Supernatural: Dean's Witch Ch. 01

"I don't want you to go anywhere, Dean," she whispered. "Can you stay? Do you mind?"

"Long as you want me to," he told her, and it didn't even feel like a lie at the moment.

Hours later, after she'd passed out beside him and he'd carried her to her bed and tucked her beneath a blanket, still fully clothed, he texted Sam a cliffnotes version of what had happened and stole an extra pillow from her bed that he could use on the couch. She barely shifted beneath the covers when he kissed her forehead and whispered that he'd sleep on her couch, just murmuring a thank you, and he barely paused before he took the powder Sam had prepared from his pocket and sprinkled some on her pillow, right where she'd be sure to breathe it in. And then he went to look around.

* * * * *

Calla woke with Dean's name on her lips, slick with sweat from the dream she'd just had—it had replayed some of the night, but ended far differently, more darkly, and she'd ended up calling out to Dean for help, but not finding him; this was what had woken her. She found herself alone in her bed and fully clothed, still wearing her favorite old sweater, and she realized Dean had to have brought her to bed and tucked her in. She wondered if he was still in her apartment or if he'd gone back to his hotel; he'd said he wouldn't leave, but...

Sitting up in bed, she saw from the bedside clock that it was around 4 AM, and took a shuddering sigh. She knew, logically, there was nothing in her apartment to harm her, and yet she felt terrified, and torn between getting up to see if Dean was still there, or just hiding in her bed. She knew she'd sleep more easily if he was there, though, and she couldn't stand not knowing. Edging out of bed, she didn't bother to turn any lights on as she made her way into the hall, going by the bits of streetlamp illumination that shone through the windows instead. At the entrance to the common area, she breathed more deeply when she saw two large feet hanging over the edge of her couch.

Silently, she stepped to the couch and looked down. He was asleep, snoring lightly. His belt and shoes were beside the couch, within arm's reach, and he lay on his back with his arms folded over his chest, as if he was in charge even while resting, or ready to leap to his feet and protect her, she couldn't help thinking. The muscles of his forearms and biceps were clear, even in rest, and she had to fight back the urge to reach out and touch him. He looked good in the t-shirt, more natural than he had in the button-downs and jackets she'd been seeing him in.

Knowing she'd be humiliated if he woke up and found her staring at him, she forced herself back down the hall to her room. In bed, she sent quick emails to the two supervisors who'd be expecting her at the university that day, claiming illness and promising she'd be back on Tuesday, given that Monday was Labor Day and she wouldn't be expected. That would give her four days to pull herself together all the way. Then, dressed as she was, she lay back down and stared at the ceiling, willing good dreams and sleep to come her way, and hoping that the man in the living room would still be there when she woke up.

* * * * *

Dean woke to the smell of frying bacon, and blinked his eyes around the room to bring himself back to Calla's apartment and what had gone on the night before. Sitting up, he glanced backward over the couch to see Calla turned away from him and busy in the kitchen area. Working a crick out of his neck, he stretched as he pulled his belt on and buckled it before standing up.

"Are you hungry?" she asked from the counter as he stopped by the pass-through into the area to watch her.

"Always," he answered. "You sleep okay?"

She looked up at him with a blush on her cheeks and nodded. "Thanks for... everything," she finished haltingly. "I was glad you were still here when I woke up."

"I'm just gonna wash up and I'll be right back," he told her, rubbing at the stubble on his chin and wishing he had his razor at hand.

In the bathroom, he brushed his teeth as best he could with his finger and swiped cold water over his face and neck; he hadn't slept much, having taken a fair bit of time to go through her office and the living room area. He hadn't come up with much, though. There'd been what he'd expected—herbs and accessories and recipes, most of which were for healing spells, and mixing bowls that clearly weren't meant for food, and then there'd been the normal stuff, from textbooks and notebooks on to bills and saved birthday cards—but nothing to hint at where her mother might be hiding out. He'd also found her spell journal, though he hadn't had the energy to read through it beyond a quick skimming that didn't suggest anything really suspicious. Well, not suspicious beyond the fact that she was a witch.

Before he went back to the kitchen, he texted Sam that he'd be swinging by sooner than later, and to let him know if anything had come up.

