((Scene contains adult situations. If this offends, please don't read.)) ______________________

There are few things better than a hot meal, a comfortable bed, and good company, unless somehow you managed to combine them all. In the aftermath of the Wichita hunt, the hunters had slept almost a full twenty-four hours away, eaten more than was healthy, and chosen to skip to another motel further along the road before burning their filthy clothing and trying to get back into the stride they'd found before plunging in at the deep end.

"Hold still," Nim laughed softly, giving up on trying to lean over Dean in favor of straddling herself across his thighs to try and keep him from fidgeting under her ministrations. All she wanted to do was check the little gash on his cheekbone; pinning him to the bed had not occurred to her as necessary just for that.

It was amazing what a hot shower, a decent meal, a good night's sleep, and the company of a beautiful woman could do for one's mood. Despite the minor cuts and bruises, Dean felt halfway human again, the melancholy mood passing, at least for now, returning to his usual lovable, snarky self. He winced when her fingers brushed the cut on his cheek, but it didn't last, quickly turning to a crooked grin when she asserted herself in a straddle across his thighs. "You sure you wanna play nurse or would you rather talk about the first thing that pops up?"

Her own irritations with him, the anger at being cuffed and left, these had been pushed aside. Nim was happier to fall back into the easy teasing back and forth than she was to pursue the conversation that was looming over them. A little light-hearted fun was infinitely preferable to plunging into the motivations that drove them both. Giggling, she rolled her eyes at him as he grinned at her. "Swear to God, you're worse than me," she accused him fondly.

"Oh, yeah?" he asked, looking up at her, watching while she poked and prodded at a silly cut that didn't need stitches and would be nothing but a memory in a week or so. "Worse in what way' I kinda got the feeling that we're pretty evenly matched." More evenly matched than anyone he'd ever met before, he thought. Like two peas in a pod. Yin and yang. Opposites but the same.

"Well ..." Her smile settled into a teasing smirk as she brushed the tip of her nose to his, the pad of her thumb stroking very gently below the cut on his cheek as her palm found that familiar curl against his jaw. "If we're that evenly matched, maybe I should insist on having hour long showers all by myself as often as possible. Reckon that's fair?" Her lips parted in a wide grin as dark eyes twinkled at him.

He chuckled as she called him on that one. Guilty as charged. "They wouldn't be hour long showers all by myself if someone offered to wash my back now and then," he countered, his eyes moving over her scantily-clad self. Now that the more pressing needs of the flesh had been assuaged, there was only one thing left to take care of, and it wasn't a cheeseburger with extra onions. He slid a hand up under her t-shirt, fingers curling against her soft, warm flesh.

She laughed back at him as he countered her tease, her back arching easily to press the gentle yield of her scarred side into his touch, utterly fearless of letting him see and feel the ugly marring of her flesh where she'd been so ashamed of it before. "You threw me out of the bathroom when I tried that!" was her giggling defense as the arch of her back pressed her closer to him, stroking with intimate friction as her own hands smoothed down over his chest, caressing possessively through his t-shirt.

"You were hogging all the hot water!" he argued in defense. There were three things you just didn't part Dean from and one of them was a hot shower. The other two were a double bacon cheeseburger with extra onion and a cold beer. Rule Number One: You don't come between Dean and a hot shower. His fingers slid over the scars that marred her side, tracing the jagged edges up over her ribs. He knew only too well the pain that accompanied such scars and though others might find them ugly, the marks only endeared her to him further. His hand slid around to her back, drawing her downward, mouth hungry to taste hers.

He smothered her laughing grin with that hunger, earning himself a soft, throbbing moan for the brush of his fingers against the sensitive curve at the hollow of her back. Her mouth met his with almost the same hunger, the same need to taste and claim and reaffirm the playful heat they seemed to excel at drawing from one another. She leaned closer forward, teetering on the edge of knocking him onto his back even as her own hand slid up beneath his shirt, inching high enough to begin drawing the fabric away from his flesh as the other hand trailed tender fingertips against his jaw.

