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Put Your Lips Together and Blow

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A glint of light reflecting off something shiny catches Dean's eye as he's checking on the car, and he peers out the window.

"Binoculars," he says, holding out a hand without turning. The binoculars are cool and heavy in his palm, and he adjusts them, focusing in the direction of the glint.

He finds himself looking at a silver SUV with a blonde in the front seat. A blonde with a very large telephoto lens pointed right at the Camelot Motel. He wonders if she's cute.

"We may have a witness," he says.

"What?" Sam comes up beside him, and Dean hands him the binoculars.

"A witness." Sam takes down the license plate and Dean says, "Tomorrow, we'll talk to her, see if she's caught anything useful with that camera."


Her mouth is hot and wet, and even when it's wrapped tight around his dick, her lipstick never smudges, doesn't leave a trace on his skin.

This is how Dean knows he's dreaming, because most of the girls he fucks like to leave traces of themselves behind.

It's a good dream.

Her hair is blonde, like the chick with the camera, and his unconscious fills in Scarlett Johansson's face.

Something flickers behind her eyes, and he jerks awake, startled. He can't remember the last time he had a wet dream. Unfortunately, he also can't remember the last time he got laid. Or, really, he can, but it was way too long ago and hardly counts at this point.

He can hear the couple in the next room going at it, breathy moans in counterpoint to the headboard banging against the wall. He knows he's not going to get back to sleep with that going on. It's probably what woke him up in the first place.

Bright morning sunlight is filtering through the curtains but Sam is still dead to the world, a rare enough occurrence these days that Dean isn't even tempted to wake him. He gets up and showers, takes his time under the hot spray, impressed with the water pressure. He can remember random scraps of his dream when he closes his eyes, but when he comes, imagining her mouth wrapped around him again, her face is a strange blank.


The blonde is leaning against the Impala when they finally leave, driven out by the non-stop noise from the room next door.

"Sweet car," she says, arms crossed over her chest, her smile like a razor.

Dean grins, always pleased at praise for his baby, even when he knows there's something else going on. "You wanna go for a ride?"

Her smile doesn't falter; it gets even sharper, which he wouldn't have thought possible. "I bet you say that to all the girls." Her voice is overly sweet, like someone poured too much sugar into burnt coffee.

"Maybe," slight shrug of his shoulder, "but nobody's ever complained."

"I bet they haven't."

"Okay, as much fun as it is to watch you two reenact Bogey and Bacall's first meeting," Sam says, "we've actually got work to do."

"Yeah, about that," she says, giving Sam an incredulous once over. He's about twice as tall as she is. Dean bites back a laugh. "You hear anything strange last night? Out of place?"

Dean looks over at Sam, who has his most earnest, innocent expression on, but before Sam can say anything, Dean says, "Couple in the room next door got a little rowdy."

She looks away quickly, lips thinning in annoyance. "You get a look at either of them?"

"That's kinda kinky."

He can see the muscle working in her jaw as she clenches it, no doubt biting back some choice words. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a picture of a thirty-something guy with a receding hairline and a goofy grin. He's got his arm around a curvy brunette and they look like an advertisement for happiness. "Dave Bonner, of the Neptune Bonners," she says. "His wife and three kids would like him to come home."

"You're a little young to be a private dick." Dean snaps off the last word, hoping for a reaction. The one he gets isn't the one he's expecting.

"Better a private dick than a public one," she says, giving him a skeptical look, amusement in her voice.

"You're not wrong," Dean replies. "You wanna go somewhere private and I'll show you my--"

"Dean!" Sam interrupts before Dean can finish the sentence, which is probably for the best. They don't even know if she's legal. Sam purses his lips and glares at Dean for a second. "We're reporters from the Palo Alto Daily News. We heard about the mysterious deaths here and--"

"If you're reporters, I'm Miss Neptune 2009," she says.

Dean gives her an appreciative look. "I bet you won the swimsuit competition."

"I'm a killer in heels." She flashes him that sharp grin again and then turns her attention back to Sam. "Mysterious deaths? Seriously?"

"Marco Rodriguez and Jerry McNulty were both under the age of thirty, they both stayed in room one seventeen at the Camelot Motel within two weeks of each other, and they both died of heart attacks while on the premises," Sam says. "That's pretty weird, don't you think?"

"Maybe they ate too much red meat," she says, but Dean can see the interest in her eyes.

