Disclaimer: I don't own any of it. Nada.

Rating: M

Pairing: Dean/Fem!Harry

Summary: In 1999 Dean Winchester picked up a girl at a bar: a girl with dark hair, green eyes, and a hippie friend. Nothing will ever be the same again.

Warning: SEX. It's not extremely explicit, but it's still present so watch out.

Author's Note: I don't know what this fic is precisely. It happened. Might continue, might not. We'll see.

Enjoy!


September 1999.

"I'm still not sure about this, Luna," she said. She had an accent, a low and polite rounding of each of her vowels: English. Something warm pooled in the pit of Dean's stomach. He cradled his beer closer and watched the girls from the corner of his eye.

They sat at the bar, long, bare legs curved down the barstools and touching at the knees. One of them was a pale blonde thing with lengths of hippie hair and radishes for earrings. Her drink had a small umbrella in it. Dean dismissed her; flower children made him uncomfortable.

"Harry," Luna -the hippie girl, said. She flashed her friend an easy smile and clinked their glasses together. "Everything will be fine."

Her friend, Harry, nodded and took a sip from her glass. Whisky on the rocks, Dean noticed. His hand tightened around his beer and felt an odd mix of embarrassment and admiration; this 'Harry' girl seemed hardcore. He couldn't see her face from his seat, but he let his eyes roam down the smooth skin of her cheek, the straight line of her pale neck. She had thin arms and an athlete's waist. A pixie-cut tickled the top of her ears. Not exactly his type, but she would do.

"You'll love it here," Luna was saying. She twirled her hair around her finger. "America has a lot to offer -and Salem isn't much different from the community in London."

"I suppose," Harry said, petulantly. She sighed. "No memories, though."

"You can always come back," Luna said.

Harry downed her drink, slamming the glass down on the counter. "No. I was the one who wanted to leave in the first place." She flagged the bartender down and ordered two tequila shots, voice low and husky and going straight to Dean's groin. "I'm just a tad scared, that's all. But I haven't really given America a chance; I've yet to experience everything it's got to offer."

Dean took her words as a sign and sidled over to the bar. Alcohol buzzed pleasantly around his brain. If Harry wanted to 'experience' the USA, Dean would try his damnedest. He chugged down his beer, and flashed his fake ID at the bartender for another drink. Something manlier, like bourbon. From his new vantage point he could see Harry's face clearly. She had elfin features: a delicate nose, high cheekbones and green eyes framed by clunky glasses. No make-up. The artsy-type, if it weren't for the calluses on her fingers and the small, barely visible scars on her arms and legs. His father had scars like that –Hell- Dean had scars like that. Something like kinship flared within him.

He fixed his eyes on her face and waited for her to notice him. When her eyes flickered upward he caught them in his gaze, smiling his most charming smile. She smiled back tentatively and that was all the prompting he needed. Without breaking eye contact, he moved down the bar.

"Hi," he said, making sure to make eye contact with both girls; he wasn't enough of a dick to outright ignore someone, though he made his preference clear. "I overheard your accents -English, right?" At their nod he gave a mock bow. "Then as an American, it is my duty to inquire after your stay."

Luna giggled and looked at him with dazed eyes. He wondered if she was high. "Luna Lovegood," she said, extending her hand. "I'm finding your country lovely, Mr. American."

Harry gave a low chuckle, shaking his hand after Luna. She had a firm, calloused grip, just like he'd expected. "Well, I'm still undecided," she said. Her lips glistening and swollen from tequila.

"Undecided?" He asked, looking mock-affronted. "Well, I guess I'll have to convince you then."

"Do your worst, Mr. American," she said, throaty voice teasing.

Dean almost felt his breath catch. "Dean Winchester," he said.

He was awarded with a slow, lazy smile. "Harry Potter."

Dean's night got infinitely better after that.


They started with a round of tequila shots.

Luna's face scrunched up when she drank. "I don't think I like those," she said, and stuck with her frilly cocktail for the rest of the night. Harry, instead, drank like a pro: licking and swallowing and sucking like she didn't give a damn. By round three, Dean felt reluctantly impressed with her tolerance. She'd had somewhere along five shots and a glass of whisky, but her cheeks were pale and her hands steady. The only indication that she'd had anything was the twinkle in her eyes and the curve of her savage grin.

