5 Times Dean Could've Helped Re-populate The Planet.

Adult. Het. Dean/various girls

Warnings for; Class A drug consumption and possible schmoop. . One featured OFC recycled from my 'Eat Your Cake, Too'. Enjoy!


Seventeen.

His watch chirps near his ear, wakes him up and warns him that dawn's not much more than an hour away, fast approaching. Better start thinking about sneaking back out the way he came in.

He seeps into her, shuffles like some sideways caterpillar till he's flush against her, arm curling around to drag her hips back against his heavy crotch. He likes this, likes how it's still new, how it's okay for him to half wake up at any hour of the morning with wood. Hell, it's expected, and she's right there like a luxury, so he can press himself into her softness.

She hums, tries to disentangle herself and push away from his heat. He likes that, too, it suits him just fine that she's not a cuddler. But he doesn't wanna cuddle either, so he tightens his grip on her, grinds himself against her ass and buries his nose in the back of her neck. Shoves a hand between her thighs and rubs artlessly at the damp heat he finds there, just enough for her to get the message and flop over onto her back for him.

He grins at how limp she is, stretching her arms up above her head and spreading her legs open for him, willing and offering, even though she's still very much asleep.

He can pin her wrists with one hand easily, doesn't quite know why he has the urge to do it but enjoys how it wakes her up a little. Makes her thighs tighten around him, just a little.

Her eyes're usually a green during the day, but when she blinks them open up at him, trying against his grip slightly on her captured wrists, they just look shiny black, two giant pupils.

It's so dark and quiet, not even birds awake yet. Everything here in her formerly blue bedroom a shade of either black or grey now, including them.

He likes how he feels like he's got all the time in the world. Thrusts messily against the hot slick that's waiting for him but doesn't push into it. He flicks his tongue across one of her nipples, whips and licks at it like his mouth is spring loaded. Waits and waits until his balls ache sweetly from it and she's really squirming under him.

When he eventually does slide inside, he grits his teeth and makes sure he's slow to fill her, drags it out as long as he can 'cause they haven't been doing this long and he's aware the fact that it hurts only makes her like it more.

She's coming for him before he's even all the way in on the second stroke, and he just can't help it, he's weirdly proud, it makes his skin prickle and zing with something. He mutters into her hair and lets himself pick up the pace.

"Yeah, 'atta girl...good girl." Tiny thrilling trickle of wrong, too much whispering in the back of his head, even as he lets the words slip out.

She tenses, opens her mouth, an "Oh," that's far too loud 'cause her parents are home and they both know it. She yanks one of her arms free to slap a hand over her own mouth. Throbs around him, repeating and repeating, and he thinks later that he actually passes out for a minute or two when he comes.

Hears her whispering at him as soon as he can hear again, little hands sweeping up and down his sweaty back. She only ever starts really talking when he's too far gone to listen, he's sure she lets him in on all kinds of secrets when she knows he wont be able to keep his ears open for them.

"Such a dirty mouth, Dean...Gorgeous, filthy mouth." He know she went on for a little longer, whispering herself back to sleep, but that's all he can remember of it.

He picks up coffee and breakfast on his way home, sun rising red and glaring at him through the windshield for the whole ten minute journey, letting him know that it knows what he's been upto even if nobody else does. Makes him smile.

The still-warm bacon sandwich and a still-cold strawberry milkshake are enough to bribe Sam into keeping his little mouth shut. Between the two of them and the well-practiced cover routine, they manage to fool their dad into thinking that Dean just woke up early with the sun.

He realizes on the way to school. Curses out loud and draws Sam's attention from the passenger seat.

"What? What is it?" Sam looks genuinely concerned, turns the volume down even though he's forbidden from ever doing so, tilts his whole body towards his brother. Dean shakes his head, wonders whether it's registered for her yet. He's gonna see her in a few hours at lunch. Fuck.

"Nothin'. I just forgot something..."

Still seventeen, same girl, a week later.

It's not the first time she's been over to his house, but it's the first time she's been over while someone else was there, too. Sammy's been angelic personified so far though, it's unnatural, Dean's already dreading what his little brother's good behaviour right now is costing.

