Title: A different Hole.
Status: Complete. Approx. 7600 words
A/N: Dean, ofc. John. Same series as Down the highway. Can standalone. Some Het. Pre-series.
The first time I ever saw John Winchester, I was at a wedding reception. It was one of Caleb's nieces getting hitched. There're about sixteen of'em, so don't ask me which one.
John came barging on through the house, turning all the heads he passed, muttered something only Caleb could hear when he found us in the garden under the gazebo. Then they both disappeared.
The first time I ever saw Dean Winchester, it was out on the pebble drive two minutes later, and he looked me up and down then glared at me like it was my fault he'd been left behind to be my chauffeur home.
"What d'they call you then, cowboy?" It was a supposed to be a joke, 'cause he looked kinda miserable and that's the first thing he reminded me of. Don't think he realized how he strutted when he walked, confident on them bow legs like a cowboy/boxer hybrid.
I still don't get why he looked at me funny. It's a perfectly legitimate question to ask a person your 'bout to climb into a car with. At the time I was just stalling a bit, though. Cars made me nervous as all get-out. Still do.
"Dean," he told me, irritated, yanking his car door open.
Didn't help any when he drove me all the way home like the road was falling in behind us. I'd been drinking that champagne shit, too, thought I was gonna puke a few times. Freakin' maniac.
The apartment was a mess back then. In construction, Caleb called it, personally I would'a said it was in de-construction. The shop downstairs was full'a junk left over from the previous owner and the apartment itself was totally bare. Naked windows and big echo-y rooms. The kitchen had a table and chairs, flimsy and damn uncomfortable, not even any good for a bonfire. And there were beds in the bedrooms. But that's about all.
Dean didn't know where to put himself. Think he was kinda regretting being so short with me, seeing as he had to wait here 'til his dad and Caleb got back from where ever they'd gone. I offered him coffee an' he finally took a seat at the table.
"Nice place," Dean muttered, when I set his mug down infront of him. Couldn't tell whether he was joking or not.
"Just moved in two days ago," I explained. "Guess I need some furniture...You and your daddy'll hafta share the spare room." His head snapped up, surprised.
"Yessir." I'll admit I was a little smug. "'My not what you was expectin'?"
Dean shook his head, then relaxed back in his chair and let his eyes do another sweep of me. I wish he wouldn't be so obvious when he does that.
"Just thought you'd be older," he said. Everybody just looks at me an' assumes I'm younger than they are, and Dean wasn't an exception. "Dad said you were the resident expert on woodland happenings, so I jus' figured you were a hunter."
Which meant his dad hadn't told him anything and I was already wondering why not. Caleb'd let me know they'd be staying here for a few days, told me he'd informed John all about my sit-e-ation. I was wondering why Dean hadn't been privy to the knowledge, too.
"No, I don't hunt..." I'd be no good at the killing things part.
"Right..." Dean nodded, looked around the kitchen again. Glanced down at his watch. Sipped his coffee. Blew out a long breath through his teeth. "So, you're what? Like...A woodland happenings consultant?"
"I guess so." Fuck. Man, this was shapin' up to be one awkward afternoon, Dean wasn't coming across as the social type...And my own skills in that department were somewhat limited, too. 'Specially 'round guys. Hell, I'm still like that today.
"Hey, you don't happen to know anything about TV's do ya?" A perfect solution. Sometimes I really out-do myself.
His eyes lit up a little, hopeful. "Why? You got one that's broke? Want me to take a look at it?"
"No. I don't have one at all. Caleb keeps tellin' me I need to get one...But I dunno where to even start-"
"-You want me to help you buy a TV?"
"That's exactly what I want...Wouldjuh mind?"
"Hell no..." Dean was already standing up, digging his car keys out of his pocket on the way over to the front door.
So we killed an afternoon at this enormous electrics warehouse next to the local mall. Dean was like a kid in a candy store once I told him he was in charge of buying useful things and I was gonna foot the bill.
Ended up filling the whole of the backseat of his car up with boxes and were the last ones outta the store at closing, around six in the evening. Shop assistant 'Steve' waved us off with a big grin that Dean gave a one word explanation for when I wondered out loud what the guy was so pleased about. I still ain't gotta clue what commission is, but good for Steve, I guess.
I was laughing my ass off when we got back to the apartment. I'd tripped up the stairs on my way up, blinded by the toaster and the waffle iron and the lamp that Dean'd trusted me to carry, swore a mighty blue streak. Dean'd started whooping and laughing so hard behind me that he'd done exactly the same thing a couple'a steps later, and almost dropped the new TV.
