Supernatural: Dean's Witch

NOTE: First, sorry for the incredible delay! I decided to finish the other series I was working on before coming back to this one, and ended up signing a publishing contract which got me tied up in all sorts of further things that procrastinated this series, but now I've re-edited the earlier chapters, and am excited to get back to the series... For you loyal readers who've been waiting, I hope this installment was worth the wait.

To understand the dynamic and the story here, I strongly recommend starting with Chapters 1-3. Beyond that, I'll only say that, 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 hadn't written fanfiction in years until this story began. 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. Of course, some ideas just beg to be explored fully... but, for now, I hope you enjoy this series. I should state here that I have no affiliation with the show, but I've aimed to make my portrayals of the characters here as believable as possible. I hope you'll enjoy the result. Let me know what you think, and I'll work on getting to Chapter 5 as soon as I can if you should like the read you'll find below...

When Dean woke up, he could almost remember what he'd been thinking. Almost. But between the alcohol and the stress and the lack of sleep, and then Calla... it was too easy for everything to blur together. Rather than let himself sort through it all while Calla still lay curled up against him, he slid from bed and headed fast for the shower, where he let the hot water nearly scald his skin, relishing the sting of the heat. Had he really told her he'd been falling for her? Even in the heat of the moment, he knew he should have had better control of his own goddamned mouth. It would have been easier to let her believe she was another case, another brief affair, but he'd blown that option full apart. And then, after everything... what the hell was

she

thinking? Falling into bed with him all over again, after what he'd done to her?

Leaning against the tiles and letting the water run down his back, he thought back to how good her skin had felt in his hands. Even in the state she was in, glassy-eyed and hungover and a shade too skinny, there was something about her that was hard to resist. If he hadn't known better, he might have suspected the spell affecting her had something on him also, but he did know better. And it wasn't as if he'd never felt this way. There'd been Lisa and a handfull of others who'd gotten to him this fast, this hard. Just not on a case. And not a one of them had made it into the bunker, either.

Stepping out and drying off, he took a look behind him at the claw marks she'd left in his back; he was lucky she'd bitten her nails down to the quick. Still, he felt better than he'd felt in weeks—if starving.

Coffee and food,

he told himself.

Everything else comes later.

"Any bright ideas, little bro?" he asked easily, heading straight to the fridge and pulling out a beer along with the makings for sandwiches.

"Seriously? You hole up in your bedroom with Calla after telling me we need to ship her out to Mills, and that's all you're gonna say?"

Dean could both feel and hear his brother bristling behind him, but he kept his eyes on what he was doing, spreading bread among two plates before he began tugging at an un-opened lunchmeat container. "You eat dinner yet?" he asked.

"I was waiting to see if ya'll would wake up—thought I'd cook, but I guess you don't want to wait," Sam answered. "Now, again, what the hell are you thinking?"

Dean pulled another plate from a cupboard and set out the makings of a third sandwich before cutting into a tomato. He might not have bothered with the fruit normally, but Calla needed the nourishment more than he did. The amount of weight she'd lost was terrifying. "I wasn't thinking," he finally said, his eyes still on what he was doing. "She came to talk to me, told me what

she'd

been thinking. About sleeping with me for the first time being about her and the spell, not us. How she's been feeling the last few weeks, and what she's thinking now. Also said she'd been having nightmares—last night, too—and I told her she could bunk with me if she thought it would help her sleep. One thing led to another," he finished flatly, though he couldn't help his lip curling up in a smile at what he was thinking of, and was glad he was facing the counter rather than his brother.

"So, you guys are back together?"

Dean froze, then glanced back over his shoulder. "You being serious?"

"I don't know, Dean, am I? Did you guys even talk about it? Did you talk about the fucking spell and what it does? You heard her—she can't say no to you, so was it even consensual, or did you just lead her to your bed and

suggest

she stay?"

Dean froze, his mind stuck on the question.

Fuck the spell,

he thought suddenly.

She wanted me much as I wanted her.

