Disclaimer: See chapter one.
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25. So Dig A Little More Deeply Into My Life
Never neglect the little things.
-- Og Mandino
Considering everything, you're not sure how you got by.
No one seemed to care that you'd just been through an ordeal, you had a cold, and every time you moved any part of your body more than an inch, at least one cut opened and leaked ruby onto your clothes. The boys didn't care, bantering away in the front of the car, keeping you away from sleep's elusive grasp, Sharika didn't care, falling asleep despite the noise and slumping onto your lap when the car hit a pothole in the road – a sign that even the Impala didn't care about your wellbeing; it seemed to hit every single one out there on the road between your last hunt and the motel you stopped at the next night.
So that made the total number of hours you hadn't slept in…too fucking many. Dean drove the car into the area in front of the motel's reception and parked, climbing out to go and bag a couple of rooms. Unsticking gummy, bloodshot eyes you shook Sharika awake, a little more violently than you maybe could have, but you're sure no one could blame you, under the circumstances. She sat up, yawning, stretching, where-are-we-ing, and you listened to the click of vertebrae rearranging, envious as hell.
Sam, sitting in the front and stretching into himself too, pushing taut arms out in front of him until they almost touched the windshield, head thrown back and eyes closed, said in a relaxed, gravely voice, "Just off route thirty-five. We're crashing here tonight, going to look for a new hunt in the morning."
A new hunt already? you thought to yourself, body protesting at the very idea. You felt like you had to sleep for about four days at least, and that you deserved it. How would they like getting tied down, and –?
Instead of voicing these complaints you just grunted something noncommittal at Sam and climbed out of the car, shifting your shoulders a little, as an alternative to indulging in the back-creaking that you wished you could, and that you'd just had to listen to from The S's. Stupid, inconsiderate Research Team… Dean left the building, and seeing you held up a pair of keys, jingling them in his large hand. You managed a smile in response to his own.
"Rooms three and eight," he said, pulling the bags out of the trunk, shifting his onto his shoulder, dropping Sam and Sharika's onto the road, and reaching in for yours. You held out your hands, ready for the ceremonial dumping of your luggage into your arms, something that was practically a ritual between the two of you now, but without even glancing at you he thrust out the hand holding the room keys. "Go open up for us."
You frowned at him for a moment – he always made you 'take your own damn bag, Lauren' – then you shrugged and lifted the keys from his fingers, careful not to touch his skin, with almost superstitious caution. You'd been like that all day, scared of touching him, in case you did something stupid like wince with deep rooted, fucked up fear, or launched yourself on top of him with an overeager lust to burn away all the bad thoughts and memories. It hadn't been Dean, but it had looked like him, and your mind was still having trouble dissecting the rational from the irrational. You hoped he hadn't noticed, but it was unlikely. He loves you, you know. I mean, I love you.
"What room do you want?" you asked, pushing thoughts aside, then judged how far each room was from where the Impala was parked. Eight was further away, so – "Three?"
He nodded curtly, pulling the strap of your duffle onto his other shoulder, and balancing both of the bags with practiced ease. The other two stooped and picked up their own bags, while you lead the way to number three, unlocking and opening the door for Sam and Dean to dump their bags on their respective beds, before moving onto number eight so Sharika could unload hers, and Dean dropped yours just inside the doorway. Since it was relatively early, you and Sharika trooped back with Dean to his room.
"Going out, Sammy?" you asked, struggling for casual, and not bone-deep-weary, by leaning on the door, and folding your arms over your chest. The beds – sunken and covered with moth-eaten, suspiciously stained blankets – looked like heaven, and you eyed them as such, before tearing your gaze away to look back up at Sam. He was shrugging into his jacket, and Dean was handing him the keys.
"Yeah, Sharika and I thought we'd hit the local bar, see if there's anything suspicious going down around here."
When had they had the time to discuss that? Had you fallen asleep, even for a short period? You didn't feel like you had, but maybe you'd blacked out from sheer exhaustion, long enough for them to all make plans. Maybe they'd discussed it in that gas station you'd stopped at. You felt a surge of relief in any case, which you quickly repressed – this meant you could put off telling Sharika about the John thing for tonight, and tackle it in the morning after you'd slept and your mind was sharper. It was no good going into such a deep thing when your brains were fried from exhaustion. Shrugging this out-of-the-way, you addressed the more pressing issue – "I thought we were looking for a new hunt tomorrow. I'm sure we're all tired and could use a little break, like, a night's worth at least –"
"No, I'm fine," Sam said, big blue green eyes nonplussed, and with a gesture you were sure was unconscious, touched his neck, where light bruises shaped like finger tips had formed. Maybe he was just acting puzzled. Sometimes you couldn't even tell. Sam had a fucked up sense of humour, on occasion. You were sure he knew exactly what you meant; he just wanted you to admit it. Stupid, stubborn asshole – "Sharika?"
