fic: You can never escape (You can only move south down the coast) [SPN/VMars; Dean/Veronica]
You can never escape (You can only move south down the coast)
Supernatural/Veronica Mars; Dean/Veronica; adult; spoilers through both season finales; 2,810 words
"So you don't want to fuck me?" "I totally do. I just don't want to talk about it."
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for looking it over.
~*~
You can never escape (You can only move south down the coast)
They split up about a week after the near apocalypse in Wyoming, neither Sam nor Bobby meant for so much togetherness. Most hunters aren't team players, not for any kind of long term effort. Dean doesn't mind. He likes it best when it's just him and Sam, especially now, when Bobby's presence is a reproach, and Ellen's offers comfort he can't take. Bobby and Ellen head back to Bobby's, and Dean points the car at the nearest rumor of demonic possession and drives, Sam quiet and determined in the passenger seat.
After six weeks of tracking demons across the country, Bobby calls and says, "Got a line on a job out in California--routine salt and burn, if you two want to take a break."
Dean looks at the tired slump of Sam's shoulders, the purple shadows like bruises under his eyes, and weighs that against the sick clench of his gut at the mention of California. He nods. "Yeah, okay."
Bobby gives him a name and an address, and Dean scribbles the information on a crumpled envelope he finds in the desk drawer of the motel room. They're a hundred miles west of where they started when he turns the volume down and says, "We could take a couple days, go see the ocean." Sam gives a soft laugh, and Dean shrugs a shoulder, like he doesn't care if Sam wears himself thin doing research on the side, like he doesn't know what Sam is up to when he disappears into the stacks of the nearest university library. "If you want."
"Sure," Sam says. "If you want."
Dean nods. He leaves the radio turned low, and Sam falls asleep against the window.
*
"This town is a freak show," Dean mutters, downing a shot of Jack and chasing it with half a bottle of beer.
"We're thinking of putting that on the brochures. It's a big hit with the tourists." A tiny blonde slips onto the stool next to him. Some people would say she's too young to have that hard, haunted look in her eyes, but Dean's been seeing it in the mirror for as long as he can remember, so seeing it on someone else is no surprise.
"Might be good for the economy," he answers, nodding at the bartender, who's blatantly ignoring the blonde. "She'll have a--" He looks at her, raises an eyebrow.
"Gin and tonic," she says.
"I'll have another beer, and a gin and tonic for the lady."
The bartender, who'd been friendly enough during the first round, sets the drinks on the bar without smiling. Dean shakes his head and recalculates the tip he's planning to leave at the end of the night. If Sam were there, he'd say not to, that the bartender's probably just having a bad night and that people in service jobs live on their tips, but Sam's crashed out in the motel room trying to reduce his sleep debt, barely able to keep his eyes open after a long day of interviewing people who didn't want to talk, and Dean's in a bad mood.
"I'm not the most polite guy in the world," Dean says, raising his beer to his mouth, "but what's his damage?"
"It's okay," the blonde says. "I'm used to it." Matter-of-fact about it, even, not trying to be coy or win his sympathy, which makes Dean like her more.
"Well, I'm not." Which is a lie, but then, what isn't these days?
She inclines her head, concedes the point, and takes a sip of her drink. She licks a stray drop off her upper lip, pink tongue peeking out just long enough to catch his attention, then says, "You've been asking a lot of questions around town."
She looks too young to be a cop--maybe too young to be drinking at all--but he's been wrong before. "Is that a problem?"
"Only if you want people to like you."
He laughs, takes another slug of beer. "Never really cared much about that one way or the other." The truth this time.
She clinks her glass against his bottle. "Then welcome to Neptune."
*
"You from here?"
"Born and raised. You're not."
"No. Pretty obvious, huh?"
"Just a little." She smiles. Stirs the melted ice around in her glass with a skinny plastic straw. "So where are you from?"
He signals the bartender for another round, doesn't get it. So many answers to that question, all of them both true and false. "Here and there. We traveled a lot."
