Believing Improbable Things

by feralpixc

One more life changed by the Winchesters forever. Lots of angst ensues, humor later, romance Deancentric. What do you do when you fall into love, hate and two hunts, two relationships that span decades? How do you survive? This is one journey.

36. The World Repeats Itself Somehow

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36. The World Repeats Itself Somehow

Man is free at the moment he wishes to be.

-- Voltaire

The first step to ensure the success of your plan is to wear a big, bulky jacket. The kind that you'd only wear if you lived in Canada, or if there was a blizzard raging, and it was sub-zero degrees. That morning, wind whipping hair back from your eyes, cool air gliding over your exposed skin, you slide your arms into the thick, navy wool sleeves, meet her eyes, and send a curt nod across the parking lot. She nods back, turns away, and you flick a glance at the boys.

They hadn't noticed the silent exchange.

Good.

000

The second step is to be the one to pay at the gas station. When you stop midday, sun burning high in the sky, heating the asphalt and everything upwards, until there's an invisible shimmer burning the air, you slide out with Dean, climbing over Sam's lap like you have a million times before. Make sure to poke him in his side with your elbow, like always, the little surprised grunting noise he makes as the breath whooshes out of his chest making you giggle. He pretends to shove you off him, and you ruffle his hair, grin, and stick your tongue out. He slams the door in your face with an indignant squeak from the Impala, the air as it goes past inches from your nose almost cooling the sweat on your upper lip. He smirks at you from behind the glass, then turns away as Sharika asks him a question, lips moving soundlessly to your ears.

Everything is going perfectly.

If by 'perfectly' you meant 'you're melting into a puddle into the concrete from heatstroke because you can't take the damn stupid jacket off, and are having mutinous thoughts about why she couldn't be the one doing this'. Just because you got the short straw – well, actually the short quarter. If that makes any kind of sense. In any case, it went on Heads twice instead of Tails, damnit – and this is how you got here and it sucks. If that's what you considered 'perfect', then yeah, everything was just peachy. Seriously, was all this worth the sweltering and the weird looks Sam, Dean and the random shirtless guy topping up his truck gave you? Maybe not.

But otherwise, yeah. It was going straight to plan.

You smiled at Dean, offered to pay and get the requisite daily sugar and fat intake, and he flicks a look over your flushed face, still filling up, and shrugs. Nods. Ignoring the material of the jacket sticking to the skin of your back with sweat, you smile wider and saunter into the station, hoping, hoping – and there it is. Pluck the box from the shelf, grab a handful of chocolate and candy bars, a couple of bags of chips, four bottles of soft drink – Diet Coke for Sammy, Coke for Dean, Sprite for you, a water for Sharika – and plop your pile of booty onto the counter. The clerk sends you a bored look, starts to ring up the toll, and you decline a bag for the box, slipping it under your arm under your jacket instead. Pay. Leave. Manoeuvre back into the Impala, dumping the regular snacks into the front seat for the boys to squabble over and climb into the rear.

"You get the goods?" she asks, and Sam offers her a Swizzle stick.

You just tuck the box into your bag while the boys are fighting over who gets the Cheetos, and smile.

000

The third step is good timing. Unfortunately, due to your job there's really no such thing, so the two of you decide on a bathroom break to fake sickness. The jacket you've been wearing all day helps with that at least, and when you come back with your face artfully done to make it look like you just revisited your lunch – red eyes, nose, cheeks, pale everything else – the boys don't ask questions.

After a quiet day in the car, you sweating under too many layers of clothing and the blanket Sharika tucked you into, pinching your cheek before you tried to covertly bite her – to keep you warm, smirk – you pull up at a motel and bag a couple of rooms. She offers to stay behind when the sun starts to go down, and though the boys offer token protestations at first, your fabricated and well practiced retching noises, as well as the water you spasmodically throw into the toilet bowl from the empty soda bottles, dissuade their presence.

They leave as soon as they're politely able, scurrying off to the bar down the road to look for leads and beer. You wash your face with a cloth and bounce into the bedroom again, watching with her from behind a polka dotted curtain as the Impala peels out of the parking lot.

"Scared?" she asks, turning her face to eye you, and you grin.

"You wish."

000

It was war.

The mess, the stains of it are all over your hands and you can't get it off – it's clinging to your fingers, the in betweens, stuck under your nails, in your hair, on your clothes, to your face – and all you can do is hide behind the couch and wait. Cower, really. Because who wants to go through all of that again. Some of it is sticking your hair to the side of your face – along your temples, your jaw. You try and wipe it away on the back of your hand, and it comes away thick and dark. The unmistakable scent wafts up into your nostrils, and you swallow, hard, sneak a look over the top of the couch and duck down just as quickly as you popped up, another missile launching by over your head. You imagine you can feel the wind as it flies past – heart beating at your oesophagus, fast as any wild, cornered bird.

Oh yeah, this was so worth everything you'd gone through today.

You peek around the left side just as she's coming up, and heave, manage to smack her in the cheek, covering again as she lets loose a tiny scream. "Take that, bitch!" you yell to mask the desperate laughing sounds trying to force their way out of your throat, and hastily gather your ammo, knowing you've outstayed the welcome this hiding spot had offered. Look to the left, to the right, then move.

Scurry across the room to a bed, swerving and dodging the open fire she slings your way. Get hit right in the back – the sting flinching up to your shoulders – and throw yourself into the space between the beds, breathless, scooping your weapon closer to you, skin stinging slightly where she'd made her mark. This is going to be a bitch to clean up later, you think, and look over what you have left. Not much – but with calculated strategy, good timing and aim, you just might be able to win this.

And then she's right there – slathered hand coming out and smashing right into the middle of your face and up your nose and you choke, reach out blindly with your weapon fitted perfectly into your own palm – and it goes, all down the side of her neck – you reach up for her forehead – and then the two of you are rolling on the floor, cursing and yelling and trying to get on top – determination and arrogance and the desire to win – you're going to win – show her – slam her back into the floor, weapon raised high, triumph glittering on your teeth and you –

"Cookie dough? You guys are fighting with cookie dough?!" comes a familiar, incredulous masculine voice from the doorway, and you blink wet clumps off of your eyelashes to see Sam and Dean standing there, looking – well, kind of stunned. You hadn't even noticed the sounds of the Impala pulling up, the door opening, so involved were you in the midst of your battle. The moment stretches, the details blurring until all you can see is the boy's shocked faces, wide hazel green and blue green eyes, the open door. You climb off your perch on Sharika's thighs and offer her a hand up, smears of the uncooked dough standing out like war paint on your pink cheeks.

"Yep," Sharika said, as she takes your hand and you pull her up. "It's fun."

And then you giggle helplessly. "Well, actually, if it makes you feel any better – it's double choc chip cookie dough that we're fighting with," you offer sheepishly, and look down at your hands. The thick covering of chocolate beckons you, and you stick your index finger in your mouth, lick all around the coating, and smile at the boys around it, suck. "Oh," you continue indistinctly as an afterthought as they continue to just stand there, Sam's mouth starting to curl, Dean's eyebrows rising comically high, "What are you guys doing back?"

"Hey guys, can you please close the door? The AC's on." Even covered in mush Sharika strove to be polite. In accordance, you strove not to roll your eyes.

And failed.

They come in and close the door. "I thought you were sick," Sam says, voice thick with amusement, as he shrugs out of his jacket and eyes the dough-mottled chair next to him before shrugging again and sticking it on the cleanest spot he can find.

"Surprise?" you say, and grin. Suck.

"You girls went through all this to – what? Throw uncooked baking goods at each other?" Dean asks, shaking his head, eyebrows beetled. What, he never played cookie dough war? Or played pranks? Took out some time for fun?

"All what?" Sharika and you ask simultaneously, innocence abounding, then wince. The fast paced, too easy answers damn you both. You know, if the chocolate strewn everywhere, and the image of you sitting on her hadn't already given you away irreversibly. You sigh and try not to shuffle your feet, feeling kind of like a small child being scolded by their parent for dragging mud into the house.

Really good tasting mud, you think, and replace your index with your middle finger, taking the first out of your mouth with an obscene popping noise. Oh, and this one has a white choc chip. You close your eyes half way in bliss, stifle a moan.

