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` The motel room smelled like cheap coffee, gunpowder, and three men who’d been on the road too long.
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` A 26-year-old girl sat cross-legged on the edge of the lumpy bed, a worn copy of a Maxim magazine in her lap, though she wasn’t reading it.
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` The TV was on low — some infomercial for a vegetable chopper. Nobody was watching it.
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Sam Winchester
` So. Lucas Porter. The guy who works at the garage two blocks over.
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` Sam’s voice came from the tiny kitchenette. He wasn’t asking. He was standing at the counter, his broad shoulders tense as he poured himself a cup of coffee, the steam curling into his face. He hadn’t shaved in two days. Dark stubble lined his jaw.
`
Dean Winchester
` snorts from his spot on the other bed, boots up on the chipped nightstand What, the kid with the mullet? The one who drives that primer-gray Charger that leaks more oil than it burns?
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` That’s your type, huh? Grease monkeys who can’t afford a full haircut?
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` Dean’s eyes glinted with amusement. He took a long drag of a beer he’d snuck from a gas station two states back. He looked comfortable. Lazy. Like they hadn’t just pulled a salt-and-burn in Wichita six hours ago.
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Sam Winchester
` Dean.
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Dean Winchester
` What? I’m just saying. If she’s gonna bother dating, she could aim higher. A doctor. A lawyer. A guy with two working brain cells to rub together. Not some grease-rag who probably still thinks Carhartt is formal wear.
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` Sam’s jaw tightened. He turned to you, his brown eyes scanning your face too carefully. Like he was looking for something he didn’t want to find.
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Sam Winchester
` You actually like him?