Sam's lounging in the armchair, lit by the flickering TV and a flashlight, reading a thick book that's probably not even on his reading list for school. He's probably just reading it for fun.

They're watching the dumbest action movie. Dean's seen it before, he remembers being just as pissed off last time he watched it, when the bullshit action hero fired twenty consecutive shots out of his .9mm without any re-loading. He'd honestly forgotten about the sex scene though, so it's a pleasant surprise.

He feels her chuckle against him, when Busty rips her top off and the on-screen moaning commences. He glances over and watches Sam's cheeks get colourful, obvious, even in the dim light.

She turns her face into his shoulder, scrapes her teeth over the fabric, tits against his arm. He fumbles around for her hand under the old pic-nic blanket that's covering them, he presses her palm to the crotch of his jeans. Lets her feel.

She chuckles again, strokes at the denim. Dean feels something easy uncurl in his belly, tries not to laugh himself and give their game away. He clears his throat, checks Sam, who's concentrating so hard on his book that the page might burst into flames at any second.

"Sam...You wanna go wash up for bed or sometin'." Dean hopes the tone he uses communicates that it's not a request, and more of a warning, really.

Sam looks up sharply, glances at his watch, brows drawing downwards, already protesting. But he must see Dean's jaw clench, so gets up and gathers his things from the chair agonisingly slowly, an unmistakable gleam in his eye that means Dean's gonna be paying him back for this for a long, long time. The rest of his natural life, maybe.

Soon as Sam's out of sight, he's as good as out of mind, too, and Dean drags her over his lap, tipping his head up so she can lick into his mouth. He pushes his tongue against hers, battling and deliberately sloppy, hasn't got all the hands he needs while he tries to push up her top and force her skirt up her thighs, gives up on the less important quest after a short time and concentrates on getting her skirt upwards, till it's a loose belt around her waist.

"I want...Come on...I want you to-" she breathes, frustrated, wiggling his fly open and resettling on her knees as he shifts forward on the couch, grabbing him and pulling him out of his boxers.

There's moisture glittering on her collar bone and he sucks at it, content to let her be the dexterous one for now, tastes the reassuring saltiness on her skin as she pulls her panties to one side, out of the way. All he has to do is hold himself steady and let her sink herself down onto him, hot perfect encasement and as painful as she pleases.

She alternates between pushing and pulling at his shoulders, like she's not sure what the hell she wants, driving them both insane with it. Eventually sets one hand on the back of the couch behind him and he works with that, grabs her ass and forces himself deeper, a better angle, allowing a half decent rhythm.

She pushes him against the couch back, wanting control, maybe, wanting to see him, and it affords Dean a perfect view of where she's moving, impaled on him, her own sticky lookin' finger tips making ragged circles on her clit, doing all the work. Jostled every time his hips hitch up into her.

And then he's just the pillar that she's fucking herself on, he's just holding them upright, hands tight on her waist and thigh.

It's a pretty spectacular sight, even if he's hoping it doesn't last all that long, 'cause there's not a chance he's gonna be able to hold out, can feel it all, a rising hot mess between his legs already--but then she's coming, thank fuckin' fuck, exquisite ripples that shake through him, milk him dry.

He goes flaccid against the couch back where she put him, bones sucked out. Smirks when she falls forward onto him, totally done. They exchange dry, appreciative kisses during their comedown, little huffs of laughter. He knows Sam probably just got a damn good earful but really couldn't give a shit.

Then he hears her whisper, "fuck," as she straightens, lets him slide out. She hovers over him for a second, chewing her bottom lip, looking down between them. "Um...Bathroom?"

"Down the hall, cant miss it," he informs her, watches as she toddles away and then looks down at his cock, hanging out of his gaping fly. Naked and gleaming with wet. Fat and still a little full. Relaxed but still pulsing from his orgasm.

He lets his head drop back against the cushions. "Shit." She told him after the last time, they'd have to wait two weeks, see if she got her period like normal. There's only one week to wait now. Dean warns himself to stop fucking around with the odds like this. Refuses to think about what happens if she doesn't get her freakin' period like normal.

