WARNING: This chapter is a little jumpy, to say the least: if you get lost you should follow these times in order:

Tuesday, 10:54am, Tuesday, 10:57am, Tuesday, 11:01am, Tuesday, 2:03pm, Tuesday, 8:13pm, Tuesday, 8:21:46pm, Tuesday, 8:21:48pm, Tuesday, 8:25pm, Tuesday, 8:43:18pm, Tuesday, 8:43:34pm

My apologies ahead of time for the crappiness.

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37. You Can't Take Back What You've Taken Away

Freedom in general may be defined as the absence of obstacles to the realisation of desires.

--Bertrand Russell

Tuesday, 8:21:46pm

Holy hell. There was a flush of desire staining those chiselled cheekbones, with their tiny freckles that were like some sort of obscene turn on – my own particular fetish, probably – and his mouth was open and slick with saliva – our saliva. Eyelashes, a dark curve on those cheekbones fluttered, and sprung open, hazel green eyes looking up at me, heat in them, hotter than sin, hotter than the hinges to hell. Higher than heaven.

Fuck going slow, I thought, as he smiled, unmoving between my palms and legs, bit his bottom lip. I wanted to bite his bottom lip.

I swooped down again, feeling his tension all around me, through me, an echo sent straight to my bones as my tongue flicked into his mouth, grazed against his teeth in an effort to get more – I wanted everything – and he groaned as it made contact with the roof of his mouth, over-shivery-sensitive, and I drew his initials there, then mine, sloppy and uncoordinated – but so good. Oh god, oh god. All that slick heat, all that – all that – and a shudder ran through him, and I knew I'd see fingerprint bruises on my ass if I ever got the inclination to check it out in a mirror. I bit his lip – finally – sharp white teeth sinking into that pink, swollen flesh – oh fuck yes – and then I was under him, lumpy motel mattress under me, and he was bucking against me, holding himself above me on his elbows, hips slotting together perfect, puzzle pieces, puzzle complete and perfect, and I rolled upwards to meet the next thrust, all the heat from the last days, heat that I'd barely lost in those cold showers, trembling back over me, waves and waves and waves –

000

Tuesday, 10:54am

Sam waves at me as I get closer, other hand curved around a Styrofoam cup of coffee, eyes half closed against the harsh sun. "Hey," I greeted once I got closer, and he smiled. "What's the official story?"

"Freak occurrence; scientists are still trying to come up with a plausible explanation. Sharika's in there now, interviewing one of them. What are you doing here?"

"Oh, you know. Thought I'd come to see what my old buddy Sam was up to," I said, and grinned wide, punched him playfully in the shoulder.

"Dean pissed you off again, didn't he?"

"Oh yeah." He took a sip of his coffee, trying to hide his smile, but I still saw it in the crinkling around his eyes, a twitch of his mouth from the side. He wouldn't be smiling if Dean called him a bimbo with a maximum IQ of three and a half, his only defining feature being his bust line, would he? Okay, so he'd just said it so the chauvinistic pig of a scientist we'd been trying to pry open would be on his side, whatever, but it had still been annoying, and the wheezy laugh the squat fat man had intertwined with Dean's short dusky one had made me want to kick every man I came into contact with in their jewels. "He'll be fine. Probably." I hoped that scientist guy ate him.

"He always is." Sam glanced at me, then held out his hand – the one with the coffee in it. "Want?" he asked, casual, conscientious. It was just another sign that we were on each other's good side again – thank fucking god. Having a Sasquatch angry at me for an insurmountable amount of time has never been on my to-do list. Especially Sammy – Sammy plays the bitch role better than any guy I have ever met. And that's saying a lot, considering how many people I've known, a vast majority of them dickheads. Plus, you know, there's the fact that I love him, which may count in a small way towards how much his being prissy and pissy at me affects everyday life.

"That milky crap you call caffeine? I'll pass," I said, an old record between us, and swiped a hand across my forehead. The sun was shining fit to burst, so hot I was only wearing a tank and cut off pair of jeans that substituted as shorts. Even Sam was only in two layers for once, one t-shirt in place of his usual three, his most worn down denims. And still I was sweating, upper lip, the back of my neck, between my shoulder blades and breasts. The only evidence of last's night frozen tantrum were the huge dirty puddles of melted snow in the gutters, in dips of the sidewalk.

000

Tuesday, 8:25pm

– running his hands up the dips in my waist, lips curving on my shoulder, his grin tattooed against my overheated flesh. Fingers clenched tight on his back linger, caught on his arms, the sinews and muscles, the lines of bones and sweep of skin, and I swallow, mouth dry –

000

Tuesday, 10:57am

"Thanks, really," I said, and handed Sam his cup back, tongue twisting in my mouth at the taste of his drink. He snorted, and took an overly loud gulp. I rolled my eyes. My mouth had been completely dehydrated, so I'd given in and had a sip, which I now regretted. Sure, it had soothed my throat somewhat, but now my tastebuds were revolting against me, and my cruel treatment of them. So not worth it.

