Feeling me up as a porn star diesâËàż
WARNINGS: teenage angst. underage drinking. underage smoking. underage sexual activity. smut (mdni). dry humping. coming in pants. clit stimulation. cannibalism references (barely). angst. teenagers being horny. 5.0k
The drive-in becomes something of a tradition, just like the walks.
Every Fridayâwith an exception here and thereâyou and Dean go watch a movie together.
Sam stops coming along after the night you take him to see It.
You hadnât known about Samâs phobia of clowns, but Dean had. He laughed his ass off when Samâs face fell as the movie title rolled in.
âI expected this from my asshole brother, but you?â
Trust a fourteen-year-old boy to be dramatic. It takes a whole new order of marshmallow nachos and lending him your precious copy of Carrie for him to forgive you. But he still refuses to come along.
The new tradition isnât the only change that comes from that night.
Any residual ice between you and Dean has melted away.
You hang out all the time nowâafter school on the empty sidewalks, at the local arcade, at Bobbyâs house. Why Dean Winchester chooses to spend time with you instead of one of the pretty, normal girls from school still escapes you.
But you actually start to talk, even if sometimes itâs still too quiet for Dean to catch. You make murmured jokes, tease him under your breath, and even nudge his shoulder when you're feeling brave. You chat in philosophy class, whisper the right answers to him, and he says them out loud just to piss Richie Rich off. They even get into a fight once, after the asshole mocks Deanâs worn-out clothes.
âDoes daddy not love you enough to buy you a jacket that isnât half-ruined?â
The next day, the tires of Richie Richâs beloved BMW convertible are found slashed in the school parking lot. Thereâs no proof of who did it, even if Richie keeps pointing fingers at Dean.
No one notices the knife tucked inside your boot.
You also start taking Dean along on your searches for animal bones in the forest. The two of you wander through the foggy woods of Sioux Fallsâyour steps quiet and doe-like, Deanâs heavy and predatory. Once, you find a small, dainty bat skull hidden beneath a bed of pine needles. You let yourself fall to the ground, knees scraping, and rinse away the remaining decay with your water bottle.
Once itâs clean, you hold it up to Dean with a grin, like a trophy. The bone gleams under the sun, and your legs and dress are now smudged with dirt. He looks at the skull with mild disgust, but then his expression shifts into something soft and fond when he sees the genuine joy on your face.
âYou little freak,â he huffs, ruffling your hair. But his voice is soft, coated in affection.
You sing along to his cassettes when you hang out in his room, even buying him new ones from the townâs local thrift store. He even teaches you how to shoot, wrapping his big hands around yours to help you aim. You manage to hit five out of seven cans, and the proud smile Dean gives you keeps you walking on clouds for the rest of the week.
You get drunk for the first time with him on your seventeenth birthday. Only, Dean doesnât know itâs your birthday. Youâre not one for celebrations. At least, not when theyâre about you.
You sneak one of your motherâs bottles into Bobbyâs houseâwhiskey, because Dean once said he liked it. The first shot makes your eyes water, and Dean laughs, teasing you for endless minutes. You punch his arm, pour yourself another, and swallow it like water.
It burns with something inherited. A heirloom. A curse.
Dean seems to feel the sameâjudging by the way he stares at the bottle like a betrayed soldier.
Canât escape those addiction genes, you guess.
But the burning fades about halfway through the bottle.
Then, you lose all trace of shame. The barbed wire thatâs always wrapped around your throat unravels, and the ever-present tension deep in your bones evaporates, leaving only malleable, tender flesh.
Dean lies on his bed, smoking a cigarette, as you change his cassette to something you got for him. Something darker, layered, ghostly.
âThat obscure indie shit you dig so much,â Dean calls it.
âDid Sam teach you that word?â
Head floaty, empty of the voices that have haunted you since birth, you twirl around the room to the soft piano of the song.
Dean watches as the golden light of the setting sun shines around you like a divine glow. The flowy skirt of your dress rises up and exposes the smooth, delicate skin of your thighs. The smoke from his cigarette curls around you like youâre calling to itâlike it recognizes your mystical nature and craves wrapping around you.
