SPN Fic: Finding Together (Het, R, Dean/OFC, pre-series)
Okay, I think something jarred loose on Seasons last night, so part 4 should be up soon. In the mean time, however, I thought I'd post this cause not EVERY one of my first challenge prompts has to result in a 100K story, right?
To be perfectly honest, this is the prompt that I thought might keep me from ever finishing my firsts chart just because it so totally isn't my thing (as a writer), and I haven't been able to find some snarky way of getting around the intention of the prompt.
There are so many people out there who write totally hot sex/porn fic that I really think the genre's covered without requiring me to add my two cents (fuck the small change: quarter, quarter, quarter ... which is funnier if you know the joke that punchlines) worth, but since the prompt was "first sexual encounter," I really couldn't figure out a way to avoid the eventuality of not cutting away from the sex scene to let the reader do all the heavy lifting in their fertile imaginations.
So truly, I didn't think this chart would ever get finished because I figured this prompt was just going to sit out there and defy me until darkness fell. But then I ran across this notion, and there was an element of innocence to it that apealed to me, as well as insecurity and gentleness and discovery, so I thought I'd give it a whack (pun intended) and this is what came out (pun also intended).
If you're looking for something too hot or too porny, you're going to be disappointed: just so you know. But this is as explicit a piece as I am ever likely to write, so to misquote Dean: "Gimme a break, I'm trying to finish a firsts chart here."
Title: Finding Together
Author:
dodger_winslow
Challenge: Firsts Chart: First Sexual Encounter
Word Count: 4,300
Genre: Het
Rating: R (for sex, cause, like, you've read the challenge prompt, right?)
Pairings: Dean/OFC
Disclaimer: I don't normally write this kind of thing. Oh, and the other disclaimer, too: I don't own the boys, I'm just stalking them for a while.
Summary: Dean, Girl, Impala. Shake, rattle and roll.
Finding Together
"Stop. Stop. Stop."
Dean stopped. Breathing hard, barely able to hear her for the intensity of the buzzing in his ears, for the thunder of the pulse throbbing behind his eyes, he pulled his mouth away from her body with an effort to ask, "What’s wrong?"
"I’m just … wait a minute, okay?"
He swallowed hard, nodding. "Sure. Okay."
"I’m sorry. Just a minute, okay?"
"Sure," he said again.
Even though the night was dark and the trees around the Impala were tall enough to block much of the full moon’s light from ever reaching them, Dean could still see every nuance of her expression. She was biting her lip, breathing as hard as he was, her features tight with something that could have been either pain or concentration. Her skin was slick with a sheen of sweat that was beading to droplets under her eyes and near her hairline. She wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Wedged against the back of the driver’s seat, one of her legs was twisted at an awkward angle, pinned there by the weight of his body. It looked painful, so he shifted against her, trying to relieve the pressure.
"Seriously, Dean," she said. "Just wait a minute."
"I am waiting," he said. "I just thought … I thought maybe that was hurting you." He indicated her knee with a slight lift of his chin. "It looks uncomfortable, you know?"
"It is," she admitted.
"Well then let me …"
"No, no." She grabbed at him as he started to move again, her hands knotting into the back of his tee-shirt, holding on to him, holding him still. "Don’t," she said. "Don’t move. Just don’t move."
"All right. All right."
Her body was trembling beneath him. He tried not to think about it, tried not to feel it - tried not to feel nothing but it - as she closed her eyes, breathing slower, breathing deeper. He concentrated on not moving, concentrated on not responding to the crawl of nerves under his skin or the way his blood was roiling through him like water put to a near boil.
"I just … I just haven’t ever done this before," she told him after a long moment. Her eyes were still closed when she spoke, hiding from him, he thought; hiding from whatever expression he might have at this particular moment.
"That’s okay," he said, leaving her assumptions unchallenged rather than risk seeing on her face what she’d closed her eyes to keep from seeing on his. "Does it, I mean, hurt or something?"
"No. I’m just … it was a little too … just a little too intense. You know?"
"Sure," he said. And he wasn’t lying.
She was quiet for a couple more seconds; then, like she was talking to herself now instead of to him, she said, "Okay. It’s okay now. You can go ahead."
"What?"
