No matter what she did, traveling in the impala was always exhausting. The music could be blaring, windows could be down in the rain, they could even be going through potholes frequently enough you could believe you were driving over a cheese grater. The world could be falling apart, and Finch Challenger would still fall asleep.

Dean would tease her for it, especially when they were kids. Before they came to their silent agreement he could be downright nasty about it. Now, he just made sure there was blankets in the back and a pillow stuffed behind his seat; he'd stolen that from a hotel ages ago.

She had slept most of the drive through Colorado. The lull of the even road and warmth from the heater nearly had her curled up in the front. She would've, but Dean forced her to lay in the back. You'll get a kink in your neck, he would always say to her when she argued about it. And I really don't want to hear you complain about it, Fin. We're in a small car.

It didn't matter what her argument was. She would end up asleep on the brown leather seat in the back with her blankets wrapped around her lower body and wore a swear with the hood up to manage the rest. Especially in the last month, as her body was healing.

Finch had nearly kicked him in the head when he woke her — his mistake for going to her feet rather than her head — but eventually woke herself up enough to register she'd they were. It was a small little diner just off the highway. The majority of the parking lot was filled with motor bikes and trucks. A sign above the front door blinked in bright red, but her tired eyes hadn't focused enough to read them.

They were brought to a booth immediately, one next to a window. Dean sat on one side, she sat on the other. Behind them an old couple was bickering about something they had seen on the news that morning. It was early afternoon now, so a small part of her was surprised they remembered that. The waitress who brought them their menus was a pretty blonde in tight jeans and a fitted top.

Immediately, she looked to Dean.

It was funny, truthfully. Wherever they went there was a woman who would do anything to get him in bed. They would flirt all night at the bar, dance around the tension for a while, and then it would be time to go. If their motel was close enough, Dean would take off with the woman for an hour or so and Finch would wipe the floor in a poker game. It was fun, and the money didn't hurt.

The other option was Dean would painstakingly turn her down. There was always another few attempts to salvage the night those women had worked so hard for. More drinks. Offers to duck into the bathrooms. Holding him a little closer and moving their fingers along his arms or chest.

They would turn on the charm and convince him that taking them home would be unbelievably worth it. Dean would bask in the sweet but suggestive smiles, the batting lashes, but Finch would find him and give him a slight jerk of her head towards the exit; time to go. At the sight of her, all the sweet and sultry gazes turned sour.

According to Dean, that was because they saw her as competition. It would boost his ego a touch, to have women fight for him. They had so little joy in their life on the road that as much as it irritated her, Finch would give him that. So instead of rolling her eyes or snarking at him, her response was almost always the same.

There isn't much of me you haven't already seen, Dean.

His response was usually the same, too. Yeah, when you're covered in blood. That's not exactly the dream.

She would smirk. You dream about me naked?

Watching him fumble for a retort was always enjoyable because he usually had to think. Shut up, Fin, you know your attractive.

Then I'd be too hot to get into bed with you, she would snicker. Then they would go back to the hotel, and Finch would always be the first to get the TV remote.

This waitress was the same.

She set the menus down in front of Dean while looking him over with obvious intent. Her back straightened which pushed her chest out, and she leaned over slightly to ask, "let me know when you're ready for me."

Grinning, Dean nodded. "Oh, I will."

Then the waitress smiled triumphantly and walked back to the front with an extra sway of her hips. Two other women her age were there waiting and broke into a flurry of whispers as soon as she arrived.

Finch rolled her eyes, then looked back and scanned the menu. Roast beef sandwich. Chicken sandwich. Chicken burger. Nuggets. Fries. Mac and cheese. After that was a dozen or so of their burgers. When glanced up and saw Dean trying to get a better look at the front counter, she snickered.

"What?" He scoffed.

It was hard to fight off her smile. A faint pink dusted his cheeks and neck for a moment before disappearing. It didn't happen often, but a sense of pride would fill her when it did. "Oh I will?" Finch repeated with a snort, brow arching. "Really?"

