Fic: It's In Our Blood - (Buffy/Dean, Faith/Sam) Chapter Six
Title: It's In Our Blood
Author(s): angelbuffy
Artist: Skylar0Grace
Crossover: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Buffy is the property of Joss Whedon, Supernatural is the property of Eric Kripke. If those two wrote together it'd be a beautiful thing. But they haven't, so you have me.
Type: (Gen, Het, or Slash) Het
Word Count: 34,934
Characters/Pairings: Buffy/Dean, Faith/Sam
Warnings: Sex. Violence. Language. All the awesome stuff.
Spoilers: None. Unless you haven't seen Buffy. Or Supernatural. Season six exempt.
Chapter Six:
Buffy’s dirty shirt was on her bed, along with her pants. She’d stripped before getting to the bathroom. Her boots were at the foot of the bed. They had mud all up to the heel, and despite the fact that they were black; he could see the blood splatter from the dead on them. Her jeans had been ripped and stained, and her shirt was in the same condition. He shook his head and kicked at her boots, the mud from his own falling to the cheap thin carpet. He scoffed. The heel alone was enough to make him cringe at the thought of her breaking an ankle. She was very good at it, and he’d even wondered if she was better at slaying in heels than in sneakers. He knew for a fact that she could run faster than him in them. He’d seen her kick ass in many shoes, so the verdict was that she could practically move in anything, no matter how unpractical.
He sat down on Buffy’s bed next to her dirty discarded shirt. He rolled his shoulders a few times and bent down to untie his boots. His back was still sore, and bending over was more painful than he wanted to admit. It wasn’t going to feel all that great in the morning, but not only could things have been worse, he’d been in worse situations. Hell, at least now he could walk. He wasn’t stabbed, or even broken. As he shed his jacket and threw it on the hook that was installed on the back of the door, he couldn’t stop the smile that had formed on his face. Buffy was humming in the shower. It was soft, but he recognized the tune. She didn’t have a bad voice, and the fact that she chose a Bon Jovi song over some pop crap had him chuckling. He shook his head and pushed himself off the bed. His duffel bag was on the other side of the room, and he needed to get packing. His own bed was closer to the shower. When he threw his bag on the bed, and his hands clasped the duffel handles, he took in a whiff of the shampoo that she was using that came out from the door a few feet away. Dean took a deep breath of that scent and unzipped his bag. That smell was all Buffy Summers. It was a mix of some kind of flower and vanilla; a perfect contrast of sweet and alluring boldness. He’d stopped packing his bag just long enough to picture her in the shower. He had an almost perfect visual of her hands running over her soft body, careful of the newly formed bruises. He had a smile on his face when he heard something drop, echoing the clamor in the tub. She’d stopped humming and cleared her throat, letting his hunter’s alarm at ease.
Thinking about Buffy had him in a completely different trance as he shoved clothes, weapons, and a few other belongings in his duffel. More intimate thoughts were trying to seep their way into his brain - the fights, the arguments, their conversations. The sexual tension that cascaded whatever area they occupied together it was no wonder Faith and Sam were always looking at them the way that they were. Jesus, the only time he could think of that held a candle to the situation was when he was with Cassie. But that… that was nothing compared to this. This was new sexual territory, new ground at a whole new level. Why? Possibly because he knew that she could kick major ass, or maybe because she was the only woman who bounced off most of the charms that he’d thrown at her, while at the same time, creating arguments that he was defenseless in. Maybe it was because she was like him in more ways than his own brother.
No, most of it had to do with the fact that the damn woman was annoying as hell and the fact that even though she was insufferable, head strong, and refused to listen, he didn’t want to leave. Just like his brother, he’d grown attached to the stationary two week vacation. Sammy’s point of view was more like a vacation with getting laid and all. The attachment that he had to Faith was almost ironic.
The job that they had looked up was finished. The Harpy was killed, and easily, once they were able to finally track it. All four of them had agreed that staying close to the town was a good idea. It was a lie, of course. Both knew the real reason, and neither one of them were going to admit it. The attack that night was pure luck as neither one of them was expecting to see anything supernatural left in the town. Dean couldn’t find it in him to be at all angry about being sore, and he saw on Sam’s face the same amount of glee that he felt. The job had to be extended now, just in case. The town needed a few more days of a watchful eye. Eight of them, to be exact. The fight that him and Buffy had was thrown behind him and buried. Who was he kidding? He wanted to stay, and he would.
Dean threw the phone that was in his pocket on the nightstand that separated the two beds. He threw his guns in the bottom of the duffel save for one that he always kept under his pillow, along with a knife under the other one. He’d long since learned that it was better to be packed and ready to go every night just in case something happened. There was no doubt in his mind that even if by some rift in the universe he got out of the hunting business, he would still have a bag packed. It was logical, and he wouldn’t ever be able to sleep without it. His bag was packed every night, with Buffy commenting on him and his paranoid idiosyncrasy. It was a force of habit, just one more nail that showed him how much he was turning into his father. Dean made a point to counter with her knack of leaving half-drunk bottles of water everywhere, or all the crap that she kept in the bathroom. It was an ongoing argument that made an appearance every night.
