thuvia ptarth (thuviaptarth) wrote,

[Supernatural] Spider Bites On All Your Lovers (Dean/Crossroads Demon, NC-17, 7000 words)

Title: Spider Bites On All Your Lovers
Author: Thuvia Ptarth
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Crossroads Demon. Het.
Spoilers: "Born Under A Bad Sign"
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~7,000 words
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warnings: Demons don't do vanilla. More detailed warnings in the Author's Note.

Summary: The demon from the crossroads comes back for dessert.



Spider Bites On All Your Lovers



1.

Her word is her bond and her kiss is her mark: so it's no trouble, tracking Dean Winchester down. She can hear the rush of the blood in his veins from miles away, and the clamor and shriek of memories in his head she could probably hear even in Hell. She wouldn't be the only one.

The first time she finds him it's a smoky dive two days out of Mississippi and a curvy coffee-skinned girl with a cascade of loose black ringlets that remind him of a woman whose name it hurts him too much to think about. He's beautiful, he really is, so pretty outside and inside bruises and blood everywhere you look. She lets him buy her a beer just to watch his mouth on the bottle. Ten minutes later he's on his knees on the bathroom floor putting the mouth to better use and spreading her thighs apart so he can finger-fuck her at the same time. She's so wet his fingers slip a little getting inside. Forget the mouth. She pulls his head up by the hair, like it's a trophy she might hang on a spike: "Harder," she pants, "the whole hand, come on--" and he braces one hand on her thigh and yanks his watch off so he can shove the other hand inside her, so rough after all the initial care that she hisses a warning. He doesn't stop, smart boy, just curls his hand into a fist and pumps, steady and hard as fucking her with a cock. "Sweetheart," he says, "sweetheart, oh baby, oh, you're gorgeous, you are," a running monologue the entire time, beautiful, sweetheart, baby, grunts, pants, moans, slurping sounds, he doesn't shut up at all if that mouth's not occupied elsewhere and sometimes not even when it is. Kind of sweet, the constant feedback, not that she's capable of paying much attention.

"Harder," she tells him, "fuck you, oh fuck, harder," squirming restlessly, shift hips here, there, and then he hits on the spot, hardness of knuckle in just the right place, "there, there, there," she pounds on his shoulder with her fist, "there." He keeps working it, fisting her with quick even thrusts, piston-like, so steady she rides his shoulder like a horse. "Uh," she says, "uh, uh, uh," and she comes and bangs her head against the wall. She gulps down air, legs trembling, her hands flopping limp against the wall; aftershocks shake her like a hell hound, seizing up her muscles and then jolting them loose. He's unfolded his hand, he's just rubbing, right there with the tips of his fingers, calluses she can feel even through all the slickness, rubbing slower and slower as her panting slows. She's too sensitive now and it's too much and she may fucking kill him if he stops.

And then he does stop. His right hand splays across her belly, warm and dry, holding her down as he pulls the other hand free with a wet sucking sound. "You bastard," she moans, "oh, you bastard." She's going to rip his heart out, she is, she's going to crack his ribs apart and drink down his blood.

"Shh," he soothes her, "shh, baby, just a second, just a second," fingers gentle on her mouth for a moment and the smell of her cunt so strong she can hardly breathe. Then he's leaning against her, propping her against the wall with a thigh between her legs as he gropes for a condom in his back pocket. He spreads her thighs apart again; her muscles tremble against the knotty strength of his hands, one hand wet and one hand dry, the fingers parting her labia and then his cock thrusting in, deep and slow. She whines deep in the back of her throat. Her legs are still trembling too much to hold up much of her weight, so he's trying to hold her up and fuck her at the same time, but the angle is wrong again. It's bad for him too, the height mismatch so much he's half curled over her. He manages to get his hands beneath her ass and lift her up so her shoulder blades bang against the wall, her back flexed so far that all she sees is ceiling, and it's just one of the many benefits of her existence that the muscle aches tomorrow morning are going to be someone else's problem. He's panting wet and warm on her shoulder, half with the thrusting and half with the effort of holding her up. She pushes down on him as he pushes up, and it's good, it's really good, it's going to be great if his knees don't give out first. She squirms against him and against the wall until she can get enough leverage to wrap her legs around his waist and her arms around his shoulders.

