(A/N- Well, I've been fighting off the urge to start yet another fic, but since this fandom presents such a welcome change to my usual style of writing ridiculously long things… I figured I may as well give in to temptation. Romance will be between OCs only, as women who get involved with the Winchester men have a nasty tendency to wind up dead on a ceiling, and I don't like killing off my characters.)
First DISCLAIMER I've ever bothered to write: I, HealerAriel, do not own Supernatural or anything related to it (although I wouldn't mind claiming ownership of Mr. Ackles and that drop-dead gorgeous automobile, 'cause my car sucks). I think I own Oakvale, Mississippi, but if it's a real place, I apologize firstly to the residents and secondly to the producers of Fable for ripping off the name Oakvale. Lastly, I must apologize to whoever sang "Mississippi Moon" for stealing their song title. Any more copyright infringements on my part, just giggle at and then ignore.
I should also apologize for any incorrect mathematics on my part. You'll see what I mean.
Oakvale, Mississippi, 1992
Twenty-year-old Sabine McLeod was a blonde, blue-eyed Celtic goddess with a loaded buckshot rifle and an accent like warm honey.
At least, that was thirteen-year-old Dean Winchester's initial impression of her. It didn't change the fact she'd smacked him pretty damn hard upside the head in greeting, but it had prevented his first words to her from being "Bitch, lay off!"
Instead, he found himself gazing adoringly at the Southern belle as she berated him for trying to carve his initials in the gnarled old cypress tree in her family's front yard – something about him pissing off the tree spirits, or whatever.
"Take it easy, babe," he said, flashing what he hoped was his most charming grin. His attempt at placating her seemed to have the opposite effect.
"Don't you address me like that, little boy. You and your Daddy get your guns, and let's go kill some werewolves," she said, before turning on her heel and heading back into her parents' house.
That "little" remark was totally uncalled for, Dean decided, watching her hips swing back and forth as she walked. He wasn't that much shorter than her; she only had three or four inches on him, tops!
"We really need to talk about how you behave around women, kiddo," John Winchester sighed, thrusting a shotgun and a pack of silver bullets into his elder son's arms.
"Hey, the ladies love me," Dean replied, loading the bullets into the gun. "I can't help being handsome."
John shook his head and patted Dean roughly on the back, then slung his own gun over his shoulder and went to talk to Sabine, who'd come back outside looking like a walking arsenal, complete with a machete strapped to her hip.
Oh yeah. Dean had a huge crush on this chick.
"Hey, sweetheart!" he yelled, watching with glee as her eyes narrowed dangerously at him. "Bet I can kill more of them than you can!"
"You're on, little boy!"
A buckshot round hit the ground inches from where Dean had been standing a split second earlier. He had already dashed off into the woods to make good on his bet.
"I got seven of 'em," Dean boasted at sunrise, as the three of them finished piling what was left of a pack of werewolves into a heap. John produced a can of lighter fluid and began dousing the corpses with it.
"Did you, now?" Sabine replied, shrugging off a blood-soaked over shirt and tossing it onto the makeshift funeral pyre before John took his lighter to it.
"Hell yeah, I did. And I bet mine were bigger than yours, too," he said proudly, puffing out his slim chest.
"We need to talk about your vocabulary, too, Dean," John warned.
Sabine ruffled Dean's hair. It was truly amazing what eleven hours of fighting werewolves as a team could do to one's ability to get along with a cocky teenager who actually was as proficient as he thought he was.
"How in the world does your Daddy manage to fit you and your ego in the same car?" she teased. Dean grinned.
"How many did you get?" he asked, already contemplating what he'd demand as his reward for winning the bet. He wound up vetoing most of them right off the bat, with the knowledge that making any such request would just warrant a firm slap across the face for being a nasty little pervert.
"Nine or so."
Dean's heart plummeted. Well, that plan had failed spectacularly. And to make matters even worse,
"Kid, you are covered in werewolf guts," giggled the high priestess of buckshot.
The sun was high and bright in the sky by the time Sabine and the two Winchesters had gotten all the residual blood and gore off themselves – and yes, Dean discovered that he had, indeed, had actual werewolf guts all over his shirt. He had spent a good five minutes vomiting after this discovery, but decided not to admit to that unless he was on his deathbed.
"You're sure you can't stay for breakfast? Mama's really grateful that the werewolves are gone, she says it'd be no trouble," Sabine insisted as John and Dean loaded their weapons back into the trunk of their car.
"Tell your mother we appreciate the offer, but we need to get home. My younger boy Sammy's all by himself."
Dean was pretty sure his father didn't catch the look of disapproval on Sabine's face at the news that a child younger than himself had been left to his own devices for so long. He was in no hurry to point it out.
"Well, you two take care, then," she said. She and John shook hands before he got into the driver's seat and shut the door.
Sabine turned to the teenaged boy still seated on the hood of the car.
"And I think I owe you an apology, Dean. I underestimated you."
"Yes you did," he said, well prepared to deliver a wiseass one-liner; a plan thwarted when she bent and kissed his cheek.
It was a good thing he was sitting down, because his knees went weak, and he would certainly have felt like an ass if he couldn't get kissed by a cute girl without losing his footing. He made a mental note to work on this – by getting loads more girls to kiss him so that he could practice his finesse.
"You be good," Sabine advised, ruffling his hair one last time before jogging back into her house. Once she was safely out of sight, Dean allowed himself to melt happily into the passenger side of his father's car, a silly grin plastered to his face.
"I told you they love me," he said smugly.
The corners of John's mouth quirked upward in amusement, and he started the engine.