Chapter Six

Well, I hate to disappoint you, dear reader, but Dean Winchester was a perfect gentleman.

I know. Right? Dude.

And hell! It disappointed me. I mean, who knew when we'd get this opportunity to be alone—in a bed, for crying out loud—again? But instead of swooping in and de-virginizing me (and saving me from dragons, vamps and witches, oh my! besides), he pulled me down so that my cheek rested on his shoulder and my body rested in the circle of his arms. And he held me, pressed his lips to my forehead and rubbed my back, and...we fell asleep.

I know. I know! All that freaking build up, and we fell asleep. But I guess the time wasn't right. Considering I'd almost been passed around like some kind of treat between a bunch of rapists, it probably was for the best. I guess. Even if we were alone. In a bed.

When I woke, it was morning. I was on my side—facing away from Dean (probably a good thing, because, you know, morning breath) but he was still curled protectively around me, snoring softly in my ear. I looked over at Sam, lying spread-eagled in the double bed opposite ours, his shoulders and chest bared beneath his sheets, and his hair splayed, like Kieran's always did across the pillow.

Geesh. Let me go on record here to say: It sucks to be surrounded by guys with better hair than yours. Especially when you're a woman. I mean, seriously. Even with bedhead, Sam and Kieran both had amazing hair. Me? I spend an hour in front of mirror with hot appliances, sprays and unguents. Twenty minutes in the sun (or humidity or wind, or even maybe a slight breeze) and my hair is flat and flopped over to the side like a dead haddock. Kieran and Sam? Hair Gods. And I'm not exaggerating. Made me want to go after them with shears.

But I digress.

When I awakened, neither brother appeared to be anywhere close to conscious, but when I tried to slip out of Dean's grasp he sat up, blinked once and appeared fully awake and fully dressed in his clothes from the night before. (In case you're wondering: Dean woke with a bit of a wedge-head, but he ran his fingers through it and—poof!—he also reflected Hair Godliness. The bastard.) Sam followed suit only moments later; apparently the Winchesters had some kind of synchronized sleep patterns as well as amazing hair. Dean rolled to his feet. He grinned and winked at me. "Morning."

I smiled but didn't open my mouth. I didn't want to blast him full of halitosis.

Instead, I squeaked, "Dibs on the shower!" and bounced over Sam and his mattress to get to the bathroom before either of them could react. Because I realized suddenly that I needed to get over the whole Dean can't learn I pee thing since there would be no doubt in anyone's mind; I was about to be standing in a puddle of my own making. Far more humiliating than peeing behind a closed bathroom door. Besides—if Kieran was any indication—when you're a guy, the world is your urinal. I was sure they could manage just fine without using the bathroom right away.

As soon as I'd flushed the toilet, there was a rap on the door. I opened it to find the younger Winchester, naked except of an unbuttoned pair of worn jeans—so that's what they mean by washboard abs—and holding a plastic-wrapped toothbrush and a fresh tube of toothpaste. He grinned in a "and you thought only my brother was hot" kind of way, waggled his eyebrows and handed them over, biceps flexing. "Figured you'd want these, too. There's hotel shampoo in the shower stall. Save some hot water for us, okay?"

I mumbled "thank you", closed the door behind me once more and leaned against it before my knees gave out.

0—0—0—0—0

We were scheduled to meet with the mysterious Bobby at a nearby diner around noon but we were heading someplace to get me some shoes and pants (and new underwear, I hoped). I climbed in beside Dean and then got wedged close to him by his brother, who sat beside me and took up more room than a normal-sized person would. Dean and I were pressed shoulder to shoulder, side to side and thigh to thigh, and I tensed, ready to spontaneously and lustily combust at any moment.

Dean didn't appear to mind, though. He grinned at me with that killer grin, his eyes all crinkly on the edges, and I sat there happily tingling all along my left side. Before long, we were pulling up outside the local Salvation Army.

"You boys sure know how to make a girl all warm and sticky," I said, peering in the window at the used furniture and what appeared to be a second-hand hologram photo of a clown. As if it wasn't creepy enough, it had to be used and then donated, too. Ick. Just...ick. Beside me, I felt Sam shudder and I realized he shared my anti-used clown sentiments.

Dean climbed out, then leaned back in. "Come on, Insult. Time to get you some digs. You can't be wandering around in the same huge flannel shirt all the time. You look like an abandoned kid."

Great. I felt myself blush. "Do you think they have wrapped, unused and brand new underwear?"

"Doubt it," Dean said.

"I'll just...I'll stay here," Sam mumbled, staring at the hologram.

Dean looked at the picture and snorted. Typical big brother. What a jerk.

