You were slowly getting worried since the boys wanted to be back at the motel about an hour ago. And besides your worries you were hungry too.
Maybe Sam and Dean already ate something on their way so they wouldn’t mind if you’d get yourself something before they were back.
You opened the door to your room and looked around, maybe they were approaching just in time. But it didn’t seem like they did.
You shrugged. But just when you were about to leave your room you noticed the german shepherd right in front of you, looking directly into your eyes.
You smiled and knelt beside him, ruffling the fur between his ears.
“Hey buddy,” you said, completely aware of the fact that you were talking to a dog.
“Where’s your owner?” You asked him, looking around if there was somebody to whom the dog could belong. But the dog just tilted his head and the fact that he hadn’t a collar confirmed your thought that he maybe was a stray.
You opened the door to the room a bit and signalized him to go inside. He wagged his tail.
“But don’t tell Dean,” you chuckled. By now you had completely forgotten that you wanted to buy yourself some food.
…my dad wouldn’t let me get dressed or undressed in my own room for almost a year because, once, this guy in our neighbourhood got 911 called on him for peeping into a lady’s window and he was wearing nothing but batman briefs and a pair of pink knee high socks, and when the cops got there, he was on his knees in front of the window, sobbing while holding two pears to his chest because he was high on LSD.
Sam Winchester isn’t into looks - not his own, anyway.
Sam was still a gangly preteen when Dean transformed into a butterfly. He’d always worn his hair on the long side - the one area where he didn’t attempt to emulate Dean - as a small rebellion against John. He grew it even longer when he hit puberty, using it as a mask. With his head low and his hair covering his face, he found he could escape notice more often than not, especially with Dean shining like a beacon next to him. As he grew taller, and started to stand out, the ability to hide behind his hair became even more important. He usually sweeps his hair out of his face now, but he’d still feel uncomfortably exposed if it were as short as Dean’s.
Sam doesn’t work out to look good. His body is a tool, not an ornament. He works out and eats right because he’s got to have the strength, speed, and endurance to save people. Save innocent strangers, save the people he loves. Save Dean. He wears layers of loose clothing because it’s another way to hide, and because an extra shirt is always handy to use as a bandage, or something to wrap around a cold victim, or to serve as another layer between him and a claw or tooth or knife.
Sam never steals flashy cars. Partly for obvious practical reasons, but also because he doesn’t like his car to stand out, stolen or not. The only time he selected a flashy car was when he was soulless. If Sam were buying a car today, it would be something older, something tough. An old truck, a beat-up Jeep. His car needs to be like his body - sturdy, functional, dependable, but not eye-catching. (Of course, his body is eye-catching, hence the baggy clothes.)
Sam doesn’t think of himself as attractive. He doesn’t really understand the power of the puppy dog eyes. He doesn’t know he’s gorgeous. He doesn’t know how he melts hearts when he looks down and smiles. He doesn’t realize his dimples are actual sunshine. He’s always surprised when women are interested in him, especially when Dean’s there. Then again, so is Dean.
A commission piece requested by the lovely frideratorworld! Give them lots of love, they gave me permission to post it to tumblr, and since it’s a comic I figured it’d be great to post here instead of my main blog.
It was an easy job, after you swiped the keys, you were in and out of the parking lot in less than four minutes. The model was much older than your usual jack, but it was nice riding in a classic, especially a 67 Chevy Impala as nice as this one.
You were the best at what you did, and that’s why you could charge so much for your services and still have buyers lined up at the door. It was pricey, but you were a professional and you always got the job done.
Normally you didn’t do face-to-face. You’d wait for the first payment to pop up in your bank account in the Caymans, drop off the car in a predetermined location, and then wait for the second payment. If it didn’t come, you had a way of finding people.
That was the way you worked. It was efficient, it was professional, and most importantly, it was safe. This job was different though. They could have bought more than ten of these cars legally for the money they were paying you to jack it. Obviously, it was personal. It was also against your better judgement, but a paycheck this easy doesn’t come very often and you could use a little vacation.
So this was how you ended up in an aquarium parking lot inside the aforementioned stolen 67 Chevy impala, along with a very tall and very angry (and very attractive) man knocking on the side window with a very fake FBI badge pressed against the glass.
You cracked the window just enough so that sound would pass through and gave him a flirty smile. “What seems to be the problem, agent?”