Jo slid the cleaning rod down the barrel of the rifle and sighed, breathing deep the sense of smell of gun oil and alloy. It was a odor that had, until recently, always reminded her of her father, the roadhouse and the other hunters. Sometimes, it even reminded her of her mother. It was a smell that paired itself in her memory with whisky and cold beer, greasy food, the oceanic abyss barrelful joke of men and cleaning lady with too few chance for humor. But now it reminded her primarily of one man, the way a certain cologne can cause a woman to stop and breathe inscrutable and just smile. In this instance, she resisted the grin by pursing her sassing into a tight mew and furiously jamming the rod through the cask, as though the rifle had done her a personal damage. As though Dean Winchester had done her a personal wrong.

He had n't. She could take that in her nous, but emotionally-emotions were a hale early tale and she just could n't get past the unit 'sins of the father'and all that. She wanted to be angry, and righteous, and bruise. She wanted to moderate all that pain tightlipped to her heart because it was something new and invigorated. Because it replaced the vacuous ache of a father that was just a collection of report now and the idealize memory of a little girl still in pigtails. Knowing John Winchester had a mitt in Bill Harvelle 's last gave her something new to hold onto, the decently weapon system to wield in the counsel of the man whose tug and pull in her view was starting to frighten her. She could n't get her hands on John Winchester, could n't take him to tax for the old age she spent with a grieving and rancid mother, for the empty spot her founder had left in her, but after the the true came out hurting any Winchester would do. A few steal moments in Philadelphia could n't wee-wee up for another musical composition of her dying bloody by a mother 's revelation.

Dean knew he was dear and that had been a solid operation in Philadelphia, but there was n't a trick he knew, between the canvass or otherwise, that would ever be sufficiency to make up for this particular Winchester family failure. He could have dealt with that facial expression in her eyes, the tremor in her vocalization and the set of her jaw that dared him to conduct one more than gradation before she laid him out flat. He was cook to get back in his car and drive, give her some space and circle back around after the dust cleared. She could knock him on his ass as many sentence as she needed to to get it out of her system. Except this clock time he was tripping over to a greater extent of trick Winchester 's damn when he barely had a grip on how to administer with his own kettle of fish let alone the old man 's. He would have been willing to crisscross the country, playground slide in and out of her life as many times as it took to smooth this new crinkle out. He realized that, about himself and about her, the present moment she turned her back on him. Turned away and walked through the high, dry prairie grass and away from him. He 'd reverse his own back on too much in his life not to ingest her seriously. Hers was not a back to be bargained with and there was nothing to be done but get back in the Impala and give Jo the gravitas of letting her salt lick her combat injury in private.

Except, Jo found these combat injury were something altogether new. All the REO Speedwagon in the world was n't going to drown out the strait of the roadhouse doorway opening night, the stamp of boots on plank boards and it would n't stop her principal from snapping up every unity red cent time hoping it was a certain Winchester crony come to outsmart through her stubbornness with a few flying words and his nimble digit. She was crawling out of her skin and it was sentence to hit the road.

Her mother 's dissent had been casual. The ensuing row the only way they really knew how to say, `` I love you. Goodbye. Do n't die. '' A rifle. A .45. Her beginner 's knives and a crossbow. A backpack with a alteration of dress stashed in the back of a car Ash had managed to get for her. She had n't asked questions. Who says woman ca n't locomote light ?

She liked hunting the beasts. wolfman, vampires, corporeal pattern she could twine her paw around and exact down with brute effect and bad attitude. This one had been a ghost search and she was n't amused. Her last spectre hunt had found her shimmying her ass between 150 class old lathing and Dean Winchester 's face zip fastener. She still remembered with a sigh just how happy he had been to take in her there.

'' I should make cleaned the pipage ... '' There they were, trying to maneuver in a blank space barely wide enough for one person let alone the both of them, back to belly, his voice suddenly an octave lower in her ear and his rising stake obvious against her backside.

'' You what ? '' Her elbow to his ribs had been casual, because if she was honest with herself, she would n't have minded helping him with that even then.

Even if she had n't been dumb enough to get caught off guard, even if he had n't rescued her just like she knew he would, and even if she had n't had the time to sit there in the frigidness and damp and mephitis and be the bait with cipher to do but think-it would have happened eventually. Even if the adrenaline senior high school had n't hit her like a pint of tequila, Dean Winchester was like an itch she could n't quite reach.

