It happened quicker than she could breathe. A hunter and an angel, wasn't that always the way? She was screaming at him: he was supposed to be an angel for god's sake. Surely he was SUPPOSED to help save the world?

The smooth vowels of that British accent, it just dripped arrogance and charm. And the way he said darling. It was endearment, it was his way of getting under peoples skin. Balthazar had a number of talents with skin.

"Well, darling, much as I like you, my answers final. So I suggest you drink up and enjoy yourself before this little rock of yours… goes boom."

He said it like it didn't fucking matter. Like people were disposable. Like she was disposable.

"no! We worked too hard! The hunters have given everything, generation after generation! We will not just be killed in some pissing match between Michael and Lucifer!" she was angry. It was her downfall, her temper. Always had been. Right now the rage was howling like a beast at the back of her brain to make the smart-arse angel see.

"Hunters are rednecks and kickbacks, whiskey-soaked loner's hell bent on destruction!"

The yelling was surprising: he normally gave the impression of being beyond anything more than lust and boredom.

"HOW DARE YOU! YOU THINK YOUR FATHER WOULD WANT THIS? HIS SONS DESTROYING THE WORLD? WHILST THE REST COWER AND BEND OVER?!"

He looked dangerous. Angry. His eyes were blazing as he slowly crossed the motel room towards her.

"That was a big mistake. I have more power than you can dream of. Now, you've upset me. And-now-you're-going-to-pay-for-it."

The force that slammed her against the wall with such force that she dropped her gun and forgot to breathe. One second of sheer peace, blue eyes fixed on her. Then, one flash of that smile and suddenly, conscious thought was beyond her.

His lips, soft and sweet, yet kissing so harshly, desperately. Hot and wet. Hands, everywhere, pulling her hair, grabbing, were scratching, marking. It hurt and was rougher than she could have ever imagined she'd ever want. Now, she knew she'd never want anything else.

She bit down on his bottom lip, hard. The sound it drew from his was downright filthy and made her head reel.

His neck made its way down her throat, biting and sucking dark bruises. She could only throw her head against the wall and moan.

-rip-

She gasped as her flimsy shirt came apart at the buttons. He tore it from her and a second later her bra went the same way. She should care, that was her favourite. But then he bit down, hard. And she didn't care whatever he did.

She got with the programme eventually, tearing off the suit jacket and tight fitting grey v-neck he wore with all the confidence of a rock star. Yards of tanned, lean muscle.

And tattoos.

They scattered his skin, the bottom of his neck to his chest. She wanted to lick it all over, see if the inked skin tasted different.

And hipbones.

They were the sexist thing she ever saw. She dropped to her knees and bit down, hard as she could. The skin reddened and above her made that sound again.

"oh god yes, darling…. Carry on"

Biting and sucking her way across, down the prominent bones, his sounds and filthy encouragement urging her on. She wanted to leave marks, so the next person he chose would see and wonder.

"hello ba-"

The rest of the sentence was drowned out in a throaty moan. She looked up to see a beautiful man in a suit and a trenchcoat.

"ah, cassy ! I was expecting you! Care for a Ménage à trois with-erm, darling, I don't believe I told you to stop-"

Her response was to take him into her mouth. He groaned, and wrapped his hands in her hair.

She looked up, the dark haired man was grinning, dark and not a little bit frightening. He started to shrug off his coat.