uh, Happy New Year! I was supposed to have the whole Ohio thing done and over with by the end of this chapter, but looks like it'll have to end next time. It's going nowhere and fast, and Dean and Annabel need to get on out and over to California. asap, lol. Anyway, here goes.
Chapter 9.
"So, turns out we don't have to pay for a room anymore."
Dean turned his gaze from the road ahead. "What did you do?"
"Nothing," she replied, all wide-eyed and innocent. Just like Sam's puppy-dog face. Exactly what he needed. "Just implemented your technique is all. I'm rooming with what's-her-name Abby something. Toilet girl's roommate."
He honestly hadn't given much thought to their living situation – he wasn't even sure if he was serious about staying in the first victim's place. True, it'd be nice to not live in a motel for once, but it wasn't as if they actually paid for it themselves. Until the cops caught up with them, they were living off the fruits of rockstars and romance-novel heroines.
Anna grinned slyly and added, "Or, you know, we could switch rooms."
"Abby…Abby, hm don't remember her," Dean responded with his own smirk.
"You wouldn't," she scoffed. "Plus, you've never met her, genius."
He shrugged, gaze flitting back towards the road. "Turns out I really am a genius in physics." Well, not a genius, really, but he was most definitely the closest thing to a physics whiz in their little study group. True, he was never a big fan of educational institutions, much preferring to be out back shooting cans or on hunts with his dad, but when he was in class, he learned. There wasn't much else to do. And thankfully, he was sitting dutifully in a room with fifteen naïve kids somewhere in Illinois when they were learning about Newton.
From the few hours they'd spent "in college," he didn't seem to mind it much. But that probably had to do with…well, the gorgeous girl who apparently knew nothing about physics, despite having been in the class for the better of a semester. Beauty or brains, can't have 'em all – and really, to be honest, he wasn't looking for both.
Maybe Sam was having a great time in college. Hell, he sure would fit in, all hoodies and backpacks, floppy hair and an inexplicable love for books. But then again, Dean wouldn't be surprised if his little brother simply kept to himself. He had nothing in common with the other kids, didn't have any parents or family members come visit, no home to go to over breaks…Or maybe Sam had more in common with those kids in Stanford than he had with Dean…And what the hell did it matter anyway. Sam chose his path, and that's that.
But he couldn't worry about it now. There wasn't much he could do, being so far away from Palo Alto, but right now, before his eyes, he could tell his other sibling was letting herself be wooed by a jock.
"You know what they say about neat freaks."
She sighed. "What?"
"That they're pedophiles."
"Okay, Dean, whatever you say," she replied with a dismissive flick of her hand. "We there yet?"
"Does it look like there are any houses around here?" Dean asked, scanning the expanse ahead. "What's the rush, anyway?"
"Nothing. Just told someone I'd have dinner with him tonight," she said, dropping the volume towards the end of the sentence. She purposefully evaded his hard stare.
Dean opened his mouth to say something, but he couldn't decide on the words. He was being hypocritical, but hell, it was different. Different how, he couldn't say. It was just different. Plus, it was just dinner. And not all men were…well, like Dean. But then again, the dude's in college. And a jock. College guys only cared about one thing – not that he knew from personal experience, obviously, but it was common knowledge. Getting laid. Yeah, to be fair, he was half-nerd half-jock, but that only made him all the more desperate in Dean's eyes.
He slammed his palm against the top of the steering wheel, startling them both. Why did he suddenly feel much older than twenty-four? And shit, if it was Sam instead of Annabel, Dean would certainly be encouraging him to go on more "dates." Fuck. This was not supposed to happen. Ever. They were supposed to work together for a while, and eventually go their separate ways. When that was going to happen, he hadn't thought about it, but it definitely was.
"He's really not that bad," Annabel spoke up after a moment of silence.
"I know," he relented through gritted teeth.
"Well, why don't you bring that physics girl along?" she said in attempt to pacify him. "It could be a…group dinner type thing. Plus, it's just in the dining hall, so it's not like it's a…you know, a date or anything."
Dean grunted. Truth be told, he was planning on keeping an eye on them anyway.
Elizabeth Harding's living room reminded Dean of something straight out of a home-sweet-home nightmare. Where the house lacked the white picket fence, the living room – and probably the rest of the rooms in the place – was full of what she probably thought were homey little trinkets. Someone had either spent a lot of time knitting roosters and homey sayings, or, someone had spent a lot of money on them. Either way, someone needed a life.
