Story: Nor Hell A Fury (SPN/Stephen King's Christine) 1/4
Title: Nor Hell A Fury
Author: Lucy Gillam
Fandom: Supernatural/Stephen King's Christine
Rating/Genre: PG-13, gen
Summary: A mysterious stranger, a pissed off car, and a twenty year quest for revenge. Just another week for Sam and Dean Winchester.
Story notes: Spoilers for SPN up through "Crossroads," and possibly a bit beyond. See the end for author's notes.
Part I
Sam
Midwest Bar Stories
Sam didn't know what started the fight in the Knotty Pine pub -- probably a pool hustle gone bad. It was a surprise Dean didn't get into more fights that way; he was good, really good, but the "suck until they're suckered" ploy was so clichéd, Sam never stopped being amazed at how often it worked.
But whatever provoked this particular fight, the real reason was always the same: Dean was spoiling for a fight. Even before…things, Dean hadn't handled inactivity very well. He'd done okay as a kid, when "inactivity" mostly meant "look after Sam," but once he started hunting, man, give him a week between bad things to kill and he started getting antsy. Sometimes Sam thought Dad had taught Dean to fix cars less for the free labor than to give him something to do between hunts.
It had been nearly two weeks since they'd saved Evan Hudson from the hell hounds. The suspicious accident they'd come to Cincinnati to investigate looked like a routine hit-and-run, a health insurance agent killed by a customer whose claims had been denied one too many times, and they hadn't picked up anything since. And if Cincinnati wasn't the worst place in the world to find themselves at loose ends, it wasn't exactly the best, either.
This was all why, despite the beer bottle flying past his head and the man trying very earnestly to bash his skull in, Sam just couldn't seem to take this fight seriously. He knew this was a mistake: every instinct he had was screaming at him that just because the fight was stupid it didn't mean he couldn't get hurt, and he really needed to shift out of autopilot, here. But his focus just wouldn't snap into place, so he kept on the edge, blocking blows, even landing a few, but not really engaging.
Right up until the dull shine of a knife caught his eye a few seconds too late to dodge.
He managed to turn, hoping it would at least miss anything vital, and braced himself for the pain. Instead, he heard the dull smack of skin hitting skin and looked down to see someone holding back the hand holding the knife. He had a vague impression of graying hair and a tired face before the two men merged into the general chaos of the fight.
Sam shook his head and searched the crowd for Dean. Catching sight of him slamming a large man in flannel against the wall, Sam set his shoulders and began cutting a path to him. He'd learned by sixteen that it wasn't that hard to navigate through a bar fight, as long as you knew when to duck and weren't afraid of a few bruises.
"Dean!" Sam wasn't surprised when his brother ignored him, so he grabbed Dean's shoulder and ducked the instinctive punch. "Let's go!"
For a minute, Dean looked like he was going to argue, then his face took on the unmistakable look of someone seeing something bad over another person's shoulder, and he pulled Sam off to one side just in time to avoid a chair wielded with great force.
"Right," Dean said, pausing only to deliver a well-aimed kick to the chair-wielder's gut. "Leaving. Good plan."
The parking lot was filling up as people left the chaos for someplace they could actually get a drink, but fortunately there was no sign of the guys who had decided that Dean was a cheat. The Impala was waiting for them, fit as she had ever been; more so, perhaps, after the weeks of patient care Dean had put into restoring her. Sam's path to the passenger seat was blocked by an older man walking towards his own car, and Sam waited with some impatience until he recognized the man who'd blocked the knife.
"Hey!" he said, "thanks for the help in there."
The older man smiled in a way that reminded Sam of Dean's recent expressions. "I have a thing about people who bring knives to fistfights." He was about Dad's age, give or take. He had the same tired expression that made age hard to gauge, and the few steps he'd taken toward his car betrayed a slight limp. He got into an SUV that was just this side of a tank, gave a friendly nod, and drove off.
"Did you make a new friend?" Dean asked, pausing to wipe blood from a split lip.
"Nah, he just…" Sam paused, because 'stopped me from being stabbed' didn't sound like words that should come after 'just.' "Helped out."
"Cool. We should blow before Mutt and Jeff get out here." Dean opened the car door. "There's no job here."
~~~
"There might be a job here."
Sam managed to stifle a groan as he rolled over. It frequently struck him as unfair that Dean, never an early riser on average days, seemed to wake up in a fine and energetic mood the day after having the shit kicked out of him, by forces human or otherwise. It was especially unfair for this to happen on a morning when Sam was himself stiff with bruises from a fight Dean had started.
