Once upon a time, Dean Winchester slept with a woman. There’s a story not worth writing. He’d had a bad hunt, ending with Dad and Sam storming off in opposite directions and leaving Dean to deal with the stupid thing. Two new bite scars on his leg, but as far as Dad knew, the venom wasn’t poisonous, and monsters don’t have rabies. The temperature at the house was still steaming, John and Sam each sulking superbly, blaming the other for leaving Dean and his new injuries, and completely ignoring Dean when he tried to speak. So Dean had stood up, washed the blood off his jacket, put it back on, and headed to a local bar. They probably hadn’t even realized he was gone, stupid stubborn bastards.
The bar was alive with the clinking of shot glasses against metal spigots, the tinny shh-shh-shh of liquid rushing to meet the bottom of the glass, the fervent gulps of men and women come to drink their troubles away, or at least into hiding. Here was a staggering leather-jacketed man, most likely with a scruffy ‘too-many-problems-to-think-of-shaving’ beard and traveling eyes, warning everyone in overloud, over-hearty tones that life ends, love hurts, and you never get things the way you want them. There was a girl whose low cut tops dribbled just enough material across her chest to give you the compass rose to her generous cleavage, whose face wore the intense expression of a girl with daddy issues lookin to get laid, possibly more than once. To some point, Dean was one of the ‘here’s, minus the scruffy beard and messianic ranting. And though the drink was great, he’d come to a bar like this for one reason: the ‘there’ girls.
There wasn’t any trick- Dean knew he was good looking; at least he had that going for him. The girls wanted it as much as he did- sometimes more. A release, simple and easy and fun and he knew he was damn good at it, he’d watched enough pay-per-views and had enough practice with enough women to have perfected his talent. There’d be a quick decision- your place or right here?- solved by Dean wrapping his lips around some part of her anatomy, a rush and the quick scan to check for an empty space before realizing she didn’t care.
When it ended, she’d be ready to marry him, and he’d leave with a kiss and a grunt of having to take care of business. The end.
So yes, it would be pointless to write a story about Dean having sex. It would be like writing a story about someone breathing, or eating breakfast, or falling asleep. But this story doesn’t start there. It starts the morning after.
There’s always a reason to end things. Sorry, Bethany, I’m just too busy at work now to have a serious relationship. You’re so great, baby, don’t feel bad. I just wanna be friends/ am too preoccupied with raising my fourteen children from my wife and girlfriend and twelve mistresses I didn’t mention before tonight/ feel committed to this Vegas stripper I met whose bra is two cup sizes bigger than you.
Don’t take it personally, babe, but I only have relationships with blondes/ brunettes/ Goth chicks/ guys. You’re a really nice girl, I just need someone older/ younger/ below legal age/ elderly (Social Security checks, early retirement) /who is okay with ‘open’ relationships/ who is okay with me placing a tracking device and a webcam in the trunk of her car/ who will stay in the house, head shaved, and never talk to anyone but me/ who is okay with costumes in bed/ who is okay with costumes when not in bed/ who is Christian/ Moslem/ Jewish/ an Atheist/ A Mormon/ Who is a fan of metal music/ who will support me for the rest of my life/ who is named Carol Agatha Melville/ who will be my nude posed inspiration/ who will bring me a couple of Just Barely Legals every night/ who weighs less than sixty pounds.
Bethany had had enough of the stupid excuses, the whispered lies of how ‘oh god I love you, I loooooooove you’ to get her into bed. She was sick and tired of being the one who got left behind. She’d gone to the bar she’d never gone to before- the one where all the guys went to get drunk, rather than the clubs where the guys went to get disco-thump headaches and pick up girls. The still-sober guys here were few and far between, and everyone had the authentic, mussed, slightly dangerous look that gave her a rush of pride at her own bravery. In the clubs, those were the stuck up dicks who thought they were the coolest thing ever and clearly bought every piece of their bad-guy outfit from a pricey rich-guy catalogue. In the bars, it meant stories and memories and life. It also meant short tempers, depression, and alcoholism, but this time she wasn’t looking for a longtime relationship, or even a fling. She was looking for a simple love ‘em and leave ‘em, a high to get her going and gone. All those men could go suck it, she wasn’t a slut, she was doing what they did every time and enjoying it.
Figures the hottest guy on the face in the earth would show that night and give her what could only be The Look- the flamboyant, clear sign that he was into her, big time. There wasn’t a whole lot of talking that night- lots of heavy breathing and I love yous that Bethany knew would last exactly as long as this whirlwind night. But she wasn’t coming for love, and this was for all those past men who’d told her she should live in the moment. Because that’s exactly what she was doing. One night of lust and back to work the next day, no worries, no cares, no baggage. No waiting anxiously for him to call, wondering if she should make the first move, playing it cool, making polite conversation that meant nothing, analyzing every moment spent in his presence, sharing an apartment with an out-of-work slob who spent all his free time criticizing her before dumping her and moving out with her CDs still in the glove compartment of his car and her destroying his stupid action DVDs one by one on a myriad of creative ways the directors of those DVDs would be proud of while sobbing for what the relationship could have been if he wasn’t such a self-worshipping son-of-a-bitch and she wasn’t such a pushover.
And when he left (so that part hadn’t gone exactly as planned. It was still her best memory in a while), she was sure it was over. She didn’t even know his name. A damn good memory and that was all. Turns out the universe has a way of punching people in the face.
When she saw the little blue plus sign, clear as day on the white plastic stick, she screamed out loud.
Nothing you recognize belongs to me.
DO NOT WORRY, this is not a ''Dean/Random Female MarySue Creation We Dont Care About + Baby'' fic. This is the only time Bethany will see Dean, ever. It was essential for the story, but I dont write romances.
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