AUTHOR'S NOTE: Oh my...I...updated! You may now rejoice : ]

Anyhow, I apologize for the lack of updates, but let me assure you, I love this story with all my heart, and I HAVE NOT lost interest in it. Other things have just been seriously infringing on my fanfic-writing time. Things like AP classes. And my family and friends. And National Novel Writing Month (which I'm falling behind on because I didn't feel great today, and I'm focusing on getting some more chapters of this here tale out for y'all). So, I'll try to get some more stuff typed tonight, and maybe tomorrow, and I'll see about getting another chapter out by week's end, or early next week, at the latest. But don't quote me on that.

And, thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for ALL your support and dedication. I would have given up MONTHS ago on this idea if I didn't know people actually cared about it so much. Your caring renews my interest, and keeps me writing. You, and how much I love bitchy/fun/annoying/hilarious Sasha : ]

And now, without further ado (besides the disclaimer, but you can ignore that) I present: DADDY'S LITTLE GIRL, continued!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own anyhting you recognize from your favorite show, and mine, Supernatural. But Sasha's mine. SO HANDS OFF!

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Half an hour later, Dean's trolling the battered Impala through the streets of Riverton, and the town's relatively busy. It's Friday night, and the car's getting a lot of stares, so he pulls into an alley off West Main Street and climbs out of the car. He doesn't want to leave his baby like this, so vulnerable, but he knows he has to.

"Come on," he commands gruffly, and he and Sasha join the people strolling and enjoying their night. While Sasha gazes wistfully at the boutiques and the movie theater a little down the street, Dean keeps his eyes on the restaurants and pubs they pass, scanning for the place Bobby had directed them to.

Ellen & Eva's is advertised as a "Grille & Tavern," and it's packed. French doors at the front of the building open onto the street, letting the body heat flow out and the cool breeze blow in. The bar is crowded with well-dressed women and suit-clad men, and every booth up front in full. At the back is the larger dining room, full of tables and still crowded, and people sit outside on cozy benches, flanked by topiaries, awaiting a free table. Dean pushes through the crowd, Sasha sticking close behind, and he waits impatiently while a twenty-something hassles the kid serving as hostess about there being no tables. The woman moves on five full minutes later, huffing and puffing and ready to blow the tavern down, and Dean steps up, grinning.

"Get that a lot?" he asks.

The hostess, flustered but recovering, manages a smile as she pulls out two menus. "Most weekends, yeah. And I'm sorry, but if you're looking for a table, the wait's over forty-five minutes."

"No, no, that's okay. I was just wondering if I could speak to the owner. Is he working tonight?"

The hostess' eyes widen. "Are you a health inspector?"

Dean contemplates whipping out that Paul Fitzhugh badge, but figures honesty's the best policy and laughs. "Oh, God, no. Just an old friend."

"Okay…" The hostess still seems hesitant, but assures him, "I'll be right back," and disappears.

"Thought you didn't know anything about these people," Sasha remarks, sounding accusatory.

"I don't," Dean replies, and throws a smile over his shoulder. "But the old friend line works every time; I love being vague."

He turns back in time for the hostess to return, followed by a man in his early to mid-forties, with auburn hair, a neatly-trimmed beard, and brown eyes. He's smiling as he approaches, motioning Dean and Sasha aside so they can speak in private, and telling the hostess, "Keep your chin up, Stacy. Your shift ends in half an hour."

"Thank God," the hostess mutters under her breath, and turns to face the next customer with a wide grin.

The man looks Dean up and down and glances at Sasha, and holds out a hand, "I'm Gabriel Denver. We've never met, have we?"

"Not that I can remember," Dean replies, taking his hand firmly, and the men laugh. "I'm Dean Winchester. Nice to meet you."

"The infamous Winchester," Gabriel notes. "My wife's told me a lot about you."

"Ouch. Nothing too bad, I'm hoping."

"Oh, it's pretty bad."

Dean makes a quick change of subject. "So, your wife's a hunter?"

"She wishes. She's not cut out for it. But I am." Gabriel grins at the shock on both of their faces. "Yes, it's possible, running a business and hunting. I'm good at multitasking."

