Rating: R (warnings beneath spoiler cut)
Summary: It’s been a good week. On Tuesday, Cas came home. Wednesday, they killed Crowley. Thursday, they trapped Naomi in Heaven. Friday, Kevin finally answered their calls, and tonight, Dean celebrated at the local bar and christened the Batcave with a cute little brunette. Yeah, things are finally looking up.
Word Count: 3,800
The sex is consensual while it’s happening, but it is definitely of the dub-con variety, and afterward, one of the participants feels violated and like he violated someone else. There are also non-explicit references to past torture.
It’s been a good week.
On Monday they ganked a nasty ass, son of a bitch ghost. On Tuesday, Cas came home. Wednesday, Cas gutted Crowley like a fish. Thursday, they trapped Naomi in Heaven. Friday, Kevin finally answered their calls. This morning, they reunited him with his mom, and tonight, Dean celebrated at the local bar and christened the Batcave with the cute little brunette lying beside him.
Yeah, it’s been a good week.
They haven’t closed the gates of Hell yet, true, but with Crowley dead, it doesn’t seem nearly as pressing, especially with Sam’s health in the balance. In fact, maybe now without Crowley breathing down their necks, they can take the time to- to make it right, to re-do things; while Kevin translates the third trial, he can do the first two over, the way he meant to; and Sam will get better.
He’ll be okay.
Meanwhile, it’s after midnight, which makes it Sunday, and so he’ll rest. With this pretty girl next to him, and maybe in the morning they’ll fuck again, nice and leisurely, because Crowley’s dead and there’s nowhere he has to be, and any monsters nearby can wait until Monday for their reckoning, and since he’s in such a good mood and they’ve had such a good time tonight, maybe he’ll even cook her up breakfast before he says goodbye.
Yeah, that’s a good plan.
* * *
He wakes to a small hand gripping his dick.
She smiles down at him, green eyes glinting mischievously, and he pumps his hips upward on reflex.
Her smile curves into something more like a smirk, making her look older than the co-ed she is, and she lifts up over him. He just has time to glimpse the slick gleam on her curls before she sinks onto him and his eyes close with a soft groan. They snap open again when he realizes what’s missing.
They used a condom last night, didn’t they? Yeah- yeah, they did, he remembers, because first he was worried that the lone, worn foil packet buried deep in his wallet was too old, and then he was surprised when she produced her own, fresh-faced, virginal-looking thing that she was.
She definitely isn’t using one now, though. He opens his mouth, but it’s still dry from all the drink, and then she shifts her hips just so, and any possible protest flies from mind.
She’ll be on the pill. Or he’ll pull out. No- she’ll pull off. She’s the one in charge here, and that’s- that’s not his usual thing, but right now it’s kind of hot.
The novelty, that’s what it is. She’d seemed so young and naïve in the bar, a farm girl calling Lebanon, Kansas a big city, full of wide-eyed wonder and so many questions about being a “PI” that he just about used up his creativity quota for the month, that he’d half-expected her to change her mind at the last minute and leave him scouting for more decades-old porn.
Instead, when he was braced over her, she’d taken hold of him and whispered, “Can I ride you? Please?” He couldn’t say which affected him more, the bluntness of her request or the soft, innocent drawl in which she made it, but he rolled them right over and then-
She rode him, like a pro, like she’s doing again now, milking his dick for everything it’s worth and then some-
He bucks beneath her and stops thinking, because it’s too much work to think and gasp at the same time-
“Dean. Look at me.”
He does, out of surprise more than anything else. Mixed in with the shock that she just gave him an order is vague surprise that she remembers his name. Means he should probably think of hers.
As though she can read his thoughts, she says softly, “What’s mine?”
It’s a toss up what makes that harder to answer, her green gaze boring into him or the way she squeezes suddenly, forcing another gasp from him. Fuck, it’s been too long since he had anything but his hand, he’s not going to last if she keeps this up-
She stills. It takes a few hazy seconds to realize the deliberateness of it, and when he does, he knows the look on his face must be horrifyingly beseeching. He surges upward- or at least, he tries; she plants a hand on his chest, and he feels like he’s pinned to the bed. That’s- that’s weird, right? She’s such a tiny thing.
He’s probably just hung over. He drank more last night than he has in- in a while, actually. But it was okay, Sam didn’t give him a single sad look the whole night, because it was all in celebration, and even Sammy knocked back a few. The cottony feeling in his head and mouth are totally worth it.
She smiles impishly at him, and his mouth feels even dryer.
She’s serious. Fuck, what was her name? B, b, it started with a buh-
Belle. Right. Because when she told him, he’d said something god-awful, like that it was a fitting name for a true southern belle, and instead of turning her back on him like he deserved, she’d giggled and blushed like she hadn’t, no doubt, heard it a million times before.