In between shots, Harry and Luna told him about the sweltering Massachusetts summer: the swamps and the flies and the general heat. Luna compared it to Rome. Harry had shaken her head, claiming Rome was dusty and old and oppressive. They'd gone on a eurotrip apparently, that very summer, through France, Spain and Italy. Dean felt small spark of jealousy in his chest. It wasn't likely he'd ever leave the US; he didn't even have a passport. As if she'd heard his thoughts, Harry told him about the skies in Europe: the same blue-and-fluff American sky. She told him about the people, the food, the small olive trees on the Spanish countryside and the pigeon infestation in Venice. Half-way through, he'd sidled closer to her, trailing his fingers up her silky thigh. She'd blushed, and Dean had felt a surge of alcohol-induced affection. He wanted to kiss her, but she'd turned away, ordering round four.

Twirling her cocktail's umbrella, Luna asked him what he did for a living. He told them a modified version of what he told every girl: he worked as a temporary mechanic down the street, but usually he traveled around with his dad for work -he liked keeping in touch with his little brother, Sam, who was still in school.

The two girls melted, just like he knew they would. He loved Sammy more than anything, but he wasn't above using the kid to get laid.

"What about you?" He asked, mouth close to Harry's neck. She shivered against him.

"Luna is going to be a journalist," She said, breathless.

"Oh yes." Luna's radishes swung as she nodded. "I'm very interested in animals -and aliens. I've heard much about aliens here in America."

Dean tried his best to appear interested, or at least not scornful. But aliens, really?

Harry laughed. "Luna, aliens aren't real." She turned her face; the tip of his nose touched her smooth cheek. From his vantage point he could see down her shirt, the curved valley of her breasts and the edges of a lacy bra. He swallowed thickly.

"I'm not quite sure what to do with my life," Harry was saying. She smiled pensively. "I've started training to be a h- doctor, but I dunno if that's what I want to do. I want to do something good for the world."

Don't we all? "You could go for law-enforcement," he said.

She was shaking her head before he finished. "No, nothing violent. I just... want to help the people left behind."

His hand bumped against one of the scars on her arm, a thin, wicked line on her forearm. He thought he understood. "How about another round?" He breathed in her ear.

Harry smiled.


Luna left around round six, after extracting a swear from Dean to take Harry home safely. By then he'd been on his way to being comfortably sloshed -Harry's words, not his. He half-leaned, half-stood by the bar, trailing his fingers down her bare arm. She talked about her boarding school and all the good times she'd had with her friends Ron and Hermione. She spoke about them like they were angels, the only things that had kept her alive. He wondered distantly what happened to them.

"They died," she said, as if hearing his thoughts. Her voice was quiet and mournful, her fist gripping the material of her skirt. "A bit of a freak accident actually -some time ago." She shrugged looking lost and depressed. "My parents died like that too, when I was young."

He eyed the tequila stains on the counter. Freak accidents were almost Winchester specialty; he thought about Sammy's weight in his arms as he carried him out of their burning home, their mother's screams in the background.

"My mom died in a fire when I was four," Dean blurted out. He thought it would feel weird, telling a stranger something so personal, but Harry simply looked sad. A slender hand wearing a black ring rested on his chest. She didn't offer needless platitudes.

The jukebox in the corner played a sappy Elton John song. They remained silent, connected physically by his hand on her knee and her drooping hand on his chest. All traces of lust had fled his system, although the alcohol still made everything pleasantly fuzzy. The digital clock in the corner shone 11:00; he regretted not making a move earlier. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and wished he could spend the night with her, but he had to take Sammy to school in the morning and he had work after that.

"Come on, let's get you home," he said, helping her off the barstool.

"You don't have to," she said, tilting her head up to look at him. She seemed maddeningly sober. "I live quite far away."

"How far away, like England far away?" He took out his wallet, prepared to slap down most of last-week's paycheck on the counter.

Harry stopped him with a gentle hand. "I've it covered." She nodded at the bartender and flicked him some bills. Dean tried to protest -his dad taught him better than to let a girl pay- but she'd have none of it.

"I can't let you pay, Dean, we drank more than you did," she said, leading him towards the entrance. Her gait was a little wobbly, and she steadied herself with Dean's arm. Outside, the air was surprisingly warm for late-September, the sky overhead a clear, dark blue, with the yellowing moon hanging high. A light breeze ruffled the edges of Harry's skirt.

