SUMMARY: A distracted Dean runs into a bit of trouble at a local bar. We'll set this in season 4 for kicks, shall we?
WARNINGS: A little language, a little kink. My own take on a monster, so sorry if it doesn't suit.
A/N: This is sort of a deviation from my usual fare. But it's a birthday request so you don't have to love it. In any case, happy birthday, butterfly! :)
She'd heard the rumors. Hell, everyone had.
They'd said he was impressive. All lethal edge and ferocious skill wrapped in a disarming burrito of schoolboy charm. Of course folks were prone to bullshitting, especially in her line of work.
She'd heard all about Alastair's star pupil - the murderer with the bleeding heart. The sadistic bastard with a guilt complex the size of Texas.
The man who was trying to save the entire godforsaken world.
Winchester.
She rolled the hated name around on her tongue. It tasted like rancid vinegar. A bitter, poisonous word every one of her kind had been taught to fear.
And yet there was something undeniably alluring about him. You couldn't help but be a little star-struck by the celebrities who'd escaped Hell and lived to tell about it.
Recklessness would be her downfall. But tonight she intended to do her appetite the justice it deserved.
So it was with an appreciative curiosity that she approached the rugged legend hunched over what must have been his sixth whiskey.
He sat alone, shoulders ridged with tension, swilling the amber liquid around in his glass, glaring furiously at something a million miles away. In spite of his currently haggard appearance, like a dishrag that had been used to wipe up one too many messes, he was still the most fascinating human she had ever seen; and a hunter no less.
The very prospect made her stomach clench in anticipation.
Maybe it was just all the hype. But in his case she was willing to bet exaggeration wasn't part of the package. There was something instinctively primal about him. Even in his apparent state of relaxation he exuded that "don't fuck with me" vibe.
She licked her lips, tasting the peppermint lip gloss she'd applied only moments before. This was going to be fun.
Sidling up beside his barstool, she strategically reached across for a paper napkin and daintily proceeded to slosh the contents of her glass all over his exposed knuckles. Gasping in feigned embarrassment she began clumsily dabbing his dripping hand with several of the napkins.
"Oh my gosh," she squeaked, appropriately horrified. "I'm so sorry. This is so embarrassing. I didn't get your pants wet did I?"
His free hand hovered as he glared. Upon contact, he'd reached down underneath his jacket but stopped himself in time to properly assess her. He withdrew his hand and quirked a bemused eyebrow at her fumbling ministrations. A bit of the bleariness dissipated from his exhausted eyes. He cleared his throat and smiled as she fretted over the mess she'd made.
"Uh, no. No, it's okay. Don't worry about it."
And just like that his features softened, the deadly persona evaporating into a charming mixture of obvious lust and boyish playfulness. He slipped out from underneath her hand and wiped the residual droplets on his jeans.
"I feel like a total idiot," she continued, offering him a sheepish smile in return.
"Trust me, I've had worse. No harm no foul." He raised the glass to his lips and slowly raked his eyes over her body, perusing with non-too-subtle appreciation. "What's your poison?"
"Wanna take a guess?" She snatched his invitation and pointed towards the array of bottles with her chin, leaning forward to rest both elbows on the bar.
"I'm not good at guessing games."
"And I'm guessing you're better than you think you are."
He shrugged noncommittally and ordered two whiskey shots. Okay, so he wasn't but A for effort.
"Do we know each other?" he finally asked, eyebrows furrowing as if attempting to recall a forgotten memory.
"Oh sorry," she took a sip of her whiskey and tried not to grimace at the stinging sensation as the disgusting stuff burned a path down her throat. "I'm Grace. And I would definitely remember meeting you."
"Dean," he replied, perking up noticeably at her compliment.
"Dean," she repeated slowly. "That was my granddad's name."
He frowned in mock indignation before cracking a Cheshire-like grin. "I gotta be honest, I'm not sure what to do with that."
She giggled in her best slightly-tipsy-college-girl falsetto and shook her head at him, "No, no it's a good thing. He was a Nam vet. Defended our sorry-ass country and made the best homemade chili you ever tasted. He was kinda like my hero."
"Wow," Dean shook his head and downed the rest of his drink. "Now how do I compete with that?"
"You can't," Grace teased, pausing briefly to chew at her bottom lip. "But you can buy me another and keep me company if you like."
Dean turned his body to face her on the stool and his smile lit up every single one of his tantalizing features. Damn, he was attractive.
"Fair enough," he winked.