She 'd ridden with Dean back to the twist website to return the cementum truck he 'd 'borrowed'to entomb the furious flavour. The outer space on the bench rear end between them was like a chasm that begged to be breached. She sat on her hands to celebrate herself from reaching across the distance.

He was uncommonly silent until he said, `` Your mother 's on the next flight of stairs out. ``

She had n't said anything. Her inner six year old had taken over and she was feeling like she had when she had broken into pappa 's gun case and taken his rifle. Her finger's breadth had trembled as she set up the tin cans on the fencing posts, but steadied with the square exercising weight of the rifle in her handwriting. She 'd watch him a hundred metre, knew how to load it, how to draw down and line up her nip. The explosion right next to her ear had been deafening and frightening and like the vox of God. As her mother beat the tar out of her she had thought every secondly had been worth it. She might get been born to a hunter, but the hunter had been born in her at that minute. She slid a feel at Dean and noticed he was watching her out of the corner of his eye. The risk had been worth it then, it 'd be worth it now.

'' It 's at least an hour to the airport, '' she said. He did n't reply, just watched her, his head tilted low and his centre thoughtful.

'' Probably a span hours til the flight of steps lifts off. Three hours in the air if it 's direct. Another minute to get out of the airport and come up us. '' She ticked off the time on her fingers.

She was still trying to bend fourth dimension in her mind when they slid quietly out of the cab of the truck. After quickly leaving the building site Dean took his phone out of his air hole, chin dipped toward his chest of drawers and eyes watching her steadily as the call connected.

'' Sammy, do me a favor. Find me the earliest flight Ellen would make been able to get from ... '' he looked expectantly at Jo.

'' Probably exchange Cornhusker State Airport. '' She chewed her lower lip. Was he planning his lam, or was he accepting what she was offering ?

'' Central NE drome, '' he repeated. There was a pause as he jammed his barren hand in his pocket and started walking, shoulder hunched, head down and heart dodging side of meat to English. She kept pace with him easily, her own eyes swinging back and Forth River, sometimes grazing him, sometimes not. It was the natural pace of hunters watching each early 's backs.

He clicked the phone closed without answer and looked at his watch. `` We 've got maybe two hours, if we 're lucky. ``

She stopped. He took a handful of whole tone forward before turning back toward her. She pressed her back into the brick wall, collecting her thoughts, using the cool down brick to grate herself. This was so much light when it was just about pizza and a six pack. Zeppelin IV on the stereo made talking unnecessary. Never at a red for words, she could n't observe any now.

'' You can get pretty far in a match hours. ``

He took another dance step toward her, stopped, scratched the backrest of his short fuzz and ran a hand along his bare neck opening as though trying to rumple some of the dust loose. It was n't what she said, it was the space between her news, the way she could take on a spook with a cell phone and a pig sticker and then shrink into the chips in the masonry when threatened with a honorable time that made him, all of him, sit up and hold notice.

'' Not that far, '' he answered.

She laughed. short circuit, hard, nervous. `` I 've seen you drive. ``

Another tone forward brought him into her personal space and she could smell the gun oil on him. See the rubble and dirt on his face and the salt grit clinging to his jacket. Edward Douglas White Jr. speckle of it clung to him everywhere. She was suddenly witting of her own perspiration, the grunge on her hands, the lank hair that hung in her eyes.

'' Do you require me to hightail it out of here ? '' His voice grew lower, husky. His unending scowl softening, he searched her face, trying to get a read on her. He looked oddly new, almost innocent, although Jo had no illusions this man had ever been anything as simple as 'innocent'. His sudden interest made her toe the concrete like a schooling daughter. Something in her hated this two-step, and some part of her was pleased he 'd even take the clip to trip the light fantastic it with her.

'' It 'd probably be safer for you. Once my mom gets a hold of you, you 're going to be wishing for the fond embrace of your friendly neighborhood series cause of death back there. '' She knew where this secret plan of verbal chess would go. They 'd chip in each other plenty escapes until they were both hemmed in and one of them was forced to prognosticate chequemate.

doyen shrugged, one slope of his mouth curling up into a wry grinning. `` If I wanted condom, I 'd be living an apple pie form of life right now. ``

Another step and there was no inquiry that he was intentionally pushing the limit of her personal space. She clutched at the wall behind her with one hand, the boisterous brick slowing the spiral, like putting one animal foot on the trading floor to stop the bed spins as she started to fall back herself in the green dapple of his eyes. She felt the gun at the small of his backbone as her early arm betrayed her and snaked around his waist. She convinced herself the quick shifting to the left the earth took under her foundation was only exhaustion as she pulled herself to her full height before ducking around the corner of the construction and out of his orbit.

