Demon!Dean x Reader319Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1WpQWAJ2co
Warnings: None really!
319Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5jGqJg0FPW
Some years ago
“Fuck!” you slammed a hand against the steel door, but it was useless. You had heard the heavy bolt click into place clearly and with a resonate echo heavy with foreboding. You were trapped. “Goddammit!” You suppressed the urge to kick the door, knowing that at best you’d end up with a broken toe and no closer to freedom. “Now what? We honestly should have expected something like this from Bobby…”
Dean was moving around behind you, searching every square inch of the room for some hint of how to deactivate whatever panic button you and he had unknowingly switched on. “Yeaaaah. Should have predicted that we wouldn’t be able to swing by and have a quick, flawless search.”
You leaned your back against the door and rested your head against it. “I figured it wouldn’t be flawless considering the sheer amount of papers and books in the house—it’s like searching for a needle in a haystack—but I did not expect to be locked in a windowless panic room.” You shut your eyes. “Fuck.”
Dean straightened up, disheartened. He scratched the back of his head and peered down at the panel he had just discovered. “Well… here’s something…” he said, but you noted that he didn’t sound particularly hopeful.
You jumped up and came over to see what he had found. Your hand came to rest on Dean’s shoulder as you leaned over to see what he was looking at and he almost flinched at the surprising contact. It was a complicated electrical panel with various buttons, a keypad, and chaos of wires and lights. “We are fucked,” you reiterated.
Dean blew out a long exhale and straightened up. Your hand dropped from his shoulder. “Yep. We are pretty fucked,” he agreed.
You stared up at the ceiling. “This has got to be solid iron. An underground panic room—no cell service. Complicated electrical panel. Probably requires a numeric password or something, which was known by one person who is now deceased. Guessing he probably also programmed it so we only are allowed a limited amount of wrong guesses before something horrible happens to us in here. Locked in,” you summarized, finally catching Dean’s eyes. “Great.”
Dean sighed again, at a loss for what to do next. “The downside is that this place was set up by Bobby. But… on the other hand, the upside is that this place was set up by Bobby,” Dean said, gesturing to the shelves stacked to the ceiling with supplies—jugs of drinking water, MREs, emergency blankets, flashlights and headlamps, sleeping pads, medical supplies, everything one could want while trying to surf out a zombie invasion or the apocalypse. There was even an actual bathroom, which you had both first mistook for being a closet.
“Wait—wait! What is that? What IS that?!” You said, pointing vehemently at a shape behind Dean so shrouded in dust it was almost camouflaged into the wall. “Is that a fucking landline?”
Dean followed your gaze. “It looks like it,” he said guardedly.
Then reality crashed down on you. The likelihood that that old line was still functional was probably in the 0.000 – 0.001% range. “Please tell me there is a dial tone,” you said, looking desperately at Dean.
He laughed gruffly. “I will bet you $500 that there isn’t.”
“Do you even have $500?” you countered.
“Thanks to Mr. Chip Killway and his checking account I have more than that,” he said with a smirk.
You laughed. “Chip Killway? What the hell kind of name is that?”
“I know, right?” Dean said. “I thought he sounded douchey. Makes me feel less guilty about stealing his money.” Dean stepped around some boxes and hovered a hand over the phone. “So, are you in? $500?” he joked.
“It’s somehow less enticing now that I know it isn’t your money,” you replied with a smirk.
“Alright—fine. If there IS a dial tone when I pick up this phone, I will take off all my clothes. If there isn’t, you take off all YOUR clothes.” He finished with a boyish smirk and wiggled his eyebrows at you. You crossed your arms and gave him an appraising look, trying to ignore the rush of heat you felt in your cheeks.
“How is that fair? I lose either way.”
“Oh! Ow! Ouch!” Dean dramatically clutched a hand to his chest, eliciting a light laugh from you.
“Would you just pick up the phone, you idiot?”
Dean lifted the mustard-colored, plastic receiver and held it up to his ear. “Nothing,” he said. “Sorry, Y/N. Time to get naked.”
“Dean!”
“I don’t make the rules—”
“You literally made up those rules—”
“Don’t hate the player—hate the game,” he said.
You rolled your eyes at him and sat down on a nearby crate. “Okay, Casanova. In all seriousness, what are we going to do here?”
