Dean

Dammit, Sam gets to him every time. He knows he should be playing it safe, coming down hard—being as much like Dad as he can, but he also knows (or is starting to) that he can't have both of them. It's one or the other, Dad or Sam—and he's afraid, terribly afraid, that old habits die hard and when the eventual fissure splits open he'll pick Dad...and then regret it forever.

So for now, in the little ways, he gives in to Sam, because he hopes (even if he doesn't believe) that it will make up, somehow, for what he knows is coming.

Sam's happy enough for the moment, after Dean's kind-of assurance that the Emily chick is still greenlighted, and of course Sam's way of showing he's happy is to flop down on his bunk and dive into some ratty paperback, like that's how a fifteen-year-old...hell, a fifteen-year-old with a crush...should be spending a summer afternoon.

Dean doesn't know quite how to deal with the combination of fondness and frustration, guilt and relief that he feels, so he decides not to. "I'm going for a walk, Sammy. Stick around—I'll be back in a bit."

He gets an inarticulate, presumably affirmative grunt from the bunk.

The air is hot, but at this point, Dean doesn't care. He hates nothing more than being holed up somewhere—has no idea how Sam stands it. Reading, no less. Sure, not all books are bad—even The Lord of the Rings, with its formidable length, is inexplicably awesome—but Sam devours them like they're freakin' Peanut M&M's.

The road leading to their cabin is grown over with grass, rutted up somewhat by the Impala. Dean doesn't mean to, but he can't help studying the newest tracks, trying to figure out which way Dad went when he left. Of course, turned left at the main road is about as much as he gets from that.

If you knew where Dad was, wouldn't that kind of defeat the whole purpose of 'teaching you a lesson'? Dean grinds his teeth. He'd give anything to stop thinking about that, but of course it's dogging his every step. Like it always does.

He forces himself to turn his mind to the surroundings—forest so dense it feels like it's closing in around him; shrubs lining the roadside...he spots some low-lying bushes that he recognizes as some variant of blueberries. Too bad they're a month early for any pickings; something edible would be nice to supplement their food supply, which is manageable but not exactly generous. He tries to shove down the edge of hunger that's been sharpening all morning, but blueberries make him think of pie, so it's kind of a lost cause.

He hears footsteps around a bend in the road, the quick rat-a-tat of running. It's second nature to be tense up, but—

She's not exactly a threat.

Sure, he could be asking why she's running in the middle of a summer day, but after taking in her lithe form Dean's not exactly focused on asking questions. Long-legged, tanned, somewhere between a brunette and a redhead—exactly his type.

Sam's not the only one with mystery girl luck, it seems.

She draws up short when she sees him, swiping a hand across her forehead. Her eyes, which are strikingly blue, look wary. "You lost?"

"Nope," he says, racking his brains to come up with a way to work "hot in more ways than one" into a smooth pick-up line—or at least, smooth enough that his looks and charm can make up for the rest. It's not coming to him. Maybe he's not so lucky after all.
"OK...well, bye." She moves to go past him, but he puts out a hand.

"Really? You can't say goodbye if you haven't said hello."

She rolls her eyes but slows to a walk. "Um, looks like I just did."

"Isn't this the part where you take a breather?"

"What, because you happened to cross my path?" She narrows her eyes. "Let me guess. You're one of those thinks-they're-God's-gift-to-women types?"

He smiles. It's his best one—slow, just sly enough. "Only if you say so."

"Yeah, right. I'm not gonna say that."

He can't resist parrying back. "Um, looks like you just did."

Her mouth falls open with annoyance, but Dean can work with that, because a girl who sticks around long enough to be annoyed is a girl who's probably secretly interested. He cocks his head and lets the smile widen.

"Who the hell are you, anyway?" she asks. Not responding to the charm yet. Dean evaluates his tactics.

"Funny you should ask. You seem like the kind of girl who would know better than to talk to strangers."

"Oh, yes." She flipped her hair off her shoulder and surveyed him coolly. "My mother did teach me not to talk to strange men. She didn't mention anything about strange boys, though...apparently we missed an important aspect of the problem."
That stings a little. She can't be older than him, and it's not like he's doing anything more offensive than harmless flirting. As for being a boy, he's tempted to inform her that aside from more pedestrian abilities like picking up women, winning at poker, and holding his liquor, he is also highly skilled in the fine art of ganking any number of supernatural creatures. But explanation always looks desperate, and he knows better than to reveal half of that to a civilian anyway, so he merely lifts his eyebrows and says, "Well, why waste your time?"

She folds her arms. "Oh, I don't know—'cause if I run on ahead, you'll just be checking me out."

He feigns shock. "What? Of course not. Scout's honor."

"That's not the way you do the salute, silly." She shakes her head. "Let me guess. You've never been a scout."

"You caught me." He grins again, although he's pretty much finished with the conversation. She may be gorgeous, but no one belittles Dean Winchester. "No honor, after all."

She doesn't answer, just tosses her head like she doesn't care and runs on ahead.

And yeah, so maybe she looks good when she runs, but he's decided not to care either.