A/N: Hihi! So, I meant to post this as my first Supernatural fic...can we pretend that I did? Yeah? Great! Okay, here's the thing. I have a thing about OCs, and by that, I mean that just about anything of mine you read will have an OC in it. It's just how my brain works.

This one is for Dean, (yes, I am a Dean girl, unless Cas walks in and then it's a problem) because he breaks my heart. He does so much, gives so much and doesn't get anything back. Heck, even Sam screws him over on occasion and that's not right! Put plainly, his life kinda sucks and despite his protests, we all know he wants somebody that loves him, no strings. Yes, Sammy loves him, but that's different. He has to protect himself from Sammy as much as he protects Sammy. It's not fair and I wanted something good to happen to him. Looking at YOU, Supernatural Writers, that's right, torture someone else for a change.

This is set in S2 after Detective Ballard lets the boys escape. I checked the timeline just to make sure I had my stuff right (I'm a researcher, what can I say?) and there was a pretty big activity gap between that and their next hunt, so I decided to sock this in there.

Hope you enjoy! And don't hesitate to review!

The sun was shining brightly in the bright, autumn sky and the air flowing through the open windows of the '67 Impala was crisp and refreshing. Dean Winchester hummed along with the Led Zeppelin tape blaring through the speakers, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel while Sam stared out the window.

"And he's angsty," Dean quipped.

"I'm not angsty," Sam replied.

Dean glanced sideways at him and opened his mouth to comment on the irony of Sam's heavy tone of voice, then saw the look in his brother's eyes. "You've been like this all day, Sammy. What's up?"

"Nothing," Sam told him.

"Sam," Dean said his name in that gruffly urging way that usually prompted his brother to spill whatever was on his mind.

"It's nothing," Sam insisted, then, when Dean turned the music off, "It's mine and Jess' anniversary today."

"Oh," Dean said softly. "Sorry, man."

"Me too," Sam sighed.

"So, where are we?" Dean asked, breaking the silence once more.

Sam pulled the roughed-up map from the glove compartment. "Salem," he said.

"Dude, you didn't even open the map," he said, then he saw the road sign.

"Didn't need it," Sam grinned at Dean's sarcastic grimace. "Well, the good news is, it's not a big place and there are plenty of other towns around and past it."

"Whaddya say we get some food?" Dean interrupted.

"You want to stop in Salem Massachusetts?" Sam asked. "Dude, are you just wanting more problems?"

"No, I want to eat. I'm starving," Dean answered. "And I want a bed to sleep in. I mean, the backseat's comfy and all, but—Oh, we also need more first aid stuff and road snacks. Besides," he grinned at Sam's distressed expression, "it'd be too ironic for Salem to have any witches left. It'll be fine."

"You've said that too often when it wasn't," Sam told him. "I don't think I believe you anymore."

"Aw, that hurts, Sammy, it really does," Dean told him with a wince of mock pain as he pulled into the parking lot of a small restaurant that looked like Abe Lincoln's cabin, only twice the size. He killed the engine and they stepped out of the car. "The Bell Tower," he read the name aloud. "You gettin' any ghosty vibes yet?"

"No," Sam answered, after a brief moment of actually checking to see if he felt uneasy.

"Good, let's eat!" Dean said and strode up to the door.

The lighting inside was intended to imitate candle-light. Despite that, the dark, wooden interior was well-lit and seemed to absorb some of the noise from the chatting patrons, giving the place a cozy kind of feel. The host station was empty but there was a small chalkboard on a silver stand that had 'Please, Seat Yourself' written in something close to calligraphy. They walked on inside and selected a table by a window, close to the door, so Sam had a view of the car and Dean had a view of the room. He caught sight of a couple of the waitresses, a tall, willowy blonde, and a curly-haired brunette. The white button-downs and black pants they wore as a uniform were incredibly complimentary, and he mentally thanked whoever had assigned the outfits. Sam's nervous drumming pulled him from his reverie.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said with a smirk.

"What?" Sam turned a longsuffering look on his brother.

"Boo."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Jerk."

