Chapter 4

At the end, it was Sam who gave up and bought earplugs. Dean turned up his guitar's amplifier volume all the way to the 'ARE YOU NUTS?!' level, and spent his time singing off-tune at the top of his voice. Whenever Sam unplugged the damn thing, Dean would just go to sulk off quietly at the back yard. The quiet was even more unnerving than the rock concert; So Sam bought the earplugs.

"What do you think about that Sinclair dude?" Dean asked, as they sat in front of the TV for the evening's news. "Think he did it?"

Sam glanced at Dean. "The murder-suicide? Dunno. You think it's our kind of gig?"

"Could be. I mean - that guy, that head-shrinker, with buckets load of money, a kid who's about to graduate from some fancy boarding school, and so on, went and wasted both himself and his wife? Doesn't make much sense."

Dean's hunches were about 99 percent accurate, but somebody had to play devil's advocate. "It's possible," Sam said, slowly, "maybe he had money problems, or maybe his wife wanted a divorce. Not to mention that they don't have the autopsies' reports yet. "

Dean shoved Sam by the shoulder. "You should go and check it out."

Sam jumped at the opportunity. "I can't."

"What? Why not?"

"Because I'm not leaving you alone." Sam said. Wasn't it obvious?

"I can take care of myself for three freakin' days. Who do you think looked after you when Dad was away? Tinkerbell?"

"Yeah, well, the looking part is a bit problematic these days." Okay, thought Sam, that was mean of him, but what else was he supposed to do? He was at his wits' (and nerves) end.

"Screw you." It seemed that Dean thought so, too; The mean part, anyway. But Sam was an expert at tough love by now, and he wasn't giving up.

"Somehow, Dean, I don't think incest will solve our problem."

"Smartass."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Pot, this is kettle. Kettle, this is pot."

"I'm the pot, " said Dean. "You're the lame kettle."

"Fine,pot. You're not staying home alone."

"Yes I am." Dean was always stubborn.

"No you're not." 'Stubborn' was the understatement of the year when talking about Sam. "You know, I talked to Ellen yesterday. She mentioned that Jo's between jobs."

"NotJo again." Dean, Sam thought, wanted to give in. He just had to allow him to do it with most of his dignity intact. "Just point her at the Sinclair gig direction."

That wasn't the reaction Sam was aiming at. "She'd screw up, get herself killed, and Ellen will blame us."

"I know where you're going with that," Dean had his 'I'm onto you' expression on his face. "You want me to ask Lori to come back."

"That will solve the problem, yeah."

Dean sat for fifty-three seconds (Sam checked his watch) without saying anything.

"It's a bad idea, relying on her like that. When she'd leave, we're going to have the same problem all over again." Dean warned.

Sam nodded, thought better of it. "Yeah. But, Dean," he said, as gently as he could, "people come and go. It's the way of life."

"One sucky way."

"Yeah," Sam agreed whole-heartily. People leave, but some of them also come back, and those people? Wouldn't have it any other way.

"I said some bad things to her, man."

"I kind of got that, with her leaving and all."

"I don't know if she'd want to come back."

"She will," said Sam, because he didn't want to think of what would happen to his ears otherwise. "You'll just have to apologize. A lot." He grabbed Dean by the shoulder. "Now, let's go find her."

"Dude, I'm not going out!" Dean tried to protest.

"Why not?"

Dean pointed solemnly at his face. Sam sighed.

"Dude, Lori knows how you looks like."

"Yeah," Dean said, "but we're going to the dorms, right?"

Once upon a time, nothing would have made Dean happier than a building full of college girls.

"It's dark outside."

Dean hesitated.

"Look, you want Lori back or not?"

"Fine," Dean said, "but I'm only doing that because you're such a mother hen…can't let me enjoy being on my own."

"You got it," Sam said, looking around for his keys. "Let's go."

"How come she's not at the dorms?" Dean asked again as they reached the truck.

"I don't know, Dean," Sam said, as patiently as he could.

"She's been to her classes, but she's not at the dorms. "

"I know that, Dean. I was there when that girl told us that," Sam said, turning on the engine. He started to maneuver out of the parking lot.

"She probably has a new job already."

"It's only been a week. Relax."

"I am. Totally relaxed. I'm just saying…"

"We'll figure this out, okay?"

"How's the place like?"

"Crappy," answered Sam shortly. He got out of the track and went to the shotgun's door.

"What do you think she's doing here?"

"Saving money. Come on," Sam said, taking Dean's arm.

"Excuse me," Sam said to the first guy they saw, "have you seen a girl around here? She's about twenty-one, five-three, brown hair."

"Been here for a few days, right?" The guy asked.

"Yeah," Sam replied.

"I knew it!" said the guy, slapping his thigh.

"Knewwhat?" Dean asked.

"Iknew she took in clients. Why else would a girl stay here for so long? You know, before you came, I was actually beginning to think she was just staying, you know, not doing business. Now I see she's…a specialist." He gestured at Dean.

"You think she's a hooker?" Dean said slowly.

"Words don't matter. Prostitute, call girl, wh…" said the guy, waving his hand.

His big brother, Sam observed, looking down at the guy on the floor, still had excellent aim. "Guess we'll have to find her ourselves," he told Dean, who was massaging his knuckles.

"Guess so."

Sam didn't comment about the way Dean fidget, waiting for Lori to answer the door.

"Oh," Lori said as she saw them. She looked from Dean to Sam, looking like she wanted to close the door again.

"Um," Dean said.

"Can we come in?" Sam asked, because he guessed that the whole one- syllable-at-a-time thing could go on for quite a while if he didn't.

"Yes, sure," Lori said, moving out of the way.

"If this is about the Blue Oyster Cult CD," she said as soon as they entered the room, "it's already in the mail. You'll get it in a day or two."

"It's not about the CD." Sam assured her.

"It's about," Dean began, "well, I think…it might be a good idea that you'd come back home. If you want to. It would be nice. Not that I'm trying to press you or anything."

Lori raised her eyebrows. "Why would you want that? I screwed up with Casey…you said so yourself."

"Yeah, well…I didn't mean to say that. I was pissed at her."

"You really want me to come back?" Lori asked, her voice a bit chocked.

"Do you think I'd come all the way here if I didn't?"

"Guess not," Lori replied.

"Let's get your stuff," Sam said, rather urgently.

"What were you thinking, staying in this flea motel instead of the dorms?" Dean asked.

"Well, I'm kinda persona-non-grante at the dorms at the moment." Lori said apologetically.

"What? Why?"

"I, um, spilled some coke on Casey."

"You spilled coke on her? On purpose?" Sam asked.

"Um, yeah."

Dean smirked. Sam hid a smile.

"You know, I'm really glad you came," Lori said, "the wallpaper is awful, and the guy next room keeps looking at me oddly."

Sam wondered if the guy cleared himself off the floor by now. If not, he might punch him himself, just for good measure.

"One last thing," Lori said, throwing clothes from the chair nearby into her suitcase, "you two aren't serial killers, right?"

"That depends," Dean replied hesitantly.

"Depends? On what?"

"Well, we waste anything supernatural and evil – but we don't killhumans."

Sam stopped himself at the last moment from going 'Dean!'.

"Funny," Lori said.

Sam was quick to recover. "He always had an odd sense of humor."

"At least he's creative."

"If you're going to stand here and talk about me all night…" Dean began.

"No way," Sam said. "We're going home."

END