"How long have you been in the business?" Dean asks.

"Since I was about thirty, so, almost fifteen years, now. That's nothing, compared to your record."

Dean smirks and stands up taller, proud. Sasha rolls her eyes as he says, "It's been tough, but you just keep on keepin' on. You have to. So, Gabe, it's a lot to ask, but this kid and I, we're in trouble. We need somewhere to stay, just for tonight. Bobby Singer said you might help us out."

"Well, then I guess you're okay. But do you mind if I ask who she is?" Gabriel looks back at Sasha and holds out his hand again for her to shake. "You got a name, honey?"

"Sasha," she tells him, and takes his hand.

"She's the kid of a friend," Dean adds. "Long story short, we got some bloodsuckers on our tail, and we would really appreciate the help."

"And, sir, if need be, I am entirely prepared to pay you for your aid," Sasha pipes up. Dean Winchester talks, but money talks much louder.

Gabriel makes a face. "I'm hurt; I wouldn't dream of it. I would never turn a hunter away." He turns and whistles. The bar tender waves a hand to show that he's listening. "Irv, I'm running home for a minute. Can you hold down the fort?"

"Stace and I can handle it," Irv yells back, shooting a grin to the hostess, who sticks out her tongue at him.

Laughing, Gabriel leads Dean and Sasha out of the restaurant, accepting thanks and praises as he goes, and then walks them down the alley next to the restaurant and up the stairs at the back of the building to the expansive apartment over the profitable business.

"Welcome to our humble abode," Gabriel says softly as they enter. "The kids are asleep—thankfully for you—but make yourselves at home. Hold on, I'll go see if my wife's up." He gestures down the hall to the family room, and disappears down another hall.

Sasha settles down on the Denvers' sofa, while Dean paces the room. Gabe seems all right, and his wife apparently knows him, so he and Sasha will be safe here. Two hunters under one roof are always better than one.

"Dean?"

Dean turns as Sasha stands to greet Gabe's entrance. The hunter is followed by a blonde woman, tiny compared to her rather burly husband, who's wrapped in a long robe and slippers (the woman, not Gabe). Dean's mouth drops open at the sight of her, and Sasha can barely keep her disgust to herself; she can only imagine what he'd done in the past with Gabriel's wife.

"Dean, Sasha, this is my wife, Jo." Gabe steps aside to let her into the room. He pecks her on the cheek as she passes and apologizes to all assembled for leaving, then returns downstairs to work.

The room falls awkwardly quiet. Sasha isn't sure what to say and Dean is dumbstruck, and Jo seems to be enjoying his bewilderment too much to end his gaping anytime soon. Finally, she grins and says, "You didn't expect me to wait for you forever Dean, did you?"

"Jo Harvelle, what the hell happened to you?" he asks, and half-smiles. "Been a long time, huh?"

"Mm. Pretty long. And it's Mrs. Jo Denver to you, Mr. Winchester." She turns her attention to Sasha, and smiles warmly. "Hi."

"Good evening, Mrs. Denver," Sasha says politely. "Thank you for allowing us to stay in your home."

"Oh, anything for hunters who ramble into my restaurant late at night. But I guess you two want to hit the hay, right?"

"Yes, thank you," Sasha says quickly, while Dean shrugs; he kind of wants to catch up with Jo, seeing as they haven't seen each other in twenty years. He walks Sasha back to the Impala to get some of her clothing, and then she changes in the bathroom and stretches out on the couch. Dean and Jo settle in at the kitchen table, drinking huge mugs of strong coffee and trading barbs. He hasn't exactly missed her all these years, but he has worried about her from time to time.

"So, you're a restaurant owner," Dean says, and nods. "Impressive."

"Yeah, it's something Gabe and I both wanted. And our mothers." She smiles. "That's where the name's from: my mom, Ellen, and his, Eva."

"How is Ellen?"

"Sleeping, probably."

"She's here?"

"Where else should my aging mother live?"

