Part Five
A subtle shifting of the mattress and a sudden lack of Dean related contact shook Bela out of what had been a peaceful sleep. Grumbling to herself, she tried to wiggle backwards into the warmth of the crevice Dean's body had filled seconds before; clamped her eyes shut and buried herself in blankets. Her stomach pitched, that unpleasant awake-too-soon feeling stealing over her, and she groaned again for good measure.
There was no reason to try to be quiet, she instinctively knew. Dean had rolled over, sure, but he was very much awake; she would stake all of her money on it. Once she realized his restless state, she was entirely too distracted by it to fall back asleep herself, despite the fact that her eyes felt full of sand and the bed was just so comfortable, and soft, and—
And, God, why wasn't he sleeping?
Rolling over herself, she peered at him through the dark and rubbed at her eyes. He was laying flat on his back, hands neatly folded on top of the blankets covering his stomach, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. Didn't look like he'd slept at all.
"What are you doing?" she asked, swallowing in an attempt to make her mouth less dry.
Dean startled, glancing over at her quickly. They were closer than Bela thought they were, and she resisted the urge to scoot backwards. Clamped her mouth shut, just in case she had morning breath.
"Thinking," Dean informed her, whispering like there was someone else to wake up.
Bela chortled to herself. "Thinking? You do that?" But she tried to snark close to her pillow, wishing like hell for a toothbrush.
Dean groaned and closed his eyes. Reached out awkwardly with his arm and tugged her close. She rolled willingly into a wall of firm, warm chest, and tentatively laid her hand near the one of his that remained on the blanket. Fixated and drowsy, she watched their hands rise and fall in time with his breathing.
"Snarky even at…" A glance at the clock on the night table. "Three thirty in the morning. Aren't you a joy to be around."
He still smelled like soap from his shower, she noticed. Carefully, terrified of what she was doing, she raised her hand and slipped it under the blanket, finding skin. He sucked in a breath at the hesitant touch, but did not move away. It was lack of sleep, Bela told herself, making her act this way.
"Have you slept at all?" she inquired.
He shook his head, but didn't say anything. They laid in silence for a while, both listening to the sounds the old farmhouse made. Bela needed the bathroom, but didn't exactly want to move. The hand behind her shoulder moved to her hair, tangling in yesterday's curls, and began to rub slow circles onto her scalp. The contact practically made Bela purr and she cuddled closer, mimicking Dean's gentle circles on his stomach with her fingernails. Muscles flexed beneath her fingers, and Dean gave a contented grunt, which made Bela giggle.
"Does that make you tired?" she asked. "You're like a bloody cat."
Dean smirked, rubbing at her hair some more. "Oh, baby, doesn't exactly make me tired!"
He said it as a joke, the same as any other they'd cracked at one another a million times before, but this time it made Bela catch her breath; made Dean catch his when he heard the sharp intake of hers. Angling himself up on one arm, he gazed down at her, hand moving from her hair to trace feather light across her cheek. Bela blinked up at him, forgot about morning breath, and ran her hands over onto his back, delighting in the feel of muscles dancing under her palms. Her stomach flip flopped and she shifted her weight, suddenly restless, when Dean adjusted his position to accommodate her touch; when his eyes fluttered shut on a sigh at the contact.
"Bela," he began, and it was an invitation; a warning.
Even still…
She wasn't terribly sure which one of them moved. Both of them, maybe, because suddenly his mouth was on hers, exploring and tasting with greedy hunger. He tasted like sleep and desperation; she wasn't sure what she tasted of, but it mustn't have been bad, if the appreciative noises he was making in the back of his throat were any indication.
Angled upwards herself, and Dean helped her, flattening her against his chest and kissing her for all she was worth. The feeling of his hands, not at all tentative, not at all unsure, branded heat down her arms, her back, and this was good, even if it was something she had been joking about herself. This felt like relief. Like finally. Freeing her hands, she grasped Dean's cheeks and tried to tell him all of that without words by deepening the kiss.
Not one to be left behind, he kissed her back with new ardor, right there with her. She felt him jolt at an accidental brushing of her breast, but an encouraging sigh from her left him suitably distracted. It wasn't until he started attempting to tug her fully into his lap that Dean seemed to come back to himself fully, like the soft contact of her thigh actually screamed your hand is half up the shirt of a woman you hate! You are dry-humping her thigh! Horror! Horror!