"Say again?"
"There was another hit and run last night, same MO. Guy was run over and left as street pizza."
"It's a big city, Dean, lots of people," Sam replied into his pillow. He wasn't really invested in playing the skeptic; two people run down in less than a week probably was a pattern, if not necessarily a supernatural one. But if it got him ten more seconds of keeping his eyes closed, he'd make the case.
"Yeah, except," Dean continued unfazed, "two separate witnesses swear that no one was actually driving the car."
That got Sam to sit up.
"And before you ask, neither of them were obviously drunk or high, and according to the Cincinnati Enquirer," Dean held up the paper as if to verify that yes, that was in fact the name of the paper, "one of them is a scientist for Proctor & Gamble. Not that scientists can't have wacky ideas, I guess. You remember that guy in Boston, wanted to channel demonic energy to power his whatchamacallit, that--"
"Dean!" Sam interrupted, and only partly because yes, he remembered, "Car. No driver."
"Right. So, Steve Dunbar, age forty-seven, mild-mannered accountant, got run down last night on Devil's Backbone Road." Sam's eyebrows must have gone up, because Dean added, "Swear to God, not making that up. Anyway, right there in the suburb, guy was run down crossing the street after going to a neighbor's to return a pair of hedge clippers. Neighbor heard the engine and a scream, and looked out her window just in time to see," Dean looked at the paper again, "a really big red and white car with no visible driver backing up over Dunbar. The car ran over him again, and sped off."
Sam took the paper and skimmed the article. A second witness, who apparently preferred to remain anonymous, which, really, who could blame him, also reported seeing a "vintage" red and white car with no visible driver run over Dunbar not once, but three times. The paper played up the driver aspect while being circumspect about the rest, including the usual "police are investigating" line.
"Any reason to think the two cases are connected?"
"Other than the coincidence of two guys getting pulped into the pavement in four days in the same city?" Dean asked. "Not yet. But we're here anyway, and it's probably worth at least checking out."
Sam nodded. No wonder Dean was in a good mood. It was time to get to work.
~~~
"I didn't say the car had no driver, " Harry Schaeffer said for the third time in about five minutes. "I just said I didn't see one." It seemed very important to him that Federal Mutual Life Insurance understand this, which, Sam supposed, made sense from a man who was probably only about thirty-five and already wore cardigans.
Sam and Dean had already talked to the witness named in the newspaper, who hadn't had much to say beyond what was reported. What she had provided was the name of the anonymous witness.
"Yes, sir, we understand that," Sam replied patiently, "but if we could get back to the car. You were the one who described it as vintage, right?"
Schaeffer rolled his eyes. "The Enquirer described it as vintage. I swear, I don't know where we'll turn for decent reporting once the Post closes its doors. I said it was a Plymouth Fury, looked like a '58 except the colors were wrong."
Sam blinked, less because of the unexpected detail than because it was coming from a guy who looked like Mister Rogers. Most of the guys he'd met who knew about cars looked more like, well, Dad. Or Dean.
He looked over at Dean, who was just out of Schaeffer's line of sight. Dean gave a small what-the-hell shrug and said, "Wrong in what way?"
Schaeffer looked at the bookshelves lining one wall with the unmistakable expression of someone searching for a book to support what they're about to say. It was an expression Sam had seen on countless college professors.
"The car was white and red. I couldn't vouch for the exact shade with the light being so dim, but I'd bet anything it was Autumn Red. The Fury didn't come in those colors until '59, but the lines of the car seemed more like a '58." Schaeffer seemed to find the book he was looking for, and leaned over to grab it. "Here, I can show you--"
"No, no," Dean interrupted. "We believe you." Schaeffer looked almost offended by this. "I mean," Dean added, "you obviously know what you're talking about."
That seemed to mollify him, and he continued, "Anyway, the car does have big front seats, so I suppose it's possible someone could have been ducked down there."
"Any chance it was being controlled remotely?" Sam asked.
Schaeffer snorted. "Down this street? Good luck. Part of what makes this area so appealing is that cars can only go so fast." He frowned. "Which, now that I think of it, the Fury shouldn't have been able to go as fast as it did. It wasn't even skidding. It shouldn't have that kind of torque." Now he did reach for a book and began thumbing through it.