She returned with a tray of tea and scones, and Dean never said no to food. Never.
"So you two were friends with Tom?" she asked, settling into the sofa across from them.
Annabel nodded. "Back at school. We worked at the café together."
"I'm sorry we didn't visit earlier," Dean added, reaching for a scone. "We were…" he swallowed, "on our honeymoon when it happened. Didn't hear about it until months after."
God, their cover stories were getting more and more ridiculous by the case. If Dean Winchester were capable of anything but a distant coolness, he would have squirmed in his seat.
But he supposed it livened things up a bit.
Annabel nodded emphatically by his side. She'd done her makeup – bought last minute at CVS – to make her look much older, but even then, she only looked about twenty-three. At the oldest. They were both wearing matching five dollar rings bought from a flea market in Illinois. They weren't diamonds – or opals, for that matter – but they did the job.
Their cover was definitely odd and uncomfortable – maybe after a year or so, this particular cover would come as second nature, assuming they were still hunting together – but it seemed to sit well with Mrs. Harding. Probably fit into the whole home sweet home theme.
"I still think of him every day."
Dean glanced at Annabel for a split second and saw that she was looking at him with her "Dean, you're the social butterfly, you do the talking" expression on her face. He groaned. For someone who pretty much yapped his ear off sometimes, she sure was a hell of an introvert. Sometimes he wondered what her life was before the shit hit the fan. Maybe she hadn't always been so quiet among strangers. Maybe the ghosts did her in. He knew she enjoyed the job enough to stay on even when she clearly didn't have to, but to be hastily introduced to their world as a young teenager – without having someone else going through the same for the first time – hell, that must have been hard. Harder than hard, really. But then again, he was no psychologist.
And sure, she complained and whined – and even nagged him like she was the older one– but never about their work. About evil things, injuries, motel rooms, creepy truckers, Dean's illicit – yet wildly profitable – ways, the girls Dean enjoyed, all those little things, sure, but when it came down to it, she was in one hundred percent.
For a girl, she was all right. They weren't about to hold slumber parties and paint each other's nails or do their hair just yet, but who knows.
Dean coughed. "We were wondering where he – Tom – is buried. We'd like to pay our respects."
Mrs. Harding put down her cup of tea. "He was cremated. Never wanted to be confined in a wooden box, he'd always said. We scattered his ashes in the ocean."
Fuck. They were going to be stuck in the town for longer than he had anticipated.
Annabel managed a smile. "It's what he would've wanted."
He was all set to go, but somehow, he found himself as the third wheel to a conversation about baking. It may have started from the scones, but somehow ended up with Annabel and Mrs. Harding exchanging recipes for cookies.
Cookies.
What next? Knitting patterns? If he woke up one day to find a Home Sweet Home sign in his car…that would be the day they split.
Annabel finished off her second glass of water and listened to the guys' conversation about football and cars. Apparently the roommates had much in common. Cassie had gone off to use the restroom, and Annabel didn't know much about football – or cars, for that matter, so she picked up one of the remaining slices of pizza.
Dean was probably monopolizing the conversation on purpose.
The dining hall had been packed, thanks to some football game letting out, so the four of them headed over to the local pizza joint a little further off. It was a quaint little place, in the sense that it was old and somewhat falling apart, but they served good pizza, and were pretty fast on their feet. Annabel was certain that if she were to peel off the Ohio University banners and memorabilia, they would see irreparable cracks and water stains dotting the interior.
"They're still going on about that stuff?" Cassie asked with a groan as she slid back into the booth.
Annabel rolled her eyes. "Nonstop. So how did the studying go?"
Cassie grinned. "He's the best addition to our group. Managed to get all the questions right."
"He did?" Well, of course Dean couldn't have been so anti-education as he appeared, because for one thing, his brother was Stanford material – so something must have rubbed off on him as well – and second, he was a pro at all things electronic, guns, cars, and everything else deemed a man's profession. But damn, he sure played his part well.
"So what's he like?" Cassie asked casually, stealing a glance at Dean who was apparently so engrossed in the conversation about Matt's car to notice.
Annabel peered at the subject in question and replied in a low voice, "He's a good guy. Just don't let him hear you say that."
