r i t u a l . s a c r i f i c e , w i t h . p i e

Ritual Sacrifice, with Pie
[by victoria p.]

Rating: adult

Summary: "You have to have sex with me." "I'm sorry. I don't think I heard that right."

Spoilers: None

Notes: Written for Amberlynne on the occasion of her birthday. Thanks to Mousapelli for the help and luzdeestrellas for the beta.

Word count: 4,320 words

Date: September 19, 2007

Emily is used to everyone thinking she's a freak. Her roommates can think she's crazy for lining the threshold and the windowsills with salt; they can think she's a Wicca wannabe or a Satanist or some weird combination of the two for wearing a pentacle and carving protective sigils on the lintel of her bedroom door--she doesn't care, because it makes her feel safe.

It's hard to feel safe after your sole surviving family members try to sacrifice you to a pagan god, but Emily's working on it. Her room may be kind of spartan--she's living on a work-study grant and a part-time job at Starbucks, and she didn't bring anything with her but clothes and a few books when she left Burkitsville--but she's trying hard to make it a home. It's easier now that she lives off-campus, doesn't have to move so often. The roommates move around her in waves, and she doesn't really get close to any of them; it keeps them from asking questions about the salt and the symbols, and it keeps her from getting too attached, only to be disappointed when they betray her.

She'd done her research after she'd arrived in Boston, and knows just enough about protecting herself to keep from freaking out all the time. Sam had given her the names of some books and some websites to start with, and his email address, if she had any questions; Dean had given her his cell phone number, but she'd never had the nerve, or a reason, to call.

Until now.

She looks at the newspaper again, the headline screaming about the third student in as many weeks found dead in a pool of her own blood, throat slit from ear to ear and strange symbols carved into her waxy skin. Emily lets her thumb slide over the keypad of her phone, rubbing the middle row like it's Aladdin's lamp and will give her the answers she's seeking.

She'd known Alicia, the last girl who was killed, had sat next to her in Language and Society last semester and borrowed her notes a few times. They'd had friends--well, acquaintances, since Emily didn't really have friends here--in common, until Alicia had begun hanging around with the Daughters of Astarte. Emily had thought they were just another group of patchouli-soaked hippies born thirty years too late, until she'd seen the symbols in the picture. They're blurry, pixilated in the black and white newspaper photograph, but under the magnifying glass, she's pretty sure they're Sumerian, an invocation to the goddess. She feels sick even thinking about it, though she knows there are people willing to kill for gods the rest of the world has thought were dead for millennia.

She'd tried to convince herself that it was only her own experience--what her last roommate had called her paranoia--making her see connections that weren't there. For the past two weeks, she'd ignored the news, refused to look at the flyers advertising self-defense classes, and a big Take Back the Night rally on campus, but now she can't pretend it's not real, can't unknow what she learned in that orchard eighteen months ago, no matter how much she wishes she could.

She puts the phone back in her pocket. She's not going to call until she knows for sure it's not just a psycho but human serial killer. Instead, she finds a copy of the article online, and emails it to Sam with her phone number and a brief note, asking if this is their kind of thing. Then she copies the symbols down into her Intro to Calc notebook and heads for the library, alert as always to her surroundings, and any potential threats that might be hiding in the long shadows of the late afternoon.

***

The girl at the reference desk is efficient and helpful, and soon Emily is sitting at a carrel in the back of the reading room, books on Sumerian and Akkadian religion spread around her, as well as monographs on cuneiform and photocopies of articles on goddess cults of the Mediterranean. She's also got print-outs of all the articles about the murders.

The only things the girls have in common are that they're all girls, and all freshmen. Leslie Bowles, the first victim, was an econ major from Connecticut, where she'd attended a fancy prep school and captained the debate team; Lisa Kim, the second victim, was from New York City, had won a full scholarship and was majoring in literature; and Alicia Frey had been born and raised in Boston--she was a religion major. She'd originally wanted to be a nun, had said she still might go back to the convent after she'd gotten her degree, and now she's dead. Emily thinks it's the worst kind of cheap irony that she was murdered in a ritual to appease a long-forgotten (except, apparently not) goddess.

