Eat your cake, too.
adult/R. Approx 8200 words. Complete.
A/N: Dean/ofc(s), Sam, John. How Dean's waitress fixation got started. Het. Pre-series. Possible schmoop.
She doesn't talk a lot and that's different, and maybe that's why he's always paying so much attention, 'cause when she does speak it's almost always something helpful, something sensible, a tip or a question that benefits the whole class, so he doesn't wanna miss it.
She's one of only two girls in D&T, that's why he isn't concerned that he always finds himself starring. Not like there's much other scenery while he's waiting for the wood glue to dry on his birdhouse.
Design and Technology-- the fancy name this school has for wood/metal-shop, although, apart from everybody trying to be a little more fancy than they really are, this school ain't so bad. They've been here for a month and a half and he hasn't gotten into a single fight so far, a world record his dad calls it. Most of the guys here seem pretty laid back.
A couple of the hockey players keep lookin' at his car funny, but 'slong as they keep their mangy paws off of her, he can deal with it.
"You done there, Deano?" This kid, Todd, is a total prick. One of those kids that gets on everybody's nerves. He's mostly harmless, just a major pain in the ass, threats of violence don't do a thing to deter him either, Dean's already tried.
"Man, you call me that again? I'm gonna kick your ass." But Dean moves away from the gluey bench top, gives Todd room, rolls his eyes and shakes his head disappointedly at the pathetic, crooked excuse for a sundial that the kid sets down.
He's wondering to himself what she's doing in here, 'cause he hasn't seen her in any of his other classes, which means she's not a total dumb-ass. This shop class is full of clowns and 'tards, the sports guys who need easy A's and the stoner's who sit in a huddle, worshipping an uncapped bottle of Tensol Cement like it's their camp-fire on a bitter cold night.
Dean's in here cause his transcripts have been 'lost', and he was pretty high on pain medication when he took the general I.Q. Exam. Besides, he likes shop and it's better this way anyway, no teachers having high expectations, or any expectations, not hassling him about college applications 'cause they're already thinking he's gonna end up at the iron mill on the edge of town like the rest of the guys who can't escape to a higher education.
"Don't even bother, she's a dyke." Dean whips his face around and Todd's grinning at him, knowing.
Yeah, he's heard some of the girls in the lunch room say that about her before, but he usually has a pretty good radar for these things and she hasn't made a blip on it.
Now, her shop class buddy, Stacy or Shelly or something with an 'S', who wears the nose ring and tartan Dr. Martins and has half her head shaved so everyone can see the swallow she's got tattooed on her scalp and looks like she could maybe kick his ass despite the fact that she's barely five feet tall? Yeah, sure, he gets the dyke vibe from her...But...
School's out, at fucking last, and Dean's thinking, while he lets himself be swept along the main hallway in a sea of rushing bodies making a break for freedom and sunlight after the last bell. It's Tuesday, and that means he hasn't got shop for three more days now, probably wont see her again until then, it also means that Sam hasn't got swim practice or anything else after school so he'll already be waiting in the car park.
He spots the car immediately like always, glinting at him like a mirror across the dessert, a peacock among sparrows he thinks to himself poetically...Wait...That's Sam standing on the hood. Standing on the hood! There'll be footprints, scuff marks from his ratty sneakers and Dean's already plotting his revenge, something involving the word 'wiener' and permanent ink and his little brother's thirteen year old loser forehead, when he sees the crowd, too.
He gets jostled from behind a few times on his way over, people rushing past wanting to see the action for themselves and he can hear the buzzing, non-specific murmuring being hummed from the gathering, in the dialect of schoolyards across the globe. Fight. Clear as a bell, can't have been going on too long, either.
"You got a death wish, goblin face?" He whacks the back of Sam's knee as soon as he gets close enough.
"Do you see this? Two girls, they're in your grade, you know'em?" Sam looks like he just got the best birthday present ever. An Encyclopedia or something. Huh, a girl-fight though? Maybe this is something worth checking out after all.
"Get'cher ass down from there before I murder you, seriously Sam." Dean tries his dad-glare. Sam snorts, but tumbles down, bony elbows rattling on the metal. Makes Dean grit his teeth and shove bodies a little too roughly out of his way so he can get front row seat. Sam follows in the space he makes.
It's Tartan Girl, and some tall brunette chick that he's seen around. They're not just scratching and hair pulling though, like he was expecting. This is obviously a fuckin' serious fight. Vicious and so violent you can almost smell the abhorrence in the air. Young and female, and even more brutal somehow because of it.
Both of their faces are already bloody, clothes stretched and ripped and the brunette's growling, flailing her arms while tartan Girl smashes a knee into her face, over and over, and shit, even this desensitized teenage and blood thirsty audience is watching in a shocked silence. Sam's not laughing anymore either when he and his brother share a quick glance.
