When All Logic Grows Cold
"Maybe I'm the one who should be teaching you a lesson or two."
Disclaimer: The Winchester boys aren't mine but I'd make Dean wear his boots all the time if they were.
Rating: M (Language, Sexual Situations)
Warnings/Spoilers: No spoilers for the show
A/N: Written for discordia_intus, who keeps having plot bunnies about my OFCs. Part of the Strange Angels 'verse. While I think the story stands well enough on its own, your mileage may vary.
Beta(s): embroiderama and quirkies
Dean Winchester was going to be the death of her.
It was bad enough that he had kept poking her in the arm every time Charlotte tried to take a sip of her coffee, laughing when she finally glared at him over the top of her glasses and wiped ineffectually at her skirt with a napkin that came apart in her hand. When Dean leaned backwards in his chair and started making farting noises, she didn't know whether to kick him or kiss him until Sam slid a picture between them.
A picture of some thing that should only have existed in an H.P. Lovecraft story.
Jacob would have sighed and told her that there was a grain of truth in the written word no matter how fanciful the execution, that he hadn't handed her all those books in his library just so Charlotte Anne Webb could ignore what she had learned when Sam Winchester pulled open his father's leather-bound journal and pointed to a hand-drawn sketch of a Mi-go. Except the scribbled label read 'Giganteus Cimex' and Charlotte started correcting the noun declensions and verb tenses on another coffee-stained napkin while Sam recited the Latin phrase next to the picture.
She slipped the napkin into Dean's hand before she locked the door behind them, hoping it was enough to keep them both safe.
Charlotte kept herself busy while they were gone, setting out a bottle of tequila on the table next to her laptop along with the first aid kit and a handful of plastic trash bags in case the fight turned bloody. Staring at a monitor and twisting Enochian symbols into some semblance of order didn't take the edge off of the waiting, the sputter of the fan replacing Dean's incessant channel surfing or the way Sam would tell him to pick one freaking channel.
Things only got worse when the Impala roared into the parking lot with a low growl, a gunning engine as angry as Dean's eyes when the door to the room burst open.
He stood there glaring at her in his bare feet, holding his boots in one hand, and the light flickered off the green sheen that covered the rest of him. Charlotte closed her laptop as Dean stalked towards her. The smell of rotten vegetation reached the table before he did, his lips twisting into a grimace when Charlotte gagged. He snatched a plastic trash bag off the table on his way to the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.
Sam smiled at her weakly from the doorway, carrying a paper bag in his arms.
Charlotte jumped when a slimy green hand emerged from the bathroom, holding out the plastic bag with a bellow about her scrawny ass taking her scholastic authority into the laundry room to wash his fucking clothes. Her eyes narrowed as Dean shook the bag, watching it drop to the floor, and Charlotte didn't move until she could hear the sounds of running water from the shower. She banged on the door and called him a prick loud enough that their neighbor started pounding on the wall.
She picked up the bag, holding it at arm's length, and headed for the laundry room.
And the smell coming off of Dean's clothes when Charlotte pulled them out of the washer for the second time was still enough to make her choke.
Heavy footsteps thumped down the concrete sidewalk leading to the laundry room, the clump of thick-soled boots that she would have recognized without the crackle of annoyance buzzing at the base of her skull. Her fists were already clenching, her body turning to face the soft click of the latch.
"Try some vinegar, Girl Genuis," Dean snapped. A plastic bottle arced towards her, landing on the scratched tile and rolling towards her shoe. "You ever have to get rid of the taste of giant bug from your mouth? I had to gargle mouthfuls of that shit." He folded his arms across his chest. "I'm going to be farting apple cider vinegar for the next three days thanks to you."
"I didn't make you shoot the big bad bug." Charlotte rolled her eyes. "Don't blame me because you're always going in with a gun."
"I tried doing it your way but you gave me crappy intel. Sam's googly-eyed giant mosquito rolled over and played dead for him."
"There's no such thing as crappy intel when it comes to googly-eyed giant mosquitoes." She picked up the vinegar bottle, taking a deep breath while she unscrewed the cap. Charlotte splashed the clothes with half of the contents before closing the washer, setting the bottle onto an old dining room table someone had dragged into the room for folding clothes. "Your Latin sucks, Dean. You couldn't conjugate your way out of a wet paper sack."
"Sam made it out clean using what was in Dad's journal." Dean snorted, watching her add more quarters to the washing machine before crossing the room to stand in front of her. "You want to know what I think, Charlie?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"I think your Latin sucks. And I'm betting they taught it crappy at that fancy school of yours." His voice dropped when their eyes met, warmth spreading through her belly along with a flash of her body bending underneath his, the ghosts of her nails leaving scratches down his back while Dean moaned 'Charlotte' into her mouth. She swallowed. "Maybe I'm the one who should be teaching you a lesson or two," Dean added with a smirk.
"There's nothing you can teach me about Latin that I don't already know," she retorted.
