If one only looked surface deep at Dean Winchester, they would probably conclude that he was irresponsible, unreliable, unorganized and immature. Truth was, he only wanted to be all those things. He constantly had to fight a nature that was more like his brother's in order to perpetuate his bad boy image.

There was always a method to his madness, though he rarely let anyone know what exactly that method was, and his head was (almost) always screwed on straight as an arrow. He followed John Winchester's militaristic way of doing things – very methodical. The car was spotlessly clean despite their drive-thru eating habits, and although the items in the trunk appeared to be thrown in willy nilly, they weren't. Dean kept records in his head on every item he owned, including a detailed inventory. He always knew when it was time to stop and stock up on ammo, or salt, lighter fluid or holy water.

The Winchesters had post office boxes all over the country in every name imaginable in order to keep their credit card racket going. Since John's disappearance and subsequent death, Dean had been taking care of things all by himself. When he wasn't hustling pool or playing poker, he was filling out credit card applications. There was always money for gas and food and a place for them to crash when they needed down time. He handled all the domestic duties too. When he noticed Sam recycling his t-shirts, Dean would hit the nearest laundry mat and get to work.

Sam took him for granted – a lot – but then he was used to Dean taking care of things so it was all second nature. They had grown up with a father, and John had taken good care of them for sure, but it had always been Dean who was right there twenty-four-seven, making sure the "household" ran smoothly. Dean was the only mother Sam ever knew. He had been wiper of tears, bandager of boo-boos, and dispenser of chocolate chip cookies always guaranteed to "make it all better."

When Sam left for college, Dean found himself floundering around looking for something to do with himself. John took him on the road Hunting but made it very clear who would be in charge of just about everything. At home it had always been a different story. When they had downtime John buried his nose into his research, meticulously scribing notes into his journal and responding to Dean's attempts at conversation with grunts. Dean was left to his own devices, and was forced to find himself some sort of identity beyond his little brother's caretaker.

So he went out, and became a ladies man.

"You're a sex addict," Sam told him.

It wasn't exactly true, Dean thought. He just liked women. It was probably some Freudian thing having to do with losing his mother at such a young age. Unlike Sam, Dean remembered what it was like to be held and cuddled in the arms of a woman. He couldn't explain it either, not without sounding like he had some sort of perverse Oedipus syndrome going on. Women were – nice. They were soft, and delicate, and always smelled so good. He liked it when they touched him, and he definitely enjoyed touching them back. One of his best kept secrets was that he truly enjoyed giving them pleasure. His job wasn't done until she was satisfied. He could get off just by listening to them getting off, but he'd learned very quickly that women could be extremely generous with their gratitude and that made it all worth while.

Oh yeah. You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours.

At the moment Dean was feeling the need to be scratched. He'd been a little embarrassed that Sam caught him with the actress Tara, because up until that glorious little temptation he'd been trying to be respectful of Sam's Madison issues.

Sam thought he was cursed, and between the whole demon thing and Sam's horrendous luck with women, Dean was beginning to believe it. After all, the poor guy gets laid for the first time in over a year and then has to put a bullet in the chick? Talk about scarred for life. Dean doubted Sam would ever take it out of his pants again.

He'd been half tempted to suggest Tara entertain the notion of a therapeutic threesome, but decided it wouldn't be prudent. For one, it was Sam, to whom he was related and who spent nearly every waking hour with him. The two of them fooling around with the same girl at the same time would definitely generate a serious discomfort factor post-nookie. If they even got that far. Sam would probably go off the deep end at the mere suggestion.

In any case, Dean had been able to fend off any further temptation for several weeks post Tara. Sam continued to brood and work them like dogs. Where he came up with the energy Dean didn't know because at the end of a month Dean was sorely in need of a break, especially after spending time in prison and the stress of having a face to face with Hendrickson. He'd not let on to Sam, but that had scared the shit out of him. With Hendrickson swooping in so quickly it could have been very difficult for Deakon to bust them out like they'd planned. Lethal injection was not something Dean wanted to contemplate.

As soon as he thought the coast was clear and she was out of Hendrickson's radar, Dean sent flowers to Mara. He thought she deserved a little nod of thanks. Without her they would have been toast.

They were flying way under the radar these days. Rural cases were plentiful and in the wide open plains, smack dab in the middle of the country, escape routes were in abundance too. They wouldn't get cornered. Frequently they restricted their activities to within a few miles of the Canadian border. If things got too hot with the Feds they could quickly slip out of the country.

Finally, in a little town just outside of Fargo, Dean planted his heels and refused to budge. He was dog tired, Sam was fighting a head cold, and it was time to rest. They rented a motel room. Sam continued digging around online, following a lead he'd found. In the restaurant next to their motel they both sank into the worn leather seats of a booth with sighs of relief. Dean immediately started flirting with the hostess, winking at her from across the room. Sam hunched over his laptop with a bottle of honey and a huge cup of tea. Dean resisted the urge to grab him before he wiped his nose on his sleeve.

Not the momma, he told himself sternly. His self, of course, didn't listen. He preempted a second nose wiping by handing Sam a napkin and then dispensed some motherly advice.

"There's a drugstore a block down. Go get some Nyquil."

Sam just grunted.

Dean sighed. It was like traveling with their father again. He ordered a beer and gave the waitress ten bucks to pass a note to the hostess. She was dark haired and buxom. Recently Dean's tastes had been leaning toward the petite blonds, but this gal had a little meat on her bones. There was Native American in her somewhere, he suspected. She was beautiful.

"Vampire," Sam mumbled gunkily. He flipped open the "hat" on his honey bear and turned it upside down over his tea.

"I was thinking Cherokee myself."

"Whad?"

"Never mind."

Dean grinned as the dark girl read her note and shot him a look. Her brows came up and her eyes held a question. He winked at her again and saw her face flush. She leaned over to whisper something to the waitress and scribbled something on the back of the note with her pencil.

Score.

"I thing we've god a vampire over in Fargo," Sam continued. His voice improved only slightly after a long draw from his tea and honey. He was most definitely congested. "Signs are subble, but dere hab been a lod of John Does showing ub in the morgue missing a whole lod of blood."

"Uh-huh."

The note, and a beer, arrived with the return of their waitress. The hostess was game. Her shift ended at eleven. Dean would give her some cash and let her rent another room at the hotel, leaving Sam to his own devices. If the kid got some Nyquil and some rest he could probably beat the cold. Having Dean elsewhere would probably help.

"Dean..."

Dean reached over and slowly pushed the laptop closed. "Sam. We are off duty as of now. We'll hit Fargo on Monday."

Sam glared at him. "Yeah? And whad if someone dies over duh weekend?"

"And what if they don't? Look, we're not at the top of our game right now. You're freakin' sick, and I'm exhausted." Dean shook his head and took a sip of beer. "I'm not risking it, and I know you've got enough sense to know I'm right."

After a moment, Sam's glare softened. His head bowed down over his cup. "Yeah, right. Okay." He paused and rolled his eye toward the hostess. "She's pobably Sioux, Dean, nod Cherokee."

Dean didn't care, as long as she was game. He polished off his beer, knocked twice on the table and got up. "I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?"

"To the drugstore."

"Whad for?"

"Condoms..." Dean waited until Sam finished sneezing. "And Nyquil."