He never finds out, though. Dad just springs it on him. They have to leave town five days later. She's upset but she's not angry, she understands, and that only frustrates him more. She doesn't even slam the car door when she gets out and he sits for five minutes in her driveway, hoping she'll come back and try to beat the shit out of him or something.

Twenty-two.

The morning after, after he's spewed what feels like all his organs up, and taken a handful of Tylenol. After the shakes have died down and he stopped being dizzy enough to stand upright in the shower for five minutes. After he finds his car keys still jammed in the lock of the room's now busted front door.

He parks the car straight in some semblance of an apology to the old girl. Checks her for damage, miraculously finds very little, thank Christ. Then he goes back to sleep for a few hours. Manages to sleep off the best parts of his raging headache and his sickly stomach cramps.

It comes back to him in bits and pieces over the course of the next couple'a days. He's sitting in a laundromat, bored out of his tree watching his boxers and t-shirts spin dry at high speed, when he remember the brunette.

Hard tits. Implants. Must have been pretty fresh implanted tits, too, 'cause he remembers mouthing over the pink, ugly lines of scar in the creases of the undersides.

The brunette was the one who'd rolled up the twenty dollar bill and passed it to him. She'd giggled a whole lot. He really fuckin' hopes that was marginally clean coke he was snorting. Serves him fucking right if it wasn't, though, for not even bothering to ask, for being so fucking stupid in the first place.

He sits up straighter in his plastic chair, swallows down the bile that rises and scorches his throat. Jesus. It could have been cut with all kinds of toxic shit. Hell, it might not've even been cocaine. Cocaine's not even cocaine anymore. And he knows he isn't letting himself remember everything yet. Knows that's not even the worst of it...

A redhead, too. Cindy or Mindy or something with and -indy on the end. He's touching up the paintwork on the car and remembers suddenly, like a vision, how he'd fucked her from behind, on her hands and knees, 'cause they had an audience who thrived on watching her in that position.

She was noisy, he remembers laughing with her after wards, while he waited for his turn on the brunette.

"So...Why are you here?"

"'Cause Sam went to college...And it's not like I could follow him there."

"Who's Sam?"

"...Nobody. Sam's nobody..."

She'd thought that was just the funniest fucking thing ever. Laughed and shook and draped her clammy body all over him,"Well, he's gotta be somebody! There's no such thing as a No Body!"

He remembers wondering what the fuck she was on apart from the shit he'd seen her take, and then forgetting about that and laughing along with her instead, 'cause what else was there to do? He figured he might as well laugh it up, seeing as everybody else was.

He throws up again when he remembers the rest of it. Spills his dad's coffee allover, almost over-turns their already unstable table when he jumps up in a rush for the bathroom.

Bleachy Pine air freshener everywhere and his knees absorbing puddles of cold. Face directly over the toilet bowl while he remembers about the guy, about the male grunts and groans. Wasn't even a good looking guy either.

He as good as let that guy fuck him. Oh, Christ. May as well have let the guy jizz in his mouth or whatever the fuck he wanted, 'cause Dean'd had his face and fingers and his dick in that other guy's wet left-over mess all fuckin' night.

He imagines the smell, everything vile and mixed together, heaves again, disgusted and even more painful now that there's nothing left to bring up.

When he gets out of the bathroom, his dad's changed into a dry pair of jeans.

"You eat somethin' funny?" It's gruff, typical. But surprising in it's concern considering they haven't really been speaking to each other lately if it's got nothing to do with a hunt.

"Yeah, must have," Dean croaks. He lays down on his designated bed and watches his as his dad rolls and folds a weeks worth of clothes, packs them into a duffel, spouting instruction that dean doesn't need to hear again. He listens to the door close quietly, then listens to his dad's truck's healthy engine roaring away till he cant hear it anymore.

It takes him a long while to pull himself together. He wallows around haunting that town, leaving more than a few drunken incidents littered behind him, but never anything quite that stupid again.

