Supernatural FanFic: The Sheltered Child

Yes. I’ve gone and done it. I’ve written a piece of Supernatural Fan Fiction. It was inevitable.Sometimes taking a break from world-building is a good way to get the creative juices flowing. So, I spent some time in the Winchester ‘Verse. I feel quite refreshed. I stuck to canon, for the most part, and this occurs after the boys set up house in the Men of Letters bunker and before Dean gets the Mark of Cain and Sam has to host an angel. It’s a one-off that doesn’t fuck with anything else. There is some full frontal.

 

Things were tense. Things were always tense, these days. Beer helped but whiskey was better. Stronger. Faster. Too bad he didn’t have six million dollars to rebuild his liver. The thought made him smile and chuckle. He looked around the industrial-sized kitchen to share the sentiment with an audience but Sam was deep in the bowels of the bat cave and would not have laughed anyhow. Dean shrugged. Like I’ll live long enough for my liver to fail. He tipped the bottle against his lips and tasted a mere drop of dreg. Concern wrinkled his brow. He looked up Gentleman Jack’s short neck.

“Seriously?” He set the offending container down and, for the moment, there was nothing more frustrating than the absence of Jack’s loyal sting at the back of his throat. Forget rising demons, forget falling angels, this empty-bottle shit was just wrong. He allowed himself to work up a fine mental lather before he stood, crossed the room, and opened a cupboard door. The top shelf gleamed with near replicas of the dead soldier on the table. Their charcoal-filtered contents held the promise of peaceful oblivion.

 

Dean smiled.

“I love you, Jack,” he said. “And this isn’t a one-night gay thing. I really love you.” God, I’m funny. He removed a bottle from the shelf, pulled the corked cap, and let the smooth amber slide down his throat. After two glorious swallows, accompanied by a lingering moan, he addressed the bottle again. “Okay, maybe this is a little gay but I’m okay with that.”

The burn was not as intense, as the numbing of his senses had taken effect half a bottle earlier, and this both pleased and annoyed him. The first drink of the day was awesome. The second was even better because the initial thirst had been soothed but not yet quenched. The third was great because that was the dose that eased the pain between his shoulder blades. Four eased the pain in his head. Five eased the pain in his chest. Six numbed his heart.

Seven was dangerous.

Stick at seven and he would want to fight, really fight, and with the only two outlets available in the bunker being his beloved brother and the estranged King of Hell, he needed to move past eight pretty quick. Fortunately, there was plenty of Jack to go around. Definitely enough to put out his lights, to shut down his brain, and make him sleep so hard he couldn’t dream.

“Found something interesting.” Sam’s unexpected voice might have made Dean flinch if his normally sharp reflexes hadn’t been filed down to the nubs by booze.

“So did I,” Dean said and showed him the bottle.

“Okaaay.” Sam set his laptop on the kitchen table and flipped up the screen. “But did it wake up out of a coma, miraculously healed of all injury?”

Dean considered the bottle. “Probably not.”

Sam glanced at the booze and then his brother’s reddening eyes. “Maybe we should talk about this in the morning.”

“Oh, come on, Sam,” Dean said. “Don’t be like that. Let me buy you a drink while you tell me all about this coma thing. Barkeep!” He spun around once, like a dog chasing its tail, before he subdued the bottle. He sat down, his gills green with vertigo, and took a long drink before he pushed the bottle across the table.

Sam caught the bottle before it tipped onto his keyboard. “The newspaper is reporting two supernatural incidents. First one: a little girl, car accident, head trauma, coma…” He waved his hand in a circular motion to indicate a continued list of issues as he began to quote from the screen, “ ‘Beatrice Falks, nine years old, awoke from a coma on Saturday with no recollection of who or where she was… but, after a brief period of consciousness, the girl slipped back into a vegetative state’… yadda, yadda… ‘Beatrice regained consciousness the next morning, with no sign of head trauma, brain damage, or the blunt force injuries sustained in the car accident.”

Dean nodded. His brow furrowed as though he was seriously considering the situation. “And the second case?”

Sam seemed momentarily impressed that his brother had even remembered the topic of conversation. Have some faith, little brother, Dean thought. I am not as think as you drunk I am… he frowned. Wait, how does that go?

“Second case. Thomas Evergreen. Nineteen years old. Bicycle messenger. Hit by a car, coma, brain death occurred. Get this.” Sam leaned forward and began using his hands to accentuate his words in his excitement. “Kid is listed as a donor. He’s on the table. The doctor is poised to slice him open for organ harvest and the kid opens his eyes, sits up, and says, ‘where’s my daughter?’

“Where was she?”

Sam shrugged. “Nowhere. Evergreen doesn’t have any kids.”

“Good, he’s too young to be starting a family.”

Sam ignored his brother’s slurred words of wisdom. He glanced at his watch. “If we drive straight through, we can be in California tomorrow evening.”

“Why would we want to drive to California?”

“To pay Beatrice a visit. She’s been released from the hospital into the custody of her parents.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s nine?”

“No,” Dean said. “I mean, why is her name Beatrice? Who does that to a kid?”

“I think this is a case of demonic possession.”

“You think a demon named her Beatrice?”

Sam considered his brother for a long moment before he spoke again. “No, I think Beatrice woke up from her coma because she was possessed by a demon.

“Did she sizzle when you threw holy water on her?”

“I didn’t throw holy water on her-”

“Then how do you know she’s a demon?” Dean demanded. Number seven was kicking in. He squared his shoulders and leaned forward. “We’re going to drive across the country—inebriated, I might add—to bother somebody that something actually good has happened to them for once, maybe?”

“Um.” Sam frowned and cocked his head to the side. “What?”

“Exactly!” Dean grabbed the bottle and precious amber slopped to the table. “Oh, dude. I am so sorry. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Dean ignored Sam’s response and took a long pull from the bottle. He smacked his lips with satisfaction, his question answered. “He’s good.”

“I’ll drive,” Sam said.

Dean could tell that his younger brother was desperately fighting the urge to roll his eyes and this amused him to no end. He pushed the matter for reasons of entertainment. “Drive where?”

“To California. To interview the former coma patient.”

“What coma patient?”

“The one I just-“ Sam bit off his words, taking a moment to think before he spoke again. His martyred look of patience was annoying.

“Your look of martyred patience is annoying,” Dean said. “There is no way you are driving my car to California.”

“Well, you’re sure as hell not driving.”

“You’re right.” Dean nodded and then pulled a leather-bound silver flask from the inner pocket of his jacket. He tipped the bottle and filled the container. He then licked the generous spillover from the back of his hand. “Jack will be driving.”

*

The congress of clowns in the road ahead honked their noses and then hunkered down, en masse, to shoulder-block the Impala like she was a half-back in Hell’s Superbowl. Dean’s hands flailed as he grabbed for the steering wheel. Where is the steering wheel? His foot sought the brake pedal. Where are the brakes?

He shouted at the top of his lungs as he braced for impact. “Clowns!”

The pain of bashing his knee against the underside of the dash woke Dean up and his wide eyes looked left, at his brother, who was driving the Impala. The smooth road whispered beneath the boards and the night was dark beyond the windows. There were no clowns in the road ahead.

“You would let me drive in this condition?” Dean demanded.

“You’re not driving.”

“I was just a second ago.” Dean snapped. “With the clowns in the road. Scary clowns.”

Sam’s brow furrowed but his attempt to stifle a grin failed. “Since when do you have an issue with clowns?”

“I don’t. I don’t have an issue with clowns. You’re the one with clown issues. That was your nightmare I was having.” Dean’s eyes narrowed when he spotted the fresh goose-bumps rising along Sam’s forearm. White knuckles gripped the steering wheel. Dean chortled. “Dude, you didn’t even have the dream and you’re creeped out.”

