A/N: Thank you so much to toridw317 and ImpalaLove for reviewing! I hope everyone enjoys this chapter.

Song: Sin City by AC/DC

CHAPTER 9

Sin City: Part 2

The address Lydia gave them brings them to a ranch-style house just outside of the thrall of the city. It's one story, but sprawling, and there are plastic gnomes hammered into the lawn. Dean parks the Impala in the pitch-black driveway, behind her red Camry. With the look of a man on a mission, he walks around the back of the car and grabs something out of the rear door, shoves it into his jeans' pocket without looking at it, and joins Claire on the front step.

Claire rings the doorbell and Lydia appears; her loose, calico skirt from the night before has been replaced by a pair of white Capri pants.

"Come in," she greets warmly, stepping aside to let them pass.

Claire can't help but think the décor in her house is suspiciously mundane as Lydia leads them to what appears to be her dining room. They sit around a square, honey-colored wooden table that has a chair positioned on each side. Dean is wedged between Claire and Lydia.

"Now, who am I helping first?" she asks.

Claire and Dean lock eyes, unsure.

"Is there a way that she can learn to control the visions?" Dean questions after a moment of deliberation. He figures Claire's dilemma will be more quickly resolved than his, if indeed it can be.

"The key is to not fight them, my dear," she tells Claire. "You must let them wash over you – you must allow yourself to become engulfed by them. It is the resistance that causes the pain. If you feel one coming on, embrace it."

"I-I don't know how to do that," she stammers. "And I can't feel them coming on."

"Eventually you will learn to recognize the signs or triggers. For me, I get this feeling as though I am falling. It only lasts half a second, but once it happens I know what's coming next and I can prepare for it."

"But I don't just see things," Claire insists. "I have to write things down – it's all words."

Lydia's striking features contort into a frown. "That is odd. Perhaps if you speak the words until you can write them down it will lessen the pain."

Claire has never considered this, but it seems like an idea that is worth a try.

"I can see that these visions have caused you much pain," Lydia continues. "And I have been in a similar situation. We didn't ask for these gifts, but for whatever reason we were endowed with them. The sooner you accept this and come to embrace it, the sooner you can work to control them."

"Is there anything that affects how often the visions come?" Dean interjects.

"I've noticed that it is sometimes related to my emotional state," she answers. "If I am alone for long periods of time they tend to come more often, or if I'm doing anything that alters my state of mind. A lot of it has to do with my level of introspection, I would say."

This, in particular, resonates with Claire. It would explain why the visions are less frequent when she is with Dean.

"I get them a lot when I'm asleep," she states.

"Dreams are the ultimate form of introspection, dear."

"Sometimes I get the same dreams that he does, though."

She considers Dean with a stern expression. "The link between you and the Winchesters is unusual," she replies. "Joint dreaming indicates a very deep connection – perhaps even the deepest. I'm afraid that is where we differ. Psychics are not tied to anyone specific... Maybe there is some reason you are connected to them that you have yet to uncover."

Claire nods pensively.

"Now, shall we get on to the primary reason for this visit?" Lydia quirks one dark, sculpted eyebrow and extends her palm.

"Yeah," Dean says lamely. He fishes around in his pocket, eventually brandishing a small, green, plastic figurine – a toy soldier, and hands it to her without explanation. Claire assumes this is the item he had grabbed out of the backseat.

"This is your brother's?"

"Yeah," he repeats, a bit cagily.

Lydia adopts a look of curiosity, but doesn't ask for the backstory that is so clearly weighing on him. "We must join hands," she instructs, the cadence of her voice suddenly deeper and airier.

Casting Claire a wary look, he nevertheless takes her hand in his and does the same with Lydia's. The ridges of Sam's totem poke into his palm, reminding him the first thing his brother laid eyes on when he broke Lucifer's hold on him.

When they are all connected by touch, Lydia's eyelids flutter closed.

"I invoke, conjure, and command thee, Sam Winchester, to appear unto me before this circle."

She chants this six times.

Then, the table begins to quake. Claire's grip on Dean's hand grows tighter.

"I invoke thee – Sam?"

This time, it's Dean who reflexively squeezes Claire's hand.

"Sam Winchester? Yes, your brother is here…" She chuckles softly. "No, it seems he didn't take your advice. No, there is someone else here, too – no, not Bobby. Claire Shurley, the prophet. Oh, you don't know her?"