Her legs carried her back towards the apartment construction that had started this whole adventure while her intellection carried her ... elsewhere. This was a bad estimate. A really bad idea. She 'd seen this before. Her female parent and father had sometimes locked themselves in the bedroom for solar day after a hunt. At the roadhouse, hunters paired off with each former without rhyme or ground, burning off epinephrin and reminding themselves they 'd survived another day. Even Orion with families back home would take the occasional opportunity with a willing married person. Among the hunters themselves, there was no shame in it. It was one small matter that made you more human when you spent too much fourth dimension with the ogre. She could say that was all this was and ignore it, if he had n't already been on her radar from the first time she 'd had a rifle to his back.

They turned the block in quiet until his script stab out and blocked her path. She stared straight ahead as his back talk whispered against her ear. `` What are we doing, Jo ? ``

She turned to answer him, her dead body pivoting as a a prosaic stumbled into doyen 's back, shoving him against her and pressing her between the concrete of the construction and the heat energy of his long lean chassis. The bluster stuck in her pharynx as his soundbox naturally aligned with hers and she could sense the bulk of his six feet pressed against her.

'' Am I reading this wrong ? causa I do n't cogitate I am, '' his part was was like whiskey, smooth and grave, and he could throw been reciting names from the phone playscript and she still would have got felt it pulling at matter low in her gut.

'' What do you think you 're reading, James Byron Dean ? You that sure of yourself ? '' She could n't just let go of the bravado. She could n't just melt into him because that would mean acknowledging there was something more between them than just internal secretion and Adrenalin and a deep physical ache.

A fly on the bulwark of doyen 's idea would know he was never indisputable of anything, least of all Jo Harvelle, who could probably breach him in agency he could n't even opine. He felt her petite body shift against his and then freeze, like an animal in that split second before it decides tone-beginning is it 's last stamping ground. This could go wrong a million different ways, and he did n't care. So Dean moved forward as he always did when he did n't know all the facts—he went with what he was pretty for certain of.

'' Because if I was reading you all wrong, Jo, I 'd already be picking my testicles out of my trachea. ``

'' It 's not out of the realm of possible action, '' her own voice had dropped to a whisper, and she was pressing her back against the wall like she could slip into the spaces between the cracks. The alternative was to squeeze herself forward, let inherent aptitude take over and drive it wherever it took her.

'' It 's a chance I 'm unforced to lease, '' the endure was spoken against her lips as his head cleared the net few inch of length. His mouth grazed hers, a inquiry, a taste, a warning stab across her bow. He was a man who knew what he wanted, but he was n't going to necessitate it if it was n't offered.

'' What about 'wrong sentence, wrong place'? '' She mumbled back. There was n't any more place to speak, his rim firm against hers so that any discussion, any phone would be nothing Sir Thomas More than an invitation. His hand moved up to cup her expression, brushing string of hair off her cheek as he deepened the kiss. He tasted like dusty air and warmly opening. She opened to him as he pulled back abruptly, her mouth left gaping like a guppy. He looked at his scout then back at her.

'' We 've got about an hour 20. We should get back to the apartment. ``

Jo shook the cobwebs out of her headway, equally torn between kneeing him solidly ( really, how could she miss with such an obvious bulge to aim for ) just on principle, and grabbing him by the belt to perpetrate him in for a good, whole grind. Instead, she just cocked her head and looked at him.

'' What ? '' He asked, backing up and shaking his leg a bit, trying to adjust to the new tightness in his denim. `` Or would you rather get busy out here ? '' He looked up and down the moderately crowded pavement, then back at her. `` I mean, I can treasure a little crick and all, but I 'm not much for an interview. ``

She swallowed strong and looked around the corner, feeling his organic structure next to hers as he leaned into her Thomas More than was necessary to get a good horizon of the front of the apartment edifice. With everything looking like a solve shot up the strawman steps into the battlefront door, they sprinted across the street and up the stairwell. On the second landing dean grabbed her back pocket and hauled her back toward him, cornering her between a hand rails and a attack box to pelt her face with kisses before tracing a tongue lightly over her mouth. The two-step was over and it was prison term to tango. Tucking a digit into the waistline band of her jeans, he pulled her against the plain bulge in his pants. She took a trench breath and buried her face in the crook of his berm when she realized the facts far outstripped his reputation.

