casey

soldier boy who absolutely adores intox play. he likes you sober, sure, but when you're so fucked up you can barely form words? that's his shit right there.

"doll, c'mere." he rumbled one night, beckoning you over to the couch he was sitting on, patting the cushion next to him.

and you did, mostly because you were in charge of him while the rest of the boys had gone out to do god knows what. butcher promised they wouldn't be too long, but that was nearly three hours ago. knowing him, they wouldn't be back 'til the ass crack of dawn anyway. you didn't know whether that was a good or bad thing just yet.

"mm?" you hummed, sitting down on the couch next to him. in the background, some rerun of a shitty western played quietly. it was all that ever played when he got the remote.

"wanna try somethin'," he murmured, low and slow. he palms around on the side table before finding what he was looking for, which was a baggie. nearly full of white powder.

"oh, i don't—" you started, a flush already starting to creep up your neck from the implication. "i don't do.. drugs."

it was a half truth. the worst you'd ever done was weed, and it was more trouble than what it was worth. frenchie had talked you into smoking with him once, and you nearly threw up from how hard you coughed. he laughed, because he's an asshole, and tossed you a bottle of water all the same. that was months ago.

"relax, it ain't gonna bite you." he chuckled, eying you before turning his attention back to the baggie. he licked his finger, just his index, before dipping it into the powder.

you wanted to object, to tell him to knock it off and find something that didn't involve you to do like you'd done a million times before. but you just watched him, eyes darting from his fingers to his face.

"open," he grunted, but waited all of three seconds before his other hand caught your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks to force your mouth open himself. you made a surprised squeal, a hand flying up to his wrist to try and push him away.

he just ignored it, opting to swipe the finger dusted in coke along your gums, before letting you go.

"ben, what the fuck—" you spluttered, but the powder was already dissolving into the soft tissue of your gums. you wanted to be mad, to cuss him out and.. well, you aren't entirely sure what you wanted to do, now that you think about it.

you can feel your face go numb in record time, vision snapping into focus at the same time. okay, you could totally deal with this. probably. your heart fluttered against your ribcage, but you elected to ignore it.

"you can't just shove your fingers in my mouth like that," you huffed, though it lacked any real heat. hard to put venom in your voice when you're hyper aware of every little thing in the room at the moment.

"can't i?" he drawled, flashing that shit-eating grin that made you want to punch him. "cause i'm pretty sure i just did."

god, it was fucking hot in here all of a sudden. you shifted against the couch, trying to focus on the TV, your leg bouncing in time with your heartbeat. he watched from the corner of his eye, gauging your high.

"somethin' wrong? y'look a little wired, kid," he hummed, cocking his head to look at you. his gaze raked over you, taking in all the little newfound mannerisms.

"don't—" you hissed, shooting him a glare. all it did was make his grin sharpen. "don't fucking start."

the words came out a little more breathless than intended. you were trying your best to keep it together, because you knew he was doing this for his own benefit, but it was quickly spinning out of your control. story of your life, though.

he just holds his hands up in surrender, turning his attention back to the TV. you're thankful, because it buys you time to get a grip on the situation. despite you trying to just focus on the TV and let the coke wear off, your eyes dart to the baggie on the coffee table.

he notices, because of fucking course he does. he just grins.

"want some more?" he asks, like he's offering you literally anything else.

you should say no. hell, you want to say no, but your face is so fucking numb and your brain isn't working—

"yeah," you nod, scooting closer to him now.

instead of him licking his fingers, he jerks his head toward you.

"open," he murmurs, and you do. he slides his index finger past your lips, and you run your tongue along the pad. you don't break eye contact with him, either. "atta girl." he grins, before removing his finger.

you almost whine at the loss of contact, but he's quick in his actions. dips his finger in the powder, brings it back up to your mouth, and this time you don't need to be asked. you suck the dust off his finger, pupils blown the size of saturn. when you decide there's nothing else left, you pull off with a wet pop.

you barely realize your proximity until he's practically nose to nose with you, and you don't push him away either. in his mind, that's enough of a yes for him. his lips crash against yours, teeth nearly clacking together from the force of it, all tongue and heat. your hands find his hair, tangling in the brown strands and tugging him closer.

"knew you'd come around," he grinned against your mouth, rough palms sliding under your shirt and pushing you down until your back meets the couch cushions under you. "shame i had'ta get you all high first."

he slots a knee between your thighs, knocking them open enough for him to angle it against your cunt. it'd been hot in the motel, so you were wearing loose shorts. lucky him. the sensation made your vision swim at the corners, hips rutting against his knee before you could stop yourself.

"ben— fuck, 'm not-" you rasp, still trying to defend yourself, but it breaks into a moan when your hips roll up against his knee. everything feels like too much and not enough at the same time, and you can't find it in you to say no.

"sure you ain't, baby. that why you're humpin' my knee like a fuckin' mutt?" he sneers, driving his knee harder against you. you let out a loud moan in response, and suddenly you can't find the words to argue anymore.

and then he pulls away. you whine in protest, looking at him through bleary eyes, already missing the contact. he doesn't stay gone long, though, his fingers hooking in the waistband of your shorts and panties before giving a little tug.

"hips up," he commands, and you listen. he yanks the clothing down and tosses it aside, leaving you in nothing but a shirt, fully exposed from the waist down.

his hand replaces his knee, and you're almost certain you're gonna die. there's no warning, no easing you into it either. his index finger slides in, then his middle. your back arches clean off the couch with a loud moan, which only drives his fingers deeper. he grins, before starting a pace that makes you nearly crawl up the wall.

"ben- 's too much, slow— slow down," you manage to choke out, but he either doesn't hear you or doesn't care. you're pretty sure that when you do come, it's gonna give you a heart attack. or at least it feels like it.

