Dean was leaned deep into his fourth car, flying through most of them with just a crank of a few bolts, which had disappointed him, a bit.  He had wanted a few complicated projects to keep him busy, but honestly, things were moving pretty fast, until this particular car.

It was Bobby’s Chevelle, and what the hell had he done to this thing?  He pulled a nearly solid black hand from the guts of the car, rubbing the back of his wrist against his forehead as something caught his eye.  He reached in, pulling lightly on the fabric that had wrapped itself around the compressor belt, “What the hell, Bobby Singer?”

As he struggled with it, it slowly came free while he cussed and grumbled at it, rotating the belt.  His phone pinged, which caused his head to shoot up from under the hood, grabbing the filthy shop towel he had draped over the grill.  He wiped his hands quickly, which didn’t do much good and picked up his phone, checking his messages.

Seeing her text, he sighed audibly in relief, “There you are…”

He texted back quickly:

[center] [i] “Be safe please. I’m in the garage when you get here, back door is unlocked. [/i][/center]

He then turned back to the car, tossing his phone back onto the parts cart.  With one final tug, he managed to pull a bloody shirt from the compressor of Bobby’s Chevelle, holding it up with a curled nose.

“What the hell, Bobby…Not your car…”, he groaned, realizing it was probably the shirt of a monster from a hunt.  He tossed the shirt up on to the cart by his phone, and began putting the belt back onto the compressor.