meet me at lola’s

you ignore him. mostly because you’re comfortable. partly because the second you acknowledge consciousness, the day technically begins, and you have absolutely no interest in participating in that yet.

dean disagrees. his mouth brushes your shoulder. once. then again, slower this time.

you make a tiny noise of protest and burrow deeper into the pillow. “no.”

there’s a sleepy little huff of laughter behind you. another kiss lands near the curve where your shoulder meets your neck.

his lips move higher, warm against your neck, and you scrunch your shoulder instinctively in an attempt to block him. it does absolutely nothing. dean just shifts closer, nose brushing your skin before he presses another kiss beneath your ear. then your cheek. then the corner of your jaw.

you groan. “dean.”

“mhmm?”

“sleeping.”

“doesn’t look like it.”

you blindly reach behind you and push at his face. or try to. your hand finds approximately half of his cheek before he catches your wrist, laughing quietly into your palm.

“go away.”

“my bed.”

“then i’ll go away.”

you start to wiggle forward. you get maybe three inches before dean’s arm tightens immediately around your waist and drags you straight back against him, your back fitting against his chest again with embarrassing ease.

“nope.”

“dean,” you whine, much less convincingly this time.

his chin settles near your shoulder.

for a second, he doesn’t say anything. you feel him breathe in, slow and warm against your neck, and then his mouth brushes the shell of your ear.

“happy birthday, sweetheart.”

his voice is rough with sleep. low and soft and so unfairly affectionate that whatever complaint you’d been preparing disappears somewhere between your brain and your mouth.

you stay still for a second. then sigh dramatically. “i don’t wanna get up.”

dean laughs under his breath. “yeah, figured.”

“i mean it.”

“know you do.”

“we could stay here.”

“tempting.”

“all day.”

“very tempting.”

you finally crack one eye open, staring accusingly at absolutely nothing. “so why are we getting up?”

his hand squeezes gently at your stomach. “because i got a day planned.”

that gets you.

your eyes open properly. you twist around beneath his arm until you’re facing him, blankets bunching between you. dean looks exactly as sleepy as he sounds: hair flattened on one side, eyes still heavy, cheek creased faintly from the pillow. and yet there’s already that smug little curve at the corner of his mouth.

“you planned something?”

“maybe.”

“what did you plan?”

“nice try.”

you stare at him. he stares back. “tell me.”

“no.”

“is there food?”

“obviously.”

“cake?”

“it’s your birthday.”

“that’s not an answer.”

“pretty sure it is.”

you narrow your eyes at him, but the excitement’s already creeping in despite your best efforts. dean notices too and his smile gets a little bigger.

you lean in and kiss him before he can look any more pleased with himself. it’s supposed to be quick. just a soft little thank-you against his mouth. dean has different plans for this too. his hand slides around your waist and pulls you closer, kissing you back slowly, lazily, still half-asleep enough that there’s no urgency to it. just warm lips and tangled legs and his thumb brushing beneath your shirt again.

when you finally pull away, his eyes stay closed for another second. then they open.

“okay,” he murmurs.

you smile. “okay what?”

his gaze drops briefly to your mouth. “maybe we can stay in bed another thirty minutes.”

you laugh, and dean grins before pulling you back toward him. the birthday plans can wait.

okay hi if you made it all the way down here... birthday surprise!!! 🎂♡ i turn 27 today, so i thought it would be cute to share the birthday love a little and give you guys 27% off my entire ko-fi shop for the next week <3 use the code OLIVIATURNS27 at checkout, valid until august 17th at midnight ♡ (portugal time) thank you for being here, for reading my silly little stories, and for making this corner of the internet such a lovely place to exist in. genuinely. i adore you guys very very much 🥺🤍

You and Dean slow your pace without saying anything. The sound of your boots scuffing against the pavement grows quieter with each step until it disappears altogether a few yards from the lot.

The cicadas buzzing from every which way, easy enough to ignore while you were walking, suddenly claw their way to the front of your attention. Loud. Constant. Irritating enough that you almost miss how quiet everything else is.

No engines.

No voices.

No door opening.

Just the insects.

Your eyes move slower this time, searching instead of simply looking. They catch onto the windows first. One holds a faded beer sign that's somehow still glowing against the afternoon sun, though only half the letters bother to light up anymore. Dust cakes the glass, interrupted only by a few streaks where someone's hand—or maybe a rag—had wiped at it weeks ago.

The front door. Glass. Smudged enough that you can't make out much beyond shifting shadows inside. Whether the place is empty or someone's already standing on the other side watching... you can't tell.

You don't particularly like either possibility.

The roof is flat and sun-bleached. A loose strip of metal trim lifts every so often in the breeze with a faint metallic tick before settling again.

Nothing moving.

Better than seeing someone staring back.

In front of it all lies the parking lot. Three vehicles. An old pickup coated in enough dust that its original color takes a second to figure out. The driver's window is cracked open despite the heat. An aging sedan is parked just a little crooked over the faded line, like whoever left it had been in more of a hurry to get inside than to straighten out. An SUV with dead bugs plastered across the grille, the kind that says it hasn't been sitting here forever.

Somebody had come through recently.

Whether they ever left... That was a different question.

In hunting, there's always patterns. Something striking as irregular, something by the book. But here—at least from the outside—the place looked like it intended to stay the exact same whether you disrupted it or not. Nothing here feels immediately wrong.

Which, somehow, doesn't make you feel better.

Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's just another forgotten roadside stop that somehow managed to survive after everything else around it disappeared. You'd seen places that looked friendlier than this and walked away wishing you hadn't.

You don't trust it... you just need it.

The low breath that draws from Dean's lips beside you tells you that he's come to the same exact conclusion.

No choice.

Dean's eyes flick toward you for a second before settling right back on the building. You already know what he's thinking.

Well?

You shift your weight slightly, more to settle yourself than anything else. Standing still too long lets your imagination get ahead of you. The familiar press of your gun tucked behind your shirt moves with you, grounding you. A quiet reassurance you don't have to think about.

Your thumb absentmindedly brushes the fabric over it for half a second before dropping again.

“Still got it?” Dean asks, his eyes flicking to your hand.

You glance at him briefly, then back at the building. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“You?”

He huffs once under his breath. “Always.”

Silence stretches again, thick with heat and the kind of awareness that settles into your bones after too many situations like this.

“No other choice,” you murmur, more to the air than to him.

“Looks like it,” Dean answers.

Another second passes.

“Stay close,” he adds, quieter this time.

You glance at him again. “I’ve been doing just fine so far,” your brow lifting slightly.

“I didn’t say you weren’t,” he shoots back, finally looking at you properly. Not sharp, but not backing off it either. “Just... stay close.”

You hold his gaze for half a second longer than necessary.

“Yeah. Alright.”

Your attention drifts back to the building, resting uneasily on the sight.

Waiting for something to move.

For something to give it away.

For some instinct to kick in and tell you to turn around.

Nothing does.

Dean moves first, taking one step forward.

Decision made.

Gravel crunches beneath your boots as you move off the edge of the road and into the lot. The sound feels louder than it should, carrying through the open air with nowhere for it to disappear.

Your pace stays steady next to Dean—not rushed, but not relaxed either. Your eyes move over the lot again, studying things carefully and pocketing away tiny details without consciously meaning to.

The pickup is empty, its windows rolled down and its interior dark.

The sedan has something sitting on the dashboard. Papers, maybe. Too far away to tell.

Then there’s the newer truck.

Clean tires. Less dust.

Recent.

That one sticks with you for a second longer.

