Part Two
Bela Talbot did her thing.
She sold the amulet; consulted spirits. Came across a portrait that may or may not have been cursed, and sold it in a flash under the pretense that it was. She researched, researched, researched, marking her finds out with a pencil on a map she kept in her briefcase. She arranged to meet a seller in California—drew a neat grey line under San Diego—one week, and another in Nevada the next. Money came and money went; Bela Talbot was smiling inside like a maniacal millionaire.
But she did not forget. Not once. The tone of Sam's voice, the look in his eyes… And so she asked the seller in California, the seller in Nevada, and the spirits just one more time. She researched an extra chapter here and there; marked on a different map possible leads in bright red ink—and get it? Red like hellfire? She put the word out; told the right people when she came across them. Told the people who would tell the right people. Bela Talbot's gotta buyer who wants out of a crossroads deal. Willing to pay whatever. If there was anything, she'd know. She'd know eventually, and she wouldn't think--
It amused her too to research the Winchesters. Not research exactly, she knew, but track. In the map she was using to mark prospective soul saving sales, she also kept a running tally of where the Winchesters were. There was a poltergeist in Philadelphia that she heard about through the grapevine, an everyday haunting in Maryland. Possession in Miami—imagined Dean on the beaches and snickered to herself. She never imagined which hunt would be his last; did not know them well enough that she couldn't convince herself she didn't hear the clock ticking.
Bela felt desperation too, but it had nothing to do with Sam—nothing even to do with Dean. It was huge, it was consuming, it was her terrible secrets, and she couldn't concentrate as much as she would have liked on the situation at hand without feeling like something was sitting on her chest, crushing her lungs and suffocating her. And so she didn't think about that either.
The brothers were in Oregon at the same time she was, but she did not seek them out—had no reason to run into them. She wanted the book the seller was offering badly, and she was not about to forfeit it to her when-it-suited-them friends. Set up shop in an actual hotel, and did not--would she see him again if she didn't act now? Could this be the last time?--think about Dean.
The hotel was nice, of course, and her bed was comfortable and lump free. Bela missed her cat, though she would never have owned to it; missed… well, a lot really. The bother with Dean's impending doom was that it made her think of her own hopefully incredibly far away demise. If their roles were reversed…?
"At least Dean has Sam," Bela offered the darkness of her bedroom.
Bela Talbot had a cat, who was currently miles and miles away in Queens. Bela Talbot had sellers and buyers—not friends. No one would give much of a shit if she went to Hell, although it occurred to her somewhat troublingly that Dean and Sam would probably make a bit of an effort to stop it—and for free too, fools. Bela was not acting for free, lest the maps and her research be misleading. Bela had every intention of holding Sam financially responsible if she found something that might even feasibly be a lead.
Sam Winchester called her on her fourth day in Oregon. The caller ID read Dean Winchester, and her heart thudded hard on anticipation—she had been alone, seller aside, the entire time. She hadn't known it until she saw his name, but banter she wanted. It was familiar; it would be nice.
Rolled over onto her stomach, legs kicking up in the air behind her like a stupid teenage girl, and flipped open her phone.
"Do you miss me already?" she asked, a touch gleefully.
There was a snort on the end, followed by something perilously close to a giggle. She was trying not to blush when a deep male voice said, "Hey, Bela."
Sam, not Dean. She cringed at her tone and squashed all not-disappointment. Flopped back over onto her back, pinched the bridge of her nose, and fought to be all business.
"Why, if it isn't little Sam Winchester," she greeted, tone high and happy since she knew it annoyed him. "What did you do? Steal your brother's phone?"
On the other end of the line, Sam scoffed. "Dean's dead to the world. I could steal a lot more than his phone before he noticed."
Couldn't help it. Examining her fingernail, she let out her very best impression of porno music, a bom chica wha wah ruined by her British accent.
"What?" She could almost see him blink, if she closed her eyes and concentrated hard enough. "What? No. I didn't have your number and so I—"
"Oh, save me the long and boring explanation."
A pause. Sam had never been able to deal with her like Dean could. Sam she frustrated, and in a way that she didn't frustrate Dean. Oh, she annoyed Dean of course, but when she annoyed Sam, he was not to be misled by it. Was not one to engage in unnecessary chit chat when succinctness would do. He was too narrow-minded to manipulate unlike his brother; too focused and wary by half.
And so Sam did not play games with her, when Dean might have indulged in innuendo. "I'm calling about… what we talked about earlier. Wanted to make sure you didn't forget."
"Forget my dear friend Dean? Bloody unlikely! I'm still bitter at him over the rabbit's foot." She sighed dramatically over Sam's grumble. "I think it's still too early to forget. I've always been one for grudges." But then she made her voice serious, or at the very least professional. "I'm sorry, Sam. It's like I said. There's nothing. I haven't heard a thing."
"Oh." Disappointment so heavy Bela could feel it.
She held her breath when she asked, "Have you had any luck?"
"Nothing." Sam sighed, resignedly. "I wish he'd fuck off sometimes, you know? He'd have my head if he knew I was looking, and I can't with him always here."
"He's passed out right now, is he not?" she asked so softly that it whistled, like her voice from miles away would wake Dean over the phone. "Sort of like fucking off."
"I'd only have a few hours."
