Author's Note: This chapter has not been proofed, so kindly excuse any typos or errors that may exist. The next chapter'll be up as soon as I write it, hopefully in the standard 4/5 days. Thanks!

The Last Mile

Despite finally receiving a break in their little car conundrum, Dean found himself in a foul mood. Sam had taken a turn for the worse; the bump on his head apparently a little worse than they'd originally thought. The unsteady man had gotten in touch with his inner pinball, lurching into a wall before ricocheting into a plant on their way to the lobby.

"While we're here, why don't we have one of the doctors take a look at you?" Dean said as he righted the fallen plant.

Sam leaned against the wall, not trusting his ailing body. His experiment with walking didn't turn out so well; walking and talking was sure to be a disaster. "What good'll that do? It's not like they have a pill that can cure concussions."

"You should've stayed at the motel. You need to rest, Sam."

"And we need to get rid of the ghost car, Dean."

"God, it's like talking to a brick wall!" Dean fumed. He had been trained to be a hunter, but before that, he was born to be a brother. A big brother, whose duty it was to protect his little brother. Although as usual Sam was being a stubborn, bullheaded ass, making Dean's job nearly impossible.

A verbal response required too much energy, so Sam let his middle finger do the talking. An odd combination of a sigh and a growl came out of Dean as he pulled Sam away from the wall.

"Come on." Dean said as he slipped his arm around Sam's waist.

"I wonder what your new friend will think watching the two of us walk out of here with our arms around each other?" Sam said slyly.

That thought froze Dean in his tracks. "Good point. You're on your own." he kidded. Dean stepped back, but still kept near enough that he could grab Sam should he stumble. They slowly made their way past the front desk, Dean's watchful eyes leaving Sam only long enough to send a farewell wink to the receptionist.

Sam seemed slightly better once he was inside the Impala. The classic car did seem to have a healing effect; at least it always had to Dean.

"George turned out to be a pretty cool guy." Dean commented. Sam didn't respond as he hunkered lower in the seat.

Dean frowned. Something was nagging in the back of his mind, but he couldn't focus on that right now. Sam was unusually quiet, and it was pushing his worry into overdrive.

"Of course, once we got past the whole gun-in-our-faces thing. I can't believe you didn't know that wasn't a real gun." he accused Sam, trying to draw him into a conversation.

Sam sat slumped in the passenger seat, his head rested against the soft leather. "I'm coming off a head injury. What's your excuse?" he answered fuzzily.

"I've got a bad case of T.I.T.S."

Sam's eyes flew open, and he turned to face his grinning brother. "Excuse me?"

"T.I.T.S. Trashed Impala Traumatic Syndrome." Dean explained semi-seriously.

"Trashed Impala…are you kidding me?" Dean's grin was contagious, and Sam smiled despite himself.

"It could stand for Trashed Impala, Trashed Sam Syndrome, but that would make it T.I.T.S.S., and I'd sound like I had a lisp." Dean cracked.

"You are so odd."

Sitting up, Sam finally noticed where they were. "Are we going back to the motel?"

"Uh huh. It's actually on the way to George's brother's house. Besides, there's some stuff that's bugging me about this whole deal. I want to do a bit more checking, maybe give Caleb a call and get his input."

Sam knew Dean's real motive for going back to the motel. Sam needed to rest, and they both knew it, although at this point Sam was also willing to research the possibility of a brain transplant. His head hurt so badly he wanted to smash it against a wall. Pretending he felt all right was taking up too much energy. Sam moaned and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "God, my head hurts."

Dean reached over to offer whatever meager comfort he could, stopping part way as a sharp pain sliced through his shoulder. "Dammit." he hissed. He gave a bitter laugh. "We make quite a pair." he said, briefly taking his other hand off the wheel to massage his shoulder. He paused, trying to decide whether he should put forth the pointless question. "Sam, are you sure you don't want--"

Sam interrupted just as Dean knew he would. "I'll be fine. Don't worry."

Dean shook his head. "Little brothers. Life's eternal punishment."

They rode the rest of the way in silence, with the exception of the occasional cuss word. The Impala managed to hit every pot hole on the road, despite Dean's struggle to keep her away. Every jolt rattled Dean's sore shoulder; he could only imagine how Sam must feel. Sam's eyes were screwed shut, painfilled lines etching from the corners like cracks in dry soil.

"Sorry." Dean muttered as the car bounced into another rut. The sign for the motel came into view. "Almost there."

