( FALLEN IDOLS )

GARAGE
[ ☾]

        The lights flick on and two men, Jim and Cal, enter. "All right, buddy, what's so important you couldn't tell me over the phone?" Jim asks.

       "Trust me, Jim. It's important." Cal leads Jim over to a car covered in a sheet. Cal stops, looking to Jim in excitement.

       "Wait a minute, you're not...you're not telling me that this is-" Jim starts.

      "Yep."

       "You found it?" Asks Jim. Cal pulls the sheet off the car, revealing a silver convertible Porsche, labeled "Little bastard". Jim sighs and Chuckles in awe. Jim shakes his head. "You found it. Huh." Cal folds up the sheet and tosses it aside as Jim inspects the car closer. "Oh my God! You sure?"

       "VIN numbers match." Cal says.

      "How much you pay?"

      "A lot." Says Cal.

       "Come on, how much?"

      Cal Chuckles. "A lot." He says.

      "I bet. Wow." Jim whistles. Cal opens the door and gets into the driver's seat. "Wow. You start her up yet?"

      "Been waiting for you."

      "Yeah, waiting to rub my nose in it, right?" Asks Jim.

       "Exactly." Cal puts his hand on the ignition key.

        "Whoa, whoa, wait, wait, wait. We need to record this for posterity's sake." Jim says.

      "Great idea."

      "Yeah, great idea." Jim Chuckles. "Oh, man." He hurries off back into the house. Cal's face drops when he breathes out and notices his breath condense in front of him.

        Suddenly, the car's radio flicks on of its own volition and jumps rapidly through the stations. Cal tries to correct it with the knobs, but it doesn't work. In the house, Jim finds a video camera and adjusts the settings. He hears tires screeching in the garage, then glass breaking.

       "Cal? Cal?" Jim walks back into the garage, video camera held up, recording, but the car is blocked by some shelves. "Hey, you all right, man? I thought I heard something. Cal? Is something wrong?"

        He walks around to the front of the car, still recording, then stops dead and lowers the camera. "Oh my God, Cal." The windshield, coated in Cal's blood, is embedded halfway through his skull. Jim screams. "Cal!" Cal's blood runs down the hood and drips onto the Porsche insignia and "Little bastard" decal.

ROAD
[ ☾]

      The Impala drives along an empty road. "So-" Sam Chuckles. "-what's with this job?"

      "Dude suffers a head-on collision in a parked car? I'd say that's worth checking out." Dean says.

      "Yeah, definitely, uh, but, uh, we got bigger problems, don't you think?" Elena asks.

      "I'm sure the apocalypse'll still be there when we get back." Says Dean.

      "Right, yeah, but I mean, if-if the Colt is really out there somewhere-" Sam starts.

      "Hey, we've been looking for three weeks, we got bupkis." Says Dean.

      "Okay. But Dean...I mean, if we're gonna-ice the Devil-" Sam starts.

      "This is what we're doing! Okay? End of discussion." Dean says. Sam looks away and sighs. A long pause. "It's just that this is our first real case, back at it together. You know, I, I think we oughta ease into it, put the training wheels back on."

      "So you think I need training wheels." Sam says.

      "No, 'we'. 'We' need training wheels, you and me. As a team. Okay?" Dean says and Elena smacks the back of his head. "You, me and Elena. That's what I meant."

      Sam nods. "Okay." He says.

      "Man, I really want this to be a fresh start, you know? For the three of us." Dean says. They look at each other, then Sam nods again.

      "Okay."

CANTON, OHIO

SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT
[ ☼ ]

      Dean, Elena and Sam, show their FBI badges to the Sheriff. "Agents Bonham, James and Copeland. The Sheriff shakes their hands.

      "Rick Carnegie. Good to know ya." He says. "So you're here on account of Cal Hawkins' death?"

      "That's right." Elena says.

      "Well, 'fraid you came a long way for nothing. We already booked the guy that did it." Rick says.

      Sam and Dean frown at each other. "I'm sorry; who do you think did it?" Sam asks.

