Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Supernatural. I promise to put the boys back when I'm done playing with them.

This is sort of a follow-on from my fic 'Up the creek without a paddle'. The boys are getting ready to leave the Roadhouse after recovering from their last hunt and Ellen manages to get Dean all hot and flustered.

Warning: suggested nakedness. I promise no Deans were harmed in the making of this fic.

Dean is haphazardly stuffing a stray undershirt into his battered duffle bag when Ellen slips fluidly into the guestroom around the half-opened door.

The hinges no longer squeak thanks to a liberal dose of WD40; it's one of the many fixer-upper jobs Dean had decided needed seeing to right that very second, as if he hadn't spent the last 72 hours flat on his ass. It's not like Ellen isn't perfectly capable of spraying a little lubricant on a squeaky door; she's kept the Roadhouse running all by her self for going-on twenty years now thank you very much but what the hell, if Dean wants to mend his bruised ego by tinkering with the kitchen sink or making sure her truck is running smoothly then who is she to say no?

"Hey."

He doesn't look up as he acknowledges her presence and she leans against the door frame with her arms across her chest, watches as he feels beneath the mattress for the .45 he stashed there the night he and his brother decided to grace her with their presence. And injuries; Her gaze flicks up to the pale bare skin of Dean's neck, scars forming into raised pink tracks and peeking out under zigzags of the black nylon suture thread Sam appropriated by less than honest means. He wears them well, the scars; each one is a reminder of the Herculean task placed upon his shoulders at the tender age of four and as much a part of him as the freckles that dust his cheekbones.

"My face is up here, Sweetheart."

And the obnoxious flirting that makes her want to put a bullet in his ass.

"I've seen more than enough of you over the last few days, boy."

She gives him the 'look', allows her gaze to sweep over all six feet of him, from his face right down to his bare feet, before coming back up to meet his eye and raising her eyebrows pointedly. She never took Dean Winchester for a prude; hell, the guy takes great pleasure in sharing the juicy details of his conquests, much to the disgust of his brother, so it's all she can do to keep from laughing at the way he's blushing like a school-girl as he splutters indignantly.

"Please tell me you're joking."

He looks absolutely horrified, like a child who's just found out that Santa isn't real, and she winks at him.

"Relax, Honey, it's not like I've never..."

He flinches, snaps out of his stupor before she can finish the sentence, blue shirt floating to the floor when he lets go and bolts for the door.

"Sam!"

She can hear him thundering down the hall and she snickers.

That'll teach him.