Ugh, I hate this. I wish I could skip the getting-to-know-each-other part, but that'd be forcing it. Though, I think I'm already forcing it a bit. Anyway, thanks for reading! =)
Chapter Four
It wasn't until they were well out of Montana that she realized Dean probably wasn't concerned about legroom when he mentioned she should sit in the back.
Leg space be damned, her bandages were itching to be peeled off – and have been itching for hours. And god, did they itch. It was easy to distract herself at first, but after a few hours, fields, mountains, and shrubbery all blended together.
She peered at him through her peripheral vision and repositioned herself for the fourth time in minutes. He didn't seem to notice, too busy tapping out the beat to the music and focusing on the winding road.
She had to admit, she was a bit apprehensive when he reached over her seat to dig through his cassette collection that he kept locked up in the glove compartment. She never really kept up with technology, or music, for that matter, but she was certain that cassettes had given way to CDs years ago. But, the music wasn't all that bad, so she couldn't complain.
"Who's this?"
He glanced at her, waiting for her to elaborate.
"The music" she replied, pointing feebly towards the speakers. She didn't like the look he shot her, so she dropped her hand as nonchalantly as she could.
Dean let out a breath, and half-grinned. "We're gonna have to teach you a few things, huh?"
It sounded slightly ominous, but all she let out was a grunt. Then, "Like what?"
After making sure the road in front of them was clear – and straight, he nodded towards the glove compartment and said, "Number one. All the music worth listening to is in there."
She laughed – at his audacity for even thinking he was the most knowledgeable connoisseur of fine music. Or because she plain didn't believe him. "Surely, you jest."
A snort came from the driver's seat. "Surely, you jest? God, I haven't heard anyone speak like that since Sammy."
"Yeah, well, I find your statement to be highly absurd."
"Trust me," he said, somewhat sternly. "I should know. Driving all across America for my entire life now, listening to all those crap they pass off as radio stations. Makes my ears bleed. No physical trauma necessary. And again, I should know."
She reached over to pop open the glove compartment – in a way that would conceal her real motive, which was to find a new position for her bones and /DC. Metallica. Blue Oyster Cult. And a bunch of other names she hadn't even heard of. She was familiar with AC/DC and Metallica, of course – and perhaps a few others – but her knowledge of "all the music worth listening to" was clearly lacking. Unlike Dean, apparently, she preferred to drive not to music, but to silence. Her car had a stereo system once, but stations kept cutting out and giving way to white noise as she drove through, and it pissed her off. Then her system got stolen in a parking lot of a Best Western, cleaned straight out of the car. It was pretty ironic – the one time she splurged on something that most would consider to be a hotel, her stereo gets pilfered. The lovely folks who scampered off with it didn't feel the need to take the metal box she called a car, at least, so that was good.
Right.
Though she knew everything Dean had said about working together made sense, she was still a little sad about leaving her car to some overeager teenager. True, she wasn't that big a sentimentalist, but John had gotten her the car. Now all she had left of and from him were her collection of weapons, the one photo of him, and the knowledge of whatever lurked in the dark – and how to kill them. Wonderful memories, really.
They were miles into Idaho before Dean stopped the car in the weedy lawn that passed itself off as a parking lot in front of the Old Trading Post.
"Well," he started, turning off the ignition, "Looks like we're in Opal Country."
She stared at the handwritten sign across the street, which boasted "Opal direct from the Miner!" and laughed. "Thanks, Captain Obvious."
He responded by climbing out of the car, stretching his legs as he finally made it onto solid ground again.
Halfway between Bitterroot Valley and Opal Country, Dean had pulled off the interstate and into a roadside community, telling her he needed to stretch his legs, and that if she needed to use the restroom, that would be her only chance.
She had watched him from the tiny little window in the bathroom, just to make sure he didn't suddenly decide to leave her in god knows where and drive off on his own, though she wouldn't have been able to do anything if he did in fact floor it out of there. She wasn't the world's fastest runner – a great hindrance to her work – and clearly, she wasn't about to burst out of the bathroom and reach the car before he left her in the dust.
Instead, he just leaned against the car and glanced absently at his cell phone. All the "stretching" that he did resulted from scuffing his boot on the dirt road.
Then he pretty much demanded that she get in the back, saying her constant fidgeting distracted the hell out of him. She didn't even utter a peep in protest.
"We can grab a bit to eat at the so-called café down the street," Dean tipped his head towards the rundown shack which called itself the Opal Country Café, "and then head straight into Idaho Falls, or we can find a motel or something and head down in the morning. Take your pick."