"What in the world-- John, they're here! The hell are you two morons doin'?" Caleb sounded more amused than pissed, taking the boxes offa me as soon as we stumbled into the living room.
"Dean helped me buy shit for the apartment," I told him, giddy. Caleb just shook his head, smiled and ducked a bit to hide it easier. Didn't last a second longer though, when John marched in and joined us. His face was thunderous, watching Dean set down that giant box and the extra bag he'd carried on the bare floorboards. I figured John was more pissed than amused.
"Thought I told you to wait for me here, Dean," John said. Dean straightened, looked over at his dad, blinking like he hadn't heard him right or something.
Caleb juggled the parcels he was still holding an' grabbed my elbow, all but dragged me outta there and into the kitchen in a fit of propriety. Was pretty useless of him though, I could still hear clear as day what was being exchanged between Dean and his daddy.
Caleb nudged at me with the waffle iron box. "Stop-it. Here, unpack this," he instructed, doing his best to contort that cherubic face'a his into a chastising expression, and failing.
I know about manners. I know it's rude to listen to other peoples conversations, but those Winchester's weren't conversing, they was yelling. Mostly John was yelling, really. Dean was snappy with his replies, but he wasn't aiming any real heat back at his father.
'Well, if you hadn't left me here to babysit like some freakin' kid on a timeout--'
'You should've followed orders in the first place! And I wouldn't have felt like I had to leave you behind, you're off your game Dean, and I don't know--'
'-That's bullshit dad! The gun fuckin' jammed, and I told you-'
'-You fucked up, Dean.'
'Could've gotten yourself killed by that beast, and it's not the first time that's happened this month...I know what this is about son, and--'
'It's about nothing. Theres nothing going on'
'Dean...You're staying here this weekend'
'Fuck that! No way-'
'-You're staying here this weekend. That's an order, son...I know you don't like it, but right now I can't trust you to have my back out there and watch out for yourself as well...You can stay here and sort out whatever shit you need to sort out...I'll be back on Sunday afternoon, be packed and ready to hit the road by then.'
Dean didn't like it one single bit, 'specially after he found out Caleb had prior engagements and couldn't go either, so his dad was definitely going it alone. He sulked for the rest of the evening. Said he was cleaning his guns and spent his time downstairs amongst the junk in the shop, didn't even wanna come upstairs when I went down to tell him Caleb'd cooked and dinner was ready.
I knew he had to be hungry, though. What twenty something male turns down a plate of chicken, with all this crap on it that Caleb insisted Dean could eat by the barrel full? I was only eatin' fruit anyway so I asked John if I could take Dean's plate down for him.
John muttered something along the lines of; if he wants to starve himself and sulk like a woman, it's up to him, but he didn't say no. So I took it as a yes.
Dean'd found a big ancient armchair with all it's foam guts hanging out, and he was sprawled in it. A dusty green desktop lamp that I assume he raked outta one of them mouldy boxes of crap down there was teetering on the arm next to him, illuminating him like an eerie fairground attraction, at the end of an untidy row of bookshelves, housing nothing but more boxes of crap on their rickety shelves.
He was engrossed in a National Geographic magazine, dated July 1988. I handed over his plate, knife and fork, and watched while he rearranged himself so he could eat and read in harmony.
"Have you eaten?" I thought that was a strange question for him to be askin' me, considering what must'a been on his mind. All that commotion he'd been having with his daddy. I nodded that I had, picked something up outta one of the boxes he'd busted open.
"The fuck is this?" Looked like a radio, maybe.
"Uh, a walkman," he snorted, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. I didn't know what the hell a damn walkman was, did I? "You keeping any of this stuff?"
"Nope. It'll all hafta be cleared out, for what I want to do with this space," I told him. He chewed on some chicken, thought about something for a minute.
"So you don't mind if I screw around with some of it?" He gestured with his fork at the walkman.
I told him he could play around with the junk all he liked, told him to go ahead and knock himself out. I dunno what the hell's so special about junk, Dean must have a 'broken miscellaneous items of little or zero value' fetish, 'cause he smiled like I'd just declared him the new Elvis or something.
Men're fuckin' nuts, the whole lot of'em.
Later, I found out that Dean just liked to try and fix things, succeeded more than fifty percent of the time, and if he couldn't fix'em, he'd try to salvage the working parts.
It bothered him greatly that things were broken and I guess he thought everything was worth at least trying to fix before you abandoned it to the trash.
