Egg and Spoon Racing.

Dean/ofc, some brief Sam/ofc. Adult. Set Pre-series. This was written for the spnsummerlove fic exchange over at LJ. I veered away from the prompt horribly.

Summary - Everything's always a struggle for them, so they've learned, by now, to make the best out of a bad situation.

He spends the first ten minutes leaning against the door frame on the threshold between hallway and living room, cool beer and his swollen knuckles causing an almost thoughtful symphony of throbbing through his fingers. Hot and cold vying for dominance while he does his best to get distracted from their little battle and it's an easy thing to do when the living room he's looking into is swimming with bodies.

The whole house is pulsing, bass trying it's damnedest from somewhere out back but being drowned out by laughter, chattering, brown bottles clinking together and scattering on the hardwood under foot, a chant blossoms - down down down down - followed by a cheer from the kitchen, victorious amongst the noise for a few seconds before it's back to scheduled programming. The sounds of a party in full swing, the sounds of people of all ages having a good time once again.

He does a circuit, spends some time at the keg in the back yard, barbecue scent being slowly extinguished from his senses by the sweat and the perfumes and the beer while he talks to a bunch of girls who say they're in college. He keeps catching glimpses of the only one he's really interested in, weaving around, tidying things up. Not enjoying herself like she should be considering he heard this party was for her.

He drops in on the guys in the garage, bug zapper annihilating moths overhead as they all posture around a beat up old Chevelle Malibu, hood up and rusted old parts on display. It's not dignified, old girl like that could be a total beauty if someone had taken care of her. Same age as the Impala. Dean doesn't stick around the garage for long, just long enough to get a glance under the hood and confirm his suspicions that there's nothing he could do for her with what he's got.

He finds Sam making it with a tall blonde chick up against a gazebo post. Sam's got one hand on the back of her neck, holding her face to his, and his other hand's down the front of her jeans, digging and moving. Dean knows it's weird and way creepy to be standin' there watching but he keeps at it anyway, wonderin' whether Sam knows what he's aiming for down there or whether he's just guessing and getting lucky. He tries to remember if he knew his way around inside a girl's panties when he was sixteen. Sam always has been a fast learner though and that way she's mewling into his mouth leads Dean to believe his brother has it figured out just fine.

Dean'll give him some pointers when they get home later. On principle.

Sam sees him over her shoulder, scowls but doesn't stop. Keeps her pinned there, letting her suck marks into his collar bone that Dean's gonna tease him about in front of Dad if he gets the chance.

"Can I help you, Dean?"

Dean grins, thinks about asking if Sam needs a hand, 'cause Blondie's pretty hot, they could take her to one of the spare bedrooms, double team her or tag team her or what the hell ever, Sam would learn to appreciate another player. Probably. Eventually... But the little fucker's got a vindictive streak and a memory like an elephant so he shakes his head instead, tips his beer in their direction, saluting, before he heads back inside and takes up residence near the fish tank by the window in the living room. It's a good vantage point and he lets people come to him, small talk and congregate around him before flitting off again, busy.

The innards of the fish tank are guarded by algae, he stands there for probably an hour and doesn't see a single sign of life inside it.


He'd thought he was gonna hate it here. Welcome to Humbledon Hill! the sign had announced at them perkily, but the apartment Dad had sent them to hadn't been inhabited by anything remotely humanoid for a decade at least, was full 0f stray cats who Dean practically had to blast with rock salt to expel and even then there was still a litter of five charcoal black kittens and their mother taking up space, nestled comfortably in an overturned box of ratty eighties porno magazines in a dusty corner of one of the bedrooms.

Sam had bitten his lip, said, "Aw, Dean, but it's cold outside," and Dean had gritted his teeth at his own powerlessness. He disposed of all the vermin carcasses he could find, tacked up a damp piece of plywood over the broken kitchen window that had been serving nicely as a cat-flap while Sam got himself acquainted with their new roommates.