"you can take it, honey. bet you could take a lot more'n that, too," he rasps, dropping his head to the crook of your neck, sucking a mark that you're sure will be deep purple when you check it in the morning.

when his fingers crook against you just right, brushing up against a spot that makes your head swim, you know you're fucked. you're so close that it hurts, and right when you're about to come—

he pulls his fingers out. you make a frustrated noise, barely aware of the fact you're already tearing up. it's not your fault, really; you're high out of your mind, and he's doing nothing but playing games. anyone else would do the same.

"shhh, gonna give ya somethin' better, don't worry," he murmurs, sweet to the point of condescension. he shifts over you, only stopping when his head is situated between your thighs.

his arms wrap around your thighs, keeping you held in place as he licks a stripe up your cunt, slow and methodical. you're lucky he's pinning you against the couch, or else you would've shot right off of it. he makes a low noise of satisfaction, before his mouth suctions around your clit, tongue lapping at you like a starved man.

you swear you can see stars in your peripheral.

"ohmygod—" you yelp, hands flying down to bury themselves in his hair, if only to give yourself something to anchor onto. you don't tug or press his face closer, just holding. "fuuuck- ben, please, i'm— jesus christ-"

this time, he doesn't pull away. you come in record time, your back arching off the couch, thighs threatening to clamp around his head if it weren't for his arms keeping you open. he works you through it, before pulling away with that shit eating— well, pussy eating, in this case— grin.

"see, was that so hard, sugar?" he rumbles, dragging his knuckles against your slick cunt just to watch you squirm.

you feel his hands grab at your hips, and your position changes. this time, you're on your stomach, and he drags your hips up to force you up on your knees. you hear his belt buckle click open, then a zipper. despite your better judgement, you throw a look over your shoulder, and you freeze.

he's got a hand wrapped around his cock, giving a few harsh tugs because he knows you're watching. that's the least of your concern, at the moment. the majority of your concern lies in his size. he's thick and huge and there's no fucking way you're gonna be able to fit him—

but then he's sliding his tip between the lips of your cunt, not quite pushing in just yet, instead rolling his hips forward until his tip nudges against your clit. you give a broken moan at the feeling, and any protest about his size dies on your tongue.

the problem is, he keeps doing it. by the third time, you're begging.

"ben, please- mm- quit teasin' 'n fuck me already—" you plead, and clearly that's what he was looking for, because he pulls back at that.

you're half scared he's not gonna fuck you at all until he's pushing inside, and you're certain you're gonna die. the stretch makes you nearly sob, entirely too much for your already oversensitive body. it makes no difference to him, though, because he doesn't stop until he's bottomed out, his hips pressed firm against your ass.

"fuuuck— so goddamn tight like this, could stay like this forever," he groans, a hand kneading at the fat of your ass before raising, coming back down with a harsh slap. "fuckin' made to take cock, aren't you, doll?"

you give a weak noise of agreement, and he takes that opportunity to pull out just enough to make you think he's done, before slamming back in. it punches a moan out of you, fingers digging into the fabric of the couch cushion below you just to have something to hold.

his pace is nothing short of brutal. the pain of him stretching you open dies down after a few good snaps of his hips, but the tears don't stop. you're overstimulated six ways to sunday, and already rapidly approaching your second orgasm of the night.

"ben- ben, i can't- fuck, please-" you babble, not even fully sure of what you're asking for. maybe to come, maybe for him to slow the fuck down and give you time to breathe, who's to say.

"you can, and you will," he growls behind you, your words earning you another sharp slap on the ass. you yelp, but he ignores it and shifts to find a new angle.

and god help him, he does. his hand wraps up and around your throat, pulling you up against his chest, the scruff of his beard brushing against your cheek. this position makes it feel like he's this close to hitting your lungs, and makes him hit just right against your g spot.

"don't cry, just let me make y'feel good," he murmurs, his voice like syrup in your ears despite him pounding into you like he hates your guts.

"please- please, ben, 's too much- fuck—" you whimper, but then his fingers are rubbing tight circles into your clit, and you're gone.

you tighten up around him, your body going taut as a wire, and you actually squirt. since when could you even do that? you don't have time to think about it because he shoves your head down into the couch cushions, his pace picking up and fucking you through it, like he's chasing his own orgasm now.

"fuck— there y'go, sweetheart, takin' it so fuckin' well," he rasps, and judging by the fact his movements are losing rhythm, he's not far behind you.

"gonna fill you up proper, doll- shit— " he groans, and he gets three good strokes before his hips stutter against yours, cock twitching as he finally comes inside you.

he stays like that for a while, letting you catch your breath while he does the same. when he finally does pulls out, you go slack against the couch, feeling his cum drip down between your thighs. he gives a breathless chuckle, patting your hip before standing up.

"did so good f'me, pretty girl," he murmurs, crouching down beside you to get a better look at you. "you still with me, sweet thing?"

you give a soft noise of acknowledgement, eyes cracking open enough to look at him. your face is streaked with tears, your hair is a fucking mess, and you're pretty sure you could sleep for a month after this.

ben's not domestic, not in the slightest. but he's also not a total asshole, contrary to popular belief. he lifts you up off the couch, shifting your weight in his arms until he's sure he won't drop you, and deposits you in his bed in the room over. he's wordless as he pulls the covers over you, just enough to make sure nobody sees you naked if they walk in.

"sleep it off, princess. you'll be fine in the mornin'."

and then he was gone, and you promptly fell asleep.

The sun hit his face, bringing a golden hint to his hazel eyes as he looked away. A gush of heated wind brushed his hair away from his forehead and Dean squinted his eyes for a second, realizing that he was way more sleepy than he thought he was. Summer wasn’t his arch-nemesis but it was almost like, if you asked him. He shifted on his seat when seeing a shimmery light in the distance, like the neon of a bar or a motel, something he was clearly accustomed with. A sigh escaped his pouty lips and he ran a hand along his face. 

