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Jan. 18th, 2006 05:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hopeitsworthitThe sun outside is surprisingly warm for the season, though the lake still looks black and ice cold. The demon bunnies are nowhere to be found, perhaps having learned that something about their coloring has turned them into natural targets.
Which is disappointing to Dean, no question. Snarling to himself, he primes his gun with a satisfying click and peers down the sight, looking for a spot of blood red.
He finds it, huge and looming against a tree. Grinning, he aims--
And stops, instinct pulling his head up, and sees her, (because she's a woman again, no more mindfuck-tactic of showing up as Sam) leaning casually against a tree at the forest's edge, brown hair free and left almost black against the red of her sweater.
There's no doubt that she wore it for him.
Dean doesn't need to see her up close to know she's winked at him.
He takes two steps toward her -- She's going to tell him what he wants to know, today, now.
And like that, she's off like a shot into the trees.
The animal part of Dean's brain reacts to the hunt.
He runs after her, gun still reflexively clenched in his hand.
He stops to catch his breath a hundred yards or so in: Dean glares, looking everywhere. How someone with a bright red shirt and skin that pale could hide in the deep green of the forest seems impossible -- Hell, if he didn't know what she was, he would have sworn there was a Wendigo in these woods that snatched her away. No way an ordinary girl could get away like that -- but he knows she isn't your ordinary female.
She's Desire.
And she's dangerous.
He catches a dart of red out of the corner of his eye: He whirls toward it, wary and gun trained.
Just as soon spotted as gone. Still, he has a direction. Dean chases her deeper into the forest.
The clearing is something of a shock, opening up before him like magic -- more than enough to set Dean's senses on alert, pushing back that vaguely bestial haze that settled into his brain during the chase. He doesn't just stride in, though it's tempting: He's not worried about walking in and calling Desire out, there beneath the open sky.
No. He wants to catch her before she catches him. He'll never get the answers he wants on her terms.
Anyway, he's the one with the gun.
Edging along the line of trees, he's watching ahead and to the side for any flash of red, anything betraying her hiding place. She has to be hiding: He can't fucking hear her moving, the silence here deafening; no birdsong -- hell, no animals, no sound of water, and not much of a breeze in the trees above. Dean's uncomfortably aware of the foliage crunching beneath his feet in the stillness.
"Looking for someone?"
And she's there, a laugh audible in her pleasurably alto voice. She grins at him like this is a game -- hide and fucking seek, one pale hand wrapped around a branch above her head. He swears she's on display, her breasts jutting out against the knitted red button-down and hips tilted just so.
He swallows past the lump rising in his throat, widening his stance as he brings the piece up and pointing it at her. He ignores the trickle of sweat working down his hairline from his temple, steadies his glock with both hands. "You're going to give me answers."
"Of course."
He grits his teeth, knowing she'd twist it. "You're going to give me the answers I want."
She laughs and her hands creep down to steady herself against the trunk, body shifting suggestively against the tree. "And why would I do that? Will it help?"
"You'll do it because I'm the one with the gun, sweetheart." His hands never waiver, the glock trained between her eyes: She never so much as blinks. Desire is either crazy or equipped with more brass than Dean could guess.
"So use it, Dean."
Oh yeah. Dean's betting on batshit crazy.
Fuck if he could shoot her between the eyes, though.
Dean grits his teeth, fighting the urge to put the gun away: That was her. Wasn't it? Because he didn't want to shoot her. It wasn't like he could get answers that way.
But lowering the gun would be folding and giving her the game.
Fuck.
Fuck.
"Fuck!"
"Put it away, Dean."
"Don't tell me what to do."
"Are you saying you want to shoot me?"
And then he's sure. She is messing with him, and in the worst possible way -- she's getting in his head.
"I'm ready to find out, Desire. How about you?" A minute movement down of his wrists, and his aim has changed. He's going to shoot her little by little if she doesn't cut the shit out, teach her a lesson about fucking with people's heads.
"I already know what you're going to ask." She sighs, raising an eyebrow at him. "Are you sure you don't want to try something new?"
"Humor me. Tell me what I want to know." His tone's level. Reasonable. He's proud of himself, not letting the way he'd caught her (him) kissing Sammy color his judgment. Not letting her see how she's getting to him.
