l i k e . g o l d . t o . a i r y . t h i n n e s s . b e a t

Like Gold to Airy Thinness Beat
[by victoria p.]

Rating: Adult

Summary: "Layla Rourke, are you flirting with me?" "If you have to ask, maybe you're not as bright as I thought."

Spoilers: for "Faith"

Notes: Thanks to luzdeestrellas for the beta and Mousapelli for the handholding. All remaining errors are mine. Title from John Donne.

Word count: 3,185 words

Date: March 19, 2007

He doesn't plan it. That seems important to him, that it's Sam's idea. Or that he makes Sam say it out loud, anyway, because it's not like he hasn't been thinking it since they crossed the state line. God, he hopes Sam can't read minds now, in addition to the visions, because that would suck out loud.

They're somewhere west of Lincoln when Sam says, "Hey, why don't we give Layla a call, see how she's doing?"

He glances over, keeps his face neutral. "I don't have her number."

Sam looks skeptical. "You left town without the number of a beautiful girl? You must be losing your touch."

Dean remembers saying goodbye to her in the motel room, remembers offering to pray for her, though he doesn't believe. Remembers actually doing it for a while, penance maybe, for getting the life that was going to be hers. He knows all the words, the rituals, though he tries not to think about how they work and when they don't, why the Rituale Romanum will cast out demons, but no amount of Hail Marys will make Layla's tumor disappear.

"It's not the same thing."

Sam is wise enough to leave that alone. Instead, he says, "Doesn't matter. I've got it." And he's dialing before Dean can say anything else.

Dean's done a lot of scary things in his life, a lot of crazy things, but taking that phone from Sam is one of the scariest. He doesn't want to think about what he'll say if she's already gone, and his mouth is dry when someone on the other end of the line says, "Hello?"

"Layla?" It comes out rough, hoarse.

"This is she."

"Hi. Um, it's Dean. We met a few months back--"

"I remember," she says, and he can hear laughter in her voice. He's not sure he'd be able to laugh in her situation, be able to forgive him for taking away her chance to get healed. "Hi, Dean."

"We--Sam and I--are in the area, and I was wondering if, um--" None of the things he usually says to women are going to work here, and Sam stares at him incredulously as he stutters and stumbles his way through the conversation. "I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner with me tonight."

"I would love to," she says, no hesitation at all, just pleased surprise in her voice.

"I'll pick you up at seven," he says, and hangs up after she agrees and gives him directions.

He thwaps the back of Sam's head because Sam is beaming at him proudly, and he feels like an idiot.

He forces himself not to fiddle with the cuffs of his shirt, and God, what was he thinking, letting Sam pick a place that requires a jacket and tie? He feels like he's wearing a disguise, when, for once, he'd like to be honest.

He takes a deep breath and rings the doorbell. Much as he'd rather not see her mother again (and he's sure her mother doesn't want to see him), Layla's not the kind of woman he can sit in the car and honk for--she deserves more respect and consideration than that.

The door swings open and she's there, slim and pale and cool even in the August heat, her smile wide and genuine.

"It's good to see you," she says, and presses a kiss to his cheek. Her hair tickles his nose and her skin smells of Jergen's cherry almond lotion. He closes his eyes and breathes her in for one quick moment.

"You look great," he says, and it's the truth. She's too thin, and her skin is so fair he's afraid she'll burn even in the early evening sun, but she doesn't seem to be in any pain.

He offers his arm and she takes it with a light laugh. "Thank you."

Once they're on the road, he says, "How are you doing?"

She folds her hands in her lap, restful, smiles at him. "I'm doing all right, Dean. And how are you?"

"Good," he says, and he means it. "Things are good."

"So what brings you back to town?"

He glances over at her--her head is cocked curiously and she looks genuinely interested in what he has to say. He's used to women (and sometimes, men) being interested in him, but it's not generally because of what he has to say, at least, not when he's not on the job.

"Just passing through, on the way to Casper for business."

"Are you ever going to tell me about this mysterious business of yours? Or should I just go on imagining things?"

"You imagine things about me?" he asks, flashing a grin at her.

"Maybe," she answers with a small, secret grin of her own. "You'd be amazed at what I imagine."

"I don't know. I've got a pretty active imagination myself."

She laughs. "I bet you do."

"Layla Rourke, are you flirting with me?" he asks, surprised and pleased, the urge to be gentle with her even stronger than he expected.

"If you have to ask, maybe you're not as bright as I thought."

He laughs, and maybe she's right, because he hadn't thought--well, no, okay, to be honest, he had thought, because he's a guy and he's got eyes, but then he'd thought again, thought better of it, because Layla is different, and not just because she's dying. Her courage, her faith--he doesn't believe, but he can respect that she does, and it makes him want to be different, too, not the way Sam wants to be different, not normal, but better. Someone who doesn't run credit card scams and hustle pool for cash, someone who could give her a future, or at least make what time she's got left good. Someone who doesn't feel like he's playing dress up as he pulls into the parking lot of the French restaurant Sam picked out of the local guidebook in their motel room.

