Supernatural--Season 1

Episode 1; Part 3--Pilot, or The Woman in White

From the bathroom, Dean could hear Sam pacing, then the squeak of bedsprings. Once the rest of the sound stopped, he could hear a voicemail playing.

"Hey, it's me, it's about ten-twenty Saturday night--" The voicemail stops with an annoying beep. Dean assumed the girl's voice was Jess. Sam really loved that girl. Dean thought it was going to get him killed.

Dean came out of the bathroom, no longer covered in mud. He grabbed his jacket and walked across the room, shrugging it onto one shoulder. "Hey, man. I'm starving, I'm gonna grab a little something to eat in that diner down the street. You want anything?"

"No," Sam answered curtly.

 "Aframian's buying," Dean continued in a sing-song voice.

Sam shook his head. "Mm-mm." Dean shrugged and walked out.

* * * *

When he walked outside, Dean was still putting on his jacket as he walked across the parking lot. He glanced over to see a cop car, where the Motel Clerk was talking to deputy Jaffe and Deputy Hein. Dean turned away and pulled out his phone, speed-dialing Sam.

"What?" Sam asked.

Dean shot a fast look at the deputies, who were now approaching him quickly. "Dude, five-oh, take off." He warned Sam.

"What about you?" Dean could tell that Sam had already stood up and started moving out.

"Uh, they kinda spotted me. Go find Dad." He hung up the phone and turned to the deputies, grinning widely. "Problem, officers?"

"Where's your partner?" Jaffe demanded.

"Partner? What--What partner?" Dean knew that he'd screwed up royally, and had to play it off.

Jaffe glanced over his shoulder and jerked his thumb toward the motel room. Hein headed toward Sam's window, which Dean saw his brother duck out of, faster than Hein would've noticed.

Come on, Sammy, get the Hell outta here! Dean thought vehemently.

"So. Fake U.S. Marshal. Fake credit cards. You got anything that real?"

"My boobs," Dean answered, without hesitation. He grinned with a crooked, mischievous smile, the one that made teachers set him up front instantly when he was younger.

The cop slammed him over the Impala, "You have the right remain silent--" Dean stopped listening.

* * * *

Well, here he was, in an interrogation room. He had been in many, but for the fifth or so time, he was on the opposite side. Now he was being asked the questions.

Sheriff Pierce walks in, carrying a small metal box. He set the box down on the table and sits at the seat across from Dean. "So you want to give us your real name?"

"I told you, it's Nugent. Ted Nugent." Dean insisted.

"I'm not sure you realize how much trouble you're in here."

Dean grinned again. "We talkin' like, misdemeanor trouble, or, uh, squeal like a pig trouble?" The Sheriff glared at him.

"You got the faces of ten missing persons taped to your wall."

Dean's eyes bored into the table. He wouldn't believe me, even if I did tell him the truth. Why do people insist on being so blind!

"Along with a whole lot of Satanic mumbo-jumbo. Boy, you are officially a suspect." He set his hand on the table, the way that dad's do when they scold you.