Don't get me wrong, I still thought he was nuttier than a freakin' fruitcake, but I couldn't help but also think that trait was an admirable quality for any man to have, and I still do. Likely I always will 'cause Dean was the first man I ever witnessed it on.
I expect most of'em have that urge to fix everything, somewhere inside, but Dean'd call it a hobby rather than a chore, and he wears it as one of his outer layers, so me and everyone else who looks can see it, crystal clear. It's comforting, if y'ask me.
Heavy boots banging up and down the stairs woke me up the next morning. Men's footsteps and male voices, car doors slamming outside.
John left at around eight, Caleb headed out not ten minutes later than that.
Dean stood out on the side-walk and looked longingly up the road after them both for a long time after the exhaust smoke had settled. Hands enveloped in his pockets, his light t-shirt flapping against his body in the nipping wind, the picture definition of a person left behind.
When he did drift back inside, he busied himself hookin' up the TV and fiddling around with all the settings. That only killed an hour or so, and he went back down to play through the junk in the shop for another couple'a hours.
I looked out the window and saw him half buried under the hood of his car at about midday, and by one o'clock, he'd cleaned out the trunk too, and taken all my trash out to the dumpster for me while he was at it. Pretty handy t'have around if you could ignore the grey storm cloud over his head.
When he eventually came back upstairs after that, oily and sweaty and bored out of his mind having done all the chores he could possibly think of, still smelling of abandonment, I thought maybe he was gonna exhaust himself by going for a run or something, so I gave him an out. I was his helpful last resort.
I asked if he wanted t'go out an' get something to eat. Maybe get some more furniture. He nodded, said he was gonna grab a quick shower first. Grinned at me and suggested a couch might come in handy, for watching TV off of, on his way to the bathroom.
We only ventured as far as the mall. The city's only ten minutes away, but Dean made a face, shook his head and protested that there'd be nowhere to park. I figured he hates crowds as much as I do.
The mall wasn't all that much better once we got there, but there was space. It wasn't so bad, despite Dean's complaining about the fact that he was suddenly surrounded by brain-dead, no-better-than-mindless-zombies-and/or-cattle, consumers on all sides.
Dean's got issues.
We was just leaving the Mexican place that Dean'd chose to be our watering hole, when I noticed him giving some guy in a sports jersey the hairy eyeball. He'd been doing that a lot.
"What's he doin'?" I was curious, twisted around ready to give my best supporting scathing glare too, and the guy was smiling at me. He was only smiling, so I smiled back, 'til Dean dragged me down hard onto the edge of some artificial fountain, full of swimming pennies.
"Would it have killed you to wear a bra?" Dean hissed at me, poking his head in front of m'view of the fake blue water. Man, not this again. Caleb and his girlfriend had already tried t'get me into one of those damn things. I snorted, told Dean exactly what I'd told them.
"My tits're young, they don't need no bra."
Dean looked unimpressed, arched one eyebrow.
"Yeah. I can see that," he muttered, "And so can every other guy we've walked past today." That wasn't true, my shirt was black an' perfectly opaque, you gotta know 'bout these things when you don't wear bras.
I was surprised, truth be told. Sounded to me like he was actually concerned 'bout what these brain-dead-cattle thought of him, wandering around with a bra-less girl on his arm.
"Listen cowboy, I ain't putting on one of them...traps, alright?" That's what they are, too. Boob-traps. "I don't give a shit f'some guy was starring at me...Every single girl we've walked past s'been starring at'choo, but you don't hear me saying you should put a bag over your head..."
Dean looked puzzled for second, then sighed and shook his head, like he was already weary of this argument.
"That's different. And it's not what I meant...Just c'mon..."
We went off on some more shopping adventures. Didn't stay all that long, considering I potentially had the whole apartment to kit out with stuff, but the lighting in that place was making my eyes water and Dean was only getting pricklier the longer we stayed.
Didn't get around to buying a couch to watch TV off-of either, but Dean did pick up two of those stupid big bean-bag chairs that drive me crazy 'cause you can never get up off'em and keep your dignity. Dean said he'd wanted a pair of them since he was a teenager, said they reminded him of hippies and I couldn't say no to the shy smirk on his face.
Besides, I made him carry'em back to the car, which he insisted damaged his dignity and reputation into unfixable proportions. I called us even.
Wasn't 'til we were driving the whole five minutes back to my place that I realised I'd misunderstood him about the bra thing. I'd been quizzing him, asking about them swimming pennies and wondering why people tossed'em in that fountain, much to his evident frustration, and it just clicked, like something switching on.
