Title: This Man Ain't Steel
Authror: Kaynara
Pairing: Dean/Cassie
Warning: Menstrual fic, but on the mild side.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not my 'verse.
Dean
She is warm skin and liquid eyes. His hair and face are wet, and he has a bruise the size of a kitten on his side.
"Hey, baby. Miss me?" Even he knows it's too much.
"Dean," is all she says. She waits to chew him out for his lateness until he's dry and eating a grilled cheese sandwich at her counter. Hot mozzarella and tomato seeds drip over his fingers. He licks them clean and looks to see if she blushes. No dice. He can't decide if he's disappointed.
"I have my own life," she tells him. Her hair is loose, falling freeform over her shoulders. He draws her into the space between his thighs and scoops her hair up in two handfuls. The black curls sit heavy in his palms. She looks at him, her gaze heavy and intent. Her skin is the color of the sticky-sweet caramel pinwheels his mother used to keep in her purse.
"I know," he says, then wonders if it's actually true. He knows she's funny, sweet when she thinks no one's looking, smart, smarter than him, and she wants to be a journalist. Lois Lane, he once called her, and she smacked him on the arm. She feeds him, and scrubs his hair dry with a dishtowel covered in sunflowers, and lets him into her home and bed, which are both warm and safe like her. He knows these things to be true, but sometimes it's hard to see her as a person. He loves her, and it's nice and interesting to love someone besides Dad or Sam, but it's still hard to see her that way.
He is used to seeing people as a lot of things. Sometimes villains, but more often victims. Women are to be avoided or saved; teased or screwed. They are not for long stupid winding incredible conversations that go all night. They are not for holding close, her head tucked beneath his chin or sometimes his head on her shoulder, and wishing to God that this moment could be preserved, kept frozen and pristine.
Cassie
She intends to deliver a lecture, berate him for wasting her time, but finds the words are beyond her grasp. It isn't that her anger is any less than it was two hours ago, when dinner was growing cold and her fresh-shaved legs itching like a mother under her jeans. Or that the circles under his eyes and the way he favors his left side arouse some sort of sympathy. She assumes he got into a fight. He gets in lots of fights, and what is she doing with a fighter, anyway? She doesn't like those men, the round-chested police officers she meets on the job, the detectives with their tarnished metal. Dean isn't proud or corrupt or particularly happy, that she can see. He's just Dean. Her Dean, though she isn't stupid enough to think she'll keep him. It isn't fear of losing him that keeps her from freaking, though. She just can't see wasting the time.
In her room, he flips on the TV as though they're going to watch it. She turns her back to change into her t-shirt because, dammit, she still feels shy around him. Only at first, though. She leaves on her underwear just so she can have the pleasure of him taking them off.
In a way he's more old-fashioned about this stuff, can't just get to the point already. He channel-surfs while she climbs in beside him, heart thudding against the inside of her chest and nipples hardening on the outside. There's only about a foot of space separating them, and she can smell his deodorant and soap and skin. He's wearing his jeans still, though he kicked off his boots at the door. He's still wearing his t-shirt though he threw the button-down to the foot of the bed. He looks painfully young, wounded, but she doesn't want to raise or save him.
"Are you a Letterman or a Leno girl?" he asks seriously.
"Are you for real?" she demands, and he nods solemnly, then shakes his head no, and kisses her.
His lips, soft, encircle her bottom lip. He tastes like her mouthwash, mint with a little vanilla thrown in. She wonders about other girls, other girl-reporters in other nowhere towns. She doesn't mind if he touched them the same so long as he didn't look so damn open afterwards. The way he sometimes does with her.
"I have to tell you something," she says. She almost forgot about this until now, almost but not quite. Still, she thinks she knows what he'll say.
"You're pregnant," he quips. He's pushed her shirt up over her breasts and is taking small, measured bites from her belly. He noses her belly button.
"Kind of the opposite." She plucks at his hair, pulling a little so he'll pay attention. Still, she looks slightly left of his eyes when she adds, "I'm on my period."
He sits up at that, sits crosslegged, and draws her legs into his lap.
"Yeah, I figured." He grins at her surprise. "No, really. Your boobs are bigger."
She tries to swat at him, but he ducks.
"Do you have cramps or whatever?" he asks, kneading her calves and ankles. He's good at that, fingers knowing just where to poke. It's a talent of his, or a problem depending on how she looks at it.
"Or whatever," she mocks.
"I'm serious. Jeez. Can we still…?"
"You still want to?"
"Well, yeah." And then, because it's Dean: "I'd wanna do you if you were bleeding from two orifices."
She gets a towel because, well, duh. If she thought he'd be shy about this, she was wrong. He helps her out of her t-shirt and panties, then lays her back on the terrycloth. His fingers, firm but careful, span her abdomen. He massages the ache she feels way down low.
"Does it hurt?" he asks.
"Yeah." She watches him curl a hand, huge and protective, over her aching belly, the other moving between her legs. "Don't stop, though. It doesn't bother you? The blood."
His fingers ease over her, slipping and sliding like she's made of ice. He withdraws his hand and stares at his fingers, the tips stained a dark, wet red. He looks transfixed, and she can't read his thoughts. Not disgust. Wonder?
"So warm," he says, and it's almost a groan. "You're so hot here."
She sits up enough to grab at the waist of his jeans, starts attacking his belt.
"I got it, I got it," he chuckles, and she just wraps her arms around his middle and kisses his neck and ears so he'll whimper against her hair.
They do his boxers together, fighting down the elastic waist. They mutually give up somewhere around his knees. She tries to fall back, but he catches her under the knee and draws one leg around his waist. She lets him put on the condom. For once, her hands are shaking too hard. He must notice because he catches one in his, squeezes and holds on as he rocks into her.
They both freeze for a second when he's inside. It's like they're surprised to remember how good it feels. Then he starts to move and she feels the answering throb in her breasts and belly. She knows it's a bad idea when he rolls her on top, knows that, when she comes, they'll both be dripping with it. But then his big hand, full of old calluses and new cuts, slides up her ribcage. He cups her breast, supporting its small weight in his palm. One thumb drags over her nipple, and suddenly he's hitting her just right. It doesn't take much for her to get there, just a few strokes and she's spasming, spilling out.
For a terrible moment, she wants to cry. To yell until he cries, too, till his eyes are dripping like she is. Why do you always leave? And, worse: why do you come back? And worst of all: I think this could maybe be something. Fortunately, she wants even more to make him come.
"Cassie, Cassie," he says when he does. It's the only time he ever says her name.
Dean
He doesn't say her name much. She is baby or babe or just nothing at all. It's easier that way. In the morning, he eats her cereal and uses her shower. He kisses her goodbye at the kitchen table: doorsteps are cliché.
"I'm going out of town for a few days. Business." He shrugs like it's all beyond his control, which, hell, isn't it? "Be careful, okay? Don't get pushed off any tall buildings, Miss Lane."
She rolls her eyes and goes to the coffeemaker, pours herself a refill.
He walks out without waiting for her to turn around.