She leans one elbow on the bar, rests her head on her hand, looks at him like she can see right through him. Maybe she can. His walls have been cracked and mended so many times in the past year, he's not sure they actually keep anyone out anymore.
"Did that suck?"
He shrugs. "Sometimes." It had been easier for him--he hadn't cared so much about fitting in, which had often meant he had. Sam had wanted to so desperately, and had always stood out--too new, too smart, too tall.
"I was going to go away, start over, somewhere no one knew me. Be someone new." He has to strain to hear her over the crappy top forty playing on the jukebox. He's not sure she's even talking to him.
"Yeah?" he says, mostly because it's expected.
"Yeah." She pushes herself upright again, as if she can tell he's not really into the whole heart-to-heart thing, or maybe because she doesn't like sharing any more than he does. "But I ended up staying here instead."
He finishes his beer, rolls it around in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. "Look," he says, "I came here to have a few drinks, maybe get laid. Normally, I'd give you some kind of line, and you'd believe it, or at least pretend you did, and we'd go out to my car and fuck."
She blinks, surprised. He's a little surprised himself, to tell the truth, but he's tired and this town is wearing his nerves and they've only been here since mid-afternoon, and it'll be at least another twenty-four hours until they can leave.
"So you don't want to fuck me?" Her hands are busy squeezing the lime into her empty glass, but she holds his gaze. She looks more amused than hurt.
He laughs, genuine and loud, turning heads and not giving a damn. "I totally do. I just don't want to talk about it."
She rubs her fingers dry and slides off the stool, bag slung over her shoulder in one graceful motion. "I can do that." She grins, and he grins back.
*
He guides her through the crowd with a hand on the small of her back; it looks large and dark against her yellow blouse, and for a second, odd--disconnected, foreign. He blinks, and the impression passes. He can feel the warmth of her skin through the thin cotton. He loves this part--the anticipation, the thrill of something familiar wrapped up in someone new.
He bumps into a pretty redhead, smiles absently to apologize, and instead of smiling back in social forgiveness, she says, "Veronica," in the same kind of vicious tone he usually reserves for demons and other evil beasties. He can feel the way the blonde's shoulders tense, though she keeps her head up and doesn't stop moving. "Bitch," the redhead calls after them, and it's not a term of endearment.
"Hey," he says when they get outside. "Hey."
She turns and snakes one arm around his neck, fingers playing in the hair at his nape, sending pleasant shivers down his spine. She puts her other hand to his lips, and he can taste salt and lime when he opens his mouth to speak.
"Don't," she says, mouth curving in a sad half-grin. "I don't want to talk about it."
He looks down at her, and she meets his gaze head on, still no coyness or fake helplessness. Just wariness and need. "Okay." He licks the tips of her fingers, one by one, before she takes her hand away and goes up on tiptoe to press her mouth to his.
She tastes like gin and lime and heat, like the promise of a good time with no questions asked. He slides his hands down her back, cups her ass and presses his hips against hers. She reacts like he'd hoped, a little pressure on his shoulders, and then her legs are wrapped around his hips. He walks them to the car without breaking the kiss, her tongue curling around his, quick and hot and needy. They don't need to talk for him to know what she wants. He's happy to give it to her.
"Sweet ride," she says when he perches her on the trunk so he can unlock the back door.
"You know it, baby."
She rolls her eyes, but climbs in after him, curling up on his lap and purring into his mouth like a satisfied kitten when he puts his hands up under her shirt and palms her breasts.
Dean's been having sex in the backseat of this car (and in the front seat, and various other spots related to the car) since he was fifteen, so he's got a pretty good system worked out for getting girls out of their clothes with a minimum of being socked in the jaw by flailing limbs, and soon enough, her jeans are on the floor and she's in his lap, his hand curled into the slick heat of her pussy. She comes with a low, wordless growl, clenching like a fist around his fingers. He licks them clean when she's done, runs his thumb over her lower lip and licks that too, his own breath hitching as she gets a condom out of her bag and rolls it on him, not his usual brand but who the fuck cares when she's sinking down onto his cock and letting him fuck her open.
