Three days. Two long, dark nights.

She hated the waiting. More than anything. As if nothing else in the world could drive her to her knees like his absence could, though she would never, could never admit it. The dark was made for keeping secrets; he had his, hidden well away from the rest of the world, and she would have hers.

Thunder rumbled in the distance over dry ground, only just white noise in the yawning stretch of silence. She moved idly throughout the small house, hating restlessness nearly as much as waiting. Fingers twitched to smooth an unused bedspread, straightening photos with bright faces in their frames, staring a little too long at the crinkled eyes gazing back, twisting the ring on her left hand all the while.

What she needed was a hobby.

Cross-stitch, she thought, trying to purse the smile out of her lips. Dean would laugh himself sick.

She wrinkled her nose at the kitchen, thinking of the ever-piling stack of dishes. Fine. But if she was subjected to that, he'd be stuck doing the damn laundry.

The sink filled, shiny suds swirling around the stainless steel, and the thunderstorm in the distance reminded her of its presence yet again. God, she hated doing dishes. For all they ate, she might as well invest in paper plates. Not exactly homey, sure, but it wasn't like either of them enjoyed washing them in the slightest, and –

A warm body pressed up against her, pinning her to the counter, and before she could even open her mouth to give a startled scream, a callused hand covered her mouth.

"You miss me?" he murmured, his breath warm on her ear. Her body, which had been frozen in fear, relaxed, and he let his hand slip from her mouth.

"Jesus Christ!" she exclaimed, her heart thumping wildly in her chest. "I didn't even hear you—" She tried to turn around to smack him on the shoulder, at least, but he held her tight against the counter, pressing in closer and leaning over her to land a rough kiss on her mouth. After a stunned moment, she tipped her head up, leaning into him, and his lips moved down to the corner of her mouth, down her cheek and to her jaw line, and then to the soft skin just below her ear, nipping lightly as he went. She gave a soft, appreciative moan, wrapping her arms behind her and around his neck to pull him in even tighter, and felt his erection through his grime-covered jeans.

She paused, opening heavy-lidded eyes to stare up at him. "Dean…" she said.

He answered by snaking his hand slowly down the front of her, cupping her through her short, thin pajama bottoms. She drew in a sharp breath, arching into him as he stroked the outer material.

She had wanted to ask him if he and Sam were all right, if the hunt was successful, but she found herself lost in his creatively executed kisses, his tongue sliding in and out of her mouth, all while his hand massaged her, teasing, never quite slipping under the thin material. A sudden rumble in the distance broke her stupor, and she felt her face grow hot and her stomach turn at something she'd forgotten.

"Christo," she said breathlessly, pulling away from him and watching his face. So stupid to have forgotten, even when, especially when her body was reacting to every move he made against her, her want so deep and aching in her gut.

He chuckled, a rumble in his chest that vibrated against her back. "Good of you to only just now remember," he said.

"I got a little distracted," she muttered, running her fingers over his arms, his hands now gripping the counter, opening a little more room so she could turn actually turn around. He smelled like the night, like earthiness and dried sweat, the musky scent of smoke clinging to his clothes and hair. It was familiar, and she leaned into him once more, standing tip-toed so her lips could reach his brow, his jaw, and eventually his lips, biting and tonguing her way into hearing him moan. He reciprocated in kind, and grabbed at her ass firmly, giving an involuntary thrust of his hips against hers.

"Need you so bad," he said, breathing hard, his eyes half-lidded. In a blur of motion he was suddenly moving her out of the kitchen, stumbling as his hands raked through her hair, kissing her and sucking at her neck with such ferocity she thought she would pass out.

They didn't quite make it to the bed, but later, as an afterthought, she assumed he never intended to.

She slammed against the wall inside their darkened bedroom, Dean pushing against her, needy and insistent, and then suddenly pulled back, and she just barely hid the whine of disappointment. He looked at her in the dark, his lip curled, and she gazed back, the light from dim streetlights filtering in through the windows, barely illuminating the wild look in his eyes that made her stomach twist with nervous anticipation. He leaned in close.

