I don't own. Sad days.
As always, thank you guys so much for reading and reviewing! I'm sorry this wasn't up earlier, but I've had finals this week. Hope you like it!
And the song is Norah Jones "Turn Me On."
A million girls are sitting in their pajamas, downing a carton of Ben and Jerry's, and wondering why the hell they slept with the guy from the bar. You are wondering why you didn't.
It would have been so easy for you to just give in. So why didn't you? He was there. You were there. You have a job. But you told him you had to go home. You told him no.
You can justify it. You can justify it until you're blue in the face. Guys don't stay with easy. All the experts say you should wait to have sex with one. It keeps them coming around, keeps them close. All the experts say it gives a guy a challenge, and that guys still keep in touch with their caveman instincts. You: T-rex. Him: kill you. Or, in this case, fuck you. Either way.
And it increases your mystery! Then again, people are only about ten percent as mysterious as they make themselves out to be. Dean is a prime example.
You flop down on the cushy hotel bed. Housekeeping has done their job, and your sheets smell like a springtime meadow. Your roll onto your stomach and take a deep breath. Too bad you're in a city. You would have liked to find a big open meadow and just lay in the grass. Pretend to be ten again. Pretend you had never met Brianna Gully, and that she had never shown you your talent, that you never learned about different types of guns, or how to use them, long before your first mark, before Carrie came along, before you knew demons were real. You would like to just lay in the grass.
XXX
Your favorite pair of shoes are three inch heel, knee high, brown leather boots. They're the good brown. Not light milk chocolate, but deep dark chocolate. And tonight you've paired them with your favorite dress. Brown fabric with a purple, glittered, shear top layer, the halter catches the light, and you know you shine.
The club is packed, the manager is thrilled, and you're sitting on what has become your favorite bar stool, watching the crowd. You should probably tell someone that you're quitting. Dean's not coming back. There's no reason to stay.
"Eve. You're next." The stage manager is a shriveled, old woman who was, apparently, the singer of her day. You've never heard of her. "You hear me girl?"
You glance her way and glare at her for a moment. She backs off. The girl before you is actually doing a decent job. You're glad someone in this god forsaken town has talent. It would be a shame for the population to go through life thinking the blonde from last night was a star.
Careful, pride can kill you.
You're on edge. You blew it. It's your turn.
You block everything else out as you scale the three steps that lead to the sorry excuse for a stage.
"Like a flower waiting to bloom, like a light bulb in a dark room, I'm just sitting here waiting for you to come on home and turn me on." It must be déjà vu. A man is walking toward the empty table on the right side of the stage. He is familiar, but you've never spoken to him. Truth be told, you're a little afraid of him. He is the one Azazel wants. The one you have to create a path to. You've never dealt with such importance.
"Like the desert waiting for the rain, like a school kid waiting for the spring, I'm just sitting here waiting for you to come on home and turn me on." He sits down, stares straight at you. You know a huge confrontation is coming. You debate praying. Someone is bound to listen.
"My poor heart it's been so dark since you've been gone. After all you're the one who turns me off, but you're the only one who can turn me back on." He's tapping his fingers against the sticky table top. It bugs you, and you wonder if he's noticing you glare. Must have, his fingers are still.
"My hi-fi is waiting for a new tune, my glass is waiting for some fresh ice cubes. I'm just sitting here waiting for you to come on home and turn me on." The last chord chimes to an end, you grant a small bow, and you step off the stage. He's standing there, hand outstretched, misplaced understanding plastered all over his face.
"I'm Sam."
Yup, it's déjà vu. Are you going to make-out with this one too?
"Eve." Your hand stays by your side. You wish he would get to the point.
"You know my brother."
"Dean."
"Yeah." You both stare at each other, wondering who's going to pick the conversation up. "Have you seen him?" It's his game.
"Not since last night."
"Oh." It's funny how uncomfortable he is when there's nothing to be uncomfortable about.
"He's missing?"
"Since last night. I got back to the room around four and he wasn't there. I thought, well, he didn't come back this morning and he usually leaves a note."
"And he still hasn't come back?" You actually are a little concerned. It wouldn't do for someone to get to your mark before you did.
"No." He shakes his head and glances around the room. "Well, sorry to bother you."
"It's really no problem. I hope you find him." And you do. Because you'd really like for him to get the chance to say goodbye. Because the second you find Dean, you are going to kill him before he goes missing again.
XXX
The walk back to your hotel room is uneventful. A shame, really. You'd love to work some of your frustration out on the one guy that thinks your ass is up for grabs. But, instead, you walk along the darkened street, into the sickly decorated lobby, and up to your dark room where you strip down to your underwear, throw on a robe, and fall face first onto the bed.
So what's your next move?
According to the knock that echoes through the room – answer the door.
Muttering obscenities under your breath, you push yourself out of the bed, make sure the robe is securely tightened around your waist, and open the door just enough to see out of.
"Did I come at a bad time?"
Dean. Damn that smirk. You give a loud sigh and let him in. "What are you doing here?"
"I was in the neighborhood, thought I'd make a friendly visit." He eyes your dress that is puddled in the middle of the floor. "Someone else obviously beat me too it."
"Jealous much?" You give his shoulder a small shove and bend down to pick up the dress. "I talked to Sam earlier," you tell him, "he was worried."
"Uh-huh." He watches as you hang the dress in the closet. "I called him."
"Where were you?"
"Business. CIA keeps me busy."
"CIA?" Check and mate. "I thought it was the FBI?"
"Oh, yeah, well, we work together you know, and I-"
"Give it up, Dean. You don't work for the FBI."
He stares at your for a long, long minute. Probably debating if he should tell you the truth or not. If he should come clean. Or not. "Okay, so I'm not exactly FBI, but I'm pretty close."
"Right." It's safe to say you're a little pissed. First he goes missing, then he continues to lie to you. You're a lot pissed. "You know, Dean, I'm kind of tired."
"Eve, come on." Your glare cuts him short, but he starts again. "Okay, so I'm not at all FBI. But I'm still a detective. Kind of."
"Kind of?" You cross your arms.
"I do a lot of…non-profit work."
"Dean."
"No, seriously."
"Get out."
This time he glares right back. "You know, I wasn't going to say anything."
"About what?"
"You don't exist. Eve Smith. No where to be found."
"You're looking at her."
"I'm looking at a liar."
"And I'm not?" It hits you both, right then, that you each know more than you're letting on.
"Do you care?"
"Do you?"
And hell if either of you do because you're not saying no this time.