Hands in the back pockets of my jeans (okay they're jeggings because comfort, but that is such a stupid word), I watched Dean make sure the hotel room door had latched securely before he stuck the key in the lock. Hesitating, he glanced back at me. "You got everything?"

"We're only goin' downstairs, Winchester, what else do I need?" ...of course, once he said it, I had to check anyway because there's always that 'did I leave the oven on' thing going on in my head. Tank-top, check. 'Jeggings', check. Wallet, check. Hell, I'd even put my boots on. "You think Sam's gonna be alright alone for an hour?"

"Yeah, I'm sure he'll be fine." With a click, he turned the key and dropped it into the front pocket of his jeans before turning away, his black biker boots silent on the thick red-and-orange geometric carpet that ran the length of the hallway. "Come on or we're gonna be late."

"Where are you going?" I'd already started heading in the opposite direction, absolutely starving and eager to get to the food part of the evening. "The elevator's this way."

Turning slowly back around to face me, Dean raised a brow as he jerked his head in the direction he'd started in before saying one of the most thoughtful things anyone has ever said to me in my entire life. "I kind of figured you'd prefer the stairs."

"I do usually, yeah, but I figured you'd rather take the elevator." Because who wouldn't? I mean, other than me and the cast of Devil. "I can suck it up and deal for a two-minute trip."

"Why should you have to?"

Now, I've had a lot of people ask me (with varying degrees of disbelief that occasionally borders on the insulting) how I could possibly be with a guy like Dean Winchester. I know he doesn't have the best reputation and depending on who you ask he's everything from a heroic figure straight out of myth to a demon from the depths of hell, but none of that is who he really is.

Underneath all the blood and death and pain (and flannel), he is the most unthinkingly thoughtful person I have ever met. It's not the big things. It's not fancy dinners and gourmet chocolates and expensive jewelry, it's a jacket on a chilly day or a stupid stack of CDs or 'why should you have to'.

"I-I don't-" I know, the stammer is a little obnoxious. (Rest assured, I did eventually grow out of it. Mostly.) But can you blame me? I'd spent nineteen years bending till I broke to fit into the world around me and nobody had ever bent for me and when someone finally did, it was a virtual stranger that—the last twenty-four hours or so notwithstanding—had been stuck with me against his will and barely tolerated my existence.

For the life of me, I couldn't get out anything past 'I-I don't-'. Hell, I don't even know what I would have said if I could have said it. My train of thought had officially derailed and killed all passengers save for maybe one guy left lost and confused as he stumbled around the wreckage. It wasn't pretty. But, you know, Batman to the rescue…

Hands tucked into his pockets, Dean turned on that hundred-watt smile and grinned at me like a little boy who'd just been praised for doing 'just such a great job'. He didn't know what the job was, he just knew he'd done good (Sounds more like a Golden Retriever to me. -Dean). Then he went and did it again, skating right by my newfound inability to form a coherent sentence like he hadn't even noticed, abruptly shifting the topic. "Race you down."

And before I could process what in the hell he meant, he was gone.

"...oh, that bowlegged son of a bitch."

Breathless, I came skidding to an abrupt halt, nearly crashing into Dean when he stopped short just past the last step. Biting back a giggle, I shouldered my way past before rounding on him, hands on my hips as I frowned up into his smug face. "You cheating bastard."

"I'd like to see you prove it."

For just a second, as the smile started to fade from his lips and confusion furrowed his brow, I almost felt bad. Almost. And then I remembered that he'd been a straight up asshole to me for a good portion of the past week and got over it. What can I say, I'm a little petty and enjoy the occasional payback. Also it was just funny and I'm a mean person. (It's true, she's terrible. I'm blinking SOS right now. -Dean).

I flipped him off before crossing my arms, glaring daggers at him and just barely managing to keep a grin off my face and a laugh out of my voice. Not always easy, but almost always worth it. "Fuck you, fight me."

"...wait." Narrowing those fanfiction-green eyes at me, Dean gave me a long look and I swear I just about heard something click in his brain. Aaand that was it, the beginning of the end. After this, he learned to read me way too damn quick and I'm still a little salty about it, to be honest. "Are you really pissed or are you just bein' a pain in my ass again because I really can't tell."

