A/N: Although this story contains no spoilers as such, it was when I saw the preview for 5.5 that I realised I'd never posted it online! This story was originally published in the Agent With Style Zine A'Hunting We Will Go in May 2007. Any similarities to upcoming episodes are entirely coincidental!

Little Bastard

To my friends at B.P.T.E.

Black Ridge Farm

California

Ethan Turner bounced the basketball on the desiccated earth and sighed. Why his father had thought a fourteen-year-old would find a farm fun was beyond him.

When his Dad had said they were going to California, he'd instantly imagined golden beaches, flashy sidewalks peppered with glamorous stars, and above all some luxurious condo to brag about to his less fortunate friends.

Instead, all Ethan had gotten so far was bored, and damn quickly too.

There was simply nothing for a kid his age to do on the derelict wreck his father had bought to turn into a holiday home. The main house was somewhat intact, but the rest of the outbuildings were in tatters.

It had taken Bill Turner almost half a day to securely fit Ethan's hoop to the rotting barn front. Lord only knew what horrors lay hidden in the dilapidated storage place he was playing outside.

"Probably rats everywhere…" Ethan swatted his hand down atop the ball again, but it wouldn't even spring back because the yard was just so messy and uneven. He grunted, noting his mother taking a small crate from a U-Haul trailer and carrying it into the house. "Man, this is so degrading…why can't they just pay someone to do the work?"

The youngster shook his head and turned his attention back to the ball. If he couldn't do anything else, he guessed he'd have to shoot a few hoops and gripe some more. Having rich parents wasn't always a bonus – not when they were self-made like his father.

Bill Turner had worked his way up the corporate ladder the hard way, and he never let anyone forget it, especially his family.

The day he announced he'd bought a "family retreat," he'd also announced they'd be doing all the work to refurbish the place themselves. Ethan could still remember the look of disapproval he'd received after groaning about having to decorate his own room and help rebuild broken down fences.

Dad had said it would do him good, had even made the promise they'd get some kind of manager for the place once it was finished so Ethan could keep horses there all year.

"Yeah, like I really want a freakin' horse!" Ethan took aim and launched the basketball into the air with his best pitch. It hit the hoop edge and spun for a second on the metal rim before rolling straight through the center. Ethan didn't even bother to cheer himself.

He should be with people his own age, not roaming around some Godforsaken ranch in the middle of nowhere. Why would Dad think this is fun for anyone?

The teen tried to catch the ball as it dully recoiled off the hard loam, but somehow it slipped through his fingers and rolled swiftly through a broken lat in the barn, coming to rest somewhere unseen in the gloom.

Ethan shot a glance to the farmhouse and then forced his lanky body to stoop down and peer inside into the darkness. His parents had told him at least a hundred times not to go into any of the outbuildings until a local carpenter had been over to assess just how much work the place needed. It was highly likely some of the structures would be considered unsafe and beyond reasonable repair.

Yeah, right. Well investigating an old barn full of junk sure beats moping around outside. And I do have an excuse that I was just getting the ball…

Ethan took one more fleeting look over his shoulder and then pried back a section of wood, allowing him to squeeze his body inside without using the main shutter doors. His father had those all locked up with a huge chain to stop any teenage prying.

Once inside, Ethan realized his mistake. The barn had no electricity, and he hadn't exactly had the forethought to bring a flashlight. It was almost pitch black inside with just the evening's dusk hues for illumination. Only the odd ray of receding sun leaking through the rafters afforded him any glimpse of his surroundings.

"Freaky…" Ethan didn't know why, but the place reminded him of something out of a horror movie. If anyone had pinned him down, he wouldn't have been able to give a title, but this place scared him – scared him more than any big screen flick ever would or could.

He shuddered, his shoulders suddenly wrapped around by a frigid blast of air. There was no wind outside, not even the slightest breeze, but in the barn an icy zephyr had formed, whipping up latent swirls of dust that hadn't moved in decades.

Ethan hastily glanced around for his lost basketball, all thoughts of exploration instantly forgotten. Maybe his parents were right after all. This wasn't anywhere he wanted to hang out – ever.

After a few seconds of panicked searching, his eyes locked on a smear of bright orange in his otherwise bland surroundings.

The elusive ball had somehow rolled all the way across the interior of the barn to a crumbling workbench. From what he could tell, it had wedged underneath and sat innocently waiting for him to get up the nerve to collect it.

Right then, the basketball might as well have been on the moon. Ethan didn't want to move from the security of the hole in the barn wall. He didn't want to shift his tall frame from the waning shafts of light and into the darkness that beckoned him.

The teen didn't know why. He didn't understand the abrupt feelings rampaging through his mind and body. Feelings of fear, feelings of danger, feelings that he was not alone in the barn, and hadn't been from the moment he entered.

Jesus, I've been watching too much TV. It's a barn. I'm fourteen, not four. Get a grip…

Ethan could hear all his friends back in New York laughing at his cowardice already. He was a wuss. He let the dark scare him. "No way!"

Ethan took a slow tentative step towards the ball, followed by another, and another until he reached the workbench. The wooden table had a vice attached to it at one end and a few rusted tools scattered on the other. Nothing unusual, nothing scary, and yet, his body's muscles convulsed anew.

Ethan swallowed and clenched his hands, building the nerve to kneel and reach across to tap the basketball from its resting place. He whacked at the orange sphere hard, expecting it to pop from its niche, but it refused to budge.

The teenager let out a low expletive, gleefully aware that neither of his parents could hear his cursing. He swatted the ball again, and this time, something did move, but not what he was expecting.

From behind him, the intimidating shadow of an adult fell across his form and Ethan instantly regretted his language. There would be hell to pay that he was in here, but if his father had heard his cursing too, his butt would be in deep trouble.

Ethan began to turn, began to try and explain just why he'd disobeyed his parents' express instructions, but he never got to finish his apology.

Something above his head gave way with a grating "twang" and he was compelled to look up. Above the workbench was a large support beam covered in corroding metal hooks. Each hook held a tool or once important piece of equipment for the farm.

As he watched in dumbstruck horror, the nearest hook to his head seemed to crumble with age and rot and the section of plow blade it held came crashing down towards his skull.

The teenager finally yelled out in blind terror, his mind screaming for his body to move, but every sinew refusing, like a rabbit caught in a vehicle's headlights.

He held up a hand reflexively, putting little thought into the fact that it would take the full brunt of the impact.

Ethan felt the curved, oxidized edge of the plow come down on his left hand, felt the aged metal sear into his flesh, its weight severing two of his fingers instantly. He heard his own guttural cry as he rolled, trying in vain to ward off damage that had already been done.

Pain coursed through his hand, spiking up to his elbow as he screwed his eyes shut in agony. The action only brought on a bout of nausea, and when his eyelids fluttered back open he was forced to see the true horror of his injury.

Blood oozed from two stumps where his fingers had been ripped from his hand. Pure white shattered proximal bones protruded from the ragged soft tissue and sinew that remained, leaving no chance of reattachment – there was simply too much damage.

But then, the torment didn't end there. The two remaining fingers dangled loosely by thin shreds of skin, little else holding them to a hand that looked more like ground beef that a human limb.

Ethan howled this time, holding nothing back until his lungs burned. Dad? Where's Dad?

The injured teenager rocked his body over onto his back, trying desperately to cradle the mass of blood that he'd been shooting hoops with only moments earlier.

In his mind, he expected to see his father already calling for help on his hi tech cell phone. Instead, all Ethan's tear-filled eyes saw was a strangely dressed, fleeting figure dissipating into the air like steam being sucked through an open window.

Black Ridge Farm

California

Three Weeks Later…

Dean Winchester carefully let the Chevy's wheel slide through his fingers as he took the sharp right into Tussock Lane. The road was little more than a hard dirt track, and the Impala's suspension groaned with the effort of traversing the rutted ground and simultaneously making such a turn. The big black lady simply hadn't been built for such road conditions.

"Dude, why the hell didn't a rich guy like Turner buy some Hollywood mansion next door to Bruce Willis or something?" Dean shot a glance across to his younger brother who was sifting through paperwork on his knee, oblivious to the road conditions. "I mean, he has enough money to buy the friggin' Queen Mary for a vacation, right?"

Sam looked up, a small smile spreading across his features. Dean just didn't like rich people, period, and as usual he was making it blatantly obvious by finding something to gripe about every five minutes.

Sam suspected it was less about actual wealth, and more about how the affluent tended to treat "normal people" that got Dean all fired up. But still, he was going to have to curb the attitude a little, because like it or not, Bill Turner needed their help.

"Dean, from what I've read about this guy he's not your regular, rich asshole. He sounds pretty down to earth. That's why he bought this place rather than a ready-made beach house." Sam picked up a printed out e-mail and scanned it briefly before continuing. "Sarah says he likes to collect art, and that's how she met him. He's bought several pieces from the Blakes' auction house, but he always allows the pieces to be displayed locally."

Dean cocked a brow sarcastically. "Gee whiz, I guess that makes him Mr. Charity 2007 then, huh? So, basically, your old girlfriend Sarah likes the guy so we gotta take the case?"

Sam scowled. "Sarah gets along pretty well with Bill Turner's wife. They've known each other a long time and Sarah has never seen her scared by anything like this before."