He heard the water cut off and the glass door of the shower open. She’d stopped humming, and he couldn’t help but feel disappointed at the silence. For the first time, he took a look at himself in the mirror in the small unused closet behind him. He was covered in mud, still soaked to the bone. He had visible stains of watered down blood on his shirt, and he had a small scrape on his elbow from skidding across the parking lot. Seeing his injuries gave him more knowledge of them. His arm was burning, and he was actually really cold. A hot shower sounded like a really good idea. The blood that had once covered him was mostly washed out completely due to the rain, but that didn’t keep the mental image clean. He still felt like there were a few pints all over him. It caused him to rip off his own shirt and throw it on the floor exposing his torso. He thought about stripping down to his boxers, but thought better of it for Buffy’s sake. He let his mind drift once again to the vision of the little blonde luscious slayer stepping out of the shower, newly fresh and clean with her hair a delightful mess. He’d give his left arm to have her walk out of the bathroom with just a towel on. She was so much more reserved than she should be with that damn body. It deserved to be shown. True to her tradition, she’d walked out of the bathroom wearing a t-shirt and pajama pants just a few minutes later. Dean’s hopes had been stomped on. Regardless of how hot she looked in pj’s and a t-shirt, there’s no doubt he’d lose his mind when he knew the only thing that kept her naked figure from his eyesight was one rectangular piece of cloth wrapped once, and tucked in. No knots, just a simple tug. His imagination had stolen him for a few minutes. Buffy’s voice brought him out of it.
“…You on earth yet?”
His cloud which had held the assumed naked figure of Buffy slowly evaporated to the actual figure he was staring at.
“What?” Was all he could say. She’d once again caught him staring at her, and once again, her body had betrayed her. She was smiling, almost as if she’d won first place in a contest. She had a little blush from her cheeks, and she tried to keep her eyes off his naked torso, but they too were betraying her. She wasn’t the only one who felt they’d won a contest. Her body was still red from the hot shower, and her hair left little wet spots on her white shirt, giving a hint of her clean skin underneath. Dean and Buffy had both been caught, and they both could take satisfaction out of this confrontation. Buffy wanted him; she reacted so well to his obvious displays. She could deny it until she was blue in the face, but there was no mistaking the fact that her body responded to him on every level that he wanted it to. She was such a terrible liar.
“I thought you left planet earth there for a while, that’s all. Shower’s yours, Dean.”
Best displays of affections with this girl were pulling her strings.
“’Bout time, blondie. Thought I’d have to hear another Bon Jovi song.” He wiggled his brow with a laugh.
“What?” He could tell she was considering a valiant comeback, but just shrugged, letting that blush betray her again.
“Shut up. It’s your fault he’s stuck in my head to begin with.” She picked up the dirty clothes that were on her bed, made a face and tossed them to the floor. She’d likely toss them with the trash.
He held up a hand to stop her from making any more comments about the Jovi song.
“I did not get Bed of Roses stuck in your head, sweetheart. I don’t listen t’ that song.”
“You know it well enough under my tone-deaf humming. And yes you did. We listened to Bon Jovi all day yesterday. Bon Jovi is stuck in my head because of you.”
“I’d rather ya have Jovi in your head than that other pop crap you listen to.”
“It’s not pop, Dean. It’s most definitely rockish. And I wasn’t complaining. You know I have an ear for the old stuff. But it’s still your fault.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Shoo, go take your shower.”
She’d started putting some of her clean stuff away in her own bag, and placing it under her bed. Dean noticed that her chin still had a scrape on it, the cut on the side of her eye was clean and pink, and her arm definitely had a bruise. He’d wondered how her ribs faired from that kick. She was walking just fine, and every second she was healing. By the morning, that bruise would probably be gone. He needed to learn the trick on that healing crap. Instead of letting the argument increase, he’s turned around with a chuckle and headed to the shower, the feel of her eyes on his bare back.
Dean’s shower was refreshing. Just to be an ass, he’d sung at the top of his lungs to Renegade. For the first time in a few days he hadn’t turned the cold on to get the thoughts of Buffy out of him. He was cold enough as it was, and by now he was practically immune to the cold shower. There was nothing that would get this woman off his mind except for getting it on with her. And even then, he was pretty sure she’d be one hell of a fox in bed. Hell, it’d probably make this shit worse. Maybe he’d go to the bar after his shower. Meet some easy chick, convince her to take a ride in his car, and have sex for the first time in two weeks. He hadn’t even been to a bar in two weeks. He’d been with the woman who sat in the other room in her white t-shirt and pajama bottoms. They made one hell of a team, too. She was used to the lifestyle, she could take care of herself, and she could kick ass doing it. He always had the pangs of trying to protect her. He’d wanted to. Hell, he’d felt sorry for her when he’d heard her story. At first glance, he could see her as a model or a city girl. She looked like she could fit in the scene that didn’t have things that literally existed under the bed, or the things that existed just because she did. After talking with her, after getting to know her - he knew exactly the place she was in. She was a lifer like him, and she’d grown used to the life so much that it was a part of who she was now. He loved that.
