SPN Fic: "sometimes the sun"
Title: "sometimes the sun"
Author: namegoeshere
Rating: R
Fandom: Supernatural.
Genre: Het.
Pairing: Dean/Jess
Wordcount: 5400ish
Spoilers: None, it's preseries.
Summary: Dean meets Jess nearly a year before Sam does.
A/N: First off, yes, there will be a sequel. Thanks so, so much to herowlness who helped me plot this whole damn thing out, not just this little fic but also everything that will come after it, and who beta'd this thing for me. [heart]
†
March 2003
For a campus bar, it's not bad. They've got Zeppelin on the jukebox, and the walls are covered in graffiti and garish neon signs. The floor is coated in broken peanut shells that Dean steps on as he circles the pool table, heading for the bar, walking past the mechanical gorilla's cage in the corner. All told, not a bad night: he's got a couple hundred bucks in his wallet from a very productive evening of hustling pool, and he knows there are at least four different girls checking him out -- which means he won't be going back to his motel alone.
The space behind the bar is plastered with rude bumper stickers, and there are signs hanging from the ceiling that say things like "Monkeys at play." Dean slides into a seat, holds up his empty bottle to signal for another beer and takes a look around. Sure enough, a couple of the girls who were watching him play pool have sidled in, and Dean feels a bit like fresh meat.
He doesn't mind.
He's weighing his options, mainly between brunette, blonde or redhead, and maybe he's in the mood for something a little different tonight. This is California after all, and blonde surfer girls are a dime a dozen. And the girl with the red hair has pouty lips and a really nice rack. He's got his beer and turns to give her a bit of a smile, seeing her face light up -- yeah, just like that.
It goes to shit when someone bumps into him, and next thing he knows, he's got a lap-full of cold, wet beer.
"Shit! Oh, god, I'm so sorry!" She's blonde, pretty enough, but nothing special, and Dean barely has time to react before she's got her hands on his crotch. "I'm so, so sorry," she keeps saying, patting him down with napkins in hand.
"No, no, stop. It's okay!" He can already feel the blood rushing to his cock, and he grabs her wrists to keep her from making it worse. "Seriously, it's okay."
"Oh, god, I can't believe I did that." She's blushing, her face bright red, still gripping the now-damp napkins. "I'm really, really sorry." She's pretty enough, sweet in a way, her blonde hair loose and curly. She's not like the other girls he's had his eye on, just wearing jeans and a t-shirt, relaxed and casual.
"Don't worry about it," he says, and satisfied that she won't go for his crotch again, he lets her go. "It's fine, shit happens."
She rubs the back of her neck, embarrassed. "I've got a washer and dryer on my floor in the dorms," she offers. "And I've got a couple beers in the fridge, so, you know, I could maybe make it up to you."
And that's when he knows she did it on purpose, and he grins broadly. "I'm Dean," he tells her, and she blushes a little more and ducks her head.
"Jess," she tells him.
He gets to his feet, pulling his keys from his pocket. "So, we gonna head out, or did you wanna spill some more beer in my lap first?" She laughs then, a little startled, and grabs his free hand.
"Well, I mean, if you want me to, I could," she tells him. She's pretty cute when she grins up at him and leads him outside. "I do have more beer in my room, so we could do that there, if you're into that kind of thing." She's trying to be funny, to make him laugh, and it works. She drags him outside, walking in front of him to cover the large wet spot on the front of his jeans.
†
She pulls him into her room, hands shaking a little as she unlocks the door. She tells him, "Get your jeans off and I'll take them down to the laundry room," but he shakes his head, pulling her over to him.
"Fuck the laundry," he says, and she grins when he leans in to kiss her. His hands are on her hips, pulling her close to him, and she can feel the dampness of his jeans and his erection pressing against her stomach. She forgets about washing his clothes. She forgets about pretty much everything except getting him out of them.
She's not a virgin, and she's not a prude, but she's never taken a guy home like this before. Still, she knows the moves to this dance, helps him get his belt undone and his jeans off. He's got her in bed almost before she can blink, and she knows he's probably done this a million times because he's really good at getting her out of her clothes. She doesn't mind, just reaches into the bedside table to find a little foil package to press into his hand, and he grins again.
"Thanks," he says, and she takes a minute to really look at him in the faint light of her dorm room. He's a little younger than she thought he was, just by a year or two, and almost pretty in a way, although his masculinity is rather... obvious. He's well-built, muscular, with a few scars on his chest and his back, and a long, faint one on his thigh. He seems completely comfortable in his own skin, not the least bit embarrassed as she lies back on her bed and watches him. That's all the time she has to admire him because then the condom is on, and he's on top of her, his mouth covering hers, and god he's good at this.
His hands are warm and calloused on her skin, and he's rough but not enough to hurt her. She spreads for him as his teeth nip at her throat, and she feels his soft laugh more than she actually hears it. "Eager much?" he whispers, his voice an octave deeper than it was a minute ago.
"Fuck, yes," she gasps. "Hurry up." And then he's inside her, and that's pretty much where any form of coherent thought stops dead because the only thing she remembers to do is gasp his name with each thrust. That hardly counts, more instinct than anything else.
The first time is hard and fast and over way too soon. She lays there gasping beneath him in the moment before he rolls off her and strips off the condom. She's not sure if she's disappointed or not, because it felt really fucking good for the few minutes it lasted. She doesn't have time to figure it out because as soon as Dean finds the garbage can and tosses the used rubber away, he's back in bed. This time it's his fingers, and he's muttering an apology for coming too soon. Her head is spinning; the only man she's made lose control like that was her high school boyfriend during their awkward teenage fumbling, and that's pretty much the furthest thing in the world from what this is.
He knows how to use his hands, knows exactly where to touch to make her gasp out, "Dean," her whole body tightening. She's surprised she remembers his name; she barely remembers her own. The orgasm is intense and then he's kissing her, settling onto the too-soft dorm mattress next to her. The bed's not really big enough for two people, but he slings an arm over her waist, pulling her close, and she sighs in relief.
He's warm along her back, pressing a kiss to the spot just below her ear, like somehow he knows it'll make her shiver. She murmurs his name, feels him smile as he kisses her there again. He says, "Sorry about that first time. The second time'll be better."