He moans as she takes off again, like it’s a magic fucking word.
He passed her test, but she’s still staring down at him, unblinking, like a cat, like a really fucking creepy cat, and he can’t look away. Does she think it’s romantic? If so, there are some misconceptions about what last night meant that he’s gonna have to-
Her hand moves in his peripheral vision, and he glances down just long enough to see her start rubbing her clit before his eyes are dragged upward again. Hers finally close, her lips curving.
Even so, he doesn’t look away. As long as she isn’t staring at him, he doesn’t feel the need. There’s something oddly…compelling about her. Maybe it’s that this isn’t a performance for his benefit- he can tell from the way she smiles to herself as she works her clit, uninhibited, like he might as well not be here. Maybe it’s the smile itself, the way her lips curl just so, like- like-
Triumph, the drunk part of him thinks. Like she’s already gotten off.
Something about the thought is unsettling, but it’s hard to care, not while she’s moving like she is and pleasuring herself at the same time.
He’s still watching, occasionally making sounds he’d be embarrassed by if he were sober, when her lips part and a breathy, almost-sound escapes her. Her rhythm stutters. Her smile widens, relaxes.
The sight brings him to the edge. She’s taken care of, so he can roll them back over now and finish at his own pace, like last night-
Shit, shit, no condom-
She stills, like she read his mind, again. He can’t contain a desperate noise of impatience, but instead of getting off and letting him finish, she leans down and kisses him. She tastes like morning breath and last night’s bourbon, but he lets her do what she wants, lets her tongue explore his mouth- if she needs a kiss to call it done, then whatever, whatever gets this over with because he’s about to explode-
She nips his lip, forcing him to clench, and finally pulls back. Only a few inches, though: she’s still close enough that he can feel the words on his face when she says, “I knew we should have done that years ago.”
Despite his dick and its sore need for attention, Dean feels his brow furrow. As distracting as what she says is the way she says it.
Wasn’t she American last night? He wasn’t that drunk.
Yeah, she was definitely American. Southern Belle. Visiting from Georgia to help her grandparents move. Which was good because it meant this was a one-time thing.
So why does she sound…British?
She finally sits up. The smile that looks more like a smirk is back.
Dean stares at her, and even though his dick is throbbing, he’s too confused to move. “What?”
She shrugs. “I’m not saying it was worth the wait, but it was satisfactory. Wouldn’t you agree?” Her fingers trace patterns on his stomach, making him shiver.
Why are you using an accent? he wants to say, but all he can manage is another, feebler, “W-what?”
Her smile’s so bright he sees dimples. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me, Dean Winchester. I know I made an impression in life. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been quite so eager to get your hands on me.”
Her eyes bleed scarlet. “Down there.”
He yells. Short and high-pitched, and he can’t even be embarrassed because he’s too busy trying to fall off the bed, only he can’t because there is a demon on top of him, oh God, literally on top of him-
Her hand flattens on his stomach, fingers splayed, and he freezes, pathetically aware that it’s not because she’s using demon magic on him but because he’s prey, caught in the hunter’s cross-hairs. For the first time he realizes how long her nails are.
Her eyes are green and glinting again, but this time they’re mocking him. “You never forget your first, do you, Dean?”
The pit of his stomach drops away, even though he’s horizontal. No.
“I remember mine,” the demon continues, almost cheerfully. “Tweedy little accountant. Sold her soul to save her sister from being a vegetable after a car crash. I couldn’t relate, obviously, but she reminded me of you; I appreciated that.
“It took me a lot longer to get off the rack, of course. Not because I was any more righteous than you. Quite the opposite, actually. Day one I was begging to wield the knife myself. Anything to get off. But I wasn’t given the choice like you were. Not for a century or two.” She pauses, considering. “Maybe three. You lose track after a while.”
She shrugs again, like it doesn’t matter, but her eyes cut into him, making him feel guilty for things he never imagined feeling guilt for. “Most aren’t, you know. Given the choice. You were special. But you don’t need me to tell you that.”
Her pause this time feels like an invitation, or maybe a command.
His voice comes out creaky like an old man’s, as though he wears every one of those forty years. And it comes out as a question, even though he knows the answer. He knows he knows the answer because his stomach’s churning so hard there’s a chance he’s actually going to puke all over her. Which would be a novel if ineffective way of reacting to demons.
Demon, Bela’s a demon.
The smile she gives him, he could almost believe she’s still just the pretty girl he picked up in the bar last night.
He reacts on pure instinct, bucking again, for an entirely different reason. She laughs as he flails, and when he tries to sit up, she pushes him back down, like he weighs nothing.
“H-h-how?” he gasps, without meaning to.
Her eyebrows shoot up, and for the first time her tone is scathing. “How? How do you think? I spent almost a millennium in Hell, that’s how. What’s the matter, Dean?” Her eyes burn red again. “Don’t like seeing what you could have been? What you were starting to become?”
