Spank You Very Much
Author: starhawk2005
Summary: Bela has the Colt, and Dean wants it back. And he has ways of making bad little girls spill where they hid the gun in question.
Disclaimer: So not mine. If they were, Dean would be spanking ME, OK? Yeah, I went there. You want to, too. Admit it.
Author's Notes: Inspired by Season 3's 'Dream a Little Dream' episode.
Dean glares out the driver's side window, fingers drumming angrily on the Impala's steering wheel. I'm going to kill that bitch, he promises himself.
They've been tracking Bela for two weeks, in an attempt to get the Colt back. She's covered her trail pretty well, though.
Dean has to grudgingly admit, it was pretty genius of her to take the dream-root and conjure a little sex-dream to throw Sam off his game. She must've snuck into their motel room at some point and stolen some of Sam's hair off a pillow to use in her little ruse, before coming to see them for the 'first' time with her Flagstaff make-believe story.
At least, that's what Dean thinks happened. They'd searched her room thoroughly after she took off with the Colt, and Bobby'd found a little of the dream-root left in her trashcan. Sam's red-faced little admission had revealed the rest.
Dean doesn't know whether to feel insulted or glad that she hadn't bothered to use the same trick on him.
Doesn't matter, though. Sam spoke to Ruby (who was none too pleased about this development), and Ruby cast a spell to track Bela. The moment they got their fix on her, Dean told Sam to wait there for him, and jumped into the Impala. He'll handle this alone, for once. His way.
His cell phone plays its ringtone – Metallica, this month - but he ignores it. It's probably Sam, and Dean doesn't want to discuss this. Bela's been a thorn in his side since the day he met her, and he's going to deal with this all by himself.
It's nearly dark when he gets to the address Ruby gave them. It's a house in the burbs, probably cost a fortune. He grimaces at the thought of the precious hunter artifacts and talismans she probably sold to finance the place, and drives right on past it, parking a few blocks away. He goes back on foot, circling the house a few times, but it seems empty. He peers through the front window, straining his eyes in the near dark. He's searching for the expected alarm panel. He spots it on a far wall, but he's surprised to see that it doesn't appear to be armed. Maybe the system hasn't been hooked up yet? Or she forgot to set it when she left? Doesn't matter. He slips around to the back door and picks the lock, checks the panel up-close to make sure it's not active (it's not), and then quietly searches the whole house from top to bottom, just to make sure he's alone.
He is, so he settles on the plush couch in the darkened living room to wait, his gun in hand. He'll wait as long as it takes. Days, if he needs to.
Only about an hour later, however, a key rattles in the lock. Soon he can hear her walking around in the hallway, the sharp raps of her shoes tumbling to the hardwood floor as she tosses them aside, the rustle of her coat, her tired sigh. Dean feels a snarl forming on his lips. Little does she know what awaits her. Justice is coming.
She turns the living room light on, and he's blinded for just a second, but he'd prepared himself for that. He blinks the spots from his eyes, gun trained unerringly on Bela as his vision clears.
"Dean!" she exclaims. She's startled, but trying not to show it. "To what do I owe the pleasure-"
"Shut up, bitch," he rasps. "Where is it?"
"I don't know what you mean," she tries, folding her arms.
"The Colt," he says through clenched teeth. "You took it. I want it back. Now."
She cocks her head at him, watching him through narrowed eyes. She seems to have regained her composure. "Really, Dean, would I be so stupid? I know how important that weapon is to you and Sam. Why would I-"
"To sell to the highest bidder, of course," Dean grinds out, gun still pointed at her.
"Such a low opinion you have of me," she says sadly. Her poker face is remarkable, Dean'll give her that. If not for the evidence to the contrary, he could almost believe she's telling the truth. Almost.
"No, what I have is proof, Bela." He digs into his jeans pocket, pulling out the Ziploc bag. The one from the trashbin of her motel room, with the remains of the dream-root still in it. "This. And Sammy's wet dream of you, from out of nowhere. What, you figured you'd distract him with a bit of tail?"
