A/N: Dean, Meg, Implied Dean/Alistair. This is from a lil snippet in regard to episode 6.09, Caged Heat and came from Meg stating how she was trained under Alistair as well.
Summary: It's hardly a truce, but that's what they call it anyway.
Truce
It's hardly a truce, but that's what they call it anyway. She's from the House of Azazel. He's from the House of Lilith. She loves the mental approach, not wanting to make her boots and clothes dirty. He loves the physical, wanting to feel the burn of a good day's work.
Sexual innuendos are her defense, with a jut of the hip and a welcoming smirk. Verbal attacks are his, insults and witty retorts flashing behind narrowed eyes and a smug grin.
There is nothing between them except a chasm of hatred.
They'll kill each other, but not tonight. Tonight, Dean digs hard, fingers tearing away clothes, a razor painting across that white skin. He claws away at the soft, pliant flesh of Meg, his skills a thousand times smoother and elegant like a blooming Michelangelo than that demon within the Campbell cousin.
Meg hates being tortured, wouldn't lie here and take it for no one. But the way Dean slices, she finds herself moaning in pleasure. Tiny shaking hands tug and pull in the sweat soaked hair, loving how Dean's body shudders above as she stretches out her powers making Dean feel everything he's doing to her.
They don't do it for the release or the corruption.
Meg needs this to get rid of the taste of an angel's cleanliness out of her system. Dean merely needs, searching for the tiny stain of Alistair to feel sane again. When Meg screams out, body clenching in shock, Dean slumps downwards eyes almost black without a flame of hope. "Alistair," vibrates quietly, the only sound in the deathly silence.
Amongst the ruins, drenched in black and red, they remember whose House they truly belong to.