Sam recognized a lost cause when he saw one. Apparently so did Dean, because he began making his standard exit comments.
"So, we're looking for a '58 Plymouth Fury with '59 colors," Sam said as they reached the Impala.
"I guess so," Dean replied. "Assuming Harold in there knows his shit, and anyone with that many books on classic cars probably knows his shit, although I'll eat my ratchet set if he's ever had his hands in an actual car in his life." Dean paused and looked up and down the street, at least the small portion that was visible before curves and hills obscured it. "You think you could drive this street ducked down out of sight?"
Sam looked at the hairpin turn five houses away. "Not really, no."
"Yeah, me, neither." Dean opened his car door. "Definitely a job here."
~~~
Sam hadn't realized just how much they'd come to rely on a charming smile to get information until they met Steve Dunbar's partner. Emily Grice was at most Dean's age, but everything about her demeanor made it quite clear who was in charge in this situation, and it sure wasn't Sam and Dean.
"Did you say you were from the FBI branch here in Cincinnati?" she asked in the middle of Dean's question about whether Dunbar had any enemies. It was the fourth time she had implicitly questioned their authenticity, beginning with the expected "Why is the FBI investigating a hit and run?" and ending with a complicated query about their tax work. Sam remembered just enough from his accounting classes to give a vague answer.
"Actually, we're from Columbus," Dean said, "And that's really all I can say," he added, cutting off the next question. "Ongoing investigation, I'm sure you understand."
"Oh. Well, no, Steve didn't have any enemies that I knew of. I mean," Emily said, tapping short but carefully manicured nails against her desk, "there's always someone who's sure you didn't get them the tax outcome they deserved, and Steve's done a few audits that brought some minor infractions to light, but nothing serious, and nothing recent. He was just telling me Friday that the people at Vital were going to be happy with the results." She looked a little wistful. "Said it was nice to give people good news for a change. Steve always loved the investigative part of audits, but he hated getting people in trouble."
Vital. Sam frowned. "Excuse me, was that Vital Health Insurance?" He shot Dean a look, and Dean returned it with a "Yeah, caught it, too" nod.
"Yes. Steve was performing an independent audit. There was some suspicion of embezzling, but it turned out to be a mistake. A fairly massive mistake, but no one person was actually at fault. In fact, everyone appeared to be very honest and above-board about the whole thing." She sighed. "It really made Steve happy."
Dean leaned forward in what Sam had come to recognize as his down-to-business pose. "You didn't happen to notice any cars around recently that … stood out?"
Emily frowned. "You mean other than the ones from the classic car thing at the Convention Center? Can't say that I have."
Sam managed to avoid rolling his eyes, but it was a near thing.
"Could be worse," Dean said in the Impala as he loosened his tie. "It could be a Plymouth Fury convention."
"Yeah, but did you catch that about Vital?"
Dean nodded. "Same company as the first victim."
"Didn't the police arrest someone for that?" Which, of course, wasn't exactly uncommon in supernatural situations. Once, in an introductory criminal justice course, Sam had caught himself wondering how many people were sitting in prison for crimes committed by a demon or Wendigo or other supernatural thing. He was halfway into a plan for a law practice before he reminded himself that he was done with that sort of thing.
"Wouldn't be the first time," Dean said.
The engine rumble that came at the end of Dean's sentence was so like the Impala's that Sam almost missed that Dean was just putting the keys in the ignition. If he hadn't noticed that, he probably also would have missed the flash of red and white turning a corner at the very edge of his vision.
Huh.
~~~
During his time in college, Sam realized that he was aware of certain cultural shifts that other kids his age weren't. At eighteen, most of his classmates pretty much thought that the way things were now was the way they always had been; they had no real knowledge of a time before cable, and not much of a time before the internet.
But what he really had perspective on was just how much the American landscape had changed over the years, and in particular, how small local businesses had given way more and more to chains. Most of the places the Winchesters stayed were small, roadside motels with maybe twenty rooms. The first time Dad checked them into a Comfort Inn, he and Dean had both spent several hours sitting carefully on the beds so as not to disturb the artfully arranged covers. Restaurants, too, were more often chain than the Mom's Diners John had favored (although he'd pretty much relied on Pizza Hut wherever they went). And if Sam admitted to liking the predictability of an Outback steak, Dean seemed to hold it as a point of pride that he'd never eaten in a T.G.I. Friday's in his life.