And his mouth was gone, and his hands were gone, and--
He laughed, completely hysterical and out of place, before pulling back enough to take stock of the situation. Bela could see it from his point of view, her half sprawled all over him, and felt her cheeks pink with the suddenness of his awareness, as well as the abrupt return of hers. He'd gone tense all over—not in a good way either—and she fell back out of his lap as quickly as she could to avoid this new… whatever.
Dean took a shaky breath and pushed a hand through his hair, watching her cautious retreat. His cheeks were flushed, and that made her feel better, but he was avoiding her gaze, which made her feel worse. Quick sidelong glances implied that he thought she was from another planet, one in which it was completely okay to say you aren't sleeping all bitchy-like one moment, and then jump poor unsuspecting insomniacs the next, like he hadn't been a part of it at all. Like debatably, he hadn't been the one who jumped her. Dean looked detached, and she was thinking hysterical thoughts, which had completely slowed the realization that her shirt was riding entirely too high up her stomach. Scowling, she darted an embarrassed look at him and tugged it down. God, she felt like a hussy.
"Didn't invite you with me for this," he told her, and his voice was shaky too. Then he was scooting away from her, finger pointed in her direction. "Fuck, I can't do this."
Bela managed to regain enough control to want to say it doesn't matter, but it died in her throat when she saw the finality in his eyes. Abruptly, she wondered what the hell she was doing, anyway. Dean Winchester, beautiful broken Dean Winchester, but he was a hunter, he didn't even like her, and he was going to die. All the same, she felt a loss in the pit of her stomach when he untangled himself from the blankets and stood, doing a little dance on the spot. He was flushed, she noticed, and antsy.
"Why did you invite me?" she asked, meaning to, she didn't know, murmur or something, but that was definitely a hiss, and Dean was definitely wincing. Glancing away, Bela ran her finger along the edge of the blanket so she wouldn't have to see his face. Held her breath in anticipation of his answer.
And Dean didn't answer her. "Does it matter?" he asked, and even without looking Bela saw his arms flail to enunciate his point. "Wasn't everything just fucking peachy?"
A clunk that caught Bela's attention; Dean was hopping around, trying to get into his pants while maintaining the heat of the glare aimed at her. Uncharitably, she hoped he toppled right over. And then he continued with, "God, it's never enough with you. It's never fucking enough with anyone!"
Which meant God knew what and—
"Shut up, Dean," she threw right back. "Answer my questions, or don't. Don't you throw half sentences around at me. I don't get what you are trying to say! I don't get for one minute what you want, showing up at my flat and proposing some half thought out road trip. You're going to have to explain it to me and--"
But Dean was going, exiting with a parting shot of, "I don't know what you want, and I don't have to explain a goddamned thing." And he didn't even slam the fucking door, she noticed.
Anger rendered Bela immobile for a moment. She sat perfectly still, and fumed to herself, thinking about how much she hated Dean and hunters and men in general. God, she hated him, the mean horrible tease, and—
Pulled her knees up, and tried not to cry, out of embarrassment, out of loss, out of something.
"Just run away, Dean!" she called after him, although he was doubtlessly too far gone to hear. "Just fucking leave!"
Collapsed down backwards into a ball, and pulled the blankets over her head, squinting hard to avoid tears.
When Bela awoke in the morning, throat scratchy with sleep, Dean was not beside her.
Panicking a little, she smacked her hand all over his half of the bed, thinking half formed crazy thoughts about being left in West Virginia, Impala blazing away on his hysterical laughter, but when she sat up on a rush, she spotted him sprawled out on the loveseat, legs dangling off the end and one arm thrown in the direction of the floor. Warmth rushed through her belly, and then uncomfortable awareness too. And if that wasn't enough, anger hadn't exactly moved out yet. Or confusion, or—ugh, she wanted coffee.
Couldn't deal with him right now, she decided. Tried to be quiet getting up; was halfway into her housecoat when he groaned and the hand on the floor moved to his face.
"Fuck, this is not comfortable," he let her know, voice gravelly.
Bela grimaced to herself and mimicked him, sour in the light of day. "You could have come back to bed," she pointed out. "I do have some control. Besides, if it's your own control you're worried about, rest assured that you are never touching me again." So there.
He replied, "Whatever", which was insulting, and tried to flop over onto his side, almost pitching himself off the narrow space. Bela glared at his back, too aware of the awkwardness of the situation, and left for the bathroom in a huff.
