Nocturnal Omissions
It was another nameless motel in another nondescript town along the great expanse called the mid-west. The room, resplendent in knotty pine and Shawnee corn pottery, was depressing to say the least. Even the bathroom had a corn motif right down to the dried cobs set on the back of the john as a joke should the toilet paper run out.
Sam Winchester lay supine on the green and yellow, dingle-ball fringed, chenille bedspread as he searched for local news stories on a cluster of unexplained deaths where seemingly healthy young men simply fell asleep and never woke up. His brother Dean laid odds that they simply couldn't stand the boredom of small town America and had committed suicide by slumber. More than likely there was a perfectly natural explanation and Dean hoped Sam would find it quickly so they could move on out of corn country.
The older of the Winchester boys often thought that Middle America was more like Middle Earth and as soon as he had his backpack thrown on the bed closest to the wall and a quick shower, he left the motel room in search of a nice cold beer at the one and only bar in town, the Red Ram.
The bar was a large, run down, wooden structure that had probably seen it heyday sometime in the 1930's but, like a moth to neon, Dean was drawn to the roadhouse's beer signs and colored soap adverts on the windows touting a huge dance floor and 'twofers' every night from 6:00 to 10:00.
Laid out haphazardly in front of the rustic but seedy looking dump was a parking lot full of pick-up trucks most balanced high on tires huge, knobbed and grotesque, slick little sports cars, motorcycles of all makes and cc's and a nice selection of muscle cars though, to his mind, the Impala put them all to shame.
Pulling into the lot he pulled into what looked like a spot and revved the Chevy's powerful engine before shutting her off just to annoy the crap out of the matchbox toy owners and stepped out of the car to the welcome sound of crushed gravel beneath his boots and, saints be praised, 'You Shook Me All Night Long' puking out the door every time it opened.
With beer on his mind and lust in his heart Dean headed up the stairs and inside in hopes of knocking back a few and maybe hooking up with one or more of the tank topped, Daisy Duke shorts wearing girls who were a staple of small college towns like Avery.
Inside the bar were the requisite frat boys, bikers, truck drivers, farm boys, cowboys and tourists hot on the trail of the world's biggest ball of twine. Daisy Dukes of all sizes and flavors stood two and three deep at the bar with groping hands plastered to their nicely rounded (or not so) asses and, while the co-ed Daisies worked the frat boys, the working Daisies schlepped drinks and delivered food at full tilt amid the chaos.
Sighing wearily but determined to catch a second wind Dean made his way through the crush to the back of the barroom and sat down at an empty table. At least one place in Mayberry was jumping hr thought surveying his new kingdom.
"What can I get ya, Mister?"
It was a vanilla Daisy with blonde hair so silken and shiny that it could only be her natural color and eyes as blue as the sky. She was a gum snapper and tonight, as tightly wound as he was, she was defiantly his type. Hell,l they all were.
"A Bud and directions to your place when you get off," Dean told her flashing a killer smile.
"The Bud's a given but the other…not a chance in hell, stud."
She held up her left hand and waggled her ring finger. The wall light flashed off a small gold band as she turned to go. She was back before he had time to scout out his next target.
"Here you go stud, a Bud and a Jameson back."
"I didn't order Jack's much older and much more expensive brother," he told her holding the glass of rich, amber liquid. "I'm even kinda surprised you have it on shelf here."
"It's private stock. The lady over there wanted to buy you a drink."
The barmaid pointed to a small table set back toward the kitchen, a table usually reserved for employees only.
The "lady" looked to be closer to his age than that of the coeds in the bar and Dean would bet that if she stood up her ass cheeks wouldn't be hanging out of shredded blue jean shorts. In fact, as he looked her over appreciatively, he saw that she wore a slinky dress of royal blue, his favorite color on a woman, especially one with raven's wing black hair. He also noted that she was alone and watching him like a hawk as she lifted her drink and smiled at him.
Dean lifted his glass in acknowledgment and was ready to toss back the contents but remembered that Jameson was a fine Irish whiskey meant to be sipped, savored and not slammed down and puked up later. Leaving the beer behind he walked over to her table.
"Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine."
She laughed at his apparent affection for old movies and his blatant audacity and, indicated the seat across from her; Dean sat down and breathed deeply. She smelled expensive and, if his first impression was right, he wondered if he could even afford her.
He had a wad of cash in his jeans pocket and two or three credit cards that hadn't been maxed out yet but when she smiled at him with her pouty, blood red lips he decided credit limits be damned. He wanted her.
As if reading his mind she tipped her glass to her lips and lifted a dark eyebrow questioningly.
"Dean Winchester," he replied and leaned forward to extend his hand, "Thanks for the drink."
"Mari," she told him as she shook his hand and, taking a page from his playbook, held onto it longer than needed before letting him go.
