Part Four

"Explain to me," Dean said with a great deal of mock-patience, "why you need to pack a curler thing and something that friggin' straightens your hair? Really. Explain the logic, Bela, because I don't get it."

Bela grit her teeth and tried hard to focus entirely on the scenery outside her window, which consisted mainly of trees frantically green in anticipation of full-blown summer. Tried to ignore the throbbing vein in Dean's forehead. God knew Bela was feeling rather twitchy herself.

Her suitcase, dumped rather abusively into the backseat after Dean absolutely positively could not rearrange his bloody arsenal in the trunk to accommodate her, slapped into the back of her seat each time the I-95 curved; that had become irritating miles before she'd even thought of the interstate. And furthermore…

The Impala was stuffy, and Bela thought she'd kill for a bit of a breeze. She'd wanted to roll down the window, but Dean had outlawed that just because. She wanted the radio too but, after raising the volume a few times to drown out her incredibly helpful directions, he had shut that off as well, slapping at her fingers every time she tried to make a go at the dial.

His mood had been slipping steadily ever since he had noticed that it was approaching three in the afternoon with their departure still being somewhat imminent and not already in the past; Bela's had been slipping since being locked in the car with him. Or since Dean had opened her suitcase right there in the middle of her bloody car pack to rearrange her things to his satisfaction—to try to compress her suitcase, was what he had called it—and had actually threatened to throw out her flat iron. Whichever.

Throw it out, she thought darkly, glaring at the optimistically coloured trees. Right in the fucking rubbish!

And Dean was not done his earlier rant either. Flexing his fingers on the steering wheel, he was the very picture of leisure when he continued with, "Explain to me why your suitcase is pink."

Bela had been ignoring him since they had merged onto the I-95, and she wasn't about to cave now. Except—

"Well, explain to me how you find your ratty old duffel bag on a baggage carousel!"

His eyes flickered in her direction and his jaw twitched. "Explain to me what the hell I'm doing at an airport."

"Explain to me why your car doesn't have air conditioning!"

Yes, his jaw was definitely twitching. "Explain to me how you can fail to recognize that this is a classic 1967 beauty of a--"

"Explain to me why you keep starting sentences like that?" She rolled her eyes at the trees; felt his glower heat up the back of her head. "Jesus, Dean!"

He spluttered for a moment or two, and then, "You started it."

"What?!" She whipped her head around and glared at him. He in turn was glaring at the road, and she noticed his knuckles had gone strangely white. "I did not!"

"You did too! You mentioned airports, or something stupid like that."

"After you'd been rambling on forever!" She pitched her voice. "Oh, Bela, explain to me all of your different hairdos!"

"All of your different hairdos? Like I give a shit about your hair." Dean snorted. "Puh-lease."

"You did so, Dean." She sounded as petulant as a child, which only served to irritate her further.

"I so did not." He huffed, and for one blessed second his hand hovered near the radio dial. And then, "Just… just shut up."

Bela crossed her legs as best she could, and sneered at him. "Fine. You shut up too."

"Fine."

He flexed his fingers on the steering wheel again and actually tipped up his chair, like a bloody five year old. Bela glared daggers at his profile for a moment or two, before melodramatically slumping back into the time softened leather of the seat.

At this rate, they were not going to make it to Kansas alive.

Dean had thrown the map into the backseat in frustration somewhere back in Queens, and Bela undid her seatbelt to maneuver onto her knees. Dean watched her with poorly hidden interest and absolute rapt disapproval, scowling when her hip swung too close to his face.

"What are you doing now?" he growled, and she could feel him staring at her inelegantly hanging between seats. His shoved his hand awkwardly at her bum, trying to get her closer to her own side of the car—or fully over into the back, she couldn't tell. "Get your ass out of my face, woman! There are driving rules, you know. You can't just--"

"Dean? Do be quiet. I thought we weren't speaking to each other."

He grumbled something she didn't catch, and then, "We aren't. I'm not. Shut up."