“Hey, I’ve got no problem admitting I have a problem with clowns,” Sam advised. “I’ve also been driving for eight hours and there’s another dozen or so to go and you’ve slept it off so…” he flipped on the blinker and the shoulder of the road crunched beneath the wide tires of the Impala as she slowed and pulled to the side. “Your turn.”

Dean looked out onto the dark highway. There were no lights to be seen. “There’s nowhere to eat around here.”

“I stopped for a bite a few hours back.”

“And you didn’t wake me?” Dean demanded.

“I couldn’t wake you,” Sam replied.

*

Released into the cool night air along a low-traffic road, Dean turned his back to the asphalt and opened his fly. The world had stopped spinning and his stomach growled for something greasy. “Where are we going?”

“Sacramento, California.”

God, I love pissing outdoors. “Why, exactly?”

“To interview a coma patient.”

“Won’t that be difficult?”

“She’s not in a coma anymore.”

“Think she’s demon-possessed?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Dean vaguely remembered his brother going over the whole story at some point in the evening. Sam was probably biting back a stream of profanities. Let it out, bro, he encouraged, silently, as he shook off his wang. Let it all out.

“Dude,” Sam said, in lieu of cursing.

“Okay, okay.” Dean abstained from annoying Sam further, for the moment. “So, you think the parents brought home a demon-possessed child.”

“Yes.

“What makes you think this?”

“Remember Ruby?”

“No, I do not remember the demon you dated. The one who got you addicted to drinking her blood. What was her name again? Brangelina? Jarevieve?”

Sam tensed. His fists clenched by his sides. “You want to do this now?”

Dean shook his head as he zipped up. “Not really.” He patted his package, apologizing for so brief a sojourn into the outside world.

“So Ruby, in an effort to appease my sensibilities…” Sam took another deep breath. “Ruby possessed a brain-dead donor body to avoid inhabiting a thinking human being. So-“

“So you think we’ve got a case of a conscientious demon.”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe.”

“What about an angel?”

“Maybe.”

“Ugh.” Dean shuddered and walked around to the driver’s side of the car. “I hope it’s a demon.”

Dean had been driving for forty-five minutes when he saw an oasis. There was a diner attached to the side of a two-story motel and Dean simply could not pass either opportunity up. Sure, he’d been unconscious in the passenger seat for a couple hundred miles but that wasn’t real sleep. Or food. He sniffed in the general direction of his brother. And they both needed a shower. Or maybe the miasma was from the line of loaded cattle trucks idling on the far side of the parking lot, filled with doomed product.

“Sammy, wake up,” he said, pushing open the door of the Impala.

“We there yet?” Sam sat up straight, ran his hand down his face, and woke up—in that order.

“There’s food to be eaten. Showers to be taken. Sleep to be had.”

Sam blinked and looked at the lights of the diner sparkling through the rain-spotted windshield. “I was sleeping.” Then he asked, “How long have you been driving?”

“Um,” Dean said. “It felt like days.”

“So, we’re almost there.” Sam looked at his watch and tapped the face of it.

“Sure. Absolutely.”

“Is it morning? Did you drive all night like we planned?”

“Yep,” Dean said, without hesitation. “Get up. Time for breakfast.”

Even at eight thirty in the evening, the 50’s themed diner served a full menu and smelled like pancakes, syrup, and bacon. Dean figured with the twilight sky, he’d get away with the time zone ruse for a few minutes, unless Sam figured out which direction was West. The brothers sat themselves in a booth next to the front window so Dean could keep an eye on the Impala and the entrance.

“You know what, Sammy? In my Heaven, there will be a diner like this every fifty miles.”

“Our bacon cheeseburger will take you as close to Heaven as you can get.” The waitress swept up to the table and picked up the plates and cups of the booth’s former occupants. She dumped them into the bussing tub propped against the swell of her hip. “Without actually having to die.” She ran a damp cloth over the table and gave the boys a welcoming wink.

“Sounds awesome.” Dean winked back. “I’ll have me one of those.”

She looked at Sam. “And what can I get for you this evening?”

“Evening?” He glared at his watch and then at Dean. “You drove for less than an hour?”

“Dude, you may be willing to forego the necessities of life for any job, big or small, but I got needs, man. Needs. Make that cheeseburger a double, sweetie.”

“And I’ll have the Chicken Caesar salad.” Sam slipped the menu back into the silver rack by the jellies.

“Oh, that’s cute. A vegetarian. We don’t get many of those around here.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Chickens aren’t vegetables.”

She shrugged. “Tomato, tomahto.”

“They’re not vegetables,” Sam insisted.

“Dude,” Dean chuckled. “You must be tired. It’s a good thing we stopped for the night.” He wondered if the cute waitress picked up on the subtle hint. “She’s flirting with you. Here, little brother. Let me show you how this boy/girl thing works.” He squared his shoulders and then leaned forward on his elbows, making a show of putting on his game face. After a moment of preparation, he lifted his gaze and blessed the wage-earner with a smile he liked to call the ‘slow burn’.

“Tell me, uh…” His eyes scanned her cleavage above the apron until he spotted the plastic nametag over her breast. “Gracie. Just how close to Heaven can you get me?”

The waitress stared at him for a long moment. “Tell you what.” She set the tub on the edge of the table, leaned forward and mimicked the preparatory expressions he had made moments earlier before speaking in a breathy voice that bordered on ridiculous. “I can have the chef… add extra…cheese.”

She hefted the tub back onto her hip and spun on her rubber-soled saddle shoe. Dean stared after her, his gaze matching the sway of her hips.

“I can’t tell.” Amusement bubbled beneath the surface of Sam’s chronic annoyance. “Was your demonstration successful?”

“Sammy, I have no idea.” Dean dragged his eyes back to his brother’s face. “I’m either getting laid or poisoned. But I hope she was serious. About the cheese.”

She was serious and the burger was good. She did not, however, leave a cute little note and her phone number on the ticket. Dean was disappointed. That was how it usually worked. She was the perfect fling: no wedding ring, hard attitude, young and flat-bellied while boasting generous hips and enough cleavage to entertain, and a hundred miles away by six the next morning. He wasn’t crazy about the brassy red hair but, based on the slightly unnatural hue, he figured the color was an affectation to go along with her victory curls and 50’s style uniform.

*

Thank God for free cable porn, he thought as they checked into the neighboring hotel. At least I can watch someone get lucky.

He’d expected his brother to put up more of a fight about stopping for the night but Sam immediately set up his workstation on the little cigarette-scarred table. Dean grabbed the remote and threw himself on to one of the beds, turning on the television as he landed. He settled back on the pillows, one arm behind his head, the other extended in the perfect form of a professional channel surfer.

“Dude, there’s no porn,” Dean lamented.

“Bummer.” Sammy didn’t sound bummed.

“Never mind. I found it.”

“Awesome.” Sammy didn’t sound amazed, either. He spread papers out around his laptop and diligently researched their case.

Dean watched a cheerleader boosting her team’s morale for thirty seconds or so before he said, “Hey, Sammy, would you go, uh, fill the ice bucket or something?”

“Seriously, Dean?”

“Nah.” Dean sat up and snapped off the television. “Porn’s bad. Bad porn.”

“Don’t you have a waitress to seduce?”

“She’s not my type.”

Sam ticked off her attributes on one hand. “She’s breathing, apparently available and, um, oh yeah, within walking distance… what else is there?”

“You forgot interested,” Dean said. “It helps if they’re interested. Are you trying to get rid of me? That’s rude.” A blue light flickered in Dean’s peripheral vision. He glanced to the right and saw a neon beer sign coming to life through the window. He pinched the skin of his forearm. “Ouch.”

“What?”

“I was checking to see if I was dreaming. I think there’s a bar across the street.”

“Maybe you’ve died and gone to Heaven.”

“Do not joke about that, Sammy.”

 

He decided to stick to beer, eschewing whiskey for another night, a night when sex was not a possibility. The bartender—an old hippie guy, damn it, chick bartenders were always the go-to gals in these tiny towns—exchanged another pint for the five Dean had set on the counter.

