Bait and Switch, for ryuutchi (Dean/Jo, adult)
Title: Bait and Switch
Author: dodger_winslow
Recipient: ryuutchi
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Jo
Summary: So all in all, being the bait for this hunt wasn’t the damn problem. The problem was the way Jo kept looking at him from where she was watching over his trussed-up ass from a cornerful of shadows. Because fuck. He’d never found being tied up something that did anything other than piss him off. But lying here on his side, all roped up with Jo watching him, her lips twisted up to a half-smile he could only half-see through the darkness in which she was hiding? Okay, that was disturbingly uncomfortable. Uncomfortable in the fact that he felt vulnerable as all hell, and she was clearly enjoying it. And even more uncomfortable in the fact that her enjoying him feeling vulnerable as all hell was kind of turning him on.
Author’s Notes: Spoilers through the end of S2. Ryuutchi’s requests included Dean/Jo with Dean being used as bait, dirty talk, romantic gestures, aggressive women, bondage and non-serious bickering. I think I hit them all.
Okay, this was more than a little uncomfortable.
It wasn’t that he minded being the bait for her trap, because he didn’t. Someone always had to be the bait. That’s the way these things worked, and she’d served her time in that capacity for him in the past, so he didn’t mind returning the favor now. After all, this was her hunt, not his; so even though this thing’s tastes seemed to incline more toward chicks than guys, there was evidence it had a taste for both, the more important aspect being vulnerability.
So since Jo couldn’t very well be bait and trap at the same time, he was more than willing to be the cheese in her come-and-get-me game.
Or if not more than willing, at least willing. More-or-less willing. Okay, kind of willing, albeit only after she reminded him about the ghost of a psychotic serial killer, and Dean telling her she had to sit in the middle of a shit puddle in a sewer until the freak came after her again even though she’d already dealt with him pulling out a fistful of hair and feeling her up through the mail slot of a 2’ x 2’ x 6’ coffin.
Because that sucked, but she did it anyway. Not because she wanted to, but because it was the only way to trap the bastard; the only way to salt him into a corner so they could give him a concrete enema. And she hadn’t complained about it at all.
Well, okay, she hadn’t complained about it much.
But the point was, by comparison, this wasn’t all that bad. Hell, it was almost a cakewalk.
For one thing, they weren’t in a sewer. Dean hated sewers for the simple reason that sewers had rats, and he hated rats. He really hated rats. But they weren’t in a sewer, they were in an abandoned house. Sure, there was an assload of rotted wood and cobwebs; and the place was musty enough to make the cover of Creepy Homes and Gardens’ Extra Special Creepy Edition; but other than that, it wasn’t much worse than any other house that hadn’t been lived in for more than a century.
Lived in being a relative term, or course. Lived in by something living, as compared to lived in by something dark and evil, deader-than-dead and twice as stinky.
For another thing, the dark and evil, deader-than-dead and twice as stinky freak they were after was a businessman in life, not a serial killer. Big points to Dean’s favor there, because pissed off spirits where psychotic enough all on their own without being pissed off spirits of actual psychotics. And this freak didn’t have a specific taste for guys who looked exactly like Dean the way Holmes did for blondes who looked exactly like Jo. So again, big points to his favor on that.
But more important than any of those things was the fact that, if things did get out of hand, all this freak would do was eat Dean … as compared to sticking him in a coffin and fucking him with its black ectoplasm dick twice a day for a week or two before letting him starve out to skin and bones and blonde hair in a greasy, dirty tangle. Biggest points of all to his favor there, because Dean was not a big fan of black ectoplasm dicks.
So all-in-all, being the bait for this hunt wasn’t the damn problem.
The problem was the way Jo kept looking at him from where she was watching over his trussed-up ass from a cornerful of shadows. Because fuck. He’d never found being tied up something that did anything other than piss him off. But lying here on his side, all roped up with Jo watching him, her lips twisted up to a half-smile he could only half-see through the darkness in which she was hiding?
Okay, that was disturbingly uncomfortable. Uncomfortable in the fact that he felt vulnerable as all hell, and she was clearly enjoying it. And even more uncomfortable in the fact that her enjoying him feeling vulnerable as all hell was kind of turning him on.
Turning him on enough that the rope she’d lashed across his crotch (the bitch) in the “tie-me-up” phase of this damn snipe hunt was starting to chafe things Dean didn’t particularly care to have chafed. Or not have chafed by a freaking rope at least. He liked chafing that particular portion of his anatomy with something a little more cunt-shaped as a rule; so Jo hunkered down in a corner, grinning like a Cheshire cat while he played cheese-in-a-spook-trap, lying curled up in a near-fetal position with his arms tied behind his back and another assload of rope wrapped around his freaking body (again, the bitch) as if he was the demonstration portion of a Girl Scout knot-tying merit badge? And all that hunkering and grinning and lying on his side and rope wrapping putting his prick to a rise that might well end up in a tragedy of rope burns? Yeah. That was more than a little uncomfortable, it was just plain wrong.
Wrong in all the right ways to give him the hard-on from hell.
Dammit.
And that was the fucking problem. Because try as he might, the more pissed off Dean got about the situation, the harder he got. And the harder he got, the more that fucking rope chafed him in a way that pissed him off. And the more pissed off he got …
And so on, and so forth.
Dean grunted, irritated he’d let himself get roped into this, both literally and figuratively. He shifted awkwardly against the rough, hardwood floor in an effort to get a little more comfortable (as if there was any freaking way to get comfortable in any of the positions available to him right now), and he regretted the choice immediately. It backfired to a resounding degree, making him significantly more uncomfortable in every conceivable way. He’d been lying here for several hours now-much longer that he’d thought this would take-and his hands were numb from the knuckles on down. More than that, his wrists ached, his elbows were twisted, and his shoulders hurt like hell. All that, in and of itself, was damn irritating; but shifting made it ten times worse by re-animating every blood-deprived nerve in his whole body just enough to make them feel like some asshat was doing a voodoo dance with pins and needles on a Dean doll somewhere.
And not just on the doll’s hands either. Whoever was fucking with him was jabbing needles in his arms and his neck and his side and his shoulders and his back and his legs and-dammit-even his groin. Crotch. Whatever.
Hell, his shoulders were so fucked over from the strain of having both hands tied behind his back for this long he felt like they might dislocate at any moment. And his ribs … his ribs were a nightmare of tender from both the unforgiving floor and Jo’s particularly mean way of cutting across them with her little rope trick. The intricate wrap and re-wrap she’d done hadn’t bothered him at first, but it was bothering him all to hell and back now … not only in the ribs, but also where the damn thing snaked up between his legs and cut across his crotch to the unfortunate end of putting his skippy in one hell of a bind every time he moved.
And even when he didn’t move.
Dammit.
Dean gritted his teeth, struggled against the urge to curse Joanna Beth Harvelle twelve ways from Son-of-a-Bitch to Sunday. He didn’t stay silent out of fear he might scare off the big-ass evil if it was close enough to hear him (because hello? bait!); but rather because Jo was already having enough fun at his expense the way it was. He didn’t intend to give her cause to have any more.
Fucking bitch.
Dean glared daggers at the corner where she was hiding, hoping she had at least half an idea what he was thinking right about now. And she must have, because her grin went a little wolfish-almost gleeful even-and her eyes sparked up in a way that screwed him over more than he already was by hitting him right in the balls.
God damn fucking rope.
He shifted again. Regretted it again. Cursed her again. It was a job and a half to keep his dirty mind off her at the best of times, and this was to hell-and-gone from the best of times.
To tell the truth, he wasn’t even sure why he bothered. She hadn’t made much of a secret of the fact that he could have her if he wanted her. And that was half the damn problem right there: she didn’t make a secret of it-hell, she almost flaunted it at him-but she never acted on it, either.
Or let him act on it, for that matter.
And that bothered him. It bothered him more than he liked to admit. Because chick or not, Jo wasn’t the kind to quail off what she wanted. So if she really did want him (as compared to just fucking with his head because she knew she could), he couldn’t see why she didn’t just go ahead and put a hand in his crotch and give the boys a little squeeze, invite ’em on in with something he could actually follow up on instead of having to guess about what she meant, or if she meant anything at all.
Hell, he’d given her every opportunity to give him the go-ahead; to show him it was okay to take his best shot at getting into her pants with a six pack and side one of Zeppelin IV. But had she done it? Hell no. And he honest-to-God couldn’t figure out why.
Hadn’t he proven himself more than just another horn dog hunter looking for a warm cunt on a cold night? How many times did he have to save her silly little sweet ass before she started playing the game the way she set it up from the get-go?
Because she was the one who laid down the rules, not him. And as far as he was concerned, those rules were pretty damn clear: prove to me you’re not some scumbag, and I’ll give you the go-ahead to get into my pants.