"Okay, so, we're here because some loaded chick got scared by the big ol' farmhouse in the dark, or have you actually got something for us to investigate?" Dean's eyes left the potholed lane and locked on the buildings ahead. The house was far larger than he'd imagined, and from this distance didn't look as tumbledown as the rest of the structures spattered across the vast expanse of private land. "I mean, I'll take Turner's money to tell him this place is clean, but playing Ghostbusters when we could be hunting something real? That kinda ticks me off…"

"I think we could have something very real here." Sam let the papers in his hand fall back onto his lap and looked up at the farm as he spoke. The place looked innocent enough, but from what Sarah Blake had told him, it may well hold some kind of dark secret. "Turner bought the farm pretty recently to refurbish as a holiday home. It's been derelict since 1960, so it needs work – lots if it. The thing is, since the Turners moved in they've had nothing but bad luck. Bill's 4x4's accelerator stuck while he was coming down the driveway. He had to jump clear…" The younger hunter pointed to a damaged tree trunk as they passed it.

Dean shrugged, slowing the Impala as he reached a small parking area. "So, the family has almost as shit luck as the Winchesters. Hardly proof of a supernatural presence here."

"There's more, Dean. Turner's wife almost broke her neck after her horse was spooked, and their fourteen-year-old son Ethan lost a couple of fingers in an accident in the barn." Sam paused as his brother shut off their ride's engine, waiting patiently for more skepticism from his sibling.

"Maybe they're just accident prone? They're big city dwellers. Stuff like this must be like being dropped back into the dark ages to them." Dean sighed. "I'm telling you, Sammy, these people don't need us, they need to watch Little House on the Prairie reruns or something…"

"Dean, both Ethan and Turner's wife saw a wraith-like figure at the exact moment of their accidents. From the description, the guy was in his early twenties and his hair and clothes appeared to be a similar style to those of the fifties."

"Huh?" Dean had half-swung open the Impala door, convinced he was on a wild ghost chase. Now, he might just have to re-evaluate that appraisal. He slammed the heavy metal door back again and shot Sam his "okay, carry on smart ass" look. "You checked out this place's history, right? 'Cause it's kinda strange it's been empty almost half a century."

"I looked up as much as I could find before we set out. It seems Black Ridge Farm was an asset of the late Winston Frederick, a British billionaire who moved to the States back in the fifties. He never lived here, and he never once visited the place. Frederick died in a car crash in 1960, and the house has remained part of his estate until his heir recently sold it on to Turner for next to nothing. There's no reason to think Frederick would haunt the place, and there are no previous events in the farm's history that might cause a haunting."

Dean shot another glance to the farmhouse. It almost looked quaint, but then appearances in his line of work were often deceiving. There could be a whole tribe of spirits dancing around the ether out here, old-world charm or not. "No events in the farm's history. What about the land? Dude, remember Oklahoma?"

Sam winced. Oasis Plains was not one of his more pleasant memories. Being attacked by millions of bees and just about every other insect that wandered the planet was not his idea of a fun gig. Still, Dean had a point. America may not have as long a history as some countries, but it sure had its dark spots. "I'll double check the land records and local stuff as soon as we've spoken with the Turners."

"Sounds like a plan." Dean finally climbed from the Impala, grabbing a small duffel bag that contained their equipment from the rear seat. "C'mon, let's go see if Richie Rich can shed any light on our spirit."

Sam glanced around the farmhouse's kitchen, noting the abundance of still unopened packing cases and suitcases that lay scattered across every free surface. If the Turners had made any impact on the moving in process, he couldn't see it. But then, from what Sarah Blake had told him, Melanie Turner was just about ready to put the luggage back in the U-Haul and leave.

Melanie was scared. Scared for herself, and scared for her family. Sam could see that just be looking into her beautiful green eyes – eyes that darted around the room every few seconds looking for something, eyes afraid of what they actually might see.

Sam took his gaze from the terrified woman and instead focused on her husband. Bill Turner was about forty-five, handsome, with a physique that suggested he worked out more than he let on. He didn't have the same trepidation in his eyes as his wife, and if anything, the younger Winchester sensed the brothers' presence somewhat amused the entrepreneur.

Dean was apparently feeling the same vibe. "I'm sorry, were you expecting two guys in clown suits or something? 'Cause, dude, I can take my ass back out the door just as fast as it came in…" He jerked a thumb to the hallway and rolled his eyes at his little brother. Man, and Sammy thinks this bozo isn't a rich jerk…

Turner cleared his throat and his cheeks flushed a shade of crimson. "I'm sorry…I just. It's just when Melanie told Sarah about what had happened here, and Sarah suggested you people…" He looked down to the pine flooring. "I don't believe in such things, you understand? At least I didn't. I suppose I just didn't think you'd look like two ordinary college dropouts…"

Dean looked down at his leather jacket and torn jeans. College dropout? Huh? "Who were you expecting?" He smirked, unable to resist a sarcastic jab. "Bill Murray in a white jumpsuit and proton pack?"

"Well, the dude's car was way cooler than yours…"

Dean turned to see Ethan Turner in the kitchen doorway grinning at him and he wanted to snark back, but somehow he just couldn't. The kid's left hand was still heavily bandaged, and he held it close to his body as if he feared anyone going anywhere near it.

Dean hated it when kids got hurt – hated it when spirits had to pick on those who had done them no harm. Maybe he didn't like Bill Turner. Maybe he wasn't even sure there was a spirit here, but he wouldn't leave until he was certain, for Melanie's sake, and for Ethan's.

"I'm so sorry." Melanie left her husband's side and walked closer to the brothers. She was small, unassuming, and very pretty. "My family aren't usually so ungracious. It's just these past few weeks we've been through so much. It's hard for Bill to believe in anything he hasn't seen, but Ethan and I aren't imagining things. Will you at least listen to what we say before you leave?" She seemed to sense Sam's gentler nature and laid a baby-soft hand on his forearm. "If it's not safe here…I don't want to stay. I don't want Ethan to stay…"

"Yes, please at least listen to my wife and son and give your opinion." Turner offered out a hand in apology and Sam shook it, unsure what else to do.

Dean wavered, just for a second and then nodded. "Okay, we'll need to take a look around the place." He unzipped the duffel bag he'd brought in and tugged out an E.M.F. meter, tossing it to his brother. "Are there any spots in the house you think the activity is stronger?"

Melanie shook her head. "I…no. I haven't really felt anything in here…"

"Alright, we'll give the place a full sweep." Dean slid the duffel bag back over his shoulder and plucked a tiny flashlight from his pocket for checking the more poorly illuminated areas of the farm. "You people sit tight, make coffee, bake cookies or whatever else it is you do around here and we'll be back before you know it." He winked good-naturedly at Ethan who was watching his every move in awestruck fascination.

"Can I come along?" The fourteen-year-old edged closer to the elder Winchester, his eyes wide with both fear and excitement.

Jeez, the kid loses two fingers and he still wants in on the action. He's either damn brave or a nut job like his dad. Dean smiled down at Ethan, instantly feeling like he knew the kid. Maybe he was a rich brat, but he reminded the hunter of himself at the same age. "Depends on whose car is way cooler, mine, or Bill Murray's…"

Ethan's head tilted as he thought about his response. "Ecto 1 was pretty way out, but I guess your Chevy has serious creep factor…"

Sam laughed as his brother mouthed "creep factor" with a furrowed brow and slightly hurt expression spreading across his normally affable features. "Man, you so totally asked for that one…"

Two Hours later…

Sam climbed from Black Ridge Farm's spacious attic letting his gangly legs drop to the landing with a slight thud. He'd searched every crevice, every rotting chest or suitcase, and still found not one piece of spiritual activity. His E.M.F. had remained static throughout his whole sweep of the floor until he thought he may actually have gone deaf.

The young hunter had never heard so much pure silence in a house, not ever. No creaking boards, no groaning door hinges, nothing. I think Dean's music finally ruined my ears…

We are scanning the scene
in the city tonight
We are looking for you
to start up a fight
There is an evil feeling…

Sam jumped at the sudden outburst of singing – if it could be called that, from a room to his left. As even more of the outlandish crooning filtered through, he cringed. Dean was belting out Metallica's Seek & Destroy at the top of his lungs, seemingly unfazed by the fact that the Turners could probably hear him all the way down in the kitchen.

"Dean! Do you really have to sing? It's pretty painful, man…"

Dean's head bobbed around the corner from Ethan's room and he grinned. "Hey, Ethan has an awesome rock collection. The dude has some pretty rare items…"

Sam took down a long breath. "Restless spirit, Dean? Ring any bells?" He waved the silent E.M.F. to make a point.

"Dude, I got nothing. This place is totally clean." The hunter looked down to Ethan who was cradling a rare picture disc with his good hand as if it was in danger of being whisked away. He hated to have to say, it, but maybe the Turners were just wealthy city people out of their depth. "Maybe what has been happening here really is bad luck…"

Ethan's eyes instantly widened and he held out his bandaged hand. "I didn't imagine this." He looked slightly defiant. "And I know I saw that guy. He was just…just…"

Sam kneeled to Ethan's height, biting his lip. "When you saw the strange man, you weren't in the house, right? And when your mom had her accident, she wasn't either?"

Ethan nodded to both questions. "I was in the barn, and Mom was just outside it on her horse. Dad said the place wasn't ready to move animals into yet, but she was missing her morning ride…"

Sam glanced up, a sudden look of realization crossing his features at the exact same moment that Dean got his "light bulb switched on" face.

"We need to check out the barn!" The brothers chimed in perfect unison.

Dean wasn't sure why, but as he used the key Bill Turner had given him to unlock the barn, he abruptly felt apprehensive. Working on these kinds of gigs for so long had given him a kind of sixth sense, and that sense was jangling now like the L.A. Philharmonic.

"Sam…"

Sam nodded, feeling the same vibe as his brother before he even pulled the E.M.F. meter from his jacket pocket. Once the device was free from its confines and switched on, it began to wail like a high pitched radio signal, confirming the Winchesters' suspicions. "Whatever we're dealing with, it's here," he reasoned, sweeping the meter in an arc as he slowly entered the barn.