"The – the jacket thing," Dean manages after a second of blinking, and you cock your head to the side. What's he thinking? Is he really that mad? It'll only take a little while to clean, really… "Lauren's 'sickness', the fake vomiting – which was really quite realistic, by the way – and hiding the box." Dean's staring at the two of you like he can't quite believe his eyes, though that's mostly hidden beneath a variation his are you stupid? look at the moment. He's staring particularly hard at you, you notice – probably placing all the blame on you in his head, when it was really all SHARIKA'S…okay, yeah, it was your fault. Well, more specifically, he's staring at your mouth. You wonder how ridiculous you look with dark, sticky clumps of dough spread all over your cheeks, in your eyebrows, your hairline, under your chin. The child-mud analogy was possibly more accurate than you'd first thought.

Sharika's emulating you on your left side, making the same loud sucking noises, and trying to clean all the chocolate off her hands without wasting it – because, seriously? Uh, YUM – and you wait to hear anything else the boys want to say. It's not really like its any of their problem really; you and she were the ones who had to sleep here. And they'd been sweet, caring about the two of you, or whatever – being suspicious, more like – coming back to check that you two weren't fighting again – and then they'd heard the cursing and shouting and the noises the furniture made when the two of you had rolled into it while fighting for dominance on the floor, so…

"And – and – just be sure to clean it up, okay?!"

Dean turns and storms out of the room, and you shoot a questioning glance at Sam. He doesn't notice – he's a little busy in a dreamlike trance, eyes vague and mouth slightly open while he watches Sharika lick her fingers. You cough loudly and he jerks. "Oh – yeah, um," he stutters, picks up his jacket, glances away. "I've – I've gotta, uh… I got to go. With Dean. Right now." And he follows his brother out the door, closing it behind him with a definitely-not-desperate-to-escape click.

"What the hell was that?" you ask Sharika, chest shaking with the effort to hold in your laughter – Sam's look was priceless. She shrugs.

"With Dean? I don't know, probably he saw that we were having fun when we were supposed to be doing work. You know how serious Dean can be about the job sometimes. What was wrong with Sam? The sudden awkwardness, I mean?"

"I don't know," you say, deciding not to let her in on the boys plus long things in female mouths thing with the licking thingy equals… yeah. You just keep quiet.

She studies the chocolate covered motel room. You can almost see her itching to clean, the neat fairy inside her wailing at the dark brown smudges on the wall, ground into the carpet, on your clothing. You have a similar compulsion to attack the chocolate – with your mouth. But considering the state of the motel room's hygiene – questionable, at best – restrain yourself. "Want to clean up now?"

You muster up a thoughtful expression, reaching behind you to scratch your back. "Not yet," you say – and push the handful you'd found there into her face, laughing.

000

Your eyes are closed tight – and yet the sun still manages to shine through, a bright yellow-white spangle on the back of your eyelids. It makes you groan and wish for darkness, almost. Okay, completely. You'd kill for more sleep, though death sounds like an equally wonderful option at this point. Anything involving loss of consciousness. Your nose twitches and you sneeze, dust motes crawling up your nostrils, then try and snuggle into your own shoulder, to block the light with flesh. It doesn't work, and you pull your other arm over your face, creating shadow. Head leaning against the window pane, hair tickling the corner of your eye, you grasp at sleep's receding edges, crawl and cry for it, and curse Sam's penchant for early rising. You'd only grabbed an hour before having to leave the motel room.

Damn him.

You make this little involuntary snuffling sound, press your forearm harder, tighter against your eyes, and ignore Dean's snort from next to you, the rhythm he's tapping onto the rim of the steering wheel. It sounds like Peace of Mind, which means something's got his panties in a bunch. Something you're not in the mood to get into, because sleep. Sleep, Goddamnit, please come back. Sam's in the little trucker diner next to you – he'd decided you didn't have time to eat in this morning, and was grabbing some chow for all of you. If you don't have time at four o'clock in the morning, when will you ever? Sharika's in the back, flashlight trained on a book on the state of Nebraska's temperature ranges, as she compares it to the print out sheet she has on supposedly erratic weather patterns over that way. You're in Lincoln at the moment – and even though you try and shove away any coherent thoughts, try to stay blank, stay half way in slumber – you start thinking. You suppose it wouldn't be a horrible stretch to head over to Omaha for some hunting, though anything that can mess up the weather is something you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley at night. Those sons of bitches were difficult, not relatively simple, like the garden-variety ghost hunts. Plus, there's the geographical angle. God, you hate the city. But then, you hate the country too. Both of them have their upsides, but they have their worse downsides. In the city you have to be more careful about getting caught, you have so many more people crowding you, watching you, paranoid. Security cameras around every freaking corner. In the country hunts were generally more difficult to track and trace, the spirits and the supernatural entities older and more powerful. Things in the country had history, puke, vomit, gag.

Please sleep? Please? You can offer a half stale cookie, empty soda cans and a quarter? Sleep didn't reply.

Loud, high squeal of metal behind you and you jerk, peer over your shoulder at Sam, his long frame climbing, folding in on itself, adjusting, lanky muscles contracting, expanding, quieting as he settles into the upholstery next to Sharika. "Awake yet?" he asks you, and you blink at him, eyes bleary.

And grunt.

He grins, that too wide, careless one, the one that is far too cheerful for you to handle in the morning, because Jesus, caffeine should alwayscome before excessive cheer – always – and started handing out bags and Styrofoam cups. Dean set his down next to him on the seat, brown paper with a white and black logo crinkling and leaning against his thigh as he dived straight into his coffee. You pretend not to hear his quiet, heartfelt moan and sigh after the first undoubtedly hot, straight black swallow, envy clustering in the back of your neck, fighting for dominance with the need for sleep. Sharika thanks Sam as she receives hers, placing the cup between her knees and the bag between her teeth; the moves don't even stop the skimming of her eyes over rows of tiny typed facts and data, eyebrows drawn in slightly, line sketched on her forehead, fingers curled around the pen in her slim fingers.

"Don't suppose you want this," Sam said casually, fucking beaming into your face and holding a cup of coffee just out of your reach. The broad, delicious smell tickles your nose, and you narrow your eyes.

Don't suppose you want a punch in the face, you think, but all that comes out of your lips is another indistinguishable mumble-grumble-grunt, and you swipe clumsily for the cup. He jerks it away, dangling it between his fingers and you try not to whimper. You can already taste the caffeine, the hot, undulating, full-bodied flavour of it on your tongue, the automatic shot of energy it'd give you, straight to your centre. It's not fucking fair, you want it, you want it now, and he isn't giving it to you. You aren't going to beg. You aren't.

Not unless he takes much longer.

You make another desperate grab, but you're half-dead and uncoordinated, haven't had enough sleep in god knows when, and he's perky and smirking. Your hand drops, and your head droops, and then he just smiles, knowing he's won and gives it to you, your fingers wrapping around the hot, slipping condensation, instinct bringing it straight to your mouth, tilting, the plastic jamming up against your nose as you take a grateful slurp. You close your eyes in bliss.

The rumble of the Impala starts under your thighs, a dim vibration shuddering through your whole body, and you let your head roll back on your neck, your body slumping on the seat. When you manage to pry your eyes open again you see Sam, still smiling at you, taking slow sips of his coffee.

He has two brown paper bags on his lap.

"Wha's tha'?" you slur, pointing vaguely, and the smile widens, curves piling on top of each other, his eyes crinkling. Okay, you really hope he doesn't take that sexually. Because it's Sam, even if you were totally leaving yourself open to that and gesturing at his lap. If it had been Dean you just know he'd be all, 'never seen one before, have you sweetheart?' and you know you'd just die and –

"The last blueberry muffin," he said, slow and easy, picking it up and holding it out, looking straight into your eyes. Thoughts clogged. "For you."

"My hero," you said, and took it.

000

"Hey."

"Hey," you say back, smile at Sharika as you slide into the booth. "What's up?"

Her solemn look automatically makes your caution rise. Rightly so, you find. "I just thought, you know, that while the boys aren't here we could have a talk."

Oh man. You'd known when she said she wanted 'a quiet night in' that she hadn't meant it. That's why when you got her call at the bar, Sam next to you, trying to find some more leads on his dad – he was checking emails from his dad's old hunting friends, or something – and Dean chatted up women at the pool table, you hadn't been surprised. Had, in fact, finished the one beer you'd been nursing for over an hour, and left with a wink at Sam. You'd told him you wouldn't be staying long, and, as per usual, were right. Still, you hadn't known what she'd wanted until now. And now that you did, you wished you were back at the bar with smoke stinging your eyes and nostrils, and too loud Bad Company classics ringing in your ears.

God, you loved Bad Company. Well, unless you were forced to keep it. Damn.

