Fic: No Relief In Bitterness (Jaimie/Dean)
Author:
siricerasi
Fandom: Dark Blue (TV)
Characters/pairings: Jaimie/Dean
Rating: R
Word count: ~5600
Warnings: pornographic images, dub-con
Spoilers: through season 1
Summary: "As she stares at the girl in the photos, a kid she hardly recognizes, those eyes stare back with defiance, with anguish. A challenge, a surrender, a drugged out conviction that this was the only life she’d ever know, this was a reality she could never escape."
Author's Notes: Written for
hc_bingo, prompts extortion, homesickness, blood loss, wild card (prostitution). Title/cut lyrics from "Witchcraft" by Pendulum
ngh, posting this with a migraine to meet deadline so there are probably mistakes and it's not edited to my taste. Excuse suckiness.
She’d been positive, absolutely positive, that Billy wasn’t coming back.Until she wakes up one morning to find an envelope slipped under her door, the words “Remember This?” scribbled in black marker across the front in his unmistakable scrawl. She pulls out a stack of photos with trembling hands, finds images of a thousand different nights she’d spent with a thousand different men. She doesn’t remember most of them, as high as she’d been when Billy had sold her off for more drugs. In several she’s with two men at once, in a few, more than that.
She doesn’t remember, not details, just a large blur of skin and sweat and her mouth around them. She doesn’t want to remember.
Eventually her hands start shaking so badly the pile falls onto the floor, scattering her shame across the room as she falls to her knees. As she stares at the girl in the photos, a kid she hardly recognizes, those eyes stare back with defiance, with anguish. A challenge, a surrender, a drugged out conviction that this was the only life she’d ever know, this was a reality she could never escape.
Her phone rings, shattering the deafening silence, and her heart jumps so rapidly she’s surprised it doesn’t burst from her chest. She whispers, “Hello?”, already knowing who will answer.
“Did you get my present?” Billy’s drawl is cruel, calculating. She can’t answer for a moment, refusing to let him hear her voice shake.
Eventually, she hisses coldly, “What’d’you what?”
“You screwed me,” he starts slowly. “Again, Jaimie. You think you’re so much better than me, with your gun and badge. But you can’t change what you are, bitch.” Jaimie feels tears begin to stream down her cheeks, desperately bites back a sob. She will not give him that satisfaction.
“You are trash,” Billy continues harshly. “I’m going to ruin your life, Jaimie. I’m going to take everything from you, all of this crap you have that you don’t deserve. You’re a liar, you’re a cheat, and I’m not gonna let you live the good life while the rest of us rot in hell.”
Jaimie can’t breathe.
“I’m gonna come take what you owe me, whore. And you’re gonna smile and moan and say my name all fucking night long or I swear to god these pictures go to your preppy boyfriend. And hey, how about the chief of police?”
She wants to protest. She wants to scream that she doesn’t owe him a thing, that if he comes around again she’ll put a bullet in his brain, but she knows he’s right. She’d screwed him, she’d screwed a lot of people, and even if Billy didn’t deserve this from her she deserves to have it taken. She almost wants him to give the pictures to Scott, to finally end the lies.
Instead she freezes.
Jaimie doesn’t freeze. She’s lived on the edge for far too long to afford that luxury. But here she is.
A knock on the door tears her out of her thoughts. she hears Dean calling her name, then a click as Billy hangs up.
“Jaimie, why the hell aren’t you answering your phone?” Dean’s voice is muffled through the door, and she knows she should answer, should try to clean up the mess around her, but her body just won’t listen to her brain. “Jaimie??”
She tries to answer, she really does. But nothing will come out, and then she hears the key she gave him (emergency only) click in the lock and suddenly he’s kneeling in front of her. She watches him glances around the room, taking in all the photos, but when he looks back at her she sees none of the disgust she’d feared, only concern and confusion.
“Sweetheart, what happened?” He touches her hands gently where they rest on her thighs and she jumps, automatically withdraws, and immediately feels guilty. The guarded worry on his face is disorienting, unexpected. He keeps his hand resting on her leg, rubbing his thumb along her skin soothingly, not letting her pull away. “Jaimie,” he murmurs again. “Talk to me. Where’d these come from?”