“When I get to about here,” Dean told the guy, pointing to the slender halfway mark of his glass, “set up another. I’m not driving anywhere tonight.”

“You got it, man,” the hippie said.

Dean scanned the place in the mirror behind the bar. A handful of locals, he surmised, and some travelers from the hotel. Two couples in the back, seven single guys around the pool tables, and three men in duck-billed hats—plus a really old lady sipping whiskey around the unlit cigarette in her mouth—sat at the bar down from his own self. No demons—other than the personal—that he could see.

I am the only guy here who has the serious potential to get laid tonight, he mused. The odds would be even better if a woman walked in.

The bartender set a bottle of local microbrew in front of him. When Dean lifted his eyes to question the arrival of the unordered beverage, the old guy jerked his head to the side. Dean glanced in the indicated direction. The diner waitress smiled from her backwards perch on the neighboring barstool and winked at him as she leaned her spine against the counter, surveying the miserable crowd.

“I bought you that drink with the tip you left,” she said.

I knew it. I knew she was into me. He almost said the words out loud but thought better of it. Instead, he settled for a low-wattage smile. Keeping his mouth shut would give him the opportunity to suss out her attitude. He had not seen her enter through the front and wondered how he had missed her arrival.

She looked good. Strappy shoes, a slim black skirt to her knees, and a tight and fuzzy pink sweater had replaced the diner uniform. She still generated the 50’s vibe of the eatery but he found himself appreciating the affectation on a deeper level. Would she be all Betty Page underneath the good-girl outfit? Her forelock was twisted in the victory curls but the rest of her hair had been released from the black net and spilled generously down her long back.

She let her eyes roam the room but kept Dean in her sights. She said, “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Dean pulled out the old script and blew off the dust. It had been a long time since he’d heard—or even used—that line. “Nope. Just passing through.”

“Got any family in the area?”

Dean winced. “Are you worried somebody might notice if I go missing?”

She threw back her head and laughed. “No, no. I just don’t do locals or folks with local ties. I don’t need the hassle.” She made a mouth-talking motion with one hand before she said, “News travels fast in a town of three hundred and some-odd souls.”

Dean picked up the gifted bottle by the neck but did not take a drink from it. “So who, exactly, do you do?”

She turned her head to look at him and then slowly scanned his shoulders and his biceps before lifting her eyes back up to meet his gaze. “Pretty passers-through. The traveling boys and girls that tickle my fancy.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Girls?”

“Times are tough. Sometimes you gotta take one for the team.” She looked at the bottle in his hand and then lifted her own for a toast. “You game, pretty boy?”

He gently swung his bottle towards hers and clinked butts in acceptance of the challenge. “Always.” He wondered, as he swallowed the first gulp, if Sam would be willing to haul his laptop over to the all-night diner while his older brother and the waitress filled the room with the thick funk of healthy sex.

“I live in the apartment upstairs,” she said, as though reading his mind. “We can go up through the back of the bar.”

Well, that explains her mysterious entrance, he figured. He envied the fact that she lived above a bar and across the street from an awesome diner. Maybe she’d died and was already in her little patch of Heaven.

She stood and slipped her arm through the crook of his elbow to pull him off the barstool. She smelled like sugar cookies. “You can bring your drink.”

“You really can read my mind,” he marveled.

Small town women are awesome.

They always had big dreams and would spill their plans for the future while riding his cock like the former rodeo queens they were. He would listen and offer all sorts of encouragement while he watched their titties bounce. Yeah, baby. You’re amazing. There’s nothing you can’t do. Even if they did get a little clingy, they could never get the engines of their junkers warmed up fast enough to catch his Impala the next morning.

But this babe, this babe skipped the heavy-handed hints that she wanted to be taken away from her small town drudgery. When the door of the upstairs apartment shut behind them, he turned around to catch her pulling the fuzzy sweater up and over her head, exposing an indigo pin-up girl bra that made his cock swell with applause. He upended his bottle and drank the last three-quarters in four long gulps. By the time he came up for air, her quick hands were already slipping his belt from the loops of his jeans.

“This first one’s going to be a quickie,” she informed him. “It’s been a while and I need something to take the edge off.” The tip of her pink tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth as she flung the belt to the side and worked down the zipper. “Take off your pants.”

He set the dead soldier on a nearby surface (a table, a chair, the belly of a dead hitchhiker, he didn’t know and it didn’t matter) and obeyed her directive. When his pants were at his knees, he heeled off his shoes and nearly lost his balance when he realized that she wasn’t bothering to remove her skirt. She simply lifted the silk up her thighs and showed him the garters that held up her stockings.

His mouth went dry. “You’re not wearing any underwear.”

“Yes, I am. What you mean is, I’m not wearing any panties.”

The way she said panties made the tip of his dick tingle with anticipation.

Not bothering to further assist him with his own undressing, she pulled the skirt up higher until it rode above her generous hips. Her skin was pale as cream and there was a small, soft triangle of deep auburn between her legs, keeping her sweet little cootch nice and warm. She turned around and pressed her hands against the front door, pushing out her rear end and filling his vision with her heart-shaped ass.

He swallowed and his dry throat clicked with the effort. “You are really pretty,” he told her backside.

She craned her head to look back over her bare shoulder, her brow furrowed with annoyance. “Are you going to hop on this or not, cowboy?”

He could almost see the timer on her patience ticking down to zero so he didn’t bother to remove his t-shirt or untangle his jeans from his ankles. He quickly hobbled forward until he could place his broad hands on the rise of her sweet buttocks. Oh sweet mother of god, her skin was so soft and smooth. He took a moment to appreciate her texture against the rough hide of his own calloused hands. A smile curved his lips when her skin rippled as his touch lit up her nervous system. He took great delight in inspiring goose bumps.

She rolled her head on her neck and moaned as his hands explored the curves of her backside. “Come on, baby,” she whispered. “Come on.”

She didn’t need to tell him what she wanted next. Now, he was in very familiar territory and he fully appreciated her enthusiastic consent. His hands ran over and around her ass, his thumbs swinging close to her center and teasing apart her cheeks as they passed, once, twice, and then again. Her forehead made a thunk sound as she dropped it against the door in dramatic surrender to his touch.

Condom. His annoying little shit of a conscience—that sounded sort of like his brother as a tween—piped up from the back of his distracted mind. She doesn’t know where you’ve been.

Ah, come on. The thought of flesh on flesh hardened his cock even more and he was anxious to get started.

It will make you last longer, the voice suggested helpfully.

Good point. He fumbled in the pocket of his jacket and pulled out one of the silver packets. He tore the edge of the foil with his teeth and quickly reached down to smother his best friend in latex. Sorry, buddy. We’ll still have a good time. I promise.

He used his thumbs to spread her inner thighs and heard the soft snick of her wet pussy as the entrance widened. The sound inspired his cock to throb so hard that his knees nearly buckled. He slipped his right thumb into the source of her heat. His balls clenched with anticipation.

So goddamned wet and hot. He groaned and realized he would have to reestablish the grip on his control if he was going to last longer than a few strokes. Shit, long enough to even get inside her, at this point. Think. Think, man, think. You can do this.

The plea for control ignited his mental soundtrack. The intro drums of Slow Ride by Foghat began to play in his head. The full version of the song was eight minutes long and the perfect cadence for starting off easy and moving into some serious, hard-core fucking.

Oh, yeah, he thought. Slow ride. Take it easy.

She whimpered and shook her ass. “Pleeease.”

“Don’t worry, babe,” he growled. “I got this.” Slow ride. Take it easy.

His cock knew the way home and he didn’t have to lift his hands from her body to bring his best friend into play. He spread her wide and pressed his smooth, sheathed head against her shadowed folds. Ah, sweet mother fucking…. slow ride, take it easy.

