[Dean's sitting on the trunk of the Impala, half-finished beer in hand; he's parked at the very edge of town, as far as he can drive without getting turned back by whatever mystical mojo Template pulls to keep them all locked up.

he can see a road, and open fields, and a horizon.

it's a painful picture]

This is so many kinds of screwed up.

[Dean is at the kitchen table, pouring over a messy stack of papers, a lot of them letters, bills, receipts, copies of cheques, and account summaries]

This is from two friggin' months ago...two years ago?

...we're being audited?!

[slams the papers down on the table]

Hey! Which of you kids doesn't have a job? If you don't, you're getting one right now!

The...the hell?! How the f--stay the hell away from me you little bastards!

[Dean is dodging around furniture in the main sitting room of Labarum House, nearly falling on his ass and more or less trying to get away from the little mechanized rats scurrying all over the floor.

Dean? Dean does not like rats.

and in a second, they won't like him, either]

Back the fuck off! [pyro skills are go and one of the rats bursts into a ball of fire, which then proceeds to run around the room. still on fire]

[there's a sudden burst of sharp static and sound over the radio channels; from the background noise - wind, tires screeching, horns blaring - it's obvious that he's driving]

--on of a bitch!

[more static and, surprisingly, a moan of pain. sometimes having demon-given psychic powers is bad for a body; something is going on in the city and it's hitting his ESP like a Mac truck]

Sa--...Sam! I'm almost back to the apartment. Just gotta shake these gu--[he cuts off and moans again, cursing and pressing a hand to his head, vision blurring and Impala veering wildly on the street]

[Dean looks haggard, more worn than he has since he came to Template. currently, he's digging through the trunk of the Impala, looking for one last box of hollow shells]

Damnit, I know I left it in here...! [he curses under his breath, and unconsciously rubs at his eyes, right where the circles are]

Friggin' dreams are bad enough. I don't need to be going senile, too.

[finally finds the box, stuffing it into his jacket; a brief, dull flash can be seen, the streetlight's glow on the barrel of a saw-off shotgun tucked up against his side]

[hey look, it's Dean! ...in jail. again. currently housed in a cell weeeeeell away from pretty much everybody, he's kicking back on the bed, arms behind his head]

Who knew Template lawmen had such long memories? Just because a few things went up in smoke the last time I was hear, they gotta slap arson on my squeaky clean record, right next to indecent exposure and resisting arrest. [grins lopsidedly]

Hey Sammy, mind helpin' big brother out? I might just let you have the last pie.

[Dean is currently stampeding outside to survey the damage on his baby]

Son of a bitch keyed my goddamn car! I'm gonna find 'em and shove their heads so far up their as--.....

....

[the Impala, his car, his baby, the love of his life, wounded in battle and in desperate need of his care...is not there]

....Somebody stole my car.

Somebody stole my car.

[Dean is definitely starting to hyperventilate]

Somebody stole my car!!

There was somethin' wrong with that kid. Maybe it was, I dunno, the gas mask. Little kids shouldn't wear freakin' gas masks. Especially if they're British.

[for some reason, that British part is said rather bitterly. But Dean survived, so he stomps from grocery store front to his car, bags in hand, frown on his face, and apparently in one piece.

then he sees his Impala, the glossy black paintjob marred by the long, obvious white scratch lines, evidence of someone and a hearty pair of keys at work. the damage rings the entire car, bumper to bumper, and he just...stares at it for a second.

then he shrugs, and climbs inside]

Sam better not have had another 'episode' while I was gone.


((OOC: Guess who got his love for his car taken away? Yep.))