Not only was he tired but a migraine was starting to show the tip of its nose through his brain; the memories of the fight with Sam were still so close and he wished to forget them with a drink and maybe someone in his bed. He pressed his foot onto the accelerator pedal, the wind hitting his face but he didn’t seem to mind it much. Dean drove until he saw the flickering neon sign of the HOTEL CALIFORNIA; and if you asked him, this didn’t look like a hotel at all but more like an old chapel. The entrance looked like something along the lines of the Presidio Chapel of San Elizario he had seen in a book once. A capilla abierta was on the side, looking lonely and old, abandoned.

The buildings seemed to form a square, probably hiding a courtyard in its center. A few palm trees decorated the place, here and there but besides that, everything seemed to be empty. There were no other cars parked, nothing that could tell him how many residents the hotel had. 

He parked the Impala but didn’t get out immediately; his hazel eyes stopped on a shadow at the doorway, looming and almost waiting for him to come. His hands trembled on the steering-wheel for a second and Dean thought to himself. Is this a mirage? Is this Heaven or Hell? But there was no direct answer to those questions. So he only squirmed on his seat to roll all the windows up and grabbed his duffle bag from the passenger seat before jumping out of the Impala. His shoes hit the sandy ground as he walked toward the entrance of the hotel, but stopped half-way just to look around.

“What the fuck?” The cursed whisper escaped his lips as he realized the fact that the highway was empty of cars, the sun had settled down and it was getting dark outside. Dean knew better than to let go of his guard when it came to places he didn’t know, places that were eerie and in the middle of the desert just like that. But God, he needed sleep. So he turned back to the person that seemed to wait for him, the heel of his shoes hitting the wood of the stairs before he stopped at the porch, mouth opening to speak up.

“Have you had a nice drive?” Your voice interrupted his thoughts and he gave you a grin, seeing you push yourself from the doorway and closer to him. He didn’t know what to expect but everything was brushed off when you turned and grabbed a box of matchsticks from your pocket and a candle stick that was just waiting on the wooden floor. Dean hummed at your question, shrugging. “Sun’s been a piece of shit, but I managed. The bar’s open?” He asked back at you as you lit the candle. 

“Follow me, I’ll show you around. Your name?” You simply said back and nodded at him to follow you through the door. “Dean. Dean Winchester. You?” The interior was way different than what Dean had expected but then again, he didn’t expect much. Passing through the hotel entrance led directly on an enclosed colonial-style courtyard—intimate, sun-warmed, and quietly luxurious. “Just someone.” You voiced back. A door on the side was open, letting him see a desk, a bunch of keys and a man reading an old newspaper that didn’t seem to be on date.

They locked eyes and the man immediately looked pained, as if he didn’t want Dean here; as if the only thought of having someone new at the Hotel California was a nightmare for him. The hunter furrowed his eyebrows before looking away, absorbed with the hotel. He walked deeper into it, following you closely. 

The space was framed by two levels of soft rose-pink stucco walls, wrapped in elegant stone archways that ran the full perimeter. Each arch was supported by smooth gray columns, giving the whole courtyard a rhythmic, almost cathedral-like symmetry. Above, dark wooden beams lined the ceilings of the upper galleries, adding warmth and contrast against the pastel walls. Then, a multitude of dark wooden doors, both on the second and first floor, and a simple staircase just on the side. In the back, a larger and elegant open dark door gave another courtyard in symmetry to this one.

Dean realized he had never seen a prettiest hotel before—the one he rested at with Sam always seemed so gloomy and sad, like life had decided to not stop there. This was a change and yet… He felt his skin crawl at the back of his neck. Something was entirely wrong here, and he could feel it. His eyes kept looking around, taking every single detail. The floor was laid with small, pale cobblestones reflecting the candle lights from old oil lamps on the walls. At the center and along the edges, lush tropical plants—tall palms with wide, arching fronds—rose from large clay and stone planters, their leaves casting shifting shadows across the ground.

Scattered thoughtfully around the courtyard were woven rattan lounge chairs and low cushioned seats in neutral tones; cream, sand, and muted brown. Small round tables sat between them, suggesting quiet morning coffees, late afternoon conversations, or secret meetings held under the open air. The furniture felt light and airy, almost Mediterranean, blending effortlessly with the architecture. On the side, a bit recluse from the rest of the courtyard, was a wooden bar with a few stools. The barmaid seemed to have disappeared for the night, though.

Hanging greenery spilled gently from the upper balcony, softening the stone and giving the entire space a secluded, oasis-like feeling. It was the kind of place where sound echoes slightly with laughter drifting upward, heels tapping against stone, whispers carrying farther than intended. It made a smile appear on Dean’s face for a moment and he tightened his grip on his bag, wishing that Sam was here with him at that moment. 

When Dean broke out of his thoughts, you were having an animated conversation with the man inside the reception room. His hazel eyes squinted for a second, as if he was trying to read on your lips but God, he knew he couldn’t do that. He grunted and before he could walk closer, a voice echoed behind him. “Welcome to Hotel California.” Were the only words he heard but when Dean turned around, there was no one here. No one on the second floor, no one behind a door, no presence whatsoever. He ran his free hand through his hair, telling himself that he needed sleep.

You came back by his side, holding a key in your hand and the candle still in the other one. “Follow me, I got you a room down the corridor.” He hummed at you, and just followed when you started to walk again. Dean gave a final look to the receptionist, who was already looking at him. The heels of his shoes hit the cobblestone floor, feet dragging down a little from the tiredness he felt. 

As Dean crossed the courtyard behind you, his boot caught on something soft between the cobblestones. He glanced down, for a second—just a second—he thought it was fruit crushed into the cracks. Dark, pulped and seeping like a pomegranate. But when he blinked, it was only shadow pooled in the grooves. Still, something clung to the sole of his shoe. When he scraped it lightly against the stone while walking, it left behind a faint smear, brownish-red and glistening before it sank into the cracks like the ground had swallowed it whole.

Soon enough, you stopped at a door and turned to give the keys to Dean, the hunter lifting his eyes to you. “Breakfast is served in the courtyard at 9.” And you walked away, not giving him the attention he seemed to want for the night.

