Summary: OFC Vanessa hates weddings until she meets a handsome stranger.
Pairing: Dean x OFC
Words: 9629
Warnings: age difference, ass play, finger sucking, finger feeding, female ejaculation, NSFW
A/N: set in s10 post Demon!Dean
xox: @glassjacket @boondoctorwho @cracksinthewalls @naughtygirlsarebest @fatestemptress @adoptdontshoppets @pisces-cutie @dean-winchesters-bacon @maddiepants
She hates weddings. Well, hate is a strong word, but they give her anxiety. It’s always awkward for her because she can never figure out whom to take as a date – or if she even wants one. She likes the idea of being able to leave whenever she wants, so taking a date kind of cramps that style.
This wedding, in particular, is stressing her out because she’s a bridesmaid. At least they stopped at a bar before the reception and there are shots – terrible toasts, but shots, nonetheless.
“To keep a marriage brimming,” the best man starts. “With love in the loving cup,” he continues, and he’s already slurring his words. “When you’re wrong, admit it,” he says like he’s some kind of marriage guru. “And when you’re right, shut up!”
The entire wedding party, except her, busts into laughter as she scans the bar and the other patrons, silently apologizing for the idiots she’s with. She catches the gaze of a hot guy at the end of the bar. She watches as he rolls his eyes before looking into his glass of brown liquid.
I hear ya cluckin’, big chicken, she thinks to herself, wishing she were anywhere but there.
She longs for her pajama pants and an old Cary Grant movie as the bartender lines up another round of shots. One more stupid toast down and she sneaks a glance back at the enticing stranger. His profile is classically male – square jaw with a five o’clock shadow, strong cheekbones, crinkles at the edge of his eye, slightly upturned top lip and soft, full bottom lip-
“Vanessa!” she’s rudely dragged from her observations by the fucking bride. “Do. You. Want. Another. Shot.” She’s being extremely loud and succinct, so she’s obviously wasted, too.
Vanessa nods her head before peering back at the guy. Her breath catches in her throat when she sees that he’s watching her, a small smile plays on his lush lips and crinkles his eyes as he slowly spins his glass. She instinctually bites her bottom lip and his face splits into a full, blinding grin before he runs his tongue back and forth across his own bottom lip. He tilts his head and juts his chin in a gesture to beckon her and she doesn’t hesitate.
When she stops at his side, he doesn’t say a word as he hands her a shot with a roguish grin. They tap glasses without an absurd toast then down their liquor, never taking their eyes off each other. She sets her glass next to his glass and he speaks. “Rough night, sweetheart?” His eyes sparkle like cool emeralds and she’s mesmerized – and probably drunk – but also, wow, his eyes are pretty.
“I hate weddings,” she confides in him without preamble, turning into his warmth and leaning one elbow on the bar. They both huff a laugh. His eyes flick up to the commotion of her party behind her and she closes her eyes on a roll. “Seriously – I don’t even know half these fuckwads and I don’t want to.”
“Stay here,” he says without missing a beat, dropping his eyes back to meet hers, and she’s suddenly very, very warm.
She draws a shaky breath. “I… I’m a bridesmaid,” she replies dumbly as if that’s an excuse to refuse anything he asks of her. He rolls his head and his eyes and smirks then waves the bartender back over.
“So, you’re gonna, what – get back in the limo or whatever with a buncha assholes you hate?” He chuckles with a wry smirk.
“I don’t hate them-” she tries to backtrack, shaking her long spiraled hair down her back.
“You said hate,” he interrupts her with a pointed finger and a smug-ass smile.
“I didn’t…” She closes her eyes and bites her lip. “Hate is a very strong word.”
He chuckles again, running a finger around the rim of his glass, dragging his gaze down over her petite, pink chiffon wrapped form, past the flouncy skirt, over her shapely, bronzed calves and back up. There’s definite mischief in his gaze.
She rolls her eyes. “You’re fucking with me.”
He purses his lips and squints into his glass before lifting it for another drink. “Not yet, I’m not.” He sips his drink and drills her into place with his eyes.
This guy – this man – is nothing like the crowd she’s with. He’s older, but not too old; he’s Carhartt instead of Abercrombie; and there’s something very dangerous about him – like he’s one of those swashbuckling anti-heroes from the Silver Screen. She feels her mouth hang open, and her mind races with an idea.
