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Claire lets the deep, driving beat of the music seep under her skin and into her bones. The slight case of nerves just before going on stage never really goes away, and she tugs on the small straps that hold the angel wings on her shoulders, pulls them a little tighter. It’s better than being stuck at Jody’s, she reminds herself as she draws in a deep breath, then exhales slowly. And today is Friday, lots of lonely guys, lots of tips. It’s worth it, tonight, even if it’s still early. She’ll be good to go and hunt for another couple of weeks after this weekend.
The smell of booze, sweat and smoke hits her the second she steps on stage. The Pearl isn’t the classiest of establishments but that’s fine with her. No one asks questions here. So what if the walls are carpeted red and the air is rank, and the floor is sticky with God-only-knows what? What matters is the money.
She winks at Trinity in her little devil outfit before she goes to the other side of the stage, hooks a leg around the pole. Claire had been self-conscious the first few times in nothing but a skimpy bra and panties, but not anymore. She drapes her body around the pole as her legs lift and she spins, ending upside-down. She winks at the guy seated at the head of the stage before she rights herself, lands back on her platform heels without so much as a wobble. She crouches down just low enough to let the guy, older, greasy hair, overweight, tuck a twenty into the side of her panties.
Claire blows him a kiss before she rises, the change in music her signal to trade places with Trinity. They touch briefly as their paths cross on stage, a little girl-on-girl never fails to get the men riled up, before she gets a hand on the pole at the other side of the stage and does a little twirl. Holding on to the pole, she dips back, angel wings brushing the stage, her hair cascading down as she tips her head.
She catches a glimpse of the guy seated there and he looks—handsome and—Claire pulls herself upright, spins with her leg hooked around the pole and she gets the full view of who’s sitting there, watching her with a lecherous grin on his lips. Fuck . Her first instinct is to make a run for it but—she leans back against the pole, sinks down into a crouch, legs spread wide, her arms up, pulling her belly taut. The frown of disappointment she had expected doesn’t come. Instead, Dean – Dean freaking Winchester – lets his eyes travel all the way up and down her body with an appreciative smile before sliding a fifty onto the stage. Huh .
“Long time no see, angel,” he drawls, and Claire feels the blush creep up her neck even as she keeps bouncing in time with the beat, leans forward to pick up the money and tucks it into her bra strap. His eyes follow the movement, before dipping down. Leering . Which shouldn’t come as a complete surprise, but the hunger in his eyes still catches her off-guard. Still a demon, then. Claire flashes back to a few weeks earlier, his body pinning her prone to a dirty pool table and—she had handed off the problem to Sam after that. Who obviously still hadn’t fixed this.
She flinches reflexively when his hand comes up to slide up her thigh, his palm hot on her skin, dry and a little rough, gun callouses dragging against her. She can see Ronnie, the bouncer hovering at the bar, straighten and she softly shakes her head at him. Dean would snap his neck without a second thought.
Claire expertly turns out of the touch, takes another swirl around the pole. It’s not the first time somebody has tried, and it won’t be the last. “No touching,” she says, only a little tremor in her voice, as she bends at the waist and Dean catches a strand of her hair where it falls in her face, twists it around his fingers. “Shame, could touch you all night.”
The music starts to change again, the beat slow and sultry, and Claire straightens, throws him a wink, before she takes a step away. Dean is on his feet instantly, his hand catching her inner thigh. “Hey, hey, hey, princess, show ain’t over yet.” From the corner of her eye, she can see Ronnie moving and again, she shakes her head, eyes pleading. He stops a few feet away, if reluctantly. Claire curls her fingers around his wrist, pries Dean’s hand off of her. “It is for you, Dean.”
His lip curls up in a snarl and her pulse races as she turns to strut back to center stage. She finishes her routine with Trinity, gets herself a few more tips from the guys close by. She can feel Dean’s eyes on her the whole time until the ducks behind the curtains. She half-expects him to follow.
“Girl, what’s up with that guy?” Trinity asks in her thick Alabama accent. “He totally didn’t look like a creep.”
Claire shrugs in response, though her knees are shaking a bit. “It’s okay, I know him.”
Trinity’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but Claire doesn’t elaborate. What is she supposed to say? That he had fucked her so hard she hadn’t been able to walk right for days? She makes her way back to the dressing room, gets the wings off and pulls the money out of her underwear. A hundred dollars on the first dance with only half capacity. Claire loves Fridays.