So he couldn’t figure out what the hold up was. Because he’d proved it, hadn’t he? He’d proved it a hundred times over already: that he was a good guy, that he was somebody who would sleep twisted up like a pretzel in an Lazy Boy so she could have the bed, who could get his ass grabbed in a hallway right in front of some lard-ass landlord and not grab more than her ass back in return. Because he could have grabbed more-he could have grabbed a lot more-but he didn’t because he was trying to play by her stupid rules; trying to prove himself a good guy so she’d give him the go-ahead to get down to it.
Hell, he’d lied to Ellen for her, for Christ’s sake. That was a bad, fucking choice in the final outcome of it, but he’d still done it. And he didn’t do it because he thought it was the right thing to do. He did it because she asked him to. Hell, she damned near begged him to, in that “I’m gonna kick your ass if you don’t” way she had of begging, which was part of what he liked about her, even if it did piss him off almost as much as it turned him on.
But still, instead of counting that to his favor in the here’s-my-panties column, she just kept giving him that come-fuck-me look of hers, then going all little sister on him just about the time he started to do just that. But she wasn’t his sister, dammit. And even though she did have a mom who would have his ass on a platter if she ever caught him trying to stick it to her little girl on the sly, Dean was up for taking that risk if Jo would just give him a starter’s bell so he knew where in the hell he stood with her.
But he didn’t, because she wouldn’t.
And it was frustrating as all hell, not to mention chafing. Chafing to the nines, in fact, especially when he was stupid enough to indulge thoughts like “sticking it to her on the sly” after she’d lashed his damn dick to his leg. Or getting into her pants with hands he was pretty sure could wipe that smirky little smile right off her face by stoking up the heat between her legs until it burned them both to a cold sweat.
Dean closed his eyes, tried to think about something other than the sly curl of Jo’s lips in the shadows, or the way they might feel kissing their way down his belly, closing over his prick and blowing him blind behind the bar in that waterfront dive where she worked now. Because son of a bitch, that was not a good thing to let himself think about with that rope cutting off the circulation to his balls every time his mind wandered, and his dick tried to follow.
And neither were the kind of dreams he had more nights than not these days. The kind of dreams where Jo decided it was time to quit playing games, so she closed the place down when he showed up for a drink; and they slammed back Jack shooters together, sharing the taste of them on their tongues while her hands slipped inside his jeans, stroked him to a quiver before she pulled him out, dropped to her knees to suck him up a boner he could use to fuck her to a slow, constant moan against the bar.
Those dreams usually ended right about the time they really got good … right about the time Jo had her legs wrapped around his hips, holding on like a vise while he panted hard against her neck, pumping into her while she matched him stroke for stroke, his jeans in a puddle around his boots when the door jingled open and Ellen just walked right in, unannounced, catching them en flagrante right there against the bar, his ass hanging out in the wind and Jo’s legs splayed like she was bent on showing it to the whole world, both of them already so far over the edge they fell in spite of it all, struggling to hide what they were doing from Ellen and unravel into each other at the same time.
Like they were fifteen-year-olds or something, and she was …
… well …
She was Ellen, for God’s sake. And Jo’smom at the same time. A double-barrel kill shot of fuck-me with his dad’s capacity for making him feel about two feet tall. Nothing like getting your rocks off at the one time when you just really wanted to pretend you didn’t have any rocks to get off. And even if you did, you wouldn’t. Not into her little girl at least.
Ellen’s little girl.
Because it was a bitch to jerk out of a dream like that, hard as hell and twice as humiliated. That wasn’t an emotion he was all that familiar with, and it tended to make his balls pull up like they’d been kicked even as his dick was doing everything it could possibly do to finish out the dream before it faded from his mind, left him jerking off to nothing more than the feel of his own hand instead of the slick heat of Jo’s pussy riding him to the inevitable outcome of such things.
Yeah. Thinking about that dream definitely helped the state he was in. Definitely cut down on the chafing by hauling him from half mast to full mast. Hell, he was straining so hard against that damn rope at his crotch he actually heard himself make a sound that sounded suspiciously like a whine.
Which it might have been, if he was the kind of guy who whined. Which he wasn’t.
Dammit.
Dean cursed Jo again in his head; might have even cursed her under his breath while he wondered if it would be worth the risk of getting eaten alive to have her set aside the role of hunter (huntress?) long enough to come over and blow him a little relief. Hell, one quick jerk with those slender fingers of hers would probably be enough with the state he was in. Probably wouldn’t even have to unzip his jeans first. Might not even have to fucking touch him. She could just look at him with those eyes of hers, curl those lips up into that smile and lick her teeth once and boom, that’s all she wrote. His mind and the pressure from that rope would do the rest. And once it did, he could get back to concentrating on being bait; and she could get back to watching him from the corner, enjoying how vulnerable he was and getting off on the fact that he could see her grinning like a lech (lechess?) in the darkness.
“You look a little uncomfortable there, Dean,” Jo said, her tone a tease, a taunt and a titillation all wrapped up in one. “Anything I can do to help?”
He thought for a moment he’d lost it. Thought maybe his mind had just snapped under the pressure of a rope chafing his dick raw while his mind screwed him over with every wet dream he’d ever had about Jo as he waited for some evil fuck to try and eat his ass with only her in the corner to save him.
Just her and no one else.
Not that he didn’t have absolute faith in her, because he did. Well … more-or-less absolute faith at least. Because, seriously: he was pretty damn helpless lying here tied up the way he was. And as much as he liked Jo- okay, more than liked Jo-he wasn’t always sure he completely believed she’d do whatever it took to save him if the chips were really down.
Not the way Sam or Bobby would. Not the way Jim or his dad would have.
Dean opened his eyes, hissed out a string of curses that would have made a nun spontaneously combust when he saw Jo crouched right beside him, settled to her haunches with a natural ease and looking like she was ready to blow him a little relief before she went back to her little hidey-hole in the corner and the silent vigil she’d been keeping over him for the past five hours.
“What the fuck?!?” he demanded. He was both angry and scared. He couldn’t believe she could actually be that fucking dumb-be that fucking immature-that she’d break cover for any reason at all, let alone for no reason. “Get out of here, dammit,” he snapped. “Back off or you’ll get us both killed.”
When Jo smiled, the look in her eyes gave him a sudden urge to quote a little Latin her direction. She looked hungry in a way he’d never seen before. Well, okay, in a way he’d never seen on her before. It was both hot and a little intimidating; something that made the chafing worse even as it tightened his balls up like they’d been dipped in ice water when it occurred to him this thing might prove out to be a demon of some sort instead of a silver-fearing predator or a monumentally pissed off spirit.
“Oh, fuck,” Dean whispered. Then he added, “Christo,” near spitting the word at her, flinching a little in anticipation of her response.
And Jo laughed. She just laughed. Didn’t smoke. Didn’t curse him in tongues. Didn’t roll her eyes back in her head until they went black as demon oil at the bottom of a ten foot well. She just laughed. Laughed a Jo laugh he totally recognized as one hundred percent Jo and nothing else.
Well, nothing evil at least.
“Gotchya,” she said with a wicked, wicked grin.
“What?”
“Gotchya,” she repeated. Then she laughed again, her eyes bright and animated, engaged and happy, so unafraid of the consequences of what she was doing that he couldn’t process it for a minute. Couldn’t make heads or tails of what might be possessing her to take this kind of risk with their lives. With his life in particular, dammit; given that he was the only one trussed up like a Christmas turkey here. She at least had rock salt and a hella wicked silver knife on her. He, on the other hand, didn’t have a chance in hell if this thing showed up looking to stack a body count ….
And then he got it.
He got it like the joke of all jokes, and it was a damn good thing she’d tied her knots tight enough to hold him. Because if she hadn’t-if she’d tied them so he could have gotten his hands on her-he would have wrung her pretty, little neck.
“You have got to be shitting me,” he hissed, outraged.
Her grin got a little more wicked, if that was even possible (which he wasn’t sure it was). “Nope,” she said. She was still crouched beside him, her forearms balanced across her thighs, hands hanging loose from her wrists to dangle between her knees. “Not shitting you at all.”
If looks could kill, he’d have might have ended up facing a pissed off spirit after all. But since they couldn’t (or at least they couldn’t as far as he knew), all Dean could do was demand, “Cut me loose,” knowing even as he did so that she wouldn’t.
“Nope,” she said again. And then added, “At least not yet.”
He glared at her a little harder. “Not yet?!? What’s that supposed to mean? What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Jo?”
“Making the first move.”
“What?!?”
“Making the first move.” She shifted positions, put one knee to the floor.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.
But he did. He so did.
Jo reached out, ran one thumb down the expanse of rope that had his skippy in a hell of a bind at the moment. “A little birdie told me you think of me like a little sister,” she informed him calmly. “Or a schoolgirl maybe. So I thought it was about time to show you I’m not.”
“Not which?”
“Not either.”
“Not my little sister, and not a schoolgirl? Fine. Got it. Now cut me loose.”
