Supernatural: Coyote's Kiss (20 page)

Dean stopped for gas just outside Yuma. Sam got out to stretch his legs and Xochi headed off to the ladies’ room. Claudia was still out like a light in the back seat. She’d been through so much; her young mind had obviously tapped out. Dean didn’t have the heart to wake her.

“Want anything?” Dean asked Sam.

“No, thanks,” Sam said.

Dean went into the minimart and walked over to the coffee machine, pulling a large cup from the dispenser below. Xochi came up next to him, taking a cup for herself.

“Milk?” she asked Dean, holding out a handful of single-serve half-and-half containers.

Dean shook his head, filling his cup to the rim with steaming black brew. He watched with amazement as Xochi dumped the contents of a half a dozen of the little containers into her own empty cup, followed by an equally ridiculous amount of sugar.

“Want some coffee to go with your milk and sugar?” he asked, holding out the carafe.

“Just a little,” she replied, offering him her cup. “I suppose you think you’re more tough than me because you don’t put sugar in your coffee.”

“No,” Dean said. “I’m tougher than you because I know all the lyrics to ‘Eye of the Tiger.’”

“Yeah?” Xochi said. “Well, I know all the lines from
Die Hard
. In English and in Spanish.”

“I once ganked a demon with a match book and a handful of pocket change.”

“Last week I killed six mummies with my
chonies
,” she said. “And I was wearing them at the time.”

“
Chonies
?”

“You know, panties.”

“Damn,” Dean said. “You win.”

“Good.” Xochi smiled. “Then you buy the coffee, tough guy.”

Dean laughed and fished out his wallet.

When they got back out to the Impala, Sam was leaning against the back passenger door.

“Xochi,” Sam said. “Why don’t you ride up front with Dean for a while? I’ve got a bunch of info here on the
Tzitzimimeh
. I really ought to go over this stuff and see if I can find anything that’ll help us.”

Dean could see what Sam really was doing, pushing him at Xochi again, but he couldn’t be bothered to argue. It’s not like Sam was exactly a font of scintillating conversation these days anyway and it wouldn’t suck to have someone to talk to for the rest of drive.

Sam settled into the back seat with his laptop and Xochi got in up front. When she reached for the stereo, Dean swatted her hand away.

“Hey, what did I tell you?” Dean asked. “My car, my tunes, okay? Don’t like it, buy yourself some ear plugs.”

“Why don’t you sing ‘Eye of the Tiger’ for me?”

“Careful what you wish for,” Dean said, pulling out of the gas station.

He turned on the radio. Led Zeppelin’s “Rock and Roll.”

“See, there you go,” he said.

Xochi grinned.

“That’s just what I would have picked,” she said.

To his surprise, she started singing along. Her singing voice was actually pretty good, powerful and a little husky, like whisky and cream.

“Been a long time, been a long time...”

Dean joined in with her, unable to kill the big dumb smile on his face.

“Been a long lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely, time,” they sang together.

“Come on, Dean,” Sam said from the back seat. Dean could see him rolling his eyes in the rearview. “Do we really need to listen to the theme song for your sexual frustration?”

“Led Zeppelin?” Claudia said, turning her head against the window and covering her face with one arm. “Ugh! That’s like total grandpa music.”

“Grandpa music?” Dean said. “Look, you two chuckleheads can walk to Nogales.”

“What?” Sam asked. “If we don’t shut up, you’re gonna turn this car right around?”

“That’s right,” Dean said. “And no ice cream for either one of you.”

Dean looked over at Xochi. Her dark eyes were full of mirth, lips curled up in one corner. He shook his head and pulled back onto the highway.

In the back seat, Sam plugged a pair of earbud-style headphones into his laptop and handed them to Claudia. She put them in and smiled. Dean didn’t even want to know what kind of musical atrocity was being perpetrated back there. “Rock and Roll” ended on the Impala’s stereo and Cream’s “Sunshine of Your Love” came on.

“Has it really been that long?” Xochi asked, sipping her coffee.

“What do you mean?” Dean asked.

