Nothing Seems to Please

This is a series of vignettes written for the spn_30snapshots challenge on Livejournal. The premise of the challenge is to complete thirty stories, anywhere between 100 and 1000 words in length. I claimed a Dean/OFC prompt and the "kink" table. Because of that, all of the ficlets will contain adult content and themes. I will warn for each particular kink. If anyone feels that the subject matter has become inappropriate for the site, please don't hesitate to let me know. I will remove the stories entirely.

Disclaimer: The Winchester boys aren't mine.

Rating: M (Language, sex)

Pairing: Dean/OFC

Author's Notes: The prompt for this ficlet is jealousy.

Spoilers/Warnings: None.

Beta(s): embroiderama

Summary: Like he needs some ass wipe telling him what he already knows.

Found yourself a new man

There's something about watching her with an old book that can drive a man crazy – the way her breath hitches when she traces the letters down a cracked spine, like she's remembering all those mysteries the rest of the world forgot. The way her breath hitches when she brushes letters on brittle pages, like she's touching something bigger than secrets and rock salt. The way she bites her lower lip every goddamn time she turns a page, her eyes flickering across the words while she twirls her hair around a pencil.

And there's only so much a man can take when her tongue slips out to moisten her lips, when she sits up straight and the room fills up with the press of lead against paper; tiny uniform letters spilling onto her yellow legal pad.

Most nights he'd just drag her behind the stacks. He'd fuck her with his fingers, his dick twitching every time she whispers 'God' and 'Dean' and 'Jesus' – her hands scrabbling against the brick wall for purchase. He'd fuck her with his tongue and he'd fuck her against the wall until she's spitting and hissing 'harder, fuck you, harder' every time their hips meet.

Most nights he'd bruise her mouth swallowing up his name when she finally comes.

Most nights, there isn't some jackass wearing a blue button-down shirt and freaking khakis talking to her in goddamn Greek. Most nights there isn't some college douche bag cracking jokes that make her laugh just as hard as the ones he cracks about Sam when it's just the three of them drunk off their ass in some lonely bar on a backwater country road.

It's the laugh that cuts the deepest. Even when all he can do is watch them flirt like he's nothing more than the overhead lights or the shabby wallpaper, the idiot who barely understands every fourth word they're saying between smiles and nods. That stupid little snort she makes every time she covers her nose with both hands; eyes wide because no sound like that should ever come out of a girl like her.

The stupid little snort that turns into a gasp when the jackass touches her shoulder, her entire body shivering like she's been touched by a live wire.

A crack fills the silence between breaths, jagged edges digging into his palm.

"Fuck this shit," he hisses. No reason to stand there watching the floor show when there's a bar waiting for him somewhere on campus – some crappy dive full of sweaty emo kids and a whiskey bottle to get lost in. Where the chicks don't wear glasses or goddamn granny sweaters and there isn't a trust fund that he's not supposed to know about.

The door doesn't close fast enough – can never close fast enough when there's a hidden sneer watching his back with a 'did you see what he did what that pencil', when there's another 'what a freak' following him down another long hallway.

Like he needs some ass wipe telling him what he already knows.

That the only thing keeping them together is the lick and spit of a promise they both made to someone else.

She catches up to him – chases him down the hall, the uneven scratch of her boots on the carpet giving her away long before she grabs his arm. There's a hitch to her breath when she plants her feet and pulls hard, her fingers white as she holds on. They go whiter still when he tries to shake her off and she just raises her chin, light reflecting off of her glasses.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Giving you and Lover Boy some alone time." He scrapes up a grin, scrubbing his knuckles down one cheek. "Thought I might grab some alone time myself with a cute little coed while you boink a translation out of that douche bag."

"Paul is Richard Allen Foster's research assistant."

"Assistant?" He spits out the word. "Never figured you for slumming, baby."

"Excuse me?"

"Girl like you should be fucking that Beer Dude for answers." His breath comes out in a huff. "Not getting ready to swap some spit with his goddamn research assistant."

