Three days.
THREE. Freaking. DAYS.
It's been three terribly long, torturously-tempting, hormone-drenched days since Dean turned into a 17 (just shy of legal) year old. Sam's been giving you sympathetic looks and shrugs, knowing damned well what you're up against.
Teen-dream-Dean (as you've taken to calling him full-time in your mind) is determined to break your resistance. On more than one occasion, he's come alarmingly close to succeeding.
By night, he's curled around you in your bed, the hard-on he just 'can't help' always managing to brush against you 'accidentally.' When he wakes, he stretches and groans in deliberately arousing ways, arching his back and twisting his body in angles that remind you just how flexible he really is.
By day, he's taken to strutting around shirtless most of the time, his jeans hanging dangerously low on his hips. The thin, dark blonde line of his happy trail and those terribly distracting, downward sweeping lines at the sides of his bottom abs will be the death of you yet.
He rubs your shoulders. He plays with your hair. He relentlessly puckers and licks and bites his full lips. He breathily whispers things into your ear that don't need to be whispered at all.
You're so damned sexually frustrated at this point, you can barely read to research a way to get him back to normal.
It's 11:30 PM, a little earlier than the time you typically head to bed. You've been successfully avoiding Dean for the past two hours (which should have clued you in that you're in trouble). Deciding to test your luck, you sneak off to your room solo.
You quickly get changed into a tank top and sweatpants before going into your bathroom to brush your teeth and get ready for bed. Within two minutes, he slides into the room behind you. You don't even attempt to hold back your groan and slouch of defeat at the fact that he's found you again.
"Hey, lover," he greets with an ill-behaved smile.
There's a renewed spark of mischief in those smoldering green eyes. You freeze in place when you see it, knowing without a doubt that he's up to something. It's as if the words, 'I know something you don't know' are dancing in his gaze.
With his eyes locked on yours in the mirror, he leans forward, pressing his warm, bare chest to your back and running his equally warm, strong hands slowly down your bare arms, from your shoulders to your hands. He interlaces your fingers and presses a kiss to your temple.
You close your eyes, wincing at the effort it takes not to respond to his touch. He's still Dean. He's still just about irresistable, even if you do have good reason to resist. You can't take much more of this.
He releases your right hand... and then you hear something being set on the counter in front of you with deliberate care. You take a deep breath, knowing whatever it is, he thinks he's laying down an Ace.
Your stomach drops when you work up the courage to look.
It's Dean's missing cell phone.
The one you've been frantically and discretely trying to find for the past three days, just so that he wouldn't get his hands on it.
Holy freaking shit balls.
"Found it in the Impala a couple days ago," he says with a knowing smirk.
So the bastard knew you were trying to find it. You hold your breath and cling to the hope that maybe...just maybe he couldn't access the phone...maybe he wasn't able to figure out his password...
"Took me a little bit to crack my password, but DAMN was it worth the effort," he assures with a self-satisfied smile.
You're screwed.
He leans closer, resting his chin on your shoulder and peering down at the phone as he turns it on. A few swipes of his finger across the screen and he's pressing play on one of the many videos you had just known were gonna come back to bite you in the ass one day.
Instantly, the combined groans, hisses, and pants of you and Dean going at it echo through the room at full volume.
'Oh, God, Dean... You feel so good, babe...' you moan breathlessly on the video.
Your cheeks turn crimson as you cover your face.
"Aww, don't stop watching now," he chuckles and pulls your hand away from your still-closed eyes. "This is my favorite part."
'Take it, baby. Uunnfff, yeah. Ride it, girl. That's it,' Dean coaxes roughly through the speaker. 'You love it when I fill you up like this, don't you? Stretch you right out. Always so good for me. So gorgeous like this...'
"Son of a bitch," you huff in abject frustration at the familiar pre-orgasmic tone in his gruff voice.
Your knees almost give out as you listen to (and glance down at) the two of you finishing together on the phone's screen.
When it's over and the video has stopped playing, you grip the counter and take a long moment to slow your breathing. Mercifully, teen-dream-Dean is content to simply watch as you try and pull yourself back together.
When you finally scowl up at him in the mirror, he smiles and leans closer again.
"That, sugar, was without a doubt, the hottest thing I have ever seen," he purrs against your ear.
"Dean... we've been over this," you sigh. "I'm not gonna have sex with you. And you're not fighting fair," you whine as he nips the shell of your ear. He can't tempt you for three days straight, then use your man Dean to push you past your breaking point. It's dirty pool!
Hmm... isn't that just a highly appropriate description for your pool-hustling boyfriend's hijinks?
"I never fight fair, baby," he whispers. "I fight to win."
You shrug him off of you, growling in frustration as you try to focus on the task of brushing your teeth. You've just taken a swig of Listerine when you look up into the mirror and see Dean unbuckling his belt and taking off his jeans behind you.
The mirror gets a full spray of spit-out mouthwash as you nearly choke on it.
"What the hell do you think you're you doing now?!" You demand shrilly between coughs.
"Getting a shower," he answers in feigned innocence before sliding his boxers down his legs. He stands back upright, wearing nothing but a knowing grin. "And since I'm 'too young' for you and 'just a teenager,' it shouldn't be any problem for you to see me like this, right?"
