Author: Regala Electra
Fandoms: BtVS & SPN
Spoilers: BtVS & AtS: Post Series Finales; Supernatural: Pre-Series
Summary: This girl, she's a classic all right.
Author's Notes: Crossover fic. Crack!fic with tons o’ smut. All good things when you’ve lost your mind. Length is in the friendly neighborhood of 4500 words. This is part one in the Other Myths That Aren’t True Series. Thanks to bethynyc for the beta, femmenerd and luckycookie, for valuable concrit.
Feedback welcome, as always, whether it be, good, bad or cantaloupe. Mmm, cantaloupe.
Dean's smirking like he's just gotten fucked six ways from Sunday. Well he hasn't (yet), but hell, give it time, the night is long, and he's a lucky sonnofabitch.
And damn, that is a one hot chick hugging the jukebox, or wait, no, that's just her ass being hugged by those pants. Maybe he’s just on the edge of being drunk, but fuck it, it’s a good place to be. He's already figuring out methods of attack, there are countless ones, but experience has taught him to fall back to the classics (it's always all about the classics: to his rock tapes, to his '67 Impala, to his favorite shotgun and his favorite old knife, the one he's had since he turned thirteen).
Sometimes shiny and new just ain’t the answer and this girl, she’s a classic all right.
The saunter then if he needs it, walking like he owns the whole damn universe and time’s just a little toy he’s playing with just for the hell of it. He'll give her a smile that lies - one that says, 'this right here, baby? This one's all for you.' Damn, they all fall for that one and it’ll never get old.
She's wearing some dark boots with nice heels, but it's the tight cut of her pants (leather too, but the color of envy, black-green almost, very nice in a slutty way and that's exactly how he likes it, right now anyway), yeah, that's what he's focusing on. Very nice.
She picks something from the late '70s, hard and fast and goddamn, he's in lust. Then she turns around and he’s aching to get to the good part now. She's brown haired and has big brown eyes and a mouth, oh yeah, that's a damn fine mouth. Something like a pout on her face fades into a wicked smile. Hell, the girl is the definition of wicked, the good kind. She gives him the once over too and yeah, he's what she needs, even if she doesn't know it yet.
He's just won enough at pool to give himself about two comfortable weeks of hunting without worrying about his next meal, so he's a lucky guy right now.
And she's not exactly the sort to do that chick thing where they're all modest and shit prior to sucking, fucking, and whatever else he can think of.
"Buy me a drink," she says, flicking her chin upwards like a dare. It unsettles him, just for a moment, a this chick might have too many buckets o' crazy thought crosses his mind, but dammit, there's something about her and he's a guy. If he ends up handcuffed to his bed and robbed, well, at least he'll make sure to make it worth his while.
He’s got a pair of trick handcuffs just in case and he’s used ‘em before.
And if she's another kind of trouble, he'll handle it.
He asks her what she wants and she smiles then, and it's exactly what he wants. A dark curve of red and a flash of even white teeth. A good sort of dangerous.
"Whatever you're having," is the answer (and it's a good answer) and she's tugging off her leather jacket (matches the boots), one of those pointless short ones that chicks wear. Bad for protection or warmth, but then, most people, guys or women, don't really have to think about that sort of thing.
Her arms are bare and she's got a halter top (nice) and he can’t stop staring at her, putting all the pieces together, just to figure out how it’ll all be. He’s thinking it’s going to be freaking awesome. It's the sweet curves hidden under the clothes that definitely are piquing his interest.
She sits next to him at the bar, crosses her legs for just a moment, a quick flash of strength, but it’s a pointed move, she’s daring him. Betcha want these legs wrapped around your waist is the challenge and when he’s quick enough to pretend he’s not staring at her body, he sees the laughter in her eyes. He’s kind of fascinated by those boots, the color of her eyes almost, a sort of rich brown color but not quite, there’s a shine to 'em that could make the Devil pause. Whatever, fashion's not his fucking thing.
“Nice boots,” he says, half-sincere, but curves his smile in just the right way. Angles his head so he can take a drink and still keep his eyes on her.
She doesn’t respond to that, just downs her drink with a flourish. It’s just beer, nothing special and she calls over the bartender and asks for whiskey. “You in?” She’s got her body angled in an interesting way; he really can’t wait to have those breasts crushed flush against his chest.