He should probably do something before they actually do kill each other. Jesus, the brunette's upright again and she just landed a slap on Tartan Girl that's definitely gonna bruise, and now they're trying to strangle each other...And, yeah, the guys here are pretty laid back, but Christ, the girls? Remind him not to ever fuck with the chicks here.
Other people suddenly burst out of the surrounding circle, she's one of them and he sees her catch somebodies flailing knuckles to her face in the confusion and barely even pause, helping to heave Tartan Girl out of the scrum.
He hears the sirens over Tartan Girl's screaming, outraged threats--I'mma rip your fucking face off, you hear me? You fuckin' chapped cunt. I swear Lindsey, I'm gonna fuckin kill you, I swear, fucking knife you, fucker, you, I'll kill you. It crumbles out eventually and is replaced with awful, loud, heartbreaking sobs instead.
He watches snippets through the scattering students impeding his view as she bundles her struggling friend into the passenger seat of a blue Toyota, takes off her sweater and presses it under her friend's gushing red nose, crouches down so they can hug. Doesn't say a word.
Dean gives Sam little shove towards their car, last thing they need is the cops sniffing around 'cause they were witnesses to a school parking lot brawl.
"You know her?" Sam asks as soon as they pull out of the lot and are home free.
"Uh, that girl you were starring at? That punk girl's buddy? You went all glassy eyed and slack jawed, dude, I thought you were gonna start drool--Ow! Cocksucker. I was just asking, jeez...You must really like that one then--Ow, damn it Dean!"
Friggin' Sam is arguing with dad, again. It's like the kid turned thirteen and was suddenly gifted with opinions about everything too. Dean hasn't figured out how to make him not say them out loud yet. There's gotta be a mute button somewhere though, there's just gotta be...
Sammy doesn't see why he had to come along on this stake-out too, says he's cold and he can't do his homework in the dark. Dad says it wasn't safe and it was about time Sam saw what a succubus looks like without her glamour, and what's the point of a stake-out if the over-head light in the car's on and giving them away like a lighthouse beacon, huh?
Dean thinks they're both being assholes who don't know how to compromise and are probably so busy fighting with each other that they'd miss the succubus leading them to the nest anyway. Not that he'd ever say it out loud.
They're not actually gonna make a move tonight, just casing an abandoned, crumbling, weather-worn farmhouse AKA a suspected succubi nest, so he says he's going to get coffee and jogs the half a mile back down to the main road where he saw that little diner.
"Dean Winchester, from D an' T." Shit. Shit, he had no idea she worked here. He's covered in mud up to his knees and must look all kinds of a scruffy mess right now. His mind automatically starts flipping through excuses, explanations for when she asks what he's doing out here so late and in this frigid weather. Jogging? No way she'd believe that. The regular kind of hunting? Is that legal here? Is there even any wildlife to hunt around here besides frogs? Huh, she knew his name.
"Yep, that's me." He grins at her, standard procedure, pulls his gloves off and leans on the counter. Place is deserted. The TV's on but soundless, up in one corner, she and it are the only things remotely animated. She looks really cute, too. How come all waitress uniforms are pink anyway?
"What can I get'cha?" He doesn't even know what he wants. Coffee, that's what he said he was coming for, 'cause Sam insists he likes the stuff just fine, but Dean's seen the way his face contorts when he drinks it. They'd probably be cold by the time he got'em back to the car.
"Three coffee's, please...To go..." She nods, turns away from him to gather cups, and he lets his gaze skate around the sparse diner once again before he catches sight of her boobs in that uniform.
He's only ever gotten a good look at her while she's been wearing the unshapely grey coverall that everyone has to wear in class, and his eyes are just drawn by sheer seventeen year old boy magnetic forces to the triangle of skin at her collar, arrowed with white waitress lapels, top button undone.
It's like he's never seen a cleavage before, and he feels his whole mood shift along with the direction of his blood.
The cardboard cup lands on the laminated counter between them with a dull thwack and his eyes snap towards the sound and then up to her face, looking right back at him, eyebrows poised in sarcastic questioning.
He smirks before he can help it, knowing he's been caught starring. He doesn't think 'I wasn't even looking at your tits, it was that dip between your collar bones, actually' is much of an excuse so he keeps his mouth shut and lets the air between them get heavy enough to withstand a nuclear blast as they watch each other.
Her eyes flicker all over him like she's sizing him up and deliberately letting him know it. It makes him want to obediently sit dead still and be assessed, makes something rush and swirl, deep and low behind his navel, before she turns to pour out the other two cups.
They must just stare at each other for a minute when the drinks are done, the silence isn't uncomfortable and he's kinda itching to ask about that fight the other day but he doesn't even try to make small talk. He's struck dumb, by how little she speaks for a girl. Apparently she just likes to look, a lot.
