Disclaimer: All things Supernatural belong to Kripke not me (Rinse & Repeat)

A/N: Props to kayto1 for the super fast beta and also to ailleann23, who managed to beta this piece WITHOUT EVEN READING IT. - gives you the spooky waggle fingers - Inspired by challenge #14 over at foundficspn on lj, and also by Powderfinger's 'Shelter for My Soul'.

"At the end of my days when I'm called to go

Into the open arms of the Holy Ghost

To have lived such a life as I have known

Where fortune followed me, that I'm brave no more

---

For my great mistakes I will surely pay

I'm running low and the devil is on my trail

When fate delivers me, all I'll ask it for

Is a place to rest and shelter for my soul

---

If I could spend my days

Free from the prison of your gaze

Then I could die a happy man

---

If I could spend my days

Free from the shadow of my name

Then I could die a happy man

---

And when I am released from this mortal load

I'll take my leave but I don't wanna go

When fate delivers me, all I'll ask it for

Is a place to rest and shelter for my soul."

- 'Shelter for My Soul' : Powderfinger

Dean snagged a beer from the motel fridge and headed outside while Sam showered.

He cut a straight line for the Impala, parked just down from the room facing the lake, and toed up onto the hood off the front fender. He stretched out, crossed his ankles and laid back against the windshield in the afternoon sun. It was, without a doubt, the prettiest place they had stayed in a while. Completely outside their pay grade, but a while back they'd done a gig for a travel agent who'd been itching to repay the debt. When Sam took the call from Ellen three days ago and declared them Flathead Valley bound, Dean had chanced across the guys number in his wallet that same afternoon and presto!, free accommodation in five minutes flat.

They'd been laying reasonably low at the Bayshore Resort Motel. The brochures on the reception counter boasted the best views of the most awesome scenery to be found anywhere in the world. There was nothing modest about the claim, but perched up there on his girl overlooking the glass of Flathead Lake and the Rockies, Dean wasn't all that inclined to argue the point.

Sam had spent the last two days chasing a lead Ellen had dug up on crossroad deals. He didn't know what the fuck his brother was doing, but Dean was of the opinion that his general excitement couldn't be a bad thing. And it certainly didn't warrant hanging about the motel in a nail chewing capacity.

So last night he'd ponied up and headed to the local for a few games of shark, and in true Winchester form things had gotten complicated right about the time Dean tipped the drunken scales too far to dial it up discretely. The truckie had bluntly called him on the hustle, enlisted the aid of the pool cue when Dean had politely blocked his fat fist and popped him one in the face with a surprise left. The surprise mostly being that he managed to connect at all.

Sam had opened the motel door at Dean's inebriated scratchings to find his brother working his motel key into the slot of the aluminum window frame two feet to the left of the door. There was a lot of huffing and general disgust at the degree of pickle and the state of his face. Dean also had a vague memory of an animated and feature-length presentation of the half-cocked cowboy lecture. What he didn't remember, he knew by heart anyway.

He figured at least half of his ginormous headache this morning could be directly attributed to Sam's endless verbal shellacking.

Eighteen hours and several bags of frozen peas later the swelling had mostly gone down. He could see pretty well out of his left eye again but there was still a tight reminder there when he smiled or raised his eyebrows.

He had no idea how the truckie had come off in the end, but he'd decided earlier that morning on worse. Surely, the guy had to be looking a lot worse.

He took a swig of his beer, watched two teenaged boys wrestling on the grass between the Impala and a kids' swing-set quietly rusting in the breeze. Dean had seen the family arriving as he headed out the previous night, the brothers bickering as they tumbled out of the pristine Jeep Cherokee. The youngest was maybe fourteen, his brother a couple of years older at most and they were grappling at each other like a pair of clumsy bears.

Dean eyed them from his perch and would have felt a pang of nostalgia, had there been anything there reminiscent of the brotherly sparring Sam and he had shared at that age. But this was awkward, amateur tumbling - all headlocks and trips and misplaced knees in the chest. By the time Sam had turned thirteen it was only the luckiest of Dean's punches that got past his blocks. Another year and he'd shot up so fast Dean had declared open season just before his fourteenth birthday. From there on in, it was no holds barred and they'd thrown each other around like a pair of fucking ninjas. And man, oh man, weren't they both as stubborn as each other. A John Winchester clip – and hell, those things rattled your skull – was the usual curtain on proceedings, and it always seemed to be Dean's collar that found it's way into his Dad's calloused hands. You got four years on him, you fuckin' bully. Back off. And Sam behind him, fingers pinched to his bleeding nose, but smiling like a goddamn little boy scout.

