26. Make Sure We Keep Talking

There is nothing so annoying as to have two people talking when you're busy interrupting.

-- Mark Twain

She sits, enclosed by thought and reflection of the days past, on the motel bed – the tall boy sits on the floor next to her, also occupied inside his own psyche. Over the time they have been in Ankeny, Iowa, her body has become further healed – her mind, torn. Hectic the life of a hunter may already be, each participant having to engage their minds in thoughts of supernatural danger, and each confusing twist a day in their life heralded; as well as their having to deal with the everyday nuisances of life, relationships, and their loose adherence to social code. But now, as an extra pleasure, this particular mission has her querulous brain thinking, dispassionately, of the possible immorality of her acts, and consequences, when she has far more vital matters she should be taking care of.

She thinks to herself, even her silent mentality becoming lightly confused, about issues raised in days past. Faith and morality contain within their virtuous depths many adjustments according to circumstance and particulars, making the partaking in either a thankless, and often perplexing task. She did this, for this reason; does that neutralise the wrongness of such an act in that fallacy, 'god's eyes'?

Some people actually believed in such things – in divine intervention and judgements. Previously she'd prided herself on being one who did not; but now, well, it can only be summed up in the words of that perfect little choir girl, whose suppressed desires were being fed upon by a far too enthusiastic dead preacher – "I was brought up to believe that if you do something wrong, you will be punished."

It was always hard to deal with people who had that kind of inner belief system – that reliance in invisible beings and entities, the so called higher powers. They made her question her own ideas on life, and whether or not they could be wrong. After all, throughout her time she'd seen all the bad things; somewhere out there, it must mean there are also good things, by the rules of existence and balance. At least, that's how Lori, the preacher's daughter made her think. She was their newest victim, as her befuddled ideas on morality, her father's teachings, and life, were being acted out by Jacob Karns – a Reverend who'd been just a little too feisty about the issue of prostitutes, sins of the flesh and the like; enough to kill thirteen women from the red light district in 1862. Now he was somehow haunting Lori, latching on to her subconsciousness to punish those she believed to be morally corrupt. At first, all four hunters had believed the spirit had attached itself to Reverend Sorensen, Lori's father, as Jacob had killed a boy coming on to his daughter too strongly, and her best friend, who'd been trying to turn her into more of a party girl than she was ready for. Unfortunately, that theory had been shot to hell the night before, when the reverend had been put into hospital by the poltergeist. He wouldn't really turn it on himself now, would he?

It had happened because his perfect little prodigy had found out about his illicit affair with a married patron at his church, and she was upset that all his teachings had misled her. Sam had been there to talk to her, to soothe her, to rid the area of the hook man – as the hunters had taken to calling Jacob Karns, whose murder weapon was his substitute arm; a silver, custom made hook – for a short time. He'd also been there for the confused, vulnerable Miss Lori Sorensen to kiss him.

The blonde woman brings herself out of her thoughts and eyes the tall boy with very slightly murderous hazel green and gold eyes. When she'd seen the two of them at it, she'd felt her stomach jump around as though it was high on crack, simultaneously feeling her heart press up against her throat at the wrongness of it. What would Sharika think, if she found out? He'd kissed the preacher's daughter back, after all – if only for a small time. Still, it was enough to make her create a pact with herself, to be in this position with him. That is, alone, with the hazel eyed man and the dark woman out, scoping the Sorensen household. They were going to go there tonight, grab all the silver, and melt it, as the hook was part of Jacob Karns too, and merely salting and burning his bones hadn't been enough to rid the world of him. The hook had been donated to Lori's fathers' church, oh coincidence of coincidences. In any case, the blonde woman was going to talk to Sam about all his repression, and she was going to do it in such a way as to have all her suspicions about his mind and emotions confirmed.

At least, she hopes so. Extracting information from Sam on his wellbeing was like trying to remove teeth without novocaine – painful, bloody and a screaming nightmare.

Injecting a little steel into her spine she sits up straighter, shifting closer to him where he leans against the bed, clearing her throat. "So, Sam…" she says, cursing her lack of a good opening line. Instead of thinking of things that could never be confirmed or discredited to her until she carked it, she should have been thinking about how to commence with the deep and meaningful. "What's up?"