"It's no good telling you, Dean."
His cool shatters in an instant. "And why the fuck not? Is the question too hard for you, Desire?"
"Tch! Don't insult me. What's the point of knowing where your father is? Will knowing he's in Tuskegee, Illinois change the fact that you're Bound here in Milliways?"
"He's in Tuskegee?"
"No. I'm making a point."
"Yeah. Well, I'm about ready to start making points to you."
"Knock the shit off, Dean. What good is knowing when you can't--"
The gunshot reports through the woods, loud as thunder: Birds shriek and abandon the area, the first signs of life. Dean opens his eyes, hardly aware of squeezing them shut as Dean shot her in the leg.
And she's still standing there, fingertips idly tracing a suddenly bare patch of skin visible beneath a gunshot-sized rip in her jeans. She pouts.
"That wasn't very nice, Dean."
There's a moment where he can only stare.
Then the anger creeps back in, a roar of liquid fire up his spine: He snarls, clears the chamber with a click and sends another slug through her other thigh.
She doesn't so much as flinch: It's like she doesn't fucking feel it, but Dean's high on rage and about ready to scream, click and fire and click and fire and he's emptying the gun into her chest, willing her to --
To...
To what? Feel something? Answer him?
Die?
The glock is hot enough to threaten to burn his hand from the rapid-fire, and he nearly throws it at her as he remembers he doesn't have anything else with him, nothing else to use against her. It was just supposed to be another morning of shooting the demon bunnies -- killing the little fuckers one shot at a time, just like they deserved.
He isn't surprised when she steps forward, fingers as hot as the gunmetal between them as she traces them over his hands. He tightens his grip, muscles straining with the effort not to jerk away: She won't pry the glock loose from his fingers, not without a fight.
She almost seems to know that, smirking faintly as the fingers pass over and up his arm.
Her hands keep moving, and Dean can't keep his eyes out of the ruins of her sweater -- Jesus, doesn't Desire believe in bras or something? There's no sign of strap or cup or underwire or whatever the hell else women like to wear: The vaguely rational part of his mind screams at him that Desire's not a woman, Desire was a fucking man when he met him
(and he looked like Sammy once and that's not something that he's going to deal with, not now, maybe not ever)
and Dean realizes he doesn't even care, jerking his chin away from her touch as those too-hot fingers glide along his jaw -- not because he doesn't want her, because he does, but because he's still pissed and oh God Sammy and he isn't letting her win. He releases the stranglehold on the glock and keeps his firing hand around it because she doesn't necessarily know it's gone empty, pushing it hard into the soft space between her ribs and her side.
She gasps, trembles -- but Dean realizes it's not fear, because he can smell her, all pheromones and sex and summer peaches.
"You can hang on to that," Desire murmurs to him in that bedroom voice. "If you want to."
"Kinky bitch," Dean answers, his breath hitching.
Her laugh is throaty, her jaw sliding against his. "Would you want me any other way?"
He grits his teeth, yanks his cheek away from hers. "I don't want you."
"Liar." Desire's tone is affectionate.
He's tempted to tell her he's not going to 'have' her in any way: She's had her ride already, and Dean's not in the business of taking repeat customers.
He tells himself it's a surprise when he's got her slammed up against that same tree, the bark splintered and punctured by the slugs buried in its wood. Dean ignores the ragged need in his breathing, hand still clenching around the cooling glock and he's practically tearing his jeans open one-handed, pushing his clothes out of the way as she wraps her arms and legs around him, biting at his neck, his ear.
She's pushing him off, pushing him away and he almost wants to growl at her -- it figures, Desire being a God-damned cocktease, and if she runs again he can't promise himself he won't chase her -- except she's hiking down her jeans and Jesus fucking Christ, it's kinda hot to know but doesn't she believe in underwear, ever?
She doesn't have enough time to step free of the denim before he has her again, caught between her thighs and pressing her hard against the trunk. Her legs catch and lock behind him and then he's pounding her, pounding into her and teeth latching onto the join of her pale shoulder and neck. She's burning hot and he's pissed and the glock is still in his hand, beating uselessly with every thrust and showering them with bark and he doesn't care, doesn't care and it's easier to hate and fuck than admit she might be right.
