Mucho gracias to everyone who has reviewed. It's all greatly appreciated.

Credit to coffeeandcigarettes for beta'ing. Thanks Courtney.

Once in Augusta, Dean had given me some cash and dropped me off at a Target upon realizing that I had nothing. Literally. I tried to keep it simple: a few pairs of jeans, some pajama bottoms, a few tank tops, plain-Jane tee shirts in variations of blacks, grays, and browns, two bras; both with matching bottoms, socks, some extra briefs, three long-sleeved shirts, a few skirts, a pair of boots, a pair of heels, and two pairs of converse-type tennis shoes, one black jacket, and two nice tops. Then, I had to get personal items: a toothbrush, a band of hair ties, face wash, a few pieces of jewelry, deodorant, a pair of sunglass, a razor, tampons, the simple make-up things; lip stick, chap stick, powder, and blush, and a large, duffle-material backpack to keep it all in. Though that might seem like a lot, most of it is necessity. As far as the skirts, heels, and jewelry go, I figure Dean and I will be hunting, which means false personas that could range from FBI to Health Inspectors to Teddy Bear Doctors.

I'd avoided the pricier items and tried to buy scarce. Thinking back, I tried to see if I'd missed anything. Finding nothing, I went to check out. Dean got back to Target right as I'd finished loading all my supplies onto the cashier's belt. He met me at the register. "Dear God. Women."

"I need all of this. This isn't half of my clothes at home. Hell, this isn't a seventeenth of what I have."

"Yeah, cause women buy like they need six of everything."

"Sexist."

"Are you saying that's not true?"

"Yes," I quipped. The man behind the register snorted a quiet laugh. I blushed a bit, crossing my arms over my chest. "Did you get the room?"

Dean nodded. "And food. Hope you like Chinese."

"Oh, definitely." I smiled at him.

It was around seven in the morning when we arrived in town, so naturally, the cashier asked, "Chinese for breakfast?"

"What can I say; girl's got an appetite." Dean tossed him a smirk. I scoffed but said nothing.

The boy nodded. "My girlfriend's the same way. It always amazes me how she can eat so much but stay so small."

"Must be a chick thing."

"It's not a chick thing." I rolled my eyes. "She probably works out. I know I have to. Twenty laps every morning and every night at the pool."

"Nah, I don't think so. Physical labor isn't her forté."

"Sucks for you," Dean mumbled.

"Sorry?" the cashier asked as he finished scanning the last of my jewelry.

Hastily, Dean shook his head. "Nothing."

"You're total's rounding up to three-hundred twenty-two dollars and thirty-seven cents," he announced as I took the rest of my bags and placed them in the buggy. Though it seemed like a lot, I knew it could have been much higher.

Dean seemed to disagree. "Jesus Christ, Lori. Did you buy the whole damn store?"

"Nope. I left them the grocery department." I retrieved the cash from my back pocket.

Dean held up his hand and shook his head. "You don't have enough." Winchester withdrew his wallet, handing over a MasterCard. Without objection, the Target employee scanned it.

"Here you are, Mr. Hagar."

"Thanks, Dean," I mumbled.

The cashier raised his eyebrow. "Dean?"

"Middle name," I quickly explained, panic rushing through me in an instant.

Dean nodded. "She says my first name sounds like a bad Tim Burton character."

"Oh." He ripped out the recite, handing it over. "Well have a nice day. And thank you for shopping at Target."

"Yeah, no problem, buddy." Dean tossed the recite in a nearby trash can before standing back so I could guide the buggy towards the doors. "Get everything?"

"I think so. Thanks again."

"Thank Dean Hagar." He winked.

The motel was one of the nicer ones surrounding the airport. Though it was nothing compared to the hotel Castiel had placed me in, the brothers had stayed in far worse places. Dean had flicked on the television; some rerun of a cop drama was on. Though he channel surfed for a minute or two, there weren't many options at this hour. Whilst we ate, I went through and took off all the tags and stickers from my clothes. What I didn't need that night, I tossed in the back pack.

