FIC: Devil and the Deep Blue Sea (Supernatural, R; Dean/Bela)
Title: Devil and the Deep Blue Sea
Characters: Bela, Dean
Rating: R
Word Count: 1615
Spoilers: Through 3.12 Jus in Bello.
Summary: Just stop. But don’t stop. Maybe steal something in between. Bela introspective.
Author's Note: Pieces of this been sitting on my hard drive since the night Jus in Bello aired, in some form or another. I suppose I have to label it Dean/Bela, but it's not shippy.
7.
The woman currently calling herself Bela Talbot obtained her first gun at eighteen but she didn’t learn to shoot until she was twenty-one. She was almost twenty-five before she could shoot well enough to hit a target smaller than an automobile, and only with an astronomical amount of luck could she hope to aim for a kill shot.
She received her first spirit board at thirteen, from a friend of her mother’s who recognized the skinny teenager as something more than another East End chav. It was great fun, but by age fifteen she’d given birth to a baby boy and had more pressing issues than conversing with the beyond.
She buried him at eighteen. She had some other name, one that isn’t important anymore and only links to a laundry list of deceased relatives buried in pauper’s plots around London.
She estimates that she’s gone through four or five names since then.
4.
Her head hits the wall behind her hard enough to make her see stars, and she’s a liar but the fact she expected this isn’t exactly worth lying about. She’s favoring the one leg, and the left side of his face is already purpling from an excellent right hook on her part.
He wraps his fingers around the back of her neck and she gasps, a name or an oath or a nonsense string of syllables. He peels her off the wall just long enough to help her shed any last vestiges of clothing it and then her skull’s cracking against the wallpaper again and he’s smothering her with a kiss that makes her wonder if he’s not trying to suck out her soul.
She has half a notion to let him, and she murmurs something against his neck as he slides into her and she thinks it might be her permission. But then he’s moving, and she’s holding on so hard her heels are going to leave bruises on the backs of his thighs, and she doesn’t care about anything but the wall behind her and him inside and all around her.
She sees stars for a completely different reason.
2.
She caught the newsflash right after stashing it, and she spent fifteen minutes standing in a post office in downtown Duluth staring at a TV screen long after it had moved on to pet food commercials and basketball scores.
She flew to London the next day. She went to the cemetery right by the council estate where she grew up and visited the proper grave marker she and her mother went two months without electric to afford. She leaned against the stone, one cheek pressed to its coolness and the opposite hand tracing the letters of his name, and told him all about her current predicament.
She told him she was happy he wasn’t around to be knocking over a Tesco with his little pikey friends, and that she stole more than enough for the both of them but at least her pulls were the kind of valuable things that kept her out of council blocks and in Jimmy Choos.
She talked to him like the teenager he ought to be, not the toddler she buried.
6.
The mirror by the door is broken, a spiderweb pattern of cracks in the exact shape and height of the back of her head. When she wakes up alone in the California king, there’s some kind of creature made of glass clawing its way up her throat. It’s a giggling, insane kind of resentment. The kind that bubbles up when you’re held at gunpoint simply because you are what you are; the kind a girl feels when it takes two to break a mirror but only one of them is going to be around to reap those seven years of shitty luck. She’s just adding to her tab at this point.
She reaches under the bed, where she distinctly remembers one of her very expensive shoes landing when Fuck me harder became more important than Do you know how much those cost. It’s there, all pretty and pointy and powerful in its own way. She wraps her fingers around the heel, whitens her knuckles, and closes her eyes. She threads the skinny little strap between her fingers and fiddles with the buckle. Then, her eyes snap open and she throws it at the rest of the mirror with a strangled squeak, the only sound that seems to be able to get past the horrible little monster squatting like a Winchester in her larynx, and the mirror has another crater of cracks. She can’t say she feels better, but at least this time she was an active participant. At least this time she wasn’t just the one with her head in the hands of someone much stronger, much crazier, and much more desperate.
At least the sex was phenomenal. At least there’s that.
Which is nothing, really. A nice romp around the hotel room and where are they? Still damned it the do, damned if they don’t, and she’s sitting in what used to be an impressive, expensive suite but is now made of broken glass, kindling, and rags, and she’s making bad puns so that she doesn’t cry.
The mirror across the room isn’t the only thin that’s broken. The coffee table in the center of the clique of living furniture game up the ghost under their combined weight, and she has a wicked splinter in her shoulder. The minibar is on its side, and the minifridge door is across the room by the bed. She acknowledges that something inside of her is broken, too, and suddenly she’s leaping out of bed and running for the toilet so that she can dry heave.
“Oh, it ‘urts, does it? But dear girl,” he mother laughed at her once, in the ugly little kitchen of their ugly little flat in the ugliest corner of London, “tha’s ‘ow ya know you’re doin’ it right, innit?”
She wretches, wrapping her arms around the rim of the toilet. She isnt’ sure what she’s trying to bring up, except maybe it’s tears she won’t shed or words she forgot to scream between the name-calling and the Oh, god, don’t stop.
She isn’t sure who she was talking to when she whimpered Don’t you dare stop.
3.
