It's official: Dean's wasted. Not tipsy. Not drunk. Not riding that happy buzz like slow-riding a wave in the early morning on a quiet beach. He's so far past that. Wipe-out, bordering on slobbery, slurring his words, seeing double fucking wasted and he is feeling no pain. That Sam-shaped hole made by fucking Stanford is a distant memory to the pulsing quiet humming thrumming of booze pounding through his blood. He licks his lips and squints just a bit as the super hot chick – Natalie? Nicole? N-something – leans closer to shout something he can't quite make out. Long, lacquered nails drum a hesitant beat against the meat of his forearm, and he watches, mesmerized, as the glossy reds click up and down against his skin. She's got pretty hands, long, slim fingers.

He and Miss-N of the Long Red Nails are at a college party at a super swanky house in Miami, where Dean's supposed to be doing recon on the latest case while Dad does whatever he's doing in whatever town he's run off to after having received an urgent call from some chick (phone number with a Wisconsin area code, Dean noticed), leaving Dean behind with no explanation except to 'mind his own damned business.' So here Dean is, barely 23 years old and drunk off his gourd and feeling ill-used and abandoned by his father and brother.

The alcohol is working wonders for his mood, though, as is the gorgeous bombshell in the knockout black dress and designer shoes. She looks polished and glossy like her nails, expensive, like she comes from money, like her trust fund pays for daily trips to the salon and manicures with diamond studs or whatever the hell it is that rich chicks do to pamper themselves when they're rolling in it. And he can tell by the way she speaks, by the way her lips caress her words, by the way her teeth glimmer as she articulates and enunciates her carefully, that she's all made up of money and knows she's slumming it with him.

Which is just fine by him. Not like he's planning on proposing after he inevitably fucks her or anything.

She continues stroking his arm and leans in to close whisper, though it's more like shouting, really, because the music is loud enough to drown out all sounds that aren't within Dean's immediate range of hearing, and says something about, 'going somewhere private' – which, hell yeah! – so Dean gets up off the couch, smooth and agile as a cat in spite of his serious state of inebriation, to follow. He notes an older-looking guy in his periphery who follows at a safe and inconspicuous distance, though Dean, being a hunter, knows instinctually that the dude's following them.

They go up the stairs hand-in-hand, down a hall and then tuck themselves away through a closed door on the right into what appears to be a guest bedroom. Big, queen-sized bed with foofy-looking pillows and a freakin' footstool at the foot of the bed. They giggle like teenagers and share a few x-rated kisses that are all tangling tongues and panted breaths. It's hot, so fucking hot, the way she licks her lips and looks up at him through hooded eyes, lids heavy with lust and mouth practically watering. Dean pushes the door closed behind them, shutting out the weird perv who'd been following them up the stairs, and they tumble to the bed in a scramble of limbs tugging at clothes.

It's messy and sloppy, the booze making his head spin even as his skin tingles and hums and sings every time those pianist's fingers trail goosepimples along his skin. Miss N palms the bulge in his pants and Dean can't stifle the moan that crawls up his throat at the contact, wanting more but fearing he won't last with how freakin' wrecked he is with alcohol. Thinks he might possibly have maybe had too much to drink.

"You with me, slugger?" she teases breathily, and Dean realizes he must have spaced out or something because she's gripping him by both shoulders suddenly, giving him a little shake and looking kind of irritated.

"'s'good," he mumbles, eyes drooping. "Feels real good."

His head sinks into the pillow and he thinks he might just pass out now, which would suck because he's so totally fucking in with this chick. Lying on a bed getting naked with her, for chrissakes! He just needs to pull his shit together. Have a strong cup of coffee or something.

"I know what you need," she purrs, mouthing along his jaw and trailing wet, sucking kisses down his neck.

Dean might 'hmmmm?' in reply, but he's not sure.

"You need a pick-me-up," she says, those deft fingers tickling down his chest, and once again she's palming his cock through his jeans and fuck, but he wants to be present for this. He forces his eyes open as wide as they'll go and peers up at her intently as he fights the alcoholic coma about to descend upon him.

