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fannishlisstitle: “Compelling”
author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fannishliss
rated: NC17, explicit, adults only
spoilers: 9.16 Blade Runners
pairing: Dean Winchester/Dr. McElroy, the curator
warnings: BDSM, spanking
4546 words
summary: Dean goes back to Kansas City, where the museum curator found him compelling.
After they lost the First Blade to Crowley, Sam briefly debated with Dean what to do. Sam wanted to rifle St. Clair’s compound, but he needed to recast the entrance spell, and for that he needed to gather more ingredients. Dean pointed out that the menagerie might have gotten loose with St. Clair’s death, and that they needed reinforcements. So, reluctantly the Winchesters retreated to the Bunker and put off St. Clair’s lair till another day.
Sam hit the books, as usual, while Dean lost no time getting started with repairing the paint job on the Impala. When St. Clair had pressed the Blade into his hand, it felt like rage — but a consuming, inhuman, fiery rage like Dean had never known. When the demons had defiled his Baby with their chickenscratch markings, the rage had been his own: sick, murderous rage that demanded payback.
But first it demanded coarse grit sandpaper. He couldn’t just touch it up — the gouges were deep, and he had to strip the paint all the way down to the steel. Dean nearly cried as he sanded off the beautiful black paint, but with some good hard elbow grease the ugly writing was finally eradicated. After the primer dried, he applied several layers of factory grade top coat, and she looked as good as he could make her until the next complete repainting. The marks were gone from the Impala — but the traces remained. He wouldn’t get those scars out of his head so easily. Next he’d figure out some foolproof ways to ward demons off from approaching any part of his Baby. But first, Dean needed a little downtime.
The better part of three days resolutely working on the Impala had kept Dean’s mind off what St. Clair had done to him, what he’d almost done with the Blade. He could still feel the rage, how the Blade had taken over, and the horrible emptiness when St. Clair drained his will out of him. He could still feel the Blade’s terrible bloodlust filling that void like whiskey fills a tumbler. It had burned, and he had merely been the fuel, nothing more.
Somehow, Sam had talked him down, but even now, his arm ached for the Blade. His empty hand itched for a weapon. Getting out of the bunker, getting away from Sam (Sam’s stupid piles of books, stupid lackluster eyes, stupid studious shoulders) — he needed to get away, take his Baby for a spin and see how her new paint looked in the sunlight.
He was so gone.
He packed a backpack, mumbled something in the direction of Sam’s latest book, and let the roar of the Impala carry him away.
He was halfway back to Kansas City before he realized where he was heading. He laughed to himself, somewhere between amused and bitter. Why the hell not?
He dug her card out of his wallet and made the call to Katherine McElroy.
“Doctor McElroy? This is Agent Lee.”
“Agent Lee,” the curator purred. “How nice to hear from you again. Have there been any new developments?”
“No,” Dean lied. She didn’t need to know about their success in tracking down Magnus, or that they’d found the blade only to have it immediately snatched right out of their hands. If he were honest, Dean wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that. “This is strictly a social call. I thought I might — buy you a drink? I’m off the clock.”
Dean never bothered with elaborate lines. He didn’t have to. The women he was interested in were usually interested in him in return, and they were eager to let him know.
“That sounds wonderful, Agent. This has been such a terrible week here at the museum. The guards who were killed were very well-liked — and that poor girl, she was here doing research, we had to contact her parents. It’s just been awful, trying to field all the questions; we have so few answers.”
McElroy’s voice was silky smooth on the phone. Dean really didn’t know why he was calling her. Except, maybe he did.
“It’s a bad situation,” Dean agreed.
“It is,” McElroy repeated with a sigh.
“So, I don’t know much about Kansas City. Where’s a good place to meet?” Dean asked.
“There’s a great new place, Collection — it’s downtown, the Crossroads district. The ambiance isn’t the best, but they make really good artisanal cocktails,” she said.
“Okay…” The place was called Collection? What kind of a name was that for a bar? And how could a cocktail be artisanal? But he just said, “Six?”
And she said, “Yes.” So it was a date.
Dean kept his fed clothes in the trunk. He stopped at a gas station and put on his other fed suit, the one that fit him a little tighter. He didn’t really give much thought to the color of his tie or how it matched his shirt, but he had a system: each of his two suits had four shirts with a coordinating tie for each one. If it was Sam’s advice that he went by for his shirt/tie/suit combinations, what of it. Whatever worked.
Walking into the bar, he couldn’t help scoping it out, force of habit, assessing every customer at a glance, checking all the exits, identifying defensive positions and offensive possibilities. The main restaurant was loud and open, cafeteria style, but there was a smaller area set off as a bar, and nearby was a low stage that might have held a solo performer or a three or four piece band. The bar was a little more dimly lit than the rest of the place, and McElroy stood out, even in her officewear, her red hair glowing, her shapely calves smooth in dark stockings on the bar stool.
She spotted him as soon as he entered and smiled when he approached, that heavy-lidded, knowing smile that made something in him want to sit up and show off.
“Agent Lee,” she purred.
“Doctor McElroy,” he answered. He felt like he was back on the set of Dr. Sexy. It wasn’t a totally bad feeling — at least no one had shot him yet.
She had already ordered some sort of cocktail. Dean didn’t have a clue when it came to hip new cocktails. Between a mojito and a caipirinha, he could barely pronounce some of them.
“What are you having?” Dean asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I gave the bartender free rein.”
“Oh,” Dean said. She was giving him that eye again, the one that measured him up and down. He squinted a little, not wanting to disappoint. “Do you have any suggestions?”
“You seem like a whiskey man to me,” she said. “Bourbon. Maybe, freshly squeezed pineapple juice, maybe a bit of coconut?” She signaled the bartender, who tweaked her specifications, quickly assembled the drink, and presented it to Dean, with some kind of herb sticking of it as a swizzle - maybe rosemary? Dean remembered the potted herbs Lisa kept on her back deck.
“To your health,” McElroy said, lifting her drink.