He hears the interruption of Impala growling outside the same time her eyes jump over his shoulder and figures they must have given up for tonight, either that or Sam's actually gotten his way. The diner door makes a whoosh and a gust of cold slides right down the back of his coat.
"Dean, we're done, c'mon." His dad sounds pissed, and Dean cringes a little at the tone, but it's an order, plain and simple and not to be argued with so he says bye and is halfway to the door that his dad's propping open, with the cups stacked and burning in one hand before he realises he hasn't paid for'em.
"Shit. Sorry, how much-"
"-On me...See ya'at school, Dean."
He forgets his gloves, and for the duration of the car journey home he wonders what she'd do if he slid his icy hands up that cute little waitress dress to warm them. He masturbates before he gets in the shower thinking about how she'd climb on top, mount him, seeing as she likes to watch everything so much, he thinks about the noises he could try to make her make.
His own 'no fights' record kinda goes out the window on Friday morning in the boys locker rooms.
Fucking asshole Brett Castle tried to freakin' knee-cap him with a damn hockey stick, and he did that shit on purpose. Dean doesn't even like hockey, his side wasn't even winning, there was no fucking reason for it. Fucking hurts like a bitch, he wasn't wearing any pads and took all the skin off his elbow when he went down on impacted gravel too.
Dean only gets a couple'a lousy hits in before the other guys drag him off, and the P.E teacher, Mr. Pete, doesn't even report them, just mutters something about locker room brawls and boys being boys and how they'd better knock it off before he gives them both weekend detentions.
S'not the point though, he has to limp around with his fucking leg aching and his forearm oozing and stinging all day, and Brett-dick chin-Castle gets away with a busted lip and a 'knock it off'? There's no fucking justice at this school, and Dean's pissed, he hates it here, fucking hates it, and if he ever sees that Castle son of a bitch outside of school he's gonna majorly fuck him up. Consequences can go and fucking-well swivel.
The last hour at school on a Friday, he has D&T, and he Just. Wants it. To be over. He just wants to go back to the tiny house they rented and maybe lay into the punch bag in the yard for a while 'til dad gets home and gives him something more important to do.
She and Tartan Girl come in ten minutes late and everyone snickers and watches them pull the coverall's on over their clothes while Mr. Sykes lectures them at the front of the room. Tartan Girl gets bored easy of the lecture, mutters something profane and wanders away, Sykes gets all red faced and chases after her, threatening actual bodily harm under his breath.
Off the hook, she glances around the class and makes a beeline straight for Dean when she spots him.
"Here." Her face is blank and hard to read, like always, but at the sight of it up close, the anger that's been stewing in his gut all day eases, simmers down to almost nothing. He can barely feel the bruising on his knee any more anyway, and it's not like he hasn't suffered worse before.
She tucks his gloves into the clamp attached to the side of his table, makes him smile when she tightens it up so they wont flop out.
"Thanks...Hey, I didn't know you worked there." Oh man, could he have thought of anything lamer to say? One of her eyebrows arches. He feels his ears start to burn.
"Why would you?" But the corner of her mouth shifts a little, and she hasn't sneered, flipped her hair or laughed in his face yet, so it can't be going that bad. Dean snorts, leans further over the table, fully aware that Todd and some of the other guys are starring at them now.
"Are you working tonight?" He asks. She smirks at him, surprised maybe, and fuck. That didn't sound casual at all. He didn't even mean for it to come out sleazy like that, didn't believe dad and Sammy before, but they were right. Dean's definitely gonna have to work on making his innocent questions actually sound innocent.
"Nope," is all she says. Dude, for once he's actually wishing a chick would say more and what's up with that? But she's got her elbows on his work bench now too, leaning in towards him.
"What are you doing tonight?" And yeah, that sounded just the way he wanted it to sound. Heh. She shrugs, tears off a corner of the sheet of newspaper that's covering the table top, fidgeting.
"Nothin'...Just staying home...Got the house to myself, so..." She shrugs again. There's no way that one sentence and shrugging should be making his dick rebel against his zipper like this. Christ.
Mr. Sykes claps his hands, tells everyone to shut their pie holes and orders her to take her seat, now, 'cause it's about time he got this damn lesson started. She doesn't go immediately, just stands and looks at Dean 'til Mr. Sykes has to yell her name again.
Dean doesn't even notice until he blows out a bored breath ten minutes later and sends the corner of the newspaper she ripped off fluttering across the desk.
She's written her address down on it. 20 Sycamore drive. One of Sam's friends lives near there. He knows where that is, no problem.
It's just fuckin' typical. Dad always does stuff like this, has the worst timing ever sometimes, just ask Sammy. John's seen enough now, apparently. He knows for certain that the farm house they've been casing is definitely the main succubus hide-out and they're wiping it out, tonight. Tonight, of all the nights in the world...
