AN: was anticipating getting this portion done sooner, but a little delayed. i don't get to write as much if i'm not at work (strangely enough), so it's unlikely you'll see an update until january :/
another warning that the rating will have to go up in the next update or two.
as always, also on ao3 as jhoom and tumblr as jhoomwrites
He expects Dean's foul mood to carry over to the next day. It doesn't. For once, he seems well-rested. Groggy, but not sleep deprived. Thomas tries not to think too much about it.
Except that he can't. The dreams he had that night keep coming back, but each time with just a little more detail, the edges a little sharper and everything more in focus. And he wants to ask Dean about them. Ask what the words and places and feelings mean.
He doesn't. Because there are only two real possibilities, aren't there? That they're just dreams. Dreams replaying over and over again and just growing with each retelling as his mind fixates on them. Strange, sure, but this answer is at least safe.
But... what if they're not dreams? He stops himself before continuing down that line of questioning.
It's a cool Thursday morning. He'd left the window open and the air is weighed down by the dampness of an impending storm. Too grumpy to actually get up and close it, he grabs his phone and burrows deeper into his blankets. He spends the next hour or so listening to music and catching up on emails. There's an annoyed one from his sister complaining about him missing her birthday. He apologizes and promises to visit soon and make it up to her.
When he's done, he figures he should actually start the day. Hopefully Dean's made breakfast. Pop tarts might be a good back up, but he's really hoping for something a bit more substantial.
As his earbuds get pulled out and he finally throws off the giant down comforter, he realizes there are voices - yes, plural - drifting up from the living room. There's a small part of him that hopes maybe Sam has come to visit, but the second voice is much too feminine.
He pulls on a sweater and manages to find his slippers underneath his bed before leisurely making his way downstairs. Just in case it's a private conversation, he tries to make his footfalls a little heavier than usual. When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he's greeted by the total shock of a tall, auburn haired woman. Dean sheepishly puts his hands in his pockets, looking vaguely uncomfortable.
The two appraise each other. He's all bed head and pj bottoms, clearly a mess. The woman is definitely older than him, but not quite so old as Dean. The military jacket she's wearing is too loose to show much definition, yet there's just a hint of muscle underneath. Her clothes are worn and faded, boots caked with dry mud. The slight bulge at her calf suggests a knife concealed there. So, a hunter.
"Who's this?" she asks, jerking her shoulder towards Thomas before turning away from him. It's a surprising way to dismiss him, both by asking Dean instead of him and by turning her back as though he weren't a threat. He's briefly insulted.
"He's my uh..." There's a moment where he visibly struggles to find the right word. He looks to Thomas for some help, eyes slightly desperate, but all he gets is an amused smirk. "He's my roommate."
The woman looks between the two men, eyebrows raised. "That what the kids are calling it these days?"
Thomas almost snorts at that. He decides to leave the impending awkwardness and Dean mercifully lets him go into the kitchen without protest.
As he pours himself some cereal (damn, out of pop tarts), he's torn between curiosity and his pride. He so wants to know what they're talking about. He so does not to give this woman more of his energy or attention than he needs to.
It doesn't matter much, either way. He hears the front door slam shut, followed by a flustered looking Dean.
"Friend of yours?" His tone is conversational. Sure, he wants to know, but he also wants to make it clear to Dean that it's up to him how much he shares.
"You could say that."
He's prepared to leave it at that, but after Dean grabs a cup of coffee and sits across from him, he sighs before continuing. "Aubrey's an old friend. Dated a few years back. Actually... a lotta years back now that I think about it. She's a hunter from New York. She's driving back home from a case out in New Mexico when she heard about another one back out in Arizona. She doesn't wanna make the trip back, so she figured she'd hit me up to take care of it."
Thomas just nods around a mouthful of cheerios. He's been hoping a case would come up. "Anything interesting?"
"Probably a lower end demon, nothing too special."
"Mmmhmm," he says around a spoonful of cheerios. He's still not used to Dean so casually referring to demons as though they were below his pay grade. "So when do we head out?"
"... We?" Before Thomas can even finish forming a glare, Dean back tracks a little. "I just wasn't sure you'd... you know, want to come along."
"Dean." He's not sure what his tone conveys - exasperation at Dean even considering leaving him behind, hurt that he might leave without him, annoyance at the mere thought of being cooped up another week while missing out on a hunt, or the excitement of hunting an actual, honest-to-god demon with Dean Winchester. Whatever it is, it does the trick.