Which was how they ended up some place with a giant chicken on the roof. In fairness, the fried chicken was pretty good.
They ate at their usual dinner time of ninish, which was pretty common in big cities and small diners, but apparently not so much in the suburbs of Cincinnati. As a result, the parking lot was nearly deserted by the time they came out of the restaurant, the Impala sitting in solitary splendor.
"So, if this car, or whoever's using the car, is targeting Vital Health Insurance somehow," Dean said, "we could try staking out the building, see if the car shows up, or maybe…"
Dean's next words were lost under the deep rumble of an engine.
"Um, Dean?" Sam stopped walking and gripped the arm of Dean's jacket to make him do the same. "I don't think that's going to be necessary."
The headlights blinded them as a car that seemed too large to have hidden among the employee cars at the back of the lot moved a few yards toward them and sat there, idling. Through the glare of the headlights, Sam could just make out red and white metal.
An idling car shouldn't have sounded quite that threatening.
Sam ran through the available options in a matter of seconds. They could go back inside, but that would only delay things, and besides, it was nearly closing time, which meant more people coming out with them and possible collateral damage. They could try to find a place in nearby buildings that the car couldn't get to, but same problem, not to mention the relative odds of outrunning the car in the first place. Or they could try to get to their own car and get it moving.
All of this got conveyed to Dean as, "Car?"
"Car."
Over the years, they'd gotten pretty good at getting into cars quickly, and Dean had apparently improved during Sam's absence because he had the engine going by the time Sam had opened his door. Whether it was going to be fast enough to avoid getting pinned in by the oncoming car was another question.
"Hang on!" Dean yelled, and Sam braced himself as the Impala lurched backwards, barely clearing the parking lot divider to crash over a bush and out onto the street. Sam hardly registered the honking horns as Dean straightened out and took off north, away from the nearby shopping Mecca.
Judging from the continued honking, the Fury wasn't far behind, and sure enough, the Impala's rear view mirrors began reflecting the overpowering headlights.
"Okay, this could be a problem," Dean muttered. "Don't suppose you know of any burned down churches nearby?"
"Haven't had time to check," Sam said, wincing as Dean blew through a red light.
"Great. If you get any bright ideas in, oh, the next few seconds, be sure to let me," Dean cringed as a sudden hill caused the Impala to briefly leave the ground, "know."
The road took a long dive, and if that gave them some speed, it seemed to give the Fury more, its bumper knocking against them more than once. They picked up a few yards of distance just in time for the road to curve and head back up.
"This town really doesn't believe in grids, does it?" Dean said, yanking the wheel just in time to scrape against a barrier.
The Fury didn't even skid.
"Oh, that is so not fair," Dean said.
Still, they managed to pull ahead a bit, which would have been great if the street wasn't dead ending. Into another road, granted, but the intersection looked unforgiving of speed, particularly since the ground beyond it appeared to drop off.
"Dean," Sam warned.
"I see it. Not sure what I'm going to do, but I see it." He took a deep breath. "Okay, baby, don't let me down, here."
They took the turn without slowing down, and the Impala skidded off the road and down a short hill. Dean gunned the engine, but the damp grass wasn't exactly helping.
"Dean!" Sam held a hand up against the glare of the oncoming lights.
"Working on it." The tires continued to struggle for purchase.
The headlights were only feet away, and Sam instinctively turned away from the inevitable crash. He was so braced for it that as the shriek and crunch of metal hitting metal and giving way hit his ears, it took him nearly five seconds to realize they hadn't been hit.
He opened his eyes to see a huge SUV sitting in the intersection. The Fury was several feet away at an angle that, along with the crushed side, clearly indicated a crash. The SUV was just sitting there, no frantic owner getting out to see if everyone was okay, no backing up. Instead, it looked for all the world as if the two vehicles were staring each other down.
After a very long minute, the Fury backed into a nearby driveway, and pulled out heading in the opposite direction, the squeal of its tires seeming to say that this wasn't over. Sam heard rather than saw the passenger side door of the SUV open, and the driver came around the front into their field of vision. Sam was only mildly surprised to see the man who had saved him at the bar.
"You guys okay?" the man asked.
"Been worse," Dean answered. "Been better. Thanks for the save, there."
Porch lights began to go on in the houses set back on the road.
"We should probably get out of here," the man said. He gave them a long look. "And we should probably talk." He started to walk to the rear of the Impala, obviously intending to help push it, then stopped. "By the way," he added, "my name's Dennis Guilder."
