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vice//rapture	By : savysavestheday Category: Supernatural > Crossovers Views: 1285 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the television series that this fanfiction is written for, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-vice//rapture
- 2-part 2
- 1
- 2
Author: Syrai

Fandom: Supernatural/Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Pairing: Dean/Dawn

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: bad language, smut and the one thing I swore I'd never write, wincest… in a way.

Summary: It's not the same. It feels fucking good, you don't deny that, but it's not the same. No one can compare, no one.

Disclaimer? I think we all know I don't own Supernatural or BtVS and it's rather pointless for me to write this disclaimer.

What? In this verse Dawn is a Winchester; Sam's twin. That's all you have to know.

Author’s Note: Completely Forsaken's fault (and Bruce Springsteen's "I'm on Fire" cause dude, one dirty song!); she really shouldn't feed my kinky fantasies like this. Without a doubt this is the sickest thing I've written so far… It's not meant to be that long, but I figured it's better if I divide the thing into multiple parts. Thanks Inf, for trying to help me fix a few things. The feedback was truly loved. You're my idol, dude.

0000

VICE//RAPTURE

0000

Hey little girl is your daddy home

Did he go and leave you all alone

I've got a bad desire

I'm on fire

Tell me now baby is he good to you

Can he do to you these things I can do

I can take you high

I'm on fire

0000

part 1

It's not the same. It feels fucking good, you don't deny that, but it's not the same. No one can compare, no one.

The girl underneath your body is squirming against you, panting, stroking your ass with cold fingers - acting, in a word, acting to get your attention back. The thing is, you're not in the mood anymore, but being the kind of guy you are, you aren't gonna stop in the middle and whistle the game dead. This is you and well, you always play the game, always see it through.

But in that case, you never do it gently. This one's new, so she doesn't know to expect it. The fast thrust, the growl and the violent pounding. Skin meeting skin, the wet sound, the rage. You pull her legs up against your shoulders, ignore the slight yelp of pain it causes and continue. Deeper, if only you'd get a little bit deeper and maybe you'd forget. Maybe this one could make you forget.

She's hot around your cock, hot and wet and soft and all that, but it's not the same.

And when you call out the one name on your lips as you come, you don't even notice you did it. It comes as naturally as breathing, fighting. You feel the relief, but it's not as good as it could be. You don't wait for her to come, you don't care, just collapse on top of her; taste the sweat on her skin and ignore the fact she's having a hard time breathing. That she's hurting. Well, fuck, you're hurting too so maybe it's only fair.

"Who's Dawn?" She asks suddenly with a voice full of bitterness and the question, it's like a knife stabbed into your heart. A knife twisted in its wound, again and again.

Dawn.

You pull away from her, roll on your back and stare at the ceiling trying to come up with an answer. The kind you could actually say out loud to someone. Yeah, but your head is empty, you're all empty, and you don't say anything, just listen to her futile attempt to gather the sheets to cover her frame. Why bother? Nothing you haven't seen already.

"So?" She pushes.

You're tired of lying. You're tired of it all.

What the fuck does she know anyway?

This time she gets her damn reply, though it's probably nothing like the one she wanted. "What the fuck?" You're tired of lying, sure, but it's the only thing you've got left in this fucked up universe. That, and the Impala waiting outside the motel room.

"You said her name," she says then, an almost jealous tone coloring her voice, "Ex-fuck?"

Fucking hell. You move fast; sit up straight, feet landing on the floor. What you really want to do is punch her in the face, but that's not the way you were brought up and so you let it go.

"Come on, you can tell me," she taunts you on purpose, body suddenly rising from the bed and toppling against your back, "I think I deserve to know after being a fucking replacement." Her arms wrap around your chest, fingers find your nipples, squeezing. The next second her mouth is on your neck, sucking, kissing, trying to force you to react. You know this, because that's what they all want.

You to react.

But you can't, not the way they want you to.

"I never promised you anything," you say, grab her wrists and keep them at bay.

"No," she softly whispers against the back of your neck, planting a gentle kiss while at it, "no, you didn't. Guess I should be grateful for that."

