Supernatural: Dean's Witch Ch. 01

She smiled back at him, nodding, and biting her lip at the thought that she didn't know how she'd wait to see him again, or what she'd wear. Or how she'd ever allowed him to buy her a second drink, for that matter.

And then he left, and she collapsed on her couch to wonder if he'd be thinking of her when he got back to his hotel.

* * * * *

"I got in," Dean told Sammy as soon as he entered their shared hotel room.

"You're kidding?" his brother shot back at him from the table where he sat with an open book and a pile of herbs Dean didn't recognize.

Dean shrugged, stripping off the button-down he'd been wearing in the bar and going down to his t-shirt. His mind still on Calla, he took a beer from their fridge and sat down across from Sam. "We had some drinks, her a few too many, and she got enough of a buzz that I convinced her to let me take her home."

"And you slept with her?"

Dean thought for a second of saying that he had, but if that had been the case, he'd still have been there. "No, but I got in the door. I'm seeing her again tomorrow night. Didn't have much time to look around tonight, but I'll get there tomorrow," he assured his brother, thinking about how Calla had trembled under his gaze when he'd made that fourth date joke; her honor wasn't going to last that long with him.

"Well, I think I've got this right, so you can take it with you," Sam told him, shaking his head at the fact that his brother had once again managed to charm a girl he'd thought for sure was out of his league.

Dean turned his attention to the concoction in front of Sammy, noticing for the first time that there were already both ashes and blood in the base of the bowl that held the herbs he'd smelled upon entering. "You think it'll work? Sure would make our lives easier," he muttered. And it would. The possibility of being able to take away the power of a witch—permanently, and without harming them—was a game changer when it came to their dealings with witches. Cas' stumbling on the spell had seemed almost too good to be true, but if it worked...

"No reason to think it won't," Sam said, grinning back at his older brother. It had taken him all night to get the proportions right, and to get the coloration that the spell required as a proof that it was potent, but he'd gotten it. If Dean could get into Calla's bedroom, he'd be able to sprinkle the resulting powder on her pillow so that she'd breathe it in as she slept. A week of that, and her powers would be gone, proving they could do the same with any witch they encountered, if they could just get to her bedroom. Not the simplest thing, with wards involved, but between their experience at acting out as everything from FBI to air conditioner repairmen, one of them would be able to manage at least one invite, and from there it would be a simple matter of quiet B&Es, since they'd be able to slip past the wards after one entrance with the witch who'd made them.

"Awesome," Dean breathed, eyeing the powder his brother was dribbling into a small beaker. Game changer, indeed.

* * * * *

Calla had tried on four outfits before going back to the first she'd put on, so Dean's appreciative whistle when she walked into the bar was welcome. It was quiet again, but she caught Mark's glance toward her as she made her way to the bar; she couldn't tell if he was pleased or worried, and it reminded her again that he'd turned into something of a big brother over the years, though they never saw each other outside of this space. Then again, she supposed it shouldn't have been any surprise, given that 90% of the tavern's regular patrons were men, and that the women who did come in were generally twenty years her seniors; truth be told, this was why she was more wary of men here than elsewhere, and why she made sure to be dressed down when she came, so as to avoid unwanted attention from the drunks that Mark's place seemed to attract. She loved the atmosphere of the place, though, and Mark was a good listener, as was his sometimes-bartending wife.

Focusing on this moment, though, she watched Dean look her up and down as she headed toward him, glad for the fact that she could take her time in her approach and not attract anyone else's attention, given how empty the place still was. Another girl would have been offended, she knew—first by the whistle, and then by his open examination as she walked toward him across the tavern—but she let herself enjoy it. She wore a white A-line skirt and black wedge heels that she knew showed off her legs, and her top was a black cotton one that she loved for the way it showed off her hourglass shape and her breasts, dipping just barely too low as it did, while hiding any extra curve that another top would show. For this place, she was overdressed, as was Dean in his business attire. But unlike the night before, Calla now looked like she'd come for a date, and realized that she was blushing once again as she got closer to Dean, seeing that he'd shaved fresh for their night out as he took up her hand and kissed the top of it.

