Chapter 5

Dean's got nefarious plans … so has Leylaani. What a shame they're not the same plans.


Dean led Leylaani into the bedroom that was usually the brothers' space when they came to stay at Bobby's, pausing as she quietly closed the door behind her. She turned back to him and pulled in a deep breath as he began to pull off his T shirt.

A large part of one side of his body was a mass of mottled, colourful bruising. She observed that the forced stiffness with which he moved, together with the timid crookedness of his stance as he eased himself out of his shirt was a painfully clear signal that the lingering damage from his dislocated shoulder was far from healed.

It was a sight that made her stomach clench, and not in a good way.

Sitting on the bed, she smiled sadly and silently motioned for Dean to sit beside her. An unspoken understanding passed between the two as she gently ran a fingertip across the bruising, her lips pulling together in a tight grimace, holding back words that she was scared to say.

"I hate this job," she eventually whispered, looking up at Dean's face though moist eyes; "I hate what it does to us".

She took a deep breath; "you shouldn't have to endure this. You shouldn't have to live with this pain. You don't deserve this existence; none of us do. We don't deserve any of the strife that this damn job delivers us."

He pulled her into a gentle hug, resting his chin on the top of her head as she relaxed against his rock-solid presence.

"Say we won't always live like this," she murmured quietly, her voice muffled into his shoulder; "say one day we'll be free, like those sylphs; as free as the west wind."

"One day we will be free, you'll see," Dean reassured non-committally, his fingertips absently combing through the long black hair that cascaded across her shoulders."

The moments ticked by as they sat, silently supporting and comforting each other. Moments that were something delicate and precious that Dean could have savoured for ever, packed into a box and treasured for the rest of his life. He couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment when he sensed the moment that Leylaani snapped back into herself.

Squirming out from his embrace, she sat up abruptly, swiping the heel of her hand across her wet cheeks and clearing her throat irritably as if she was angry with herself for such a show of vulnerability, however brief.


"Take your jeans off," she suddenly said, a faint smile lifting her face.

Dean stared at her, a mixture of surprise and eagerness painted across his face. "Excuse me?" He replied; "wow – is that what classes as foreplay for the 21st century woman? I guess I've been doin' it wrong all these years …"

Her smile broadened into a deliciously naughty grin as she planted her hands on her hips.

"Stop your blathering," she snorted, "drop 'em, then get on the bed, on your front."

"Woah, kinky," Dean grinned, quirking an eyebrow suggestively as he fumbled with the buttons at his fly, "long live feminism - that's what I say," he teased; "I like a chick who takes control."

"Just be thankful I'm too nice to smack someone who's been used as a punchbag," she laughed, waiting until Dean had divested himself of the grubby denim and clumsily manouevred himself into a prone position across the middle of the bed.

"Comfortable?" She asked, smiling as her eyes scanned the length of his body, lingering over the soft cotton-clad curve of his butt.

"Yeah," he grunted; "hey, don't you go starin' at my ass. Not 'less you're prepared to let me do the same to you!"

"Can it," she giggled, giving said ass a playful slap; "you need to learn how to relax – it'll help you heal up."

" 'M relaxed," Dean snuffled indignantly into the pillow.

"Shut up and enjoy," she grinned.


Loading her hands with moisturiser, she rubbed it between her palms to warm it then brought both her slick hands to bear against his shoulder blades, working firm but gentle circles into his warm skin with the heel of her hand. She smiled as she felt a barely audible moan of bliss rumbling deep in his chest. If she didn't know better, she'd have thought it was a purr.

Working quietly and carefully, she swept her hands over the expanse of Dean's back, working a comforting rhythm of gentle caresses, both feather-light over the injured area, and reassuringly firm everywhere else. Kneading the tense muscles along his shoulders, she slowly circled his nape with the pad of her thumb, before working her way down the hard, undulating ridge of his spine with strong, busy fingers.

Beneath her exquisite touch Dean was slowly dissolving into boneless goo. Those soft, warm hands that were roaming about his back and shoulders, working the soothing lotion into his skin were transporting him into languid, mindless bliss. He'd totally lost control of his limbs; he wouldn't have been able to move if he wanted to. Bobby's house could burn down and he'd still be lying here, inert and helpless like a stain on the mattress. Didn't even care that he reeked of lavender or roses or whatever other flowery stink she was covering him in; there was no point in having pride when you were an incoherent puddle of groaning ecstacy.

Those wicked, relentless fingertips gradually worked their way up the muscular ridges of the back of his neck into his scalp, and he knew then that he was done for. That was it, the end.

His eyelashes had become leaden; even with his face mashed into the pillow, their increasing weight was dragging his eyelids down as wave after wave of restful bliss gradually engulfed him, drowning him slowly in pure contentment.

He fought manfully to stay alert; he'd had all manner of gloriously naughty, illicit and quite possibly illegal (in some states) ideas for tonight, but every single one of them required staying awake. This totally wasn't in Dean's game plan. He'd tried tugging at some of the little hairs that coated his forearms to shock himself back into wakefulness, but his clumsy fingers had turned into molasses just like the rest of him, he tried reciting the lyrics to a favourite song in his head, but darn it, his brain had left the building.

He tried to tell Leylaani that this was wonderful and therapeutic and deliciously relaxing, and that he very much would like to return the compliment, and so would she please mind finding a spatula and scraping him up off the bed so that he could give her a demonstration of how clever his own hands were – that is, when he could actually make them work again.

What actually came out of his mouth was "gnuhhhh …"


But Leylaani had her own agenda. Dean badly needed to heal, and he needed to rest. Despite her own desires, she would see to it that he did both, whether he wanted to or not. The great dork would do neither if left to his own devices and so she decided that she would employ her fingertips of doom to devastating effect to see the job finished.

Standing back, she smiled when a soft snore rose up from the bed to greet her. She knew her work was done.

Wiping her hands on her jeans she stepped out of them, dropping them into a loosely folded heap beside the room's other bed. Her T shirt, quickly and efficiently tugged off over her head, went the same way. As she pulled back the second bed's comforter, she paused.

No. This wasn't right.

She replaced the comforter and quietly climbed into the bed alongside Dean's sprawled form, manoeuvring his stray arm close into his side and burrowing her head into the nook of his throat. She slotted in tight alongside him, like the missing piece of a puzzle making the picture complete.

Pressed close against his warm skin, she pulled the comforter up over them, and slipped her arm across his back, losing herself in its gently soporific rise and fall.

Yes. This was how it should be.

It was barely moments before she followed him into delicious oblivion.