HEHe i saw u requests are open so i wanted to ask you to write dean winchester x reader whos a skripperrrrr
like he wonders into the local club to let off some steam from a hunt and gets a private dance from Y/N to release stress 😏😏
Pairing: dean winchester x stripper!f!reader
Content: 18+, alcohol consumption, body descriptions, mentions of blood, poorly written pole work, dry humping, protected p in v, probably workplace misconduct because most clubs aren't down with sex on the job, riding, one-night stand
Summary: after a particularly stressful hunt, dean waltzes into the local club for a drink and some entertainment, but finds much more than he bargained for
A/N: this is my late contribution to kinktober!!
The night still smells like blood.
Not the sharp, copper kind that means someone’s bleeding out, but the ghost of it— clinging to Dean’s jacket, crusted under his fingernails, seeping through the seams of a hunt that went sideways before it finally went right. The Impala rumbled into a nowhere town lit by cheap orange lights and hand-painted pumpkins, the kind of place where every storefront fronted a bar and the churches were left yearning for purpose.
He wants whiskey. He wants noise that doesn't sound like screaming.
He wants to forget for a few hours that the world has forsaken him.
The sign reads 'Velvet Fang', the 'A' burnt out and hanging on by a thread. A jack-o’-lantern flickers beside the door, and the bass from inside rolls across the parking lot like thunder too lazy to lift its head. Dean runs a hand down his weary face, feeling the rasp of dried salt on his skin.
The bouncer looks bored enough not to notice the blood smudge near Dean’s cuff, a true blessing following such a colossal shitfight. Inside, the place is half smoke, half coloured light, with a soundtrack that throbs more than plays. Women in sequins and fake fangs prowl through the glow, hips swaying under cobweb garlands, collecting tips from men who haven’t seen daylight in a while. Men that have families waiting for them at home; wives and daughters.
Dean slides onto a stool and orders a double Jack, the ice clinking against the glass like a shallow taunt. The first hearty sip burns crisp lines through his stomach.
Halloween night, bodies painted like sinners, the air sweet with perfume and desperation. The kind of atmosphere where everything was a little too hot, a little too easy.
And a little too rowdy... much more so when the next girl waltzes onto the stage.
The spotlight catches the glitter dusted across your shoulders; the rest of you built of slow rhythm and heat, the pole gleaming silver under your hands. Your costume isn't much more than black lace and cheap devil horns, but there's a twinkle in your low eyes that makes you look both sacred and wrong at once. The crowd lean in. Dean doesn't mean to, but he follows suit, green eyes glued to the slow ripple of your tits in the confines of a little black bra that's a size too small.
You move like the music is a current and you were born in it. Imperfect spins, little slips of balance that only make you seem real; like a person, not a fantasy. And maybe that’s why Dean can't stop watching. After monsters and blood, after all that hollow adrenaline, the sight of someone who truly lives in her body felt almost holy.
When the song ends, you bend to gather the bills, hair sticking to the back of your neck and thong creeping further up the small of your back. Dean’s knuckles are tight around his glass as he leaves a twenty on the counter without thinking, just to steady his hand, and the bartender raises an eyebrow.
“Private rooms in back. Halloween special.” The bartender drones, wiping off a few glasses from patrons likely moving on to the next bar.
Dean can only muster a dry laugh as he stares forward at the stage, like he's hoping you'll step back out for an encore.
“Yeah? She do confessions?” Dean drawls, his voice dripping with sarcasm to mask the sliver of sincerity behind his words.
“Only if you’re tipping heavy.”
The back hallway smells of candle wax and cheap vanilla body spray. Strings of orange lights lead him past curtained doors, muffled jazz, and desperate groans.
Dean finds you waiting with one boot braced on the peeling leather sofa, sloppily lacing up the other. Up close, your makeup seems to soften, the tired flutter of your lashes and the smudges around your lips only serving to arouse and intrigue Dean more. And the way you glance up at him, quite obviously trying to get a read on your clientele, with a flicker of hesitance and undeniable curiosity catches him off guard. It’s the kind of look that makes him forget the rough night he came here for, that has his chest tightening in a way he doesn’t like to name. You straighten, fingers lingering at the edge of your boot as if you’re daring him to say something first. The silence stretches, electric, and for a heartbeat Dean swears the room shrinks to the sound of your slow breath and the creak of leather.