One more check mark. God damn, this chick was like the woman of his freakin’ dreams, and she was like the one person in the damn world who wouldn’t sleep with him. It was some kind of torture.
Fuck. Sam had his car, and there wasn’t a fucking chance in hell he was taking the tuna can to the bar to get Buffy out of his head. He was stuck there. With her. With her clothes on; in a motel room that had two full beds. He’d be sleeping alone again tonight with nothing but his imagination.
Dammit.
He’d stepped out of the shower and dried himself off. He’d contemplated walking out of the bathroom in just a towel, but as much as Buffy’s body betrayed her on a regular basis, he didn’t trust his not to do the same. The thought of that woman made his body hot. He wasn’t about to take that chance. So Dean slipped on a pair of jeans and a wife beater, and walked out of the shower to Buffy staring out the window. He gave her a few seconds to herself before curiosity got the better of him.
“What is it?”
The scrape on her chin created an eerie shadow on an otherwise perfect face. She didn’t turn toward him, and her eyes remained on the rainy night outside the window.
“Nothing, really,” She elaborated. “It’s just that the attack was weird. It was obviously planned. I’m just wondering if we got all of them or if they planned the ambush better than that.” So she was watching for movement outside. Before he was able to say anything, she closed the curtains shut quickly and turned to face him. “Or I’m just reading too much into things and they’re the typical idiot monster that thinks five is enough to take us. It’s just that… it was so random. I really wish I knew how they attacked us. Or really, why?”
In all actuality, Dean wasn’t as confident about the fight as she clearly was. He thought for sure after her being thrown into the car she’d be out. But here she was, with a few scratches and bruises. Alive, and still talking.
“Don’t think we’re gonna get another attack tonight even if they do have another wave,” He shrugged, trying to sound convincing. If she thought about it, she wouldn’t be able to sleep. “If they had more, don’t ya think they’d come after us all at once? We’re not exactly the least known people in the world. It ain’t easy to get a trail on us, especially Sammy and I, but it is possible.” He wanted to cup her face with his hand right then in reassurance. It wasn’t the face of worry that she had on, whatever fears she’d had had already been quelled. It had to be the intensity in her eyes. That was usually the thing that got his attention first. This time she was truly taking into account his words, and she cared. He balled his hand into a fist to impede his impulse.
She smiled. “Well, yeah. I could track you.” Confident and mildly cocky.
She was so contagious. He found himself smiling, and holding back his desire to touch her again. Both fists balled, he now crossed his arms. This time though, he leaned against the window casually. Now was a good a time as any to bring up a subject that he already knew the answer to.
“How’s the slayer healin’ doing?”
“I’m fine. The healing is doing its healing thing. …How about you?”
“Feel right as rain, though I’m freakin’ worried about my car.”
“…What?” She looked genuinely confused for a second. Then she caught up to speed.
“Faith and Sam. You do know they won’t be back for a while, right? You’re going to have to let your baby off the curfew hook tonight.” He’d already assumed as much. And now she was starting to talk like him.
“Dammit, I know. It’s what I get for not wantin’ t’ do the dirty work.”
“I thank you for that. Because then I’d have to eventually help you due to the whole guilt and lay in the bed you made philosophy. I’m definitely not used to rain that isn’t Californian yet.”
“Hell, I’m not even sure I’m used t’ cold rain and I’ve been dealing with crap weather like this for years.”
Buffy took one more look out the window before closing the curtain again and taking a step toward Dean. He would have to move out of the way for her to get through. The room was small; two full beds shouldn’t have rightfully fit in it. But the room was the cheapest and only one of two that was available for the periods of time that they were staying. Dean and Sam had paid a pretty penny to keep the rooms open for as long as they needed them, and to keep them from being disturbed at all throughout the entire stay. For those requests, having a small room wasn’t really a call for a complaint. Not that he’d really complain about it anyway. This was evident especially now, in this situation, staring at the petite blonde who was trying to get past him to her own bed. It was the little moments like this one he’d relished in. This was a moment that he wouldn’t pass up for the world. It was a window of opportunity. He smirked and stayed his ground ignoring her obvious silent request. She was annoyed, and it was evident in her facial expressions. Dean paralleled her moves. She’d side-step to get around him, and he’d stand in her way again.
“What are you doing?” The degree of confusion was overshadowed by the annoyance.
“What?” If he couldn’t fuck her, he might as well fuck with her, and see that blush again. Or hell, see that adorable angry serious face. The way she took a deep breath when she was frustrated and the way she bit the inside of her cheek when she had something to say but didn’t want to show her anger. He wished he had a camera.