After an hour and a half, her head is swimming, but she's pretty sure she's not wrong. She pulls out her phone, but can't get service. When she passes the reference desk on her way outside, the girl says, "Did you find everything you needed?"

"Yeah, thanks," Emily answers. "I just need to check my voicemail."

She's surprised by the darkness when she steps outside; she always forgets how quickly night falls this time of year. She shivers, pulling her cardigan tight--she can feel the threat of oncoming winter in the early November breeze and wishes she'd worn jeans instead of a skirt when the wind whips around her legs--and checks her messages.

"Emily, this is Dean Winchester." She can hear the rumble of an engine beneath his voice, remembers his sleek black muscle car with appreciation. "This is totally our kind of thing. We're already on our way, should be there soon. Get someplace safe and stay there, and let us take care of it."

The library is safe enough, she figures, heading back inside. She smiles at the girl at the reference desk, who says, "Miss an important call?"

"Some friends of mine from out of town are visiting," Emily answers after a brief pause. "They wanted to let me know they'd be arriving soon."

She settles back down at the desk and loses herself in an article on syncretism and the conflation of Astarte with the Egyptian war goddess Anat.

She's taken a few pages of notes and her hand is starting to cramp when the reference desk girl appears at her side. "Hey."

Emily yawns and stretches, covering her mouth with one ink-stained hand. "Excuse me," she says, embarrassed.

"I brought you some tea."

Emily smiles at her, a little surprised at the personal attention. She doesn't think she's been flirty, but she's always been bad at judging. Probably one reason she hasn't had a boyfriend since tenth grade. Well, that, and Burkitsville hadn't exactly had much in the way of nightlife. She doesn't really want a girlfriend now, but she takes the cup of tea, closes her eyes, and breathes in the scent of cinnamon. "That smells awesome. Thank you so much." Maybe having friends, or at least friendly acquaintances, wouldn't be so bad after all. Right now, nobody would miss her if she disappeared the way those other girls had; her roommates would only notice when she failed to cough up her share of the rent.

The girl's sleeve rides up, and underneath the silver bangles on her wrist, Emily can see a black tattoo curling around the narrow bones. The girl pulls the sleeve down before Emily can figure out what the tattoo says.

"You're welcome. You just looked like you were working really hard."

"Yeah, um," Emily glances at the stuff she's got spread out on the desk, knowing how weird it must look. "Comparative Religions paper due next week. Just trying to get on top of it."

"Good luck." There's something sharp and knowing in the girl's smile, and Emily wonders if she's missing something, or if she's just that bad a liar.

"Thanks," she says again, wrapping her hands around the hot paper cup and reveling in its warmth against her aching fingers.

She sips the tea slowly--it's actually kind of bitter, doesn't taste nearly as good as it smells, and she totally would have added a couple sugars, but she can't complain, since it was free.

She yawns and stretches some more; the words on the page are starting to swim. She's been in the library a couple of hours now; maybe it's time to head home. After a little nap, she thinks; just gonna sleep for five minutes. She yawns again, and puts her head down on the desk. As she's falling asleep, she realizes why the girl's tattoo looked so familiar.

***

When Emily opens her eyes, there's a slight change in the quality of darkness, but mostly, she still just sees darkness. She's tied to a wooden post, and there's another body pressed up behind her. She can feel fingers against her ass, and she squeaks in surprise.

"Emily?" Male voice, low and hoarse. Familiar.

"Dean?"

He huffs a laugh. "We've got to stop meeting like this."

She wants to cry. "Dude. This isn't funny. You're supposed to be rescuing me."

"You're supposed to be someplace safe, so you don't need rescuing."

"I didn't know the library was a hotbed of Astarte-worshipping crazy people." She feels his fingers against her wrists this time, pulling at the ropes. "The girl brought me tea. I thought she was being nice. I didn't know it was drugged." She frowns and bites her lip in thought. "How'd they get you?"

"I was doing recon, and they tranqed me." He sounds annoyed, and she can't blame him.

"Oh."

