"Ultimately the bond of all companionship, whether in marriage or in friendship, is conversation."

– Oscar Wilde

The westering sun was just settling on the horizon as Dean pulled the Impala into the parking lot of what had once probably been quite the impressive nine-story hotel but was now mostly a crumbling pile of OSHA violations. It had been one hell of a long day, starting with torching the decades old bones of a couple of kids and ending with Sam's entire life going up in flames. Really just not the best day ever. I can't say it couldn't be worse because it can always be worse, but definitely not something anybody would ever look back on fondly. Well, mostly...

With a twist of the wrist, Dean killed the V8, his other hand wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel his knuckles turned white. The silence in the car clogged the air, thick and viscous, gluing jaws closed and choking throats. We'd probably have sat there all night if Dean hadn't managed to finally break it. "You guys stay put, I'll go get us a room."

His hand on the door, he looked up, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror. (Have I mentioned that Dean's got the most gorgeous green eyes I've ever seen in my life? Probably. Am I going to mention it five billion more times? Yes. Yes, I am.) "Watch him."

"Yeah. Sure." What else was I going to say? 'No, sorry, don't wanna?' Yeah right.

My attention turned to the 'him' in question. Well, I mean, really it had never left the 'him in question', but… Man, Sam was a mess, or at least clearly would be in the very near future. Right now he had that kind of glazed look you get when your brain is still struggling to realize that you're not dead, you just wish you were. It was the first time I'd seen it in his eyes. Unfortunately, it would not be the last.

Without another word, Dean got out of the car, the slam of the door behind him echoing off the buildings around us.

—Sidenote: Why does everything always get really loud in the aftermath of a disaster? Seriously, any disaster and after the smoke clears and the blood dries, everything just gets really still and every little sound ricochet around in your head.

Sorry. I know, I'm rambling. I do that a lot—go off on a tangent about some barely related thing or other—you'll get used to it. Or you won't and you'll get annoyed and stop reading and never come back. Just know that I always circle back around to the topic at hand, whether you stick around for it is up to you.—

Sam must have been watching Dean walk away because the second he was out of sight, Sam was out of the car and off in the opposite direction. Great. Fantastic. Wonderful. What exactly was I supposed to do about it?

Grabbing my bag out of the floorboard, I slung a strap over my shoulder and climbed out of the backseat, running after him. (Okay, it was really more of a light jog, but there was at least some minimal effort involved.) "Sam, hold up a second."

"Don't." His voice rough, Sam stopped long enough to face me, looking hollow. Yeah, that's a good word for it. Hollow. Like he'd been scooped out and left as just a shell. Really made my problems pale in comparison. "I need a drink and I don't think I can deal with you and Dean right now-"

I could have asked what that was supposed to mean, but contrary to the popular opinion of the time, I'm not a total bitch. Also not a total idiot.

"-like I could stop you if I wanted to." And who the hell was I to even try? Just some random girl he'd known for like a whole three days. We weren't even really friends yet. Not to mention that Sammy could've spiked me like a football back then. Nowadays he has to actually work for it. "I just wanted to ask you to please be careful. I don't wanna have to come lookin' for you at three in the mornin' or have to file a police report or some shit, okay?"

If Sam could have managed any expression besides agony, I suppose he'd've looked grateful. As it was, he just looked like he wanted to curl up and die and I don't blame him. "Tell Dean-"

"Don't worry about Dean." With one hand wrapped around the strap of the bag over my shoulder, I smiled at the shaggy-haired puppy of a man. Well, maybe 'smiled' is a bit of a stretch, but it was something. Sure he was virtually a stranger, but he seemed like such a nice guy and no one should ever have to go through what he was going through right then. Ever had your heart literally ache for another person? That restrictive, heavy feeling in your chest that makes it hard to breathe? God, I hate that. "I'll distract him as long as I can, give you a bit of a head start."

"Thanks."

Sitting cross-legged on the trunk of the car with my knapsack next to me, I watched Dean cross the parking lot, loose asphalt and gravel crunching under heavy black biker boots. He didn't look at all happy, but that wasn't exactly new. Besides, it wasn't like I didn't know I was going to get some grief over letting Sam run off, but it was the least I could do for the guy.

Leaning over to peer into the car—which I'm sure he'd already figured out was empty—Dean slowly straightened up to glare at me. If looks could kill. (More like 'OooOoo, scary.') "Where's Sam?"

"Don't know." Which was true, I didn't know. Well, okay, I didn't know exactly, but I had a pretty good idea. Maybe if he'd asked the right questions I would have said more, but he didn't, so... not my fault, right? Right. (Also, word of advice here, develop the ability to tell the exact truth without actually revealing a goddamn thing. It's an incredibly useful skill to have.)

"What do you mean, you don't know?" Stepping up a little closer, Dean crossed his arms, scowling down at me like I was going to start cowering away any second now. Yeah. Right. You'd think he'd've learned that didn't work on me by then. (Though to be totally fair, he still does this and it's never worked. Old habits, I guess.) "I told you to watch him."

"I know, I'm sorry." No I wasn't. Not even a little. Then or now. "I just-I had to pee and when I got back, he was gone." Lies, all outright lies, but I've always been a damned good liar. Or at least, I was, right up until Dean learned to read me like a fucking book.

—And do you know how annoying it is to have someone know you so well that they can figure out what you're thinking before you do? Not that it doesn't come in handy, it really does, but trying to keep a secret from someone you've been with for years is a job of work, let me tell you.—

Sorry, rambling again. Where was I? Oh. Yeah. Dean being all aggravated at me. (Which still happens, like, daily.)