"Second time?" she whispers, likes the way his hand has started absently stroking her stomach. She feels shaky and warm, and Dean's quiet laughter is an almost comforting sound.
"Ten minutes." He kisses her shoulder this time. "Just gimme ten minutes."
This isn't what she was expecting. She thought they'd go to her room, they'd fuck, and maybe he'd spend the night or maybe he wouldn't. She isn't prepared for there to be a round two, for the man in her bed to be thoughtful enough to want to make up for a bad first try. Even the word "bad" is relative because it was a hell of a lot better than any of the other bad sex she's had.
†
He's right. The second time is better than the first, and the third time is even better than that. They finally fall into an exhausted sleep, Jess curled up against his chest, his chin resting against the top of her head. She wakes up like that, his arm still around her, and she even thinks his quiet snores are kind of sweet instead of irritating.
She tries to slip out from under his arm, to get his clothes to wash them, but he reaches out for her wrist and lifts himself up. "Where're you goin'?"
"To wash your clothes," she says, and he tilts his head, smiling a little.
"What -- so I can't leave?"
She blushes at that, looks away from him, murmurs, "Maybe something like that."
That's when Dean pulls her back into the bed next to him, kissing her despite the fact that they both have a serious case of morning mouth. "Like I said," he tells her, smiling, "fuck the laundry. Or, better yet..."
"Fuck me," she finishes for him, and he obliges. Or almost does.
This time it's different. They're both lazy and slow because it's morning and they're both a little groggy, and she spreads her legs as she shifts his body on top of hers. Dean gropes in the nightstand to find a new condom, presses it into her hands. She reaches down to put it on him, smiling sleepily as he presses soft kisses against her mouth. His breath smells terrible, but then, so does hers.
They go slow this time, Dean's hips rocking against hers, and the build up of heat in her stomach is gradual, makes her squirm. They watch each other, and she likes the way his eyes flutter shut for just a second every time she shifts her hips beneath him. He groans her name softly, and she smiles up at him before pulling him down for a kiss. In the morning, everything is softer, warmer, and his hands on her body feel almost like a lover's instead of just some random guy's. He presses soft kisses to the underside of her jaw, down her neck, under her ear where it makes her shudder and whisper, "Jesus, Dean, right there." He kisses her there again, then licks that same spot softly, drawing a ragged gasp from her, and he laughs quietly.
She likes that he laughs during sex, not that he's laughing at her, but he's just happy. Jess enjoys sex, but it's never been fun before, like some kind of private joke just between then, and she wants to laugh too, just because he is. He grins at her, his voice is deep and a little rough when she pulls him closer against her body, murmuring, "Fuck, Jess, like that," and everything's just too good.
"Close," she tells him, and he shifts. Then his hand is there, stroking, her breath hitching because that, that is exactly what she needs to set her off. She groans his name, trying to make it last, and she thinks maybe she hears him tell her to just let it happen. She's a little fuzzy on what exactly happens after that, but then Dean is lying on top of her, breathing hard, kissing her neck and murmuring Jess. It takes her a minute to realise she's still whispering, "Dean, oh god, Dean," against his shoulder.
They lay together for a while after he throws out the condom, Dean kissing her every so often. "You wanna get breakfast or something?" she suggests, and Dean smiles before he notices the clock on the bedside table.
"It's ten already?" he asks, but it's more of a statement. "Shit. I actually -- I'd love to, but I gotta go. I'm supposed to meet someone, and I'm gonna be late."
†
They stand by the Impala. She's wearing a cream coloured dress with some girly pink floral pattern, her hair thrown up into a hasty ponytail. He tries not to think about the fact that she's not wearing anything under that soft cotton sundress -- he'd rather spend a few extra hours in Palo Alto as it is, and thinking about her underwear, or lack thereof, isn't making things any easier.
"So," he says. "I guess this is the part where I thank you for spilling beer on me." They both know he's not talking about the beer, but about what followed, and she grins at him.
"No problem." She shifts to stand a little closer to him. "In fact, it was my pleasure." Dean wishes he had more time. She's pretty, sweet, and funny, and if he didn't have to be in Nevada in a couple hours, he would have breakfast with her, but...
Instead, he puts his hands on her hips and pulls her close, leaning down to press his mouth against hers. She moans quietly while they kiss, and god she sounds sweet. He reaches down, grabs her ass and swallows her squeak of protest. When they break apart, she's laughing, hits his chest without any force or real anger. "Alright, I gotta go."
"Yeah," she murmurs, and he can't help but lean in for another quick kiss. He's not sure if it makes him sad or relieved that she doesn't say anything about seeing him again.
He circles around to the driver's side of the car, says, "Take care of yourself," and she smiles.
"You too."
†
He goes back to his motel, showers, puts on some clean clothes, and then checks out. He's about to pull onto the highway out of town when he stops, reaches into his pocket to find his cell phone, and calls his father. He gets put through to voicemail, which might be a good sign that John's running behind schedule with his hunt and won't be too upset when he gets Dean's message.
"Hey, Dad, it's me. I'm gonna be a couple hours late. The engine sounds a little off, so I'm gonna stop and check her out. I'll call you when I'm back on the road." The Impala is the one reason for being late he knows his father will never question, and it'll be easy to pass it off as some insignificant hiccup later. He hangs up, puts the phone back in his pocket, and turns the car around.
He sits outside, not sure if he should try and slip in to find her, or just hope she comes out. He doesn't have her phone number, so it's not like he can call and tell her to come down. He's trying to make up his mind when he hears a voice behind him, saying, "Dean?"
She's showered now, her hair still a little damp, and she looks... pretty. He stands up, gives her a crooked smile. "Hey. Change of plans. I got a couple hours free before I have to get out of here, if you're still up for breakfast."
She grins and pulls him down for a kiss, her mouth soft against his, and damn if she doesn't taste like toothpaste when he slides his tongue past her lips. He slings his arms around her waist, holding her close, and someone whistles at them, but Dean can't bring himself to care. It's the first time in ages that he's genuinely liked a girl for reasons that can't be easily reduced to just sex.
