Hours later and they were driving somewhere along the New York-Pennsylvania border, Dean's music loudly blaring from the stereo (he had grumbled and turned the dial significantly higher when she told him that no, just because she was English did not mean she listened to Led Zeppelin), and the two of them sitting comfortably cloaked in silence. Dean had also finally permitted her to roll down her window because although he was most definitely childish, it was hot inside the Impala and Bela figured that he was not willing to sit in a puddle of his own seat just for his satisfaction of watching her squirm uncomfortably.

The wind sent her golden brown locks flying behind her, tickling her face and neck and getting spun around the diamond studs that were perched in either of her ears. Meanwhile, she hopelessly tried to ignore the fact that Dean was hopelessly trying to stop observing her, his lips twitching out of half irritation, half attraction. It brought an amused smile to her lips but, in order to avoid turning the comfortable silence into an awkward one, she didn't call him out on it. She was enjoying the warm breeze, the silence; and she was starting to think that maybe she liked just sitting with Dean in quiet contempt more than she liked pushing his buttons.

But then she liked it too much, got too comfortable, and that scared her. She wasn't used to this. She wasn't used to getting along—with anyone, for that matter. It all felt so natural with him that it also felt odd and that confused her, so she turned down the music and ignored Dean's glare and pretended that she was exasperated and sighed.

Thank god they'd been driving for a near six hours since they left the diner.

"I hope you realize that I am not laying my head anywhere that even looks like it matches your standards," she said and slightly hated herself for it. She just had to get back to their usual bickering fast, lest her head exploded. Damn subtlety all to hell. Dean surely didn't care for it.

Dean scoffed. "Yeah, I'm acutely aware that I'm traveling with the Queen of England, thanks," he snapped back.

There. That was better.

And then it was silent again. And it was awkward.

They passed many motels, each of them which Bela frowned at. They all seemed to make the EAT diner seem like a place out of the Hamptons, and Dean growled and grumbled and drove past, whispering things under his breath such as "high maintenance" and "bitch" and, her personal favorite, "the germs in those motel rooms are nothing compared to the gun I'm gonna pull on you in a second".

Finally, when the sun was completely gone from the sky but darkness had yet to dawn on them Dean pulled the Impala into a parking spot on the outskirts of a large dirt circle, at the center of which stood a polished wooden sign with the words MCKENZIE'S CABINS intricately carved on it.

"You better like it, cause I swear I'm not driving another mile till morning," he said firmly before getting out of the car to retrieve their suitcases from the back. Bela rolled her eyes at him and studied the area. She supposed it wasn't all that bad; the dirt circle was surrounded by a number of cabins, all of them the size of a small house save for one, which was two-stories and also which, Bela guessed, probably housed the lobby and dining hall. Not only that, but the exteriors of the cabins looked to be all clean and polished, surrounded by healthy-looking grass and pretty flowers.

She smirked. Dean had picked well. The man never ceased to surprise her.

She followed him towards the large cabin, having made sure to insist on carrying the duffel in herself while he towed their normal bags ahead of her. When they stepped inside they were greeted with the smell of firewood and rosewater. It was all very homey, especially with the plush (and clean, Bela thanked god) forest-green carpet and oak log walls.

Dean, having sensed Bela's approval, wiggled his eyebrows at her over his shoulder. She smiled and rolled her eyes in return.

A plump old woman with rosy cheeks and sleek silver hair greeted them, beaming up at them (she was a woman who was as wide as she was tall) through her purple-framed glasses. Bela noticed that, unlike the waitress at the diner, the old woman smiled pleasantly at the both of them, and not just at Dean.

"Hello. How may I help you?" she asked.

"Room for two, please," Dean said, pulling out his credit card and handing it over to the lady. Bela peered at her nametag. No first name, just Mrs. McKenzie.

"One bed, I presume?" she asked, looking between Dean and Bela, both of whom were unsure of what to say. Surely it'd look slightly odd if they booked a cabin with two rooms, and not only that, but it'd probably be more expensive, too. And someday or another Theobald Sweeney was bound to run out of money.

"One bed," Bela confirmed, sending a silencing glance in Dean's direction. Mrs. McKenzie smiled sweetly and swiped Dean's card before handing each of them a bronze-colored key.

"You're gonna be in cabin seven, the last one on your left when you step outside," she told them with a nod.

"Thanks, ma'am," Dean smiled, swooping down to pick up their bags. As they turned and walked out the front door Mrs. McKenzie called, "Thanks for staying, Mr. and Mrs. Sweeney!"

"Dreadful name," Bela sighed as they headed towards their cabin, which was conveniently one that the Impala hadn't parked too far away from.

"Better than Alex," he replied. "You don't look like an Alex."

"Hm," she hummed as they climbed the two steps up to the cabin's porch. "What do I look like?"

He glanced over his shoulder as he fumbled with the key. "Other than a thieving bitch?" This earned him a glare. "Kidding. I don't know. You look like a Bela."

Ironic, since Bela was not her real name.