"Thanks -for the drinks," he said, stubbornly keeping an arm around her waist. Harry didn't seem to mind. "So how far do you live?"

"About an hour away, towards the outskirts." She suddenly laughed, pressing against his chest, and he couldn't help but smile. "That sounds terribly suspicious, doesn't it? But you don't have to take me... I wouldn't like to inconvenience you."

An hour was nothing compared to the days he'd spent riding his baby. "Dude, I promised," he said instead, "I can't just leave you here."

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and herded her towards his car. The Impala looked like a masterpiece next to the rundown pick-ups and Corolla's in the parking lot; it shone black and smooth under the streetlight.

"This here's my baby," he said, sliding a hand over the hood. He'd opened the door for Harry on a whim and was rewarded with a blush and a flirty smirk. "She used to be Dad's."

"She's beautiful," Harry said, eyes following him as he sat on the bench seat and revved the engine. "You put so much effort into her."

"Yeah," he said, pulling out of the lot. But doesn't everyone put effort into their home? He made an abortive motion towards the radio and instead pointed under the seat. "There's a box under -yeah that's it." He nodded at the box full of cassettes in her hands. "Music. Ladies choice." He winked.

"I-" She rifled through the cassettes before pulling one out at random. "Metallica?"

Dean looked horrified. "You've never heard of Metallica?"

"Uh, sorry." Tentatively, she put on the cassette; Enter Sandman flooded through the car. "I like it," Harry said, half-way through. "Hell yeah, of course you do, they're awesome!" He said, "how could you never have heard of them?"

She peeked at Dean from the cover of her dark bangs. "My aunt and uncle -well, I've never been very musical."

They fell silent, music filling up the air around them.

"I wanted to learn how to play guitar a couple of years back." Dean shrugged. "Dad wouldn't let me."

"Yeah, my aunt Petunia wasn't very encouraging either," she said, "I played the flute once, though. Sort of. Hag- the groundskeeper at school had a dog and the only way to put it to sleep was by playing music."

"So you went to one of those weird new-age schools where they let you take care of animals and stuff?"

Harry snorted. "Er, well they did have a...an animal caring class." She laughed outright at Dean's face. "It wasn't so bad -take a right here, yeah and then a left- but it wasn't 'new-age'. It was pretty conservative, actually, skirts and long socks enforced."

"That's not so bad." He shot Harry's legs an appraising look. "I wouldn't have minded seeing you in uniform."

Harry blushed. She tucked the box back under the seat and fiddled with her skirt. Empty streets loomed before them, bathed in yellow streetlight and nighttime asphalt. He could smell the Impala's leather seats, dust and sweat and home, and from the corner, Harry's spicy scent. She smelt like electricity, or carbonation or barely contained static. He felt the urge to fling holy water, but instead settled for mumbling, "Christo."

Harry didn't even twitch, though she frowned at him. "Pardon?"

"Nothing." He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. "If you just moved here how come you already have a house?"

"I inherited it," she said, as if inheriting something happened every day. "Figured it was probably better than paying for a flat or a hotel. I didn't know what to do with the house when the go- lawyers told me about it. It's quite large, too -been in my Dad's family for a long time..." and then she was off, talking about the house, its size and the dirty cobwebs in the corners. Dean stopped listening at one point, reducing his answers to hums and nods. It wasn't her words he was concerned with, it was the sound of her voice, the soft ups and downs of her accent, the crinkle of leather whenever she shifted her body or her arms. He'd missed having someone in the car, someone who talked and filled up the empty space. Ever since Sammy had become a teenager he'd become a surly, glaring creature that slouched on the bench seat and constantly criticized Dean for blindly following their father. He spent his time researching colleges and wishing for a normal, grounded life: a life without hunting, or the Impala and with white picket fences. The image made Dean want to gag.

"You all right?" Calloused fingers threaded through his own, they gave a small squeeze before retracting.

"Yeah," he said, "I'm -sorry, I wasn't paying attention."

Harry smiled impishly. "I wasn't speaking for you to listen. It just seemed like you needed a human soundtrack."

Dean huffed a laugh. He caught Harry's gaze reflected on the windshield and held it for as long as he could. She looked so stupid in those bottle-round glasses, but she was interesting -different from his usual conquests. Once again he felt like kissing her.

"So, where's this house of yours?" He asked.

"Just around the corner." She pointed ahead, but all Dean could see was an empty street and dark woods.

