Part Three: Garota
Author: Regala Electra
Summary: Almost happens, hand to God (and yeah, he doesn’t believe in a higher power, but point of matter is, he’s not fucking lying), Dean nearly gets sucked off by a succubus in Southern Florida, only because it’s Miami and not some backwater hellhole of this freaky-ass state, he gets saved.
Warnings: Sexual Content, Language, Violence, Drug Use
Word Count: 5,562
Author’s Notes: This story has been a long time in the making and I have to especially thank pheebs1 for the valuable beta-work in the early stages of putting this story together. And my eternal thanks to the lovely ignited for listening to my many, many rambles as I worked on the final draft. Previous parts can be found here: Maria and Rose.
Feedback is appreciated.
when she walks, she’s like a samba
He’s washing the sand off his skin with the gritty motel soap, thinking about nothing really, which suits him just fine, last night’s a blur he doesn’t want to investigate.
Hell, he got Dad’s call at six in the morning, damn unnatural hour. There’s this hoodoo thing that needs some looking into and he’s trusting Dean to check it out, Dad saying he had a hunt that still ain’t done, and only thing Dean had said to that was, “Yes, sir.”
Damn, he needs some coffee, injected into his veins if possible, boiling hot, maybe that’ll give his body a much needed kickstart, real fire in his belly. Still, even with the friggin’ hollow echo of before fucking up his brain, he starts with the checklist, easy as that, frowning down at the sand stuck under his nails, the open suck mouth-shaped bruise on his wrist, no, over his pulse, how the hell did that happen?
No. Has to stop wondering about the in-between haze, all that matters is that he finished what needed to be done here. Needs to focus. ‘Cause what he really needs is to remember that he’s gotta restock on necessary supplies (and fuck it, buy some soap that doesn’t tear into his skin) before he heads off to Lousiana.
Bullets, that’ll be a good idea, pure silver, and maybe check out a gun show between here-and-Lousiana, the kind that never bothers askin’ what for, only how much.
Goddamn shower’s running colder than it oughtta, worse it’s too fuckin’ short, the showerhead, making him hunch down to get his head under, washing out whatever he’s still got stuck in his hair.
Ain’t ever enjoyed getting his skin scrubbed off, layer at a time while he hunts for sand, having to bend in some damn uncomfortable ways, normal pleasant aches in his muscles have come and gone, so to speak, leaving him just flat out tired. Not enough fucking hours in the night and he can’t let daylight burn away, better to haul ass soon as he can face the too-bright sun.
Gritty soap and gritty sand, all kinds of grit sticking all over him and he’s more the fool ‘cause he’s trying not to remember now, blotting out the memory ‘cause it’s too fucking weird.
And once he’s gotten as much as he’s ever gonna get, soap left a skinny sliver, he turns the water down all the way, to somewhere freezing, cold blast that has him hissing fuck through clenched teeth, but he deserves it, because dammit, what hell point is there in trying to forget the party girl that fucked him and left him on the beach just may have been a hell of a lot more than just some sorta witchy woman?
No point at all, and the first thing that comes back to him, makes his teeth chatter (or maybe that’ll be the ice-water pulverising his back), is her laugh.
Almost happens, hand to God (and yeah, he doesn’t believe in a higher power, but point of matter is, he’s not fucking lying), Dean nearly gets sucked off by a succubus in Southern Florida, only because it’s Miami and not some backwater hellhole of this freaky-ass state, he gets saved.
By the Girl from Ipanema, no less, and that right there is the point where he should say okay, stop it, I wanna get off, this ride is too fucking crazy for me, only all he does is gawk and know that she’s something else.
Friggin’ Girl from Ipanema.
Screw it, all of Florida is just weird. No point in tellin’ stories about other places, it’s always Florida that wins the prize for the most fucked-up shit in the history of ever.
When she yanks back the long dark hair, before that hungry mouth clamps down on Dean’s cock, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist (even one operating with a now-deflating hard-on) to recognize there’s something supernatural about her.
