Supernatural Imitation of Love: A Valentine's Day Story

"_Love is as much of an object as an obsession, everybody wants it, everybody seeks it, but few ever achieve it, those who do, will cherish it, be lost in it, and among all, will never...never forget it.__" _\- Curtis Judalet

Imitation of Love – A Valentine's Day Story

Chapter One – Probability and Statistics

Statistically it's the one night of the year with the highest probability of success. A time when a few simple choices align with the cosmos to make the most average of guys lucky enough to hit the jackpot. A night possessed with enough supernatural mojo to move the proceedings beyond the 'friends' stage.

Most men embrace the prospect, rejoicing in the odds. The problem for a man such as Dean Winchester comes from not having the time to lay the proper foundation. As a hunter he was all too aware that preparation was crucial for success; but also, as a hunter, Dean never had time for the slow approach: the first date, followed by the second and then the third. For the natural progression from movies and popcorn to romantic walks on the beach under starry, starry skies, before enjoying the comfort and familiarity of pizza and Jenga on a night in with her friends, and then finally, after carefully orchestrating the leap, reaping the rewards of a candlelight dinner complete with soft music and fine wine which would inevitably lead to more intimate encounters.

A hunter's life didn't allow for slow starts and easy transitions. For the anticipation to steadily build, the warmth spreading out and embracing new lovers with that fluttery feeling of contentment and hope before easing into the satisfying realization that it was finally happening, just as it should.

To know it was right…_perfect_. Destiny at last offering her blessing and smoothing the way. Two people who truly cared taking that final step where they became one. Romantic and schmaltzy enough to make even the most hardened of cynics a believer in that elusive rarity referred to in poems and Hallmark cards as 'true love'. Everything Dean Winchester publicly scoffed at but secretly longed for. The way love went in the movies and, in those rare and special occasions, real life…for the lucky few, those fortunate enough to be blessed in love.

How it would never be in his life.

Normally, it wasn't a problem. He told himself he didn't mind missing the preliminaries and heading straight to the big finale. That _was _the entire point, right? Home plate, the ultimate payoff, the bells and whistles and all that jazz…the total rapture of the moment. That blissful release when the tremble of his body's pleasure would slay any lingering doubts and again bury the pain, locked deep behind his confident smirk.

He was Dean Friggin' Winchester for godsakes! Good at what he did, at the top of his game, a competitor ready to engage in whatever battle might present itself.

As a man eager for the next new challenge, he came alive when pressed to perform, whether it was the back poolroom of a sleazy no-name bar, out in the field hunting down some fearsome creature, or in the bed of a willing girl. _No difference_…. He was a young man in his prime, commanding center stage even though he hated being singled out in the spotlight. He was accomplished and sure, and he took satisfaction in his skill.

He was living life his way. A man on the precipice of something magnificent, teetering high in that rarefied thin air, going for the gusto with a reckless zest for life in spite of all its harsh edges and impending perils.

Every conquest his reward for staying the course, with fleeting nights of passion his only solace.

Fast and easy, granted, _a different type of easy_, but still _easy, _was his technique, his sure bet. He had yet to find a bar that didn't hold a prospect of one sort or another, while most held several, a veritable smorgasbord of delectable women awaiting their chance, while a wealth of suckers eager to surrender their cash in a game of chance stood by as backup.

Dean was unbeatable…_unstoppable_, roaring into each new town and conquering all the uncertainties of the world with one night of rapturous release.

For the lustful women hoping to draw his attention, he was a messiah liberating them from their mundane existence, a rock idol benevolently embracing his groupies. Magically appearing on the scene to minister to their ills, heal their demanding aches, and soothe their very souls. Godlike in his perfection…their wildest fantasy and fondest dream personified by one desirable man. He was Dean…_The Dean_ to some.

Whenever he was coming down from the adrenaline of a hunt or found himself at loose ends between jobs, he found sanctuary in the bars and then ultimately their beds. For Dean it was always a matter of the mood he was in, whether a cold beer and hustling a few bills in a game showcasing his skill would suffice, or if he needed a more rounded influence. Contrary to what his kid brother thought, he wasn't _always_ on the prowl.

It was just, at times, he needed it.

And it wasn't the conquest. It was the connection.

