A/N: Fingers crossed that the roll I'm on continues. Thank you all so much for the reviews. You have no idea how much fun it is to write this story. Enjoy! :)

Chapter Three

Two hours into the drive. Elizabeth was clenching her teeth. The man beside her was driving her insane. If he wasn't bouncing to the beat of whatever song he'd found he was singing along.

Loudly.

Off-key. And she knew that was a show because she'd heard him sing along perfectly with a ballad, even though he'd only let the song play for thirty seconds before changing.

She was grateful that he wasn't making crude remarks. In fact, aside from asking if he could turn down the heat, he'd barely spoken to her. Apparently his preferred method of torture was acting as though he were in a mosh pit. It could have been worse, she thought, keeping her eyes on the road.

"Whoa, it's really coming down." He stopped bouncing and leaned forward to gaze out the windshield.

"Yeah." She was starting to grow a little anxious. They seemed to be driving into the storm. The further they traveled, the harder it fell; the nearly empty highway was white. She had already slowed down to well below the limit after feeling the tires slip more than once.

"You still good?" he asked, turning off the music.

"I think so." She couldn't look at the swirling snow; it hypnotized her, made her dizzy. Her foot moved to the brake pedal when she saw flashing lights and flares up ahead. A wreck; a bad one judging by the amount of service crews on the scene. Slowing to a crawl, she glanced at the blue sign listing lodging at the next exit.

"Holy fuck," Dean muttered as she crept by the multitude of fire, rescue, and police. The many bright, flashing lights cast a grotesque glow on the crumpled remains of a small car. A black bag, zipped and strapped to a stretcher, was being loaded into the back of an ambulance.

Elizabeth bit down hard on her bottom lip. The car looked to be about the same size as the one she was driving. "Dean..."

"Yeah?"

"I don't want to go any further." She eased into the next lane, tightly gripping the steering wheel.

"Want me to take over?"

"I want to stop until this mess is over." She waited for a snide comment about the frailty of women. Or how she was smart to want to stop because women were terrible drivers.

Instead, he nodded. "Take the next exit. We'll crash until morning." He chuckled. "Bad choice of words. Sorry."

"You don't mind?"

"I'd rather be late getting where I'm going than never get there at all. Take the exit."

Breathing a sigh of relief she flipped on the turn signal, even though the exit ramp was at least a half mile away. Even though she was well past the accident scene she didn't increase her speed, fearing the same fate of whoever had been in the body bag.

The ramp was an incline, featuring a hairpin turn. As the car neared it she heard a soft, tinkling sound against the windshield. It was sleeting.

"Can you grab my phone?" she asked, eyes remaining on the road. "We can start calling to see if anyone has any rooms."

Dean muttered something, unbuckled his belt, and leaned into the backseat.

Elizabeth's foot slid to the accelerator, hoping to nudge the car fast enough to make the curve. Struggling to keep the wheel straight, she felt panic rise within her when the tires began to slide to the right. Without thinking she jerked the wheel in the opposite direction, crying out in alarm as the car began to spin.

He fell against her; she saw him slam backwards against the dashboard. Distracted, she jammed her foot on the brake, her grip on the wheel loosening. His hand clamped down over hers, forcing her to keep the wheel steady. The car continued to spin, and she could only scream in horror as the headlights illuminated the trees.

A lurch. The clang of metal against metal. The car rocked backwards then skidded to a complete stop. Foot still on the brake, Elizabeth stared at the rapidly falling snow, which contrasted sharply with the darkness of the woods.

"You okay?" Dean's voice was tense, his hand still secure over hers.

Shaking, she nodded. Unable to speak, she was certain her heart would beat out of her chest. The car rocked as he moved so he was facing forward and she held her breath, waiting for it to continue its perilous sliding down the embankment.

She was aware of him moving. His hand moved, pushing the gearshift into park. With each motion she expected the car to pitch forward. She could imagine the front tires hanging over a precipice like in so many bad movies she'd seen. If she moved, it would pitch forward. Even if she took her foot from the pedal it would careen into the trees.