"I think she means she could use a night off," Sharika said, and smiled at you, taking pity on your pride, and you stared back, projecting innocence to the room, clasping your hands in front of you. You could play games too.
"I never said that," you clarified, all fluttering eyelashes and wide eyes. The illusion was ruined when you coughed, shoulders shaking with the force of it, the sound torn from your throat dry, hacking and painful. You swallowed, eyes closed away from their worried eyes before speaking again. "But now that you mention it…" You tried for a smile, one more in a line of fakes.
"We already thought of that," Dean said, sitting onto his bed, and Sam passed his laptop to him, before going to stand next to Sharika, and smiling at me. "We're staying here – they're going out." Simple, clean cut. You liked it. Not that you'd voice the appreciation that, hey! Maybe they did care. It wasn't like you to admit to… well, anything.
"Whatever," you acquiesced. You were also too tired to argue that you resented having plans made without your consent, that you could look after yourself, and that they needn't make any special provision for you. Besides, there was no point. It'd be three and a half against a half, and even the half wanted itself to lose. You pushed yourself off the door, and Sam and Sharika left with one last wave, as well as Sharika's instructions to you about gargling with warm salty water, drinking lots of fluids, and getting a good night's rest.
All of which you ignored with stubborn, immature obstinacy.
"So, you got anything?" you asked Dean, pulling a chair up beside where he was sitting on the bed, and looking over his shoulder, careful to keep a distance of at least half a metre between his body and yours. His shoulders were tensed, and you felt a sudden over powering urge to massage it all away, or at least lean against him and soak up all that tension into you until it disappeared, and you were just touching him. You even swayed a little closer, before jerking back a couple of inches, covering up this act with a cough.
"No."
"Huh. I see. Well, how can I help?"
"You can't."
"But I want to."
"There's only one laptop."
"Then I guess we'll have to share."
"Lauren…"
"Yes, Dean?" you asked, staying unfailingly, falsely cheerful throughout the whole monotonous conversation, refusing to let his walls put you off. You had to do something, and you couldn't let him think you couldn't even do your job. After all, last night you'd been fine, right? You hadn't broken down, or collapsed…
"Never mind."
He wouldn't let you touch the keyboard, or the mouse. He ignored you when you offered suggestions. In the end you gave up, simply sitting next to him in fuming silence that kept slipping into companionable when you weren't watching. Sleep crept over you in increasingly strong, lulling waves, until you blinked, and suddenly you were slumped against his shoulder and half his back, body slack and loose, eyes fluttering shut. His warmth spread all along your front where you were touching him, smoothing into you like a caress as his deep breaths matched the rhythm of yours and you felt yourself connect on a soul deep level with his physical presence. Dean…Dean. You let out a single, deep breath – more of a relinquishing sigh, if you were being truthful – and then consciousness buckled and deserted you, the warmth stretched over your eyes, taking you away to where it was quiet, and peaceful at last.
The next morning you woke up in Sam's bed, head on the pillows, blankets tucked up around your shoulders. Dean was sleeping next to you in his bed, his whole body turned your way. You couldn't stop the thought running through your head, pervading your whole body with comfort – that he was protecting you, watching over you even while you slept.
000
Deciding hot beverages were the order of the morning, everyone piled into the Impala, and Dean drove to a little café Sam pointed out. It was the only thing he and Sharika had uncovered the night before; there hadn't been anything all that suspicious in town. You couldn't help feeling happy at that – it meant putting off work just a tad longer. Even though you felt refreshed from your night's sleep, you weren't up to full capacity, and you didn't want to endanger anyone by not being at the top of your game.
As a vague extension of this, you were also kind of chirpy that Sam had hit a whole new wave of fervour on the topic of getting in contact with his father, so he was using a payphone as the rest of you drank your coffee, and in Sharika's case, tea. Maybe if he found something… but that was beyond unlikely, so you dismissed the thoughts and glanced around the small, circular table. Dean was clicking away at Sam's laptop, his journal open on top of it, writing down something that you couldn't be bothered deciphering, as you'd have to read his sloped, rounded scrawl upside down. You chatted to Sharika, voting which one of the waiters had the hottest ass as you waited for Sam to come back with news. You were trying to distract yourself from the fact that your naked knees were bare inches away from touching Dean's own denim clad ones, what had happened last night – nothing, nothing happened – and the idea of finding John any time soon. It hadn't really been working, until you'd forced yourself to start eying the attractive selection of guys the café offered.
