Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Boys aren't mine and neither is the song.

Spoilers: Takes place in Season 3, after 3.05 Bedtime Stories. Anything is fair game.

a/n: This could be considered a songfic, I suppose. I'm not really clear on some of the fanfic lingo. I have a weakness for Staind lyrics. The feelings inside of those words pull at me and I find myself associating moments with the words. In the song "Devil," I heard Dean the way I see him right now… struggling through the ramifications of the deal, the reality of death, the loss of Sam.

Anyone who has read my stuff knows I tend to ramble, but this is definitely a one-shot. And it's a bit different than stuff I've written before because the song makes me feel… different. I'll put the lyrics at the beginning of each "moment."

Warning: There is some sexual content and language in this fic. This hasn't been beta'd. I hope you enjoy, and I appreciate any feedback. You guys help me grow.

She sits alone again and tries her best not to pretend
that all she used to live for was the love that wasn't there
And every time she needs to do the things that she believes
will fill the void inside of her cuz he was never there

And she says,
"I swear I'm not the devil
though you think I am.
I swear I'm not the devil."
And she says,
"I swear I'm not the devil
Though you think I am.
I swear I'm not the devil."

He wouldn't be away for long, he knew that much. He needed to know where Sam was, but sometimes it hurt to be so close to him. It was too hard to explain to his brother what it was like to know that this was all going to be over in a few months. Dead in less than a year. No more fighting, no more hurting, no more war. It was liberating. He was free… right?

The bar was noisy, smoky, filled with people. Here he could be alone in the crowd. It was what he loved about bars—the anonymity. He felt eyes hit him holding varying levels of wariness or interest and knew that he was whoever they wanted him to be. He was devil or angel, savior or sin. With a quick, unconscious dart of his tongue, he licked his lower lip, pulled it into his mouth, biting it as he scanned the darkened room with hooded eyes.

He saw her almost immediately. She wore low-rise jeans that clung to the slim curve of her hip and outlined shapely, long legs. A black tank top set off creamy skin that glowed in the neon light of the Budweiser sign. Her hair was shorter than he usually liked, but it fanned out in rebellious tufts that he found oddly sexy. At first he thought it was brown but as she turned back to the bar after a wistful glance at the jukebox, her hair caught the lights from overhead and he saw streaks of red dancing through it. It gave her an air of boldness that belied the set of her shoulders.

He crossed to the empty stool two down from her, swung his leg over the circular black leather and settled his pockets on the seat. Catching the bartender's eye, he ordered a beer—El Sol, his favorite—and slid his eyes left, trying to catch her wandering gaze. He was surprised to see the sadness etched into her profile. She wasn't dressed for sorrow. She was dressed for action. The kind of action he wanted right now. The kind of action that helped him forget.

Studying the rim of his bottle, he wondered if he should just leave. Head back to the motel. To Sam. To reality. A moment of escape may not be a luxury afforded to him anymore. The music on the jukebox changed again and he brought his head up, catching the roll of her neck from the corner of his eyes.

Hell with it…

Sliding one seat over, he rested his right elbow on the bar, his beer held secure in his grip, his left hand resting casually on his left knee.

"My name's Dean," he said, dropping his chin, watching her through his lashes. He knew how fast to move, how slow to breathe. He knew how to give them what they needed so that he could get what he wanted.

She jumped slightly at the sound of his voice, glancing over at him with surprise, clearly unaware of his proximity until he spoke. Her eyes were brown. He'd expected green. Their darkness swam a moment and he drew his head back slightly, feeling his shoulders tighten.

More and more demons are walking among us… it's a damn army…

She blinked and he realized that the darkness he saw there wasn't demonic—but it was familiar.

"Hi, Dean," she replied, her voice husky and hushed.

"Can I get you a drink?"

"One more and I'm gonna be sleeping on the bar," she chuckled. It was throaty and sad.

Heat began to build in his gut, the sensation a welcome change to the chill that had settled inside since he'd tasted dirt on the lips of the Crossroad Demon.