She purses her lips, obviously thinking fast. Not that it matters, because he's not going to give her a chance to say or try anything else.
"Tell me where it is, or I'll put a bullet into that lying-ass brain of yours." He cocks the gun.
"You won't," she scoffs, but he thinks he sees a flash of fear in her eyes before she says it. "You kill monsters, not unarmed women, yes?" But she doesn't sound convinced, not to him. Dean's a dead man, a man bound for Hell in less than six months. It's one-way ticket, and that may just make him more vengeful than might otherwise be the case. They both know it.
"Try me," he says, but he knows he won't. Kill her, and they lose their best source of information on where the Colt is. He needs something else to leverage against her, other than her life.
He figured she wouldn't talk that easily, but he has a back-up plan prepared. It's definitely not typical of him, but he's been engaging in a lot of out-of-character stuff lately. That's what happens, when you know you're going to Hell, and sooner rather than later.
There's a set of handcuffs lying on the couch next to him, a little souvenir from the raven-haired beauty he got his kink on with three towns back, and he grabs them as he stands up, gun still on her. "Fine, you're right. I won't kill you. But I've got other ways of making you talk." He doesn't elaborate – she'll find out soon enough. "Turn around," he orders harshly.
She doesn't, though, so when he gets over to her, he presses the barrel of the gun against her forehead. "I said, turn the fuck around." If Sam were here…actually, Dean doesn't know how Sam would react if he witnessed this. Dean isn't the only one who's gone through some changes lately.
Bela starts to say something, but the hard look in his eyes and the way he digs the gun barrel a little into her forehead must convince her, because she shuts up and turns around. Dean roughly cuffs her hands – those damned thieving little hands – behind her back, then drags her backwards with him. He holsters his gun, then sits back on the tasteful (expensive) couch, pulling her down across his lap.
"What the Hell are you-?" she starts, but he cuts her off.
"Let's try this again. You're going to tell me where it is. Who you sold it to. You have five seconds, Bela."
He hasn't said what the punishment for disobedience will be, but she's a smart one. He's sure she must recognize the position she's in, cuffed and helpless across his lap, one of his hands wrapped tightly around the cuffs and her wrists, holding her in place.
"Dean, wait-"
"Five," he says, dry and deadly.
"This is ridiculou-"
"Four."
"I didn't take it-"
"Three."
"I don't have-"
"Two." He raises his free hand, flexing it.
"Dean, wait-"
"One," he says, and he brings his hand down hard on her shapely ass.
There's a satisfying smack, and she takes a sharp breath.
He delivers another blow before she has a chance to say anything. Show her he means business.
He pauses then. "This is going to go on until you tell me what you did with the Colt," he says. He almost hopes she doesn't give in too soon. She's deserving of justice, and he's just the man to give it to her.
"Bastard!" she spits angrily, writhing in his lap. "You think you can break me that easily?"
He smirks, though of course she can't see it. "Probably not. Let's find out. You tell me when you're ready to talk."
He begins.
It goes on for awhile. The sound of flesh striking flesh, Bela squirming and struggling and trying not to cry out in his lap, even as his spanks get harder and more frequent. She's got to be reddened under her clothes by now, he's sure of it.
There's also the fact that despite himself, he's turned on. He tells himself it's only the fact that he hasn't gotten laid in at least two weeks. Yeah, he's aroused, he can admit that, but it has little to do with being attracted to Bela Talbot. She's a thief, nothing more, certainly not worth his desire. The only thing she deserves from him is pain. Not pleasure.
Soon his palm is stinging, so he takes a break, flexing the hand, rubbing it along the soft fabric of the couch. He's not going to touch her that way, whatever his cock is trying to tell him.
She's tensed over his lap, her thighs trembling, her breathing not quite sobs. "Ready to spill, yet?" He inquires.
"Is that all you've got?" she snarls. He wishes he could see her face, because he's pretty sure it's all still a lie. Another con.
