CHAPTER NINE

Sam could've been uttering some sort of exorcism over my car, or he could've been cussing the poor machine up and down. Honestly, the latter option didn't cross my mind when I burst into the parking garage and saw him bent over the Impala's motor. All I really noticed was the holy water he had in one hand and the oily rag in the other.

Oh, he was gonna get it.

First thing I did when I reached Sam was slap the glass vial outta his hand. It shattered on the concrete somewhere behind. I went for his back, took a handful of shirt between his shoulder blades, and threw all my weight into dragging his sorry ass to the ground with me. But Sam, being the quick bastard he was, whipped around and cracked a fist square across my cheek.

I went down. Hard.

"Oh, shit! Dean!" Busted glass powdered under his heel as he reached out a hand to catch me by the arm. Smears of light spilled across my blurred vision as I tried to drag him into focus. He had both hands on my shoulders, pinning me in an upright position against the Impala's door as I threatened to tip over onto the dirty concrete, and then he shouted into my face. "Talk to me! You okay?"

"No." I'd bitten my tongue. I spat blood to the side.

Seriously, you'd think I'd at least get an apology after that one, but not so. My sight finally snapped straight. I watched Sam's expression darken, and instead of 'I'm sorry', I got a frustrated, "What the hell were you thinking? I could've killed you, Dean!"

"Would've done me a favor!" I snapped back at him.

"Oh, shut it." Sam sneered with bared teeth and backed up, grinding more glass into the concrete. He looked at the spilled holy water, then back to me, and when he saw my snarl he immediately backpedaled. "Dean, this isn't what you think it is!"

"Then what is it?" My response was automatic – I wasn't really listening. I was trying damn hard to get my Baby to talk to me, because the radio silence was making me more anxious with every passing second. "Come on," I whispered under my breath, sliding a palm against the salt- and mud-streaked machine, tracing the familiar cure of the fender flare, mentally cataloging every miniscule chip and scratch in the chrome trim. "Baby. Come on."

Sam was dead silent. And I was pissed. There was a hole in my mind that Baby's presence should've filled, and distress set in when I realized I couldn't get through to her. Maybe it was the concussion, or the aftereffects of painkillers, or maybe I needed another dose, but I blamed my brother. Before he had a chance to slink away, I lashed out and latched onto his undershirt. He cussed as the collar tore.

"What did you do to her?" My voice was dark as the Chevy's paint.

Sam's mouth formed my name, but like I said, I was pissed. His words faded to a wince when I gave a violent twist and tightened the shredded collar against his throat. He backed off to get some slack, put a hand to my wrist, pushed on me gently, and said, "Dean, I didn't—"

"What. Did. You. Do. To. Her." Each word punctuated with a sharp exhale. My blood was up. But I was weak, and I was injured, and Sam easily shoved me away and sidled out of reach of the arm I threw out to catch him again. I was about to shove off of the Impala to tackle him to the dirty concrete, hell-bent on the idea of beating his ass until he regretted killing the poor defenseless Chevrolet, see how he liked it –

A familiar voice stalled me before I could try.

Dean. Dean! I'm not dead! You really think I'd let him do any real damage? Hah!

Tension leaked out of my muscles. I sagged against my machine's door again, relief a warm release in my veins. "Baby?"

Right here. The Impala's side markers pulsed with soft light. I blew through my lips, pretended Sam wasn't staring at me with his arms folded, and flattened a palm against the dusty fender.

"Baby," I murmured, pressing a cheek against the cool metal. "Did he hurt you?"

Nah. Not really. But believe me, he tried.

"Dean, let me explain—"

I threw out an index finger to silence my brother. He rolled his eyes and turned the other way, shaking his head. Whatever. He didn't matter now. I thumbed at a stubborn patch of salty mud on the Impala's dark paint. "What's the damage?"