You were still kind of floundering in the shallows, about the John thing – at least on the level of telling Sharika about it. You were completely over your head when it came to analysing how you felt about John and what he'd done. You also preferred not to think about it, but you knew you had to bring out the fact that you knew about 'the secret' into the open soon. You hadn't yet – you hadn't really had the chance that morning, and you didn't want to bring it up in front of the boys and Sharika, you wanted to do it with her alone first. You had to do that before you could spill what you really wanted to talk to her about – the you and Dean thing. Whatever that was. Because keeping it to yourself was really starting to fray your self control.
You jerked your mind off these dark and dreary and way-too-deep topics to glance around the café again, trying to find the nearest scapegoat to pin the 'hottest-ass-at-the-café' award on.
None of them were as hot as – yeah; you're not going to think about that.
You shook your head and shot a glance at Sam. Considering the way he was shifting from foot to foot, banging his fake I.D. card on the top of the payphone softly, with repressed, silent aggression, and the tight, gritted smile he used to force out a perky, grateful tone – it wasn't all that spectacular.
"Definitely his," you muttered to Sharika, pointing discreetly to a guy about three inches taller than you, who was bent over a table, taking an old lady's order. You hadn't even looked at it, but it didn't really matter. No one else had either, so they wouldn't call you out on it. "Nine and a half."
Sharika just gave you a deadpan look, didn't even glance at the guy, as you knew she wouldn't, and took another sip of her tea. You emulated her, licking a stray droplet from the side of your cup as it squirmed its way south, and you heard Sam's voice over the chatter of the café's other patrons. "Alright, thank you for your time." He clicked the phone back onto its hook, dropping the smile and stalking back over to where the three of you were sitting.
Dean, without looking up, saw his brother on his way over, and said, amusement thick in his tone, "Your, uh, half caff, double vanilla latte's getting cold over here Francis."
Francis was the fake police officer's name Sam had used on the payphone. But you all took it as it was meant – Dean joking around and calling his brother a sissy. It was compounded by the coffee mention – Dean was drinking plain black coffee, as per usual.
"Bite me," Sam retorted, articulate as a ten year old, and threw himself into his chair, frustration outlined in every inch of his body. He stuffed his fake I.D. into a pocket in his jacket, as Dean, still studying the screen of the laptop, asked the question on all of your minds.
"So, anything?"
You would have asked too, but both you and Sharika stayed quiet, eyes connecting and parting in silent communication – it was their business, their dad. You kept out of it, didn't offer any sort of advice unless they asked, and struggled to stay neutral on the topic, if it was mentioned, which was hardly ever. It may have been the force underlying their every move, the motivation behind every hunt, as they searched each town we entered for a single clue that could lead to his whereabouts, but it was never glaringly obvious, except at times like this when they tried a new angle. It wasn't that you and Sharika didn't care; it was just that you didn't want to butt in on their territory – it was one hunt you wouldn't intrude on. Call it female sensitivity; call it a deep desire to never see John again, because he was a backstabbing son of a bitch, call it what you wish – it all had the same outcome, the two of you shutting your traps when the topic came up.
"I had them check the FBI, missing person's databank – no John Does fitting Dad's description," Sam said, shaking his head as Dean finally looked up to watch him speak, head cocked slightly to the side, studying his brother, gauging how soon it would be until he broke down the middle and exploded at Dean again. "I even ran his plates for traffic violations," Sam said, ticking the last point off on his finger, and meeting his brother's eyes, jaw clenching slightly.
You flicked your gaze at Sharika, who frowned, and stuck her face in her cup to stop herself from speaking. Sitting next to Sam, you could feel his need to find John steaming off him, like a tangible orange heat against the left side of your body. You studied the coffee in your own cup, biting your tongue softly to keep out, and not look up, meet his eyes, and offer reassurances. The caffeine, and the sleep you'd gotten last night, had combined to make you feel almost cheerful, until now. Thinking about this, you felt one side of your mouth drooping in a telltale sign of unhappiness, and tucked some hair behind your ear, trying to disguise it.
Stay out, be quiet, not a word.
