Title: Original Sin
Characters/Pairings: Dean/OFC, John
Rating: NC-17 (het)
Warnings: foul language, underage sex (Dean is 16)
Summary: Written for the hoodie_time prompt: Pre-series: apple orchards, cider, autumn sunlight and mist, and everywhere the smell of apples, on her skin and in her hair, and she's not his first, but at this moment, he's pretty sure that she's the best when she pulls him down all soft and pliant and needy into the colored leaves.

Real damned shame that she's a succubus and John's got to save him. Worse that he nearly DIED and later in his sickbed, after he's won the battle for his soul and his life, and he has to have a chat with Dad who, yeah, saved him from a succubus who was fucking him to death. He's kind of thinking he'd rather have died. And, no, he totally will not admit to his Dad dressing him after blowing the bitch's brains out or how he held onto his Dad shaking and terrified because sex is supposed to be nice not almost fucking KILL you and shit. He just won't. He's Dean mother fucking Winchester after all. (But, yeah, he did.)


Ms. Jessop is probably the prettiest substitute teacher Dean has ever seen. Ever. Normally teachers are stuffy, wear cheap clothes, and have bad hair and worse make-up ideas. They are decidedly not-cool, decidedly not-sexy, and decidedly not-interesting. Except, you know, Ms. Jessop. She teaches American history for two weeks while Mr. Buchanan is laid up in the hospital after falling down the stairs and breaking his leg. She's young, freshly out of teacher's college, and has strawberry blonde hair and soft pink lips and eyes that are grey like the sea after a storm. She wears ponytails and jeans with button-down shirts, and has the sexiest, shy little smile that Dean is sure she only ever shares with him when she tells him how well he's doing, how bright he is.

And man, what that smile does to him.

At sixteen years old, Dean isn't exactly an aficionado about sex or anything, but he's done it a couple of times already so he isn't a virgin. But when Ms. Jessop looks at him, he feels like one. Hot under the collar, palms sweaty, blood rushing straight to his dick and isn't that embarrassing? When their eyes meet sometimes his head will swim, like it's stuffed full of cotton or he's deep underwater, only without the pressure. Like floating. And it's worse when he catches the faint whiff of her perfume as she passes his desk, her fingers occasionally trailing across his shoulder in an encouraging pat that makes his skin tingle. Then he could swear he can taste her, can see flashes of himself naked with her, tumbling limbs and panted breaths, as she calls his name in a wanton moan while he sinks into her heat –

And then the moment will pass and he'll realize he's still sitting in class, now with a painful erection, and he'll have to ride out the rest of the class with his book in his lap and hope that no one notices. So embarrassing.

Ms. Jessop askes Dean to stay after class one day and Dean thinks for sure he's going to have a heart attack. He gulps and resists the urge to check his breath and armpits to make sure he doesn't stink before approaching her desk. He can feel his heart beating a mile a minute with nervous anticipation.

"I wanted to ask you about that," she says quietly, a gentle smile playing over her perfect, porcelain features as she points a delicate finger at the bruise on his temple.

Courtesy of an angry spirit throwing him into a bookcase.

"Coupla jocks thought it'd be fun to pick on the new kid," he lies instead with a careless shrug. It isn't as if he hasn't been in that scenario enough times with all the different schools he's been to. "Nothin' I couldn't handle."

"Are you sure that's all it is?" she queries, those ruby lips pursing in thought. Then the faintest ghosting of touches against his skin as her finger traces the bruise, brushing a baby-fine wisp of blond off his forehead. "It looks painful."

"Nah," Dean hears himself whisper. Her touch sends tingles of pleasure tickling through his skin, his pulse racing as all the blood rushes south. He just… wants to kiss. Just taste her. Just once.

And then she's leaning towards him, those soft lips ghosting against his, and his breath catches. He closes his eyes and surges forward, catching her lips in a scorching kiss. He thinks he must be dreaming, but her hands are suddenly grabbing his head and pulling him deeper into her, solid and demanding and real, their breaths harsh and devoured by the kiss. He wants more, wants to touch her skin and taste her nipples, wants to tease his fingers under her panties and –

"Later," she breathes into his mouth. "We can't…" gasping into his mouth. "Not here."

Dean nods, even though here sounds like a great idea to his sex-befuddled brain.

"Where?" he manages to pant.

"The orchard. Out by McGarrigle farm. It's beautiful this time of year. Private."

Private. Private is good. Then maybe he can latch onto her breast and suck like he wants to. Maybe then he can push her skirt up and feel her warm, wet centre with his eager fingers.

"I'll meet you there at 6," she says. "Don't tell anyone. This is our secret."

Like Dean would be breathing a word of this to a living soul. Like he even has anyone to tell.

"I'll be there," he promises instead, and the kiss they share when they say goodbye feels like a solemn vow of things to come.


