FIC: "The Least You Could Do" (Dean/Bela)
May. 24th, 2008 04:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
imaginesDean/Bela for the challenge at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
cunnilingusfic. Dean contracts hex-induced photophobia; Bela shows up to mock; things happen. So not worksafe. Set sometime between BDaBR and DaLDoM. ~2,400 words.
Sam had salted the doors and windows, tacked up blackout curtains, left a couple of six-packs in the fridge, and removed the fridge's light bulb before he left the motel room, so Dean's buzzed and sulking in the darkened kitchenette, waiting. "You'll be all right, Dean, I'll be back soon," he mimics. "Just gotta do a little research. It's only a minor hex, your photophobia will be gone before you know it. Trust me, I was a college student, I can spit out words like 'photophobia' and be completely reassuring even though my goddamn voice is shaking 'cause I'm not sure how I'm gonna get you better."
He drops an empty bottle to the carpet beside his chair and reaches for another, wishing he could at least turn on the television and see what's passing for entertainment these days. He would, if he felt like turning into a block of limestone or shale or whatever the crone had planned for him when she hit him with that spell last night. But he's not sure being made of stone doesn't count as an open invitation to the hell-puppies to come nibble on his sedimentary, pseudo-dead self.
In the midst of his internal debate on becoming a rock versus remaining extremely bored, someone knocks on the door to the room. Maybe Sam forgot his key. The crone hadn't said anything about indirect light being dangerous, so Dean gets up and chances a look out the peephole.
It's not Sam. "Oh, fuck me," Dean says loudly.
"Good day to you too," calls one Bela Talbot. "May I come in, or are you going to let me rot out here in the sun all day?"
"I'm a little indisposed right now, come back later!"
Bela clicks her tongue. "A hangover, at this hour of the day? How depressing."
"Hex, actually. This one shares some of the symptoms with hangovers, but--look, I have to avoid sunlight, I can't open the door. Come back another day. Or, you know, don't come back."
"The great Dean Winchester, taken out of action by a bit of light sensitivity. What's next, fangs and bats and a widow's peak? Just unlatch the door and step back. I won't open it far."
"You're gonna hang around and make a racket until I let you in, aren't you?"
"My Magic 8-Ball says, 'All signs point to yes.'"
Dean sighs and pulls the door open an inch, then ducks back into shadow. He figures the worst she can do is distract him, because there's got to be some karmic rule that says his life cannot possibly get more unpleasant right now. "Do you even own a Magic 8-Ball?"
"A cursed one," says Bela, stepping into the room. "It informs the asker that they will die in ten minutes, then causes the unfortunate one to off themselves within that timeframe."
"Bet you do a busy trade in stocking stuffers. What are you here for, anyway? I won't be selling you anything or giving you any hints, no matter how nicely you ask."
"The least you could do is put aside your assumptions for once. I'm only here for a friendly visit. The truth is, I'd like to have a drink with you, Dean. Have a little chat, see if we can't work out some of our differences. We're not so unalike, you and I. You understand the extermination of monsters, whereas I--"
"Understand the care and keeping of said monsters in safe-deposit boxes until you can find buyers?"
"You make it sound so horrible." She slides into the chair he'd vacated, removing her coat and draping it over the back. "I mean that we each provide a service to the underworld of society."
"So do hookers."
"Are you saying you're a prostitute to the dark side?"
Dean leans against the table, since thief Bela's taken the only chair. "Hey, I'm not the one getting paid for my line of work."
"So you're just easy."
"I like fighting evil, okay, is there something wrong with that?"
She rolls her eyes and steals one of his beers. "Your childish remarks regarding 'hookers' show a distinct failure to understand my occupation, likening it to a career you clearly find distasteful, regardless of the fact that you have partaken of such services."
"You can't know--"
Bela pats his hand; he jerks it away. "Dean, you mustn't forget that I know far more about you than you do of me. But it's no matter; I'm not one to judge others' preferences." She rests her chin in her hands and looks up at him. "Anyway, when is Sam due to return?"
"Why should I tell you?"