"So," she took another sip and drummed her fingers lightly against the skin of his hand. "Do you make a habit of brooding by yourself in bars?
"Nah, it's really just a Tuesday night thing," he quipped without missing a beat. "You?"
"Oh, I definitely make a habit of spilling drinks on brooding patrons most days of the week."
He snorted rather drunkenly and Grace wondered if the venom would even be necessary. At this rate she'd have hers and then some by morning. She'd been expecting rough and tumble, hard-to-get like the others, but this was almost too easy. At any rate she'd inject him for good measure.
"I suppose I have to make up for that little mishap don't I?" she purred, grinning in satisfaction as she watched him swallow rather desperately. "Next rounds on me."
"Whatever you say, Grace."
No, couldn't have curiosity killing the cat just yet. She wanted to enjoy this.
oooooooooooo
"Jesus," Dean breathed, reaching out to steady himself against the sticky bar top.
His head was swimming, heartbeats thumping like a frantic cacophony of drums inside his skull.
How much had he had to drink?
"Dean? Baby, you all right?"
Dean blinked groggily at the brunette as she placed a gentle hand on his cheek. The moment her fingers made contact his body ignited in a dizzying wave of heat. The sudden rush of pleasure was enough to make him gasp.
Her hand slid away and the weird euphoric sensation vanished. Suddenly he felt like twelve different kinds of crap.
"Um," he slurred, hoping his tongue sounded like it was cooperting. "I think m'gonna head out."
"So soon?" Her pretty mouth turned downwards into a becoming pout and Dean wished like hell he hadn't gotten so drunk.
"Early mornin', sweetheart." He offered an apologetic smile, then added without thinking, "Brother's waitin'…"
"Oh," she sighed, sliding off the bar stool and inching closer to press her hips against his thigh. "Are you sure there's nothing I could do to change your mind? We were having so much fun..." She whispered the last few words, watching his eyes droop and his lips part as she leaned in. His hot, alcohol soaked breath tickled her nose, sending a pleasant shiver down the length of her spine.
"Ah, fuck…" Dean whispered in defeat. She cupped her hand firmly around the nape of his neck and pulled him in. His tongue danced with hers as she deepened the kiss. She tasted like peppermint and burning ash.
He was on the verge of gagging when the feeling suddenly evaporated as the same paralyzing pleasure began sluicing through him in vicious waves.
"Now," she pulled away and watched the green irises disappear as his pupils dilated nearly black. "What were you saying?"
"You –" Dean gulped several times before reaching out to slide both hands around the small of her back. "God, you're beautiful, Grace."
She laughed as his hands wandered further down, exploring the curves of her body while she rocked gently against him.
"And you have an incredible ass," he murmured dreamily as he buried his face in her hair. His mouth roamed hungrily over the exposed skin of her neck and down to her shoulder blades.
"Mmm," she hummed, enjoying the sensation of his lips against her skin. "You're not so bad yourself."
He growled, a throaty, needy sound as she ran her hand along the inside of his thigh to cup him.
"Christ, buddy," an irate voice interrupted.
Dean's entire body jerked as if woken from a nightmare. Grace was forced to let go.
"Huh?" he muttered, staring in confusion at the bartender glaring disgustedly at them.
"Take it outside would'ya?" the man barked. "No one wants to fucking see that."
"We were just leaving," Grace intercepted, grabbing a hold of Dean's jacket sleeve and leading him towards the door after slapping a few bills on the counter.
"I need to… need to –" Dean broke off in rather pitiful confusion once they were outside. He winced and doubled over, grasping his knees as he heaved out a few ragged breaths. "I don' feel right."
Grace huffed in frustration and found her spot on the back of his neck once more. "You'll feel better in a minute."
Dean groaned in response. "Need to call S'mmy…"
"C'mon," Grace urged, gently tugging him upright. "You can wait for him at my place. It's just back this way."
"Yeah," Dean slurred as the sick feeling abruptly vanished and throbbing heat scorched his senses. The tangy smell of peppermint filled his nostrils as he watched her beautiful curves glide down the street. "Yeah, okay."
She led him down a narrow alleyway, ducked into a door whose chipped blue paint had seen better days and then Dean couldn't recall much after that.
The minutes disintegrated into a blurry reel of colorful snippets, each one overflowing with disoriented sensations, blissful touching and feral moments of pain. And always in the back of his mind was the nagging realization that something was amiss. Something about what was happening wasn't right.