Dad puts Sam on look-out then takes Dean with him to help prepare the house. They rush around salting the entire perimeter, squirting lighter fluid inside before boarding up the widows that aren't already blocked, stealthy as they can be with two awesome nail guns and heavy sheets of damp old plywood.
The plan is; They're gonna leave the front entrance unblocked, so the succubi'll be herded out that way when they set the place on fire. Then they can sit outside the fence of salt and pick off the ones that make it out. It's not a bad plan, despite Sam's nitpicking, and it works just as predicted.
Dean has one helluva good time. Even Sam can't complain. They get to run and yell and throw their own sloppily made petrol bombs through the upstairs windows, making rooms explode and, as if that's not enough, they get to shoot actual real-live evil things.
The ancient house goes up like the big finish of some fourth of July fireworks display. It roars and groans like it knows it's finally being cleansed, and collapses bit by bit into heaps of crackling orange sparks. He and Sam take care of the stragglers that the fire hasn't already consumed while dad checks all they way around again to make sure no more of the she-bitches got out alive.
None of them got hurt and Sam got to kill his first succubus, and totally enjoyed it. It's a job well done, didn't take as long as suspected either, but it's 12:45am by the time they get back to their house.
Dad doesn't even go inside, just gets out of the 'pala and into his truck. Tells them to be good and states the usual well worn, prayer-like list of rules, says that he'll be back tomorrow in time for work then rumbles away into the night. Mysterious as ever.
Dean showers away the smoke and other muck that was clinging to him, and ignores the weird, speculative look he gets from his brother when he shows up in the living room fully dressed and probably wearing too much aftershave.
He instructs Sam not to stay up too late and to lock and salt the doors. Sam rolls his eyes, says, "I know, dick head," but doesn't ask where he's going. Makes Dean grin on his way down the front steps.
He's still a little twitchy with left-over adrenaline. He's not nervous or anything, but it's dumb, showing up late like this, she'll probably be asleep. He shouldn't have come, he knows nothing about her. Plus he's pretty certain dad'd tear him a new one if he found out.
There's still a light on though, and he's locking the car, walking up the driveway and knocking on the door before he knows it. Heart roaring rhythmically in his ears like a train engine.
In the minute it takes before he hears footsteps inside, he has a slight panic, gets angry butterflies like the ones that whirl in his belly when he looses sight of Sam or dad when they're somewhere crowded. Man, he hates crowds.
That address might've already been written down on the newspaper. What if this isn't even her house?
But it is her, when the door creeps open, and she presses a finger to her lips, the universal signal for 'shhhh', before he can say anything and waves him inside. She's got bare feet, toenails painted a bold and humorous red, and they're the first thing he notices before it registers that she's also wearing pyjama pants and a tank top and he feels guilty again that he's here so late.
Guilty, totally not nervous.
"Yes, mom. I'm about to go to bed right now. Just locking up..." He follows her back into her kitchen, the curly cord from the phone she's got pressed to one ear stretched straight, taut around door frames.
"Uh-huh. Nope. Alright, I can let them know in the morning if you want...'Kay. See'ya." She hangs up, and Dean avoids looking at her, watches as the phone wire languidly shrinks back to originality instead, like something obscene. Why's he being such a wuss anyway? He came here, didn't he?
"Sorry. I know it's late, something came up...Earlier," he says, quiet and scratchy 'cause, shit, his throat's drier than a nun's pussy. He smirks a little at his own thought, Sam resents it when he says shit like that out loud. He looks up when he realizes she hasn't responded, and there've been thirty seconds of silence.
She still doesn't say anything, just steps into him and slides her hands around his waist under his jacket. Her body, her tits, squash against him and it makes something start to flood. Makes him feel too big and wide open for a second. Makes him hard.
Their noses bump together a few times, testing, and then he's kissing her. Right there against a kitchen counter. Excellent and unabashed. Falling into it just the way it's meant to be enjoyed, pulling the body heat from one another.
Her bedroom isn't typical and it's unfamiliar to him. Smells like her; lavender. All the shades of blue, and it's neat, and thats as much as he takes in.
His brain is being powered solely by his dick and unfocused on anything that isn't mouth and warm and girl and right now. He slips his jacket and boots off and sits down on her blue bed while she switches on a blue lamp in the corner.
Drags her onto his lap as soon as she gets close enough for him to grab again, and she likes the handling, he can tell, the way she squirms on him, squeezes the muscles she finds round his shoulders, hums into his mouth like permission.
She settles over him comfortably only after shes finds a seat that gives her something to rut and grind against and he pulls her tighter by what must be instinct, grips her ass with an unconscious rhythm even though it's driving him fucking nuts.
He forgives her and everyone else on the planet, though, when she makes an incredulous sound and yanks her own top off after he propped her up and mouthed at her tits through the fabric. Her hair sticks up every which way, statically charged.