When she came back to fetch her clothes, Dean was sitting up on the loveseat. He gave her a smile that was just short of apologetic, but didn't meet her gaze, like he was afraid she was going to… cry or something. Cry and want to talk about it. That made Bela's scowl deepen, and she stomped towards her suitcase, Dean's gaze burning a hole in her back. He got up too and wandered towards his duffel, clearing his throat when he almost collided into the whirlwind of motion that was Bela avoiding Dean.
"Look, Bela--"
She found gray trousers, hardly wrinkled, and gave them a shake. "Spare me, Dean. I'm not some fragile flower. We only kissed. I'm hardly a blushing little maiden. Just shut up. I don't want to talk about it."
I can't do this she mimicked mentally, feeling bitter and surprisingly more than a little hurt. He had practically dumped her out of his lap before taking off to God knew where, and if it was uncomfortable this morning, it was his entire fault. Mixed signals, wasn't it, sticking his tongue down her throat and then carrying on like he had, like she was grasping, and greedy, and wanted everything—which, touché—but c'mon.
"You should have gone into Wheeler and gotten yourself a hooker like I said," she tacked on for good measure.
Dean exhaled through his nose, an impatient, grouchy sound. "Yeah, I clearly should have. Least I woulda been guaranteed a happy ending."
She froze, hand hovering over the neatly folded clothes in her suitcase, and whirled around to look at him. "I beg your pardon?"
He cleared his throat and dropped eye contact, studying the worn top of his sock. "Jesus H. Christ," he swore. "Look, I didn't mean anything by that. I just--"
"Dean? Just stop talking," she implored, clenching her hand around crumpled trousers. His ears were turning red, with shame, with embarrassment, she didn't know. "I don't want to talk about any of this. Stop being such a woman."
After a moment, he said, "Are you going to beat me with your curling thing?"
From her bent over position, she attempted to angle him a glare. "What?"
Saw him shrug, before he dropped his gaze back to his feet.
And… awkward. Trying not to look at him, Bela found her suit jacket and her curling iron, as well as her make up bag. Dean stepped back when she walked by him, actually sucking in his belly to avoid accidental contact, and she, mature wonderful woman that she was, slammed the door behind her.
The sight of herself in the mirror gave Bela the first glimpse of relief that she'd felt all morning. The trousers weren't wrinkled, and her blouse, after a thorough shaking, was completely wearable. She had forgotten her heels in the room with him, but she knew from experience that the opened toed black ones were just the thing. Looking good had always been a comfort to her, and now she had a part to play—that jackass's wife, no less—and she was going to own it. Really, she was.
Granted, she looked entirely too good to be the wife of Dean Winchester. Or at least she would when make up fixed the blotchiness and her hair wasn't shooting out in crazy angles and odd kinks. She was going to look so much too good for him it wasn't even going to be funny.
"Too respectable," she hissed, turning on the curling iron and cracking open her make up bag. "Too classy."
She was done her make up and halfway through the nightmare that was her hair when a subtle knock on the door disturbed her. Scowling, she called out, "Busy just now, thanks ever so."
"Decent?" And only one person could bark like that.
Scowl deepening, Bela put down her curling iron and flipped open the lock. Dean entered at the sound, closing the door behind him, like his announcement of, "Breakfast buffet's up in ten" was the most confidential thing she'd ever hear ever.
"Thank you, Dean," she clipped, before turning her back on him.
If he got the dismissal in her gesture, he ignored it entirely, moving instead to perch on the edge of the bathtub behind her. He looked tired and haggard, she noticed, like he'd pulled a Sam and sat up all night angsting. Tired and haggard in the reflection of the mirror but… well, rather good too, cleaned up as he was.
Cleared his throat for the millionth time that morning, and said, "I've come to inquire about that angry sex, actually. Pretty good lock on this door… well, pretty good lock if you aren't me. I've always enjoyed sex before breakfast. And lunch, come to think of it."
Hesitantly and so very hopefully that Bela scoffed, although she knew beyond a doubt that it was a bit of peace he was after, and not angry sex at all. Bringing the banter back to familiar territory, although it wasn't really funny anymore now that she knew what his mouth felt like. Clearing her own throat, she took a look at him in the mirror, and tried to hold her glare.
And… checked herself. She thought she'd noticed that particular shirt loose over a t-shirt before, but he'd buttoned it up now, properly, and the jeans he was wearing were without the mud stain she'd noticed on yesterday's pair. Cleaned up but still Dean. She thought he looked a little sleazy or a little too good depending, she couldn't decide. Like he'd seen a picture somewhere of what a young married man should look like, and had copied out every detail. This piece of hair parts here and—
She smiled before she thought about it.