"Maybe it's the ghost of "Champion the freakin' Wonder Horse." Dean shook his head as his eyes adjusted to the new level of light in the storage place. It was dark, musty, decaying. "Think there's a stiff hidden out here?"

Sam cocked his head and shrugged. If they were dealing with a spirit attached to the barn, there had to be a reason. That usually meant the phantom had died in the place, or its remains had been concealed there. At least, that was the usual scenario. In ghost hunting, there were always exceptions.

"Man, I bet there are rats out here. Big suckers with razor sharp teeth." Dean bobbed down and used his mini-flashlight to scour under the workbench where Ethan had been injured. He could still see the dried brown bloodstains that marked the loss of the kid's two fingers.

The mental image made the hunter wince and he quickly moved on, searching for some sign of the entity that had caused the incident.

"Dean, I think we found something…" Sam held the screeching meter in his outstretched palm, his eyes fixed on the redlining needle. Every time he moved the E.M.F. away from its current position, the pointer dropped slightly. Whatever was causing the reaction was in the right hand corner of the barn.

Dean walked to his brother's side, every footstep a cautious one. They could be being watched by some spirit or supernatural creature. It could easily be waiting here, ready to pounce on its next victim. The farm had been empty for too long, and maybe the malevolent bastard wanted to play catch up.

The elder hunter squinted. His eyes hadn't caught it before, but there was something hidden in the shadows – something covered by a grey tarp that was peppered with holes and frayed edges. "Sam." He bobbed his head gesturing towards the concealed object.

Sam took down a breath. This was where things could get tricky. Re-stowing the meter in his pocket, he tentatively followed his brother up to the canvas. On closer inspection, it was even more rotten than either Winchester had expected. Poking through several disintegrating areas were pieces of what looked to be corroding metal.

What could lie beneath, that had such an odd shape, was anybody's guess.

"Ready?" Sam reached out, trying to find a piece of the tarp that wouldn't crumble in his grip.

As his hand slid down the material, something underneath slit through it, as if it had been waiting for the kill. Before Sam could recoil its jagged edge had bit into his flesh and he couldn't suppress a yelp of pain. He grabbed at his palm with his good hand, feeling blood seeping through his fingers as he applied pressure.

"Sonofabitch!" Dean grabbed at his belt, tugging out his favorite .45 without even thinking. He hadn't exactly thought an old tarp might "bite," but then again, he should have expected anything.

"Dean, are you gonna shoot the tarp or pull it back and let's see what we're dealing with?" Sam still cradled his hand, but after the sudden onrush of pain had subsided he'd abruptly found the appearance of his brother, weapon drawn on what was probably some old farm machinery, highly amusing.

Dean pulled a face, but still aimed the automatic at the canvas. "I might just shoot the sucker first to be on the safe side," he hissed. "I mean, c'mon, it friggin' bit you!" His shoulders relaxed just a little and the hunter used the nose of his weapon to pry up an edge of the material.

Once he was sure there were no more hidden spiky edges, he tugged at the canvas until it grudgingly slid to the sandy floor. As the object beneath was revealed, Dean's mouth opened and remained that way, as if he'd abruptly fallen into a waking coma. He didn't speak, he didn't blink. He just looked in awed fascination.

"Dude, whatever this thing is, I need to bottle that effect…" Sam shook his still-bleeding hand as it began to throb. "I mean, a hunk of junk that looks like an overgrown and very mangled sardine tin. What's the deal?"

"It's…Little Bastard…" Dean's voice was so low it was like he was paying some misguided reverence to the thing. "Dude, I can't believe we found Little Bastard…"

The elder Winchester began to circle the remains of what appeared to be a very old car, pacing as if he expected it to come to life like Stephen King's Christine. The wreckage was twisted and corroded, it's once silver paintwork reduced to a humble rust-covered grey.

The actual framework looked to have almost been torn in two by the impact the car had taken, and what damage had been done by the crash had been exacerbated by the fact that certain parts had been obviously removed at some later date.

Only one thing was clearly visible on the car beyond the fact that it had once been a Porsche, and that was the huge number 130 painted on its bulk.

"Dean, it's just a car." Sam frowned. Sometimes his brother's fascination with classic cars and rock music was beyond him. "A haunted car, maybe, a haunted, wrecked car even, but still just wheels, man."

"Not just a car, Sammy." Dean's voice was husky again, signaling how serious he was. His deep hazel eyes narrowed as they locked on his brother. "This right here?" He pointed down with his forefinger. "This is a full-on legend, dude, just like its owner…"

"Huh?" Sam felt frustrated. For once, Dean knew just a little more than he did, and he was going to flaunt that knowledge. Great, more brotherly competitiveness, just what we need right now. He opened his mouth, about to ask his sibling to spill the story, but he swiftly clamped his jaw shut again.

There was a wind inside the barn, an unearthly squall that had blown in from nowhere and was whipping around them with icy tendrils that probed every exposed part of their bodies.

"Sam…"

"I know. I feel it…"

Behind them, the main barn doors suddenly burst open, the oxidized hinges that held them almost torn from their mountings as the wind lashed at them.

Straw began to drift around the brothers in some strange hell-fuelled dance, the breeze carrying it from the floor and upper levels with its sheer intensity.

Antique, rusted tools hanging from the walls began to shake uncontrollably on the hooks that held them, metal reverberating on metal creating some outlandish tinny symphony.

As the tempest grew in strength, the tools began to fly from their mountings. Some fell harmlessly to the floor, others took on a life of their own. Screwdrivers suddenly became lethal spears, a hammer became a deadly bludgeon.

"Dude, time to sound the freakin' retreat!" Dean ducked, stumbling to the floor as a scythe floated from its hanging place and veered across the barn as if doing some breeze-borne ballet. The blade skimmed a mere inch from the hunter's head and then toppled onto the crushed car in defeat as it missed its intended target.

Sam grabbed his brother's collar, yanking him back to his feet and pushing him forward towards the exit.

For a moment, as they approached, the younger man half expected the two wooden doors to slam closed on them, trapping them inside. The timber frame shook violently and screws shot from the hinges and surrounding woodwork, but miraculously, both Winchesters were allowed to leave by whatever force had attacked them.

"Well, that was fun…" Dean panted, brushing off dirt and pieces of straw from his clothes as he glanced back to the now calm storage structure.

"Dean, what the hell was all that?" Sam waited patiently. Out in the yard there were no rogue tools, no deadly breeze, he could wait all night if that's what it took to pry the information from his brother.

Dean ran a hand absently through his hair, knocking out more flecks of straw until he looked more like a man, less like a scarecrow. He licked his lips, unsure where to begin the story behind a Hollywood myth that may well have come back to haunt a new generation.

Eventually, he pointed to where the Impala sat on the Turners' driveway. "I think I know who and what we're dealing with, Sammy, but this is big. Bigger than any gig we've had before. We should discuss this in the car before we tell the Turners."

Sam glanced back to the barn, its doors still open, inviting in the next victim. It was quiet now, but for how long? He nodded, turning back to climb into the Chevy without uttering a word. For Dean to know about this thing without doing any actual research, it had to be big.

"So, want to tell me what's got the man of steel so all fired up and virtually drooling over it?" Sam couldn't help but tease as he noted how excited his brother had suddenly become.

"The car is 'Little Bastard,' like I said. A Porsche Spyder built in 1955. One of only ninety made that year." Dean cocked a brow suggestively, as if his sibling should know the information he was imparting without asking.

"Dude, just because you're a walking ad for retro crap, doesn't mean I have to be…"

Dean huffed. "Yeah, well, 'Little Bastard' isn't just a rare old car; it's the car James Dean died in. Ring any bells in that usually educated head of yours, Geekboy?"

"That's James Dean's car? What the hell is it doing out here?" Sam turned on the bench seat so that he could cast a glance back at the barn. From his position, there was no chance of catching a glimpse of the car, but he tried anyway. "Wasn't there some kind of rumor that the car was haunted or cursed or something, even before he bought it?"

Dean nodded, his own eyes following his brother's gaze. "After James Dean met his maker in the thing, a friend bought what was left. From then on it was one accident after another. Man, that thing was like a supernatural disaster magnet. People getting crushed by it, cars that had spares from it crashing and killing their drivers, one time, the thing was stored in a garage and the place went up in flames. Guess what barely got scorched while everything else was toast?" The hunter watched as Sam squirmed. It was the story of a movie star that sounded more like a fictional movie script than reality. "You know what freaked me the most though?"

"Where the car was? You being such a connoisseur of fine metal…"

"Very funny, jerk." Dean rolled his eyes. "Anyway, the car was on display in Sacramento, September 30th – the anniversary of James Dean's death. Some of the bolts holding it on the pedestal snapped and it fell, injuring some student. Tell me that's a coincidence? After that they tried to ship the sucker back to California."

Sam turned back, eyes and ears now focused on his sibling. "Tried?"

Dean grinned. He loved telling the punchline of a tale like this. "Yeah, 'Little Bastard' was shipped in a boxcar from Miami. When the train arrived back in Cali, the car had gone." He clicked his fingers together for effect. "Vanished right into thin air."

"And from the smirk on your face, you're going to tell me you have a theory?" Sam could read his brother like a book. Dean was excited. This case was something he didn't need to look up online. It was something he didn't need a laptop or library for. Dean knew all about classic movies and classic cars, and this gig had both.

