fic: spark
Spark
dean/bela, post 3.06, adult. 1580 words.
Damaged, he said.
If she'd been in New York when Dean called, she wouldn't have come. That's what she tells herself. She's a few towns away from him, which should make her close and actually puts her in an entirely different part of the world. Still, two hours on the freeway and she's there.
She didn't answer when he called, but she did listen to the message, and he said please. Which she doubts he'd ever say to her face, but he did say he wanted to talk business, so.
And because she knows that if she doesn't, he'll come to her, and she does not want him in her home again.
Which is why she's in New Jersey, some nameless little town on the edge of the civilized world. She drives past strip malls that drip with neon luminescence and cliche. Acid green and copper red, both of which fade at the edge of town: the parking lot of his motel is dark and barren.
It's cold and windy, too. She pulls her coat tighter when she gets out of the car.
Knocks on the door. Wonders what it is that makes this seem attractive to him. Horrible motels, denim and plaid, poverty.
He has the same options she does. Not using them makes him stupid, not sainted, and she doesn't think he sleeps any better for it.
He doesn't say anything when he opens the door. Steps aside to let her in. Her heels crunch across salt and she wonders what he's trying to keep out. His contract won't be up for a few months at least and salt will be useless against the dogs, then.
"It's just us, then?" she asks, crossing her arms. Keeps her back to the wall. The blinds are drawn and a few lamps are lit, but the corners of the room are still shadowed.
"Sam's out," he says, and there's something black and bitter in his tone. She doesn't ask where Sam's gone, or why. Or why Dean didn't go with him.
She's heard that Sam Winchester is the Antichrist, that he's going to end the world, that he's the child of a very old demon and Lilith herself. He doesn't look like any of those things, but monsters never do.
She wonder if Dean knows one way or another. If he cares. If that's why he's alone in the motel with bourbon on his breath and desperation in his eyes.
"Obviously," she says. "Is he still mad about the bullet?"
Dean's mouth twitches. "Do yourself a favor, don't remind me about that."
She grins. "Oh, would you like me to go? I was under the impression I was here as a favor to you."
Silence, settling. And then he drags in a breath.
"You know about my deal," he says.
"Of course," she says. She wonders if he regrets it. She doesn't regret her own. Not yet.
His throat works for a moment and then he licks his lips, says, "You can get . . . things. Like . . . protection."
"While I am very good, I'm not sure how many charms will be much use against the combined forces of hell, Dean."
His grin is blinding. It's also a bluff. "Yeah, I didn't think you could do it."
She rolls her eyes. "And if I could, I certainly wouldn't do it for free."
"I have money."
"And here I thought you'd have blown that all on . . . actually, I don't want to know. Atlantic City?" she asks.
"Not all of it," Dean says, like it matters. Because she didn't come here for the deal, for the money; he could never afford to pay what she charges. She came here to win, maybe, or out of sympathy. Pity.
Or maybe just recognition. Understanding this far too well, the need to cling to anything when absolutely nothing is left.
Remembering the way he looked at her when he said how'd you get like this, as though he were any different. Is any different.
She wonders what shows on her face, because he glares at her. His eyes look bruised. Coal-dark and shadowed. She wonders how many of his scars are visible. How many of her own, if he knew where to look.
The flannel shirt he's wearing is too big for him; the sleeves are too long. She tilts her head a little, makes the connection. She wonders if it smells like his brother or if the knowledge of belonging, of presence, is enough. It's sort of sweet, his clinging to whatever innocence he can still find, to whatever passes, or used to pass, for normal.
It's also monumentally twisted and not a little pathetic. “Nice shirt,” she says. Smirks.
He flinches. Shrugs it off. Jeans and a t-shirt like a second skin. His hands are tight at his sides, the bones of his knuckles defined sharp and angry. She thinks there might be blood underneath his fingernails.
"Does he know you steal his clothes?"
Low and angry and raw. "Shut up."
It's far too easy to taunt him; he looms in, like he thinks it'll scare her. There's a gun in her coat, should she need it, but she doubts it'll come to that.
He's far more likely to try to save her than to kill her, no matter what he says.
Though she does wonder how many weapons he has on him now, whether they make him feel any safer. If he's learned yet that it's not about being able to fight, but about being able to make sure you don't have to.
He's too close, now, to be interpreted as anything but a threat or an offering. Split-second. Decide.
She tilts her head up at the same time he tilts his head down, but there's not that much of a height difference and they crash against each other. It should hurt more than it does, and maybe it will, later. Stubble rasping at her skin, burning.
He smells like salt and gunpowder, as she expected, and like grime and oil. Not nearly dangerous enough. She reaches up, wraps one hand around his neck, digs her nails into the soft skin. His hair prickles against her other palm and he swallows.
Lipstick smeared across his face when she breaks away. Small victory.
Two steps and the wall is cold at her back and he's shoving up her skirt as she smiles. Neither of them are much for romance, apparently, and they're both beyond broken. Two halves of something, maybe, or perhaps too similar for that.