Bela wanted to wiggle her aforementioned ass to piss him off further, but it was taking entirely too much concentration to balance her belly on the bucket seat while groping around underneath her suitcase for the poor forgotten map. She heard him loudly huff, and had to bite her lip not to smile. Oh, easily riled Dean.

Her fingers brushed against laminated paper at the exact moment she determined with one hundred percent accuracy that Dean was in fact trying to shove her head over heels into the back. She resisted the urge just barely to knee him somewhere unfortunate on the way back to her seat. Glared at him for one prim moment, and then ignored him entirely in favour of the map.

Dean had traced the route from Queens to Lawrence with a pencil; Bela thought that the map had had many routes traced and erased over time. She followed the winding grey line with her fingernail, counting states quietly beneath her breath.

This prompted Dean to say, "I can still hear you."

Bela rolled her eyes, slouching down to stretch her legs further. Dean sighed and made a noise that might have been a rueful chuckle; then, with a quick glance at the road, he reached down by her feet and came up with a battered white cardboard box. Dropped it on her lap. The cassette tapes she saw when she peered inside rattled at the abrupt contact.

"Might as well pick something." His tone sounded rueful too, like he'd had enough and was offering a truce. "Anything is better than your jabbering."

Bela was prepared for a truce too, and so she let that one slide. Manfully didn't even make a crack about cassette tapes. Sighing herself, she flipped through the plastic cases, browsing his collection. Found one that interested her forgotten at the bottom.

"Bruce Springsteen," she announced, voice rich with approval.

Dean's brows shot up with surprise, and he let go of the wheel with one hand to grab the tape from hers. Looked at it, and shrugged, before popping it into the tape deck.

"For the record," he said, "this isn't mine."

Bela shrugged because she absolutely did not care. The opening strains filtered happily throughout the Impala, and she smiled.

"Finally!"

Dean smirked, and reached to turn up the volume. Casting her a sideways glance, he echoed, "Finally."

Dean Winchester, Bela observed somewhere along the I-76, was deceptively quiet. She was used to seeing him in fits and starts, quick little moments punctuated by a sarcastic staccato, and a hurried goodbye—if goodbye was said at all. Being stuck in a car with him was an illuminating experience.

She'd been watching him surreptitiously and then not so surreptitiously for the last hour or so, once the whirring scenery outside of her window had lost its monotonous appeal. He had watched the road during the surreptitious bit; once he was aware of her attention, he darted his own glances back and forth, uncomfortable under her blatant scrutiny. Had fired off a sarcastic, "Like what you see?" coupled with a cheeky smile, but that had been back near the Harrisburg exit, and was, therefore, quite a while ago.

In fact, she had been staring off and on for so long that Dean seemed to have forgotten her observation, or at the very least had stopped caring. Bela felt half asleep anyway, with her head cushioned by the not-so-terribly-cushioning glass window and her body angled in his direction as much as she could without putting her feet up onto his precious upholstery. Not because she cared about facing Dean, see, but because it was more comfortable this way, on her neck. Or something like that. She blinked at him, heavy lidded, and pretended not to see the quick corner-of-his-eyes glance he shot at her.

Now that the hustle and bustle of leaving her flat was behind her, Bela felt confused and more than a little petulant at being dragged out on a spur of the moment road trip with someone who didn't even want to talk. At all. Period. She felt uncomfortable over how Dean had said jump, and she, pink suitcase in hand, had said how high. It implied things, didn't it; implied things that she had no business implying towards someone who was going to be dead soon. And someone who was a hunter. Reverse those two facts, maybe.

The song on the radio changed to a classic Bela did not know, and Dean started to hum it underneath his breath, happiness appearing subtly all over his face. She smashed her face harder against the window in a fruitless bid to get comfortable, and watched the tiny quirk of Dean's lips, feeling warm inside underneath all that petulant anger despite herself.

