Fate is an Engineer: The Lost Scenes, a Miracles + Supernatural Crossover fanfic

Fate is an Engineer: The Lost Scenes

A Miracles/Supernatural Cross-over Fanfic

by Laurel (Sailorhathor)

Rating: Part 1 - Parental supervision suggested for those under 13. Contains bad language. Part 2 - Parental supervision suggested for those under 13. Kissing between two men and suggestive sex talk, plus bad language. Both parts contain multiple uses of the F word.

Dates: Written May-June 2006

Summary: Missing scenes from my previous story, "Fate is an Engineer." Sam takes a stand against the being that kidnapped him, The Mothman, while Dean and Paul spend the next morning doing laundry the metrosexual way. A Miracles/Supernatural cross-over, which slashes Dean Winchester/Paul Callan. THIS IS THE EDITED VERSION OF THIS STORY. If you want to read the Hard R to NC-17 version, go here: http/ dementedstuff .com / miracles / crosslost .htm (take out the extra spaces).

Timeline: Happens after the Supernatural episode "The Benders" and before "Shadow," which moves the Miracles timeline up to 2006.

Warning: Spoilers for "Fate is an Engineer." Dean says a few negative things about the Catholic Church that may offend some.

Beta Thanks: Special thanks to KaijaWest and Meredevachon for their betas of this story.

Author's Notes: Reading "Fate is an Engineer" is pretty much necessary before you read this story, or you'll be confused. You can try it if you want, though. ;)

Thanks to ducky for suggesting the term "karmic displacement" for the psychic ability I created for "Lucky." His ability will be explained in a later fic. The guy is not named Eric because of Eric Kripke; it's just a name that popped into my head that fit the character.

There is a reason why I had Sam steal Jess from a friend of his - it's because Sam needs a freakin' flaw. He can do everything Dean can do, some things better, and it gets on my nerves.

Part 1: Sammy's Stand

On a heavily overcast day in a dimly lit phone booth in Mountaineer, Vermont, Sam Winchester stood in his bare feet with the receiver clutched to his ear. The fluorescent light inside the booth flashed rapidly, communicating that it was almost spent. It still had enough juice left in it to show Sam that the area around the phone booth was empty. Hopefully, this meant what he wanted - that the Mothman had left, having no more use for him. Sam couldn't fight it off again, not unarmed.

He was still talking into the phone when the policeman drove up next to the booth. "Why don't you want to date me? I'm a fun... gi," Sam said, finishing the punchline to a joke he'd been telling to keep his mind off everything that had happened.

On the other end, Dean chuckled and, though his brother couldn't see it, rolled his eyes. "Did you hear the cornball joke my brother just told?" he asked the others in the room.

"I heard it," Paul replied in a tone that clearly said he was amused, but found it corny too.

"Hey," Sam began, looking out into the road. "The policeman's here. Officer Sullivan?"

He was still on speakerphone, so Paul was able to respond to him. "Yes, that's his name."

"Who are you?" Sam questioned the man who stepped out of the car, a little tentatively.

"Officer Chuck Sullivan. You're Sam?" the policeman asked.

He sighed with relief. "Yeah."

"I'm supposed to pick you up and take you to the station." Officer Sullivan glanced around, half smiling and half nervous. "Uh..." He seemed embarrassed. "Is it still around?"

"The Mothman?" Sam asked quietly. Why was he whispering? What difference would it make? If the thing wanted to take them, it would already know where they were; they couldn't hide. "No, I think it's gone." He spoke into the phone again. "I better go."

"Okay, I'm heading out, then. Call me on my cell when you get to the station. I'll be there in a few hours," Dean said, and waited for Sam to hang up before he did.

Officer Sullivan grinned with some embarrassment coloring his expression. "I'm not sure I believe in all this stuff as much as my partner does," the man declared, running a hand through his thinning, graying hair. He looked around again, then leaned toward Sam and said in a conspiratorial tone, "But better safe than sorry." He unholstered his gun, keeping an eye out.

Sam chuckled. "I wish you had one of those for me."

The policeman led Sam to his car. "Here." He opened the passenger side door. "I hope you fit," Officer Sullivan joked, taking in Sam's height. Sam just grinned and shook his head; he was used to such reactions by now. "You just sit tight for a minute. I'm supposed to collect this gunk you tossed up." He got a Tupperware bowl from the front seat of the car before Sam sat down. "What they want with it, I have no idea. Maybe to make glowsticks."

Sam looked over at the glowing stuff he'd thrown up only a few minutes ago, still on the ground just outside the phone booth's door. "Some guy wants a sample. My brother's supposed to have an explanation for that."

"I'd like to hear it." Officer Sullivan looked at the bowl, then at the metal serving spoon he'd brought to scoop up this sample. "I hope this stuff isn't... acidic. I wasn't sure what to bring to contain it. It doesn't melt Tupperware, does it?"

Sam shrugged.

