Thanksgiving! Pie! Woohoo! You know what I'm thankful for? Pie. I love pie. How do I go the whole year without apple pie? Anywho, here you go.
Also, in response to X1Sweetie1X, nope, no romance. Strictly platonic. Maybe I should give Dean a love intrest though... Thoughts?
We drive. He makes me sit in the front and doesn't let me sleep a lot. Something about my head still being Jell-O, even though three days have passed since Harrisburg. I don't remember much after the shifter took me. I remember I killed her. It. Whatever. I don't remember Dean finding me. I don't remember anything after that. Just waking up.
I haven't seen my hoody. I don't think I ever will. It makes me a little sad. That was my favorite hoody. My only hoody. I'm cold. Dean keeps his music on. He's nicer. I still think he likes Baby better, but he tries, so I guess that counts.
"We should listen to Mumford and Sons," I say lightly, glancing up at him to see what he has to say about it. He gives me a funny look.
"What the hell is a Mumfor Son?" he asks, as if it's something he'd hunt.
"Mumford and Sons. They're a band. Folksy." I pause and smile to myself. "They use a banjo."
He bursts out laughing. I look up at him, startled. He laughs hard, his eyes almost closed. Like he hasn't laughed in years. I've only known him for a few months, maybe he hasn't laughed in years. His eyes water and I get scared that he'll run us off the road. He takes a breath.
"You must have hit your head pretty hard if you think I'm gonna play banjo music in my Baby," he says finally. I frown.
"Johnny Cash?" I ask.
"Eh."
"Eh?" I demand.
"He's alright sometimes." He laughs to himself, as if enjoying some sort of inside joke. "Folsom Prison Blues." I roll my eyes.
"Lana Del Rey?" I try.
"Spanish? Hell no. If I can't understand it, it's not playing."
I give him a funny look. "She isn't spanish music, you loser." He throws me a look. "She's, like, I dunno, cool."
"Hot?"
"I hate you sometimes." I cross my arms and look out the window.
"Gee, thanks, kid, love you too." I can feel him looking at me. I could hear the smile in his words. He tousles my hair and I smack his hand away, shooting him a look of daggers as I smooth down my now bed head. He chuckles lightly. "How have I not told you the music rule in this car? Rule numero uno to traveling with Dean Winchester, Lexington: Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts her cake hole."
"Jerk," I mutter. He opens his mouth to counter, stops himself. He looks at me for a second. Shakes his head.
"Loser."
Dean Winchester has an unhealthy obsession with diners. The place is nearly empty. The employees look ready to shoot themselves. There's one fairly good-looking girl. As we make our way to a booth, Dean leans in to my ear.
"Think she's legal?"
I elbow him and sit, leaving him to nurse his side in his laughter. He keeps a sly smile on his lips as a waitress comes and hands us menus. Dean orders a couple of cokes for us. The woman leaves without a word. He opens his menu and I look around. It feels too quiet. It feels bare compared to our usual pit stops. I glance over at Dean.
"So, whatcha gettin'?" he asks nonchalantly. I shrug and flip open the booklet.
"Not very hungry."
"You're never hungry. But you need to eat. You're too small," he points out, making a face. I glare at him, then down at my menu. "Seriously, kid. You scare me sometimes."
He tries to sound casual. Tries. I don't look up. I remember when I could eat anything. Stomach of Steel, my friends called me. I'm just not hungry anymore. "I'm not hungry," I say quietly, closing the menu and pushing it away. Dean sighs.
"Damn," he mutters, looking out the window. "That isn't healthy."
"But I'm not hungry," I say, my frustration leaking through my voice. He looks back at me. He looks annoyed.
"I don't care, you need to eat."
I open my mouth to argue, then decide angry Dean isn't something I want to deal with right now. I look out the window and wish I still had my jacket. It's always cold now. My head hurts again. The waitress comes back to take our orders.
"I'll have a cheeseburger, all the fixings," Dean says lightly, as if we didn't almost start a war. "And she'll have the same." I shot him a look of disbelief, but the woman leaves before I can say I don't want anything.
"Dean!"
"You need to eat!"
"I'm not hungry!" I exclaim, ignoring the looks I get from the other patrons. Dean looks around, giving an easy smile before glaring at me.
"You haven't been eating right, Lex," he says harshly. I look away, annoyed. "Lex."
"What?"
"Look at me." I throw a sideways glance his way. "That's not what I mean." I glare at him. He studies me. Shakes his head. "Damn, you're as bad as Sa-" He stops himself. His eyes get dark with melancholy. I frown. He never talks about people before me. It was like he came from nowhere with no one. Curiosity grips me.
I'm not a cat. Why do I have to worry?
"Who?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "Forget about it."
"But-"
He shoots me a look and I know better than to go on. I look down. He sighs. Changes the subject. "What's up with your eyes? I've been meaning to ask."
I crinkle my nose. He smiles a bit. "It's called heterochromia."
"And I'm supposed to know what that means?"
"It's when the pigment is off. One eye is one color, the other is lighter, or a different color altogether. It's weird."
"You're telling me." He grins lazily. Looks out the window. He frowns and narrows his eyes. I follow his gaze and see a big black truck park about two places away from the impala. A trio of men jump out, laughing. Dean lets out a hiss and low curse. "Shit."
"What?" I ask, just a little alarmed. He shakes his head and quickly looks away from the window.
"They're coming in, aren't they?" he asks. I look out the window. One of the men, a dark-haired guy, catches me watching. He stares at me and I stare back. I'm not one to back down from a staring contest. Unless it's Dean. Because then I know I'll lose. The man disappears behind a car and I look back at Dean. I nod.
"Yup."
"Shit."
"Why shit?"
He shoots me a look. "Watch it."
"You say it all the time!"
"I'm older. Your elder. You're not supposed to talk like that around your elders."
I give him a flat look. "Seriously?"
"Yeah, seriously. When I was your age, if I talked like that, my dad would kick my ass," he says knowingly.
"Really?"
"Really."
"Sounds old-fashioned," I say simply before taking a sip of my coke. "Why haven't I met him?" Dean is taken aback by the question. I can tell from the look in his eyes. He hesitates.
"This job doesn't exactly have the highest life expectancy," He finally says.
"Oh. So you learned monster killing from him?" I ask. He nods. "You have any kids to teach?" The question comes out before I can stop. He looks at me funny for a second. Opens his mouth to answer. He never gets a chance.
"Dean Winchester! You sneaky son of a bitch!"
Dean whirls around, alarmed. I look passed him at the trio of men from the truck. They laugh. Dean slouches.
"Shit?" I ask lightly.
"Shit," he agrees.
Sam references! Also, Word of the day: Heterochromia. Real thing. Reddit was obsessed with it for, like, a day a while ago. Unless I spelled it all wrong...
Happy thanksgiving!