"Maybe I should," she snaps. "I mean, you're the expert on that particular investigative technique and we're fresh out of waitresses who know Greek to screw." Her mouth thins into a line when he waggles his eyebrows at her, every syllable spilling out like a shotgun shell. "You're the world's biggest prick."

Doesn't need to be told that, either. She should be back at that library in Georgetown, winding her way through the stacks – smiling that secret smile of hers every time she touches a book. Last thing a girl like her should be doing is riding in the backseat of his car on the road trip to Armageddon, fucking the wrong brother no matter how her voice curls around his name when she whispers it into midnight.

She should be fucking Sam, college boy to her college girl.

"That's what you get for hanging out with the uneducated masses, Princess. We're all a bunch of pricks and retards when you get to know us." He shrugs his shoulders, swallowing past the ache in his throat. "And here I thought you were supposed to be some kind of girl genius or something."

"Jesus, can't you just – " She pushes his arm away, her cheeks flushing as her face crumples in on itself. It's the same look she gets when he's not supposed to watch her in the mirror – when he's not supposed to see the way her eyes go dark as she pats the swirl of white scars on her belly with a threadbare towel, all disgust and resignation wrapped up in the way she pretends to be gentle. "Maybe I should – "

She should be fucking anyone else but him.

And she knows it.

Can't even do the decent thing by looking him in the eyes. She just stands there staring at her shoes while she bites her thumbnail, breathing as ragged as he is for all that she's the one getting what she deserves in the end – someone who speaks the same language she does instead of the one with incantations and silver bullets. Someone who doesn't come stumbling into their bed covered in blood and smelling like sulfur, leaving rusty stains on the sheets every time a bandage slips or stitches come undone.

"Is that what you want?" she asks softly. The edge of her nail clicks between her teeth when she finally looks at him, another flash off of her glasses when her mouth twists. He can smell the blood when the nail tears, can feel the burn like it's in his own belly as she continues to bite down on what's left before spitting it out of her mouth. "To screw a cute little coed?"

She grabs his collar with both hands. He can smell her goddamn strawberry shampoo as the fabric bites into his neck, can feel the twitch in her fingers when she hitches up onto her toes. The hair underneath his ear bristles when she sucks in a breath, hot against his beating pulse.

"Well, fuck you," she whispers.

It's nothing less than what he deserves, the way she looks at him after she falls back onto her heels. It's there in the bend of her mouth, the truth spilling into the empty spaces between them when she lets go of his collar and her hands fall to her sides; clenched fists with white knuckles that say more than anything, even when it's a different girl staring at him like the world's gone batshit crazy.

Doesn't matter if the girl is wearing the green cardigan sweater Sam found at a thrift store instead of the blue Ohio University sweat shirt her dad gave her for Christmas – it's still the same stiff tilt to her head when she finally looks away, eyes flickering everywhere but him. She's still going to run, back to that goddamn jackass with the fancy books instead of her roommate's bedroom.

And there's not a damn thing he can do to keep her from limping back down the hall the same way she found him.

Except all she's doing is picking at a loose thread on her sweater.

"I miss it," she says, fiddling with the yarn as she looks out the window. The campus spreads out from the library, bright lights and pathways that wind between the trees. "I miss my dissertation and all of the research I left behind. I even miss leading study sessions. I know I gave it up but I'll always miss it." Her face crumples in on itself again. "All I've ever been good at is dead languages. It's all anyone's ever wanted me for."

All he's ever wanted for her is that life they stole the night Sam shoved her into the back seat of the Impala. It's all he's ever wanted – to watch her walk down the sidewalk without twitching or jerking or hiding a nose bleed with one of her monogrammed handkerchiefs because an idiot she doesn't even know silently screams feelings so loud that they slip past the cracks into the places where she aches. She should be living in an old Victorian house with a little terrier named Tippy who follows her wherever she goes, doing a little dance around her feet until she laughs and picks him up and scratches him under the chin.

