The rumble of the V8 faded as Dean killed the engine and pocketed the keys before leaning over me to pop open the glovebox. Without so much as an 'excuse me' as he invaded my personal bubble, he rifled around before coming up with a little bronze amulet I'd never seen before and considering how often I'd rifled through Dean's car, that was saying something. I didn't get a great look at it at the time, but I can certainly describe it now. Hell, it's even in the fanfiction about us. I do believe they call it 'The Samulet'. It's a small, heavy bronze thing with a little face and horns. Honestly, it's kind of creepy, but who am I to judge.

—And yes, there's fanfiction about us. It's a long story and we'll get to that eventually. For now it's enough to know that it exists and it's awesome. (I am not a fan. I mean come on. Wincest? Really? -Dean)—

"What was that?"

"Nothin'." Tucking the amulet in the inner-pocket of his leather jacket, Dean reached for the door handle before apparently realizing that I wasn't accepting 'nothin', and considering he already had a pretty good idea of how stubborn I was, it didn't take him long to realize I wasn't moving until I got a better answer.

"It's uh-" Running a hand through his dark hair, he looked embarrassed, which honestly is a good look for him. But then again, most looks are. "It's a necklace. Sam gave it to me for Christmas when we were kids. I don't normally take it off but the leather strap broke a couple weeks back and I haven't had a chance to get a new one."

"That's adorable." And there he went, turning all kinds of red again. I can understand, it's got to be a little mortifying to basically admit that you're a giant marshmallow and not the big, scary bruiser you pretend to be. (Don't listen to her. I'm terrifying. -Dean) "Seriously, the whole 'big brother' vibe is just too cute."

"Shut up." Hand on the door, Dean just sighed and shook his head, ignoring my smirk and moving right past the fact that I'd basically just called him cute. (I was trying to blame the alcohol. For her sake. -Dean) "Are you coming?"

"Not while you're watching." I couldn't let that bit of double entendre slip by without a little innuendo of my own. After all, we're blaming the alcohol, right? I can't be held responsible for my actions. (Words. Actions didn't come till much later. -Dean) "So when you gonna start talkin', Winchester?"

"Can we get out of the car first?"

The automatic doors beneath the glowing blue-and-white sign opened, letting out a blast of air that was even colder than the night outside. (No, it wasn't. -Dean)

—Okay, maybe not, but it sure as hell felt like it. What even is the point of having the air conditioner blasting when it's sixty degrees out? Someone tell me, I need to know the rationalization on this one. (You know, I came out to have a good time and I'm just feeling so attacked right now. -Dean)—

I grabbed a cart from just inside the doors, squinting against the bright fluorescent lights overhead as I took a second to remember if I'd thanked Dean for grabbing my jacket. No. No, I had not. Then again, he had thrown it at my head, so that was fair.

Arms crossed over the cart handle, I smiled up at the behemoth next to me, in no particular hurry to speed through this shopping trip. Generally I'm not a fan of your local Big Box Retailer and spend as little time there as possible, but there are some exceptions and this was definitely one of them. "Alright, we're here. Start talkin', Winchester."

"You always this impatient?" Hands tucked firmly into his pockets, Dean slowed his stride to keep in step with mine as I steered us toward the men's clothing, looking down at me with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement. Also a good look for him. "I'm tryin' to think."

"I thought I smelled something burning."

"How do you fit that much obnoxious in such a small package?"

"Years of practice." Stopping before we stepped into the forest of clothing racks, I leaned an elbow on the cart and looked up at Dean with a saccharine smile as I waved a hand toward the abundance of cotton and flannel stretched out before us. "You know what size Sam wears or am I gonna have to guess?"

—I think it took Dean a second to realize where we were and why we were there. I mean, I'm sure it would have occurred to him eventually that Sam had no clothes (or anything else), and I guess I couldn't really blame him for forgetting. After all, he wasn't the one that had spent the better part of an hour cleaning vomit out of t-shirt, carpet, and inebriated human.—

"Yeah, I do." Blinking down at me, he smiled, one of those slow, charming smiles that builds into a full-on grin. Can you say butterflies? "We wear the same size jeans, he's just one up in shirts."

"Good to know." Also not the easiest to shop for. Just saying. Then again, neither am I. (She usually has to shop in the kids section and it's hilarious. -Dean) "Think we can find somethin' for him while you talk?"

"Probably." True to his word, Dean led the way in, searching for enough denim and flannel to get Sam through for a few days until he was up to picking up a few things on his own. I followed with the cart, trying to stay close enough to hear him without running him over in the narrow spaces that wound through the racks. "Guess I should start at the beginning, though maybe not as far back as you tried to. I'm not as familiar with Genesis-"

That's fair. Didn't stop me from flipping him off, though. (The least rude hand gesture she knew at the time. Now she can tell you to fuck off in sign language. That's fun. Thanks, Eileen. -Dean)

"-I was born on January 24th, 1979, in Lawrence, Kansas to a happily married John and Mary Winchester." Grabbing a couple of plain t-shirts off a shelf, Dean checked the size before tossing one in the basket and the other back onto the shelf. "I had a pretty normal childhood for the first few years. Swingset, sandbox, bedtimes stories. Hell, Mom even cut the crusts off my peanut butter sandwiches."