"Yeah, I know that feeling," he nodded. She hadn't told him her name.

"They're playing all the wrong songs," she said, dropping her eyes. Long, slim, ringless fingers toyed with the wide-mouthed shot glass in front of her. "I hate it when that happens."

He nodded again, his eyes on her throat, watching her swallow. He moved them slowly to her ears, noticing the silver hoops there, then traced them across her cheekbones as she turned to register his nod. He felt the heat in his belly coil into a knot of sudden need.

He took a chance. "You want to get away from the music?"

She looked squarely at him, the corners of her dark eyes tipping down in doubt. He knew instantly that she'd never left a bar with a stranger before, and he could sense her inclination to be good warring with her desire to fall, just once, into the gray area between right and wrong.

"You got some place in mind?" she asked.

He let his lips curl into a slow grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. Anyplace, really. Anyplace but where he'd come from. Where his responsibility waited. Where his one joy and his one peace and his biggest heartache lay sleeping.

She licked her lips, then taking a deciding breath, she grabbed her purse. He put his hand over hers.

"I got it," he said, pulling out a bill and laying it on the bar.

She looked at the money. He saw her pulse tremble at the base of her throat and let his eyes drop to her knees, filling his vision with the curves set off by her simple attire. He waited. Without looking at him, she turned from the bar, slid from the stood and skimmed her hand into his, indicating he should lead them out.

He'd noted a motel two blocks down, between where he had been and where he needed to go. Pulling into a parking space, he turned off the car and sat silently next to her. The cool of the evening tempered his blood, allowed logic to quench need.

"We don't have to go in," he said softly.

"I want to," she answered, still not looking at him. "I want to feel something."

He looked over at her, surprised to hear his heart echoed in a stranger's mouth. She met his eyes and he caught his breath, the darkness lurking there a mirror of his transgression. Nodding, he opened his door, listening as she stepped out and slammed her door closed. Silently, they approached the motel room. He inserted the key he'd picked up before heading to the bar—picked up for this very reason—and turned the lock.

He started to turn on the lights, then paused.

"Mind if we keep them off?" He asked as she stepped in behind him.

"No," she whispered, and he heard her purse hit the floor.

He closed the door. He could barely see her in the wan light filtering in from the parking lot. It created a pale, ghostly glow over her arms, neck, and face. She tilted her head, blinking at him. Waiting.

"I can't go back right now," he said suddenly.

She nodded, somehow understanding him. "There's no one for me to go back to," she said.

"I almost lost my brother." He didn't know where the words were coming from or why he was saying them. "I got him back, but… now I'm gonna have to leave him."

"I'm sorry," she said, watching him.

He stepped forward, running his hands lightly up the sides of her soft arms, feeling the gooseflesh raise as he did so. She trembled. He stepped closer, moving his hands up to her shoulders, tucking his fingers under the straps of her tank top.

"It's okay to do this," she whispered. He nodded in the darkness. "It's okay to do this," she repeated, as though trying to convince herself of something.

He removed the space between them, feeling her softness crush up against his length, up against his heat. She was shaking. He fought himself, wanting to pull away and plunge into her at the same time.

"We can stop now, if you want," he whispered, his lips close to her ear.

"No," she shook her head, her cheek rubbing against his with the motion. She stepped out of her heels, dropping her mouth to the hollow of his throat. He felt her breath, hot on his skin. "No," she said again. "I want this."

Sliding the straps of her top off of her shoulders, he skimmed his hands up her neck, tucking his fingers into her hair at the nape of her neck, and rested his palms on the warm skin of her face. Tipping her mouth up to his, he captured her lips in a slow, soft kiss, pressing deeper when he felt her hands on his shoulders, fingers gripping, searching.

He slid his tongue inside to brush tentatively across her teeth, releasing a low moan from the base of her throat. Taking that as a signal to continue, he walked her backward, slowly, until she was flush against the wall, his body holding her up, her hands gripping the muscles of his back.

She jerked her mouth from his, her eyes glittering in the faint light, bouncing from his wet mouth to his greedy eyes.

