Commentary, Chapter Two:

Shar: I still can't believe you made me drag Sam all the way to our room! Look at me! And then look at him!

Lozz: You'd rather have taken Dean?

Shar: …That's not the point.

Lozz: sighs This one's never happy. Notice how she seems to blame me for everything? Even her thoughts.

Shar: I have gotten more dirty minded, and it is all your fault.

Lozz: Mmmmmm-hmmm. shakes head fervently to audience, to show that she isn't agreeing, just placating Sharika then smiles innocently at Shar when she looks back

Shar: We still don't own Sam, or Dean.

Lozz: Not yet anyway. I'm working on it. Then again, who'd want to own Dean? Stupid asshole…

CHAPTER TWO

Need A Bra?

I don't know whose side I'm on,

I don't know my right from wrong,

I don't know where I'm goin' to…

I don't know about you…

Fire Escape – Fastball

Sharika

I've no idea where I got my sudden strength from, but I did it! I got him up on my bed without any injuries, well… any severe injuries. I decided to put a hot cloth on his forehead as my mother used to do when she was stressed.

Humming an old 90's tune I performed this act, wishfully hoping that he'd get up and walk around without any trouble. No such luck. Damn lady luck, couldn't spare any good fortune my way. Too busy with people such as Adam Brody, I guess.

"Uhnn…" I heard a moan. My head jerked down to the source of the noise. "Where am I?" Sam struggled to ask in a groggy voice. I started to massage his temples, to relieve at least some of the pain.

"You were knocked unconscious, due to certain harmful…objects positioned unfortunately in the bar. Sorry," I grinned at him sheepishly.

"Dean?" he asked in less pained tones. At least my massage was working.

"Lauren dragged him to your room. I tried to get you there too, but considering the factors involved, well…let's just say I'm not known for my determination. Oh, and sorry about the splinters. You'll understand soon enough."

He smiled slightly. Using his palms he pushed himself up to a sitting position. "Well, Lauren needs to be careful around my brother," he half joked, half warned.

"No, believe me, it's Dean that needs to be more cautious around her." I shook my head, thinking of the torture he must be going through. Lauren in small doses is hard enough to handle; in concentrated ones – well, I could only pray that when Sam went back there, Dean wasn't hacked up on the floor in little pieces. Um, metaphorically I mean. Hopefully.

"I should go back," Sam decided.

"I think you should stay and rest for a while, you did hit your head pretty badly. Obviously you knew that."

He shook his head, causing his hair to become messier than it already was, then put a hand to the side of it, screwing his face up slightly. Obviously he had a bad headache. "Thanks for your help," he grinned finally, and I noticed that he had dimples on both cheeks. "But I should really get back to Dean. Who knows what he's doing."

"If you're sure you can make it," I said unsurely. "But I still think that you should wait."

"Thanks for everything," he thanked me again.

"Welcome. Can you get up?"

"Yeah," he answered. He furrowed his eyebrows and squinted his blue-green eyes, as if he were focusing intently. In one swift movement he stood up, stood perfectly still for about five seconds, then started to topple over.

As if by instinct I leapt up to his aid, momentarily forgetting his size and tried to steady him by placing one arm around his waist and holding onto his left arm with my other hand.

It didn't help, the only thing it did was make the situation worse, as he started to put his weight on me. This of course, caused my knees to give way. I fell sideways while still holding on to Sam's arm, resulting in him falling on top of me.

After a few seconds my heart rate lowered, as did Sam's. "Can you please get off me, I can't breathe," I said, my speech muffled by the fact that I was speaking into his chest. He has muscles, I noted. Then I mentally scolded myself for thinking such heinous thoughts. Ones Lauren would probably have if she were in this particular situation – I mean, Sam could clearly be hurt! I have been hanging out with her too much.

I need some solitary time, so I can tune in with my 'inner self' as those stupid meditating tapes/videos suggest. Who buys them anyway? They are a load of crap! But then again, different people react differently to the same stimulus –

"Sorry," Sam drawled, bringing me out of my random rantings, and straight back into reality and the current situation.

Panting slightly, he slowly lifted himself off me and pulled himself back up on the bed. "You alright?" he asked with genuine concern, his face was flushed.

"Yeah," I replied as I nodded my head. I got up and sat on the bed opposite to the one he was sitting on.