"Oh, God bless you, sweetheart," he breathes, staggering sideways until he can deposit her weight on the sink. Yeah, God bless me, and he swears in dazed awe at the way laughter shakes her breasts against him. Now that neither of them is going to fall down, he slams into her so hard it almost hurts both of them and that's just exactly right, "keep going, yeah, good--" She kneads the muscles of his back, feels the ceaseless bunch and stretch. They're so strong, so fragile and human beneath the laughable protection of skin. Human skin, you don't even need claws to rip it to pieces.

"Yeah," she says, or he says, one of them says, "yeah, baby, please--"

Flash of memory bitter as ash in his mouth, and she shakes her curls down over his face, just like the other girl did. Cassie, he whispers inside his head, and she knows he's dizzy with the smell of it, of them, him and her and the girl's jasmine shampoo. Sweat sticks strands of her hair to his face and she braces herself on his shoulders so she can lean down and very gently blow.

"Oh, Jesus," he groans, and comes with a shudder that goes all the way down to his bones. She laughs and licks the sweat off his temple as he slowly shakes himself still.

And this is the best part, the very best, because it never stopped running through his head, the pain and misery and loss, a constant internal no no no no just like his constant vocal mutter of beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. It never stopped the entire time, it just got drowned out a little, and now with his knees locked so they don't shake and his arms around her so he doesn't fall down and his entire body humming with release, it all washes back over him, pulls him under, sucks him down. Dean Winchester lives in his skin so he doesn't have to live in his head, but right now it's his skin that's the problem, that fine body that his daddy bought him.

She puts her feet back on the floor and pushes him gently away. He sways and catches himself on the sink and tries a smile on her. It would break a human girl's heart, it really would, that sweet smile and those lost eyes. She pulls his head down and kisses him deep, just because she knows it won't help him at all.


2.

He wears the suit like it doesn't fit: blazer flung open, tie tugged loose, his shoulders bunched up like the off-the-rack seams are in danger of bursting. Here for a business convention, he says, software, because he knows she's here for pharmaceuticals, and he flirts without conviction, probing for information about the conference room on the third floor, strange noises in the hotel. He flicks a casual glance at her wedding ring while snagging a free drink from one of the circulating trays, then is caught by her smile, more amused and much more interested than he expects. He smiles back automatically, simultaneously practiced and sincere.

She isn't old enough to be his mother; she's more than old enough to be the mother he remembers. The shoulder-length hair isn't quite the right color, blond streaks tasteful over brown, but the height is perfect: in heels it's easy for her to meet his eyes. Your room or mine? and of course it's hers. He tips his head over hers in the elevator, hands warm on her waist, but she shakes her head, chime of earrings, wait. He steps back obediently, one hand loose on hers, his thumb stroking slowly from her knuckle to the knob of her wrist. Her palm tingles with heat and she has to swallow. He can hear her: he swallows, too, bob of Adam's apple and eyes averted in a shadowy dip of lashes, not even meeting her gaze in the mirrored walls. Wait, he's repeating to himself, his entire body thrumming like a high-tension wire. Wait, wait.

He backs her up against the door of her room the moment she closes it, hands pulling her blouse loose and then it's shocking, the feel of his hands on her skin. His mouth is sweet with champagne, and he's warmer than she remembered, blood-warm all over, pressed against her, with his hands and his mouth flares of greater heat. She turns her head away and he presses his open mouth to her neck, more a suckle than a kiss, all pressure and wetness, and then he bends down to suckle her breasts through the shirt, the sensation so muffled by the fabric it's more a dull itch than a pleasure. "Want to taste you," he mutters into her heartbeat, "please, please." They undo her blazer and shirt with hands that fumble into each other. "I've got it, do the bra--" and happily he takes instruction well. He sucks on her skin like it's sugar and spice and everything nice and god has he got a sweet tooth. Eggshell skull beneath her fingers: she could crack it open, but there are so many better ways inside.