She swallows and stares at his hand, focusing her eyes anywhere but the photos. “Billy,” she whispers, voice trembling despite her best efforts to keep it steady.
“What does he want?” His fingers reach out again to grip her hand, warm and reassuring against hers, cold and trembling. Somehow his touch, just that one little point of contact, is more comforting than any sex or drugs could ever be. She knows it should make her feel dirty, just reaffirms that she’s a whore, a lying, conniving piece of crap, but it’s Dean and it doesn’t.
“Jaimie.” His gentle voice snaps her back to reality, soft in a way she rarely hears, and only ever for her. “I thought you said he wouldn’t be coming around?”
She sighs shakily, shrugs a little. “Didn’t think he would. Didn’t know…” She bites her tongue, squeezes her eyes shut tightly. This can’t be happening, it can’t.
Dean squeezes her hand a little. “What does he want?” he asks again quietly. She clenches her jaw, feels a single tear sneak under her eyelid and wipes at it furiously.
“Same thing they did,” she shrugs dismissively, gesturing wildly at the photos. Dean’s face hardens, eyes glinting dangerously. “Says after everything I put him through…” she chokes. “Says he deserves it.”
“The hell he does.” She almost doesn’t recognize his growl, voice quiet and deadly. He grabs her chin when she starts to shake her head, forcing her eyes up to his. “Jaimie. The guy is scum, okay? You don’t owe him a thing, he’s not getting a thing from you. You understand me?”
A little piece inside of her dies. “So I’m scum too?” she whispers. She can’t meet his gaze, feels like her pride and her spirit should be scattered around the floor like so many pictures.
But he won’t let her look away, strokes her cheek gently with his thumb. She sees guilt and horror in his eyes, so genuine she knows she’ll believe anything he says.
“No, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Jaimie, you are not trash. You are nothing like him.” She wants to believe. She does. But Billy’s voice is still echoing around inside her brain, words ringing far too true. He’d known her for at least ten years; Dean has known her all of one.
She takes a shallow breath, turns her head out of his hand and stands. “Sure. Fine. Just… just gimme a minute, okay? I’ll be ready in five, meet you at your car.”
He stands slowly, watching her with a look she can’t even begin to decipher and isn’t sure she wants to. “What’re you gonna do?” he asks quietly as she turns away, not wanting him to see her face. She wraps her arms tightly around herself.
“Don’t worry about it,” she mutters, kneeling again to start picking up the pictures with shaking hands.
He sighs, a frustrated edge to it. “I worry, Jaimie.” His tone bring tears to her eyes, kind in a way she can’t understand, and she blinks them away furiously. She doesn’t answer, knows her voice will break if she tries, and finally he just leaves.
She manages to keep herself under control until his footsteps fade, and only then does she let herself curl up on the floor and sob.
***
Dean doesn’t worry.
It’s just not in his nature. He leaves that to Carter, lets him destroy his brain wondering about the million possible outcomes; Dean just acts. Worry gets overrun by adrenaline, fades to almost excitement, or maybe anxiety, but not worry.
Dean is worried.
Part of him hates Jaimie for it. He’s gotten this far in relatively one piece strictly because he doesn’t care, not about people or possessions (besides the occasional cold beer and his guns) or really his own safety. Because worry about any of those things could make him hesitate, and even a moment’s hesitation could have gotten him dead a thousand times over.
Jaimie makes him completely stop in his tracks, and it’s beyond frustrating - it’s fucking dangerous.
But here he is.
It’s been at least ten minutes and he’s about to go back to her apartment when she appears, even paler than she’d been when he’d practically broken her door down.
The worry surges.
But he says nothing as she climbs into his car, knows that if he pushes her too hard she’d just shut down completely on him, and possibly run. That scares him the most right now, the feeling he has that she might just pick up and leave at any moment. He doesn’t think she’d survive another move, another reset, and it bothers him more than it should.
