She's Tailor Made to Order

It wasn't his fault some knife-wielding psycho masquerading as a ritual magician came charging at him with a knife.

Disclaimer: The Winchester boys aren't mine but I'd make Dean wear his boots all the time if they were.

Rating: M

Pairing: Dean/OFC

Warnings/Spoilers: None.

Beta(s): azephirin and quirkies

A/N: This story is set in my Strange Angels 'verse.

Her face was pinched when Charlie gently removed the makeshift bandage, dropping what was left of his t-shirt onto the floor, and the skin went white around her eyes as they took in the ragged slice across his shoulder.

She poured whiskey over the wound, sucking in a breath when Dean winced - and she was probably feeling everything thanks to that chick flick Gift of hers kicking into gear. No other way to explain the flicker of blue across Charlie's knuckles when she threaded the needle or the flicker down her right cheek as she sterilized the tip in a candle flame. The needle moved slowly, a metallic glint between her fingers that made the same precise stitches Charlie used to sew initials onto the handkerchiefs she kept stuffed at the bottom of her duffel bag.

"You didn't have to walk right into the knife," she said softly, tying off the end with a tug that made them both grimace.

Like it was his fault some knife-wielding psycho masquerading as a ritual magician came charging at him with a crappy ass dagger in his right hand and a fucking kris knife in the other. Probably ordered the damn things from Museum Replicas right after buying a ritual robe from The Pyramid Collection.

Charlie put a finger on his lips before he could say anything, angry eyes glaring at him from behind her glasses. Her jaw clenched when more whiskey flowed over her handiwork and her nostrils flared as blood mixed with the alcohol. But she dabbed the wound gently with a cotton cloth like she'd been doing it for years instead of spending all that time learning how to pronounce Latin fancy.

She took a gulp from the bottle before handing it to Dean.

Things weren't exactly going according to plan.

He'd only had one thing on his mind when he stumbled into the motel room after Jo, his good arm slung over Sam's shoulder. Charlie was already on her feet, rushing towards all three of them as the door opened, brushing Sam's cheek and Jo's arm before her fingers touched the blood soaked remains of Dean's favorite Led Zeppelin t-shirt. She frowned at Dean with the same thin-lipped grimace that Jo had kept flashing at him in the back of the Impala every time he told her to stop manhandling his arm.

It wasn't like it was going to fall off or anything.

At least Charlie hadn't started yelling at him like Sam had after taking down whatever the hell that idiot had summoned. Didn't say a word as she waited for Sam to ease Dean onto the nearest bed, taking a deep breath before she sat down and pressed her hand against Dean's chest like she was looking for his heart beat. Her fingers trembled and her eyes turned shiny and she stopped shaking when Dean twisted a hand into her hair. He dragged her lips down to his, swallowing up her sigh.

Nothing he wanted more after a hunt than to breathe the sweat off the curve of her neck, listening to her fill the room with those little tiny moans that kept pouring out of her mouth every time he kissed down her jaw line. She would buck underneath him, all flushed cheeks and slick skin and a litany of sing-song syllables she strung together while her nails pushed deep into his biceps.

His tongue darted into her mouth, drawing out a gasp before Charlie pulled herself away. All that was left of Sam and Jo was the soft click of the adjoining room door closing behind them as they got the hell out of Dodge. Charlie gave him a fixed stare, pushing up her glasses with a soft 'no' and that lift to her chin that drove Dean fucking crazy every time she did it.

Damn girl had set up the first aid kit near the bed.

It was best to wait until Charlie was done. She'd just end up bitch pissy if Dean tried unbuttoning her granny sweater before he managed to convince her that he wasn't going to keel over from blood loss or go into shock or whatever she was thinking about while she was sewing up his arm, her face scrunched up like Sam had slipped some shaving cream into the arm of her jeans jacket.

But patience wasn't exactly one of his virtues and, the way things were going, he was going to get jack.

Not with Charlie sitting there, her arms folded across her chest, watching him swig the rest of the whiskey.

She waited until he was done before slipping three horse pills between his lips, probably pain pills or antibiotics or some combination of both that she liked torturing people with every time someone got cut up on a gig.

Would have choked on the damn things if Charlie didn't have a glass of water ready. What he needed was more whiskey. Fuck, he'd settle for that goddamn fruity concoction she forced on him back in Louisiana if it'd take the edge off the stabbing ache in his shoulder.

"Bet nights like this don't end up on that list of yours," Dean drawled.

Charlie snorted. She touched his stitches with her fingertips, as soft as the way she'd whisper stories into Ellie's ear while they both sat curled up together in a booth near one of the windows at the Roadhouse, and the ache turned into a dull throb. She leaned forward and smiled at him for the first time since Sam had dragged him into the room, brushing her lips against his.

"I'll have you know that playing nurse after a night of thrilling heroics is right up there with your unhealthy obsession with pie."

Her voice dropped into a husky whisper that made his dick twitch and she flashed that mischievous little grin of hers, tracing a finger down the zipper of his jeans. Still didn't keep her from blushing when she stood up and shimmied out of her skirt, revealing a scrap of yellow lace that had replaced the boxer shorts she threw on that morning after their shower. The fabric was sheer enough to make out the patch of red hair between her legs.

Dean swallowed when she straddled his thighs.

Charlie planted a kiss into the crook of his neck, licking his pulse until Dean grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled her mouth away. It wasn't playing fair, turning the tables on him with nothing but a sigh, the hairs on his neck rising up to meet her breath as it blew across his skin.

"You're not even trying to give me a sponge bath," Dean managed, his thumb marking the track of a thick white scar across her thigh. "And last time I checked, all the sexy nurses were wearing high heels with their kinky underwear."

