AN: Oh-my-God! My computer has been on the fritz for a week and a half. I've been dying to update and now, finally, I can bring you a new chapter. I know that I promised action, and I promise that I will get to it, it's just that the finale left me with so many loose ends, ya know? Okay, I'll shut up now. Please enjoy.

Chapter 4: Housekeeping

The instant Sam set foot inside the run-down motel room he'd rented for the night; he hastily removed the sling and dropped it unceremoniously to the turquoise carpet. He wriggled his fingers and flexed his arm back and forth from the elbow down, relishing in the freedom of movement. His shoulder was still tender enough to illicit a breathless gasp, but he wasn't afforded the luxury of two weeks of rest and relaxation to fully recover. He would have to make do with half a dozen Advil and a beer before bedtime as was Winchester tradition with such injuries.

With a heavy sigh, he began the laborious task of undressing and slipped off his button-up flannel shirt. The t-shirt, however, proved to be much more difficult and after five minutes worth of panting and struggling to remove the offensive article without lifting his left arm, he gave up. Kicking off his sneakers and jeans, he flopped back limply on the twin bed and winced at the jar the movement sent through his inflamed ribs.

"Oh this sucks big ones," he grumbled, half expecting to hear Dean's cocky retort of "You would know all about that, huh Sammy?"

But it didn't come, and Sam heaved another grandiose sigh at the prospect of spending the entire night alone and miserable. It wasn't the alone part that bothered him so much; it was his reason for being alone. Dean wasn't out on the town, trying to earn an invite home to some girl's apartment, he was in the hospital recovering from near fatal wounds. It reminded him harshly of the last time Dean had been in the ER, and he shivered at the memory. How much heartache could one family endure?

He left his own question unanswered and rolled over on top of the green spread, not even bothering to unmake the bed. He was so tired he didn't really care what kind of grime and biological fluid he was pressing his face into, he just wanted sleep. And it came, claiming him swiftly so as to prepare him for the arduous day ahead…

-O-

9:53 a.m.

"…Now this one here, this is a real beauty, son."

Sam took a miniscule sip of his coffee and eyed Fred of Freddy's Used Car Extravaganza wearily, failing to see anything beauteous about the yellow Dodge Neon before him. He hated car shopping, perhaps because he'd been spared the activity for his entire life, but he now hated it more than ever. As much as he pretended not to care about the Impala, he had come to respect and even appreciate his brother's classic steel beauty. It felt like betraying her, looking at other forms of transportation, but he knew that she was in no shape to be driven.

"I was thinking of something bigger, a full sized sedan maybe," Sam said vacantly, beginning to wend his way between the rows of glistening hoods and bumpers.

Fred, a rather large, balding man, snapped his fingers and grinned broadly at Sam. "Well then I've got just the thing!"

Sam rolled his eyes at the man's back; he'd said that about the Civic, the Scion, the S10, the Caravan (Sam shuddered at the thought), and every other car on the lot.

"Here we go," Fred waved a tweed-covered arm at a gold Crown Victoria and gave a little wink. "This, my boy, is the car for you."

Sam peered into the window, frowning at his own reflection in the glass and envisioning his brother behind the wheel of the grandma car; it wasn't a pretty picture. But then he had to remind himself that there was plenty of room for three six foot plus men in the spacious interior and he suspected that the trunk was huge.

"Well…" Sam straightened and faced Fred, unhappily planning on telling the man that he would buy the car, when he spotted it.

Just over Fred's shoulder and parked near the back of the lot was a truck. It was a Chevy truck to be exact; a black four door 2500 set up on knobby thirty-two inch tires. Sam did not consider himself a truck man, but he fully appreciated the chrome brush-guard and tubular step rails. Then his eyes found the best part; the toolbox. Nestled directly behind the cab was a huge, monster of a Husky brand chrome plated toolbox.

"Um, Fred, that truck over there…does the toolbox have a lock on it?" he asked, head cocked like a quizzical puppy.

Fred spun to look in the direction of the truck, slightly puzzled that the Crown Vic wasn't to his customer's liking. But he quickly pasted the salesman smile back on when he realized that he might be facing a sale. "Why, of course it does! We have only the best here at Freddy's. That truck's a two-thousand; got four wheel drive and off road struts and suspension…"

"I'll take it," Sam said mildly, sipping at his coffee.

