carla: thanks very much for the review. it's pretty obvious i know nothing about the latin language, so i used an online translator. everybody knows those suck, so i apologize for any and all mistakes that most definitely will appear with anything latin. but thanks, anyway!
lp29: glad you're enjoying my ofc. i strongly detest mary sues and try my hardest not to make my story anything like them, so thanks very much. ;
windyfontaine: thanks so very much for always replying. means a lot to me! 3
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Dean regretted not following his father's orders; he hated it, in fact. His dad counted on him, trusted him, to take care of cases John was unable to tend to himself. But he would never know, Dean thought bitterly. John never called to speak to him or Sam to find out if they were okay or to let them know he was okay. What kind of father was that? Especially after all the years Dean had put in to being the perfect soldier, a "chip off the ole block", all for John; all to help find what killed his mother. Dean knew Sam was hurting, too, because of their father's decision to sever most all ties with his sons.
Dean glanced at his brother, who was shaking slightly and breathing heavily after a nightmare had caused him to jump nearly a foot off the seat. Dean didn't bother asking what it was about – he knew. His tired eyes glided to the rearview mirror and watched for several seconds as Janelle lay in the backseat, silently gazing out the window and stroking Dean's leather jacket, which was draped over her as a blanket. It certainly wasn't cold outside or in the car, but he didn't question her when she'd requested something to keep her warm. She seemed tired, worn out, and who wouldn't be after an episode like the one in the motel room?
Janelle sighed sadly as she watched the world pass by through the window. Her hand idly rubbed over one of the sleeves of Dean's jacket as if the article of clothing was the most important thing to her, and she deeply inhaled a mixture of Dean's manly cologne scent from the collar of the jacket. She gazed longingly out the window like she had no will, no thoughts, and no dreams. Dean wished Janelle would stay like this until Father Rose performed his exorcism, but he knew this was only wishful thinking.
Dean shook his head, a little unsure of what Sam had just said, but he just didn't care anymore. He wanted to get to New Mexico, cure the four-year-old in the backseat and continue on his mission of finding his father.
"I'm sorry, you know," Dean broke his own silence, as the Impala passed the welcome sign for Jonesboro, Arkansas.
Sam glanced at Dean confusedly. "For what?" he asked.
"That shiner you got there."
Sam smirked, remembering the prominent bruise that had begun to form after Dean had backhanded him. "It's all right," Sam dismissed. "I believe it was you who said, 'Chicks dig scars'."
Dean laughed, switching hands on the steering wheel. "Yeah, well," he shrugged, "It's true."
Sam's knee unintentionally shoved against the glove compartment, knocking it open, and he looked at the revolver, which Dean had kept in there since Dad had given him the Impala on his 18th birthday. "Precaution," he'd said. Sam smiled at the memory, closing the door.
"Got to stop and get gas," Dean disclosed, casually glancing at the fuel gauge, which was almost on E.
"We should probably eat, too," Sam suggested, "That way we don't have to make so many stops for Janelle."
Dean nodded, as the mention of her name caused him to steal another glance at Janelle through the rearview. "She's asleep," he whispered incredulously.
Sam spun around in his seat and discovered Janelle lying against the door, using Dean's jacket as a pillow. "I'll be damned," he mumbled.
Dean looked at him. "Maybe," he said thoughtfully, locking eyes with his little brother, "If you get lucky."
Sam just shook his head and turned forward again.
After a few minutes, Dean had filled Priscilla's tank and located a small diner on the edge of Jonesboro. Once parked, the brothers spun around to face Janelle. She looked so peaceful and nothing like a woman possessed. Sam and Dean hated to wake her, as she might not get any sleep otherwise, but there was no other option afforded to them.
Dean got out first, walked around to the side Janelle wasn't leaning against and opened the door. Carefully, he placed his knee on the seat as he leaned inside. For a brief moment, he admired her soft features as the sun beat down on her face. She was beautiful, she wasn't the type he normally went after and she was the only person to ever cause him so much grief.
"Janelle …" he whispered, reaching over and softly caressing her shoulder.
A moment later, she stirred, arching her back off the seat and turning to face Dean where she smiled tiredly yet sweetly.
"Hi," she spoke, groggily.
Dean smirked but it was gone before anyone noticed it and he informed Janelle where they were and what they were doing.
Janelle pushed her arms through the sleeves of Dean's leather jacket – her hands not even coming out the ends – and wrapped it tightly around herself, which would more than likely draw attention to her, as the temperature was very near the high 70s.
The three headed inside the diner and sat in the very back. Dean was next to Janelle, Sam in front of her, but she met the scrutinizing gazes of neither Winchester. Her eyes were downcast as she rested her head on her hand. Monumental headache, nausea and even her eyes were experiencing pain. What in God's name had she missed the past day and a half?
"What do you want, Janelle?" Dean asked.
Janelle ran her fingers through her tangled hair, wincing when she caught a knot. "I'm not hungry."
Sam looked up at her. "Janelle, you have to eat."
"I don't want to," she vehemently refused.
