Thanks for the reviews! I hope you enjoy this chapter, and yes, it'll pick up soon (i hope)! The getting-to-know-you stuff is harder than it seems. Like it? Hate it? let me know :)
Chapter 5.
Casper the friendly little girl of a ghost, like most other spirits, did not take well to having her bones dug up, sprinkled with salt, and burned to ashes.
Dean rubbed the side of his aching jaw, glancing back to see if Annabel was indeed still trailing along behind him. She was. Unfortunately, he thought, glaring at her. Slightly. Though frying Casper would probably rank among the easiest jobs to date, Annabel was playing the irritating-younger-sibling card to a tee. She could definitely give Sam a run for his money. Why do we have to salt and burn a friendly ghost? Why do you think it's sticking around?Why why why why why. Five questions in, Dean finally turned to her, sawed-off loaded, and told her to shut up and quit asking questions.
She complied.
For all of seven minutes.
Her only job was to flick the tiny match – oh so generously provided by the motel lobby – into the coffin, and yet somehow, she managed to get him thrown to the ground. Dean wasn't really sure how it happened – it all happened so fast, but he was certain she contributed to his fall.
He spat on the ground, running his tongue over his teeth to see how much dirt was still lodged in his mouth.
"Sorry," came a meek voice several steps behind him.
Dean grunted, fingers wrapped around his keys like he was imagining choking someone.
"I'm not used to working with people," she tried, quickening her footsteps so that she was no longer behind him.
"Don't worry about it," he ground out, working his jaw as he dusted off his jacket. "But, just for future reference, next time I tell you to stay in the room, stay in the fucking room."
"Got it," she replied in a tone that often accompanied a soldier's salute.
She didn't get it.
Sammy never did, so Dean really didn't know why he expected anyone else to. Speaking to younger siblings was like talking to a fucking wall. He didn't know how his dad had done it. Maybe it was the Marine in him, but then again, John had lost his touch during Sam's last years in high school.
It'd been almost a month since Idaho, and he had the bruises to prove it. It made him feel just the tiniest bit better knowing that she had her own bruises to show for their time together, as horrible as it sounded.
He didn't know what his father was thinking, showing her the ins and outs of the job and providing her with weapons. He'd resolved to have a talk with him, whenever his dad decided to answer his phone or call back. Okay, Dean had to be fair – she was a seasoned hunter with weapons in her hand, but without? She was a world class klutz, tripping over her own shoes and invisible tripwires. Unfortunately, he'd used up his last tube of Krazy Glue on Sam two years ago – and those things are fucking tiny. He hadn't needed any glue since then, but after his third fucking fall – into a swamp no less – he was seriously entertaining the thought of gluing a knife or two to her hands.
At least she wasn't fidgeting in the passenger seat any more, thanks to her new bandage-less body. Over the past month or so, Dean had learned to appreciate any little gift handed to him, even if it came in the form of simply having Annabel sit still. He felt like an old man, what with all the "appreciating the smaller things in life" thing he had going on. Hell, a couple of times, he had lay in bed and wondered whether he was at risk of getting complacent. But then morning always came, and with that came "work," which ultimately led to him somehow suffering a mishap as a result of her doing, and well, that led to anger. So complacent? No, not for another fifty years. Maybe.
"I think I broke my hand," she said glumly from her side of the car, holding up her right elbow with her left hand.
"That's what you said last time," he replied, keeping his eyes on the dark road ahead.
"No, really," she insisted, forcing her hand into his line of sight.
He glanced at it because there was no way for him to avoid seeing it even if he tried. "Yeah, it's broken," he responded nonchalantly. "The clinic's just a few minutes away."
She was too busy scrunching her face in pain to protest.
A few broken bones never set Dean back, but he was wary of getting down and dirty and setting her hand out straight. Even after the weeks they've spent together, he still had trouble seeing her as one of them. And by "them," he meant hunters. Perhaps it was because she just started out on the job, in relative terms, of course, or maybe it was because she was a girl. As much as he liked the fairer sex, they were just that. The fairer sex. Not cut out to be out there hunting monsters – not because they couldn't, but because he didn't think they should. He wouldn't consider himself to be chivalrous in the general sense of the word, but he always thought women shouldn't be in the front line of danger. But either way, something about her just screamed "delicate," even if it wasn't simply because she was a female. It felt like someone placed her – a china doll, for the sake of the metaphor – into a bullpen, in which he was one of many bulls seeing red, and just let them have at it.