Turning his back to the counter, Dean glared forward at his brother and scowled. "It was consensual, trust me, and I oughtta deck you for thinking it might of been otherwise."

"I don't mean you'd force her, Dean," Sam said quietly. He stood from the table and paced to the fridge, pulling out a beer for himself and glancing back to his brother, who'd begun washing lettuce to within an inch of it falling apart. "I'm saying... you need to talk to her about the spell. Find out what it's doing to her, like you said you were going to last night. And then go from there. But don't let her think you're starting something permanent with her if you're not serious; you'll end up hurting her worse than—well, worse than we meant to, anyway. Worse than we already have."

"We'll figure out a way out of the spell for her," Dean answered, his voice coming out more solid than he felt it ought to. "But yeah, I'm gonna talk to her about it. I said I would," he added before his brother could say more. Somehow, in the heat of her presence, he'd forgotten what she'd said about not being able to say no to him, and now that he'd remembered the morning's full conversations and the day before, all of the satisfaction he'd felt earlier had drained out of him. She could have said no, right? Thinking of it, he realized that the question might be whether she'd had the free will to suggest that she

should

say no, and a chill ran down his back with the thought.

Taking another pull on his own beer, he put it down and then picked up one of the plates, sliding the sandwich onto the table for his brother. "I'm gonna go wake Calla up; get her to come eat with us. You good with that?"

Sam nodded, his grimace mirroring his brother's. A few days before, he would have said that seeing Dean sober and making a mess of sandwiches would be a welcome surprise. Now he wasn't sure what to make of it, or of the half-full beer that his brother had left sitting on the counter.

* * * * *

Dean had turned the light off, so Calla woke to near complete darkness that was only broken by a line of light showing at the foot of his door. She might have thought the day had been a dream, but for the light smell of sex in the air and the soreness in her body.

What am I doing? After everything, this is where I end up? Back in bed with Dean?

Calla closed her eyes and took a steadying breath, trying to shut out the desire running through her body even now, at just the thought of him. She thought she was finally sober, but she was also stiff all over, and her head ached. Had they both still been drunk when they'd woken up? Was that where the sex had come from? Or had all of that been inevitable?

Gingerly, Calla sat up and then fumbled at the nightstand until she found the switch for the light. It took another minute for her to retrieve her scattered clothing from where it had been dropped beside the bed, but as soon as she was dressed, she fled to what counted as her room in this place. She needed space, and a shower, and food, in that order. Figuring out what her life had come to would have to wait for all of those needs to be met, at least.

In the bathroom, she let the shower run to build up some steam and examined herself in the mirror. She was a mess, and it was hard for her to understand why Dean had found her attractive enough to want her as he had. She hadn't bothered to wash her hair in days, and couldn't bear to think of how badly her legs needed a shave. Yet... she felt okay. Nervous, but okay. Leaning toward the mirror, she saw that the circles that had been living beneath her eyes were less pronounced, and that there were light hickies on her neck to remind her of Dean's lips. There was a bruise on her arm also, where he'd pulled her up from her affair with Jack Daniels just the day before, but now that she was sober, she was glad he hadn't let her simply wallow back into bed and pass out. Even if it had led to him finding out about her mother's spell, she had to think that perhaps it was for the best, to have all of the cards on the table now.

After showering, she let the water stopper up in the bath tub and reclined backward, soaking in the warmth. Washing had felt good—she felt more like herself now, and the soreness was starting to leak out of her, as if this was all she'd really needed.

Running a disposable razor up and down her legs, she thought about Dean, and the way his body had felt on hers. It had never occurred to her, not really, that he'd still have been thinking about her after all of these weeks had passed. She'd guessed he'd moved on easily, and maybe without even a second thought. Knowing otherwise was something she was still trying to get her mind around.

"Calla?"

Jarring upward at the sound of his voice, Calla let water slosh over the side of the tub as she reached out to make sure the tub was covered by the curtain. She wasn't sure why it mattered, but nevertheless. "Yeah, I'm in here—I'm getting a bath," she called back.

