“Hello, Dean,” Bela purrs, all smoke and distance, and Dean almost drops the phone.
“The hell do you want?” he snaps, low as he can without losing the venom because Sam’s sprawled back and snoring not three feet away from him. On the far end of the line, Bela twirls a strand of hair between her fingers and answers:
“Entertainment,” he repeats, flat and dull, picking at the plastic-feeling hotel bedspread, and Bela laughs as the silver-golden glow of her city slices through her shades.
“Well, it’s a bit of a quiet night,” she explains, toying with a button on her shirt, “and frankly, I’m rather bored.”
“And I’m the one you call for that.” He raises his eyebrows, dragging his free hand through his hair. “Yeah, that makes perfect sense.”
“Well, no one else squirms quite as prettily as you do.” Bela leans back, watching the way her hair spills across the couch cushions in swirls of caramel; it’s a shame Dean isn’t here to see it, and she smiles in the exact way she does when she’s pouring over her gun collection. “What can I say, I have a weakness.”
“Right. And I’m going to be squirming because…” Fuck, talk more like some rich boy’s jerk-off fantasy, huh? Dean thinks, scratching the back of his head. She’s basically the poster girl for the whole high-heels, knockout-legs, poisoned-cocktail black-widow kinda thing… With the total hellbitch part intact, of course. Which is a turnoff. A serious turnoff. Definitely.
“Well, that depends, really,” Bela observes, lifting the half-empty tumbler by her elbow, shaking it so the ice clinks delicate and formal. “For example, I could start by discussing my lingerie.” The word rolls off her tongue like a masterpiece of consonants, and she smirks. “It’s really rather nice tonight, you know. Thigh-highs, black lace…”
Dean’s hand clamps down on his own hair so hard he half-expects to leave a bald spot, and he rolls onto his side to shield the phone from his comatose brother, because that’s going to do anything at all. “Did you –” He licks his lips. “Did you actually call me up in the middle of the night for phonesex?”
“Well, if you have a more interesting occupation planned, by all means go ahead and hang up,” she suggests, raising her eyebrows. “Or if there’s something else you’d prefer we discuss – rather than, say, my fingers scraping along the bottom of your cock, or the exact state of my cunt at the moment –”
“Hang on.” Dean shakes his head, staggering to his feet with his teeth sunk into his lip hard enough to hurt, and does not bolt for the bathroom, screw you. The door clicks shut behind him, fingers fumbling against the lock, and he braces himself against the door, clearing his throat. “You were saying?”
Bela tilts her head, considers that sequence of sounds, and smiles, one finger wandering along the inside of her neckline. “Nothing of any interest to you, I’m sure,” she all but coos into the phone, adjusting the receiver carefully against her shoulder. “Nothing you’d care about at all.”
“So we can add cocktease to your list of credentials,” Dean growls, trying to pick apart the slight catch to her voice, cold scratched-up artificial wood rough against his shoulders even through his shirt and his jeans already just a bit too tight for comfort, what with the thought of lace around her thighs and the cocktail-cold confidence in every word out of her mouth. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Well, it’s not as if it’s actually practical for me to chain your wrists to the nearest bedpost and fuck you into the relevant mattress like the little bitch you rather are, now is it,” she points out, calm and eminently reasonable, fingers skipping under her bra to pinch a nipple lightly. “Blame geography, if you like – or your travel habits, really. Whichever you prefer.”
“You’re out of your mind,” Dean growls, hand flat against his stomach and fingers clenching in his shirt to keep himself from reaching down (fuck, fuck, her knees braced against his hips, her clever wicked fingers digging between the bones of his wrist). “Just because you’ve got your sick kinks –”
“A little bondage is a sick kink?” she inquires, tilting her head contemplatively, fingers still tracing a circle on her skin. “I’m surprised at you, Dean.” She leans back, wondering if his jaw’s gone tight yet, if he’s staring and unseeing with those cutstone eyes gone dark. “And a little disappointed, really – and here I thought you were experienced in this sort of thing. Dean Winchester, nervous as a virgin – who’d’ve thought.”
“Fuck you,” he chokes, white-knuckled around the cellphone case, and she laughs, flicking her blouse buttons open.
“That’s what we were discussing, sweetheart,” she says, fingers dancing on her stomach; she shivers a little, biting at her lip with a smile. “And rather tamely too, I might add – we haven’t even gotten close to exotic. Now, if it was you in the lingerie –”
“Fuck,” he growls, her laugh echoing in the wake of it along the line, and jams his fingers down the front of his jeans as fast as he can, cupping his aching cock – his hand is rough, fingers thick, nothing at all like hers, and he bites his lip. She’s still laughing, and even that screams class and money in a way that makes him ache to piss her off.