"Wait," she says again, breathlessly, "I'm not sure--" and he presses his face into the valley between her breasts, stealing another breath of her scent. Her perfume gives her skin a delicate sharp undertaste, different than he's used to, subtler, silkier.

Soft rumble of his voice, gravel worn smooth: "Do you want me to stop?"

She rubs the soft brush of hair at the nape of his neck. He cants his head back into the pressure of her hands, his hips forward into the soft give of her belly: yours, his body says, all yours, do what you want with me, do you want me?

"No," she says, "don't go."

He kisses her, soft and slow and light, then soft and slow and deep: like they've got all the world and time. Behind the smile and the confidence, a warning runs all the way through him like a secret steel wire: Careful careful. He sucks on her earlobe, her earring a shock of cold on his tongue. Don't scare her careful hold back, and it's downright adorable, what he thinks scary is. Let me take me let me inside, hot as the rush of blood in his head. He is so desperate to be inside where it's warm, so much more desperate than he realizes; he'd think inside just meant her body if he were capable of thinking at all. She sighs with contentment.

He says, soft and coaxing, "What do you want?" Another liquid kiss, and his weight pressing her against the door, a protection from the rest of the world. "Tell me."

"Well," she says, "it'd be nice to make it as far as the bed."

He laughs and then he picks her up and carries her over to the bed; she squeaks a bit for show. He stops her when she reaches for the waist of her skirt, taking over and then floundering, uncertain where the hidden clasp is; she has to guide his fingers. He catches her hand after, kneeling, and kisses her fingertips, then presses another kiss to the base of her spine, a quick dip of tongue on her skin, hot and wet. He removes the shoes for her, then unrolls her pantyhose; she laughs uneasily: "I feel so pampered--" and his answering grin is almost fierce as he pulls down her panties. "Oh, honey, I haven't even started pampering you yet."

He starts out careful, slow kitten licks on cunt and clit. He increases the pressure little by little until she murmurs approval, and then he tries the blunt smoothness of teeth, no force, no pressure, just a change in texture. "Mmm," she hums. Singular focus, this boy, with his nose full of her scent and his head full of like it like me like it. She bets he'd do this all night if she asked, and not even grumble about it.

That's just not right at all.

She twists away from him, folding her knees underneath her and wrapping her arms around herself, leaving him staring up at her in bewilderment. She tugs him up on top of her, and he's agreeable, of course he is, just breaking away for a second to grope for his trousers and the condom in his wallet. He wraps himself around her from behind, sinking his hands in the softness of her belly and hiking her up against him so he can bury his face in her hair. Her abdominal muscles strain against his hands, and she stretches out against his restraint, trying to make the tension last. His hands slide up: the curves of her breasts overflow his fingers and he rubs her nipples to semi-sore hardness with his thumbs. He presses himself into her, harder, all over, his hands pressing into her breasts, his ribs pressing into her vertebrae, like he's trying to break through their separate skins. Inside in let me in.

She bangs her ass against his groin, impatient, come on already, and "Okay," he breathes, "okay," tilting her forward and pushing in. Her knees slide forward on the bed; she braces herself, pushing herself back on him with more force than she intended, and they both groan. He winds a hand in her hair and wrenches her head back so he can suck at her throat. She whimpers and he loosens his grasp instantly: Careful, he tells himself again, taking a deep breath, fragile careful. She wonders what it would do to him to kill her, how much it would take to get him to go that far. He crams a hand between her legs, rubbing the same careful uneven rhythm as the fucking, the right rhythm for shaking the breath from her lungs and the wrong rhythm for getting her off. She manages to get a hand on top of his to show him the right way to move his fingers; "like that?" hoarse in her ear, and "yes," she says, "good boy" and desperate relief floods his belly when her body convulses around him.

Such a good boy. So eager to please.

"Good boy," she says again, experimentally, and it's perfect. It shakes something cool and shameful loose inside him, something too naked for him to bear. He grabs her hips and slams into her so hard it knocks her off-balance, her weight tilting precariously between the knee and one painfully twisted thigh. She tries to get back into position, but he won't stop long enough to let her, groaning that's it and gorgeous and let me and then she's coming again, almost painfully, a series of small prickling shocks. He pumps into her a few more times, then comes with a groan and collapses on top of her, panting. Shit but he's heavy as fuck.

