A/N: Thanks, Mo! There may be a few twists and turns left to go yet. ;-) As always, thanks for reading and reviewing!

Chapter title is from song by Blue Oyster Cult.

54

Burnin' for You – Blue Oyster Cult

To say dinner was awkward would be an understatement. She made excuses and Dean made excuses and Sam somehow finagled his way around them both.

The reason they ended up here had his laptop out, both eyes trained dutifully on it, carefully not looking at either of them. Sam was talking about something, something they were supposed to be doing, something about the Book and maybe the Ashcrofts, and she tuned it all out so she could not notice the thing that was begging to be noticed.

She poked at her pasta, because food was likely a good idea. She was feeling light headed and fizzy, and eating definitely seemed wise.

Sam must have agreed, because he finished his chicken burger and drained his beer in no time flat.

"Well guys, I'm going to call it an early night."

Before they could blink, Sam put down his napkin with a barely restrained grin, swept up his laptop, and disappeared out the door at warp speed with a wave.

A clunky silence fell over the table.

She kept her attention on her plate, twisting pasta meticulously onto her fork, not noticing the way he was looking at her, heavy lidded and laser focused, thinking things, eyes trailing downward like a physical caress. She could feel it, the heat of his hand, the strength of his hold, the whisper of his lips against her skin.

The motion of her fork stuttered.

Abruptly Dean put down the uneaten burger in his hand. She was unprepared for the sudden grimness in his eyes when he looked up again, still with the laser heat and tension in his glance, sweeping over her. His words were almost a growl.

"Cain got married."

Uh.

She froze, stuck like a deer in headlights.

"Her name was Colette. Abaddon possessed her. Cain ended up ganking her, trying to off Abaddon."

This wasn't going to end well. Whatever Sam had in mind, Buffy and Angel-ing them together, match-dot-com for things doomed to fail.

Message received, loud and clear.

Despite that, his gaze dropped helplessly to her lips again. Traced over them, 'til they felt bee stung and kissed. She watched the dart of his tongue, the part of his mouth, and the unsubtle way he shifted in his chair.

She ducked her head and speared a tomato for something to do, aware of the way he was watching her hands on the fork.

Not subtle.

"I'm a demon." He added into her silence, as if the anvil he'd just dropped on her head wasn't heavy enough.

She glanced up sharply.

"I'm aware."

His eyes shaded a darker green, before he looked back down dispiritedly at the hamburger sitting limply on his plate. He picked it up without enthusiasm and took another bite before washing it down with beer.

It was a ritual with him. Eat, chew, drink, swallow. Methodical and precise, like clockwork. Except, as he kept reminding her, he was a demon, and demons, as far as she knew, didn't eat.

"Why are you doing that?"

"What?"

"Eating."

He set the burger down again with a grimace.

"Sam wants me to. It's supposed to remind me I'm human, except it tastes rotten. Maybe it's suppose to. Wouldn't mean much if everything was just normal, now, would it?"

Abruptly she set her fork down and stood. She couldn't do this. Sit here and watch him clutch at his hair shirt, feet at the edge of the pit, looking for someone to push him in.

She threw a twenty down on the table.

"I'mturning in too."

He was still watching her too closely. When she turned to leave his hand shot out around her wrist and stopped her. His eyes were narrow on the one low word.

"Demon."

She should have just nodded and turned away. He would have let her go.

Instead she stopped. Turned to look down at him, gaze for gaze, her voice too low and too tight and too intense.

"And a crappy one at that."

Sam looked almost crestfallen when he slammed into the room two hours later.

"What the hell was that?!"

"What was what?" Sam played innocent like nobody's business.

"THAT. Don't you remember what happened to Cain's wife?"

That sobered the puppy dog right off Sam's face. "Dean, I…"

"Yeah. Well, don't. I told her."

Sam looked confused.

"About what happened to Colette."

Sam's face fell.

"You can't have everything, Sammy. Leave it alone."

He peeled off his jacket as he headed into the bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower."

He shouldn't be here. Where he should be, was over at Darla's, sweating it up between her sheets, lost in a hot tangle of limbs, her soft and ample curves underneath him, having some fun. A distraction. She had sidled up against him when she brought his beer over to the pool table, smiled at him with smoky bedroom eyes, biting her lower lip in a suggestive pout while sneaking a glance at his ass. He'd returned the appreciative once over, checking her out, and Darla had appreciated being appreciated. She'd leaned in a little to pick up her tip, a sly smile when he eyed her display of cleavage, her knowing blue eyes dancing with the anticipation of a good night.

