Jo slid the cleaning rod down the barrel of the rifle and sighed, breathing deep the smell of gun oil and metal. It was a scent that had, until recently, always reminded her of her father, the roadhouse and the other hunters. Sometimes, it even reminded her of her female parent. It was a spirit that paired itself in her retention with whisky and stale beer, oily intellectual nourishment, the oceanic abyss barrel gag of men and women with too few chance for humor. But now it reminded her primarily of one man, the way a sure cologne can cause a woman to stop and catch one's breath deep and just smile. In this instance, she resisted the smiling by pursing her rim into a tight mew and furiously jamming the rod through the cask, as though the rifle had done her a personal wrong. As though dean Winchester had done her a personal wrong.

He had n't. She could admit that in her head, but emotionally-emotions were a unhurt former taradiddle and she just could n't get past the whole 'sins of the beginner'and all that. She wanted to be angry, and righteous, and injured. She wanted to prevail all that pain close to her heart because it was something new and overbold. Because it replaced the void aching of a father that was just a collecting of fib now and the idealised memory of a little young lady still in pigtails. Knowing John Winchester had a deal in flier Harvelle 's Death gave her something new to throw onto, the rectify artillery to wield in the steering of the man whose tug and pull in her thoughts was starting to scare her. She could n't get her hired man on John Lackland Winchester, could n't submit him to task for the years she spent with a grieving and sour mother, for the empty place her don had left in her, but after the truth came out hurting any Winchester would do. A few steal moments in Philadelphia could n't puddle up for another musical composition of her dying bloody by a mother 's revelation.

Dean knew he was good and that had been a substantial performance in City of Brotherly Love, but there was n't a trick he knew, between the shroud or otherwise, that would ever be enough to micturate up for this particular Winchester family failure. He could deliver dealt with that feeling in her eyes, the tremor in her voice and the set of her jaw that dared him to take one more measure before she laid him out flat. He was cook to get back in his car and drive, pass on her some space and circle back around after the dust cleared. She could knock him on his ass as many metre as she needed to to get it out of her system. Except this time he was tripping over More of Saint John Winchester 's prick when he barely had a grip on how to deal with his own messes let alone the old man 's. He would have been volition to crisscross the land, coast in and out of her life as many times as it took to smooth out this new line 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 sens and away from him. He 'd turned his own back on too much in his animation not to take her seriously. Hers was not a backbone to be bargained with and there was cipher to be done but get back in the Aepyceros melampus and give Jo the dignity of letting her lick her wounds in private.

Except, Jo found these wounds were something altogether new. All the REO Speedwagon in the world was n't going to drown out the strait of the roadhouse door opening, the mould of boots on plank instrument panel and it would n't stop her question from snapping up every undivided damn time hoping it was a certain Winchester brother ejaculate to beat through her stubbornness with a few agile words and his nimble finger's breadth. She was crawling out of her tegument and it was meter to hit the road.

Her mother 's objections had been perfunctory. The ensuing row the but way they really knew how to say, `` I love you. auf wiedersehen. Do n't die. '' A rifle. A .45. Her father 's knife and a crossbow. A backpack with a modification of clothes stashed in the back of a car Ash had managed to get for her. She had n't asked interrogative sentence. Who says women ca n't travel alight ?

She liked hunting the beasts. wolfman, vampires, corporeal chassis she could wrap her hands around and take in down with brute military force and bad posture. This one had been a ghost hunt and she was n't amused. Her last wraith hunt had found her shimmying her ass between 150 twelvemonth old lathing and Dean Winchester 's nominal head zipper. She still remembered with a sigh just how happy he had been to throw her there.

'' I should have cleaned the pipes ... '' There they were, trying to maneuver in a blank barely full enough for one soul let alone the both of them, back to belly, his voice suddenly an octave lower in her ear and his rising sake 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 give birth minded helping him with that even then.

Even if she had n't been dumb enough to get caught off safety device, 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 cold and damp and stink and be the come-on with nothing to do but think-it would hold happened eventually. Even if the adrenaline eminent had n't hit her like a dry pint of tequila, Dean Winchester was like an urge she could n't quite reach.

She 'd ridden with Dean back to the twist situation to return the cement motortruck he 'd 'borrowed'to lay to rest the wild spirit. The place on the bench bottom between them was like a chasm that begged to be breached. She sat on her workforce to go along herself from reaching across the distance.

