Supernatural: Dean's Witch Ch. 01

NOTE: As someone with admitted addictions to both Supernatural and writing in general, I suppose I should have expected them to collide at some point, though I haven't written fanfiction in years. It was this idea that finally drew me to post a story on literotica, though, and I couldn't resist taking some of the ideas in varying directions. But of course, some ideas just beg to be explored fully. I should state here that I have no affiliation with the show, but I've aimed to make my portrayals here as believable as possible. I hope you'll enjoy the result. Let me know what you think.

Calla slammed her phone down onto the counter, having cut off her mother mid-sentence. She's gone crazy. All over again. Calla paced away from her phone, and she ignored the buzzing which told her that her mother dearest was trying to call her back, already. For what? To try to convince her she was doing the right thing in murdering random strangers, that they were "all bad" as her mother had put it. Calla found herself practically shaking with heartache, knowing she couldn't do anything to stop her. How long had her mother's last rampage lasted? She'd been so young, she wasn't sure. Maybe a few months, maybe thirty deaths spread over five or six states? But her coven stopped her then, and she's the strongest of them now. The thought froze Calla, taking her back to the sentiment that it was up to her to find a way to talk her mother down from her latest journey into psycho-land. She'd have to figure it out herself. For now, she just needed a drink.

Practically tripping in her haste to get to the cabinet where she kept wine, she reached the cabinet and looked inside. That's too tame, she realized, and headed for her purse instead. She wanted a goddamned shot of whiskey.

* * * * *

Dean followed her in his Impala, trailing a few cars behind and hoping they'd finally catch a break. After a week with no leads, it seemed that this young witch was their best hope of tracking down her mom, who'd been disappearing faster than they could even get into the state of her latest kill, she was moving so fast. A new body every other day practically, and they'd been getting nowhere. But with Calla's apartment carefully warded, there was no way to get into her place and snoop without alerting her, or else being invited in. An invite was what he was hoping for, if he could find a way to run into her that didn't arouse suspicion.

When he saw her pull into the lot of a local tavern, he groaned out loud in relief. This was what he'd been waiting for. Since Sammy had struck out with her the day before at her university, there hadn't been any other opportunity; now it was his turn. Parking and taking a glance at himself in the mirror to make sure nothing of his lunch remained in his teeth, he wondered again why she hadn't gone for his little brother. Sure, he knew he was better than Sam when it came to picking up women, but for a bookworm grad student like this Calla character, his brother should have been just the right fit. He'd approached her at school, too, posing as a new grad student, and she'd apparently shot him down without a second thought. No reason, no explanation, no apparent interest... and then she'd gone straight home at the end of the day, leaving the brothers no way to maneuver another meeting. Today, she'd again gone to school and come straight home again, and Dean had been about ready to give up... until he'd seen her stomp out of her place this evening and head to her car.

Inside the tavern, Dean let himself look around and take stock of the setting before he headed toward the side bar where Calla had already taken a seat. The space was mostly empty—she hadn't come here for the nightlife, clearly—but it was clean, and less run-down than he might have expected from the state of the gravel parking lot. Calla couldn't have been seated for more than a few minutes, but she already had a book out in front of her, prompting Dean to wonder again why she hadn't gone for Sammy. He was up for the challenge, though.

He took a stool a few seats down from her, just as the overgrown bartender returned to her and placed a rocks glass of amber liquid by her hand, smoothly taking up the card that she'd laid at the edge of the bar and heading off, not a word exchanged between them.

"Jack on the rocks," Dean called to the bartender as he turned from his register and placed Calla's card on a nearby shelf. He glanced to Calla, but she hadn't bothered to look up at him, apparently engrossed in her reading... though Dean noticed she hadn't yet turned a page, and didn't seem to be getting ready to. He watched as she reached for her glass and lifted it to her lips, and then placed it down again. If he wasn't mistaken, her eyes had just gone back to the top of the page when she looked back to her book; her mind was elsewhere.

"Rough day?" he asked.

She didn't respond, but the bartender returned with Dean's drink and placed it in front of him. "Calla, fella here asked you a question," he commented in her direction, twisting his lip in what might have been frustration.