"You need help with anything?" Dean finally asked, relaxing on his bed as he watched her struggle with her clothes.
If her wrist, two fingers and a thumb weren't broken, and if she wasn't his half-sister, his tone would have taken on a playful quality. But as luck would have it, they shared the same father, so he toned it down.
She glared at him through the sleeve of her t-shirt. "If you wouldn't mind."
Grinning – to himself, he pushed himself off the bed and made his way over to her tangled mess. At a leisurely pace, of course.
He was glad they'd gotten over the initial awkward stage regarding bedclothes. Hell, if she were to ever bring it up, he'd most definitely deny that he had ever been awkward in the bedroom. That'd be based off principle alone, and if nothing else, Dean stuck by his principles. Among other things.
But, still, they compromised. Dean settled on wearing either only pants, or boxers and a t-shirt, while she donned shorts and shirts that were actually held together by material. They hadn't had a heart-to-heart about their pajamas, of course, because now that would have been awkward. Instead, they both gravitated towards the middle ground, and the middle ground was where they stayed.
"Hold your arm up," he ordered, grabbing hold of the neck of the shirt.
"It is up," she replied, voice muffled.
"Your other arm. The one that has a cast on it?" Dean said exasperatedly.
After her top was finally in place, Dean and Annabel retreated to the small kitchenette. It wasn't much of a "kitchenette," really. It was more of a mini-bar sized refrigerator stuffed into a cabinet next to the sink. There were no chairs in the room either – they only had the beds and the windowsill to sit on, and all were filthy.
But you get what you pay for. Or, in their case, they got what Ms. Emmeline Harris paid for.
Dean had been surprised to find out that she was also running credit card scams. He was pretty sure that John didn't teach the little cheat-the-system trick to her, simply because it was a last resort type thing for him.
Turns out Dean was right. She picked it up on her own, filling credit card applications with names out of those trashy Regency romance novels girls loved to read and pass off as cultural literature.
"This sucks," she muttered, attempting to uncap a bottle of water with her left hand. "I suck."
Dean smirked, but took the bottle from her and uncapped it with ease. "You got that right."
"You're hilarious." She glared at him as he took a swig before handing the bottle back to her. "You drank half the bottle."
He gave the bottle an appraising look, and replied, "More like two fifths."
"Jackass."
"I'm sorry?" Dean cocked his head to the side. "I didn't quite catch that."
"I said, jackass," she retorted, finishing off the bottle in two gulps. After she was done, she capped the bottle and tossed it in his direction, though she missed him by about a foot.
"Yeah," he drawled, kicking his duffel bag out of the small space between the two beds. "Great aim. Looks like you're gonna have to sit the next one out."
"We don't even have anything lined up." She rolled her eyes at him and rubbed the side of the cast. "Hey," she piped up, grinning, "You wanna sign it?"
Dean knew from the look on her face that he had to, because she'd just go on and on about it if he didn't. So as he took the Sharpie she had very conveniently kept in her bag, he told himself he was only giving in to prevent himself from being subjected to hours of torture.
"You did not just write squirt on my cast," she said as Dean revealed his masterpiece. Her eyes narrowed as she saw the word straight across the entire length. "Jackass."
He shrugged nonchalantly and pulled his bag out from under the bed. "Takes one to know one. I'm gonna take a shower. Don't leave the room."
"Where the hell am I gonna go?" she frowned, running her fingers over the gem Dean had left on her cast as if attempting to erase it. Not only did he write the somewhat offensive word in huge caps, but he'd also embellished his artwork with bubble letters.
"Y'know," Dean started, grinning like a little boy on Christmas morning, his head sticking through the doorway, "It's not called a permanent marker for shits and giggles."
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"Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!" Dean announced loudly as he pulled open the dusty curtains the next morning.
Annabel groaned as the sunlight hit her face, and pulled the comforter over her head in an act of defiance.
"Time to get up!" Dean continued in a very un-Dean-like tone of voice. He reminded himself of Mary Poppins, and though he cringed at the likeness, he couldn't help but grin at what it was doing to Annabel. Served her right for calling him a jackass. And for the mud he was still finding on his body, all because she couldn't run fast enough.