He looks up at her, his long legs sprawled out in front of him, his back leaning against her bed. His posture is relaxed, but the large, long-fingered hands fidgeting with the edges of his shirt belies his thoughts – they're messy, and probably guilt laden. This is going to be so much fun, her head squeals, and she's sure the sarcasm of it could be heard out loud. Smiling at the tall boy to cover it up, she feels her shoulders' instinctual hunching, and berates herself mentally. Cocking his head at a diagonal, one arched brow raising slightly over the sea green eyes looking her way, Sam says, "Nothing."

Of course he'd have to be difficult.

"Right, right," she says, and pauses, mind scrabbling for a way to move into the place she wants to take this conversation, subtly. Typically, her mouth is disconnected with her head, and lets out a nonchalant, "So, is Lori a good kisser?"

The tall boy's face, which had turned away after her first acceptance of his statement, snaps back towards her, ocean eyes widening infinitesimally, before his features shut themselves away in false negligence. "What are you talking about?"

"You and her. Tongue hockey. It was kind of hot if you like the whole, barely legal preacher's daughter kind of thing. Can't say that I, personally, do, but you seemed to be enjoying it for a couple of seconds there. You know, until you pulled away like a startled rabbit."

He turns his face to the side, brown locks concealing his expression, as all she can see is the back of his head from her position. She doesn't wish to intrude on his privacy, but curiosity and surrogate maternal instincts come first, and she moves on the bed, lying down onto her stomach with feet dangling off the edges. Her head is only a few inches away from his, and slightly to the right side, and she lays it atop crossed arms, eyeing the hair that reaches his collar now, in polite disorder. He's not answering her, but she won't prod. It's against her nature to do so, but she waits, wondering if he'll say anything at all, staring at the back of his head, and the sliver of face she can see – his nose, outline of his mouth, eyelashes – hazel green and gold eyes speculating about what might be going on in there. "How do you know about that?" he finally asks, turning his head again to meet her eyes. "I thought I was alone with her."

"I stalk you," she says, trying to insert some humour into the situation. In actual fact, she'd been performing a defensive circuit around his position. She was his back up, in case the spirit came back again. He hadn't known she was there, because she hadn't wished to cramp his style – she should have stuck to him like glue, she thinks in retrospect. Then this whole thing wouldn't have been necessary. "Besides, you're kind of hard to hide, all six foot plus of you."

He doesn't buy it, adding after a slight pause, "Right." The word is coloured with disbelief and slightly drawn out, sarcasm dripping like so much dark honey. She waits for him to add something else, but as usual, the Winchester tendency to hold back everything, unless pressed, shines through.

Sighing, she asks, "So Sam, you going to do anything about it, or what?" Personally, she feels if he tries anything with that little tramp of a reverend's daughter she'll remove both of his heads, and kill her off. It would be completely wrong, both for him and the dark woman – he's still in mourning, and he likes Sharika. Sharika was also in that state of trying to deny her feelings about the tall boy to the world, although she personally had accepted them somewhere inside her a while ago. She'd never do anything about it though, not without some kind of indication from the youngest Winchester, who would never give it to her because he was still messed up about Jessica. The blonde woman was angry at Sam, on some level, that he had kissed Lori back. She felt bad for her best friend, who didn't – and would probably never – know, and she felt bad for Sam because although she didn't want him to be lonely, she knew that he and Lori were not right for each other – this conclusion had absolutely nothing to do with personal bias of course. At least, that's what she told herself.

Lori was all right, if you liked the whole, she's-not-really-into-you, she-just-needs-comfort-and-someone-to-understand-during-this-harsh-time-she's-going-through thing. She didn't even know the tall boy, not like she should do before she started to try and monopolise his attention. And Sam – well, his side of it wasn't any big thing. She was nice, and nice looking. End of story. There was just that one, tiny, teeny, weeny little detail… HE LIKED SHARIKA. Dean knew it, she knew it, even Sam knew it – he just didn't address it, and refused to admit it, even to himself. What did he expect, that Jessica would come rising up from the grave to berate him and tell him she never wanted him to be happy or ever have another impure thought? If she had deserved Sam's love, she wouldn't have been like that. The only one who didn't get that Sam reciprocated her feelings was the woman in question; she was, and always had been, completely oblivious to such things. The boys weren't the only ones the blonde woman could cheerfully strangle, at times.

