36238. Had Better Quick, Sharp, Remove It
If you can fake that, you've got it made.
- Groucho Marx
"So…"
"Yeah." Pause. Look over his shoulder as he pulls on his pants. "Next time we do this, we'll go slower."
"Next time?"
"Yeah, next time."
"Who says there will be a next time?"
"What, you don't want a next time?"
"I never said that."
"Then what are you saying?"
"Well, what are you saying?"
"I'm saying I hope there's a next time, and a time after that, and a time after that, alright? We're good together. Best sex I've had in a long time."
Turn away. Roll out of bed. Sheet covering, automatic. Reach for t-shirt. Don't meet his eyes. "Yeah. Next time." Pause. Catch breath. "Dean, toss me my jeans?"
000
The next time they do it it's not slow. Slower. If anything, it's more rushed than the last time. More everything – except clear.
It's a week later and they've just killed off a pack of possessed sheep – don't even ask – shooting them all in the head and heart with consecrated iron rounds, running and ducking and rolling in mud and grass and animal droppings. They're wiping their faces free of blood and guts and sweat and wool, panting and leaning against the Impala doors, all four of them with guns dangling loose in their hands. She's strung out and a little pissed off, left over adrenaline searching for an easy place to go.
The two of them hadn't been avoiding the issue, per se – that is, them fucking like rabbits on steroid-laced carrots – like they had the first time, but they hadn't exactly been sharing and caring either. It was her – she didn't talk, she repressed or acted. Mostly repressed. Dean, well, he was only doing it to get laid. And even if she had thought about telling him, they hadn't had any time to themselves, anyhow; the other two were always around, in a way that was more noticeable now that opportunities for solitude together were being looked for. Besides, what is she supposed to say – she thinks that is the real question. She'd been the one to start it, this time. The one to initiate. But she's not going to start talking about feelings, or push him into a chick flick moment, as he calls those unerringly awkward imparting of emotions that normal people have when they want to talk about their issues. Yeah, she's a coward. Too scared to ask, too scared to know. She's not even sure if she wants to know, or if she just wants to keep coasting along in this semi-pleasurable existence, where nothing needs to be said about anything, at all. Nothing needed to be clarified, nothing needed to be hashed over, again and again until it sounded like something a soap opera would produce. She's just – she's happy, right here, strumming with energy and a job finished, perspiration trickling like fingers down her spine, sticking her t-shirt to her chest. She's just going to let it flow, let it go. Do it.
So, she's propped against the passenger side door, head tipped back to stare at the winking stars, and the others are starting to shuffle towards the trunk to put their weapons away when Dean passes her, and she says it. Just grins up at him, eyes sly above the falsely innocent curve of her mouth, and spits it out all quiet like, because if he isn't going to make a move, she isn't going to pussyfoot around any longer. She'd had enough of that before hand. Had enough of it to last her a fucking lifetime. Either he wants her or he doesn't. "Fast, rough and dirty," she almost purrs, sex thick on her tongue, and his body automatically stiffens in response, his eyes widening slightly in something like shock. She smirks. "Just how I like 'em." Then she turns to Sam and Sharika, puts bubbles and perky-cheerleader in her tone – "Hey, who wants Thai for dinner? I'm starved."
Five minutes later has them grappling together on the backseat of the Impala, Sharika and Sam gone inside to tell the farm's residents that their field is clean of the demon flock again. Her pants tangling around her ankles, her thighs spreading, fingers clutching and digging into the upholstery as he fucks into her from behind; fast, rough and dirty, just how she'd asked for it.
She comes on a muffled scream, biting down on the t-shirt between her teeth, he with a groan in the back of her sweaty neck. When the other two come back they don't give any sign if they notice the swollen lips or mussed hair.
It's the start of a running trend.
000
They fuck in bar toilets, library toilets, and laundromat toilets. They fuck in various motels for snatched minutes of time. They fuck in the Impala. They fuck on the Impala. On one memorable occasion they fuck under the Impala.