He pushed and then grunted with the effort to maintain. She was tight but slick enough to slide right in. Near the hilt, he held very, very still. Electric heat curled around his buttocks and tickled his balls. He was only five strokes from climax and he knew it. His fingers clenched hard enough to bruise her flesh with their desperate grip. Shit. Fuck. Take it easy, man. Take it fucking easy.

She made a grateful sound in response to his rough handling and pushed back against him, sliding herself up his length until her ass met his abs. Her insides clenched down on his length—like a goddamned fist—and she began to rotate her hips, working him further into her depths.

“Fuuuck.” He closed his eyes tight against the visual of their bodies meeting in the middle but it was too late to unsee it. Lights sparked behind his lids and he knew there was no way he was going to make this one count for her. I should have had a couple shots of Jack in the bar. Would have numbed me up more than the condom alone. Or maybe jacked off in her bathroom or something. I didn’t think we’d be skipping all of the small talk.

“Shit, I’m not going to make it,” he gasped. “I’m going to come way too soon.”

Her spine arched away from him as she pushed harder against his body. “I’m already there,” she crooned in response to his admission. “Fuck me. Fuck me hard. I’m coming right now.”

As you wish, Buttercup. He gloried in the permission to just fuck her and fuck her hard. The track in his head skipped ahead to the more intense final minutes of the song as he pulled out and slammed his cock back home. The stroke went so deep that he nearly touched the end of her. We gotta rock all night. You know the rhythm is right. We gotta rock all night. He kept his moves steady, hard, and fast. Her sweet ass cushioned the blows as his hips smacked against her body. Her inner thighs kissed his balls with heat when they slapped her tender flesh.

Guitars and drums, guitars and drums, we gotta rock all night, something, something, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Tendrils of electricity ran up the backs of his thighs, wrapped around his buttocks, then dove into his ass and fired up the length of his cock. He could have blown his wad right then and there but the annoying little voice, the one that had suggested he put on a condom, insisted he give the woman a little bit more.

After all, lover boy. She’s letting you put your dick inside of her. That’s a really nice thing for a woman to do.

He reached up and grabbed the mass of red locks at the back of her head, pulling her upright. Then he stepped forward and pressed the length of her body against the solid front door. His hands slid down her arms until they reached her wrists. Dean lifted Gracie’s hands above her head and pinned the both of them in one of his. Keeping his hips in motion, he slipped his other arm down and wrapped it around her belly, pulling her body tight against his. He bent his knees, pushed them between hers, and curled his hips to begin thrusting upwards. He grinned when the waitress screamed in response to the change-up. It was a very good scream. Her screams turned to grunts as she jolted up, up, up, against the hard wood.

“You like this?” The question was moot. He knew she liked it. And he wouldn’t be able to stop if she asked him to.

“Hard,” she gasped. “Fuck hard.”

Rod Price ran his guitar up the scales as Dean’s pace began to pummel the door in its frame. Bam, bam, bam. That’s it, that’s it, I’m fucking coming. Damn… that feels goooooood. Fluid surged with the final three thrusts and filled the condom with warmth. Her own innards had turned to molten fire around his cock and he briefly wondered if their combined heat would melt the latex. The world tilted and he wished they’d been lying down on something forgiving. He wanted to collapse on top of her as the strength left his body through the hole in his dick.

But, hero that he was, he remained upright and supportive as her body fell back against his. He breathed in the warm cookie scent of her hair. I could do this again in about five minutes. Where’s the bathroom? I hope she has beer in the fridge. Will I be spending the night? I hate this part, sometimes. What if she kicks me out? He shrugged in response to his inner concerns. It was worth it.

He looked back over his shoulder and spied a nearby couch. Without pulling his cock from her body, he shuffled back until his knees pressed against the settee and sank down onto the cushions, bringing her down to settle on his lap. Her head fell back onto his shoulder. Her eyes were closed but a faint smile graced her lips. She said, “That was great.”

“Yeah,” he agreed.

After catching her breath, she sat up and carefully pulled herself free of his softening flesh. The smell of sex was thick between them. She wiggled down her skirt over her hips as she stood.

“I have to pee,” she said. “There’s beer in the fridge.” She fastened a serious look upon his face. “You should get completely naked. I want to do this a couple of more times before I go to bed. I also want you spent the night so I can get some morning sex before my shift starts and before you leave town. You good with that?”

“I’d love to spend the night.” He leaned back on the couch and smiled. “Can I use your shower?”

“In the morning,” she replied. “I like the smell of your sweat.”

Irony is a bitch, he mused as the bathroom door closed between them. Any woman who likes me dirty and tells me to get lost after a night of fucking is the kind of woman I’d like to add to my roster.

*

The sun was barely up when he left her apartment, both parties amicable and satisfied. His baby brother was leaning against the Impala in an impatient manner when Dean crossed the street to the hotel parking lot.

How does one manage to make a lean look impatient, Dean wondered.

“I got your ‘don’t wait up’ text last night,” Sam said. “I figured you…hey, are you okay?”

“I’m great.” Dean grinned as he flung his jacket through the open driver’s side window. “I’m better than great.”

“Are you sure?” Sam pressed. “You’re limping.”

“Am I?” He grinned over the top of the car. “I must have strained my dick.” He opened the door. “What with all of the sexing of the waitress.”

Sam grimaced. “I don’t need to know the details.”

“Then you should have left it at ‘you okay?’” Dean advised. He settled into the front seat and waited for his brother to join him before he started the engine. “Okay, first off, she had this whole Betty Page thing going on under that little waitress get-up.”

Sam shook his head. “Seriously, no details.”

“And there was this tattoo.”

“No, Dean. I’m serious.”

“Of a mongoose.”

“I’m not listening.”

“On the inside of her thigh.”

“I can’t hear you because I’m not listening.”

“And then her sister showed up. Her twin sister.”

Sam’s head snapped to the left. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Dean nodded as he shifted his Baby into reverse. “And she brought a pizza.”

“Okay, now I know you’re just fucking with me.”

They made good time from the edge of Arizona to Sacramento, California. They stopped at a gas station to change from their usual clothes into their suit and tie FBI get-ups. Then they drove to the East Sac suburb wherein the Falks—and their potentially demonic child—did reside. Sam knocked on the front door while Dean schooled his face into a studious expression.

The door opened wide and a heavily made-up soccer mom beamed out at them. Dean thought she beamed just a little brighter when she saw his handsome mug so he blessed her with a high-wattage smile.

“Hello, there,” he said.

“You must be from the magazine. I’m Beverly Falks. Come in, come in.” She stepped back and swept her arm to indicate the direction they should travel. “You’re a little earlier than we expected but no matter. We’re all set up in here.”

“Agent Price, ma’am,” Dean said. “And this is my partner, Agent Bassett.” And you must be Mrs. MiLF. He was, as always, impressed by his peripheral vision. He could look the woman in the eye and still delight in the orange cleavage her white silk blouse framed like a piece of pie a la mode. Every hair on her head moved in unison as though one can of Aqua Net had simply not been enough, in her humble opinion. He imagined the curls would crunch in his hand.

“Agents?” Her slender brows rose. “I thought they were sending a journalist and a photographer.”

Photographer. That explains the shellac, Dean thought. And the fake tan.

“We’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, ma’am,” Sam explained. “We would like to ask you a few questions.”

Dean felt like a tool, now. Impersonating a journalist and a photographer would have been a little easier and a lot less of a felony.

The woman stepped forward and half-shut the door behind her, glancing back once to make sure there were no eavesdroppers in sight. “Listen, if this is about the company car, I can explain the mileage. I can’t believe she’d call the feds over a few hundred-“

“No, ma’am,” Dean interrupted her confession. “We’re not here about the company car.”

“We’d like to speak with your daughter Beatrice,” Sam said. “With your permission, of course.”

“Oh.” The woman looked startled. “Oh, my. I had no idea the federal government would be interested in this sort of thing.”

“Is Beatrice home?”

Her eyes narrowed. Now that the fed’s attention had turned towards her child, her concern turned towards suspicion. “My daughter is home, yes.”