She laughed. "I figured as much." Cassie picked up a slice of Hawaiian pizza and took a big bite out of it. "I haven't had this good a pizza in a long time."
Annabel had to agree, even as the grease dripped down the side of her hand. Excess grease makes for amazing pizza…if not clogged arteries and heart attacks in the future. She, too, took an unladylike bite out of her pizza, and was grateful that the guys were so thoroughly engaged in horsepower to notice that some cheese and tomato sauce were making their way down the corner of her mouth. She quickly wiped it away, but not before Cassie let out a laugh.
"Tough to eat," Annabel offered lamely, grabbing a napkin.
"Tell me about it. I have some grease stains on my jeans," Cassie grinned.
"What," Dean started, butting into the conversation, "are you two talking about?"
"You, Dean, we were talking about you," Annabel said dryly, using the only clean corner of her napkin to wipe her hands.
"Here," Matt said as he handed her a couple of napkins from the holder. "Looks like we've been hogging them."
Thanks a lot, Dean, you sure have an impeccable sense of timing. She glared at him, but shot Matt a half-embarrassed, half-grateful smile. "Thanks."
Dean was grinning in his usual cocky way. "What about me?"
"That you're secretly a nerd."
They all laughed.
"So, I'm glad you came," Matt started as they stood in front of her alleged room.
"Yeah, me too," she replied with a small smile. "I have to warn you though, this awkwardness? May not go away for a while."
He grinned and shoved his hands into his pockets. "I'm not complaining."
"Good." She fumbled in her bag for the keys she had made, and looked back up at him. "I'll see you tomorrow, right? I don't really have to wear a costume, do I?"
"Well, not technically, but it is a Halloween party."
"Oh all right," she grumbled. "I'll have to see if I can come up with something on such short notice."
"Great," Matt grinned. "I'll see you tomorrow then. Goodnight, Annabel."
"'Night."
She watched as he headed for the stairs to his own room, and grinned stupidly at her door. Holy shit, Annabel, keep it together and stop acting like a middle schooler. She coughed in attempt to hold her composure, and stepped into her new room.
Her roommate was still out, but the lights were still on. Not very energy efficient, but honestly, Annabel was glad for it. Ever since that day a few years ago, when she learned that there definitely were things out there in the dark, she preferred to keep her surroundings lit. Because really, you never know. And it's always nice to have a heads up, just in case. Even if all one could do is reach for the closest weapon-like item.
The room was a typical girl's room, decorated with an abnormal amount of pink, photos, and posters. Now, if the posters were of men, Annabel wouldn't have minded one bit. But, of course, Abby was a Sex and the City junkie, and so she had plastered the walls with Sarah Jessica Parker and the gang. Mr. Big hung right next to Abby's cluttered desk.
Annabel sneered at his looming figure and wished she could whip out a knife and get him right between the eyes.
There was too much pink. And too many middle-aged women traipsing around in skimpy clothes. Hell, even the men on the show weren't eye-candy material.
She exhaled and turned to her own desk, which she had expertly set up to look like she was, in fact, a real student. A pile of the old thrifted textbooks were stacked on the shelf, notebooks, pens, and loose papers were spread strategically across the desktop, and the lamp she'd taken from the dumpsters outside was sitting on the corner. All in all, her part of the room looked more like Matt's than a girl's should.
Dean had the laptop, so there wasn't much she could do except go through the old newspapers they'd borrowed from the library…on their fake yet fully usable school IDs.
By the time she'd gone through half the newspapers, her fingers were tar black, and she was half asleep. She probably should have just skimmed the headlines, but sometimes the important stuff are in the fine print…and that could mean anywhere in the issues. The sports sections were the worst…followed closely by the editorials, because apparently, one didn't have to be even close to a passable writer to become editor.
"Hey! You're still awake!"
Annabel blinked several times in attempt to get a hold of her surroundings. Her first thought was, "Why does Dean sound like a girl?" But then she saw the pink, felt the much more comfortable mattress, and realized she was in college. She grunted in response.
That was when she smelled the vile mixture of alcohol and vomit. "You okay?"
Abby shot her a lopsided grin – one that indicated less that she had a quirky grin, but more that she was so drunk she'd lost the ability to control her facial muscles. "I'm perfect!"
Annabel rubbed her eyes and pulled the closest sheet of newspaper over her nose. Good god, lay off the exclamation points, please.