Excusing myself, I headed to the bathroom. I peeled the nasty, disgusting, unwashed scrapes of clothing from my body and hurriedly rinsed down with a motel wash cloth. Though I wanted a shower, this would have to do for now because I was too sleepy for a full fledge shower. Slipping on my new clothes, I grinned at my reflection - new, fresh, clean clothing. Finally. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and pulled up my hair.

Returning to the room, I grabbed one of the empty Target bags and threw my old clothes into the bag. I tied it and tossed them in the waste bin in the corner of the room. Dean shot me a raised brow look. I shrugged. "Just another chick thing."

"Okay…" he spoke from his bed. He'd finished eating and was now in nothing more than boxers and a tee shirt - one that hugged his biceps nicely, might I add. Tearing my gaze away from his man-muscles, I sat at the small table nibbling on remains of my fried rice and sweet and sour chicken. When I'd had my fill, I cleaned off the table and climbed into my own bed. I drew my knees to my chest and relaxed against the wall.

We watched TV in silence for almost two hours, only speaking when we felt the need to comment on the show or commercials. It wasn't awkward in the least bit. In a way, it felt normal. Not the fact that it was us, but it seemed normal in the simplicity of the actions. Just two people sitting around watching TV. I was slightly unnerved by how easily Dean and I just accepted that we were now paired off together. I understand, a little, why it's easy for me but, still. Perhaps Dean isn't as unaffected by the new circumstances as he appears. I hope that's not the case.

Sometime around nine-forty that morning, I'd laid down and drifted off to sleep. In my dream world, Sam was there. He was eating dinner with the blonde woman, Lindsey. She pulled out a chip from her pocket, holding it up, she muttered, "Three years sober."

The chip was purple, and sort of like a guitar pick. They give them out at AA meetings when alcoholics reached their sobriety goals. Sam sputtered on a bite of food, "But you work in a bar!"

"So do you." Lindsey giggled. Then dream abruptly ended there. The rest of my slumber was filled with only clips and images of Sam. He slept. He was visited by other hunters. He worked. He played darts. Though the visions were sketchy, it relieved my body and mind for a short time; the more vivid the dreams, the less rest I get.

Apparently, I wasn't the only one tired. When I woke that afternoon at five forty-two, Dean was snoozing peacefully, sprawled on his bed. I smiled softly at his sleeping figure. Walking over to my bag, I fetched my things and slipped into the bathroom. It felt nice to shower - to cleanse my body. I washed my hair, scrubbed down, and just stood feeling the lukewarm water rush over me. A nice cool shower was a great way to wake up. Once I dressed and exited the restroom, Dean was slowly starting to rise.

"Afternoon," I announced my presence.

"How long have I been out?" He asked, his voice gruff with sleep.

My eyes traveled to the alarm clock sitting nicely on the table between our beds. It was just after six. "Roughly nine hours. Give or take twenty minutes."

"Damn," he grumbled. Dean wiped a hand over his face then sat up. "Alright, get dressed then. We gotta get a move on."

"Already?" I murmured tossing my shower necessities in the backpack.

Dean stood and started to move about the shabby motel room. "Yep. We've got to hit a few spots in town before moving out."

"Where're we going now?"

"I did some calling around this morning after you conked out. A buddy of mine in Portland thinks he's got a job for us."

"Oh yeah? What?"

"Didn't say." Dean shrugged peeling off his shirt. I blushed feverishly, spinning away from him as I dug shoes out of my bag. Opening the socks, I slipped some on before pulling on my thick, black boots. When I glanced up again, Dean was fully clothed, tugging on his jacket. "You wanna get breakfast?"

"Sure." I nodded. Ten minutes later, we were checking out and loading up. We ate breakfast, which was really dinner, at a small kitchenette-like place called Anne's. Afterwards, Dean refused to tell me where we were going. Nearly fifteen miles later, we pulled up to a strip of shops.

He shut off the Impala, and faced me. "How afraid of needles are you?"

"What does that ha-" but then I realized the shop in front of us was a tattoo parlor; Area 54 Tattoos. "What the hell are we doing here?"

