Supernatural: Dean's Witch Ch. 04

Dean turned and opened the fridge, pulling out two more beers—he was already halfway through the one he'd just opened, and Calla had wanted one; if anything, it couldn't make her make less sense. He opened the bottle for her and crossed to the table, where he sat down beside her with his back to the tabletop.

"Calla, if the spell means you don't have any choices around me... we shouldn't be together like that. Not until we find a way to break the spell, at least," he added quietly. "Fuck, I loved having you beside me in bed, waking up against you again—"

"So, that's what matters," Calla interrupted him, her hand finding his forearm and gripping onto him, insistent. "If you want me there, and I want to be there, what does it matter if I'm more drawn to you than the other way around? That's how most relationships are, right?"

"Spells aren't involved in most relationships, sweetheart," he replied.

"Yeah, no kidding, but that's not the point," she answered, squeezing his arm to get him to meet her eyes again. "By your reasoning, it wouldn't be okay for two people to sleep together if one of them was in love and the other wasn't... if one had fallen in love with the other, and the other was... still not there. I'm not saying I'm in love," she added hurriedly—too hurriedly. "But I am saying it's basically the same thing. "I'm more involved in us, whether we like it or not. But the fact that you are involved, if you meant what you said... that means this is okay. It should mean this is okay. I'm no different than... than a girl with a crush, if you want to think of it like that."

Slowly, Dean nodded. That made more sense than the mashed potatos argument. In any relationships, one person was always more committed than the other. One person was always more helpless. That didn't mean a relationship ended when the two people figured out who was who. It just, if anything, meant there was a shift in dynamics that could be taken advantage of. If someone wanted to take advantage of it.

And sitting beside Calla, on his fourth beer, Dean promised himself, simply, that he just wouldn't take unfair advantage.

* * * * *

There'd been times when Dean had compartmentalized the hunter he was. When he'd put it aside, however briefly, and left it locked in the bunker and in Baby's trunk, so that he could focus on just being a man with a woman. He'd done it with Lisa, and for a few especially memorable one-night stands. At times, he'd focused enough on the present to even think that, some day, he and Sammy might get beyond the violence and just be able to live normal lives. Those moments had been rare, but they'd been there.

But he'd never, not so far as he could remember, actually pretended he wasn't who he was. That he wasn't a hunter, that violence wasn't bread and butter to his life, that bloodshed and torment weren't automatically wrapped up in just about every real decision he had to make and live by. He'd never allowed himself to try to forget who and what he was—he'd seen Sammy do it, and he'd seen his mom do it, and he knew too well what it had cost each of them. One way or another, he'd always figured that wasn't a price worth paying.

And yet, walking Calla into his room later on that night, he did it, because remembering he was a hunter meant remembering what he'd done to her, and who she'd been before he met him. So, for the time being, he forgot who he was, and he made himself forget what she'd been born into. For just one night, at least, he wanted to pretend otherwise.

He watched her tongue slip out of her mouth to moisten her lips and darted his own mouth down to catch hers, open, so that she gasped into his as he backed her further into his room and kicked the door shut behind them. His hands were already on her hips, his fingers inside of the band of her yoga pants, prodding at her skin and teasing her. Her skin was warm and smooth against his fingertips, and her mouth was hungry, pulling at his lips and tongue. The tang of beer on her lips pulled him in further, and he bit lightly into her tongue until he heard her whimper, and then he let go at the same moment he dropped his hands beneath her butt and lifted her up against his body.

Swept up against him, Calla wrapped her arms and legs around Dean, all thought gone. She could feel herself wet and wanting against him, pulsing with need for this hunter who'd mangled her word and then pulled her into his chaos. She didn't want anything but him. She could feel the bulge in his jeans as he stepped her backward, and pressed into him, moaning aloud with the pressure as his hands dug into her ass in response.