“If you don’t move, I’m going to move you.”
“Be my guest.”
And she did. He had no chance against the force and speed in which she moved. He didn’t even have time to blink before she’d grasped him by the wrists, and his back was slammed against the door. It was hard enough to make him lose his breath, and the old picture on the wall next to his head moved a good centimeter off the wall before landing back in its place with a loud thud. Much like the sound of his body slamming against the thick material of the door, and if she hadn’t have held him there, he would have probably bounced off of it. A grunt of laughter and reaction of pain left his lips after the initial shock of speed passed. Jesus Christ, this was almost as good as sex. She didn’t let the grip that she had on his wrists up. No, it was just the opposite. She gripped harder, her hand barely making it all the way around his large wrists. She stared at him with power in her eyes, and cocked her head to the side triumphantly.
“Told you.” The power left her eyes and amusement replaced it. She spoke matter of factly, with the tiniest shrug. There was a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, but she was defiant to free it.
The smirk that displayed on his own face only got larger from there, even though his head had a slight pounding from the force of the hit. He searched the depth in her eyes; never letting his gaze move from the beautiful greens. She didn’t try to break the eye contact either; they stood there in a silent war. Dean had long since learned that sexual tension only ever got better with eye contact. A direct gaze, which was an indirect way to let the other person know that all of the attentions were on them; it was a silent promise that they’d be the only ones in the world that mattered. Dean didn’t want that gaze to go away. There was no way anyone could deny what kind of tension this made between them. He knew there was tension from the start; all those times they had a conversation. Sharing the hotel room for two weeks, and working the entire day together - those factors were all catalysts for the tension. As hot as Buffy Summers was, and as horny as Dean was should have set the damn place on fire ten times over. There was tension, and there was a lot of it, but he had no idea the gage had gone that high until now. Until those few single moments of physical and sensory contact. Until she showed the exact same interest in keeping eye contact that he did. He didn’t want her to let him go, no. He wanted to explore this…
She did though; she let her grip loosen on him slightly; just slightly enough for him to take full advantage of the situation. If she hit him in return, he’d gladly take the blow on account of everything that had transpired in the past two minutes being completely worth it. If there was ever a chance with this woman, now was it, and there wasn’t a god damn thing that was going to stop him from taking it and running with it. He grabbed her wrists in the same fashion that she’d done mere seconds before, and pushed her against the wall with just as much strength as she’d done him. He knew she could take it, and he also knew that if she didn’t want it to happen that the tornado of pain he was going to feel from it was enough retaliation. Dean all the while kept his gaze on hers. Her gaze stayed just as intact, and just as passionate. With the sound of her body hitting the wall was her own groan of fleeting pain. The roles had reversed, but this time their bodies were closer together. Her mouth was so close to his. He could smell the fresh shower smell on her, and he could feel her breath on his skin. They were close enough together that all he had to do for the contact that he craved was lean down. All he had to do was bring his head down a mere inch in order to break the unwritten rule that Buffy was off limits.
He struggled with indecision. She was the slayer, and that meant that she could have gotten out of the hold he had on her if she wanted. Hell, she could just as easily kick him through the window as she could breathe. The fascinating thing was that she didn’t. She stared at him almost as if to dare him to make his move. Her jaw flexed ever so slightly, and it was that little twitch that sent him over the edge. Who the fuck was he to not take a dare like that?
So he did.
He took the plunge and bent his head down to meet hers. He captured her lips with his for a short kiss that was filled to the brim with sexual want, need, with passion, and with a two week pause of celibacy. He felt his nose rub against hers, and he savored the taste of those lips, and the smell of her skin. However brief the kiss was, he was determined to make the absolute best out of it. Her lips were just as he’d imagined they would feel; Soft, plump, and delicious. He didn’t dare loosen the grip on her wrists; the mental image of him losing some part of his body however wavering was still on the forefront of his mind. He didn’t want to press his luck; he could be dead wrong about the situation and he could have just signed his own death warrant. He pulled back; he opened his eyes and stared at the shocked face of his target. She was standing still, stiff as a board. Buffy Summers stared at Dean with her mouth partially open, her eyes dilated, and her breath staggering. They stared at each other for a few seconds before Dean realized that he had been holding his breath the entire time. He let it go softly, breathing through his nose and catching a whiff of Buffy’s intoxicating scent again. It felt like he needed that kiss as much as he needed to breathe. He dropped his hands from her small wrists, but didn’t move his face any further back than it was. His nose was barely touching hers, and she’d still yet to blink. What was it that had driven him to that moment? It was the fact that she didn’t pull away. It was the dare, and it was two weeks of being completely dry of sex and booze. It was the thought of her worried; it was the thought of her fighting. It was her face, her body, and her mind. The fact that he felt her lips respond to his gave him confidence to forego bracing himself for a blow to the face.
Onward to Chapter Seven!
Backward to:
Chapter Five.
Chapter Four.