"Bi—" Dean swallowed the rest of the insult as their waitress approached the table with menus tucked under one arm. Her china doll face and the tendrils of dark hair that framed it made his heart beat just a little bit faster. However, her black-rimmed eyes sized them up with a wariness that puzzled him.

Nothing that a little Winchester charm won't handle.

"How are you today?" she asked pleasantly, setting down the menus. Her voice was low-pitched, could have been sultry if she had wanted it to be, and sent pleasant shivers up Dean's spine.

Not from here. The accent's wrong.

"We are fantastic," he said, flashing his dashingly roguish smile.

She gave him a small smile and turned to Sam. "And how are you?"

"Oh—um, I'm good," he stammered, caught off-guard by the attention. "Just a—a long day on the road."

She nodded and flipped out her notebook. The front door opened, spilling the late afternoon light and four shadows over the floor.

"You from around here?" Dean asked to confirm his suspicion, ignoring Sam's scolding glance.

"No, not really," she answered. "So, my name's—"

"Mikaela!"

She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth.

"Come on over here and give me some sweetness, why doncha?"

"Plenty of sweetness on the table, Todd. Help yourself," she called without looking. "What can I start you off with?" she asked Dean and Sam, pulling out her notebook.

"I'll have—"

"Aw, c'mon, you're gonna be all nice to them and ignore me?"

"—water, please," Sam finished.

"Coke, for me," Dean said and leaned back in his chair like he was stretching. The guy that kept hollering at their waitress look like he hadn't had a bath in three days, his grease-stained ball cap marked him as a mechanic and he had his hands on his skinny hips like it made him look authoritative.

"I'll be in my usual spot," the grease-monkey said with a leer. "If I had known you were working Mondays now, we wouldn't have ordered To-Go." He didn't even pretend to try and be discreet about the slow Up-Down-Up look he gave her and she bit her lip as his cohorts chuckled suggestively.

Something about the whole situation rankled Dean and before he realized it, he started to slide off of his bench.

"Don't," Mikaela told him quietly and he looked up at her in surprise. "You'll just encourage him if you pay him any attention."

"You're ignoring him and he's still encouraged," he said in a low voice as Todd and his three leering buddies finally moved to a table.

"My lucky day," she quipped. "I'll be back in a minute with your drinks."

Dean watched her walk away but without his usual smirk of approval, his eyes locked on the back of her head, the long braid falling down her back.

"What is it?" Sam asked, a little worried by the thoughtful look on his brother's face.

"What do you mean?" Dean asked in return. He wasn't evading Sam's question for once, but that just made Sam more concerned.

"You've got this 'How-Many-Times-Can-I-Hit-This-Guy-And-Still-Make-It-To-The-Door-Before-The-Cops-Show-Up' look," Sam pointed out.

"Something's not right, Sam," Dean replied seriously.

"You mean, besides that jerk coming in and talking to her like she was a prostitute?" Sam asked.

"Well, for all we know, she could be, Sammy," Dean said. "This could just be her day job." He rubbed his chin. "But she had this look…I dunno. Something's just not right."

"Here you go," Mikaela appeared at the table with two tall glass, napkins, straws and a basket of rolls. "You still need a minute?" she asked.

They looked down and realized they hadn't touched their menus.

"Actually," Dean began, flashing that easy-going grin, "we were curious if you had any recommendations."

"Hmm," she said thoughtfully. "Appetizers or entrees?"

"We'll start with appetizers," Dean said. "You have a favorite?"

She nodded. "The fried sweet peppers with the chipotle dip."

"Oh, wow, that does sound good," Sam remarked. "Can we get two of those?"

She jotted the order down. "And I can list off the best entrees but you'll be here for a while," she offered.

"We'll just do a quick glance-over, then," Sam chuckled.

Dean watched as she walked away to the table where Todd sat and saw that she stopped a good three feet from the group.

"She really doesn't like that guy," he commented, watching her step away from Todd in disgust.

"Would you?" Sam asked over his menu.

"I don't," Dean replied. "Oh, this looks good. The All-American Burger. Little bit of everything and homemade fries. Sold! Hey, look at this," he drew Sam's attention to the Appetizer page. "Mikaela's Fried Peppers. Think she makes 'em?"