“You know.”

“No,” Dean said, answering way too fast. “I mean, not really, no.”

“Okay,” Xochi said, shrugging.

He looked up in the rearview at Sam. Sam met his gaze for a second, eyebrow raised, before looking back down at the screen of the laptop without comment. His silence was somehow more damning than a snarky retort. Dean had no idea why the whole world had taken a sudden avid interest in his sex life, or lack thereof.

“Dean,” Xochi asked. “What did you mean before, when you were talking about stopping an apocalypse?”

“Long story,” Dean said. “But I tell you what. If we succeed in stopping this one, I promise, I’ll buy you a dozen drinks and make you sorry you ever asked.”

When they finally arrived in Nogales, Arizona, Xochi directed them into a neighborhood that may as well have been on the other side of the border. Dean spotted where they were going before Xochi pointed it out.

Chevy Atzeca. A body shop. The entire wall in front of the place was painted with an enormous mural that depicted a hopping ’64 Impala with angel wings, a crying woman in a fedora and the words
Bajito y Suavecito
in ghostly white script. The large metal gate was open, and there was a group of bald, heavily tattooed gangbanger types hanging around in the driveway, eyeballing Dean as he pulled up. One of the young men had a huge blue-gray pitbull on a heavy chain and a gun butt protruding from his waistband

“I don’t like this,” Sam said from the back seat.

“Relax,” Xochi said. “These guys are on our side.”

Dean didn’t like it either. After all his dire warnings to Sam not to trust Xochi and keep an eye on her to make sure she didn’t try to screw them over, he was starting to seriously wonder if that wasn’t exactly what she had done.

The guy with the dog strolled over to Dean’s window, lifting his goateed chin in an acknowledgment so subtle it was almost unperceptable. The dog sat at his master’s side, looking up at Dean with his wide pink tongue out and a dumb, friendly expression that was seriously undermining the whole tough-guy routine.

“’Sup, Xochi,” the guy said. He had a heavy accent and spoke like a ventriloquist, lips barely moving. “This Dean Winchester?”

“Yeah,” Xochi said. “Dean, this is Lil’ Sleepy.”

“How you doing?” Dean said. He made himself smile, trying to stay relaxed and casual. The temptation to crack a Snow White joke was almost unbearable, but he somehow managed to keep his trap shut.

“Nice ride,” Lil’ Sleepy said. “Go on in.”

Dean pulled in. The sullen bangers cleared out of their way and then shut the gate behind them.

Although the neighborhood was questionable at best and the outside of the building dilapidated, everything inside the body shop was top of the line, tricked to the nines. In addition to all the standard equipment: compressors, oxy/acetylene torches, and MIG welders, they also had a computer-programmable tubing bender, an automatic tungsten-carbide cold saw, and a brand-new five-station hydraulic ironworker. With equipment like that, they could pretty much build a whole car from scratch. No wonder they had a bunch of armed guys hanging around in the driveway. Just that saw alone was probably worth around a hundred grand.

“You sure about these guys?” Dean asked Xochi quietly.

“Of course I’m sure,” Xochi said, looking mildly offended. “I trust Chato with my life. He’s a good friend. Works on cars for all the border-town hunters I know. Engines too, not just bodywork.”

“Chato?”

A stocky, sawed-off Mexican guy in a grease-stained coverall walked up to Dean’s window. He was five-foot-four tops, but he had the single most astounding pompadour hairdo Dean had ever seen. It had to be at least six inches tall, slick and shiny as black glass. He was wiping his filthy hands on a rag, hands that were easily as big as Sam’s, if not bigger, and looked weirdly disproportionate on the ends of his short, stubby arms. A name patch on the breast of his coverall read CHATO.

“Beautiful,” he said, eyeballing the Impala like she was a naked playmate.

“Dean, Sam, Claudia,” Xochi said. “This is Chato Aguilar.”

“Pleasure to meet a fellow Chevrolet enthusiast,” Dean said.

“327?” Chato asked, hand on the hood.

“Of course,” Dean replied.

