"What the fuck were you thinking?" he raged.
"What the fuck business is it of yours?" she retorted.
"Well, in case you hadn't noticed, we're working together now. I'm not crazy about the idea, but that's the way it is, so you need to start thinking about somebody other than yourself and your raging hormones before you throw yourself at the next guy that comes your way, alright?"
"You know what, Dean? Fuck you! You fucking hypocrite," she spat.
"And just what is that supposed to mean?"
"It means that you don't get to judge me. You get to go out and get yourself laid whenever shit gets to be too much for you, instead of talking about it, like normal people!"
"Oh? Well, now who's being hypocritical? If 'normal' people talk about shit, then why aren't you talking, huh?"
Her face crumpled just a bit, but she struggled to maintain her composure as she paced the living room. Sam, anticipating the blowout that had been brewing since…well, almost since he and his brother had stepped cautiously into this woman's house the week before…had long since retreated to the room he and Dean were sharing. "You want to know why I don't talk about it? Well, fuck, Dean, I guess it's because I don't have anybody! Okay? Is that what you wanted to hear? I'm not ready to talk to my mom, and I wouldn't even if I were ready. Jesus, you've met her! She loves me and wants to support me, I know that. But she's, like, a fucking Stepford Wife, she's so goddamn perfect and so goddamn uptight! She knows about all this crap, but I can't talk to her about it because her greatest desire in life is to pretend that it doesn't exist! And I can't talk to anyone else, because anyone else would think I'm fucking nuts!"
She stopped ranting and paced in silence for a few seconds. Then, "But if you want me to talk, then fine, I'll talk. Last Sunday, I found out that my husband left me for a werewolf. A werewolf, Dean! And I found out that he was a fucking werewolf, too. For two months, I lived with a real live lycanthrope, and I didn't even know the goddamn difference! What does that say about me?! It sure as hell doesn't make me a good fucking wife. What was I doing that was so important that I couldn't keep this from happening to him, huh? Going out and getting plastered in a desperate attempt to forget how much my life sucked at home? Is that why I had to kill my husband, Dean? Because I was restless and disenchanted with my marriage?"
He made as if to cut in, but she continued before he could. "You know what really sucks? If I were a good wife, when he asked me to join him, to let him change me, I would have at least considered it. But I didn't. Not for one second. I knew from the moment he stepped into that clearing that I had to take him out, and the fact that I was bound to him 'til death do us part didn't factor into it at all. You balked at the very thought of killing Sam, not to save just yourself, but to save the world! And when Sam had to shoot Madison, he didn't do it because he wanted her dead. He did it because he cared about her and she asked him to. She fucking begged him to kill her! But me? I didn't have any valiant and noble reason for putting those bullets in Isaac. I did it because he had to die and that was just the way it was, and I didn't even…" She stopped and took a long shuddering breath. "I didn't even tell him I loved him before I…" She stood in the middle of the room, shaking like a leaf. "Dean, what does it mean when a person can't cry about having done the things I've done? I've tried and tried, but I can't seem to make myself shed a single tear for Isaac since I walked out of that clearing. I used to be able to cry about things. I remember being able to cry and let out my emotions and feel things. But I can't feel anything at all right now. Dean, what does that mean?"
She stood there in her tight-fitting low-rise jeans, and her red brocade bustier, and her red fuck-me heels. Her hair was still held in place with black and red chopsticks, her already striking eyes were still enhanced with hints of smoky color. She still looked like the woman who had left a radioactive Ken doll by the name of Brad lying bloody on the floor of the bar they had just left. But to Dean, she also looked like Sam had on so many occasions. Confused, bereft, so very vulnerable, so very innocent. Well, Dean couldn't really hold his little brother anymore, not after everything that Sammy had seen and done, not now that he'd become a man. Winchesters weren't into that kind of shit. But Dean could hold this overwhelmed and shaking woman. So he did. And after a moment of stiffness, of trying to hold herself together, of fighting to appear strong in front of her charge, she let go and relaxed into his arms.
After a moment, Dean pulled back and looked at her still-strained face. Mustering a tone that his father had often used on him and hoping against hope that it would work on her, he ordered, "Cry" before hauling her back against his chest. She let out a shaky breath and then she did as he said. She cried. She mumbled unintelligibly about hate, mistrust, failure, insecurity, anger, alcohol, and even polygamy, and her tears went on until Dean and Melody both wondered if they would ever stop. The thought that she might drown in her own tears only made her cry harder. Dean maneuvered them both to the sofa, without releasing his hold on her, and pulled her into his lap, where she continued to sob into his shirt. He murmured meaningless words of comfort into her hair, but didn't try to get her to stop crying.
Truth be told, on occasion he wished he could cry like this, too. Sometimes, the hunt got to be just a little too much for him. Sometimes, Sammy came just a little too close to death for Dean's liking. After all, only a few months earlier, Dean had paced beside Sam's lifeless body, trying to get him to come back, knowing that Sam couldn't do it without Dean's help. Knowing just as well that Dean couldn't – or wouldn't…maybe both – survive without Sam beside him. Sometimes Dean wondered who he was. Just Dean Winchester. Not John and Mary Winchester's son. Not Sam Winchester's brother. Just Dean. Surely he was more than a good little soldier and a protective big brother. But aside from being who he had been raised to be, a hunter and a protector, all Dean had was a killer smile, a long line of satisfied – if not necessarily satisfying – women, and a lot of hangovers. Well, and the car. But the car was all mixed up in his mind with John and Sam and the hunt. The never-ending hunt. So, since Dean couldn't imagine what he would be without the things that made him who he was, he stopped thinking about it and fought tooth and nail to hold onto the only thing left that kept him firmly rooted in his own life, such as it was. And he brought Sammy back from the dead. That's the kind of insane shit that protective big brothers do, right? And what was Dean Winchester if he wasn't a protective big brother?
