#061926

The shower eases the tension in your muscles, washing away the road weariness and residual anger. The fact that you used up all the hot water feels justified, until it turns acidic and hollow. You don't like fighting with Dean.

While keeping the weapons clean and in top working order is important, you know that cleaning the guns is a stimming behavior for him. You hope the task and the time you spent in the bathroom were enough to calm him so that he'll at least talk to you.

Poker-faced and still sitting at the table, Dean is now focused on cleaning your gun. You take it as a good sign.

"Wanna grab some dinner?" You ask hopefully, watching for any indication that he's beginning to soften.

"Not hungry."

Stubborn jackass.

"Seriously? How long are you going to pout?"

That at least gets him to look at you.

Waving a hand over the pieces of your handgun, "I'm not pouting. I'm busy," he gives you a look like you're missing the obvious.

With a huff, you toss your dirty clothes on the bed, then shove your feet into your boots, not stopping to tie them. "Fine," you spit, swiping the key off the table as you pass. Yanking the door open, you step into the golden evening light. The resounding crack of angrily closing another door is satisfying, even if it is childish.

Gary's locking the station door as you pass. Smiling, you give him a little wave. He calls out, halting your angry march away from Dean.

"Hey. Sorry if I got your fella all worked up. I, uh, overheard some of your argument …afterward." With a sheepish look, he scratches the back of his neck. "I was gonna come out and help ya, but thought it might make things worse. Anyway, uh, for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

Lifting a hand, you point between you and the motel. "He's not my …" Realizing it doesn't matter, you shake your head and give him a friendly smile. "Not your fault. He's got a lot going on—overworked, tired, stressed out."

Gary hums in understanding, and you pull your thoughts up short.

Why am I defending him?

"Honestly. He's really just got a stick up his ass about the car." The words taste sour before they even leave your lips.

Everything you had said earlier truly had been in jest. You hadn't meant to hurt Dean's feelings or make him angry. He knows that you love Baby nearly as much as he does—nobody could love her as much as Dean—and that you would never want her altered in any way, which makes his continued ire even more frustrating.

"Alright, well," Gary's laugh draws your attention back to him, "hope he makes it up to you properly." The conspiratorial wink and then the waggle of his bushy eyebrows play up his implication.

Choking on the breath you just took, you squeak out, "Th-thanks." Spinning on a heel, you take a couple of quick steps before turning back. Face still flushed, you haltingly ask, "Do …do you …Where's the best place to eat around here?"

"That would be the Roadside Bar & Grill," he responds without hesitation, "but it's a few miles down the road." He looks around and tilts his chin up to where the Impala now sits. "Guessing he's not gonna let you drive her for a while?"

"No." A surge of sadness hits. Rarely given the chance to drive her before, you've probably lost privileges for life now. Kicking a small rock away, you weakly smile at the man. "Well, thanks. I'll find something closer."

Giving you a sympathetic look, he offers, "If you don't mind being seen with a scruffy-ass old man, I was just headed there myself. You could ride with me."

You shouldn't. The only weapon you have on you is the small knife sheathed in your boot. The world is safer now, but sometimes people are worse than the monsters. The brothers will be pissed when they find out—Sam will lecture you for days, and Dean …well, he's already not speaking to you, so that won't change.

You spare a glance at the Impala just as your stomach grumbles loudly. Chuckling, you look back at Gary, "It would be my honor to be seen with you."

Sitting close to the stage, your fingertips dance on the table top to the beat of the latest song you requested. Gary had bailed, saying he was too old to keep up and needed to head home. You declined his offer of a ride back, and he left only after you promised to call Dean when you were ready to leave. That had been two, or maybe three hours ago—you've lost track of time—but you have no intention of calling Dean.

Getting back to the hotel is a later problem. Alcohol and a little flirting with the hot band members are much more appealing than going back to an under-air-conditioned room with a sulking Winchester, who is most definitely angrier at you now for leaving without telling him where you were going, and without your gun.

You're not a child. You can take care of yourself. He's the one acting like a child. Being a baby about Baby. You laugh at your little joke, then mumble, "The car ride home is gonna suck."

Tossing back your shot, the bass player catches your eye as you set the empty glass down, dispelling further thoughts of the stubborn-headed lout. With a coy smile, you slide off the barstool and move closer. Keeping eye contact, he dances his way over to you, doing a quick slap pop of a chord before removing his cowboy hat and bending to place it on your head. He winks, and you lick your lips, swiveling your hips with the pulse of the guitar.

Dean would love this band. They've done an exceptional job covering all his favorite songs.

Stop thinking about him!

With a huff, you spin too quickly and trip on a still-untied boot lace. A large hand grips the back of your arm, keeping you from face-planting the floor. The touch is familiar, but not as familiar as the scent of his cologne. Once you get your footing, you plant a hand on the top of the hat as you look up at him.

He's soooooooo tall.

"Deeeeeean! You're here!"

Though he's fuming inside, Dean can't help but smile as you look up at him with those bright, sparkling eyes and giggle.

Then a second later, your entire demeanor shifts, and you pull your arm from his grip.

"Wait. You're here."

"Yeah. For a while now."

"What?" Taking a couple of steps back, you're now glaring. "How'd you find me?"

He shifts to keep one eye on you and one on the stage. The tattoo-covered musician you'd been flirting with steps to the edge of the platform as he continues to play, and Dean shoots him a warning look. The dude hesitates, then nods toward you and points to his head.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Despite your protest, Dean removes the hat from your head and hands it to the wanna be bassist, mumbling, "Yeah, that's right. Be more worried about your fugly hat than the woman you were ready to take advantage of. Loser.”

