The Sam/Dean/Ed combo-pack is back!

I know it's been a stupid long time since I've posted, and I apologize for that, but I hope 4 weeks in a row of new chapters will make up for it just a little.

Check out my profile for a full update on postings and story progress.

To those of you who are returning to EIC after its incredibly long drought -

THANK YOU!

BIG thanks to my beta Kaewi for your dedication to this story and all the work you put into these four chapters.

This chapter just gets things started - but I promise the shit will start to hit the fan next week in ch 10.

Here's my super short recap:

Ch 5: Sam mopes. Dean orders a Swiss burger with fries.

Ch 6: Dean drags Sam to a strip club; Sam gets drunk and takes off.

Ch 7: Ed, Sam, and 2800 Skittles hit the dash as Ed crashes the Impala.

Ch 8: Sam eats candy off Dean's ass. Dean gives in and books a B&B when Sam is oddly

insistent on following a lead from a tattered news clipping.

And now...


Energies and Ice Cream

CH 9

Thick woods swished past in a twilight lit blur with only an occasional house to be seen, set back and hidden in the trees. Dean sighed and shifted his legs from position one, stretched across the floor, back into position two, bent up on the dashboard. He was handling roughly twenty minutes in each, the back and forth circulated in an attempt to alleviate both cramps and boredom. Although his stint in the passenger seat had lasted over five hours, the success rate of his leg rotations had diminished faster than the flavor in a stale stick of gum. In order to keep himself sane for the more recent hour and a half, he had relinquished himself to the only pastime he could find.

"Eighty-seven… eighty-seven… eighty-seven… eighty-eight," Dean finally counted to the next consecutive number with slight enthusiasm.

Sam turned and glanced at his brother. Dean sat completely slumped, arms strewn lax over his knees, head lolled and hanging practically out the window. Sam rolled his eyes as the counting inevitably began again.

"Eighty-eight… eight-eight… eighty-eight… eighty-eight," pause to yawn, "eighty-eight."

"Dean!" Sam interjected shortly. Dean rolled his head to face his brother. "Could… could you maybe count silently?" Sam requested. Dean briefly took this into consideration.

"Eighty-eight… eighty-eight…" he continued as he turned back to the window. Sam sighed in exasperation.

"I realize you're bored, but seriously, can't you find something better to do than count missing cat signs on the side of the road?"

"Not my fault there's so many missing cats, Sammy."

"There aren't! You're counting the same signs over."

"Not my fault you've been lost and driving us in circles for forty minutes, Sammy."

"For the hundredth time, I'm sorry! But for Christ's sake, you-"

"Eighty-nine!!!" Dean cut him off excitedly. "That's a big one Sammy! When I hit ninety, I'm making you pull over so I can take a leak… and Ireally have to take a leak." Sam narrowed his eyes in bafflement.

"Then I'll pull over now." Sam turned the wheel towards the shoulder.

"No!" Dean shouted. "Not until I hit ninety," Dean stated with conviction. Sam's jaw hung open.

"Fine, wet yourself for all I care," Sam snipped and pulled the car back on the road. "You know you could help by maybe reading the-"

"NINETY! Pull over! Pull over!"

"What the-" Sam threw his hands into the air as Dean grabbed the wheel and swerved them to the dirt shoulder. The car bumped along and came to a halt inches away from the poll that so prominently posted missing cat sign number ninety.

Dean darted from the car and made it roughly two feet before his cramped, numb legs knocked out from under him and sent him flailing onto his face.

"Crap! God damn it!" He swore as he pushed himself back up and hobbled into the woods. Sam smiled broadly at his brother's misfortune, then leaned into the back seat and grabbed the map from the floor. His smile faded as his eyes caught sight of the shattered glass that coated the back of the vehicle.

It had been two days, or rather two nights, since the accident. After they'd decided to leave for Woodstock, Sam had attempted to stomach the ride, but the consistent movement had made it impossible. He insisted Dean keep driving, but Dean insisted that listening to his little brother dry heave for the bulk of the ride was wearing on his own stomach. That said, Dean had found a motel, and rebooked the bed and breakfast for the following night. This had given Sam time to recover, but not so much time for him to clean or fix the car. He had brushed most of the Skittles out the hole in the floor, and wiped up the remaining vomit, but that had been it. For the second day in a row they had gotten a late start, so the broken headlight and back window had been put on hold until Woodstock.

