Title: Mistake

Author: borgmama1of5

Summary: Dean Winchester picks up the wrong woman.

Wordcount: 1600

Pairing: Dean/OFC

Rating: PG13

Beta: sandymg who made this much better

Disclaimer: If they were mine, Dean would get Lisa and Ben and Sam and live happily ever after.

Written for spnquotefic, episode 1.16 Shadows:

SAM: You mind doin' a little bit of thinking with your upstairs brain, Dean?

Mistake

Dean Winchester didn't mess with married women.

Dean Winchester didn't knowingly mess with married women.

Which is why, as he was just about to get very up close and personal with the hot-and-bothered woman panting underneath him, the strangled, "Get away from my wife!" was as effective as being doused with a bucket of ice water.

So was the sound of a trigger being cocked.

Ohshitohshitohshit.

If he got shot getting his rocks off, Dad was totally going to kill him.

"Take it easy, man." Dean kept his voice relaxed as he slid back from the suddenly not-so-desirable curvaceousness.

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Dean was pretty sure that John had taken a pass through Palo Alto on his way back from dealing with the kelpie. Because as soon as he hit the motel room earlier that afternoon, John had dumped his stuff and taken off without a word. And that was the usual modus operandi for Dad dealing with the aftermath of seeing Sam surviving just fine on his own, without needing John or Dean to give him orders or take care of him or protect him …

Yeah, Dean got it, because he'd felt that same 'punched in the gut' feeling when he'd spontaneously detoured to Stanford himself a few times. Last time, Sam'd been with a girl. Not that he got close enough to really check her out. But she was tall and blonde and she'd had a million-dollar smile, even at a distance. And Sam? Sam had his head tossed back laughing. Couldn't miss that laugh anywhere. Shit, he'd recognize it from the pit of hell.

Dad hadn't even asked about Dean's hunt, so Dean figured he probably wouldn't see his dad till tomorrow morning. So now he was alone, bummed, thinking about Sam again.

Wouldn't be so bad if they could at least talk about his fuckin' brother, tell each other what they'd seen on their clandestine visits. But no, because that would mean acknowledging Sam's existence, and why he was gone, and why there would never be a compromise arrangement to at least keep in contact with him …

So Dean had pulled on the well-used leather jacket and set out to find something to make him feel better.

She wasn't a natural blonde, and there were fine lines around her eyes that told Dean she was older than how she was dressed, but she'd been making bedroom eyes at him for the last hour, and was displaying a damn fine rack in her tight blue tank top.

He finished his beer while keeping his focus on her, and she tongued the lip of her own bottle in an unmistakable invitation.

He sauntered over.

"I'm Dean, and you must be Gorgeous." When they were this interested, he didn't worry about his opening line. Okay, he never really worried about how to start flirting, he just did it. Like breathing.

"I'm okay with Gorgeous. As long as I can call you Handsome."

"Fair enough, Gorgeous. I'm thinking it's time to blow this bar."

She slid off her barstool and put both hands on his chest, inside of his open jacket. Dean looked straight down her cleavage and smirked.

"Anyplace special you want to go?" He slipped his hand around to her ass and pulled her against him so she could feel the bulge in his jeans.

"I live really close," she breathed into his neck.

She slid next to him in the Impala's front seat and trailed fingers along the inside of his thigh while giving him directions. Dean repaid her interest, very experienced in driving with one hand. Much nicer to do it feeling up a hot babe than because he was injured.

His hands-on attention when she tried to unlock her front door caused her to fumble her key.

"Oops, am I distracting you, darlin'?"

She giggled, but finally got the key inserted, and once inside, dropped her jacket on the carpet, ordered, "Upstairs!" and was half-undressed by the top of the staircase.

Dean followed her example and left his coat on the entranceway floor, and once in the bedroom, stripped efficiently.

Not bothering to pull down the covers, they accelerated their groping, until Dean paused just long enough to roll on the condom he'd secured from his pocket.

That's when it all went to hell.

"Carl!"