Abby kicked off her mud caked heels and splayed across the bed, with her feet towards the headboard and head facing Annabel's own bed. "Do you know Rob Chatlin?" She didn't let Annabel respond. "Of course you do. He's the hottest guy on this side of campus – very hard to miss. Anyway," she continued – rather sentient for an otherwise inebriated person, "he asked me to the party tomorrow! And you know what that means."
Groaning, Annabel rose to her elbows to look at her over-sharing roommate. She was pretty, in a girl-from-Ohio-pretending-to-be-a-valley-girl type of way, all bottle blonde and tanned. Dean would have a field day.
Or would he? She would have been completely dense to not have seen the hastily stashed issues of Busty Asian Beauties in his bag. At first, she was surprised, then shocked, and then slightly disgusted turned full-out disgusted. She still needed to have the "don't objectify women" speech with him…
"I don't know who he is," Annabel said, folding the newspapers back into their original state.
Abby rolled over onto her elbows. "What! Girl, you're coming to the party tomorrow night, right?" At Annabel's nod, she continued, "Well, I'll introduce you. What are you going as, anyway?"
She shrugged, stacking the final papers in a pile by the foot of her bed. "Haven't thought about it."
"You can't be serious. It's like, the biggest party of the year! The RAs lay low and don't give a damn what we do – they even join the fun sometimes," Abby grinned suggestively, twirling a strand of hair that'd fallen from her ponytail. "Last year, I went as Eve, you know, as in Adam and Eve? Anyway, where are all your clothes? It's probably too late to go out and buy anything – the good stuff's probably all gone by now. But you could always just make something from what you have."
Seriously, Annabel thought, the girl was far too sober for a drunk. Her alcohol tolerance had to rival Dean's…
"I haven't had the chance to bring much over," Annabel started, glancing at her closet.
Before she knew what was happening, Abby had vaulted herself off her bed and was bounding straight for Annabel's closet. She flung it open expectantly, and uttered a sound that was akin to a shriek.
"That is it?!" Abby asked incredulously, turning to face Annabel with an accusatory stare.
"I don't –"
"And they're old! How long have you had these?" Abby tugged at the Goodwill jeans.
Annabelle felt it wasn't necessary to walk on over and slug her roommate in the face in order to get her to shut up, because really, Abby would probably just screech even more.
"I don't remember."
Abby sighed as she studied the rest of the clothes. "Unless you want to go as a homeless person, this won't do. I thought I had a small wardrobe. Anyway, you can borrow some of my clothes. Hey, you can wear my outfit from last year! No one will notice. We can add a few more –"
"I don't know about that," Annabelle replied warily. Prancing around in three leaves wasn't exactly…well, her style.
Her roommate wasn't deterred. "I have a few extra bedsheets around. We could make you a toga – and a wreath of leaves!" She wrinkled her nose as she studied her. "You don't look very Greek, but it'll work. You have great hair…we could do it in a braid, or just have it down…"
Annabelle tried to get in a word edgewise, but after four failures, she sat back and watched her drunken yet strangely personable roommate plan out her toga costume.
Annabelle rubbed the sleep out of her eyes as she trudged down the steps to the dining hall. Abby had kept her up till nearly four in the morning, and while that was Annabelle's usual sleep time, the incessant chatter proved to be more tiring than Antiques Roadshow could ever hope to be.
"You look terrible," Dean said in greeting. He shoved a cup of coffee towards her and pushed another tray in front of her.
The scent of a heavenly mixture of omelets, hash browns, and bacon wafted up to her nose. She stabbed the bacon with a fork and glared at him. "Not everyone can wake up looking like a princess, Dean," she replied pointedly. "You can have my coffee."
He shrugged and reclaimed the mug, ignored her comment. "Your boyfriend asked about you."
"What are you, five? He's not my boyfriend."
"Yeah, and you'd better keep it that way," Dean muttered from behind his coffee.
She sighed, but figured it was too early to start. "Did you find anything?" she asked instead.
Thankfully, Dean agreed. "We're probably still dealing with Tom. Just have to find whatever item he's latched himself onto. Other than the frat he was in, he wasn't very involved in anything, so I figured we'd look into that."
Annabel nodded. "Makes sense. So, what about your girlfriend?"