"Guess we'll find out." Officer Sullivan spent a few minutes collecting this sample that Marie's friend wanted. Sometimes she had some weird boyfriends. But he liked Alva Keel enough and knew this had some sort of purpose. While he was doing that, Sam scanned the area in the immediate vicinity of the car to make sure the Mothman didn't come back.

"Looks like it doesn't dissolve plastic," the policeman said as he got back in the car.

"Doesn't dissolve people, either," Sam remarked, adding, "Thankfully."

Officer Sullivan laughed. "Yeah, I forgot you had this glowing stuff in your system. But people have defenses, like stomach acid and such. Poor defenseless Tupperware has nothing." He held up the covered bowl, looking at the luminous material through the plastic.

"Oh, I know you've got to be joking. Plastic," Sam pointed to the bowl, "will be here long after we're gone."

The policeman took his eyes off the bowl to look at Sam, and grinned. "Cheery thought."

They were shortly on their way to the station. But Sam had a bad feeling that they were being followed. Watched. "How do you feel?" Officer Sullivan questioned.

"Really tired." Sam watched the rearview mirror. "But thanks for helping out in this situation. This all must seem very bizarre to you."

"Yes, it is. But not as much as it should be. My partner and I dealt with something like this before."

Taking his eyes off the mirror, Sam stared at Officer Sullivan in disbelief. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. A man named Paul Callan showed up here in the same condition as you, several years ago," the policeman replied.

"Ah." Dean had mentioned his new acquaintance's name was Paul, hadn't he? No wonder he was so ready to help with Sam's situation.

Unfortunately, Sam's hunch turned out to be right. He spotted the red beams speeding up behind the car first.

The officer squinted at his rearview mirror. "Red headlights? And in the middle of the day?"

He was about to tell Sam that he'd have to pull this car over for a headlight infraction, but the young man uttered, "They're not lights... they're eyes."

Just at that moment, the Mothman sped up beside the moving car. Its wings flapped furiously, but it had no problem keeping up. The beast made a loud, piercing sound like a squeaking scream.

"Ahhhhh what is that!" Officer Sullivan screeched. They swerved dangerously on the road as he was highly distracted by the flying creature racing the patrol car.

Sam plastered himself against the passenger side door, a bit startled and frightened. Did the thing want to take him again? For some reason, he felt it was just playing with them... but it had to be scared off. This was a game to the beast. "Can I use this?" Sam called to the cop, putting a hand on the shotgun attached to the dashboard.

"I shouldn't let you..." Officer Sullivan tried to concentrate on driving and eluding the Mothman at the same time. The Mothman kept pace with the car, sometimes flying by the driver's side, and then swooping over the roof before spinning in the air next to Sam's window. Though the officer sped up, the creature never lagged behind. "I can't shake it!"

"Let me shoot at it! I've been trained to use guns," Sam assured.

The Mothman zipped across the path of the car, crossing in front of it. Officer Sullivan yelped and mashed the brakes before swerving to avoid hitting the beast, knowing they could both be killed in a head-on collision with something so large. "Okay, do it! Shoot the son of a bitch!"

Sam disengaged the shotgun from the holder, checked to make sure it was properly loaded, and rolled down his window. He pulled himself up until he was sitting on the window ledge, half of his body hanging out the window. The Mothman flipped in mid-air, then gazed curiously at Sam as he aimed the gun at the creature, as if it was sizing up his courage. Sam felt cold pinpricks moving through his brain. It was not distracting enough to sway him from what he intended to do, though. There was a satisfying ch-chick as Sam cocked the shotgun.

He aimed right between its eyes. The Mothman seemed to mull it over for a second before screeching in alarm and swooping upward just in time to avoid the shot that Sam had intended to kill it. There was another, louder squeak of pain as the projectile grazed the beast's wing.

"Yeah!" Officer Sullivan yelled in triumph.

They both saw a spray of glowing green liquid (blood?) splatter the ground. The Mothman dive-bombed Sam, almost touching his head as it flew over him. He yelped and grasped desperately at the car, any handhold he could find; unfortunately, in his attempt to keep himself from splattering on the ground too, he had to drop the shotgun. Sam also had to contend with the wind from the beast's flight, but he managed to grip the car hard enough to save his own life. Officer Sullivan drove with one hand and reached over to grab one of Sam's legs with the other.

"Get back in here!" he called. "You're going to fall!"

As Sam was pushing himself back in the window, the Mothman again crossed the path of the car. The policeman slammed on the brakes. Sam was half in the window and half out, but nearly facedown now; the motion of the car threw him against the windowsill. He grunted in pain. That was going to hurt later. Probably bruise his stomach. But it was better than falling out and winding up a smear on the roadside.

Before flying away, the Mothman made a sound of his own - a squeaking noise that couldn't have been anything but a laugh. Then he disappeared into the dark, gray sky.

Things were quiet for several moments except for the sound of their ragged, shaken breathing. "My God..." the policeman said. "Was that thing real?"

"I'm inclined to think so." Sam pulled himself all the way into the car.

"Are you alright?"

"Pretty much." Sam finger-combed his shaggy hair. "I got in one good shot. Did you see it bleed?"