“Just be patient,” she said.
“Patient? Patient?!? Are you going for buckets of crazy, psycho bitch from hell, Jo? Because if you are, good start. Awesome start.”
She tapped one fingernail against the rope absently. He felt the vibration of every tic in his prick, and it wasn’t helping matters. It wasn’t help matters at all.
“I wasn’t ever a Girl Scout either,” she noted like he gave a shit. “But I’m pretty good with the ropes and knots, don’t you think?”
“You have got to be shitting me,” he said again, not because he hadn’t said it before, but rather because it was, honest-to-God, the only thing he could think of to say to her right at that moment.
Jo laughed a low, throaty laugh. It sounded strange coming from her. Almost sounded obscene … in a schoolgirl, little sister, bobby-socks-and-pigtails kind of way. She let her fingers brush at his jeans, the contact so light he wouldn’t have known she’d touched him if he hadn’t been watching her. “Nope,” she said again. “Just tired of waiting for you to get your shit together and make your move. So I’m making mine.” Her eyes flickered with that look again … the almost gleeful one that was ten times worse than the slow, rhythmic tapping of her fingernail against the rope when it came to chafing him damned near raw. “Hope that doesn’t intimidate you, Dean,” she said almost like she meant it. “Hope it doesn’t make you feel too vulnerable or anything.”
“Oh, you’re just hilarious, Jo,” he said. Then, making it an order this time, he added, “Now quit playing around and cut me loose, dammit.”
Jo pulled her dad’s knife out of her pocket and flicked it open. She tapped the point of the blade against the rope where she’d been tapping her fingernail a moment before. “Seriously?” She watched his eyes carefully as she spoke. “Is that really what you want me to do, Dean? Because if it is, I will. Couple of quick cuts, and no hard feelings. If that’s really what you want, then that’s what I’ll do.”
“As compared to?” He regretted it almost before he’d finished asking it.
“As compared to …” she tapped the knife against his jeans this time, “… continuing to play around.”
“Cut me loose, and I’ll show you playing around,” he said, making it as much of a threat as he could with her tapping at his hard-on with the point of her dad’s knife.
Jo flicked him a quick, mirthless smile. “No deal,” she said. “You had your chance, Dean. Hell, you’ve had a hundred chances. I’ve practically thrown myself at you for the last year, and you’ve pussed out to the point of blaming my mother for your lack of game. So now it’s my turn. My game. My rules.” She tapped his zipper with the knife again. “So. What’s it going to be? We playing, or not? You wanna big brother me? Or do you wanna fuck me?”
He didn’t answer, just watched her while she watched him. After almost five minutes of silence stretched tight between them, she said, “Tell you what: safe word is ‘Sammy.’ You say it, and we’re through. You don’t say it? I’m going to take that as permission. So those are the ground rules. One word is all it takes, but unless you say that word, I’m going to play this the way I want to play it, for as long as I want to play it. How’s that work for you?”
He studied her for several more seconds before asking, “So you’re not going to cut me loose then?”
She smiled, slipped the blade of her knife under the rope lashed across his crotch. “Oh, I’ll cut you loose,” she said as she cut the rope in two with one long, slow pull. When the pressure against his prick fell away, the guy with the voodoo doll started having a field day with his pins and needles again. “Eventually,” she added almost haphazardly. “When I’m damn good and ready.”
“So this whole hunt was bullshit from the get-go?” he asked. “No cannibalistic ghost demanding a tourist entrée every year? No town conspiracy to keep his eat-your-ass spirit confined to the house rather than out and about, roaming the streets at night?”
Jo snorted derisively. “Oh come on, Dean. You didn’t really buy that, did you? I mean … does that even sound plausible, let alone likely?”
“I’ve seen stranger.”
“Yeah. So I’ve heard.”
“You’ve heard?”
She shrugged. “Bobby mentioned something about slow dancing aliens and gators in the sewer the last time he passed through. But I’m talking about real life here, not the weekly tabloids.”
“So there never was anything to it then?” he pressed. “This whole setup was just you fucking with my head? Getting off on watching me lie here, all tied up like this until my hands went numb and my shoulders tried to pop out of their sockets?”
“Oh, cry me a river, baby,” Jo said.
“Cry you a river?!?” Dean was stalling now, trying to wriggle his way out of the severed ropes without tipping her to what he was doing. “Are you serious with that crap?”
“What can I say? You look good in rope. And besides, I kind of liked watching you lie here and try not to think about your dick when every time you even looked at me, it got a little harder not to think about it.”
This time, it was Dean who snorted. “You wish.”
Okay, he had to admit it: she really was good with knots and ropes. He was getting exactly nowhere here. He’d wondered why she bothered to truss him up so elaborately when the legend she referenced only called for immobilizing the victim … something she could have done by simply tying his hands behind his back before she dumped him here and supposedly left him to his fate. But instead, she’d knotted him up twelve different ways from Sunday; and he knew why, now. Because cutting the rope lashed across his crotch? That didn’t even loosen the other ropes she’d twisted around the rest of his body. Not the one cutting into his ribs, and sure as hell not the one holding his hands together. Or his feet, for that matter.
In fact, the only thing she actually did free up with that cut was his prick. And while granted, that was the most important thing to free up right now, it meant he was still as trussed up and at her mercy as he had been five minutes ago.
She had total control unless he was willing to say “Sammy.”
Which he wasn’t.
At least, not yet.
Because he was pissed, but he wasn’t that pissed. Not pissed enough to forget the way she’d looked at him when she asked what she’d asked: do you wanna big brother me, or do you wanna fuck me?
Because he did. He really did.
Want to fuck her.
And he had since the first day he met her.
Jo slipped the knife back into her pocket, then laid a hand near where the rope had abraded the denim of his fly. Dean twitched at the contact, twitched again when her fingers moved, stroking down the line of his zipper while she said, “Looks a little tight in there.” His eyes followed her fingers as they tracked across his groin, traced the outline of his hard-on like she wasn’t really thinking about what she was doing.
Which was utter bullshit. She knew exactly what she was doing; and she knew exactly what it was doing to him.
“You need a little breathing room?” she asked after a couple seconds of stroking him like he was a God damned puppy or something. “Want me to let off a little pressure or something?” She met his eyes: half dare and half defensive defiance. “Or is that not the kind of thing you’d be interested in from a schoolgirl like me?”
“Oh, blow me,” Dean said.
Jo tried to look indifferent but didn’t really make it. “Blow you, huh? Is that an order or a request?”
“Either way.”
“Huh,” Jo said. But she took him up on it, began inching his zipper down slowly enough to remind him who was in charge despite his presumption to order her around. His balls were aching with tension by the time she finally reached in, pulled him out. He felt like he’d slipped into one of his own wet dreams: felt like she might kiss him and taste of Jack, or like she might drop her other knee to the floorboards so she could bend over, run her tongue along his prick until he was vibrating with the need to fuck her legs up around his hips.
God, he wanted to fuck her. He wanted to fuck her bad.
Jo ran her fingers down the length of him, watching the way he responded and smiling as he hardened up twice as fast as he should have. Dean would have liked to be indifferent, too; but he wasn’t really accomplishing that any better than she had. She’d been torturing him for hours now, and his prick was so sensitized every brush of her skin against his felt like silk put to raw nerves. Which was better than sandpaper put to raw nerves, but still … raw nerves. It was a little embarrassing how responsive he was to so little stimulation; how naked he felt under her touch. How exposed. How vulnerable.
“I dream about you sometimes, you know,” she said as she stroked him, her fingers light enough to be more breeze than actual touch. “Dream about you coming into the bar for a drink; about you slipping your fingers inside me while we’re talking, thumbing my clit up to an orgasm without ever even losing track of the conversation.”
She was watching her fingers while she spoke; watching his prick, watching anything but his eyes as she told him something that made her feel naked, exposed, vulnerable.
“I dream about you sometimes, too,” he admitted. “But I’m usually bending you over the bar, fucking you hard and fast while you call out my name, tell me how good I am, how much you’ve never had it worth having until you had me.” That wasn’t exactly the truth, but it was as close to the truth as she was going to get while he was tied up and she was jerking him off with such a gentle touch she was making him fucking nuts with how much he needed just one good, hard tug to close the deal.
“Until I had you?” Jo smiled, let her fingers slip around him and pull a little. “That’s kind of a girly way to put it, isn’t it?”
“Until I fucked you,” Dean revised easily. “Until I fucked you like you’ve never been fucked before, little girl.”
“Little girl, huh?” She pulled on him again, a little harder this time, almost hard enough to do the trick. “Is that what you’d do to me, Dean?” she asked. “Fuck me like I’ve never been fucked?”
“That what you want me to do to you?’ he countered. It was a little hard to talk to her right now. His voice felt like metal shavings in his throat.
