A/N: Thank you for the reviews: wcfan, PlatinumRoseLady, & azab! As well as the multiple users that have added me to their alerts/favorites. You may not review, but I still love you, but I'd love you more if you'd review. Okay, okay, enough begging for reviews. Here's the next installment in the story, I hope you like it! As I was writing it out I had planned for it to go one way but it ended up going in a completely different direction. R&R!

Update: So apparently, I saw something that needed to be changed.. so therefore I changed it.

That's What You Get

"I see you're finally awake," Dean groaned as he tried to prop himself up on his elbows so he could see the source of the calming voice. His eyes adjusted slowly, before they began to scan the room, he finally spotted her across the room. Her back was up against the wall as she looked at Dean then back out the window.

Dean attempted to sit up again, failing miserably as he cursed himself for not being strong enough to stand. His biceps bulging to catch himself before his face hit the floor. His gaze flickered to something that was drawn underneath the coffee table in what looked like black paint. It was the same tattoo that was found on the cook's body just before he died.

Becky turned back around when she heard him roll off the couch. She rushed over to him and grabbed his arm to help guide him back on to the couch, "Here, let me help you back up."

"Leave me alone," he demanded as he gave her a rough push away from him, sending her back into the wooden coffee table. The table shifted with her weight and the added strain of the push.

Dean leaned back against the couch as he ran both palms of his hands over his forehead. Trying to relieve some of the pressure that had built up after the blow she gave him.

Becky sat there for a moment trying to regain her composure, "fine, be that way."

"What did you do to me?" he asked.

"What did I do to you? I was protecting myself." She grabbed the ice pack from the round metal bowl on the other end of the coffee table, and she tossed it to him, "you're lucky I didn't call the police."

Dean caught the ice pack and placed it on his throbbing head as he sat back against the couch, "yeah, well, why didn't you?"

"I don't know, I just thought, that maybe I should give you a chance to explain yourself?"

He looked down in the corner of his eye at his arms, noticing his jacket had been removed along with his gun, "where's my jacket?"

"I took it off so that you could rest more comfortably, until you woke up." She looked over to the chair that the Jacket was hanging on; she stood up to grab it and then tossed it on the chair arm of the couch beside him. "What are you doing here, I thought you were looking into my friend's death? You said you don't think it was natural like they said."

"We wanted to make sure we had all the facts before--," Dean rubbed his eyes and let his palm graze the rest of his face, before he rested his hands on his knees. He wasn't willing to give away too much information, after all she was suspect number one.

"So you decided to spy on me because you considered me a suspect? Is that right?" she ran her fingers through her hair as she sat back down on the coffee table. She looked down at him, "you thought I killed my friend?"

"I need to call my brother," he reached over to grab his cell phone from his leather jacket. He patted down both sides to reveal that his cell phone wasn't there. He closed his eyes tightly as he cursed himself again under his breath, "I'm brilliant."

"Is something wrong?" she asked as her brows furrowed in curiosity.

"Can I use your phone for a minute?"

"Yeah, I'll go get it for you. Only on one condition, though, absolutely no snooping around what so ever." She smiled, "promise to behave?"

"Deal, no snooping, Scout's honor." He held his hand up as if he was about to pledge his allegiance to something he had never been a part of, in his entire life.

"Alright, I'll go get you the phone," she stood and headed into the kitchen to retrieve the cordless phone from the receiver attached to the wall. When she came back into the room Dean was gone from the couch, "fantastic." She heard the click of the gun positioned behind her head just before she was about to turn around to search for him. She slowly raised her hands dropping the phone on the floor.

"Next time you hide someone's gun, you should make sure that it's not so obvious. I could see it from where I was sitting, under the cushions of the chair. Move," he demanded her as he pushed her shoulder with the nozzle of the Colt, to get her to move further into the room.

"I don't have a lot of money, so if that's what you're looking for you've picked the wrong girl. I can give you my wallet and my jewelry, but that's all that I can offer you," She pleaded in between sobs as she tried to keep herself calm and collected.

"I don't want your money, you know that. Now, get on your knees," He ordered pressing the gun farther into her back until she complied. The cold barrel of the Colt was terrifying her so badly that she had begun to hyperventilate.

"Okay, okay," she lowered herself to her knees, closing her eyes tightly preparing herself for what she knew was coming. Her chest was moving heavily up and down at a rapid pace to accommodate the quickened breath. She'd never though the first place she'd get mugged was in her own home.

"Bend over, beside the table," he followed her as he kept his gun level to the back of her head.

"You don't have to do this—," she pleaded hoping they could come to some sort of agreement to all of this madness. She didn't have to die just yet, and she would give one hell of a fight if she needed to.

"Shut up! Just do it."

Becky bent down so she could put her forehead down, allowing it to graze the soft curly fibers of the carpet beneath her as she positioned herself in the fetal position.

"Look under the coffee table and tell me what that is," he demanded of her before she got to comfortable.

Becky lifted her head and tilted it to the side so she could look under the table, "I-I don't know. I don't see anything."

"Look again and tell me what that is."

While Becky was breathing heavily between sobs, about potentially losing her life, all she could manage to get out was, "his tattoo."

"What's your involvement with his death?" He nudged her again, "don't lie. You knew something was after him."

"I don't know what you're talking about! I didn't do anything, I swear!"

"Get up," he demanded again as he grew tired of her trying to get up on her own. He bent down and helped her up by the arm roughly setting her on her feet. He pushed her back into the couch as he reached down for the phone on the floor, gun still aimed and leveled at her face; he punched in the number of his brother's cell phone and waited until it rang.

"Sam, why aren't you answer your damn phone?" He tossed the phone down beside her on the couch. He took a seat in front of her on the coffee table. "Tell me about the symbol."

"What?!" she shook her head in confusion not sure exactly what he was referring to. "You're delusional."

"You better start talking."

"I don't know what that thing means; I told you that before, I've never seen it before you showed it to me."

"Then where did it come from?" he said as he poked her shoulder with the Colt again.

"Are you listening to me, I don't know?!" She shook her head, "I'm renting this house from a friend I work with at the diner, Caroline. This isn't my house, I swear, she told me that I could stay here until I found somewhere else to live. She said no one was using it, that she shouldn't let it go to waste, she told me that her daughter used to live here before she died."

Dean studied her face for a moment before leaning over to retrieve the phone from the couch. He dialed Sam's number again with the same result: no answer. "Damn it, Sam, where are you!?"