She's not sure when she got so hungry for him – maybe it's always been this way. Every time he turns around she just wants to drag him off somewhere and devour his skin. Now that she can do it, it hasn't gotten old. If anything, it's just made her want him more, to see how far she can go and get away with it. She wants to see how close she can get to him before he pushes back, pushes her away. So far he's gone along with all of her propositions, and initiated a fair few of his own. They can't seem to stop, get enough. One touch can ignite the need. One offhand comment. One hunt. One fight. One look. It goes on until she thinks she's gone crazy with the lust, the quick, hurried sessions in cramped quarters, usually standing or twisted uncomfortably. Gasps and glimpses of his flesh. Nothing concrete.
It's been two weeks since the possessed sheep and they've had sex so many times she's lost count. She supposes she's making up for lost time, but really she has no excuse. This desire for him is out of control; a maelstrom of love and desperation, the instinct to be close to him overriding any stirrings of common sense. She wants to have as much of him as she can all at once, hoard it all inside of her, tight under her breast. It's a gut reaction more than anything, why she's doing it she can't exactly get a handle on – it's just something she has to do.
Has to.
000
Soliloquised hum of the malfunctioning air-conditioner above her head, relentless droning that repeated – clacks and whines and quiet stutters, over and over and over, never changing tune. The clatter of cutlery and porcelain in the kitchen sinks, not twenty feet away; whirr of working dishwashers and the click of gas cookers; the sizzle of rashes of brown bacon and sunny-side eggs; chop and crunch of knives on vegetables and wooden boards. The chatter of the cook and the waitresses; the crackle of the fuzzed-out radio – something by Elvis, she thinks. It sounds like The King; snatches of lyrics spurting out to hang from her eardrums, fading and rising, falling and soaring into the indistinguishable mass of other noises of the diner, and the sharp contrast of conversation among her companions.
"I found a new place to dwell; it's down the end of a lonely street…"
"Another water spirit? Are you fucking kidding me?"
"Well, I'm not a hundred percent, Dean. It's just that all signs point to it; that's where Mildred drowned –"
"Wait, this chick's name is Mildred? Oh, god how she must hate her parents."
"…you make me so lonely baby …"
She looks up from a contemplative study of her dry, half-eaten egg salad sandwich, eyes passing over the boys Winchester. One sat across from her in full sunlight, yellow beams pulling golden brown hues into the edges of his wind-tousled hair, shedding warm light on tanned skin. His long, narrow hands lay deceptively gentle alongside the screen of his laptop, the skull on the back taunting her; one elongated finger taps an agitated rhythm against the peppermint green surface of the table. Next to her is the older one, one dark eyebrow slanted, hazel green eyes sceptical as he talks to his brother, discusses their newest hunt. He had one arm lying close behind her on the booth, almost around her neck and shoulders, near enough she can feel the heat burning through the air to her fluctuate over her bare skin. There's a dusting of icing sugar on his lower lip, leftovers from his powdered donut – "Saving it for Ron", he'd said, when she'd told him it was there. She tries not to stare at it too long; the impulse to lean over and suck his lip into her mouth, tongue off the white sprinkle, taste the sweetness heavy, Dean's flavour overwhelming – yeah. She just tries not to look at it.
Next to the younger boy sits the dark woman, eating crumbling chocolate cake with the cheerful abandon of a child – mud brown specks on her chin, the corner of her wide mouth – licking them off her fingertips in a way that left the individual adjacent to her thoroughly distracted. His blue green eyes peeked, back and forth, from his laptop to the woman, bottom lip pulled into his mouth, gnawed on with oblivious sensuality. If the way he shifts in his seat is any indication, his imagination is working overtime.
The blonde woman smiles, rakes a hand through her hair, massaging where it's pulled up with a clip, the curls spilling out and over, unwilling to be confined, unruly locks trailing over a shoulder, the curve of a smooth cheek. She pushes her plate away and leans back, nudging Dean's thigh under the table with hers. He nudges back, still talking with Sam – "We have to do what now?" – and she can see the almost invisible twitch of his mouth, a smile hidden under all the layers. She wishes she could lean over and kiss it; see for herself what that little, secret grin tastes like. She can't, though. It's too intimate, for one – connoting that they have a real relationship, that they aren't just casual fuck buddies, which she knows isn't true.