No bra, so maybe there is a God who still sympathizes with his cause after all.
Her tits are great. Yeah, most tits are great, but hers are really great. Soft and heavy in his hands, nipples hard and rubber-like, rolling against his palms and between his fingers, then against his tongue when sight and feel aren't enough anymore and he wants to taste as well. He always has had a thing, wanting to taste everything, he remembers it used to drive his mom up the wall.
His attention's captured by the real world again when she stills. Halts those heavenly little undulations against his dick that would've probably had him coming ages ago if not for the denim barrier, she pushes his hands off her ribs and back to his own body.
Just breathes hard into his blinking face for second, then dismounts, and nuh-nuh-no, that's bad, aw c'mon, please don't stop, sharply followed by fucking God yes when all she does is crawl onto the bed next to him and lie back, two fingers flicking back and forth over her own nipple, still all shiny from his mouth. She lets her knees fall apart in an invitation that he eagerly accepts.
It's so hot. So fucking good. She's under him now, moving, squeezing him everywhere. His entire body is singing with something that usually stays in his chest, and his crotch feels weighted, fucking aching, he needs to come so bad, his jaw's tired, his mouth feels used from all the kissing he's doing. He doesn't wanna stop.
Bare skin, everywhere, breathing and rubbing and sticking 'cause she got rid of his shirts pretty fast, and thank Christ his jeans are open, loose and drooping under his ass, 'cause he's sure he'd have busted the zipper or maybe exploded by now if they weren't.
He has to do something, hurry this along somehow, awesome as it feels, so he lets a hand drift down the front of her pyjamas, already knowing she's not wearing underwear underneath 'cause he can feel the damp heat of her, wetting him through his boxers when he stabs and grinds against her.
She flinches like she's been stung, stops breathing for a few seconds, stops nuzzling under his ear so she can watch what he's doing instead.
He's clumsy and he knows it. His fingers feel too thick, too harsh against such delicate satiny flesh and he's just about boiling, worked up to the point where he's shaking a little and she's so wet. Smeared all over already by his experiments on the outside of her pants, and God, how long have they been doing this? Wet and slick for him, because of him, and fuck, he just wants her so bad, wants to be inside. He has to rip his hand away from her to anchor himself roughly.
"Are we gonna...I mean, do you want to...uh?" He has to ask, when he regains a spec of control over the rushing in his balls. He's never been crazy like this over a girl before. He wants her so much it pulls on something in his ribcage, bruises him inside.
She licks her lips, wipes a string of hair away from her blushing face, and then nods.
She stretches under him, one arm reaching out towards the bedside cabinet, but he tilts off her and uses his longer, more efficient arm to rake around in the top drawer. Passes through underwear and a wad of paper money that he might ask about later, 'til he finds a cool sharp edged little packet and snatches it.
She lets him take over after that. Lies with--what looks to him like--an impassive look on her face, like she couldn't care either way. Doesn't touch him and just watches as he wriggles all the way out of his jeans and boxers, rolls the greasy condom down onto himself.
It's unnerving, he almost wants to ask her am I doing this right for you? Wanna help me out here? Changed your mind or something? But he doesn't, he just looks back at her when he's ready, heart hammering and loud like woodpecker in his chest. He thinks he can feel the sweat dripping from his hairline.
He guesses he must pass some sort of eye-contact test, 'cause after a pause, she smiles, starts blushing again and turns her face away from him. Most importantly, however, she hooks her thumbs under the waist of her pyjamas and lifts her hips so she can push them down.
He knows he shouldn't stare, it's not polite and all that, but Dean's never really been all that good with manners. Besides, she was looking at him, so it's only fair that he watches, fucking mesmerized, as the material coasts down and is eventually kicked off. She's neat between her legs. Not styled, or waxed completely Barbie-doll-bare like they always are in porn, just short, light and neat and it might be the most attractive sight he's ever seen.
"Dean..." He jumps when she says his name, looks back up to her face and sees her smile again, turn her face into the pillow like she's suddenly shy. Realizes that's the first thing she's said this whole time. She tugs on his wrist, pushes at him with a leg, silent commands to encourage him into the right position, get this show on the road.
"Yeah? What?" But he knows she's not gonna say anything, so he places himself like she wants, crawls between her legs and settles down there again, kisses her reddened cheeks while his dick nudges blindly at the dewy little burning place buried between her thighs.
He really can't possibly wait anymore, so he uses a hand on himself, guides himself and has to push through, really push. Springy and tight like scalding elastic, then a rich firey slide sucking him into somewhere snug, already clenching, almost churning, struggling to accommodate him. She's blood-hot and alive inside and for some reason, he wasn't expecting...It feels alien, completely fucking mind blowing. Nothing and everything like he expected.