Dean'd checked in with their father; received a status report, a rough whereabouts, a disappointing ETA, all in return for pretty lies:

The apartment? It's okay, we've seen worse. Seems like a quiet neighbourhood, nothin' we can't handle. Sammy's fine, yeah, o'course he's been helpin' out.

He added cat food to his basket during the first grocery run an hour later.

That had been Saturday.

Sunday had been for cleansing and delousing their new quarters, setting up grooves in the sills for salt, carving tiny protective runes into the floors and door jambs, combing the surrounding area for hang-outs, hide-outs, take-outs, library, laundromat, local cop-shop, churches, schools and other such useful destinations.

Dean learned that Sam'd named the mother cat Jezebel, since the lazy, careless way she disciplined her offspring and still jetted out of the jammed open bathroom window at night for a few hours of fun indicated that this was not her first foray into motherhood.

Monday had been Sam's first day at school even though Dean had tried - with lame offers and jokes - to entice him out of going.

"Why bother, man. We're only gonna be here for as long as it takes Dad to finish up with this thing in El Paso. You should come shooting with me instead, maybe hit up that bar on the strip later for some suckers. You can teach me that innocent face you pull, you know the one..." Complete with a sad, thick bottom lip and drooping, fluttering eyelids.

But Sam had just shook his head, said, "You don't need to pick me up," and slipped out the front door.

Dean had known it wasn't a good idea, was proved right when Sam got home and stormed right into the kitchen with his t-shirt stretched up, held against his bloody mouth, and slammed what looked like a .9mm down on the decrepit table in front of Dean. Not one of their own, Sam'd never take a gun to school.

"What happened to you -" Dean started, on his feet.

Sam spat red in the sink, cut him off, furious. "Some guy at school just -- right there in the fucking 'lot, Dean! He kept shoving me, new kid shit, y'know? So I tell him to fuck off and then he - and then - and I shouldn't've even brought the damn thing home but I couldn't just leave it at school -" Sam interrupted himself, spitting again, stringy saliva diluting the colour, lacing it with the adrenaline that must've built up in his mouth; an awfully familiar sight. Dean clapped a hand on the back of Sam's neck, felt the muscles still trembling a little. Must've been one helluva fight and later, after, when Dean's calm enough to think about it with some distance, he's real sorry that he missed it.

"Hey, chill out, man. You're okay. Lemme see your mouth, 'zit cut?" Though Dean could feel himself starting to shake with it too, felt himself wanting to lose his shit and go on a fucking rampage but knowing it wouldn't do any good. Not right then, anyway. Sam nodded, moved his hands out of the way and tilted his face obediently, tilted it down a few centimeters and that was still new enough to be a kick in the pants for Dean every time it happened.

"Yeah, it's cut," Sam said. "He hit me with that piece of fucking shit replica, was aiming for my goddamn nose-"

"You go down?" Dean cut in, casual as he could make it, probing at Sam's split lip. Inside where Sam's teeth'd tore it up was worse'n the outside. Fat lip for a few days for sure, but no stitches necessary. Ice though, definitely.

"Yeah. It was a fucking surprise, okay?" Sam glared like he'd been accused of something unspeakable and Dean smirked, turned away to retrieve an ice-pack, knew by the way Sam was swearing so goddamn much that he didn't need to ask whether Sam had gotten back up again.

"So how's the other guy?" he asked instead, important question passed off as something blasé, dabbing rubbing alcohol onto a cotton pad and handing it over. Sam took it and huffed, winced when he pressed it to his damaged mouth. Scowled when it came away smeared bloody. Dean knew Sam was thinking about what to say carefully, and then he was gonna answer in the same manner Dean had asked. Winchester games.

"Pretty sure I broke his wrist," Sam muttered. Dean smirked again, and yeah okay, that's kind of a given; some asshole sticks his gun in your face, fake or no, then you're gonna fuck up his shootin' hand, but Dean felt an instant flare of fondness for his brother all the same. Felt it shoot up, up, and off into the universe where the rest of them fly off to whenever Sam made an off colour joke or stared at a girl's rack from behind a book or rememberd Dean's left knee is way weaker than the right and used it to fight dirty and get the upper hand when they were sparring.