I'd mistaken his honest-to-God, almost brotherly, concern for my well-being as snobby self-consciousness.
Could'a kicked m'self, and almost apologised right then, but thought better of it. Would'a only embarrassed him anyways, so I kept my mouth shut instead, thinking he might appreciate the peace'n'quiet even more than an apology.
Dean took charge of the remote for the TV, said it was his God-given right as an American man, an' I let him have it, neglecting to mention that I was slightly grateful 'cause I had no idea how a person was supposed to use the freakin' thing anyway. He kept saying that I should think 'bout gettin' a satellite dish, whatever the fuck one'a those is.
We sat infront of the TV for two hours, melted into them beanbags, well fed and drinkin' beer that Dean picked up on the way back...Can't say I was too keen on beer, but it quenched the thirst that a day of braving the mall'd built up, and I guess it was working to lubricate Deans vocal chords a little bit. Either that or he was just gettin' used to me. Point is; He started talking more, that's for sure.
Mostly it was his own critical brand of running commentary for whatever was playing out on the TV screen, that's when he first mentioned some Sam guy, Sam's a total fuckin' Star-Trek geek.
It took me listening to him for ten minutes to figure out that Sam must be his brother, the third Winchester that Caleb'd mentioned once or twice, and Dean, I'm not sure if he even realized how he kept dropping the name. Smelling exactly like a broken heart every time he did it.
I shouldn't have asked, but it was like a button that someone told you not to push. There was something different about every movement Dean made when he was remembering his Sam, and he unknowingly left me itching to hear some more after his chatter petered out, distracted by some stacked blonde chick in a red swimsuit, jogging in slow-mo along the TV screen.
"Where's Sam now?" He didn't make any indication that he'd heard me. Took him a minute to answer.
"College. Stanford, in California...I dropped him off there a month ago..." He sounded completely miserable that he'd done it, like it was a mistake an' he was living with the heavy weight of regret from it. Smelled like regret, but it might have been something different.
"You must be proud've him though, huh?" I knew enough to know college was a big deal, we got a similar type'a system where I come from. An' I dunno to this day if what I'd just said made him feel better or worse, but what it did make him was antsy, and embarrassed.
Apparently made him feel like he needed t'shoot me a smile that was painful rip-off of the real thing.
He said he was gonna go out and find himself a bar to fraternize in, play some pool. Jumped up from his bean-seat in a way that made me jealous, barely paused to snatch his jacket before he was gone. Didn't answer the question.
I was makin' pasta when Dean got back. Watching and stirring it on the hob when he came in, I heard him pause near the kitchen doorway. Y'know, there's nothin' more relaxing'an just watching something cook?
I could smell him, actual odours, smoke and dirty beer and girl. Beside a hint of defeated and the same old heartbroken-ness that he'd been dumping out like pheromones since the minute he got here.
Man, he stunk of girl already, but whoever she was, apparently she hadn't been enough to satisfy him, 'cause when he pressed himself up flush against m'back I could clearly feel the wanting, hard line of him. Rocking against my ass. The shock of it made me freeze.
I know he would never'a done it if he'd known. But he didn't know, nobody had bothered to tell him, including yours truly. So I was to blame as equally as he was.
"What're you doin'?" I'm the fuckin' queen of dumb questions, it was pretty obvious what the fuck he was doing. Looking back, what I should'a asked was: Why're you doin' it?
"You know what m'dad told me before he left?" No, I didn't. His breath smelled like smoke an' bitterness. "He said I shouldn't fuck you..." Oh. It was decent advice, actually, and probably one of the only times Dean didn't take his dad's good advice when he should've. He pulled me back against him. Big, hard, fingers clutching into my stomach.
"Why shouldn't I fuck you, Fay?" Could'a been seductive, his hands gliding up over my top, covering my tits and squeezing too hard. "You are legal, right?"
A million reasons flitted through my head. I don't wanna. Your daddy told you not to. You'd regret it soon as it was over. I might look like one, but I ain't human girl. I don't know you. You drive a monster car. It'd complicate things. Caleb might wanna kick your ass if he found out. I'm tryin'a make some pasta, here. You don't know anything. You got issues, and you don't even like me.
"You're drunk," I accused him, but he just chuckled into the back of my skull. Felt along over my arms and shook the spoon loose from my iron grasp on it, turned the burner off under the pan.
"Tell me you don't wannit? Bet'choove been thinking 'bout fucking me since you first saw me." His voice vibrated in my ear, warm an' moistening the patch of hair he's talking into. Clammy, hot hands're on my belly now, worming up under my T-shirt. Finger tips dipping into my bellybutton one by one, sending goosebumps a'scattering.