Dean stood up on the far side of the bed, feeling incredibly vulnerable in his completely naked state. He quickly tried to gauge the man's crazy versus his own ability to reach a weapon. Both his boot knife and his pocket switchblade were decidedly closer to Carl than to him. He raised his hands in surrender.

"Hey, I didn't know, okay? How 'bout I just leave now?"

The husband, Carl, growled something … sounded like a name. Linda, maybe? Fuck, he'd never even learned the woman's name. Dean took a chance and eased around the foot of the bed and bent down slowly, reaching for his jeans.

He froze when Carl spoke again. "How … how could—?"

But the husband wasn't talking to him. Was still concentrating on his wife. Dean donned his jeans in a fast maneuver. Knife accessible in his front pocket.

He put both hands out and stepped toward the enraged man, speaking in a calm voice. "Carl … Carl, listen. This was a mistake. Linda feels bad and it's never gonna happen again. Right? So, let's put the gun away and you two can talk it out. Okay, dude?"

The furious husband wasn't even looking at him. His angry gaze was locked on the woman, who'd pulled part of the bedspread up over herself and was moving her lips trying to talk but nothing was coming out. Carl's gun hand was steadying. Dean sucked in air fast and tried again.

"Carl. Didn't mean anything. An' not much happened. Just one of those things, you know? Wasn't her fault, man."

Carl turned toward him, gun following the motion. At least he wasn't pointing it at Linda anymore. "How long? How long have you been ballin' my wife? "

Dean took another step closer, locking eyes with Carl. "We just met. I didn't know. She was drinking. 'S my fault. I shouldn't have … You wanna slug me one, I'll let ya. But let's put the gun down, okay?"

"I'm sorry, Carl. I'm sorry." Linda found her voice. The alcohol and tension made her sound much older now and Dean really could kick himself for getting himself into this. If his Dad knew he'd disown him. And Sam would call him the biggest loser ever … Enough.

One step, he had Carl's arm locked behind his back, and the gun forced from his hand before either of the couple could take another breath. Dean shoved Carl toward the bed and retrieved the dropped handgun, slipping it into his waistband.

"Okay, you two. I'm going now. You got a lot to talk about. Play nice and lay off the sauce and it'll all be okay."

He scooped up his belongings and bailed.

He paused in the living room to pull on his t-shirt and boots, and grabbed his jacket. Voices wafted down the stairs. Sounded like crying. He didn't know which one it was.

Back in the empty motel room, Dean rummaged in his pack. Looked like Jack was gonna be his only company that night. The first swallow burned but the second and third went down easy.

Dean finished two-thirds of the bottle before passing out.

He woke to the sound of the television tuned to the morning news, a kick-drum pounding in his head, a mouth that tasted like dead squirrel, and John's black glare.

Unfortunately, he couldn't pretend he was still sleeping.

"Hell of a job you did with putting down the salt lines last night," John said coldly. "You were so drunk you didn't even hear me. I could've cut your throat in your sleep."

Dean wished he could think of something to say better than, "Sorry, sir."

"We're leaving in fifteen minutes."

Maybe it was because he was feeling like shit. Or maybe he was just too fucking tired to care. Or maybe it was just about time. But Dean asked, "How is he?"

John stiffened. Dean waited and met his eyes. An eternity passed and they just watched each other. Finally, like it was killing him to say something, John spoke. "Looked good. Got some girl."

Dean nodded because he knew this already. "Nice smile," Dean volunteered.

John blinked. "Didn't get that close." Too much and not enough in the pause following those words. Finally, "I'm leaving in fifteen minutes with or without you."

John stalked from the room, and the TV broadcaster's voice filled the silence John took with him.

"The police have declared it a murder-suicide. Family members are stunned because the couple seemed to have such a happy marriage, according to a family spokesperson." The picture that appeared on the screen twisted Dean's insides so badly that he thought he was going to hurl. He staggered to the television and viciously punched the power button.

Dean was behind the wheel of his car, ready to follow his dad's vehicle, in fourteen minutes. He needed to get out of this town as fast as possible.

Dean Winchester never messed with married women.