"Good, I didn't want to hurt you." He smiled at me, yet his smile looked restricted.

An awkward silence settled over us. What am I supposed to do now? Offer him coffee? Panadol?

"So…" Sam tried to break the ice.

"So…" I repeated.

He averted my gaze. "You're reading the Great Gatsby?" he half asked, half stated when he noticed the book on my nightstand.

"Yeah," I replied, "for the hundredth time. It's not like I can carry a great variety while traveling, especially with the McMartin." Lauren used to read more than I do, but since we started the trip she's been asking me to do kung-fu fighting classes with her, or come shoot at targets, and such and such. So we didn't have much time for recreation.

"It's my favorite book," he informed me.

"I like how Fitzgerald represented the high class society and contrasted upper and lower class, but Daisy was just way too ditzy! The other characters too, they were so exaggerated," I told him. I took out my hair band, bunched up my long black hair and retied it, getting rid of the multiple strands that came lose in the past hour.

And we started to argue over the finer points of Fitzgerald's novel.

Lauren

I almost felt sorry for the man at my feet.

You know – almost. But not quite.

I upended the glass of water on his face, and watched him splutter, choke and clutch his head. I could feel the waves of pain from up here. Damn. I tried to feel nothing but satisfaction though – and planted that look on my face.

Until he vomited on my feet.

Now I had to feel sorry for him. To lose his control like that, he must be really nauseous. (My great disgust and blank face as I stared at the mess on my bare feet goes without saying. Taking my shoes off in the kitchen had obviously not been as good an idea as I had thought at the time.)

I knelt down, to the side of most of the upchuck, and felt his forehead. "Vomit on me again, and so help me – you won't know the meaning of pain. Now, are you okay?" I felt guilty.

Dean stared at me. For a second I even imagined he was about to apologize. Then his eyes averted slightly and he asked, with a suspiciously amused look on his face – "Cold?"

Explanation? My white – well, ish now – shirt was still wet, and it had been cold outside. Why couldn't America grow some damn warm air?!

So I – well, I knocked him out again. I have anger management issues.

As soon as I did it, I felt bad of course; but hey, no use crying over spilt milk right? Or unconscious men on the floor lying in a pool of their own vomit.

He was going to have beautiful shiners in the morning.

But he deserved them, I tried to persuade myself. He vomited on your feet! I didn't really believe myself. But we'll live.

I was not going to take anymore "Cold" comments, nor live with upchuck on my feet. Taking off the stupid shirt, I wiped up most of the vomit with it, then stood up and headed for the bathroom. Let's hope their shower is less fungi-infested than ours. Our bath is fine, but bathes were more of a Sharika thing. Oh, and that he's not some kind of stalker/serial killer/peeping tom/pervert…

Dean

"Oh man…"

My head hurts. That demon must have been a hell of a thing. (No pun intended.)

Sammy must have taken care of it; I could hear him in the shower now.

But, why had he left me on the damn floor? And why was it wet?

Washing my face was probably a good idea. Clear my thoughts and all that. Plus, brushing my teeth would be good. My mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool.

I stood up, my head spinning, and I felt as though my brain was about to slosh out my ear. Not good.

I staggered against the wall, and collected myself. Years of getting knocked around gave you a certain barrier to the pain; I could work around it.

Besides, I didn't want to look weak in front of Sammy.

I shrugged my shoulders, and rolled my neck (carefully), then headed for the bathroom.

Walking in, I didn't look at the shower. It's not one of my fantasies, seeing my brother in all his…'glory'. I headed straight for the sink, splashed my face with water, and grabbed my toothbrush. "Sam, no staying in tonight. We'll go to that pub we saw down the road – mingle with the locals a little, if you know what I'm saying." Sam always seemed to find a lot of contention with my activities in that area.

Hearing a skittering noise on the floor, I growled – "And there'll be fewer cockroaches too."

I dropped my eyes, looking for the sucker.

And found it, waving its antennae at me as though in greeting.

From right next to a white bra.

I had no idea Sammy leant that way.

I turned around slowly, my toothbrush dropping to the ground as my eyes greeted –

"My, my, Sammy. You have changed."

"OUT!"

Not much scares me. In my job, I can't afford it to.

But the naked, screaming woman in my shower, did.