Dean seems to consider for a moment. "You got an anti-possession tattoo, right?"
"Of course, Dean. I'm not an amateur."
He almost misses Dean's breathy little laugh. "Alright, let's pack up and head out in an hour."
Thomas doesn't even know what to pack. He's never really hunted a demon before, so he's clueless about which weapons and books would best help. In the end, it doesn't matter. Dean apparently never considered taking Thomas' car, and they both know full well that the Impala is more than amply stocked for the situation.
If had just been Thomas, he probably would've driven all night. Hell, he suspects Dean's done the same numerous times in the past. They stop briefly around noon to pick up lunch. Thomas offers to drive, but Dean refuses. Eventually, though, Dean gets antsy enough that he wants a longer break and some real food.
They get a room in a motel and barely stay long enough to drop off their bags before heading to a bar down the street.
It's reasonably crowded. Just enough that no one really stands out but not so much that they aren't able to get a table in the back. There are no servers working so Thomas heads to the bar to order. The menu's not extensive, not that he was expecting it to be, so he decides on nachos and burgers (he's momentarily tempted by the crab cakes until he remembers what state he's in). Beer choices are pretty much just macro brews on draft.
The bartender seems to sense his frustration and digs out a list of bottles. "You lookin' for something in particular?" she asks with a bit of a drawl.
"Not really," though he sighs because there isn't much to pick from, anyway.
Another patron at the end of the bar catches her attention. She gives him a wink and a quick "Take your time," before disappearing.
He reads over the list three or four times without really taking any of it in. They all sound the same and he's worried they'll just be old and skunked - the menu gets so little use there's a thin layer of dust on it. Before he can make up his mind, a firm body appears to his right, much too close and familiar to be an accident.
Blond hair and three day old stubble, blue eyes that border on grey, and chiseled cheekbones greet him when he turns. He can't help but give the man a quick once over and concedes a mental, "Not bad."
"Need help picking what's good?" The voice isn't quite as deep as his, smooth and just a hint of a flirty edge to it.
His first impulse is to flirt back, but he's immediately hit with how not interested he is. Which is... new, honestly. Sure, the guy's not his ideal type, but he is attractive and it's been a while. Yet there's nothing, not even the smallest pull.
Thomas still smiles sweetly and feigns ignorance about the beer choices. He wants a local's opinion, and once he gets it he allows for a little more chit chat while he waits for the bartender. When the beers are dropped off, he deflects the man's attempts to get his number and instead heads back to his table. He doesn't seem upset, though, just shrugs and moves onto his next prospect.
When he gets back, he can't help but notice the grimace on Dean's face. He shrugs it off, not sure what brought it on anyway, and hands over a beer while taking a long swig of his own. Just like the man at the bar - not bad, but not really his taste.
"That, uh..." Dean coughs slightly, clearly uncomfortable. "That happen a lot?"
"Huh?"
Dean jerks his head to the bar where the tall blond is still sitting, this time smiling coyly at a young looking ginger who's just walked in.
He assumes Dean is teasing him, so answers with a playful tone of mock offense. "What? Don't think I'm pretty enough to get hit on?"
Dean flushes slightly. "Uh, no. I meant more... the guy part of it."
Thomas frowns. Not sure what the real issue is, he's not sure how to address Dean's concerns. Instead, all he can offer is an honest, "Sometimes."
"You uh... flirt back?" The failed attempt at nonchalance surprises him more than the line of questioning.
"Sometimes," he admits. "If they're cute."
Their food is dropped off around the awkward silence starting to take root. Dean's relief at the distraction is palpable as he digs into the nachos with an enthusiasm he normally reserves for a freshly baked pie. All Thomas does is stare, trying to decipher the real issue.
It must go on longer than he realizes because finally Dean huffs out, "Would you blink or something? You're weirding me out."
He does just that, then takes another swig of his beer. "Sorry," he mutters before digging in. The heaviness dissipates as suddenly as it had appeared. Their usual banter takes over, a mix of talk about their new case and an argument over who will win the Superbowl this year (even if neither man is really invested in the outcome).
Yet when Thomas tries to fall asleep to Dean's even breathing a few feet over, something about that evening nags at him. With a heavy sigh, he puts it to the back of his mind to sort out later.