She takes him to this restaurant that she insists serves an awesome brunch. It's not really Dean's kind of place -- he doesn't recognise half the stuff on the menu, like chilaquiles or eggs florentine, but figures he can't go wrong with a heaping plate of pancakes, bacon, eggs and hashbrowns. It's what he gets at diners everywhere, only with less grease, and apparently this maple syrup is organic. Still, it's good food, and he steals a bite of Jess's eggs benedict off her plate. She grins and pretends to stab him with her fork.
He looks as out of place as he feels, leather jacket and heavy boots. Jess is telling him about her older sister and how her favourite thing to eat for breakfast is cold, leftover pizza.
"Cold pizza?" he questions, and she grins at him.
"Pepperoni and pineapple." She laughs when he makes a face, saying, "Everyone does that! It's good, I swear!"
He doesn't tell her much about himself. He mentions that he's originally from Kansas and that his favourite kind of pizza has everything on it, except for crazy stuff like pineapple or anchovies, because fruit and fish have never belonged on a delicious, greasy pizza. He doesn't know what else there really is to say since most of his life is pretty much off-limits, but he does tell her about growing up being forced to watch Bill Nye the Science Guy by his geek brother, instead of his Saturday morning cartoons. She's a freshman like Sam, and she's doing a double major in English and History. Her sister lives in San Francisco, and her parents are in San Diego. Dean's almost surprised to find out that she's nineteen, even though he sort of knew she wasn't twenty-one. She shows him the fake ID she uses to get into bars, saying she's really an Aquarius even though the plastic says her birthday's in August.
She tells him about some of her friends, but Dean's not really listening anymore. He's trying, but she's licking hollandaise sauce off her fork, her tongue small and pink, and he's having trouble concentrating. He's not usually like this. He should be bored by now he's had her four times already, but he says, "So, you done?" and pushes his empty plate aside.
He doesn't wait for the bill, just throws a few twenties down on the table, and she laughs, following him out. "In a hurry?" she asks.
"Something like that," he says.
†
They end up back at her dorm room. He's got her up against the wall before the door's even closed, his mouth over hers. She saw it in his eyes before they'd even gotten out of the car, the slight glint in his eye, the twitch of his fingers on the steering wheel, the way he kept glancing over at her. He kicks the door shut, has her dress hiked up around her waist, and she has no idea where the hell her underwear went. His hands are everywhere, sliding the strap of her dress off her shoulder, touching her breasts, kissing her, all teeth and lips and tongue and god. "Please," she gasps, "Dean, please."
"Fuck," he groans, and he's holding her up against the wall, her legs around his hips, but he's not touching her, not kissing her. He's swearing under his breath, making an increasingly frantic search of his pockets, twisting around to look at the bedside table, and that's when she gets it. "Goddamnit, god fucking damnit." He doesn't have a condom, and he doesn't know what to do.
She tries hard to care, to tell him to put her down and get one, but the truth is that she doesn't want to wait, doesn't want to ruin this moment when they're so close, and she can feel his erection and his body pressed against hers. She just wants his hands back on her breasts and his mouth back on hers, and she whispers, "It's okay. Just -- just do it."
He pauses then, looks up at her slowly, and she can see the surprise in his eyes, and the need. His voice is gravely and rough when he murmurs, "You sure?" She can feel his hands shake as he grips her hips to support her a little better.
She shrugs. "Yeah. I'm on the pill. I'm clean." They stare at each other, and Dean bites his lip, and she can tell he's nervous. She can't believe she's letting some guy she's known for maybe fifteen hours fuck her without a condom, and she's every bit as nervous as he is, but she wants this. She feels like she needs this, maybe every bit as much as he does.
"Me too," he says, then gives a startled laugh. "I mean, I'm clean."
She grins then, slides her hands up under his t-shirt, wraps her legs a little tighter around him. "Then what are you waiting for?" she wants to know. "Come on, Dean. Fuck me."
Then his pants are down around his ankles, and god he's inside her, and his mouth is back on hers, his tongue sliding against hers. It's the first time she's done it without a condom even though she's been on the pill since she got to college. It feels different, feels good, even though it hurts a little because he's going hard, and she can almost feel the wall shake every time he thrusts into her. She's begging, digging her nails into his back, and dimly feels his teeth against her neck.
This time it's not over right away. Eventually he jerks them away from the wall, still deep between her thighs, and they tumble into her bed. They're half-dressed, shaky and hot, both of them gasping and moaning. "Fuck, fuck, don't stop, Dean, don't," she's breathing between rough kisses, but then he's slowing down.
It feels every bit as good, and there's still a desperate edge to his lovemaking, and she realises dimly through the haze of pleasure that's what this is. He's making love to her, saying goodbye to some girl he'll never see again. She can taste his kisses now, they're slower, sweeter, still just as needy, but softer. Almost an apology.
She hasn't even known him a full day, but she'll miss him, and murmuring his name between kisses, she moves her hands to dig blunt nails lightly into his shoulders. He's breathing, "Jess, oh, god, Jess," and Jess thinks she'll be okay even if she never sees him again. This is more, better even, than anything else she's gotten from any other man she's ever been with. And it might only be one night and the morning after, and she doesn't even know his last name but it's enough.
She thinks she comes twice, although she's not even entirely sure. When Dean comes he practically crumbles on top of her, his whole body shaking as he kisses her, finds that spot beneath her ear and kisses it over and over until she wraps her arms around him and holds him close. She whispers comforts to him, doesn't even know why she's doing it except that it seems like the right thing to do, murmuring, "It's okay, it's okay. Oh, god, Dean."
Eventually they both stop trembling and they just lay there, Jess clinging to him like he's the last thing on earth. She feels weak-kneed, and Dean's still pressing kisses to her neck. It's a good fifteen minutes before he slowly pulls away, whispering, "I gotta go."
She doesn't cling or beg, just nods, releasing him. He pulls up his jeans and his boxers, fixes his t-shirt, does up his belt. She starts to sit up, to get out of bed, to walk downstairs with him again, but he shakes his head, stills her with a hand and a kiss. "What?" she complains quietly, and he just smiles.
"Don't move," he murmurs. "I wanna remember you just like this." The smile becomes a grin as he pushes her tangled hair back from her face, tugs absently at the strap of her dress that's hanging from her shoulder. "Alright?"
She doesn't pull the blankets up to cover herself, just smiles a little, lets his gaze rake over every inch of her, flushed skin and rumbled fabric. "Okay. Take care of yourself."