In his hurry to get his wounded brother back into the safety of the motel, Dean misjudged the turn. The back tire went up onto the curb, landing on the blacktop a split second later with a thud. Dean winced as Sam swore under his breath.

"Hey, don't blame me. I think she's still pissed about last night." Dean said, trying to make light of the bumpy ride home.

"Dean, it's a car. It can't get pissed."

"Whatever. Come on, we're here."

Sam opened his eyes, working up the energy to reach over and open the door. His headache had increased tenfold since he woke up from his quick nap. Had that really only been an hour ago? Weren't headaches supposed to get better, not worse? Leave it to him to do things backwards.

Sam managed to push the door open, using it as a crutch to pull himself to his feet. The world went briefly grey. He watched, morbidly fascinated as Dean's face swam into view, his colorless eyes regaining their brilliant green as color returned to the world.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, I'm coming." Sam said lethargically. Filling his lungs, he held his breath as he began the seemingly endless trek into their room.

Sam laid on the bed, the thin pillow providing little comfort for his aching head. "Tell Caleb I said hi."

Dean stared down at his little brother, mentally kicking himself. He should have trusted his instincts and forced Sam to stay behind. Sam's health seemed to have taken a mighty leap backwards.

"Sam, you look like crap." Dean said, his voice husky with concern.

"Feel like it, too." Sam mumbled. "Don't worry. I'll be fine."

Dean chewed on his lower lip, weighing his options. He placed a hand on Sam's forehead, somewhat relieved at the absence of a fever. He then gently pulled open one of Sam's eyes, eliciting a moan and a weak whack from the prone man.

"Dean, I'll be fine. Just give me a few minutes, ok?" Sam said in a slightly agitated voice. To prove his point, he opened his eyes and gave a wretched parody of a smile.

Dean shook his head fondly. "You're a royal pain in my ass, you know that?"

Already half asleep, Sam's middle finger made one final showing as he allowed himself to fully drift off.

After what seemed like only minutes, Sam was awakened by incessant ringing of Dean's cell phone. Forcing his heavy eyelids open he looked over to where his brother his brother lay, groggily talking into the phone.

"Mmmhhmm. Thanks Caleb. Yeah, bye."

Dean sat up and stretched, noting with great satisfaction that he was able to bring his right arm all the way up while keeping the pain to a bearable level.

"I wonder if this is what it feels like to get old. I'll have to ask Dad the next time I see him." Dean flashed a grin over at Sam, who just stared back expressionlessly.

Dean shifted uncomfortably. "Or not."

Dean got up and opened the curtains, letting the mid afternoon sun brighten the dull room. He could feel Sam's eyes silently following his every move. Forcing a smile back onto his face, he turned around and leaned casually against the wall.

"So, how do you feel?"

Dean's question was met with another blank stare. Dean began to get worried.

"You just gonna stare at me all day?" Dean tried to sound nonchalant. Still nothing. Dean raced over and crouched between the two beds.

"Sam. Sam, for Pete's sake, say something!" Dean put his hand on Sam's shoulder, a real sense of panic setting in.

A slow grin spread across Sam's face, bringing out his dimples. "Morning, Sunshine."

Sam's eyes twinkled mischievously as he watched Dean's mouth drop open. Resembling a fish out of water, Dean's mouth continued to alternate between open and shut.

Sam's grin grew wider. "Dean, for Pete's sake, say something!" he mimicked his brother with a laugh.

Dean stood up, looking torn between laughing with Sam or slugging him. He chose the latter, backhanding Sam on the arm before sitting on the edge of his bed.

"Jackass."

Sam gave another laugh before slowly pushing himself up against the headboard. "Sorry. Couldn't help it."

Dean's face softened. "How do you feel?"

Sam considered the question. His head no longer felt like the slightest movement would cause it to implode. He could live with the dull ache that still lingered behind his eyes. The real test would be standing up.

Sam swung his long legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Dean followed suit, his steady hand ready to catch Sam should he falter. When the dizziness and lightheadedness he'd been feeling failed to make their appearances, Sam gave a sigh of relief.

"I'm good." Sam said truthfully.

Dean took a moment to judge for himself. Although still a little too pale for his liking, Dean gave him a passing grade. "Yeah, I think you are."

Sam remembered the sound that had woken him up. "What'd Caleb want?"

"I asked him to give me a ring so I could grab a quick snooze."