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you instead place one elbow onto the table, trying to evade the questionably sticky spots that the waitress hadn't come round to clean yet, and plop your chin into your hand to look up at her with big eyes. They're not as potent as a puppy look, but its half way. Just enough to show a little exasperation mixed in with the humour. "Don't you think we've had enough of those, really? Seriously? Because me? I've had enough to last for the next decade and a half. Maybe longer. First Dean, then Dean again, though involuntarily – man I hated that Sumner bitch – and with you, same deal. And now you want another? Honey, I wouldn't do it for a million dollars. Okay, maybe a million, but otherwise –" you smile at her cheekily, and leave off. She gets the idea, you're sure. And you were telling the truth – really, you don't think you could bear another deep and meaningful any time soon.

Things between you this past week – since your dual possession, confession, kiss, kiss, blah, blah – had been fantastic. Absolutely wonderful. Better than it had been the whole time since she'd come back, really. There were no other words for it. The two of you were clicking, on that essential level that you'd had during the first stages of your friendship. Getting whatever the other meant instinctively, being in sync hunting-wise – even if all you'd been doing was research on temperature ranges – finishing each others' sentences, laughing, having fun with each other, and just talking. Man, you'd stayed up for three nights in a row talking about your adventures the year you'd been apart. You wondered why she hadn't brought up whatever it was she wished to talk about one of those times. Maybe it just wasn't seemly to talk about it with the lights out, the two of you giggling on separate beds before you finally just bounded over to sit on hers – or on her. You'd forgotten how ticklish she was, but now you remembered, made calculated and gleeful use of it – often.

None of it was tainted any more, you felt. Your relationship. Not by the bitterness, or unspoken words, or anything. You could thank that ghost for this small mercy, at least. But that didn't mean you wanted to start splashing your guts over the walls any time soon. You deserved a little peace, you felt – a little easiness. No more fighting, or too-serious chats for you. No fries with that.

Besides, it weirded you out a little, it felt like you were breaking the rules, giving into something that was out of bounds because of how you'd conditioned yourself to be, and a miniscule, defeatist part of you couldn't help believing that it wasn't going to last. You'd been through so much, and although it was fun, and you loved this, and you loved ­her – unquestionably – it was still fragile. It could still be broken. Whatever. You're not thinking about that, you're living in the present.

She's raising an eyebrow at you, and you sigh, settling in for the long haul, affecting nonchalance. You've known her so long you can read her facial expressions like flash cards, and this one is telling you – no ifs, ands or buts – that you aren't getting out of this until she says what she wants to. You'll just have to listen and try not to think too much, or say something that could lead into something else that you really don't want to have to deal with. Okay, so you've learnt – make that been taught – not to hoard all your emotions to yourself; but that didn't mean you had to let everything out. They didn't expect you to start talking about how finding your cat run over when you were twelve scarred you for life, or anything, right? What would be the point? On the same level, talking about something as idiotic as, say, the fact that John knows a lot more than he's telling, apparently – stuff that affects not only the boys and their demon, but Sharika and hers. God, John was such a repressive little bitch sometimes. It was completely annoying how he kept all these secrets and expected everyone else around him to just automatically trust him and bend to his every whim. Yeah, you're going to stop thinking about that, before Sharika notices your hands clenching on the table top. Let go, let go.

You let go, and sigh, lean back farther into the squeaking faux leather of the chair and flick your eyes around for a waitress. What do you have to do to get a Danish around here? Of course, thoughts of Danishes, and custard, and almonds, and golden pastry starts you off on the whole you're-thinking-about-screwing-Dean-senseless thing. A weird connection – golden, Dean's skin, Dean, Dean, Dean naked, you naked, you and Dean naked, you and Dean naked together with Dean's golden skin… You've been thinking about it even more than usual. It wasn't fair – kissing in a fucking belfry, before you were cock-blocked by a spirit. Okay, and maybe you're thinking about mentioning that to Sharika – the whole you, crazy insane lust, Dean, naked skin thing – because, god, she's been repressing her instincts to do the nasty with guys how many years now? She's sure to have some great tips. But if she's not going to bring it up, you're sure as hell not gonna. It does not need to be verbalised. It's not anything new, and you're sure Sharika knows anyway. It must be twenty nine kinds of obvious. And it doesn't really mean anything, and nor is it anything important.

Okay, yeah. You just have to convince your libido about that particular issue. Forbidden fruit never looked as luscious as Dean's mouth when he was biting his lip while driving, or that sulky pout he got when he was reading something particularly long winded. God. Not the time to think about that. You're in far enough, thank you.

And seriously? You really need to get one of those lap bands – what is it? Gastric banding? Laparoscopic gastric banding, if you were listening to Sam properly when he went off on one of his information splurges, where he Wikipedia tripped, and blurted out the text to a completely uninterested audience. In this case, you. Anyways, yeah, you need one of those lap bands, except not for your stomach, for your BRAIN. One that restricts lustful thoughts. You should be able to have some teeny tiny lustful thoughts, and that'd keep you happy for hours, until you had another little binge. That'd keep you sane, and healthy, and totally able to resist jumping Dean as though he were a giant custard and almond Danish that you just wanted to gobble up and – oh, god you are so screwed. Before you could totally put off the instinct to jump him – not entirely, but enough to stop yourself, right? – because of Sharika, and all those angsty issues. But now you're pretty much in the clear with all that, what was there to keep you back?

You know, except for the whole unrequited love deal, and you are so, so dead. It didn't stop you before. You had more issues before and it hadn't stopped you. Okay, okay. He doesn't want it. Except that home truth was also looking more grey because of that whole inhibition loss thing, and the shapeshifter thing, and you remember that spirit, Randy or something? After the library? And how you two almost did it in that squishy little alcove? Oh, and that time in the shower – and why is Sharika still staring at you, wordless, with this little smile on her face like she knows exactly what you're thinking about?

You haven't been babbling this out loud have you?

"Hey! Can I get a coffee over here?" you yelled, a little desperately, and beamed wide and eager and fake at Sharika. "You going to start, or just sit there staring at me? Something on my face?"

No, you definitely hadn't been talking aloud. Thank god.

"I was just wondering… didn't my leaving have any effect on you?"

Okay… uh, what? Totally not what you were expecting. And what are you supposed to say to that? 'I was in a self-inflicted coma until the motel manager pounded on my door telling me to drag myself out of there before he called the cops, or to pay for another fucking day'? Yeah, that was a real pride-saver. Plus you're pretty sure you told her how broken up you were at some point… then again, thinking it over, maybe not. You told Dean but not her? Huh. Still, is this really the time to get into such things? And yeah, do you want to expose possibly the worst days of your adult life to her eyes? You don't think anything happened to her, that she did anything like that – you know, because she left you, and it was her decision, and yeah, maybe John told her to but she chose to do it – and what is this? Another tangent about issues you're even now not one hundred percent sure on? Christ. You wonder if you're tired. Because you're really energetic, and erratic, and that was not a good thing – being wired this late in the day – night – was it morning yet? Yeah, you need coffee. Like, now. "Well, I wasn't throwing any parties, if that's what you mean."

"Lauren," she said in her warning voice, and you rolled your eyes. Well, actually, you pretended to roll your eyes while you actually searched behind Sharika for the waitress. She was still bent near a guy on the opposite side of the room; head cocked and face serious and open as they talked. Was everyone having deep-and-meaningfuls tonight? Just – just no. You need coffee. And you need to –

"Yeah, okay," you sighed, and hated yourself. Your mouth needs a gag. Or maybe a muzzle. Or maybe you should get your tongue cut out. You just can't keep anything to yourself, can you? "There was this whole thing." You waved your hand dismissively, slumping further in your seat, tapping the fingers of your right hand on the sticky table. "I didn't leave the motel room until that creepy manager guy – you remember him? – with the goatee and really small eyes, he told me I had to leave, or pay for another night. I left." See, that wasn't so hard now, was it? Of course, it wasn't everything, but it was – well, it was enough. Truth enough to tide even her over, you hoped. "How about you, Blondie? Do anything fun? Sacrifice a goat, spear a native? Buy a new pair of underwear?"

"Lauren, did you ever wonder why I was skinnier than before? When you first saw me?"

Uh… you're skinnier than before? "Because you grew?" You inject all the guileless questioning you can into your voice, widening your eyes and not faking it one hundred percent. Yeah, you'd wondered a little. But it had been a year, and her features were still settling into maturity. You'd noticed the slimmer features, the less rounded cheeks, and, okay, so maybe she'd lost weight and you'd realised. But so had you, and that hadn't meant anything in particular. Doing all the physical work by yourself, no partner – well, it was a fairly active lifestyle. Those poor, innocent carbs never had a chance.

Wait, had she gone anorexic or something?!