"I know, you said you weren't going to tell me anything. But I've been more than polite--give a little dog a bone?"
"Sam will be back when Sam will be back. That's all you need to know. In a hurry to see him for some particular reason?"
"I'm only wondering whether he'll be walking in during the appetizer or the dessert."
"And you've lost me. Happy?"
"So many questions you have," Bela says, standing up. "I wonder, do you truly care whether I'm happy?"
"Not in the slightest."
She smiles. "I thought as much. I could make you happy, though. You've been so lonely these past few years, haven't you, with only the local escort service of whatever town you're visiting to take care of you? How frustrating it must be, to be unable to get close to anyone for fear they'll find out about your secret life. Don't you ever wish for someone you could really connect with?"
"Wrong fucking thing to ask after your bullet connected with Sam's shoulder."
"I only grazed him. Honestly, you have no sense of when it's the right time to let go of a grudge. I'm here, ready and willing to make amends." She trails her fingers down his jaw, and he bats her hand away.
"Ready and willing to nothing. Back off, Bela."
"You can't tell me you've never thought about it."
"Hey, let me see if I can remember." Dean taps his chin. "Yeah, I got nothing. I have never thought about having sex with you."
"But you're thinking about it now."
"I'm really, really not."
"I've thought about it," she says, baldly. "It's because of your hands. You make a half-assed go of cutting your nails, and you're not afraid to get dirty. Your fingers are always cut-up from your most recent fight. Your palms are like leather, they're so calloused. I'd wager you're gentle, though. You are an uncouth ape at your best, but you wouldn't hurt a woman."
"I think you need to go," he says, with effort. "Just--you can take the beer with you, and one for the road, whatever. Go on."
She's up against him now, smelling like perfume and road dust. "You want me to leave?"
"Yeah, yeah, I do." He doesn't, but fuck, it's Bela, and that is never happening, no, not in a million fucking years, no matter how awesome it feels that she's kissing him right now, for the love of good fucking god. "I hate you," he tells her. "Don't distract me when I'm trying to tell you how much this is so not gonna happen."
"Like I said," she says, tugging at his shirt buttons, "we're not that different, you and me. Bored, lonely, what does it matter? Relax for once and enjoy yourself."
"I hate you so much," Dean informs her, "but you're making an incredible case for your side."
"I'm not certain whether I'm the defense or the prosecution, but it's good to know I'm winning over the judge." She slides his shirt down off his arms and reaches for his shoulder holster.
"Don't touch," he says. "I'll get it. Why the hell would I let you near my weapon?" He unclips the holster and sets it on the kitchenette's counter, then pulls his T-shirt over his head while he's at it. She makes an appreciative noise.
"You won't let me near your gun, but you're going to let me blow you? You need to work on those trust priorities."
He slaps the table. "Objection."
"Sustained."
"Who's making assumptions now? I never said you could blow me."
"You don't want to get off? I'm not sure how this whole sex thing is going to work, then."
"Get on the table and I guess I'll show you." He clears off the beer bottles, the fast-food debris, and Sam's stacks of books.
"Oh, now we're getting somewhere," she says, and lifts herself effortlessly onto the table's edge. She swings her legs, kicking off her shoes. "You're not worried the table might be hard on your knees?"
"Nobody will be on their knees," he says, smiling easily and recapturing his chair.
Bela wiggles her toes at him through her stockings. "When I mentioned appetizers, you weren't meant to take me so literally."
"Are you kidding? This is the main course, baby."
"Make up your mind. Are we in a restaurant or a judicial assembly?"
"Call it a food court. The witness requests that you lift your skirt and display the evidence."
"A painfully tacky pun," she sneers, "but I'll comply."
Dean grasps her ankles. "Exhibit A," he informs her legs. "Black silk stockings, soon to be on the floor."
"You'll be buying me new ones if you put runs in them with your clumsy paws."
"You said you thought I was gentle!"
"I also called you an ape. You are more than capable of gently ruining other people's possessions."
"Fine, take off your own damn stockings."
"I will, then." Bela drapes her legs over his shoulders and reaches up under her skirt.
Dean swallows.