“I think we only have one option.”
“Dean, if you say ‘get naked’ one more time I will shoot you with this flare gun—”
“God, get your mind out of the gutter, you perv. Jesus…” You chucked a package of dehydrated food at him and he laughed. “I was going to say ‘wait.’”
You groaned. “I was afraid you were going to say that. Sam won’t be here for another day or two and then who knows how long it’s going to take him to figure out a way to get us out of here.”
“Well… if he tries to call us and gets no answer he will probably get worried, and he’ll probably hurry…” Dean ran a hand through his hair and set aside his jesting at the worried expression on your face, your characteristic knit brow, with the little worry line appearing by your left eyebrow. “Hey. We’re fine. We’ve got everything we need in here—it’ll be okay.”
You chewed your bottom lip. That wasn’t exactly what had you so agitated. “I know. I know. We’re—we’ll be fine…”
Suddenly, the air was as thick as molasses as Dean and you both realized that you were trapped together in a confined space. Alone. Unlikely to be interrupted. For an extended period of time. The hair on the back of your neck stood up like a chill breeze had just rushed over your skin.
You’d spent time alone together before. Of course, you had… but there was always some life or death crisis to draw your attention or the chance that Cas or Sam would walk in at any moment. Or as soon as you started to feel—something—one or the other made some excuse to leave or break the tension or back away from it…
Even now just at the thought of it, your heart was racing and you suddenly couldn’t think of a damn thing to talk about—to say to him.
You watched him looking over the contents of the shelves, the muscles in his back easily visible through his thin t-shirt as he moved boxes and bins around. You felt your cheeks grow warm. “Guess we have some time to kill,” he said, grabbing something from the top shelf and turning around, immediately catching your gaze. You both looked at each other for a moment and then down at the sleeping pad in his hands and back up at each other. You felt yourself blushing more fervently and quickly averted your eyes while Dean laughed nervously.
“Heh—for—for the floor. For sitting on! Um,” he scruffed a hand through his hair awkwardly, feeling the heat rising in his chest. Smooth, Dean. Smooth. God, what was wrong with him? Suddenly he felt like a giddy school-boy. Why did that always happen around you? He’d be fine one minute and then the next—BAM! His heart would start racing and he would suddenly be very aware of the color of your eyes and the sparks of light they threw and the shade of pink of your lips and their perfect Cupid’s bow and the way you would chew on the bottom one when you were thinking and— “Do you want one? To sit on?” he offered. You waved him off.
“Maybe later,” you said. There was a long silence and the air was still heavy as you avoided each other’s eyes, trying to think of something to say. You swallowed at the lump in your throat, willing it to disappear to no avail. What the fuck?! This was Dean! You’d lived in the bunker together for years! You’d seen each other on your worst and best days. You’d tolerated early morning and late-night bad moods. You’d patched each other up after hunts—though you admitted that the intimacy of that sometimes got to you. Christ, why did this always happen?? What was wrong with you?!
“Hey,” Dean said suddenly.
“Yeah?” You seized on it, hoping he had some topic of conversation in mind which would distract you from how goddamn green his eyes were.
“Wanna play a game?”
“…like?”
Dean shrugged. “I don’t know.” He thought for a moment. “20 questions?”
You laughed. “What, are we eight?”
Dean laughed gruffly. “Alright. Fair… Umm… Never Have I Ever?”
“Isn’t that supposed to be a drinking game?”
He gave you a knowing smirk and pulled a bottle of whiskey off a nearby shelf. “You’re goddamn right it is.”
You looked at him hesitantly, one eyebrow raised, studying him. “I don’t know…”
The green in Dean’s eyes seemed to spark. “Come on! It’ll be fun! I promise I will keep my hands to myself when you are inevitably way more intoxicated than me,” he grinned.
You raised an eyebrow and looked at him for a long moment. “Well… there’s nothing else to do. I guess this could be interesting,” you said.
Dean settled more comfortably on the sleeping pad he was sitting on. “Oh, yeah. I plan on finding out all kinds of new things about you,” he joked.
You laughed, but you did suddenly feel a little warm and you were quite sure your face was tinged pink. “Be careful. You might.” You wondered just what you were getting yourself into.