"Sam, I'm telling you, I don't think Dad wants to be found," Dean said, deep voice almost accepting, as he twirled his pen in big, restless fingers. He was anything but, however, as you knew quite well. He wanted to find his father just as much as Sam did – if not more. You felt the urge to lean over and put a hand on his, tell him it'd be okay, his dad was okay, not to worry, he'd find his father. But you didn't. Stay out, be quiet, not a word. It might be a lie – and besides, you knew how John could be, and the boys probably wouldn't see him at all, no matter what they did, until he decided it was time. If he decided it was time. The pain he put them through on a daily basis, the constant worry running through their minds about his wellbeing…you could have punched him square in the face for that alone. Selfish bastard… Coming out of your thoughts you saw Sam look away from his brother, face borderline angry and unhappy. He wouldn't have much patience for the rest of the day, now; you could see it in the tiny lines drawn between his furrowed brows, in the way his hands clenched on the bottom of his jacket under the table, so no one would see the white knuckles. "Check this out," Dean said, bobbing his head at the laptop and spinning it around to face Sam while pulling his journal off of it, closing it and putting it away. He continued on with what ever it was he was intent on talking about, as you ducked your head close to Sam to see the screen, and Sharika shifted her chair closer so she could do the same. "It's a news item out of Plains Courier, Ankeny, Iowa. It's only about a hundred miles from here."
On the screen was the website of the newspaper, featuring a picture of a guy who looked like the kind that knew he was well-liked by everyone, especially women, and used it to his advantage. You know the type, clean facial structure with the wide chin and arched brows, cardboard cut-out superman body and cheesy smile. As well as the picture, there was the heading 'Mysterious Death of Fraternity Brother'. So he was only young, you thought, shaking your head slightly with tired regret, and moving ahead to skim the article.
Voice tired and without emotion, Sam read out the piece. "The mutilated body was found near the victim's car, parked on nine-mile road. Authorities are unable to provide a realistic description of the killer." There was almost a question mark at the end, and I glanced up at Dean, wondering why he wanted us to read this, as no doubt, Sam and Sharika – who couldn't see the screen due to her position, and the sun's glare – did.
"Keep reading," Dean said, taking a sip out of his glass. In a moment of clarity you saw a droplet of coffee on his pink, ripe bottom lip, and a surge of lust almost overrode common sense, counselling you to just lean over and lick it off. Your eyes skittered away before anyone could notice the flames behind your eyes. Damn his mouth. How were you supposed to resist something that fucking perfect?
"The sole eye witness, whose name has been withheld, is described as 'distraught' by police. She is quoted as saying the attacker was 'invisible'." Sam, you noticed now, hadn't moved from the position he'd sprawled into when he'd come back from the payphone – his whole body illustrated his disinterest, as he hadn't moved forwards to read the article, he hadn't even touched the laptop to adjust it so it was at a better position, keeping his hands on his lap. Shoulders hunched with his sulk, jaw jutting out almost imperceptibly with his stubbornness, you knew he didn't think that the hunt was anything, just like Sharika, who was shaking her head slightly, and fiddling with a napkin. Only Dean seemed to think it was worth anything, as even you weren't sure that the account of a witness, who'd found the body and had obviously suffered emotional and mental trauma as a result, was worth squat.
"Could be something interesting," Dean said, slanting his body until it was pointed at Sam's, and your eyes flicked over him by their own volition, travelling over the sleek lines with studied furtiveness. He was definitely more interesting than some implausible story about invisible murderers…well, kind of. Your libido was obviously coming back full force, along with your energy. Damn. You took a sip of coffee to distract yourself from the little argument you knew Dean would inevitably win, and started thinking about what might have gone down in Ankeny. Spirit, probably, if it wasn't what you'd originally thought. A.k.a., bullshit.
"Or it could be nothing at all," Sam replied, gesturing at the screen slightly. "One freaked out witness who doesn't see anything doesn't mean it's the invisible man."
"But what if it is?" Dean asked, unruffled. You made to butt in and back him up, or maybe shoot him down – both were equally fun – but then he offered the coup de grace that sent your eyes scrambling for your coffee again. It was empty. Damnit. Stay out, be quiet, NOT A FUCKING WORD. "Dad would check it out," he said, and then, without even looking away from Sam, called the waiter who you'd been fake perving on over, and ordered another coffee, just like the two of you always had. You glanced around the pole of the umbrella in the middle of the table.
He still had half a glass left.