In the end, I got four flannel shirts—just like theirs!—some jeans, a pair of boots and yes, used underwear. Used! Underwear! (I tell you this so that you can know what it's like. From the outside, being a Hunter looks all exciting and amazing. In truth, you're scraping to get by and used clothes from the Salvation Army or Goodwill are about as good as it gets. Because Hunting doesn't pay. Neither does Cleaning, for that matter. But—at least—as a Cleaner, I can pick up a paying job here or there. It's a marketable skill. Case in point: I gave my new wardrobe an extra zap of a disinfecting/debugging charm and poof!—the clothes were as good as new. Even the boots. And possibly, the underwear.

"That's handy," Dean observed, and narrowed his eyes. "Your shirt looks like you ironed it."

"My mom calls it the 'press-to' charm." I ran my hand along the sleeve so that it was smooth and wrinkle-free. "It's her idea of humor." I'm going to miss it, I realized unexpectedly, and tears filled my vision.

"You're like the Gandalf of Clean." Dean leaned close and sniffed. "Smells like...vanilla sugar cookies? Wow. Can you make it smell like apple pie?"

I nodded and thought about a freshly baked pie, buttery, flaky crust, and that distinctive, delicious scent of cinnamon and cooked apples, hot and steaming, with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream melting into a lukewarm puddle on the side; carefully I wove and layered the idea through the threads of the fabric.

"Oh my God, Sammy. You have to smell her." Dean moaned appreciatively. "I'm going to marry this girl, and she's going to make my whole house smell like pie, all the time."

"Then you won't enjoy it as much," I told him, enjoying the scent of Dean-ness that rose from the skin of his neck brushing against my cheek as he pressed his nose to my shirt. Man, gun oil, hotel shampoo...Dean. I sighed. Now that was a scent I wished I had a spell for. All I could do right now was enjoy it and try to remember it for later.

Because of some ridiculous Cleaner rules, I'd lost my own family, and I wasn't foolish enough to think that Dean and I would ever create one of our own. But it was nice to pretend, even if only for the moment and accept this acknowledgement. This is how it is, now. No one really ever knew what I could do, before. Besides other Cleaners, that is. And since they all knew the same spells, charms and hexes, they weren't impressed. But the Winchesters were looking at me with something like awe for something that was as easy—to me—as breathing. And, I realized, I liked it. A lot. Better, since now Dean knew something about me, he had something to admire about me besides my boobs or whatever it was I had. I thought about doing something really impressive for him. "I could pie-scent the Impala, if you'd like."

He raised his head and stared at me, shocked. And then his eyes narrowed. And he knew. Damn it. I should have known he'd noticed how my nose had involuntarily wrinkled when I'd first climbed into his car that morning.

Why, you ask? Dean keeps the Impala as clean as the inside of his mouth. (The man has a thing about oral hygiene. But I won't go into that here.) And yes, it's true. The Impala is beautiful. Sex on four wheels. Hot. Desirable. Drool-worthy.

But on the inside...well. To put it bluntly, it had this weird funk of Old Spice deodorant, vinyl, greasy fast food, old blood and...something worse. Like...someone ate a radioactive taco and let loose. Granted, it was faint, and most people would probably not notice, but I'd been trained to be attuned to things like the scent of the good, the bad and the fugly. So the-shall I say odor?-was apparent to me the minute I settled into the passenger seat beside Dean, and I couldn't help that nose wrinkle.

And because he's attuned to his environment and the people in it, Dean noticed me reacting to the l'air de Winchestermobile. "I knew it," he moaned. "See? I told you." He glared over my head at Sam.

"Dean. Stop overreacting. It's not that noticeable," Sam said in his best bitch voice. I thought of Kieran. Really, the similarities were astounding.

"Shut up," Dean answered and rolled his shoulders before he started the engine. "Ever since Ruby. You had to let her ride in the car."

"Dean!" Sam protested.

Ruby? That sounded interesting. "Who's Ruby?"

"Nobody important—"

"A demon. Ruby's a demon." Dean growled. "And in case you don't know it, we usually kill those. Or exorcise them."

"Dean-" Sam protested.

"We don't go funking up the inside of our brother's car with them!"

An awkward silence filled the interior of said car. "Oh." I bit my lip. Seriously? That was a new one. "Um...sorry?"

Sam threw his bitch-face my way; I could easily interpret it because it was so Kieran-like. Annoyed. Apologetic. Embarrassed. Stubborn. Mostly annoyed. It the expression Kieran got when I managed to wrest control of the music and put on something decent to listen to. Or when I waxed poetic about the Winchesters.

Dean started driving; his expression stone-set and his eyes glowering. He didn't answer me.

I turned to Sam. "Really?"

The youngest Winchester scrunched up his forehead. "It's not important."