But then it implied things about Dean too, didn't it. She didn't have to be all alone on this implying train. Dean had decided to spend time with her of his own accord, and time that was unarguably starting to be quite valuable to him too. If he was silent, she was starting to think that maybe he was just a quiet kind of guy and—and, well clearly he didn't have a friend to speak of if he was knocking down her door. He didn't even like her, supposedly.

Didn't even like her like she didn't even like him. She smiled against the cool glass; yawned.

Bela would ask him, of course. It wasn't in her nature to play with such delicacy, but she knew not to come right out with it. Thought that would guarantee her nothing but a sarcastically flippant answer, and not the truth at all. The drive to Kansas and back would take almost a week, stops assumed, and that was plenty of time to get into Dean's head. Plenty of time to come up with a way of doing it that wasn't a smack in the head and a, "Hey, baby, what exactly do you think you're doing with me?"

Watching him watch the road, Bela realized with an odd start that this was the happiest she'd ever seen Dean… period. A good song on the radio, miles behind him, and more before him… He was worried about Sam, she knew, and the weight on his shoulders must have been something else but he looked… at peace, she decided. Content. A simple happiness, but happiness all the same.

He flicked his gaze at her again, lips turning up into a smirk. "I look pretty awesome, don't I," he inquired, angling his head this way and that. "It's the jacket. Been told by more than one lovely lady that the chicks dig it."

Even though the jacket did indeed suit Dean nicely, Bela snorted and said, "Lovely blind ladies maybe."

Dean took his eyes off the road for a moment, making Bela endure a very slow head to toe appraisal. Glancing back at the road, he said, "Says the crazy person wearing friggin' hooker heels on a road trip."

Bela gasped and glanced down at her feet. "These are not bloody hooker shoes! These are Steve Madden!"

The expression on his face was a clear and impossible to misinterpret huh. "Who?" he questioned, not sounding like he particularly cared. "Some trendy nut job clothing the young and the bitchy?"

Dean's one liner for the next one hundred miles, Bela figured. Rolling her eyes, she tried to get comfortable on the seat. Her legs were cramping up, and all of the monotonous driving was getting to be a bit much. Truth be told, she was leaning towards car sick. Scrunching her forehead, she closed her eyes, ignoring Dean's parting shot completely.

"Hey, look!" he chortled, "They match your suitcase."

Somewhere between the I-this and the I-that, Bela must have dozed off. It was the lack of motion that disturbed her, the absence of the Impala's steady purr; that, and Dean's hand, which issued a solid smack against her bum—or her hip, more accurately. She came to with a start, cheek smashed into cold glass and mouth full of hair. Spluttered and spit her way to an upright position.

"Rise and shine, sweetheart," Dean drawled, taking the keys out of the ignition.

"Why are we stopping?" she croaked, which actually meant why the hell did you wake me, you absolute fucker. Blinking to clear her eyes, she glanced out the window and discovered that they were in the parking lot of a rather rundown gas station in… some state between here and there. Her neck had a crick and she groaned around the mother of all yawns. It was dark outside now, and that wasn't exactly helping matters. Sleepily, she stared at the flickering streetlamps trying their hardest to illuminate the place.

"Because I feel like shit warmed over," Dean told her, all elegance. She noticed that his eyes looked a bit sandy too. "Because I have to take a piss, because I'm starving, because I don't want to drive anymore… take your pick, Bela."

"Me, me, me," she said, pushing her palm into her forehead. And then, "Where are we?"

Dean's smile was wry. "Dunno. You're sitting on the map. Haven't had a clear idea in a helluva long time."

She was too. Grimacing, she dug it out from underneath her bum and handed it over. Dean took it from her and tossed it into the backseat, where it landed with a dull thud against her suitcase—which, for the record, was still sharply angled into her seat.

"Kidding. I can navigate. We're in Wheeler. Quick stop for some grub, and we'll motor on out." He gave her an appraising glare, but he didn't actually look angry, she was relieved to note. Amused maybe, and… something else. Something softer that he was quick to hide when he saw her looking. Instead, he added, "You're the worst shotgun in… oh, I don't know… the whole entire history of ever, by the way."