She changes into a short skirt and the skimpy pink bra that never fails to get her attention. On stage, the music starts up again for some of the other girls and Claire reapplies her lip gloss, giving herself one last once over in the mirror, fixing her hair. Time to get back out on the floor.
Her heart skips a beat or two when she enters the main area again and sees Dean talking to Joe, the sleaze bag-owner. He beckons her over the moment he sees her and Dean smirks as she moves closer.
“Eden, this gentleman has requested you personally for a private dance, I expect you to show him a good time,” Joe says as his hand closes around her upper arm none too gently. Dean’s eyes glint dangerously. She twists out of the hold before Dean gets any ideas. “Of course, Joe.” She glares at Dean before her expression morphs into a sugar-sweet smile as she turns to her boss. “Anything for this gentleman .”
She beckons for him to follow her to the private rooms just down the hall. She ushers him inside, the music from the club quietened to a dull throb when she closes the door behind them.
“ Anything for me, Eden ?” Dean drawls as she pushes him back into the plush armchair in the center of the room with a hand to his chest. He lets her, his lips in a wide grin.
“You wish, demon. One dance, no touching, then you’re gone.” Her voice comes out steady, determined, although she’s shaking with nerves on the inside. There are only so many things he could possibly want from her. “What are you doing here anyway? You stalking me now, old man? Nothing better to do?” she asks as she presses play on the stereo, filling the room with music, the beat slow and sultry. She starts moving her hips a little as she saunters closer again and she can feel his eyes on him, roving up and down.
“Hm, maybe I just missed having a warm, tight body to sink into.” Her movements falter for the briefest second before she catches herself. His smirk tells her he has noticed anyway.
“What, so you traveled across three states to get to little, ol’ me? Your looks starting to fail you?”
Dean scoffs, his hand going to her bare thigh again as soon as she’s close enough. She bats him away but doesn’t step back.
“It’s not the same if they are falling all over themselves to fuck me, y’know?” he muses and Claire shivers despite herself. She shimmies out of her mini skirt seductively, leaving her only in the matching hot-pink bra and panties and his hand returns, hovering close enough for her to feel but not quite touching. “But you, princess, you make it fun.”
His legs sprawl, allowing her enough space to come closer and he crooks his finger at her. Claire waits for the repulsion to set in like it does with other sleazy patrons, but it doesn’t come. Instead, she sways her hips softly as she steps between his open legs, plants her hands on his chest and runs them down with just a hint of nails, hair falling into her face as she dips her head in a playful imitation of giving head. “Now there’s an idea, princess,” Dean growls as he twists his hand into her hair for a second, his hips coming up.
Claire swallows against the sudden surge of panic. There’s no way she’d be able to—she comes back up with fire in her eyes and the smug expression on his face makes her bristle. “Don’t worry, Claire, maybe some other time,” he says, voice laced with dark promise, as he tucks her hair behind her ear.
Her thighs clench at the thought. And God, she wishes she could blame it on fear, on some kind of survival instinct her body taps into. But it's not the same as last time. Her body is thrumming with nervous anticipation, but the sharp edge of fear is suspiciously absent, and she isn’t sure what to make of that. She keeps swaying as she straightens, his eyes following the movement.
Claire gasps as she’s suddenly gripped by strong hands on her hips, tipping her forward and into Dean’s lap, pulling her legs wide over his. Her hands fly to his shoulders to steady herself, lips parted in an indignant cry, and she can feel the rumble of his chuckle in his chest, vibrating through her with how close they are.
“C’mon, princess, make it worth my money.” His hands leave her body, settle on the plush armrests. She circles her hips and—of course he’s hard, the bulge in his jeans unmistakable. She grinds down when normally she would try to lift up, pleased when it draws a low groan from Dean. Claire repeats the motion, bows her back a little more, drawing his attention back up to her breasts. His eyes are dark, human-dark, not demon-black, not yet, and she bites her lip playfully as she runs her hands up her stomach to cup herself through the skimpy lace of her bra.
She trembles for the light touch of his hands suddenly skirting up her back, bringing them closer, making the room feel smaller, as he toys with her bra strap, snapping it against her skin just to see her jump, gasp. She twists in his laps, purposefully rubbing herself over his dick.
“No hands, demon,” she reminds him, already knowing he won’t listen. Dean hums, as if considering, then unclasps her bra one-handed. Claire holds the fabric to herself on principle. It’s not uncommon for patrons to want her to dance topless but this isn’t an ordinary dance under ordinary circumstances, and she refuses to give Dean more of her than he demands.