“Rough night?” You finally ask, your gaze lingering on the dried blood on Dean's jacket and the soft pink marks along his jaw that'll be purple come sunrise.
“You could say that.” Dean shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck as he takes note of the way your brows furrow with every new scuff and graze you notice.
Your almost forget that this guy is here for a dance and a quick blow if he tips well enough, those pouty lips and his roughed up hair catching you off guard and making your heart flutter. But you're pulled from the innocent façade of Dean's beat up, pretty face the second you glance down at the bulging tent in his jeans.
You pat the sofa, urging him to take a seat as the leather crinkles and squeaks against your lightly calloused palm. Unsurprisingly, Dean obliges without the slightest convincing, groaning as his back hits the deflated cushions and letting his legs spread.
The music from outside seeps in— bass, laughter, men yelling for another round. You let it fill the space slowly, far from sensual, but the twitch of Dean's hips when his low eyes glance down at the supple skin of your tits peaking from beneath cheap lace... it's enough to remind you of the task at hand. A mission to ease such a pretty man's sorrows for the night and make it home with a hefty stash that'll shut your landlord up for the next few weeks.
When you climb onto his lap, your perfume hits him first, the sweet smell of vanilla interlacing with bitterness and smoke. Dean breathes it in, slow and shaky. Your eyes, your lips, your hair... you're too pretty for this life. To be surrounded by the filth of the streets, demons in their own putrid, twisted way. It twists Dean's heart, urging him to save you, whisk you away and just keep driving until the two of you reach the horizon.
Without even having a real conversation, he knows that could never happen.
“This okay?” You murmur, shuffling your weight in his lap as your arms wrap around the back of his neck.
Dean swallows, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he meets your gaze with an intensity that makes your heart race. You do this for a living, letting random men feel you up and rut against you. Some are hot, some aren't. But Dean... there's something about him. Something about the way his pouty lips part to shakily exhale, and the way his bruised fingers twitch as they hook beneath the string of your thong to ground himself. He seems so pained, so tired, and it makes you wanna forget about the money, the next client, the club rules. You want him, because he seems to actually, truly want you.
Dean's hands find your hips, a breathy exhale brushing the shell of your ear when he guides you to sit flush against his crotch. The denim of his jeans strains against your inner thighs, his cock already hard and twitching beneath your touch. You roll your hips just enough for friction, enough for Dean's breath to catch and your bottom lip to quiver with need.
It isn’t lust yet; it’s relief. The simple human reminder that touch can be good. Not violent or gross. Just pleasure.
You talk while you move— half jokes, half confessions. He tells you about the road without telling you what he really does. You tell him about the weirdos tonight, about glitter stuck in your sheets. The words blur with the rhythm until they stop meaning anything and become sound, heartbeat against heartbeat with the occasional, faint whimper or sigh.
Your hips find a steadier rhythm, one that drags slow heat up both your spines. Dean’s palms tighten at your waist every time you roll down against him, like he’s fighting the urge to pull you closer and sink into whatever comfort you’re offering without even realising he’s doing it. His breath keeps catching, little stutters of need he tries to swallow but can’t. You feel every single one where his chest meets yours.
Your cheek brushes his, the scrape of his stubble is rough, warm, grounding. His hands slide down, thumbs pressing into the dip where your spine meets the swell of your ass, and something helpless bleeds into his exhale.
“You’re real,” Dean mutters, more to himself than to you. “Feels… fuck, you feel real.”
You don’t tease him for it. You don’t even smile. Because up close, you see the exhaustion threaded through his pupils, the bone-deep ache he’s been numbing with adrenaline and whiskey and pure stubborn will. You weren’t supposed to care, but you do, just enough to soften your movements, slow the grind of your hips into something meant for him, not just for the job.
Your fingers slip into his hair. He shivers, actual shivers, like no one’s touched him like that in months.
“If you want more than a lap dance… you say so.” You murmur, letting your voice drop low as you look him over.
Dean's jaw clenches. Not with guilt. With hunger. A sharp, sudden, visceral kind of need that rushes through him so fast his hands tremble against your ass.
“Yeah,” Dean breathes, forehead just barely touching yours. “Yeah, sweetheart. I want-”
He cuts off with a hiss when you grind down a little harder, the ridge of his cock catching perfectly against your clothed pussy. Your thighs tense around his hips, heat pooling low in your belly as his eyes flutter shut like he’s losing the battle to stay composed.
