***Author's Note: The song referenced throughout is "Desperado" by The Eagles. I had never heard this song before today but when it came on the radio it just screamed DEAN to me. Hope you enjoy***
Desperado,
why don't you come to your senses?
The amber liquid sloshed hard inside your stout whiskey glass. The periodic tinkling of ice soothing your nerves almost as much as the alcohol itself. You gulped down what was left and felt the burn of the Johnny Walker as it traveled down your throat, deep down to what felt like the depths of your soul. You still felt foolish for what you were about to do, but decided to use this liquid courage to help you press on. You almost smiled as you remembered Dean on stage in his cranberry colored button up, eyes glassy with drink, barking out "I'm Too Sexy" in front of a less than thrilled audience. Turns out a man can become a literal demon and that still doesn't keep you away.
"Can I pour you another, Miss?" your daydream interrupted by the gruff bartender all too ready to fill your mostly empty glass.
"Ah, no, no. Thanks," and then "…there's something I've gotta do".
You smooth the lines in your fitted black dress and try to regain composure. You walk toward the stage, determined now to see this through. If he wouldn't listen to what you had to say, you were damn sure he'd listen to some rock and roll.
Dean.
You been out ridin' fences for so long now
You had been okay with the time Dean had to spend away from you. In fact, you'd insisted on it. You had your own life that didn't include risking it at every turn. What bothered you was not the time you spent apart but how Dean was spending his time apart from you.
Bright light shone through dirty curtains, your eyes fluttering open to the sight of an empty space in bed beside you. You sighed. Heavily. "I know you have to go. I just want you to know how special this time has been to me".
"You're special," he said, emerald eyes burrowing into yours from across yet another shitty motel room. He's patient, cautious. Waits for you to come to him. He has this way of doing that. So much so that you wonder how much of your relationship had been instigated by him but ultimately executed by you. It's bizarre just how much an attractive, smooth talking man has the power to mess with your head.
As expected, this simple affirmation does what it was intended to do. You collapse into his arms as if it's the only place in the world you're ever supposed to be. You nestle your face between his neck and collar bone; breathe him in deep. He smells like leather and whiskey and it's everything you can do not to let him devour you whole. You feel his arms wrap around you as your gaze softens. Nothing exists now except you and him. His chest is broad and smooth under his flannel button up and you wonder how long your hand has been aimlessly wandering across it. A calloused hand creeps into vision and tips your chin up to meet his eyes. Those green eyes that break down every wall you've build over the last 28 years. So much is said without saying anything at all. Plump, purple lips glisten after a quick sweep of a deft tongue leaves them shiny and wanting. They find yours tenderly at first, then with reckless abandon. Your heart pounds wildly and every inch of you catches fire. You tumble head first into an endless abyss you wouldn't climb out of even if you could.
Oh, you're a hard one
I know that you got your reasons
Dean Winchester. His reputation had proceeded him. You wish you could say that hearing the stories and meeting the other women would have been enough of a warning. He might as well have had a neon "DANGER" sign hovering above his head. The funny thing about hunters is that despite all that crisscrossing state lines, the circles they run in are pretty small. Word travels. Womanizer, alcoholic, fiercely co-dependent, over-protective, aggressive, self-involved. The list had gone on and on.
You had just finished a long work week and were looking to unwind. No stranger to seedy bars or seedy men, for that matter, finding you at this roadside dive on a Saturday wasn't really that out of character for you. You made small talk with the bartender, tipped graciously, but mostly kept to yourself emptying glass after glass of wine while your thoughts were somewhere far off. Not a hunter yourself but more of an astute observer. You knew the type. You'd encountered one or two Dean Winchesters in your lifetime. Being a regular here meant that you had become accustomed to a rotating cast of characters that trickled in and out. Hell, you'd even been known to take one home with you after last call. You didn't claim to be a saint. But Dean Winchester? Damn. He was something else altogether. So much for keeping your guard up.
The night you first met him was like any other Saturday. Happy hour had come and gone but you stayed perched on your barstool despite your rapidly blurring vision. Blame cheap alcohol for dulling your defenses.