Breathing in and out through your mouth, softly and evenly, you reflected – Dean had never done anything like that for you before – anticipating your needs as though they were his own, that is. You refused to think anything of it, accepting the coffee from the waiter, and smiling at him as though you hadn't a care in the world and you really had been checking him out. Sharika and Sam hardly seemed to notice, arguing theories around your body, drinking their drinks, gesturing with enthusiastic hands. Dean just turned the laptop off, and when you unconsciously turned that smile onto him, looked up.
Your eyes clashed, and feeling a slow burn start to rise under your stomach, repeated the protective mantra in your head, tearing your gaze away from his so you could focus on making your breathing level.
Demons lie, demons lie, demons lie.
000
Dean drove those a hundred miles to Ankeny, Iowa, and pulled up outside a building at which an excess of young males seemed to be congregating. Sam and Dean hopped out of the Impala, and your eyes flicked over a small group of guys, tinkering around inside the engine of a car out the front, before meeting Sharika's. You both silently debated the merits of staying inside the car, versus leaving.
You were both wearing low cut, tight shirts, and in your case, a very short denim skirt, in Sharika's, shorts. It was washing day, and these were some the last of your clothes, all of which were the ones you hardly ever wore, because of how they fitted, and their lack of lengths. Your jacket did cover most of the cuts on your arms, your shirt hid the rest, and the shapeshifter hadn't started on the bottom half of you before the SWAT team arrived, jeans be praised. Make up obscured many of the cuts and bruises on whatever was left, so you looked passably normal. However, the injuries weren't the problem. The problem was…well, the assets.
You both had – at this point in time – garishly obvious breasts. And long expanses of bare, nicely muscled legs. Both of which always seemed to be a hit with most heterosexual guys over the age of thirteen and a half.
You weren't sure you felt up to getting hit on, because frat boys usually flirted with anything with a vagina, and Sharika was never comfortable with the idea of guys flirting with her, unless she liked them already. So you hesitated long enough in the car to see the boys being stared at – not all that nicely – by the guys out the front. Awkward conversation ensued, from what you could see – all from Dean. No one else spoke.
You could see in their eyes what the boys were thinking – competition. Damn testosterone fuelled gender… it's all I-have-a-bigger-pee-pee than you, and posturing and constant opposition… None of the group were all that hot, at least, not as smoking as the Winchester brothers, and no boys like that kind of thing. Plus, guys usually seemed to dislike Dean on gut instinct. Rightfully, it usually turned out. So, sighing in resignation, and shaking your head sadly, you said, "Hair flip?"
"Hair flip, strut?"
"Hair flip, strut, smile." You nodded at each other, curt as soldiers coming to an important military decision, and opened the Impala doors, the familiar squeak ringing in your ears like a snigger. It was a tactic that you'd both used many times before, to break the ice in awkward situations that were dominated by males. A quirk hit the side of your mouth as you remembered the first time you did it, and the results. It had turned out rather better than you'd both expected, or planned for, and you'd had to make a quick getaway after you'd collected your information. When you acted as the both of you were about to, guys seemed to think you were up for anything, which is exactly what you were trying to make them think. Still… it was a little disconcerting the first time when five guys in a row had seen fit to slap your ass.
As though in slow motion, you both exited, stood, and Sharika executed the perfect, 'look-at-me' straight hair flip, that showed of her smooth stretch of neck and shining hair, while you did your own, more discreet, curly hair version, flipping one side and shaking the masses back until they tangled in sweet disarray down your shoulders and back. You slammed the doors shut, and began to stalk towards the group of boys and the Winchesters, all who had turned to look. Hips swaying from side to side, just obviously enough to emphasise your femininity, but not enough to make you look any more stupid than you felt, you smiled at each other and then at the guys as you reached them.
Studiously, you didn't look at Dean or Sam, if you did, you knew you'd crack up. But you felt their eyes on you all the same, Sam's incredulous, and starting to become amused, Dean's heated, and leaving trails against your flesh as only his could. You ignored all this, resolute, and tried to focus.
Sharika was not the baby-talking type, so you took over, clasping hands in front of your body in such a way as to push up your breasts, you said, cocking your head to the side, "Hi, guys – what's up?" Guileless. Guileless, innocent, cutesy.
Ugh.
"Hi," the chorus of young males answered back and swallowed collectively, eyeing your chest.
"Who's car?" you asked, feigning breathless enthusiasm, smiling, and twirling a strand of your hair. You bit your lip for good measure, avoiding the cut, and added, affecting shyness, "Because it's really nice." Not. Piece of flashy rundown junk.
