Chapter Text
All work and no play is making you a very dull, horny girl, you are thinking as you enter the luxurious penthouse.
Dean is walking ahead of you, all broad shoulders and that perfect ass clad in washed out jeans. It’s evil, actually, how good he looks from the back, when he already looks so good from the front. There are things you want to do to this man that are making it very, very difficult to focus on what you’re supposed to do, which is work.
The penthouse belongs to a guy called Richard Mulligan III and he wants to offer you and the Winchesters a job. A paying job, which isn’t what you usually do.
But things have been tight. The credit card scams have gotten you into some trouble lately which is why you need to lay low in that area, and you can’t get by on hustling pool or darts, at least not for long. This guy is offering you a substantial sum to take care of a demon problem he has, so you know it’s along your line of business.
Sam is staying off the case, both because there’s other work to do and also because his delicate sensitivities make him reluctant to accept money for hunting. Dean and you don’t have the same reservations. In your opinion, you should be getting paid for this job anyway.
But since money’s been tight, some of your usual indulgences have had to take a backseat, one of them being you and Dean having your own motel room. It’s not that you mind sharing with Sam, you love the big lug, it’s more that it hasn’t allowed you and Dean any… privacy for a while.
And right about now, you are in dire need of some privacy with your boyfriend. Especially if he has the nerve to walk around with an ass like a ripe peach and shoulders that make you want to yodel.
Okay, concentrate. If you do this job and get paid, you are locking Dean in a room for a week. You’re probably tying him to the bed, so he can’t leave.
You need to take a deep breath at that particular mental image.
The private security guys that greeted you at the elevator are now leading you into what seems to be the living area of the penthouse. It’s all marble and you think there’s an unhealthy amount of modern art that doesn’t really mean anything to you on the walls. But as Dean once said – the uglier the art, the richer the people.
The guy himself is sitting in a giant cream colored armchair, and he gets up when the two of you walk in. Jesus, you’re sticking out like sore thumbs, Dean in his usual plaid, jeans and cotton, you mostly in black, tight fitting but practical.
The guy – Mulligan – looks at you kindly. He looks like a dandy, including a thin, dark mustache. He extends his arms a little in what’s supposed to be a welcoming gesture.
Types like this, you know, either distinguish themselves by looking down at people like you or they are fascinated, want that life style, or think they do, the fact that everything comes easy to them making them feel like they are missing out on some substantial masculine experience. Some of them start hunting rare animals, some have mistresses, and some, like this guy, start dabbling in the occult.
“So good of you to make time for me,” he says, and you recognize his silky voice from the phone call you had with him a few days ago. He shakes Dean’s hand, making sure to grip hard and keep his gaze, then takes your hand and to your horror, brings the back of it to his mouth, kissing it.
“Enchanted,” he says, smiling at you. You raise your eyebrows.
“Sure,” you say, but you’re not sure what the expected response to that is.
“You want a drink?” Mulligan asks, like this is a social call. Dean inclines his head.
“Wouldn’t say no to that,” he says. Mulligan waves his hand at one of the security guards, who apparently moonlights as a waiter, then notions to the couch across from the armchair he was in. You and Dean sit, and you look around the place.
There’s a long bar, a TV the size of the Impala and a pool table. Mulligan is talking in hushed tones to another security guard who walks off on another quest just as the first one returns with a tray of drinks. It’s flutes of something bubbly, and while you were hoping for something stronger, you sure aren’t going to complain.
You take one of the glasses when the guard lowers the tray towards you, and suppress a giggle as Dean takes a glass as well, his disappointment showing on his face. He’s fisting the stem of the glass like he’s gonna use it to attack someone. Mulligan takes the third glass while you take a sip, the bubbles tickling your nose, and then you notice that the rich man is watching you and Dean.
“You are… together?” he asks and both you and Dean look at him dumbfounded. It’s not a question and not a statement, but Mulligan continues talking before either of you can answer.
“It must be a thrilling life, hunting,” he says, his voice all dreamy. “The brushes with death, the diverse bodily fluids one is confronted with every day, the constant facing off with external and internal darkness, it must be…” He searches for the right word for a second. You desperately hope he doesn’t find it.