As the conversation continues, Sasha gives up on sleep, sits up on the couch, and turns on a lamp. The room is painted pale peach and the carpet is a weird teal color, but it works. There's a fire place of stone across from her, a flat screen TV hung above it. There are family photos everywhere, at the restaurant, on vacation, at school. She counts five different Denver children, plus Gabriel and Jo, and an older woman who shows up in a lot of pictures who must be Jo's mother. Sasha stands and crosses the room to examine family artifacts on the shelves, and while she fingers a homemade picture frame, she senses a coming presence and turns to meet it.

The woman from the pictures is in the doorway, looking a bit confused. "I thought I heard voices," she says, and comes into the room. "I didn't know we were expecting company."

"No, you probably weren't," Sasha replies, smiling and shrugging helplessly. "We just sort of…showed up."

"And you are…?"

"Sasha," she says. She's never sure when it's safe to mention whose daughter she is, and when it'll get her killed.

"Well, nice to meet you, anyway, Sasha. My name's Ellen. I'm Jo's mom—you met Jo?"

"And Gabriel," Sasha acquiesces.

"Who are you traveling with?"

"Dean Winchester," Sasha tells her, and sits back down on the couch. "He's trying to save me. Seems to be his M.O."

"It sure is," Ellen agrees, smiling slightly herself, and settles down next to the teenager. "I knew Dean way back, probably before you were born. He's a pain in the ass, isn't he?"

Sasha laughs. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Aw, come on, Ellen, don't turn her against me," Dean says, entering the room with a grin on his face.

"You do that well enough on your own," Sasha shoots back, and Ellen puts a hand on her shoulder.

"I like her." Ellen stands and pulls Dean into a hug he isn't quite ready for. "Come on, boy, hug me. I'm not getting any younger."

Dean hugs her unwillingly and Sasha makes faces at him. After a few more minutes of conversation, the adults filter out of the room and Jo heads to bed, as Sasha shuts off the light and settles in again on the couch again. Dean and Ellen walk back to the kitchen, where he drinks another cup of coffee and tells her how Bobby and Sam are doing, and she drinks a cup of tea and tells him about her grandkids. Soon, the talk turns to business, especially Sasha, Bela, and the vampires that are out to get them both.

It's a bit off topic, but Ellen notes at a lull in the narrative action, "She's pretty."

Dean, a bit thrown-off, glances over at Ellen. "Yeah, I guess she is."

"She has your eyes."

Dean jerks his head up, and almost knocks over his coffee with a flying hand. "Huh?"

"Your daughter? She doesn't really look like you—at all—but she has your eyes." She considers him for a moment, takes a sip of her tea. "Your ears, too." He stares at her. "What? Women notice these things."

"She's not my daughter," Dean tells her firmly. "Lots of people have green eyes. And how the hell can you tell what kind of ears I have?"

"It's not just one thing about her, Dean, it's everything. The whole package. The shape of her eyes, the eyelashes, and, yeah, the color, plus, I swear, you two have the same exact ears." Ellen levels her gaze at him. "Did you really not know that she was yours?"

"She's not."

"Did you ask her mom?"

"No."

"Did you sleep with her mom?"

He doesn't answer, can't answer. Talking to Ellen about sex is what he imagines talking to his own mother about sex would have been like: awkward as hell. And he doesn't want to be interrogated about Sasha's paternity right now, because life (and his relationship with Bela) is convoluted enough as it is without the added stress of a teenage daughter.

"Well?" She waits; he doesn't say a word. "I'm gonna say you did, since you're not answering me. You might want to look into paternity testing—I hear it isn't too expensive nowadays."

"You really think…?"

"Would I have said it otherwise?"

Dean's jaw snaps shut. Ellen isn't the kind of woman to speak simply for the sake of hearing her own voice. "You wouldn't happen to have an at-home DNA tester, would you?"

She smiles sympathetically; she honestly thought he'd figured it out by now, and she truly hadn't meant to shock him like this. "Nope, sorry. I mean, listen, Dean, I might be wrong…I just sincerely doubt it."

"Yeah, me, too." Dean glances at her, a tiny smile flickering on his lips. He looks past her into the darkened living room, and prays to whoever that Sasha's asleep. It would all just get too melodramatic if she were secretly listening to every word (she wasn't, thankfully). Turning his attention back to Ellen and trying to steer the conversation in another direction, he asks, "So, how many kids has Jo punched out, exactly?"

