Wham. I swing the bat again, smashing I into the trunk of the Impala. Fury and guilt and sadness fuel every hit as I lay into my car. Of course, she was his car first. His baby.

I remember pining for that car and only that car from the time I was eight years old. We used to work on it together between hunts, changing oil and spark plugs, waxing and polishing until she shone in the sunlight. We'd always sit in her when we finished, at first with Sam but eventually just the two of us, listening to music or sometimes just the low rumble of her engine. We'd both smile, reveling in the shared feeling of near-sensuality caused by the sound.

Wham. There were other memories too, of course. The time when Sammy was eight and got a back full of werewolf claws, I was the one holding him down in the backseat, listening to him scream in pain and unable to do anything about it. The times when I would stay up all night, waiting to hear the familiar growl of her engine only to be disappointed, or worse, to be confronted with Dad stumbling, bleeding, through the door. The time when I was too delirious to understand what was going on, hot and cold and trembling, hearing my dad talking to me as though he were a hundred miles away, telling me to hang on, hand on my thigh, gripping as if he could keep me there by will alone.

Wham. I remember when he gave her to me. Just tossed me the keys, told me to take care of her. He was so casual about it, it took me a little while to realize that she was mine. That the Impala, that beautiful hunk of metal, was mine.

Wham. Piece of crap car. Couldn't even hold up enough to save my dad. I guess that's not really her fault, and technically she couldn't hold up enough to save me, but the end result was the same. He's dead. He's dead dead. Gone. From what I can tell, and it's a bitch of a thing to know, my dad gave his soul to the bastard demon that caused all of this in the first place. He did it to save me. Which means I'm single-handedly responsible for my dad's eternal soul going straight down south.

Wham. I hate this car. I love her, but damn it, I hate her. Full of memories and images that I can't forget. She betrayed me.

Wham. She's supposed to protect me from everything.

Wham. She's the only home I've ever had.

Wham. Piece of crap car.

Wham. I'm not stupid enough to think that I'm actually thinking about the car now.

Wham. A flash of guilt for taking it out on her.

Wham. But who else am I supposed to take it out on?

Wham. Dad.

Wham. But he's in hell.

Wham. Because of me.

Wham. My fault.

Wham.