Bela ignored that, choosing to gasp, "We're going to eat here?"

Dean shrugged and pushed open the door. "Luxury cuisine, baby!"

"Five dollars or less!" she singsonged back, but she followed him inside anyway, to stretch her legs more than anything.

Let it be said right now that Dean Winchester was a gas station pro. He wove his way up and down the aisles, browsing expiry dates on pre-packaged mystery foods with careful diligence, and could carry an armful just so. He picked up some chips and pop while she stood around dumbly; added a few bags of candy and a chocolate bar for good measure. Dumped it all on the till, and went back for two of those pre-packaged sandwiches he'd passed up earlier.

"Dig in, sweetheart," he told her on the way back. "This stuff's friggin' delicious."

Yeah okay, no. Bela watched him irritably as he made his way back to pay; refused to budge when he made small talk with the clerk. Caught him say, "Know anywhere decent to stay around here? My girl over there's bit high maintenance" and decided that she just didn't want to know what Dean considered decent, or what the acne-ridden teen did either. Bad enough that they shared a look of extreme masculine understanding, coupled with a crazy women snicker. Scowling, she made her way to the cooler, only to scowl even harder when she noticed that the Impala's window had left her cheek with a huge red pressure mark. Rubbing at it, she opened the cooler and cringed at the rush of icy air.

In the end, she settled on a bottle of apple juice and a bagel she decided only looked a little stale. Passed on the cream cheese, which was sitting in little packets on the counter, because who knew when that had last seen a refrigerator? Dean snorted at her choice and called her a health nut under his breath. Another glance was exchanged between him and the cashier, and Bela huffed all the way back to the Impala.

The bagel was not very good without cream cheese, nor was it very filling. She ate it anyway, chewing hard over the stale bits, while Dean looked down his nose at her and made a quick call on his cell phone, referencing the number the clerk had scrawled down onto the backside of Dean's receipt. He inquired about late check ins, came up with some bullshit story that blamed her entirely for their lateness, and then threw the Impala into gear, looking strangely self-satisfied.

"Where are we going?" she asked, when she was finished with her poor imitation of a bagel.

"I'll tell you this and only this," Dean began, smiling dramatically. "Place is named after pie! How fucking cool is that?"

Apple Pie Ridge Bed and Breakfast was 11 miles outside of Wheeler, West Virginia. Dean drove it in silence, which Bela was becoming accustomed to, but he seemed alive with nervous energy, which she was not. He took back roads, dark and winding, and his fingers drummed against the steering wheel, a steady staccato.

She smiled when she saw it, surprised and pleased in spite of herself. Dean coloured when he opened the door and exited the car; didn't look at her when he busied himself trying to tug her suitcase out of the back. The line of his shoulders was tense.

It was a pretty old farmhouse, Southern style, surrounded by fields turned bluish under the moonlight and more of the trees Bela had grown used to over the past few hours. Different though, in their abundance. She blinked and then opened her eyes wide, trying to take in the rolling hills and the gentle nighttime ambience.

It was decent, definitely. Not the sort of place that would have been Bela's first choice, but the kind she might have been sorry for overlooking. It felt homey, even here in the drive, in a way that she wasn't used to.

You did good, Dean, she wanted to say, but the words froze on her lips, and she was quiet too when she followed him up the lane and inside.

A pleasant looking older woman was waiting in the lobby when they entered, relaxing in a chair and reading what Bela saw was a historical romance novel. Stood and made her way to an antique table, strangely outfitted with all the modern conveniences, and beamed at them, even if her smile was all for Dean. Despite the fact that his back was towards Bela, she could very well imagine the charming smile gracing his own face.

"Evening, ma'am," he greeted, stopping and waiting for Bela to join him. "Sorry to bother you so late. Appreciate you taking us in."

He elbowed her subtly enough, and so Bela chirped in with an exaggerated sigh and a pleased, "How wonderful to be out of that car!" Even though she would have played along without the prodding, thanks ever so. And it was pretty damned wonderful. Not even a lie.