"Maybe," the elder hunter offered cryptically, holding back long enough to make Sam pull an expression of annoyance. "What if Winston Frederick, the guy who owned this place back then, was the type of rich dude who collected things? Hell, some of those guys would go to the ends of the earth for art or some shit they know they shouldn't have. I'm thinking this dude had 'Little Bastard' snatched from the train and hidden here until things quieted down. The farm is pretty close to the local train tracks, it all fits!" Dean's hazel orbs sparkled with an intensity that said he was practically in love with the idea they'd found the famous Porsche. "And get this," he added. "You said Frederick died in 1960. I'm thinking in stealing it, he acquired the curse too. Owning 'Little Bastard' sure bit him in the ass when he wasn't expecting it…"

Sam's brow scrunched pensively as he continued Dean's train of thought. "The car must have stood in the derelict barn, abandoned all this time until the Turners moved in. Now they've inherited the curse just like Frederick." He shook his head. Something wasn't adding up. "Dean, the car can't actually be the curse, though, can it? Turner's wife and son saw a figure…"

"Dude! I know!" Dean couldn't even attempt to hide his excitement any longer. "We could be dealing with the spirit of James Dean! Did you know there were rumors the guy dabbled in the occult?"

Sam watched, realizing his brother had never been like this before. He was keyed up, and not because they were facing some dangerous entity. He actually wants to meet this thing. It's like James Dean is still his idol. Hell, what is he gonna do, ask it for an autograph?

The younger hunter thought about it. Maybe Dean and the movie icon were more alike than he'd considered. Both young, both rebels, both headstrong, rarely listening to advice, and both dabbled in the afterlife, although for two very different reasons.

"Dean, c'mon, man, even if the car is haunted by James Dean, we still have to send his ass back. He's hurting people!" Sam looked away into the night. As he stared through the Chevy's toughened glass, he could see Dean's pained reflection glaring at him. He ignored it and continued. "Look, I know this guy is a hero of yours, and walking up to a legend's grave and salting and burning the remains isn't exactly going to be easy anyway, but we gotta do it…"

"You're damn right it's not gonna be easy. James Dean's body is buried in Indiana. Not exactly a few miles over the border…"

Sam frowned, surprised his brother knew so many details. It was funny, but he always considered Dean to be the muscles of the duo while he was the researcher. Yet, every now and then, Dean proved he was more than that – he was so much more than the surface layers everyone saw. "Maybe we can destroy the car and banish his spirit?"

Dean groaned, placing a hand to his temple as he recalled a certain night in Missouri. "Sammy, I'm so not buying that kill the car, sever the spirit's earthly connection crap. My ass almost got wasted by Cyrus that night. No way am I playing bait again…not even if it is a legend after my ass this time…"

Sam's face dimpled and he smiled at his brother's obvious deep pain. "You really don't want to burn that car, do you?" He laughed. "Man, you're like an overgrown kid with a new toy!"

"Shut up!"

"Dean, you know we have to burn it…"

"You're just afraid of it 'cause it bit you, you wuss!"

"Yeah, well at least I know when I have an obsession…"

Dean pushed open the Impala's door and began to climb out knowing his brother was right. They did need to fry the car. Of course, that didn't mean he had to bow down in the verbal campaign that had started because of it.

The elder hunter slammed the heavy door behind him and then leaned low, grinning through the side window. "Know when you have an obsession, huh? That's funny, 'cause I'm not the one whose laptop is permanently stuck on …"

Sam's jaw dropped open but he failed to stammer out a response. In the end, he mouthed "jerk," and trudged after his brother up to the Turner Farm.

Sam pulled back reflexively as the antiseptic Melanie Turner was using seeped into the cut on his hand. In the bright lights of the farmhouse the wound looked even more garish than before, and he had no doubt the woman before him was having flashbacks to her son's far more serious injury as she swabbed away the blood.

The brothers had approached the Turners with the full intention of telling the family just what they'd found, but the instant Melanie had seen the bloodstains on the youngest Winchester's coat and fingers she'd almost freaked.

Before either brother could insist both had seen much worse in their time hunting, Melanie had dragged Sam off into the kitchen and managed to dig out the family first aid kit from one of the packing cases.

Dean watched from the door, arms crossed, as the businessman's wife treated his brother like he was a kid again. The more Sam insisted he was fine, the more the woman fussed over him, until finally Sam began to blush from all the attention.

"This needs stitches," Melanie pulled a face as she gently teased a small flap of Sam's flesh back into place and then pressed a dressing over it. "Maybe your brother can drive you to the local clinic?"

"I'm fine, really," Sam assured. "Dean can throw a few stitches in later…"

Melanie's brow creased, but she avoided asking just how many times the brothers had had to patch themselves up rather than relying on real professionals. The more she saw of them, the more she realized just what a strange career path the two had chosen. And now we've added to the dangers they face by bringing them here. We should have just packed up and left!

"What I want to know is just how it happened?" Bill Turner sauntered up behind Dean, squeezing past the hunter to stand alongside his wife. "Weren't you supposed to get rid of the presence or whatever the hell is on there, not get yourselves cut up almost as bad as Ethan?"

Dean eyed Turner with contempt. No matter what Sam said, there was just something he didn't like about the man – and for once it wasn't the size of Turner's wallet that was the issue. "Well, let's just say we weren't expecting a certain car to be in your barn." He uncrossed his arms, watching Bill Turner for any kind of reaction.

"Car? What car? And what does it have to do with what's going on here?" Turner put an arm around his wife. "We never checked out the barn…" he admitted with a small sigh. "We started on the house first. Clearing all the junk in here was bad enough. The barn was supposed to wait…"

"Yeah, well the barn just happens to be the home of 'Little Bastard' and believe me, the thing has sure lived up to that name in its lifetime." Dean pointed through into the farm's lounge area at a booted laptop. "That thing of yours got a net connection?"

"Of course! How else can I do my work from home, especially out here?" Turner almost snorted out the comment as if his guest was some lower level of intelligence. Nevertheless, he ambled into the next room and retrieved the top end Sony, placing it on the table next to Sam.

Dean bobbed his head. "You want to work your magic and pull up some files on our legendary four-wheeled phantom?"

Sam rubbed at the dressing on his hand, knowing typing was going to aggravate the cut but continued anyway. Within two minutes of "Googling" the infamous Porsche, he had enough data to make the entire Turner family gape.

Melanie took a breath down first and then shook her head in amazement. "James Dean's car? In our barn?" She put both hands on her hips and took a step back from her husband's laptop as if moving away would somehow make the onscreen picture of the racing car vanish.

"Can you be sure?" Bill Turner read the online article a second time as he spoke. "I mean, couldn't it be the wreck of any old car?"

"I'm sure…" Dean finally moved away from the shade of the doorway, letting the light play across his deadly serious features. "Let's just say if there's one thing I know about as much as angry spirits, it's classic cars."

"Our dad was half owner of a garage," Sam offered helpfully, still not sure the haunted family trusted the pair of hunters. "He had a thing for the classics too…"

Turner tried to bite down a caustic laugh, but couldn't quite succeed. Realizing his mistake, he shrugged, deciding to continue with the less than complimentary comment. "By classic, you mean that old black Chevy you drive? Not exactly a timeless masterpiece of motor engineering…"

"Dad!" Ethan's eyes widened and he reddened, suddenly embarrassed by his father's behavior. For some reason, Bill Turner was acting totally out of character. "The Impala's awesome."

Dean ruffled a hand through Ethan's hair for sticking up for his "baby" and then shot the kid's father his best glower. "Criticize my car again, dude, and you can friggin' empty the barn yourself. You got two choices." Rich jackass! I swear Sam's gonna pay for getting me involved in this gig!

Before Turner could retort or apologize, the hunter swaggered out of the kitchen, reminding Sam of the very man they were about to try and set at peace. Sam stood from the small wooden dining chair he'd been perched on and followed Dean out to the Impala to gather their gear.

At the door, he paused and shook his head. "Mr. Turner, the next time you insult my brother's car, you might want to duck…"

"Duck?" Turner queried innocently.

"Yeah, or you might find his best right hook impacting with your jaw and knocking you on your ass…" Sam padded out into the gloom of night after his brother, but in the kitchen he could hear Ethan Turner chortle at his father's expense.

Maybe Dean is right, Turner is a rich dick…

The Barn

A Short Time Later…

Dean revved the tractor's ancient engine until plumes of thick blue smoke belched from its rusty muffler. The diesel engine grumbled as he gunned it more, threatening to seize if he asked too much of it.

"Man, has this thing been rusting here half a century too?" The hunter turned to watch as his brother fixed several chains to the back of the old Ford ready for their assault on the barn and "Little Bastard." "Remember, once we get in there our spook is NOT gonna want us anywhere near that car. Once he figures we're dragging its ass out here to burn I'm thinking he'll try and stop the tractor first."

"Yeah, so keep an eye out for low flying tools." Sam finished up with the chains and picked up his shotgun from where he'd perched it on the tractor's rear wheel guard. "In short, don't lose your head."

Dean let his eyes roll to the night sky but grinned. "Dude, that's why I got your sorry ass to cover my back. C'mon, let's get this over with before I change my mind." He slid the tractor into gear and let it roll towards the open barn doors.

The chugging Ford's meager headlights bit into the darkness of the shelter's interior, cutting through the gloom until both brothers could see their uncovered target clearly waiting for them. Flashes of bare metal glinted in the tractor's beams, taunting, beckoning the Winchesters to dare to try and touch it.

"This is too friggin' easy…" Dean spun the Ford around until it was in front of the haunted Porsche, his eyes swiftly darting to every shadowed area around him. "Hook the thing up and let's shag ass before Mr. Hollywood decides it's time for a killer performance…"

Sam swung his SKB around in an arc, keeping his flashlight aligned with the shotgun's barrel. After two sweeps of their surroundings, he was finally satisfied and crouched down, daring to lower his weapon so that he could attach the chains to "Little Bastard's" remains. "Dean, I'm not sure we can drag this thing out so easily. It's not one whole piece!"

