December 2nd - 5th, 2005
Pulling up in front of the shabby little motel they'd been staying in, Sam killed the engine and pocketed the keys. Opening the driver's side door, he grabbed the three large coffees and the box of donuts off the seat next to him before stepping out into the chill early December morning. The shaggy-haired giant kicked the door shut behind him, expertly balancing everything in his over-sized gigantor hands to unlock the motel room door. Stepping inside, he took a second to adjust to the change in light before closing the door behind him.
The room itself was pretty representative of its species. Green on ugly green checked wallpaper, dun-colored curtains, table, dresser, tv, etc, etc. Just like every other shitty motel in the lower forty-eight. Probably Alaska and Hawaii as well but none of the three occupants had ever been, so that was up for debate. You know the trope of the protagonist checking himself out in the mirror? Well…
The tall, dark and handsome 6'5" 220-pound man with the puppy-dog eyes set his armload of sugar and caffeine down on the small table, glancing at himself in the mirror. Tan jacket, blue button-up, dark blue t-shirt and jeans, hair just a tad too long to stay out of his eyes…eh, it could be worse. He'd never had a problem getting female attention, though it wasn't quite on a par with his older brother, but then, he'd never really tried to keep up. Hell lately, even Dean wasn't keeping up with Dean.
….how's that for a cliched description? Good? Good. Speaking of Dean...
Turning around, he kicked the blue air mattress lying on the floor between the two Queen beds, "Morning, Sunshine."
Muttering something obscene and flipping Sam off, the handsome dark-haired young man with the candy-apple green eyes rolled over and pretended for a minute that he'd actually be able to go back to sleep. It was a nice daydream for the whole two seconds it lasted. Of course, he'd come awake as soon as the motel room door had opened, a hand going to the knife tucked under the left-hand corner of the air mattress. He knew from experience the shapeless lump of girl on the real bed next to him had most likely done something similar.
He stretched, his 6'2" self clad in a blue t-shirt and blue-gray boxer-briefs, an odd little amulet around his neck. It had been a Christmas present from Sammy when they were kids and he never took it off if he could avoid it. Rolling over, his minimal clothing pulling taut over a body every bit as muscled as his younger brother, though he tended toward a broader build as opposed to Sammy's lean frame. Kicking the air mattress again, harder this time, Sam smirked down at his older brother when Dean rolled over to look up at him, "What time is it?"
"Uh, about 5:45." Still smirking, Sam managed not to laugh at the disgusted face Dean gave him.
"In the morning?" The outrage in his voice was comical to his two companions, though the lump on the bed still hadn't shown any outward signs of life. Groaning, Dean pushed himself up onto his elbows, "Where does the day go…,"
Sitting up, he rubbed a knot out of his left shoulder. Sleeping on the floor, even on an air mattress, wasn't the most comfortable thing in the world. Granted, he'd dealt with worse, but when there was a perfectly nice bed right there and the girl in it only took up like two inches of space… It had been almost three weeks since their last case and the relationship between him and the 5'0" 98-pound 18-year-old with the dancer's body, who was still pretending to be dead in the bed next to him, had improved considerably. Maybe not as considerably as he'd like, but he was working on that whole patience thing.
Since meeting just over a month ago, they'd gone from brutally antagonistic to grudgingly civil to downright flirtatious. Considering they were literally stuck with each other, the flirtatious was a lot better overall than the antagonistic had been. Still…They weren't to the point of sharing a bed. Yet. He tended to get what he wanted, by pure annoying tenacity if nothing else.
They'd ended up buying an air mattress to solve the issue of sleeping arrangements. That asshole Sam never had to sleep on the air mattress. He didn't fit. It had turned into a contest every night to see who 'won' the right to sleep on the floor and who 'lost' and got the bed. Originally it had been whoever lost got the floor. That ended after Skye dumped a glass of ice water over Dean's head when she figured out he was throwing the games to let her have the bed. That's gratitude for you. Now he actually had to try to beat her and she was damned smart. Quick too, learning new skills and games at a speed that made even Sam's head spin, and he was the brains of the operation. Well, so some people thought…
In actuality, Dean was the de facto leader of their little cadre, through unspoken consensus, though how that had happened Dean had no fucking clue. He certainly hadn't gotten a say.
