It's part of his legend. Part of the myth that dominates any discussion about him. It's one of the first things spoken of when the name Dean Winchester is invoked. Always included as one of the most important pieces of information anyone and everyone needs to knows about the man: Don't mess with his brother, don't touch his car, and don't leave your girlfriend alone with him.
Dean Winchester can, and will, fuck whoever he wants.
Dean sits alone in a booth at a dive bar on the loneliest fucking highway he's ever driven, and listens to the two men seated in the booth behind his. Admittedly, he came into their conversation a few minutes after it must have started, but they've made their way around to him as a topic. After driving alone for hours on an unlit, undriven road, even eavesdropping in a Hunter bar was entertaining. He laughs a little to himself as he concedes a point or two. It's still true about his brother and his car. Fucking with either would most definitely earn a man a broken face.
But the women.
He could probably still get whichever one caught his eye here, judging by the not-so-shy glances he'd been getting thrown his way since he'd sat down. This place is definitely reminiscent of his old stomping grounds. He'd turned them all down with just a cut of his eyes. None of the lovely ladies seemed pleased when he did. So the ability is still there. The desire is lacking, is all.
"Are you Dean Winchester?"
"Well, hello," he says. "Would you like to sit down?"
"Already have, thanks," she smiles. Full lips, wide smirk, secret-filled dark eyes. She takes a fry off of his greasy plate. "So, are you?"
"Yeah. The one and only," comes the answer with an open smile, but with a closed hand on the butt of his gun. Can't be too careful, even in a Hunter bar. And, you know, she took a fry.
"I knew it."
"How?"
"People talk. Big, sexy, tough looking guy. Quiet, drinking straight whiskey, eating a burger. Man, you're wearing a sign."
"That easy to spot, huh," he says while trying to decide between the whiskey and the burger. They both look so good. The girl doesn't look too bad, either.
"Yes and no. I was looking for the brother."
"The brother is doing research at an undisclosed location." That is the end of that portion of the conversation.
"Okay, okay," she says, hands up, a bit of ketchup on one finger. "No prying here. Is the car outside, though?"
"Yeah," he nods.
"Can I see it?"
"Look," he sighs, "I love a Hunter Honey as much as the next guy-"
"Fuck you, Winchester."
"Isn't that what you're trying to do?"
"Fuck you twice. Believe your own press, don't you? I just wanted to see the Impala. She's as famous as you, asshole."
She gets up to leave, not sparing him even another glance, a bitch face to rival his brother's. For some reason he feels bad for an assumption he feels perfectly justified in reaching. But giving her a more focused once-over, he realizes she's probably not a groupie.
"You're a Hunter," he says. Not loud, not pleading, but giving her the opening to talk to him if she wants to.
"Yeah," she says pausing in mid-flounce, obviously not sure which way she wants to go. He's not sure which way he wants her to go, either.
"What's your name?"
"Natalie Adams." She sits, having made her decision.
"Adams? Was your dad a Hunter?"
"R.C. Adams. He was killed at the beginning of the Apocalypse mess."
"By the Witnesses," he recalls, and now they have a connection. It's a connection he and Sam find they have with far too many people.
"Hey, Dean. It was a long time ago. I don't blame you for it. Don't need to look like I'm gonna punch you. I grew up in this life, just like you."
"I'm sorry," he says anyway.
"Why? Did you do it? No, you didn't. From what I heard you went to check on the Hunters you were concerned about."
"You heard?"
"I knew Bobby, too."
They're quiet, but she doesn't leave and he doesn't ask her to. He sees the moment she decides she's had enough of this melancholy shit. She grabs his drink and downs it. Raises her hand and signals for more.
Leaning back against the booth, she winks and says, "Let's get drunk."
Dean's not sure he can get drunk. He doesn't think he has that ability anymore. But he certainly has the desire.
Two hours and a bottle and a half later, Dean still isn't drunk, and Natalie isn't as drunk as he thought she would be. Both facts bode well for the rest of the night, whether he decides to drive on or find a bed. Her bed.
"So, Nat the Hunter, what now?" he asks, rolling one last amber-filled tumbler in his hand.
"Call me Natalie, and show me your car. That's next."
"You're very demanding."
"You have no idea."
"Come see my Baby," he invites her, setting down the empty glass and taking her hand. The people in the bar will talk now, her hand in his, but they were bound to talk from the moment she sat down in the booth with him.
"She's beautiful," she says as they approach Dean's one true love. "Just what I expected. Better, I think. Amazing how beautiful an old hunk of metal and paint can be."
"Watch it, now," he says, but not really offended. She's right.
"Can I drive her?"
"No," he answers without thought and she smiles, clearly not surprised.
"Can we go for a ride?"
"Where to?"
