Disclaimer: I own nothing in this fic except for the dialogue and the plot. Characters belong to Joss Whedon and Eric Kripke.

A/N: Synchronicity is the simultaneous occurrence of events that appear significantly related but have no discernible causal connection. In other words, meaningful coincidences. While this story contains significant amounts of action, adventure, and alcohol intoxication, it is first and foremost a character study.

May 2003, Los Angeles

In terms of interpersonal relationships, you might say it had been quite an eventful week, Faith reflected, wishing that thought smacked a little less of bitterness. You helped to save the world, and what did you get? Bupkis. Or, worse than bupkis - confinement with five or six of the people you found most annoying in the world.

You would think, wouldn't you, that spending a week in Disneyland and Hollywood on the Watcher's Council's dollar would be fun. Catch some rays, meet some nice weirdos in chipmunk costumes. You'd think it would be a blast. Faith had certainly hoped so.

Once the smoke all cleared around the giant crater formerly known as Sunnydale, she'd been in half a mind to run. Running, Faith was beginning to realize, was a prominent theme in her life.

Run where? That, she didn't know. She never really knew. Back to Angel in L.A.? Back to jail, with three squares and a movie and rules that made sense? Back to Boston to find her deadbeat relatives? She was screwed up, and she was lonely, and she was effing tired of living in Buffy's shadow, hanging out with Buffy's friends.

Ultimately, that was why Disneyland had blown so hard. The more time she spent with the remaining Scoobies and newly activated Slayers, the more she remembered why that pre-coma year in Sunnyhell had been so g-ddamn awful. The Slayerettes were annoying and insecure and constantly yammered on like a pack of Pomeranians. And as for Buffy's friends, enough history of dislike lingered there to make an Everest of awkwardness. Plus, the whole thing with Robin had gone up in smoke. Faith didn't want a boyfriend, especially not one who wanted to play head games with her or mold her into something.

The only one of the whole crew that she could stand was Giles, and he was too busy making important phone calls, trying to put together a new Watcher's Council, and reestablishing his relationship with Saint Buff to pay attention to Faith. Not that she minded, really. Giles, like everybody else, had been Buffy's friend first.

So had their Disney been the happiest place on earth? Maybe for Dawnie, who didn't seem to remember Spike sacrificing himself for all of them just the week before. Certainly not for Faith, who spent the entire week worrying over her legal status, avoiding making eye contact with Xander or Robin, and dancing on eggshells around the Buffster.

Yep, Faith definitely had to get the hell away from them, strike out on her own. She just needed a few things first: a new driver's license, $500 in cash, to not be wanted by the police, and to have an idea of where to go.

What she wanted, Faith concluded, after having locked herself in the bathroom of the hotel room she was sharing with three new Slayers, looking for a little alone time before the imminent partying that night, was a fresh start. She couldn't talk her way out of going out with the Scoobies and the Slayerettes, but she could keep pondering her options.

Smiling grimly at her reflection in the mirror, the Slayer applied a little more mascara to her already thickly coated lashes. Speaking of options... if she didn't like her present company, she could always find someone new tonight. That had been an available choice since she was fifteen, and if Faith had her way, it always would be.

At twenty-four, Dean Winchester was finally beginning to accept the fact that his life was a mess. He had come out to California three weeks ago to deal with a poltergeist in San Diego and had ended up staying, picking up hauntings and missing persons cases as he slowly wound his way up the coast. Nothing big or world-ending, just small salt-and-burn deals. If Dean was being honest with himself, which usually only happened in the middle of a hunt or after a sixpack of beer, he was dawdling, trying to make up his mind whether or not to keep driving up to Palo Alto. Drop in on Sam.

It had been just over a year since his little brother had stormed off to Stanford after a screaming match with Dad. Dean had lost track of the number of drunken voicemails he'd left on Sammy's phone, of the number of times he or John had debated driving out to visit Sam. A year since Sam left, and a month since his dad took off on an unspecified case of his own, calling every couple of days or so.

After an encounter with the particularly vindictive ghost, who had knocked over a telephone pole nearly on top of him, Dean stopped by a bar on the east side of L.A. that he'd found the night before. It was Western themed, with wooden saloon doors that swung open, John Wayne posters on every wall, and a jukebox playing a perpetual mix of Willie Nelson, Dolly Parton, Loretta Lynn, and Johnny Cash.

If Sammy or his dad were around, Dean would have avoided the place like the plague. On his own, since the drinks were cheap, the pool table in the back room was level, and the bartender was almost hot enough to have modeled for Playboy, he could put up with a little classic country.

He was partway through beer number two, and relaxation was starting to sink in. A beer and a half wasn't near enough to make Dean's head fuzzy, but it took the edges off the nasty things at the back of his mind. He could let go of Sam a little easier, stop worrying about his dad's new obsession, and inspect the group of people who had just walked in.

The girl at the front was short, blond, and generally Dean's type, but there was something pinched in her face, and she had linked arms with a guy in an eyepatch. Seriously? An eyepatch? Who did he think he was, a pirate?

Mentally shaking his head, Dean continued his survey of the newcomers. A nerdy redhead and a hot brunette followed the blond and the pirate, but they were holding hands, so they were out. The lesbian couple was trailed by a few girls with wide eyes and high-pitched voices who were glancing around the bar (and at Dean) like it was all incredibly exotic.