You twirl again, trip on one of his boots, stumble into the bed next to him, and break into a mess of giggles and rosy cheeks, nearly burning yourself with his cigarette.
Oh, you wish Dean would put it out on you.
Both of you stare at the ceiling fan for a long moment of silence after that. Your hand trails down the edge of Deanâs wooden bed frame, your fingers finding one of the many markings carved into it. A pentagram inside a sun. You wonder what it means, if itâs a bandâs logo or some kind of ritualistic symbol.
Instead of asking, driven by the drunken, unstoppable need to tell the truth, you whisper:
âTodayâs my birthday.â
Another moment stretches between you, smoke slowly filling your lungs as Dean blows it toward youâyou asked him to, because you canât get enough of the smellâand then he whispers back:
âHappy birthday, sweetheart.â
The next day, Dean picks you up in the pickup truck and takes you to the drive-in, even though it isnât Friday.
âDidnât think youâd get away with turning seventeen and not celebrating, right?â
Thereâs a silly grin on his face, but something filters underneath. Something somber, blue and gray.
You donât ask. Instead, you quickly get ready for the hangout. You decide to wear your motherâs black cowboy boots. It earns you an up-and-down look and a murmured complimentâand it makes you glow.
You settle into your usual spot at the drive-in. You buy some popcorn and finish it before the movie even starts. Dean still claims he doesnât want any but ends up stealing a handful from you anyway. This time, you both sit closer to the middle of the bench seat, just inches apart.
Your eyes stay on the screen as a girlâtopless, because they always areâgives her boyfriend a little show. Theyâll both be murdered in minutes.
But Deanâs eyes arenât on her. He doesnât even glance her way as she removes her bra, slow and sensual in a way youâll never be.
No, heâs looking at you.
Quiet but mesmerizing. Tragic and magical.
Youâre scared, but youâre also starving.
Itâs been months of staring at Deanâhis pretty face, his soft freckles, his darkening hair, his darker soulâand being hungry.
You turn to meet his eyes, and something grotesque crawls inside of you.
âYouâre so pretty,â he murmurs, his hand coming up to brush your bangs behind your ear.
Your mouth parts, but no sound comes out. Youâre not used to compliments, and youâre not used to the burning sensation in your chestâthe one you know the name of, but are too scared to label.
When Deanâs eyes dart down, you know itâs coming. You have half a mind to panic because this is your first kiss. But also, thereâs something animalistic clawing at your chest, something that tells you youâll know exactly what to do.
So your lips meetâunexpectedly warm and dreamy, Deanâs calloused hand cupping your cheekâand you have to dig your nails into your own thigh to stop yourself from devouring him.
Because you want to. You want to sink your teeth into his flesh, savor it. You want to hook your fingers around his ribcage, crack it open, crawl inside, and sleep snuggly wrapped around his heart. You want to eat him down to the marrow, suck every drop of pain out of his bloodstream, press against him so close that you rot together until you canât tell where one ends and the other begins.
But for now, you settle with engulfing his lips with yours.
Dean kisses the way he shoots. Confident, expert, hitting every target. He knows exactly where to bite, how much tongue to use, and when to bury his fingers in your hair.
You, on the other hand, are all instinct. You follow what the beast on your chest demands, for the first time in your life letting yourself take what you want. You bite his lower lip, savoring the way the soft flesh gives under the pressure of your incisors. You suck on his teeth until a small noise escapes from the back of his throat. You pull on his hair, tilt your head when he does, and lick over his lips when he breaks the kiss.
You guess you did well enough, because Deanâs eyes are dark, pupils blown wide until only a thin ring of green remains. His hand tightens in your hair, enough to send a shiver down your spine but not enough to hurt.
You wish he would make it hurt.
âYou fuckinâ drive me insane, sweetheart.â
âI think you were already insane,â you deflect with humor, because itâs easier than accepting that Dean Winchester might actually want you back. âBut thatâs okay. I am too.â
Dean laughs, shaking his head before kissing you again. This time, his hands travel to your waist, slowly pushing you backward.
Someone in the background screams just as your back hits the leather seat. Suspense music playsâslow and hauntingâright when Dean hovers over you, arms on each side of your head, his breath fanning your face.
