Disclaimer: See chapter One.
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21. But Your Skin Is Like Porcelain
Our masks, always in peril of smearing or cracking, in need of continuous check in the mirror or silverware, keep us in thrall to ourselves, concerned with our surfaces.
-- Carolyn Kizer
You've pulled in at a gas station somewhere – you don't know where, you've just been woken by the halt of motion, after being asleep for – you peep down at Sharika's watch – five and a half hours. You close your eyes again – maybe you'll fall back to sleep if you do. You're comfortable enough – head resting on Sharika's shoulder, knees tucked up, and back kind of mashed in against her body and the back seat of the car. And then you hear what Dean's saying, and know you won't be getting those Z's you're craving. Once your ears have distinguished actual words, you know you're just going to be eavesdropping, not blocking it out. It's a curse. Humanity.
"...then head south, Bisbee by midnight." There's a pause, and you wonder who he's speaking to. Does he know you're awake? Should you say something? Maybe he's speaking to himself. And then he speaks again, in the exact tone he's just been using, and you get all your answers rolled into one, very amusing, juvenile ball. "Sam wears women's underwear…"
"I am listening, I'm just busy."
"Doing what?"
"Reading my emails."
There's a clunking sound as one of the boy's open their door and exit the car, slamming it shut. "From who?"
"From my friends at Stanford."
"You're kidding. You still keep in touch with your college buddies?" The incredulity in Dean's voice amuses you, and you realise it must be him who got out – his voice is obviously coming from outside of the Impala. How could he have not known? Sam does it practically every night…while Dean's in the shower. Huh. Interesting.
"Why not?"
"What exactly do you tell them? You know, about where you've been, what you've been doing?"
"I tell them I'm on a road trip with my big brother. I tell them that I needed some time off after Jess." Even from where you're sitting Sam sounds distracted, almost bored with the conversation. But something about it makes you think he's on the defence. You shake this idea off, as Dean is around at Sam's side now, opening the car's tank so he can stock up on petrol. The sound as he opens the hatch makes you blink, and you swear at yourself, be more careful, they see everything!
"Well, so you lie to them?"
"No, I just don't tell them...everything." Omission. Classic Sam making himself feel better. If you weren't eavesdropping in plain view, you'd smirk. As it is you feel your mouth quirk and fake some stirring to cover it, rubbing your face a little against Sharika's shoulder, and she mutters something that is covered up by Dean's next snarky comment, turning a little more away from you, body squirming as she wriggles her way back into sleep, away from the disruption of the boy's voices.
"Yeah, that's called lying. I mean, hey man, I get it. Telling the truth is far worse."
"So, what am I supposed to do, just cut everybody out of my life?" There was a pause, and you practically imagined Dean shrugging, bobbing his head in agreement, when Sam asked, his voice full of his disbelief, "You're serious?"
"Look, it sucks, but in a job like this you can't get close to people, period."
"You're kind of anti-social, you know that?"
"Yeah, whatever."
You hear a beep as Sam switches to another email on his Palm Pilot – seconds later you hear his quiet exclamation of 'god', and you can sense the shock in his voice, his deep disturbance. You wonder what's wrong, and Dean, bless his just-as-nosy and worried-about-Sammy soul, asks for you.
"Its this email from this girl, Rebecca Warren, one of those friends of mine."
"Is she hot?" Oh great, he's horny again, you think to yourself, swallowing laughter. It was kind of funny in a punch in the guts kind of way.
"I went to school with her, and her brother Zack," Sam said, ignoring his brother's question. "She says Zack's been charged with murder. He's been arrested for killing his girlfriend. Rebecca says he didn't do it, but it sounds like the cops have a pretty good case."
"Dude, what kind of people are you hanging out with?"
"No, man, I know Zack. He's no killer."
"Well, maybe you know Zack as well as he knows you." Good call, you think to yourself, hearing the sarcasm in Dean's voice. But you can't help feeling sorry for Sammy.
"They're in St Louis. We're going."