Three shots of whiskey to seal the deal. He doesn’t tell her any bullshit stories, he doesn’t need to and yeah, that’s arrogant, sure, but c’mon, she’s the right kind of fun. “I’m Dean,” he says before the first shot.
She says her name is Faith (and he actually believes it) after she downs her first shot. There’s a sideways glance she throws over her shoulder, like she’s scoping the bar, but ain’t nobody else here a guaranteed good ride and she’s a sweet thing looking for a hell a time.
“Who are your parents? Any siblings? Where you from? Just passing through? What kind of a girl ends up in a dive like this? Have any tattoos?” She shoots them off in a bored tone, but her smile gets sharper as she tosses out every bullshit question she can think of. “Me, I’m just your average escaped felon running from the law, but don’t worry, it was a one-armed man who did it, and now I’m tearing my way across the country, knocking over every bar and leaving every guy aching for more. Oh, and I got my tattoo removed.”
He leans in, catching a scent off her like a live wire, all hot energy simmering under that sweet flesh. “You want to get outta here?”
Two shots downed in quick succession and a false flash of gratitude. “Thought I was being a little vague there with the hints.”
They make it out of the bar, sort of. He’s got his arm around her shoulder and she’s got her arm wrapped low around his waist, her left hand almost under his jeans, scratching at his hip. Then there’s a stumble and he’s pushing her up against the building, pressing her into that wall maybe too hard, but he ain’t concerned with being a gentleman, not with this one, kissing whiskey and smoke and smearing lipstick all over. It tastes like burning alcohol and anger and it’s fucking perfect.
Fuck she kisses like bruises spread, all fierce and sore, punctuating sharp jolts down his jaw just for the hell of it, taking his earlobe between her teeth just as she undoes his belt like it ain’t nothing. Her hands are quick and there are faint calluses, fingertips brushing against the skin just above his cock.
“Damn you’re fun,” he manages to say and he’s pleased it sounds right, not quite a grunt and not enough of a moan.
“Vertical, horizontal, whatever,” she whispers when she releases his earlobe, finding sensitive places that haven’t yet been mapped out, her hands now keeping his head closer to her, her tongue running lightning quick over his mouth. He’s got her hitched up, she’s shorter than him and he’s always been great at figuring the logistics. She’s short, but wily.
Bucking up against him, leather comes into contact with his stomach and she manages to ask a question, but he misses it and she repeats it, a bit impatient. “Where’s this gonna happen?”
He grins at that and she catches it in the shadows and half laughs, there’s something slightly broken in it, sharp as glass. But she’s powerful and has her hand wrapped around his cock before he can make a suggestive comment and okay, that’s just not fair, but it sure as hell is great.
Tugging at her halter top isn’t helping him any and he does groan this time, impatient as all get out. He just hikes it up without another thought, thumbing hard nipples and swallowing her appreciative noise, tongues rocking and he really, really needs to fuck her. Now would be great, but he’d like to impress her with some idea of stamina and there’s enough night for some good old fun before she’s gone in the morning.
Cause yeah, she’s into loving them and leaving them. He ain't gonna start complaining now.
“You,” he says, while he unzips her pants, grabbing her sweet ass and finding panties that are almost sensible (boy-cut lace), “are killing me.”
She kisses him then and it’s kinda wrong, hot and desperate, but it’s also amazing, it’s like need and grief and he doesn’t do the whole ‘let’s examine whatever’s going on with my life’ while scoring with a chick, okay? But there’s a flash of something terrible and he catches a flicker across her face, like something being repressed and it’s really fucking familiar, and hey, so long as she doesn’t quit rolling her hips just like that, then he ain’t going to –
Oh fuck, that is perfect and he needs to take this someplace else.
"Got a car?" She asks this while yanking at his jacket and shirts and he grunts a yes.
He doesn't even know how they manage it: walking towards his car with their clothes barely put back into place, not really laughing, but certainly looking like sin. It does take a while, taking half-stumbled steps, stopping every moment to grope someplace new and hey, it's not like he's the only one. She's probably about five minutes from blowing him in the middle of the parking lot and he almost considers hesitating.
He doesn’t know what she’s asking, since he’s almost managed to work a hand down the front of her pants, so she has to ask again.
"The Impala?" Yeah, like he thought, she's all about the classics.
He just smiles his answer, going around the car to open the side door. There's that dry, crackle of a laugh, ricocheting in the half empty lot, as he does it, and hell, he could almost pass as a gentleman, if he zips up his pants. She slides in and says, still flush with amusement, "My place or yours?"