There it was again, the cynical tone, the jealousy raising its head. What fucking right does she have to feel jealous, or bitter, or anything at all for that matter? You told her right from the beginning; you told her it'd be nothing more but a way to kill time before the next job. You made it absolutely fucking clear she'd only be another anonymous girl in another forgettable town to which you'd never return if you had a say on it.

Before the next murdering son of a bitch decides it's time to test your patience. That you didn't say to her face, of course, though you were tempted to do so… just to drive her away.

Look, lady, if you really wanna do this-

And she had smiled, chewing on her bottom lip, trying to look sexy, I do, I do want it.

You gave in fast, faster than usually. Well, there really weren't that much to do in this god-forsaken town anyway. So you smiled back, smirked really, and told her the truth.

Then you're just one of many and I don't usually say no - get the point?

You should've gotten rid of her sooner, man, but guess it's too late for regret.

You'll deal the way you've always dealt with things. "Get out," you command, shrugging her off your back. She falls on the bed with an exaggerated shriek, confused and not believing her ears. You can practically hear the thoughts running through her ears; no, no, you can't do this, I'm hot, I'm sexy, I'm -- and the list goes on. Same with every single fucking one of them and frankly, you're getting bored with it. Both the thoughts and the pretty faces. They never offer you anything you haven't had already.

"What?"

And here you thought it was as simply put as you could possibly manage. Another try, then.

"Get the fuck out," you raise your voice and sneer, "I'm done with you."

You don't even remember this one's name anymore. You just remember hers.

And her words.

I'm done with you, Dean.

0000

You are 19 the first time you realize she's no fucking kid anymore and it both wakes and kills you inside. It's not the kind of realization you like to make, but you can't really run away from it either, now can you? No, so you accept it, because you have to. That's the way the world works; little girls don't stay innocent forever. God knows you've done your own part in that department.

Dad's on a hunt which means you are the head of the house for a few days; supposed to take care of Sam and Dawn. Make sure they are okay, do their homework, eat and well, stay out of trouble. Good thing is they never get into any trouble - bad thing is, you do. But not this time, now it's been surprisingly peaceful and even the wounds of your last fist fight have healed nicely.

Was peaceful, anyway.

Dawn has gone out with some friends, at least that's what she said, and you're home alone with Sam. It's Friday, which is the only reason you let her go out in the first place, but that's also the reason behind your worry. Friday nights, dude, they're dangerous - naturally that didn't cross your mind earlier, not when she was begging you to let her go just this once, Dean, I promise. You didn't do it just for her; you kinda figured you could hang with Sam, watch some TV and drink beer, relax… talk about the kind of stuff that wasn't meant for Dawn's ears or something. He's 15 and if Dad was home, Dawn would be too and Sam wouldn't be drinking that beer, but well, you're in charge now and you aren't that strict about these things.

You weren't, that is.

But now, around 11 pm with no damn clue of Dawn's whereabouts, you're starting to wonder.

"Where the fuck is she?" You voice the frustrated question, briefly glancing at Sam who's sitting on the armchair next to the couch eyes glued to the tv screen. He sips his beer - yes, sips - and grimaces the way he always does.

"How the hell should I know," Sam replies just when you're about to repeat the question, "You're the idiot who let her go out - why didn't you ask her where she's going?"

Good for you that he isn't looking at you - if he was, he'd see the uncomfortable expression on your face. Yeah, about that… "I did ask her, prick," you snap, "… but she wouldn't tell me."

Now Sam actually glances at your direction, amused. "And you let her go anyway?" He chuckles, shaking his head, "Dude."

Yeah, yeah, whatever. "Well… She was all dressed up and hell, she would've thrown a fucking tantrum and cried and I-"

Sam laughs again, hoarse sound coming from his throat. "You always give in when she cries. You're so easy."

You know he's right and it pisses you off. So you do the only thing you can, "Shut up," you mutter, "fucking idiot."

Two hours later you hear the front door open. Sam's already fallen asleep on the armchair and you didn't have the heart to wake him up so you let him be. Only removed the half-finished beer from his hands, put it back into the fridge and continued channel-hopping to keep you from falling asleep.

