Author: Regala Electra
Fandoms: SPN, BtVS/AtS
Spoilers: SPN: Pilot, BtVS/AtS: Post-Finales
Summary: Oh yeah, graveyards are a big turn on. Set the week after events in the SPN Pilot.
Author’s Notes: Major thanks go out to femmenerd for a most excellent beta and assisting me in lessening the suck. ;-) Any further mistakes are my own. Major shout out to kataclysmic’s fanmix Pollute My Heart, which served as awesome background music to this fic. Feedback rocks.
He figures if there’s any place that won’t turn up answers, it’s the cemetery where they buried Sam’s girlfriend. Since then Sam’s been running on nothing more than grief and anger and well, Dean knows exactly where that leads to. He saw it happen with Dad, he knows all the signs. So there’s not much they can do by the fifth day. All the leads have run dry and Sam’s furious at the laptop, like a fucking computer can really do anything but offer up links to half-accurate text. Goddamn, research makes his teeth itch.
Dean made a decision then — announced that he’d go by the cemetery and refused to let Sam go — because hell, if there’s any place a chick flick moment’ll happen, it’s there. And if he catches Sam weeping, he’s going to stuff him in the back of the Impala, take him to Tijuana or Vegas or wherever and make him drink his grief away before they go looking for Dad.
Sam had pointed out that he’d be in a trunk full of weapons and Dean had pointed out he’s got a hell of a right hook and he knows which knots Sam never properly mastered and that'd keep him detained for about six hours at the least.
He makes sure not to mention that since Sam hasn’t been sleeping, it won’t exactly be that much of a struggle anyways. Hell, he doesn’t know what do.
So, here’s Dean, looking at his brother’s dead girlfriend’s grave. Yeah, this isn’t morbid at all. And it’s exactly helpful in all the ways that it isn’t.
Freaking cemeteries. At least he doesn’t have to dig up any graves today. His arms are grateful, not to mention his back. He remembers getting knocked into an open grave during a tussle with a nasty zombie, his Dad yelling at him to get off his ass and get back into the game. Sported black and blues for a long while after, which made riding in the car damn uncomfortable, but Dean didn't bitch.
He'd gotten to kill the bastard after all. Burnt the body. After that, Dean went on hunting trips on his own. He'd earned it.
He decides, after checking his watch, that he’ll take an hour and then maybe try to hit up the handful of their contacts who said maybe, possibly, or I’ll have to look further when he and Sam had first called them. It’s late enough that he’ll only be able to bother the West Coast contacts, but not late enough that they’ll be that pissed if he wakes ‘em up. Besides, when you’ve been involved long enough in the hunting, your idea of sensible, normal hours erodes.
The dawn hours are pretty much the only time a person gets to have to their lone self.
Forty-nine minutes later and Dean’s ambling past some nasty old graves, guessing how they died. He’s got to do something to kill time and yeah, he knows that it’s wrong to use that term (kill time) at a graveyard, it’s just asking for trouble, but fuck if that ain’t exactly what he’s doing. Shit, he’s glad he wasn’t named some of the goofy names these dead folks were saddled with and when he goes, he's going to be pissed if beloved ends up anywhere next to a description of who he was.
“Hey jackass,” a friendly voice says over his shoulder and fuck how the hell did anyone sneak up on him? And why does that person sound cheerful?
Doesn’t matter, he’s got training enough but fuck if this person ain't fast, half-hidden by the mausoleum and there's a quick elbow jab that he barely avoids, one that would have connected with his solar plexus.
He manages to get the person on the ground in a flurry of action. He’s almost got her (her? yeah, definitely a her) pinned and then there’s — well, he totally underestimated this one.
"Jesus," he grunts, but that's all he gets out. She’s way too strong and shoves him into the ground easy. Pushes his head down and he's almost sucking down cemetery grass and dirt. If he tries to move, he realizes, she wouldn’t hesitate dislocating his shoulder. That's one hell of a grip she's got.
“Dean,” she says in a rough voice, that fake, sunny cheer evaporating with each word. “Winchester, like a fucking rifle. Here’s a riddle, a friend told it to me: what sort of a moron wanders around cemeteries at night?” She doesn’t give enough of a pause for an answer. “A dead one. Like I said, that’s a friend’s riddle. Mine’s a lot quicker and goes straight to the heart.”
She thumps him on the back with the something blunt. Her right knee is keeping his arm down and she's still got his left arm in a vice grip. One hard pull and he'd feel that sick pop of bone from the joint socket. Nails briefly scratch his throat, fingers against his pulse. The fingertips stay there for a good long while, pressing deep against his skin.
