"...Hey, it's me. It's about 10:20. I just wanted to call and see if you were okay. I know you're probably busy but I miss you. Call me back as soon as you can. And Sam? Be safe, alright? I love you. I'll talk to you later…" Perched on the edge of a hideously green plastic dining chair, Sam pressed his phone to his ear, smiling as Jessica's voice came over the line. He was sorry he'd missed her but maybe it was better that he had. He knew she was probably worried sick and he wanted to call but he hated lying to her. Granted, he hated the idea of telling her the truth just a touch more… Besides, it was just another couple of days and he'd be home, right? He could send her a quick text letting her know he was okay and just talk to her Monday morning. She'd be in class now anyway.

Hitting save on the voicemail, Sam flipped his phone closed and tucked it back into his pocket, closing his eyes for just a moment and enjoying the relative quiet. It was nostalgic, really, the sounds of the infrequent cars on the highway running by the rundown motel, faint voices from what was most likely the TV in the next room over, the constant hum of the giant neon sign outside.

He'd made his choice years ago and, though he missed his family, he hadn't really regretted it since. He just couldn't bring himself to feel that driving sense of vengeance and duty that drove the others. He had a foundation for a real life now, a career, a family of his own. Maybe if he had any memories of his mother, of a happy home life, it'd be different but he didn't and it wasn't and there wasn't any reason to start thinking about it all now.

Pushing himself to his feet, Sam paced the room restlessly before coming to a stop in front of the mirror that graced the wall across from the bed where Skye lay sleeping. Draped across the frame was a rosary he recognized as John's, a gift from a friend of his, a pastor named Jim. Tucked beneath that was a faded old photograph, much worn and creased.

John was sitting on the hood of the Impala, Dean sitting beside him and Sam sitting on John's knee. Sam must have been about four years old, maybe five, making Dean around nine or so. Sam certainly couldn't say they looked like a happy family, but not as miserable as they'd ended up.

Taking the picture, he pulled out his wallet, tucking it carefully inside. There was no telling if John would ever get back here to get his things and Sam didn't want it left behind, no matter what kind of family they were.


The creak of the bathroom door brought Sam out of the half-doze he'd fallen into, stuffed into the only armchair in the room. And not a terribly comfortable one. Stifling a yawn, he cracked an eye in time to see Dean step out of the bathroom, towel in one hand and shirt in the other. Too bad Half Pint was out, he'dve loved to see her reaction to a bare-chested Dean. There'd definitely be drool.

"Feel better?" He certainly looked better, and Sam couldn't smell rotting fish anymore, which was always a plus.

"Much." Running the towel through his hair one last time, Dean tossed it into a corner, knocking the alarm clock off the nightstand. Not that he seemed to care. Yanking his t-shirt on over his head, Dean shrugged it into place, scrutinizing Skyler the entire time. Blink once in awhile, dude. "You think she's really out?"

Raising a brow, Sam glanced at the girl in question, noting the steady rise and fall of her chest, not to mention the way she hadn't so much as twitched in the last forty minutes. "I think if she were any more out, she'd be dead."

Apparently that was just what Dean was hoping to hear, wasting no time in grabbing Skyler's leather bag off the floor and dumping its contents out on the already cluttered table next to Sam.

"What are you doing?" Jumping to his feet, Sam remembered to keep his voice down, his gaze flickering toward the unmoving figure on the bed. "You know she's going to kill you, right?"

"She could try." Unrepentant, Dean pawed through her things, brushing aside jeans, t-shirts, and some ridiculously retina-searing socks. Where did you even get socks that color? "Pretty sure I could bounce her like a basketball. Or I could just hold a hand against her forehead, she'd pinwheel."

Crossing his arms, Sam eyed Dean for a second, wondering if his brother was finally going off the deep end. "I swear, if you start sniffing underwear, I'm leaving."