"Yeah," he agrees. "I will. You too." He leans in to kiss her again, slow and soft, and when she opens her eyes again, the door is shutting quietly behind him. Jess buries her face in the pillow that smells like them both, and breathes a quiet sigh, smiling at the lingering feel of his hands on her skin.
†
April 2003
He's heading back from Nevada, up to Portland, telling his father he's going to swing by Palo Alto and check up on Sam. He swings by Sam's dorm, doesn't see him but figures he's probably okay. That's not really why he's here, so he finds the dingy bar in the rich Palo Alto neighbourhood. It's noisy, looks exactly the same. Different faces at the pool tables in the back, and a few women who look up and smile when he walks in.
He's not interested in them. He's interested in the blonde he sees sitting at a corner table, pulling her jacket on like there's a chill in the room. She's talking with some guy, but she's suddenly looking around, finally spotting him. He watches the grin spread across her face as she scrambles out of her chair, and when she's within arms reach he pulls her to him and kisses her roughly. The guy she was with is staring, and she knots her hands in his worn gray t-shirt as they break apart.
"Dean," she murmurs, and he grins, leans in to kiss her again. "Wasn't expecting to see you again."
"Yeah," he agrees. "I've only got a couple hours, I've got work in Oregon."
"That's okay," she murmurs. "Come on, let's go." She leans up to kiss him again, and she sways a little so that he can tell she's already had a bit to drink. It doesn't matter, and he lets her grip his arm to steady herself, keeps a hand on the small of her back to guide her outside.
He leads her to the Impala, slides in and leans over to unlock her door. She gets in, and almost immediately she's tugging at his belt, undoing it, slipping a hand inside his jean until he gasps. "Jesus, Jess, not here."
"Then drive," she tells him, and he's so fucking hard he's surprised there's any blood left to do anything but fuel his cock. She's stroking him and he can't remember what the hell he's doing because she's going to make him come on the upholstery, and he can't even bring himself to care that he's not supposed to have sex in the car.
It's not like Dad ever made it a rule or anything, but with everything they do, it's been implied. The car comes first -- or, at least, after family, the car is the most important thing. That's why Dean knew that he wouldn't have to take any crap about being late if he was checking out the Impala.
She's been around longer than Sammy, longer than Dean even, probably. The car's practically the fourth Winchester, always being there when Dean needed it, always able to run a little farther on not enough gasoline to help him outrun the local authorities when he'd worn out his welcome or his latest fraudulent credit card.
While Dad's rule of no sex on the job has long since been broken, in almost every state by now except for Hawaii and Alaska and that's only because Dean's never done any jobs there, he'd never even considered fucking any girl in the Impala. Didn't matter how hot she was, or how much she begged for it. The car was off-limits.
But now, with Jess, she hasn't even asked -- other than being as eager as he is, if not more -- and he's wondering how long it'll take to find a quiet alleyway where they can fog up the windows in relative peace and quiet, or at least without attracting a good half-dozen gawkers.
He finally manages to clear his head and pulls her hand out of his boxers, muttering, "Gonna crash if you do that when I'm driving," and he shifts into gear.
She doesn't put her hand back into his jeans, but she does lean over to kiss his neck, whispering his name. "Come on, Dean," she mutters. "Hurry up, please." He doesn't know how she got this horny this fast, but he doesn't really care. There's an empty parking lot shaded by some palm trees, and Dean thinks it's enough, swerving the car into the turn lane. Jess falls against his side, laughing with absolute unadulterated joy, and as soon as the car is parked, she's squirming out of her jeans.
He pulls his down, too, nodding towards the back seat. "Little more room," he whispers, and she's peeling her shirt off as she's crawling over the seat. He follows her a second later, pausing just long enough to take the keys out of the ignition and toss them on the dash.
She shoves him back against the door, the handle digging into his back, but Dean doesn't really care. He doesn't even have a blanket to protect the upholstery, almost can't believe he's doing this. She's got a condom in her teeth, and then she's got the package open, rolling the rubber onto him. She's in his lap a second later, laughing when he gasps her name, when he digs his fingers into her thighs.
They kiss desperately, Jess moving against him, crushing her breasts against his chest. She's got him spun, and he doesn't even know how or why, just groaning every time she lifts herself up before sinking back down again. She whispers in his ear, breathing his name. Dean's hand is between her legs, stroking, and she whimpers, muffling her cries against his neck, pressing sharp teeth against his skin until he groans. "Fuck, Dean," she breathes and it's not long before she comes. She keeps going, another few strokes, and then he comes too, groaning her name and slumping sideways against the seat.
She lifts herself up off him, letting him reach down to strip the condom off. He opens the door, dropping it outside. The upholstery is sticky with sweat, and he'll have to clean the whole car later. "Come here," he whispers, and then his arms are around her, holding her against his chest. Her hair smells good, of sweat and fruity shampoo. She settles against him, kissing the underside of his jaw.
She doesn't ask what he's doing here, doesn't ask where's he's been or why he has to leave so soon. She just presses kisses against his skin, murmuring his name, and she finally says, "Want to come to my place for a little while?"
He shrugs, smiling. "I got another hour or so. Yeah, sure."
†
She's half-asleep when he gets out bed, murmuring, "You leaving?"
"Yeah," he says. "I gotta hit the road." She watches him get dressed, the muscles in his back flexing when he leans over to pick up his boxers and his jeans. "It was really nice seeing you, Jess."
"Thanks for coming," she tells him. He crouches down next to the bed once he's got his clothes back on, kissing her softly, his mouth warm on hers.
"Yeah. You too. Thanks for coming." He winks broadly at her, and she understands the double meaning of his words. She laughs, then sighs. She has no idea what to say to him now.
"Bye, Dean," she murmurs sleepily, and he kisses her cheek again.
"Goodnight," he whispers.
She doesn't want to watch him go, just closes her eyes, and feels him kiss her forehead. "Goodnight," she murmurs back to him, listening to his footsteps and then the soft click of the door. She hugs the pillow close, feels the dull ache of him inside her body, idly wondering if she'll see him again.
Probably not, she decides, and in any case, it's better not to hope. Her chest aches a little at the thought. Maybe it's silly, because she knows she'll probably meet some nice college guy and fall in love and maybe even get married, and Dean will just be some years-old memory.