Hell, even more than that, she’s a fuckin’ Amazon, tossing off a laugh when the succubus hisses at her, easy sound, that laugh, like she’s seen worse.
She holds the succubus up to eye level (its human-shape is a petite brunette with contact-blue eyes, all the better to hide the cat’s eyes yellow) because this chick is tall, some extra height tacked on with those serious heels she’s wearing.
“Feed on refuse,” she suggests, shaking the succubus like she weighs nothing more than a rag doll, dropping the creature in distaste. This woman (girl, no, no way, not a girl by any measure, he can’t pin down her age, but she’s no girl) only smiles when the succubus slams hard on the ground, molting limbs scrabbling against concrete as it backs away.
And Dean, because he doesn’t want to look like a total amateur, pumps some shots of rod iron into the belly of the succubus and watches it die, blubbering wet scream the last noise it ever makes as it twitches, death throes passing after a couple of minutes.
Sucked off by a succubus.
Huh. That’s the type of thing that needs some telling. Sure, he might not add that part where he needed a, uh, someone to step in and keep him from being just another poor bastard sex-drained and left for dead.
Dean hates that it still hurts, this little ache inside when he thinks that’s the sort of thing he’d want to tell Sammy, but he hasn’t spoken to Sam in damn near two years—coupla random calls in over four years don’t really count, but it’s been two years of no communication. He ain’t gonna break the radio silence now just for a dirty joke.
Though, it is kinda tempting.
“Nearly killed for a blowjob?” The chick shakes her head, like that’s something she always expects of men, still she’s kinda annoyed that it’s always winding up like that, guy willing to do anything just to get his dick sucked.
Dean doesn’t have a snappy answer, still freakin’ gawking at her, Amazon that came out of nowhere and now she’s gonna mock him for getting a little, uh, sidetracked.
She doesn’t extend a hand to help him up, only flutters her long eyelashes down at his crotch level, amusement dancing across her face. “I am Garota, and you?”
Dean zips up his pants, which great, he just ended a hunt with his dick hanging out. Something like that shouldn’t happen ever. He’s pretty sure that’s at the top of the list of precautions to take when hunting after what goes bump in the night.
Keep your dick in your pants.
Yeah, that saying isn’t about cheating, it’s about not being a goddamn idiot.
“Dean,” he tells her, looking up after he buckles his belt.
She smiles at him then, and hell, she’s gorgeous. Sun-kissed golden all over and she looks like a natural blonde too, a honey dark color that’s just a shade lighter than her tanned skin, bordering on real light brown, almost-blonde. Her eyes are dark in the alley, they could be anything. He’d thought her older, but she looks like she’s younger than him, maybe, he can’t really tell. He can tell she’s got a killer body barely covered in a breezy sundress with thin straps, the kinda get-up that looks like it would be translucent during the day.
Which, hell yeah, he approves.
Okay, sometimes he loves Florida. He might never said it out loud, but damn, sometimes it’s worth it, these Miami woman, they just refuse to leave any mystery. Dean’s very okay with that.
“Bad things come out at night,” Garota says and she’s got an interesting accent, not really a Spanish accent, but something close, and so goddamn flirty it throws Dean off, he’s smiling at her like some goofy idiot. “Good that I’m not one of them, yes?”
“Well,” Dean offers, trying to keep his dick from getting all interested because dammit, now is really not the fuckin’ time, “that’s one way of looking at things.”
When she laughs, her hair tosses back in a perfect shining wave. Dean feels like he’s thirteen again, bowled over with that first wave of want and nothing he can do but figure out a way to get laid but quick. It’s surging through him, double-time, and he’s lucky that even when he was a scrawny kid just hitting his first real growth spurt, he believed he always had a shot, no matter the odds, ‘cause now well, he’s fucking tongue-tied at best.
