Forbidden Fruit
1/1
Dean stares angrily off into space, his thumb making rhythmic tapping noises on the table. And though he was raised better, his dirty boots are propped up on the table, crossed laxly at the ankles. He can’t tell you how long he’s been in the cold room, the lights cut out and the glow of the moon the only thing illuminating his hard features. All he can tell you is that Bobby and Sam left him, told him to hold down the fort while they went and did research. His snort echoes, touches against the grimy walls and bounces back to his ears.
An absent clock makes it impossible for him to tell how many hours, minutes, or seconds have gone by. But when he hears the soft sound of feet hitting pavement he perks up, slips his revolver from his pants. The steps are too light to be Bobby or Sam; they’re feminine and bare. Her white dress is dirty, smeared with blood and dirt. A smile that’s meant to be disarming and angelic is plastered on her lips; to Dean it looks nothing less than vicious and feral.
“Well look what the cat dragged in,” he grumbles, cocking his gun.
“Now Dean, you ought to treat me with more respect than that.” Eve replies, her eyes glistening in the soft white moonlight.
“Yeah? Why should I? You killed Rufus, you almost made us have to kill Bobby!” he quirks a brow. “You’re as ugly as that damn herpes worm on steroids.”
Eve advances slowly, walking until the barrel of his gun is pressed tight into her blood smeared chest. She smiles slowly at him, her lips parting ever so slightly so that her teeth peek through. Her pink stained teeth. “You don’t mean that.” she murmurs.
Suddenly Dean is pressed against the cement wall behind him, his revolver clanging against something in the dark. “In fact, I think you’re attracted to me. Am I right, Dean?”
She walks closer, tracing her finger across his plump bottom lip; it trails down his jaw, then his neck, and hooks onto the collar of his shirt. And yeah, she’s an ugly broad on camera, but with her low-cut dress and bedroom eyes all Dean wants to do his fuck her until he’s dead. Instead he squeezes his mouth shut tight, averts his eyes.
Just as her hands are gliding down his stomach, slipping lower to caress his crotch, the door slams open and in the blink of an eye she’s gone. The release, the absence of the pressure on his limbs, makes him let out a startled gasp. Across the room he locks eyes with a perplexed Sam.
"You okay, Dean?" Sam asks, his puppy dog eyes locked in place.
Dean drags his hands through his hair, breathes shakily for a moment. "Son of a bitch!"
An absent clock makes it impossible for him to tell how many hours, minutes, or seconds have gone by. But when he hears the soft sound of feet hitting pavement he perks up, slips his revolver from his pants. The steps are too light to be Bobby or Sam; they’re feminine and bare. Her white dress is dirty, smeared with blood and dirt. A smile that’s meant to be disarming and angelic is plastered on her lips; to Dean it looks nothing less than vicious and feral.
“Well look what the cat dragged in,” he grumbles, cocking his gun.
“Now Dean, you ought to treat me with more respect than that.” Eve replies, her eyes glistening in the soft white moonlight.
“Yeah? Why should I? You killed Rufus, you almost made us have to kill Bobby!” he quirks a brow. “You’re as ugly as that damn herpes worm on steroids.”
Eve advances slowly, walking until the barrel of his gun is pressed tight into her blood smeared chest. She smiles slowly at him, her lips parting ever so slightly so that her teeth peek through. Her pink stained teeth. “You don’t mean that.” she murmurs.
Suddenly Dean is pressed against the cement wall behind him, his revolver clanging against something in the dark. “In fact, I think you’re attracted to me. Am I right, Dean?”
She walks closer, tracing her finger across his plump bottom lip; it trails down his jaw, then his neck, and hooks onto the collar of his shirt. And yeah, she’s an ugly broad on camera, but with her low-cut dress and bedroom eyes all Dean wants to do his fuck her until he’s dead. Instead he squeezes his mouth shut tight, averts his eyes.
Just as her hands are gliding down his stomach, slipping lower to caress his crotch, the door slams open and in the blink of an eye she’s gone. The release, the absence of the pressure on his limbs, makes him let out a startled gasp. Across the room he locks eyes with a perplexed Sam.
"You okay, Dean?" Sam asks, his puppy dog eyes locked in place.
Dean drags his hands through his hair, breathes shakily for a moment. "Son of a bitch!"
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447 Words