She rides him hard, deceptively strong as she slides up and down on his dick. Heat and pleasure lick down his spine, coiling tight in his belly; he can't catch his breath, steals the air from her mouth with hard, deep kisses. Her teeth are sharp against his jaw, and when he twines a hand in her hair and yanks back, puts his teeth to her neck, just hard enough to sting, she comes again, and pulls him with her into the breathless white hot rush of orgasm. For a few seconds, everything but the pulse of pleasure disappears; he's a live wire, nothing but sensitive nerve endings vibrating ecstatically, like the best music ever, if he could only hear it over the quick heavy beat of his own heart.
She slumps, resting her head in the crook of his neck, her breath cool against his sweaty skin, and he wraps his arms around her; for these few moments, they'll hold each other close and pretend it means something.
Before it gets awkward, she lifts herself off him, settles onto the seat beside him, already reaching for her jeans.
"I can drive you home--"
"As much as my dad would love this car, I don't think that's the best idea." She presses a quick kiss to his cheek. "And a word of advice from a friendly native: if you want to succeed in Neptune, don't ask too many questions. Especially not about Aaron Echolls and Lilly Kane."
She slips out the passenger-side door before he can answer.
*
He's in the shower when the name clicks. He rinses quickly, hitches a towel around his hips, and heads back into the room to look at Sam's research.
"Stop dripping all over the laptop." Sam's sleepy voice comes from the nest of blankets on his bed.
Dean flips him off absently and keeps looking through the notes they've collected.
"Dammit."
"What?"
"I found the elusive Veronica Mars tonight."
Sam sits up. "And?"
"I didn't know it was her until just now." He exhales in relief; she's young but definitely legal.
"You got her number, though, right? I mean, you always get their numbers."
Dean shakes his head. "Not this time. I didn't--We didn't do much talking."
"We'll find her tomorrow." Sam yawns and stretches, then slides down under the covers, asleep again before his head hits the pillow.
Dean knows Sam means it as acceptance, forgiveness of his mistake, but he can't sleep, her words running through his mind like the chorus of a song he doesn't like and can't forget.
*
They don't get much more information the next day, and Veronica proves elusive yet again (and neither of them are willing to brave her father's office), so that night, they salt and burn Aaron Echolls' bones. Dean's not sure he's the actual culprit, but it feels good to drop the lit matches into the grave.
"I never liked your movies anyway," he mutters, and Sam laughs.
A dog barks, loud and startling as gunshots in the quiet night, and for a second they both freeze, but it's only been two months; he's still got ten to go.
They walk to where Lilly Kane is buried--"Just in case," Sam says, and Dean's not going to argue with him--but when they get there, they're not alone.
Veronica is sitting cross-legged at the grave. In one hand, she's holding the leash of a barking dog, and in the other, she's got a taser.
Dean stops, makes sure Sam is half a step behind him. "What are you doing here?"
She shrugs one shoulder, wraps the leash tighter around her hand and the dog quiets and sits, panting, at her side. "You're not the only one who's been asking questions." She cocks her head as if she's thinking. "You could have killed me last night," she says, casual, like it's a conversation she has every day. "But you didn't. I mean, I'm grateful and all, but I really don't think the sex was that great."
"Don't sell yourself short, sweetheart. The sex was pretty fantastic, and I should know." He grins at the memory, but sobers when Sam elbows him in the back. "I don't kill people." She looks at the shotgun in his hand, raises an eyebrow. "I don't."
"That's not what the FBI says."
"Can't believe everything you read on the internet."
She laughs. "There is some weird shit in your file, it's true. Things that don't make sense." She gets up, graceful as she was the night before. The dog barks once. "Whatever it is you do, you're not desecrating Lilly's grave."