The door in front of us opened and Sharika walked out, smiling up at a sturdy looking man with auburn hair and a nose sharp enough to cut cheese with. Chunky build, legs a little out of proportion with his long torso. Still kinda cute though, if you went for the slightly nerdy, chubby-cuddly type. It was a shame I was only attracted to the smokin' hot fuckwits; I should really branch out. "Hey, Shar," I greeted her, and gave her companion an open smile, all smooth and gleaming and trust-me, like-me, I'm-easy. He smiled back, but kept his body angled towards Sharika, head tilted near, weight on the foot closest to her, subtly inside her personal space. I bit my tongue to hold back the giggle, and the happy smile – it was high time guys started hitting on Sharika, and she reciprocated, or at least accepted it, again – and then I happened to shoot a look at Sam. His eyes were narrow slits – then I blinked and he was all charming sweetness again. Of course, I had to bite my tongue even harder when I noticed that. Adorable. Completely adorable. Sammy's jealous. "I'm Sandy," I introduced myself, using the first name that popped into my head, and holding out my hand for him to shake. His grip was warm and dry, firm, three quick pumps and he let go.

"Nice to meet you, Sandy. I'm Greg," he said, nodded. His voice was deep and honey-dark, words clipped off at the ends. It sounded faintly accented – something European, I think. Maybe Polish. Whatever, I approved. Sharika should fuck him. Not that she ever would for a variety of reasons, the most prominent being the tense skyscraper of a young man to my left. Damn Winchesters. I wondered how many women's libidos they'd killed in the past – that is, all of the women's libido except for the part that wanted to attack them. If that makes sense. I'm kind of hot and bothered right now – and also? My libido is in desperate need of being fed. The instinct to fornicate has been clawing to get out of me for about, say – five months now? Yeah. I'm desperate. But I'm managing – I haven't slammed Dean into walls and ravished him as yet, and nor do I intend to any time soon. I can control myself. I am strong. I am so, so screwed.

"Michael," Sam provided when Greg looked at him inquiringly. He took a long, deliberate sip of his coffee before saying, "Not to be rude or anything, George –"

"Greg."

"Right." I couldn't help the tiny, soundless shake of laughter that vibrated up from my belly at Sam's shrugged indifference. I could tell immediately he'd called Greg the wrong name on purpose; it was a way to establish his dominance in the scenario, to make the other man feel inferior. Not that it was working, the guy was just raising his eyebrows in a version of Dean's look – also known by me as 'what-the-fuckity McFuck fuck?'. God, it was fun to watch. Really fun to watch, appealing to the darker, almost sadistic side of my human nature. Testosterone poisoning always has been hilarious to the fairer sex, I think. Or maybe my amusement was just stemming from the tense set of Sam's shoulders, the indignant flare of his nostrils – the way he couldn't completely hide how possessive he was feeling. Ha, funny. "Not to be rude or anything, Greg, but we have to get back to work now. We've got other appointments to keep."

"Funny, Sharika told me she had the rest of the afternoon off."

000

Tuesday, 8:43:18pm

"I said, take it off. Need a demonstration, dumbass?" and before he could register exactly, my shirt was on the floor, and my bra was following, the sudden cold immediately eliciting that embarrassing bodily reaction, pebbling flesh. I cupped my breasts in my hands, palming the undersides, nipples taut and rose pink, peeking over my fingers, and as he reached out to touch, said, "Nuh, uh, uh," shaking my head and smirking down at him, tsk-ing as though he were a disobedient child. "Not until you lose the excess, assh–" and then his lips and tongue were on my right nipple, and I couldn't exactly be blamed for losing my train of thought.

000

Tuesday, 11:01am

I liked this guy.

He was simultaneously able to flirt heavily – and very cutely I must add (he complimented her smile, by god – now I want someone to say I have the sweetest smile they have ever seen…damnit) – with Sharika, and keep up a evil-eye staring competition with Sam, who was looking more and more strung out by the second. He had a sharp sense of humour, was intelligent, and witty. And was a total darling, I was coming to suspect. Yes, I totally approved. I'll suggest the idea of procreation to her as soon as I get her alone – if she does it – yeah, unlikely – she'll then, of course, have to tell me, her steadfast, very best friend in the whole wide world, all about it. Thus I can live vicariously. Always a fun alternative to actually getting any, even if it's nowhere near as satisfying.

We had by this time gravitated towards the Impala, and were waiting for Dean to get his ass back here and away from that fucking asshole of a climatologist-scientist-type-person, whatever, while Greg tried to get Sharika – who wasn't completely reluctant – to go out to lunch with him, and Sam tried to get Sharika – who wasn't reluctant about that, either – to stay. Both of them marginally subtly, so there was a whole lot of backing and forth-ing and to-ing and thro-ing and I was getting a little jealous myself, what with the two attractive guys practically crawling all over themselves to take Shar out, or whatever it was, in Sammy's case. Damn, I wish there were guys fighting over me. Or, you know, just one fighting with me, even – I'd even settle for it being over the merits of Batman versus Spiderman again. I mean, come on Dean, of course Batman is way cooler, and just better, because duh – he doesn't even have radioactive spider powers and he's a superhero. He's just a normal guy – okay, yes, in vinyl and stuff, so what? – who is extremely cool and buff and fighting for what's right and – wait, how the hell did I get onto Batman from thinking about Sharika and dating and lunch?