"Look, I'm sorry about your buddy okay, but –"
"Dean, shut the fuck up and drive; you and I both know Sam won't stop whining if we don't turn tail and head back there, now. And no, I don't care that St Louis is four hundred miles behind us." You pipe up suddenly, bored of being disregarded, and they both look back at you, startled. You're sitting up, eying them both with challenging eyes; you know that Dean is probably going to go into another spiel if he's not stopped – about how in your job you can't get too close to other people outside of it, it was just easier that way, blah, blah, more of him being anti-social. And you really are not in the mood, they woke you up for fuck's sake, and Sam – you could tell by the way he was sitting, straight backed and rigid, containing all his energy – really wanted to go to his friends, wanted to help them out as much as he could. And even if they couldn't do anything, if it wasn't their problem – Sam needed closure.
"Oh, come on, she wasn't that convincing," Sharika said, and straightened next to you, shaking her hair back and smiling at the Winchesters. They stared at her too, while you simply grinned.
"You had me until the muttering. You never talk in your sleep, Blondie," you chided Sharika affectionately. You call everyone Blondie, it's a kind of – well, you're not sure, you just do it. You call Sam, Dean and Sharika by it, even though Dean's the only one who might actually be. And that was only in certain lights. "Don't overdramatise it."
"Well, you fooled me until you started jiggling your leg."
"What? When was I doing that?" Damn nervous habit. It happens a lot when you're anxious, and sitting down. It was like you had too much oomph, too much enthusiasm, too much energy restricted within too small a frame, and a part of you took over the job of ridding you of the excess. It gave you away at the most horrible of times.
"As soon as Sam said, 'god'. You didn't even realise you were doing it, did you?"
"No." Usually you'd go on, and get into a fight about this, or delve into memories about past times this habit has caught you out. But these days your relationship with Sharika was more of the tense, clipped, to-the-point variety – especially when you were talking to each other. You were scared that if you talked longer you might let something incriminating out. For example, so, Sharika, you and John conspired against me to leave me behind? Sweet. Oh, and Dean and I had bathroom sex, after I found out about that. So, nice weather today, huh?
You sighed, and turned back to the Winchesters. For some reason your head felt inexplicably heavy and light at the same time – like it was stuffed with cotton wool, but your ears had been weighed down with cannon balls. It's been feeling like that since last night, all cloudy and hazy and it took you longer to get things, as though you were a couple of seconds behind the present. Not exactly the best thing, when you're a hunter. A few seconds can be the difference between you living to fight another day, and you being beheaded.
Dean has hopped back in the car by now, having paid for the gas and the usual junk, and is performing a flashy, squealing U-turn in the middle of the road. You cling onto the back of the seat, screaming and laughing, and Sharika scolds him on the unnecessary theatrics, a grin spread over her features as she clutches with you. Sam would be laughing too – who knew that kid was such a sucker for a bit of reckless driving? – but he was too wound up about his friends. It seemed like everyone, the four of you, were friends these days; that everything was just fine and dandy. You can actually have fun with each other – sort of. You wished it could be like this forever, that you didn't have to bring the other stuff into it, because then maybe it could go on like this. You were – you were content. Well, besides for the headache and the you-Dean thing; the whole tension, we fucked, what are we going to do about it thing.
Your hand brushes against the skin of Dean's neck as you peeled away from the back of their seat – an accident, which you immediately apologise for – and the electricity sparking from that touch runs through your fingertips, raw lust like dust motes dancing in and through your hands.
See, little things like that kill the Just Friends, Fine and Dandy illusion. This is going to be a hell of a long drive.