Woodstock. What Ed had in store for them there, Sam had no idea, but the wait was killing him. Although it was true that Ed had not exactly used the most passive methods in his attempts to fulfill Sam's wish, Sam had to admit he had taken some secret pleasure in what all of this was doing to Dean. So what if it hadn't been successful, if Dean hadn't regretted pushing Sam around and dragging him off to do things against his will? Dean was rattled, and Sam could see it. It might not have been the reaction he was hoping for, but Ed had Dean against the ropes searching for answers, and unless Dean was about to make the wild guess that his little brother had gotten mixed up with an energy demon, they weren't answers he was going to find.

Sam shook the map out across his lap and stared at it for about two seconds before a stray Skittle popped from the dashboard, landed on the map, and rolled down the center crease. He picked it up, and then scanned both in and outside the car, wondering if this was some sort of sign that Ed was around, or if it was simply a Skittle. Seeing nothing, he slumped back in disappointment, clutched the lone Skittle in his hand, and drifted into his head. One… big… bag, Sam reminisced, one big bag.

"It helps if you actually look at the map," Dean's voice came out of nowhere preceded only by the warning sound of the opening driver's side door. Sam jolted up startled, thrown by his brother's location.

"What are you doing?" He snipped.

"Out of the car Magellan, you just lost your navigating rights."

"Magellan?"

"The Portuguese explorer," Dean elaborated flatly.

"I know who Magellan is," Sam returned with attitude.

"Great, then don't waste my time asking. Out!" Dean repeated with a yank of his thumb. Sam restrained his desire to argue, and instead shoved the map into his brother's chest as he exited the car.

Fifteen minutes later they were driving through the little town of Woodstock. It was one short stretch of shops, and seemed to be inhabited by a bizarre mix of tourist hippie meets local hippie. Any way you drew it, the bulk of the people looked… weird. Dean, however, took no notice, as he was too busy attempting to count the continuing plethora of missing cat posters.

"Hundred ten… hundred eleven… Jesus! It's like… this is where missing cat signs go to die."

"Okay," Sam explained, looking at the map. "You're gonna need to go through town, and then about a quarter of a mile out, turn right onto Old Mill Road, which I guess isn't even a road, just sort of the entrance to the place." He looked up. "Are you listening?"

"Right on Old Dirt road, got it,"

"Mill… Old Mill… there," Sam said pointing to a very distant sign. Dean squinted.

"How do you see that?" Dean complained.

"How do you not?"

"It's like, stupid far away."

"You'd see it if it had a cat on it."

"Yeah," Dean admitted with a proud smirk.

Within thirty seconds they reached the sign, and just as Sam had said, it read 'Old Mill Road'. It wasn't a regulation street sign; it was just a slab of wood with faded paint, nailed to a tree. Below, there was a similar made sign staked into the ground, which was covered in a veil of dark dusk lighting. Dean stopped the Impala midway through the turn and flipped the headlights on; as the beams illuminated it, he shook his head in disbelief. In bright frilly font, surrounded by stenciled floral designs, the sign read 'The Perfectly Pink B&B - You're gonna love it, Come and see!'

"I'm gonna hate this," Dean grumbled, and with that he stepped on the gas and embarked the Impala down the one-car width dirt road.

Sam side glanced at his older brother. Dean was silent, but Sam could feel what he was thinking; he could see his brother's disgruntled opinion radiating off him like heat, and it shifted his own mood in a matter of moments. Sam took a deep breath and tried to focus his thoughts; unfortunately, Dean had him so on edge, all he could do was internally panic.

Fuck,Sam thought, I don't know why he agreed, but he's regretting it, he's gonna start bitching about this case, and you have no answers as to why the hell you're here. Shit Ed, why the hell are we here? Sam stared at the thick passing trees that surrounded the road, and 'talked' to Ed. Damn it, Ed. I need you man, I need to know what you have planned. I trust you but…

"Hey, you okay?" Dean's voice came out of nowhere. Sam turned, startled.

"What? Yeah," Sam responded defensively. "I'm fine. Why?"

"Nothing, you just…" Dean looked him over; he could sense a sudden nervousness in his younger brother, an anxiety that hadn't been there a minute ago. "Nothing," Dean said finally, "forget it."

Dean put his eyes to the road; it was bumpy at unexpected points and his beloved Impala had already suffered enough for one week. He slowed her down and kept a firm grip on the wheel as he flipped the high beams to on. Increased lighting flooded their path and visibility immediately doubled in length. Dean leaned forward; it had a creepy look to it, the dark trees lining either side and covering overhead like a tunnel. Both men wondered to themselves whether this was really such a great idea; both remained silent.