And, really – I have got to stop thinking in sexual innuendos. Onto Batman… heh.

So not helping right now.

I tried focusing on the dialogue flying around me, instead of thoughts of Dean in vinyl – or just, god, really, really tight pants…yeah, focus! – and came back to earth just in time to see a car speed by next to us, sending a huge puddle of melted snow spray up and onto Greg with a huge sploosh sound. It was like Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason all over again, except Greg wasn't wearing a dress and wasn't that short. Or blonde. Or even a woman. And – yeah, he was the only one who got wet at all, as he was the closest to the road. Well, okay, I got a couple of droplets on my face, but that doesn't really hold weight compared to the whole right side of Greg's body being soaked in dirty water, does it? And so therefore does not require mentioning.

Sam choked on the coffee in his mouth, having to beat at his chest with his fist to start breathing again – only to bust into laughter when he got his breath back. Me? I made an undignified snorting sound that I will forever onwards deny, trying to keep my unholy glee back. Even Sharika giggled, although she was still attempting – ineffectually, might I add – to dry Greg, only really managing to flutter around him helplessly and offer a handkerchief. The poor, drenched man was standing, his eyes as round as quarters and approximately the size of dinner plates, arms held out to his sides, frozen, completely stunned, and still. A rosy blush started to bloom along his cheekbones.

Behind him the sky started to darken, clouds gathering at an accelerated rate, like, you know those documentaries where they record the sky and then play it on a really high speed to show time passing, or whatever? Yeah, that's what it was like, all these fat, fluffy white clouds twining and weaving together in the porcelain blue sky, painting themselves a grey bordering on black as I watched in wide-eyed, open-mouthed silence. It was as dark as twilight in about – what? Thirty seconds? Yeah.

I dropped my eyes back down to the dripping man in front of me, his auburn hair sticking to his forehead, his brown eyes flicking to each of us, his body gone tense and unsure, biting the inner lining of my lip as Sam and Sharika shared an affirming look with me and each other, and then shifted to business mode with winking smiles.

All I can say is: well, holy shit.

I think we found our witch.

000

Tuesday, 2:03pm

I reclined against the bed, tipping my head back on my shoulders until it was propped on the mattress, butt and feet planted firmly on the scuffed wooden boards of the motel room, and groaned. Oh, don't take this lightly – it wasn't a man-I-could-really-go-for-some-pizza-right-now kind of groan, or even a my-head-kind-of-hurts groan. It was a full blown, my-brain-is-melted one, and it was warranted, damnit. Piles of books on witches, witchcraft, and all such other fun topics lay scattered around and on top of me, open to pages, bookmarked in others, sticky notes poking up from thick leather covers like fluoro pink porcupine needles from most.

The only thing that is stopping me from running screaming out of here with severe boredom-induced psychosis was the fact that there were four other people in the room in the same state I was – and one of them had the combined ill-will of the other three and yours truly battering down upon them, because it was essentially for their benefit. Or, alternatively, their fucking fault.

Yeah, we'd bought Greg back to the motel. It had taken a delicate utilisation of a combination of very subtle and hunter-like tactics – in other words, sexual innuendo and playing other people like fiddles. I recall particularly my own use of the line 'we just have to get you out of those wet clothes' – cue the naughty thoughts – Sharika's sweet smiles, and all three of ours' excuse of asking him some more questions on the topic of the strange weather. The last one being a mixture of the truth, and using the poor guy's own scientist-type ego against him, as he had come so highly recommended to us, so we'd really like the opportunity… blah, blah, etcetera, ass-kiss, ego-pump, blah, blah, blah. Once Dean had come back and had consented to drive us – it had taken a lot of meaningful glares, let me tell you – I'd told him the story with a series of hand signals that stayed on my lap, thus clueing him in on the situation. When we'd arrived back at the motel we'd pretty much pounced on the poor guy, blocking him into the room, and interrogating him. There were waved guns included, on Sam and Dean's part – Dean because he didn't really know much about how harmless and gooey-centred Greg was, Sam because he just really didn't like the guy. And then it turned out it wasn't really his fault; he didn't have any control of his power, it just manifested without him knowing anything about it. Apparently the weather was affected by his emotions – so getting scungy street water splashed all over him in front of a pretty girl he was trying to chat up equals humiliation, equals weather fucking him – and everyone else in the immediate vicinity – over.

We'd spent the whole afternoon so far figuring out ways to help him out with his powers. We'd gone to the library after exhausting the stack of books that lived in the trunk of the Impala, and had even scoured the tiny local occult bookstore in town. It was slow going, to say the very least. And have I mentioned the fact that my brain is melted? Yeah. Because it really, really is. And not in a good way, like when Dean's naked and I can see him, or Dean's naked and I can see him. Yeah… thoughts, wayward and repeating. Bad sign. Bad, bad sign.

Must suffocate them.