He watches as she crawls away from the bed, narrow hips swaying as she makes her way to the dresser to grab her purse. Then she's back at his side, leaning over the night table beside the bed and fiddling with something. Dean blinks through the fog and hears the crinkling of plastic and the scrape-tap-tapping sound of her running what looks like a credit card along the hard, oak surface of the table. Then she leans forward, rounding her back as she presses her face close to her work area and sniffs deep and long. Twice.

In the back of his mind Dean knows what this is.

"There," she says triumphantly, swinging her head of rich hair back and straightening with another loud sniff before giving the tip of her nose a cursory brush with her fingertips. "This'll perk you right up, baby. 'C'mon, sit up."

She grabs Dean's waiting hand and helps hoist him into a sitting position, causing the world to tilt and swirl around him. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to puke as his body adjusts to being vertical again. It takes a few moments, but the world eventually settles from the Tilt-a-Whirl spinning to something more like the gentle swaying of a tall ship.

"Sniff it back quick and hard," she whispers in his ear, tongue teasing out to lick at the salt of his skin. "And then I want you to fuck me."

She emphasizes this by pressing her body up against his side, his elbow nestling in snuggly between her cleavage. And Dean wants that. He really wants that. Wants to sink into her wet, tight heat and screw her until he forgets his own name, which he knows he won't be able to do in his current state of shit-facedness. So he peeks an eye open and sees three lines of white powder left on the table, a short straw abandoned beside them, waiting for him to breathe deep.


It's one of those moments where he should be freaking out. After all, he's sitting with some random chick whose name he can't even remember with a few lines of blow laid out for him and this is a serious freaking deal. Sure, Dean's smoked pot more times than he can count, and even tried 'shrooms a few times. But cocaine's a pretty hard drug, the kind of narcotic big wig politicians looking to score more votes are always promising to crack down on. The kind of drug that forms addictions. The kind of drug his Dad would so seriously kick his ass for even looking at. The kind of drug Sammy would be disappointed and disgusted with him for if he knew he was even here contemplating it.

But see, here's the thing. Dad and Sammy? They're not here. And Dean is. And he's lonely, and drunk, and angry to boot, so he doesn't think about it, doesn't feel the weight of decision upon him. He doesn't ponder it, weighing pros and cons, actions and consequences. He doesn't have a plan and doesn't want a plan. He just wants to get laid, find some fucking release, and then pass out and forget what a lonely loser he is, wants to fill himself with feeling fucking good for a change, instead of the heap loads of baggage and abandonment he's usually got hanging like a noose around his neck.

So he pulls up the best grin he can muster, forcing his nerves back behind that fuzzy wall of alcohol, and gives her a toothy-grinned kiss on the mouth, assurance that he's on board with her plan.


It should feel monumental, snorting cocaine through a straw and squinting as it burns through his sinuses, behind his eyes, but it doesn't. He's too busy feeling lightheaded and slightly scared. There's a weird dripping sensation in the back of his throat, a bit like sucking back snot, except it's different. It's like as soon as the burning clears his eyes are open. And awake. And he's kind of euphoric, thrumming with sudden bursts of energy. He's still horny as hell, that booze-induced base urge to get naked and get fucked still present as ever, only now he's vibrating with the awesomest energized high and he's seriously ready to go.

Cocaine is freakin' awesome!

"'s'good, isn't it?" she murmurs against his skin.

And it is good. It's freakin' great, in fact. His skin feels like it's on fire, hyper-sensitive to every touch, alive and pumping with blood, the rush of booze, the super-thrill of the high buzzing through him. He feels like he could float away, as if his body were a balloon sparking with static electricity. He's never felt so far away from himself and yet so connected, so tied to every neuron and every blood cell (all of which are currently running straight to his dick).

