Taking a second to study the man standing on the porch, Dean thought he kind of resembled a middle-aged Denzel Washington, if Denzel were wearing jeans and a dark suit jacket with a briefcase in one hand and were standing on their front porch. Not really likely to happen any time in the next century.

"You must be the young man I spoke with this morning." Offering his hand, Patrick looked flustered for a second, quickly covering with a professional smile. Not really a shocker, a lot of people reacted the same way when suddenly presented with a Winchester. Any Winchester, "I'm Patrick McCormack, but please, call me Mac. Everyone does."

"Dean Winchester." Shaking the man's hand before taking a step back, Dean let him in, glancing toward the kitchen before closing the door behind Mac and waving him toward the living room, "Come on in, Skye's in the kitchen, she'll be out in a minute."

"Thank you." Stepping from the hall into the living room, Mac took a quick look around before walking to the overstuffed armchair that sat near the equally overstuffed couch and the slightly crooked coffee table that probably shouldn't have been used to do any kind of stuffing that morning, "The house looks to be in good repair."

"Yup, looks like." Hands in his pockets, Dean hovered awkwardly near the door, not really sure what to do with himself. It wasn't like he'd ever been in this situation before. If Mac needed smacked around some, he was your man, but small talk with a lawyer? He hadn't trained for this kind of thing, which seemed to be a running theme in his life the last few weeks, "Can I get you a beer or somethin'?"

"I'd appreciate that, thanks."

"Coming right up."

The sleeves of her sweater pushed up past her elbows, Skye swiped a strand of hair out of her eyes with the back of her wrist, looking up as Dean walked in and went straight to the fridge, "Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine. Just grabbing a couple of beers." A bottle in each hand, he nudged the fridge door closed with a hip and took the couple steps over to the counter to peer down over Skye's shoulder, "I thought you just had to take the pie out of the oven?"

"I lied, I also have to set out the hamburger to thaw for meatloaf tonight." Raising her hands, she wiggled her fingers at him, trying to wave him out the door, "It'll only take a minute."

That was enough to perk him up and distract him from any protest about having to play host. Putting an arm around Skye's waist, he leaned over, lips grazing the top of her ear as he spoke. By tone alone, you'd think the man was responding to the sexiest thing he'd heard all day, and it hadn't exactly been an unproductive day, "We're having meatloaf?"

"Mmhmm." Nodding an affirmative, she absently brushed a kiss against his cheek before turning right back to what she'd been doing. Though she didn't seem to mind the proximity any, she really wasn't paying all that much attention to the man hovering over her, "And baked potatoes, biscuits and apple pie."

"I am a fan of all of those things." Judging from the way Skye ducked her head and the smile Dean didn't see, she'd been well aware of that when she'd planned the menu. In fact, there was a pretty damn good chance she'd been planning it since the flight down, "I didn't know you could cook."

"I can't cook, but I can bake fairly well." Reaching over the counter, Skye grabbed a washcloth from where it had been tossed, wiping her hands off before cleaning up the mess she'd made. Urging Dean to take a couple of steps back, a wave of heat rolled out as she opened the oven door, "I'm not gonna win a blue ribbon at the county fair, but I doubt you'll die."

"That's reassuring. What's the difference between cooking and baking, exactly?" Dean leaned against the kitchen island, watching her as she washed her hands and moved around the kitchen, not in any real hurry to head back to the living room, "You really do need a step stool."

"I do not." Not like she'd been the one saying exactly that the night before or anything. Prying open the refrigerator door, Skye grabbed a beer of her own before nudging it shut and pointing toward the doorway with the bottle in her hand, trying to get Dean to get a move on, "Cooking is an art, baking is a science. I'm not any kind of artist, but I could rock it as a research assistant somewhere. Basically, if it goes in the oven, I'm good. If it goes on the stovetop, I'm horribly abysmal and shouldn't be allowed anywhere near it on pain of brutal death."

"So, no pancakes?" That was mildly disappointing, but it wasn't like he couldn't make his own damn pancakes. A hand on the small of her back, Dean motioned for her to lead the way, making a mental note to find her something to stand on while she was doing whatever around the house. For just a second, the sheer domesticity of that thought almost stopped him cold, but he managed not to let it show, "How about bacon?"

"Nope." Glancing back over her shoulder at him, she gave an apologetic shrug that was in direct conflict with the cheerful grin she flashed him, "Not unless you're craving hockey pucks and longing for the melodious tones of the smoke alarm."

"Good to know." She had such a way with words. Granted, Dean's opinion may have been ever so slightly skewed in her favor. Stopping a few feet from the living room entryway, he shifted the two beers he carried into one hand, snagging the back of her sweater as soon as he had a hand free and bringing her up short, "Hey, quick question?"

Caught, she took a step back, bumping up against Dean's chest and tilting her head back to look up at him, "Yeah?"

Whatever he'd meant to say, it wasn't what slipped out. Only fair as whatever she'd been expecting to hear, what popped out wasn't it, "You put any real thought into maybe changin' your last name?"

It took a full thirty seconds for the full scope of that question to crystallize. Turning back around before Dean could see the broad smile that crept across her lips, Skye shook her head and stepped into the living room, her voice floating back into the hallway, "Nope."

"Now who's killing kittens?"