Chapter 2
"So then Lucas says, 'fine, I will!' and he drops his pants right then and there!"
"No!" She yelled in awe and totally disbelief.
"Yeah!" Her father hollered, clapping his hands and throwing back his head to laugh jovially.
She laughed just the same as him. Her whole body shaking with mirth as tears – like dew on the surface of a single blade of grass – began to form in the corner of her eyes. She was having trouble breathing but finally sighed – the laughing fit seemed to have passed. Her father continued to smile, pearly whites flashing.
"You want another?" He asked indicating to the empty beer bottle she still had clutched in her hands.
"Sure," she nodded with appreciation.
She watched for a while as her father made his way through the crowd, he pushed gently past a few bystanders and called happily to several friends across the room. She was amazed at how many people seemed to know her dad so personally and yet, she hadn't met them once in her 23 years of life. I mean, sure, she was close with Ellen and Jo, maybe even a few others, but even now as she watched her dad chat with a tall, grizzly man at the counter, she realized she had no idea who he was.
She turned her attention to the rest of the room. Her soft, brown eyes sweeping over the scene, taking in the sights and smells of the bar. Over in the corner she could hear the bleeps and bangs coming from the shotgun arcade game where a man in his 40s stood shouting colourful words at the screen. She chuckled quietly, she knew Jo could have beaten him with just one hand. She remembered a day back when she was 13 when Jo had spent a whole afternoon trying to teach her how to beat the game. Of course, no luck, she was hopeless when it came to video games. She caught the eye of a young man sitting in the shadows, a cigarette hovering lazily on the edge of his lips. Quickly she looked away, not wanting the attention of a stranger – that fleeting connection, the brief meeting of eyes, could always be dangerous around here. The smoke wafted in tendrils up the walls to rest delicately near the ceiling. The jukebox played an old, familiar tune and her fingers rapped instinctively against the splintered wood of the table.
Her glance turned instead, to the direction of the window next to her, where a refreshing breeze played gently across her face, blowing her hair back slightly. Smiling, she caught the sight of her reflection in the open window, her long, blonde hair framing the delicate features of her face. She had clear skin and a small, "button" nose as her dad used to say. But as her eyes met the ones in the mirror her smile faded. She was the spitting image of her mother, a slight, beautiful woman who could light up the room upon entrance.
Staring off into the distance, a wave of grief hit her, splashing through her body like the tide, crashing angrily against the shore. She was amazed at how it seemed that only the little things would come back to her. Small memories like when her mom used to brush her hair on the cement steps of the porch as they gazed out at the stars and talked about the silliest things. She missed having a woman to talk too. Her Dad had been incredible, but he wasn't always the most stable person. She could tell that he was still broken up over her mom's death. He was more reckless then usual on hunts, he stayed out a little too late in the bar, and sometimes, when he thought she wasn't paying attention he would just stare at her, taking in her elegant features that were so akin to her mothers.
She was quickly jolted out of her thoughts by the sound of an old engine coming around the bend in the road. It was a sleek black, kind of hard to make out in the dim light but its harsh headlamps penetrated the darkness and flooded the parking lot with its' twin beams. It pulled to a smooth stop, parked rather haphazardly in the space provided. She watched intently as a tall, young man climbed out of the drivers seat and gently pushed the door close with a squeak. He rested his arms on the car and leaned up against it to where he chatted, seemingly to no one. She was actually quite amused until finally she saw another men pull himself out of the car. Whoa, if she thought the first guy had been tall, he was nothing compared to the second guy. She couldn't hear what they were saying but the first one seemed a little agitated, his hands flailing in animated hand gestures.
"Marina?" she heard her name called from behind her. It was her dad.
"You're back!" she said, taking the cold beer from his hand, a twinkle returning to her eyes. "I was just watching these two, they're rather funny." She gestured out the window. Her father leaned out just in time to glimpse the first guy bending down and smacking his head on the rear view mirror.
"Must be loaded," her father shrugged.
Hearing her father's bluntness instigated a small rupture of laughter that burst unwillingly from her lips.
"What?" her father chortled, his daughter's laugh was contagious.
"Why do you assume their drunk, you never look at the other options. Did you ever stop to think that maybe they're just really stupid?" she joked.
"Glad to see you're so optimistic." He said sarcastically.
"And don't you forget it," she smiled and lifted her glass to a toast.
Just then, the grizzly fellow her father had been talking to earlier sauntered over to their table and said hello.
"Oh, Matt, this is my daughter, Marina. Marina this is Matt Sorren." Her father introduced her.
"Hi," she said, holding out a hand, "It's nice to meet you."
"And so polite too," he said to her father in a voice that matched his appearance. "Nice ter meet you too, I've heard so much about you." He smiled.
She smiled, slightly embarrassed and started, "Well, I'll let you two talk." Her dad gave her an apologetic look as she got up from the table. She smiled reassuringly and left, heading towards the woman's washroom.
Marina was a little shy, but confident in herself, even wily at times. She could play games, if she had to, she just preferred not to. So when the faint smell of leather filled her nostrils and the husky voice of one, Dean Winchester reached her ears, she knew a little better.