Calla was putting out plates when Dean returned; beyond the bacon, there were hash browns that looked and smelled like she'd made them from scratch, along with toast and scrambled eggs. "Orange juice or something else?" she asked, catching his eye when he glanced up from the table laid out in front of him.

"That would be great—this looks great," he added, "but you didn't have to." Nevertheless, his stomach grumbled, and he didn't hesitate to sit down across from her when she returned with two tall glasses of juice. He was fixing his plate before she'd settled into her seat.

"No worries. I called out from work... to just, you know," she shrugged, edging some eggs onto her plate after Dean handed her the platter. "I made too much, but..." she trailed off, shrugging her shoulders at the food laid out between them.

From the other side of the table, Dean finally took the time to take a good look at her, and realized she didn't look like she'd slept much at all; she'd put on makeup and brushed her hair, and she wore a loose blouse and jeans... but she still looked disheveled, as if she'd already had a full day. "No shame in taking a day off for mental health, Calla; last night was rough," he acknowledged, watching her take the tiniest bite of eggs he'd ever seen. "And you need to eat, too," he added, eyeing the tiny amounts she'd ladled onto her plate.

"Yeah," she chuckled, "I guess. I'm just not that hungry, you know?"

Dean looked at the spread between them; it was better than any breakfast he could have ordered at a diner, and knowing that the girl in front of him wasn't even hungry meant she'd pulled herself together just to cook for him—after he'd been snooping through her things for half the night. "Yeah, well, still," he offered, smiling at her when she let her eyes glance up to his before she turned back downward; it was as if they'd just met all over again, he realized, shy as she suddenly was. He decided to give her time and focus on the meal she'd prepared—he was famished anyway.

Dean finished his first plate and then split what was left of the eggs and bacon between her plate and his, despite her protests. His first plate had been at least three times the size of hers, and her body was hungry whether she knew it or not. "Dean, no!" she said flatly when he went to offer her more of the potatoes, and so he scooped the large helping that was left onto his own plate and dug into the second plate of food as she took nibbles of her own. They finished loosely at the same time, and she sat back to drink her orange juice. "Did you get enough?" she asked, looking at his empty plate in what seemed like a mix of humor and horror.

"Yeah, I'm good," he promised, grinning. "That was awesome. You're a good cook," he added.

Her turn to shrug. "I can do simple meals, anyway."

"Well, I'm cleaning up," he told her, gesturing for her to stay seated when she started to rise with him. "No, I got it, enjoy your juice." He rested his hand on her shoulder, pressing down just firmly enough to insist he meant it, and then he began gathering up the emptied plates. "Listen, I don't have a heavy schedule today—nothing that can't wait till Monday, actually; if you're up for company, I could go get cleaned up and be back here with you... unless you want to be alone," he added, glancing to her as he scraped crumbs into her trash. He hadn't thought about the offer before he'd made it; it had come too naturally, he knew, but he wanted to be there. And he saw that she was smiling back at him, relieved, and he found himself wishing that his spare clothes were outside in the Impala instead of at the hotel. Awkward morning or otherwise, he didn't have any desire at all to leave.

"So, you have to work Labor Day?" she asked, her focus more attentive to the way Dean looked from behind as he loaded the dishwasher than anything else, truth be told.

It took him a moment to process that Labor Day was a holiday for most people, but he caught himself. "Uh, just a few meetings; work never stops, right?"

* * * * *

"Eventful night, huh?" Sammy asked as Dean shut the door behind him.

"You got that right. Anything new on your end?"

"Another body," he told him, angling his laptop so that Dean could see over his shoulder to the headline. 52-Year-Old Carpenter Hung in His Yard. The byline was from Akron, Ohio, some four hundred miles from where the last body had turned up two days before, stabbed over a piano.

"Fuck," Dean muttered.

"You find anything?" Sam asked, looking up from the article; his brother looked like he hadn't slept for crap. "Hey, did you sleep with her after all that?"

"What? No!" Dean glared at him, his mind still on the new body. "I was half the night calming her down and then half the night searching through her office and the rest of her place, everywhere but her bedroom. Nothing to help yet, but I want to take a closer look at her spell journal, and I didn't get into her laptop yet."