Chapter Three.
Chapter Two.
Chapter One.
Author(s): angelbuffy
Artist: Skylar0Grace
Crossover: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Buffy is the property of Joss Whedon, Supernatural is the property of Eric Kripke. If those two wrote together it'd be a beautiful thing. But they haven't, so you have me.
Type: (Gen, Het, or Slash) Het
Word Count: 34,934
Characters/Pairings: Buffy/Dean, Faith/Sam
Warnings: Sex. Violence. Language. All the awesome stuff.
Spoilers: None. Unless you haven't seen Buffy. Or Supernatural. Season six exempt.
Chapter Six:
Buffy’s dirty shirt was on her bed, along with her pants. She’d stripped before getting to the bathroom. Her boots were at the foot of the bed. They had mud all up to the heel, and despite the fact that they were black; he could see the blood splatter from the dead on them. Her jeans had been ripped and stained, and her shirt was in the same condition. He shook his head and kicked at her boots, the mud from his own falling to the cheap thin carpet. He scoffed. The heel alone was enough to make him cringe at the thought of her breaking an ankle. She was very good at it, and he’d even wondered if she was better at slaying in heels than in sneakers. He knew for a fact that she could run faster than him in them. He’d seen her kick ass in many shoes, so the verdict was that she could practically move in anything, no matter how unpractical.
He sat down on Buffy’s bed next to her dirty discarded shirt. He rolled his shoulders a few times and bent down to untie his boots. His back was still sore, and bending over was more painful than he wanted to admit. It wasn’t going to feel all that great in the morning, but not only could things have been worse, he’d been in worse situations. Hell, at least now he could walk. He wasn’t stabbed, or even broken. As he shed his jacket and threw it on the hook that was installed on the back of the door, he couldn’t stop the smile that had formed on his face. Buffy was humming in the shower. It was soft, but he recognized the tune. She didn’t have a bad voice, and the fact that she chose a Bon Jovi song over some pop crap had him chuckling. He shook his head and pushed himself off the bed. His duffel bag was on the other side of the room, and he needed to get packing. His own bed was closer to the shower. When he threw his bag on the bed, and his hands clasped the duffel handles, he took in a whiff of the shampoo that she was using that came out from the door a few feet away. Dean took a deep breath of that scent and unzipped his bag. That smell was all Buffy Summers. It was a mix of some kind of flower and vanilla; a perfect contrast of sweet and alluring boldness. He’d stopped packing his bag just long enough to picture her in the shower. He had an almost perfect visual of her hands running over her soft body, careful of the newly formed bruises. He had a smile on his face when he heard something drop, echoing the clamor in the tub. She’d stopped humming and cleared her throat, letting his hunter’s alarm at ease.
Thinking about Buffy had him in a completely different trance as he shoved clothes, weapons, and a few other belongings in his duffel. More intimate thoughts were trying to seep their way into his brain - the fights, the arguments, their conversations. The sexual tension that cascaded whatever area they occupied together it was no wonder Faith and Sam were always looking at them the way that they were. Jesus, the only time he could think of that held a candle to the situation was when he was with Cassie. But that… that was nothing compared to this. This was new sexual territory, new ground at a whole new level. Why? Possibly because he knew that she could kick major ass, or maybe because she was the only woman who bounced off most of the charms that he’d thrown at her, while at the same time, creating arguments that he was defenseless in. Maybe it was because she was like him in more ways than his own brother.
No, most of it had to do with the fact that the damn woman was annoying as hell and the fact that even though she was insufferable, head strong, and refused to listen, he didn’t want to leave. Just like his brother, he’d grown attached to the stationary two week vacation. Sammy’s point of view was more like a vacation with getting laid and all. The attachment that he had to Faith was almost ironic.
The job that they had looked up was finished. The Harpy was killed, and easily, once they were able to finally track it. All four of them had agreed that staying close to the town was a good idea. It was a lie, of course. Both knew the real reason, and neither one of them were going to admit it. The attack that night was pure luck as neither one of them was expecting to see anything supernatural left in the town. Dean couldn’t find it in him to be at all angry about being sore, and he saw on Sam’s face the same amount of glee that he felt. The job had to be extended now, just in case. The town needed a few more days of a watchful eye. Eight of them, to be exact. The fight that him and Buffy had was thrown behind him and buried. Who was he kidding? He wanted to stay, and he would.
Dean threw the phone that was in his pocket on the nightstand that separated the two beds. He threw his guns in the bottom of the duffel save for one that he always kept under his pillow, along with a knife under the other one. He’d long since learned that it was better to be packed and ready to go every night just in case something happened. There was no doubt in his mind that even if by some rift in the universe he got out of the hunting business, he would still have a bag packed. It was logical, and he wouldn’t ever be able to sleep without it. His bag was packed every night, with Buffy commenting on him and his paranoid idiosyncrasy. It was a force of habit, just one more nail that showed him how much he was turning into his father. Dean made a point to counter with her knack of leaving half-drunk bottles of water everywhere, or all the crap that she kept in the bathroom. It was an ongoing argument that made an appearance every night.