That was the way it was supposed to go. They'd lock lips before they even made it in the door—to her house, her apartment, motel room, wherever, all hot hands and disheveled clothing, hurried and wild, looking for that physical release to ease the itch that was riding them. It was blissful and easy, working out some of that built up tension. A lingering kiss or two afterwards, maybe seconds, maybe not, and moving on. Everyone knew the score, got what they wanted, and no one got hurt. So he had no idea why he ended up smiling apologetically and walking away, when he really could use a little of that, as wound up as he was, feeling the rasp of clothes rough against his skin when what he really wanted was …

No.

She was hot—there was no denying that. He'd have to be blind not to have noticed. He'd have to be dead to not get turned on by the way she'd fit against him. The way she looked at him. Like fire burning through amber, seeing him. The way it would be, like a lightening strike straight to his gut, burning out of control, and he would lose himself in it, in her. His hips tightened, temptation stroking over his skin like heat, sitting on his chest, forcing his hard intake of breath.

God. It would be so good.

It was a terrible, terrible idea.

He started buttoning up again. He could go back to the bar. It was mixed messages as all hell, but Darla would forgive him. She'd checked out his ass enough, he was pretty sure of it. That was what he needed. He couldn't go on this wound up; he just needed…

With a frustrated growl he went back to stripping out of his clothes.

There was a difference between having a little fun and pretending. Pretending was still a lie, sitting wrong like a lead brick in his stomach. He couldn't do it. What he wanted, as he shucked out of his jeans and threw them on the floor with a snap, what he wanted, stepped into the shower and turned the water on to warm, letting it stroke over his skin, what he wanted, as he closed his eyes and set one hand against the tile, was his… imagination.

By habit they had gotten adjoining rooms, close enough to hear in case of trouble. It was a kind of torment now, knowing she was right there. What would she do if he just knocked on the door? Would there be a salt line there, thick across the threshold, or would she step back, and let him in? He wouldn't be able to wait for it, words, manners, the things you were supposed to say or do, because he needed that kiss. He'd lean in, lips hot over hers, hands sweeping down to bring her against him, flush and heated and she'd wind her arms around him, right there with him, lost in it, wanting it. Because she knew, did it matter how? She just knew, knew it all, and there was nothing to hide. He'd move her back towards the bed, slipping the gun from the small of her back and set it on the nightstand, easing his hand underneath her shirt, his fingertips caressing bare skin beneath, splaying to hold her when she curved into him, every point of contact just pure addictive heat.

The air was steamy around him. He barely felt the hot water streaming over his skin, eyes fluttering closed, intensely focusing. His imagination wove together with his memory, blending together in a seamless fantasy, anticipation a grip tightening in his chest. That sensitive spot at the base of her throat, then there beneath the shell of her ear; he'd flick his tongue against her skin, tasting, and she'd come unraveled in his arms, the way he wanted it. She'd arch into him, her hands caressing, smoothing over his shoulders, arms wrapping around his neck, a long sinuous rub of her body along the length of him, and they really needed to get rid of all their clothes. He'd be working on that while she kissed him, soft lips against his, velvety slick and urgent, melting against him, so hot and so heated, seeing him and somehow wanting him. He'd run his hand down the smooth line of her back, over the sweet tight cling of her jeans, one leg curled up against his still too clothed hips, the intoxicating fit hot flush against him. Air came hard and fast in and out of his lungs, the spiral of tension so tight and so tense, quivering, standing right there on the edge of it, when through the thin motel wall he heard her low moan.

He lost it. His hips clenched and he thrust forward, one great spasm going on and on, biting down on the telltale shout tearing unbidden from his throat, burning in his lungs, the bloom of heat like a flush everywhere, pulsing out and out, coming totally apart, before drifting slowly down in pieces and in bliss.

The water grew cool when he finished showering slowly, enjoying the clean scent of soap, lazy and languid in the aftermath, his eyelids curiously heavy. Sam had already turned out the lights by the time he crawled between the sheets, and the bed was amazingly comfortable. He'd just close his eyes for a minute and let himself drift, because this was all really kind of nice.

When he woke up, the first thing he saw was Sam hovering and staring at him like it was a Mystery Spot Tuesday, all big-eyed with concern and he yelped, shooting straight out of bed with a curse.

"Son of a Bitch! Sam! Don't do THAT! What the hell! That's just freaky, dude!"

"Dean." Sam sounded five and concerned, somehow both at the same time. "You were asleep."

The talent for stating the obvious had to be catching, even though they hadn't seen Cas in a while.

Wait.

He had been asleep. Like, real sleep.

"Was I breathing?"

Sam nodded.

Vaguely he could sense a pothole ahead of him, explanation-wise. He wasn't about to divulge the mechanics of why and how he'd managed to sleep, like actual human sleep, because one, TMI, and two, he didn't know what direction that would set Sam off in, in his scheming. Last thing Sam needed was encouragement, of any kind.

