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Jane Doe

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"Down On The Corner, Out In The Street" - Creedence Clearwater Revival

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Dean follows up with Jane Doe after agreeing to meet with her.

Haight-Ashbury, San Francisco


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Language, Adult themes

Haight[]

The Haight echoes a few images of the bygone 1960s hippie culture, still famous more than a generation later. Lingering traces of that flower-power yet remain, though they all tend to be for sale these days. Incense, tie-dye, and varied other eclectic knick-knacks are available for prices that range from the cheap to the extravagant at Smoke shops and Eastern-influenced outlets bearing names like Dreams of Kathmandu, Pipe Dreams, and The Love of Ganesha. Exclusive boutiques, high-end vintage clothing shops, second-hand stores, Internet cafés, and hip restaurants have all settled in, making the Haight as much a major commercial area as it was once the epicenter of peace and love.

The Upper Haight, which stretches from Stanyan to Masonic, is more the shopping zone. The Lower Haight, roughly Divisidero to Webster, has an alternate nightlife with bars like Noc Noc and Mad Dog and popular clubs The Top and Nickie's. In recent years, this area has become popular among DJ's and ravers; it seems that even if the scene has changed, the Haight still has an edge of counterculture to offer.

The day dawns, darker than usual, to gray skies above. In summer, daytime temperatures approach an average of 75°F. Plants and flowers are in full bloom thanks to the warm summer weather. It's overcast and warm.

Jane's been out working the corners around Haight and Ashbury; She's not above using her body to earn money. Well, her fingers at least. Propped up with one foot's sole against a building and a battered six-string settled on her hip, the punk girl's playing idle, mostly boring melodies - the sorts of things that sound good for all of the fifteen seconds it takes to notice her, pass by, and potentially drop some money in the case.

It's getting close to nine, now, and Jane's starting to look a little more anxious and antsy. The cutoff jacket she's wearing is also draped over the case, leaving her midriff bare from the equally cutoff babydoll t-shirt bearing most of a Black Flag logo (save the parts that have been cut off).

Dean Winchester is probably not above relying on body either, but he was never a musician. Anyway, who's counting when pool hustling and credit card fraud work just fine? It's a party when you get a little extra, since hunting down evil monsters doesn't exactly keep the bills paid. But Dean does just fine, and that much can be seen in his healthy glow, his bright smile, and the cold bottle of beer he sets down in the case, another one in his hand that he takes a sip from.

"You," Dean pronounces, "have gotta be Jane."

"And you're either Dane, or some random, misguided guy out to save me from a horrible gutterpunk life and what you're hoping is a heroin addiction that makes me blind to all of your weaknesses," Jane replies with a wink and a wide, wolfish grin. Change and crumpled dollar bills be damned, the Roma punk leans down to snatch the bottle and replace it with her guitar. Well, it's probably her guitar.

Click. Click. Click.

Each of the little hasps that keep the case from opening get nudged shut with the toe of her shoe while she uncaps the bottle and takes a pull off of it. "Anyway." A threadbare satchel gets slung across her body, and the case picked up, all of the change jangling to the bottom. "I'm parked a couple blocks away. You wanna talk in your car or mine?"

"Dean." He pauses with the bottle right next to his mouth. "Dean Winchester." Not Dane. Geez! Phones aren't even as bad as he remembers them being when he was younger. Back when crappy was the only kind of cell phone or, dare he mention it, the days of rotary phones being more prevalent. "Why don't we just hang around here? Ain't like people are too interested in anybody else here. Besides...we can drink in the ghosts of the hippie love-ins and memories of when this was the place to be."

"Dean. Right," Jane corrects herself, filing that away. The sarcasm of her initial remark fades, replaced by a faint frown. The satchel gets unslung, then scattered off on top of the case. "So, um. Yeah. Carbondale, Colorado. Not a whole lot there. Um. Not counting the ski home for four Sunday Matinee Horror rejects." There's a frown, and a pause, and one hand that snakes its way to rub the back of her neck, drawing the skin across her abs taut. "Five. Fuck. Um. We screwed up bad, and I just ... I can't make it right. Not by myself."