But it didn't sound like a no I am going to wait until my drunken brother comes to so that he can continue to hamper my marvelous if fatalistic plans. He was quiet after that, for so long that Bela thought for a moment he'd hung up. Checked her phone and everything, but the timer was still running. Their call was one minute, five seconds, and counting. It felt longer.
"I've put the word out," she offered eventually.
One minute, eight seconds. Sam sighed so loudly she was surprised Dean didn't come to life right there and then.
"So there's nothing to do but wait." Didn't sound happy.
"No."
"I'll be in touch then." And he hung up, timer blinking to a stop at one minute, eleven seconds.
Sam Winchester did not like to say thank you either.
Bela heard about Ruby from a seller who heard it from a buyer who heard it from a hunter who heard it from a demon, and Bela did not like what she heard about Ruby and Sam. She herself had never met the girl, but she disliked her almost instantly on principle.
Bela liked organized thought; Bela liked to map things in her mind. Bela liked knowing motives, and everything about Ruby was unpredictable. Demons were, by nature. Unguided, with distinct sociopathic tendencies. Bela liked money, sure, and perhaps that made her a great big baddie in some people's books, but she knew she was innately predictable. Greed was a motive, but the motives of demons could be all over her metaphorical map.
Ruby was a wild card, and Bela did not like the sound of half murmured promises. This was Dean Winchester's bloody fate, and Bela felt instinctively that Ruby had to be taken out of the picture. Eliminated. Hunted. The Winchesters and their fabled Colt, doing their sodding job the way it was meant to be done.
She had a text message ready for Dean--Watch out for Ruby, you bleeding idiot!--but erased it before hitting send. If Dean didn't know the extent of Sam and Ruby's relationship, Dean hadn't done any digging. If Dean hadn't done any digging, Dean was holding out some sort of horrible long-shot hope and she couldn't—
Besides, she was not Dean Winchester's keeper.
There was a sleep snatcher—a sandman in layman's terms—hanging around a small town near the Canadian border in Montana. Bela didn't like to travel that far, but the thing guaranteed that there would be hunters, there would be a dead sandman, and there would be the sand, most likely in possession of said hunters. Bela knew hunters, contrary to what some liked to believe, and she knew money. She had no doubt that the sand would be hers by the end of the weekend.
The very thought of it made her smile as she did up her coat and exited her car, making her way through the parking lot to a dingy looking dive called The Crown—or so the flashing neon sign hanging haphazardly over the entrance told her. The sand, in opposition to what everyone else said it did, was notorious for causing sleep deprivation, and she knew how well items causing slow and painful deaths were likely to go for. It made her palms itch and her lips twitch with anticipation.
The only bother lay in finding the hunters before they moved on, but The Crown looked like just the place to house them. She snuck in the door as stealthily as possible, cringing at the smell of stale booze and… oh Lord, was that urine? Bad country western music assailed her ears, louder even than the general chatter going on around her. At least it wasn't a karaoke bar, Bela told herself, trying not to make eye contact with anyone who did not look promising. Her gun's weight was a comforting presence in her pocket—and that was just one of those things because surely normal people weren't used to packing heat in dumps like this. Or perhaps they were.
Bela was so busy debating the merits of bringing along a weapon that she was not even aware she had wandered directly in front of someone's table until a hand smacked her soundly—if a little too familiarly—on the arse. Cupped it more like, brief and yet still somehow lingering, like a lover. Barely resisting the urge to draw that weapon of hers, Bela pasted on her best bitch face and spun around, ready to rip whoever had dared to touch her a new one.
"Do you mind?!" she began, trying to decide if she wanted trouble.
She found Dean Winchester, rocking himself back and forth on the legs of his chair and wearing a smirk that could have charmed the panties off a nun. Found Dean Winchester looking very much alive, tired and perhaps a tad drunk. Found Dean Winchester in his normal state and—wait a minute, found the bloody hunters. She should have known it was the Winchesters, shouldn't she have?
Bela Talbot was no nun. Thief, mercenary, and all that.
Upping the wattage of her own smile, she pulled out the chair across from him and took a seat. "Been wanting to do that for a while?" she asked, reaching forward to take a swig from his bottle of beer. "All you had to do was ask. I already told you I'm not at all opposed to angry sex. Or drunken sex, come to think of it. Or sex in Montana." Batted her eyelashes, and attempted to look coquettish.
It made Dean squirm. Kind of funny to her his response, the king of all things bedroom related uncomfortable when it was directed right back at him. He spluttered out a reply she did not catch; regained his cool enough to snatch back his beer.
"Get your own drink, woman," he snipped, all righteous prissy indignation. He sounded a bit like Sam, she thought. "God knows what I'd catch from you."
"Afraid of cooties? How cute. But perhaps…" She trailed off, eyes lighting on something of interest.
For the first time, Bela noticed that Dean was resting his elbow on a book entitled Normal Sleep, Sleep Physiology, and Sleep Deprivation: General Principles by one Dr. Russo—the title alone explained the somewhat haggard and almost… well… pissy, for lack of a better word, look on Dean's face. She couldn't imagine him making his way through the text. Sam maybe; he seemed like the smarter brother. Dean seemed like the kind of guy who preferred picture books. She smiled at him again, and tipped her own chair back.
