Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or make a profit from it.
A/N: This story was originally named Sword and Shield, but I have just discovered that there is another Supernatural fic with the same name. Huh. So in an effort to be original, it has been renamed.
Dean Winchester liked women. All kinds of women. Short ones, tall ones. Thin ones, ones with a little meat on their bones. Blondes, brunettes. It didn't much matter to him. As long as she wasn't bad looking, he'd make a pass at her. Sam liked to joke that Dean had skipped the line that was handing out discretionary genes when he was born. That was what he liked to call the little voice in your head that mentally rated the person you were speaking to for the 'good time' factor. There was no use denying it existed. Even Sam had a voice that separated women into, "I would do her; wouldn't do her," categories and he was the epitome of the sensitive male. It was just human nature.
Coupled with even a minutely developed survival instinct this voice was the one that warned you that a woman had a boyfriend that could likely put you in the hospital or within five minutes of meeting a girl it pointed out that she was buckets of crazy. Okay, so maybe Sam's discretionary gene wasn't in perfect working order either, but he knew for a fact that Dean's didn't work worth a damn. Either that or he flat out ignored it when it chimed off in his head.
So when a woman with flaming red-hair and eyes that were so pale blue that they looked like a china doll's walked up to Dean he did what came naturally to him. He flirted. When a sly smile spread across her kissable lips that screamed Trouble with a capital T, the only voice in Dean's head that perked up was his oversexed libido which was very secure in the knowledge that the woman across from him was smoking hot and wanted to do him.
Now Dean was not a kiss and cuddle after sex kind of guy. In fact his whole objective while in bed with a woman was to avoid the Aftermath (again, capitalized for severity) of sex. The best way he found to do that was to exhaust the woman in question. This single-minded quest of avoiding cuddle time was satisfying to both parties, and usually the woman fell into a languid, bliss-filled sleep within moments of finishing.
He always waited a few minutes to make sure that they were fully unconscious before slipping from their bed and gathering up his clothes. After a few instances in his late teens and early twenties he found that avoiding dawn's early light was also a best kept policy. There was nothing worse than waking up next to a woman whose name you forgot. Unless of course, they woke up with you and expected you to remember their name, and to surrender to some quality morning cuddle time.
So he always snuck out right after, preferring to fall asleep in his queen-sized bed rented for the night in some flea bag hotel. There was a sense of security in it, a feeling of hominess, that had nothing to do with the hotel room and everything to do with the fact that Sam was sleeping in the next bed over. Also explaining to a woman why he couldn't sleep unless there was a bowie knife under his pillow, uh, awkward.
After the red-head fell asleep, he eased away from her, slipping on his jeans and shirts quietly. With a hunter's stealth he crept through her house, innately remembering all the obstacles between the bedroom and the front door even though he had only traveled the path once and the entire time he had been lip locked.
He stopped off at the kitchen, noticing a pad of teddy bear-shaped sticky notes on the counter. He scribbled a quick note of thanks, and stuck it to the fridge, sneaking a long-neck on the way out. He was taking a swig of beer as he left, feeling pretty damn satisfied, and more than a little tired.
Now, Sam was used to Dean stumbling in at all hours of the night. He barely even tensed anymore beyond the first reaction of reaching for his gun when the door handle rattled. Just as quickly he would relax, able to recognize Dean anywhere just by the sound of his breathing or the way the air shifted around him when he walked. There was just a deep sense of knowing, and his eyes were closing before they were even completely open.
Dean shed his clothes while walking across the room, setting the now empty beer bottle on the nightstand before falling into the bed. He barely had enough time to shove his knife under the pillow before he fell asleep face-down on top of the blankets. It was like any other night at the end of a hard hunt, and really, what happened next couldn't be called abnormal either, which was why Sam thought later, he really wished that Dean hadn't skipped the line that was handing out discretion.
"A post-it note!"
Sam and Dean bolted upright in their beds. Dean with his knife flashing out in a blind slash, just in case something life-threatening was hovering over him, and Sam with his .45 aimed at the light that had manifested itself by the T.V. stand.
