Chapter 1: The First Time
"Yes."
Damon started almost imperceptibly and swivelled his head fully around to meet Dean's eyes, mouth opening for what was undoubtedly some infuriating smartass quip.
Dean didn't give him the chance to voice it. "Yes," he repeated firmly. Again, Damon opened his mouth and again, he cut him short. "The answer to the question you've been dying to ask since day one." He smacked his glass onto the table, mindless of the whiskey sloshing over the rim, and stood up. "It's yes."
Damon remained glued to his seat, still frozen in the same lazy, cocky body language he had had before Dean caught him off guard. He gave a snort of laughter, emptied his glass of bourbon in one swig and pointed an accusing finger at Dean. "You are drunk!"
Dean snorted. If Damon wanted to play hard-to-get, he could find himself another playmate. He threw a bill onto the table and walked towards the door without so much as another glance at Damon.
The door banged shut behind Dean as he stepped onto the parking lot. His eyelids fluttered shut as he inhaled deeply. The night air was pleasantly cool and fresh after the smoky air in the bar, just cold enough to clear his not quite drunk, just a bit fuzzy head.
There was the faintest disruption of air to Dean's left.
Dean's eyes opened to calmly meet Damon's pale blue gaze. He smiled his best butter-wouldn't-melt-on-his-tongue smile. "Hello Damon. Fancy meeting you here."
Damon snarled and in the very same moment already, Dean found himself grabbed with supernatural speed and thrown against the brick wall of the bar. Before he could so much as find his footing, Damon was already upon him, hands pinning his upper arms to the stone, lean body pressing into his so firmly he could feel the contour of every brick, Damon's belt buckle pressing into his stomach, his hard cock nudging against Dean's groin.
"Why?"
Dad had once told him, when you're meeting a predator's eyes, don't look away unless it's part of your plan. Whoever looks away first submits.
Dean didn't look away. Not even when Damon's eyes turned ugly, dark veins surrounding them like spider webs. At any other time, he would have recoiled in disgust when Damon showed himself as the monster he was. Not tonight. He ignored the revolted churning of his stomach, took the whispers of 'what would Dad think of you?' and 'what would Sammy say?' and crammed them into the same nasty back corner of his mind he had filled with so many what ifs ever since he made the deal.
"Because I've got two weeks left to live and you're on my to-do list."
The First Time
Chapter Summary
We're young and playing with fire.
The first time Dean Winchester met Damon Salvatore, Sammy had just left for college and Dad was at the other end of the country chasing a werewolf.
Meanwhile, Dean was halfway to getting piss drunk in Middle-Of-Nowhere, Nebraska. If he got there all the way he might be able to forget the trusting look in little Annie's eyes when he promised to get her out of there, right before that fucker had grabbed her and squashed her skull like a tomato.
He refilled his glass to the rim, idly wondering why he bothered with the glass at all, when a man slid onto the barstool to his left. He gave a little annoyed grunt and concentrated fully on lifting the glass to his lips without spilling any of the precious liquid promising oblivion.
The stranger grabbed Dean's bottle, sniffed at it and recoiled. "I believe they used this to tan leather in my day."
Dean looked up then, to shoot the stranger a glare of such strength that it could be used to tan leather, too. He barely stifled another groan as he got a good look at his new drinking buddy. Cocky smirk to go with the dark hair and blue eyes, not to mention the inability to recognize a man who wanted to be left the fuck alone. "Fuck off."
"Don't say that!" the man exclaimed with the wide hurt eyes of a wounded baby animal. "This could be the start of a beautiful friendship!"
Dean shot him a lazy glare. "Your face and my fist, that's a beautiful friendship."
He hummed thoughtfully as if Dean had just said something awfully interesting and ordered bourbon.
Blessed silence returned while the stranger sipped at his bourbon and Dean worked his way through two more glasses of cheap whiskey.
"Name's Damon," the man said suddenly. "Damon Salvatore."
Dean eyed the hand in front of his face as if it might bite him any moment. He considered ignoring Damon Salvatore, but Dean had the distinct feeling he would only take it as a challenge. He shook the hand reluctantly, idly noting the coldness of it. "Dean." He paused; taken aback by himself that he had given his true name. Maybe he was just that far past caring tonight, but it was sloppy anyway. He wasn't nearly drunk enough to fuck up this bad.