He groaned against her lips, all the pent-up emotions of the last few days unravelling in that one heated kiss. Yes, they had issues to work out, they had growing pains to sort out, but this - this connection between them - was better than it had been with anyone he'd ever been with before. He lingered against her lips, his mouth demanding her sweet surrender, parting only for as long as it took to tug the t-shirt over his head and shoulders. He wanted her and he wasn't going to take no for an answer.

Strange how he demanded what she gave so easily, the urgency eliciting that wonderful white-hot frisson that rippled through her to earth deep inside, spreading eager desire further until she fairly thrummed with need for him. Forced to take her hands from him, she pouted playfully as he stripped the t-shirt over his head, her hands swiftly returning to pull impatiently at the t-shirt that kept her skin from his touch.

This was more than just a satiation of physical need, more than an affirmation of affection; this was a stark, powerful reminder that she was still alive, still his, that the darkness hadn't won out over what gave her reason and drive to continue on. As demanding as him, she tucked her fingers into the hem of her shirt, the arch of her back deepening as she dragged the cloth from her body, tossing it blindly aside as her lips crashed back to his.

He tossed his own t-shirt carelessly aside to join hers on the floor or wherever it happened to land, eyes moving over her, admiring the view, the soft curves of her body that fitted against the hard planes of his so well, like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He wasn't one for talking at such a time like this. No words were necessary. Everything that needed to be said was right there on his face and in his eyes - love, lust, desire, need.

Like him, she didn't need words, not when eyes and lips and hands could share so much more without them. He knew her so well, better than thought she knew herself, always knowing where and how and when to touch her, always drawing more from her than she thought she could give. She felt fragile in his arms, the gentleness with which he caressed her always bringing her moans more loudly from her lips than she might have thought possible. "Oh God ..." As he took to tasting her, she purred from deep inside, her fingers curled tight into his hair as her head fell back. "Dean ....please ..."

He wasn't quite sure what she was pleading with him for - more attention, less" Did she want him to just take her? Oh, how he was tempted, how he wanted to just have his way with her. How he wanted a release to the agonizing tension that was throbbing deep inside him, but he knew it would be so much sweeter, so much more satisifying to take his time, to draw it out, to make her wait for it, plead for it, beg for it.

After a moment, his mouth moved away to leave a trail of feather-light kisses against her neck until he reached her ear. "Tell me what you want, Nimue." He used her full name, accepting the name Brian had chosen for her, no longer the girl he'd pined for and lost named Jo, but Nimue - the woman who loved him.

"How'd you know that?" he asked, brows arched in puzzlement, his face wet with tears. He drew a shaky breath, tears spilling over onto his cheeks. "I told you I'd see you soon, and you said..." His eyes widened when she filled in the blanks of his story. He hadn't actually promised her anything, not so much with words as with implied intention. "You wanted me to go on without you, but..." He swallowed, taking another slow breath before continuing, his voice full of emotion. "I don't know how to explain it, but....something inside me died that day."

"I ....I don't know," she admitted quietly. "I just do. The words are there, in my mind, but I didn't know where they came from. Not until just now." Dark eyes that had seen more than the mind behind them could recall or properly comprehend bore into his, silent and thoughtful, letting him speak as even this little hint toward the reason for his overprotective habits made things clearer. "You're scared if you let that piece of yourself live again, it'll be for nothing. That as soon as you connect the dots, I'll be gone again."

He wasn't sure why he was surprised by her remembering something she thought she'd forgotten, but it seemed there were still a few memories left inside her, even if she didn't consciously realize it. Memories that gave her nightmares, memories that stirred feelings she didn't understand, feelings for him. "I said I'd see you on the other side, sooner or later. You told me 'Make it later', but I didn't want to make it later. I would have traded my life for yours. It should have been me. I wanted it to be me."