"Not a problem!" the woman chirped, typing away for a moment on the keyboard. She gazed at the screen, face highlighted by fluorescent glow, and then added, "Readied up the Macintosh room as soon as you called. Our other two are full, but I'm sure you'll find that one up to your standards, sir."

It didn't have cockroaches, Bela was willing to guess, and therefore probably surpassed any standards her traveling companion might have. Dean was nodding his thanks, digging for his wallet, probably for show, and it occurred to Bela on a moment of irritated panic that there was no way either one of the brothers Winchester could actually afford a place like this. Trust one of them to find some place decent, only to manipulate their way out of footing the bill. She huffed underneath her breath so that the woman couldn't hear, and found her own wallet in her purse. Mentally added it to the evergrowing Winchester tab.

Dean shot her an annoyed look and sidestepped her neatly when she tried to move forward, hip checking her behind him like she was a misbehaving child. She heard the sound of a credit card smacking down onto the table, and tried to wiggle around him for a better look. He took advantage of the moment, caught her around the waist, and tugged her into his side, fingers dangling with apparent affection near her waist. Bela stiffened and then relaxed against her will, softening into his side.

"My wife here's used to being the big breadwinner," Dean confided, all rueful amusement. "Haven't been married long enough for her to get used to not paying."

The lie made Bela blush, which the woman took as familiar impatience, but Dean didn't lighten his grip. Smiled down at her and said, "Isn't that right, sweetheart?"

"He's so old fashioned," Bela giggled inanely.

The woman behind the desk smiled and asked, "How long have the two of you been married?" Swiped Dean's credit card and examined the signature.

Bela said, "A little over a month" at the exact same time Dean said, "Winter wedding."

They were in the middle of exchanging panicked looks when the woman laughed and said to Bela, "My husband's never been able to get it right either. Says it feels so much longer than it is. Right this way though. I think you'll be happy with the Macintosh room. It's our most romantic suite." And she winked over her shoulder at them.

Bela jabbed Dean in the back hard with her fingernails and he scowled at her, before turning to follow the woman, dragging her suitcase and his duffel bag behind him. She cringed as it scraped along the hardwood floor and wished Dean would just pick it up. Or give it to her. Either way.

The woman noticed it too, and commented, "What a bright shade of pink!" And before Dean was even done with his smug look, "Bet you never lose this at the airport!"

It wasn't awkward, at least not with the woman still in the room. While she explained that they were to share a bathroom with the Grimes Golden room—and Bela was so hungry, even after that stupid bagel—Dean poked around, nodding at this and that. Bela took in the king-size bed—Sleep Number, the woman pointed out excitedly—with its crisp royal blue duvet, the same shade exactly as the walls, and ran the toe of her shoe over the hardwood, which she thought was beautiful and stain free. Now here was a room you could take your shoes off in! There was a rocking chair and a loveseat, facing the east and west windows respectively, and Bela gazed out at darkened farmland while Dean small talked the woman right out of the room.

When the door closed behind her, Dean observed with a touch of dark panic, "There's no TV in here."

"I think the view is supposed to do it for you, you idiot," she told him, rather fondly. "And there's one downstairs in the living room."

"Share it?" he gasped, taking off his jacket and draping it over the back of the loveseat. "Over my dead body."

Bela shrugged and took off her coat as well. She watched Dean poke around for a bit, and waited until he was settled on the loveseat.

"I can't believe you said we're married," she said, perching gingerly down onto the duvet. She felt gross and clammy, worn out and cramped from the ride.

Dean smirked. "I know. I'm much too good for you. Revel in the fantasy, Bela. Try it out for size: Mrs. Winchester." Saying it gave Dean a start, and he broke eye contact, gazing out the window at the night sky.

It gave Bela a start too, and she snarked back, "Widow practically before wife" without thinking about it.

She hadn't even meant his death, had been thinking about being a hunter's wife in general, but Dean flinched, and so did she. Funny how easy it was to forget in his presence. It was awkward then, and the room was so silent Bela thought she'd go crazy with it. Then Dean laughed, although it lacked any real humour.