Dean stared at her for a long moment as he thought of something to say. "Shut up and pick your food," he eventually decided.

With a large grin, Finch did.

Over the course of the next half hour, Dean and their pretty blonde waitress shared looks and playful smiles. Finch ate her cheeseburger in silence, her blue eyes focused solely on the table. If she watched their exchanges she would end up laughing. They eventually settled into a relaxed, easily interrupted conversation. Dean would be talking, and Finch would wait until he was distracted before, one by one, taking his fries and dipping them in ketchup. When he noticed she had taken half of the serving he frowned and briefly glared at her and swiped some of them back.

The last thing their waitress was able to come to their table for was the bill.

Dean finally finished his sandwich and thought for a moment. "You wanna get dessert or gas?" He questioned.

"Dessert," Finch answered without a moment of hesitation. "Can you bring the car up front when you're done? Sitting like this with my hip—"

"—I get another piece of pie for this," Dean confirmed cheekily.

She rolled her eyes. Finch knew that he was messing with her. He would bring the car up front to help her with the take out even if her leg was fully healed.

It took her a couple tries to get out of the booth. Her leg had stiffened slightly and she was trying to slowly stretch it out. Once she was standing so took a moment to adjust, biting back a wince at the strain it put on her hip.

"You should leave him, sweetie."

Finch turned towards the sound of the voice and found the old couple seated at the next booth watched her sadly. It was the woman who had spoken. Her ringed fingers were wrapped around her steaming mug of coffee.

"Excuse me?" Finch said, surprise clearly evident on her face.

The old woman flushed red. "Sorry, I didn't mean to sound so blunt," she apologized.

Slowly, Finch nodded. She took a moment to process the words and raked a hand though her short brown hair as she did so.

A year after Sam left, she decided that she was in need  of — and deserved — a change.

A hair cut was the only good thing she could think of at the time. She had almost picked up smoking again, but she could remember the day Dean made her promise to stop and Finch had yet to break that promise.

"It's alright," Finch mumbled, blinking twice.

It was always surprising to see just how comfortable some people were with butting into the business of others. The old woman in front of her might mean well, but it was still incredible to her.

There were some days she had trouble ordering food for herself because even after all the years she had been free, it still felt odd talking to people. She couldn't imagine giving advice on something as personal as this to a total stranger.

With a sad smile, the woman took a sip from her coffee. Then she said, "I just meant, that, I saw the way he was looking at Kaylee earlier, and you seem like such a nice girl. You deserve better than that."

Finch blushed lightly. "We aren't — no. He's just a friend," she said, and hastily went up to the front counter.

She went with a slight limp, but she got them a slice of apple pie and a slice of cheesecake to go, paid for it all, and hobbled out of the diner. Dean was pulling up around front a minute later and grabbed the take out bag from her. He didn't ask, his his expression implied that he'd get out and help her if she needed it.

With her own look, Finch essentially told him to stuff it and got into the car on her own. The takeout bag went at her feet. It wasn't difficult to find space there as her seat was back as far as it could go. That was another reason she laid in the back so often. She was 5'11, nearly 6'0, and her legs cramped up when she was curled too long. Deans did too, but he pretended they didn't.

"You hi-tailed it out if there pretty fast," Dean commented with a snort.

Finch let out a breathy laugh and leaned back in her seat. After belting in she grabbed her blueberry cheesecake from the bag. Then she flattened the paper bag as best as she could on the cup holder and set the container of pie on top. "The woman at the till told me I should break up with you because I can do better," Finch snorted, laughing loudly when Dean began choking on air.

Clearly offended, "damn, she actually said that?" he asked.

"In those words and everything."

They sat for a moment as he processed it. "Well then," he mumbled, letting out a quiet humph. "We're about 11 hours away from California, so we'll pull into a Motel tonight then drive straight tomorrow," Dean said.

She nodded, continuing to eat her cheesecake. "Why would she think we were dating? I mean, that's just weird," she said dramatically.

