♫ || problem child ►ac / dc
en route: jericho, california
oct. 31, 2005 // morning
𝐈𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 '67 Chevy Impala had a surname, it would be Winchester. There was very little discussion on the matter, mainly because Dean had the end-all opinion and didn't tolerate any dissenters. But also because Sam could care less, and Fitz was contractually obligated to keep her mouth shut.
And to her credit, she had. Once Sammy had packed his things and thrown his bag in the trunk, he'd given Fitz a look that demanded more answers. From Sam, it was more of a polite investigation, a tug at the curtain: does Jessica know?
"She doesn't."
Those were her last words, spoken about two hours ago. She'd attempted to listen to her own music through a walkman, but Dean blasted his metal loud enough to make her ears bleed, and sang even louder than that. Fitz got about one and a half songs through before switching it off and chucking it into her bag. She'd resorted to staring out the window, counting road signs and playing I-Spy by herself as they cruised down the I-5. She was very quiet, and that worked out very well for Dean Winchester.
"Uh, Dean?"
He didn't hear her. Well, maybe he did, but the music was loud. Real loud. Bass-bumping loud, head-hurting loud, heart-thudding loud. And a lot more enjoyable than anything she had to say.
"Dean!" Fitz yelled from the backseat. Reluctantly, his eyes dragged up to meet hers in the rearview mirror, turning the volume down.
Her hair was pulled back now, framing her face, which somehow seemed paler than it did last night. He couldn't tell if it was the bleak winter sunlight's fault or something else entirely. He jerked to attention as she waved something in the mirror — a roll of bandage.
"Can we pull over? I need to fix my stitches."
Dean blinked. Blinked again. Craned his neck back to look at her. Beside him, Sam did the same. "Are you kidding me? You're asking now?"
"Please keep your eyes on the road," she squeaked. Dean did no such thing. "I'm sorry, I didn't want to disturb you—"
Dean glanced at Sam, who nodded and unfolded the map. His slender fingers traced the roadlines before coming to a stop, his brows knit. "There's a gas station just up here. Hey," he said, elbowing Dean. "Eyes on the road."
"Please do," Fitz said. Was her voice shaking?
The older Winchester adjusted his grip on the wheel, his head facing the road but his eyes glued on the woman in the rearview mirror. "Why didn't you say something earlier?"
Her reflection didn't meet his gaze, instead glancing out the window, absentmindedly, like he was asking her about the weather. "I mean... I figured you didn't want blood on your seats. I'm not gonna bleed out or anything." Her eyes locked onto the gas station as Dean pulled in, gravel crackling on the undercarriage. "I just need five minutes."
Dean's mouth twitched — a half-grimace — his fingers drumming at the wheel. He turned to his brother. "I'm gonna go get breakfast. What do you want?"
"I'm not really—"
"Sounds good."
"Get gas," Fitz mumbled under her breath, but he was already halfway out of the car.
She didn't think he heard her, but he wrapped around back, unhooking the gas pump and sliding it into the filler, eyeing the meter for a moment before turning on his heel. His beat-up sneakers kicked dust as he stalked towards the station. Red and blue painted lettering obscured the windows, neon signs and wooden logos covering the rest of it. Cold Beer. Ice. Lube & Oil, Only $24.50! No Smoking.
Sam propped his elbow up on the seat and turned back to Fitz. Her white and gray flannel now had an ugly red-brown patch that seeped through its four folded layers, an odd polka-dot pattern bleeding through the sleeves and the body. He then scrutinized her expression — she was looking at her shoulder with such bitterness that he almost felt it on his tongue.
He wasn't sure when Fitz had lost her razor-sharp, wise-cracking edge, but he could guess that she'd left it behind somewhere in his apartment. Somewhere with Jessica.
"We could've pulled over an hour back," Sam said, trying not to sound too concerned. "You know, when we were still around civilization."
"Again," Fitz sighed, pulling a needle and wire from a compartment in her duffel. "It's not a big issue. I've been through worse." She tested the sharpness of the needle, tapping her forefinger on it. "Hurts like a bitch, though. That's why I gave your brother shit for it."
"It's alright. I've done more for less," Sam admitted, eyeing her wound. It was a mess of dried and fresh blood, crimson and scarlet, a few pieces of wire protruding from the wound. It looked painful, that's for sure, but thankfully not infected. "Is that a—"
"Bullet wound? Yes." Her tone was short, dismissive. She didn't want to get into it, clearly, and the look she was giving him said stop looking at it, dude. Very Dean of her. "Does your brother drink vodka?"