Tobacco, cherry pie, and a hint of mint.
âWe donât have to, if youââ
You tangle your fingers in the hairs at the nape of his neck and yank him down.
âI want to,â you murmur against his lips, barely keeping your voice from trembling.
Your teeth clash, and your tongues collide. This time, the kiss is violent. Lips bruising, hands groping, nails scratching. Dean shrugs off his jacket before he starts to kiss your neck. The heat that floods through your body is something youâve never felt before. His teeth graze your pulse, and then he sucks, trapping the flesh between his teeth and licking.
The sound that escapes your throat is obscene, your back arching off the car seat, moving closer to him. Your eyes slam shut, and your hands clutch his shoulders, nails biting into his skin through his shirt
âYou taste even better than I imagined,â he murmurs against your neck, his warm breath over the new bruise making your breath falter.
He continues to kiss down your throat, around your collarbones, and lower. His mouth is desperate, possessive, leaving marks wherever it latches onto. You pull on his hair, nails running down his back over the thin fabric of his shirt. It makes him moan.
You shift under him, your legs spreading, making room for him. He fits perfectly in between them, the rough fabric of his jeans scratching the tender skin of your bare thighs, his lips finding yours again.
He presses you down against the car seat, hand on your hip, his whole body weight on top of you, grounding and maddening. His large, calloused hand glides over your thigh and makes its way under your skirt, where thereâs already a wet patch on the front of your cotton panties.
His thumb brushes over the damp fabric, and you gasp. Your back arches, the touch so different from your own. Your hips buck, simultaneously trying to pull closer and away from his hand.
His grasp on your hip tightens, holding you in place as his thumb rubs slow circles over your clothed core, drawing a sweet little whimper from you.
âYouâre so damn wet.â His voice is low, almost a growl, as his finger presses harder against you, sliding between your lips and finding that little bundle of nerves.
âFuck,â you whisper, still conscious of the fact that the pickup truck has no side windows, and anyone walking by could hear you.
Youâre dripping by this point, pupils blown and thighs twitching. You feel Deanâs fingers making their way to the side of your underwear, and panic rises in you for a second.Â
Someone in the movie dies screaming, probably the love interest.
You grab Deanâs wrist, stopping him from moving further. But before he can question you and the moment gets ruined, you wrap your legs around his middle and pull him closer, until his clothed cock is pressed against your core.
Thatâs safer. That you are ready for.
Dean doesnât seem deterred by the change of plans. He simply groans when he feels the heat of you through the layers of clothing. He leans down for another hungry kiss, grunting against your lips as he rocks his hips, grinding his hard-on against you.
âTell me if itâs too much,â he murmurs, husky and rough.
âItâitâs good,â you whimper, your hips jerking up when the outline of his dick hits your swollen clit dead-on, sending electricity down your spine.
Dean moans into your mouth, biting down on your lower lip as your movement gives him a new angle of friction between the two of you.
You feel so sensitive, raw, and exposed. Youâve never felt this good, this heavenly, this sinfulâlike divinity is just on the tip of your fingers, but youâre falling straight down into the burning pits of hell.
The rough texture of denim should hurt against you, but it burns just right. The wetness dripping from you soaks through your panties, staining Deanâs jeans. Marking him, claiming him.
Deanâs hands move, cupping your breasts and squeezing, his thumbs rubbing over your nipples through the fabric of your top. It draws a needy, strangled sound from you.
âYouâre so fuckinâ hot.â His hips start to move more frantically, rubbing over your clit again and again. âWanna ruin you.â
Yes, please. Ruin me for anyone else, turn me into something only you can touch.
You throw your head back in pleasure, your hands finally landing on his chest.
You let them roam, exploring the sun-kissed skin youâve been craving for so long. Your fingers slip under his shirt, pressing against lean muscle and scratching down his abdomen when his cock brushes over a particularly sensitive spot. The red lines you know will mark his skin make the beast inside you howl, satisfied and territorial.
Dean groans, guttural and wild, his thrusts growing desperate, feralâalmost like heâs actually fucking you. It feels too good, almost too much. A bitter reminder that this probably isnât the first time Deanâs done this, that heâs been in this exact position with other girls, maybe even some from school.
