Season Four

Episode Seven: Detroit Spirit

By Kittsbud

Part Two

Dean felt his hold on the shotgun tighten as the Pontiac’s roar suddenly abated. Was it trying to lull them into a false sense of security, or was the spirit they had come here to find about to show itself?

The metallic clang of the driver’s door signaled it may possibly be the latter, and he sucked down a breath in anticipation as the mystery vehicle’s owner stepped into the glare of the headlights.

“Well I’ll be…” Bobby was the first to lower his gun and start to chuckle, despite the fact that a man in uniform with a very shaky gun hand was now pointing a revolver at them.

“Friggin’ security,” Dean grumbled, letting his sawed-off slip into a less defensive position. “I thought they said this guy wouldn’t come on the plant grounds?”

Bobby shrugged and stepped forward to address the obviously terrified guard.

“H…hold it right there,” the graying sixty-two-year-old sentry stuttered. “I...identify yourselves and your business here or I’ll be forced to call this in to the police.”

Dean studied the man as he continued to stammer. At a guess, the guard had never had to confront the living – or the dead – before, and he appeared terrified at the prospect of actually having to apprehend someone.

Either that or he was scared of something more sinister they’d yet to discover, and their arrival had put the wind up him still further.

“Just take it easy there. We’re on the same team here, okay?” Dean glanced warily to Bobby and his brother, asking them to silently play along as he distorted the truth just a little. “We’ve been hired by the company.” He jerked his head towards the plant. “We’re here to look into what’s been going on at night.”

“GM sent you?” The guard looked at the trio uncertainly. “You don’t look like anyone a bunch of suits would hire…”

“We’re the guys they hire when they’re out of other more rational options,” Sam answered. “We know about the accidents…”

“Accidents? Is that what those jumped up pencil pushers are calling them? Sonny, there’s been deaths here, but not a one of them has been an accident.”

Sam nodded knowingly. “Can you tell us more?”

The guard took a second to consider it and then leaned through his car window, turning off the high beam of his headlights. “Alright. If you fellas can show me some I.D. we can all head back to my office at the gatehouse, and I’ll tell you a few tall tales. But when I’m done, you’re gonna think I’m crazier than a coyote.”

“Nah, we think that already.” Dean smirked playfully, handing over a phony business card and driving license.

The security man took it, rubbed at his jaw a moment and then handed it back. If he suspected anything, he didn’t show it, and instead holstered his weapon and offered up his hand.

“I’m Marvin,” he explained. “Been the gate man here for forty years, but this is the damned closest you’ll ever get me to the plant since the day it closed. C’mon, I’m getting the jitters just standing this close.”

And with that he dropped his bony frame back inside the patrol car and gestured for them to follow.

“What’s with you two? “ Bobby gawked as the brothers just looked at one another, apparently at a loss whether to trust Marvin or not. “You heard what the man said, get your sorry butts in the car! Time’s a wastin’!”

Dean scowled but did as he was told, carefully scrambling into the back with Sam while Bobby rode shotgun with Marvin.

Gatehouse

Sam studied Marvin as the skeletal security man poured coffee into several Styrofoam cups. Now that he was back in his own little environment, the guard had stopped stammering and his hands had stopped shaking. Even his cheeks had a somewhat rosier glow to them.

He didn’t seem an unpleasant man in any way, shape or form, but his angular features and well-worn skin gave a slightly menacing appearance. Perhaps that was why he’d been so well suited to security, even in his younger years.

As Sam wrapped his hands around the offered cup and took in the warmth it gave off, he realized Marvin actually reminded him of someone. Harry Dean Stanton, from all those old Carpenter movies…

Dean was undoubtedly getting a kick out of that if he’d also noticed the resemblance.

“Thanks.” Sam nodded to Marvin and took a sip of the soothing black liquid. Up until now, he hadn’t realized just how unnaturally cold it had been once they’d gotten close to the plant.

Of course, it could all be in his head after seeing the dancing robots and thriving production line inside, but he doubted it.

“So, you said you had something to tell us about what’s been going on around here?” Bobby asked, taking a cup from Marvin. “Maybe you could start at the beginning?”

Marvin took a seat in a chair with fake leather covering that had seen better days. The material squeaked as he settled, finding a comfortable spot.