"I'm Sam Franklin, and this is my partner, Dean Blake," Sam says before Dean can turn that into something dirty. He holds out a hand and she takes it.

"Veronica Mars." There's some weird combination of amusement and wariness in her voice that rings a faint bell in Dean's head, but he can't place it before it slips away. Her hand is tiny and warm in his, her grip firm. He holds on just a second too long, lets his thumb slide along the smooth skin on the back of her hand as he lets go. She lets him, looking amused at the gesture.

"Like I said, we're reporters," Sam continues, ignoring her suspicion completely, "but neither of us is any good with the camera, so we were hoping maybe you'd share some of your pictures with us." He nods at the telephoto lens poking out of her messenger bag.

She gives them a narrow-eyed, appraising look that reminds Dean of a hunter sizing up its prey. "Why don't you buy me breakfast and we'll talk about it?" she finally says.

Dean grins. "I could go for some pancakes."

"Meet me at the Neptune Diner in fifteen minutes. The pancakes are okay, but the company's awesome."

She heads back to her car before either of them can answer. Dean admires the curve of her ass and the swing of her hips as she walks away.

"This is gonna be fun," he says. Sam huffs, annoyed, and rolls his eyes.


The diner is easy enough to find, and they get there before Veronica. They've missed the breakfast crowd and are just ahead of the lunch rush--the place is almost empty. The hostess nods them towards a padded red vinyl booth and as they slide in, a bus boy puts two waters and two coffee mugs in front of them.

"We're meeting a friend," Dean says. "Tiny blonde girl, about yay-high. Send her over when she comes in."

The guy snorts and walks away. He comes back with hot coffee, though, so Dean decides not to hold it against him.

"Good day for blondes," Dean says, leaning back against the booth; it and the Formica table are the same color as the lipstick in the dream he'd had. The memory comes rushing back now, making him smile. "I had this awesome dream last night about this amazingly hot chick who could do the most incredible things with her tongue."

"Blonde, with red lipstick and legs up to her neck?" Sam interrupts, suddenly intent, none of the usual disgust about hearing the gory details of Dean's sex life present on his face.

Dean nods. "And a wicked hot mouth." He takes a long sip of coffee, lets it start working its healing magic on his system. "Looked just like Scarlett Johansson." Which isn't exactly true, now that he thinks about it, but he likes the image enough to stop and revel in it for a few seconds.


"You dream about her, too?"

Sam flushes. "What? No. I mean, yeah, no. She wasn't Scarlett Johansson. I thought it was Jess," he mutters, looking down and scratching the back of his neck.

"Oh." Dean's not sure what to say about that. He knows Sam has moved on, as much as anyone in their family has ever moved on from loving a woman, and Dean knows he's mostly okay about it now, her death avenged and his life on the road a reality, but on the rare occasions Sam mentions her, his voice always has that soft, wistful tone that makes Dean wish he could bring her back, if that would make Sam happy. Maybe it's the only thing that could. Dean doesn't know anymore. He doesn't show it, though. Instead, he says, "The couple in the next room was going at it all night, Sam. We probably just picked up on it in our sleep."

"I guess." Sam sounds doubtful, but doesn't say anything else because Veronica slides into the booth beside him.

"Miss me?" she asks cheerfully, grabbing Dean's coffee and taking a sip.

"Not anymore," he answers, trying to yank the mug back without spilling any of its contents. "Why didn't you take his?"

"His has milk and sugar in it. I knew you'd be all butch and take it black."

Sam frowns like he's the one being mocked. Dean kicks him under the table and grins. "No caramel macchiatos for you, huh?"

"Not from this place." She gives the waitress a tight smile when she pours a mug for her. The waitress doesn't smile back. "I'm not a regular."

"I'm sensing that." Dean takes another sip of coffee, doesn't bother with turning the mug around and putting his mouth where hers had been. They do have work to do, after all.

"So what's Dave Bonner's story?" Sam asks after they order.

"I'm not supposed to share the details of a case," Veronica says. "Client confidentiality, you know."

Sam nods. "Yeah." He goes for the earnest look again, but Dean's not sure that's actually going to work on this girl, so he takes charge of the conversation.

"I'm guessing Bonner's not attending a Knights of Columbus meeting at the local hot sheet motel," Dean says. "His wife hired you to find out if he's banging his secretary, and you stake the place out and take pictures. This is probably your main source of business, right? Cheating husbands, deadbeat dads, and paternity cases."