There's holy water in my radiator, salt all over my frame rail, and he got crafty with that silver blade. Other than the gouged paint, I'm fine. Pissed as hell, but fine.

I found the wound just as she spoke: a two-inch gash arcing above the chrome trim on her fender flare. "Damn it," I growled as my finger passed over the glint of bare metal. My anger built. The parking garage's floor suddenly seemed too slanted, the ceiling too low, walls to close. I shook it off and glared under my eyebrows up at my brother. "You're fucking kidding me with this, Sam!"

"I had to be sure," he stated simply.

"Of what?"

Dean, try not to get so worked up. Not good for the head.

"He wants you dead, Baby!" I snapped at the car, then drove my fury back to my brother. "She's not a demon or a ghost and – a silver blade, Sammy? You ever heard of a shapeshifting car?!"

"No," Sam admitted, and he was kneeling next to me, peering into my eyes with the scrutiny a scientist might have for a goddamned lab rat. "But I've never heard of a sentient car that wasn't possessed, either."

Think I might know if I was possessed, my Chevy countered innocently.

The bandage bound around my skull suddenly felt too tight like it was made of solid steel. Or maybe it had always been that uncomfortable and I was just now noticing it. Every time my pulse pounded in my temple, it got worse, and worse, and – shit, was I really hurt this bad? I'd been awake for less than ten minutes and my mind was already threatening to crap out on me again. I fought it off and surfaced roughly. Had to finish this battle with Sam. Couldn't give him the satisfaction of winning by default. "She don't wanna hurt us," I said, but the words sort of slipped off my tongue. "If she did, we'd be dead by now."

Hey, hey, now. Easy there, Dean. Thank God that Impala was close enough to lean into me, because if she hadn't been there, I would've probably cracked my head open on the concrete when I tried to rise. My backside thudded against her door as her chassis creaked with the effort it took to keep me upright. Sam followed shortly, but I shrugged him off, clenched my jaw, and tried to force clarity back into my injured brain.

Don't like you on your feet, said the Chevrolet. Longer you stay standing, more chance you got of falling.

Great. Now she thought I was weak, too. I ignored her. I wasn't done here. "Sam," I said, glaring at my brother, "why'd'ya want to kill her?"

"I don't," he responded.

"Then why'd you have it all circled in Dad's book?"

Sam shrugged, that aggravating half-shrug he always put on when he knew he was in trouble but didn't want to admit to what he'd done. Seeing his shoulders tilt like that sent a bolt of rage through me, because I knew just how he was gonna respond, and I didn't like it.

"Better to learn how to kill something before you need to know." He shrugged like it was no big deal.

See? What did I tell you? This is exactly why I never revealed myself. Baby simmered with quiet irritation – I could feel it like heat coming off her big metal body. My spine slid over glass and metal and I threw a knee out to brace myself against the concrete so I wouldn't get dust all over my ass again. (Not that it mattered. My sweatpants were already whited out with the crap.) I sighed heavily as Sam hovered close by like he wasn't sure whether to catch me or just let me fall. I showed him my back and flattened a palm over the gouged paint on the fender.

You really wanna piss me off? Fuck up my car's paint job.

"Well? Was it worth it?" I snarled. I was starting to feel weak again. Tired. Seriously, this was getting old. I'd been knocked in the head dozens of times in the past and suffered less. Maybe a headache for a couple hours, but this was ridiculous. It was like that damn horse had knocked the consciousness right outta me and told it to hit the road.

For the first time during this whole deal, I actually started to worry about myself.

"Worth it?" Sam raised an eyebrow.

I'm sure we were a hell of a sight at the moment – me kneeling down, pressed against the Impala looking like Death with a bandaged crown; Sam shifting his weight from one foot to another, face twisted like he couldn't decide whether to shoot me or make a break for it; and my big Chevy leaning as far to the left as her chassis would allow to keep me from sliding to the ground. Probably why a group of people toting skis and helmets rubbernecked at us as they strode by. Whatever. That was their problem. I felt like telling them to shove off and mind their own business, but they hustled out of earshot before I could find the breath.