"Yeah, just...here." She made a motion towards the left, at a gaping, black maw in the line of trees.

Dean hit the breaks and stared ahead. He clenched his hands around the wheel. Something chilling settled in his gut.

"Are you sure this is the right place?" Dean said. He kept a gun in the glove compartment and a flask of holy water under the seat, both usually within easy reach. He'd never planned having a monster in his car, though.

"Ah, bullocks. This looks suspicious again, doesn't it?" Harry smoothed a hand over the leather seat, chagrined. She picked up her purse. "You can drop me off here, it's quite all right."

She looked at him, and Dean thought she seemed disappointed. His awakened hunter instincts hadn't disappeared, but his suspiciousness had diminished. The only thing he was left with was adrenalin, the last dregs of a buzz and lust. Her eyes were a glittering golden green under the streetlight; the smell of ozone increased. His dad was issuing orders in the back of Dean's head, telling him to find a weapon, to eliminate any possible threats. Harry's lower lip still glistened with tequila-

-And Dean lunged, capturing her mouth with his.

She moaned against him, flinging her purse on the Impala's dashboard and fisting her hands in his shirt. She grappled against him as if she were desperate -deprived- of touch, as if no one had ever touched her before. He could taste the tequila on her tongue, smell it on her breath; her spicy scent buzzed under her skin. His hands slid under her shirt, smoothing up the planes of her soft back. She climbed onto his lap gracefully, knees and thighs pressing against his as she ground down on him. Fuck, he wanted her.

She suddenly stopped, panting harshly on his lips.

"I wanted to-" He cut her off with a kiss. She complied for a second, before pulling away. "-invite you in for a nightcap."

He tensed, muscles coiled with renewed suspicion. "Nightcap?"

"A drink."

"Can't we stay here?" He said, clutching her waist.

"I- you're parked in the middle of the road."

"So?" He tried to mouth at her neck, but she pushed him off.

"Give me a flashlight. If you're that suspicious I'll lead the way through the forest," she said, eyes serious and steely. "On foot."

For a second she looked like a warrior. He kissed her again, quick and sloppy, his hands gripping tight enough to leave bruises.

"Fine." He dug around under the seat for the flashlight he and Sammy used when grave digging. Harry took it silently, not even batting an eyelash at the mud and dirt on the handle.

"Right." She stepped out and walked before the Impala with a straight and powerful gait. She acted nothing like the artsy girl he'd picked up rather, she seemed like a hunter. She gripped the flashlight like his dad would grip a covert gun, low but tight. Her free hand hovered over her upper thigh, ready to pull out a weapon from a holster. Suspicion itched at him.

"Come on then," she waved him over.

Slowly, he started the car and followed her through the dark trees. The smooth road beneath eventually became the snap and crunch of gravel. The moon loomed high above, yellow like the front lights of the Impala and like Harry's unwavering flashlight. It took them five minutes to get there, five minutes of itchy skin and sweat on the back of his neck, but eventually swirling ivory gates loomed before them. He caught sight of a glinting crest before Harry pushed the gateway open. She grinned at him from the shadows of her garden.

Behind her he saw a winding gravel driveway leading up a hill to the largest house -or was it a manor?- that he'd ever seen. It was a three story building, with iron-wrought balconies and climbing ivy. Soft, warm light shone from all the windows, spilling out onto the garden like a blanket.

"See?" Harry said, her hunter-like demeanor falling away. She opened door on the driver's side of the Impala and scrambled over his lap to the passenger seat. "Now how about that nightcap?"

Dean laughed. "All right. I'd say you've earned it."

He drove up the driveway and parked the Impala by the house's front steps. Up close, the building looked smaller, more like a home than a museum. Oddly, Dean found himself liking it. He let Harry lead him inside, past double-doors that should've been intimidating, but weren't. The entrance hall was done in shades of cream, with over-priced chandeliers and who knows what other fancy nonsense that would normally make him uncomfortable. But this house, no matter how overblown, was a home, seemed profoundly like a home, almost as much as his Impala. Harry looked up at him, eyes searching for approval, like a kid who'd had nothing and suddenly received a doll. Dean winked.

"Not too shabby."

Harry beamed. "Why thank you."

She led him deeper into the house, past a sprawling staircase and delicate rooms. The corridor walls were decked with rich paneled wood. In the distance, Dean thought he could hear a piano playing.