Dean is a step ahead now, just enough to take point without making it obvious. His shoulders are set a little tighter than before, his gaze sweeping over the front of the building like he’s already mapping it out.

There’s a low hum coming from inside, constant beneath the distant sound of the road. A half-lit sign buzzes faintly in one of the windows, the letters worn enough that you can’t make out what they say from here.

You slow just a fraction as you step onto the concrete, the change from gravel to solid ground subtle but noticeable. Your feet appreciate it, and you stop a moment to give them the silent thanks they deserve.

A strip of worn matting sits in front of the entrance, its edges curled slightly from years of being dragged over by boots.

Dean reaches the door first, but he doesn’t open it right away.

His hand hovers near the handle for half a second, his attention moving toward the glass instead. He angles himself just enough to catch the reflection inside without making it obvious he’s looking.

Then his head turns. His green eyes catch yours through the dim reflection, a silent thought passing between you that you can’t quite read yet.

Stay sharp, probably.

Or maybe that’s just what you expect him to be thinking.

Reading Dean Winchester isn’t exactly your forte.

The hinges give a low creak as he finally pushes the door open, the sound cutting through the quiet outside.

For a second, neither of you moves, feet still planted on the harsh mat.

Then the air reaches you.

Cooler.

Not exactly comfortable, but cool enough that you feel it slip beneath your shirt and across your overheated skin. After miles beneath the sun, even the weak blast of air conditioning feels almost unreal.

It makes you suddenly aware of everything you’d stopped noticing—the sweat gathered at your back, your shirt sticking to your skin, the dryness in your mouth that water hasn’t quite managed to fix.

You pull one boot through the door—

And you’re inside.

A television murmurs somewhere near the back of the room, low enough that you can’t immediately make out what’s playing. Some old commercial, maybe. The voices blur together beneath the steady hum of the air conditioner and the occasional rattle of something coming from behind the counter.

The place isn’t empty.

That’s the first thing you register.

Not crowded, either. Just occupied enough to remind you that walking in here doesn’t make you or Dean invisible.

The counter sits to your right, lined with a few stools and a register that looks older than you are. Two small tables sit near the windows, both empty. Sunlight spills across one of them, catching dust as it floats lazily through the air.

Your gaze keeps moving, landing awkwardly on a booth farther back.

Occupied.

An older man sits alone, one arm resting along the back of the seat. Weathered, like he’s been planted in that exact spot for a while, with one hand wrapped around a glass that looks long gone warm.

His eyes are already on you.

Like he noticed you before you noticed him.

His attention lingers for just a second too long before drifting away.

The door swings shut behind you with another quiet creak. Dean steps beside you, and you catch the smallest movement from him in your peripheral vision. His gaze follows yours without turning his head completely.

Your own eyes move past the man instead, continuing across the room like you’re taking everything in equally.

Dean’s shoulder brushes yours as he moves slightly ahead, casual enough that nobody looking would think anything of it.

You know better.

Stay sharp.

Definitely, this time.

Behind the counter, an older woman stands with a rag in her hand, paused mid-wipe. She watches you both with that same assessing look—quick, practiced, not unkind, but not particularly welcoming either.

Everyone here looks like they’re used to noticing things.

That tracks.

“Afternoon,” Dean moves first, stepping farther inside like he belongs here just enough not to draw attention. His voice lands easy and casual, like he hasn’t just walked miles under a brutal sun and into the only building in sight.

The woman nods once.

“Hot one.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Car didn’t agree with it.”

You almost huff at the understatement.

Instead, your eyes move again, slower this time.

The man hasn’t looked away from you.

Not even a little.

You feel his attention sitting there like a weight, but you refuse to acknowledge it out loud. You lean a hip lightly against the counter next to Dean, looking like nothing more than another tired traveler trying to cool off.

“Radiator?” the woman asks.

“Looks like it,” Dean says. “Started smoking a few miles back.”

Your eyes flick once—quick, subtle—toward the reflection in the glass behind the counter.

Those eyes are still following you.

More obvious when he assumes you’re not looking.

Your gaze drops before it can become a stare. You absentmindedly dig your nails into your palm, fighting off an eye roll before forcing your attention back toward the conversation.

“Closest place around?” Dean asks.

The woman nods toward the road.

“You found it.”

Figures.

You shift your weight again, rolling your shoulders slightly to work out the stiffness that has settled there. Your body feels heavier now that you’ve stopped moving, like it’s finally remembering just how tired it is. Just another thing for you to ignore.

Dean doesn’t hesitate, eager to lead the conversation.

“Trying to get back on the road,” he says.

Then, after the smallest beat, like it doesn’t matter but still lands anyway—

“Me and my girl here.”

It’s so casual it almost slips past unnoticed.

Almost.

Your head tilts just slightly, not enough to call him out, but enough that you feel the words settle between you.

My girl.

You don’t react.

There’s nothing to react to, really. It’s a quick and easy story: boyfriend and girlfriend, stranded travelers trying to get back on the road. An easy lie that can roll off your tongue without a second thought.

But you can feel the atmosphere tighten around the words.

The man behind you does too.

You can tell without looking.

When you glance toward the man again, just briefly, his expression has changed by a fraction. Whatever curiosity had been there before hasn’t disappeared, but it has settled into something more deliberate. He looks between you and Dean once, as if quietly rearranging what he thinks he knows about the two of you.

The scrape of his chair against the floor cuts through the low hum of the television.

He stands slowly, without any particular urgency, like he has nowhere else he needs to be and all the time in the world to satisfy his curiosity.

“Car trouble?” he interjects.

His voice is rough around the edges. Not threatening, exactly, but there’s nothing particularly friendly about it either.

Dean shifts just slightly closer to you, close enough that his shoulder grazes yours.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Couple miles back.”

The man nods, accepting the answer without really seeming satisfied by it.

“Where you headin’?”

Your eyes flick toward Dean, and you find him already watching the man, measuring the question in the same way you are, as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle in his head.

It isn’t the question itself that bothers you. People tend to ask where you’re going when they see two strangers stranded on the side of the road.

It’s the way he says it.

Like he’s trying to place you.

“West,” Dean says finally.

The man’s brow lifts slightly.

“Where’s ‘West’?”

Your fingers curl against your palm.

There it is.

Too many questions, one after another, each one sounding harmless enough on its own. You’ve answered enough questions from strangers to know that it’s rarely the individual question that matters.

It’s how quickly they start piling up.

Dean seems to reach the same conclusion.

“Just passing through,” he says. His tone remains easy, almost bored. “Nothing exciting.”

The man hums under his breath, his eyes lingering on Dean for a moment before drifting back toward you.

His gaze moves over you slowly, with enough lingering interest that you have to remind yourself not to react to it. You meet his eyes for only a second, long enough to acknowledge that you’ve noticed without giving him anything else.

You pull away.

Nothing to see, nothing to read.

He pipes up again.

Fucker.

“You ever let your girl talk for herself?”

Your eyes return to him before you can stop yourself. For an instant, you see the skepticism Dean has been keeping carefully tucked beneath his expression become much more obvious. His eyebrows draw together, and there’s a slight tightening around his mouth that tells you the question landed somewhere he didn’t appreciate.

“She doesn’t like the heat,” he says, his voice remaining remarkably even. “We’ve been walking for a while.”

The man’s mouth twitches slightly, as though he’s considering the explanation and deciding whether he believes it.

Before he can say anything else, the woman behind the counter speaks.

“Truck’s out back.”

Her voice changes the room just enough to break whatever had started building.

Grateful for the intervention, you look toward her.