He watches her for a moment, the way her jaw clenches, until finally he starts, “Jaimie-”
“I’m fine,” she snaps. He raises an eyebrow, just looking at her, and she thumps her head back against the seat, closing her eyes. “Sorry,” she mutters. “I…”
“It’s okay.” He desperately wants to touch her, comfort her, but he knows she’d hate that. Knows she wants him to think she’s unbreakable.
He’d long ago learned that no one is unbreakable.
They sit in silence for a moment, and he desperately, desperately wants to ask if she’s okay, wants to just fix it.
Instead he starts the car.
***
They spend the day trailing a lead, following him from gas station to coffee shop to strip club. Dean doesn’t think Jaimie would’ve noticed if the guy had danced around naked in front of her.
He takes her to his place that night, which she doesn’t even realize until she’s standing in his hallway and the door clicks behind them.
“Dean…”
“You’re not staying alone tonight,” he tells her firmly. “I’ll sleep on the couch if you want, but there’s no way in hell I’m leaving you alone.”
She sits down hard in one of his old wooden chairs, rests her head in her hands and starts to cry.
He kneels before her, brushes her hair back gently. He wants to tell her it’ll be okay, it’ll work out. But it won’t be, so he doesn’t. Instead her lifts her up, carries her to his bed as she wraps her arms so tightly around his neck he can hardly breathe.
He lays her down, pulls the blankets over them as he tucks her under his chin and curls around her protectively. He doesn’t think she’s ever had anyone to just hold her, keep her safe, and the thought of her alone tonight makes him nauseous.
“I’m here,” he breathes. She shudders, gives a tiny whimper that tears at his heart. “Shh, I’m right here, sweetheart. You’re safe.”
He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to leave her alone again.
***
The bed is cold when he wakes, and he’s instantly alert. He slips silently from the bed, almost goes for his gun before he sees Jaimie’s silhouette against the light filtering in the back door, sitting at the table.
He flicks a lamp on low and pads over, watching her blind rapidly against the light. She’s clutching a mug of tea with white knuckles, knees to her chest.
“How long’ve you been awake?” he asks softly, settling in a chair next to her. She shrugs, stares at the table blankly. “You could’ve woken me up, sweetheart.”
She just trembles.
Dean sighs softly, reaches out to cup his hands gently around hers where they grip the mug. She swallows, blinking back tears as he strokes the back of one hand lightly with his thumb.
The worry returns, augmented by rage. All he wants to do is tear Billy’s heart from his chest and feed it to him. He wants to hunt down every single man in those pictures and break every bone in their bodies, or make it so they never enjoy anyone’s touch again.
But he swallows all of that, because he knows it’s the last thing she needs.
Part of him wants to let her be, to just sit in silence and give her the space he knows she wants. But he also knows how easily she spirals in her head, knows that Scott’s breakup with her is still far too fresh in her mind. He’s fairly certain it didn’t end well, to deal with this on top of everything else…
Her shallow, rapid breathing drags him from his thoughts. There’s a crossword puzzle sitting on his table that she’d clearly started, and he picks it up to find a blank clue.
“Five letter word for ‘chasm’,” he states into the silence. Her eyes flick up to his in surprise, pale face almost glowing in the dim light. He can feel her shaking, with one hand still covering her cold ones, but as they fill the puzzle in slowly she starts to calm down.
When he writes in the last word, Dean finds himself grinning. “Y’know, I don’t think I’ve ever actually finished one of these.”
“You should see my collection.” Her voice is raspy, the full sentence almost sounding strange after an hour or two of one word answers.
He raises his eyebrows. “You keep all of them?” She smiles tightly, sadly.
“What’d you think I have in all those boxes?” she responds bitterly. “It’s not like I have nice stuff of my own or things I’ve collected over the years or-” She chokes off, swallowing hard, and he feels his chest constrict tightly. He reaches out impulsively to take her hands again, squeezing tightly.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says softly. And doesn’t really know what else to tell her.
She retracts one hand to wipe furiously at her eyes. “I know,” she sniffs. “I know, I just… I…” She bites her tongue, clearly struggling to control her voice. He runs his thumb reassuringly along her skin, wishes there were something he could say or do to make this any easier for her.