Dean relaxed back into the chair and took a sip of the amber liquid and, ever the pragmatist, wondered if she had mistaken him for some kind of dressed down high roller that she could drug and rob. He fervently hoped so. She didn't even need to slip him the roofies because when he looked into her eyes again he was ready to give her everything he had…including his baby.
"You walked into my gin joint actually," she informed him, "I own the Red Ram."
"Sorry. Didn't mean a joint …it's really a…nice place, it's…" he stumbled then just gave up and shut his mouth.
When she laughed at his attempt at an apology it was deep and throaty and genuine.
"The locals and the tourists like it," she told him well aware of her bar's perceived shortcomings. It was rustic to say the least but an incredible moneymaker nonetheless.
"I can see why," Dean conceded, "Nothing says class like carving your name in a tabletop or throwing your bra and panties over the rafters."
She laughed again and poured them each another drink.
"So, Dean Winchester, I haven't seen you in here before."
"Just passing through with…" Dean was about to mention his brother but thought better of it. Sammy was a good-looking guy, smart and more sophisticated in his 22 years than he'd ever be and he didn't need the competition when it came to this particular conquest. "Just passing through," he finished and took another sip of his drink.
"This would be the town to pass through alright. Too provincial for my taste," she told him, "But for some reason I stay."
Men like Dean Winchester made her stay. She had spotted him the moment he'd come through the door and she had liked what she'd seen. Nice full head of brown hair, cut short but with enough length to be stylishly tousled, beautiful green eyes and the lips of an angel. She imagined kissing them and locked eyes with him over the lip of her glass.
Dean swallowed hard. He'd never been seduced simply by a look and her dark blue eyes spoke volumes...all of them pornographic. He took a moment to adjust himself in his seat thankful for that little extra room in his jeans.
"Tell me about yourself, Dean Winchester."
"Just Dean," he told her and added, "From nowhere by way of Kansas. I'm just taking some time off…between semesters."
"Semesters?" Mari asked a little jaundicely.
He was older than most, had been around the block a time or two she guessed and he'd be more of a challenge…and she liked nothing better than a good challenge.
"Grad school. Stanford," he lied without missing a beat and watched her interest pique even more.
"Excellent school," she said with a certain amount of admiration.
There was no way in hell he would ever introduce her to Sam. "You must have a degree or two to be able to run this place," he suggested pointing from one end of the large establishment to the other.
"Not even a business degree to guide me through the trials and tribulations of owning a bar," she told him, "I'm pretty good with a hammer though and have put in my fair share of hours keeping the place in one piece."
Although her clothes and demeanor screamed money, to Dean, Mari seemed to be pretty down to earth, a self-made woman and he felt more or less on even footing with her until she told him, "I went to a convent school and when I graduated my parents wanted me to pledge myself to the church so college really wasn't an option."
The even footing gave way as he felt as if his feet had been suddenly knocked out from under him.
"Thank you, God," he mumbled to himself.
A good, and hopefully repressed as hell, Catholic girl who had at one time been headed for a nunnery sat directly across the table from him. It was as if he'd won the sex lottery and waiting for the payoff had become painful.
Mari offered him another drink but he stilled her hand with his. "I'm sorry," he said with a sigh, "but I need some fresh air. Your perfume is driving me crazy."
She frowned misunderstanding his obvious ploy.
"You don't like Chanel?" she asked wide-eyed, her brows arching in uncertainty.
"I adore Chanel," he assured her even though he didn't think he'd ever been within five hundred miles of any woman who ever wore Chanel.
He stood and held out his hand and hoped she would take it because he was fresh out of small talk and overflowing with testosterone.
She simply laughed and let him guide her to her feet.
"Where are you staying?" Mari asked as he led her toward the door, the hot redhead manning the bar watching them as they walked by, a look of distaste on her cute as hell pixie face.
"I really haven't checked in anyplace yet. Came straight here," he lied to her again as they headed for the Impala and, desperate for release, gave her a pained, puppy dog look. "Your place?" he suggested hopefully.
"No, not my place…yet," she answered smoothly smiling when he frowned.
Her enigmatic smile and faint promise hinted of a possible husband or boyfriend tending to hearth and home but at that moment Dean really didn't care. He was offering and evidently she was accepting but with her place off limits he couldn't very well take her back to the motel and throw Sam out on his ass. So thinking on the fly he came up with a place a little bit out of the ordinary for a couple of pushing thirty-somethings but one a good Catholic girl of any age could relate to.
"Then let me take you someplace I passed on the way here," he said and opened the Impala's passenger door for her. He watched her slide in, her dress riding high over long, lean, tanned thighs and, as he rounded the back of the car to open the driver's door, the young hunter shook his head vigorously to make sure he wasn't dreaming.