"Great," Sam muttered, going back to the article. Without anymore leads, there wasn't much to be done, and it was getting to him; at least Dean had a distraction. "How'd the powder go?"

"Huh? Oh, like a charm, like you said. She never knew it was there. One night down, six to go."

"And you're okay with this, right?" Sam asked, eyeing his brother as he headed toward the bathroom.

Dean paused, and he didn't look at him, but he sounded sure enough when he answered. "Yeah, 'course. Why wouldn't I be?"

Before heading back to Calla's, Dean stopped over at Mark's tavern. The door was locked since the place didn't open till 4 on weekdays, but when the owner-slash-bartender saw who'd knocked at the door, he hurried to greet Dean.

"How's our girl?" he asked before Dean had had a chance to say anything.

He shrugged in response. "She's doing okay," he said honestly. "I slept on her couch last night because she didn't want to be alone," he commented, wondering why he was bothering to tell him this at all, and feeling weirdly self-conscious as he did so. "But all things considered, I think she's okay. I'm headed back over there now, but I wanted to stop here first." At this, Dean fished some twenties from his pocket and held his hand out. "I know you said it was on the house, but..."

Mark shook his head. "No, not a chance. After what happened to Calla... I oughta be paying you for getting that bastard off of her so quick."

Sheepishly, Dean nodded. He flushed most of the money back into his wallet, and then simply held out his hand with a ten. "For the waitress, at least."

"Alright," Mark agreed, "I'll make sure it gets to her. That's good of you."

Dean had started to turn away when Mark's voice stopped him. "Dean? You tell her I'm sorry. That guy won't be back here."

"Wasn't your fault."

"No," Mark said quietly, "I should have known. This isn't a place for dates or girls like her. I should have known it was asking for trouble, when I saw the way she'd dressed up for you, and told ya'll to go elsewhere. You just take care of her, okay?"

Dean nodded, thinking back to how sweet Calla had looked when she'd entered the bar the night before. "Listen, you mind if I ask you something?"

"After last night? Anything," the large bartender said, leaning on the doorjamb.

"I'm not saying I'm disappearing—I'm not," he added hastily when the other man's face darkened, "but I travel, I'm from out of town. Does Calla... well, does she have friends around here, to look out for her? I know she's got you, but..."

Mark cut him off. "Dean, don't get me wrong, I care about her, but I can't say we're friends. She's a regular, and the kind of place that this is, I look out for her and keep the jerks at a distance...mostly," he added with a scowl, "but I don't know her well. She comes in alone—has been, three or four years now. A girl like her, I'd think she has lots of friends, but..."

There it was, Dean thought, the but. Mark shrugged, and he could fill it in as well as the other man. But, she was clearly an outsider; she came in alone, with a book for company, and she didn't fit in at the one hangout they knew she had. The bartender knew her because he ran the joint, but beyond that? She was a bookworm hanging out in a bar that was far from being the university crowd's circuit, and she'd possibly come in for just that reason, because she wanted to be left alone, or because she didn't have friends to draw her elsewhere.

"She's a creature of habit, you want my opinion," Mark told him after a few moments had passed. "And from what she's said... well, I think she likes what she does, but I don't think she likes the folks at the university all that much. Once she found her way in here, she just kind of... stayed. I wouldn't be surprised if this is the only place she ever gets out to at night. One or two nights a week, always on weekdays, she's been coming in here for three or four years now; sometimes it's three nights a week, but she mostly leaves early. Sometimes she has a meal, but she always has a book; drinks a few glasses of wine or sucks down Jack like you and she did the other night. Truth is, I don't know how many times I've told her to talk to a decent-lookin' fella like you who just happened to wander in and seem just as outta place as she does; you're the first one who's made it past one drink with her," he said seriously.

Past more than one drink with her. Jesus, Dean thought. "What, she just refuses the second one?" Dean joked, thinking about how easily she'd let him buy her that second Jack the other night. And after the third, they'd ordered dinner, and gone from there.