"Sleep deprivation?" she questioned, trying to sound innocent. "Why, Dean, are you hunting a sandman?"
He slammed his arm over the title of the book and tried to look nonchalant. Failed, and landed somewhere closer to extremely brassed off. Again, she noticed how tired he was: the bags under his eyes and the wan colour of his skin. Hardly anytime left now, a voice singsonged from somewhere evil inside of her head. Her stomach clenched, and she fought to maintain her smirk. And yet, Dean looked physically like he was dying. She did a quick once over with her eyes, trying to find a wound. He looked sleepy, looked a bit mussed, but all together not… shot or anything. Dean wasn't bleeding, at any rate.
"Sandman's dead, Bela. Guess you're after his sand? Too bad for you. Destroyed it, as well as that son of a bitch's wrinkled corpse. I'd rather get my dreams from somewhere else, thank you." His gaze was all cockiness, and his chair squeaked when he rocked back and forth. She hoped the chair legs gave, or that he overbalanced. Looked like he might keel over from exhaustion, and she crossed her fingers in her lap before what he said registered.
Pure disappointment rendered her speechless when the news kicked in; she imagined Dean Winchester stomping on dollar signs and laughing in her face. She was out a lot of money, she had driven all the way out to Montana, her weekend was wasted, and Dean bloody Winchester was looking at her like the cat who swallowed the canary.
God, she missed her cat. Imagined burying her face in the softness of his belly; imagined never once having met the self-satisfied bastard sitting across from her.
"Dream in the context of the song refers to a woman, you dolt. Or a man, depending." God, she sounded like Sam herself. And, wait a minute… "If you killed it, why the books? Little late for research, isn't it?"
She knew true fiendish delight when Dean drew his brows together, clearly fighting for a thought, and was too distracted with the general slowness of his brain to stop the fleeting look of shame that danced across his features.
"Obviously I want to know about the function of my temporal lobe," he sassed, throwing back a large swallow of his drink. His chair thunked back down when he leaned forward, and he was angry. Or at least grouchy. "Obviously I care just so fucking much about REM."
And Bela laughed. Right in his face, as loud as she could. Smacked the table with her palm and came away with a sticky hand. Barely resisted the urge to point at him, she was so caught up in her own glee. This was almost worth her wasted time; her lost money.
"It got you! That's why you look so terrible! You haven't slept!" She was so amused she flagged down the waitress for another round of drinks. Let a vague gesture say I'll have what he's having.
"It didn't get me," he denied. "I got it. Told you. Burned that fucker right up."
"It got you first," Bela contradicted. And things weren't so bad. It wasn't like she had a potential buyer lined up. She had wanted the sand just because. It was hard to lose money she had never had—disappointing, yes, but this was cheering her up immensely.
The waitress brought her a beer, and Dean a new one. Dean snatched hers before she had a chance, twisted off the cap without so much as a wince, and pushed it back in Bela's direction. All smooth, all relatively habitual, like he was used to getting girls in dives like this by being able to open their drinks. Probably couldn't afford to actually buy them one, in a proper mug. And why hadn't the waitress gotten rid of the cap for her anyway? Poor service was what was to be found in this bloody slum. Looking around her at the questionable patronage, Bela sniffed.
Dean balanced the cap on its side and tried to flick it at her, idly and like they were playing quarters. It teetered momentarily, stuck in a scar on the table, and then plummeted right off the side, bouncing off the toe of Bela's shoe. He smiled at that—looked proud maybe even—like it was some kind of victory.
"I'm too tired to play your games," Dean admitted eventually, even though she wasn't necessarily playing any. "I haven't slept in four days. Bobby said now that the bastard's dead I've probably got the rest of this night left before it wears off. I'm going to sleep like the dead then, lemme tell you."
It was a testament to how tired Dean was that she could actually see him debating the pros and cons of laughing in the face of his own death, of making some stupid hell related crack that would have been sure to push her buttons—or at least make things terribly uncomfortable. Sleepiness won, and he huffed at her grumpily, which was just as well all things considered.
Bela thought unpleasantly of Bobby, but said, "Where's Sam?"
Dean's lip twitched. "Freak boy is comatose at the moment. Gets sand on him and is out like Sleeping friggin' Beauty. Sam's just got to be ass backwards all the damned time."
Bela's smile was instantaneous; Sam was obviously good enough for Dean to be out, and therefore didn't warrant concern. Not that he warranted it anyway. "Touching. Now all you have to do is find Prince Charming." She puckered her lips and made kissing motions in Dean's direction.
Dean raised red eyes to meet hers and barked out one guffaw. "Aw, man, Bela. That's my joke!" he said, shaking his head.
The rush of pleasure in the pit of her stomach was unexpected. Wondered if she blushed a little, and took a drink to hide it. Realized for the first time that Dean's foot had moved to squish the living daylights out of that bottle cap, and that his shoe was resting idly against hers. He probably didn't realize—he was so tired; hadn't slept—and so Bela fought to keep her cool. And besides: stop the presses! Their feet were touching!
