probably would know exactly what's wrong and have it fixed within an hour or two. I will have to have it towed to a repair shop.
Well this day sure is off to an auspicious start.
I head downstairs with a mug of coffee in hand, ready to start the day. I have to say, I do love my job. Our shop deals with a lot of classic car owners, and boy have I got to put my hands on some pretty ladies in the past six months.
Reggie figured out pretty quick that while I didn't know much about modern electronics and computers, I did know plenty about the classics. I proved myself on '69 Chevelle SS with a bent rocker arm. Took me ten minutes to diagnose.
Some of the other guys resent my presence. Reggie gave me the biggest bay all the way at the end of the shop; it's the one he himself uses. I didn't have any tools of my own, so I use all of his. Each mechanic in the shop has his own bay. They keep all their tools there, and have it set up the way they like it. Most of those guys have worked hard for where they are, and I think they see me as an intruder of sorts.
Reg hands me a work order for my first job of the day. It's a '67 Chevy, owner says it won't start.
"You can fix it Dean. My own personal car whisperer." I smile at this, grab the keys and head out to the lot to get my charge.
I stop dead in my tracks when I see her.
She's beautiful. A 1967 Chevrolet Impala. Sleek and gorgeous and black as midnight, I feel drawn to her. I run my hand along the rear quarter panel and up along the passenger side roofline. This one is a rare beauty too; a four door, hard to find, and in such good condition. Whoever owns this girl loves her and treats her right.
"Hello Baby," I whisper reverently, unsure, uncertain. I feel like I know her. I slide into the driver's seat, and attempt to fire her up. A nasty metal on metal sound greets me. A starter, I think, Baby just needs new starter.
Why do I keep calling her that? Like she's mine or something?
I really must be losing it.
I take a taxi to the repair shop the next morning, anxious to pick up the car and get going. Reggie, the shop owner, says it was just a starter, and that his guy figured it out pretty quick. I am so glad it wasn't anything serious. I have enough money to last awhile, but a major repair would have drained it pretty quickly.
I get to the shop, and Reggie yells down into the bay for someone to bring the Impala up to the front. I pay the man and walk outside to wait.
When he gets out of the car and turns to look at me, time stops dead in its tracks.
Spiky dark blonde hair, black tee-shirt, green eyes, big grin. I can't believe it.
"Dean?" I whisper, and he looks at me, and his grin fades. He seems surprised I know his name.
"Do I know you?" he asks. My heart is pounding out of my chest. He's staring at me, and I can tell he doesn't recognize me. I have to hold back, but I swear it's taking everything I have not to rush around the car and hug him. I know it's him, I don't need any proof. He's clearly dealing with what I suspected all along. He doesn't remember who he is, so it makes sense he doesn't remember me.
I'm not sure what to do; I don't really know what to say.
"You don't remember me?" I ask quietly, and he shakes his head, confusion, and something almost like fear, lighting up his eyes. I am going to have to take this really slow and try not to spook him.
"Ok. My name is Sam Winchester. Your name is Dean Winchester. You're my brother." He looks at me, completely bewildered.
"My license says Hetfield, Dean Hetfield."
"Yeah, that's right, Hetfield like James Hetfield from Metallica. You always go for rocker's last names." Dean's face becomes even more confused, and I can tell he is having trouble processing all this.
"Why would I lie? Why would I have a fake ID?" I sigh and run a hand through my hair and then pinch the bridge of my nose.
"Look, man, it's a really long, long, story. We should go somewhere and talk." He shakes his head.
"Look you're right, I don't remember you, but I don't think you are lying. My memory is shot full of holes, so yeah, I could believe what you're saying, but I have to work until five. I live upstairs," he gestures to the area above the garage, "so come back then. By the way, this is a special, rare car, so take care of her ok?" Dean tosses me the keys.
He doesn't remember the Impala. He doesn't remember me.
But he's alive. That's all that matters.
The shaggy haired moose grins at me. I'm unnerved. I've dreamt of this guy, but it all ties in with those godawful nightmares and the feelings of fear that ride along with them.
"She's yours you know?" I turn, raise an eyebrow.
"What?" He gestures at the Impala.
"The car? It's yours. You're telling me to take care of your car. Don't believe me? Check the registration. It's in Dean Winchester's name. That's you buddy." I freeze, remembering how drawn I felt to the car when I first saw her yesterday. I remember thinking that whoever owned her treated her right. Treated her exactly how I would treat her.
Ok, I am about to freak here. I have no reason not to believe this guy. The fact that I have dreamt about him speaks volumes in and of itself. It just doesn't make sense. I've watched enough TV, and when an amnesiac is confronted with their real name and people who love them, they remember right?
I haven't remembered a damn thing. Sure, I felt drawn to the car, but damn, I do love me a classic lady. That's not so weird.
The weirdness is that I feel drawn to him…Sam. There is definitely something going on here. But I need to get back to work; I need to feel…I don't know, normal? This day is weirding me out all over the place.
"Come back around five." I repeat. "Bring beer and pizza." And proof, I want to add. I walk back to my bay trying to pretend everything is normal and my life didn't just flip upside down. I can feel his eyes on me, but I don't turn around. There is some part of me that wants to run back to that Impala, jump in the driver's seat, turn on some Zepp, and 'Ramble On' my way out of here.
I'm freaked. But if I'm being honest, I'm also elated.
Maybe, just maybe, I am finally going to get some answers.
I find a cheap motel not far from Dean's shop. Bring beer and pizza, he said. I have to grin. That's my brother all over.
I am seriously on cloud nine here. Almost six months, I thought he might be dead, and here he is, with a nice little life cut out for himself in Pittsburg. I have a lot of unanswered questions, of course the biggest one being how the hell did he get out of that mine and end up here?
I keep replaying the moment he got out of the Impala and looked at me over the roof and smiled. How many times has he done that before? God, I missed him. It's hard to believe that he's back in my life. I smile when I think that I have the Impala to thank for it. Dean always swore she had a soul and a mind of her own.
Can't wait to call Bobby. He's gonna have to come all the way back out here again. For some reason this is hysterical to me, and I crack up, feeling truly happy for the first time in a long time.
I grab my laptop and look up highly rated pizza places. Dean is going to get one hell of a delicious pizza, and I am going to buy the expensive beer he likes but can't always afford, and a bottle of the best quality whiskey. He doesn't know it yet, but we are celebrating tonight.
Dean may not remember me; he may not remember our life, but hell, none of that matters to me at all.
My brother is alive.