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She wished he'd been Dean's. Of all the men she'd slept with in her life – which, at the age of twenty, despite being a too bendy yoga instructor who frequented seedy bars, was admittedly not too many – he would have been the one, the one, she'd most liked to have fathered her child.

But he didn't, Best-Night-of-my-Life Bastard up and leaving town with barely a bye, hardly even an empty promise of I'll call you. Which left her low – sad, angry, antsy, horny, and on the prowl the very next night.

She'd hoped to find him, at that shitty little biker bar not far from his hotel. She'd hoped he'd still be there, one more drink before hitting the road, one more fuck before disappearing.

But he wasn't there. He was, a bit older, but captivating. A mystery man, hunkered in the corner, cloaked by shadow, drinking alone in his own solemn silence, seemingly unaware of all the noise going on around him. She loved men like that, dark and brooding, dangerous.

Maybe she was naïve, sheltered. Maybe she was just plain stupid. Maybe, like so many other women, girls – because the more she looks back on it now the more she sees herself as impossibly young – she simply had a deep yearning ache to play with the bad boys.

She had been disappointed there'd been no Dean. But that ache still remained, throbbing at her core. So she sauntered across the bar, stared long and hard at the man, willing him to look her way. He was half drunk and seemingly oblivious, and that only made her want him more.

She studied him closely, took in his posture, his countenance. There weren't any obvious scars pocking his face, mottling his forearms, but the lines around his eyes, the mild peppering of gray in his hair, the staunch, totally aware bend of his back, his neck, told a story more interesting than any silvery rope of once torn flash could.

"Buy me a drink?" she intoned, though it really never was meant as a question.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, soft and slow, assessing without so much as a word. He beckoned the bartender over with a single jerk of his chin, a blistering command sans sound, and tossed a thumb in her direction – Give her what she wants – before raising his glass to his lips.

She asked for a beer, simple and easiest to get away with, before turning back to him and saying, hand extended, "I'm Lisa." He didn't speak, didn't even look in her direction, only sat, still as death beside her, sipping at his drink. She blushed, suddenly feeling like a child in his presence, immature, unworthy.

But there was something about him, even just the look of him – worn leather jacket, collar up in a way that'd look ridiculous on most, soft brown hair barely speckled with gray tousled in short waves, thick, dark stubble, just enough to scratch the surface of her skin, paving way for the rest of him to get underneath – that kept her from leaving. The anticipation of hearing his voice, because she just knew what it'd be like, gruff and deep, made her wet.

She knew the moment she sat down that, barring any unforeseen circumstances, she'd probably let him fuck her. But it wasn't until he turned his face towards hers, deep chocolate eyes boring down into her, harsh, hungry, and icily controlled, that she decided she'd let him do whatever he wanted to her.

In hindsight it was stupid, dumbest most immature thing she'd ever done. In hindsight it was also the greatest mistake of her life. But really, who lets a total stranger push her up against a grimy men's room wall, cold tile wet with what she hoped were errant splashes of water, and then thrust, thrust, fuck without a condom?

A woman who was destined to raise a child all alone, that's who.

But he was strong, and solid, and more of a man than she'd ever had before, no offense to Dean who, for all his stamina and generosity, would always hold a special place. He smelled like sweat and smoke and bourbon, wore it like cologne, a signature scent, instead of a gross odor. Smelled so good she spent most of the time their bodies were pressed together with her face buried in the crook of his neck. Smelled so good she couldn't keep from tasting him, licking and sucking at the stubble on his chin, the flesh of his throat.

He wouldn't kiss her though, which seemed weird at the time, not that she really cared. He twisted his face when she tried, tightened his lips so as not to let her in. He had no problem fucking her hard enough to make her split at the seams, but kissing was a no-no.

When they were done he set her down, suddenly, almost shockingly, as gentle as could be, making sure her feet found the floor before letting go. And he breathed out, long and labored, most sound she'd heard from him all night. Her legs were like jello, thick and viscous and totally unsupportive of the rest of her body, and he let her lean into him for support, lay her head on his chest while they both regained control of their ragged breaths.

When he finally did speak, simple and short and just as rough as she'd thought, she felt it rumble through her skull, three deep words rattling her bones. "My name's John."

She giggled then, embarrassed to do so, but she had no control, the heavy hoarse quality of his voice setting her off once again. She giggled and whispered, hot breath in his ear, "Again, John. Again."

But the look that came over him was enough to solidify her jelly legs, turn her giggles to silence, halt that deep and yearning ache. Because, for some reason, when he pulled away from her, in the harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom, he didn't look mysterious so much as lost, worn so much as tired, strong so much as sad.

"I'm sorry," she said, unsure why, but feeling every inch the immature twenty that she was, yet again.

"Don't be," he said, gruff and terse.

He pulled up his pants, zipped, buttoned, buckled his belt buckle, and that's when she noticed, eyes cast down, watching his hands work just so she wouldn't run the risk of meeting his gaze. "Oh, God," she sighed out, still staring at the ring on his finger. "You're married?"

He took her chin in his hand, thick callused fingers, and raised her face to look into her eyes. "Really," he said, crooked, empty smile on his face, "Don't be sorry."

She protested with a, "But," as he held out her hand, slowly scrawled with an old chewed up pen his number into her palm. She wanted to say something, ask about his wife, where was she, what had happened? Because it was plain as day that for reasons she didn't even want to fathom – true tragedy killing the sexy mystery away – his wife was not an issue. "I…" she started, unsure where to go, once he returned her hand.

"Don't," he ordered, deep and sincere, so commanding and forceful that any thought of other words quickly vanished from her mind.

And so nothing else was said. She stood, stunned into silence, leaning up against a bathroom wall, panties around her ankles, skirt still hiked around her ass, as he turned and walked away.

She lied to Dean when she said they did a blood test. None was ever done. But she knew it was him, even without the obvious assumption that the guy she let explode inside her was the most likely candidate for baby-daddy, she just plain knew.

When she did call John to tell him the news, just because she thought he should know, because everyone told her that he should know, she was met with that same deep and potent silence. She didn't want him to take responsibility, come be an every other weekend dad, give her money or support. She didn't want anything from him at all. But still the silence stung, anticipation of his voice in her ear causing a wetness this time in her eyes instead of between her legs.

And when he did finally speak, his voice was the same low grumble she'd remembered, complete with the same forceful tone she'd once obeyed. "Don't call again," he said, and she never did.

So yeah, she loves her son, just the way he is, wouldn't trade him for anything, wouldn't want him to change a bit. But if there were a way, some way, she could go back in time, let Dean inside instead of John, if there was any sort of garuntee that Ben would still be Ben, just with a little different blood flowing in his veins, then…

"You're off the hook," she told him. But it didn't change the facts. There'd always be a part of her that would wish her son was a Winchester.