A moment passed, and then Dean asked, "Mind if I come in?"

Do I mind if he comes in?

"Um, I guess not."

Calla peaked around the curtain to see him enter in just sweatpants and a black t-shirt, one of his hands raking through his hair. "You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah—I just needed a shower, and a bath," she added after a moment. "I was kind of a mess."

"Didn't notice," Dean answered, though the lie showed on his face. "You look... like you feel better?"

"Yeah—and I'll be out soon; I just..."

"No, hey, that's okay," Dean interrupted her, waving off the excuse. He hadn't come for that. "I just wanted to make sure you have everything you needed, and let you know I made us some grub. I see you got the towel out of your room, but... yeah, is there anything else you need?"

"No, I'm good, thanks."

"Alright. Find me in the kitchen when you're done?"

Calla nodded, and watched him retreat, more awkward than she'd seen him in the past. She didn't know what she was supposed to be thinking, or how she was supposed to be feeling, but she'd believed everything he'd told her that morning. For whatever reason, he cared about her, and they planned to try to help her. That was something.

* * * * *

Having left Dean to his own devices, to say whatever he'd say to Calla, Sam set himself to the task of research. He'd gotten nowhere looking for leads on how to break this curse she was under, but now the goal of finding the coven was far more front and center—at least so far as he was concerned. If Dean was sleeping with her anyway, the spell was of secondary importance, at best.

Unfortunately, these were witches who'd been keeping a low profile for decades, at least, and Calla's mother had been the one of them to really raise red alerts; everything he found led back to her, or in another direction entirely that seemed to have nothing to do with what he was seeking. After an hour of searching, he found himself staring at a picture of a coven he'd hacked out of a facebook page tied to a teenager in California, and once again, it was a coven that had nothing to do with any of the witches he was seeking, and which didn't seem to warrant attention at all.

In the car, he'd asked Calla for names after she'd woken, but it didn't seem that she'd ever known any of the other witches' last names. She'd given him a few first names, and told him she thought that the coven had been made up of five witches including her mother, but that was all she'd known. And, unfortunately, he believed her.

But now, he came back to the same position he'd been fighting off.

We aren't finding them, but they're looking for her. They'd find her if she were out there. And we could be watching her.

It wasn't the first time the thought had occurred to him, but he couldn't quite bring himself to say it out loud even to himself. Using an innocent as bait was more along the lines of something his brother would be tempted into doing. And was there any real justification for it, if the innocent at risk was the one they were trying to save to begin with? Maybe if they were worried about what else the coven might do, but hadn't Calla's mother been the only one to get out of control so far?

He just wasn't sure what other option they had. If the alternative was her being in hiding forever, and if she didn't have anywhere else to turn, or anyone to turn to, did not figuring this out mean that she'd be staying with them indefinitely? That wasn't any safer than setting her up as bait, he was pretty sure—not once he considered how many times enemies had sought them out, and the trouble they got into on a daily basis. The question was, would Dean see it the same way—especially when it seemed like he kept on falling into bed with her at every turn?

The answer seemed pretty clear, though, the more he thought through their few options. Whatever Dean would say about it, Sam had to talk to Calla about it first, and let her decide.

* * * * *

Four hours after they'd eaten sandwiches and gulped down the first beers of the night, Dean still hadn't found a way to ask Calla whether she'd have been able to say no to him, had she wanted to. He'd started to more than once, going so far as to open his mouth, and then he'd say something inane instead, commenting on a commercial or asking if she wanted another beer or wondering aloud about anything at all rather than saying what was on his mind.

On his third beer, with her curled on the couch opposite him and seemingly engrossed in a re-run of

Game of Thrones

, he finally got it out. "It occurred to me that, uh, this morning, because of the spell, you couldn't say no to me."

The air seemed to freeze around them, and for a moment he thought she wasn't even going to look at him—when she did, though, he couldn't believe it had taken him so long to ask. "Is that what's been bothering you all night? Jesus," she breathed out. "The spell's not rohypnol, Dean—I could have walked away, yeah."

