Chapter 26

"I got good news and bad news." Bobby announced ending the call on his cell. He rubbed his ear as he walked over to the table joining Dean and Sam. "Bad news - Gunther's definitely out. Good news?"

Dean and Sam looked up in anticipation.

"I just learned me a bunch of new curse words I didn't even know existed." Bobby put on a plastic smile, sinking into one of the available chairs.

"That's useful." Dean snorted.

"At least, he's not gunning for us. Say's as long as we stay out of Sacramento, he's lettin' us be. And that, boys… is good news. Trust me; you don't want Dan Gunther on your asses."

The two seemed unimpressed by this.

"Gail Harrison and Mitch Crawford bailed too, so we lost Montana and Wyoming." Sam scratched the two names off the list.

Dean let out a resounding sigh and leaned back in his seat; his arms wide-open as he posed the dreaded question:

"I'm afraid to ask, but is there anyone still on board."

"Couldn't get a hold of Arbor, so Texas might still be an option." Sam explained, checking his list.

"Frank's not picking up either." Bobby added.

Dean slouched forward and propped his elbow on the table to run a tired hand over his face. It settled over the back of his neck and his gaze inevitably drifted to the auburn-haired woman parked two tables down from theirs, surrounded by two large stacks of books.

Shit!

They hadn't said a word to each other all day, but in the span of the two hours they'd been sitting there, his eyes had wandered off to her at least twenty three times now. Yes! Not only was he letting her distract him but he was also counting and that earned him the prestigious badge of 'most pathetic person in the room'.

Shit!

Concentrating on the job was already hard enough with her sitting fifteen feet away from him, it would be damn near impossible if she was gonna spend the rest of the time parading around in flimsy summer dresses. He had to fix this. Now!

"Where're Garret and Dann?"

Dean redirected his attention to his own table.

"Out back. Target practicin'." Bobby said.

Five seconds later… He did it again and Dean finally reached his limit - twenty four.

"Where you goin'?" Sam wondered when his brother stood up abruptly.

"Be right back. Gotta fix somethin'."

Bobby and Sam exchanged a look, but said nothing as Dean closed the distance between himself and Amy.

"What'cha doin'?"

She looked up from her book.

"Baking apple pie." She replied caustically, returning to the page. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"We gotta talk."

"I'm kinda busy."

"It's important." He insisted.

"Still busy." She sing-songed, continuing to examining the manuscript.

"Carrington…"

She snapped up:

"I thought you didn't wanna talk!"

His brows jerked up defensively:

"I'm not the one who freaked out, back there."

"I didn't freak out." She narrowed her eyes at him.

"No? Then what do you call it? Cause it looked to me like you were ready to pull a 'bat out of hell' on me."

The two held angry gazes for a few moments before he spoke again:

"Anyway, that's not why I wanna talk to you."

Amy struggled to hide the disappointment and kept her chin up.

"Then talk."

"Winchester!"

The two whirled around to see Reggie standing at the back door.

She wore her usual attire which consisted of a white tank top, ruffled denim shorts and a pair of brown Doc Martens. From the grease stains marring her hands and knees she'd been working on her car.

"Could you give me a hand with the Plymouth?"

Dean's eyes bounced back and forth between the two women.

"Can't it wait?"

"It sprang a leak and right about now it looks like I just hit a gusher out back. Ellen's gonna have my head on a plate if that oil pool gets any bigger." Reggie countered.

She was right. Ellen was not going be happy and an unhappy Ellen was never a good thing. His conversation with Amy would have to wait. Plus, it would give him a chance to get away from her and her never-ending legs… Nothing like some grease and grunt work to get a guy's brain out of the gutter.

"We're not done." He reminded her with a pointing finger before vanishing out the back door with Reggie.

Sure enough, when they reached the Plymouth there was a considerable puddle of black ooze peeking out from under the chassis. Noticing the front of the vehicle was jacked up, Dean guessed:

"Gasket, huh?"

"Bingo."

"Did it just spring a leak, or is it busted?" He asked while Reggie lay down on her back on the automotive creeper and shimmied under the Road Runner.

"Pretty sure the pan got dented on that damn dirt road off highway 22." She stuck out her hand and requested: "Hand me the ratchet."

She wrapped her fingers around the metallic shaft and smiled under the chassis when she noticed he'd given her the perfect socket size. Though his first and only love was his darling Impala, Dean's knowledge of muscle cars wasn't limited to the old Chevy.

"What's the damage?" He questioned after a while.

She rolled out from under the car carrying the pan, careful not to spill any oil on herself and placed it on a makeshift tool table.

"That doesn't look good." Dean worded out Reggie's thoughts as the two saw the small leaking depression on the side of the pan.

"I can patch it up for now, but I gotta get a new pan and a gasket. Any auto shop nearby?" She wondered.