He'd stood with her approach, and now his hand landed on the small of her back once again, and he guided her to the table by the wall where they'd sat the night before. Once the waitress left, promising waters and glasses of wine, Calla finally let herself meet his gaze.

"You didn't have to go to all this trouble for me, Calla," he said, and she thought his voice was lower than it had been; her heart picked up an extra beat with the implied desire she thought she'd heard in it when he'd said her name.

"No trouble," she told him, swallowing hard, and then taking up her water gratefully as soon as the waitress dropped it off. She hadn't allowed herself to go out on a date in ages, and now for the second night in a row, she was sitting across from this man who'd already practically knocked her off her feet with the way he looked at her.

"Maybe not, but... you look amazing," he told her softly, leaning toward her and placing his hand over her own like he'd done the night before. The weight of it felt good, like it belonged there, and she let herself enjoy it.

Dean leaned in further, noting the fact that she hadn't yet moved her hand, or even attempted to shy away from his touch. He reached up to take up a curled length of her hair, possessively playing with it in his fingers, and he brushed his thumb lightly against her chin. She didn't flinch, but her lips parted further as she took a deep breath of reaction. In a moment, he was leaning forward to kiss her, his hand moving naturally to the nape of her neck to pull her toward him.

Calla shifted in her seat, suddenly pulling away from Dean's grip and leaning backward, seeming to gasp for air as she did so. "Sorry, I..."

"No, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have," Dean told her at the same time, taking a breath himself. He hadn't meant to move that quickly.

"Just... it was fast, you know?" Calla answered him faultily, suddenly wondering why she hadn't just let him kiss her. Now that the moment was gone, she rather wished that she had. When had a guy last kissed her? That boy, Adam, from the gym, she realized. That had been a year ago, and although the boy who'd kissed her had been her age, she thought of him now and could only naturally refer to him in her mind as a boy; he'd been pushy, and gloating, and she hadn't really liked him at all, truth be told, but had just wanted to be out on a date, so she'd agreed when he asked. And there was no mistaking the fact that Dean was no boy.

She looked down to the table and took a hurried gulp of her water. I do want him to kiss me, she realized, suddenly seeing what a mistake it had been to meet him for a second date, let alone dress up for him.

Dean watched as the girl in front of him collected herself, and he forced himself to calm down at the same time. He'd taken a gulp from his flask before coming in, but he suddenly wished he'd arrived early enough to have a few drinks beforehand; his nerves were all over the place for some reason. And Calla was... practically glowing, he couldn't help thinking. Dressed up as she was, she looked even younger than she had before, more innocent and vulnerable, and there was nothing he wanted more than to feel her lips, and see what she tasted of.

Everything he and Sam had been able to find on her had suggested that she barely used her powers, beyond everyday warding and some tell-tale signs of healing spells that they'd uncovered. He felt sure that it was safe to kiss her, though he would have been wary of kissing any other witch. Sitting across from her and watching the way her skin was flushed under his gaze, even when he wasn't touching her, he had no doubt that she was too innocent, too sweet, to have come armed with a spell. Even without the protection against such magic that sat in the pocket of his pants, he'd of staked his life on the fact that she didn't, and wouldn't, mean him any harm.

Reaching out to her, he picked up her hand in his own and felt a shiver run through her skin in response. "Let's just have dinner, right? We'll see what happens, and I'll try not to make an ass of myself again?" Dean offered, forcing a lightness into his tone that he didn't feel. Was this really the person they ought to be stealing powers from, he had to wonder. The thought was killed when he reminded himself who her mother was, and that that darkness had to run in her genes, but he still felt a pang of guilt about the powder in his pocket, and the fact that his plans revolved around searching her place for any hint to her mother's whereabouts. The pang got harder when she looked up to his eyes openly, and smiled warmly in response. Sure enough, he'd gentled her right into being his for the taking, he realized in that moment's upward turn of her lips.