“I’m not a zombie, sweetheart, and I’m not a vampire. They’re not,” he’s about to say they’re not around anymore, they’ve been wiped out, but he catches himself before the stupid comment and says, “they’re not real.”
“Right,” she agrees with a harsh dash of bitch, slapping him too hard in the back and that friggin' hurt. There’s a rustling sound, but he doesn’t quite know what it is, and he can only turn his head enough to catch her in his peripheral vision. Sees a flicker of her jacket sleeve, like she’s hiding something.
He totally remembers this chick. So he takes a gamble, since his fucking arm is still in her grasp and says, “You getting off me anytime soon?”
She twists her hips. Yeah, this isn’t exactly the right place to starting that, and it’s veering towards the very wrong kink. “So many places to take that. If this was a better time—” she catches herself and groans. “Whatever, I didn’t say that. Just...I’ll let you go if you promise to get the fuck out of here.”
“Believe me," he says, and moves his arm, just a bit to make the point, "it’s easier when I’m not pinned to the ground.”
“No prob,” she answers, releasing him easy, like she hadn’t just been a good twist away from royally fucking up Dean’s arm. She stands up but doesn’t lend a hand and he glares at her as he spits out blades of grass. Picks at one bit stuck in his front teeth.
He looks at her for a good long while, trying to figure out how the hell a one night stand from Mississippi ends up in California several months later, just at the same time that he shows up and that demon returns and Dad goes missing.
And she’s really fucking strong. Not natural. Very bad.
“Faith," he says. "Would say it was nice to see ya if I hadn't just been face-first in some cemetery grass.” He pauses as she shrugs, wiping dirt off her jacket. “You gave me a fake number.” Always best to keep it light, he’s only got a knife strapped to his right arm under his sleeve, some holy water, his lighter, and rock salt. He’d left his gun in his car.
Damn if this isn’t really unsettling.
There’s a dancing light in her eyes, that were he not standing in a graveyard several days after pulling his brother from a fire, he would have found very fucking attractive. Shit, she’s still hot — he’s not blind — but she has to be some kind of bad news and he’s not sure how to proceed.
“You actually tried to call me?”
He doesn’t answer. Focuses on the real problem at hand, maybe makes his face look hurt (and that’s not too hard because he got a little maudlin when he made it down to New Orleans and he’d thought of her and that’s the first time he was given a fake number and he's only called up a handful of chicks in his entire life). There’s ways of handling this and he’s got to figure out what she is.
“It was a U.K. number,” she says with faint amusement. “Didn’t you wonder why it started with a zero?”
He shrugged. “Thought you gave up on drawing a smiley face to be ironic or something.”
“I did say I was of the English Bowies.” She cocks her head, smiles like she’s being outrageous. He remembers that smile and it’s like a straight shot of tequila. No, she was a whiskey girl, he remembers that. “That was you, right?”
“Nice,” he bites out. “Now normally, I’d love to continue this little conversation, maybe even ask you out for drinks and try to get into your pants again, but you haven’t said why you’re wandering around a graveyard. Seeing as you just gave me a hell of a greeting, you better be an undertaker.”
“Just passing through,” she responds but he watches the body language and that's a goddamn lie. “Was called to check out a possible situation, nothing turned up and then I saw a moron walking around and decided to investigate.”
“Yeah, that sounds smart.”
“God’s honest,” she says, dropping the truth which ain’t surprising. She gives herself away by tugging on the sleeve of her jacket, but Dean pretends not to notice. “Too damn honest. No point in being truthful really. But that’s the real situation.”
“You’re not English,” he says, because the weird feelings are climbing up on his Weird Shit Meter and he knows that coincidences are only good when they lead to sex and he isn’t feeling the sexing opportunities, even if this chick kinda oozes it. But he figures she's human at least. There's just something too complicated about her. Dean can hear the underlying regret (it's a shattered, half-lived pause between words) twisting under her bravado. That, most of all, is fucking creeping him out.
“Nope,” she chirps, starting to walk towards him, stopping when she starts craning her neck upwards to look him in the eye. “My last name isn’t Bowie either—”
“Obviously,” he cuts in.
“But the number’s real and would have gone to my voicemail." She inclines her head and he thinks of hawks and how they have to look you in one eye prior to attacking. "If you’re not going to tell me why you’re here, you don't get to ask me to explain myself.”
“You from the Northeast?” He sizes her up. Starts pulling all the pieces together, hoping to throw her off. “Boston maybe.”
Oh, there’s a direct hit, she almost recoils, but recovers nicely. There’s a nasty twist to her pretty lips and she forces out, “You really have to answer my question first before you start with that shit. I’d really like not to kick your ass. I hate that somewhere down the line I always bruise the ones I like.”