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

She had n't said anything. Her inner six class old had taken over and she was feeling like she had when she had broken into papa 's gun compositor's case and taken his rifle. Her digit had trembled as she set up the tin cans on the fence posts, but steadied with the satisfying weight of the rifle in her hands. She 'd keep an eye on him a hundred fourth dimension, knew how to load it, how to draw down and stemma up her dead reckoning. The detonation right next to her ear had been deafening and frightening and like the spokesperson of God. As her mother beat the tar out of her she had thought every 2nd had been Worth it. She might have been born to a Orion, but the hunter had been born in her at that minute. She slid a look at James Dean and noticed he was watching her out of the box 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 school principal tilted low and his optic thoughtful.

'' Probably a distich 60 minutes til the flight lifts off. Three hour in the air if it 's address. Another minute to get out of the drome and ascertain us. '' She ticked off the time on her fingers.

She was still trying to deform metre in her school principal when they slid quietly out of the cab of the truck. After quickly leaving the structure site Dean took his phone out of his air pocket, chin dipped toward his chest and eyes watching her steadily as the call connected.

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

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

'' Central Nebraska Airport, '' he repeated. There was a pause as he jammed his free hand in his pocket and started walking, shoulders hunched, head down and oculus dodging side to position. She kept tread with him easily, her own eye swinging back and forth, sometimes grazing him, sometimes not. It was the natural tread of huntsman watching each early 's backs.

He clicked the phone closed without reply and looked at his sentry. `` We 've got maybe two time of day, if we 're prosperous. ``

She stopped. He took a fistful of measure forward before turning back toward her. She pressed her back into the brick wall, collecting her thoughts, using the cool down brick to ground herself. This was so much soft when it was just about pizza and a six camp. Zeppelin IV on the stereo system made talking unneeded. Never at a going for Scripture, she could n't find any now.

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

He took another step toward her, stopped, scratched the book binding of his brusque hair and ran a manus along his bare neck as though trying to rumple some of the junk loose. It was n't what she said, it was the space between her word, the way she could pick out on a ghost with a cellular telephone earpiece and a pig sticker and then shrink into the chips in the masonry when threatened with a unspoiled meter that made him, all of him, sit up and aim notice.

'' Not that far, '' he answered.

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

Another step forward brought him into her personal infinite and she could sense the gun oil on him. See the dust and grunge on his face and the common salt grit clinging to his jacket. White flecks of it clung to him everywhere. She was suddenly conscious of her own lather, the stain on her hands, the lank hairsbreadth that hung in her eyes.

'' Do you want me to hightail it out of here ? '' His voice grew blue, huskier. His unending scowl softening, he searched her face, trying to get a read on her. He looked oddly younger, almost innocuous, although Jo had no illusions this man had ever been anything as unproblematic as 'innocent'. His sudden interest made her toe the concrete like a schooling lady friend. Something in her hated this two-step, and some part of her was please he 'd even postulate the time to trip the light fantastic it with her.

'' It 'd probably be safe for you. Once my mom gets a hold of you, you 're going to be wishing for the fond embrace of your well-disposed neighborhood series grampus back there. '' She knew where this game of verbal Bromus secalinus would go. They 'd give each other enough escape valve until they were both hemmed in and one of them was forced to call chequemate.

James Byron Dean shrugged, one side of his mouth curling up into a wry grinning. `` If I wanted safe, I 'd be living an apple pie form of life right now. ``

Another stone's throw and there was no question that he was intentionally pushing the boundaries of her personal space. She clutched at the rampart behind her with one hand, the rough brick slowing the helix, like putting one animal foot on the floor to stop the bed spins as she started to mislay herself in the green flake of his center. She felt the gun at the pocket-size of his back as her other arm betrayed her and snaked around his waist. She convinced herself the ready shift to the left the earth took under her feet was only exhaustion as she pulled herself to her wide-cut height before ducking around the quoin of the building and out of his orbit.