Tossing Skye's clothes back into her bag and leaving her toiletries on the table, Dean looked up at Sam with a disgusted twist to his lips. "...man, you are a twisted little freak, aren't you?"

"Says the man going through his crush's clothes."

"She's not-I do not...Fuck you, dude." Pausing in the middle of uncapping Skye's deodorant just long enough to flip Sam off, Dean sniffed it before holding it out to Sam. "What does this smell like to you?"

"Seriously? No." Holding up his hands, Sam shook his head, not about to go there. This was the kind of thing restraining orders were issued over. Not that Skye would be able to do that, which actually made it more creepy, not less. " I'm not going to sniff her things. What are you even doing?"

"I'm tryin' to figure out what that scent is that's gotten into every fuckin' corner of my fuckin' car. It's like...flowers or some shit." Dean frowned, tossing the deodorant back in the bag, quickly followed by her shampoo and conditioner after he tested them. "...where is her perfume?"

Sinking back down into his chair, Sam stretched his long legs out, smirking at his brother. Was the dude insane or just really hyper-focused? Obsessive maybe? It ran in the family. "Dean, she doesn't wear perfume."

"Yeah. Okay. Sure she doesn't." Snagging Skye's jacket from the back of the chair she'd tossed it over, Dean sniffed the collar, making a face before tossing it at Sam, forcing him to catch it or drop it. Not that it'd hurt the denim any, but rude. "Are you tellin' me you can't smell that?"

Shaking his hair out of his eyes, Sam reluctantly gave in and held the jacket up to his nose, getting the faintest smell of sweat and shampoo. Normal girl smell. Not bad, by any means, but not exactly something to write home about. Or flip out over. "I don't smell anything. Have you considered that you may just be insane?"

"I'm not-You know what, Sam, why don't you go somewhere that's not here." Looking just so done with everything, especially Sam, Dean dug the other motel key out of his pocket and shoved it into Sam's hand, snatching Skye's jacket out of Sam's grip and tossing it back over the chair. "We already paid for the other room and check out isn't til eleven. Go sleep before I end up knockin' your ass out."

"Because it's my fault you're hallucinating." Accepting the key, Sam glanced at the girl passed out on the bed before looking at his brother and raising a brow. "And you're going to do what, exactly?"

"And what is that supposed to mean, exactly?" Glowering at Sam, Dean crossed his arms, drawing himself up to his full height and trying for intimidation. Because that worked so well on anyone that actually knew Dean. "Not real sure I like what you're insinuating. What kinda guy do you think I am?"

"I know exactly what kind of guy you are, Dean." Tucking the motel key in his pocket, Sam got to his feet and stretched, grinning at his offended brother. "Which is why I know she's perfectly safe. You read too much into things." Or Sam just liked implying them to get under Dean's skin. Both was also an option.

"Good, get the hell out." Striding across the room, Dean unlocked the door and jerked it open, motioning for Sam to move his ass. "Be back by ten."

Taking the invitation, Sam stopped just long enough to grab his bag from where he'd dropped it by the door earlier when he'd gone out to get their things. And had Dean even said thank you? Of course not. Midget was right, the man had no manners. "God you're bossy. How has she not shot you yet?"

"Like I'd let her touch my gun."

How was Sam supposed to pass that one up? Stepping out the door, he couldn't resist throwing a parting shot over his shoulder, "Pretty sure you're hoping she'll do just that."

"...fuck off, Sammy."


Stifling a yawn, Dean closed the door and threw the deadbolt, double-checking the chain lock before turning and leaning back against the solid wood. It had been a long day, hell it had been a long life, and his unexpected swim had not helped any. He was beyond wiped. And of course there was only the one bed, so it looked like he'd be sleeping in the chair tonight. The bed's big enough, she'd never know.