Part II
Author: Lucy Gillam
Fandom: Supernatural/Stephen King's Christine
Rating/Genre: PG-13, gen
Summary: A mysterious stranger, a pissed off car, and a twenty year quest for revenge. Just another week for Sam and Dean Winchester.
Story notes: Spoilers for SPN up through "Crossroads," and possibly a bit beyond. See the end for author's notes.
Part I
Sam
Midwest Bar Stories
Sam didn't know what started the fight in the Knotty Pine pub -- probably a pool hustle gone bad. It was a surprise Dean didn't get into more fights that way; he was good, really good, but the "suck until they're suckered" ploy was so clichéd, Sam never stopped being amazed at how often it worked.
But whatever provoked this particular fight, the real reason was always the same: Dean was spoiling for a fight. Even before…things, Dean hadn't handled inactivity very well. He'd done okay as a kid, when "inactivity" mostly meant "look after Sam," but once he started hunting, man, give him a week between bad things to kill and he started getting antsy. Sometimes Sam thought Dad had taught Dean to fix cars less for the free labor than to give him something to do between hunts.
It had been nearly two weeks since they'd saved Evan Hudson from the hell hounds. The suspicious accident they'd come to Cincinnati to investigate looked like a routine hit-and-run, a health insurance agent killed by a customer whose claims had been denied one too many times, and they hadn't picked up anything since. And if Cincinnati wasn't the worst place in the world to find themselves at loose ends, it wasn't exactly the best, either.
This was all why, despite the beer bottle flying past his head and the man trying very earnestly to bash his skull in, Sam just couldn't seem to take this fight seriously. He knew this was a mistake: every instinct he had was screaming at him that just because the fight was stupid it didn't mean he couldn't get hurt, and he really needed to shift out of autopilot, here. But his focus just wouldn't snap into place, so he kept on the edge, blocking blows, even landing a few, but not really engaging.
Right up until the dull shine of a knife caught his eye a few seconds too late to dodge.
He managed to turn, hoping it would at least miss anything vital, and braced himself for the pain. Instead, he heard the dull smack of skin hitting skin and looked down to see someone holding back the hand holding the knife. He had a vague impression of graying hair and a tired face before the two men merged into the general chaos of the fight.
Sam shook his head and searched the crowd for Dean. Catching sight of him slamming a large man in flannel against the wall, Sam set his shoulders and began cutting a path to him. He'd learned by sixteen that it wasn't that hard to navigate through a bar fight, as long as you knew when to duck and weren't afraid of a few bruises.
"Dean!" Sam wasn't surprised when his brother ignored him, so he grabbed Dean's shoulder and ducked the instinctive punch. "Let's go!"
For a minute, Dean looked like he was going to argue, then his face took on the unmistakable look of someone seeing something bad over another person's shoulder, and he pulled Sam off to one side just in time to avoid a chair wielded with great force.
"Right," Dean said, pausing only to deliver a well-aimed kick to the chair-wielder's gut. "Leaving. Good plan."
The parking lot was filling up as people left the chaos for someplace they could actually get a drink, but fortunately there was no sign of the guys who had decided that Dean was a cheat. The Impala was waiting for them, fit as she had ever been; more so, perhaps, after the weeks of patient care Dean had put into restoring her. Sam's path to the passenger seat was blocked by an older man walking towards his own car, and Sam waited with some impatience until he recognized the man who'd blocked the knife.
"Hey!" he said, "thanks for the help in there."
The older man smiled in a way that reminded Sam of Dean's recent expressions. "I have a thing about people who bring knives to fistfights." He was about Dad's age, give or take. He had the same tired expression that made age hard to gauge, and the few steps he'd taken toward his car betrayed a slight limp. He got into an SUV that was just this side of a tank, gave a friendly nod, and drove off.
"Did you make a new friend?" Dean asked, pausing to wipe blood from a split lip.
"Nah, he just…" Sam paused, because 'stopped me from being stabbed' didn't sound like words that should come after 'just.' "Helped out."
"Cool. We should blow before Mutt and Jeff get out here." Dean opened the car door. "There's no job here."
~~~
"There might be a job here."
Sam managed to stifle a groan as he rolled over. It frequently struck him as unfair that Dean, never an early riser on average days, seemed to wake up in a fine and energetic mood the day after having the shit kicked out of him, by forces human or otherwise. It was especially unfair for this to happen on a morning when Sam was himself stiff with bruises from a fight Dean had started.