“I only break hearts,” she says when she’s finished laughing, light dancing in her eyes. “Never lives. You know me, yes? There’s a song they sing of me. When that is forgotten, they will honor what I am in another way.”
The possible not-woman tilts her head at him, waving her hand in front of him. Checking to see if he’s lost his damn mind.
He’ll have to get back to her on that.
Dean counts off how many shots he’s got left in his gun. Two, friggin’ excellent, not enough, but it’ll do. He tucks his gun away, letting her know that maybe he’s falling for whatever she’s selling. Gotta keep the element of surprise, even if he doesn’t need it.
And maybe this way he can convince himself that he isn’t staring at her slack-jawed.
“The Girl from Ipanema. That’s what they call it in America. Everyone’s heard of it. Yes?” She takes a few steps backwards and Dean notices the sway of her hips, she’s got dancer’s legs, muscles strong under smooth, too-perfect skin. They’re completely bare and glisten not from sweat, but probably from cocoa butter.
Goddamn it but he wants up close and personal confirmation that her skin tastes just like that, sweet warm cocoa butter sun-soaked even though the sun set hours ago.
No way to get a hold of himself. Inventorying her: female, check, as far as he can see (and he can see a lot). Sugar and spice and everything nice. One of the most awesome things invented in the world, in Dean’s opinion. That’s all he can read from her but if she’s something else, then he has no idea what the fuck she is.
“Yeah. Songs are about a lot of things.” Dean winces at how profoundly stupid that sounds, continuing on, “But Metallica’s Sandman ain’t real and the Girl from the Copacabana, Ipanema, whatever, you can’t be...no way. If that girl was real, she’s just a chick from wherever. Not a—”
“Something,” Garota says, agrees, which shuts him up.
Her lips do this amazing pout and Dean’s libido has won the battle, reminding him that sex is really freakin’ awesome. It’s called a moue, that pout, he remembers a chick telling him that once and he’d actually been listening.
“I used to walk with Heloísa and that’s how it started that time,” she says as if Dean can understand whatever the fuck that means. “But I am not a carioca. I am something different but nothing like that.”
She points with her foot, reminding Dean that oh yeah, he hasn’t exactly done a bang-up job of removing the succubus like he oughtta, and he stops gawking and gets back to work. Good thing a succubus is flammable as anything, more, because once he tosses a disposable lighter on the bitch’s body, it lights up like a goddamn Christmas display, sparking blues and reds, oranges and yellows, until there’s nothing more than some ashes, easily forgotten.
She’d watched him do it the entire time, only a slight nod of satisfaction at the end of it when the fire died away.
“So,” Dean starts up, and it’s unnerving how calm she is, “these ain’t your normal haunts?”
Loaded question, he knows, but she responds smoothly, “I do like to travel when I can and Miami’s lovely now, isn’t it?”
It’s the end of September and the days have been kind of damn awesome, even with the hurricane season slowly rearing its ugly head. The weather’s been warm and the breeze is good and Dean has found that thanks to the view of bikini-clad models, this is one of his better solo missions. You know, barring nearly dying ‘cause he let a succubus get the upper hand. Uh. So to speak.
“Walk with me?”
She does the moue again but there’s a smile hidden in it. She already knows his answer, even if he fucking doesn’t know it himself.
Dean finds himself nodding his head dumbly and following after her. A breeze flattens her short dress against her ass and he’s now aware she’s either wearing nothing underneath the flimsy fabric or she’s got on the most amazing panties ever. He’s going to make a point of solving that mystery.
Which...what the hell, he should be more concerned about her not being exactly on the up-and-up on whatever the fuck she is. Dammit. This just ain’t good.
Still, one foot in front of the other, he’s walking side-by-side, trying to keep up, it’s like she’s dancing, and hell, he ain’t even leading.
‘Course the second his head clears, it’ll be like shouting fire in a crowded theater, they’re not out in near-empty streets anymore, all he knows is that he’s lost track of time and there are people around and he has no idea how the fuck he got there.