But any sour thoughts leave your mind when he moans your name, low, urgent, strained. Youâve read enough books to know heâs close, that youâre about to make Dean Winchester come. Just from some over-the-clothes friction.
Your hand tentatively travels down his body, cupping his cock over his jeans.
You squeeze, hard but not enough to hurt. Or so you hope.
Apparently, thatâs the right thing to do, because Deanâs eyes snap shut, his hips buck uncontrollably, and he comes in his jeans. His breath is ragged, his hands gripping you, and his hips press further into your hand.
He pants your name over and over again, like a prayer. Thereâs a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his jeans ruined, and he looks fucking beautiful.
He rests his head against your chest, right between the valley of your breasts, as he comes down from his orgasm, struggling to catch his breath.
You run a hand through his hair gently, admiring the portrait-worthy sight of Dean Winchester after heâs just comeâskin glistening with the afterglow and warm breath all over your skin. You still havenât climaxed, but it is okay, youâre satisfied with making Dean feel good.Â
But then he lifts his head, lower lip trapped between his teeth, and his fingers find your drenched cunt over your panties. Your hips jerk, and a startled, breathy sound comes out of you.Â
âFuck, Deanââ you whine, your hands clutching his shoulders.
âFeels good, huh?â he teases, a smirk in his face. But thereâs something else behind it, an edge that you had never seen before. It is primal, possessive, and it makes you feel like youâll combust.
His fingers quickly find your sensitive little nub and rub over it. Your legs part wider, eager and pliant. Your cheeks burn with pleasure and shame and ecstasy, all at once.
Somewhere in the background, the final girl is fighting the masked killer. She runs for her life, bleeding, hurting, escaping. You ignore it all.
âDean, please,â your voice comes out all shaky and filthy. Your thighs tremble as his thumb travels down your slit, pressing onto your entrance over the fabric before returning to your clit, your slick sticking to his skin, soaking him in your juices.Â
You feel animalistic, wild, ravenous. You crave all of Deanâhis flesh, his blood, his insides. You feel floaty, on fire, soft and raw at the same time. Your thighs tense, and your back arches. Your mouth is wide open, eyes half-lidded and glossy, lips bitten-red, and tongue half out.
âCome for me, sweetheart,â he whispers against your ear, low and deep, his thumb working at your overstimulated, sensitive cunt. His eyes are all over you, like he is admiring his workâthe way you are completely at his mercy, coming apart under his touch.
Far away, blood splashes all over the screen. You are bathed in bright, crimson light as a scream escapes your throat. Your teeth find the skin of Deanâs neck and sink in, deep enough to leave marks that make the beast in your chest wail.
Your orgasm burns over you like wildfire, every nerve in your body igniting as his finger doesnât stop its ministrations. Wetness gushes out of you, completely ruining your panties and leaving his fingers sopping. You pant, your body still twitching, eyes wide as you ride your climax. Thatâs the hardest youâve ever come. You had no idea it could feel this good.
Dean pulls his drenched hand away from your drenched pussy, and then he brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting you.Â
You freeze, hazy mind trying to wrap around the fact that Dean just licked your slick off his fucking fingers. He hums, satisfied and a little strained, like he is holding back.Â
Something deep inside of you growls, and you feel sick with desire.
âWhat theââ Your hips twitch against nothing, your breath rapid and your eyes still glossy. And Dean looks so fucking smug about it.
âGod, you taste so good, sweetheart,â he murmurs with a proud little grin. Another scream, sharp and biting.
The words make you blush, and you immediately pull Dean in for a kiss, trying to hide the way your cheeks burn.
You lick inside his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue, and you moan. Fuck, you want Dean like this, coated in you, branded, yours. You want everyone who kisses him in the future to taste you, to know he belongs to you, even if he doesnât.
Dean keeps you pressed against him, his hand reaching for your face, fingers gripping your chin and holding you in place so he can kiss you as much as he wants, however he wants. You let him, allowing his tongue to brush over every corner, every surface. You let him take whatever he wants from you, just hoping that he will take good care of it.