“L’chaim,” Dean returned, thinking of Lisa, but when McElroy smiled, it eased the burn. He sipped his drink, smiling as he realized it was pretty much a pina colada.
“I’m sorry about what happened at the Museum,” Dean said, and meant it.
“Maybe if you find the Blade, you can bring justice to whoever did it,” McElroy suggested.
“That’s the job,” Dean said. “It doesn’t always go the way we want.”
“Does it ever?” the curator asked.
“Sometimes,” Dean shrugged. “But listen — aren’t you hungry?”
“I could eat,” she said.
“Then I’ll see about getting us a table,” Dean said. This wasn’t the kind of place he and Sam ever ate. That was the whole point, wasn’t it.
The place seemed elegant and ritzy, but it wasn’t full, even on a Friday night. They were seated as soon as they finished their drinks. The pineapple coconut bourbon had gone down well and Dean had kind of liked it: a good sign for the rest of the evening.
McElroy navigated the menu with ease, while Dean gazed at it in consternation. There seemed to be about fifteen things to choose from, listed by their ingredients only. He pointed at something in the middle of the menu that included the word shank, and McElroy appraised him again, silently. He ordered a beer from the beer and wine list, which was a little more openly descriptive. She ordered red wine.
Dean tried not to fumble his way through the meal. He ate tidily enough, asked reasonably intelligent questions about her work and where she’d been before Kansas City, and concentrated on adapting just a few key facts when he told her about cases he and Sam had worked recently.
“Your colleague joined a cult?” she asked, non-judgmentally.
“I thought he was smarter than that, but love is blind. Turns out his fiance and her father were completely unaware of the criminal side of things — the girl’s stepmom was way more of a fanatic than the guy she’d married.”
“You must see such shocking things,” McElroy said with a small smile. “Antiquities, by definition, are dusty and far-removed from the passion and mayhem you encounter every day.”
“Until you find a guard room full of three dead bodies,” Dean pointed out.
Her eyes widened a little and she looked away. “Sorry,” Dean said.
“I still haven’t adjusted to the fact that three people are dead because of one of my acquisitions,” she said, apologetically.
“Some things just carry trouble along with them wherever they go.”
“Maybe,” McElroy said.
They finished their meal and split a rich chocolate dessert. Dean watched as McElroy savored the flavors on her fork and felt his arousal stir. He let it show in his eyes, and hers flashed in return. This was going somewhere.
“Do you need a lift home?” he asked.
“Would that be that wise, Agent Lee?” she returned, daring him.
“Wise isn’t what you’re looking for,” he said plainly.
She lowered her chin in acknowledgment.
Dean signaled for the bill. McElroy offered to split it with him, but what was the point of fake cards if you didn’t take advantage of them. Dean led McElroy outside, guiding her toward the Impala with a light hand to the small of her back.
“Your car is beautiful,” she smiled. The Impala gleamed immaculate under the street lights. “How does an FBI agent drive a such a gorgeous classic Chevy?”
Dean couldn’t help the swell of pride he felt when she admired his car. “I spend days on the road. My car means a lot to me,” he said.
“I can see that.” McElroy ran a manicured hand along the Impala’s roof as he helped her into Sam’s seat, and closed the door after her. Something about the woman put him on his best manners.
The Impala’s restrained roar reassured Dean as he drove McElroy home to her big Victorian on the edge of the old downtown.
“Nice place,” Dean said, as she invited him in.
“It’s too big,” she said. “But since Bob died, I haven’t worked up the energy to sell.”
“Oh,” Dean said. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” she said, but shook it off. “Two years — three in April. Time heals all wounds, you know.”
Dean did know. He followed her to the beautifully appointed living room.
“How about a coffee?” she asked.
“That’d be great, thanks,” he said, and found himself a comfortable position on her leather couch.
She called from the kitchen. “I’ve thought about downsizing to a condo, but the location here is a dream. And the house is beautiful.”
She soon returned with two tiny china cups of espresso. Dean sipped at his while she held herself back.
“Caffeine, the academic’s unavoidable addiction,” she explained with a wry grin.
“To your health,” Dean saluted with his little white cup.
“L’chaim,” she returned, smiling.
They finished their coffee in several swallows.
“May I be frank, Agent Lee?” said McElroy.
“If I can be surely,” Dean rejoined with a grin.
McElroy laughed. “I like you. There’s something about you. You’re not at all what I pictured from the FBI. I’m so glad you called.”
“I’m glad too,” Dean returned.
“I — I hope I don’t give you the wrong idea,” she faltered.
Dean reached out then, and touched her shoulder lightly.
“Just say it,” Dean prompted.
“I want,” McElroy began. Her gaze, so direct, finally faltered; her cultured voice, so low and powerful, fell to a whisper. “I’d like you to tell me what to do.”
Dean swallowed. He’d been here before, many times, on both sides of the power line, but it never ceased to affect him strongly.
“Do you have a safeword?” he asked. He laid one finger under her chin, lifting her gaze to meet his.
“Persimmon,” she said. Her eyes were a beautiful, clear hazel, as she met his gaze and let him look.
“Persimmon,” he repeated, and they smiled.
“My name is Dean,” he said. “What do I call you?”
“Kate,” she answered.
“Nice to meet you, Kate,” Dean said, and pulled her in for a kiss. Her lips were soft and open, and she was already begging for whatever he would give.
“Is this sexual, for you?” Dean asked. For plenty of people, it was more about the endorphins, the boundaries broken, the aftercare.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Are you already wet?” he asked, feeling himself twitch in his dress trousers.
“Yes,” she said, blushing.
“So you want orders, and you want sex — do you like dirty talk?”
“Yes,” she said, and he saw the flush of arousal deepening on her face.
“You want me to use toys?”
She hesitated. “Yes,” she said.
Dean could read that hesitation clear as a book. “Assplay?”
She nodded, flushing again.
“Pain? I’m not okay with breaking the skin,” he said.
“Just — spanking,” she said. “Your hand,” she said, shuddering with arousal.