“Maybe,” Jo agreed. Then, “Maybe not.” She tugged on him again … tugged hard enough to make his hips buck, make them try to find something substantial enough to push against. He didn’t want her hand wrapped around his prick, he wanted to be buried to the balls in her cunt. He wanted her riding him. Wanted her fucking him, or him fucking her.
Dean gritted his teeth, closed his eyes for a second then opened them again. He was seizing up in her hand, starting to tremble like it was going to be all over any second now. And he didn’t want it to be. He realized that like realizing she’d been lying to him from the very beginning, jerking him off every since she called him up a week ago and asked him to play bait for her little trap.
Not fucking him. Not letting him fuck her. Just jerking him off.
One, two, three and a fistful of cum in her palm. Her hand wrapped around his prick, but her pussy so far out of range he couldn’t even tell whether she was into it or not. Couldn’t put his fingers in her, or even put them on her. Hell, he couldn’t even lick her tits, couldn’t even see her tits.
This was strictly a one man show: him lying on his side and her doing something he could damn well do for himself. Fucking masturbation, even if it was her hand instead of his.
“Sammy,” Dean said, his voice a hell of a lot calmer than he’d ever have thought it could be, given the circumstances.
Jo’s hand froze. For several seconds, she didn’t move it all. Then, almost like she was retreating from a firefight that had gone wildly, unexpectedly out of control; she pulled her fingers off him, left him hard instead of spent as she looked up, met his eyes. She couldn’t hide the hurt in her expression. He shouldn’t have wanted to see it there as much as he did.
But he did.
He wanted to see it there. He needed to see it there.
“Sammy,” Dean said again, watching the safe word hit her almost like a physical blow. “That’s the word, right? The safe word?”
Jo nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Now cut me loose.”
She didn’t ask, and he didn’t explain. He wouldn’t have even if she’d begged him to. It took exactly seven cuts to free him. She made them with an almost mechanical precision, avoiding his eyes as she worked, cutting the rope but never letting her hands touch him even when she was finished.
“You still want me to fuck you, Jo?” he asked.
She stood and walked away before he was in any shape to follow. It took him several minutes just to rub the circulation back into his wrists, to stretch his shoulders and crack his neck and work the kinks out of his hips and knees enough to stand. By the time Dean made it to his feet, she was gone. He heard her car kick itself to life on the street: heard it pull away and knew she’d waited until she saw his shadow moving around behind half-boarded windows to make was sure he was up and mobile before she left him on his own.
Well, at least there was that.
Dean tucked his prick back into his jeans, zipped them closed before making his way down the back stairs to the street. He moved cautiously, taking his time and holding onto the railing until he’d cleared the last step. All he needed was to fall and break his neck because he was trying to walk on legs still numbed out from being locked in the same position for five hours.
He thought he’d be hoofing it to a convenience store to call a cab, but she left the Impala in an alley beside the house. The keys were in the ignition. Her leaving them there made Dean twice as mad as anything she’d yet done, but it also made it a hell of a lot easier to get back to the motel than it would have otherwise been.
He drove without music; took a long, hot shower before throwing himself into bed and jerking off to the memory of some anonymous girl in some anonymous town. When he’d taken the blue off his balls, he called Sammy, told him the hunt was over and he’d be heading back to South Dakota in a couple of days. When Sam objected, Dean said he needed a little time to think.
Said he wanted to take a break from hunting and just let himself unwind for a while.
Sam objected to that, too (Sam objected to the weirdest shit), but he agreed in the end. He said it was no problem really, that he and Bobby were busy anyway; said they were tracking down some this-or-that on the subject of making deals with demons. Evidently they’d stumbled across some precedences for swapping your soul for your little brother’s life. Sam said that, as unbelievable as it might sound, a surprising number of jackasses had done similarly stupid things over the past 50 years, so he and Bobby were tracking down every last one of them to see if anybody’d found a way to wiggle through a loophole in the kind of stupid-ass trade someone with half a brain would know enough not to make. So far no luck, Sam said; but he was still hopeful on the grounds that Jim Murphy had always said God had a soft spot for fools and children and self-sacrificial jackasses.
Of course, Jim had been talking about Dad not Dean, Sam informed him; but he figured the principle still applied, more or less.
Dean hung up without bothering to say goodbye. It wasn’t a problem. Sam expected as much when he was riding Dean that hard about making a choice Dean didn’t have any choice but to make.
He was still pissed about the way things had turned out. And more than likely, he always would be.
But tough titties: Dean hadn’t have a choice, dammit.
He and Dad were alike in that. They might both be self-sacrificial jackasses by the estimation of some (by the estimation of Sam, in particular; but Bobby, too, and probably Ellen if you asked her, which he had no intention of doing), but it wasn’t because they wanted to be. It was because they had to be.
They didn’t have any other choice. Not when it came right down to it.
Because losing Sammy wasn’t a choice for Dean. Any more than losing him had been a choice for Dad … the self-sacrificial jackass.
Dean didn’t sleep much that night. He didn’t want to dream about Jo, didn’t want to wake up humiliated with his dick in his hand, wanting to fuck her but not doing anything more productive than whacking off in his sleep. Just him and his hand: Pancho and Skippy, no Jo Harvelle anywhere to be had.
Wasn’t that just the way of it though?
He waited two more days before he figured Jo wouldn’t kick his balls off just for showing up; then he went to the waterfront like it was on his way somewhere and slipped into the bar less than half an hour before it normally closed for the night. He locked the door behind him once he was sure there wasn’t anyone else in the joint but the two of them. Jo looked up, gave him a fuck-you-howdy-do like she wanted to kick his balls off; but she didn’t, so they drank Jack shooters and made small talk as if she hadn’t crossed a line in an unwritten code by asking him to help her with a hunt for a monster that didn’t really exist.
Because that was fucked up, Dean told her when the subject finally rolled around the way they both knew it eventually would. A damn poor precedence to set, no matter what your justification for doing it was. Jo told him he could go fuck himself, then offered to show him how that might best be accomplished.
He was pretty sure she didn’t expect him to take her up on that offer after what happened at that old spook house, but that was only because she didn’t really know what happened. Didn’t really know it wasn’t about not wanting to fuck her, but rather about wanting to fuck her. Wanting it bad enough to not be okay with her jerking him off instead. Wanting it bad enough to not be okay with that being the way they remembered it later, if they ever got far enough down the road to happy to want to remember a first time. To want to have something to reminisce about someday … to have something to remember the way his dad remembered fucking his mom that first time.
Not that Dad ever told him about that. But Dad remembered it. Dean knew he did it by the look he got in his eyes whenever he saw some chick in a pink bikini.
Jo might not have expected it, but she didn’t argue about it either. When she told him to go fuck himself, he said he’d rather fuck her. Right now. Right here. But no safe words this time, he said. And no rope burns.
Her tongue was whiskey sour when they kissed. Dean picked her up and set her on the bar before he peeled her jeans off, slipped his fingers inside her while they talked. He didn’t really have a hell of a lot to say on any subject in particular, but he talked anyway because that’s the way she’d said she dreamed it, him talking while he thumbed her clit until she came apart in his hands, her losing track of pretty much everything, but him never even losing his place in what he was saying.
That was a hell of a lot harder than it sounded, but he did it.
She reciprocated by dropping to her knees and blowing him blind afterwards, sucking up a boner he used to fuck her slow and hard; not against the bar the way he’d dreamed it, but against the wall, which was close enough. She wrapped her legs around his hips, held on like she had him in a vise as the slick heat of her pussy rode him to the inevitable outcome of such things.
Ellen didn’t show up, and no one got tied up in knots like a tourist wrapped in a macramé plant hanger. All in all, it was the best night Dean had spent in years. Maybe even decades. Perhaps even ever.
Jo cried a little when he left, looking younger than she was, seeming softer than she’d ever been. He held onto her until she was finished, then told her that little birdie of hers was full of shit. The only time he’d ever thought of her as a schoolgirl was when he needed to get off in the shower, and picturing her in a plaid skirt and bobby socks seemed like quickest way to get the job done.
She said she had a plaid skirt somewhere that she’d never worn, and she’d be willing to go out and buy some bobby socks if that would make him stay a couple more days. Dean said he wanted to-he really did-but he had to get back to South Dakota. He told her Sam and Bobby had a line on some loophole strategy to get him out of this stupid-ass deal he made, so he had to beat feet back to the Black Hills just so they had someone there to explain all the technical stuff for them.
You know how Sam and Bobby are, he told her.
Jo offered to go with him, but he said no; said if she was around he’d be too distracted to get anything done that didn’t involve her, a bar, and half a dozen Jack shooters.
She kissed him like she thought maybe it was goodbye forever, then she told him she’d climb down into hell after him if he let that bitch demon take him when his year was up. Dean told her that would be a hell of a self-sacrificial jackass thing to do, but she said she’d do it anyway. She swore she would. Swore to God, then crossed her heart with two fingers like she was six, and he was twelve.