He rolls off her after a few seconds, shivering, his skin slick with sweat, an arm flung over his eyes as he comes down. He doesn't even know what's wrong with him, poor stupid boy, doesn't even have words for it. Cold, he'd say, if she asked. I'm just cold.

She pulls his arm down and leans her forehead against his.

"Good boy," she says again, tenderly, "thank you," and he closes his eyes against the radiance of her smile.


3.

For three or four weeks she can't lay a hand on him: he's in lockdown, hiding from some human trouble, shut up in small stale rooms. When she finally corners him in a bar in Seattle, he's three beers down and still stinks of that rat-cage desperation, that restlessness he could only let out in jitter and jerk. The beers do make him loose enough to help her the rest of the way over after she climbs up the tall bar stool next to him and slings a leg across his lap; it probably doesn't hurt that the easiest way to do it is by putting his hands on her ass. He leans his elbows back on the bar and smiles up at her, dreaming idly of her unbuttoning his jeans, sliding onto him right then and right there.

When she leans over to whisper "Can I tie you up?" in his ear, for a second he thinks it's just part of the daydream. Tiny Asian girl with red streaks in her hair and blue and yellow roses twining up her inner arms; yeah, he could let her wriggle around on top of him like her wet-kitten weight could actually keep him down.

Once he gets that she really said it, the stutter of his breath on her throat is all the answer she needs. She rolls her hips slowly, bumps belly to belly; licks a sticky line down his jaw. "Can I fuck you in the ass?"

"Whatever you want," he says, voice cracking, and she peels herself off him and takes him home.

Home is a big apartment with an open floor plan, windows and French doors onto the balcony flung open to let the salt breeze off the sound blow through; when she opens the door, the cross-draft tries to slam it shut on her, and he reaches over her to lend his weight to keeping it open. The smell of the bar rushes over her, leather sour-beer sweat, but he's inhaling deep, eyes almost shut, the wind smelling like freedom to him, like the road but purer, no asphalt or car exhaust. She snatches at impressions, trying to unwind them into something she can use, but he's already smiling down at her, slow crook of the mouth, laugh lines crow-foot deep in the corners of his eyes; like all he's got is now, like the past is all the way gone.

The big four-poster bed makes him a little uneasy, or the nylon ropes still tied around the foot posts and four of the bars in the brass headboard do. He was expecting something a little more improvisational, a little more Girls Gone Wild. He figured he might even have to show her how to tie a decent knot. She kneels down by the steamer trunk at the foot of the bed and unlocks it and flips up the top with the same ease he'd use on the trunk of his car, then goes through the sex toys inside with the same familiar and unwelcome expertise. She doesn't even need to look at him to feel the sober second thoughts trying to make their way through the buzz.

She just flashes him a smile over her shoulder. "Scared?"

"Hell, no," he says instantly. The bravado takes him through her stripping him down and pressing him flat on his back (not that he needs much bravado for that) and straddling him keeps him distracted long enough for her to attach the padded cuffs to the footposts and the vertical bars in the headboard. The practiced press-and-twist she uses to make sure the cuffs fit tight on his wrists earns her another twitchy look, and she smacks him on the belly. "Easy, cowboy."

"Sure," he says, too high, then clears his throat. "No problem."

She taps a nipple clamp against her palm, considering, and is a little amused at the hitch in his breath. "Uh, sugar ---"

"C'mon," she says, "you'll like it," and snaps it into place.

"Hey!" he protests, then looks sheepish when he realizes it doesn't actually hurt that much. She pinches the next one tighter, since he's not expecting it, and he rewards her with a hiss. She pats his heart, right on top of the talisman she's left hanging around his neck because it won't protect him worth a damn against things like her, and sits back on his thighs to appreciate him for a moment. He just grins up at her, the cocky son of a bitch. She runs her hands over his arms from the wrists to the elbows, luxuriating in the flex of his muscles, the swell of the veins.