He hadn't cried. Not when he made the deal, not when Sam found out about the deal, and not later. Big brothers don't cry. They man up and accept the fact that they've got a year left to live, and they convince themselves that it doesn't matter because Sammy's okay. If Sammy's okay, then Dean's done his job. Fuck the fact that Dean, as much as he would never admit it to Sam or anyone else, even himself, wasn't done living. He'd always sort of thought, way back in the deep dark recesses of his mind, that after The Demon was destroyed, hunting would become more of a hobby than anything else. He thought he'd send Sam back to New York, back to Sarah Blake. Sam could finish school, get his law degree, settle down with a wife and some kids and a fancy-schmancy legal practice. And maybe Dean could do the same. Well, not the college and law crap, but the settling down bit. He could open up some sort of business, maybe a garage or something. Find himself a hot chick to marry. Maybe even produce some offspring of his own. Dean shook his head. Melody was still sitting in his lap sobbing into his shirt, and he had nine-and-a-half months left to live. Not enough time to dwell on shoulda-coulda-woulda's. He reminded himself that Sammy was alive, and that would have to be enough for him.
Finally, after what felt like hours, Melody stopped crying and pulled away from Dean's dripping-wet shoulder. She awkwardly dragged herself off his lap and onto her feet, and grabbed a Kleenex from the box on the coffee table. "Thanks," she murmured self-consciously, not looking at him, as she swiped at her face, succeeding only in smearing her makeup even further.
"Don't mention it," Dean said, Melody's obvious embarrassment making him uncomfortable as well. "So," he said, changing the subject quickly, "what happened with that guy at the bar, anyway?"
She shook her head ruefully. "Totally my fault. He was boring me to tears with talk about taxes. Who, may I ask, talks about taxes while trying to pick up girls at bars? Anyway, in order to save myself from death by dullness, I kissed him to shut him up. I know, I know, not the smartest idea I've ever had, right? Bless his little pea-pickin' heart, but that poor moron apparently learned how to kiss from watching Cruel Intentions, 'cause I'm almost positive that he was trying to write the alphabet in my mouth with his tongue." She stopped and shuddered. "By the time he got to K, I was actually feeling nauseous, so I thought I'd try to extricate myself. He disapproved of my plan. And I guess you know the rest."
"Huh," Dean grunted. "Yeah, that was your fault."
She raised an eyebrow. "The appropriate response, Dean, would be, 'Oh, Mel, that wasn't your fault at all. No woman deserves that sort of treatment. That guy was an asshole who got exactly what was coming to him.'"
"Oh, I don't debate the fact that he was an asshole, or that he got what was coming to him. But you were teasing him. Most guys don't take too well to that kind of behavior."
"Yeah, well, it's that kind of reasoning that leads people to blame rape victims."
"Hey, wait a minute, I didn't say anything about blaming any victims, of rape or anything else. I'm just saying that I understand how he could have gotten the wrong idea about you. I mean, you walk into a bar with your boobs sticking out the top of whatever that thing is you're wearing and you're bound to attract a certain kind of attention. Then after the way you threw yourself at the guy? Hell, I even thought you were planning on screwing him, and I know you."
She had no rational rebuttal to his argument, so she griped, "You don't know me, Dean. If you thought I was going to screw some random guy I met at a fucking bar, then you don't know me at all." She didn't mention that she had gone out that very night with a pretty strong inclination to do just that…find a hot guy, get wasted, and find some physical release. Truth be told, Mel was horny, and with Isaac gone, she was also free. Just, apparently, not quite free enough to let her body tell her mind to take a hike and let it get some flippin' action.
Dean just shrugged. "Okay." He glanced at her and half-smiled. "Gene Simmons called. He wants his makeup kit back."
Melody glanced at herself in the mirror hanging in the foyer. She started a bit at her streaked appearance, then muttered, "Screw you, Dean," before heading into her bedroom.
"'Night," he called after her. She shut the door and sighed before heading off to wash her face and change into a nightgown. Just as she was about to climb into bed, a knock at the door stopped her. She opened the bedroom door to find herself pulled into a strong pair of arms and thoroughly kissed. After a moment of stunned shock, she returned the kiss, her mouth opening like a flower to the tongue licking delicately at her lips. It explored the recesses of her mouth and she sank into it. Strong but surprisingly gentle fingers sang through her hair, and she sighed, giving herself over to the sensation. Finally, the mouth ceased its sweet attack on hers and she found herself panting, still enclosed in Dean's arms. "I thought I'd help you get that annoying accountant taste out of your mouth. You're welcome," he informed her with that trademark smirk that made her knees go weak. He released her and, as she stood watching in silence, still utterly unable to form words, he went to the room he shared with Sam and closed the door behind him.