And Dean believed her.
He believed her, and it mattered.
finis
Author: dodger_winslow
Recipient: ryuutchi
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Jo
Summary: So all in all, being the bait for this hunt wasn’t the damn problem. The problem was the way Jo kept looking at him from where she was watching over his trussed-up ass from a cornerful of shadows. Because fuck. He’d never found being tied up something that did anything other than piss him off. But lying here on his side, all roped up with Jo watching him, her lips twisted up to a half-smile he could only half-see through the darkness in which she was hiding? Okay, that was disturbingly uncomfortable. Uncomfortable in the fact that he felt vulnerable as all hell, and she was clearly enjoying it. And even more uncomfortable in the fact that her enjoying him feeling vulnerable as all hell was kind of turning him on.
Author’s Notes: Spoilers through the end of S2. Ryuutchi’s requests included Dean/Jo with Dean being used as bait, dirty talk, romantic gestures, aggressive women, bondage and non-serious bickering. I think I hit them all.
Okay, this was more than a little uncomfortable.
It wasn’t that he minded being the bait for her trap, because he didn’t. Someone always had to be the bait. That’s the way these things worked, and she’d served her time in that capacity for him in the past, so he didn’t mind returning the favor now. After all, this was her hunt, not his; so even though this thing’s tastes seemed to incline more toward chicks than guys, there was evidence it had a taste for both, the more important aspect being vulnerability.
So since Jo couldn’t very well be bait and trap at the same time, he was more than willing to be the cheese in her come-and-get-me game.
Or if not more than willing, at least willing. More-or-less willing. Okay, kind of willing, albeit only after she reminded him about the ghost of a psychotic serial killer, and Dean telling her she had to sit in the middle of a shit puddle in a sewer until the freak came after her again even though she’d already dealt with him pulling out a fistful of hair and feeling her up through the mail slot of a 2’ x 2’ x 6’ coffin.
Because that sucked, but she did it anyway. Not because she wanted to, but because it was the only way to trap the bastard; the only way to salt him into a corner so they could give him a concrete enema. And she hadn’t complained about it at all.
Well, okay, she hadn’t complained about it much.
But the point was, by comparison, this wasn’t all that bad. Hell, it was almost a cakewalk.
For one thing, they weren’t in a sewer. Dean hated sewers for the simple reason that sewers had rats, and he hated rats. He really hated rats. But they weren’t in a sewer, they were in an abandoned house. Sure, there was an assload of rotted wood and cobwebs; and the place was musty enough to make the cover of Creepy Homes and Gardens’ Extra Special Creepy Edition; but other than that, it wasn’t much worse than any other house that hadn’t been lived in for more than a century.
Lived in being a relative term, or course. Lived in by something living, as compared to lived in by something dark and evil, deader-than-dead and twice as stinky.
For another thing, the dark and evil, deader-than-dead and twice as stinky freak they were after was a businessman in life, not a serial killer. Big points to Dean’s favor there, because pissed off spirits where psychotic enough all on their own without being pissed off spirits of actual psychotics. And this freak didn’t have a specific taste for guys who looked exactly like Dean the way Holmes did for blondes who looked exactly like Jo. So again, big points to his favor on that.
But more important than any of those things was the fact that, if things did get out of hand, all this freak would do was eat Dean … as compared to sticking him in a coffin and fucking him with its black ectoplasm dick twice a day for a week or two before letting him starve out to skin and bones and blonde hair in a greasy, dirty tangle. Biggest points of all to his favor there, because Dean was not a big fan of black ectoplasm dicks.
So all-in-all, being the bait for this hunt wasn’t the damn problem.
The problem was the way Jo kept looking at him from where she was watching over his trussed-up ass from a cornerful of shadows. Because fuck. He’d never found being tied up something that did anything other than piss him off. But lying here on his side, all roped up with Jo watching him, her lips twisted up to a half-smile he could only half-see through the darkness in which she was hiding?
Okay, that was disturbingly uncomfortable. Uncomfortable in the fact that he felt vulnerable as all hell, and she was clearly enjoying it. And even more uncomfortable in the fact that her enjoying him feeling vulnerable as all hell was kind of turning him on.
Turning him on enough that the rope she’d lashed across his crotch (the bitch) in the “tie-me-up” phase of this damn snipe hunt was starting to chafe things Dean didn’t particularly care to have chafed. Or not have chafed by a freaking rope at least. He liked chafing that particular portion of his anatomy with something a little more cunt-shaped as a rule; so Jo hunkered down in a corner, grinning like a Cheshire cat while he played cheese-in-a-spook-trap, lying curled up in a near-fetal position with his arms tied behind his back and another assload of rope wrapped around his freaking body (again, the bitch) as if he was the demonstration portion of a Girl Scout knot-tying merit badge? And all that hunkering and grinning and lying on his side and rope wrapping putting his prick to a rise that might well end up in a tragedy of rope burns? Yeah. That was more than a little uncomfortable, it was just plain wrong.
Wrong in all the right ways to give him the hard-on from hell.
Dammit.
And that was the fucking problem. Because try as he might, the more pissed off Dean got about the situation, the harder he got. And the harder he got, the more that fucking rope chafed him in a way that pissed him off. And the more pissed off he got …
And so on, and so forth.
Dean grunted, irritated he’d let himself get roped into this, both literally and figuratively. He shifted awkwardly against the rough, hardwood floor in an effort to get a little more comfortable (as if there was any freaking way to get comfortable in any of the positions available to him right now), and he regretted the choice immediately. It backfired to a resounding degree, making him significantly more uncomfortable in every conceivable way. He’d been lying here for several hours now-much longer that he’d thought this would take-and his hands were numb from the knuckles on down. More than that, his wrists ached, his elbows were twisted, and his shoulders hurt like hell. All that, in and of itself, was damn irritating; but shifting made it ten times worse by re-animating every blood-deprived nerve in his whole body just enough to make them feel like some asshat was doing a voodoo dance with pins and needles on a Dean doll somewhere.
And not just on the doll’s hands either. Whoever was fucking with him was jabbing needles in his arms and his neck and his side and his shoulders and his back and his legs and-dammit-even his groin. Crotch. Whatever.
Hell, his shoulders were so fucked over from the strain of having both hands tied behind his back for this long he felt like they might dislocate at any moment. And his ribs … his ribs were a nightmare of tender from both the unforgiving floor and Jo’s particularly mean way of cutting across them with her little rope trick. The intricate wrap and re-wrap she’d done hadn’t bothered him at first, but it was bothering him all to hell and back now … not only in the ribs, but also where the damn thing snaked up between his legs and cut across his crotch to the unfortunate end of putting his skippy in one hell of a bind every time he moved.
And even when he didn’t move.
Dammit.
Dean gritted his teeth, struggled against the urge to curse Joanna Beth Harvelle twelve ways from Son-of-a-Bitch to Sunday. He didn’t stay silent out of fear he might scare off the big-ass evil if it was close enough to hear him (because hello? bait!); but rather because Jo was already having enough fun at his expense the way it was. He didn’t intend to give her cause to have any more.
Fucking bitch.
Dean glared daggers at the corner where she was hiding, hoping she had at least half an idea what he was thinking right about now. And she must have, because her grin went a little wolfish-almost gleeful even-and her eyes sparked up in a way that screwed him over more than he already was by hitting him right in the balls.
God damn fucking rope.
He shifted again. Regretted it again. Cursed her again. It was a job and a half to keep his dirty mind off her at the best of times, and this was to hell-and-gone from the best of times.
To tell the truth, he wasn’t even sure why he bothered. She hadn’t made much of a secret of the fact that he could have her if he wanted her. And that was half the damn problem right there: she didn’t make a secret of it-hell, she almost flaunted it at him-but she never acted on it, either.
Or let him act on it, for that matter.
And that bothered him. It bothered him more than he liked to admit. Because chick or not, Jo wasn’t the kind to quail off what she wanted. So if she really did want him (as compared to just fucking with his head because she knew she could), he couldn’t see why she didn’t just go ahead and put a hand in his crotch and give the boys a little squeeze, invite ’em on in with something he could actually follow up on instead of having to guess about what she meant, or if she meant anything at all.
Hell, he’d given her every opportunity to give him the go-ahead; to show him it was okay to take his best shot at getting into her pants with a six pack and side one of Zeppelin IV. But had she done it? Hell no. And he honest-to-God couldn’t figure out why.
Hadn’t he proven himself more than just another horn dog hunter looking for a warm cunt on a cold night? How many times did he have to save her silly little sweet ass before she started playing the game the way she set it up from the get-go?
Because she was the one who laid down the rules, not him. And as far as he was concerned, those rules were pretty damn clear: prove to me you’re not some scumbag, and I’ll give you the go-ahead to get into my pants.