Dean nodded to him; the aid was unexpected, but he'd take it if it meant he didn't have to look the fool by repeating himself.

"I heard him, Mark," Calla replied, finally looking up from her book and letting her eyes come to Dean's own. She looked younger than she was, he thought, and incredibly tired—world-weary, like he sometimes felt. But Dean knew her to be 28, a third-year grad student in Psychology at the local university. She was also a witch, and the daughter of a serial killer. He nodded at her when she seemed content to assess him silently, and repeated, "Rough day?", with a nod to her drink.

"You could say that, yeah," she answered, and lifted her drink for another sip. "Look, guy, I don't mean any offense, but I just want to read and be left alone if it's all the same to you. Okay?"

"Goddamnit, Calla," the bartender intervened, again. "Have a fucking conversation for once, would ya?"

Dean glanced between them. "You guys know each other pretty well, I take it," he commented, gulping down the second third of his whiskey and leaning back after he spoke.

"Well as she knows anyone," Mark answered him, and then glared back at the petite witch before stalking away.

For her part, Calla shut her book and sighed. "You'll have to excuse him," she told Dean, eyeing her drink and apparently considering another sip. "He's afraid I'll attract a horde of grad students to his place and it'll lose its reputation, whatever that is."

Dean allowed himself to grin fully at her, acknowledging the joke. "Look, I'm not trying to pry; I'm just passing through town—thought a conversation with a pretty girl would be a nice way to pass the time is all."

Hearing the comment, Mark fished a menu from beneath the bar and slapped it down in front of Dean, who acknowledged it with a nod as Calla watched him. He shrugged at her harmlessly, reminding himself not to come on too strong with this one, and forced himself to look through the menu, which was much like any other tavern menu he'd ever encountered. A few seats away, though, he sensed more than felt Calla's guard ease up, and he glanced up when she let out a delicate cough.

"They cook everything rarer than you order it, just so's you know," she offered. "And, thank you."

"Thanks for what?" Dean asked, letting his eyes meet hers again.

"For saying... you know, calling me a pretty girl," she said, blushing.

The pink of her flushed skin distracted Dean for a moment, but only a moment. "Just saying what I thought," he told her. "Allow me to buy you a drink, pass the time? Name's Dean."

After a second's hesitation, she gulped down what had been left in her glass and scooted one seat over, toward Dean, leaving just a single stool between them now. "Alright, then, I'm Calla," she answered him, a flicker of confusion seeming to cover her face as she said it, which Dean filed away to think about later. "Mark," she called to the eavesdropping bartender who lurked nearby, "this'll get you off my case for the night?" Turning more fully to Dean as he gestured for a refill of both their glasses, she added, "He means well. I tend to leave when the place gets busy, and I'm in here alone when I'm in here; he thinks that means I don't have any friends."

"Does it?" Dean asked before he could stop himself, jarring the girl beside him. "Sorry, that was probably too personal," he noted, kicking himself mentally. He was supposed to be flirting his way into her apartment—not scaring her off with questions that you didn't ask, ever.

She accepted the drink from Mark's hand, ignoring the bartender's grin. "I have enough, and I'm busy," she told Dean. "I'm also not the only one drinking alone," she commented, putting the focus on him.

"Touché. Like I said, I'm passing through, doing some consulting work. I'll be here a few weeks, and probably coming through regular in the future, but this is my first night in town," Dean lied smoothly.

"Consulting work?" she prodded.

"I'm a legal consultant for businesses," Dean fibbed, figuring those were two areas she probably didn't know anymore than he did about, given her major. "My company's expanded into this area, and I'm the one who got slotted to oversee it. Seems nice enough, so far," he said.

He watched her take him in, and took the opportunity to do the same, not having gotten a good look at her until now, outside of pictures. The facts of her, he'd known. She was 5'4 and 165 pounds, based on her driver's license. Her hair was wavy, cut to land naturally around her shoulders—a dark auburn with some reddish highlights. Her eyebrows were a shade lighter, suggesting her hair was dyed. She wore a loose sweater that only accentuated her curves, though he knew she probably thought the opposite. It was a green v-neck that was a shade too warm for the bar, though maybe it was lighter than it looked, and boot-cut jeans that drifted down far enough to near cover the wedge sandals she was wearing. Her skin was ivory, and her eyes were blue, and he hadn't lied—he thought she was pretty, if not quite the type he'd have gone for on a normal night.

