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Layla Rourke
She kisses like someone who thought she'd forever lost the brush of skin against skin, the sight of sky, the feel of grass under bare feet, the smell of gasoline. Which she almost had.
She kisses as if aware he's someone who's been to hell and back, got swallowed by fire, survived. Which he is.
How she knows, Dean has no idea since he hasn't told her everything.
Slender fingers press into the skin on the back of his neck, tugging him harder against her as he slides his tongue over hers, his thumb tracing along her collar bone. The edge of the rest-stop picnic table digs into his thigh through his jeans as he shifts, hands on her waist, her legs holding him in place.
"Okay," Dean murmurs against her mouth, as they pause for breath. "I wasn't expecting that."
"What were you expecting?" Her mouth curves into a comma that's both amusement and challenge. She looks less ephemeral than when he'd seen her the last time, against the mud and clouds of Nebraska, more solid.
"Ah, forget it."
It doesn't seem exactly right to tell her he'd expected to find a headstone with dates and a quote from scripture.
Tony Stark
Dean can totally manage this, alcohol, late hours, and then up in the morning to drive three states over to meet up with Sam. Yeah, he can totally do that. Besides, he's heard about the great Tony Stark's great legendary parties and no way was Dean giving up the chance to witness one first-hand.
There's sake and beer, plenty of beer, along with any other drink Dean wants, some he's never heard of before, and girls, plenty of girls that Dean is pretty sure weren't paid to be there. Not to mention the man's music collection.
Stark's probably a lot drunk when he starts to tell Dean about the '32 roadster, one arm slung along the back of the couch, fingers brushing Dean's shoulders. That's way too far into his personal space but Dean's feeling sleepy and comfortable, lost in the beat of music, the scents of alcohol and sweat.
"So. Yeah. Me and the old man." Stark stares down into his half-empty glass.
One of them moves, and Stark puts his fingers on Dean's jaw. Dean doesn't object, leans into the kiss, heart racing, as Stark's goatee scratches his chin. He tastes of scotch and feels sharp as adrenaline.
Ellen Harvelle
"How stupid are you?" Ellen pokes her finger against the shoulder of Dean's leather jacket. "What the fuck were you thinking?" She pokes him again. "Getting the feds back on your tail now?"
"Gotta buy gas somehow." Dean smiles. Music thumps distantly.
"Don't you try that bullshit on me." Her finger stays at his shoulder, digging in. It hurts. "Credit card fraud? Still? There are other ways." She pauses, and adds, bitter and low, "You can do better."
"Sorry, okay? I'm sorry."
The back hallway at Ellen's new bar is warm, smells of beer and clean, recently milled wood. He misses the dustiness of Harvelle's.
Her pointing finger curls into a fist, gentle against his shoulder. "Got a full place tonight, don't have time for this. You survive hell and then get yourself..." Her voice cracks.
"Ellen--"
She grabs him, pushes him up against the wall. Then Ellen's kissing him hard, like she wants to turn him inside out beneath her touch. His fingers sink into her hair as the heat coils up through him.
Her lips travel down along his jaw, and she stops. "You're such a jackass," she mutters, voice muffled with her forehead against his shoulder.
Martha Jones
Martha climbs onto the hood of the Impala next to him.
Dean pops the cap of his beer with his ring. "What's up, doc?" He holds the bottle out to her.
She shakes her head, settles with her shoulder brushing against his. "Are you and Sam going to take Torchwood's offer?"
When he doesn't answer right away, her head tilts back, face open to the stars that burn sharp above the mesa. Dean finds himself staring at the line of her cheek, her chin, her neck.
"Might," Dean says, and takes another swallow of beer, then follows the line of her gaze. "I'm not going on any spaceships, though."
Martha turns in surprise. "Don't you want to?"
"Kind of like it down here." He lightly raps his knuckle against the glass behind him.
"Have to go." Martha glances at her watch, then slides down a little on the slant of the hood. As she does, she leans in and her lips find the corner of his mouth.
He shifts to move the kiss full-on and she sinks against him for a moment, fingers leaning on his thigh, warm through the denim.
"Think about it." She slides off the car entirely.
Jack Harkness
"What the fuck were you doing?" Jack blocks Dean's path to the black SUV.