"Yeah, its mine," the one in a red jacket said quickly. He was holding a half eaten banana, you noticed, ideas of how you could possibly use the fruit to further distract them running through your head before you rejected them, feeling vague disgust. No way were you going any additional lengths with this than you had to. He glanced at his friends, then stuttered, "Do you – do you want to take a look?"
"Oh, may I?" you squealed, clapping your hands and bouncing forwards. Out of the corner of your eye you saw the Winchesters moving towards the building, stop and talk to another guy for a second, who seemed far more accommodating, then enter it. Sharika had a couple of guys around her now too, hovering, as she implemented a foot popping, breast popping, cutesy act of her own. She tilted her head to the side, stuck her chest out and looked up from under her lashes at them – actually coming across as believable. Smile growing wider, you bent over the side of the car, sticking your ass out just that little bit more than was necessary, glad you were actually wearing viewable underwear, and said, "What are you guys doing in here?"
"We're just fixing the oil levels, and the horn's been a bit off, so we're tuning it," said the guy on the opposite side of the car, unabashedly staring straight down your top. You tried to keep from laughing, squeezing your cleavage up even higher by leaning further into the engine and cocking your head to the side, to study the insides with a vapid expression of interested-clueless-and-eager.
"I always loved guys who could work with their hands," you purred, tucking hair behind your ear so you could keep the image that you were trying to project, and so that you wouldn't start demanding some tools so you could fix the car yourself. It was an absolute mess, and you hated to see any poor car in that condition.
The incompetent buffoons…
About ten minutes later – ten horribly flirtatious, perverted and overtly sexual innuendo laden minutes later – the boys were back, and tugging you and Sharika away, looking just a little pissy, and eyeing the other guys like dirt – or maybe just frat brothers... You went gladly.
"You're so good with that spanner," Sharika cooed breathlessly, relaying your own words back to you as you all got into the Impala, and you giggled, unable to help letting out the girlish sound, or the amusement that had been building since the hair flip.
"Maybe you could tune my engine some time."
"Let's take a look under the hood, shall we?"
"If only this was my car. I'd wax it and ride it all over town."
"I still can't believe you said that," Sharika crowed, and you started laughing even harder, holding onto your sides.
"How far do you think we set feminism back by? Ten, ten hundred years?"
"We?! What did I do? Lauren, it was all you, I was just standing in the background trying not to laugh as all the guys stared down your top."
"And having them swarm you like –"
"What are you guys talking about?" Dean interrupted finally from the front, turning to look at you and sticking his keys in the ignition, eyebrows raised in classic 'tell-me-right-now, I'm-so-not-amused'.
You smirked, feeling just that other side of smug. "Those were all lines I spouted to those poor guys back there. Car innuendo, it's a work of art."
"You didn't," Sam denied, obviously delighted, a rare grin appearing on his face as Dean pulled the Impala out of park and drove away from the curb. You and Sharika turned and waved at the boys you'd left behind with an excess of enthusiasm, before spinning back to the front and grinning at Sam.
"Oh, I did."
"She did," Sharika confirmed, and you both laughed again. You felt the rightness of that pristine moment echo into your bones, and met her brown eyes with all the things you couldn't say you felt. She didn't have to understand, you just had to express – it was enough.
"Where are we going now?" you asked, shaking off the gooey feeling and leaning your elbows onto the divide between the seats, tilting your head to look Dean.
He shot you a smile, a momentary glimpse of his thoughts – and then said, "Church."
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AN: Freaking hell, you people are trying to slay me with pleasure, aren't you?! (hugs everyone insanely) I've been receiving so many reviews I don't know what to do with them! They come out of my ears! I find them in my socks drawer! And I LOVE IT! It's like… wow. (incoherent)
Anyways, the next chapter is a little confusing at the start, then goes kind of angsty, then goes kind of WTF and then it ends. (blinks) Yes, I think that's probably the best way to describe it. Oh, and after that, in the next couple of chapters, we have a DeanLauren angst slice of pie, and then we get into a huge SharikaLauren thing. So…brace yourselves.
Promo:
Lauren initiates two talks between two very hard-headed hunters about their love lives. Confessions ensue – kind of. And the library-thing is finally mentioned, somewhat out loud, to someone who will not let it go. Coincidences, kisses with 'that little tramp of a reverend's daughter', the Ferret Lady and fluffy eternal moments result, all in chapter 26 of Believing Improbable Things – Make Sure We Keep Talking.