You get up instantly, putting down the remote control, and turn around. Since the flat is the size of a fucking hen cage, you see her right away. She's leaning against the wall with one hand, the other trying to get her shoes off, but it seems harder than usual. And what the fuck? She giggles. You can barely hear her, but you know she's giggling.

You walk around the couch watching how Dawn struggles with her shoes before she gets them off and straightens her back… and you catch her arm just before she falls. You weren't prepared, but you manage to keep her on her feet anyway - she crashes into you, grabs your shirt to keep her balance, pulling you closer and then it's her back and your hands against the wall, both trying to stay vertical.

"Fuck it, Dawn, you're drunk." You're furious, but it only makes her giggle. She looks at you in obvious amusement, biting her bottom lip in order to keep the giggle in, but you catch it anyway. And it only feeds your fury.

Her hands are still resting against your chest and yours are on either side of her head, fingers curling into fists. The anger makes your blood boil the way only a good hunt can and it bothers you; why are you so angry? It's not the first time she's done something stupid and you've never lost it before.

"Do you have any idea how fucking worried I've been?" You snarl looking down to her face, nose so close to hers you can actually smell the alcohol on her breath. My god, how many times have you heard those words coming from Dad? How many times have you swallowed your retort, thought silently in your mind how much you hate that simple question and the fact he never seems to think you can take care of yourself? Too many fucking times, honestly.

"Awww," she mocks, sneering, "you were actually worried?"

What is her problem, dude? She knows the answer damn well. "Whatever," you sigh, "Go to bed, Dawn." There's no way in hell you'll discuss this with her while she can barely stand on her own two feet. No, you'll play the older brother card in the morning and give the lecture, ground her, whatever it takes - and all that, you'll do after she's slept it off, when she's actually sober enough to understand what's going on.

"Why?" She spits and you can't understand the question. Why what? "Why the hell should I do that?" Dawn continues with this defiant look in her eyes and you know you're too close to a tornado, "Why are you the only one who's allowed to have fun?"

This is when you actually wish Dad was home… or that he'd left some sort of handbook telling how to handle drunken teenage-girls. Although, he's probably just as green as you are on said issue… Seriously, you can't remember a single time this would've happened before. Only with you and well, Dad's always been good when it comes to handling drunken teenage-boys.

"I'm older," you say finally with a shrug. It always works with Sam.

"And that justifies everything, huh?" Well, no, it never really works with Sam either, and it sure as hell ain't working with Dawn. God, if only it was Sam; you could smack his pretty little face and be done with it, you know? But you can't hit your sister. For one, she'd tell Dad and you'd be dead. Or at least grounded for all eternity and neither fit your future plans.

"Yeah," you respond through gritted teeth, "that's right."

She's been angry with you many times - including that one time you told everyone how she loves to dance and sing in front of her mirror while using a glue tube as a mike - but never like this. Okay, you've always been impressed by her foul language; not many girls have tongues that bad and you usually feel brotherly pride over that fact, but now it's only pissing you off even more.

"Fuck you, Dean." She's crossing the line you know is there, but she can't seem to make it out, "You're not Dad, I don't have to listen to you."

It stings, but you don't know why. Maybe because all your life you've done nothing but tried to protect her and Sam, tried to keep them safe and sacrificed so many things for them. Fine, maybe you're not their Dad, but you're their fucking brother and that should mean something.

"Oh yeah, you do." You know you've taken too malicious a tone with her and that she'll only grow more and more defiant, but you can't seem to change that, "When Dad's not here, you do what I tell you to. That's how you stay alive."

For the most part, you're not even lying.

She looks into your eyes, blinks and suddenly the look on her face is much softer, much more open. "I can take care of myself."

Even as the sentence comes to life inside your mind, you know you shouldn't say it. Bad idea, dude, bad idea. Still, you ignore the flashing warnings and throw it at her face, the one thing she never wants you to say. "I fucking doubt that."

She hates it as much as you hate it when it's Dad questioning your abilities, your skills, your will.