Dean gave you an unsure look but smiled. “Okay. I’ll go first.” He thought for a moment and then cleared his throat. A wide smile grew on his face. “Never have I ever crashed my car into a fire hydrant.”
Your mouth dropped open. His expression was smug. “Hey, that was—I had a head injury!”
“So? You still did it. Drink!”
You bit your bottom lip and looked at him with a tight smile. “So, that is how you’re gonna play it, hmm?”
Dean laughed. The gruffness of his laugh with the way his eyes crinkled at the corners killed you every time. “That’s how I’m gonna play it.” He shrugged.
“Fine. Give me that,” you said, snatching the whiskey bottle from him with a sassy look and taking a sip. “My turn.” You seized him up with your eyes.
“Never have I ever… had a one-night stand.” You punctuated the end of the sentence by shoving the whiskey bottle back at Dean and giving him a satisfied smile.
He took it begrudgingly but there was a curious expression on his face. “Wait… seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously,” you said. You felt your cheeks growing a little pink again. “What?”
Dean shrugged and took a swig from the bottle. “I don’t know. I’m just surprised I guess. I mean, you’re—” he cut himself off, and suddenly looked down at his feet. “Uhh…”
“I’m what?” you pressed him.
He shrugged. “I guess it’s just not your style,” he said. It wasn’t really a question. “Can’t imagine you never had the opportunity,” he said a little sheepishly, avoiding your eyes. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck nervously.
You nodded, catching his eyes again. The warmth in your face was growing and you were quite positive it was bright red. You fiddled with the hem of your shirt. “Yeah… Not my style. I’ve never been good at—at just sex.”
“You’re not good at sex?” he joked. “Damn, what a disappointment. Well, I could give you some pointers… Maybe help you practice—”
“Dean! You know what I said!” Dean laughed heartily and caught your eyes again. “Your turn, Winchester. What have you got?”
Dean decided to go a little more serious after that last one. “Right. Umm… Never have I ever—been to Prom?” He looked at you questioningly for a few seconds but you showed no sign of reaching for the bottle to take a drink.
You only gave him a small smile.
“Wow, I thought for sure I would get you on that one. You didn’t go to Prom?”
You shook your head. “Nope. No Prom.”
“Why not?” Dean asked, studying your expression.
Your eyes turned downward and for a moment Dean thought you were blinking back some emotion. In another second, you were back to your old self, giving him a sarcastic smile. “It’s called ‘Never Have I Ever,’ not ‘20 Questions’.”
Dean let you get away with the deflection, but he could sense that there was something there you were holding back… “Alright, alright. Um. Never Have I ever…” Dean snapped his fingers and pointed at you, “flirted with a bald valet for information!”
“What?! That is WAY too specific!”
“Hey, we didn’t lay out any ground rules! That is totally valid!” he argued back.
“That was for a case! You’re such an ass!” You grabbed another dried food packet and whipped it at him, catching him in the chest. Dean tossed his head back and laughed before shoving the whiskey bottle at you.
You snatched it and took a sip. “Oof,” you said, swallowing the burn in your throat. “Should have known Bobby would have booze in his end-of-days bunker.” You were definitely starting to feel that familiar giddiness, a warm buzz from the liquor.
“The man kept a well-stocked pantry, that’s for damn sure,” Dean said, admiration clear on his face.
“Never have I ever been arrested,” you said with a wide, satisfied smile. “I feel like you should drink like ten times for this one,” you said, handing the bottle back to Dean. His fingers brushed yours as he took it, rolling his eyes at you, and you startled a little at the contact. It was like a hot spark had jumped up your arm.
“In our line of work, if you haven’t been arrested, you’re doing something wrong,” he argued, pointing vehemently in your direction. He took a big swig and smacked his lips afterward.
“Nah, I’m just a way smoother talker than you. I should have been arrested,” you counted on your fingers, “six times.”
“Six?”
“Six. Also, it helps that I’m much, much cuter than you,” you said, wrinkling your nose at him.
A small smile accompanied by a peculiar expression came over Dean’s face. “I can’t argue with that…” he said.
You felt yourself blush and stood up. “Umm, bathroom break,” you said. Ugh. Chicken! you mentally scolded yourself. There you went again… as soon as you started to feel something you tucked your tail and ran the other way. What were you so afraid of?
“I’ll be here,” Dean replied, leaning back so he was lying flat on his back on the sleeping pad he had spread out.