"Say again?"
"There was another hit and run last night, same MO. Guy was run over and left as street pizza."
"It's a big city, Dean, lots of people," Sam replied into his pillow. He wasn't really invested in playing the skeptic; two people run down in less than a week probably was a pattern, if not necessarily a supernatural one. But if it got him ten more seconds of keeping his eyes closed, he'd make the case.
"Yeah, except," Dean continued unfazed, "two separate witnesses swear that no one was actually driving the car."
That got Sam to sit up.
"And before you ask, neither of them were obviously drunk or high, and according to the Cincinnati Enquirer," Dean held up the paper as if to verify that yes, that was in fact the name of the paper, "one of them is a scientist for Proctor & Gamble. Not that scientists can't have wacky ideas, I guess. You remember that guy in Boston, wanted to channel demonic energy to power his whatchamacallit, that--"
"Dean!" Sam interrupted, and only partly because yes, he remembered, "Car. No driver."
"Right. So, Steve Dunbar, age forty-seven, mild-mannered accountant, got run down last night on Devil's Backbone Road." Sam's eyebrows must have gone up, because Dean added, "Swear to God, not making that up. Anyway, right there in the suburb, guy was run down crossing the street after going to a neighbor's to return a pair of hedge clippers. Neighbor heard the engine and a scream, and looked out her window just in time to see," Dean looked at the paper again, "a really big red and white car with no visible driver backing up over Dunbar. The car ran over him again, and sped off."
Sam took the paper and skimmed the article. A second witness, who apparently preferred to remain anonymous, which, really, who could blame him, also reported seeing a "vintage" red and white car with no visible driver run over Dunbar not once, but three times. The paper played up the driver aspect while being circumspect about the rest, including the usual "police are investigating" line.
"Any reason to think the two cases are connected?"
"Other than the coincidence of two guys getting pulped into the pavement in four days in the same city?" Dean asked. "Not yet. But we're here anyway, and it's probably worth at least checking out."
Sam nodded. No wonder Dean was in a good mood. It was time to get to work.
~~~
"I didn't say the car had no driver, " Harry Schaeffer said for the third time in about five minutes. "I just said I didn't see one." It seemed very important to him that Federal Mutual Life Insurance understand this, which, Sam supposed, made sense from a man who was probably only about thirty-five and already wore cardigans.
Sam and Dean had already talked to the witness named in the newspaper, who hadn't had much to say beyond what was reported. What she had provided was the name of the anonymous witness.
"Yes, sir, we understand that," Sam replied patiently, "but if we could get back to the car. You were the one who described it as vintage, right?"
Schaeffer rolled his eyes. "The Enquirer described it as vintage. I swear, I don't know where we'll turn for decent reporting once the Post closes its doors. I said it was a Plymouth Fury, looked like a '58 except the colors were wrong."
Sam blinked, less because of the unexpected detail than because it was coming from a guy who looked like Mister Rogers. Most of the guys he'd met who knew about cars looked more like, well, Dad. Or Dean.
He looked over at Dean, who was just out of Schaeffer's line of sight. Dean gave a small what-the-hell shrug and said, "Wrong in what way?"
Schaeffer looked at the bookshelves lining one wall with the unmistakable expression of someone searching for a book to support what they're about to say. It was an expression Sam had seen on countless college professors.
"The car was white and red. I couldn't vouch for the exact shade with the light being so dim, but I'd bet anything it was Autumn Red. The Fury didn't come in those colors until '59, but the lines of the car seemed more like a '58." Schaeffer seemed to find the book he was looking for, and leaned over to grab it. "Here, I can show you--"
"No, no," Dean interrupted. "We believe you." Schaeffer looked almost offended by this. "I mean," Dean added, "you obviously know what you're talking about."
That seemed to mollify him, and he continued, "Anyway, the car does have big front seats, so I suppose it's possible someone could have been ducked down there."
"Any chance it was being controlled remotely?" Sam asked.
Schaeffer snorted. "Down this street? Good luck. Part of what makes this area so appealing is that cars can only go so fast." He frowned. "Which, now that I think of it, the Fury shouldn't have been able to go as fast as it did. It wasn't even skidding. It shouldn't have that kind of torque." Now he did reach for a book and began thumbing through it.
Sam recognized a lost cause when he saw one. Apparently so did Dean, because he began making his standard exit comments.