000
You pull up outside of the Warren's household with one less person sitting with you in the Impala. You'd dropped Sharika off at the motel; she was feeling a little under the weather, and you'd commanded her to get some rest as if you actually believed anyone listened to you. Truth be told you weren't feeling up to scratch yourself. Standing in the rain, waiting for Dean to pick you up after you'd snuck out of the motel in the early hours, just so you could go and for a walk at the park can do that to a person. You're sure he took forever on purpose – not because of that lame ass 'I got lost' excuse he used. The park was five minutes walk from the motel, for fuck's sake. You couldn't just walk back because…well, this is a little embarrassing, but while you were walking you didn't see the drain, and you lost your shoe in it. You couldn't go down and get it because – hello, stormy weather, plus storm drain equals you possibly getting flushed away somewhere, and found dead. You couldn't walk back to the motel because it was a disreputable area, and there were needles and broken glass everywhere – you didn't want to run the risk of catching diseases, or slicing your foot open. So you'd made your way – very, very carefully hopping over to the phone booth next to the park and called Sam's phone.
Unfortunately, he'd been asleep, conked out. When that boy finally drops off, it's like nothing can wake him, because he's so tired. You know that he's having nightmares about his dead girlfriend. It was the reason he never slept on his back – couldn't sleep on his back. You felt kind of bad for even trying to wake him up, but you really didn't want to have to ask Dean. The unresolved issues floating about made for some heavy atmosphere and not so great conversations. You hardly said anything to each other.
As you dialled in the numbers for Dean's mobile, you could feel your shoulders squaring, your toes curling in the mud stuck to your foot, and in your one squelch-y shoe. You'd had to swallow about five times before you could say his name, because you knew when he did come out to get you, he'd be coming alone. The two of you, alone. And the other two wouldn't even know you were gone. The possible ramifications and scenes this could lead to made your mouth dry.
Of course, all that had ended up happening was him asking where you were, then coming to pick you up. He'd then commenced with the bitching, whingeing, and 'what if something our-kind-of-bad had happened to you Lauren's. They were so not worth the serenity of the park in the moonlight, drenched in rain. Almost, but not quite.
And now you had a cold. Sharika – she got sick at the littlest change in the weather. There was no story to be told there.
Sighing you hop out of the car, and search the pockets of your jacket for a tissue – finding none you ask Sam if you can borrow his handkerchief, and it's handed over with a minimum of fuss as you head towards the front door. You're blowing your nose as a beautiful, lithe blonde woman opens the door, and immediately throws her arms around Sam, laughing and squealing his name. You can hear Dean's swallow, and see the instant stiffness in his posture as he sees the woman. She's just Dean's type. Blonde, beautiful, leggy, smile that could warm up a room in Antarctica. You can see why he's chafing at the bit to get his hands on this one.
Jealousy and hurt strike like twin snakes in your stomach, no matter what your mind may be saying. You are neither leggy nor as beautiful as she is, in that obvious, wow kind of way that attracts Dean. And you doubt anyone has ever described your smile as warm. Mischievous? Yes. Sarcastic? Definitely. Warm? Hell no.
"We're here to help, Becky," Sam saying as you bring your cloudy mind back onto the conversation, and she nods and smiles, letting you all into the house. It reminds you far too much of the interior of your old house – light, airy, spacious, cold. You can see, for an instant, a little girl, with riotous dark blonde curls and hazel green eyes too big for her face, her body all sharp elbow blades and knees, playing with a younger, masculine version of herself – they're giggling, running in circles on the grey-white tiles, around a potted plant. Then you shake your head, trying to snap out of it, trying to focus on the conversation. They're talking, but you're not listening, stuck in a world of memories and current sensations – the draft against your back as Dean closes the door, the hard, smooth tiles beneath the soles of your shoes, the way your eyes seem a little gummy, and stick together more than they should. You blink slowly, just so you can feel it properly – eyelids dropping, eyelashes sticking together as each eyelid slowly pulls them apart again. You clutch Sam's hanky; the fabric is warm from your hand, and soft from too many washes. It's a fading green. The little details seem the most important right now, and as Dean ushers you into the kitchen, you seem to notice every one of them.