"You want more, Bela? Because if that's what you want, I'm ready."
"Big talker," she retorts. "You haven't the balls to make me do anything."
Speaking of balls, his are already tingling, again despite his wishes. Because he thinks he knows how to raise the bar. Show her that he means serious business.
"Guess I've got to prove you wrong, then," he drawls, reaching underneath her. Searching for the button of her slacks.
"What the-" she gasps and tries to yank her hips away, but there's nowhere for her to go. He's got her, and there's no escape.
"You can end this any time, Bela," he reminds her, even as he's tugging her pants down to pool at her knees. Her panties are simple and black, not the lacy Victoria's Secret crap he was expecting, and he doesn't hesitate to take them down as well. He might be aroused, yes, but he reminds himself again that this isn't a pleasure cruise. This is all to get the Colt's location out of her as fast as possible, that's all. The sooner he convinces her to give up the Colt, the sooner he can get back on the road. The sooner he can try to find a way out of his deal.
Yep, her ass is indeed red. He has to resist the urge to touch her, really touch her. See how hot her skin is. How soft and smooth- He jerks his thoughts away from that idea. Business, goddamn it, not pleasure. He flexes his hand again, preparing to mete out more justice.
He waits, but she says nothing. He can't help but notice that not only hasn't she told him where the gun is, but she hasn't begged him to stop yet, either. He figured she was tough, but he's prepared to find out where her strength ends.
"Well?" he asks, punctuating the question with two more sharp blows, one to each shapely asscheek. It feels so much more sensual, bare skin impacting right on bare skin, and if he wasn't sporting wood before-
She laughs at him. Actually laughs. Another con? he wonders. She thrashes unexpectedly, almost launching herself off his lap, but he yanks her back into position.
"You think this is funny?" he snarls, her laughter jarring him back to the matter at hand. "That Colt might be the only thing standing between-" He stops himself. That's none of her goddamned fucking business. The Colt is theirs, she stole it, and he's going to use whatever means are necessary to get her to tell him where it is, and/or who she sold it to. End of fucking story.
"Talk, Bela," he growls. He begins the punishment again.
Time passes, seeming to stretch and pull like taffy. It's almost a relief, actually, even though his hand is really stinging now. Because it's almost like nothing else exists beyond the couch and the two of them. There's no demons, no demon war, no Stygian abyss full of ravening Hellhounds waiting for him when his year-long clock runs down. There's just the sound and feel of palm impacting flesh, Bela moaning and twisting around in his lap, her blouse and short strands of her hair sticking to her with sweat. The blood continuing to rush straight to his cock, and her movements only serving to make him ache.
The sound of her sobs is what finally stops him, breaking apart the protective bubble in time. He rests his hand on her bare skin, almost absently noting how soft and smooth her skin feels. He hasn't really hurt her, hasn't drawn blood or broken the skin, but her flesh is hot and red, and he rather smugly congratulates himself on a job well done.
"Spill it, Bela," he commands.
But she surprises him again, the damned bitch. The sound of her sobs ceases – was it all a fucking act? – and instead she grinds out: "Do your worst, Winchester. I'm not telling you a fucking thing."
Fuck. Maybe he really should've shot her – in the leg, of course, not fatally. Even if his damned cock doesn't agree.
Which gives him a new idea. He's tried pain, and he's getting sick of it, plus it's not working. Maybe a different approach would work.
Her thighs are slack, open, shaking as she tries to catch her breath. It's no challenge at all to slip his hand between them, seeking her out.
His fingers make contact with slick skin, and she gasps. He almost gasps himself, at just how wet she is. No wonder this isn't working. She's enjoying it too much. He'll be damned.
"You want my 'worst'?" he teases, "OK." He leans down, trapping her body between his chest and his lap, and uses both hands to pull her thighs as far apart as the hobble of her pants and panties allows. Her cuffed wrists dig into his ribs, but his hard-on is poking into her belly, so he figures it's a fair trade.