He settled for dodging by looking at the clock, simultaneously grabbing for his shirt and heading to the bathroom, talking to cover the spaces where Sam could get in a question.

"C'mon. Hurry up. We're going to be late."

In his rush to avoid Sam's questions and get down to breakfast he hadn't quite thought his way through what was going to happen when he saw her again. Belatedly it occurred to him as he sat staring at the empty place setting across the table from him, that there was no reason for her to join them, exactly, when she slipped into the chair and immediately picked up the menu, holding it up in front of her so he was left staring at the logo of a flying pig, studying it like she'd never seen a breakfast menu before in her life, hiding the pink flush on her cheeks.

What was that?

He took his mind back to where they had left off last night, in reality, hot and bothered to the point where a night of mindless sex should have been the answer. With something akin to unfair horror he stared at the flying pig again. What if a night of hot mindless sex had been her answer? The cutting edge of betrayal sliced through, followed by another part of his brain immediately kicking in—no, he would have heard. He always kept a long ear out for them, in case of trouble, and okay, so now that was six kinds of stalker-y without Toby there, but it was a habit. He hadn't heard anything except that one delicious little moan when he was in the middle of—

Oh.

He turned beet red. His mind immediately volunteered a series of images not suitable for consumption in public, especially with Sam staring at him as the redness crept up his neck and made it uncomfortably hot to breathe. He swallowed, rubbing the palm of his hand against his thigh, grateful he was sitting down and grateful they were at a square table instead of a bench where Sam could glance down and squirm with girly shock.

Luckily the waitress came at that moment to take their orders. From behind the menu Zee asked for a coffee and whatever the special was, in a voice as husky as all hell, and he was sure she had absolutely no idea what she'd just been intently reading for the past few minutes. She let go of the menu reluctantly, slid a glance in his direction, like a touch on his lips before hastily picking up the Happy Hour placard sitting on the table to look over what drinks might be on offer six hours from now.

By now a blind man would have twigged to the lightening dancing across the table, and sadly, Sam was not blind and Sam was far too smug. But Sam was foremost a gentleman, so Sam cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Ahem."

Dean considered kicking him under the table.

"So! Anything interesting happen last night?"

Dean glared at his baby brother. Dude. Boundaries. Belatedly he realized Sam was nodding towards Toby's amulet, and it drew his gaze where he didn't want it to go.

She intercepted his look and had to clear her throat before answering.

"No."

Unconsciously her fingers went over it, the gesture much like Toby's. He followed the motion, watching with fascination as she blushed a deeper shade of rose, strenuously avoiding his eyes. Why was she doing that? It was almost as if…

Oh man.

Anna had jacked his dreams once, and he'd been perfectly aware of it. What if…

Oh God.

He was sitting on a small sun, going up in flames, everything too tight and too hard to breathe. The details of last night's fantasy roared to life 3D around him, the feel of it a blood rush, pure charge tingling the palms of his hands. He focused on the spot below her ear she liked, the one that made her just melt, because he needed someplace to park his eyes that was not a lingering caress of her lips, hot and lascivious and damn it if she didn't reach up distractedly just then and put her hand over the exact spot like…

Oh Geez.

He didn't know what color he was now. Nuclear red? It felt like it. His chest constricted. He wanted to reach across the table, take that menu of drinks she was never going to order from out of her hands, run his fingers up her wrist and offer her something far more intoxicating. Take her hand and run, back to the room, now, the things he wanted to do slamming hard one on the heels of the other in his mind, all of them fizzy and electric, wanting to reach, wanting to stroke.

She shifted in her chair like her clothes were too tight.

His brain evaporated.

Sam kicked him under the table.

Sam had a really prissy glare when he set his mind to it.

Luckily or not, their order arrived in a bustle and clatter of dishes. She grabbed at her coffee like a lifeline. He looked blankly down at the plate of food set down in front of him. What was he supposed to do with that now? A short stack was innocuous, usually—cardboard-y with a hint of ash, less vile than most other things, but he didn't want it. He wanted to stay in the moment for a while, just for one moment, indulge in it, the warmth of it, and just forget, forget what he was.

He looked at the fork lying on the white paper napkin next to his plate, his right hand curling into a fist under the table.

He picked up the everyday utensil, scarred from all its trips through the dishwasher.

With dull movements, he cut through the pancakes and put a bite in his mouth, and chewed and chewed and chewed, automatically reaching for the coffee as a chaser. She watched him, the fixed rhythm of his movements, that keen awareness in her eyes.

Methodically he took another bite. Cardboard. Coffee. Swallow.

He flicked a look up at her, ignoring the fact Sam was poking at his Power Quinoa whatsit breakfast with one spy-eye out on the tone of their silent exchange.

This. This is what I am.

Remember.