* * * * *

Sober, but floating anyway in response to the way Dean had been looking at her all night, Calla blocked out the noises coming from the tavern's hall as she touched up her makeup and chewed a second breath mint. The taste of the wine was one thing, but she didn't want any hint of her chicken Caesar to be left in her mouth if he should attempt to kiss her again; she knew without giving it a moment's thought that, if he kissed her, when he kissed her, she'd open her lips at the slightest prodding, and welcome him. She'd been thinking about that potential kiss for the last half hour, in fact, and didn't know what she'd do if he didn't walk her up to her door again and kiss her. She'd even taken a taxi to the bar after having retrieved her car that morning, wanting an excuse to be in his Impala again, and have him drive her home.

Taking one last look at herself, she swung herself away from the mirror and stepped out of the door's bathroom—right into a chest. For a moment, she thought it was Dean, until her mind processed the t-shirt where there should have been a dress shirt, and the stink of cigarettes where there should have been his musky cologne. She stepped back, but the man caught her arm and pulled her forward roughly enough that her purse fell from her shoulder, the strap catching on her elbow as she raised her arm to press her hand against his bicep and push herself backward.

"What are you—" she began, stunned into stuttering up at him before his drunken breath interrupted her, the man's lips slamming into her own and stumbling her backward, further down the hall and away from the tavern's main room, one of his large hands held to the back of her head and his other tight on her arm. He tasted of beer and cigarettes, stale, and she couldn't breathe at all against his force.

He cut off the kiss and pressed her back another step, looming over her as he spoke and as she gasped for air. "I've been watching you, you slut, you know that?" he slurred, leaning down and into her so that she stepped backward and found herself suddenly pressed against the wall at the end of the passage, too shocked to call for help. "'Cuz he has money, you dress up and you think that straight-laced prick out there can make you..." he was cut off, slammed backward from her so violently that she crumpled halfway to the ground with the shock of it. Dean had come out of nowhere and knocked him backward and away from her, and now he held her drunk assailant up against the wall beside the men's room, his forearm to the man's throat with his other hand set sturdily against his chest, pressing hard against him, a sneer on his face. She couldn't hear what he was saying, but she could see the man's fear, and Dean's flooding anger. She watched as her calm and seemingly gentle date punched the man hard in the gut and then pulled him back up against the wall to face him as he coughed for breath, and then Dean punched him again, hard; she could have sworn she heard a crack.

"Dean," she found herself calling out weakly, and then she said his name more loudly when he didn't hear her. "Dean... I'm okay," she called again, jerkily raising herself all the way to her feet, but not stepping any closer. A crowd had been attracted at the opening that led to the tavern's main room, and suddenly Mark pushed through it; a look at her face apparently told him what had happened, coupled with the identity of the man who Dean held to the wall that she now recognized as a regular. She'd seen Mark push him out the door before, in fact, when she'd stopped in for a late drink. Letting herself lean against the wall, she watched as Mark replaced Dean's hold on the man, simmering mad, and Dean reluctantly stepped back, his eyes focused on the other man and darker than she could have imagined.

"Dean?" she asked, sighing suddenly and feeling the adrenaline of the moment start to leave her. She looked at his hands, still clenched into fists, thinking of the violence she'd just seen him exhibit, and not caring that he clearly wasn't quite the man she'd thought him to be.

She realized she was crying only when Dean was suddenly against her, pressing her into his own chest so that her tears were wetting his shirt, and there she just let herself melt against him.

"I got ya, baby, I got ya," he whispered into her hair, and she kept her eyes closed, listening to his words and holding onto him for all she was worth.

* * * * *

Back at her place, Dean hunted through Calla's cabinets while she changed clothes; in the car, she'd said barely anything more but for thanking him, and muttering about smelling the asshole's scent in her clothes—as soon as they'd come in the door, she'd made a hurried plea for him not to leave, but that she needed to change clothes. Finding the cabinet where she kept her wine, he pulled out a bottle without giving it a real look and then began the hunt for her wine opener; she'd still been shaking when he pulled her into the door, and he knew they both needed something to steady their nerves. Hers, so she could let go of the panic; his, so that he could calm down the rage that was running through him with every breath he took.