She'll miss him anyway.
Author: namegoeshere
Rating: R
Fandom: Supernatural.
Genre: Het.
Pairing: Dean/Jess
Wordcount: 5400ish
Spoilers: None, it's preseries.
Summary: Dean meets Jess nearly a year before Sam does.
A/N: First off, yes, there will be a sequel. Thanks so, so much to herowlness who helped me plot this whole damn thing out, not just this little fic but also everything that will come after it, and who beta'd this thing for me. [heart]
†
March 2003
For a campus bar, it's not bad. They've got Zeppelin on the jukebox, and the walls are covered in graffiti and garish neon signs. The floor is coated in broken peanut shells that Dean steps on as he circles the pool table, heading for the bar, walking past the mechanical gorilla's cage in the corner. All told, not a bad night: he's got a couple hundred bucks in his wallet from a very productive evening of hustling pool, and he knows there are at least four different girls checking him out -- which means he won't be going back to his motel alone.
The space behind the bar is plastered with rude bumper stickers, and there are signs hanging from the ceiling that say things like "Monkeys at play." Dean slides into a seat, holds up his empty bottle to signal for another beer and takes a look around. Sure enough, a couple of the girls who were watching him play pool have sidled in, and Dean feels a bit like fresh meat.
He doesn't mind.
He's weighing his options, mainly between brunette, blonde or redhead, and maybe he's in the mood for something a little different tonight. This is California after all, and blonde surfer girls are a dime a dozen. And the girl with the red hair has pouty lips and a really nice rack. He's got his beer and turns to give her a bit of a smile, seeing her face light up -- yeah, just like that.
It goes to shit when someone bumps into him, and next thing he knows, he's got a lap-full of cold, wet beer.
"Shit! Oh, god, I'm so sorry!" She's blonde, pretty enough, but nothing special, and Dean barely has time to react before she's got her hands on his crotch. "I'm so, so sorry," she keeps saying, patting him down with napkins in hand.
"No, no, stop. It's okay!" He can already feel the blood rushing to his cock, and he grabs her wrists to keep her from making it worse. "Seriously, it's okay."
"Oh, god, I can't believe I did that." She's blushing, her face bright red, still gripping the now-damp napkins. "I'm really, really sorry." She's pretty enough, sweet in a way, her blonde hair loose and curly. She's not like the other girls he's had his eye on, just wearing jeans and a t-shirt, relaxed and casual.
"Don't worry about it," he says, and satisfied that she won't go for his crotch again, he lets her go. "It's fine, shit happens."
She rubs the back of her neck, embarrassed. "I've got a washer and dryer on my floor in the dorms," she offers. "And I've got a couple beers in the fridge, so, you know, I could maybe make it up to you."
And that's when he knows she did it on purpose, and he grins broadly. "I'm Dean," he tells her, and she blushes a little more and ducks her head.
"Jess," she tells him.
He gets to his feet, pulling his keys from his pocket. "So, we gonna head out, or did you wanna spill some more beer in my lap first?" She laughs then, a little startled, and grabs his free hand.
"Well, I mean, if you want me to, I could," she tells him. She's pretty cute when she grins up at him and leads him outside. "I do have more beer in my room, so we could do that there, if you're into that kind of thing." She's trying to be funny, to make him laugh, and it works. She drags him outside, walking in front of him to cover the large wet spot on the front of his jeans.
†
She pulls him into her room, hands shaking a little as she unlocks the door. She tells him, "Get your jeans off and I'll take them down to the laundry room," but he shakes his head, pulling her over to him.
"Fuck the laundry," he says, and she grins when he leans in to kiss her. His hands are on her hips, pulling her close to him, and she can feel the dampness of his jeans and his erection pressing against her stomach. She forgets about washing his clothes. She forgets about pretty much everything except getting him out of them.
She's not a virgin, and she's not a prude, but she's never taken a guy home like this before. Still, she knows the moves to this dance, helps him get his belt undone and his jeans off. He's got her in bed almost before she can blink, and she knows he's probably done this a million times because he's really good at getting her out of her clothes. She doesn't mind, just reaches into the bedside table to find a little foil package to press into his hand, and he grins again.
"Thanks," he says, and she takes a minute to really look at him in the faint light of her dorm room. He's a little younger than she thought he was, just by a year or two, and almost pretty in a way, although his masculinity is rather... obvious. He's well-built, muscular, with a few scars on his chest and his back, and a long, faint one on his thigh. He seems completely comfortable in his own skin, not the least bit embarrassed as she lies back on her bed and watches him. That's all the time she has to admire him because then the condom is on, and he's on top of her, his mouth covering hers, and god he's good at this.
His hands are warm and calloused on her skin, and he's rough but not enough to hurt her. She spreads for him as his teeth nip at her throat, and she feels his soft laugh more than she actually hears it. "Eager much?" he whispers, his voice an octave deeper than it was a minute ago.
"Fuck, yes," she gasps. "Hurry up." And then he's inside her, and that's pretty much where any form of coherent thought stops dead because the only thing she remembers to do is gasp his name with each thrust. That hardly counts, more instinct than anything else.
The first time is hard and fast and over way too soon. She lays there gasping beneath him in the moment before he rolls off her and strips off the condom. She's not sure if she's disappointed or not, because it felt really fucking good for the few minutes it lasted. She doesn't have time to figure it out because as soon as Dean finds the garbage can and tosses the used rubber away, he's back in bed. This time it's his fingers, and he's muttering an apology for coming too soon. Her head is spinning; the only man she's made lose control like that was her high school boyfriend during their awkward teenage fumbling, and that's pretty much the furthest thing in the world from what this is.
He knows how to use his hands, knows exactly where to touch to make her gasp out, "Dean," her whole body tightening. She's surprised she remembers his name; she barely remembers her own. The orgasm is intense and then he's kissing her, settling onto the too-soft dorm mattress next to her. The bed's not really big enough for two people, but he slings an arm over her waist, pulling her close, and she sighs in relief.
He's warm along her back, pressing a kiss to the spot just below her ear, like somehow he knows it'll make her shiver. She murmurs his name, feels him smile as he kisses her there again. He says, "Sorry about that first time. The second time'll be better."