Her hands are looking for purchase, trying to catch in his hair but there's none to find since he's moving wild, frustration coiling in his belly and release nowhere in sight: She digs her nails into his neck and hisses something that might be 'Harder, more--'
Dean does, hands letting go and putting his whole weight on her, leaning into her and using the sudden freedom to hitch her higher: He hears her laugh as he slams into her, feels his blood boil with rage and opens his mouth to snarl 'Shut the fuck up' -- and then he's over the edge, fingers digging in to the pale pale flesh of her thighs.
She falls with him, laughing his name with Sammy's voice even as she gasps and moans.
He drops to his knees, weight dragging her down.
"Slut," he pants, accusing.
"Takes one to know, Dean." And she's threading her fingers through his hair, acting all the world like she's in love with him, and he hates her more for it.
He doesn't even have the energy to insult her again, head tilting forward to rest against her collarbone, bristling as those fever-warm fingers run over his hair, the back of his neck.
"Why do you keep asking about your father, Dean?"
A bitter laugh finds its way up his throat. "What, we're doing pillow talk now?"
"You want answers, and I'm feeling generous."
"Bullshit." Dean still has no energy to pull away, lulled by the scent of her -- but sarcasm always has been second nature.
"Your call," she advises: She's got that 'you're making a mistake' tone going that all women seem to have. "I still don't know what good knowing will do you, as long as you're Bound."
"Insatiable curiosity," Dean retaliates, eyelids heavy. Jesus Christ, he's tired.
"Insatiable something." She's teasing him. Un-fucking-believable.
He can feel her start to untwine from around him, his forehead still cradled against her collarbone. Fucked if he isn't going to sleep, and he wants to fight it -- but all that anger's worn him out. "Desire--"
"Yes?"
"I just want to know. Okay?"
He never hears her answer, sleep taking him.
When he wakes, he's alone, clean, and buttoned up.
He knows it wasn't a dream, mostly because of the glock lying empty in the dead leaves next to him, and the splintered wood above his head.
Dean grabs the gun and is on his feet, trying to find Desire.
A small sheaf of paper drifts off where it had been resting in his lap: It's a suggested direction for Sam and Dean to look, written in Desire's perfect, shifting hand.
Dean doesn't notice, trying to find his way out of the woods.
Night's falling.
this was written by the incredible![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
true_desire.
Which is disappointing to Dean, no question. Snarling to himself, he primes his gun with a satisfying click and peers down the sight, looking for a spot of blood red.
He finds it, huge and looming against a tree. Grinning, he aims--
And stops, instinct pulling his head up, and sees her, (because she's a woman again, no more mindfuck-tactic of showing up as Sam) leaning casually against a tree at the forest's edge, brown hair free and left almost black against the red of her sweater.
There's no doubt that she wore it for him.
Dean doesn't need to see her up close to know she's winked at him.
He takes two steps toward her -- She's going to tell him what he wants to know, today, now.
And like that, she's off like a shot into the trees.
The animal part of Dean's brain reacts to the hunt.
He runs after her, gun still reflexively clenched in his hand.
He stops to catch his breath a hundred yards or so in: Dean glares, looking everywhere. How someone with a bright red shirt and skin that pale could hide in the deep green of the forest seems impossible -- Hell, if he didn't know what she was, he would have sworn there was a Wendigo in these woods that snatched her away. No way an ordinary girl could get away like that -- but he knows she isn't your ordinary female.
She's Desire.
And she's dangerous.
He catches a dart of red out of the corner of his eye: He whirls toward it, wary and gun trained.
Just as soon spotted as gone. Still, he has a direction. Dean chases her deeper into the forest.
The clearing is something of a shock, opening up before him like magic -- more than enough to set Dean's senses on alert, pushing back that vaguely bestial haze that settled into his brain during the chase. He doesn't just stride in, though it's tempting: He's not worried about walking in and calling Desire out, there beneath the open sky.
No. He wants to catch her before she catches him. He'll never get the answers he wants on her terms.
Anyway, he's the one with the gun.
Edging along the line of trees, he's watching ahead and to the side for any flash of red, anything betraying her hiding place. She has to be hiding: He can't fucking hear her moving, the silence here deafening; no birdsong -- hell, no animals, no sound of water, and not much of a breeze in the trees above. Dean's uncomfortably aware of the foliage crunching beneath his feet in the stillness.