After all, they'd only just come back from the diners' facilities, both of them crushed into a stall, her legs braced on the opposite wall as he bucked up into her, lips latched onto the delicate spot behind her ear, her hands tangling in his shirt, nails catching on the soft flesh of her palms. She feels gritty; nerves overexposed and raw, as if there's dirt ground down into and beneath the layers of her skin. The bathroom was pretty fucking dirty – dark green mould climbing into the cracks of the white floor tiles, walls smudged grey with other peoples' sweat. She's clinging to the rush of them together, rather than this feeling tainting her now, leaving her unfulfilled. It wasn't physical; her body had definitely climaxed – twice. No, it's the sway of black thoughts about stupid feelings and the lack of words spoken. Words like love, or maybe. Or even just some kind of spoken acknowledgement of the change in their relationship – not just the tangible one of them fucking against every passably flat surface. She doesn't want anything like a declaration – idiocy can only go so far. She's just looking for – for something. Anything.
She wishes she had someone to talk to about this, someone who could help her understand it better – but she hasn't exactly told Sharika what she's been doing – yet. She will, really. Soon. She's learnt her lesson about stuff like that – keeping secrets. She's just looking for the right time to say it. It's not just something she can spill as easy as salt or holy water. It has to be planned down to the last detail – every fact aimed and guided and let go with precision. Yeah, she's going to tell her best friend. See, she would have even told her before – but it's a little complex. The dark woman, could she really understand? Probably not, it's not like she'd ever had sex before; she didn't know how it made a person feel, spiritually or physically. This is the reason as to why the blonde woman is choosing to tell her best friend, later, when there's time enough for a real explanation on how she feels and why she's doing it. Maybe Sharika could help her understand this curious up-welling of shame she underwent, sometimes, thinking about it. How it made her flush pink all over at the thought – having sex everywhere, where anyone could see, as though it were a common practice for her. But then again, the dark woman was logical, she'd come up with a pragmatic solution that might not meet the blonde's needs emotionally – she just wouldn't get that she needed more than an answer to what wasn't really a problem, as such, more of a… complication. This is why she has to have the time to clarify and bundle up neatly exactly how she felt, cram into a little package that she could tie with a bow and present easy and swift and there, done. Yeah, this is why. She just needs a little time, that's all.
Not Sam though; she can't tell him. She can't even imagine what that'd be like – hey, Sam? Yeah? I'm fucking Dean, like, a lot. I love him. … Silence. She can feel the drowning power of the impending embarrassment from here. Let Dean deal with that, if he wants Sammy to know. It's his problem, not hers. Except if he doesn't tell Sam, and then she might have to make it her problem, because keeping Sam out of the loop is one sure way of getting his back up – and no one, but no one, wants that. The Bitch Face is legendary in their circle by now. And, yeah, Sam kind of deserved to know. Sort of. Maybe. Being her family and all. Maybe he'd figure it out for himself.
God, that conversation on the most-horrible-things-fucking-ever scale made Hannibal Lector look like a girl scout. Without the stale cookies.
Sharika finally catches Sam's eyes on her, two fingers sucked in past her lips, up to her knuckles, tongue running through the seam between, sticky flecks of chocolate and smears of icing disappearing into the warm wetness of her mouth. "Wha'?" she mumbles around them, eyebrow raised in question at Sam.
"Nothin'," he says, tugging his eyes away.
The dark woman's eyes flick away from him, down to the slab on her plate, and she stares at it, brow wrinkled slightly before it cleared and she smiled. Taking her fingers out, she cleans them off on a crumpled napkin at her elbow and picks off a medium sized bite of the cake, holding it out like an offering, hovering it just in front of Sam's face. "Cake?" she says, licking her teeth clean.
She obviously wasn't catching onto what Sammy was actually hungry for.
This pink tinge was starting to flag the taller boy's cheeks – just enough colour to be noticeable, not enough to suggest any real emotion. Slumping even further down against squeaky vinyl, the blonde woman watches his eyes widen, blue green following the swaying fingers before his chin. He's wishing, daring – but he's not quite brave or motivated enough to do something about it. It's obvious he wants to; his eyes are hungry, not just for the cake but for Sharika, he wants to lean forwards and take her mouth, see if it tastes just like chocolate, as he thinks it must. Desire and love and lust and guilt and responsibility and fear of rejection are warring inside his form, the slide of them all swirling together, unbidden, disguised beneath shoulders hunched forwards slightly. Betrayed by the rhythm of his fingers on green, faster, even more erratic – tap tap taptap taptaptaptap tap.