"Second time?" she whispers, likes the way his hand has started absently stroking her stomach. She feels shaky and warm, and Dean's quiet laughter is an almost comforting sound.
"Ten minutes." He kisses her shoulder this time. "Just gimme ten minutes."
This isn't what she was expecting. She thought they'd go to her room, they'd fuck, and maybe he'd spend the night or maybe he wouldn't. She isn't prepared for there to be a round two, for the man in her bed to be thoughtful enough to want to make up for a bad first try. Even the word "bad" is relative because it was a hell of a lot better than any of the other bad sex she's had.
†
He's right. The second time is better than the first, and the third time is even better than that. They finally fall into an exhausted sleep, Jess curled up against his chest, his chin resting against the top of her head. She wakes up like that, his arm still around her, and she even thinks his quiet snores are kind of sweet instead of irritating.
She tries to slip out from under his arm, to get his clothes to wash them, but he reaches out for her wrist and lifts himself up. "Where're you goin'?"
"To wash your clothes," she says, and he tilts his head, smiling a little.
"What -- so I can't leave?"
She blushes at that, looks away from him, murmurs, "Maybe something like that."
That's when Dean pulls her back into the bed next to him, kissing her despite the fact that they both have a serious case of morning mouth. "Like I said," he tells her, smiling, "fuck the laundry. Or, better yet..."
"Fuck me," she finishes for him, and he obliges. Or almost does.
This time it's different. They're both lazy and slow because it's morning and they're both a little groggy, and she spreads her legs as she shifts his body on top of hers. Dean gropes in the nightstand to find a new condom, presses it into her hands. She reaches down to put it on him, smiling sleepily as he presses soft kisses against her mouth. His breath smells terrible, but then, so does hers.
They go slow this time, Dean's hips rocking against hers, and the build up of heat in her stomach is gradual, makes her squirm. They watch each other, and she likes the way his eyes flutter shut for just a second every time she shifts her hips beneath him. He groans her name softly, and she smiles up at him before pulling him down for a kiss. In the morning, everything is softer, warmer, and his hands on her body feel almost like a lover's instead of just some random guy's. He presses soft kisses to the underside of her jaw, down her neck, under her ear where it makes her shudder and whisper, "Jesus, Dean, right there." He kisses her there again, then licks that same spot softly, drawing a ragged gasp from her, and he laughs quietly.
She likes that he laughs during sex, not that he's laughing at her, but he's just happy. Jess enjoys sex, but it's never been fun before, like some kind of private joke just between then, and she wants to laugh too, just because he is. He grins at her, his voice is deep and a little rough when she pulls him closer against her body, murmuring, "Fuck, Jess, like that," and everything's just too good.
"Close," she tells him, and he shifts. Then his hand is there, stroking, her breath hitching because that, that is exactly what she needs to set her off. She groans his name, trying to make it last, and she thinks maybe she hears him tell her to just let it happen. She's a little fuzzy on what exactly happens after that, but then Dean is lying on top of her, breathing hard, kissing her neck and murmuring Jess. It takes her a minute to realise she's still whispering, "Dean, oh god, Dean," against his shoulder.
They lay together for a while after he throws out the condom, Dean kissing her every so often. "You wanna get breakfast or something?" she suggests, and Dean smiles before he notices the clock on the bedside table.
"It's ten already?" he asks, but it's more of a statement. "Shit. I actually -- I'd love to, but I gotta go. I'm supposed to meet someone, and I'm gonna be late."
†
They stand by the Impala. She's wearing a cream coloured dress with some girly pink floral pattern, her hair thrown up into a hasty ponytail. He tries not to think about the fact that she's not wearing anything under that soft cotton sundress -- he'd rather spend a few extra hours in Palo Alto as it is, and thinking about her underwear, or lack thereof, isn't making things any easier.
"So," he says. "I guess this is the part where I thank you for spilling beer on me." They both know he's not talking about the beer, but about what followed, and she grins at him.
"No problem." She shifts to stand a little closer to him. "In fact, it was my pleasure." Dean wishes he had more time. She's pretty, sweet, and funny, and if he didn't have to be in Nevada in a couple hours, he would have breakfast with her, but...
Instead, he puts his hands on her hips and pulls her close, leaning down to press his mouth against hers. She moans quietly while they kiss, and god she sounds sweet. He reaches down, grabs her ass and swallows her squeak of protest. When they break apart, she's laughing, hits his chest without any force or real anger. "Alright, I gotta go."
"Yeah," she murmurs, and he can't help but lean in for another quick kiss. He's not sure if it makes him sad or relieved that she doesn't say anything about seeing him again.
He circles around to the driver's side of the car, says, "Take care of yourself," and she smiles.
"You too."
†
He goes back to his motel, showers, puts on some clean clothes, and then checks out. He's about to pull onto the highway out of town when he stops, reaches into his pocket to find his cell phone, and calls his father. He gets put through to voicemail, which might be a good sign that John's running behind schedule with his hunt and won't be too upset when he gets Dean's message.
"Hey, Dad, it's me. I'm gonna be a couple hours late. The engine sounds a little off, so I'm gonna stop and check her out. I'll call you when I'm back on the road." The Impala is the one reason for being late he knows his father will never question, and it'll be easy to pass it off as some insignificant hiccup later. He hangs up, puts the phone back in his pocket, and turns the car around.
He sits outside, not sure if he should try and slip in to find her, or just hope she comes out. He doesn't have her phone number, so it's not like he can call and tell her to come down. He's trying to make up his mind when he hears a voice behind him, saying, "Dean?"
She's showered now, her hair still a little damp, and she looks... pretty. He stands up, gives her a crooked smile. "Hey. Change of plans. I got a couple hours free before I have to get out of here, if you're still up for breakfast."
She grins and pulls him down for a kiss, her mouth soft against his, and damn if she doesn't taste like toothpaste when he slides his tongue past her lips. He slings his arms around her waist, holding her close, and someone whistles at them, but Dean can't bring himself to care. It's the first time in ages that he's genuinely liked a girl for reasons that can't be easily reduced to just sex.
She takes him to this restaurant that she insists serves an awesome brunch. It's not really Dean's kind of place -- he doesn't recognise half the stuff on the menu, like chilaquiles or eggs florentine, but figures he can't go wrong with a heaping plate of pancakes, bacon, eggs and hashbrowns. It's what he gets at diners everywhere, only with less grease, and apparently this maple syrup is organic. Still, it's good food, and he steals a bite of Jess's eggs benedict off her plate. She grins and pretends to stab him with her fork.