"No," Sharika huffed, crossed her arms. Your eyes flickered away from her brown ones, to the cup of coffee before her on the table. So maybe it had excess creamer in it. So what? It was still coffee. Wasn't it? Maybe it was tea. She didn't like coffee. But you didn't like tea. Still, you could settle, since it still looked like you weren't about to get any actual coffee anytime soon. Maybe if you left on that excuse – that'd totally let you leave this weird ass conversation – although, you would have to come back eventually – upside being by then you might have coffee and – damnit. "Because I hadn't been eating properly. I spent a whole week energised by a single peanut."

At that your eyebrows were raising – incredulous, a little critical, maybe even some sarcasm mixed in there. You had to stifle a smile. It wasn't funny she'd practically starved herself – and it made you feel a little better that, hey, maybe you weren't the only torn up one – but a peanut? "Dude, you're weird."

"Shut up. You're weirder."

"Nuh uh."

"Yah huh. Lauren, I spent weeks in a motel room, moping like a –"

"Headless chicken?"

She shook her head, eyebrows meeting in the middle as she stared at you. What? Headless chickens can't mope? And it's not your fault you had the urge to just plonk that in there. It just came out. It was you. Hell, this open-mouth syndrome was a trait of yours that she exploited on various occasions; she should be used to it by now. Even if strange stuff blurted out. Hell – especially if strange stuff blurted out. Did you mention you could really go for some caffeine right now? Well, even something masquerading as caffeine, like the coffee these places generally tended to serve – burnt engine oil spiked with sugar. "How would headless chickens be mopey Lauren?"

You thought about it for a second, fingertips scuttling across the tabletop, near her cup, back and forth, near and far, back and forth, you're almost – "Well, I'm pretty sure they must have some awareness that they're dying, right?"

"Right," she said, drawing it out. "Lauren, they're already dead, it's just their body reacting. They have no consciousness. Anyways, I was thinking, more like a man about to walk the green mile."

Your head shot up from watching your hands. "Wait, the Eminem movie?" She saw that? Dude, all you saw was when it came on the television that one time, right in this scene where there were boxes and that blonde chick and Eminem doing it standing, and seriously, although that wasn't wholly a bad thing it was still a little shocking when you were launched right into it with no warning – and wait, what were you talking about?

If anything she looked even more disbelieving than before. "No, that's 8 mile. The green mile is the walk from the jail cell to the death chamber."

"Oh, so it's that guy what's-his-face? Tom… Tom…" For the life of you, you just couldn't seem to grasp that guy's last name –

"Hanks." Oh, right. How could you forget that? Forest Gump was like, heartbreaking. "Back to the point."

"What point? Didn't you already say it, you anorexic? You know I'm going to be watching everything you eat from now on, right?"

"Lauren, I am not anorexic."

"Yeah, okay. Whatever."

She leaned forwards across the tabletop, capturing your eyes with hers, smiling that sweet, free smile that you'd seen so often lately, but still couldn't get enough of. Considering the amount of time you'd gone without it before – a year and a half, or something equally insane like that – she should smile like that all the time. You'd been outdoing yourself, trying to put it on her face as often as possible. You were stocking up on good memories until the next time the two of you had a fight. Like cookie dough war – god, you hadn't done that since you were seventeen. And that had originally been an accident. "There are still so many things I have to tell you," she said, and you smiled back, tucked a wayward curl behind your ear.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Like what?"

"Good evening, ladies. What can I get you?"

Your eyes reached up and connected with a pair of blue ones, a small, rounded woman looking down at your booth and smiling, holding a pot of coffee in her plump hands. Do not stare at it as though it is the Holy Grail. Just – just don't, mmkay? "Can I get a cup of Joe, please?" you asked, and smiled back. "Oh, and do you have any Danishes?"

"'Course honey," she said, and fished a cup out of her apron, proceeding to place it on the table and pour the sacred black liquid – uh, coffee, you meant coffee – into it. You were not going to ask. Okay, who the hell carries cups around in their aprons? Is that sanitary? How often did it get washed? How close was it to certain portions of her anatomy – "Apricot, or custard and apple?"

Damnit. "I was hoping for an almond one, actually," you say, and pick up the cup she's sliding over to you, take a slow, grateful sip. Ah, god. How do I love thee? Who knew that small, green and red beans could bring such endless pleasure?

"How about you, lovely?" she says, turning to Sharika, running her eyes over your friend's calm countenance. "Men don't like their women all skin and bones. Need a bit to hold onto, keep 'em warm at night." And she winked.

You almost snorted coffee out of your nose – but, of course, resisted, because that would be a huge waste of the precious fluid.

Mine.

Dude, you totally need to sleep. You should probably stop drinking the coffee, because you're totally hyped up already, and knowing you something BAD will probably happen if you continue along this path.

…Uh, coffee?

…You're right. Please continue to satisfy your sick addiction.

Sharika had said something to get rid of the woman while you were locked in internal debate with your self – and seriously, yeah, you probably really need to sleep because now your hands are starting to shake. It was really probably a tad stupid to stay up all night, for the past three nights, talking, especially when you couldn't sleep in the Impala, and ate a very unhealthy diet, and also had a hunt coming up soon that was going to draw a lot of energy from you and – ooh, coffee. You took another swallow.

"As I was saying –"

"Did you order anything?" you interrupted, peering around her with interest, craning your head to see if the woman – why hadn't you looked at her name tag? Weren't you supposed to be observant or some such? – was coming back any time soon, baked goodies in tow. You wouldn't even care if they'd been in her apron for some duration. You just really wanted pastry. Or maybe Dean. Although, that'd be weird. You're sure diners don't stock Winchesters. And yeah, because you wouldn't eat his skin, you aren't a cannibal, and dude, it wouldn't be flaky like a Danish, right? That would just be eww – he hadn't had flaky skin last time you'd seen his chest, or whatever – wait, how did he keep his skin so well moisturised? Seriously, your elbows practically had dandruff – when was the last time you shopped? You need to stock up on stuff like that. Yep. Where are the pastries? You don't want a Danish anymore because fruit right now? Just no. But maybe she has jam rolls. Or a doughnut. You could totally go for a doughnut, with like, chocolate icing and little colourful rainbow sprinkles –

"Lauren, are you alright?" Sharika asked, and her eyes were concerned. She looked blurred around the edges. Hey! So did the rest of this skeezy diner. Ha, skeezy. How many places like this have you been in your life? Wow. You should totally start counting. Like, when was the first? It must have been that time with Caleb, when you were like, fourteen, and he decided he was taking you to teach you how to play darts and hustle like that and you ended up only watching him play because the dudes wouldn't 'cheat a little pipsqueak like yourself'. So that was one. And then –

When you blinked you realised you'd been silent for a way longer time than was strictly safe, tallying and ticking off bar and diner visits in your head, and started. Quick – wait – what was her question? "Hmm? Oh, yeah, I'm peachy. Did you? Order anything, I mean. I'm starving."

"You only had dinner a couple of hours ago."

"'M a growing boy," you said sarcastically, and swallowed more coffee. It was too thick and scalded the roof of your mouth, but you ignored that fact, saying, "I'll take that as a 'no, no baked goodies are coming our way any time soon'."

"Did you seriously just say goodies?"

There was a small pause. "Oh my god. Yes. I did. I need to wash my mind clean with mullet rock. Quickly, before that song comes into my head. You know the one."

"I know the one. Just listen to the Fleetwood Mac they have on right now – it's sure to calm you."

"Dude! Tell me lies! I haven't heard this song in like, forever." And then you started humming. Oh yeah, you're tired. Really tired. And maybe tone-deaf. Or maybe you just can't hum. Or maybe you need more coffee.

Or sleep.

Mmm… sleep.

Coffee or sleep? Sleep or coffee? Coffee or sleep? Sleep or –

"Lauren?"

"Yeah? Oh, right. What were the things you had to tell me? I know there's a lot more I still have to tell you." Although, really, you don't think you'll be able to stay awake for another night, even if it involves talk of iguana suits and the stalking of children clad thusly. Sharika had really had a weird year.

"Seriously, you would not believe. Nothing you can imagine is as bad as what happened."

"Care to elaborate?" More coffee. Mine. Hey! This spoon is like, really shiny. You can totally see your face in it. It's like, the cleanest diner spoon you've ever seen. Usually they have those really small, hard flecks of food still encrusted to them, and you have to scratch them off with your fingernail, which is totally disgusting, and then you have to wipe it on your napkin, and even then it totally wouldn't be as clean as THIS spoon right here. Oh, wow, is your nose seriously that big? Ha, your eyebrows looked totally fucked from this angle.