"Why didn't you just set the alarm? What, were you afraid I'd wake up first and sneak off again?" Sam kidded.

Dean's silence spoke volumes.

"Dude, will you let it go already!?" Sam blurted out. Dean was like a dog with a bone; if Dean didn't bury it soon, Sam would be forced to beat him with it.

Dean grinned savagely. "Not a chance."

Sam walked around the motel room, working the kinks out of his neck. "So, what'd Caleb say about the ghost car?"

"Well, I told him the situation. He agreed that the hood ornament is our best course of action." Dean took a breath as if to continue, then abruptly turned around.

"And…?" Sam prompted. He could tell Dean was holding something back.

"I think we were wrong about the car."

Sam stopped dead in his tracks. "The Firebird?"

Dean turned back around and leaned against the small dresser. "The Mustang. I think maybe we are dealing with Marc's spirit after all."

"I thought we'd decided it was some sort of recurring haunting; the car trying to complete the cycle of what happened thirty years ago?" They'd pretty much put the whole spirit idea to rest once they'd found out Marc's body had burned in the car fire.

"Right. Which made sense at first. But it doesn't explain the randomness of the attacks. A recurring haunting is very structured." Dean said as he moved over to the table by the window.

Sam rolled his eyes. Now that he'd gotten over feeling like a human tilt-a-whirl, apparently Dean was turning him into a human record player. Rolling his eyes, he launched into his hundredth replay of the facts. "Dean, we know what caused the attacks. It was me playing chicken with the Mustang. By completing the scenario with the wrong car, it somehow freed the Mustang from the constraints of the full moon."

Dean kept nodding his head during Sam's speech, impatiently waiting for him to finish. "Right. But why did it wait a full week and a half before going after the first car? And look at the other attacks. The second car on Thursday a little after midnight. The car the next night around 4am. One on Saturday at 1am, then nothing until Monday. Two cars were hit on Thursday...one a little after 10pm, and the other about 1:30am."

"The old woman and her husband were hit four days ago." Sam finished, inwardly wincing at all of the innocent people who had been injured on account of his meddling. He pushed away the guilt, refusing to be distracted from what Dean was saying.

"Right." Dean confirmed. "No pattern. So if the times of the attacks aren't relevant, maybe the identities of the victims are."

Sam held up a hand, unable to believe what he was hearing. "Wait. Are you saying you never bothered to check the victim's identities until now?"

Dean stared woodenly at Sam, his voice monotone. "Hmmm. And when would I have had time to do that, Sam? Would that have been when you were out using yourself as bait in the middle of the night?"

"I wasn't--"

Dean continued on, his voice becoming a bit more animated. "Oh, that's right. I couldn't have because I was asleep. Although I did set the alarm on my cell phone." Dean tapped his chin with his finger as if deep in thought. "And why didn't my alarm go off? Oh yeah, you turned it off!" he exclaimed, snapping his fingers.

Sam sat back on the bed with a sigh. He recognized this latest rant as the final stage of the Dean Winchester Grudge-a-thon. Sam had managed to get through Angry Dean's opening routine, which was followed by an endless performance by Sarcastic Prankster Dean. Now he just had to wait for the freakish hybrid of the two, Irate Sardonic Dean, to close the show with his final act. Leaning back against the wall, he folded his arms and waited patiently for Dean to finish.

"…not to mention having a freakin' toy gun pointed at me, which I would've noticed if I hadn't been too busy making sure you weren't going to keel over on me. So no, Sam, I didn't exactly have the opportunity to do the research that you said you'd do while I was sleeping. Which, as I just said, is when you double-crossed me!" Dean's face was flushed, his eyes blazing hotly as he shouted at his brother.

Sam stared at Dean, a slightly amused look on his face. His eyebrows had disappeared underneath his thick bangs while the corner of his mouth twitched it's way into a small smile. "Are you finished?"

Dean let out a deep breath while seeming to consider the question. After a quick moment he gave an abrupt nod. "Yup. I'm good." Dean flashed Sam a smile. Smoothly righting the chair he'd tipped over during his rant, Dean sat down and continued on with the story as if nothing happened.

Sam shook his head in amazement. His brother had more personalities than Sybil. It was too bad Dean hadn't been the one to talk with Dr. Ellicott back in Illinois. The good doc would've had a field day dealing with Dean's special brand of crazy.

"So it took a while, but all of the victims had one thing in common. They were all there on the night Marc died." Dean said, scrolling down the list of names on the laptop.