She remembers the first time she noticed the potential running between the two of them – they were just coming out of some place – she forgets where – as even the surroundings paled in comparison to them. She can see it though, the sun shining down on them as though they were bathed in light, and blessed with it. She remembers thinking how right they looked, the woman looking up at the man, smiling and moving her hands a little as she spoke, to orchestrate a point. They were talking, just talking, and Sam was smiling. The extraordinary thing about it was, it was a genuine smile, not one of the ones he usually cracked to get him out of having to answer her or Dean, and it was free and unburdened by all the things that had been weighing him down for the past couple of months. He looked happier than he'd been for the whole time she'd been travelling with the Winchesters, and looked relaxed – content. Previously she'd just thought that Sam had the hots for her best friend, but then she made him laugh. She can see in clear detail the way the sun glinted off his teeth, can hear with a perfect slice of memory the deep, beautiful sound of his laughter filling the air. It was then that she'd formed the consensus that she was going to get the two of them together – one way or another. And now this little itsy bitsy choir girl comes along, acting all butter-wouldn't-melt-in-her-ass – who does she think she is? Can she make Sam look like that? No.

"No, I'm not," he says, and she feels relief sweep through her, which she carefully conceals, flicking blonde curls into her eyes, and schooling her face into impassivity. He continues, slightly indignant and defensive, which she had known he would be, eventually, to try and guide her off his tender feelings – not quite so subtly. "Why are you so interested in my love life all of a sudden?"

"Because I hate seeing you all mopey," she mutters, letting her worry shine through for a second, stroking a hand through his thick hair, fingers gliding against his scalp in a move of sheer comfort and reassurance. It's a sign of how close they'd grown in the months past that he doesn't shy away, but allows her to do so, and she elaborates. "It makes me sad. You're like a brother to me, and I care, you know?"

"Okay," he says back, voice just slightly gruff and overly long-suffering, projecting boredom as a result of her ministrations, and 'unfounded' anxieties. She has to smile. "I'm not, alright?"

"Sam, please stop denying it." She sighs, and moves a little closer, cocking her head to the side and propping it up with a hand, trying to pressure him with her closeness, to project understanding and protectiveness, although she really has no clue how he must be feeling, nor has she any idea how to help him. "This is about Jessica, isn't it?" She pauses, biting her lip, hesitant of how much force she can apply, of how far to go. "I don't want to pry or anything, and I know it's really too soon and I just... I just don't want you to feel..." She breaks off again, unsure how to articulate what she feels, what she wants him to tell her, to say. "I'm here for you, if you ever want to talk, okay?"

It's the best she can do, she thinks, and waits to see what he'll say.

His body, which has alternately stiffened and softened over this talk, is now stuck somewhere in the middle, a kind of physical limbo. "I'm not ready yet," he says, and although it's nowhere in his voice, in his body, in the words – she knows it's a plea for her to let that line of questioning go, the stuff about Jess. He's not ready. She's not sure he ever will be. But they both know she'll be here if he needs – if he decides – to talk, and her limbs, uptight with tension for the whole duration of this uncomfortable talk relax slightly.

"Besides, I thought you had a thing for – well, for Sharika," she says, grinning, tone light and teasing, as it normally is. She's shifting the conversation away from its darker aspects again – and into curiosity and amused suspicion burdened territory. She pokes his shoulder playfully, and his eyes widen with surprise that is unfeigned. She guesses, rightly, that he thought he hadn't been obvious. But both she and his brother knew, knowing him just that little bit too well.

"What makes you say that?" he asks, trying to inject innocence into his tone, and due to his big, guileless eyes, almost succeeds.

"Just the way you act sometimes, you know. Then there's the way you look at her – oh, and the extended showers. That kind of thing." Her mouth is twitching with laughter again, as a light flush stains his high cheekbones. "Don't even pretend you don't know what I'm talking about, Sam. You're a red-blooded male, despite your feelings you still have about – about the past." She clears her throat, and glances away for a second, regaining composure and deliberately not saying Jessica's name, or the 'l' word. For a second the blonde woman wonders if her hovering spectre will always stand in the way of Sam establishing healthy relationships with other women – namely her friend – but she doggedly moves on. "I'm not stupid; I know what you're doing in there."