“I imagine it must be quite the aphrodisiac,” he concludes. You force a polite smile, even though you don’t really want him to be imagining anything.
“Yeah,” Dean says, also a gritty smile on his face, and he throws you a quick look, eyebrows raised just enough for you to see.
“About that job you were talking about…” he continues, hoping to get the conversation back on track.
“Yes,” Mulligan says, nodding. “As you know I run a few businesses downtown.” He pauses, takes a sip.
“Do you like the Romanée?” he asks you suddenly. “I’ve always preferred it over the Roederer.” You’re not sure what he’s talking about for a second but then you realize he means the champagne.
“It’s delicious,” you say, trying your best at a charming nod. It seems to be the right answer, because Mulligan smiles, impressed by your good taste, maybe.
“Anyway,” he continues. “My businesses are all legal, proper. They allow reprieve for those with occult interest, a place to come together, have a drink, discuss their passions and sometimes engage in some… more carnal satisfactions.” He raises his eyebrows to make sure you both understand what he means.
“Fucking,” you confirm. Dean looks at you again, a little surprised but also a smile playing on his lips, while Mulligan giggles.
“Get straight to the point, don’t you?” he says. You shrug as if to say yeah.
“Nothing illegal happens in my little den of sin,” Mulligan continues. “Yes, some of the desires put on display there are a little exotic, but it all happens between consenting and very willing adults.” You nod along. Let it be your luck that during the time you’re lusting for Dean more than you ever have you end up in an investigation that surrounds a supernatural sex club. Of course.
“But,” Mulligan continues, “a lot of my clientele is from rich, old families. And very often, they are not as open minded. There has been a gang of demons in this city for years, and I’ve always left them in peace and they me, but lately they have decided to try to blackmail my clients by exposing them in indulging in some of the more compromising acts.” Mulligan sighs.
“What do you know about those demons?” you ask.
“They are led by a fellow who calls himself the Butcher,” and at that Mulligan rolls his eyes. “I’ve never credited demons with an overabundance of creativity, but the Butcher? Please.” He takes another sip and you do the same. The stuff isn’t half bad.
“And you want us to take the guy out of commission?” Dean asks.
“Yes,” Mulligan confirms. “Him and enough of his cronies that he leaves me the hell alone. Pun intended.” He winks at you both, and you have to admit, he’s kind of starting to grow on you.
“Okay,” Dean says, thinking. “We’re gonna need access to the club. We’re also gonna need to speak to police to find out where those demons are hiding out.” Mulligan nods.
“Access to the club is easy, of course, but I don’t know about local police.”
You shake your head. “That’s okay, we have a way to do that.” At Mulligan’s questioning look, you add: “Very convincing fake FBI badges.”
“Ah,” Mulligan says, and then a cheeky little look goes over his face, before he adds: “Including the outfits, I hope?” You can’t help but chuckle a little.
“Including the outfits,” you confirm. Mulligan pretends that a little shudder goes through him, then winks at you again.
“Delicious,” he says.
“Okay,” Dean says, clearly not loving this conversation. “We should get going.” You both get up, depositing your empty and Dean’s full glass on the tray the guard is holding towards you.
“All work, are you?” Mulligan asks, and you see him look Dean up and down once. You grin, because yeah, you agree, with the looking him up and down. It's one of your favorite past times.
Dean clears his throat and then Mulligan reaches into his breast pocket and takes out what you believe is a key card.
“This will allow you access to the establishment in question,” he says, handing the card to Dean. “If you need anything, let me know and I will be happy to oblige.” There’s not much more to say, so you nod at Mulligan and start walking out.
Dean pockets the card when you get downstairs where the Impala is parked curbside.
“What’s first?” you ask.
“Police, I would say,” Dean answers, leaning on the roof of the car. “If we can find out where the Butcher and his lackeys are we can go straight there, gank’ em and call it a day.” You nod.
“Makes sense,” you answer and look up at Dean after looking down the street. There’s a distant grin on his face.
“You see that pool table in there?” he asks and you feel a smile spread over your face, knowing exactly where he’s going. “When this job is done, we should play again,” Dean says, his eyebrows wiggling suggestively.
