Dean pulled the Impala around the side of the brick building, letting the engine idle while the last strains of Led Zeppelin’s Bring It On Home faded into tape hiss. The neon lights outside the passenger’s side window proclaimed XXX and Live Nude Girls, and to the driver’s side sat an ugly, squat building with a painted sign and a single bulb illuminating it.
Dean had first visited this particular establishment about five years ago while passing though Michigan after a salt and burn in upstate New York and before a pooka in Wisconsin. It was a real bar, a man’s bar, in the tradition of the saloons of the Old West., and goddamn if he didn't love a good Western. Though the sign outside was poorly lit, and the paint was chipping here and there, it was still legible if he squinted. The Owl’s Roost Pub.
There were no fancy flat panels inside flashing the latest sports scores in blinding LED glory; the clientele here made their own entertainment. Full contact poker, for example. Dean had thought that one was a hoot. Of course he hadn’t been the dude on the floor nursing a shallow scalp wound and a wrist that was well on its way to a sick shade of greenish-purple. The older man had looked at Dean for a good minute, then looked at his wrist and laughed. He’d gotten to his feet, slapped Dean on the shoulder and paid the hunter what he’d swindled fair and square. Dean had been back a few times since then, hustled some pool, bet on darts – he’d always come away better off then he’d gone in, and best of all he’d enjoyed himself and the competitive atmosphere that was just his kind of rough around the edges.
He and Sam had just finished taking care of the haunting in an office building, where that dick of an angel had stolen his memories and made him drive a Prius. He’d been trying to make it up to his baby ever since. They were between jobs, and Dean needed some time by himself to unwind. When he had tried halfheartedly to persuade his brother to join him for a few beers, Sam had scrunched up his face at Dean and said he’d wait in the room and surf the web for any new cases. His little brother was all about the job these days. That was just peachy with Dean, he needed the job too. But at least he’d not been the one to inherit dad’s obsessive streak. He’d let Sam burn off some restless energy and do the same in his own way. A few months out of the hellfire, he had a lot of catching up on living yet to do. Smiling brightly, he slipped the gearshift into park; tonight was his, and Dean was dead set on enjoying himself.
As soon as he stepped inside the bar, the warmth of the atmosphere thawed most of the chill around his heart, but when he saw the long haired, long legged brunette waiting tables over in the corner, he became almost unbearably hot from the inside out. A bombshell of a waitress giving him a casual blowjob in the back alley would be just what he needed to take the edge off. It was a pleasant fantasy, like letters to Penthouse or Busty Asian Beauties. He never, not ever, in a million years thought she might take him up on it. When she looked up directly into his eyes as if she’d known he was there and smiled a secret, knowing smile, he almost started to believe that a higher power (Castiel, or God, or hell, maybe Anna, whatever she’d become) was watching out for him. His body was on fire and his cock was heavy and full and aching, jammed in his pants where there very suddenly wasn’t nearly enough room.
Glancing around the room, Dean made sure no other eyes were on him as he carefully adjusted his jeans. There were five men at the bar, not counting the grizzled bartender with a face like shoe leather. One of those was underage if Dean were any judge. The pool table entertained a group of four guys, loud and drunk and totally involved with their game. The three girls in the corner looked out of place until he saw their motorcycle leathers. Dean cataloged everyone and filed the information in the back of his brain along with potential weapons and exit scenarios. He was nothing if not his father’s son, damn it all. Even when he was horny as hell.
Taking a seat that put his back to the wall and facing the doorway at an empty table for two from force of habit, Dean smiled back at the waitress, his slow molasses smile that always seemed to work for him. He stretched his arms out behind him, cracking his back in an attempt to relieve the tension that knotted between his shoulder blades. Doing so caused his dark gray (it had been black once, he thought, before Sam’s mishap with the bleach…friggin’ last time he let Poindexter near his laundry) t-shirt to ride up, and he was pretty sure the waitress caught a good look at the curling hairs trailing to the waistband of his jeans before his arms settled back on the table.
She was taking her time getting the orders of everyone else not seated at the bar, which admittedly wasn’t that many on a Wednesday night. At least he thought it was Wednesday. Hell, it could as easily have been Thursday for all he knew after spending the last ten hours on the road. He never truly relaxed, not with an ex-marine dad and a little brother, and, oh yeah, not to mention that sojourn in Hell that left him with real and waking nightmares, but he made a good effort of it. He was even taken a bit off guard when the waitress came up beside him and ran bright red fingernails across his shoulder blades.