“Well, if you ask me,” he sniffed, obviously enjoying the newfound attention. “All this started with Lou Macon. Lou was a supervisor on the nightshift at the plant. He was an old-timer with over forty years’ service. When news came that the place was gonna to be closed he was inconsolable. I guess he felt he wasn’t only gonna lose the job he loved, but at his age, there wasn’t gonna be no chance of employment elsewhere, either.”

“Well you can kinda see his point,” Dean agreed, his eyes locking onto a packet of cookies on Marvin’s table.

Marvin bobbed his head and offered up the double chocolate chips. “Yessir, you can feel for the guy, especially after what happened next. You see after the closure announcement, Lou was found hanging from the rafters of the plant’s paint shop. He’d left a note saying without Pontiac, there was nothing.”

“And you think Lou’s back, taking his revenge here now?” Dean mumbled through a mouthful of cookie.

Marvin shook his head and sighed. He looked almost sad. “Not revenge, no. I think old Lou has come back to make sure this plant never closes. Lots of the locals and laid off workers think the same, although you’ll be hard pressed to get them to admit it without getting them drunk first.”

Dean gulped down the last remnants of his cookie feeding frenzy and took a swig of coffee before looking carefully at Sam. “So, Sasquatch, how come your super search didn’t find any of this on record when you looked for deaths out here?”

Sam considered it. Maybe he’d been so engrossed in research about Ferinacci that he’d been remiss in his actual duties. On the other hand, he hadn’t actually been looking for someone who’d killed themselves.

“Maybe because I searched through accidental demises, not suicides,” he suggested, just a little apologetically.

Dean grunted and pointed outside the office window, his attention apparently already taken by something else. “Those cars out there, where’d they come from?” He questioned Marvin. “Weren’t all the cars produced here shipped out when the plant closed?”

Marvin’s sharp features creased in a knowing smile. “Yessir, nothing was left behind. Thing is, though, first of all the plant just made noise at night…” He coughed uneasily. “But y’see these last five nights it’s actually churned out a real car every evening. Now tell me that ain’t unnatural?”

“Very unnatural,” Sam chipped in.

“Once they come off the line, they just sit out there, lining up like little tin soldiers, and nobody dare move ’em.”

Dean shuddered and he set down his latest cookie, seemingly put off his munching by the off-the-wall vehicular behavior. “Every car needs a master,” he said huskily, his eyes darting to Bobby. “I’m just kinda scared who those five hunks of tin might belong to.”

Bobby bobbed his head in agreement, his thumb and forefinger rubbing at the base of his beard in troubled thought. Eventually he looked back to Marvin, his eyebrows furrowed. “Have you any idea why GM didn’t sell Pontiac as a going concern? I mean, this puppy was far from dead if you ask me.”

“Way I heard it, some big New York businessman actually offered a takeover, but he wanted the Pontiac name as well as the plant, and GM refused to let it go.” Marvin looked less than happy at the fact and his tone was raised slightly in apparent anger. “Damn Detroit fat cats would rather see a legend die than another company own it!”

“Bunch of dicks in suits,” Dean agreed. “Maybe I should go ventilate their asses with rock salt instead of old Lou’s…”

“Or,” Bobby scowled. “We should thank Marvin here for his time, and go see Mr. Macon’s wife in the morning.”

Marvin stood up expectantly and held out his hand.

Sam noted with amusement that the gesture was aimed at Bobby rather than the Winchesters. Despite his scruffy hat and rough appearance, apparently Bobby still held more gravitas than they did – which was probably only fair, given his experience.

Bobby took the guard’s hand and shook it heartily. “Thanks, you’ve saved us a whole lot of time, and a whole bunch of hunting with what you’ve told us.”

“Do you think you can deal with this without more bloodshed?” Marvin asked cynically. “I mean, can you really close a plant that won’t die?”

Bobby slapped him on the shoulder, probably exuding more confidence than he felt. “Trust me, there ain’t nothing out there that won’t die. You just gotta know the right way to kill it…”

Madison Heights
Oakland County, Michigan

Dean fumbled with the knot in his tie as it attempted to strangle him, wondering if the idea of a monkey suit was what had prompted Bobby to go shopping for ammo while they talked with Vera Macon.

Of course, Bobby would never admit to hating goon clothes, but sometimes Dean suspected they’d have to cut the old hunter’s baseball cap from his scalp should anything ever befall him.

Not that that helped Dean now as he dared to loosen the tie a little with a grunt of annoyance.

And was that a smirk he spotted on Sammy’s face out the corner of his eye?