But she isn’t looking at you.

Her attention is fixed on the man, an eye full of words you don’t know how to read.

It’s not exactly a look of warning, but something close enough that you can notice it. His expression changes almost imperceptibly before he turns his attention away.

“I can take you a ways,” she adds.

Dean’s attention moves to her, and you can practically see him reconsidering the situation from the beginning.

“You sure?” he asks.

She shrugs, reaching for something beneath the counter. “I’ve got a run to make anyway.”

You glance at Dean. He looks back at you this time, exchanging a silent conversation.

This place is strange. The man is strange. The offer is unexpected. Accepting a ride from a stranger is not exactly high on either of your lists of things you’d normally do.

But neither of you has a better option.

Not unless you want to spend the rest of the afternoon walking along an empty Wyoming road and hope you find something else before the sun starts going down.

Dean gives the smallest nod.

“Alright,” he says, turning back to her. “Appreciate it.”

She eyes you two for a moment before jerking her head toward the back.

“Give me a minute.”

She disappears through the door behind the counter, which creaks shut with a final thump.

You can hear the television again, some old commercial playing beneath the constant hum of the air conditioner. The ice in someone’s glass shifts when they move. Somewhere behind the counter, a cabinet opens and closes.

And then there’s the man.

Still standing.

Still there.

Still watching.

You don’t like the way the balance of the room has changed now that the woman is gone. It leaves the three of you occupying the same space without anything to interrupt the silence.

Dean leans slightly closer, just enough that his voice won’t carry across the room.

“You good?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” your voice coming out peeved.

A half-lie. You’ve been hot, exhausted, thirsty, stranded, and uncomfortable for hours. Your situation right now isn’t exactly a dream scenario.

A beat passes.

Then, quieter, you add, “He’s staring.”

“I know,” Dean says.

You almost huff at that.

You look at Dean, but his attention has already returned to the man. There’s nothing dramatic about his expression, nothing that would give away what he’s thinking to someone who doesn’t know him.

You do.

You recognize the way he watches without staring. The way his body stays loose while his attention remains fixed. The way he has positioned himself close enough to you that he could react if something happened, without making it look like you need protecting.

It isn’t about whether you can handle yourself. You know you can.

You hope he does.

“I’ve dealt with worse,” you mutter.

“Not the point,” Dean replies.

His eyes remain on the man across the room, his expression settled into that quiet kind of attention you’ve seen countless times on hunts. He isn’t making a scene. He isn’t reaching for a weapon. He isn’t telling you what to do.

He’s simply paying attention.

And, for whatever reason, that makes the room feel a little less uncomfortable.

Not safe. You’re not stupid enough to call it safe.

Just slightly less like you’re the only one noticing.

Your arms fold loosely across your middle, not defensive so much as something to do with them while you stand there in a room that has suddenly become too still. The television continues murmuring somewhere behind you, filling the silence without actually making it feel any less quiet.

Eventually, the older man moves.

His empty glass lands on the table with a dull thud, and for a moment, you think he might say something else. Instead, he walks past you toward the front door, close enough that you become aware of him without needing to look directly at him. You catch the faint smell of stale coffee and something smoky on his clothes as he passes.

He slows.

Only for half a second.

You feel it more than you see it, that brief hesitation beside you, and every instinct in your body tells you not to turn your head.

So you don’t.

You keep your arms folded and your eyes somewhere ahead, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s gotten your attention.

Then the door opens.

A thin wash of sunlight spills across the floor, followed by the sound of the hinges complaining as he steps outside. The door swings shut behind him, and the silence he leaves behind somehow feels heavier than the one he walked through.

You exhale slowly through your nose.

“Friendly,” you mutter.

Dean lets out a dry breath beside you. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Your eyes drift toward the back where the woman disappeared, lingering on the closed door for a moment.

“Still taking the ride?” you ask.

Dean’s jaw tightens slightly as he looks toward the front windows, probably watching the man disappear from sight.

For a second, you think he might change his mind.

Then he shakes his head.

“Yeah.”

Not because he likes it, but because it’s what’s left.

You know that feeling well enough not to argue.

A minute later, the door behind the counter swings open again, and the woman steps through with a set of keys looped around two fingers.

“Truck’s around back,” she says simply, almost bored.

Like this is a normal Tuesday for her. Like people walk in off the road, tell strangers their car broke down, and get offered rides all the time.

Maybe they do.

You don't know.

That's the damn problem.

You don't move right away. Neither does Dean. For another second, the two of you remain where you are, letting the woman walk past and giving yourselves one last opportunity to notice anything you might have missed.

Nothing.

At least, nothing obvious.

Your fingers brush briefly against your side, checking the familiar weight beneath your shirt without actually reaching for it.

You push away from the counter, the coolness of the room already beginning to feel less noticeable against your skin. Dean steps forward at nearly the same time, falling into place beside you as you follow the woman toward the back.

The door she disappears through is propped open, letting a strip of hot afternoon air into the building.

You step through after her.

And together, you head for the truck.

The truck looks rougher up close.

Not broken-down rough. Just worn thin by years of bad roads, summer heat, and Wyoming weather. The faded blue paint has begun to curl away near the edges, exposing patches of dull metal underneath. Rust has settled along the wheel wells in uneven orange-brown streaks, and a layer of dust coats nearly every surface, thick enough that it looks like it has become part of the truck rather than something that could simply be wiped away.

The older woman heads for the driver’s side without hesitation, keys already hooked around two fingers and clashing together softly with each step.

“You two coming?”

Dean doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes move over the truck bed first, then the tires, the back window, and finally the cab. It is the kind of inspection most people probably wouldn’t notice, especially from a distance, but you know better than to mistake it for simple curiosity.

“Yeah,” Dean says finally.

The heat outside feels worse after standing inside the building. Your body had cooled down just enough to remember what relief felt like, and stepping back into the sunlight makes you regret that memory almost immediately. Sweat prickles along the back of your neck, and the collar of your tank top is already beginning to stick against your skin.

Shifting the uncomfortable weight of your bag on your shoulder, you watch as Dean moves to get in first.

The truck dips slightly beneath his weight, its suspension giving a tired creak. Dean shifts farther toward the middle of the bench, leaving the passenger side open for you. One arm rests low near his knee while his eyes make another quick pass over the dashboard, the steering column, and the mirrors.

He drops his own duffel near his boots before adjusting himself, making sure it is out of the way without having to think about it.

There’s a readiness in the way he sits that doesn't quite disappear even when there’s nowhere obvious for it to go. His shoulders don't fully relax against the seat, and his body remains angled slightly forward, as though some part of him is already prepared to move if the situation changes.

You climb in and pull the passenger door shut behind you.

The seat is warm from the sun, and the vinyl sticks faintly against the backs of your legs as you settle in. Your duffel gets wedged between your boots and the side of the seat, close enough that you can reach it without having to lean over. You make sure the strap isn't caught beneath your foot before letting yourself settle properly.

You glance toward Dean.

He’s already looking at you.

“You good?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

His eyes stay on you for another moment before he looks away.

There’s technically plenty of room. The bench seat is wide enough for three people, and your duffels are tucked down by your feet without taking up much space. But physical room isn't what makes the cab feel cramped.

It’s the lack of visibility. The fact that you're sitting inside someone else's vehicle with a stranger driving and nowhere to pull over if something feels wrong.

A choice you made willingly, at that.

Your eyes wander automatically, taking in what you can without making it obvious that you're doing it. The locks. The handles. The windows. The space between your feet and the things in your bag.