The foreplay's fucking fantastic. Dean pulls out all the stops, wanting to make this chick feel the full effects of the Dean Winchester sex arsenal while her body's a livewire like his. His calloused fingers tease the sensitive skin of her nipples, his tongue laves in quick, soothing licks to soothe the sting of a nip, a pinch, a bite. He draws out the most exquisite sounds from her mouth as he eases his fingers beneath her panties and delves into the moist, wet heat of her, making her quiver around him and buck beneath him. And they haven't even gotten to the good part yet.

By the time he's fully naked and ready to sheathe himself in her, he's practically outside himself with lust. He'd think he was under a fucking spell for how fucking gone he is, how high (and oh yeah, he is high, and it's fucking amazing!). Then her fingers are wrapping around his cock and he kind of loses his mind as he suspends himself on his elbows, his hips hovering between her spread legs as she pants beneath him on the bed.

"This is gonna be so good," she breathes, bared breasts heaving as she stares intently up at him. "You're gonna love it, baby. I promise you. Let us take care of you."

There's a ghost of breath against the back of his neck, and she's lurching forward and kissing him, fucking his face with her tongue, before the 'us' comment has a chance to register in his lagging, drug and booze-addled brain. But the firm hands gliding down his naked flank bring it home and he jolts, gasping at the presence that's suddenly fucking behind him, touching him, breathing hot against his neck and panting into him.

"Shhh-shhhhhh," she moans into his mouth. "It's okay. It's okay, baby. We got you."

Dean tries to turn his head to squeak out a startled "We?" but is stopped by the large hands cupping his head from behind, tilting his face to the side to get access to his neck, and then there's suddenly a tongue wetting the juncture just behind his jaw, beneath his left ear. It feels amazing, like he's being sprinkled with orgasm dust or something, and whoever owns that tongue is panting right in his fucking ear. And it's good. It's so fucking good, a delicious sensory overload that has him leaking pre-cum onto the rich chick's belly.

"He's hard, Ricky," she half-coos, half-moans. "Gonna watch him fuck me?"

Dean's eyes pause in mid-flutter to blink in confusion, because he's really fucking lost right now, and really fucking confused.

"My name is Dean," he hears himself say in a gravel-rough voice that could rival John Winchester's.

"Shhhh," Miss N says, stroking along his pecs soothingly before casting her eyes over Dean's shoulder, to the tongue and breath behind him, and right! – Dean kind of forgot with all the tingling and going out of his mind with ohfuckgood that there's someone else in the room now. Fuck, there's someone else in the room. Someone named Ricky?

"Gonna watch," a deep voice intones right into Dean's ear. "Get you ready, watch you fuck my girl. 'S'gonna be so sweet, right Natalie?"

And Natalie – Natalie – nods fervently, her pupils blown wide with lust. She bites at her lip in anticipation and spreads her legs wider beneath Dean, wriggling in invitation before her smile quirks up and turns mischievous. It is this point in the sexcapades that things slip-slide beyond Dean's control and get freaky weird.

Without warning he's turned around and there's Ricky, the older dude he'd seen in the hallway earlier, the older dude who'd been following them, who Dean had purposely shut out of this little adventure when he shut the door on him. Only he isn't shut out now, has apparently let himself in while Dean was bent over snorting coke or something; and on closer inspection Dean can see that he isn't as old as he'd first thought, in spite of the salt-and-pepper hair thing he's got going on. There're crows' feet around his eyes, and the scruff on his face is dark and cultivated enough to place him somewhere, Dean would guess, around his mid-30s, maybe. Old to be going out with an undergrad (because Natalie obviously invited him here), but not old in the grand scheme of things. Not Dad old or anything.