Shifting his footing so he can grind his dick against me easier, making so I hafta use my hands to brace myself to stop the pasta-water sloshing out when he rocks me forward against the oven.
I was completely, mortally terrified. Frozen stiff. Thinking nothing but a string of unhelpful profanities. What a fuckin' dumbass I was. Shit, but Dean, he didn't know.
I can't tell a lie. Not without getting awfully sick. Lies can be fatal where I come from, even thinking'em's fucking painful.
And the thing is? I did want it. I was curious. And physically? Dean's almost the perfect specimen of man. So yeah, maybe I did want it. I didn't not want it, I know I wanted something, but that ain't the same as consenting to it. It's similar, but it's not the same.
If he'd asked permission, I would've denied him it, flat out. Only, he didn't ask me for permission. He asked me to lie, and I cant...I didn't.
"That's what I thought," he whispered, rucking my T-shirt up 'til it was slipping on my collar bones, burning hot palms swallowing my tits, leaking words into my ear- girlthesefuckin'titsallday-that I couldn't decipher despite the closeness. Squeezing harshly again, tugging m'nipples roughly between his fingers.
Then my elbows're clattering down on the flat bench top beside the oven top. The surface is smooth and friggin' cold and I gasp when my chest gets squashed against it, one of his hands a tight knot in my hair at the base of my skull, holding me in place, the other hand pulling at the drawstring on m'sweats.
Then there's cool air on my the bare skin of my ass, his belt buckle clinking, then his zipper, then all I felt were brutal knuckles, hands pulling me open, fingertips, blunt and leaving bruises.
Only thing I could hear was my own heartbeat, going mad through all'a my veins. Panicking.
Then it's like I'm being stabbed between my legs. An excruciating split second of nothing but thick, hot, pain, replacing everything else, jagged and sharp, all the way up m'spine and down through each one of my toenails.
By the time it fades away there's nothing but sensation; filling, burning, forcing. Fucking. It felt like a heavy handed procedure more than anything else, and I buried my eyes into my forearm for a second. Tryin'ta breath properly, think of something other than the way my body's rushing, screaming at me to accommodate him.
I get a flash of lightening behind my eye sockets, when Dean smacks my head back down against the counter top, countering the move I was making to get my hands underneath myself, trying to relieve the damaging that the solid edge was doing to my soft insides every time he fucked into me. All but lifting me off m'toes with each scalding shove upwards.
Hitting something rare inside that sent an ache outwards through my pelvic bones. An ache that I felt for a week afterwards whenever I unwittingly leaned the right way.
My legs're numb. But I can hear sound outside of my own body again as Dean starts hammering into me, impossibly faster, pulling on m'hair so hard I hear a crunch.
His breathing and my breathing are the only sounds. My kitchen looked normal, still and boringly fuckin' quiet for what was happening in it. Like it should've been outraged and in uproar about the unsightly display, but it wasn't. It just stayed the same.
Then I guess he's done. He flops against my back a little, sharp chin an' his hot panting streaking between my shoulder blades. I can feel my pulse, everywhere.
I know it's a cliché to say, but it all goes a bit blurry after that. I remember Dean being like the flip side of a coin suddenly. Soothing hands over my hips, down my arms, petting, as he eased off and outta me. I didn't look at him. Just pulled my pants up, my shirt down, and wandered to my bedroom on jelly knees.
I wish I could say more about it; getting fucked by the one and only Dean Winchester. But that's what it was like from my side'a things. I hadn't been fucked before him, that I can remember, and haven't since, so I guess I cant judge anything all that well.
The worst part, I thought, was when I got into bed. Shaking and reaching down to feel the slip-slide pooling out between my legs, felt myself all wide and swelled, silky wet and on fire.
I got myself off thinking about what'd just happened. Thinking about Deans cock and Deans hand twisted in my hair. Thinking about Dean doing that to other girls.
I can smile about it now, but I remember feelin' disgusted at myself back then, for liking to think about it so much. And boy, did I think about it. For most of that night. And a helluva lotta nights after that s'well.
Caleb introduced me to the internet not long after all that, though...And they got so much stuff on there, everything you can think of. I kinda forgot to need to remember about Dean while I was alone in bed at night.
The next morning, Dean was in the kitchen making coffee for me when I trudged in there to see what all the banging was. Could'nt'a made coffee quietly, could he?
"Look, before you say anythi--fuuuck..." I must have looked a state. My whole head was throbbing like something radioactive, and all my muscles were staging a coup against me. All of'em. I didn't even realize what he was so shocked about.
