Chapter 7

"You parked in a no parking zone?" Sam stalks the pavement underneath the sign, then he turns. "Why the hell did you park in a no parking zone?"

"I didn't know it was a no parking zone," Dean insists. He's almost certain it wasn't there when he parked, when they got out of the car. Maybe he was just so focused on pie that he didn't notice. "This is the main street, Sam. How was I to know half of it was no parking?"

Sam lifts his arm and points upward, to the sign over his head. Then he drops his arm and sighs. "Okay. Too late now. We go to wherever they do the red tape around here, pay the fine, and get moving."

Dean nods. "Where's that then?"

"Sheriff's office?"

Dean nods, brushes his hands on his jeans, and starts walking.

---

There's not a whole lot of town, so in just a few minutes, they end up outside a red brick building. Usually, they walk into these places and show their fake badges, and get a little respect. This time it's different. "They've got Baby," Dean says. "What if they hurt her."

"They're not going to hurt the car, Dean. We just have to find out where the impound lot is, pay the fine, and get the hell out of here."

"You're awfully calm about this, Sam," Dean says. "I'm freaking out."

Sam tries to hide a smile, and then he steps onto the ramp outside the office. "Come on, Dean."

Dean stays back, lets Sam do the talking. He probably should have stayed outside. The deputy behind the counter keeps stealing glances at him between telling them the bad news.

They can't pick her up until tomorrow.

"Between eight and ten?" Sam says, and his voice is strained. "It's barely ten now."

"And the lot is closed from ten," the deputy says. "There's no one there."

"But we need the car," Sam says. "We're just passing through, we can't stay here tonight."

The deputy looks up. "I guess you'll have to. And next time you're passing through, you won't park in a no parking zone." He grins.

Dean clenches his fists hard, digging his fingernails into his palms in an effort to control his anger. He can't flip out now.

"Fine," Sam says, the word hissing through his teeth. "Then could you point us in the direction of a motel?"

"Next town over is the closest accommodation. 'Bout half an hours drive."

Sam slams his fist down on the counter. "We don't have a car."

Dean grabs him by the back of his shirt, drags him backward out of the office. "Chill, Sammy. We're cool."

Sam whirls around on the pavement outside. "No, we're not. Where the hell are we supposed to stay? We're going to sleep rough? You'll freeze. And Ms. Bryant is expecting us today."

Dean starts walking away. "Call her. Tell her we'll be a little late, but we'll see her this afternoon." He stops, grins up at Sam. "The impound lot is closed, right? Sammy, there's no one there."

"Oh," Sam says, eyes widening.

---

The sun is pretty high when they get there. The impound lot is on the edge of town, the last thing before everything is farmland and long, open roads. There's not much to it, a prefab office and space for a couple dozen cars, surrounded by a high chain link fence topped with barbed wire.

And there, right in the middle of an almost empty lot, is the Impala.

"Baby," Dean says, fingers clawing at the fence between him and his car. "They locked you up, Baby."

"There's a camera," Sam says, nodding at a blinking box mounted on the end of the office. "But I don't see an alarm system."

"You reckon it feeds to the sheriff station?" Dean asks. His eyes track in the direction the camera is pointed—right at the entrance, around the corner from where they're standing. "Are they watching?"

"We have to assume they are," Sam says. "But I can't see anymore. It looks pretty basic. If they can't angle it remotely, we might be okay, if we can get through the fence out of the camera's line of sight."

Dean steps back from the fence, looks it up and down. "So, how do we get in? There's wire cutters in the trunk, but they're not going to do us much good from out here."

Sam looks up. He pulls a face. "Climb the fence? Cut our way out?"

Dean slowly nods. "That's an option. Whoever goes over, though, is going to get cut to shit on that wire."

"I'll go," Sam says, and locks the fingers of one hand high in the mesh.

"What?" Dean glares at Sam, eyes wide. "Why do you get to go?" He locks his fingers into the back of Sam's jacket and pulls him back down to earth.

Sam sighs. "Because if I get cut, at least I can heal. Whatever happens to you, Dean, you're stuck with for the next three weeks."

"Yeah." Dean nods. "And then, if everything goes our way, it all magically disappears. You get cut up, and you'll be healing a lot longer. Plus, you'll bleed all over the upholstery. No chance of that happening to me." He grins, and holds his arms out wide. "And if I fall, at least I won't die. Again."

The distinctive sound of a round chambering clicks behind them. "You boys weren't thinking of breaking into that impound lot for your car, were you?"

Sam's head whips around, and Dean turns to see the deputy they spoke to at the sheriff's office behind them. "Oh, shit," he says, staring down the barrel of a gun, and none of his own to counter with.

"See, I had a feeling about you two. So I followed you." He turns to the car parked on the road behind him. "I got to wonder why you boys didn't just high tail it out of here in your stolen car."

Dean looks at the car, a beat up old Toyota, then looks back at the Impala behind the fence. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Look," Sam says, holding his hands out, palm forward and taking a step toward the cop. "We just want our car. We don't want any trouble, just the car."

"And if you bastards weren't so stuck up your own asses," Dean says, "We would've paid the fine and been out of your hair, but no, you had to go and—"

"Shut up," the deputy says, lifting his gun just a bit higher. He reaches back with his free hand, pulls a pair of cuffs from his belt. "You're already in trouble. The three of us are going back to town, and you boys are going to have a nice hard bed for the night after all, because I got you on grand theft auto, and I heard you planning to climb that fence with my own ears."

Dean starts to feel very warm. "We're not going anywhere with you."

"Dean," Sam says, turning toward him, one hand out as if to hold him back.

But Dean's skin is burning. "I'm going to get my car," he growls, "and I'm leaving this shithole."