"Not how it works normally, but I did some research," he was saying, cringing at the last bit. "Sam should wake up right around the time I pass out. Something to do with the whole army of hell thing, or psychics, or—" A yawn. "—Christ, I don't remember. Something to do with something that proves he's a freak… and it's okay now that the bastard is dead cause that means his mojo will wear off, and I came down for something to drink to stay awake… not that I can sleep anyway, but… I have to go back to the room soon because…"
Dean seemed to lose his train of thought in that sudden way that exhausted people tended to, fixating instead on the same scar in the table that had derailed his cap. He brushed it with his fingernail, tracing its length down the table, and didn't seem particularly inclined to finish his sentence. Yawned again, so wide that Bela thought she might have seen his tonsils.
"You have to go back because Sam is vulnerable," she finished for him. "How sweet, how touching, how brotherly."
She pushed herself up from the table, accidentally knocking Dean's finger away from the scar's path. He looked at her, bleary eyed and surprised, and she hoped that this wasn't the last time she saw him; memorized it in case it was. The fact that he had to shave, the bags under his eyes, the vacant expression… it was not the Dean she was used to, it was not Dean anywhere near his best, but if it was the last time—
"Well, my business here is done, since you destroyed my source of income for the weekend." She threw a twenty down on the table to cover their drinks and wound his pride, and hopped back when Dean, utterly horrified, tried to shove it back at her. "Be seeing you around, Dean."
She hoped.
And if not, did she get points for an exit of her own making this time? She thought so. Should have stolen something to make it sting, but he was tired enough to almost take the fun out of it. Perhaps she'd track him down once more before… before and do it for shits and giggles. A farewell he'd get. Something to remember him by, but Bela refused to think that, even as she wondered idly just what she would steal to achieve that goal.
Dean caught her out in the parking lot, just as she was about to get into her car. He was out of breath and unsteady on his feet, wobbly from lack of sleep rather than alcohol consumption, she thought. Doubted he'd leave Sam long enough to get rightfully blitzed. He caught onto her arm when she was maneuvering her way through the door to the driver's seat; Bela glanced down in surprise, and saw that he had a scab on his thumb, picked and likely about to scar. If a scar had time to really form before… then.
When she looked up at his face, Dean had resorted back to doing the squirmy thing that put her in mind of a six year old. He looked uncomfortable, too weary to help himself out, and utterly lacking all social skills. Unsure of boundaries: this is the girl I flirt with but never fuck; this is the girl who is a friend but an enemy, but nothing at all and… Bela got that, and she got what he wanted to ask too.
Didn't mean she had to make it easy on him. "Did I not leave enough for a tip?" she questioned, cocking her head.
The mention of the money irritated Dean; he shoved his hand in his coat pocket and then pushed a twenty in her direction. It was not her twenty—the one he was offering looked older and like it had been washed—and…
"Oh, is that counterfeit?" she questioned, irritated herself. "If you're going to make such a fuss, at least give me back real money."
"Good as real," he assured her. "Idiots round here don't know any different. Wouldn't know a counterfeit bill if it…" His train of thought was gone again; he occupied himself with a quick survey of the inside of her car, expression blank.
"This has been quaint," Bela told him, but she did not close the car door. Dean's hand was still on her arm, and she could feel the heat of his palm permeating through her coat. He was clenching and unclenching his hand, distracted. She made a move to reclaim her arm, hoping to jostle him into action.
It worked. Letting out a whistle of a breath, Dean fought for his old attitude and managed a half decent smirk. "Wanna come keep me company for a bit? Sam's boring as all hell passed out like that, and I've got oh… say, a long fucking time before I can sleep."
She flashed him her teeth. Hit the automatic locks so he could get into the passenger side.
"Why, Dean, are you finally caving into the urge to sleep with me?" Crap like that didn't make Bela blush; she was comfortable here. "And with your brother passed out on the next bed too!"
"God, woman, stop throwing yourself at me!" He smacked her automatic locks, grabbed onto her arm again, and hauled her out, hip checking the door shut behind her. "And we're taking my car. Wouldn't be caught dead riding shot gun in that fancy piece of flippery."
She followed him to the Impala under great duress. Waited patiently by the passenger side for him to come around and hold the door for her. Dean threw her a petulant glare—why had he even invited her?—and steadfastly refused; let himself in and made smirking arrogant faces at her through the window until she was ready to say to hell with him and go back to her own hotel. He waited until the last possible moment before reaching over and throwing up the lock.
The door squealed when she opened it and probably weighed more than her whole car; she smashed her lips together and refused to comment on the Impala one way or the other once she was inside. Dean watched her, waiting for teenybopper glee or something demented like that. Waited a long time before scowling and starting the car. It hummed to life beneath her; even made her vibrate a little in her seat. Bored, Bela glanced out the window.
"Such a stereotype," she informed him at last. "You and this car. Does it make you feel all powerful and manly?"
Dean threw the car in gear and revved his way out of the parking lot before shooting her a disgusted look. "What?!"
Bela pressed on, determined. "It would make more sense for you to have something with a bigger boot. Maybe a station wagon?"
"Bela?" He was pondering her logic, all fake sincerity. "Just shut up. Don't talk about cars with me. Ever."
She batted her eyelashes at him but he was watching the road. "Did you not invite me along for my company? I'm just trying to be company, Dean."
"Yeah well, I like your company better silent." Flashed his teeth in her direction, a ghoulish impression of a smile. "I'm stopping for something to drink. Think you can be quiet all the way to the gas station?"