Even if it's with some douche bag named Paul.

"Could always stay with Missouri. Get you a fake ID." He swallows when their eyes meet. "There's the university – "

She cuts him off with a kiss so fierce she's the one pushing him backwards into the window ledge. Didn't even realize she was carrying her book bag until it bumps into his hip, a heavy weight that has her locking her hands behind his neck just to keep from falling over. "I'd miss you more," she says, when her breathing finally goes slow and she's murmuring against his mouth. "I'd miss you the most."

"That's because you're so fucking hinky."

And his voice cracks like he's fucking fifteen.

"Well, we've already established that you're the world's biggest prick." She rests her chin on his chest, staring up at him with a soft smile that doesn't see anything else but the way he grins back down at her like a goddamn pussy. "But I'll overlook that just this once if you help me move the scholarly contraband I have carefully secreted in my book bag."

"You stole a book?"

"More than one," she answers. "And I copied a set of medieval rubbings Paul wasn't supposed to let anyone see because they're being used in Dr. Foster's next book. He said they're from a church in Greece. They're identical to the sigils that show up whenever Sam..." She takes a deep breath, shakes her head sharply. "That has to be important, right? The two of us stumbling across some guy who might have a classical Greek translation of an Enochian text? It's like the Rosetta stone just fell into our laps – if the symbols on the rubbings align with the other symbols in the translation program, we can break the cipher. And I think they will." She manages to plant a kiss on the corner of his mouth without falling down. "I know they will."

God, but he wants to fuck her.

He wants to fuck her every single time she goes college girl commando, when her cheeks flush and she twirls her hair around one finger and she's going on about contextual translations in that cute little drawl of hers like it's the most important thing in the world; arguing with Sam about the differences between Greek and Aramaic while they're eating Chinese food together, her chopsticks jabbing the air for emphasis.

It's as close as he's ever going to get to that other life of hers, the one with the fancy books and the fancy schools. Probably as close as she'll ever get now herself, with her stolen books and copies of someone else's research.

Hell, he just wants to fuck her.

"So what you're telling me, Bonnie Parker, is that we're on the lam."

"I guess... I took the books before Paul even showed up and then... When I saw those rubbings, I had to do something." She bites her lower lip – and that only makes it worse, his cock aching because it's not sliding into her mouth. "People like me," she says softly. "We're not used to the attention so..." She swallows. "That's why I was chatting him up. To distract him. Not because – "

He snorts.

"You're killing me, baby. Last thing we need is some chick flick moment when we should be shagging ass."

Her eyes widen as she hitches up to lock her elbows behind his neck, pushing her tits into all the right places as she leans against him. "Promise?" she asks softly, her voice dipping into that place that makes his dick twitch. And she pulls up a different laugh, the one she uses when there's nothing but skin and sweat and the smell of them together. "Because I know the best place to shag ass," she adds, cheeks turning a new shade of red.

And he figures it out before she lets go of him, before she lurches into the stairwell with a tiny 'crap' that makes his dick twitch all over again.

She pulls herself onto the trunk of the car with an 'oof' that just might be the sexiest thing he's ever heard, with her skirt swirling around her thighs and the taunt of bare skin when she rests her feet on the bumper. And she smiles at him, sliding the fabric up slowly so that it bunches around her thighs. It's enough to give a man pause, the shadow of that smile flickering across her face as she unbuttons her shirt – so goddamn slow his throat's gone dry by the time she's shrugged the shirt off her shoulders and he swallows when the sleeves of her sweater pool around her wrists with a soft 'used to be a college coed.'

It's too dark to see the scars, parked underneath a canopy of trees, but he's memorized the tracks across her thighs, the criss-cross of swirls on the swell of her belly – the scar that curls in on itself before it hides underneath the curve of her left breast. He traces it with his tongue, light enough to make her shiver, before moving his mouth to a nipple; biting the small nub until she's squirming, sucking through the silk and the lace until she's whispering something that might be his name if her breath didn't hitch.

