Popping open the trunk, Dean didn't try to hide his smug smile at the expression on Skye's face when she got her first real look at their little mobile arsenal. Guns, knives, electronics of various sorts, pretty sure even a grenade or two… he had to admit, it was fairly impressive. Admit, hell, he'd brag about it if he could. Unfortunately, he never really got the chance. It wasn't exactly the kind of thing you brought up in casual conversation and once he got past the 'casual' part… He didn't really know, he'd never gotten past the casual part.

Rummaging around in the disorganized mess that seemed an accurate representation of his entire life, Dean muttered to himself as he tried to find what he was looking for, "Alright, let's see, where the hell did I put that thing?"

Sidling closer to the car, and consequently closer to Dean than he would have preferred right that minute, Skye pulled a hand out of her pocket long enough to point to a glass bottle full of a clear liquid that looked remarkably like water. Because that's exactly what it was. "What's that?"

"Holy water." Slapping at the back of her hand, Dean was just a touch too slow to make contact as she snatched it back. She was quick, he had to give her that much. Remarkably so considering her legs were like three inches long and she had the reach of a grade-schooler. And why was she always poking at stuff? "I've told you before, don't touch my shit."

It was really amazing how much sass that girl could fit into a single glance. In this case, it was 'eat shit and die', with maybe a little 'go play in traffic', and just a touch of 'are you sure your parents aren't related?' Really, absolutely stunning.

Giving her a Look right back, Dean ignored her as she moved away from him and around to the other side of Sam, well out of Dean's reach. Fine. Be that way. See if he cared.

"Hey, Sam, what's this?"

Oh, Goddammit, why couldn't she just leave shit alone. Not enough that she had to pester him, now she was doing it to Sam and Sam was patient enough to just go with it. After what he counted as the fifth 'hey Sam, what's this', Dean finally snapped, "Go sit in the car, Skyler. Let the grownups talk."

Offering Sam an apologetic smile, Skye held up a hand to interrupt him in the midst of an explanation of the different makes and models of guns and their related ammo. And she was actually listening. Like, with real interest. What was that all about? The most he could get out of her was a snide remark and an eye roll. Lots of those, actually. So much so that he was a little shocked they hadn't stuck that way yet. Still, he didn't expect her to pop off quite the way she did. Should have, maybe, but didn't.

She leaned a hip against the car, arms crossed over her chest as she cocked her head at him, a chilly smile on her lips. Her reply came so fast and so smooth, there was no way she hadn't been rehearsing it in her head.

"Stop bossin' me, Winchester, before I go hop the next Greyhound out of here and put us both out of our misery. I'm startin' to think death might be preferable to your constant condescending, sexist, high-handed, petty, self-absorbed bullshit."

He might have bought the grandstanding, too, if she didn't have the end of her braid twisted into a Gordian knot around her fingers. Get her riled up enough and she was like a kitten hissing at a Doberman or like Tinkerbell stamping her foot and giving Peter attitude. It totally wasn't the funniest thing he'd ever seen and he certainly wasn't doing it on purpose. Probably a good thing Sam interrupted right about then, latching onto the pertinent part of that tirade before Dean could crack a smile and really set her off.

"Wait, what? What is she talking about?"

"Nothin', don't worry about it." Waving off the question, Dean took the opportunity to take control of the situation again. She had a way of making everything veer off course, turning every conversation into something else. It was absurdly aggravating to an utterly ridiculous degree. It was like, from the moment he'd met her, his life had jumped track from what it was supposed to be, and he couldn't say he was fond of the feeling. Glancing up, Dean sighed as he caught Sam's look. Ok, fine, apparently 'don't worry about it' wasn't going to cut it. "Look, I'll explain later, but there are more important things right now. ...okay?"

"...fine." Exchanging an exasperated glance with Skye, Sam reluctantly tabled the discussion for now. Great, maybe Dean really shouldn't have come to pick up his gangly ass. If that look was anything to go by, those two would be ganging up on him in the very near future. Wonderful. "So when Dad left, why didn't you go with him?"

"I was workin' my own case, this Voodoo thing down in New Orleans."

And God how he wished he hadn't taken that case. That Priestess bitch had screwed him ten ways to Sunday and if he had it to do all over again, shooting himself in the head might be the better option. Okay, maybe not the head, but definitely worth a leg shot if it got him out of his current predicament. His attention caught on the slim figure at Sam's side for the umpteenth time and he grudgingly nodded in her direction, "That's how we met."

"And it was loathing at first sight."

"Pipe down, Tinkerbell." Still amused by the mental image that brought up, Dean hid a grin by diving back into the clutter to try and find that stupid little cassette player. Where the fuck...

Muttering something under his breath about 'snippy little mini-bitches' and 'distractions', he narrowly avoided cracking his head on the trunk when her voice came from way closer than it had four fucking seconds ago. "Maybe if you cleaned the fucking thing out once in a while, organized a little, it wouldn't take you half a lifetime to find what you're lookin' for. Wait, should I use small words? Clean more, find shit faster."

Trying to peer around his arm, she was seriously invading his personal bubble, which he did not at all appreciate. Damned if she didn't smell good. Like, really good. He couldn't quite place the scent though, and he'd seriously tried over the last week. It was like… like…

...honeysuckle in summer, when the fireflies were sparking in the yard and you could hear the shouts of the neighborhood kids and the drone of frogs and crickets in the background. The thrill of the air whooshing under your feet as you go higher and higher on the swingset, Mom's laughter floating up from somewhere behind him…

Where in the holy hell did that come from? Better not to look too deeply into that one, he did not need the headache. Or the therapy bill.