He braces her thighs apart with one arm, his other hand going back to work between her thighs. He can smell her now, sweet and musky, and his balls ache and tighten. Fuck it, he may as well enjoy this.
She reacts to his first gentle stroke as if he's stabbed her – a sharp moan, as if she's in unbearable pain – but he doesn't pay any attention. She's soaking, and his fingertips slip and slide easily, but he doesn't rush it. That wouldn't suit his final goal at all.
Bela's trying to muffle her moans in the couch cushions, as he lightly traces the edge of each fold. She's still squirming, rubbing against him, and his balls really start to ache. He has to resist the urge to bring his fingers up to his lips, tasting her.
Soon her movements are becoming more frantic, hips pushing backwards now, trying to get more contact, and he obliges. Slightly. He lets a fingertip ease inside her, a bare inch or two, and she shudders and says something that might be his name.
When he removes his hand she groans, and he doesn't need a translator to know the meaning of that noise. "The Colt," he reminds her, mildly. "Tell me where it is." As an inducement, he gives her clit a quick rub.
Her hips jerk and she cries out, cursing him an instant later when he pulls his hand away again.
He waits, but she says nothing else. He curls the side of his finger along her clit again, and she rocks her hips against the contact, clearly wanting him to continue, and there's a new note in her strangled groan when he removes his hand yet another time. He can do this all night, and they both know it.
"Alright, you win…if you finish the job now," she finally says, her voice low and breathless.
Not a chance. "Colt first, climax later," he insists.
She curses him out again, but he's patient. He lets his fingers tease along the inside of her thighs, or lightly over her still-red ass, occasionally brushing across her slick folds as a reminder, but no more than that. "Those are my terms," he tells her, "and we're not negociating."
Christ, his balls hurt.
"Fine," she snaps at last. If she feels any sense of defeat, she doesn't let him hear it in her voice. "Let me up. I'll take you to the Colt."
Just like that? Frankly, he's surprised. He'd figured she'd sold it already. "It's here?"
"Yes. Let me up," she repeats.
He pulls her panties and pants back up for her, then helps her up. He keeps one hand on her elbow and the other on his gun, however. This is still business, no matter how badly he wants to have her right now – or how badly she wants him. "Show me," he orders.
She leads him upstairs, into what's obviously a study. There's a wall safe. He saw it before, but safecracking has never been a particular skill of his.
She licks her lips and tilts her head, looking up at him from under damp eyelashes. "Uncuff me, Dean, and I'll open it."
Dean shakes his head slowly. He's already experienced too many times how good those hands are at thieving things. He lets them free, and he'll probably get back to the motel without his wallet. Or his gun. Or maybe even the damned Colt again.
"Not a chance," he says. "Tell me the combination, and I'll open it."
She bites her lip, and under different circumstances he might call her beautiful. Her skin gleaming with sweat, her hair wild, her clothes a mess. Her face and throat reddened with desire.
But the Colt has to come first, so he looks at her pointedly and flexes his hand, and that's enough to motivate her. He spins the dial as she reels off the numbers, and he's grateful to find the Colt in there, safe and sound. He checks, and it's even still loaded with Ruby's new bullets.
It's tempting to just leave, right now. Definitely safer. He can run downstairs, leave her the handcuff key on the kitchen table or something (if he cares enough to be that much of a gentleman, which is certainly more than this bitch deserves), hop in the Impala, and get the fuck out of here before she can somehow cause more trouble for them.
But he's a man of his word, wherever possible. Yes, she's a thieving little bitch, but he did promise her something in return for talking.
He slams the safe shut and spins the dial, gripping the Colt tightly. He's going to keep a death-grip on it as much as he can, given the circumstances. "Bedroom," he rasps. No sense wasting time. "And you'd better have some condoms," he adds, as an afterthought. Just in case he lives through his deal, he's not interested in playing Daddy to any little Winchester-Talbots.