"Calm down, it's called a garter belt. Do you want my stockings on the floor or not?" The clips come loose; an assortment of small knives clatter onto the table. "Now, now, don't give me that look. You have your concealed weapons, I have mine." She peels off her stockings and lets them slide to the floor, then digs her heels into Dean's back. "Well? Come on, then."
"I'd like to reiterate the incredible amount of dislike I hold for you."
"Likewise. Now get your head up my skirt and get me off."
"I'm in no hurry." He raises one of her legs; bites behind her knee to make her flinch.
She smacks his head. "Trying to make me rescind my 'gentle' analysis of your sexual behavior?"
"Pot, kettle, fucking black." He rubs his head and winces, then leans forward to mouth lines up her inner thighs. "Better?" he asks against her skin.
"It's an improvement." She doesn't hit him, and her voice is hitching a little, so Dean guesses he's doing all right.
"Exhibits B and C!" he crows upon reaching her panties and garter belt. "Black, to match the stockings. No lace. Elastic bands. Strictly utilitarian and made to be unrestrictive of movement when fleeing evil beasts in heels and a straight skirt."
"Generally, I'm in trousers and trainers when I'm expecting to flee evil."
"Glad you're not now," Dean breathes, so close to that black fabric that she's got to be feeling his words.
She drags in a breath; locks her legs around his shoulders. "Quit taking so long."
"Getting bored, Bela?" He grabs her hips and jerks her forward against his mouth. The fabric's already damp before he gets his tongue on her. Yeah, that's more like it. He doesn't hurt a woman at all.
Leaning back on her forearms, she takes a deep breath like she's trying to keep composed. "You're--ah, acceptable," she tells him, and when he glances up, she's closed her eyes and clenched her jaw, curling in on herself.
Yeah. He's doing fine, and there's maybe a big stupid grin on his face when he pulls back just long enough to get the undergarments the hell off her. She's flushing all over as he leans back down, something honey-and-smoke all that's left of her perfume, and of course there's the sweat. She'll hate him all the more when this is done, because he's still controlled while she's tense with the need to fucking move, but oh, how reluctant she must be to let him know he can make her writhe.
He's in the middle of drawing a Key of Solomon with his tongue when she finally gives in, grabbing the back of his head and pushing herself against his mouth with a bitten-off "god damn you," and he is so in favour of this development, how she's gripping his head with her thighs and shaking, coming apart around him.
Dean draws back. "Acceptable?"
"I suppose," Bela says, already sliding off the table to find her underwear and stockings and shoes. "See you." Coat draped over her arm, she slips out the door, careful not to let the light hit Dean.
Dean retrieves another beer from the darkened fridge and collapses back into his chair. Goddamn.
***
"Bela Talbot dropped by the library while I was there," Sam says, after he's sprinkled Dean with a bunch of flowers and read some magic words and crap, rendering Dean free to sunbathe once more. "Said she was looking for something. I think she saw what I was researching--did she show up here?"
"No. Yeah. I, uh. We had a talk, I sent her on her way, that's all," Dean says.
Sam looks unconvinced. "Right. Did you do an inventory of our stuff yet?"
"I watched her the whole time. She didn't touch anything, I swear. I have eyes like a hawk, I'd have seen her if she did."
"So you're missing half your clothes and your amulet for some other reason?"
Dean grabs at his neck. It's bare. "Fucking hell!"
"That's what you get for sleeping with the enemy," sighs Sam, who is going to find himself the victim of an amazing prank as soon as Dean gets his amulet back and thinks up a plot.
"I didn't--we didn't--Sammy, this is so completely none of your business. Pack your shit, we're leaving at daybreak." Dean is totally not going after Bela in hopes of anything besides the return of his amulet. Definitely not.
cunnilingusfic. Dean contracts hex-induced photophobia; Bela shows up to mock; things happen. So not worksafe. Set sometime between BDaBR and DaLDoM. ~2,400 words.Sam had salted the doors and windows, tacked up blackout curtains, left a couple of six-packs in the fridge, and removed the fridge's light bulb before he left the motel room, so Dean's buzzed and sulking in the darkened kitchenette, waiting. "You'll be all right, Dean, I'll be back soon," he mimics. "Just gotta do a little research. It's only a minor hex, your photophobia will be gone before you know it. Trust me, I was a college student, I can spit out words like 'photophobia' and be completely reassuring even though my goddamn voice is shaking 'cause I'm not sure how I'm gonna get you better."