He looked both ways, then Dean pulled onto the highway again and they tore down the road. It jolted her bad leg, causing her to let out a loud squeak and for him to mutter an apology. "What do you mean that's just weird," he said finally. "You're weird," he scoffed.

She rolled her eyes.

In the fifteen years Finch had known Dean, his comebacks always had been terrible. It was something that her and Sam would laugh at as kids. It was likely they would never get any better.

"Oh hush," Finch mumbled.

She stuffed a forkful of his pie into his mouth to shut him up. While he chewed, Dean leaned forward and turned the volume up on the music, Ledd Zeppelin blaring through the old speakers. Even with the hum of the highway deafening her, it was obviously Black Dog. She would know that guitar anywhere.

Finch leaned over and opened her window. A slow smile pulled at her lips as the wind flew through her hair. Before she had cut it, Dean would complain that it was long enough to get in his mouth whenever she did this. Now that it was short he couldn't complain.

Tree flew past them on either side, briefly breaking way to show the turnoff into cities or a view overlooking a lake. If they parked, she could guess they'd hear birds chirping in the trees. Sam was always amazed because she could name every one just by their calls.

After a long while, Dean broke the peaceful silence. "I don't think I've told you, but you look good with short hair," he said. A quick glance over at her before looking back at the road.

She remembered him complimenting her the day she cut it, but Finch smiled at him and pulled it up into a ponytail at the back of her head. "You want something," she laughed and he smiled sheepishly at her.

"More pie," he grinned sheepishly.

With a nod, Finch scooped up a decent forkful and held it in front of his face.

He ate it quickly before she could pull it away. She rolled her eyes, smiling and turning back to face the window.

"But really, it suits you," Dean said, a small piece of pastry falling out of his mouth and landing on the back of his hand.

The noise she made, the squeak of oh god don't land on me made him laugh so hard they almost had to pull over. "You disgust me," Finch mumbled finally. She picked it up as if it had some kind of infestation and flicked it out her window.

Dean snickered and turned the music up again.

Anyone who passed them would be able to hear whatever was playing. Finch slept most of the ride, having grown accustomed to the sounds of cars and Dean singing along to his music years ago. It was all white noise to her.

At first it had been beyond irritating.

Being kept in the cave she had grown accustomed to the sounds of bugs and animals and the weather. The hum of a mosquito. Splattering of rain. The rustle of dry leaves in the fall. Hoots from an owl, the squeaks of a mouse. Adjusting to the boys and John had been awful at first. The other man who had helped her, Bobby, had given her half a dozen sets of earplugs when they left his house.

Now, the singing and laughter that used to make her cry from the volume were some of her favourite sounds. Especially now, when John wasn't around. She loved him for rescuing her, and loved him for taking her in as part of the family.

But they weren't children under his care. They became well trained warriors willing to give up their life for the cause. Dean had grown up with that ideology, and they both knew he gladly would lose his life to save someone if it came down to it. But when John was around it was much more comfortable.

They weren't on edge, constantly worrying if they were going to get reamed out for something. With him gone, they could almost relax. She knew when he was comfortable because Dean never truly laughed around his father; at least not in the fifteen years she had been with them.

There was no singing or jokes, or anything of the sort. Only silent soldiers waiting to be given orders. She didn't want to admit it as a child as she thought it would be ungrateful, but she sometimes felt more alone than she did in the cave.

So hearing Dean like this, singing and laughing and poking fun at her was now one of the best sounds she could hope for. It told her that she was no longer at the mercy of the skin walkers that had killed her family and taken her for reasons she would never know.

It told her that she was free.

Most importantly, it told her she was safe.

Finch woke up at the Nevada/California border, the sun set glowing through the open window. Dean had pulled the car over to finished what was left of his pie, making sure nothing went to waste.

"We're going to set up camp in the next half hour," he told her quietly.

There was a fondness when he looked at her. It was more than a platonic or familial feeling; more than anything romantic. She didn't know what it was but it had been there for a long, long time.

Finch nodded through a yawn and yanked her hair up into a ponytail again. "Alright. How long was I out for?" She asked with a yawn, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hands.