"I don't do girlfriends," Dean stated in a matter-of-fact tone.
"Yeah, you just do girls."
Dean leaned forward, a sly twinkle in his eyes. "What was that?"
"I said," she started, "I like your curls."
He shot her a "yeah, okay" look, but tentatively ran a hand through his hair. "Right," he said, snatching a hash brown off her plate. She didn't protest, since he was the one who had gotten her the food in the first place. "Well, I'm off to Frat Row, see if I can find anything on Tom. You should keep your eyes open for another incident on campus. Have a feeling Tom'll be back soon."
From all the shit Dean thought about higher education, he sure was enjoying himself. Annabel looked around the lounge for Dean and Cassie, but apparently they'd disappeared into the crowd. Or the halls. Or rooms. She sighed and tightened the knot on her shoulder and adjusted her "Helen of Troy" outfit…as Abby had christened it.
Even though the outfit was relatively flimsy and not as secure as she would have preferred, it was still one of the more modest costumes she'd seen all day.
After Dean had left for the fraternity house in the morning, Annabel returned to the room to gather her items, only to run into Abby who had apparently just gotten out of the shower. Long story short, Annabel ended up digging through the old newspaper archives in the public library, wearing a bedsheet. Even though she and Dean had already looked through the articles, she realized they hadn't pieced everything together yet. For one thing, why did the perpetrator pick those victims? That was a biggie. What did they all have in common? She was surprised they'd overlooked that major question, but then figured it was because they were both distracted. They never had to integrate themselves into their characters' lives for so long, and most of the time, they did their best work talking it over in the motel rooms. Something about the bare walls made them both focus harder on the case in hand. Getting it done as soon as possible was an incentive. But rarely did the next motel offer a reprieve.
She sat dutifully in the underused Athens Public Library, several miles from campus – public buses, not a means of transportation she'd like to use again – and pored over every sentence. The heavily made-up librarians eyed her when she walked in, with one hand clutching her bag, and the other holding up the skirt of her outfit so it wouldn't drag on the dusty floor. A dirty Helen of Troy? Unthinkable. She still didn't understand why the librarians were staring. She was fully clothed, and she was wearing shoes. They should have been glad she didn't have anywhere to stash her knives…Or a shotgun either, for that matter. Hell the things she could do with Webster's Concise Dictionary…
But they did fetch the documents she'd requested from the basement, however slowly they completed the process. She felt their eyes on her the entire time, but at least they didn't attempt to ask any questions. Through her fidgeting and glaring, Annabel was able to come up with two hypotheses. The first was that the victims were completely random…which would also make their job all the more difficult. She hoped it was the second. All the previous victims were insanely popular, the "Big Man on Campus" types – or "Woman," in the case of Toilet-Girl. Patrick, Trey, and Cindy – co-captain of the soccer team, future NBA player, and president of Delta Delta Delta. Yeah, BMOCs, definitely.
What she didn't understand was why Harding was going after them. If, in fact, it was even him. But by then, it was getting dark, and she didn't want to miss the bus or have to call Dean to pick her up. The fewer arsenal he had on her and her supposed nerdiness, the better.
Annabel was too preoccupied with Harding's motives to see a life-sized Barbie coming at her at full speed. Her first instinct was to find something she could fashion into a weapon, but then she realized Barbie was calling her name. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Dean stiffen at the almost inhuman shriek of her name. Oh good, Dean's here.
"Annabel!" Barbie grinned, grabbing a hold of her arm. "I told you I was going to introduce you. This is Rob. You have to know who he is." The Ken to her Barbie stepped out from behind her, and Annabel felt herself grin like an idiot. Yes, he was very, very good-looking, but his hair was styled just like Ken's, straight down to the helmet-like texture. And the tan. Damn, some people took Halloween way too seriously. Or rather, they took dressing up too seriously.
"Hi," Annabel said with a laugh. "It's nice to meet you Ke—Rob."
He acknowledged her greeting with a grin and a nod before tipping his head back to down his drink.
"Oh my gosh, who is that?" Abby interrupted, eyes wide open in awe.
Both Rob and Annabel turned to follow her gaze.
She didn't even fight the urge to laugh. No matter how nice Abby was, Annabel didn't think Dean would take well to the constant jabbering and excessive exclamations. Though admittedly, he'd probably be more than willing to overlook her flaws for a night.