All that strength, and she's stronger.

"Yeah, okay," she says, "pretty nice," and his face opens up with gratitude for a second, like no one's ever said that to him before or he hasn't believed it when they did.

He covers it up with a smirk. "Your turn to get naked now?"

She eases back down over him, hands sliding over his shoulders and his chest and tweaking the nipple clamps absently; he blinks hard, but the quaver of his dick against her ass says he likes it okay.

"You know what I think?" She leans over him so close that she's nothing but a dark smear too big too near in his eyes. "I think I'd like it if you didn't talk."

He closes his mouth immediately. He's still smirking, though; she's going to have to take care of that.

She slides off the bed. "I think I'll leave the shirt on," she says from where he can't see her. "You don't mind, do you?" and when he whimpers, she just laughs. She comes back wearing nothing but the nylon harness, less coverage than a bikini bottom, and he makes a grateful "umm" in the back of his throat as she settles back down between his spread thighs. She presses a reproving finger to his mouth. "No talking."

He closes his teeth very gently on her skin, a pinch, not a bite, just enough to show he's not docile even silent and tied up. But then, if he were easy, he wouldn't be nearly as much fun.

She twists around to get the double-headed dildo and the lube from the foot of the bed; notices him craning his head and holds up the dildo so he can get a better look. One of the heads is bigger than his dick and he stares at it thinking clear as day That's just no damn fair before panic chases the offended dignity off his face.

"Oh, honey," she says indulgently, tapping the large head on his knee. "No, that one's for me."

She pours the lube into her hands and rubs her palms together, greasing her fingers, then flattens her lube-slick hands on his belly, lets the force of his breath raise and lower them. "That's not too cold, is it?"

He shakes his head, nervous but game. She can see the tension stiffening his belly and thighs, but he's breathing pretty easy and his cock is still red and slick and quivering a little.

She shoves the base of her palms into the muscles at the base of his stomach and feels them contract with his recoil, then smooths her palms across his hips. She comes back over his knees in a big circle, skimming along the inside his thighs. He begins to shiver, or not even shiver, it's more a vibration of muscles he can't control, and he spreads his knees to give her better access. She makes her touch lighter and lighter yet, palms rising till it's fingers, fingers lifting till it's fingertips, fingertips running up and down the inside of his thighs, lighter still and now even he can't tell whether she's touching him on every stroke or if she's running her fingers just above the skin, prickling the invisible down erect, and he has to close his eyes and drag the breath in and out so he doesn't jerk up into her hands, doesn't move.

She waits till he's carefully exhaling through pursed lips before she bends over and blows on his asshole, light and cool in contrast to the warmth of her hands.

He yelps and she laughs, and on the last inhalation she opens her mouth wide and swallows down the head of his cock, pressing her thumbs deep into the pulse beats in his groin. When she applies more suction, he makes strangled sounds and shudders and blows out his breath like a runner coming down after a race. He blows out even harder when she twists a slick finger up his ass, flinching hard enough for the restraints to yank his wrists up before he forces himself still. Thoughts of escape bounce around his head, staticky and incomplete, and for a moment he tempts her like any body waiting to be filled, like any meat she can wear from the inside out.

But that's not how she wants to fill this one. She rears back, groping for the dildo, and spreads her thighs so she can fit the big head in. He's staring so nicely, with his mouth open and his lips wet, that she shimmies a little, for him, for herself; the fullness inside makes her feel heavy and slow. She rubs at her aching breasts and he half-chokes, his eyes going even bigger. Good enough. She bends down and spreads his ass cheeks apart, pressing the jutting head of the dildo in with one hand, and then has to stop because the pressure back is so damn good. He makes a tense sound in the back of his throat, but she can hardly hear it over the pulse in her ears. He stares up at her, and there it is, so delicious, the fear. His breath rattles in the back of his throat.

"Does it hurt?" she asks throatily, and the rawness of her voice revives his erection just a little.