"Excuse me," he started, smooth as silk. "Could you please tell my younger brother here that Metallica is so much better than any of that bluegrass crap?"
She turned around and smiled politely, watching as the shorter man from outside sucked in his breath, loving the picture in front of him. She had to admit that both men were rather handsome, even if, (judging from before) a little dimwitted.
"Dea – what? Bluegrass? I don't even like – " The taller one started but was soon cut off by his brother.
"Oh, he's a little ashamed." He smiled, suggesting how painfully juvenile it was for his brother to be embarrassed of his music stylings.
The tall one shifted on his feet, looking rather uncomfortable in the situation. Attempting to make the younger one a little more at ease she decided to change the subject, "I'm Marina, it's nice to meet you…"
"Dean, and this is Sammy," Dean smiled jovially.
"Just… Sam, actually." He corrected, casting an annoyed look in Dean's direction. Then he turned and stretched out an enormous hand. She took it and then let her arm fall to her side, a silence quickly filling the space. She felt as if she couldn't just leave, and so instead she cast around for a topic.
Finally, settling on the only thing she could think of she asked tentatively, "So… how's your head?"
A blank expression streamed across Dean's face and then, "Oh, you mean this?" he gestured to his forehead where a bruise had already formed. "Just had a run-in with this big fella, you might have seen him leave? Hairy guy, covered in tattoos. Not a big deal though, he got what was coming to him."
She giggled, "Oh! You must be talking about Earl!" She had pulled the name from nowhere, now was the time for games.
"That's it!" Dean grasped the name and held on tight like a dog to a chew toy. "Bit of a rough one, eh?"
"Definitely. I wouldn't try anything with him again, you must've got lucky."
Dean looked utterly appalled that she would assume he only got lucky (and not in the good sense either.) He could hold his own, and he wasn't about to let her think he couldn't.
Marina could see the clogs turning behind Dean's eyes. She eyed him carefully, waiting patiently for the next line to come.
"Oh, he had some good punches but I wouldn't say he was all that. Nothing I couldn't handle anyways." He said smugly.
She shrugged nonchalantly, giving nothing away.
"Well, at least you have a good story. Not 15 minutes ago, I saw this man outside, I think he bent over to tie his shoe… smacked his head right on his rear-view. Poor guy, must not've been the brightest," She tutted. "If you'll excuse me boys?" Marina nodded towards the washroom.
"Umm… of course," said Dean as the colour drained from his face. "No problem."
She smiled inwardly but then immediately felt guilty for having played the small trick on him. Well, she thought, ya gotta get your kicks somewhere.
Sam snorted, clapping his brother on the back, and grabbing his shoulder to steer him in the direction of the bar. He could hear the small clink of glasses and soon enough, the familiar face of Ellen Harvelle came into sight. The way her long, sandy blond hair fell haphazardly to her shoulders reminded Sam strangely of a lion. And Sam thought that matched her perfectly. Ellen was always such a fighter: much like a hunter (even though he'd never tell her that) she had that fierce exterior. The tough as nails persona, coupled with subtle intelligence – meaning she didn't flaunt her abilities, making others believe she didn't have any. But that was their mistake, and they wouldn't realize it until there was no chance in hell they could do anything about it. Then again, he saw the way she was with Jo, Ellen definitely had a softer side to her as well – something else she didn't want others to know.
Sam pulled a stool out from under the counter with a smile and sat, placing his hands in front of him like a small child sitting obediently in his desk at school. Dean settled in next to him but he was a little distracted by the low cut shirt and denim short shorts sitting 3 seats over.
"Ellen!" Sam called, dragging out the letters in a sort of singsong voice, highlighting his soft accent.
Ellen glanced up from the glass she'd been cleaning and her face split into a wide grin, "Well if it isn't the Winchester boys," she smiled. "What brings you to this fine establishment?"
"We just thought we'd come say hello," Sam replied.
"And we're looking for a gig," interjected Dean, eyes on the prize.
Sam spat another dirty look in Dean's direction and an apologetic one to Ellen.
And always the oblivious, "Oh, and would you mind if we stayed the night?" Dean added. Barely glancing at Ellen before he turned back, his eyes lingering hungrily on the denim short shorts.
Sam's lifted his hands from the table and let out a huff of exasperation; he'd been going for the more, indirect (and polite) approach. Something Dean had never accepted. He preferred to be point blank with his intentions, no beating around the bush.
Ellen looked a little taken aback at first and she grabbed an old rag from the counter to wipe her hands with. "Well, you can stay as long as you like but I don't have a job for ya. Gave the last one to that fella' right there." She nodded at the back of a tall man who was chatting with a surly – almost grizzly looking man.
That caught Dean's attention. His eyes wandered threateningly over to take a look at the guy.
"That old man?" He said. "C'mon Ellen, we could do better then him. Just give us a hint." Dean flashed a smile that would have persuaded even the most stubborn woman.
But Ellen held her ground, she wasn't even fazed – far from it actually, she snorted.
"You think so, do you?" She said, resting the damp cloth on the table and walking off.