INTERVIEW ROOM
[ ☼ ]

      Sam, Dean, Elena, and Rick are sitting at a table, watching the video that Jim recorded. "Cal? Is something wrong?" The video shows Cal's head smashed into the windshield. "Oh my God, Cal. Cal!" The video cuts to static and Rick shakes his head, then switches off the TV. He drops the remote on the table and turns to Dean, Elena and Sam.

      "Sicko taped his own handiwork." Says Rick. Dean and Sam look confused.

      "I don't follow." Sam says.

      "It was Jim Grossman that killed Cal."

       "Wait, what?" Dean asks.

       "Well, he was the only one on the scene for miles." Rick says.

      "They were best friends." Elena points out.

       "Most violent crimes are committed by someone close to the victim."

       "And how exactly did Jim slam Cal into a windshield with all the force of an eighty-mile-per-hour crash?" Dean asks.

      Rick blinks. "Drugs, maybe?" He asks as Dean raises his eyebrows. "Look, you know this ain't brain surgery, boys! Whatever it looks like, that's what it usually is. It's simple."

      "Simple. Right." Dean glances over his shoulder at Sam.

      "Right. Um, if you don't mind, we'd like to speak to Jim Grossman anyway." Sam says.

JIM'S CELL
[ ☼ ]

      Sam and Elena are sitting at a table across from Jim, and Dean stands behind Sam. "I was in the house when it happened, I didn't even see it." Says Jim.

      "For argument's sake, say we believe you." Dean says.

      "Why would you? The cops didn't."

      "Well we're not your typical cops." Says Elena.

      "Please, just tell us what you saw."

       "It's not what I saw, it's what I heard. Tires squealing, glass breaking." Jim sighs. "It was the car that did it."

       Dean and Sam both raise their eyebrows. "The car?" Sam asks.

       "I mean, I heard about the curse, but, I just thought it was a load of crap." Says Jim.

      "Curse, what do you-what do you mean, curse?" Elena asks.

      "The car. Little bastard."

      "Li-Little bastard? As in the Little bastard?" Dean asks.

      "Wait, wait, wait, wait, uh, what's Little bastard?" Sam asks.

      "It's James Dean's car. It's the one he was killed in." Dean says.

      "Yeah, that's the one. Cal had been looking for it for years. I mean, hell, we both had. But he found it first."

      Dean leans closer to Sam. "Oh, we are definitely checking this out." He says.

IMPOUND GARAGE
[ ☼ ]

      Dean walks around and inspects Little bastard with awe, careful not to touch. The windshield is bloodstained and has a piece missing where Cal's head was. "So, what, this is, like, Christine?" S asks.

      Dean shakes his head. "Christine is fiction. This-This is real." He says.

      "Okay." Elena says. "Enlighten us."

      "Well after James Dean died, his mechanic bought the wreckage, and he fixed it up." Dean says. "And it repaid him by...falling on him. And 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."

      "Hm." Sam says.

      "Then, in nineteen-seventy, it vanished off the back of a truck. Nobody's ever seen it since." Dean says. "I'm 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.

       "Cal matched the VIN number, but the only real way to know is the engine number." Dean says.

      Sam nods. "I'm guessing the engine number-?" He says.

      "On the engine. Yeah." Dean says.

GARAGE
[ ☼ ]

      Dean and Sam have their jackets off and sleeves rolled up and are staring at Little bastard with trepidation. "You want me to do it?" Sam asks.

      "No. ...No, no, I've-I've got it." Dean addresses Little bastard. "Okay, baby. I'm not gonna hurt you, so...don't hurt me." Dean lies down on a roller board with a pencil in his mouth, then rolls himself under the car so his eyes are level with a number printed on the engine.

      "Be careful." Elena says.

      "I always am." Dean reads the number when the car shudders and he panics, looking around. Sam appears on the ground next to the car.

      "Need a flashlight?" Sam asks.

       Dean startles. "No. Don't...do anything, just go away." He says.

      "You-uh, okay." Sam says.

      "Don't speak. All right? In fact, don't even look at her, she might not like it." Dean says and Sam stands back up. Dean holds a piece of paper up to the engine's number.

      The car shudders again and Dean hesitates, then cautiously takes a rubbing of the number on the piece of paper with the pencil. He slides out from under the car, exhaling deeply, then stands up quickly. Dean composes himself, then hands Sam the number. "Find out who owned it. Not just the last owner, you gotta take it all the way back to nineteen-fifty-five." Dean says.