"Veronica, look--" Sam starts, but before he can tell her whatever bullshit story he's concocted in that big brain of his, Dean says, "Ghosts are real."
Sam and Veronica both say, "What?" in matching incredulous tones.
Dean scrubs a hand across his face, huffs in exasperation. "Ghosts are real. These accidents, these deaths the past few weeks--we think it was Aaron Echolls--"
"From beyond the grave?"
"Yeah." He sees no reason to hide the annoyance in his voice. "He died violently--"
"He lived violently," she interrupts.
"That'd do it. But we took care of it. And because of how Lilly died--how they were connected--"
Veronica crosses her arms and shakes her head. "I don't know if you're just really good with the bullshit or what, but I do know that Lilly's gone."
"How do you know that?"
She looks away, raises her chin and purses her lips, like she's trying to keep from crying. Or hitting him with the taser. "I just do, all right?"
"Yeah," Sam says, gentle now. "All right."
Dean's ready to argue, but Sam touches the back of his neck, shakes his head when Dean glances at him.
"If you thought we were killers, you'd have turned us in," Dean says instead.
"Like I said," she shrugs, "there was some weird shit in your file." She puts the taser back in her bag. "It's probably best if you don't come back here, though. My dad's a pretty smart guy, and if he saw your car--"
"He wouldn't believe we weren't guilty?" Sam asks.
She shrugs again. "I don't know about that, but generally, he doesn't like the guys who sleep with his daughter."
They all laugh, and then Sam turns and starts walking back towards the car. He goes slowly enough that if Dean needs him, he's still within reach, but far enough that Dean can say goodbye relatively privately.
Dean takes a step closer, wary of the dog, who sniffs his hand indifferently. Veronica gives a small smile, so he leans in and gives her a brief kiss, and then follows Sam out of the boneyard.
As they pull out of the parking lot, Dean doesn't look back to see if she's still standing there. He figures she probably is.
end
~*~
August 6, 2007
*
Title from Counting Crows.
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
Supernatural/Veronica Mars; Dean/Veronica; adult; spoilers through both season finales; 2,810 words
"So you don't want to fuck me?" "I totally do. I just don't want to talk about it."
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for looking it over.
~*~
You can never escape (You can only move south down the coast)
They split up about a week after the near apocalypse in Wyoming, neither Sam nor Bobby meant for so much togetherness. Most hunters aren't team players, not for any kind of long term effort. Dean doesn't mind. He likes it best when it's just him and Sam, especially now, when Bobby's presence is a reproach, and Ellen's offers comfort he can't take. Bobby and Ellen head back to Bobby's, and Dean points the car at the nearest rumor of demonic possession and drives, Sam quiet and determined in the passenger seat.
After six weeks of tracking demons across the country, Bobby calls and says, "Got a line on a job out in California--routine salt and burn, if you two want to take a break."
Dean looks at the tired slump of Sam's shoulders, the purple shadows like bruises under his eyes, and weighs that against the sick clench of his gut at the mention of California. He nods. "Yeah, okay."
Bobby gives him a name and an address, and Dean scribbles the information on a crumpled envelope he finds in the desk drawer of the motel room. They're a hundred miles west of where they started when he turns the volume down and says, "We could take a couple days, go see the ocean." Sam gives a soft laugh, and Dean shrugs a shoulder, like he doesn't care if Sam wears himself thin doing research on the side, like he doesn't know what Sam is up to when he disappears into the stacks of the nearest university library. "If you want."
"Sure," Sam says. "If you want."
Dean nods. He leaves the radio turned low, and Sam falls asleep against the window.
*
"This town is a freak show," Dean mutters, downing a shot of Jack and chasing it with half a bottle of beer.
"We're thinking of putting that on the brochures. It's a big hit with the tourists." A tiny blonde slips onto the stool next to him. Some people would say she's too young to have that hard, haunted look in her eyes, but Dean's been seeing it in the mirror for as long as he can remember, so seeing it on someone else is no surprise.
