We jumped a bit here, skipping some episodes, but it's going to take a little time to work up to the point where they can call each other every week and not have it be weird. :D

TIMELINE MARKER:

Psych - Still preseries. According to Shawn's resume on the USA website, this would be just prior to his trip to Thailand. :D

SPN - Just after Phantom Traveler.

"Dean, what are we doing?"

Shawn glanced up from where he was locking his door, then did a double take when he realized he recognized one of the two guys—as well as the black beauty of a car they were climbing out of.

"We're getting a room, Sam, and then we are finding a bar because right now, I could really use a drink. You got a problem with that, Francis?"

"Dean?" Shawn said.

The two men stopped and looked at Shawn.

Dean, after a moment to place the face, smiled wide and held out a hand. "Shawn! Hey, how's it going, man?"

"Great!" Shawn replied. "Been a little dull without any mythical beasties around, but, uh, awesome mostly." He looked to the other guy, Sam apparently, and returned the once over he was getting, though his was probably less suspicious.

"Dude, if this is your dad, you suck at description. Also, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you're not aging well. He looks at least four years younger than you."

Sam's eyebrows rose, but Dean just rolled his eyes and said, gesturing between the two, "Sammy, this is Shawn Spencer. I helped him with a werewolf problem in Iowa a coupla months back. Shawn, this is my little brother, Sammy."

Shawn arched an eyebrow and looked up at the at-least-three-inches-taller-than-his-already-tall-brother Sam as he shook his hand. "Little?" he asked.

Sam smiled. "He's still bitter about how puberty short-changed him," the taller Winchester explained.

Dean shot Sam a glare, while Shawn returned the grin.

"Yeah, well, he's also good at selectively editing history. Because if I remember correctly—and I always do—I was the one who took care of Dean's werewolf problem."

Sam's eyebrows rose as his eyes shifted to his brother and back. "No kidding?"

Dean interrupted before Shawn could respond. "Lucky shot," he said. "And he wouldn't have even had that much luck if not for me. This guy was drunker'n a skunk when I found him stumbling down the street totally unaware there was a werewolf in the bushes tailing him."

"Maybe," Shawn allowed, "but you're the one who missed it at almost point-blank range."

"It moved!" Dean protested.

"Uh huh. Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart." He added a wink and an air kiss.

Sam was watching the conversation with much amusement, eyes flicking back and forth like he was on the sidelines at Wimbledon, but at that last endearment—and especially the accompanying actions—he had to speak up. "Did you just call my brother sweetheart?"

Shawn grinned and Dean rolled his eyes.

"Oh not this again," he moaned.

"What's the matter, pookybear? You didn't tell your brother about us? I'm hurt," Shawn said, palm coming to rest on his shirt.

Dean pointed a finger at Shawn, "Stop it. We are not going there again. Not after the day I've had."

Sam looked like he intended to go there no matter what Dean wanted, but there was something in Dean's eyes that made Shawn ease back.

"Oh no. Don't tell me there's another werewolf." His eyes darted around, scanning the parking lot of the motel, his tone and actions only half joking.

"Nah," Dean said with a wave of his hand. "Demon on a plane. But we already took care of it. That's why we need a bar. Because demons suck. Demons on planes? They redefine the word 'suck'."

Shawn cocked his head. "You're a nervous flyer?"

Dean's eyes narrowed. "What makes you say that?" he said, shifting his stance back and forth a bit, trying a cocky smile on for size. Shawn wasn't buying it.

"Well, for one, you hunt werewolves, so even if I think demons are freaky, it's unlikely you do. For two, your shirt cuffs are wet, likely indicative of a recent trip to the bathroom, but the amount of water suggests that you were splashing your face rather than washing your hands. And three, when you said the word 'plane' your voice remained steady but your hands were just a smiiidge shaky," he explained, hand coming up on that last point, finger and thumb about an inch apart.

Sam's eyebrows rose throughout the recounting, Dean's joining them at the end.

"Okay, Rainman."

Shawn sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Not exactly. Anyway," he said, waving a hand. "You need a bar, right? Then follow me. There's this great club two streets over-"

"Whoa there," Dean said, holding up a hand. "We need a room first. Because I intend to be barely conscious when we get back and I am not going to be able to find my wallet, let alone wrestle a card out of it."

"You sure you want another room that's not going to be used?" Shawn asked, half smile returning to his lips. "Seems a waste of money if last time is any indication."

Dean rolled his eyes and headed for the office as Sam's eyebrows—and the corners of his mouth—again started crawling upwards. "Yeah well, with Sasquatch back in the picture the empty bed is now full, so unless you intend to sleep on the floor . . ."