“Vanessa!” the bride shouts again. “Are you coming? God…” her voice trails off as the wedding party lumbers toward the exit.
“Yes!” Vanessa replies before turning back to her new friend and potential partner in crime. “Okay, here’s the deal,” Errol Flynn’s eyebrows pique and he swivels his bar stool to face her, giving her his undivided attention. “I wanna have fun tonight and I think you’re just the ticket. If you’ve got nothing better to do, I’ll get you drunk and fed – and believe me the menu is stellar – and I’ll suck your cock.” He almost chokes on his whiskey. “On one condition.”
He barely recovers before raising his eyebrows further in question. “And what’s that?” he asks, utterly amused and intrigued.
“Make a scene,” she says, with a wicked grin. “Give ‘em something to remember me by and maybe I’ll never be asked back again.”
He appears to consider the proposition for a brief moment before downing his drink, reaching for his wallet, slapping cash on the bar, and evacuating his bar stool. When he stands he’s towering over her, even in her pink, satin heels. He pushes his shoulders back in a stretch, his thin cotton t-shirt straining across his broad, solid chest, and she is certain that she’s made the best decision ever.
He makes a show of waving her toward the door. “Lead the way, princess,” he rumbles with a grin and she laughs, spinning on her heels then trotting toward the door.
When they make their way outside, the wedding party is posing for a picture under the bar sign and the bride yanks her into frame. “Who’s Blue Collar Clint?” the bride whispers, keeping a smile plastered for the wedding photographer.
Vanessa internally beams at the descriptor and thinks fast. “My plus one – didn’t I tell you?”
The bride gives her a look. “No, Van, you didn’t tell me,” she answers with a hiccup. “And… since when do you bring a date?” The bride looks genuinely puzzled but is also checking out Vanessa’s plus one with unguarded interest.
Vanessa laughs and rolls her eyes before wiggling from the bride’s grip and crossing the walkway to meet her handsome prince for the night. “You know,” she says, watching the wedding party file into the limo. “I dunno your name,” she admits, feeling a little bit embarrassed that she didn’t get his name before offering to give him head. “Mine’s Vanessa, if you didn’t figure that out from Nicole’s screeching.” She holds out a hand like she’s sealing a business deal.
He looks down at her hand with a cocked brow then raises his gaze to hers. His eyes have turned a luminous jade since they left the darkness of the bar. The green is ringed in gold, too, and she thinks he reminds her of a tiger. He slips one big hand under her thick, dark hair, wraps his fingers around the back of her neck, and his thumb slides along the column of her throat as he slowly dips his head to kiss her cheek – it’s gentle yet brief. Then he mutters, “Dean,” into her ear.
The driver honks the horn and Vanessa pulls back to look Dean in the eye. “Ready?” she asks breathless, curling her fingers around the black denim of his jacket and the soft flannel of his shirt. She starts to back toward the limousine, pulling him with her.
Dean tosses a glance up at the car, squaring his hips, and the driver honks again. He stops her movement, pulls her into his body, and throws an arm around her shoulders. “Fuck the limo.”
Vanessa giggles with thrill and surprise, looking up at him. “Should we call a cab?” she asks as he steers her away from the car and the shouting bride.
Dean shakes his head. “I’ll drive,” he says, digging into his pants pocket with the hand that isn’t dangling over her shoulder. “You know where we’re goin’?” He stops next to a gorgeous classic black car and releases her shoulder to unlock and open the passenger door for her.
“Yeah,” she replies, swiping layers of chiffon under her backside before sliding across the leather into the passenger seat. “I have the address in my phone.” Once Vanessa is settled, Dean shuts the car door and heads to the driver’s side.
She watches him round the shiny length of the hood, the setting sun shocks electric through his eyes and casts shadows on the sharp curves of his jaw and cheekbones. That light serves him well – but then so did the light in the bar.
Dean climbs into the driver’s seat, slams his door shut, and brings the car to a roar. He revs the engine and glances at her, flicking his eyes down to the phone in her hand. “Where to?” he asks, throwing the car into drive.
Vanessa grins. “Right at the lights,” she replies, letting her eyes roam from the big hands gripping the steering wheel, up thick arms to broad shoulders, and back down to rest on strong, solid thighs. She suppresses a moan and licks her lips.