"Closest one we got is in Sheldonville. But you're probably gonna have to order the parts. Might take a few days." Dean shrugged eyeing her as she used a putty knife to scrape the oil block.

Why was he here? She obviously didn't need his help.

"What's up?"

She stopped what she was doing to flash him a sideways smirk.

"That obvious, huh?"

"You could fix an oil leak blindfolded and with one arm tied behind your back." He returned her smile with one of his own.

But her own grin gradually faded as she pondered how to approach the subject. He gave her the time she needed to find the right words.

"I'm ok with Sammy."

Dean's stomach rumbled uncomfortably and he had to swallow back the acid creeping up his throat in order to speak:

"Sure?"

"We all got our skeletons. Hell, I got so many I need two closets to keep them in check." She joked trying to lighten the mood.

Thankfully, she had the oil pan to keep her hands busy and her eyes away from his.

"And we've all lost our way one time or another. He was blood thirsty for revenge. I know I would want to take a shot at Lilith if she sent the person I cared about the most to the pit." She took a moment to look up and the two exchanged silent nods before she focused back on the pan. "You add a skirt into the mix and… well, we all know what happens to you Winchester boys when there's a skirt involved, especially one with an agenda." She chuckled.

The sound of her laugher soothed him and he allowed his squared shoulders to relax.

"Point is… I'm with you guys, 'kay?"

They locked stares again and she found a grateful half-smile dancing over his lips. It made her knees wobble a bit, so she quickly devised a way to put out the spark that began flaring up in her belly at the sight of him.

"Speakin' of skirts, what about the doc?" She managed to sound perfectly detached, even amused when he shifted awkwardly at the mention of Amy.

"What about her?" His attempt at casual wasn't as successful.

"She got to you, didn't she? Hook, line and sinker."

"Sweetheart, no one puts a hook on me."

"Right…" She snorted. "You keep tellin' yourself that, big boy."

There was a moment pause, which quickly stretched into minutes of silence. From the corner of her eyes she noticed him run a jittery hand over the back of his neck.

"Just come out and say it, Winchester?"

He cleared his throat awkwardly before he began:

"Well… about us…?"

"Us? There's an us?" She interrupted him, stopping to give him an impish look.

"I'm talkin' about… you know…" He fumbled around with the words.

"Actually, I don't… Care to enlighten me?"

She was poking fun at him. She knew exactly what he was referring to.

"I'm talking about how we… um… sometimes… um… we… um…" The best he could come up with was: "How we sometimes scratch each other's backs?"

"That's what you're callin' it?"

"Oh, come on, Reg, cut me some slack, will ya?" He complained.

"Don't worry. She's not gonna hear a peep out of me."

He gave her a grateful smile and she let a moment pass before she advised him:

"You better get your ass back in there, that girl's probably foaming at the mouth right about now."

"Thanks Reg."

"You're welcome." With a nostalgic a look on her face and a constricting tightness in her chest she watched him scurry up the steps of the back porch and disappear into the Roadhouse.

A frown scrunched up his brows when he entered the bar and found Amy's table vacant.

"Where'd she go?" He asked coming up to his brother.

Sam glanced at the table and then back at Dean. All he had for him was a shrug.

"Beats me."

Carrying a box of beer, Ellen emerged from the kitchen to inform:

"She went out back with the boys."

Upon Dean's quizzical look she elaborated:

"Guess she's trying to learn the ropes."

Dean propped up his shoulder against one of the beams supporting the porch roof once the three figures in the distance came into view. Luke sat on a carton, diligently waiting for his turn, while Garrett circled around Amy, supposedly inspecting her posture as she prepare to fire.

"No, no. Left foot out." Garrett explained bumping her heel forwards.

"Should I shake it all about too?" She mocked eyeing the can propped up on a cardboard box 50 feet away.

Garrett chuckled and came to stand behind her. Dean's back stiffened as the hunter brought his body flush against hers. With his chin resting on her right shoulder, his fingers nudged at her elbow, straightening out her arm, before wrapping themselves over the back of her gun-wielding hand.

"Now… grip it tight. You got to really feel the gun." As he said it, he pressed his body closer to hers. "You feel it?"

Amy tilted her head towards him; his face inches from hers, his eyes large with expectation. She arched an eyebrow at him and quipped:

"Oh, I feel it alright."

Garrett swallowed dryly and cleared his throat. Was she flirting with him?

She batted her lashes.

Oh, dear God, she was!

Amy continued in an uncharacteristically rasping tone:

"Tell me something, Garrett… Do you like to feel?"

Garrett choked. Unable to utter a single word, he nodded comically.