Dean worked his face into a serious expression, furrowing his brow and deepening his voice. Women dig the deep voice. “May we speak with her?”

Her response was flat. “Do you have a search warrant?”

Dean fought the urge to step back from her gaze. Initially, he had gleaned an interest in his form on her part, a subtle appreciation of what he had to offer woman-kind, but now he sensed a she-bear rising from her slender depths. He glanced at Sam. Sam was much better at talking to women when Dean’s sex appeal floundered.

“Ma’am.” Sam spoke right on cue. “We are not investigating a crime. We only wish to speak with your daughter regarding her experience at the hospital.”

“Is this about Dr. Stewart?” The woman’s demeanor softened. “I’m sorry but she hasn’t been in contact with us since the day Beatrice woke up last week. I don’t know that my daughter could be of any assistance in that matter.”

“Mrs. Falks, we are simply following every lead. Anything could help, even if it seems unrelated.”

Good boy, Sam, Dean thought. Jump on it, even though we have no idea what she’s talking about.

“Well, I don’t think that my daughter can help you. She’s been through a trying event and, really, there’s nothing-“

“Mom, it’s okay.” A soft voice from behind the door interrupted the woman. One moment later, a pale round face appeared beneath Mrs. Falks’ arm. Long blonde hair, held back by a blue ribbon, swayed along her cheeks. “If the police officers want to talk to me, I’ll talk to them.”

“Federal agents,” Dean said. “We’re not cops. We’re feds.” He wondered if it was too early to throw holy water in her face. She was a cute kid. Her eyes seemed a little old, maybe. A little too wise… but maybe being a coma had aged her. He pressed his hand against the flask in his pocket. He refrained from pulling it out and splashing her with water just yet. He needed to be subtle.

“Honey,” her mother said. “I don’t think there’s anything you can tell these men that will help them find Dr. Stewart.”

“Don’t be silly, Mommy.” The little girl stepped back and pulled the door wide open. “They’re not here to ask about the doctor. They’re here to ask about Heaven.”

Heaven? Sam and Dean exchanged looks that let the other brother know he had thought the same word at the same time.

“You told me that we need to share what happened to me with the whole world, mommy.”

“Yes, Beatrice, but I meant People Magazine and The Ellen Show…”

“I think I should tell anyone who asks. Please, mommy.”

Dean stifled an impressed snort. Kid was working it. After a moment, the woman’s shoulders sagged.

“Come inside,” she said, stepping out of their way and limply gesturing a half-hearted welcome into the foyer. “But make it quick. We have a real interview in less than thirty minutes.”

“As you wish, Buttercup,” Dean muttered darkly.

“Of course, ma’am,” Sam spoke at the same time, louder and more forcefully than his brother, in an attempt to cover Dean’s tone. He moved forward first, casting one sharp glance back at his elder before he stepped inside.

Dean gave him the what? look. Ellen versus the Feds. Come on, which interview is more pressing?

The brothers were obligated to enter a small parlor through an arch to the left of the front door. The room looked as though it still stung from a fresh scrubbing. Dean walked to the fireplace and ran his left index finger along the mantle. He scowled at his finger and then wiped it on the outside of his suit jacket, as though it had been tainted with dust. That oughta bug the snot out of soccer momma.

The former milf glared at him. “Excuse the mess,” she said hotly as she settled onto the couch next to her waif of a daughter.

Sam sat down on a chair across from the pair, a glass coffee table between himself and the family, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He provided the child a gentle look. “My name is Sam. You’re Beatrice, right?”

She nodded. “Yes. My name is Beatrice Elizabeth Falks and I am nine years old.”

“That’s a pretty name,” Dean interjected. “Were you named after your great-great-great-spinster aunt?” He caught the twitch of Sam’s head and closed his mouth. Sorry, buddy. It’s all you.

“Beatrice,” Sam continued, “you know why we’re here, right?”

“You want to know about Heaven.”

Sam breathed in deep through his nose and nodded, keeping a thoughtful expression on his face, the I-smell-something-weird look he used so often. “What do you want to tell us about Heaven?”

Beatrice smiled and Dean began to have serious doubts about her being possessed by a demon. She was darned cute. Too cute. Bordering on creepy cute. Demons made cute kids really creepy. He slipped his hand into the pocket with the flask and prepared to act. If she really were a demon, it would not be long before she recognized the notorious Winchester brothers, if she hadn’t already.

“Heaven,” she began, “has a Ferris Wheel.”

Beatrice then began to describe, in great detail, her experience of Heaven. It was like the best day ever and she got to live it over and over again and there were ponies and princesses and popcorn and cotton candy and funny clowns.

Dean chuckled audibly when she mentioned clowns. Both Mrs. Falk and her daughter glanced in his direction.

“I love clowns,” he said, to cover his amusement. “Wouldn’t it be awesome if Heaven was just full to the top with clowns? Big clowns.” He demonstrated their size with a generous space between his hands. “Big clowns with really loud laughs and painted faces.” He looked over at Sam. “Wouldn’t that be awesome, Agent Bassett? Angels dressed like clowns?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, nostrils flaring. “Really… awesome.”

Beatrice giggled happily. “Then you’re going to love it. I spent a lot of time there and there are lots of clowns.”

As they listened to her story, Dean realized that Beatrice had probably died, for a short spell, and spent her brief sojourn in Heaven reliving one of her fondest memories which was, apparently, a day at the county fair. He looked at Sam and knew that his brother had reached the same conclusion. Heaven in the Winchester universe was devoid of harps and wings. Instead, it placed your soul in a holding pattern of memories, forever circling eternity but never landing.

“But then the Purity said that I should go home because my mommy missed me very much.”

This tidbit perked Dean’s ears so hard that they popped. “Purity?”

“Purity was the name of Beatrice’s guardian angel-“ Mrs. Falks began.

“Let me tell it, mom.” Beatrice cut her off. The tween’s tone held the promise of difficult teenaged years ahead. “At first, when I died but before I went to Heaven, everything was dark and I was very scared. I could hear voices but they sounded a long ways off. I tried to shout but no one answered back. I was in a tiny little box or something. I felt like an elephant was squishing me. I couldn’t even make myself breathe.”

“She was intubated and on a respirator,” her mother supplied.

Beatrice closed her eyes and assumed an expression of long-suffering patience. After a moment of her mother’s silence, she continued. “And then the lid lifted off the box and there was light and I saw a little girl standing there. It was Purity. She said, ‘what are you doing in here? I thought this body was empty.’”

Her mother opened her mouth and then closed it again in response to the sharp look of her child.

“Anyhow,” Beatrice continued. “She said that she didn’t think anyone lived here anymore but then she had heard me crying and came to let me out. She said that she needed to borrow my body for just a little while. She said that I could pick my favorite memory and stay there until she was done.”

“Wait a minute,” Dean said, holding up one finger. “I thought you said you were in Heaven.”

“She was in Heaven.” Mrs. Falks snapped and then pulled a tissue from the nearby box and handed it to her daughter, even though the child’s eyes were dry. “It was Heaven. Purity was an angel.”

“Mommy, please. That is what Heaven is. Heaven is your favorite place, your favorite people, and your favorite things. Forever and ever. But Purity said that I could only stay for a little while. She said that my mommy and daddy were very sad and missed me very much. She said that her mommy had gone to Hell and back to save her and that it wasn’t fair of me to ask my mom to do the same.”

Hell and back. The fluid running the length of Dean’s spinal column chilled.

“One moment.” Mrs. Falks held up one finger towards the brothers and looked at her daughter. “Beatrice, what did I say about that word?”

“Mom, if I can say Heaven, I have to be able to say Hell. You can’t have one without the other.”

“Damn straight.” Dean grinned and held out a fist to be bumped.

“Agent Price,” Sam warned.

“What? The kid has made an excellent case for the use of the word.”

