"Whoa. Easy there, George. There's no need for that." Dean held a calming hand towards George. Next to him Sam was slowly getting to his feet.
"George, just calm down. We're just college kids doing a story. We aren't here to cause you any trouble." Sam raised himself to his full height, wobbling a bit as the room spun for a moment. George had let him up, but was keeping the gun carefully trained on him.
"I ain't buying it. Try again."
Sam found it hard to think through the pounding in his head. His headache had been steadily getting worse. Having a gun pointed at him certainly wasn't helping. He didn't think they were in an immediate danger; George wouldn't risk shooting them inside the tiny enclosed room with numerous staff undoubtedly nearby. Sam couldn't help but wonder how he'd even managed to get a gun inside an assisted living facility. But that wasn't his concern right now. He had to figure out a way to disarm him, and still get the information they needed. Sam chewed on his lip as he weighed his options. He didn't like it, but he was going to have to lay it all on the line.
"Fine. Here's the truth." Sam started.
"Sam." Dean also got to his feet.
Sam ignored him, focusing on the man before him. "You're right. We're not doing a story on the crash. Hell, we aren't even students."
"Sam!" Dean hissed. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He grabbed his brother's arm, but Sam wrenched free and took a step forward. George raised the gun slightly but made no other move.
"The Mustang…Marc's Mustang is haunting Blue Corner's Road." Dean winced as Sam spoke the words. He held his breath to see how George would react.
To Dean's surprise George merely laughed. "Oh please! That's just an old wives tale someone made up to scare the kiddies."
Sam shook his head vehemently, swaying again as his balance faltered. Dean's hand appeared on his elbow, this time providing him both physical and emotional support. Taking a deep breath Sam continued. "You're wrong. For years it's been showing up on every full moon. But over the past month it's gone after seven different cars, seriously injuring several people."
George gave another laugh, although doubt was beginning to show in his eyes. "Oh please. How do you know it's not just some psycho driving an old car? You boys are crazy."
"Right. Someone just happened to find the same kind of car Marc drove and is using it to terrorize the locals. Come on, man, don't be..." Dean swallowed the rest of his sentence. Calling the man holding a gun "Stupid" would probably be a bad move.
"There is an old woman in a coma, fighting for her life after she and her husband were attacked by the Mustang. You try telling her husband that he's crazy as he holds her hand, begging for her to wake up." Sam said heatedly, his cheeks flushed.
Dean jumped in to deliver the second punch. "You can believe us or not. Frankly, I don't give a rat's ass. But we need to know what happened to your car so we can get rid of this son of a bitch. We have no way of knowing when it'll show next. If someone dies, the blood will be on your hands."
The words hung in the air as Sam and Dean watched George's reaction. They had edged their way closer to the armed man, and now were just a few feet away. Hopefully he would believe them and lower the gun. If not, at least they were close enough to make a move for it.
"Dammit." George said softly. Taking in a shaky breath he ran his hand across his forehead. "Well, this sure sucks."
"You believe us?" Sam asked timidly, as if just asking the question might tip the scale in the wrong direction.
"Truth is, I've been followin' the story all along. I never put much truth to the rumors until the accidents started happenin'. I kept tryin' to tell myself there ain't no such things as ghosts, let alone friggin' ghost cars! Whoever heard of such a ridiculous thing! But I guess there ain't no denyin' the truth any longer." George said sadly.
"Well good. Now that we're all friends again, how about getting that gun out of our faces?" Dean asked, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice. Sam shot him a look, to which Dean simply shrugged his shoulders.
George looked at his hand as if he'd forgotten he even had the gun. "This thing? Come on, it ain't real! You think the prissy folks that run this place'd let me have a gun in here? Ha!" As if to prove his point, he carelessly tossed the toy gun onto the floor.
Dean felt like he'd been kicked in the head. "Are you freakin' kidding me? A toy gun?" As he stared at the offending object, he was stunned by his carelessness. The shocked look on Sam's face said he too had missed the obvious. It brought Dean little comfort. He could feel the rage building even as Sam's calming hand grabbed his arm.
"We have an idea on how to make things right, but we need to know what happened to your car after the crash." Sam spoke in soothing tones meant to calm not only George, but Dean as well. Dean ripped his arm from Sam's grasp but remained silent.
"My car." George said distractedly. "Wait, did you actually see the ghost car? I mean, how can you be sure it's really the same Mustang?"
Sam pushed his hand through his hair, exposing his painful souvenir from the night. "I got this after it ran me off the road. I'm sure."
"But it's not Marc's spirit. It's just the Mustang. Is that what you're saying?" George spoke slowly, trying to fit the pieces where they belonged.
