She laughs like he’s stupid. “Duh, still aren’t using those brains are we?”
And just like that he knows who she is. Maggie Cole, fifth period history, senior year, glasses, perfectly pristine clothes, and a royal pain in the ass. She slammed everything he ever had to say, made fun of him for being on the football team, and continually implied that he didn’t have two brain-cells to rub together.
“Of course it would be you to possess my brother!” He pulls into the motel with a screech of the breaks. He apologizes to his baby in his head.
“Yeah, well,” she snarks back, ducking extremely low like she’s going to hit her head on the door and gets out of the car. He nearly cries at the force of her slam of the door. “Couldn’t get the dumb Winchester.”
“Oh please.” Dean walks into the motel lobby ahead of her. He throws a glance back at her over his shoulder. “You were totally in love with me back in high school, don’t try to deny it.”
“Hand me that wash cloth,” she interrupted imperiously, holding her hand out for it. Sam groaned, muscles straining and aching, and shifted to reach for the cloth sitting on the edge of the tub and threw it back at his brother. Dean caught it and dunked it down into the murky oatmeal water of the tub. She squeezed it out over Sam’s shoulders before soaping it up with the cucumber melon body wash Maureen kept. Sam remembered the first girl he’d liked in high school smelled like that.
Dean’s long slender fingers kneaded the tense muscles, digging into the knot he developed from using the mouse on his computer. Dean laughed at the sounds coming out of his mouth, high and pretty, but Sam could feel the undercurrent of his brother’s deep chuckle in there. To Sam, it was just like Dean.
Dean pulled Sam back against her, unmindful of her skirt or the soft cotton of her shirt, to soap Sam’s front. Sam couldn’t help leaning his head back against her belly, as she made smooth circles across his chest with the terry. It was comfortable, easy, he never wanted to move. Dean’s legs tightened around him and he realized she’d shaved. He wrapped his hand around one gracefully slender ankle, thumb rubbing against the knob of the bone.
They could have been, should have been friends. In any other circumstances the school guidance counselors suspected they would have been the best of friends. Mrs. Drake thought they would have made the perfect Butch and Sundance, although the student body, and the Dean of Students, and the Vice-Principal all disagreed vociferously, just for the sheer number of times the two had come into conflict during school and sporting events.
Jared was the son of incredibly wealthy hippie research psychologists. How the money and the social ideologies managed not to circumvent each other out was anyone’s guess, but nevertheless Jared attended Horace Green without a scholarship and at the same time managed to campaign for public school education, animal rights, and head up the Young Democrats Club without giving anybody pause.
The fact that he was the star shooting guard on the Horace Green Knights Basketball team might have been a mitigating factor. Everybody loved him with his big smile and laughing eyes, even when he was shoving liberal rhetoric down their throats. That is except for Jensen Ackles, the president of the student council, and one of the wealthiest boys in attendance.
Nobody even knew why the two hated each other, Jared wouldn’t give a straight answer, and you’d be stupid to even engage Jensen in a conversation on the matter. The rumors had blown up into something quite spectacular. Jared had slept with Jensen’s beautiful mother. Jensen had personally moved to put Jared’s parents out of work, and so on. The reality was that the two had a disagreement over Charles Dickens the first day of Freshman Honors English and that had simply been it for them.
“You don’t know anything about me, Wesson!” Dean snarled, shoving the taller boy hard in the shoulder.
“Oh? Don’t I?” Sam shot back, glaring. “You’re an only child, lonely. Your car is your baby, you don’t let anybody else work on her but you. However, you don’t drive her around in the city, which is why you have a motorcycle. Your favorite color is green. Cassie has been your girl friend for a year, and you have a golden retriever.”
Dean swallowed, face full of wonder and awe, before it cleared going back to the careful disinterested blankness he’d cultivated so well. “What are you? My stalker?”
Sam made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. “Hardly, there’s dog hair on your jeans. Ring impressions take a year and a half to fade, yours is two-thirds gone, and the ring that Cassie flaunts to all and sundry on her thumb fits your ring finger. You always where a little bit of green, even your bag is green, as well as the detailing on your motorcycle jacket, which must be custom, since it ordinarily comes in red. I’m thinking you ride a ninja, because that’s the only bike in the parking lot with good engine. Also, you have a motor oil on your palms and your knees. This school doesn’t have an auto shop, so reasonably, one assumes you work on your car yourself.”
Dean stared at him, lips parted.
“I could be wrong,” Sam offered and then smiled. “But I’m not.”
And that kiddies, is that.