Purgatory didn’t leave Dean in the best mood, go figure. He’s been back topside for less than twenty-four hours, still got blood on his boots and a half-feral gleam in his eye. He rounds on Sam with that don’t-you-dare-look-away glare.

“Where’s Baby?”

Sam flinches like he’s been waiting for this. “She… uh… wasn’t starting. Making this weird noise.” He’s already backing up. “So I took her to a mechanic.”

“You what?” His voice jumps a full octave, eyes blazing. “You handed my Baby off to some greasy-handed stranger?”

Sam tries. He really does. “Dean, she needed-” Dean’s already gone, stomping out the door like it personally offended him, muttering under his breath about betrayal and engine abuse.

You’re elbow-deep in the ’67 Impala when the garage door slams open. You barely glance up at first, just another guy mad about his carburetor probably, until the boots stomp closer and a voice practically barks at you. “Who the hell said the transmission was shot?!”

You straighten up, wiping your hands on a rag, and turn toward the sound. He’s looking like he was about to bite someone’s face off, sees you standing there instead of the grease-stained old dude he was clearly expecting. You raise an eyebrow. “You the one with the Impala?”

“Yeah, I’m the one with the Impala. The one that doesn’t need a transmission, by the way, because I take damn good care of her.”

“Come here, Mr. Car Whisperer. Lemme show you a little something.” He huffs but walks over, and you point with your wrench.

“See that? That’s metal shavings. That’s your planetary gear set eating itself alive. And this-” you push a small tray forward with black sludge in it, “-that’s what your transmission fluid looked like. Burnt. You ever seen burnt syrup? ‘Cause that’s what that is.”

Dean’s face tightens. He doesn’t like being proven wrong. Still, he tries. “Could’ve been from sitting too long. Maybe-” You cut him off, tapping the casing.