She pauses a good long while and Dean’s damn good at waiting. Well, sometimes. Okay, most of the time he’s not, but he figures this is a time to wait it out. The vibe eases just a bit and Dean lets out a breath. It's not a sigh, Dean doesn't fucking sigh.
“Yeah, Boston.” She flicks some hair off her shoulder. It swings away easy and her outfit’s a hell of a lot more sensible this time around. Dark jeans and a top that’s only slutty ‘cause there’s a strip of exposed belly and those breasts are just made for ogling. Faith notices his look and angles her back just right, pushing those sweet tits forward, smiling that dangerous smile of hers. “You’re from somewhere in the middle of the country.”
“Kansas.” And he doesn’t know why the fuck he tells her the truth.
“Been all over this damn country but I’ve never been to Kansas.” She considers this for a long moment. “How is it this time of year?”
“Haven’t been in a while,” he answers shortly.
“Five by five,” she responds offhand. “Guess the pleasant chat is over. So now we fight.”
Before Dean can ask what the hell? (and really, that’s all he’s got to say, what the hell?), she moves way too fast, lashing out at him. A fucking huge roundhouse kick veers towards him and he barely manages to get out of the way.
Now look, he’s been raised not to hit women. If she were a demon? Fair game.
She's totally not.
Faith is laughing, fucking laughing and she’s living and breathing this fight like it’s her fucking last. She’s fucking enjoying this and he knows that she ain’t an amateur, that’s pretty much confirmed with the sharp punch to his jaw while he’s trying to bob and weave.
Eventually, Dean does connect one of his punches, with the force of a dull glancing blow, just to get a pause, which she easily brushes off.
There’s not enough time to figure out all the little tricks and weaknesses, which side she favors too much and she’s just too fluid for him to do anything but let his body take over and abandon all hope for this being a clean fight.
He's not even close to winning. Hell, the way she’s acting, she’s goddamn giddy, like this is a game...but he shrugs that off. He's trying to hold his own but damn if that isn't a pretty jump kick, and this girl fights like no one he's ever seen before. It's damn impressive.
He catches one of her legs as it swings up to hip level, and she pauses. For a split second, he’s sure she’s going to knock him out easy. Her fists are close enough to cause real damage but she doesn’t move.
Fires have given off less heat than this chick and it’s disturbing that it isn’t disturbing to him.
“God, you’re easy,” she says, wrapping her arms around his neck and he mistakes it for an embrace.
And he’s been pinned again. It’s much more favorable this time. She's sitting on top of him, staying on his chest so he can’t buck her off. She's got his arms above his head and she's holding tight. She is smaller than him, sure, and maybe he could figure a way out of this position, but then she hasn’t done too much damage—just bruised ego. There’s a warning in that.
“I win, you listen.” She kisses his forehead, smearing lipstick on his head. “Now I’m going to walk you out of this fine scenery, which you decided was the perfect place for an evening stroll 'cause you're an idiot. How do you feel about pancakes?”
He stares at her, which isn't hard when she's that damn close. “In general or—”
“It’s nearly three A.M.," she says, tapping a finger on his watch, even though the faceplate is on the other side. "I have no business here and since I know you thought you did, I think we better find a diner and eat some pancakes. Also, I have a feeling you know something about Jessica Moore.”
Shit. He’s got a hell of a situation here.
She’s grinning full on now. “Your pretty green eyes give everything away. That’s fucking wicked. Now I haven't done nasty interrogation tactics since the bad days and I’m not gonna pick up the broken glass again. I kicked that habit stone cold. We call a truce and I’ll give you information. We’ll like fucking share shit and do the Scooby thing. I haven’t done that since I went freelance.”
“I don’t think Daphne or Velma were out of their minds, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, I’m not either of them and I never fit in with the gang.” She sighs, releasing him, pulling out his necklace from under his shirt, staring at it. “I remember this. I also relayed it to a — an associate, to make sure it was what I thought. Just needed to get some peace of mind.”
She lets go and gets up. Wipes the dust off her jeans, and cracks her neck.
“You’re trouble, son." Which is just fucking ironic from her, considering her middle name must be Trouble or Danger or Holy Shit, Look Out For This One (maybe that's her Native American name). "Let’s get some pancakes.”
Oddly enough, he decides to go. But not before he says, “Son? You’re younger that me, darlin’.” She’s human, he knows she is and who knows, maybe she’s a hunter. He figures Sam would kill him if he let a possible lead get away.
He doesn’t, however, call Sam.