He doesn't answer, just shuts the door and gets in his car, it starts up like always, like what perfection must be, harsh and reliable. "Where you staying?"
She shrugs. "It's about thirty minutes from here."
"I'm about ten minutes."
"Oh darling, you know exactly from what."
"Oh pumpkin," she mocks, and it’s amazing that she mirrors his voice like that, "I'm not a darling."
He smirks in agreement and he's tearing down the road. It may be ten minutes, but he can cut it down easy.
He turns the radio on and she immediately switches it and he thinks of telling her about driver's rules, but she turns the dial to real music, rock music and he focuses on getting back to the motel as quick as he fucking can.
She's working the laces on her boots, catches him eyeing her and says offhandedly, "Less work for you." He catches a flash of steel as she loosens the right boot, but hell, that was a rough bar they were in and she's a pretty little thing with a sharp look in her eyes that warrants the weapon.
It would be almost disappointing if she isn’t armed in some way, dangerous curves aside.
He sees the motel up the road and takes an easy turn into the parking lot, shutting off his car. He nearly bolts from the car while she takes a leisurely stroll towards his motel room.
"You realize I'm a safe bet, right?" She pulls a condom from a pocket inside of her jacket, puts it to her teeth.
"Darling,” he says, because he knows now that the nickname bothers her, “I'm even safer."
He's got her pressed flush against the door of his motel and she says, "You wanna scandalize the neighbors?"
"I want to break the bed," is the answer.
“You know, I’m wanted in several states for that,” and she flicks her head so he can’t kiss her full on, just catches the side of her face, taking in a scent that’s complicated, some of it is the bar they just exited and the outdoors, and there’s something else. Something sickly familiar, like graveyards.
Graveyards are not his thing ever, so he dismisses that thought immediately.
He unlocks the door.
Shoving jacket and shirts off, he starts unlacing his boots, easing them off. She hops onto the bed, and that ain't no metaphor, that’s a fucking hop. She’s kneeling on the bed and peeling off that top and letting it fall to the ground. There's a swift kick to each boot heel, tugging ‘em off and keeping them close enough to bed so they’re within reach. He notices that, he's been trained to notice little things like that. She falls backwards, wriggling out of the leather pants, rolling her hips.
"Damn, you're flexible," he responds, and maybe it sounds stupid, but he's got other concerns as he pulls his jeans off, yanking his boxer briefs off. Before she can deliver her snappy comment, he's on her like white on rice or whatever, peeling those lace panties down toned legs, tossing them wherever.
She's got that condom, almost holding it dainty, between thumb and index finger, but he can hold out enough to hear her scream.
He spreads her legs casually, splaying his hands against her thighs. She's staring at him, like this is in reverse and she’s the one in control. Hell, that's just fine with him, she's got something dark in her and he's surprised that he's aching to taste her. He's had years of experience, knows enough that she's up for anything and he's willing to try everything.
So he avoids her clit at first, like it's a goddamn tease, but there's no teasing here, only trying to figure out a way to guarantee they'll bring down the walls, and that is a goddamn metaphor.
It's just his mouth, he keeps his grip firm, even though he's starting to suspect she's letting him pin her down, there's a weird tremble in her muscles, like she's holding back. Tongue pressing deep, then flattening, moving every which way but not quite hitting the parts that make her do much more than some breathy little moans.
She's trying to angle her hips, shoving her sweet pussy in his face to get his tongue up right against her clit, but he moves again, up and away, this time pressing his mouth deep against the juncture of hip and thigh. He presses one finger deep inside her without warning and yes, she's fucking aching for it.
Then there's a vice grip throb around his finger and he looks up, cocking an eyebrow.
"You better start fucking around there, pumpkin," she half-growls, her face almost feral in the half-light. "I don't want to break ya unless I have to."
He presses his thumb against her clit and it’s a sweet victory for him, she's been teetering along for a while now and comes magnificently but doesn't scream. So he tongues her as deep as possible, feeling the aftershocks still pulsing, lapping up a taste that ain’t sweet, but it’s fucking better than anything else.
Most times after, there's a rest, hell, he really isn't looking forward to this time out, watching a chick all dazed out in bliss just ain’t worth it when your cock is begging for attention, but she doesn't even pause, and turns out? Yeah, she's holding back, 'cause there he is, yanked up with a force that almost surprises him, but before he can even register that, she's tearing off the condom wrapper, spitting the torn wrapper on the sheets, rolling it over his cock easy. That part doesn't surprise him.