He looks as out of place as he feels, leather jacket and heavy boots. Jess is telling him about her older sister and how her favourite thing to eat for breakfast is cold, leftover pizza.
"Cold pizza?" he questions, and she grins at him.
"Pepperoni and pineapple." She laughs when he makes a face, saying, "Everyone does that! It's good, I swear!"
He doesn't tell her much about himself. He mentions that he's originally from Kansas and that his favourite kind of pizza has everything on it, except for crazy stuff like pineapple or anchovies, because fruit and fish have never belonged on a delicious, greasy pizza. He doesn't know what else there really is to say since most of his life is pretty much off-limits, but he does tell her about growing up being forced to watch Bill Nye the Science Guy by his geek brother, instead of his Saturday morning cartoons. She's a freshman like Sam, and she's doing a double major in English and History. Her sister lives in San Francisco, and her parents are in San Diego. Dean's almost surprised to find out that she's nineteen, even though he sort of knew she wasn't twenty-one. She shows him the fake ID she uses to get into bars, saying she's really an Aquarius even though the plastic says her birthday's in August.
She tells him about some of her friends, but Dean's not really listening anymore. He's trying, but she's licking hollandaise sauce off her fork, her tongue small and pink, and he's having trouble concentrating. He's not usually like this. He should be bored by now he's had her four times already, but he says, "So, you done?" and pushes his empty plate aside.
He doesn't wait for the bill, just throws a few twenties down on the table, and she laughs, following him out. "In a hurry?" she asks.
"Something like that," he says.
†
They end up back at her dorm room. He's got her up against the wall before the door's even closed, his mouth over hers. She saw it in his eyes before they'd even gotten out of the car, the slight glint in his eye, the twitch of his fingers on the steering wheel, the way he kept glancing over at her. He kicks the door shut, has her dress hiked up around her waist, and she has no idea where the hell her underwear went. His hands are everywhere, sliding the strap of her dress off her shoulder, touching her breasts, kissing her, all teeth and lips and tongue and god. "Please," she gasps, "Dean, please."
"Fuck," he groans, and he's holding her up against the wall, her legs around his hips, but he's not touching her, not kissing her. He's swearing under his breath, making an increasingly frantic search of his pockets, twisting around to look at the bedside table, and that's when she gets it. "Goddamnit, god fucking damnit." He doesn't have a condom, and he doesn't know what to do.
She tries hard to care, to tell him to put her down and get one, but the truth is that she doesn't want to wait, doesn't want to ruin this moment when they're so close, and she can feel his erection and his body pressed against hers. She just wants his hands back on her breasts and his mouth back on hers, and she whispers, "It's okay. Just -- just do it."
He pauses then, looks up at her slowly, and she can see the surprise in his eyes, and the need. His voice is gravely and rough when he murmurs, "You sure?" She can feel his hands shake as he grips her hips to support her a little better.
She shrugs. "Yeah. I'm on the pill. I'm clean." They stare at each other, and Dean bites his lip, and she can tell he's nervous. She can't believe she's letting some guy she's known for maybe fifteen hours fuck her without a condom, and she's every bit as nervous as he is, but she wants this. She feels like she needs this, maybe every bit as much as he does.
"Me too," he says, then gives a startled laugh. "I mean, I'm clean."
She grins then, slides her hands up under his t-shirt, wraps her legs a little tighter around him. "Then what are you waiting for?" she wants to know. "Come on, Dean. Fuck me."
Then his pants are down around his ankles, and god he's inside her, and his mouth is back on hers, his tongue sliding against hers. It's the first time she's done it without a condom even though she's been on the pill since she got to college. It feels different, feels good, even though it hurts a little because he's going hard, and she can almost feel the wall shake every time he thrusts into her. She's begging, digging her nails into his back, and dimly feels his teeth against her neck.
This time it's not over right away. Eventually he jerks them away from the wall, still deep between her thighs, and they tumble into her bed. They're half-dressed, shaky and hot, both of them gasping and moaning. "Fuck, fuck, don't stop, Dean, don't," she's breathing between rough kisses, but then he's slowing down.
It feels every bit as good, and there's still a desperate edge to his lovemaking, and she realises dimly through the haze of pleasure that's what this is. He's making love to her, saying goodbye to some girl he'll never see again. She can taste his kisses now, they're slower, sweeter, still just as needy, but softer. Almost an apology.
She hasn't even known him a full day, but she'll miss him, and murmuring his name between kisses, she moves her hands to dig blunt nails lightly into his shoulders. He's breathing, "Jess, oh, god, Jess," and Jess thinks she'll be okay even if she never sees him again. This is more, better even, than anything else she's gotten from any other man she's ever been with. And it might only be one night and the morning after, and she doesn't even know his last name but it's enough.
She thinks she comes twice, although she's not even entirely sure. When Dean comes he practically crumbles on top of her, his whole body shaking as he kisses her, finds that spot beneath her ear and kisses it over and over until she wraps her arms around him and holds him close. She whispers comforts to him, doesn't even know why she's doing it except that it seems like the right thing to do, murmuring, "It's okay, it's okay. Oh, god, Dean."
Eventually they both stop trembling and they just lay there, Jess clinging to him like he's the last thing on earth. She feels weak-kneed, and Dean's still pressing kisses to her neck. It's a good fifteen minutes before he slowly pulls away, whispering, "I gotta go."
She doesn't cling or beg, just nods, releasing him. He pulls up his jeans and his boxers, fixes his t-shirt, does up his belt. She starts to sit up, to get out of bed, to walk downstairs with him again, but he shakes his head, stills her with a hand and a kiss. "What?" she complains quietly, and he just smiles.
"Don't move," he murmurs. "I wanna remember you just like this." The smile becomes a grin as he pushes her tangled hair back from her face, tugs absently at the strap of her dress that's hanging from her shoulder. "Alright?"
She doesn't pull the blankets up to cover herself, just smiles a little, lets his gaze rake over every inch of her, flushed skin and rumbled fabric. "Okay. Take care of yourself."