"Anyone found anything that makes them want to shout 'eureka' and streak down the road yet?" I asked, running a hand through my hair and massaging the back of my scalp to ease some of the tension building there. If I had to research much longer I might just do that to pass some time. That is – run places naked and shout weird words. Might being the operative word, as it all depends on the variable of Dean coming with me… oh damnit, puns! I have a mind that is emancipated from the gutter, do you hear me? I do not ha-

"Are you alluding to Archimedes?" Greg asked with an interested tilt of his eyebrows and a twinkle in his almond-shaped brown eyes, interrupting my internal dialogue. I could have kissed him in relief and gratitude.

Sometimes my non-verbal rants worry me.

"Perhaps…" I said, and managed a smile. I stretched my legs and arms out in front of me, trying to appease the ache in the muscles from staying still and hunched over for so long. "Why, do you know any one else who makes a habit of doing so?"

"Only everyone in the advanced mathematics and science courses at the University of Nebraska after exams."

Sharika and I laughed; Dean raised his eyebrows and grinned at Sam. "You been holding out on me, Sammy?" he asked, relaxing back on the bed I was leaning on, one hand holding the thick book in his lap, the other tapping on his thigh with repressed energy. He was just as restless as I was – the other three? I think they actually enjoyed work like this. Which is just so, so wrong. But makes a twisted kind of sense when you consider the facts and their personalities and – okay, basically the three of them were just dorky nerds. Loveable dorky nerds, but dorky nerds nonetheless.

"Dean, I didn't do any advanced maths or science courses, or go to the University of Nebraska, so no, I have not been holding out on you," Sam replied, rolling his eyes and sticking his pencil behind his ear. He rubbed his temples and forehead, sitting back on the chair with a sigh, spreading his legs wider and rolling his shoulders. To his left Sharika sat on the other bed with Greg, Shar cross-legged at the foot, our new – victim? Hunt? God knows anymore – at the head. The room looked just a tad packed, what with all five of us, and two extra-extra-extra large doses of testosterone crowding into it. I wondered if Sharika even noticed the boys fighting over her, or if she just thought Sam was in a bad mood, and Greg was a really nice guy.

You'd think she'd have realised – but let me let you in on a little secret… compared to Shar my powers of self-denial are as fledgling chickens to a bald eagle. Tiny, fluffy and pathetic. Yellow bellied, too. In other words – hers just swamped mine in a whole heap of enviable ways.

"Back to the point," I said, and pushed the book on my lap onto the floor, giving it a look of keen disgust, "Has anyone found anything good yet?" We were looking for a clarification of what was happening to Greg – sure, he was a witch now, but how did it happen exactly, and how could we neutralise or help him to control it?

Everyone gave muttering sounds that sounded vaguely negative and I groaned again, contemplated beating myself to death with one of the leather-bound texts – at least that way I'd go quickly instead of drawing it out by reading myself into a coma. Seriously – how, just how can people read this much long-winded, bewildering, overly-uselessly-articulate babble without wanting to burn something? Preferably the offending volumes? Some of them were even in Latin, other bits in Sanskrit for fuck's sake – which meant as well as reading I had to translate it, and then it usually turned out completely useless anyways, making the whole process into something mind-bogglingly frustrating.

I just wanted to get out of here. My bloody skin was itching, I was so twitchy. I am just not built to stay in enclosed spaces for extended lengths of time. It makes me feel like the walls are closing in. I mean, I can live in the Impala because it's moving, and I can see that. I can sleep in small, crappy motel rooms because I need to and I know I'll be free in the morning. But imposing tiny areas on myself just for the heck of it, to read books that were just no fucking help at all – I have to get out of here. Or just stop reading these fucking –

"There are some books back at my place that might help," Greg suddenly spoke up, and everyone else turned to stare at him, including myself. Incredulity, annoyance and mild shock abounded.

"And when were you going to tell us this?" Sam asked in his quiet voice. Oh – scary. He was leaning towards the witch, blue-green eyes trained and sharp and pointed, body tense with pent-up aggression. It takes a lot to get Sammy all deadly silent and still; usually he's the height of sweet and affable – you know, at least to the public – but when he did get like this, even I knew to duck for cover.

Greg, however, just shrugged. "I've kind of been trying to process all this," he said, staring straight back at Sam, not even a hint of fear in his body language. Have I mentioned I liked him? Yeah. "Excuse me for forgetting something."

"Look, it's not Greg's fault. And it's not a big deal – we can just go pick them up and bring them back here," Sharika said, ever the peacemaker.

"No!" Dean and I shouted in unison. This time it was us every eye turned on, the stunned silence filling my ears in. "Uh," Dean continued, and I pulled my lips into my mouth to chew on, not meeting anyone's gaze. "I mean, we have to leave town soon, right? Not to abandon you, Greg, but we do have other people to save. So why don't you three go over there and hit the books, Lauren and I'll look for a new hunt."