"Are you too tired to drive?" And it was a real concern all of a sudden.
"Silence, Bela," he replied, voice soothing and low. "Work on it." And with that, he reached forward and flicked on the radio.
Stopping for drinks consisted of picking up a four pack of Red Bull at the first gas station they passed. Dean made a fuss over the purchase, bitching about what kind of yuppies drank Red Bull, but lit up like a light bulb when they passed a hat stand on the way to the till. Flipped on a trucker hat that said MONTANA in tacky capital green letters, and beamed at her.
"Hey, Bela!" He thumped her in the side with the box of Red Bull. "I'm Kevin freaking Federline!"
Far from it, she thought, warming again inexplicably. His goofy grin made her smile, and prompted her to say, "Does that make me Britney Spears?"
The goofy grin turned into a leer and Dean arched an eyebrow at her. "Depends. Wearing any panties?"
"Wouldn't you like to know," she said. And then, for good measure, "You pervert."
He smacked her arm with the box of Red Bull again before moseying on ahead of her to pay. Over his shoulder, he called out, "A night with Dean Winchester! Will the fun never stop!"
The fun stopped almost immediately when Dean shoved a napkin with a clumsily drawn map scrawled on it and ordered her to direct him back to the motel. He'd been too tired to really pay attention, he informed her a tad sheepishly, and so had made a map as he went. They got lost twice before finding it, which made Dean positively livid, and still managed to nearly drive past it on the third go around. He was swearing under his breath about training and exercises and fucking easy directions; stomped ahead of her into the motel. Left her to wander through the parking lot of the cheapest, scariest dump she had ever seen by herself, but remembered belated to rush back and hold the door open for her.
The fun stopped even more, if that was even possible, when Bela stepped into the motel room.
The inside did nothing to alter her opinion of the place, put together during her half walk half run in from outside. Two double beds complete with saggy mattresses and faded covers that might once have been red sat imperfectly in line on stained yellow carpet. There was no chair, no other furniture at all, save for a scarred night table shoved haphazardly between the beds; this poor abused piece of furniture was covered in take out bags. She could barely make out the blinking of an alarm clock through the bright arch on a McDonald's bag. Even the TV was not on furniture exactly, unless one counted the wobbly wired thing on which it was perched as something. And the room smelled too, she noted unhappily—like smoke, mildew, sadness, and… Well, Bela figured the lingering scent of grease just might have been the take out.
Neither Dean nor Sam seemed at all put out by the squalor in which they were living. Sam was tucked up cozily underneath that horrid red cover that had probably never been introduced to a washing machine in its hundreds of years of existence; his feet were poking out the end of the bed, but he didn't appear at all bothered by that either. Dean flipped the cover over his brother's exposed toes when he walked by, pausing momentarily to lob the case of Red Bull at the other bed. It bounced once before flopping onto its side; Dean scowled at it before making his way into the only other room—the bathroom by Bela's calculations.
"Make yourself right at home," he called over his shoulder, before slamming the bathroom door in her face. She noted with no little distress that someone had carved FUCK into the wood.
Fuck indeed. Figuring that it was highly unlikely that she would ever feel at home here, Bela gingerly shifted her weight from foot to foot and then went to take a curious look at Sam. There was no doubt in her mind that he had gotten the better end of things: his complexion was healthy, his features relaxed. He wasn't even snoring. He didn't look like he needed a map on a napkin to navigate here and there--assuming he was awake, of course.
She was just debating whether or not to poke him when the bathroom door opened and closed, and Dean announced, "Wakes up occasionally to eat, but it's not really like waking up, you know? More like sleepwalking. Friggin' creepy." And he shuddered, a touch too dramatically, before throwing himself onto the other bed. Got out a can of Red Bull, cracked it open, and grimaced around his first swallow.
"Man," he said, scowling at the can, "this stuff tastes like shit."
"Perhaps with vodka?" she offered. Everything, after all, was better with vodka.
Dean shrugged. "Got no vodka."
After that, a rather uncomfortable silence reigned. Two things became clear to Bela almost immediately: firstly, inviting her over seemed to have been a bit of an impulse and Dean, who was lazily flipping through channels on the TV, appeared too tired to be much good at entertaining; perhaps he just wanted her around as comforting background noise. Secondly, Bela suspected that Dean really wasn't used to spending heaps of platonic time with anyone outside of his comatose brother, and the awkward sidelong glances he kept shooting her way only served to highlight just how out of his league he was feeling. Bela, for her part, wasn't used to spending a lot of time with anyone who wasn't her cat, and she couldn't think of a way to end their silence. Not one witty quip to make the lines marring his forehead disappear; one soothing sentence—like she was ever good at those—to make him smile.
Furthermore, her feet hurt. Obviously, this was not a huge concern, but, feeling as uncomfortable as she was, it soon became something normal to focus on, and then the pain was overwhelming. Her heels were sinking into the horrible carpet at awkward angles, but she couldn't quite bring herself to remove them. She was wearing nylons under her trousers—a proper lady knows that the true way to professionalism could only be discovered with nylons, not socks, her grandmother had always said—and the idea of nothing but that thin fabric standing between her feet and the carpet stains turned her stomach.