The silence breaks as the woman pulls open her own door, the metal groaning in protest as she climbs in next to Dean and yanks it shut.

She doesn’t spare a glance at either of you as her hands steadily turn the key.

Then the truck coughs to life.

The engine rattles beneath you before settling into a low, uneven hum. The sound isn't reassuring, exactly, but it is familiar enough to keep you from wondering whether this is going to be another vehicle that decides it has had enough for the day.

She shifts the gear into drive, and the truck rolls backward before turning toward the road.

The cab smells like gasoline, old cigarettes, sun-baked leather, and something faintly floral buried underneath all of it. It isn't unpleasant, exactly. Just lived-in. The kind of smell that tells you someone has spent a lot of time inside this truck without bothering to make it smell like anything else.

A silver cross hangs from the cracked rearview mirror, tapping softly against the glass whenever the truck hits a bump in the road.

The woman catches your eyes in the reflection.

“My mother’s,” she says casually.

You blink. “What?”

She nods toward the cross.

“My mother’s cross. Before you ask.”

You weren't going to, but you nod, accepting the explanation without much thought.

Dean doesn't say anything. His gaze has moved toward the passenger-side window, watching the road as the building gets smaller behind you.

You turn your attention to the rear window instead.

The man is still outside.

Even from this distance, you can see him standing near the front of the building, his figure growing smaller as the truck pulls away. He hasn't gone back inside. He hasn't moved toward the road.

He's just watching.

Your fingers rest loosely against your thigh.

You don't mention it.

A few seconds later, Dean's eyes flick toward the rearview mirror, then back to the road.

The truck continues down the highway, carrying the three of you farther away from the only place you'd had any chance of stopping for the night.

You let yourself sink a little deeper into the seat.

Not relaxed.

Just accepting that, for the moment, this is what you've got.

The inside of the truck rattles softly with every uneven patch of road. Dean’s knee bumps yours once when the truck jerks over a pothole. Neither of you comments on it. The passenger side closest to the door is still the only position you really acknowledge, keeping the exit within easy reach and leaving enough space between yourself and the woman beside Dean.

You settle into it with the same instinct you use for everything else—awareness of exits, awareness of hands, awareness of the space between you and everyone else in the cab.

You don’t look at Dean. He doesn’t look at you. But there’s a slight movement when you settle, something almost unnoticeable unless you’ve been around him long enough to recognize his little adjustments.

The woman driving adjusts the rearview mirror, tilting it just slightly. Enough that she can see both of you more clearly now.

“You two said your car broke down out past the highway turnoff?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Dean says.

No pause. No hesitation. Clean answer.

You don’t add anything. You just lean your head back against the seat and watch the road drift past instead.

Dean moves beside you, just enough that his elbow adjusts along the seat back behind you, subtly widening the space between you and the woman without making it obvious.

Dust clings to the air outside the window, shimmering through the heat waves and making the landscape look like it’s breathing wrong.

“Lucky I came by, then,” she says.

“Guess so,” you murmur.

The woman drums her fingers lightly against the wheel.

“Earl doesn’t see new people often,” she says after a while.

You glance toward her. “That supposed to make him less creepy?”

One side of her mouth twitches slightly.

“Not particularly.”

Dean lets out a dry breath through his nose beside you.

The woman glances at him briefly, then back to the road. “Boyfriend always this suspicious?”

Dean answers before you can.

“Yes.”

Your eyes roll before you can stop them.

“He’s pleasant once you get to know him,” you mutter.

“That so?” the woman asks.

“No,” Dean says flatly.

That actually earns the faintest pull at the corner of your mouth.

The truck settles back into silence after that.

The kind hunters fall into around strangers when everybody’s quietly deciding how much danger they think they’re in.

You shift slightly near the door, your arm resting close enough to the handle that you could shove it open quickly if you had to.

Your gun sits heavy and familiar beneath your shirt. The knife tucked into your boot presses lightly against your ankle every time the truck bumps over rough pavement.

Comforting.

Normal.

Outside, Wyoming rolls on endlessly.

Dry fields. Fence posts. Heat shimmering above the asphalt in uneven waves.

You didn’t think a place could feel this empty until today.

“What broke down, again?”

The question almost feels like a test.

“Radiator,” Dean says.

Same as before.

She nods once, eyes focused on the road ahead.

“Not much out here for repairs.”

“We noticed.”

Another glance flicks toward you through the rearview mirror.

“You two headed somewhere specific?”

You shrug slightly.

“Somewhere with air conditioning.”

Not technically an answer.

The woman notices that too. You can tell by the tiny pause that follows, the way her eyes linger on the road ahead rather than immediately filling the silence with another question.

“Fair enough,” she says eventually.

Dean’s arm shifts slightly against the seat between you. He doesn’t touch you, but the movement is close enough that you notice it anyway.

Your attention drifts toward his hands.

Small streaks of grease still cling to the edges of his fingers from digging around under the Impala’s hood earlier. There’s a little dirt caught beneath one of his nails, and a faint dark smear along the heel of his palm that he either hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care enough to clean yet.

You think about the Impala sitting alone on the side of the road.

About the way Dean had looked at her before you started walking.

The thought still feels wrong.

You can picture the car exactly where you left her, sitting beneath that relentless Wyoming sun with the hood shut and the road stretching empty in either direction. Dean had spent years keeping that car running through things that should have killed it, and now the two of you had simply walked away because there wasn't another choice.

You glance down at your own hands.

It feels strange leaving something behind like that.

Dean must notice something in your expression because his voice drops lower when he speaks.

“We’re going back for her.”

You blink once before realizing he means the car.

“I know.”

The answer comes quietly.

Still, something in his shoulders seems to ease after you say it, as if he had needed to hear that you hadn't forgotten.

The woman watches the exchange through the rearview mirror without a comment.

For a few moments, the only sounds are the engine beneath you and the tires passing over the road.

Then she shoots another question and asks, “You two been on the road long?”

Dean beats you to a response.

“Long enough.”

Again with the half-answer.

You almost want to laugh.

Neither of you has actually said a single real thing since getting into this truck. Not anything that would matter, anyway. Just enough truth to make the story believable and enough omissions to make sure it stays that way.

Her eyes flick toward the rearview mirror again, catching both of you in it.

“You always answer questions like politicians?”

Dean finally looks over at her fully for the first time since getting in.

“Depends who’s asking.”

His voice isn't threatening, but there’s enough weight behind the words to make the meaning clear.

The woman studies him for a second before her attention returns to the road.

It lands exactly how he means it to.

Not rude.

Not friendly, either.

Just enough edge to remind her that he notices things too.

Her grip shifts slightly on the steering wheel, and she laughs softly under her breath.

“Alright,” she says. “Message received.”

The tension doesn't disappear completely, but it loosens enough that you can breathe through it again.

Silence settles back over the cab.

This time, you don't mind it.

You lean your head against the hot window beside you and watch the scenery crawl past. The glass is warm against your temple, and you can feel every little vibration of the truck through it.

Your exhaustion is catching up now that you've stopped walking.

That's the dangerous thing about stopping.

Your body remembers everything all at once.

The ache that has settled into your calves after hours on your feet. The stiffness in your shoulders from carrying the duffel. The lingering heat behind your eyes. The dryness in your mouth that the warm water hasn't completely fixed.

Even your feet feel heavier inside your boots.

You shift them slightly, the soles of your boots scraping against the floorboard before settling again beside the duffel.

For the first time since leaving the Impala, you allow yourself to admit that you're tired.

You miss your stupid, scratchy blanket. The same one that's still sitting in Baby right now without you, calling your name.