"Ask him where he is!" Dean interrupts fiercely.

"He says he doesn't know."

"Ask him to describe it."

"He says its… It's a forest, there are monsters there – he says he must be dead, that they all are dead. He says that the monsters keep telling him he doesn't belong there, that humans don't belong there."

"How did he get there?"

"He doesn't know – he says he thinks it was a mistake. There is no one else like him there."

"Is it Purgatory?"

"Is it Purgatory, Sam?" she echoes. "He says he's not sure, but it might be. Yes, now he says he thinks it is. He says he doesn't think humans have access to it. He wants you to know, Dean, that he's all right, all things considered. He says it is a bit like a limbo, but it's not torture like Hell."

"Tell him I'm gonna get him out of there."

Lydia laughs again. "He says he knows. He also says that if he really is dead, maybe a reaper could get to him."

"A reaper? Ask him –"

"Oh no, I am sorry, Dean – he says he has to go now, but not to worry. He'll be all right until you find a way to get to him. He says he can hold the monsters off."

"But wait – "

Lydia's eyes fly open. "I'm sorry. He's gone."

Dean wrenches his hands away as though he has been burned, bringing one to scrub over his face.

Claire gingerly touches his shoulder. "This is good, right? He said he's okay."

"Yeah, but how the hell are we gonna find a reaper who'll help us?" he bites back.

"I don't know, but it's a start. At least now we have a direction to go in."

Lydia's eyes narrow and her gaze darts skeptically between the two of them. Eventually, she says, "I am surprised you did not see him, Claire."

"Why is that?"

Instead of answering her, she says, "I suppose this is another difference between a psychic and a prophet. A psychic connection can go two ways, but yours… Yours is one-sided. He couldn't reach out to you knowingly – whatever connection you have to him, it is entirely unknown to him. That, or you weren't trying."

She doesn't speak, not knowing what she would even say. Dean also appears perplexed by this declaration.

"Oh-kay," he says, standing. He needlessly brushes off the front of his jeans, peering down at Claire expectantly. She also stands at this prompting.

"Thank you," he says gruffly to Lydia.

"Of course," she purrs. "And now that I've helped you, I'd say you owe me one."

"Oh yeah? What do you have in mind?"

"Nothing, at the moment. But you never know when an indebted Winchester might come in handy."

"Alright," he agrees. "I'll give you my number, and if you ever need anything just give me a call."

. . .

"What do you think she meant about that one-way connection thing?" Claire asks back at the motel room.

"I dunno, that was weird," he replies, scratching the back of his head. He takes a swig from his flask. "I think she just likes the sound of her own voice," he adds after a moment. The edge of the bed sinks under his weight as he sits, mirroring her.

"Well, at least we got some answers today," she tries.

"Yeah," he scoffs, taking another drink. "Some. I talked to Bobby an hour ago and he's on the hunt for rogue reapers. Hopefully he'll come up with something soon."

"So, we're on the right track," she says in an attempt to lift his spirits. Dean is perpetually down, even though what they had learned certainly could not be considered a setback.

She gets up from the bed, walking to stand directly in front of him. She grabs both is wrists and tries to pull him up. He notices that she's become much more comfortable touching him as of late, but hastily pushes this observation to the very back of his mind.

"C'mon," she says. "We're in Vegas. We got some good news. Let's just take a break from all the gloom and doom for one night. It's exhausting."

Dean allows himself to be hauled up, but still seems dubious. "What do you suggest?" he inquires dryly.

"Let's go out. Let's go to a bar or something. There are like twenty surrounding us – it's not like we have to go far."

"Fine," he breathes out, albeit begrudgingly. He's not in the mood to party, but the prospect of more alcohol is appealing. His flask has run out.

They make their way to a dive bar across the street. It's pretty seedy, like the rest of the area they are in, but everyone there is around their age. There's something akin to a dance floor in the back, and there's a throng of people sloshing their drinks around and swaying to whatever live band is playing.

Dean had not been in the mood to go out – not when everything in this goddamn city reminds him of his and Sam's annual pilgrimage – but he more than anyone understands the importance of not being a buzzkill. It is Vegas after all, like she said. So he intends to drink. Heavily. Until he's feeling less surly.

Having spoken with Lydia about her visions, Claire seems open to the opportunity to drink heavily as well. Indeed, when they enter the building they make a beeline for the bar.

