Dean Winchester gambled every day.

It wasn't the standard fare of blackjack and poker, although that was sometimes the case. Dean gambled with the most dangerous of things- his stomach. It was the consequence of a life lived on the road, in a country the size of the US. Life was a road trip, and that often involved long stretches of highways with few cities and fewer restaurants.

The east coast wasn't typically a problem. It was old enough that towns were built fairly close together. But further west, especially to the south, they could drive for hours and barely see a city. Out there, gas stations were havens for rest stops and food. They were convenient and cheap. Almost always they had some sort of fresh and hot foot on offer. Hot dogs, pigs in a blanket, burritos, and even pretzels were staples. They were all foods Dean loved, but buying them came with a certain risk. He'd become an expert at judging the quality based on what kind of display was set up. What kind of heat lamp was used. How old the food looked. He would gauge if it was a small-time store, or if it was part of a chain. Dean took all those things into account when he made his selections. His concern was two-fold, in that he thought both about quality of taste and the effects it might have on his body later. He called it the 'Dean System'. But only to himself.

Despite his vetting, it was a gamble to eat food from these places- every time. It was rare for him to lose. He prefered to think that his body had grown stronger and resilient to the food he ate over the years. It would take a lot for him to not buy the hot dogs that sat under the heat lamp for five hours, using the metal tongs that had a suspicious black buildup on them. It didn't matter how dirty the counter was, or that the hallway leading to the bathroom looked like it hadn't been cleaned in years. The attendants always seemed to be named Carl, or Wanda. Dean wondered why there was always a Carl working at every other gas station they stopped at. Or, at least it seemed. And Carl always looked depressed.

His younger brother Sam was far more discerning, but in different ways. Sam looked for the cleanliness of the building, how kept it was, how reputable the establishment looked. He focused on sanitation and the condition of the bathroom. It wasn't uncommon for him to complain about it when they met back at the car. For him, food was a last resort if there was even the possibility of an actual restaurant within the next three hours. He had standards for what he would allow himself to eat, and the cheap, questionable fare at gas station rest stops rarely met them. The Quick Trip didn't specialize in salads with low-fat dressing. What health-centric foods on offer were still suspect, even packed in plastic and sitting in neat rows on shelves. Wanda didn't care for answering nutrition questions on the foods that arrived on a truck two days ago.

Even as they drove through cities and stayed somewhere for a case, they rarely had time for a proper meal. When they did have restaurants to choose from, it was a matter of time versus availability, and it was rare they had time to sit down and fully enjoy it. Dean longed for a piece of pie, homecooked, on a red plaid tablecloth with a dollop of whipped cream. He liked to dream of it from time to time.

One of these days, he thought. He would finally get that pie. Until then, he would make due with gas stations and drive-thrus.

Unfortunately for Dean, on that particular Thursday, he had gambled once again. And lost.

His body was angry with him that day.

Dean stumbled gingerly out of the motel bathroom for the upteenth time. With a groan he lay down on his bed.

From his position at the small table, Sam looked up from his laptop. "Feeling any better?" He asked.

"No," Dean said with a grunt.

Sam shook his head. "That's what happens when you eat at a place called 'Tacos R Us'. "

"Shut up," he grumbled.

They had finished a job in nearby Bakersfield tracking down a spirit in an old tavern. It wasn't a complicated job, but they wanted something simple now and again. Fighting demons and having cryptic conversations about evil armies of hell had gotten very old, very fast. Sometimes you just needed a body to salt and burn. It was nice and simple.

Now that the case was finished, Dean insisted they stay closer to the California coastline. He gave no explanation to Sam other than a vague comment of 'taking it easy for a little bit.' This would be a nice sentiment, if it weren't for the fact that Dean had mere months to live before he would be torn to shreds by invisible dogs from hell.

It was unfortunate, to say the least.

Over the past year Dean had waffed between acceptance of his fate and restlessly searching for a way to change it. Right then, the former was true. There were a number of things Sam suspected were part of Dean's unwritten bucket list of things to finish before he died. He never said as much out loud, but Sam knew. He knew enough to see that stopping at the 'World's Largest Ball of String' attraction wasn't a mere coincidence of their route.

Sam sometimes had trouble uncovering his brother's secrets, but he wasn't an idiot.

Now, they would be taking a vacation- a normal one. Sunny beaches and girls in bikinis easily fit Dean's idea of how to spend a good time before he died. On one hand, Sam didn't want to waste any time in continuing his fervent search for something, anything, that could save his brother.

On the other hand, Sam was tired. And his feet hurt.

They had checked into a motel on the north-east side of Santa Barbara. For the price, they were nowhere near the ocean or beaches. It was slightly run down, small and cramped. It was even smaller than their usual fare- cheap options were few when visiting a popular beach town. And in California, everything was expensive. But it was in a beach town nonetheless. An actual, regular, vacation destination.