"Shit!" The elder hunter clambered down from his seat realizing his first mistake. "I should have remembered," he chided himself, grabbing a second chain to tether the car's skeletal carcass. "This thing broke in pieces while it was at some display. We have to get it all, Sammy!" Five pieces…do we have enough damn chain?

Reading his brother's mind, Sam tugged an old section of frayed rope from the rear of the tractor. The chunky twine had seen better days, but the brothers only needed to drag the car clear of the barn to torch it. "This will have to do. Get back on the tractor while I finish!"

Dean obeyed without question. No sarcastic comeback. No wily smile. The gig wasn't going to plan, and he had a feeling this was only the start. Turning in his seat again, he watched as Sam frantically secured the ragged rope to the Porsche's crumpled fender.

THUNK!

The noise was metallic, like metal impacting with more metal at high speed. Dean whirled back around, already guessing it was show time.

The front of the Ford's radiator now had a large screwdriver embedded in its bottom section. Steam and water oozed from the puncture, filling the barn with a bizarre, ethereal-looking smog. "Shit!"

On the walls, the tool racks began to rattle their unholy mantra once again as they began to shake and vibrate, some spiritual force taking them over.

A hammer whirled from its hook, its heavy edge targeting the back of Sam's head as he stood from his hunkered position. "Now, Dean!" The young hunter signaled for his brother to hit the gas and then ducked, trying to evade the possessed tool's anger.

The dodging motion half-succeeded and the hammer glanced off his left shoulder, knocking his lanky frame to the floor with the sheer power behind its momentum.

As Sam hit the dirt with a grunt, he rolled over onto his back, the sting from the impact making him suck down a breath. Above him, the barn's upper level began to move, to swirl in his field of vision until he suspected the hammer had hit his head after all. He blinked, thinking the wooden beams' rocking motion must be in his mind. Maybe he'd gone down harder than he'd thought?

Sam squinted, the sound of the tractor's rattling motor mixing with the stench of diesel momentarily disorientating him more. He was seeing something, but not picking up on its significance. What the..?

Suddenly, it hit home and he rolled back onto his side all-too late to stop what was going to happen.

One of the sections of "Little Bastard" that Dean was dragging had snagged on a support beam that held the upper level of the barn in place. As the Ford pulled harder, its driver too occupied with escape to notice, the whole first story began to shake. Masses of age-old straw began to rain down from the storage area, accompanied by small segments of rotting wood and timber that had already been torn free.

CRACK. "Dean!"

Sam's yell was barely audible over the sound of crashing beams and the over-taxed tractor's engine. Still, somehow the elder hunter picked up on his brother's yelp. He turned, just in time to see part of the higher level come tearing down towards him and where Sam now lay on the ground.

There was no time to run, no time to grab his sibling and pull him clear. All that Dean could do was dive from his seat and take shelter under the grizzled Ford, praying the loose debris hadn't squashed Sam to a pulp under its weight.

Seconds ticked by and he finally dared to move, pushing away snapped sections of wood, sharp nails still protruding from their edges, to scramble out on all fours into the remains of the barn.

Dean pushed up on his elbows once he was clear, fully intent on digging Sam out with his bare hands until they bled if he had to. "Sammy!"

Something touched him. Something cold. Something dead.

Dean froze, feeling an unseen hand slip around his throat and then squeeze just enough to keep a grip. He flailed, his own hands grasping at thin air to try and pry the invisible entity off of him. "Sonofabitch!" If this was James Dean, he was pissed, big time.

The hunter felt his body leave the ground, feet dangling in mid-air as the specter hoisted him skywards. "Dude, so not friggin' funny…guess you heard I was afraid to fly huh?"

The ghost remained silent, tossing its victim across the barn with one simple jarring motion.

Jeez, I never said I wanted to be Superman! The sensation of weightlessness was only momentary. Just long enough for Dean to feel his stomach lurch as he saw the wooden beam he was about to impact with.

Despite the barn's obviously termite-infested state, the joist held solid as his ribs came into contact with it. Dean grunted, feeling his body snap back from the timber and then slide to the ground.

Pain seared through his side and he instinctively grabbed at it, gasping down lungfulls of air that only seemed to increase the agony. His head whirled, black, oily spots looming before his eyes as he almost lost consciousness – almost. But then he couldn't, could he? Not while Sam might still need him. Sammy!

Dean groaned, wondering if the crack he'd heard as he'd hit the wood had actually been his ribs breaking, or the joist splintering. The wood, dude. Winchesters don't break that friggin' easily!

He squeezed his eyes closed, willing the world around him to have stopped tumbling in a kaleidoscope of color when he opened them again.

Daring to lift up one eyelid first, long lashes fluttering, Dean exhaled, but not from relief. Something was standing over him. Something that had now taken form. The features were still indistinct, unrecognizable, but the clothing was definitely fifties style.

"Dude, I know you loved that car so much you died in it, but don't you think you should give everyone else a break?" Dean raised a brow. "This isn't a movie. You're really killing people!"

The figure leaned low, hand outstretched again towards the fallen hunter. It wasn't a swift move, but the thing's intentions were clear. More aggression.

Dean shuffled backwards, one hand still pressed over his ribs until his back met the support joist he'd been hurled into. He used his knees to try and push up, but they felt like Jell-O. He had nowhere to go, no weapon to fight with. "Hey man, I prefer my own car anyway. I'd take Detroit steel over that European crap any day…"

The hand returned to Dean's throat, this time pressing hard until he couldn't draw a breath. He thrashed wildly trying to fend off the attack, his boots sliding on the loose earth of the barn floor and his hands simply passing through the arms of his assailant as he tried to tug them away.

Dean's vision blurred again, this time from lack of oxygen, and he tried to choke down a breath. The spirit squeezed harder, wanting, willing its foe to bow down, to give in.

Dean's arms began to sag, his body pushed to the brink of unconsciousness from hypoxia. Sammy, got to make sure Sam is alright. Brief flashes of the roof collapsing seemed to intermingle with his current thoughts, spurring him to continue the fight to stay awake – to stay fighting. Just a little more…

Bang!

The double blast of a shotgun discharge made the hunter's eyes spring wide open, and at last, just as his enemy dissipated in a barrage of floating rock salt, he saw the truth. For the briefest of seconds, the ghost was clearly visible, every inch of his features, every detail of his clothing.

"Dean!" Sam lowered his SKB and cracked its barrel open, quickly stuffing in two more shells before daring to approach his fallen brother. "Are you okay?" He kneeled, taking in the red welts already appearing around Dean's neck.

"I'll live. What about you? You look like crap." Dean winced as he leaned back again, taking down small breaths to avoid the agony in his side every time he inhaled.

Sam rubbed at his head, his hand coming away bloody from a gash to his temple. "I think I need a vacation. Definitely NOT on a farm." He tipped the SKB back to rest on his shoulder, and, using his free hand, offered his brother a tug to his feet. "Man, we so gotta stop getting tossed around like this. I swear I'm beginning to get a complex…"

Dean coughed as he struggled to his feet, abruptly recalling the sensation of floating through the air. "Yeah, well now you know why I hate flying. I've done too much of it at freakin' ground level already." His gaze shot to the innocent-looking remains of the Porsche. "Right now, though, we have another problem, Sammy…"

"Yeah, we can't get the thing outta the barn without the spirit getting pretty ticked off." They reached the rubble-covered tractor and Sam leaned over, switching off the overheating and still running engine.

"Dude, we got way more trouble than a pissed off James Dean here." Dean paused as they headed for the main shutter doors, his head still swimming and his body still screaming from the onslaught it had defended against.

"Huh?"

"I got a good look at our car loving spook, and Sammy, it so ain't James Dean…"

Dean leaned heavily against his beloved Impala, fingers from his free hand probing his side to check for broken ribs. As far as he could tell, he was still in one piece. Although right now, his body was begging to differ. "How the hell did you get out from under all that crap back there?" He shot a look of amazement mixed with pain to his brother.

"Hard head." Sam rubbed at his cut temple and noted the Turners were heading their way from the main house. Bill Turner's expression said he was less than happy to see half his barn roof missing, even if it had been a rotting hulk of a building anyway. Better not tell Dean Turner's heading for us like a steam roller. He's pissed enough…

"Serious lack of anything to destroy if you ask me." Dean smirked. "No upstairs brain, that's your problem." He teased, moving around to check his brother out properly. The sight of clotting blood made him grimace again. They'd had their asses royally kicked and gotten nothing but a renegade, mystery ghost to show for it.

"Is that your idea of solving the problem? Because if it is, you can take your gear and get off my property, and I mean now!" Turner's cheeks grew even redder as he approached the brothers, and he seemed to ignore his wife and son's protestations to hold back his fury. "You're going to pay for any repairs to my barn…"

Sam held up a hand in supplication, hoping to calm the situation before Dean decided to go nuclear. "Mr. Turner, it's not as simple as that. We may need to burn the barn to see this through…"

"Burn the barn down? Are you insane? You're not going to touch my barn or that car!" Turner peered at the damage already done and he clenched his fists together, trying to control his temper. "I should never have agreed to this. I didn't want the car touching…"

Dean sighed and raised a brow, his best "I told you so" look pointed at his brother. When Turner moved within arm's length, the hunter finally turned to face him. "Told you he was a dick, Sammy…"

"Just who…"

Turner didn't get to finish the sentence. Instead, he was privy to a right hook that was considered one of Lawrence's finest – at least in Dean's estimation.

The punch threw the irate businessman backwards, and with nothing to steady himself he landed backside first in the dirt. He looked up with a scowl and rubbed at his chin, even though it had taken far less of a bruising than his ego.