"Go ahead," she repeated. "It’s okay now."
"Okay?" he repeated, unsure.
She opened her eyes then, looked at him a little funny. "What?"
"It’s just okay?" he asked again. "I mean … just okay?"
"Oh. No. It’s good. You’re doing good."
The rush of his blood in his veins had lessened, giving him some relief from the sense of urgency that had been driving him so hard he almost didn’t hear the first time she asked him to stop, the first time she whispered it into his mouth along with his name. Stop, Dean. Stop. Stop.
He glanced at her leg again, at the awkward way his body had it wedged against the seat. "Are you sure that doesn’t hurt?"
"Yeah," she admitted. "Kind of. But not really."
"What?"
"I mean … I can’t really feel it."
"Why didn’t you say something? I would have …" he shifted, slipped a little, "… damnit …" shifted again, finally releasing her leg from the pressure of his weight "… moved. It’s stupid to --"
She cut him off with a small gasp, grabbing at his shirt again, catching the muscles of his lower back in her hands, too.
He froze. "What?"
"Nothing. It’s just that …" she laughed a little "… the feeling’s coming back, you know? Pins and needles."
He smiled because she was smiling. "But in a good way?" he asked.
She blushed, embarrassed he’d ask that even though his body was pressed against hers, pressed into hers, holding her awkwardly open in a way that neither of them was sure was exactly right, but both of them were sure had some relationship to what they wanted to do.
"Yeah. A good way. For, you know, pins and needles. It’s okay though. You can start again if you want." Then, in response to the way he frowned a little, she added, "I mean, I want you to. I’m ready again. Just …" she hesitated.
"Just what?"
"Maybe a little slower? If that’s okay?"
"All right," he agreed. He moved a little, shifting his weight to a more comfortable position as he did so. She made a small noise in the back of her throat.
It was his turn to hesitate. "Good or bad?" he asked.
"Good." The way she said it made his back ache where her hands were holding on to him. "That was good."
He nodded, trying to duplicate what he’d done: the motion, the position, the pressure. Her hands tightened into him. She made the same noise, only louder this time.
"Oh. Good. Good."
He could tell by her tone he’d found a place she liked, a place that made her forget all about pins and needles. "Not just okay?" he teased, doing it again.
"No. Good. Really good. Keep doing that."
Armed with a little success and an actual invitation, he started rocking against her, slower than before, more careful to be where she wanted him to be. The way she moved under him verified he’d gotten the hang of something. Her hips were working with him now instead of against him. The rhythm that started between them put his pulse back into high gear, creating a sense of pressure in every joint in his body that made him work to control it, work not to let it run away with him again.
Her fingernails were digging into his back. Even through his tee shirt, there was a sting to how hard she was grabbing on to him, not like she was holding him still against her the way she had before, but more as if she was trying to hang on to him now, stay with him, keep him from get too far away.
"Oh, yeah," she breathed. "Yeah. Right there. Like that."
Tension crawled up his spine, dug its claws into his shoulders, into the base of his skull. He wanted to speed up, go deeper, put more motion to it, but whenever he started to do any of those things, her body changed the way it moved against him, lost the rhythm they were establishing, began pulling away from him as much as it pushed toward him. His scalp tingled with a thousand nerves, sweat running down the side of his face and neck as he struggled to control the escalation buzzing through him, vibrating in his muscles like a live wire put to ground.
"Dean. Dean …"
He grunted rather than respond, not sure if she wanted him to speed up or slow down, not sure he could do either without losing the lock he had on his self control.
"My leg, Dean," she whispered in a way that sounded more like a moan.
For a moment, the words made no sense to him. They circled his brain, trying to find something that was still working on a level other than pure sensation. He felt the resistance before he understood it for what it was, realizing only as her words sank in that the slightest of twists every time he pushed against her had to be her knee wedged up against the seat again, pinned in place by his weight, stealing away their momentum, threatening their escalation with a promise of pins and needles, pins and needles.
"Your leg," he mumbled, trying to slow down, not sure he was accomplishing it.
"No. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Just …" She moaned again, pushing up against him, her belly tight against his, the shirts between them soaked through with sweat.
