Dean scrubbed harder at the stubborn bug splat on Baby's windshield. Ruthie crouched nearby, working on the driver's side wheel with a stiff-bristled brush. A classic rock station played from the old radio in the corner of the garage.
"I thought Sam was coming to help?" Dean asked her.
She shrugged. "He was glued to his laptop when I came through the library. Said something about maybe finding a case."
Dean wasn't surprised. They'd all been burning up with cabin fever. Sam and Ruthie had insisted they all lay low while Dean's ghoul bite healed, and it had taken weeks for new skin to fill in the gaping hole. They'd killed time at the bunker with rounds of poker and late nights telling Ruthie stories about past hunts. That, and enjoying her cooking. Dean figured he and Sam had each gained ten pounds.
Ruthie had been especially curious about angels and demons. "It's still hard for me to believe they're real." Then she'd crossed her arms and tapped her foot. "When do I get to meet Castiel? I'm starting to think you made him up."
They hadn't kept him away on purpose or anything. They'd seen Cas a few times since Idaho, but it had been while they were out on hunts and Ruthie was back at the bunker. It seemed like he was always dealing with some new drama with heaven or other angels, and could never hang around long.
"And Crowley?" Ruthie had seemed incredulous. "You're on a first name basis with the king of Hell?"
Dean and Sam had exchanged a look. They'd sort of forgotten how freakish their lives were until Ruthie came along.
Dean shrugged. "It's just one name. Like Prince, or Madonna."
"His mother calls him Fergus," Sam added.
Ruthie had stared at them for a minute before cracking up. He and Sam had laughed too. It was impossible not to, with her.
It was also becoming impossible for him to ignore her legs in those cutoff jean shorts. Dean forced his eyes back to the bug guts. He'd stuck to his word from that day in the hospital. They had a good thing going here, the three of them. If he started something with Ruthie, it might be nice for a while, but it would end. It always ended. And based on his track record, it would end badly. Most likely with her getting hurt, or worse. Better to keep things like this.
Besides, Ruthie deserved better.
He'd just have to keep on trying not to notice certain things. Like the way her favorite black v-neck shirt hugged her in just the right places, or how the spokes of gold in her eyes shone when he stood near her. How she laughed at his jokes when Sam rolled his eyes. The times he'd glance up from a lore book to find she'd been watching him. The way she'd drop her gaze, and cover her throat with her hand.
He might as well try not to notice hunger pangs, or an itchy mosquito bite, or the smell of baking pie.
Ruthie dipped her brush into the bucket of sudsy water and moved to the back wheel, the last one she hadn't cleaned yet. Her shorts and racerback tank were still dry; she approached car-washing with the same surgical precision as stitching skin.
"You missed a spot," he told her.
"Did not."
He grinned. Of course she hadn't. He just liked messing with her.
Ruthie stood and walked away from him.
"Hey!" He held his hands out to the sides, dripping soapy water from his sponge onto the garage floor. "Where are you going?"
"Hang on," she called over her shoulder. "This is important."
She reached the radio and cranked up the volume. Boston. More Than a Feeling. Ruthie did a dramatic spin to face him, holding the bristle brush up to her mouth like a mic. She reached up with her other hand, then pulled her arm down, making a fist while she enthusiastically lip-synced. "I see my Marianne walkin' awaaaay…" When the note jumped up higher, so did her hand. She threw her head back, mouth wide open, pointing finger stretched toward the ceiling. "Aaaaaaay!"
Dean fought hard against the smile trying to break onto his face, the sponge still dribbling onto the floor, while she switched to air guitar. He set his jaw and crossed his arms. "I thought we agreed: no more secrets?"
Ruthie dropped her guitar, her playfulness gone. "What?"
"You've kept it hidden from us all this time, what a massive dork you are."
It took a second, but a grin like the one he was holding back spread across her face. She returned to the bucket and dunked her brush while he went back to scrubbing the driver's side window.
The glass reflected a blur of motion, and Ruthie pounced onto his back, knocking him against the car. Pointy bristles poked into the top of his head and scoured his hair; soapy water streamed over his face and neck. He roared and reached up to grab it from her, but she yanked it out of his reach, cackling like a loon.
He pushed off the car and staggered back. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her arm tight around his neck.
He spat out the water that had trickled into his mouth. "Okay," he said. "You started it." He marched over to the water bucket.
"No!" she screamed, dropping the brush and clamping both arms around his neck.
"Gah," he croaked through a flattened throat. "Ruthie, yer chokin' me."
She loosened her grip just a bit, like he'd known she would. He struck like a rattlesnake, grabbing both of her wrists and yanking her arms out to the sides, off of him. She shrieked and squeezed him tighter with her legs.
Damn. She had a good grip.
Dean pulled her left arm over his head so he had both her arms on his right side. He bent over and pulled her down, aiming her head closer and closer to the bucket, while she fought to keep herself upright. She was laughing and screaming too much to manage, though.
He grabbed both wrists in one hand, and her face in the other. Her cackles and shrieks got louder to make up for his hand half-covering her mouth as he pushed her nearly upside-down, straight toward the bucket. Her ponytail sank into the suds; he almost had her head in—
The door banged open; Sam burst into the garage, gun drawn, eyes wide. Dean stopped, and so did Sam.
Sam stared at them for several seconds, taking in the scene. Then he lowered the gun and scraped a hand through his hair. "You two scared the crap out of me."
"Sorry, Sam," came Ruthie's muffled voice through Dean's hand over her face.
"She started it," Dean told him.
Sam stuffed the gun into his waistband. "Okay." He shook his head and started back through the door.
"No!" Ruthie shouted. "Sam, help!"
"Sammy can't help you now," Dean rumbled in his best horror movie voice.
She rewarded him with her loudest scream yet.
"Better take a breath," he warned.
He dunked her head into the bucket, just for a second, and pulled her back out. She came up with her eyes closed, head covered in bubbles, but still managed to spit water onto his face before she coughed a few times and started laughing again. She unwrapped her legs from his waist, and he helped her get her balance before he let go of her arms.
"See what you get?" he asked, while she wiped foam off her face and hair.
"Yeah, I see." She grabbed her ponytail and flicked it at him, splattering him again. "An unwarranted escalation of force."
He wiped his face with both hands. "Hey, don't start nothin, won't be nothin."
"Dean!" Sam reappeared at the door, sounding urgent. "Have you run any searches lately on Wendigos?"
Dean frowned. "No. Why?"
"Something I just saw. I think you'd better take a look."
"I'm almost done with the car."
Sam nodded. "Okay, that's fine."
Dean threw his hands out to the sides. "So why the dramatic entrance, Kramer?"
Sam smirked. "To get your attention."
A bucketful of soapy water cascaded over Dean's head, drenching him instantly.
The plastic bucket clattered onto the floor. He couldn't see Ruthie; he'd closed his eyes to keep the soap out. But her jubilant cackle and sprinting footsteps made it easy to picture her running for her life toward Sam. The smack of a high five. The two of them snickering. Then the door closed.
He stood there alone, water streaming down his legs and into his socks, and found to his surprise that he couldn't hold back that smile anymore.
