Brothers ◇ SPN

Your Funeral.

Chapter Song - High Hopes ~ Panic! At the Disco

Isabella's POV

By the time the plane actually landed, it was around 5:30pm French time, and we weren't due at Theo's house until tomorrow. So we decided to head over to our hotel. Judging by the fact this guy could fly three random dudes from America to France and put us up, we were expecting someone rich. But that didn't't mean we were in anyway prepared for the the sight we saw when the town car pulled up outside where we were staying.

"Oh Dios mío," I whispered as we stared at the golden doors of the Hotel Plaza Athénée, which was located near the center of Paris.

"Wrong language, Bella. We're in Français now," Dean corrected smugly.

"Wow, Dean. Who knew you could also not speak French?" Sam remarked with fake awe, shaking his head.

"Comme j'ai déjà dit, merde sacrée," I gaped, still amazed by how the hotel could put even Zac's to shame.

"Merde sacrée indeed," Dean, agreed, pronouncing it completely and totally incorrect, making me cringe slightly.

"Do you even know what that means?" Sam asked, gathering his stuff.

"No. But I'm guessing it's something along the lines of 'holy crap'," he answered, exasperated.

"Close. It means holy shit," I told him.

"Oh, sorry, miss I-speak-every-single-language-ever," he taunted, sticking his tongue out at the end, to which Sam sighed, again.

"I don't speak German," I frowned.

"Oh no, now you'll never win the smartass contest," Dean deadpanned.

"Alright, both of you shut up and get outta the damn car," Sam groaned, as the driver muttered something about Americans.

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After we unpacked into our three crazy big hotel rooms, we decided to head down to the bar downstairs for some drinks. The best part is that I didn't even need a fake ID because in France, the legal drinking age is 18.

"So you're from America, which part?" a man asked me in a heavy French accent as we played a high stakes game of darts.

"Originally, Iowa, but now I live in Kansas," I replied, throwing my third triple twenty in a row of the game. Only fools go for the bullseye when it's only worth fifty points. It was our second game; the first one I tanked on purpose to hustle this rich guy.

"I feel I have been played," the man laughed, handing me five hundred euros in crisp notes.

"Good game," I smiled pocketing the money, looking around the room to try spot Sam or Dean.

"Maybe for you," he groaned, before walking away in defeat. I managed to locate Dean, who was chatting to some girl that was probably definitely out of his league.

"Bella, hey," he called out as I walked up to him, slinging an arm around my shoulder. "Claudine, this is my little sister, Izzy. Izzy, this is Claudine," he introduced me to the stunning blonde, who was no doubt some kind of French supermodel.

"Salut, Claudine. Désole vous êtes coincé avec mon frère ici," I greeted her with a smile, shooting a look at Dean.

"Vous parlez français?" she asked, placing her martini on the corner of the bar.

"Oui, un peu. Seulement ce que je peux me rappeler du lycée," I replied, making her laugh. Dean looked confused, but was trying to hide it to impress her, which made me want to laugh too.