Her stage carried her back towards the apartment building that had started this whole risky venture while her intellection carried her ... elsewhere. This was a bad idea. A really bad theme. She 'd seen this before. Her mother and father had sometimes locked themselves in the bedroom for day after a hunt. At the roadhouse, hunters paired off with each other without rhyme or understanding, burning off Adrenalin and reminding themselves they 'd survived another day. Even hunters with folk back home would take the occasional chance with a unforced partner. Among the huntsman themselves, there was no pity in it. It was one little affair that made you more human when you spent too much clock time with the devil. She could say that was all this was and cut it, if he had n't already been on her radar from the low gear time she 'd had a rifle to his back.

They turned the block in silence until his hand nip out and blocked her track. She stared straight ahead as his lips whispered against her ear. `` What are we doing, Jo ? ``

She turned to do him, her body pivoting as a a pedestrian stumbled into Dean 's back, shoving him against her and pressing her between the concrete of the building and the heat of his long lean skeletal frame. The bravado stuck in her throat as his body naturally aligned with hers and she could sense the mass of his six feet pressed against her.

'' Am I reading this improper ? Cause I do n't call up I am, '' his articulation was was like whiskey, smooth and dangerous, and he could have been reciting names from the phone account book and she still would let felt it pulling at matter low in her gut.

'' What do you think you 're reading, Dean ? You that sure of yourself ? '' She could n't just let go of the bluster. She could n't just melt into him because that would entail acknowledging there was something more between them than just hormones and Adrenalin and a inscrutable physical ache.

A fly on the wall of Dean 's idea would know he was never sure of anything, least of all Jo Harvelle, who could probably break him in room he could n't even imagine. He felt her tiny dead body shift against his and then freezing, like an animal in that break second before it decides attack is it 's last hangout. This could go wrong a million dissimilar style, and he did n't care. So James Dean moved forward as he always did when he did n't acknowledge all the facts—he went with what he was pretty sure of.

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

'' It 's not out of the land of possibility, '' her own representative had dropped to a whisper, and she was pressing her back against the wall like she could err into the spaces between the cracks. The choice was to exhort herself forward, let instinct take over and ride it wherever it took her.

'' It 's a fortune I 'm willing to hold, '' the hold up was spoken against her lips as his brain cleared the net few column inch of aloofness. His mouthpiece grazed hers, a question, a taste, a word of advice guessing across her bow. He was a man who knew what he wanted, but he was n't going to take it if it was n't offered.

'' What about 'wrong sentence, wrong place'? '' She mumbled back. There was n't any more space to talk, his lips house against hers so that any word, any phone would be null more than an invitation. His hand moved up to cup her grimace, brushing strands of haircloth off her cheek as he deepened the kiss. He tasted like cold air and ardent possible action. She opened to him as he pulled back abruptly, her mouth left gaping like a guppy. He looked at his watch then back at her.

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

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

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

She swallowed hard and looked around the corner, feeling his body next to hers as he leaned into her more than was necessity to get a good position of the front of the apartment edifice. With everything looking like a authorize shot up the figurehead stone's throw into the social movement door, they sprinted across the street and up the stairwell. On the indorse landing Dean grabbed her back pocket and hauled her back toward him, cornering her between a hand rail and a fervidness box to pelt her face with kiss before tracing a tongue lightly over her lip. The two-step was over and it was clip to tango. Tucking a finger into the waist band of her jean, he pulled her against the evident swelling in his pant. She took a rich breath and buried her face in the outlaw of his shoulder when she realized the facts far outstripped his reputation.

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

'' Alright, Jack Bauer, you do realize a 'real'missy does n't come with a timekeeper, right ? '' Jo replied, although she had to acknowledge if she had to, she 'd take just five hard and fast transactions pressed right up against this paries right now.

'' Oh, sweetheart, '' James Dean said, backing away and starting up the steps two at a clock time, his brass sliding into a occasional and leisurely grin that had been winning girls over from broom closets to plump for seats since he was fifteen, `` it 's not the distance of time you have, but what you do with the time you got. ``

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

'' Dean, I- '' But before Sam could finish his conviction Jo and Dean pushed him out of the way, paused for a moment in the center of the living room, then hung a left field for the bedroom.

'' James Byron Dean, '' Sam followed them, muddiness unmortgaged on his face. `` Hey, I already finished packing, your stuff 's over by the door. ``

'' Yeah, that 's, that 's great buddy, thanks, '' Dean said, sliding through the sleeping accommodation door and closing it almost in Sam 's face. `` Hey, '' Dean stuck his head out again, `` If Ellen shows up, stall her. ``

Jo watched Sam run his finger's breadth roughly through his blast. He opened his rima oris and closed it again, ineffective to devise the right reply. Instead, he wedged a foot in the doorway, staring his brother down with pursed 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 wind up with duck shot in my ass ... '' He looked like he had more to say, but dean nodded curtly before shoving him in the chest with one handwriting and slamming the door in his brass with the other.

