Here they go again. Dean and Sam are running practically head-first into another God-knows-what supernatural-sort-of-mess. Yeah, so they’ve got their shotguns and whatnot; still worries me sick when they leave me hear on the shoulder of the road. These country roads always make me nervous. I’ve seen my fair share of weird bitches along roads like these; it’s like where all the freaks gather or something. I never really did get over that one time when Sam was driving me down a road like this and that freakin’ lady-in-white or whatever she was called jumped in. Pissed me off when she took over my wheel, accelerator – alright, when she took me over. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, she tried to kill Sam in the driver’s seat. In my driver’s seat! If she hadn’t been dead already, I would’ve killed her. Don’t know how, since she was inside, but I would’ve killed her.
Well, I haven’t heard any yelling, cussing, shooting, or anything else that Dean is prone to do. I always wonder if they ever get caught by the things they’re hunting because Dean is so damn noisy. Sam’s had his loud moments before, too, and he’s not above going trigger happy, but Dean’s about twice as likely to shoot first and ask questions later. God, I tell you, if it wasn’t for Sam, Dean would’ve probably gotten himself killed by now. He thinks he’s Indiana Jones sometimes, and that brain of his doesn’t always register that maybe he shouldn’t go rushing into things with a gun blasting. He thinks just because he’s packing heat he’s invincible. Yeah, sure Dean… God bless that idiot. He may be a jackass sometimes, but I know better than anybody he’s really a good guy. Even if his head ain’t always thinking, his heart’s in the right place. Ah, maybe I just got a soft spot for Dean because he treats me good. Better than John treated me; I’m not saying John didn’t take good care of me. It’s just Dean treats me better. I’m his baby. I’m not above bragging about it either. Hell, I think I’m a queen sometimes. Ha, sounds stupid, I know, and you’re probably thinking “but you’re always on the road,” but I really don’t care. I may be old, but I’m not lazy. Going all the time is better than sitting in some stuffy garage all the time. No, I’d prefer driving all over the freakin’ country all the time. These boys may be slobs sometimes – those chip bags on my dashboard, courtesy of Sam, are starting to bother me a little – but most of the time I’m kept clean. Outside I can always count on being clean. I guess that’s what really matters; no one else ever sees the inside anyway.
Let’s see, where were we again? Some place in Tennessee, I think. Like I really keep track. I just get the boys where they want to go; I don’t really care where I’m taking them, just as long as I get them there. God, it’s cold out. My engine’s already cooled off, and I’ve only been parked here for fifteen minutes. Too long. I hate being cold; bugs the hell out of me for some reason. Oh, I know why it does: because it’s uncomfortable! You two-leggers always complain about the cold, and you got jackets and blood circulation to keep you warm. What do I have? Nothing when I’m not running. And everyone knows how cold metal gets. I’m made entirely out of metal. Think that over next time you’re whining about the weather. Speaking of weather, Sam was just complaining that it was too cold out earlier. Now Sammy’s not one to complain usually; he may be a bit grouchy sometimes, but he normally keeps his gripes to himself. But for some reason, he started saying that it was too cold and whatnot. He wears a freakin’ Carhart and God-knows-how many other clothes he wears. The boy’s like one tall, lean pole, but you’d never know by the amount of clothes he’s always wearing. And he’s talking about being cold? Please… The little baby. Aw, but what can I say? Things have been a little friendlier now that Sammy’s along. Before it used to be just me and Dean; Dean wouldn’t really talk to himself, which is probably good. I’ve always found talking to oneself a little odd… and what do you mean, I’m talking to myself?! Who the hell do you think you are, hm? Anyway, things used to be a little lonely. Dean’s got quite the cassette tape collection, and he used to sing along with the music. Wasn’t that a sight… but I’ve heard all the songs on each tape ten times over easily. I don’t want to hear another Led Zeppelin song for as long as I’m capable of playing tapes. Hell, I might just eat that one next time he puts it in. Don’t get me wrong, classic rock’s awesome, but the same songs over and over would kill you on it too, believe me. I still have to put up with the music, but there’s less Def Leppard and more bickering between Dean and Sam. And to be honest, that gets plenty annoying too. “We’re not gonna start that crap up again!” “Start what up?” “That prank stuff! It’s stupid, and it always escalates!” Sometimes I wonder if Sam even has a sense of humor. I honestly didn’t see why that spoon-in-the-mouth-while-he’s-sleeping thing was so bad. I thought it was funny! That’ll be remembered for a while… Now that turn-the-radio-on-full-blast wasn’t as funny. Do you have any idea how hard it is to go that loud? It ain’t easy, especially when I’m playing Latin music or whatever the hell it was. You’d think Sam would have a little more respect for me; I’m practically his home. But no. He insists on sitting on my hood all the time. That wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t for those rivets on his pants. I swear, if he scratches my paint up… He won’t have to worry about me. Hell no, he’d better start worrying about his brother. But aside from their little brotherly arguments, chip fights (yes, they throw potato chips at each other… They’re like animals), and hollow insults like “you’re ugly enough to pass as a rawhead”, you can feel the love. Yeah, it might not be apparent, but it’s there. They both know it; they just don’t like to admit it often.
Hang on; I think I just heard a gunshot… Yup, there’s another one. God, what mess did they get themselves into this time? Sounds like a big one, ‘cause they’re both going trigger-happy. Four shots… five… ten… Damn, haven’t they hit anything yet? Seriously, I know that those two are awesome shots; better than anyone else I’ve seen. Well, I guess that’s not saying much, because I’m not a regular at gun shows. Take my word for it, they’re good shots. And shotguns, I know, are basically point-and-shoot weapons.
Hm, silence now. No more shots, shouts, or anything else. Always worries me when this happens. I don’t see anyone around. Hope they got out alright… but seriously, what could I do? Sit here and worry? Exactly. That’s one of the only complaints I have with being a car. How the hell can you do anything? I didn’t even have the keys. Dean always had the keys.
Okay, now I hear something. Hark, are those footfalls I hear? Yup, there are Sam’s high tops and Dean’s biker boots pounding my way. Ooh, they’re running like wildfire’s chasing them. Oh, maybe because of that really demented deer/wolf/alligator following them. What the –? Jesus, what the hell is that? Since when does a deer have fangs and scales?
No time for gawking at the atrocity. Sam’s practically throwing himself into the passenger seat, shotgun still in his hand, and he’s panting like he’d just run a hundred miles. Dean jumps in on the driver’s side, throwing his shotgun in the backseat. He jams the key into the ignition. Damn it, that hurt! Keys aren’t meant to be shoved in that hard. Ah well, what can I do? I roar to life, ready to get the hell out of there; that monster is right on my bumper. Dean floors it, and I spray gravel all over the place as I burn out onto the road, my tires squealing as they hit asphalt. Ha, I love it when they do that! Makes me feel like a damn right hotrod, which I am, I hope you know. Alright, so Impalas aren’t known as sports cars; I ain’t your regular Impala. For one, I got a Winchester behind the wheel. This family’s notorious for lead foots. John was a lead foot, and it appears he’s passed it on to both his sons.
Well, that monster’s not following us. Yeah, we’ll be back for it. We always are… Till then it can laugh its ugly ass off. It won’t be laughing when its staring down the barrel of a .45.