Two hours later, Ellen is back in her own bed and Dean is bent uncomfortably into an easy chair. Gabe had long since come in from work and gone to bed, leaving the entire building silent and Dean the only person awake. Staring blankly across the room to where Sasha is sprawled on the couch (eerily similar to his own sleeping position, he tries not to notice), he mulls over what he's learned that night:

Number One: Jo and Gabe have five—count 'em, five—children, ranging from 18 months to eight years old. The youngest is Tory, then comes Mickey, Kyra, Grace, and, finally, Lucas.

Number Two: Ellen & Eva's is in talks to become a chain.

Number Three: He'd actually missed Ellen all these years. But she was still a tough lady, and she still didn't take any of his crap.

Number Four: Oh, yeah, he might be Bela's baby daddy.

He sighs and turns away from Sasha, unable to look at her even as she sleeps. He wouldn't have minded finding out after this little road trip had come to its welcome end, but discovering it now, when they were still at least 16 hours out of their final destination, would just ruin everything. She had no idea, but now that he knew, he wasn't sure he'd be able to bicker and argue with her as easily as he had the previous days of their journey. Honestly, most of the stuff he said was inappropriate for a kid, let alone his kid.

He shouldn't have worried. First thing the following morning, they were arguing about who would get the bathroom first, and then what time to leave. Jo insisted on them staying for breakfast, and any meal in the Denver household, especially a weekend breakfast, was an exciting venture to partake in. Dodging five pairs of greedy little hands, plus the occasional jab from Gabe, Ellen, or Jo for a bite before heading out to face the real world, takes skill, skill that neither Dean nor Sasha possess, and they chose to make their escape after half a cup of coffee and a slice of plain toast each.

"So, Gabe, just wondering—know any good mechanics?"

"Well, sure," Gabe replies, and smiles. "I'm pretty handy myself; if you're having car trouble, I'd be happy to take a look at it for you."

"Nah, if it were as simple as that, I'd take care of it." Dean relates the tale of the fight with the vampires the night before, Gabe listening in solemn silence, and then ends by smiling sheepishly and concluding, "And it has to be quick. I know it usually takes awhile to get parts, but I really just need a front windshield, and then we've got places to get to."

"Yeah, sure, I understand. And I think I have someone to help you out." He gives Dean the address of a garage at the western edge of Riverton. "He's in your direction, and he's an old friend. I'll give him a call and tell him to expect you."

"Thanks a lot, Gabe," Dean replies, taking his host's hand and pumping it.

"For everything," Sasha adds, smiling politely, and then they're off, sliding into the half-dead Impala and trolling through the silent Saturday streets in search of the garage.

The work on the car, the mechanic informs them when they meet with him, will take at least a few hours, but he'll have them out of Riverton by the early afternoon. In the interim, they were set free to roam the town, though the pair ended up sitting on the curb outside the garage—Riverton isn't exactly hopping at eight o'clock on a Saturday. They look at the mountains that stand guard miles away, lost in their own, separate worlds, until Sasha says, "I could never live in a place like this."

Dean tries to feign only slight interest, though he's suddenly very interested in anything and everything she shares about herself. Trying to fit sixteen years worth of small talk into one conversation isn't exactly plausible, but he'll milk it for all it's worth. "Why not? Not into lumberjacks?"

"It's too…rural. Gives me the creeps." As if to demonstrate just how creepy it is, she shivers. "I'll take crowded city sidewalks over scenic views any day."

"Maybe I've been on the road too long," Dean replies, "but I kind of like places like this. I could see myself living here."

She hazards a glance at him as he stretches is legs out into the street. "I can't imagine you living anywhere." His lips tighten into a line, and she realizes belatedly that she's hurt his feelings. She adds hurriedly, "I just mean I can't see you not hunting. You love it, and you love the Impala. Wouldn't it hurt to be separated from it?"

He grins. "You're right—I could never leave my baby. But settling down might be nice."

"Mmm, I guess."

