A/N : I'd been thinking of this story for a little while but couldn't think of a title. Then I remembered an episode of ER Misha Collins was in (11x6 I believe) and the "tiny band-aid" explanation Neela gives him. If you've seen the episode you'll know what I'm on about, and I liked the analogy. If you've not seen the episode I recommend you find the clip online if you want to see a shirtless Misha being all seductive with whiskey and Blues talk (about how Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil, no less!)
Its set around the beginning of S4, Dean's back from Hell having trouble adjusting, and so copes the only way he knows how.
Disclaimer: None of it belongs to me, it's all Kripke's. Apart from the band-aid, that belongs to the ER peeps.
Dean Winchester turned his head to take in the still form lying next to him, and sighed.
Long brown hair splayed on the pillow beside him and he could hear the gentle in and out of her breathing as she slept soundly alongside him.
They had struck up conversation after Sam, sensing the mood his brother was in, had made his excuses and returned to the motel room, leaving Dean to practise his best lines on the bar's more attractive clientele.
Dean had bought the girl a drink, she had returned the favour, and several more rounds followed, until the inevitable 'so you want to take this back to mine?' and the blurry cab ride back to the girl's house.
They'd both know what was going to happen as soon as the cabbie was paid and the front door closed behind them. Stumbling through the darkened house towards her bedroom in a comforting haze of Maker's and perfume, hands reaching, buttons opening, and they surrendered to what the whole evening had been leading up to.
A couple of hours later Dean lay gazing up at the off-white paint of the ceiling, trying to figure out what time it was by now, and knowing that sleep would be eluding him. His body stiffened briefly as the girl next to him let out a small sigh and turned in her sleep, her pale, pretty features now facing in his direction.
Don't wake up, he thought, then wondered why. Her eyes remained closed and Dean found himself trying to remember what colour they were. Blue? Green? He couldn't remember but he couldn't say he was surprised. Know he thought about it, he'd never met her gaze for more than a fleeting moment at a time. He couldn't remember her name either. Julie? Jodie? Something like that. Maybe Jenny?
Dean closed his eyes for a moment a stifled another sigh. Just hours before he'd felt good. Really good. Wanted, and desired, and invincible. All that mattered was the pretty girl, agreeing to talk to him, to drink with him until the whiskey numbed the anxious clenching in his gut and muffled the screams that still rang in his ears.
For a while all he'd known was her soft skin, the scent of her hair, the sound of shallow breaths and the warmth of a body pressed against his.
Dean rubbed a fist against his eyes as the realities of his life started to trickle back into his consciousness, unbidden and unwelcome. The problem with the patented Winchester avoidance method was that the effects didn't last too long. He never had a shortage of willing accomplices, since most women tended to fall, legs akimbo, at his feet as soon as he strolled into a bar. And he was always happy to accept their advances. He just wished the feeling lasted longer. He knew it wasn't the answer, to lose himself in drink and women, just tiny band-aids for a much deeper wound, but for now it was all he could do.
He slowly slid out from under the sheets and padded across to where his clothes had landed. He dressed quickly and silently, then turned to look at the sleeping girl. Jenny. He was pretty sure Jenny. She was a nice girl, he knew, funny and smart. Probably too smart to be getting mixed up with the likes of him, but she wouldn't need to worry about that too long. He considered waking her for a moment to say goodbye, thank her for a good time, but thought better of it. He knew she knew what tonight was, on the surface at least, and wouldn't be surprised to wake in the morning and find him gone.
He silently let himself out and started down the street, fingers already dialling for a local cab firm.
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Sam stirred awake as he heard the distant sound of tyres outside the motel room, then the thump of a car door. A moment later his brother let himself into the room, tossing his jacket onto the chair in the corner. The clock on the nightstand read 2:40.
"Good time?" he asked Dean, raising an eyebrow.
"Of course Sammy," Dean grinned, "when do I ever let the ladies down?"
Sam rolled his eyes at his brother, who flopped down onto his own bed, still fully clothed.
"Night Sammy."
Dean flicked off the light between their beds and closed his eyes, knowing that he'd finally be able to get at least a little sleep now he was back, Sam sleeping peacefully just feet away. But he also knew what waiting for him in his dreams.
Exhausted as he was, sleep was still a while coming. But when it did it still came too soon, and with it the memories and the screams and the pain that no amount of artificial oblivion could dull.