"How very Norman Rockwell." Abandoning the cart where it wasn't likely to get in anyone else's way, I gave Dean a dirty look before I skirted around him to pick up the shirt he'd just tossed back onto the shelf. "Seriously Dean, it takes two seconds." I ignored the eye-roll I got in return as I folded the shirt the way it was and put it back where it belonged. "Or do you need me to teach you how to fold clothes?"

"Little hostile there, Tinkerbell." Dean retrieved the basket from where I'd left it as I straightened his mess and grabbed a couple more of the same shirt in a couple different neutral colors. It's always nice to have variety. (Says the girl that usually dresses in black everything but socks. -Dean) "Something you need to get off your chest?" Crossing his arms, he watched me, an insufferable smirk hovering on his lips. "Or are we going back to hating each other already?"

"Sorry, didn't mean to get snappy." Okay, yes I did, but to be fair, I wasn't totally used to being so friendly yet and I can be a little defensive. Or is that offensive? (Both. -Dean) "It's just-Do you know how much the average retail worker makes?" I may or may not have been straightening clothing that Dean hadn't come anywhere near at this point. "Trust me, it's not nearly enough to have to put up with asshole customers that don't have the manners of a toddler and can't be bothered to clean up after themselves."

"Can't say I ever gave it much thought."

"I don't think most people do, but they should." Turning to survey the shelves of jeans stacked a few yards away, I gestured for Dean to precede me and we made our way over, ignoring the other patrons that were there at such a late hour. "You were saying?"

"Um-Shit." Dean took a second to remember where he'd left off before I'd so rudely interrupted him while browsing the varied selection of denim to choose from, occasionally glancing over at me to see if I was still listening. Yeah. Right. Like I was going to miss this. "Sam was born when I was four and everything was great for awhile." Finding a couple pairs of jeans he seemed to think were good enough, Dean tossed them into the basket and straightened up, running a hand through his hair and clearing his throat before continuing, "Then when he was a few months old, everything kinda went sideways."

"That's when your mom died?" All these years later, and he still has trouble talking about it. There are some things you just never get over and it showed. (Still does.) Up to that point, I don't think I'd ever wanted to hug a grown man quite as much as I did right then. Too bad the thought also made my heart skip and my skin crawl, for multiple reasons. (Because that's flattering. -Dean) "Sam told me what happened."

"You two are gettin' to be fast friends, huh."

"I'm good with kids and Sam just happens to be a particularly large one." At least, he was at the time. Grief will do that to you. And was that jealousy I heard in Dean's voice? Because I'd ever shown the slightest interest in Sam at that point. (I was not jealous. ...shut up. -Dean) "So you guys just had a nice, normal life until something or other came along and blew it to pieces."

"Pretty much, yeah." Dean took the cart back, steering it out of the section we were in and into socks and underwear. It didn't take him long at all to grab the essentials and toss them into the cart with everything else. Shaking his head, he flashed me a half-smile that seemed almost apologetic. "Your life story is just a little more dramatic than mine."

"Dude, you hunt monsters and have a close, fuzzy relationship with Casper the Not-So-Friendly Ghost. I'd say that's pretty dramatic." Who in their right mind would think that wasn't dramatic? Oh. Right. He's never been in his right mind. Moving on. "So what happened after your mom died?"

"We had a funeral." The reply might have been on the smartass side of things but it wasn't hard to see how difficult it was for him to talk about. His hands tightening around the cart handle hard enough to make the plastic squeak and avoiding eye-contact are kind of huge clues there. "I don't really remember all that too well. It kind of blurs together, you know?" Yes. Yes, I do. Caught up in his own memory, Dean paused in the middle of the aisle, ignoring the dirty looks that earned him from a middle-aged woman with classic resting bitch face. "I do remember sittin' in a church pew next to a dark-haired woman. I think she was a friend of Mom's, but don't quote me on that."

"Wasn't plannin' on it." Snagging the end of the cart with a finger, I gave it a pull, reminding Dean that we were in fact in the middle of something and he should probably get out of the way of other people unless he wanted to get run over by some woman named Karen with a too-expensive haircut and six-inch fingernails. Not to mention we actually had things we needed to buy. "What else do you remember?"

"Not much." Taking the hint, Dean let me take over the cart as we ambled over toward the grocery section. Tucking his hands into his jacket pockets, he shrugged and fell into step next to me. "Mostly just her holdin' Sammy in her lap and a guy I didn't know standing in front of a podium talking about shit I didn't understand." Blinking the memory away, he smiled down at me as he skirted around a soda display that I don't think he actually saw. "What are you makin' for breakfast?"

"I was thinkin' somethin' breakfast-y, like eggs or pancakes or cold pizza." Because who doesn't like cold pizza for breakfast? (Woman after my own heart. -Dean) "So your Mom's friend took you to her funeral? Where was your Dad?"