"A demon?" Sam choked out, looking for confirmation from Dean. His eyes were still blurry from sleep and all he could see was a streaming mass of flaming red-hair floating on end as a blue-white wind rushed around a petite woman at the end of his bed.
"A witch," Dean replied as he tried to scramble over to the table where his Dad's journal lay.
He said tried, because as soon as he moved he found himself pinned to the headboard by invisible hands. A quick glance told him that Sam was being held in exactly the same manner. That was bad, but the dawning understanding on Sam's face was so much worse.
"Dammit, Dean! How many fucking times do I have to tell you, not to fuck with or should I say, not to fuck witches!"
"And I told you, little brother, I would stop as soon as they came with warning labels stamped on their asses that say, "Beware, piss me off and I'll hex you."
The sad fact that this wasn't the first time that they had this particular conversation was what really pissed Sam off. I mean, really. It was one thing to hunt down evil. It was another to have it show up in your hotel room because your brother can't keep it in his pants.
"Hey! This is not about your little family squabbles. This is about me, and the fact that Dean Boy here snuck away in the middle of the night with only a post-it note as a good bye."
She held up the offending pink, teddy bear post-it note in question, waving it around like it was a loaded gun. The wind that was surrounding her died down, but she still glowed a milky blue, illuminating the room subtly.
Sam cocked an eye towards Dean who was wisely saying nothing.
She glanced down at it, reading his note to the room. "Thanks for the good time. Call you."
She looked up at Dean, fuming. "Call you? You don't even have my number, you dick! Good time? Not great? Not excellent? I thought it was pretty goddamn fantastic. Couldn't you have least said that?"
Dean smirked. It was a smirk that Sam saw regularly and it still annoyed him every time. It was Dean's, I'm-sex-on-a-stick-and-I-know-you-want-some smirk. The witch's eyes narrowed dangerously and Sam scrambled to defuse the situation.
"I'm sure he would have said that, but Dean doesn't know how to spell the word fantastic."
That got him a glare of the deadliest kind from his brother, but he felt that the low jab was deserved. After all, it wasn't his antics that had gotten them woken up at the god-awful hour of four in the morning. The witch ignored him and continued to shoot daggers at Dean with her eyes.
"You know what your problem is?"
Sam snorted with condescension, clearly saying without words that he could list a whole slew of Dean's problems and probably run out of fingers and toes doing it.
"Shut up, Sammy."
"You shut up, Dean Boy."
"Both of you shut up!" she shrieked, and if they could of they would have covered their heads afraid that their ear drums would start to bleed.
She abandoned her station in the center of the room and stalked over to the foot of Dean's bed, jabbing her finger at him.
"Your problem is that you're afraid to commit, even for a single night. The thought of waking up next to the same woman you fell asleep with is terrifying to you."
Dean's green eyes narrowed as he matched her glare. There was nothing he hated more than someone trying to psychoanalyze him. As if they could actually peer into his life instead of having to live it, and make pronouncements about what was wrong with it. It was his life, dammit, right or wrong, and no one had the right to judge it.
"Well, I don't know about that," he drawled. "Sammy and I have had a long and meaningful relationship filled with all kinds of chick flick moments, fufu coffee and emo rock. In fact--" He turned to his brother, his eyes wide with insincerity." Sammy, would you marry me?"
Sam had never actually seen the physical manifestation of fury before, but there was no mistaking that Dean's tasteless joke made the witch absolutely livid. A tremor crept through her body, starting in her legs, and traveling up her spine until her fists and jaw clenched tightly. Her entire body shook with suppressed rage and that was before her face flushed an interesting shade of heart-attack crimson.
Sam took a moment to be concerned about her blood pressure.
"Do you think this is funny?" she spat.
"Well, actually. Yeah---"
"No," Sam cut in quickly. "No, he doesn't. I'm sure that he's terribly sorry that he wounded you so deeply. Dean, apologize to the lady for your inconsideration."
Dean rolled his eyes to the side to stare at his brother. The set line to his mouth looked anything but apologetic.
"Oh, yes, DEAN. Apologize." Her words were harsh and brittle, like sugar glass that was getting ready to shatter.