“I’m Mara, what’s your poison, Sugar?” she asked, voice low and dripping with double and triple meanings.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he grinned, mouth quirking up to show white teeth and a mischievous glint in his hazel eyes. “What’s on the menu, Sweetheart?”
“I think this is the part where you're hoping I say “me” and we head out back for some nighttime delight. Now I really shouldn’t do that, but….” She winked as she drawled out the words, filled with a devilish disregard for propriety, with the promise of a quick lay that would ease some tension for both of them. “I’m a poster child for breaking the rules, Tiger. I’m going to put these drink orders in. Meet me out back in five,” she purred. Dean's eyes were glued to her impossibly short skirt as she walked away, and if anything could have ever made him pray, it was that a strong breeze would blow though the bar at that moment and give him a view of the panties he was ninety-nine percent sure she wasn’t wearing. He groaned as he shifted to stand up, his jeans brushing roughly against his erection. Fuck. It had been a long time since he’d been to this point, where he was so hard it hurt. Even Anna’s one-last-hurrah sex hadn’t got him this desperate.
Dean moved gingerly though the bar toward the rear entrance, taking care to avoid any additional contact. The pleasure-pain was turning him on even more, and that was a secret he was keeping to himself, thank you very much. The other patrons ignored him as he pushed the back door open, and for that he was grateful. The night air was cool, but the fire was inside Dean and he hardly felt the chill. The door slammed shut behind him as he nearly collapsed against the brick wall, eyes rolled up in his head and eyelids drooping, and holy shit on a stick he was inches away from taking himself in his hand and jerking off. Right. Fucking. There.
Dean was so focused on getting himself under control that he didn’t hear the door open again beside him. The chick, Mara, surprised the hell out of him. When he felt a tugging on his pants, his eyes returned to their normal resting place, and she was kneeling in front of him with her deft hands on his zipper. Her clever fingers slid his pants down to his knees and worked inside his boxers to grasp his cock firmly around the base. An electric shock ran though Dean’s body at her touch and the last bit of blood that wasn’t absolutely required to run his brain packed up and shagged ass to his dick. He had to admit he was impressed with himself. If he were any harder, he’d be a fucking statue.
“Oh, God,” he groaned.
“Not quite, baby,” she smiled, lips full and as bright ruby as fresh blood. The thought that he’d soon have those plump lips around his cock made Dean shudder.
The brunette worked him free of his confining boxers and the temperature difference registered for about half a second before a hot wetness engulfed him. Dean considered setting up a temple in honor of her mouth. He’d had many blowjobs before, but this was easily in the top three of all time and she hadn’t really even gotten going yet. The sensation of her tongue against the veins of his cock was so powerful he had to lock his knees to prevent dropping to the pavement. Her hand moved along his length in perfect time with her mouth, working a slow rhythm that made his body tight with desperate need.
Later, all he could say was he wasn’t nearly as careful as he should have been. He’d been on the road too long without physical companionship, and he was so horny he hadn’t realized the waitress wasn’t human. Hell, maybe she mind-whammied him too; he wouldn't put it past that bitch. Either way, it wasn’t until she had him on the brink of orgasm that he felt needle sharp teeth on his cock. The chick’s eyes were illuminating the alley and she had fucking horns. And her teeth…she had fangs like a snake. His shout was more shock than pain, though there was certainly that. And outrage. And an edge of hysteria. Under normal conditions, Dean Winchester did not do hysterics, but when an honest-to-god sex demon came a hand’s breadth from biting off his most precious possession, he figured he was entitled. Worst of all, he still desperately needed to come.
“What the fuck!” he raged, every instinct telling him to destroy this monster freak, great ass or no.
He shoved the creature away from him with all the force panicked adrenaline could summon and bent down to retrieve his boot knife. By the time he had it in his hands the bitch was gone and Dean’s knees were weak, barely able to support his own weight. Fuck! Whatever she’d done with her teeth, it worked fast. Fearfully, he checked on Dean Junior. The puncture wounds were small, but already red and swollen with a thin trail of blood (and…was that venom?) weeping from each. The clear discharge leaking from the puncture wounds definitely looked like snake venom he thought as he lost muscle control and slumped against the brick unable to move. Well, this seriously sucked. Dean Winchester, killed by a blowjob.
He’d have snorted if he could, knowing Sam wouldn’t hesitate to write that on his tombstone, but as it was he was having serious trouble just drawing his next breath. It was like his body was paralyzed, like that locked-in syndrome; his brain was thinking a mile a minute but his muscles wouldn’t respond. Sam had always told him his hormones would get the better of him someday. If he survived this, he was seriously never going to give that kid the satisfaction of saying I told you so, even if that meant kicking the crap out of his brother to do it.