Dean caught it in the mirror quick as lightening and pounced on it with one of his own, like he'd only been waiting for a break in the awkwardness he'd caused to try to smooth things over without actually having to do it himself. Like saying breakfast's in ten meant awkward, and I'm sorry in Dean-speak.
Which was okay, because Bela sighed and said, "Why are you still here?" which meant that she was sorry too.
Dean shrugged. "Like to watch." Rocked on his heels, eyebrows a-wiggling. "Got no one better to look at. Folks in that other apple room could be my grandparents. Rather stare at a young piece of ass…" And he leered at hers.
Well now, she knew exactly what it felt like to have him touch her aforementioned bum and—
Bela shook it a bit to maintain the mood, and then picked up her curling iron, watching Dean watch her in the mirror. Or rather, her bum.
"I like to get ready in silence," Bela warned, shaking the hot barrel of the iron at him. "Complete silence."
"Oh, I do love me a bossy woman," Dean shot back, smirking like it wasn't only the most awkward thing to say ever. Off her look, he pretended to zip his lips; leaned back as much as he could without toppling over into the tub.
And fine, Bela thought, if they were ignoring things, she could do that too. Sighing, she separated a strand of hair, and watched Dean's eyes follow her every movement, a strange and pensive appearing look on his face as soon as he thought she wasn't looking.
The breakfast buffet was like some kind of dream come true for Dean. She watched him walk up and down, stacking his plate sky high after observing all there was to observe. From her position next to the pancakes, Bela could make out eggs—three?—a large helping of pancakes, a healthy stack of bacon, an overflowing scoop of hash browns, a couple of pieces of toast, and… randomly, an orange. Glancing down at her three pancakes, she thought her breakfast looked rather paltry, and grabbed a plump strawberry to settle atop the syrupy mound. And… perfection.
"Quality, not quantity," she murmured to herself.
She followed Dean to a table on the far side of the room, noticing that the damned food had even given him a bounce to his step. He was gone with his cup before she made it to the table, and came back with it full of steaming coffee. The smell of it made her nose twitch in appreciation.
"Be a good husband," she instructed, pointing at her cup.
Dean had a comeback ready, she could see it, but luckily for her the other room's occupants made their entrance, and all she got from Dean was a sugary smile.
"Anything for you, sweetheart," he singsonged on a sigh.
She smiled pleasantly at him, but scowled when she saw that he was giving her the finger behind his back. Called out, "Two sugars would you, darling! And a little cream!"
She thought he might have said, "Oh, I'll cream you right good, you bossy bitch" but she couldn't be quite sure; when he arrived back with her coffee, it looked alright and relatively un… spit in or something. Bela took a cautious sip, staring in disgust at his plate over the rim of her cup.
Looking down her nose at him digging in, Bela said, "Please tell me you don't intend to eat all of that."
"All of what?" he asked, around a mouthful of egg. He glanced at his plate with genuine confusion, and then glanced at hers. Spotted the beautifully plump strawberry she'd settled atop her pancakes and pilfered it before she had time to blink. "Thanks, sweetheart. I know how much it means to you that your man is well nourished."
"What? Cut the crap! You give me back my strawberry, you bottomless pit!" she hissed, nudging him under the table as hard as she could. "I found that first and—"
But then the woman who had ushered them to their room last night appeared, presumably to check on the state of their breakfasts, and exclaimed, "Well, if it isn't the Buckmasters! Did you enjoy your pie?"
Bela, who was busy pondering the horror that was Bela Buckmaster, noticed that Dean actually managed to swallow his food before fixing the woman with his most charming smile.
"Pie was delicious, Sarah," he told her sincerely, savoring the word delicious. "Wifey here was in the shower and it was all I could do not to eat her piece too."
The woman—Sarah— beamed at Dean and took the place across the table from Bela, as though it was the most normal thing she could possibly have done. Victim of Dean Winchester Number 9542, Bela thought sourly. Surely her own rush of completely unjustified jealousy was just a delusion directly related to having to play at Dean's wife for longer than thirty seconds. Sarah was easily old enough to be Dean's mother, was pushing on elderly aunt more realistically.
"Hope you don't mind me sitting here," Sarah said, and Bela forced some impression of a smile.