"Second drawer down," she says, motioning with her shoulder at the bedside table as they walk into the bedroom. "Uncuff me, and I'll get them-"
"Shut up," he growls, shoving her against the side of the bed. He strides across the room, leaving the Colt and his gun, his wallet and keys, all on the top of an armoire. She's cuffed, but he'd best take no chances. Again, he knows from experience just how good she is at picking pockets.
She's looking back over her shoulder at him, watching his every move, but he doesn't meet her eyes. He fumbles to open his fly with one hand, and to get a condom from the drawer with the other. "Get on the bed on your knees," he demands. He's ready to smack her ass again if she disobeys.
Bela doesn't argue, though. She scrambles awkwardly into position, her ass up, shoulders and face pressed against the rather girly (in Dean's opinion) quilt. He yanks her pants and panties down again, and rolls the condom onto himself.
He pushes inside her immediately, gritting his teeth against a moan as she gasps. He's almost trying not to enjoy this. This is business, and keeping his promises. It's not meant for his pleasure. Or even hers, really. It's just keeping his end of their bargain. He flexes his still-aching hand again, trying to remind himself of that.
Dean suddenly remembers something she said to him once. "You wanted 'angry sex', didn't you, Bela? Well, I guess you got it." He finishes his statement with a powerful thrust, but she doesn't answer him except with her sounds of pleasure.
He knows he's kidding himself about enjoying this, though. He's enjoying it as much as she obviously is. It's been weeks since his last sexual encounter, and she's heated and slippery, pulsing tight around him. Truth be told, he wants to feel her come around him, and not just for the thrill of another victory over her that it would give him, so he relents and slides his hands under her blouse, and up her belly to her breasts. Her nipples are hard as carven wood, poking against the lace of her bra, and his hands burrow under the fabric, plucking and squeezing and teasing.
Sweat is dripping down his back, sliding down his face, and she's not the only one making embarrassing noises. He thinks he can't hold back much longer, himself, but he wants her to go over the edge first. He doesn't know what possesses him, but he's suddenly leaning over her. "I'm not stopping til you come all over me," he snarls in her ear, thrusting hard and fast.
She moans even louder at his pronouncement, her hips pushing aggressively back against him. When she comes, it's sudden but not unwelcome, her inner walls gripping him tightly, helping to coax him into his own climax.
It's something of a relief when he finally pulls out of her, though. Dean backs away slowly and zips himself up, not even bothering to remove the condom. He backs all the way to the armoire, eyes still on her as he gathers up his things and double-checks that he has every last item, renewing his death-grip on the precious Colt. Sweat sticks his t-shirt to his back under his jacket, and he feels overheated and grimy, but it's nothing he can't handle. He's been dirtier than this on some hunts. He'll clean up once he has this bitch far in his rearview mirror.
She's sitting on the edge of the bed now, watching him carefully. "Aren't you going to uncuff me now, Dean?" She looks content, sated, but there's an edge of worry there. She probably never expected any of this from him, and now she doesn't know what he's going to do next.
"No," he says. "I'll leave the key on the kitchen table." He decides not to even help her pull her clothes back up. The mess of them around her ankles will slow her down, give him more chance to escape without her stealing something else from him.
"You do anything like that again, you know what'll happen," he tosses at her, a final threat.
She tilts her head, smirking. "Promises, promises, Dean," she purrs.
Her words stay with him as he leaves the house at the fastest walking pace he has, getting back to the Impala and starting it with a roar.
Her reaction wasn't quite the one he was hoping for.
He peels out, glancing over at the Colt on the passenger seat, reassuring himself that his ace in the hole, his potential lifesaver and deal-breaker, is still there.
Promises, promises, Bela's voice whispers in his mind, and he shakes his head with a sigh. Goddamn it, what he just did was like showing red to a bull, he just knows it. He should find a safer place to stash the Colt, because he has a feeling that's not the last he'll see of Bela.
Although, another part of him – probably the same part that's in charge of his traitorous balls – answers back just as quick – Or should he?
First thing's first, either way. Break the deal somehow, first. Then see about life, second.