"Fuck off," she mumbled.
"No," he said simply, standing over her. "If you're serious about hunting, you're going to have to learn a few things."
One bleary eye peered over the edge, and an arm reached out from under the covers to retrieve a pair of glasses. She looked at him through the glasses, then flicked her gaze over to the clock wall. "It's six. In the fucking morning. We don't have a job. Check out's not till twelve. And I didn't sleep until four. So fuck off."
He shook his head. "Demons don't wait. Don't make me drag you out of bed," he warned.
She groaned. Loudly. "Fine! What do you want?" she snapped, sitting up as she pushed back the covers.
Her hair was strangely poufy – in a voluminously wrong type of way, and he had to look away to stop himself from slipping out of drill sergeant mode.
"We're going running."
"We're – what? Are you crazy?"
"You can't just be good with weapons. You need to be able to run, and honestly, you run like an emphysmatic on a bad day."
She glowered at him, eyes still retaining a bit of the early morning crazed look. "My legs are shorter than yours."
"Wendigos won't care," he stated matter-of-factly, extracting his sneakers from the bag. "C'mon, we'll start slow."
She'd been around Dean long enough to know that when he set his mind on something, he wouldn't give up until he got whatever it is that he wanted. It was a trait they'd both gotten from John, and most definitely proved to be a problem. After a long standstill, one of them eventually gave in, and this time, it was her turn.
"Fine," she growled, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "But you're gonna have to tie my shoes."
"You're worse than John, you know that?" Annabel wheezed, hands on her bent knees.
Dean pulled off his shirt, and in one smooth movement, flung it across the room, where it landed right on his bag. "He must've gone easy on you then." Then he added, "Probably didn't think you could take it."
"You really are an ass." She glared at him as she pulled her hair into a tighter ponytail, face still flushed red from the so-called "jog." "I really don't know what all those girls see in you."
He grinned. "They appreciate –"
"Oh, wait," she interrupted, filling a plastic cup with tap water. "You just go after the desperate ones, don't you."
His grin didn't falter. "When I'm around, they're all desperate."
"You've got an amazing set of standards," she said sarcastically, tipping her head back to finish off the water.
"At least I have manners enough to accept drinks when people buy them for me," Dean responded, eyebrow raised. "Regardless of their desperation."
"Fuck off. You'd better have breakfast here by the time I get out of the shower," she warned, dragging her entire bag with her into the bathroom.
"Wrap the hand up in the shower cap. Don't wanna have to go back to the hospital for something like that."
"Yeah, thanks for the concern," she replied, slamming the door behind her.
Smirking, he rummaged through a pile of clothes and pulled out a passably clean plain white tee. He sniffed it gingerly, and wrinkled his nose. Barely passably clean. But it was more than clean enough for a trek to the diner down the street.
She had her head in the small refrigerator when he returned toting their breakfast in his hands.
"What are you doing?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow as he set the boxes on the table.
"I'm missing a bottle of water," she replied, straightening up, the towel-turban on her head making her inches taller – though, even with the towel piled on her head, she was still a few inches shorter than him. "Did you take it?"
"You're insane," he said with a shake of his head. The girl was serious about her water, that much was for sure.
"You did take it," she said triumphantly, grabbing a box from the table. She made herself comfortable on her bed, legs pulled in cross-legged, and popped open the plastic box. "What's this?"
"BLT," Dean responded, mouth full of lettuce. "Heavy on the bacon." He wasn't sure how she concluded that he stole her water bottle from his response, but decided not to push it. After all, he did take it, but really, it's not like there was a clear delineation between his stuff and hers. And, for another thing, he just wanted to eat.
"You pick up some newspapers along the way?"
He shook his head. "Figured we'd had enough of the west."
Annabel looked up, but hesitated. "We could, you know, go visit your brother? I know you've –"
"Can't," he said shortly, "Things to kill, people to save."
"I know I don't know anything about your family – as a whole, I mean, but –"
"You really don't," he snapped, holding what was left of his sandwich in front of him, impatiently, as if waiting for her to quit talking so he could resume eating. Then he exhaled sharply, and said, "Look, you're gonna find out eventually, but just not over breakfast okay? It's not really something I like to divulge over BLTs."