"Yeah." Veronica doesn't put much syrup on her pancakes, and she threatens Dean with her fork when he makes a play for her bacon. Sam shakes his head and pushes his eggs around on his plate.

"You get any pictures of Bonner with his hand in the cookie jar?" He actually swallows all his food before he asks. He thinks he's still got a shot, so there's no need to gross her out unnecessarily, though he thinks she'd probably get a kick out of it.

"Not yet." She takes the camera out of her bag. "He's got someone in there with him, but I haven't gotten a good look at whoever it is." She hands it over to Dean, who clicks through the pictures quickly. "I need to find a way to lure her out of the room."

"Room one seventeen," he says, showing Sam the picture of Bonner opening the motel room door. "They were definitely going at it all night. Loudly."

"That's great," Veronica says, "but without a picture, I can't prove it." She takes the camera back, tucks it away in her bag. "I've scratched your back," she says, crossing her arms over her chest, "so how about you scratch mine?"

"Gladly," Dean says, pulling her plate over and finishing off her pancakes. "Rodriguez and McNulty don't seem to have a lot in common, other than that they were both in their mid-twenties and they both checked into the Camelot Motel with a woman the desk clerk is unable to identify, except he swears she was movie star hot. The same woman. And they both ended up dead."

"You think this mysterious woman, what, poisoned them?"

Dean gives a half-shrug and a half-smile. "Stranger things have happened."

"And you drove all the way down from Palo Alto for that?" She snorts. "Nice touch, by the way. A little salt in the wound, huh?"


"Next time, try a little harder to make your cover believable. I worked on my high school newspaper and considered majoring in journalism. There's no story here." Veronica tosses her napkin onto the table and stands. "Are you working for Vinnie Van Lowe? Or maybe on your own? Going to blackmail Bonner into paying you not to tell his wife he's cheating?"

Sam says, "Who? What?"

Dean says, "No."

"Right." There's so much sarcasm in her voice Dean thinks it might actually be tangible. "Thanks for breakfast, boys." She slings her bag over her shoulder and walks out.

"That went well," Dean says, ignoring the way Sam is laughing at him.

"Oh, yeah."


The motel parking lot is crowded with cops and reporters when they get back, and they're just in time to see a body being rolled out of room one seventeen and into the coroner's van.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Sam says.

"I hate succubi," Dean answers. "It's always a clusterfuck with them."

"Sometimes literally." Sam heaves a sigh. "And we don't even know what this one looks like."

They hang around for a while, let themselves be questioned by the sheriff and his deputies, try to do a little questioning of their own, though nobody's able to tell them anything they haven't already figured out. The clerk still can't describe the woman Bonner checked in with, even with police pressure; all he remembers is that she was hot. "It's southern California, man. All the chicks are hot and blonde, you know?"

"Yeah," Dean says, frowning.

They head back to the diner, since the motel is still crawling with press and law enforcement, and both make Dean equally uncomfortable.

The waitress doesn't smile at them, even though they left her a decent tip at breakfast, and she seems immune to Dean's usual waitress-charming tricks.

"Is it me, or does this town have a real--" Sam pauses, searching for the words.

"Greasers versus Socs vibe?" Dean supplies, and when Sam laughs, he flicks soda at him with his straw. They'd spent time in towns like this growing up, towns where there was a very clear dividing line between rich and poor, popular and outcast. Dean hadn't minded much--after a disastrous attempt in eighth grade, he'd stopped caring about fitting in. Sam, on the other hand, Sam had always tried so hard, and the older they'd gotten, the worse it was for him--too smart, too new, too tall, too weird, and by the time he'd managed to find a group of friends, it was time to move on.

"Some of the richest people in the country live in Neptune," Sam says.

"Yeah, I was just--I remember why Veronica's name sounded familiar."

Sam nods. "The Lilly Kane murder."

"Talk about your clusterfucks." Dean shakes his head, takes a sip of his soda, rattling the ice cubes around in the glass. "Her dad was the sheriff."

"I wonder why she stayed," Sam says.

Dean looks down at the ring of condensation left by his glass of soda. He rubs his fingers through it. "I don't."


They start hitting the bars at three-thirty. Sam wants to wait until five, but Dean overrules him.

"It's Friday," Dean says. "Happy hour starts early. And there are a lot of bars in this town."

The first couple of places are pure old man bars, neighborhood places where nobody new ever shows up. They don't stay long in those, too conscious of being outsiders with no crowd to blend into, and no belief that hot chicks either human or demonic will ever walk through the doors.

