Pairing: Dean/OFC, Sam/Jess, eventual Sam/Dean
Word Count: 1,240 [this chapter]
Summary: There’s a war coming, but it’s not the one Dean’s been expecting.
Rating: NC-17 [this chapter and overall]
Disclaimer: Don't own; don't sue.
Notes: I’m making this up as I go along, seriously. I lack writing experience, a beta, and a muse, but I hope y’all like it anyways!
Dad, it’s Dean. I got your message. I tried calling Sam—but, well, even if his phone wasn’t out of service, I doubt he’d pick up. Call me back when you get this message, alright? We need to talk.
Nothing more than a Super 8, a fast food joint, a post office, a bar, and a church for good measure. It’s some California highway town in the middle of the desert, close to the border and almost too small for its own plot on the map.
Dean drives in on a Thursday and already late enough that the streetlights are blinking red on Main Street, a straight burn through the town’s middle. He pulls into the motel parking lot, squeezed between a rundown antique shop and something passing off as a city library.
The clerk looks bored, a teenaged girl with an iPod bud in one ear, a trash magazine on the counter, and a sweating Pepsi can in her hand. Not a day over eighteen, if that, but the only thing it looks like she cares about is the magazine in front of her. Guess it saves Dean the trouble.
“Can I help you, sir?” she asks, blowing a neon green bubble through her words.
“Room, please,” he replies just short of snidely, leaning against the counter to tug his wallet out his back pocket.
She blows another bubble, pop, locks her jaw on it. “You alone?”
The clerk snorts, but Dean catches her small, proud smile before she busies herself with the forms in the short file cabinet at her feet. “It’s 38.99 a night, 5 bucks more if you want extra towels, HBO, and a wakeup call.”
Dean’s body still aches from his run-in with a poltergeist in Texas last week, and his stomach rolls in a way that reminds him he hasn’t eaten since morning in New Mexico. He lets his bags down easy at the foot of the bed, draws out his salt lines, and heads back out into the cold night. The bar down the street has his name written all over it.
The bar’s the only sign of life in five or six blocks, so it’s only natural everyone and their mother flock to Bill’s Billiards. Like moths to a goddamn flame, Dean can’t help but think as he walks through the open doors.
But it’s also the kind of place Dean feels comfortable in, normal to be a part of. Bumpkin rock cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke, illegal yet familiar and unheeded by no person. Smoky-eyed women in tight Wranglers, their men’s paws shoved into the back pockets of their jeans. A handful of plaid-clad doofuses cackling over the pool table in the back, sloshing beer over the faded green felt. Yeah, definitely his kind of place.
He takes a seat at the bar, pasting on a smile for the barkeep, a real bruiser-type guy in a collared shirt, a scraggly beard doing nothing to conceal his sunburned face, a dirty rag thrown over his shoulder. The guy’s voice is loud and clear over the rumble coming from the other patrons. “What’ll it be?”
“You guys serve food?”
“We ain’t got a kitchen back there for nothing, kid.”
Dean bites back words, not because he’s afraid of the guy or anything, but because there’s ladies around. “Burger, extra onions, hold the mayo. Couple orders of fries. Uh, and a Corona.”
“Up in a few, pal.”
Dean nods and watches muted NFL highlights with the rest of them, old weary men leaning on a bottle and each other. He’s got no one to lean on, no bottle in front him yet, but the Pats lost this afternoon, so the world’s not all that bad.
The ache in his body disappears sometime during his third beer, the hunger gone between a first and second helping of greasy, salty fries. He’s content down to his very toes, a buzz in his system that ebbs the twinge of alone all fucking alone just enough to make him feel okay about himself.
Plus, he can feel her eyes on his back, the blonde in the red blouse, quiet and sipping Coke from the bottle amongst loud, rowdy friends a ways down the bar. She chews slowly, methodically on a soda straw, ruby lips wrapped around the plastic like it shouldn’t even be allowed. It brings back that ache, that hunger, in big and better ways.
She meets his gaze, and the procovative glint in her eyes is all Dean needs to know that it’s a done deal.
“Condom?” she pants, soda-sweet breath hot and ruffling Dean’s hair.
“Covered,” Dean replies in all seriousness, and tries hard not to laugh at his own joke even if she does.
Her name is Jill, and for a quiet girl with glasses, she’s got no shame. She’s wet and slick against Dean’s fingers, heaving up into Dean’s hand, her hands scrabbling for purchase on Dean’s back, his ass. It makes Dean so hard to see a woman lose it like this, to something so simple as a couple fingers to the clit, mouth to the soft line of the jaw.
She wraps her legs around his waist, snakes one hand into the waistband of his jeans as if it’s a secret and no one can ever know, as if someone’s watching and it’s not Dean. It doesn’t matter, though, not when she grabs him through his boxers, runs her fingers over the wash-worn fabric, entices a groan that Dean’s only partly embarrassed over.
When they fuck, Jill’s still wearing her red blouse, and Dean’s jeans never make it to the floor, instead twisted up at his ankles. Her glasses are askew, her chest heaving. Dean falls asleep with his boots on.
“Do you have a picture of her?” Jill stands at the foot of the bed, wrapped up in a towel. Steam from the shower billows out the open doorway, and the inoffensive scent of cheap shampoo follows her across the room as she makes her way to the table, where her clothes lay in a heap.
Dean finishes re-lacing his left boot and looks up. “Picture of who?”
“Last night, you… well… I’m not judging!” she says hurriedly. “But you said Sam. Ex or girlfriend or something?”
Dean laughs, incredulous and not at all like he’d said his brother’s name while fucking the prettiest thing in town. Because he’s lonely, but not that lonely. Sure, he’s heartbroken, but not stupid enough to actually…
“Listen, I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t mean to... bring it up. It just… slipped out, you know,” Jill says, then frowns. “God, I’m so stupid. Of course you know.”
“Sam falls into something category, I guess.” Dean stands, albeit a bit shaky, bags in hand. “I gotta hit the road, Jill. Got work to do. Take your time here, alright? Checkout’s at eleven.”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure,” Jill replies, voice suddenly going soft.
She looks up at him through her lashes, and goddamn if Dean doesn’t kiss right there. Doesn’t really want to, does it anyway. He can taste ash, but whose problem it is, he isn’t sure. The entire town’s infected with sin, but that is not his problem. It’s theirs.
Dad, it’s Dean. Haven’t heard from you in a couple weeks. Call me back when you get the chance. I’m getting Sam.
Note: So that concludes the first chapter of my first “real” Supernatural fic. I plan on making the few chapters of this story longer, depending on how y’all feel about it. Thanks for reading!