Standing frozen in the doorway, silhouetted against the subtle amber glow of the night-light, Bobby's chin worked it's way toward the ground as he glared at the woman before him; "You?" he growled menacingly.
"Hello, Mr Singer," she smiled up at him in slightly apprehensive concern, peering around the solid obstacle of Bobby's barrel chest as he blocked the doorway, "I heard Dean's sick, and I'm the duty first aider; I've come to see how he is." She held up the bottle of pink medicine; "I-I've bought something that might help."
Smiling apologetically, she shimmied past Bobby who steadfastly refused to move out of her way, his mind frantically racing with thoughts of what to do next.
"Dean?" She whispered, dropping to her knees beside the bed.
"Hey Leylaani," Sam smiled; "hostess, tour guide, first aider, is there anything you can't do?"
She giggled shyly; "oh, I'm full of surprises, Sam."
Bobby physically bristled at her words and his face fell into a murderous scowl as he strode toward the sofa bed. "He's asleep," he barked, placing his body between Leylaani and the dozing man. His defensive words trailed off as Dean's head rocked slowly and his eyes flickered open as he let out a long groan.
Leylaani leaned to reach round Bobby and ran gentle fingertips through Dean's hair, still damp with sweat; "hey Dean, how you feeling, honey?" She folded the quilt down to his chest and her fingertips traced the curves of his cheekbone and neck, coming to rest on his shoulder
Dean groaned again, curling in on himself as another vicious cramp wrung his tender innards.
"Leylaani?" He cringed, turning his head away from his visitor's gentle touch. Even through the soft half-light, Sam could see the deep blush which erupted across his brother's pallid, unshaven face. Rank with sweat, Dean was painfully aware that he looked wrecked and miserable, the sour odour of sickness and nausea hanging heavily over him and he was mortified that Leylaani should be seeing him in this condition.
"Dean, Leylaani's the first aider, she's just come to check if you need a doctor," Sam reassured.
Bobby abruptly stepped in her way, yanking the quilt firmly back up to Dean's neck. "Jus' something he's eaten; he'll be fine in a day or two."
Leylaani looked up at Bobby with an awkward smile and then at Sam; clearing her throat, she handed the medicine to Bobby. "This might help," she suggested quietly, "if he's no better by the morning, then I'll call the resort's doctor."
Taking the bottle with a grudging nod, Bobby decided there was no way he was giving this to Dean without checking it first
"Thanks Leylaani, we'll let you know how he is in the morning." There was a pause, "I'm sure you're very busy," he added, folding his arms; conversation over.
Both brothers glared at the older man; Sam's face registering angry disbelief.
Leylaani gently patted Dean's shoulder; "um, I'd better just go. Your stepfather's right; you need your sleep."
There was a rapid and unanimous shaking of heads between the brothers; "no, Leylaani, stay as long as you want; Dean's happy to see you," Sam glanced beliigerently at Bobby; "aren't you dude?"
Dean smiled the first time since waking; "yeah," he sighed soppily; "just ignore the Golden Oldie there, he gets real grumpy when his biorhythms are low."
Squirming out from under the quilt, he tried to sit up and make a game effort at looking stronger, fitter and not like he was fighting back a threatening queasiness.
"Sammy," he croaked; "c'n I have a drink?"
Nodding smartly, Sam moved to rise, but was interrupted by a hand on his shoulder.
"I'll get it, son," Bobby reassured; "stay with ya brother."
Sam watched with a bemused shake of the head as Bobby stomped into the kitchenette area.
Slumping against the refrigerator, Bobby pinched the bridge of his nose with a long sigh.
What the hell was he doing? Being obnoxious to this lovely young woman, that's what.
He had not a shred of evidence that she was the succubus, but still he couldn't get rid of the creeping dread in the pit of his stomach. All the pieces fitted too well, there was something about her that didn't ring true; something secret, something dangerous.
Why the hell does she keep hanging round Dean?
Why is he sick? Is it really something as simple as overindulgence?
Why the hell did he ever think it would be a good idea to keep this whole episode from the boys?
He glanced up at a cupboard into which he had secreted a small flask, together with a few other depressingly familiar items on their arrival; a bag of salt, and two knives, one of silver the other of iron.
It was the hunter's mantra – 'just in case …'
"What's he doing in there?" Sam asked no-one in particular, "how long's it take to get a glass of water?"
As if on cue, Bobby emerged from the kitchenette juggling four glasses.
Placing them on the table, he silently handed one each to Sam and Dean, and a third to Leylaani, taking a sip of the fourth himself.
Leylaani took her glass with a smile of thanks, "thank you Mr Singer;" she responded quietly, placing the glass on the nightstand without taking a sip.
