a match made in heaven
"Don't give me that shit," Dean said, his fingers itching for the butt of his shotgun. Unfortunately, it was in the boot of the Impala, which was the other side of him from the big (fucking big) (really fucking big) (absolutelyfuckinglutely giant, let's be honest) robot standing over him. "Cars don't have a heaven."
"Course they do," the huge robot said. "You telling me that your car don't have no soul?"
Dean had to admit that the robot had a point. "Riiiiight," he said. "Maybe. Okay. But if you're a -"
"Angel," the big robot said firmly. "You got a heaven, you get angels. We come swooping down and save innocent cars from, like, evil. Like your beauty."
"What evil?" Dean demanded.
"Okay," the robot said. "So I was getting retroactive. Because, man, your car has taken some pretty heavy shit."
"It was the kelpie," Dean said defensively. "And the jabberwock. Man, if Sam hadn't had that sword -"
"Yeah, well." The big robot put its jointed fists on its articulated hips. "That ain't no way to treat a car like that. What your baby needs is a nice rest in a good garage, a tune-up, a going-over, a rub-down, a clean-round, and a serious body waxing."
"And that was why you came swooping down out of the sky like that," Dean said.
"Yeah," the robot said.
"And why you yelled, 'Hand over the Allspark, Decepti-creep!'"
The robot gave him a long look. "It's the upgrade on 'Fear not'," it said.
"And nothing to do with the weird light glares 'cause I was blasting ghosts?"
"Oh, is that what it was?" the robot said in tones of slow enlightenment. "You humans are so weird when you're doing a post-death reboot. Not like cars at all," it added hastily.
"Fine. Okay." Dean sighed, deciding to write this one up to Random Weird Shit. "Mind if I get at my car now?"
"Oh, sure," the giant robot said, moving aside.
Dean threw himself on the beloved Impala, ran his hands over its poor battered hood, and opened it with a muttered profanity to check the engine. A few seconds later, he was doing more than muttering the profanities.
"What is it?" the robot asked, leaning over to peer over Dean's shoulder from about ten feet up.
"The engine's wrecked." Dean banged his clenched fist against the bodywork. "Not helped by having to slam the brakes on when you dropped out of the damn sky in front of me. Hell. If I try running it when it's like this, I'm going to foul it up for sure, and it'll be a month in repairs. And that's if I'm lucky."
"So don't run it," the robot suggested. "Look, I can help you get it to this garage nearby -"
"No choice," Dean said, slamming the hood shut. "Got a call from my brother. He's got trouble. I gotta go."
The robot frowned, the expression perceptible even on its mechanical face. "It's urgent?"
"Yeah," Dean said. "Real urgent."
"Well, um." The robot/angel/whatever sighed. "Look, suppose I could arrange another car? Cause it'd be a sin to go wrecking this one. And one of my guys -"
"Another angel?" Dean said dryly.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. He is Ratchet, and he is the Angel of Healing Cars, and trust me," the robot leaned in closer, "he can do it. Me, I'm more the Angel of Cool Moves."
"Is there a Robot Angel of Pulling Hot Chicks?" Dean asked hopefully.
"Maybe back on our homeworl - um, in Car Heaven," the robot said. "But anyhow. Will you do it?"
"Show me the car first," Dean said.
The robot stretched, then folded in on itself, gleaming and shifting in arcs of machine muscle and oiled steel. A moment later . . .
"Holy shit," Dean said. "That's a frigging Pontiac Solstice. Hey, do you have the dual-scroll supercharger?"
The car door flipped open, and the radio inside crackled on. The robot's voice said, "GXP, baby. All the way. And machine guns."
"Oh boy," Dean said. "Can you load them with rock salt?"
"Well, sure. If you want." The car blinked its lights invitingly. "You wanna step inside?"
"You're sure the Impala'll be okay?" Dean asked.
"Oh yeah. I've put in a call to Ratchet. He'll be here any minute. In fact, we might kind of want to leave before he gets here, in case he asks a lot of questions . . ."
That sounded familiar to Dean. "Right," he said. He collected a few weapons from the Impala's trunk, slung them into the back of the Pontiac, and slipped into the front seat, closing the door and buckling up. The leather seat was smooth and faintly warm behind his back. "It's a hundred and six miles to Chicago," he began, "we've got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark -"
"- and I'm wearing sunglasses," the robot put in, "'cause I'm cool."
"Hit it," Dean said, with a sense of deep satisfaction.
The car cruised off into the darkness.