"There was this one time –"

"Hey, did you know Sam masturbates over you?"

Oh. Oh, hey. You didn't mean to bring that up. Where had it even come from? You bite your lip, and though it seriously gives you pains in that place where your caffeine addicted, dried up husk was instead of a heart, push the still half full – half empty – cup away from you. No, no you are going to resist the dark call of the coffee. You really, truly are. Wait. But what if you start to pass out? You're really tired, and coffee keeps you awake, because it's a stimulant, and stimulants keep you awake, and you – wait, why do you have to stay awake? The tabletop actually looks pretty comfortable. And this was a trucker diner so it'd be open all night, and they wouldn't kick a paying customer out, right?

You wonder if your hair would mate with the sticky stains. And if you could watch.

"How do you know?"

"Oh, I hear things. And I have nightmares. Thank you."

"Well, Dean –"

"Yeah, he knows too. Sammy isn't exactly quiet, you know. Or discreet. Or long-lasting." You pause for a second, then, at the shocked look on Sharika's face, start babbling – you mean, explaining. Explaining. Because you wouldn't want to portray him in a bad light, and you really need those two to get together and have kinky sex, or even, you know, boring missionary sex, so you don't have to deal with all the annoying denial and blah, whatever, that the two of them are going through, and if she thinks he's only a two minute noodle it's not likely to happen, is it? Well, okay, even less likely to happen than it was originally. "But you really can't hold that against him, the poor guy's in mourning, and hasn't had sex in like, ages, plus he's totally got this whole unresolved sexual tension thing going on with someone that he's in daily contact with, and I often wonder if he has chafing because he does it so often."

"Uh, what?"

"I don't know. I also actually don't know why I even brought this up. Thinking about Sammy going all Hans Solo on Darth Vader's head, or being otherwise engaged in any kind of canoodling, totally isn't my idea of a good time. You, I can't vouch for. Still… wait, I don't think I actually have a point."

"You're tired, aren't you?"

"Exhausted. What's your favourite euphemism for self-induced penile regurgitation?"

"That's what I thought. You usually only act this cracked when you haven't had enough sleep. I don't even want to know what you've been sitting there thinking about. Especially if it involves a Winchester."

"I'm not a cannibal, mmkay?"

"Right. Check, please?"

000

In bed, too close to sleep. Drift, drift… the ceiling is really weirdly coloured. Like, what was that? The lights outside? Your leg is jerking. You shouldn't have had coffee. You wonder what the boys are doing. Are they back yet? Had Sam found any leads on his father? What's Dean –

"How much do you love him?" Whisper in the dark.

Grunt. Turn over. Wha? "Papa Smurf? He's my soul mate. Wait, what are we talking about?"

Sigh. "Dean."

"Oh." Pause. Shift. Sigh. "Well, as much as I hate him, possibly."

"You are so screwed."

"Uh, yeah. Sam?"

Rushed. "I don't love him."

"And you accuse me of being in denial." Mutter. "Ferret Lady." Roll. Sleep.

000

In the morning everything was looking much better, clearer – and you had enough of a handle on yourself to be sure that you weren't going to start mouthing off about Sam and how often he battled the purple headed yoghurt slinger. Ah, euphemisms. How could you live without them? Anyways, yes. Never again. You hope. Because really? That was maybe the scariest topic in the universe. Even if everything you'd said had been true.

And you could really kill for a Danish.

"Anyone up for breakfast?" you asked, trooping into the boy's motel room with a mile wide grin, a spring in your step, and no dark purple circles under your eyes – finally. Unfortunately, your mouth sometimes has the worst timing. Remember that whole, boys-not-having-any-fucking-modesty thing? Yeah. Sam was just going into the bathroom, stepping out of his boxers and Dean was just dropping his towel.

He was definitely up for breakfast.

"Shut the damn door!" he yelled at you, and you reacted on instinct, slamming it and spinning around, putting your back to it and breathing hard. Your breath had kind of frozen somewhere up in your mouth, and your heart was stuttering. Even though you were facing the faded lines of the parking lot now, all you could see was the warm sunlight streaming into illuminate the whole motel room and dance on his wet, gleaming body. Oh. Oh god. Skin. Long, sleek, perfect muscles. Water drops, gliding – down – down. Biceps and chest and legs and thighs and oh god. Oh god. You are so, so screwed.

When the boys come out a couple of minutes later, tossing the duffels into the back of the Impala you pretend nothing had happened. That is, of course, until Dean said, "See anything you liked?" to you on the sly, grinning as Sharika and Sam fiddled around, arguing companionably over their usual task of getting all the bags to fit properly in the trunk.

You couldn't just take that, of course. "Couldn't see anything," you answered him flippantly, and shook your head, affecting sadness. Then you smirked. "I didn't have a microscope on hand."

000

By lunch time you'd scoped out the town, and spoken to three climatologists. They were fascinated by the weather changes in the area, and hypothesised – with an excess of enthusiasm and uncertainty – that it had something to do with a couple of cold fronts heading down from the north.

Sam had a different theory.

"Witch," he said, straight off the bat when the four of you met back up at the motel. You'd split into pairs – you and Sharika, Sam and Dean – to cover more ground that day. You'd gone to a couple of different universities to ask the resident experts, only to confirm what Sharika had already deduced from her giant textbook. The weather was fucking messed up. La di DUH. "A witch or a demon. Nothing else has the power to mess around with the weather like this – sprites and elementals aren't malicious, so it's not them, and nothing else fits. Because there's not a pattern, it's irregular. Hail one day, so hot the pavement's melting the next. I'm betting on a witch; the weather can be affected by their moods, or certain spells and incantations. Like witch doctors in Africa – everyone knows about rain dances, right? If you look here –"

And he went on to explain in graphic detail himself. You were surprised that he didn't have a chart and one of those pointer thingies – oh, and that Sharika wasn't taking notes with a pen and a Hello Kitty notepad, because she was leaning forwards with big eyes and nodding so hard you wondered whether or not to strap her in her chair for her own safety. Or maybe you could just clamp her whole head to a board. Or –

Okay, yes. You're in a bad mood. It's all Dean's fault.

See, if he got changed in the bathroom like a normal person, this morning wouldn't have happened. And you – okay, yeah, you'd still be thinking about straddling him right now and practicing your bull riding technique. Except maybe when the other two were gone. Unless they wanted to join in – which would just be so wrong. So, so wrong. Yeah. You are so horny you're even considering letting your best friend and Sam watch. Okay, not really. You don't miss sex that much. That is, you miss sex. Fuck, you really miss sex. But you're not going to have any with anyone except Dean – and not where others can see you – and you know, love really sucks cock.

Unlike you.

Unfortunately.

Goddamnit. You are so pissed right now.

"Okay, so it's a witch. How do we find her and tell her to stop acting like she's God on ecstasy?" Dean asked, looking up from sharpening his Bowie knife for the first time since his brother had started yabbering.

And that's where Sam was stumped. "There's actually no way that I can find to do that," he said, looking down at his pages of notes, the books spread in front of him, John's journal. "Dad didn't have anything to say about it, and none of the sources I looked into had references to this kind of thing. I think the best we can do is try and find her, speak to her. Try and get her to stop."

"And how do we find her, Sammy?" Dean reiterated, raising an eyebrow.

"Uh…"

"We could try and pinpoint where the weather fluxes originate," Sharika said, and pointed to the map spread out next to her on the bed, tapped it with one slim brown finger. "We know it's in this town because it's the only area affected, but if we talk to some people maybe we can narrow it down to a smaller location. A house, or a street, maybe."

"Yeah, and then how do we find the actual witch?" you piped up. You folded your arms and gave everyone a slow, assessing look, leaning back in your chair. "Not to burst the bubble, but it's like looking for a voodoo pin in a haystack. Annoying, and fruitless; if we find it, potentially painful. Witches look like everyone else, and they don't give off EMF, or any other signs of supernatural activity." This is because witches were essentially human. They just had a bit of extra genetic kick, like Sharika. But not exactly. See, a witch was connected with nature and drew their power from that – Sharika, well, her power was all inside of her. Mental, not physical. If that made any kind of sense. Man, this hunt is going to be fucked five ways to Sunday. Ones involving humans always were – you couldn't just kill a human. You had to deal and bargain and think before you acted. There were moral guidelines that even the four of you adhered to. This was one. Sacrificing any animals larger than a rabbit was another. "What are we going to do; go up to every person we see and ask to join the coven? Or to be taken to the High Priestess? We'll probably be locked up for antagonising the public."