Hell, how would that conversation go? "Hey Sammy, there’s this chick who turned up here and I fucked her some months back — it was awesome!" (because yeah, he has to disgust his brother; it’s way too easy) "And now she’s doing creepy detective work and asking about your dead girlfriend. So I’m just going to get her to talk over some pancakes."
Admittedly, he might not have thought this plan full out.
Okay, he never really plans things out. He’s happy to strategize, yeah, but when it comes to making plans, they fall apart real damn easy.
You just figure out a way to take the thing out, make sure you can save your ass, and then you’re done. Well, Dean also adds make sure you got a lighter handy because he knows sometimes you just gotta burn the motherfucker.
This Faith chick, she’s already pure gasoline, slick and volatile and would welcome the ignition — a quick lick of flames and she’d probably laugh.
That really shouldn’t be sexy, but it works on her.
"You still got that sweet ride?" she asks as they get closer to the gate. She keeps on buttoning and unbuttoning her jacket; it's distracting.
"Never leave home without it."
"Course not. Did it come with a sticker that said ‘pussy guaranteed?’" She casts a sidelong glance. "I'm not insulting the car, if you were wondering. Being a big thinker and all."
He takes the insult with a nod, flashes teeth like a warning.
So they go out for freaking pancakes. How do they do it? It’s simple. They get into his car, he doesn’t ask how she got to the cemetery (what, did ya walk here?), and they look for a 24 hour diner. She goes to fiddle with his radio and he thinks she did that last time too. Thanks to Sam’s decision to take that Constance bitch back home, the radio’s been off and on and it’ll be tapes of real music for a while. This is good because if Sam tries to turn on any whiny pop shit when they go looking for Dad, Dean will stuff his brother in the trunk.
She doesn’t seem displeased by AC/DC and rolls down the window.
“There,” she says when they finally come across a place with all the lights on.
So that’s how they wind up at a freakin’ IHOP. Usually the place has that weird family restaurant vibe, which never fails to annoy him, like gettin’ a skin rash only worse. This one though, it’s a total dive and the few people working the night shift are scowling at them when they enter.
It don’t matter much; he doesn’t think she’s the type that’s ever aching for fine cuisine and chandeliers and shit.
It’s a greasy spoon of a place, where if you stay there too long you might find yourself stuck to the seats, shoes planted to the linoleum. It’s his kind of a place and she seems to be digging it. She doesn’t bother with a menu, lets Dean order a pot of coffee and then orders a stack of pancakes and sides of bacon and sausage.
“I always enjoy a shitload of fake maple syrup during work hours,” she says to him as she checks out the assorted syrups, turning them around to look at the name. Done with her review, Faith begins stacking up the little packs of jelly condiments in front of her like a fort.
He snorts, shaking his head. “I thought you were doing your interrogation thing. Those jelly packs the first line of defense?”
She puts the salt and pepper shaker at the sides of her jelly fort. It resembles a demented plastic castle. “I’m waiting for the coffee. Then we’ll talk.”
He leans back in the booth. It isn’t comfortable, but it does allow him to appreciate the fact that as it turns out? That shirt isn’t as sensible as he thought. It’s a low cut top and he’s always up for an eyeful of cleavage.
“You’re lucky I’m fucking starving,” she says in a conversational tone, “or I’d have fucked you on the hood of your car and put in some permanent dents in that sweet ride. Plus your car’s hood would have gotten messed up.”
“You know flies, honey,” he drawls out and she cuts him off.
“It was really fun kicking your ass,” she says, as she swipes away her makeshift fort, beaming at that waitress and holy shit, she’s totally fucking flirting with the waitress. She says a genuine thanks with a sweet no, I’ll take care of it wink. Faith takes the pot of coffee, pouring a cup for herself and then one for Dean.
She takes it black and he has to admire that.
“We gonna talk now?”
She drains half her cup before saying anything. “You actually have some training but were totally holding back. Sucked, woulda liked to know how strong you actually are.”
“That was a test, then?” He remembers the heat of her pressed up against him. “I don’t like getting my ass handed to me twice for a fucking joke, sweetheart.”
They’re the only customers here but Faith still takes a cursory look around. That’s a stalling tactic, but he knows it’s all a part of getting stories out of people and shit—she knows about Sam’s girl. Jessica.
“You were annoying me."
Dean blinks at her. “What?”
She laughs. “I’m just fucking with you. Well, not in the usual way. We’ve already done that and I remember it being a hell of time.” She smiles at his face and dammit, he must have confirmed it. “People tend not to listen to me unless I beat ‘em down. Needed you to listen.”