Breaking the silence, Dean reached his near-empty second glass of whiskey toward hers and said, "Cheers, to a night of not drinking alone after a long day."

She nodded back at him, a smile curling her lips and being directed at Dean for the first time in the evening. "Cheers," she returned.

* * * * *

Fuck, what am I doing? Calla looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, touching up her lip gloss even as she told herself she shouldn't. She stood back to examine herself, wishing she hadn't worn the oversized pine green sweater that covered up her figure. At least it accentuated her eyes, she told herself as she adjusted her over-large breasts in their cups and mentally shook her head at herself for bothering. She knew she should leave. Why hadn't she left earlier, before she'd let him talk her into dinner?

Dean was nice, and he wasn't attached to the university, and he seemed to be interested—and God, was he hot—but a lasting flirtation, let alone dating, was the last thing she needed at the moment. Unfortunately, now she couldn't leave. She'd lost track of her drinks, it had been so easy to sit and chat with him, and then they'd ordered dinner... As a result, she'd kept up with his drinking, and though he didn't seem buzzed, she was way past being able to drive home safely. Especially with cops being everywhere in this neighborhood. And she couldn't walk it, either—her heels weren't a problem, but safety would be, should she try. A taxi? she wondered, and decided that was her best bet. But if she was going to do that anyway... one more drink couldn't hurt.

Feeling herself floating a bit, Calla all but walked into Dean as she left the hall that led to the tavern's bathrooms. "I got us a table," he leaned in to whisper as he handed her another drink, nodding to the bar that had gotten rowdier and rowdier over the last hour. Mark waved from behind it, and she felt herself nodding. She took a sip from her new drink, and almost gasped when she felt Dean's palm rest against her lower back, guiding her toward a table where she saw he'd relocated her bag. His hand pressing her forward, she allowed herself to enjoy the shiver that crawled up her spine in response to his touch, even leaning backward into it a bit as he guided her forward. Fuck, she was drunk, she realized.

She sat down and then bit her lip as Dean took hold of the back of her chair to edge it in toward the table. "A gentleman, through and through," she commented to him as he took his own seat. The comment seemed to catch him off guard, but he grinned that shit-eating grin of his in response, and she thought again about what a great smile he had. It seemed so... genuine. She was too used to being around students and teachers all day, she thought again—folks who might hate each other, and compete with each other, but who were expected to be nice at every moment, all the more so in her field where a person being calm and collected at all points was practically a prerequisite for any success at all. Calla allowed herself to lean forward over the table, knowing she was giving Dean a view of the curves she normally went to efforts to hide.

"I like you," he told her, leaning forward himself and pushing his whiskey to the side.

Calla jarred backward, surprised, and shook her head to clear out the thought she'd had, that he'd been leaning forward to kiss her, and she'd been about to let him, and instead... line or not, what a statement that had been. She took a gulp of her drink, and then asked him quietly, her eyes on his, "I never asked—you don't have a girlfriend to call, who might be worried that you're out with some strange girl in a strange town?" She'd meant it to sound like more of a joke, but she knew as soon as the question left her mouth that it had sounded too serious.

He shook it off, though, seemingly unphased by anything, however awkward her comments got. "No, no girlfriend, Calla. Not even a cat," he added jokingly when he realized his own response had been too solemn.

She was buzzed, going on drunk, he knew, though he actually would have expected her to be fall-down drunk by now, given her size and that she'd mostly kept up with him in the drinking. He reminded himself that she was a witch, and someone they needed for an investigation, when he found himself looking into her eyes for another moment longer. He liked the way she'd leaned into his hand earlier, and that she hadn't shied away from him getting a table, and that she'd allowed him to brush her hair out of her face, without flinching away from him.

Before he could stop himself, he asked, "You wanna get out of here?"

Her reaction said it all—she jerked backward in her seat, a quick shake of her head telling him she was trying to sober herself up.