"Look," he says, "I'm not--" He gestures at the restaurant, at the jacket and tie he's wearing. "This isn't me. This is not my thing."

She bows her head for a moment, and when she looks up, she's grinning mischievously. "Then why don't we do your thing, Dean?"

There's an invitation in the words, and he's not sure he's ready to deal with that, but the idea of blowing off this place for the bar down the road has appeal, even if it's not the kind of place he can imagine her liking.

He gives it one last shot. "I wanted to take you someplace nice."

She gestures towards the restaurant. "I can come here any time, Dean. I live here, after all. But how often will I get to see you do your thing?"

"Well, all right then," he says, backing out of the parking lot and heading towards the bar down the road. "But I have to warn you, women have been known to swoon over my thing."

"I'll try to contain myself," she answers, not bothering to hide her laugh, which sounds like light, and makes him feel warm all over.

After he parks in the small lot behind the bar, he pulls off the tie, strips off the jacket, and leaves them both draped over the seatback. Rolls up the sleeves of his no-longer-crisp white shirt, and grins at her.

She grins back, and it's just a little wild round the edges, a good girl having a night out with a bad boy, and he wishes he could give her more than that. Decides he's going to give her as good a time as he can while staying out of trouble.

She turns heads--she would even if she wasn't overdressed for the joint, but she stands out in her pale green linen dress, the shiny clips in her hair sparkling even in the low light--and he wonders if maybe he's going to end up in a fight anyway.

He heads towards the bar, but she touches his elbow, fingers warm against his skin, and gestures at the pool table. "Play with me."

He raises an eyebrow, startled again by the invitation, not sure if she really means it the way he's hearing it, or if he's just spent too much time with women who'll never be anything more to him than an invitation to a good time and then a painless goodbye. Before he can say anything, though, she's walking to the pool table, pulling a cue off the wall.

"Show me," she says, turning back to him, and he's never been one to disappoint a lady.

He fits himself against her as she bends to take the break, his hands over hers on the cue. She's warm and soft, even if she is too thin, and he's distracted by the scent of her skin, the way her hair tickles his nose, and he has to force himself to concentrate on the game at hand.

He plays just badly enough to keep her in the game, so he can help her out on her turns, enjoying the way she feels in his arms, the way she wiggles back against him in celebration when she makes a shot. He's pretty sure she's enjoying it, too, or she wouldn't keep doing it.

After two games, and three rounds of beer, she says, "Okay, let me try it on my own," and breaks like she's been doing it for years. She sinks three stripes before she scratches and turns the table over to him.

"Okay, I see what's going on here," he says, laughing. "I'm being hustled by a pro."

She giggles. "That's what you get for letting me win."

"Just trying to be gentlemanly," he answers, inclining his head and raising his pint in salute.

She steps close, right into his space, and raises her chin. "I'm not going to say being gentlemanly won't get you anywhere," she says, "but sometimes it's like taking the scenic route when you should be taking the short cut." She cups his cheek, and he lets her draw him down into a kiss.

Her mouth is warm and tastes of beer and hope, and when he pulls away, her eyes are sparkling with laughter.

"Let's get out of here," she says, and there's no mistaking that, but he needs to be sure.

"Layla--"

"I don't have time to wait around, Dean." She's so matter-of-fact about it, and that makes him feel worse. "The past few months, I've learned to ask for what I want while I can still have it."

"And what do you want?" His voice is low and hoarse, no teasing now.

She looks up at him and smiles, small hands playing with the buttons on his shirt. "You. Tonight."

He nods, leans in to kiss her again softly, a promise of things to come. "Okay."

There's nowhere for them to go--Sam's in the motel room and Layla's mother's home--so he takes her out to the car, and she tells him where she used to go parking as a teenager, out behind the football field on the south side of town.

"Like being a teenager again," he murmurs into her neck as she settles into his lap.

"I bet the girls loved this car," she answers with a laugh that shivers across his skin, and a roll of her hips that makes him ache.

He grins in response. "You'd be right." He reaches around for the zipper to her dress, but she just grabs the hem and pulls the dress over her head, tossing it onto the seat next to them. She's wearing lacy, pretty underwear, and her skin is flushed pale pink in the moonlight. "God, you're beautiful," he whispers, mouthing the fluttering pulse at the base of her throat, hands coming up to cup her breasts.

She traces a hand over his face. "So are you."

He goes slow, takes his time, watches her gasp when he slides his fingers between her legs and rubs at her clit. He presses two fingers inside her slick heat and she grinds down, fucking herself on his hand, eyes closed and lower lip caught between her teeth, the long line of her back an elegant curve of desire and then satisfaction as she comes with a gasp, stuttering his name.

She's still riding out the aftershocks when he pushes inside her, closing his eyes at the sensation of being surrounded by tight, wet heat. She feels so tiny in his hands, splayed across the strong, delicate bones of her back, her skin warm and soft under the pads of his fingers.