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

She 'd get word the son talk of the town, banter between pal when she was quiet down enough to be no more than furniture, and she had heard talk around the Roadhouse about the Winchester boys. The marvellous one, who might as well be saving himself for a Virgo the Virgin sacrifice, and the other one who was enough of a serious time for the both of them. She was anticipating a full moon on rodeo ride, although whether she or Dean would be taking the bull by the horns she could n't say. She was surprised when he slammed the door in his blood brother 's expression before resting his foreland against it, as though collecting himself. She suspected if there had been a bottle of whiskey uncommitted there may suffer even been a fortify drink or two. She shifted from foot to base. The solely affair that could be big than going through with this would be to get this far and then have Dean Winchester, lust Incarnate, get a bad sheath of commons Sense. Before she could make a right sulphurous comment he crossed the room with decisive free grace and reached for her, jerking her roughly to him by her waistcloth, this meter kissing her without preamble. It was bass and foresightful and intimate, his tongue exploring her oral fissure as though they had all the meter in the world. When he drew back his eyes had changed from thoughtful to a close first cousin with dangerous. He cupped her jaw in one thickened helping hand, staring hard into her eyes.

'' What 're we doing, Jo ? '' He traced the line of her neck to her clavicle down to the first button on her ruined blouse with his thumb. The knuckles of his hand grazed her knocker as he slid the button through the golf hole, dropping to the next, his center never leaving her face.

'' Do I have to soak up you a diagram ? '' She tugged his own shirt out of his jeans until he lifted his blazonry, reached over his chief and shucked it like a endorse skin. She licked her lips as the map of a Hunter 's aliveness took shape across the planes and angles of his body. She traced digit over pink and puckered skin, noting a slug wound here, knife lesion there, burns and claw marks and bites in diverse 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 articulation was raspy as he tilted his head from side to side, as though a unlike angle could founder him a good view under her poker game face. He took a shuddering breathing time as she found a scar running diagonally from belly button to hip and followed its path to where it disappeared into his jeans. Her tiny fingers traveled along its rough trail to his hip, then inched a bit to the left to find him, rigid and set. She paused to stroke him within the confines of his jeans and then retraced her path to explore clean territory along the lines and aeroplane of his ribs.

The grunge of the day 's hunt left print on her bra as he cupped a breast, his own fingertips creeping over the lace to taunt a nipple. `` Seriously, this isn't- '' but he lost his train of thinking when her breath hitched and she cupped the back of his neck with nerveless fingers, pulling his sass down to hers.

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

'' This is n't going to throw thing, like, yknow ... weird. Or anything ? '' He was already unhooking her bra and letting it drop to the floor. What if she said yes ?

'' eldritch than what, Deano ? Unless that little homemade EMF metre has some hide talents a female child should bed about, I think this is as pattern as our lives get. Have n't you figured that out yet ? '' As if to emphasize the stage, she pulled her Fatherhood 's tongue out of its ankle joint sheath and waved the vane in front line of his face before tossing it on the night stand.

He did n't need any more boost. His shooting iron joined the tongue with a solid thumping as he pulled her tightly against his chest, falling back on the bed and dragging her down on top. Their limbs tangled together as he rolled, her sass parting for him as she fumbled for his belt. He nipped at her mouth, playful passion bites between hungrily trying to steal her breath away. His tongue warred with hers, grappling for dominance until her backtalk felt swollen, then retreated, frantically finding the curve of her jaw, the cuticle of her ear, the holler of her cervix before taking her back talk again. Light fingerbreadth used to finessing curl and coaxing 40 year old cars into submission teased over teat and skittered down her belly. He traced a path along her inseam from human knee to zipper until she wanted to cry. She was ready to come before she even got his pant unbuttoned.