"...No, not usually. Why?"
"I'm fresh out of hydrogen peroxide," she said, extending her right hand. "Can I borrow your water, then?"
Sam nodded, placing his half-empty plastic bottle in her palm. She poured a little bit of it onto the clean part of her flannel, using it to clean the area. He watched as she retrieved a bottle of painkillers, popped the cap with her thumb, shook one out and swallowed it dry. She licked her lips, tongue catching on the split, already beginning to scar.
"I can help." Sam's eyes were on the disconnected needle and thread that sat on her lap.
"It's fine, really," she waved him off. "Go look at your map, or whatever. Read a law school book. Fawn over Polaroids of my sister; I know you keep some in your wallet, she thinks it's adorable. Even better," her eyes lit up at the prospect. "Call her."
There was a real smile in her words. Too bad Sam wasn't listening. He got out of the car, yanked the back down open, and slid in beside her, setting her duffel on the floor. When he spoke this time, it wasn't a suggestion.
"Let me help."
Fitz's eyes were half-lidded, like he was trying to spite her, or perhaps offer a brand of pity that she didn't take from Jessica, so she sure as hell wouldn't take it from him. But, to his pleasant surprise, she handed him the needle. She watched him effortlessly thread it, slipping the wire through the spring-eye's swaged end.
"You're pretty good at that," she noted, reaching for her duffel.
"I've had a lot of practice," Sam said, handing her the pair of tweezers. She hadn't even needed to ask.
"Right," Fitz said, pinching the tweezers together twice before getting to work on her arm, tugging at the snapped wires in her wound. "So," she said after a pained hiss. "How long have you been hunting? If it isn't a touchy subject."
"Not as long as Dean has," Sam said, still holding the needle between his pointer and thumb. "I learned about everything when I was... eight, I think. But Dad didn't take me on a hunt until I was twelve?"
"You don't sound sure."
"I try not to think about it too much."
Fitz nodded, her face taut as she pulled a particularly long piece of wire from her shoulder, blood spurting from the wound. "I get it. Sounds like you didn't have much of a choice." She dropped the wire on her pant leg with a relieved sigh, snatching up her flannel to blot the blood. "But you've still been doing it longer than me. A lot longer."
Sam's brows raised into his hairline. "Really? But I thought — aren't you Dean's age?"
"Is Dean twenty-five?"
"Twenty-six."
"Then yeah, I guess I am." She laughed. "Obviously, the Moores aren't hunters. The Professor told me everything when I was nineteen — gave me history lectures after his actual history lectures. So... six years ago, more or less."
"Wait. He's actually a professor?"
"Yeah, I mean..." Her face scrunched in bewilderment, and she paused to face him, holding her flannel to her shoulder. "How much do you know about Callahan?"
Sam looked away. "Not that much. I remember Dad taking us out to his range and teaching us how to put rock salt in our empty shotgun shells, but... that was a while ago. I think Dad hates him now."
"Understatement of the year," Fitz said, pulling out the last of the broken stitches. "Dean's close with John, right?"
"Understatement of the year."
"Har-har-har." She beckoned for the needle, and Sam handed it to her before he even realized what he was doing. "I don't know if Dean can totally separate me from the Professor, as far as grudges go. He knows even less than I do about what happened, but he's... ah, it doesn't matter."
Sam glanced through Fitz's window. Dean was at the register, handing a credit card to the cashier: a scraggly-looking old man in baggy clothes that Fitz probably would've worn. "I'm sorry."
"Well, it's not your fault," she replied, beginning to stitch up her arm with near-surgical precision. Looks like she had a lot of practice, too. "I get where he's coming from — Callahan fucked up bad."
"What do you know about it?" Sam asked, conversationally. Like he didn't remember his father coming home with half his leg blown off, pallid and near-death with claw marks across his face and arms that made him almost unrecognizable. Sam remembered watching him furiously scratch Callahan's name out of his journal while Dean was sleeping.
"I know they went on a hunt together," Fitz said, leaning close to her shoulder as she tied a knot. "Not sure what for — this was before my time by a good few years. But Callahan made a bad judgment call and nearly got your father killed. So... I get why Dean would be pissed."
Sam shook his head. "But it's not your fault. He shouldn't be —"
"Yeah, he shouldn't, but I'm not gonna say it to him. Neither should you," Fitz warned, finishing up the stitches. "What's the time?"
