Disclaimer: As noted in Chapter 1.

From the previous chapter:

"Sammy, you said we needed a little down-time, right?" he reminded his sibling. "Why don't we do just that? You can curl up at the motel with one of your 'Oprah books'…" and motioning with his head towards the awe-inspiring red-head, Dean finished with, "and I can see if that little country girl over there would like to save a horse and…"

"Don't...," Sam interrupted. "Don't even finish that statement. It's just wrong…on so many levels."

Dean copped one of his patented innocent choirboy looks and said, "I was only going to say ride in my classic car. Really. Honest."

Sam's sarcastic, "Uh huh" was where they both allowed the conversation to end.

Chapter 2: Get a room

As much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, Dean had been right.

The two brothers were as close as brothers could be, but when it came to their chosen forms of rest and relaxation, they were polar opposites. Had Sam insisted that Dean spend his evening in the motel room, Dean would have ended up going stir crazy, being even more obnoxious than usual and neither one of them would have gotten any rest.

No, Dean would only relax if he was given the freedom to try working his charms on the female population of Holstein. Most likely, the red-haired bombshell that was still seated at the diner's counter would be Dean's "flavor of the week".

So it was that Sam decided to leave Dean to pay for their meals and chat up the ladies while he walked to the motel next door and got them a room. He'd told Dean he'd return to the diner when he was done, let Dean know what their room number was and give him the spare key. Once Dean started working a room full of women there was no telling when he'd finally be calling it a night.

The younger boy had always hated running the credit card scams that seemed to be a constant necessity in their nomadic lives, but a quick check of the pitifully few dollars in Sam's pocket and it was blatantly obvious that he wasn't going to have any choice.

As he nervously waited for the card to clear and the clerk to retrieve their room keys, Sam pondered the conundrum that was Dean Winchester. Somewhere Mr. Mullet Rock, himself, had heard and remembered the Big & Rich song, "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy" and managed to make use of it in his own twisted way.

Then again, leave it to Dean to remember songs with sexual content…Country & Western, or not.

The hotel clerk's cheerful voice pulled Sam from his thoughts.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Townsend. I hope you enjoy your stay with us," the elderly man stated with a wide, genuine grin. "You know, my wife, Mabel's the morning cook over at the diner…makes a pretty mean apple turnover. Best ones in the tri-county area…even won first place at the Iowa State Fair three years runnin'. You won't want to miss 'em while you're here."

Sam looked up with his appreciative and lop-sided grin. "Uh, thanks. I'll have to keep that in mind."

Sam pocketed the fraudulent credit card and exited the motel office, heading back in the direction of the diner. He was still silently cursing Dean for parking the Impala so far from the adjoining buildings. Now that Dean was primed for some heavy duty skirt-chasing, Sam knew he'd be the one reduced to lugging all their heavy gear from the Impala's trunk and dragging it across the expansive parking lot and into their room.


By the time the young hunter had finished putting their stuff in the room and made it back to the diner, Dean had settled up their bill and was flirting with yet another young beauty, this time a brunette with a soft spattering of freckles across her cheeks.

She was leaning towards Dean with her elbows resting lightly on the counter. It was clearly apparent that she was no match for Dean's charisma and had completely fallen under his spell.

Still seething slightly from having to lug all of their stuff to the room by himself, Sam decided to take the opportunity to make life just a bit more difficult for his big bro.

"Hey, Dean, it's almost eight o'clock. Did you remember to take the medicine the doctor prescribed for that nasty rash of yours?"

The smitten look worn by the pretty cashier disappeared quickly as she straightened up. In fact, Dean could have sworn she'd even taken a step or two backwards.

"Wha-…no…you're not gonna believe…he's not serious…I don't really…," Dean stammered on, trying to salvage his shot at some action this evening.

But Sam's comment had imparted irreparable damage to Dean's smooth approach and even a superfluous attempt at his innocent look didn't buy Dean any points with the, now, all-business cashier.

"If you'll excuse me, I have other customers, please," the brunette huffed.

Dean turned to find Sam leaning against a nearby wall with a look of smug amusement on his face.