Dean’s hazel eyes stayed on your retreating figure for a moment; he couldn’t help himself but lower his orbs at your curves, humming to himself before finally looking away when you passed the door of the second courtyard and disappeared into the night. Then, he pushed the key into the lock and opened the door—the interior of this one had nothing to do with the colorful and inviting exterior. It was dark and gloomy, with the strict minimum; a bed, an old TV straight from the 80s, a bedtable with a phone, a small closet and a door that probably gave way to a bathroom.

Dean scoffed as he saw that, but it would do. This wasn’t the worst for him; he had slept multiple times inside the Impala before, or even on the floor of an old motel to let Sam sleep on a bed when they were younger. He ended up by entering the room, threw his bag around, kicked his shoes off and fell on the mattress, face in the pillow.

The whole room smelled like flowers—but not the type that made him think of joyous things. No, the smell was more like Lilies, known as a harbinger of misfortune or even yellow Roses that Dean knew as omens of ill fortune too. 

Lilies and the unmistakable fragrance that is both sweet and subtle; sweet and floral with a hint of spice and citrus. The smell hit his nostril and he coughed once, twice; was it rot? He sniffed, looking around for a bouquet, but he saw none. The overbearing smell of rot then came back; musty, pungent, almost mushroom-like. The hunter knew the difference between dry and wet rot, but at the moment, there was no distinction. He almost gagged at it, bringing his forearm to his nose, but when he sniffed again, the odor had simply disappeared from the room.

He was half-tempted to get out of the room and ask for a second one but his eyelids were starting to get heavy, suddenly. A yawn escaped his mouth, arms stretching up with shoulder bones popping. He thought about Sam, about Castiel, about the hunt he was driving for; a pack of werewolves.

And it was on those thoughts that he fell asleep, not even thinking of checking his phone or moving under the covers. 

There was a knock on the door, sharp; feeling like nails scratching on old wood. It broke the hunter from his sleep, a hum escaping his mouth when he nuzzled the pillow under his head. His hazel eyes fluttered open and he immediately pushed himself up from the bed, all alert and ready for danger. When Dean realized that he was still in that motel bed, his muscles relaxed and he sighed before running a hand through his disheveled hair. “M’coming!” He groaned, standing up.

He was still groggy, feet not following the movement of his heavy body and he hit his toes in the bedtable. A curse left his mouth, he closed his hand in a fist like this would help him. When he ended up opening the door, you were here; but now he could see your face better with the sun so high in the sky. Why was the sun so high in the sky?

“It’s two in the afternoon. You overslept.” Your voice spoke and Dean’s eyes blinked, jaw gaping for a second before he turned to look at the clock on top of the bedtable. No surprise, 2:21p.m, was showing. “Jeez… I really needed that sleep.” He spoke to himself before turning his head back to you. “Uh, sorry. I guess breakfast’s not on the menu anymore.” His expression was sheepish, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “No breakfast anymore, but we are having brunch in the courtyard.” You offered, head nodding to the large open door that gave to the other side of the motel.

Dean only looked at you—eyes focused on your facial expression and how you held yourself. Of course he had seen how pretty you were yesterday, even though the sun had fallen and the sky had gotten dark back then. There was no mistake; you were beautiful. But now, with the sun high, the sky blue and the heat back to the day, you were mesmerizing. He blinked his thoughts away and hummed. “Yeah, need some food. I’ll take a shower and uh… join you guys.” You only nodded at his words before turning on your heels and walked away. 

He was ready to close that door when the same voice from yesterday was heard. “Welcome to Hotel California.” Dean immediately turned his head to the open space, but no one was standing there. His eyebrows furrowed and he took one step out of the motel room; sure that someone was fucking with him. But that wasn’t the case, and he brushed it away: hoping he wasn’t going insane already.

It was only after a shower and too much time in front of the mirror to make sure his hair was in the right places that Dean got out of his motel room, looking around until he spotted you talking to a pretty boy. He closed and locked the door, key in hand as he approached you after making sure he had his phone in his pocket and a gun hidden in his back. He was still a hunter, after all. 

The boy only gazed toward him as Dean approached before giving you one last look that seemed to be a warning before he stepped away. Only then, when it was only you, did Dean hear the melody of a vinyl player and Fly Me to the Moon echoed in the air. But it wasn’t the Frank Sinatra version, but the voice of Kaye Ballard. He hummed quietly, remembering hearing this voice back when Mary was alive and Sam was nothing but a baby. 

He stopped in his steps after standing next to you, his eyes taking over the courtyard and he realized the hotel had more passengers than he thought, with at least fifteen people around. Some couples danced to the song, a few people were talking and laughing together like they had known each other forever. 

Some of them seemed to be directly from other decades; one woman was wearing a flapper dress and a cloche hat, while a man wore what seemed to be a slim-fitting Italian-cut suit with narrow lapels and Chelsea boots. Dean wondered if it was a special occasion and he had intruded. 

The sun was high in the sky, making him sweat even though he had made no efforts to do so. “Some dance to remember, some dance to forget.” Your voice made his eyes shift to look at your face. You were focusing on the people dancing, slowly waltzing around with smiles on their faces. A middle aged man walked past you, hands brushing at your waist before pressing a fat kiss on your cheek, talking in a low tone. “Hey, darlin’, it’s nice to see you out.” Dean only heard before you started a conversation with said-man, the brightest smile on your face. 

It only lasted a few minutes before the man walked away to meet a woman on the courtyard made-up dancefloor. The hunter’s hazel eyes glazed at your expression before clearing out his throat. “You have a lot of pretty boys around?” He asked, cursing at himself at the tone of his words. Your eyes shifted to focus on him a second before looking away, again. “I call them my friends.” You shrugged and stepped forward, leaving Dean behind, eyebrows furrowed. 

His hand moved to grab the phone in his pocket; he thought Sam deserved to have some news, just in case. Because one little fight wouldn’t change the fact that Dean still cared for his brother.