He works his throat around some words before he gives up and just shakes his head; she can't tell what the words would be, because neither can he. It doesn't hurt, and it doesn't exactly feel good yet, but then it doesn't exactly not. She pushes in farther and watches the sweat bead on his throat. She pulls just a little bit out, pushes back in, and his breath puffs out with an involuntary "huh," like she hit him in the solar plexus. Again, harder, and she can feel the impact through his ribs, heaving against hers, then still. She clutches his hips and fucks him and he rolls his head back and gnaws on his lower lip, a tiny sharp distraction from the sheer wrongness of her intrusion. It's worse than pain; he knows what to do with pain.

She goes still, pressing her hands against his ribs. He's not afraid of being hurt. He's never been afraid of being hurt.

"You want to fight me, don't you?" she whispers, like it's a secret, just between the two of them, and he flushes and then goes so pale his freckles stand out like dried blood. His eyes are naked with longing.

She strokes down his sides, his heaving ribs: sweat-slick skin, bands of muscle and hardness of bone.

She gives him her very truest smile. "Okay, then. Fight."

He heaves up against her, trying to buck her off; it snaps his wrists and ankles tight against the restraints and shoves him onto the dildo hard and deep enough to burn, but he doesn't care. He just fights, thrashing against her and the air, his entire body rigid with it, his eyes narrowed and teeth bared and a deep animal growl coming from the back of his throat. She rides him down to the ground, like breaking a goddamn horse, fucking forward as he pushes back, and he fights and fights and keep fighting, chest heaving and hips jerking long past any hope of breaking free, heels digging into the slippery coverlet as he tries to arch up, wrists and ankles wrenched to jangling raw pain and the muscles of his upper arms locked so solid he's going to be feeling the strain for days. He exhausts himself and fights her still, and for a while she just braces herself on her arms over him and laughs, laughs while he fucks himself on her with his eyes black and blank and his mouth drawn back in a frustrated snarl. She doesn't even have to do anything and he'll still fight. In a few nightmare slippages of time he's not even fighting her, he's struggling against coarse rope, he's screaming silently at the sound of an explosion, something is clawing him open from the inside out.

His muscles betray him, go limp with exhaustion, but he's fighting still, in the blankness inside his head. She's the force fucking forward and he's the body giving way, and that's how it goes, over and over, his body gives, no resistance to her thrusts, even his head lolling back; but his eyes are half-open and glaring and crazy and the only thought in his head is don't give in don't give in. He screams with rage when he comes, and he sobs for breath after, ragged desperate still-furious heaves. She rides him to the end of it with her teeth gritted and her own head thrown back, snarling, "Give it to me, give it to me," and he won't give her victory, the bastard, the bastard, but he'll give her everything else, the rage and the fear and the desperation and the hate; he'll give her everything else, whether he likes it or not, because he may not be ready to give, but she's ready, she's more than ready, to take.


4.

She's been wanting this since he paused and thought about double-crossing her, that arrogant boy; paused and thought about double-crossing her and fingered his rosary with a speculative look and a smile. It may have been what made her go after him in the first place, or at least the second place, that smile. Her beads are a rosary, too, or were, deconsecrated with a priest's curses and a child's dying breath, restrung on double-twisted, blood-stained silk. She picked them up special for this occasion; toyed with them the entire flirtatious prelude, beads smooth under her fingers, and not just to watch the way his mouth hung open when he looked down at her breasts.

She shoves him down on the motel bed and clambers on top of him without bothering to strip either of them out of clothes, just grinds down on the double bump of his zipper and her inseam and the hardness of his dick under that. He laughs a little, breathlessly, and does his damnedest to grind back up, clutching her hips, sneaking fingers beneath her shirt where it rides up.

She lifts the necklace over her head and settles it over his with a teasing smile. He blinks up at her, confused but hopeful, as she loops the end around her hand and pulls. His hips buck up into her and his dick goes harder, involuntary and immediate. She licks the sandpaper stubble of his jaw and then the skin so thin and tender just below, where the stubble pricks harder and his pulse jackhammers against her tongue; then she pulls back far enough to see his face.

"You done this before?" she asks.

He shakes his head, quick, and as quickly arrested by her hold on the necklace; he could break the hold easily, or thinks he could, and that's what counts.