Dean waits for Jane to get herself together and offers a hand up once she's ready to get to her feet. "It ain't as easy as it sounds, but you gotta move on with your life. Otherwise you're gonna keep yourself in that mistake and it's gonna cost you. And in our line of work, you end up payin' high." Once he's got his hand back, he finally brings his beer back to his mouth to take a sip. Distractions!

"Hey, I brought my brother. Sam. He's gonna meet up with us later, he was picking up some hocus-pocus stuff from a shop around here." Dean taps a boot on the sidewalk's concrete a couple of times, glancing up one street and down the other. A good enough crowd for a Saturday night, even if it's getting a little bit late.

"Yeah, well, I can't leave Jenny sucking snow bunny necks in Aspen," Jane finally comments, after a long moment of staring down at the label on her bottle before pulling another mouthful in. "She was more than just a friend of mine, y'know?" Heaving another sigh, the girl looks down the street one way, then the other, before a hand disappears into her cleavage. A softpack of cheap menthols with a tiny lighter stuffed in it gets plucked out, and then like a cancerous Russian doll, a mangled cigarette and the lighter are pulled out. It gets lit up, and then both are offered to Dean. "I'm not asking for your help on that. But. I-I don't know anyone here. I can't-won't go home," She corrects, then continues, "So, yeah. I just want something that isn't short changing clerks and stealing wallets out of purses."

Dean waves off the offer. "Thanks, but Sam'd kill me." He offers a brief grin, and one he idly hopes is reassuring in some way at least. "Close quarters and everything. Look, I understand, but...I mean, not all of 'em are bad, either. Just 'cause a friend got a...lifestyle change," he hesitantly decides on wording, "don't mean they're lost for good. There's a lotta kinda of people out there. There's monsters and then there's the ones that just take what they need and live and let live. Gotta learn the difference."

Not that all of them would repay the favor. Not like even the hunters are all quite as enlightened. Unfortunately, Dean and his brothers have encountered enough of that already.

"Yeah. I met one of them. Are all west coast vampires such spineless hugboxes?" Jane asks, lifting an eyebrow as alcohol and nicotine are exchanged one for the other, back and forth after she asks that question, rhetorical as it may be. "I mean, I don't wanna be a stereotype, but, like, I kinda wanna go on a monster murder spree all the way up to Maine. Or hide in my closet and never fucking come out." The glow of her cigarette burns brighter with an inhale, and then it's cast away to land in a gutter with a shower of sparks. "And I'm pretty sure that Jenny's not there anymore. Um. Anyway." One hand awkwardly rubs the opposite forearm, and her eyes hunt up and down the street. "My dad's friend said your dad could help me."

"Yeah, probably not a good idea." Dean clears his throat, rolling his shoulders back as he idly sips on his beer between thoughts, people passing by, and speaking. "Murder sprees usually ain't too great a thing unless your end goal is to get ended, and it's about as likely it'll come from the people you thought would be your buddy as it is people you're huntin' down."

He won't comment on the question, stepping casually around it. That's something they can maybe come back to later. Or maybe they won't get around to it, if he's lucky. "Yeah," Dean answers the last comment. "We ain't even found dad. Dunno if he's dead or alive." That's a little sensitive topic, a little too close to home, but Dean tries to do his best to mask exactly how deep it hits him. "Me and Sam can help, though. Besides...there's two of us!" A grin returns to his face, along with that Dean Winchester confidence that never seems to go far afield.

"Shit. I'm sorry. That's why ... Fuck." Jane's face skews into something that looks apologetic, one hand raking through her fluffy, purposely unkempt mohawk. "I'm startin' to think this Sam of yours is a ghost," She teases with a musical laugh, looking up and down the street again. "Um. Mostly I need, like, actual real people money and a place whose foundation isn't four Firestones."

Her eyes fall away for a moment, a sheepish blush touching her cheeks. "Not that I'm, like, asking you guys or anything," She stammers, and once again that hint of Chicago-by-way-of-Ukraine is in her voice. "But, like, if you know people where I can like, pretend to be honest for a while."