She suspected he wasn't used to dishing out choices, seeing how uncomfortable he looked. Then again, he looked about as uncomfortable as a tall, muscular man with a cache of weapons can look.
"I'm fine with anything. You're the one that's been driving all day," she replied, slithering out the backseat. She squinted her eyes as a gale of wind picked up the loose dirt that seemed to cover everything in the town, not wanting to irritate her contacts any further.
"We'll eat first, and see if there even are any places to stay around here. Doesn't look like much," he said, wrinkling his nose for a second. "Please tell me you're not a picky eater."
"I'm not. Put anything in front of me, and I'll eat it. As long as it's food, of course. And if it's not swimming with maggots."
"Good," he nodded, slowing his pace to roughly match hers. "There's nothing worse than a picky eater. Unless, of course, you count witches."
"Witches? They're real?" she perked up, stepping to the side to avoid a pothole of sorts.
"Everything's real. Except Bigfoot, and maybe the Abominable Snowman. Haven't bothered to go looking for the lump of snow yet."
"Pointy hats, warts, and bubbly cauldrons?"
He had to laugh at her naïve eagerness, though it came out more sarcastic than he intended. The look on her face when she asked that reminded him of Sam's puppy dog look, though decidedly more hopeful than sad. He had a feeling he'd get tired of it before the end of the week.
"More like dead pets and hex bags than poisonous apples."
She looked disappointed. "Oh. I'm guessing they can't fly."
"No broomsticks. No wands either, sorry. None of that Harry Potter crap."
"Harry Potter is not crap."
To that, he raised his eyebrows.
"Have you even read them?" she asked, walking past him and into the café.
The walls of the café were littered with photos of opals, ads selling opal jewelry, and an occasional photo of scenery. The dining area was sparse, a few round wooden tables gathered in the middle, and a counter separating the customers from the kitchen.
"You folks lookin' for rings? Straight through the back," a lazy drawl came from behind the counter.
"We're just here for the food," Annabel replied, pointedly ignoring the look on Dean's face, lest she burst out in laughter. She could almost make out a comical "what the fuck" look on his face.
"Well," the man said, lifting his head off the counter, "haven't had one customer all day. 'Bout time to open up the kitchen." He grabbed two menus from the wall and made his way over. "Sit yourselves wherever you want. The name's Clarence."
Dean flipped open his menu while Annabel turned to the owner. "What's good here?"
"Everythin', ma'am. 'Cept I'm partial to my huckleberry pancakes, and, of course, potato skins."
"I'll have 'em both, please."
"Make that double," Dean added, "And a coffee and some water too."
"Comin' right up," Clarence grinned, shuffling back to the kitchen.
"Quaint little place," Dean said under his breath, eyeing the screaming letters advertising their opals.
"What's a huckleberry?"
"Something like a blueberry. State fruit of Idaho," he added, nodding a thank you to Clarence who had just returned with a steaming pot of coffee in one hand and a pitcher of water in the other.
"Can I ask you a question?" she piped up from behind her glass of water. "What's he like?"
Dean knew who she was talking about, but played dumb, focusing on a particularly garish advertisement for "stunningly iridescent" opals set in 18k gold bands. "Who?"
"John."
Before he met her, Dean would have been able to say with confidence that he knew the man as well as a son could know his father, but now, he wasn't so sure. "I thought the two of you spent some time together," Dean said, purposely evading the question. Or, at least, he tried to.
She shrugged. "He came and went. Was barely around for more than a week at a time, and when he was, it was almost all training, all the time."
"And he never mentioned witches?" He eyed her skeptically, stirring his cup of black coffee.
"He didn't mention a lot of things," she replied, biting the tip of the straw as she sucked up the water. "Don't think he wanted me to know too much. Do you think he checks his messages?"
Dean paused. He'd left one message months earlier, in an act of desperation, and John never returned his call. In fact, when Dean had actually managed to get in touch with him about three weeks after the incident, John seemed to have forgotten the contents of the message. Unless he didn't even bother to check his voicemail. Yeah, Dean had to go with that excuse, because the other would mean that a message left by his half-dying eldest son was nothing more than a telemarketer's call. And that didn't sit well with him. At all. Though, granted, he was grateful to not be reminded of that entire event. "No, I don't think he does," he finally managed.
She let out a sigh of relief and blew the hair out of her eyes. "Okay. Good. And, um, it'd be great if you could stop calling him about me too."