Shawn opened his mouth, but Dean cut him off, spinning as he walked and pointing a finger at the other man. "And don't even joke about sharing a bed. Wait until I have at least half a bottle of Jack in me before you start that shit."

Dean disappeared to secure a room while Sam turned to Shawn.

"So, uh, do I even want to know?" he asked, but there was laughter in his voice.

Shawn chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's not what it sounds like. Really."

"That I'm pretty sure of because I can't think of a more heterosexual male than my brother and, unless I'm mistaken, Shawn is not a nickname for Shawn-a." That got him a dirty look, but he just continued on, apparently impervious to them. "So unless he's even better than I think at hiding his secrets, or something really drastic changed in the last two years, it's definitely not what it sounds like. That doesn't mean it won't serve as excellent blackmail."

Shawn laughed outright at that. "Oh you are definitely a little brother." His laughter continued as light chuckles as he said, "It's a . . . long story. And I'm pretty sure you had to be there. Suffice it to say there was some confusion back in Iowa that became something of a running joke before the night was over."

Sam chuckled and was about to say something more when Dean reappeared, scowling.

"What?" Sam asked.

"They don't have any more rooms."

Shawn stifled a snort of amusement, then said, "Seriously, Dean, you guys can stay with me. I can take the floor-"

"Oh no," Sam said. "We'd hate to put you out-"

Shawn waved a hand. "No worries, man. I sleep like the dead. Water bed, park bench, or motel floor, it's all the same to me. Although I prefer my water beds with female company and park benches require a more creative placement of one's wallet to prevent theft. Plus the plan is to get plastered, right?" he said, arms coming up in a half shrug. "As long as it's semi-horizontal I'm good."

Dean looked like he was weighing his options and then he caught Sam's eye and Shawn watched in fascination as they had an entire conversation consisting of raised and lowered eyebrows, subtle hand movements, and head tilts.

He was loathe to interrupt, but he had one other tidbit of information. "There's an Indiana Colts game tonight, guys, and you are smack dab in the middle of town. You're not going to find a hotel within city limits that isn't packed. So it's either share with me, don't get plastered and keep driving, or crunch into your car there. And while she is easy on the eyes I'm guessing she's murder on the spine." He gave Sam a once up and down. "Especially for Sasquatches."

Sam gave him a dark look for picking up the nickname and Dean didn't look pleased at the insinuation that his baby was less than perfect in every way.

Shawn ignored both. "So? What's it going to be?"

Another flurry of silent words came, ending when Sam's shoulders twitched upwards and Dean's eyes rolled. "Fine. Whatever. Where's the alcohol?"

Sam smiled and Shawn grinned.

"Right this way."

o.o

The club was packed and, while it wasn't Dean's normal style, it wasn't country either so it was close enough. No pool tables or dart boards, just a dance floor and way too many lights in a rainbow of colors that flashed and pulsed with the beat. But if they served alcohol and didn't twang, Dean could put up with the lights and the eighties pop music.

"I see your taste in music hasn't improved," Dean shouted over the bass vibrating his skull and the heavy rumble of conversation punctuated by laughter in spurts.

Shawn grinned. "Neither has yours apparently."

A table was procured and drinks were ordered and Shawn let Sam ask him questions about where he was from and what he was doing here, while Dean soothed his nerves with the help of his old buddies Jack and José.

When the shaking of Dean's hands turned into a smoother sort of swaying as he tried to bring the shot glass to his lips, Shawn asked, "So a demon on a plane?"

Sam, who'd had a beer and was now working on a Coke and some nachos, glanced up, but let Dean take the lead.

"Yeah," his older brother said. "Sonuvabitch liked bringing down planes. I hate planes," he said, waving his hand and looking Shawn mostly in the eye. "I mean, it's not natural, you know? Putting that much air between you and ground." He shook his head and lifted another shot of José, downing it, then shaking his head like a dog as it burned its way down his throat, the glass hitting the table again with a sharp clack. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to wait until they get up there and bring 'em down. 'S downright stupid."

Shawn nodded. "I don't really have an opinion on planes. Beyond the fact that they're useful."

Dean snorted and pointed a wobbly finger at Shawn. "Not as useful as a car." He had to pause to belch, then continued. "See, a plane can get you from LA to New York just like a car. But when you get to New York you're stuck. You hafta walk or take the subway or rent a car. But," he said, finger coming up to point at the ceiling and sway from side to side, "if you drive to New York from LA, then you already have a car. No walking or subways needed. And it's cheaper, too," he added, leaning forward. He pulled back and nodded, taking another shot of Jack with him to slurp at and mostly pour down his shirt.

