Punk Rock Girl
It was his own damn fault, letting a Latin scholar in a granny sweater sweet talk him into it with a tiny 'harder' and a dare that scratched down his back like a promise.
Disclaimer: The Winchester boys aren't mine, but I'd make Dean wear boots all the time if they were.
Rating: M (Language, Graphic Sex, Angst)
Spoilers/Warnings: One small spoiler for 3.08 - along with rimming, pegging, a kilt, the Dead Milkmen, multiple variations of the word 'knuckle' and lots of alcohol. I should also note that my muse likes dressing up Dean, even under the best of circumstances. embroiderama is my witness that I came up with this idea before the Ten Inch Hero clip hit the Internet.
A/N: I've debated posting this here for awhile now because of the subject matter. But it's a companion piece to "Backdoor Man" and "Sharp Dressed Man" - all three stories share an overlying theme if you read them in chronological order - and some folks asked me to post it. I wrote this for the Sugar and Spice challenge at spn_het_love on Livejournal, obviously going for the "kink" part of the prompt. Like the other stories, it is set in Strange Angels 'verse and the most verse-dependant of the three stories in the cycle. All those disclaimers aside, if you're just here for the porn, I hope you enjoy it. ;-P
Beta(s): pheebs1 bravely wrestled with my pacing and poorly constructed sentences and is the reason why I didn't just ramble into unrelated back story bits; she kept me as focused on the plot as anyone could, given my naturally dizzy brain. embroiderama, as always, put up with random IM spamming and the inevitable freak-out about the pegging scene. The good parts are all them. The bad parts? Those are all me.
Sam would say that the whole thing was karma coming back to bite Dean on the ass but it was his own damn fault, letting some Latin scholar in a granny sweater sweet talk him into it with a tiny 'harder' and a dare that scratched down his back like a promise.
He should have known something was up the second they stumbled into the Roadhouse. Charlie scanned the room when they crossed the threshold – but Ellie was already rushing Sam, leaping up at him as soon as the door opened and knocking him backwards into the doorjamb. Dean couldn't keep the 'shit' from coming out of his mouth when Sam's duffel crashed to the floor, crammed full of more books than was probably legal, and slammed into Dean's foot.
Ash bent over laughing when Ellie demanded a quarter.
That was the only diversion Jo Harvelle needed, sidling up to Charlie with a grin and handing her some boxes. The two of them walked away, heads so close together that blonde hair mixed with red while they whispered hurriedly to each other. Ellie was swinging on Sam's arms, singing something about her big bear coming home, and there was no way in hell that Dean was walking away from a moment that golden just to figure out what Charlie had cooked up – not with Sam going beet red when Ellie started a new verse.
When Charlie looked back towards him, her cheeks were flushed, but that didn't keep her from following Jo up the hall to the second floor – or from coming back downstairs thirty minutes later with a big black bag slung over shoulder. She leaned down and kissed Ellie on the forehead and brushed Sam's cheek before grabbing Dean by the wrist and pulling him behind her right back out the front door.
She let go of his wrist once the door clanged shut behind them but Charlie didn't stop walking until she hit the car.
I packed enough for both of us.
Another slow flush crept up her cheeks, the names of three different beers flickering off of her glasses in multi-colored neon crackles. She had one hand on the front passenger door, shivering a little when a gust of wind picked up her hair. It fluttered back down to her shoulders, her other hand tightened around the black strap of her bag; knuckles stretched white as she worked her lip and waited for his answer.
Charlotte Anne Webb had come up with another plan.
And he didn't even want to know what was in the bag.
That didn't keep him from opening up his door, catching her smile when she slid the bag between them.
Dean was stuck in the front row of a freak convention.
The dance floor was full of girls wearing black dresses with wings and idiots with makeup and mohawks sticking a foot up into the air. All of them smelled like sweat, crashing into each other underneath red lights filtered with smoke – dancing to some song about a cow and turning leaves and being stuck in the frigging ocean talking to the goddamn cow.
The only reason Charlie wasn't falling down was pure luck. She had stumbled her way into the middle of the whole damn thing, people keeping her upright while her arms flailed and she whirled into them like a pinball.
The way she had him dressed up, Dean was the biggest freak of all. He slammed his line of three tequila shots when his damn foot actually started tapping in time to a drum beat.
Dean shifted in his chair, muscles flexing in his thighs when some guy grabbed Charlie from behind – moving in close and whispering something in her ear that made her scowl. She pulled back her elbow and smashed it into the dude's solar plexus in time to the bass line and she didn't look back when he doubled over, weaving her way back to their table.
She tripped, hitching herself up into her chair with a laugh, and downed her own line of shots before focusing her eyes on his. "I kicked it old school," Charlie said, inching her chair closer to his before leaning forward to throw her arms around his neck.
"Didn't look much to me like you kicked him."