A group of co-eds swarmed Barbie and Ken, and Annabel took that as a sign to leave. She was making her way towards the refreshments when Dean appeared at her side, stealthy as a ghost – well, if you ignore the whole cold air thing that comes with spirits.
"That your friend?"
"Roommate, actually," she replied, pouring herself a cup of what looked to be tropical punch.
And of course, they never really are what they seem.
She coughed as she swallowed the so-called punch, the liquid burning a trail of fire down her throat. Sure, spiked punches were pretty familiar, but holy damn, this one took the fucking cake. It was like pure alcohol mixed with red food coloring.
"Thanks for warning me, Dean," she managed between coughs.
"What? Oh, the punch. Yeah, didn't think you'd drink the entire thing in one gulp."
She glared at him and dropped the red cup into the trash bin. "Thanks."
He scanned the room. "All right, see ya," Dean said quickly, heading off in the opposite direction towards the makeshift dance floor. "And don't do anything I wouldn't do!"
Annabel rolled her eyes and retreated to the wall, having never been a fan of socializing. What wouldn't you do, Dean? Exactly. Not the best advice. She wound her way through an assortment of scantily clad devils and random, equally slutty co-eds with tails and/or animal ears.
She leaned against the wall, the cold cinderblocks pressing against her back as she watched the party. It was only eleven, and things were already getting rather loud and rowdy. She hoped what Abby said was true, that no one cared what happened during the party, because if cops dropped in, she'd either have to book it, or she'd have to dig out one of her fake IDs and somehow recreate her cover story. Hm, she could be one of those child geniuses, skipping grades here and there, and that was how she ended up being an eighteen year old sophomore transfer student. But no, she wouldn't be eighteen anymore. Fuck, she thought, shaking her head in attempt to rid it of the effects of the alcohol. Fake ID, eighteen no more. Nothing to explain. Except maybe the different name. For a girl with more fake IDs than normal, she sure lacked one with her real name and fake age. Annabel wondered if Dean had thought about it. But then again, he wasn't the one reeling from the fucked up punch.
"There you are!" a voice called from her right.
Annabel cringed, hoping it wasn't Abby, because she wouldn't be able to deal with all those exclamations. But she looked up anyway, and was relieved to see not a Barbie, but a cheerleader. A very male cheerleader.
She laughed, taking in the hairy legs, short pleated skirt, midriff-baring stop, the "C" emblazoned on the top corner, the makeup, and the ribbons in his hair.
"Yeah, yeah," Matt replied sourly, though his eyes betrayed his tone, "Laugh it up. We lost a bet."
"We?" Annabel asked, still laughing. She looked past him to see several other male cheerleaders, donned in the same costume and in similar makeup, making their rounds. "Who did your makeup? God, it looks better than mine. If you're into the whole drag thing, that is."
Matt rolled his eyes playfully at the joke, and pulled at one of the ribbons.
She slapped his hand away. "Stop it, you're going to ruin your outfit."
"Speaking of outfits," Matt started, "Yours looks awesome. You wanna switch?"
"I don't think so, mister," she replied, reaching up to pat the wreath of leaves on her head. "I'm not the one who lost the bet. What was it, anyway?"
"Just a stupid game. Remind me to never gamble again, okay? Who knows what I'll have to end up doing next time. You thirsty?" he asked, edging to the side to give her some space.
She scrunched her nose. "I drank the punch. It's not that great."
He looked concerned. "You didn't have a lot, did you?"
"Just one cup, why?"
"It's been known to kick in a while after the fact. Hard," he said, glancing at the revelers congregated around the refreshments. "Next time, just stick with the beer. Hey, are you all right?"
"Yeah," she replied with a frown, "Just a headache, I think. I think I should sit down."
"Do you want to go somewhere quiet?" he asked, helping her through the masses. He quickly amended the question, "I didn't mean that in –"
Annabel grinned, "I know what you meant. And that'd be great, actually. I don't usually get headaches." Fuck, she thought, thirty minutes at my first college party, and it grounds me out faster than hours at bars. Weaksauce. Dean would have a fucking field day with this.
A couple of minutes later, after squeezing through the lounge and hallways, and after pausing to greet Matt's friends – who flipped his skirt more often than he obviously would have preferred – they made their way into his room. The closed door didn't block out all the noise, but it was much, much quieter.