Dean apparently did not share her concern, as used to dumps like this as he was. His shoes lay forgotten, one near the bathroom and one near the door, and Bela tried not to see that the bottoms of his white socks were dirty. Sam's feet, when she had seen them poking out from under the comforter, were bare. She was contemplating things like when her last tetanus shot had been, and what she could actually catch from the carpet of a motel that clearly should have been condemned when Dean spoke again.
"You can sit down, you know." And, under his breath, "Your highness."
So he had noticed her somewhat snotty behavior then. Bela had to bite her tongue hard so as not to point out the complete and utter lack of chairs. But that was alright; she was an adult, and she could sit beside Dean, thanks ever so. She lowered herself onto his bed stiffly, which prompted Dean to make a wisecrack about bedbugs and germs, and kicked off her heels when she could guarantee that her feet wouldn't come into contact with the floor; hoped he was kidding about the bedbugs. She had painted her toenails pink, and the bright colour winked up at her through her nylons, odd and out of place so close to the faded comforter.
"And the rich bitch goes slumming," Dean commented, crossing his legs. There was a hole near his big toe in one sock. His elbow was touching hers.
She chanced a glance at him when his tone was all defensive posturing, and was surprised to see that his expression was nearing ashamed. Embarrassed, maybe even. Bela stole a can of Red Bull to end the uncomfortable moment; grimaced herself over the too sweet taste.
"How typical of you, Dean," she said, after a moment, "hogging the control. How very alpha male."
"How very… shut the fuck up," he returned lamely, before pounding the pillow he'd placed behind his back into submission. He surprised her by fluffing the other one nicely and placing it against the headboard so that she could lean back too. So the alpha male wasn't entirely without manners. Bela leaned back carefully, and stared at their feet on the end of the bed, his so much further down than hers.
What Dean had found to watch turned out to be a marathon of Charmed--be still her heart. She put up with his completely irritating questions—"Which sister do you think is the easiest? There's always one naughty sister. Got to be, statistically speaking. Bet they know some kinky magic shit" and "Man oh man, if me and Sam could get a hunt there, if they were like, y'know, real, I bet you that Alyssa what's her name wouldn't be able to control herself around me. I'm a sex god. How on earth do you resist?" and "If you were into women, which would be wow… like totally hot, which one would you do?"---and cringed each time any of the so-called charmed ones had to do anything at all related to magic. It irked Bela for no real reason, these sisters running around with heaving bosoms and attractive boyfriends, and the show—and Dean, let's be honest—set her teeth on edge.
She put up with it for two whole episodes, which she thought was nice and fair and exceptionally polite of her, before ambushing Dean and stealing the control on a moment of surprise. Flicked off the TV.
"This is utterly boring," she told him, trying not to smile at the mock-hurt expression on his tired face. "You are the worst host ever. I should have gone back to my own motel but now I am stranded here without a car, and I refuse to watch one more second of that inane show. Do you not even have a deck of cards?"
Dean mimicked her, snottily rolling his eyes, but he stood up and found a deck at the bottom of a duffel bag anyway. It was missing the king of hearts and an eight of spades, which led to a long and drawn out battle over how to remedy it. In the end, they decided to ignore it and opted to play poker, which only worked for about forty minute before falling to shit over the missing cards, the fact that both of them were cheating, and Dean's never-ending pout over the fact that it was not strip poker.
They tried Crazy Eights after that, promising on their honour not to cheat at it. Bela didn't; Dean did—"Well, how the fuck was I to know that you told the truth with your stupid pledge of honour?"—and then tried Go Fish, of all the stupid games, afterwards, which worked no better since they were both back to cheating. That game ended with weapons drawn and it was all so dumb that Bela ended up giggling until Dean had to smile too. He was too tired to play cards anyway, he told her, as a truce. Couldn't see well enough to keep the numbers straight, and he moseyed away from her back to the bathroom, grin sleepy but very much present.
Bela straightened up the deck in Dean's absence, nearly seeing red when she found a two of diamonds, the exact card she had needed to win the damn Go Fish game, hidden underneath his pillow. Swearing under her breath, she shoved the cards back into their box and nudged aside the McDonalds bag to see the time. The blinking red numbers on the alarm clock informed her that it was nearing four in the morning, and the fact that she was all of a sudden quite tired could have been from the realization that it was later than she'd thought, or could have been genuine. Glancing at Sam snuggled up tight and sleeping like the dead only reinforced it, and she was fighting a yawn when Dean came back out.
"I can drive you back to your car," he offered, stopping to reexamine the Crappiest Map Ever drawn on the napkin. Yawned, like it was the last thing in the world he actually wanted to do, before adding hopefully, "Or you could stay here and we'll get rid of you in the morning. You know, whatever."
That was the last thing in the world Bela wanted to do, to be stuck in this dump of a place with one Winchester brother who couldn't wake up and another who wouldn't be able to sleep for a few more hours. The intimacy of the suggestion pressed heavily on her chest, like they were friends who knew each other well enough for slumber parties and confidences. This wasn't Sam wounded in her flat; this was one goddamned bed, and the fact that stupid goddamned Dean looked too tired to stand, let alone safely return her to her car. The muscles between her shoulders bunched, and Bela fought hard not to panic.
"Whatever," she said, voice tight. And wasn't that the lamest most stupid thing to say ever.
