Dirty Deeds (Done Dirt Cheap)

Chapter 1: Message In a Bottle

SONG: Message In a Bottle by The Police

I sit in front of my easel, my oil paints splayed out on the table next to me - along with brushes and a towel and a cup of thinner. The painting holds a painting of Jess, her image not leaving my brain lately. Something stirs in my stomach, a pit, a hole. I lean back in the chair, inspecting the strokes and brushes and colors. It looks like her all right. She smiles at me from the canvas, a flower tucked behind her ear - it's a photo from when she came home from her first date with Sam. My favorite photo of her, so excited, so happy. The Death Riders play softly from my stereo, it takes 3 knocks and a yell to knock me out of my trance of painting and metal music. I frown, checking the time:

    2:15 AM

    "Now what kinda psycho...?" I stand, wiping the paint from my hands on my already oil painted jeans. I crack my back, sore from sitting for god knows how long. I approach the door, careful not to step on the ring of salt which forms a half circle around the door. I check the peephole, a freakishly tall man on my doorstep. He stands with a slightly shorter man next to him but still fairly tall. "Sam." I mutter before unlatching the door and opening it. Sam turns his attention to me, smiling weakly,

    "I know I'm not interrupting you," Sam raises a brow, "I can hear the angst from outside." I furrow my brows slightly, the corners of my lips tugging up into a smile.

    "It is not that loud." I scoff, looking at my stereo. The somewhat shorter man speaks up,

    "Oh, sweetheart- if I can identify the band," he raises his brows, a cocky smile on his lips, "which I can, The Death Riders, good choice by the way - it's too loud." I step aside, letting the boys in. Narrowing my eyes as I inspect this mystery man. I lick my lips, looking between him and Sam, thinking. Something about him seems familiar, like a face I've encountered before. I decide to shrug it off for now, closing the door before turning to Sam.

    "I heard about the interview!" I grin, "Congrats, man!" Sam smiles sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. God, Sam has never been able to take a compliment.

    "Thanks, yeah, super exciting." He nods, before his eyes widen slightly, "Oh, and I heard about you and Johns Hopkins, dude! That's friggin' amazing!" I do my best to smile but I'm sure the mask is sheer.

    "Yeah, super." I breathe out, my lips forming a straight line. Sam's eyes narrow but I can tell he doesn't want to pry.

    I had gotten into my dream medical school after busting my ass at Stanford. I may have worked my ass off but it didn't mean I was going to get a scholarship. I got the acceptance letter a month before my rich bitch step-mom cut me off from the family. My dad, who was once supportive and ready to pay for medical school, since he didn't have to pay for Stanford, was wretched away from me by that hag. I couldn't go. My dream school for years was plucked away from me in a blink of an eye.

    I notice the green-eyed stranger survey my music corner, filled with vinyls, cds, and cassettes. I study his figure before it clicks for me,

    "Dean Winchester." I say. He turns, arching a brow.

    "That's my name." He shoots me a grin, one that would have all the sorority girls begging to suck his dick. Let's be real, I would've too, but I exited that phase once I graduated highschool.

"You're Sam's older brother right?" I say, walking over to my stereo, pausing the cassette - turning back to the brothers. Dean nods, his eyes flicker over me, probably trying to gauge my cup size.

"That I am." He smirks at me, his splattered freckles stretching as he does. I narrow my eyes, slightly, nodding and inspecting him. Dean seems to give up the facade of being the playbot and faces Sam.