"Looking for someone?"
And she's there, a laugh audible in her pleasurably alto voice. She grins at him like this is a game -- hide and fucking seek, one pale hand wrapped around a branch above her head. He swears she's on display, her breasts jutting out against the knitted red button-down and hips tilted just so.
He swallows past the lump rising in his throat, widening his stance as he brings the piece up and pointing it at her. He ignores the trickle of sweat working down his hairline from his temple, steadies his glock with both hands. "You're going to give me answers."
"Of course."
He grits his teeth, knowing she'd twist it. "You're going to give me the answers I want."
She laughs and her hands creep down to steady herself against the trunk, body shifting suggestively against the tree. "And why would I do that? Will it help?"
"You'll do it because I'm the one with the gun, sweetheart." His hands never waiver, the glock trained between her eyes: She never so much as blinks. Desire is either crazy or equipped with more brass than Dean could guess.
"So use it, Dean."
Oh yeah. Dean's betting on batshit crazy.
Fuck if he could shoot her between the eyes, though.
Dean grits his teeth, fighting the urge to put the gun away: That was her. Wasn't it? Because he didn't want to shoot her. It wasn't like he could get answers that way.
But lowering the gun would be folding and giving her the game.
Fuck.
Fuck.
"Fuck!"
"Put it away, Dean."
"Don't tell me what to do."
"Are you saying you want to shoot me?"
And then he's sure. She is messing with him, and in the worst possible way -- she's getting in his head.
"I'm ready to find out, Desire. How about you?" A minute movement down of his wrists, and his aim has changed. He's going to shoot her little by little if she doesn't cut the shit out, teach her a lesson about fucking with people's heads.
"I already know what you're going to ask." She sighs, raising an eyebrow at him. "Are you sure you don't want to try something new?"
"Humor me. Tell me what I want to know." His tone's level. Reasonable. He's proud of himself, not letting the way he'd caught her (him) kissing Sammy color his judgment. Not letting her see how she's getting to him.
"It's no good telling you, Dean."
His cool shatters in an instant. "And why the fuck not? Is the question too hard for you, Desire?"
"Tch! Don't insult me. What's the point of knowing where your father is? Will knowing he's in Tuskegee, Illinois change the fact that you're Bound here in Milliways?"
"He's in Tuskegee?"
"No. I'm making a point."
"Yeah. Well, I'm about ready to start making points to you."
"Knock the shit off, Dean. What good is knowing when you can't--"
The gunshot reports through the woods, loud as thunder: Birds shriek and abandon the area, the first signs of life. Dean opens his eyes, hardly aware of squeezing them shut as Dean shot her in the leg.
And she's still standing there, fingertips idly tracing a suddenly bare patch of skin visible beneath a gunshot-sized rip in her jeans. She pouts.
"That wasn't very nice, Dean."
There's a moment where he can only stare.
Then the anger creeps back in, a roar of liquid fire up his spine: He snarls, clears the chamber with a click and sends another slug through her other thigh.
She doesn't so much as flinch: It's like she doesn't fucking feel it, but Dean's high on rage and about ready to scream, click and fire and click and fire and he's emptying the gun into her chest, willing her to --
To...
To what? Feel something? Answer him?
Die?
The glock is hot enough to threaten to burn his hand from the rapid-fire, and he nearly throws it at her as he remembers he doesn't have anything else with him, nothing else to use against her. It was just supposed to be another morning of shooting the demon bunnies -- killing the little fuckers one shot at a time, just like they deserved.
He isn't surprised when she steps forward, fingers as hot as the gunmetal between them as she traces them over his hands. He tightens his grip, muscles straining with the effort not to jerk away: She won't pry the glock loose from his fingers, not without a fight.
She almost seems to know that, smirking faintly as the fingers pass over and up his arm.
Her hands keep moving, and Dean can't keep his eyes out of the ruins of her sweater -- Jesus, doesn't Desire believe in bras or something? There's no sign of strap or cup or underwire or whatever the hell else women like to wear: The vaguely rational part of his mind screams at him that Desire's not a woman, Desire was a fucking man when he met him
(and he looked like Sammy once and that's not something that he's going to deal with, not now, maybe not ever)
and Dean realizes he doesn't even care, jerking his chin away from her touch as those too-hot fingers glide along his jaw -- not because he doesn't want her, because he does, but because he's still pissed and oh God Sammy and he isn't letting her win. He releases the stranglehold on the glock and keeps his firing hand around it because she doesn't necessarily know it's gone empty, pushing it hard into the soft space between her ribs and her side.