“I ran away from home when I was sixteen,” she tells him in a tiny voice. “I ran away and left everything, everyone behind, and the next seven years are just a blur. I have nothing, no one from my whole damn life except…” She gestures at the offending manila envelope sitting innocently on the kitchen counter, somehow taking up half the room.
“I don’t remember them.” She glances at him hesitantly as she speaks, eyes flicking away as though afraid of what she might see. “Or not clearly, anyway. Just… flashes, so many pieces blurred together…” She shakes her head sharply. “I don’t want to remember, not any of it.”
“No one’s asking you to,” he murmurs, then amends, “No one who matters.”
She bites her lip, staring fixedly at her hands. “I can’t stop,” she whispers. “It’s like… like they-” She gestures back at the envelope on his bed. “It’s like it opened something in my head and I can’t stop remembering.” She’s trembling again, he realizes. He’d never fully appreciated how fragmented her past had been; he’d always assumed the memories were there, even if she never talked about them.
“I don’t want to remember, Dean,” she pleads. “I don’t think I can handle it.”
He can’t stand to see her so scared, so degraded.
He tugs at her hand, pulling her onto his lap where he wraps his arms tightly around her. “I feel like I’m going insane,” she chokes, burying her face into his shoulder. “I can’t… I can’t sleep, I can’t get out my head, I keep… my memory keeps getting triggered by the smallest, randomest things and it’s all so real…” She sobs once, harshly.
“Hey, hey,” he soothes, cupping her head gently with one hand. “Okay, sweetheart, relax, breathe. I know it feels real but it’s not, baby. That’s all over, alright? You’re safe here, you’re safe with me.”
She can only sob.
As he holds her trembling body, rocking her gently, her words slowly sink in. This couldn’t all be about today - it couldn’t.
When she’s calmed a little he asks softly, “How long has this been going on, Jaimie?”
She shudders, pulls back a little and swipes at her eyes with shaking hands. He can see her expression close off, can tell she’s about to lie - and then a bone-weary exhaustion sweeps across her face, and she lays her head back against his shoulder. “Since Billy came back,” she mumbles. “And Scott…” Her little self-defacing shrug makes the rage flare.
He brushes her hair back from her eyes with disturbingly steady hands, and wonders when this anger will have a chance to vent. For a moment he’s actually terrified of himself, but Jaimie’s breath catches and all he can think of is her.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” he whispers. His throat closes over with guilt as he thinks of her spending her nights alone, shaking in the dark, for all these weeks.
She laughs humorlessly. “What would I say? ‘Hey, I can’t sleep or eat or fucking think straight because I’m having flashbacks of when I was a fucking criminal?’”
“Yes,” he breathes, clutching her closer. “You say whatever the hell you want, sweetheart, but just say something.” He kisses her cheek lightly, feels an ugly despair settle into his chest when she just turns away. They’re going to have to take some time off, he decides absently. If only because she can’t function in the field like this. He wonders what he’ll tell Carter, wonders how badly Jaimie will take it, wonders if she’ll try to run, and his throat is closing up as the thoughts race around and Jaimie’s spine is digging into his arm far too sharply.
Out of all the horrors in his mind the only thing he manages to voice is, “You need to eat something,” and then she’s laughing against him because it’s just so goddamn tiny against the weight of it all.
But it’s something he can fix.
When her laugh turns somewhat hysterical he rubs a soothing hand along her back, tries desperately to calm her down, because if she has a panic attack or a breakdown on top of everything because of his stupid fucking inability to communicate he doesn’t think he’d ever forgive himself.
“Look, let’s figure all this out in the morning, okay?” he murmurs. “It’s the middle of the night, and you’re worn out and exhausted and everything always seems worse at night.” He’s rambling, he knows he is, but he doesn’t know how else to help her. Her eyelids are fluttering against her pale skin, her dark eyes so worn, and all he wants to do is wrap her up in his arms and keep her here, safe and warm, forever. He knows how irrational that desire is, knows it goes against every survival instinct in his body, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting it.
He almost wishes he could just stop caring.