In the late hour, all these people are set for some hardcore clubbing, and when he gets a handle on the situation (being led by the fuckin’ dick by a something), he stops next to a line of impatient, tanned 20-somethings, all too attractive in a clean-scrubbed, waxed all over kind of way. And that’s just the guys, which annoys Dean on a deep level he ain’t ever gonna be able to explain properly, only that it ain’t right.
The chicks are pretty hot but he realizes they don’t hold a candle to Garota. Shit, she may very well be whatever the hell she’s claiming, ‘cause he’s not even appreciating that black-haired little piece of heaven who decided to forgo a shirt in favor of wearing nothing more than a low-cut deep purple bra and short-shorts.
Okay, maybe he just hates to love Florida. Freaky-ass state. Because a place that encourages ya to dress down to nothing can’t be all wrong, even if it’s a whole lotta wrong.
And damn, he can’t stop staring at her, and she notices him, looking for all the world like some cute little lamb looking to get all eaten up and hell, he’d offer straight here and now, and fuckin’ hell, he needs some action now.
He hears a wolf-whistle from the crowd but can’t make out who did it.
There’s a sudden change in the air, like when pressure drops, sign of a storm or worse coming, and the only cause Dean can figure is that Garota’s moving closer, brush of her fingers against the nape of his neck, unexpected. Shouldn’t be unexpected, he should be ready for that kinda move, but isn’t, can’t help it from that shocked gasp coming out of his mouth, like he hasn’t been touched in ages (not true, got laid two days ago, but damn if he can remember the particulars right now).
It’s pretty damn clear that other people are feeling it too, like the air’s amped up with sex, no other way to explain it. Most guys have their eyes focused on her (and there’s a few looking at Dean, flattering, but yeah, he don’t swing that way).
She links her arm into the crook of Dean’s arm and most of the interest fades away. It’s not as spooky as it should be. And that right there, is ten flavors of spooky, concentrated too, but he can’t help but loving the warmth of her, even in fuckin’ Miami, which is too warm most of the goddamn time for his blood.
Still, since his mind is stuck on stupid, as it always defaults when his dick is in control, he says, “What the hell...?”
“The legend has to come from somewhere,” Garota informs him, like a gentle admonishment. “It’s not only wanting, yes? It’s needing. You understand.”
He doesn’t, but he plays along, letting her take the lead again, she’s pretty damn sure of the destination, accented left here or to the right and it’s amazing but he’s almost got his bearings right, can smell the salt in the air getting strong, knows exactly where they’re going.
They’re close to the beach when she stops all of a sudden, smoothly gathering the bottom of her dress as she sits down on the curb, without a care that she’s ruining her pricey little dress. She pats the ground next to her and Dean finds himself sitting down with comment.
“I did not travel so much when I was younger, no, not so much. But there is no rest for the wicked,” and she grins at that, her nose wrinkling as though she’s telling an old joke. “Many places to see even if I’m not always seen. When the mood strikes me then I don’t mind being seen, but it is hard. I’m not as young as I used to be. I’m a sometimes-shadow on my bad days. Lucky for you, this is a good day.”
“Night,” Dean corrects, ‘cause he’s a moron.
“Night,” she agrees, her thighs rubbing together, dress riding up and she watches him as he stares at her, too many thoughts shielded behind her eyes.
Takes off his only extra layer (a thin button-down, shiny at the elbows), which leaves him with a white T-shirt that at least is kinda clean even though he’s had it on all day. “You shouldn’t ruin your dress.”
Hands his button-down over to her and she takes it graciously, “You are too kind, Dean.”
Garota stands up and he can see a flash of inner thigh and the firm rounded curve of her ass as she smoothes the shirt on the ground. Her hair tips over her shoulder, it should keeping him from checking out her rack, not like it stops him from sneaking a glimpse.