It seemed endless, as if the trees would run on for the remainder of the night; instead, the path hooked sharply, the trees thinned out, and the dirt road widened into a dirt lot. Dean offed the headlights, and brought the vehicle to a soft, but abrupt, halt.

It was beautiful: warm, scenic and most of all welcoming in a way neither man had ever known. The rapidly fading sunset presented the picturesque farmhouse as a charming silhouette set against the delicately swirled pinks, purples, and blues of a seemingly infinite skyline. Like wooden cut outs from a child's play set, a small barn with dual silos, a deep red tractor, a pick up truck filled with hay, and a cow, stood in the distance on a vast farmland backdrop. Far beyond the barn, in the most distant point that could be seen, rolling mountains brushed against the lower, dark purple sky, illusively blurring the division between earth and air.

A light summer breeze swept through the open windows of the Impala, rustled the hair of both its occupants, and delivered a calm that punctuated the overall dreamlike experience.

"Wow," Sam gasped quietly.

"Yeah," Dean agreed in a trance-like tone. He lightly lifted his foot from the break, and without taking his eyes off the scene, let the Impala roll into a spot just in front of the house. He cut the ignition, and in unison, both brothers leaned forward and gazed up, open mouthed, at the unfamiliar setting before them.

It was indeed, as one would imagine the Perfectly Pink Bed and Breakfast to be, pink, but it was not the hideous girly pink that Dean had imagined; it was a deep, rich salmon with dark blue trim flanking all of the windows and the edge of the roof. The front door was painted to match, and had been left slightly open, allowing a wedge of inviting light to seep through the screen door, and cut across the floor mat that lay dutifully on the porch. It was a small porch with an overhang and railings lining its sides. Potted plants sat, well watered and flowering, on either side of the steps that lead down to a rustic stone path.

Every window of the farmhouse contained a warm glowing candle, which illuminated its interior in a way that stated simply, this was a home.

"Bags…" Dean muttered out of context.

"Huh?" Sam questioned, as if it wasn't even a word.

"We should grab the bags," he elaborated.

"Oh, yeah," Sam agreed, breaking slightly from his hyper-focused daze. Both doors creaked open, and the brothers stepped out into the full night air. Each leaned on their car door for a moment, then Sam swung his shut, turned, and headed toward the trunk.

Dean lingered; he glanced around at the details of the area; it felt safe. Nowhere ever felt safe, so on those grounds alone he wanted to mistrust the situation, but his gut told him different. His gut told him the only things to be leery of were his brother's suspicious behavior, and the extreme tally of missing cats. Dean pulled open the back door and grabbed what was on the seat as he listened to his brother rummage through the trunk.

Sam felt his way through the piles of junk, locating what they needed. He slung a couple of bags over his shoulder and hooked the rest with his hand. He was just about to pull them out when a tiny blur pounced onto his hand and let out a not so ferocious 'mew'. Nevertheless, it scared the crap out of him, and he screamed as if a hell-hound had gotten hold of his arm.

"Sammy!" Dean rounded the edge of the trunk, gun out, ready to fire.

"Whoa! Dean, don't!" Sam shouted. "It's just a kitten… see?" The small antagonist stepped forward into what little light there was, revealing itself to indeed be only a kitten. A patchy smattering of grey and gold fur, with a soft white tummy, and bright green eyes that were sweet as could be, the kitten stared up at the new visitors and once again greeted them like a proper host.

"Mew," it repeated flatly. Dean made a face and lowered his gun.

"A cat, Sam? I thought you were half eaten!"

"Sorry, I couldn't see what it was; I thought it was dangerous." The kitten was now rubbing the back of its head gruffly against Sam's shirtsleeve, purring with approval as the young man playfully scratched two fingers deep into its fur.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, "real dangerous. Careful, it might puke milk on you."

One bag slung over his shoulder, Dean headed off toward the house, leaving the younger hunter with the rest. Sam released an agitated sigh and returned his full attention to the kitten.

"Hey little guy, you're friendly aren't you," Sam told it. "Not like big bad- stupid- Dean." He reached down and picked it up, his huge hand wrapping full around the circumference of the tiny kitten's stomach. It was too cute: the little nose, the blinking eyes, and the way its front and back legs dangled from his soft grip. It all compounded and caused Sam to break into a wide smile. He lifted it to eye level, and continued their conversation. "Don't worry, I won't let him shoot you," Sam paused then added deviously, "but if you do puke, puke on Dean's leather jacket."