Yeah, that sounded like a good idea. Great way to wind up with a pissed off pixie yelling at him about invading her privacy or some other such bullshit. Which reminded him that he needed to repack her bag like she'd had it or she really would be screaming at him come morning. Was Sam just messing with Dean when he said he couldn't smell her? Or was Dean really going crazy? Well, crazier. He'd be the first to admit that he hadn't been quite right for a long time now. And to be fair, he hadn't found any perfume ...but there was no way that light honeysuckle scent could all be in his head, right? Or maybe her deodorant or something just smelled differently when it was actually on her. Okay. Whatever. Worry about it later. Worry. Obsess. Same dif. Fuck off, too tired.

Making his way across the room, he grabbed the single armchair from where Sam had shoved it back against the table, moving it to the other side of the bed and up against the wall, where he'd have a clear view of the door and an even clearer one of the girl. For safety reasons.

Sinking down into the chair, he ran his hands through his hair before scrubbing them over his face, wondering when exactly his life had started going right off the rails. Stupid question, he knew exactly when, down to the hour if not the minute. Leaning back in the chair, he couldn't keep his sleep-deprived thoughts-or his eyes-from straying in directions he'd rather they didn't.

She really was cute. Pretty, even, at least when she wasn't bitching at him. And okay, maybe then too. Just 'pretty', huh? Alright, fine, she was probably the most physically appealing young woman he'd ever had the misfortune to meet. Mentally, too, once you got around the prickly bits. He'd never met anyone that not only got most of his pop-culture references and dumbass jokes, but had more than a few of her own. And that wasn't even mentioning the few glimpses he'd gotten of what he suspected was a sweet and thoughtful girl hidden under all that. So where did that leave him? ...that left him going right back to denial first thing in the morning, that's where. But for now, at least, he could admit-if only in the deepest corners of his own mind-that if he'd had to pick from all the girls he'd ever come across to be stuck with, he'd probably pick her, attitude and all.


Waking from the doze he'd slipped into, Dean shivered, an icy finger of air slipping down the back of his neck and burrowing under his t-shirt. His hand automatically moved to go for a weapon he didn't have before it registered that nothing was wrong, it was just cold.

Grumbling, he pushed himself to his feet, making his way to the heater jutting out from the wall beneath the window. One of those all in one heating/air-conditioning/fan units that never worked quite right on any setting. Great. Flipping it on, he glowered at it as it hummed to life, eventually blowing out air that was a few degrees warmer than the room. Better than nothing but not good enough.

Taking a quick look around, Dean found a blanket thrown in a corner and a leather jacket he recognized as one of John's stuffed between the nightstand and the wall. That'd work. Tossing the jacket onto the armchair, he skirted around the bed to the other side and the petite brunette curled up there. If he was cold, no doubt she was slowly turning into a pixie-sicle, though it hadn't woken her yet. Good. Maybe she'd be more pleasant after a decent night's she wasn't going to get fully dressed and freezing.

Well, he could at least take care of parts of the problem. Balling up the rough woolen blanket, he tossed it down on the bed next to her, debating with himself over whether this was really necessary. Not to mention the risk of waking her. Oh just do it, for fucks sake.

"...hey, it's me." Keeping his voice soft, he decided a warning might be less of a risk than her waking up and punching him in the face. "I'm just gonna take your boots off, alright?"

With a mumble that Dean chose to take as permission, he stepped around to the foot of the bed, a knee on the edge of the mattress as he reached for one booted foot. Slipping one hand under a calf and the other under a heel, it didn't take him long to ease off first one boot and then the other, getting only a mutter and a little restless shifting from Skyler.

A smile twitching at the edge of his lips, Dean stepped back around and retrieved the blanket from where he'd tossed it. Shaking it out, he draped it over the sleeping girl, unable to resist the desire to tuck it in around her.

"...thank you." His hand on the hem of the blanket as he pulled it up to her shoulders, Dean twitched at the sound of her voice, looking up to see warm brown eyes looking back at him. Nowhere close to fully awake, she smiled, her hand making its way out from under the blanket to briefly rest on the back of his before she was out again.

"Any time, Tinkerbell."