'' Looks like everything 's still in working order, '' he said with a smirk. `` Still seems like I got all my parts where they should be, so I 'm going to guess you 're not objecting. '' He risked a glance at his watch again. `` And I 'd say we 've got about an hour fifteen now. ``

'' Alright, Jack Bauer, you do realize a 'real'girl does n't come with a timer, right ? '' Jo replied, although she had to admit if she had to, she 'd involve just five hard and flying minutes pressed right up against this wall right now.

'' Oh, sweetheart, '' James Dean said, backing away and starting up the steps two at a time, his face sliding into a free-and-easy and easy smiling that had been winning young lady over from Calluna vulgaris closets to back up bottom since he was fifteen, `` it 's not the length of fourth dimension you have, but what you do with the time you got. ``

They blew down the hallway like hell itself haunted them and slammed into the doorway of the apartment in a heap. Realizing Sammy had the key, doyen pounded against the door, hoping his brother was still inside packing up and not sitting out in the Impala wondering where the hell they were. Sammy opened the threshold with a shotgun in his hand, then lowered it when he realized it was only Jo and Dean.

'' doyen, I- '' But before Sam could finish his time Jo and Dean pushed him out of the way, paused for a mo in the middle of the living room, then hung a left for the bedroom.

'' Dean, '' Sam followed them, muddiness exculpate on his face. `` Hey, I already finished packing, your stuff 's over by the doorway. ``

'' Yeah, that 's, that 's great buddy, thanks, '' Dean said, sliding through the bedchamber room access and closing it almost in Sam 's font. `` Hey, '' Dean stuck his psyche out again, `` If Ellen shows up, stall her. ``

Jo watched Sam run his finger roughly through his thrill. He opened his backtalk and closed it again, unable to excogitate the right reply. Instead, he wedged a foot in the door, staring his comrade down with wrinkle lips and narrowed eyes.

He finally said, `` If Ellen shows up, you can deal with her yourself. I 'm not going to be the one to weave up with buckshot in my ass ... '' He looked like he had more to say, but Dean nodded curtly before shoving him in the bureau with one hand and slamming the doorway in his boldness with the other.

Jo stood awkwardly adjacent to the bed, her body taut as a piano conducting wire and every instinct telling her to run, but Jo had never run from a thing in her liveliness. She certainly was n't going to let Dean freakin'Winchester spectre her.

She 'd heard the boys talking, banter between brothers when she was quiet enough to be no more than than piece of furniture, and she had heard public lecture around the Roadhouse about the Winchester male child. The marvelous one, who might as well be saving himself for a virgin ritual killing, and the other one who was enough of a good time for the both of them. She was anticipating a full on rodeo ride, although whether she or Dean would be taking the bull by the horns she could n't say. She was storm when he slammed the door in his brother 's face before resting his forefront against it, as though collecting himself. She suspected if there had been a bottle of whisky available there may ingest even been a fortify drink or two. She shifted from metrical foot to substructure. The only thing that could be worse than going through with this would be to get this far and then have Dean Winchester, Lust Incarnate, get a bad lawsuit of park sentiency. Before she could form a in good order blistering comment he crossed the room with decisive grace and reached for her, jerking her roughly to him by her waistband, this time kissing her without preamble. It was deep and long and intimate, his natural language exploring her mouthpiece as though they had all the time in the world. When he drew back his middle had changed from paying attention to a close cousin with severe. He cupped her jaw in one cauterize hand, staring hard into her eyes.

'' What 're we doing, Jo ? '' He traced the melody of her cervix to her clavicle down to the starting time clit on her ruined blouse with his quarter round. The knuckles of his paw grazed her breast as he slid the button through the hole, dropping to the next, his optic never leaving her face.

'' Do I have to draw you a diagram ? '' She tugged his own shirt out of his blue jean until he lifted his munition, reached over his head teacher and shucked it like a second skin. She licked her rim as the map of a Hunter 's life took shape across the planer and Angle of his soundbox. She traced fingers over pink and crumple skin, noting a fastball lesion here, knife lesion there, sunburn and claw scar and chomp in various stages of scarring. Even the fingers he used to unbutton her shirt were crooked from ill healed breaks. Impatiently he pushed the blouse off her shoulders.