"What the hell're you lookin' at?" I snapped. I ain't a morning person, and I felt like my insides had been taken out, run over by a lorry then stuffed back in again, and it was his fault, besides.
"You haven't looked in a mirror? You've got blood all over your face, doesn't it hurt?" Soon as he said it, I felt it. Dry and tight on my face, making m'skin feel like I had tape stuck on it.
"My whole body hurts," I grouched at him. "The top, the bottom, the back, the front, the sides...You tryin'ta rip my scalp off or somethin' last night, y' fuckin' lunatic?"
Dean wasn't listening to my bitching though, he reached in and brushed his fingers high on my cheek, made me hiss when pain flared out from it.
"Shit. Fay...I'm sorry. Jesus. You should've said...Fuck- I didn't-...I thought--I mean, I wasn't...And..." Dean Winchester, ladies and gents: Master conversationalist.
He followed me when I went to the bathroom, watched me carefully as I wiped the caked blood away. It'd just been smeared all around, the cut was a tiny thing. Little spilt right on the end of my eyebrow. The bruises around it wouldn't wash off so easy though, and I tried.
When I looked up at Dean over my towel, he was leaning against the door frame, face stricken wide open, worried.
"M'sorry." I'd heard him the first time. Could smell the sorrow coming off him. Guilt, too, and worry. Jesus, he doesn't half have one serious blame complex.
"It's fine. Dean? I'm fine, man." I don't think he believed me, and it was that thought that got me thinking...
"Shit, your ol' man and Caleb're gonna be back today." Something was telling me they might just ask about what the hell happened to my face. Caleb certainly would, at any rate. It didn't even hurt so bad either, just, I bruise like a godamn banana is all.
"That's okay. It's not like we have to tell'em what really happened...Right?" Bless his soul, I could hear him hoping, and hell no we weren't telling'em what really happened. Only, there was a small problem with that.
"I can't lie," I told him, and held up a hand to shut him up when he frowned and opened his mouth to start babbling again. "I mean it. Like physically. I am unable to tell a lie."
Dean looked sceptical first, then amused, then that slipped off his face and was replaced with what I assume is professional concentration. He stood up straight, cleared his throat.
"When was the last time you masturbated?" The tone of voice he used was so clinical, and I just couldn't help it, I burst out laughing at him and that serious face a'his.
"Do you do it in the shower? Are you banging Caleb?" He went on, a little grin of his own showing up. He looks a whole lot better when he's really smiling about something.
"I can't lie, that don't mean I have to answer your dumb questions...Unless you really need the truth, I don't have to answer you."
He sobered at that. Let his eyes flicker over my face again.
"And no, I ain't banging Caleb, you twisted fuck." He forgot whatever was on his mind to look affronted instead. Guess he made the connection that seeing as I cant lie, he really must be a twisted fuck.
"You're not human, are you?" He said it like he'd already figured out the answer.
"Nope," I said. "Bet'cha feel bad now, huh? Knowing you got drunk last night and fucked a non-human...'Specially after your daddy warned ya not to." It actually made me jump when he laughed out at that, surprising me with the lovely curly sound of it.
He followed me back into the kitchen like a puppy on my heels. He handed me my coffee, then threw himself down onto a chair and scrubbed a hand over his face. Dunno if he'd even slept. The pasta was right where it'd been left, half cooked. One coagulated, swollen mass that I had to struggle to pull the spoon out of.
"When I came in last night, I saw you, and for a second...I thought it looked like you had these wings," Dean said. "Like...insect wings, like a dragon fly or somethin'..."
I grinned to myself, hearing him say that. Not many people see'em. Those with The Sight do, sure, but a guy like Dean Winchester was the last person I thought would'a caught a glimpse of'em.
Goes to show how much I didn't know about him. I guess it's still his own dumb fault if anyone assumes he's just'a meat-head, daddy's little protégé, hunter, but they really shouldn't, 'cause there's clearly a lot more going on in that brain'o'his than he lets on to the rest of the world about.
The wings can't lie either, and if they showed themselves to Dean? Well, that's enough for me to know for certain that he's gonna end up one of the good ones. A true hero, even.
He was already well on his way there, at only twenty-two, damn blind fool that he is, he didn't even realise. Still don't think he does, even if everyone who's ever been saved by him would swear it blind.
I turned back around to have a good look at him, saw all shoulders and a pursed mouth, perpetual and almost premature lookin' stubble glinting all over his jaw that I'd bet he only keeps there to take some of the attention away from them feminine, giraffe eyelashes'a his. Yep, a true hero, slouched at my kitchen table, picking at the wood grain with his thumb nail.