She barks out a mirthless, derisive laugh. “You keep telling yourself that, Dean.”
The spite twisting her face, where before there was just scornful amusement, has him squirming in vain for a weapon. All his guns are on the wall out of reach- dammit, this is what he gets for nesting, fuck, why did he think he could sleep without one just because Crowley was dead, just because they were in the Batcave- and they’d be useless against a demon anyway, and Sam has Ruby’s knife-
No, no, he can’t call Sam-
“Oh, buck up, Dean,” she orders, and he’s startled into meeting her gaze again. “You look positively terrified. It’s flattering, but do not die of fright on me. That would be so boring, and I’ve just started with you.”
There’s a lurching feeling in his chest, and his throat constricts so tightly he wouldn’t be able to speak even if he knew what to say.
His balls ache from not coming, but the nausea’s worse.
She shifts, and he tenses for a struggle- but instead of trying to force his softening dick back to life, she’s getting off him, off the bed, and looking down at him with such smirking condescension that for a split second he sees her face, her real one, and can’t understand how he didn’t recognize her last night.
“Don’t worry. I’m not here to kill you,” she says, even though the first thing he does is scramble for the blankets, not his weapons. “If I’d wanted to do that, I could have done it while you were sleeping. Or while you were…otherwise distracted.” Her eyes flick down him, reminding him that just because she’s off him doesn’t mean any part of him is in any less danger.
He hates himself for it, but he can’t keep from bunching the blankets over his groin. Like that would actually help anything if she attacked. Or decided to do other stuff.
Her grin is enough to make his face feel like it’s on fire.
“Last night-” he chokes out. “The whole time…”
“The whole time,” she echoes. “Fun, wasn’t it? You’re a scintillating conversationalist, Dean. Really. I can’t understand why someone hasn’t scooped you up yet. And with your profession, too- I mean, being a PI is so fascinating. What could the turn-off be?” She taps her chin. “Maybe it’s the fact that you’re a little old to be playing pretend?”
He can't answer. Even his ears feel like they’re burning.
She cocks her head. “Where was I? Oh, not killing you. Luckily for you, I’m over my grudge. You killed Crowley, and that saved me time, effort, and a lot of planning. So consider us even.”
“Even?” Only after the word’s out does he realize his mistake.
Her blithe gaze turns sharp. “You do remember, don’t you? I do, and it’s been much longer for me.”
“No, please! Dean, please, no- no, no, no, Dean, pl-”
Of course he remembers. He hasn’t thought of her in a long time, not with endless new nightmares to replace the old ones; but-
You never forget your first.
Her eyes demand acknowledgment. And honestly, he’s afraid to deny her.
He swallows. “Y-yes. I do.”
What does she want, an apology? He is sorry, he was so, so sorry when he got out, when he was himself again, and if she were just Bela he’d say it, but she’s not just Bela anymore, not if her eyes are scarlet, and if she’s not here to kill him, what does she want with him?
For the first time her she’s looking at him levelly, without a secret hidden behind her eyes or her smile. Something inside him wavers.
No. What he did- it can’t matter anymore if she’s a demon; he has to kill her. Or- send her back to Hell, at least. ‘Cause that’s- that’s where she belongs now.
He looks away.
To have any power he needs the knife, which means he needs time, which means he needs a gun, which means he needs a distraction-
“H-how did you get in here?” The Batcave was supposed to be warded; they were supposed to be safe.
Her eyes flash, making him wonder what she expected him to say. The contempt that had briefly disappeared returns, stronger.
Her voice is controlled, though. “You really think I’m going to give away all my secrets?”
She turns, bending toward the pile of hastily discarded clothing from last night.
He throws aside the covers and lunges for the wall-
His feet fly out from under him, and the next second he’s back on the bed, spread-eagled, limbs locked in place, his head hurting way more than he’d have thought possible considering it slammed into a pillow.
“You haven’t changed much, have you, Dean?” She doesn’t sound surprised. Or annoyed, which is probably a good thing. “Still think a gun will solve everything.”
“You were a shoot-first-ask-questions-later kind of person, too, I recall,” he says through gritted teeth. He tries to move, but she’s as good as Crowley ever was; he can’t so much as wiggle.
She actually rolls her eyes. “And clearly that worked out well for me.” She puts on her bra, a light pink number he thought made her look soft and innocent last night.
“You’re not going anywhere until I say you can,” she says, almost conversationally. “Feel free to call for Sam, but I’ll just freeze him, too.”
His attempt to not react must be shit because seconds later her eyes narrow.
“Not going to call him? Your martyrdom complex really hasn’t improved, has it. Won’t put darling Sammy in the way of a big bad demon who’s already promised not to kill you?”
He can’t look her in the eye, so he doesn’t see when realization hits, but he hears the sharp, damning intake of breath.