Really, how could she not laugh? Somebody dies not long after you relieve them of an object of immeasurable value-that she has experience with. This is not the first time it’s happened. But finding them rooting around in your hotel room a month and a half later, looking half rabid?
“Where is it, you crazy bitch?”
So she laughed.
Vibrating with whatever he was feeling-she’s never been very proficient at identifying the emotions of others-he grabbed her around the upper arms, hard enough to hurt. “Oh, are you going to shake the answer out of me?” she said in a singsong voice that only wavered a little, and only because he was shaking her. “How crude?”
“Seriously, Bela, my rope? About as long as my thumb right now.”
“Which, I imagine, still has several inches on other bits of your anatomy. No wonder you’re so angry all the time, poor boy.” She might have checked him under the chin if she didn’t think he’d bite. He responded by shoving her roughly backwards and trapping her against the wall.
“I’m not having sex with you, if that’s what you’re going for,” he snarled.
This time she did touch him, resting a palm against his cheek (and damn if he didn’t lean into the caress just a little, before he could stop himself, letting her wonder when was the last time he had this kind of contact, anyway?). She looked up at him with softened eyes and shook her head. “S’not my angle, sweetheart,” she said sweetly. “Don’t know what I’d catch, anyway.”
He took a step forward, the slight height difference bringing his hips flush with her belly. “We need it back, Bela,” he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper.
“Maybe I need it, too,” she whispered.
She felt more than heard his answering groan, and then he was hitching her up, third-day stubble abrading her skin, and she was wrapping her legs around his waist.
1.
She learned very young that there really isn’t much point in stealing for the hell of it. If you’re hungry, take that sweet, but why bother when you’re full up and the shopkeeper has a family to feed? Thing is, a gun that can kill anything buys a girl a hell of a lot of leverage.
She’s very interested in leverage, pinioned between two rocky, hard places as she is. Neither of them is particularly forgiving, thank you.
5.
“How did you get into this, anyway?” he asked, when they were just teetering on the edge of sleep and her bones felt enough like pudding that she would have told him anything he asked.
“Was seventeen,” she said, letting her accent slip further into Cockney. “An’ stupid, an’ bored, an’ poor. An’ somebody died who didn’ deserve’t.”
She rolled away and he dropped back, the pillow under his head making a tiny pfft of protest. There was a pause, and she had a feeling he was connecting dots in his head. “So…” he started.
“Tha’s it,” she snapped. He reached over, and the bed wasn’t so big that she was too far away for him to ghost a hand over the small over her back. He squeezed his fingers gently, just over her spine, and then jerked his hand back like she was made of acid.
She exhaled into her pillow and held of on inhaling as long as she could.
Characters: Bela, Dean
Rating: R
Word Count: 1615
Spoilers: Through 3.12 Jus in Bello.
Summary: Just stop. But don’t stop. Maybe steal something in between. Bela introspective.
Author's Note: Pieces of this been sitting on my hard drive since the night Jus in Bello aired, in some form or another. I suppose I have to label it Dean/Bela, but it's not shippy.
7.
The woman currently calling herself Bela Talbot obtained her first gun at eighteen but she didn’t learn to shoot until she was twenty-one. She was almost twenty-five before she could shoot well enough to hit a target smaller than an automobile, and only with an astronomical amount of luck could she hope to aim for a kill shot.
She received her first spirit board at thirteen, from a friend of her mother’s who recognized the skinny teenager as something more than another East End chav. It was great fun, but by age fifteen she’d given birth to a baby boy and had more pressing issues than conversing with the beyond.
She buried him at eighteen. She had some other name, one that isn’t important anymore and only links to a laundry list of deceased relatives buried in pauper’s plots around London.
She estimates that she’s gone through four or five names since then.
4.
Her head hits the wall behind her hard enough to make her see stars, and she’s a liar but the fact she expected this isn’t exactly worth lying about. She’s favoring the one leg, and the left side of his face is already purpling from an excellent right hook on her part.
He wraps his fingers around the back of her neck and she gasps, a name or an oath or a nonsense string of syllables. He peels her off the wall just long enough to help her shed any last vestiges of clothing it and then her skull’s cracking against the wallpaper again and he’s smothering her with a kiss that makes her wonder if he’s not trying to suck out her soul.
She has half a notion to let him, and she murmurs something against his neck as he slides into her and she thinks it might be her permission. But then he’s moving, and she’s holding on so hard her heels are going to leave bruises on the backs of his thighs, and she doesn’t care about anything but the wall behind her and him inside and all around her.
She sees stars for a completely different reason.
2.
She caught the newsflash right after stashing it, and she spent fifteen minutes standing in a post office in downtown Duluth staring at a TV screen long after it had moved on to pet food commercials and basketball scores.
She flew to London the next day. She went to the cemetery right by the council estate where she grew up and visited the proper grave marker she and her mother went two months without electric to afford. She leaned against the stone, one cheek pressed to its coolness and the opposite hand tracing the letters of his name, and told him all about her current predicament.
She told him she was happy he wasn’t around to be knocking over a Tesco with his little pikey friends, and that she stole more than enough for the both of them but at least her pulls were the kind of valuable things that kept her out of council blocks and in Jimmy Choos.
