This Tall to Ride this Ride…
Rigg's was no Harvelle's Roadhouse, but it felt homey in a similarly hunter friendly sense. There were at least three guys and possibly of a couple a women in the room that Sam felt fairly confident in identifying as hunters. As long as another Gordon clone didn't show up, that was fine with Sam. And Dean certainly seemed to feel at ease, Sam thought, watching his older brother lean picturesquely back against the bar while drinking a draft beer and scoping the room for chicks and threats simultaneously. Sigh. Only Dean. Rebel without a qualm. Though, to be fair, since they'd been back on the road together, Dean has been utterly and totally faithful to Lisa, provided that looking really hard didn't count. According to Dean, it didn't.
Sam shook his head as Dean jerked his head in the direction of one extremely… nice-looking woman. Dean might not know it, and wouldn't find out if Sam could help it, but Sam firmly intended to stick to prostitutes. There were just too many expectations with non-professionals, even the ones looking for one night stands. Turning away, Sam gestured for the bartender to set him up with another "girlie drink" as Dean had already called it once this evening. Though, what was girlie about a Long Island Iced Tea with a kick like Wendigo, Sam couldn't imagine.
As he turned back to face the room, Sam noticed a man across the way tapping a striking redhead on the shoulder. The woman, who Sam had pegged as one of the probable hunters based on the holster he could just see peeking out beneath the hem of her leather jacket, was perched on top of a barstool at one of the high tables that were scattered around the edges of postage stamp-sized dance floor. No one was dancing – not that Sam figured anyone could dance to the god awful caterwauling that was coming from the jukebox – but this wasn't the first time that the guy had tried to drag the scarlet-haired beauty onto the floor. He couldn't seem to take no for an answer, and if the woman had seemed even a little less confident and unconcerned, Sam would have been tempted to take steps. He was half surprised that Dean hadn't waded in and started throwing his heroic weight around yet. It was, however, not going to be necessary.
Stepping off the stool, the girl rose to her full height, a process that took longer than the man who'd been harassing her for the last ten minutes had clearly expected. Without the cowboy boots, she was a good two inches taller than him. With them, she positively towered over the inebriated lothario. She looked more than mildly annoyed, thoroughly fed up and more than a little hazardous to a pushy man's health. Sam couldn't hear what the man said as he backed a step away from the dangerous look her in eyes, but when the guy reached a hand toward the woman's hip – clearly he had no sense of self-preservation whatsoever – her reply could be heard clearly as the tortured-sounding jukebox finally gave up the ghost.
"Sorry, kiddo," she snapped, raising her hand to the level of her forehead, "but you have to be this tall to ride this ride."
Her voice was as sharp and vibrant as her appearance and Sam felt a small zing go through him as she stalked past and stopped at the bar a few stools down. Down boy, he thought, hiding his smile in his drink. Other patrons were laughing more openly, clearly out of all sympathy with the drunken Casanova. When Sam looked up again, it was to find that the stools between him and the hottie had cleared out and the woman, still waiting for her drink, was looking at him. Startled, he raised his eyebrows and gazed back at her, frozen with his glass halfway to his lips. She smiled and nodded, but before Sam could even begin to think of an appropriate response, the bartender handed her a bottle, and she walked away, tossing one last contemplative look over her shoulder at Sam as she went.
Sam had just started to breathe again when Dean elbowed him solidly in the ribs. Hard.
"Dude, you have got to hit that," Dean whispered urgently.
"What?" Sam sputtered. "Why?"
"Why?" Dean echoed in disbelieving tones. "You need me to write up a cost benefit analysis for you? Don't be an idiot."
Sam grimaced. He hated it when Dean pulled out his corporate vocabulary. The last thing Sam wanted was to remember any part of their sojourn at Sandover Bridge & Iron, Inc. He was so not gay, and sure as hell wouldn't have been hitting on Dean if he was! "You just want me to sleep with her because you can't, Mr. Committed," Sam grumbled.
"Duh!"
Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Does Lisa know you're like this? I mean, does she really know what a horndog you are… were… are?" Sam demanded, his eyes lingering on the redhead, who now stood talking to another likely hunter at a nearby table.
"Dude," Dean drawled, "of course she knows. She's like the female me. How do you think we hooked up in the first place?"
Sam couldn't control another eye roll. "So, do you think Lisa is out with one of her girlfriends encouraging her to screw some random guy just so she can have a vicarious thrill or two?"
"God, I hope so!" Dean said fervently. "Ooh, and if she is, I hope it's Debbie. She is wicked fly."
"Dean!" Sam exclaimed, thoroughly disgusted. "First off, no one has said, 'fly,' since the 90s. Second, you are revolting. You're drooling over one of your… your… significant other's friends."
"Again with the duh, Sammy boy. It's not like Lisa doesn't drool over other guys. We point out babes to each other all the time."
"That cannot be healthy."
"Well, thank you, Dr. Phil. Now go hit that before she gets away."
Dean was unsurprised when Sam wandered off in a huff. Even post-Hell, he could be such a girl about some things. He was surprised, however, to find that after a few moments of waffling, Sam actually walked over and started chatting up the total Ginger who'd been making eyes at him for the last ten minutes. Way to go Sammy!
"You know," a voice said from the vicinity of Dean's shoulder, "he has a pretty good chance with her."
"Excuse me?" Dean said, turning and smiling questioningly at the petite cutie standing beside him.
"Your friend," the girl clarified. "He has a good chance with my friend. She likes them tall… and kind of dopey."
Dean snorted. "Then, yeah, he's a shoo-in."
"How about you? Isn't she your style?" the woman asked, favoring him with a curious and slightly cynical smile.
"Taken," Dean said. "Thoroughly, totally and completely taken."
She raised her eyebrows expressively. "And monogamous?"
"Yup."
"Too bad," the girl said with a sigh. Then, giving Dean one last resigned smile, she walked over to join her friend and Sam. Dean watched her walk. She might be short, but she was very nicely proportioned, and those hips were – Lisa. Remember Lisa. Yanking out his cellphone, Dean hit speed dial. The call picked up after just two rings.
"Hey, honey." Lisa sounded drowsy, and Dean could picture her curled up on their couch in one of his old t-shirts. "I hope you're not calling to tell Ben goodnight. He's already in bed."
"Nope. Just avoiding temptation."
Lisa laughed. "What's she look like?"
Author's Note: The fandom seems to agree that Lisa is the most understanding woman in the world. This little piece seemed in keeping with that. And remember, dear reader, that reviews are love and directly proportional to the amount of writing an author gets done. Even though this may be a one-shot, there's still plenty of inspiration/motivation needed for the ongoing projects. Take care and happy hunting this Halloween!