His mouth leaves yours for a second before biting down on your lower lip, almost hard enough to make it bleed. You hiss, your legs tightening around him, and your cunt somehow getting even wetter.
You bite back, teeth digging into his lower lip, leaving you with matching bruises.
Slowly, the kisses turn softer, sweeter. Both of you catch your breath, the rabid desperation quietly leaving your bodies, leaving only the tingling sensation of the afterglow as your limbs tangle together in the car seat.
Dean pulls away from your mouth, nuzzling into your hair, breathing you in. One of his hands is wrapped around your thigh, keeping you close, as if he canât stand the thought of letting you go. He holds onto you like youâre something preciousâsomething he doesnât want to destroy but will inevitably crack under his touch.
And you will let him. You will let him break you, let him make you bleed until he feels better, until everything is better.
Youâre glad he hasnât pulled away, because you feel like you might die if he does.
Eventually, the credits roll, and you break apart. Dean pulls back slightly so he can look at you, his eyes holding the same intensity as before, but the sadness from earlier is creeping around them. Gloomy, almost mournful.
He kisses your cheek, then leaves a light peck on your lips.
âYou okay, sweetheart?â
You nod, tiny and still a little hazy. He chuckles, presses another kiss to your lips, and sits up.
Every part of your body screams at the distance, but you swallow it all down before following him, straightening up on the car seat and running your fingers through your hair, trying to tame it. Thankfully, most people have left already, only a few suspiciously dark and shaky cars around you.
âBetter get home quickly.â Dean turns on the engine, shifting in his seat and grimacing. âThis will get really uncomfortable soon.â
Right, because he knows what to do in these situations. Because heâs done it before.
You try to get as comfortable as you can, though your underwear is clinging to your skin and your inner thighs are somehow still glistening and sticky. Dean turns on the radio, and Bon Jovi starts playing. You raise an eyebrow at him, but he just shrugs, and your laugh is swept away by the wind as he starts to drive home.
Deanâs hand finds your thigh, and it stays there for the whole journey. You stare out of the window into the starry sky, your mind swirling with the nightâs events.
Your insides feel melted, turned into ashes by Deanâs burning touch. You feel like youâre glowing, the memory of his rough hands on you still fresh in your mind, your body remembering him like a tattoo you know you will never get rid of.
Dean has etched himself onto your skin tonight, carved his name into your heart, and you should be ecstatic. But his shoulders are tense, his eyes unreadable as he stares at the dirt road in front of him like it might hold some kind of ancient knowledge. His fingers donât drum along with the music, his mouth set in a thin line instead of that relaxed little smirk that is ever-present on his face. And while his hand is on you, it feels less like comfort and more like tragedy.
You make your way to your house in silence, utterly and nerve-wracking.Â
âRight, I almost forgot.â Dean kills the engine and grabs a small wooden box from the glovebox. âI got you something.â
Your jaw drops a little, your eyes widen, and you hold the box like itâs the most precious thing youâve ever set your eyes on. You havenât received a birthday gift since you were five, before your mother had found her true love in the bottles.
âYou didnât have to, Dean,â you whisper, but your fingers are already opening the box, delicately and reverently, as if itâs something holy.
âOf course I had to,â he huffs, his eyes studying your every expression.
You donât argue. Instead, you carefully unwrap whateverâs hidden in the box. A gasp leaves your mouth, and Dean snorts when you look up at him with eyes full of wonder, starstruck and beautiful.
Inside the box, wrapped in velvety fabric, is a silver dagger. The blade is shiny and wavy, gorgeous and sharp. The handle is engravedâsmooth, swooping little waves on the crossguard, words in a language you donât recognize elegantly carved into the handle, and at the end, a metal goat skull.
You devotedly take the dagger into your hands, holding it with the love and gentleness you once only had for your oldest paperbacks, those with broken spines and yellowing pages. Your fingers run over one of the goatâs horns, admiring the cold perfection of pure silver.
âIt matches with all those bones you dissect.â
You huff, rolling your eyes. âArticulate, not dissect.â
But the smile on your face is sweet and endeared, and your eyes swell up with tears you force yourself to hold back.