“Restraints? Blindfolds?” Dean asked.
“Yes,” she said, eyes falling closed, breathing heavily already.
“Okay,” Dean said. “I want you to relax, and lean back, and let me take care of you, okay, Kate?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Yes what?” Dean asked.
“Yes, Dean,” she answered.
“Good girl,” he said, and her face opened up at the praise. No one had taken care of Dean like this in so long — since he’d shut Lisa out of his world. But taking care of Kate — would be good.
He slipped one arm behind her neck, gentling her back against the couch. Her lips were soft and lush —she tasted like coffee. He unbuttoned her blouse and slipped a hand inside her bra, pinching at her nipple to hear her gasp. He worked her breast with his hand until she moaned. He felt time stretching out, the world narrowing to their shared breath. He kissed her neck, nuzzled her ear.
She was breathing deep, little moans when he pinched or fondled her just right.
“I want to spank you now, Kate,” he said. “Lie down across my lap, and show me how a good girl takes it.”
“Oh, yes, Dean,” she said. She was so graceful, untangling her long limbs, rearranging herself across his lap.
He stroked the full ass under the tight business skirt.
“Let’s get you warmed up,” he said.
“Yes, Dean,” she agreed, voice husky with expectation.
“Count for me,” he said, and he let his hand fall. The thick wool skirt took the brunt, but it was the idea of it, as he well knew.
She was up to twenty-five before he peeled up her skirt. Her stockings were thigh highs and she had on black satin panties. He ran his hand over her backside and the tops of her thighs, exploring the sensations of skin and satin, breathing in the obvious odor of her arousal.
“Okay, Kate,” he said, “start over from one.”
“Thank you, Dean,” she said sweetly, and wiggled a little. He gave her another little caress before lifting his hand, slapping it down.
“Ah!” she said, jumping. “One!”
He gave it to her a little faster, a little harder. She tried to find the rhythm, struggling to keep up with her counting, but he made it hard. This time, he got to thirty, and she was panting pretty hard, and quivering by then.
“These are coming off now, okay?” he said, pulling at the black satin hem.
“Please,” she said.
“Beg me nicely,” he ordered.
“Please, Dean, please pull of my panties and spank my ass,” Kate requested, her low voice breathy and full of need.
“You pull them down and I’ll do the spanking,” he said.
“Yes, Dean,” she said, and pulled, squirming, till she got them down to her thighs.
“That’s far enough,” he said, thinking she’d like the feel of being bound. Her ass was a little hot now, a little red. He stroked it a little, preparing her.
“Don’t bother counting,” he said, and brought his hand down.
Dealing out discipline wasn’t usually Dean’s cup of tea — but he couldn’t lie, it made him hot: watching his hand strike her bottom, hearing the slap of flesh against flesh, hearing her moan his name as her breathing grew more and more ragged — the contrast of her naked ass and his fed suit, the innocent bared flesh and the terrible mark he hid inside his sleeve, the violence she’d asked for and the tenderness he would dole out.
He beat her ass, carefully, thoroughly, till her legs were twitching and the sob was in her voice, then he slowed it down, and with a few hard last licks he finished. He eased his fingers up her thigh, toward her cunt. She was sopping.
“We’re going up stairs now, Kate,” he said.
“Yes, yes, Dean,” McElroy gasped. Her face was red and wet with tears, but her eyes were bright and her lips were bitten, ripe and full.
“You have condoms?” he asked.
“No,” she said, abashed, eyes flashing wide.
He kissed her to console her. He was clearly the first since her husband’s death. Dean took it as the honor it was.
“Don’t worry, I do,” he said softly.
“Thank you, Dean,” she said, honestly.
They went up. He took the condoms from his jacket pocket and tossed them on the bedside table.
“Undress me,” Dean ordered.
Kate took off his jacket, and folded it carefully over the back of a chair. She undid his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. She frowned a little at the tattoo, the scar where Abaddon had cut him, and the painful looking repair.
“Kiss me, here,” Dean ordered, to distract her, but also because he loved to have his nipples sucked. She went to work, licking and biting, and Dean rewarded her with a moan, then pushed her away.
“Shoes and socks,” he reminded her. He sat down on the bed, and she knelt down, gracefully, and pulled off his shoes and socks.
“Nuzzle,” he said, pointing at his crotch. She was eager, rubbing her cheek along the bulge, kissing him through the fabric. He let her open his pants and take them off — but stopped her before she went down on him.
He made short work of her blouse and skirt and left her in her lingerie. A woman who wore fancy lingerie, in his experience, felt fancier in it than out of it.
“Okay, bring me the toys,” he said.
She blushed, but sounded excited when she said, “yes, Dean.” She pulled the pleasure chest out from under the bed and showed him the contents.
She had a hefty dildo that Dean passed over, and a thick butt plug that he pulled out. She had a bullet vibe he thought looked promising. She had handcuffs, which he rejected, and a variety of ties, which he pulled out just in case. There were a variety of implements for punishment in the box — nipple clamps, a crop, a cat— but she hadn’t said she wanted any of those things. Dean’s hand hovered over the cat — she held her breath.
“Do you want the cat?” he asked, watching her face.
“Yes, Dean,” she said, eyes lowered, but he saw her little smile, and he could hear her relief that he’d asked.
She closed the box and put it back. He pulled back the covers and laid her down on the bed. He put the blindfold on her first. Her whole body relaxed, that subtle relaxation of giving herself over.
“Beautiful,” he said. “Good girl.”
He stroked her red hair back behind her ears.
“Face down,” he said.
She wiggled into position, arms around her head. Dean loved the way her body wanted what he had to give.
“Clasp your hands,” he said, and she did so, quick to please.
He opened the back strap of her bra. Her skin was creamy white and soft over well-toned muscles. Dean caressed her back with the soft leather thongs of the cat, and she shivered. He traced her limbs and gave her gentle little swats her and there, until she was shaking all over. He warmed up her ass again with a good series of licks, until he heard it in her voice — the break over into abandon.