"I did." Officer Sullivan regretfully added, "As much as I don't want to hunt around on this road after that, we've got to go back for that shotgun."

Nodding, Sam said, "Sure," and rubbed his stomach. "Just give me a second to throw up first."

Dean didn't like cops. They made him nervous. The police represented the possible end of his mission in life. How many demons could you fight from inside a prison? Well, probably some, but it wasn't the same thing to protect criminals from evil... after all...

Still, these cops seemed pretty decent. Must be nice for ol' Keel to have a Five-O in his hip pocket. "They won't even run your names through the computer..." Sweet!

Dean walked into the precinct with his best charming grin on his face. "Hi, I'm Dean Winchester. Are you Officer Sullivan?"

Chuck Sullivan was sitting behind the counter, drinking from what appeared to be a flask of alcohol. Hard whiskey, from the look on his face after he took a swig. "Yeah."

Dean couldn't help but frown. A cop drinking on the job... troubling. "What happened?"

Taking one last swig before screwing the cap back on, Officer Sullivan grimaced at the taste and waved a dismissive hand. "Never mind. We're fine. Your brother will fill you in if you can wake him up long enough."

"Wake him up?" Dean asked with alarm.

"Yeah. After the thing attacked us, he got really sleepy and conked out in the car. He's-"

"'After the thing attacked us'!"

"I said we're fine!" The policeman almost took the cap back off the flask again. "Aw hell, I wasn't trained for this kind of shit. I'm not from animal control! Not even they could've handled that thing."

"What thing!"

Officer Sullivan sighed long and hard. "The Mothman."

Looking shocked, Dean remarked, "Sam didn't say a word about that when he called me, after you two got back to headquarters."

"He was exhausted, just wanted to sleep. So he didn't mention it. But I'm sure Sam'll tell you the story now." The officer pointed at an open cell. "He's in there."

Dean headed for the cell at a rapid pace. He saw Sam sleeping on the cell's only bed. It was like Paul had said; the Mothman's pod contained drugs that made a person very sleepy. An anesthetic. Dean stepped into the cell and kneeled next to the bed. "Sam? Sam, I'm here."

Sam was dreaming when his brother entered the precinct. In the dream, it was Christmas 2003. The party. Craig's Christmas party. Sam had a plush Santa hat on his head and a pleased grin on his face. This had been his favorite night ever.

The night he met Jessica.

She was dressed in the cutest sweater with snowmen all over it, but then she always dressed cute. Something he'd always liked about her, even when he had to admire her from afar. Truthfully, they'd met months before that, but Sam counted this night as the night they truly met, because it was the first time she returned his affections.

Jess smiled at him and pointed to the hat. "I've been a good girl, Santa. What are you gonna bring me?" Her voice betrayed the fact that she'd been drinking quite a bit.

"Whatever you want. Just sit on my lap and tell me all about it, little girl." Ugh, that sounded like one of Dean's lines. But it seemed to work, because Jess laughed and moved closer to him. Women really respond to this schlock?

"Are you sure you should be talking to Craig's girl like that, bucko?"

It was true, she was still "Craig's girlfriend," although everyone knew they did nothing but fight these days. All the rumors said they were on the rocks, Craig just didn't know it yet. "Does 'Craig's girl' want me to talk to her like that?"

Jess grinned again. "Maybe."

The music changed; someone put on a slow, sad song. "Ohhh. Why'd someone have to put on 'Everybody Hurts' by R.E.M.? That song always makes me cry." She pouted for Sam. Damn, Jess looked cute like that. Made Sam want to kiss her really bad. "'Cause, you know, everybody hurts."

Sam moved in close to her, putting one hand on her hip. "We could dance to it, if you want. No one feels like crying when they're slow dancing."

Jess looked around for Craig. Nowhere to be seen. "Okay." She put her arms around his neck. "You're Sam, right? Sam Winchester?"

She had taken the time to learn his name. Yes! "That's me."

"Any relation to the gun maker?"

They chitchatted for a few more minutes while the dream took on more surreal qualities and stopped being the replay of a memory. Sam saw something large, with beady red eyes, stalking him through the crowd of partygoers. The Mothman. It was here! He pushed on Jess's back and got her moving to another room, where he could close the door and shut the creature out. It wasn't taking him again.

"Sam?"

He turned to see that they were standing in their bedroom in Palo Alto, the bedroom they eventually shared at Stanford. Jess was wearing the nightgown she knew Sam loved. The one she died in. "Je... Jess..."

"Have you ever thought how ironic it all is?"

Someone began to bang at the closed bedroom door. No, NO! Don't let him in! The door shook on its hinges, they were pounding on it so hard. The sound became like a hundred jangling bells. "How ironic what all is?"

Jess shrugged. "If you hadn't stolen me from your good friend, Craig, I might still be with him. And I'd be alive now."

Jess screamed and burst into flame.

Sam gasped awake, partially sitting up. He clawed at the air.

"Sam! Sam, hey!"

He realized he was gripping someone's arm hard. Sam focused on who it was, and where he was. It was Dean, crouched beside the bed in the jail cell. Mountaineer. Oh...

