Disclaimer: I own nothing Supernatural.

Author's Note: I don't know why, or how. I just don't know.


There wasn't much Dean Winchester feared. And that's not just some macho bullshit either. Growing up like he did, a person gets to be familiar with scary things, almost enough to make him immune to them. So the typically frightening ghosts and demons and various creatures and entities that go bump in the night never really phased him.

But he was a man remember, and like any man certain things haunted his dreams. Certain girls…ahem, women…especially, just plain scared Dean. Like the small town 'aw, shucks, you really think I'm purdy?' type. Or the big city, big talkers with their dangerous stilettos and always vibrating cell phones. He was pretty sure they got more from an incoming call than him anyway, so what was the point?

But those types could be spotted rather easily. Just look for a big goofy smile and nervous twirly fingers, or a too tall, too thin, too made up chick pushing around the bartender while brokering a deal on the phone and entertaining girlfriends with a long, loud story.

Some dangers though, aren't so easy to pick out, lying just beneath the surface, waiting for you to get close enough to unearth them, so close that by that time you'd already be trapped. Like the brunette in Omaha.

As a rule, Dean leaned towards blondes. Not because he necessarily found them more attractive, or more easy, just because he tended to have better luck with them. Redheads drove him crazy. At least the only two he ever fucked did, so he stayed away from them unless he was in a truly masochistic mood. And brunettes, well they usually drove him crazy too. The far too intellectual grad student from Chicago who actually seemed to be lecturing on post modernism, whatever the hell that is, while he drilled away. The chick with eight cats who told him when they were done that it was fun and all, but Scruffy doesn't like men, so you should really be on your way. Cassie, as if any more needed to be said.

And of course, the girl from Omaha. The too hot for words – legs that never seemed to end, a rack he'd give his left nut to nuzzle – with a sweet cherubic, oh-so-innocent face split in two by a wide cunning smile, brunette from Omaha.

It didn't take long, about twenty minutes from the time he saw her in the corner of the bar, caught her eye, winked and smirked, to the time she was guiding him out to her car, hand in his back pocket.

Dad was back at the hotel, too cheap this time around to spring for an extra room, using what should have been Dean's bed as another table for spreading out research. Research on a thing Dean knew little about and cared even less to learn about. Tell me how to kill it and we're good, he'd said.

So it was her place or the car. And the car was too small, a Miata, no back seat and a gear shift that hit in all the wrong places.

She said her roommate was probably asleep, having been sick for a couple days with the flu, causing Dean to make a mental note not to touch anything he didn't have to, and wash his hands thoroughly. And she dragged him through the darkened apartment, into the narrow hallway, swung open the door to her room, lips pressed so tightly to his he could almost feel them swell and burn, and guided him in. When the backs of his legs hit the foot board she stopped briefly, removing her tongue from his throat just long enough to shove him back onto the bed and flop, yes flop, down on top of him.

"Let's go," she said with a throaty laugh. And he struggled to eek out, hold on, gimme a sec, while he attempted to roll off of whatever the hell he'd landed on. But she took over his mouth once again, slight protests of discomfort – because something was actually stabbing him in the back, and something else in his side, and a big lump under his leg – getting lost among her moans.

She reached down for his pants, fingertips ripping at the button and zipper while her teeth dug into his lip. Which would have been a real issue as hard as she was tugging and tearing, had she not gotten him undone and in her hands so fast.

And, damn, that girl was good. Cherubic face be damned, she was no innocent angel.

Dean forgot about his discomfort, falling headfirst into a state of, I don't care what I'm laying on just as long as you don't stop. Don't stop. Until she did stop, briefly, and began to shimmy down the length of him, face creeping down in the dark towards his crotch. And he moved quickly, reaching behind and grabbing whatever the hell it was, chucking it across the room, before she got so far that he'd be in that don't give a crap now, even though I'll feel it tomorrow frame of mind.

And she screamed, muffled with his cock in her mouth, as what felt to be some sort of stuffed though pointy thing, animal perhaps, slammed into the wall.

Scared the crap out him, thought she might actually bite down. So her grabbed her by the hair and tugged back, one fast desperate move, while screeching out, "What?!"

"Bernard!" she sputtered, untangling his fingers from her hair and racing to the felled thing. She pulled what could have been, might have been, some sort of dinosaur into her arms, snuggling it close to her bare but for the bra chest. Dean lay back down, two conflicting thoughts racing through his head: nut job, and, want to be a stuffed dinosaur.

"Sorry," he managed, rubbing a hand over his face, feeling the ghost of her hands on him.

"It's just," she said, sounding near tears, "he's Bernard. Bernard!"

"O-kay," he drawled in a whisper.

"He's sorry Bernard," she cooed to the stuffed animal. "He's sorry, he didn't know."