He vaguely notices a hot hand print squeezing the back of his neck and feels it when her legs widen and go slack around him, giving in to their helplessness.
He's already coming, flooding and rushing and jerking out of him, 'cause it's too much, too fucking good, and maybe he should've gone slower, prepared better. But he didn't, so he makes the most of it, shoves himself deep as he can go and hears a high grunt of pain somewhere in the distance as he groans into downy hair that smells like blue and lavender and himself. Smells perfect.
"Fuck!" Is his first coherent thought as his orgasm starts to fade out. Little wriggling worms of tingles are dimming and settling down all over his body and he props himself up a bit, feels himself wetly slip free of her body, Jesus. Should probably do something with the condom. He loosens his hand that's been wrapped tight 'round her upper arm, and shit, he's been holding her like that for a while, she'll probably have bruises there.
When he shifts enough that he can clearly see her face, she's already looking back at him, moist eyes and her bottom lip snagged under her top teeth. It crosses his mind to ask if she's okay, but it would sound like a lie to him, seeing as he wasn't concerned about her, or anything else, twenty seconds ago.
He apologizes instead, 'cause that should've maybe gone a little different, definitely lasted a little longer, at the least.
He says a muffled "M'sorry," that he really does mean and buries his embarrassed face under her chin, tastes his own sweat there, gets a close up of a wet-rouge smudge his mouth has left behind on her throat.
She doesn't say anything, of course, just sighs and starts to stroke his damp hair the wrong way, makes him shiver when the room temperature touches his scalp and she presses ridiculously chaste kisses on his jaw and ear lobe. He feels her smile against his cheek and hopes that's a silent girl's way of telling him he's forgiven.
"Will your parents be mad if you stay here all night?" It's a whisper, tickles right in his ear, and he could have sworn he was asleep. It's dark now, and he's warm and heavy and really Goddamn comfortable, feels like he's molded into the mattress, she's still stroking his hair, and honestly? It feels so nice that he knows he'd be purring really loud right now if he could.
"M'dad's outta town," he mutters, voice deep and rough, accidentally loud and intrusive to the peace. She shifts away from him a little. There's silence for a minute or two.
"I didn't think you were gonna come tonight." If it's possible that was even quieter than before. What is wrong with girls? She's practically a mute the whole time he's here and now she wants to start a conversation?
Exasperated, he extends an arm out from where it's been tucked up under the pillow and pats around. Finds soft doughy flesh, a nipple, then down over rib bones and into her waist so he can tug her body against his and then pin her in place with a heavy arm across her middle.
The sudden intimacy of non-Sam bare feet against his shins dawns on him quickly, makes him flinch. Makes his eyes blink wide open a few times, 'cause it's fuckin' weird. Sleeping with a girl. Dean knows how to deal with weird though, doesn't freak him out at all.
He turns his face up so he can burrow against her neck and orders her to kindly shut the fuck up and go to sleep.
She comes to school the following Tuesday wearing a skirt and it results in Dean--through no fault of his own--eating her out in the paint storage cupboard a couple of doors down from the D&T rooms.
He feels like maybe an applause is in order 'cause she manages not to make a single fucking sound even though he feels her come; long and quite spectacularly, against his face.
It's the first time he's brought her off with something other than his fingers and she's giddy afterwards. Maybe it's the paint fumes, but he doesn't think so. Can't even keep her hands off him when they get back to class.
Tartan Girl (Stella. See? He knew it had an 'S') groans dramatically, says they're making her fucking sick when she finds them squashed together, using the pillar drill at the same time. Making LED holes in an amateur circuit board 'cause Dean decided his birdhouse is gonna need vacant and occupied indicator lights.
Stella tells them they'd better stop acting like fucking morons before Sykes catches them and takes away their hardware privileges.
Todd watches them curiously, he whispers with some of the other guys then stands close and pretends he's not starring, smirking. Dean sticks an inconspicuous foot out and trips him on the way out of class.
"You were really awesome at that," she whispers under his chin before they part in the hallway, head in opposite directions. Yeah, he kind of guessed that, but it's still nice to hear it, still makes him grin stupidly.
He thinks about not eating his lunch so he'll be able to taste her all day. He's kinda hungry though, and common sense wins out. He decides that he can eat lunch and then just stick his head back 'tween her thighs sometime later. Simple. Talk about having his cake and eating it too...Huh. He'd never gotten that phrase until just then.
Dad says he suspects there are a few more minor nests in this area. They'll be smaller, possibly underground, with only two or three occupants who're young and vulnerable and who'll probably die anyway without the master nest to confer with, better to keep an eye out just in case, though.
Dad's job's decent too, good daylight hours, enough manual labor that his mind doesn't have time to get numb and his paycheck almost covers the rent honestly enough.