It's like something out of a fairy tale. It's harvest time, right before Thanksgiving, and the leaves are coloured in reds and golds and oranges, like flora fire springing up from Mother Earth herself. The apples are overripe and the air is thick with the scent of spices and sweet nectar. Everywhere Dean looks he sees bright reds and greens, juicy, fat apples in bushels and barrels on the ground and in carts, hanging gorged in the trees and waiting to be plucked. And in the middle of it all is Ms. Jessop, her strawberry hair rustling in the wind and filling his senses with sunshine and starburst, cinnamon and cloves, cider and mulled wine.

It's a bit surreal, like Adam and Eve or something, the way they stand naked before each other in the garden (or, if you want to get technical about it, orchard). She looks as perfect as Dean knew she would, skin milk-white and delicate, breasts firm and ripe with tiny, pink buds for nipples and a roan bush of hair in an almost heart-shape leading between her legs. He drinks in the sight of her with genuine appreciation, feeling awkward and shy, in spite of his usual blustering swagger, as her eyes take him in with similar appraisal and appreciation.

"Beautiful," she whispers reverently. "You're perfect, Dean. Perfect."

It's like a benediction. He can feel it settling over his skin, a warm trickle of satisfaction washing over his shoulders, cascading down his back, tickling down his legs and settling in droplets on his toes. She's smart, and beautiful, and experienced, but he's got her approval. Out of all the guys she's met, either at school or in her personal life, she picked him to be with here and now.

They come together like moths to a flame, drawn to each other, and every touch, every kiss, feels like a blessing. Dean cups her delicate face in his hands and holds her close as he kisses her sweet mouth, savouring the berry taste on her lips, drinking her intoxicating taste. His head swims as he's saturated in her, in the fresh abundance of the harvest, in the timeless feeling of life circles and continuity and… well, all things planty and growy.

She lets him take the lead, all soft and pliant in his arms as he lays her down on the grass and worships every inch of her skin with kisses. Her gasps of delight and moans of pleasure make him drunk with her, but he doesn't stop. He looks at this beautiful woman, his teacher, and feels like he can be the man his father wants him to be: proud and strong and brave. He looks at her trusting face, the open invitation in her eyes and in her spread legs, and feels special instead of the usual loner-outsider-nobody he's always been.

"You're perfect," she murmurs again, drawing him back to her, and he descends to her mouth to swallow her breath with a searing kiss.

When he finally sinks into her, sheathing himself inside her warm, wet heat, he feels the heavens explode behind his eyes. It's almost too much, too intense, and he gasps at the feeling of waves of pleasure coursing through him, crashing into him, like ripples passing under his skin. Ms. Jessop wraps her legs around him, pulling him in deeper, and Dean seeks out her lips with his to reform their connection, to bring himself back to her to ground himself through the feeling of too much, of floating away. He just… he just needs to… Fire building under his skin and he's too hot, the waves spiking in ripples of pleasure-pain taking his breath away.

"You're perfect," Ms. Jessop coos, her nails clawing down the broad expanse of Dean's shoulders. "So bright. So bright and perfect. My beautiful boy."

Except it's… It's not perfect. It's too much. Too fucking much. Her voice is like a thousand tiny hooks sinking into him, pulling him deeper into her, and he can't catch his breath because she's stealing it with her kisses. She's stealing his breath and his skin is on fire, his blood burning with acid, and the pleasure-pain has notched up to just plain pain.

But he's still fucking her, his hips rutting forward almost frantically, like he can't get enough. Or else, maybe it'll all be over if he can just climax.

"Mine," she breathes into him. "Mine forever. So perfect. My beautiful boy, Dean."

It hurts. Oh God, it hurts. Her voice stabs into his brain and tears it to shreds. She's undulating beneath him, her hips writhing up to meet his thrusts, her heels digging into the small of his back to drive him deeper, deeper, deeper, and with each movement he can feel bits of himself breaking away in white-hot shards of agony. Where she hungrily devours it, needing more, more, more.

"N-nuh," he tries to protest. "'s'wrong. Hurts. I can't—"

But she seals her lips over his and sucks the words and the breath from his lungs silencing his protest.

Please stop, he thinks. Something's wrong. You're killing me.

Then she digs her nails into his back and claws her way into him and Dean screams.


Dean doesn't know how long he's trapped in the whitewash of agony, but it seems like hours. Ms. Jessop – who Dean now realizes must be some kind of succubus or sex demon or something – has got her hooks sunk into him so deep that Dean can't break free of her spell. He knows, on some level, that he's dying, or every close to it, and yet he can't pull himself away from her, can't stop the frenzied fucking that's leading him one thrust after another towards death or possibly even damnation. He can feel her drawing energy from him, can feel her feeding off of his emotions and his hormones, but he's pretty sure that the curtain closes on the whole shebang if and when he reaches orgasm.

So he's trying really, really hard not to. Because he's 16 and he doesn't want to die, or have this bitch steal his soul. But, being 16, it's also really, really, really hard to hold it back and not fucking cum like he very, very badly wants to. Needs to.

Think you can tire me out before you do? her voice purrs in his head.

That's the plan, bitch! he thinks.

That's why you're perfect. Her essence all around him is smug and delighted. So bright and shiny with that brave, heroic, selfless soul. I can't wait to just gobble you up.