She shifts a little and he can see her biting her lip, hesitation smeared across her face. “You need some rest, honey,” he pleads. “I promise you, everything will look a little easier when you’re not so tired. Just come back to bed, baby, please.”
He’s fucking begging. It’s an entirely new experience, and one he doesn’t particularly enjoy. But it seems to work, as Jaimie nods slowly into his shoulder.
He doesn’t even close his eyes after that, keeping watch over her rest. She looks haggard, gaunt in her sleep, curled against him. And he knows that even now she’s probably the farthest person from helpless he knows, knows she’s survived shit most people couldn’t even imagine, but he can’t help feeling like right now a wrong word, a rogue touch, could shatter her.
So he watches.
***
She wakes to rough sheets, the smell of coffee and tequila and Dean.
It’s the first morning in awhile that she doesn’t want to curl back up and sleep forever.
Still, she never wants to leave this bed, this place. Never wants to leave Dean’s side.
It’s pathetic.
She blinks as he sits beside her with two mugs, smiling softly.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Coffee or tea?”
She swallows against a dry throat, rasps, “Tea.” She pushes up against the headboard, taking a cup as he sips from the other. The sunlight filtering in is far too bright, and she mumbles, “What time’s it?”
Dean shrugs. “Around noon. Don’t worry about it.” As she looks closer she sees lines of exhaustion on his face, dark circles under his eyes. Guilt floods her chest, that she’d brought him into this, that she’d made him worry. She wants to protest, to say they really do need to worry about it and get to work, but one look at his face and her voice dies in her throat.
Instead, she asks, “Did you sleep?”
He snorts. “Coming from the girl who hasn’t slept in weeks? That’s rich.”
“I’ve slept,” she protests weakly. Sure, a few hours here and there. Dean just raises an eyebrow.
“Sure, and I’m the king of England.” Jaimie makes a face. “What’d’you want for breakfast?”
She almost chokes on the hot tea. “Careful, champ, you might turn into a nice guy here.”
He shrugs, and the look on his face makes her want to run. “Figured it’s about time someone in your life was,” he states. She swallows, closing her eyes against the emotion that floods her chest. And suddenly she can’t breathe, feels the world tipping and warm hands grab her shoulders. “Jaimie,” Dean says. His voice drags her back as she sucks down air. “Jaimie, sweetheart, look at me.”
She does, feels tears spill down her cheeks at the compassion in his eyes. “We’re gonna work this out,” he tells her gently. “I promise you.”
Later she’s eating scrambled eggs and toast, her body tucked against his, and with food and warmth and safety she finally feels herself start to relax a little for the first time in weeks. She wants to cling to this moment, to never leave this bed.
Dean is running gentle fingers along her arm, grounding her with terrifying ease. And all she can is, “This is good.” He laughs.
“Don’t sound so surprised. I’ll have you know I’m a very good cook when I get half a minute to try.” She puts her plate aside and nuzzles a little deeper into his side, breathing in the smell of cheap linen and coffee. He kisses the top of her head lightly as she closes her eyes, and she finds herself whimpering at the sudden release of tension, built up over the past few months.
He tightens his arms around her a little, whispers, “I’ve got you, baby.” As she buries her face into his shoulder she lets the tears fall, lets a little of it just go. And he just sits with her, running a gentle hand along her back as she cries, and she’s never felt more loved in her whole damn life.
How had she let herself push him away for so long?
(Because she doesn’t deserve this.)
“What’d you tell Carter?” Her voice sounds harsh, grating to her ears as she struggles to shut her brain up.
“Just that we needed the day,” Dean murmurs. “But… I’m gonna hafta tell him something, Jaimie.”
She sighs harshly. “I know.” The last thing she wants is for their boss to know how on the edge she is right now, how little she trusts herself. Dean reaches up to stroke her hair, fingernails scratching gently against her scalp, and she shivers with pleasure.
“Let me tell him about Billy,” he pleads. “Please, Jaimie, let us help you.” God, she wants to. She desperately just wants this to go away, all of it. But they don’t deserve to be pulled into this; it’s her mess, her fault.
“I need to do this on my own,” she mumbles. She feels his body tense, can tell how much effort it’s taking to keep himself under control.
