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Metropolis stinks.

Rachel's a bitch.

Jo's still doing her own thing. Jo's always doing her own thing. Dean shouldn't mind that so much.

He misses Sam.

However, there's always good food on the Cooper farm. So guess where Dean and the Impala are headed?

Wouldn't hurt to check up on that kid with the interest in demons, either.

(He left a message with the usual hunter's channels -- still in existence, even here where they don't use the term 'hunters' -- for Jo. Figures she'll tell Rach, the two of them so freakin' buddy-buddy.)

So -- eventually, somewhere between Metropolis and the Cooper farm's entrance gate -- there's a 67 Impala growling its way along the dirty roads, belting out Metallica.

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Somewhere else along that route, there's a motorbike with a dismayingly bent-out-of-shape front wheel and slightly crumpled chassis, and a man in his shirtsleeves trying to straighten it and muttering under his breath. There is also a crack in the road and a large rock bears evidence of the bike having ground sideways across it.

"See, Jubes, this is why you never try long-distance biking when you don't have backup or repair shops around. Blast it."

It's anyone's guess who he's talking to, honestly.

Jubes is sitting on the bike in a way that the bike wasn't designed to be sat on, occasionally swinging her legs through the chassis.

"You used to take the Wingbike to the shop? Really?"

The guy's got a bike, and seems to know what he's doing. Dean doesn't intend to stop.

He slows down a little, just to make sure nothin' troublesome is happening, though.

Dick looks up as the car approaches and waves a greeting. One that is obviously intended to imply he's FINE, just HAPPENED to feel like breaking his bike but the situation's entirely under control and nothing needs to be done, thanks, how're YOU?

... he's such a boy sometimes.

It sounds like something's going wrong with the Impala's radio.

Such a boy. Especially when he's managed to break that part there as anyone can see.

"Hey, asshole! Turn down the damn music! Other people are living in this acopalypse too! Jerk."

It kind of does sound like something's interfering with the radio. Which is odd, because it's a cassette tape.

Only a little way past the guy, the big car drags to a stop. There's a pause, and then the door slams and Dean gets out, with a small black device the size of a walkman in one hand and a shotgun in the other, and starts walking back towards the bike.

"Oh, great."

Dick gets to his feet, in his best Friendly-And-Inoffensive-But-Ready-To-Drop-Into-Fighting-Stance-At-Any-Moment pose.

"Hey, there. That gun's probably not the best idea."

Dean's walkman is making noises as strange as his radio was.

"Oh man, are you ever in trouble. Sic him, Wing!"

Jubes kicks Dean through the shins.

It's screamy as anything.

"Don't worry, it's not f'you," Dean assures Dick, lifting not the gun but the EMP meter. It screams louder, obligingly and he shakes his head.

"A'ight, this's gonna sound fuck-off crazy, but I swear it's for real -- are you aware you're bein' haunted?"

Dick isn't getting any less wary with Dean's assurances -- until that last sentence. Then he's frowning, intent and focused, with a quick glance towards where Jubes was several minutes ago.

"Yeah. I am, actually."

The scream of the EMP meter starts oscillating, a little like a police siren.

Jubes is moving one hand to the Walkman and back again, fascinated.

"Hey, this thing knows I'm here. Cooooool!."

"You do? Great, that makes it a hell of a lot easier." Dean's hand stays ready on the shotgun at his side. "Where does it show up? You'll wanna stay ready for it. And d'you know where the body is?"

"We're working on that."

Dick remains alert.

"Jubes, stop playing with it. It's probably a very delicate piece of equipment."

"It's made out of a walkman," Jubes says. "The only reason not to play with it is its antique value."

The EMP meter fades again to a lower level of constant screaming.

Dean, meanwhile, is giving Dick a look of disbelief.

"It's made out of a walkman, dude. The spirit, its name's Jubes? I can probably figure out some way t'get rid of it even if y'can't find the body."

He needs a Sam, though. And he's not going back to Lawrence. No way. Damn it.

"I bet I could make a better one," Jubes reflects. "Digital and everything.

"What does he mean, 'get rid of'?"

The screaming reduces slightly as she retreats back to Dick.

"I'm kinda worried about that myself," Dick says, frowning. "What do you mean, 'get rid of,' pal? If we find her body she's gettin' back in it."

Dean blinks, taking a step back and reaching into his jacket automatically.

"You're raising zombies? Rach said somethin' about -- What the hell makes you think that's a good idea?"

"Who's he calling a zombie?"

The general opinion of all Gothamites in the vicinity is that Dean's not a very nice guy.

"You'd better found my body before it dies, Dick. You hear me?"

Yes.

"Her body," Dick explains very carefully, "isn't dead. Someone stole it. You seem pretty au fait with this kind of thing, but please pay attention. Nobody. Is. Getting. Rid. Of. Jubes."

Dean blinks. For a minute, and then another.

"... she's not dead?"

Squid.

Jubilation golfclaps for the slow, tall (kinda hot) guy.

The EMF meter pulses slowly. Dean turns a sharp glare on it and points it at Jubilee.

"Shut it, you."

Dick tries (and fails) to hide an amused grin.

"No zombies. Sorry. Yeah, someone snatched her body and left her with his. Which wasn't, er, in the best shape."

The pulsing stops.

Jubilation shakes her head and sits back on the bike, folding her arms.

"Tell my story to everyone with a doctored Walkman, why don't you?"