Dean laughed--the laugh—and Bela was irked to find herself falling for it right along with Sarah. "Not at all, ma'am." And then, in that horribly fake sugary tone again, "Was meaning to track you down to tell you that our date was March 14. Felt just terrible not remembering." Another smile, more pensive this time, and then Dean's hand was folding over hers, and the smile was all for Bela. "See, sweetheart? I'm not all bad."
Bela tried not to gag, but Sarah tutted. "Oh, I hope you didn't hold it against him, dear. Men and dates, you know!"
Bela clenched her teeth, but managed a smile and a giggle of her own. "Well, if he'd have eaten my pie you had better believe that someone would have been sleeping on the loveseat." And she winked cheekily, right at Dean, whose high wattage smile dimmed for half a second.
And then, like the poor woman cared, Dean continued with, "I remember the first time I saw her, and that's gotta count for something." A challenge in his tone, daring Bela to interrupt.
Bela wanted to kick him under the table, and tell him to shut up because God knew Sarah probably didn't give a shit, quite frankly. But Sarah was still smiling, and it was an encouraging smile; Bela found that she could not make her lips move at all, curiosity freezing her to the spot. To cover it up, she sipped her coffee and stared at Dean over the rim of the cup. And Dean, that bugger, stared right back.
"Served me and my brother breakfast at this diner. Prettiest thing you ever did see. She had black hair then, and that little red uniform?" He shivered dramatically, but there was something else hidden in his tone that made Bela's skin tingle. "Actually went for my brother, if you can imagine it!"
Not one to be left behind, Bela said, "Well, he had something I wanted" before thinking about how it sounded, and was quick to add confidentially, "Between you and me, I wanted to kill his brother from almost that first moment. What a drama queen!"
And it never had been Sam, not for her. Looking back on it, she realized with a jolt that the only brother she could picture clearly from that morning was Dean, practically slobbering into his cup.
Now, Dean spluttered into his coffee, and sent her a pointed don't talk about my brother, you bitch look. "Truth is, I was so… blindsided, I guess, that I forget to get her number. Lucky for me, turned out we had a mutual friend so I tracked her down."
And who cared if Sarah didn't care? Bela smiled for Dean and said, "He left a note on my door that said 'Turn around' and then there he was."
A small smile this time, without the charm, without the artifice. Quietly, "And there I was."
And Dean was good player, Bela thought with dismay, because while she was—ugh—mooning at him, he only held her gaze long enough to drive the point home, before looking again at Sarah.
"Awful kind of you to go to all this trouble," he drawled, indicating the buffet tables and his plate all in one sweep of his arm. "Best damned breakfast I've had in years."
Sarah shrugged, pushing up from the table. Smiled down at Dean like she wanted to pinch his cheeks, which made Bela feel considerably better.
"Family business, you know," she said. "You two enjoy your breakfast." And she rapped her knuckles lightly on the table before wandering over in the direction of the other couple.
"Make me puke," Bela hissed at Dean as soon as she was out of earshot. "'I remember the first time I saw her.' Ha!"
His jaw ticked, even through all the obnoxious chewing that he'd started up again. Pointed his fork at her. "You are one messed up chick, you know that? You fight with me all damned morning, then I try to be nice, and you're still a bitch. Makes a guy wonder--"
"If you ask me when my time of the month is, I will skewer you with my fork."
He glared at her. "Just for the record, you are the last person on earth I'd ever marry."
"Right back at you," she shot.
"I'm taking off after breakfast," he informed her. "Be ready, or I'm leaving your grouchy ass here, see if I don't."
The Impala was too small, that was for sure. Bela was currently squished against the door, as far away from Dean and his terrible singing as she could manage, contemplating murder-suicide. And other things too. Problem was, she was feeling messed up, hurtling and out of control.
Too much Dean Winchester, obviously.
And yeah… obviously. She was so angry that it felt like a ball in her chest, and even she knew that she was overreacting; that she'd gone off like a cannon for no—well, very little—reason. Technically speaking, he'd done the honourable thing, cutting things off before they'd gotten too terribly far gone. Technically speaking—
Technically speaking, she was being a bitch. However, Dean was such… well, Dean never really had to handle anyone but Sam, and she felt quite justified in thinking that it showed. But for someone in over their head, he was doing better than her.