“Why?” he asks, voice very carefully neutral and quivering with forced calm. “Why the hell should you have to do this alone, Jaimie?”
“It’s my problem, my fault. My responsibility.”
“The hell it is.” He’s practically vibrating with anger now, and she has absolutely no idea who it’s directed at. “I looked at his file, after we closed the case. Assault, murder, possession, pimping… Billy isn’t a nice guy, Jaimie. And I’m guessing you didn’t have a lot of say in what happened in those pictures.”
“They didn’t all fucking rape me,” she snaps, pulling away to stand. Just because she doesn’t remember details doesn’t make that false, and she won’t let herself be a victim. She will not. She backs up against the wall with arms folded tightly across her chest.
Dean slowly stands. “I thought you didn’t remember?” he says softly. “Sweetheart, even if you weren’t raped you are clearly so drugged in these you can’t be in any position to be consenting.”
“Shut up,” she hisses, squeezing her eyes shut tightly. The memories flash, like a broken camera on repeat, over and over and over and she can’t remember. Not the time, or the place, not anything but the feeling of skin on skin and sweat and-
“How did Billy get these?”
She freezes. “I… I don’t know,” she stutters, shocked. “I…” Dean is close enough now to place his hands gently on her shoulders. She thinks his presence should feel confining, terrifying, but it doesn’t. It only feels safe.
If only he’d shut up.
“He pimped you out,” he murmurs, running his thumbs along her skin. “He kept you so addicted you couldn’t tell one guy from the next, he used the drugs as your payment and he took these pictures…” She watches him swallow hard, feels bile rising in her throat. She’d always known Billy wanted, but this…
She bolts to the bathroom and throws up all of Dean’s nicely cooked breakfast.
She feels his hands steady her, one hand rubbing her back soothingly as her body spasms, slowly quieting. He pulls her back against him when she starts to cry, harshly, wraps his arms so tightly around her she can hardly breathe.
“It’s not your fault,” he breathes, rocking her slowly. “You were just a kid, sweetheart, it wasn’t your fault. And you don’t owe Billy a goddamn thing, you understand me?”
All she can do is sob.
It takes many long minutes before she can control herself enough to breathe properly. And Dean just sits with her, still rubbing her back, and she doesn’t deserve him.
“I puked up your breakfast,” she whispers, because it’s the only thing she can find to say. He laughs a little, smoothing back her hair.
“I guess I need some practice still.” He runs a hand in gentle circles on her stomach, kissing her forehead. “I see what you meant by you can’t eat,” he murmurs, and she winces.
“It’s not normally so bad,” she mumbles.
“Or you just normally don’t eat.” His words ring in her ears with soft clarity, and all she can do is turn her face into his shoulder. “We’re gonna figure this out, Jaimie,” he tells her firmly. “I’m not gonna let that asshole ruin your life again. Neither are you.”
She nods against him, still struggling to breathe. “I know,” she says in a small voice. “I know, I’m sorry, I should be able to handle this-”
“That’s not what I meant,” he breaks in gently. “I just… This is the one thing I’m good at, sweetheart. I know I’m not a good friend, or boyfriend, or… hell, I’m not a very good person, but taking down bad guys? I can do that.”
She trembles.
“Please let me help you,” he whispers, lips right by her ear. “Please.” She nods, tears streaming down her cheeks, and he holds her until long after her shaking fades.
***
He bursts through Jaimie’s door with gun up, hands steady. Billy yelps, cowardly asshole that he is.
“What the hell?” the bastard shrieks. “I told her-”
“Yeah, yeah, you told her a lot of things,” Dean cuts him off with dangerous calm. The rage runs strong, pulsing greater with each breath, as it has since Billy had called Jaimie twenty-odd minutes ago.
“You know,” he’d drawled. “I’m a little hurt there’s no pictures of me. Actually, Jaimie, there’s no pictures at all, there’s… nothing here. This place is sterile.”
Jaimie was pale, so white Dean had been afraid she’d pass out.
“You know what’s missing?” Billy had asked. “You, Jaimie.”