And surprisingly, you miss the loud classic rock tapes Dean would play. Whether he knew you noticed it or not, you’d noticed the way he'd fade the song out when the car began to rock you to sleep right next to him.

You're not helpless here.

Just tired.

There's a difference.

Dean notices you squinting slightly against the sunlight cutting through the windshield.

“You should drink more.”

You turn your head toward him.

“You sound eighty.”

“You look overheated.”

“I am overheated.”

“That’s my point.”

The woman makes a quiet sound beside the steering wheel, something between a laugh and a snort.

You glance toward her, but she doesn't look at either of you.

“You two do this all the time?”

You and Dean answer at exactly the same time.

“Yes.”

“No.”

Dean turns his head toward you.

You look back at him.

There's something almost incredulous in his expression, like he's trying to figure out why you would possibly answer yes to that question when he's spent the last several hours insisting the two of you aren't anything close to a team.

You raise your eyebrows.

He stares for another second.

Then he mutters, “Helpful.”

“You started it.”

“I said no.”

“And I said yes.”

The woman shakes her head slightly, amusement beginning to creep into her expression despite herself.

“You two are strange.”

“You're not the first person to say that,” you reply.

Dean gives you a sideways look.

“Probably won't be the last.”

That earns a small smile from you.

The moment passes easily enough, and for the first time since getting into the truck, the silence that follows doesn't feel quite so guarded.

The truck rattles over another rough stretch of road, and you brace one hand against the edge of the seat until it passes. Your duffel shifts against your boot again, and Dean reaches down without thinking, catching the strap before it can slide farther beneath the bench.

He nudges it back toward you.

You glance down.

“Thanks.”

He shrugs.

“Don't need it getting lost.”

You almost point out that you would notice if your bag went missing.

Instead, you leave it alone.

Outside the window, the landscape begins to change. Not dramatically. There are still dry fields and stretches of empty road, still fences running alongside the highway and hills sitting hazy in the distance. But scattered, small buildings have started appearing between the open spaces.

One.

Then another.

A small collection of structures sits farther ahead, some with faded signs and sun-bleached walls. A few parked vehicles line the road, and you catch the dull shine of a gas station canopy in the distance.

Your shoulders loosen slightly before you can stop them.

The woman lifts one hand from the steering wheel and points through the windshield.

“There.”

You follow the direction of her finger.

At first, you only see another building among the others, partially hidden behind a line of trees and an old wooden fence. Then the truck gets closer, and the shape becomes clearer.

A two-story building.

The lower level looks like a bar, with dark windows and a long wooden porch running across the front. A few tables sit beneath an overhang, empty in the afternoon heat. The upper floor has a row of narrow windows, each one covered by faded curtains.

There's a parking lot beside it.

Not large or crowded, just a handful of vehicles scattered across the gravel, their windshields reflecting the afternoon sun.

Then you see the sign.

Black letters painted across a weathered wooden board, the edges worn down from years of exposure.

BLACKWATER INN & BAR.

Your eyes go over it twice.

“That's the place.”

Dean leans forward slightly, looking past the windshield at the building. You watch him for a moment before turning your attention back toward the inn.

After everything today has thrown at you, four walls and a bed sound almost too good to be true. Your legs still ache from the miles you've walked, your mouth is dry despite the water you've been rationing, and the thought of getting out of the sun for more than five minutes has started to feel like a luxury.

You don't trust the place enough to call it a relief.

But, hell, you're willing to find out.

Most of the neon around the sign is burnt out, leaving only a few letters glowing weakly against the afternoon light. The building itself sits low and weathered against the open land, looking like it's been there longer than the road leading to it. The paint has faded beneath years of sun, and the wooden siding is darkened in places where the weather has gotten to it.

The big windows are dark despite the daylight.

You find yourself staring at them a little longer than you mean to.

Something in your stomach tightens.

Instinct.

You've learned not to ignore it, even when you can't explain what caused it. Sometimes a place gives you a feeling before it gives you a reason. It's nothing concrete, nothing you could point to if someone asked what was wrong.

And this place feels...

Off.

Beside you, Dean straightens slightly in his seat.

His attention has changed from watching the road to studying the building, his eyes moving over the windows, the vehicles, the porch, and the entrance before settling there again.

Alert.

Ready.

The same feeling has settled into your own body.

The woman turns the wheel and eases the truck into the gravel lot. Stones crunch beneath the tires, loud against the quiet afternoon, and the truck rocks gently as she brings it to a stop.

“Well,” she says, putting the truck in park, “this is about as good as it gets around here.”

You reach for the door handle first.

“Appreciate the ride,” Dean says.

She nods once.

Then her eyes flick briefly toward you.

“Watch yourself around the men here.”

Your expression hardens slightly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs one shoulder, still looking toward the building.

“Small towns get bored.”

You aren't sure whether that's meant to reassure you or make you more nervous.

It doesn't do either.

Instead, the words settle somewhere in the back of your mind, joining everything else you've already noticed.

You push the truck door open and step back out into the heat. The gravel shifts beneath your boots as you straighten, and for a second, you have to adjust to being back under the full weight of the sun. The brief relief of the truck's air conditioning is already disappearing from your skin.

Dean climbs out after you, pulling the duffels from the floor before swinging them over his shoulder.

For a second, the woman looks like she might say something else.

Her hand remains on the steering wheel.

Her eyes move between you and Dean, then toward the inn.

Instead, she simply nods in its direction.

“Owner's usually behind the bar.”

“Got it,” Dean says.

He pushes the truck door closed.

She gives you one last look through the glass before putting it back into gear. The tires crunch over the stones as she pulls away, turning toward the road the same way she'd come in.

You watch until the truck disappears around the bend.

Then you're alone.

You and Dean.

Again.

You turn your attention back toward the building awaiting you, the windows seeming darker now.

Dean exhales slowly beside you.

“…You getting a weird feeling too?”

“Yep.”

You keep watching the entrance.

There’s no immediate reason to leave. Nothing has happened. The woman brought you here willingly, and from the outside, the place looks like exactly what she said it was: a worn-down inn with a bar downstairs and rooms upstairs.

Still, your instincts haven't settled.

Neither, apparently, have Dean's.

After another moment, he adjusts the duffel higher on his shoulder and starts toward the entrance.

You fall into step beside him automatically.

The gravel gives way beneath your boots as you cross the lot, and the closer you get, the more details begin to stand out—the chipped paint around the doorframe, the dusty windows, the old wooden boards beneath the porch.

Dean keeps his eyes forward.

“Keep an eye out,” he mutters quietly.

You glance sideways at him.

“Yeah.”

The door gives a tired groan when Dean pushes it open, and the two of you step inside.

The first thing you notice is the temperature.

It's still warm in here, but compared to the sun you've been walking beneath for the better part of the afternoon, the weak air conditioning feels almost luxurious. Cool air drifts lazily from somewhere above, carrying the smell of old wood, spilled beer, and something greasy cooking behind the bar. It settles against the sweat on your skin and makes you realize just how overheated you actually are.

You don't move very far at first, and neither does Dean.

After hours of walking through nothing but open road and dry land, being surrounded by walls again takes a second to get used to. The room feels strangely enclosed. Your eyes adjust slowly to the dimness, and without really thinking about it, you let your attention travel around the place.

It isn't particularly large.

The bar takes up most of the room, stretching along the far wall beneath a row of dusty bottles and old beer signs. A few wooden tables sit scattered throughout the rest of the space, their surfaces worn pale in places where years of elbows and glasses have rubbed against them. There are booths along one wall, their dark red seats cracked with age, and an old television mounted above the bar playing some afternoon program at a volume low enough that nobody seems particularly interested in it.

