Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, nor its characters but if They who do own it would like to do tradesies I've got an awesome marble collection.
Summery: Sometimes we breeze in and out of someone's life so fast we never understand how even the most basic of actions can alter a life.
(Hope you enjoy)
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Those We Touch
She rolled over, a slight headache pounding in her temples. Damn tequila. Not just any tequila, oh no, this was Black Gold, aged to perfection, burns down your throat, and gets-you-drunk-in-less-than-eight shots-or-your-money-back tequila. The first four shots had been a good idea; numbness in a bottle, burning then blessed relief. Then three more to forget. To forget the hurt and pain of a life strewn with heartache, to forget the first four shots, and to forget why she was in some backcountry bar listing to sad songs and romantic ballads. The more she drank, the less her heart hurt. It still bled, but she couldn't feel it, couldn't care. Hell, to be truthful, she had merrily ignored it, putting on her blinders and tunnel visioning on her goal. Pure, intoxicated, uninhibited freedom, the kind that only came after your throat stopped burning, your heart stopped aching, and your mind stopped working.
She was two shots away when he walked in. Briefly noting the other behind him, she turned her attention back to the first. God, she wouldn't be surprised if this was what Adam had looked like. No wonder Eve took the Apple of Knowledge; any woman would feel the need to find an advantage with a man that good looking standing next to her, ready and willing to create a world without sin. Inadequacy, that was one of the reasons she was here. With a muttered curse, she turned her attention back to her bottle. Shouldn't tequila come with a label? A prescribed amount? 2 shots – Dizzy. 4 – A Creeping Numbness. 8 – Floating. Warning: Not For Kids. Speaking of which…The seventh shot burned the most, scorching its way down her throat and wreaking havoc on her liver. Something shifted next to her, a pair of beat up black boots appearing in her line of vision, one that was currently trying to count the amount of gum stuck to the floor. She didn't look up. She didn't need to; experience told her that with her luck, it would be Him.
He doesn't say anything, and maybe that's what got her, drew her eyes up to his face. She's surprised to find him looking at her, a slight smile parting those tender lips, those lips that make her wonder what they'd feel like pressed against hers.
"Tequila, nice choice."
His voice is melodious; she can hear the notes singing with each syllable. "Gets the job done."
He nods, understanding sparking in the depths of his hazel eyes. The smile shifts as he extends a hand.
"Dean."
She examines the hand, unwilling to let go of her bottle, her lifeline. "Nice to meet you Dean."
He raises an eyebrow when she offers no name, but doesn't press the issue.
She feels her eyes running over her lithe form appraisingly. Raising her own brow at his unabashed approval, she brushes a strand of her long brown hair back. Something in his eyes; hurt, rage, passion, pride; its all there along with something else.
"Who're you with?" She asks nodding towards Dean's companion.
"Whaa…" Dean asks, his head swiveling to follow her gaze. As his eyes come to rest, a new emotion sparks in his eyes, lighting them up like fire. "Sammy? He's my Brother."
A slow smile tugs on lips long forgotten how to. She could hear the emphasis on the word brother, the way he says it like it's sacred. She understands the fire now; understands but can't feel the heat. Love. The word long since banished from her vocabulary. She watches as he sips his beer, captivated by the feral grace in even that small gesture.
"So what's a girl like you doing in a place like this?"
She laughs, startled at the sound, and gives him a grin in return. "Same thing as you, I expect." The grin widens. There goes that eyebrow again.
"And what is that?"
Forgetting, running, searching; she wants to scream the words at him, tell him that she can see it in his eyes, that she knows and understands. "Drinking."
Dean chuckles, his eyes dancing.
Yeah, this guy has got her hooked, and he knows it. She graces him with a rare smile, a gift he can't even begin to understand. But she wants him, and she knows that it'll work.
"You wouldn't wanna-"
"Yes." She interrupts him, standing up and stepping closer to him.
Dean smiles down at her, liking her take charge attitude. No games, no damsel in distress, just me-want-you-take. He places a hand on her lower back, beginning to guide her out as he places his now empty bottle on the bar and nodding in Sam's direction.
Unresisting at his touch she grabs the Black Gold bottle and jams it into her purse for later. She lets him guide her outside, pausing only to glace up at the stars.
"Nice huh? When I was little, I used to love star gazing, makes me feel like someone is looking out for me."
Sad, like her. A sigh escapes as she wonders who he lost; who he makes himself believe is watching over him. She almost asks him, feeling the question forming on her lips. At the last second she stops, swallowing the remark and reminding herself that attachments lead to heartache and heartache leads to dirty backcountry bars like the one she's currently walking away from.
Light equals pain, exposure, so she ignores the light switch as she guides him into her cheep motel room by their clasped embrace. The reality that there is only tonight, only this moment, that he wont be here tomorrow hitting her hard and fast. There is no small talk, no big talk; just desperate need. Clothes being pealed off, hands everywhere, lips crushing against one another. She doesn't stop him, instead she feeds the fire in his eyes, gives it everything she can find and then gives it more, thinking that if she builds it high enough, she might feel the lick of flames in his kiss.
She rolls over, a slight headache pounding in her temples. Damn tequila. The smile playing on her lips betrays her. For one moment last night she felt the heat, it melted the ice entrapping her heart. Maybe today she'll bask in the sunlight; maybe today she'll walk in the light, not jumping or bolting at every shadow. She reaches for the bottle stuffed haphazardly in her bag. The eighth shot, the one to bring release. Sighing in happy anticipation her nods to herself. This will be the last one, the one to complete the ritual she had fallen into so long ago. The sound dies in her throat. Empty. The damn thing is empty. She tosses the bottle, feeling cheated, rejected, shunned, watching as it lands in the motel laundry basket. Swallowing the tears threatening to fall she turns back to the man sprawled next to her. She needs him to understand, she needs to feel the fire again, needs him to break the pattern. "Its Faith…" she whispers. "My name is Faith." A loud snore is the only response. Oh yeah, that's just her luck.