I could have kissed him. Okay, that's usually the case, but still. He'd read me as easily as I'd read him – we were both sick to death of research, and could definitely use a break. This would allow us to stop scrambling our brains with deceased languages and worthless text, and to do something that actually meant something to us, something concrete. Plus, looking for new hunts always felt good, I don't know why, just like I was moving on, doing some new good, maybe. Tracking hunts isn't as easy as you'd think; there aren't blinking neon arrows that scream 'werewolf here!' or whatever. You actually have to shift through a lot of bull and coincidence to get to the real cases. Finding legit ones always felt like I'd accomplished something. Anyways, yes. I just wanted to get out of more reading, truthfully. But whatever works. And we would be leaving as soon as Greg got his magical shit together.

The other three agreed and packed up the piles of books, left, Sharika whispering in my ear just before the three of them drove off in the Impala to talk to Dean about everything. Of course, all this resulted in was me pushing her away, covering with a very fake laugh and telling her loudly, that no, I did not – so sorry – have any tampons on me and she'd have to buy some on the way.

It was only then I realised I'd elected to stay in a motel room with Dean for an undisclosed quantity of time. Alone. With Dean.

Aw, shit.

000

Tuesday, 8:13pm

"What is it?" Dean asked, turning his head to face me, hazel green eyes clashing with mine, half raised eyebrow punctuating his question. He'd just caught me staring at him as though he were a large, particularly appetising piece of cake, with accompanied drooling and big, desperately hungry eyes. I was so obvious it was beyond obvious, because otherwise Dean would have known what it was, I'm sure.

So she told me to do this, right? I can do this. I can so do this.

I looked into his face, smiled, opened my mouth – and the words got stuck, somewhere on the route between my voice box and my tongue, no noise escaping my lips, throat muscles convulsing.

Huh.

Right.

"Nothing."

I can not do this.

So, I was at the motel room – alone, fuck – with Dean, in theory looking for a hunt on Sam's laptop, in practice lying on my stomach on the sunken bed, feet in the air, while I checked him out from the corner of my eyes.

He was sitting on the opposite bed; long legs sprawled out in front of him as he read the local newspaper, dark blue denim encasing those tanned, muscled limbs, a green shirt hiding his chest, hair rumpled from continuous meetings with his calloused fingers, eyes sleepy and unfocused. He looked bored, tired and a little grumpy, bottom lip pushed out more than was natural, one brow drawn down as he read, calloused fingers spread across the white and black.

And I wanted to jump him, right now.

This wasn't an unusual feeling, in fact, lust and I had become so well acquainted in the past few months we were filing for china and curtain patterns together. The difference right now was that I was so hot I was considering actually doing something about it, if you can believe.

I shifted on the bed and pressed my hips down into the mattress, stifling a groan. Since I'd cried at him after my fight with Sharika, and the kiss-grind in the belfry, I'd wanted him so badly I could hardly stand it. I still didn't know what to think about anything that had happened, really because I hadn't tried to come to terms with it. I mean, he'd kissed me as a result of the spirit taking over him – and we'd pretty much decided that it's affect was to chuck out any inhibitions the people it possessed had, right? So he'd kissed me – I just – I mean, he wanted to do that? It was enormous, and just – really, really fascinating to think about, if I could get over the fuck-fuck-fuck-scared-for-no-discernable-reason factor about the whole thing. Okay, seriously? I was a little scared that he actually reciprocated my desperate need to do the horizontal tango, and thus I might actually get to do so. Which would be – fucking yes on one hand, and just, oh shit on the other. Because if I did it with him again, it'd just be more real, and more meaningful – because the library thing? So able to be passed off on a combustion of explosive emotions and vulnerability. If I tried now, and he did accepted and returned, I mean, there's no excuse. No spirits, no alcohol, no striking and just-exposed revelations. It would just be me, and Dean, and the two of us having sex. Nothing between us but skin and sweat. It's a concept that I simultaneously revelled in – Dean, naked, always good, right? – and wanted to run far, far away from. If I initiated this, he'd know something. I'd be opening myself to him. And for me? Never the easiest thing to do. Still, I just – I couldn't wait any longer. He was here, I was here, I could hardly control myself around him. All necessary elements to getting it on, right?

Fuck.

Cold shower, I thought wistfully, before discarding the idea. I'd had enough cold showers in the past few days to put out a bushfire – make that every fire in the goddamn country, except my own. If it hadn't worked the last million times, it would not work this time. And I'm sure my latest obsession with cleanliness whenever Dean came too close had not gone unnoticed.

I flicked my eyes back to him, having read exactly one sentence of a bland, annoyingly straightforward police report, exactly sixteen and a half times, and trailed my eyes over his relaxed limbs, heat brushing persuasive fingers up my spine, mind counselling me on the fine art of jumping bones. Or just one bone. Repeatedly.

Oh god.

I jerked my eyes back to face the screen, eyelashes drooping as I bit my lip. Black and white lines blurred and smudged beneath the intensity of my gaze, thoughts drifting. How hard could it be to just sit up and announce it? 'Dean, let's have sex. As many times as possible until the young ones get home, because then maybe I'll have this fever out of my blood.' Yeah, that sounds sane. Options, options. I need options. There's the always charming 'Let's fuck', before I pounce on top of him, and hump him senseless. It has its great pointers, and its worse downfalls. Like possibly missing the bed, and hitting my head on something and getting knocked unconscious and falling onto the floor. Or leaping over him and crashing into the wall. Or him tipping me off of him. Or –

Yeah, not encouraging.

