CHAPTER EIGHT
Dean exits Julie's room as Sam enters for his watch. Closing the door, he spots Janelle standing in the doorway of her room watching him, wearing the hockey jersey and shorts. When she's sure he's looking at her, she curls her finger, motioning for him to come closer. Dean glances down the hallway to make sure Spencer isn't lurking nearby before heading over to her.
"You okay?" he asks. Janelle only nods.
"I'm fine," she whispers, reaching up to his face, gently gripping his chin between her thumb and forefinger and pulling his face to hers. She kisses him fully, first tasting and getting to know his techniques, which are far more experienced than hers, and then she licks the wound on his lip where she encounters an oddly familiar copperish taste.
"Wait," Dean breathes, placing his hands on her hips and easily pushing her away. She decreases in height as she falls from her tip toes. "Not that I'm complaining, but, uh … what are you doing?"
"What happened here?" Janelle asks, bypassing the question and touching his bruised lip.
"Turns out your sister packs a mean punch," Dean jokes. Janelle gazes into his hazel eyes, capturing his attention, and he can literally see the lust and want in her glittering emeralds.
"Let me make you feel better," she whispers, grasping his T-shirt and pulling him into her room. Fortunately for Dean, he knows this would be taking advantage of Janelle's vulnerable state, so therefore, it should be easy for him to stop her and not regret it later. Unfortunately for Dean, he's a man, and once a man gets started with a willing participant, it's not so simple to just stop.
Dean steps inside and kicks the door shut behind him. He grabs Janelle's face and crushes his lips to hers despite the pain it causes. In the back of his mind, he worries his bottom lip will be even more sore later, but that's neither here nor there. He feels her tug at his T-shirt, leading him toward her bed. This is bad, he's sure of that much, only it feels so damned good to be bad, to be wanted, to be needed.
Janelle lifts his shirt over his head and she inspects his chest as if looking for something special, something she subconsciously knows to be there. She finds it in the two inch scar almost invisible to the naked eye on his side just above his belt. She touches it; her silky soft fingers sliding over it, memorizing it. Dean closes his eyes and inhales deeply; he knew chicks dug scars.
More clothing is removed including Janelle's jersey and her shorts, and then Dean shoves her playfully onto the bed on her stomach. She turns her head to the side, smiling, as he lays on top of her, one leg between hers. He places strategic kisses on her naked shoulders, back, and neck, as his hand ghosts over her skin; up and down her back and down her arm. He gazes down at her bronze skin, which seems to be glowing under the moonlight pouring in from the window, and he's astonished at how soft and alluring it is. He's more interested in the satin-like feel of it than what he should be interested in.
Janelle stealthily slides her knees up underneath her a few inches, driving her hips against his, and Dean remembers he has other duties to tend to. He reaches down to begin opening his jeans, and he leans his chest against Janelle's back, kissing her neck wetly. She moans, arching her back, her head leaning back against his shoulder and her hips lifting into his again. Dean rolls his eyes; at this rate, he's never going to get his pants unbuttoned.
After the lightning strike of a wonderful idea, Dean grabs her hands and slides them up the bed above her head where he imprisons them with his left hand while his right hand takes care of his jeans. He doesn't remove them completely, just unbuckles the belt, unbuttons, and unzips them, and then he enters Janelle swiftly. Her moans are quiet and soft against the mattress beneath her, her hands claw the blanket, and she moves back into every thrust. Dean brushes her platinum hair away from her face and practically drools over her neck and cheek.
He's making a big mistake. He absolutely should not be fucking the sister of a so-called client right across the hall from where his baby brother stands watch over said client. In a minute, Sammy could come barging in or worse … Spencer might walk in to check on Janelle without knocking. The possibilities of getting caught are endless. But that's probably what's making him so undeniably excited.
"Oh …" Janelle whimpers, her forehead falling to the bed. "God." Her arms move back to her sides, her forearms supporting the weight of her upper body, and her shoulders shrugging upward. Dean's hand moves underneath Janelle, wrapping around her middle, and his other arm maneuvers itself below her neck and above her arms. He growls into her ear with every thrust, and he thinks he even hears her growl.
"Fuck," is the only expressive word he can think of to say. But he knows it's the right one when he feels her shudder against him.
"Dean …" she breathes, lifting her head. He can smell her pretty scent as his nose meets her hair. This is about all he can take, and he suddenly removes himself from her slick sweetness and rolls her over onto her back, reentering her roughly. Her mouth opens to scream, but his hand covers it before she can get a sound out. Her legs tighten around his waist and her nails scratch painfully at his back.
"Look at me," he commands, but gains no response. He yanks her face downward – his fingers on her cheek and his thumb below her chin – and forces her to look up at him. She smiles, wrapping her arms around his neck, and, for the first time, realizes he hasn't removed his pants. She finds this to be an odd turn on.
"Faster," she begs. Dean grins; he's not one for following specific orders, but he certainly plans to agree to this one. His pace quickens and his desire rises.