"Sam? You okay?"

Not taking the time to rationalize the action away, Sam caught his brother up in a desperate hug, letting out a childlike whimper. This surprised Dean more than anything, but he instantly hugged back. He couldn't have been more grateful to have this chance to hug his brother again. "Hey... it's okay."

It only lasted a few short moments, and then Sam was pulling away, trying to put up an instant wall against his emotions. "Hey. Sorry, I... I was having a nightmare." He wiped at his eyes. Damn, it was embarrassing to have a stupid dream make you cry.

"Oh. That kind of nightmare?" Dean asked.

"No. Just the regular kind." After taking another moment to collect himself, Sam swung his long legs over the side of the bed. "I've been so sleepy since the officer picked me up." He rubbed his eyes again.

Dean smirked. "Was that before or after the Mothman came after you the second time?" He held up a small duffel bag with clothes in it. "Wanna get dressed, College Boy?"

Sam fought sleep on the ride to Boston, but the seat of the Impala always seemed to lull him into it. He wanted to hear about these people Dean had met. He was just finishing up the story about the Mothman's second attack. "The thing was just playing with us. I don't think it bargained on getting injured."

"Haha! I'm glad you got in one good shot on the bitch. Maybe it'll bleed to death." Dean grinned with satisfaction. "Someone will find its bloated mothy carcass lying by the road somewhere..." He glanced at Sam before he asked, "Okay, how did it get you at the Cascade? I never heard a thing."

Ducking his head sheepishly, Sam replied, "Uhh... well, I was already awake..."

"Nightmare?"

"Yeah."

"What about?"

Sam shrugged. "It was hazy. Everything felt desperate, like the end of the world. We were dressed as firemen."

Dean, mulling that over, finally said, "Alright. We sometimes do that. Dress up. Probably refers to a future case."

With a nod, Sam continued, "I hadn't been up more than a minute when I heard noises outside that sounded like a wounded animal crying out in pain."

"How loud was this?" Dean asked, a bit incredulous.

Sam didn't need to read his brother's mind to know what he was thinking; he could tell by Dean's tone. "Not loud enough to wake you up. You stirred a little, though."

Dean shrugged with his face, briefly tilting his head, one eyebrow rising for a second. "At least there's that."

"Yeah. I looked out the window, couldn't see anything, but the noises wouldn't stop. The thing just sounded so pitiful. I had to check on it. I stood in the open doorway, and... I saw something move... at one end of the parking lot." Sam grew apprehensive at the memory. He shifted uncomfortably in the seat. "I probably should have gotten you up, but I didn't think it was anything weird, just a hurt animal. So I closed the door and walked toward whatever made that movement. And that's..." Letting out a long breath, Sam finished, "...that's when it grabbed me."

"Did the Mothman just jump out at you?"

"Kind of. It dropped down and landed right in front of me. Before I could scream or do anything, it had me in its grip, pinning my arms to my sides, and we were taking off."

"Up into the air!" Dean asked with a shudder.

"Yup, just flew right off with me."

"Jeez. This thing is strong. You've got to be somewhat heavy."

Sam nodded, "I would think. I must've sounded like a rocket taking off with the way I screamed as we shot up into the air. But I doubt anyone saw anything; there was no one else around."

"Including me," mumbled Dean. "Shit. I can't believe I slept through that too."

Trying to lessen the guilt and sense of failure he knew his brother was feeling, Sam said, "Don't sweat it. I was outside when this happened. Harder to hear a scream through a wall."

Dean did not respond; Sam would only make excuses to compensate for his screw up. He didn't need to hear it. He only needed to be better.

Dean would either accept that what happened was out of his control, or torture himself over what he felt he should have been able to do. Sam knew there wasn't anything else he could say to make it better, so he just continued his story. "Once it decided to land, I started struggling and, I tell you, I couldn't budge the thing's arms an inch. Definitely strong. The Mothman didn't give me a chance to do much of anything because it stuck this tube down my throat and inserted something..."

"A pod. A pod full of trippy Mothman drugs," Dean added. "That's why you're so sleepy."

"How do you know that?" Sam asked.

"Because of the people I met in Boston."

"Who are they?"

Dean had to smile bigger. "They call themselves Sodalitas Quaerito. I've only met two of them so far; one was a pleasure and the other was a pain in the ass. When we get back, we'll meet the head of the whole she-bang. I've got a few choice words for him."

Sam could tell by Dean's tone that he was mad at this 'head of the whole she-bang.' "Sodalitas Quaerito?" He searched his memory for that term. "Holy shit, you mean Alva Keel's group?"

"Yeah, that's his name."

"Dad's mentioned him several times. He's a good friend of Lassiter McNeal, remember?" said Sam.

"McNeal, the demonologist? Yeah, I remember." Dean sneered. "We crashed at his house for a couple weeks a real long time ago. All we did was fight with McNeal's emo son, Tracy."

"All you did. I got along with him just fine."