When she settles back down, Dean realizes his shirt is gonna smell like her. And as she leans in close to him, it gives him the perfect opening to suck in a deep breath, finding the scent of her to be just like any other woman, only different. She smells like the sea and heated cocoa butter. Salt and sweet. A perfect blend of woman and something else, forgotten, but it’s on the tip of his tongue, a memory salty-sweet.
“Do you have a lighter?” She asks him this as she pulls out a joint from somewhere. Nowhere really, because she doesn’t have any pockets and she isn’t carrying a purse.
She’s got long limbs and a great rack, but Dean doubts she’s been keeping it in her cleavage, mostly since she’s got half of her chest exposed as it is and she’s so not wearing a bra. Her breasts are golden like the rest of her but her cleavage isn’t deep enough to hide anything but the taste of salty sweat, lingering traces of a perfume.
Garota’s one shrug away from her straps slipping off her shoulders and she doesn’t seem to give a damn, hell, she doesn’t much mind that her nipples are pebbled, hardened by the wind, visible through her dress.
Dean tries to ignore how clumsy he looks trying to yank a pack of matches out of his right pocket, but fails miserably. He goes through three matches, striking them all wrong and bending the flimsy matches before she takes a match between two golden fingers (her nails are dead man’s blood red, the same color as her lipstick, purple in darkness, glistening bright under the moonlight).
Strikes it to a flame on the first try and she lets out a little hissing yes of approval.
In the light, her eyes are a dark, dark green. Not moss or some sorta forest green, no, it’s like the ocean in the middle of the night, a deep harbor with lights glittering across the way. He has no idea why that thought flits across his mind, but it does, sticking there better than all his questions about why the fuck he’s just sitting here, almost like he’s at her mercy, and no, that thought can’t stick, only the sea, that’s all he can focus on, the only fucking thing.
She exhales beautifully and he’s surprised how this joint doesn’t smell like pot. It’s almost ghostly, but in a nice way. Cool vapors snaking up and away in the air above them, but something better sticking around, twisting up inside him and he hasn’t even tried it yet.
Hell, he can’t describe what it’s like and he accepts the joint when she passes it to him.
“A succubus. I love how easily you men fall prey to your whims. Aaah,” she sighs and it’s just like that sound in the song she claims is all about her, making a perfect keening note, musical and sweet.
Dean watches the sigh take to the wind, skittering its way across the ocean. Across the light in her eyes, somewhere endless that he’s dying to go, terrified of what’s waiting for him there.
Across the whole damn universe and she’s whipped out a second joint from that somewhere else (Dean almost swears she pulled it from her hair in a quick little flick of a motion). Lights it with another match from her nowhere place, burning offering between index finger and thumb, long fingers delicate.
Dean gives the smoldering remains of the first joint in his hand a surprised look; he doesn’t remembering finishing it off. Shit, this stuff is good.
“I knew a man who ate matches for breakfast,” she says, her voice has gone more musical, yeah, even more, Dean can barely believe it, can feel these vibrations bouncing in her words. “Complained of pains in the stomach at night when he drank too many cool things.”
“Shoulda had his matches with cold stuff,” Dean says, taking the second joint from her without asking, shoving the dead joint into the sand.
Takes a long hit and feels that he really needs to smile and a big one—the kind that could eat the moon.
Garota makes a noncommittal mmm noise, licking her fingertip and holding it straight up, as if she’s trying to figure out the direction of the wind. It’s only when he exhales that she starts tracing his bottom lip, nearly causing him to drop the joint on his jeans, which woulda been awesome.
He can’t move and she presses a bit more firmly, not asking with her eyes, as though she’s studying him. Waiting. Dean parts his lips and she tastes too sweet and smoky.
Underneath, the sharp salt of sex hits him and he drops the joint in the sand, letting it burn out. There are more interesting slow burns and he brings her hand closer, palm up, tasting a trail of all the different flavors up the curves and bends of her arm, kissing the crook of her elbow, faint blue vein visible under sun-ripened skin. There’s more salt to her than he would’ve thought.