Dean was going to say more, about how she was holding out on them with the whole Catholic schoolgirl thing, but one sentence was all he could manage after she began kissing the pulse underneath his ear, nipping into the curve and licking off a bead of sweat before it reached the collar of his t-shirt.
"Jimmy's brother taught me that when I was a freshman," she returned with a shiver, pulling back to smile up at him. "In college." Charlie's face scrunched up and her voice deepened into a Massachusetts cadence. "It's a big responsibility, Charlotte. You can only use the elbow for good." She snorted, poking him in the chest when Dean frowned, and suddenly she sounded like Charlie again. "You don't need to worry or anything. You're still my hero."
Charlie trailed her finger down past his waist, curling into one of the pleats. "And you're pretty fucking hot in a kilt, Dean Winchester." Her breath burned against his neck as she twisted just enough to slide a hand up underneath the hem, nails scratching across his thigh in slow circles. "I like the easy access," she added. Her wrist brushed against his cock, skin against skin, and she swallowed – a shaky breath as Charlie moved her hand away.
Dean swallowed himself when their eyes met and Charlie put both elbows on the table, resting her chin on her hands. "You look like you're stuck in your own personal hell." Charlie's voice was so soft Dean had to get in close just to hear her.
"At least they're not playing the crap you listen to in the shower."
"Cibo Matto is not crap," she retorted. "Sam likes them."
"Hate to break this to you, sweetheart, but Sam listens to musicals."
Charlie raised her chin for a split second like she was getting ready with a comeback before bunching her fingers in his t-shirt, pulling his mouth down to hers. "I promise I'll make it up to you," she said against his lips, all spice and smoke from the dance floor. "I…" She shook her head sharply, raising her hand to flag down a waitress. "I just really miss dancing," Charlie added once the waitress had walked off, another line of shots on the way for both of them.
"You call that dancing?"
"You can be such a jerk, sometimes." Charlie crossed her arms and a ghost flickered in her eyes. "It's easy to sit back and make fun of someone when you're too chicken to meet a girl halfway."
"If I were making fun of you, you'd know it." Dean grinned. "The word spastic never left my mouth."
"Prove it," she shot back, returning his grin. "Get out there and shake your groove thing."
It was bad enough that the chick who used the word 'boink' because 'sex' made her blush had just reduced his ass to a 'groove thing' – but the waitress showed up at his elbow right as the words tumbled out of Charlie's mouth. She didn't even try hiding the smirk on her face as she set three shot glasses down in front of each of them before walking away as fast as her combat boots would take her.
"There's not enough tequila in the world, Charlie." Dean snorted. "You've already got me walking around commando in a kilt." He spread his hands on the table in front of him. "And I let you do this to me."
Charlie looked down at her own hands, tipped with the same color polish, and picked up her nearest shot glass. She coughed once and gestured down at his own row until he clinked a glass against hers. He watched the line of her neck as she tilted her head back and swallowed, setting her glass gently on the table. She leaned into him, hair falling around her shoulders in sweaty curls that smelled more like her and less like smoke than they should – just a whisper of strawberries underneath the burn of the tequila as Dean brought his mouth down onto the back of her neck.
"You're going to let me do a lot more than that, Dean Winchester."
It was another promise wrapped up in a dare, the voice she used when there was nothing but pulling and pushing between them – a gasp and a whisper rolled up into a moan that shot right through him when her body arched, fingers digging into his hips or his shoulders or his back like it was all she could do to hold on.
And Charlie didn't move when his hands started roaming, relaxing into it with a sigh that he probably didn't deserve.
"That's pretty pushy coming from the chick who turned me into a walking freak show."
"I'd feel a lot sorrier for you if you didn't have three different tables full of girls staring at you all night." Charlie kicked his boot just hard enough with her own to get his attention. "Wondering what in the hell you're doing here with a pushy chick like me," she added, her fingers wrapped around another one of her shot glasses, thumb pressing hard into the side.
Dean brought his mouth down right to her ear, lips so close he could feel the hair prickling along her neck. "It's because you're pretty fucking hot in a corset, Charlotte Webb." He watched the flush slide up her neck when his hands rested underneath the curve of her breasts.
"You don't even see them, do you?"
She wasn't asking about the girls and Charlie didn't even wait for his answer, her hand trembling when she brought her shot glass to her mouth – knocking it back with one long draw and lining it up with her other empty glass. She immediately downed her third drink and pulled away, twisting so that she could look up at him.
"All that stuff about my war wounds," she said softly. "Sometimes…" Charlie pressed her fingers against his mouth. "Sometimes it's hard for me to believe that you mean it." She sucked in a breath, moving her hand to cover the scar on her arm; still self-conscious after all that time. "Even when you're wearing a kilt because of me," she added. "Like it's a test or something." Charlie started blinking, swaying a little in her seat as she braced herself on her elbows. "We can leave if you want to."