Probably for the best. Even if he did intend to get hammered, he was most of the way there—with several shots still left in front of him—and he didn't really need the extra hangover fuel in the morning.

"So, Sam," Shawn said when Dean became fascinated with watching the dance floor, though the look on his face said it bore a greater resemblance to a really big lava lamp turned on its side than people grooving to the beat pumping out of the speakers. "What were you hunting while Dean was in Iowa?"

Sam's eyes looked down and away and Shawn internally winced at the obvious indication he'd just stepped on a land mine.

"Sammy was in shhool." Dean frowned, apparently cognizant he'd not quite nailed that pronunciation, but shrugged it off. "He's gonna be a lawyer," he added, pride shining through his slightly glassy eyes as he clapped Sam on the shoulder and gave him a firm shake that didn't really move Sam but almost sent Dean off of his high stool and onto the ground.

Sam steadied his brother, then half smiled at Shawn, who was seeing all sorts of intriguing things in the interaction between the brothers.

"I was at Stanford," he elaborated.

"Not one for the family business?" Shawn asked, deliberately keeping it light. "S'okay. I can totally agree with you on that. Your brother hunts some scary shit."

Sam tilted his head and toyed with his drink, a sardonic smile twitching his lips. "Yeah, well, even if I'm not one for the family business it, uh, seems to be one for me."

Shawn was about to ask about that, when Dean's unfocused gaze suddenly sharpened and he slid off of his stool. "Gotta piss," he said bluntly and started weaving away from the table.

"Dean-" Sam said, standing, but Dean waved him off.

"Don' need your help, princess. Got this one by myself, thanks."

He took a moment to blink at the lights until Shawn extended an arm with a wry smile and said, "Thataway."

Dean nodded and headed out, his trajectory more or less straight. It was close enough anyway.

Sam watched him go, then said, eyes back on his drink, "I didn't agree with my dad when I was a teenager."

Shawn snorted and sipped his drink, a lovely Mai Tai with an extra shot of pineapple juice. Dean had given him an odd look and chuffed a laugh at the order, but said nothing about it outright. "Who does?" he asked, eyes drifting momentarily to a couple of girls walking past who were all but poured into their tiny skirts and shorts with itty-bitty tank tops to match.

"Dean."

Shawn looked back and arched a brow at the quick—and maybe vaguely bitter—response and Sam shrugged and began shredding a napkin. "Dean didn't argue with our father. Ever. Our dad was a Marine. And after Mom died, he raised us like soldiers. And Dean fell right in line." Another shrug. "I never really embraced the concept of 'orders' or 'need to know'. And when I became a teenager it only got worse. So when high school ended and I landed a full ride to Stanford . . ."

"You ran like the hounds of hell were on your heels," Shawn said, empathy in his tone.

Sam half smiled at Shawn's choice of phrase. "Pretty much."

Shawn nodded. "I get that. I really do. My dad wanted me to become a cop like him. Trained me my whole life. Since before I was in kindergarten. He used to play this game, 'How many hats?'" Shawn said with a laugh. "Drove me nuts. Still does actually. But I didn't really fight it until I got into high school and my parents started arguing over . . . whatever." He waved a hand. "Stuff. Everything. And then they split up. And my dad . . ." His eyes dropped to his own drink and he took a sip from the straw before continuing.

"Well, anyway, when high school ended and my college fund came under my control I bought my bike and hit the road. I was done living with all those rules and expectations that I was never going to meet. It was just . . ."

Shawn shook his head and took another drink while Sam nodded and leaned back.

"Yeah," he said. "I know."

Then he tilted his head again. "So how did you meet Dean exactly?"

Shawn laughed and leaned in, much more comfortable with this subject. "It all started with a game of pool . . ." he said, grinning.

Sam leaned in as well, his attention focused fully on Shawn as the tale of the werewolf hunt gone awry was told with all the enthusiasm of a writer pitching a movie script, complete with hand motions and an impressive array of facial expressions.

Sam's gaze flicked occasionally away, Shawn sometimes following as they tracked Dean's progress back from the bathroom—a trip that was made much longer by the fact that he detoured over by the bar and around the dance floor, circling the entire club before he located his brother and Shawn once more.

Which was fine because it gave Shawn plenty of time to tell his story.

Shawn was just getting to the part where Dean stitched up his own leg, an account that didn't seem to surprise Sam at all—which was probably understandable if he'd been raised to the lifestyle—when Dean made it back, stumbling along and catching himself on the table.