"That's my boy," Dean whispered, crunching the bag of peas out of it's frozen clumps. He looked over at Sam, who was sucking on his lip and twisting his face up like it tasted of battery acid, and wondered how in the hell they'd managed it; they'd grown a Sam who'd turned out decent and smart, and there's nothing he couldn't already do better them if he ever felt like setting his mind to it.

Didn't mean Dean wasn't gonna beat the shit out of the other guy if he got his hands on him.


He sips at his Corona and watches the people. Dumbasses that he recognizes from around the neighborhood, all tanked already despite the fact that most of'em are underage. His age, and it smacks him in the face a little. That's really what guys his age are supposed to be doing? He's supposed to wanna go around acting like a complete asshole?

"Ah, Winchester! You got a drink, my man? You havin' a good time? Party really starts at midnight¿El coño, si? You be hangin' around, yes?"

The words come too loud, slurring steamy beer breath right in Dean's ear and he feels the meaty unwanted weight of an arm snaking across his shoulders. He winces to himself, shifts away and wipes the freshly sprayed damp off the side of his face with the shoulder of his shirt. Alfonzo. Dean doesn't think he's ever seen the guy sober.

"Katrina? Yo, the well is running dry over here... Katt-rreeeeeee-nnnaaahhh!" Alfonzo shouts into the scrum of bodies formerly known as the living room.

His goddamn voice reverberates through Dean's abused eardrum and he shrugs the arm off, finally reminded why he's putting up with this shit: Katrina comes swaying out of the kitchen and Dean smiles at her like he's been trying to every time he's seen her. The charming one that he had to practice infront the mirror.

But she doesn't spare a glance at Dean even as she snatches the empty out of his grip and replaces it with a fresh cold one, he tries to thank her but she's already talking over him, oblivious. She brandishes the other bottle just out of her brother's reach for a second, tormenting.

"'Fonzo, you keep hollerin' my name like I'm your freakin' maid an' I'm gonna shove the next beer up your ass. ¿Usted entiende eso?" she bargains, finally relinquishing the alcohol when Alfonzo groans in supplication and shoos her away.

Her night only seems to get progressively worse after that. Some birthday. Dean watches as she makes her way 'round the place, again and again, his vision zeroing in on her whenever she pops back into the vicinity to mop up spilled drinks or tipped over ashtrays. There're a bunch of older guys occupying the couches like a mob and she gets tangled up in them more than once, pulled in while she's passing by clumsy fat hands glittering with gold, tattooed knuckles landing on her crotch, wrapping 'round her ribs. Loud raucous laughter in the face of her struggles to get out of their web, flinging vicious Spanish curses over her shoulder at them each time.


Wednesday, and Sam's up early, ready for school again even though Dean'd forbid him from going back in, book open next to his cereal but it's being ignored in favor of watching one of the kittens who's also perched on the table, chewing something up with relish.

Dean slaps Sam across the back of his shaggy head. "Dude, get that thing off the table, I gotta eat my goddamn breakfast there. And what the hell is wrong with you, goin' to school again? You wanna get shot, is that it?"

But Sam doesn't move, just keeps watching the cat, cheek on his fist, half amused half disgusted expression on his face that suits him. Dean looks a little closer, squints the tiny crunchy debris falling out of the kitten's little jaws and onto the table top.

"... What's it's got, Sam?"

"A cockroach," Sam says, and finally looks up at Dean, helpless like he hasn't looked since he was small. Dean winces, rubs a hand over his face, really needs a shave. This place is a fucking dump, even by their low, low standards. He doesn't think Dad would've sent them if he'd known. If he'd known Sam was gonna hafta share his breakfast table with cockroaches and a cat that's probably crawling with all kinds of lice. It's not fair. Dean looks at Sam's fat lip, bruise that's gonna get him noticed at school more than ever. It's really not fair. They've dropped the ball this time, him and Dad.

