Sam tells him in the diner that satyrs lure people away with a promise of pleasure just so they can eat them raw.
Dean thinks that well-meaning waitresses might work the same way.
She gives him a smile, a sweet one that’s everything right with a world so far from his own, and he’s able to let go of his stress after days of stewing in desperate silence. She grabs his hand and leads him out back after the dinner rush slows, and Dean knows he won’t be going back to the motel with Sam tonight. He’ll be wandering, bare foot and chasing a half-real high.
And it works. His body takes over as soon as that door shuts and it tells him he’s happy. But he can feel her teeth digging into him just the wrong side of too hard when they kiss. Her nails gouge deep into his shoulders, leave marks, remind him again that he’s hurting. Her pours his passion into her and he leaves himself cold and empty in the process.
She devours him and she doesn’t even know she’s doing it.
He lies there in bed with her long after she’s curled up and gone to sleep but invited him to stay, facing away from him in a strip of exposed moonlight. Dean runs one hand softly along the swell of his chest, the closed cavity of his heart, just to make sure that he’s still all there. He stays.
Taptaptaps his fingers. Just can’t seem to help himself. Still longing. Still worrying.
He rolls onto her again in the morning after a bad dream wakes him up and they fuck against her bedroom door before they leave. Dean keeps his tie askew even when he drops her off at the restaurant. He arches desperately closer into her in the doorway, seeking warmth, and he forgets to care if anyone is watching him.