Sam had visited parts of the California coast before, but not to Santa Barbara proper. Stanford, where he had studied briefly, was at least a six hour drive away, and there were a multitude of more attractive vacation spots for students to visit on the weekends. He'd done research into it himself years ago when he wanted to take a special trip with his girlfriend Jess. They ended up at a vineyard upstate that offered dancing classes to go with wine tasting.

Sam shook himself from his thoughts, all too mindful of how quickly they could draw him in. Thinking of Jess always seemed to do that. Even nearly three years after her death.

Across the small room, Dean laughed at the television. "Hey, they're showing Mac and Me."

Sam frowned, giving his brother a questioning look.

Dean glanced at him expectantly, raising a brow. "You know- Mac and Me? That terrible E.T. ripoff with the McDonalds crap?"

He stared and shook his head.

Dean scoffed. "Man, you gotta get a life."

Sam paused, only to overcome his disbelief. "Oh, really? Because I don't know some obscure movie?"

"Yeah. I bet you wouldn't know Highlander from Braveheart," Dean said. It was dismissive- and also a challenge.

"I've seen Braveheart- and why does it matter?"

"Oh yeah? Name one person," he smirked.

Sam shook his head and redirected his gaze at his laptop screen. "I'm not doing this."

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, because you know you'd lose."

He turned to level an even stare with his brother. "Mel Gibson."

Dean scoffed. "That was easy. Name someone else."

"Fine. William Wallace."

Dean frowned in confusion. "Who?"

Sam let out an amused laugh, though he wasn't surprised. "William Wallace? Mel Gibson's character? The guy who inspired the whole movie, who led the rebellion against Scotland's English rule?"

Like a child who failed a math test, Dean recoiled and scoffed. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"William Wallace. The real person from history- the movie's based on a true story, Dean. Did you not know that?"

Dean stared for a moment, his mouth partially open and yet with nothing immediately to say. "Yeah, well… At least I'm not nerdy like you."

He smirked. "Says the guy touting his Braveheart trivia."

"Hey," Dean said, finger raised and pointed for emphasis. "Don't you diss 90's action flicks."

Sam gave him a look that was both pitying and mocking at the same time. "Yeah, sure. Whatever." He turned back to the laptop screen, then had another thought. "You know the Titanic's also a true story, right?"

Dean scoffed, offended. "Of course I do!" Suddenly he muttered a curse, and rose from his position on the bed to carefully rush to the bathroom.

Sam winced. "Are you sure you don't need me to go to the store?" He called, hoping it could be heard through the bathroom door.

There was a muffled 'No!' from the bathroom.

Sam had offered more than once in the past hour, noting the closest drug store and anything that might have helped his brother. Dean had refused, stubborn, and insisted he'd be fine. Sam fought the urge to go anyway to get Gatorade and medicine. He shook his head in frustration, finding he was too tired to play another round of 'Is my brother being honest with me' and the energy it took.

It was frustrating how often he dwelt on his brother's situation, which always led to him being angry. Angry at Dean, angry at himself, angry at everything that drove them into the situation in the first place. With a shake of his head, he busied himself with his laptop once again. There was a possible lead that might be helpful in saving his brother. He would focus on that, and on what he actually could do.

The 'Showy Hearts' tattoo parlor sat in an unexpected location between an oyster bar and a cat-themed tea party cafe, which offered themed parties for young girls and their friends. The cafe, that was. The tattoo parlor catered to a slightly different clientele. The outside was painted a dark grey and featured images from a deck of cards in the windows. The colors were dark, desaturated, and worked together to bring a sense of foreboding and hopelessness. Black curtains hung in the windows, which lent an air of mystery and secrecy to the parlor.

"Phew," Shawn said in awe from their position on the sidewalk.

"All those dark colors, in Santa Barbara? Good luck with those air conditioning bills," Gus said.

"I feel like Gyro-captain will come flying down for us, at any second," Shawn said. "I get to be Max!" He quickly claimed.

"You always get to be Max," Gus complained.

Neither of them moved from their spot on the sidewalk.

"If you're Max, then you get to go first," Gus said with a smug and victorious look. "I'll go after you."

Shawn guffawed and chuckled. "No, Gus. The Gyro-captain would go first so he could scope it out. Have you even seen the movie?"

Gus nudged Shawn with his elbow. "Does it look like I have a gyrocopter? I'm not going in first. You go first." Another nudge, which bordered on a jab.

Shawn nudged him back with his own elbow. Gus elbowed him in return. Shawn tried to shrug it off, then roughly tried to push Gus using his shoulder and urging him forward. Gus fought back, trying to do the same. They went back and forth, both of them escalating until they lost patience.