"Now," she said. "Do it now."

He didn't need further encouragement. He shoved her tank top down to her waist, filling his hands with her breasts and pulling her sigh into him.

Oh my, Dean. If I didn't know better, I'd say that was lust in your eyes.

He fumbled with the zipper of her jeans, letting her shift her hips against his hand as she helped ease the denim from her body. As she stepped free, he reached between his shoulder blades, curled his shoulders inward, and pulled his T-shirt over his head, watching her fingers find the button-fly of his jeans.

She was barely breathing, her lower lip protruding in a sexy little pout. As she unfastened his jeans, he dipped his head forward, pressing his bare skin to hers, catching that lip in his teeth, and then darting his mouth up quickly to cut off her air with a hungry kiss. He shuddered when her hands found him, pressing tight, fingers reaching through his boxers to stroke.

"Easy, sweetheart," he crooned into her mouth.

"This isn't wrong," she whispered, and he heard the tail end of a question on her breath… is it?

"You want to feel," he reminded her, sliding his boxers free and stepping clear—keeping no more than two inches distance between them.

He pressed himself against her once more, relishing the differences in their bodies. Women were soft, supple. Their curves led him, guided him, thrilled him. The way she gave against the hard planes of his body made him shudder, causing him to forget what waited for him beyond the doors of the darkened room.

She pressed her lips to his chin, whispering her agreement. "I want to feel."

He let her fingers explore, let her touch him, tease him. Her fingers skidded, turned, brushed, grasped. He dropped his head to her shoulder as his knees threatened to give way from her touch, then pulled abruptly away, grabbing her wrist away from his heat and pressed her hands together above her head, against the wall. He ducked his head for a deep kiss, pressing into her belly when she bit, hard, on his lip.

Reaching down quickly, he cupped her backside, scooping her up and turning her to the bed. Sliding the protection he was never without into place, he climbed her body, prowling the space between her knees, his breath skipping over her hips, across her belly, his tongue tasting the trail until he reached her arched neck. He teased her neck with his teeth, grabbing her earlobe and tugging until she gasped, her fingernails clawing for purchase against his spine.

"I want to feel," she whispered in a half-sob.

Feel something other than this emptiness, something other than this false euphoria, something other than the passing of time, something other than fear… His heart echoed her plea as he buried himself inside of her.

She arched up, pressing her belly, her ribs, her hips against him. He cradled her close, giving her a moment to adjust to him, then began to rock.

No, it's a pit of despair. Why do you think we want to come here?

He gasped, his muscles quaking as he held her, thrusting harder, faster. She clutched him, pressing her mouth to his neck, silencing her own cries, but releasing low moans at his motion. The heat built, tightening, pulling, bringing him to an edge, showing him the truth. Then with one final plunge he felt the release, stars cascading behind his eyes, arms quivering, breath stalling.

She held on to him; he felt her muscles tighten convulsively around him, gripping him with a warm, wet heat. He kissed her neck, rolling to his side so as not to crush her with his spent weight. She hesitated; he could see her move her arm across her bare breasts as if to cover them. He curved his arm around her shoulder, pulling her against him so that she could hide behind his body.

"I don't ever do this," she whispered.

I do, he thought.

He had never gotten close to anyone, save Cassie. And the end of that confession of feeling taught him why he'd never done it before and solidified the decision to never do it again. Why get close when you couldn't stay there? Why get close when you had no future? But he wanted to feel… he needed to be touched… he craved the climb and yearned for the fall… he had to remind himself that he was still real, he still mattered as a person, as a being, as someone other than a protector, a guardian.

So he found what he needed in the arms of a stranger.

She shifted her head, and he felt her eyes on him. "I'm not a bad person."

"None of us are," he said, his voice rough from a sudden tightening of his throat. We're just trying to find something to fill the empty places inside of us.

When he dropped her back off at her car, he realized that once again, he hadn't gotten her name. And he was still empty, only now the emptiness had weight. He drove back to Sam.