"Yeah." He yanks hard on the rope and it digs into her skin. She sucks in a breath, the urge to cry even stronger now, but she refuses to give into it, or let him know that he's hurting her. She knows he doesn't mean to. "Sorry." He brushes the back of her hand in apology. "Sam'll rescue us, though. He should be here soon." He's still working as he speaks, and the combination is comforting. He spends a couple more minutes tugging and loosening, and she's free.

"You need help?" she asks.

"Yeah, if you could."

She reaches out into the darkness until she feels his fingers, slides her hands up his wrists and undoes the knots as quickly as she can, her own hands cold and tingling with pins and needles. And then he's free, as well.

"Lucky for us, they tie crappy knots." He pulls out a flashlight, one of those pen-sized ones she keeps meaning to get for her keychain, and shines it along the walls--they're in a small, windowless room with a locked door that has no knob on the inside. The wooden post they were tied to is in the middle, rising almost to ceiling height, and there are symbols carved all over it. It seems pretty phallic for a goddess cult, and all the stuff she'd read earlier about the rituals clicks into place. He turns his attention back to her, shining the light so she can see, but never directly into her eyes. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she says, letting him chafe the feeling back into her hands. "Except--" He raises an eyebrow, and she blurts, "You have to have sex with me."

He stares at her for a long moment, then, "I'm sorry. I don't think I heard that right."

"You have to have sex with me." Her voice cracks and she can feel her face burning; hopefully, he'll think it's just the glow of his flashlight.

"Okay, normally, I'd get right on that," his grin looks a little strained around the edges and his voice is tight, "but being knocked out and tied up isn't exactly my idea of sexy fun time, despite what you may have heard."

"No, you don't understand." She rubs her hand along the carvings on the post, tracing out symbols. "These murders, the rituals--"

"They're tied to the lunar cycle, yeah. We got that. New moon tonight, so they'll be sacrificing--" He stops, and she doesn't need to see his face to know the penny's dropped. "You're a virgin?" She can't decide if his disbelief is flattering or insulting.

"Boys are stupid," she says, remembering the boys who'd either ignored her completely or paid her such close attention that she'd felt like a fly under a microscope. She hasn't met many guys since she's been in Boston; she hasn't made the effort. "And they wear too much cologne."

"Well, I can see why," he mutters. She smacks his arm. "Hey," he says, "I'm not into that, so if that's what you're looking for--"

"Dean." She's still blushing furiously, is sure her face is bright enough to light the room even without his flashlight, but his laugh is free and real, and it makes her feel better.

"Why don't we see if we can get out of here before we do anything drastic?" He rears back and kicks at the door. It doesn't even rattle. "Crap." Emily folds her arms across her chest and waits while he tries a couple more times. "I don't think it's working."

"Gee, I wonder why you'd think that."

"Everybody's a critic." He turns and grins at her, though, and she blushes again. She'd forgotten how good-looking he is.

"Yeah, well, since your brilliant escape plan didn't work, I think we ought to consider my suggestion."

"Your suggestion?" he asks, as if he has absolutely no idea what she's talking about.

She might hate him just a little bit for making her say it again. "That we should have sex."

"Oh, that. Look, Emily--"

"I mean, obviously, we're not getting out of here until someone opens that door, so I think the gentlemanly thing to do would be to, you know." She licks suddenly dry lips. "Have sex with me."

This time his laugh is more an annoyed bark. "Gentlemanly. I think the gentlemanly thing would be not to take advantage of you."

"You're not. I'm asking you."

"Because you think you're gonna die."

It's her turn to huff in exasperation. "So you don't think I'd want to have sex with you under more normal circumstances?"

"You totally would," he answers immediately, and she has to laugh, because they both know it's true, even if she never in a million years would have admitted it if they weren't about to be sacrificed again. God, her life is so weird. She's not even going to tell him that she fantasizes about him sometimes when she masturbates, and that she'd never in a million years expected to be in a position to actually have sex with him.

"Well, then?"

He steps towards her and she steps back, and they repeat the process until he's got her backed against the wall, his hands on either side of her head, and now her pulse is racing and her breathing is ragged for reasons that have nothing to do with fear of death. "Are you sure you wanna do this?"