"I've got a room near here."
"I thought you weren't trying to get me in bed."
"Of course I was. And I didn't have to try too hard. I just didn't like the assumption."
"Hop in," he says with a smirk. He likes her. No games. And he knows she's right. Somewhere between the stolen fry and the car show, he decided he wanted her, ability and desire finally meeting.
When they reach her room ten minutes later, she calmly gets out of the car, unlocks the door, and leaves it open behind her. He can follow or not, her actions say. They both know there's no way in hell he won't follow.
Dean shuts the door behind him, takes off his jacket, watches Natalie as she moves around the room.
True to who she seems to be, she takes a bottle from the counter in this tiny but neat efficiency room and places it on the table by the window. Nodding her head toward it, she leaves Dean to it as she closes herself in the bathroom. He sits, kicks off his boots, and pours another drink.
One more won't hurt. Won't help, either. He used to think the same about the women, too. He's not proud of that, but like the booze, it is what it is. Or was. He's not sure if he feels the same about either anymore.
She walks out of the bathroom, and he's not thinking of booze. He's thinking of women. This one, and another from a long time ago.
"Pink satin panties?"
"Yeah," she challenges. "Why?"
"Doesn't matter. They're fucking awesome."
He stands, finishes the drink he finds still in his hand, and walks over to her. He stop just before touching her, breathing her in, building the anticipation. The anticipation has always been part of the fun. There has been no real chase; with Dean, there rarely is. They both know why they came here, what will happen, who will leave when it's over. But the anticipation, the breath before the beginning, the calm before the storm they are so anxious to weather, well, that's just a vibrating moment of lust. And it is highly sought and appreciated by them both.
She moves first, a smile growing on her pretty face. She's not beautiful, not a perfect body or a face that would turn many heads, but as she reaches up an eases his flannel off his broad shoulders, he thinks she gorgeous. Smiling, and he likes it. Happy to be here and promising fun. He'll take it and like it, thank you.
Pushing his t-shirt up over his abs, her hands graze the skin and he gives an involuntary shiver. She giggles and does it again, but he knows it's coming now and can control it. He gets the idea when she pushes the shirt higher and takes it off. She can't reach high enough to do it herself.
She can reach his belt, though, and makes short work of it. She doesn't go for the theatrical, simply unbuckling it then moving on to the button, the zipper. She glides her hands under the denim and lowers the jeans over his hips, down his muscular thighs, her fingers running along the skin. The pants drop and she straightens, staring into his eyes.
"You are not wearing pink satin panties. Disappointed," she grins, a light in her eyes that Dean enjoys seeing in nearly naked girls. It's usually a plus.
"Wonder if there's anything I can do to return me to your good graces," he answers back, flippant and playful. Been a while since those words could describe him.
"Give it your best shot, Winchester. I'll let you know."
Before her encouraging smirk is gone, Dean is kissing her. She's kissing back. She tastes good, hints of toothpaste, of course, since girls always do that, but underneath is the whiskey. The whiskey he always tastes on his own tongue is on hers, too. he almost wonders if that's a weird thought, but then he reaches down to the top of her ass and feels that satin and he no longer gives a damn.
His tongue in her mouth, her teeth on his lip, their breath colliding and creating something new, he picks her up, she wraps her legs around him, and her carries her to the bed. There will be foreplay, but she's going to be naked and horizontal.
He settles her, rests between those thighs, and reaches behind her back. In high school, any guy who can prove he can unhook a bra one-handed is a god. Dean was a legend then, too. The satin and lace is eased off Natalie's shoulders, the straps run down her arms ahead of his hands. It's almost like he doesn't even have to touch the garment before it obeys his wish. He raises and drags the material across her stomach; it's her turn to shiver. Not even his skin touching her and she quivers like a virgin.
She reaches up to touch him, but he catches both hands in his. He lowers his head, hands still in his, and tastes her skin. No whiskey taste as he kisses and licks the hollow of her throat, but sweat and whatever it is that makes her uniquely Natalie. No biting hardness that is her mouth, but the soft and supple skin of her breast. It's his teeth here, and he bites her nipple just enough. Just enough.
An intake of breath, "Dean."
"Yeah?"
"I really like that," she sighs as her legs writhe, her hands grip his. "A lot."
"Just getting started." And he is a man of his word.
He releases her hands, moves down her body, slowly, his lips and tongue and breath never leaving her skin. She reacts, nippls hardening, goosebumps raising, breath quickening, legs opening. He reaches her center, her hands in his hair now, and he tastes again, enjoying the sweetness that says woman to him. He gives generously, but this isn't all for her. Going down isn't a hardship for him, but a pleasure. He revels in the otherness of a woman, the different shapes and curves, the different sounds and sights, the promise of strength and please that each one represents. This, the apex of the constant pursuit of men, is where he wants to be. Damn, a pussy makes him happy. And the things he does when he's happy . . .