"Hey… Lizzie." His voice was calmer, coaxing. "We're okay. The guardrail stopped us."

A tiny whine escaped her throat and she swiveled her head, relaxing only slightly upon seeing the guardrail. "We're okay," she managed through trembling lips. Her voice sounded tiny. Scared. "Oh, god."

Even though she expected them, the tears burned. Her hands left the wheel, shaking, and she covered her face. Next to her, Dean muttered a curse. His hand lightly touched her shoulder. "It's okay. I'll get us turned around, okay? Then we'll get to a hotel and if it has a bar I'll buy you a couple drinks."

"I d-don't drink," she replied.

"Trust me, you need one right now." He squeezed her shoulder before pulling his hand away. "Can you unbuckle?"

She nodded, dropping her hands from her face. Surprised when he handed her a crumpled paper napkin, she sniffled and began to clear away her tears. Her heart continued its extreme beating, and she felt chilled. As slowly as possible she slid her foot off the brake pedal. The car didn't move; her breath came out in a shudder. Closing her eyes in relief, she whispered, "I'm so sorry."

"Turn on the hazard lights," he requested. "And you don't have to be sorry. It could have happened to anyone."

"I shouldn't have tried—"

"Elizabeth—"

"John always tells me I'm a terrible driver—"

"Stop—"

"And I can't even get through to him to hear him say 'I told you so'—"

"Lizzie," he called firmly, and she opened her eyes to see his face right in front of hers. "Stop. We're okay. The car's fine. The bumper might have a ding or two from hitting the guardrail, but we're fucking fine. This fucking exit ramp would send anybody into the goddamn trees. And you don't have to tell John shit."

"But…" she gestured out the windshield, as though to point out some damage that he hadn't noticed. Realizing he was right, she sniffled and gave a small nod.

"He doesn't have to know about this, okay? It'll be our little secret."

"You want me to lie to him?" she asked.

"Are you gonna tell him I was with you?" he returned.

She looked down, hoping to avoid the challenge in his eyes. "I wasn't planning to."

"Then you don't have to tell him about your spin. Which, by the way was pretty awesome."

That brought her eyes up to his. "You've got to be kidding."

"The only way it could have been better was if you'd done a full three-sixty." He smiled.

A surprised laugh bubbled up her throat, and she found herself smiling as well. "Thank you."

She was sure she imagined the way his gaze dropped to her lips. "Now, move over and let me fucking drive."

Her hands still trembled as she fumbled with her seatbelt. Unnerved by his closeness, she reached to push the seat back. He caught her arm, guiding her over the console and into the passenger seat as he crawled over above her. There was a brief moment when their legs tangled that seemed to stretch into hours and she held her breath, unable to look away from his eyes. He looked away first, dropping into the driver's seat with a grunt.

She told herself over and over again that it was the near-accident that had her so jittery. It had nothing to do with him. Her nerves weren't in a tangle simply because he'd looked into her eyes. Her heart wasn't so jumpy because his thigh had rested between hers. She tried several times to push the thoughts away as he maneuvered the car until it faced the right way. Each time she thought she was successful, though, his eyes would flash in her mind and she was forced to relive it all over again.

Surely it was her near-death experience that had her focusing on Dean?

Drawing in a deep breath, she clutched her hands in her lap and kept her gaze out the side window.

Maybe she did need a drink.

Dean stopped at ten different hotels, only to be told ten different times that there were no vacancies. Creeping down a side street, hopefully towards the motel Elizabeth had found the number for and called, he kept one hand on the wheel. The other held a cigarette, but he'd barely touched it to his lips since lighting it.

She had no idea. Not even the slightest fucking clue.

He would have laughed if he thought she wouldn't ask why.

Glancing down at his cigarette, he sighed and flicked it out the window. The motel had promised there was room for them. No, they didn't take reservations, but they'd try to hold the two rooms. Of course, anyone with sense had sought a place to stay as soon as the storm had hit.

"Right at the next intersection," she said softly, breaking the silence.