The tall boy looks away from her, refusing to say anything. Her eyes soften as they glide over his young profile, and she shuffles forwards, using her elbows and stomach, until she can lay her arms around his shoulders. She lies her cheek atop his head, giving him as much comfort as she physically can from this position, and whispers, "I worry about you," before she realises that maybe it's not the best idea.

"She's just my friend, that's all."

She rolls her eyes at the denial, knowing he can't see. Reluctant to talk the topic over anymore, and close him off from her even further she sighs, heavy and dramatic, so he's sure to hear it, and says, "Yeah, sure. So you like her, right?" The last is a rhetorical question neither expects the tall boy to answer. She grins, uncertain whether to feel happy or not, as it feels as though they've gotten somewhere and nowhere, all at once. He hasn't admitted anything, but it kind of feels like he has – careful non-answering is a very Sam thing, and usually confirms whatever she's said. Besides, he doesn't have to admit it. She knows. She just knows he likes the dark woman.She hugs him tighter for a second, then flicks his earlobe. "You are such a pain in my ass, Sam. Just wanted you to know that."

"Yeah, thanks," he laughs. And after a second longer, she lets go.

000

There are times in a woman's life when her destiny takes on the form of a pendulum, swinging precariously between two directions; times when the normal constraints and social mores by which one lives are rendered as meaningless as melting snow. This was such a time for our protagonist.

They're at some random pit stop on their way away from Ankeny, Iowa, having finished with their last hunt. The damsel had been saved, the bad guy killed, the civilians were oblivious, and the saviours had been fingered by the authorities as the instigators of the trouble. All in a day's work, and the directions she swung between had nothing to do with priests, hooks, silver or annoyingly-overly-confused and not-nearly-traumatised-enough preachers' daughters.

The decision had to be made now, though.

She could squeeze in a fast, not too personal chat with her friend now, and get a couple of things off her chest and the dark woman's, or she could try to schedule one later, and get everything off them both before they imploded. Of course, the former would be a lot easier, and less deep – plus if one of the boys came back from their sojourns to the toilet and the junk food section of the gas station, it could be cut off immediately. The latter required intense dialogue, and possibly a lot of anger on the dark woman's part, and would continue even if the boys came back, with a marching band proclaiming their reappearance. It'd be better for everyone if the blonde woman waited until later, until they had all the time in the world to talk.

There really was no question about the matter, after careful consideration.

"You like Sam, huh?" her mouth opens and spills the words into the comfortable atmosphere of the car, automatically electrifying it. Why couldn't she have said something that wasn't so obvious? She could have eased into the topic, instead of sending it out there to explode in the air like a firework, big, colourful, too bright and illuminating. She could have said something like, 'so…how you doing?' giving the dark woman the opportunity to bring the topic up herself. Or she could have said, 'so, who do you think is hotter, Sam or Dean?' and then moved on from there. She even could have –

"No," the dark woman interrupts her thoughts, with a denial that's just a little too hurried and vehement to be believable. The blonde woman smirks, crossing her legs up on the back seat of the Impala, and pulling her right knee up to sling her left arm around it, using her right arm to prop her chin on her hand, elbow using the knee in turn. She studies the dark woman with the affectionate amusement of a person who knows their friend is lying, but won't say anything, because they both know the liar will crack. Sharika's looking at the floor, brown eyes studiously avoiding the hazel green and golden gaze trained on her profile. Her hands, the colour of a strong mocha latte touched with cinnamon, pull against the hem of her green t-shirt, twisting the soft material with restless, unmistakably confessional fingers, to those who know the signs. "You can tell I'm lying, can't you?" she finally asks on a sigh, eyes glancing up to meet the humoured ones of the observer of her inner misery and frustration.

"Besides the whole, duh factor, it's beyond kind of obvious. You can't lie to save your life. Well," she rethinks her statement, thinking of the whopping ones the dark woman's pulled out in the job, including the one about her being a messenger from god to coax one particularly religious and devout victim into going with her to save his life, the one about her being the prostitute a murderer had hired so she could get close enough to cuff him and put him in jail, which was the justice a particular ghost had required, and, her personal favourite, the one we're she'd had to act as a clown to get in to a circus to save her. Until you'd seen the dark woman smashing cream pies into her own face, you hadn't seen funny. "You can't lie to me, anyway. I know you too goddamn well."