Sighing, she leaned back against the door and took a good long look at him. Angle of his chin was proud, grip on the steering wheel was relaxed… if he was still mad at her miles away from Apple Pie Ridge, he'd forgotten it enough to slouch almost completely back into the seat. A small smile, his driving smile, was tugging at his lips and—
"I'm sorry, Dean," she blurted, before she could think about it too much.
He glanced at her, forgetting to replace the smile with a frown. Reached across the distance and smacked her thigh. "What?! Is the great proud--"
Gritted her teeth. "Less sorry by the second!"
But he laughed, and said, "Forget about it, okay?" Then, quietly, "For what it's worth… me too."
And it was worth something. She smiled back at him, scrunching her face, before huddling back down into the seat. Kicked off her high heels and wiggled her nylon covered toes against the Impala's floor mats.
"Bruce Springsteen still around here?" she asked.
Dean scowled but pointed down at the tape box by her feet, where he'd tossed it the night before. Bela fetched it and slid it in, smiling still at his fake unhappiness, before leaning her forehead against the window. Trees whirred by too fast to focus on, and suddenly—crazy girl—she had an urge to giggle, at Dean's off key singing, at everything.
"Don't like my rendition?" he asked, poking her in the leg again. "This is the Boss at his best, baby."
Happier now, Bela found that time didn't exactly crawl. She tried to amuse herself by focusing hard enough to count the trees; got a cramp in her leg and spent some time trying to wiggle it out, while Dean watched her with an amused smile. After awhile, his hand found her thigh and stayed.
After awhile longer, he asked, "Are you tired?"
Bela wasn't, and the question would have been weird enough if it hadn't been occupied by an uhh uncharacteristic of Dean. Pushing off the window, she glanced at him, eyes narrowed.
"No. We've only been driving for what? An hour? Are you tired?"
Pointedly watching the road now, Dean shook his head. Bela sent him a strange look before settling back against the door.
Dean made her wait two more miles before trying again. "It's just that if you were… you know, tired… if you were."
Exasperation made her sigh. "If I was?"
A succinct nod. "Yes. You… you wouldn't have to sleep against the door. Baby knows I love her, but her door is hard as a rock. You could… you know, sit in the middle."
Except it came out more like sitinthemiddle, and Bela only blinked at him for a moment or two, watching his cheeks flush. That horrible feeling was back again, crowding out exasperation, and she couldn't control her smile.
"Do you want me to sit in the middle like I'm your girl, Dean?" she asked on a giggle, strangely pleased.
He scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Fuck no. I said if you're tired. You're not tired, so you can stay where you are."
She did it to piss him off; God knew she didn't want to sit there all cozy after their rather bumpy morning, and she still was miffed. Plus, chalk another one up to Dean's growing list of mixed signals. But watching him squirm was enough to do her in, and she faked a yawn before unbuckling and scooting over.
Then, there was a moment of dreadful awkwardness. Dean was no softer than the door, stiff as all hell at the first sign of contact, and Bela couldn't quite bring herself to relax either, feeling oddly defensive and on her guard. Must have looked ridiculous to passing cars bothering to glance in, both so straight and unnatural; then Dean leaned forward and turned up the volume, and the music seemed to ease his tension.
A few miles more, and Bela was quite content. Dean too, she thought, if the way he was playing with her hair and humming along to the tune instead of shouting it in her ear was any indication. She allowed herself the cautious liberty of finding his shoulder with her head, and he even angled to better accommodate her.
"It's a crime to drive without a seatbelt on," was what he informed her next. "Naughty girl, you."
"Going to punish me, Dean?" she sauced, catching her own breath at the feel of him catching his. She knew she was blushing, and cuddled in farther, lest he be able to glance at her in the rearview mirror. The fingers brushing her shoulder pushed too hard, but then he laughed, and so did she, out of relief. Took a surreptitious look around the car. "So, how many girls have you had in here?"
"Had had?" he asked, and then pretended to think. Used the hand on the steering wheel to count with his fingers.
Bela laughed again, louder, and said, "You slut. Don't you imagine me kicking my knickers off in here."
He tensed again. Shook his head. "You'd be butter in my heads, baby," he cooed, "if I tried it."
And there it was again, out of nowhere, the niggling question that she couldn't shut up and that was guaranteed to cloud her mood—even though she wanted to continue the banter; continue the fun. Did she ask it? Did she not? Frowning, she slumped back down into him, and played with the hem of his t-shirt as distraction.