Maybe he’s a little disappointed she didn’t put it on using only that fine mouth.
Kissing her is violent and awesome and she seems to be really into the new taste in his mouth and he has to admire her dedication. She's rubbing up against him and he does get to feel those perfect breasts crushed up against him. He's about to hike her right leg over his shoulder when she breaks away from his mouth, splays her hands against his chest and rolls.
She's on all fours, hair framing her face and he has got to get her number.
Sinking down without preamble, angling back and hell, he just has to say, "Yeah, I'll just enjoy the view then." Hips aligned in the right away, tits moving as she maps out the territory with experimental thrusts, it’s all very fucking good.
She flashes another dangerous smile, but some of the malice has disappeared along with the lipstick. Fuck, it's all the sort of same thing, his cock pushing upwards into wet heat, but it's always right and he always wants more. She knows how to move her body too, starting off with a slow twist and a tilt that he knows is gonna be just brutal in the end.
It’s not until the bed starts creaking that he sits up with her, kissing her deep and she wraps legs around him. He gets his hands on those sweet hips, pushing the pace further, wondering if he could get away with breaking this crappy motel bed. Doesn’t matter much if the credit of Chris Dorian gets all fucked up.
She touches his amulet and looks at it with a frown, but she isn’t slowing down and Dean isn’t in the position to explain (he smirks inwardly as that expression flits across his mind, behind the haze of fuck, fuck, fuck, good, yes, fuck, yeah). She pushes the necklace off to the side and she rakes fingernails down his chest, they’re blunter than he expected or maybe she’s being gentle.
He doubts that.
He manages to get a hand between them, her pussy’s tight around his cock and he figures multiples? Are totally this girl’s thing. One, two, three, gotta be careful, just the right amount of pressure and then he touches her clit just right, and she breaks away from his mouth and almost screams this time.
She’s distracted this time, which is great and she is limber as hell, and when he gets her flat on her back, he hikes both legs over his shoulders and if this bed doesn’t break this instant, the next occupant’s gonna be in for a nasty surprise.
She’s talking dirty in a low tone and he’s panting maybe more than he’d like to admit and they’re both working up a sweat. Suddenly, she digs both hands into his ass and grits out between her teeth like a strangled scream, “Fucking come already,” and Jesus, that’ll do it and goddamn, he’s the one that screams, all noise and want.
This Faith girl has more sense than him (not like that’s really saying a whole hell of a lot), so she’s the one that starts untangling, dislodging from him and taking off the condom. He winces when she runs her tongue over his softening cock and she laughs like a dying muffler.
“Yeah, that was me trying to kill you,” she admits. He watches her walk over to the waste basket, slivers of moonlight catching her skin as she passes by the curtained windows.
“Ain’t dead yet.”
“Oh, don’t be a hero,” she says, and there’s a deep, troubling undercurrent to that statement. She’s dropped the condom and is eyeing the room, like she hadn’t already swept the place the moment she crossed the threshold. “Mind if I take a shower?”
“Do I get to watch?”
She looks at him for a good long while. Finally responds, “Watch, yeah. I can’t afford to have any more muscles pulled tonight; have places to do, people to see. Vice versa.”
He gets up and doesn’t make a promise. She turns on the shower and makes a face as cold water (always at fucking freezing, never any in-between) comes sluicing down. “You know,” he says, keeping his tone as conversational as possible, “you could stay the night.”
“You know,” she says, keeping her voice just as light, “it’s easier to cut out the middle man and the man in the middle? The morning after.”
He nods at that. “Still. Have to ask.”
“Don’t be nice.” She steps into the shower and turns around. Kisses him softly. “That isn’t why I fucked you.”
It’s almost surprising that it hurts and he watches her shower for a few minutes before he wanders off, pulling out clothes to sleep in, a faded grey shirt and a fresh pair of boxer briefs.
He doesn’t dress though, instead he hops in the shower and she turns around, hair all soaped up with cheap shampoo, not looking entirely surprised. “Hey, waste not, want not.”
She says, “Just let me take care of this,” and she washes the shampoo out of her hair. Her breasts rising and falling as she works fingers deep into her scalp is plenty distraction.