It was Dean who decided they were taking some time off to get Skye as up to speed as possible in the three weeks since their last case. By now, she'd read through the journal that had belonged to John that contained everything about every evil thing he knew. There'd also been assigned reading from Sam, a dozen books picked from various bookstores and libraries, like High School only the final exam was not dying horribly.
It was also Dean that got to teach her weapons and self-defense, which was turning out to be way more interesting than he'd originally thought it'd be. She learned fast and wasn't afraid to ask questions and admit when there was something she didn't know or didn't understand. They hadn't been fighting like Dean would have thought. The opposite, in fact. Once they stopped sniping at each other, they clicked surprisingly well.
Now if only Dean could get her to share the bed...and maybe dinner and drinks...and breakfast. Not that they didn't share that anyway.
Reluctantly getting to his feet, he sat his happy ass on the side of the bed and nudged the pile'o'girl that was curled up, taking up exactly a quarter of the mattress. See? Plenty of room. Dammit.
"Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey." Bouncing the mattress, he made sure to be as irritating as possible, "Time to get up, Tinkerbell."
Grumbling, she peered out from under the scratchy motel blanket, giving him dirty looks with those whiskey-brown eyes he was growing rather fond of, "What if I were vegan?"
"Wakey wakey, sadness and regret? Seriously, I'd cry." The man was a little too fond of cheeseburgers and bacon, much to the despair of his cholesterol levels, "Come on, Sammy brought coffee and donuts."
Grabbing the bottom of the blanket, Sam started slowly pulling it off of her, announcing he was firmly on the side of the Obnoxious One without having to say a word. Two against one is just rude.
"Watch it, Slim Jim." Flipping over, propped herself up on her elbows and glared at the tall drink of caffeine and hair, "I will shave your head in your sleep."
"I would pay to see that." Like the girl needed encouragement to pop her mouth off. Pulling out his wallet, Dean started to open it, "Seriously, I have cash."
Making a half-hearted grab for the blanket again, she quickly gave it up as a bad job, reluctantly dragging her pajama-clad ass into the land of the living, "Did I hear it was 5:45?"
"Nope, now it's 5:57." Glancing at his watch to confirm, Sam whistled dramatically, "Day's half gone already, lazy brat."
Forcing himself to his feet, Dean shuffled over to the table and grabbed two cups of coffee, returning to offer one in tribute to the grouchy sleep-deprived teenager. With a smile of thanks, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up, gratefully taking the caffeine before removing her gun from beneath her pillow. A Sig Sauer 1911 Ultra Compact 9mm Dean had modified with slim grips and short trigger...not that anyone cares about that sort of thing.
It's a gun. It's loud and it kills things. That's all anyone really needs to know, isn't it.
As far as firearms go, it was a cute little thing, well she thought so anyway. She'd been getting decent with it lately too, Dean taking her out shooting nearly every day in an effort to get her as good as possible as quickly as possible. Lives could very well depend on it. Besides, it was fun, and a lot more interesting than she'd thought it'd be.
Placing the 9mm and her coffee on the table squeezed in between the two beds, she got to her feet and stretched, fingers laced together and hands extended over her head. A move of which Dean was deeply appreciative. Course he'd be more so if she weren't wearing Sam's t-shirt. Damn thing was a dress on her, no chance of it riding up and showing a little skin. Perv.
Catching him watching and, being every bit the dainty lady, she flipped him off while calling his ancestry into question. Grinning, he held out his hands, a signal for their habitual game of rock paper scissors. Whoever won got to shower first. Not much of a challenge, Dean always chose scissors.
As expected, Skye won and stuck her tongue out at him before laying a hand on his arm and flashing him a quick grin. Grabbing her beat up knapsack, she disappeared into the bathroom. Never to be seen again.
Okay, so that's a lie, but wouldn't that be a fucked up way to go?