"Probably not," Sam answered dryly.

Mikaela brought their appetizers a little while later, studiously ignoring the catcall from Todd. Dean ordered the All-American Burger and Sam ordered a steak dinner. While they waited, Dean kept his attention on the other table, debating with himself on whether to make sure they left quickly or to mind his own business.

"Dean," Sam said in a cautioning tone, catching the hard look in his brother's eyes.

"I know," he answered reluctantly. A moment later, Mikaela strode toward the table with a stack of to-go plates. As she walked past Todd's chair, Dean watched her do an awkward sidestep, set the last plate down and walk away as the men's laughter rang out obnoxiously. Her teeth were clenched with fury but her eyes seemed empty and she looked…tired. A short while later, she reappeared with their meals.

"Here you go, sorry about that wait," she said, fighting to maintain her previous pleasantness.

"It's not a problem at all," Sam assured her as she set his plate down.

"Did that douche-bag actually grab you?" Dean demanded indignantly, his voice straining to keep the volume at a whisper.

"What do you care?" she asked and he saw a shimmer in her dark eyes. "It's not like the thought didn't cross your mind, too."

As she set his plate down, his startled gaze went from her face to her wrist as the green outline of a healing bruise showed beneath her shifting sleeve.

"Here's the dessert menu," she said, a tremor in her voice. "If you want anything else, just let me know."

Any other time, Dean would have answered that with flirty, bold 'Oh, I definitely need something else'.

"Thanks," he said quietly as she walked stiffly away.

Sam perused the dessert booklet while he ate. "They have about ten different kinds of pies and cakes here."

"Hm," Dean grunted noncommittally. "Got a pen?"

"Yeah, sure," Sam said and fished one out of his jacket pocket.

Dean scribbled something on a napkin and started counting the bills in his wallet. Before they finished, he slipped a twenty under his glass with the napkin. When they left, he hadn't even glanced at the dessert menu.

Thirty minutes later, they were still driving looking for a motel that Dean liked.

"Dude, that's the fifth one we've walked out of," Sam said, baffled by his brother's sudden pickiness. Usually, if the place didn't smell like roaches, it was good enough to sleep in and sometimes even that didn't matter. "What's up with you?"

"Didn't like it," Dean said simply and unhelpfully.

Sam studied him incredulously, seeing the tight purse of his lips and the angry glint in his eyes. "You're still hot about the waitress and that guy in the restaurant, aren't you?"

"Yeah, Sammy, I am," Dean answered shortly. "Little bit."

The straightforward reply told Sam everything he needed to know about Dean's mental state. His brother was upset, dangerously upset.

"Why did that bother you so much?" he asked carefully.

"Why?" Dean repeated heatedly. "Why? Why did that bother me? You're right, Sam. Why would that bother anybody?"

Sam held his hands up. "That's not how I meant it, Dean," he said.

"Well, then please, Sam, by all means, clarify your meaning," Dean snapped sarcastically.

"Dean, you hit on women all the time," Sam told him and his brother shot him the glare that usually preceded him pulling the car over and nothing good ever came from those moments. "You do! Whether we're on a hunt or not. If there's an attractive woman, you say something—"

"Not if they don't want it, Sam," Dean interrupted sharply. "She says 'no', I stop. I don't push. But you can't tell me that that back there was the same. That? That's how women end up rape victims. 'Cause of guys like Toddy-Boy who won't take 'no' for an answer. I can't believe it didn't bother you."

"Just because I wasn't motivated to beat the guy's face in, doesn't mean it didn't bother me," Sam retorted defensively. "I just…I dunno. It's like, if it's not a ghost or a spirit or a demon…"

Dean nodded, understanding what his brother was trying to say. Sometimes, it was hard to switch gears from the supernatural to the natural, hard to view people as an actual danger when there were spirits and vampires and a hundred other things to worry about.

"Let's check this place out," he suggested and pulled into another motel parking lot. The building was actually kind of small and the outside was all dark wood and white plaster. The sign in the middle of the autumn landscaping said 'Hodge's Lodge' in shiny brass letters.

Sam huffed a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Dean, first it's Salem. Now, it's a motel that looks like it came from eighteenth-century Britain. Are we on a job and you're just not telling me?"

