No Tell Motel

It had taken a bit of searching, but Ifalna had found a kitchen like area. Dressed again in jeans and a tee shirt, she wondered about the closets of the place. At least the clothing fit well, if a bit snug.

In any case, she started to poke around in the kitchen. And kept poking until she found things to make a meal.

Real food. It would be good.

She was sure that food smell might draw people. But that was to be expected.

Maybe she'd have to find some favorite foods.

He needed a break. No, he needed a fucking vacation. A whole week with no demons trying to tear off his hide or angels riding him to save the world and no Sam. No fucking Sammy heading to the dark side at top speed with the top down and the radio playing punk ass Everclear.

He pulled into the parking lot, letting his baby idle a few minutes. She was purring, all cylinders firing clean. They could just go. Take the road to nowhere and never look back.

But it would catch up to them. It always did. Sammy would find him, or the demons, or the fucking angels of the fucking apocalypse. Well if they wanted him, they could drag his ass out of bed, he was gonna get laid before the world fucking ended and he went right back up on the rack.

He grabbed his keys, his duffle, and gave the lady at the desk his best heartbreak smile. One room, one bed, no check out date. Hell, he even used his real name. If the Feds still wanted him, let 'em come. He had ammo to spare and he didn't fucking care anymore.

The first thing he did was check his room, line the entryways with salt and grab his silver letter opener/totally conspicious knife. Then he went in search of the booze.

As bars went, it was stocked. And Dean had no reason not to jump over the bar and start rifling for the hard stuff. Tequila. It was a tequila moment.