Dean shook his head and cleared his throat. He coughed a little bit, likely from choking on a piece of the pie he had eaten too fast. "A couple hours, not long," he mumbled, then stuffed mouth full of the last scrapings from the plastic takeout container.

With a roll of her eyes, Finch reached over and smacked his arm. "I don't need to see the rewrites of your pie, Dean," she snorted, yawning again. "The rewrites are always awful." He rolled his eyes and used his plastic fork to catapult a small piece of pastry at her. It landed squarely on her cheek. Finch closed her eyes and pursed her lips, turning to look at him when she opened them. "You are five years old," she stated very seriously her upper lip curling in disgust.

"What would that make you then," Dean muttered to himself, not meaning for her to hear.

Finch rolled her eyes again and picked off the piece of pastry. After a moment of thought, she flicked it back at him and could only laugh when it landed on his lip. He pulled it back into his mouth with his tongue and grinned as he ate it.

After talking for another few minutes, Dean pulled back onto the highway and drove to the nearest motel. "We're sharing a room again, right?" Finch asked him as she grabbed her duffle bag from the trunk.

Dean nodded, slamming it shut after getting his own bag. "Who's turn is it to sleep on the couch again?" he asked, furrowing his eyebrows as they opened the door to the main office.

The warm air bombarded them as soon as they stepped in. She had been hoping for air conditioning, but it didn't look likely. "I think its mine," she answered him with a frown.

He nodded.

While Dean went up and booked them a room, Finch went and looked at all the brochures on the wall. There was one for Disney Land, Universal Studios, and a bunch of other places she'd never even heard of.

"Alrighty, escar-go," Dean hummed and grabbed her bag from her. He lead her to a room not too far from the main office.

Finch snatched the key out of his hands and stuck her tongue out at him when he gave her a mock pout. "Don't be a poor sport, Dean," she chuckled, and her friend rolled his eyes.

As they went inside Finch stepped on the lip of the door oddly and hissed as a crackle of pain moved through her right hip and upper thigh. I thought I got over the thing already, god damn.

Dean's expression changed from its usual mocking smirk to one of concern; something she rarely saw because of John Winchester. "How's your hip healing?" He asked worriedly. Before she could respond he was dumping their bags down on the floor beside the couch. "I mean, it looked pretty nasty last time I had a good look at it."

Finch grimaced slightly and undid the button of her jeans. She pulled the right side of her waistband down, showcasing the large white bandage covering the surface. "I haven't really been looking at it, if I'm being honest," she murmured.

The bandage extended from the top of her pelvis and down the length of her thigh, ending just above her knee. She had spent a week away from John and Dean in Minnesota, hunting a Wendigo while the other pair dealt with a nasty vampire nest.

The Wendigo had gotten her, and attacked while she was helping a young girl run to safety. It had been almost a week since she had rejoined her family, and Finch had yet to look at it.

"Then let me take a look then," Dean sighed, and she nodded.

In no time at all, they were in the bathroom and her jeans were down at her knees. She kept a towel over the front of her and leaned on the counter as Dean crouched down to look. Finch bit at the inside of her mouth as he slowly peeled the bandage away. The feeling of it was horrific. She always preferred yanking bandaids off rather than the slow pull, but she could do a lot of damage if these were just ripped off.

Finch was focused on the ceiling, grimacing as the air drifted across the still healing skin. She cringed as he put his hands on her. One holding the arm closest to him and the other pressing two fingers just above her hipbone to turn her. "It looks better," he murmured finally, shooting her a small smile.

Finch shook her head and swallowed thickly. "It looks horrible, Dean-o, don't you lie to me," she mumbled, her short brown hair falling to frame her face as she focused on the damaged skin.

There were four angry pink lines running in jagged lines across the torn and bruising flesh. When the Wendigo had gotten hold of her, it had been her own stupid mistake. It's claws moved faster than she could blink and hooked onto the side of her belt.