"Again? I haven't been a pain in your ass yet." Just like that, the carefully cultivated look of aggravation I'd had pasted on my features faded, quickly replaced with an exaggeratedly lascivious grin. (Walking. Talking. Dictionary. -Dean) "But I mean, if you're into that, maybe someday if you play your cards right and ask real nice…"

Then it was his turn to look aggravated. Can't really blame him, I was being a pain in the ass and it was very much on purpose. (Though it might also have been because he couldn't tell if I was flirting or not. Hell, I couldn't even tell if I was flirting or not.) And unfortunately, while I may be kind of petty and a little mean, I also have an overactive Jiminy Cricket, which has caused me no end of aggravation over the years. "Sorry. I just-I'm not tryin' to be a brat, Dean, it just comes naturally." There. See? I can do the adult thing and apologize when necessary. "...but you did cheat."

His eyes narrowed,the tip of his tongue resting on his lips, gave me a long once-over. Shaking his head, he smirked at me. "Like you'd have had a chance anyway, Ballerina Barbie."

...No. Please no. I don't want to do this anymore. Please, I don't want to do this anymore…

Needless to say, really not my favorite nickname ever. Good thing for me—and probably for Dean—I'd had several years of experience brushing off shit that poked at memories I'd rather they didn't, letting it slide off me like water off a goddamn goose. "Oh, please, Winchester. Anything you can do, I can do better."

Blinking at me, he took a second to reply, as if he couldn't really believe anyone would say that. "Did you just quote a musical at me?"

The fact that he knew even that much was a little surprising and I swear, I couldn't help it, I had to open my big mouth, "If you can tell me what musical, I'll do your laundry for a month."

He took his sweet-ass time answering, as if he were deciding whether or not to give away how big of a nerd he really was. (Spoiler: Huge. HUGE.) "Annie Get Your Gun. Released 1950. ...maybe '51, starring Betty Hutton and Howard Keel."

"...well fuck me sideways." I held up a finger, stalling him as he opened his mouth to say something smart. How do I know it was going to be something smart? ...Seriously? "Not an invitation." Yet. You could have knocked me over with a feather right about then and not even my vaunted ability to brick wall could keep that smile off my stupid face. "And you were right, it was released in 1950-not 51-by MGM, though it was originally a Broadway show by Dorothy and Herbert Fields and Irving Berlin in 1946." (Did I say dictionary? I meant Wikipedia. -Dean)

"I did not know that."

I didn't even realize I was waiting for an eye roll or a long-suffering sigh or whatever until I didn't get one. After all, that was how the majority of people reacted to some dumbass random fact or other that fell out of my mouth, which is when I realized that for every snarky, smartass, bad-tempered comment out of Dean Winchester's mouth...he had never once done that. Not once.

"I like musicals." Now watch how great I am with casual conversation when the gears in my brain have suddenly decided to seize up and thought production comes to a total standstill. "And westerns." So good. Much words. "And musical westerns."

God I am such a dumbass sometimes and how in the holy hell did I end up snagging Mr. Genius Underwear Model with lines like 'I like musical westerns.' (Sex. Lots of sex. -Dean)

"You like westerns?" Dammit, did he have to look all amused and charming and shit right then? Really just emphasized my own awkwardness by about a thousand.

"Yeah, I-" Neither of us were the kind to be snuck up on very easily and we both jumped at the sound of a throat clearing behind us, spinning around like we'd just been caught with our hands in a couple of well-stocked cookie jars. Oh, thank God. Saved by the butler. "Al-" Not Alfred. "Charles." Hey, at least I caught myself, right? And that was totally Dean's fault for calling him Alfred all day. "I'm sorry, we didn't see you there."

Hands clasped behind his back, Charles smiled, not looking the least bit bothered. "Nothing to apologize for, Miss Skyler, it's quite alright."

Before I could speak up to protest the use of 'Miss Skyler', Dean did it for me. "It's just Skye."

"Of course. I promise I'll try and remember this time. And you're Dean, correct?" At Dean's affirmative nod, Charles' smile widened and he stepped aside, lifting a hand and giving a little half-bow that frankly would have looked ridiculous if anyone else had done it. "Skye. Dean. Right this way, please."

Don't have to ask me twice. Glancing at Dean, I briefly met his gaze before falling into step beside him as we headed toward the dining room. "Thank you, Charles."

"...if it helps, you can call me Alfred."