Rolling his eyes, Dean amended, "Whatever. They sure had a nice mom. Made the best cookies. Anyway, yeah, Alva Keel. This whole thing is sort of his fault. So I want to talk to him."

Sam tried to change the subject because he could tell Dean was pretty mad, and he knew it might be a bad idea to alienate a potential contact like Alva Keel. Their dad did it all the time - made enemies - but that didn't mean that Sam and Dean had to do the same thing. "Tell me about the other two. Who's Paul?"

Dean's smile widened so much it embarrassed him; he attempted to tone it down. "SQ has its own medium. That's Paul."

"Wow, he must come in handy. Most ghost hunting groups don't have one of those, at least not a real one," Sam commented. "Are you sure he's the real thing?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. The guy's got a genuine quality to him that... well you just know he's hardly told a lie in his life. Nothing above a white lie, anyway. His abilities are totally straight up," Dean asserted. "I bumped into him in a bar and he knew all this stuff about you being missing. He just knew it. The guy starts talking to an empty stool, calling it 'Tommy,' and I look and there's a depression in the stool, like someone's sitting there. Then this other dude tries to sit on the stool. He's all like brrr, cold draft. Paul was talking to a ghost."

It sounded genuine, but Sam wanted to consider all the possibilities. "A ghost who's learned to manipulate his environment... you're sure it looked like a person was sitting on the stool?"

"Shit yeah. Little butt print."

"Little?"

Dean replied, "Yeah - Tommy was a child."

"Paul told you who Tommy is?" asked Sam.

Nodding, Dean gave him the short version of what Paul had told him about Tommy, trying to keep it as unemotional as possible. He found that hard to do. "...The kid died for him, to heal him. Can you imagine how bad that must feel, when it's a little kid?"

Sam could imagine how bad that must feel... he could also imagine how bad Dean would feel about it, being that someone died to save another person's life, and it was a child. Both things that would tug at Dean's heart strings. Things he would take personally. This made Sam afraid that someone was trying to put one over on his brother. Once they got to Boston, and he met these people, he could gauge their intentions for himself. "That's pretty rough. Who's the pain in the ass?"

"Huh?"

"You said one member of SQ that you met was a pain in the ass."

Dean scowled. "Oh, yeah. Evie."

Smirking, Sam said, "A woman?" He could tell by Dean's tone that this 'Evie' had done something to piss his brother off, possibly rebuffed his advances with a well-placed retort. Dean always hated that, unless the retort was a sign that the girl was really playing hard to get. Evie, obviously, wasn't playing hard to get. She might've even been disgusted with Dean's attitude, if the sneer on his face was any indicator.

"Not just a woman." Dean looked over at his brother, eyes narrowed. "Former. Cop."

Sam immediately burst out laughing. "Oh crap, that's priceless! Only you would stumble upon a group with a former cop in it. I think you have a police magnet inside you, Dean." Then he laughed some more.

"Hahaha, laugh it up, Chuckles. The chick totally busted my balls," confessed Dean uncomfortably.

"What'd she do?" Sam questioned.

"This chick was all suspicious of me because she'd done this file on us for the group, you know, SQ. So she knew about the shape shifter and what he did."

"Uh oh..."

"Really. I tried to let her know that I'm a good guy. You know, gave her the smile, turned on the charm, but none of it worked. The bitch is frigid." Dean rolled his eyes.

Sam just grinned and shook his head.

Continuing, Dean said, "Evie's like oh, I won't feel better until I know that you're unarmed, Mr. Badass Demon Hunter Guy. All guns on the table."

"She said that?" asked Sam, barely stifling more laughter.

"Shit yeah. So I started throwing down the armory. The table's covered in Glocks and sawed-offs." Dean told the story as much with his hands as he did with his mouth, motioning while he drove with his wrist balanced on the steering wheel.

Sam began to chuckle again.

"Then, she goes, 'What about the knives?' I ask what knives. And she's not buying it," Dean sighed.

"What the fuck?" replied Sam, wondering how Evie knew about their habit of carrying knives as well as guns when they felt threatened.

"My sentiments exactly. It's the file, man. The file I just mentioned. She knew that we conceal knives from that," Dean explained, still in disbelief.

"How did that get in the file?"

Dean, leaning over and speaking in a quieter voice, said, "Keel had people follow us."

Sam was understandably shocked. "You're not serious." Even as he spoke in such an incredulous tone, he had to add a big yawn, as the Mothman's drugs were still heavily in his system.

"Oh, I am dead goddamn serious. I know who was doing the following, too. But I'll get to that in a sec." Dean took the time to read the highway signs to make sure he was going in the right direction. "Anyway, this Evie chick is freaking out over the knives, and I told her I wasn't carrying any." He paused for dramatic effect. "She takes out her cell phone and says that if I don't put the knives on the table, she'll call one of her friends down at the precinct to come search the Impala."

Now Sam was awake, at least for a minute. "You're shitting me!"

"I am not." Dean, shaking his head, finished, "Then she said that her cop friends would be especially interested in the contents of the trunk."

His mouth popping open, Sam stared at his brother in surprise. "How did she know!"