Dean shrugged at her and went back to the bathroom, duffel in hand. He returned wearing pajama pants and a white t-shirt, his hair rumpled from the change. She took the new outfit to mean that he had made up his mind for the both of them, and was going with the getting rid of her in the morning plan. Settled himself back down onto the bed beside her and flipped the TV on again. The mattress lurched in the direction of his weight, and the springs complained nearly as loudly as the voice in Bela's head.
Smirking in her direction, he told her, "This is your chance to take advantage of me in my vulnerable and weak state. I'm way too fucking tired to make an intelligent decision."
"Oh, because that would be the best sex ever. You'll probably pass out halfway through." And Bela, faced with the idea of having to sleep beside Dean, beside anyone God help her, was suddenly grouchy. "I'll pass, thanks ever so. Just hush up and watch your TV."
She pushed herself off of the bed so fast that she forgot about the sodden disgusting floor, and came nylon to carpet with one of the larger, more suspicious stains. Dean, whose eyes were focused on the TV, was clearly terribly aware of her reactions, if the slight tic in his jaw was any indication, and she nearly passed out holding in a tiny mewl of revulsion over the floor. Chin tipped high with more pride than she felt at the moment, she sashayed—or tried to—towards the bathroom and away from Dean and his fragile poor man's ego.
The bathroom, all things considered, was better than she could ever have imagined. She made quick work of her business, before carefully stepping out of her trousers and then, mercifully, out of her bloody nylons. Fine, Grandmother, she thought, an hour or two for professionalism. Not a whole goddamned night with that "I can suck in anything" control top digging into her, not one sodding minute more. This presented the problem of what exactly to do with her nylons now; in the end, she wrapped them in a towel and shoved them back as far as she could in the cabinet under the sink, promising herself she'd return to her properly dictated attire tomorrow. First thing. Right off. She felt guilty leaving the bathroom without them, not to mention that she was now barefoot to carpet.
In her absence, Dean had pulled the covers on his bed back; had put her pillow back into its proper position. He'd also turned off the lights and re-tucked in Sam, if the newly tightened state of his cover was any indication. He was still sitting on top of the covers, quietly watching TV and sipping on his cursed Red Bull; didn't even so much as glance in her direction as she made her way back to the bed, guided by the blue light of the television.
"You looked tired," was what he barked when she lowered herself awkwardly onto the sheets, afraid to get too close and accidentally touch him. Dean said it like an order, a command. Entirely too gruffly to be anything other than extremely embarrassed by his current situation. "Won't touch you. Scout's honour."
He might have smirked something along the lines of lacking the desire too, but Bela ignored him in favour of settling in. Rolled over so that her back faced him, and was promptly distracted by the fact that she was very close indeed. Thought she could feel his hip, or perhaps that was his hand, and Lord, they should have just shagged because she had a terrible feeling that this was much worse. Bela closed her eyes, bit her lap, and tried to ignore how scratchy the pillowcase was.
"You'd better not lay so much as a finger on me," she warned in acknowledgement. "I can shoot even in my sleep."
He snorted, a huff of I don't believe you, you girl, but whatever. Bela resisted the childish urge to kick backwards into whatever she might hit, and concentrated as hard as she could on sleeping. Somewhere in the parking lot, a car started and rumbled away. Voices drifted by outside of the door; she could hear an AC unit whirring from somewhere, although she couldn't identify the exact location—knew it wasn't from the Winchesters' room. Dean's weight shifted, readjusted, and settled; he made a sleepy noise to himself and changed the channel. Slid something out of… something, and oh—that was the sound of cards shuffling.
Bela rolled over onto her other side with as much dignity as she could muster given that the sheets were tangled, and propped her head up enough to see what Dean was doing. He grunted in acknowledgement of her attention, but did not slow down the rapid movements of his hands as they gracefully, deftly, shuffled the deck in his lap. She watched him in silence, impressed despite herself at the blur of his fingers, the blur of the cards. Real shuffles, she knew from experience, genuine riffles and piles.
"Five hand game of poker," he murmured, voice low and whispery, like he might wake Sam. Or like lights out symbolized indoor voices. He shuffled the cards once more, overhand this time, and dealt out the hands. Scooped the one out of his lap and showed her four aces. Bela didn't have to look up to see his relaxed smile. His shrug brought him closer. "Stacked it."
Bela didn't say anything to him, memorized as it were by the flashing cards. Dean, however, didn't seem to be looking for a response.
"Dad taught me that when I was six. Made me learn it over the summer, again and again and again when we were driving," he told her. Shuffled the deck properly, and did it again, faster. "Trick's in moving from one type of shuffle to the other with no one saying nothing. Used to practice on Sammy, even though he was too young to know shit."
The mention of his brother prompted Dean to lean across the distance between their two beds in order to pointlessly adjust his brother's blankets once more, even though Bela did not think Sam had so much as moved.
"Can you false deal?" she asked, and God help her, but she was using indoor voices too.
Dean demonstrated for her, a second deal, once so smoothly that she would never have guessed it was crooked, and then again so that she could see the second card concealed by the first.
"Learnt that when I was nine. I'll admit, a little harder. Can't have the crease, see. Hard to train your fingers not to bend the cards that way, but Sammy got it right off. Five years old and a real talent for it. Actually friggin' cried when he got it right and found out it was dodgy, big girl."
