"Every Rose Has Its Thorn" - Dean/OFC - Rated R
Title: Every Rose Has Its Thorn
Author: femmenerd
Pairing: Dean/OFC (laconic hesher chick who likes cars)
Rating: R.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit, don’t sue.
Summary: High school. She seems like the kind of girl who ought to have brothers, but she doesn’t.
Author’s Note: For my sweet greenapricot on her birthday. I wish I could be with you this year, baby. And I wish I could offer you something better...besides this wee fic and all my love. Title from the Poison song, oh yeah.
Word Count: Just over a thousand.
*
By the beginning of his junior year, Dean has had seven different auto shop teachers. And shop is always his favorite class, because there’s continuity there-cars are pretty much the same everywhere, but people’s ideas about what books you’re supposed to have read by the age of sixteen seem to vary considerably more.
Also, he’s always the best student in the class. That’s fun.
High school social hierarchy is essentially irrelevant amidst concrete floors, tools and grease-farmer’s kids and metalheads: his people. And Dean couldn’t give less of a shit about who sits where at lunch, or who’s on prom committee, or how tossing balls around gets guys laid who really don’t deserve it. The number of things that are more important than that in terms of life, death and monsters, as well as on a fun level are, well, they’re more than Dean cares to count.
Auto shop, however, is not generally the best way to meet girls. And at sixteen, meeting girls seems very important to Dean’s hormones.
*
But there’s this one girl in his class now, and she kind of scares him. Because she almost never talks, and she hardly ever smiles. She doesn’t frown though-she’s just always concentrating really hard on what she’s doing.
She’s wicked skinny, but not in a “give that girl a sandwich, stat” kind of way-she’s just wiry, compact. Poured into an ever-present pair of skintight, black jeans. She wears a shitload of black eyeliner and has crazy, bleached-blonde hair that’s kinda orange in some places like she didn’t do a very good job dying her own hair. She looks like she probably doesn’t care. Just like she looks like doesn’t even notice that she’s the only girl in the room.
She has a rotating collection of thin cotton concert Tees: Led Zep, Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden. Maybe they were her dad’s, or a cool uncle’s. Maybe someday Dean will lose control of his motor functions and tell her she’s fucking awesome.
*
He doesn’t do that.
But one day when he’s got his dad’s car because he had to pick up Sammy from something or other, Dean stops for gas and she’s there, with a little dirt on her face and a bandana in her back pocket. It’s a full-service station, so she lopes up to the pump. She works here. That is also kind of awesome.
She looks the Impala up and down and the twitch of her eyebrow seems to indicate that she’s impressed. Dean puffs out his chest.
“‘67?” she says.
“Yeah,” Dean answers, going for gruff. Sammy’s bouncing in the passenger side, going off about something having to do with bugs. He’s such a little nerd.
“That’s cool. You want regular unleaded or premium?”
*
The next day after class, she looks his way and asks, “You?” and air-mimes like she’s smoking a joint. He doesn’t, or he never has before, but Dean nods yes.
They go out to the parking lot and she rolls quickly with nimble fingers, nicotine stains on her knuckles. Supposedly most people don’t get high their first time, but Dean does. His head gets swimmy after three tokes. He stares at her neck and wonders if she has any tattoos-if she’s planning on getting any.
She catches him watching and almost grins. Deep dimples and slightly crooked front teeth. It’s like looking at the sun, man.
*
Her bedroom is in the basement. Turns out her dad owns the service station; he’s a mechanic and some day she will be too. She says this like it’s a natural eventuality, but one she’s happy about. If things were different, Dean imagines that might have been his life too.
She has records down there, lots of ‘em stacked in milk crates, alphabetical. She has posters on the wall of hair metal bands he doesn’t entirely approve of, not out loud anyway. There’s not much else in her room, just a queen-sized mattress and one of those calendars with pictures of mostly naked girls and cars.
“I just like the cars,” she says.
Dean nods. “Yeah, me too,” and then feels kind of stupid.
*
She likes old Saabs, the ones with the cute-lookin’ butts. Dean thinks this is kind of heretical, but forgives her because she kisses like an animal. Lots of tongue, but not in a gross, messy way. She’s deft-expressive this way if not in words-and when she bites his bottom lip he feels like a tasty treat. Something special.
Dean’s got his left hand halfway in her cotton underwear when he goes, “Is this okay with you?”
“You think I never done this before?” she asks-not pissy exactly, more like her feelings are hurt.
“I dunno,” Dean mumbles. “I mean, I haven’t.”
“Fuckin’ A,” she says, eyes wide, and sucks his cock until his eyes roll back in his head. Smart girl-Dean would have shot his load in two seconds once they got down to business if not for that.
She has little tits-nothing like the girls on the calendar-hardly even needs to wear a bra. When Dean sucks on her nipples, she makes this high, whining sound in her throat; she guides his thumb to her clit. Tells him what she wants.
“You’re totally hot, you know,” she says after that first time, puffing on a Lucky Strike and ogling him-inspecting where she’s just been. Dean flushes red and tackles her until they’re tangled up naked.
They just lie like that for awhile, quiet. It’s nice.
*
She seems like the kind of girl who ought to have brothers, but she doesn’t. It’s just her and her dad.
Dean tells her all about his brother-how smart Sammy is, how Dean took care of him when he was just a kid. She finger-strokes circles into his chest and listens.
“I miss my mom,” she whispers. “She’s dead.”
“Yeah, mine too. It really sucks.”
Sometimes there isn’t really a lot more to be said.
*
She makes him a mix tape with a track listing scrawled in silver ink on the back, black sharpie on the side that just says, For Dean. “For the road,” she says, her mouth a thin line.
Dad lets him pop it in the tape deck on the way out of town.