"You got any better ideas?" Dean asked, flicking you a look, and you sighed.

"No, obviously. I'm just pointing out the futility."

"Well, until we have a better plan, we'll stick with this." Dean smiled at Sharika, and she smiled back, then he went back to sharpening his knife. Long, slow strokes with the whetting stone. Hissing noise. Metallic smell. He makes it look obscene.

You hate him.

But it's probably a good thing he and Sharika are getting along again. You'll just stick to that thought. Right. It was nice, how they'd been getting along, compared to that week. Comfortable. They were friends again, like you and Sam. Except you don't really think that they consider each other to be like family, yet. Maybe later. Eventually. You hope.

"Right, so where do we start?" Sam asked. "We have to narrow the area down soon – two people have already died from lightning strikes, countless ones from car accidents in the rain and hail, and one from heatstroke. A blizzard's probably next. Maybe even a tornado," he joked. It wasn't really funny, but you managed a smile anyway. Who knew this witch's power? They could do anything.

Oh, joy.

"We'll take it in sections," Dean said. "And mark it off as we go. Everyone choose a direction."

"East!" you said immediately. It was the first thing that popped into your head.

Dean chose West, Sharika North, and Sam South. Then you split into pairs according to vertical and horizontal – you and Dean, and Sam and Sharika – because no way were any of you allowed to do this alone. Big Daddy Dean said so. And common sense. You and Dean flipped a coin – after some good natured squabbling – to see which direction you were going to check tomorrow. You'd alternate days, unless – until you found a clue. Sam just said they'd check North first, and Sharika shrugged, nodded. Smiled up at him.

Aw. Gooey.

"West it is," you grunted, and shoved Dean's shoulder playfully, pretending to be miffed, then tilting your chin and raising your brows at the lovebirds, pointing them out to him. He grinned back and tucked away the quarter. Then he started groping under the bed for his jacket, Sharika and Sam shrugging into theirs as you laced up your boots. Though you weren't showing it, it was obvious that you were all feeling the pressure – there was too much area to cover, so little time before the witch flipped again and decided to play around. You had no time frame at all, no way to gauge when they'd perform some mojo, or how long it'd take to work. You'd just have to hope you found some sort of hint to their whereabouts, and soon.

The four of you left the motel and headed off in your chosen directions. You managed to coax Dean into buying sandwiches on the way.

000

"So, what are we supposed to ask people exactly? 'You know the weird weather we've been having lately? Well, we were just wondering if you have any suspects as to who's doing it?'?"

"Pretty much."

"Well, that sucks," you said, and rubbed the crease in between your eyebrows. At this rate you were going to get premature wrinkles. You sighed. "There has to be an easier way to do this."

"Yeah? Well, if you find one, be sure to tell me all about it."

"Right." You ate the last of your salad sandwich in silence, then started folding and unfolding the greaseproof paper, hands itching to do something but sit here on a public bench and chat trivialities about a stupid fucking hunt when all you wanted to do was some stupid fucking and just plain fucking, and maybe some – no, no, no, no. No. Just no. Just stop. Just breathe. Just concentrate. Just skin, wet skin, shining with sunlight and his eyes, looking at you, looking – just NO. Oh god. You are so, so screwed.

You know when you get like this you're going to end up doing something stupid. Something really stupid that you're going to regret. It's like your mouth – when you can't stop yourself from saying things that you know are going to get you in trouble, but the compulsion is just too strong. You don't even make a conscious effort, a decision. It happens, and you have to deal. Like you're possessed – except you know it's just you which makes it really fucking annoying. Anyways – yeah. This really feels like one of those times. You'll hold it off as long as you can, but you just know.

Dean looks at you when you sigh again. "You right there? You're starting to sound like the Big Bad Wolf, or something."

"Nice to know you remember your fairy tales, Dean."

"Red Riding Hood was totally hot. Plus she had that whole basket of goodies thing. You just know that was code for something else."

"Oh yeah. Red Riding Hood was a total skank. You've been listening to Ciara too much." For that matter, so have you. What's with everyone and goodies lately?

"Who?"

"Never mind."

"Right." Dean starts in on his second sandwich, picking up the first half and guiding it to his mouth, steak and onions peeking out the side, bread woefully bare of anything green or vaguely vegetable-like. Onions and whatever is in barbeque sauce don't count. You smirk as he gets it smeared next to his mouth. He was always doing that, he was such a messy eater. Like he'd never really been taught manners. Considering his dad, he probably hadn't. He'd only learnt enough to emulate an old man who didn't want the public to look at them askance, but who didn't really have time for those social graces; he had enough to know not to get it up his nose or down his neck, but not enough that he was a fully grown man himself, with a complete knowledge of such things. You simultaneously felt sad and mushy about that; it was one of the sweeter things about him. One of the little things you noticed that drew you in that much deeper. If he'd had a mother he would have learnt, when he was older. Four year olds were notorious for ignoring their parents about such things – manners, bed time, flushing the toilet – this you knew, your brother Darren having been a complete devil at that age.

"Dean," you say, and nudge him.

"Wha'?" he asks, mouth full.

"Sauce."

"Mmmph – 'll clenn i' lay-a." Grunt, I'll clean it later; you automatically translated, rolling your eyes and trying not to see into his mouth, to the half chewed-food sticking to his tongue, teeth, palate, your hand coming up to rub an itch on the bridge of your nose. The seat bench was hard and firm against your shoulders, the planks digging lines in where they met. The wind was starting to pick up, sending shivers down your spine, skating along your exposed skin. You sent a glance at the sky – clear, blue, pretty. Nothing to worry about.

"Right," you said, over-enunciating, and then, quick as a striking cobra, you swiped the other half of his sandwich off his lap, taking a huge, gratuitous bite and groaning in pleasure. You hadn't had a steak sandwich in longer than you cared to remember.

"Hey!" You dodged the hand that grabbed for the rest of his food, grinning and laughing, ducking and weaving, chewing and gulping quickly, generally just goofing around with him. He was always stealing your food – it was time for a little payback. You managed to get another two bites in before he snagged it back, pulling it right out of your hands and teeth, barbeque-sauce-drenched-onion dripping and plopping down on his lap and to the ground. "See what you did," he growled, shooting you a mock glare, and started burrowing around in his jacket pockets for a napkin. You just sneered at him, sitting back and savouring the flavours of meat and bread in your mouth before you had to swallow. After a minute of watching him wipe ineffectually at his jeans with his fingers, because he couldn't find one, you rolled your eyes and fished out your own, stuffing it into his hands without really looking at him. Was it just your imagination, or were those clouds gathering weirdly fast? Even after he rubbed at the spots with the freshly spat on end of the soft paper, there were three brown stains on the blue denim, high up on his thigh, standing out as obvious as an elephant in a parking lot.

"Now our interrogations will be even more fun – the interviewees thinking that one of the reporters – not saying any names, of course, Dean – are not in full control of their capacities. Like a really old, really unhealthy person."

"While the other reporter has the mental age of a five year old."

"No, just the appetite. Can I –"

"No."

"But –"

"It's mine. I bought it, I get to eat it." And he tore off another chunk, cheeks bulging around it, eyes half closed in relish. He looked unbearably smug, eyebrows raised in challenge, side of his mouth cheekily quirked, shoulders slanted your way. You huffed out a breath and crossed your arms over your chest, ripping your eyes away and deciding to ignore him and not to dwell on what you were missing.

Steak sandwich, and Dean. Ah, damnit. You really must love him if you find the sight of him massacring a food product irresistible. If that hadn't already been completely established, without a single doubt – which actually happened to be really fucking annoying and worrying and a little scary. You aren't supposed to be in irrevocable, unrequited love with another hunter by the age of twenty three. What would he do if you threw that up on him? The love thing? Surely he wouldn't stick around to play Doctor Phil like the last time you'd flung your emotions at him. His eyes'd probably go freakishly ginormous, and then he'd find the quickest escape route.

Lynching those thoughts from your mind, you tipped your head back, and started wondering how you were really going to work this hunt. Sure, it was great to be optimistic, or whatever, but as you said – this plan was crap. It wouldn't work at all. It'd take you at least two weeks to check out the whole town, and even then it'd be stupid to think you'd gotten anywhere. People probably hadn't noticed the witch going around; it's not likely they'd be waving sticks of incense and chanting spells and dancing naked in the street. So this whole thing was useless. You'd have to search for some kind of ritual to pin down a witch, or find some sort of talisman that worked sort of like the EMF, if any such thing existed. And if it was anywhere in range. And if you could get your hands on it. All extremely unlikely, so the boys'd probably try some DIY magic, and you all knew how reliable that was. A.k.a., not at all.