So he couldn’t figure out what the hold up was. Because he’d proved it, hadn’t he? He’d proved it a hundred times over already: that he was a good guy, that he was somebody who would sleep twisted up like a pretzel in an Lazy Boy so she could have the bed, who could get his ass grabbed in a hallway right in front of some lard-ass landlord and not grab more than her ass back in return. Because he could have grabbed more-he could have grabbed a lot more-but he didn’t because he was trying to play by her stupid rules; trying to prove himself a good guy so she’d give him the go-ahead to get down to it.
Hell, he’d lied to Ellen for her, for Christ’s sake. That was a bad, fucking choice in the final outcome of it, but he’d still done it. And he didn’t do it because he thought it was the right thing to do. He did it because she asked him to. Hell, she damned near begged him to, in that “I’m gonna kick your ass if you don’t” way she had of begging, which was part of what he liked about her, even if it did piss him off almost as much as it turned him on.
But still, instead of counting that to his favor in the here’s-my-panties column, she just kept giving him that come-fuck-me look of hers, then going all little sister on him just about the time he started to do just that. But she wasn’t his sister, dammit. And even though she did have a mom who would have his ass on a platter if she ever caught him trying to stick it to her little girl on the sly, Dean was up for taking that risk if Jo would just give him a starter’s bell so he knew where in the hell he stood with her.
But he didn’t, because she wouldn’t.
And it was frustrating as all hell, not to mention chafing. Chafing to the nines, in fact, especially when he was stupid enough to indulge thoughts like “sticking it to her on the sly” after she’d lashed his damn dick to his leg. Or getting into her pants with hands he was pretty sure could wipe that smirky little smile right off her face by stoking up the heat between her legs until it burned them both to a cold sweat.
Dean closed his eyes, tried to think about something other than the sly curl of Jo’s lips in the shadows, or the way they might feel kissing their way down his belly, closing over his prick and blowing him blind behind the bar in that waterfront dive where she worked now. Because son of a bitch, that was not a good thing to let himself think about with that rope cutting off the circulation to his balls every time his mind wandered, and his dick tried to follow.
And neither were the kind of dreams he had more nights than not these days. The kind of dreams where Jo decided it was time to quit playing games, so she closed the place down when he showed up for a drink; and they slammed back Jack shooters together, sharing the taste of them on their tongues while her hands slipped inside his jeans, stroked him to a quiver before she pulled him out, dropped to her knees to suck him up a boner he could use to fuck her to a slow, constant moan against the bar.
Those dreams usually ended right about the time they really got good … right about the time Jo had her legs wrapped around his hips, holding on like a vise while he panted hard against her neck, pumping into her while she matched him stroke for stroke, his jeans in a puddle around his boots when the door jingled open and Ellen just walked right in, unannounced, catching them en flagrante right there against the bar, his ass hanging out in the wind and Jo’s legs splayed like she was bent on showing it to the whole world, both of them already so far over the edge they fell in spite of it all, struggling to hide what they were doing from Ellen and unravel into each other at the same time.
Like they were fifteen-year-olds or something, and she was …
… well …
She was Ellen, for God’s sake. And Jo’smom at the same time. A double-barrel kill shot of fuck-me with his dad’s capacity for making him feel about two feet tall. Nothing like getting your rocks off at the one time when you just really wanted to pretend you didn’t have any rocks to get off. And even if you did, you wouldn’t. Not into her little girl at least.
Ellen’s little girl.
Because it was a bitch to jerk out of a dream like that, hard as hell and twice as humiliated. That wasn’t an emotion he was all that familiar with, and it tended to make his balls pull up like they’d been kicked even as his dick was doing everything it could possibly do to finish out the dream before it faded from his mind, left him jerking off to nothing more than the feel of his own hand instead of the slick heat of Jo’s pussy riding him to the inevitable outcome of such things.
Yeah. Thinking about that dream definitely helped the state he was in. Definitely cut down on the chafing by hauling him from half mast to full mast. Hell, he was straining so hard against that damn rope at his crotch he actually heard himself make a sound that sounded suspiciously like a whine.
Which it might have been, if he was the kind of guy who whined. Which he wasn’t.
Dammit.
Dean cursed Jo again in his head; might have even cursed her under his breath while he wondered if it would be worth the risk of getting eaten alive to have her set aside the role of hunter (huntress?) long enough to come over and blow him a little relief. Hell, one quick jerk with those slender fingers of hers would probably be enough with the state he was in. Probably wouldn’t even have to unzip his jeans first. Might not even have to fucking touch him. She could just look at him with those eyes of hers, curl those lips up into that smile and lick her teeth once and boom, that’s all she wrote. His mind and the pressure from that rope would do the rest. And once it did, he could get back to concentrating on being bait; and she could get back to watching him from the corner, enjoying how vulnerable he was and getting off on the fact that he could see her grinning like a lech (lechess?) in the darkness.
“You look a little uncomfortable there, Dean,” Jo said, her tone a tease, a taunt and a titillation all wrapped up in one. “Anything I can do to help?”
He thought for a moment he’d lost it. Thought maybe his mind had just snapped under the pressure of a rope chafing his dick raw while his mind screwed him over with every wet dream he’d ever had about Jo as he waited for some evil fuck to try and eat his ass with only her in the corner to save him.
Just her and no one else.
Not that he didn’t have absolute faith in her, because he did. Well … more-or-less absolute faith at least. Because, seriously: he was pretty damn helpless lying here tied up the way he was. And as much as he liked Jo- okay, more than liked Jo-he wasn’t always sure he completely believed she’d do whatever it took to save him if the chips were really down.
Not the way Sam or Bobby would. Not the way Jim or his dad would have.
Dean opened his eyes, hissed out a string of curses that would have made a nun spontaneously combust when he saw Jo crouched right beside him, settled to her haunches with a natural ease and looking like she was ready to blow him a little relief before she went back to her little hidey-hole in the corner and the silent vigil she’d been keeping over him for the past five hours.
“What the fuck?!?” he demanded. He was both angry and scared. He couldn’t believe she could actually be that fucking dumb-be that fucking immature-that she’d break cover for any reason at all, let alone for no reason. “Get out of here, dammit,” he snapped. “Back off or you’ll get us both killed.”
When Jo smiled, the look in her eyes gave him a sudden urge to quote a little Latin her direction. She looked hungry in a way he’d never seen before. Well, okay, in a way he’d never seen on her before. It was both hot and a little intimidating; something that made the chafing worse even as it tightened his balls up like they’d been dipped in ice water when it occurred to him this thing might prove out to be a demon of some sort instead of a silver-fearing predator or a monumentally pissed off spirit.
“Oh, fuck,” Dean whispered. Then he added, “Christo,” near spitting the word at her, flinching a little in anticipation of her response.
And Jo laughed. She just laughed. Didn’t smoke. Didn’t curse him in tongues. Didn’t roll her eyes back in her head until they went black as demon oil at the bottom of a ten foot well. She just laughed. Laughed a Jo laugh he totally recognized as one hundred percent Jo and nothing else.
Well, nothing evil at least.
“Gotchya,” she said with a wicked, wicked grin.
“What?”
“Gotchya,” she repeated. Then she laughed again, her eyes bright and animated, engaged and happy, so unafraid of the consequences of what she was doing that he couldn’t process it for a minute. Couldn’t make heads or tails of what might be possessing her to take this kind of risk with their lives. With his life in particular, dammit; given that he was the only one trussed up like a Christmas turkey here. She at least had rock salt and a hella wicked silver knife on her. He, on the other hand, didn’t have a chance in hell if this thing showed up looking to stack a body count ….
And then he got it.
He got it like the joke of all jokes, and it was a damn good thing she’d tied her knots tight enough to hold him. Because if she hadn’t-if she’d tied them so he could have gotten his hands on her-he would have wrung her pretty, little neck.
“You have got to be shitting me,” he hissed, outraged.
Her grin got a little more wicked, if that was even possible (which he wasn’t sure it was). “Nope,” she said. She was still crouched beside him, her forearms balanced across her thighs, hands hanging loose from her wrists to dangle between her knees. “Not shitting you at all.”
If looks could kill, he’d have might have ended up facing a pissed off spirit after all. But since they couldn’t (or at least they couldn’t as far as he knew), all Dean could do was demand, “Cut me loose,” knowing even as he did so that she wouldn’t.
“Nope,” she said again. And then added, “At least not yet.”
He glared at her a little harder. “Not yet?!? What’s that supposed to mean? What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Jo?”
“Making the first move.”
“What?!?”
“Making the first move.” She shifted positions, put one knee to the floor.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.
But he did. He so did.
Jo reached out, ran one thumb down the expanse of rope that had his skippy in a hell of a bind at the moment. “A little birdie told me you think of me like a little sister,” she informed him calmly. “Or a schoolgirl maybe. So I thought it was about time to show you I’m not.”
“Not which?”
“Not either.”
“Not my little sister, and not a schoolgirl? Fine. Got it. Now cut me loose.”
“Just be patient,” she said.