Sam grabs hold of Dean's arm. "Dean, no, it's not worth it."

Dean throws him off, fire under his skin, blistering, like it should be peeling off. All he can see is the deputy, the way his hand shakes, the movement of the barrel foremost in Dean's focus. He's buzzing, trying to break out of his meat suit, fritzing against the magic that holds him there.

He wants out, wants out like when he walked through that door in the bunker. There's so much at his fingertips but he's locked inside this heavy lump of flesh and he needs to get out.

"Calm down," the deputy says, voice deep and forceful, but it's not enough. "Or I will shoot you, mister."

Dean pushes, but he can't break through. Puts all his energy into it, closes his eyes and—

He can't get out. He feels it there, like he's almost through, but he can't. What's left of his blood boils inside him, and there's not much left than rage. It sizzles under his skin.

Then he lets it out, a split second before it goes, barely clinging to enough consciousness to focus that explosion of energy.

With a great tearing of metal, the fence screeches behind them. A whole section peels away and falls into the lot. Dean fishes in his pocket, tosses Sam the keys. "Get the car," he says, eyes still on the deputy.

Sam's boots crunch as he crashes over the fallen chain link.

The deputy's mouth is wide open. His eyes are wide and he's gaping like a fish. The gun in his hand is shaking hard now, but swinging toward Sam, and his finger is tightening.

Dean moves. The heat searing off his flesh is still there, a red hot rage that somehow gives him power. He moves fast, rushes at the cop, speed checked only by the weight of the body he wears.

Something hits him hard in the chest, followed by a loud crack that rings in his ears. He stumbles back, then looks down. There's a perfect round hole in his jacket, right over his heart. Sam screams.

Dean regains his footing. There's nothing, nothing but rage now, no thought, nothing. He roars.

A great wave explodes out from inside him, makes the air ripple and the dust fly. The deputy is thrown back, like he caught a wrecking ball in the stomach, and the dust settles around him.

"Dean, oh my god, Dean." Sam's feet rattle across the wire mesh again, and then Sam's hands are on him, large and warm and strong and right where they should be. His eyes are on the hole in Dean's jacket, his fingers pick at the broken threads. "Dean."

Dean looks up. There are tears on Sam's face. The heat dissipates. "I'm okay," Dean says. "I'm okay, Sammy. Can't kill a dead man."

Sam swallows and nods, then looks over at the fallen deputy. "Is he—?"

Dean can feel it, the life still in the man. "Knocked out." He turns and looks toward the Impala, drivers door hanging open. "We should go."

Sam nods, and wipes tears from his cheeks with the heels of his hands. "I'm going to drive, okay?"

---

"What the hell happened back there, Dean?" Sam's eyes are focused on the road, and his knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

Dean stares out the window. "I got shot," he says. "By a dick." He's cold again, but nothing seems real. It's all a bit blurry around the edges, just a little bit soft. He swallows hard as the sound of tearing chain link echoes in his mind. "I don't know, Sammy. I don't know."

The Impala's engine roars as Sam pushes her past the speed limit. Who knows how long the deputy will be out, how long it'll be before they've got sirens in their dust. No one says anything more until they cross into Missouri, and then Sam eases off the throttle. Not that it'll make much difference. They were close enough to the state line that the APB will follow them—or the car, at least.

"Are you okay, now?" Sam says. "Is everything— Is it under control?"

Dean turns to him. "Yeah. It's gone."

"You tore down a goddamn fence, Dean. What the hell does that even mean?"

Dean turns back to the window. "I was trying to get out."

"Out?" Sam's foot gets heavier for a moment. "Out of what?"

"Out of this body." Dean's head hits the window.

"Why the hell would you—?"

"Because I felt helpless, Sam. I can feel all this stuff I should be able to do, but I can't, because I'm stuck in here. How does that help us, huh?"

"It's not supposed to. You're not supposed to be a ghost, Dean, that's why I bound you to your body. We're supposed to get you fixed up so we can go back to normal."

Dean's head jerks around. "We're not normal, Sammy. We're never normal, we've never been normal and we'll never be normal. And I am a ghost. I died, and I was either supposed to move on, or get stuck haunting some crappy house or, god, this car. If I'm here, then I'm supposed to be a goddamn ghost, with all the bullshit that goes with being a ghost. Throwing shit around and scaring the crap out of some dipshit deputy."

"You mean, going vengeful spirit?"

Dean cringes. He's going to disappear, get replaced by some remnant of his anger. "Yeah, maybe, Sammy. You know what happens. Enough time, the right situation. Everyone goes batshit. It shouldn't be surprising. I'm already as fucked up as a ghost can be, and I think you know that."

Sam goes silent. Dean goes back to staring out the window. The open farmland starts to get broken up by the occasional farmhouse as they get closer to the city.

The Maryville sign appears, zips past.

"It's not just you," Sam says.

It's not news, but it's got to be something to do with what's wrong with Dean. Somehow, he's got to be causing it. "It's not your fault, Sammy," Dean says to the window.

"Well, it's not yours either."

Dean sets his jaw and stays silent.

"I think we should talk about it."

"I think we should get this goddamn box out of this little old lady's attic, and get our ass back to the bunker."

Sam slows the car as they pass into town, pulls into a motel surrounded in big, leafy trees.

"What the hell are you doing, Sammy?"

Sam turns the engine off. "We're staying the night."

"No. We're going back to the bunker."

"We're picking up a box of papers that belonged to the guy who found the holy grail, Dean. You really want to sit in the car for another seven hours before we get to take a look?"

Dean's fingers itch just thinking about it. "Fine," he says. "But we bring the police scanner with us."

Sam nods. "Definitely. We don't have time to go to jail right now." He pops the door open and unfolds out of the car.

Dean sits and waits.