The Other Side of Sunrise

Part Four

Another hole-in-the-world town, a back-country bar. Dean's working his mojo on a local girl. She's a petite, brown-haired thing with wide, blue eyes, and he doesn't know her name.

"I haven't seen you here before," she says. Her finger traces the ring left by her beer bottle on the worn counter top. 

Dean refuses to break their gaze, grinning. "Just blew into town. Wasn't really sure what to do for the evening." He gestures with his glass. "Glad I came in."

"Mm, me too," she says, her voice light like a summer breeze but her eyes, they belie darker things that Dean just knows he'll like. He's human, after all, and even with his entire life being one long B-movie, he knows what makes him feel good.

There's a bit of pain—barely a sting, anymore—at that but he moves past it, reaching to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear. She blushes, nothing innocent about it.

"What beer is that, again?" She holds it label-forward. "Oh, Sweetwater stout. Yeah, my—" ignore the pang, there, man, "—brother likes to have that one, sometimes." Why'd you bring him up?

"You have a brother?" Her eyes widen. "Does he look like you?"

"Not really," Dean says, aiming for nonchalant. He thinks he misses it by miles but she's chuckling. "And I'm much better at most things."

"Hmm, I bet," she teases, but she's not turned away by his apparent machismo so that's a good thing. He just... he's not even sure why, but he needs to seal the deal.

"What's your name, by the way? Mine's Dean."

Her eyes flare with something he likes. "Samantha."

That should be a deal-breaker, right there, but she's pretty and willing and it's been too long.

He flashes her a smile that's all fox-in-the-hen-house. "Mind if I call you Sam?"

* * *

Her lips on his in the alley behind the bar are too soft, and they taste like dark beer and the last remnants of her raspberry lip gloss. She's pliant, her tongue is skilled, her hands soft as they seek the back of his neck and card through the tufts of his hair. He's willing himself to enjoy this more fully, to seek his release in that mindless way he'd never really been able to achieve. Especially with that name hanging potent between them, in the space when they draw breath.

Samantha asks him back to her place with an ease borne of experience and he accepts, his eagerness for all the wrong reasons still a catalyst to her. She doesn't need to understand him, not any further than it takes to know what makes him tick, and in that he is frighteningly simple. He knows and she doesn't that he'll get off a lot sooner than normal just being able to call her by name.

They tumble into her apartment gracelessly, clothes flying, skin meeting skin and arousal soaring through their veins. Dean falls into the act all too easily, a routine of motions and reactions that he's long had memorized. He makes her squirm, and moan his name, and it's simpler than breathing air to gasp the nickname he gave her and feel the rush within his pulse. "Sam," he'll say, and she'll purr, tugging his bottom lip with her teeth. He'll taste her and make believe he's tasting someone more familiar, feel her smooth hairless skin beneath his fingertips and almost be able to transmute it in his mind to something harder, her curves becoming planes.

Samantha knows there's a reason this man wants to call her by that name. He's lost, she's sure of it, she can see it in those pools of green he calls eyes. At the bar he'd seemed interested, but only vaguely, no matter what he'd done to hide it -- until she said her name. Then she saw interest, pain, and a glimmer of hope. She gave in and took him home because, hell, aren't we all just chasing something that can never be caught?

She sinks on to his cock with an appreciative moan—he's quite the steal, even with the baggage—and rides him like he wants her.

Dean grasps Samantha's slender hips hard enough to bruise. She's tight, that wet heat fucking down on him the best sensation he's had all week. And he can imagine, even if it's wrong, that those breathless moans are coming from a larger frame, in a deeper voice.

He's so fucked up it's almost legendary.

Pleasure and guilt come in companionable waves, now. Dean rolls them over, and as the girl's legs wrap around his waist he pounds into her, hiking her up the mattress until she's clutching at the headboard, his name falling from her lips like rain.

He realizes he's probably working her too hard and pulls back, sliding out to dive back in with less force. She clenches around him. "You won't break me," she whispers, and it takes him by surprise.

"It's okay," she says, her hands caressing his back. "Take what you need." The caress becomes nails, raking lines through his skin, and he tosses his head back and plunges, deep, striking within her and basking in her startled cries.

You gave me permission, he tells her, unsaid. You gave me permission.

He pulls out and flips her, ramming into her from behind and she fairly screams, an orison of simply "yes, fuck, Dean!" the mantra she harmonizes with the rhythm of his thrusts. He's not paying any attention. She's not even Samantha anymore. He has transcended beyond imagining and now he's actually fucking the one person he must never touch again, and it feels like a cinematic reunion of souls.

"Sam, Sam," he chants, panting, fucking her so deeply that now her words are mostly curses. He can feel his orgasm creeping up from the soles of his feet, stinging heat in the cells of his skin, spreading over his body in a blanketing, searing chill. He gives in to it, clenching his ass and spearing the girl, and he strikes so deep she screams and when he comes, his vision blanks out. The name he roars is hers and it isn't.

They come down from the high in a trembling tangle of limbs, and she strokes his sweaty head and murmurs nonsense that falls on mostly deaf ears. Dean is spent, drifting in a sea of post-sex haze but it isn't enough, is never enough to black out completely the dull pang of guilt and black desire.

He doesn't stay the night. He never does, anymore. She fixes him coffee for the road and when he crosses her threshold, she says one more thing to him:

"Just because you're damaged, doesn't mean you can't be whole."

Three blocks from her complex, the coffee mug hits a wall and shatters.