He considered making his sibling walk back to their motel, but Vera Macon’s appearance from the kitchen with a tray of cream cakes saved his brother’s feet any further wear and tear.

“Why ma’am, you shouldn’t have,” Dean mouthed whilst simultaneously managing to lick his lips.

Vera smiled. “Oh nonsense! It’s not very often I get company any more. Especially not since…”

“Since the strange happenings at the plant?” Sam prompted softly.

The old woman’s graying hair seemed to almost bristle, and she slumped back into an armchair as if the life had suddenly drained out of her. “Who did you say you work for again?” She asked half-heartedly.

Sam flashed her his wallet, but she appeared to hardly pay the documents inside any attention. It seemed like any mention of the Oakland factory, let alone her husband, were too much for her to contemplate.

“We’re investigators working on behalf of General Motors, ma’am…”

“And we’re very sorry to have to bring all this back up again,” Dean chirped in. “But well, people have died.” He looked longingly at the buns on the table, but for once decided this was the place for tact, not the indulgence of sugary foodstuffs.

Vera twisted the links of a delicate gold necklace that dangled on her chest nervously and sighed. “I suppose you want to know about my Lou?” She eventually asked, picking up a small photo frame and handing it to Dean. “He was such a happy man…”

“Until GM announced the closure of the plant, right?”

“Yes.” Vera nodded, her eyes becoming glassy. “He loved cars – especially Pontiacs. But he became so upset when GM announced they were phasing out the brand that it all became…too much for him. He took his own life, and all for his love of that wretched company.”

Dean glanced to his brother before asking the next question. This was always where it got a little tricky. The key was, not to get their butts tossed out for being nutjobs before they’d gathered any intel that might be important.

He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Macon, this may sound a little strange, but do you think your husband thought strongly enough about this to…to well, try other measures to keep the plant open?”

Vera looked at him – just looked. Then she stared over her half-moon spectacles like a school teacher and looked again. “Other measures? Mr. Tyler, it may have escaped you, but my husband is dead.”

Dean nodded, ignoring the abruptly acerbic tone in the old woman’s voice. She was definitely a changeable old girl. “Yes, ma’am, but you must have heard the local rumors? People are saying someone is haunting the Oakland Pontiac plant. You gotta admit, Lou is a pretty likely candidate.”

Vera blinked.

And then began to chuckle.

“Why young man, you seriously think my Lou is a ghost? What do they teach children in school these days?”

Not enough about ganking the undead, Dean considered, but didn’t vocalize his thoughts.

“We’re very sorry, Mrs. Macon, but we have to follow every avenue of investigation, no matter how unlikely.” Sam interrupted, kicking his brother in the shin under the oak coffee table that separated them. “It’s probably all some publicity stunt by the local union, but we do have to cover every angle.”

“People would actually make up rumors about the old plant being haunted just to stir trouble for the company?”

“Anything is possible,” Sam played along. “In fact, they might even involve your husband’s name, given that he felt so strongly about all this.” He shot a glance to Dean. “Could you perhaps tell us where Lou is buried, so we can check no one has tampered with the grave?”

Vera looked slightly taken aback, but not because she was horrified at the prospect of the debasement of her husband’s burial place. “You mean no one told you?”

“Told us what?” Sam asked, his expression becoming puzzled at her latest change in attitude.

“Why, Lou was cremated. All the bosses from the plant were there. Shouldn’t you know that, being from GM?”

Sam coughed, partially in surprise, and partially to cover up the fact that he had no answer for a very sweet, but crafty old lady.

Vera seemed sympathetic. “That’s a nasty hack you have there, let me get you some water…”

Sam winced as Vera ambled off into the kitchen. “That went well.”

“Yeah, no wonder her husband ganked himself with her to come home to. Is it me or is she a few short of a six pack, and then some?”

“I think I’d use the word eccentric, Dean.”

“Crazy as a coyote works for me.” Dean glanced around as if he were being spied upon, then plucked one of the cream cakes from the table and took a bite. A huge splodge of white cream attached itself to the tip of his nose, but he appeared oblivious. “So, Lou was cremated, now what?” he managed between mouthfuls.

Sam shook his head. “Hope there’s something holding him here we can destroy? An item of clothing, a piece of hair, anything.”

“Here we go!” Vera returned from the kitchen with a whole pitcher of water and a glass, which she set down in front of Sam.