Might not know much about her fancy books or those goddamn languages she's always speaking but he can drag any sound out of her that she can make.

Even if it's just a tiny laugh as he unclasps the hooks down the front of her bra, tugging on the one that always catches no matter how many times he's had to practice, a laugh that turns into a sigh when he licks a stripe up her cleavage; his thumbs brushing each nipple until they're swollen and ready to suck. He makes her moan every time he nips with his teeth and flicks with his tongue, makes her moan until she's pushing her tits up to his mouth with a 'Christ' that's anything but holy.

He knows all of her mysteries, can call them up as easily as breathing the strawberry-scented sweat off the curve of her neck – the way her hair bristles underneath her ear before he starts mapping a trail down her jaw line with his mouth. The way her body stiffens when his hands go tight around her wrists, his tongue tracing circles across the swell of her belly; his lips planting kisses on the knot where her belly button used to be in time to the soft murmur of 'not there, not there, not there' until her body relaxes and all that's left is a sigh.

The way she moans when he licks the crease between her hip and her thigh.

She lifts her hips when he lets go of her wrists, her fingers meeting his as they tug down her skirt and her goddamn boxer shorts together until she can't reach anymore and he's the only one yanking them down past her knees; he's the only one who hears her 'fuck' as she twists out of the rest of her clothes, the straps of her bra catching on the crooks of her elbows.

He's the only one who sees the shine between her thighs, his cock throbbing when her knees go slack and he can smell the salt and the musk already waiting for him.

He wants to taste her, wants to push his tongue as deep inside her pussy as it will go until she's writhing underneath him, her hips bucking up into his face with a 'Jesus, Dean, fuck' when he finally sucks on her clit. He wants to use his fingers, wants to listen to the slick sounds they make the faster he fucks her. Wants to listen to her beg, wants to listen to her whimper 'do, it, do it, not going to break' before he adds a third finger to the two he's already fucking her with – wants to hear those tiny moans of hers before he finally lets her come, her pussy clamping around his knuckles and her back arching like a bow before she sinks back onto the trunk of the car; all loose-limbed and sweaty.

But the girl can drive a man crazy with the way she tilts her head backwards, leaning on her elbows like lying there open for him is the most natural thing in the world. She can drive a man crazy with the way shadows flicker across her skin when the wind rushes through the leaves, lips curving into a secret smile that remembers people holding onto the moon when it's full in the sky.

And there's only so much he can take when she whispers his name, when she whispers it like it's a talisman against the dark.

Like he's more than he's ever going to be.

Only thing to do is to fuck her when she looks like that, only thing to do is to slide into her with one quick thrust that has her whispering his name all over again – the thick soles of her boots digging into his thighs while her hands slide underneath his shirt, nails leave bloody crescents on his back. The only thing to do is fuck her, grinding against her with every lift of her hips. Pushing hard inside of her with a 'frat boy ever fuck you like this' and a bruise where a kiss should be. Waiting for the tiny little moans to start spilling out of her the faster her hips buck, waiting for the honey-filled drawl reciting its litany of promises; the ones he can only believe when there's nothing but skin between them.

He fucks her until the only sounds she can make are the ones that come out in rough sobs, meeting each one with hoarse groans pulled up deep from his belly.

The broken syllables of their own language.


The title of this story is a song lyric from "Baby Please Don't Go" by AC/DC.

My goal with spn_30snapshots was to write self-contained stories that didn't require 'verse knowledge – and I think I failed with this one. While it features the same pairing as my other challenge responses – and is written in the same style – it does rely on the some of the more pertinent details within my Strange Angels 'verse. Even so, I still couldn't resist exploring the prompt and this behemoth was the result. So it's my hope that folks who haven't read the 'verse were given enough background to understand the relationship. Promise the other stories won't be so long...

I hope.

And yeah, I know – hot guy gets jealous over geek girl and then sexes her up on a muscle car. I should be typing this in triplicate:

Hello, world. Meet my id.