#011225

Brow adorably scrunched with his arms crossed over his chest, he glowers at you. “Why the hell would you think I’d want to drive four hours, then dress up in some clown suit to spend the evening with a bunch of bozos I don’t even know?” Taking a step closer, he gently grips the back of your arms and pouts. “I thought we were going to have a private celebration? We have the whole bunker to ourselves.” Waggling his eyebrows, he gives you a cheeky grin. “Naked tag. Doesn’t that sound like more fun?”

Patting his chest, you sweetly smile. “Did I mention that it’s a 1940s theme, and I have a sexy little number picked out already?”  Voice laced with a hint of a whine, you slide your hand down his chest and away just as it reaches his belt. “I thought since you were so giddy when you told me about how much fun you had with Ness that you might enjoy this, but …” pouting oh so prettily, you shrug, “I guess I’ll see if I can get a refund.”

Still holding your right arm, he doesn’t let you get far as you turn away. “Alright, alright. Just,” he tries to hide his excitement, but his eyes are practically sparkling, “hold on a minute. One, I wasn’t giddy …” 

You arch a brow with an incredulous look, and he huffs, “Shut up.” 

Curious to hear how he backtracks his rejection, you bite your lip to hold back your laugh.

“And B, you really want to go to this, huh? You already have a dress?” He makes a show of mulling over his decision while you feign hopeful innocence. “I suppose …since you already spent the money …”

“Really?!” Instead of calling him out, you pretend to be surprised at his apparent change of heart and push up to peck his cheek, wrapping your arms around his neck as you settle back on your heels. “You’re the best, Dean.” 

“Yeah, whatever.” He chuckles, returning the kiss, knowing you had him pegged from the start.

“Okay, come on! There’s something else I want to show you.” 

“Is it that sexy little number you mentioned?” 

Rolling your eyes at his cheesy grin and arched brows, you grab his hand and pull him along behind you toward the garage. “No. You don’t get to see that until the party.” Dean mutters his disapproval but follows with little resistance. 

You smile at him over your shoulder as you reach the staircase to the garage. “Trust me?”

“Always.”

“Then close your eyes.” Although he could probably find his way blindfolded with both hands tied behind his back, you take his other hand as his lids fall closed and guide him up the stairs. After positioning him for the perfect view, you stand to the side. “Alright, you can look.”

Dean blinks, eyes widening when they register the sleek black vehicle before him. “What’s this?”

“This,” you enthusiastically say, stepping over to the car and adopting your best auto show model pose, “is a 1940 Chevrolet Coupe Street Rod.” 

With a hint of exasperation, Dean states, “I know that. What’s-”

“Patience,” you cut him off, pointing an admonishing finger at him. Dean huffs, but a hint of a smile forms on those pouty lips as you continue. With a flourish of your hand, you wave it over the hood and intone, “Beneath the lovely Black Rose exterior is a 355 cubic inch V8 engine, a formidable powerhouse that can reach speeds of 125 mph,” adding with a wink, “You’re going to love the growl.”

Dean bites into his bottom lip, eyes crinkling at the corners as you glide back to the driver’s side door.

“This particular vehicle has been updated with several modern conveniences—power steering, power disc brakes, power trunk and seat, a tilt wheel, cruise control, electric wipers …and a killer stereo system.” Opening the door, you seductively ask, “Would you like to try it out …Sir?” 

His eyebrows pop, lip slipping from beneath a sharp canine, thick tongue slicking over the plump pink flesh to soothe it. The action kicks up your pulse, and you step aside with a heavy sigh as he approaches the vehicle.

“Hello, beautiful,” he husks, reverently running his fingers over the chrome louvers. Stepping around the door, he takes a quick peek inside, whistling low before straightening to circle the car, whispering sweet words as he goes.

“You're going to make Baby jealous,” you tease when he comes to stand beside you.

“Nah. She knows that no one can take her place.” He turns to look lovingly at the Impala before looking back at the coupe, “But this is a sweet-looking ride.

The way he says it makes you wonder where you now fall on his list. As if sensing your thoughts, he puts an arm around your shoulders, leaning in to whisper, “Just don’t tell her you’re my number one.”

“Mum’s the word,” you say, making a gesture of locking your lips.

Laughing, he kisses the top of your head. “So, you gonna tell me where this came from? My birthday isn’t for a few weeks yet.”

“Haha. No. I love you, but this is a bit out of my price range. I rented it for the week. I thought showing up at the party in style might be fun.

“Hey! Baby’s stylish.”

Elbowing him in the side, you huff, “In era-appropriate style.”

“You were that sure I’d say yes?”