Picking up the bar of soap, he absentmindedly scrubs down; he’s not doing it to turn her on, okay? He’s a little pissed by what she said and he’s on the slow climb of sobriety, give or take a good night’s sleep.
Faith rolls her eyes, which looks a whole hell of a lot different when all that makeup’s gone. “Let me,” she says simply.
He stands under the full spray as she works the bar over him. Then, working up a lather in her hands, she cups his balls. Maybe if she were another person, it would be a caress. It isn’t and he washes off, shutting off the water.
He’s half-hard and she knows it, but she’s out of the shower, toweling off. There are only two towels that are people-sized and she goes to hand him the other, pausing. In the harsh light of the overhead bulb, she looks pretty fucking young, even though she’s probably in her mid-twenties. There’s not much that’s aging her, unless you discount that look in her eyes like she’s seen hell every other weekend and she’s about to pop in for another visit. There are faint edges of a scar on her stomach, an old knife wound. Someone had to have twisted that fucker in and meant it.
She drops the towel and she’s down on her knees before he can get out the “wha-“ to his what the fuck are you doing question, only he knows exactly what she’s doing. He’s been caught off guard and she’s not angling to draw this out. She sucks him deep and long enough and he comes, clutching wet hair.
Standing up, she tosses the towel at him as she walks out of the bathroom. He catches it, one-handed. He’d hate to break it to his dad that sometimes the best thing about all those years of training is that it’s allowed him to keep some awareness after having his mind blown post-orgasm. Not like he’d ever say that sort of thing. Might have, in the past, said that to Sam, just to freak him out, but those days have long gone.
Fuck, if he starts moping, he’s going to have to ask Faith to kick his ass. She looks like the sort that gets off on that sort of thing.
He pulls on his shorts, briefly amused by watching her naked ass as she bends over the bed, searching for her panties. The bed ain’t broken, but there’s a lopsided tilt that he’s damn proud of.
He leaves her to the search as he dries off his hair and pulls his shirt on.
She finds them and tugs them up her legs, then wriggles into her pants and yeah, they’re much easier to pull off. Pity he only got to watch and not participate in removing them.
“It’s Winchester. Dean Winchester by the way,” he says, flashing his best grin. “Case you were wondering.”
She’s lacing up those boots so she doesn’t say anything. Looks up, a challenge in her eyes. Pulls her shirt on, flipping her hair over one shoulder as she reties her halter top. Finally responds, “Yeah? Like the Winchester rifle?”
There’s the sharp hit of suspicion – this is one of the few times he’s given a chick his real name and she doesn’t believe it. Well, that’s just how the cookie crumbles or whatever. “Yeah. Exactly.”
“It’s Faith Bowie,” she lies with a wide smile that isn’t threatening at all when there’s no violent shade of red slathered on her lips. “Of the English Bowies. Not the knife.”
“Now it would be a treat to see you all glammed up and in glitter.” He sits tentatively at the corner of the bed, easing backwards slowly. He’d like to get a few hours of sleep out of the sucker and it’s on its last legs.
She’s going through her jacket, pulling out odds and ends (a tube of lipstick, a plastic hotel key), casting a disdainful look at her cell phone. Tugs the jacket on and zips the phone in an interior pocket. “Takes a few more drinks to guarantee that one. So-”
There’s a pause and a weird moment where she just looks at him, not at all like before, like she’s sizing him up for a deeper reason. It’s discomforting and he’s just got to make a flip comment, but she gets there first. “Next time you’re in town, I won’t be here, so have a good time without me.”
“Don’t have to worry about that, sweetheart.”
She walks over to him, nearly sitting on him like she’s game for starting up another round. Her kiss is like a punishment. God, she’s good at balancing, this time she does sit herself right down, the bed barely creaks as she twists her hips to get into a better position. She’s got something in her hand but isn’t hiding it.
“See you around, Dean,” she says like a hollow goodbye, offering a fleeting kiss. Momentarily twines her fingers as they clasp hands in a sort of goodbye, and man, her hands are much smaller than they ought to be. “Don’t call me darling or sweetheart, pumpkin. Fact is, you don’t get to call me-”
“So I’ll call you,” he says, the classic lie.
And she, being the classic girl, knows that one all too well. She’s halfway out the door when she responds.
“Don’t call me.”
But he’s got a number scrawled down his arm in black cherry red that says otherwise.
To be continued in Broken Antennae (Other Myths About Cemeteries That Aren't True)