They pass the time chatting until the mechanic comes out, looking stunned that they're still sitting there doing absolutely nothing, and tells them that the Impala's all fixed up. "I won't even ask what happened, 'cause Gabe said not to," the mechanic tells Dean as they shake hands. "And he said it's on him, which, of course, means it's on me. Whatever made you let a classic like this get so banged up must have been important, and I'm figurin' that you need the money to keep doin' important stuff."

Dean squeezes his hand tight as Sasha climbs into the passenger seat and admires the new, sparkling front windshield, and Dean loses a few precious seconds himself just patting the Impala's hood and inspecting the mechanic's work on her. Finally, at a little after one in the afternoon, they're rolling down the open highway again.

It's about eleven when Dean yanks the wheel to the left and swings into a rest stop parking lot. Sasha's shaken awake by the move, and she isn't happy. She's even unhappier when she realizes that he stopped because there's a bar tucked way back in the corner.

The building is short and squat, seeming to cower behind the huge, multi-shop abomination hawking McDonald's and Dunkin Donuts. It's done in a sort of pseudo-log cabin motif, though a jukebox just inside the door is currently blasting Styx, and the front double doors are wide open to let in the cool night breeze, and people are spilling outside or fighting their way in. The place, in all honesty, Dean admits silently, puts the Roadhouse to shame, what with its mix of motorcycle gangs, local hoodlums, and a bunch of guys who are carrying themselves like hunters (in other words, not one person in there isn't armed and dangerous). He really needs gas, and he could really use a beer, but he's finally starting to think that maybe bringing Sasha into a truck stop wasn't the best idea.

Dean pulls away from the bar and up to the self service pump, letting the Impala guzzle down a tank's worth and then paying for it with Hayden Jonson's (whoever the hell he is) credit card. When he climbs back behind the steering wheel, Sasha's glaring daggers at him again, like usual.

"You are not going in there," she says, and she's obviously talking about the trucker hangout. "I refuse to go anywhere in this car with you if you get intoxicated."

He had been considering driving off into the night and trying to get to Sam's by early the next morning. But the simple fact that she's saying no is making him reply, "Guess you're hitchin' a ride, then," and drive back towards the bar.

He parks the car, glancing at Sasha out of the corner of his eye, and the girl has her arms tucked firmly over her chest as she glares at the building as if it were the root of all evil. To annoy her further, he reads the sign, painted in green and gold, hanging to the right of the entrance.

"Lay Naggy-ur Eh-view-glee," he sounds out, and makes a face. "What the hell kind of name is that?"

"Le Nageur Aveugle," Sasha corrects shortly, her French pitch-perfect.

"Yeah, that's what I said."

She rolls her eyes. "It means 'The Blind Swimmer.'"

"Oh." He considers it for a moment. "What the hell kind of name is that?"

"I don't know and I don't care." Sasha turns around and digs around in her backpack, pulling her cell phone triumphantly from its depths. She flips it open and dials her mother's cell number, her finger hovering over the call button as Dean looks on anxiously.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demands.

"You slipped up, Winchester," she says snidely, sneering. "I know we're about nine hours southwest of Riverton. I'm going to call my mum and tell her to come find me."

"Like hell!" Dean exclaims, and makes a lunge for the phone. Sasha dodges out of the way at the last second, tumbling over into the back seat and huddling on the floor as the ringing begins across the country.

Dean recovers quicker than Bela can grab the apartment phone. "Gotcha!" he exclaims, snatching the cell from Sasha and, in one fluid motion, snapping it in half.

"What the hell was that for?" Sasha snarls, taking the broken pieces of her phone back from Dean and cradling them in her arms as if the phone were her murdered child.

"Guess you're stuck with me." Grinning, he climbs out of the car and makes for the crowded bar. Sasha sulks for only half a moment after he's gone before deciding that sticking close to Dean is in her best interest. She opens the back door, after stowing the remains of her dead phone in her backpack, and jogs to catch up with him at the door.

It's in said doorway, shoving his way past truckers who haven't bathed in a couple of days and bikers who glare or snarl or growl at him, that he realizes his damn daughter is following him into a crappy truck stop bar.