Finding her wine opener in the first drawer he opened, Dean turned to the task at hand. He'd just pulled the cork away and thrown it in her trash when she came out from her hall, dressed in jeans and an over-sized sweater that, if he'd had to have guessed, he would have said was a full five sizes too large for her. It hung off of her shoulder, showing the strap of a tank top and the strap of a bra beneath that. Her eyes were large, still, and she was hugging her arms to her chest.

"Wine..." Dean addressed her, and she nodded, then moving silently to a cabinet in the main room that he hadn't noticed, and pulling forth two stemless glasses. He let her move to him with the glasses. She'd been glued to him until they got out of the tavern, and then retreated once they landed in Baby, curling into the passenger seat as if it was him she was afraid of, or everything. He'd listened to her mutter for the short ride to her place, and been glad that she didn't question the fact that he so easily remembered how to get there. And every moment, he'd wanted to go back to the tavern and kill the man who'd tried... whatever he'd been trying. Instead, he'd said nothing, simply hating the fact that he could smell the bastard's cigarettes on her.

He let her approach with the glasses, and he poured them each a large glass. She took one, and he told her to give him just a second. He swiped his hand under her faucet and ran the cold water over his face before he dried off with a paper towel and followed her to the couch. He gave her space, sitting a cushion away from her and taking a gulp of his wine before he really sat back.

"This was... I don't know what to say," he finally said, watching the girl beside him as she cradled her glass in her hands and seemed to do all she could to melt into the overstuffed couch beneath them. He wanted to turn on the television to break apart the tension, but couldn't imagine what he'd find for them to watch that wouldn't make things more awkward. "I'm here for you," he finally said, thinking that this was what his brother would have said if he'd been in this position.

Calla finally looked straight at the man sitting beside her, formal and straight-backed on a couch that made it hard to be either. His face was set, and his eyes were still dark, and she was simply glad he was there. She shook her head—what was there to say? She'd not planned on having more to drink than the two glasses of wine she'd had at the bar with their meal, but now she swallowed down all of what more Dean had poured for her and lifted herself to move along the couch and curl up against him, not letting herself think about what she was doing. She just desperately needed the comfort of his presence again, whatever that led him to think of her. She could feel him tense beside her as she settled, but his arm came down around her shoulders and she let her head rest against his chest. "Is this okay?" she whispered.

Dean could feel her heartbeat against his chest, and he let his arm pull her in even closer, nodding his head. "Yeah, you're good, right here," he answered, and then he relaxed backward, one arm around her and the other resting on the couch's arm rest, holding his half-full glass of red.

He breathed deeply, trying to let her body heat relax out of him all of the stress of the night. When she'd gone to the restroom at the tavern, he'd been thinking about what she'd taste like, and what it would feel like when he peeled that top off of her body and saw the rest of her. He'd been thinking about how far he'd go with her that night, and how much she'd allow him, and whether or not they should have one more glass of wine at the tavern or just get lost already. And then, he'd heard something, and seen a man who'd been heading into the hallway doing an about-face as if he'd seen something he didn't want to interrupt, and he'd known in his gut that she was in trouble. And he'd been right. Seeing that man holding her up against the wall, he'd wanted to destroy him. He hadn't felt rage like that in a long time.

Now, he realized he was still sweating with the adrenaline of everything and the heat of the night. Gently, he unwrapped his arm and told her, "Hold on, don't go anywhere," before he disengaged enough that he could unbutton the dress shirt he'd been wearing and shrug it off so that he was down to his t-shirt. He still felt confined, like every one of his muscles was tight and ready to explode, but it was better. "Come 'ere," he told her, and she sank back into his side, fitting perfectly, one of her hands landing on his stomach as if they'd curled up like this a hundred times before.

Calla let herself relax fully against the man beside her, her hand rising and falling with his breaths as she noticed the muscles of his abdomen beneath her fingers, and the smell of his aftershave mixed with his cologne. He felt raw, and safe.