Tough Love ✔️

Things That Go Bump In The Night

Winchester. The name rung a bell. Maybe after the job was done you'd go up the country and ask Bobby a few questions on lineage.

Ah, you groan inwardly - your mind had strayed once more. You had been hanging out - more like cooped up - in the motel room all night, piecing the parts of the article in the newspaper together with the research you managed to hack up on the old laptop you drag across the country with. And what you came up wasn't that much - a few out of the ordinary kidnappings and the mutilated corpses, and the only abandoned building in proximity to all of them was in a huge field on the outskirts of town - and it was too late in the night to go and behead a covey of fangs.

It would be absolute literal suicide to go after vampires at night.

Your head was buzzing and the look of the motel bed that had certainly seen better days didn't appeal to you in any way whatsoever.

You know, ______, you thought to yourself, it wouldn't kill you to take a walk to cool off.

The idea sounded better than a night of laying awake between scratchy over-washed motel blankets, and grabbing a small hand gun - useless to fangs and werewolves and skin walkers - you tuck it into the waist band of your jeans. Donning a jacket, you lock the door behind you as you exit the self made prison that you had locked yourself in since you had the run-in with the Winchester brothers.

Taking a deep breath, you see the air pass before your lips like a cold dragon and turn to walk down the strip of motel rooms on the first level. Apart from the poorly kept LED lighting on the motel's exterior, you don't have any other light to walk by.

The cold calms you down like a well adjusted sedative, and within minutes, you find your mind at peace. Your room, room 7, is only a few doors away; by the time you reach room 2 your breathing is even and eyelids ready to drop for the night.

That is, until you walk into something firm and warm and a little taller than you.

"Son of a bitch," you hear it cuss violently.

At once, you spring up alert, and click a bullet into place in the gun you had slipped into your jeans. You keep the gun aimed low, near your feet - but the person who walked into doesn't know that.

"What are you doing out so late?" You hiss, eyes narrowing in the dark in an attempt to see who you walked into.

"Could ask the same about you," the voice is deeper, more masculine.

You swear you know it. Going out on a limb, you venture a guess, "Dean Winchester?"

He cusses again. "How'd you know my name? Do I owe you money or something?"

You laugh, slipping the bullet in the gun back in place where it can't go off shooting things. "It's ______," you sigh when he doesn't remember, "you attempted to wean my phone number out of me earlier."

Starting to see better in the dark, you watch as the blonde Winchester bobs his head in recognition of memory.

"I usually meet girls in bars, ______," he admits with a laugh, "not in diners."

You snort. "So why are you in the parking lot of the motel I'm staying in?"

There was a pause. "Well..."

You sigh. "Desperate," you glance to the stars that are barely there in the cloudy night. "Singer was right."

You start back to your motel room only to hear the crunch of footsteps behind you. "______," you hear Dean call out like a whine, "I'm not some creep, okay - I'm," you hear a sigh, "undercover at the moment. FBI."

You turn to see his face underneath the lights of the motel overhang and give him a dubious look of doubt. "Really?" You laugh, "and that kid, Sam, he's your partner?" Dean nodded. "Ah, well, I want to see some ID if you're going to be telling that lie, Winchester."

He gave a smile that looked just like a child who had done a poor job of covering its tracks. From the inside pocket of his jacket, he took out a badge; FBI, alright.

"See?" He grinned. "Not stalking you."

You snort. "Good night, Dean."

And at that, you stalk back into your motel room and fall into the bed at the same time as falling asleep.