Another college girl, another bar: Dean expected it to play out as is usual. A smile, some smart talking and smooth listening. All of which Cassie did, and she seduced him without breaking a sweat. The sweating came later during the sex that night - and the following morning, and most of the nights and some afternoons for the next couple of weeks. She was certainly hot for him, which was great because the more time they spent fucking, the less time there was for conversation.
Dean knew he wasn’t over endowed with social skills. He’d spent most of his life in the company of his father and men like him. Men who spoke as if words were rationed, men who’d never use a sentence when a nod and a grunt would suffice. From John, Dean learnt the power of words – that they could exorcise demons, or cast spells on a sprite, or wound a son.
Dean grew up wary of people who sprayed words like rock salt from a shotgun. He’d copped enough stray shots from the on-going battle between Sam and their Dad to know that words could cause as much pain as any bullet or knife.
Dean trained with words the way he did with any weapon. He practiced with them so he wouldn’t hurt anyone accidentally and only used them when necessary. His Latin was adequate for an exorcism; although his pronunciation was so bad his rituals often manifested frogs or newts as well as banishing the demon. Dean could get information from people, but he knew he was pretty hopeless at lying. He certainly had a way with the ladies, but even Dean would admit that when you were as attractive he was all you really needed was a smile, a wink and a few witty one-liners.
But he wasn’t proficient in their use. He hadn’t known which words to choose or how to wield them to make Sam stay. Sam was like some superhero who could deflect any words Dean or John could fire at him.
Conversation was certainly the area in which Dean was least expert. How could it be any different when he hardly ever met anyone more than once? Most of Dean’s encounters with people – both sexual and social – were one-offs. (Except for Sammy and the most important things he ever communicated with Sam were not done with words but with touch).
What he discovered with Cassie was that sex with the same woman on numerous occasions was fantastic. To discover what got her to moan just that way (three fingers curled inside her as he licked her clit), to do the things most people don’t do on a first meeting (fart without embarrassment), to let her to do new things to him (her tongue rimming around his ass)…
But the opposite was true with talking. Dean’s conversations with girls were usually limited by time, excessive alcohol consumption, and the discomfort of chatting when you’ve just had sex in an alley, the backseat of the Impala, or a bedroom where her parents were asleep down the hall. With Cassie there was ample time, opportunity and even motive for conversation. Because Dean liked her. He liked listening to her and looking at her and smelling her and tasting her and thinking about her. He just didn’t like talking to her, because that meant struggling and lying.
And more than anything Dean found that he wanted Cassie to like him. Not just the good-looking guy who’d spun her some line, but him - Dean Winchester. Dean Winchester whose mother had been burnt to death when he was four, who didn’t have anywhere to call home, who spent most of his time trying to please a man who couldn’t be pleased, and who had a fierce love for a brother who wouldn’t speak to him. Oh yeah - and who hunted things most people didn’t even believe existed.
It didn’t go well. Dean picked out some words and arranged them carefully, but they just made Cassie angry. What Dean had thought was a few simple sentences had the effect of a dirty bomb – destroying what good things Dean and Cassie felt for each other while leaving their physical structures intact.
He wasn’t quite sure where he’d gone wrong, but it was probably a mistake to have started with the supernatural bit. For a while afterwards, Dean stopped using words altogether. His father didn’t seem to notice, and he didn’t even have a phone number for Sam anymore. The only words he trusted were the words about life’s dark side and booze and bad women that came from the tape machine in his car.