"So what's a pretty boy like you doing here all alone, Dean?" he drawled.
Dean tensed and turned around on his barstool to face Damon, ready to get on with that whole fist, meet face business. Damon wore a charming smile, but his eyes were laughing, laughing at Dean and his indignation. Dean turned back to face the bar again. "Asshole," he muttered, just loud enough Damon for Damon to overhear.
Damon chuckled cruelly in response. "Do you play pool?"
Dean opened his mouth to tell him once more to fuck off, but he bit down on his tongue at the last moment. Pretty boy looked rich. "Sure," he drawled, grabbed the bottle to pour himself another glass, but instead grabbed the glass as well. With both in hand, he sauntered to the pool table.
It was a weekday evening, the bar was nearly empty. They had the pool table all to themselves and made good use of it.
For all that he was a cocky son of a bitch, Damon played well, Dean surmised after Damon had won the first game.
He had no doubt he was better and threw fifty bucks onto the table as Damon lined up the balls for the next game. "Best two out of three?"
Damon gave a lazy shrug of his shoulders and added his stakes. "Sure."
Dean leant against the pool table, cue in one hand, glass in the other and watched Damon line up his shot. He let his eyes linger on the slim hips and lean thighs. "So what are you doing here? You don't look like the country bumpkin type."
It was a reasonable question to ask since the bar was mostly frequented by truckers and other people passing through. And these had been Dean's last fifty bucks, Baby's fuel tank was nearly empty. Time to up the game.
Damon looked up and his lips curled into a wicked smirk. "I'm on a hunting trip."
Dean didn't even try to stifle his answering smirk. "Funny, so am I."
"You couldn't handle my game."
Dean raised his glass to salute Damon's opening shot. "Nor could you handle mine. You'd run away screaming like a little girl."
Damon pretended to think about it, tilting his head this way and that. Finally, he shook his head decisively. "Nope. Doesn't sound like me. Sorry."
He stepped aside to let Dean make his shot and as they brushed past another, he leant so close towards him Dean could feel his cool breath against his ear as he spoke. "Bet I could make you scream like a girl, princess," he drawled. His voice was sultry enough, but Dean had been threatened by too many monsters to miss the menacing undertone.
By the time Dean whirled around, Damon wore that too-charming-to-be-real face again, complete with happy eyes surrounded by friendly little crinkles and nice smile. Dean shook his head, feeling slightly disoriented. He would have thought he had only imagined it, but the hairs at the back of his neck still stood on edge. Dean shook his head again. He was just being paranoid. "Your turn," he said, voice gruff from annoyance with himself.
For a while, they played with barely any conversation, just the usual bar small talk.
Late into the second game, the subject turned to women.
"It's not worth it, falling in love." Dean gave a dismissive snort. "You can have fun without the chick flick bullshit." He rubbed the back of his neck; he didn't feel like pouring out his heart to a stranger. Dean couldn't even say why he was answering such a personal question; it was just hard to deny Damon an answer when he looked deep into your eyes like that.
There was a predatory glint in Damon's eyes, a self-satisfied tilt to his smirking lips; as if this conversation was going exactly the way he wanted. It just added to Dean's discomfort. "I was in love once, a long time ago. Her name was Katherine. My brother Stefan and I both loved her." He laughed. "Women can be cruel, Dean!"
Despite himself, Dean was intrigued. Not by some stranger's old love story, but by the fact Damon was sharing it with him. Some people told their entire life story to strangers over a pint of beer, but he wouldn't have pegged Damon for the type. "So who did she choose?"
The amusement vanished from Damon's face. "She didn't get to choose," he said coolly. "Both of us lost her."
There was an awkward moment of silence. Dean had seen enough hunters with haunted pasts to know Damon didn't mean she had ditched both of them. "I'm sorry," he said awkwardly.
"Don't say you're sorry," Damon hissed. As he leant over the table to play, Dean realized how tense he was, all taut muscles and barely contained fury. "Apologies won't bring her back." He raised his head suddenly, met Dean's gaze. His eyes were cold and hard. "People like the ones who did that to Katherine, they've got to pay."