"Don't worry," she says, rocking back and forth against him. "I won't let you get hurt."

Mostly he believes her but more than he'll admit what's turning him on is the way the little no no no in the back of his head has started saying yes. Yes and I could and she could and I should be dead anyway I should be dead I should be dead. The taste of his guilt on her tongue is delicious as blood. He's all pretty and flushed, his bright eyes locked on hers, and he's afraid, she can see it, just a little afraid. She can't help tightening her grip more. More. Too much, he's choking, but still hard rubbing up against her, and she rocks against him harder, harder, tension pulling her entire body into a bow. And now he's tugging at the loops of her jeans, stop, no, but not very certain, not very hard.

She presses herself flat against him, stretches up so she can whisper into his open mouth, "Shh, oh, shh--" and it's too much, it's too good, the entire world washes red as blood and she knows he sees what she is in her eyes. He shoves at her, but she's got the beads around his throat choking tight and now that she's not hiding she doesn't need her hands or her weight to pin him down. She keeps humping him and the strangled sounds he's making aren't no, no matter what he'll try to tell himself later. Humping's not doing enough for her and she reaches down to rub her clit through her jeans. The back of her hand brushes against his dick, and he bucks up against her with a desperate growl. Bitch, he's thinking, bitch, gonna kill you, bitch--

She says, "You should be dead," deep and low, all the way in the back of her throat, and he comes with a half-strangled shout, the jerk of his head pulling the necklace so tight it snaps. Beads spray across the bedspread, hit the floor rolling. His head drops back and she gets her hands around his throat before he can buck her off and strangles him with more than human strength, riding the galvanic jerks of his hips until his vision greys out and he goes limp. She closes her eyes and watches the red burst like a blood vessel on the back of her eyelids.

She should leave before he wakes; this is risky, even for her. So tempting, though, to stay there, to watch his face as he comes to, as he remembers why his throat's bruised and his crotch is sticky with jism; to watch him figure out why hard bumps are sliding beneath his side and shoulder blades when he shifts. Pretty as a princess with a thousand peas, and she does leave the beads there, after all, except for one or two she keeps as souvenirs.



5.

Someone else's marks are all over him, and not just the shoulder and the mottled bruises fading on his pretty face. Someone else's fingerprints are all over his bright, bright soul, an invitation or a blueprint: Your hands here.

She picks a girl with someone else's marks all over her, too: hunched shoulders, downbent head, hugging herself like she can disappear into her own shadow if she just holds on tight enough. The sleek black wing of hair veils her black eye until she looks up, and she does look up, straight at him, before the boyfriend's hand too rough on her upper arm jerks her away.

"What you looking at, bitch," the boyfriend slurs, "what you looking at," and she doesn't even have to answer for him to slap her.

It doesn't take anything more than that: Dean's shouldering between her and the other man and he's using a voice she hasn't heard since the crossroads, because it's not a voice Dean Winchester uses on human women. The two men trade wolf-pack snarls and then it's quick and brutal and the other man's on the floor bleeding with his ribs kicked in. She's got her hands on Dean's arm and her face hidden in the curve of his back and he's bouncing on the balls of his feet (just try and get up you bastard), leaning forward with his fists up (feels so good), practically vibrating with satisfaction (hitting someone not wearing Sammy's face). She's pretty sure she's not even going to have to say please. Somebody's saying something about calling the cops and Dean says, hard and unforgiving, "Yeah, that sounds like a real good idea."

So she has to say please after all, even if it's please no.

"Hey," and his voice is a soft rumble, warm as his hands on her arms, that different that fast. "It's not a bad idea. It's not the first time he hit you, is it."

She just shakes her head, meaning the cops and not the question; but then it's not really a question.

He walks her home, of course. He honestly means that to be all; she catches him by surprise when she pulls him down into a kiss, and it's like their very first kiss at the crossroads, his mouth unyielding and his shoulders stiff with resistance. He lifts her up slightly and deposits her farther away from him, not breathing hard from the kiss and not breathing hard from the exertion, either, despite the stab of pain from the shoulder he forgot to favor. He's startled, even suspicious, for half a second; she hunkers down further, lets unhappiness redden her eyes and bend down her mouth, and the suspicion dissolves in concern.