In the kitchen, the woman – Rebecca – is going on about her brother's case, how she was with him the time his girlfriend was murdered, drinking beers. Because she totally looks the type. Not. She's graceful, like a swan, like a stingray, moving with an unconscious elegance and flow, moving her arms, just so, shaping the air with her words. If she drank alcohol, she'd be drinking champagne or wine, not something so common as beer. You wonder if Dean also notices this as he watches her with the studied intensity you think all hunters intrinsically develop. It's something you can use to point out a hunter – the way they view everything around them through shaded eyes, even the way they walk shows an awareness of the surroundings that far surpasses normal people. She's very agitated, very worried about her brother Zack, but she knows that he didn't do it – its shown in the way she leans forwards, eyes arrowing straight into Sam's, showing him, making him believe her. It's written all over her body, like a tattoo – 'I am telling the truth'. Zack couldn't have done it, he was with her the whole time. You know as well as the police though, family is not a reliable source when you're doing detective work. They lie, because they love. They want to protect their family, keep them out of trouble. She's thanking all of you for coming down now, but doesn't know what you can do to help.
To be honest, you're not sure either. There's nothing here to tell you that it's got anything to do with your kind of work. It has denial and disbelief written all over it, from what you can see out of the people who know Zack. Neither Sam nor Rebecca can ever see him doing something like this, but you know that absolutely anyone could do things like this, could crack, under the right circumstances. As of yet, no one knew what these circumstances were, but with careful police work, the details were sure to come up. In the meantime, you had a hunt in Bisbee to be getting to, and problems of your own to deal with.
"Well me, not much," Sam says, practically breathless with his eagerness to be helping – he reminds you of a little puppy, wagging its tail, waiting to be picked up and smiled over, look how good he is. "But, Dean, he's a cop."
Dean covers his surprise well, smiling and nodding, and you act as though it's the truth. You smile brightly, showing that you too are comfortable, at ease with the situation and what's happening. At least you try to. He's talking to her, giving her that look from under his lashes that makes you want to jump him right there whenever he gives it to you. But he's exchanging it with this other woman. It makes you want to die, because he's giving it to her. You guess you were right all along, although there had never really been any doubt. You were just the side dish, just the convenient fuck that didn't really mean anything at all. Dean never did want you; you were just there – an opportune outlet for all those messy emotions he'd been feeling, and unable to handle. Your smile is so fake; a painted artifice. Your skin is like porcelain – look too closely you will see the flaws beneath the surface, the tiny cracks you try to hide with bright paint and loud splashes of colour. But he will not look too close, the pretty outer surface is all that needs to be seen, and the mask doesn't slip. That's all Dean cares to see in any case – he's not looking for a relationship or something real; all he needs to see is the shiny cover. It's all he ever needs; all he looks for with women is a one night stand, and you are no different. These days you just need to put on a smile; you only concern yourself with your surface – as that is all anyone cares to see. The insides, beneath the mask are far too chaotic, too broken for you to have the time for. They don't need to see your true self, your true feelings. It'd screw up the calm you all have going; it'd just make everything fucked up and complicated again. You can't allow that – you won't. Just pull the mask down, settle it on, a little too tight for comfort, but nothing is ever perfect. Don't let them see the cracks. Don't let them see how you break.
You think your hazy head, the pounding in your brain and the jealousy that stabs your stomach is making you a little too poetic and angsty for comfort, and what the situation actually needs, and you feel the smile melting into a sigh.
"And who are you?" Rebecca asks, finally turning your way. Probably the first time she's even noticed you – but then, who could blame her when she has the Winchester men in her kitchen? You certainly couldn't, not when you were in a good mood. Unlike now. Stupid fucking bottle blonde with her stupid perfect –
"She's my partner," Dean cuts in, and you start, looking up at him, hazel eyes wide and expressing clearly every thought you're having at that moment – what are you doing? Are you insane? You want to bang her, don't lump yourself in with – "My professional partner, where we work. She came down to help me with your case, Sam told us about it." Oh. Despite your earlier, braver thoughts – you wish he'd just left it at partner, left it open, so she wouldn't want to do anything with him. You'd been trying consciously, desperately to put up barriers between the two of you again. You'd briefly just wanted him to say professional partner so you could push him away from your heart; well from letting him get any closer than he already has. It was your regular, stay-back-get-away defence mechanism; though you perversely had wanted him to make you two public. Whatever you two were.