"Alright, pack your shit, Sammy," Dean says. "Lets just get the hell outta here, there's a hotel -"

"We can't afford a hotel, Dean," Sam cuts in, annoyed. He rolls his eyes. "Besides didn't Dad order us to stay put, wouldn't wanna -"

"Shuddup, jackass. What would you know about what we can and can't afford." Dean's got some cash stowed away, it'll probably be enough to last them until Dad gets there. If they don't eat. And if it's not... he'll just have to figure out something else. "Just get your stuff. I'll call Dad and let him know this place was giving us a rash, okay?"

They were too disgusted with the place to really unpack anything so it shouldn't take long but Sam catches his arm as he heads for the hallway.

"Dean, hey wait, man. It's okay," Sam says. "It's okay. It's just another week, right?"

He tries to get a good look at Sam's face, see what his game is, but there's no light in the hall.

"Sam -"

"Look, I know you need that money for the car otherwise we'll never get out of here, Dean. If Dad gets back and the car's not fixed then he'll leave us here again for God knows how long," and Sam laughs a little, like any of this is funny. He claps Dean on the shoulder. "Hotels are for pussies anyway, man. You told me that," Sam says, drifting back towards the kitchen.

Dean breathes, reminding himself he can when there's a thick apology stuck in his throat. He shakes his head and lets out a chuckle that bounces off the wall in front of him and echos back cold. Watches through the kitchen doorway as Sam pushes his cereal bowl across the table for the kitten to clean out, watches as the thing's little spike of a tail whips about in thanks.

If he doesn't laugh he'll cry.


Dean's in the kitchen inspecting what's left of the spirits, wonderin' what to have next and where Sammy's gone off to when the second from last straw breaks Katrina. Some drunk chick spills a drink on her. Electric blue liquid all down her white front and the girl doesn't even pause to apologize, maybe doesn't even notice she's done it. Dean bites his lip, watches Katrina tip her head back and sigh, blinking at the ceiling. He enjoys the way her shirt goes see-through and clings but is sorry she's having a shitty birthday. He's positive he could cheer her up if she gave him two minutes.

"You need a towel, or - That's probably gonna stain if you don't -"

She snaps her head towards him, eyes narrow, pissed off.

"I'm Dean," he tries, "Winchester... Your brother said--"

"Right. From the garage. He hasn't shut up about your car," she says, distracted, picking her top away from her skin.

Dean nods, steps closer and is about to strike up a compelling and polite (and probably funny, smart and impressive, too) conversation when she says, "Was nice to meet you," an automatic polite afterthought before she turns and walks away down the hall.

Dean frowns. He's not sure this has ever happened to him before and it's weird and a little thrilling, trying for a girl's attention is not something he usually has to go through. He ponders just calling it quits, there are plenty of other girls here who've made it clear they'd be up for something and he chews his lip, thinking about the situation. He wants to get laid...

And a sweet willing girl is a sweet willing girl...

But he wants that one. Katrina and the way she dresses like a gypsy woman, the way she's dark everywhere except when she looks directly at you and her eyes are blue, tropical coloured, the way she's always flustered and frowning, running around after everyone else's ass. He's cutting off his nose to spite his face, but he just wants her.

He follows her path down the hall and ends up bumping into her at the bottom of the stairs. She's standing still, staring down at something broken. It must have been knocked off the table, little porcelain pieces scattered, ground into crumbs where they've been trodden on over and over by oblivious party goers. Unfixable. He stares at it with her for a second, wondering what to say.

She looks over her shoulder at him, lips pursed a little and her eyes dance, flicking her gaze all over his face, down his neck. He recognizes that look, knows it so well he feels his dick tighten, happy that she's noticing him. She looks at his lips for a few seconds too long and then twists away and jogs up the stairs. He puts his beer down in the place where her ornament probably used to stand and follows her, watching the way her ass moves.