His expression became bewildered when there was no data signal showing. Yeah, he was in the middle of the desert and then some, but no data? That was mildly suspicious. “There’s no use, lovely, you won’t get any calls in here.” A voice broke him out of his stupor and he blinked up, just to see a woman that seemed to be straight out of the 80s standing in front of him. Her hair was bright ginger, curls that fell on her forehead, a pretty brown skin that glowed under the sun and big eyes that looked at him like he was the new attraction around.

“What d’ya mean? There’s no data?” He asked back with confusion. The woman smiled at him, shaking her head like it was cute that he didn’t understand yet. “Nope. Some of us haven’t heard anything about the outside world for decades.” The words escaping her mouth made Dean chuckle, until he realized she wasn’t joking at all.

“In decades? Like… You guys have been living here? No one ever left the place, or what?” His shoulders squared like he was prepared for something he didn’t understand yet. The woman didn’t reply to those words and simply turned her back to him, walking away. He was half-tempted to follow her and get answers to his questions but he did none. Dean just thought, thought and thought until his brain was burning inside his head. 

There was something entirely wrong with this place and the Winchester man was starting to believe, finally, that he wasn’t going insane. He slapped the back of the phone in his palm before pushing it back in his pocket, deciding that a drink wouldn’t do bad. He excused himself, passing through the couples waltzing until his feet took him to the wooden bar; he remembered seeing the same one when he arrived. There, a man wearing an old barman uniform from what seemed to be the 20s was making Martini’s. 

Dean sat down on one of the wooden stools (so uncomfortable that he hissed), and observed the man behind the counter. He was wearing a crisp white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, with a small black bow-tie at his collar. Around his waist was a long white apron tied neatly, falling about mid-calf. It was paired with dark trousers and polished black dress shoes. 

“Can I get you something, Sir?” The barman ended up asking and Dean hummed. “A beer, thanks.” He waved his hand like to say I don’t mind the brand. A scoff escaped from the man behind the counter, his hands moving as he wiped a glass. “Sorry, we haven’t had that spirit since 1969.” Dean straightened on his bar stool, looking at the man like he had grown another head before he scoffed and ran a hand through his hair. “A glass of Whisky then, on the rocks.” The bartender nodded before preparing the drink. 

The burning hot sun of California’s Mojaves desert was making Dean overwhelmed already but his thoughts took another turn as he saw you come back his ways. You now wore a shawl around your shoulders; a piece of clothing that seemed to have seen better days. 

A quiet thud made the hunter thank the barman as the drink appeared in front of him on the wooden bar. Hazel eyes moved to your figure once more when you stopped and sat on the stool next to Dean’s. “You look pale,” you murmured at one point, your thumb brushing lightly over the crease between his brows. “The heat does that… Makes people imagine things.”

“I’m not imagining the smell,” Dean shot back, quieter than he meant to be. You tilted your head, almost pitying. “Smell?” The breeze shifted and for a fleeting second, the air was clean—sun-warmed stone and citrus from somewhere unseen. No rot, no lilies, just summer. “See?” you whispered gently at him like trying to explain something that made sense only for you. “You’re just tired.”

And the worst part was, for half a heartbeat, he almost believed you.

“I supposed you will be leaving today?” You asked him then, but the tone of your voice hid something deeper now.

Dean took a sip of his Whisky on the rocks before hissing. “Nah. Summer afternoons make me feel angsty. I’ll leave tomorrow morning.” He said, focusing his eyes on you. His lips parted to add a few words when the murmurs started again. “Welcome to Hotel California, plenty of room at the Hotel—” Dean turned around vigorously on his stool, alert and eyes wide. He felt the pumping of blood through his veins, the beating of his heart inside his chest, the tingling down his legs. The grip he had on the glass tightened and his knuckles became white.

“Dean?” He heard you call, freckled face pale as he turned it back to you. His eyebrows furrowed as if he didn’t understand why you seemed to be so calm. “You didn’t hear that?” He expressed, voice paralyzed by the slight fear he felt a few seconds ago. But the thing was… Dean is a hunter. He shouldn’t be afraid of people talking around. Of people fucking with him. When your own eyebrows furrowed, he gulped. “Heard what? The wind?” You asked him, body shifting forward like you were waiting for something.

“No, nothin’. The sun is hitting hard.” Dean only replied, protecting himself from any judgments you could have. He chuckled, brushing it off before porting the Whisky glass to his lips once more. “You should drink water, maybe.” A silence fell between the two of you after that; heavy, sun-driven, and the minutes passed like that. Dean’s hazel eyes on your face and you looking at the people of the courtyard; the vinyl softly echoing in the air. Discs were changed as time flew, as the sun slowly settled down on the earth and the oil lamps of the motel illuminated the space. Whiskey and wine were served, a buffet that Dean was glad to see.

The hunter’s laugh had resonated in the air when the woman in the flapper dress had pulled him to a dance, swirling with him around. People clapped him on the back afterward, someone cheered with alcohol, you had even bumped your shoulder with him. Dean thought that if he hadn’t the life he currently had, maybe one like that wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe he could dream about this; about this place, about those people, about you. Maybe he didn’t have to think about damnation, about Hell, about burning in the fire of the pit for eternity.

The vinyl crackled as the song shifted, but Dean could’ve sworn it was the same one playing. The woman in the flapper dress laughed again—the exact same laugh as a minute ago, breathy and sharp at the end like it snagged on something invisible. He blinked, and the couple waltzing near the archway had rotated back to where they’d started, her heel landing on the same pale cobblestone. The sun hadn’t dipped any lower but it pressed against his skull, unmoving, heavy and watchful.

Another man clapped him on the shoulder in congratulations after the dance, the sound echoing too loud in the open air. Dean turned to grin back at him but the man was already across the courtyard, laughing with someone else like he’d never moved. The spot on Dean’s shoulder still tingled. He rubbed at it slowly, eyes scanning the courtyard. The bar now seemed farther away than before or maybe the tables had shifted. He couldn’t tell. The palms rustled overhead without wind.