I could always say something like, 'Jesus, its hot tonight isn't it?' and start stripping until I'm naked. This stops me from having to make the first move. Well the first, first move, because technically –

No way did I have the guts to do that. What if he just stared at me, and ran away, thinking I was possessed, or had finally cracked or something? Then there was the fact that he just might not want me, at all. More options.

I could 'take care of it myself'. I was a big girl, I could handle it. The thing was, though, it wouldn't be anywhere near as fulfilling, because I wanted Dean, I wanted Dean inside of me, I wanted his weight pushing me into the sagging bed, on top of me, surrounding me, in me – oh god. So not helping. Plus there's the fact that I'm not exactly the most quiet person during such activities, so if I took it to the bathroom – the only real place I'd chance it, right now – he'd probably knock the door down when he hears me moaning, only to find, instead of the mass murderer threatening me – or something – that he'd expected, he'd find my hand down my pants. And if there was one way to die of embarrassment, that was surely it.

I cut my eyes on his figure, almost glowering, fingers clutching the sides of the laptop screen with quiet, restrained aggression. Why, why did he have this affect on me? Why couldn't he be dull, and not devastatingly gorgeous, and not the love of my life? Why couldn't I be asexual?! He was just sitting there, still reading, perfectly oblivious to my inner turmoil. But then, he usually was. What did I really expect, for him to turn to me suddenly and voice every thought in my head, then act them out? For him to climb over here and get on top of me and start going at it, with out either of us having to say a word? Oh god, I have to stop envisioning these things. Resistance, dangling by a thread. I have mentioned that, right?

I wasn't actually thinking about doing something – was I? After what had happened last time – I mean, everything that had come after – and – could I really? Could I bear it? Second question… could I bear not to? I had to have him. When I wasn't touching him it felt like I was forgetting something essential; like how to eat, or breathe, or fire a gun. I loved him – I knew he didn't feel the same, but maybe if I could just show him, then – maybe if he just let me – I didn't need him to – I could –

Options. I need more options! What other options were there? I could… I could… go to sleep. Or I could just subtly hint that I might maybe kind of be thinking vaguely about perhaps –

"Dean, I want you." Oops does not cover it. Oops comes nowhere near covering it. Oops is redundant. And I don't care. "Right now. Inside me, right now." Once I had started, I couldn't seem to stop. My mouth just opened, the words dropped out like heavy rocks in a previously still pool, creating incessant ripples that flowered and spread outward, turning into waves of temperature inside of me as I looked into his eyes, stood up, walked towards him, crawled towards him on the bed where he was still sitting, eyes wide as he stared at me, hands and newspaper flopping into his lap in shock. I slithered up the bed, my mouth still dropping stones and my body paused where I straddled his knees, my hands on either side of his waist, pressing into the mattress as I leaned forwards to meet those fallen angel eyes, wide and dark and startled. "I want you so much I can't stop saying it. I want you so much I'm doing this. Dean," I said his name, and wanted to whimper – I was making such a fucking ass of myself – closed my eyes instead, so I wouldn't have to see his, wouldn't have to read the astonishment plain in his face, because clearly I was going to die of humiliation, without once getting an ounce of fulfilment from it. I should have gone and masturbated, for sure, I thought sarcastically. "Please," I breathed, and opened my eyes again, meeting his with something I refused to see as appeal, propping a semblance of a jaunty, unaffected grin on my mouth as if to say – just kidding, buddy; you can turf me off your lap now and we can both have a good laugh.

As though this was a sign he was suddenly gripping my upper arms, pulling me down onto him, against the long, hard, lean length of his body, against his heat, against – oh, hello. The newspaper crinkled loudly, indignant beneath my weight and he worked a hand between us, flung it aside – and I kissed him. Considering I'd been fantasising about it for what seemed like forever – it was even better than I'd imagined. Dizziness swept up through my head, made a point of dancing behind my eyes like an underpaid stripper, and imploded, shooting stars through my veins like sticky, candy coated fireworks; cloying, sweet, explosive. Hot. So fucking hot. His tongue flicked against the seam of my lips, and I breathed in sharply, before increasing the pressure, moving my hands up to hold his cheeks, angling my head to the side, tangling my tongue with his. He tasted so good. Just like I remembered; bittersweet and smooth and edgy and Dean. Dean. I stroked my hands up to grip his hair like a lifeline, short, softly bristling strands running through my fingers as I parted our mouths for a second to gasp in a breath before I crashed back into him, having to have him – have that contact – that wet, enveloping heat. Dean.

His hands had moved down my back, and were now gripping my ass, strong fingers digging into soft flesh, and he arched up, rubbing against me and I moaned. I moaned, wanting him like the last time, wanting him more than the last time, because I knew just how it would feel. How good it would feel. I knew. Every other thought left my head like it had never been there, qualms fleeing out like bullets; because once this had started it couldn't feel wrong, it couldn't be nervous. It was too right – and it left no room for doubts. I moaned again, and moved back an inch so I could look down at his face where it lay bracketed between my palms, wanting to savour it this time. Wanting to make it even better. Slower.