Dean smirked, lifting down his shirt to reveal the black inked tattoo on his chest just above his left peck. The tattoo was a pentagram entrapped in a circle of flames, much like the one we used only yesterday to trap Raphael. My eyes widened, and then narrowed. Winchester only continued to smirk, "If you're going to be riding with me, you're not going to be getting possessed every ten seconds. We gotta get you protected."

"Oh, come on," I groaned. Together we went inside and Dean asked for an artist. They sent us over to a bald man with more piercing on his faces than skin. His name was Pit, or Puc, or Pink; something like that. Dean showed him his tattoo and asked if he could give me the same one. P nodded. "Where do you want it?"

"Oh, um, I hadn't thought of that." I looked at Dean. "Where should I get it?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Okay." My mind was fumbling. I couldn't think of anywhere to put it. It would be too big for my wrist, weird on my neck, ankle tattoos are gross. Finally, I heaved a sigh. "I don't care. Just wherever."

"I can't pick for you," P stated.

"Dean."

"Don't get it on your hips. Those are trashy. Don't get it on your lower back - also trashy. It would look weird on your chest so…" his fingers trailed up my back, then stopped and tapped my left shoulder blade. "Get it there."

"Alright," the bald man nodded. He motioned for the spiny chair in front of his that resemble the chairs at the hair salon. "I want you to sit facing him, put your legs on either side of the cushions, rest your upper half on the plate, and don't move."

Doing so, I watched Dean slide a chair over and sit down. I glared at him as the tattoo artist lifted my shirt. He began to pencil draw it on before applying some sort of wax paper. He kept asking me various questions: have you ever gotten a tattoo? Why get one now? Why this one? During the entire interrogation I was curt, bracing the pain that was soon to come. "I hate you. I'm not good with needles. Or blood. This has both."

"We'll I'm telling you now," Dean leaned forward whispering. "You're gonna have to get over the fear of blood. In our line of work we can't afford to be squeamish." Then, he glanced at his watch and told me he needed to run the other errands before it got too late. I pitched a sort of mild fit in response. I couldn't believe he was going to force me to get a tattoo and then leave me alone to withstand the pain. He told me I was being dramatic, handed me the cash from last night, and said he'd be back.

"So you're boyfriend's making you get it?" P asked as he rubbed some kind of gel over the pencil sketch on my skin. I was glad he couldn't see my crimson face. "He isn't my boyfriend?"

"Brother?"

"Not quite. We're…uh," but what were we? Friends? I suppose. Business partners? It seemed that way. But it was something more than that. Something unexplainable. "We're friends who work together."

"Hmm. What do you do?"

Shit. Nice one, Lori. "We're traveling salesmen for a non-profit time share company." What the hell is that? That, ladies and gentleman, is the worst line on a dime, ever.

"Sounds boring. You two don't seem the type. Okay, I'm about to start. I need you to be very still, alright?" I nodded, and tensed when the low buzzing of the ink gun started. Contrary to popular belief, the act of getting a tattoo is not that painful. It felt like someone was dragging nails across my skin. Though it slightly burned and stung, I was expecting downright pain - blood curdling, eye gouging pain. P would stop every so often to wipe blood off my skin, and occasionally refill the tattoo gun with black ink. When he was finished, he gave me this speech about not getting it infected, how to look for the signs of infection, and how to properly clean it. Since the tattoo was small and the ink was black, it only cost sixty dollars. I paid at the front of the parlor and took one of their complementary business cards.

I had just begun to wonder were Dean was when the familiar purr of the Impala's engine flooded my ears. The black beauty pulled into view, parking just in front of the shop. Dean exited the car, squinting from the now setting sun. The tattooed, pierced, slightly trampy woman behind the counter hummed, "Your boy toy's got a nice ride."

"He's not-" but I cut myself off as he entered.

"You get it?"

"Unfortunately." I pushed down the material of my shirt, the white bandages showing.

Dean grinned. "Good. Step one complete."

"What's step two?"

Dean jerked his head back. "In the car. Did you pay?"