He runs his hands up her legs. His hands are rough; her stockings will be ruined.
When he kneels, she raises her eyebrows, and he grins. Because she expected him to fuck her, not to go down on her where she stands, and of course he knows that.
She wonders if this is vengeance or penance or simply lust. Some unknowable combination.
She wonders if he would have preferred the other way, how much of this is because he can't stand for her to be in control.
They really are alike. Just beneath the skin. All jagged and twisted and scarred. Damaged, he said.
Damaged, and the lighting is terrible, but he's still very beautiful, especially like this. On his knees and she wonders if he prays, if he believes in some god, in God, that he's on the side of good, that any of it makes a fucking bit of difference.
Cold metal of his ring. He's not gentle and he's not very good at this, but it works. She's never been one for gentle, anyway, for sweet and tender and kind.
She makes a small noise, not even a moan, but he falters, loses his rhythm. Blinks.
She smirks. Arches against him and gasps. Flame-white sparks when she closes her eyes and when she opens them, he's watching her.
She lets herself lean back against the wall, fixes her underwear, her skirt. "That was lovely, thanks," she says.
He wipes a hand across his mouth. He's breathing rough; she doesn't ask. What, exactly, he wants, and if he's gotten it already. "Yeah, anytime," he says.
She straightens. "Would you like me to-"
"No." Harsh and sharp, which is unexpected. She wonders what lines he's drawn for himself. What he won't let himself do. What he won't let be done to him.
She shrugs. "Your loss."
His spine cracks when he stands. Drags the shirt back on, gathers it around himself and fixes the collar. Stares at her, oddly defiant, as though waiting to be judged. Like he actually cares what she thinks.
"I'll see what I can find," she says, and she's not really lying, because she will. And it's not cheating, because it's not like he'd be able to pay for anything she might find, anyway.
"Thanks," he says, like he hates saying it and like he really means it. Ache all the way down to bone.
She nods. Leaves him alone in the room. Maybe it's kind to give him hope, or maybe it's exceptionally cruel. She's not sure and it doesn't make a difference anyway.
Outside, something scrapes in the undergrowth, skitters away from her. She thinks of the dying and the damned and whether there's any difference between them at all.
In the car, she avoids looking in the rearview mirror. She will not shatter; she's learned to be strong, after all.
Still.
She hopes for Dean's sake that Sam comes back soon. Shredded glass just beneath his skin and he has so far to fall before his time runs out.
-end-
dean/bela, post 3.06, adult. 1580 words.
Damaged, he said.
If she'd been in New York when Dean called, she wouldn't have come. That's what she tells herself. She's a few towns away from him, which should make her close and actually puts her in an entirely different part of the world. Still, two hours on the freeway and she's there.
She didn't answer when he called, but she did listen to the message, and he said please. Which she doubts he'd ever say to her face, but he did say he wanted to talk business, so.
And because she knows that if she doesn't, he'll come to her, and she does not want him in her home again.
Which is why she's in New Jersey, some nameless little town on the edge of the civilized world. She drives past strip malls that drip with neon luminescence and cliche. Acid green and copper red, both of which fade at the edge of town: the parking lot of his motel is dark and barren.
It's cold and windy, too. She pulls her coat tighter when she gets out of the car.
Knocks on the door. Wonders what it is that makes this seem attractive to him. Horrible motels, denim and plaid, poverty.
He has the same options she does. Not using them makes him stupid, not sainted, and she doesn't think he sleeps any better for it.
He doesn't say anything when he opens the door. Steps aside to let her in. Her heels crunch across salt and she wonders what he's trying to keep out. His contract won't be up for a few months at least and salt will be useless against the dogs, then.
"It's just us, then?" she asks, crossing her arms. Keeps her back to the wall. The blinds are drawn and a few lamps are lit, but the corners of the room are still shadowed.
"Sam's out," he says, and there's something black and bitter in his tone. She doesn't ask where Sam's gone, or why. Or why Dean didn't go with him.
She's heard that Sam Winchester is the Antichrist, that he's going to end the world, that he's the child of a very old demon and Lilith herself. He doesn't look like any of those things, but monsters never do.
She wonder if Dean knows one way or another. If he cares. If that's why he's alone in the motel with bourbon on his breath and desperation in his eyes.
"Obviously," she says. "Is he still mad about the bullet?"
Dean's mouth twitches. "Do yourself a favor, don't remind me about that."
She grins. "Oh, would you like me to go? I was under the impression I was here as a favor to you."
Silence, settling. And then he drags in a breath.
"You know about my deal," he says.
"Of course," she says. She wonders if he regrets it. She doesn't regret her own. Not yet.
His throat works for a moment and then he licks his lips, says, "You can get . . . things. Like . . . protection."
"While I am very good, I'm not sure how many charms will be much use against the combined forces of hell, Dean."
His grin is blinding. It's also a bluff. "Yeah, I didn't think you could do it."