On the hood of the Impala, Dean swilled his half empty beer and chuckled at the memory. The elder of the boys had his brother pinned on the grass, and he could hear his voice, strained with the effort of holding his writhing brother down.

'You're a fuckin' ass monkey. Say it,' he growled, slapping at his brother's face.

'Get offa me,' the younger kid wheezed, the knee being applied none too gently to his chest.

'Okay. I'll letchyaup – when you say it. Say you're a fuckin' ass monkey.'

Dean shook his head on the Impala. Dude –

'Alright I'll say it,' the younger brother shouted. 'You're a fuckin' ass monkey.'

- you walked right into that one. He choked a little on his beer as the insult caught up with the bully.

'Oh, I'm gonna fuckin' kill you.'

And then he was pummeling the hell out of his sibling and the scene on the grass turned into a feral blur of arms and legs and grunts and shouts. It was like someone had let a couple of wild pigs loose over there. Dean shifted against the windshield, turned his attention back to the mountains. Go ahead and kill each other, you little dipshits.

The younger kid finally broke free and made a scrambling plea for the safety of the suites but his brother caught him in a tackle that took them to the asphalt near the front fender of the Impala. Dean sat up, dropped his voice an octave and precision-flicked his beer cap into the side of the older kid's head.

'Hey, watch the fuckin' car,' he barked.

They came up in front of the Impala's grill, scowling at him. To Dean's amused surprise, it was the younger of the two who said: 'Mindya own fuckin' business.'

'Kiss your mother with that mouth?' Dean honestly wanted to know, but then a voice behind the Impala brought an abrupt end to their exchange.

'Damien!'

Dean could tell from the tone it wasn't the first time that name had been compressed in a monosyllabic bark of parental frustration. Probably not even that day. He smirked as he turned on the hood and raised an eyebrow in greeting, pointed the neck of his beer towards the boys.

'Hey, it's okay. They're alright.'

The guy standing beside the Impala had maybe ten years on Dean but they were some mighty privileged years, he could tell. Corporate type on annual leave, pretending to enjoy a holiday with the family. Poster boy for Pepto-Bismol. The kind of guy who probably lied to his wife about how often he checked his emails, and couldn't find his dick in the silk folds of his boxers without a magnifying glass and a miner's helmet. Wouldn't know what to do with it if he did.

'Get inside boys.'

'We're not doin' anything.'

'I said move. Now.'

The last word like a gunshot, and it brought a flush to the elder kid's cheeks.

'I'm tired of this shit,' he stalked off in the direction of the motel, threw the rest over his shoulder as he passed his father. 'Why don't you just go away? Leave me be.'

Dean saw the guy's shoulders tighten. He remembered that look. After the countless brawls in the countless high school quads, or that time he'd put James – Sonuvabitch – Kilecki through the stall door in the toilet block in Boise. He'd set his Dad in concrete that same way a thousand times.

He doubted this guy's idea of discipline held a candle to the kind of ass kickings that underpinned the John Winchester child rearing program, but still…

'Really, they're fine,' Dean said again.

Mr. Joe America stood there impassively in his hoody and his sweatpants and his Nikes and Dean suddenly realized the boys weren't being recalled for the foul language. He glanced at his reflection in the Impala's windshield and even with the distortion of the glass he could see the ugly gash across his cheek, the bruising around his eye and down the left side of his face.

Oh. Huh.

The half-smile faltered on his lips and he saw out the guy's appraising gaze with an even one of his own. He let his eyes harden, bit his teeth together so his mouth would stay shut.

Yeah, he thought, and it was suddenly tired thinking. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Five kinds of bad news. Better move those boys along. God forbid any of this starts rubbin' off. He sniffed long and hard. You want badass? Yeah, I can give you that.

'Matt, your mother's got dinner on the table,' he said finally to the younger boy, and the kid came obediently off the curb between the car and his father, flipped Dean off with a tight little gesture against his chest as he passed. Fuckin' little shit.

His father stayed put, hands on his hips and eyes narrowed at Dean.

'Those boys? They find trouble just fine on their own. They don't need any help. We clear?'

Huh, thought Dean. Clear on the bug up your ass? Yeah. We're clear.

Dean put enough ice into his perfectly enunciated 'Crystal' that it actually backed the guy up a step. He was an ignorant asshole who didn't have a fucking clue but Dean was pleasantly surprised to see he wasn't stupid Papa Bear turned on his heel and marched away.