Sam cleared his throat. “Pardon me, Mrs. Falk, my throat’s a little dry. Could I trouble you for a glass of… water?

His emphasis on the last word reminded Dean of the holy water in his jacket pocket. Oh, that’s probably why Sam had emphasized the last word, he figured.

“No, I’m sorry,” the mother said.

“Excuse me?”

“I just find it hard to believe that two Federal Agents are interested in my daughter’s celestial experience. I think you can find your way out of my house.”

Shit. She sniffed us out. Better make this quick.

“Here, partner. I got you.” Dean pulled the flask from his pocket and unscrewed the top. He made to move towards Sam but stumbled with intention and liberally splashed the front of both mother and child. For a moment, the reaction was minimal. Mrs. Falks merely looked annoyed that she would have to change her blouse but then Beatrice shrieked and pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes.

“It burns!”

Mrs. Falks expression morphed from perturbed to demonic. “What the hell have you brought into my house?”

Dean squared off between the devil’s minions and his brother. The demon-killing blade was almost free of his coat when he translated the rest of the soccer mom’s shrieks.

“Booze? You threw booze into my daughter’s eyes?”

Shit. Dean looked down at the flask in his hand. Totally the wrong flask.

“Now I know you’re not federal agents. Get out of my house. I am calling the police!”

Sam was amazing. Without missing a beat, he pulled a white handkerchief from an invisible place on his person and reached one of his long arms out to blot the whiskey from Beatrice’s cheeks. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Falks.”

“Get your hands off my daughter!”

Sam held out the cloth and she instinctively snatched it from his hand and crumpled it in her fist.

“I would like to speak with your supervisor,” she demanded.

Sam handed her a card with their counterfeit contact information. “Go easy on my partner here,” he said. “He’s a little green and I think that whole ‘heaven full of clowns’ thing freaked him out a little.”

“Get out of my house before I call the real police.”

*

“That went really well,” Dean said as he started the car and gunned the engine. “Except we didn’t get to the holy water part. Try again tonight, maybe?” He waved and winked towards the house. The front door slammed hard enough to shake the mailbox at the end of the walk.

“The handkerchief was damp with holy water,” Sam said. “It didn’t burn Beatrice’s skin when I touched her and the mother held it in her hand without bursting into flames so neither one of them is a demon.”

“Clever,” Dean said, in appreciation of his brother’s quick thinking. “So, now what.”

“So… now, you put the car into drive and then you push the pedal on the right with your foot. Quickly. Please.”

“As you wish, Buttercup.”

*

God made grease and saw that it was good and said Let There Be Bacon Cheeseburgers. Dean took a large bite of the bountiful offering and made sounds that drew the glance of a passing waitress. He winked in her direction but did not stop chewing with gusto. The Denny’s was packed with men and women that smelled of tobacco and diesel but there was free WiFi with every cup of coffee. Unfortunately, the uniforms of the female staff did nothing for him.

Sam was still talking. He had been talking for a while. He talked a lot, sometimes. “So, now that Dr. Stewart is no longer a missing person, we should go check her out.”

“Who’s Doctor Stewart?”

“Remember when Mrs. Falks asked if we were investigating the disappearance of Doctor Stewart?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Good ol’ Doc Stewart.” Dean’s tone was calculated to make it sound as though he had no clue what a physician had to do with the case. He picked up a chunk of tomato that had escaped his bite and tossed it towards his mouth.

“Have you been listening to anything that I’ve said in the last five minutes?”

Dean regarded the man-sized watch on his wrist. “Has it only been five minutes?”

“Dean…”

“So, basically,” Dean said, maintaining a steady bite-chew-swallow rhythm while talking, “what you’ve gleaned from speaking with Mrs. Soccer Mom and her spawn and some of the staff at UC Davis, is that Purity the demon—or the angel or the whatever—dumped the kid and has taken Dr. Stewart for a joy-ride and yesterday, she made Dr. Stewart’s body call home so it wouldn’t get hassled by the APB.” The joint was jumping and the din was loud enough to cover their unusual conversation. “And, now you think we should interview Dr. Stewart’s family to pinpoint her location. Since both she and the miracle bike messenger organ donor guy left on the same day… you’re thinking there are two demons, maybe a team. Or maybe one, a hunter, and the other, prey.”

“That is exactly what I am thinking.”

“Great minds, Sammy.”

“You’ve got grease on your tie.”

Dean glanced down at the offending spot. “What do you know? It works.” He wiped the corner of his mouth with the fat tail. “So, we look for the missing patient or the doctor first?”

“I’m thinking that if the doc phoned home, maybe she left a forwarding number.”

*

“She didn’t leave a number,” said the husband of Dr. Stewart. “But she did leave six million dollars.”

I need to divorce a doctor, Dean thought.

“That’s a lot of money,” Sam observed.

“Half of her inheritance,” the man said. “She ran off with one of her patients. Some teenaged bicyclist brain donor. “ The abandoned husband looked remarkably calm about the whole matter. “She took the rest of her money and grabbed some land on the Lost Coast. A hotel. A restaurant. Something. I don’t care.”

Sam narrowed his eyes but kept his tone neutral. “Pardon me, but I’m going to be straightforward here. You don’t seem to be too upset about the whole… getting left by your wife thing.”

“I’ll be honest, as well,” the man replied without shame. “Money soaks up a lot of tears and also I was banging her sister. And now that she’s no longer missing, I want you guys to leave me the hell alone. I’m no longer your goddamned murder suspect.”

Dean craned his neck to look back at the three luxury cars crouched on the gravel of the circular driveway. He jerked his thumb towards the collection. “How much of the six million you got left after snatching up that lot?”

The door slammed shut between them.

*

“That’s half a million in car flesh right there, easy,” Dean said as they stomped down the concrete steps and hustled passed the gold Bentley, the blue Tesla Roadster, and the red 1965 Mustang. “That guy is really enjoying his wife’s mid-life crisis.” He adjusted himself as he walked past the beasts.

“You okay, Dean?” Sam paused his step to look back at his brother.

“Yeah, I’m good.” Must make room in pants.

“You’re limping again.”

Dean waved him off. “I’m good. Just, uh, just got something in my shoe.” He leaned over and placed his hand on the hood of the Mustang. He lifted his foot and bent his head to hide the look of pleasure on his face as he pretended to shake a pebble from his boot. The metal beneath the skin of his palm was still warm. He heard the faint ticking of a cooling engine and shuddered with pleasure.

“Oh, yeah,” he muttered, his voice graveled with desire. “You’re so hot.”

“Dean?”

Sam’s voice was a lot closer than he had expected. Dean dropped his foot and straightened up. “I’m good.”

“I need to get to my computer and look up recent sales on the Lost Coast. He said she bought some land?”

The last statement seemed to be a question so Dean replied as they walked towards the impassive Impala. “Yeah, yeah, sure. A restaurant or something. Where exactly is the Lost Coast?” He slipped into the driver’s seat and relaxed when his brother’s familiar weight balanced the car.

“The Lost Coast is the part of California that Highway 101 avoids. Too mountainous.”

Teasing his brother was a reflexive action. “So, how exactly are we supposed to get there?” He turned the key in the ignition.

“It’s not actually lost, Dean.”

“What the hell?”

“It’s just not accessible by highway.”

“Forget that, Sammy,” Dean snapped. “I was making a joke. She won’t start!”

“What?”

“She won’t start!” He turned the key again. The engine strained and coughed and died. “Come on, Baby.”

“Battery, maybe?””

Dean closed his eyes and put his forehead to the steering wheel as though in supplication. “I was only looking,” he whispered. “Okay, maybe I touched her a little bit but it didn’t mean anything. What I was thinking was you, me, her… on the blacktop, red-lined, laying down some rubber… can you feel it, Baby?”

He turned the key again and the Impala roared to life. Dean cackled with delight and spanked her dash. “That’s my girl.” He grinned at Sam. “Baby’s got an open mind.”