I couldn'ta kept the grin offa my face if my life'd depended on it.
"Hate to burst your bubble, amigo, but'cha didn't just thought you saw'em, you did saw'em," I told him.
Dean's face was blank, caught in stasis for a few seconds before he shook his head and groaned, chuckled, "What did I do. What are you?" He let his forehead thunk down on the table top, in over his pretty, mucky-blonde head.
I tore off a soggy little wedge of pasta and dropped it down the back of his t-shirt collar on my way past to the bathroom. Cackled to myself when he let out a startled squawk, called me a bitch, and kept on swearing enough to turn the air blue.
He got his revenge, after I'd emerged from the shower, twenty minutes later. A regular girl might not've known he was there, slithering into m'bedroom while I was getting dressed, lucky I was just this side of decent. I turned around to see what hell he had up his sleeve and he held that old walkman out in my direction. Shocked the living shit outta me when it lit up and started squealing, high pitched and static-y.
"What the fuck is that thing?" I growled at him, when he switched it off. Dean chuckled, self-satisfied.
"Looks like it's my new EMF meter...Thanks for being my guinea pig."
"Jackass..." I muttered, shaking m'jeans out. He chuckled again behind me, then came further into the room, planted his ass on m'bed with an experimental little bounce.
"So...Fay..." His grin was totally ridiculous, too far gone with mischief to be anything seductive, like he was trying to make it. Or so I thought. Maybe that is the seduction of it.
"So Fay, what?" I pulled my jeans up fast, suspicious of him, and instantly wished for something looser, more forgiving. "What're you playin' at?" He watched me zip up the fly, fasten the button, almost fascinated.
Then there's another shock for my poor heart when he reached out a snatched one of my wrists, snake-strike quick, yanks me close to him and hooks his hands 'round the backs of my thighs so I can't step away. He looks up, regarding my frown.
"Did it really hurt that bad?" It's delicate, practically a whisper and it's like spiders silk touching me. Makes me shiver, makes my pulse speed up again. His thumbs stroking. There was only one plain and simple answer to his question, and I wasn't sure he wanted to hear it.
I just stared back at him, but he's helluva lot more stubborn than I am, a glutton for punishment. I felt it stinging, insistent behind my lungs when he started to need it, after a minute of waiting. I had to give it up.
"Yeah, it hurt," I cough it out before I choke on it. "It wasn't real nice, Dean."
He breaks eye contact, looks over at my night-stand and keeps looking like it's gonna engage him in a compelling conversation about classic monster cars or guns or bean-chairs if he stares at it for long enough. His thumbs still making soothing, tickling, little circles, on auto-pilot.
"I'm betting it weren't real nice for you either, huh?"
"I was...I wasn't in the best of moods," he lets it sail out with a heavy sigh. I didn't tell him that was pretty fuckin' obvious already, that anyone with seeing eyes'd be able to tell he was miserable and upset about something from fifty paces.
"You could'a just asked me for a hug or somethin'," I mutter, and feel his shoulders shake a fraction, laughing almost silently down through his nose, tipping his forehead forward onto me. I patted him on his big soft head, smiled when he couldn't help himself and buried his face in my boobs for a second.
"I wouldn'tuh told anyone that you're a secret cuddler or nothin'...I'd even let you plait m'hair or we could'a gave you a makeover or som-"
"-Shuddup." He jabbed his fingers b'tween a few of m'lower ribs, 'til I had to wiggle and squirm out of his tentacle reach.
"I gotta little sister," I tell him, once I'm free. "I can't see her any more...And I miss'er everyday-hurts worse'an anything...And I dunno what good it'll do you, but I always figure; I know she ain't here with me, but I know where she is, an' it's safer over there...So it's worth it."
Dean doesn't say anything, just listens, then ducks his head and plays with his ring. Nods faintly.
"Why can't you see your sister any more?" he calls out as I'm leaving the room. I dart back in, frowning. Wondering again why his daddy hadn't just told him.
"...'Cause m'trapped here. Can't get home," I let him know. He frowns, too.
Caleb got back first. Brought a hamper of wedding leftovers, including two bottles of that gruesome champagne. One of them's still under the kitchen sink next to the bleach, where Dean imprisoned it.
"What happened?" It's the second thing out of Caleb's mouth, after 'hello', as predicted.
"Dean did it." It just shoots straight outta my mouth, like a stray bullet, didn't even have time to think about holding it in.