“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.” You whisper, though there’s a tremor in your voice that betrays your own need.
But Dean’s patience snaps like an overstretched wire. His hands slide up your sides, over the slick edges of lace, learning you like he’s memorising something vital. He cups your tits through the bra, thumbs brushing the thin fabric over your nipples, making you gasp softly, involuntarily.
“Jesus,” Dean groans. “You’re killin’ me here.”
You tug the bra strap down your shoulder, just an inch. Just enough to show him the swell of soft skin and the hint of your nipple through the lace.
Dean doesn’t say a word. He just moves.
Big, warm hands sliding beneath the cheap black lace, pushing it up until your tits spill free into the dim light. His mouth is on you before you can blink— hot, desperate, scraping tongue and hungry lips, sucking your nipple into his mouth like he’s starving for it. You gasp, your back arching beautifully as his teeth graze just enough to make your cunt clench hard around nothing.
He growls against your skin, low and animal, the sound vibrating straight through your chest and down between your thighs. His hands grip your ass harder, pulling you flush against the rigid line of his cock, and you grind helplessly, chasing friction like breath.
“Tell me what you want,” Deane mutters against your tits, voice ruined and muffled as he leaves hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses up the valley of your chest, green doe eyes staring up at you. “I’ll give you anything. Anything.”
Your nails drag down the back of his neck, catching lightly, and the gasp he lets out nearly undoes you.
“I want you to fuck me.” You breathe, barely able to get the words out with how hard your pulse is hammering.
Dean’s whole body goes still— not in hesitation, but in pure, stunned need. His pupils blow wide, dark and wild.
You nod, reaching beneath the sofa cushion into the emergency stash every dancer keeps, though you’ve never used one on the job before. You drop the small foil into his hand, and the way he looks at it— like he’s been handed a miracle he doesn’t trust— makes your chest twist.
He tears it open with shaking fingers, unzipping his rough jeans and working the rubber down the length of his flushed, drooling cock..
You lift, just enough to free him. He holds the base of his cock, thick and flushed and aching, and you lower yourself with a slow, trembling exhale. The burn hits first sweet— stretching, perfect— and Dean’s jaw drops, his head thudding back against the sofa.
“Shit-” Dean chokes out. “Fuck, sweetheart, you- oh God.”
You sink down inch by aching inch until he’s fully seated inside you, buried to the hilt, and both of you freeze under the shock of how good it is. How overwhelming. He looks up at you like you just remade his entire night, maybe his whole damn week.
“Move for me,” He whispers, voice breaking. “Please.”
You do. Slow, rolling, taking him so deep your vision blurs around the edges. His hands are everywhere, gripping your hips, sliding up your waist, cupping your tits like he’s trying to map the whole shape of you with his palms. He helps you rise and drop, rise and drop, your pace building with every wet glide of your pussy down his cock.
You pant, leaning forward until your foreheads touch again. Your nails dig into his shoulders. His breath shudders against your cheek. The room smells like sweat and vanilla and the faint metallic ghost of blood he didn’t wash off. The music outside swells, strangers laughing, bottles clinking, life going on... and none of it exists, not in here, not where your bodies are moving in a rhythm that feels like survival.
Your pace quickens and the creak of the sofa joins the rough cadence of your breath. Dean rises to meet every downward push of your hips, the thrusts sharp enough to steal little gasps from you. His fingers dig harder, like he’s trying to anchor himself to your body because the world outside has never offered him anything worth holding onto. Not like this. Not like you.
The burn of the stretch melts into something molten, something heady and addictive. Every time you sink down he hits a place inside you that steals thought, language, reason. Your thighs tremble. Your breath stutters. Your cunt tightens around him in desperate pulses that make Dean curse like prayer.
His forehead presses to your chest. His lips brush the top swell of your breasts, not kissing, just breathing you in. Like he’s been wandering the desert and finally found water. There’s a tremor in his voice when he murmurs your name. He says it like scripture. He says it like he’s on his knees, knuckles split open, begging for absolution he’ll never earn.
“You feel like heaven,” Dean breathes, the words ragged. “Like somethin’ I’m not supposed to touch.”
The irony isn’t lost on either of you. A sinner inside a devil’s room, worshipping your body with the reverence of a dying man clutching a crucifix.