Then she somehow flips them over so that Dean is the one lying on his back while she rides him like a cowgirl. It sends new waves of agony screaming through his veins and makes cumming a lot harder to withstand. With every undulation and thrust down onto his dick he feels himself teetering closer to the edge, feels his soul being ripped stitch by stitch from the fabric of his being.

"There we go," she purrs. "Cum for me, Dean. You'll be mine forever."

"I don't fucking think so," a deep voice husks out through the sea of pain washing through Dean.

There's a bang and a shriek, and the whole world comes crashing down on top of Dean like an asteroid from deep space. The impact slams into him so hard he jolts, loses his breath completely, and sinks into the earth like a sack of potatoes. He can't breathe, can't feels his fingers or his toes, can't fucking see or hear anything.

He thinks maybe the succubus won.


Dean doesn't remember Dad showing up and blowing the succubus's head off. He doesn't remember slipping away and his Dad performing CPR to get him breathing again. All he remembers is something sweet and good turning into something horrifying and agonizing, a soft, inviting body turning into a death trap.

When he finally comes to, it's to find himself back in their motel room, tucked under the blankets and shivering like he's suffering through an arctic winter. There's a bone-deep chill that rattles his teeth, and he knows without seeing his reflection that his lips are blue. He feels tired and lightheaded, still slightly outside of himself, like maybe his soul got yanked out a bit and didn't fit properly inside when it got shoved back in.

"So," Dad says, startling Dean with his presence.

Dean looks up to see his father sitting at the table with his journal open and notes spread out all over the place. The other bed, when Dean looks, is empty.

"Where's Sam?" Dean asks in a voice as brittle as onion paper.

"School," Dad replies. When Dean raises a questioning brow, he goes on to explain. "You've been asleep for 12 hours."

Oh. Huh.

"So," Dad continues. "You wanna tell me what the hell that was about?"

Dean tries to sit up but finds he just doesn't have the energy. He feels dried up and used and kind of bloodless and imagines this must be what vampire victims felt like (if there were such things as vampires). He flops back into his pillow and heaves a sigh.

Dad looks pissed. Really pissed. His dark eyes are darker than usual, his mouth a thin, tight line, and the worry lines around both his eyes and mouth look creased deeper.

"Succubus?" Dean hazards a guess.

Dad gives him an empty, unimpressed look and huffs out a sarcastic, "What was your first clue?"

Oh God, Dean really wishes he could crawl into a hole and die. This is probably the worst kind of shit to get reamed for, right? Getting almost fucked to death by your substitute teacher in an orchard? That's deathly mortifying, right? And Dad saw him naked, stopped the bitch while they were still fucking. Dad probably even dressed him (most definitely dressed him) before bringing him back to the motel.

"m'sorry," Dean mumbles, redfaced. "Wasn't thinking."

"Oh I can see that," Dad growls as he stands up to loom over the bed. "Dean, what the hell were you thinking? I checked out that bitch's ID when I dumped her car – that woman was a teacher at your school!"

"Substitute teacher," Dean corrects, unhelpfully.

"You're sixteen years old!" Dad goes on. "Even if the woman hadn't turned out to be a soul-stealing sex demon, she was your fucking teacher! That's the kind of thing that gets noticed, gets the kind of attention that this family does not need."

And really, Dad's so right that Dean can't even hope to offer up an excuse.

"I thought you had better sense than that," Dad goes on. "Jesus Christ, Dean – you weren't even using a condom!"

Aha – return of the morbid, earth-swallowing mortification and shame. Humiliation, thy name is Dean.

"Now I get that she probably worked her sex mojo on you," Dad offers up as a peace offering. "You're young and stupid yet, so I get that you weren't able to recognize the signs. But I expected more from you, Dean. I have to be able to trust you to make better decisions than you did tonight."

Dean doesn't know why he says it – it just kind of slips out – but when he does, the most pathetic, tiny-voiced admission slips from his lips.

"I thought she liked me."

And to top off his horror and shame, Dean bursts into tears. Maybe it's the enormity of what he's just been through, having to fight for his very soul while a monster gripping him within and without sucked his life essence away one intimate thrust at a time. Or maybe it's the kick-in-the-nuts surprise of it all, that something so pleasurable and intimate for Dean could be used for something so awful, so ugly. Maybe it's the fact that he'd been played, been tricked by Ms. Jessop's kind praise and gentle smiles into thinking that she'd seen something special in him (other than an easy fuck and an easier meal). But Dean feels suddenly very small, and very stupid.

"Just be careful, Dean," Dad says, voice softened and all traces of anger gone from his face. "I almost lost you last night. I can't… You just gotta be more careful."

Dean sniffs and nods, wipes furiously at the tears on his cheeks and tries to pluck up his courage. Dad's watching him with sad eyes, like Dean's a tragic headcase and he doesn't know what to do about it, but the man doesn't say anything else.

They pack up their gear while Sam is at school and leave town before the 6:00 news has even started.

~Fin~

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