"Kiss me."

The world comes crashing down and then there's just you and her and the staring competition, the one you don't want, but can't seem to break either.

Your mouth opens and you try to speak, but the words are stuck and you have to start over. Just… "What the fuck?"

"You heard me." It's a challenge and you know it. She's still looking at you, eyes boring holes into yours, but you refuse to look away. You do take a step backwards though. Space, you need to put space between you.

You frown, not quite following. When did the subject change? How? Why? "Are you high?"

She shrugs nonchalantly, "I don't know, maybe."

Well, great. Fucking perfect. You're not exactly sure what to do or say, but suddenly you feel the urge to check if Sam's still asleep because fuck if this isn't one of those conversations you simply don't want him to hear. You don't do it, though… cause you can't tear your eyes from hers, no matter how hard you try. One of the first things Dad taught you was to always keep the enemy in your sight.

Right now, she feels like an enemy to you.

Finally, after a long moment of uncomfortable, confused silence, you clear your throat, "Go take a shower and go to bed."

This time your voice was calmer, more pleading, but she's still defiant, "No."

"Yes," you say simply and cross your arms.

"No," she echoes your tone, matches your movements.

Then, then you have no other choice left. "Fine," you shrug and lean closer, "you asked for it."

She thinks you're giving up. She thinks you're giving her what she wanted, but you have other plans. You step closer, grab her arms and in a matter of seconds, you've pushed her through the bathroom's door, pushed her into the bath tub without thinking twice whether it'll hurt her or not. It doesn't take too long for her to catch up with your way of thinking, but it's already too late for her to actually do anything. The cold water hits you both at the same time and your breathing dies right there and then. You hold her down, cursing.

She's gasping for air, calling you all the bad names you've ever taught her and a few new ones, landing hits wherever she can reach and then, no warnings given, she starts crying. Arms snake around your neck and she's there, in your arms, crying louder than ever. You stroke her hair, try and hush her down and with the cold water still attacking you, you're trying not to notice the way her front is pressing against your body. The way it curves.

She's no kid anymore, that's for sure.

0000

The next morning you come to the conclusion she doesn't remember a thing about yesterday. Nothing solid, that is and finally, god, finally you can breathe again without that horrible feeling cutting off your air every other second. She asks you with slight confusion why the fuck you threw her into the bath tub and when you say she needed to calm down, she tells you loudly that you should mind your own damn business; that you're not the fucking boss.

You are in no mood for a rematch, please no, so you disagree in silence - only snort out loud and turn away from her, closing the topic with that simple gesture. She doesn't push it, she's got no reason to.

The next day, however, makes you think otherwise.

In the moment, all you can think of is food. You come home earlier than normal, not really expecting anyone to be home. The door opens with a familiar creak you've learnt to love and you toss the car keys on the table next to one of Dawn's porcelain dolphins. The whole fucking apartment is full of those things and sometimes you wonder what would happen if you were to steal one of them and hide it.

Probably World War 3. Anyway. Your jacket flies next, somewhere towards the room you share with Sammy, and you head to the kitchen.

But as soon as your fingers lock around the handle of the fridge, you realize something's not right. You aren't alone. You hear…

What is that? Water?

Okay. You let go of the fridge's door, forgetting your screaming hunger for a moment, and carefully walk towards the only possible source of the noise… bathroom. You pause at the door, but the unusual sounds you hear arouse your curiosity and get the better of you.

All you have to do is push and the door opens without making a sound; the breathtaking sight is revealed and forever imprinted in your memory.

Dawn… in the bathtub, one leg thrown over the edge, gasping. Your sister, whole body flushed and with fingers between her legs, back arching, whimpering. She's panting, panting so unbelievably loud you can't believe you didn't hear it when you walked through the front door. It takes a second before your brain actually registers what's going on, what she's doing and you can't believe it; this is your sister, for fuck's sake, she doesn't do this.

But the real surprise washes over you when you hear her calling a name as she comes. Your name.

Dean. Dean.

And like a reflex, you call hers.
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vice//rapture