"I'm not giving up my front row seat." He leaned back in his chair, watching the smile spread across her face when the words sunk in past the tequila haze in her eyes. "Still got some drinks to finish," Dean said slowly. "And you've still got some idiots to elbow in the gut."
Charlie tipped forward to kiss his cheek before shuffling backwards on her chair; she grabbed his arm to steady herself when her feet touched down on the floor. "Can you order another round?" she asked, her body already moving when another hard bass line started pounding through the speakers. "And maybe some nachos?"
"That depends. You going to stop acting like a walking chick flick?"
"I am a walking chick flick. And I know where you sleep."
"You're pretty scrawny to be making threats, Girl Genius."
Charlie didn't say anything to that – just turned on her heel with a wicked smile, the one that she flashed whenever she was planning some kind of fiendishly clever revenge. It almost served her right when she tripped back out to the dance floor, skirt swirling just high enough for Dean to catch the glint off of a metal buckle and a pale stripe of skin.
Dean grinned, slamming a shot right when a little shake to her hips rolled her into the mass of thrashing bodies, and flagged down the waitress.
Charlotte Anne Webb had stamina – especially for a chick who grew up in a library.
And she was stubborn as all hell.
Charlie never stopped trying to drag his ass out onto the dance floor and he finally gave in when she was the only one left, falling down to the plaster with a whoop when the song ended – some goddamn monstrosity about traveling around the world with some punky chick that only she would have liked. The DJ grinned down at her when Charlie called out a 'thank you' like the idiot worked in one of those used book stores that she and Sam were always making Dean stop at, trading in paperbacks they'd already read for ones they hadn't, and the DJ had just handed her the bag.
"Dean, I thin' I tripped."
She smiled up at him, voice husky from belting out all those songs she had spent hours spinning to inside a cocoon of strangers who couldn't even hear her, and damn if she hadn't known the words to every single one.
"That's 'cause you're a klutz," he retorted, putting a hand underneath each arm.
Dean managed to pick her up off the floor, keeping her steady until she wrapped her arms around his neck – elbows crossed underneath his hair while she wobbled into a stand. "Better not be tired," she said. "Got plans for you."
"Bet you're gonna do somethin' stupid."
The lights came on all at once, bringing protests from a group of emo kids still hunched over a table. Charlie blinked up at him, fumbling at her side for the purse he'd stupidly slung over his shoulder and her mouth twitched when he solemnly handed it back to her. She pulled out her glasses and just looked at him like he was that two headed love child she'd been screaming about during their last round, clutching her little purse and reaching up to brush her lips against his ear.
"You look good in purple."
"Some idiot might've tried t' steal th' room key."
Dean was going to say more but Charlie slipped the strap over her shoulder, a slow flush creeping up her cheeks as she rocked back onto her heels. Dean closed his mouth with an audible snap when Charlie's fingers cupped over her mouth, hiding the giggle that her shoulders gave away. He scowled, wondering what in the hell was so funny about a purple purse, but then Charlie was looping her arm through his and dragging him out the door behind her.
She led him out into the parking lot. Her hair was a limp mess, sweat-shiny underneath the lone light flickering next to the front door – grinning up at him so wide-eyed she looked like someone had planted a two-by-four into the back of her skull. Charlie stumbled resolutely forward until she took one left turn off the sidewalk, hauling him into an alley that lined up with the back entrance to the nicest place a Winchester had slept in a long time.
The wind had picked up since they had hit the bar but not even a tornado could stop Charlie from singing when she wanted to. He wasn't surprised when she let go of his arm, twirling around him in time to what passed for the melody she'd been humming but she followed it up with a shimmy that he didn't expect after stepping into a patch of dappled light, filtered through a fire escape.
"Punk rock girl," she warbled off-key, "You look s' wild. Punk rock g – "
A sibilant hiss followed by a tabby-colored blur raced over Charlie's boots as a cat rushed out from a hole in the wall, crouching down low underneath the blue trash bin. It yowled, one lone howl, and stared at Charlie with glittering eyes.
"Here, kitty." Charlie bent down, one hand outstretched and, and took a breath. "Just you an' me," she sang softly but that didn't keep her from strangling the words. Her hand was open and Charlie looked right up at him like she was asking a question. "We'll travel 'round th' world," she continued, "Just you an' m – "
The cat cut her off with a wail, her eyes going round as it streaked past her hand.
"Gonna scare more than a cat with your caterwaulin'."
"Prick," she returned, tripping back to stand next to him. Dean snorted and she poked him in the stomach.
"One day you're gonna have t' poke me with somethin' besides your bony finger." Dean closed his hand over hers. He put one arm around her when she started tilting, moving her so that she could lean against a building.
"I miss Jinks."
Charlie had mentioned the cat once to Ellie, both of them curled up near the window in the Roadhouse and staring at the rain. Ellie had asked her what it was like when she was little and Charlie started telling a story about a cat in the library where she used to read, tickling Ellie when she got to the part about Jinks kneading her belly – but Ellie was looking out the window.