He whirls on her, catching her by surprise, and she freezes, face almost comical in its shock. Dean bellows over the music, "You're not going any farther." Farther…kinda sounds like "father"…

"Neither are you," she screams back, even if she does feel a little violated just walking in the place. She's wearing jeans and a nice top, nothing to write home about, but all the men in the place (and a few of the women) are eying her like she's the hunk of raw beef to their hungry pack of wolves. "Come on, we've got places to go, Dean!"

"And I've got a hankering for a beer!" he yells back, then shakes his head. "I'm not arguing this with you—go back and wait in the car!" He even jabs a finger back in the direction of the Impala for effect, which only rouses a chuckle from Sasha and the people within earshot of their argument.

"Papa Winchester's on a warpath tonight!" she calls back, noting the odd look that flits across his face, but ignoring it in favor of playing it up to the appreciative, eavesdropping crowd. "You think I haven't been in worse places before?"

"You're a spoiled brat from Manhattan! What the hell do you know about hole-in-the-wall bars?"

"Queens!"

"What?"

"I'm from Queens, you doof!"

"Same frickin' difference!"

Sasha heaves a sigh, fed up with him. Her eyes rove around the room, and she catches sight of something she can sink her teeth into: a card game. She smiles, eyeing the round table packed with five guys, five separate mugs of beer, and a deck of cards. Easy money.

"Go get your beer and find me in an hour!" she yells to him, flouncing forward and getting lost in the crowd in an instant.

"What the…! SASHA!" Dean follows the trail she makes in the crowd, weaving through the drinking populace, but pauses as he catches sight of her goal: the card table. He moves in closer to keep an eye on things, but decides to see if she really knows what she's doing, or if she's all bark and no bite.

"Hello, boys," she says, rather smoothly, grinning. "Wow, are you playing blackjack?" No one responds, all intent on their cards, and she adds, "I love blackjack. I beat all my friends at school."

"That's not even the minor leagues, sweetie," one of the men, an older guy with a gray beard and a leather jacket that announces that he's in some biker gang or other, says.

"Whaddaya play for, anyway?" another one pipes up, words dripping with sarcasm. "Lip gloss?"

The guys chuckle; so does Sasha. "No, silly, we play for money." She beams. "Like you. And, see, I've got some cash…" She digs into her back pocket, whipping out a stack of twenties at least twenty or thirty bills deep, and Dean has the sudden urge to launch forward and tackle her to the ground. He stays in his place, however, and lets it all play out, as the guys all look up from their cards and eye her with a new appreciation. Sasha's brows crease worriedly as she frets, "Is this enough, do you think?"

The man who'd taunted her, a lanky guy with an eye patch, grins and pulls her up a chair. "That's fine, sweetheart, just fine." He gestures to a third man, this one covered in tattoos from skull to Lord-knows-where, and says, "You heard the lady—deal 'er in, Bulldog."

"A'ight." He starts dealing out the cards, Vegas style, and Dean turns away to get himself that beer. He realizes, as he orders, that he's beaming. He doesn't have to see the game to know Sasha's going to kick ass at it. That's my girl, he thinks to himself boastfully, and then realizes what a truly screwed up family he has.

An hour later, as she'd ordered, Dean wanders past the card table, around the back of the guy across from Sasha so she'll notice that Dean's waiting to get going. Bulldog is gone, and the lanky eye patch man is dealing, but the remaining players are all casting wary glances at Sasha. The pot is absolutely enormous, with small bills and jewelry and IOU cards and family heirlooms, and Dean can tell from the glowing look on her face that Sasha's winning, and she has been since he left her to play her games. They've since switched to poker, as Sasha had insisted she'd had no idea how to play the "silly little game with all those cards to hold onto," and they'd hoped they'd have a chance of winning all their money back from the pretty thing who'd pretty much bankrupted every one of them. Ha, morons, Sasha had thought as she played dumb and allowed Four Eyes (the ironically-named pool hustler with the eye patch) to spread her cards and play the first hand for her. She said she was still shaky, but would give it a try anyway, and she had been killing them ever since.