"Like hell it's not." Dean shot an angry glare at his brother.

I frowned. Something was going on between them, but I wasn't about to pry. Especially when Dean was this cranky about it. But the demon information was interesting, so I pressed on. "I've been wondering. Demons are like spirits, right? They have to possess somebody. So if you're possessed by a demon...do you know what's going on? Or do they only possess dead people?"

"You wish. No, you're in there somewhere. Screaming and trying to get away from your own body and the monster inside it," Dean said, his voice flat and his eyes flintier than ever. Oddly enough, this made parts of me stand up and take notice. Angry Dean was hotter than flirty Dean—which was weird.

Weirder was that I'd be feeling lusty and lascivious during a conversation about demons and dead people. Just another wonderful thing about being me, I guess.

"That's not true, always. Sometimes, demons possess bodies that are almost dead. Or freshly deceased. You know. Unoccupied," Sam said. He sounded...defensive. I knew that couldn't be the case. Could it? Was there a Sam-demon connection?

Ruby? "I always picture demons as ugly and foul and...scary. But if they possess people, then they look like…"

"Dental hygenists. Pre-school teachers. Waitresses, mommies, anybody." Dean cast another meaningful glare at Sam over my head. Beside me, Sam shifted; I could feel the anger roiling off him. The two of them locked gazes and glowered like...well, the Winchester brothers.

I swallowed, trying to come up with something that would distract them from arguing. Especially since I was stuck in the middle. "Um...are they always women?"

Predictably, the word "women" word snapped Dean's attention away from Sam just long enough that I could reroute it. "What?"

"Demons. Women. Always?" I leaned into his side and put my hand on his thigh. Easy there, Isolde. You want to distract him, not make him crash. I slid my palm down to his knee instead and fought with myself not to move back to the more enticing, muscular portion of his leg.

He grunted and settled his eyes back on the road. "No. They'll wear any meatsuit that's available. Male, female...whatever and whoever suits their purposes." He made a face.

"You're thinking that all those occupations are taken by women," Sam pointed out, and I remembered he'd gone to college, so he was more attune to gender bias and blahblahblahblah. I rolled my eyes.

"Yeah, well, you know. You said, 'mommies'."

"Since when does a mommy have to be a woman?"

"Stow it, Sammy. The point is moot, because Ruby just happens to be possessing a woman." Dean growled. Beneath my palm I felt his thigh flex and tense up.

Oh, crap, I thought. He's going to get back into it with Sam.

Whoever this Ruby chick/demon was, she was the cause of major conflict between the brothers. I needed to do something to get them to stand down; being in the middle of a testosterone and anger fueled battle about a supernatural being who occupied the mostly-dead was not my idea of a good time.

Actually, I really didn't know exactly what a good time was (good-time speaking, that is) but heck, I was willing to pretend. I took a deep breath and leaned my torso against Dean's arm, making sure I got some good boob-to-body contact into it as I did so. I licked my lips, rested my chin on his shoulder and breathed the first thing that came to my mind into his ear. "Do you like mommies?"

"Uh...what?" He peered down at me through narrowed eyes and the thought occurred to me that maybe the topic of "mommies" was not that seductive. I felt myself flush.

I was so not a femme fatale. Or a femme of any kind, really. I sat back in my seat. "Never mind."

I stared out the windshield, my face on fire, and we drove in uncomfortable silence. Fortunately, it didn't take long before we pulled into a space in front of the appointed diner. Dean got out and—as appeared to be his habit—he leaned back in. "I'll go see if Bobby's waiting for us. You guys wait here." He stalked away.

I closed my eyes and groaned, feeling heavy with stupidity. I'd completely set myself waaaay back on the desirable woman scale. From now on, he was going to look at me like I was a pathetic, practically elderly virgin. Who could clean well. And make things smell good. I needed to get de-virginized, and fast. If only I could get out of my own way.

Beside me, Sam shifted. "Don't feel bad, Isolde. It was a good effort. Thanks."

I opened my eyes and turned to peer up at Sam. "What?"

"Thanks for distracting Dean. That's a sore subject."

Oh. Yeah. I'd had a reason to act so pathetic. "You're welcome. I guess."

"I'm not sure exactly what you were trying to do, but whatever. He shut up."

I sighed. "I'm pathetic."

Sam narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. "No. No, you're not...you're…" His face worked and I realized he was trying not to laugh. "Yes. You are."

I punched his arm; it was like hitting a rock. "Shut up."

"You are. You are seductively pathetic." He gave in and started giggling. After a moment, I started giggling, too. Because the past twenty-four hours had been the longest and most overwhelming of my life. And I had a feeling it was just the beginning. Besides, as I've already stated—maybe because of their long-ago association—Sam reminded me of Kieran. And I realized that even for all the ways he annoyed me, I missed him. And I was worried about him. Giggling made it feel better.