The sound fills the spaces between everything else.

A man's voice comes through the television, followed by a burst of canned laughter. Someone at the bar sets down a glass. Ice knocks against the side of it. From somewhere behind the kitchen door comes the scrape of a pan and the brief hiss of something hitting a hot surface.

Normal sounds.

You find yourself listening to them longer than you mean to.

After the silence outside, it is almost overwhelming.

Dean takes another step into the room.

Your boots follow.

The floorboards give a faint groan beneath your weight, and you catch yourself looking down before reminding yourself that you're not expecting the floor to give out beneath you.

It's just another old building.

Probably.

Dean's attention moves in the same slow way yours does, though he makes more of an effort to hide it. His eyes pass over the bar, the windows, the tables, and the staircase tucked against the far wall. He doesn't stare at anyone for long enough to make it obvious, but you know him well enough to recognize what he's doing.

Counting.

Making sure there isn't anything immediately waiting to make your afternoon worse.

You adjust the duffel hanging from your shoulder, suddenly more aware of how heavy it has become.

Your arms ache.

Your legs ache.

Everything aches in that dull, accumulated way that comes from pushing yourself past the point where your body would have preferred to stop.

The bartender looks up.

She's older, probably somewhere in her fifties, with gray threaded through her dark hair and a towel thrown over one shoulder. She looks at Dean first, then at you, then at the two bags hanging from your shoulders.

Her expression changes slightly.

The woman sets the glass down, clinking against another as she reaches for the next.

“You folks traveling?”

Dean's answer comes easily.

“Passing through.”

She looks at the bags again.

“Looks like it.”

There isn't anything suspicious in the way she says it. Just an observation.

You let your shoulders loosen a fraction.

“Car broke down,” Dean adds.

“That's unfortunate,” She gives him a sympathetic look before turning toward the taps.

“You want something cold?”

You hadn't realized how badly you wanted that until she said it.

Dean looks at you.

You don't even need to answer.

“Cold water and a beer,” he says.

“Please,” you add, giving him a look.

The woman reaches beneath the counter and pulls out two bottles, setting them down in front of you.

The plastic is cold enough that condensation immediately gathers beneath your fingers when you pick yours up.

You twist the cap open and take a drink.

Not too much.

You remember Dean's warning from earlier.

Still, the cold water feels almost painfully good going down.

You lower the bottle and breathe out slowly.

Dean catches the expression on your face.

“Better?”

“A little.”

“Good.”

He takes his own drink, leaning against the bar while you remain standing beside him.

Neither of you seems particularly interested in sitting yet.

Maybe because sitting means admitting how tired you are.

Or maybe because neither of you has completely decided this place is somewhere you want to get comfortable.

Your eyes wander again.

There are old photographs mounted along the wall behind the bar, some of them crooked enough that you wonder if anyone has bothered to straighten them in years. Most seem to be local. Fishing trips. Families. People standing beside trucks with their arms around one another. A few photographs have dates written beneath them in faded ink.

The whole place has the feeling of having existed without changing very much.

Like people come here because they've always come here.

You find that strangely comforting.

Dean is looking at the staircase.

“You got rooms?” he asks.

The bartender nods.

“Upstairs.”

“How many?”

“Six.”

Dean glances toward you.

“How much for two?”

“Eighty.”

Dean reaches into his pocket, counting through the bills he has left.

You watch his fingers for a moment.

“How much do you have?”

He looks at you.

“Enough.”

“That wasn't my question.”

“It was the answer.”

You give him a look he skillfully ignores.

The bartender watches the exchange with a faint smile. “You two want the rooms or not?”

Dean looks back at her.

“Yeah.”

He counts out the money and slides it across the counter.

She takes it and reaches underneath the register for two keys attached to small plastic tags.

“Four and Five.”

Dean takes them. “Thanks.”

She nods toward the staircase.

“Bathroom's at the end of the hall. Shower works when it wants to.”

“That inspiring?” you ask.

The woman shrugs.

“It's Wyoming.”

You laugh quietly despite yourself.

Dean looks over at you. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You're laughing.”

“Am I not allowed?”

“I didn't say that.”

“You looked like you were going to.”

He shakes his head and takes another drink.

The bartender turns away to start wiping down the counter again, leaving the two of you standing alone with your drinks.

The television continues murmuring overhead.

A truck passes outside, the sound fading almost as quickly as it arrives.

You look toward the front windows.

The sunlight is still bright enough to spill across the floorboards, catching dust in the air whenever the door opens. Outside, the gravel lot sits almost completely still.

The same three trucks.

The motorcycle.

Nothing moving.

You look back at Dean.

“Do we actually have to go upstairs right now?”

He raises an eyebrow.

“You want to sleep down here?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“I don't know,” you shrug. “We've been walking for hours. I think I'm allowed to sit down for five minutes before climbing another set of stairs.”

That earns a quiet huff from him.

“Fair.”

You choose one of the stools and finally sit.

The seat is harder than it looks, but even that feels better than standing.

Dean remains beside you, one hand resting around his cold bottle.

You can feel your body beginning to unwind now that it has permission to stop moving.

Your shoulders drop.

Your hands stop gripping the strap of your bag so tightly.

The constant awareness you've been carrying since leaving the Impala doesn't disappear, but it settles lower.

Not gone.

Just quieter.

Dean looks over at you.

“You alright?”

You nod.

“Yeah.”

He doesn't immediately look convinced.

You roll the cold bottle between your palms.

“Just tired.”

“Yeah.”

He looks toward the stairs again.

“We can sit for a minute.”

You glance at him.

“Was that permission?”

“Don't make it weird.”

A small smile pulls at your mouth.

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

And for another few minutes, you both stay where you are.

You sit at the bar with the cold bottle between your hands while the television murmurs overhead and the air conditioner struggles against the heat outside.

For the first time since Baby broke down, there isn't anything you have to solve immediately.

No road.

No engine.

No miles left to walk.

Just a room upstairs whenever you're ready for it, and an afternoon that hasn't decided what it's going to become yet.

Dean keeps his back to the bar.

It isn't deliberate enough to look like he's doing it for a reason, but he prefers having the room in front of him. The mirror behind the bottles gives him most of what he needs anyway. He can see the entrance from here, the tables scattered around the room, the hallway leading toward the stairs, and enough of the windows to know whether anyone is coming up from the parking lot.

Habit.

After a lifetime of hunting, Dean doesn't really know how to sit somewhere without taking it apart in his head.

Two exits that he can see. One behind the bar, probably leading into a kitchen or storage area. The front door is the obvious one. The windows are too small to be useful unless things get desperate.

The bartender keeps one hand on the counter while she talks to a man at the other end. She hasn't looked their way in a few minutes.

The place isn't crowded enough to make anything difficult, but it isn't empty either. That's probably better. An empty bar in the middle of Wyoming would make Dean more suspicious than this one does.

Not that he trusts it.

He doesn't trust much these days.

The thought almost makes him laugh.

They'd spent the last several hours walking through nowhere, gotten picked up by a stranger, and willingly climbed into her truck. Now they're sitting in a bar attached to an inn neither of them had ever heard of, planning to sleep upstairs because Baby decided to cook herself in the middle of the road.

If somebody had told Dean this morning that this was how the day would go, he'd have told them to screw off.

He takes another drink.

The beer is cold, which is enough to make it worth having.