She’s getting attached to him like a kid gets attached to a puppy dog, Dean contemplated. At least, I hope it’s that kinda affection…

“So, Mrs. Macon, can you tell us if anything bad ever happened to your husband out at the plant. Any incidents or accidents?”

Vera apparently didn’t need to even think about it. “Well there was the finger episode…”

“Finger?” Sam pulled a face, obviously unsure if he should be asking what that was all about. Dean mouthed the word too as if something unsavory was about to come out.

“Why yes.” Vera tapped a forefinger to her lips in thought. “Let me see now, it must be oh, nineteen years ago now. Lou was working on some car over at the plant and lost a couple of fingers. He always joked that they never actually found one of the suckers.”

Dean almost choked on the piece of cake he’d just popped into his mouth. “Gross,” he coughed out before thinking. “I mean…um, don’t tell me there’s a car still hanging around with the remains of a guy’s finger inside it?”

Sam shot his brother a look of annoyance. “Mrs Macon,” he tried to recover the situation. “Did GM scrap the car after the accident? I mean, they’d never sell a car with a human finger in, right?”

Vera suddenly chuckled until her spectacles began to mist over. She tugged them off and placed them on her knee. “Oh my dear boy, Lou wouldn’t let them dismantle anything! He asked to buy that puppy himself. Even joked that it was part of him.”

Dean scowled and didn’t try to hide it, despite more looks from Sam to shut his cakehole - literally. “Man, talk about Christine here or what?”

Vera smiled at the comment. Maybe she hadn’t seen the movie, or maybe she was just as whacked as Dean suspected.

“Can I ask what happened to the car after your husband passed away?” Sam was leaning forward now, pressing the widow to stay focused.

“Oh, well, I can’t drive and it was just taking up space in the garage. I let Marty have it. He’s a good boy, you know.”

“Marty?” It was Sam’s turn to fiddle with his tie as he spoke, and there was a distinct line of perspiration on his brow.

The old witch is finally getting to him, Dean noted with a smirk of satisfaction.

“Marty is our son.” Vera pointed to another photograph above the fireplace. “He doesn’t have the car now, though. He traded that old thing in while the government cash for clunkers scrappage scheme was running.”

Dean pressed a hand against his forehead. “Great, that’s just great,” he bemoaned. The friggin’ car has been cubed! How are we supposed to find a finger bone in a junkyard haystack?

“Just one more thing and we’ll be on our way, ma’am,” Sam apologized. “Did you or your son ever see or hear anything strange around the car after your husband died?”

Vera considered it. “No, why would we? It was just an old car.”

Sam smiled. “Yes, yes of course.” He stood up. “Well thank you for everything ma’am.”

Vera blushed as if she was being hit on. “Why no, thank you two delightful young men for brightening my day. I loved Lou dearly,” she explained. “But he wasn’t exactly Robert Redford in the looks department, if you know what I mean.”

She winked, and Dean made a beeline for the door without excusing himself or thanking her for the cakes.

Being called a “ladies man” was one thing, but even he drew the line somewhere.

As far as his brother was concerned, one simple rule always applied when it came down to amorous old fruit loops. Every man for himself, Sammy. Every man for himself…

The Grand Am Motel
Outskirts of Oakland

“I’m telling you man, she was one whacked old lady.” Dean was sitting on the end of his bed dismantling his .45 without actually looking at the components.

“She was harmless, Dean. I mean, c’mon, what was she gonna do, overpower us both and use us as her sex toys?” Sam was chuckling as he watched his brother’s disgusted expression turn into a look of sheer horror at the idea.

“Dude, she may not have had the strength to pull it off, but that wasn’t stopping her thinking about it.” Dean set the silver Colt down and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Anyway, what we should really be worrying about is her even wackier dead husband. What kind of freak buys the car that took off two of his fingers?”

“The kind of freak that haunts his old workplace, maybe?” Bobby butted in as he ambled through the door with a bag of groceries under one arm.

“Maybe,” Sam agreed. “But this is one spirit we can’t salt and burn. Mrs. Macon confirmed Lou was cremated. And the only other thing that might be holding him here is a finger that’s still inside a trashed car somewhere…”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Well ain’t that just great. Haven’t you pair of yahoos found out anything useful while I’ve been out for chow?”

“Not unless you count the fact that good ol’ Vera would like to replace Lou with a newer model,” Dean admitted.