"You ladies have fun chit-chit- chit-chuh- chit- Shit. Talking while I was gone?" he asked, wide grin slopped on his face.

"Yeah," Sam said. Shawn nodded and finished off his drink, slurping noisily on the straw to get the last bit out of the bottom.

Dean downed his last shot, studied the table for a few moments until he was able to come to the conclusion that the glasses were all empty except for Sam's Coke.

"Where's the-" he started to ask as he looked around.

Sam caught his arm and kept him from falling at the movement and said, "I think you've sufficiently drowned your terror. Time to head back to the room and get you into bed."

Dean poked at Sam's chest and said, "Don' you start too. I'lready have to fight off Shawn. An' you're m'brother. 'S gross, dude."

"Dean, there is not enough alcohol in this world to bring that about so don't even worry about it," Sam said with all the patience of a little brother for his sloshed older brother, ignoring the way Dean was poking at one of the buttons on his over-shirt. He grabbed the hand and forced it down, the action bringing Dean's eyes up to blink at Sam's face.

The exchange elicited a chuckle from Shawn who dropped some cash on the table for a tip and then stood to help Sam with Dean. He was feeling loose and easy because of the couple of drinks he'd had, but he was steady enough to assist Dean in keeping his feet as they walked back. And Sam hadn't been in the mood to drink beyond that one beer so he didn't need any help. A good thing because he would also be serving as navigation and steering for Dean more than likely, if not also prop.

"Sammy, you need to relax," Dean said as he was ushered in the direction of the door. "You need to get laid."

Sam rolled his eyes as Dean started scanning the crowd for a suitable girl, smiling and waving at some who returned it, then giggled to their friends.

"Really, Dean, I'm fine. And Shawn already said he doesn't want to sleep in the Impala so there won't be any girls tonight anyway."

Dean's head rolled over to Shawn's side. "You don' like my car?" he asked, sounding mortally wounded at the insult.

"I love your car, dude," Shawn assured him. "She's a classic and a beauty."

Dean's smile made an abrupt reappearance. "Tha' she is." He chuckled. "An' she's loyal too. Never left me." His voice quieted as he looked down to navigate the step required to get out the door. "She's th' only family that's never 'bandoned me."

Shawn glanced up at Sam at that and caught the pained grimace, but looked away and pretended to concentrate on his own feet as they stepped off the curb and into the street.

Then Dean's head shot up and he was grinning again.

"Hey, Sammy, you know Shawn has a motorcyl- motorsick- a bike? Goes vrooom?"

Sam smiled at his brother, then met Shawn's eyes. "Yeah, I hear he does."

"'S pretty. Not as pretty as my baby, but . . ."

They finished their slow stroll back to the motel listening to Dean's comparison between the two which, predictably, favored his car.

o.o

Arrival at the motel found Dean leaning ever more heavily on Sam and softly singing . . . something . . . that Sam and Shawn hadn't really tried to identify while Shawn dug his key out of his pocket.

He located the errant key and got the door opened, then held it while Sam dragged Dean past and deposited him on the bed nearest the door.

Shawn was headed for the bathroom when he heard Dean protesting and what sounded like a scuffle and looked back to see Sam trying to find the keys to the car in Dean's pockets while Dean fought him off mumbling something about not being in the mood.

Sam rolled his eyes but otherwise ignored his brother, locating the keys and stuffing them in his own pocket with a sigh.

Shawn laughed and continued on his trip as Sam wrestled his brother's feet out of his boots.

By the time he was back out, clad in his pajamas, Dean had been manhandled out of his jeans and jacket as well as his boots, then tucked under the covers of the bed he had been dropped on. He was now quite soundly asleep and Sam was gone.

Shawn shrugged and took the top blanket off the other bed along with a pillow, settling down on the floor bedroll style.

The door—which had been left open a crack—was pushed open the rest of the way and Sam entered, a duffel over each shoulder and another in his hand, a laptop satchel in the other hand.

"Shawn," he said when he saw the apparent sleeping arrangements, "you really don't have to sleep on the floor. Dean and I can share a bed. Except for the occasional apartment, we pretty much did so from before I can remember until I went away to college."

Shawn didn't open his eyes, opting instead to wave a hand. "I'm not moving, dude. Horizontal is my favorite direction right now."

Sam sighed, but didn't protest further.

The bags were set down by the table and then the sounds of rummaging reached Shawn's ears. He let his mind and body relax, preparing to slip into sleep as Sam made a trip to the bathroom and completed his nightly routine.