"Worth it, meaning: did you figure it out?" I threw a sidelong glance at Sam. "Do you know what she is and how to rip the life outta her in case she goes dark side on us?"

My brother's shoulders stiffened at the thinly veiled attack, but with a violent jerk he shook the snarl off his face and looked up to the low-hanging concrete ceiling. I choked a bit as an older Chrysler rumbled past, spitting burnt-oil smoke out the tailpipe. Poor bastard, the Impala sympathized, mostly to herself.

I couldn't exactly hear what Sam was saying over the sound of the ailing Chrysler's rough idle, but I thought he said "no".

Put that car out of its misery. Baby shuddered.

"No?" I raised both eyebrows.

Sam sighed, "I have no clue. None."

The Chrysler's motor chugged and died under its driver's hand. My breathing sounded suddenly harsh in the silence. I leveled Sam with a hard glare under my eyebrows, frowned deeply, stayed silent, and waited.

After staring me down for a minute, he continued. "I tried everything I know to do about a possessed machine." Shrugged. "Nothing. Not so much as a flinch. No reaction to holy water, salt, iron, or… well, she slammed my hand in the door after I got her with the silver knife, but I think that was just because I made her mad." He scrubbed a palm over his knuckles, wincing, and I saw the skin was raw with fresh bruising.

Ahh, so he CAN take a hint!

"I'm starting to think that the Impala may not be possessed..."

No shit, Sherlock.

"…But that's all I got. Nothing in Dad's journal comes close to this and I haven't seen anything in our library. There were a few websites about living cars…" Sam waved a hand in the air, voice dripping sarcasm. "And we all know that just 'cause it's on the Internet, it's gotta be true."

On the Internet, nobody knows you're a vintage muscle car.

"Did you ever think about, I don't know, maybe asking her? C'mon, Sam. You're usually the one for diplomatic solutions." My frown deepened, and I didn't even wait for a response from my brother. "Baby?"

She snapped to attention. Mhmm?

"What the hell are you?"

I just said it. I'm a vintage muscle car.

"So… you're just a car. Nothing else."

Nope. Far as I know, anyway.

In my silence, Sam started to pace. "Dean. I can't hear what she's saying!"

"Shut up." I waved him off. "So you're not a ghost, or a demon, or shapeshifter, or… whatever?"

Nope, she said quickly – a little too quickly. She changed the subject real quick, too, which made me even more suspicious. Look, Dean. I know you're worked up about me, but you need to take care of yourself. I'm worried about you.

"Don't be." I threw one leg out, then the other, and leaned heavily on the Impala's fender as I stood. Great. Vertigo came rushing back and threw the garage into a spiral. I stumbled, felt suddenly exposed when I fell away from the Impala and crashed into Sam. He grunted and planted both feet firmly to keep us both from toppling over, heel slipping in the spilled holy water.

"Easy, Dean." He moved to support me. "That's it. We're going back to the room."

I growled at Sam and looked to the Impala. She sighed, and I saw her suspension sag forward, front bumper barely kissing the parking barrier. I'll make you a deal, she said to me. You get your ass to bed and I'll tell you everything I know about myself. I don't know much, admittedly, but I'm not saying a damn thing 'til you're tucked away. Got me?

I glared at her.

Take it or leave it. Your choice.

Oh, so now she was trying to bribe me?

Well, it worked, because I gave up with a resigned "fine" and let Sam drive me away from my car. My mind was whirling (and not just because of the vertigo). I dreaded what she was gonna tell me. What if she was something evil? Something that should be killed? The thought made me sick. That Impala was one of the few things of mine I actually took pride in, and I couldn't justify doing anything like that to her.

That was when I made up my mind: Sam couldn't be the one to gank her.

If the Impala had to die, I would be the one with the weapon in my hands.