Dean and you got together over a game of pool, where the price for the winner was that you got to tell the other one what to do. You won, and that’s how you and Dean ended up having sex in the Impala. The next time you played, when Dean won, is what you would consider the beginning of your relationship. It’s all good memories, but still you find yourself pouting at Dean.
“Wish we could stop and play right now,” you say. Dean nods and then opens the car door.
“Believe me, darlin’,” he says, “so do I.”
As you’re driving back to the motel, Dean’s hand doesn’t leave your leg. It’s what he always does, a sweet, casual yet slightly territorial gesture, but with what you were just talking about and your ever growing need for him, it carries a lot more meaning. Almost as if reading your thoughts, his hand slips higher while you’re stopped at a red light.
“Dean,” you say, torn between your tone being warning and encouraging.
“Am I makin’ you nervous?” he asks and you could slap that cocky expression off his face when he turns to you. And no, nervous isn’t the right word, but you’re not gonna admit that.
So with a grin, you say: “Oh please, I have so much more self-control than you.” Dean narrows his eyes and when he speaks, it’s not in the flirty, raspy tone he just used, but in his normal voice.
“Wait, do you actually think that?” he asks, unbelieving.
“Uh, yeah,” you say, not believing he is actually questioning this. “By, like, a long mile.” The light goes green and Dean looks at the street, but he throws you another look.
“You know you’re wrong, right?” he asks. “I mean, we’re joking and all, but you know you’re wrong.” Your mouth actually falls open.
“I am not wrong,” you say, your voice confrontational. Dean actually scoffs. How dare he.
“Excuse me,” you say and you lean forward, one finger pointing at Dean, “but who fucked who in that closet in the haunted house when that asshole ghost wouldn’t show up?” Dean chuckles, and grabs for your finger, closing his hand around it.
“Baby,” he says, “that’s because you begged me to do that.”
“I did not beg,” you reply, but you also have to giggle, “I asked politely.” Dean laughs and he pulls your hand in, kisses it.
“I love you, you know that?” he says. Your heart flutters at that.
“I love you too,” you say, but can’t help but add: “And I do have better self-control than you.” Dean grins, then nips at the skin on the back of your hand.
“Sure you do,” he says.
You get to the motel, check in. It’s not a nice place, there’s several spots of water damage on the wallpapers and it doesn’t smell great either, so you’re more than happy when you and Dean agree to simply get changed and get out of there.
Dean tosses his flannel into his bag while he picks out his suit, while you undress to your underwear. You’re just about to put on the rest of your outfit when you step in front of the bathroom mirror, and stop what it is you’re doing to pin up your hair, make it look a little more respectable.
You’re concentrating on doing that when you suddenly see in the reflection of the not entirely clean mirror that Dean is watching you. He’s still in the bedroom but he’s stopped whatever he’s doing to look at you.
“What?” you ask, grinning. He starts walking towards you and even that, even just that, him walking, is enough to make you feel heat bloom in your core.
He stops right behind you, so close that you can feel his breath on your now exposed neck and runs his hands over your shoulders and down your arms.
“Nothin’,” he says, then leans down and kisses your shoulder. “Just thinking that we should allow ourselves a couple of days off when this is done.” You smile and nod.
“I was thinking the same thing,” you reply. Dean keeps studying your skin, mesmerized by whatever he’s seeing as he kisses you a little closer to your neck.
“Oh yeah?” he says, and the next kiss lands on the back of your neck. “Any specific plans?” You can feel your body react to him, especially when his hands wander from your arms to your hips and then up.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” you ask, because you want to tease him but also because even with this small amount of touching you are already working at only fifty percent brain capacity. Dean Winchester just has that effect on you.
“I would like to know,” he says, and one of his hands wanders higher, while the other wanders lower.
“But I can tell you what I have planned in the meantime,” he continues, and then he squeezes your breast, making you gasp a little, while at the same time running his fingers along the waistband of your underwear. He brings his mouth close to your ear, while holding your gaze in the mirror. “Would you like to know?”
You nod, because your mouth is dry and talking might be difficult. Dean squeezes your breast again, then lets his fingers roam over the fabric of your bra to find your nipple, while he flattens his other hand over your belly, then pushes his fingers down into your panties.