He drops an empty bottle to the carpet beside his chair and reaches for another, wishing he could at least turn on the television and see what's passing for entertainment these days. He would, if he felt like turning into a block of limestone or shale or whatever the crone had planned for him when she hit him with that spell last night. But he's not sure being made of stone doesn't count as an open invitation to the hell-puppies to come nibble on his sedimentary, pseudo-dead self.
In the midst of his internal debate on becoming a rock versus remaining extremely bored, someone knocks on the door to the room. Maybe Sam forgot his key. The crone hadn't said anything about indirect light being dangerous, so Dean gets up and chances a look out the peephole.
It's not Sam. "Oh, fuck me," Dean says loudly.
"Good day to you too," calls one Bela Talbot. "May I come in, or are you going to let me rot out here in the sun all day?"
"I'm a little indisposed right now, come back later!"
Bela clicks her tongue. "A hangover, at this hour of the day? How depressing."
"Hex, actually. This one shares some of the symptoms with hangovers, but--look, I have to avoid sunlight, I can't open the door. Come back another day. Or, you know, don't come back."
"The great Dean Winchester, taken out of action by a bit of light sensitivity. What's next, fangs and bats and a widow's peak? Just unlatch the door and step back. I won't open it far."
"You're gonna hang around and make a racket until I let you in, aren't you?"
"My Magic 8-Ball says, 'All signs point to yes.'"
Dean sighs and pulls the door open an inch, then ducks back into shadow. He figures the worst she can do is distract him, because there's got to be some karmic rule that says his life cannot possibly get more unpleasant right now. "Do you even own a Magic 8-Ball?"
"A cursed one," says Bela, stepping into the room. "It informs the asker that they will die in ten minutes, then causes the unfortunate one to off themselves within that timeframe."
"Bet you do a busy trade in stocking stuffers. What are you here for, anyway? I won't be selling you anything or giving you any hints, no matter how nicely you ask."
"The least you could do is put aside your assumptions for once. I'm only here for a friendly visit. The truth is, I'd like to have a drink with you, Dean. Have a little chat, see if we can't work out some of our differences. We're not so unalike, you and I. You understand the extermination of monsters, whereas I--"
"Understand the care and keeping of said monsters in safe-deposit boxes until you can find buyers?"
"You make it sound so horrible." She slides into the chair he'd vacated, removing her coat and draping it over the back. "I mean that we each provide a service to the underworld of society."
"So do hookers."
"Are you saying you're a prostitute to the dark side?"
Dean leans against the table, since thief Bela's taken the only chair. "Hey, I'm not the one getting paid for my line of work."
"So you're just easy."
"I like fighting evil, okay, is there something wrong with that?"
She rolls her eyes and steals one of his beers. "Your childish remarks regarding 'hookers' show a distinct failure to understand my occupation, likening it to a career you clearly find distasteful, regardless of the fact that you have partaken of such services."
"You can't know--"
Bela pats his hand; he jerks it away. "Dean, you mustn't forget that I know far more about you than you do of me. But it's no matter; I'm not one to judge others' preferences." She rests her chin in her hands and looks up at him. "Anyway, when is Sam due to return?"
"Why should I tell you?"
"I know, you said you weren't going to tell me anything. But I've been more than polite--give a little dog a bone?"
"Sam will be back when Sam will be back. That's all you need to know. In a hurry to see him for some particular reason?"
"I'm only wondering whether he'll be walking in during the appetizer or the dessert."
"And you've lost me. Happy?"
"So many questions you have," Bela says, standing up. "I wonder, do you truly care whether I'm happy?"
"Not in the slightest."