Sharika

After awhile of talking about everything – well, almost everything, Sam told me that he was ready to go back to his room.

So with a little help from me we headed towards it. "I enjoyed talking to you," I told him, getting ready to say goodbye as we stood in front of his door.

He scratched his head. "You sound like this is the end of a date or something." He smiled down at me.

I laughed nervously. "Yeah, well, don't call me I'll call you," I joked lamely. I instantly regretted saying that. GET HIS EMAIL YOU IDIOT, my mind yelled at me. Yet my inhibitions stopped me. We have only known each other a few hours, so we were practically strangers in reality, despite how deep our previous conversations. But, but he is different from anyone I've ever met before. He is funny, smart, chivalrous, not to mention good-looking and he wasn't arrogant in any way. I can connect to him. STOP IT, my rational mind snapped. He is too good for you, so don't even think like this.

I sighed mentally, for I knew it to be true.

"I hope to see you again," he said as he turned the handle.

I nodded. "Same," I said, smiling sadly. We entered the motel room, him to sleep, and me to collect Lauren.

Suddenly a high pitched shriek pierced through the air – "OUT!" it screamed. It took me a few seconds to register that this voice belonged to Lauren.

Dean practically flew out of the bathroom, his mouth covered in foam, his brown hair matted down. He had a white bra attached to his left shoe.

I could hear the sound of the shower running in the background.

Sam without even glancing at me asked if I wanted to leave. I nodded, and managed to choke out – "Sure… we'll, uh, come back later."

In unison we turned, left the room, and closed the door behind us.

Lauren

"…come back later."

I heard my best friend's voice, even over my own screaming, and the running water of the shower.

"SHARIKA!" I yelled, even louder then I'd previously been (if that's possible), and ran out of the shower, grabbing a towel and slinging it around me as I went. No more nakedness, please and thank you.

"Come BACK!" I cried, ever the dramatic as I saw the door close. Even I was not crazy enough to run out into the parking lot, wearing only a towel. "This," I spat, spinning around to face Dean, "is all your fault."

He glared straight back at me. "May I remind you who started it?"

"You!" I ranted. "If you hadn't insulted me –"

"I made a joke – so sorry –"

"'Got milk' is not a –"

By now we were face to face, neither of us willing to back down. I wanted to shake him – I WAS RIGHT. But this was ridiculous. I mean, what were we even fighting about?

Even sarcastic as hell, and fighting with me over nothing, Blondie was damn hot. I couldn't help my noticing, because, you know, I mean – REALLY.

I was going to stop this now. Because...umm…because…the shouting was no doubt hurting that head of his. Which was all my fault in the first place. Or all his – whoever's!

"I'm borrowing your clothes," I said, abruptly changing the subject. "One shirt and jeans please. No fries with that."

He blinked.

Yeah, I affect people like that sometimes. Okay, okay, most of the time.

"Right," he said, and looked down at me, as though noticing my attire for the first time. I looked down too. The towel barely came half way down my thighs, when it was being held as high as it could over my breasts – which it also barely covered. If he says anything – "How did I get stuck with you again?"

"Don't start," I answered, with a mental sigh of relief, and sat on one of the beds. "Clothes. Now. Then we go after Shar and Yeti Boy. Is everyone in your family scarily tall, or just you two?"

"Runs in the family." He dug around in his duffel bag. The kind you would suspect of hauling weapons. Such as guns, knives, men's unwashed clothes…

I tried not to think about it as he tossed me the jeans and coveted plaid shirt. Seriously. What is the deal with American men and those shirts? They all look like a bunch of lumberjacks.

Now I had two choices.

No underwear, or used underwear. Not happy.

"Need a bra?" Blondie asked me. "I don't have any, but Sammy – well, you never know." He grinned at me.

I shot him a look, and headed for the bathroom. There, I discovered that I did indeed need a bra. Mine was missing.

I came hurtling out of the bathroom again, towel still clutched precariously around me, to see Dean holding my bra over his head by one strap, dangling it from his fingers. He jerked it up and down, grinning at me.