This was beyond confusing.
"Oh, where are you stationed?"
"Bisbee, Arizona," he supplies quickly, and you smile, recognising the place you were travelling to until Sam got his message. Dean's capacity for lying astounds you; it's beautiful in a way, a work of art. It's the reason a part of you can never trust him one hundred percent – with your emotions, how you feel anyway. You trust him implicitly with everything else. It's why you can never ask him straight out how he felt about you – if you ever had the courage or the inclination to do so. You'd never be sure if he was lying or not. He was that good.
"Mmmmmm…" you murmur, and wish fervently that you could lean your head on your arms, where you've folded them on the bench. But you can't. You can't show weakness – you have to be strong – have to show them that you are, that you can handle anything, that you will be fine, no matter what. A cold? That's nothing. You're leaving? Good riddance. "What he said."
"Are you alright?" Sam whispers, eyes slightly narrowed at you, and places a hand on your back, right in the middle. He smooths it in a circle, and you sigh out an answer, rolling your eyes and moving away from the comfort. Something like, 'yes Sam, I'm fine, just tired'. You'll be over it soon.
And then you see them smiling at each other, and the pounding gets worse.
000
You all went to Zack's murdered girlfriend's house – Emily, that's it – you, Sam, Dean and Rebecca. The insides made you sick to your stomach; blood smeared on the walls, an open bag of oranges and custard apples sprawled across the table seeming the thing most out of place. Rebecca is worse off however, and is clutching her stomach, hand to her mouth as she tells the boys that there was no sign of forced entry, and then goes on about how some of her brother's clothes were stolen earlier in the week, but the police didn't think anything of it, because he lived in the downside of town, and things like that happened.
The boys snooped, and you went into the bedroom – which was the place where Emily had been tied up, beaten and gagged, cut with a knife…god, to die in that fashion, helpless. The idea horrified you. You can't think of anything worse than dying like that, being powerless; not having your heart pulled out of you, still beating watching the demon who'd done it eat it in front of you, not being sacrificed in a ritual to Satan. As far as you knew, Emily had died thinking the person killing her was someone who'd loved her, a human.
Finally the sound of a dog barking – something that had been underlying the whole scene since before you arrived, and was making the knives in your head, that were previously just jabbing quietly, and sporadically, start to stab in and twist repeatedly – made you walk back out into the entry area. Dean was standing in the door way, and right behind him was Rebecca, telling him about how nice the dog used to be, the sweetest dog, she says. When did it change? he says. About the time of the murder.
She steps away from him, only to be replaced by Sam. The boys consider the dog together, quiet and still – boring – and you switch your gaze from them to Rebecca. She's coming over to you. Quick, think of something nice, something sensitive to say… "Uh, hi," you babble, and paste a huge, cheerful smile across your face. Oh, yeah, brilliant. You're a regular agony aunt.
"Do you – do you think you can help?" she whispers to you, obviously thinking that since you were a female, and she could hold a woman to woman conversation with you, that you'd be more helpful, more smooth, more emotional, more feeling and honest than the boys. How wrong she was.
Say something reassuring! Come on, you can do it! "Oh, sure," you say, nodding. Your mind isn't really on the conversation you're having with her – you're trying to listen in on Sam and Dean. So your mouth kind of runs away with you, kind of blurts out the first thing that comes into your head. "Loads of sick puppies do this kind of thing, all over the country. Um, especially in Arizona, so we've handled a lot of them."