"Here," he said, handing her a bottle of water. "And make yourself at home. I doubt Dean will be back anytime soon."
Oh, she thought, you know him too well. She twisted the cap and chugged.
Matt watched her wryly. "I've got an entire box of them in the corner. Help yourself."
She grinned and settled on his bed, making sure that her costume was still fully intact. She thought about taking over Dean's instead, but that would seem a little odd, what with their just being friends since orientation and all.
"Are you cold? Need a Tylenol or anything? Though that's probably not a good idea with the alcohol…"
More like three, she thought. But she shook her head. "You should go back to the party. I didn't –"
"It's fine. I really don't want to be out in public in this," he said, eyeing his outfit warily, "so you're saving me from a lot of embarrassment."
"Well," she began, looking him up and down in a way she would never have, had she been sober, "I think you make a very pretty girl."
"Yeah, thanks. But I think I'll leave the looking pretty for actual girls. Do you mind if I change?"
"But you look so pretty. Okay, fine. Go change. It is kinda unnerving," she mused, "you making a prettier girl than I do."
He opened his mouth to protest, but she waved her now empty water bottle at him. "Save it for someone who'll remember it in the morning," she said, rubbing her right temple with a grimace.
He retreated behind the closet door with a laugh.
Annabel knew she should have just gone up to her own room, but knowing Abby, it probably wasn't safe. And Dean wasn't likely to return so early, so she stayed put. God knows he'd pull a hissy fit if he found her in there. Hell, with how he reacted to their non-date dinner? Dean was one hell of a contradiction. Or rather, one huge hypocrite. And if her relationship with Dean wasn't so tenuous at times, she would have called him out on it. They'd been hunting together for a while now, but it wasn't long enough for either to say they really knew the other. Still waters run deep, and there was definitely a lot about Dean she didn't know, and a lot he likely wouldn't share.
Matt reappeared in a t-shirt and jeans, though his makeup was still relatively intact. The smudges around his eyes indicated that he had tried – and failed – to rub the remnants away. He looked at her dourly, and pointed to his face. "Does this stuff ever come off?"
"Just use a cotton ball and some lotion. Comes right off," she replied with a yawn.
Nodding, he pulled out some tissues and went to work.
"Hey, so did you know a kid named Tom Harding?" she asked nonchalantly. She figured if Dean happened to pop in on them, she could argue that she was only getting the job done. Or working on it, at least. That would probably shut him up, because he clearly wasn't working on anything except Cassie.
Matt paused, having successfully removed his eye makeup. "Doesn't ring a bell. Who's he?"
"Prank gone wrong I think. Decapitated by his window."
He closed one eye thoughtfully. "I think I heard about that. Pretty grisly. Still on your ghost theory?" he asked, swiping at his mouth before throwing the tissues into the garbage. He had forgotten about the liberal application of blush on his cheeks, but Annabel didn't remind him. It made him look like he'd just gotten out of the cold, and hell, she thought it was cute. That, and his winking thinking face.
"It's better than what the papers suggest," she countered. She glanced at Dean's side of the room as Matt settled into his chair. Dean's leather jacket was slung over the back of the wooden chair, and his duffel was peeking out from under the desk. She squinted her eyes at the bag to make sure it wasn't the one that carried their on-hand weapons. It wasn't.
And since when did Dean make his bed?
"Hey," she began, studying Matt's stack of books. "You're taking Latin?"
"I'm done with it. Just barely passed."
She tucked her legs under her and reached for it. "Do you mind?"
"I wouldn't recommend it with that headache of yours, but…knock yourself out."
An hour and a half, three empty water bottles, and one trip to the bathroom later (during which she had to force herself through dozens of couples who clearly didn't give a damn about the whole 'get a room' shtick), Annabel had managed to concoct a workable motive for their little evil spirit. Granted, if not for the rubbing alcohol she'd imbibed, she would have come to her conclusion in less time. And without help. After some prodding from the male cheerleader, she relented and made up some bullshit story about a paper for some investigative journalism course. Surprisingly, he didn't question her…he just raised his brow in the "what the hell kind of course is that" way and helped her brainstorm.
Twenty minutes in, she began to think of a way to recruit him into the Winchester family business, because honestly, neither she nor Dean were capable – or even had the patience – to create such legible and fluid flow charts and outlines. She knew Dean scoffed at her note taking, but hell, she couldn't remember the last time she wrote inside the lines. And she only wrote things down because she wouldn't be able to remember them otherwise.