"I will not. I didn't do anything wrong."
Sam groaned, and if he could have he would have slumped down into the bed and pulled the covers up over his head. Sometimes there were no saving people when they were hell-bent on destroying themselves.
"Fine," she said in a voice deep with dangerous promise.
"Fine," Dean snapped back.
She pulled out a short stick from behind her back that was topped with a fat gold star. Sam blinked.
"Is that a Barbie Fairy Princess wand?" he asked aghast.
Dean shot him an equally aghast look. "How the hell would you know that, Sammy?"
"Dude," Sam gestured wildly towards the woman with his chin, since his fingers were still splayed against the head board. "It has pink foil tassels."
The witch scowled at her wand, her lower lip pudging out just a bit. "My mother gave me this when I was little."
Dean peered closer, a dark brow winging up. "Is that glitter water in the stem?"
She looked back at Dean. "It doesn't matter what the conduit is, just the power that it channels."
"Yah. Buckets of crazy with mommy issues," Dean muttered under his breath.
"Could be worse. Could be daddy issues." Sam had no idea what made him chime in, but the appearance of the Barbie wand seemed to have lessened the threat factor in the room.
The witch's eyes hardened menacingly and the temperature dropped at least ten degrees, causing Sam to rethink the situation.
"I think you need a lesson in commitment, Dean Winchester."
"Oh, God. You told her your true name. What is wrong with you Dean?"
"Shut up, Sam." He glared at the woman in front of him, hell spewing from his eyes. "What the fuck is your problem? We had a good time, now you want to get all Exorcist on me."
"You're selfish, that's what my problem is. You have no consideration for anyone, but yourself."
"I gave you plenty of consideration. At least three, but who's counting?" He dipped his head dismissively, before his lips curled into a vindictive sneer. "You think just because we fucked for a couple of hours that you know me? You don't know what I've sacrificed for my family. You don't know anything."
"So there is only room for loyalty to family and screw anyone else who steps in the way no matter how innocent they are? Well, let's just see just how committed to family you are after crawling around inside each other for a while."
She lifted her wand, writing glowing red runes in the air. Her eyes lit up, spilling a milky blue light as she centered her stare on Dean. The wind kicked up again, tearing papers from the hunt off the walls until it whipped around her in a whirlwind.
"Two will become one," she intoned, and the hairs on the back of Sam's neck stood on end.
"So mote it be."
A spell so simplistic in its brutality.
Beams of light shot out from the runes in the air, encasing the brothers in a red glow. They convulsed on their beds as the light hit them, twisting up their bodies, trying to wrench themselves away from the agony. Their screams were unheard, locked behind clenched teeth.
Over the tumult they could hear her vow. "You shall walk as one until the next Harvest Moon then you shall be torn asunder."
The wind died down, and the papers settled on the floor. The red light disappeared, and the blue glow dispersed. When they opened their eyes it was to a dark room, the witch having left them to their fate.
"Dean?" Sam gasped.
Thank God, Sam thought. All he could pray for while the agony twisted his body was please, please, don't let her words be literal. He could not imagine being trapped in the same body as Dean. Now that would be a freaking nightmare.
They laid there for some moments, side by side, listening to each other's harsh breathing while they recovered. Sam stared up at the ceiling unmoving, knowing instinctively that Dean was doing the same.
"So what do you suppose she meant?" Sam asked tentatively, running the words of her curse through his head, analyzing them from every angle.
"How the hell should I know?" Dean spat angrily, which in turn only pissed off Sam.
"Dammit, Dean. Why can't you use some discretion just once in a while? I mean, just weed out the ones that are insane so---"
"Meg," Dean cut in harshly and Sam snapped his mouth shut. There was not a lot he could say about that one. Even though Dean had tangled with some duzzies in the past, he never brought a demon home to meet the family.
"Well fuck," Sam sighed tiredly. Here we go again.
"Yah," Dean echoed his sentiment.
There was silence for another moment, but Sam couldn't contain his disgust for long.
"Dude, a pink, teddy bear post-it note?"
His only reply was a pillow flung at his head.