“Patient? Patient?!? Are you going for buckets of crazy, psycho bitch from hell, Jo? Because if you are, good start. Awesome start.”
She tapped one fingernail against the rope absently. He felt the vibration of every tic in his prick, and it wasn’t helping matters. It wasn’t help matters at all.
“I wasn’t ever a Girl Scout either,” she noted like he gave a shit. “But I’m pretty good with the ropes and knots, don’t you think?”
“You have got to be shitting me,” he said again, not because he hadn’t said it before, but rather because it was, honest-to-God, the only thing he could think of to say to her right at that moment.
Jo laughed a low, throaty laugh. It sounded strange coming from her. Almost sounded obscene … in a schoolgirl, little sister, bobby-socks-and-pigtails kind of way. She let her fingers brush at his jeans, the contact so light he wouldn’t have known she’d touched him if he hadn’t been watching her. “Nope,” she said again. “Just tired of waiting for you to get your shit together and make your move. So I’m making mine.” Her eyes flickered with that look again … the almost gleeful one that was ten times worse than the slow, rhythmic tapping of her fingernail against the rope when it came to chafing him damned near raw. “Hope that doesn’t intimidate you, Dean,” she said almost like she meant it. “Hope it doesn’t make you feel too vulnerable or anything.”
“Oh, you’re just hilarious, Jo,” he said. Then, making it an order this time, he added, “Now quit playing around and cut me loose, dammit.”
Jo pulled her dad’s knife out of her pocket and flicked it open. She tapped the point of the blade against the rope where she’d been tapping her fingernail a moment before. “Seriously?” She watched his eyes carefully as she spoke. “Is that really what you want me to do, Dean? Because if it is, I will. Couple of quick cuts, and no hard feelings. If that’s really what you want, then that’s what I’ll do.”
“As compared to?” He regretted it almost before he’d finished asking it.
“As compared to …” she tapped the knife against his jeans this time, “… continuing to play around.”
“Cut me loose, and I’ll show you playing around,” he said, making it as much of a threat as he could with her tapping at his hard-on with the point of her dad’s knife.
Jo flicked him a quick, mirthless smile. “No deal,” she said. “You had your chance, Dean. Hell, you’ve had a hundred chances. I’ve practically thrown myself at you for the last year, and you’ve pussed out to the point of blaming my mother for your lack of game. So now it’s my turn. My game. My rules.” She tapped his zipper with the knife again. “So. What’s it going to be? We playing, or not? You wanna big brother me? Or do you wanna fuck me?”
He didn’t answer, just watched her while she watched him. After almost five minutes of silence stretched tight between them, she said, “Tell you what: safe word is ‘Sammy.’ You say it, and we’re through. You don’t say it? I’m going to take that as permission. So those are the ground rules. One word is all it takes, but unless you say that word, I’m going to play this the way I want to play it, for as long as I want to play it. How’s that work for you?”
He studied her for several more seconds before asking, “So you’re not going to cut me loose then?”
She smiled, slipped the blade of her knife under the rope lashed across his crotch. “Oh, I’ll cut you loose,” she said as she cut the rope in two with one long, slow pull. When the pressure against his prick fell away, the guy with the voodoo doll started having a field day with his pins and needles again. “Eventually,” she added almost haphazardly. “When I’m damn good and ready.”
“So this whole hunt was bullshit from the get-go?” he asked. “No cannibalistic ghost demanding a tourist entrée every year? No town conspiracy to keep his eat-your-ass spirit confined to the house rather than out and about, roaming the streets at night?”
Jo snorted derisively. “Oh come on, Dean. You didn’t really buy that, did you? I mean … does that even sound plausible, let alone likely?”
“I’ve seen stranger.”
“Yeah. So I’ve heard.”
“You’ve heard?”
She shrugged. “Bobby mentioned something about slow dancing aliens and gators in the sewer the last time he passed through. But I’m talking about real life here, not the weekly tabloids.”
“So there never was anything to it then?” he pressed. “This whole setup was just you fucking with my head? Getting off on watching me lie here, all tied up like this until my hands went numb and my shoulders tried to pop out of their sockets?”
“Oh, cry me a river, baby,” Jo said.
“Cry you a river?!?” Dean was stalling now, trying to wriggle his way out of the severed ropes without tipping her to what he was doing. “Are you serious with that crap?”
“What can I say? You look good in rope. And besides, I kind of liked watching you lie here and try not to think about your dick when every time you even looked at me, it got a little harder not to think about it.”
This time, it was Dean who snorted. “You wish.”
Okay, he had to admit it: she really was good with knots and ropes. He was getting exactly nowhere here. He’d wondered why she bothered to truss him up so elaborately when the legend she referenced only called for immobilizing the victim … something she could have done by simply tying his hands behind his back before she dumped him here and supposedly left him to his fate. But instead, she’d knotted him up twelve different ways from Sunday; and he knew why, now. Because cutting the rope lashed across his crotch? That didn’t even loosen the other ropes she’d twisted around the rest of his body. Not the one cutting into his ribs, and sure as hell not the one holding his hands together. Or his feet, for that matter.
In fact, the only thing she actually did free up with that cut was his prick. And while granted, that was the most important thing to free up right now, it meant he was still as trussed up and at her mercy as he had been five minutes ago.
She had total control unless he was willing to say “Sammy.”
Which he wasn’t.
At least, not yet.
Because he was pissed, but he wasn’t that pissed. Not pissed enough to forget the way she’d looked at him when she asked what she’d asked: do you wanna big brother me, or do you wanna fuck me?
Because he did. He really did.
Want to fuck her.
And he had since the first day he met her.
Jo slipped the knife back into her pocket, then laid a hand near where the rope had abraded the denim of his fly. Dean twitched at the contact, twitched again when her fingers moved, stroking down the line of his zipper while she said, “Looks a little tight in there.” His eyes followed her fingers as they tracked across his groin, traced the outline of his hard-on like she wasn’t really thinking about what she was doing.
Which was utter bullshit. She knew exactly what she was doing; and she knew exactly what it was doing to him.
“You need a little breathing room?” she asked after a couple seconds of stroking him like he was a God damned puppy or something. “Want me to let off a little pressure or something?” She met his eyes: half dare and half defensive defiance. “Or is that not the kind of thing you’d be interested in from a schoolgirl like me?”
“Oh, blow me,” Dean said.
Jo tried to look indifferent but didn’t really make it. “Blow you, huh? Is that an order or a request?”
“Either way.”
“Huh,” Jo said. But she took him up on it, began inching his zipper down slowly enough to remind him who was in charge despite his presumption to order her around. His balls were aching with tension by the time she finally reached in, pulled him out. He felt like he’d slipped into one of his own wet dreams: felt like she might kiss him and taste of Jack, or like she might drop her other knee to the floorboards so she could bend over, run her tongue along his prick until he was vibrating with the need to fuck her legs up around his hips.
God, he wanted to fuck her. He wanted to fuck her bad.
Jo ran her fingers down the length of him, watching the way he responded and smiling as he hardened up twice as fast as he should have. Dean would have liked to be indifferent, too; but he wasn’t really accomplishing that any better than she had. She’d been torturing him for hours now, and his prick was so sensitized every brush of her skin against his felt like silk put to raw nerves. Which was better than sandpaper put to raw nerves, but still … raw nerves. It was a little embarrassing how responsive he was to so little stimulation; how naked he felt under her touch. How exposed. How vulnerable.
“I dream about you sometimes, you know,” she said as she stroked him, her fingers light enough to be more breeze than actual touch. “Dream about you coming into the bar for a drink; about you slipping your fingers inside me while we’re talking, thumbing my clit up to an orgasm without ever even losing track of the conversation.”
She was watching her fingers while she spoke; watching his prick, watching anything but his eyes as she told him something that made her feel naked, exposed, vulnerable.
“I dream about you sometimes, too,” he admitted. “But I’m usually bending you over the bar, fucking you hard and fast while you call out my name, tell me how good I am, how much you’ve never had it worth having until you had me.” That wasn’t exactly the truth, but it was as close to the truth as she was going to get while he was tied up and she was jerking him off with such a gentle touch she was making him fucking nuts with how much he needed just one good, hard tug to close the deal.
“Until I had you?” Jo smiled, let her fingers slip around him and pull a little. “That’s kind of a girly way to put it, isn’t it?”
“Until I fucked you,” Dean revised easily. “Until I fucked you like you’ve never been fucked before, little girl.”
“Little girl, huh?” She pulled on him again, a little harder this time, almost hard enough to do the trick. “Is that what you’d do to me, Dean?” she asked. “Fuck me like I’ve never been fucked?”
“That what you want me to do to you?’ he countered. It was a little hard to talk to her right now. His voice felt like metal shavings in his throat.