She colored when he asked her. "Yes. That's...uh don't worry about it."

"Uh-huh," he went to say more but stopped, staring at the painting of a blushing woman with fluffy, eighteenth century dress.

"What is it?" Harry asked. She glanced at the painting. "That's my great-great aunt I think."

"Did your great aunt just move?" Dean had seen some crazy shit in his time, moving paintings weren't one of them. He wondered if it was haunted; he'd stuffed a little flask of holy water in his pocket just in case. But he was certain that a murderous, haunted painting wouldn't wink at him as he passed.

"'Course not, Dean." Harry took his hand and pulled him away. "Paintings don't move."

"Uh-huh."

She dragged him to the kitchen and plopped him down on a stool at the kitchen counter. The kitchen was large, larger that the motel room Dean and Sam were crashing at, and done in bright shades of brown and beige. It seemed clean and ancient. There wasn't even a fridge.

"It's a bit outdated," Harry was saying, as she rummaged through one of the cupboards.

"You don't have a fridge," he said, perplexed.

She laughed. "Not yet. I've got an icebox though. Now where is it? I was so sure I'd seen...AHA!" She pulled out a short, squat bottle. Whisky. "You must try this, Dean." With a little more rummaging, she placed a tumbler in front of him, filled with a measly thumb of amber.

"That's all you're serving me?" He swirled the liquid around, watching it catch the light.

"Try it." She served herself the same amount. "On three: one, two, bottoms up!"

When the whisky hit his throat Dean felt like he'd drunk fire, it burned all the way down from his tonsils to the top of his stomach. For a second he thought she'd poisoned him, but the burn was all alcohol. He coughed and spluttered like some wet behind the ears baby.

Harry was laughing again. "Horrid stuff, innit?"

"Holy -fuck, what's in that?"

"No idea," she said, pouring him another thumb. "It's called Firewhisky. A small brewery in England makes it. They probably put dragon fire in it or something."

"Dragon fire," he said blandly. "So that's why you've got such high tolerance."

"I suppose." She took a sip of her own drink and moved closer, sitting on the stool beside him. Her bare leg skimmed the edges of his jeans. "I've been drinking this stuff since I was seventeen."

Dean downed his glass in one gulp, coughing and feeling the liquid burn. The alcohol traveled though his body, reawakening his previous buzz. His limbs felt weightless, his skin prickly and hyper-sensitive; he could feel the warmth of Harry's leg through his jeans. With a cheeky smile, he placed a hand on her thigh, fingertips teasing their way under her skirt. Her cheeks turned pink.

"W- would you like a tour?" She said, voice low and breathy.

He leaned forward, aligning their faces for a kiss. "How about a tour of your bedroom?"

"No beating around the bush, huh?"

Dean grinned. "Hopefully there'll be a lot of beating around the bush."

Harry blushed. "You're such a cliché."

"Hey, as long as it works," Dean said, then he kissed her.

She made that noise again, the small, desperate moan that she'd made earlier in the car. He grinned into the kiss, biting her lip and pushing his way inside with his tongue. His hands slowly inched up under her skirt, traveling on the inside of her parted thighs. Her grasping hands pulled him off his stool and together they stumbled out of the kitchen and into the corridor. Her skirt dropped somewhere around the foot of the stairs, when he'd pushed her up against the wall and buried his face in her neck, dropping kisses and licks that made her breathe out little gasps. She'd torn his leather jacket off with a yank and fisted her hands in his flannel shirt, pushing and pulling as if she wasn't sure whether she wanted him to move or just get naked right there. He'd tugged her skirt down, flinging it over his shoulder as she wrapped her legs around his waist. Fuck, she fit perfectly. He could feel her warmth through his jeans.

"Move, Dean," she said, voice low and husky. She bit down on his ear. "Now."

"Yes, Ma'am."

They tripped their way up the stairs, trading kisses and gropes and dropping clothing along the way. By the time they reached her bedroom, Dean's head was spinning; He could feel the alcohol traveling through his system. His skin was hot and he was straining in his jeans. He dropped Harry on the bed like a sack of flour, watching her body bounce on the mattress. Her bedroom was big -the master bedroom, he assumed- they'd gone through two double doors within a suite just to get there. He catalogued the exits with a trained glance before shucking off his boots and socks and crawling over her.

"What do you want?" Dean breathed, kissing her neck. She arched her body into his, back bending like a gymnast. His hands snuck behind her and unclasped her bra, pulling it away. A hand slid into his hair.