"Kind of nice not to tip toe around it, I guess." Pushed a hand through his hair and then said, "This okay then? Meet your approval, Miss High and Mighty?"

His tone of voice implied that it should have, but he sounded more uncertain than proud of his choice. The tense line of his shoulders was back, and he still wouldn't look at her.

Bela softened, out of guilt and perhaps something more. "This place is charming. Really."

Dean's shoulders relaxed and his smile was genuine this time. Stood up and looked around. "Think she actually has pie?"

Bela narrowed her eyes. "You are not actually still hungry."

A shrug. "Growing boy, Bela. Gonna go see if I can charm me a piece."

And he was gone, before Bela could comment one way or another. Sighing to herself, she opened her suitcase and found her housecoat and pajamas. Left the room and found the bathroom; knocked to make sure it wasn't already occupied by whatever the hell apple room they were sharing it with.

She felt better after her shower, more human at any rate. Slipped on pink plaid boxer shorts and a white t-shirt, hid the whole ensemble underneath her housecoat, and made her way back towards their room.

Dean had beaten her there. He was sitting on the right hand side of the bed, empty plate on her half of the bed, and was reading, believe it or not, the Bible. He glanced up when she came in, eyes alight.

"The ugly housecoat makes its return!" he observed, smiling. "Got you a slice of pie. Aren't I a freaking gentleman!"

The pie wasn't apple, to Bela's surprise, and it had grown cold during her shower. She ate it anyway, smiling at the tart sweetness of the berries, and watched Dean read.

"The Bible?" she asked after a moment.

"No TV!" His smile was wry. "For this ye know," he read, all lofty and pretentious, "that no whoremonger, nor unclean person, nor covetous man blah blah blah hath any inheritance into the kingdom of God."

She narrowed her eyes, stacked their plates, and sat beside him, careful to keep her distance. "Good thing I just showered then."

"Hope you like hot weather," he continued, swatting her in the thigh.

"Whoremonger," she hissed.

"Covetous man," he returned. "Or woman. Whatever. Where'd you find the shower anyway?"

"Down the hall."

Dean stood up and grabbed his cell phone. Dropped the Bible on her lap. "Learn something, you Hell bound creature you," he instructed, before leaving her alone once again.

It was only eleven o'clock, and Bela was not strictly tired, but she made a mad dash to turn out all the lights anyway. The sheets were crisp and smelled like fabric softener; she buried her nose in them and willed herself to fall asleep before Dean's inevitable return.

Her nap in the car had pretty much ruled that out, and lying down to sleep made her miss her cat. Biting her lip, she tried not to think of Dean, and ended up thinking of him anyway, the pit of her stomach warm and uncomfortable. Felt nauseous, actually, like extended exposure to him was a disease. Wondered about Sam's progress and hoped… hoped…

Hoped too hard to go there. Not that it mattered. If Dean wasn't in the midst of dying, he never would have shown up on her doorstep. Any time was better than no time, and Bela had no illusions about what would happen if Sam found a way out of this bind. Dean'd be off without so much as a thank you ma'am. She'd run into him time to time, sure; then, maybe not. Had gone years without meeting him. Could go years more. Would go years more if—

The door to the room opened and closed, and Dean came in smelling like soap. He went through his duffel bag loudly, chucked his cell phone at the end table, and generally did nothing whatsoever to ensure that she didn't wake.

"I rang room service for an extra blanket," she told him sweetly. "Hope the loveseat's comfortable!"

Dean snorted. "For you, you mean? No fucking way I'm sleeping on that thing. It's like ten feet shorter than me."

She stole a glance at him, hoping she was hidden in a cocoon of covers. He was wearing sweatpants and nothing else, and her gaze lingered despite all of her intentions. His back was to her, and she felt her cheeks heat up as she admired hard muscle and smooth lines. Her fingers twitched against the sheets, and she surreptitiously shoved them underneath her hip to still the movement.

