I have taken a vow to shorten my author's notes. Most of you probably aren't reading them anyway and, let's be honest, we're all here for the story not to listen to me blabber on.

And I've gone long again. *headdesk*

NEXT CHAPTER. I SWEAR. -_-;

TIMELINE MARKER

Psych: You guessed it, still pre-series. The good news? Shawn is officially back in SB. :D YAYZ! And within a few more stories he'll actually be opening up Psych. It's all kinds of exciting. :D

SPN: You ought to be able to figure this out within a line or two, but I'll go ahead and mention it anyway: Route 666 is the episode of choice this time. I think after last chapter's bonding sessions we can officially up the number of calls without it being too weird—though you still shouldn't expect a lot of random, "How was your week, honey?" type calls. This still isn't The Baby-Sitters Club and it sure as hell isn't Sweet Valley High. Sam and Dean and Shawn are not going to be racking up the minutes just to shoot the breeze. Occasionally, yes. But not, like, every week. To that end, I still won't be covering EVERY episode. I will, however, be covering more than I skip.

Okay enough babbling.

GO. READ. REVIEW. :D

"Dude, Sam was right."

Shawn blinked, but the jumping right into a conversation without any sort of greeting was beginning to become familiar with the Winchesters—or at least Dean anyway—so he didn't pause as long as he might have.

"About what?"

"I need to have conversations that don't start with 'so this killer truck'. And since I don't spend a lot of time actually talking with the girls I meet and the conversations I have with Sam are the ones that start with 'so this killer truck', I guess that means you get to fulfill my non-killer truck conversating needs."

That had Shawn pausing in the act of transferring his clothes from washer to dryer. "Killer trucks?"

"Yeah. Killer trucks."

Shawn pondered his next response carefully.

"Are you drunk?"

"Dude," Dean said, sounding offended, "do I sound drunk?"

"Well . . . no," Shawn had to admit. "Where are you?"

"Laundromat. It's a little early in the week for that, but you have to get swamp muck out before it sets or it's a pain in the ass." He chuckled. "Or in this case a stain in the ass."

Shawn barely repressed a laugh. "You did not just go there."

"Oh I did. I did indeed."

"Are you high?"

An audible sniff crossed the continent via wireless transmission. "Not yet. Only been here for one load. The fabric softener doesn't start to affect me until at least the fifth or sixth cycle. So, I've got . . ." He hummed thoughtfully. "Maybe three loads. Not counting the ones that'll have to go through double. And there is no one else here but Sam who is—hopefully—looking up porn on that fancy phone of his. Which means I am bored. Ready, go. Entertain me."

Shawn hitched himself up onto a dryer and got comfortable.

"Your dad's a Marine?"

"Was, yeah."

"And you're capable of being bored? Shouldn't you be doing laps or push ups or something else mindless but useful?"

"Why don't you want to talk to me? Is this a bad time? Dude, are you with a girl? Can you share?"

Shawn looked around. The only other person in the room with Shawn was a ninety-year-old abuela knitting herself into a frenzy.

"No. No girls. I wish, but no."

"Damn. Well, okay. So talk about something else then. Be interesting."

The next question that popped into Shawn's mind involved how often Dean's father dosed him with Dimetapp as a child to keep him quiet on car trips.

But Shawn was as bored as Dean and so he complied. Sort of.

"So, this killer truck . . ."

"Cute. Real cute, smart ass. You keep that up and I'm going to tell Sammy you're trying on women's underwear."

The mic was briefly muffled as Shawn rolled his eyes.

"Shawn. Yeah, I know. The perv. Go back to your porn."

"Seriously though, killer trucks?"

"You are not going to let this go are you?"

"Honestly? Nope. Dude, killer trucks!"

Dean sighed, but gave in. "Yeah, killer trucks. I got that part, thanks."

"Is that . . ." Shawn's face scrunched down, lips poking out in a thoughtful pout. Normal wasn't quite the word he was looking for here.

But Dean seemed to understand his dilemma. "No. It's not something we see every day. Or often. Or freaking ever. That one was weird even for me. And get this, it wasn't just a murdering truck. It was racist. A big ol' tricked-out monster truck with KKK leanings. I'm telling you, Shawn, this job is never boring. Occasionally deadly, often disgusting, but never boring."

"No kidding."

"Now that we've gotten that out of the way . . ."

Shawn checked the time on his laundry, then leaned back, bracing an arm on the dryer he was sitting on, and took pity on the poor hunter. "Seen the new Mission: Impossible yet?"