"Wonderful!" Fred beamed. "Come right this way and we'll take care of the paperwork. What did you say your name was, son?"

"Johnson, Brian Johnson."

-O-

11:14 a.m.

"A car you said?"

Sam placed his good hand on the counter before him and tried to keep the impatience from his voice when he addressed the owner of the self storage facility. "Yes, a car. I just need a place to keep it for a little while until I can have it repaired," Sam tried to employ his best wide-eyed puppy dog look, but it seemed totally lost on the arthritic, suspender clad man.

"Well, I guess I could give ya one 'o the big spaces," he wheezed, voice lost after years of smoking. "But it'll cost ya."

Sam was almost relieved to hear that the old crone could be bribed into holding the Impala. He'd been all over town and had discovered this to be the only storage place. He knew that he couldn't leave the car to rust in the impound lot nor could he wait around for weeks while it was painstakingly pieced back together.

He pulled his battered leather wallet out and handed the man the two-thousand bucks he'd managed to scam from various ATM machines that morning. "Here, that oughta cover at least six months."

The man snatched up the bills as though afraid Sam might retract his offer and gave a yellowed grin. "Put her in shed fourteen." He slid a key across the counter at Sam and turned to stow the money in the register.

Sam left the office and followed the wrecker down the row of concrete bunkers to number fourteen. He unlocked and raised the metal, roll-up door and watched as the Impala was unceremoniously lowered off the truck.

He winced as the chrome grill shifted in its frame. The car wasn't demolished, but it had sustained significant body damage. Technically, it was totaled, but over the years it had become a member of the family. It had been John's car first and both boys had spent many a long night asleep in the wide backseat. It was the first vehicle Sam had ever driven, Dean too for that matter, and had been handed down to the eldest only a couple of years ago.

The two wrecker drivers finished unhooking the chains and gladly accepted Sam's payment before rumbling off to their next job. Once they were gone, Sam stepped forward slowly and placed a hand on the black hood. It was grimy, scuffed, and in need of a good wax. One day…maybe.

"Sorry girl," he sighed, moving down the ruined passenger side to the rear of the car. He noticed that the two devil's traps he had scrawled on the trunk lid still remained, but knew that the symbols would not be able keep out the cops that had picked up the car. Praying for police stupidity, he popped the empty trunk and felt along the edge for the hidden release. His fingers found it knowingly and he unlatched the secret compartment to find…everything.

"Oh thank God!" he breathed, elated to have found their hunting gear. It was all there: revolvers, automatics, shot-guns, hatchet, cross-bow, holy water, bible, salt, ammo, tasers, rope, knives, machetes, and more knives. He even spotted their laundry bags. Sam loaded every last weapon and supply they owned, cleaning out the trunk entirely, and carefully hefted the bags out one at a time with his good arm to the truck.

He was ready to leave, hand on the door, when he was suddenly reminded of the one thing he'd left in the car: the Colt. If the cops hadn't found the stash in the trunk, then it was likely they hadn't searched the interior, which was flat out stupid considering there had been two gun-shot victims at the crash site.

Sam hustled around the car and opened the rear driver's side door. He hunkered down on his knees and spotted a familiar glint beneath the front seat. Reaching awkwardly with his right arm, he pulled out the .45.

It was a beautiful gun; truly an antique cast by Samuel Colt himself. Sam rotated it in his hands, admiring the glossy, engraved steel. He figured he needed to hold onto the gun, even though it was now useless. They had used all of the remaining bullets. First on the vampire, then the demon in the alley (the one that had given Sam the glorious purple shiner on his right eye), then one for John's leg, and finally the truck driver. Every one of the Colt's mystic rounds was gone, lost to them forever…

Realization hit Sam like a cold slap in the face and he caught his breath as he continued staring at the gun. He was wrong…they weren't lost forever…not all of them. The shot to John's leg hadn't been a through and through, the doctors had had one hell of a time removing the slug from the bone. They wouldn't have discarded the round, no; in fact it was very valuable. As Dean had pointed out, all GSWs were reported, which meant all bullets were taken as evidence, which meant…

Sam smiled humorlessly; he had one more stop to make.

TBC