"Dean!" Sam's pupils grew wide, but he had to admit Turner had been long overdo in being taken down a peg or two.

"He acts like an ass. It's about time he landed on it for a change." Dean shrugged and shook his stinging fist as he looked at Melanie and Ethan apologetically. He liked them both and suspected they had no clue about what he was going to suggest next. Moving back to the floored and now submissive Turner, he leaned over, still feeling the ache in his ribs. "You knew, didn't you, you sonofabitch?"

Melanie's gaze flicked from the hunter to her husband, and when neither acknowledged her, to Sam. "Knew what? I don't understand?" She hunched her shoulders and then put an arm around her son, pulling him close as if he suddenly needed protecting – perhaps from his own father.

"I'm thinking good old Bill here knew all along that 'Little Bastard' was in the barn here. Thing is, the car is a legend, a legend capitalist Bill here thought he was going to cash in on." Dean's face contorted in disgust and he stepped back, abruptly not wanting to be near the man he considered nothing more than a low life, despite his standing in the community. "You didn't care what this thing did to your family, did you, you bastard? You thought you could get us out here, exorcise the spirit and leave you with some huge freakin' money machine…"

Melanie's features whitened. "Bill, is this true? You put Ethan and me at risk just to keep this thing and keep it a secret?" She shook her head, her hands beginning to tremble with insecurity. Could the man she had married really be the uncaring creature before her?

"It wasn't like that…" Turner hastily scrambled to his feet, guilt filling his already flushed façade. "I didn't expect…" He let his gaze fall to the ground, realizing his wife had no intention of speaking with him. Maybe she never would again.

Turner shrugged and warily pushed past both hunters to head up to the main farmhouse. Greed has possibly lost him more than "Little Bastard's" remains. It had possibly lost him his family now too.

Sam moved closer to Melanie, her stunned silence confirming just how shocked she really was about her husband's behavior. He wanted to console her, to tell her that maybe Bill had been taught a lesson, but somehow, Sam doubted that he had.

Dean wasn't exactly a philosopher, but he was a good judge of people, as well as the supernatural. On this gig, his instincts had proven more than accurate. He'd been dead on the money, about Turner at least.

"You should go in the house until all this is over…" The young hunter took Melanie's arm and gently turned her towards the farm. She let him guide her without speaking, like some revenant with no will of her own. At her side, Ethan clung on, uncertain how his life had unexpectedly been turned upside down by one simple vacation.

"Do whatever you have to do…" Melanie paused briefly and looked up into Sam's eyes. "Burn whatever you have to…"

Sam nodded. This had to be over tonight, for Melanie, for Ethan, and for the Winchesters.

Impala

Ten Minutes Later

"Dude, I'm telling you I saw every one of James Dean's movies at least ten times, and that was so not him back there!" Dean squirmed uncomfortably behind the Chevy's wheel as he groused, trying to find a position that didn't pull on his plethora of aches and sprains.

"Dean, the guy only made three films before he died." Sam tapped away on his laptop as he spoke, thankful that had not surfaced once again as he accessed the net. It had been funny for all of about two seconds the first time he'd seen it, and had quickly become a tiresome annoyance thereon after.

Looking at the Skin Channel was one thing, but when he wanted to research he definitely didn't want that kind of distraction.

"Yeah, but they knew how to make a movie back then," Dean countered, leaning over just in case he got a view of a semi-naked girl as Sam hit the search engine.

"Man, you're just showing your age." Sam smiled and watched as his brother huffed. "You should try watching something a little more intellectual than Bugs Bunny sometime, ya know?"

"Yeah, right." Dean took a deep breath. "So, can we get back to finding out what the hell it is we're fighting here? The thing nearly full on throttled me. Why the hell would this spirit care about the car so much?"

"Hmn, this is interesting, if a little vague." Sam's brow creased in concentration and his quickly hit more keys on the keyboard. "There's an old report here that says some rich playboy called Garvin Edwards accused the dealership where 'Little Bastard' came from of allowing JD to 'cut in line' just because he was more famous. Like you said, there were only ninety Porsche Spyders built that year, and this guy insisted the car should have been his. He caused quite a stir at the time. An investigation by Porsche proved there was nothing unscrupulous going on, but this guy was never convinced."

"You think this sorry ass would actually haunt a car over that?" Dean raised a brow, not convinced they'd found their culprit. "You got a picture of the dude, because I'd know that fugly creep anywhere."

"I can try." Sam keyed in the name "Garvin Edwards" and waited. More news items appeared, but still no images. "Hey, look at this one. It's in the obits from 1955. Seems like our guy bought a Ferrari Monza 860 when he couldn't get 'Little Bastard.' He died in it a few days later."

Dean whistled. "Now that's more of a motive. Freaky Garvin haunts JD and the Porsche because he blames them for his death, yadda yadda. Man, this guy was one sick puppy, even after he died. Another rich asshole…" Just like Turner…

Sam hit Google image search, nodding as he plied through numerous pictures of every Garvin on the planet. "So Garvin is actually the cause of the curse, not the car." He swiveled the laptop around to show a tiny black and white picture of Edwards at a Hollywood party. "This is our man. Does he look anything like the thing in the barn?"

Dean cringed and absently rubbed at his bruised larynx. "That's him. I'm not likely to forget that face in awhile. Freaky bastard has a fixation with choking people or lopping off their body parts. I swear he had some kinda kinky tool fetish before he got squished…"

"Maybe, but that doesn't help us stop him now." Sam sighed, closing down the computer with a look that said there was more bad news. "The obit column said Garvin Edwards was cremated and his ashes spread where he died by family request. We can't salt and burn his remains. It's the car or nothing…"

"Great, just great, it's Cyrus all over again." Dean groaned outwardly and began tapping out Iron Maiden on the Chevy's steering wheel to help him think. Missouri had not been a good experience – well, apart from Cassie – and he really didn't want to repeat it. Eventually, he rubbed at the thin layer of stubble on his face as if he'd come to a decision. "The Porsche still has to be the key. After the fight Garvin put up to stop us burning it, it has to be the thing keeping his spirit here. Kinda like the car is his only earthly connection. Some kinda conduit…"

"Dude, you said conduit!" Sam faked feeling his brother's brow. "You must have banged your head harder than I did, or you ate a dictionary." He grinned mischievously. "Your vocabulary doesn't normally go outside of ass, dick, bitch, jerk, freakin, friggin'…"

Dean's hazel eyes sparkled with amusement and he swung open the Impala's door, inciting the familiar scraping moan of primeval metal. "Yeah, well at least I don't sound like a pansy. C'mon, let's go whoop some rich playboy spirit ass and get this over with." He tugged his body from behind the wheel and grabbed at his side as it twinged again. "Man, I so need a friggin' beer…"

Dean could feel the gasoline swishing in the can as he trudged warily towards the barn. The liquid's motion in the container seemed to feed his apprehension – like the fuel to the fire it was about to become.

The hunter swallowed. Why did it always come back to fire with the Winchesters? Flashbacks of the house in Lawrence burning assaulted his mind. He could smell the smoke from burning furniture and electrical items as if it had only been yesterday. He could recall the wide-eyed baby that had huddled close to him as he'd run from the inferno that had once been their home.

"You know, Sammy, no wonder the demon is always after our asses…"

"Huh?" Sam glanced at his brother with uncertainty, setting his own fuel can down as he reached the barn's closest wall.

Dean cocked his head, his lips widening into a grin. "Dude! Competition!" He shook the tin in his right hand. "We set more fires than his sorry ass ever has!"

Sam groaned. Trust Dean to turn even the gravest situation into something more jovial, but then, that was what he was good at. "Can we just get started?" The younger hunter unscrewed the can at his feet and began to douse the lower section of barn with the gas, careful not to get any of the flammable liquid on his clothing.

"Yeah, yeah, Mr. Pyromaniac." Dean scanned the barn and the immediate area outside, keeping a look out for their ghostly enemy. Once he was a set distance from his brother, he too began soaking the dry timber with gasoline. After both brothers' cans were empty, he pulled a small book of matches from his pocket and struck one, watching as the tiny flame danced wildly in the night breeze. "Bye, bye, Garvin!"

Dean tossed his match onto the barn in complete unison with his brother, and as both hit the gas two lower sections of the barn began to smolder and eventually burn.

"Dean, this place is just too big…we need more gas." Sam's eyes remained fixed on their handiwork, assessing just what they needed to do to make the barn burn faster and hotter. "We need to start more fires…"

"Okay, Chief," Dean mocked. "You get the gas and I'll see if there is anything else combustible around here we can use." The elder hunter eyed the barn's shutters, wondering if he dared to venture inside.

Most farms held a host of flammable items – be it chemicals for use as fertilizers, or diesel for the tractor. If this place was a storage area for anything like that, they just had to make sure those areas burned first.

Dean watched Sam trudge to the Impala's trunk for the gas cans and then made a beeline for the huge barn doors. He'd only made it about halfway, when a fizzling noise from behind made him turn back. "Holy…."

The side wall he and Sam had just set alight was now engulfed in flames, tendrils licking up the wood like spidery fingers of fire.

Dean's eyes locked on the spectacle, knowing without a doubt that this was an unnatural blaze, just like the one that had started in Sam's bedroom all those years ago.

This fire didn't obey the laws of physics. It didn't obey any kind of laws – except those of the spirit controlling it. "Garvin…"

Even though Dean could feel the heat on his face, smell the timber as it scorched, the barn's laths didn't seem to burn beyond where he and Sam had soused them with the fuel.

What was even more bizarre was the sight of Garvin's ethereal form at the epicenter of the firestorm.