He shot a glance in her direction and saw she was looking at her phone. Why she didn't use the GPS built into the dash he didn't know. Maybe she was afraid of touching anything in the car.

Dean didn't blame her for being shook up. He'd be lying if he said it hadn't affected him. Sucking in a breath and releasing it slowly, he tried not to remember her initial cry when she'd begun to lose control. And her scream. It had terrified him.

He slowed down to a crawl, leaning forward to check each way before making the turn. As he did, he glanced over in time to see her raise a trembling hand to push her hair away.

Briefly, he wondered if she'd been in an accident before.

"It's on our side of the road," she murmured. As she spoke, he saw the glowing yellow sign.

When he'd parked in the sole empty space, he turned off the headlights and looked at the V-shaped building. "It's a dump."

"As long as it's got a bed, I don't care."

"I doubt they have a bar." He flashed a grin, reaching to unbuckle his belt. "I'll have to get you that drink some other time."

"Sure."

"Stay," he told her when she reached to open her door. "I'll go check in."

"Stay," she repeated in a mutter. "Will I get a treat if I behave?"

Okay, she was alright now. Maybe being off the road reassured her. But did she have to say shit like that? He shook his head. Not a fucking clue. "If they have biscuits at the desk, I'll bring you one."

Her laugh followed him out of the car, warming him against the biting cold.

The office smelled of Pine-Sol. The linoleum floor was wet with melted snow. The counter was cluttered with odds and ends. The tired-looking woman sitting behind it had a cigarette in one hand and a phone to her ear. Dean waited as she talked, his fingers drumming against the counter.

She angled a look at him. "What?"

"Two rooms." He gestured behind him. "We called."

"Oh yeah. I only got one left." She sucked hard on her cigarette.

"A double?"

"Yeah." She muttered a quick goodbye into the phone and hung up, groaning as she got to her feet.

He breathed a sigh of relief. There was no way he could handle sharing a bed with Elizabeth. Especially tonight. "Great. I'll take it."

"Checkout's at ten."

Dean turned to look at the snow falling outside. "I'll pay for two nights," he decided. "Just in case."

"Uh-huh." She slapped a piece of paper on the counter. "Fill that out while I run your card."

"It's cash." He pulled out his wallet and began scribbling his information on the form. "I don't guess I can smoke in there?"

"Sure. Just don't flush the butts in the toilet. Makes the sewage back up in the tub."

"Great. I'll remember that." He doubted Elizabeth would like it. Signing his name, he frowned. She didn't like cigarettes. She didn't drink. What the hell did she do to relax?

"If you need extra towels let me know. I'll be in here 'til two. Ice and vending machines are in the closet two doors down from your room. And your room is at the end." She pushed the cash into her pocket. From the pegboard on the wall she got the last key and tossed it onto the counter. "Don't make too much noise. Enjoy your stay."

"Yeah," he drawled, pocketing the key after noting the faded number. "I'm sure I will."

Elizabeth looked up from her phone when he opened the door. He knew just from her expression that she had been trying to call John. And she hadn't been successful. "Well?"

"One double room. Pop the trunk, I'll get our shit."

She climbed out when he closed the trunk. Shivering already, she shouldered her purse and followed him down the snow-covered sidewalk to their room.

It smelled musty. She had to flip the light switch three times before the bulb sparked to life. When it did, he dropped their bags.

"I thought you said it was a double."

"That's what she told me."

Elizabeth sighed. "Maybe she meant the bed itself is a double."

Groaning, he closed the door. The lock stuck; he jammed his hip against the door to make sure it latched tightly then fastened the flimsy chain. "It's either this or sleep in the car."

The carpet was threadbare in places; there was a dark stain in the corner. She turned slowly, taking in the faded wallpaper and stained ceiling. And when her eyes met his he expected her to say she'd rather sleep in the car. Instead, she shrugged and removed her coat.

"It could be worse."