I'm tired of this shit. Dean shook his head, gave the top of his beer a bitter smile. I know the feeling, kid.

His cell rang and he fished it out of his pocket, checked the caller ID.

'Ellen,' he clipped by way of a greeting.

'You're not Sam,' she replied, all purr and gravel down the line.

'No, I'm not.'

'I'm hopeless.'

'Yes, you are.'

'I've done it again.'

'Yes, you have.'

'This is definitely your cell?'

'This is definitely my cell. See, when Sam's cell rings, it shrieks, I'm a girl! I'm a girl! That's how I know it's his. My cell? Has a kickass track.' Dean smiled into the receiver, gave his nose a twitch. 'You know, just because.'

'Is he around?'

'Shower. I'll tell him you called.'

'So what's this about a drunken bar fight? How's that pretty face of yours?'

Dean reached up two fingers and tested the underside of the cut on his cheek. 'Scarin' the locals.'

Ellen chuckled. Dean toggled his beer on the hood next to his thigh, and when she didn't say anything he rubbed a hand across his mouth and looked up at the lake. There was something about Ellen, she didn't need silence filled. And Dean liked that about her. After a moment, he said:

'So this secret club you guys have got goin'? Not exactly stealthy.'

'Well, sweetie, I wish I could clue you in but you heard the lady. You gotta sit this one out, hon. Must be kinda nice, though.'

'What's that?'

'There's a way around this, Dean. And he's gonna find it. It must be nice, knowin' someone's got your back like that.'

Dean took a swig of his beer, didn't say anything. Ellen waited him out until he said:

'So I'll tell him you called.'

'Don't go havin' a conversation there, Dean.'

'Take it easy, Ellen.' His voice was gruff but there was a reluctant amusement playing on his lips as he clapped the phone shut on her 'You too.'

He took a long pull on his beer, wished he'd had the foresight to bring a second along because in a minute he was gonna be ready for number two and he really couldn't be arsed getting off his girl to go fetch. He paused, staring down at his cell, then he flipped it open and hit the speed dial.

Sam picked up on the second ring.

'Where are you?'

'Out on the Impala. Get me a beer.'

'You're where?'

'In the parking lot. On the Impala. Bring me a beer.'

He picked up the faint stereo sound of his brother's actual voice across the lot and twisted on the hood, saw him standing in the motel doorway, clad only in jeans with a towel tossed over one shoulder. He pointed to the phone at his ear and said:

'You're calling me from less than thirty feet away with a drink order?'

Dean turned back to face the mountains, beat down the smile at the corners of his lips.

'Off the top shelf. They're cold.'

'Dean, you know what? You can shove your top shelf up your –'

'Ellen called.'

Sam changed tack in under a second flat.

'What? When?'

Oh Sammy, it's like string and kittens. You are THAT fucking easy.

'Before. You were in the shower. Said you'd call her back. But first, bring me a beer.'

'Bring me a beer, what?'

'Uh, bring me a beer, Bitch?'

'Fuck you.'

Sam hung up and Dean chuckled at the sky as he pocketed the cell again and crossed his arms behind his head on the windshield. It was only a couple of minutes before Sam was standing beside the Impala tapping him roughly in the shoulder with a beer, a hastily donned shirt still open at the front and his cell between his shoulder and his chin.

'Thirty fucking feet, Dean.'

He pointed back at the motel door, his face pinched with a genuine irritation that only widened Dean's smirk as he took the beer, gave him a salute with it. Then Ellen picked up and Sam whirled on his heel and headed indoors. Dean cracked the beer against his ring and tossed the cap, hoped Sam wasn't watching from the window.

He'd already sat through the half-cocked cowboy spiel. He didn't need the litterbug chaser.

There was maybe a half hour of sunlight left, and the afternoon haze had heated the hood of the Impala so it felt like a charge through the denim of his jeans. He soaked it up. It was the first day of sun in a long, long while. The first he remembered in a stretch of weeks that he hadn't been cold. That constant chill, these endless, long, dark days? They were wearing.

But right there on the hood of the Impala, with a beer and a fairly spectacular sunset on the way, he was warm.

It was the kind of thaw you got when you stepped inside out of the rain. Like you didn't know how boneset that chill had become until it left you. And he knew spring was a ways off, that there was plenty of cold still to come. Might be all he had left. But right now…warm.

He found his cell again. Sam picked up on the first ring.

'No,' he said simply, and hung up.

Dean chuckled. Pressed redial.

Thanks for reading :-) Pdragon76