Disclaimer: I have absolutely no rights to these characters or this storyline. I only wish I did.

This takes place during season 9, in between episodes 1 and 2.

Looking back, Dean realized he should have been more observant to start with. After all, there were angels looking to kill him. Among other things. But that morning—an autumn morning, with the sun shining brightly through the yellow leaves overhead, the air crisp and snapping and the crunch of leaves underfoot—the only thing he had was a sense of all is well with the world. And shouldn't that have been tip off enough? Because all is well was not something in Dean Winchester's vocabulary. Or his life, for that matter.

He left the Men of Letters' bunker that he shared with his brother, Sam, and headed for their car, wishing—not for the first time—that the builders of their secret, demon-ghost-boogie- man-and-all-things-creepy-safe lair had included a garage, somewhere, for Baby. He hated leaving the '67 Impala parked in plain sight. Her presence practically screamed, "Look for the Winchesters here!" to any angels or demons currently hunting them. Sam had suggested camouflaging her with branches-and leaves!- but Dean had ganked that idea right away.

For one thing, it might kack her paint. And for another, well…it was just plain lame. What, were they, twelve? Hiding the finest piece of Detroit steel ever made with sticks and bushes?

Instead, Dean had warded her with every supernatural protection he could think of, until she was impenetrable and completely safe from any kind of harm. Except the kind caused by humans. But then he'd installed an alarm and even put up a surveillance camera, and then he was certain: his baby was completely, entirely safe. Sammy had muttered something about "why not just marry the thing?" but Dean had ignored him. His brother didn't understand his feelings for the Impala—and he wasn't sure of them, himself. Maybe it was over the top, but maybe…maybe he was just a guy who appreciated an awesome machine.

Which was why he felt more than mildly annoyed when he climbed into the car, turned the key, and nothing happened. Son of a bitch.

But swearing at her wouldn't help. "C'mon Baby. Turn over for me," he coaxed.

A soft whimper came from the backseat. Instinctively, Dean looked in the rearview mirror; a woman peered back at him. Dean whipped around to face her, reaching into his pocket for a weapon.

Then he stilled. Wait. Naked!

Completely, bare ass naked.

And long, dark hair…a delicate face…with huge, dark eyes, and skin only a shade or two lighter than the Impala's buttery –tan colored upholstery. Yummy. She had the look he loved in a woman.

Faced with a naked babe in the back seat of his car, Dean Winchester did the only thing he could do: he uttered a curse and doused her with Jesus juice.

The holy water dribbled harmlessly and wonderfully over and around her full breasts and down her satiny, slim stomach…past the place where her navel would be. If she had one. Damn. "What the hell, lady?" he blurted and scrambled out of the car.

Reaching for his angel blade, he told himself it was impossible for an angel to get anywhere near the Impala. That thought stopped him from ripping open the rear door to plunge the knife into her body and send her the hell back to heaven or wherever the angels were, nowadays. Because what was she if the wards didn't work?

He glared in the window at her; she stayed where she was and pressed her hand to the glass, staring out at him, her lips pouty and sad. Like she'd just lost her puppy or something. He knew he should do something-salt her, maybe-but there was something about her that pushed his hero button. I am such an ass hat. And she's a hot babe, no matter what kind of monster she is. Dean opened the door and held up his hand to help her out.

She momentarily flashed him a sweet view of her nether parts as she swung her long, lean legs around and stood on bare feet; her blue-black hair tumbled in loose waves past her waist and around her hips. Dean's mouth watered; he wanted to lick her all over. More than that. Forget the angel blade. He wanted to plunge himself into her, and stay there for a lifetime.

She wrapped her slender fingers around his hand and she gripped tightly, her scrutiny of him intense. Probably as intense as his of her. His skin tingled, but not in a warning, danger! way. It was more of an all systems go kind of way. This is bad, he thought. Because as potential monsters went, she was the best he'd ever seen.

"Who are you?" he asked.

She reached for him with his other hand; he held up his knife in warning. She ignored it to press her palm to his cheek. No creepy chill, no heat, no warning buzz. She felt…human.

Just to be sure—and because he wasn't an idiot-he stroked the blade over her forearm. Instead of a burst of holy fire, a thin red spurt of blood marred her skin. She gave a startled cry, and tears welled in her big, sparkling dark eyes.

Aw, hell. Forget ass hat. He was an asshole, with a capital A. He hated to make pretty naked women cry.

But she didn't let go of him. She just pressed closer and clung to him; her scent reminded Dean of...his car. Made sense, he supposed. She'd been lying in Baby's back seat for God only knew how long, so it was possible she'd absorbed some of the car's ambiance through her pores. Or something.

She rested her cheek against his chest and whimpered. Small and pathetic, the sound practically broke his heart.