Dean took his time, like he sensed her admiration. Stretched, slow and leisurely. Bela bit her lip and tried to stay absolutely still, afraid of spooking him… into clothing or something.

And then he dropped his pants. Dropped them! Right there! In front of her!

Bela squeaked, staring out and out at the admittedly-underwear-clad bum a few feet from her face, and then caught her breath. It was okay, she thought, chewing at her lip. Nothing more than an abso-bloody-lutely stunning young man within in arm's reach and… and…

Gathering her thoughts, she stuck her foot of the bed and kicked him soundly on the arse… which was just as firm as it looked. Heaven help her.

"Put your trousers back on!" she sniffed, all maidenly dignity.

Dean turned around and laughed, a short sharp bark. Bela was glad it was dark enough to hide her pink cheeks.

"Put my trousers back on?" he mimicked, still chuckling. "Oh my God, try not being twelve. I was so freaking nice out in Montana and now, let's be honest. I have a fucking month and a half to live: I'm going to sleep however the hell I want. Besides…"

A moment during which Dean climbed onto the bed and yanked the covers away from her body. The colder air of the room blasted into her, and she made a grab for the blankets, but Dean held her down by the shoulder, blatantly admiring her own pajamas.

Oh God, his chest was even nicer than his back. And his gaze was lingering for far too long.

"You're not really wearing a whole helluva lot yourself," he observed, not sounding too put out by it. Her struggle had inched her t-shirt up, and he reached forward, playing with the hem before smoothing it down over her belly. "You sleep in your pants and then we'll talk."

And that apparently was that. Flopping down onto his back, Dean jerked the covers back up and went still. The bed was big enough that they could lie without touching and that, Bela figured, was a blessing in disguise. She could hear him breathing, but she couldn't feel him and… and, she didn't want to anyway. So there.

But Dean must have moved. Someone must have moved, because she felt his fingers brush hers, before falling partly away. Pinkies touching then. Nothing else. Still a-okay.

"Got hold of Sam," he informed her, after a minute or two.

Bela had figured based on the cell phone, but she didn't want to comment then—or now—in case she said too much. Or not enough. Harder to lie to an expert on lying than it was to lie to a sweet woman behind the counter, now wasn't it?

Tone like sugar, she inquired, "Run far enough away from you yet? Do thank him for sticking you with me next time you talk."

Dean chortled, "Oh please. I'm freaking awesome company." Then, "Told me to sit tight, keep on keeping on, blah blah blah… spewed a lot of crap."

And then she wished it was lighter in the room so that she could see Dean's face. He didn't sound angry, but he didn't sound right either. Angled herself up onto one elbow to attempt to make out the expression on his face, but it was sealed away, hidden. He met her eyes, and wiggled his pinky finger so that it rubbed hers.

And then Dean dropped the bombshell.

"I know, you know. Ain't friggin' stupid. I know exactly what he thinks he's doing."

Oh. Oh. But did he know she knew?

Softly, she said, "He might find something."

"Oh, spare me the false hope," he grouched, crossing his arms. "He's not going to find a damned thing, and that's the only reason I'm letting him go. I get it, right. I'd do the same fucking thing if it was him. This trip isn't for me. Anything I can do to keep the kid from going crazy after…" I'm gone. "Anyway, if he needs this week to bust his balls for fuck all, then fine. But there's nothing."

Which Bela knew, but the desperation that had snuck into Dean's voice gave it a whole other heartbreaking edge. She laid back down beside him, closer now, and stared up at the ceiling. His hand crept back and she opened hers wide, allowing him to entwine their fingers. The gesture felt scared and almost turned her stomach; she heard Dean swallow in the darkness.

At least she knew what he'd been brooding about all day. Like she hadn't already, somewhere.

"You two drive me nuts," she snapped, so abruptly that Dean startled. "Really, you do. If you don't approve of it, stop it. If he can't stop it, he should just sit right down and spend some time with you while he still can. You're both just such fucking martyrs. I don't even like to listen to you talk."