They hit the Surf's Up, the Rusty Scupper, and the Bait Shack with no luck, and Dean's nursing a pint of the local microbrew and chatting up a snobby brunette at the Pirate Lounge when Veronica breezes in.

"Hi, Carrie," she says. "If you'll excuse us?"

"Yeah, sure." Carrie gives Dean one last amused once-over and walks away, shaking her head.

"Funny thing happened," Veronica says when Carrie is gone. Dean has to lean in close to hear her, and he's struck again by how tiny she is. Sam's sitting on the barstool behind her and he's still probably got a couple of inches on her.


"Yeah, I got back from our little breakfast date and found out Dave Bonner was dead."

Dean nods. "Saw him getting loaded into the coroner's van. Sucks to be him."

"There wasn't a mark on him," she continues. "Preliminary autopsy report suggests he had a heart attack after engaging in strenuous activity."

"That was quick."

"The coroner hasn't exactly been busy lately."

"Good for him."

"Another funny thing I found out this afternoon." She smiles and Dean's not easily scared, but he can feel the hair on the back of his neck prickle. Maybe she's been the succubus the whole time. He looks at Sam, who's got a flask of holy water in his hand. Sam's mouth twists in an annoyed frown and Dean reaches into his pocket for his own flask. "You two are awfully active for guys who are supposed to be dead." She shifts, puts her back against the bar, one hand tucked into her bag.

"We're not dead," Dean says, "or even undead. Got all my parts in working order, if you wanna check 'em out." He leers at her, trying to get her to lighten up a little.

She makes a face like she wants to laugh, but her hand doesn't come out of the bag. He doesn't think she's got a gun in there, but he can't tell. He shifts, feels the solid weight of his own gun against the small of his back, but he doesn't reach for it. Not yet.

"I know you think you're clever, boys, but I'm at least as smart as you are."

"Smarter, probably," Dean says. "Though Sammy here is kind of a genius."

She ignores him. "I took a seminar on the history of crime fiction last semester. Franklin Blake was the name of the gentleman detective in The Moonstone, one of the very first detective novels ever written."

"I told you we should have gone with my aliases," Dean mutters. "But no, you had to get all literary and shit."

"Seriously?" Sam says, overriding him, like he hopes she didn't hear Dean over the music or something. Like he doesn't know they're screwed. "What a weird coincidence." He's got his best earnest, innocent face on, but Veronica's not buying it.

"I don't believe in coincidences," she says.

"Amazingly enough, neither do I," Dean says. "We have so much in common."

But Veronica seems determined to get out whatever it is she wants to say and doesn't let him distract her. She keeps talking as if he hadn't spoken. "But everything about this case has been weird, including all the strange anomalies in your FBI files."

"Like the fact that the bodies stop falling when we arrive in town?" Dean asks.

"There is that," she concedes, nodding. "And all the eyewitnesses who swear you helped them."

"We're the good guys here, sweetheart," Dean says. He takes a sip of his beer and forces himself not to wince at how bad it tastes now that it's warm. His attention is caught by a blonde making her way down the bar, banging body poured into a tight black dress and full lips and long nails painted fuck me red.

She stumbles when she reaches them, puts a hand on Veronica's shoulder, nails digging into the bare skin of her neck. "I'm so clumsy," she says in a low, husky voice as Veronica shrugs her off, face twisting in annoyance.

"Not a problem," Dean says, offering her hand. She takes it, lets him pull her close enough to kiss him, her tongue slipping quickly into and then out of his mouth, setting his whole body on fire.

She brushes her knuckles along his cheek and walks away. Every eye in the bar follows the swing of her hips, and only Sam's hand clamping down on Dean's shoulder keeps him from trailing after her so he can bend her over the hood of the Impala and fuck her senseless.

"Shit," Sam says, stumbling to his feet, eyes widening in realization. "I'm gonna go after her."


"It's okay, Dean. I'll take care of it." He looks down at Veronica, who's swaying on her feet. She licks her lips and glances around the bar speculatively, irritation forgotten. "You take care of Veronica."

"Be careful, Sam." Dean knows he should object more, should insist on going with Sam, but he can't focus on anything but the pounding need in his veins, and Veronica's full, pink lips. He can't leave her alone here, either.

Sam looks at Veronica again, then back at Dean. "You, too." And then he pushes his way out of the bar.