And yet, something about the way she'd said that... he set his beer down and turned sideways on the couch, toward her, resting his arm over its back. "Then why didn't you?"

Sighing, Calla seemed to wilt back into the couch, and she finally met his eyes. "I didn't want to. My body didn't want to. That's the difference, Dean—I'm never going to

want

to say no to you, okay? Not physically, maybe not mentally. That doesn't mean I can't, and it doesn't mean I won't... it just means..." she trailed off again, and took another swallow of her beer, but his guts were already up in his throat, trying to suffocate him. "It means what it means, I guess. But what I said this morning was true—I knew what I was getting into, and this was my choice."

Dean swallowed, hard, and went to take another gulp of his own beer, but it was already empty. He'd have to make a trip to the kitchen before he had a bottle as a distraction.

It means what it means

—the phrase echoed in his head as he thought about Calla's body underneath his own, and the way her pleasure had come out in little whimpers, just as he'd remembered. "But if you're never going to want to say no... that's the same thing as not being able to, on some level. Amounts to the same thing."

Before she could react, Dean pulled himself to his feet and stalked toward the kitchen. Sam had been right. She hadn't had any sort of a choice, and he should have known to begin with. Maybe it had been like that since the second time they'd been together, back when things had just been getting started in her apartment, but he hadn't known it then, and that made all the difference.

He was standing in front of the fridge, his arm braced against it as he took a gulp of a fresh beer, when her hands snaked around his middle and landed on his chest, hugging him from behind. He felt her cheek resting against his back, a circle of extra warmth. The alcohol pooled on his tongue until he forced it down his throat, fighting the instinct to stand back from the fridge so that he could put one of his hands on hers. Instead, he stayed silent, his breath practically caught as her hands remained still and firm on him, one over his tattoo and his heart, and the other against his belly. He could feel her breasts against his back, her breath against his t-shirt.

"You didn't push me, Dean. You didn't. Whatever you're blaming yourself for, stop," she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.

When he didn't answer, she kept going.

"Sleeping with you, I didn't have nightmares for the first time in... I don't know how long. Every time I've shut my eyes, for weeks, it's either been because I passed out dead drunk or was too exhausted to keep them open, and if there hasn't been enough alcohol in my system to dull my brain down, I've had nightmares. Horrible ones. That didn't happen with you, this morning. I felt safe with you. I needed that. And the sex... that was us. If anything, it was my fault for staying in your bed, but I could have woken up and said no if I'd wanted to."

Finally, he found his voice, and he moved at the same time. Pulling himself sideways, he turned around and backed against the kitchen counter, staring her down. "But you said you wouldn't want to. That's the point here."

He saw the struggle crossing her face, and waited. When she moved to the fridge, he put his hand out and held it closed—he needed an answer on this. If she was going to end up back in his bed, if there was

any chance

of her ending up back in his bed, they had to have this discussion now that it had been begun.

"There's a difference, Dean, I swear to God," she finally answered him, and he watched as she wandered over to the table and took a seat at it backwards, facing him. "It's like... okay, it's like, I could choose to say no to mashed potatos."

Dean choked on his beer. "Mashed potatos? Seriously? What are we talking about here?"

She shook her head, smiling suddenly. "Yeah, that's it exactly. Just listen, okay? I

love

mashed potatoes. Especially garlic ones, or ones with skins still slightly mixed in, but that doesn't mean I could never say no to them. Right now, sitting here, I can't imagine ever wanting to say no to mashed potatos, but I could if I wanted or needed to. I could if... say, I don't know, my arch nemesis had cooked them and offered them to me. Or if my doctor had told me I just absolutely couldn't eat them. They wouldn't be irresistable, though I might still be tempted."

Blinking at her, Dean took another sip of his beer and stared at her, waiting for her to back down. "You're comparing sex with me to eating mashed potatos?"

"I mean... no, but yes?" Calla shrugged. "You really don't see the comparison? What I mean?"