"So, we're looking for a '58 Plymouth Fury with '59 colors," Sam said as they reached the Impala.
"I guess so," Dean replied. "Assuming Harold in there knows his shit, and anyone with that many books on classic cars probably knows his shit, although I'll eat my ratchet set if he's ever had his hands in an actual car in his life." Dean paused and looked up and down the street, at least the small portion that was visible before curves and hills obscured it. "You think you could drive this street ducked down out of sight?"
Sam looked at the hairpin turn five houses away. "Not really, no."
"Yeah, me, neither." Dean opened his car door. "Definitely a job here."
~~~
Sam hadn't realized just how much they'd come to rely on a charming smile to get information until they met Steve Dunbar's partner. Emily Grice was at most Dean's age, but everything about her demeanor made it quite clear who was in charge in this situation, and it sure wasn't Sam and Dean.
"Did you say you were from the FBI branch here in Cincinnati?" she asked in the middle of Dean's question about whether Dunbar had any enemies. It was the fourth time she had implicitly questioned their authenticity, beginning with the expected "Why is the FBI investigating a hit and run?" and ending with a complicated query about their tax work. Sam remembered just enough from his accounting classes to give a vague answer.
"Actually, we're from Columbus," Dean said, "And that's really all I can say," he added, cutting off the next question. "Ongoing investigation, I'm sure you understand."
"Oh. Well, no, Steve didn't have any enemies that I knew of. I mean," Emily said, tapping short but carefully manicured nails against her desk, "there's always someone who's sure you didn't get them the tax outcome they deserved, and Steve's done a few audits that brought some minor infractions to light, but nothing serious, and nothing recent. He was just telling me Friday that the people at Vital were going to be happy with the results." She looked a little wistful. "Said it was nice to give people good news for a change. Steve always loved the investigative part of audits, but he hated getting people in trouble."
Vital. Sam frowned. "Excuse me, was that Vital Health Insurance?" He shot Dean a look, and Dean returned it with a "Yeah, caught it, too" nod.
"Yes. Steve was performing an independent audit. There was some suspicion of embezzling, but it turned out to be a mistake. A fairly massive mistake, but no one person was actually at fault. In fact, everyone appeared to be very honest and above-board about the whole thing." She sighed. "It really made Steve happy."
Dean leaned forward in what Sam had come to recognize as his down-to-business pose. "You didn't happen to notice any cars around recently that … stood out?"
Emily frowned. "You mean other than the ones from the classic car thing at the Convention Center? Can't say that I have."
Sam managed to avoid rolling his eyes, but it was a near thing.
"Could be worse," Dean said in the Impala as he loosened his tie. "It could be a Plymouth Fury convention."
"Yeah, but did you catch that about Vital?"
Dean nodded. "Same company as the first victim."
"Didn't the police arrest someone for that?" Which, of course, wasn't exactly uncommon in supernatural situations. Once, in an introductory criminal justice course, Sam had caught himself wondering how many people were sitting in prison for crimes committed by a demon or Wendigo or other supernatural thing. He was halfway into a plan for a law practice before he reminded himself that he was done with that sort of thing.
"Wouldn't be the first time," Dean said.
The engine rumble that came at the end of Dean's sentence was so like the Impala's that Sam almost missed that Dean was just putting the keys in the ignition. If he hadn't noticed that, he probably also would have missed the flash of red and white turning a corner at the very edge of his vision.
Huh.
~~~
During his time in college, Sam realized that he was aware of certain cultural shifts that other kids his age weren't. At eighteen, most of his classmates pretty much thought that the way things were now was the way they always had been; they had no real knowledge of a time before cable, and not much of a time before the internet.
But what he really had perspective on was just how much the American landscape had changed over the years, and in particular, how small local businesses had given way more and more to chains. Most of the places the Winchesters stayed were small, roadside motels with maybe twenty rooms. The first time Dad checked them into a Comfort Inn, he and Dean had both spent several hours sitting carefully on the beds so as not to disturb the artfully arranged covers. Restaurants, too, were more often chain than the Mom's Diners John had favored (although he'd pretty much relied on Pizza Hut wherever they went). And if Sam admitted to liking the predictability of an Outback steak, Dean seemed to hold it as a point of pride that he'd never eaten in a T.G.I. Friday's in his life.
Which was how they ended up some place with a giant chicken on the roof. In fairness, the fried chicken was pretty good.