      "That's a lot of research." Sam says.

      "Well, I guess I just made your afternoon." Dean says as Sam stares. Dean sighs and walks away.

       "I'll help." Elena says to Sam.

GREEN DRAGON TAVERN
[ ☼ ]

      Dean sits at the bar, talking to a Bartender. "So, you wanna be an actress, huh?" He asks.

      "Yeah." She says.

      "That is-that is so funny, because, I am actually-" Dean takes out a business card. "-an agent for William Morris Endeavor."

      The Bartender takes the card. "Wow." She says. Dean chuckles as his cell phone rings. He indicates his empty beer glass.

      "You mind filling me up again?" Dean asks.

      "Yeah."

      "Thanks, hey, you're a star. All right?" Dean asks as she giggles, takes the glass and walks away as Dean answers the call. "Yo."

       Sam has the phone of speaker. "Hey. Took us a while, but we traced all the car's previous owners." Sam is sitting at his laptop, piles of paper spread around.

      "Any of 'em die bloody?" Dean asks.

      "Nope. In fact-" Elena starts. Someone near Dean breaks a triangle of pool balls. She hears this. "Dean, are you in a bar?"

      "No, I-I'm-I'm in a restaurant." Dean says. The Bartender returns and places Dean's beer on the bar.

      "Here's your beer." The Bartender grins.

      "Thanks." Dean takes the beer as the bartender walks away and Sam shakes his head. "That happens to have a bar."

      "We've been working my ass off here." Sam says.

      "Hey, world's smallest violin, pal, I spent the afternoon up Christine's skirt. I needed a drink."

       "Actually, you didn't." Sam says.

      "Meaning?" Says Dean.

       "The car's first owner was a cardiologist in Philadelphia; drove it 'til he died in nineteen-seventy-two." Elena says.

       "So you're saying?" Dean asks.

       "That Porsche is not, nor has it ever been, James Dean's car. It's a fake Little bastard." Sam says.

       "Well then what was it that killed the guy?" Dean asks

       "Good question."

OFFICE
[ ☾]

       A Man, Mr. Hill, sits at his desk, doing some paperwork. A Maid, Consuela, comes to the door. "Okay Mister Hill, I finish." She says.

      "Thank you, Consuela. Have a good night." Hill says and Consuela smiles, nods, and leaves. Hill returns to his paperwork and sighs, but is surprised when his breath condenses in front of him. He hears a creak behind him, turns, and stops. "Oh my God. It's you." Hill stands. "You're dead. You're supposed to be dead."

      Abraham Lincoln snarls, teeth bared, and steps from the shadows, advancing on Hill, who backs away. "No. No, no, no." Lincoln suddenly appears right in front of Hill and picks him up by the throat. He begins to strangle him. A large splatter of blood hits a framed copy of the Emancipation Proclamation hanging on the wall.

OFFICE
[ ☼ ]

       A police forensic squad is investigating and photographing the scene. Rick is giving orders as Dean, Elena and Sam enter. "I want you to use a, a fine-tooth comb. The evidence is here, we just gotta find it." Says Rick.

      "Heard you got another weird one." Dean says.

       "Uh, well, it's a-it's a little strange on the surface, I admit, but, uh...you know, once you-you look at the facts..." Rick says.

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

      Dean shrugs. "Nope. Nothing strange about that." He says.

       "Well there's gotta be a reasonable explanation. There always is." Says Rick.

      "Well what's your reasonable explanation?" Elena asks.

      Rick looks around cautiously for a moment and whispers. "Professional killer." He says.

      "Come again?" Sam asks.

      "Well, CIA, NSA, one o' them trained assassins, like in Michael Clayton." Rick says. Sam and Dean all but gape at him.

      "Right." Dean looks at Sam.

       "You're welcome to look around, but-but these guys don't leave fingerprints." Says Rick.

       "Mind if we talk with the witness?" Sam asks.

      "Be my guest. She's not making any sense! And she's not making any sense in Spanish either." Rick says as Dean nods slowly.

      "Right."