You lift your hips and drop again and again, riding him harder, chasing the way his lashes flutter and his teeth grit, that raw hunger etched across his beautiful, bruised face. Dean meets your pace, thrusting up to meet every movement with a sharp, needy snap of his hips. His breath breaks apart into little groans that shake down your spine.
You lean in and kiss the corner of his mouth. Not tender. Not romantic. A branded heat that says you want him, that you feel him, that he isn’t imagining this moment. Dean shudders so violently your own breath catches.
His hands slip behind you, holding your waist, your spine, everywhere he can reach as if he’s afraid you’ll fade into smoke. He thrusts harder. Rougher. His cock drags along your walls in a way that makes your thighs quake and your vision blur around the edges.
“Look at me,” Dean whispers.
You do. And his gaze hits like a strike of lightning, bright and overwhelming. His pupils are blown wide. His green eyes have gone soft, raw, almost luminous in the low orange glow of the room. He looks wrecked beneath you, undone, like he’s been peeled open and you’re the only thing keeping him whole.
The knot in your tummy tightens slow at first, like a rope pulled taut, then fast and vicious, coiling through your belly and sinking sharp claws into your spine. Dean feels it in the way your body tightens, in the way your breath breaks. His thumb drags up your plush waist, light as a whisper, and you fall forward with a whimper as the pleasure blooms hot and consuming.
“Come on, sweetheart. Give it to me.” Dean rasps, voice so soft it breaks something inside you, heat crashing through you in a quake that tears your breath from your lungs. You hold him tight, thighs shaking, pussy clenching down around him in rhythmic spasms that drag a deep, broken groan from his throat.
Dean’s grip on your hips tightens. His thrusts stutter, hips jerking as he’s pulled under by the feeling of you clenching around him so hot and desperate. His head tips back, jaw slack, throat working around a curse that sounds far too much like praise.
“Christ. I’m so close.” Dean gasps. You ride him through it, messy and eager, guiding him through the edge as if you can carve the tension out of him with your body. The latex drags against your inner walls each time he thrusts up, and his breath turns ragged, hips beginning to snap faster, harder, desperate for release.
The moment hits him with brutal force. Dean buries his face against your chest, fingers bruising your hips as a deep, guttural sound rips from his lungs. His whole body tightens beneath you, every muscle straining as he spills into the condom with a force that leaves him shaking. He curses again, lower, choking on the intensity as you ride out the last waves of his climax with slow, trembling rolls of your hips.
Then it’s quiet. Not perfectly, not with the muffled music and laughter leaking through the walls, but quiet enough that both of you hear the hitch in each other’s breath. Quiet enough that your heartbeat hammers warm against his temple. Quiet enough that the world outside the room disappears again, replaced by nothing but the soft, shared exhaustion of bodies that found solace where they shouldn’t have.
You stay sunk down on him for a few lingering seconds, catching the ragged breaths between you. The sweat on your skin cools in the low light. Dean’s hands, still warm on your hips, loosen gently, as if he’s afraid any sudden movement will shatter what just passed between you.
You finally lift yourself off him with a slow, soft exhale. Dean hisses quietly, oversensitive, his fingers sliding down your thighs to steady you. He ties off the condom and sets it aside, then leans back against the sofa, chest rising and falling in long, exhausted breaths.
You settle beside him for a moment, thighs still trembling. The silence is tender, even if neither of you would call it that. Dean’s gaze drifts over you, lingering on the smudged makeup, the flushed chest, the trembling lips. Something unreadable flickers across his face.
“You okay?” Dean asks, voice low, rough, melting some of the post-climax haze.
You nod, brushing back a strand of his hair that fell across his forehead. His eyes track your mouth. Not hungry now. Not desperate. Just… grateful. Like you offered him something he didn’t expect to find in a place like this.
You reach for your bra. He reaches for his jacket. The world will flood back in when you open the curtain, with all its noise and ugliness. But here, in this small pocket of dim light and sweat and shared breath, you let your hand rest on his thigh. Dean covers it with his own, just for a second.
Then the spell breaks. The room smells like sex, latex and vanilla, the faint hum of the club’s music growing louder as you prepare to part ways.
You don’t kiss him goodbye. You don’t need to. The night already took more from both of you than a kiss could ever name.