"Actually, I do! I mean..Sam 'n me, we're on the road all the time." Dean gestures around with the bottle in his hand, chuckling a little bit to show more that he's good-natured than anything else. "Huntin' don't pay much, so you're better off putting those skills to better use. But I know a guy named Angel, could maybe give you a pointer or two. Might even could use your help. Or if you're wantin' to hunt for sure, there's the Roadhouse. It's up near Sonoma. My other brother lives there right now. Adam."

"I, uh. I don't know that I'm ready to get back on that horse yet," Jane mutters, finishing off her beer. The bottle is set carefully down next to her as the punk bassist squats down. Since they don't seem to be going anywhere, she clicks open the case and starts counting her money. "I-I just need a break, y'know? Something that's at least pretending to be normal. Um, if you've got, like numbers. That'd be cool. I can like. Call them." Awkwardly, the handful of change gets dumped into a pocket on her satchel, and all of the bills folded up and stuffed into her back pocket. She plucks a five out of it, then shoves it towards Dean. "For the beer and help."

"Oh, yeah!" Dean reaches into his jacket -- and yes, he's wearing his jacket even if it's hotter than the sun god's balls out most of the time. That it's evening has only dampened the temperature slightly, but well...it's part of his image, and also part of his arsenal, though that's not always clear to those not in the know.

When he takes out his phone, he carefully works with both hands not to spill his beer, and also to punch up the numbers he has. "Here, this is Angel." Holding it out, Dean's met by a five. He grins a little and shakes his head. "You need that more'n me. You keep it. You can buy me a drink sometime, when we're gonna look back on this and laugh about how crazy things were."

While Jane's getting the number, there's a particularly large, lanky shadow from behind her. Is it a sasquatch? Some sort of errant wendigo?! "Hey, sorry that took so long." Nah, it's just Dean's brother. "Sammy!" He calls out, gesturing with his head since it's the only thing other than his legs he can gesture with at the moment. And gesturing with legs gets awkward really fast. "Jane, this is Sam! My brother! Not a ghost or a hand puppet or whatever else." The hand puppet story is probably an interesting one, but nothing's exactly volunteered.

Sam smiles a thin smile. "Yeah, uh. Hi. Sam Winchester. Not, um, a hand puppet. Or a ghost." With that, he gives a questioning look to Dean, who just shrugs.

Jane startles when that shadow looms over her, falling back against the wall, and thanks to her crouch, sparing herself a small bit of embarassment. Once she's recovered, and gotten Angel's number punched into her own phone, the Romani straightens up and gives the lanky, moose-like twenty-something a once over.

"I could see someone fitting an arm in him," Jane agrees amicably, her voice calm and conversational. "And decidedly not a ghost." One slender hand is offered to same while she snags her satchel off the ground with the other, slipping it over her shoulder. "Oh. Um. If either of you boys want your palms read or Tarot read or something, give me a call. That number's good for, um. Like. However many minutes I have." Stretching her body out, Jane reaches for her guitar case.

Dean's all pleased and chuckling, flipping to the Roadhouse's number next and holding it out.

Then the comment about fitting an arm in Sam comes at exactly the worst time: when Dean had just taken a drink, when it was going down his throat. And he just about sprays it across some passers by working their way around the three just standing there on the corner, following that with an impressive and seemingly endless fit of coughing.

Sam's much less sensationalized by it, which is significant since he was the person in question. It may have been different if he'd had a beer. The world may never know. He walks over to Dean and slaps him on the back a couple of times, perhaps slightly harder than strictly necessary. He does take the hand and gives it a little shake. The younger Winchester seems pleasant enough. "Thanks. Sometimes I'm sure we could use the direction."

Dean finally does recover, although he shoots Sam a miniature glare. Miniature and very brief. He rolls his eyes, pursing his lips and clearing his throat a few times. "So yeah, uh. Yeah, that sounds good. Thanks. Here's the, uh, Roadhouse." We'll try that again. He holds the phone out.

Jane pokes at her phone for a few more minutes, looking between it and the amber-white glow of Dean's. "Roadhouse, huh? Thanks," She mutters, momentarily distracted and not seeming to care much at all for Dean's near-suffering. "Relax, if he's coughing, he's breathing."

Jane beams once again, then sneaks the five that had been meant for Dean into Sam's pocket. "Again, I appreciate everything. Like, it's been a really shitty month and I really needed a win."

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