"Dude, what's with you? That was low…even for you, Sammy," Dean groused.

Sam didn't bother to respond but just wallowed deeper into his amusement at Dean's misfortune.

"Ok. I got us a room," Sam began. "Here's the spare key. We're in room 15. I'm going back to the room and relax…maybe even turn in a little early."

"Gotcha, grandma. Want me to pick up some Geritol for you while I'm out?"

Sam shot him a quick frown and finished up with, "Just don't go doing anything that's gonna get you arrested. We don't have enough cash to bail you out."

With that Sam turned and left his older brother to whatever form of debauchery his overactive libido could muster.


As Sam's lanky frame departed through the diner's entrance and started across the lot towards the motel, Dean turned and began scanning the small eatery. Realizing that all hopes for a night's entertainment with the brunette had been slaughtered by Sam's subterfuge, Dean knew it was better to cut his losses and start trolling friendlier waters for his 'catch of the day'.

His gaze once again settled on the red-head that had so captivated him just a short time before. With a determined swagger and his "game-face" firmly in place, the young hunter made for the empty stool at the counter next to his prey.

Dean was settling onto the seat with his usual degree of suave confidence and had prepared to light up the blonde's life with his ample charm and oh-so-clever icebreaker when the dewy-skinned beauty turned, faced Dean and answered his gaze with a thousand-watt smile.

It was at that moment that Dean realized he'd been wrong about the red-head…very wrong. She wasn't pretty…far from it, actually. She was, in fact, the most alluring and exquisite woman…no, make that goddess…he'd ever laid eyes on.

The snappy pick-up line that had been perched on the young man's lips got stuck somewhere between his testosterone level and his tongue and Dean blurted out only one word…

"Blue!"

With a tilt of her head the woman flashed Dean a confused look and giggled out, "What?"

Dean flushed instantly and ended up clumsily plopping down on his stool. Embarrassed, he quickly turned his head away and silently mouthed,

"Blue? What the hell?"

His mind was reeling and he knew he better make a quick recovery or the gorgeous woman to his right would run, screaming, into the hills figuring she was being hit on by some muscle-bound Neanderthal with an IQ of twelve.

"Umm…blue…you're wearing blue. It's my favorite color." Dean sputtered.

Oh, Lord, what's wrong with me? Blue's my favorite color? God! How much lamer can you get? Get your head in the game Winchester or you're never going to get to first down, never mind into the end zone.

The woman giggled again and followed up with, "You're funny. Are you this smooth with all of the girls?"

Dean could have died a thousand deaths right there.

Great, I'm going for ruggedly-handsome-and-oh-so-desirable-Marlboro-Man and what's actually coming out is more like Pee-Wee-Herman-goes-pimping.

Dean took a deep breath and, noting the kind amusement in her eyes, decided that maybe, just this once, looking like an idiot just might pay off.

He never liked admitting being less than perfect, especially when it came to his uncanny ability to charm women, but there was just something about the way this woman looked at him that tore down his carefully crafted walls of machismo.

"Yeah…pretty slick, huh? Blue's my favorite color…ha!"

"Well, if it's any consolation, blue's my favorite color, too…especially electric blue." As she presented her delicate hand towards Dean she said, "My name's Marissa…Marissa Timkis."

Dean gently enveloped her hand in his, her warm touch inciting a pulse of tingling anticipation that coursed through Dean with the intensity of lightning.

"Dean…my name's Dean." Almost as a second thought he added, "Townsend…Dean Townsend."

"Well, Dean, somehow you and that leather jacket don't strike me as being the type to particularly enjoy the gingham-checked, country diner atmosphere. What do you say we find a place a bit more suited to our styles? I think I know just the place."

As Sam lazily drifted across the parking lot towards the motel, he realized he was just plain worn out. Lately, it seemed one gig would end and the boys wouldn't even have the time to take a breath before they heard of someone needing their help or they received text messages from their MIA father containing mysterious coordinates and were taking off again to face yet some other incarnation of evil.

Sam resented the life their father had dragged them into and it caused him to have a real problem dealing with John. He understood the grief his Dad carried with him after Mary had died so horribly. Hell, he'd been through it himself when Jessica suffered the same fate.