“Well, what I’m listening for is what you know about Jessica Moore.”
“Look...” and he waits for the lies to begin. She’s got the type of lips that are born for lies, all sweet and tempting. “I was up at Stanford visiting a friend’s kid and then got a call about some weird shit happening. A girl dies in a random fire that no one can explain and I offered to check it out.”
“When did you get the call?”
“Four days ago,” she answers and they’re both on their second cups of coffee. This time Faith adds sugar to hers.
“Not a part of story time. Doesn’t matter.”
“’Cept, if you’re lying? I might need some evidence.”
“You’re not a cop,” she says.
Dean considers flashing the badge in his wallet. Instead he presses on, asking, “What were you doing at that cemetery?”
“Walking around dead people is good for my health.” She’s shredding her empty sugar packet. Then quite suddenly, she looks him in the eye and says, “You never know what’s gonna decide that it’s not as dead as you think. I go hunting there.”
Before he can respond, her pancakes and sides come and she starts pouring on three different colored syrups: amber, golden, and bright red. The butter’s pushed aside, forgotten. Faith pushes a plate of bacon and sausage towards him, hacking a pancake in half and putting it on the plate for him.
He doesn’t take a bite. Instead he says slowly, “You’re a hunter.”
Swallowing a mouthful, she says, “I pegged you as a rank amateur. You’ve probably got some sad tale about whatever. Then you decided to go fight the crawling nasty dark monsters that hide under your bed. Same old story. Don’t know a damn thing about anything. I’m a Slayer.”
“Oh, that just a fancy name for hunting?” he asks, insulted by her cavalier dismissal of his entire fucking life.
She points her fork at him and grins. “Sure. To slay, to hunt, all the same thing, all roads lead to what you know about Jessica Moore.”
“You saw me at her gravestone.”
Rolling her eyes, she says, “You’re lucky it was an off-night and I was the only one that spotted you. Next time, if you’d like to embrace the obvious even more, how ‘bout you put on some bells and breathe in-and-out of a kazoo? Now, I don’t do the whole research thing, but my good unnamed Stanford source was kind enough to read the obit for me when I was out looking to kick some demonic ass,” and she says demonic ass with a bored ease, like she’s said it hundreds of times before, “and do you know who was mentioned? A Mister Samuel Winchester. Well, actually it was Sam. I guess they were allowed only so much space.”
She runs her knife through the pancakes, cutting it up until they’re bite size pieces. Faith looks like she’s done with eating, so she continues, “Now I’d remembered a hell of a nice fuck with a guy who smelled like engine fuel and road dust and gun powder. Who liked wearing an amulet around his neck that I recognized. Sure, coulda been just a coincidence, but how many people are walking around with the fucking name Winchester?”
“Guess it’s more common than you think,” he says, wondering if she’s even the type of person he wants on his list of allies. He's pretty sure that she'd be a bad enemy to have.
She leans in close and he catches the sweet smell of syrup from her breath as she whispers, “I told you mine, now you tell me yours.”
And he hasn’t been paying close enough attention, didn’t realize she’d been flirting with that waitress for a reason. It was a fucking distraction. Because he’s got his legs spread apart under the table and now there’s a boot sole pressing against his inner thighs. It’s way too fucking close and she’s smiling again, the one that means danger.
“Sam’s my brother,” he says and he grits his teeth when she pushes her foot closer to his crotch.
“That’s must be the truth.” She nods, pushing her plate away. “I’m gonna ask for the check in two minutes. Either my boot’s going back on the floor or you’re going to be a fucking alto or whatever. So there’s more. What happened?”
“Demon.” She eases up, barely, so he adds, “but you knew that one already.”
“Yeah. Last dragon that appeared in California was taken out by — ” She blinks hard and stops herself. “Knew it wasn’t a dragon. Figured demon.”
“It’s attacked before.”
He actually tells her, goes over what little he knows and she takes it in. Her boot’s back on the ground. She gives him a bit more information, but it’s all vague. She’s good at evading and he doesn’t notice that more than two minutes have passed, with them talking and hedging around each other, neither wanting to give the upper hand. Although, since he’s fucking great at poker, he’s pretty sure she’s fucking won each hand.
She rubs at her bottom lip, blotting her lipstick, but not by much. “It’s your hunt, huh?” With that, Faith calls over the waitress, asking for the check.
“That it?” He’s actually surprised that she's backing off so easy. Worse, Dean realizes he's sorta disappointed that she's cutting him some slack.
She just shoots him a sidelong glance as an answer.
They get their check. She grabs it before he can do the chivalrous thing (and he was kinda thinking about actually offering to pay). She hands over a credit card to the waitress, explaining to him, “Hey, I wanted the pancakes.”