“If you hadn’t, we still could’ve had fun tooling around town.” Shrugging, you pull the keys from your pocket and dangle them in front of him. “I need to pick up my dress, and you need to get suited up. So, you wanna test it out?”

Snatching the keys from your hand, he exclaims, “Abso-fucking-lutely!” 

You wouldn’t have believed it possible, but Dean’s whole demeanor seems even brighter as his gaze travels the expanse of clothing racks upon entering the vintage resale store. After telling him not to worry about the cost and to get whatever he wants, he turns into the proverbial kid in a candy store.

Knowing why he takes such unadulterated pleasure from simple things, you ignore the twinge in your chest and the tear threatening to tip over your lashes, rushing after him to share his joy. After about thirty minutes, though, you grow tired of trailing after him like a puppy and decide to go sit by the dressing rooms. You’ve actually begun to doze when you hear a gruff “Hey.”

Blinking a couple of times, your eyes finally focus on the dreamboat before you. The suit fits him like it was tailored to him—crisp white shirt, tie perfectly knotted, vest hugging a trim torso, jacket draped perfectly on broad shoulders, and trousers exquisitely encasing muscled thighs to flawlessly land at the perfect length above his shoes. You’re like a fish out of water, mouth gaping, struggling to find words. Your only coherent thought is, how the hell did he get his hair smoothed over like that?

“It’s exactly like the one I wore as an Untouchable,” he animatedly declares as he makes his way over to the three-paneled dressing mirror. You don’t have the heart or presence of mind to correct him. “You okay over there?” His reflection's smug grin and piercing eyes have you clamping your mouth and thighs closed, sitting up straighter on the cushioned bench.

“F-fine,” you manage to squeak out.

“Sure you are.” Dean laughs, kissing the top of your head as he passes by. “All I need now is the overcoat and hat. Oh, and cuff-”

His voice fades as he crosses the store to the outerwear section, and you take a moment—or three—to compose yourself before following him.

It took a little finagling to keep the outfits as wrinkle-free as possible, but the garment bags and hatbox are settled neatly in the back of the coupe. As you reach to open the passenger door, Dean spins you into his arms, a bit of apprehension marring his expression. “Why’d you do all this?”

The question isn’t as simple as it seems, nor is the answer, but those details don’t need to be aired right now. Cradling his face in your hands, you give him your sweetest smile. “Because we deserve it. A new year. A fresh start. So let’s have some fun.”

The boyish grin makes you laugh. The heat in his kiss makes you melt.

After-Party

Photo Sources: (x, x)

The celebration was amazing! The decorations were extravagant, the food delicious and plentiful, and the alcohol flowed freely. The partygoers were raucous but fun. Though the band only played 40s-era music, Dean grudgingly admitted they were talented and helped create a decade-appropriate ambiance.

Seeing Dean truly relax and enjoy himself in the crowd-filled room brought tears to your eyes more than once during the evening. Without the burden of another impending world-ending event—the only threats being getting a drink spilled on you or someone stepping on your toes on the crowded dance floor—the two of you had been able to focus on the festivities and each other. You’d even managed to get him to dance with you a few times. The fireworks display was spectacular. Maybe not as spectacular as Dean’s midnight kiss, but still fabulous. 

When you kick off your shoes in the elevator and refuse to put them back on, Dean gives you a piggyback ride to the Deluxe VIP Suite included in your package. Tears of laughter at the way he literally gallops down the hallway with the skirt of your dress billowing behind you make it a struggle to unlock the door, and he nearly drops you on your ass when he tries to help. 

Once inside the room, Dean refuses to let you down, taking a tour of the large space, including the view from the balcony, before finally dropping you on top of the suite’s ornate bed. Still giggling, you watch as he double-checks the door locks and scans for potential threats—old habits still adjusting to the new minimal monster world order. Draping yourself across the crisp white bedding, you not-so-patiently wait for him to join you.

You promptly feel the shift in his mood as he removes his jacket, placing it neatly over the back of the chair near the bed. Looking up as he removes his cufflinks, he instructs, “Take it off. Show me what’s underneath.”

Crawling to the end of the bed, your pulse kicks as you stand. He’s had you on edge all evening, hands roaming flesh left bare of fabric, lingering looks, and whispered words of devotion and lust. He was so attentive that only one of the many individuals you noticed admiring him throughout the evening dared to approach him. When she had the audacity to plop down onto his lap, he immediately stood, unceremoniously dropped her onto the chair, then reached for you and walked away without a backward glance, but not before you got a few choice words in.

“You’ve been teasing me all night. That barely there dress, those red-stained lips putting that obnoxious blonde in her place. I have to say, it's hot when you get all jealous like that. I wanted to drag you into the coat room and take you right there.”