"Reooow!" It responded vocally. Sam raised an eyebrow.

"Okay then." Slightly taken aback, he elbowed the trunk closed, and headed to the porch.

Dean stood at the screen door, nose to the metal mesh, glaring inside.

"Should we just go in?" Dean questioned, slightly confused at how exactly a B&B worked. Sam struggled with the bags, trying not to drop them or the kitten.

"Sure," he agreed confidently. Dean grabbed the door handle, turned it, and continued to stand there.

"Is there a problem?" Sam asked.

"Are you sure we should just… walk in? I mean, is that right?"

"What are you hesitating on? You've broken into like a hundred houses."

"Yeah, I guess."

"You guess?" Sam jeered. "We have a pile of bags, a reservation, and a kitten; open the door, Dean!"

"Mew!" Seconded the kitten. Both brothers turned to the kitten in unison surprise.

"Okay,both of you, back off," Dean retorted, "I'm going already!"

Dean pulled open the screen, and stepped just barely into the house, practically teetering on the metal doorsill. He stretched both arms out wide, one holding the screen at bay, while the other pressed open the glass and wood door; palms out flat, the roughness of his right caught firm against the scratch of the screen, the coarseness of his left griped into the splintered texture of the weathered wood. He jerked his head in an indication for his younger brother to 'move it inside', then averted his eyes shiftily.

Sam gaped in brief exasperation; the bastard had still managed to not enter first, and in addition, he was covering it up by looking helpful. Sam rolled his eyes as he awkwardly squeezed past his older sibling hauling the kitten and what felt like most of their belongings. Two long steps in and Sam heard the screen door smack shut, closing them into the interior of the house. It had a homey, lived in feel to it: hard wood floors tossed with worn, faded rugs, an eclectic mix of comfortable furniture which seemed to span across the styles of five decades, and a warm sugared smell of summer berries and cinnamon.

Sam dropped their bags to the floor and glanced around. A large wooden staircase seemed to divide the house in half, with an artwork lined wall to its left, and an open banister to its right. The steps stretched upward connecting the lower floor to the dark and currently shadowed second level.

Just left of the stairs, a large doorframe opened into a formal style dining room. Almost as dark as upstairs, the twin candles that flickered in the side-by-side windows cast the only light, which playfully shifted the shadows of the room, and stretched just far enough to reveal the end of a doily-covered dining table.

Dean stepped forward toward the only well lit part of the house, the living room. To their right was a small room with a pillow covered couch, a small shaker style coffee table, and a large stone fireplace. Against the wall, directly to their right, stood a heavy rustic desk, which seemed to be used for the dual purpose of dividing the room from the entrance and checking in guests. It was organized, yet still covered in papers and personal belongings including a tea stained, faded mug, with the band members from 'Kizz' on it.

Dean leaned forward to check down the hall; he then turned to join in a shared shrug with his brother regarding the obvious lack of person. At a loss, he approached the desk and slid the reservation book around to face him.

"Well… we're in the book," he confirmed casually. Without pausing he picked up a smooth decorated rock that was being used as a paperweight. He read its dulled, simple, hand painted message.

"'Number One Mom'. Why are they always number one?" Dean questioned. Sam glanced at him, confused. "How come none of them are ever, ya know… 'Number Two Mom'?" This was just the stupid sort of thing only Dean could come up with, and then ask about at just the wrong time.

"Dean!"

"I'm just sayin', they can't ALL be number one."

Sam shot him a fierce glare, "Dean, try to remember why the hell it is we're here."

Dean paused; actually, he had forgotten why the hell they were here, or at least for under what pretense they were here. He was here to see if he could get one step closer to discovering what his younger brother was hiding from him, why Sam hadn't been the same since the night he'd been shot, and why investigating this lead had been so direly important to him. Sam was here, supposedly, to investigate a shaky lead on a Bed and Breakfast that had suffered the mysterious disappearance and most likely murders of three young children. Children… Dean thought. Number one… mom? Oops…

"Right- not the time to pick on mom."

He put the paperweight back down, but not before noticing the undersized adult handwriting marked closer to its bottom: 'Jenny age 8, 1986'. Dean contemplated the date, but when a small service bell at the end of the desk caught his eye, his mind quickly shifted gears.

"Hey, there's a bell!" he announced.

"Well, ring it," Sam advised curtly.