I'm sorry," Dean said, fighting the urge to damn all precautions, lift her into his arms and toss her back into the car for further exploration. Because the bottom line was—women didn't turn up in the Impala every day. Unless he invited them there. And they certainly weren't naked, unless he helped them get that way. This was all wrong and he needed to do something to fix it. But then, as a fall-chilled breeze rustled the leaves overhead and the woman's buttery skin dimpled with cold, a compulsion—no, a conviction-swelled out of his heart and radiated through him, and he knew it was exactly the right thing to do. Belly button or no belly button, this woman needed his help. He slid out of his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. "Come with me," he said, and led her into the bunker.


"Dean! Look out!" Sam blurted when he spotted the woman entering the bunker close on his brother's heels.

He immediately felt stupid. And—just as quickly—annoyed. Because the dark-haired beauty was wearing Dean's denim jacket. So he'd obviously invited her into their secret lair without conferring with him first. Typical.

Then, he noticed the fuzzy black patch of her pubic hair, barely hidden by the hem of the jacket, and all thought and annoyance fled.

Damn.

He watched them pass by, noted Dean's smug look–what-I-found expression and the curve of the woman's butt cheeks flashing at him, and her long, lean thighs…and his mouth grew dry.

Damn!

"What…what the…who…?" He stumbled over his words. It didn't matter. None of them were adequate anyway.

His brother stopped, and turned. "I know, right? I have no idea. But, I like." He grinned down at her, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. Hunting was the last thing on his mind, obviously.

The woman stayed where she was, not turning to look at Sam but staring up at Dean like he was a god. Or something. The hair on the back of Sam's neck prickled. There was something wrong, here. Very wrong. He reached for his holy water.

Dean held up his hand. "Don't bother, Sammy. I already checked." He looked down at her and his expression changed. Sam recognized Dean's I've got pie! face, and his stomach sank.

He tried again. "Where did you find her?"

"In the car." Dean blinked and turned his gaze on Sam, surly again. "Won't start. Want to go check it out?"

Oh…crap. It was worse than he'd thought. Dean never let him under the hood. He was so possessive of the Impala, it was borderline psycho. In fact, Sam had often privately mused that if Dean could have sex with the car, he would.

This was often followed by the very uncomfortable thought that he was once he car for a very short time, (thanks to a trickster who wasn't a trickster but turned out to be an angel), followed by a wave of nausea and the desire for a very large glass of scotch. And a beer. Or six.

Later. Right now… "What do you mean, it won't start?"

Dean didn't answer right away. He was busy staring into the woman's eyes and touching her hair, stroking his fingers down the length of it in a caressing sort of way.

"I'm going to get a drink. You want one?" Sam turned and headed for the liquor cabinet, well-stocked by the Men of Letters and hardly depleted—though that was hard to believe—by the Winchester brothers.

"Nah." Dean murmured. "I'm okay."

Okay? Sam wasn't so sure. Usually, Dean would growl, "it's morning, why don't you wait until noon for Chissake's you freaking boozer," or something as equally grumpy. And under normal circumstances, his brother wouldn't ever let Sam drink before noon—though he himself had enjoyed a liquid breakfast many times. But now…

Dean's voice was soft, gentle, and downright gooey. "I'll fix that up in no time. Just let me get the first aid kit."

Sam feel queasy. He tipped a double-double measure into the tumbler and took a good long gulp, relishing the manly feel of the alcohol's burn, before the meaning of Dean's oogy-sounding mushy gushy words penetrated his disgust.

"First aid…Did she hurt you?" He put the drink down and hurried to his brother's side, trying not to notice the swell of the woman's breasts or the loving way she ran her hands over Dean's chest, and under his shirt.

"Do I look injured?" Dean grouched. "No, it's for… her." He gently lifted her arm and tugged at his jacket's sleeve; Sam saw the blood still welling from the gash on her forearm.

His heart sank. Demons, he could deal with. Angels, too. Ghosts, shifters, vampires, Leviathans…all these, he could handle. But this… He couldn't stop the note of worry that crept into his voice. "She's human?"

Oh, God. This was worse than a legion of demons. She could be from their legion of fans. Another stalker. Another Becky! "That's it. I know you won't like it, but I'm calling the cops." He reached for his cell.

"No! Sam. Wait. She's…well, she doesn't have a belly button." Dean barely turned his attention from her.

A moment of relief. Sort of. No bellybutton meant not a Becky-clone, and that was good. Better, it was a clue to what she was and, even more importantly—how they could get rid of her. Sam leaned in, reaching to spread the front of the jacket and see for himself. "Really? That's odd. What do you think-"

But then Dean slapped the back of Sam's hand, grabbed the edges of denim and held it tightly closed over the woman's body, pushing him back and stepping in front her her—a human shield.

Sam grit his teeth. Stupid hero complex.

"No. You'll just have to take my word for it, Sammy."

"Dude. Seriously?" Sam stepped away, the annoyance back ten –fold. "You don't see how weird this is?"