She smiles. "I thought as much. I could make you happy, though. You've been so lonely these past few years, haven't you, with only the local escort service of whatever town you're visiting to take care of you? How frustrating it must be, to be unable to get close to anyone for fear they'll find out about your secret life. Don't you ever wish for someone you could really connect with?"
"Wrong fucking thing to ask after your bullet connected with Sam's shoulder."
"I only grazed him. Honestly, you have no sense of when it's the right time to let go of a grudge. I'm here, ready and willing to make amends." She trails her fingers down his jaw, and he bats her hand away.
"Ready and willing to nothing. Back off, Bela."
"You can't tell me you've never thought about it."
"Hey, let me see if I can remember." Dean taps his chin. "Yeah, I got nothing. I have never thought about having sex with you."
"But you're thinking about it now."
"I'm really, really not."
"I've thought about it," she says, baldly. "It's because of your hands. You make a half-assed go of cutting your nails, and you're not afraid to get dirty. Your fingers are always cut-up from your most recent fight. Your palms are like leather, they're so calloused. I'd wager you're gentle, though. You are an uncouth ape at your best, but you wouldn't hurt a woman."
"I think you need to go," he says, with effort. "Just--you can take the beer with you, and one for the road, whatever. Go on."
She's up against him now, smelling like perfume and road dust. "You want me to leave?"
"Yeah, yeah, I do." He doesn't, but fuck, it's Bela, and that is never happening, no, not in a million fucking years, no matter how awesome it feels that she's kissing him right now, for the love of good fucking god. "I hate you," he tells her. "Don't distract me when I'm trying to tell you how much this is so not gonna happen."
"Like I said," she says, tugging at his shirt buttons, "we're not that different, you and me. Bored, lonely, what does it matter? Relax for once and enjoy yourself."
"I hate you so much," Dean informs her, "but you're making an incredible case for your side."
"I'm not certain whether I'm the defense or the prosecution, but it's good to know I'm winning over the judge." She slides his shirt down off his arms and reaches for his shoulder holster.
"Don't touch," he says. "I'll get it. Why the hell would I let you near my weapon?" He unclips the holster and sets it on the kitchenette's counter, then pulls his T-shirt over his head while he's at it. She makes an appreciative noise.
"You won't let me near your gun, but you're going to let me blow you? You need to work on those trust priorities."
He slaps the table. "Objection."
"Sustained."
"Who's making assumptions now? I never said you could blow me."
"You don't want to get off? I'm not sure how this whole sex thing is going to work, then."
"Get on the table and I guess I'll show you." He clears off the beer bottles, the fast-food debris, and Sam's stacks of books.
"Oh, now we're getting somewhere," she says, and lifts herself effortlessly onto the table's edge. She swings her legs, kicking off her shoes. "You're not worried the table might be hard on your knees?"
"Nobody will be on their knees," he says, smiling easily and recapturing his chair.
Bela wiggles her toes at him through her stockings. "When I mentioned appetizers, you weren't meant to take me so literally."
"Are you kidding? This is the main course, baby."
"Make up your mind. Are we in a restaurant or a judicial assembly?"
"Call it a food court. The witness requests that you lift your skirt and display the evidence."
"A painfully tacky pun," she sneers, "but I'll comply."
Dean grasps her ankles. "Exhibit A," he informs her legs. "Black silk stockings, soon to be on the floor."
"You'll be buying me new ones if you put runs in them with your clumsy paws."
"You said you thought I was gentle!"
"I also called you an ape. You are more than capable of gently ruining other people's possessions."
"Fine, take off your own damn stockings."
"I will, then." Bela drapes her legs over his shoulders and reaches up under her skirt.
Dean swallows.
"Calm down, it's called a garter belt. Do you want my stockings on the floor or not?" The clips come loose; an assortment of small knives clatter onto the table. "Now, now, don't give me that look. You have your concealed weapons, I have mine." She peels off her stockings and lets them slide to the floor, then digs her heels into Dean's back. "Well? Come on, then."
"I'd like to reiterate the incredible amount of dislike I hold for you."
"Likewise. Now get your head up my skirt and get me off."
"I'm in no hurry." He raises one of her legs; bites behind her knee to make her flinch.