She gasps, trembles -- but Dean realizes it's not fear, because he can smell her, all pheromones and sex and summer peaches.
"You can hang on to that," Desire murmurs to him in that bedroom voice. "If you want to."
"Kinky bitch," Dean answers, his breath hitching.
Her laugh is throaty, her jaw sliding against his. "Would you want me any other way?"
He grits his teeth, yanks his cheek away from hers. "I don't want you."
"Liar." Desire's tone is affectionate.
He's tempted to tell her he's not going to 'have' her in any way: She's had her ride already, and Dean's not in the business of taking repeat customers.
He tells himself it's a surprise when he's got her slammed up against that same tree, the bark splintered and punctured by the slugs buried in its wood. Dean ignores the ragged need in his breathing, hand still clenching around the cooling glock and he's practically tearing his jeans open one-handed, pushing his clothes out of the way as she wraps her arms and legs around him, biting at his neck, his ear.
She's pushing him off, pushing him away and he almost wants to growl at her -- it figures, Desire being a God-damned cocktease, and if she runs again he can't promise himself he won't chase her -- except she's hiking down her jeans and Jesus fucking Christ, it's kinda hot to know but doesn't she believe in underwear, ever?
She doesn't have enough time to step free of the denim before he has her again, caught between her thighs and pressing her hard against the trunk. Her legs catch and lock behind him and then he's pounding her, pounding into her and teeth latching onto the join of her pale shoulder and neck. She's burning hot and he's pissed and the glock is still in his hand, beating uselessly with every thrust and showering them with bark and he doesn't care, doesn't care and it's easier to hate and fuck than admit she might be right.
Her hands are looking for purchase, trying to catch in his hair but there's none to find since he's moving wild, frustration coiling in his belly and release nowhere in sight: She digs her nails into his neck and hisses something that might be 'Harder, more--'
Dean does, hands letting go and putting his whole weight on her, leaning into her and using the sudden freedom to hitch her higher: He hears her laugh as he slams into her, feels his blood boil with rage and opens his mouth to snarl 'Shut the fuck up' -- and then he's over the edge, fingers digging in to the pale pale flesh of her thighs.
She falls with him, laughing his name with Sammy's voice even as she gasps and moans.
He drops to his knees, weight dragging her down.
"Slut," he pants, accusing.
"Takes one to know, Dean." And she's threading her fingers through his hair, acting all the world like she's in love with him, and he hates her more for it.
He doesn't even have the energy to insult her again, head tilting forward to rest against her collarbone, bristling as those fever-warm fingers run over his hair, the back of his neck.
"Why do you keep asking about your father, Dean?"
A bitter laugh finds its way up his throat. "What, we're doing pillow talk now?"
"You want answers, and I'm feeling generous."
"Bullshit." Dean still has no energy to pull away, lulled by the scent of her -- but sarcasm always has been second nature.
"Your call," she advises: She's got that 'you're making a mistake' tone going that all women seem to have. "I still don't know what good knowing will do you, as long as you're Bound."
"Insatiable curiosity," Dean retaliates, eyelids heavy. Jesus Christ, he's tired.
"Insatiable something." She's teasing him. Un-fucking-believable.
He can feel her start to untwine from around him, his forehead still cradled against her collarbone. Fucked if he isn't going to sleep, and he wants to fight it -- but all that anger's worn him out. "Desire--"
"Yes?"
"I just want to know. Okay?"
He never hears her answer, sleep taking him.
When he wakes, he's alone, clean, and buttoned up.
He knows it wasn't a dream, mostly because of the glock lying empty in the dead leaves next to him, and the splintered wood above his head.
Dean grabs the gun and is on his feet, trying to find Desire.
A small sheaf of paper drifts off where it had been resting in his lap: It's a suggested direction for Sam and Dean to look, written in Desire's perfect, shifting hand.
Dean doesn't notice, trying to find his way out of the woods.
Night's falling.
this was written by the incredible
true_desire.