Dean watches him go and then turns to Veronica, who presses herself up against him and twines her arms around his neck.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi," he says, leaning down to kiss her, all wet, sloppy tongue. She makes a low, hoarse sound that vibrates through him, and he pulls her close, seats her on the barstool Sam was sitting on and stands between her legs. He trails his lips over the smooth skin of her throat, stopping only when he tastes the copper tang of blood on his tongue. He pulls back, sees the three scratch marks on Veronica's neck, puts his mouth over them again. "Lemme kiss it better."

"What?" Veronica's eyes are hazy, dark, and she pulls him down into another heated kiss. He can feel the hard points of her nipples against his chest and he slides his hands up under her shirt to cup her breasts. Her breath hitches and her legs wrap around him; even through her jeans and his, he can feel the heat of her cunt against his dick.

"Are you wet for me?" he asks, his mouth moving over her ear, wishing he could feel it without layers of clothes in between them.

She shivers and gasps, tipping her head back so he can lick her neck, which tastes of salt and soap. "So wet for you."

"Come on." He lifts her easily and carries her out of the bar, her legs still wrapped around his waist and her arms still around his neck.

The cool evening air, clean and smelling of the ocean after the stale beer and smoke smell of the bar, clears Dean's mind a little. He deposits her on the trunk of the car and pulls away.

"Holy fuck." He scrubs a hand over his mouth and paces back and forth.

Veronica's wearing a startled look. "What's wrong, Dean?" She sounds nervous for the first time since he met her. "What's going on?"

"We've been whammied by a succubus."

"We've been what by a what?"

"A succubus." He closes his eyes, tries to breathe slowly, control the desire raging through him. "That's what killed Rodriguez and McNulty. And your guy, Bonner. They're like leeches--they attach themselves to men and suck all the vitality out of them with sex."

"I'll suck your--" Veronica starts and then stops herself, like what he's said has finally sunk in. "Fuck."

"Thanks for the image. Jesus." He turns away so he doesn't have to look at her, tits and hips and kiss-swollen lips, draped over his car like a fantasy. Closing his eyes doesn't help--he imagines her down on her knees while he fucks into her hot, pink mouth.

"Dean, what do we do?" She touches his shoulder gently and he can't help it, he turns back and kisses her hard, all teeth and thrusting tongue. She moans into his mouth, runs her hands through his hair and then down over his shoulders to cling to him as she arches into him, pressing her breasts against his chest.

"Sam," he says in between dropping kisses down the long curve of her throat, "Sam will kill it, and we should be fine." She pulls him back up to her mouth, her tongue curling hot and sweet against his. "We just have to hold on," he says when she lets him up for air. They breathe into each other's mouths for a few seconds, and Dean can hear music from the bar faintly over the sound of his own heartbeat and the low throaty noises of encouragement Veronica is making. He hooks a hand behind her knee and hitches her leg around his hip, so he can thrust against her, the friction sending sparks of pleasure racing down his spine. Some small rational part of his brain is thankful she's not wearing a skirt, or he'd already be buried inside her, and God, he has to not think about that right now.

"You like baseball?" he says raggedly.

"My dad's a big Padres fan," she says, wrapping her legs around him again and rolling her hips.

"I like the Cubs."

"Sucks to be you."

He presses his forehead against hers, breathing heavily. "Stop talking about sucking, Veronica. Please."

She laughs. "Ooh, I think I like it when you beg." She shimmies against him, rolling her hips, and he forgets why they're supposed to be talking about baseball, forgets why fucking her would be a bad idea. He manages to get her jeans unzipped, but she won't let go of him long enough to let him get a hand inside. He feels like he's sixteen again, like if he doesn't get to fuck her, he's going to die of wanting it, and the little sounds she's making as she rubs herself against him aren't helping.

"Christ," he mutters against her jaw, and then he dips his head to mouth at the hollow of her throat, trace the neckline of her shirt over the soft swell of her tits. "I wanna taste you, baby. Lick you all over, make you come."

She gasps and shifts back, lifting her hips so he can shove her jeans down. He's got his hand in the waistband of her yellow-striped bikinis when she goes limp against him. He feels it himself; whatever spell or poison the succubus hit them with is gone. He's still hard and aching, and he definitely wants to finish what they've started, but he doesn't feel the same crazy, relentless need.

Veronica stays slumped against him, face pressed to his chest for a long moment, and he can feel her taking long, shuddering breaths; he's doing the same. He curls himself over her, holds her gently, and rests his cheek against the top of her head. He's still not much of a believer, but he whispers a silent prayer of thanks that Sam took care of the succubus before anything else happened.

