They're dancing in a bar, sweet and slow. This is, by far, the best part of their job; pretending to meet by chance is largely unnecessary, but it lends a certain kind of mystique to their love life – and everyone needs a little spice once in a while. His hands skim her waist, the perfectly proportioned curves of her hips; his lips brush her hair, silky-smooth and smelling of lavender. The smile she gives is enough to betray just how happy she is, and how close they really are.
She looks up at him, meets his eyes with a flash of seduction and a slow, warm kind of love. Her fingers brush over his hair – recently cut, and bristly-soft – before their lips meet. Just another anonymous couple in another nameless bar, they dance until the song ends, then he grabs her coat and purse and pushes her out the door with a smile to rival the Devil's. They live for this job, for this wham, bam, thank you, ma'am way of dealing with things. Fast cars and dark bars, guns blazing in each hand, and life on the road save a night or two in Lawrence for Christmas with Sam and Sarah. They're the best hunters in the business because they love it so damn much.
He pushes her up against the passenger side of the Impala, the curve of her back fitting up with the curves of the car. His kisses are rough, demanding, much reminiscent of their first (and second and third and fourth) kiss. Broad strokes of warm tongue, fingers caught in clothing, body against body against car.
"I love you," he whispers in her ear.
"I know," she whispers back. "Take me home," she continues. He kisses her once more before unlocking the Impala door.
In the car, she slides up next to his body, a gangster's moll and Sandra Dee all in the same body. Her breath is hot against his ear as she whispers all the things she knows he wants to hear. For tonight, the job can wait.