"I'll give you a sponge bath if you promise to be a very good patient."

"Like that's happening, sweetheart."

Charlie raised her eyebrows, pursing her mouth and pressing her hands flat against the headboard on either side of his head.

She had no idea how seriously screwed she was.

When he was done with her, she wouldn't be looking at him like she was some grade school teacher ‒ and those lips of hers were going to feel so freaking good when he slid into her mouth, the slick hollows of her cheeks pressing in close as she moaned around him. He was going to make her whimper just from his fingers until she was breathing 'God' and 'fuck' and 'Dean' as she bucked up into his face.

"If you move too much," Charlie said, "your stitches are going to split open."

Leave it to a girl genius to state the obvious.

But her fingers started moving down the line of wooden buttons on the front of her cardigan, slowly pushing them open as she leaned forward. Wearing the damn thing while pinning him down on the bed was fucking criminal, just as much a taunt as her mouth brushing against his with another sigh. The only thing that granny sweater needed to get a man off was her body dancing inside of it, the way her skin would flush from the heat and the scratch of the wool on the back of his hands as she rode him breathless.

"Lucky for you," she whispered against his lips, "I don't have that problem."

The cardigan slipped down her shoulders, coarse wool pooling around her hips and her hands when Charlie leaned backwards. All she had on underneath the cardigan was a strapless yellow bra, another scrap of lace that matched her panties. She watched him moisten his lips with a smile, teasing until a hard nub pushed against the fabric. Someone had taught her the meaning of slow torture, the way she played with herself until his breathing was ragged, waiting for him to squirm before she started undoing the metal clasps.

By the time Charlie hitched herself up, one hand bracing his head as it bent forward, all he wanted to do was graze with his teeth and flick with his tongue. She hissed when he blew across wet skin, nails digging into his good shoulder, and fell back onto his thighs.

Her breath came out in a huff when he grinned at her.

It was her own fault.

Girl should have known that Winchesters always kept a trick or two in their back pockets. Just like she should have figured out that pursing her lips like that was an open invitation, that she always ended up getting pinned to the mattress with her wrists held over her head every time she did it ‒ her ankles tucked into the backs of his knees while he fucked her faster than a goddamn jackhammer.

The air conditioner sputtered into life.

Charlie returned his grin with one of her own, slipping one hand inside her panties and blushing when their eyes met. Not that he could keep his eyes on her face, drawn to the curve of her hand pushing against the lace. And the low hum from the fan couldn't drown out the way Charlie moaned when she finally gave herself up to it, closing her eyes and biting her lip all over again. He ached just from watching her, all bucking hips until she finally stopped shuddering.

Didn't realize he was holding his breath until he heard an elastic snap.

She brushed a slick thumb across his lower lip, shivering when he took it into his mouth. It tasted like her, tasted like that first night back in Missouri's guest room when salt and musk pulsed against his lips and the cool air pouring through the window wasn't the only thing that had made her quiver. Her thumb came out of his mouth with a moist pop and she leaned into him with a sigh, the memory of 'Charlotte' still on his tongue when her mouth slammed into his.

There was only so much a man could take.

He rolled to the right without breaking the kiss and Charlie gasped when her back hit the mattress. She was already unbuttoning his jeans, curling her fingers to catch the waistband of his boxers and yanking as hard as she could until his clothes got stuck in the tangle of their legs. Had to freaking wriggle on top of her like he was screwing a chick for the first time, listening to Charlie laugh like a lunatic until his pants were hanging off of one ankle. But he managed to get Charlie's underwear past her hips before it tore apart in his hands.

She snatched her ruined panties and threw them over his shoulder.

"Fuck," he hissed, opening her thighs with his knees. Charlie groaned when he sank deep; trembling against him when he licked the pulse beating underneath her ear, hooking her ankles behind his knees when he fisted a handful of her hair. Made the mistake of looking at her, Charlie's unguarded eyes reflecting his pale face and stitched-up shoulder right back at him. "God, Charlotte," he whispered, ducking his head down to breathe the scent of strawberries off of her neck. Dean swallowed. "I'm..."

"It's all right," she said softly, fingertips brushing his temple. "Just remember that I don't have a spare."

Probably would have said more if he'd let her but the only thing he wanted to hear was that sing-song drawl of hers, the way she would stretch out his name when he was flicking a nipple with his tongue, turning 'Jesus' into something obscene when she was arching her back. Their bellies slapped against each other in time to the litany flowing out of her ‒ how there was nothing she wanted in the world more than him and how getting pushed into the back of his car was the best thing that ever happened to her and that she was riding with him to the end of the highway.

That she wasn't much, but she was his.

He was getting ready to tell her the exact same thing when Charlie's fingers dug into his hips, her lips sneaking up to capture his. She moaned into his mouth when she came, hot breath that dragged him right down with her, her nails leaving little bloody half moons when he spilled over with a groan.

Charlotte Anne Webb had turned him into a walking chick flick.

Dean could still feel her pulse fluttering around him when he rolled onto his back. She raised herself onto an elbow, eyes narrowing as she leaned across him and touched his stitches. Whatever she was looking at made her smile and drop a kiss onto his good shoulder before curling up around him, both legs wrapped around one of his. Charlie burrowed her head into the crook of his arm, resting her palm on his chest and humming something that might have been "Up Around the Bend" if it wasn't off-key.

At least she wasn't making him fucking spoon.


The title of this story is a song lyric from "Can't Stand Still" by AC/DC.

And, yes, "Up Around the Bend" really is their theme song...