“Look at you, so needy,” he said. He lay his hand softly on her ass, which was hot now to the touch. He slipped his fingers under the cloth and between her legs. She was hot and slick, and she clenched up around him when his fingers slipped inside.
“Oh, Dean, yes,” she moaned.
“Good girl,” he praised, and peeled her panties down again.
“I want you to take this in your ass,” he said gently, touching her with the plug. It was her toy, so he assumed she knew it well.
“Yes, Dean, thank you,” she said, and relaxed her buttocks. He found the lube in her bedside table and slicked up his finger, pressing until he felt the tight muscle relax, then slipped it inside. She opened like a dream, moaning and trying to be good; in no time he had two fingers in and she was ready for the plug.
“Breathe out and bear down,” he ordered, and the plug slipped it, her ass pulling it greedily inside as she moaned and rocked a little.
“Turn over now,” he said, and she did.
He pulled off her loosened bra and soaked panties and tossed them away. She was spread out before him like a banquet. He lowered himself to her breasts and feasted, biting gently and suckling, switching from side to side as she trembled and arched herself toward him. He slipped his fingers down between her legs again — she was dripping wet.
He straddled her thighs and found the bullet vibe, pressing it against her clit. Just as she realized what it was, he turned it on, and she tried to thrash away, but couldn’t. The vibration drove her wild as she arched toward it and away from it, the powerful sensation too much for her already heated sex.
Dean pulled it away and she collapsed back.
“Can you be good?” Dean asked.
“Yes, Dean, yes!” she cried, panting. Her hands were still clasped obediently over her head.
“Do you want my dick?” Dean asked.
“Yes, Dean, please — give it to me, please?” she begged.
“I want to be inside you — but don’t you dare come!” he warned.
“Please, please, Dean,” she begged.
“I’ll give you what you need,” he said, “don’t you worry.”
He snagged a condom, tore it open, and put it on. He was certain he was clean, and she probably was too, but better safe than sorry.
He lifted her knees, putting her feet flat on the bed near her hips, so she was wide open to him, then he knelt between her legs and teased her entrance with his dick.
“Oh, oh, Dean, please, please be inside me,” she begged.
He pushed a little way inside. He could feel her trembling, holding back her urge to dig in her heels and pull him in as deep as he would go.
He pushed in, slowly, slowly. The plug was filling her up, making her tight. She moaned, deep in her throat as he bottomed out, filling her up.
Then he found the vibe and put it against her clit and turned it on.
“Go ahead, come,” he said. He grabbed her wrists above her head and held her down with all his strength, fucking her deep, barely moving, letting her convulse against him helplessly as the orgasm took her again and again.
“Good girl, good girl,” he praised as she screamed his name, her voice wracked with pleasure.
He fucked her with tiny thrusts, so deep inside, tormenting her clit with the vibe until she couldn’t even thrash, she just arched against him with all her strength and held on, sobbing in breaths.
Finally he had mercy, turned off the vibe and tossed it aside. She went limp and he threw her legs back, pumping into her cunt with powerful thrusts, as her head tossed back and forth and she chanted his name like a mantra.
“On your hands and knees,” he said.
Quickly, she complied. The thick black base of the plug adorned her ass as he thrust into her cunt and let himself go. She pushed back against his every thrust, eager for the fucking, until finally he crested, spilling into the condom, her hot red ass pulled tight against his hips.
Tenderly, he lay her back down and pulled out. He went to get a wet cloth, and came back and cleaned her up, and gently pulled out the plug and cleaned her there as well. He removed the blindfold and pulled the covers up around her and went looking in the bathroom for some lotion. There was a tube of arnica — perfect — so he brought it back and slipped under the covers with her, applying the arnica by feel to her hot, beaten ass.
“Thank you, Kate — you were perfect,” he murmured. “So beautiful, so good.”
“Thank you, Dean,” she mumbled, already half asleep.
He held her until she fell asleep, then got up and got dressed. He left his fed number on her kitchen counter, and made sure the house was secure. He found a motel room and slept the sleep of the just.
She called around 11 the next morning.
“Agent Lee?” she asked when he answered.
“Hi Kate,” he said.
“Hi Dean,” she answered, a little shy, but sounding happy. “I hope you’ll call again the next time you’re in Kansas City.”
“I’ll try,” he said, and realized it was true.
“I just wanted you know, how good it was. It was perfect. You were perfect, Dean,” she said.
“Thanks, Kate,” he said, and meant it. He’d made her feel good. He’d hurt her only because she wanted him to. He had been in control.
“Maybe next time, we could switch,” she suggested.
“I’d like that,” he said, casual as could be.
“I know you would,” she responded, sultry voice full of promise.
The world seemed a little bit brighter to Dean all the way on the long drive home.
###
Afterword:
There is actually a place in Kansas City called Collection in the Crossroads district !!! but I haven’t been there – I googled the name and pretty much made it up. The name and location was too great to pass up.
In my headcanon, Lisa is Jewish, so Dean gets his Jewish expressions from her.
Also, in my headcanon, Dean would prefer to be submissive, but it’s a point of pride for him to be a fantastic service top. I welcome any constructive criticism.
I don't think Dean does this very often, despite his rep as a ladies' man. But he is sex positive, and I think it seems plausible. :)
note: Dean has some dismissive thoughts about Sam in this story. It's indicative of the level of stress Dean is under, not his real opinion of Sam (or Sam's stupid face). :)
author:
fannishlissrated: NC17, explicit, adults only
spoilers: 9.16 Blade Runners
pairing: Dean Winchester/Dr. McElroy, the curator
warnings: BDSM, spanking
4546 words
summary: Dean goes back to Kansas City, where the museum curator found him compelling.
After they lost the First Blade to Crowley, Sam briefly debated with Dean what to do. Sam wanted to rifle St. Clair’s compound, but he needed to recast the entrance spell, and for that he needed to gather more ingredients. Dean pointed out that the menagerie might have gotten loose with St. Clair’s death, and that they needed reinforcements. So, reluctantly the Winchesters retreated to the Bunker and put off St. Clair’s lair till another day.