"Nah. Maybe this weekend. Is it good?"

Shawn shrugged. "Better than the second, but I'm not sure it can beat the first."

Dean snorted, "Dude, how can it not be better than the second? That one sucked."

"Yes it did," Shawn agreed wholeheartedly.

"And the first was awesome. If you can get past Tom Cruise's pansy ass. Although he played a pretty good spook. And the effects?" Dean whistled. "Dude, if they made gum like that, I'd be all over that shit."

"Hell yeah, you would, Pyro boy."

"I can admit I like fire, Shawn. It's not a problem unless I can't control it. And as often as I get to set shit on fire I have no reason to not be able to control it."

Shawn snorted. "I bet Smokey the Bear doesn't like you."

Shawn could hear the lazy grin through the phone. "Smokey the Bear is a rug on a cabin floor in Colorado thanks to me."

That got a laugh. "Dude, I bet he is. Ranger hat and all."

"Hell yes. So, Sam said you were thinking of going back to Santa Barbara?"

"Yeah, uh, I'm already here actually. Don't know how long I'll stay. Probably until Gus gets sick of me again and offers to buy me a couple of tanks worth of gas so he can actually do some work and not get fired." Another shrug. "Or until I think of somewhere more interesting than here. Where are you that you're hunting killer trucks?"

"Missouri."

"Saint Louis again?"

There was a half-moment of silence, and when it ended Dean seemed surprised. "Ah, no. Not going back to Saint Louis any time soon. If ever." Shawn frowned at that, but Dean was already moving on.

"Uh, no, we were a little south of there. A place called Cape Girardeau. I have an old . . . friend here and she had a problem and called me up to ask for some help."

"Old friend, huh?" Shawn said, grinning.

Dean's weary sigh was unexpected. "Yeah. Something like that. Anyway."

Shawn tried to think of how to redirect the conversation when Dean beat him to it.

"Dude, you know you suck at conversation? I called specifically to not talk about killer trucks."

"Hey, dude, it's only old to you. I don't think I will ever get past the weird factor of killer trucks. But I'll spare you this time and bug you about it later."

Dean snorted. "Thanks."

"Anytime, dude. So, I met this cute little waitress the other night."

"Oh yeah?"

They spent the rest of the afternoon discussing girls, cars, and bikes, and from there engines. A brief debate over music surfaced, but they decided to agree to disagree again on what was classified under 'good taste'. Although they both agreed that rap, country, and folk music all definitely fit under 'bad taste'. Also, musically speaking, the eighties were a decade of distinction.

Dean lost the coin toss and had to take scrub duty on a load that was particularly bad, thus leaving Shawn to talk to Sam for awhile.

They discussed mutual points of familiarity within the state of California, good beaches and bad restaurants, and Shawn learned that Dean was doing okay physically and the heart thing seemed to really be over. A relief since that whole thing was still kind of—a lot of—weird for Shawn.

That was about the time Dean stole his phone back and said that they were heading to grab a late dinner before going back to the room to sort and fold.

Well, Sam was going to fold. Dean was going to roll or stuff and then find a decent movie on TV.

Shawn acknowledged that he needed to get moving if he was going to catch Gus before he left work and goodbyes followed with a few parting shots for good measure.

As he tucked the phone back into his pocket, Shawn marveled that he'd just spent four hours talking with a couple of guys who hunted impossible things for a living and had had a conversation that was—mostly—about the most mundane of topics. Idle chit chat at its finest.

He wondered, as he stuffed his laundry into his backpack, if a day would ever come when he'd actually get used to the Winchesters.

Nah, he decided, stepping out into the cool but still comfortable evening air. Probably not.

That was when the shadow detached itself from the building.

"Shawn Spencer?"

Shawn slowed, wary. "Maybe. Who're you?"

The man stepped fully into the light and Dean's description from almost a year ago popped right up into the front of Shawn's head. Graying hair, short beard, leather jacket, piercing brown eyes . . . and that indefinable air about him that said as surely as any DNA test that he'd produced and then trained Dean and Sam Winchester.

John Winchester just returned the stare. "We need to talk."

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH EVIL CLIFFY OF DOOOOOM! *iz evil*

Oh come on, like you thought this would NEVER happen? Psh. Those of you new to my stories might have an excuse. But you old hats out there? You so knew this would happen eventually. You had to.

But at least I post quickly, right? That's not so bad.

*hands out brown paper lunch bags* Breathe deep and think happy thoughts. You'll survive.

And reviews get faster posts. Just remember that. ;D