"Okay. I got it." Releasing the grip he had on her waist, the leverage he’d established by bearing down with one palm against her hipbone, Dean slid his hand into the small of her back, digging his knuckles into the Impala’s leather seat to press under her and around to the back of her thigh, pulling her leg into him, freeing her knee as he shifted his weight and turned her hip to keep it from getting trapped there again.
She moved with him, shifting when he shifted, trying to keep the motion between them going. He lost his balance again but couldn’t catch it this time, slipping in a way that dropped his full weight into the cradle of her body.
"Holy crap," she gasped.
He didn’t say anything, didn’t move, didn’t breathe because whatever was feeling like holy crap to her was feeling more like holy shit to him. The way he’d fallen into her was exactly where his spine had been trying to drive him to go, and it overloaded his senses for a moment, shut down his ability to worry if he’d hurt her, or even really care. His fingers were digging into her thigh the way hers were digging into his back. His foot began to cramp where he had it braced against the door, but even that couldn’t put a dent in the flood of holy shit rising up inside him, trying to turn him inside out.
She moved underneath him, and he gasped, saying, "Stop, stop, stop."
She did, and he was able to hold on, keep from losing himself, keep from losing her. The sensation of fire crawling through his skin eased after a long moment, sinking back inside, backing him down from the rim of an abyss he recognized by feel, but that seemed far deeper and blacker and more consuming than anything he’d experienced on his own.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Oh yeah," he whispered. "Just hang on a minute."
"Oh yeah good, or oh yeah bad?"
"Oh yeah, holy shit, don’t do that again or we’re done," he told her.
He didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes until he opened them again to find her watching him, her expression impatient, hungry, needing. She seemed beautiful in a way she hadn’t just a handful of days before, when she started responding to his cut-ups in class with coy flirts that made him think he might get her into the back seat of his dad’s Impala if he played his cards right.
Which he did.
Although he was pretty sure she was playing some cards of her own, too.
"Come on," she urged, her voice breathless, her body trying to motivate him back into the game with small motions he didn’t even think she knew she was making.
Just that much motion was his undoing. He started to come apart. He could feel it deep inside, a fraying that was just about to give and unravel him. It was a sensation he’d felt before, one he’d experimented with enough to know there wasn’t any backing down from it, so he began to move again, trying to bring her with him before it was too late for him to give a damn about anything or anyone.
"Come on," she said again, more fiercely this time.
He let go then, gave in to the pressures in his spine and let them drive him. The last thread holding him together snapped as she arched beneath him, changing the angles between them in a way that tipped her over the edge. She was making a strangled sound he could hear in every bone in his body when he lost it.
Completely, utterly, absolutely lost it.
The sense of dislocation lasted both an eternity and only a few short seconds. It blasted through him, disabling him in the aftermath for longer than it actually existed, leaving him disoriented and confused, casting about for some point of reference that made enough sense to use it as a landmark to find his way back to solid ground.
Her body was still trembling when he finally managed the cohesion of thought it took to say anything, to ask her, his voice sounding slightly drunk on the words as he formed them, "You okay?"
"Holy crap," she whispered by way of an answer.
His hand was still holding her thigh tight against his hip, keeping her leg close where a shift of position or weight wouldn’t wedge it someplace they’d already escaped twice. "Good holy crap or bad holy crap?"
"Holy crap, holy crap," she said.
The wild, half-dazed look in her eyes made him want to kiss her, so he did. The change of pressures and angles as he leaned forward to reach her mouth were different this time, nothing that would drive either of them to a place they’d never been before with anyone other than themselves. The way she responded to the pressure of his lips was different, too; welcoming rather than hungry, awkward, forced, trying too hard, looking to ignite something she didn’t yet feel.
Earlier it had been all tongue and teeth and heat. Now, she let him taste her the way he had the first time they kissed, her lips warm and sweet and vaguely salty, her tongue a seduction rather than a demand, pulling him into her rather than pushing herself into him. The hooks her fingers had become let him go. They became explorers, pushing up under his tee shirt, seeking the heat of his skin, stroking his spine and pressing flat to trace paths across the flesh of his lower back.
"Wow," she whispered against his mouth.
"Yeah," he agreed. Then, settling a little more comfortably against her, finding a place to rest that didn’t pin her awkwardly in the process or require him to support more of his weight than he wanted to support, he added, "Definitely."