George's statement sent off alarm bells in Sam's head, but the jackhammers trying to drill through his skull quickly drowned them out. Something wasn't quite right about the haunting, but now was not the time to analyze it. His mission was to find out the location of the Firebird, then reward himself with some aspirin. "The Mustang seems to be replaying the game of chicken. We think that by using your Firebird to complete the reenactment, it might be enough to send it driving off into the sunset for good."
"Or in this case, 'sunrise'." Dean corrected with a small smile.
"Might be a problem there, boys. The car's gone."
Aw, hell. "By 'gone', you mean sitting in a nearby garage in perfect condition?" Dean asked, trying to be optimistic.
"I mean we scrapped her. She was twisted and ripped to shreds. There was no savin' her. First thing I did after they let me outta the hospital was to head out to the Yard. It took some maneuverin', but they let me work the machines to put her out of her misery. Seemed only fittin'." George said sadly.
Sam was having a hard time wrapping his mind around what George was saying. "So it's gone. As in, crushed?"
"Crushed." George said simply.
Dean stormed over and leaned his arm on the cluttered wall, curse words filling the room. A leggy raven-haired beauty stared at him from inside a picture, smiling seductively. Dean closed his eyes, resisting the urge to pull it off the wall and smash it. The Firebird, their one chance at defeating the ghost car, was gone.
"What about inside the car? Did you have anything inside that might have survived? The radio, the steering wheel…anything?" Sam pleaded.
"Nothin'."
Sam's physical exhaustion began to creep up on him again, and he followed his sinking spirits down to the floor. Lowering himself to his knees, Sam tried to think through the pounding in his head. There had to be another solution. They just had to find it.
"Except the hood ornament." George said.
Dean's head shot out from the crook of his arm. "What did you say?"
"The hood ornament. I damn near forgot. My brother found it on the side of the road a few days after."
Dean whirled around. George kept talking, more to himself than to the brothers. "Thing of beauty. A jagged bolt of lightenin'. Custom made. Near as we could figure, it musta popped off in the collision."
"Where is it now? Do you still have it?" Dean asked excitedly. Could it be they had caught a break?
"Not exactly."
Sam groaned from his spot on the floor, his head in his hands. Dean kept his gaze on his brother, but directed his words to George. "You care to elaborate?"
"I couldn't part with the thing, but keepin' it around was too painful. It reminded me of how much I'd lost; my car, my legs, a normal life." George broke off and swallowed hard. "Marc's life."
Dean was only half listening. Sam had gone off of his knees and now sat cross-legged on the floor, his head still buried in his hands.
"Sam?"
"So your brother has the hood ornament?" Sam finally joined the conversation but kept his head down, his voice muffled. Dean tried to push back his concern. A few more minutes and he could get his weary brother back to the motel. Time to wrap things up.
"We need to get a hold of him right away." Dean said.
George nodded. "I'll get you his number. But you'll want to talk to his son, Sean. His dad and I gave him the hood ornament on his sixteenth birthday. He's got it now."
While George searched for paper to jot down the information, Dean knelt in front of his brother. "Hey, Sam. You with me?
"Yeah."
"I tried to tell you back when you were two, Sammy. This peek-a-boo thing is one sided. You can try to hide, but I can still see you."
"I'm not hiding, jackass." Sam lifted his head, but wouldn't meet Dean's eyes.
George wheeled over and handed Dean a paper that contained the directions to his relatives' house. "You ain't looking too good, kiddo. You want me to buzz a nurse?" George asked.
Sam started to shake his head, not quite hiding a grimace. "I'm good." Holding his breath, he rose unsteadily to his feet.
George looked at Dean, who shrugged his shoulder as if to say, What can you do? Extending his arm, he shook George's hand firmly. "Thanks for the help."
"You boys let me know what happens. And be careful." George stressed as he shook Sam's hand. Sam gave a weak smile in return, happy they got what they needed, but relieved at the prospect of resting his aggrieved body inside of the equally battered Impala.
"Come on, Sammy." Dean lightly clapped Sam on the shoulder as they let themselves out. It hadn't been a total bust. The Firebird had been a dead end, but they had a lead on the hood ornament. Hopefully that would be enough.
Author's Note: Ah, the joys of exposition. I apologize if anyone fell asleep during the last couple chapters, but the tale has to be told at some point.
I hope to stick to my four/five day posting schedule, but due to the craziness of life and a small annoying case of writer's block, it may be slightly longer until the next chapter. But once again, let me say a warm "Thank you!" to the readers and reviewers. At the risk of sounding like a politican, the support means a lot.