Drink in tow, she shouts above the clamor, "See, isn't this better than sitting in the room and brooding?"

Dean has yet to make a judgment on this account, but humors her. "Sure," he concurs, forcing a terse smile.

But soon, he begins to find it harder and harder to maintain his bad attitude. The more she drinks, the more bubbly she becomes, and pretty quickly he discovers that she is – perhaps surprisingly – one of the happiest drunks he's ever encountered.

For the first time in his life, women don't approach him at the bar. He had never realized how big of a cockblock going out with a chick could be, but he doesn't really care because some traitorous part of him is only interested in her attention anyway. The more he drinks, the less Claire becomes Claire. And soon enough she's just a hot girl like all the others, and they're not talking about Sam or visions or Purgatory, but all the frivolous stuff people at bars talk to each other about.

"Let's do shots," she proposes at some point, and he agrees because she seems so adamant. By now, the night is spiraling, and he knows it's spiraling, but he's having too much fun to pump the breaks.

So she orders tequila and the bartender lays out a row of amber-colored shots, along with a heap of salt and limes. After everything, it is surreal to see salt used in this context.

Dean gulps down three without flinching, only after the third coating a slice of lime in salt and popping it in his mouth. Claire is close enough that the smell of citrus fills her nostrils. Watching his lips pucker around the sour fruit, she feels a rush of heat cascade through her stomach. Instead of reacting to it, she giggles and squeals, "You're supposed to have the lime first!"

In response, he grins broadly. When he grins like this – genuinely smiles – the corners of his eyes crease and she finds him irresistible. He laughs, "Oh really? My bad… Here." He feeds her a lime that he has prepared in the same fashion and his fingertips brush her rosy lips, lingering there perhaps longer than strictly necessary. He starts to feel a heat coil in the pit of his stomach as well, but he can't be sure it's not just the tequila.

She throws back two and a half shots of her own, but does not keep her composure nearly as well as he does. Scrunching her nose, she complains, "That was brutal."

This seems to be the only time her smile falters, but he loves it when she makes that face. Somehow everything he had ever subconsciously liked about her becomes illuminated and the feeling magnified tenfold. Another laugh escapes his lips. It's such a rare sound and she wants nothing more than to hear it over and over again, she herself experiencing some similar clarity of affection.

She offers him the remainder of her third shot, which he knocks back stoically. An errant clump of salt is clinging to the corner of his mouth, and she unthinkingly wipes it away with her thumb. She maintains eye contact with him as her tongue darts out to clean the digit.

He can hardly believe what he is witnessing – he's sure he's seen this before in a porno. Arousal crawls up his bones and he is suddenly aware of every time she brushes against him as people push past them to get to the bar.

He knows what to do with this feeling. It's pure instinct, perfected by years of trysts.

Gazing down at her through hooded eyes, he lightly places his fingers on her lower back and suggests, "Do you think we should head back now?"

The words flow smoothly from his mouth before he has a chance to process what he's saying. He's not thinking straight, he thinks. He's had so much to drink that even he is drunk. That's the only explanation for this, this bizarre change in behavior. It has to be.

Claire is still wearing an ear-to-ear grin and either is or pretends to be completely oblivious to his underlying intent. "Not yet," she says, clutching his calloused hand in her pretty one. "I want to dance."

And so, she drags him to the dance floor. Dean doesn't dance, never has. But she is so dynamic, lost her in own world and somehow utterly free and happy, even after everything, that he wants to try. He wants to forget, too, and be someone else, someone who dances. He wants to continue the charade that they are both normal and carefree for a little while longer.

Whatever rhythm she is rocking to, it is not the same one that the band is playing. But he doesn't care because she grinds her hips into his and he grinds back. She grabs onto his shoulders for stability and because he's smiling that smile and it scrambles her insides.

Boy, does she grab him. She grabs him like she needs him, like she can't get close enough to him. Dean knows girls. He knows that when they do this they're begging to be touched, and so he does exactly that – he molds his fingers to her hips.

It's not long before she threads her fingers through the hair at the back of his head and is surprised to feel how silky his hair is. She almost wants to call him out on it because she instantly suspects he's been using her shampoo, after all that bitching about her having too much stuff. But she doesn't because what she senses is about to happen is far too exciting.

His pupils are wide, dark, and anticipating. They share this look, like they both know what comes next.