He can feel her tense and he lets go, steps away, turns his back while she zips her jeans and fixes her hair.

Sam comes jogging back before the silence can get any more awkward, and Dean claps him on the shoulder. "Thank God you're okay, Sammy."

Sam looks at him and at Veronica, both still fully clothed, and Dean can see the tension in his shoulders ease. "How are you guys doing?"

"We're fine," Veronica says, and if her hands shake and her voice is still a little throaty, Dean's going to pretend he doesn't notice. "I could really use some coffee, though."

"And some pie."

Veronica lights up at the suggestion. "I could definitely use some pie."


Veronica takes them to one of those fancy espresso bar and dessert places, and the waiters do seem to know her there, because they're taken care of pretty quickly.

She and Sam both have some kind of foamy, dessert-like coffee, and Dean has a slice of chocolate meringue pie and a double shot of espresso, which doesn't do anything to calm the adrenaline still pumping in his veins, but he likes the taste.

He lets Sam do most of the explaining, and Veronica asks some sharp questions, though like most people, she still keeps stumbling over the whole monsters are real thing.


"Yeah." Sam grimaces, no doubt remembering Madison.



"We were surprised by that one, too, to be honest." Dean laughs. "Basically, the only things that aren't real are Bigfoot and the Loch Ness monster."

"Huh. Poor Nessie."

Sam nods and laughs. "Yeah."

They fall silent for a few minutes, eating their desserts. The chocolate meringue is good, satiny and rich on Dean's tongue, though he feels a pang of regret at what he's not getting a taste of tonight.

Sam finishes his cannoli and after a conversation with Dean conducted entirely in eyebrow tilts and lip quirks, heads to the john.

Veronica sips her coffee and looks at Dean over the rim of her mug. "Thanks," she says after the silence has stretched awkwardly. He looks at her curiously. "For not--you know."

Oh. "I didn't--It wasn't you," he says, running a hand through his hair, feeling as uncomfortable as she looks. And she doesn't know how close he was to losing it, how much worse the whole thing could have been.

"It wasn't you, either."

"No, but I actually do want to fuck you." He blurts it out before he can stop himself, and yeah, okay, maybe the double espresso was a bad idea. "I mean--" He can feel his face heat but he shrugs it off with a soft laugh. "You know what I mean."

She laughs. "Yeah, I think I do."

"Usually, I'm a little more subtle."

"I find that hard to believe."

He grins. "Not a lot more, but a little bit." He holds his thumb and his index finger about half an inch apart to show her how much.

"What's that?" Sam asks, sitting down again.

"Dean's telling me he's usually more subtle than he was tonight when he's macking on the ladies."

Sam snorts. "Yeah, he's about as subtle as a sledgehammer, even without demonic influence."

"Hey." Dean has to make a token protest, even though Sam's not really wrong. "I am velvety smooth."

"Uh huh."

Dean finishes off the last of his coffee and sets the mug down on the glass table with a click. "Well, I hate to almost-fuck and run, but we should probably get you home. We're heading out of town tomorrow, need to get an early start."

"I'm perfectly capable of getting home by myself," she says, and Dean doesn't doubt it, but her world just got a million times scarier and more dangerous and he feels responsible. "And you know," she says stopping just outside the door of the place to let Sam get a few steps ahead of her, "I really hate the word almost. It's like not finishing a job, or getting an incomplete in a class."

"You want to finish what we started?" he asks, surprised.

She grins up at him. "Don't you?"

Despite what some people might think, Dean's not stupid. "Yeah."

"Okay, then."

Sam takes the car keys from Dean and says, "I won't wait up." He smiles at Veronica. "It was nice meeting you."

"You, too, Sam."

When Sam is gone, Dean follows Veronica to her car, awkward in a way his hookups usually aren't.

Veronica must notice, because she's smiling when she turns to him. "It's okay, Dean," she says, "you don't have to do anything fancy."


She hops up on the hood of her car and pulls him close enough to stand in the vee of her legs. "You don't have to do anything or say anything. Maybe you could just whistle." She wraps her arms around his neck and tips her face up to his. "You know how to whistle, don't you, Dean?"

He kisses her before she can finish the quote, licking the words from her tongue.


When they leave Neptune in the morning, Dean's got Veronica's contact information in his phone, and a whole new appreciation for To Have and Have Not.