_ _ _ _ _ _
“You’re drunk,” Dean accused you, laughing at how you had just slurred your words.
“You’re drunk!” you argued back, indignant.
“Not as drunk as you,” Dean said, shaking his head, a wide smile still on his lips. “Here. C’mere. Give me that,” he said, taking the whiskey bottle from you. Dean stood up and capped it, replacing it on a nearby shelf. “We need to get some food and some water in you,” he said. “Or you’re gonna have a wicked hangover tomorrow and I don’t want to be trapped in here with you in that state.”
“Whatever. I’m a delight,” you said.
Dean was digging through some of the dehydrated food packs on the shelves. “Do you want beef stew or… hmm–beef stew?”
“I guess I’ll take beef stew.”
“Beef stew it is!”
You crossed the room to another set of shelves and stood on your tiptoes, trying to reach the sleeping pads and the sleeping bags, tired of sitting on a crate. Your balance, however, was somewhat compromised due to the imbibed whiskey and you knocked a plastic water jug off a high shelf when you misstepped while reaching for what you wanted. “Shit!”
You ducked the water jug, but if Dean hadn’t quickly turned and steadied you, you would have been splayed out on the floor, possibly with a new bump on the back of your head. The cookware that had been in Dean’s hands was clattering and ringing on the floor harshly but the two of you were frozen. Dean’s hands were on your hips. He watched your lips part slightly and his heart was hammering in his chest. The way you were looking up at him, your eyes a little wide with surprise but fixated on his—he gulped at the sudden tightness in his throat. But he suddenly realized that the moment he should have let go of you was long past and he quickly withdrew. “You okay?” he asked.
You couldn’t get any words out as you stepped back from him and you only nodded.
He anxiously ran his fingers through his hair, still taking in your expression. “Heh—I told you you’re drunk.” He turned and grabbed a sleeping pad and sleeping bag for you from the shelf.
“Yeah. Thanks,” you said, still a little stunned. “Umm, you always did have good reflexes.” Dean clenched and unclenched his hands a couple of times, trying to shake the tingly feeling in his fingers.
He nodded. “No problem.”
Dean picked up the cookware and you set up the sleeping pad and sleeping bag on the floor, trying to get as comfortable as you could. You felt suddenly sober and you couldn’t figure out if it was almost cracking your head open or Dean’s hands on your hips that had done it… but you suspected the latter. You could still almost feel the weight of them on you and god, your heart was absolutely pounding.
A half-hour later you and Dean had both eaten and he had insisted on continuously refilling your cup with water. You did the clean-up after your camp-style dinner and when you finished you noticed Dean flopped down on his sleeping pad, paging through a book.
You sank down next to him. “What’s that?”
He flipped another page, a vague crooked smile growing on his face. “I haven’t seen this in… probably ten, maybe fifteen years,” he said. He partially closed it so you could see the cover.
“Monsters and Myths,” you read aloud.
“When Sammy and I were little, my Dad would drop us off here at Bobby’s if he had a hunt he didn’t want us anywhere near, or if there was a job in the area. I would sneak this book off the shelves and we’d stay up late looking through it, reading about all the monsters and talking about how Dad would take them down—whether he had ever fought any of them for real. It used to scare the crap out of us,” he laughed gruffly.
“It’s kind of still scary now,” you said. “Knowing a lot of these probably do actually exist.” You leaned toward him to read the entry he was on about Kludde, a Flemish beast from Belgian folklore that wandered the countryside in the form of a massive, winged, black wolf.
“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “It’s weird though. I wonder why Bobby chose this out of all his books as one to bring into the panic room,” he said.
“If I had to guess, I’d say it’s because he had memories about it just like you do. Nothing got past Bobby. I’m sure he knew you used to sneak it off the shelves.” Dean looked over at you and met your eyes. You were side by side, both laying spread out on the floor. You were close. Your faces were only a few inches apart, both propped up on your elbows. “Probably some of his fondest memories of Little Dean and Little Sammy,” you said with a small smile. “They would be good company if the world outside was burning.”
Dean felt like he melted. He loved that little smile—it filled your whole face with light and warmth. It felt like all the air in the room had stopped moving and the stillness was electric. You held his eyes as long as you dared before you shyly blinked away and looked down at your hands. But Dean was still studying your face, and he turned more toward you.