The dark woman rolls her shoulders in the manner of a duck sliding water off its back, dismissing these statements, and asks the question forefront in her mind. "How long have you known?"

"Oh, you know, since forever and ever. And ever, and ever, and, well, ever."

"Right." Then a thought strikes the woman, and she jerks as though it's a lightning bolt and not a simple jump in her mental patterns. "Does Sam know? OH MY GOD, HE CAN'T KNOW – WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?!" The dark woman starts freaking out, gabbling out reasons why the tall boy can't know, complex consequences if he did ever find out, and several mangled expletives – as well as the standard issue, 'oh my god'-ing. "He's going to reject me if I tell him that I like him, and then I'm going to be scarred for life because I was rejected by the man that I love – LIKE, I said LIKE! LIKE! Oh my god! I can't love him, can I?!? It's only been four months!!" Then Sharika turned her frantic brown eyes onto the other woman, almost as if searching for the answer within her golden green depths.

She… loves him. Speechless, the blonde woman blinked at the dark one, trying to process this information. Before she was able, Sharika started up again, brown eyes wide and staring unseeingly at the dirty floor of the Impala, white knuckled hands clutching the seat as though it were a life preserver. "OH GOD! I can see it now! He'll reject me, and I'll turn into this quiet, lifeless, depressed little thing, devoid of any emotions so as not to get myself hurt again, then Sam will meet this drop dead gorgeous woman who can provide him with everything he's ever wanted and they'll get married and have babies, like ten mini Sam's and mini Mrs Sam Winchester's pitter-pattering all over their huge house which they can afford on Sam's salary, and his wife's 'cause she'll be brilliant and smart and perfect and have a good job with a huge pay check and Dean will be living next door man-skank-ing his way around like he usually does –" for a second she paused, actually taking a breath – her first since she'd started ranting – and turned slightly saner eyes onto the woman next to her, who was holding her own breath so as not to laugh. "Have you noticed he's gone from Mr Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Ma'am to Mr I'll-Just-Have-The-Pancakes-Please, like right after you and he went to the library that day?" The blonde woman's lips part in shocked reaction, and her eyes widen involuntarily. How did she – what did she – how? – and she tries to insert some kind of denial, a rejection of this fact – because she has noticed this herself – but the dark woman's off raving again, words tumbling and falling over each other in their rush to escape her mouth. "Anyways, you'll be off with your rich, good looking, fun husband in France on your second honeymoon having fun and being in love and perfect, like Sam and his wife, and Dean by then too, and I'll go on hunting alone, getting old, fat and wrinkly and then I'll have to move next to a dirty, alligator-infested swamp or something cause my body won't be able to take the action of hunting anymore and then I'll have to get a dozen ferrets as my children – ferrets 'cause cats, birds and even dogs are too cliché. Then all the kids who live in my town will have to knock on my door as a dare because they're scared of the ferret lady. 'Run, run,' the children of my town will cry, 'Run from the ferret lady!' And I'll die an unhappy, despondent, miserable, sad, dismal death which people won't even notice until the smell becomes too overbearing and when they find me I'll be half eaten by my ferrets who've turned carnivorous for their own survival and they'll end up throwing me into the swamp for the alligators to feast on while you and Sam and his wife and Dean are happy and laughing and perfect with your grandchildren!"

The blonde woman waits out the storm, studying the nails of her right hand. The index one has broken off again. Chewing at the offending nail thoughtfully, she hears the silence as the dark woman forcibly stops her babbling rendition of portending tragedy. She's glad she has a fingernail between her teeth – it's a useful ploy to keep from laughing out loud at the utter ridiculousness of what her friend was going on about. Melodramatic, much? Of course, the dark woman couldn't help herself. She rarely got like this, because she hardly felt so strong or emphatic about things. However, when she did – watch out! Alligators, ferrets and perfect lives oozing out of everyone's pores, except hers, were the result. "Done?" she asks, when she feels the pause has gone on just that shade too long – she loves torturing her friend, and glances over at her under lowered lashes to view her rigidly controlled profile, with its tense features, stiff shoulders and worrying hands. The bottom of the dark woman's shirt is a rumpled mess. A giggle is building in the back of her throat, although she understands Sharika's discomfort; she knows she'd be an exact replica – if not louder and with more flailing of the arms – if she thought that Dean had even an inkling of what she felt for him. "Okay, look. There's really no need to worry. Sam's kind of too busy caught up in his own problems right now; Jessica, hunting, his dad, liking you back like a fat kid loves cake…" She drifts off after dropping this bomb shell, eyes dreamy as she's actually envisioning the cake, mind latching on to the most important thing here, and then she sniffs dismissively, adding almost as an after thought, "Dean knows though," as though the dark woman should have already known this fact herself.