"No thanks," he said, after what really must have only been a second or so, but felt perversely like a small eternity. He pressed his lips together, trying not to smile despite himself. He managed to give the image of smirking with the twist of his eyes up at the corners, challenging the dark woman, egging her on. Pulling her into something they both were far too ready for, and yet, not nearly ready enough. Cajoling. The expression in his eyes is strangely free – unburdened. Like he's seizing this moment. Not worrying about before, or after. Just now.
"Really?" Sharika asked, and stared down at the cake in her pinched fingertips, biting the inner lining of her bottom lip. The blonde could see it tucked in on the corner, before she switched her gaze back to the tall boy, his eyes seemingly staring at the chocolate splodge in Sharika's hand, but really staring at the hand itself. She can sense his desire to eat the cake, lick the dark woman's hand free of the chocolate, before skimming his lips upwards, upwards and up along her smooth flesh, flickering his tongue out to taste the salty sweetness of her skin beneath, until he reached the heated cavern of her mouth. "If you say so..." And then she smushed it against Sam's lips, spreading chocolate all along his jaw line when he jerked with surprise. Laughing. Brimming with her love, beneath the teasing.
This started a fight between them, both giggling with joyous abandon, trying to push cake into the other's face, mouth, hair. Their eyes are lit with identical feeling, that only an outsider could truly observe – the ease between them stealing her breath and locking it away from her lungs, tightening her throat with indescribable emotion. They're just being themselves, nothing between them but this moment, how they feel shining so clear through their bodies. No weight, no hoarding. No 'has to'.
They're in love. And they're happy.
And she wants to be like that. But she can't.
Her thigh is nudged again, by the older boy. Her eyes flick up, and he sends her that toe-curling smile, the one she'd only discovered and undergone this fortnight. The one that promises quick, physical gratification and pleasure.
They leave the innocent to their deeds, to follow their own.
000
Everything's climbing and wrenching inside her in the drive back to the motel – tangling in a web of words and lies and truths and emotions. She pushes it back, tension strumming and plucking at her senses, anticipation. Is it? She sits, hands clasped tight and white-knuckled in her lap, eyes blind and focused out beyond the windshield, shoulders pushing back against the yielding surface of the Impala's seating. It's cold.
She's not sure what she's doing anymore, if she ever was. Has she ever been sure of anything, ever, since she was thirteen and loved unequivocally by half of a lie of a family? Everything is skewed crazily to the left; one scene at one diner, out of the hundreds she's patroned in her existence – it takes that one with its just-mopped cream linoleum and a waitress named Moira to cause an epiphany. Again. Simply, she's being an idiot. Again. Pressing down all her fears into her intestines, leaving them to writhe there untended, denying them as they rot away at her slowly because she's going after what she wants, even if it's in a round about sort of way, and it's going to kill her eventually. Probably.
No, no. She's not being overdramatic. She thinks this love will really cause her death one day. If she doesn't throw herself in front of him to save his skin, she might just kill herself in a flood of overactive self pity, twenty or so years from now. It might be a good idea to end it quickly, instead of dragging it out, having to watch the relationship mould and crumble into nothingness. She doesn't think she could stand that, watching what they had – friendship, comradeship, some kind of tentative understanding – melt away into the ether because they both want something completely different. Of course, she has no idea what he wants, but she doubts it's the forever and always she has beating an ever-present tattoo in the back of her skull. She doubts it's the true love ideal that shines like a beacon somewhere under her sternum. It's more likely along the lines of a wham, bam, thank you ma'am, with the added bonus that he doesn't have to come up with a cover story about his identity.
"Hey," he said next to her, snapping her out of her thoughts, and she jerks her head to glance at him, and away, a crick stabbing into her neck. She massaged it, and he says, "What's wrong?" like he actually cares. Probably just feeling out how likely he is to get more nookie today.
She sends him a pale bandaid smile, says, "Nothin'. Can't you drive the old gal any faster?" as she slides a hand onto the meat of his thigh, grips high, and rubs slowly and meaningfully. It's an easy way to put him off, she thinks, watching his fingers clamp around the car's stealing wheel. Sex, sex, sex. That's all it ever is. Everything. It's always about sex.