On the stool next to him, you sit with your own drink between your hands, your duffel tucked close to your boots. You're quieter now than you were on the road. Dean can see some of the tension dropping out of your shoulders.

He doesn't spend long watching you.

His attention returns to the room.

He checks the bartender again.

Then the man sitting near the window.

Then the hallway.

Nothing.

No sulfur. No strange smells. No twitchy behavior that screams monster. Nobody staring at them with the kind of vacant interest Dean has learned to recognize.

That doesn't mean anything. Monsters aren't exactly considerate enough to wear name tags.

Still, so far, the place seems normal.

Dean turns the bottle slowly between his hands.

He'd expected this to feel different.

Not the bar.

But the company.

Sam had always been there.

That realization comes quietly enough that Dean doesn't notice it at first.

He'd hunted with you before. Plenty of times. You'd crossed paths with the Winchesters often enough that working together wasn't strange anymore. You knew how Dean operated. You knew Sam. You knew the general rules.

But Sam had always been the third person in the room.

There had always been somebody else to fill the spaces.

Somebody else who knew both of you. Somebody who could catch Dean's look from across a room and understand what it meant without either of you having to say anything.

Without Sam there, the balance feels different.

It's not bad.

That's what bothers him.

He'd expected it to be awkward.

Instead, it's almost easy.

You don't ask unnecessary questions. You don't need constant conversation. When something goes wrong, you react instead of freezing. You know enough about hunting that Dean doesn't have to explain every little thing he does.

But how much does he actually know about you?

The question settles uncomfortably.

He knows you're a hunter.

He knows you can fight.

He knows you have a smart mouth and an irritating habit of acting like you're fine when you're clearly exhausted.

He knows what kind of weapons you carry.

He knows you hate the heat.

He knows you've crossed paths with him and Sam enough times that the three of you can fall into a hunt together without having to spend an hour figuring out who's doing what.

But outside of that?

Not much.

Dean knows surprisingly little.

He doesn't know where you learned to hunt.

He doesn't know what you were doing before you started crossing paths with the Winchesters.

He doesn't know what you do when you're not chasing something with fangs.

He doesn't know who you call when a hunt goes bad.

Hell, he doesn't even know if you have somebody who would notice if you disappeared for a week.

His eyes flick toward you again, seeking out answers to his questions by a look alone.

You catch him this time.

"What?"

Dean shakes his head. "Nothing."

You narrow your eyes slightly.

"You've been staring at the wall for about five minutes."

"I'm thinking."

"That's dangerous."

He snorts into his drink.

"See, this is why I let you come."

You lean back slightly in your chair. "You let me come because I'm delightful."

"That's definitely not it."

You feign offense, your mouth dropping open before you pretend to shrug it off. "Good. Would've been embarrassing for you."

Dean shakes his head again, but there's a small smile threatening at the corner of his mouth.

He looks down at his beer again.

Questions.

Right.

"You ever been out here before?"

You glance toward the window. "Wyoming?"

"Yeah."

You think about it for a second.

"Driven through it. Never stayed."

"Me neither."

You look back at him, eyebrows slightly raised. "Really?"

"Really."

"Thought you'd been everywhere."

He gives you a look. "I've been a lot of places."

"That's not what I said."

"I know."

You smile faintly into your drink.

Dean looks away before he can get caught doing the same.

The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable.

He lets it stay.

Outside, a truck passes on the road, headlights briefly sliding across the windows even though there's still enough daylight left that they aren't really necessary. The sound fades almost as quickly as it arrives.

Dean's attention follows it automatically.

Nothing unusual.

Just a truck.

He looks back toward the room.

Still nothing.

He should probably be more concerned about the fact that they have no idea what they're walking into upstairs.

Instead, he's thinking about how strange it is to sit here with you without Sam.

Not because he doesn't trust you.

Because he does.

That's the part he hadn't expected.

Trusting someone on a hunt is one thing.

Trusting them when there's no hunt happening is different.

Dean has spent most of his life knowing exactly where he stands with people. Either they're family, they're hunters, they're strangers, or they're dead.

You don't fit neatly into any of those categories.

You're not family.

Not exactly.

You're not a stranger anymore.

And you're definitely not someone he wants dead.

That leaves a space he doesn't have a name for.

Dean doesn't particularly like spaces he can't name.

You set your drink down, the plastic crumpling slightly beneath your fingers as the half-empty water sloshes around inside.

"So," you say, drawing his attention back. "How long do you think we're stuck here?"

Dean glances toward the window.

"Couple days, maybe."

Your eyebrows lift.

"Couple days?"

"Depends on the mechanic."

"You said tomorrow."

"I said we'll find one tomorrow."

"That's not the same thing."

Dean shrugs. "Welcome to hunting."

You give him a look.

"You're really good at making everything sound reassuring."

"What can I say? I'm a people person."

"No, you're a pain in the ass."

"Yeah, but you came here with me."

You open your mouth, then stop.

Dean watches the thought cross your face.

You finally lean back in your chair.

"You're right. That's my bad."

Dean laughs quietly, and the sound comes out easier than he expects.

The bar continues around you. Somebody laughs near the far end of the counter. A glass gets set down hard enough to make the bottles behind the bartender tremble against one another. The television keeps murmuring overhead, completely ignored.

Dean looks toward the windows again.

The sun is beginning to lower, turning the glass a dull orange as evening finally starts settling over the road outside.

They'll find a mechanic in the morning.

They'll get Baby running.

Then they'll get back on the road.

That's what they're here to do.

For now, though, there's a cold beer in his hand, a roof over their heads, and nothing immediately trying to kill either of you.

Dean takes another drink.

Across from him, you pick yours back up.

Neither of you seems particularly interested in being the first one to call it a night.

When you first walked through the door, you were too tired to care what the place looked like. Four walls and a mattress had been enough. Now that your body has finally stopped demanding that you keep moving, there’s enough quiet to notice everything you had ignored.

The wallpaper is peeling slightly near the corner where the wall meets the ceiling, curling away in thin strips where the glue has long since given up. One of the bedside lamps has a crooked shade that leans slightly to the left, and the carpet beneath your boots is worn down along the path between the bed and the bathroom, flattened by years of people making the same trip.

Through the thin curtains, the afternoon sun has softened into something warmer, throwing a narrow strip of light across the floor. Dust drifts through it whenever the air conditioner kicks on, disappearing again when the room settles.

You sit on the edge of the bed with your elbows resting against your knees.

Your duffel is still on the floor beside you.

You haven't unpacked anything.

There doesn't seem to be much point. You're only supposed to be here for the night.

Tomorrow, you'll find a mechanic. Dean will get Baby running again. You'll get back on the road, and eventually, somehow, you'll make your way toward Oregon.

That's the plan.

Simple. You like simple.

The day has been anything but.

Your thoughts wander back to the first building anyway.

The man in the booth.

Earl.

You can still remember the way he'd looked at you, the questions he asked, and the way his attention seemed to stay on you even when Dean was the one answering him. You can still picture the way he'd lingered when he passed you, that brief hesitation that would've been easy to dismiss if you hadn't spent years learning when something felt wrong.

You've dealt with men like that before.

Not exactly him, but enough.

Enough that you know better than to convince yourself you're imagining it simply because nothing happened.

A quiet knock taps against the other side of the door.

You straighten slightly, pulling yourself out of the thought.

"Yeah?"

At your response, the door creaks open, and Dean appears in the doorway.

He's changed out of his sweat-soaked shirt, replacing it with another black T-shirt from his duffel. His hair is still damp around the edges, darker where the water hasn't completely dried, and for the first time since the Impala broke down, he looks less like someone who has been stranded on the side of the road and more like himself again.