He checked his watch. "It's been four minutes."
"Nice," she said, grinning down at her stitches. "New PR."
"Let me wrap it up, at least," Sam said, picking up the roll of bandages from the seat. "You're making me look bad."
"God, you are so chivalrous," she said, with some quality of awe. "But no. Go back to your seat. And seriously, call Jess. She'd appreciate it."
Sam didn't tell her that he didn't want to call Jess. Because she'd ask more questions that he just didn't want to answer. So he looked down at his shoes... and saw something peeking out from underneath the seat. He popped the door open so he'd have the leg room to reach down and pull it out —
A ratty old banker's box, chock-full of Dean's cassettes.
"Oh-ho-ho," Sam chuckled, immediately digging in.
Fitz leaned over and peered into the box, tucking her hair behind her ear with a bloody finger. "Huh. Whole lotta Metallica."
Sam pulled out one of the tapes and wiggled it. "Are you a fan?"
"I'm a big fan... of you getting back in your seat," Fitz said mildly. "I'm getting claustrophobic just looking at you. Walking, talking Daddy Long-Legs."
Sam sighed and took the box with him.
About a minute later, Dean came out and strolled behind the car, a roll of Sweetarts between his teeth like a cigar. Three soda bottles, bags of chips and packs of candy were bundled in his arms. Fitz craned her neck to identify them: Coca-Cola, Sprite, Mountain Dew. Ruffles, Fritos, Doritos. M&M's, Sour Patch Kids, Starbursts.
"Michelin Star meal," she said to herself, working on the wrap around her shoulder.
"Hey," Dean called. Sam leaned out the front seat to hear him. "You want breakfast?"
"No, thanks," Sam replied, still rifling through the box of tapes. The satisfaction he was getting from doing that seemed to satiate him.
Dean peeked through the open backseat window, and threw the Sprite and Sour Patch Kids at Fitz, followed by Fritos. They landed just short of her lap, and she glanced up at him. "Is this a murder attempt?"
She earned a glower for her snarky response. "I didn't have to get you anything."
"You're right. I appreciate being considered," she said, getting back to the bandages. "And hey, I love Fritos."
"You would, wouldn't you?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Dean gave her one of his signature simpers and did not elaborate, patting the door fondly before turning to Sam. "Got you Ruffles, bro."
Sam took the bag with a nod of gratitude, still turning cassettes over in his hands. "How'd you pay for all this stuff?" He squinted to read one of the labels scrawled in Dad's messy handwriting. "You and Dad still running credit-card scams?"
Dean took the pump out of the filler and pushed the cap back in, checking the price. "Yeah, well, hunting ain't exactly a pro-ball career." He shrugged carelessly. "Besides, all we do is apply. It's not our fault they send us the cards."
Another cassette. Sam lifted it so Fitz could get a look — Lovele$$. "Yeah, and what names did you write on the applications this time?"
"Uh, Bert Aframian and his son, Hector," Dean recalled, getting into the car and setting his food — if you could call it that — down between the seats. Sam smiled: the names were actually fake, and not some obscure reference to a rock band or gun model. "Scored two cards out of the deal."
"Sounds about right." It was an odd sense of nostalgia, now. He'd never really run one of the scams, but he remembered Dean and Dad asking him for a name to use on some of the accounts. A birthday or two. Address. Phone number. So on. Sam appraised the cassette box one last time; something needed to be said about it. "I swear, man, you gotta update your collection."
Genuine confusion; an unfathomable suggestion. "Why?"
"Well, for one — they're cassette tapes, and two — Black Sabbath, Motorhead, Metallica?" He brought one out for each sample, flashing them like a deck of cards. Dean churlishly snatched the last one. "It's the greatest hits of mullet rock."
His brother examined the tape, and Sam could hear the words before Dean even said them. "House Rules, Sammy. Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole, and the hitchhiker in the back —"
He turned to Fitz, who was using her teeth to tear the bandage.
"My cakehole is shut, Bullitt," she said, muffled.
Dean nodded once with a satisfied smile, cranking the volume up again. "That's what I thought, Cujo." He gave Sam a mock-disapproving look. "You really gonna complain about Gift to the World, Sammy?"
"Dean." Sam set the box down between his legs, his mouth set in a thin line. "Sammy is a chubby twelve-year-old. It's Sam."
"Sorry, I can't hear you," Dean drew circles in the air around his ear. "The music's too loud." A brief smug expression from him — brows bobbed, smile half-cocked — as he started the engine and pulled away, heavy-footed on the gas pedal.