He was almost gone when Sam came back out and started making odd noises—including a soft shushing which sounded a lot like something dry being poured.

Shawn frowned, then cracked his eyes open, sitting up when he realized what he was seeing.

"Dude, what the hell are you doing?" Because his eyes had to be deceiving him.

Sam glanced over, but didn't stop the solid line of salt he was pouring along the windowsill. "Warding the room," he said easily, as though it was the most normal thing in the world to season your windows.

Shawn scratched his head, his weary and somewhat alcohol-soaked brain trying valiantly to rally once more before the day was over.

"What?" he finally said.

Sam gave a quick smile as he finished the line and drew a quick line at the door. "Salt has a long history of being used as a purifier. It's used to ward off demons and ghosts among other things. It'll keep them from getting in while we sleep."

Shawn pondered that for a second, then said, "Wait, I thought Dean said you got the demon."

"We did. But that doesn't mean there aren't more in the area we're not aware of." Sam shrugged and capped the can. "It's mostly a precaution. We're not expecting anything," he added, trying to reassure the other man.

Shawn was still frowning. "You do this every night?"

Sam cocked his head, then nodded. "Except when I was at school? Yeah. Since I was a baby." He dug a grease pencil out of one of the bags and sketched a few quick symbols on the windows and door.

"What's that?" Shawn asked.

"More protection, for other kinds of things that could try to break in while we're less aware and more vulnerable. These are more basic and general, but combined with the salt and some of the charms we have, they're effective enough. They'll give us enough time to get weapons anyway."

Shawn's eyes widened, but he said nothing. He thought some of the symbols looked familiar—then realized that he'd seen them in Dean's room in Iowa.

Huh. Scrunching his brow, he concentrated and realized that there had been salt lines at the window and ground into the carpet at the door as well.

He tried to imagine what it would be like growing up as a child and having that kind of knowledge, that the things in horror movies were real and ghost stories told around a campfire weren't just stories, but couldn't fathom it.

Crazy stuff, he thought and was about to lay back down and go to sleep when Sam pulled the duffel he'd been working out of up onto the table and started unloading it.

Shotguns, a couple of magazines for handguns, several knives—including a very large Bowie—and a couple of bottles that Shawn recognized from last time. The 'HH2O'.

Holy Water. For demons.

He blinked and watched as Sam went around the room stashing the knives and magazines, putting a few in the drawer of the nightstand between the beds along with the Holy Water. Dean's pillow was carefully eased up and the large knife slipped underneath, Sam taking a moment to guide Dean's hand under to where the blade now lay.

The lines on Dean's face actually smoothed and his breathing deepened when Sam stepped away to finish dispersing the armory.

Sam appeared to finally be satisfied—though Shawn couldn't really blame him as the formerly stuffed duffel was now empty, the contents scattered and hidden all over the room—and took one of the shotguns that was left, placing it on the floor and sliding it just underneath the edge of his bed for easy access.

Then he finally sat down, wiped a hand over his face, and caught Shawn staring at him.

He gave a wan smile. "I did mention our dad was a Marine, right?"

Shawn nodded. "Yeah, uh, something like that." A moment later his thoughts came blurting out. "Paranoid much?"

Sam laughed, running a hand through his hair and looking vaguely sheepish.

"Dean would say that just because you're paranoid, it doesn't mean they aren't out to get you. And my dad would say 'better safe than sorry'." He shrugged. "I go along with it because I've learned the value of being prepared for anything."

Shawn couldn't really argue that point.

"It, uh, it's not going to make you nervous to sleep is it?" Sam asked, genuinely concerned and sounding a bit guilty. "Because we can go and let you have your room in peace, really. I'm fine to drive-"

"No, dude." Shawn gave him a look. "Come on. I'm not going to chase you away because you guys are a couple of super Boy Scouts. Relax. If anything I should be grateful because I'm probably safer tonight than normal, considering I never put condiments around the entrances and exits and I don't have enough weaponry to supply a third-world country's revolution."

Sam huffed out a laugh, but seemed to be more at ease. "Yeah, well, lucky you. I wish I could pretend this didn't all exist." He laid back against the pillow and sighed. "But then I guess I did for four years. And look what that got me," he added quietly, almost to himself.

Shawn was reminded of his curiosity regarding what had brought the black sheep of the Winchester family back into the fold, but something about Sam's tone said it wasn't anything good and poking would probably not be taken well.

So instead he said, "Well at least you know what's out there. I mean, ignorance is only bliss until you almost get eaten by a werewolf and have the dumb luck to be stalked by a guy who happens to carry a gun with silver bullets and knows what to look for in a snobby bar patron."