“Me?! Teasing you?! You’re the one that’s been doing all the teasing! Those hands …with the touching, the dirty talk with that voice …that …,” you flail a hand in his direction, “that getup! I’ve been wet since you put those cufflinks on. And I wasn’t jealous,” you spout, “she was just out of line.”

Dropping the aforementioned accessories on the nightstand, Dean hums his disbelief as he rolls up his shirt sleeves, and you shift, rubbing your thighs together, remaining indignation transforming into arousal. Dean chuckles, knowing full well what he’s doing to you.

“Show me,” he calmly orders, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Yes …Sir,” you consent, earning a twitch of his upper lip. Truthfully, you would have removed every article of clothing as soon as the door closed behind you, but earlier you had agreed to follow his command when the two of you returned to the room.

The dress is a replica of one worn by Rita Hayworth, but your lingerie isn’t entirely historically accurate. You hope he enjoys it nonetheless. Unhooking the collar, you slip your arms from the jeweled straps and let the bodice fall to bare your chest, reaching behind you to unzip the skirt. Chiffon and lace slither down your body to form a halo at your feet, and you slowly twirl in place to give him the full view. When you meet his gaze again, the slight curl of Dean’s lips and the glint in his eyes let you know he approves of your choice. 

“Back on the bed.” The demand is gruff, his tone smooth, warm, and dark with a little bite—like the finely aged bourbon at the party. It settles on your flesh and seeps into your pores, warming you from the inside.

Settling into the middle of the mattress, you turn to find him unbuttoning his vest. The vintage suit—frustratingly for you—holds as many layers as his hunting attire. However, Dean makes a show of undressing, his heated stare never once leaving yours, and the final display is well worth the price of time.

When his boxers hit the floor, he steps from the layers of fabric at his feet and reaches for your ankle, pulling you to him. For a brief, glorious moment, his hard length is mere inches from your face. Calloused fingers grip your chin as you lean forward, tilting your head back and holding you in place.

“Not yet.” He chuckles when you whimper. “You’re still wearing too many clothes.”

Dean places a gentle kiss on your lips, the tip of your nose, and then your forehead before straightening to ghost his fingers across your collarbone and down your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps. Lightly cupping the side of your breast, his thumb caresses your nipple until it’s taut and your chest is heaving. “Deeean …,” you whine when he drops his hand.

With a hum, he drops to his knees between your legs, hands resting on the downy comforter on either side of your hips, no part of him touching you. “Patience,” he drawls. “Keep your hands on the bed.”

The intensity of his stare makes you gasp. Leaning back, you fist the bedding, spreading your legs wider. His touch is feather-light, teasing as he traces the top edge of a stocking. Heat suffuses your veins, and nerve endings spark, making your skin prickle with desire.

“You’re stunning.” Releasing the clasp on the first strap, he drags his bottom lip through his teeth, watching as your breath hitches. “Thank you.” He grins, popping another clasp.

“F-for what?” The words are barely audible. Dean’s agonizingly slow movements and playful smirk have your fingers bunching the thick cotton in a death grip and your heart beating like the band’s bass drum.

“For planning all this, knowing what I need before I do,” another clasp is freed, “for the car and wearing that dress,” your stockings are liberated from the final clasp but he pauses, looking at you with—well, there’s no other way to describe it—a sinful smolder, his voice intoxicatingly resonant, “for always being such a good girl for me.”

Your head falls back with a moan, your hips canting forward as your walls throb with need. A finger grazes the top of your thigh, slipping beneath the edge of lace and silk to stroke between your lips and circle your clit. Disintegrating onto the mattress, you keen, “Pleeeeeease …,” begging for more …for anything …for everything—the warmth and weight of his body caging you, hands gripping and manipulating you to his whim, teeth biting, lips sucking bruises into your flesh, his cock filling and splitting you open.

“Almost.” 

The tightness in his tone has you smiling as you close your eyes. He’s on edge, too. It won’t be long before he gives you what you want. Tilting your hips as he drags your panties down, you release your fists, flexing your fingers to ease the joints, body jolting with a deep inhale when his breath fans your inner thighs as he removes a stocking. His touch is tender and tickles when he lifts your foot to release it from the silk. 

Dean repeats the action with your other leg, but this time, he kisses the inside of each knee before he grasps your ankles and pulls them up to rest on his shoulder as he stands. You know he won’t let any harm come to you, yet you frantically grip the comforter with a shriek as your ass reaches the edge of the mattress. When he releases his hold, you spread your legs, wrapping them around him as he leans into you. “Touch me.”

Sighing, you grip the nape of his neck in one hand, nails of the other gently scraping down his spine as he nibbles along your jawbone. Then he whispers …

“Now the real fun begins …the after-party.”