There was a pause, huge and yawning, and then Dean chuckled, out of surprise more than anything. Squeezed her hand.

"You're such a bitch," he told her, but there was affection there.

"And yet here we are."

"Here we are." There was a pause again, and then, "Maybe he just wants to get with Ruby. Got some hidden kink for demon girl. Maybe he just took off to get it on."

"Ahh, Ruby," Bela said, happy that he wasn't angry at her outburst. "Now there's a piece of work."

An interested, "You know her?"

"Heard things." She shrugged. "I hear lots of things."

Bela listened to Dean breathe for a good thirty seconds before he said, "But… you've heard nothing, right? Like… about me." The last bit spit out in a rush.

I'm sorry, Dean. She cuddled a bit closer because this seemed like the kind of thing that should be accompanied by some sort of touch, although Bela had never been much for that sort of thing and wasn't sure how to go about it. Dean sensed her movement towards him, however, and lifted an arm so that she could settle in out of sight. And still she couldn't say it. Not with his breath tickling her forehead, and his chest rising and falling against hers. Frowning, she rolled over and grasped at his arm when it settled around her stomach.

Say it, woman. Nothing. Nada. You're going to Hell, Winchester.

But the words tasted foul and she couldn't say them. Instead, she shook her head into the pillow. Dean sighed, and then began to rub slow, comforting circles over her cotton covered tummy. Squeezed her once hard, all over.

"'S okay," he murmured. "Not like I didn't know that either."

The subject had killed the desire to talk, and so Bela set her mind to sleeping. Dean was behind her, deliciously warm and alive, and she was all but clinging to his arm, which was embarrassing but… somehow okay. His heat was making her drowsy, and it was all going to be alright eventually, because… because a month and a fucking half could still be a really long time. And he was here now.

Very here, in fact. She smiled into the pillow when he moved in closer, burying his face into her hair. Wouldn't have pegged him for a cuddler, she thought, not really. And, on that note:

"Are you hitting on me, Dean Winchester?"

He chuckled dozily, a heavy rumble against her back. "Gross. No way in hell!"

But his hands told a different story, rubbing still at her stomach, and the arms around her were gentle and caressing. He didn't have to sleep that close, God knew, and her smile grew with a will of its own.

Because she didn't care see.

And then Dean pressed a firm kiss against the back of her head and laughed again, louder this time. "Maybe a little," he admitted. "Like… a very little."

She elbowed him in the stomach and laughed herself. "I have a headache," she told him primly.

Still holding onto her, he bounced his hips against the mattress hard like some giant perv. Grinned into her hair when the springs didn't squeak and the headboard didn't smack the wall.

"C'mon, Bela, we're newlyweds."

"You forgot our anniversary. I'll never forgive you."

"I'll be good, Bela," he wheedled, but he was sleepily settling back in. "Real good, like blow your mind out of this world--"

"My oh my, aren't you delusional!" Then, "Wheeler isn't very far away. Go show me what a whoremonger you really are."

He snorted and groped awkwardly for her face, trying to clamp a hand over her mouth.

"Used up all my money on this damned room without a TV," he told her, and it was a definite whine.

She replied, "Oh, gross" and pointedly shut her eyes. Dean laughed to himself for a moment more and then quieted, seemingly pondering life in general—or hookers, she couldn't be sure.

Trying to take advantage of his good mood, she asked, "What's in Kansas, anyway?"

His voice was smiling when he answered, "The biggest piece of work you'll ever meet. Honest to freaking God."

And if that wasn't enough to keep Bela up and staring at the ceiling for longer than her tired eyes really wanted to, she didn't know what was.

TBC...

Apple Pie Ridge B&B is a real place. The woman who runs it in my head is completely fictional, and I've never been there, but it looks like a great place to stay.

Also, I'm from Alberta, Canada. When it comes to the States, I have only been to Seattle, Florida, and Vegas. I have no idea what Dean and Bela's little drive would consist of, so I apologize for any errors. Thanks to MapQuest for their dubious help. ;)