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Rachel has yet to find what useful purpose Dean serves to this world or any other. So far his driving skills, propensity for violence, and taste in music has been far outweighed by the pure annoying of his personality.

The number of punches she's dealt his shoulder has multiplied ever since she hit her head, too. Maybe Jo was attracted to men that tried to baby her but Rachel would take a monster over a concerned individual any day of the week.

Which is why she had no problem with stealing one of Dean's guns after they'd made camp and he'd gone off to-- do whatever it was he was going to do. Se has her own, of course, but it doesn't serve her purpose.

It isn't shiny.

"Mort?" Rachel frowns and glances over her shoulder to make sure no one's around to see her acting like a crazy woman, talking to a gun. "C'mon, I need to talk to you."

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"That doesn't speak well of western culture."

Dean crosses his arms and looks Very Serious, which is a clue that he isn't. "Hey, I don't know 'bout you, but I had ghosts to bust. I didn't exactly have time for college. Comics are as good as it gets."

Rachel grins - at the stars. But she can hear the 'seriousness' in his voice. "I had a war to fight but I still managed to fake my way through Grapes of Wrath."

"Sucks to be you," Dean says, grin audible now. "I skipped that class. ... that month of classes. I think there was a wolverine in Alaska or something."

Rachel's is just as audible, bending an arm back to pillow her head on, the stars abruptly more interesting, more beautiful, less frustrating. "That was... high-security mansion to break into across the country. We had stand-ins so no one would know we were gone, but I still had to take the test. Cliff notes are amazing."

"Cliff notes saved my ass so many times," Dean agrees, laughing.

Well, Cliff notes and having a brother who was studying the same shit half the time, straight As and advanced placement.

... Dean's stopped grinning.

But he's quiet, just not saying any more, watching the stars.

Rachel's giggling, laughing, giddy - and staring at the stars, the fucking stars isn't helping her to stop.

"I don't think I've actually read a book in like... three years, almost four."

"There's no end of abandoned libraries hangin' round here, if y'want," Dean says, absently.

That warrants another glance, even just for a second. There'd been a full bookshelf in her room in that house in Santa Barbara.

Rachel turns back to the stars and smirks a little. "Mmm. Maybe. Not going out of my way just to find a book."

"Won't be too far out've our way." Dean is still elsewhere mentally, frowning and distant. "We got no internet here. That means libraries are gonna be our first stop, every damn hunt."

Dean disapproves of libraries. They're too much work.

"You can be Book Geek, if y'like." He's so generous in sharing duties.

Rachel is quiet, thoughtful. And this time she doesn't look over at him, not when she can hear the thoughtfulness in his voice.

Every hunt, every last one, working as a team. A small team, but a team. And, strangely, with no mention of Jo.

"Sure?"

"Can even find you some comics."

Back to smirking at her.

"You know, just in case the Joker rocks up."

"I'm not rotting my brain with that crap until I have proof," Rachel points out - frowning, since that line of conversation makes her think of Steph again. A pause follows and she glances at him, smirking a little. "...though if Batman is as lame as you're making him sound, I wouldn't be surprised to find you in comic books."

"Hey, Batman's not lame," Dean says firmly. "He's Batman. Every kid wants to be Batman.

"It's just a little more complicated in the real world, when it comes to havin' to kill folk."

Dean shot a man dead when he was twelve, and didn't look back.

"His name is Batman. How is that not lame?"

Rachel has never tried to count the people she's killed, starting at age thirteen. The ones that want her to look back are the ones that don't understand.

"...what's the point of that?" she asks after a moment, looking up at the stars. Not angry, not upset. Just-- tired, curious.

"Point of what?" Dean's confused and too lazy to really care much. "Bein' Batman? Dude, he's Batman."

"The not killing people thing. Were the Batman villains just really lame or what?"

That's all she can think of. They must never have had to fight a real war.

"Dunno. It's comic book world," Dean reminds her. "Where all the chicks are smoking hot and wear a stack of spandex. And the good guys always win. I don't think it's mean to be real."

Rachel's jaw sets, sighing softly.

Worried.

"...they're screwed."

"Not our problem," Dean says, shrugging. "They're freakin' book characters. Don't get attached."

"... not that it sounded like y'were in danger of it."

"Unless you meant don't attach my fist to her face, no, not much danger."

She's still frowning, though.

"So far as I can tell, they're book characters that still bleed. Makes it a problem."

Not necessarily her problem or his problem or-- their problem. But a problem. And who else would fix it?

Dean wrinkles his nose. "Yeah."

He's kind of fond of that Sokka kid -- although he has no proof that Sokka's not fictional either.

"They'll deal with it. Or we'll save their asses, I guess. Once we get hold'a Jo."

It takes Rachel a minute to realize she's smiling about that, even just a little.

Until she groans and presses her hands to her face. "Oh man, if I've got to save Malibu Barbie's butt, I'm going to be so pissed."

"Mali-who Barbie?"

There's Malibu Barbies around and Dean isn't banging them? D:

Yes. See: Rachel.

"Steph."

And also tiny bubbly Batman gymnasts he probably wasn't thinking of banging in the first place.