"Gonna eat you out," he said softly, intently watching her every move. "Gonna eat you out and make you beg. And just when you can't take it anymore, I'm gonna fuck you so hard you'll still feel it a week from now."

She didn't object, didn't say a goddamn word, just wondered why in the hell she was still dressed.

But Dean, always the go-getter, saw quickly to that.

He fingered the elastic waistbands of her pajama shorts and little cotton underwear, pulling them so they rested at the very bottom of her hips, his thumb working in slow, dragging movements just under the material. She bit her lip, didn't want to say anything, but fuck—"Just do it already, Jesus," she hissed.

He chuckled again, deep, and said in a low, rough tone, "You gonna beg for me, sweetheart? Gonna beg for more when I fuck you with my tongue?"

She couldn't help it; she shuddered, eyes rolling back in her head as goosebumps covered every inch of flesh.

"We'll see about that," she said, even though her breath caught and her head was still slammed against the wall.

"Looks to me like you're already halfway there," Dean quipped, and pulled down her shorts the rest of the way, his hands already roving under her shirt as she stepped out of them.

"You're turn," she murmured, unbuckling his belt and sliding it off with a snap. She fumbled with the button while his fingertips skimmed lightly underneath her shirt, up her stomach and finally to her breasts, cupping one and tweaking the nipple of the other. She whimpered, her knees growing weaker.

"You're not exactly—you're not exactly making this easy for me," she gasped, when finally the button came undone and she unzipped, pulling his jeans down with a grunt and wrapping her fingers around his ever-hardening cock. This time it was he who gasped, groaning deep in his chest as she smirked.

"Don't dish it if you can't take it," she said, gliding her hands across him. He growled in return, quickly ridding her of her shirt.

"Like a freakin' buffet," Dean said, and she felt a flush rise in her cheeks as he looked her up and down. "Don't know what to taste first." He rid himself of his shirt as well, but not the smoky scent that clung to him, and she breathed him in, intoxicated. Her hands roved every inch as he pushed in close yet again, soft kissing turning harder with each passing breath.

"Gonna make you come so hard," he murmured into her skin, sealing the promise with a slide of a finger inside of her. He watched her hungrily as she writhed beneath his hand, coaxing the wetness out of her as his thumb massaged her clit. She gave a gasping shudder, bucking up into him; there was no way she was holding herself up at this point. That was all Dean.

"So wet," he said, and fuck, his self-control really must have been off the charts, because she was about ready to come just looking at him, muscles taut and looking at her through his lashes with the promise of more. Just as the thought passed through her mind, he suddenly grabbed both her wrists in his free hand, tightening them together has he pinned them against the wall above her head.

"Don't you move," he said, his voice rough and saturated with want.

He sucked at her collarbone, his fingers still stroking and occasionally sliding up inside her, and he moved his mouth slowly down her chest until he was tonguing her nipples, teeth sliding over soft skin, making her moan and arch toward the warmness of his mouth. She unconsciously tried to pull out of his grip, wanting to touch him, dig her fingernails in his back, anything, but he tightened his hold and stretched her arms up a bit further. Full immobilization. She understood, distantly, her position of prey to hunter, and normally she herself would have liked to get the upper hand, so to speak, watch his lips as he cried out her name, but right now she couldn't find it in herself to give a fuck. It felt infuriatingly and maddeningly good.

He slid a second finger in her, rubbing her clit in earnest until she let out a panting cry, trembling and shuddering as she came, drenching his fingers beneath her.

"Fuck, fuck," he moaned, finally letting go of her wrists as he set his sights a little lower and bent to crouch beneath her, pausing to bite gently at the soft, white flesh of her lower belly. He licked at the insides of her slick thighs, the prickling scruff of his cheek and jaw making her jump, and oh God, he was relentless, licking and sucking and tongue sliding over sensitive flesh until her fingers wove themselves into his short hair, gripping him for all she was worth and hissing through her teeth.