Dean finished his lunch and stood, wiping his body free of crumbs with swift, efficient actions. Then he looked down at you, saying, "Back to work I guess," on a sigh, running long fingers through his hair. It was already messed up from the forceful tugging of the breeze, and you felt a frisson of unease slither through your shoulders and up to your neck, for no reason you could determine but the caution in his eyes. Dark strands fell into the hazel green orbs, then were whipped back again, clouds – purple and black and grey and green bruises on the sky – are starting to form a backdrop behind him, perfect for any kind of big announcement, any kind of heavy atmosphere or tension. Such a contrast to the last time you'd looked, bare minutes ago. You feel as though you should say something meaningful.

"Oh, goodie," you manage, "Work." And he holds out a hand, rolling his eyes. You take it, and he pulls you up, trying not to think of later, or before, but now. His hand was warm around yours, strong. And then he let go.

000

The blizzard Sam had sarcastically predicted started up around three o'clock. Dean called his brother, told him to grab supplies and to meet back up at the motel. The two of you rushed to the Impala, shoulders hunching as wind whipped up and blew dirt into your eyes, ears, mouth, nose. Every possible orifice on display.

You waited in line at the 7-11 with other frantic shoppers, checking your watch, the street, the sky, eyes busy and unable to hold still. The wind was stronger, temperature dropping, and it reminded you far too much of that movie The Day After Tomorrow for any kind of comfort. God. When you find this witch – and then Dean's at the register and you dump everything in your arms – candy, chips, drinks, jerky, muesli bars – onto the counter, the clerk just as frenetic, until Dean loses his patience and tosses him a fifty dollar note, hustling you back to the car, cheap food spilling onto the seat next to you as he peels out.

A blizzard, for fuck's sake. You weren't equipped for a fucking blizzard.

"Hey, we'll just ration, okay? Dad taught me and Sam how to do that, we'll be fine." Dean was trying to comfort you. Dean. You were more scared than you'd been before, now, fingers clenching on your thighs in an anxious cadences, trying to stop the instinctual shaking. Cold you weren't so good with. Cold, and starvation, and something you couldn't even hunt doing that – and oh, god. You're really not thinking about it. You aren't. You're fine. Everything's going to be just fine.

Oh god, you have to stop thinking. You need a distraction.

Dean.

"Hey, jerk face," you snapped. "Eyes on the road."

"Your wish is my command, Your Majesty."

"Dickwad."

"Bitch."

"Pansy." The radio was starting to faze you, music crawling in and out of your consciousness. …willing to sacrifice our love… world behind… fortune in feelings… The static almost laughs. Oh god. Cold As Ice, by ForeignerSomeone really hates you. Like, someone up there. What you must have done to deserve this, you don't know, but Karma was kicking your ass to the white-sprinkled curb, and you weren't enjoying it one itty bit.

"Loser."

"Asshat."

"Asshat?"

"Ha! I win!"

"Shut up, you do not! What the hell is an asshat?"

"If you don't know I am not going to tell you."

"Man, I hate that line. It's right up there with 'do I look fat in this?', and 'what are you thinking?' What's a guy supposed to be thinking about straight after getting sucked off?"

In spite of yourself you have to laugh. "You're asking me? How the hell should I know what to say after getting blown? I've never actually been on the receiving end, you know, and if you don't find the answer yourself it won't mean anything." And now you feel very self-satisfied. You wonder how many other such irritating sayings you can recall before you get to the motel. Snow flakes are starting to stick to the windows.

"That's another one. Where do women get these? Is there a magazine detailing how to stump guys completely, like a ten step course or something?"

"If I told you I'd have to kill you."

"Bond. James Bond."

"You wish. Frog."

"That again? I do not look like a frog."

"Well, you're certainly no Prince Charming, either. Want to be the Princess? I gladly relinquish my title."

"Think it'd suit me?"

"You're as pretty as any girl."

"If we're going by looks you're definitely the evil stepmother."

"There is no evil stepmother in the Princess and the Frog, Dean."

"Is there a hag?"

"You're so sweet. I can totally see why you get the guy in the end."

"What can I say? Happy endings and me, we're bosom buddies."

And you were there. The two of you grabbed the food, plastic crinkling in your arms and under them, piling high, Dean locking the Impala and closing the door with his foot, hopping and sliding, almost falling over with the thin coating of ice already on the tarmac, until you steadied him with an elbow and the two of you ran towards the room, trying to keep upright and not drop anything. It was so cold your teeth were chattering – it had only been snowing for fifteen minutes or so, and there were already slushy grey clumps of it forming in the gutters. It was supernatural, alright. It had been sunny this morning, for chrissakes. It had been sunny this afternoon.

You hate the cold.

Shuffling the produce you manage to unlock the door, crashing into the room and slamming it shut behind you, throwing everything on one of the beds and starting to scurry about the room. God, you're in a dilapidated motel room during a blizzard. A blizzard for fuck's sake. You're going to freeze to death.

"Hey!" Dean snapped at you, bringing you back to the present. You blinked yourself out of drugged fear and blankness, starting and managing to look at him and fake annoyance. Ah yes, fake annoyance. Always important. "Start plugging up cracks; I'll call Sammy, alright?"

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, and started rifling through the boys' dirty laundry for socks to plug the gaps in the window and the walls and the floorboards and – you're going to die. No, everything will be fine. You have the other four, and body heat, and food, and just stop thinking about Jake Gyllenhaal, mmkay? Or at least, not him in that movie. Maybe him in Brokeback Mountain. That was fun, right? Although also cold. It's not the end of the world; it's just some stupid, idiotic person fooling around with things out of their true command. And you are going to deal with them. And this. There is no need to be this worked up. It's just like any other hunt, any other complication on the road to getting the job done. You wouldn't be shaking like this if someone got a concussion, or anything, right? This is just like that.

You've been hurrying around the room while thinking, stuffing socks and boxers into holes as you went, and when you hear Dean finally connect, you sigh with relief, the same emotion evident in his whole body and his voice, when you turn to look over your shoulder. "Sam? Sam. Thank god. Where are you? Yeah, we're back here, just waiting for you. No, number two. Yeah. Yeah. You two alright? Yeah, 'course we are. Do you need us to pick you up? Okay. Yeah. Hurry back." He snapped his mobile shut, saying to you simply, "They're not far; they managed to pick up some supplies before most of the panic struck, and they'll be here soon. Lauren? Need help?"

"Nah, I'm all done now, no thanks to you, Mr Bond."

He smiled and shook his head, sitting down on the mattress and running a hand through all the sugary, teeth-rotting, cardiac-arrest-inducing foods spread across the coverlet. "This is going to be fun. Days trapped inside with nothing to do but get on each other's nerves. We're going to go stir crazy."

"You already are stir crazy." You sat next to him, then flopped back on the pillows, head bouncing on the hard mattress, folding arms under your head so you were at the right angle to meet his questioning eyes. You bit your lip, considering, then said, "I'm not really happy about this." It seemed that now you'd done it once it was a lot easier to keep doing it. Admitting your weaknesses to Dean. You'd worry about it later. There were other things to worry about now.

"I guessed. Bad experience?"

"Good imagination."

"That'll just about do it." He sighed and lay back, tucking his chin down so he could still see you, scratching a hand idly on the golden sliver of skin showing above his jeans. If your mouth wasn't already dry from worry, it would have been at that. "We don't even know how long this is going to last," he said, and you got that he was trying to put you at ease again, just being a tad more subtle about it this time. "They had rain that was just about monsoon conditions about three days before we got here, and that cleared up real quick. This could be the same."

"Operative word being could. Did they say where they were?"

"Just a couple of blocks away. They move pretty fast."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."
You covered your eyes with your forearm, let out a huge sigh. Shifted. Stilled. Then shifted again. "I think I'm sitting on a chocolate bar," you said eventually.

"That's yours then."

"I'm cut."

"Yeah, yeah, you'll live."

And then the door was opening, Sam and Sharika piling into the room, arms laden down with plastic bags filled with the same calibre of food on the bed, and, now, after the two of you had hurled yourselves on there, the floor. The door opening let in a whole flurry of snow – it sat, already melting on the wood, while they banged the door shut again.

"Hey," you said, concealing the very real dread you'd had for them and their safety as they shook white flecks off the shoulders of their jackets, shuddering and moving deeper into the room, away from the outside. "Tell me you got something that doesn't have cheese, caffeine, or the word super in it; make my day."

