The aroma of hot coffee nearly woke him up all on its own. Nostrils twitched, identifying the brew: strong or weak, straight or girly blend, Starbucks or motel room coffee maker. If the answer wasn't strong, straight, Starbucks then Dean Winchester wasn't getting out of bed yet.
At least that was the plan until the world's best and most annoying little brother threw the curtains open; hitting the world's best and most awesome big brother in the face with the sun's morning brilliance.
"Gahh-nn!" Dean groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. Making no other movement to get up, he found articulation. "I hate you. Jerk."
An amused smirk tugged at Sam's lips over the reversal of the brothers' usual favored endearments. "Whiny little bitch."
The arm blocking the sunlight lifted enough for green eyes to glare out from the shadows underneath. "Why are you up so early?"
"Its ten. Ten is not early. Ten is as late as you can sleep in and not get charged another day for the room."
"mmft," Dean grunted, loosing articulation again. Nostrils twitched again as the coffee aroma was waved under his nose. Blindly the free hand sought the source of the smell. It must be nearby.
Starbucks retracted beyond reach. "Dude, seriously. Shower. Shave. Toothpaste that morning breath. And load up on prophylactics while you're in there."
Underneath the sunblock arm, a well-sated smile bloomed at the memory of the previous night.
"Don't. I'm sure she was hot. I don't want to know more. I really don't want to hear the blow-by-blow post game report."
Dean took a breath in preparation to speak.
"I will dump your coffee down the sink," Sam threatened.
Dean let out the breath soundlessly. After a moment he muttered, "Vacation."
"Yeah," Sam agreed. Before ruthlessly yanking the blankets away. "Deal was, I drag you to the farmer's market and arts show this morning, you drag me to the Clutch concert the evening. The market opened at seven. I let you sleep in. But I'm done being nice. Get. Up!"
Defeat was conceded amid intelligible muttering, cursing, and the eventual spray of hot water.
...
Not a full hour later, the brothers found themselves amid tents and canopies surrounded by squash blossoms, cucamelons, mulberries and other foodstuffs that Dean wouldn't put in his mouth if you paid him.
"Yo Sammy. The carrots over here are purple. I know I don't eat a whole lot of your rabbit food, but I'm pretty sure carrots are supposed to be orange." An expression of uncertainty crossed his face. "Or... do carrots turn orange when you cook them or something? Because all I can think is: Why would someone dye carrots purple?"
A smile fought its way to Sam's lips, but laughing at his brother meant pay back and the eventual prank war that would follow. So heroically, Sam forced his mirth back down.
The middle aged farmer's wife had no such reason to hold back her laughter. "It's not dye, kiddo. Some strains just come in other colors. Here." The woman rummaged around until she came up with a peeler. In short order, she striped the carrot in question of its outer layer and handed it over to Dean. "Try one."
This time Sam did snort at the dubious look on Dean's face.
Bravely, the older Winchester accepted the proffered vegetable.
"Well?" the lady demanded.
"Its tastes like carrot," Dean admitted as he chewed.
"I'm surprised you know what raw carrot tastes like, Dean." Sam couldn't resist teasing his brother. To the stall proprietress, Sam explained, "He's mostly cheeseburgers and beer anymore."
Dean turned to shoot a dirty look at his brother when it caught his eye: a guy staring at him. It was just a man, and yet... There was something other that triggered the Hunter's instincts. Without conscious thought or even full understanding of why, muscles coiled and breath smoothed out to be light (consequently harder for predators to track him by, yay purgatory.) He allowed the vegetables to fall away from thought until his awareness expanded to take in the threat and his surroundings.
That was it, Dean realized, that was what was bothering him about the guy: the crowd around him. By himself, he just looked like any other random homeless guy: ragged layers of clothing and disheveled white hair. But none of the yuppie vegetarians reacted to him. No one edged around him uncomfortably or boldly walked up to him to offer help. It was as though the crowd casually refused to acknowledge his presence.
The man stared directly at Dean, not blinking, taking as little notice of the throng as they did of him. All the while walking slowly forward. Yet somehow, no one jostled him. No one crowded his space. It was as though he had his own personal bubble of invulnerability to the people around him. No one took notice of him except for the unthinking avoidance of his progress.
"Sam." One word, layers of meaning: warning, danger, be ready, unidentified threat. Tactical decision required: fight or flight? Civilians to manage.
"Dean?" Situation acknowledged. Identify target.
"Old dude. Needs to take a picture, it'll last longer. Twelve o' clock." Eyes never left the threat.
Sam looked, moving to stand shoulder to shoulder. He saw trendy college kids with their backpacks taking a break from dorm walls. He saw young adults, carrying reusable grocery bags doing their part to support local growers. He saw grandmother pushing baby strollers for the exercise and the fresh air. He saw vendors hawking their wares.
Glancing down at his brother, he followed the older man's sight line to... nothing.
Most people who saw nothing out of the ordinary would relax. Maybe tell their friend they were seeing things or making more out of the situation than was warranted. Even some Hunters who should know better would be tempted to. Sam and Dean Winchester were not most people. If anything, not seeing what Dean saw made Sam more nervous.
"I got nothing, Dean."
"Walking right at me, slow and creepy dramatic. Won't stop staring." Dean's mind began to whirl through possibilities. "I can see it. You can't. Fairy?"
Memories of the last time Dean saw something that Sam didn't flitted through his mind's eye. Sam smirked. "Do we need to go find a giant microwave?"
"Shut up," Dean groused. "And maybe. Know where to find one?"
"I see a dark alley." Sam offered instead.
"Awesome. Let's go set ourselves up to get jumped."
A/N: Bwah ha ha! This is a backdoor crossover fic! Have I suckered you in enough that you want to read the rest of it? I promise you don't have to have seen the thriller flick "It Follows" to understand the story. Poke at my name and try clicking on Urmeaza. Consider leaving a review on your way out.