“Will you tell me?”
You gave him a questioning look.
“About Prom. Why you didn’t go.”
Your brow automatically drew down over your eyes and your lips pouted in a soft frown. You considered his question for a long moment and then spoke with some effort. “My dad was sick,” you said with a sad smile, your eyes a little misty. You shrugged. “Prom wasn’t important.”
Dean easily recognized the grief in your eyes. “I’m sorry. What was it?”
You cleared your throat to ease the tightness from emotion there. “Pancreatic cancer. He passed away the summer before my senior year in high school.”
“God, I’m sorry.” Dean watched you fighting emotion.
You nodded and forced yourself to heave in a shaky breath. “Yeah. It was hard.”
“You never said anything to me or Sammy before.”
You shrugged. “It’s still hard to talk about. And—everyone has lost someone one way or another.” Your eyes found Dean’s again and you felt a chill, or electricity run up your back.
Suddenly, Dean reached up and gently moved a stray strand of hair away from your face, his fingers gentle on your skin. His eyes seemed to be flitting between yours and your lips and you felt like there was something pulling you toward him—something magnetic, and you wanted to give into it so badly. You were teetering on the edge. You subconsciously bit your bottom lip and that’s when Dean couldn’t stand it anymore. He closed the distance between the two of you, his lips meeting yours, and you leaned into him desperately, feeling his hand gently cupping your face, his fingers trailing softly down your neck. That kiss stoked a wave of warmth in your chest and you relished his lips on yours, soft at first, but growing more pleading, more passionate, almost desperate, like a dam had broken.
But all of a sudden, Dean pulled back and his eyes were searching your face, his lips still just inches from yours. “Wait—” he said, his voice a little raspy, “—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—you’re drunk.” It took every ounce of his willpower to break contact with you.
You couldn’t have looked away from his green eyes if you had wanted to, the fire in them was all-consuming. “No,” you said vaguely, breathlessly, one corner of your mouth curving up in a smile. “I’m not anymore.”
That was all Dean needed to hear. “Oh, thank God.” He crashed into you again, even more hungrily now and you gave in, eagerly wrapping your arms around his neck, feeling his hands in your hair, and tracing your curves. Soon you were both pressed together completely, your legs tangled with his. Dean’s tongue flitted over your bottom lip. You parted yours and he kissed you more deeply, with more fire. And then he was over you and you were flat on your back. You slipped one hand barely underneath the hem of his shirt and your fingers floated over his skin, across his back, tickling at his hip, sending tingles up his spine, making him smile into the kiss. Dean slid a hand over the silky skin on your arm, pressing it up over your head, lacing his fingers with yours, kissing you more insistently, his hips pressing into you.
You slid your fingers into his hair and were lost. Both of you were lost in that kiss—it was fireworks, it was heating, it was—it was so much better than either of you could have guessed. It was effortless, kissing him. Your lips and bodies moved in sync without thought.
Finally, Dean’s kiss grew softer again and he pulled away just enough to look into your eyes. Both of you were out of breath, and smiles grew on your faces. You felt your cheeks coloring bright red, and you bit your bottom lip. Dean rested his forehead against yours and he shut his eyes, still riding the wave of that high.
“That was…” but he didn’t even have a word for it.
“Yeah,” you agreed.
“I—I better just try to be a gentleman and stop here or I will not be responsible for my actions,” he said with a gruff laugh, repositioning from where he was over you to lay down next to you again.
You were still trying to catch your breath, staring straight up at the ceiling.
Dean couldn’t take his eyes off you and he studied your profile, the gentle slope of your nose, the way your eyelashes whisked upwards away from your cheeks. “I wish I had done that a long time ago,” he said quietly.
You turned to look at him with a small, shy smile. “Me too,” you laughed, feeling a wave of heat in your chest. Dean could see you flush and he leaned in again to give you one last soft kiss—this one sweet and slow.
Neither of you wanted to say anything more. You just wanted to drink each other in. It was perfect—it was vulnerable and intimate and honest. After a little while, Dean grabbed the book again and with a tilt of his head and an outstretched arm as an invitation, you cuddled close and watched as he paged through the old volume.
Sometime later, you were both asleep–Dean’s arm under and wrapped around you and your head on his shoulder and a hand gentle on his chest.