He heard the water cut off and the glass door of the shower open. She’d stopped humming, and he couldn’t help but feel disappointed at the silence. For the first time, he took a look at himself in the mirror in the small unused closet behind him. He was covered in mud, still soaked to the bone. He had visible stains of watered down blood on his shirt, and he had a small scrape on his elbow from skidding across the parking lot. Seeing his injuries gave him more knowledge of them. His arm was burning, and he was actually really cold. A hot shower sounded like a really good idea. The blood that had once covered him was mostly washed out completely due to the rain, but that didn’t keep the mental image clean. He still felt like there were a few pints all over him. It caused him to rip off his own shirt and throw it on the floor exposing his torso. He thought about stripping down to his boxers, but thought better of it for Buffy’s sake. He let his mind drift once again to the vision of the little blonde luscious slayer stepping out of the shower, newly fresh and clean with her hair a delightful mess. He’d give his left arm to have her walk out of the bathroom with just a towel on. She was so much more reserved than she should be with that damn body. It deserved to be shown. True to her tradition, she’d walked out of the bathroom wearing a t-shirt and pajama pants just a few minutes later. Dean’s hopes had been stomped on. Regardless of how hot she looked in pj’s and a t-shirt, there’s no doubt he’d lose his mind when he knew the only thing that kept her naked figure from his eyesight was one rectangular piece of cloth wrapped once, and tucked in. No knots, just a simple tug. His imagination had stolen him for a few minutes. Buffy’s voice brought him out of it.
“…You on earth yet?”
His cloud which had held the assumed naked figure of Buffy slowly evaporated to the actual figure he was staring at.
“What?” Was all he could say. She’d once again caught him staring at her, and once again, her body had betrayed her. She was smiling, almost as if she’d won first place in a contest. She had a little blush from her cheeks, and she tried to keep her eyes off his naked torso, but they too were betraying her. She wasn’t the only one who felt they’d won a contest. Her body was still red from the hot shower, and her hair left little wet spots on her white shirt, giving a hint of her clean skin underneath. Dean and Buffy had both been caught, and they both could take satisfaction out of this confrontation. Buffy wanted him; she reacted so well to his obvious displays. She could deny it until she was blue in the face, but there was no mistaking the fact that her body responded to him on every level that he wanted it to. She was such a terrible liar.
“I thought you left planet earth there for a while, that’s all. Shower’s yours, Dean.”
Best displays of affections with this girl were pulling her strings.
“’Bout time, blondie. Thought I’d have to hear another Bon Jovi song.” He wiggled his brow with a laugh.
“What?” He could tell she was considering a valiant comeback, but just shrugged, letting that blush betray her again.
“Shut up. It’s your fault he’s stuck in my head to begin with.” She picked up the dirty clothes that were on her bed, made a face and tossed them to the floor. She’d likely toss them with the trash.
He held up a hand to stop her from making any more comments about the Jovi song.
“I did not get Bed of Roses stuck in your head, sweetheart. I don’t listen t’ that song.”
“You know it well enough under my tone-deaf humming. And yes you did. We listened to Bon Jovi all day yesterday. Bon Jovi is stuck in my head because of you.”
“I’d rather ya have Jovi in your head than that other pop crap you listen to.”
“It’s not pop, Dean. It’s most definitely rockish. And I wasn’t complaining. You know I have an ear for the old stuff. But it’s still your fault.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Shoo, go take your shower.”
She’d started putting some of her clean stuff away in her own bag, and placing it under her bed. Dean noticed that her chin still had a scrape on it, the cut on the side of her eye was clean and pink, and her arm definitely had a bruise. He’d wondered how her ribs faired from that kick. She was walking just fine, and every second she was healing. By the morning, that bruise would probably be gone. He needed to learn the trick on that healing crap. Instead of letting the argument increase, he’s turned around with a chuckle and headed to the shower, the feel of her eyes on his bare back.
Dean’s shower was refreshing. Just to be an ass, he’d sung at the top of his lungs to Renegade. For the first time in a few days he hadn’t turned the cold on to get the thoughts of Buffy out of him. He was cold enough as it was, and by now he was practically immune to the cold shower. There was nothing that would get this woman off his mind except for getting it on with her. And even then, he was pretty sure she’d be one hell of a fox in bed. Hell, it’d probably make this shit worse. Maybe he’d go to the bar after his shower. Meet some easy chick, convince her to take a ride in his car, and have sex for the first time in two weeks. He hadn’t even been to a bar in two weeks. He’d been with the woman who sat in the other room in her white t-shirt and pajama bottoms. They made one hell of a team, too. She was used to the lifestyle, she could take care of herself, and she could kick ass doing it. He always had the pangs of trying to protect her. He’d wanted to. Hell, he’d felt sorry for her when he’d heard her story. At first glance, he could see her as a model or a city girl. She looked like she could fit in the scene that didn’t have things that literally existed under the bed, or the things that existed just because she did. After talking with her, after getting to know her - he knew exactly the place she was in. She was a lifer like him, and she’d grown used to the life so much that it was a part of who she was now. He loved that.