“Oh, don’t tell me I hit a sweet spot,” she says, voice almost completely even in spite of the half-moon fingernail crescents she’s digging into her own skin. Trembling a little, she thumbs the speakerphone button and settles the phone on the arm of the couch, digging at the upholstery. “It would suit you, you know – panties a bit too small, of course, so you really would squirm, not that it would help at all. Lacy, too, just to see you blush when you slid into them.” She hums, toes clenching against the rug as she struggles to keep the note steady. He gasps, cheeks burning, eyes squeezed closed and he’s not moving his hand even, can’t bear to, just trying to hold himself still and pretend he’s a little less desperate than he is. She just keeps humming, carefree-sounding as a bird.
“Keep talking, bitch,” he growls, and she laughs, a faint hint of breathiness burbling underneath. She closes her eyes, curls her fingers under the waistband of her skirt.
“Say please.” She’s losing her grip on steadiness, but that’s alright since he’s half-gone, breathing heavy and rasping against her ear, and she brushes her fingers over her thin silk panties, over the familiar slick shape of her cunt, clenching every muscle in her to stay quiet. “I’m waiting, Dean.”
“Fuck you.” There’s no venom behind it at all, nothing but breathless desperation, jerking up against his grip as the back of his skull thunks against the door. “Fuck you, Bela. Please.”
“You’re easy, you know that?” she murmurs, sliding her other hand down to match the first. “Well, I’ve got both hands down the front of my skirt at the moment, as a matter of fact, and I’ve really soaked through my panties quiet effectively, listening to you –”
“Fuck, how long have you been doing that?” he chokes, rolling his palm over the head of his dick as he imagines – her throat thrown back, the veins in her arms standing out, how quim-soaked silk would feel against his fingers, in his mouth.
“Only a few moments, but I’ve been playing with my breasts for nearly this whole conversation,” she informs him, half-conspiratorial, half-smug. “And it sounds as if you’ve got a hand on yourself already, Dean, without even asking – not very polite.”
“Like you asked,” he growls, licking blood off the edge of his lip and shaking back against the door. “Come on, weren’t you going to say what you would do to me, come on…”
“Well, I’m glad you’re noticing who’s doing what to who,” she gasps, pretense crumbling with every word. “Incidentally, I’ve got one finger up my cunt properly now, probably be wanting another soon – I’d be making you bleed for me, Dean Winchester, scratching my fingers down your chest, biting at your shoulders until I tasted salt, and I’d be quite surprised if you called me a demon then –”
“Hellbitch anyway,” he grunts, grip tightening, every muscle in him seizing up, and she groans, stabbing two fingers deep inside herself for that spot, that right spot – “Don’t talk like I couldn’t make you beg too, bitch, get my tongue up in there – probably be on my knees, huh, you like that, kinky bitch –”
“You’re overfond of that word, you know,” she chokes, scissoring her fingers apart. “God, probably he says, as if I wouldn’t shove you down, hook a foot over your shoulders and keep you like that, pet, wouldn’t let you up until I’d come and come and come again, until you were dripping with it, you’d never get the taste of me out of your mouth, and you’d like it, wouldn’t you, for all you act like I’m so filthy I bet you’d love to come up soaked and slick and sweet and mine –”
“Sweet,” he chokes, clamping down, “you – yours – you – I – fuck,” and the last of the word gets lost in a long groan that’s almost a sob, head thrown back and fingers tightening as heat spills across his hand, between his fingers, damp and spattered on his thighs. “Fuck.”
“Easy,” she murmurs, sliding up a finger from her other hand inside herself, stroking her thumbs across her clit, rocking herself up – “easy, God, you’re a piece of work, a slut and a half, just desperate for any sort of compliment, anybody wanting you, anyone you can get near you –”
“Shut up,” he pants helplessly, but she’s stabbing upwards one last time, hands crooked and locked and she cries out dagger-sharp, shuddering as she clamps down around herself, again and again and through until it’s whiting it all out, a flood, overwhelming and out of control but only because she brought it about and it is perfect.
At opposite ends of the line they struggle to catch their breath, her in a New York apartment made of chrome and money and him in a Texas motel room that cost the same as her average lunch, both of them sweat-soaked and shaken out and shattered.
She recovers first, because there are no other options: “Well, that wasn’t halfway bad,” she murmurs, drawing her blouse closed across herself with one soaked finger. “Not disappointing at all, actually. I’m a bit surprised.”
“Aren’t you a bucket of sunshine,” Dean mutters, dragging himself upright. The sink roars as he turns it on, shoves his hand underneath. “Anything else I can help you with?” It drips acid.
“No, I think that will be all for now,” Bela replies, coolly professional, and picks up the phone, thumb hovering over the end call button. She pauses, gazing half-focused at the ceiling with its pretty molded swirls. “Good night, Dean.”
“G’night,” he answers, bent over the sink, and stops with a handful of water halfway to his forehead, mind catching up with his mouth. “Hang on –”
The line’s clicked closed already.
Two people, now completely unconnected, sigh and shake their heads.
One year (one year with nine before it) continues counting down.