Sam hit the books, as usual, while Dean lost no time getting started with repairing the paint job on the Impala. When St. Clair had pressed the Blade into his hand, it felt like rage — but a consuming, inhuman, fiery rage like Dean had never known. When the demons had defiled his Baby with their chickenscratch markings, the rage had been his own: sick, murderous rage that demanded payback.
But first it demanded coarse grit sandpaper. He couldn’t just touch it up — the gouges were deep, and he had to strip the paint all the way down to the steel. Dean nearly cried as he sanded off the beautiful black paint, but with some good hard elbow grease the ugly writing was finally eradicated. After the primer dried, he applied several layers of factory grade top coat, and she looked as good as he could make her until the next complete repainting. The marks were gone from the Impala — but the traces remained. He wouldn’t get those scars out of his head so easily. Next he’d figure out some foolproof ways to ward demons off from approaching any part of his Baby. But first, Dean needed a little downtime.
The better part of three days resolutely working on the Impala had kept Dean’s mind off what St. Clair had done to him, what he’d almost done with the Blade. He could still feel the rage, how the Blade had taken over, and the horrible emptiness when St. Clair drained his will out of him. He could still feel the Blade’s terrible bloodlust filling that void like whiskey fills a tumbler. It had burned, and he had merely been the fuel, nothing more.
Somehow, Sam had talked him down, but even now, his arm ached for the Blade. His empty hand itched for a weapon. Getting out of the bunker, getting away from Sam (Sam’s stupid piles of books, stupid lackluster eyes, stupid studious shoulders) — he needed to get away, take his Baby for a spin and see how her new paint looked in the sunlight.
He was so gone.
He packed a backpack, mumbled something in the direction of Sam’s latest book, and let the roar of the Impala carry him away.
He was halfway back to Kansas City before he realized where he was heading. He laughed to himself, somewhere between amused and bitter. Why the hell not?
He dug her card out of his wallet and made the call to Katherine McElroy.
“Doctor McElroy? This is Agent Lee.”
“Agent Lee,” the curator purred. “How nice to hear from you again. Have there been any new developments?”
“No,” Dean lied. She didn’t need to know about their success in tracking down Magnus, or that they’d found the blade only to have it immediately snatched right out of their hands. If he were honest, Dean wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that. “This is strictly a social call. I thought I might — buy you a drink? I’m off the clock.”
Dean never bothered with elaborate lines. He didn’t have to. The women he was interested in were usually interested in him in return, and they were eager to let him know.
“That sounds wonderful, Agent. This has been such a terrible week here at the museum. The guards who were killed were very well-liked — and that poor girl, she was here doing research, we had to contact her parents. It’s just been awful, trying to field all the questions; we have so few answers.”
McElroy’s voice was silky smooth on the phone. Dean really didn’t know why he was calling her. Except, maybe he did.
“It’s a bad situation,” Dean agreed.
“It is,” McElroy repeated with a sigh.
“So, I don’t know much about Kansas City. Where’s a good place to meet?” Dean asked.
“There’s a great new place, Collection — it’s downtown, the Crossroads district. The ambiance isn’t the best, but they make really good artisanal cocktails,” she said.
“Okay…” The place was called Collection? What kind of a name was that for a bar? And how could a cocktail be artisanal? But he just said, “Six?”
And she said, “Yes.” So it was a date.
Dean kept his fed clothes in the trunk. He stopped at a gas station and put on his other fed suit, the one that fit him a little tighter. He didn’t really give much thought to the color of his tie or how it matched his shirt, but he had a system: each of his two suits had four shirts with a coordinating tie for each one. If it was Sam’s advice that he went by for his shirt/tie/suit combinations, what of it. Whatever worked.
Walking into the bar, he couldn’t help scoping it out, force of habit, assessing every customer at a glance, checking all the exits, identifying defensive positions and offensive possibilities. The main restaurant was loud and open, cafeteria style, but there was a smaller area set off as a bar, and nearby was a low stage that might have held a solo performer or a three or four piece band. The bar was a little more dimly lit than the rest of the place, and McElroy stood out, even in her officewear, her red hair glowing, her shapely calves smooth in dark stockings on the bar stool.
She spotted him as soon as he entered and smiled when he approached, that heavy-lidded, knowing smile that made something in him want to sit up and show off.
“Agent Lee,” she purred.
“Doctor McElroy,” he answered. He felt like he was back on the set of Dr. Sexy. It wasn’t a totally bad feeling — at least no one had shot him yet.
She had already ordered some sort of cocktail. Dean didn’t have a clue when it came to hip new cocktails. Between a mojito and a caipirinha, he could barely pronounce some of them.
“What are you having?” Dean asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I gave the bartender free rein.”
“Oh,” Dean said. She was giving him that eye again, the one that measured him up and down. He squinted a little, not wanting to disappoint. “Do you have any suggestions?”
“You seem like a whiskey man to me,” she said. “Bourbon. Maybe, freshly squeezed pineapple juice, maybe a bit of coconut?” She signaled the bartender, who tweaked her specifications, quickly assembled the drink, and presented it to Dean, with some kind of herb sticking of it as a swizzle - maybe rosemary? Dean remembered the potted herbs Lisa kept on her back deck.
“To your health,” McElroy said, lifting her drink.
“L’chaim,” Dean returned, thinking of Lisa, but when McElroy smiled, it eased the burn. He sipped his drink, smiling as he realized it was pretty much a pina colada.
“I’m sorry about what happened at the Museum,” Dean said, and meant it.
“Maybe if you find the Blade, you can bring justice to whoever did it,” McElroy suggested.
“That’s the job,” Dean said. “It doesn’t always go the way we want.”
“Does it ever?” the curator asked.
“Sometimes,” Dean shrugged. “But listen — aren’t you hungry?”
“I could eat,” she said.
“Then I’ll see about getting us a table,” Dean said. This wasn’t the kind of place he and Sam ever ate. That was the whole point, wasn’t it.
