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Tags
Summary
There were no rules that governed waking up with the coppery taste of blood coating your tongue, Dean knew, and more of it dried and flaking down your jaw. No hard-and-fast rules for realizing that the gash in your side that you thought might just kill you was now pink and scarred like a few days had passed with a few short hours of sleep, even the holes around the small, neat row of stitches looking healthy and healed. And there were definitely no guidelines for handling the foggy memory of a man writhing above and underneath you, his hands and mouth sticky and red, hot and passionate, almost too pretty to be real and too wild to be human.
Series
- Part 3 of Wild Times at the Impala