It's not clear to either of them who's first to take the plunge, but soon his lips are on hers. Kissing him feels exactly as she has imagined. She's fantasized about it more than she cares to admit, especially when he purses his plush lips in that signature pout. They're warm and smooth and full and so unbearably gentle, until she shoves her tongue into his mouth. Then it all changes – they go from zero-to-sixty fast, like a gunshot, as if he had been waiting for her to pull the trigger.

And with everything that is communicated in just one kiss, it's immediately clear that they need to get a room.

"Let's go," he whispers, breath hot on the space above her ear.

He whisks her away to the motel, arm settled at the small of her back. She can't tell if she's walking really or if he's just completely supporting her. She just glides along, thrilled to be with him and thrilled to have his undivided focus.

As he inserts their room key into the lock, she is motionless and her cornflower-blue eyes are fixed unwaveringly on his hand. She is trying to find one image to tether herself to, trying to force the whirling sensation to go away as the tequila shots go to her head.

But as soon as the door shuts behind them, she abandons this task. She comes to life and launches herself at him, and in the blink of an eye he's up against the wall and his flannel is on the floor. She catches him off-guard and dominates him, pulling at his clothes. As soon as he can register what is taking place, he flips them around so that she's the one cornered. He hoists her up, pressing his hips between her thighs, doing a little-but-not-enough to quell that ache in her lower abdomen.

Everything about him is hot, so hot she offhandedly fears she might spontaneously combust. Still against the wall, she helps him rip her clothes off not just because she wants him to have better access to her body – which she definitely does – but mainly because she is so terribly overheated. His skin is hot, his mouth is hot, and his touch is scalding.

Through the dizziness and the sweet-sour taste of alcohol on both their tongues, they try to find a tempo. It's difficult and when both parties are so eager and desperate, and it results in a sort of clash of wills. She bites his lip and he bites hers. She slips her hand roughly into his jeans and he does the same. This isn't a game that can be won, but they're playing it like it is.

Eventually he's naked and she's naked and he's fumbling with some packet and when she lies back on his bed the room spins.

And soon she's whining What are you waiting for?

And then there's an Are you sure?

And she almost wants to laugh because of course she's sure but at the same time she's absolutely not but what comes out of her mouth is Oh my god just go.

And he's sniggering and pushing himself into her and she's pulling herself onto him. Somewhere inside her there's an itch that only he can scratch and they're moving and moving but he's not quite getting to it yet. His palms stick to her slim waist, stick to her everything. Her fingertips tingle and she feels everything but she still can't feel enough of him. Both of them at one point think, fleetingly, Maybe we shouldn't be doing this but it feels so good and they are. He's not Dean, the Dean, and she's not Claire the Prophet. They're just two people. It won't change anything if they're just two people.

Exactly what happens is hazy, though she has a niggling suspicion that, in their lust-fueled frenzy, they committed this act more than once. Eventually she dozes off and when she begins to sober up she's lying on top of him in a twin bed, stuck to him like a starfish. He's snoring lightly, peacefully. Her skin adheres to his and her whole body feels clammy. He's like a space heater. She's not wearing a lick of clothing and yet her core temperature is soaring through the roof.

Shakily, she stands to drink some water directly from the tap - not something she would typically do in a motel like this, but desperate times and all that... On her way to the bathroom, she peeks into the trash bin and confirms her earlier suspicions about what had happened the night before. At least we used protection, she thinks to herself.

When she's finished drinking, she wipes the water from her mouth with the back of her hand and walks back towards their beds, too overheated and hungover to bother putting any clothes on. She wonders if he'll be offended if she relocates several feet away, to her own bed. She wouldn't be, and so she doesn't think he will. It's only a move of convenience. He's too hot and the bed is too small.

She lies back on her cool, crisp sheets and the room isn't spinning anymore. It's just shrouded in grainy darkness. The space between her legs feels slippery and sticky at the same time and every fiber of her being is begging for a shower.

In the fog of drunkenness, it was easy to dissociate Dean Dean from Dean, the handsome man laughing and throwing back shots. But now they are one and the same and it is terrifying.

A/N: Don't hate me please! I know this wasn't romantic, but it wasn't supposed to be! I tried to give the last scene a kind of whirlwind/spontaneous flow, so I hope that comes across. There's definitely a sort of trajectory this story could have taken, but I wanted to push against the typical arch of these sorts of things. Let me know if you guys think - I'm praying it's not too disappointing.