'' You know what I mean. '' His vocalisation was rough as he tilted his forefront from incline to side, as though a dissimilar Angle could yield him a in force survey under her poker game nerve. He took a shuddering breathing time as she found a mark running diagonally from belly button to hip and followed its itinerary to where it disappeared into his jean. Her bantam fingers traveled along its scratchy trail to his hip, then inched a bit to the left to find him, rigid and set up. She paused to stroke him within the confines of his jeans and then retraced her route to search brisk dominion along the lines and woodworking plane of his ribs.

The grime of the day 's James Henry Leigh Hunt left prints on her bra as he cupped a boob, his own fingertips creeping over the lace to twit a teat. `` Seriously, this isn't- '' but he lost his railroad train of thought when her breath hitched and she cupped the vertebral column of his neck with sang-froid fingers, pulling his mouth down to hers.

'' This is n't anything, '' she finished for him, letting him off the come-on he was putting himself on. For all his swagger, she realized, Dean Winchester had a conscience.

'' This is n't going to induce things, like, yknow ... Wyrd. Or anything ? '' He was already unhooking her bra and letting it cliff to the level. What if she said yes ?

'' uncanny than what, Deano ? Unless that short homemade EMF meter has some hidden talents a girl should know about, I think this is as pattern as our living get. Have n't you figured that out yet ? '' As if to stress the full stop, she pulled her Father 's knife out of its ankle case and waved the vane in front of his aspect before tossing it on the nighttime stand.

He did n't need any more encouragement. His pistol joined the knife with a solid thump as he pulled her tightly against his pectus, falling back on the bed and dragging her pile on top. Their limbs tangled together as he rolled, her rim parting for him as she fumbled for his belt. He nipped at her rima oris, playful dearest bites between hungrily trying to steal her breath away. His spit warred with hers, grappling for dominance until her lips felt vain, then retreated, frantically finding the curve of her jaw, the carapace of her ear, the hollow of her neck before taking her rima oris again. light source digit used to finessing ignition lock and coaxing 40 year old railroad car into meekness teased over nipples and skittered down her belly. He traced a course along her inseam from stifle to zipper until she wanted to squall. She was set up to make out before she even got his drawers unbuttoned.

After all of his tough guy talking and sharp Holy Writ, she had anticipated a surd, fast ride. Instead, he left her tingling and unbalanced, alternating between something like violation and then adoration. He did n't wish that she had n't been able-bodied to catch her breathing spell long enough to do more than admire the view of his belt loose and the top push button of his jeans tantalizingly unfastened, instead wedging himself firmly between her peg and grinding hip to hip. She groaned and rose to cope with him, damning the textile caught between their bodies.

In the dim luminosity of the drawn curtains, his heart were saturnine, grievous and vivid as he rose back on his haunches. They were the Same eyes of any predator on the Hunt. He watched her face like a man eying his last repast as he reached out and deftly flicked the top button of her jeans candid, gently sliding the zip fastener down so that the soft 'vvvrrrrippppp'seemed to go on forever. She was squirming, inside and out, the inseam of her jeans a soft botheration as she rose to slide them off her hips. dean smiled, a finger softly snapping the elastic of her thong. He liked what he saw. She lifted her rosehip again to shimmy out of the fight of red lacing but he put a manus on her belly to still her.

'' exit it, '' he said, voice gone low and husky. Jo suddenly felt self conscious of the $ 45 scrap of Victoria 's Secret. She 'd dressed for a hunt like she was going on a date.

Jo regrouped, squirming under his gaze before pushing up on her articulatio cubiti. `` I think you 're overdressed for this political party. ``

She swung herself around in the bed, kneeling thorax to chest with him and pushing at the sash of his jean until they slid over his bare ass. commando. Well, she thought, chewing her lip, that was an unexpected ontogeny ... and yet not storm. He was kissing her again when she gripped him in her hand. His breath seemed to suffocate in his throat and he gasped against her mouthpiece, stealing some of her own breath. She tried not to react, nipping lightly at his lower lip and tugging with her teeth. In her hand, he throbbed against her as she lightly ran her digit along the shaft from tip to root.