The place seemed elegant and ritzy, but it wasn’t full, even on a Friday night. They were seated as soon as they finished their drinks. The pineapple coconut bourbon had gone down well and Dean had kind of liked it: a good sign for the rest of the evening.
McElroy navigated the menu with ease, while Dean gazed at it in consternation. There seemed to be about fifteen things to choose from, listed by their ingredients only. He pointed at something in the middle of the menu that included the word shank, and McElroy appraised him again, silently. He ordered a beer from the beer and wine list, which was a little more openly descriptive. She ordered red wine.
Dean tried not to fumble his way through the meal. He ate tidily enough, asked reasonably intelligent questions about her work and where she’d been before Kansas City, and concentrated on adapting just a few key facts when he told her about cases he and Sam had worked recently.
“Your colleague joined a cult?” she asked, non-judgmentally.
“I thought he was smarter than that, but love is blind. Turns out his fiance and her father were completely unaware of the criminal side of things — the girl’s stepmom was way more of a fanatic than the guy she’d married.”
“You must see such shocking things,” McElroy said with a small smile. “Antiquities, by definition, are dusty and far-removed from the passion and mayhem you encounter every day.”
“Until you find a guard room full of three dead bodies,” Dean pointed out.
Her eyes widened a little and she looked away. “Sorry,” Dean said.
“I still haven’t adjusted to the fact that three people are dead because of one of my acquisitions,” she said, apologetically.
“Some things just carry trouble along with them wherever they go.”
“Maybe,” McElroy said.
They finished their meal and split a rich chocolate dessert. Dean watched as McElroy savored the flavors on her fork and felt his arousal stir. He let it show in his eyes, and hers flashed in return. This was going somewhere.
“Do you need a lift home?” he asked.
“Would that be that wise, Agent Lee?” she returned, daring him.
“Wise isn’t what you’re looking for,” he said plainly.
She lowered her chin in acknowledgment.
Dean signaled for the bill. McElroy offered to split it with him, but what was the point of fake cards if you didn’t take advantage of them. Dean led McElroy outside, guiding her toward the Impala with a light hand to the small of her back.
“Your car is beautiful,” she smiled. The Impala gleamed immaculate under the street lights. “How does an FBI agent drive a such a gorgeous classic Chevy?”
Dean couldn’t help the swell of pride he felt when she admired his car. “I spend days on the road. My car means a lot to me,” he said.
“I can see that.” McElroy ran a manicured hand along the Impala’s roof as he helped her into Sam’s seat, and closed the door after her. Something about the woman put him on his best manners.
The Impala’s restrained roar reassured Dean as he drove McElroy home to her big Victorian on the edge of the old downtown.
“Nice place,” Dean said, as she invited him in.
“It’s too big,” she said. “But since Bob died, I haven’t worked up the energy to sell.”
“Oh,” Dean said. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” she said, but shook it off. “Two years — three in April. Time heals all wounds, you know.”
Dean did know. He followed her to the beautifully appointed living room.
“How about a coffee?” she asked.
“That’d be great, thanks,” he said, and found himself a comfortable position on her leather couch.
She called from the kitchen. “I’ve thought about downsizing to a condo, but the location here is a dream. And the house is beautiful.”
She soon returned with two tiny china cups of espresso. Dean sipped at his while she held herself back.
“Caffeine, the academic’s unavoidable addiction,” she explained with a wry grin.
“To your health,” Dean saluted with his little white cup.
“L’chaim,” she returned, smiling.
They finished their coffee in several swallows.
“May I be frank, Agent Lee?” said McElroy.
“If I can be surely,” Dean rejoined with a grin.
McElroy laughed. “I like you. There’s something about you. You’re not at all what I pictured from the FBI. I’m so glad you called.”
“I’m glad too,” Dean returned.
“I — I hope I don’t give you the wrong idea,” she faltered.
Dean reached out then, and touched her shoulder lightly.
“Just say it,” Dean prompted.
“I want,” McElroy began. Her gaze, so direct, finally faltered; her cultured voice, so low and powerful, fell to a whisper. “I’d like you to tell me what to do.”
Dean swallowed. He’d been here before, many times, on both sides of the power line, but it never ceased to affect him strongly.
“Do you have a safeword?” he asked. He laid one finger under her chin, lifting her gaze to meet his.
“Persimmon,” she said. Her eyes were a beautiful, clear hazel, as she met his gaze and let him look.
“Persimmon,” he repeated, and they smiled.
“My name is Dean,” he said. “What do I call you?”
“Kate,” she answered.
“Nice to meet you, Kate,” Dean said, and pulled her in for a kiss. Her lips were soft and open, and she was already begging for whatever he would give.
“Is this sexual, for you?” Dean asked. For plenty of people, it was more about the endorphins, the boundaries broken, the aftercare.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Are you already wet?” he asked, feeling himself twitch in his dress trousers.
“Yes,” she said, blushing.
“So you want orders, and you want sex — do you like dirty talk?”
“Yes,” she said, and he saw the flush of arousal deepening on her face.
“You want me to use toys?”
She hesitated. “Yes,” she said.
Dean could read that hesitation clear as a book. “Assplay?”
She nodded, flushing again.
“Pain? I’m not okay with breaking the skin,” he said.
“Just — spanking,” she said. “Your hand,” she said, shuddering with arousal.
“Restraints? Blindfolds?” Dean asked.
“Yes,” she said, eyes falling closed, breathing heavily already.
“Okay,” Dean said. “I want you to relax, and lean back, and let me take care of you, okay, Kate?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Yes what?” Dean asked.
“Yes, Dean,” she answered.
“Good girl,” he said, and her face opened up at the praise. No one had taken care of Dean like this in so long — since he’d shut Lisa out of his world. But taking care of Kate — would be good.
He slipped one arm behind her neck, gentling her back against the couch. Her lips were soft and lush —she tasted like coffee. He unbuttoned her blouse and slipped a hand inside her bra, pinching at her nipple to hear her gasp. He worked her breast with his hand until she moaned. He felt time stretching out, the world narrowing to their shared breath. He kissed her neck, nuzzled her ear.