 

Five hours later, Dean cruised the Impala off the highway and into the town of Redway, California. He pulled into the paved lot of an establishment called The Brass Rail. He slipped his baby carefully through a maze of carelessly parked motorcycles.

Sam looked up from the screen of his phone. “We’re stopping already?”

“Food,” Dean replied. He pointed to a neon beer sign in the window. “Wheat. Barley. Hops.”

“Dean, we are less than thirty miles from our destination.”

“Thank you, Mr. McGPS.” He turned off the car and opened his door. “I don’t know about you but I don’t want to enter a place called The Lost anything after sundown on an empty stomach. We’ll catch some sleep and fight demons after a belly full of break and fast. Besides, we can question the locals and maybe get some more intel. You like intel, am I right?”

Sam sighed as though the weight of the world was copping a squat on his chest but he pulled his long length out of the car in submission to his brother’s whims. He straightened his cramped back and regarded the place of business with a suspicious eye. After a moment, he said, “Okay, I’m starting to think we’re both stuck in your version of Heaven. This is a bar, a restaurant, and a motel. On one spot.”

Dean pocketed his car keys and rubbed his hands together with glee. “That waitress in Arizona had a copy of The Secret in her bathroom. I read the chapter on how to manifest while I took an amazing twenty-minute dump.”

Queen was belting Fat Bottomed Girls from the juke when the boys walked into the large old-growth redwood bar. The aroma of beer and meat drew Dean towards the long, smooth counter. A woman—a real, live, pretty brunette on the younger side of middle-age—stood behind the bar, slinging drinks like a pro.

“What’ll it be, handsome?” She pulled three simultaneous drafts from the taps while she waited for a response.

“I’ll take whatever you’ve got to offer, beautiful,” Dean replied.

“That’s cute,” she replied with a wink. “But I was talking to the tall drink of water in your wake.”

Taken aback, Dean turned around and looked at his brother. “You heard the woman.” He ignored the sting of her instant rejection. “What’ll it be?”

Sam shrugged. “A room for the night, I suppose.”

“Wow.” The bartender’s eyes widened and she looked back at Dean in surprise. “Usually they make me buy ‘em a drink first.”

“Not him,” Dean advised, his spark coming back to life. “He’s a real cheap date.”

“No, I am not a cheap date,” Sam said. “We just want a room.”

Her eyes narrowed but amusement glimmered through her lashes. “The two of you need a third for this party?”

Dean opened his mouth to reply but no words came out. He side-eyed Sam.

“No, Dean.” To the bartender, his brother said, “No. We do not need a third. Just a room.” He held up two fingers. “With two beds. One for me and one for my asshole brother.”

“He’s my brother,” Dean confirmed with a wide smile. “My baby brother. He needs his nap.”

 

Two hours later, after one beer with Sam, seven on his own, and absolutely no headway with the bartender, Dean set a handful of quarters on a pool table and challenged the eventual winner. While he sat at a table, waiting for the game to wrap up, a skinny little thing he’d noticed earlier in the evening approached him. She looked barely old enough to drink and her mannerisms were a weird blend of predator and prey. She sat on the edge his two-top and leaned forward, pressing her cute little tits together with her upper arms to make some cleavage above her tank top.

“You wanna buy me a drink?” She twisted her long, blonde, blue-streaked ponytail around her wrist and looked all around his face without meeting his eyes.

Thinking she might have some information about the area, and be more willing to discuss it than the lady bartender had been, Dean said, “Sure.”

“I’ll give you a blow job for it.”

Dean winced. “I already said I’d buy you a drink.” He decided not to spend any more time with the kid than he had to. He’d rather go into the demons’ lair blind than dodge the shifty come-ons that would be part and parcel of this conversation.

“Okay, I’ll give you a blow job anyhow.”

“No thanks. I’m good.”

“Okay. Maybe later.”

“Nope.” He glanced at the pool table to make sure there were enough balls in play to allow him a minute or two for the errand. “Let me go and get you that drink.”

“Seven and Seven,” she advised.

“Seven and Seven,” he confirmed and strode towards the bar. The hot bartender’s shift had ended at ten and an old fat guy stood in her stead. Figures. He gave the man his order.

“Watch out for that one,” the guy said, indicating the mixed drink as he made it. “She plays games with fresh meat.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured.”

“Likes to start fights. You’ve been warned.”

He nodded and exchanged the drinks for three fives. “Duly noted.”

 

When he approached the table where he’d left her, the waif pulled her tongue from the mouth of a dreadlocked hemp-draped pool player and skipped back to her chair.

“Ooh, thank you, kind sir.” She snatched the drink from his hand and slipped the tiny straw between her lips. She made a show of sucking up the alcohol from the depths of the glass.

“Looks like I wasn’t quick enough to keep your attention,” he said, indicating the freshly-kissed pool player.

“Oh, him?” She waved a dismissive hand in the bearded man’s direction. “He’s like a brother to me.”

“You kiss your brother like that?”

“Okay.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s more like a step-brother.”

“And that’s not creepy at all.” Dean felt heat on the side of his face and looked in the direction of the glare. The pool player did not seem to appreciate the competition for the strung-out waif’s attention. The music from the jukebox filtered through the light-alcohol haze and Dean heard Lynyrd Skynyrd politely ask for three steps towards the door.

Good advice, Dean thought. Think I’ll take it and he slipped away while the girl was distracted by the ice in her glass.

 

Sam had hung a sock over the knob of the door to their room as a joke. Dean chuckled and pulled it free before he tried the handle. It was locked. He fumbled with the key in the lock, turned the deadbolt, and pushed. The door slammed his cheekbone when its inward progress was cut short by the chain.

“Sam?” Dean closed and opened the door again. “Sammy? The door’s stuck.”

“Oh, God!” His brother shouted.

“No, Sammy. It’s Dean. Sammy, are you okay?”

“Dean! Get- FUCK!”

“Sammy!” Dean shouted, his voice rough with a sudden dose of adrenaline. “I’m coming for you, Sammy!” Two solid shoulder slams popped the chain from its base and the door swung wide. His heart pounded when he saw what was happening in the room. Sammy was being attacked in an utterly horrifying manner.

“Get away from him, you black-eyed bitch!” He strode across the room and grabbed the creature’s arm, pulling her up and away from his brother’s… uh, his brother’s…uh.

“Dean, what the FUCK are you doing? She’s not a demon!”

“A what?” The woman demanded.

Dean’s brow furrowed so deep that his face cramped. “Sammy, she was… she was… biting… she was…” His fingers loosened on the—increasingly familiar if he imagined her fully clothed and pouring him a beer—woman’s arm and she slowly pulled away from his grip.

“She was… giving him a blowjob?” The bartender suggested.

“Dude,” Dean said to his brother. “I am so sorry.”

Sam growled. “Did you not see the sock on the door?”

“I… I thought it was a joke.”

“Does it look like a fucking joke?”

“I’m game if the two of you are,” the bartender advised.

Dean opened his mouth to speak and he made a sound but Sam’s voice was more audible. “He’s not game.”

She shrugged. “Suit yourself. How ‘bout you, Jolly Green? Still up for what we already had going on?”

Sam looked down, contemplated his upright cock, and nodded. “Dean. Get the fuck out.”

Dean’s struggled to maintain a straight face and the effort to hide his amusement twisted his features. “Dude. You’re going to pick a girl over me?

“Dean, I will kill you. Kill. You. And then I’ll fuck your car.”

Dean held up his hands and backed out of the room. He stood in the doorway for a minute, until he was absolutely sure that Sam was a willing participant. Then he turned away, closing the door softly behind him. He put the sock back on the handle and stood outside on the walkway, looking up at the Milky Way. After a moment or two, he remembered watching the angels fall and turned his eyes away from the sky to the roof of his Impala in the parking lot below.

“Looks like it’s just you and me tonight, Baby,” he said. He was never lonely in Baby’s backseat, even when he was alone.