"I'm not going to break," she whispers, teeth closing sharply on his earlobe before she licks away the sting. "The tumor's in my brain, not my--"

He cuts her off with a startled kiss, laughing into her mouth. She increases her pace and he reaches down between them to circle at her clit until she comes apart again, body clenching around him and pulling his own orgasm out of him, pleasure unraveling sharp and fast, like a knot that's been cut. Her mouth is hot and wet against his neck, and the brush of her hair against his skin makes him shiver when he comes back to himself.

He's reluctant to let her go, knowing he probably won't get to see her again, and maybe just a little bit in love with her courage, her sense of humor, and yeah, okay, the really hot package it all comes in.

"We could stay a couple days," he says, tucking her hair behind her ear.

She shakes her head. "I don't need your pity."

"Good, because I wasn't offering any. I just--I don't know when we'll be back this way, and our job--"

"Which you never did tell me about."

"I'm just saying--"

"I know, Dean. It's okay. I know. I wasn't looking for--"

It's his turn to say, "I know." He presses what he means to be a quick kiss to her lips, but she opens to him, slides her tongue along his in another invitation he can't resist. "I didn't mean--I just wish things could be different." He's not sure he's ever said those words before, certainly never to a woman. And if he has, he's certainly never meant them the way he does now.

"It is what it is," she says, wrapping one hand around the nape of his neck, fingers stroking through his hair, and giving him another, softer, kiss. "I've learned to accept that and not look for things to be what they aren't."

He nods, because he's lived most of his life that way--easier like that, and more honest. He's going to say something profound--he's sure of it--when his stomach growls loudly, and she dissolves into giggles, and he starts laughing too.

"I did offer you dinner," he says when he can speak again.

She's still shaking a little, eyes bright with tears. "Denny's is open all night."

"Okay, then. I could totally eat a grand slam right now." She starts giggling again, curls up on the seat into a little ball of laughter, and he says, "What? I could."

"Me, too," she chokes out, wiping away tears, and he thinks he's never seen anything more beautiful.

After they eat, she takes him to the creek outside of town, running nearly dry in the August heat, and they sit with their feet in the water and talk, waiting for the sun to rise.

She tells him funny stories about her treatment, about doctors and hospitals, her voice clear and soft in the waning darkness, and he has to fight through the lump in his throat to respond with stories about Sam as a kid, about learning to drive, learning to hunt. He skirts the edges of what they do, and he can tell she knows there's stuff he's holding back, but she doesn't push and he doesn't share. He's already taken away her second chance; he doesn't want to take whatever innocence she's got left, now that there's no need for her to know.

The sun is over the horizon when he pulls up in front of her house.

"You don't have to--" she starts when he walks her up the steps.

"I admit, your mother scares me, but never let it be said Dean Winchester is a coward. And also, hopefully, she's still asleep."

Layla laughs again, puts a hand to her stomach like she's sore from laughing, and that makes him feel kind of awesome, because he knows she had a good time, and not just during the admittedly excellent sex.

"Winchester, huh?"

"Like the rifle."

"Yeah." She opens the screen door and then stops, turns around and kisses him again, hard and desperate and full of all the things they didn't say, about life and death and second chances, about maybe and someday and never, all the things he can't give her and all the things she'll never get to have.

"Goodbye, Layla," he says, kissing her forehead.

Her hand on his cheek is a blessing, a benediction. "Goodbye, Dean."

She stands at the door and waves as he drives away, and he watches her in the rearview mirror as long as he can.

Sam's sitting at the computer when Dean gets back to the room. He raises his eyebrows and asks, "How was the restaurant?"

Dean laughs. "I don't know. We went to the bar instead, and, uh, kind of ended up at Denny's after she hustled me at pool."

"She hustled you?" Sam stares at him in disbelief. "And you took her to Denny's?"

"It was a memorable evening, Sammy, and I didn't even have to eat anything French. Except fries. Which don't count."

"Of course they don't. Did she really hustle you at pool?"

Dean laughs again, and it feels good, even if his chest is still tight and achy. "A gentleman never tells."

Sam snorts. "You're no gentleman."

"I was last night," Dean says; he can't keep the wistfulness out of his voice, and of course, Sam hears it, gets that look on his face he wears sometimes when he thinks Dean isn't watching, when he's probably thinking about Jess or school or all the normal things he's left behind.

"Oh."

"Yeah." Dean scrubs a hand over his eyes, sleepy now. "I'm glad you kept her number," he finally says, the closest he can come to saying, thank you, without actually saying it.

Sam smiles at him, and Dean hopes he's not going to bust out with some crap about feelings, but he just says, "Me, too," and flicks a spitball in Dean's direction.

Dean bats it down easily and says, "I'm gonna nap." He strips and tosses his clothes over the back of the armchair next to his bed, then crawls under the covers, yawning. "Wake me before checkout." He can still smell Layla on his skin, doesn't want to wash her away just yet, and he falls asleep remembering the sound of her laughter.

end

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