1967 Chevy Impala. She's a fucking beaut, you'll give him that. It's no wonder the guy is refusing to leave your side, clearly antsy. Almost visibly pained. You're not sure if he wants to stick around for the two business days it'll take to finish the job, but you think it might be harder for him to part with it.

Everytime you so much as glance against its paint, your customer—Dean, was it? Visibly cringes, like you haven't been doing this literally your whole life. Though, inwardly, it was extremely fucking humbling experience for Dean to realise no, he could not materialise an entirely new goddamn engine for himself. Frankly, it'd be easier to get a new car at that point—but like hell he was going to replace his baby.

So, Sammy had shuttled him off here. Closest mechanic, near-immaculate reviews; and there were many of them. Only the best for his darling, after all. The only thing was—

"Y'know, the cogs of feminism are really a turnin'. Never thought I'd see a chick fixin' my baby." He muses, and you don't even think he's trying to be offensive, because after a belated stretch of time—his eyes widen, like he could see how you could take that, and he shoots you a hasty thumbs-up and an "Awesome." that's only slightly endearing.

"Very Megan Fox, Transformers-esque." He grins, and you do look back at that, thoroughly unimpressed. If you had a nickel every-time a man said something along those lines, Lord knows you wouldn’t be fixing cars for a living.