He checked his phone without thinking: 6:17p.m. The battery was lower than it should’ve been and he didn’t remember using it. When he looked back up, the couple near the archway were still dancing except the record had stopped spinning. The needle dragged in a soft, endless hiss but no one around seemed to notice and the hunter brushed it off.

The time passed too fast for his liking after that, it was now night after the blink of an eye. He couldn’t remember the last gestures, the last words, the last smiles that had happened. Like his head had become all hazy, or if he just had a nap. But it wasn’t the case, and Dean told himself it was probably just the summer sun playing tricks on him again. There was still no data but his phone now showed 10:43p.m when he entered his motel room for the night, closing the door behind himself. 

The smell from the night before hit him again—thicker this time. Not just rot, but something sweet tangled inside it. More lilies. Funeral lilies. The kind that sat too long beside polished wood and grief-stricken families. It curled into his lungs, syrupy and suffocating. Beneath it was dampness, mold blooming somewhere unseen, like the walls themselves were sweating decay. He swallowed hard, but the sweetness clung to the back of his throat. It tasted like something that had already died.

He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress sagging under the weight of his tired body. For a moment, he stilled; hands on his knees, head thrown to the ceiling but a sigh escaped him. Dean finished by moving and he pulled his phone from his jeans pocket. His fingers were quick as they typed on the keyboard. 

DEAN to SAM. Hey, just wanted to send this. I’m okay. In a cool motel right now.  FAILURE TO DELIVER.

Dean sighed at the message showing back on his screen as he tried to text his baby brother, but then again, what did he expect? The thought of it all seemed strange to him but he didn’t dwell too much on it, only moved his body to rest the phone on the bedtable. His feet moved and he kicked his shoes off, not caring as to where they would land. The mattress groaned under him as he laid down, eyes to the ceiling. 

The temperature inside the room was perfect—he was surprised. The motel didn’t seem equipped with air conditioners, nor did it look new. It was on those stupid thoughts that Dean’s eyes closed and he fell asleep like that; wearing his clothes, hands under his head and eyebrows slightly furrowed. The sound of cicadas outside was his lullaby. 

But that didn’t last long: Dean was awakened by a loud gasp coming from his own throat, muscles aching and heart pumping inside his chest like a storm ready to destroy anything on its passage. His back was sweaty and so was his forehead and his neck. Eyes alert, pupils blown out, cheeks red. He looked around like a panther searching for prey, but nothing was giving him the impression of being in danger. His calloused hands gripped at the covers under his body and for a second—but what seemed to be eternity—his mouth pooled with saliva.

He swore he heard that voice again. “Welcome to Hotel California. Such a lovely place.” Dean wondered if it had only been in his dream or if someone had entered the motel room he was residing in. His whole body moved, muscles aching and trembling as he sat up, hands grabbing the gun that had been hidden behind his back. He didn’t feel safe at that moment; and it was worse than any hallucinations from before. His back hit the headboard after that, and he inhaled through his mouth.

The hunter swore he heard footsteps outside his room a few times as he stayed awake; but the only gush of wind through the dark was enough to make him paranoid. Visions from the corner of his eyes, bugs on his arms, thoughts that didn’t only belong to himself. Dean was now sure of one thing; this place wasn’t the paradise it seemed to be. There was something entirely wrong with the motel, and he needed to leave this place as soon as he could.

So when the sun started to show the tip of its nose at 5:45a.m, he was already on his feet. He was too shaken up to even think of taking a shower, but changed clothes, washed his face and his shoes were back on. Dean moved through the room, glad that he didn’t have taken things out of his bag. He grabbed his jacket from the floor, grabbed his phone from the bedtable and turned to the door. Though, his eyes caught on the clock on the wooden nightstand where 9:53a.m was now showing.

The hunter’s body stopped straight, a tickling sensation down his spine when his fingers pulled his phone back out to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating again. But he wasn’t, and his screen showed the same time as the clock. It wasn’t possible because Dean was sure it had been at least 5:47a.m when he had started to move around the room. There was no way in Hell four hours had passed by the blink of his eyes, no way in Hell he couldn’t remember what had happened a few minutes ago. And while those thoughts hit his brain, he remembered the evening before, in the courtyard.

How time had seemed to pass so differently than what he was used to, and how the people around hadn’t seemed to be surprised by that. Like they were used to the shift of space.

All of this was pushed away in his mind when a sharp knock on the door made Dean blink. His hand immediately grabbed the gun that was hidden underneath his shirt once more; his grip firm and unforgiving. His free hand moved toward the doorknob before a voice was heard behind the wood. “Dean?” It was you. It was always you, he decided. The shadow that had made him park the Impala, the temptation of the devil, the apple in Eden’s garden. 

He lowered his gun before opening the door, just ajar to see your face and for you to see his own. “Yeah?” His voice was tight, eyebrows furrowed like he suddenly could see through you. See through who you really were. “We are having breakfast in the master’s chambers.” Your voice was light but demanding, like you wouldn’t let him escape this. Like guarding him in your cocoon was the safest thing you could do for him, the safest thing you could offer to someone like Dean. 

The door was pushed as he appeared in front of you, almost sweaty and disheveled. “Thanks but I have to drive for a few hours, it’s best if I leave now.” He tried to excuse himself, hand carefully hiding the gun behind his back. “You’ll need a bit of sugar for that trip. The sun is hitting hard today.” You voiced back at him, not giving him the choice to refuse the opportunity of a breakfast and something in his stomach. Dean grumbled under his breath, hands shaking as he grabbed his bag back and his jacket before following after you.

The slam of the door closing behind his back made him jump; you were already walking away to realize how jumpy the hunter was now. He followed your steps to the stairs that bring you to the second floor, his hazel eyes all wide as he looked around. The master’s chambers was the last door of the floor, the door open to let a low level of music escape the room. Once more, the space was filled with residents of the hotel; a buffet on a long table and chairs all along it.