Sam snorted. "Maybe. It also helps when you're not cursed."

Now Shawn gave him a sharp look. "Cursed?" he repeated.

Sam waved it off. "Not like that. I mean, curses like that do exist, but . . ." He shrugged. "Mine is more in a general 'the universe hates me' sort of way."

Shawn nodded. "Ah. Okay. Just . . . you know . . ."

"Don't worry," Sam said, letting his eyes close. "I'm not contagious. Not . . . like that anyway. Just don't hang around me long term and you'll be fine."

Shawn frowned again, but Sam shut off the light and rolled under the blankets. "Night, Shawn."

"Night, Sam," he murmured, snuggling back into his own makeshift bed.

But, like last time he shared a room with a Winchester, sleep was a long time in coming.

o.o

Shawn looked around at the beach surrounding him, noted the pineapples hollowed out to serve as cups to hold slushie of the same flavor—complete with the requisite tiny umbrellas—and smiled. The rush of the ocean waves and the sounds of native wildlife added to the ambiance, though happily the sounds of other people were completely absent.

Wherever this white sand beach, lined with lush palms and watched over by a towering black peak swathed in emerald, was located, it wasn't well known.

Shawn turned and arched an eyebrow.

Except, of course, by her.

The beautiful blonde was stretched out on her stomach on a blanket, eyes hidden under sleek black shades, a brightly-colored hibiscus tucked behind her right ear which lay facing up, the expanse of her nicely tanned back only broken by the strings of her pink and white bikini.

Oh yes. This was a very nice dream. Shawn loved this kind of dream.

Shawn smirked and snagged the pineapples from where they sat on a table planted in the sand under the huge umbrella, then moved to join his fair companion.

She shifted when he knelt on the blanket, then reached up with one slim hand to pull down the sunglasses.

Smiling at him, she looked him in the eye . . . and screamed bloody murder, face twisting in terror.

A very manly scream actually. Shawn frowned. What the-

He jerked awake when he realized that the scream wasn't coming from the dream center of his brain, but his ears.

Adrenaline flooded his system as he jackknifed into a sitting position, looking around and wondering what the hell was attacking who.

His eyes went to the beds just in time to see a dark form practically leap from one to the other, something that glittered in the harsh red light of the alarm clock in hand, and he skittered back a few inches before he realized it was just Dean and his big -ass knife from under his pillow.

Seriously. That couldn't be safe. Where it was stored or the way he was leaping about with it.

Shawn gaped at the scene playing out before him, Sam staring wide-eyed and panicked, arm gripping Dean's with what had to be a painful intensity.

Dean, having assessed the situation with remarkable aplomb for someone who had been as drunk as he was just a few hours before, just laid the knife aside on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed, not bothering to free his arm, the other hand gripping Sam's shoulder as he tried to reach his terrified sibling and bring him back to reality.

"You okay there, Sammy? You with me now?"

Sam's head jerked toward his brother and he blinked, still panting harshly. "Dean?" he asked, voice sounding an awful lot like a plea.

Shawn dropped his gaze, feeling like he was intruding on a private moment as he watched the Winchester brothers and wondering if it would be too obvious if he got up and went to go hide in the bathroom. Maybe go fetch some ice or . . . something.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean reassured him. "It was just a nightmare. You're safe, all right? You hear me, little brother?"

Sam nodded and wiped a hand over his face. "Yeah, I hear-"

He stopped mid-motion, seeing Shawn and realizing that Dean hadn't been his only audience. He abruptly let go of Dean and shifted away, expression going blank as he ducked his head. "I'm fine," he said, voice flat and not at all convincing. "Sorry for waking you."

Dean's head jerked back, then he seemed to remember Shawn, turning to see him rolling over and shuffling back under his covers.

Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"Dude-" Dean started, but Sam just lay back down and turned on his side.

"Really," Sam said, more sincerely this time, "I'm fine. Night, Dean. Sorry, Shawn."

Dean didn't move for a long moment, staring at his brother's back.

Then he rolled his eyes and went back to his own bed, muttering something that was not complimentary whatever it was.

No one found sleep anytime soon, but that didn't stop them all from valiantly pretending that they had.

o.o

Shawn was awakened the next morning by the soft click of the door and the blessed smell of coffee, among other delicious scents.

He inhaled deeply, then blinked and started to sit up.

Sam was just setting a bag of food on the table, a paper tray of coffees joining it.

"Morning," he said when he saw Shawn was conscious, if scowling.

"Man, what time is it?" Shawn asked, blinking sleepily at the light coming through the windows.