“Maybe,” Jo agreed. Then, “Maybe not.” She tugged on him again … tugged hard enough to make his hips buck, make them try to find something substantial enough to push against. He didn’t want her hand wrapped around his prick, he wanted to be buried to the balls in her cunt. He wanted her riding him. Wanted her fucking him, or him fucking her.
Dean gritted his teeth, closed his eyes for a second then opened them again. He was seizing up in her hand, starting to tremble like it was going to be all over any second now. And he didn’t want it to be. He realized that like realizing she’d been lying to him from the very beginning, jerking him off every since she called him up a week ago and asked him to play bait for her little trap.
Not fucking him. Not letting him fuck her. Just jerking him off.
One, two, three and a fistful of cum in her palm. Her hand wrapped around his prick, but her pussy so far out of range he couldn’t even tell whether she was into it or not. Couldn’t put his fingers in her, or even put them on her. Hell, he couldn’t even lick her tits, couldn’t even see her tits.
This was strictly a one man show: him lying on his side and her doing something he could damn well do for himself. Fucking masturbation, even if it was her hand instead of his.
“Sammy,” Dean said, his voice a hell of a lot calmer than he’d ever have thought it could be, given the circumstances.
Jo’s hand froze. For several seconds, she didn’t move it all. Then, almost like she was retreating from a firefight that had gone wildly, unexpectedly out of control; she pulled her fingers off him, left him hard instead of spent as she looked up, met his eyes. She couldn’t hide the hurt in her expression. He shouldn’t have wanted to see it there as much as he did.
But he did.
He wanted to see it there. He needed to see it there.
“Sammy,” Dean said again, watching the safe word hit her almost like a physical blow. “That’s the word, right? The safe word?”
Jo nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Now cut me loose.”
She didn’t ask, and he didn’t explain. He wouldn’t have even if she’d begged him to. It took exactly seven cuts to free him. She made them with an almost mechanical precision, avoiding his eyes as she worked, cutting the rope but never letting her hands touch him even when she was finished.
“You still want me to fuck you, Jo?” he asked.
She stood and walked away before he was in any shape to follow. It took him several minutes just to rub the circulation back into his wrists, to stretch his shoulders and crack his neck and work the kinks out of his hips and knees enough to stand. By the time Dean made it to his feet, she was gone. He heard her car kick itself to life on the street: heard it pull away and knew she’d waited until she saw his shadow moving around behind half-boarded windows to make was sure he was up and mobile before she left him on his own.
Well, at least there was that.
Dean tucked his prick back into his jeans, zipped them closed before making his way down the back stairs to the street. He moved cautiously, taking his time and holding onto the railing until he’d cleared the last step. All he needed was to fall and break his neck because he was trying to walk on legs still numbed out from being locked in the same position for five hours.
He thought he’d be hoofing it to a convenience store to call a cab, but she left the Impala in an alley beside the house. The keys were in the ignition. Her leaving them there made Dean twice as mad as anything she’d yet done, but it also made it a hell of a lot easier to get back to the motel than it would have otherwise been.
He drove without music; took a long, hot shower before throwing himself into bed and jerking off to the memory of some anonymous girl in some anonymous town. When he’d taken the blue off his balls, he called Sammy, told him the hunt was over and he’d be heading back to South Dakota in a couple of days. When Sam objected, Dean said he needed a little time to think.
Said he wanted to take a break from hunting and just let himself unwind for a while.
Sam objected to that, too (Sam objected to the weirdest shit), but he agreed in the end. He said it was no problem really, that he and Bobby were busy anyway; said they were tracking down some this-or-that on the subject of making deals with demons. Evidently they’d stumbled across some precedences for swapping your soul for your little brother’s life. Sam said that, as unbelievable as it might sound, a surprising number of jackasses had done similarly stupid things over the past 50 years, so he and Bobby were tracking down every last one of them to see if anybody’d found a way to wiggle through a loophole in the kind of stupid-ass trade someone with half a brain would know enough not to make. So far no luck, Sam said; but he was still hopeful on the grounds that Jim Murphy had always said God had a soft spot for fools and children and self-sacrificial jackasses.
Of course, Jim had been talking about Dad not Dean, Sam informed him; but he figured the principle still applied, more or less.
Dean hung up without bothering to say goodbye. It wasn’t a problem. Sam expected as much when he was riding Dean that hard about making a choice Dean didn’t have any choice but to make.
He was still pissed about the way things had turned out. And more than likely, he always would be.
But tough titties: Dean hadn’t have a choice, dammit.
He and Dad were alike in that. They might both be self-sacrificial jackasses by the estimation of some (by the estimation of Sam, in particular; but Bobby, too, and probably Ellen if you asked her, which he had no intention of doing), but it wasn’t because they wanted to be. It was because they had to be.
They didn’t have any other choice. Not when it came right down to it.
Because losing Sammy wasn’t a choice for Dean. Any more than losing him had been a choice for Dad … the self-sacrificial jackass.
Dean didn’t sleep much that night. He didn’t want to dream about Jo, didn’t want to wake up humiliated with his dick in his hand, wanting to fuck her but not doing anything more productive than whacking off in his sleep. Just him and his hand: Pancho and Skippy, no Jo Harvelle anywhere to be had.
Wasn’t that just the way of it though?
He waited two more days before he figured Jo wouldn’t kick his balls off just for showing up; then he went to the waterfront like it was on his way somewhere and slipped into the bar less than half an hour before it normally closed for the night. He locked the door behind him once he was sure there wasn’t anyone else in the joint but the two of them. Jo looked up, gave him a fuck-you-howdy-do like she wanted to kick his balls off; but she didn’t, so they drank Jack shooters and made small talk as if she hadn’t crossed a line in an unwritten code by asking him to help her with a hunt for a monster that didn’t really exist.
Because that was fucked up, Dean told her when the subject finally rolled around the way they both knew it eventually would. A damn poor precedence to set, no matter what your justification for doing it was. Jo told him he could go fuck himself, then offered to show him how that might best be accomplished.
He was pretty sure she didn’t expect him to take her up on that offer after what happened at that old spook house, but that was only because she didn’t really know what happened. Didn’t really know it wasn’t about not wanting to fuck her, but rather about wanting to fuck her. Wanting it bad enough to not be okay with her jerking him off instead. Wanting it bad enough to not be okay with that being the way they remembered it later, if they ever got far enough down the road to happy to want to remember a first time. To want to have something to reminisce about someday … to have something to remember the way his dad remembered fucking his mom that first time.
Not that Dad ever told him about that. But Dad remembered it. Dean knew he did it by the look he got in his eyes whenever he saw some chick in a pink bikini.
Jo might not have expected it, but she didn’t argue about it either. When she told him to go fuck himself, he said he’d rather fuck her. Right now. Right here. But no safe words this time, he said. And no rope burns.
Her tongue was whiskey sour when they kissed. Dean picked her up and set her on the bar before he peeled her jeans off, slipped his fingers inside her while they talked. He didn’t really have a hell of a lot to say on any subject in particular, but he talked anyway because that’s the way she’d said she dreamed it, him talking while he thumbed her clit until she came apart in his hands, her losing track of pretty much everything, but him never even losing his place in what he was saying.
That was a hell of a lot harder than it sounded, but he did it.
She reciprocated by dropping to her knees and blowing him blind afterwards, sucking up a boner he used to fuck her slow and hard; not against the bar the way he’d dreamed it, but against the wall, which was close enough. She wrapped her legs around his hips, held on like she had him in a vise as the slick heat of her pussy rode him to the inevitable outcome of such things.
Ellen didn’t show up, and no one got tied up in knots like a tourist wrapped in a macramé plant hanger. All in all, it was the best night Dean had spent in years. Maybe even decades. Perhaps even ever.
Jo cried a little when he left, looking younger than she was, seeming softer than she’d ever been. He held onto her until she was finished, then told her that little birdie of hers was full of shit. The only time he’d ever thought of her as a schoolgirl was when he needed to get off in the shower, and picturing her in a plaid skirt and bobby socks seemed like quickest way to get the job done.
She said she had a plaid skirt somewhere that she’d never worn, and she’d be willing to go out and buy some bobby socks if that would make him stay a couple more days. Dean said he wanted to-he really did-but he had to get back to South Dakota. He told her Sam and Bobby had a line on some loophole strategy to get him out of this stupid-ass deal he made, so he had to beat feet back to the Black Hills just so they had someone there to explain all the technical stuff for them.
You know how Sam and Bobby are, he told her.
Jo offered to go with him, but he said no; said if she was around he’d be too distracted to get anything done that didn’t involve her, a bar, and half a dozen Jack shooters.
She kissed him like she thought maybe it was goodbye forever, then she told him she’d climb down into hell after him if he let that bitch demon take him when his year was up. Dean told her that would be a hell of a self-sacrificial jackass thing to do, but she said she’d do it anyway. She swore she would. Swore to God, then crossed her heart with two fingers like she was six, and he was twelve.
And Dean believed her.
He believed her, and it mattered.
finis