And so the rage had grown, stronger and hotter in his gut, until he was nauseous with it’s power. And now, finally, it had something to latch onto.
“If I don’t check in with a few friends of mine, some very nasty packages are going to be sent,” Billy was saying. “So Jaimie had better get her pretty little ass over here. She owes me.
Dean blinks. “She doesn’t,” he states, voice emotionless.
“The little whore-”
Dean pulls the trigger.
The bastard is screaming on the floor, hand pressed against his leg that’s bleeding red all over Jaimie’s carpet. His first thought is it’s going to be a bitch getting that stain out.
He’s on his knees in front of the huddled form, gun cocked to Billy’s temple. “You’re going to call your friends,” he croons. “You’re going to tell them to burn those packages. You’re going to tell me where any copies you have are, and you are going to forget you ever knew a girl named Jaimie.” Billy spits, breathing harshly, complexion already sickly. Dean yanks his head back by his hair.
“You fucking shot me,” he whimpers, and Dean smiles slowly.
“Next bullet goes in your brain.” Billy stares at him, eyes wild with pain, and chokes, “You’re a cop, you wouldn’t-” Dean releases his hair to jam his fingers into the gunshot wound.
Billy screams.
“Let’s just say I’m not your typical cop,” Dean tells him steadily. “You don’t do exactly what I say, I’m going to kill you.” He pauses, cocks his head. “Eventually. Or maybe I’ll just cuff you to the table and leave you here to bleed out. A wound like that, it’ll take hours.” Fear flashes stronger across Billy’s face, and Dean knows he’s really not cut out for this.
The coward makes the call.
“Now get me a fucking ambulance,” he shrieks through gritted teeth, now almost writhing on the floor. Dean stares at him, feels the rage growling in his gut. He wants to beat the bastard until he no longer has a face, wants to cut at him until his body is unrecognizable.
He looks down at his bloody hands, and realizes they’re shaking.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” he purrs. “You think about opening your big mouth - about me, about Jaimie, about anything but yes sir no sir how high sir - you remember this. I know a lot of people in a lot of lockups. A lot of bad people. Some of them I’d almost consider friends.” He leans closer, nose almost touching Billy’s sweaty forehead. “They could make your life very, very unpleasant,” he breathes. Billy pants, nodding rapidly.
Dean calls it in.
***
“You make me do very, very stupid things.”
Jaimie looks up at him as he walks in the door, her face a mask of calm with terror seething in her eyes. He realizes she’s staring at his hands and looks down, finds them still covered in Billy’s blood.
“Oh,” he states.
She approaches him, pointedly takes his red-stained hand and guides him to the bathroom. She turns the shower on, scalding hot, and strips their clothes with hands he thinks might be trembling. When they enter the streaming water he just watches the pink stream down the drain, irregular patterns that won’t let him look away.
Jaimie kisses him, gently, taking his hands in hers. She breaks off, starts to rub lightly at the stains and whispers, “Billy?”
Dean swallows. “He won’t be coming around anytime soon.” She bites her lip, and he sighs. “He’s with Carter, off to be incarcerated. Carter didn’t ask questions.” He hisses a breath, mumbles, “I shot him. I shot him in the leg and I almost left him there to bleed out on your fucking carpet.”
She shudders, violently, and suddenly his mouth is on hers and he can’t pull her close enough. She wraps her arms around him, holding him tightly, and whispers, “I almost wish you had.” He chokes, buries his face into the crook of her neck as her fingers trace lines along his back.
When she murmurs, “I’m sorry,” into his skin he jerks back.
“No,” he states, as though simply by saying it he could make it true. “No, Jaimie.”
He stands with her in the spray until the water runs cold, rubs at his hands until he thinks some of the blood running pink down the drain might be his own.
***
She burns the folder.
A few days later he hands her an envelope - small, white and wrinkled. She looks at him hesitantly and he smiles, nodding at it. She pulls out a photo of the four of them, laughing together at a bar after closing a case.
“For your new apartment,” he tells her lightly. “Your new home.” She just stares at the picture for a moment, then looks at him with such gratitude it almost brings tears to his eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you.”