"I don't know. I never asked." If anyone would like to pinpoint the exact moment I started to develop an intense dislike of John Winchester, this would be it. (Intense dislike? You mean rabid hatred. So glad you're over that. -Dean) "I actually quit talking for awhile after that, or so I'm told, so I don't think I was asking anyone much of anything."

"You wanna hear somethin' you're just gonna love?" Stopping the cart in front of the dairy case, I opened the fridge to grab a half-gallon of milk and a couple cartons of eggs. I set them in the cart next to an already wrinkled t-shirt and glanced over at Dean with a sympathetic smile. "When I was little, my nickname was Minnie Mouse because I was so little and quiet people tended to forget I was there. I didn't speak in full sentences until I was five."

Eyes narrowed, Dean arched a brow, looking skeptical enough to border on insulting. Good thing he's cute, makes it a little harder to get annoyed at him. (No it doesn't. -Dean) "I find that hard to believe, Chatty Kathy."

"Hey, six months of intensive unwanted therapy and two years later, I can almost hold a normal conversation."

"Is that what this is?"

"Well, normal is relative." Also a setting on the dryer. I mean seriously, have you ever met anyone you'd really consider 'normal'? Because I haven't and I'm not sure there is such a thing. "Not that I'd know, the only relative I've got is rapidly losing her mind and usually thinks I'm my mother." It didn't take long to grab a pack of bacon to go with the eggs, as well as some sausage and a few other things. Like salt. Pepper is also good. "Besides, you should be flattered. I'm not this chatty with everyone."

"I guess I'm just special, then. Yay me." He almost sounded like he meant that. I mean sure, there was a trace of sarcasm, but that's there with like ninety-nine percent of everything that comes out of his mouth. "...I'm sorry Beatrice thinks you're your mother. That's gotta sting."

"Yeah, it does. Thanks." 'Sting' was a bit of an understatement, but I appreciated the thought. Taking a step back, I took a look around until I spotted the sign over the aisle I was looking for. Couldn't cook without a skillet. And maybe a cake pan because cake. "So what happens next in the Winchester Saga?"

"Not a whole lot." Considering everything I know now that I didn't know then, I can confidently say that 'not a whole lot' is massively downplaying it. "Dad was gone a lot. When we were real little, he'd leave us with friends like Bobby or Jim for days or weeks at a time while he was off doin' whatever." Dean paused long enough to grab a bag of peanut M&Ms off the shelf as we passed before catching back up to me. "When we got a little older, he started bringing us along and we'd stay in a motel room while he was gone."

"I'd apologize for interrupting but I'm not actually sorry-" Hey, at least I'm honest, right? (Is that what we're calling that? -Dean) "How old were you when he started draggin' you and Sam with him?"

"I don't know, seven or eight?" It took Dean a second to realize I'd come to a dead-stop in the middle of anything and I don't imagine the look on my face was a good one. Turning slowly back toward me, he just looked confused as to why anyone would possibly find that bit of information disturbing. "...what?"

"I just-So Sam would have been what? Three or four?" Stepping aside for a couple of teenagers to pass, I ignore the curious looks we were getting. I mean, we weren't exactly being quiet and the conversation wasn't really typical for your average shopping trip so I can't actually blame people for eavesdropping. "And he just left you guys alone for days at a time?"

"Yeah. So?"

"Nothin', I had just thought for some reason that my childhood was more fucked up than yours, but it's really not." I don't think Dean appreciated the comparison. (I still don't, but she's not wrong. I hate that. -Dean) "That is every bit as fucked up as gettin' smacked around, maybe more so." For the record, my opinion on that one really hasn't changed much. Or at all. "At least I only had myself to worry about. You had to play dad when you were fuckin' seven and that is beyond messed up."

"That's not-" Ever seen a Winchester so offended he starts to stutter? I have, and yes, it's just as funny as you think it is. "It's not even-" Nostrils flaring, Dean pressed his lips tightly together as he tried to string together a full sentence and mostly failed. "Just no."

"So anger and denial are just your go-to coping mechanisms, huh. Maybe throw in a little humor for funsies?" I cocked my head to the side and gave Dean a long look, taking in everything from tip to tail and back again without even trying to hide my smirk. "You know, you're kinda cute when you're annoyed. Like a big, cranky Bullmastiff that is all bark and no bite."

"Oh, I bite-"

"-but only if asked nicely and I don't remember asking yet." I might not have totally intended to say that, but it slipped out before I could stop it. Clearing my throat, I ignored the warmth creeping up my neck and pretended I wasn't turning fifty shades of pink. "Shut up, I'm drunk. I did you the courtesy of pretending you weren't comin' onto me last night, now it's your turn."

Judging by Dean's expression, I think he'd actually forgotten that I was just a tad inebriated. (No, I was hoping she'd forgotten what I'd said the night before but no such luck. -Dean) "So as soon as you're sober…?"

"It's probably right back to denial and bitch-flirting."

"Good to know."