"You do good work," she said, smiling now, her tone coy, the way it was the first time he noticed her flirting with him, the first time he realized it was flirting, and that it was aimed at him.
"And I’m not even warmed up yet," he said.
She laughed at that. Reaching up with one hand to wipe away a line of sweat tracking down the side of his face, she said, "Yeah. I can see that. Cool as a cucumber."
"You, too." He pulled a thumb across the sheen of her cheekbone, then licked it.
"Oh, that is so not hot," she informed him.
He kissed her again, a little more aggressively this time, tasting the way she smelled, the salt of her skin on his tongue, the heat of her mouth boiling up a pulse that was just beginning to slow.
She felt it, too; her hands flattening against his back, holding on to him, trying to pull him closer. Her thighs tightened around his hips as he lowered weight he’d shifted to one side back into her, the intensity of that sensation wholly different now than before, more of a closeness than a raw electricity that burned them every time he moved.
She arched a little, flattening more of her body against him like she wanted to press herself inside him. He pulled his hand off the back of her thigh, slid it under the small of her back again, holding her there, holding her tight enough to him that he could feel the shift of her muscles against his belly every time she moved.
"Okay," she whispered, her lips still touching his, her breath warm against his face as she spoke. "That’s hot. I’ll give you that one. That is very hot."
They stayed that way for longer than he thought they would, for longer than he really wanted to, kissing, breathing in tandem, basking like lazy cats in the heat that lingered between their cooling bodies. He waited until she looked like his weight between her legs was getting uncomfortable, then he pulled away, figuring he’d more than made up for shorting her on the front end, starting out faster than he’d intended, getting ahead of what he’d planned in a way that embarrassed him a little, even if everything did turn out okay in the end.
More than okay, in fact. More like holy shit.
He sat up, helping her de-tangle her legs from around him so she could sit up, too; put her feet back on the floor where she wouldn’t be quite so open and vulnerable and exposed.
Sometime early on, he’d pushed her miniskirt up to a belt around her waist, and she wriggled it back down into place now, blushing a little as she looked around the inside of the dark car in search of panties he’d peeled away to press his hands against her, into her, pushing her legs apart to make room for himself, dropping to her in such a rush of heat - of need - that he’d never managed more than getting himself free of his jeans instead of stripping out of them, as had been his intention before she put her hands on him in a way that drove every thought in his head out to pasture but one.
Just one.
She’d given up on her panties but found her bra and was putting it back on, turning away from him as she did so as if they hadn’t just been locked together in the back seat of his dad’s Impala, riding each other to places neither one of them had ever been.
It was only then, watching her struggle to put her bra on without taking her shirt off, that he realized how far he’d deviated from his original plan.
She’d let him kiss her on the first date and feel her up on the second, so he knew where they were going tonight before he ever picked her up. Knew what she was going to let him do; knew how he was going to talk her into letting him do it.
He had a plan that involved getting her out of her clothes before he got out of his, and he already had that plan in motion by the time the Impala was parked and the moon had come up, throwing enough light through the trees for him to see what he was doing without making her feel like she was on display.
She crawled into the back seat with him because once he’d proven he really could unhook her bra using only one hand, he said he wanted more room to demonstrate the second half of his claim, that there were far better things to press her breasts into cleavage than some stupid nothing of lace and wire.
His hands were under her shirt, his thumbs proving his point in a way that had her squirming against him, when she managed to get his zipper tugged open and work her hands inside to pull him free, changing the intensity of the dynamic between them, escalating it a hundred fold from a planned acceleration to a runaway train, everything between them falling away as he pushed into her, both of them still mostly clothed, her mouth trying to eat him alive while his body forgot to care whether he’d positioned her to accommodate him in the cramped confines of the Impala’s back seat or not.
That they were re-dressing in the aftermath, and he still hadn’t ever seen her breasts in the moonlight - the stakes she’d promised if he could prove his claim to her satisfaction - seemed funny to him, so he laughed.
"What?" she asked, self conscious.
"Nothing."
She turned away, looked out the window. "Oh."