It was the last woman who really caught his attention. Dark hair, dark eyes, heavy amounts of eyeliner and mascara, red lipstick, skintight clothes. She followed her friends into the bar, gave the room a bored once-over, and then ditched the group to head purposefully his way. She slid onto the barstool next to Dean and held out her hand. "Hi, I'm Faith."

"Dean." Her grip, strong and callused, surprised him. He had been expecting something a little less aggressive, a little more feminine.

"Nice to meet you, Dean." Faith grinned at him, brown eyes bright and friendly. She gestured to the bartender. "Shot of whiskey, please." A glance towards him. "Can I get you anything?"

He raised his half-full bottle. "I'm good for now, thanks. Later, though, I might take you up on that."

"Looking forward to it. Cheers." Faith picked up the shot glass seconds after the bartender placed it in front of her. She threw her head back and downed the whiskey in one go, then gestured for another. "So, Dean, tell me. What brings you to the City of Angels?"

Dean had picked up lots of women in lots of bars across the country, but there was something different about Faith. She didn't bat her eyelashes or comment on the size of his biceps or gaze soulfully into his eyes. She was neither naive nor predatory, but a disturbing level of direct somewhere in between. She listened to his half-truths about why he was in L.A. with a wry smile and, when prompted, provided a back-story just as specious as his. Within five minutes, Dean could tell that she was planning on leaving with him. Five minutes later, he had made up his mind to leave with her.

They were in no rush. After the second whiskey, Faith switched to beer, and she nursed the same bottle throughout the rest of the evening. Dean let her buy him his third beer in return for some pool lessons. She wasn't hustler material, but she was good enough to play a close game of two-on-two against the blonde and the pirate that she had come in with.

Even comfortably hydrated with alcohol, Dean could tell there was something off in the way she interacted with her friends. He couldn't quite label it exactly, but he knew Sammy would have known the specific word Dean was hunting – searching – for. It stung a little that he wasn't, and so Dean finished his third beer and went back to the bar for another.

Returning, he taught Faith some trick shots: how to bank the cue ball off the opposite edge of the table, how to use the cue to generate a last minute spin. She allowed him to get all up close and personal, let him move her arms and stance to line up the shot right. But then he felt the tension in her body, and Dean wondered if he needed to rethink his plans for the night.

One of the bouncy girls complained to the bartender about the jukebox, and the music changed to Top 40 hits. Faith took his hand and dragged him out onto the dance floor. This, he knew, was going to end badly. Dean had never been a dance aficionado – hell, he'd really never had time for it. The only dance he liked to do tended to be a bit more horizontal.

He tried to laughingly beg off, but the woman ignored him. She towed him to the middle of the beer-stained parquet square and wrapped the arm holding a beer bottle around his neck. With a toss of her wavy brown hair over one shoulder, Faith began to sway her hips distractingly close to his. Her dancing was far more flirtatious that her conversation.

"Hey," Dean started, then noticed her eyes were shut tight. This wasn't about him, he realized, as she continued dancing with him. This was about her, or something else, and she was using him a little bit right now. What the hell. They were both going to be using each other a little bit later, and her dancing was damn sexy.

The drive back to his motel was surprisingly unawkward. Faith demonstrated the proper amount of appreciation for the Impala. Her sincere "Holy sh-t!" at the sight of the vintage black car made him laugh properly for the first time since he got to California. Even better, she didn't seem to find him any less attractive because of his slightly skeevy motel room. To the contrary, she went from zero to sixty miles an hour once the door shut, not even blinking when his revolver hit the floor along with his jeans.

Afterwards, Dean was surprised when she stayed next to him. He had received the distinct impression that she was not the cuddling type. Instead of gathering up her clothes and disappearing out the door, which he had expected, Faith propped her head up on one hand, mindlessly tracing one of his older scars – a bad encounter with a wendigo when he was fifteen had left Dean with a thick, ropy souvenir across the left side of his rib cage – with the other. She lazily dragged the tip of her index finger along his sternum and up over his throat to tap him on the chin. "Thanks."

"Yeah?" His voice was husky.

"This's been fun." Faith extended her neck upwards and kissed him. Settling back down, she fell asleep in minutes.

Women, Dean reflected. He would never understand them.

"I know. I know. It was irresponsible."

Dean woke to an empty bed and the sound of irritated whispers. He listened, eyes closed, to Faith's angry conversation with someone on the other end of her cell phone.

"B. They had you and the Scoobies. It's not like they were going to get into any trouble." A pause, and the quiet rustle of fabric sliding over skin. Ah. So she was leaving, then.

"So what if it is setting a bad example? I can't believe you're harping on about this. You're not exactly a Hallmark card for healthy relationships yourself . . . Whatever. I'll be there in half an hour. You can tell the posse to settle themselves down."

A click as she flipped the phone shut, followed by a steady stream of vehement cursing. Dean almost felt sorry for the people her invective was directed towards. Almost. He had been looking forward to round two with Faith.

"Sorry about leaving early, cowboy," Faith said to the room at large. "Thought this might go somewhere interesting."

Before he could decide whether or not to respond, footsteps padded in the direction of the door, which opened and shut quietly.

Dammit, Dean thought, falling quickly back into sleep. Maybe she left her number.

When he properly woke up five hours later, however, there was no phone number to be found. Dean was unsurprised; Faith seemed like a "love 'em and leave 'em" type of girl. Still, it would have been fun.