Sorry for the wait.
com·pan·ion
a person or animal with whom one spends a lot of time or with whom one travels.
Dean's a man of many quirks. Too many quirks. If it weren't for the fact that they've covered more ground and gathered more information in a couple days than she could in a week, she would have terminated the partnership already. She figures out within the first four hours that he likes to hover. The first few days, she makes an allowance for the behavior; even the guardians gave them time to recuperate after strenuous hunts. And she's observed pack animals taking care of an injured companion; so, she assumes that it's only normal for humans to hover a little bit over their sick. But after a week, it starts to get ridiculous. It makes her wonder how normal children ever learned to walk on their own. Certainly, if this Dean were to ever raise a child, it would end up as one of the most helpless things on the entire planet. He probably wouldn't even let it learn to walk on its own if he thought it would be dangerous. The issue is settled quickly though because she tends to ignore his commands to be careful.
You lost enough blood to be out cold for two days. I'm not letting your mulish stupidity kill you.
She looks down at him from between the branches of the tree she'd scaled for a better view.
I'll judge when I'm ready. She has her body's limits down to a science now. He doesn't need to coddle her.
You're not-
You're worse than the little old lady I met in Boise.
That stops him short. He spends the rest of the night in icy silence while she flexes her muscles experimentally, carefully stretching them, and continues her ascent upwards. The next morning, he insists on seeing her injuries himself and she can see by the rigid set of his shoulders that he's not going to back down. So, she disrobes in record time then stares in confusion as his face goes through three different shades of red.
Angela! Put your clothes back on!
You asked to see the injuries, she gestures at the raised, pink tissue streaking across her chest just before he yanks the shirt back over her head with his eyes focusing anywhere but at her.
I know! His breathing is elevated, But normal people don't just strip in front of others and-
She frowns as she readjusts her pants and shrugs her jacket on, Are you telling me normal people can see through clothing?
What? No! For just a moment, the atmosphere shifts and she becomes aware of an aching sensation clinging to him, but then he's turning around and she brushes it off.
It's 8:05 already. If you didn't want to see the injuries you shouldn't have asked to. You've just made us late. This is why she doesn't understand humans; they're indecisive all the time. He groans.
Whoever raised you certainly didn't do a great job. He spends the next couple hours in the car explaining human etiquette to her.
He's also perpetually obsessed with fast food and it only takes her half a meal to find out that she can't tolerate that level of grease. How Dean is able to eat and enjoy it so thoroughly is beyond her understanding and capabilities. The first time they have a proper burger, it threatens to come back up before she gets halfway through it. Dean looks scandalized when he sees her push the half eaten plate away in favor of the small packet of carrots and complimentary salad.
What were you raised on? Rabbit food?
His eyes darken the slightest near the end of the comment as his voice tapers off, but she ignores the change in favor of swallowing her nausea between gulps of water and mouthfuls of vegetables. Dessert looks suspicious as well, being little more than a jumbled mess of sticky sugar and flaky crust, but since Dean's confiscated what's left of her impromptu meal and she can't get it back without breaking something, the pie will have to take priority. The gooiness of the dessert is a foreign texture to her, but she swallows it.
You have got to like pie at least. It's the greatest food known to mankind.
Strange is more accurate, but since her stomach hasn't rebelled yet she takes up another spoonful of the haphazard, golden triangle on her plate. Surprisingly, pie wasn't bad; although nearly unbearably sweet, there was a certain blending of flavors in the dessert that left her palate tingling pleasantly. The moment she's certain that it wouldn't decide to make an untimely reappearance, the sweet vanishes quickly. She looks up to see his mouth twitch in attempt to hold back a smile.
You like it.
She figures out he drinks by accident. It's after another one of his mysterious outings where he'd disappear for days on end without a trace. During that time, the supernatural were unnaturally quiet and she'd found nothing to do. But the time he'd come back with bags under his eyes, reeking of caffeine and serotonin, she was a ball of feral energy and aching for a rush. So, she'd purposely pushed every button she knew of on the man. Dean attacks her without any warning; she feels the shift in the air moments before he knocks over a table and very nearly slams her into the wall. Amusement trails sparks up her nerves as her body kicks adrenalin into her blood and she jerks her knee up, relishing in the hiss of surprised pain before slamming both hands on his left hip. He's stronger physically than she is, so she'll have to be careful of cornering herself.
They'd completely trashed the room when his knife (when did weapons get involved anyway? She doesn't remember, but then again, she doesn't care) slips her guard and draws a thin line of blood across her cheek. He freezes at the surprised sound she emits, and she watches his eyes zero on her and widen until there's an edge of white framing the green of his irises. He scrambles away as she brushes a finger across the cut, smearing the sticky liquid, and makes a face at the metallic, salty scent that hits her.
Angela? Oh my god, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Are you okay?
It's fine.
No it's not. His eyes are nearly black and he slumps, I hurt everything. She watches as he pulls a bottle out from his duffle bag and pops the cap. The liquid sloshing around inside the container disappears down his throat in a few swallows. He breathes, pinches the bridge of his nose, then reaches back into the bag. She hears the clink of another bottle being opened as she settles on the other bed and yanks the covers free. He's on his fourth drink when she slips into a light sleep.
The next morning, the restroom has a new stink of vomit.
He apparently also possesses a relentless drive to copulate. She already knows he's by no means a virgin because the backseat of the Impala still holds traces of the scent of intercourse. That, and she walks in on him once. Since the beginning, when he walked out of the hotel room, she was bound to vanish as well. Although she'd learned to partially ignore the scents and silver white trails left behind by the supernatural, one month and five days is not enough to undo a decade. And, well, tracking really isn't a choice; the guardians had made that clear enough. Even when she's with Dean, she's constantly keeping track of new scents. The only time she doesn't do so is when their in the Impala. Because of this instinct though, she usually ended up following the faint, silver white trails back to their owners and killing them. Dean had a field day the first time she didn't come back for an entire night. She carries a cell phone now as a result.
They're in Las Vegas when she decides to follow Dean for the first time; the city is teeming with creatures and she doesn't need to go on a killing spree in one of the most prolific areas of the United States. The Impala isn't hard to track. Its owner spent so much time with it, the bitter scent of gasoline was laced permanently with the man's essence. She follows it straight to one of the flashiest buildings she'd ever seen, getting sprayed with mud and cheap beer in the process, and then it turns around and leads right back to the motel. Well, she does need a shower now. The moment she opens the door, she gets an eyeful. The woman shrieks, yanking at the nearest piece of fabric to cover herself up. Dean swears colorfully and jerks away, pulling his jeans up in one, practiced motion.
What are you doing here?
That question was more or less useless, so she ignores it in favor of walking into the room and pulling out a new set of clothes, shedding her reeking jacket in the process. The woman mumbles something as she does this, eyes flickering. Dean just looks confused as she calmly gathers her things and heads towards the small bathroom. She blinks at their frozen postures.
Please do continue in your sexual endeavors. Copulation is normal in all populations. It's a base instinct of survival, after all.
The bathroom door closes before she sees their reactions, but she does hear Dean swearing again and the silent muttering of a more feminine voice. When she walks back out after her shower, the mysterious lady is gone and her companion is sitting at the rickety wooden table nursing a bottle labeled "Jack Daniel's". When he sees her, the bottle comes down with a clunk.
Angela, I need to sit you down to a lesson regarding acceptable behavior regarding circumstances similar to the one you just walked in on.