He narrowed his eyes at the odd request. This wasn't the first time he'd questioned his judgment about brining her along. Hell, he wasn't even one hundred percent positive that this girl was actually his half-sister. He felt like he hadn't bothered to give the situation the proper amount of research usually required of a simple salt and burn. And a salt and burn was significantly more commonplace than having a half-sister pop up out of nowhere. But, looking at her now, he could definitely see his father's eyes staring straight back at him, though decidedly more feminine. It was more or less a little unsettling.
Annabel noticed the look on his face, and added, "I'm pretty sure he still thinks I'm in New York, still living in the apartment we had, earning a respectable living somehow." She snorted. "Maybe even college."
"Huckleberry pancakes and potato skins," Clarence announced, ceremoniously placing a rather large plate in front of Annabel. "And for you too."
"Thanks," Dean said, reaching for the syrup. "So," he started casually, "College, huh?"
She nodded, her cheeks resembling those of chipmunks, her fork still dangling in the air. "He wanted me to go. Said this hunting business was no place for me, that I'd be better off in a classroom."
"Did he," he replied, stabbing his stack of pancakes with more force than necessary.
If she noticed, she didn't say anything. Instead, she shut her mouth and continued eating, knowing when to take a hint.
Apparently, Clarence noticed the silence that had fallen upon his only table. "So what are you folks doin' around here? Visitin' the forest, I bet," he said sagely, sitting himself down across the way with his own plate of pancakes.
"Just on a roadtrip," Annabel responded politely, wiping the sides of her mouth with a napkin she'd plucked from the dispenser.
"Seen anything interestin'? I've been itchin' to travel, but ma says I gotta look after this place," he sighed, gesturing around the room.
"Yeah, business is booming," Dean intoned, holding his gaze steady as he shifted his attention from his food, to Annabel, and finally to Clarence.
"Just started out," Annabel said quickly, shooting Dean a look that said be nice. Clarence didn't even seem to notice the exchange. "Are there any motels around the area?"
Half an hour later, Dean was speeding down the interstate while Annabel was sprawled out over the backseat.
"What's in Idaho?" she asked, head turned so she could peer out the window. It was times like these when she really considered herself to be a "city girl," whatever the hell that meant. The vast expanse of the country depressed her the same time it fascinated her. And mountains. Never any good for her aversion to heights.
"A job," he replied a beat or two later, as if debating whether or not to ignore her question.
"What're we hunting?" she asked eagerly, turning away from the window to stare at rearview mirror. When he didn't return her gaze, she focused instead on the back of his head.
"We are not hunting anything."
"You can't just lock me in the room," she protested, hating the very fact that she sounded like a prepubescent teen. "I thought you said we're partners."
"You shouldn't even be moving around," he responded, "And for the record, I can just lock you in the room."
She huffed. "Not like it'd do much." She'd always been independent, and she enjoyed not having to tell anyone where she was, when she'd return, who she was with, and most of all, she liked doing whatever she wanted, whenever she chose to. Except all that came to an end the minute she met John Winchester. She was "free" again after he left, but now what. Another parental figure. She couldn't say she minded all that much, this time around, because they were almost on equal levels. Almost. Also, it was nice having someone else around – especially someone taller, muscular, and well, manlier. So she sucked it up and studied the moon.
"Yeah, well, it's the action that counts. Anyway, it's just a simple salt and burn. Shouldn't be hard, seeing as how it's Casper the friendly ghost. Just sits up in a tree, smiling at people. Creepy, really."
"If it's so friendly, why even bother?"
He didn't answer.
Honestly, maybe she wasn't as independent as she thought.
Dubois was big enough of a small town that they didn't have to stay the night in a rundown shack boasting a flickering "VACANCY" sign out front. No, this place was as high class as motels got, with a lobby – which was clean, lit, and staffed with people wearing matching uniforms. Dean felt like he stepped into The Plaza of middle-of-nowhere motels, and as long as the room was cheap, he didn't give a damn.
"Room 18. Just make a left, walk straight down, and it'll be on the right, Mr…Harrison," the boy behind the counter said, handing him a set of keys. "Checkout's at noon tomorrow."
By the time Dean finished showering, Annabel had already made herself comfortable on the bed she'd claimed as her own, snuggled deep under the covers, eyes trained on a riveting episode of Antiques Roadshow.
"Guess you're not showering?"
She wrinkled her nose. "Too much of a hassle. Did you see how much the set of plates are worth? It's crazy."
He yawned as he stuffed his dirty clothes into a plastic bag and placed it next to his duffel. As much as he loved the Impala, there wasn't much to be said about it's comfort, especially not after sitting in it for almost an entire day. "We'll take a look at you tomorrow, and if everything's fine, we'll see about taking them off."