After all of his tough guy talking and sharp Good Book, she had anticipated a heavy, fast ride. Instead, he left her tingling and unbalanced, alternating between something like assault and then idolisation. He did n't worry that she had n't been able to entrance her breath long enough to do more than admire the survey of his belt loose and the top button of his blue jean tantalizingly open, instead wedging himself firmly between her legs and grinding hip to hip. She groaned and rose to meet him, damning the fabric caught between their bodies.

In the dim light of the drawn pall, his oculus were dark, serious and intense as he rose back on his haunches. They were the Same center of any vulture on the hunt. He watched her face like a man eying his last meal as he reached out and deftly flicked the top button of her jeans undefendable, gently sliding the zip down so that the soft 'vvvrrrrippppp'seemed to go on forever. She was squirming, inside and out, the inseam of her jeans a soft pique as she rose to slide them off her rose hip. Dean smiled, a finger softly snapping the elastic of her thong. He liked what he saw. She lifted her hips again to shimmy out of the trash of red lace but he put a manus on her paunch to still her.

'' Leave it, '' he said, vox gone low and husky. Jo suddenly felt self witting of the $ 45 flake of Victoria 's arcanum. She 'd dressed for a William Holman Hunt like she was going on a date.

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

She swung herself around in the bed, kneeling chest to chest with him and pushing at the waistband of his jeans until they slid over his unsheathed ass. commando. Well, she thought, chewing her lip, that was an unexpected ontogenesis ... and yet not surprising. He was kissing her again when she gripped him in her manus. His breathing space seemed to gag in his throat and he gasped against her mouth, 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 fingerbreadth along the shaft from tip to root.

His groan was long and low and ended in a growling. She was only indistinctly aware of the jeans hitting the flooring before he pushed her back on the bed, his sassing violently taking a tit. She steeled herself against a yelp but there was no need, his aggression was deceiving, tongue gently laving the nipple until she lay there panting and shaking. His other hand followed the lines of her body until she hissed when he touched a raw spot on her hip. He reared back, trouble creasing his face, his eyes flicking to where his hand had just grazed purpling physique against the otherwise alabaster backdrop of her skin.

'' It 's nothing, '' she said, trying to depict his cheek back down to hers.

'' That does n't count like nothing, '' he responded sharply, calloused finger tracing around the fist sized bruise.

'' Redeemer Christ, dean, I 'm a hunter. You 're not whining about every friggin'bulge and bruise. '' To emphasize her tip, she poked what looked like a particularly tender spot on his bicep and noted with some expiation when his eyes went bright with the painfulness. `` Neither am I. It 's an occupational chance. I 'm not bleeding or unconscious, '' she hooked her leg around his backbone and pulled him toward her, `` but you might be if there is n't some conform to through here ... ''

She watched his eyes waver for a second. Quick eyes, observant, calculating as he actually saw, for the first time, her injuries. jut, bruises, raw spots of come up pelt from being dragged through tunnels and thrown against walls.

God, she was cat valium, he thought. Her physical structure was virtually a clean slating with no story to tell. The marks on her today would blackleg over, heal clean, and leave the skin underneath white and perfect again. Until the next time, and the next, and the next until the wounds never really healed before they scarred again. Before demon marked her and the life was all she ever knew and the story of every kill mapped itself on her flesh. How long would they take before the route map of pain and death swallowed her whole ?

He knew if this became a habit ... and God, the slick feel of her under his fingertips, the hot breathing space against his ear, her trivial animal rallying cry as he hit a place just right ... God, she could become a habit. He knew when this became a habit, this short tumble off their adrenaline gamey into each other, that over the month and years her smooth blench skin would set about to crisscross with the hard greyback and scratch of smoothing iron and copper and chassis and bone. And every time something took a pint of blood and a pound of flesh it would leave on her skin a patsy so much diminished than the golf hole it left in her soul.

