A SIMPLE MAN || Dean Winchester

THE HOTEL

No matter what she did, traveling in the impala was always exhausting. The music could be blaring, windows could be down in the rain, they could even be going through potholes frequently enough you could believe you were driving over a cheese grater. The world could be falling apart, and Finch Challenger would still fall asleep.

Dean would tease her for it, especially when they were kids. Before they came to their silent agreement he could be downright nasty about it. Now, he just made sure there was blankets in the back and a pillow stuffed behind his seat; he'd stolen that from a hotel ages ago.

She had slept most of the drive through Colorado. The lull of the even road and warmth from the heater nearly had her curled up in the front. She would've, but Dean forced her to lay in the back. You'll get a kink in your neck, he would always say to her when she argued about it. And I really don't want to hear you complain about it, Fin. We're in a small car.

It didn't matter what her argument was. She would end up asleep on the brown leather seat in the back with her blankets wrapped around her lower body and wore a swear with the hood up to manage the rest. Especially in the last month, as her body was healing.

Finch had nearly kicked him in the head when he woke her — his mistake for going to her feet rather than her head — but eventually woke herself up enough to register she'd they were. It was a small little diner just off the highway. The majority of the parking lot was filled with motor bikes and trucks. A sign above the front door blinked in bright red, but her tired eyes hadn't focused enough to read them.

They were brought to a booth immediately, one next to a window. Dean sat on one side, she sat on the other. Behind them an old couple was bickering about something they had seen on the news that morning. It was early afternoon now, so a small part of her was surprised they remembered that. The waitress who brought them their menus was a pretty blonde in tight jeans and a fitted top.

Immediately, she looked to Dean.

It was funny, truthfully. Wherever they went there was a woman who would do anything to get him in bed. They would flirt all night at the bar, dance around the tension for a while, and then it would be time to go. If their motel was close enough, Dean would take off with the woman for an hour or so and Finch would wipe the floor in a poker game. It was fun, and the money didn't hurt.

The other option was Dean would painstakingly turn her down. There was always another few attempts to salvage the night those women had worked so hard for. More drinks. Offers to duck into the bathrooms. Holding him a little closer and moving their fingers along his arms or chest.

They would turn on the charm and convince him that taking them home would be unbelievably worth it. Dean would bask in the sweet but suggestive smiles, the batting lashes, but Finch would find him and give him a slight jerk of her head towards the exit; time to go. At the sight of her, all the sweet and sultry gazes turned sour.

According to Dean, that was because they saw her as competition. It would boost his ego a touch, to have women fight for him. They had so little joy in their life on the road that as much as it irritated her, Finch would give him that. So instead of rolling her eyes or snarking at him, her response was almost always the same.

There isn't much of me you haven't already seen, Dean.

His response was usually the same, too. Yeah, when you're covered in blood. That's not exactly the dream.

She would smirk. You dream about me naked?

Watching him fumble for a retort was always enjoyable because he usually had to think. Shut up, Fin, you know your attractive.