Dean thinks he should probably make some form of protest, maybe deck the guy or something for barging in uninvited and unwanted, but the fight dies in his throat when Ricky sinks to his knees and licks his lips while staring at Dean's cock. This is definitely beyond Dean's comfort zone – Dean's never so much as looked at another guy before – and at the sight of the guy kneeling before him, wetting his lips in anticipation, Dean can't help but think of every backwoods hick who ever accused him of being a fag because he's too pretty, of every dirty old trucker who offered him fifty bucks for a blowjob because of his 'cocksucking lips.' He wants to break this presumptuous freak's nose for even implying that he's welcome here, in spite of Natalie's enthusiasm, but all higher brain function fizzles out when the guy opens his mouth and swallows him down like he's slurping on a popsicle.

"Uhnnng," Dean bites out with a strangled gasp.

It feels really, really, really fucking good. Dean tries to rationalize it, thinks it shouldn't feel amazing when the guy's tongue swirls around the head of his dick, but a mouth's a mouth, and a blow-job's a blow job, and so far this one's pretty freaking amazing, actually. Then Natalie's kneeling behind him, tugging him back against her chest and placing sucking kisses along his shoulders, fingers tweaking his nipples, and all thoughts of the weird dude in the room fly away to Never Never Land.

"Oh what the hell," Dean mutters in resignation. He's always said he'll try anything once. And there are far worse things than having a threesome with an extremely hot chick and her pervy voyeuristic older boyfriend. It's not like anyone else ever has to know about it, and he can always deny it later and blame it on being high. (Denial has always been a good, good friend to Dean Winchester.)

So he throws the last of his caution and reserve to the wind, waves adios and makes a mental note to send a postcard, and lets his body take the wheel. Dean leans back onto the bed, spreading his legs to give Ricky better access to his dick, while he angles his head to kiss Natalie behind him. It's mind-blowingly good, fireworks of spine-tingling sensations overloading him in waves. Ricky sucks him off until Dean can feel his orgasm begin to curl his toes and then suddenly pulls back with an obscene pop.

"Not yet," the man chides through swollen lips. "Wanna watch you fuck her. You're so pretty, wanna watch you fuck her."

Only it doesn't happen quite that way. Ricky wants to watch, sure, but he's more like an active participant, like a cheerleader who injects herself into the basketball game to dribble the ball every time it comes her way. It's a smorgasbord of tangled tongues and lips and questing hands, probing fingers. And Dean can't be bothered to worry about the fact that he's being tongue-fucked by a dude because everything feels too good to stop now.

When they finally get to the fucking part, Dean's completely lost to the sensations coursing through his body. He's got Natalie spread out on her back on the bed, her legs wide as he sinks into her in one slow, tortuously sweet thrust that has his eyes rolling into the back of his head. She's wild and bucking up to meet him, fucking randy if he's ever seen it, and it's a little bit like dying in the best way possible. Ricky's positioned behind him, holding Dean's hips steady and rubbing his carefully rubbered cock at the crease of Dean's ass and Dean's too far gone to even want him to stop.

That's how Dean ends up with Ricky buried balls deep inside him, fucking Natalie and being fucked by Ricky as all three of them rock together. It's too much, too much, so much that Dean can't really do anything but growl through the burning awesomeness in his ass that sets off sparks of fireworks behind his eyes every time Ricky hits his prostate while Natalie milks Dean's cock as she flutters around him (thank God for Kegel exercises!). He's pretty sure he's going to die, because his heart's pounding with jet-engine rotational speed, and he can hardly breathe for the stimulation stealing the very air from his lungs, but the cocaine's boosted his stamina enough that they just keep fucking. They're like the Energizer Bunny, if the Energizer Bunny were three people screwing each others' brains out.

When his orgasm finally hits, the impact is so hard it's like being hit by a freight train. Dean cries out a choked off sob (he'll deny that later) and shoots his release into the condom while Natalie wraps her legs as tight as she can around both Dean and Ricky, drawing them deeper into each other, Dean into Natalie, and Ricky into Dean. He does his best to hold himself up on his elbows so he doesn't crush her while Ricky continues to pound into him, sending Dean deeper into her with each thrust. It's enough friction against his spent dick that it almost hurts, and he hisses through his teeth as Ricky continues to hit that sweet spot inside him. Then Natalie's kissing him with wide, open-mouthed kisses, tongues dancing languidly as they pant and gasp tiredly into each others' mouths. Dean rests his weight on one arm and uses his free hand to stimulate her clitoris so he can bring her to orgasm.