She was breathing deep, little moans when he pinched or fondled her just right.
“I want to spank you now, Kate,” he said. “Lie down across my lap, and show me how a good girl takes it.”
“Oh, yes, Dean,” she said. She was so graceful, untangling her long limbs, rearranging herself across his lap.
He stroked the full ass under the tight business skirt.
“Let’s get you warmed up,” he said.
“Yes, Dean,” she agreed, voice husky with expectation.
“Count for me,” he said, and he let his hand fall. The thick wool skirt took the brunt, but it was the idea of it, as he well knew.
She was up to twenty-five before he peeled up her skirt. Her stockings were thigh highs and she had on black satin panties. He ran his hand over her backside and the tops of her thighs, exploring the sensations of skin and satin, breathing in the obvious odor of her arousal.
“Okay, Kate,” he said, “start over from one.”
“Thank you, Dean,” she said sweetly, and wiggled a little. He gave her another little caress before lifting his hand, slapping it down.
“Ah!” she said, jumping. “One!”
He gave it to her a little faster, a little harder. She tried to find the rhythm, struggling to keep up with her counting, but he made it hard. This time, he got to thirty, and she was panting pretty hard, and quivering by then.
“These are coming off now, okay?” he said, pulling at the black satin hem.
“Please,” she said.
“Beg me nicely,” he ordered.
“Please, Dean, please pull of my panties and spank my ass,” Kate requested, her low voice breathy and full of need.
“You pull them down and I’ll do the spanking,” he said.
“Yes, Dean,” she said, and pulled, squirming, till she got them down to her thighs.
“That’s far enough,” he said, thinking she’d like the feel of being bound. Her ass was a little hot now, a little red. He stroked it a little, preparing her.
“Don’t bother counting,” he said, and brought his hand down.
Dealing out discipline wasn’t usually Dean’s cup of tea — but he couldn’t lie, it made him hot: watching his hand strike her bottom, hearing the slap of flesh against flesh, hearing her moan his name as her breathing grew more and more ragged — the contrast of her naked ass and his fed suit, the innocent bared flesh and the terrible mark he hid inside his sleeve, the violence she’d asked for and the tenderness he would dole out.
He beat her ass, carefully, thoroughly, till her legs were twitching and the sob was in her voice, then he slowed it down, and with a few hard last licks he finished. He eased his fingers up her thigh, toward her cunt. She was sopping.
“We’re going up stairs now, Kate,” he said.
“Yes, yes, Dean,” McElroy gasped. Her face was red and wet with tears, but her eyes were bright and her lips were bitten, ripe and full.
“You have condoms?” he asked.
“No,” she said, abashed, eyes flashing wide.
He kissed her to console her. He was clearly the first since her husband’s death. Dean took it as the honor it was.
“Don’t worry, I do,” he said softly.
“Thank you, Dean,” she said, honestly.
They went up. He took the condoms from his jacket pocket and tossed them on the bedside table.
“Undress me,” Dean ordered.
Kate took off his jacket, and folded it carefully over the back of a chair. She undid his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. She frowned a little at the tattoo, the scar where Abaddon had cut him, and the painful looking repair.
“Kiss me, here,” Dean ordered, to distract her, but also because he loved to have his nipples sucked. She went to work, licking and biting, and Dean rewarded her with a moan, then pushed her away.
“Shoes and socks,” he reminded her. He sat down on the bed, and she knelt down, gracefully, and pulled off his shoes and socks.
“Nuzzle,” he said, pointing at his crotch. She was eager, rubbing her cheek along the bulge, kissing him through the fabric. He let her open his pants and take them off — but stopped her before she went down on him.
He made short work of her blouse and skirt and left her in her lingerie. A woman who wore fancy lingerie, in his experience, felt fancier in it than out of it.
“Okay, bring me the toys,” he said.
She blushed, but sounded excited when she said, “yes, Dean.” She pulled the pleasure chest out from under the bed and showed him the contents.
She had a hefty dildo that Dean passed over, and a thick butt plug that he pulled out. She had a bullet vibe he thought looked promising. She had handcuffs, which he rejected, and a variety of ties, which he pulled out just in case. There were a variety of implements for punishment in the box — nipple clamps, a crop, a cat— but she hadn’t said she wanted any of those things. Dean’s hand hovered over the cat — she held her breath.
“Do you want the cat?” he asked, watching her face.
“Yes, Dean,” she said, eyes lowered, but he saw her little smile, and he could hear her relief that he’d asked.
She closed the box and put it back. He pulled back the covers and laid her down on the bed. He put the blindfold on her first. Her whole body relaxed, that subtle relaxation of giving herself over.
“Beautiful,” he said. “Good girl.”
He stroked her red hair back behind her ears.
“Face down,” he said.
She wiggled into position, arms around her head. Dean loved the way her body wanted what he had to give.
“Clasp your hands,” he said, and she did so, quick to please.
He opened the back strap of her bra. Her skin was creamy white and soft over well-toned muscles. Dean caressed her back with the soft leather thongs of the cat, and she shivered. He traced her limbs and gave her gentle little swats her and there, until she was shaking all over. He warmed up her ass again with a good series of licks, until he heard it in her voice — the break over into abandon.
“Look at you, so needy,” he said. He lay his hand softly on her ass, which was hot now to the touch. He slipped his fingers under the cloth and between her legs. She was hot and slick, and she clenched up around him when his fingers slipped inside.
“Oh, Dean, yes,” she moaned.
“Good girl,” he praised, and peeled her panties down again.
“I want you to take this in your ass,” he said gently, touching her with the plug. It was her toy, so he assumed she knew it well.
“Yes, Dean, thank you,” she said, and relaxed her buttocks. He found the lube in her bedside table and slicked up his finger, pressing until he felt the tight muscle relax, then slipped it inside. She opened like a dream, moaning and trying to be good; in no time he had two fingers in and she was ready for the plug.