000

Tuesday, 8:21:48pm

I was mewling – making this little, humiliating noise right in the back of my throat like a freaking kitten – and once I realised I tried to swallow the involuntary sound down, so he wouldn't hear just how turned on I was – I was fucking needy – he wouldn't – I was beyond turned on, my light bulb was getting a lightning frequency and I sounded like a kitten –

"Don't stop –" he rumbled, tires over gravel, moving down to kiss my neck, sucking the skin there, marking it with his teeth – and I make this little breathy sound like 'rnngh' – trying to mouth out a question as he swayed up slowly between my thighs again – making me feel – making me feel it and –

"Huh?" I managed to squeak out, all weird and high, and he licked my earlobe, just one quick, hot swipe across the skin. I lost my tenuous hold on dignity, and made that kitten sound again, a desperate, deprived noise in the back of my throat. I felt his smile, a curve against my skin before he took the lobe in his mouth, tugged, sucked on it a little. "Dean."

"You called?"

"Don't –" but he smothered the protest with his snake tongue, distracting me with his lips as it did things that I didn't know tongues could do – making me breathless as I thought where else that tongue could go, Jesus Christ – and his big, warm hand trailed down my side, smoothing across the black material and pushing the top button of my jeans open with his thumb. I hissed then, right into his mouth, and I felt his laugh growl through me like vibrations from the Impala, melting as his fingers slipped a little further down, easing over the quivery flesh just under my navel. Oh god. Dean's hand slid lower. I swallowed down the whine trying to climb it's way out of my throat and put my hand over his, unlatching it from the back of his neck where it had had a stranglehold, not sure whether I was trying to stop him from going further south or press it down harder.

He parted our mouths to breathe, and I sucked air in, pushing my head back against the pillow, neck arching to expose the pale line of my throat, chest working like an anvil as I tried to get enough in to function properly. He bit the straining tendons, licked them, and I swear I almost choked.

My turn, I thought, and snaked my hands around to grip his butt, pulling him hard against me, and it was his turn to stop breathing. Yeah, that's right bitch – I thought, grinning, and then he was pulling me into it, by my hips, up onto it, and I moaned. It wasn't fucking fair – I want to make him sound like that – right now – and then I pushed at his shoulder, flipping so I was on top of him again, pressed flush against the obvious evidence of his arousal, grinding down into him and watching his face tense and his eyes jump open wide and burn as he groaned. Take that, my grin and raised eyebrow said, making even this into a competition – a game – some fucking game – hey, a pun! – and he laughed, kissed me again. Thoughts gone. Oh god, do that again

His shirt had rucked up to show me his abdomen, and I slid my hands under the material, up to his chest as I lent down to kiss the muscles, tracing the contours with my tongue, tasting the tangy, masculine, musky-sweet flavour of his skin, scraping teeth across it, just to feel. Everything was overlaid by the edge of dark, lusty franticness for gratification – but I still wanted to experience him, wanted to have some kind of concrete memories of having done something other than straight out fuck. Stealing a look up at his face from under golden curls spread across his stomach and dangling in my eyes, I saw him watching me, and flicked my tongue into his bellybutton, watching him squirm, and loving it.

I wanted to get at all of his flesh – mark him up – taste every inch – discover every bit of him – everywhere it made him make noises and move – explore the sounds he created like a living map – the scars that marred him – scars that made him –

"Take it off," I growled, mouth having to catch up with my thoughts for once, instead of vice versa.

"What was that?" he asked, and beneath the desire I saw the spark and spirit that made me love him, and the lust rose another notch. I was going to explode if he – and then – I wanted to just take him – right there, with that look on his face, in his eyes, that too smug-satisfied smile smeared across his lips. But hey, if he wanted to play –

000

Tuesday, 8:43:34pm

I toppled forwards, bracing myself with my hands on the pillow either side of his head, and he nuzzled in between my breasts, whiskers that I was just now noticing scraping on sensitive skin. I swallowed hard, because it itched and kind of hurt – even though I didn't want it to stop, because rough, rough is good, and Dean – and then his lips were playing join-the-dots with the freckles on my collarbone, and I couldn't wait any longer.

"Okay, okay," I muttered quickly, and lifted myself onto my knees, unsnapped his jeans, and carefully slid the zipper down. My eyes met his when I looked up, and he was just watching me, and I – had to – had to – I pulled the denim down, bunching it around his thighs, not even wanting to wait long enough to take them off completely – and managed to lose my own jeans, somehow staying on top of the bed. "Pants are evil," I moaned, when I was eventually on top of him once more. "Never, ever wear them again."

He smirked up at me. "If you promise to go around topless."

"Negotiate later, kiss now." And for once, he listened to me, sliding his hands up around my neck to pull me down into it – a soft, sweet, slow kiss that melted my bones. I sighed and smiled against his mouth when he parted us, blinking into his gaze, feeling his breath skitter like dancing butterflies against my cheek. "Lose the shirt."