Looking down at her, his hand now claiming her neck and applying little pleasure, he feels his climax swimming in its beginning stages within the pit of his stomach and at the base of his spine. He's very hot, probably perspiring, but his steady rhythm never falters.
Janelle's eyes remain locked with his, daring not to move away for fear his grip might tighten on her throat. She knew there was a rough, possibly kinky man beneath the leather jacket and sleek Impala; the callused hand clutching her neck is evidence to that.
Dean looks down, seeing her knee bent up almost to his shoulder. That's it. His eyes return to hers, his hand gripping her thigh, and he begins to all but slam into her. She's going to scream again, so his other hand resumes the job of keeping her quiet. Her hand comes to the back of his head, pulling at his short hair and scratching his scalp, as she brings his lips to hers. She's missed kissing those full, red lips. Even wounded, they're magical.
Growling instead of pounding his fist on the bed, Dean explodes within a writhing Janelle as he bites down hard on her bottom lip. They're still for a moment, catching their breath, and their eyes meet again. Janelle smiles so beautifully and Dean wonders if this is real. It has to be; this night was too amazing to be a dream.
Dean started awake on the couch in the Markem's living room. His wide, frightened eyes surveyed the room; he was alone from what he could tell, but that was hardly his concern at the moment.
Had he just dreamed the most vividly damning sex dream ever? God, it felt so real. He was even experiencing exhaustion and fatigue, which commonly accompanied morning afters. Her fingers were still on his back, though invisible, on his neck, in his hair, and on his scar. His own hand snaked below the leather jacket he'd obviously used as a blanket and underneath his T-shirt to the scar. He remembered that damned witch and how she'd somehow gotten the best of him with her makeshift switchblade. The cut wasn't long, but deep, and the doctors had strongly recommended that he spend the night at the hospital for observation, but he'd politely demanded that they sew him up and let him be on his way. They warned him of a scar, and he'd smiled. Chicks dig scars, he'd told John.
A clicking sound followed by a clattering alerted Dean to a presence in the kitchen. He didn't want to get up to find out who it was, as he was still heavily debating whether or not he'd had sex with Janelle last night. Unfortunately, it would have to wait, and he threw off his jacket, standing from the couch. His lower back muscles shot a painful protest throughout his body, which could have been chalked up to the uncomfortable couch and not just rigorous sexual activity. He felt spent, limbs like Jell-O, but he pressed on into the kitchen.
Janelle was sitting at the far end of the table, her hair a mess, and a cigarette between her lips. The click he'd heard moments before was the lighter igniting followed by being dropped onto the table. She looked tired, but there was a special glow about her, a familiar luminosity he'd seen in other women. A healthy sexual glow. Or it could be the way the light was hitting her, he thought indecisively.
"Uh … morning," he awkwardly greeted. Janelle only raised her eyebrows, barely acknowledging his presence. What if they had been together last night and he totally sucked? "I didn't know you smoked."
"I don't," she dryly replied, exhaling a long stream of smoke through her O shaped lips. Dean nodded knowingly, looking down.
"You … uh … didn't go to work today?" he asked.
"Nope," she sighed nonchalantly.
"Where's Spencer?" Janelle breathed a laugh.
"He, however, did go to work," she said. "Hangover and all." Dean eyed her sadly, somehow feeling her pain from across the table.
"Listen, I'm sorry about all this …" he started. Janelle put up a hand, the cigarette between her first and middle fingers, and she closed her eyes.
"Don't," she growled. "I'm finished with you and your brother's apologies. We don't need your fucking sympathy. We need your help."
"I know …" Dean whispered, nodding his head.
"I'm calling a priest." Dean's eyebrows furrowed.
"Really?" he asked. "Why didn't you just do that in the first place?"
"Because I didn't believe it in the first place, remember?" she asked smartly. "I'm not Catholic either. Don't plan on converting. In fact, if there is a God, he can bite me." Dean gulped and closed his eyes.
"Janelle …"
"This is your last day," she interrupted angrily. "Anything bad happens to my sister or that fucking thing isn't out of her by tonight, you take your car and your brother and you get the fuck out of my town."
"We told you this would take some time," Dean argued, positively offended by her harsh words. "You asked for our help, remember?" He indicated whom he was speaking of by pointing to himself.
"Yeah, I did," Janelle maintained the same attitude as she leaned forward, glaring at Dean. "I haven't seen a lot of progress, though, Mr. Winchester. It's been a week!"
"It's an exorcism, Janelle," he growled. "We can't just snap our fingers and it's done!" Janelle smiled, shaking her head.
"Then maybe you and your little brother need the help," she said. Janelle crushed out the cigarette on the table top. She put her hands over her face and her shoulders shook from crying, Dean could tell.
"Janelle," he said, leaning forward. "Why don't you take a ride with me?" Janelle's hands fell to the table and she looked at him, her eyes evil, daring, annoyed, and soaked.