He doesn't say anything out loud, but Dean figures they'll be sticking around a little longer. Which is excellent...'Cause he's pretty sure Sammy's got a girlfriend who he meets up with in the town library, or maybe the library itself is his girlfriend, and personally? Dean always thought it wasn't so bad here.
He wakes up from a post-coital nap in her bed one afternoon, and finds there's a beer waiting for him on the nightstand.
Now, it's not like Dean's in love with her or any shit like that, but he's starting to understand why guys let themselves get so pussy-whipped sometimes.
She'd skipped her last class with practically no cajoling, then brought him back to her house and let him have sex with her, twice, going so wild inside the second time it almost flooded over to the pain side of the pleasure/pain spectrum for him. Almost. Then after, she gives him beer too?
He knows he'd rather do that, have her do that around his cock, than go out to a town football game, any day.
She climbs up onto the bed, homework and all, when she sees he's awake. Dean pings the elastic on the fresh panties she's wearing and writes his full name at the small of her back with a green felt-tip pen he smuggled out of her pencil case, nibbles at her ass cheek 'til she squirms.
She's apparently too engrossed in her homework to react anymore than that to his cries for attention so he shuffles back up the bed, disgruntled, planning to stick his head in the way of whatever schoolwork she's doing, and finds her with an adorable frown on her face, frustration being chewed out on the end of a pencil in her mouth. Makes him grin.
"S'up?" He hooks his chin on her shoulder, lets his weight press her into the bed a little. Math? Boorriinngg. She taps on her notebook with the pencil.
"Can't do number seven," she complains, dragging a useless textbook nearer with a huff. Dean reaches over her shoulder, plucks the pencil from her fingers and scribbles down the equation. Damn textbooks always show you how to do it in sixteen 'easy' yet intricate steps when all it really takes is a simple but effective two.
She stares at the paper for a second then turns to look at him, pulling back so they don't have to go cross eyed.
"Covered that at my old school," he explains, sheepish, suddenly blushing for no good reason. She opens her mouth, looks like she's going to comment, but then just smiles at him instead. One dimple.
It shines out of her face and coaxes a returning grin from his, 'cause, really, she's much prettier when she's smiling. She leans in and kisses him, lasting and wet and sweet, and still smiling as she blindly flips all her books closed and knocks them off the bed, reaches under the covers for his dick.
He guesses she must have a secret dork fetish or something. That's cool, he can be a secret dork if that's what she's into. Better not introduce her to Sam, though.
Oh, fuck. That's her mouth closing 'round his cock and he has to barricade a fist in his own mouth so he doesn't start spouting the stupid embarrassing shit that threatens to come out every time she does this.
Christ, her tongue's lively but slow, kinda rough and he can feel every millimeter of it, right there, pressing right there under the head of his dick...
He drives out to the diner to pick her up from work. They didn't arrange anything so she's surprised to see him, happy to see him he realizes dully.
She smiles at him like she's won the lottery or something, laces her fingers with his, licks into his mouth and kisses him 'til the cook sticks his head out of the serving window and tells her she can go early before I hafta start charging the customers for the show you two're putting on. Pair'a perverts.
She pulls him into the bathroom with her when she goes to get changed even though the whole place can see her doing it. They mess around in one of the stalls, hands jammed down into each other's underwear.
He's the first one to come, like usual when it's a race like this, 'cause it doesn't matter how she touches him, it always feels fucking amazing, and he'll never admit it out loud but he really can't handle all that much pleasant stimulation from someone else.
"Ah, oh, oh...ohDean." Yeah, he knows what she likes best now, the first knuckle of his thumb working on her clit and the tips of two fingers, just barely inside. Just hearing the word 'penetration' makes her shiver. She goes boneless against him for a minute, then stutters out a laugh as she drags his hand out of her panties and scrunches a tissue into his palm because he hadn't bothered to that for himself.
He tells her what he picked her up so he could tell her during the drive back to her house. She just stares at him. Doesn't say a word.
"Look...I didn't wanna hurt'choo," he mumbles, low, definitely doesn't look at her. He's parked in her driveway, has been for five minutes 'cause she didn't get out when he pulled in.
"You haven't," she fires back immediately, tone tight but sure, if a little nasal sounding. "I'm not hurt, Dean..." He hears the next breath she sucks in. It's shaky. A load-bearing breath.
"I'm sad-" but her voice splinters, veers high, despite the preparation. He sees her whip her face away from him in his peripheral vision, sleeves doing a quick and aggressive mop-up like a punishment her cheeks don't deserve. He fiddles with his keys and waits, knows by now when he shouldn't interrupt if he wants to hear what she wants to say.
"I'm just sad, that's all...Sad that you're-...Sad that you have to leave. You're not hurting me, Dean. I know you wouldn't do that."