"Of course I do. We've cornered the market on weird. But she's hurt and she's…she's…" He trailed off as the woman put her hands on his waist; she smiled over his left shoulder at Sam and radiated quiet delight as she rested her cheek on Dean's shoulder blade. Without another word, Dean reached back to take her hand and led her off to his room. He closed the door firmly behind them. Sam heard its lock click into place.


"Whatsa matter, Moose? Trouble in paradise?" Crowley crowed from his chair in the center of the demon trap as Sam entered the storage room. Where they'd stored the King of Hell. For now.

Sam decided not to take the bait. Instead, moved to the shelf where Dean had put the Impala's tool box. The fact that his brother apparently didn't care that Baby wasn't running was just as troubling as everything else which had occurred in the past half hour. There. He spotted the box behind bottles of windshield wiper fluid and gallon containers of motor oil.

The King of Hell continued his chatter. "Good thing the walls are mostly soundproof. Not that it does me any good, of course. I can hear everything. But it spares you from having to listen." He seemed more stoked than he had in days.

Sam turned to glare at him.

Crowley tilted his head, honing in on Dean's bedroom activities with a cocky grin. After a moment, however, he reared back as if slapped. "Oh! No. No! That's just wrong." Another moment passed; he crinkled his nose and shook his head like a dog sprayed by a skunk. "Disgusting." He looked at Sam. "I can't believe what he's doing in there!"

"For once, we agree on something." Sam heaved the tools from the shelf and hurried from the room.


The Impala was dead. No matter what Sam did, he couldn't make the car work. It wouldn't turn over at all, even though everything appeared to be in good shape and order. What was needed was his brother's touch—Dean had always managed to coax the Impala to life, even when things seemed the most dire. Even when she'd been completely totaled after an encounter with a demon-driven eighteen-wheeler, he'd made her like new and better than ever.

But there was no sign of Dean when Sam re-entered the bunker, and there was no way he was going to knock on his door and interrupt...whatever was going on in Dean's room. Instead, he put his head down and hurried past, lest he overheard something. He slipped into the store room to put the tools away; Crowley was slouched in the chair in the center of the demon trap, looking miserable.

"Make it stop," he moaned. "Please, Moose. I'm begging you. Man to man. This is torture."

Again, we agree, Sam thought, and dropped the box onto the shelf with a bang and a clank. "Sorry, Crowley."

"I mean it, man," Crowley said. "Dean Winchester. Even in Hell, he's got a reputation as a bad ass. So you'd think he'd be into something more…interesting in the bedroom, right? A little domination, spanking, whips, chains, spurs…anything. But this? What the hell, Moose? Your brother has sex like a girl!"

Sam swung around. "What do you mean?" If Crowley was knocking Dean's manhood…

"I fink I wuv oo. Yes I do. Uh-huh." The demon king's face crumpled and he made wretching noises. "Fecking nauseating is what it is."

"Dean? Baby talk?"

"Revolting. Truly revolting."

Sam shook his head. "I don't believe you."

Crowley scowled. "I don't care if you believe me or not, I'm telling the truth. Listen, if I were human, I'd be in a sugar coma right now. He's being so sweet to her! It's rainbows and puppies and unicorns in there!"

Eww. That is gross. Still…"You think he shouldn't be nice to her?"

"Well, since you asked… Do you have any idea who she even is? What she is? Why she is?"

Sam straightened from his slouch against the shelves. "Do you?"

Crowley smirked. "Make it stop, and I'll tell you."

"No way." Sam started walking; if Crowley really was desperate enough, he'd crack and tell what he knew. Otherwise, it wasn't worth knowing anything about the mystery girl. Sam sauntered past him and was rewarded by the clattering of warded handcuffs.

"Stop! All right. I'll tell you. But only if you promise to make him stop."

Sam grinned. Gotcha. He was about to agree to let His Majesty spill all when the phone in his pocket chirped the ringtone he'd assigned to Garth, the new, self-proclaimed Hunter Organizer. "Aww. Sorry, Crowley. Got to take this."

"Bloody hell," Crowley groaned, and closed his eyes. "I'm going to vomit. And it won't be pea soup."

"Good. Hey Garth, what's up?" Sam closed the door behind him as he left the King of Hell in the dark.

"Where's Dean? I've been calling him for hours and keep getting his voice mail."

"Hello to you, too." Sam settled into a chair.

"Oh. Yeah. Hi," Garth said. "I have a job for you."

Sam slanted a glance at Dean's door. Still shut tight. "I don't know if we're up to it, right now."

"Darn. I don't have anyone else in your area. Why? You guys sick or something?"

"Well…something like that." Love sick. Or some kind of sick. Too many sweets, maybe? Sam grinned to himself as he heard Crowley moan and rattle his chains again. "Mostly, we're down on transportation."

"Car trouble, huh? You never let that stop you before. Can't you boost a ride?"

"Maybe." Sam sighed. That would mean a long walk into town. Then again, what else was there to do? He didn't want to stay here with all the rainbows, puppies and unicorns in the next room. What the hell. He'd bite. "What's going on?"