Chapter 1: Lady in Waiting
She waits for him at the bar. She has anticipated his arrival since early afternoon; could sense his focus shifting as he cleaned the gore from his gear and his body, catalogued the damages and addressed the bloody bits. The physical rituals quiet his mind when the hunt is over, allowing him to subdue the warrior and reclaim some humanity. She can almost feel the water slipping past his shoulders down into the shower drain, carrying his weariness away and revealing tensions that still seek release.
It never takes long for his thoughts to turn to the solace that alcohol and flash company can offer. She can predict it almost to the minute.
She has waited countless times before in places that all feel the same, building her own ritual out of lurking at the edges of long counters and untouched drinks while she calculates her approach. She still shivers at the prospect of breaching his perimeter without tripping hair-trigger alarms. Despite his easy, open grin he is never unguarded, and as much as she craves his attention she doesn't dare attract it. She is his kind of prey as much as he is hers, although she uses him more gently. She wouldn't trust him to ask questions before killing her. Ganking, he calls it. He is a consummate ganker.
Her mind is easy while he hunts. He will survive, or he will not. It's not her jurisdiction until he lays down his weapons. Then begins her own battle, the tug-of-war between his need and hers. His energy pulls incessantly at the edges of her consciousness, and she has only to lose her focus on here to find herself close enough to touch him regardless of where he is. But she requires the safety of crowd cover, so she winds her anticipation tighter, waits for him to come to her.
By the time his '67 Impala growls up to the local dive she is strung out from hours of fighting the desire to lay eyes and hands on him. The air around her is charged like an electrical storm. The crowd feeds off her tension; bottles clink, eyes brighten, laughter gets louder, flirting grows intense. The mean drunks and the jealous types stand on edge, eyes narrowed and moods spiraling.
His car door slams out in the lot; light and sound ricochet like lightning bolts around the bar. She sucks air into her lungs in as his broad shoulders fill the door frame, holds it as his eyes scan the room. He saunters to the bar, leans in next to her to order a beer. The entire place mellows as she breathes out a benediction and her energy shifts from desire to purpose.
He never realizes that shift is external; just thinks that her relief washing over him is his own feeling of homecoming. He has developed quite a fondness for bars.
The hunt was easy today. He is ebullient and unsatisfied, still seeking release. The evening is not overly challenging; the beers keep coming and women practically fall into his lap. She nudges the prettiest ones closer to him and shifts anyone spoiling for a fight nearer the door. There are times when he needs to keep hitting something and she reverses the polarity, but tonight he's craving carnal pleasure.
She relishes the joy he finds in casual intimacies, takes advantage of the distractions to steal past his borders and ease the worst of his injuries. He's torn his rotator cuff again. She immerses herself, his pain zinging through her veins as she smooths torn muscles and tamps down jangled nerve endings. He slings an arm around the girl by his side and credits the booze for his sudden mobility.
She treads lightly on nights like this. It's always a temptation to be bold and let his eye catch hers as he surveys the room. Allow her breath to tickle his ear as he leans against the bar where she has faded into invisibility. Brush against his arm as he turns to walk away. She's tempted to claim him in bolder ways; to accept the tribute of his mouth moving over her skin and his body delving into hers. As he penetrates her she could immerse herself in the very core of him.
But he is too edgy tonight, still half-looking for something to kill. She weighs her desire against potential discovery, then turns her attention to following the flow of blood in his veins to the cracked and torn pieces that need mending. She's already been privy to his most intimate parts. She doesn't require a tribute.
He saunters off with a curvy blonde who laughs a little too loudly and wears insufficient clothing. She slips from her barstool, absent-mindedly following him for a few steps before returning completely to herself and her final ritual of the night. As he sinks down onto a bed with his door prize, she takes one more moment to savor the vestiges of him still moving through her like fire, then lets the energy run down to the floor and seep away. She leaves as she arrived, unnoticed.
It amuses Eir that there are always a few vulnerables who manage to draw the discarded energy up into themselves. She is an accidental goddess of bar brawls and hangovers, and Dean Winchester their unwitting inspiration.