"Yeah," he agrees. "I will. You too." He leans in to kiss her again, slow and soft, and when she opens her eyes again, the door is shutting quietly behind him. Jess buries her face in the pillow that smells like them both, and breathes a quiet sigh, smiling at the lingering feel of his hands on her skin.
†
April 2003
He's heading back from Nevada, up to Portland, telling his father he's going to swing by Palo Alto and check up on Sam. He swings by Sam's dorm, doesn't see him but figures he's probably okay. That's not really why he's here, so he finds the dingy bar in the rich Palo Alto neighbourhood. It's noisy, looks exactly the same. Different faces at the pool tables in the back, and a few women who look up and smile when he walks in.
He's not interested in them. He's interested in the blonde he sees sitting at a corner table, pulling her jacket on like there's a chill in the room. She's talking with some guy, but she's suddenly looking around, finally spotting him. He watches the grin spread across her face as she scrambles out of her chair, and when she's within arms reach he pulls her to him and kisses her roughly. The guy she was with is staring, and she knots her hands in his worn gray t-shirt as they break apart.
"Dean," she murmurs, and he grins, leans in to kiss her again. "Wasn't expecting to see you again."
"Yeah," he agrees. "I've only got a couple hours, I've got work in Oregon."
"That's okay," she murmurs. "Come on, let's go." She leans up to kiss him again, and she sways a little so that he can tell she's already had a bit to drink. It doesn't matter, and he lets her grip his arm to steady herself, keeps a hand on the small of her back to guide her outside.
He leads her to the Impala, slides in and leans over to unlock her door. She gets in, and almost immediately she's tugging at his belt, undoing it, slipping a hand inside his jean until he gasps. "Jesus, Jess, not here."
"Then drive," she tells him, and he's so fucking hard he's surprised there's any blood left to do anything but fuel his cock. She's stroking him and he can't remember what the hell he's doing because she's going to make him come on the upholstery, and he can't even bring himself to care that he's not supposed to have sex in the car.
It's not like Dad ever made it a rule or anything, but with everything they do, it's been implied. The car comes first -- or, at least, after family, the car is the most important thing. That's why Dean knew that he wouldn't have to take any crap about being late if he was checking out the Impala.
She's been around longer than Sammy, longer than Dean even, probably. The car's practically the fourth Winchester, always being there when Dean needed it, always able to run a little farther on not enough gasoline to help him outrun the local authorities when he'd worn out his welcome or his latest fraudulent credit card.
While Dad's rule of no sex on the job has long since been broken, in almost every state by now except for Hawaii and Alaska and that's only because Dean's never done any jobs there, he'd never even considered fucking any girl in the Impala. Didn't matter how hot she was, or how much she begged for it. The car was off-limits.
But now, with Jess, she hasn't even asked -- other than being as eager as he is, if not more -- and he's wondering how long it'll take to find a quiet alleyway where they can fog up the windows in relative peace and quiet, or at least without attracting a good half-dozen gawkers.
He finally manages to clear his head and pulls her hand out of his boxers, muttering, "Gonna crash if you do that when I'm driving," and he shifts into gear.
She doesn't put her hand back into his jeans, but she does lean over to kiss his neck, whispering his name. "Come on, Dean," she mutters. "Hurry up, please." He doesn't know how she got this horny this fast, but he doesn't really care. There's an empty parking lot shaded by some palm trees, and Dean thinks it's enough, swerving the car into the turn lane. Jess falls against his side, laughing with absolute unadulterated joy, and as soon as the car is parked, she's squirming out of her jeans.
He pulls his down, too, nodding towards the back seat. "Little more room," he whispers, and she's peeling her shirt off as she's crawling over the seat. He follows her a second later, pausing just long enough to take the keys out of the ignition and toss them on the dash.
She shoves him back against the door, the handle digging into his back, but Dean doesn't really care. He doesn't even have a blanket to protect the upholstery, almost can't believe he's doing this. She's got a condom in her teeth, and then she's got the package open, rolling the rubber onto him. She's in his lap a second later, laughing when he gasps her name, when he digs his fingers into her thighs.
They kiss desperately, Jess moving against him, crushing her breasts against his chest. She's got him spun, and he doesn't even know how or why, just groaning every time she lifts herself up before sinking back down again. She whispers in his ear, breathing his name. Dean's hand is between her legs, stroking, and she whimpers, muffling her cries against his neck, pressing sharp teeth against his skin until he groans. "Fuck, Dean," she breathes and it's not long before she comes. She keeps going, another few strokes, and then he comes too, groaning her name and slumping sideways against the seat.
She lifts herself up off him, letting him reach down to strip the condom off. He opens the door, dropping it outside. The upholstery is sticky with sweat, and he'll have to clean the whole car later. "Come here," he whispers, and then his arms are around her, holding her against his chest. Her hair smells good, of sweat and fruity shampoo. She settles against him, kissing the underside of his jaw.
She doesn't ask what he's doing here, doesn't ask where's he's been or why he has to leave so soon. She just presses kisses against his skin, murmuring his name, and she finally says, "Want to come to my place for a little while?"
He shrugs, smiling. "I got another hour or so. Yeah, sure."
†
She's half-asleep when he gets out bed, murmuring, "You leaving?"
"Yeah," he says. "I gotta hit the road." She watches him get dressed, the muscles in his back flexing when he leans over to pick up his boxers and his jeans. "It was really nice seeing you, Jess."
"Thanks for coming," she tells him. He crouches down next to the bed once he's got his clothes back on, kissing her softly, his mouth warm on hers.
"Yeah. You too. Thanks for coming." He winks broadly at her, and she understands the double meaning of his words. She laughs, then sighs. She has no idea what to say to him now.
"Bye, Dean," she murmurs sleepily, and he kisses her cheek again.
"Goodnight," he whispers.
She doesn't want to watch him go, just closes her eyes, and feels him kiss her forehead. "Goodnight," she murmurs back to him, listening to his footsteps and then the soft click of the door. She hugs the pillow close, feels the dull ache of him inside her body, idly wondering if she'll see him again.
Probably not, she decides, and in any case, it's better not to hope. Her chest aches a little at the thought. Maybe it's silly, because she knows she'll probably meet some nice college guy and fall in love and maybe even get married, and Dean will just be some years-old memory.
She'll miss him anyway.