milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Sammy was right, Dean really needed to get out. He is especially glad he decided to get out when he nails another one of the bunnies with his Winchester shotgun. What can he say, it's a guy thing.

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He's panting as well, wanting more, his whole body screaming at him that she is everything he wants and has ever wanted and to just reach out and touch her and kiss her again, to never let her go, but he doesn't. He just stands there, panting.

"I'm nothing you have to fear, either."

Desire's hand flexes and relaxes next to her side, as if she were stifling the urge to reach out, to touch. To recapture that moment -- and perhaps it's a little reassuring, knowing he's not the only one wanting right now.

"I can offer you everything you've ever wanted."

Those gold eyes have yet to leave Dean's face.

"Not that you'll be satisfied on having it."

He mentally composes himself, fighting urges. "Everything, huh?"

She doesn't answer and merely raises an eyebrow.
Everything.

She's still well within grasp.

He gently places his hand on her neck, now running his fingers through her soft, perfect brown hair. "Can you tell me where my father is?"

Her eyes flutter closed a moment, leaning into the touch. Lingering.

When they open again, they're full of sadness.

"One step ahead of you, Dean."

His desire turns to anger and his hand tightens in her hair, pulling it a bit harder. He moves in closer, his lips almost on hers. "Where is he?" It's a guttural growl.

She gasps, twisting slightly in his grasp.
Oh, yes. This, Desire understands -- better than sorrow, better than pity or apologies. She makes a feeble attempt at a struggle, playing weak and whimpering behind half-lidded eyes.

And then her hands are on him again, clasped behind his head and drawing him in for a fierce kiss.
"Out of your reach, as long as you're Bound," she hisses, words pressed hard against his mouth.

His face forms a horrible visage of anger and then he plunges his mouth back into hers, letting the anger and the desire become one, embracing them unrelentingly.

Passion. Anger. Desire. Need.

She knows how to use those, fanning the flames higher: She could disappear in a moment, but the anger at that
(abandonment)
tactic wouldn't burn out or cool, not with Dean. Her hands clench and hold, fingernails threatening to bite into his shoulder, even through his clothing: Four points of pressure, tearing at his shirt as she takes his passion and feeds it right back. Her mouth moves from his lips and along his chin, trailing nothing so gentle as kisses: She reaches the side of his neck where it meets his jaw, biting him.

Take me, her grin had said earlier.
Take me, everything about her body dares, crushed up against his. Take me.

Now.

He buries his hand deeper into her hair, pulling harder and giving himself completely to her. He presses against her, gasping, his mouth moving from her mouth to her neck to the air again as she bites him. He goes to her all to her. He is the lamb and she is the slaughter.

He wants her now.

And Desire knows it -- she can feel it in each gasping breath Dean takes, in the rushing throb of his pulse against her lips. She allows her head to fall back, following the pull of Dean's hand in her hair: Throat exposed, breathing raggedly, it has all the appearance that he's the one in control -- but he isn't, the potential
(fade-out)
end of this never more than an instant away.
"Room," she gasps as his hands fist harder in her hair, his mouth descending to her throat. "Where?"

The words come out in a deep, animalistic growl. "Upstairs." He pulls her close, harshly, and holds her for a moment, staring into her golden eyes before grabbing her by the hand and dragging her, willingly, up to the room.

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