“Dean—” she protests weakly when he pries her hands away and takes the bra off, dropping it over the armrest, his other hand smoothing up to span her throat. It forces her to reach back to brace herself on his thighs to keep from toppling over, and she’s sure he can feel her pulse rabbiting against his palm.
“Ssshh,” he gentles, and she feels herself blush under his intense gaze as it focuses on her bare breasts, exhales in relief when the fingers on her throat dance back down. “Hm, should have taken my time with these the last time,” he muses as he cups her breasts in warm, rough palms, teasing at her nipples till they stiffen under his touch. Rolls and pinches, and then the wet heat of his mouth, the sharp graze of his teeth, his lips on her skin as he mouths up her sternum, leaving a wet trail on her skin.
Claire hates how good it feels, grinds her teeth to keep in the noises, digs her nails harder into his thighs. He laughs against her skin as if he knows anyway.
She rolls her hips down, right against the ridge of his hard dick, hoping to hurry him along. But Dean just palms her breasts again, kneads them, his calloused fingertips rasping over sensitive skin. And God, she hates herself for the ripple of pleasure that goes from her nipples straight to her core, prays she won’t soak through her panties.
He flattens his palm over her belly, runs it down, brushing along pink lace, teasing, testing. Claire inhales shakily when his finger dips lower and pulls the fabric of her panties to the side, exposing her wet folds but not touching her.
“You gon’ let me, princess?” he asks, voice deep and teasing. She shakes her head no.
“No? You sure? Wouldn’t want anything to happen to your little dancer friends down the hall now, would you?” He swipes a finger through her slit and Claire shivers despite herself, tries to clamp her thighs together but finds she can’t, straddling Dean’s legs as she is.
“I’m not a whore,” she grits out, “I don’t fuck for money.” He chuckles, drags his knuckles down her cheek. “Oh, I know you don’t, sweetie. You don’t spread your legs for just anyone.” Claire gasps when the lace rips and Dean sinks two thick fingers into her with an obscene little squelch. “But you do it so beautifully for me.”
He pumps his fingers into her, and she slumps forward, scrambles for purchase on his shoulders. “See, you’re soaked for me, just couldn’t wait for—”
“Oh my God, shut up,” she snarls, undermined by the little hitch of her hips when he curls his fingers just right, pulsing into her g-spot with the beat of the music, the thumb of his other hand running circles on her inner thigh.
“I really don’t think you want me to, princess, can feel you squeezing my fingers.”
She yelps, trembles for the pressure of his thumb on her clit, the stretch of a third finger working into her. He chuckles in response, and she surges forward, slots their mouths together on a whim, licking, biting, and the movement of his fingers inside her falters for a moment. It’s a heady feeling, knowing she had just taken a little bit of power back, stolen a little bit of his control over the situation, over her.
Dean growls against her lips and his fingers piston into her up to the knuckle, making her gasp. “Nice try, Claire,” he breathes into the small space between them, “but you are going to come for me.”
She nips at his bottom lip again, tastes the cheap whiskey on his breath. “Then make me,” she challenges against her better judgement, and she feels his mouth curl into a smirk against hers. Her hips rise on the next thrust of his fingers—stretching her, making her feel so full and then achingly empty again, his thumb circling relentlessly on her clit. She can feel the tension coil in her belly, the first tendrils of toe-curling pleasure spiraling, ratcheting higher and higher with every stroke of his hand.
Claire comes on a soft gasp when his fingers curl just right, muscles clenching, body going rigid as she collapses forward into Dean, the demon, whatever. He doesn’t stop his teasing, the rough finger pad on her clit, and she shivers through an aftershock until she squirms in his lap, rubs her butt on the prominent bulge in his jeans in the process.
Dean exhales sharply for it and Claire mewls softly when the stimulation suddenly stops, his fingers gone, spanning stickily over her hip instead as he pushes her back just enough to get his jeans undone. She clenches on nothing at the prospect of— “No,” she says but it’s breathy, soft, the apprehension mingling with the memory of last time.
“Don’t worry, princess,” Dean bites out, curls his fingers around her wrist. She gnaws at her lip when he brings her hand down to curl around his erection, hard and hot under her palm. His hand closes over hers, stroking himself long and slow with both their hands and the skin drags, too dry.
