Sam came out of his reverie to find Fangirl using a paintbrush to swirl caramel on Dean's face. Somehow, she'd managed to wrap a belt around Dean's forehead and the post he was tied to, securing his head. The older Winchester looked livid.
"Hold still, sweetie," she smiled. "You'll ruin the effect."
"SCREW YOUR EFFECT!" shouted Dean.
"You're so cute when you're angry," cooed Fangirl, dotting his chin with the sticky substance.
Not as angry as he was when we met your two buddies, thought Sam, the skin on his wrist burning under the friction of the harshly tight ropes...
The Impala was silent save for the soothing strains of AC/DC. Dean sipped his coffee and Bailey's grimly, shadowed and itchy eyes twitching to the gun on his leg, then his sleeping brother. Sam's breath was fogging the passenger window, his arms folded awkwardly.
As though sensing his brother's gaze, Sam stirred and raised his head. "Wanna switch off?"
Dean gave a noncommittal grunt, and sipped his coffee again. "You wanna know what bugs me?"
Sam reached for his own coffee. "What?"
"That it was a chick."
Sam snorted, letting the bitter warmth seep into his bones. "That's what bothers you?"
"That, and she didn't even hint at being a vampire, or a succubus, or anything."
The younger Winchester's brow furrowed. "You're right: it smells too normal. It's almost like she kept calling just to see if you'd pick up the phone."
Dean shook his head and gripped the wheel tighter. "How many run-ins do we have with creepy humans? How many?"
"Not many. Does Chuck the prophet count?"
The brothers grimaced at the same time, and took deep draws on their beverages. "Whatever," grumbled Dean. "Bobby'll have us a new case when we see him in a couple days, we've got this place in our mirrors, and we can just forget about the whole thing."
"You've said it. Seriously, you look like a zombie. Let's switch."
Dean sighed, signaled, and pulled to the side of the road. AC/DC's song ended as they changed seats. In the quiet left by the flipping cassette tape, there came an odd noise.
Sam stiffened. "Did you hear that?"
Dean clicked his seatbelt. "Hear what?"
Faintly, it came again.
"That!" Insisted Sam, twisting around. "Sounds like it's coming from the trunk..."
Dean's face was murderous as he slowly unclicked his seatbelt, slid silently out of the still-open door, and crept around the idling Impala. Sam followed suit, drawing his handgun. They met again in front of the trunk, senses alert. The sound came again.
"Is that...?" Asked Dean.
"Yeah. Sounds like a giggle."
Dean's eyes narrowed, and in one smooth motion, he flung open the Impala's trunk. He didn't even have time to level his gun: a black-clad human blur launched itself from the trunk, latching onto Dean's body with arms and legs.
Dean yelled in surprise and alarm. "Get it off me! Getitoffme!"
"I haven't got a shot!" roared Sam back.
"SAM! DEAN!" shrieked the female offender in a thick Asian accent. "I LOOK LONG TIME FOR YOU!"
Dean, who had been reeling and staggering under the weight of another human, fell to the mud on the side of the road. Sam abandoned the handgun and began to aid his brother in prying the ninja girl off him.
"Get off him!"
"What he said!"
"I LOVE YOU!"
Finally, the girl released her grip. Sam flung the slight girl as hard as he could, but she landed nimbly on her feet, mask ties fluttering gracefully. "I SEE YOU SOON, WINCHESTERS!" And with a flick of her wrist, a flash bomb detonated at her feet. When the smoke cleared, she was gone.
"Holy hell," groaned Dean, rubbing his ribs.
"We just got assaulted," said Sam in disbelief. "By a trunk ninja."
"I know Sammy. I know," replied Dean wearily, rising from the mud. "But there's no trauma miles and alcohol can't cure."