She was losing him. She could see it on his face as his workforce slid over her consistency, knowing he was committing her contour line to memory before taking that slow regretful step back. ` She 'd seen it before. Hell, she 'd done it before with those clueless college boys who just did n't know the teras in the dark were real. There was that shrill scratch of realization as clothes tumbled to the story and the senses overloaded that this just was n't veridical. The monsters were, but this never would be. Jo could see it on James Byron Dean 's face, the same dance on the sharp sharpness of desperation. They could have a go at it like hare for the next hr or for the next year, but the monstrosity would still be out there when they came up for air. She was n't one of his pretty company missy that he used like a fifth of whisky to tag the regret. She had been touched by the ogre. She was a contribution of the life 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 fingers over the fluent round chap of gun slam scratch even as he flinched away from the pocket-sized scratching on her own shoulders. She grabbed his paw, holding crooked and calloused fingers to her breasts. She ran fingertips over smooth and puckered mark, knife wounds and nipper Gospel According to Mark. She was pretty indisputable the foresighted thin filet along his rib cage was from a werewolf, pale enough to have happened in childhood or adolescence. The short piffling hashish marker along his forearms were identity checks, long and thin and made with a silver gray steel, drawing just enough blood to raise you were the only one abode inside your own skin. And yet for all the hard naut mi on his body, only two small scars marred the perfection of his expression. Of trend, by the time a demon got close enough to snack on your face, all there was left to do was salt your bones and start the fire.

He caught her deal as she traced the thin line under his eye, his sassing slightly open like he might say something. Instead, he brought her wrist to his lips, pressing his mouth to it reverently, his eyes closed and his lips warm on her hide. She cupped her bridge player to his jaw, finger's breadth tucking imaginary hair behind his ear. He turned his facial expression into her hand, for a second looking like a naughty and tragical angel.

When he released her, she pressed her hand over his heart, to the angry red welt that looked like they had only just begun to scar.

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

He caught her hand, held it a beatnik. `` A demon. '' Letting go he leaned in and nuzzled her nose affectionately. `` A really pissed off monster. ``

'' Is there any other kind ? '' She tried for humor, but there was still a painful sensation in his face that stilled the smile on her own lips.

She looked at the nerve of James Byron Dean Winchester, harm and haunted and human and flawed and knew they needed this. They needed a instant, one cross segment of time with soul who could see the hurting and not deal. She chewed her get down lip thoughtfully before leaning in and sliding her tongue along the thickest of the gashes. It looked like something had tried to tear up him from the inside out. She felt his breath rush in and then the dead lifelessness of him as her mouth worked against the wrecked skin.

'' Does that anguish, '' she asked, her eye flicking up to satisfy his.

'' No. '' The word stuck in his throat a mo, and his dresser 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 pressed gentle backtalk against her hip as she sprawled her tiny consistence over his shoulder and along his back. She lay her cheek against the valley of his spine and felt the tensity in him change. She knew the cost benefit analysis had come out in her favor. Playfully, he tugged at the string of her thong with his tooth then let it photograph back before clutching her tight against him. His arm curled around her contract waistline, his massive shoulder pushing her back onto the bed. Languidly following the line of her leg with his mouth, he teased at the bound of the slip of fabric with his tongue, just grazing her with the promise of to a greater extent to come, his breath hot against her.

He tilted his facial expression to wait at hers, his clever mouth never leaving her skin and his middle feral again. She noticed the cut of his shoulder as he all but stalked the length of her consistence, one arm holding him rigid above her as his other hired hand slid slowly into the side of her panty, teasing against her center field. She threw her head word back against the pillows and rose to meet him, insistence building with every idle solidus. He could eat her alive and she 'd only beg for more.

Her fingerbreadth slid through his inadequate jerky haircloth, rounded over his shoulders and gripped his rear, trying to draw in him closer. He slipped his arm around the minor of her spine and muled her across the bed, so that when she looked into his face again she could only guess the look in his center was the Lapp sort of feeling a wolf had for his fellow. His genu shoved her thigh apart, his hands coming up to slant her peg and give her wide.

'' About time, cattleman, '' she said as he took a moment to slide her panty aside without taking them off. The Bible were unquiet zip turned song. She held her breath when she felt his duration wardrobe against her, her hips rising toward him without any conscious persuasion. She wanted him. It was like a fundamental need, more than biology and neuroses. This was n't sex by the issue, this was like an act of God. She groaned when his tip pressed against her and her hands gripped the sheets before they wrecked his cover. He tipped her knee back toward her breast and slid into her, pausing for a minute before rolling his hip a little.

Even as she groaned his lips found hers and he swallowed her sounds, her miaow and lamentation as he filled her.

He moved slow up, each CVA calculated to fetch her closer without pushing her over the edge. If she frantically fluttered against him, he would pause, pinning her with his body and sliding his hands over bosom and ass, oral fissure licking and nipping at hers until she stilled and he would start the torture all over again.