On one level, she's glad. Protects her from doing anything even worse than what she already is. She wonders briefly if that's possible, and grins into the look he sends her way, pretending. Pretending. Always pretending.
She's mad, and she wants it. Wants sex, fast, sweaty. Eradicating all these thoughts that crowd her as bull flies, biting at her sensitive flesh. She just wants to be able to hold onto something. Anything. If this is all there is, it has to be enough. It has to.
Has to.
The car rolls to a smooth stop outside the motel room and she snaps off her belt, turns to him with a rush and clicks their teeth together in a harsh kiss, noses bumping, mouths misaligned, and she tugs and nips at his bottom lip, pulling at it hard, swallowing the gasp-groan he makes down into herself. She can taste the icing sugar, she thinks, and licks into his mouth, running her tongue along the back of his teeth, making him shudder. Has to. Has to be. She pulls off before he can reciprocate, eyes burning with things she hopes he cannot read, mouth blood red and swollen because she was hard, and he was harder. Pulls his face up to hers, and says, "You," voice coarse and thick, sticking in her throat. She was mad. Seriously mad. She was everything he didn't understand. Didn't want to. And she was going to do something about it, damnit. She had to. Had to. Can't help herself. Has to. Everything sloshes inside her as a mixture of chemicals and acids and endorphins. Hormones. Love. Hate. Half realised wishes.
Everything.
She moves, off him, out. Stalked into the room and paused, just breathing. Just. Just having to. Had to. Has to. Must. Can't. Have to. She hears him behind her, coming inside, following, shutting the door quietly. Blocked out the sounds of the street, the parking lot, the cars rushing by, people. Blocked out everything that wasn't here, him and her, and the rumpled beds.
She'd already stripped off her sweatshirt and shoes and was unbuttoning her jeans, in a rush of apathy and coldness. Uncaring. She wants to get this done, wants to prove a point. Wants. Wants. Has to. "Lose the clothes," she says, not looking at him, eyes fixed where her fingers pop, one, two, three, four, the buttons, down and down and down.
"Got an itch, Lauren?" he says, and her mouth twitches involuntarily.
"That's right." She wiggled out of the jeans, her underwear, tossed back her hair, golden curls writhing on and across her broad, bare shoulders. Her body was pink and white, with that elegant cloud of hair tumbling down to tease her peaked breasts, held back with a blue cotton bra. Her eyes, flaming a deep green and gold, and suddenly full of challenge, meet his with a force somewhat like a hard, sweaty fist slamming into his stomach. His breath caught, and he struggled not to let it show – how she affected him. The slippery knots of lust twining around the pounding fist. Maybe it was his heart. "Got any problem scratching it?" her body is tense as a bowstring, and he watches her, wary, eyes narrow.
"Not that I can think of." He shrugged out of his jacket, feigning carelessness, threw it aside. Watched the glide of muscles under her smooth, pale skin as she rolled her shoulders and cut her eyes at him. As she just waited for him to get on with it, chin raised with a hint of daring as she smirked at him. He couldn't see beneath that bold red and white smile, and she wasn't letting him, eyes closed off, half shuttered with dark lashes. Glinting golden eyes that taunted him as he got rid of his shirt, his shoes, before she turned away to pull down the covers. He'd been off about her mood, he realised, eyeing the smooth expanse of creamy, bare skin on display. She'd already worked up to a good mad and was looking for a handy place to put it.
Goes without saying that he really didn't mind being that handy place. At all.
When she reached up to unclasp her bra, he stepped over, gripped her hands, trapping them – for one erotic moment – behind her. Then he released her to trail his fingers down her spine. Lips twitched at the way the muscles shuddered outwards at the touch, ripples on disturbed water. Her skin felt like heated silk under his fingertips. "Leave something for me, will you?"
She shrugged, then, fisting a hand in his hair, yanked his mouth to hers.
She used her teeth, her nails, setting the mood for fast, hot sex with just a hint of mean. Wrapped her arms around him tight as coils, bit his lip, nibbled her way along his jaw line, his ear. Scraped her teeth down the line of his neck, sucked hard where it met his shoulder. She wasn't looking for fancy touches or soft flourishes, but for sweat and speed. She was telling him now – and did not expect him to refuse her.