"Right," Dean muttered. "Holy fuck!" As he outstretched his hand, something large and dark lunged up onto the desk; he lurched away and in a panic brought his hands up into a karate chop short of defense. The old, eccentric looking, black and grey cat scowled at him judgingly as it held guard on the service bell.

"Careful Dean." Sam smirked. "It might puke milk on you." Dean relaxed his stance as he glowered at his kid brother.

"You're hilarious. Why don't you ring the bell while I stand here and laugh at how funny you are."

"Fine." Sam took one step, then grimaced and bit his bottom lip; he had placed the kitten on his upper chest, and it was now climbing up his shoulder, making its way around the back of his neck. With each step it gripped its tiny claws through his shirt, into his skin. "Shit that hurts." Sam cringed in an attempt to contain his discomfort. He reached behind his head, awkwardly grabbed hold of the kitten, and held it out in front of his face. "You're a little trouble maker."

"Reow," it said quietly.

"Yeah." Sam smiled. "You're lucky you're cute."

"Are you gonna ask for its number, or would that be too forward?" Dean piped in; Sam scowled. "Bell, Sammy." Sam rolled his eyes and approached the overweight, unfriendly cat. He leaned forward cautiously.

"Hey there big guy, wanna let me ring the bell?" The ornery feline backed down at the request, but the moment Sam reached within range, a sharp swipe ripped across the back of his hand.

"Ow!" He screeched. The cat hissed ferociously. "What the-?" he added under his breath as he cradled his hand against his chest.

"You might want to put the kitten down," came a matronly voice out of nowhere. The brothers turned to see and older woman approaching slowly from down the dimly lit hall. "He's not the friendliest cat, but piss him off and Rambo can be downright nasty."

Rambo? Both brothers silently mouthed to one another.

"Uh… right." Sam obliged and gently set the kitten down on the floor. It pattered over to the end of the desk, jumped into a cushioned cat bed, and started playing with the closest toy. Rambo calmed down, yet continued to give Sam the evil eye.

"Was beginning to think you weren't coming," the woman said as she stepped behind the desk, "especially after you cancelled last night."

"Yeah, sorry about that," Dean piped in, "travel troubles."

"There's a lot of that going around. Had the place booked solid for the weekend, both rooms. Then I got back-to-back cancellations just before you called. You're lucky, it's nearly impossible to get a room in this town during peak season."

Dean took no notice, but Sam's mind started to churn: impossible to get a room… back-to-back cancellations? Ed had a hand in this for sure; it was all part of the plan. But what plan? Sam still had no idea. Just as Ed had requested, he had gotten his brother to investigate the lead on the mangled news clipping. Although his part was now pretty much complete, Sam's extreme curiosity and brazen draw to Ed compelled him to know more. To need more. He glanced around longingly. Where are you, he thought.

Sam drifted and wondered if Ed could be pulling a similar masquerade as before. He eyed the old woman with curiosity. She appeared to be in her late sixties, had long salt and pepper hair, wore purple-framed glasses, and an oversized tank top over a casual floral dress. Still a little plump, her body had the extra skin of a person who had recently lost weight, yet hadn't exercised in over a decade.

The idea of this woman being Ed incognito was unappealing, and no longer a possibility the moment Sam inspected the mug she was holding. Steam rose from the milky liquid that was the wrong hue to be coffee. He gave a strong sniff.

"Earl Grey?" He inquired with a nod.

"Lady Grey," she said, confirming the type of tea. "Good nose, you were close," she added with an impressed smile. Sam smiled back until he noticed the look on Dean's face. He dropped it and straightened up, finalizing the logic in his head; if this was not coffee, this was not Ed.

The older woman placed the mug on the desk and began checking them in with the credit card Dean had tossed on the blotter.

"Well… like I said, I have two rooms and both cancelled out, so you boys have the whole place to yourself." Dean gave a silent smile. "Now I put you in the 'Pretty in Pink' room; it has a fireplace, a stand up shower, and a king-size bed." Dean gave a not so silent frown.

"Uh… just a king-size bed?" He panicked. She looked up, pulled her glasses down her nose, and peered over them. "There isn't a second bed?" Dean elaborated, "or a cot," he began to freak, "large foot stool maybe?"

"No," she stated.

"No," Dean repeated quietly. There was a short silence. "Uh… you don't happen to have maybe- like-"

"Can we have a room with two beds, please?" Sam interjected.

"Uh… what he said," Dean confirmed. She glanced them over, assessing. She didn't seem to believe they really needed two beds, but humored their discretion just the same.