He supposed it could. He'd stayed in worse places. At least the room was clean. Well, sort of. Taking off his coat, he tossed it onto the bed, nudging the mattress with his knee. "Christ," he muttered when the slight movement set off a symphony of creaking springs. "Do you want to check the bathroom or should I?"

"I've got it," she promised. The light clicked on and he sensed rather than heard her sigh. "No leaking faucets. The shower curtain's in one piece. I don't see any cockroaches or blood."

He laughed, turning his attention to the TV. The remote worked and as she rummaged through her suitcase he surfed through the channels, finally settling on local coverage of the storm. There was an ashtray on the nightstand, right next to a 'No Smoking' placard. Pushing the sign to the floor and kicking it under the bed, he pulled out his cigarettes.

"Did you need the bathroom?" She had a bag in one hand, a change of clothes in the other.

"Nah, go ahead."

Waiting until the door had closed behind her, he sank down on the bed and sighed. Elbows on his knees, he smoked, shoving a hand through his hair. He could hear her moving around. Brushing her teeth. Undressing.

God, if he existed, had a sick and twisted fucking sense of humor, he decided with a groan.

Rubbing his face, he groaned harder when he heard the shower start.

"God, you are a cruel fucking bitch," he muttered, glancing to the ceiling. "Thanks a lot. Asshole."

It was going to be a long night.

The thumping against the wall increased. Bedsprings screamed in protest, almost drowning out the guttural moans and grunts. Streams of livid curses echoed as she continued to beg for him to go harder. Thumps became steady banging. And she began to scream.

"Un-fucking-believable," Dean growled, dragging his shirt over his head. He turned, banging his fist against the wall. "Hey! Some people are trying to fucking sleep!"

Elizabeth bit her lip to keep from laughing when the couple in the next room continued their noise. "They probably couldn't hear you."

He rolled his eyes. "They just don't give a damn." He banged harder on the wall. The banging in the next room ceased. "At least move her to the goddamn floor!"

Eyes widening, she gaped when no more thumps, bangs, or squeaking springs sounded. The moaning and shouting continued, but were now muffled, as though the couple had moved to the other side of the room. "You're horrible."

"It worked, didn't it?" He held up a hand, head nodding slowly, then raised one finger as a sharp scream sounded. "And…done," he announced, grinning as the couple went silent.

"You're enjoying this too much," she muttered.

"Bullshit." He loosened his belt. "You done in there?"

"Yeah, go ahead." She kept her gaze on the neatly organized contents of her suitcase until she heard the door close behind him. She'd half-expected him to finish stripping in front of her. Grateful he hadn't, she tucked her toiletry bag into place and perched in the sagging armchair. Phone in hand, she checked the time and sighed.

Still no word from John.

She scrolled through her contacts list, pausing when she saw Melissa's name. She vaguely recalled the girl calling her with a message from John while he was in a meeting and then saving the number just in case. Thumb hovering over the name, she finally tapped it and waited for the call to go through.

It rang once. Twice. Then nothing. About to try again, she froze when she heard a grunt, then the rustle of fabric.

"Phone," a male voice mumbled. He sounded sleepy, and Elizabeth could see him in her mind's eye.

A feminine sigh. "Who is it?"

"I dunno. Hurry up, though."

A giggle. The unmistakable sound of a kiss. "Mmm. Stop. I'll be sore tomorrow."

"Good."

"Hello – John, stop!"

Elizabeth, hand over her mouth, lowered the phone and abruptly ended the call. Dropping it to the floor, she kicked it away. As though by doing so she could change what she had heard. She stared at it, jumping in surprise when she saw the screen light up, heard the dull vibration. She stood, stepped over, and saw John's name.

"You've got to be kidding me," she whispered. Careful not to touch the screen, she bent to pick it up. She clutched it in her hand, felt it vibrate wildly, and flung it across the room. It slammed against the bathroom door with a sickening thud, then fell to the floor in pieces.

Half a minute later the door opened and Dean's wet head poked out. "Th'hell was that?" he asked.

"That," she ground out, arms folded tightly over her chest, "was my asshole of a husband, who's probably fucking his assistant right now."