She bunched his t-shirt in a fist, breath coming out in a huff as the scent of apple cider vinegar cut through the air between them, leaving behind the touch of cotton in her fingers and his hands tangling her hair. Charlotte was already tilting her head and hitching up into the kiss when Dean's mouth crashed into hers, tasting the hint of sour underneath the sweet of mint mouthwash as she sucked on his lower lip.
"Who said I was talking about Latin?"
He pushed Charlotte against a dryer, her hip smacking into the hard metal when one foot hooked itself on the hem of her skirt and she stumbled backwards. The dryer right next to it was still vibrating, letting out just enough steam to remind her of early summers in Georgia. Charlotte closed her eyes, drops of sweat condensing in the cracks of her knees and elbows, her shirt damp underneath her hair. She lifted her hips before she realized it, languid heat working through her muscles as Dean slid her skirt down past her thighs, and she shivered when it hit the floor.
Dean mapped a slow trail across her scars, callused palms wrapping around her wrists as his tongue traced a thin white line stretching between her thighs. He took his time, mouth curving into a smile when she whispered his name, licking the blemished skin like it was as smooth as the rest of her. Charlotte had spent too many nights sprawled underneath Miles Kincaid to forget that she was a phantom thing, remembering his perfunctory kisses and her scarred reflection on the back of his eyelids. A girl with a trust fund kept safely in the dark.
But there was nothing Dean loved better than watching, wanted her spread out and flushed with tiny red flickers wherever his lips touched - hazel eyes glimmering at her from between her thighs, waiting for the blush as red as Charlotte's hair whenever his thumbs held her open and hot breath teased wet skin.
The scrap of fabric she was wearing didn't keep full lips from sucking through the moist cotton as Dean held her knees open with his elbows. Charlotte jerked, pushing against his mouth, and his hands tightened around her wrists when she bucked her hips a second time.
"Look at you," he murmured. Dean's chuckle vibrated up through her belly and he finally let go of her arms. "Your underwear's fucking soaked."
He inched the waistband past her hips, dropping her panties on the floor next to her skirt, and he smirked when Charlotte slipped one hand between her legs. Cocking his head as he watched her fingers moving in and out of the wet, grabbing her wrist with another chuckle when she whimpered. Charlotte rested her knees on his shoulders, her hands bent over edge of the dryer while he tormented her with his goddamn tongue. She leaned her head back, riding out the rhythm with each crest of the wave. Rolling her hips until she was nothing but want pounding against his lips.
"Damn - "
His tongue slipped inside, as deep as it could go.
Dean replaced his tongue with two fingers, thrusting in counterpoint to her swaying hips. She was already coming, a small swell drenching his knuckles, and, Jesus, he pressed his tongue flat every time she shuddered - playing her with lips and rough passes against slick skin. Charlotte was drowning, spilling over onto his hand, his hair scratching the inside of her thighs as his head continued to bob. Her pulse quickened with a moan, a spasm that poured through her with one final buck of her hips.
His smile was shiny when her legs slid down his shoulders, a shit-eating grin overflowing with salt and musk. "Taste so good, baby," he whispered into her mouth.
God, but she wanted to fuck him.
Her boots touched down on the ground, hands scrambling for the button at his waist. Dean was still kissing her, hands tight in her hair, when she traced one finger down the length of him. Feeling the strain against the zipper as she tugged it open before she curled her fingers past the waistband of his jeans and hooked the elastic of his boxer shorts. She swallowed Dean's gasp as she pulled them past his hips, scratching slow circles down his thighs.
"On the table," he said softly, grabbing her wrists.
There wasn't enough room to spread out across the discolored wood the way they usually did, with his mouth charting the pale blue veins and looping whorls up her abdomen, all loose-limbed and swollen underneath him by the time his lips reached hers. Dean would run a thumb across her cheek and Charlotte would press her hand to his chest, the heartbeat underneath her fingertips making promises they would never speak out loud - the 'I'll always stay if you never leave me' that echoed between them whenever they were tangled up together.
But she was wriggling out of her wool sweater all the same, kicking the bottle of apple cider vinegar to the floor as her shirt came off. Dean stood there watching her fingers as she unsnapped the clasps down the front of her bra, the straps slipping down her shoulders. He started hopping around, throwing his shirt down onto the floor and yanking his jeans and his boxers past his boots, eyes going wide when her hand began working between her legs again. Soft moist sounds that left her fingers as slick as his smile before he was on top of her, pinning her hands above her head at the wrist.
He was pressed hard into her belly and the only thing she saw reflected in his eyes was the way red hair fanned around her head. All that stretched skin Charlotte hated so much turned into something that only Dean Winchester would celebrate, the war wounds from a fire that marked her the same way that ghosts and wendigos and every other nightmare had marked him.
She was never his phantom thing.
And he was just as close to breaking as she was, his mouth dipping down to her left breast. He caught the nipple lightly with his teeth, flicking in time to the hitch in her breath. Skin crinkled against his lips as he sucked and a groan that she couldn't bite back spilled out into the room, fighting with the whir of the washer and the steamy rattle from the dryer. He licked the curve of a scar underneath her right breast, following the arc with another pass of his tongue until her back arched. Until she was a moan that wanted more than just his mouth leaving a trail of flushed skin in its wake.