Her words are no consolation, and that's probably the most she's ever said to him in one go. He bites his lip, looks across at her profile and finds her expression is painstakingly blank. Impassive, like she couldn't care either way. A poker face, he realizes, an enviable one. A big fat drip rolling down one cheek then falling onto her jeans. He feels positively ill, from his mouth to his bellybutton.
They sit in morbid silence for ten minutes. Some pre-teens yell at each other in the street, zoom past the tail end of the car on brand new roller blades and her next door neighbours come home with takeout bags for their kids, looking far too weary to be bothered with cooking dinner.
She looks up at him, eventually, puts on a weak smile, an obvious well-practiced counterfeit of the real thing, and when she gets out of the car he feels a burst of cold that doesn't go away.
He sits alone for five more minutes in her driveway, the car smelling like lavender and making his stomach clench, before he gets the hell out of there. Got shit to pack.
He's got a fucking job to do, a responsibility, and she's just a girl. That's what dad said, and he's right. She's just some girl, and yeah, she made him want to grin a lot. She could calm him down just by existing in his breathing space, but he's seventeen and his eyeball's shouldn't be stinging like this, and why the hell does his throat feel like he's just hoarked his guts up? It's stupid, he's stupid for liking her so much cause she's still just some fucking girl.
There'll be plenty more like her, he's sure of it.
It's a month and six towns later, and Sam's in the booth next to him, whining about how much school he's missing, how depriving him of his education is not only cruel, but also illegal. How he's never gonna forgive either of them if he gets held back a year.
Yeah, like that'd ever actually happen with Sam's big-ass brain, and illegal? Since when has a petty thing like that ever been a deterrent for the Winchesters? Sam should learn to argue better.
Dean looks up from his eggs, trying to find something entertaining so he can tune his brother out, when he spots a waitress. She's young and blonde and wearing a pink and white uniform.
Her name tag says 'Carla' in swirly blue handwriting and she makes a big deal pointing it out five whole minutes before she takes an early break and sucks his cock for him after he not-so-subtly follows her into the ladies bathroom. Easy as that.
The county after that, her name's 'Marie' and it's stitched onto the front pocket where she keeps her pens. He fucks her in the back of the Impala, sneakily parked in the loading bay around back and they can't open the windows 'cause the pungent scent of dumpster'll come drifting in. Marie leaves claw marks down the backs of his arms.
He doesn't actually do anything untoward with 'Roxy'. Decides she's too sweet for him to taint. They just make out for a while over the serving counter. Roxy doesn't say a whole lot but she gives him real, bright-as-the-sun, smiles and a free box of donuts for the road.
'Polly', fucking Polly, he's pretty sure she only fucks him 'cause Sammy's not legal yet. But she's freakin' stacked and isn't wearing any panties when she bends herself over one of the tables and apparently she thinks you're real pretty for a guy...Dean, was it? So he'll take what he can get.
He ends up going home with 'Darlene'. Her bedroom's blue, and Dean tells her he wouldn't want to soil her marriage bed, makes her giggle, and fucks her on the couch instead. Darlene's a good seven years older than him and likes his fingers in her ass. Huh.
He's pretty sure the guy who shoulder-checks him as he's jogging down the stairs on his way out, still wiping the saliva off his mouth from her enthusiastic goodbye kiss, is her husband.
It becomes a running joke for dad and Sam. They especially like to laugh about it when their waitress-'O'- the-day is over sixty-five and looks like she would actually appreciate a de-animation ritual or two to get her back to her rightful place.
You not gonna get your leg over this one, kiddo? Dude, she's looking over at you, licking her lips.
Or sometimes just when Sam's bored and in a particularly bitchy mood. Hey, dad, make sure to stop at one diner at least on the way through here, okay? 'Cause Dean hasn't fucked a waitress today and I think he's getting withdrawal. John doesn't even take a swipe at Sam for his language, just laughs along. They're real smart asses.
Dean doesn't stop doing it, despite the hilarious jokes it stirs up. They could all always use something to laugh about, anyway, 'cause Sam's anger is like a wild animal these days, it's not fun at all. He gets so furious at dad sometimes and Dean's not sure if he's jealous or grateful that Sam doesn't ever get that mad at him like that.
Dean even joins in with the waitress jibes from time to time, if he's in a giving mood.
It becomes a constant. Like the Impala, like Dad's leather jacket, like the guns. It's a routine that he trained into himself and after a while he can't remember whether he does it so he can forget about the first one easier or whether he does it so he can remember her better.
When they get to a town, they salt their rooms, they check out the local paper, Sam bitches, they might argue, dad gives the cars once overs, they clean the weapons. They eat, they sleep. They hunt. They're always alert. Dad wont tell them everything he knows, Sam'll give them both the silent treatment when they have to leave.
Dean'll probably fuck a waitress.
Re-posted, seeing as I took a look at it the other day and was completely horrified by all the typos.