"Dean!" Sam ran to his brother's side, the gas cans in both his hands momentarily forgotten. "What the…"

Dean shook his head and grabbed for one of the containers. "Move, Sam! I think Mr. Playboy is pissed and about to prove it!" Without saying more the elder hunter began frantically pouring gas on the shutter doors.

Sam broke from his trance and ran to the far side of the structure, intending to do the same. As his huge boots skidded in the loose earth, he heard a whooshing sound like something hurtling through the air at great speed. Alarmed, he spun around just in time to see Garvin's first assault.

From the specter's outstretched hands, balls of pure gas and flame were tearing through the air like comets, their fiery tales illuminating the sky like Fourth of July fireworks.

Amazingly, neither Sam nor Dean was the entity's main target.

"Sam, the sonofabitch is aiming for the farmhouse! He's trying to distract us." Dean struck another match as he yelped out the warning, igniting yet another small fire he hoped would join its brethren. "Get the Turners out!"

Sam hesitated, glancing at Garvin's bizarre, flame-engulfed outline. If this was using the Turners as bait, it was working. He bit his lower lip, some inner warning voice telling him not to leave Dean.

More fireballs erupted from Garvin's hands, this time actually landing on the outer decking of the house and showering it with sparks and cinders. Instantly, almost unnaturally, the farm's wooden porch began to burn. Small flames at first, but as the breeze whipped at them, fanning their growth, they expanded, ever increasing in density.

"Sam! Get them out. There's a kid in there remember?"

This time, Dean's plea pressed Sam into action. He didn't want to leave his brother, not like this, but innocents needed his protection more. Leaving the gas he'd poured unlit, the towering hunter made a dash for the main house, his long strides affording him a quick arrival.

Once at the burning porch, he paused, taking a searching look back towards the barn, for Dean. From his position, there was no sign of the elder hunter and Sam was forced on into the house by necessity. Dean was experienced at this; Melanie and Ethan Turner were not.

Pulling his jacket over his head, Sam took a deep breath and barreled across the blazing decking, picking out a path to the house's main entrance. As soon as he was close enough, he kicked out, sending the door snapping back on its hinges. "Mrs. Turner?"

Sam moved further into the house, into the darkness that signaled the family may already be sleeping, and behind him, he could hear the crashing of yet more fireballs as they slammed into the farm's walls and roof. If he didn't hurry, he would be trapped here along with the innocents. Trapped in a fiery tomb and burned to ashes. Just like Mom, just like Jess…

Dean didn't see his brother dash into the Turner home with the skill of a trained professional. He didn't see Sam risk life and limb for a family he had only just met. Instead, he focused on his part of the gig, his task. The barn was burning, yes, but it wasn't burning how or where the brothers needed it to.

Garvin controlled the flames, and right now, Garvin controlled the situation.

"Shit!" Dean dodged a smaller ball of intense heat and rolled, narrowly missing being set alight by the shower of sparks the "missile" left in its wake. He rolled again, this time taking refuge behind a somewhat rusty-looking pick-up.

The hunter squinted, placing a hand up to shield his smarting eyes as he dared to look towards the barn. "There has to be a way to finish this bastard…"

As he watched, something inside the structure exploded with the heat, sending shards of smoldering wood and metal splinters into the air in an outrush of flame and energy.

Dean ducked low, avoiding any low-flying shrapnel or embers from the blast. Pieces of hot ash landed on his bare hands and he quickly brushed them off as they stung his skin.

Garvin was winning.

The hunter took down a breath, inhaling the stench he had recalled earlier from his childhood. The odor made him almost retch, but he fought it, instead searching frantically for an answer in the surrounding yard.

"There is a God and he loves me…" Dean's gaze locked on a tank sitting near the main house. He shrugged. "Well maybe not, but he sure as hell loves somebody."

The tank looked fairly new, its paint still glistening in the moonlight that cascaded down on it through broken cloud. Across its midsection the word "Propane" was clearly marked in white paint and warning symbols.

Dean grinned, looking back towards where Garvin still poured out his rain of fiery terror. "Alright you bastard, I'll show you what burn really means…"

The hunter peered through the pick-up's side window and moaned when he saw there were no keys in the ignition. "Just can't trust the neighbors, I guess." He tugged open the door anyway, intent on hotwiring the rough but very usable truck if he had to.

Before he could climb inside, something huge, hot, and very explosive tore over his head, showering the hunter and the ground below with mini-flames. Instinctively, he looked up, following the fireball to its final destination.

Jaw gaping, Dean couldn't stifle the guttural scream that tore from his throat as he realized where Garvin's projectile was headed.

Sam had apparently guided Melanie and Ethan from their burning home successfully, and was now leading them out of Garvin's reach. With his back to the barn, the younger Winchester had no way to see what was about to slam into him.

"Sam! Sammy!" Dean's voice cracked with the strain, but still his brother didn't hear it above the sound of the fiery barrage around him.

The elder hunter put the truck and propane tank out of his mind. All that mattered now was his brother. Kicking his leg muscles into overdrive, he dived after the fireball, knowing he had no way to stop it hitting his unsuspecting sibling.

With a whoosh of air the writhing sphere of flames hammered into the ground mere inches from Sam's still running feet. In an instant, the bottom right leg of his jeans began to burn.

Shocked at the sudden intense heat and scorching sensation, Sam merely looked down as the denim caught fire. He knew what he was supposed to do, he knew he should drop to the ground and roll until the flames were extinguished, but somehow, his mind and body seemed to have become disconnected.

"Sam! Roll!"

Sam's disorientated psyche finally allowed him to look up in time to see his brother careering towards him in complete panic. The next thing he was aware of was hitting the ground hard and Dean swatting at his burning jeans with his jacket.

"SHIT!" Finally the young hunter came to his senses and rolled as his brother had instructed. He wasn't sure if it was the sudden and abrupt pain that had jarred him into motion, or the expression of complete and utter despair on Dean's face.

"Talk to me, man. Are you alright?" Satisfied any lest vestiges of the fire had been smothered, Dean took Sam by the shoulders, his hazel eyes examining every inch of his brother as if he were looking through a microscope. "Can you stand?"

Sam coughed, still slightly dazed from the abrupt and rather agonizing sensation of being set alight – not to mention being tackled to the ground. He flinched as another shower of flames illuminated the heavens around them, expecting more talons of fiery flame to descend from above. "I …I don't know…"

Fire. Why the hell does it always have to be fire?

Dean carefully lifted his coat away from his brother's leg to scrutinize the damage. A section of denim around Sam's calf had mostly been burned away leaving small remnants embedded in his brother's raw, bleeding flesh. The outer edges of the burn looked charred, and Dean had to turn away as he realized the rank odor assaulting him had been caused by Sam's flesh searing.

Dean's mind yanked him back once again to his childhood, to the smell of burning flesh – his mother's flesh. He could see the fire crews trying desperately to douse the blaze, he could hear his father's sobs at the knowledge they were already too late, he could feel the hatred for the thing that had done this to his family.

Fists clenched in unimaginable rage, Dean stood from his brother's prone form, his mind focused on only one thing – destroying the monster that had hurt Sam. He pointed to Melanie, his words brusque and demanding. "Help him get under cover…"

"What are you..?"

Dean ignored the question because he never even heard it. The barn wasn't burning fast enough. Now it was up to him to make sure it did, and that the only flames Garvin ever got to play with again were in hell. "Just find some cover. This is gonna be big…"

"What?" Melanie mouthed the word, but she knew she would get no reply. She watched, momentarily awestruck as the already soot covered hunter ran back towards the barn.

More fire bombs exploded around him as if he was being shelled by enemy mortars – but then in a way, he was. He dodged a falling mass of flames and made a dive for the pick-up he needed to complete his task.

Yanking open the door with a grunt, Dean jumped inside, his hunting knife already in his hand and ready to strip down the ignition wires. Prying off the plastic console panel, he was at work in less than a minute, twisting the two relevant cables together with a flash of sparks.

"Come on, c'mon…" The truck coughed and the engine turned over and over, finally succumbing and growling to life with a whine that said it had seen better days.

Dean rammed down the clutch and slammed the aging pick-up into gear with a grunt, his irritation evident in his every move. Wheels skidded in soft earth before gaining a grip and kicking out small mounds of dry soil, and then, motion.

The hunter inhaled, spinning the steering over until his ride pitched dangerously to miss yet more of Garvin's deadly projectiles. "You don't fry this hunter so easy, you bastard!"

Dean's lips curled into almost a snarl as he gunned the accelerator hard, aiming for the propane tank he'd spotted earlier. Every nerve in his body screamed for justice, for revenge, for every wrong vengeful spirits had caused on earth – but most of all, he wanted payback for Sam.

Garvin's ghost had hurt his little brother, the brother he spent his whole life protecting, guarding, saving from his future, or at least one possible future.

Dean felt his heart began to pound and his pulse throb in his ears, adrenalin-fuelled rage giving him the strength to try anything to kill Garvin's spirit. He smashed his CAT boot down on the pick-up's brake pedal, unsure exactly how he was going to drag the tank, but knowing he must. Did the truck even have a tow bar?

Something exploded on the hood of the pick-up, sending a mass of flames and sparks over the already dulled paintwork and momentarily enveloping the windshield in a vision of Hell.

Dean ignored the impact and clambered from his seat, heading straight for the flatbed to search for a way to hook up the tank. There was no tow ball, but a small winch had been welded to the sub-frame of the GMC and beckoned to the hunter to use it.

The thick wire twine wrapped easily around the framework that held the propane, and within a few minutes Dean had the tank tethered to the idling pick-up. Whether the struggling vehicle would manage to haul the large oval canister was another thing.

THWACK!