She smacks his head. "Trying to make me rescind my 'gentle' analysis of your sexual behavior?"
"Pot, kettle, fucking black." He rubs his head and winces, then leans forward to mouth lines up her inner thighs. "Better?" he asks against her skin.
"It's an improvement." She doesn't hit him, and her voice is hitching a little, so Dean guesses he's doing all right.
"Exhibits B and C!" he crows upon reaching her panties and garter belt. "Black, to match the stockings. No lace. Elastic bands. Strictly utilitarian and made to be unrestrictive of movement when fleeing evil beasts in heels and a straight skirt."
"Generally, I'm in trousers and trainers when I'm expecting to flee evil."
"Glad you're not now," Dean breathes, so close to that black fabric that she's got to be feeling his words.
She drags in a breath; locks her legs around his shoulders. "Quit taking so long."
"Getting bored, Bela?" He grabs her hips and jerks her forward against his mouth. The fabric's already damp before he gets his tongue on her. Yeah, that's more like it. He doesn't hurt a woman at all.
Leaning back on her forearms, she takes a deep breath like she's trying to keep composed. "You're--ah, acceptable," she tells him, and when he glances up, she's closed her eyes and clenched her jaw, curling in on herself.
Yeah. He's doing fine, and there's maybe a big stupid grin on his face when he pulls back just long enough to get the undergarments the hell off her. She's flushing all over as he leans back down, something honey-and-smoke all that's left of her perfume, and of course there's the sweat. She'll hate him all the more when this is done, because he's still controlled while she's tense with the need to fucking move, but oh, how reluctant she must be to let him know he can make her writhe.
He's in the middle of drawing a Key of Solomon with his tongue when she finally gives in, grabbing the back of his head and pushing herself against his mouth with a bitten-off "god damn you," and he is so in favour of this development, how she's gripping his head with her thighs and shaking, coming apart around him.
Dean draws back. "Acceptable?"
"I suppose," Bela says, already sliding off the table to find her underwear and stockings and shoes. "See you." Coat draped over her arm, she slips out the door, careful not to let the light hit Dean.
Dean retrieves another beer from the darkened fridge and collapses back into his chair. Goddamn.
"Bela Talbot dropped by the library while I was there," Sam says, after he's sprinkled Dean with a bunch of flowers and read some magic words and crap, rendering Dean free to sunbathe once more. "Said she was looking for something. I think she saw what I was researching--did she show up here?"
"No. Yeah. I, uh. We had a talk, I sent her on her way, that's all," Dean says.
Sam looks unconvinced. "Right. Did you do an inventory of our stuff yet?"
"I watched her the whole time. She didn't touch anything, I swear. I have eyes like a hawk, I'd have seen her if she did."
"So you're missing half your clothes and your amulet for some other reason?"
Dean grabs at his neck. It's bare. "Fucking hell!"
"That's what you get for sleeping with the enemy," sighs Sam, who is going to find himself the victim of an amazing prank as soon as Dean gets his amulet back and thinks up a plot.
"I didn't--we didn't--Sammy, this is so completely none of your business. Pack your shit, we're leaving at daybreak." Dean is totally not going after Bela in hopes of anything besides the return of his amulet. Definitely not.
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no subject
Date: 2008-05-24 10:44 pm (UTC)...that was HOT.
no subject
Date: 2008-05-24 10:48 pm (UTC)*GRIN* Would you believe I've never written that kind of het smut in my life?
eta: I have written het smut, though rarely; it was just a different sort. *headdesk* I've written too much; I can't be trusted to remember what the hell I've done or not!
no subject
Date: 2008-05-24 11:03 pm (UTC)Would you believe I've never written that kind of het smut in my life?
No, I wouldn't believe that, because I'm pretty sure the fic I just read about a guy eating out a girl was both het smut and written by you. :P
no subject
Date: 2008-05-24 11:21 pm (UTC)All right, you grammar-person you, I've edited the sentence again! :p
Would you believe I've never before written that kind of het smut in my life?
no subject
Date: 2008-05-24 11:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-24 11:58 pm (UTC)