At the same time, that grief and the burning desire for revenge that accompanied it, just didn't justify dragging two small boys around the country, raising them like soldiers and being more like their drill instructor than their Dad. Sam and Dean rarely ever argued for real, but when they did it was almost invariably over their Dad.

The hunt for the last entity had been just one of those occasions when Dean and Sam argued. Dean, true to form, was more than willing to blindly accept whatever task and destination their father had set out for them.

But Sam had balked. Even though Dean knew it, he would never admit it to himself and especially not to their father, that both he and Sam were long overdue for some R&R. Sam, on the other hand, was determined to get the needed time off whether that meant defying their ex-Marine father, or not.

The two equally stubborn brothers butted heads over the issue but, in the end, Dean had convinced his little brother they should complete this one last job. Their research had shown the job should be short, sweet and to the point and then they could take it easy.

Yeah, right, like anything in the Winchester's universe ever flowed along the same path that logic and reason did. The entity had run rough-shod over the boys more than once during the hunt and by the time they had successfully banished it permanently, both of them had more than a few new battle scars with which to tell their tale.

That's how it had come to pass that the Winchester boys had ended up in Holstein, Iowa. In exchange for agreeing to follow Dad's coordinates, Sam had forced Dean to agree to taking two weeks off from chasing demons, ghosts, spirits, entities or whatever other form of evil chose to announce its presence to the world.

As an added bonus, Sam had managed to finagle Dean into allowing him the honor of choosing their vacation spot…an act he completed by opening a road atlas to a random page and blindly pointing to an equally random spot on the map.

"Holstein, Iowa?" Dean had flopped back into his chair dejectedly. He had been hoping for a place with some real action. Now he was beginning to wish he'd never agreed to let Sam pick their vacation destination. Damn it, those frickin' puppy dog eyes of Sam's got Dean into more trouble than he'd like to admit.

Just when it was that Sam had discovered he could manipulate Dean with nothing more than a simple facial expression, Dean didn't know. What he did know, though, was that once Sam plastered that look on his face there was absolutely no way Dean could bring himself to deny him.

"What the hell is there to do in Holstein, Iowa? We're not going…no way…what kind of whack-job town is it, anyway, that they named it after a cow?"

"Yes…we are going. I'm holding you to your promise." Sam was standing next to Dean with his arms crossed authoritatively over his chest; his lanky form towering over Dean's seated form. He wasn't about to budge on this one.

"Look, it may not be Vegas…" Sam began, which elicited a 'you-ain't-kidding' grunt from the older hunter, "…but the purpose is for us to relax, not wear ourselves down even more by staying out all night. Can you just do this…for me?"

Dean had already had his mouth open to continue protesting when Sam had slipped in that last short, questioning plea.

"Arrgghh! Ok, you win," Dean acquiesced. "But I can tell you it's a good thing you went to Stanford to become a lawyer, because as a travel agent, Sammy, you suck."

Sam chuckled at the memory as he opened the door to their room and flicked the light switch to the 'On' position. Pushing the door shut behind him, he tossed the key down on the small table between the beds and began stripping the clothes from his upper body.

Oh, man, it's going to feel good to get a long, hot shower.

He crossed the remaining distance to the bathroom, finished undressing and stepped into the warm embrace of the steaming shower.

He allowed the water to cascade over his sore, tired muscles and mentally took stock of the numerous bruises and wounds that were scattered over his entire body. Since it seemed they were never completely gone before the next batch was inflicted, he noted with some derision the various stages of healing of each wound.

The twenty minute shower had been just what the doctor ordered and, after slipping on a fresh T-shirt and some sweat pants, Sam unwound his long legs by stretching out on the bed with a self-satisfied sigh.

He fluffed the pillows a bit and reached for the TV remote that was situated on the small beside table. He surfed through several channels and finally settled on the screwball British comedy, "Monty Python and the Holy Grail".

As he watched the flickering images on the motel TV, his battle-weary body slowly began to relax. Soon his eyelids grew heavy and closed at last as he gave into the seductive powers of sleep.