~*****~

"So, what, this is like Christine?" Sam asks as Dean and I gaze at the car in star struck awe.

I snort. "No way, Christine is fiction. This--" I trail off.

"This is real." Dean finishes.

Sam hummed. "Okay. Enlighten me."

Dean and I glanced at one another before I began to speak. "Well, after James Dean died, his mechanic bought the wreckage, and he fixed it up. And it repaid him by--" I slice at my throat with my hand. "Falling on him. Then Tony McHenry was killed when it locked up on the racetrack. I mean, Death follows this car around like exhaust. Nobody touches it and comes away in one piece."

Sam hums in thought. "Then in nineteen seventy, it vanishes off the back of a truck. Nobody's ever seen it since." Dean continues. "We're telling you, man. If this-- if this car is Little Bastard, I will bet you dollars to donuts it's what killed the guy."

"So, how do we find out?" Sam asks.

"Well, Cal matched the VIN number, but the only real way to know is the engine number." I explain.

"God, you're hot." Dean comments.

Sam grunts and sighs through his nose. "Dean, focus?" He reminds him. "Anyway, I'm guessing the engine number--"

"On the engine, yeah." I nod with a wide grin.

We get the car onto jacks and the boys are now hesitating. "You want me to do it?" Sam asks.

"No," Dean says quickly. "No, no, I've g-- I've got it." Dean stammers.

I rolled my eyes as he slipped under the car. "Idiots, I'm the only one who can't die." I comment irritably as Dean disappears.

"You haven't been squashed, Lottie!" Dean comments nervously.

I roll my eyes and watch carefully. There's a metal creak from the jacks and I start to get a little nervous. I blow out a soft breath and murmur to myself. "Getting squashed can't hurt that bad, right? I mean, I've been a human kabob before..." I say lightly.

"Need a flashlight?" Sam asks out of nowhere, his body flat against the ground to talk to Dean.

"No," Dean stammers. "No, get your ass away from the car please!"

"Okay..." Sam trails off.

"Don't speak, don't even look at her. She might not like it," Dean urges as I kneel down, ready to catch the car if need be.

"You all right?" Sam asks as Dean finally crawls out from underneath.

"Find out who owned it. Not just the last owner--" Dean says shakily. "You got to take it all the way back to nineteen fifty-five."

Sam glances down at it and smirks at Dean. "That's a lot of research."

Dean nods through his shaky breathing. "Well, I guess I just made your afternoon." Sam and I share an amused look before Dean whimpers and stalks off.

~*****~

To say I was upset was an understatement. "If it's not James Dean car, then what the hell are we doing here?" I ask irritably, my hands grasping at my beer. "To think I was gonna tell this story to Mary if we'd actually found James Dean's car."

"You'll be all right, baby," Dean chuckles as I chug my beer. "We got loads of stories to tell her."

I roll my eyes. "Like the Strippers from Hell back like ten years ago?" I ask.

Dean just beams. "That was a great night."

"Yeah, cause bare titties came at you with a knife." I comment dryly.

Dean just smiles.

"You think we should've left Sam by himself to research while we went out drinking?" I ask lightly. "I mean, you said training wheels, but this isn't exactly training wheels moment. We should've stayed."

"What, and glared at him the entire time?" Dean hums through his beer. I glance at him and furrow my brows. "C'mon, you haven't exactly put your whole heart into this, Lottie. You're still upset about it."

I huff and cross my arms over my chest. "Excuse me for having issues."

Dean rubs at my back. "Why don't you two find the time to talk it out. Clear the air. You can swing and kick all you want, but you're still feeling bad about it."

I sigh lightly. "It's just... I told him we were good, when we left you and Bobby in that motel room. I took a swing, and I let him have it. I said--" I gesture to me. "I said we were good. I can't take that back."

"Yeah, you can." Dean retorts. "Look, I'm not going to get all touchy feely about this, and god, do not tell me I sound like a chick, but you can feel however you want to feel, and if you want to take back that swing and talk about it more, you're allowed it." Dean explains a little harshly. "I'll be damned if you bottle all that up. That shit's my thing."

I snort. "Don't I know it." I comment lightly. Dean pinches my side before we decide to leave to meet back up with Sam.

~*****~

Overnight, there was another strange death. "I want you to go over everything with a fine-tooth comb. The evidence is here. You just gotta find it." Carnegie explains to one of his officers.

"Heard you got another weird one." Dean hums as we step into the room.

"Well, it's a-- it's a little strange on the surface, I admit, but, you know, once y-you look at the facts..." Carnegie trailed off.

"William Hill died from a gunshot wound to the head." Sam commented. "No gun. No gunpowder, no bullet."

"Nope. Nothin' strange about that." Dean adds.

"Just a typical case, isn't it?" I taunt.

"Well, there's got to be a reasonable explanation," Carnegie sighed. "There always is!"

"Well, what's your reasonable explanation?" Dean asks.