"You know." Looking at his brother with an expression that read equal parts amusement and exasperated tolerance, Sam smiled, "She knows you lose on purpose."
"Yeah, I know. And she knows I know...but she lets me have this one 'cause it makes me feel like a good guy. It's an unspoken agreement to pretend ignorance." Sitting on the edge of the bed, Dean took a long drink of the still too-hot coffee, not bothering to notice as it seared a layer off his tongue. Narrowing his eyes at his little brother, Dean looked at him over the rim of his coffee cup, "You get any sleep last night?"
"Yeah, I grabbed a couple of hours." If by 'a couple hours' he meant a couple of hours in five-minute increments, then he wasn't entirely lying.
"Bullshit." Not like Dean had a problem calling someone out when they were full of it, "'Cause I was up at 3 and you were watching a George Foreman infomercial."
"Hey, what can I say? It's riveting TV." Shrugging, Sam tried to play it off with a boyish grin before raising a brow, the grin turning into a smirk, "Besides, what were you doing up at 3, creeper?"
Like he didn't know the answer. The reason, of course, had to do with the girl. Surprise, surprise. See, sometimes she had nightmares. No big shocker there if you knew the girl's background, which was horrific, to put it mildly. Over the last couple of weeks, Dean had slowly realized the girl had a tell when she was about to have a particularly bad one. She'd whimper, so faint it was the next thing to inaudible, and curl up into a little ball. It had taken exactly two nights for Dean to train himself to wake up to that specific sound. Now when she was about to have a bad dream, he'd get up and sit next to her. Without waking her, he'd talk softly to her until she settled down again. As soon as she knew someone she trusted was there, she'd slip back into the not-so-bad dreams. And the only people in the entire world she trusted were in that room. Sickeningly sweet, right?
Sam figured Skye would likely shrivel up and die of embarrassment if she knew, but neither man had any intention of telling her. It was certainly a flashing neon sign that what had started out as a crush on Dean's part was rapidly turning into something more...and damned if Sam was going to pass up the opportunity to make fun of him.
"Shut up." Grabbing a pillow off the bed, Dean flung it at his brother's head before snagging his bag off the floor, "When's the last time you got a good night's sleep?"
"May 3rd, 1999." Leaning over, Sam let the cotton-stuffed missile sail by his head to thump against the wall behind him, unable to resist giving a smartass answer, " ...a little while, I guess. It's not a big deal."
"Yeah, it is." Running a hand through his tousled dark hair, Dean stifled a yawn and pulled a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt out of his bag, throwing in a dark blue button-up over that as no one in this little ensemble was capable of wearing less than two layers. The better to hide the tell-tale signs of concealed weaponry.
"Look, I appreciate your concern-"
"Oh, I'm not concerned about you." Lies. "It's your job to keep our asses alive, we need you sharp."
The 'uh huh, sure, okay' look on Sam's face expressed Sam's thoughts on that.
"Seriously, you still havin' nightmares about Jess?" The concern in Dean's voice was genuine, he was worried about his little brother.
Sighing, Sam ambled over to the bed and dropped down to sit on the bed, coffee in hand. Tossing his clothes down, Dean joined him, sitting across from him on the other bed.
"Yeah," he admitted, wrapping his hands around the cup he held, "...only it's not just her. It's everything. I just forgot, you know. This job. Man, it gets to you."
"Well, you can't let it." Leaning forward, Dean propped his elbows on his knees and looked at Sam, "You can't bring it home with you like that."
"Never?" He knew Dean wasn't the kind to admit to a weakness, but Sam didn't believe it for a second, "You're never afraid?"
"No, not really." Liar liar, Mom's on fire and burning on the ceiling… Pushing the image away, Dean stuffed it back where it belonged. It was always lurking there at the edge of sanity and when he did have nightmares, that was usually a prominent feature. Then there were the nightmares about something happening to Sammy, or more common lately, something happening to Skyler. Not that he'd admit any of it. Because he was a stubborn hard-headed dick. Or so he'd been told.