Brett Michaels wails, “Every rose has its thorn,” and Dean knows she’s sad that he’s gone.
*
Author: femmenerd
Pairing: Dean/OFC (laconic hesher chick who likes cars)
Rating: R.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit, don’t sue.
Summary: High school. She seems like the kind of girl who ought to have brothers, but she doesn’t.
Author’s Note: For my sweet greenapricot on her birthday. I wish I could be with you this year, baby. And I wish I could offer you something better...besides this wee fic and all my love. Title from the Poison song, oh yeah.
Word Count: Just over a thousand.
*
By the beginning of his junior year, Dean has had seven different auto shop teachers. And shop is always his favorite class, because there’s continuity there-cars are pretty much the same everywhere, but people’s ideas about what books you’re supposed to have read by the age of sixteen seem to vary considerably more.
Also, he’s always the best student in the class. That’s fun.
High school social hierarchy is essentially irrelevant amidst concrete floors, tools and grease-farmer’s kids and metalheads: his people. And Dean couldn’t give less of a shit about who sits where at lunch, or who’s on prom committee, or how tossing balls around gets guys laid who really don’t deserve it. The number of things that are more important than that in terms of life, death and monsters, as well as on a fun level are, well, they’re more than Dean cares to count.
Auto shop, however, is not generally the best way to meet girls. And at sixteen, meeting girls seems very important to Dean’s hormones.
*
But there’s this one girl in his class now, and she kind of scares him. Because she almost never talks, and she hardly ever smiles. She doesn’t frown though-she’s just always concentrating really hard on what she’s doing.
She’s wicked skinny, but not in a “give that girl a sandwich, stat” kind of way-she’s just wiry, compact. Poured into an ever-present pair of skintight, black jeans. She wears a shitload of black eyeliner and has crazy, bleached-blonde hair that’s kinda orange in some places like she didn’t do a very good job dying her own hair. She looks like she probably doesn’t care. Just like she looks like doesn’t even notice that she’s the only girl in the room.
She has a rotating collection of thin cotton concert Tees: Led Zep, Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden. Maybe they were her dad’s, or a cool uncle’s. Maybe someday Dean will lose control of his motor functions and tell her she’s fucking awesome.
*
He doesn’t do that.
But one day when he’s got his dad’s car because he had to pick up Sammy from something or other, Dean stops for gas and she’s there, with a little dirt on her face and a bandana in her back pocket. It’s a full-service station, so she lopes up to the pump. She works here. That is also kind of awesome.
She looks the Impala up and down and the twitch of her eyebrow seems to indicate that she’s impressed. Dean puffs out his chest.
“‘67?” she says.
“Yeah,” Dean answers, going for gruff. Sammy’s bouncing in the passenger side, going off about something having to do with bugs. He’s such a little nerd.
“That’s cool. You want regular unleaded or premium?”
*
The next day after class, she looks his way and asks, “You?” and air-mimes like she’s smoking a joint. He doesn’t, or he never has before, but Dean nods yes.
They go out to the parking lot and she rolls quickly with nimble fingers, nicotine stains on her knuckles. Supposedly most people don’t get high their first time, but Dean does. His head gets swimmy after three tokes. He stares at her neck and wonders if she has any tattoos-if she’s planning on getting any.
She catches him watching and almost grins. Deep dimples and slightly crooked front teeth. It’s like looking at the sun, man.
*
Her bedroom is in the basement. Turns out her dad owns the service station; he’s a mechanic and some day she will be too. She says this like it’s a natural eventuality, but one she’s happy about. If things were different, Dean imagines that might have been his life too.
She has records down there, lots of ‘em stacked in milk crates, alphabetical. She has posters on the wall of hair metal bands he doesn’t entirely approve of, not out loud anyway. There’s not much else in her room, just a queen-sized mattress and one of those calendars with pictures of mostly naked girls and cars.
“I just like the cars,” she says.
Dean nods. “Yeah, me too,” and then feels kind of stupid.
*
She likes old Saabs, the ones with the cute-lookin’ butts. Dean thinks this is kind of heretical, but forgives her because she kisses like an animal. Lots of tongue, but not in a gross, messy way. She’s deft-expressive this way if not in words-and when she bites his bottom lip he feels like a tasty treat. Something special.
Dean’s got his left hand halfway in her cotton underwear when he goes, “Is this okay with you?”
“You think I never done this before?” she asks-not pissy exactly, more like her feelings are hurt.
“I dunno,” Dean mumbles. “I mean, I haven’t.”
“Fuckin’ A,” she says, eyes wide, and sucks his cock until his eyes roll back in his head. Smart girl-Dean would have shot his load in two seconds once they got down to business if not for that.
She has little tits-nothing like the girls on the calendar-hardly even needs to wear a bra. When Dean sucks on her nipples, she makes this high, whining sound in her throat; she guides his thumb to her clit. Tells him what she wants.
“You’re totally hot, you know,” she says after that first time, puffing on a Lucky Strike and ogling him-inspecting where she’s just been. Dean flushes red and tackles her until they’re tangled up naked.
They just lie like that for awhile, quiet. It’s nice.
*
She seems like the kind of girl who ought to have brothers, but she doesn’t. It’s just her and her dad.
Dean tells her all about his brother-how smart Sammy is, how Dean took care of him when he was just a kid. She finger-strokes circles into his chest and listens.
“I miss my mom,” she whispers. “She’s dead.”
“Yeah, mine too. It really sucks.”
Sometimes there isn’t really a lot more to be said.
*
She makes him a mix tape with a track listing scrawled in silver ink on the back, black sharpie on the side that just says, For Dean. “For the road,” she says, her mouth a thin line.
Dad lets him pop it in the tape deck on the way out of town.
Brett Michaels wails, “Every rose has its thorn,” and Dean knows she’s sad that he’s gone.
*