His alarm bells ringing wildly, and desperate to keep her away from Dean, wherever Leylaani was, Bobby made it his business to be. Like her shadow, he was there, leaning forward and blocking her view and her reach on the pretence of adjusting the quilt whenever she made a move to touch Dean.
"Bobby, stop climbin' all over me for chrissakes," Dean barked irritably, his throat convulsing as the nausea rose along with his annoyance.
Bobby reluctantly stepped back, to give the agitated patient some space. Every fibre of his being longed to throw her out of the room but without unequivocal proof that she wasn't who he guessed she was, there was little he could do without raising the boys' suspicions.
His heart sank when he realised he was running out of options; he would have to take action before he put the boys in danger and it broke his heart to think their carefree vacation would no longer be carefree. Desperation overwhelmed him, and the only thing he could think to do was to half-knock, half-throw Leylaani's glass of water off the nightstand soaking her back and arm.
"Oh crap, sorry Leylaani," he gasped insincerely as she and Sam leapt to their feet in shock, making Dean recoil in pained alarm.
"Oh, it's okay, Mr Singer, honestly, no harm done;" she reassured, dabbing her soaked arm dry with the hem of her T shirt as Sam angrily reached for a towel to help dry her off.
"Bobby, what the hell? What's the matter with you tonight?" Sam snorted as he passed Leylaani at towel.
"Sorry, slipped out of my hand;" Bobby replied sheepishly. He was bemused, frustrated, relieved; he didn't know what to think about Leylaani's calm reaction.
Dean glared at Bobby; "you okay?" he asked Leylaani.
"I'm fine," she smiled; "It's okay Dean, your stepfather's just worried about you. I'd better get out of your way." She handed the damp towel back to Sam; "I'll drop by later to see if you're feeling better."
"Yeah, bye Leylaani." Dean murmured through a droopy smile, "thanks for comin' to see me."
She left with a little wave, and the three men watched as the door clicked closed behind her.
Dean immediately turned on Bobby; "what was all that about? she was only trying to help," he snorted angrily, irritably shrugging Sam's comforting hand from his shoulder.
"I thought … I was worried, an' I … oh crap," Bobby stammered helplessly, holding out the medicine to Sam.
Dean turned over with a scowl and closed his eyes; "bite me," he grumbled.
Bobby looked at the empty glass in his hand, then up at Sam who took the pink bottle and shrugged with a 'what did you expect' expression on his face.
It was mid-morning and Dean was feeling a little better. Not feeling like he was about to hurl every five minutes and not feeling like his guts were trying to wring themselves out had lifted his mood enormously, and even the crushing exhaustion that was all that was left of his traumatic night hadn't deterred him from hauling his pallid carcass out of bed and retiring to his beloved balcony for what he hioped would be a brief convalescence.
He sat in a companionable silence with Sam, timidly sipping water and cringing as his tender stomach gurgled menacingly in protest.
After his bizarre exploits in the small hours of the morning, Bobby was wilting under the atmosphere in the room and decided to head down into the resort to pick up some bottled water.
After a brief, friendly chat with Des, he turned, armed with three bottles of water, and headed back to the room. He stopped in his tracks when he heard a voice.
He spun round to see Leylaani standing nervously before him.
Bobby eyed her warily; "better," he grunted economically, giving nothing away.
The two stared at each other; Bobby wasn't going to apologise; he still wasn't convinced about this woman, there was something about her that was making his antennae twitch wildly.
"I get it now," she smiled; "I get why you were so hostile towards me last night."
Bobby shuffled awkwardly, "oh yeah?" he asked as casually as he could manage.
"You think it's me, that's it, isn't it?" She shook her head with a smile; "you think I'm the succubus."
Bobby almost choked on his tongue.
"What the … how do you …?" He could feel the bottles slipping out of his grip as his eyes darted around the resort, his mind whirling in confusion and alarm. Who else would know there was a succubus in the prowl, except the bitch herself?
"You're a hunter," she smiled calmly, "only a hunter who knew there was a succubus at large would be throwing holy water around."
Bobby opened his mouth but no words came out, "h-how … what the hell …?"
Turning casually, she threaded her thumb into the waistband of her jeans, pulling it down to reveal a smooth, perfectly rounded butt-cheek.
Bobby spluttered, feeling a hot blush rising across his face, but aside from the fact that he couldn't remember how long it had been since a beautiful young woman bared her bottom in front of him, the sight that really took his breath away was a familiar circular tattoo.
"I know all about hunters Mr Singer … because I am one."
Bobby stared at her stunned into helpless silence.
"And it seems that you and I have a common aim, Mr Singer;" she tugged her jeans back up and turned to face Bobby, folding her arms; "to protect your stepsons."