Making a wordless noise of disbelief, Sam reached down and lifted the corner of the air mattress, picking up the very large knife Dean slept with every night. Well, not every night. On bad nights, it was a gun.
"So what's this, a teddy bear?"
"That is not fear." Dean took his knife back from Sam, a wry half-smile on his lips, "That-that is precaution."
"Yeah, whatever." He knew better, not buying what Dean was selling but.., "I'm too tired to argue.
Opening the bathroom door, a freshly-showered Skye emerged, dressed in boot-cut skinny jeans, a black tank-top that read 'That's A Terrible Idea...What Time?' across the chest and blue socks with little dinosaurs being beamed up by UFOs. Quirky. Or just crazy. Depends on who you ask.
Before teaming up with the Winchester's, Skye had never really gotten the opportunity to pick out her own clothes. Now that she could, she tended to go a little out of her way to find the snarkiest, weirdest items she could. And loved every damn bit of it.
"Am I interruptin' somethin'? Why does Dean have his security blanket out?" She stopped in the doorway, eyeing the boys and the knife in Dean's hand, "If you guys are fightin', my money's on Sam."
"Security blanket? This coming from the girl who sleeps with a loaded gun six inches from her face." Sticking his tongue out at her in a fit of childishness, he grabbed his bag and tucked the knife away before grabbing a change of clothes, "Also...ouch. Words hurt, Tink."
"Uh huh, sure they do." Turning slowly on her heel, she watched Dean disappear into the bathroom before grabbing her boots from the floor at the end of the bed. Sitting, she pulled them on, looking up at Sam as she tucked her silver butterfly knife into the left one, "...you get any sleep last night, you look exhausted."
Groaning, Sam collapsed backward onto the bed behind him and kicked his feet in a faux mini-tantrum, "Don't you start."
He got a pillow to the face for that little performance.
"I take it Dean already asked?" Tugging the legs of her jeans down over the tops of her boots, she got back to her feet and looked at him with concern before grabbing the dark red button-up she'd stolen from Dean three weeks ago. And refused to return. In spite of the fact that it was huge and she had to roll up the sleeves.
"Yeah, yeah he did."
He looked a little cranky until she held out her hands, palms out to placate the moody Sasquatch, "Alright, I won't harp on it. Suffice to say I have stated my concern and we'll leave it at that."
Walking over to Sam, she leaned over and gave him a brief hug, which he returned one-handed. For a girl who couldn't stand to be touched at all just six short weeks ago, she'd made a remarkable amount of progress in turning into a normal human. Well, as normal as any of them were ever likely to get. A hug wasn't as big a deal as it was a month ago, but it was still a significant thing and spoke volumes about the trust she had in Sam.
Crossing the room, she could hear the shower running through the closed bathroom door. Raising a hand, she knocked and cracked the door enough to be heard over the water, "I don't suppose you could hand me my brush? I left it by the sink."
"You wish, Winchester." Judging by the look on Skye's face, Dean's reply was likely something obscene. Shutting the door, she leaned against the wall and gave Sam a grin, "He's gettin' it."
Opening the door, Dean stuck a dripping arm out, brush in hand. Snagging it, she thanked him and may or may not have tried, with partial success, to sneak a quick peek through the door before it closed. Running the brush through her hair as she walked back across the room, she quickly had it twisted back up into the braid she always wore, "Your brother seems to think I forgot it on purpose just so I could try and get a glimpse of him all soapy."
"Well…" Getting up to get a donut from the box he'd left on the table, he figured he knew the answer, "Did you?"
It was a legitimate question. Right behind him, Skye snagged a chocolate frosted monstrosity for herself, "I refuse to answer on the grounds that I may incriminate myself."
"That's what I thought." Laughing, he managed to eat half a maple long-john in one bite and not choke. Taking a minute to chew and swallow before speaking, a skill Dean had yet to learn, Sam shook his head in exasperation at the girl, "Skye, why don't you two just-just go to dinner or something. A movie. Whatever. Give the guy a shot before his head explodes."
