The hunt for a Tennessee werewolf turned into a hunt for a Tennessee werewolf pack, and Dean silently agrees with Sam's bitching and moaning that they need a goddamned break after this one. They're both battered and chewed on and sore, and Sam got knocked into a couple trees and Dean spent some time being trampled into the dirt (he's got the perfectly paw-shaped bruises on his back to show for it, too), so he limps to the motel office as soon as they roll back up and pays for a full week.

Sam seems surprised that he's willing to stay put in one spot for their agreed-on break, rather than just aimlessly driving, but Sam also doesn't know there's another paw print bruise on his backside.

Baby's low-slung leather seats aren't all that forgiving on backside bruises.

So they spend that night relaxing, drinking a couple beers, eating their way steadily through a couple pounds of greasy Chinese food. Sam's so tired he doesn't complain once about the food, even though it's so salty Dean's tongue feels a little burnt by the time he's halfway done with his fried rice.

When Sam's nodding off over a carton of General Tsao's and maybe too sleepy to say 'no' Dean offers to give him another black eye, so the one he got from the werewolves won't look so lopsided. He's too sleepy to say anything, apparently, but manages to level Dean a decent bitchy glare and stumbles out of his chair to flop on the bed without stains.

SPN SPN SPN

The next morning Dean wakes up with the kind of grogginess that only comes from getting roughed up too much the night before and following it up with too much food. Sam looks about as bleary as he feels, so they skip breakfast for a bit and head straight to the nearest coffee shop.

"So what're you gonna get?" Dean teases as they climb out of the car. "Skinny caramel latte, heavy on the whipped cream or are you thinkin' a vanilla strawberry mocha with cinnamon rainbow sprinkles?"

"Bite me," Sam mutters, and lumbers up to the shop. As he opens the door Dean quickly reaches out and smacks the back of his head.

"Don't sass me so early in the morning."

"Ow," Sam mutters, and rubs the back of his head with a scowl like a wet kitten. Dean snorts and swaggers up to the pretty girl behind the counter, feeling a little tiredness shake off at the sight of her: bleached hair with an inch of brown roots, face-full of makeup at eight a.m., tight white blouse unbuttoned lower than the top of her apron. Eighteen, nineteen, maybe twenty. Young, advertizing, and low self esteem. Just his type.

"Hey, sweetheart," Dean says with a wide smirk, leaning one elbow on the counter. "I'll have a big black coffee." He lets his gaze trail obviously down the line of her open collar to where it disappears under the apron, then flicks back up to her eyes. Huh. She's giving him a look like he's still covered in mud and werewolf shit. Guess she has self esteem after all. Recouping, he waves a hand over his shoulder at Sam. "He'll have whatever you've got that's super girly and comes with lots of sprinkles."

The girl actually scowls at him, then shifts deliberately to look past him to Sam. She smiles gently and says in a kind voice like Sam is a little kid, "What can I get for you, darlin'?"

What the hell?

Sam mumbles something about vanilla lattes. Huh. Maybe Sammy was doing those pathetic puppy eyes at her. Yeah, that was probably it.

They get their coffees- well, Sam's is handed to him, Dean gets his slammed down on the counter and the girl turns pointedly away before he can point out she's forgotten to put on one of those heat sleeve things like she'd slipped on Sam's latte.

Huh.