Dean POV

I charged around the corner, coming face to face with quite a peculiar sight. The hooker named Rose was backed against a wall, hitting a snarling werewolf with a shoe, and yelling obscene things at him.

"Back away you heathen!" she screamed, batting at it with the heel of her shoe. I yanked the gun out of my waistband and popped three silver bullets into the ugly thing's head. She turned around, her stiletto still raised. I gave her a skeptical look.

"You're a hunter, yet you dress like a hooker and use shoes against werewolves?" She managed to look sheepish and detached herself from the wall.

"I'm not a hooker," she folded her arms in front of her.

"Then why dress like one?" I felt my eyebrow quirk in disbelief.

"A certain lead told me that the werewolf may have been connected to some of the gangs. And from what I remember, those gangs are quite fond of hookers," Well to give her some credit she had a point about gangs and hookers.

"Well, take some advice sweetheart. Next time you hunt a werewolf, use silver bullets. Not shoes," I signaled to Blackie and Sam and began walking towards the door.

"Wait!" I turned to look at her. She shifted uncomfortably, looking to the ground. "Can I uh, get a ride?"

"Don't you have a car or something?" I asked.

"Well not exactly…" I groaned. My poor Baby shouldn't have to carry hookers. On the other hand I wasn't about to not give a ride to the skimpily dressed wannabe hunter.

"Fine, let's go,"

The motel room had two beds, but there were now 4 people in our little rag tag band. Against my will, we had adopted a hooker. Sam and Blackie sat on a bed, playing a game of Nigger Cars, whatever that was. Rose was in the bathroom taking a shower. And I was trying to ignore the obnoxiously high Metallica lyrics blaring from the bathroom and the shouts of victory from the bed next to mine. My thoughts were interrupted by a soft voice. I realized the water had shut off and the singing had stopped.

"Dean!" she hissed again. I sighed, sliding off my bed and walking to the door.

"What?" I groaned.

"I don't have any clothes,"

"Just wear the hooker outfit," I heard her grumble something under her breath.

"As much as I love dressing like a prostitute, the damn thing is torn beyond belief,"

Sarcasm tinged her voice. I could always force her to come out naked, or dressed in a torn bikini, but there was some little voice in my head nagging me to be nice for once.

"Ok, fine, hold on," I sifted through my duffel, grabbing a hoodie and a pair of sweatpants.

"Here," the door opened a crack and she grabbed them quickly.

"Thanks Dean," I nodded, even though I knew she couldn't see me. A slight creak

alerted me to the bathroom door opening. She slunk out, the hoodie drooping from her shoulders down to her knees. The sweatpants were probably tightened to extreme measures, which by the way she stopped every few feet to pull them up probably wasn't enough. She walked carefully over to where she laid her duffle, laying on the floor with it under her head. Sam and Blackie were already asleep, both sprawled over the tiny bed. I laid back, trying to ignore the girl lying on the dirty floor. When I couldn't sleep, I rolled over to see if she was. Her rowan hair was sprawled over her duffle and her slate gray eyes seemed to be mapping the ceiling. I leant down and nudged her arm. Her gaze shifted over to me. I slid my body across the bed and patted the side closest to her. She gave me a questioning look.

"Just stay on your side," she flopped down, bouncing the bed.

"Thanks," she muttered softly, hugging a pillow to her chest. Soon after I fell asleep. In a crappy hotel room. Next to a hooker.