“Then I’m thinkin’ we’re just gonna have to go back to the plant tonight and figure it out from there.” Bobby tossed over a couple of subs to the brothers and then plucked a sandwich from the brown bag for himself. Before taking a bite, he shook his head. “You know, it still bothers me that no one has actually seen Lou’s ghost. If the guy is so pissed, why isn’t it his form everyone sees?”

“But it has to be him, right?” Sam asked, unwrapping his food. “Who else has a motive for what’s been going on?”

“I dunno,” Bobby conceded with a sigh. “But I’m tellin’ ya, I got a bad feeling about this one. Pack plenty of hardware, ’cause I ain’t likin’ the joyride my gut is taking me on.”

Dean shoved the end of his sub into his mouth and then grimaced – or at least attempted to grimace with such a huge amount of food in his mouth. “Dude,” he mumbled through serious munching. “With fillings like this, no wonder your stomach thinks its Armageddon…”

Bobby tossed his rolled empty wrapper across the room and Dean narrowly dodged it. “Next time, you pay for the food, smartass!”

“Next time,” Dean grunted. “We go to a diner, preferably one that actually serves more than lettuce on two slices of Styrofoam.” He pulled at the slightly rubbery sub to make his point.

“Alright, alright,” Bobby waved a hand in defeat. “What say we get the show on the road and eat later?”

Sam glanced down at the empty packaging and small mound of crumbs in his hand. “Err, sounds good to me.” He smiled sheepishly, obviously having enjoyed his impromptu meal, even if no one else had.

“And they say I’m the one that’ll eat any old crap,” Dean chuckled, pulling out a rucksack from under his bed to fill with weaponry.

“Just make sure your gun choices are better than your food ones and you’ll do just fine,” Bobby quipped, picking up a holdall he’d apparently filled to the brim with weapons.

As the two bickered, neither noticed that Sam hadn’t moved or attempted to retrieve any firearms or salt. Instead, a creased, worried expression had turned his dimples into a frown.

Eventually, Bobby realized the younger man wasn’t preparing to leave. “Some reason you’re sitting there doing squat, Sam?”

Sam swallowed. “I think you’re right to have a bad feeling about this.” He swallowed again. “I’m getting it too…”

“‘Bad’ as in one of your freaky premonition gigs?” Dean instantly looked worried.

“No, just…I don’t know. I just think we might be walking into something we can’t get out of. Maybe one of us should stay behind in case we need an out.”

“As in somebody gotta play the cavalry in case you two get yourselves into your very own Little Big Horn, huh?” Bobby’s frown mirrored Sam’s.

“Kinda,” Sam agreed, looking apologetically at the elder man. “I know this was originally your hunt but…”

Bobby took off his soiled cap and tossed it onto the table with a sigh. “But you’d feel better if I was on the outside in case those machines go rabid on ya?” He dropped down into a chair with a look of disappointment.

“Well, if you get bored, we know where there’s a hot chick named Vera who’d just love your attention, dude.” Dean patted Bobby on the back as he slung his rucksack over his shoulder.

“I’m not that old.” Bobby groused. “And besides, just lately it’s not me attracting the older women.” He winked at Sam. “If you ask me, you boys are slipping…”

He chuckled as Dean ducked outside, the door slamming in his wake as he muttered. “He must be talking to you, Samantha…”

Disused Car Plant
Oakland County, Michigan

Dean swung the Impala up to the gatehouse, honked the horn and waited. It took Marvin two minutes to get up from his chair and actually check on his newest visitors. Not exactly a security world record, but at least he was actually on duty.

“Hey there,” Dean greeted the guard. “We have to do a survey of the plant for the suits back in Detroit. Gonna need access.” He smiled, but Marvin was blinking at him with a stony look that reminded the hunter of a little grey alien from The X-Files.

The guard’s flashlight clicked on and was pointed straight into Dean’s face, despite the fact he knew full well who he was talking to.

This dude’s so been watching too many horror flicks…

“Kinda late to be doing any kind of survey, ain’t it?” Marvin was apparently far less scared than on their last encounter. False bravado, no doubt, and damned annoying to boot.

Dean shrugged innocently. “Just doing our job. They pay the bucks, we follow their instructions.”

Marvin sniffed and finally flicked the light back off. Sliding it onto his utility belt, he gestured with his thumb to a row of empty parking spaces on the outside of the security fencing.