"What do you want?" Harry asked, flipping them over. She sat on his crotch with an saucy grin and smoothed her hands down his chest, unbuttoning his jeans.

"Your mouth."

"Is that so?" She did quick work with his zipper and slid his jeans and boxers down his legs. Her hand came up, firm and warm, grasping him straight; her mouth was liquid wonderland: hot and slick and tight. She didn't even look coyly up at him in the porn star move girls liked to do; she was all business: hollow cheeks and wet slurping, sucking him until he was incoherent. When he came she swallowed him whole. His skin fizzed and peaked like a sizzling frying pan; he'd seen the white lights of pleasure. Fuck this girl was awesome.

She laid herself sideways on the bed, head propped on her hand. "Did you like it?"

"Heh." He swallowed and noticed for the first time that she was wearing pink panties. Figures he'd pick the one with the pink panties. "Why's your name Harry," he said abruptly. His mind had been blissfully blank, but he scrambled to soften the bluntness. "I mean, uh-"

"It's all right," she said, throwing him a smile. Her hand trailed up and down his torso, tickling tantalizingly close to his crotch. "My name's actually Henrietta -horrible, I know, but it's a family tradition and all that rot. Aunt Petunia started calling me Harry, probably because she wanted to give me gender issues." She shrugged with one shoulder. "It stuck."

He looked up at the ceiling, eyes tracing the swirls and the fancy pattern. "I was called Dean after my grandmother; Sam was called Sam after her husband. I just... never understood, if I'm the eldest why did I get the girl name?"

Harry laughed. "That sort of sucks." She draped herself over him. "Now can we have sex?"

"Hell yeah." He flipped her over and slipped her underwear off. His hands roamed over her body, cupping her breasts and squeezing them. Damn, perfect fit, again. His fingertips traveled down her navel, around her thighs and over the curves of her hips. Finally, when she swore at him and kicked her leg in the air, he parted her and returned the favor. When he left her gasping on the edge she spluttered.

"What -what, Dean, bollocks, finish this."

"Patience, young Padawan," he said, grinning. He leaned over the bed and dug through his jeans for his wallet.

She dug her hand into his scalp. "You -bugger, fuck."

"Chill." He pulled a condom out and wagged it in her face, before tearing into it and slipping it on.

"Great, now come."

"That's the point."

She rolled her eyes, though her lips were pulled in a smile. She clutched him and drew him close, wrapping her legs around his waist. He leaned in for a kiss and pushed into her; she was hot -hot like hell- wet and fucking amazing. Better than Rhonda Hurley any day.

Needless to say, he didn't get enough sleep that night.


Dean woke to soft hands skirting over his shoulders and a husky female voice telling him to wake up. His skin felt sticky with dried sweat, limbs heavy and lethargic.

"Dean, wake up."

He squinted at the large room, its expensive wooden furniture and French windows. The curtain was fluttering out with the breeze; there were curlicues on the walls. He remembered bending Harry over the dresser for round three and feeling too tired and heavy to do much more than pass out on the bed.

"Oi, stud, focus." Harry leaned over him. "I didn't know at what time you needed to head out to work."

"Shit, Sammy." He tripped himself out of bed, looking around frantically for his boxers.

"Calm down, it's six thirty."

"Six thirty?" He said. He hadn't woken up so early since he tried to sneak out of Mandy Hill's bedroom at four a.m. "Why-"

"Better wake you up too early than too late, yeah?" She said, standing. Her white dress straightened out, hugging the curves of her breasts and falling just short of her knees. Dean's fingertips tingled. She crowded close, smoothing her hands over his naked chest. "How about I go make breakfast while you shower?"

"How about we have round four?" He went to grasp her, but she danced away, laughing.

"Nope, go shower." She walked backwards towards the door, skirt skimming around her thighs. "Loo's to the right. I hope you remember how to get to the kitchen!"

He grumbled and made his way to the bathroom, showering off the sweat and smell of sex. He could see his reflection on the dark tiles. The tub was an ancient, claw-footed thing, polished and decorated with what looked like real gold. Damn, Sammy would love this place. It had to be the cleanest bathroom Dean had ever been in. He found his clothes waiting for him on the counter, neatly folded and laundered, maybe even dry cleaned. Thank God for rich people. He dressed quickly and sauntered out. Some sneaky maid had changed the sheets and made the bed, leaving his boots lined neatly by the Persian carpet. Dean was starting to get uncomfortable with all the invisible help, he half expected a French maid to step out of the shadows and help him with his boots.