"Sweetheart, you're in no shape for this," he says, not unkindly, and she raises a hand to her bruised eye and looks away, flushing. "That's not – you're a real pretty girl," and he even means it, "but right now you're in no shape to ... can I call someone for you? Do you know when your roommate's getting home?" Even gentler: "You sure you don't want to file charges?"

"No," she says. "No." She tries a shaky smile on him. "You saved me," she says, and someone who wasn't looking for it would never see the flinch. "You make me feel safe."

He swallows hard. "Look. Look, I'm only in town for tonight, I'm leaving tomorrow ..."

"That's okay." She touches his shoulder, tentative now, light enough that he probably can't feel it through the leather. "I just ... I don't want to think tonight. Do you know what that's like? Just to not want to think?"

He's gentle with her, of course, very gentle; gentle kisses on the mouth, on the shoulder, on the breast; gentle hands sliding over her belly, between her legs; gentle and slow, every pause a silent offer to stop. "It's okay," mouth against his clavicle, "you won't break me," and he just shushes her and palms circles over her back, over and over, more reassurance than seduction. She's gentle, too, avoiding the unfaded bruises, the bandaged shoulder: she uses tongue and breath and feather-light hands, no claws, no teeth. His monologue's softer than usual, slurred, good, okay? You like that? Is that okay? Oh, good. Good girl, thank you, good girl, pretty girl, and she answers him with nothing but soft wordless sounds as they rock each other to orgasm in the dark.

He falls asleep after, incautious as a child. For most of the night his sleep is shallow and restless; she catches no images, just disquiet, unease. A little after two he finally goes under deep enough to dream, and then he's drowning in black water, his lungs burning for air. When he finally breaks the surface, gasping, his father pushes him back under. A minute or an hour or an eternity later, the dream changes: night and dry air, his clothes clammy on his skin, the sound of water lapping against docks. There's a gun in his hand and a pus-yellow moon above, crazy jagged-edged glimpses of broken-down warehouses and a broad-shouldered silhouette, and it's easy, so easy, to take his sights and shoot his brother in the heart. Lost in the echo of the gunshot it's almost a relief to drown again.

He wakes a little before dawn, when the light's still dim and grey; he's still for a moment, checking for threats, and then he slides out of bed and gropes for his jeans on the floor. She pretends the shick of the zipper and the clink of belt wake her and says sleepily, "Stay."

He sits on the bed to lace up his boots without turning to face her. "I gotta go."

She rises up on her knees and embraces him from behind. "I know," she says, muffled, into his bare spine. He smells salty and sweat-sour and very good, and it takes more willpower than she'd have expected not to lick. "I know. I just meant ... stay a little longer. Let me make you coffee."

He's rigid in the circle of her arms. "I'm sorry. I gotta go."

She lets her arms drop. He finishes lacing up his boots, then fishes his shirt off the floor before standing up to face her. He lets her pull his head down, and she kisses each closed eyelid and his resolutely closed mouth.

She releases him with a wistful smile. "I know. You won't be seeing me around, right?"

He hesitates. "Don't see your ex alone, all right?"

She casts her eyes down. "Promise," she lies, and his shoulders slump. She can hear it in his head all the way down the stairs, can't save her didn't save her can't save steady as his heartbeat and just as hurtful, and she can hear the two names he won't let himself think of, the two names he's always thinking of underneath.

She stretches back in her bed and smiles. Don't worry, sweetheart. You may not be seeing me, but I'll sure be seeing you.

--end--

Author's Note

Detailed warnings: Fisting, BDSM, pegging, erotic asphyxiation, dubious consent, and Oedipal issues.

My thanks to geekturnedvamp, minim_calibre, and vaznetti for beta, and to cofax7 and vom_marlowe for offering encouragement in early stages.

The title is from Iron & Wine's "Evening on the Ground (Lilith's Song)".

All comments welcome.

Tags: my fic, supernatural
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