“Okay,” he decided. “You can go inside, but your car stays here. And don’t be getting any ideas about me giving you the guided tour of the place, neither. I don’t go inside the factory. They don’t pay me enough.”

“Me either,” Dean agreed as he spun the Chevy into the middle spot. “But somebody has to do the dirty work around here.”

Marvin sniffed and scooted back into his gatehouse.

“Well isn’t he a barrel of laughs tonight?” Dean groused.

Sam peered through the windshield, watching the guard’s silhouette sink back down into his chair inside the gatehouse. “He’s just scared. And I can’t say as I blame him.”

Dean pushed open his door and leaned back inside, grabbing his sack from the rear seat. “Sheesh, that last gig at the toy shop really did turn you into mush, didn’t it?”

“Dean.” Sam was serious. His dimples had vanished altogether and he had that costive look that said he’d been thinking way too hard. “I just think we should be extra careful on this one, okay?”

“Okay, message received and understood. Now get your butt out here before Marvin the Martian decides to join us.”

Sam dragged his lanky frame free of the Impala and collected his own bag from the trunk. Careful not to remove any weaponry in front of Marvin or any security cameras, they strode inside onto the actual plant grounds.

There was no moon, only harsh grey clouds that cast a foreboding blanket over the night sky. It wasn’t exactly creepy, but it felt cold, as if there was no life at all beyond the high steel fences that surrounded the perimeter of the building.

Dean began to hum some unknown rock anthem as he walked, trying to push away the feeling Sam’s warning had instilled in him. The trouble was, he was feeling it too, even before they reached the bleak walls of the plant.

From the corner of his eye, he noted the five “bastard” Pontiacs the factory had created. They looked wrong, although he couldn’t put a finger on a reason why.

Then something flashed.

It was so abrupt, so fleeting, he almost thought he’d imagined it. But then, his hunter’s senses were too finely honed for that. He spun around to stare at the unholy vehicles.

“Sammy, I swear…”

“You saw one of their headlights blink,” Sam completed for him. “Yeah, I saw it too.”

“And there’s no one else out here.”

Sam slowly licked his lips. “Not a soul. At least, not a living one.”

The first car in the line-up, a blue Solstice, seemed to hear him, and its lights began to emit a faint glow that grew in intensity until it appeared the lamps were on high beam.

There was no one inside to flick a switch, not even a visible apparition that the brothers could lay the blame on.

“And again I say, the lights are on but nobody’s home,” Dean growled.

The Solstice responded with a cough as the ignition suddenly kicked in, cranking the engine into life. But the car didn’t move, it simply seemed to glare at them, its motor roaring as if some teenage daredevil was gunning the gas.

“Dude, I think we’ve just taken the shortcut straight into Maximum Overdrive. Now all we need is some kickass AC/DC and I’ll know I’m dreaming.”

“First the Christine story from Vera Macon and now this?” Sam grimaced. “I think we’re sharing the same nightmare…”

Dean pulled his sawed-off from the sack on his shoulder and pumped it. “Yeah, well don’t look now, but that nightmare just multiplied.”

The car next to the Solstice’s headlights flicked on, followed by the third, then the fourth, then the fifth car’s lights. It was like plugging in Christmas tree decorations – except it was far less fun.

Each cars motor kicked in next, until the area was filled with a cacophony of automotive sound that rivaled a Wagner opera.

“Time to shag ass, little brother!” Dean pulled his weapon’s trigger twice in quick succession whilst dodging to the right.

The spray from the shotgun did little to stop the sudden full frontal from the Pontiacs, and Dean cursed himself for not having any real cartridges at hand. Rock salt was great for spooks, but did little when you wanted to gank a car.

As Dean dived right, Sam rolled to the left, just managing to pull his Glock from his waistband as he narrowly escaped the edge of the Solstice’s front tire.

The car swerved and its invisible driver pulled a handbrake turn to make a second attack.

Sam lined up his sights on the car’s hood and then apparently realized he had no real target.

Making a quick decision, he let the gun drop until the barrel was aligned with the car’s front tire and then fired.

Amazingly, the Solstice appeared to second-guess him and veered off the very second he’d pulled back on the trigger. There was a blur of blue as the vehicle screeched past Sam and began to make another turn.

With seconds before it and its mechanical brethren made another attack, he tried to locate his missing brother. “Dean!”