The heat and dust haven't disappeared completely. There's still a faint shadow of exhaustion around his eyes, and his boots are marked with the same road dust you're sure is covering yours.

He doesn't come inside.

He stays against the frame, one hand resting loosely around the key to his room.

"You settling in?"

You glance around the room.

"Luxury accommodations."

His mouth pulls slightly at one corner.

"Yeah. Pretty sure this place has seen better decades."

"That's reassuring."

He gives a quiet huff of amusement before his attention moves past you, briefly checking the room. His eyes travel to the window, then the closet, then the bathroom door before coming back to you.

"Lock work?"

"Yes."

"Window?"

"Also works."

He nods, apparently satisfied.

You watch him for a second.

"Are you always this charming at bedtime?"

"I'm always charming."

You huff a laugh before your eyes leave his, returning to your hands in front of you.

The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable exactly, but it doesn't feel entirely natural either. Maybe because neither of you knows what you're supposed to do with the fact that you're standing in a cheap inn room after spending the entire day together.

There's usually Sam on these adventures, too.

You realize you've been thinking about it when Dean speaks again.

"You've been quiet."

You glance back at him.

"So have you."

"Yeah, but I'm allowed."

You give him a look.

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching like he knows he doesn't have a particularly convincing argument.

Your mouth forms the words you've been thinking before your mind can catch up with you.

"You notice that guy back at the other place?"

Dean's expression changes immediately. His eyebrows furrow as recognition settles in.

"The Earl guy?"

"Yeah."

His eyes settle on you more carefully.

"What about him?"

You shrug. "Nothing."

Dean doesn't buy it.

You can see that immediately.

He shifts away from the doorframe and steps farther into the room, though he still doesn't close the door behind him. The movement isn't dramatic, but it changes the feeling of the room slightly. He looks less like someone checking in before bed and more like someone who has decided there's a conversation worth having.

"You think something's wrong with him?"

You look at him.

"What?"

"Earl."

"I know who you're talking about."

"Then what's the problem?"

You lean back against the dresser, folding your arms loosely across your middle.

There isn't much emotion behind the movement. You're not nervous. You're not trying to work up the courage to tell him.

You're trying to figure out why he needs you to explain it.

Dean's face has already gone into that familiar place, the one you recognize from hunts. The amusement is gone. His attention has sharpened, and you can practically see his mind moving through possibilities.

"You think it was a demon?"

You stare at him for a second before letting out a short breath, irritation creeping into your voice.

"No, Dean. I don't."

He pauses.

For a second, neither of you moves.

You can practically watch him reorganize the thought in his head, the suspicion he'd started with having nowhere to go now.

"I'm just asking."

"I know." You shake your head, more amused than anything. "That's just not what I meant."

Dean waits.

You push away from the dresser and take a few steps toward the window. The floorboards creak softly beneath your boots as you cross the room, and you stop with your attention turned toward the glass.

Outside, the last of the afternoon light is beginning to fade over the road. The parking lot sits below, quieter now than it had been earlier.

"I think he was a fucking weirdo."

Dean's eyebrows pull together.

"Okay."

"No, seriously."

You turn back toward him.

"I've dealt with men like that before."

Your voice remains even. There's no hesitation in it because this isn't some revelation you've only just discovered about yourself. It's something you've learned the hard way and carried with you for years.

"I've killed werewolves. Ghouls, vampires—I've had monsters hunt me down with red in their eyes. Things with claws and teeth."

Dean's fingers tighten slightly around the key.

You notice it, but keep going.

"And I still have to watch myself around people."

His expression has lost the small trace of amusement he'd had earlier.

You're not sure he expected that answer.

"That's the part that's annoying," you say. "I know what a monster wants. Most of the time, I know what it's going to do before it does it. You learn the signs. You learn what to look for."

You glance toward the window again.

"He doesn't need to be supernatural for me to know I don't like him."

Dean's jaw shifts once.

He looks toward the floor for a moment before looking back at you.

You continue before he can turn it into another question.

"A vampire wants blood. A werewolf wants to tear something apart. A ghoul wants to eat. Whatever. There are rules to that."

You rest your shoulder against the wall, letting your arms fall loosely at your sides. "People don't have rules."

Dean's thumb rubs slowly across the edge of the key. You can see the thought settle over him, heavier than the ones that came before. There's nothing for him to hunt in what you're describing. No trail to follow, no lore to look up, no weapon that solves the problem simply because he knows where to point it.

"You can't keep holy water in your back pocket and expect it to fix everything."

Dean lets out a breath through his nose, but there's no humor in it.

"No."

"Exactly."

Somewhere downstairs, a burst of laughter rises through the floorboards before fading again. Glass clinks against glass. Someone says something you can't make out, followed by the muffled scrape of a chair being dragged across the floor.

Normal sounds.

Almost comforting.

Dean looks toward the door.

Then back at you.

"You should've told me."

You raise an eyebrow.

"What, so you could kill him?"

"No."

The answer comes too quickly.

You watch him for a second.

Dean looks away first, his attention dropping toward the key in his hand. He rolls it once between his fingers, the metal catching the light from the window.

"I would've known what was going on."

"You did know."

"Not the same thing."

You let out a slow breath.

"I didn't need you to do anything."

"I know."

The words are quieter this time.

You study him.

He doesn't look angry. If anything, he looks uncomfortable, although not because he doesn't believe you. It's more like he's realizing there was a part of the situation he'd been looking at through the wrong lens.

You push yourself away from the wall.

"You don't have to keep checking on me."

His eyes flick back toward you.

"I wasn't."

You give him a look.

He exhales and looks toward the ceiling for half a second.

"Okay. Maybe a little."

That earns a small smile from you.

"Subtle."

"Wasn't trying to be."

"I noticed."

His mouth twitches, but the smile doesn't quite make it there.

He looks down at the key again, turning it slowly between his fingers.

For a few seconds, neither of you says anything.

The silence isn't quite awkward, but it isn't comfortable either. There's too much left sitting between you after the conversation, and neither of you seems particularly interested in picking it apart any further.

Eventually, you glance toward the clock on the bedside table.

"We should get moving early."

Dean nods.

"Yeah."

"Find a mechanic."

You look toward him.

"And then we get back on the road."

He looks at you for a second longer than necessary.

"Oregon."

"Right."

Another pause.

The word hangs there strangely.

Your eyebrows furrow only slightly, but you don't question it.

Not tonight, anyway.

You reach for your doorknob.

Dean straightens from the wall, finally shifting back toward the doorway.

"Get some sleep."

"You too."

You open the door, then pause with your hand still around the knob.

"Dean?"

He looks over.

You hesitate for just a second before saying it.

"Thanks for coming back for me."

His expression changes so slightly you almost miss it.

Something in his face softens before he gives a small nod.

"Thanks for coming."

Then he turns toward his own room.

You watch him walk a few steps down the hallway before closing your door, the latch clicking softly.

For a moment, you stand there with your hand still resting on the knob, listening to his footsteps disappear across the floorboards. They grow quieter as he reaches his own door, followed by the faint click of it opening and closing.

Then you let go.

The room feels different now.

Not safer, exactly.

Just quieter.

Tomorrow, you'd find a mechanic.

Tomorrow, you'd get Baby back on the road.

For tonight, there was nothing left to do but sleep.

Chapter Three: Coming Soon

A/N: Little Dean POV action. Is he hiding something? Is this place really safe? Who knooooows!

If you'd like to be tagged in future chapters, leave a comment!