Normal

a/n A quick note to the Supernatural scriptwriters: (sung to the tune of Papa Roach's "Last Resort") Cut my heart into pieces, can't take this anymore! This angsting = no squeeing. Don't give a f-k, 'cause inside I'm bleeding! ::guitar/sobbing solo:: Can't take this anymore!

Moving on… I will admit that this piece is more for my own feels than anything. And yes, I am aware there's some bad grammar, etc, involved. Still, it's from Dean's POV, so, whatever.

… …

…

Dean understood that Sam was seriously pissed at him. And he wanted to do right by Kevin. But the Winchester genes ran to stubborn, and the older hunter would never regret any action, no matter how stupid, if it kept Sam alive and well.

That thought wasn't helping things, though, as Sam threw another glare over his shoulder, somehow both distant and furious, and told Dean to go away while the taller man studied up on their latest case.

The older brother rolled his eyes and kept pacing.

Frustrated, Sam spat, "Why don't you go out and do something, I dunno, normal?"

Normal? Dean almost scoffed. He wasn't entirely sure what normal was anymore. Yeah, he got that Sam meant head to the nearest bar and hustle pool, or start a fight, or get a drink, or pick up a girl. And he guessed this was just more proof that the other hunter didn't really know Dean anymore. That his little broth- (Nope, not brothers anymore, not according to Sam.) -Sam, hadn't been paying attention to Dean's actions in a while, beyond the ones he had issues with. Because the older Winchester almost couldn't remember the last time he had had a roll in the sheets, a bar fight, or won some money at pool.

Yeah, he still drank. Except, he'd been trying to cut himself off sooner, about every day (since he was 14 and had looked old enough that his fake ID passed muster) had ended with a cold glass of something alcoholic, or a bottle of beer. It had been bad on and off since. Dean wouldn't deny that. He had fallen into and out of alcoholism as easily as breathing.

The whole Trials fiasco, and the angels falling, and then that sonuvabitch Ezekiel, or Gadreel, or whatever, had forced him to cut back. Way back. He couldn't afford to have his judgement impaired.

Now, though, maybe Sammy- (No, Sam. Sam, goddammit!) -Sam was right. Maybe it was time to fall into some old patterns. See if a little dust up in a bar, or getting too smashed to walk straight, or tricking some jackass out of his money, or finding a pretty girl to spend the night with, would help that feeling in his chest (It felt like a slow-motion black hole.) stop for a little while.

So he grabbed his keys and wallet, slung on a jacket, and drove out to the place they'd passed on their way into the town yesterday. From what he could see, it was more of a pub. Didn't change the effect of alcohol on his system, though. Or whether the ladies inside were both interested and interesting.

She was sitting at the end of the bar, and at a guess, probably had a couple years on him. (Still, that wasn't necessarily a bad thing.) Dark curls, freckles on honey colored skin, red lips, tight blue jeans that clung pretty snug to her ass and hips, and a low cut black top, she was definitely putting off a vibe of looking for some company. And from what he could see, she would be worth spending some time with, sans clothes. When amused blue eyes met his over the top of her shot glass, he sent her a nod, followed shortly by a drink.

It was less than ten minutes before they were in his car and headed to her motel room. He was more than a little relieved when she pointed him in the opposite direction of the place he was staying with Sammy- Sam.

And then they were parking, and she was wrestling with the key and the lock on the door, and they were inside, as he pressed her up against the nearest wall, lips roving, hands everywhere, both unconsciously making low, curious noises as they started to map out their partner.

This went on for a few minutes, until they slowed, and she disentangled herself, a strange smile on her lips as she moved backward. "Gimme a minute to freshen up, sweetheart."

Turning on her high heels, she headed for the connecting bathroom and slid the door almost shut.

Dean yanked off his boots, shortly followed by everything except boxers, and plonked onto the bed, stretching out and grinning. Yup, he remembered how to do normal.

Except… the more time she was out of the room, the less excited he felt. And he started to wonder what the point was, really.

One minute, three minutes, five, he sprawled across the cheap bedspread, covered in (The hell? Where those-?) ducks, wrists crossed and pressed to his forehead, and tried to psyche himself up. Finally, he groaned, low and frustrated, then called out, "Listen, uh- I'm sorry, but I don't really think I can… I mean, right now my head's sorta…" He trailed off, with no clue how to explain.

Then her smoky voice replied, rueful, from over by the bathroom, "Yeah. Just realized it's pretty much the same for me."

Opening his eyes, Dean glanced over, and for half a second cursed himself out. His original hypothesis that the woman would look sexy as hell out of her clothes was the truth. She stood, leaning against the doorframe, wearing nothing but a lacy bra-and-pantie set that set off her curves and made his dick take interest. Not enough, though. Her body language was apologetic, arms wrapped loosely around her waist, shoulder to the frame, one leg straight, the other tucked up slightly behind it, and her head tilted down to one side. "Believe me, gorgeous, any other night, I'd be all over you. Except…"

Raising a brow, he sat up a bit. "Except?"

A light shrug. "Family stuff. Nothing messes you up as bad as them."

That won a dark laugh, and Dean nodded, dropping back flat onto the bed. "Tell me about it."

"Yeah?"

A moment passed while he bit his lip, before admitting, "My brother. Who says he's not my brother anymore."

She walked forward, the enticing sway in her hips having been replaced by what appeared to be her natural step, and perched on the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry, hon."

"You?" he asked, turning toward her.

Lying down beside him, her eyes glanced away as she brought her hands up and picked at her nails. "My mom. My baby sister's getting married, and I'm still single at 42."

Dean tried to think of anything worth saying, and when her gaze swept across him again, she let out a little chuckle. "Don't worry, most guys, it's not really something they ever think about."

Snorting, he acknowledged her words. "That's the truth."

"This might seem sort of hypocritical," she softly asked, "but if you're that out of it, why pick me up at all?"

A half-smile slipped onto his lips. "I thought I could do 'normal' tonight."

"Sometimes, normal doesn't really come in to it, sweetheart," she admitted, sharing a sad smile before scooting over to fall across him, and their arms automatically curled around one another. They both knew this was as far as it was going tonight. Two lost people hanging onto each other, searching for quiet comfort, for a few hours at least.

In the morning when Dean woke up, she was gone, except a note scrawled in lipstick on the bathroom mirror.

Thanks, gorgeous.

He couldn't remember her name.