Sam glanced back at Fitz, watching the color drain from her face as they took off twenty miles above the speed limit. She was clearly trying to focus on eating her candy, but when she noticed her eyes on him, she mouthed Sam, not Sammy. Committing it to memory. I got you.
He smiled. Thank you.
⌖
Fitz fell asleep. To Metallica. Dean wasn't sure he'd seen anyone do that before, but she was conked out fifteen minutes after they'd departed from the gas station. And she'd stayed that way no matter the song he played for the next hour. Back in Black. Seek & Destroy. Shoot You In The Back. No effect. Still snoring with her flannel crumpled against the window like a pillow.
He tried pumping the brakes to mess with her, and Sam gave him one of the dirtiest looks he'd ever received from his younger brother, let alone anyone. And he'd received a lot of dirty looks.
So he let her stay asleep. Sammy dialed up the morgue and the hospital for men matching Dad's description; came up short. Which was good on one hand, but on the other... if he was dead or injured, nobody found him.
Before that thought could really sink its teeth into Dean's mind, his attention caught on a bridge to their left, surrounded by cop cars and bright yellow crime scene tape. He pressed slowly on the breaks, turning down the volume on Heaven and Hell. "Check it out."
He pulled to the right side of the road, and Fitz immediately jerked awake. The swiftness with which she adjusted made him think she hadn't been asleep at all. Or maybe she was more of a hunter than he'd thought.
She gazed out the window, getting a good look at the bridge. The sun was wintry and dull, caged behind its rising arches and thick clouds, dripping silvery light onto the river below.
"You got fakes?" Dean asked her, leaning over Sam to pop the glove box open. "Federal Marshal?"
"Yep."
His hand extended back, nearly whacking her in the jaw as she reached for her duffel. "Let me see." Cool leather landed in his palm with a rather impertinent smack, and he brought it to his face, studying it. Rhonda Faberman. Dead-eyed stare in the photo. He examined it closely, his brows pulling together in surprise. "This is good."
"Don't sound so shocked. You get the reference?" She said, eyes expectant in the rearview.
"I've seen The Exorcist," Dean drawled. "I'm no amateur."
"You know Callahan's the one who taught your dad how to make these, right?" Sam arched a brow at her. "He's ex-FBI. Knows all the tricks." Dean slapped the ID back in her hand with the same attitude she did to his. "Thank you, sir. Am I cleared for active duty?"
"Alright." He rolled his eyes. "Let's go."
"Hold on," Fitz said. Dean, already halfway out the door, leaned back to look at her. "Do either of you guys have a spare jacket?" She pointed to her shoulder. "Hard to explain this one to law enforcement."
"You keep fake IDs but not an extra jacket?" Dean asked, giving her a disbelieving face.
"I..." Fitz looked at her bag. "It's complicated."
"Whatever." Dean looked at Sam. "Give her yours, Sammy."
"Wha— It's not gonna fit her."
"Oh, and mine will? What're you trying to say?"
"Just give her the jacket, Dean!"
Dean stared at Sam for a moment. Exhaled.
"I can just stay in the car," Fitz said, looking uncomfortable.
"Like hell," Dean snapped to her. "I'm not leaving you unsupervised with my baby."
Then, he shrugged off his jacket like this was the greatest indignity he'd faced in his time on God's green Earth. He held it out to Fitz, who looked at him sideways, before getting out of the car and taking it. Sam watched as she pulled it on, and she looked at him and mouthed Baby? He shook his head: don't ask.
The sleeves hung off her hands slightly, but as soon as she moved to roll them up, Dean shook his head, his expression grave and threatening.
"Okay," she said placatingly, her hands disappearing once more. "Thank you, Dean. I hope doing this one act of kindness doesn't kill you."
"You know, it just might," Dean said, flipping the collar of his burgundy shirt to hide his own bandage. "Don't get blood on it."
"Yessir," Fitz saluted as they approached the bridge. Sam caught up on Fitz's left, Dean on her right.
There were men down by the riverside, picking through the water in black wetsuits, and rangers searching the blue, neglected '63 Pontiac Acadia that sat askew on the roadway. As they got closer, they tuned in to the conversation the park rangers were having:
"No fingerprints, no nothing. Spotless. It's almost too clean," one of them was saying — middle-aged, white, perplexed — as they meandered around the Acadia's hood.