Yeah, Matt would be a great addition to the team. If only she didn't give a fuck about his personal life and what his parents would think. Send a kid to college, only to have him end up shooting rocksalt at creatures generally thought to be imaginary? That wouldn't go over well.
She wondered if Matt thought she was simply drunk. Drunk and insane, gabbing about ghosts and possible connections between admittedly crazy suicides. Funny thing was, she'd rather he take the drunk and insane explanation as opposed to the truth. Sure, she'd never had to tell anyone what she did – nor did she ever feel the need to – but it was always in the back of her mind. How would they take it? Probably not very well. She was practically thrown into the crossfire – well, she was cursed with an insatiable curiosity, which led to her questioning John's wounds, which then led to the crazy inevitable. Others, though? They didn't need to know anything. Ignorance is bliss, no matter how condescending it sounds.
If she hadn't seen it all with her own eyes, if she wasn't so logical as to question John's cuts and bruises – because honestly, a couple of days out usually don't usually result in stitches, and if she didn't feel it was impossible to leave after knowing full well what went on out there in the world while everyone walked around with their myths and fireside ghost stories…well, then she'd be all for ignorance. But she was nothing if not for her principles.
"You'd better get an A on this…" Matt said in an "or else" tone, clearly meant for the professor of the fictional class.
"No kidding," she responded, looking over his notes. She felt slightly bad about lying to him…though it couldn't be called a lie. More like a white lie. Or an omission. Not a lie. "Can I borrow you for all my classes?"
He half-laughed, half-grinned, and nearly blushed. Then he coughed to cover it up.
He was so cute that she couldn't remember why she'd even entertained the thought about exposing him to the netherworld of the supernaturally evil. Superior note-taking skills be damned.
The somewhat comfortable lull in the conversation – Matt was scanning over the pages of notes, and she was trying hard not to stare, because that was just plain creepy – was the perfect time for Right Said Fred. Or not.
Frowning, she extracted her cell phone from behind the pillow and glanced at the time. It was too late for a check-in, and too early for Dean to get around to calling her – especially if he was out with a girl. "Sorry," she said to Matt, "I'll just be a minute."
She angled away from him. "What?"
"Where are you? Your roommate –"
"Out. Why, what's up?"
Dean exhaled. "A girl was scalped."
"Holy fuck. Where?"
"Some frat party. Apparently she got too close to a fan, and it took a part of her scalp clean off."
"Holy fuck," she repeated, automatically lifting a hand to the back of her own head. She rubbed it absently as she listened to Dean's recount. "Okay," she agreed as he finished, "I'll see you in the morning."
"What's wrong?" Matt asked, looking at her with a concerned expression.
"A girl – Melody Stafford – was scalped. By a fan," she answered. There was no use keeping it from him, because it'd be all over campus by the morning.
His eyes widened. "Melody?"
Uh oh. Annabel paused. "Did you know her?"
"She was my lab partner. Mechanical engineering," he replied. "She's…dead?"
Annabel nodded.
He was silent for a few minutes, absently tapping his pen against his notebook. "I'm starting to think your ghost theory isn't so insane."
"But it is," she blurted without thinking. "It was just an accident – a really, really horrible accident. And like you said, ghosts don't exist."
Shrugging, he clicked his pen and turned his attention back to the notebook. "Guess we should add that in?"
She met Dean across the street from the frat house the next morning. He looked tired but awake, like he'd been up for hours even though it was only seven. It was probably best she didn't know.
"I've already been in. Just like the others. No sign of entry, foul play, nothing. No sulfur. The EMF spiked a bit, but it could be the phone lines," he said, hands in his pockets to keep warm.
"Did you find anything about Tom?" she asked, watching the crowd that had gathered around the front steps. Some were still in their costumes, while others were in their pajamas, but all had looks of utter disbelief on their faces.
"Yeah. His crazy girlfriend – who was in high school – kept a lock of his hair. God knows why, but I'm guessing that's it."
From his tone, she knew that wasn't the half of it. "What?"
"Guess who the girlfriend was."
She narrowed her eyes at him, and then gasped. "No."
"Yeah," he replied, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "The girl who got scalped."