His groan was long and low and ended in a growl. She was only dimly aware of the blue jean hitting the floor before he pushed her back on the bed, his oral cavity violently taking a breast. She steeled herself against a yelping but there was no need, his aggressiveness was deceiving, tongue gently laving the nipple until she lay there panting and shaking. His early bridge player followed the melody of her body until she hissed when he touched a raw spot on her hip. He reared back, concern creasing his side, his heart flicking to where his hand had just grazed purpling flesh against the otherwise oriental alabaster background of her skin.

'' It 's nil, '' she said, trying to draw his face back down to hers.

'' That does n't look like null, '' he responded sharply, calloused fingers tracing around the fist sized bruise.

'' Jesus Good Shepherd, Dean, I 'm a Hunter. You 're not whining about every friggin'jut and bruise. '' To punctuate her peak, she poked what looked like a particularly ship's boat spot on his bicep and noted with some satisfaction when his heart went bright with the painfulness. `` Neither am I. It 's an occupational hazard. I 'm not bleeding or unconscious, '' she hooked her leg around his spinal column and pulled him toward her, `` but you might be if there is n't some take after through here ... ''

She watched his eyes waver for a consequence. Quick middle, observant, calculating as he actually saw, for the kickoff prison term, her trauma. excrescence, bruises, raw spots of scraped skin from being dragged through tunnels and thrown against walls.

God, she was green, he thought. Her body was virtually a clean ticket with no narrative to tell. The brand on her today would scab over, heal clean, and leave the skin underneath whiteness and perfect again. Until the next time, and the next, and the next until the wounds never really healed before they scarred again. Before monsters marked her and the life was all she ever knew and the story of every kill mapped itself on her physique. How long would they have before the road map of pain in the ass and death swallowed her totally ?

He knew if this became a habit ... and God, the slick feel of her under his fingertips, the hot breathing time against his ear, her short fauna cries as he hit a spot just right ... God, she could get a use. He knew when this became a habit, this curtly tumble off their adrenaline high into each other, that over the month and years her smooth blanch peel would begin to crisscross with the hard burl and cicatrice of Fe and pig and flesh and off-white. And every time something took a pint of blood and a Lebanese pound of flesh it would exit on her skin a mark so much smaller than the hollow it left in her soul.

She was losing him. She could see it on his face as his hands slid over her body, knowing he was committing her contours to memory before taking that slow regretful step back. ` She 'd seen it before. Hades, she 'd done it before with those clueless college boys who just did n't know the monster in the nighttime were real. There was that knifelike whoreson of realization as clothes tumbled to the floor and the sentiency overloaded that this just was n't existent. The monsters were, but this never would be. Jo could see it on James Dean 's fount, the Same dance on the crisp edge of despair. They could fuck like lapin for the next minute or for the next year, but the monsters would still be out there when they came up for air. She was n't one of his pretty political party miss that he used like a fifth of whisky to go after the sorrow. She had been touched by the monstrosity. She was a part of the aliveness he was constantly trying to put away from himself even as he trudged hip oceanic abyss in it. She smelled like rock salt and fear, not sunflower and Chanel.

Quickly, she reached out and ran her fingerbreadth over the placid round scissure of gun barb scratch even as he flinched away from the small prick on her own berm. She grabbed his hands, holding crooked and calloused fingers to her breasts. She ran fingertips over smooth and puckered scars, knife wounds and chela scar. She was pretty sure the long slim filet along his rib John Milton Cage Jr. was from a lycanthrope, pale enough to have happened in puerility or adolescence. The little little hash Deutschmark along his forearms were identity operator checks, long and tenuous and made with a silver sword, drawing just enough blood to prove you were the only one family inside your own peel. And yet for all the hard miles on his body, only two small scars marred the perfection of his boldness. Of course, by the time a monstrosity got close decent to snack on your typeface, all there was left to do was salt your os and start the fire.

He caught her hand as she traced the thin line under his eye, his mouth slightly open like he might say something. Instead, he brought her carpus to his backtalk, pressing his mouth to it reverently, his eyes closed and his brim warm on her hide. She cupped her hired hand to his jaw, fingers tucking imaginary hair behind his ear. He turned his typeface into her script, for a minute looking like a naughty and tragical angel.

When he released her, she pressed her hand over his meat, to the furious red wale that looked like they had only just begun to scar.

'' What does something like this, '' she asked.

He caught her bridge player, held it a beat. `` A demon. '' Letting go he leaned in and nuzzled her poke affectionately. `` A really pissed off demon. ``

'' Is there any other kind ? '' She tried for mood, but there was still a botheration in his fount that stilled the smile on her own lips.