 

Dean was ball-deep in a Hooter’s girl he’d met in Nashville three years back when the unending scritch-scritch-scritch of her cat in the nearby litter box finally got his goat. “Can we please put that thing outside of the trailer?”

The sound of his own voice woke him and he opened his eyes. He was under his jacket in the back seat of the Impala, not under a waitress in the back end a battered Airstream. He reoriented in less than a heartbeat but his cock still throbbed deep in the imaginary woman who’d been crouched over his mid-section only moments before. The lingering miasma of cat-piss and the annoying sound were, however, very real.

“When you get the door open, pop the trunk,” someone hissed in a loud whisper from the rear end of the car.

Oh, hell no. Dean slowly pulled the jacket from over his face and let his eyes adjust to the moonlight coming in through Baby’s dusty windows. From his position, he could not see the face of the person trying to jimmy the lock of the driver’s side door but the white of the waif’s ponytail was instantly recognizable.

“Almost got it,” she hissed back at her unseen companion.

When the nub lifted from its locked position, Dean felt a small stab of betrayal. Baby, no.

“Got it!” She shouted as she opened the door and slipped into the front seat.

“Keep it down, will ya?” Her companion whispered in response.

“Yeah,” Dean said, sitting up. “People are trying to sleep here.”

The girl shrieked and jumped out of the car but did not run far. “Shit! Someone’s in the back!”

“Fuck,” her companion snapped. “God damn it.”

Dean kicked open the back door and stood up straight. “The devil beat Him to it,” he snapped as he lunged forward and grabbed the girl’s skinny arm. He had to loosen his grip because her bones felt as frail as a bird’s wing. He spun her around and roughly pushed her towards her partner in crime. She stumbled and fell to the asphalt but bounced back up as though she were spring loaded. Her nimbleness gave Dean pause. Demon, ghoul, banshee, or shape-shifter, he wondered.

Then he determined that the girl and her scraggly bearded buddy were just your run-of-the-mill tweakers currently flailing on the crest of a chemical high and looking for something to steal so they could afford to rise from the inevitable crash. They had, of course, picked the wrong goddamned guy.

She lifted her hand and pointed an accusatory finger at the eldest Winchester. Her voice was like nails on sheet metal. “That’s the guy who wanted a blow-job for one lousy drink!”

“Oh, yeah?” Her buddy glared.

“I’d rather stick my dick in a Magic Bullet full of gerbils,” Dean said.

She stepped aside so her companion would have a clear path to her alleged harasser. “You hear that, Joey? You hear what he said about me?”

“Yeah, I did,” Joey growled. “He’s gonna regret it.”

Dean ignored the pitiful threat. He knew he could hog-tie the guy with his own stringy white-boy dreadlocks. “You looking for something in the trunk of my car?” he asked, shrugging into his jacket and fishing the keys from his pocket. “Let’s open her up and see if what you’re looking for is in there.”

He walked to the ass end of the Impala and the two thieves stepped several paces to the left to give him room. He kept his back to them with no concern for his own welfare. He knew they were chicken-shits at heart. He opened the trunk and looked in at the bounty of weapons as though he might really have something they needed.

“Hmm.” He selected a wicked blade from the trove and held it up high so the moonlight would light up the steel. “What you’re looking for… did it look something like this?”

He heard the pitter-patter of little feet running away and he smiled. He gave them five more seconds to make their escape before he turned around. Scraggly McBeard was gone but the waif was still there.

“Hello, Dean Winchester,” she said. Her black eyes did not reflect the light of the moon.

 

He took a moment to appreciate her new beauty. Gone were the skittish eyes and the twitchy limbs. She stood as tall as her petite frame would allow and Dean could see the woman she might have become if she hadn’t been sidetracked by her addictions. He felt a twinge of regret that an innocent—even a not-so-innocent—had yet again been sucked into the clusterfuck of his life.

He showed her Ruby’s blade. “Good timing,” he said.

“I’m not here to kill you,” she advised.

“Then you really should not have come to this little party.”

“I know where you’re going and I’m asking you to leave us alone.”

Dean shook his head. “No can do, bitch.” His eyes sought the second-story motel room door he’d left his brother behind.

“I have not bothered your brother,” she assured him. “I came to speak with you, directly. When Denise called to let me know that there were a couple of guys asking questions about the new folks in the Cove, I knew exactly who you were.”

Denise? Who the hell was Denise? Oh yeah, the bartender. Of course, his baby brother was fucking the demon’s accomplice. Figures. Now what? He didn’t want to kill the tweaker. The kid was fresh meat and still had the chance to survive her encounter. Unless he stuck the knife in her head. Then she was deader than dead. Hard to kill a demon without killing the host. The situation slowed his hand.

“Please,” the demon said. “You have a world full of evil to fight, Dean Winchester. Evil that is far worse than the two of us. Please, leave us alone.”

“See, the way you say that, it makes me think that you don’t understand how this whole thing works.” He tilted the tip of the blade back and forth between them while he spoke. “You’re a demon. I’m a demon hunter. You’re pure evil. I’m pure charm. There are no shades of grey in this situation, despite the rug burns on your knees.”

“Please,” she begged. “We owe the Winchester’s our freedom and I…” She paused for a deep breath and he witnessed a struggle deep within the little body. “And I made a promise. I don’t want to kill either one of you.”

“Tell me, sweetheart. If you had not come upon me with this here blade in my pretty little hand, would this conversation have been any different?” He waited a moment for her to respond. “Come on. You can be honest with me. It won’t change the outcome.” When she didn’t speak, he snorted and shifted his grip on the hilt. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

The waif opened her mouth. The demon streamed out and up into the night sky, disappearing into the black. He caught the child as she fell and carried her to a nearby bench.

“Sweet dreams, kiddo,” he said as he straightened the ponytail on the side of her head and let her sleep it off.

 

Before Sam opened his eyes, he reached out his arm and felt for the soft, warm, naked body that had been next to him when he’d fallen into a deep and sated sleep. When his hand encountered leather and Levi, he opened his eyes and groaned in disappointment.

“Wakey, wakey,” Dean said from his perch at the edge of the bed. “Want me to give you a minute or two to burn the morning wood?”

“Dean… what?” Sam wiped the sleep from his eyes and nostrils. “When did you get in?” He scanned the room for the bartender.

Dean raised his brows. “Are you serious? The sock is still on the door. I had to sleep in my Baby.”

“Oh, yeah.” Sam sat up and swung his legs off the bed as though morning had something more to offer than hangovers and heartaches. He pulled the sheet with him to cover his erection. “Sorry about that.”

“I’m not.” Dean grinned. “You were starting to back up. I was afraid I’d have to call in a professional plumber. Oh, and it gave me a chance to have a little chat with one of the demons we’re chasing.”

Sam’s spine stiffened before he stood up and turned around, letting the sheet fall back onto the bed. “What?”

“Dude.” Dean winced and covered his eyes but left an obvious gap between his fingers. “Is that a birthmark?” He removed his hand and stared without shame. “I didn’t know you had a birthmark on your-“

Sam whirled around and grabbed his pants from the back of a chair. “It’s not a birthmark.”

“It’s a hickie? Dean gasped. “You let her put a hickie on your little Winchester?”

“Focus, Dean,” Sam snapped as he pulled up his jeans, sans briefs. “You encountered one of the demons? How did it know where to find us? What did it say? Did you kill it?” He slipped his hand between his junk and the metal teeth before he pulled up the zipper. “Dean? Are you listening to me?”

Dean shook the image from his head. “Yeah, sorry. I just… does it itch?”

“Probably not as much as that rash you got in Nashville.”

“That was poison oak and it was worth it.”

 

 

To Be Continued.

The final chapter will be up later this week… (12.20.2015 – more like next fucking year. Sorry, guys. Life gets in the way but it’s all good. This shit will make for GREAT fiction)

About Violet Graves

Writer of Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Sex with a Vengeance www.violetgraves.com
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