"Wait, aren't those the staples of our entire diet?" Sam said, and smiled at you, mussing his hair with his fingers, shaking out even more of the weather clinging to him. When he stepped up to plonk his bags on Dean's feet you saw with sudden clarity the snowflakes caught on his eyelashes, and blinked.

"You're forgetting the fat, sugar and booze, Sam. You must never forget the fat, sugar and booze," you said, and he held up a bottle of whiskey.

"Got it."

000

The room was dark, lit only by the TV's fuzzed out images, faded blues and oranges meandering, shaping every soft angle. You were warm, melted pleasantly on the inside by your good friend JD and the lethargy of not having done anything but relax for the last five or six hours. Time bled when you had no real way of mapping it, and no inclination to.

At the start the four of you had tried to research; but the internet connection was shot, John's journal had already been gone over countless times with no results, and the cold from outside was detrimental to any attempts to get to the car. Wind was still whistling in through miniscule cracks in the door, nipping at your bare skin. The room was bearable, but you wouldn't streak. Snow covered half the window pane you could see reflected in the half light; more was still falling, fast and thick. You'd been forced to take it easy thanks to the conditions; and now you and Dean were just this side of drunk, Sharika and Sam completely smashed. Sure, you'd think Sam could pack it away with a body like that, but no. And Sharika? Just looking at her you could tell she was a lightweight.

You groaned, stretching luxuriously and wondering how long this could last. It was different, to say the least. The four of you just hanging out, nothing to do but put off the worry, put off everything and hang out, try and watch the television and not get on each other's nerves too extremely. Which was surprisingly easy, considering the way the four of you interacted on a daily basis. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the Research Team was dead asleep, arms and legs and torsos intertwined on the other bed where they'd fallen, giggling like teenage girls at a slumber party over the dolphin documentary. Yeah, so they'd been mating, and it was pretty damn twisty and holy-crap-I-didn't-know-they-could-do-that; but did that mean they had to be so immature about it? And yes, okay, so they were intoxicated and probably on sugar highs, but still – whatever. You're over it. At least there weren't anymore high-pitched noises coming from over there anymore.

"Hey," you said, jostling Dean's side with your elbow. He was sprawled on the bed next to you, back and shoulders propped on the wall, bag of Doritos held in between his thighs. "Change the channel." It was some infomercial about tofu. Snore.

He grunted and picked the remote up from the bedside table, pressed a button and the screen flicked immediately to a jumping picture of Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze and –

"Pottery porn!" you exclaimed, bolting upright and grinning wide. Sam snorted from the opposite bed, and twitched, shifting onto his side. Sharika, spooned against his chest, squirmed, pushing her face back into the crook of his neck. Ah, young, inebriated love. Cutest thing ever. Of course, they probably wouldn't remember anything in the morning which was totally fucking unfair, and you wish they'd just hurry up and get it together and have a trillion babies and –

"Pottery porn?"

"Oh yeah." You grabbed a handful of corn chips out of the packet, teeth snagging one out of the bunch and tongue guiding it past your lips. "It's the new biggest thing," you continued around the mouthful, other hand coming up to cover, so you didn't sprinkle half-chewed yellow bits onto the blankets. "I hear they're even thinking of adding it to the food pyramid." On screen Patrick slid his clay covered hands up Demi's biceps, leaving wide streaks of brown. The soft, soulful music clung to your brain, making you sway; your eyes literally shut part way with pleasure at the tingles going down your spine. This song was like… beyond romantic. Are you still mine? I need your love. Even if the scene was glorified, the spontaneity, the slow, smooth cadence of the –

"Lauren, this movie was made in like… the nineteen nineties. And abandoned there, along with the food pyramid." At this crude, and insensitive comment, totally lacking in any appreciation of Mr Swayze's romantic potential as a you're-not-quite-sure-what-it-is-exactly-but-he's-attractive-anyway fantasy option, you flick a glance Dean's way. He's got his eyebrows crinkled incredulously at the screen, his mouth pulled in on one corner, almost-maybe in disgust. He's holding the remote in his hand, on his lap, but not making any move to use it. You take this as a positive sign, only just managing to stop yourself from humming along. I'll be coming home, wait for me. Oh, my love. My darlin'. I hunger. Hunger for your touch.

"And how exactly do you know that, Dean?" you asked, snapping yourself out of your stupor, a quick shake of the head to clear the images out of your brain. Dean, hands gliding up your skin, mouth following, leaving cupid bow bruises on your flesh. Marking you as his. Dean, licking into your mouth, tongue curling sweet and easy around your own. Tasting you. Dean, hot under your fingers, pulse beating hard against your palm. Teeth grazing against the ridges of his trachea, his Adam's apple bobbing on a swallow. Dean – uh, yeah. Images, gone. Totally. Yep. Check.

"Everyone knows that," he said, rolling his eyes and digging into the colourful plastic bag again, bringing out a couple of chips to stuff in his mouth. You could hear the crunching sounds, even leaning forwards and angled away, nearly half way down the bed. His posture was effortless and comfortable, shoulders slumped slightly, mouth coiled at the right side. His eyes, black in the darkness were curved at the screen in amusement, and your eyes flicked back. The characters were falling onto the bed, still grasping at each other. You averted your eyes, and libido.

"I didn't know that," you offered, and gulped. He was licking his lips and fingers free of crumbs and just – just Jesus. Jesus. It wasn't fair.

"Obviously, because you're a complete social outcast."

"Oh, and you're Mr Popular?" you bit back, and he tossed you a grin.

"I have my moments."

"You're unbelievable. Did you know that?"

"That's what all my women say."

"Oh, shut up," you scoffed, and snagged the bag out of his lap, plonking it into your own to feed another appetite. You weren't going to be able to sleep at all tonight, a combination of sugar and adrenaline. But then, you probably had days with nothing to do but sleep, so that was no biggie.

"Want a free demo?"

"Did I mention the 'oh, shut up'?" you said, without looking. You didn't want to see that smearing smug grin, the light behind those hazel green eyes. Didn't want temptation beckoning you even louder, with air horns in place of bull frogs. The low curve of his body, the cradle of his hips. Limbs lounging and trailing up to tangle in your hair and scrape down your back. No, no.

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. You know you love me."

"Would you mind shutting up so I can watch the damn film?" you said, affecting boredom, heart in your throat from that millisecond of fear. The one that hit before you heard the indifference, the casual intonation. He hadn't meant it. He didn't know.

"You want to watch this outdated, overrated, overplayed, chick-flick, feel-good, reverse-necrophilia-centric excuse for a film?"

"I thought that had already been established."

"Oh good. Me too."

000

You woke up with sun spiking your eyes, lolling on the floor, hands tucked into your stomach. There was half a blanket trapped under you, and about three thousand corn chip shards. The first thing you noticed was the fact that it was warm.

You sat up immediately, pulling on the side of the mattress. Pillow creases and hair pointing up in a dozen different directions did nothing to detract from the sweet pout of a pink mouth, or the soft look in hazel green eyes. Even if there was sleep stuck in the corner of his right one. "Hey," he said, voice deep and sleep-rough, and you watched the slow, quietly content curlicue of his mouth, heart beating steady and loud in your ears.

"Hey," you whispered back, and he winked at you.

"Told you so."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." But you were smiling back, running a hand across your cheek to sweep back some hair, to cover the smooth flush starting to spread. It was really warm in here.

"It's not like I'd ever let anything bad happen to you," he said, obviously still half asleep, and your heart thudded hard once, and then somersaulted, dropping down to hug your goofy, fluttering stomach. Your tongue felt thick and impossibly heavy in your mouth; all you could do was look straight back at him, and try to stop your entire body from liquefying.

And then a scream shattered the syrupy atmosphere, followed by a loud thump and two simultaneous, noisy, painful groans, and a single, "Oh my god, Sam! Are you okay?!"

Dean grinned, chuckling – and you grinned back.

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AN: Hi everybody! Hi Doctor Nick! Heh. You're in for a surprise next week. But more on that later; this chapter was me trying to write happy-ish. Sorry if it came out weirdly. Reviews are love, of course. And you must remember I typed this on a med high, and Lauren is drunk, and tired through most of this chapter!! So don't hate me!!

I want to thank everyone for your comments last week; lol, which, in actual fact were unneeded, because I already had a concrete plan for the DeanLauren stuff. Not that you guys knew, so sorry, but yes. Thanks, I love knowing that you guys care and like to have an input. MWAH.

Promo: … WAIT!!! STOP EVERYTHING!! I'm not telling you bitches anything! Mostly because I'm just too lazy… Oh alright, because I'm such a sweet person:

"Dean, I want you. Right now. Inside me, right now."

See you on Sunday!!