"Yes ma'am." I helped him pull it over his head, watching the muscles across his chest flex and move, my mouth drying, and I flung the green material away, somewhere over my shoulder, no longer caring about it now that it wasn't a barrier between his skin and mine. Smoothed my hands over his pectorals, silky, warm, hard, twitching flesh beneath my palms, and grinned, watching him. "Lose the underwear."

"When you lose yours, Casanova." If this was yet another thing we were going to turn into a competition – and he grabbed my knees and rolled us again, slid my underwear off, shucked all the remaining physical constraints still on him, and was back between my thighs before I could so much as say the word 'player'. "Player." Okay, maybe not.

"I'm not the one fondling my own breasts to get my way," he said, "not that I'm complaining." And then stopped talking, grinned, and rubbed his thigh against my – well, yeah. Did I happen to mention he's a tease? His whole body was tense and rigid with control as he moved against me, stiff with restraint, heated length craving friction against my hip, corded muscles of his arms gleaming either side of my head, and I moved against him too, relishing his hardness against my softness, and he shuddered as I scraped my nails down his back, and I loved it, loved him. He slid a hand under the back of my head, cupping the curve of my skull, and forced it up to meet his mouth, crushing his lips against mine while he stroked inside with his tongue, slick, wet heat curling down to my toes, and back up again, rioting at pinpointed areas of my anatomy. Groin, head, groin – groan – uhnn – fuck – I writhed under the twin tortures of his mouth and hands – there – there – needing him so much that I finally broke away from his kiss and panted, heaving in breaths so I could speak, mouth open wide and soft and helpless – not wide enough – not enough – never enough. Dean – Dean – please – now – now –

"Now," I said wildly, and pulled his hips to me. No more waiting – no more – "Now. I want you inside me now," and he kissed me again, swift and hard, then moved away from me. Wait – what? "No –" and he ran a hand up my abdomen to caress my breast again, calluses a rough graze across my sensitive flushed skin.

"Just for a minute," he husked, staring into my eyes from where he was sitting now on the edge of the bed. Hazel green eyes burning and hungry – devour me – and full of all that intense focus and concentration that he had in everything – all that life, all that force centred on pinning me to the bed with that look. I want to be pinned by something else, damnit. "Don't move. Stay just like that. It's just for a minute, I promise you."

I groaned with the frustration and the hunger, watching him reach in the bedside draw, and leant over, licked his spine and smiled against the skin when he shivered. Tell me to stay, will you? But thoughts were getting increasingly hard to form, every cell in my body felt swollen and overloaded with desire. ­Dean, Dean, Dean. And then he was turning back, pulling me to him, kissing me, rolling us so he was on top again. I arched my hips to him, and he slowly slid inside me, and I think I might have lost my mind, died and gone to heaven, and flew – just a little.

I bucked up once, sharply, galvanised by the shock of him so hard inside of me, bringing sweet relief and tormenting pleasure at the same time, and then I began to surge against him, over and over, again and again – again – just like that – out of control as he moved – Dean moved – against me, inside me, with me, over and over, again and again and again – "– again –" – oh god, holding me so tightly that I felt safe and destroyed at the same time, the provoking rhythm of him inside me driving me beyond delicious heat and into ecstasy. I wrapped my legs around him, his waist, trying to bring him closer, to hold him forever so that feeling would never stop, pulling him into me harder, and he laced his fingers in my curls, and pulled my head up to face him as he rocked inside of me, golden body curved over me like a bow, hips snapping forwards. He slid over that spot inside, rubbing, and white hot pleasure flashed through me, accompanied by a strangled scream that I let loose into the skin of his bicep, biting down, panting and tangling and twining my body and legs and his hips and mouth and –

I forced my eyes open, meeting his, the pupils blown wide, and he kissed me, said, "Lauren," and groaned, bit my lip, the sharp edge of that tiny pain just contrasting the sweet pressure inside of me, blood screaming and hot and swelling in my veins until I exploded in his arms, hearing my name said in that husky, strained representation of his voice, repeating inside my head, telling me I wasn't just anyone – Dean saw me – he wanted me – he was inside me. I arched upwards once more, into him – to him – Dean – fuck – lost, locked there while my orgasm flooded into my fingertips and sent my mind on a one way trip to oblivion, eyes still on his.

Laying there gasping, blood and heat pounding in my temples and swirling still all over and through my body, I felt him still rocking into me, squeezing our bodies even tighter together, hips working, and was caught and swung along in the ebb and flow of him inside of me. And then I felt him tense hard in my arms and moan into my hair, finally breaking eye contact, and then we were both quiet, clinging to each other, inhaling gasps of shallow, unsatisfying air.

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AN: So… that's that. And sorry this chapter was so crap this week; I have two actually legitimate excuses, I hope. A) My beta and I had a falling out, and I can admit she is the only reason my writing is good, ever. I miss her. I need her back. Like, today. Now. Except she probably hates me, so that's not going to happen. B) I literally just finished this chapter NOW. So, hot off the press does not equal great and up to standard when it's from me. Hopefully next week will be better – if not, abandon ship y'all. It can only get worse.

Promo:

Short one with aftermath of what happened here, I think. Yes. Because… I have to write the whole thing this week. Goddamn, I hate being behind. I need to write FASTER!!