That last part came out quieter, barely a whisper. He'd been filled with the utmost despair when she'd died, his heart breaking like glass shattering into a million pieces, the pain and grief of it too much to bear. For a long time, he'd felt dead inside. He wiped a hand across his face to wipe away the tears, but they came anyway, as if to mock him.

He listened as she reasoned it out, perhaps understanding better than he did himself. "I can't lose you again," he admitted again, confirming her theory.

"And you won't. Not unless you try something as inanely foolish as your little act of heroic stupidity in Wichita again, anyway."

The voice was rich, cultured, close by, and not belonging to either of them. Nim jumped violently, shocked that anything had managed to get into the room while they were both so vulnerable. In an instant, the warm tenderness she had been sharing with Dean was cast aside in favor of scrambling for a weapon, any weapon, as the owner of that voice stepped out of the bathroom. Tall, blonde, beautiful in an undeniably imperious way, their visitor looked them over with glittering silver eyes. Inhuman eyes.

Dean's initial reaction was the same as Nim's, years of instinct and of being constantly battle-ready kicking in. The confessions and tears came to an instant halt, his whole demeanor changing, hardening. Like throwing the switch on a light, he changed from vulnerable lover to seasoned soldier in the blink of an eye, snatching up the Berretta that was placed within easy reach on the nightstand, flicking off the safety, and levelling it at their intruder.

Her beauty was dazzling, but not dazzling enough to distract him from the fact that she didn't belong here in their bedroom interrupting a romantic interlude. She didn't belong here at all. At first glance, his instincts told him demon, but there was something about her that told him otherwise. This was something different.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded, ignoring her reprimand, which he thought was none of her damned business.

The visitor didn't even bat an eyelid on finding herself the target of two guns, a smug little smirk touching her lips as she walked around the bed. Those inhuman eyes raked over both hunters - admittedly more over Dean than Nim. "Oh yes," she purred wickedly, smoothing her hands over her hips. "I don't agree with Papa Smurf often, but he definitely had the right idea when it came to you, Dean."

Nim's eyes narrowed with deadly dislike where she knelt on the bed. Keeping the female intruder in her sights, she reached over and threw a handful of blanket into Dean's lap. "Answer the damned question."

The silver eyes turned to the female hunter, the heated interest in their depths not even flickering. "And I was right about you, precious, wasn't I" You know, I could wipe that nasty scar of yours away, and then you'd be perfect." She let out a snort of laughter. "Oh, what am I saying" I'm perfect. You'd be almost perfect."

Dean didn't so much as flinch, the Berretta tracking their intruder as she walked around the bed. He wasn't quite sure who she was or what she was talking about, but he didn't take kindly to unwelcome and uninvited guests, especially when he was in the middle of a moment. "Look, I don't know who you are or what you want, but I suggest you answer the question."

There was a clue or two dropped there by her when she spoke, but he wasn't quite sure who she was referring to when she mentioned Papa Smurf. Was she talking about his father, her father, God" Under other circumstances, he might have found Nim's haste to cover what was for her eyes only funny, but at the moment, it was the least of his worries. He was comfortable enough in his own skin to be able to fight clothed or unclothed. It wasn't much of a distraction.

His eyes narrowed when the woman - for lack of a better word, since he didn't really know what she was yet - turned her attention toward Nim. "She is perfect," he contradicted. "Scars are what make us human." He paused, seeing if their unexpected visitor took the bait. He was proud of his scars, each one hard-earned, even the one on his shoulder. There was a story behind each of them and he wore them with pride, like a medal from a battle, hard-fought and hard-won.

"Oh, and I'm all about humanity, Dean," the cool blonde assured him with a self-satisfied tug to her smirk. "Believe me, the world just wouldn't be as much fun without humanity and all the little flaws that come with it." She stopped moving finally, laying her hands on her curvacious hips as she faced them down. "You can call me ....Dione. Yes, that's suitable."