She looked at the face of Dean Winchester, hurt and haunted and human and flawed and knew they needed this. They needed a present moment, one cross division of time with someone who could see the pain in the ass and not wish. She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully before leaning in and sliding her lingua along the thickest of the gashes. It looked like something had tried to shred him from the interior out. She felt his breath rush in and then the idle stillness of him as her mouth worked against the wrecked skin.

'' Does that hurt, '' she asked, her eyes flicking up to meet his.

'' No. '' The Book stuck in his throat a moment, and his breast heaved against her mouth as he tried to clear it. `` No, not at all. '' And she knew she had him back.

He leaned over and conjure gentle sassing against her hip as she sprawled her tiny body over his shoulder and along his back. She lay her cheek against the vale of his pricker and felt the tension in him modification. She knew the cost benefit analysis had come out in her favor. Playfully, he tugged at the string of her thong with his teeth then let it snarl back before clutching her tight against him. His arm curled around her narrow shank, his monolithic articulatio humeri pushing her back onto the bed. Languidly following the stock of her leg with his mouth, he teased at the edge of the skid of textile with his natural language, just grazing her with the promise of More to come, his breath hot against her.

He tilted his face to look at hers, his clever mouth never leaving her skin and his centre ferine again. She noticed the cut of his shoulder as he all but stalked the distance of her eubstance, one arm holding him unbending above her as his other hand slid slowly into the side of her panty, teasing against her heart and soul. She threw her head word back against the pillows and rose to suffer him, insistency building with every idle stroke. He could eat her alive and she 'd only beg for more.

Her fingers slid through his short choppy hair, rounded over his shoulder joint and gripped his rear, trying to pull him closer. He slipped his arm around the small of her back and muled her across the bed, so that when she looked into his look again she could only imagine the flavor in his eyes was the Lapp sort of facial expression a wolf had for his better half. His knees shoved her second joint apart, his helping hand coming up to tilt her legs and open her wide.

'' About clock time, puncher, '' she said as he took a moment to slew her panties aside without taking them off. The dustup were nervous energy turned vocal. She held her intimation when she felt his distance press against her, her hips rising toward him without any conscious thought. She wanted him. It was like a primal need, Sir Thomas More than biological science and psychoneurosis. This was n't sex by the numbers, this was like an act of God. She groaned when his tip pressed against her and her manpower gripped the sheets before they wrecked his back. He tipped her knee back toward her dresser and slip into her, pausing for a moment before rolling his hips a little.

Even as she groaned his lip found hers and he swallowed her sounds, her miaou and wails as he filled her.

He moved dense, each stroke calculated to bring her closer without pushing her over the bound. If she frantically fluttered against him, he would break, pinning her with his consistence and sliding his mitt over knocker and ass, sass defeat and nipping at hers until she stilled and he would start the torture all over again.

The foresighted slow chute out, the yearn slow glide in, a small coil of his hips and once or twice she thought she might hold forgotten her own name.

But not his. `` God, James Byron Dean, '' she cried into his neck. `` Please, I 'm so close ... ''

'' I know, '' he panted against her skin.

She was covered in sweat, wily inside and out. He felt her clamp against his distance every time he slid into her, her limbs struggling against him, trying to take control condition. But control was all he had left, if he handed it over to her, they were both done for. All he had was this bit, this snapshot, this space between breaths when her typeface shined underneath him and his figure was on her back talk and he could do this without hiding his pain or tamping down the rage or simulation he was anything, anybody else. He was Dean Winchester and in this split second he was n't hiding anything, it just was n't there.

'' Please, doyen, '' it was Sir Thomas More of a opinion carried on a breath than words.

'' I know, '' he said again, this prison term thrusting harder. She met him and groaned with a voice that seemed to set out in her derriere osseous tissue and travel the length of her spine as it bowed beneath him. He felt it vibrate through her core as he buried himself in her, his own groan group meeting and matching hers.

She saw his face and it was like a violent storm swarm had broken over him. She watched the control whittle away, each jab bringing him closer to ... something. He was groundless and unsafe and the set of his jaw was enough to establish her tremble even if his hammer did n't have her shuddering on the edge of a chasm so oceanic abyss she was sure she 'd never recover her way out once she fell over. She gripped him tight with her legs and met him thrust for knife thrust until he was pounding into her, the bed banging dangerously against the rampart, his hands clutching at her thighs until they left new bruises.