"I--" She swallows hard, fear of dying like those other girls way stronger than any worries she's ever had about sex, and right now, sex is looking like a really fantastic possibility. "Yeah. I mean, maybe if we tell them they've got it wrong, they'll let us go." He laughs again, and it makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. She is totally on board with this plan now.

"You think so?"

"It could happen," she insists.

"Uh huh."

"And I don't want to die a virgin, okay?"

He looks at her for a long moment, then nods. "I can respect that." He tucks the flashlight away, and the room falls dark. She's surprised when he puts a hand on her face, callused skin of his fingers rough against her cheek, though the touch itself is gentler than she'd expected. "You're sure?"

"I really, really am."

"Okay, then."

He kisses her, all thick tongue and roaming hands, and she opens up and arches into it, determined to make the most of the experience. He doesn't waste a lot of time--they don't really have a lot of time to waste. She doesn't know exactly when moonrise is, but if she had to guess, she'd say it's been a few hours since she fell asleep in the library. She gasps when he touches her between her legs, fingers rubbing against the damp heat of her panties through her tights, and she can feel him smile against her mouth. He rolls the tights down so he can slip his hand inside the elastic of her underwear, and when he finds her clit and thumbs it roughly, her knees go weak.

"Okay?" he asks again.

She wraps her arms around his neck, grinds down shamelessly against his hand, wanting more. "Yeah."

"Okay." A couple more minutes of his fingers, and she can't talk, can only focus on the wet heat between her legs. When he moves away, she whimpers at the loss of his touch. He grins, teeth white in the darkness. She hears him unzip his jeans, and then the crinkle of a foil packet being opened. She blushes again. God, she hadn't even thought about a condom. So much for all those years of safe sex lectures. "This is probably gonna hurt," he says.

"Maybe, but I bet it hurts a lot less than what they're gonna do to me." Another flash of teeth before he kisses her, laughing. She lifts her skirt and shoves her tights down, muttering a curse when they get tangled around her ankles before she can step out of her shoe. He pushes her underwear down (she's glad he can't see the ridiculous yellow daisies printed on them), the skim of his fingers over her legs making her shiver. She wishes she'd shaved, but it's November, and she only does it twice a week in the winter, and hasn't really had reason to do it more often.

He hefts her up against the wall, his hands tight on her ass, and she clings to his shoulders while he pushes into her. It's weird and it hurts and she misses the liquid heat brought on by the touch of his fingers, but she doesn't complain. She bites her lip and wraps her legs around him, suspended between his body and the wall, tights and panties dangling drunkenly off her ankle.

"Emily?"

"S'okay," she says, burying her face in the crook of his neck. It's really stupid to be embarrassed at this point, but she can't help it, has to bite her lip to keep from giggling hysterically.

He speeds up then, sliding in and out of her, and she's starting to enjoy it, starting to feel that slow thick heat rolling through her blood again, need rising to steal her breath. She thrusts back against him, straining for the satisfaction she knows is just out of reach, desperate for it. She really hopes their captors don't show up any time soon, because she could do this for a while. She's about to reach down in between them to touch herself when he comes with a grunt, pushing hard and deep inside her, his breath hot and moist against her neck, his body shaking in her arms.

When he pulls out, she's still breathless and unsatisfied, empty and aching with want.

"Okay?" he asks, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear like some Hallmark TV version of a good boyfriend.

It's not fucking okay, because it's over and she's not done yet, but before she has a chance to say that, the locks on the door click and clank, and they both rush to cover themselves before the door opens. She just kicks her tights off completely; it's a shame, because they're one of her few decent pairs, but the last thing she wants to be doing when they come to kill her is shimmying into her tights in the dark. She yanks up her underwear and smoothes down her skirt as the door swings open.

There are three women in the doorway, backlit by the light in the corridor beyond--the girl from the library, a girl Emily knows from Language and Society (which is probably how they found Alicia), and a third, unfamiliar girl with wavy red hair and a really long knife clutched in her right hand.

"Ladies," Dean says, squinting against the light. "I'm sure there's been some kind of misunderstanding." He looks relaxed but wary, and she has a feeling that if she weren't there, he'd probably have already escaped.