"No, Sam," Dean assured him. "No job."

They walked inside, expecting dark floors and walls and candle-imitation lighting. The wooden floors were very dark, almost black, but the walls were painted a faint, pastel blue and the antique light fixture in the foyer illuminated every corner of the room. A simple, white vase filled with live mums adorned the desk next to a silver bell. Dean leaned over the desk, looking for someone to question about the place and finally tapped the bell, sending its tiny chime singing around the room.

"Kind of minimalistic," Sam remarked, examining the light décor. "Make's the room feel bigger."

"That was the idea," a voice sing-songed and Dean turned to see a pretty, petite blonde bounce up to the counter, her short curls dancing around her rosy cheeks. "With the ceilings as low as they are, we wanted to avoid a claustrophobic atmosphere. Especially since my grandfather was claustrophobic. How can I help you?"

"We are looking for a room," Dean told her with a smile.

"Well, we have plenty of those," she chirped.

"Yeah, the thing is though," he leaned against the counter and lowered his voice slightly, "we don't really know how long we're gonna be in town."

Sam looked over at him, waiting to hear him ask for the girl's number.

"Oh, that's not a problem at all," she said and produced a clipboard. "Cash or card?"

"Uh, card," he said.

Sam was still waiting to hear a pick-up line.

"Okay, that makes it a little easier," she said. "What we'll do is book you for a week, or however long, and if you leave early, the difference goes back on the card. If you stay longer, the process just starts all over."

Dean nodded and handed over a card and ID.

She ran the card while he signed paperwork. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Benefield," she said with a flirtatious sparkle in her eyes. "My name is Wendy Snyder and if you need anything while you're here, please let me know. What kind of room would you like?"

"Two beds," Dean told her. "What amenities do you offer?"

"We offer a full, free continental breakfast," she said. "We also deliver to the rooms but that costs a little extra. I'll give you some cards to hang on your door so you can tell us which one you want."

"Wi-Fi?" Sam asked.

"Absolutely," she replied. "The room will be $80 a night. That's the Slow Time of the Year discount."

Sam nearly rolled his eyes at the coquettish smile the girl was giving Dean.

"We'll take it," Dean told her, either missing or ignoring the obvious flirting.

After she had shown them upstairs and they had brought up their duffel bags, Dean flopped across the bed and Sam set up his laptop.

"You want to tell me what's going on?" he asked Dean's booted feet.

"No," Dean replied but knew if Sam pressed the issue, he wouldn't have the stamina to fend him off.

"We normally shop motels by price, place or features," Sam went on. "You didn't ask about any of that until she said we didn't need a set departure date. Is that what you were looking for at the other places?"

Dean sighed heavily and at any other time, Sam would have taken the hint and backed off.

"Why, Dean?" Sam demanded quietly, not wanting to pick a fight when he was only concerned for his brother. "There's no job here. And Salem is kind of a strange place for us to vacation. For starters, it's not even warm. I thought for sure, that if you wanted to kick back for a while, it'd be in Miami or some other place crawling with mostly naked women."

"Sam," Dean groaned his name, as close to a plea as he would ever come.

"What is going on?" Sam said slowly.

Dean sat up and rubbed his neck. "I'm tired, Sam," he said at last and the vulnerability in his eyes made Sam nervous. "I was just gonna keep driving until I couldn't anymore. I didn't mean to stop here, Sammy, I just…did. Ever since Dad—" he broke off painfully.

Sam kept quiet, just letting his brother talk, feeling himself relax as Dean opened up.

"I feel like I'm underwater," Dean continued, a lost look in his eyes. "I can't find the surface and I can't touch bottom. There's nothing…nothing to orient me and I'm just…tired. I just wanna stop for a little while."

Sam nodded. "I understand," he said softly. "Maybe if we decide to get out, we can try and get a picture of Giles Corey's ghost," he grinned at the thought of the one fable they knew of that was actually just that. A fable.

Dean scoffed a laugh. "If Giles Corey shows up, I'll do more than take his picture."

Oh, bytheby, the restaurant and motel are fictional, Giles Corey's ghost is not :)