Her fingers are gentle on his face but strong too, or he’s just too gone to notice the difference, maybe she’s not gentle at all, bringing him closer, her nose bumping against his, can feel her breath hot on his cheek as she angles closer.
Closes in on the kiss and she murmurs in his mouth, “Follow me,” as her tongue flicks across his top lip, denying him. She takes off her shoes, leaving them curbside, and walks out towards the ocean, looking back only once and he’s a goner, stumbling after her.
She does a striptease in the sand; his heart aches with something he wants to refuse to accept, base want.
It’s a seduction, which is what he always figured was just another way of lying, and maybe it still is, seeing her pick an invisible path through the beach, her dress rising and falling, caught in the wind, then she smoothes it back down with a gentle brush of her hands.
Magic trick: now you see it, now you don’t. Almost completely off and then drifting back over her naked skin, the fabric working on its own damn dance but it’s one that compliments the sway of Garota’s hips, same rhythm. The soles of her feet barely make any impression in the sand. No footprints guide him as he follows her closer and closer to the ocean’s edge.
She leads him under a pier.
“Dean,” she says, like in saying that, she’s said everything. Little shimmy to her hips and it’s like a wave of gold pours behind her as she shakes her head, hair smoothly settling back into place when she’s done.
She tells him to come closer without opening her mouth any wider than another of her sexy little pouts.
Dean pulls off his boots, shoves off socks dusted all over with dry sand, and strips off his shirt. Takes the time to secure his gun deep in his right boot, ain’t no way he’s ruining his gun. He might be stoned but he’s not a complete idiot.
Garota raises her arms, it’s a poise better suited for a dance, practiced and too fucking perfect, so he takes his time pulling the breezy dress up. Dean can’t help but tease; tickles her hardened nipples with the edge of the hemline. Lets it rise and fall until she makes this little sound in the back of her throat, the first sign she’s ever shown of being impatient and wanting this just as bad as Dean does.
She’s bare all over, yet she isn’t really naked until he pulls the dress away, tossing it back over his head. Maybe he hopes that it hits his pile of clothes but he doesn’t really care now that he can see all of her: gorgeous in the light and dangerous in the shadows.
Her hands cup his face and she kisses the base of his throat. Like she’s seeking to steal the moan before it travels upwards and he’s silent, not gonna make a goddamn peek, ‘cause for a second he can feel the scrape of teeth and it’s unsettling, a little playful nip that ain’t joking at all.
“Yes,” she says and Dean doesn’t remembering asking her a question.
They pull off his belt together, yanking down his jeans and boxer-briefs, but he takes care to put on the condom on without her help (despite her unspoken offer), his hands steady even if his heart rate just got a whole lot quicker.
There’s an amused flash, a warm color that touches her caramel tanned cheeks, but Dean doesn’t say anything about it, just kisses her open-mouthed and hungry, thumbs teasing her nipples. They’re slightly colder than the rest of her hot skin.
“Off,’ she says decisively when he stumbles a little, his jeans pulled down to his knees. He gets out of them as best he can, kicking his feet out and almost losing his balance but she’s there to take him in her arms, steadying him.
She parts her legs, little bit wider, yeah, that’s it, almost, yes. When his cock’s against her pussy, she guides him in with her hands, cupping his balls and very nearly squeezing them, waiting him to ask for it, dammit.
He thinks his heart’s gonna give out when she tightens before he can push himself in good and deep. Garota whispering a long string of words against his shoulder, the weight of her head the only thing he’s supporting. She’s tall enough for him to fuck her standing up.
She returns to English with a heavy accent, the words coming out in a thick haze of sex, “Not this way. Too much. I can’t look at you like this.”
Dean means to make a joke of it, to make it not hurt, by saying something like what, I’m not pretty enough for you?
But she’s still pulsing around his cock and it’s nothing like an orgasm, it’s something wilder and bordering on dark, because he’s thinking maybe he can keep her this way: watch her teetering all through the high without the hope of release.