"Fuck you, Dean," she growled. Dean smiled, glancing downward, embarrassed by her hostility, but he knew he couldn't get angry at her or yell at her.
"Take a ride with me," he repeated, gently, enticingly. "You need to get out of the house. Just for a little while, then we'll come back." Janelle's face unexpectedly softened, then saddened, and tears pricked her eyes again.
"I don't want to leave Julie," she whispered.
"Julie's gonna be fine," Dean explained, standing from the table and walking over to her, placing a hand on her shoulder comfortingly. The last thing he wanted her to do was insult him or yell at him or become angry again. "Sam's here, I'll have my cell phone …"
A howl originating from Julie's room, now familiar to everyone nearly shook the house. Rattling and banging came next, probably Julie fighting the restraints, and Janelle's hands quickly moved to cover her ears.
"Dean!" Sam called.
Dean ran out of the kitchen, through the living room, and up the staircase, taking three stairs at a time, and then hurried down the hall to Julie's room, kicking the door open. Julie was completely loose from the bed restraints and she'd thrown herself on top of Sam, her hands squeezing his neck as hard as she could to the point where Sam's face was red, his eyes bulging and bloodshot.
Dean scurried across the room, ready to grab Julie and fight her off of his little brother with everything he had, when Julie turned to him with consumed black eyes and smiled wildly. One hand was removed from Sam's neck and it grabbed Dean's jacket, yanking him down to her level, and then she clawed at his throat.
Dean gagged and pulled at her hand, but every attempt to breathe was futile. His terrified hazel eyes were imprisoned by Julie's black ones, and he could see the amusement there, the hatred, the inhuman being within. He feared suddenly that the demon might try to possess him next. But he was still glad he'd come in when he did; better him than Sammy.
"I pray Lucifer that he never leave you, but always keep you firmly in his power, as he does now," she growled, her bottom lip held low to reveal that row of teeth. "You are all mine, and I am your master!" She began to laugh insanely, and Dean seized the opportunity to get one good punch across Julie's face. He was well aware this was not the way to handle an innocent woman possessed by a demon, but he needed to breathe, and so did Sammy.
"You choose who dies first," she snarled. Dean continued yanking at her death grip on his throat.
"Fuck you," Dean forced out. Julie's face contorted in rage and she shoved him away, sending him flying across the room and into a wall.
"Yeah," Sam suddenly choked, gaining Julie's attention. "Fuck you." He'd reached to the crucifix that had been knocked from his hand earlier, and pressed it hard against Julie's cheek. She cried out, the holy ornament causing her flesh to sizzle, and the demon finally relented, sending Julie to the floor on her back. Sam held the crucifix to his chest as he caught his breath. "Bitch," he sighed.
"Oh, my God!" Sam lifted his head and found Janelle standing in the doorway, her hands covering her mouth, eyes wide. She looked at Sam and, surprising him, hurried over to his side. "Are you okay?" she breathed, helping him to sit up.
"Yeah," Sam croaked.
"Where's Dean?" she asked. She'd evidently entered the room after Dean had been thrown into the wall.
"Over there," Sam replied, forcing himself to get up and crawl across the floor to his unconscious brother. Janelle scrambled to the other side of Dean, checking the pulse in his neck, which was very strong. Janelle found herself smiling at the obvious mighty will to live that resided in both brothers.
"What should we do?" she asked Sam, looking hopefully over at him. Sam's neck was terribly sore, his chest was tight from the extra effort of breathing, and his head throbbed so badly that black spots came and went on the outsides of his vision. But he had to act fast before Julie or the demon awoke.
"Help me tie her up," he said, using the wall to climb to his feet. Janelle was reluctant, hating that he had the audacity to ask this of her, and she didn't move. "Janelle, please?" Sam begged. Janelle gulped down a golf ball-sized lump in her throat before grabbing her sister's legs as Sam lifted her upper body and they carried her to the bed. Sam instructed her on how to bind Julie's hands to the headboard, and Janelle slowly did as she was told.
"Is she dying, Sam?" she suddenly asked, brushing Julie's sweat-soaked brown hair behind her ear. A red burn mark was beginning to materialize on her cheek in the shape of a cross. Sam glanced at Janelle briefly, pocketing the crucifix, and heading over to Dean, who was still lying lifeless against the wall, his cheek resting on his shoulder.
"She's not gonna die, Janelle," he said sternly, pulling Dean forward, maneuvering himself behind him, hooking his hands under Dean's arms, and dragging him backward out of the bedroom. Janelle followed, and Sam propped his brother up against the hallway wall.
"Shouldn't we take him to a hospital or something?" Janelle inquired, taking in Dean's broken position. "I mean, he could be concussed or … something," Sam stood up, breathing deeply.
"He'll be fine," he sighed, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. "Now …" He stepped over Dean's legs and then stood before Janelle. "Do you know the number of a Catholic priest?"