“Breathe out and bear down,” he ordered, and the plug slipped it, her ass pulling it greedily inside as she moaned and rocked a little.
“Turn over now,” he said, and she did.
He pulled off her loosened bra and soaked panties and tossed them away. She was spread out before him like a banquet. He lowered himself to her breasts and feasted, biting gently and suckling, switching from side to side as she trembled and arched herself toward him. He slipped his fingers down between her legs again — she was dripping wet.
He straddled her thighs and found the bullet vibe, pressing it against her clit. Just as she realized what it was, he turned it on, and she tried to thrash away, but couldn’t. The vibration drove her wild as she arched toward it and away from it, the powerful sensation too much for her already heated sex.
Dean pulled it away and she collapsed back.
“Can you be good?” Dean asked.
“Yes, Dean, yes!” she cried, panting. Her hands were still clasped obediently over her head.
“Do you want my dick?” Dean asked.
“Yes, Dean, please — give it to me, please?” she begged.
“I want to be inside you — but don’t you dare come!” he warned.
“Please, please, Dean,” she begged.
“I’ll give you what you need,” he said, “don’t you worry.”
He snagged a condom, tore it open, and put it on. He was certain he was clean, and she probably was too, but better safe than sorry.
He lifted her knees, putting her feet flat on the bed near her hips, so she was wide open to him, then he knelt between her legs and teased her entrance with his dick.
“Oh, oh, Dean, please, please be inside me,” she begged.
He pushed a little way inside. He could feel her trembling, holding back her urge to dig in her heels and pull him in as deep as he would go.
He pushed in, slowly, slowly. The plug was filling her up, making her tight. She moaned, deep in her throat as he bottomed out, filling her up.
Then he found the vibe and put it against her clit and turned it on.
“Go ahead, come,” he said. He grabbed her wrists above her head and held her down with all his strength, fucking her deep, barely moving, letting her convulse against him helplessly as the orgasm took her again and again.
“Good girl, good girl,” he praised as she screamed his name, her voice wracked with pleasure.
He fucked her with tiny thrusts, so deep inside, tormenting her clit with the vibe until she couldn’t even thrash, she just arched against him with all her strength and held on, sobbing in breaths.
Finally he had mercy, turned off the vibe and tossed it aside. She went limp and he threw her legs back, pumping into her cunt with powerful thrusts, as her head tossed back and forth and she chanted his name like a mantra.
“On your hands and knees,” he said.
Quickly, she complied. The thick black base of the plug adorned her ass as he thrust into her cunt and let himself go. She pushed back against his every thrust, eager for the fucking, until finally he crested, spilling into the condom, her hot red ass pulled tight against his hips.
Tenderly, he lay her back down and pulled out. He went to get a wet cloth, and came back and cleaned her up, and gently pulled out the plug and cleaned her there as well. He removed the blindfold and pulled the covers up around her and went looking in the bathroom for some lotion. There was a tube of arnica — perfect — so he brought it back and slipped under the covers with her, applying the arnica by feel to her hot, beaten ass.
“Thank you, Kate — you were perfect,” he murmured. “So beautiful, so good.”
“Thank you, Dean,” she mumbled, already half asleep.
He held her until she fell asleep, then got up and got dressed. He left his fed number on her kitchen counter, and made sure the house was secure. He found a motel room and slept the sleep of the just.
She called around 11 the next morning.
“Agent Lee?” she asked when he answered.
“Hi Kate,” he said.
“Hi Dean,” she answered, a little shy, but sounding happy. “I hope you’ll call again the next time you’re in Kansas City.”
“I’ll try,” he said, and realized it was true.
“I just wanted you know, how good it was. It was perfect. You were perfect, Dean,” she said.
“Thanks, Kate,” he said, and meant it. He’d made her feel good. He’d hurt her only because she wanted him to. He had been in control.
“Maybe next time, we could switch,” she suggested.
“I’d like that,” he said, casual as could be.
“I know you would,” she responded, sultry voice full of promise.
The world seemed a little bit brighter to Dean all the way on the long drive home.
###
Afterword:
There is actually a place in Kansas City called Collection in the Crossroads district !!! but I haven’t been there – I googled the name and pretty much made it up. The name and location was too great to pass up.
In my headcanon, Lisa is Jewish, so Dean gets his Jewish expressions from her.
Also, in my headcanon, Dean would prefer to be submissive, but it’s a point of pride for him to be a fantastic service top. I welcome any constructive criticism.
I don't think Dean does this very often, despite his rep as a ladies' man. But he is sex positive, and I think it seems plausible. :)
note: Dean has some dismissive thoughts about Sam in this story. It's indicative of the level of stress Dean is under, not his real opinion of Sam (or Sam's stupid face). :)
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Date: 2014-03-24 01:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-03-24 12:41 pm (UTC)Yes, the ep was a hard one for Dean. I thought he deserved a break, and a little respite away from his destiny as a terrible force of destruction.
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Date: 2014-03-25 08:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-03-25 09:08 pm (UTC)Thanks so much for reading and commenting! It's not everyone's cup of tea, so your comment means a lot! :)
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Date: 2016-02-12 04:46 pm (UTC)And I'm not usually a fan of dom!Dean, but I completely agree with you -- if he did it, it would be a matter of pride (and also of his caring nature) to do it perfectly right.
I love how much you put into this -- Kate's backstory, Dean thinking about Lisa, Dean's fear of losing control, his pride of making Kate feel good and taking care of her...
Really, amazing fic. (Is there, by any chance, hope for a sequel?)
no subject
Date: 2016-02-12 05:49 pm (UTC)I have a project where I like to write about the women of Supernatural. I liked the way that McElroy played with Dean throughout that episode... so I extended that into the story. It would be fun to do a sequel where they switch. Now that Dean has the mark off... hey maybe she is the one who gave him the hickey! :D
I have a lot going on in RL but I'll see what I can do. :D
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Date: 2016-02-12 05:53 pm (UTC)But no pressure. RL comes first :)