Nobody puts Baby in a corner... but she does go in a garage

The Impala roars beneath me like a pissed-off lion—deep, guttural, unapologetic. She’s loud as hell, just how I always dreamed. Every vibration in the steering wheel, every gear shift grinding with age, makes me grin like an idiot. I roll the window down and let the New York wind slap my face, the kind of slap that says "you made it, asshole."

Iris sits beside me, heels kicked off, her pumps in her lap. She's been mostly quiet, watching me soak it all in.

“You happy?” she asks finally, her voice soft and knowing.

I glance over, nodding, unable to hide the stupid grin on my face. “I feel like I’m on a fuckin’ cloud… with a roaring V8 strapped to it.”

She smiles, satisfied. “Good.”

In the backseat, the director’s chair backrest with my name stitched into it sits proudly on top of my portfolio case. The wardrobe jacket and boots - more unexpected gifts - are folded neatly beside it, still smelling like set lighting, prop dust, and just a hint of blood-scented stage makeup.

I drop Iris off at the office just as the sun dips behind the skyline, casting everything in golden blues. She slips her heels back on and opens the door, pausing just before stepping out.

“I’ll follow up tomorrow about the Con in L.A., next week. Flights, schedule, press access. You’ll be in front of a whole lot of fans.” She tells me.

I groan slightly. “I should’ve known there’d be people involved.”

She laughs, hand on the door. “You earned everything coming to you, Joe. Don’t downplay it.”

I look at her—really look at her. I think of the late nights, the back-and-forths with legal, with Kripke’s team, with whoever the hell you have to wrangle to be able to gift someone a goddamn screen-used Impala this last week “You worked magic,” I tell her. “I'll never be able to thank you enough.”

She shrugs like it’s nothing, but I can see the pride in her posture. “No... you won't." She says proudly. "Just don’t crash it into a Shake Shack, okay?”

We trade grins, and she’s gone.

I roll the Impala into the garage of my building. Iris already had my old Ford Focus stashed in the office garage—typical Iris efficiency. The Impala fits perfectly, like it was always meant to be here. The overhead light flickers on, spotlighting the sleek black frame like I’m parking the Batmobile.

I stare at it for a long moment, hand still on the gearshift, before I kill the engine. The silence that follows is deafening.

I want to tell Emily.

I don’t.

Not yet.

She’ll be back in a couple days. Let her see it first. Let her smell the damn thing.

Still, I call her.

She answers on the third ring, her voice warm and sleepy. “Hey, you.”

I sink back into the driver’s seat, grin still locked on my face. “You’re not gonna believe the day I had.”

I tell her everything—well, almost everything. The shoot. How I got pulled in to act last minute as the tattoo artist. How Kathryn insisted. How I got a wardrobe gift, a custom director’s chair back, and an invite to Supernatural-Con. I leave out the Impala. That reveal’s gonna hit harder in person.

She’s laughing, thrilled. “Joe, that’s so great. I’m so happy for you. I wish I’d been there to see your face.”

“Three more days,” I say, already counting the hours.

She tells me she can’t wait to wrap up the case she’s on. Promises she’ll be there the second she’s free.

We hang up, and I head upstairs, still floating.

I drop everything—portfolio, jacket, boots—just inside the door. I collapse onto the couch, still in my jeans and T-shirt. I pop in season three, Blu-Ray of disc two of Supernatural in my PS5. and queue up the episode.

“Mystery Spot.”

A fucking classic.

I barely make it past Sam’s first **** before I’m out cold. No dreams. Just the low, comforting hum of the Impala still echoing in my chest.

And the knowledge that somehow… this is just the beginning.