The mirrors on the ceiling caught his attention next; they weren’t placed for vanity—they were positioned like watchful eyes. The reflection looking back at him felt higher somehow, distant. The chandelier above the long table resembled a crown of thorns when he squinted, twisted metal casting jagged shadows across the walls. The buffet stretched long and ceremonial, like an altar laid out for offering. Pink champagne in crystal flutes shimmered under the light like diluted blood. And everyone sat as though waiting for communion.

The longer he stood in that room, the more it felt like something had already been decided. The residents watched him the way mourners watch a casket being lowered; solemn, expectant, almost reverent. A fork scraped porcelain somewhere, slow and deliberate, like dirt hitting wood. “You’re safe here,” someone said from the far end of the table. Safe. The word echoed wrong, like being buried was safe from storms.

You pushed Dean inside the room, leaving the door open for more light. Inside, the warmth was on the roof and Dean immediately felt the sweat trickle down his neck, his hands becoming damp. It was harder to breathe in this space but he wondered if it had anything to do with the summer sun or his anxiety that begged him to leave, running. He felt a hand on his back slowly lowering him to a chair, he lifted his eyes to see you as you sat next to him. The voices were overlapping, laughters and whispers. A few glances his ways made him even more jumpy.

The laughter in the master’s chambers rose and fell in strange waves, like it was rehearsed. A woman across the table tilted her head back to laugh—and held it there a second too long, throat exposed, mouth open, no sound coming out. The man beside her nodded at something no one had said, nodding and nodding and nodding until Dean felt dizzy watching him. Forks lifted in perfect unison around the table, but none of them ever seemed to pierce the food. The motion repeated; lift, pause, lower, smile and repeat.

A couple near the far end of the table sat too close together, their shoulders pressed tight, unmoving. They hadn’t blinked once since Dean entered the room. He noticed because he had to. He was counting now—breaths, blinks, movements, about anything to anchor himself. 

“We are all just prisoners of our own devices.” The sentence made him turn his head back to you, and his hazel eyes swiftly shifted on your face, trying to grab at all the features he hadn’t truly seen before. The tiredness in your eyes, the slight twitch of one of your eyelids; the pain, the fear you seemed to carry around like an armor. Dean hadn’t seen deeper than your beauty when his eyes paused on you, that first night. “I wonder: what’s yours?” You added to him after a second of silence and his eyebrows furrowed.

A cold took over Dean’s body when he looked around again, truly seeing the scene in the master’s chambers. The smell hit him first—rot, sweat, sex. A reflex made him gag quietly when he saw the rotten food and fruits on the table, flies flying around like lions ready for their prey. Bottles of alcohol with moldy liquids inside, patches of white and green like decoration. But to everyone else around, nothing seemed to be out of place, like it was their usual routine. Dean had smelled death before; it had been his job to hunt all kinds of creatures; but the smell in this room was something he had never known before.

“You can’t kill this beast, Dean.” The touch of your hand on his made him recoil, like he had been burned down to his bones. Eyes glared at him, residents fixating on him like they were waiting for a miracle. “What the fuck is happening here?” The words echoed out of his mouth as he gulped, bile on the bottom of his throat. All he wanted was to bolt out of this chair, grab his bag and get the fuck out of this place. He needed to get back to Sam. He had to get back to Sam, now. The feeling of danger coursed through his veins, making his heart pump inside his chest.

His hazel eyes glared at your face and all you could do was shake your head at him, as if you could hear his thoughts. “Welcome to Hotel California.” A voice spurred from behind his back, making him shiver. It was the same voice he had heard when he arrived here, through the corridors, the voice that had woken him up during the night. Dean’s head turned slowly, eyes wide open.

The silhouette of a man rested at the doorway; one he hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting him before. A gelled hairstyle, a trimmed mustache, a three-piece suit with a tie, a cane in his left hand. and all Dean remembered was running for the door, bag in hand. When the man with the cane smiled from the doorway, the shadows behind him stretched tall and narrow, forming something almost halo-shaped—if halos were made of smoke. The cane tapped once against the floor, sharp and deliberate, like a gavel in a church that had forgotten its God.

All Dean remembered was running for the door, bag in hand. He could have taken his gun out, threatened for an explanation, demanded what was happening here. But the danger he felt was stronger at that moment, his body and brain begging him to leave the place. That’s what he did; boots stomping down as he ran down the stairs, your voice loud as you called him from the second floor. 

The staircase felt longer going down than it had going up. His boots hit more steps than he remembered climbing. He counted without meaning to: twelve, fourteen, seventeen. When he reached the bottom and glanced back for a second, there were only twelve. A door along the courtyard wall stood slightly ajar, he didn’t remember seeing it before. Inside was only darkness—not shadow, not a room but the emptiness that made a cold run down his back. He stared a second too long, and the door eased shut on its own with a soft click, like a mouth closing, eating on the darkness.

“Dean! Dean!” You cried out but he didn’t stop, not even to look above his shoulders. It didn’t matter; you didn’t matter, because all Dean wanted was to get back to Sammy. Because if he didn’t, what would his baby brother think? What would Sam ever believe, if Dean never came back without any explanation?

They had separated for a few days on a stupid fight, Dean had left for a hunt all alone. He hadn’t been able to use his phone since he got to the motel, not able to tell Sam what was going on. And if something happened to him, if Sam thought his brother just left…? Dean couldn’t deal with that. He had to get home to his brother and make sure Sam knew their fight had been nothing but stupid. He had to make sure Sam knew there was nothing more important in this world than him. That nothing could break their bond, not even death.

The force of a grab on his shoulders made Dean’s body stop in its course, a groan leaving his mouth as he turned around, his gun now glued to his hands as he lifted it up. The barrel of his gun met the forehead of the three-piece suit man that had previously been in the master’s chambers. Dean’s breathing was labored, eyes squinting as he looked at him. His thumb moved to undo the safety, index on the trigger but the man in front of the weapon only smiled; like nothing would happen. Like he was sure Dean wouldn’t do anything. “Relax,” said the man. “We are programmed to receive. You can check-out anytime you’d like, but you can never leave.” The words made bile burning in the back of the hunter’s throat, his stomach lurching. 