He follows her to what he assumes is her bedroom and stands at the doorway blocking most of the light, watches her strip out of her ruined top as she crosses the room heading for a dresser. She wears a long rosary around her neck and Dean shifts to let in more light, watches the little cross slap against her bare stomach as she heaves an old drawer open, wood whining. He clears his throat.

"Look, you're wasting your time here," she gestures to where he's standing. "I don't screw around with my brother's friends," she says, folding her arms over her bra and hot damn, she's gotta know that only makes everything bulge upwards.

"Why not?" Dean asks, toe of his boots stubbing as he shuffles a few steps closer, points piling up on his side 'cause she's basically just admitted that they're on the same page, just some moral objection holding her back and Dean's got a good track record for obliterating moral objections of all kinds.

"'Cause 'Fonzo's a fucking idiot and anyone who thinks he's-"

"I'm not your brother's friend," Dean cuts in, and doesn't even feel bad that he said it. Her eyebrows shoot up, amused face assessing him.

"I think you're full of shit," she says and digs in her open dresser drawer for a top. Her lips are already parted, surprised, when he kisses her. She doesn't reciprocate but she doesn't push him away, stands pliant and tense. Uncrosses her arms and allows his tongue to delve in and do a sweep, tasting the ridges on the roof of her mouth. She makes a 'Mmmn' sound when he splays his hand on her back, fingers slipping up between the bra clasp and her hot skin.

She blinks at him when he finally pulls away, digs her nails into his forearm for a second and licks the taste of him off her lips knowing that's exactly what he's staring at; the meanest kind of tease before she tells him to get. the hell. out.

He passes Sam on the wall out front, talkin' to that sweet lookin' blonde thing. He hooks a fist in Sam's collar and drags him along, doesn't give him a chance to even say goodbye so Dean figures he deserves it when Sam kicks at his ankles and sulks all the way home.


Thursday, Dean finds the auto-shop. He's there early and has to wait half an hour for the sign on the front office to be flipped to 'Open'. He got the parts and he can do the labor himself, wants to, but he needs to take up some of their space, use their equipment and their tools. It'll probably take him a day. Day and a half, tops.

The guy is beefy, has a greasy ponytail and Alfonzo stitched into the pocked of his coveralls, tattoos of pin-up girls and dragons spilling out from under his sleeves. He rubs at his chin and looks at the calender; the obligatory half naked chick on a chrome-shiny motorbike. Dean can see they have nothing booked till Saturday.

"We don't usually do that, man," Alfonzo says. Dean feels his heart sink a little.

"Look, man, I'll pay cash, okay? Just today. You can watch the whole time," Dean pleads. Alfonzo picks up a toothpick from the mess on the counter and sticks it in his mouth, wanders to the window.

"Which one's yours?'

"That old Impala. Black," Dean says. It's like having a winning lottery ticket sometimes.

Alfonzo lets Dean use the space, drives a hard bargain about what it's gonna cost and says Dean has to buy the beers, too, and let Alfonzo help out a little. So by midday Dean is sweaty and greasy, grinning as Alfonzo tries to teach him how to swear in Spanish in between bursts of loud, off-key singing sprees that drown out the radio. Dean thinks there's gonna be fifties rock 'n' roll stuck in his head for weeks and he really doesn't mind.

A girl comes in around two o'clock, shorts and swinging hips and spaghetti straps and all this brown skin and Dean can't take his eyes off her. She gives Alfonzo a brown paper bag, chats with him for a minute and then disappears into the office.

"My sister, Katrina," Alfonzo says, tearing into his sandwich. "You got no chance, man. You're not from around here. Go take care of it in the bathroom and quit makin' a fool outta yo' self."

Dean nods dumbly, barely hearing, as she gathers some papers under her arm and wanders back out. She nods a greeting at him as she passes, a tiny smile and half a second of eye contact that makes his pulse jump.


It's the morning after her party when she decides to give him the time of day, it's after he corners her doing laundry, doesn't really give her a choice but she's had a night to sleep on it so he knows she's not gonna resist this time anyway.

