She had the sense that these brothers weren't part of any organized clan of hunters, not like the Syndicate for which she worked. But then, those sorts of clans kept well below most radars; no one found one unless the organization wanted to be found. She wasn't sure just how many Syndicates operated on American soil; perhaps only one.
Either way, killing paranormal entities for a living did get a little...wearing, and she'd learned to compartmentalize both monsters and victims in order to complete her contracts without going absolutely insane from the horror of it all. Yes, she knew what lurked on the other side of the shadows, and perhaps she wasn't wired correctly not to be afraid of it.
But then, she hadn't needed a monster in the closet to witness the ultimate horror. Humans were quite adept at that, after all.
Now, however, Natasha found herself watching--without meaning to--Dean's fingers scritching along that sharp jawline, and felt slow warmth beginning to seep into her blood. Horrible timing, that. And for the love of God, she had no intention of getting involved further with these two...no matter how this Dean Winchester just somehow fit the type of man that checked each and every one of her preference boxes.
Bloody fucking hell. Mind yourself, Natalia Alianova.
So she pulled her gaze away briefly, giving it back to respond with, "Mm? Oh, yes, thank you. It's fine." A sincere smile curved her lips, backed by a soft chuckle. "I'm not the sort to expect satin sheets and a gilded headboard, Mr. Winchester."
( he catches the way she looks at him, but he can't help but to wonder if it's just his own selfish inclination to want her to pay attention to him that way. it's not the norm that he's this strung up, that he hasn't found someone to indulge whether it be a bar or one of those friggin' dating apps, but when cases came up one after the other, they were priority, and it was only when they'd settle back at the bunker or one of those rundown hotel beds that he'd feel it hungering within him.
her chuckle warms him, finding his thoughts wandering off far too much for comfort. still, she manages to bring him back. a smirk of his own meets hers in response, perhaps a little coyer. it's all unintentional.
of course. ) This place is a hell of an upgrade from bunking at motel rooms, the bedrooms though seems to be where they paid the littlest attention. ( given the grand library, the tech that still went beyond him at times. but ask him and he's perfectly happy with his room, merely for the fact that it's his. concrete walls and a plain old bed and all. )
"They would, indeed." She'd indulged in a set, back at her own flat a few states over. One of her very few guilty pleasures, that. But she could rough it when necessary, and never minded doing so, as it was usually far easier and cheaper, God knew.
"But seedy motels just fit the image, don't they?" The teasing query preceded a little giggle, though the sound was more tired than amused. "This place, though..." Natasha gazed around with an approving eye. "It's really amazing. A real safehouse." She gave him a lifted eyebrow once again. "I imagine it'd take an army or two to penetrate it."
Before she'd even realized she'd planned to do it, Natasha took a simple step forward, placed a hand against Dean's rough cheek and rose on her tiptoes to press her lips to the other, his skin warm against hers. "Thank you again," she murmured against the edge of his jaw, "for bringing me here."
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Either way, killing paranormal entities for a living did get a little...wearing, and she'd learned to compartmentalize both monsters and victims in order to complete her contracts without going absolutely insane from the horror of it all. Yes, she knew what lurked on the other side of the shadows, and perhaps she wasn't wired correctly not to be afraid of it.
But then, she hadn't needed a monster in the closet to witness the ultimate horror. Humans were quite adept at that, after all.
Now, however, Natasha found herself watching--without meaning to--Dean's fingers scritching along that sharp jawline, and felt slow warmth beginning to seep into her blood. Horrible timing, that. And for the love of God, she had no intention of getting involved further with these two...no matter how this Dean Winchester just somehow fit the type of man that checked each and every one of her preference boxes.
Bloody fucking hell. Mind yourself, Natalia Alianova.
So she pulled her gaze away briefly, giving it back to respond with, "Mm? Oh, yes, thank you. It's fine." A sincere smile curved her lips, backed by a soft chuckle. "I'm not the sort to expect satin sheets and a gilded headboard, Mr. Winchester."
no subject
her chuckle warms him, finding his thoughts wandering off far too much for comfort. still, she manages to bring him back. a smirk of his own meets hers in response, perhaps a little coyer. it's all unintentional.
of course. ) This place is a hell of an upgrade from bunking at motel rooms, the bedrooms though seems to be where they paid the littlest attention. ( given the grand library, the tech that still went beyond him at times. but ask him and he's perfectly happy with his room, merely for the fact that it's his. concrete walls and a plain old bed and all. )
Satin sheets would be damn nice though, huh?
no subject
"But seedy motels just fit the image, don't they?" The teasing query preceded a little giggle, though the sound was more tired than amused. "This place, though..." Natasha gazed around with an approving eye. "It's really amazing. A real safehouse." She gave him a lifted eyebrow once again. "I imagine it'd take an army or two to penetrate it."
Before she'd even realized she'd planned to do it, Natasha took a simple step forward, placed a hand against Dean's rough cheek and rose on her tiptoes to press her lips to the other, his skin warm against hers. "Thank you again," she murmured against the edge of his jaw, "for bringing me here."