"Almost ten actually."

Shawn's eyebrows rose. "Huh," he said articulately.

"Hey, uh, sorry about last night," Sam started. "I-"

Shawn waved a hand. "Don't worry. Dude, with your line of work if you didn't have nightmares, I'd think it was weird."

Sam considered that for a moment, his intense gaze making Shawn feel just a little uncomfortable as it lingered.

Shawn was actually pretty sure that it wasn't just the job because, well, Dean didn't seem to have any problems sleeping and besides, after a lifetime of this you probably got used to it. I mean, you had to, right? Besides it was also really damn obvious that Sam didn't want to talk about whatever it was. Especially not with a stranger. And even in the short time he'd spent with the brothers, Shawn knew that Dean wouldn't be mentioning it. So Shawn didn't press for details. He just let it go.

Not like he wanted to play psychologist anyway. That was his mom's deal and he didn't want to follow in her footsteps any more than he wanted to follow in his dad's.

"Yeah," Sam finally said, looking at the ground, eyebrows bobbing up and back down. "Weird."

He left it at that and an awkwardness settled, prompting Shawn to cough, clear his throat, scratch his chest, and then stretch to try and break it.

Sam took that as his cue and reached down to shake the foot sticking out the end of the bed he was standing next to. He got a groan and a shift of covers, the foot withdrawing back into the safety underneath them.

"Rise and shine, Dean!" he said, voice loud enough to have Shawn wincing in sympathy. He wasn't hung over but it was pretty much guaranteed that Dean would be. Even if it hadn't seemed like much of a problem at two o'clock in the morning.

Damn that guy was fast with a blade.

A grumbled—and anatomically impossible—suggestion came from under the blankets. Sam was unfazed.

"You were the one who wanted to drink last night and you needed it so I didn't stop you, but we have things to do, Dean. Places to go. People to see. Things to kill."

Dean let another drawn out moan escape as the covers were yanked off, but he levered himself up and scowled at the world in general. "I hate you," he mumbled causing Sam to laugh.

"It's José and Jack you should be hating," Sam said as he handed over a cup of coffee to Dean, then one to Shawn.

Dean popped the lid and chugged the coffee like it was water, sending Shawn's eyebrows north.

With a wince for the fact that his tongue no longer had working taste buds due to the scalding temperature they'd just been flooded with, Dean accepted the second cup Sam offered, but only sipped this one.

"You want first shower?" he asked Shawn.

"Nah. Go for it, dude."

Dean nodded, scrounged up clean enough clothes, and shuffled off for the rest of his wake-up/hangover routine.

Shawn joined Sam at the table for a breakfast of deep-fried artery cloggers with a side of heart burn. But there was only enough of that for two people. Unless Sam's size was deceptive and he didn't need to eat his own weight in food every day to maintain his Gigantor frame.

But that illusion was destroyed moments later. Sam had apparently stopped at a grocery store for his own breakfast of a bowl of fruit chunks. Including pineapple.

Tongue sliding over his lips, Shawn eyed the delicious golden fruit, then flicked them up to Sam, wondering if he could steal a bite or two. Or twelve.

And then, glory of glories, someone somewhere heard his prayer and Sam started picking the pineapple out with a grimace, depositing it in a heap on the plastic lid of his fruit salad.

"You, uh, not a fan of delicious flavor?" Shawn asked.

Sam looked up from under his lowered head, then followed Shawn's finger to the pineapple.

"You actually like pineapple?" Sam asked.

"How can you not?" Shawn asked, grabbing the lid and popping a chunk in his mouth.

"Help yourself then," Sam said, slightly amused, if mostly disgusted, as he watched Shawn devour most of the pile of tart yellow wedges. "I figured you for more of a carnivorous fast food aficionado like my brother. But there's a store not too far away if you don't want what I got you. You want me to make another run?"

Shawn licked his fingers to get every last drop of juice, then sighed in contentment. He picked up his breakfast sandwich and took a huge bite, again making Sam wince.

"This is great, dude," Shawn said, bits of egg and cheese and sausage easily visible as he spoke. He held up a hand pointer and thumb coming together in the 'OK' gesture. "Perfect, in fact." He swallowed and said in all seriousness, "But pineapple is pineapple."

"Uhhhh . . . huh," Sam said neutrally.

Dean appeared shortly, toweling his hair and looking somewhat more human. He dropped the towel on the floor, much to Sam's annoyance, then took a seat at the table and accepted the Styrofoam platter of pancakes offered. He paused only when he saw Shawn eat a chunk of pineapple. A glance between the lid and his brother's breakfast and he smiled.