Carnegie looks around before leaning to us to whisper. "Professional killer."

"Come again." I say loudly.

Carnegie shushes me delicately. "CIA, NSA, one of them trained assassins-- like in Michael Clayton."

We exchange glances before going back to staring at Carnegie. "Right...." I trail off.

"Look, you're welcome to look around, but-- but these guys don't leave fingerprints!" Carnegie exclaimed.

"Mind if we talk to the witness?" I ask.

"Be my guest, she's not making any sense," Carnegie sighs again. "And she's not making any sense in Spanish, either."

"Right." Dean trails off.

We venture outside to speak with the witness, and she's rightfully distraught. "No puedo vivir aqui. Necesito mi familia. Me voy ahora. Me voy a la casa. No-- me voy a la casa en el Salvador, ahora." The maid whimpers to the cop.

"Consuela Alvarez?" Dean hums as we approach.

"Yes," She says delicately.

"FBI," Dean flashes his badge and the cop walks off. "Now, you said you saw something in the professors house. Right? Something in the window?"

"Estaba sacando la basura!" The maid explains. "Imire por la ventana y vi al hombre que mato al Senor Hill!"

"Senora, Senora," I say delicate as I sit beside her. "Calmese, por favor." Consuela nods through her sniffles. "Diganos lo que vio."

"Nice." Dean comments.

"It wouldn't kill you to learn some new languages," I retort quickly.

"Era alto, muy alto." Consuela explains. "Y llevaba el abrigo negro largo y tenia bigotes."

"So, she says it was tall man. Very tall. With a long black coat." I explain to Sam and Dean. "And a beard? Beard." I nod once Consuela confirms.

"Y un sombrero." Consuela adds.

"Dude was wearing a sombrero?" Dean asks.

"A hat, Dean," Sam retorts irritably.

"No, no, no. Un sombrero alto." Consuela adds.

"Tall hat, a-- a tall hat?" I question.

"Like a top hat?" Dean asks.

"Un sombrero alto!" Consuela repeats. "Muy alto!" She gestures above her head.

"You-- you mean like a stove pipe hat." Dean confirms.

"Si," Consuela nods.

"Oh, yeah, you know, like Abraham Lincoln." Dean hums.

"Si," Consuela whimpers. "El Presidente Lincoln!" We exchange confused glances. "Abraham Lincoln killed Mr. Hill!" She says in English. We all hum in confusion. "S-So I go home now?" She asks.

"Si, gracias," I say quickly.

"Gracias," Dean echoes in a very white dialect.

There's the sudden feel of an oncoming migraine.

~*****~

My eyes feel so dried out as we look through all the evidence we had. Hell, Dean even had Zack rifling through the stuff. "Whoa--" Dean hums. I glance up from my stack of papers, squinting at him.

"What?" We all say.

"Here's a freeze-frame of Jim Grossman's video." Dean says as he holds up his laptop. "Am I crazy, or does that look like James Dean?"

Sam and I peer closer as Zack merely glances at it, his eyes squinting impossibly tight to see. "That looks like James Dean." Sam sighs.

"So... you got Abraham Lincoln and James Dean?" Zack asks. "So, like famous ghosts?"

"Maybe..." Sam trails off.

"Well, that's just silly." Dean comments.

"No, actually, there's a ton of lore on famous ghosts," Sam says. "More than the, you know, not famous kinds. I'm actually surprised we haven't run into one before."

"Yeah, but having two of them? And serious pissed off?" I mention as Zack goes to tend to the baby.

"Who apparently are ganking their fans." Sam sighs.

"What do you mean?" Dean asks.

"Professor Hill was a Civil War nut," Sam explains. "He dug Lincoln."

"Cal and Jim were both James Dean freaks," I comment as I lean against the table. "Cal spent seventeen years of his life tracking down the guy's car. So you're saying that we've got two super-famous, super pissed-off ghosts killing their super fans?"

"That's what it looks like." Sam shrugs.

"Well, that is Muchos Loco." Dean comments.

"It's muy," I correct Dean.

"What?" Dean asks.

"It's muy," Sam echoes. "Not Muchos."

Dean grunts irritably. "Yeah, well, the big question is, what the hell are they doing here?"

"Yeah, ghosts usually haunt the places they lived. I mean, I get Abraham Lincoln at the White House." Sam crosses his arms over his chest.

"And James Dean at a racetrack, but... what the hell are they doing in Canton?" Dean asks.

Zack reappeared with the baby. "Does that mean we might get attacked by ghosts? Cause let me tell you, I used to be a super fan for David Dukes as a kid."

Dean glances back at him before glancing back up at me. "Your Super Fan was into Dawson Creek." Dean commented.

"Actually, it was Gods and Monsters." Zack corrected him. "You're the one who knows about Dawson Creek, not me."

I begin to laugh and pat at Dean's head. "Kid can bite back."