When he dropped her onto the bed with his body on top of hers, the breath in her lungs fled into his mouth and she felt herself pushing her groin up against his, against the hardness of his cock held back by denim, until he groaned in response. Dropping back against the pillow and gasping in a breath, she felt his lips and teeth come down on her neck as her hands found their way to his belt buckle and fumbled at it until the leather and the metal gave way, and then she was at his button and zipper. By the time she'd lifted her knees to help shove down his clothing, he'd found a way to yank her yoga pants down around her thighs with her panties, and his fingers were at her slit, exploring.

"Ready?" he breathed out, but he didn't wait for an answer. At once, three of his fingers pressed into her wetness, and she moaned against his neck even as her fist found his cock and began stroking—once, twice, until she froze when his thumb found her clit and stopped there, pressing in, as if he'd found a button, and suddenly she couldn't breathe, she was so full and wet and primed. She felt full of him, and still wanted more.

Calla felt his fingers pulling away, though his thumb stayed pressed on that glorious button of skin and nerves, and she breathed in, thinking to speak, just as he found her slit with what she'd been wanting all along. He'd used her distraction to pull a condom on without her even seeing him do it, and in one long, hard press of muscle, his cock slid into her, firm and insistent, and she breathed out his name against his neck in a whimper she didn't recognize as her own voice as he held himself inside of her, bottomed out and heavy within her passage, like he owned her body now. Like she wanted him to.

Her breath frozen, Calla found herself nodding against his shoulder, her eyes clenched shut and her nails digging into his ass to hold him against her as he began moving back and forth, rocking his body abover hers over and over again so that she thought her lungs might burst for the pressure of air driving in and out of her. When one of his hands pressed between them, holding her to the bed from above and pressuring her from outside of her skin in just that way, she felt her whole body trembling, and couldn't help screaming out a sudden rage of pleasure against his chest as his teeth grazed her neck once again and his dick pushed harder into her than even before, driving deeper than she'd thought possible. Her legs fell apart to give him room in the wake of her pleasure, her thighs too overcome by her center's pleasure to hold onto him any longer, and then he was driving into her all over again as his hands and lips held her in place for his pleasure, his cock pushing into her again and again, demanding more.

Calla felt his own pleasure thudding into her, and arched into him, wanting more even though she couldn't catch her breath. When he propped himself above her, his dick still buried inside of her, hot and thick, she opened her eyes and met his, staring down at her. That deep brown of his eyes... it made her shudder all over again, and she swallowed whatever she'd been about to say, one of her hands reaching up run over the sweat on his shoulder, up along his neck, and then over his cheek and up to his bangs, combing at the sweat. He just stayed frozen there, watching her, until she finally let out an uncomfortable giggle and nudged her hips upward so that he closed his eyes and groaned in return.

"You look like you can't decide if you're done—you feel like you can't decide if you're done," she whispered up at him, her hands on his muscled chest now, exploring his tattoo and the toughened scars that she'd somehow never before noticed.

Dean caught her gaze and pressed as deep into her as he could, until he felt himself bottoming out and she whimpered, her nails digging into his skin for a moment. "You good, for more, Calla?" he breathed out.

Shaken by the lust in his voice, she made herself nod, and then she wrapped her arms around his back as he lowered himself into her body, his elbows on either side of her shoulders, his lips finding her neck and nibbling along her skin as he pulled out, leaving her empty.

She caught her breath as he swung to the side, and she watched him removing the condom, tossing it into a bin by the desk, and then digging out another and rolling it up along his cock, which was still just as hard as it had been before. Her pussy clenched involuntarily as he fisted it twice, then turned to her. She let him move her, positioning her on her side and pulling one of her legs up so that he could slip his own leg in between and take her, scissoring into her slowly as he lifted up her leg and pulled it back across his, his big hand on her thigh to hold her open. Her hand found his forearm and she let her back lean into his chest, relishing the pounding of his heart against her back and his breath on her cheek.

He held her thigh fast and pushed in deeper, and held himself there as she squirmed against him, pulsing and whimpering—he could feel her reaching the verge of a climax all over again, and grinned, knowing he had all of the control. With a tilt of his hips and a quick move of his arm and his torso, he pressured them backward, and suddenly she was on top of him, her body prone on top of his so that her back was against his chest and she didn't have purchase on the bed. He heard her gasp, and held her above himself with one hand on her thigh and one hand on her breast, above her heart, his dick still anchored inside of her.