Nim's gaze flickered between Dean and this Dione, on edge, wary, truly not sure what it was that was happening here. Like Dean, she was comfortable enough in her skin not to care that she was naked, but she didn't want this ....being ....eyeing him up like a treat in a candy store. What was more unsettling, however, was how supremely unmoved this Dione was in the face of danger, which suggested that guns - or at least, their guns - would have no effect anyway. The commentary on scars went over her head, her attention focused on trying to remember if she'd seen or read anything about silver eyes.

Dean had never seen anything with silver eyes before, but white eyes - those had belonged to Lilith, the very first demon, the first of Lucifer's chosen pets. He had a feeling, however, whether it was instinct or second sense, that what had just appeared in the motel room with them was something entirely different. He just had to figure out what. The name was another clue, familiar, but not familiar enough. Sam would have known, but Sam wasn't here. Dean searched his memory. There was something there, but he couldn't quite place it. He got the feeling whatever she was, she was old. Very old. Ancient.

"What do you want?" he asked, cutting to the quick.

There was no other word for it but lust, though had it been with any other woman, he might have tried harder to resist. He'd never been very good at resisting the urges and temptations of the flesh, whether it be food, drink, or sex, and while he didn't want to be some immortal's plaything, once he touched Nimue, all bets were off. His mouth plundered hers, taking what he needed and wanted with ruthless passion. Her legs spread in invitation, and he wasted no time filling her aching emptiness, groaning against her lips as he buried himself deeply in her heavenly warmth.

There was no finesse, no tenderness, no warmth of love between them in these moments. Dione had ignited the most basic of primal urges, and the hunters were fully on board with sating that need sooner rather than later. Feral sounds clashed with the pounding of body to body, the twisting, ruthless coil of painful desire so primed in both that it was barely a few minutes before it suddenly snapped. Nim arched with brutal precision beneath Dean, her mouth ripped from his as a wild scream left her lips, the sound so far removed from any that had escaped her before as to be something else entirely.

There was no scream from him that accompanied that eventual burst of heated passion. He held nothing back, the violence of their coupling unlike anything he'd ever felt before, taking what he needed and wanted from her with very little concern for her own desires. The scream that was torn from her lips made him shudder, even as his own body tensed and jerked with unbridled lust and eventual relief, leaving him spent and aching and exhausted. He collapsed against her with a groan, gasping to catch his breath, glistening with sweat, like he'd just run a marathon.

As coherency rushed back to claim her mind, Nim slowly became aware that she was lying with her head and shoulders hanging off the edge of the bed, her hair pooled against the carpet. Her skin was slick, cooling in the aftermath of that violent release, her arms loosening from a merciless grasp around Dean where he lay over her. Gasping for breath, she stared at the wall, feeling her limbs trembling in the wake of that relentless desire. What the hell was that"

It took a moment or two before his own sanity returned and he realized that in his lustful haste, she had somehow ended up dangling from the bed. A painful groan was ripped from his throat, against his will, as he pulled her back onto the bed, every muscle aching, including the one that was still buried deep inside her. He felt a flush of uncharacteristic embarrassment at the realization of what he'd just done, of how he'd lost all control in the wake of that primal and uncontrollable lust, worried he might have hurt her.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered, his personal choice of words whenever confronted by a situation that confounded, confused, or just plain pissed him off. His father had threatened to wash his mouth out with soap the first time he used it. He'd only been thirteen at the time, but it had quickly become his favorite little all-occasion, catch-all expletive. His expression quickly changed, mercurial as his moods, from angry to embarrassed to concerned all in a matter of seconds. "God, I'm sorry, Nim..."

The blood rushed from her head as he pulled her back to a level position, unable to fully stifle the only slightly pained moan that rose with that jostling of bodies. The ache that had demanded sating had been replaced with another, far more normal ache, one that would fade naturally over the next few hours. "Oh God, don't be sorry," she heard herself insist, lifting her head to meet his eyes as she caught her breath, one elbow propping her up as her palm stroked to his cheek. "I wanted that as much as you did. Whatever it was." A vaguely worrying thought declared itself, one she had to share. "Seriously, don't worry about this. She might come back and do it again."