Charlie's eyes had the same shimmer, a glisten that had nothing to do with the rain.
"I don' think it was runnin' away from you."
He nodded. "Just your singin'."
"You suck…" Her voice trailed off, eyes angry. Her finger shot right back into his stomach before her hands curled into his t-shirt. "I'm not gonna forget this. Makin' fun of me when you should be doin' somethin' else," Charlie whispered into the curve of his neck. There wasn't much he could say to that which wouldn't get another finger stuck in his gut. "Cap'n Clueless."
"What th' fuck?"
"You heard me," she exhaled into his ear. "Clueless."
"Let you dress me up." Dean took a breath, slamming his mouth down onto hers. "An' I watched you dance," he managed, lips so close that he felt her suck in a breath. "I watched you twirl around like a little dancin' queen when I should've been pokin' my ears out with pencils."
"An' I wore heels." One sharp point pressed hard into his shin. They were pretty damn sexy boots, even with her black and purple striped tights. "You were gonna boink that blonde skank in an alley," Charlie added. Her hand reached underneath the kilt, zeroing in on his dick. Her fingers were cold when they encircled him but that didn't keep him from pulsing in her hand.
"That was – "
"Before you an' me?" Her eyes glittered just like the cat's, hand moving slowly up and down his length, until his dick quivered. "I'm not pissed about Arlene," Charlie added, lifting up her chin defiantly when he raised his eyebrows at her. Both hands were underneath the kilt, fingers scratching into his ass as she pulled his hips towards hers. "I'm pissed 'cause you don' wanna push me up against th' wall an' fuck me. Want bruises shaped like bricks."
"Gonna fuck you now," he hissed, pressing her backwards. Dean pulled her skirt out of the way just enough for her thighs to wrap around his, heels coming up to rest behind his knees as they shifted. Charlie bit her lower lip when he started thrusting, swelling around him as he shoved her against the building.
"Gonna have t' keep th' hell up," she whispered, her voice crackling as she suddenly bucked against him and Dean dug his thumbs into her waist just to keep them upright. Charlie was pulling his t-shirt out from the kilt, hands slipping up inside to brace herself along his back; the corset scratched into his chest while they moved, dipping his mouth down onto her neck.
She made a noise deep in her throat that would have sent ten alley cats running, a groan that kept pace with his breathing while they rocked hip to hip. Nails scratched a whole orchestra of dares along his back when she started shuddering but her hips picked up speed, skin slapping against skin while her fingers held on, until he was the one moaning and fucking her mouth as hard as he fucked her – sinking as deep as he could into the waves cascading through her belly.
It was only afterwards, listening to her breath hitch when her feet slipped down his calves, that he realized he'd been set up.
"You're not wearin' panties."
"Score one for Cap'n Clueless." Charlie grinned up at him and snorted, tightening her hands on his shoulders. "Dancin' Queen?"
"Tellin' Sam you like Abba."
Charlie kept right on laughing, even when he started kissing her.
The door slammed, catching Charlie on the ass as the wind pushed it closed.
She barreled into Dean and knocked them both into the green pile carpet, arms wrapped around his waist as she giggled an 'oops' between his shoulder blades. Charlie managed to push herself into a sitting position, glasses cock-eyed on her nose, and he moved out from underneath her. She clutched his collar and kissed him, tongue slipping into his mouth and darting against his until he had to push her away with a hand on each shoulder.
"Wanna do it right here, Dean?"
"In th' hallway?"
Charlie nodded, tugging on his t-shirt. She had it pulled up to his neck, leaning forward to lick along one of the silvered scars up his shoulder, before his brain caught up to his hands. Dean grabbed her wrists. She was holding on to the hem of the shirt, shivering like he had smacked her hand.
"I wanna pin you t' a mattress an' fuck you like a goddamn jackhammer, Charlotte Webb." Her eyes widened, cheeks flushing when the words registered, and she stopped clenching the t-shirt like it was a life-line. Dean straightened her glasses as the shirt dropped. "An' this is our room," he added, pointing towards a door.
At least he hoped it was their room because there was nothing keeping him from throwing her over his shoulder and breaking down the door while Charlie kicked her high-heeled boots. The last thing they needed was to give some poor old coot a heart attack when a girl dropped onto his bed from out of nowhere, all legs and arms and a breathy sigh as she pulled Dean down deep; tiny little moans pouring out of her every time she rocked her hips.
Dean shook his head sharply, stumbling to his feet before pulling Charlie up alongside him. She leaned against the wall and opened her purse, one loud snap that echoed down the hall. He was probably lucky that alcohol shut down her mojo completely because Charlie just bit her lip, intent on finding the prize at the bottom of her little purple purse, while he stood there like a slack-jawed idiot wondering why Mr. Happy wasn't giving her a full salute.
"Got it," Charlie whispered triumphantly, waving the key card.