And a bottom deal, just to be thorough, demonstrated with the same pattern of quick and then slow.
"I could teach you, but…" Dean yawned and shrugged; flicked off the TV and launched the remote somewhere into the darkness. Groped around for a spot on the night table to rest the cards. "Just gonna close my eyes and rest. Least the damn curse lets me rest, even if I can't catch even one friggin' second of shut eye. Can't be any longer than an hour or two now."
Bela rolled over fast before they ended up face to face, but Dean did not oblige her prudish panic by putting his back towards her. Instead, he remained laying flat, elbow resting lightly against her back, and legs crossed. Minutes ticked by, agonizingly slow, and then:
"Thanks, Bela. Four days' a real long time to get stuck living inside your head. So quiet around here you'll go crazy."
And she heard it somewhere in his tone, the irritation, the unfairness, of losing four days of Sam. Thought for the first time all night how four days might be an eternity to a man who could count his remaining days in a matter of months, and inched surreptitiously closer to the warmth of his body. She wanted to ask him what he knew about Ruby; what he knew about Sam's efforts to help him, but couldn't bring herself to voice it. Didn't want to chance having him stop it, and she was smart enough to guess that Sam wanted secrecy. But months--
As though he sensed her inner turmoil, Dean lifted his hand and placed it against her hip. Its weight was warm, solid; comforting. Real and so very much the friendliest touch Bela had had in ages that her eyes burned and her throat clogged. It wasn't an advance at all, and that, all of a sudden, made the world of difference. His thumb snagged the belt loop in her pants and stayed there, rubbing out a soothing pattern.
"I always knew I was gonna die young," Dean told the darkness of the room, like he meant it as a comfort to her, this girl he supposedly did not like. "Makes no difference to me. Blaze of glory, right? I'm going to be the next James Dean."
Her voice sounded funny when she whispered, "You're going to go to Hell for Sam."
"Damned good reason." And the bastard laughed at himself. Damned.
"The biggest baddie of them all is going to get you." She wasn't sure why she said it, especially in such a matter of fact tone.
Bela felt Dean's smile. "But it's cool, right? The devil? Friggin' sucks to be killed by something smaller. Might as well lose to the best."
"Might as well go down fighting," she snapped, into her pillow.
If Dean heard her, he said nothing. Rolled over onto his side and tugged her ever so slightly closer, so that his thumb could leave her belt loop and his whole hand could rest against her stomach. She went stiff as a board, completely rigid, but Dean's touch didn't leave, and she was forced to relax eventually. The warmth emanating from his body and the comforter lulled her, and Bela was very nearly asleep when Dean spoke again.
"How do you know, Bela? About everything." Poked her right above the hip, in the fleshy part she was embarrassed by. "Good girl like you shoulda been. How the hell do you know about monsters? You tell me this time."
Perhaps it was the warmth, perhaps it was all the time she'd spent with Dean that evening. Perhaps it was her own sleepiness loosening her tongue, or the fact that he could literally take her secret to the grave. Perhaps it was the fact that it wasn't much of a secret, anyway.
"My father was a hunter," she whispered, like it was a forbidden story. It came out in a whoosh of breath, and she couldn't open her eyes after saying it. "I always knew."
Dean didn't say anything, but his grip on her stomach slackened. His silence, however, spoke volumes. Your daddy was a friggin' hunter and this is how you honour his memory?. Dean's silence was cold, but his hand did not leave her stomach. It was a mixed message; a confused signal. She could feel his consternation.
At long last, all Dean said was, "Was?"
In Bela's mind's eye, she almost saw it. It took considerable control to block the image—her mother's blood, and Bela's favourite dolly with her eyes gouged out—but she managed by biting her lip and scooting infinitesimally away from Dean. Managed because, when it came to repressing, she had considerable practice.
"I was nine. I don't really remember him much, so there's no need to get all sentimental on me, do you hear? He was never really around, always off after something or another, and I don't want to talk about it, not really." She ended on a huff. Felt too hot.
"I know what it's like," Dean admitted, although doing so sounded almost painful. "Having a hunter for a dad."
He closed the gap between them, reclaimed the inch or two she'd moved out of, and found her stomach with his hand again. Behind her, he felt stiff now, uncomfortable with her, and it rankled for reasons she didn't want to go into. Made her almost sad.
"I don't understand you, Bela," he whispered hoarsely into her hair, "and, Christ, I don't have the damned time to start trying."
She sighed; smashed her palm into her face. "I never asked you to be my friend, Dean."
His own sigh said yes, you did, but out loud he replied, "We're cool, Bela. Whatever we are, we're cool."
She wanted to ask if he was sorry he didn't have the time, but she was so sleepy—although probably nowhere near as tired as he was. Sighing again, louder this time, she hunkered down underneath the covers and relaxed into the comfort of his touch. She was nodding off in no time, scratchiness of the pillowcase long forgotten, and the last conscious thought Bela had was a good luck plea for Sam.
Save your brother, Sam, she thought, eyes heavy and head groggy. Cheat that devil right out of your brother. She was glad the alarm clock wasn't the ticking kind, but Bela imagined she could hear it anyway.