"In that case…"

He gawked, frozen in place as she leaned in. When she spoke again the sweetness had vanished from her voice:

"… I suggest you back up, right now. 'Cause if you don't…? I will kick you so hard you won't be able to feel a thing from the waist down for a week." She finished off with a childlike smile and a: "Got it?"

Luke stifled a laugh while Garrett immediately stepped away from the young physician.

Dean was too far way to hear what she'd just said, but judging by the way Garrett jerked back and was now awkwardly running his hand through his hair he could imagine. Pride washed over him and he felt compelled to approach the group.

"Ok, then… um… now, align the front sight with the rear." Garrett stuttered uncomfortably.

"It's this metallic thingy sticking out, right?"

"Right."

"Got it. Now what?"

"Keep your focus on the front sight… bring it up to the target…"

Amy did as she was told.

"Now, gently…" He emphasized the word by drawing it out. "…squeeze the trigger."

She did it, but not before shutting her eyes in anticipation of the loud blast. The shot rang out and she reared back, staggering a bit. The shoes didn't help matters and she tripped. Thankfully, Garrett was there to keep her from tumbling to the ground.

"Jesus!" She gasped, snapping her eyes open.

The can was still there, unmoved, mocking her, as a thin cloud of dust dissipated a few feet to the right of the carton box.

"That would kinda work better if you kept your eyes open."

She heard the familiar voice, the one that always made the butterflies in her stomach run amok, coming from behind her. Amy set her mouth in a straight line and spun around to glare daggers at Dean as he lazily shambled over to them.

"Just a suggestion." He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and drew his shoulders in mock innocence.

But the Cheshire smirk he had on didn't fool her.

"By the way, you look ridiculous trying to shoot a gun wearing that." He gave her a pointed once over and her jaw clenched.

A gush of wind blew by, causing her dress to flare up just a smidgen and all humor drained out of him, quickly replaced by a crushing jolt of lust in his gut.

Silently, she redirected her attention to the can and fired another shot. It was even worse but she didn't let it get to her. She tried again and again and every time she would either close her eyes or real back.

For every bullet there was a blur of sand emanating from the ground, proof of her incompetence when it came to firearms.

And the can remained untouched.

That is until Dean unexpectedly reached for the Glock safely tucked in the waistband of his denims, on his lower back. Before she could process what was happening, he'd drawn the weapon and fired a single shot.

The can let out a clanging whine, howling up into the air before dropping with a dull thud onto the dust.

A surge of adrenaline rushed through her whole body but Amy refused to show any outward signs of being impressed.

"And what was that for?"

"Just makin' a point, sweetheart. If you wanna learn how to shoot a gun, you're better off learning from the best." Dean stated matter-of-factly, arrogance seeping from every syllable.

"Weren't you busy giving hunter-Barbie auto shop lessons?"

Dean's witty comeback died in his throat when Garrett suddenly grabbed the gun from Amy's hand and seemingly without aiming discharged two consecutive bullets.

The first caused the can to shoot up off the ground, the second hit the miserable container while it was still in mid-flight.

Amy wasn't shy about demonstrating her admiration at the remarkable show of skill.

"Ow! That was-"

She was silenced by the piercing clamor of a round of shots coming from Dean's handgun.

Amy's wide eyes followed the invisible projectile from the Glock's muzzle all the way to the can. It lifted off, taking flight once again; its trajectory shifting abruptly as each bullet hit it in mid-air.

Unwilling to be outshined, Garrett joined in and the game was on.

It seemed that the point of it was to keep the container from falling to the dirt. Amy and Luke stood by and watched as the two tried to outdo one another, each taking his turn. Together, the two hunters created an erratic dance, perfectly executed by the tortured tin. Barely recognizable the can finally dropped to the ground with a defeated thud, when Garrett failed to take his turn. He pressed the trigger a couple of times but nothing came out. He'd run out of bullets.

Dean was beaming.

"17 is always better than 15." He boasted, referring to the number of rounds in the clips.

"I could've beaten you." Garrett snarled.

"Coulda, woulda, shoulda. You lost, Texas." Dean jeered taking a fully loaded, fresh magazine from his back pocket and slamming it into place inside the Glock.

"I didn't lose-"

"Course you didn't…" Dean puffed, pulling the slide. "You-"

"Will you two just stop?" Amy took a step forward and snatched the weapon from Dean's hands. "Gimme that." She began ranting, unaware that she was waving around a loaded gun. "I've had enough of this pathetic display of testosterone induced idiocy. I wanna learn how to…" She trailed off when all three men began shouting at the same time, scurrying about, apparently trying to find cover.

Luke had scrambled off the carton and was now huddling behind it, while Dean and Garrett were gawkily flailing their arms and legs in the air.

"Whoa-whoa! What the hell are you doin'?" Dean yelled.

"Down, Amy! Point it down!" Garrett bellowed.