"Might be good for the economy," he answers, nodding at the bartender, who's blatantly ignoring the blonde. "She'll have a--" He looks at her, raises an eyebrow.
"Gin and tonic," she says.
"I'll have another beer, and a gin and tonic for the lady."
The bartender, who'd been friendly enough during the first round, sets the drinks on the bar without smiling. Dean shakes his head and recalculates the tip he's planning to leave at the end of the night. If Sam were there, he'd say not to, that the bartender's probably just having a bad night and that people in service jobs live on their tips, but Sam's crashed out in the motel room trying to reduce his sleep debt, barely able to keep his eyes open after a long day of interviewing people who didn't want to talk, and Dean's in a bad mood.
"I'm not the most polite guy in the world," Dean says, raising his beer to his mouth, "but what's his damage?"
"It's okay," the blonde says. "I'm used to it." Matter-of-fact about it, even, not trying to be coy or win his sympathy, which makes Dean like her more.
"Well, I'm not." Which is a lie, but then, what isn't these days?
She inclines her head, concedes the point, and takes a sip of her drink. She licks a stray drop off her upper lip, pink tongue peeking out just long enough to catch his attention, then says, "You've been asking a lot of questions around town."
She looks too young to be a cop--maybe too young to be drinking at all--but he's been wrong before. "Is that a problem?"
"Only if you want people to like you."
He laughs, takes another slug of beer. "Never really cared much about that one way or the other." The truth this time.
She clinks her glass against his bottle. "Then welcome to Neptune."
*
"You from here?"
"Born and raised. You're not."
"No. Pretty obvious, huh?"
"Just a little." She smiles. Stirs the melted ice around in her glass with a skinny plastic straw. "So where are you from?"
He signals the bartender for another round, doesn't get it. So many answers to that question, all of them both true and false. "Here and there. We traveled a lot."
She leans one elbow on the bar, rests her head on her hand, looks at him like she can see right through him. Maybe she can. His walls have been cracked and mended so many times in the past year, he's not sure they actually keep anyone out anymore.
"Did that suck?"
He shrugs. "Sometimes." It had been easier for him--he hadn't cared so much about fitting in, which had often meant he had. Sam had wanted to so desperately, and had always stood out--too new, too smart, too tall.
"I was going to go away, start over, somewhere no one knew me. Be someone new." He has to strain to hear her over the crappy top forty playing on the jukebox. He's not sure she's even talking to him.
"Yeah?" he says, mostly because it's expected.
"Yeah." She pushes herself upright again, as if she can tell he's not really into the whole heart-to-heart thing, or maybe because she doesn't like sharing any more than he does. "But I ended up staying here instead."
He finishes his beer, rolls it around in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. "Look," he says, "I came here to have a few drinks, maybe get laid. Normally, I'd give you some kind of line, and you'd believe it, or at least pretend you did, and we'd go out to my car and fuck."
She blinks, surprised. He's a little surprised himself, to tell the truth, but he's tired and this town is wearing his nerves and they've only been here since mid-afternoon, and it'll be at least another twenty-four hours until they can leave.
"So you don't want to fuck me?" Her hands are busy squeezing the lime into her empty glass, but she holds his gaze. She looks more amused than hurt.
He laughs, genuine and loud, turning heads and not giving a damn. "I totally do. I just don't want to talk about it."
She rubs her fingers dry and slides off the stool, bag slung over her shoulder in one graceful motion. "I can do that." She grins, and he grins back.
*
He guides her through the crowd with a hand on the small of her back; it looks large and dark against her yellow blouse, and for a second, odd--disconnected, foreign. He blinks, and the impression passes. He can feel the warmth of her skin through the thin cotton. He loves this part--the anticipation, the thrill of something familiar wrapped up in someone new.