"Oh. My. God. I'm going to –"

He raised it higher, along with his eyebrows. There was no way I was going to be able to reach that high without standing on a chair. And by the time I had grabbed one, he would have moved, and what would be the point of getting the damn chair if that's just going to be the result, and how did he get it in the first place, I didn't notice –

"I will give this back, if you –" Dean started, and then added an obscure sexual favor to the end. He did this, all with a supremely serious face. What kind of perverted –

"Are you insane?" I asked him furiously. He simply shrugged. I have no time for this! I needed to rejoin Sharika so I never had to see this crazy – ARRGH. What was the quickest way to deal with this problem? No bra? Or…

I decided to 'give up'. Or at least, you know, make him think that.

I sashayed over to him, wearing my sweetest smile, and dropping the towel a little, so he could ALMOST see certain areas of my anatomy. His eyes lowered from my face, and his arm drooped a little.

"So you want me to –" (I'm not saying it!) "– do you?" I asked, making my voice all husky, and coming to a halt about two inches away from him. I ran one hand up his chest, and pulled at his leather jacket so he was leaning down towards me. My other hand, I cupped behind his neck, after tucking one corner into the rest so it would stay up at least for a little while. I smiled at him, injecting as much suggestiveness as I could into it without cracking up.

He smiled back down at me, and I tried to ignore it, as it produced –

Swift as lightning I hooked my foot around his ankles and kicked his legs out from under him. Unsuspecting as he was (which is quite strange, I think), he fell heavily, and I stood on his arm, bent down and grabbed my bra.

"How do you like that, bitch?" I asked, and winked at him. Hopefully he would have no hard feelings, considering how abusive I've been to him in the short time we've known each other. I headed once again for the bathroom.

Sam

As disturbing as that…scene was, it gave me a second chance to get to know more about Sharika, for that I was glad. But then again, I knew that I'd have another chance, because of the vision I had before.

Flashback

"Welcome. Can you get up?" Sharika asked me in a concerned voice.

"Yeah," I answered. I felt totally fine. I was just about to get up when an image just flew into my mind. There were two figures moving, one large, and one small. I focused on the image so I might be able to see it clearer.

After awhile I could make out whom the figures were, me and Sharika. She was lying next to me, in bed! The white covers were pulled up to her neck; I could tell that she wasn't wearing any clothes. Her hair was tussled and she was breathing heavily, as if she had just finished running a ten mile run. To the left of her I lay in the same condition.

She smiled and said something incoherent; I couldn't hear any audio in this vision. I replied and she laughed. I grinned as my eyes looked her over. My smile changed to a more mischievous one.

Sharika stopped laughing and pouted her lips. Her right hand worked its way up my bare chest, over my shoulder, across my jaw line to my forehead where she removed a few strands of hair which were stuck there.

I caught her small, slender hand in my much larger one, looking down at our intertwined fingers. Then I noticed something small, but something that will no doubt affect my life in a major way. We both had wedding rings on! As quickly as the vision came it left.

I felt normal after that, almost as if the vision never actually came to me. I stood up quickly, hoping that Sharika didn't notice anything different in my behavior.

Another image hit me, like a tonne of bricks. Sharika and I were standing next to each other. We were both wearing traditional Indian clothes. We were smiling and dancing. There was a sea of faces surrounding us as we, actually I, danced clumsily.

Everyone around us was cheering and laughing. It looked to me like it was a festival dedicated to Sharika and me.

After the vision left I left light headed. I staggered and started to fall sideways.

Flashback End

"That was…" she trailed off.

"Yeah," I agreed as I sat on the couch beside her.

"Did you notice the particular item of clothing, attached to your brother's shoe?" she asked me, staring blankly ahead of her.

"Yeah," I repeated in the same tone as before.

"You know what we should have done?" she turned to her side; her head resting on her hand, her arm was perpendicular to the back of the couch. There was a mischievous glint in her eyes.

I shook my head, finding the way she was looking at me invigorating. "We should have…" her eyes trailed lower for awhile then quickly came back up. "Your shirt it wet," she told me matter-of-factly.

I instantly looked down at my shirt only to realize that she was correct. "Oh man, I didn't even notice that!" I exclaimed.

"Well since we won't be returning to your room anytime soon, why don't you just wear something of mine?" she suggested.

She got up and gave me a 'are you coming' look.

I responded with an unsure face. "Wear women's clothing? I don't really find that idea appealing."