"Okay?" he breahed into her ear. He felt her nod against him, and figured she was too out of breath to do more. Slowly, he started thrusting into her from below, and soon he felt her arching her back and sinking her pussy down to meet his cock, wet and hungry for him to fill her faster, harder. Recognizing the frantic nature of her heartbeat and how it mirrored his, he let go of her breast and anchored his arm around her middle, gripping onto her even as his other hand found firmer purchase on her thigh. Without warning, he sped up, and when he felt her head fall back on his shoulder limply, her lips gasping for breath, he twisted his mouth to find her ear and suck its lobe between his lips and teeth so that she screamed out with pain and pleasure both when he came into her again and she found climax at the same time, pulsing around him and gasping for air in little whimpers.

He let himself hold her there above him, clenched hard to his body with his dick still buried in her warmth as his breath calmed, and he was fairly sure she was asleep even before he'd fully shifted her to the side so that her head rested against the pillow and he finally pulled out, thinking already about how it would feel to come back and find her in his bed after he got a much-needed shower.

* * * * *

Calla eased herself down at the table with coffee in hand, swallowing down the nerves she felt as she joined Sam. She owed him so much, just for bringing her here—if he hadn't showed up, she didn't want to think about how things would have ended.

"I'm sorry," she blurted out before she could stop herself, catching his gaze as his cereal spoon froze halfway to his mouth. "You showed up and helped me even though I was a complete bitch about it—not to mention drunk. I... thank you," she finished, finally taking a sip of her coffee.

Sam took a few more mouthfulls of his cereal before he did more than nod. He'd wanted to talk to her alone, and this was clearly his chance, but it felt awkward now that she'd started off like that. He couldn't help feeling like an ass now, knowing what he wanted to say. "Calla..." he began, and then stopped himself. He couldn't come right out and ask her what he'd been about to, asking if she wanted her freedom and posing it so simply like there was no risk involved to what he was saying. It would be too cruel. "We—no, I—didn't have a plan for bringing you here. I mean, you're safe while you're here, I have every reason to believe... but we don't have a plan. And I haven't been able to find any sign of your mom's coven to try to help you from that angle."

The room suddenly seemed warmer, and Calla made herself breathe. She took two more breaths before she felt like she could respond. "Help me... you mean by killing them?" she asked.

"Or making them leave you alone somehow; making them understand they'd be better off forgetting about whatever threat they think you pose them." Leaving it at that for the moment, Sam picked up his bowl and his coffee cup and took them over to the sink, where he picked up an apple and re-filled his coffee cup before he came back to the table, where Calla still sat silent.

She seemed steadier when she met his gaze this time, and he noted it—she was strong, when she wasn't being blindsided by something.

She leaned forward, holding his gaze, and her voice was steady. "They won't understand that, Sam. I get what you're saying... but you're talking about centuries-old traditions. The only way you guys can get them off my back, maybe, is by finding a way to reinstate my magic. That's how you help me get my life back," she finished simply.

"And if we can't?"

Calla took a gulp of her coffee, scalding her tongue, and tried to ignore the burning sensation. It was sensation, after all—something she could feel and react to. Something she had the will and the understanding to appreciate. She shook her head and looked back at Sam, glancing at the door to make sure Dean hadn't appeared before she answered. "Then you guys decide how long you want to protect me from the coven, and when you're done, I'm done. And maybe the hear me out, and have a way of reinstating my magic, but if they don't, they don't."

She shrugged her shoulders as if what she'd just said didn't mean suicide or slavery, and Sam watched as her gaze fell to the steaming liquid in her coffee cup. When he spoke again, he kept his voice gentle, knowing that what he proposed was the beginning of what could scare her away entirely. "And what if we could kill the witches before they hurt you? If we could find them?"