Dean was still chuckling. "Don't take it so hard, sweetheart! I'll introduce you to the backseat if you ask me real nice." When she was silent, he poked her shoulder and said, "What now, Bela? Fuck me, you're worse than Sam."
It was only that she had to know. Sighing, she murmured, "Honestly, Dean, why did you invite me?" for what felt like the millionth time; tried to make it sound like an apology.
Dean stiffened, jarring her cheek with the sudden upwards motion of his shoulder. She leaned back a bit too, putting her hand on his thigh.
"It's not a big question," she added, quickly. "I just have to know."
He sighed and then slumped backwards again, taking her with him. Watched the road for so long that she didn't think he'd answer, and then quietly, "Dunno. This might be the last non-hunting road trip I ever take…"
It hit her like a punch in the gut, the reminder of the thing she'd been too angry and all over the place to remember. Unbidden, her hand crept onto his stomach, and she blinked a few times fast.
Gently, "But why with me?"
Another shrug. "Don't rightfully know. First I figured you're just annoying enough to be a distraction, and it's not really like I hate you, you know?" Now that he was going, he couldn't seem to stop the rush of confession. "Guess I should apologize for being a selfish dick. You didn't even really know me, and now... Guess I've fucked everything up, huh?"
And still with the fast blinking. "You wanted me to know you? Is that what that mess was supposed to mean?"
This time his shrug nearly shook her right off. "Well, don't make it sound so girly. And I told you. I thought the fact that you annoy the shit out of me would be a damned good distraction."
She was going warm all over, slowly and surely. Swiping at her face, embarrassed, she said, "I like the version you told Sarah better. Something about my uniform--"
Fondly, he exclaimed, "Oh yeah, that ass!" And he shoved his hand in her hair, angling her closer. "Hottest thing I'd ever clapped my eyes on."
She laughed, daring to run her hand along the hemline of Dean's jeans, not necessarily for any particular reason. When he didn't stop her as she thought he might, she stilled her hand and scooted closer.
"You're impairing my driving."
"Shut up, Dean."
After that, it was all silent driving. Bela let Dean control the radio, staring without purpose herself at the passing scenery. He left Bruce Springsteen on, but turned it down to a more relaxing volume. Toyed some more with her hair, wrapping his fingers in curls and tugging playfully.
"Don't pull," she warned.
Dean smacked at the side of her face and said, "Shuddup" on a slow drawl.
She was going to say something back—something good too—but as soon as she angled her face up to see him, her train of thought flew away. And gawking was a pretty undignified word but… she could admit the truth in her head, couldn't she?
Dean Winchester was sitting at her side, watching the road fly by with the careful appreciative detail of a man who might never see it again; of a man about to die. And he'd said it earlier, said possibly the last road trip or something like that, and damn her slow to process brain; damn her slow to process brain for only just chipping at the surface, because she realized now… Realized—
And it was dumb—it was possibly the stupidest moment of Bela's life—but right there in his stupid macho car was the first time she really got it. Sure, she had toyed with the concept; she'd felt bad about it. Seeing Dean there beside her, peaceful resignation playing across his features, was the first time Bela looked at Dean—literally looked at him—and thought about it.
Felt the callus on his thumb sweep the back of her neck; felt the heat in his palm.
Looked at him and had the second most stupidly timed realization of her life, and the second most slow and stubborn to arrive one too, because she knew right there and then that the last few times she'd seen Dean had had...
Oh God, she couldn't even think properly. She was a such a dolt. The last few times with Dean had meant something, there she'd thought it. World hadn't ended.
Furthermore, didn't mean something silly like oh-let's-exchange-banter-with-the-incredibly-attractive-yet-thickheaded-hunter, but actually something something. Of course, the whole death and banter relationship would have hurt or stung or been discomforting, but this—these two realizations one after another--this was like a sucker punch. Like fate had said try this on for size and it was only the best fit ever, and then fate was all ha! right in her face.
Quite like that, with Dean beside her and his fingers in her hair, it was too much. Bela knew about two minutes before it happened that she was going to cry. Like really cry, the massive tears of the incredibly miserable, the unlucky, and the screwed. Or of the lonely… or of whatever.
Of the cheated, that was it, because wasn't Dean cheated? God, dead. Gone, poof! All the charisma disappearing to nothing, to non-existence and… and no one was going to randomly pop up at her flat once Dean was gone, unless they actually wanted to kill her, and he thought he was selfish letting her know him, and… and…
She fought so hard to hold in her sob that it came out more like a gurgled gag. Dean shot back away from her, clearly thinking she was going to be sick, and blanched at the expression on her face.