He bumps into a pretty redhead, smiles absently to apologize, and instead of smiling back in social forgiveness, she says, "Veronica," in the same kind of vicious tone he usually reserves for demons and other evil beasties. He can feel the way the blonde's shoulders tense, though she keeps her head up and doesn't stop moving. "Bitch," the redhead calls after them, and it's not a term of endearment.
"Hey," he says when they get outside. "Hey."
She turns and snakes one arm around his neck, fingers playing in the hair at his nape, sending pleasant shivers down his spine. She puts her other hand to his lips, and he can taste salt and lime when he opens his mouth to speak.
"Don't," she says, mouth curving in a sad half-grin. "I don't want to talk about it."
He looks down at her, and she meets his gaze head on, still no coyness or fake helplessness. Just wariness and need. "Okay." He licks the tips of her fingers, one by one, before she takes her hand away and goes up on tiptoe to press her mouth to his.
She tastes like gin and lime and heat, like the promise of a good time with no questions asked. He slides his hands down her back, cups her ass and presses his hips against hers. She reacts like he'd hoped, a little pressure on his shoulders, and then her legs are wrapped around his hips. He walks them to the car without breaking the kiss, her tongue curling around his, quick and hot and needy. They don't need to talk for him to know what she wants. He's happy to give it to her.
"Sweet ride," she says when he perches her on the trunk so he can unlock the back door.
"You know it, baby."
She rolls her eyes, but climbs in after him, curling up on his lap and purring into his mouth like a satisfied kitten when he puts his hands up under her shirt and palms her breasts.
Dean's been having sex in the backseat of this car (and in the front seat, and various other spots related to the car) since he was fifteen, so he's got a pretty good system worked out for getting girls out of their clothes with a minimum of being socked in the jaw by flailing limbs, and soon enough, her jeans are on the floor and she's in his lap, his hand curled into the slick heat of her pussy. She comes with a low, wordless growl, clenching like a fist around his fingers. He licks them clean when she's done, runs his thumb over her lower lip and licks that too, his own breath hitching as she gets a condom out of her bag and rolls it on him, not his usual brand but who the fuck cares when she's sinking down onto his cock and letting him fuck her open.
She rides him hard, deceptively strong as she slides up and down on his dick. Heat and pleasure lick down his spine, coiling tight in his belly; he can't catch his breath, steals the air from her mouth with hard, deep kisses. Her teeth are sharp against his jaw, and when he twines a hand in her hair and yanks back, puts his teeth to her neck, just hard enough to sting, she comes again, and pulls him with her into the breathless white hot rush of orgasm. For a few seconds, everything but the pulse of pleasure disappears; he's a live wire, nothing but sensitive nerve endings vibrating ecstatically, like the best music ever, if he could only hear it over the quick heavy beat of his own heart.
She slumps, resting her head in the crook of his neck, her breath cool against his sweaty skin, and he wraps his arms around her; for these few moments, they'll hold each other close and pretend it means something.
Before it gets awkward, she lifts herself off him, settles onto the seat beside him, already reaching for her jeans.
"I can drive you home--"
"As much as my dad would love this car, I don't think that's the best idea." She presses a quick kiss to his cheek. "And a word of advice from a friendly native: if you want to succeed in Neptune, don't ask too many questions. Especially not about Aaron Echolls and Lilly Kane."
She slips out the passenger-side door before he can answer.
*
He's in the shower when the name clicks. He rinses quickly, hitches a towel around his hips, and heads back into the room to look at Sam's research.
"Stop dripping all over the laptop." Sam's sleepy voice comes from the nest of blankets on his bed.
Dean flips him off absently and keeps looking through the notes they've collected.
"Dammit."
"What?"
"I found the elusive Veronica Mars tonight."
Sam sits up. "And?"
"I didn't know it was her until just now." He exhales in relief; she's young but definitely legal.
"You got her number, though, right? I mean, you always get their numbers."
Dean shakes his head. "Not this time. I didn't--We didn't do much talking."