"The spy," Dean angrily replied. "The damn spy."

"Oh, shit. What did you say?"

Dean mimed throwing an object on a table. "I gave it up."

Sam couldn't help but laugh again. "Man, did she ever back you into a corner. I think I like her."

"Shut the fuck up, dude."

Sam just snickered, which turned into another yawn. "So who's the spy?" He laid his head back on the seat, intending to listen, but quickly drifting off while Dean spoke.

"Well, Evie the frigid little bitchling mentioned that one of the spies was a 'cute blonde in Tampa.' I know exactly who that is. Girl named Savannah. You never met her; I hung out with her during the years you were at Stanford. I called her 'Savvy,' because it reminded me of 'Sammy.'" Dean couldn't help but grin at the memory. The grin faded quickly. "I can't believe that girl betrayed me. Acted like my friend and was just a fucking mole the whole time." He sighed heavily. "I'm not too happy about that. But I'll be even angrier if her brother was in on it. Real name was Eric, but most people I knew called him 'Lucky.' There was good reason for that, too." Dean grinned again. His smile turned to displeasure, as it had before. "I let that little bitch take a picture of me. And you know I hardly ever do that, because of the stuff Dad warned against. If I find out he was a mole too..." Dean's expression was unreadable, save for the fact that he was angry. "...I won't be responsible for my actions."

After shaking his head, Dean continued, "Dad and I dealt with them because they both have psychic abilities. She's a clairvoyant with a twist and he has a... condition, I guess you'd call it... called karmic displacement. You know what that is, right Sam... my?" Dean had looked over at his younger brother only to find that sometime while he was talking, Sam had fallen asleep.

He paused a long time, looking out at the road as it passed under the Impala's wheels. Finally, Dean said to himself, "Don't ever get close to anyone but your family, Sammy. They'll just fuck you over."

Part 2: Metrosexual Laundry

"What is all that stuff you dragged down here, Paul?" Dean asked, looking at all the bottles sticking out of the man's white plastic basket as they entered the laundry room of Paul's building.

"Uh..." Setting the basket down, Paul touched each item as he named it. "...fabric softener, bleach, and stain remover."

"We're not doing surgery, man, just laundry."

Paul let out a small laugh. "Just put the detergent into the machine."

Dean did, simply pouring a random amount in with the transparent green scoop.

"You're not even going to measure it?" asked Paul in a disapproving tone.

"What, not enough?"

"Too much."

Dean sighed. "Well, they'll just get very, very clean, then." He started to tip his basket, which was full of his and Sam's clothes, over the washing machine.

"Wait!" Paul put a halting hand over the open top of the machine.

Dean nearly jumped out of his skin in surprise. "What's the problem!" he snapped.

Paul immediately replied in almost horror, "You're not going to just put all those clothes in there together, are you?"

"I had planned on it," Dean answered. "Unless you think we should take them outside and beat them clean on a rock."

"But you're mixing whites with colors," Paul said, as if this was a great injustice to the clothes, and Dean should know that.

He couldn't help it; Dean started to chuckle deep in his throat. "I'm sorry. I forgot we were doing laundry the metrosexual way."

"It's not a metrosexual thing; it's just the way people do laundry."

"What kind of people?"

"Human people."

Still chuckling, Dean shook his head and started picking through the clothes to separate them. "Or anal people. I didn't realize I needed a college degree to figure out how to do my freakin' laundry."

Paul smirked. He began helping with the sorting. "It's alright. I've got us covered. I've got two degrees."

Dean froze for a second as his brain skipped a beat from being caught off guard. He blinked at Paul. "You've got two degrees?"

"Yes."

"In what?"

Dean was impressed and probably a little intimidated. It was obvious. Paul found this a bit touching and sweet. Dean wasn't the type of guy to show such feelings often. "I have a B.A. in Comparative Religions and one in Theology."

"Wow." Dean silently piled up a few more pieces of clothing in the white pile before saying, "You probably don't hang out with guys like me very often, then."

Paul just shrugged.

Before he could say anything else, Dean added, "When we had sex last night, I guess you were slumming."

Dean wasn't even looking Paul in the face when he said it, but Paul knew what he was feeling anyway. The empathic link. Often it opened so effortlessly that Paul wasn't even conscious of it. He just experienced the emotions of others like they were his own. Dean was hurt. He felt inferior. Stupid. Paul's expression became sad and concerned. "Dean..."

Cringing, Dean tried to play it off. "Sorry. Sayin' emo stuff like that isn't like me."

"You're embarrassed," Paul stated, and smiled a little. Seeing Dean like this was just too cute for words.

"Shut up, man," Dean replied, grinning to himself, but still looking down at the washing machine.

Paul, stepping closer, lifted Dean's chin with one finger. Dean looked up. His green eyes locked with Paul's deep brown ones. "Don't sell yourself short, Dean," Paul said quietly. He leaned in to give him a tiny kiss. "I did not have sex with you because I was 'slumming.' I had sex with you the first time because I needed your comfort. The second time, I just needed you."