"Oh, come on." Sam scoffed. "You can't be serious." What were the chances that not only did everyone still live in town, but they all happened upon Blue Corner's Road late at night in the last month?

Dean seemed to read Sam's mind. "It's a small town, dude. People grow up in a place like this, most don't leave. And Blue Corner's Road isn't all that secluded. It's only a few miles from the heart of the town."

Sam began pacing around the room, willing his brain to work as fast as his feet. "But no one died. Some were pretty banged up, sure, but everyone survived. Even the old woman is still hanging on. Vengeful spirits go for the kill."

"I think I have an answer for that, too." Dean motioned Sam over to the computer. Turning the laptop so Sam could see, he continued. "Notice the pattern of the injuries. The first person, who just happened to have been George's girlfriend, managed to turn around and get away before the Mustang could get her. The next two, one a friend of Marc's, the other George's, were run off the road; they only had a few bumps and bruises. The third victim, who apparently was a friend of Marc's, was the first car to actually have been hit by the Mustang; he got jacked pretty good after the Mustang got him in the driver's side. The next two were more serious. A severe concussion and several broken bones for one; massive internal bleeding and broken bones for the other. Both crashes were head-on collisions, and both were at the original accident. I think they were George's friends."

"Which leaves us with the last victim, the old lady and her husband. Mr. and Mrs. Croce are the parents of the late May Croce, Marc's girlfriend who committed suicide a few years after the accident." Dean trailed off, pushing his own guilty feelings to the side. Business first, guilt and whiskey later.

Sam had caught on halfway through Dean's explanation, and was slowly nodding his head. "Right. So now it's going after the people who were there the night Marc died. Or their relatives."

"Right." Dean agreed. "With each attack it seemed like it grew stronger; it was able to do more damage with each new person. It seems to still be confined to Blue Corner's Road, so at least we caught a break there. For now, anyway."

"Great. So now we're dealing with a spirit where we have no bones to salt and burn. Perfect." Sam groused, thumping his fist against the table, causing the laptop and Dean to jump.

"Easy there, Trigger. I already brought that up with Caleb. We think going through with the original plan is best. After all, this whole thing keeps coming back to the cars…the Mustang and the Firebird, then the Mustang and the Impala." Dean said.

"So is there anyone else we have to worry about? Anyone else from that night who may still be in danger?" Before Dean could give an answer, Sam remembered the white Corvette the ghost car had targeted during his watch. "Oh no. The Corvette. Who was that? We have to warn them!" Sam cried.

Dean maneuvered through a few web pages, shaking his head in frustration. "I don't know! According to the information I could get hold of, we've accounted for the only witnesses. Other than George, there should be no one left. I tried calling him after I spoke to Caleb, but he didn't pick up."

"I wonder why Marc's spirit is so furious? Sure he died in a horrible accident way before his time, but it was an accident. The whole game was his idea."

Dean shrugged. "Hopefully our new friend can answer that, too…if we ever get hold of him."

Dean pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper from the pocket of his jeans. "Let's try again, shall we?" Unfolding the paper, his forehead wrinkled in confusion before a sheepish grin took over.

"Wrong number." Dean chuckled as he put away the paper with the receptionist's phone number and pulled out the one George had given him.

"You're hopeless." Sam said, not able to hide his own smile.

"Shut up and dial. I'll give Sean a call; find out about the hood ornament. You try George. Oh, and try not to piss him off or the next time he may attack us with a water gun." Dean said as he began to punch in the numbers.

Sam ripped the paper from his Dean's hand and walked towards the bathroom. A few minutes later the two hunters hung up their cell phones.

"Sean got a call from good ol' Uncle George a couple hours ago. He's going to meet us at Greenfields with the hood ornament." Dean reported his success.

"George agreed to meet with us. He sounded…" Sam broke off, searching for the right word.

"Worried?" Dean suggested.

Sam shook his head. "Guilty. He definitely knows more than he told us."

"Well, let's quit wasting time. Looks like we're heading back to Greenfields. I wonder if the beautiful Michelle is still on duty?" Dean smiled as he visualized the things he would do to the beautiful receptionist after the Mustang fiasco played out.

"Only one way to find out." Sam said as he grabbed his coat.

"Uh huh. So, you wanna drive?" Dean asked, dangling the car keys.

"Really?"

"No." Dean smirked as he headed out the door. Sam rolled his eyes. Yes, things were definitely back to normal.