"Did he propose to you, too?" he asked with a grin, smothering his pancakes in syrup.

Sam frowned and Shawn chuckled, almost spraying coffee before he managed to pinch his lips tightly enough.

"What?" Sam asked in confusion, eyes darting between the two other men.

"Shawn here has a tiny obsession with pineapple," Dean explained.

"I am a fan of delicious flavor," Shawn corrected. "As is any sane human being." He shot a look at Sam that made Dean laugh.

Sam looked confused so Dean explained for both of them, waving his fork as he did so. "Sammy's never liked pineapple." At Shawn's look of shock he shrugged, face saying, 'I know. Crazy.'

"Shawn here, proposed marriage to me when I bought him a Hawaiian hamburger in Iowa."

Shawn held up a finger. "I said if you were a girl I'd propose marriage."

"Close enough," Dean said with a dismissive wave of his fork that ended with the bite of pancake in his mouth. "You want me. Everyone does," he added with a long-suffering sigh.

Sam was the one fighting to keep his coffee in this time.

"That's your own damn fault," Shawn said, pointing. "It's all that roguish charm and the serious knight in shining armor complex you've got going there. How do you expect anyone to resist?"

Dean grinned and lifted his coffee cup to his lips. "I don't. Resistance is futile."

Sam shook his head and finished his breakfast, well aware he'd fallen into the background as the two of them bantered back and forth.

Not that he minded the way they seemed to have forgotten he was there. It was nice to see this. Nice to know that, despite all his claims to the contrary and how he didn't need normal or friends, Dean was capable of making a friend who wasn't a fellow hunter. Or female for that matter.

Breakfast was finished and Shawn went to shower. Sam jumped on the chance to tell Dean about what he'd found in the way of a new job, breaking out his laptop and bringing up his browser window.

"Toledo, Ohio. Man died unexpectedly."

Dean's eyebrows arched as he balled up dirty clothes and stuffed them in his duffel. They'd need a laundry stop soon, he mentally noted.

"And? I know it's been a while for you, Sam, but you do know there's a little more criteria for a job than just a single unexpected death, right? I mean, hell, if that was it, we might as well open a chain of crematoriums and call it good. Creepy, but good."

"Well according to his daughter, his eyes were bleeding. Profusely."

Dean's lips turned down as he considered that. Still not a bona fide indicator of their kind of thing, but definitely on the weird side of things. "Toledo, huh? Not too far away. Eh, we can check it out, I guess."

Shawn reappeared as Sam closed the lid on his laptop, sliding it into its bag.

"You guys heading out already?"

Dean smiled. "Duty calls. Damsels in distress await the arrival of their knight in shining armor."

Shawn chuckled and nodded. "Have fun storming the castle."

Dean laughed outright at that as he picked his bag up and slung it over his shoulder, taking the weapons duffel from Sam.

"Always do," he said with a waggle of his eyebrows to accompany his grin. He started to turn away, but only made it halfway before turning back with a snap of his fingers. "Hey, you don't happen to have a holocaust cloak on you, do you?"

Shawn's grin widened when he realized his movie reference had not been missed. And not only that, but Dean was willing to play along. "Sorry. I had one, but the Dread Pirate Roberts stole it."

"Yeah, well, maybe next time. Come on, Brute Squad."

Sam rolled his eyes and followed his brother out to the car, Shawn trailing them as far as the door.

"Dude, when have you ever seen The Princes Bride?" Sam asked as they loaded up the trunk.

"When have you?" Dean shot back.

"Jess," was the quick, quiet response, before his gaze dropped to the ground.

Dean frowned, eyes narrowed as he stared at his brother, then he quirked a smile. "Her name was Deborah. But she wanted me to call her Buttercup. And she really wanted to see the Dread Pirate Roberts' booty."

Sam rolled his eyes and put up a hand, but the brief flash of heartache was gone. "And that's officially way more information than I needed, thanks."

Dean grinned and winked at Shawn who was snickering.

"See you round, Miracle Max," Dean called as he climbed in with a wave.

"Adiós, Westley," Shawn said with a return wave. He nodded at Sam. "Fezzik."

Sam shook his head but waved, then climbed into the car.

Shawn watched them go and then went back inside and shut the door, wondering how far away the nearest Blockbuster was and if they rented VCRs or DVD players.

Yeah, Dean's turn to be drunk this time. That keeps happening when the boys get together. I hope it's not a trend in the series . . . I'm not trying to advocate alcoholism or anything. I swear. -_-;

Review, please and thanks!