The small row houses are still. If the locals aren't waking up for aliens, then they aren't going to wake up for Jack's yelling.
"Killing aliens." Dean smirks in the darkness, laser gun warm with recent use held loose in his hand. There's alien glop on his boots.
Awesome.
"From now on, you wait for my orders." Jack jabs his index finger at Dean. "Got it?"
"Hey, chill. Sam was out of the way, Ianto, Gwen..."
"You ran in. After I told everyone, including you, to get out, you ran right in."
"I was doing my fucking job." Dean pauses, then adds, with as much venom as he can, "Sir."
"You stupid, thick-headed...you think I'm on a power trip?" Jack leans in and his fingers twist into the cotton of Dean's shirt. His voice cracks in Dean's ear, a harsh whisper biting each word out. "I can't lose any more people."
The realization's just starting to hit through the layers of fury when Jack's mouth brushes against Dean's, dry and quick.
Then Jack shoves Dean hard and gets into the SUV, slamming the door behind him.
Jill Hernandez
The spirit's got Dean pinned against the wall. Sonuvabitch. The cold tears into his body, down to his bones, and he feels his grip on his shotgun weakening.
It clatters to the dirty floorboards as his chest grows tight. The ghost's a pale form smudged dark at the edges, mouth open in a scream he hears more as a vibration than actual noise.
There's a bang as Jill fires her gun. "Shit," she says, while the ghost shrieks and disperses.
Dean slumps down from the wall.
"You okay?" she lowers her gun, hurries over to him, helps pull him to his feet, hooks his arm across her shoulder.
The shake in her voice, the one she's trying to hide, is audible. Six years tracking serial killers isn't enough preparation, and he's only been working with her for two weeks, hunting inexplicable things from cold case files.
"That was nothing." He winces.
She laughs, then turns his head towards hers, her fingers burning against his cold skin. Jill's mouth covers his as if she's looking for warmth, comfort and life, but he's the one who needs the heat rushing back into his body, needs the taste of her, coffee, breathmint, safety.
Victor Henriksen
Every time they meet, there's something new. The gash along Victor's lower arm has turned to a pale scar, one of many things wearing away FBI and turning into hunter.
"You got a lead on the nest?" Dean picks out a knife, tosses it into his duffel, while Victor watches him.
"About twenty miles from here."
Victor steps closer and Dean's hands still on the strap of the duffel.
"So, are we..." Dean's not sure what he was going to ask, but Victor slides his palm against the back of Dean's neck, and the rest is lost.
He turns, meets Victor's mouth with his own. Victor's tongue sweeps hot over Dean's lower lip and Dean lets go of the duffel to trace along the scar. Victor smells like someone who lives in the hunting world, sweat and smoke embedded deep in the cloth of his t-shirt. The sounds of their breathing and drip of the bathroom faucet grow magnified.
Someone's banging on the motel room door.
Sam yells through it, "Guys, we have to get moving."
They step apart. Dean busies himself with the duffel.
Victor's smirk is the same.
"Later?"
Dean finds his throat dry, nods and shrugs. "Sure."
Haley Collins
Six mangled bodies have washed up on the shore of Puget Sound; Sam's already there.
"Guess I'd better get my sorry ass out from underfoot."
Haley straddles Dean on the couch. "Yeah." She leans in, kisses him on the neck, in the hollow beneath his jaw. "Because you're really annoying."
"Me? Annoying?"
She gives an exaggerated sigh. "Gun parts all over my dining room table." Haley deliberately rubs down against him and shit, that's just taking advantage. "Plus you leave the toilet seat up."
"Hey, I'm human."
"And all that singing in the shower..."
He slides his hand up under the back of her t-shirt, starts fingering the latch of her bra, although they don't have time for it. "What's wrong with my singing?"
"Nothing." Haley uncurls from his lap.
At the front door, she leans over and her mouth comes down on his. She kisses him hard, fingers gripping his arm. He almost loses his balance.
Haley lets go. Dean starts down the steps.
"Hey," she says, and he stops to looks up at her. "Don't get killed." Her voice is flat.
"Be seeing you, Haley," he says, past something that catches in his throat.
"Be seeing you, Dean."