"Oh come on," I could see that her mouth was fighting to stifle her smile, probably because she was thinking about me wearing an article of her clothing. "It's either that, or you go shirtless, or you continue to wear your wet shirt and get a bad cold tomorrow. I prefer option number one seeing how option number two can lead to certain complications, if you know what I mean, and option number three can lead you to catch pneumonia and then you would become a vegetable and I would feel guilty for the rest of my life. So please, for my peace of mind, can you go with option one?"

"But…"

"And," she interrupted me, "don't say that you'll feel uncomfortable wearing my sweater because you have been wearing that shirt all this time without even noticing. You won't even notice the sweater after awhile."

Damn, she was partially right. I didn't notice that wet shirt, but I didn't notice because I was with Sharika – she occupied all of my attention. And then the premonitions had distracted me even further. But I couldn't tell her that, at least not yet. We hardly knew each other.

Without even needing to weigh my options I gave in. Hopefully, Dean would be too 'preoccupied' to come here until my own shirt had dried.

I reluctantly nodded and got up to follow her, wondering if this was how it was going to be for the rest of my life. Would her logic always eventually coerce me into doing whatever she wished me to?

She smiled and began to make her way to her bedroom. I strode in after her.

By the time I had entered the room she had already laid out a red sweater, neatly folded on one of the beds, and was drinking water from a purple cup. Why was she –

"I like this color," she said almost as if she read my mind. "And running away from…um…your room made me thirsty."

I unbuttoned my damp shirt and took it off, holding it up, as I didn't know where to drop it. I looked up to ask her, only to find her facing the wall, calmly sipping water from that purple cup.

"Where do I put the shirt?" I asked the back of her head.

"On Lauren's bed," she replied, her voice sounding strained. "That's the one on the other side of the room."

I threw it across the room; it landed perfectly in the middle of the bed, and then I picked up the sweater, pulled it over my head and shoved my head and arms through its holes.

"I'm done," I informed her.

She turned to face me and immediately began to double over in laughter.

"What?" I asked in confusion.

She couldn't answer; her shoulders were shaking, causing her arms to shake as well and therefore the cup. This was probably not the best time to notice how cute her laugh was.

"Shari–" I started to warn her, but it was too late.

The cup of water fell from her loose grasp and landed in a perfect circle on her shirt.

She didn't notice and continued to laugh.

Still puzzled by her behavior, I searched for a mirror. Found it – it stood against the wall across from the two beds. I headed towards it as Sharika fell to the floor, still laughing.

When I looked in the mirror I had finally understood what had caused her laughter.

The sweater she gave me ended half way on my torso. It stopped just above my ribcage. The sleeves came up to my elbow. I looked like a total transvestite!

Her laughter died down finally, and after hearing a soft 'damn' escape her lips I knew that she'd realized she'd wet her shirt.

I heard her get up and shuffle over to a suitcase placed in the corner of the room. Tearing my eyes away from the horrific image reflected in the mirror, I glanced over at her. She unzipped a suitcase, taking out a short sleeve, cotton white, button up shirt.

"Turn around please," she requested.

I obliged.

I could hear the scuffle of her taking off the wet shirt.

DON'T! My mind ordered me, but my body didn't listen. My head turned slightly, as if on its own accord; I could now see her through the corner of my eye.

She dropped the wet shirt in a heap on the floor at the base of her feet. My eyes shifted their gaze and they went up her legs to the bare of her back as if they were being pulled by a magnetic force. Not that I was complaining.

Black bra, I noted, unconsciously smiling.

She put on the white shirt and I quickly resumed the position I was previously in, as though I hadn't been staring.

"Done," she said, and I turned around again. She seemed totally oblivious to my stiff posture.

Suddenly my stomach made a grumbling noise, breaking the silence. What a time to get hungry!

"We have Mac n' Cheese in the kitchen," she told me after she understood where the sound had come from.

"I'm game," I responded, trying to hide my embarrassment.

We walked towards the kitchen.

"I wonder what they are up to," Sharika wondered aloud, then shook her head quickly, as though trying to dislodge images from it. The same ones I was trying not to imagine, no doubt.

"No idea. Knowing him, he's probably bribing her to service him with special favors," I joked. I really shouldn't have left that poor girl with Dean.

She smiled slightly.

"The boxes are on the top shelf," she said, pointing at it.

I realized that she was asking me to get it, and nodded. I opened the cupboard as Sharika filled a pot with water.