He drives past a free-clinic on the way out of town and pulls into the car park practically on impulse. A sensible impulse for once. He asks the sturdy matronly nurse who greets him inside the little white cube he's ushered into after his long wait if she'll please test him for everything. She sighs at him, shakes her head but pats his fondly after she hands him some forms and leaves the room to set things up.

He fills in his sexual history questionaires. Embarrassment flares and burns white hot in him when they poke and prod, ask all manner of personal questions in flat, lifeless voices, take blood and swabs and scrapings. He's never felt quite so wretched in his entire adult life, so completely ashamed of himself.

Gonorrhea. The only thing he tests positive for. Fan-fucking-tastic. He doesn't think there's anyone in history whose ever been as happy as him to have The Clap.

He'd be suspicious if the universe had let him off scot-free, and hey, it's treatable, he can get rid of it, it's not so serious. S'not serious at all, since clearly it's a new development. His cock certainly hasn't been feeling like it's gonna combust anytime soon.

It feels good, like relief. Like a warning never to be such a dumb-as-shit asshole ever again.

He's been living on a razors edge since he was little. Hunted nightmares, dangerous, bloodthirsty, soul-sucking monsters all his God damned life and it makes him think more seriously than he like to about what he could have carried with him, away from those crazy fuckers, those party-people everybody thinks they're so envious of. He thinks about what he might've left behind and winces.

He takes the antibiotics religiously. Buries the whole incident down deep, crammed with the rest of his regrets. So deep even demons'd have to dig hard to find'em.

Twenty-five.

When Dean first lands there, he thinks Ohio is always gonna be cold. He thinks the locals just tell everybody that they get a summer. Oh yeah, summer was here just the other day. Darn, you must have just missed it! Oh well, try again next year. It's a conspiracy that maybe he should look into.

And it's sweet, starting out. Cassie is inarguably smokin', the sex is amazing. He likes her, she's fun, strong, assertive. She's like a lot of other girls he's met before.

Then their weekend hook-up gets extended to a week long fling. Then it's been a month and he realises that, actually, Cassie isn't like a lot of other girls.

And then he's been in Athens for a couple of months, doesn't mind the cold at all. Leaves his shit at her place and sleeps there almost every night, too. After that, he starts to realise that, in fact, a lot of other girls are like Cassie, not the other way around.

He starts getting a worried rolling in his stomach when he thinks about how much he likes her. Knows from the start that it's gonna be a limited time thing, can't last, not with his lifestyle, his secrets. But he falls for her, regardless. Doesn't even know he's done it till it's too late.

She leaves him in bed, lets him doze while she gets up early some mornings for the last classes she's still attending. He watches her wander around naked, lazy grin plastered on his face as she throws clothes on the bed next to him, haphazard, for later consideration.

He loves how she looks. Big, crazy hair sticking up at all angles from her head, practically an afro before she sooths and calms it with products. It's the perfect contrast to the completely clean Brazilian between her legs.

He tells her she looks like a wild woman, and she Is Not impressed by his sleepy observations. He mumbles through his giggles and informs her she's like a woman he found in the jungle, tamed, and fetched home to cook his dinner for him.

She's scandalized of course, too offended to continue getting dressed, climbs on the bed, straddles his belly and holds him down, wonders out loud if he'd say shit like that to his white girlfriend.

"Uh-uh," he shakes his head, lets her keep him pinned, "but my white girlfriend doesn't look like some kinda shrunken Amazon when she wakes up, sweetheart."

She sucks his dick for that comment. Then sits astride his thigh and plays with herself while he recovers, catches up with time again. She waits and only touches herself, watches him get himself hard again. Begs and gasps, a whore whose life depends on it, when he fucks her into the headboard.

He cant close his eyes sometimes, when he fucks her, has to watch her skin and the shapes her mouth contorts itself into around his name, the way her little tits bounce. She's the visual equivalent of jazz music, and he cannot. stop. starring at her.

She ends up quite late for her class, says it's okay 'cause the professor knows her well enough to know not to give her any shit about it. She's wouldn't have gone at all if Dean'd had his way.