Her friend smiles feebly, saying, and completely ignoring her words, the ones about Sam reciprocating those tender, mushy, repressive emotions she has. Is she in denial, or just stupid? "Am I that obvious?" The blonde woman just restrains herself from nodding fervently, feeling that it wouldn't really be constructive to the conversation, and that she might get shot one of those looks if she does. You know the type, the 'how could you do that?', 'gee thanks' look. "Well, he doesn't like me back, he's not over Jessica yet, and he likes that girl Lori, if he likes anyone. Didn't you sense their chemistry?"

"They kissed." The words are falling out her mouth before she can think, and her eyes widen with the dark woman's as they register. Why can't she keep her goddamn mouth shut? How could she say that? Is there a particular part of her missing, the common sense, not-stupid part? Sure as hell feels like it. "I mean –" she tries to take the statement back, but too late. She ends up just banging her head against her knee, then sighs resignedly against it, the spread of warmth compounding the knowledge that she's just undermined her every argument. She'll never convince the other woman of Sam's feelings now, no matter what she says. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she thinks, grinding her forehead against her knee, shaking it from side to side slightly and screwing her face up as she waits for the other woman to talk again.

"They kissed…" the dark woman says, and the blonde one doesn't even have to look at her to feel the despondency and slight shock running through her friend. She knows she's just taken away even the faint, faint, miniscule hope her friend had, with those two words. She could slap herself. Although the dark woman would never think that she actually had a chance, she hadn't thought she had absolutely no chance, until now. If that makes sense, the blonde woman thinks for a second, eyes moving to the side, and eyebrows lowering fractionally as her thoughts wandered away from her. Oops. Sharika, focus, now.

"Well, technically she kissed him, and he pulled away –" eventually "– like she had oral herpes." Exaggerate, exaggerate. Make her feel better. Make her laugh.

Yeah, like that's going to be happening any time soon.

"Oh well – I knew he'd never like me. I'll get over him, eventually." Sharika pauses trying to inject strength and conviction into her voice, no doubt, and the blonde woman quells her urge to smack her on the back of the head, because of her self-deprecating crap. No one insults my best friend, except me. "Hopefully." She pauses again, and the blonde woman takes her head off her knee to look at her. Arguments run through her brain, tangling up in her mouth and becoming incoherent. He left her, didn't he? He didn't stay. He doesn't want her. He came with us – with you. You. He likes you. He wants you. Before she can articulate – or even decode – these scrambled thoughts, the dark woman talks again. "He's too good for me anyway."

Sam? SAM? Sam of the shower caterwauling, Sam of the incurable sulks and emo-ing out? Sam with the hero complex, the guilt complex, the youngest child complex, the too many complexes to count complex? No fucking way can she be saying that. "Don't say that. I hate it. And it's not true." She cuffs Sharika on the shoulder, hand streaking out for the almost, but not quite admonishing slap, before retracting to wrap around her shin again.

"It is true."

"No, it isn't."

"Yes, it is."

"No, it isn't."

"Yes, it is."

"I'm going to be the mature one for once –" despite how her instincts are yelling at her to continue this line of 'arguing', "– and stop that right here. It's not true, he does like you, and if you say that he doesn't again I'll slap you up for real."

"What makes you say that? Just because you're my best friend."

There's a besides that? "The fact that if anything, you're too good for him." Good, good, that's good – keep on with that line of argument, and she'll never guess you're making it up as you go along! Downplay Sam's obvious wonderfulness, boost the bad sides. Um…um… there are bad sides? "He's a repressive asshole who can't see past his huge nose." She suppresses the urge to giggle at this almost-but-not-quite untruth. Sam does have a big nose…and yes, he sort of represses things, but then, so did every bloody person in this quartet. Still, maybe the dark woman won't catch on.