_ _ _ _ _ _
You startled awake the next morning to a banging sound followed by a familiar voice.
“DEAN!”
It was, unmistakably, Sam.
You and Dean both sat up stock straight. “Sam?”
“DEAN! Can you hear me?!”
You looked up toward the source of the sound. “It’s coming through that vent,” you said, climbing to your feet. “SAM! WE’RE DOWN HERE!”
“Y/N? IS DEAN WITH YOU? WHAT’S GOING ON?”
“I’M HERE, SAM! WE’RE STUCK IN BOBBY’S FUCKING PANIC ROOM!”
“WHAT?”
“BOBBY’S. FUCKING. PANIC ROOM!”
This was followed by more loud banging sounds and some sort of metallic clanking and squealing.
“Can you hear me better?” Sam’s voice was clearer.
“Yes! Sam, thank God,” you yelled back. “We were worried you wouldn’t be here for another day or more!”
“I tried calling both of you like ten times with no answer! I got worried.”
“Awesome. Now, figure out how to get us out of here,” Dean chimed in.
“Uhh…How?”
“We tripped the system somehow. There’s some kind of computer panel in here. Maybe there’s another one outside or in the house somewhere. Maybe you can hack it somehow and override the lockdown?” you offered.
“Alright… I’ll see what I can do. Just sit tight.”
Dean caught your eyes and laughed wryly. “Not like we have any other choice, right?” he said. That was the first time since you had woken up to the chaos from Sam that the two of you had really looked at each other. You immediately felt your cheeks flush. Dean’s lips curved in a gentle smile as he took in your bashfulness. “How’s your head?”
You nodded. “Fine. How’s yours?”
“Just fine,” he said, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. He nervously rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “So… that really happened, right?”
“What?”
He cleared his throat at averted his eyes back up toward the vent Sam had been talking to you through. “I mean—last night—we totally made out. I didn’t… dream that?”
You bit your bottom lip and smiled nervously. “We… definitely made out…”
Dean gave you one of his classic boyish grins. “Awesome.”
Sam was surprisingly fast at cracking the system, with a little help from Charlie over the phone. He had you and Dean out within an hour. You grinned at him as he finally pulled the door open from the outside.
“Hey,” he said. “You two interested in rejoining the world?”
You laughed and gave him a quick hug. “Our hero,” you said.
Dean patted Sam’s shoulder as he stepped past him. “Way to go, Sammy.”
Sam stepped forward to peer inside the panic room. “Geez. Well, it looks like you had everything you needed. Bobby was always prepared for anything. How long were you stuck in there?”
You checked the time on your phone. “About 18 hours.”
Sam laughed. “Yikes. What the hell did you do to pass the time?” He turned toward you and Dean again, shutting the door behind him. You were willing your cheeks not to turn red. Based on Sam’s curious expression and Dean’s unwillingness to meet his eyes, you were pretty sure Sam knew something was up. He raised his eyebrows. “What’s with you two?”
“What? Nothing,” Dean said. “Let’s get out of here.”
Dean turned away to head back up the root cellar stairs into the streaming sunlight and Sam gave you an inquisitive look. You awkwardly cleared your throat and avoided his questioning eyes. “Ready?”
“…Sure,” he agreed. He followed behind you, but he could sense that something had changed between you and Dean.
_ _ _ _ _ _
Current day
You sat sideways in what once was Crowley’s throne, legs draped over one arm of the seat. The heavy door to the room was shut to drown out the sounds of Hell. There was a laptop in your lap and you opened a web browser. “Huh. Hell has surprisingly good Wifi,” you wondered aloud to yourself. “Now, to find who is next… You searched through recent court case acquittals until the squeaking of metal hinges interrupted your attention. You sighed heavily but didn’t look at the demon who had just entered. “What?” Your tone was bored, cold.
“We–we think we’ve found it,” the demon stuttered out.
You sat up straight, swinging your feet to the floor. “Well?” you prodded.
“We can take you there.”
You rose from the throne completely and locked your eyes on the demon. “And he’s there?”
Something which looked an awful lot like terror was on the demon’s face, but he nodded.
”Take me there,” you demanded. “It’s time I meet Lucifer for myself.”
ns 15.158.61.39da2