"Jesus Christ," he said weakly. "Taste so damn good."

"Fuck, Dean— ," she tried, and he flicked his tongue out, brushing her clit again and oh God, he really was going to make her beg—.

"Just say the words, sweetheart," he said, panting himself. He spread her further, using his finger in tandem with his tongue until she just couldn't take it anymore, biting her lip to keep the whimpers from becoming anything more—.

"Need you," groping at his shoulders, barely able to keep herself upright, "need you. Please, God, Dean, need you inside of me."

He made a strangled noise and came up from his crouched position as fast as if he was coming up for air and grabbed her hips. "Thought you'd never ask," he roughed out.

He lifted her from where she was barely able to stand, spreading her legs around him and maneuvered his hips until they were aligned, and thrust up into her. He gasped, his eyes squeezed shut and head thrown back. She reveled at the sight of it. She tighten her legs around him, hips grinding into hers as he plunged deeper, filling her, finding a rhythm through sweat-slick haze. His head dipped forward, not quite resting on her shoulder, but he was close enough that she could feel his hot panting breaths against her skin, little grunts of pleasure that made her writhe. With one hand still gripping her hip tightly, he slowly moved his other to her breast, cupping and squeezing and tweaking, pumping harder, faster in to her, and she was so goddamn close she didn't even hear the loud, whimpering cries coming from her throat.

"Fuckfuckfuck" became the steady mantra that Dean groaned agonizingly soft into her ear, and she dug her fingernails into the rigid muscles of his shoulder as he thrust deep inside her in quick succession, shuddering as he came, filling her with wet heat. She herself stiffened against the wall, trembling uncontrollably as she felt herself clenching around him, their guttural moans of pleasure matching in cadence.

He had just enough strength left to carry them both to the neatly made bed, collapsing together in a pile of loose-limbed ecstasy in the soothing dark.


For a long while neither of them moved; her head was angled at such a way that she could see out the window, and she watched the bright flashes of lightening as they grew closer, the after-images like a negative burned into her eyes. Dean's breathing had started to grow deeper, giving little whuffling exhales with each breath, though he stirred when she ran a light hand down his chest.

"So," she said, the side of her mouth quirking upwards. "Good hunt?"

"You could say that," he said, trailing his own fingers from the dip in between her breasts down to her stomach.

"By the way," she said, scooting a little closer to him, "there's a load of laundry with your name on it. Only because you distracted me from doing the dishes."

"No fair," Dean said sleepily. "Still. 'S better than doing Sam's." His fingers roved lower, gently gliding over her lower belly and hip bone.

"Dirty, dirty boys," she breathed out, closing her eyes and curling herself toward his hand. He stroked sensitive flesh as she shuddered half on top of him, eyes squeezed shut on his chest. She reached out to wrap a hand around his hardening dick, and Dean hissed, coming fully awake.

He moved slow, lazily positioning himself on top of her, leaning down to pull at her bottom lip with his teeth. His cock was tucked between them on her thigh, and she gave an impatient wriggle, nearly sending his full weight on her.

"Jesus, woman," he growled, but obliged.

He slid into her agonizingly slow, bracing himself on his forearms and thrusting in deep. They found a rhythm, the black cord of his necklace dangling and the amulet that hung from it slip-sliding across her chest with each move they made. He was quiet, except for the occasional breath that caught in his throat, making him release it with a throaty groan. His touches came gentler, movements not as desperate, the need to quench whatever fire was burning away at him gone, replaced with simple need, and she knew better than to question it.

There would be nothing she could say. Or, at least, nothing worth saying. She had learned long ago that actions spoke far louder than words when it came to Dean, the subtlest of movements and barest of looks amplified and filtered through his line of thinking, so she clung to him for all she was worth, her grip giving no leeway, her want all-encompassing as she pressed into him.

They shuddered together, labored breathing echoing through the dark room, and fell asleep tangled together as the rain began to patter softly on the windows.