They ate at their usual dinner time of ninish, which was pretty common in big cities and small diners, but apparently not so much in the suburbs of Cincinnati. As a result, the parking lot was nearly deserted by the time they came out of the restaurant, the Impala sitting in solitary splendor.
"So, if this car, or whoever's using the car, is targeting Vital Health Insurance somehow," Dean said, "we could try staking out the building, see if the car shows up, or maybe…"
Dean's next words were lost under the deep rumble of an engine.
"Um, Dean?" Sam stopped walking and gripped the arm of Dean's jacket to make him do the same. "I don't think that's going to be necessary."
The headlights blinded them as a car that seemed too large to have hidden among the employee cars at the back of the lot moved a few yards toward them and sat there, idling. Through the glare of the headlights, Sam could just make out red and white metal.
An idling car shouldn't have sounded quite that threatening.
Sam ran through the available options in a matter of seconds. They could go back inside, but that would only delay things, and besides, it was nearly closing time, which meant more people coming out with them and possible collateral damage. They could try to find a place in nearby buildings that the car couldn't get to, but same problem, not to mention the relative odds of outrunning the car in the first place. Or they could try to get to their own car and get it moving.
All of this got conveyed to Dean as, "Car?"
"Car."
Over the years, they'd gotten pretty good at getting into cars quickly, and Dean had apparently improved during Sam's absence because he had the engine going by the time Sam had opened his door. Whether it was going to be fast enough to avoid getting pinned in by the oncoming car was another question.
"Hang on!" Dean yelled, and Sam braced himself as the Impala lurched backwards, barely clearing the parking lot divider to crash over a bush and out onto the street. Sam hardly registered the honking horns as Dean straightened out and took off north, away from the nearby shopping Mecca.
Judging from the continued honking, the Fury wasn't far behind, and sure enough, the Impala's rear view mirrors began reflecting the overpowering headlights.
"Okay, this could be a problem," Dean muttered. "Don't suppose you know of any burned down churches nearby?"
"Haven't had time to check," Sam said, wincing as Dean blew through a red light.
"Great. If you get any bright ideas in, oh, the next few seconds, be sure to let me," Dean cringed as a sudden hill caused the Impala to briefly leave the ground, "know."
The road took a long dive, and if that gave them some speed, it seemed to give the Fury more, its bumper knocking against them more than once. They picked up a few yards of distance just in time for the road to curve and head back up.
"This town really doesn't believe in grids, does it?" Dean said, yanking the wheel just in time to scrape against a barrier.
The Fury didn't even skid.
"Oh, that is so not fair," Dean said.
Still, they managed to pull ahead a bit, which would have been great if the street wasn't dead ending. Into another road, granted, but the intersection looked unforgiving of speed, particularly since the ground beyond it appeared to drop off.
"Dean," Sam warned.
"I see it. Not sure what I'm going to do, but I see it." He took a deep breath. "Okay, baby, don't let me down, here."
They took the turn without slowing down, and the Impala skidded off the road and down a short hill. Dean gunned the engine, but the damp grass wasn't exactly helping.
"Dean!" Sam held a hand up against the glare of the oncoming lights.
"Working on it." The tires continued to struggle for purchase.
The headlights were only feet away, and Sam instinctively turned away from the inevitable crash. He was so braced for it that as the shriek and crunch of metal hitting metal and giving way hit his ears, it took him nearly five seconds to realize they hadn't been hit.
He opened his eyes to see a huge SUV sitting in the intersection. The Fury was several feet away at an angle that, along with the crushed side, clearly indicated a crash. The SUV was just sitting there, no frantic owner getting out to see if everyone was okay, no backing up. Instead, it looked for all the world as if the two vehicles were staring each other down.
After a very long minute, the Fury backed into a nearby driveway, and pulled out heading in the opposite direction, the squeal of its tires seeming to say that this wasn't over. Sam heard rather than saw the passenger side door of the SUV open, and the driver came around the front into their field of vision. Sam was only mildly surprised to see the man who had saved him at the bar.
"You guys okay?" the man asked.
"Been worse," Dean answered. "Been better. Thanks for the save, there."
Porch lights began to go on in the houses set back on the road.
"We should probably get out of here," the man said. He gave them a long look. "And we should probably talk." He started to walk to the rear of the Impala, obviously intending to help push it, then stopped. "By the way," he added, "my name's Dennis Guilder."
Part II