Amy gaped at them at a loss. If she didn't know any better she could have sworn they were having some kind of elaborate epileptic seizure. Unaware of what all the fuss was about, she continued to mindlessly wield the gun about until Dean roared:

"Amy! Stop!"

She froze, unfortunately, when she did, the barrel was aimed straight at his pounding chest. His breath hitched and his eyes snapped open.

"Don't point it at me, woman!"

"Wha'? You told me to stop!" She protested, resuming her gun-waving.

Frustrated, Dean jumped for her wrist. Gripping it tightly, he forced her hand down, until the Glock was pointing to the dirt a few feet away from them.

"God, you're gonna give me a heart attack, Carrington!" He exhaled sharply, once he assessed they were out of any immediate danger.

Luke slowly crawled out from behind the carton, cheeks flushed and a little embarrassed when Garrett frowned at him.

"Yeah, like that was gonna stop a bullet." The blond hunter scoffed.

"What the hell are you doin' teaching her how to shoot if she can't even tell the difference between a locked and a loaded gun." Dean growled.

"We didn't get that far." Garrett blurted in his defense.

"That far? It's the first thing you teach. It's amazing you still got all ten toes." Dean shook his head and turned to Amy. "Lesson number one, you don't… you paying attention?"

She nodded.

"You do not… point a loaded gun at anything other than the floor, got it?"

She tried to register what he was telling her, but his unexpected proximity made it hard to concentrate.

"Got it?" He repeated more forcefully.

"Got it, got it." She replied clumsily, straightening up as he moved to stand behind her much like Garrett had done before.

Except this time, the presence of a noticeably male body snuggly pressed along her back made every hair on her neck stand on end. Never letting go of her arm he placed his left hand low on her hip.

Despite the tingling sensation coursing through her entire being, she still had the presence of mind to send him a dirty look coupled with a snide:

"Don't try to cop a feel."

"Wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart." He whispered an inch from her ear.

He locked his hand over hers and pulled up, lining up the sight with what was left of the can.

"Finger off the trigger. Close your left eye. When you get better at this you'll want to keep both open, but for now just close it."

She forced her body to loosen up, but it refused to relax, not when he was practically glued to her. Their chests rose and fell in unison and she could feel his breath on her cheek, his scent looping around her, bleeding into her clothes.

'Puff, so much for concentrating.'

"Can you see it?" Though his voice was unruffled, the fidgeting fingers on her hip gave away his own restlessness over their current situation.

"Uh-huh…" She didn't think talking would be advisable at that particular moment.

She was certain that if she did, all that would come out of her mouth would be incomprehensible gibberish.

"You ready?"

She gave him another 'uh-huh'. She wasn't sure if the erratic thumping she felt in the middle of her back came from her or Dean.

"Remember… there's gonna be a kick, but you gotta keep your eye on the target."

Damn, his heart was going a mile a second and God… did she have to smell this good?

By now she'd even given up on 'uh-huh' and settled for nodding.

"Slowly… very slowly, press down on the trigger."

She did and to everyone's shock… she did it.

Sure, the can wasn't airborne and barely moved, but it jolted a bit and that was enough for her to scream:

"I did it!"

The fact that she was holding a loaded semi-automatic weapon was lost to her in her excitement. Fortunately, Dean was there to pry the Glock out of her hand, when she whirled around to celebrate.

"I can't believe it! I did it! I didn't think I could do it, but I did it! Did you see that?!" She looked like a four year old kid on Christmas morning.

She flung her arms in the air and immediately regretted it as the swift movement triggered a sting centered on her bruised ribcage. Her hand instantly dropped to nurse the tender stop and she cringed and for second everything went white.

Once she stopped cringing and opened her eyes, Dean and Garrett were framing her side on either side.

An uncomfortable silence followed as she looked from one man to the other, while the two traded steely glares.

"You ok?" Garrett was the first to speak.

"Yeah… I'm…" Her jittery gaze bounced from Dean to ground, up to Garrett and back to her feet. "…fine."

"Ok, fun's over. Let's go." Dean quickly ordered, but when he tried to pull her in the direction of the Roadhouse Amy refused to move.

"No. I wanna keep practicing."

"You can practice when your ribs have healed."

He tugged at her again. Amy didn't budge.

"No!" She repeated vehemently. "I gotta learn how to do this. I'm sick of not being able to fend for myself."

"That's why you got me, sweetheart. Now, move."

"I said no, damn it!" Amy yelled, freeing herself from his grip. "Don't you get it? I don't want to need you to protect me. I want to be able to do it myself."

Dean gaped at her.

First came the pain, as if someone had just punched him in the gut so hard he had to double over. He didn't though, because soon after a bruised ego and blinding fury took over him.

With bawled fists and through a tightly closed jaw he bit out: "Fine." and trudged back to the bar.