Dean slammed his hand on the tabletop and turned to Janelle. "Eat," he commanded.
Janelle smirked, languidly twisting in the booth like she were drunk – her head moving a bit slower than the rest of her body – and she scowled at Dean. "Fuck you," she slurred.
Dean straightened up, cocking his head to the side. He was perfectly prepared to reply with a Fuck me? when he smelt it. The familiar acidic stench which burned his nostrils, and only then did he realize he'd inhaled it earlier after fighting his way out of the bathroom to save Sammy.
Sam sniffed it as well and caught Dean's eyes, but before he could suggest that they flee the diner, Janelle exhaled a puff of smoke. But it wasn't smoke; the temperate around them had dropped several degrees in only a few seconds.
"I'm so cold," Janelle breathed, her breath visible on the cooling air.
That was all Dean needed to hear. "Come on, we're going." He clawed at the leather jacket on Janelle's shoulder and yanked her out of the booth where he scooped her into his arms, carrying her toward the door.
"Is everything all right?" a waitress asked Sam after Dean had rushed past her with Janelle in his arms.
"Everything's fine, thanks!" Sam spat, hurrying passed her as well.
Dean practically threw Janelle into the backseat, climbed in behind her and yanked the door shut with his boot.
Sam swung around the front of the Impala, tore open the driver's side door and fell in. Dean tossed him the keys and he had them back on the road in a matter of seconds. Glancing in the rearview, he caught Dean rummaging through the essentials bag while Janelle seemed to be knocked out; her eyes closed and head rolling from side to side with the movement of the Chevy.
Sam considered flipping on the heat with the expected drop in temperature, but decided against it, knowing the ordeal would be over sooner than later. He hoped, anyway. He just wondered if he shouldn't pull over or if he should keep driving.
"Keep drivin'," Dean instructed, as if reading his mind. "I'm ready for him."
Sam peeked into the mirror again, spotting the crucifix and bottle of holy water in Dean's hands. Sam shook his head, wishing they had more weapons to use against this demon and wishing it didn't have to be Dean in the backseat with it. Should his brother need help, though, Sam would instantly pull over and offer his aid whether Dean liked it or not.
Janelle's head suddenly fell forward, her chin meeting her chest, her hair framing her face. And then she began to giggle, which evolved into laughing, followed by boisterous cackling. But it was her laugh, and not the laugh of some amused Hell-sent fallen angel.
The laughing became a strangled whimper, and Janelle's terrified, watery eyes met Dean's. "I can feel it inside of me," she cried, her hands twisting into claws as she motioned toward her stomach. "Getting bigger …"
"Fight it," Dean growled, dropping the items in his hands to grab her face. "Do you hear me? Fight it. It's not stronger than you, understand? It's not. Fight it."
"I can't," Janelle sobbed, and then she threw her head back – her hair flying – and her lips curled into a malicious snarl. She growled as if she were using all her strength to push or pull something.
"That's right," Dean said, nodding. "Fight the son of a bitch."
"Stronger than me," Janelle forced out through clenched teeth.
"No, he's not!" Dean yelled. "Demons are not stronger than humans, but they make you think they are. They lie, Janelle. You're better than this thing. You're better than most things." He paused to brush his fingers through her hair. "Better than everything," he finished with a whisper.
Sam glanced in the rearview at Dean and thought for a moment if he wasn't seeing things. Dean's expression was one he'd never seen before, one he couldn't describe even if he tried. If he had to guess, though, he'd say that was Dean's gentle, caring face. The expression gave Sam chills.
Janelle shouted with her head thrown back, but it was a short howl – a bark – and Dean knew she was losing the battle. "He's not better, Janelle!" he yelled, grabbing her wrists.
Janelle abruptly became frozen, her hands twisted into talon-like distortions next to Dean's chest, and her eyes closed. Very slowly, she lay back against the seat where Dean relinquished his grip on her wrists.
"Should I stop?" Sam asked, watching everything as closely as he could without wrecking the car.
"Keep driving," Dean instructed.
"Dean …"
"Sam, I swear to God, if you stop this car …"
"Cristo?" Janelle whispered.
Dean's head slowly turned to look at Janelle just as she opened her eyes, sending two rivers of red down her cheeks. She stared at him with a maniacal smile fit only for the possessed.
"Vestri vindico non servo vos ian," she said, kissing his lips softly, almost causing him to respond, but he quickly remembered that Janelle wasn't Janelle. Your deliverer can't save you now. Her left hand snuck up and over the front seat to Sam's shoulder.
"Quare suus?" Dean whispered, falling under the mercy of her crimson eyeballs. Why her?
Janelle smiled, sending shivers up Dean's spine. "Is est propius." She's special. She tilted her head. "Vos teneo est non vos?" You know that, don't you?
"Quis operor vos volo ex suus?" Dean breathed. What do you want from her? He was beginning to feel lightheaded and fuzzy. As his eyes wandered around the inside of the car, he realized the car had stopped and Sam was passed out in the front seat.