"Bela, what is it?" he questioned.
Genuine concern that, wasn't it? Biting desperately at her lip, she pushed away from Dean and returned to her window, pressing her forehead against the glass. Practically hyperventilating, was what she was doing, and she couldn't cry with him right here, couldn't be horrible enough to mourn him to his face, but God, she was mourning him—God, she cared for him and—
The Impala jerked to the shoulder of the interstate; Dean threw it into park. She heard his seatbelt unbuckle, and then his arms were around her, squeezing her so tightly that she couldn't manage more than shallow little breaths. She let him pull her close, half in his lap; let him bury her face into her shoulder.
"Breathe, sweetheart," he crooned. "Just breathe."
And that breath was her undoing. As soon as sweet glorious air rushed through her lungs, she was crying, and crying in earnest too, rubbing her tearstained face all over his stupid buttoned up shirt, and clinging to his shoulders so tightly that her knuckles were white.
"I'm sorry," she moaned, "I'm so sorry, Dean."
For crying? For the fact that he was dying? For wasted time? She didn't know, and she knew he didn't either. But he was humming still, more to comfort her than anything else, and rocking her like a child, so she didn't think he was mad exactly. Uncomfortable, sure, or he would be once the storm had ebbed and he realized… But the storm hadn't ebbed yet, and Bela buried her face in his shirt, smelling cologne, and cheap fabric softener, and Dean all at once.
When she said, "I don't want you to die" it came out as a keen, high-pitched and unbearable even to her own ears, and made Dean go still. Then he was laughing, and pushing her off him, back far enough to see her tearstained, horribly red face, and she knew upon seeing him that it wasn't a funny laugh, not at all, more upset and strained, but he was pushing his hands through her hair, framing her face.
"You silly girl," he chuckled, frowning. "Stupid girl. Thought I could count on you to hate me."
He held her face still, and she couldn't stop breathing in big huffs that must have rushed wet across the heels of his hands, but he wasn't even looking at her, staring instead out the windshield of the Impala off at nothing. She sniffed loudly, and tried to reign herself in, humiliated and… crushed with realization. Buried with it.
When he looked back at her again, his expression was pinched, and the colour was high on his cheeks. Laughed, that same horrid sound, and said, "That's about the nicest thing you could ever have said to me."
And his mouth was on hers, before she could blink, a hard kiss that was over before it began; before she had time to do anything about it. And he was shoving a crumpled Kleenex under her nose, and telling her to blow.
"I can blow my own nose," she wailed, snatching it away from him.
He gave her until after she'd done it before gathering her in his arms again. Stroked her back until she quieted, muttering apologies under his breath all the while. Apologies peppered with the fact that he was a selfish dick, see this proved it, should have left her in Queens, shouldn't have let Sammy go—
Shouldn't have made such a stupid deal, but Dean didn't say that one, and she knew him well enough to know that he wasn't even thinking it, not really. His misery in the moment was directly related to hers, a result of the fact that he was causing hers. He was not mourning himself, not at all, and that only made her cry harder; only made him shove her hand holding the rather wet Kleenex back up to her nose.
"Please stop," he murmured, near her ear. "You're making me feel like shit, sweetheart. I'm so fucking sorry you're feeling this way. So fucking sorry—"
Pulled back herself, and glanced at Dean, who was starting to look rather harried. "Stop apologizing, Dean. Please…"
And even though she was still sobbing and probably covered in snot, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, mimicking the speed of his earlier kiss.
"I need to feel bad," she tried to explain, dropping another one, near the corner of his mouth. "How can I not?"
Turned his head, and caught her mouth, kissing her for real this time—and for long enough that she had to half sob right against his face. Hands buried in her hair, but he was all about comfort. Awkward though it was in the Impala, he managed to pull her mostly into her lap; she ducked her head to avoid the roof, and found the hollow of his neck, blinking against his skin as he continued to rock her.
"Swear to God, Bela," he was saying, "It's gonna be okay. Everything's going to be okay. It'll just be another day, right, when it happens? Fuck, everybody dies eventually. It's gonna be okay."
Swear to God? Letting Dean take hold of one of her hands, she cuddled as close as she could, trying to memorize the feel of his arms, the weight of his touch; trying to pretend that she had never heard such a big lie in all of her life, as that one right there:
It's gonna be okay.