Her fingertips drum the tabletop as she waits for her card back. “I didn't come back to California to visit the Stanford geek.” She smiles at that. “But he’s got a good life here. I tell him he’s doing his father proud and he pretends to believe it. No, I came here to remember. Shit. I’m going to lose all my cred.”
There’s a flush to her face and if she had been a different kind of girl, he’d think she’s embarrassed.
“Can’t stop there.”
“Some friends of mine died a couple of years back.” Faith angles her head, like it ain’t no big deal. “In Los Angeles.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’re a bit out of the way.”
She shrugs. “I go here first. Get all the warm fuzzies out before I get drunk and start reminiscing. Pissed my ex off a lot, me going on walkabouts without him and then finding out I was coming here to mourn —”
“Most people, when they lose someone, they don’t beat around the bush. You lose someone you loved?”
“I lost someone who did me a hell of a lot good.” She smiles in memory. “I’m still pissed he didn’t call for my help. But that’s him. Stubborn bastard. Lost someone else who did me wrong and I did him worse.” But her voice goes hoarse at the end of it and he knows there’s more to the story.
That’s chick logic. He doesn’t try to understand it.
“They were murdered.” Dean attempts to say it as calmly as possible, but it doesn’t work.
She stares at him and he’s lost, just for a moment, in those brown eyes. Shit, there’s a glint of hellfire in her gaze.
“Yeah,” she says. And that’s it. She gets her card back, shoves it back her front jeans pocket along with the receipt. Standing up, she says, “Now you gotta take me back to the place of unrest. My bike’s out there.”
Deciding to bring back the levity after her bleak revelation, he asks, “Does it have pink streamers and training wheels?”
Faith stares at him. Punches his arm and she doesn’t pull her punch at all.
She leans down and whispers some of the raunchiest things he’s ever heard and his Dad was a Marine and he grew up around men who enjoyed putting the blue in swearing streaks. Faith then says, “Give me your cell phone.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You want the right number, don’t you?” She fucking pouts at him and it’s almost charming. “Plus, I’ll need your goddamn number in case you ever saunter into one of my hunts.”
He grins. “Never had someone say I saunter.”
“You lead with your dick,” she says with a sweet smile that’s a little disjointing. “Swagger. That’s what you do.”
Faith holds her hand out She ain’t the type to ask twice.
He slaps the cell phone in her hand. She doesn’t wince. Plugs in the numbers quick, then hits send and her own phone rings. Once she’s finished, she puts her phone away (and how many pockets does she have in that damn jacket?), dangling his phone out like a proposition.
“Your people,” he says, feeling that he’s pushing, “they have connections.”
She snorts. “They think they do. Egos the size of goddamn planets. But uh, I’ll put in a word.”
“A word?” He stands up at that, using his height as an advantage.
Totally picking up on it, Faith leans in close and he gets a hit again of that live wire energy simmering under her skin. It’s like insanity, only a major fucking turn on. He can feel the heat coming off her as she tilts her head up like a question, tucking his phone in a jacket pocket, then her hands grab his ass. It startles him and he rocks his hips forward and she laughs—a deep, broken rumble.
Dean catches the eye of the waitress. She looks damn disappointed.
They leave the IHOP, Faith leading the way — and she says he saunters? — her hips rocking like she’s aching to be fucked. He wouldn’t mind having her pressed up against him again, for old time’s sake. Yeah fucking right, he chides himself. ‘Cause he’s all about the damn nostalgia.
As they walk towards Dean’s car, she shrugs an easy, practiced roll of those fine shoulders. “I’ve never really been great at the team playing and I kinda got the shaft when I skipped out on my ex. Plus they’re still all pissy about a hunt,” she uses that word with great amusement, like she’s patronizing him, “I lead about a year ago.”
Faith opens the passenger door and gets in, leaving it at that.
He leans back in the driver’s seat and starts the engine. “How long have you been hunting?”
“I was called when I was sixteen.” Off his look, she says, “I’m a fast learner. Obviously you started earlier or you wouldn’t be pouting.”
“I’m not pouting.”
She pushes her lips out and he gets the distinct impression she’s mocking him. “Yeah, this look is all about the not pouting.”
“You know,” he says as he eases his way out of the parking lot, “even though you bought me breakfast, insulting the driver ain’t gonna win you any points.”
She isn’t listening. Instead Faith pulls a pack of cigarettes from an inner pocket and before he can tell her there’s no smoking in his car, she tucks a cigarette behind her ear. “We gonna keep track? You scratch my back, I run my nails down yours when I’m coming?”