There were two flavors there, chicken and cheese. I preferred cheese, but decided to ask Sharika what she wanted. It's her food after all, I thought, grabbing the two boxes and turning around.

She was in front of me trying to get to the stove. Still unsteady from the bump on my head, I stumbled into her. She fell backwards, letting go of the pot of water in the process.

My instincts came into play as my hand shot out to stop her fall. I missed her arm by a few inches, but managed to grasp her shirt lapel. This action caused the buttons on her shirt to rip and clatter all over the floor.

She landed with a loud thud onto the tiles. I winced at the bang the pot made when it connected soon after.

I bent down behind the counter to help her up, reaching out my hand. With one hand cradling the to-be bruise on her head and the other holding onto my offered hand, she came up to her knees with my help.

"Hello?" a light voice sounded from the entrance.

Lauren

The shirt hung around me like so much loose, plaid elephant skin, and ended at my knees. The jeans… they were even worse. I'd have to hitch them up every few seconds, so they wouldn't fall to the floor. Plus, the legs puddled around my feet. Seeing as how I was a 5.5-er, and he was 6 feet tall, it was obvious from the start we'd probably have some problems in that regard.

I love tall men. Really, I do. Shorter guys, and guys the same height as I am don't do it for me. But wearing their clothes…it's going too far.

"Blondie!" I called, coming out of the bathroom. "You ready or what?

"Blondie?" he asked, as he appeared, giving me a questioning look. "I'm not blonde."

"Are too." He was, I had decided, and nothing was going to change my mind. I mean, he wasn't that blonde, he just felt like a person who should be blonde, and in certain lights I'm sure he would look it.

"You're blonder than I am."

"I'm not blonde! I'm brunette! Okay, okay… dirty blonde. Ish."

He opened his mouth – "Don't start." I warned. "Let's just go."

He rolled his eyes. I suppose he was getting tired of my curbing his fun all the time. I'd better let him express himself before he explodes.

"What were you going to say?" I asked, spinning around.

"When?"

"Just now."

"I wasn't saying anything."

"No, before."

"You're blonder than I am?"

"I give up on you."

"All I was going to say is dirty blonde can be taken many ways." He gave me that disarming smile again. Where does he get that heat from? Damn.

Okay, let's hide those kinds of thoughts now, and leave them for people I have not decided to hate for all eternity. I rolled my eyes at him, and opened the door. "Out," I said simply.

"Yes ma'am."

"Ha ha."

Scrap the eternal hate – I was having almost as much fun sparring with Dean as I did with Sharika – maybe more. Usually I'm shocking Shar, or explaining myself. Or she's making me crack up at something I otherwise never would have found funny. With Blondie, he was just as cynical/sarcastic/crazy as I was. At least it was interesting. I mean, I could have been stuck with Sam. No offence to him. I mean, he seemed nice… too nice. I would probably die of boredom, and people would find my carcass in the Mermaid Motel years later, and cry for Lauren McMartin, dead before her time all because fate placed her with the wrong brother…

"So, you never told us what you were doing in Iowa."

Not so blonde after all. "Yeah, we're on a road trip. Traveling the fascinating land of America. Surprisingly unlike the movies."

"As are you."

"What do you mean?" I asked, confused.

"Well, according to our movies, you should be spouting 'mate', 'dunny' and 'g'day' every few minutes. Or riding a kangaroo."

I had to laugh. "A common misconception. We leave our kangaroos at home."

"Ah. I had wondered where it was."

I grinned at him, shaking my head.

"Amazing," he said suddenly, stopping in the middle of the road and staring at me.

"What is?" I asked, still half smiling, eyebrows raised.

"You do smile."

"No, I don't. You're hallucinating." I glanced around. "Look, we're here."

"Here?"

"You know, room 15… currently housing Sharika and your brother, doing God knows what to each other, oh I do not want to think about it, and let's just open the door." I was just kidding. I trust Sharika not to be doing something raunchy in the kitchen, it's more my forte than hers. Ah ha ha. The very idea of – well, it was ridiculous.

"Right."

"Right." I opened the door.

AN: Kind of forgot to add this in the last chapter, but it's in the summary: Peace7 and I am writing this story, and have been doing so equally the entire way. Just so you know, and so does she, I couldn't do it without her.