"We'll find her tomorrow." Sam yawns and stretches, then slides down under the covers, asleep again before his head hits the pillow.
Dean knows Sam means it as acceptance, forgiveness of his mistake, but he can't sleep, her words running through his mind like the chorus of a song he doesn't like and can't forget.
*
They don't get much more information the next day, and Veronica proves elusive yet again (and neither of them are willing to brave her father's office), so that night, they salt and burn Aaron Echolls' bones. Dean's not sure he's the actual culprit, but it feels good to drop the lit matches into the grave.
"I never liked your movies anyway," he mutters, and Sam laughs.
A dog barks, loud and startling as gunshots in the quiet night, and for a second they both freeze, but it's only been two months; he's still got ten to go.
They walk to where Lilly Kane is buried--"Just in case," Sam says, and Dean's not going to argue with him--but when they get there, they're not alone.
Veronica is sitting cross-legged at the grave. In one hand, she's holding the leash of a barking dog, and in the other, she's got a taser.
Dean stops, makes sure Sam is half a step behind him. "What are you doing here?"
She shrugs one shoulder, wraps the leash tighter around her hand and the dog quiets and sits, panting, at her side. "You're not the only one who's been asking questions." She cocks her head as if she's thinking. "You could have killed me last night," she says, casual, like it's a conversation she has every day. "But you didn't. I mean, I'm grateful and all, but I really don't think the sex was that great."
"Don't sell yourself short, sweetheart. The sex was pretty fantastic, and I should know." He grins at the memory, but sobers when Sam elbows him in the back. "I don't kill people." She looks at the shotgun in his hand, raises an eyebrow. "I don't."
"That's not what the FBI says."
"Can't believe everything you read on the internet."
She laughs. "There is some weird shit in your file, it's true. Things that don't make sense." She gets up, graceful as she was the night before. The dog barks once. "Whatever it is you do, you're not desecrating Lilly's grave."
"Veronica, look--" Sam starts, but before he can tell her whatever bullshit story he's concocted in that big brain of his, Dean says, "Ghosts are real."
Sam and Veronica both say, "What?" in matching incredulous tones.
Dean scrubs a hand across his face, huffs in exasperation. "Ghosts are real. These accidents, these deaths the past few weeks--we think it was Aaron Echolls--"
"From beyond the grave?"
"Yeah." He sees no reason to hide the annoyance in his voice. "He died violently--"
"He lived violently," she interrupts.
"That'd do it. But we took care of it. And because of how Lilly died--how they were connected--"
Veronica crosses her arms and shakes her head. "I don't know if you're just really good with the bullshit or what, but I do know that Lilly's gone."
"How do you know that?"
She looks away, raises her chin and purses her lips, like she's trying to keep from crying. Or hitting him with the taser. "I just do, all right?"
"Yeah," Sam says, gentle now. "All right."
Dean's ready to argue, but Sam touches the back of his neck, shakes his head when Dean glances at him.
"If you thought we were killers, you'd have turned us in," Dean says instead.
"Like I said," she shrugs, "there was some weird shit in your file." She puts the taser back in her bag. "It's probably best if you don't come back here, though. My dad's a pretty smart guy, and if he saw your car--"
"He wouldn't believe we weren't guilty?" Sam asks.
She shrugs again. "I don't know about that, but generally, he doesn't like the guys who sleep with his daughter."
They all laugh, and then Sam turns and starts walking back towards the car. He goes slowly enough that if Dean needs him, he's still within reach, but far enough that Dean can say goodbye relatively privately.
Dean takes a step closer, wary of the dog, who sniffs his hand indifferently. Veronica gives a small smile, so he leans in and gives her a brief kiss, and then follows Sam out of the boneyard.
As they pull out of the parking lot, Dean doesn't look back to see if she's still standing there. He figures she probably is.
end
~*~
August 6, 2007
*
Title from Counting Crows.
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~