His response seemed to satisfy her, because she stopped talking.
For twenty seconds.
"So where were you thinking?" she asked, carefully extracting a slice of tomato from her sandwich.
"You should eat that, y'know. No one ever told you vegetables are good for you?"
"I'll eat anything, except tomatoes. But I can eat those little ones – the cherry tomatoes I think they're called, yeah?"
"Well, if you're not gonna eat it, give it here," Dean stated, picking up the unwanted tomato slice with two fingers. "Anyway, I was thinking Niagara Falls. There's gotta be something there, what with all those barrel suicides."
"Niagara Falls!" her face lit up, cheeks puffy with food. "I've always wanted to see it."
He shrugged. "We'll probably find a few jobs between here and there. Hustle a little pool, get some cash."
All he wanted to do was put some distance between him and Stanford, because if they got any closer, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from showing up on his brother's doorstep. And he couldn't have that. Pride was a terrible, terrible thing. And, well, Dean didn't know what to do with the Annabel situation. Hell, every little thing John Winchester did irritated Sam, and this was huge. Dean had gotten over it pretty quickly, he'd like to think, but he was definitely still wary about the entire thing. Especially since there was no confirmation from his father. After an entire lifetime of living under orders, Dean had gotten used to it. So being alone now, in a situation his father hadn't trained him for…well, he was obviously just winging it.
He hated winging it. Though Dean was somewhat careless in other aspects of his life, he was dead serious when it came to matters of life and death – his own, or anyone else's – as anyone would be, and that usually entailed drawing up detailed plans and backup plans. But then again, things rarely ever went according to plan.
Dean wiped his mouth and rifled through his bag. "Hey, let me see your IDs."
She sidled up next to him, tin box and wallet in hand. "Why?" she asked as she handed them over.
"We'll have to make you some extra ones – how can you not have an FBI badge? Or even a simple student ID?"
"I never posed as an FBI agent, and no one's ever asked me for any I didn't have," she replied, tugging at the towel on her head.
"Well, they will," he replied, snapping the box shut. "Give me a list of names you want on your cards, and we'll head over to a copy shop. Unless, of course, you want me to take the liberty."
She wrinkled her nose at him. "Yeah, and end up having to introduce myself as Barbie? I think not."
"My names are realistic," Dean protested with a grin.
She scoffed. "Oh, I'm sorry. Lara Ulrich or Erica Bloom?"
He hid a smile, and responded exasperatedly, "You clearly don't appreciate my creativity, so then make up your own." But he had to admit, he was proud of her and her ever burgeoning knowledge of what Sammy called his mullet rock collection.
"Can I pick which school I want to go to?" she asked, scribbling some names down on a pad of paper.
"Ours should probably be the same – better for the backstory, in case anyone pries."
"Where do you go?" she cocked her head, looking at him critically, as if they were really college students discussing their school choices.
"Kalamazoo."
"Lame. We should go to Harvard."
"Let's pick a less conspicuous school, all right?"
She huffed. "Fine. Here, enough names?"
"I can't read this," he replied, squinting his eyes at the paper. "What's this? Ara – Annabel? No, Arabella? Arabella Sinclair? Can you sound more desperate? Or have worse handwriting?"
"I can't write with my right hand," she said plaintively, holding up her cast "And desperate would be Heather anything. Or Brandi with an i. Or anything with an i for that matter," she shot back, making a dig at Dean's most recent conquests – though are they still considered conquests if the spoils of war came willingly? Heather something, and a whole slew of phone numbers from girls with names that ended in "i" – with a few that ended in "y"s for good measure.
"Yeah," Dean grinned, reliving the memories. All curves and not much brain. Just the way he liked them. Hell, it wasn't like he was looking for someone to settle down with, so he really didn't get what the big deal was. "They were fun."
She pulled her towel off her head and snapped him on the back with it. "Pig."
"Your cast says what I don't have to say," he said, pointing at the giant bubble letters.
"Whatever," she scoffed, brushing past him to return to her bed. "Take a shower. You stink. And, by the way, what's-her-name, the bartender in Utah? Terrible hair. And she looked like she took makeup lessons from trannies."
"It's pretty easy to look past that physical stuff," Dean replied sagely, eyes full of mischief.
"Pig."