âThis is too much, Dean.â But your hand is already wrapping around the handle, the weight of the blade in your palm feeling natural, like it was always supposed to be there. âWhere did you even get this?â
A pure-silver dagger couldnât be cheap anywhere.
Dean shrugs, trying to act nonchalant, but his chest puffs out at the sight of you being so moved by his gift. âBobby had it hidden around in his basement, and I thought itâd fit you better.â
That makes you giggle, eyes darting up toward him. You fight the urge to jump into his lap, to wrap yourself around him and never let him go.
âIs it real silver?â you have to ask. Dean nods once and doesnât offer more explanation.
âYouâre a decent shot, but Iâve seen you with that knife of yours,â he chuckles, his hand wrapping over yours on the handle of the dagger and squeezing. âItâs just in case you need to defend yourself.â
He whispers it like itâs a secret, like heâs afraid someoneâor somethingâwill listen.
You look back down at the dagger, at Deanâs grip around your hand, at the way it seems almost desperate, scared.
You wonder why you canât just defend yourself with your old knife, why Dean wants you to have this one. You wonder about him learning to shoot, bow-hunt, and knife-throw. You wonder about the markings on his bed frame and the way he always stares at the shadows for just a little too long. You wonder about what the hell his dad does for work, and what has Dean so terrified.
âWhy does it have to be silver?â you murmur instead, because youâre really good at looking red flags right in the eye and then completely ignoring them.
Your thumb runs back and forth over the skull, and your heart flutters at the knowledge that Dean thought about you after seeing something so beautiful. Because that is the most important thing at the moment.
Dean shrugs, not quite meeting your eyes. âI donât know, it might be⊠useful.â
It doesnât explain much, but then Dean leans forward and presses a kiss to your lips. He tastes like popcorn butter and still a little like you, and it sends every rational thought flying out of your head.
He murmurs a goodbye against your lips, and you whisper it back. You hold the wooden box against your chest with veneration as you jump off the truck, closing the door and staring at Dean through the glassless window.
You offer him a sweet, enamoured smile, but his face is twisted. His smile doesnât quite meet his eyes, and his hands are slightly shaky where he grips the steering wheel.
You're about to ask whatâs wrong when he opens his mouth, not really looking at you.
âJustâplease promise me that youâll stay safe.â
It takes you out, because itâs a weird thing to say, even for you. You know better than anyone that there are a lot of things you need to stay safe from, that they come in all shapes, from shadows following you at night to your own family, but Dean says it like itâs imminent. Like danger is coming for you, soon and fast, like he knows it, like heâs seen it.
âIââ But he looks worried, pained, sad. And you canât handle it. So you donât ask any questions again. âI will stay safe, I promise.â
It seems like enough for Dean, since he nods and turns on the engine again. You stare at him a little longer. At the boy youâve been watching forever, the boy who saw you when nobody did, the boy who was the first to touch you and who you think might just be the last.
I donât need to worry about staying safe with you by my side, boy with the gun.
You stare at him as he gets ready to drive away, and something rises from your chest. Something bitter but addictive, something disgusting and cloying and infective but oh so fucking good. You know the name, but you donât say it. Not now, maybe someday.
âSee ya,â you mutter, and Dean clenches his jaw before nodding, finally looking at you like a cult leader looks at a lamb before slashing its throat open.
âSee ya, sweetheart.â
But it seems like you did need to worry, because thatâs the last you see of Dean.
He doesnât show up at school the next day, nor the next one, nor the whole week. A month goes by, and thereâs no sign of the Winchester brothers. Bobby offers no explanation more than a âIâm sorry, kid.â and a head pat.
You have no number to call, no address to mail a letter to, no reason why.
All youâre left with is a silver dagger, a newfound taste for whiskey, bruises between your thighs, and a broken heart.
The Dean Winchester special.
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NOTES: Part three! I'm so sorry for the wait, but it's finals week. I will try to be as consistent as I can with the update but it might take a little while. still, I am so in love with this story and love every second of writing it. thank you so much for all the love, I don't deserve you guys. please let me know what you think, it makes my sick little brain so happy! I love you all, hope you liked it!!!
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