She didn't answer and instead followed him inside once he turned the key and pushed the door open. It had the same log walls and green carpet as the main cabin, although it was more furnished to look like a small home. Based on what Bela could see, she guessed that the place was cut up into four parts: a small living area, a kitchen, a bathroom, and the main bedroom, the last of which she immediately made a beeline for, snatching her suitcase up along the way.

"What do you think you're doing?" Dean called after her, slightly agitated.

"I'm getting settled in my bed," she replied, putting emphasis on the "my".

Dean appeared at the bedroom door and shook his head. "Oh, no, no, no. I paid for this cabin, which I assume wasn't very cheap, by the way."

Bela rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. That isn't actually your money, anyway, and besides, you can always apply for another credit card later using a different ridiculous name, am I right?"

She knew she was, but Dean protested. "You're not sleeping in the bed!"

But she wasn't giving up without a fight—or giving up at all, rather. "The couch looked fairly comfy."

For a few minutes Dean just stared at her, brows drawn together in a frown and jaw set in agitation before grumbling under his breath and retreating back into the main area. From the room she could hear him mumbling to himself, saying similar things to the ones he had said when they were looking for a place to lodge, and it was all Bela could do not to laugh.

After getting settled, which included unpacking her toiletries and such as well as making sure Dean hadn't switched out the drum for a replica or something utterly ridiculous but equally as deceptive, Bela went back out into the living area and found Dean sprawled out on the couch, his arm draped over the back of the sofa and his leg dangling over the sofa's arm. She had to admit that he looked entirely too big for the two-cushioned loveseat, but it made her chuckle nonetheless.

She also noticed that he had showered. The room smelt vaguely of male body wash and his hair was still damp and sticking up in all directions, and instead of his leather jacket and mud-stained jeans he was wearing a grey T-shirt and a pair of dark jeans that, from where Bela could see, had a hole the size of a marble near the cuff.

Bela came up behind Dean as he flipped through channels on the TV. For a while he settled on a cartoon, causing Bela to smirk to herself as she walked around the couch and surprised him. Dean immediately switched to a sports channel and pretended like he wasn't just watching a re-run of Johnny Bravo.

"He kind of reminds me of you," Bela said, in regards to the show's titular character.

Dean grumbled. "I don't know what you're talking about." She smirked and sat down on the arm of the chair that wasn't being suffocated by the crook of Dean's heavy-looking leg. Before she could tease him further, he said, "I took the liberty of ordering us some room service while you were making yourself at home."

Bela raised an eyebrow. "This place provides room service?"

"Yeah. Some scrawny kid with a goofy haircut and a shirt that had the very first button fastened delivered it," he dramatically shivered. "Very Norman Bates-ish."

"You're joking."

"I kid you not, Bela Talbot," he said, never taking his eyes off of the television screen. He thumbed over his shoulder. "It's all over there. You might wanna microwave it."

She crossed over to the kitchenette and stared at the food that had been haphazardly tossed on to the counter. Among the heaping mass (which included a half-eaten hamburger and a devoured baked potato) Bela spotted a half of a turkey sandwich and plucked it from the pile. She carefully unwrapped the plastic and took one bite, savoring the flavor of unprocessed turkey and fresh condiments. Before she realized it she was down to the last bite and sucking the tips of her fingers to rid them of any stray bread crumbs and mayonnaise.

And then she noticed that Dean had left his spot on the couch and was now standing across from her, an amused expression on his face.

Bela swallowed. "What?"

He shrugged. "So very un-lady-like."

She sneered at him. "Yeah, coming from the man who probably christened the term 'Sloppy Joe', that's nice."

Dean snickered. "Anyway, I'm gonna hit the sack. Literally," he frowned at the couch before turning his eyes back on her. "Try not to make too much noise over here, okay?"

Bela had half a mind to throw a handful of food at him to wipe the self-satisfied smirk off of his face but thought better and instead nodded, suddenly feeling very tired. "I guess I will too, then. I'd say goodnight, but I'm not all that sure you're going to have one."

The last thing she heard before closing the bedroom door was Dean grousing in a low voice, "Bitch."

Bela was dreaming. She was at her apartment and Peru was somewhere about and she was sitting in her living room enjoying a glass of expensive wine. Dean was there, too, kneeling before her and hands kneading her foot. She wiggled her toes in his grip and said something about the tuxedo that he was wearing and how it suited him nicely. He told her that he liked how her slinky necklace made her neck look lean and delicious, and then he was slowly sliding up her body, head cocked to the side and eyes focused on the patch of skin above her jugular. And just when he was about to brush his lips against that spot that now achingly burned under his scrutiny, the dream turned into a nightmare.

A bony, ice-cold hand enclosed over her mouth. It was suddenly dark and she was no longer sure whether she was in her apartment or not but the moon shining in from a nearby window cast a shadow over her attacker's face and prevented her from seeing them.

He smelt sterile. Like a hospital. She was sure that she wasn't having a nightmare about Dean; no, this was someone else entirely. But who?

And then her attacker shifted above her and the moon illuminated half of his face and Bela was now sure that this wasn't a dream or a nightmare. This was reality, and the man in the suit from the diner was very much real, and very much ready to harm her.

"Hello, Ms. Talbot. I've been following you."