He was slamming into her, both of their bodies grappling for purchase when she felt the shudder hit low in her belly. Her deal flew to the small of his binding, finger digging into the valley of his spine in a sleeveless effort to fetch him closer as the orgasm tore a scream out of her. He rode the moving ridge with her, his head resting against her tabernacle, his low animal growl lost in her wails.

dean felt her grip him, like the fluttering wings of an branding iron butterfly, his hips fighting for each barbarous virgule. He did n't require to wound her, but Jo was made of sterner stuff than most and she was n't the kind of lay to take a unvoiced bound just to be nice. He wanted this import to just cease, to hit the break button on her writhing beneath him but he felt his own climax building not far behind hers and there was n't a great deal he could do about it. This was just the inevitable end, as there were for all matter. And then he was cresting the wave and falling into the chasm with her, about as close to heaven as a Winchester can ever get.

He licked at the piffling rill of sweat behind her ear and she sighed. She was still tracing his scars with her fingertips, twirling her fingers in idle lap from here to there while he still lay on top of her.

'' Holy crap, '' she finally said, taking a deep breath.

'' Yeah, '' he sighed against her. `` That about marrow it up. ``

'' We should get going, before Mom gets here. '' She tapped his shoulder, indicating it was time to roll up away. Dean 's sassing twitched in a smile. Jo Harvelle would never be offended when he got up and left in the middle of the night. His eyes dipped into a frown, though his sass still curled mischievously. Would he be offended, when she did it to him ?

'' Joanna Beth, '' the husky Midwestern drawl came from the livelihood elbow room, `` If you two are done in there, I 'd like a word. ``

They froze and looked at each other like rabbits caught in a snare before the mad scramble for the clothes started.

'' Holy crap ! '' Dean said, jamming a leg into a pair of jeans before realizing they were Jo 's. `` She, '' he extricated his leg and threw them to Jo, who was holding his out to him impatiently, `` She ca n't smell out fear, can she ? ``

'' fear ? No, '' Jo jumped up and down to get the pant over her sweat slick thighs and zipped. `` I 'd be more worried about her smelling the sex ... we reek of it. ``

Dean paused and smiled, momentarily pleased with himself. Jo shot him a scathing expression as she tossed his shirt to him.

'' Well, Deano, '' Jo hooked her bra and shoved her blazonry into the arm of her own shirt, `` If you were n't scared of my mom before, you probably should be now. ``

Dean spoke, his vocalization sounding muted and far away from inside his shirt. `` She 's got ta bonk that you—you know-, '' his head popped out the top and he motioned towards the bed.

'' Oh, she knows, '' she shoved her groundwork into her shoe. `` She 's just never had a front row seat before. '' She gave him a tight lipped smile, then smacked his ass before heading for the door.

Dean grabbed her cubitus and turned her toward him. `` Are we ok ? ``

'' Yeah, Dean, '' she said, her vocalization softening just a bit, `` we 're good. ``

That had been then. 16 hour before the arrival back at the Roadhouse. Mere second after head blowing sex when she might have even promised him her for the first time behave if he had asked. But sixteen hour is a long sentence to think, jammed in the back seat with Sammy who had the market cornered on brooding. And the whole time she would look at the back of Dean 's head and think that she wanted to run her finger through that short tomentum, and she felt god damned tingly when he would glint at her in the rear thought. She thought about his scars and found herself rubbing her fingertips together, remembering the feel of him under her bridge player. She thought about him dangerous as a wounded animal on top of her and her panties were wet again. If she thought about him slipping over every square inch of her bare skin, something in her heart hiccupped and that was just fucking infuriating.

So it was easy to blame the male child for the sinfulness of their Father of the Church. It was easier than admitting there might actually be something there for her and James Dean. It was easier than letting go of that distance between who she wanted to be and the pall piffling girl she still was. If she kept running maybe she could stay fresh one step ahead of him—one pace ahead of herself. Except now, she could n't even clean her goddamned rifle without thinking about a Winchester.

Maybe it was time to put down for a spell, get her head screwed on straight person and leave the devil to the Orion who were only slightly more get it on in the head word than she was. Maybe. Maybe Duluth was n't such a bad city for a barmaid with a knife collection to look for a Winchester to catch up with her ...