"Everything's fine," she replied fervently, tearing her eyes away from the screen. "God, can't wait to cut these off of me."
"I'll bet."
He'd pulled on the old pair of sweatpants that he'd been wearing to bed for the past few days, because honestly, he wasn't sure what to wear to sleep anymore. Normally, he'd just splay out on the bed and sleep in a pair of boxers – or jeans, depending how tired he was and how clean the sheets looked. It was weird having a girl around who wasn't expecting Dean to be wearing anything but his birthday suit. And that made things sufficiently awkward on his side.
He stared at the television, watching – but not really listening to the curator drone on about the history of the Ming vase.
It felt normal, if not awkward.
Yawning again, he slid so that he was flat on his back, pushing the covers down as he did so. "Yeah, well, goodnight," he said, turning off the lamp on the nightstand beside him.
"'Night," she replied, turning her own lamp off, leaving the room in a bluish tint – a mixture of the TV screen and the lights from outside.
But he didn't fall asleep immediately, like he usually did. Instead, he laid there, head propped on his right arm, mulling things over. He was feeling more and more like Sam – the next thing you know, he'll be spending as much time in libraries as he did in bars.
Strangely enough, he was glad Annabel wasn't a guy. After all he and Sam had gone through, having another brother in the mix? Probably wouldn't go down very well. But then again, girls? What did he know about girls? Only everything he probably shouldn't know about sisters, that's for sure.
"You still awake?" came a poorly disguised whisper followed by the creaking of bedsprings.
Dean grunted. "Even if I wasn't, that alone would've woken me up."
"What was your mom like?" she asked hesitantly, as though debating whether to even ask.
He stared at the ceiling, wondering how much more of the questions he could take. "Curiosity killed the cat."
"Sorry," she said immediately, contrite, "Still trying to figure out where the lines are."
He exhaled, watching the light from the television dance in the darkness. Okay, so it wasn't her fault they were stuck in this situation, and he had to give her credit – she didn't whine much about her injuries. Hell, he knew a grown man twice her size would have squealed like a pig, given that he wasn't a hunter, of course. It's all relative. Dean blinked, trying to stop his thoughts from going on a tangent. "She was beautiful."
"How –"
"Fire," he said curtly, cutting off her question. God, she was predictable.
Silence. Then, "I'm sorry."
"Not your fault."
"Yeah, well, I know John isn't the type to…you know, um, have relations with other women – he doesn't even look at them. Kinda looks through them, you know?"
Dean almost laughed. "Are you apologizing for his…indiscretion?"
"No. I mean, yeah. I don't know," she muttered. "Right. Goodnight."
She was almost as awkward around him as a teenaged Sammy was around girls. He hated how much she reminded him of his brother, because that meant he couldn't hold the grudge against his father – and indirectly, against her – for much longer. Not that he held onto grudges forever, of course. He just felt that he had the right to be angry for just a while longer. Just until the initial shock wore off.
Twice already, he'd resisted the urge to leave Sam a voicemail saying along the lines of "Dude, we have a fucking sister. She's short, but definitely looks like Dad. And she's just about as annoying as you were."
He shifted his attention from the ceiling to her side of the room, half-startled by sudden movement. His fingers curled around the hilt of the knife under his pillow, ready to spring into action if necessary.
There was a thud, followed by a, "Hey um, Dean?"
He pushed his knife towards the headboard and turned on the light. "You all right?"
"No, not really," she squeaked, holding up a hand from her current position between her bed and the wall.
"If you keep moving like that, those things will never come off," he warned, walking towards her. He grabbed her outstretched arm and gently helped her to a standing position. "You good?"
Her face reddened. "Yeah. Just needed to go to the bathroom. It was dark."
"Here," he said, shaking his head slightly as he held up her bag. "Your shirt stinks."
He watched her close the bathroom door behind her, and returned to his bed after making sure she wasn't going to somehow slip and fall and hit her head on the toilet or something. It was just his luck, to not only find out he had another sibling, but to have a klutz of a sister at that.
She emerged several minutes later, wearing a shirt that had she not been so expertly bandaged up, would have exposed much more skin than Dean would have liked.
"You always wear clothes like that?" he asked, regretting it the second it came through his lips. Way to sound like a father, Dean, he thought.
"What? Oh," she said, looking down, "Sorry. I didn't think – I've always just worn –"
"Yeah," he interrupted, flicking the light switch as she settled back onto her bed, "Don't worry about it. Go to sleep."