And she doesn't – she's still too steeped in her own moping, selfishly one-track thoughts. "You're only saying that because you're my friend."

Well, yeah… oh, and because the two of them deserved each other. The things she does for them and they don't even listen… the blonde woman mutters darkly and mutinously inside her own head, thinking about their utter ungratefulness. What did they think – that she enjoyed this kind of thing? Listening to them being all, deny, suppress, no, they could never…whine, whine, sulk.

Yeah, right.

"No, I'm not." If she has to repeat herself one more time, she will combust. She can feel it.

"Do you think we'd make a good couple?" the dark woman asks suddenly, and the blonde woman blinks at this sudden, almost topic change. How long has she been wanting to spring that question?

Still feeling uncharitable and grumble-y inside her own head, the blonde woman answers after a false, thoughtful pause, "Hell no. I think you'd make the most cutesy, whiney, vomit-inducing thing I'll ever see. Do I want you two to get together? Oh-god-yes," she says, making the last sentence into one word, by saying it super fast.

In actual fact she has this feeling that they would be a happy, regular kind of couple, well in her eyes at least… and outside of the hunting and the Sharika-having-psychic-powers-that-Sam-doesn't-know-about thing of course... The two of them have the same instincts, the same reactions and thoughts in most situations; they have the same morals and wants, and their personalities meshed together like prunes and peanut butter – in other words, it seemed like the two things put together would be weird, and just really freaky, but really worked quite well together, in the eyes of the enlightened few. Her, for example.

Now she has cravings for prunes and peanut butter. What were the chances of the older boy buying them?

Not so good.

Sharika laughs. "Thanks."

"Oh, don't thank me – I am compelled to speak the truth," she says, trying to sound pious, and clutching at her chest as though stricken with her own holiness. She drops it after a second, whole demeanour becoming dismissive as she waves her hand, saying, "Whatever." She slumps back against the seat, dropping one leg onto the floor of the Impala again, and tucking the right leg under her. She cuts her eyes to her best friend, narrowing them slightly as she says, "So, what are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know." The blonde woman's hands clench, as she restricts herself from the urge to shake the other woman. Sharika doesn't see the white knuckles; she's looking out of the car window at the gas station parking lot, eyes gliding unseeingly over the aesthetics of dirty, garbage-strewn concrete, grimy walls and dusty wind. "What if you're wrong and he doesn't like me? And what makes you think he does, anyway?"

"Oh my god, how did I ever think I'd get this over with in five minutes?" she mutters darkly, and Sharika strings a confused glance her way, which she ignores, stubbornly and silently refusing to answer the unspoken question. "I'm never wrong, he likes you, and I figured it out 'cause he's as freaking obvious as you are." Getting exasperated now she shuts her eyes, pursing her mouth. Damnit. What's the use? Neither of them will do anything under pressure – they're both going to take their own. Sweet. Time. She could cheerfully strangle them both. "You two seriously need to get over yourselves."

She represses the little voice in the back of her head telling her she's just as bad as Sharika is with the whole 'admitting-to-tender-emotions' thing – a.k.a., DEAN – and that she's being the worst kind of hypocrite, because Sharika can't even her accuse her of being one – she doesn't know.

Don't start guilt-tripping yourself, she thinks, frustrated and almost desperate. You need at least one ally in this.

"But how? What does he do?"

"You want details? Why should I bother, when you're just going to ignore them anyway?" The dark woman shoots her a look, and she caves with a resigned sigh. "Fine. Fine. The way he talks to you, the way he talks about you, and the way he acts around you. Plus there's the whole, checking-you-out-every-five-minutes thing he has going on. Seriously, do the Winchester's have an extra tonne of testosterone in them than they rightly should, or is it just me?" She shook her head so she wouldn't start going off onto a completely different track than she should, ranting away about stupid Dean and Sam and – "Anyway, it's –"

Occupied with their own thoughts they didn't notice the boys coming back until they slammed into the car. Both women jumped simultaneously, the blonde woman covering it up by leaning forwards to affect interest in the junk food Dean had purchased and that were in a messy pile on his lap and the seat next to him, the dark one just tucking hair behind her ear and acting unaffected.