She was going to get jack thanks to their last round of tequila and the way her eyes looked back in the goddamn alley.
Charlie's eyes narrowed, focusing on the door number before she slid the card into the reader. She frowned, watching the light stay red, and pushed it in a couple more times before he snorted and she turned it over. "Be nice," Charlie warned. "I'm intoxticated," she added with a smile when the light shone green, pushing down on the handle.
She flashed him a look over her shoulder when she wobbled into the room, all storm and thunder underneath her eyelashes.
His dick barely twitched.
Charlie set her purse on the dresser next to the television. "I gotta pee, Dean." She staggered past him towards the bathroom. She stopped to flip the 'Do Not Disturb' button on the lock, one fluid motion with a turn on her heel that was graceful until Charlie lurched forward and grabbed the bathroom doorknob.
"Pee?" Dean nearly choked. "You're gonna freshen up, aren' you?"
Her shoulders stiffened when she heard the strangled noise, whirling on him with her hands on her hips and another stumble. "Don' start, Mr. I Gotta Take a Leak." A slow blush crept up her neck before her hand shot out and bunched into his t-shirt, pulling him close. "Just 'cause I was raised t' have manners," Charlie whispered. The scar on her left arm burned underneath his hand, a shudder followed by the sudden hitch of her breath. "I had t' act proper."
Dean swallowed. "Don' have t' act proper now."
"Don' usually have sex in alleys," Charlie said, her mouth softening into a smile. Her hands fluttered around his neck and she looked up at him, laying a kiss on his chin. "But I really gotta pee." She poked him in the shoulder. "So don' take off th' kilt."
She snorted when Dean waggled his eyebrows, taking a step backwards into the bathroom and peeking around the edge of the door as she closed it. He smirked at her until the door clicked shut, scrubbing his knuckles down his cheek, and sat down on the bed. Imagining her sprawled out on the comforter, legs trembling as he dipped his mouth between her thighs, brought a hard rush that lasted long enough for him to realize there was water running in the bathroom; she was humming off-key, spinning around his head in counterpoint to a seventeen-year-old girl's hard laugh.
It wasn't the first time Hell had frozen over.
Even when he was sixteen and drunk off his ass, stuck in some party that blurred together with the last town, Dean could find a willing chick – a girl like Joanie Watts, all bright eyes and tight pants. He dragged her into the nearest bathroom, slipping her out of her pants with a wink and a promise. She breathed promises of her own, how she was going to suck him off as soon as she came. But when she reached down into his pants, tugging on his lifeless dick, Joanie burst out laughing.
He had to screw all of her friends, picking them off one-by-one, before he stopped hearing jokes about Dean Winchester's limp dick.
There was a creak as the bathroom door whipped open, followed by a tiny 'crap' as Charlie's head jerked forward. She kept right on moving once she started, gaze steady on the bed, and fell onto the mattress next to him. Charlie twisted into a sitting position.
She had left her glasses in the bathroom along with her skirt, showing more pale skin covered in goose bumps wherever his hand touched. Charlie let out a breath when Dean traced down the length of a scar, covering his hand with hers and sneaking up to capture his mouth. Dean dropped to the floor when she broke the kiss, grabbing onto the ankle of one boot.
"Don' you want me t' wear them?"
He wanted to feel the heels dig into his thighs while he screwed her but taking off her boots would buy him some time. Charlotte Webb wasn't some random bar skank. There was no one else to screw and more to lose than pride.
"Somethin's gonna break," Dean said softly. It was going to be him or it was going to be her, just a roll of the dice to figure out which one when Charlie's face crumpled. She wasn't good at hiding things for all that she could twist in on herself and disappear; it would cut her to the bone, every gasp someone made because of how she looked flickering like shadows down her face when Charlie realized he was laying there like a dead fish. "Probably your neck, Charlie."
"Probably," she laughed. Dean tugged at the laces while she watched, sighing when his thumb pressed down on her instep and leaning back on her hands when he began to rub the soft pad. "But I'm gonna ask for foot massages now," Charlie added when he started pulling off the other shoe.
"Th' horror," Dean retorted.
It was easy to return her grin – just as easy as grinning when Charlie and Sam were arguing about contextual translations or she was massacring Creedence in the back of the car. The ghosts would slip from her smile when she opened up the window and let the wind rush over her hand, tires whirring on the asphalt and Sam jabbering on about something that made Charlie's eyes meet Dean's in the rearview mirror and both of them would grin all over again.
"I know," she breathed, not fighting the hands opening her knees. "Havin' t' touch my feet."
"Th' things I do for this gig," he murmured, licking a stripe up the crease where her leg met her hip.
Charlie made a soft noise, something between a moan and his name, when his tongue slid between warm folds. Dean went slow, alternating between leisurely passes and a swirl when he touched her clit – the hard bead throbbing with each rasp of his tongue. She leaned back on her elbows, resting her feet on his shoulders, and gave herself up to it; rolling her hips slowly at first, breath hitching in sudden time to his thrusting tongue as she stuttered 'oh oh oh' and pushed his head down harder between her thighs.
