Because instead of working on things I've already started, I decide to start something new.

Warnings: Possible triggers including substance abuse, suicidal thoughts, eating disorders.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. I have nothing witty to add in this space today.


"You're beautiful."

She looks at him, eyebrow raised curiously. He's staring up at her, smiling brightly, blue eyes shiny and wide.

"Yeah, I'm sure," she laughs out sardonically, smirking.

He scrambles to sit up and look her in the face, smile still wide and so pure it hurts to look at. "I mean it, you are." And he sounds so damn happy about it that she can't squash the reflex to roll her eyes.

"Whatever." She takes a long, lazy drag of her cigarette, paper burning away to ash, and she almost chokes on the burn, the smoke getting the best of her for once.

"That's so bad for you." She glances at him out of the corner of her eye, and he's looking at her so earnestly that it sends bugs to skittering under her skin and her fingers to twitching.

She wants to respond As are most things I do to myself, but instead says, "Tell me something I don't know," smirking languidly at him. His smiles softens, blue eyes looking oh so sad, and so she returns her attention to the window.


The party is loud and raucous, and she's not sure how many different kinds of drugs she's taken, never mind how many drinks she's had. It might be enough to kill her if she's not careful, and she never is. But that's completely fine by her because it numbs the pain, and she's never much cared if she died anyway. The Russian roulette might be half the fun by this point. And then her eyes meet blue, and she smiles, about as happy a smile as she's ever managed, and she saunters over to him, trying to remember that her feet have to stay on the ground and she can't really fly like the cocktail in her system tries to make her think she can.

Her eyes never leave his as she makes her way through the sea of bodies, trying hard not to spill her drink. He meets her half way, smiling at her like she hung the damn moon.

"Great party, huh?" she drawls, and he chuckles at the sarcasm that drizzles from it. "Dance with me?" she asks, and it's soft enough that she'd feel uncomfortably vulnerable if the drugs hadn't reasonably dulled all unpleasant sensation.

His smile softens. "Of course, my lady." He takes her free hand, spinning her around. Her drink sloshes sloppily over the edge of her cup, but she hardly minds.

They dance for what feels like hours, though it surely is no where near, the space between them closing more with each new beat of music until finally they're on top of each other and his lips meet hers or hers meet his, she doesn't really know what came first. When they start pawing at each other in an inebriated haze, she pulls away with a mean little nip to his bottom lip. "Let's find somewhere a little more private, yeah?"

He nods mutely, clearly dazed between the lust and the alcohol, and as she leads him to some random bedroom, the fleeting thought that she should feel guilty for being such a bad influence passes through her mind, but guilt was a feeling lost somewhere between the last pill she popped and the drink she lost somewhere between dancing and kissing. Which is fine. It'd just get in the way of fucking, anyway.


When she wakes up the next morning, it's to a hangover the size of Texas and wide, bloodshot, blue eyes watching her dazedly. He smiles at her, for all the world looking like he's just found the greatest treasure mankind has ever seen instead of the biggest headache she's sure he's ever had. She smiles back, a soft, genuine one she didn't even know she was capable of when sober. Maybe she's still fucked up.


They never really talk about it, never admit it was some kind of mistake. Instead, they fall into a sort of relationship. She lets it happen because it should be fun for awhile, even if she knows it won't last. She has no misconceptions about his intentions in this- he wants to fix her, she can see it in his eyes. Only, she doesn't wanted to be fixed. She probably can't be fixed. But for as aware of his intentions as she is, she's not sure he understands them fully himself. He doesn't seem to realize that this is all about what he can do for her instead of what she can do for him, and she should probably appreciate that fact. But even if she doesn't, she can appreciate how besotted he is with her, and she can appreciate how nice it feels for a little while. Because she's always been more than a little smitten with him herself, ever since they sat next to each other in their freshman lit class and debated on Milton's Paradise Lost.

It honestly lasts longer than she ever expects, and it's nice to feel cared for even if she's just a project.


I plan for this to be three parts, MAYBE four, but probably just three. The next part will be longer than this, I promise.