Wayward Son

Chapter 10

 So, this was the douchebag who'd broken Ruthie's heart.

She never mentioned he looked like Dr. Sexy, M.D. Thick, dark hair, grown long like Sam's, tastefully scruffy whiskers, strong jaw, broad shoulders. Dude looked like the cover of a damn romance novel. And Dean thought he'd hated the guy before now.

Mike kept eye contact with Ruthie, but it seemed like a struggle. His head hung like a dog's who'd gotten caught digging in the trash. He twisted a watch around his wrist; his mouth opened and closed a couple times. Ruthie stood there watching him, letting him squirm. Attagirl. She'd composed her face into a serene mask, but her hands were balled into tight little fists at her sides.

"I saw you," Mike blurted. "I had to see if it was really you." He rubbed his arm. "They said you'd been at the hospital."

She raised an eyebrow and waited.

His neck flushed red. "I heard you're with the CDC now? That's great. That's really. . ." he stammered.

Standing there, watching Ruthie face her worst memory, her biggest betrayal, sent pride coursing like adrenaline through Dean's veins. He knew she'd been dreading this moment, but now that it was here she didn't run or shrink or cry. She stood straight, staring him down like a boss.

Mike stared at her shoes, rubbing his arm again, before taking a half step toward her. He gave her a pleading look and lowered his already deep voice. "Could we talk? Somewhere else, I mean?"

Oh, hell no.

Dean stepped forward and put his arm around Ruthie, placing his hand on her lower back in a possessive pose. Cover be damned. "Hi there." He forced a casual tone and stuck out his right hand. "I don't think we've met. Dean Hetfield."

Mike's eyes jumped back and forth between them, and he shuffled backward a step. "Oh. Hi." He took Dean's hand and gave it a brief shake, letting go before Dean could crush his knuckles.

Ruthie glanced up at Dean with a question in her eyes, but didn't pull away or remove his hand from the small of her back. "Agent Hetfield, this is Dr. Mike Boothe."

"Ah. You must be the FBI guy I heard about." Mike kept sneaking glances at Dean's arm around Ruthie.

Dean pulled her in a little closer. She didn't tense or lean away. In fact, she seemed to relax, to fit perfectly at his side.

Mike turned his attention back to Ruthie. "So, uh, will you be in town long?"

"Depends on the case."

He gave a jerky little nod. "Well. Um, I guess I'll head over there. . ." He gestured vaguely toward the room with the food.

"Agent Hetfield?"

Mike paused; Ruthie stiffened. Dean turned toward the bubbly voice. Monica wore a form-fitting black dress, not exactly inappropriate, but definitely not as modest as Ruthie's. She carried herself like a woman who knew the effect she had on men, and enjoyed it. Her eyes traced Dean's arm to where it disappeared behind Ruthie's back.

"Hi, Mike, Ruthie." She acknowledged them with a brief nod, then focused on Dean. "You said to call if I thought of anything else. I was going to call you later tonight, but I saw you over here and thought we might as well talk in person."

Dean didn't have to look at Ruthie. Her rigid body quivered beneath his arm, displeasure pulsing from her like Morse code. He knew what Dean Winchester would do right now: he'd tell both these clowns where they could go, then take Ruthie out for beers to unwind, maybe pick up ingredients for pie and make one together. She liked to bake when she was stressed. But she'd warned him not to let on he knew anything. He needed to be Agent Hetfield—even if Agent Hetfield appeared to be getting cozy with Ms. Trujillo.