This weeks scene is from my short story Wendigo:
Sam stared at the matte black beauty in front of him. He ran a hand along the sleek lines as he spoke. “1965 Mustang. Automatic?”
“Four speed.” Dean’s eyes grew warm as he walked around the car. “Bucket seats, dual exhaust, and all the original leather interior. I had to forgo the chrome though. Too flashy. I rebuilt it myself.”
Sam was impressed. “Where did you find the time and money?”
“Vo-tech in high school led to a working as a mechanic in college. Now, it’s hobby.”
“Hell of a hobby.”
PIs can’t make what mechanics do.
An inkling of what Matty saw in the man became clear to Sam. Dean was just as dedicated to catching the his prey as any werewolf. The difference was the type of prey they found.
Sam snorted to cover his train of thought. “There isn’t enough room to haul a body in the trunk.”
“Why the hell would we need to do that?”
“What do you think happens when civilians find the remains of monsters? Some nights we spend more time disposing of bodies than we do hunting monsters.” Sam tried to take his hand off the car. “But for today, I think this is a better idea. Less noticeable.”
“My restored classic Mustang is less noticeable than your SUV?”
Sam shrugged. “How often are you harassed on a stake out? Besides, it’s way prettier.”
“Can’t argue with that.” Dean unlocked the car and slid into the driver’s seat.
Kansas blared through the speakers as Sam clambered into the passenger seat. “Classic rock?”
Dean smiled. “Classic car.”
“That’s just logic. We need to grab the weapons bag and we’re ready to go.”
“You have a weapons bag?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
***
Words That Burn Like Fire 