You bite your tongue. He's not built like a damned teenager. Part of you really wishes he was.
He climbs into the shower, turning on the water, but failing to pull the curtain even halfway closed. You stand at the sink, dumbstruck, as he steps beneath the spray. He wets his hair and face while you try not to let your eyes follow the rivulets of water running down his muscular arms, chest, and stomach.
"No way I can convince you to come give me a hand with this, huh?" He teases.
You don't need to ask what 'this' he needs a hand with.
"Okay. Suit yourself," he sighs.
Without so much as a shred of hesitation or modesty, he promptly leans back against the tiled wall in full view, closes his eyes, and gets to work taking care of things himself.
Your jaw drops open.
He bites his full bottom lip. His breathing hitches. He growls low in his throat.
You close your eyes, hoping to block him out, but that just leaves you listening to the wet, rhythmic movement of his hand.
You damned near rip the sink off the wall, you're gripping the counter so tightly.
"You looked so damned good riding me, baby," he groans as he rolls his head against the tiles. "Haven't been able to stop thinking about it. Never gonna be able to get myself off thinking about anything else after seeing that."
So...the pre-orgasmic rambling thing isn't new, evidently.
At his very first desperate, frantic, close-to-the-edge moan of your name, you've officially had enough.
Your frustration is at a boiling point and your temper flares. His voice is too high. Not rough enough. To freaking teenaged. You want him, sure - it can't be helped. He is Dean, after all, regardless of his age. But you don't want to want him. And you don't want him to try to seduce you or change your mind, either. You've already said as much. Repeatedly. You'd say it in latin if you thought for a second it would get through to the kid.
Sure, he's not innocent by any means. Sure, he's not really all that young. But you're having a really hard time reconciling all of these different Deans in your head. Let us not forget that, just before he turned into his current bundle of hormones and strutted into your world, you were cradling him and telling him bedtime stories as a 4 year old.
And maybe it's stupid, but some small part of you feels like, if you give in, you'd be cheating on your Dean with - how did Cas put it? - a 'lesser form.' It feels like, by taking him as he is now, you would be giving up on getting him back to normal - settling because you don't really believe the man you love is coming back. You're terrified of even considering that. You need him - baggage and all. You love his baggage, damn it. You need the guy who's been to Hell and back. The guy who's given all for family and bears the scars to prove it. The guy with a heart of gold that's been shattered and reassembled countless times.
That settles it.
It's time to put your foot down.
Judging by the frantic pace of Dean's hand and the pornographic babbling that's currently tumbling from his lips, he's about ten seconds from coming.
You turn on your heel and stalk toward the shower, but instead of climbing in and joining him, as he intended, you grab the faucet handles and turn the water to full-blast, ice cold.
His pre-orgasmic moans of ecstasy instantly change to a long, high-pitched screech.
The sound puts a victorious smile on your face as you yank the shower curtain closed. He's still shrieking long after you stomp out of the bathroom and slam the door.
Two minutes later, you're barging into the war room.
"That's it! I've had it!" You declare.
Sam sits back in his chair, giving you a bemused look. "Took you long enough."
You plop down into the chair across from him and drag a stack of books over in front of you.
"I'm serious, Sam. At this point, I don't care if the spell calls for me to chop off my own left foot, we are going to find something to fix Dean."
"What did he do now?" Sam sighs.
You give him a look that clearly asks whether he really wants to know.
Sam shakes his head adamantly in response to your unspoken question. "I don't want to know," he insists.
You can't say you're surprised when you hear the wet, bare feet slapping along angrily down the hall a minute later. You don't turn to look when he stops behind you.
Sam's eyes widen and he bursts out laughing at the pitiful sight of his brother in that moment.
Dean is standing there, fuming mad, dripping wet and shivering, clutching a towel around his waist.
"Can I talk to you for a minute?" He demands in barely contained indignation.
"No, Dean, you cannot," you sigh heavily. "What you can do is go to bed. Your bed. In your room. Alone."
You hear him inhale sharply and take a step back as if he's been slapped.
"But-!" He cries in wounded disbelief.
"And tomorrow," you continue loudly, effectively cutting him off. "We'll talk about how - if you ever want to sleep in my room again - that little stunt you just pulled is going to remain an isolated incident."
There's silence behind you for a long moment.
You hear him shuffle guiltily from one foot the other.
Sam's mouth is hanging open. He's eyeing you in amazement for putting the teenage badass of his memories in his place.
"Okay...fine. Be that way, killjoy," Dean mutters miserably. "But... that? What you did? Was just plain uncalled for," he declares.
With that said, he turns and stalks out of the room.
He's been gone for a couple of minutes before Sam finally manages to close his mouth.
"All right, now I kinda do want to know," Sam admits with an astonished chuckle. "Can you give me the edited version?"
"He was acting entirely too hot for his current age," you answer without looking up from the pages you're scouring. "I cooled him off."
A/N: Ohhhh, Dean. Any LOL-ing? Love it? Hate it? Need a cold shower of your own? Leaning toward giving in to him now or should you wait for him to get back to normal?