For the second time that night, she began to cry.

"Fuck," she heard him mutter. The door thumped shut and, glad to be alone, she sank onto the bed.

Was she the first? Or just the latest? Did he love her? Or was he just getting a fix? Was it because she was away? Had they been sneaking around behind her back for weeks? Months? The entire year that Melissa had been working for him? Did anyone else know? Why hadn't she noticed? Why hadn't she been told?

The questions jumbled in her mind as she folded her knees to her chest. They swirled like the snow outside, gathering until she was sure no more could fit. But they continued, a new one for each tear that fell from her eyes. Then came the one that she knew would haunt her.

What had she done to send him into the arms of another woman?

Whimpering, she hugged her knees, unaware of Dean's presence until his arm carefully draped around her. She initially tensed, craving solitude, but when his hand smoothed over her hair she let her head tilt toward his chest.

"Let it out," he murmured, continuing to stroke her hair.

"You knew," she squeaked. "You knew and didn't tell me."

"Would you have believed me if I had?" he asked softly.

"Yes. No." She began to shake. "I don't know."

"Then there you go."

Turning into him, she grabbed for the front of his shirt but her fingers clutched at bare skin. "What did I do?" she asked, anger brewing just beneath her sadness. "What did I do that pushed him away?"

"Lizzie…" It was little more than a sigh. "Who said you did anything?"

"I had to have done something," she stressed. "Didn't I make him feel loved enough? Didn't I take care of him when he was sick? Didn't I stick by his side? What did I do?"

"I don't know. But I don't think it was your fault."

"Of course it is," she hissed, pushing away. He refused to let go, though, and she shoved at his chest. Her mind brimmed with John's complaints over the years. "I don't make time for him when I'm working. I don't keep the bus clean. I'm a terrible cook. I don't laugh enough." Furious when Dean still held her, she slammed a fist into his shoulder. "I don't enjoy sex. I'm hard to please. I don't swallow." A crazed laugh escaped her as she continued to bang her fists against him. "I do everything wrong! Who could blame him for wanting someone else?!"

Dean's hold remained firm, seemingly unfazed by her blows. He dragged her to her feet, hands moving to grasp her arms. Too late she realized she could have pulled away. Continuing to take out her anger and frustration on him, she thought of all the times John had criticized. She had worked so hard, had thought their lives were perfect. His brooding face appeared in her mind and she sobbed, wanting only to hurt him.

The hands on her arms pushed her away as her palm began to sting. She stumbled back and fell against the nightstand, saw Dean place a hand over his cheek. Panting, she realized what she had done. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry, Dean."

He shook his head, rubbing his cheek. Opening his mouth wide, he moved his jaw from side to side. "Remind me to never piss you off," he muttered.

"I'm sorry. I didn't… It…" Her voice faltered and she cleared her throat, slowly regaining her feet. He'd been nothing but nice to her all night. He'd even comforted her on the road. And this was how she repaid him? "I'm sorry."

He nodded, tongue wetting his lips. "Yeah."

"I swear I didn't mean to hurt you." She tensed, fearing payback when he stepped closer. One arm reached around her and she saw the faint red mark on his cheek. The glimmer in his eyes made her knees buckle. "Dean—"

But he grabbed something off the nightstand behind her. Cigarettes, she realized, shoulders sagging. He remained close, shaking out two. Eyes never wavering from hers, he lit both, face impassive when she raised an eyebrow.

When he plucked one from his mouth and offered it, she shook her head, backing away.

"Smoke the fucking cigarette. If I had something else to calm you down I would. So take it." He persisted until, back to the wall, she finally took the cigarette between two trembling fingers.

The first touch of smoke to her lungs made her cough. Fearing what he would do, she tried again, eyes watering.

"Now," he murmured, his own cigarette tucked firmly in the corner of his mouth. Resting one hand on the wall by her head, he stared at her, unnerving her to the point she had to look away. "Tell me something."

"What?"

"Why did you think I'd hit you?"