"Fine," Shawn said definitively. "We'll go in together, okay?"

Gus was the picture of pleased, reveling in his success. "Agreed."

They marched up to the parlor doors side by side. Shawn tried to hang backwards discreetly. Gus noticed immediately, and pulled him forward again with a rough jerk of his arm.

The inside was as macabre as the outside, but with a gothic flair. Example images of tattoos, posted on a large board, were filled with dark and sinister pictures. Plastic skulls adorned the columns that lined the sides of the main room. The two men stood out in particular with their brightly colored shirts, which shone like beacons in the otherwise drab and nearly colorless room. Shawn briefly wondered if anyone in the room would need sunglasses.

It was the right place.

A woman was leaning over the front counter with a bored expression. She matched the rest of the store with her black lipstick, gelled hair, an array of dark tattoos and her nose pierced in three places. After seeing them, she watched them curiously. "Can I help you?"

Shawn stepped up to the desk. "Yes. I'm Blood Dharma, the psychic medium. This is my assistant, Hoodlum Mah'Sim Sim Salabim. His family is originally from Arabia." Gus gave a suave, confident nod at the clerk.

"Hello," Gus said smoothly with a look that could make a woman swoon.

"First of all, do you have any My Chemical Romance shirts?" Shawn asked. The woman stared at him, confused. "Second, we're looking for some tattoo work. Not just any tattoo work, mind you, I have very specific needs as a psychic. My skin is very sensitive. And the vibes…" He closed his eyes in a bid to exude as much mystery as possible. He took a deep, slow breath, before exhaling in a dramatic fashion. "… Must be one with my Chi, and my soul."

"He has a very sensitive Chi," Gus added. "And he's very particular about the tattoos he needs. He has very specific ideas."

The woman stood up a little straighter, attentive. "Oh yeah? What kind are you looking for? Do you have any already?"

"I do, sometimes," Shawn stated before quickly changing topics. "I'm curious, has anyone here done anything like this before?"

Gus pulled forward a piece of paper with a somewhat crude drawing of one of the victim's tattoos. He handed it to the clerk. The clerk looked closely at the picture, nodding with recognition. "Oh yeah, we get ones like that once in a blue moon. The last one was a while ago though, not sure when it was."

"Do you know if the artist is someone here?" Gus pressed.

The woman looked at him doubtfully. "I thought you said you were… psychic."

"I am, but the spirits… they come and go. I really can't control it," Shawn said with a small chuckle.

"He's having a down period right now," Gus explained.

The woman shrugged. "I guess you're looking for Big Louie. He takes on jobs like that." She nodded in the direction of one of the tattoo chairs. "But it's too bad, he's called in sick the past couple of days."

That piqued their interest. "Has he, now?" Shawn asked, while eyeing Gus with an unspoken understanding. "Is there any way we could get his name? I would like to… meditate over my decision."

The clerk shrugged, clearly not concerned. "Sure, I guess. It's Louis Verplank. Dunno if he's actually sick or not, he just called out of the blue a couple of days ago and said he wasn't feeling well. He seemed fine the day before."

"Well, you know artists. They're like talented children, with their ups and downs…" Shawn spoke with faked wisdom. Gus was not impressed.

"Is it normal for him to miss work?" Gus asked.

She shrugged. "Not really."

"Curious…" Shawn said. He turned around, and discreetly nudged his head, pointing with his eyes in a way only Gus could see.

"Excuse me," Gus said, stepping forward to get the woman's full attention. "What kind of disinfectant do you use?" He began to ask for more information, expertly keeping the woman fully engaged.

Shawn took the chance to cast a quick glance down at the desk. In that moment, he noticed a list of employee phone numbers taped alongside the inside lip of the desk- and noticed the number for Big Louie.

"Thank you for your help," Gus offered politely to the clerk.

"Yes… May your days be filled with good lunch, and good fortune." Shawn said with gravitas, placing both hands before him and bowing.

"He means good luck and good fortune." Gus hastily added.

"I meant what I said."

"No, he doesn't."

"You will learn in time, my Arabian friend." Shawn led them out of the parlor before Gus could counter. They made their way down the sidewalk and back to the Blueberry. "I've heard it both ways."

"That doesn't even make sense, Shawn. Why would you wish someone good lunch and good fortune? Luck and fortune go together. Lunch is a completely different thing. It's like wishing someone 'peace on earth and good night'. It doesn't work."

"Are you telling me you wouldn't want someone wishing you a good lunch? I know I would," Shawn said.

Gus gave him a look. "Fine. You can wish someone a good lunch, but not with good fortune. So did you get anything?"

"Gus," Shawn started in an exaggerated but playful tone, "Of course I did!"