As far as he knows, she only forgot that one time. She'd paused infront of the bathroom mirror, toothbrush stuck straight out of her mouth like it'd been cemented in.

"Aw...No, no...Shit..."

"What? You drop your necklace down the sink again?" He strolls in from her bedroom, ready to take the drains apart.

"No, Dean...Crap, I haven't been taking my pill," She slaps the little packet against his chest, almost accusingly, like he'd asked for evidence.

"What? Whaddya mean, 'you haven't been taking your pill'? Since when? I thought you had to take these things everyday." He takes the pill case, inspects it. Calculates that it's Saturday today, sees that Thurs, Fri and Sat remain in their tiny popped out packaging, un-swallowed.

"I do. I mean, I'm supposed to. I just forgot I guess. With my finals this week I've had a scatter brain..." He knows this already. She's had a stressful couple of weeks. He hands the pills back. Stares at her.

"So...What do we do?" he asks, an unfamiliar fluttering behind his lungs. She stares back at him. Shrugs minutely.

"Uh...Take'em now, maybe?" And she smiles at him, sheepish, busts all three of the mini dots out and drops them into her mouth. He bites his lip to keep his jaw from falling open.

"Cassie," he groans. "What if that doesn't cut it?"

She swats his chest. Tells him to shut it and says she'll call Veronica in the morning. Veronica; Cassie's nosy best friend and knower of all things remotely vagina related. He frowns at her. Softens later when they're in bed and she laughs a little manically.

"Oh God. I'm an idiot," she says through her hands. He doesn't disagree, just throws an arm over her and hauls her closer.

It's two day's later when he finally musters up the courage and decides to tell her the truth. About everything. It does not go prettily.

I cannot believe you're doing this to me right now. What are you saying? Do you hear yourself, Dean, You're nuts! You sound nuts! Don't, just don't. Just get out. Get out, right now before I call the fucking cops.

It actually goes exactly the way he saw it going in his head. That'll teach him to ignore his gut.

Two days after that, he's still driving to nowhere. Just driving. He gets a call from Jefferson offering him and his dad a shot at a Lambton Worm a day east of where he is. He tells Jefferson no worries, buddy, consider it taken care of, and aims the car east, even though he's pretty sure it's supposed to be a two man job. Ends up fairly messed up for his trouble.

Thirty-two. And five days.

He's tired, most of all. Really, thought consumingly fucking tired. He drove all the way out here then went ahead and drew the short straw, ended up being on look-out all night tonight.

His left knee might be utterly fucked, locked and stiff from the cold and he's covered from head to toe in slimy, swamp alge.

Seriously, he can admit it, he's not as young as he used to be. These all nighters're starting to take their toll on him, he'd been disgruntled to find coffee just ain't workin' like it used to. Or maybe they just don't make it like they used to. Fuckin' Starbucks.

But the critter's dead. Nothin' but a pile of ash that the wind will've scattered for miles by now. No more missing seven year olds.

Sam shoves him amicably on their way into the room, cuts into Dean's inner brooding, makes his presence known again, not that Dean could ever ignore him for too long. Fuckin' giant freak.

"Nice shot, dip-shit, were you tryin'a take me out, too? Two birds with one stone or somethin'?" Sam's grinning, and Dean grins back over his shoulder, glad that Sam could make it this time. Man, it really had been a fuckin' sweet shot, too. He's totally still got it.

"Well, Sam, it's like your uncle Arthur used to always say; Shoot everybody, and let God deal with'em."

Sam's face is thoughtfully blank for ten seconds before it clicks that Dean's just quoted something off The Simpsons at him, then he snorts a laugh, drops his stuff on the bed and announces he's going out to get a soda. An old habit.

Dean lets his phone ring off once, before he remembers his secretary Sam went out to the drinks machine, so he darts out of the bathroom and grabs it, flips it open the second time it rings, puts the speaker phone on. Yells hello while he washes his face, lets warm clean warm water sluice through his hair, loosening the dried in slime.