Chato squatted down and peered underneath the back end of the car with a penlight.

“Your skid plates are looking a little worn,” Chato asked. “I could take care of that for you. Hook you up with some sick hoppers too. Just charge you for parts. Any friend of Xochi’s...”

“Nah,” Dean said. “You know what? I’m good. I’m more of a do-it-yourself kinda guy.”

“What we need is a place to crash for a few hours,” Xochi said. “And a safe place to leave Dean’s car while we’re down south.”

“You got it,” he said. “My shop
es tu casa
. Ashley!”

A bouncy, freckled and slightly buck-toothed blonde in tiny cut-off shorts sauntered in and gave Xochi a big hug, speaking rapid-fire Spanish even though she was clearly white as Wonder Bread. She was also hugely pregnant.

“My wife Ashley,” Chato said to Dean.

“Ma’am,” Dean said.

“Hi,” she said with a toothy smile. “You guys hungry? We got the grill going out back.”

“Sounds fantastic,” Dean said.

“Thanks,” Sam said.

Claudia didn’t say anything. She still seemed kind of shut down, moving like an automaton.

“You hungry, kid?” Dean asked her.

She shook her head.

Ashley came over to Claudia, a concerned, motherly look on her face.

“You okay, honey?” she asked.

“I’m tired,” Claudia said.

“Lemme get a bed made up for you,” Ashley said, putting an arm around the girl. “The rest of you, go on out back. Grab a couple of beers and help yourself to some
carné asada
.”

Dean was tremendously relieved to have someone with real mom-skills take over the job of dealing with the traumatized teenager. He was more than ready to get back to doing something he was actually good at. Like drinking beer.

Dean woke to find himself sprawled out on a sofa with a bare female foot pressed against his cheek. The foot was attached to a slender, tattooed ankle, which in turn was attached to Xochi, fully dressed and currently passed out facing the opposite way on the sofa. She had fallen asleep with her gun-belt on. Dean wondered if he was getting close to some kind of personal record for the number of nights spent sleeping with a woman that he wasn’t actually sleeping with.

The sofa was inside a small office. Sam sat at the cluttered desk, engine parts and order forms shoved aside to make room for his laptop. Posters of sexy women posed with sexy cars covered the wall behind him. There was a coffee machine sitting on a low table beneath the single window, nearly full and busily belching out fragrant steam. Dean extracted himself from under Xochi’s legs, got himself relatively vertical and shuffled like a zombie toward the coffee.

“Oh look,” Sam said when he noticed that Dean was up. “It walks among us.”

Xochi made a low, pained groan and put one of the cushions from the sofa over her head.

Dean poured coffee into a cup emblazoned with the
Lowrider Magazine
logo and took a slug.

“Where’s the john?” he asked.

“Through there,” Sam said, indicating a doorway on the far side of the room. “But there’s no door.”

“Great,” Dean said, looking over his shoulder at the semi-conscious Xochi. “Watch her.”

Dean managed to rid himself of about ten gallons of recycled beer without waking Xochi. When he came back into the office, he saw that she had her eyes open, peering blearily out from under the cushion.

“You are a bad person, Dean Winchester,” she said, slowing sitting up and pushing her tangled hair back from her face.

“I’m a bad person?” He walked over to the coffee machine and poured her a cup, loading it up with milk and sugar. “You’re the one who started with the mezcal.”

He handed her the cup and then topped up his own.

Xochi reached into her back pocket, pulled out a flat silver flask and added a generous knock to the coffee. She held the flask out to Dean.

“Hell yeah,” Dean said, offering his cup.

“
Salud
,” Xochi said, pouring a shot into his cup.

Sam made an exasperated noise, shaking his shaggy head.

“You know, I used to think it was kinda cute how similar you two are,” he said. “Now, not so much. It’s hard enough dealing with one Dean every day.”

“I’m not like him,” Xochi said, standing and pocketing the flask. “
He
is like
me
.”

“Except,” Dean said, smirking. “Well... you know.” He frowned. “Hey, wait a minute. You’re not really a dude, are you?”

Xochi laughed.