Wayward Son

Chapter 1

Dean scrubbed harder at the stubborn bug splat on Baby's windshield. Ruthie crouched nearby, working on the driver's side wheel with a stiff-bristled brush. A classic rock station played from the old radio in the corner of the garage.

"I thought Sam was coming to help?" Dean asked her.

She shrugged. "He was glued to his laptop when I came through the library. Said something about maybe finding a case."

Dean wasn't surprised. They'd all been burning up with cabin fever. Sam and Ruthie had insisted they all lay low while Dean's ghoul bite healed, and it had taken weeks for new skin to fill in the gaping hole. They'd killed time at the bunker with rounds of poker and late nights telling Ruthie stories about past hunts. That, and enjoying her cooking. Dean figured he and Sam had each gained ten pounds.

Ruthie had been especially curious about angels and demons. "It's still hard for me to believe they're real." Then she'd crossed her arms and tapped her foot. "When do I get to meet Castiel? I'm starting to think you made him up."

They hadn't kept him away on purpose or anything. They'd seen Cas a few times since Idaho, but it had been while they were out on hunts and Ruthie was back at the bunker. It seemed like he was always dealing with some new drama with heaven or other angels, and could never hang around long.

"And Crowley?" Ruthie had seemed incredulous. "You're on a first name basis with the king of Hell?"

Dean and Sam had exchanged a look. They'd sort of forgotten how freakish their lives were until Ruthie came along.

Dean shrugged. "It's just one name. Like Prince, or Madonna."

"His mother calls him Fergus," Sam added.

Ruthie had stared at them for a minute before cracking up. He and Sam had laughed too. It was impossible not to, with her.

It was also becoming impossible for him to ignore her legs in those cutoff jean shorts. Dean forced his eyes back to the bug guts. He'd stuck to his word from that day in the hospital. They had a good thing going here, the three of them. If he started something with Ruthie, it might be nice for a while, but it would end. It always ended. And based on his track record, it would end badly. Most likely with her getting hurt, or worse. Better to keep things like this.

Besides, Ruthie deserved better.

He'd just have to keep on trying not to notice certain things. Like the way her favorite black v-neck shirt hugged her in just the right places, or how the spokes of gold in her eyes shone when he stood near her. How she laughed at his jokes when Sam rolled his eyes. The times he'd glance up from a lore book to find she'd been watching him. The way she'd drop her gaze, and cover her throat with her hand.

He might as well try not to notice hunger pangs, or an itchy mosquito bite, or the smell of baking pie.

Ruthie dipped her brush into the bucket of sudsy water and moved to the back wheel, the last one she hadn't cleaned yet. Her shorts and racerback tank were still dry; she approached car-washing with the same surgical precision as stitching skin.

"You missed a spot," he told her.

"Did not."

He grinned. Of course she hadn't. He just liked messing with her.

Ruthie stood and walked away from him.

"Hey!" He held his hands out to the sides, dripping soapy water from his sponge onto the garage floor. "Where are you going?"

"Hang on," she called over her shoulder. "This is important."

She reached the radio and cranked up the volume. Boston. More Than a Feeling. Ruthie did a dramatic spin to face him, holding the bristle brush up to her mouth like a mic. She reached up with her other hand, then pulled her arm down, making a fist while she enthusiastically lip-synced. "I see my Marianne walkin' awaaaay..." When the note jumped up higher, so did her hand. She threw her head back, mouth wide open, pointing finger stretched toward the ceiling. "Aaaaaaay!"