He originally headed in there lookin' for Alfonzo (needed to return the set of keys to the 'shop he'd been trusted with, say thanks again) and found him snoring on the couch, Animal Planet playing to itself about spider monkeys, so Dean'd left him undisturbed, tip-toed past.

It's sweltering hot, midday outside and her basement is filled with a wrapping wet heat, humidity makin' it so his t-shirt peels off like it's a layer of skin as he backs her up till her ass bounces against the dryer. She seats herself on the machine, perfect height, and watches as he undoes his belt, slides the leather back through the buckle slowly: a challenge or a question or a demand or maybe all three but it doesn't matter when she lets him suck at the salt-taste on her throat, or when she lets him yank her vest down and thumb at her tits, or when he finally gets a hand between her sweaty thighs and finds nothing but more blood-hot open flesh that's wet for him already, because it all feels just feels like winning to him.


On Friday morning, the car's done and Dean drives her out into the empty 'shop yard to wash the dust off and wax her till she's gleaming. Alfonzo drags a deck chair and a cooler out and watches, soaking in the rays.

They both sit, after, congratulating themselves on a job well done, squinting, the car blinding in the sunlight. A bunch of Alfonzo's friends stop by and they drag their own various objects out to sit on and shoot the shit. Hockey, new jewellery, cars, JC's underage girlfriend who they're less than gentlemanly about. Dean zones in and out, not knowing who anyone is and not particularly wanting to know, not caring for their gossip but it makes alright background noise for the perfect weather.

Then one of the guys says something about his brother losing his model .9mm and Dean zones back in so hard he thinks he might give himself whiplash. He hears broken hand and some punk-ass lanky fucker at his school and then wants to borrow Rico's Beretta and give the punk a real scare next time and Dean's hauling the guy up by his collar and punching him in the face, harder than he's ever hit a guy who wasn't already dead. He feels a crunch, satisfaction personified, and then there're other hands on him pulling him away before he can do any more damage.

"What the fuck is this, Winchester! Hey, hey, man. What the hell're you doin'?" Alfonzo says, shoving him against the car. Dean shoves him back.

"That punk is my goddamn brother an' if any of you motherfuckers try it? I'll kill you, you understand me?"

Alfonzo bursts out laughing, he turns to his friends and says something Dean doesn't understand and when he turns back he slings a sweaty arm around Dean's neck and drags him back inside, patting at his shoulder blade fondly.

"Ah, Deano. You' alright, kid, y'know that? Some balls you got," Alfonzo says, and wipes his eyes.

"Yeah, whatever," Dean says, trying not to pout, he was being fucking serious and if these dickheads -

"Hey, what you doin' tonight? It's Katrina's birthday; party at my place. You should bring your brother, too, sounds like big balls run in the family," Alfonzo says, and then he's laughing again, chuckling as he strips out of his work gear.


"God, wait," she squeaks. He feels himself bump, stick inside her, and he knows it's not good, knows he's gone too fast even before she squeezes his arms, push-pulls a warning, her nipples still brushing against his chest with every quick breath she's dragging in, sticky skin of her forearm boiling across the back of his neck and sweat-damp bunched up clothes falling back in his way every two seconds. "Wait, Dean... Oh."

He pulls out, rests his forehead against hers. "Sorry," he pants a little, "sorry."

He's fucking it up before they've even started and Dean's always been taught that there's no point in doing a job unless you're gonna do it right. "Okay," he breathes, "Okay, wait." Then he's dropping to his knees and pushing her goddamn skirt up again, miles of loose flowing material that floats around her flip-flops when she's up-right but he's having trouble keeping track of where the end of it is. He really wants to do this right.

"I don't - oh, Jesus -"

She's waxed or maybe shaved, there's just this stripe but the point is: what felt like nothing against his fingers is spiky soft under his mouth, plump little thing that's been plucked bare just for him like some kind of ripe fruit and he bites before he can help himself, tormenting little nips with his front teeth that make her jump and then whine, make her grab at his hair and push at his head and he can't see what the look on her face is like 'cause there's fucking skirt in his eyes.