"Really?" she asks, looking even greener around the gills, and despite yourself you feel a kind of elation. She's got an even weaker stomach than you have. Considering how often you want to toss your cookies – that's saying something. Then you feel kind of guilty. You shouldn't find pleasure in the pain of others; it's sadistic. And you had been trying to help. Sort of. This was just great. If she vomits on you, you swear you're going to –
"So the neighbour's dog went psycho right around the time Zack's girlfriend was killed," Dean's muttering to Sam. You know he's starting to cave; that he's got instincts that's something up around here – besides for himself, in Rebecca's company. The admittance of finding something that could be seen as suspicious in your line of work, that was the giveaway. Well, that and the resignation in his stature, kind of slumped, with his hand jiggling on the side of his thigh. You know Dean all too well, whenever he fidgets, it's a sign of something going on that he doesn't like.
"Oh, yeah. Me and Blondie over there have seen far more gruesome stuff than this," you're saying, smile still pulled on over your face, as though its being held up by hooks in the corners. Your rubbing a hand over the outer rim of your ear, tucking a curl behind it, and then you move the hand down to rub at your throat – disguising it as playing with your necklace. You're lying, and you feel kind of bad about it, so you're fidgeting. It's almost as good as not lying, right? A blind man could catch you out. Why can't you just keep your trap shut?! You're just making her worse!
Yeah…and?
"Animals can have a sharp sense of the paranormal," Sam states, deliberately keeping the smugness out of his tone, although it's smeared all over his face.
"I'll…be right back –" Rebecca says, and runs away, presumably to the toilet. Despite everything, you feel bad for her. It's probably all closing in on her – the bloodied walls with clear hand prints, the realisation that, yes, her brother's girlfriend is dead, and that he's accused and probably going to jail. She hasn't had the immunity built up over scenes like this, as you have – and even with it, you still feel grossed out. So she's got to be feeling about a billion times worse. Maybe you should go see…
"Yeah, maybe Fido saw something."
"So, you think maybe this is our kind of problem?" Sam asks, and he's looking down at the top of his brother's head, an I-told-you-so look spread all over his familiar features, like chocolate on an enthusiastic three year old. You hide your smile behind your hand, and watch them, while the sounds of regurgitation hit the back ends of your ears. You really can't do anything for her…in fact, you kind of feel like waiting outside the door, yourself, as though you're in a queue to upchuck.
"No, probably not. But we should look at the security tape, just to make sure." Dean's unconvincing insistence to stick to his guns makes your smile even wider. You can see right through it.
"Yeah." So can Sam. He's grinning.
"Yeah," Dean repeats, deadpan. He turns around, and as though she's been called, Rebecca reappears next to your shoulder. "Any chance we can see that security tape? Can you ask, or –?"
"No need," she says, eyes hard. She must have found some new resolve while she was losing other things, namely her lunch. "I took it off my lawyer's desk while he was busy. I had to see for myself."
You drop your hand by your side, feeling a grin spread over your face – the inklings of respect are growing in your stomach. It's something you would have done – the boys would have done, Sharika even – and yet each of you are surprised at this show of spunk from Sam's previously sweet and docile college friend.
And then another thought hit you, and the growl of jealousy overran the respect. Now Dean actually had a reason to like her.
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AN: I actually kind of like this chapter. (shy smile) It gives us a slice of Lauren-past-pie and I always enjoy that. There will be a few other mentions of such things in this hunt, the next few chapters. Anyways, what did you guys think? Did you get it? Or was it… I don't know. Thank you guys, SO MUCH for your reviews. It made my day. Or days, really, every time I got a new one. Did Lauren's thoughts and everything mesh with the chapter? And the hunt? Was the hunt okay so far? I was using their original lines and stuff, and I just wondered… (hmm). You will tell me what you think, right? Un-subliminal message – REVIEW!! You know, if you want to. xD
Promo!!
Lauren is seeping even further inside denial about Dean, while she comes to depend on Sharika more. How is Sam dealing with this connection to his past? What will everyone do when they find out Lauren is sick, what they are dealing with? Mentions of wrath in relation to coffee, Eskimo Joe, flirty police officers, angels and body parts that resemble Christmas artefacts. All in The Skin I'm In, chapter twenty two of Believing Improbable Things.