And it was true, he didn't know. Didn't know that there actually were full grown, and he did mean full grown, women out there who were obsessed with stuffed animals. Toys. Unreal…things. And that they treated them as though they were real, children or babies or something. He had a fleeting fear that if someone's ovaries were so all-a-flutter that she was imbuing toys with the baby sensibility she craved, maybe sex wasn't the best idea. She could be some sort of sperm stealer, a woman looking for just one thing, and it wasn't a good time with him. He thought about it just long enough to decide that, no, he should go, because no child of mine is gonna be raised by a loon.

But before he could rise to leave she was back, crawling on top of him once more and saying those magical words, whispering them in his ear, "I'm not crazy. Really." And that was all he needed to hear.

It didn't take long to get back in the groove, not long at all really, before she was guiding him inside her, sitting up and rocking slowly, smoothly, reaching back to undo her bra. His hands tightened on her hips as he watched, all soft pale skin in the moonlight. She stretched back, biting her lip and closing her eyes, tightening up on top of him, all around him, for just a moment. Just one beautiful, breathless moment before saying, "Don't watch."

And he would have said, I like to watch, you're beautiful, I need to see you, or any combination thereof, if he'd had a voice to share with. But he didn't.

"Don't," she said again. "Cover your eyes." In quick, sharp gasps. "Don't look, Walter."

"Dean," he corrected, barely even a grunt, the most he could manage.

"What?" she asked, glancing down at him. Then smiling, that sly, crooked smile, "I know your name, silly. I know." And she leaned down into him, all thrumming muscles and sweaty tits and sweet hot breath in his ear. "I wasn't talking to you."

And yeah, that was the point where Dean realized that something was very, very wrong. But he was past the point of no return, crazy ass devil woman making him come like she was Jessica fucking Alba or something.

"Who?" he breathed out, desperate to make it more commanding, more forceful, less of a pathetic request from an incapable man.

"Walter," she said, turning her face to the side, nudging his to do the same.

And there he was, staring at them with big beady eyes from a rocking chair in the corner. Walter. Walter the bear. Walter the two-foot tall stuffed teddy bear who was watching them fuck like bunnies with wide black eyes and a big ole lopsided grin. "He likes to watch," she said, ending with a lick to his ear, a nibble at his lobe. "He's a bad, bad boy."

"Okay," he squeaked, hands quickly moving to her shoulders, shoving her back as he rolled, pulled out and rolled as far from her as he could get in his current state.

"What? What's wrong?" she said with an audible pout. "I wasn't done."

"Yeah, well," he said though tight breaths, urging himself down. Down so he could get up. Up and dressed and gone.

"You weren't done either," she said, a seductive lilt to her voice. "Was he, Armand?"

Something soft and fluffy and not at all welcome suddenly goosed Dean, hard, before attempting to burrow between his legs. "Jesus, fuck!" he exclaimed, jumping up from the bed, standing hunched over her and he-who-must-be-Armand, a sizable pink duck or goose or something with a beak.

"It's okay," she started, grabbing at his hands while he went for his clothes. "It's okay, he likes to play. Don't you Armand?" He managed to shove just one foot into his pants when Armand flew at his face and said, in a voice that sounded suspiciously like crazy girl's baby talk, "Come play with me, Dean. I want to make you come."

So startled was he by the slutty duck in his face that he wasn't able to pull his leg all the way through his jeans, toes jamming into the fabric as he lost balance, tumbling back on his ass, head colliding with the floor.

There was a moment, a brief and fleeting moment, just after hearing the dull crack of skull on wood, and feeling that dazed dreamy sensation that comes with the first few seconds of a concussion, where Dean thought it was all a dream.

But then his vision cleared and he saw those gorgeous breasts looming over him, a stuffed animal with its face so close to one that he looked ready to suckle, and he knew the nightmare was real.

The hunter instinct took over. He grabbed his jeans and tugged them on, hopping up simultaneously. "Are you alright?" he heard Armand ask as he quickly spun and bolted for the door. Then, "Dean?" in her own voice. And once out in the hall, careening for the exit, "Call me okay? Give us a call?" And he was out.

It was the first time Dean ever felt like one of the people he and Sam and his dad had helped. Scared, confused. Victimized. Because, what the hell was that? And, God, I feel…dirty.

And when he woke up the next day, balls finally faded from blue and a nice Bernard sized bruise on his back, he felt something he'd never felt before. Traumatized. Beyond words. Just like that little girl they saved from the werewolf, or the guy who was being stalked by his dead ex-wife. Because he too had come in contact will something terrifying and unexplainable.

His dad pried at him for days, trying to get him to say what had happened, what put him in that shaky mood. But he didn't say a word. There were no words.

Sam asked him once, while busy chiding him for being such a man whore, if he ever had a truly bad experience during one of his flings. And he was tempted to tell him, especially when Sam noticed the deep shiver that overtook him. But some things are better left alone, buried deep within. Buried and salted and burned.

So yeah, it's true, Dean Winchester is afraid of something. Several somethings in fact. Brunettes. Omaha. Bears and dinosaurs and, oh God, ducks.

And planes, but that's an entirely different, rack I'd give my left nut to nuzzle, story.