One more check mark. God damn, this chick was like the woman of his freakin’ dreams, and she was like the one person in the damn world who wouldn’t sleep with him. It was some kind of torture.
Fuck. Sam had his car, and there wasn’t a fucking chance in hell he was taking the tuna can to the bar to get Buffy out of his head. He was stuck there. With her. With her clothes on; in a motel room that had two full beds. He’d be sleeping alone again tonight with nothing but his imagination.
Dammit.
He’d stepped out of the shower and dried himself off. He’d contemplated walking out of the bathroom in just a towel, but as much as Buffy’s body betrayed her on a regular basis, he didn’t trust his not to do the same. The thought of that woman made his body hot. He wasn’t about to take that chance. So Dean slipped on a pair of jeans and a wife beater, and walked out of the shower to Buffy staring out the window. He gave her a few seconds to herself before curiosity got the better of him.
“What is it?”
The scrape on her chin created an eerie shadow on an otherwise perfect face. She didn’t turn toward him, and her eyes remained on the rainy night outside the window.
“Nothing, really,” She elaborated. “It’s just that the attack was weird. It was obviously planned. I’m just wondering if we got all of them or if they planned the ambush better than that.” So she was watching for movement outside. Before he was able to say anything, she closed the curtains shut quickly and turned to face him. “Or I’m just reading too much into things and they’re the typical idiot monster that thinks five is enough to take us. It’s just that… it was so random. I really wish I knew how they attacked us. Or really, why?”
In all actuality, Dean wasn’t as confident about the fight as she clearly was. He thought for sure after her being thrown into the car she’d be out. But here she was, with a few scratches and bruises. Alive, and still talking.
“Don’t think we’re gonna get another attack tonight even if they do have another wave,” He shrugged, trying to sound convincing. If she thought about it, she wouldn’t be able to sleep. “If they had more, don’t ya think they’d come after us all at once? We’re not exactly the least known people in the world. It ain’t easy to get a trail on us, especially Sammy and I, but it is possible.” He wanted to cup her face with his hand right then in reassurance. It wasn’t the face of worry that she had on, whatever fears she’d had had already been quelled. It had to be the intensity in her eyes. That was usually the thing that got his attention first. This time she was truly taking into account his words, and she cared. He balled his hand into a fist to impede his impulse.
She smiled. “Well, yeah. I could track you.” Confident and mildly cocky.
She was so contagious. He found himself smiling, and holding back his desire to touch her again. Both fists balled, he now crossed his arms. This time though, he leaned against the window casually. Now was a good a time as any to bring up a subject that he already knew the answer to.
“How’s the slayer healin’ doing?”
“I’m fine. The healing is doing its healing thing. …How about you?”
“Feel right as rain, though I’m freakin’ worried about my car.”
“…What?” She looked genuinely confused for a second. Then she caught up to speed.
“Faith and Sam. You do know they won’t be back for a while, right? You’re going to have to let your baby off the curfew hook tonight.” He’d already assumed as much. And now she was starting to talk like him.
“Dammit, I know. It’s what I get for not wantin’ t’ do the dirty work.”
“I thank you for that. Because then I’d have to eventually help you due to the whole guilt and lay in the bed you made philosophy. I’m definitely not used to rain that isn’t Californian yet.”
“Hell, I’m not even sure I’m used t’ cold rain and I’ve been dealing with crap weather like this for years.”
Buffy took one more look out the window before closing the curtain again and taking a step toward Dean. He would have to move out of the way for her to get through. The room was small; two full beds shouldn’t have rightfully fit in it. But the room was the cheapest and only one of two that was available for the periods of time that they were staying. Dean and Sam had paid a pretty penny to keep the rooms open for as long as they needed them, and to keep them from being disturbed at all throughout the entire stay. For those requests, having a small room wasn’t really a call for a complaint. Not that he’d really complain about it anyway. This was evident especially now, in this situation, staring at the petite blonde who was trying to get past him to her own bed. It was the little moments like this one he’d relished in. This was a moment that he wouldn’t pass up for the world. It was a window of opportunity. He smirked and stayed his ground ignoring her obvious silent request. She was annoyed, and it was evident in her facial expressions. Dean paralleled her moves. She’d side-step to get around him, and he’d stand in her way again.
“What are you doing?” The degree of confusion was overshadowed by the annoyance.
“What?” If he couldn’t fuck her, he might as well fuck with her, and see that blush again. Or hell, see that adorable angry serious face. The way she took a deep breath when she was frustrated and the way she bit the inside of her cheek when she had something to say but didn’t want to show her anger. He wished he had a camera.
“If you don’t move, I’m going to move you.”
