Chuck's Monologue 5x22

        On April 21, 1967, the 100 millionth GM vehicle rolled off the line at the plant in Janesville -- a blue two-door caprice.

There was a big ceremony, speeches. The lieutenant governor even showed up. Three days later, another car rolled off that same line. No one gave two craps about her. But they should have, because this 1967 Chevrolet Impala would turn out to be the most important car -- no, the most important object -- in pretty much the whole universe.

        She was first owned by Sal Moriarty, an alcoholic with two ex-wives and three blocked arteries. On weekends, he'd drive around giving bibles to the poor "gettin' folks right for judgment day".
That's what he said. Sam and Dean don't know any of this, but if they did, I bet they'd smile.

After Sal died, she ended up at Rainbow Motors, a used-car lot in Lawrence, where a young marine bought her on impulse. That is, after a little advice from a friend. I guess that's where this story begins.

And here's where it ends.

         The impala, of course, Has all the things other cars have...and a few things they don't. But none of that stuff's important. This is the stuff that's important. The army man that Sam crammed in the ashtray --it's still stuck there. The legos that Dean shoved into the vents --to this day, heat comes on and they can hear 'em rattle. These are the things that make the car theirs --really theirs. Even when Dean rebuilt her from the ground up, he made sure all these little things stayed, 'cause it's the blemishes that make her beautiful. The devil doesn't know or care what kind of car the boys drive.

        In between jobs, Sam and Dean would sometimes get a day --sometimes a week, if they were lucky. They'd pass the time lining their pockets. Sam used to insist on honest work, but now he hustles pool, like his brother. They could go anywhere and do anything. They drove 1,000 miles for an Ozzy show, two days for a Jayhawks game. And when it was clear, they'd park her in the middle of nowhere, sit on the hood, and watch the stars...for hours...without saying a word. It never occurred to them that, sure, maybe they never really had a roof and four walls, but they were never, in fact, homeless. That's a good line.

        Endings are hard. Any chapped-ass monkey with a keyboard can poop out a beginning, but endings are impossible. You try to tie up every loose end, but you never can. The fans are always gonna bitch. There's always gonna be holes. And since it's the ending, it's all supposed to add up to something. I'm telling you, they're a raging pain in the ass.

        This is the last Dean and Bobby will see of each other for a very long time. And, for the record, at this point next week, Bobby will be hunting a rugaru outside of Dayton. But not Dean.
Dean didn't want Cas to save him. Every part of him, every fiber he's got, wants to die, or find a way to bring Sam back. But he isn't gonna do either. Because he made a promise.

        So, what's it all add up to? It's hard to say. But me, I'd say this was a test...for Sam and Dean. And I think they did all right. Up against good, evil, angels, devils, destiny, and God himself, they made their own choice. They chose family. And, well...isn't that kinda the whole point? No doubt -- endings are hard. But then again...nothing ever really ends, does it?