"Woah, sweetheart. At this rate you'll be drinking ME under the table." And there he was, in all his leather jacket, light scruff, green eye'd glory. Dean. The next time you'd be saying his name that evening it would be while your red nails dug hard lines into his bare back.
Months had come and gone but you remained at the bar every Saturday religiously. For a while, he'd be there like clockwork, shaggy haired Sam trailing behind. Always polite but mostly close-lipped. Once or twice you swore you saw a hint of sympathy for you in his eyes. As if he'd seen countless women just like you, hearts wide open and bleeding for his older brother while Dean's eyes just couldn't quite break the habit of wandering around the room.
Then, as time passed, your encounters became fewer and far between. By then you knew his naked body like a memory imprinted inside your heart. You could still make out every freckle, every curve of his muscled skin. The way your bodies fit together perfectly as they climbed higher and higher towards sheer ecstasy.
Upon his return you never bothered to ask him about red lipstick two shades lighter than yours on the collar of his lightest army green Carhartt. The one he rolled up at the elbows, just the way you liked. It was inconsequential. You knew better than to expect a straight answer that wasn't laced with some smug retort. Even so, you weren't sure you wanted to know the truth.
These things that are pleasin' you
Can hurt you somehow
"You're special". His words echoed through your head as you punished yourself for about the millionth time. What a fool! What was keeping him from saying the exact same thing to every skirt he encountered with a few drinks in her belly?
Despite the warnings both outright and instinctual, there was just no way to be rational when the two of you were together. Dean was like a tidal wave, a vortex, the red-hot surface of the sun. Completely impossible to ignore and all-consuming. And even during your darkest hours, when your cell phone hasn't lit up with his name in weeks, there's a tiny beacon of hope in the back of your mind. Always wishing for more. Always thinking…maybe.
Maybe what two broken people need most is each other. Who better to understand the great Dean Winchester than a girl who knew his habits better than he knows himself? You know because you see so many of those tendencies when you look in the mirror. You wonder what it would be like to settle down. To settle down with someone who you didn't have to explain yourself to. Someone who understood. Someone who would let you take care of them and in turn heal your own wounds as well. Dean?
Don't you draw the Queen of Diamonds, boy
She'll beat you if she's able
You know the Queen of Hearts is always your best bet
Now, it seems to me some fine things
Have been laid upon your table,
But you only want the ones that you can't get
Desperado, oh, you ain't gettin' no younger
Your pain and your hunger, they're drivin' you home
You finish the chorus for the last time and realize you've been staring at your feet for the last few bars. A few patrons clap politely, many swarm around the bar ignoring you completely, but there is one set of green eyes in the back of the room locked on the stage. You nearly gasp. As the music fades and so does the sparse applause, you feel your throat become suddenly tight and dry. You stare back at those green eyes and time seems to stand still. Dean.
You hadn't expected him to be here. It was hard to tell these days when you could expect to see him again. It had been months since you heard from him at all, even longer since woke up to his warm breath on your shoulder, hips tucked deep into your backside, his strong arms pulling you closer into his chest.
Eyes at your feet again you stumble unceremoniously off stage and make a B-line for the bar. You think the bartender comments on your singing but your thoughts are swimming so you can't be sure.
"Whiskey sour, please" you demand, half out of your mind with embarrassment and anxiety.
Two sips in and a strong, familiar hand clasps your shoulder from behind. You turn around to green eyes and those wanting, purple lips.
A small smile creeps along his face as your eyes meet his. His expression is different somehow. At first you think it might be due to the things he's seen while he was away. Somehow the horrors of his job always managed to follow him home. But that's not it, not this time. Tonight he wears the expression of a man enlightened. As if everything you slurred and crooned registered deep inside his soul too. And there it is again. Despite your reservations, despite his devilish past, despite the seedy bar and the cheap liquor on both of your lips…somehow you allow yourself to think he might finally be coming home for good.
"Hey."
Dean.