"You were poking around where you don't belong," Library Girl says. "Do you know how much work it's going to take to purify the obelisk now that you've touched it?"

"We'll use his blood to wash it clean," Knife Girl says. Emily doesn't like her at all. "Take them to the altar." The two girls flanking her move forward.

"Wait," Emily says. "You can't sacrifice me. I'm not a virgin."

The two girls stop, confused, and Dean says, "Don't look at me, man. You're twelve years too late for that train."

"But she--We were sure she was," Language and Society Girl says, and Emily wants to hit her, curls her hands into fists to stop herself.

There's a loud crash from somewhere beyond the door, and Dean raises his voice to cover it. "Yeah, I took care of that, too," he says proudly, like he didn't leave her in the lurch. "If you'd shown up a few minutes earlier..." He winks and grins like it's no big deal, and that makes Emily blush again.

Maybe she's never going to stop blushing, because she can't believe the words are coming out of her mouth when she says, "Though honestly, does it count if you don't have an orgasm? Because we might need to give it another shot."

"Hey--" Dean interrupts, indignant, but he's cut off by the appearance of his brother, who is looming in the doorway. With the light behind him, he looks twice the height of the three girls holding them, and he easily disarms Knife Girl.

His expression is a mix of incredulous and annoyed, and his gaze goes right to his brother. "Dean, you all right?"

Dean grins. "Yeah, Sammy, I'm fine."

"Emily?"

She smiles and waves, feeling like a dork. "Hi, Sam." He waves back, giving her a small smile.

The brothers move like an efficient machine, and they've got the girls tied up before they even know what's happening.

"I've already called 911," Sam says, "so the cops should be here soon."

Dean nods, gesturing for Emily to precede him out the door. She grabs her balled up tights and walks out, already feeling soreness between her legs.

"So, I think you owe me more sex," she says when they're outside and the cold night air feels good against her overheated skin, and the darkness hides her blush. "Or maybe I should say better sex. More satisfying sex."

"Hey, I was working with a deadline. In unfavorable conditions. They shot me full of some kind of tranquilizer. I wasn't at my best." Sam starts laughing, and Dean continues, "Look, it saved your life, right?"

She stops and looks up at him like he's crazy, though she knows she's the one who talked him into it with that argument in the first place. There's something ridiculously enjoyable about teasing him. "How do you figure that?"

"We kept them talking until Sam showed up."

"Dean, you could have taken all three of those girls out with one arm tied behind your back." Sam's snort is more eloquent than words, and Emily, high on the adrenaline rush of having sex for the first time and escaping ritual sacrifice for the second, keeps talking. "Maybe I should have waited, asked Sam to do the honors instead."

Sam chokes, and Dean says, "Don't say a word."

"I--"

"I mean it, Sam." Dean does his best to sound threatening, but Emily and Sam are laughing too hard to take him seriously, and after a couple of seconds, Dean starts laughing with them.

***

They stop off at the library so she can get her stuff (thankfully, still in the carrel where she'd left it, cup of spiked tea still sitting there amid her untouched notes), and then drive her home. Before she gets out of the car, she presses a chaste kiss to Sam's cheek.

"Thanks," she says.

"Any time. You have my email address."

"I do." She smiles. "Take care, Sam."

"You, too."

Dean gets out of the car with her, walks her to the door, like they're coming home from a date instead of a kidnapping.

"So," she says, smiling up at him. "I think you owe me some orgasms."

"Emily--"

Before he can give her some stupid speech letting her down gently, she says, "Give me a call next time you're in Boston so you can start paying that off." She stands up on her tiptoes, presses a soft kiss to his mouth. "There's nobody I'd rather be ritually sacrificed with."

He laughs, does the hair-tucking thing again, and kisses her forehead gently, his hand cupping her cheek. "But try to avoid it in the future, okay?"

"Believe me, I will."

From her window, she watches them drive away, big black car disappearing like a sleek shadow in the night.

Her roommates are all home, gathered around the television, watching the story break on the news. She's tempted to lock herself in her bedroom, safe behind the salt lines and the symbols, but she doesn't. Instead, she sits on the floor in front of the couch, smiles up at them, and asks, "So what's going on?"

end

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