Calla's eyes jerked up to his, her lower lip caught between her teeth. "I wasn't serious when I said that," she whispered, even though she realized it was a lie even as she said it. She had realized the option was on the table, all along, knowing they were hunters. It was just hard to consider. Could she really accept that her own life was worth more than the lives of her mother's entire coven, regardless of what their traditions might entail for her future? It seemed... unbalanced, somehow.

Sam didn't answer, but began eating his apple mechanically, as if waiting for her to catch up to him and his meaning.

Calla looked into her coffee, trying to find answers there. She didn't bother to suggest that Sam and Dean could take away the coven members' magic. That was a fate worse than death for all of them; it would be a mercy to kill them instead, she knew, and they'd agree. That meant either killing them for real, or hiding her forever, if her magic was really and truly gone and she didn't want to belong to the coven.

"But it doesn't matter if you can't find them," she said finally, feeling some of the weight slip from her shoulders as she realized the catch. "Dean said you guys haven't been able to find them—and what you said, it made it sound like you haven't had any more luck, right?" she asked.

This is it, Sam thought to himself, setting aside his coffee and taking his own glance at the door. "Maybe I figured out a way... if you'll help," he answered, "if you want this to be over."

The weight slammed back onto her shoulders, and Calla took another sip of her coffee, wishing it would scald her tongue like it had before, but the temperature had cooled some. It was bearable now. He'd just laid the question before her, and she didn't know how to answer. Did she want this to be over? If that meant the deaths of the other witches in her mother's coven, and being able to be safe outside of this bunker, away from Dean... And that's what answered her question. That thought.

As long as she was here in the bunker, Dean would feel obligated to take care of her, to be with her—and she didn't want him to be hers forever on those conditions. She wanted him to want her to stay even if she could technically walk away and still be safe.

She met Sam's eyes, steeling herself for whatever came next. "What do I have to do?" she asked.

* * * * *

It was almost a physical gut-punch, the way Calla felt while guiding Sam through making the simple tracking spell. The fact that she, as a born witch, no longer had even the scantest amount of magic in her blood, and that someone without a talent for it could access bits of that power when she couldn't... it made her want to scream, throw up, and drink herself into oblivion all over again. If Sam hadn't looked so incredibly uncomfortable with the whole situation, she might have.

"And how long will this last?" Sam asked, tieing shut the small bundle of herbs.

"At least two weeks within two hundred miles or so. Further than that... the more time passes, the less strong the attraction'll be," she answered with a shrug. "It's not exact."

Sam handed her the bundle they'd created, then closed his eyes and clutched the small arrow they'd scalded with the herbs and blood tied into the pouch, and turned slowly in circles as Calla watched. "Move?" he requested.

Silently, Calla walked to the opposite side of the room and stood against the wall, not saying a word even though she knew this test wasn't necessary—they'd completed the mixture perfectly, Sam had spoken the spell perfectly, and there was enough magic in the average human's blood—hunter or otherwise—to make something so simple as this spell a sure thing.

Across the room, Sam spun a few more times, then held the arrow in his hand as lightly as she'd instructed, and whispered. "This is the right direction? And you're against the bookcase?" he asked after the arrow had finished shifting position to point at her.

"You got me," she acknowledged, wishing she felt as positive as Sam's grin suggested he did.

His eyes popped open, his body having already shifted to move with the arrow and face her. "It works—I saw you in my mind against the bookcase, perfectly. And I'll be able to see where you are even if I haven't seen the space?" he asked.

"Yeah, that's how it works. But it'll be close-up, like that was. The arrow's going to be more helpful if I'm indoors; trust me on that," she added, fingering the small pouch as she pushed it deep into the pocket of her sweatshirt.

Sam moved back to the table and wrapped the arrow carefully inside a large square of fabric. Calla watched him do it, and then turned to glance back at the stairs. "We're going to tell Dean tonight?" she asked.

Looking up, Sam caught her eye and nodded. His brother had gone out for beer and groceries, and they'd set to work as soon as he'd left. Neither of them had said it aloud, but both knew that Dean wasn't going to support this plan, and having tested this out before they told him would only be a small tool on their side of the argument. But, anything would help.