She talked to him like the teenager he ought to be, not the toddler she buried.
6.
The mirror by the door is broken, a spiderweb pattern of cracks in the exact shape and height of the back of her head. When she wakes up alone in the California king, there’s some kind of creature made of glass clawing its way up her throat. It’s a giggling, insane kind of resentment. The kind that bubbles up when you’re held at gunpoint simply because you are what you are; the kind a girl feels when it takes two to break a mirror but only one of them is going to be around to reap those seven years of shitty luck. She’s just adding to her tab at this point.
She reaches under the bed, where she distinctly remembers one of her very expensive shoes landing when Fuck me harder became more important than Do you know how much those cost. It’s there, all pretty and pointy and powerful in its own way. She wraps her fingers around the heel, whitens her knuckles, and closes her eyes. She threads the skinny little strap between her fingers and fiddles with the buckle. Then, her eyes snap open and she throws it at the rest of the mirror with a strangled squeak, the only sound that seems to be able to get past the horrible little monster squatting like a Winchester in her larynx, and the mirror has another crater of cracks. She can’t say she feels better, but at least this time she was an active participant. At least this time she wasn’t just the one with her head in the hands of someone much stronger, much crazier, and much more desperate.
At least the sex was phenomenal. At least there’s that.
Which is nothing, really. A nice romp around the hotel room and where are they? Still damned it the do, damned if they don’t, and she’s sitting in what used to be an impressive, expensive suite but is now made of broken glass, kindling, and rags, and she’s making bad puns so that she doesn’t cry.
The mirror across the room isn’t the only thin that’s broken. The coffee table in the center of the clique of living furniture game up the ghost under their combined weight, and she has a wicked splinter in her shoulder. The minibar is on its side, and the minifridge door is across the room by the bed. She acknowledges that something inside of her is broken, too, and suddenly she’s leaping out of bed and running for the toilet so that she can dry heave.
“Oh, it ‘urts, does it? But dear girl,” he mother laughed at her once, in the ugly little kitchen of their ugly little flat in the ugliest corner of London, “tha’s ‘ow ya know you’re doin’ it right, innit?”
She wretches, wrapping her arms around the rim of the toilet. She isnt’ sure what she’s trying to bring up, except maybe it’s tears she won’t shed or words she forgot to scream between the name-calling and the Oh, god, don’t stop.
She isn’t sure who she was talking to when she whimpered Don’t you dare stop.
3.
Really, how could she not laugh? Somebody dies not long after you relieve them of an object of immeasurable value-that she has experience with. This is not the first time it’s happened. But finding them rooting around in your hotel room a month and a half later, looking half rabid?
“Where is it, you crazy bitch?”
So she laughed.
Vibrating with whatever he was feeling-she’s never been very proficient at identifying the emotions of others-he grabbed her around the upper arms, hard enough to hurt. “Oh, are you going to shake the answer out of me?” she said in a singsong voice that only wavered a little, and only because he was shaking her. “How crude?”
“Seriously, Bela, my rope? About as long as my thumb right now.”
“Which, I imagine, still has several inches on other bits of your anatomy. No wonder you’re so angry all the time, poor boy.” She might have checked him under the chin if she didn’t think he’d bite. He responded by shoving her roughly backwards and trapping her against the wall.
“I’m not having sex with you, if that’s what you’re going for,” he snarled.
This time she did touch him, resting a palm against his cheek (and damn if he didn’t lean into the caress just a little, before he could stop himself, letting her wonder when was the last time he had this kind of contact, anyway?). She looked up at him with softened eyes and shook her head. “S’not my angle, sweetheart,” she said sweetly. “Don’t know what I’d catch, anyway.”
He took a step forward, the slight height difference bringing his hips flush with her belly. “We need it back, Bela,” he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper.
“Maybe I need it, too,” she whispered.
She felt more than heard his answering groan, and then he was hitching her up, third-day stubble abrading her skin, and she was wrapping her legs around his waist.
1.
She learned very young that there really isn’t much point in stealing for the hell of it. If you’re hungry, take that sweet, but why bother when you’re full up and the shopkeeper has a family to feed? Thing is, a gun that can kill anything buys a girl a hell of a lot of leverage.
She’s very interested in leverage, pinioned between two rocky, hard places as she is. Neither of them is particularly forgiving, thank you.
5.
“How did you get into this, anyway?” he asked, when they were just teetering on the edge of sleep and her bones felt enough like pudding that she would have told him anything he asked.
“Was seventeen,” she said, letting her accent slip further into Cockney. “An’ stupid, an’ bored, an’ poor. An’ somebody died who didn’ deserve’t.”
She rolled away and he dropped back, the pillow under his head making a tiny pfft of protest. There was a pause, and she had a feeling he was connecting dots in his head. “So…” he started.
“Tha’s it,” she snapped. He reached over, and the bed wasn’t so big that she was too far away for him to ghost a hand over the small over her back. He squeezed his fingers gently, just over her spine, and then jerked his hand back like she was made of acid.
She exhaled into her pillow and held of on inhaling as long as she could.