Dean couldn't have been prouder is she'd been elected the frickin' President of the United States.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I have some business to take care of," Sasha says, just a tiny hint of smug satisfaction and that damn condescending air she'd inherited from her mother seeping into her otherwise-polite tone. She starts dragging the pot towards her, glancing at Dean. "Be a dear and find me a bag for my loot, would you, lovie?"

Dean laughs despite himself, watching as the motorcycle enthusiast with the beard, whom Sasha had learned was known as Reaper, rises and offers her his hat. "It ain't much, but it should hold all that money for ya."

"Why, Mr. Reaper, you are the nicest scary man I've ever met in a dirty saloon," Sasha replies, taking the hat, and, though they've all realized they've been had, all the men at the table are laughing and smiling at the girl who came into their smoky hangout and has stolen not only their money, but also their hearts.

As Reaper and Four Eyes escort Sasha out the front doors, introducing her around as "the best little card hustler they've ever clapped eyes on," one of the players Dean hadn't been acquainted with stands and wanders over to his side. "That's your girl, huh?"

Dean hesitates, then allows the smallest of smiles and replies, "Yeah, she is." Damn, it's good to say that! He meets the man's eyes, and smiles, offering a hand. "I'm Dean."

"Pancake." Dean doesn't ask. "Can I buy you a beer?"

"Ah, I'd love to stay, but that girl and I have got places to go." Dean smiles, apologetic. "Maybe some other time."

"Yeah, sure. Hey, Dean? You got one excellent girl on your hands. Congrats, man."

Dean beams, nods his thanks and farewells, and follows his daughter, flanked by two unsavory characters who have turned out to be the best things that happened to them on this Magical Mystery Tour, out into the parking lot. Dean suppresses a smirk as Reaper pulls Sasha into a bear hug, the girly-girl looking completely freaked out by being hugged by a biker, and then they say their good-byes to Four Eyes and Bulldog and the rest of the gang (no pun intended), and head for the Impala. Reaper lets Sasha keep his hat, asking her to "wear it a lot and think of me," which she earnestly agrees to do, and as soon as she and Dean are back in the front seats of the Impala, she empties her winnings into her bag (to be counted later) and sets the leather newsboy-style cap on her head. It's huge, but she doesn't care. It meant a lot, and she plans on wearing it as often as possible.

"You never told me you were a card player," Dean notes as her backs out of the spot and peals out of the Blind Swimmer's parking lot and back onto the highway. "Would've helped us kill a lot of downtime."

"What downtime?" Sasha wants to know, and they smirk at each other. They've been on the run for about a week or so now, and it hasn't always been fun or relaxing or whatever, but it's been perversely enjoyable, in a weird way. Sasha settled back into her seat, taking up her favorite riding position, and stares out the window. She yawns. "Where are we, anyway?"

"Um, Nevada." Dean keeps an eye out for a passing road sign, and clarifies, "We're a little west of Lane City, if that means anything to you."

"Not really. Will you tell me where we're going now?"

Dean smirks. "Nope. Be patient—we're running out of land to drive on."

"Does that mean we're stopping soon?"

"Unless I'm takin' you to Atlantis," Dean mutters, rolling his eyes.

"No need to be snide," Sasha replies, but her sniping powers are greatly decreased by lack of sleep. She yawns again, longer and louder, and gets Dean's eyelids drooping. "How much longer?"

Dean clears his throat, but his voice still comes out too gruff. "Couple of hours," he says, and steals a glance at Sasha. She shouldn't have to spend another night sleeping in the Impala's front seat. "I think we've earned ourselves another night in a motel, though, how about you?" He smiles as she turns her head tiredly to look at him. She doesn't say anything, unable to muster any excitement at all, so he drives along for another half hour, until he finds a suitable motel and pulls into the parking lot. It's actually a kind of nice place, by his standards, besides the fact that they take customers at one o'clock in the morning and the rooms all smell vaguely of moldy cheese.

Sasha doesn't care, as she collapses, fully dressed, onto the first bed and passes out, leaving Dean to shut off the lights and settle down on his own bed, flipping through the crap shows that the television has to offer, until he, too, at last, falls asleep.

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