Though sleeping on a bed ice, he was writhing with heat. He felt Satan's fire fever his body from head to toe. His pulse steadily increased, until it became a hammering inside his chest. His nausea became more of a restlessness. His breath hitched and panted as a small area of his right forearm - the site of the mark, held a great deal of agony. He got up, no longer able to tolerate these strange and hideous stirrings, and knowing Sam was asleep, he decided to satiate his thirst.
He found the lead box holding the supernatural weapon deep within the Men of Letters' archives. It was locked, so he pulled out his 42 caliber and shot the lock until it opened. He thanked the stars the building was made of concrete and stone, he didn't wake Sam, what with 2 floors separating them.
He meticulously opened the box, exposing the weapon's raw and rugged hide, and gently he stroked the sabre's bodice. The feeling sent shivers down his spine. His body was telling him he needed more than to touch the sabre, so unable to part from it, he put it back in the lead box and onto the passenger seat of the Impala. He drove into the night, hoping something would distract him. He found a motel, Michelle's Motel, although the lit letters of its sign spelled hell's Motel instead, with the other letters' lights not shinning. Hell's Motel would prove to be a more than adequate name.
He planned on going to Antonio's Bar across the street getting as drunk as possible, then sleeping at the motel, not wanting to drive under the influence.
He entered the dark and grimy watering hole, where various lost souls congregated and drowned their sorrows in liquor.
He wasted no time getting to the counter, asking the barkeep for the hardest liquor available. He grimaced as the potent beverage eroded his throat.
In the midst of the crowd of a couple dozen truckers, ex-cons, ex-con-truckers and everything in between - whose faces had dread and cigarettes leathering their skin - a gorgeous woman uncharacteristically emerged. Her auburn hair draped her shoulders like a silken weeping willow, and her eyes were like a cloudy winter's night. She took a seat next to Dean, asking for a beer. He paid no special mind to her except to notice her eyes peering back at him through rebel strands, and her cherry red pucker.
"Hey there, handsome." Her voice was writhing with deep salaciousness.
"Hey," Dean rasped, as his baritone voice often did. Her proximity was dangerous. He didn't just see an intimate night between strangers; sex was hardly the loudest call of his primal urges.
"You're seem like a great guy, and yet you're out here, in this shit hole, looking sad and drinking alone. So who broke your heart?"
Dean flushed as he couldn't help but think 'Sam'. He wasn't sure if he could truly love a woman again, and Sam had been chipping away at what little shards of his heart he had left.
"Honey, I'm anything but great..." He said looking into her eyes seriously. She paused and smiled.
"Sorry, I didn't catch your name..." She said, resting a hand on his right arm. The mark pulsed. Trying to contain himself, he gently took the hand off and pulled it into a handshake.
"...Dean."
"I'm Scarlett."
Something about her smile bothered Dean.
They continued to thoroughly inebriate themselves, doing ritualistic pleasantries that came with the mating dance. Shamelessly flirting and touching and kissing at the counter.
They took to Dean's motel room. Dean was getting more aggressive with every passing moment. He tore off his clothes and threw it to the floor, Scarlett biting her lip in excitement. He rushed to her, kissing - tasting her skin - from her bosom to her lips, hastily tearing off her little crimson dress, and inside, she stirred. He pulled her body to his, and sat her pelvis into his cupped hands, pulling her up to him as she wrapped her legs around him. Her nails dug deep into the skin of his bare back, as his fingertips all but perforated the skin of her rear. Their bodies crashed onto the bed. Scarlett, lowering to the level of his hips decided to taste him, feathering him with her rose petal lips while engulfing him with deep moist warmth.
In the thick of passion, Dean muttered 'Christo' and watched as the white of Scarlett's eyes disappear.
"What 'd'you say, Honey," she asked.
"Nothin', it was just very nice is all..." He said. "Why don't you give me a quick second to grab a condom from my car."
"Don't keep me waiting long," she said, sprawling herself on the bed seductively.
Dean pulled on his jeans, his coat over his bare torso and shoes with no socks in record time.
When he returned a minute later, he excused himself to use to restroom quickly and then got back into the flow of things. Scarlett found it odd that he still had his jeans on. He pulled the prophylactic from the pocket as he went on top of her, and pulled it on, letting the jeans fall beside the bed. "Are you ready for this, baby?" The deep guttural promise in his voice piercing her chest.
"Hmm..." She barely managed.
Her eyes grew dark with every thrust, panting rhythmically with the ebb and flow of his tidal wave.
When they were finished she laid next to him, eyeing the tattoo on his chest.
"That's a nice tattoo you have there, Dean..."
"Mhmm... Do you think Emily would've liked it?"
"Who's Emily?" Scarlett only feigned incredulity.
"The brain-dead meat-suit you stole from Mount-Sinai Hospital."
A silence filled the night.
"She was going to be pulled off of life-support anyway. What difference does it make?" She shrugs off in a sigh.
How about all the people's lives you've destroyed... The people you killed... The pain you've caused...
Dean looked at her with a charming smile and stroked her cheek. She smiles back at him, kissing his neck. Dean closes his eyes and hums in pleasure. Feeling a poke on her lower abdomen, Scarlett looked under the sheets at Dean.
"Well, Dean Winchester, the mark certainly hasn't hurt your stamina," she whispers seductively pressing her nose to his. "We heard that at least one of the Winchesters knew how to show a demon a good time, but I probably should've known it was a family trait."
He eases steadily inside of her, a guttural moan ensuing. "Oh, baby, there are definitely good times to be had," he uttered, picking up pace.
She screamed, her eyes darker than ever. Through loud curse words, the people in the next room let it be known it was a disturbance.
It seemed he had a greater swell than before, which was slightly painful but she hissed happily, melting into him.
"I really thought you'd be the first..." She said in gasps. Dean chuckled in response. "I've got something that should help move things along..."
He reached alongside the bed and took the sabre from under his piled jeans. When she sensed her impending doom, she tried to use teleportation powers to move Dean. He was floating a few inches into the air before her powers began to weaken, and Dean's murderous will overpowered her. She fought hard to move him, her nose bleeding from the strain, but he thrust the sabre into her abdomen, delighting at the sound of her cries and the warmth of her blood. He felt her body go lifeless under him. And with the rush came the release he'd been gearing towards. He fell asleep, exhausted from all of the excitement.