Mark shrugged. "She just leaves—says a polite goodbye and heads out, kinda like she's scared to stay for more. I don't know what you did different, tell ya the truth. Could'a bowled me over with a needle when ya'll got a second drink and you convinced her to stick around for food."

"Right time, right smile, I guess," Dean said thoughtfully, wondering himself what it was that had gotten him in her door. And why it seemed she'd so rarely let anyone else in.

* * * * *

When Dean came back to Calla's, he was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, and she thought he looked more like the fighter she'd seen appear to defend her in the tavern than a businessman of any sort... but she was okay with that. From the moment he came back in, she felt safe again, and just relieved that he was willing and able to spend the day with her. Ever since he'd left, she'd been thinking about what could have happened, and how good it had felt to be curled up against him on her couch, despite the nerves she'd still been dealing with. She'd spent most of the morning in the bath, bathing and shaving and thinking about him, and the look he gave her when she opened the door in a tank top and jeans was all the affirmation she needed that he was glad to be back.

"You look good," he told her, before he even stepped inside, just as his eyes returned to her face after skimming her up and down.

"You, too," she said honestly, and they went from there.

Before long, she was nestled against him on the couch, fresh coffee in each of their hands and a movie on the television that they mostly talked through. He was easy to talk to, she was finding, and she liked the way he made bad jokes like he knew they were bad but enjoyed them anyway.

By mid-afternoon, Dean had all but forgotten he was supposed to be looking for information, but he'd become so familiar with Calla that the thought of pulling information from her was getting less comfortable each time he thought about it. Reminding himself of the latest body helped, but every time she leaned into him or laughed at something he said, it got harder, to the point that he was getting to be glad he hadn't slept with her yet, and was only trying to hold off on kissing her... despite the fact that she was practically begging for it.

At a break in the conversation, Dean asked her, "So, you're in your third year of grad school, but you said you're 28? What did you do before that?"

He'd been nudging around for any hint to her mother's location when he thought to, and gotten nowhere; maybe the gap from in between her college years would tell him something. He felt her shrug against him, and forced himself not to look down to examine her face; he needed the question to feel casual, and the fact that he'd felt her tense up slightly against him was enough to suggest he'd inched toward paydirt.

"I wasn't sure what I wanted, so I guess I didn't do much of anything. I stuck around my mom, sort of apprenticing to her. She works with silver—jewelry and belt buckles and whatnot," Calla added after a pause.

"It didn't take?" Dean asked her, thinking he hadn't seen any silver at all in the apartment, and assuming the girl beside him had just lied about this facet of the time, at least.

Calla thought back to all of her mother's attempts to instill in her her own philosophy, and to teach her spells that were less focused on healing and more focused on self-gain, or mischief. "No, not really," she answered. "I didn't mind the work... but it felt like a lot of hustling, and a lot of traveling, and I guess I didn't see the point," she said honestly, mentally thinking that she hadn't seen any positive points, anyway.

That sounded truthful, Dean thought. "And where's your mom now?" He felt her shiver beside him, and suddenly felt sure that she not only knew where her lethal mother was, but that she knew what she was doing also. Paydirt. He and Sammy had been right to start with the powder, if she could stomach the kills that were happening.

"She moves around a lot," Calla murmured, allowing herself to sink deeper into the couch against Dean's side. Was she scared of her mom still? She thought she might be, sitting here with Dean and realizing how safe he made her feel. It jarred her, to think that she was more comfortable with this man she'd met just a few days before, but she realized it was true when she felt his hand come down on her shoulder and give a light squeeze, as if he'd suddenly realized she needed the comfort.

"Didn't mean to hit a sore spot," he told her softly, and took a deep breath when he felt her head come to rest against his chest. He pulled her in tighter.

"No, it's fine, Dean. It's... serious talk, I guess. My mom's not easy to deal with."

"I'd like to meet her."

"No," Calla said flatly, gritting her teeth at the idea of her mother being anywhere near this apartment, or anyone she formed a relationship with. "What about your family?" she asked. "Where are you from?"

"Kansas. I've got a brother in New York, upstate, a mom who I think's in PA, and that's about it; family's complicated, right?" he asked lightly, not adding that every member of his immediate family had at some point died and come back to life, including himself.