She remembered the searing pain of it. Laying on her stomach to crawl only to be yanked back by the slicing of her own skin.

It's claws had started just above her right butt cheek and as she twisted herself to face it, they had torn down the side of her right hip on onto her thigh, nearly down to her knees. According to the paramedics and trauma doctors that had gotten her, the 'bear' that mauled her had nearly hit her femoral artery.

After three weeks in the hospital Finch was able to duck out under the radar and meet Dean in the back parking lot. He told her John had just gone out on a hunt and they were going to sit in a motel for another two weeks to be sure her leg would be fine. The relaxation only lasted a week and a half.

Dean brought her food and snacks, bought beer and they watched movies until they ran out of good ones. When she had to shower, Dean would sit her in a chair beside the bathtub and tilt it back so he could wash her hair the way they do in salons. She would give herself sponge baths. He would help clean the wounds as she both couldn't reach or bring herself to look at them.

There was nothing uncomfortable about it, sitting in just her underwear or nothing on the lower with a towel covering anything that wasn't injured. As she had said before, there wasn't much of her that Dean hadn't already seen. He had patched up enough of her wounds that if all were bare at the same time, he would've practically seen her naked.

She stood there leaned against the bathroom counter while Dean took care of the cuts above her ass, and she felt safer than she would fully clothed in a bar.

A tap on her arm made her look at Dean, who stared pointedly at her. Finch heaved in a breath and forced herself to look. The slashes had faded considerably since she had been stitched up. They weren't nearly as angrily red as they had been and the bruising had begun to face. But she knew that she would never be comfortable going out in anything other than pants for the rest of her life. Too many people would stare, and far too many questions would be asked.

"It just makes you more badass then you already are," Dean assured her gently, patting her shoulder as he stood up.

The bathroom was cramped, so maneuvering the two of them around was a little uncomfortable. He put one hand on her good hip to make sure she stayed balanced while he passed her to go back to the living room.

Finch felt a small smile twitch at her lips as she stood up, fighting away the grimace at the tension in her thigh muscles. "Thanks," she called quietly, rolling her eyes when she saw him moving back to the motel room door, car keys in hand.

"I'm going to go out and get some more bandages," he told her with a soft smile. "Last time I checked we didn't have many left. We need some more dental floss too, so I'll get that while I'm gone. Call me if you need anything else."

Then Finch was left to her thoughts. She stood and pulled her pants up, stretching out her arms and back. "TV time," she murmured, getting herself comfortably situated on the couch.

🥧⚰️📿

Dean wandered silently back into the motel room he shared with Finch, the bag of medical supplies in one hand with the keys in the other. A soft smile formed on his fact at the sight of the woman who had since fallen asleep on the couch.

The top part of Finch's hair had been pulled up into a messy bun on the top of her head, and her sweatpants that she'd stolen from him had been rolled up to her knees. Her shins were bruised and scratched. Her baggy white tee shirt — one she had also stolen from him — hung loosely from one shoulder, while it was bunch up at her neck on the other.

Dean chuckled quietly and set the bag down on the small table and set the keys down next to it, shaking his head. He moved to stand next to the couch and pulled up the shoulder of her shirt so it was situated properly.

In one swift movement, Dean picked Finch up off the couch and carried her over to the only bed in the room, awkwardly pulling the blankets back before setting her down.

"Didn't think this through," he muttered to himself as he attempted to pull the elastic from her hair. "No, definitely did not think this through."

Dean's hands froze in places when Finch let out a yawn, shifting her position so her back was to him and she was laying on her left side.

"G'night, Dean-o," she murmured sleepily, a soft smile forming on her lips as she was pulled back into sleep.

Dean rolled his eyes; Finch could fall asleep anywhere.

His theory was, because there was almost nothing more uncomfortable then sleeping on the floor of a rocky cave for four years, she must find everything comfortable.

"Night," he mumbled, yawning. Dean shuffled over to the couch — one of the ones that turned into a bed if you needed it to — and set everything up, quickly getting himself comfortable.

In a short few minutes, he fell asleep too.