Then Grace climbed on top of him, running her hands over his bare stomach, whimpering, "Dean, fuck me," while she stroked and teased and kissed and her skin rubbed flush against his and suddenly nothing else mattered at all.
oooooooooo
The trail hadn't been difficult to follow. When Dean hadn't picked up he'd pounced on his suspicion. She was sloppy and desperate for her next fix. So when he burst through the door and found the bitch straddling his half-naked, semi-conscious brother he could've kicked himself for leaving Dean alone.
The brunette's blue eyes widened in hopeless terror as her head spun around to see the giant fuming in the doorway. She held up her hands in pointless defense as he strode towards her, preparing to snuff out her life.
"Wait," she breathed. He didn't.
Sam pushed her convulsing body off his brother and didn't stop to watch as she disintegrated into a puddle before his eyes.
oooooooooo
"Dean."
The voice jarred his head. The obvious annoyance burdening that solitary word made him want to curl up in a ball and bury himself in a dark corner somewhere. He heard himself groaning.
"Dean."
His mouth tasted like chalk and stale bourbon. Jesus Christ. The gunk coating his eyelids protested as he forced them open.
Sam's pissed off glare greeted him along with twenty-freaking-thousand megawatts of florescent sunshine flickering overhead.
"Wha'…" he croaked, grimacing at the parched dryness clogging his throat.
Sam huffed air in relief and helped him sit up, "Seriously, Dean." Weird how his little brother sounded like a disappointed mother chastising her child.
Dean waited for his vision to stop somersaulting before glancing around the dingy hole-in-the-wall. He'd been lying on his back, sprawled out over the ratty, moldy carpet like a human bear rug.
"Sam," his voice was a rusty engine sputtering to back life. He coughed harshly. "Where're my pants?"
"How the fuck should I know?" Sam groused. And yet his steadying hand never left Dean's back, waiting until he was certain his brother wouldn't keel over. "You okay?" His tone was thick with begrudging concern.
"I…no –" Dean gulped, eyes roving helplessly around the room before settling on his brother. "Sam, what happened?"
Sam gestured over to a gooey pile of greyish ash, tendrils of smoke circling up and disappearing into vapor.
"You were almost siren bait. Nice going by the way."
"You mean," Dean paused to wipe a shaky hand over his mouth. "All those weird –"
"Yep," Sam cut him off, glaring pointedly. "That was her. You really know how to pick 'em, Dean."
"Sounds like I didn't have much of a choice."
"Knowing you," Sam shook his head and puckered his lips into a irritatingly smug expression. "It was probably going to be her easiest meal all week."
Dean carefully rolled up onto his knees, bracing his weight with one hand while he pushed himself to his feet. He felt the color leeching from his face as the scenery swayed and Sam's hand gripped his bicep tighter.
"Oh god," he groaned, sagging heavily against Sam's side. "I don't like this."
"You gonna be sick?" Sam asked, bracing his free hand over Dean's chest as his brother tilted a little too far forward.
Dean swallowed a few times then carefully shook his head.
"Maybe later," he muttered dryly, grimacing as his stomach continued protesting every movement.
Sam frowned and wrapped his arm underneath Dean's shoulder. "Let's get out of here."
"I need m'pants," Dean whined, cheeks brightening with embarrassment.
Sam growled in frustration and balanced his brother against the wall to search for the pants. He found them slung over the headboard and tossed them at Dean along with his jacket.
Minutes later Sam had managed to bundle his brother into the car and soon they were screeching out of town.
Dean rubbed his flushed cheek against the chilly glass window and wrapped a protective hand around his stomach, pretending to ignore Sam's nervous glances.
"How you doin'?" Sam finally ventured. "Tell me if you need to pull over. You're probably gonna feel like shit until that stuff works its way out of your system."
"I feel violated," Dean muttered without any real conviction as he rubbed a hand absently underneath his shirt. "Violated shit."
"Sorry," Sam mumbled, visibly clamming up at what he must have perceived as an accusation.
Dean rolled his head to look at his brother. "Dude," he cracked a halfhearted smile. "It was almost worth it."
Sam snorted in disbelief, "Are you serious right now?"
"She was fuckin' hot, Sammy," Dean hummed at the memory. "A sexy, supernatural-serial-killer siren." He snorted at his own ridiculous babbling.
"Man," Sam blew out a breath. "Are you still high?"
"Probably," Dean grinned as his eyes drifted.
"Do you know what she looked like in a mirror?"
"Don't kill my buzz, Sammy."
"Whatever, dude. You're welcome."
Without bothering to crack open his heavy eyes, Dean reached over to thump his brother's arm.
"Bitch."
END