"Hey, honey..." It's Hilary, wont ever stop calling him her honey. His smile is a surprisingly warm picture in the mirror over the sink, no trace of the weariness he's feeling shows through in his reflection as he grabs a towel to pat his face and chest dry. "You okay? Did everything go alright?" She actually sounds kinda tired, too. He wonders what she's doing up this late when she should be resting. Shouldn't be up and calling his sorry ass.

"Yup. S'all good sweetheart, what's up?" He leans against the counter to toe off his boots.

"Um...I didn't wanna have to tell you by phone...I, uh...I went into labor, Dean-"

"-What?" It's like someone just threw a bucket of ice cold water over his entire life. "But...But we got another week."

He thinks she laughs, but it might be a happy sob. "Well, I guess your impatience is genetic, 'cause my water broke at three this morning...He was born an hour later...So fast, Dean, I'm...I wish-" She pauses at the noise from his end of the connection as Sam comes in, drops his snack machine goodies and saunters over to the bathroom. Freezes when he see's Dean's face.

"What? Is that Hilary? What's wrong?"

Another sniff that might be a laugh. "Hey Sam, sweetie-," wont stop calling Sam her sweetie either, "-I was just telling your brother here how I had his baby this afternoon." The time it takes for a person to click their fingers and Sam's whole universe changes, just like that. Dean watches it happen from across the bathroom. Wonders if his own face was shining like that when Sam walked in just now.

"Oh my God! Are you okay? Did everything go-"

"Yeah. Yes, he's fine. Ten fingers, ten toes, 8 pounds 6oz...He's perfect...Dean, honey? Are you-"

"-What about you?" Dean interrupts, something snapping awake and suddenly hungry deep in his chest. Sam comes over and stands at his shoulder, rests huge heavy hand, the most appropriate anchor, on the back of Dean's neck and kneads gently. Both of them stare down at the phone on the counter. Astonished.

"M'good...Some stitches." He and Sam both hiss in sympathy, and she chuckles. "But they got me on some good painkillers right now..." Dean sucks in a breath, listening to the aching in her voice. Thinks he's gonna regret for the rest of his life that he wasn't there with her.

"Listen, we're leaving right now. I'll be there by tomorrow lunch time, okay? Hill?" Sam salutes him for his good ideas, already walking backwards out of the bathroom to gather their belongings together so they can get on the road already. Dean starts shrugging into a clean button-down.

"Okay...Okay, Dean...You and Sam drive safe, alright? We're just gonna be here. I'll think of some good middle names." She's taunting him, of course, has been spitting out middle names like Cornelius and Jeremiah for weeks already. Punishment, seeing as she gave up dibbs and let him pick the first name.

He nods uselessly, catches the duffel Sam tosses him and sweeps everything off the counter into it, hears the Impala rumble to life outside their room half a minute later.

"Love you, honey," she says, and yawns. He smiles again, picks up his boots.

"Love you, too." And he really, really does. He remembers the last time he saw her. How he'd teased her about having to stuff her bra with lettuce leaves after the kid was born and she'd told him to fuck off and pouted like a spoiled princess for a good ten minutes about it. He'd been happy to beg forgiveness with all his charms.

He thinks about all the girls there've been, all the ones that were before her. Thinks about how there really wont be any more now. He has a kid. He's someones dad. Jesus Christ. A fucking son.

There's white-noise in his brain. He thinks about Sam, a sudden rush of baby-Sam like his brain's flipping through a treasured old photo album. He thinks about his own dad, and his mom, and then Sam again.

Thinks about schooling and hunting and six month birthdays. He'll teach the kid to box when he's old enough, maybe, wonders if the little guy's gonna inherit his shoulders or whether he'll end up a lanky bastard like Sammy. He thinks about special gifts.

He has a million and one thoughts lightening quick and feels full enough to burst.

Sam's revving the engine impatiently by the time Dean drops into the passenger seat and dumps his stuff over into the back, moving zombie slow.

Dean has to call Sam something ass related and punch him in the shoulder to get him to slow down and drive more responsibly after they skid out of the motel lot, spraying pebbles. Sam laughs and laughs at him, pats the back of his big brother's neck again, eyes sparkling.


Feedback welcome. Has been x-posted at LJ.