"You had to pee." Running a hand through his hair, I could practically see him counting to ten as he closed his eyes. "Great." In retrospect, him taking a second to try and keep his temper was kind of sweet. ...but then Dean is, in fact, a giant fucking marshallow covered in prickly, cranky badass. (Don't tell him I said that, though. He hates when I say that. Something about his 'reputation'. Insert eyeroll here.)

He turned in a slow circle—as if to try and pick Sam out of the darkness—before turning back to look down at me, the muscle in his jaw twitching. "...so you don't even know which direction he went?"

"I think-I think maybe he said something about the park earlier?" No, he didn't. Ever. Hell, I'm not sure I've ever heard Sammy even say the word 'park' in all the years I've known him. "I think we passed one on the way in." No we hadn't. "Four or five blocks that way." Lifting a hand, I gestured vaguely in the opposite direction from the one Sam had actually gone.

What, you didn't think Dean calls me a brat for no reason, right? I totally am. I think it's like half of why he fell for me, actually. Dude needs so much therapy. (Like she doesn't. -Dean)

"Oh for fucks sake..." Digging the keys out of his pocket, Dean started to walk around to the driver's side, muttering something under his breath about 'midgets' and a 'pain in his ass'. Really sounded like a personal problem to me. Or a niche porn category. "This is why I told you to watch him."

"And what could I have done to stop him, Dean? Kick him in the shins and run away?" Sliding down off the trunk, I grabbed my bag and stood behind the car with my arms crossed, doing my best to at least make an inconvenient speed bump and slow him down just a few extra minutes. "Have you noticed that he's literally twice my size and could bench press a small Buick?"

Yanking open the driver's side door, Dean paused long enough to give me a look that said quite clearly that I was completely full of shit. Which is true. "Like you couldn't have figured something out."

If it didn't sound like he wanted to reach over and twist my head off, that would have almost been a compliment. "Aww. That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me, Winchester."

Glaring at me from several feet away, he clenched his teeth hard enough to crack enamel. All these years and he still has that habit and I still haven't figured out how he hasn't needed thousands in dental work. I blame witchcraft. Literally. "Are you gonna get in the fuckin' car?"

"Not if you're gonna talk to me like that, I'm not." Not that I had any plans to get back in regardless, but he could at least be civil about it. "Sam's a big boy, Dean. Just give him some space, he'll be okay."

"I don't have time for your shit, Skyler." And it looked like he was counting to ten again. Several times. Or he was imagining strangling me. Or both. Probably both. "Here, look, just-" Sticking his hand in his pocket, he pulled out the room key and threw it at my head. Like actually at my head. Not that it would have hurt if I hadn't caught it, but rude. "Room 237. Go in, lock the doors, and don't go anywhere."

"Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?" Wiping all expression off my face, I snapped to attention, throwing a salute that was as derisive as I could possibly make it. And trust me, I can manage a lot of derision. "Perhaps you'd like me to run you a bath while you're out. Maybe spit shine your boots?"

Raising a single finger before stuffing himself in the driver's seat, Dean's parting shot was succinct and so well thought out; "Fuck you."

A nice offer, sure, but considering at that point I still couldn't shake hands without getting an anxiety spike…

"No thanks, I'm good."

'Go in. Lock the doors. Don't go anywhere.' Who died and made him boss of me, again? Pretty sure nobody. Still, not like I had anything better to do because if I had, I would have done it. Twice. And taken pictures. It didn't take long to find 237 and you can damn well bet I was grumbling to myself the entire fucking time.

It took a second to get the lock to turn, the tumblers stiff from disuse and I wondered exactly how long it had been since someone had stayed there. The whole place had a deserted feel to it. You ever see The Shining? It didn't look a thing like that, but it had the same 'we should get the fuck out of here' kind of feel to it. The fact that I hadn't seen a single other person since I stepped foot in the lobby didn't help. But hey, there was electricity and a decent chance at hot water, so fuck it.

You want to know the really weird part? At this point, I knew for a certainty that ghosts existed because I'd confronted three of them not twenty-four hours ago and you'd think that would make a place like this even creepier, right? Wrong. If anything it tends to have the opposite effect. Just wanted to throw that in there. So, back to the room…

With a shriek of protesting hinges, the stout wooden door creaked slowly open to reveal a bloody disembodied head. Okay, not really, but I wouldn't have been surprised. Much.

Really, the room wasn't half bad. For one, it was big, easily three or four times the size of John's room back in Jericho. For another, it had a kitchenette. Small, sure, but there was a fridge and stove and everything all shoved into the corner closest to the door. There was even a little kitchen table with a couple of chairs. Hell, it was nicer than my shitty studio apartment and how sad is that?

Two doors led off from the main room, the first opening into the bathroom, which was also large and fairly well appointed. Okay, not well, but I have very low standards in everything but men, so really it was pretty nice. The fixtures were old but solid and a quick twist of the knob proved there was at least hot water. What wasn't so nice was the huge old bathtub. One of those clawfoot affairs big enough to swim in...and no shower. That was going to be a problem. Nothing to do about it right that second, though, so it was whatever.

The second door led into a bedroom smaller than most closets. Tiny, windowless, barely big enough for the rickety twin bed and the miniscule nightstand. Yeah, that's going to be a no from me. One of the boys could take it, but no way I was.

After thoroughly inspecting everything, or as thoroughly as I could manage in ten minutes, I claimed the bed closest to the door and got comfortable. With nothing else to do, I kicked off my boots and flipped on the old black and white TV that sat on the dresser against the far wall, tuning it to nothing in particular and trying not to worry about what the boys were up to or how long they were going to be gone.

Maybe I should have stopped Sam after all.

...nah.