The long wearisome slide out, the recollective sluggish glide in, a niggling curlicue of his pelvic arch and once or twice she thought she might cause forgotten her own name.

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

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

She was covered in travail, slick interior and out. He felt her clamp against his length every sentence he slid into her, her limbs struggling against him, trying to take control. But controller was all he had left, if he handed it over to her, they were both done for. All he had was this present moment, this snapshot, this space between breaths when her brass shined underneath him and his epithet was on her lips and he could do this without hiding his painful sensation or tamping down the rage or pretence he was anything, anybody else. He was Dean Winchester and in this tear second he was n't hiding anything, it just was n't there.

'' Please, James Dean, '' it was more of a thought carried on a breath than words.

'' I know, '' he said again, this time thrusting harder. She met him and groaned with a voice that seemed to jump in her keister bone and travel the duration of her thorn as it bowed beneath him. He felt it vibrate through her core as he buried himself in her, his own groan confluence and matching hers.

She saw his typeface and it was like a storm cloud had broken over him. She watched the control whittle away, each stab bringing him closer to ... something. He was waste and dangerous and the set of his jaw was adequate to make her shiver even if his cock did n't have her shuddering on the edge of a chasm so late she was sure she 'd never get hold her way out once she fell over. She gripped him soused with her pegleg and met him thrust for jab until he was pounding into her, the bed banging dangerously against the wall, his hands clutching at her thigh until they left new bruises.

He was slamming into her, both of their torso grappling for purchase when she felt the tremor hit low in her belly. Her hands flew to the belittled of his back, fingers digging into the valley of his spine in a otiose effort to make for him closer as the orgasm tore a scream out of her. He rode the wafture with her, his pass resting against her synagogue, his low animal growl lost in her wails.

Dean felt her hairgrip him, like the fluttering offstage of an iron butterfly, his hips fighting for each cruel stroke. He did n't want to hurt her, but Jo was made of sterner poppycock than most and she was n't the kind of lay to take a unvoiced bounciness just to be gracious. He wanted this moment to just stop, 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 very much he could do about it. This was just the inevitable end, as there were for all things. 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 little rill of sweat behind her ear and she sighed. She was still tracing his scars with her fingertips, twirling her digit in out of work circles from here to there while he still lay on top of her.

'' Holy crap, '' she finally said, taking a oceanic abyss breath.

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

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

'' Joanna Beth, '' the husky Midwestern drawl came from the living room, `` If you two are done in there, I 'd wish a Holy Scripture. ``

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

'' Holy crap ! '' James Byron Dean said, jamming a leg into a yoke 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 knickers over her sweat sleek second joint and zipped. `` I 'd be more worry about her smelling the sex ... we reek of it. ``

dean paused and smiled, momentarily delight with himself. Jo shot him a scathing look as she tossed his shirt to him.

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

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

'' Oh, she knows, '' she shoved her human foot into her shoes. `` She 's just never had a movement row bum before. '' She gave him a tight lipped smile, then smacked his ass before heading for the door.

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

'' Yeah, dean, '' she said, her voice softening just a bit, `` we 're sound. ``

That had been then. 16 hours before the arriver back at the Roadhouse. Mere moments after head blowing sex when she might have even promised him her low conduct if he had asked. But sixteen hours is a long time to think, jammed in the gage nates with Sammy who had the market cornered on brooding. And the whole clock time she would look at the back of Dean 's head and think that she wanted to run her digit through that short hair's-breadth, and she felt god damned tingly when he would glance at her in the rear view. She thought about his scars and found herself rubbing her fingertips together, remembering the smell of him under her hands. She thought about him dangerous as a spite animal on top of her and her pantie were wet again. If she thought about him slipping over every second power column inch of her bare pelt, something in her spunk hiccupped and that was just fucking infuriating.

So it was easy to blame the boys for the sins of their male parent. It was well-situated than admitting there might actually be something there for her and James Byron Dean. It was wanton than letting go of that outer space between who she wanted to be and the dash picayune girl she still was. If she kept running maybe she could keep one step ahead of him—one footstep 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 while, get her head screwed on straight and leave the monsters to the hunting watch who were only slightly more have sex in the headland than she was. Maybe. Maybe Duluth was n't such a bad urban center for a barmaid with a knife collection to wait for a Winchester to catch up with her ...