"Creepy," he said, and left the suite in search of food.

In daylight the corridors looked different, less warm and more elegant. The floor beneath him was hardwood, the walls lined with paintings. He wondered how Harry could live there, with all the echoing empty space. In the distance he could hear the piano playing.

"Hello, Dean."

He jumped and nearly stabbed Luna with a knife he'd stashed in his boot. "Jesus, Luna."

Her dazed eyes locked on the knife before turning towards him. "I'm sorry if I startled you."

Dean slipped the knife back into his boot and shrugged. "No harm done. I didn't know you were staying here." He stood tense, waiting for her to freak out and threaten to call the cops. But she seemed to completely forget he'd held her at knife-point.

"Oh yes. But only till today, I'm afraid." She led him through the maze of corridors and down the main staircase. "I was thinking about getting Harry a pet to keep her company. Her owl died, you see, a couple of years back. She'd do well with another pet."

Owls as pets? Damn these girls were weird. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and decided to play along. "Don't get her a cat. I'm allergic to those."

Luna shot him a smile, a creepy, knowing smile. "A puppy then."

Puppies shat everywhere, but Dean didn't say that. At least it wasn't a rabbit.

Once they reached the kitchen the smell of cooking bacon hit Dean like a semi. His mouth watered.

"What about puppies?" Harry asked. She stood by the stove, flipping over pancakes.

"I was thinking about getting you one," Luna said, taking a seat at the table.

Dean floundered in the middle of the kitchen, unsure if he should sit down or try to help Harry. He'd never stayed over after a hook-up; he was always the one who snuck away in the middle of the night. Sleeping over and having breakfast the next morning was new territory for him.

"Take a seat, Dean," Harry said. She seemed cool and content, not at all as awkward as Dean felt. Once he'd sat down, she put a plate in front of him: eggs, bacon and pancakes. This girl was perfect. "Coffee?" she asked.

"Yeah, black. No sugar." He dug in with a relish reserved only for pie, and when she placed a mug to his right he felt like kissing her.

"Luna, don't get me a puppy," Harry said. She sat next to him, warm leg bumping against his own. "They shit everywhere."

Dean huffed a laugh. "You could get a fish."

"Boring."

Yes, definitely perfect.


In the end he left around seven thirty, after a massive breakfast and multiple cups of coffee. He'd helped Harry do the dishes, leaning on the counter with the drying rag, flirting with her as she scrubbed. She'd blushed and stammered, but had given as good as she got, needling him with innuendoes and a mischievous grin. Dean wasn't used to easy banter with a girl without ulterior motives, but somehow with Harry it was easy, simple. She wasn't awkward and she thought like him; there was none of the clingy emotional baggage hook-ups usually brought. They talked about nothing but inane things: puppies, pets, brothers and friends, but by the time he left he felt he knew her. Harry was a kindred spirit.

She'd blushed when he'd kissed her one last time. Her hands clutched his shirt. The Impala gleamed behind her in the driveway, just where he'd left it.

"I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner tonight?" Her eyes were bright and hopeful. Dean found himself wanting to say yes. "You could bring your brother."

"Kinky." He grinned as she rolled her eyes. "I'll let you know. What's your phone number?" He pulled out the clamshell phone Dad had got him for his birthday and flipped it open. Huh, no signal.

"I-I don't know it." She made a face. "I don't mind if you just show up, or not. But if you do decide to show up, come around seven?"

"Yeah, I'll -I'll try to make it." He reached over and tucked a flyaway strand behind her ear. "Catch you later."

"See you."

Once in the Impala, he winked at her, and headed out. The leather seat was searing from the sun, the wheel warm in his hands as he made his way back to Salem. Half-way there his phone pinged, once, twice, three times. Probably Sam. Dean felt a little guilty for leaving the kid to spend the night alone in the motel room. But he had his salt lines, Dean had triple-checked them before leaving, and Sammy knew how to protect himself if worst came to worst. He stopped by a Dunkin Donuts on the way back to the motel, picking up a couple of bagels and a cup of coffee for Sammy. Let no one say he didn't take care of his brother.

The kid was waiting for him on the curb, patented bitch face spread all over his features.