It was the _touch._

It was knowing he mattered if only for what he could offer between the sheets. Rediscovering there was still pleasure in this world, pleasure capable of warding off the pain, theirs and his. Knowing that for one night the dark would be forced to surrender to the light.

He loved women, truly he did. Loved them as best he could and when morning would inevitably intrude upon that unattainable fantasy he'd indulged in, he'd kiss that night's lucky recipient one last sensuous time and offer up a heartfelt goodbye.

Most insisted he list them in his little black book, smiling and promising a repeat the next time he blew through town. He graciously returned their lovestruck gaze with his own radiant smile, all bright and shiny and perfect, those full lips quirking slightly to the side in a gentle tease while framed by those adorable pinpoint dimples as he offered his own promise to oblige, unwilling to spoil the magic of the moment by revealing the true purpose of his little black book.

His black book being a hunter's journal, just like his dad's, reserved for evil and how to kill it. More pages filling as he traveled the back roads seeking out every nightmare that any sane man would run from. That was the only black book he'd ever have need of, never seeing any point in a typical black book filled with names and numbers and ratings. Chances are he wouldn't be passing through this way again, at least not with the free time to revisit any previous pleasures.

He didn't need a tally of the women he had bedded; truth was he didn't like to think in those terms. The women he met on his travels allowed him to escape in the moment, to lose himself in the raw call of passion, for once embracing the dark in the safety of willing arms while basking in the tender warmth enveloping him. Knowing what he knew, of life in general and his in particular, he tried his damnedest to look no further then the next morning when he knew the spell would inevitably end.

It was easier that way, to simply move on. No entanglements. No commitments that would have need of being broken. Truth was, with his job...more likely shattered. Nothing to tie him down or keep him from his duty. Not like there weren't more bars packed with willing women seeking out Dean Winchester, along with a million creatures of the night demanding his attention.

Someone was always awaiting Dean, both beautiful women and hideous beasts. It was a fact of life, the dichotomy of being a hunter: pleasure and pain, ecstasy and grief, companionship and solitude.

All of which led Dean Winchester, the man voted most likely to succeed, to being alone on Valentine's Day: Sam in school, chasing normal, Dad off with Bobby, chasing down some evil, and Dean, well, Dean was in a new town, footloose and fancy free, chasing _something._

He doubted this crap town held anything to amuse him on this even crappier of manufactured holidays. Everywhere he looked he saw the unmistakable signs, the freaking glory of this damnably pathetic day.

He hated Valentine's Day…with a passion. Funny thing was his brother always held tight to the notion he loved it, his favorite holiday. Guess that came from him truly managing to pull the wool over kid brother's impressionable eyes. Yes, he'd always proclaimed it Unattached Drifter's Holiday, but that was his shtick, his defense against the truth of how he really felt.

No, the reality was he had grown to hate Valentine's Day and his shotgun was functionally worthless in fighting the sentiment. Despite all his training, this was a battle he was ill-prepared for.

Rather than fight off these feelings he'd rather be chasing after the heart of a werewolf or cutting the heart out of some undead _thing_ to render it totally dead. Beating, bloody hearts blasted to bits or speared with a silver knife were all the hearts he cared to consider.

His joy came from killing evil…saving people, hunting things…_the family business_. His purpose…_his life._

Apparently his luck had run out because instead of a hunt to satisfy that itch trembling beneath his skin and making him twitch in anticipation and undeniable dread, he was faced with a night in purgatory as he wandered the streets: sober, somber and solitary.

As was most normally the case when he got in these down moods, happiness accosted him at every turn, screaming out from brightly colored heart-shaped balloons while fragrant bouquets of flowers assaulted his senses.

Sex was in the air.

And strange as it might appear at first glance, Dean Winchester had never felt so chaste…never before, since he first discovered the pleasures of the flesh, more inclined to spend the night alone.

As he walked down the street he was blinded by the glare of love at every turn. The contented smiles, tender touches, and knowing glances of every happy couple he passed becoming increasingly intrusive and downright torturous. The confident gait of the suitors as equally annoying as the gleeful bounce of their quarries. A constant reminder hammering out the bitter truth, that he didn't belong. That love wasn't meant for Dean Winchester, true fulfillment remaining the most elusive of preys.