Dean continues to glare as the poor excuse for a musician heads back toward his bandmates to finish the set. JPJ would be pissed about the way the guy handled "Ramble On".

"OW!" The punch to his arm brings his attention back to you.

"I asked you how you found me?" Fingers curled into fists and planted on your hips, you glower at him. "And why'd you take my hat?!"

"Gary," he rubs his arm, muttering, "and it wasn't your hat."

"You didn't punch him, did you?"

"What? No!" Trying to follow your train of thought, he waves at the stage as he squats to lace up your boots. “You just saw me give it back to him. I didn't touch the guy."

"Not him! Gary." One of your hands abruptly lands on the top of his head as you pout, "You didn't hurt him?"

"No. I didn't hurt him." Shaking off your hold on him, he stands.

"Good!" You lean off balance, but catch yourself by gripping the table. "He was just joking, too." Smile returning, your eyes widen. "He's a really funny guy."

"I know." Pulling out his wallet, he tosses a couple of bills on the table, then nods to the bartender who's also been keeping an eye on you. Placing a hand on your back, he ushers you toward the door.

"You do?"

"Mhmm."

You stumble and grip a belt loop. His hand slides to your waist.

"How?"

"He pulled up as I was getting ready to come look for you. He apologized, we talked a little bit, and he told me where you were."

"Snitch."

Dean chuckles, "He was worried about you." Voice a little lower, he pushes the door open and adds, "So was I."

Blinking up at him, you squint an eye closed and scrunch your nose, like it will help you see him better. It's adorable.

"You were?"

"Yeah." There's more he wants to say, but it can wait until you're sober.

Instinct makes him pull you against his side when you suddenly stop, but you push away with a huff and turn to face him.

"WAIT! If you've been here f-for a while, why didn't you come talk to me?"

Matching your pace, he keeps you within reach as you continue to step backward. You come to a wobbly stop, correcting your stance before he has a chance to help. Then something seems to break inside you. Tears pool on your bottom lashes, glistening in the beam from the overhead street light.

"You're still mad at me." You nod, believing the statement to be true.

"I'm not-"

Before he can finish, you rush forward to grip the front of his shirt and plead, "Please don't be mad at me anymore. I didn't mean to hurt you. I really didn't."

The palm hitting his cheek stings a little, but your skin is warm, soft, and your fingertips tickle his ear. Closing his eyes, he allows himself to lean in and savor the touch for a brief, precious moment. When your hand slips down the front of his shirt before falling away, he reminds himself not to read into it because you're three sheets to the wind.

"I know," he soothes, placing his hands on your shoulders. "Now let's get you back to the hotel so you can sleep this off." Turning you to face the car, he's startled by your shout.

"BABY!" Slipping from his hold, you rush to her side, laying your head against the window and spreading your arms over her frame. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean any of it. I love you."

Dean shakes his head, laughing as you apologize to his car. He's never actually seen you this drunk and wonders if he can get whiplash from your emotional swings. After a few minutes of you snuggling with her, he finally intervenes.

"Alright, that's enough, Drunky McDrunkerson," he peels you off the car, and you fall back against his chest laughing, "time to go."

"I love you."

"She knows."

"No. I love you." You tilt your head, wearing a lazy smile and adoring eyes.

His pulse hitches, and his brain momentarily short-circuits. Quick to lock the feelings down, he states as casually as possible, "I love you, too. Now, let's go."

"NO!"

Christ, you're quick despite being plastered. Arms out, body pressed against the door, you look at him like you're daring him to push you aside. Throwing his hands up, he takes a step back to let you ramble about whatever you seemingly need to get off your chest now.

"I LOVE you. Like deep," a hand comes to your chest, and you poke at your heart, "from here. Real love. And it …it makes me sad when you're sad or angry, and I can't fix it. I can't …I can't hug you or touch you like I want, 'cause it would be weird. 'Cause you don't feel the same."

The tears return while you're talking, causing his chest to tighten as his breath stalls. Pressing his lips together, he silently repeats, "She's drunk. She's drunk. It's just the alcohol talking." But drunk words are sober thoughts. He's not sure if he believes that.

Then it's like your face explodes with glee. "But you just said you love me. So, you love, love me, too. Right?"

Staring dumbfounded into your hopeful gaze, the words lodge in his throat. Then you straighten, your eyelids flutter, and you topple forward.

"Whoa." Wrapping an arm around you, he holds you against his side, "I gotcha," as he opens the passenger door. Placing a hand on the back of your head as you finally let him ease you into the seat, he tucks your legs in when you don't move any further.

Thankfully, his reflexes are still intact, as your fingers narrowly miss being crushed when you stick your hand out to prevent him from closing the door.

Eyelids heavy, you hiccup, "Y …you did …didn't answer my …my question."

Grabbing your wrist, he places your hand in your lap and pats it, hoping that's enough of a trigger for your brain to keep it there. "Good?" he asks, shaking his head as you wiggle to get comfortable.

Eyes closing, you lean against the headrest and hum, "Mhmm.

Brushing a finger along your jaw, he states quietly, "If you remember to ask tomorrow, I'll tell you." "I'll remember," you promise on a whisper back.

Double-checking that all your limbs are out of harm's way, he closes the door and briefly presses his hand against the hood. His stomach lurches as he rounds the rear of the car, but he breathes a plea to Baby that you will.

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