"You have two choices of beverage," Dean started in his salesman voice, and began listing all the food in a loud, far too cheerful tone. Sam was putting something in his bag in the front, and was busy with that – so before her mind could stop her, before the scrapings of common sense she'd gleaned from the edges of her character could have a say, before the vestiges of a barrier could enclose her, she leaned into Sharika and said it.

Well, whispered it really, the confidential tone hopefully making the other woman think she was joking.

"Oh, and Dean and I fucked." Then she ducked back before anyone could notice, and put half her body over the dividing seat saying to Dean as though he'd had her whole attention the entire time, "I'll have the Mars Bar."

"WHAT?!" Sharika exclaimed. The boys stared at her, utterly confused as to why she was suddenly so loud and vehement. Dean's hand, which had just handed her the candy, paused, and it was like they were almost holding hands as he stared at Sharika, and she affected the same look back at her friend. The dark woman, realising the blonde one's plan – spring this on her when the boys get back so she can't pursue it, and might, maybe, hopefully forget – said, "LAUREN!" in a loud, exasperated kind of way that she ignored. She covered the only way she could think how.

"What, you wanted the Mars Bar?" she said, raising an eyebrow incredulously. She tugged her hand and the chocolate bar from Dean, then handed it to over Sharika, with a calming, don't-spook-the-mental-patient look spread over her features. "Jeez. No need to be so loud about it. Here."

The boys, still looking confused, and used to the blonde woman's strange diverting tactics, trained questioning eyes on the dark woman, who, after shooting a look in the other's direction said, "She just told me something that I didn't know about something that happened when we first started travelling together; you wouldn't be interested."

The blonde woman knew that as soon as the other got a chance, she'd be whispering questions at her, as fast as shots from an automatic. Deciding that she didn't really want to have the conversation at that exact moment – or ever, really – she took action. "I want shotgun now – Sam, it's your turn to be a sardine!" Avoid, avoid as long as you can! She scrambled over the divide, pulling and pushing at Sam until he moved into the back – well, tried to. She pushed just that little bit too hard – by accident, of course – and sent him sprawling into the dark woman's lap.

Their eyes met, blue green staring up into brown ones, and even from where she was sitting the woman could feel the shift of time swirling around them, turning something that could have just been shrugged off into something meaningful as time stretched and warped, making the look feel a lot longer for the participants than it actually was.

The two in the front, left out of the loop, glanced at each other, amused and knowing exactly what was happening. The older boy, deciding to tweak his older brother privileges said, "Did you want us to come back later, Sam? Say, in a couple of hours?"

At that the two were scrambling apart, light blushes flickering over cheekbones, and nonchalant demeanours strapped on over bodies in place of seatbelts. The two of them studiously avoided looking at each other, and the blonde woman smiled, a secret smile unseen by anyone else.

The Winchesters, being who they were, shrugged it off, and the older boy turned on the ignition, as though nothing had happened at all. The blonde woman, unwrapping her second choice of candy bar, having sacrificed the first for no reason as it turned out, saw the look shot at her from the rear view mirror. It read, clearly and succinctly, 'you'd better explain'.

Oh how she couldn't wait.

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AN: Hee. Oh, you know you love it, really. This chapter was definitely SamSharika centric. Hardly any DeanLauren, which is, you know, a shame. But that's okay! Next chapter is half-drunken angst ahoy!

Reviews – reviews, man, they are my crack. I am a confirmed addict. If I don't get reviews from my favourite readers, and all you wonderful lurkers, I just end up all teary. It's pathetic really. Just thought you guys should know that, and act accordingly. You scratch my itch, I scratch yours – with more bathrooms and Dean and Lauren. Wait… which Dean, though? I'm innocent, sue my muses.

Promo:

Two Deans. Except this time one of them isn't supernatural, and the other is groping some random bar whore. Guess who? Vodka doesn't help; avoiding Sharika is still high on the list of priorities, and circus themes run riot. Tune in for suffocating skirts, surreptitious mentions of Oprah, and Creutzfeldt-Jakob. All in the next chapter of Believing Improbable Things – You Can't Expect To Turn Away Tonight.