Her legs stiffened, closing in on his ears, and she pulsed between his lips while his tongue worked against her; turning into one long sigh as her body shuddered and then relaxed against the comforter, loose-limbed and beaming and pulling herself farther up the mattress to keep from slipping off the edge of the bed.
Dean started crawling up after her when she grabbed the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it up over his head and throwing it over his shoulder. He diverted her attention from the waistband of the kilt, nipping the sensitive hollows of her neck and pinning her underneath him.
"Gonna take it slow," he whispered. Dean pulled away to rest on his heels, knees on either side of her hips. She was bending like a bow when his palms cupped her breasts, stiff points pushing through the corset. He brought his mouth down, sucking hard on the fabric until Charlie groaned. "Gonna make you beg."
Dean licked the sweat beading beneath the first metal clasp as he unfastened it. He didn't stop until the corset was spread open, lips and fingers tracing each crinkle of skin mapping across the areola of her left breast before moving to the right and starting all over again.
She tasted like salt and strawberries.
On any other night – when he hadn't downed more tequila than God – that taste was more than enough.
Dean groaned, her hands heading up into dangerous territory and curling around the back of his thighs. She grabbed his ass every time he sucked and dragged the flat of his tongue across a nipple. When he started using his teeth, Charlie lifted her back up off the bed with another moan that lodged deep in his belly and scraped her nails back down to his thighs.
The best place to keep them was in plain sight.
"Get on your knees, baby." His voice was harder than he meant it but the blush on her cheeks was making his own pulse pound. Dean didn't move, watching her scrabble backwards to make room – not trying to help her when she braced with her feet and pushed herself out from underneath him. "An' hold th' headboard," he added when their eyes met.
Charlie swallowed, kneeling near the headboard with her hands resting on the curved edge – head bowed while she waited for him.
He was screwed.
"You been plannin' this a long time?"
Dean wrapped one arm around her waist, snaking his right hand between her thighs. Her hands trembled when his fingers spread her open, joined by small ripples up her back when he began working his thumb against her clit. He flicked his tongue at the base of her neck, drawing slow across her pulse, and brushed a palm leisurely across her breast – smiling into the curve of her neck when the nipple stretched to meet his hand.
"Been likin' this one so far."
"Some of my plans don' suck."
Charlie twisted her head to look back at him, already meeting his mouth halfway. When her hips started to buck, Dean slowed everything down. Her groan past his lips should have been enough to press her against the headboard, taking her from behind.
"Told you I was gonna make you beg."
He planted a kiss at the base of her neck, tugging one arm gently through the armhole of her corset – pushing it out of the way just enough to continue a slow descent down her spine. Her own hand was finishing what he had started, filling the room with another low moan that beat out its syncopation in time to the wet sounds of her fingers.
He was so fucking screwed.
Dean grabbed her wrist. "Hands up where I can see 'em," he growled, slapping her palm against wood. "Now I'm gonna make you squirm," Dean added, tongue following a line of sweat down the small of her back.
Charlie gasped when he gripped each side of her ass, licking down between them. He passed over the tight round hole, bringing his tongue down to push up into her from behind. Her thighs started trembling when his tongue flickered back up the crease, flat and wide across the rosy pucker of skin. She had never been so slick, pushing down on his fingers in counterpoint to his tongue thrusting past the small ring of muscle; both of them ramming deeper with each quiver and the soft roll of her abdomen picked up speed the faster his tongue and his fingers worked inside of her.
"Oh, God..." She rocked backwards against his mouth, all want and salt against his lips and fingers – swaying hips and a spasm against his knuckles that howled all the way up his arm. "Dean."
And he couldn't even meet her halfway.
"No, Charlie, I jus'…" Dean exhaled, watching her shoulders deflate as he sank backwards. "Fuck."
Charlie's hands flexed against the headboard while she sucked in a ragged breath, head bent forward far enough that her hair fell around her face. He waited for the laugh and he waited for the way her eyes were going to crack him open like a hammer and a chisel and he waited for her to leave because he always broke everything – broke it all to hell.
He waited for her to do something besides stare at her knees.
Dean sat on his heels and listened to both of them breathe, ankles going numb.
Charlie was holding onto the headboard like it was all that was keeping her from falling down, knuckles as white as the scars on her arm. Her head came up slowly as her hands fell to her side and she turned around to look at him. She didn't look like she was going to laugh and her eyes were shiny and Dean didn't know why she wasn't trying to run.
But some questions were better left unasked, even when her mouth thinned into a line and Charlie lowered her eyes.
"Miles used t' get drunk a lot." Charlie picked at a string on one of her stockings' purple stripes, watching it slowly unravel. Dean had always known there was someone before him, some asshole who burned into her worse than the fire, but it was the first time that Charlie had ever used his name. "It was like home, Dean. Someone puttin' me down without sayin' a word."
