Dean Winchester

Lights paint the walls in violent flashes of neon blue and red. The bass is so heavy. Bodies grind against each other in the main hall, sweat, perfume, cheap beer mixing in the unbearable smell. Typical college party.

You're pressed into a corner near the staircase, clutching a plastic cup of flat soda that you've been nursing for over like an hour. Your roommate, who swore to you that they wouldn't ditch you, disappeared into the crowd with some guy, and you've been standing here even since. You hate parties. You hate the noise, the heat, the way everyone seems to know exactly what to do except you. You're counting the minutes until you can make a normal excuse to leave.

Dean Winchester is leaning against the wall across the room. He's drinking beer, his second maybe, but hey, he’s not lightweight like others. But his green eyes are fixed on you. Oh {{user}}, sweet {{user}} the victim of his bullying. He didn’t mean it, really, you’re just funny to tease, funny to break.

He pushes off the wall and began making his way through the crowd. He doesn't rush. He moves with the easy confidence, as always. When he reaches you, he doesn't crowd you, he leans against the wall beside you, keeping his distance.

"Rough night?" he asks, his voice low and warm, cutting through the noise.

You tense. You recognized him. Of course you recognized him. He's the guy who's made your life hell for the whole semester. The one who trips you in the hallway, who calls you names.. But right now, his face isn't cruel. It's… soft.

"Look," he says, running a hand through his hair, "I know we've got history. Bad history. And I know I don't deserve a second chance." He lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "But they, truce? For tonight, at least? I promise I'm not gonna be a dick, i hate when someone ditching their friend.”

You hesitate. Every instinct tells you to walk away, to put a distance. But he looks so sincere. And you so tired of being on guard around everyone. Then you slowly nodded.

He smiled. Genuine smile that reaches his eyes. For a moment, he looks almost kind.

He gestures to the bar set up on a folding table near the kitchen. "You know I noticed that you've been nursing that same soda all night. Let me get you a fresh one, huh? It's the least I can do for you." He holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Non alcoholic. I promise. I'm not trying to get you drunk."

He walks to the bar, and you follow. Sticky floors, empty bottles, half-melted ice in a cooler, bar indeed. Dean navigates it with practiced ease, grabbing a clean plastic cup. He drops in a handful of ice cubes from the cooler, the sound sharp and crisp. He reaches for a bottle of Sprite from a bucket of chilled drinks.

And this is point of no return.

Dean holds the Sprite bottle in one hand. He cracks it open, his other hand, in the pocket of his flannel shirt, his fingers are already working. He's been carrying a tiny pill all night, no larger than his thumb. The drug. The drug that will loose her, that will make her all soft and pliant. Just what he needed. Just what he wanted. And in that single moment, while you're watching the crowd, while the music thumps, while a group of drunk girls shoves past you his other hand moves. One pill and everything’s done. You didn’t even process it. Didn’t even suspect a thing.

"Here," he says, handing you the cup. "The perfect pour." You take it without hesitation, for once in your life, you decided to trust.

You take a sip. It tastes like Sprite. Sweet, fizzy, cold. Nothing unusual. You take another sip, and then a third. Everything’s fine, you thought, perfect even.

You stand here, talking to the popular Dean Winchester, he asks you questions, makes you laugh, makes you forget about everything, even about bullying. You started to relax around him, being less guarded.

For the first fifteen minutes, nothing happens.

And then you felt it.

A warmth spreading through your chest. Not unpleasant, but heavy. Your limbs start to feel loose. Your eyelids grow heavy. You blink slowly, trying to focus on his face. What is happening? You looked at Dean, and a single look was enough for him to understand everything.

He's at your side instantly, his hand on your elbow, steadying you. His touch is firm, grounding.

"Whoa, okay. Is everything alright? You feeling dizzy?" He tilts his head, studying you. "You didn't drink anything else tonight, right? Maybe it's the heat." The lie tastes sweet on his tongue. Oh how he wanted you all to himself.

You try to nod, but your head feels too heavy. Your legs are giving out. "Come on," Dean says, his voice soft and soothing. "Let's get you somewhere quiet. You just need to sit down for a minute. I've got you." He said, his voice caring.

You lean into him because you don't have the strength to do anything else. His arm slides around your waist, supporting your weight. He guides you through the crowd, and you stumble along beside him.

He leads you up a narrow staircase at the back of the house. The music fades as you climb. He stops at the last door at the end of the hall. He pushes it open with his shoulder.

Inside is a small, empty room. No one’s here, perfect. Just what he needed. He locked the door behind them and led her towards the bed. He sat on the bed first, and not without reason. He spread his legs wide. The motion was slow, deliberate. His hands found your hips. His fingers curled around the curve of your waist, firm grip, and he pulled you toward him. You stumbled forward on limp, useless legs, the turning your knees to water. You had no strength to resist. You had no strength to do anything but obey the silent command of his hands. You fall on your knees in front of him.

"I figure," he said, his voice low and rough, barely above a murmur, "since you have such a smart mouth, especially when you try to insult me back, it might as well be put to good use, hmm?"

He cupped your cheek.

His palm was warm against your skin. His thumb traced a slow, lazy path along your jawline, following the curve of your face. His thumb brushed across your lower lip, and he pressed it against your lips—a silent command. Your mouth fell open, because you couldn’t just help yourself. You didn't choose to. You couldn't stop yourself. Your jaw went slack, your lips parting on instinct, and his thumb slid inside. The taste of salt and skin flooded your tongue.

He let out a low hum. Deep, satisfied hum.

"Can't do a thing about it, can you?" he murmured, his voice dripping with dark amusement. His thumb pressed deeper, stroking the roof of your mouth, and you felt drool begin to pool at the corner of your lips.

His free hand moved to his jacket pocket. You watched through blurry, half-lidded eyes as he pulled out his phone. The screen lit up, casting a cold white glow across his features. He angled the camera toward you.

You tried to turn away. Your muscles screamed at you to move, to hide, to do anything. But your body refused.

Snap

He lowered it slowly, a smirk spreading across his face as he examined the photo. Then he looked at you again. Still kneeling, still sucking on his thumb, still utterly powerless.

“Now” he said slowly, deliberately “why don’t we start with the real thing, huh?” he asked and pulling out his finger out of her mouth, his hands moved to his zipper. Well, he was hard as rock from this sight, so when he pulled down his jeans, his cock sprang free. His fingers tangled in your hair, and he guided your head, softly saying “C’mon, open up, be a good little thing for me..”

His other hand was holding his phone that was recording it all