When he wakes up several hours later, Dean finds himself in a world of pain. His head is killing him, and his stomach's doing these lazy, greasy flip-flops that threatens puking is imminent. He knows a hang-over when he feels one, and this one's a doozy. Jesus, he feels like he died, got run over by a truck, and then got flushed down a giant toilet bowl. He's seriously dehydrated, needs a freakin' sip of water so bad his mouth feels sticky and cakey-dry to the point that he can't even wet his lips. And his sinuses are stinging like someone took a firebrand to his nasal cavities and the back of his throat. Awesome.

Also? He's buck fucking naked and sandwiched between two sweaty, sticky, hot bodies, the creamy frosty centre in the swinger cookie that is Natalie and Ricky. They're a three-way spoon with Dean in the middle, Natalie in front, and Ricky taking up the rear (literally). They're gross with sweat and, possibly other things, and Dean's throbbing, stabbing ass pain is proof positive that he did not just dream, or hallucinate, the freaky three-way supersexin'.

This, right here?, is why drugs are bad, Dean thinks ruefully as he tries to ease himself out from between the slumbering couple without waking either of them. Forget the problems with addiction and withdrawal, cost, health issues, or whatever else the propaganda says is the evil of illicit drug consumption. It's the stupid-ass shit you do when you're high, like letting another dude put his dick in your ass, that makes getting high a really, really, really fucking stupid idea.

It's a good thing there's an en suite bathroom, because Dean barely makes it to the toilet before he's horking his guts up. He let another guy fuck him. Holy Christ, he let another guy fuck him. It's a new low, a seriously new low, even for him. He's done a lot of weird shit in the name of satisfying his libido, including wearing some chick's panties to fulfill some weird kink she had (which turned out to be a lot awesomer than he ever thought it'd be), but he's never once even entertained the idea of letting another dude anywhere near him with his dick. Until last night. Oh Jesus.

He pukes until there's nothing left to puke, then spits out a few strings of bile for good measure, until his stomach stops heaving and his mind blanks with exhaustion.

Whatever, he tells himself. It's done. You did it, it's done, and there's nothin' you can do to undo it now, so get the hell over it and get the hell outta here before those two freaks wake up.

He's stealthy and soundless as he eases himself back into his boxers (twinging in pain as the movement causes phantom stabs to shoot up his ass right into his spine), and doesn't bother saying goodbye as he sneaks on silent feet out the door. This is one adventure he won't be reliving in his fantasies or bragging about to anyone, ever, for as long as he lives. And if Dad takes a few more days to finish up whatever business he's got in Wisconsin, that's probably best for everyone, since it means Dean won't have to hide what he's sure is a limp due to his throbbing backside, from his ever-vigilant and damned-near omnipresent father.


"Thanks for that," Ricky says as he gives his girlfriend a tight squeeze, burrowing his face into her neck and breathing in the scent of Dean on her skin.

"He was pretty, wasn't he?" Natalie murmurs sleepily. "I knew you'd like him."

Ricky nods emphatically and trails a few feather light kisses along the nape of her neck.

"He was perfect," he coos. "Just what I needed. You know just what I like, babe."

Truth was, Dean Winchester was probably the best lay either of them had had in a long time, and if they were both lamenting the loss of his wide green eyes and long lashes, that lady-killer smile, perfect teeth, and hard, chiseled body that looked like it was carved out of Grecian marble, then neither one voiced it aloud.

"Weird about the scars, though," Ricky noted, remembering the angry white lines running parallel on Dean's lower back, and the still-pink raised line of scar tissue running up his inner thigh.

"I think he's got a pain kink," Natalie mused. "That or he's got some serious baggage."

They really didn't know the half of it.

~ Fin ~