"Do you like mommies?" Sam said in a mocking voice and laughed in my face.

"Shut up! You are such an asshole!" I punched him again, embarrassed all over again, but feeling better about it.

"You punch like a girl." He grinned.

"I am a girl, you moron!" I punched him again. Damn, he really was like Kieran. "You want to see who's like a girl? I'll show you." I took a gamble and was pleased when it paid off two-fold: Kieran and Sam shared ticklish spots, right at the place where the neck joined the collarbone.

And yes, if you're wondering-he did squeak. Exactly like a girl. "Stop! Stop it!"

Somehow, we ended up wrestling and giggling and acting really stupid—just like me and Kieran, to be honest. I had Sam Winchester pressed up against the door and helpless (because I'd discovered that the soft spot by his hip bone was his Achilles' heel) and that's how Dean found us when he returned. He flung the passenger side door open and Sam fell out onto the pavement, shrieking. I rode out on top of him like he was a sled.

Dean glared. "Get up! Bobby's inside. And pull yourselves together!" He turned and stalked off.

I sobered and climbed off of Sam. I suddenly wanted to cry. I'd blown it for sure. "He hates me."

Sam rolled gracefully to his feet and put his hand on my shoulder, and I looked up at him. "I don't think so." He winked. "Think about it this way: we just made it interesting for him." He tossed his head so that his hair settled into its usual sexy-messy perfection. "In fact, I can almost guarantee it. He's jealous." He winked. "Don't worry, Insult. Your desirability quotient just went up a thousand percent. In spite of the...um...mommy thing."

I pondered this as he led me into the diner and to the table, and it appeared to be true. Dean stood as we approached and actually pulled out a chair for me to sit down. Next to him, it turned out, because he settled in beside me and actually put his arm over the back of my seat in a semi-protective/possessive way. I peered across the table at Sam; he tilted an eyebrow at me, and we shared a quick, triumphant grin.

I wasn't sure what the cost would be, but whatever it was, it would be worth it. I owed Sam Winchester, big time.

"Bobby hit the head," Dean announced as the waitress approached and he gestured for coffees all around with a wave of his finger.

"I really want to thank you guys for helping me with this. And Kieran." I stared at my mug and wondered if my cousin had gotten his coffee this morning. Or his platter of fruit and yogurt. What did they serve in prison, anyway?

Dean pressed his arm around my shoulders and tugged at the ends of my hair as a bearded man in a frayed trucker's cap approached the table. Bobby Singer, I realized, and it hit me that I'd seen him before. Of course. We'd probably Cleaned after him.

His eyes narrowed as he sat across from me. "You—you're Patrick McShae's girl," he blurted by way of greeting.

I nodded. I was getting deeper and deeper into this; I might be Patrick McShae's daughter, but as far as he and the Clan would be concerned, I was nonexistent. As good as dead. There was no going back now. I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded.

He sighed and reached for the creamer. "Well, what's done is done," he announced as if he could read my mind. Who knows? Maybe he could. Or maybe, we just shared the same sad thoughts. "I'll talk to Magda. Maybe we can figure something out."

Wait. What? Magda? "You know Magda?" I blurted. "But...I thought Hunters and Cleaners could never...but…" I stared at him; I think my mouth was hanging open.

"Of course. Who do you think tells her where all the messes are?" He poured a liberal amount of cream into his mug; then reached into his pocket and produced a silver flask. He tipped it in my direction. "Here. Irish that coffee up. You probably need it after spending the night with these two idjits."

I shook my head, though it might have calmed my nerves and slowed my racing thoughts. Bobby knew Magda? And Magda knew him?

Maybe...maybe I didn't have to be Banished. Of course, there would be a Council of Elders, but maybe...I took a deep breath and started when I realized Dean had stopped explaining what had happened to me and why I was there. I looked up to see Bobby's scowling at me from under his trucker's cap. And then his eyes widened, and he gave me a panicked expression. "Wait. Your cousin was arrested?"

I nodded, not sure why that would freak the older hunter out so much.

"Kieran," Bobby said, emphasizing the name. "He's your cousin."

"You know him?" I thought that was kind of weird. I mean, it wasn't like he and Kieran had met or anything. I'd only just sort of recognized Bobby Singer, and my father had Cleaned for the guy on occasion.

Dean's arm tightened around my shoulders. "That's what she said, Bobby. What's the problem? Kid's a douchebag, I'll give you that, but—"

And then Bobby said the one thing I never expected to hear. Dean or Sam either, for that matter. "He's also your half-brother. We gotta get him out of there." He stood.

And...scene! Until next week. Bwahahahahaha...