Dean shielded his eyes as the overhead salvo suddenly found a new target. Garvin was on to him and was redirecting his fiery barrage at the tank in the hopes it exploded too far away from its intended target.

As he watched, several more blazing projectiles hit the tank slamming against the cylinder and rolling off. The new paint began to blister, the lettering rising up in huge bubbling sores as the metal reacted to the fiery onslaught. Shit, if it gets too hot and starts to sweat…

Dean scrambled back into the GMC, pushing away the fact that the whole front end's paintwork seemed to have caught fire from the earlier impact. He was literally driving a moving mass of flames that was towing an extremely volatile gas, a mobile bomb that he could only hope would remain stable until he reached his intended destination.

"Talk about moving like your ass is on fire…" Dean's boot hit the gas pedal and he felt the truck shudder. He whirled in his seat, watching as the huge tank behind him seemed to judder and then stop. "No, no, NO!"

The hunter forced the gear lever into reverse and then back into first, quickly trying to rock the truck out of the rut it had embedded itself in with the sheer weight of its load.

The V8 screamed with the effort, but Dean was relentless. He was running out of time to stop Garvin and out of time with his load. If the propane became too hot, it would explode before he reached the barn, taking the eldest Winchester with it and splattering him across the landscape like so much fertilizer.

Dean turned again, noting the slight beads of perspiration appearing on the metal like tiny water globules. Sammy…gotta do this for Sammy…

The memory of the raw, seeping wound to his brother's leg brought on a fresh burst of anger and Dean revved the GMC one final time.

The rear wheels spun and then with a groan the truck and its load finally began to move – albeit agonizingly slowly – edging closer to the burning barn.

Dean stole a glance at the tank, once more wondering just how hot propane had to be before it exploded. Sammy would probably know, but then, maybe it was better not to have that knowledge right now.

The truck's temperature gauge began to rise and beneath the smoke, steam began to billow from its radiator. Dean ignored the vehicle's pain, instead focusing on the short distance he now had to traverse to reach the barn. "C'mon…"

Without warning, the GMC's beleaguered motor died, leaving it and the tank it hauled dangerously close to Garvin and his ethereal storm. Maybe it would be close enough, the hunter just wasn't sure. All he was certain of was that he was now easy pickings for the enraged spook.

"Shit!" Dean slid from the truck and rolled, expecting a ball of energy to slam into him at any second. He counted as he spun his body in the dirt, and when no airborne firebomb hit, he struggled to his feet and began to run haphazardly across the yard, making sure he wasn't an easy target for his enemy.

The Impala came into view fleetingly and he almost smiled. Then, from behind, an all encompassing blast erupted as the propane finally ignited from the heat.

Dean grimaced as he felt himself propelled forward, the temperature around him suddenly raised to an almost unbearable level. His eardrums were assaulted with what sounded like the noise from a thousand sonic booms, deafening him briefly. The air was filled with flying shards of burning wood and shrapnel, glowing like macabre fireflies each seeking its own victim much the same as the fireballs had just seconds before. The scene was a mix of sensory assaults and he braced against them all, anticipating that any one of them might be Garvin's ultimate revenge against him. Then, all was still.

The hunter coughed out a mouthful of dirt he'd almost swallowed as he'd been slammed into the ground, and he groaned as the pain from his earlier bruised ribs returned twofold.

Pushing up on his elbows, he turned to see the night sky filled with hundreds of floating fiery embers, and where the barn had once been, a huge smoldering crater had taken its place.

Dean grinned and let his arms give way until he was lying flat on his back. "Told you I'd show you a real fire, you sick sonofabitch…"

Sam held both hands under his thigh, supporting his injured leg while Melanie Turner carefully teased portions of denim from the wound with a pair of tweezers. Every few minutes, he inhaled sharply, taking down a breath through gritted teeth as a piece of his skin came away with the charred material.

"Almost done…" Melanie looked up apologetically. "Sam, I'm so sorry…"

"It's okay. Dean and me kinda get used to this kinda stuff in our line of work." Sam took down another breath and looked at the burning farmhouse a short distance away. The Turners had lost everything, and all because of one thing – greed. Garvin Edwards' greed for the Porsche, and ultimately, Bill Turner's too.

"Yeah, just take note that he's the one that acts like a wuss when he gets hurt, though." A soot and grime covered Dean winked and then passed the businessman's wife a tube of cream from the brothers' first aid kit. "Smear plenty of that on it before you put on the bandages," he suggested, instructing the mother as if he'd done it a hundred times before.

Melanie took the tube and continued to work, trying not to make Sam flinch too much as she applied the salve. She kept her eyes fixed on the still garish wound even though it was clear her mind was elsewhere. Eventually, she asked the question that had been eating into her since the propane explosion. "Is it gone? I mean, whatever it was?"

Dean sighed, placing the first aid kit back in the Chevy's trunk as Melanie finally applied the last bandage to his brother's raw limb. "Sweetheart, it's in automobile heaven right about now along with its original owner." He shrugged, thinking of some of the nefarious things he'd read James Dean had reportedly gotten up to. "Or maybe automobile hell," he added with a small smile.

Melanie nodded and seemed to take some comfort in his humor-filled words. She had lost everything, but then maybe she'd needed a new beginning for a long time and just not admitted it. Bill, her husband had run from "Little Bastard," the farm and his family, taking their 4X4 before Garvin had even tried his fire stunt. No matter what happened now, she intended to take Ethan and leave the man she had once loved.

A long time ago, Bill Turner had been an honorable man, despite his bank balance, but when things had changed she'd been too blind to see it – too blind until the Winchesters had arrived and shown her the truth.

Melanie pulled out a small bag she'd managed to salvage from the house and unzipped it. Tugging out a small envelope she handed it to Sam. "I want you two to have this as a thank you for everything…" She placed the white package in his huge palm and smiled.

Sam gently pulled open the top and his pupils widened. "Mrs. Turner, we can't accept…"

"Yes, yes you can." Melanie nodded towards her son who sat silently watching the remnants of the farmhouse and barn smolder, the impishly jigging hues of color and flame entrancing him. "You saved me and Ethan from more than a spirit today, and I'm thankful." She paused. "There is just one thing…"

"Anything," Sam offered, abruptly feeling sorry for the woman they were about to leave alone.

"Get your leg looked at properly? Please? Burns can so easily get infected."

Sam bobbed his head and looked again at the wads of notes in the envelope. "I will," he assured. "But right now, Dean and I should get going. Can we give you and Ethan a ride somewhere?"

Melanie shook her head, watching as the sun began to rise on the horizon. The wind blew through her hair, and she suddenly and inexplicably felt free. "No thanks, I have my car. I'm taking Ethan to my parents for a few days until the mess is sorted out with Bill. If you ever need any money you know where to find me…"

Dean's wayward grin appeared even though he tried for Sam's sake to stifle it. "We will, ma'am, we will." The Impala's door swung outward and he climbed behind the wheel, scowling as he noticed several scorch marks on the normally blemish-free exterior. "Sonofa…burned my CAR!"

Sam's face lit up in amusement – not at the actual damage, but at the expression of complete and utter agony on his sibling's face. Without saying a word, he hoisted his injured leg carefully inside and slid the heavy door closed. "Just as long as this ancient crate doesn't have a curse, I can live with a few marks."

Dean huffed, shooting his brother a look that said the word "crate" was blasphemous when applied to the Chevy. Brow knitting more as he let the insult sink in, Dean tugged the column shift into Drive and hit the gas. "So gonna pay for that, geekboy…"

The hunter's fingers reached out to flick on the radio, but before they hit the dial the car's speakers erupted with sound.

This time it was Sam's turn to frown, his forehead creasing in a myriad of wrinkles.

Little James Dean, up on the screen
Wonderin' who he might be
Along came a Spyder and picked up a rider
And took him down the road to eternity

You were too fast to live, too young to die, bye-bye
You were to fast to live, too young to die, bye-bye…

"Man, after all we've been through, that is SO not funny!" Sam felt like punching his brother, except that usually did very little except make the pranks come twice as fast, and twice as bad.

Dean slid the car onto Highway 46 eyes wide and his face a mask of disbelief, almost forgetting to check for other traffic has he joined the road. "Sammy, I swear my Eagles tapes got trashed when the truck hit in Missouri. I never replaced them…" To prove a point, he ejected the current cassette, only for the song to continue unabated.

You were too fast to live, too young to die, bye-bye…

In front of the Impala, the dawn sun peaked above the edge of the winding road, momentarily distracting Dean from the music. He pulled down his visor and held his palm across his eyes to deflect further glare.

As he squinted, the roaring sound of a racing engine filled his ears and he realized someone was overtaking, despite the highway's reputation. "Crazy sonof…"

The words caught in Dean's throat as his straining eyes finally saw the silver blur emblazoned with the number 130 pass in front of the Impala – the license plate 2Z7776 clear despite the haze from the morning sun.

A young hand briefly protruded from the Porsche and waved, then, the car vanished over the brow of the hill, seemingly dissipating into the dawn's brilliance.

Dean gaped and turned to his brother. "Did you..?"

"Yeah, I did," Sam admitted. "Maybe that was JD's way of thanking us for solving a fifty-year-old mystery." He shook his head and his face dimpled into a smirk. "Or maybe the guy really was as nuts about cars as you…"

Huh?"

Sam laughed. "Dude, we just gave him his Porsche back…"

Too fast to live, too young to die, bye-bye…

The End

Author's notes: While this is a work of fiction, the actual story behind it is not. The car "Little Bastard" really existed and was said to be cursed after a spate of bizarre happenings. For more about this real Hollywood legend read here:

I'd also like to thank Tree for all her technical advice and shaz for her uber fast beta of this copy while I'm on vacation!