AUTHOR'S NOTE: Not beta'd, so any and all mistakes belong solely to me. This is the first Supernatural fanfic I've posted, so please let me know what you think!
You sit at the bar, idly picking the soggy label off the side of your beer bottle. You stare up at the TV on the wall, pretending to be engrossed in the game that's on. In reality, you couldn't care less. It's just an attempt to keep people from bothering you. Unfortunately, it doesn't work.
"Hey, beautiful," a man greets you from behind. You can almost feel his eyes raking over your form. "Can I buy you a drink?"
Without taking your eyes from the TV, you hold up your mostly-full beer in reply.
"All right," he laughs. "Can I buy you another drink, then?"
"No, thank you," you answer, hoping that'll be the end of it.
"Aaww, come on, babe. We could-" he tries, but he's thankfully cut short.
You can't help but smirk when Sam clears his throat purposefully from his seat at the corner of the bar. You don't need to look up to know the exchange that's taking place. The man trying to pick you up just looked over at Sam... All 6 feet, 4 inches of him. Sam shifts his broad shoulders, sits up straighter in his seat, and rests his forearms on the bar. He arches a brow. Narrows his eyes. Gives a determined clench of his jaw. Doesn't say a word. Doesn't need to.
Upon hearing the man's predictable retreat, you grin over at Sam and raise your beer in thanks. He chuckles and raises his own, taking a swig before returning his attention to his laptop.
Since you started hunting with the Winchesters about a year back, you and Sam have had a mutual agreement. Persistent guys hit on you? Sam makes his sizable presence known. Girls hit on Sam and won't take a hint? You send them packing. It works out great for you both. But as content as you both are with the arrangement, not everyone is a fan.
"Enabler!" Dean calls as he slides onto the stool beside you and leans across the bar. He points over at his brother with a smirk and shakes his head in disapproval. "You're enabling her, Sammy, and the shit has gotta stop."
"Dean," Sam greets with a heavy sigh, barely looking up from his notes. "I take it you struck out?"
You try to muffle your laughter by taking a gulp from your beer, dodging Dean's scowl by returning your attention to the TV.
"This isn't about me," Dean insists indignantly. He points back and forth between you and Sam. "This is about you two and your... your... little anti-sex club thing going on over here."
You and Sam groan in unison as Dean motions for the bartender to bring him another drink. Not this again.
"It's not natural," Dean says. "It sure as hell ain't healthy. How long's it been now? I mean, for you, Sam, I know it's been at least-"
Sam's bitch-face is extreme enough to deter his brother from finishing that sentence.
Dean winces in response, but barely misses a beat before turning his attention back to you.
"And I know for damned sure you ain't been laid once the whole time you've been with us," he declares with entirely too much confidence.
Despite your efforts to appear unaffected, your jaw still clenches. You hope against hope that Dean's not drunk enough to start offering his assistance in ending your dry spell. It wouldn't be the first time he's put the offer out there. You see Sam shift uncomfortably out of the corner of your eye. He meets your gaze briefly as Dean downs his drink. Sam's thinking the same thing you are and he's getting ready to rabbit, you're sure. He'll be out the door at the first hint of Dean trying to get into your pants. It can't be pleasant to listen to your brother running his game.
But you're not willing to have that discussion with Dean again. Not with him looking and smelling and sounding the way he does. It makes it damned hard to continue saying no when the guy is practically sex on two legs.
An idea occurs to you. Maybe if he thinks you're getting some occasionally, he'll stop constantly seeing you as a project to cross off his to-screw list.
"You think so, huh?" You reply coolly, aiming to get a rise out of him. To derail his whiskey-addled train of thought. To make him think you aren't nearly as sex-deprived as you truly are.
It works.
Dean pauses, frowning thoughtfully at what you're intimating. But an instant later, he starts laughing.
"Pfft. Yeah, right! I'd know," he scoffs and waves you off. He turns toward Sam, expecting to share a good laugh at how ridiculous the notion is of you getting some without his knowledge.
Sam, though, bless his heart, plays along. He gets an unsure look on his face, lifts one shoulder slightly, and tilts his head. A silent, I wouldn't be so sure about that, man.
You wait one tick. Then two.
Predictably, Dean does a double-take, his confidence faltering as he scans your expression for any hint of amusement. You give him nothing. He seems to sober considerably.
"Wait, what? When? Where? With who?" He demands as he turns to face you fully. You refuse to scrutinize his tone, the look on his face. It's mainly disbelief that you could have done something without him noticing. It's partly wounded, though. You don't want to consider whether that part is caused by jealousy or just offense that you hadn't told him all the sweaty details.
Sam snickers at his brother's reaction and you're thankful for the distraction. Any longer under Dean's direct gaze and you'd have started sweating.
"What's it matter to you, anyway?" You ask with a heavy sigh. "Sam and I are more than happy with our... anti-sex club. And no one's asking you to join. Nothing's stopping you from nailing everything that moves."
You're hoping to get him to change the subject, because Dean's right, you haven't had sex of any kind since well before you met up with the Winchesters. You're actually approaching three nookie-free years now. But Dean doesn't need to know that. He's already on your desperately-needs-to-get-laid scent like a bloodhound. God help you if he ever gets an actual number to obsess over.
"Oh, come on. Not everything that moves!" Dean replies with a grin. "Give me at least some credit."
There's something in his eyes now. Something new. You can't put your finger on it, but you have the sneaking suspicion that you're in deep trouble. Hmm... Perhaps it hadn't been a wise move to pretend you'd slept with someone. That brief period of doubt might have only served to steel Dean's resolve.
Shit.
"Seriously, though, what's the deal?" He asks, interrupting your growing dread. "I mean, Sam over here, I get. Not exactly the smoothest track record with the ladies."
"Hey!" Sam cries indignantly.
"Tell me I'm wrong." Dean challenges.
Sam opens his mouth to protest, but instead grudgingly nods his agreement.
"Exactly," Dean declares. "But you? What's your excuse?"
"I don't need an excuse," you reply.
"I mean it's not like you're..." Dean starts with a laugh, but trails off and exhales loudly, as if something suddenly occurred to him. "Whoa, wait. You're not-? Are you into chicks?" He asks with wide, hopeful eyes and an ill-behaved grin that could stop traffic.
Before you can have any fun tormenting Dean with the possibility, Sam chimes in.
"Nope," he says distractedly while copying something from his laptop into his notebook. "She shoots them down, too."
"Maybe they just weren't her type," Dean offers, not ready to abandon the idea just yet.
Sam gives him an incredulous look. "Dude, trust me, the girl she turned away an hour ago was so hot she'd be anyone's type," he assures.
You frown at Sam when he glances over at you. Traitor.
He gives you a sheepish smile in response.
"So, what? You saving it for marriage or something?" Dean teases. "'Cause, in case you hadn't noticed, this lifestyle doesn't really allow for long-term dating."
You sigh and shake your head. "Hard as it may be for you to believe, regardless of how slim the chances are of a hunter starting up any kind of lasting relationship, it doesn't mean all of us are resigned to filling our beds with every warm, willing body we come across. Maybe we'd prefer to actually care about the people we sleep with."
Dean purses his lips and stares at you. He doesn't seem to have a response for that. At least, not one that he's willing to voice.
"You may as well be speaking Greek to him," Sam laughs.
"Killjoys," Dean mutters and motions for the bartender to bring him the first of many more drinks.