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, his first concern for her safety and well-being as always, searching her eyes, his own eyes displaying that almost painful need to protect her that Dione had warned him about. But what was the point of loving someone if you couldn't protect them and keep them safe"

He touched her cheek, tenderly this time now that the lustful urgency had been satiated, fading to a dull ache that felt more normal. "I love you," he found himself whispering, not because of any immortal's spell that had been cast upon him, but because in that moment, he knew with all his heart and soul that the words were too true to deny any longer and he needed to share them or he felt his heart would burst.

She shook her head at his concerned query, a faint glimmer of a smile touching her eyes under his searching gaze. "No, you made it better," she promised him firmly, only to feel her mouth fall open as he said the three words she had never expected or asked him for.

I love you. Something she had felt certain Dean Winchester didn't dare say, in case in that instant the one he loved was snatched away. Nim felt her eyes fill, startled into tender tears by the unexpected confession. "I know," she whispered back to him, her palm caressing his cheek as she spoke. "I love you."

He couldn't help but notice the tears that filled her eyes, filled with a sense of wonder that her tears might be because of him. Had anyone ever shed a tear for him before" He wasn't really sure. Sam maybe, but Sam was his brother, his own flesh and blood. This connection he felt with Nimue was different than anything he'd ever felt before, and he somehow knew it wasn't just a spell some immortal had set upon his soul. It went far too deep for that. "Don't cry," he whispered, pulling her into his arms, his voice uncharacteristically soft and tender. He'd never been very good at comforting, or so he thought, and wasn't quite sure how to do it, but at that moment, the passion turning to affection, he only wanted to hold her close and keep her forever safe in his embrace.

"They're good tears," she heard herself promise through the catch in her throat, not even considering resisting as she curled into his arms. No, Dean wasn't the first person you would think of to comfort you, but he was always going to be her first port of call, no matter the situation. And what a strange situation this was. Barely minutes after releasing themselves from one of the weirdest spells she'd ever experienced, Nim could feel herself close to tears, simply because of three small words. "God, I'm such a girl sometimes," she laughed softly, wrapping her arms around his back as her lips touched his shoulder.

He smiled, her laughter like music to his ears, warming his heart and soothing the worries from his mind, at least, for a moment. "You say that as if it's a bad thing." To him, it was a very good thing, though had she been a man, things might have been easier - they could be partners without feelings getting in the way so much. "You know, it's funny....Back home, we could never seem to get it together. You wanted me, and then I wanted you, but the timing was always wrong. And then..." He frowned a little as he circled back to the subject of conversation before they'd been so rudely interrupted. "Then it was too late."

She gave him a gentle push, rolling until he was the one on his back, until she was leaning over him almost exactly as she had been before they were so rudely interrupted by their unwelcome visitor. Her fingertips stroked against the charm tattooed on his chest as she gently nuzzled her lips to his. "How many second chances do you get in a lifetime, Dean?"

He moved with her, finding himself on his back, looking up into a face he'd never thought he'd ever see again in a million years, and he lifted a hand to trace her cheek as her lips met his, softly returning her kiss. "I don't know, I've had a few. I've died so many times, I've lost count, but....I never thought I'd ever see you again."

"Well ..." She couldn't help the faintly cheeky grin that flickered on her face. As deep as this conversation could be, Nim didn't want to descend into the pain of that memory for him again. "I think we can safely say you're seeing a lot more of me this time around, don't you?"

The smile returned and his eyes wandered over her as if to confirm her statement. "A lot more and I have to say, I'm not disappointed. Even better than I imagined." He tucked her hair behind an ear as his gaze returned to her face. He'd seen the bruises and the burns and the scars - especially the scars - but like he'd told Dione, it was all part of what made them human.