He backs off a little, his knees already smarting and there's sweat dripping down his spine and he watches the goddamn motherfucking skirt fall back down and cover her up while he slides a hand along her thigh, catches her where she's warm and clammy behind her knee and pushes her leg out a bit more, a bit higher, spreads her further open. She cups his chin, tips his face up so their eyes can meet. Her cheeks red, apple-shiny, hair stuck to her damp temples.

"It's alright if you don't know how. You don't have to, Dean -"

Don't know how? She's gotta be kidding. He knows he's slightly appalled but he doesn't know on whose behalf. "What kinda guys you been dating?" But he's already on her again, first few long licks coat his tongue and he lets the taste of her roll around in his mouth, something so sweet it's gone a little sour.

"Guys aroun' here don't eat pussy," she tells him, shaky, fingers dragging through and pushing his hair back.

I'm not from around here, he thinks, and keeps her splayed with his open lips, a vacuum attachment, works over her with rough flat strokes of his tongue, slow and torturous till she's twitching, breathing in whimpers, so slippery. Then fast, till feels her thighs tense, feels everything tense and release, building up as he speeds up, perfect synchronization.

"Ah Dios, la boca, más, por favor. Así que bueno. Dean, ah mi Dios," she moans out, rushing, gripping his hair. "No pare, ah Dios..."

He doesn't stop, keeps licking and sucking at her, has to reach down to grab his cock when she bucks against his face a little, sweet one second pause in space and time and then she's trembling and pulsing against him.

He doesn't recall getting to his feet and she isn't done coming when he pushes in. Ready-made sucking little jerks while he shoves deep and holds her tight on his dick, listens to her gasp, high, listens to a similar noise scrape out of his own throat that he's pretty sure his vocal chords haven't produced since he was eleven, feels her heels press into his ass.

"C'mon," she whispers, tilting her hips, twisting on him in a way that make his knees go watery. "Sí, yeah, yeah, like that - que's perfecto, así que bueno. Así que bueno, come on, Dean, jódame."

He obliges, pulls almost all the way out, biting his lip and missing the burning snug fit of her desperately for the whole second he leaves it before he shoves back in again, sharp, feels her tits bounce against his chest. He repeats as many times as he can manage, hard thrusts that knock the air out of them both, struggling for it like the last few feet of a marathon.

She constricts on him and it's the only thing that still exists on the planet, the goddamn finish line. He grinds, in deep as he can get, and bursts, floods warm and seeping inside her, muffling himself with a bite on her shoulder that unbeknown to him takes two weeks to disappear completely.

Alfonzo's awake, groggy and rolling himself something to smoke, when Dean makes his way back through the living room. Dean smirks at him, hands over the keys and says, thanks again, man, says a goodbye. Wonders as he walks down the drive whether it was Katrina's moans or the racket drumming of his own knees hitting the dryer that woke Alfonzo up.

He's slimy under his shirt, is gonna stink when his sweat dries and he grins as he drops into the car.

"What the hell took so long, Dean? I've been sitting here for like, twenty minutes," Sam complains. "Dad called, he's at this rest-stop, Elmhurst's or something? Says we can't miss it if we keep our eyes peeled... Dude. Dean, what the hell are you smiling about? Oh, you didn't..."

Dean rolls out of the street, smiles even wider over at Sam, who just raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "Yeah, Sam. I did. Ate her out first. Right there on the dryer in the basement. So hot, man. She wasn't wearing any underwear, y'know? So I could just -"

"Yeah, thanks. I get it, Dean," Sam says. They both look up at the apartment as they pass it, rightful feline owners back in full possession of it.


More notes: The Spanish is probably atrocious. I'm real sorry for screwing around with a beautiful language. It might help if you think of it as a fictional language instead, like Klingon or Elvish.

Also, I'm aware this story has nothing supernatural in it. 'Cept maybe Dean's magic cock. :)