Her hands clenched when he pushed into her, slow enough to swell around him with an 'ah' as her boots slid down his thighs, hooking into the backs of his knees. One sharp lift of her hips and she was pulling him deep into the wet, already shuddering as his pulse beat against hers.
Dean kissed up her jaw line.
"Just fuck me," she whispered. "Fuck me hard."
The ghost of a grin played across his face and suddenly he was letting go of her wrists, bodies shifting so that he was on his knees and bracing her legs against his chest. Staring down into the space where their bodies intersected.
"Love watching you get fucked," he growled. "Love watching you play with yourself when I fuck you."
It was her turn to smile as she slipped one hand lazily between her legs, his eyes following the measured circles that picked up speed when Charlotte bit her lip and thumbed a nipple into a peak. His fingers dug into her thighs, marking her with bloody half moons as Dean slammed into her, quick short thrusts that left them both groaning. She slid drenched fingers between his lips, falling into the rhythm of skin against skin and the bucking of her hips, an ache that needed to be filled until she was clamping around him and, Christ, she was splitting apart into little pieces - splitting apart into tiny moans glued back together with a 'Jesus, fuck' and the hot rush surging through her.
Charlotte let her legs drop on either side of his hips, listening to the thrum of blood rushing through her veins and the creak of the table as Dean stretched out on top of her, both of them breathless and slick with sweat. She wrapped her arms around his neck, snaking her fingers through his hair, and returned Dean's smile with one of her own.
The door to the laundry room opened.
She recognized the voice, a flush spreading out from the top of her head down to the tips of her toes. Charlotte remembered the man's laugh as he struggled with the coins on the dryer, his liver-spotted hands shaking as she smiled shyly at him; telling her his name was Joe while she fixed the quarters and slid them into the machine. But that laugh couldn't hide the loneliness that had swept through her when he patted Charlotte's hand, the memory of closed eyes underneath a shock of platinum blonde hair laying against a pink silk pillow.
A plastic laundry basket dropped to the floor and Joe whipped open the dryer, clothes falling heavily on top of each other. Footsteps shuffled back outside, a flood of embarrassment and loss that lingered after he closed the door behind him. A brown-eyed girl danced in a garden full of sunflowers, her hands lifted to the sky as her blonde hair blew in the wind. Her skirt swirled in the sunshine, the fabric thin enough to make out the shapes of her legs when the sun hit her the right way.
"Don't people believe in knocking anymore?" Dean snorted.
"Because the first thing anyone expects to see when they're picking up their laundry are the two idiots wearing nothing but boots boinking each other on the folding table," she retorted.
"I can't believe I'm screwing a chick who refers to our beautiful time together as boinking." He chuckled. "You should mess up more often. Haven't scared a grandmother in a grocery store for a long time."
Charlotte laughed, low in her throat, and tightened her arms around his neck. "I was planning on jamming up your Smith and Wesson next week when Sam tries to teach me how to clean guns again."
"Go right ahead. I use the frigging Colt."
Dean coughed, scratching his ear, and suddenly he was dragging her down into him with nothing but a crooked smile, his eyes unguarded as Dean brought his mouth down to hers. There were no wishes strong enough to give him the world without demons that sang in his sleep every night, his arms pulling her close as he murmured 'Charlotte' into her hair, and she was the only one who saw the smile fade when a crack of sunlight filtered through the curtains.
Charlotte touched his lips with her fingers.
"Anyone ever tell you that it's kind of sexy when you go all Latin scholar commando?" he asked, sweeping a thumb across her cheek.
"Anyone ever tell you that it's kind of sexy when you turn into a walking chick flick?"
"If anyone's the walking chick flick in this thing, it's you."
One hand wrapped in her hair, the wisps beneath her ear prickling when Dean sucked in a breath. Charlotte slid her hand down to his chest, palm resting lightly as she felt his heartbeat - safe for one more night. Safe until a random newspaper clipping or another translated passage in an ancient prophecy sent them to a little town Charlotte never would have visited back in her library. Dean lifted his head when she scratched down his back, a hand on either side of her face when he kissed her a second time, and groaned when she grinned up at him.
"You're killing me, baby."
The title of this story is a song lyric from "The Mayor of Simpleton" by XTC.
My Latin sucks, which is why the description of the monster of the week is a haphazard translation where I'm sure I butchered the adjective and the noun declension. So for those who do speak Latin, mea culpa. The gist was essentially "Giant Bug." My creativity slays me some days.
That being said, I did take a lot of creative license with using a Mi-go in the story. I've never intended to pit the boys against the Cthulhu mythos - at least not in this 'verse - but I wanted to use a monster that was more unique than my standard fare.
And yes, katelennon, there were wee homages to Always Falling sprinkled throughout this for you.
Lastly, I did my best to tone down the adult content. If you feel more work is required in this regard, please let me know and I will fix it accordingly.