“Oh. He doesn’t know, does he? Does he, Dean. You never told baby brother what you did to me. How you sliced and diced yourself some Bela Talbot.”
She laughs. “Yes, because that usually does the trick. Try seeing what ‘please’ will get you.”
“What- what do you want?” He hates giving her the satisfaction of begging for information, but it’s the only distraction he can think of.
“What do I want?” She considers him. “Well, this.” Her gaze is clinical rather than leering, so he guesses she means his terror, not his extremely naked body. “And you’ve been a thorn in my predecessors’ sides for so long that I figured I should get re-acquainted with what I’ll be dealing with.”
His breath catches in his throat. “You killed Crowley…consider us even.”
“Oh, did I forget my fanfare?” Her eyes fucking sparkle. “Congratulations, sweetie; you were just fucked by the new queen of Hell.”
He feels like he’s going to choke on his own tongue. This nightmare is never-ending. “You’re queen?”
“You sound so surprised. Did you really think I’d be content to be a mere crossroads demon for the rest of my un-life? You know me better than that, Dean. I was never one to work for the man.”
He finds a grain of courage. “Honestly, I hadn’t given you a lot of thought period lately.”
The way her eyes narrow is enough to make him regret his bravado, but all she says is, “Well, that’ll change, won’t it?” She retrieves a matching pair of underwear from the floor and continues, “So yes, I’m queen now. Been planning it for a while, in case you were getting any ideas that this was a short-lived coup during a power vacuum. Not that the vacuum didn’t speed the process up quite a bit. I really do appreciate you boys taking care of Crowley for me. It was so helpful.”
She dresses while she speaks, without the slightest bit of hurry or embarrassment. He’s used to one-night stands dressing quickly in the morning, their confidence in the middle of the night turning to shyness in the harsh light of day. But Bela takes her time- with the zipper of her dress, fetching a comb from her purse- and never tries to hide anything.
And why should she? This isn’t her body that she’s flaunting. It’s another woman’s. And that other woman might be buried, or she might be wide awake in there, trapped in her own mind but fully aware of what’s going on, and he just-
Dean tries not to gag.
“So helpful that, as I said, I’m not looking to kill you.”
Hopefully, that means she also won’t let him choke to death on his own vomit if he pukes while still frozen.
“Or baby brother.”
No, she’s looking to do something much worse than simply killing them. He just doesn’t know what yet.
She sits next to him on the bed as she slips on her heels. “It doesn’t have to be like it was like with Crowley, Dean. None of this trying to close the gates of Hell business. I’m sure we can find a way for our relationship to be…mutually beneficial.”
When his face says exactly what he thinks of that idea, she snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself.” Her eyebrows knit. “Although, no need to look so disgusted either. Nothing wrong with a little recreational demon play. Sam certainly liked it with what’s-her-name. It’s no secret your pet angel is trying to figure out how to bring dear Meg back from the not-so-great beyond. Thanks to me, you can finally join the club.”
She reaches toward him, and he can’t flinch away. Her hand cups his cheek, soft and warm. She smiles at him, and he waits for an inevitable, unavoidable kiss.
Her hand drops. “Well, I need to dash. Kingdom to run, souls to torture. I’m sure you remember the drill.” She stands, purse in hand. “I’ll let myself out. Enjoy telling Sam that this time you fucked the evil she-demon.”
She’s at the door when his muscles loosen. He gasps as prickles erupt all over his body from not moving for so long.
Bela flutters her fingers in a little wave. “I’ll be in touch, sweetie.”
She slips out the door.
The logical thing to do would be to tear after her, but a minute ticks by before he can make himself move. Eventually his legs work well enough to stumble to the nearest gun and then the door.
There’s no sign of her in the main room. His hand shakes when he raps on Sam’s door, making the knock less purposeful than he needs it to be.
“Sam?” His voice comes out hoarse, so he raises it. “Sammy? Are you all right?”
A muffled, annoyed grunt sounds from the other side of the door. “Yeah! Why?”
“No reason,” he manages, and makes it to the bathroom just in time.
He hangs his head over the toilet, dry heaving when there’s nothing else left. Bela’s back, and he fucked that lithe young body that’s not hers, and Bela’s back, and years ago she was a huge pain in his ass but she was also a human pain in his ass, and now she’s a demon, and he fucked her, and that could have been him.
There’s a tentative knock on the bathroom door. “Dean? Are you okay?”
No, he’s really not.
“Is your, uh, friend in there with you?”
“No! M’fine,” he manages. “One minute.”
He gargles with tap water and splashes some on his face. When he straightens, he can’t avoid his own gaze. He looks older than he did last night.
He thought that with Crowley dead, he would finally start liking what he saw in the mirror again.
Turning away from his reflection, he opens the door to face Sam.