A familiar spiky-haired head bobbed up from behind a bush that ran parallel with the path they’d been on. “Man, these suckers have been watching Knight Rider a little too often!” He took a shot at a red G6 sedan as it dared to head for him. “Somebody needs to tell these puppies not all Pontiacs are supposed to drive themselves…”

“Now I know why I prefer KITT when he’s a Mustang,” Sam grumbled as he joined his brother in firing on the G6.

Dean scowled as he stuffed the shotgun back in his bag and pulled out his Colt. “Hey! Dude, Mustangs are for wusses who don’t know how to drive a real car, okay? Besides, I think you just got a soft spot for Deanna Russo…”

Sam smiled sheepishly. “Bite me!” He jerked his Glock towards the glass main entrance/reception area to the plant. “I think it’s time to regroup and rethink this mess.”

Dean nodded. “Okay, Samantha, ladies first. I’ll stick around here and cover that ungainly butt of yours until its safe inside. Wouldn’t want any tire marks on that pretty rear end now would we?” He grinned and then fired as the Solstice made another run at him.

With at least one of the cars’ attentions elsewhere, Sam dashed into the open, making a beeline for the main entrance. As he dodged back and forth, firing randomly, the G6 appeared to lock on to him like a night fighter with an ace at its controls.

Dean spotted the car and was instantly torn. Fire at the Solstice and save his own skin, or fire at the G6 to give his brother more time?

Without a thought for himself, he changed his target to the G6, emptying his clip at the car’s wheels until the rear right tire exploded in a shower of rubber on the asphalt.

The car fishtailed, the metal rim of the wheel skidding off the road and digging into the loose earth of a verge.

It revved hard, wheels spinning as it tried to escape its earthy prison, but for now, the car was stuck, top soil spitting from its rear end in tiny brown sods.

Dean rammed another clip home in his Colt and spun around, narrowly missing being hit by the Solstice as it angrily roared past him. It was his turn to make the break for it now, and the enemy was pissed.

While the Solstice turned to try and nudge the G6 clear of its earthy incarceration, its three remaining brethren all focused on the elder hunter.

From the protection of the main entrance, Dean could hear Sam trying to give him cover, but at this distance, it did little to help.

Hell, at any distance, with this foe it would be like firing with a pea-shooter.

Dean grunted as he bolted over another prickly hedge and was rewarded with several spiny thorns in his behind. Sammy would find that highly funny – if either of them lived to talk about it.

As he rolled again, trying not to stay still even for a second, there was a yelp to his left that caught his attention. It wasn’t a metallic cry for help from one of the ‘injured’ cars, but a human howl of utter terror.

Daring not to run for the plant while he still had a gap in the line of attacking cars, Dean whirled around to see Marvin cowering by the nearest verge as one of the Pontiacs bore down on him.

Without help, the man was a sitting duck for the enraged automobiles.

Crap! Talk about deer in the headlights…

Making a split second decision, Dean darted towards the security man instead of the plant, firing randomly at the attacking Pontiac.

The car kept coming, but he didn’t flinch, still running at it like he was playing a very dangerous game of chicken.

Marvin’s eyes lit up as he saw the hunter turn to try and aid him, but his elation was short lived as the Solstice and freed G6 joined in the pursuit.

Skidding to a halt next to the huddled guard, Dean grabbed the back of the man’s jacket and yanked him to his feet. Spinning the still shaking Marvin around, he shoved the guard in the center of his back so hard he was propelled forwards out of the oncoming path of the first car.

Dean fired again relentlessly until the Pontiac’s windshield shattered into a spider’s web of safety glass. Had there been a driver, he would have been blinded, but this car didn’t need to “see” it simply knew what needed to be done.

Sensing he was seconds from death if he remained static, Dean spun to follow Marvin’s sprint towards the safety of the plant.

And behind, still it came.

Unyielding hatred in the form of a car.

Dean could feel the heat from its overworked engine on his heels like a hound biting at his ankles. He could hear the loathing it held for man in the roar of its engine.

But worst of all, he knew without a doubt that this four-wheeled thing that he would normally love like family, wanted without question to take his life.

Dean blinked, keeping his eyes closed and dived forwards, trying to propel Marvin and his own body sideways out of the path of their attacker. It was a move borne of desperation.

It was a moment in time that lasted mere seconds, but seemed to continue for all eternity, the Pontiac’s tires screaming in protest as it tried to compensate and crush the interlopers beneath its wheels.

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The Winchester Chronicles