"I didn't mean that the way it sounded," he cut off whatever she was stumbling toward saying, and reached out to put his hand over hers on the table as he did. "I just meant, it's loud in here, and we both have to get up early, I'm guessing," he added lamely, realizing what a mistake the question had been, offered as it was.

"Oh, right," Calla stuttered. What was I thinking, asking about a girlfriend?! Calla closed her eyes and took a breath. "Right," she repeated as she opened them, only to see him frankly examining her from across their small table. Of course, after that question, he'd want to get away from her as quickly as possible. He'd been looking for a dinner-time chat, or maybe a one-night stand based on his last query, and here she was asking about relationships. As if a guy like this, handsome and together, would be interested in a grad student like herself who, looks-wise, wasn't exactly at his level. Had the fact that he was probably closer to his mid-thirties made her let her guard down to get disappointed? She wasn't sure, but she knew she knew better than this, to get her hopes up like that because she'd been fueled by whiskey and an argument with her mother. At least he'd taken her mind off of that problem.

Dean pressed down on her hand on the table, bringing her attention back to himself. He wondered where her mind had gone, but didn't press it. She clearly thought he'd just shut her down, which was the last thing he needed her thinking. He needed into her apartment. "Can I see you again tomorrow night?" he asked, keeping his hand on hers and enjoying the shock that slipped over her expression when she'd processed what he'd just asked.

"Tomorrow night?" she answered quietly, the surprise coming through in her tone.

"I had fun with you; I like you. Why not?" he asked.

She shook her head. This was happening too fast; she didn't even know this guy's last name, which is what she told him next.

"Winchester," he answered, "and yours is..."

"Ware," she told him, even as she told herself that she should pull her hand away from his. But she didn't.

"Well, Calla Ware, can I see you tomorrow night?"

Despite her better judgement, she nodded, and then she agreed to let him drive her home.

* * * * *

Guiding her out of the bar, Dean thought about the look that Mark the bartender had given him when he'd paid both their tabs and it had become clear they were leaving together. From the expression on his face, he'd not planned on Calla leaving with him, and Dean revised his earlier estimation of the man; he wasn't a nosy bartender so much as he was a defacto big brother to the petite witch who was now admiring Baby.

"This is Baby," he told Calla, gesturing to his prized Impala and then opening the passenger side door for her.

"She's gorgeous," Calla told him honestly, and he grinned as he turned on the radio; Calla's easy adoption of the pronoun raised the witch's sexiness infinitely, far as he was concerned. A girl who could appreciate whiskey and his car... but he cut off the thought. She's a witch, he reminded himself, albeit a pretty one who knows a good thing when she sees it.

"Where do you live?" he asked her as he pulled out, and then he was careful to follow her directions as she made them, and even just passed her apartment when she didn't point it out quickly enough, thinking it was a nice touch on his part.

Parking, he jumped out before she could stop him and came around to her side of the car. "Allow me to walk you to your door?" he offered with an easy grin, wondering if she was innocent enough to invite him in tonight.

To her credit, she at least hesitated, but Dean's charm won out. "Alright," she agreed, again thinking to herself that she'd lost her mind to the whiskey. How many had she allowed him to buy her, anyway? She always counted, but with tonight's stress...

Dean's conversation came easily as they walked the three flights up to her place, and when she unlocked the door and had already told him she lived alone, she couldn't stop herself from agreeing that, yes, he could see her living room and make sure it was empty of intruders, as a gentleman would do after walking a lady home, just to assure himself she'd be fine when he left. He stayed in her living room and kitchen space then, while she dutifully walked into her bedroom and then into her small office, and glanced into her bathrooms and her closets, and came back to tell him that, yes, the place was empty of villains. "I'm safe and sound, but for you," she joked.

He grinned back at her. "You're safe and sound with me, too, though your honor might be in question after the fourth date or so," he allowed himself to joke, and enjoyed the flush that crept down her neck. "I'm going before I prove myself wrong," he chuckled, holding his hands up as if in surrender that he'd gone a step too far. "Tomorrow night—same place, same time?" he asked from her doorway.