"Are you fucking kidding me?"
Sam regarded the old, "revitalized" building with something of Dean's distaste, even if he wasn't about to let Dean see it. "This is where we're supposed to be," he said, trying to put a defiant note in his voice. Dean was already pissed about the detour that had cost them a week in jail. Wasn't my idea to use the sheriff as bait for a dead Neolithic hunter.
Then again, if the man hadn't been grateful for them saving his ass, he might have actually done the proper paperwork when he "misplaced" the key for a week. And there would have been no way to hide Dean's record.
Dean glared at him, and Sam sighed inwardly. "Defiant" must have come out as "petulant" again. "Which one?" he demanded. "The palm-reader's shop—" He jabbed a finger at the blacked-out window on the left that proclaimed in silver lettering Madame Desdemona, Astrology, Palmistry, Tarot, Scrying, Numerology, & Runecasting. "—or the overpriced incense-and-candle clearinghouse?" The finger pointed accusingly at the second window, decked in displays of scarves, jewelry, and New Age statuary. Coppery lettering—almost exactly the same typeface as Madame Desdemona's—labeled the store Gaia's Seal.
"Maybe it's a psychic. Like Missouri—"
"And you know that most psychics are huge fakes!" Dean yelled. A girl walking by shot the Impala a suspicious glance before she headed into the building.
"Would you calm down?" Sam hissed, hoping she wasn't about to call the cops. There had been more than enough police presence in his life for one month. "Look, I'll go in by myself, see—"
"Oh, no, you don't. Not again. Last time I had to pull your ass out of the fire, it was a literal fire and I didn't have eyebrows for a month!"
"That was over a year ago!"
"Yeah, well, my eyebrows hold a grudge." Dean threw the car door open and climbed out.
"What?" Some days there was no understanding Dean.
Dean was rummaging through the trunk by the time Sam managed to get out of the car. "Nobody gets our real names, I don't care what your visions are telling you," Dean ordered, shoving extra ammo into his jacket pocket before rummaging through the handguns. "And you take a weapon. I'm not walking into anything."
He wasn't kidding; he stuffed a bottle of salt into one pocket and found room for a vial of holy water in another. "Don't you think you're being a little overdramatic?"
"Sammy," Dean said, rearranging the jacket until the weight fell evenly, "if there's one thing I've learned, it's that anything that comes out of your head usually means trouble."
Sam stifled a sigh. This is going to be a long day.