The bottom line was he only existed to kill evil.

On a night such as this, all the sex in the world couldn't erase that simple fact. A passionate romp in the sack with the most beautiful and desirable woman, writhing beneath him as they whispered tender promises in the heat of the moment, could never convince him that he had found love…or that he ever would.

Dean closed his eyes and willed his senses to shut down, refusing to acknowledge the harsh truths before him. The sights and smells and the colors overpowering. He hated the color red. In his profession, red meant blood, good on the bad guy, bad on his family.

Still, with the scent of love saturating his surroundings and no hunt yet to materialize he had time to ponder this most foul of holidays. His mind forcing the issue even as his hearts desire was to bury the brutal facts.

Out on his own, alone and wallowing in his contempt, he was left with yet another golden opportunity to consider love and sex, amongst other things. Normally he wasn't the sort to over-analyze or ponder life's myriad lessons. He'd already suffered the hard knocks of too many tough truths demanding he acknowledge their validity. He wasn't much for introspection or wondering _why_…he was more for moving it along and ignoring what didn't fit into his plans. For the most part, any deep thinking he'd leave to Sam. But in this case, even as he tried to ignore them, he was forced to admit a few glaring truths. It was hard to dismiss the facts. He was a hunter, after all, trained in reading signs and analyzing data.

As he passed by the people in this burg, much like the people he'd seen in every previous town on every previous February the 14th, he read them, each and every one, just as he had since he first faced up to the true meaning behind Valentine's Day. Searching his memory he recalled with peculiar fondness that sweet, elderly couple in Toledo. He with his cane, her smiling that contented half-smile as withered hands, liver-spotted and frail, grasped hold of each other in a tender embrace, fingers bent from arthritis twining around fingers wracked with tremors. The remembrance of years past bringing comfort in their old age, knowing they'd shared a good life, a life full of love and hope, of togetherness, and were now facing the unknown unafraid, still united as one.

It was a never-ending cycle, new love rising up as old loves held tight to their memories as the years sped on.

Everywhere he looked now, Dean was accosted by love, settled and content or exuberant and newly blossoming. His eyes inevitably drawn to the familiar and yet distant images of twenty-somethings who had the world at their beck and call, believing their fate rested in their own capable hands, paired off and happy, totally oblivious that disaster was waiting to strike, that _fate_ controlled their existence, not intent or skill, and certainly not _love._

Still, they were lucky. There was the off chance they might survive despite their innocence and happily live out their lives within their illusions; blissful in their ignorance. Confident that tonight's activities would solve all their worries once love found its way to their beds.

Dean had seen it all before…for almost ten years observing the facts and noting the details. How a dozen roses, a box of chocolates, and a mushy card could lead to other things. Happy things…like love, commitment and sex.

As usual Dean did things backass backwards, starting with the sex and somehow losing his way back to the former. Never possessing the time or knowledge or skill to navigate that treacherous road. Love instead giving him its scorn and the expected shaft.

Normally he accepted his life, his solitary fate…but tonight, like every sappy holiday that had gone before, where normal people did their normal, boring, everyday things…well, nights like this got to him. Chipping away at his reserve, undermining his resolve…and pointedly pointing out with frigid audacity what was lacking in his life. Underscoring what might have been _if only…_

It was the one night of the year where a guy like him saw his odds decrease while those average Joes saw their prospects soar.

It was the sad state of love or sex or whatever you chose to call it.

The End… (For now, possibly to be continued at a later date.)

bjxmas

February 2015

All standard disclaimers apply.

_This one's been sitting on my computer for…gosh, two or three Valentine's Days now! Another chapter is started but I don't know when I'll continue it, I have an insane amount of stories in progress and who knows when they'll ever see the light of day and be posted. I just thought I'd share a little of my vision of Dean Winchester on this holiday for lovers. Because we all love Dean Winchester, don't we? And he deserves to be loved, most especially now with Show being a little hard on our boy. _

_Thanks for reading, reviews are always most welcome!_

_Have a Happy Valentine's Day…and remember, it's not just for lovers, but also for love, in all shapes, forms and manners. Sending my Winchester love out into the fandom._

_Later, B.J._


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Supernatural