This couldn’t be true—this was just a nightmare from the sun hitting too hard on the back of his neck. “Shut the fuck up!” He ended up screaming, pushing the barrel of the gun harder against the other man’s forehead before he groaned, and took a few steps back. When Dean backed away, heart hammering, the man with the cane sighed softly; not annoyed, not even angry at Dean’s attitude. “Everyone arrives the same way,” he said. “Confused and still clinging.”

“Clinging to what?” Dean demanded, jaw tight. The man’s smile widened just enough to show too much gum and what seemed to be rotten teeth.

“To the idea that they were meant to leave.”

Dean only threw his bag back on his shoulders before he passed through the arch that gave on the reception room and the main entrance, leaving the man behind memories. A few steps were enough for him to leave this hell-ish nightmare but a voice made him stop. “Dean! Wait—” You appeared, eyes all wide and hands shaking. “You can’t leave.”

He scoffed at those words, not even turning his head to you. No one on this Earth could stop him from going home to his brother, to Castiel, to his life. “Watch me, because I’m sure as Hell ain’t going to die in this place.” He simply voiced back at you before his hand closed on the doorknob and he pushed the white door open. His body stopped straight when the sun in the sky met his pupils; the burning sun of California’s Mojave’s desert hitting his face.  The sunlight beyond the doorway was wrong; too bright, too flat, like a painted backdrop in an old Western.

He didn’t have time to dwell on it, the most important was to take Baby and drive far away from this place. He could see the shape of the highway, the shimmer of heat rising off asphalt, the silhouette of the Impala waiting faithful and black against the desert. Relief hit him so hard his knees nearly buckled and the air shifted, thick as syrup. The sound of cicadas cut off mid-cry. His hand brushed the doorframe as he crossed it but when his boot met the ground, it wasn’t gravel. It was cobblestone. The courtyard opened before him again, exactly as it had been with the same angle of sun, same couple turning beneath it, same laugh snagging in the air.

Dean gasped sharply, breath coming faster. The door behind him still showed desert—endless and golden and free. He could see his car, he could almost feel the steering wheel under his palms. He reached for it again, stepped through.

Cobblestone, laughter, vinyl hiss again.

It didn’t make any sense. His hazel eyes lifted up to see you, you hadn’t moved one inch but Dean was now facing you instead of giving you his back. “No—No, what the fuck? What the fuck is that?” He hissed, turning his body back to the door, passing through it one more time. He ended up coming back to his previous position, facing you. “Fuckin’ hell, let me go!” Only then, he watched as you walked closer to him, taking the same to see the expression on your face. “Dean… I told you, you can’t leave.” The hunter shook his head at the words, only realizing what they truly meant now. 

His bag hit the floor in a dull thud, his breathing fastening, pupils blown out. He felt like his body was letting go; he couldn’t feel the tip of his fingers nor his tongue in his mouth. Warmth coursed through his body, but not the summery, soft one. This warmth was burning him alive, closing around his heart and expanding in his chest like he had never sensed before. Your cold hands on his cheeks brought him back into his body. “It’s going to be alright, Dean. Everything will be alright now.” You spoke and his orbs lowered to look at the skin of your forehead, like he couldn’t meet your eyes.

“You don’t understand, I have to go back home. I have to go back to my baby brother.” He whispered at you but you only shook your head at his words. Your palms cradled his face, fingers on his cheekbones. “We are your family now, Dean. You’ll see… Time passes so differently here but you won’t even remember your brother after a few days.” The sentences coming out of your mouth made him gag, and his body curled toward yours. His head hid in your neck, hands trembling that tugged on the shawl you wore around your shoulders. He didn’t seem to cry, but his lips parted to let a gasp escape before he spoke once more.

“But I have to get back to Sammy… I have to tell him I’m sorry.”

Your expression softened with something almost like pity. “You did already,” you whispered and Dean wondered what that meant. He couldn’t remember talking to his brother all the while he had been here.

He tried to picture Sam’s face clearly. Not the way he looked two days ago, or last week, but young. Gap-toothed, too-big-for-his-body, clutching a cereal box at some motel table. The image slipped like oil between his fingers. He could see Sam’s mouth moving, hear the cadence of his voice but the words wouldn’t come. The reason for their fight felt distant, blurred at the edges.

Sammy.

That was right.

Wasn’t it?

It was on those final words that Dean heard the low and soft melody of a vinyl being played in the courtyard; the same song he had heard the day prior. The chatters of voice from the residents, the clicking of knives and forks, ice being broken inside the barman’s shaker. The sun was high in the summer sky, heat making clothes stick to sweaty skin, shoes and heels hitting the concrete as couples and people danced around. A joke or two being made, champagne being served in flute glasses. And in his ear, the softest voice of them all, murmuring words.

“Welcome to Hotel California.”

taglist: @userhotd @angeldoll1e @stargral @nekkiotine @fawnettewinchester @grimsonandclover @ravens-writing-corner @elenacarey @alexxavicry @prismozo @kathh01 @dumbbandpoetic @hisfavoriteweepingangel @bluestrd @coochiemama3000 @eepwtf @domingodeaan @jiminie-08 @stqrfirez @pervyangelz @cxlt-lamb1 @dolcefloral @heldbycas @amourflores @avasarchve @harleymuses @chronic-fangirl-222 @nerdypinupcrystal @snoopysnote @blessorte @blushhbambi @flwer555 ( to be added )

My Favs:

- perverted soldier boy thoughts

Bloggers: @bruisedfig @legalmente-loca-blog @buttercoffe @snoopysnote @lacydaydream @prettyinpeaches @ambiguous-avery @imkindaboredioi @pieandflannel @wvyik @ohangeleyes @castiwls @bejeweledinterludes @bejeweledinterludes2 @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @very-merry-birthday @angelickks