"No, I thought it was free because yes, I am completely incompetent," I joked. Dean mimicked my smartass remark before threatening to smack me in the shoulder and beckoning me to the car. In the front seat of the Impala sat two bags - one from a cellular store, the other, a simple brown paper bag. My brow furrowed. "Did you buy some weed or something?"

"Yes ma'am. Got some crack too." He grinned as we headed down the road, beginning our trip to Portland. I pushed back the plastic and took out the cardboard box with a picture of a flip phone on the front. "I got you a phone. It's registered for a Kelsey Sandefur. You'll need to transfer some of my contacts into it; uh, Castiel…my number…Bobby…Sam, maybe Ellen and Jo. Oh, and get Rufus's number too. Doubt he'll be of much help if you ever need him but, better safe than sorry. I figure you'll need a phone if we ever get split on a job or if something happens to me."

"Thank you," I spoke softly. I threw all the bits of plastic, peanut packing material, and tape into the bag and took out the phone and charger. Turning it on, I looked over at Dean. "Really, thank you. For everything."

"Don't thank me yet, there's more." He handed me the paper bag. We turned onto the interstate, passing a rather ugly Buick. I winced at the sight of it; people have horrible taste. Taking the bag, I tore my eyes away from the hideous car and reached inside. I pulled out four plastic identification tags and six badges. One FBI badge, one Homeland Security badge, one District Attorney's ID, one Federal Marshal badge, one CDC - Center for Disease Control - badge, one US Marshal badge, one Detective badge, and three fake IDs. I flipped through one by one, reading the names aloud. Grinning, I spoke, "This is ridiculous. Homeland Security? US Marshal? I feel so empowered."

"Check in the glove box. Get those envelopes," Dean grinned. Withdrawing the white envelopes, I noted the odd names. Lisa Ford. Joanne Sax. Angelina West. I opened the envelopes to find three credit cards; MasterCard, Visa, and Wachovia. "I ordered those two days ago. Just picked them up from the post office. Now, we usually keep IDs for a while but with credit card scamming we have to apply for new ones about every three months. So keep track."

"Will do." Of course, the only thing I hadn't bought at Target was a purse, so for now, I rolled all the IDs, badges, and credit cards into the paper bag, stowing them away in the floorboard with the charger. "Where's your phone?"

Winchester received his small, gray flip phone from his jacket pocket, and handed it over. As I reclined in the seat adding many of his contacts to my new phone, I was amazed at how many stray numbers were in there. I mean, I knew Dean had a bit of a sexual history and a flirtation problem, but this was just sad. There must be at least a hundred and twenty random numbers listed under women's names. Shaking my head, I transferred the contacts.

Dean had put in a Motorhead cassette; the loud bass chords were thudding in the speakers. I nodded my head along, passing him back his phone. My fingers drummed along on my thigh. I watched the passing road signs as we drove. The interstate wasn't packed for nine at night but it wasn't empty either. We'd see the average cars, trucks, the occasional semi or motorcycle. At one point, Dean cut off mid Angus Young guitar riff in 'Back in Black' to look at an ice cream truck driving in the opposite direction. "Pedophiles. Never trust men in ice cream trucks."

We drove through the night; I slept for a few hours, waking to find Dean singing along to Warrant's Cherry Pie. I grinned up at him from my slouched position in the seat. Sitting up, I asked, "Where are we?"

"About twenty minutes outside of Portland," he replied. Looking around, I noticed we were no longer on the interstate but driving through back roads. Trees lined either side of the road and there were no other cars insight.

Using the side mirror of the car as a guide, I brushed through my frazzled hair with my fingers. "Dean, it's not healthy for you to stay awake so much. You should at least nap when we get to Portland."

"Sweetheart, I only require five hours of sleep every three days. If I got nine today I should last a week." Dean smiled. Rolling my eyes, I couldn't help but smile back. It wasn't my fault, though; the Dean Winchester grin is infectious. The rest of the ride I was trying to shake off the last remaining bits of sleep. Just as I had fully brought my senses to life, Dean pulled off the back road, down a long dirt path. At the end of the path was a clearing of trees that revealed a large, two story white house. He pulled up next to a cop car, shut off the engine, and declared, "We're here."