“Be my guest.”
And she did. He had no chance against the force and speed in which she moved. He didn’t even have time to blink before she’d grasped him by the wrists, and his back was slammed against the door. It was hard enough to make him lose his breath, and the old picture on the wall next to his head moved a good centimeter off the wall before landing back in its place with a loud thud. Much like the sound of his body slamming against the thick material of the door, and if she hadn’t have held him there, he would have probably bounced off of it. A grunt of laughter and reaction of pain left his lips after the initial shock of speed passed. Jesus Christ, this was almost as good as sex. She didn’t let the grip that she had on his wrists up. No, it was just the opposite. She gripped harder, her hand barely making it all the way around his large wrists. She stared at him with power in her eyes, and cocked her head to the side triumphantly.
“Told you.” The power left her eyes and amusement replaced it. She spoke matter of factly, with the tiniest shrug. There was a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, but she was defiant to free it.
The smirk that displayed on his own face only got larger from there, even though his head had a slight pounding from the force of the hit. He searched the depth in her eyes; never letting his gaze move from the beautiful greens. She didn’t try to break the eye contact either; they stood there in a silent war. Dean had long since learned that sexual tension only ever got better with eye contact. A direct gaze, which was an indirect way to let the other person know that all of the attentions were on them; it was a silent promise that they’d be the only ones in the world that mattered. Dean didn’t want that gaze to go away. There was no way anyone could deny what kind of tension this made between them. He knew there was tension from the start; all those times they had a conversation. Sharing the hotel room for two weeks, and working the entire day together - those factors were all catalysts for the tension. As hot as Buffy Summers was, and as horny as Dean was should have set the damn place on fire ten times over. There was tension, and there was a lot of it, but he had no idea the gage had gone that high until now. Until those few single moments of physical and sensory contact. Until she showed the exact same interest in keeping eye contact that he did. He didn’t want her to let him go, no. He wanted to explore this…
She did though; she let her grip loosen on him slightly; just slightly enough for him to take full advantage of the situation. If she hit him in return, he’d gladly take the blow on account of everything that had transpired in the past two minutes being completely worth it. If there was ever a chance with this woman, now was it, and there wasn’t a god damn thing that was going to stop him from taking it and running with it. He grabbed her wrists in the same fashion that she’d done mere seconds before, and pushed her against the wall with just as much strength as she’d done him. He knew she could take it, and he also knew that if she didn’t want it to happen that the tornado of pain he was going to feel from it was enough retaliation. Dean all the while kept his gaze on hers. Her gaze stayed just as intact, and just as passionate. With the sound of her body hitting the wall was her own groan of fleeting pain. The roles had reversed, but this time their bodies were closer together. Her mouth was so close to his. He could smell the fresh shower smell on her, and he could feel her breath on his skin. They were close enough together that all he had to do for the contact that he craved was lean down. All he had to do was bring his head down a mere inch in order to break the unwritten rule that Buffy was off limits.
He struggled with indecision. She was the slayer, and that meant that she could have gotten out of the hold he had on her if she wanted. Hell, she could just as easily kick him through the window as she could breathe. The fascinating thing was that she didn’t. She stared at him almost as if to dare him to make his move. Her jaw flexed ever so slightly, and it was that little twitch that sent him over the edge. Who the fuck was he to not take a dare like that?
So he did.
He took the plunge and bent his head down to meet hers. He captured her lips with his for a short kiss that was filled to the brim with sexual want, need, with passion, and with a two week pause of celibacy. He felt his nose rub against hers, and he savored the taste of those lips, and the smell of her skin. However brief the kiss was, he was determined to make the absolute best out of it. Her lips were just as he’d imagined they would feel; Soft, plump, and delicious. He didn’t dare loosen the grip on her wrists; the mental image of him losing some part of his body however wavering was still on the forefront of his mind. He didn’t want to press his luck; he could be dead wrong about the situation and he could have just signed his own death warrant. He pulled back; he opened his eyes and stared at the shocked face of his target. She was standing still, stiff as a board. Buffy Summers stared at Dean with her mouth partially open, her eyes dilated, and her breath staggering. They stared at each other for a few seconds before Dean realized that he had been holding his breath the entire time. He let it go softly, breathing through his nose and catching a whiff of Buffy’s intoxicating scent again. It felt like he needed that kiss as much as he needed to breathe. He dropped his hands from her small wrists, but didn’t move his face any further back than it was. His nose was barely touching hers, and she’d still yet to blink. What was it that had driven him to that moment? It was the fact that she didn’t pull away. It was the dare, and it was two weeks of being completely dry of sex and booze. It was the thought of her worried; it was the thought of her fighting. It was her face, her body, and her mind. The fact that he felt her lips respond to his gave him confidence to forego bracing himself for a blow to the face.
Onward to Chapter Seven!
Backward to:
Chapter Five.
Chapter Four.
Chapter Three.
Chapter Two.
Chapter One.