"You back to playing matchmaker, Sam?" She'd thought he'd give that up and was both exasperated and amused that he hadn't. Exaspermused? Amusperated? What-the-fuck-ever.
Collapsing into the worn out chair that had probably once looked like it wasn't covered in tetanus, Sam gave a cheeky grin, "Not...exactly."
Pondering the problem, he finished off his donut, devouring the last bit as a cell phone started ringing. It wasn't Skye's, hers was in her bag in the bathroom and had a different ringtone. Tracking it down to the pocket of the jeans Dean had been wearing the night before, she fished out the little gray flip phone and looked at Sam. Shrugging, he gestured for her to answer it.
"Dean's pants." Dropping down onto the bed, she answered, not even trying to go for professional or in any way mature, "He's not in them right now."
"Uh yeah, hi. This is Jerry Panowski, I was uh-was hoping to talk to Dean."
"Hello Jerry Panowski." Licking chocolate off her fingers, she figured by the tone of his voice that this was a gig, "He's in the shower. I can get him for you or I can take a message, up to you."
"Well I uh-I don't know…"
"So it's definitely a 'who you gonna call' kinda problem and you're worried I'm gonna think you're a nutjob if you leave a message. Gotcha. Hold up a sec and I'll get him for you." Bouncing to her feet, she crossed to the bathroom door and knocked again, "Hey Winchester, you got a call."
Leaning against the wall, she held out the phone as the door popped open, a damp shirtless Dean stepping out. Snagging the phone from her, he turned his back to her, letting her take the opportunity to enjoy the view. Just jeans was an excellent look for the man. Damn shame society insisted people wear clothes. Not like he needed the encouragement, but damn he really was a good looking guy. He was A Terrible Horrible No Good Bad Idea….but so fucking pretty. It didn't hurt to appreciate the beauty of the human form. In her dreams. Nightly. Ugh. Flipping Sam off when she noticed him noticing her noticing Dean, she disappeared into the bathroom just long enough to grab her bag.
Phone to his ear, Dean sat down on the edge of the bed, "Hello?"
"Dean, it's Jerry Panowski. You and your Dad helped me out a couple years back?"
"Oh, right yeah, up in Kittanning, Pennsylvania. The poltergeist thing. ...it's not back, is it?"
"Love that movie." Skye piped up, adding her two cents before grabbing her Discman and pulling her headphones on. The Discman and the CD's she owned were her most prized possessions, not that she had a lot of those, and most of what she had was courtesy of Dean. The man could be kind of sweet when he tried. Clipping the Discman to the waistband of her jeans with the handy dandy belt clip, she pressed play and danced to the groovy tunes of All Time Low as she packed up their stuff, singing to herself quietly enough to not disturb the boys, "...she's trouble in a tank-top. Pretty little time bomb, blowin' up take you down…"
Lost In Stereo. Excellent song.
Sixteen years of dance and gymnastics classes showed in the way she moved, even just dancing around the room tending to be a performance usually involving moon-walking at least once. The boys had largely gotten used to it, Sam simply ignoring it beyond a tolerantly affectionate smile. Dean on the other hand… Well, he made it a point to enjoy it at every possible opportunity. Scooting back on the bed, he leaned back against the headboard, eyes stuck to the girl like she was the spokesman for Gorilla Glue. Long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle, phone still stuck to his ear, only half his attention on the man on the other end of the line.
"No, no it's not back, thank God. But it's something else. And uh...well I think it could be a lot worse."
"What is it?" Worse? Okay, that got a little more of his attention. What could be worse than that damn poltergeist? That had not been a fun job. Okay, well, maybe it had been a little fun, but still...worse was bad. ...how the hell did she spin like that without getting dizzy? With an effort, he pulled his attention back to the phone.
"Can we talk in person?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah, not a problem." They'd certainly taken a long enough break. Skye was about as ready as she was going to get without some first-hand experience. It was good timing for a job, "Where are you, Jerry?"
Getting to his feet, Dean grabbed his bag and dug out a pen and paper, scribbling down the address and holding up the slip of paper after ending the conversation, "We got one."