“First of all you’d be wearing a lot less than this,” he says, voice low as he watches your reaction to the tips of his fingers grazing your clit – a little added tension in your muscles, your back arching just a touch. He starts touching you with both hands at the same time, the fingers on your nipple making the same circles as the one in your underwear. A little sigh leaves you and you lay your hands on his lower arms, just wanting to touch him, be close to him.
“And I would use that cat toy thing you have to get you all worked up,” Dean continues, then gently closes his lips on your earlobe and tugs at it. You grin, finding your voice.
“It’s not a cat toy,” you say, a little breathless “it’s a feather tickler.” Dean shrugs.
“Yeah, that thing,” he continues, unperturbed. “And I would use it on you until you are dripping wet and begging for me.” You bite your lower lip and push your ass back against Dean, but he only grins.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “I mean until you ask politely for me.” You purse your lips, not willing to show him your laugh at the tease. Your hand on his one arm wanders lower, until it is over his hand, only separated by the fabric of your panties, as you are urging him to go faster.
“Smartass,” you mumble, but it doesn’t come out particularly cool, since your voice is cracking a little. At that, Dean squeezes your nipple a little more harshly, a tiny moan escaping you.
He is looking at you intently in the mirror, studying your face and he’s pulling you against him a little, grinding his hardening cock against you. The pace he is rubbing you with is picking up, and you lean your head back against him, the arousal building and building in you as you roll your hips, adding to the friction and stimulation.
Dean moves his fingers from your clit for a second, pushing them lower on you, and then pushes two fingers into you, his palm continuing to rub you. You moan again and cup his hand from outside of your underwear so you can really grind against him, push him deeper.
“And then?” you ask, stuttering, but Dean is staring at you in the mirror. You see him shake his head.
“Look at you,” he says, and his voice is so low and raw that it sends a bolt of lightning through you. You do then, look at yourself in the mirror, the way Dean has you fast in his grasp but you are squirming, grinding yourself back against his crotch, where you can feel his hardness now, and down on his hand, desperately seeking release.
And the way Dean is studying you, like you are the best thing he’s ever seen.
“You gonna come on my hand?” he asks, and you nod, because it’s all you want, all you can think of. Your hand leaves his then and you bring it behind you, a tight fit between how hard you are pressed against Dean, but enough to find the zipper of his pants. You can’t quite reach, so Dean lets go of your breast, undoes the button and the fly and you let your hand wander inside, immediately finding his wonderful, hard warmness, while he brings his arm around you again, this time around your waist though so he can tug you even closer.
You start stroking him and while the angle is a little awkward it’s also arousing, to have him so close, to need to rely on just your sense of touch, and you make up for it in eagerness and enthusiasm, plus Dean is quickly fucking himself into your hand so your own coordination doesn’t need to be so good.
“Fuck, baby,” he mutters and leans his forehead against the back of yours, looking down himself. He looks back up, grin disheveled in his reflection.
“Been a while since I got a handjob,” he says, and he’s breathing heavily, but so are you, because Dean keeps pushing his fingers into you and they’ve started to make a wet sound. That plus the visual of seeing him like this is getting you there fast.
You bite your lip, rub him faster. You would suggest that he turn your around and fuck you instead but the thought of stopping even for a few seconds quickly discourages you. You need to get off, and so does Dean, because, again, it has been way too long.
“Baby,” Dean says and you can feel his movement stutter a little, his cock twitching in your hand. You just stroke him even faster, so that his expression almost turns to one of pain for a moment, but then he leans forward, and with his grip around you almost slams himself and your hand against your ass a few times before he groans and squeezes his eyes shut, and you can feel his come coating your hand.
You gasp at the feeling, and you can almost feel Dean’s release in your own body, which shouldn’t be possible. He takes a few seconds to recover, his movement on your having stopped when he started to come. He’s breathing hard and you can’t help but grin at his mirror image.
“Now tell me who’s got bad self-control,” you say. Dean looks up and he actually glares at you and then a second later he pulls his hand from you. He grabs your hand that was in his pants by the wrist, pulls it out, ignoring the mess he’s making and then he is turning you around.