That is an awesome mental picture. He has to slow down to take it in, going only twenty miles over the speed limit.
‘Course his phone has to fucking ring then. That’s just his goddamn luck tonight.
“Better answer it, pumpkin.” And she smiles then, like she’s remembered something important. “It’s totally your brother, isn’t it?”
“Oh come on, you totally have to answer. You’re so that guy.”
And he does. Sam is asking where he is and Dean hedges. It’s not hard, saying he got the runaround—another lead busted. It’s a short conversation; Sam just tells him to get back soon.
Shit, Dean totally heard that thing in Sammy’s voice. It’s that weird, thick thing that happens when you’re not crying. He shuts the phone off with a sigh.
Fuck, okay, maybe Dean might sigh on occasion. He's golden so long as no one else knows about it.
Faith glances at him out of the corner of her eye, but doesn’t say anything.
The rest of the ride is silent; he hasn’t turned a tape on. They’re close to the cemetery. He can see the arched metal gate.
“I don’t see a bike,” he says to her, made uncomfortable by the silence—it’s almost like goddamn sympathy.
“It’s invisible,” she says very seriously. “Like my chastity belt.”
He starts cracking up first, but she follows soon after.
“Dude,” she says, and it’s weird how she says it, like it’s something she picked up from being in California, the way she drags out the u. “I’m not gonna have some idiot kid try to steal my bike when I’m off taking care of business. Being discreet is important; I’m not gonna get a fucking ticket for parking. Sometimes, you just gotta haul ass.”
He nods, saying in agreement, “Have to shag ass and get the fuck outta Dodge.”
Now that’s an interesting expression. Faith isn’t a blusher; otherwise she’d be a goddamn mute with that mouth of hers. Still those brown eyes are wide and she’s fucking surprised. It doesn’t last long—a slow crawl of lips upwards and she quips, “Been hanging with too many Brits. That’s a hell of an offer.”
He remembers what she said in the graveyard and he counters back, “This a better time?”
“Damn boy," she says, impressed. "Most guys would still be angsting over me beating them up. You into that?”
Parking, Dean considers this. He just smiles in response, raising his eyebrows. “So,” he says, “Faith.”
“Dean,” she replies, pushing hair back, away from her face. She puts on a Serious Face and says, “These are always the best goodbyes. Only last time I did this? Really regretted what I didn’t do.”
“Yeah? What was —”
But Faith’s a doer and she shows him, wrapping her arms around his neck, bringing him to her. Her mouth is almost fucking swallowing him. He vaguely recalls her mouth on his dick and he’d really like to make sure that wasn’t just a one time fluke. But that thought’s gone, going away in this kiss as her lips part, pushing deeper into his mouth, her teeth scraping his bottom lip.
It’s just brutal, but it hurts in the right way, it’s got him aching. She tastes like three different kinds of syrup — butter sweet and maple rich and fake strawberry — and smells like sweat and sex and they haven’t even fucked yet. Jesus, he’s going to go off, the way she's fucking molesting him, her hand doing things to his balls that most chicks don’t even bother to try and his jeans are still fucking on.
She mumbles something against his mouth. He thinks it’s a compliment for how quickly he got her bra unsnapped—record speed.
Cupping a tit, he says, “You’re welcome.”
Breaking the kiss, she says against his ear, “You’re a fucking idiot. Unless your brother lost his fucking nose —”
He stares at her, but he doesn’t stop enjoying the feel of her breast in his hand and she’s now undoing his belt. Dean realizes, in a flash of brilliance, like a goddamn thunderstorm, exactly what she said. Still, he has to repeat it. “You want to take this outside?”
That speed she used when she kicked his ass (twice)? Works just as well when she’s leaving a man hanging. She untangles quick and there’s the good old creak of the Impala’s door as she exits. Faith’s out of her jacket and shirt, bra dangling and barely covering her breasts by the time she’s at the driver’s side window.
“And what can I get for you today?” She says it in a bright, affected voice, leaning down, her hair tickling his face through the open window.
She backs up before he can make to grab her and just kiss the shit outta her. Dean knows she’s aiming to settle on the hood of his Impala and he almost hesitates. His car’s been through a lot, he’s got to repair the headlight tomorrow, maybe even take care of the radio and just grit his teeth when Sam puts on the inevitable whiny music.
(Last time, the bed hadn’t broken until sometime in the middle of the morning, when he got a rude awakening. He'd rolled out of the bed and gotten a nice bruise on his ass for all the fun they'd had.)
Jesus, what is he waiting for?