She continued like he hadn't even tried to stop her. "Miles got drunk so he didn' have t' see me. He thought it was th' sensitive thing t' do, that I'd feel better if it was his beer that didn' want me." She looked him right in the eyes. "Miles thought I'd feel better 'cause of a lie." The string in her hand was longer and Charlie's mouth quirked up despite the glimmer in her eyes. "An' I was dumb. I tried t' believe he was tellin' the truth."
He wasn't any better, pushing her to the edge of wanting and then letting her loose with nothing but a thread to hold onto while she fell.
"You picked th' wrong Winchester."
"Don' think so," Charlie said. Her fingers were touching his face from out of nowhere, plucking a kiss and pulling away with Dean's hands still in her hair, and she didn't flinch when Dean didn't let go fast enough – a sharp tug that he felt in his own skull. "Sam talks all th' time," she added. Charlie slid off the bed, arms stretched out in his peripheral vision as she tried to get her balance. "There are parts of Sam I'll never know. He keeps secrets, hopin' I'll believe him if he hides his lies in a smile."
Sam had been pulling that trick with 'I'm fine' since he was eight, rolled over onto his side thinking that Dean hadn't heard him cry and Dean let him believe it because it was Christmas Eve. And Sam thought Dean was blind – that Dean couldn't see the way Sam stared out of the window after they left Poughkeepsie, saying goodbye to three months of apple pie and a girl who loved math.
A drawer opened behind him.
"You do th' same thing with a joke that Sam does with a grin but I can pick you up like a wide-area antenna." Charlie started rummaging through the drawer, her voice muffled like she was facing the wall. "So the next time you're janglin' like broken glass in your head, you shouldn' convince yourself that I don' hear you." The drawer closed sharply, followed by her body shifting and the brusque snap of metal against metal. "An' you should remember that takin' care of each other means you don' carry everythin' by yourself," Charlie added, a ragged sigh hitting him square on his back.
His jaw clenched when the mattress dipped and Charlie moved back onto the bed.
"Since you don' understand what takin' care of each other means," she said, "I'm gonna show you." And suddenly her lips were pressing down between his shoulders, hands tracing the muscles before she started rubbing the strain at the base of his neck with her thumbs. "You're stronger than you'll ever believe, carryin' things since you were four, and you didn' break from th' weight." She rested her forehead on his back, her voice a murmur. "But bein' strong doesn' mean you're alone."
Dean tried to swallow past the throb in his throat, the way she could turn something into a promise simply by saying it. Charlie raised herself up, her cheek hot against the curve of his neck when something that wasn't her pushed into the kilt. "Needin' someone doesn' mean you're weak," she whispered, holding him so tight across the chest that her breasts flattened against his back. "An' I'm stronger than I look."
A kiss brushed his earlobe.
"Get on your knees, baby."
Dean sucked in a breath, waiting for the punch line, but Charlie's hands slipped down to his hips. When he didn't move, she pushed his shoulders forward with enough force that his face was rushing to meet the pink and green comforter. Dean managed to steady himself on all fours, her breathing just as tattered as his when she started pushing his legs open wide enough to kneel between them, but he smirked up at her over his shoulder.
"So how many plans did you scrap t' get me on my knees?"
Her face went bright red and rosy patches covered her chest and arms as blood rushed up to hide freckles, her scars standing out in stark relief. Even Charlie's hands, resting on his ass while her eyes widened, felt like they were blushing.
"There you go again," Charlie answered gently, lifting the kilt out of the way without breaking eye contact. "Words don' work, Dean. You're a Winchester."
She reached a hand down to pick up something near his knees, a quick twist of the wrist followed by a wet sound and a sticky sweet smell. A finger slipped down the crack of his ass, leisurely reaching its target before making deliberate circles against the small ring; her other hand curled onto his hip, bracing him as she widened the muscle with the tip of her finger, and she smiled when a slow shudder crept up his thighs.
"I could go stand on top of your crappy car, yellin' at anyone who passes by abou' how I'm in love with the world's biggest prick." Charlie kept the pressure steady, pushing her finger inside and crooked it – pulling it out smoothly along with a rumble deep inside Dean's chest. "But you don' believe in things you can' touch." She bent down and kissed the small of his back, her finger still rubbing the pucker. "You only believe in things you can feel," she added, thrusting past the small muscle and crooking her finger again.
A moan ripped out of Dean when Charlie added a second finger to the first, another cool rush of lube against his skin as opened him. He shifted, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on the mattress; cotton fisting in his hands when the smooth head of the dildo replaced her fingers, white light against the back of his eyelids as it moved deep – inch by slow inch, blowing him open just like the wind pushing curtains back from a window.
She waited, taking the ragged noise she tore out of him as an answer before drawing backwards, hands tightening on his hips.