"Vos vere non teneo, operor vos?" Janelle asked. You really don't know, do you?
Dean shook his head as it fell back against the seat, but he fought against whatever force was weakening him by keeping his eyes from closing.
"Bardus venator," she sneered, climbing quite gracefully onto his lap. Stupid hunter. "Ego debes notus Res vectum sumo plurrimi ignarus inter humanus." I should have known Matthew would choose the most ignorant among humans. She began to massage his shoulders as she ground her hips into his groin.
Dean groaned, trying to push away his arousal, but it just wasn't happening.
"Vos decem instituo vestri quispion vos is nunquan questes ex," she finished, her tongue snaking out of her mouth and licking over Dean's lips. You've found yourself in something you're never getting out of. "Ego mos lucror." I will win. And she brushed her fingers over his eyes.
Dean blacked out in that moment.
"Please stay, Dean."
He grins down at this beautiful, willing, platinum blonde beneath him and wonders briefly if he isn't dreaming, if he isn't just fantasizing about this downstairs on the uncomfortable couch in the Markem living room. But it feels too real – as proven by a physical arousal he's never before endured – and even if it is a dream, he's going to milk it for all its worth.
He cocks his head to the side, dipping lower where his wet mouth greets the flush, perspiring skin of Janelle's neck. She mewls so softly, so prettily, and arches into him. He continues downward, his slippery tongue familiarizing itself with every inch of tanned skin available to him. She's still in her bra and underwear, but he's strangely not turned off by this fact, and he doesn't attempt to remove either article; just keeps kissing and licking over her chest and stomach where he finally meets with one of his most weakening points on a woman's body: her belly button.
He tongues the small indent, finding it preeminently sexy that it's not pierced like so many other women he's been with in the recent past. When he becomes aware of her hand threading through his short hair, he moves on; placing three strategically mapped pecks just above her panty line as he raises his eyebrows and gazes up into her eyes.
She's watching him – her head propped on the fluffy pillow – with eyes so overrun with sex and lust and need and want that Dean has to fight the quite unbearable urge to shove his hand into his pants and get off right then and there. Well, what he has planned should suffice until it's his turn … he hopes.
His back end hops up, his knees jumping beneath him, and he sits back on his heels. Janelle sits up, elbows behind her, and arches an eyebrow.
"You're not gonna shortchange me, are you, Dean?" she asks, her right knee bending so that her foot can massage his thigh and hip.
Dean smirks, caressing her thighs as he bites down hard on his bottom lip. She's so delectable, and his mouth waters. He slips his index and middle fingers beneath the waistband of her boyshorts and slowly slides them down her hips, and she responds by lifting her hips in both anticipation and aid to Dean's cause.
"I don't shortchange," Dean says.
Janelle giggles, raising her foot to his chest. "I'm sure you don't," she teases.
Dean raises his eyebrows and means to laugh, but all that comes out is a quick grunt. "You want me to prove it?" he asks, kissing her ankle.
"Are you gonna make me beg for it?" she whispers, licking her lips.
Dean shrugs, the corners of his mouth arching downward. "Doesn't matter," he sighs. "I'm gonna do it with or without your permission."
"Is that so?" Janelle breathes, her elbows sliding out from beneath her and she grips the sheets and blankets in tight fists.
"Cuz I like it," Dean grins, eyes wide with a cavalier smile and a slight tilt of his head.
"Do you always talk this much?" Janelle sighs, closing her eyes when she feels him kiss up her calf and down her thigh.
"Shh …" Dean whispers, holding the sound out for as long as his lungs will allow while he stretches onto the bed on his stomach; sweeping his arms beneath her legs. He kisses her inner thigh so dangerously close to the target area, but he's not ready to give it to her yet. "I could still make you beg."
Janelle puffs out a deep breath. "Please, Dean," she pleads, her hand finding the side of his head.
Dean beams, his hands gliding up to her stomach before his tongue sets to work.
Going down on a woman is something of an art to Dean. He loves everything about it: the way they taste; the way they wriggle at one flex of his tongue; the way they pull his hair and then massage his scalp because they feel bad for pulling his hair; and especially the way they make those oh so fucking sexy noises when he hits the right spot. The noises are somewhat of an addiction to him like the addiction he has to his Winchester rifle.
"Oh, God," Janelle whimpers, arching her back only to be pushed back down by Dean's large callused hand.
Dean's eyes never leave Janelle's face, which only serves to make him harder.
"God!" she growls, and Dean immediately reaches up to thrust his thumb into her mouth to keep her from screaming.
God, he'd fucking love to hear her scream right now even though it's the very last thing his straining erection needs at the moment. And then she begins to suck hard on his thumb, moving it in and out of her mouth.
Dean grumbles, but his pace and fancy trickery never falters. He needs something – friction – but not the material of his cotton boxers. He needs skin-to-skin contact even if it is his own skin.
He slides one arm out from beneath Janelle's leg, and she yanks at his hair, pulling his head up so that she can see his whole face.
"No," she whispers, grabbing his hand. "I'll take care of that."