"Sure thing," Dean said easily, yet he wished he had never asked. If he wanted this kind of conversation, he would be drinking with hunters.
Their play continued in silence, Damon seemed preoccupied with his anger and Dean was content to play and drink in peace. If he spent some time watching Damon as well, there was no harm in looking, was there?
All things considered, it was a comfortable, companionable silence, though Dean occasionally caught Damon watching him with a peculiar glint in his eyes. Dean could have sworn he looked thoughtful, maybe calculating, but before he could be certain he hadn't imagined it, he was always back to normal. He tried not to be concerned. He could handle whatever a human could throw at him, and if he wasn't… Killing a monster would be just what he needed.
"That was fun!" Dean said cheerfully and grabbed both fifty dollar bills, waving them around teasingly under Damon's nose. His grin turned only more sickeningly sweet with Damon's glower. "Thank you for your kind donation!" He stuffed the money into the back pocket of his jeans and picked up the bottle to pour himself another glass of whiskey. Not a single drop of whiskey came out. Dean gave it a mournful shake and eyed Damon again. "You're paying."
Damon flashed him a lascivious grin over his shoulder as he strolled back to the bar, hips rolling provocatively with every step. "Only if you're gonna make it worth my time…"
Heat flooded Dean's body, rushing towards his groin as he followed him to the bar. He let his eyes linger on the well-toned backside. "I'm easy, not cheap," he said with a mock coy smirk. He wasn't sure if Damon was just messing around, but he decided he wouldn't mind if he wasn't.
Wearing a cocky smirk, Damon stepped right in front of him, cornering Dean against the bar. They didn't quite touch, but they were close enough for their open jackets to brush another. "You know what they say," he murmured, "dogs who bark don't bite…"
Dean scowled. He wasn't going to play the girl for anyone. He stepped forward, crossing the hand's width separating their chests and pushing farther, forcing Damon to step back if he didn't want them both to get kicked out of the bar. "Worry about yourself, Salvatore."
Damon's eyebrows rose playfully. "What do you think I'm doing?"
"Oh, I don't know. Trying to get laid?"
"Alright, you caught me!" Damon raised his hands in mock surrender. "I'm all for mixing business and pleasure, sue me."
Dean grimaced. Business was the last thing he wanted to think about, even if it was only mentioned in jest. Before his mind's eye, he saw the girl's head being squashed again. Fuck, Dean needed more booze. Or Damon giving him a spectacular blowjob. Whatever he could get first. "I'm not." He winked. "Why don't we forget business and focus on pleasure?"
He would never learn Damon's answer, for at the very moment he opened these sinfully smirking lips to respond, Dean's cell rang.
Swearing, he reached into his jacket to grab it. Dean caught a glance at the screen as he raised it to his ear and swore again. He turned his back to Damon. "Dad."
"Dean," John Winchester's voice came over the line, calm, but grim. "It looks like they've got an entire pack."
Dean's stomach dropped and twisted in the same motion. Tomorrow night was full moon. "I'm on my way." He turned back to Damon, not surprised to see he had used the time to order more drinks. He smiled tightly. "I have to leave."
He had expected Damon to be put out or at the very least accuse him of being a coward again, but he didn't. He gave a languid shrug. "Of course."
Relieved that he wouldn't have to deal with any melodrama, Dean made his way to the door, his mind already mapping the fastest route and taking mental inventory of the Impala's silver weapons.
Only when he had reached the door did Dean permit himself to throw a glance back at Damon.
"See you around, Dean Winchester," Damon drawled lazily and raised his glass in mock salute.
Dean was a state away by the time he sobered up enough to realize he had never told Damon his last name.
He thought about turning back, hunting him down and demanding answers, but dismissed the thought almost as soon as it had formed. Dad was in deep shit and every minute counted.
By the time the werewolves were dead and their wounds patched up, they had a possible lead on the monster that had killed Mom and then it was just one thing after another.
Damon Salvatore was relegated to a fond memory for quality time with himself in the shower until Dean forgot him altogether.
to be continued...