Realizing the way it sounded, he slid over to sit a little closer to her, putting a hand on her belly, leaning in to put his lips near her ear. "I was just thinking it was kind of funny," he said, slipping his hand under her shirt, his fingers crawling across her skin in a way that made her twist a little against it, "that we’re both pretty much still dressed. I came back here thinking I was going to get to see some skin. I’m kind of disappointed that didn’t happen." He pressed his hand up against her breast, running his thumb across lace she’d just gotten back in place. "Because, you know, a bet is a bet, right?"
"What bet?" she asked disingenuously.
Grinning, he popped the front closure of her bra with two fingers. This he’d done before, not only with her, but with others. He knew exactly where he wanted to touch, and exactly what it would do to her if he did.
He ran his fingers across her skin, pushing lace aside, letting his palm rub against her as he pulled her left breast free, and then her right. She responded the way he wanted her to, her breath hitching a little as she dropped her head to one side, an invitation to kiss her throat near her ear, to run his tongue along skin that still tasted sharp with the intensity of her body grabbing on to him as he fell deeper against her, fell deeper inside her.
She turned away from the window, watching him as he used both hands now … again, something he’d done before, something he knew how to do. "Oh. That bet," she said, trying to pretend it wasn’t working even though he could see in her expression that it was. He could see it in the tension of her neck as she stretched it, in the way her eyes kept blinking closed, then open again, but slow, like she was trying to focus on something so deep inside she couldn’t see it without removing the world from her line of sight.
"I thought the bet was creating cleavage," she said, shifting her weight more fully against him, leaning into his hands as he touched her.
He accepted the new inclination of her body, adjusting so he’d be the one wedged in place this time while she was free to move a little, to find places she wanted to be. He hadn’t finished tucking himself back inside his jeans, and he was kind of glad now, feeling a sense of exhilaration when she noticed, looking down to see how the feel of her breasts in his hands was working for them both, seeing how much the hardening of her flesh between his fingertips was hardening him, too.
"I’m feeling cleavage," he said, pressing her breast together, holding them there for a moment, then letting them slide through his fingers back to their original positions.
"So that’s what you’re doing."
"Hey. Give me a break here. I’m trying to win a bet."
"I thought you already won," she said, putting one hand on his thigh in a way that made him jump a little at its proximity, yet distance.
"I want to win again. But you have to pay up this time. No welshing. I wanna see some skin."
She touched him then, smiling at the way he responded. "Do we have time to be doing this?" she asked.
"It’s early," he lied. "We have time to play for a while if you want."
"Do you want to?" she asked.
He laughed a little. "Hell yeah," he said. She touched him again, leaving her fingers in place just a moment longer than before, so he said it again, putting a little more emphasis to it than before, "Oh hell yeah."
"Okay," she agreed.
"Just okay?" he asked.
She leaned into him, kissing him, her tongue invading his mouth as her fingers began to work the waistband of his jeans this time, looking to take them off rather than just split them open. "Yeah," she said. "Just okay."
He unbuttoned her shirt as she worked on his jeans, letting it fall open, admiring the sight of her skin in the moonlight. "Now that’s what I’m talking about," he said. "But still needs a little work, I think. Just to get it back up to holy crap."
"Holy crap," she said, her hands faltering in the task she’d set for them as his lips took the place of his hands, his tongue took the place of his fingers.
"Yeah," he agreed. "Like that."
They never did find her panties, so she wore his boxers home instead. He didn’t walk her to the door when he dropped her off because she was afraid her parents might know something by the way he kissed her goodnight.
They were both late for curfew and each got grounded for the infraction, but neither of them regretted it, spending their nights away from each other remembering the feel of moonlight on their skin as they worked their way into finding together, stretching time stolen to a slow burn rather than letting it ignite their bodies in a flash of fire that burned out before it ever really got started.
He dreamed about the taste of her; she dreamed about the feel of his tongue against her skin.
Each alone with the shared memory of curfews come and gone in the back seat of a black Chevy Impala, they waited for the expiration of their respective sentences, anticipating new opportunities to find places together they hadn’t been alone, to feel things in each other that made holy crap out of what might otherwise have been just okay, putting to a fine hum the sense that what was coming was going to be much better than where they’d already been.
When they were both free again, he picked her up in his father’s car, driving into the night to find a place where alone no longer mattered.
-finis-