"Dude, where have you been?" He whined. Stomping around the car, he folded himself on the passenger seat and plopped his schoolbag on the floor. With a mumbled thanks he grabbed the food and the coffee.

"Sorry, man. Got distracted," Dean said, heading towards Sam's school. "You won't believe the girl I hooked-up with-"

"Ugh, dude no. I don't want to know."

"Sammy, her house was huge, three-stories or something, real fancy-like."

"Oh my God, Dean, you're such a hick. Just shut up." He frowned and leaned towards the dashboard. "is that... her underwear?" With two fingers he picked something from under the windshield: Harry's purse. "Ew, did you do it in the car? Am I going to find her bra in the backseat?"

"Jesus, calm down, Samantha. It's just her handbag." He watched Sam flick the purse into the backseat. "She invited us for dinner later."

"I'll pass. I'd rather not watch you play footsie with some bimbo -oh, don't look at me like that, we both know you don't go for smart girls."

"I'll leave the unibrow and braces to you," Dean said.

"Ha-ha. But seriously, Dean, it's Friday. My friends are having a party later."

"A party," Dean said, skeptical. He parked the Impala across the street from the school. It was still half an hour early; he watched the nerds and teachers walk around the campus. His brother was such a geek. "Do you have supplies, holy water, silver knife, gun-"

"Yes, everything," Sam said. He picked up his schoolbag and chugged the last of the coffee. "And don't come by later, I'm going with Tim to his house."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Remember to call."

Sam made a vague dismissive motion and left the car, slamming the door a little too hard for Dean's taste. In retaliation he cranked up the volume, speeding away with Metallica blaring from the stereo. He made it to work early, and spent the morning working on a 1956 Oldsmobile convertible. It was a beautiful car, done in bright cherry red. Not as awesome as his Impala, of course, but he enjoyed working under its hood, tinkering with the antique engine. He took a break for lunch, sitting in the Impala with the door open, munching on a sub while checking the newspaper for any local hunts. When his phone rang, he stared at it, wondering if it was Harry calling about dinner. The thought made him nervous; he felt like a fumbling fifteen year-old.

"Hello?"

"Dean." Oh, Dad, of course. He hadn't given Harry his number. "Everything Ok back there?"

"Yes, sir. Everything is fine. Bobby's friend has me working on an Oldsmobile. How's the hunt?"

"Damn werewolf got away. You'll have to stay put for another month. How's Sam?"

"He's all right, bitching, like always. Do you need back-up-"

"No, take care of your brother. Don't you dare come out here, that's an order."

"Yes, sir."

"Take care, son."

"You too-" Dean said, but Dad had already hung up. With a sigh, he pocketed the phone and leaned back. He felt worry gnawing at his insides and loneliness pressing around him. Dad was on a hunt -like always, and Sammy, who used to be around for Dean to take care of, now spent more and more time with his friends. They talked about college applications and lives Dean could never reach or be part of. He wondered if Sammy felt as lonely as Dean did whenever his brother talked about his normal life, his life without his family, the comfortable weight of a gun in his hand, or the adrenalin of the hunt. Dean knew the kid was preparing to leave. He'd seen the SAT prep books, the college application forms scattered over the chipped Formica table at the motel.

Sitting alone in the Impala, Dean felt ridiculously abandoned, forgotten almost. His family moved on with their lives, while Dean stayed still, depending on people who didn't depend on him. When his lunch break ended, Dean rubbed his neck and went back to work, trying his best to forget. His dad hadn't raised him to be a whiny bitch.

He left work at six, the Oldsmobile finished and running like a dream. He gave Sam a call once he made it back to the motel room. The kid had answered all his questions in monosyllables, yes, no, maybe, fine, and a particularly memorable: 'I'll be there when I'll be there.' Dean hadn't done more than sigh before taking a shower.

The motel bathroom had felt like a truck stop compared to Harry's shower. There was grime in the corners and chipped tiles on the floor. No wonder Sammy hated it. Once he was done he slipped on a change of clothing and headed out. He felt like a beer, maybe something stronger. His brain dragged up a memory from last night, Harry's cheeky smile, her gleaming kitchen and the bottle of Firewhisky. Her purse sat in the backseat of the Impala, a glittery, beaded thing he could see from outside.

His lips twitched as he slid into the driver's seat and headed out of Salem.

At least he was getting dinner where he was going.