"So this kid, Troy," the second one said — younger, black, stern — still peering in from the passenger-side window. "He's dating your daughter, isn't he?"
"Yeah."
"How's Amy doing?"
While Dean appraised the car with something akin to unfiltered grief, Fitz took a quick look over the bridge. Something called her there; a quiet tug, look down here. Shallow water, pebbled bedding, everything gaunt in the morning light. Horror-movie style. Or maybe murder-mystery documentary. Yet to be determined.
And something about the bridge. Something here.
"She's been putting up Missing posters downtown," the first ranger said, gloves hands rubbing the steering wheel in some semblance of an anxious tic.
Dean found his way in with the conversation's brief lull. "You fellas had another one like this last month, didn't you?"
He was easy with it, casually inquisitive. The question sparked Fitz's mind to life; a jumpstart to a stalled engine. Dean hadn't exactly given her his case file to look at, but John's journal had come with a folder. Messily written and almost identical in style to some of the cassette tapes in Dean's car, it explained the situation.
Men in cars around this bridge, disappearing without a trace, increasing in frequency over the past few years. It was very much in line with Callahan's recent late-night ramblings, after alcohol loosened his tongue. Each time the same thing, spoken in his Midwestern drawl: everything's comin' in hot, Erin. Monsters under every bed, nowadays, cradle to grave. You gotta kill 'em. You gotta kill 'em all.
She snapped back to attention as the second sheriff spoke. "And who are you?"
Dean flipped his identification open with a sort of composed swagger. "Federal Marshals," he replied, clearly bored with the formality already.
The sheriff gave pause, straightening to his full height and scrutinizing them. Fitz felt her heart drum against her ribs: she wasn't exactly dressed the part, here. She let out a string of internal curses at herself for not coming prepared. Callahan usually handled all this fake identity bullshit, and she just had to deal with the actual hunting part.
Relax, she told herself, her fist curling in the too-big sleeve. You're fine. He trained you for this.
Sort of.
"You three are a little young for Marshals, aren't you?"
This earned a one-beat chuckle from Dean. "Thanks, that's awfully kind of you." He then sauntered past the sheriff and looked the car over, shifting gears with a sort of suave Fitz almost envied. Almost. "You did have another one just like this, correct?"
Fitz exchanged a confirmatory glance with Sam before they both converged on the car, the sheriff's response now coming from behind them. "Yeah, that's right. Bout a mile up the road. There have been others before that."
"So this victim," Sam followed up immediately, falling into an old rhythm that made Fitz feel like an out-of-tune instrument. "You knew him?"
Fitz shook herself. Just do your thing and let them do theirs. She knelt down behind the open passenger door and examined the upholstery. The second ranger — deputy, judging by the badge — gave her a cursory glance. "You think you can find him?"
She managed a curt nod, watching him sigh and get to his feet in her periphery. Once he was gone, she let herself calm down. Focus up. Settle in. Work it out. Hope that she could do what Callahan thought she could do.
Her hands traced the dashboard, feeling for something intangible. Ice-cold. A tug on her gut, a pain in the back of her head, a small wisp of ethereal energy peeling off the windshield like dry ice. But there was nothing.
"Shit," she whispered to herself, glancing around. Come on, Fitz. Come on.
She'd recently been informed that she wasn't entirely normal. Of course, she'd known that since forever. Normal people had blood families. Normal people didn't go through their formative years house-hopping in foster care. Normal people didn't work full-time killing the supernatural. Or seeing it, for that matter, which Fitz seemed perfectly capable of doing half the time: reapers that weren't after her own life, spirits lingering in cupboards, energy tendrils around cursed objects.
But she was no good at it, not really. Six years of work and she'd barely been able to tell the difference between Callahan and a shapeshifter wearing his face. Barely, and it was probably because Callahan's breath always reeked of whiskey and cigars.
Shapeshifters are tough, kiddo, Callahan's voice echoed in her head. You think this is a skinwalker?
No, she almost replied aloud, her fingers hovering over the passenger window. It's not.
Then what is it? Reaper — nah, the victimology's too specific. Werewolf — cycle's off. Vampire — but there's too much blood. It's a spirit, ain't it? You can sense those ones, and you know you can, girl. You're a walking EMF reader, loud whining included.
And then she felt it. A slight drop in temperature, almost nothing. And there, on the windshield — a handprint, surrounded by frost. She leaned in to look at it, and felt the hairs on the back of her neck raise.
Whatever it was had been sitting here. In the car.
She blinked and the handprint was gone.