“C’mon, get me wet,” he urges, his grip loosening, but Claire lets her hand linger, fingernails dancing up the spine of Dean’s dick, just because she can. He hisses for it, pinches her nipple in retaliation, eliciting a gasp. “Get me wet, princess, I ain’t asking again.”
She spits into her hand but it’s barely anything with how dry her mouth is. “Claire,” he warns, and— screw it .
Claire shifts higher on her knees, grinds herself down on Dean’s dick in time with the music, lets him slip through her slick folds and she can’t help a soft groan when the head nudges her oversensitive clit every other time.
“Change your mind yet, princess? Hm? Just the tip?” Dean teases, torments, even if his breathing is becoming a little more labored. Claire hates the tremble in her thighs, the way her movements falter just a little bit at his words.
“I don’t fuck for money,” she grits out again, even as she rubs herself all over his dick. He chuckles breathlessly. “Fair enough. You’re still gonna get me off.”
She backs up, sits back onto Dean’s knees. Jesus, it’s obscene, the way his dick glistens with her slick now, angry-red, the thick vein on the underside pulsing steadily. She licks her lips out of reflex as she takes him into her hands again, one stacked upon the other, and Dean’s head drops back on a groan when she stroke-twists up and down again.
“There we go,” he slurs, and Claire is equal parts disgusted and turned on by the shameless pleasure in his voice. She could really hurt him, she thinks, with Dean so vulnerable and out of it, so unlike the last time. She redoubles her efforts, clenching her thighs against his with every little snick-snick of her hands on his dick.
Her lips curl into a pleased smirk when his hips twitch under her, and then there’s the crushing strength of his fist covering hers, making her jerk faster, tighter, right under the head, her finger catching against the ridge, his breathing erratic, until his body goes still, a low moan rumbling up in his chest as he spills into his own hand cupping over the tip.
She watches his chest heave and when his head comes back up, his eyes are pitch-black, demon-black, and her heart skips a beat in a flash of momentary panic. But his mouth is slack, open in a wet-hot pant she can feel on her skin, fingers weaving to keep his come from dripping. Non-threatening, despite the eyes. And she can’t stop staring.
“Open,” he demands, voice low and raspy, bringing his cum-covered fingers up to her lips.
“Hell, no! Are you out of—” she starts to protest but it’s enough for Dean to push his fingers into her mouth, pressing them down onto her tongue. The taste is salty-bitter and the pressure on her tongue almost makes her gag. Still, she suckles softly, wriggles her tongue to get his fingers clean, like he wants her to.
He hums, content, wipes his fingers on her thigh when he finally pulls them free. Claire grimaces at the taste in her mouth, the smug expression on his face, the sticky mess on her skin.
“You done?” she asks, and her voice only shakes a little.
“For now,” Dean drawls, his eyes sliding back to green as he slaps the outside of her thigh. “Up.”
Claire shuffles backwards, until her heels hit the ground, and she teeters on shaky legs, suddenly feeling exposed, the last rush of adrenaline dissipating and with it her bravado. She crosses her arms over her naked chest, tries to locate her bra but her eyes keep flitting back to where Dean’s tucking himself back into his jeans with a small hiss. The music has stopped, the room silent save for the dull beat from the club and her uneven breathing.
“Looking for this, princess?” Her eyes snap up to meet his and she bristles at the smug sparkle, the way he dangles her bra from his finger. She snatches it out of his grip, turns her back on him to put it back on. She freezes at the feeling of fingers brushing her hair off her shoulder, the soft brush of lips up her neck, against the shell of her ear. “Been a pleasure, Claire. Till next time.”
The echo of his boots in the small room, a sudden rush of noise when the door opens. Silence. Claire releases the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding before locating her skirt and putting it back on to hide her ruined panties. Her favorite pair, too.
Shivers wreck her body despite the warmth of the room, and she wobbles unevenly on her platform heels on the way to the door. Outside, Ronnie is hovering, his eyes checking her over the second she steps out into the corridor. “You okay, doll? He didn’t do anything, did he?” It’s nice how much he cares.
“’M fine,” she murmurs, hugging her arms around her middle. “Just need a little break.”
Claire doesn’t wait for Ronnie to follow up, steps around him and hurries back to the dressing room. She gets rid of the torn panties, cleans up and slides on a different pair, before rummaging for her phone in her bag. She shoots a quick text to Sam, with her coordinates and that Dean was here. She’ll be long gone before he makes it here. So will Dean, probably.
But it’s a lead. And she needs Sam to fix this, fix Dean , before the demon finds her again.