He clambers out, taking his time, because this is a little weird, even though it’s still damn hot. Dean’s never understood those Goth brats he’s come across in graveyards, macking on the grave of the deceased. They’re not places of rest — graveyards — they’re disturbed places, places that need to be salted and you gotta force the spirits to shut the fuck up.
But Faith, he thinks, she knows that already. She’s looking only at him, like there ain’t anything else in the fucking world and it’s a little dizzying. The depth in those eyes goes on for a long, long way and he just sticks to what he recognizes. The lust, that’s an easy one. So he’ll stay there for now.
He’s damn sure there’s no going back, but he’s also pretty damn good at ignoring logic. It's especially easy when she's tearing his belt off, yanking it off the belt loops and throwing it over his shoulder. It falls to the ground, but he's not paying attention. His zipper opens easy thanks to her quick fingers, and she strokes him as he pulls off her bra down, sucking at those pretty nipples.
It’s almost leisurely, a nice slow pace and this time, he does get to pull her pants down. She lets go of his cock, planting her hands behind her on the car and damn, that’s hot. Strands of hair are sticking to her neck.
He unbuttons the top button to her jeans, then pulls the zipper down with his teeth.
“Fuck,” she moans, rocking her hips forward.
He doesn’t need to say anything, just looks up at her. With her eyes half-closed, she’s just an image of shadows: shaded eyes, dark lips. Then there’s a flash of white, even teeth.
Tugging her jeans to her knees (close enough, he thinks), he pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, finding a condom.
She’s tossed her bra to the ground and she says, raising an eyebrow, “You need some help?”
Fuck no, he’s got that taken care of, rolls it on and hitches her legs up. She swings easy—it’s amazing how damn bendy she is—and he’s pushing up inside of her as she angles her hips upwards, her ass off the edge of the Impala hood.
Not caring how they’re balanced or whether or not they’re about to topple over, he slides in like a greeting. He has to hold her legs to keep her steady and she’s letting him, not saying a word, too occupied with breathing.
Her eyelids keep on fluttering closed but the instant he grids down, teasing that sweet spot, Faith’s eyes snap open, and if she isn’t saying fuck me, now, that look sure is screaming it.
Dean’s always been happy to follow orders, especially when there’s no down side.
Sliding out of her pussy — she’s so damn wet — he lets go of her legs, and she’s already figured it all out. No wonder she kicked his ass; she knows all the moves, every fucking one of ‘em. Turns around, splaying her hands back down on the hood and actually wiggles her ass at him.
He pushes her jeans down further, and once his cock is against her pussy, he angles just right and rubs his cock against her clit for good measure, loving that she doesn’t hide a quick shudder.
As they’re fucking, Faith isn’t saying anything, just making a hell of a lot noises. A deep grunt of approval while he’s fondling her tits. Then there’s a loud moan when his hand is stroking her, running a finger down the slit and stroking her clit. She comes once, panting heavily, and that isn’t good enough for him.
Measure for measure, she gives as good as she gets, slamming back and whatever control she must've had before is eroding quickly. She’s got a hand over his, pressing harder as he tries to coax out another orgasm. Her other hand leaves the car's hood entirely, fingers grabbing the back of his neck, encouraging him to suck on her neck. He does. Then, without thinking, Dean bites at the pulse of her neck, and she fucking screams.
Like a full-blooded ax-murdering scream of death. It rings in his ears and he fucking screams too. She comes hard and he’s right there with her.
If she slumps on the hood of the Impala to gain composure, he doesn’t notice, considering he’s barely got it together. Sure, he’d managed to hike up his jeans before saying yes to gravity and taking a fucking breather. But it’s a good long time before he vaguely recalls his name.
“Dude,” she says, once again overdoing the u, “you alive?”
He squints upwards, sees her towering over him, which is fucking funny. Shaking his head, his vision goes back to normal. Faith's got her clothes back on. She blows a ring of smoke into the night air as she waits for an answer. From his angle, it forms a demented smoky ring around her head and he stifles a laugh.
Dean mumbles something that might include c'mon, how come you aren’t flat on your ass?, but he thinks she doesn’t catch it.
She tosses his jacket at him. “Super healing. Comes with the lifestyle. Don’t worry though, that one was a fucking keeper." Drops her cigarette on the ground and grinds it out with her boot heel. She leans down, kneeling next to him and kisses him on the mouth, all gentle-like. It's a weird mix of ashes and sex and sweet. “Good luck, Dean.”
With that, she’s off.
He’ll just sit here awhile and try to remember how his legs work. In the distance, he hears the roar of a motorcycle and he grins.
To be continued in Kidney Punch (Other Myths About Healing Abilities That Aren’t True)