"No problem," she said calmly. "I'll put you in the other room, the 'Pink Floyd' room." Dean shook his head, taken aback.

"Excuse me? Did you say 'Pink Floyd'? As in the band?"

"Yeah," she said slightly insulted by his tone, "this is Woodstock, we have heard of music ya know."

"Right."

"That room has a oversized bath, two twin beds," she noted glancing up, "and a deck that leads down to the hot tub."

"Uh, did you say hot tub?" Dean blurted with shock.

"Yes," she confirmed. "It's built into the deck just outside the game room."

"You have a game room?!" Dean gushed, unable to hide the excitement from his voice. She paused and looked up.

"Yeah, it's in the basement: pool table, flat screen television, full bar, just mixers of course, but I think the last guests left some alcohol down there so help yourself." Dean stared, dumbfounded by their uncharacteristically good fortune. She was slightly perplexed by his reaction. "Didn't you boys see all this on the web site?"

"We uh… no." Dean said flatly.

"Sometimes I don't know why I invested in that damn internet crap," she mumbled to herself. "Well listen, here's the key." Dean snatched it excitedly out of her hand before she even had a chance to hold it out; the move was abrupt enough to prompt a mutual glance between her and Sam over the shorter one's odd enthusiasm. In the end, she broke down and smiled with a slight laugh, then caught site of Sam's hand.

"Oh! I didn't realize he hurt you," she exclaimed in an apologetic tone. Sam covered the long, slightly bloody scratch with his other hand.

"I'm fine."

"Yeah," Dean blew it off, "he's like Wolverine, quick healer." She raised an eyebrow in confused response to Dean's humor; Sam broke into an uncomfortable laugh.

"Wolver-whatever," she replied, "there's band-aids and Bactine in the bathroom medicine cabinet, put something on that for him," she instructed Dean in a strict, motherly tone.

"Yes m'am," Dean complied, respectfully straightening up. She gave him an approving nod, and turned back to Sam.

"Again, I am sorry about Rambo," she told him. "He's been so protective of Batty. You know, ever since-"

"Batty?" Sam questioned.

"The kitten," she nodded down at the kitten, who was literally batting a small cat toy with its paws. "Little thing showed up a couple of days ago, cute as heck." Sam stared down at it; an affectionate smile sprawled across his face.

"Batty," he repeated to himself. It was cute as heck, and Sam couldn't help but feel drawn to it.

"I'd scold the old cat," she said, giving Rambo a rough scratch behind his ear, "but then, I can't really blame him given everything that's happened over the past few months." Dean and Sam's expression instantly shifted and Sam dove in.

"Right, we um… read the article… about the um…" he hesitated uncomfortably.

"Oh that article," she complained. "I don't care what the police said, three deaths like that… it's not normal."

"So uh," Dean began, "do you work for Hilda?"

"Work for Hilda?" She exclaimed again thrown by their confusion. "I am Hilda."

"You're Hilda Truelace?" Sam blurted. The brothers exchanged a quick glance, there was no way this woman was young enough to have small children. Hilda pressed her hands to the desk and stared at them.

"Of course I'm Hilda. Didn't you recognize me from the picture in the paper?"

"Uh…" Sam shook his head. "We didn't… I mean…"

"We didn't have the full article," Dean said. "There was no photo, and actually, what we did have was sort of… mangled." Dean finished honestly.

"Well, lets see," she said getting distracted in a mess of papers. "Here ya go," she said, handing Dean the full article, photo and all. "Take it, I'm tired of running across it every time I shift something on the desk." Dean began to look at it but was quickly cut off. "Now I hate to be rude, but I've been waiting for you two to turn up so I could turn in."

"Oh, yeah, sure," Sam said.

"Yours is the room to the left at the top of the stairs. Breakfast is at 10am, use the game room and hot tub late as you like so long as you're quiet, and help yourself to blueberry pie, I just made it, it's on the counter in the kitchen." Dean's jaw fell slightly open.

"Home made pie?" he gushed with astonishment.

"Oh, and ice cream, top shelf of the freezer," she added as she headed down the hall with her now lukewarm tea.

"Thanks Hilda! You rock!" Dean blurted unable to help himself.

"Call me Hildy, sweetie. Goodnight."

"Ok! Night Hildy!" He called after her. Sam gave him a look, and all Dean could say to defend himself was: "Dude, warm pie."


Thanks everyone!

I really hope you'll take a sec and review - I'd love some reassurance that I haven't lost all my readers.

While you contemplate doing that - I'm gonna go get some pie.

Kate )