"Oh, oh, Dean!"
He smiles as she grips his hair tighter, coveting the pain, and slips in one then two fingers. She's wet and ready but he wants her shattered. Licking, sucking, nipping, caressing her, he gets what he wants. The sound of her ecstasy is better than he hoped for. A strangled shout, followed by a sigh.
He doesn't let her get to any words before he is back at her mouth, giving her a taste of herself.
Reaching toi grip and raise her thighs, he enters her all at once. No force needed; he's made sure it would be smooth for her. No fancy positions, no contorting, no creativity at play here. He just wants to be inside her. Her immediate matching of his rhythm indicates she's cool with that.
No sheets to cover them, restrict them. She's not shy, and God knows he isn't. She proves how bold she is.
"Harder, Dean. To the right," she commands. He complies with a smile. "So good. Pull my hair."
He smiles wider. He does like a woman who knows what she wants. But now it's time to prove he's earned his reputation.
Bracing his knees, he goes harder, deeper, a little faster, but still controlled, in control. He pulls her hair as she asked and then bites where he neck meets her shoulder. No blood, no mark, but a sweet, soft, quiet pain that brings from her a sound that is anything but sweet or quiet. He's not sure if it's the booze or this girl, but he feels his orgasm bleeding through the edges of his pleasure. It could have something to do with the way her fingernails must be leaving marks on his ass. It really could.
There are no more commands or requests or directions from her. Only panting and an occasional moan as he moves her with his body. Each thrust of his hips lifting her higher, each retraction allowing her to fall. Lift and fall, lift and fall, until they are both lifted too high, and they fall together.
"Damn," she breathes.
Lying next to her, sweaty and out of breath, he agrees. "Damn is right."He throws his arm around her, she nestles into his side. They need a rest.
He opens his eyes a while later to just the best fucking wake up call ever.
Watching her head moving up and down, he finds the breath to say, "You don't have to do that, Natalie." Of course, he hopes she doesn't stop.
"I owe you one, Dean," she says, pausing but not stopping. Then she does this thing with her teeth.
She doesn't owe him anything, but who is he to turn down such a thoughtful gesture.
He wakes again tangled in sheets and woman. Not a bad way to open his eyes. He kisses the top of her head, grabs his clothes, and makes his way to the bathroom. He has to piss like he's been locked in a box for a year, and his mouth tastes like he licked the inside of it. Not a comfortable combination. After a quick shower, he opens the door to a very nice sight. Natalie, naked, making coffee. Too bad he's already dressed. Time to get back to the hunt.
"Morning, sweetheart."
"Hey. dude. Grab a cup, I'll be back."
He watches that ass go into the bathroom and hears the shower. He doesn't blame her. After he downs a cup, she comes back in, fully dressed for the day. He guesses she has her own hunt to resume.
"I need to get back to it. Looks like you do, too," he tells her, pulling his boots toward him. Time to go.
"Yeah," she confirms. "A ghost is messing with a family two towns over, but only on weekends. Took me a minute to figure that one out. Turns out the dad travels and is only home on Saturdays and Sundays, and the ghost hates his guts. They're safe until tomorrow, so I have today to evict his transparent ass."
"You didn't know about the dad's schedule?" Maybe he's wrong about how smart she is.
"Do the families ever tell you everything the first time you ask?" No, he's right. She's smart.
"You're right."
"I know," she smiles like the devil. So sexy. He dislikes saying goodbye. And so, it seems, does she. "Here's my card. Text every now and then. Maybe our paths will collide."
"That good, huh?" he jokes. He likes her, but doesn't want her reading too much into it.
"Lived up to the legend, Dean. Sure did," she says, looking him in the eye. She knows there's no future. She's letting him know there's no hook. But damn.
"Fucking legend, my ass. I'm just me. Not special, not different," he says hotly, both of them knowing he isn't reacting to the rumors of his sexual prowess. "I'm just me," he repeats, kicking his boots away.
"You done now? You are different. We all know the things you've done, the things maybe you were forced to do. You're a hero. We all know it, even the ones who won't say it out loud. Some men can't have heroes, Dean. So you became a campfire story. Some fear you, some are inspired by you. Some want to fuck you," she says, and has the good grace to smile. "They all respect the Winchester name and talk about Sam and your dad. But you're more legend now than man. You can accept that, or change it."
"How do I change it?"
"I don't know. Why would you? The legend is pretty damn good."
"And the man? Just me?"
"I have a feeling he might be even better."
He shakes his head, puts on his boots, grins and waves at her, and leaves. He keeps her card.
Maybe he'll call.