Damn, what a turn-on, to hear Paul say such things. "Well... I'm glad we got that cleared up." Dean stole another kiss so strong that it caused Paul to take two stumbling steps back, then put his hands on Dean's chest and move him away gently.

"Dean... laundry, laundry..."

"I don't care about the laundry anymore," Dean growled, going in for another kiss.

Paul dodged Dean's lips. "Someone could come in at any moment."

"That's what makes it so exciting." Suddenly Dean's hands were in all sorts of places they weren't supposed to be, finally settling on Paul's ass, squeezing it through his pants. Paul reached behind him and pushed Dean's hands off, but he put them right back in place - the two of them grappled with each other until Paul was backed up against a washer in use by someone else who had left the laundry room.

"Dean, wait..." Paul's words were useless; Dean kissed him with vigor and passion. Paul couldn't decide which part of his body to listen to; his head, heart, or the part that controlled his awakening sex drive. God, Dean's hands were strong and insistent. "Not here... Dean. Dean!"

Paul could speak because Dean now had his lips on his neck, knowing it was a sensitive spot. Paul, starting to melt, stopped struggling and leaned into it, his eyes closed. He just felt the soft, luscious lips moving slowly up to his ear. "Dean, umm... we should... we shouldn't... here..."

Suddenly the washer that Paul leaned against went into the spin cycle. It shook violently before settling into it, but the movement was enough to send Paul stumbling away like the appliance had just shocked his backside. He let out a surprised cry. Dean burst out in a snickery laugh, watching Paul sprint from the washer like he was doing the chicken dance. "It's just the spin cycle, Paul. The washer doesn't bite."

"But you do." Keeping his distance, Paul tried to get back to the business of sorting laundry.

But Dean simply wouldn't be denied. He moved to Paul's side, standing close enough to hear that the other man's breath had begun to quicken. "Do you need me right now, Paul? Hm?"

"I'm getting there," he replied quietly.

Dean hovered close to Paul, not touching him. Just breathing on his neck. "And to think, you were going to give all this up. Catholic priests are celibate, right?"

Paul nodded.

"How can any adult be abstinent for the rest of their life?" Dean looked him up and down. "I'd go fuckin' nuts, with all the temptation there is out there."

Although the warmth of Dean standing so close to him was a mighty distraction, Paul attempted to explain how lifelong celibacy was supposed to work... in theory. "Well... when you become a priest, you enter into a deep spiritual relationship with God that takes the place of romantic human relationships." He became acutely aware of Dean breathing into his ear. "You become filled with the light and love of God... it takes the place of need... and something about the Holy Spirit..."

Dean smirked. "A guy like you never would have been tempted, hm? Celibate all the way?"

"Yeah." Paul wet his lips.

"Go abstinence. Rah rah rah." Cornering Paul against the dryer upon which he was sorting the clothes, Dean put a hand on either side of him, on top of the appliance, and stood with his face close to Paul's. Paul felt like he was being stalked by a predatory animal. He tried not to look Dean in the eye, because Dean was already a little riled, and Paul was trying to stick up for celibate priests here. At least, he thought that's what he was doing. "You know what I think? I think all those Catholic priests are turning sicko and going after the choirboys because of this vow of celibacy. No man can give up sex for a 'deep spiritual relationship with God.' Men need sex." Dean ran one finger along Paul's arm. "I mean, what kind of a substitute is that? To think of never touching another person again..."

Paul wanted to defend the way things were done in the Catholic Church, but at the time, with Dean that close to him, he couldn't think of anything to say but, "I don't agree with you on that. I think it can work."

"Really? Well, you would know, wouldn't you? You almost became a priest." His lips coming within centimeters of Paul's, Dean said, "Remind me again why you quit?"

"I told you why." The sexual tension between them had become palpable.

"So it had absolutely nothing to do with giving up sex?" Dean asked.

"Absolutely nothing."

"You never had doubts before that? There was never a person who made you question your career decisions?" As he asked this, Dean studied Paul's body language. He got a payoff when Paul stopped moving momentarily, obviously thinking about what Dean had said; so there had been someone. "There wasn't a girl whose touch you would miss, whose body lying next to yours made you think huh, this is way better than being filled with the spirit of God?"

A slightly annoyed expression on his face, Paul finally looked at him. "I know you're enjoying this, but you can stop any time now."

Was Dean ever the type of guy to let up, especially when he knew he'd struck gold? "What was her name?"

Paul picked up some of Dean's underwear and tossed it in his face. It bounced off and flopped to the floor. "Sort."

With a smirk, Dean picked up the clothes. "What a strange name." He was pressing Paul, he knew it, but Dean enjoyed it too much not to do it. "There's only one free machine; now should we do the colors first, or the whites? You're the one with the college degrees, so you get to call it."

"Colors." Paul sighed with relief at the fact that Dean was letting up on him. Or so it seemed.

"Good choice." It took them a minute to get the water started and load the machine. Then Dean renewed his attempt to seduce Paul into whatever he could get this time around, even if it was a quickie. "How long until the clothes are done?"