Dean's eyes go wide for a half a second, and then it's like an old worn coat he shrugs on. The lies gliding out of his mouth smooth as honey. It's a little unsettling how good he can lie. I was tempted to believe him myself.
He was just teaching me some defensive moves, in the kitchen, he tripped me, little too rough, I fell. Complete accident. I'm still lording it over him and making him do chores to make up for it. Women, huh? Try'n do something nice for'em and it'll come back and bite'choo in the ass.
"Complete accident," I echo, nodding along sagely, 'cause the accidental part's true at least.
John gets back later than we were expecting. Doesn't realize how he gets Dean pacing and impatient. Worried. And so relieved, when his dad does eventually pull up and get outta that truck, that there's a split second when I think Dean's gonna throw up, but then he's off, trotting down the stairs. A bouncing one man welcoming party.
Caleb convinces John to grab a shower and stay for some dinner, at least, before they head out again. Cracks open one'a them bottles of toxic champagne when John agrees.
We all sit at the kitchen table. Caleb and John talk seriously about migration. Wendigo's an' the like, slowly spreading further west. Wolves and Swamp-dweller's, the thing he'd just gotten back from taking care of, heading further south. Chubacabra's starting to venture north. Hunter's business.
They aren't paying attention to us kids, so I double dare Dean to finish the champagne in my glass with one swig. Winchester's never pussy-out on a double dare he informs me, and down it goes.
"Eckh. That shit tastes like...Really bad poonani," he announces, too loud, grabbing for 'is daddy's beer to wash the taste away. I hear Caleb's giggling, his Jesus Dean, must you? At the dinner table? But don't hear whether John scolds Dean for it or not, 'cause I hafta get up and leave the room, get some fresh air, before I can manage to stop laughing. Man, any time I see or even hear a reference to champagne, it still makes me grin.
Dean an' I got the honourable duty of washing the dishes, seeing as we're the youngsters around here. I go along with it, even thought none of'em v'got any idea what my real age is.
"Why didn't your dad tell you about me?" I had to ask. I knew they wouldn't be here much longer and it'd been bothering me since I found out. Dean hands me another dripping plate, a glistening white soap sud bracelet sticking to his hairs, mid-forearm. He shrugs. Suddenly smells like he's ashamed and I flail a'little, 'cause I didn't want or expect shame from him.
I guess I do it to distract him, an' I wish I could lie so I could say that's the only reason, but it ain't. I lean over from my perch on the draining board, grab the front of his shirt so I don't overbalance, and I kiss'm.
For a distraction, and 'cause looking at him made me wanna, and 'cause if he's the first guy to ever fuck me, then it's only right that he's the first guy to ever kiss me, too.
Doesn't feel like he's as surprised as I was that I did it, doesn't disappoint, takes over like it was his idea in the first place. It's different from kissing a girl, but not by much.
When I pull back and wipe his mouth off mine, he drops the plate he was holding, I watch it splash and thump back into the water before I realize why and start blushing.
"Your wings're showing, Tinkerbell." Dean smirks at me, smug without even fully understanding why.
"Dishes," I remind him, and wonder what the fuck a Tinkerbell is.
I let'em know they're welcome to stay another night, but john's caught wind of something rare down near El Paso, so they need to keep a tight schedule and haul-ass if they're gonna get it before it goes back in to hibernation.
I help Caleb fix'em up a picnic, most of the leftovers that I wouldn't touch and a coffee thermos each.
John and Dean pack up and head out just as the sun's setting, after ten minutes'a over-map debating on the hood of the car.
Caleb stays another hour, until I can convince'm that I'll be just fine on my own. Gotta get used to it.
Yeah. So that was my first encounter with Dean Winchester. Thankfully it wasn't the last.
The guy's gotta permanent broken heart, it must've never had a chance to heal up after he was little and got it broke the first time. A chunk missing that wont ever get filled back in.
It was the same the next two times he graced my doorstep after that. Second time he was alone, wasted and beat t'hell and calling it the afterglow of some girlie named Cassie, he bought me a puppy that weekend, called it 'Fang' out of spite.
The third, he was happier, as whole as I think he'll ever get, and I got to meet his adorable baby brother, but his dad was gone, Caleb too, and, man...Sam and Dean were spinning together, building momentum quietly for something really fuckin' big an' major.
Fourth time was just for two hours when they needed urgent tattoo's, something to with that big major thing.
I saw'em after that, too. But it was different then. Everything was different. It ain't my place to tell you, though...And besides, it'd ruin the surprise.