"Hey."
Fitz nearly jumped out of her skin, whipping around to see Sam, his face tense as he looked down at her.
"What?" She breathed, holding her chest.
"We're heading out," he said stiffly. "You find anything useful?"
"... Not sure," Fitz murmured. She got to her feet and brushed the dirt off of her knees.
And they were off. Dean clapped the back of Sam's head as they power-walked back to the car, and Fitz picked up the pace so she was on Dean's right.
"Ow! What was that for?" Sam groaned.
What the hell did I miss while I was talking to myself in Callahan's voice?
Oh... oh, that sounds weird. That sounds crazy. Don't ask that. Don't even think that.
"Why do you have to step on my foot?" Dean barked.
"Why do you have to talk to police like that?"
Well, now I really want to know.
Dean stepped out in front of them, fixing Sam with an incredulous look. "Come on. They don't really know what's going on. We're all alone on this. If we're gonna find Dad, we've gotta get to the bottom of this thing ourselves."
Sam cleared his throat, but it was Fitz who spoke next, smiling thinly. "Good morning, Agents."
Dean frowned and did a one-eighty, coming to face an older officer and two FBI agents, clad in black ties and black sunglasses. The officer nodded to Fitz. "G'morning, ma'am, gentlemen. Can we help you?"
Fitz opened her mouth to respond, but Dean had other plans. "We were actually just heading out." He grabbed Fitz by her uninjured shoulder and walked the three of them away. "Agent Mulder, Agent Scully."
"X-Files?" Fitz breathed, shrugging Dean's hand off of her. She glanced back to see the sheriff looking at them. She couldn't get a feel for his expression beneath the cowboy hat and sunglasses, but his body language screamed suspicion.
"You just can't help yourself, can you?" Sam shot back at Dean. The older Winchester shrugged and flashed a cheeky smile. "I'm serious." His smile faded. "I've got a life to get back to, Dean, and I'd rather not garner any more attention than we already have."
"Right," Dean grumbled — the whole idea was ridiculous to him, clearly. "Your girlfriend and all that."
"You got something you wanna say to me?"
"Hey," Fitz piped in, snapping her fingers to draw Dean's attention. "You want your jacket back?"
The question seemed to take the fire out of Sam — or maybe he just remembered who else was keeping him company — and he deflated slightly, looking over at Dean.
Dean glanced away. "Wait till we get you
something else to wear. Just don't —"
"Bleed on the jacket, I got it," Fitz said, sliding her hand under the leather to check the constitution of her wrapping. Still dry. "There should be some shops downtown. You guys can check with the sheriff's daughter while I..." She paused. "Well, I... yeah. I guess."
"Problem?" Dean inquired, popping the car door open.
Fitz got in the backseat and Sam walked around the hood. "I don't want you two to be doing all the work while I go and... well, shop. I should be pulling my weight."
"Yeah," Dean began, "you —"
"Don't think about it like that," Sam interjected, craning his neck to look at her. "Dean's the one who broke your stitches."
"You're supposed to have my back here, Sammy."
"Tell me I'm wrong, Dean," Sam looked askance at him. "And you stepped on her. And you busted her lip."
"She bit me!" Dean pointed emphatically to the gauze on his neck.
"I apologized," Fitz countered hesitantly. "But I am still sorry, if that's what you need to hear."
Dean didn't reply, and Sam shook his head slightly. In this moment, at the very least, she could've mistaken Sam for the elder brother.
"If it means that much to you, we can wait while you grab something." Sam's suggestion made Dean whip to face his brother.
"The hell we will! I'm not waiting two hours for her to pick out the jacket she likes."
Fitz scoffed. "Okay, let's be realistic here. You've seen the way I dress." She made a loose gesture down to her outfit — gray tank top, cheap cargo pants, silver charm gleaming faintly. "We both know I'm not exactly Adriana Lima."
"Ain't that right."
"Oh. Okay." Fitz threw her hands up in defeat, dripping sarcasm.
"Hey, your words, not mine."
Fitz pulled a sour face. "Well, I walked right into that one, didn't I?"
Dean grinned, ear-to-ear. Fitz didn't miss how he'd chosen to say it — revenge for what she'd done to him last night, and not nearly quick enough. But she'd let him have it. Just this once.
Sam glanced between the two of them. "So... problem solved?"
Dean settled back into his seat, drummed his fingers on the wheel, and turned on the engine, feeling it purr beneath him. "Yeah. Problem solved. Let's go shopping."