She rolls her eyes. "And if I could, I certainly wouldn't do it for free."
"I have money."
"And here I thought you'd have blown that all on . . . actually, I don't want to know. Atlantic City?" she asks.
"Not all of it," Dean says, like it matters. Because she didn't come here for the deal, for the money; he could never afford to pay what she charges. She came here to win, maybe, or out of sympathy. Pity.
Or maybe just recognition. Understanding this far too well, the need to cling to anything when absolutely nothing is left.
Remembering the way he looked at her when he said how'd you get like this, as though he were any different. Is any different.
She wonders what shows on her face, because he glares at her. His eyes look bruised. Coal-dark and shadowed. She wonders how many of his scars are visible. How many of her own, if he knew where to look.
The flannel shirt he's wearing is too big for him; the sleeves are too long. She tilts her head a little, makes the connection. She wonders if it smells like his brother or if the knowledge of belonging, of presence, is enough. It's sort of sweet, his clinging to whatever innocence he can still find, to whatever passes, or used to pass, for normal.
It's also monumentally twisted and not a little pathetic. “Nice shirt,” she says. Smirks.
He flinches. Shrugs it off. Jeans and a t-shirt like a second skin. His hands are tight at his sides, the bones of his knuckles defined sharp and angry. She thinks there might be blood underneath his fingernails.
"Does he know you steal his clothes?"
Low and angry and raw. "Shut up."
It's far too easy to taunt him; he looms in, like he thinks it'll scare her. There's a gun in her coat, should she need it, but she doubts it'll come to that.
He's far more likely to try to save her than to kill her, no matter what he says.
Though she does wonder how many weapons he has on him now, whether they make him feel any safer. If he's learned yet that it's not about being able to fight, but about being able to make sure you don't have to.
He's too close, now, to be interpreted as anything but a threat or an offering. Split-second. Decide.
She tilts her head up at the same time he tilts his head down, but there's not that much of a height difference and they crash against each other. It should hurt more than it does, and maybe it will, later. Stubble rasping at her skin, burning.
He smells like salt and gunpowder, as she expected, and like grime and oil. Not nearly dangerous enough. She reaches up, wraps one hand around his neck, digs her nails into the soft skin. His hair prickles against her other palm and he swallows.
Lipstick smeared across his face when she breaks away. Small victory.
Two steps and the wall is cold at her back and he's shoving up her skirt as she smiles. Neither of them are much for romance, apparently, and they're both beyond broken. Two halves of something, maybe, or perhaps too similar for that.
He runs his hands up her legs. His hands are rough; her stockings will be ruined.
When he kneels, she raises her eyebrows, and he grins. Because she expected him to fuck her, not to go down on her where she stands, and of course he knows that.
She wonders if this is vengeance or penance or simply lust. Some unknowable combination.
She wonders if he would have preferred the other way, how much of this is because he can't stand for her to be in control.
They really are alike. Just beneath the skin. All jagged and twisted and scarred. Damaged, he said.
Damaged, and the lighting is terrible, but he's still very beautiful, especially like this. On his knees and she wonders if he prays, if he believes in some god, in God, that he's on the side of good, that any of it makes a fucking bit of difference.
Cold metal of his ring. He's not gentle and he's not very good at this, but it works. She's never been one for gentle, anyway, for sweet and tender and kind.
She makes a small noise, not even a moan, but he falters, loses his rhythm. Blinks.
She smirks. Arches against him and gasps. Flame-white sparks when she closes her eyes and when she opens them, he's watching her.
She lets herself lean back against the wall, fixes her underwear, her skirt. "That was lovely, thanks," she says.
He wipes a hand across his mouth. He's breathing rough; she doesn't ask. What, exactly, he wants, and if he's gotten it already. "Yeah, anytime," he says.
She straightens. "Would you like me to-"
"No." Harsh and sharp, which is unexpected. She wonders what lines he's drawn for himself. What he won't let himself do. What he won't let be done to him.
She shrugs. "Your loss."
His spine cracks when he stands. Drags the shirt back on, gathers it around himself and fixes the collar. Stares at her, oddly defiant, as though waiting to be judged. Like he actually cares what she thinks.
"I'll see what I can find," she says, and she's not really lying, because she will. And it's not cheating, because it's not like he'd be able to pay for anything she might find, anyway.
"Thanks," he says, like he hates saying it and like he really means it. Ache all the way down to bone.
She nods. Leaves him alone in the room. Maybe it's kind to give him hope, or maybe it's exceptionally cruel. She's not sure and it doesn't make a difference anyway.
Outside, something scrapes in the undergrowth, skitters away from her. She thinks of the dying and the damned and whether there's any difference between them at all.
In the car, she avoids looking in the rearview mirror. She will not shatter; she's learned to be strong, after all.
Still.
She hopes for Dean's sake that Sam comes back soon. Shredded glass just beneath his skin and he has so far to fall before his time runs out.
-end-