But he doesn’t do that, just pulls himself out and says, “How do you want this?”
She turns around, tosses her hair so that it all goes over one shoulder, and she puts her hands flat against the pier. She bends like a palm tree before the hurricane, it should hurt the way she makes her body all curves and anticipation.
“Fast,” she answers.
If that ain’t an invitation he’s happy to take, pushing in hard. He’s deep inside, splaying her ass wider to get the angle right and it’s all too hot and slick.
She’s a goddamn furnace and sweat beads up and down her spine and he licks a line back up, smiling when she shivers against his tongue. Her hair’s no longer in her control and it’s going everywhere and dammit, he needs to see her face. Needs to watch her start to crumble, let him know it’s okay, what he’s doing right.
God, he can’t help it, he starts asking (not begging, he doesn’t beg), “Are you close? Is this what you want? Why me?”
Fuck, that’s the real question, why him, she can have anyone but she lead him right here, pushing his cock into her heat, and she isn’t answering, won’t give him that, for everything else she’s giving out for all the world to see.
Cants her hip back so he can hit the sweet spot and lets his other hand explore the soft slick folds of her pussy. Opening her up between two fingers, he can feel his dick sliding in and out, so he’s gotta ask her, see if it pushes her over the edge: “You feel that?”
It’s like a pin dropping in the sand; he doesn’t hear a damn thing.
Nothing but the sound of waves washing over the beach, the sound of partygoers in the distance, celebrating till the sun fucking rises—things that don’t matter to him and Garota. Not in this instant, not now, and she comes hard, too fucking hard, not making a goddamn noise, while he can’t shut up.
Keeps asking why me why me why me.
Losing the rhythm is easy, Dean hasn’t been the one in control of this dance and he shudders against her, pushing her flush against the pier, muffling his shout in her thick hair.
She wiggles after a long while passes, time spent trying to catch up from being utterly spent, and Dean pulls out. Once he figures he can walk on his own, he steps back.
Dean watches her turn around and her skin’s still flush golden and completely unmarked. Garota licks her lips, not out of hunger or even to be sexy, but like she’s memorizing something.
“My dress,” she says, voice still vibrating with aftershocks.
Dean’s not surprised than her dress is closer than he’d thought it be or that sand doesn’t stick to it, not much can shock him right now. While she slips it back on, he tosses his used condom in the ocean, where all condoms eventually go, unless they’re landfill-bound.
His brain isn’t functioning enough to remind him that wearing clothes is a good idea, so he stands there, naked, looking out to the ocean.
“You be good to your brother,” Garota says, stepping out from underneath the pier and looking the same as before, only dressed. Dangerous. Too beautiful. “Such things are hard to bear.”
It’s a slow reaction, fucking cinematic swoop and turn, staring at her surprised, no fucking way he mentioned Sam. “What?”
But she’s done talking. She kisses him like every single goodbye kiss that Dean’s ever given a girl—the taste of a lie mixed in with a careless whisper of a promise.
Dean knows he hadn’t said a damn thing about his brother, still, a little doubt forms in his mind and he finds himself tired, too tired, world fading out with a blink of his eyes.
Later, Dean won’t know what to believe. A physical manifestation of desire. A witch of a woman with all of time in her eyes. A song to her name. He doesn’t dwell on it. Maybe ‘cause he sobers up something fierce in the morning, after falling asleep in the sand, waking up to have grit stuck in all the wrong places.
He gets called to this voodoo gig soon after and things change. Dad goes missing. And then, there’s Sam. The fire. Things ain’t ever gonna be the same.
There’s an easy answer. No mystery worth mulling over.
His memory’s scattered thanks to the some really good marijuana and the only story he’s got is the beginning part. Dean considers trying to work in his “sucked off by a succubus” story in his litany of infamous sexcapades, but he can never find the words. Or figure out how that story ended, besides the drug-induced hallucination.
Yeah. That’s what happened.