As Dean effortlessly guides the car along the road to make the first turn, he clicks the stereo on and “Back in Black” blares from the speakers – appropriate, what with his jacket and jeans and car.
“Left at the next set of lights,” she calls over the music. Dean nods and signals then smoothly changes lanes, careful eyes shifting to the rear view and side mirrors, his long, thick lashes fluttering and his irises flashing like peridot under fire. His jaw and brow are lightly tensed with concentration and his full, perfectly shaped lips are moving in sync with the lyrics. On the final turn, the steering wheel glides through his large, capable hands. He suddenly reminds her of a tiger again – sheer grace and controlled power, ready to be released at the slightest provocation.
Just before they pull into the porte-cochère the song switches to “Hair of the Dog” and Vanessa can feel the shit-eating grin that stretches her cheeks. The wedding party has pulled in just ahead of them, so when Dean rolls the Impala to a stop, they’re all out of the limo and staring. Nicole looks particularly stunned and Vanessa cracks up laughing.
“Oh, my god, you’re the fucking best,” she says, shaking her head and reaching for the door handle.
“Ah-ah-ah,” Dean waves his hand and scrunches his face up like he’s offended. “Not so fast, kitten.”
Vanessa relaxes back into the bench seat and enjoys the view as he heaves his door open and unfolds to standing, meeting the valet driver. His posture, facial expressions, and hand gestures intimidate Vanessa and she can’t even hear him, but judging by the driver’s wide eyes, she can only imagine the threats. Once Dean pointedly hands the keys to the driver, he crosses in front of the car, shooting the wedding party a smirk and wink before opening Vanessa’s door and helping her out of the car.
“What a gentleman,” Vanessa purrs, looping her hand through his offered arm.
“Hold that thought,” Dean mutters, striding toward the wedding party. Nicole’s face is fucking priceless, the other bridesmaids are openly gawking at Dean, and the dudes all stand up a whole lot taller and act a lot soberer than they really are. “Congratulations- Rachel, is it?” Dean says, extending his hand, palm up.
Vanessa’s convinced that Dean’s deliberately screwed up Nicole’s name, but that grin of his, the one that showcases perfect, gleaming white enamel, sending her into a spiral fantasy about his teeth and her skin, seems to placate Nicole.
“Nicole,” the bride replies, laying her hand over his palm like she’s the fucking Queen of England. Before Vanessa can say a word, Dean’s placing a kiss to Nicole’s hand, and the groom pushes forward. He looks like he’s about to either throw a punch or barf. He puffs his chest as Dean releases Nicole’s hand.
“Zack,” the groom announces, and Dean nods with utter disinterest before clapping Zack on the shoulder.
“Strong work, Zack,” Dean winks again, then waltzes past the rest of the wedding party, guiding Vanessa through the sliding doors.
Once inside the lobby, Vanessa grabs Dean by the hand and drags him toward the ballroom through a sea of formal wear and bemusement. She twirls to look at him, taking him in from head to toe and still disbelieving her luck at finding such perfection. “Wanna get us drinks? The wedding party has to do this big entrance…” Her face tells him she’s dreading it and Dean chuckles.
“Want a shot before?” Dean asks, moving toward the bar, entwining their fingers and her belly flips at the feel of his thick, rough fingers twisting with her slim, soft ones.
Vanessa reluctantly shakes her head. “Nicole already wants to kill me,” she replies. “We need to pace us. Lasting impression, remember?” She tilts her head and Dean pouts playfully.
“A’right,” he replies, relinquishing his grip on her hand. “But I have plans. For later.”
Vanessa nods with a shiver as she turns to join the others, but not before Dean draws his hand up and back then swats her ass with a loud crack. Vanessa yelps and scurries away with a thrilled laugh, the surrounding reception guests continue to stare at Dean.
“Van, s‘rsly,” Nicole slurs as Vanessa joins her and the other bridesmaids at the side of the ballroom behind pipe and drape. “D’you really just pick up some barfly and bring him to my wedding?”
“Technically, he brought me,” Vanessa answers, shaking her dark, shiny curls over her shoulders, as the DJ announces the wedding party and starts the dance-mix. “Plus…” she turns a sharp gaze to Nicole. “Did you see his mouth? I’m gonna ride that into the sunset.” Vanessa smirks, leaving Nicole slack-jawed, as she files out onto the dance floor with the other bridesmaids for their practiced routine.
IncogNinja 