She felt his body's instant response, the hard hammer blow of his heart, the lightning strike of heat that punched through her. His mouth fed off hers, and his hands began to take, fingers digging in to brand and bruise at her waist, her hips, pulling her hard against him, into him. Had to. Has to.
She was already wet and ready when she shoved him back on the bed.
She would have straddled him and made quick work of it, but he flipped her over, trapped her body under his. Set his teeth on her breast. Her hips jerked, her hands clamped on his, and she ground herself against him in frantic, furious demand, his warmth so close to her, too close, but so far away. So fucking far. She had to – had to – "Please."
His vision hazed with red as the fierce bite of need tore through his system, simultaneous with the scoring of her teeth on his shoulder, the scratch of her nails down his back, raking red grooves of fire into the skin. He wrenched her bra down to her waist, filled his mouth with her even as he shoved his hand between them, drove his fingers into the heat of her and shot her brutally over the edge.
She exploded under him, her body writhing, straining, then gathering itself for another leap. She was making those sounds, loud, clouded moans and pants, her hips pistoning until he was as wild as she.
They rolled, grappling for more in a slippery, mindless battle that had thrill ramming into thrill. Her mouth was fevered and ravenous; gobbling up every inch of his skin it touched, tongue flicking out to get more of that essential taste. Her hands greedy and swift as they fisted and twisted and ran over his body. He knew he'd rather die warring with her than live in peace with anyone else.
With her breath sobbing, she rose over him and took him inside her with one hard, definitive thrust. The dark glory of it drowned her, flooded her until the anger and doubts drowned in the fall and sky high fly of sensation.
This was real, she told herself. This was enough
And she watched him watch her take him.
Fast and hot, focused on those twin goals of pleasure and release. She rode him with a ruthless energy that turned her own body into a morass of greed. For speed, for passion. For more. Held onto his shoulders, tight as anything, to ground herself, grind herself down harder.
When she felt his fingers vise on her hips, when she saw those brilliant hazel green eyes go blind, she threw her head back and flew off the end of the world with him. Told herself, this had to be enough. Had to.
She was still shuddering when she slid down to him. Her breath was ragged as his when her head fell heavy on his shoulder. His smooth chest, filmed with sweat, pushed up and down under her weight, unsteady breaths pulled in and out. He managed to hook an arm around her and decided he would probably regain feeling in his extremities at some point. Maybe. For now it was just fine to lie there bruised, battered, and blissful.
"What's the occasion?" he asked her, between the puffed breaths. She stilled, his arms heavy around her, wrapped. Close. But not. God, it had to be enough. It has to be. Had to be. She has to get away.
"There has to be an occasion for me to want to fuck you into the ground now?" she said, raising an eyebrow as she braced an elbow on the bed, pushed up to look into those – fucking, fucking, why, has to, why Dean, why do you – hazel green eyes. Grinned at him as though she really was fine, fine, fine, fine, just a little fucked out. Fuck, fuck, fuck. That's all they were. And she had to make it be enough. Had to. If she wanted anything of him. "The others'll be back soon." And she got up, picked up and put on her clothes, pretending, pretending. Always pretending. No, she wasn't shaking. No she didn't want to scream. No, she wasn't going to cry. No, no. No. She left him with his ears still ringing, heart pounding fit to burst clean out of his chest. He stared at the closed door, blinking, then flopped back.
Outside she sucked in a breath of half-frozen, polluted air, and rubbing a hand across her puffy mouth, wiping away his taste, wiping away the act, wiping away everything. Because it had to be enough. Just.
It had to.
AN: Props to CountessSia for her steroid-laced carrots, which I shamelessly stole. Apologies for the late update. Kisses for everyone who doesn't want to murder me. XD Which means no macking for anyone, huh? Tsk.
Promo:
A sound.
There is a sound she hears through the darkness, an irregular throbbing, beating slower and fainter to her ears, dark and unsteady, a familiar, faded pulsation. Th–thump. Th-thump. Th-th-thump…thump. She is covered. Covered in a sticky substance that reeks of metal, her vision blurring so that she can barely see. Next week: Seeing Red I'm Feeling Blue – Chapter 39 of Believing Improbable Things. Omg, I think I'm getting plotty.
Pixc