His hand is back in your underwear immediately and he pushes you back against the sink as he start driving his fingers into you as fast as the confinement of your underwear allows it. It feels so intense for a second that you bring one leg up, and Dean pins it under his elbow, keeping it there, not changing his pace.
Your head leans back, meets the mirror with a thud as the rough stimulation makes your body twitch. Dean pushes his mouth against your neck the moment it is exposed to him, mouthing at it.
“How am I supposed to control myself,” he says and his hand driving into you is now making a loud squelching sound on every push. “When you’re standing around looking like this?” You moan, high-pitched and repeatedly, and you can feel an orgasm building in you, brought on fast and hard by what Dean is doing.
“When all I’ve been thinking about for the last week,” he continues, and curls his fingers inside you a little further than he already was, making more intense pleasure explode in you. “Is how badly I wanna make you come so hard you scream my name?”
And you’re pretty sure that’s exactly what you’re going to do, because just then Dean scrapes his teeth along your neck, the additional stimulation making your stomach muscles pull together, your leg lift up even higher.
“Come on,” Dean breathes against you. “Come for me, baby.” Your hands tighten on the edge of the sink where you’ve been trying to hold on, steady yourself against Dean’s hard work on you.
“I, Dean, oh god, Jesus, fuck,” you moan as you feel your pussy clench on Dean’s fingers, the heady high starting to hit you.
“I—” you just gasp but there’s really no need to announce your orgasm. Dean can feel it, can feel it in your desperate clenching, the grimace your face is pulled into, she shudder going through you and the animalistic sound coming from somewhere in your throat.
You tense, your entire body does, and Dean brings his lips back to your neck, kissing, gently now, so that that is the first thing you feel when your body comes back to earth.
His fingers are still working at you but slowly, only to help you through the release, and the second he can feel you start to try to close your legs, he pulls back, uses the hand instead to hold you up.
Your wrap your one arm around his shoulders, making sure it’s not the one with the hand with his come on it. And his lips are the first thing you feel, the way they brush over the thin, sensitive skin of your throat, so gentle that you could almost think you’re imagining it. Your head falls forward against his and Dean just holds you for a minute, and you hold him.
“Holy shit,” you mutter eventually, and feel Dean chuckle against you.
“Holy shit,” he repeats. It’s like a fog is clearing and you’re able to think straight again. Dean pulls his head back and looks into your eyes. You lean forward, kiss him and he returns it, gently.
“I really needed that,” you mutter when you separate just a little. Dean kisses the side of your mouth and then your chin.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks, frowning.
“Cause we were working and I didn’t want to stress you out?” you say, immediately thinking it sounds silly. Dean huffs.
“Stress me out?” he repeats, landing a short kiss on your jaw.
“Yeah,” you say, and then add: “I realize what that sounds like now.” Dean looks at you again, grins.
“At least now we can concentrate on work, right?” he asks. Right, work. Totally.
You nod, kiss him again, and then Dean is letting go of you and you stand on your own two feet again.
Damn, you could use a nap.
Dean grabs some toilet paper, cleans himself up and you wash your hands. As Dean tosses the paper into the toilet and then washes his hands as well, he bumps his shoulder into yours.
“I still think I have better self-control than you,” he says, and gives you a challenging look in the mirror. You roll your eyes.
“Give it up, Winchester,” you say. “There is no way. No. Way.” Dean narrows his eyes.
“You wanna put that to the test?” he asks. You frown.
“Only if you’re prepared to lose,” you reply.
“Ha,” Dean says. He quickly dries his hands on a small towel hanging off the wall, then turns to you. You face him, listening.
“Until this case is done,” he says, and holds his hand up before you, “whoever gives into the other first, loses.”
“What’s the price?” you ask, and Dean shrugs.
“Honor?” he asks. “Sexual servitude?” You grin.
“Baby,” you say, “if you want me to be your master you just have to say that, you don’t have to pretend to start a bet you’re going to lose anyway.” Dean chuckles, arrogantly.
“Please,” he says. “I’ll have you in a Princess Leia costume before you know it.”
You think for a second, than take his hand where he extended it to you.
“Deal,” you say and shake it. Dean grins and you grin and maybe this case isn’t going to be so bad after all.