The pressure started building in his belly, roaring up his spine when she thrust a second time – a hairsbreadth faster but not nearly fast enough, his arms trembling as the blood rushed into his cock. And suddenly she was moving with the rhythm of his pulse, harder trapped underneath his skin and his stutter and her tiny moans every time her hips bucked; faster screamed past white knuckles and the metallic rasp of mattress coils and the whir vibrating after a split-second click.
She shifted up, fingers wrapping around his cock while he rocked back up into her. He was hard and heavy and finally pulsing in her hand, each stroke making him speak in tongues – 'damn' and 'fuck' and 'God' spilling past everything, keeping the secret close until she was the chisel and she was the hammer and he cracked open into her hand with the promise of 'Charlotte.'
He was the flood against her fingers, spraying the comforter in time to the sing-song litany trembling into his back – her low voice promising to ride with him to the end of the highway and telling him that he loved strong enough to break curses and that she was always his between breaths.
She was curled on her side, one bent knee resting on his thigh. Charlie twitched, flopping her hand against her nose when Dean leaned down and kissed the pale curve of a scar along her breast. The corset was lying in the same pile as her shoes but she was still wearing her garter belt – metal clasps loose without her stockings. Charlie leaned into his hand when he pressed it against her belly; one funny little snore waking her up when rough calluses touched down on white spirals.
Charlie blinked and propped herself up with her elbow, brushing through his hair with her free hand before placing her palm against his chest. His t-shirt was hanging off the television, right next to a black and purple striped stocking and one of his goddamn boots, but she had managed to keep him in the kilt until they collapsed on the comforter in a salty tangle of arms and legs and sweat. She took a breath like she was going to say something but just watched him, goose bumps prickling up her arms when a chilled blast of air started swirling into the room.
"You do know my birthday's in January, right?"
"That's what it says on the ID with your real name on it."
"So, uh…" He swallowed. "It's not your birthday, is it?"
That made her laugh, hooking her fingers into his waistband. "The things I do for this gig," Charlie managed with a straight face before she cocked her head, pulling him in closer with a tug on fabric. "Can't a girl just take you somewhere for the night and screw you?"
"Guess a girl can."
Dean returned her grin and Charlie's elbows were suddenly bent tight behind his neck. She rolled onto her back and dragged him with her, mouth crash-landing on hers as she opened up to him with a sigh. His hands bunched into the pillow on either side of her head and Dean pushed her thighs open with his knees, her feet hooking around his calves as she brought her hands down to lift up the kilt. He sank in deep, her fingers tight on his ass, and her mouth didn't break from his until he began kissing a trail down to her breasts.
"You taste like day old tequila, Dean," she breathed.
"You taste like the goddamn worm," he retorted, pulling his mouth away from another spray of goose bumps just long enough to get out the words before wrapping his lips around her left nipple.
"And we both need a shower." One of her hands stretched wide on the back of his head when he started nipping with his teeth, her back arching up into it. "I'm serious," Charlie added. "I should be dragging you into the bathroom to freshen up." Her other hand stayed right on his ass, balancing one steady slide after another with a flex of her fingers into the muscle, and her heels slid up behind his knees.
"Can't a girl just shut up for five minutes so you can screw her?" he hissed. "Fuck, Charlotte."
"When you put it that way, how can a girl resist?"
First and foremost... I'm worried about the adult content in this one. If someone really feels the story should not be posted here, please let me know. I will be happy to take it down.
The title of this story is unashamedly stolen from "Punk Rock Girl" by the Dead Milkmen. My poor husband has had to endure my gleeful renditions of "Bitchin' Camaro" while I wrote this in addition to random bouts of "if you don't got Mojo Nixon than your store could use some fixing."
This one is set in a season two AU. Most of the characters are recognizable from canon but Ellie is a little girl Dean and Sam rescued from a demon terrorizing an orphanage. If you've been reading my porny ficlets in order, you should already know Charlotte by now. If you don't, I guess the operative terms are: scarred and empathic.
And, yep, I used the word "knuckles." Several times. I'm a bad, bad girl…
The song about the cow is "Cowtown" by They Might Be Giants. Hey, you've never lived until you've slam danced your way through a live version of "Cowtown." And it was a shout-out to the lovely lj user=embroiderama, who loves TMBG as much as I do.
"There's not enough tequila in the world, Charlie" is a direct homage to Mystery Men's classic line: "There's not enough beer in the world, Spleen." Another pop culture reference…just because I can.
"Three months of apple pie and a girl who loved math" is, in fact, The Square Root of Pi. Don't you love it when I'm self-referential in my own fic? At least I didn't have Charlotte start quoting Penny Hillsworth. ;-P
If the characterizations here seemed closer to the way they act in Always Falling than the rest of the 'verse, it was probably deliberate. I even recycled a few snippets of the dialogue to reinforce that feel, which may have been a combination of laziness and nostalgia. Sue me. I was on antibiotics for ten days when I wrote it.