"Half an hour," replied Paul.

"That's about enough time," Dean said, and grabbed Paul's arm, swinging him up against the machine that was still in the spin cycle. Paul let out a stunned noise, and made the face to match when Dean lifted him up on top of the washer. He was awfully strong. Next thing Paul knew, Dean was kissing him again, leaning down on him, placing himself between Paul's legs. "Ever done it on top of a washer in the spin cycle? It vibrates." Dean kissed his way along Paul's jawline to his ear. Paul wanted to stop this, he really did. But he felt and heard Dean's voice in his ear...

As much as that made Paul shiver with delight, they couldn't do that, not here. "Oh, no, Dean. Someone could come into the laundry room any second. Someone might see."

"Like I told you before, that's what makes it exciting. I feel the way you shudder against me. If you want it to stop, make me stop."

"Dean..." Paul wanted this very much. He was never getting out of the confessional at this rate. But...

"If we hear someone coming, I'll stop."

The washer underneath them stopped shaking, as it was done with the spin cycle. That meant someone would be coming for their clothes soon. "We, we shouldn't get started at all... Dean, not here."

"Then make me stop," Dean challenged. He kissed down the hollow of Paul's throat.

Paul did not make him quit; he seemed incapable of making up his mind in this matter. He let Dean get as far as... ...before Paul gasped and reluctantly cried, "Wait!"

Dean paused with his mouth open. "What?" he asked, bothered by Paul's timing.

"What if Sam comes down here looking for us?"

That was enough to stop Dean cold. The idea of his little brother walking in on that... Dean couldn't have it. He instantly tucked Paul back into his clothes and zipped him up. "You're right. Maybe abstinence is a good idea sometimes."

Hopping off the washer, Paul backed to one side of the room, wondering why this guy had so much control over him. To think of how far they had almost gone, in an essentially public place! And it wasn't like Paul didn't want to go right back to that place of sexual abandon. It wasn't like he wasn't still fully excited and ready. Just watching Dean fidget and pace the area in front of the washer, wrestling with his need for Paul and his insistence on protecting Sam from his secret... Paul couldn't take it.

He spotted a broom closet off to the side of the washers and dryers. Paul opened the door and grabbed Dean's arm. "Screw abstinence," he said, and shoved a very surprised Dean inside.

The older woman whose clothes were in the washer Paul had been sitting on came down to tend to them within 30 seconds of the closing of the broom closet door. A thin blanket of lint covered the top of the washer; in this coating of lint, she saw the outline of someone's butt. A moan, followed by some thumping and bumping around, came from the broom closet. The woman glanced at the closet, then back at the top of the washer. "Spin cycle, huh?" she chuckled to herself.

A few minutes later, the two men put back together, Dean and Paul emerged from the closet and tried to get back to the normalcy of doing laundry.

"I don't think we have enough whites for a full load," Dean commented, examining the small pile of socks and underwear in his basket.

"That's because all your shorts are colored," remarked Paul with a snicker. He just never let up with the flirting, always had to get in a cute comment.

"Oh, you were looking, were you?"

"Well I did sort them." Paul tossed some of his own white clothes into Dean's basket. "Here, now you have a full load."

Raising an eyebrow, Dean joked, "Hm, how erotic, our clothes agitating together in a dance of cleanliness." He imitated the motion of the washer, shimmying back and forth with his arms and his hips.

Paul snickered.

Playing dumb, Dean picked up the bleach. He said in a doofy voice, "Now, how much of this am I supposed to use? The whole bottle? Remember, I'm the one who hasn't been to college."

Paul knew he was joking, but felt he needed to overcompensate to save Dean's feelings anyway. "Dean, you are not a stupid man. You've got street smarts. The knowledge you have cannot be learned in any college."

"Duuuh, where do you get these smarts? Da street?"

Paul, pretending to be frustrated with him, leaned over to Dean and gave his arm a shake. "Stop it." He moved in for a kiss, which Dean returned. When he leaned back, Paul looked at Dean's face and grinned with deep fondness. "You know, I just love these freckles." Paul ran a finger over the bridge of Dean's nose. Dean blinked, but did not move away. "So cute."

Usually, such an intimate gesture would have made Dean just about puke, but with Paul... he liked it. Really liked it. Dean was the one to lean forward this time and give the other man a kiss so sweet and gentle that it scared the hell out of him once he'd pulled away from Paul and started loading the whites into the now free washer. Once he had time to think about it. Why did Dean now tremble and wonder what was going on in his head, why this was moving so fast?

Lucky for Paul he didn't dip into Dean's emotions at that moment, because what he would have found there probably would have scared the hell out of him, too.

The kiss... it was the same sort of kiss Dean had given Cassie on their second date. When he realized he was in love with her.

This is the joke Sam was telling at the beginning of the story.

A mushroom walks into a bar and tries to pick up a girl. She reacts with horror.

"Ew, a mushroom!" the girl squeals. "I would never go out with you!"

"Why don't you want to date me?" the mushroom asks. "I'm a fun... gi."