never trust a big butt and a smile (obeetaybee) wrote,
never trust a big butt and a smile
obeetaybee

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FIC (SPN): Maneater (Dean/OFC/OFC)

Title: Maneater
Character(s): Dean Winchester/OFC/OFC
Rating: PG-13 toward R for sexual and horror themes
Word Count: 1154
Summary: “One of these days Dean, you’re going to run into some trouble with this horn dog thing you got going on.”
Warnings: Zombies!! and unbeta'd.
Author's Note: Written for the movie prompt challenge at win_non_con. Prompt #4 from the movie Heathers: “If you were happy every day of your life, you wouldn't be a human being; you'd be a game show host.”




MANEATER

He watched her from the bar, hand curled around a bottle of beer, sweat beads rolling down the glass and pooling in the groove of his fingers. He lifted the beer to his lips and took a long pull, eyes never leaving her body as she gyrated on the dance floor. He couldn’t say exactly what it was about her, the body, barely hidden in a tiny skirt and shiny shirt tied in a knot at the back? The short blonde hair spiked and gelled into sweeping curls in the back? The way she knew he was watching and played for him?

She lifted her arms over her head, the shirt riding up her skin, to just under the swell of her breasts. Her long legs jerked in time to the music and her feet were covered in the best pair of fuck-me pumps he had ever seen.

It didn’t matter what it was, he was entranced. He decided right then and there he’d make her keep her shoes on later when he had her legs in the air.

Looking over her shoulder, she winked, and her pink tongue darted out, just a tiny glimpse and his cock tingled. She was exactly his type. He smiled, turned on the Winchester charm and raised his beer to her. She smiled at him, her shoulders and hips moving in time to the music.

She looked hungry.

The song ended and she made her way over to the bar, sidling up on him and he could smell her sweat under her musky perfume. He resisted the urge to inhale deeply, already intoxicated, but not by the beer.

He asked her name and she said, “Heather.”

And not thinking what a remarkable coincidence it was, he asked her if she was happy tonight.

She looked at him oddly. And he said, “If you were happy every day of your life, you wouldn't be a human being; you'd be a game show host.”

She gave him a small twist of a smile and said, “That’s from that movie, right? Heathers?”

He had sudden urge to kick Sam, who’d of course had opted to stay back at the hotel, watching the very same movie on the television. “One of these days Dean, you’re going to run into some trouble with this horn dog thing you got going on.”

“Yeah, I think I can handle myself,” Dean said as he shut the motel room door behind him. The hunt was over, he wired and he was thinking with his dick, not his head.


By the end of the night, he told her he’d really like to give her ride home.

And she looked around the bar, at all the male eyes on her and said, “So would everybody else.”

2 HOURS LATER

He was laid out on her bed naked, arms handcuffed to the head board. She was straddling his cock, slowly moving her killer body up and down, up and down. Then she leaned forward, nibbled on his neck, and whispered in his ear, “I have a friend. She likes to watch. Can I invite her in?”

“Oh, hell yes,” Dean murmured, his eyes hooded as he glanced up at her smiling face.

He groaned as she lifted off of him. He had been so close to coming. Then she was gone and he was still handcuffed.

Five minutes later, she was back and Dean’s eyes widened at the site of the zombie at the end of the long chain Heather was holding, the dead girl’s shuffle slow and heavy.

“Dean,” Heather smiled, her naked body still glistening with sex and sweat. “I’d like you to meet my wife, Heather. She’ll be dining on you tonight.”

His arms fought against the cuffs, and he ignored the burning pain as they cut into his skin. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Heather the zombie bared her teeth at him, her mottled flesh green and oozing black fluid.

“Hush, lover. It’ll only hurt for a little while.” Heather smiled seductively as she dropped the chain and crawled onto the edge of the bed. She looked up at him as she kissed his ankle.

With a swift round house kick to the side of her head, he sent her flying off the bed and into the dresser.

Her sudden scream was cut off as her head connected solidly with the corner of the heavy wood. Dean could see the gash sliced across her forehead bleeding freely as her body crumpled to the floor. Good.

Heather the zombie growled, baring her teeth, her nose rising to sniff the air. Her head snapped with a sickening crunch as she found the source of the scent. One of her shriveled eyes gave way as she tilted her head, black tongue darting out between her rotting lips. Green and yellow pus rolled down her face and dripped onto the shredded nightgown she wore. She shuffled towards her ‘wife’, dragging the heavy chain behind her as she dropped to her knees. The nasty, blackened fingers of the zombie dug into Heather’s naked flesh.

Dean doubled his efforts at breaking his restraints, muscles straining and screaming. They were flimsy; novelty shop cuffs and if he could keep Heather the zombie chewing for another few more minutes, he’d be able to break them.

The grotesque sounds the zombie made while she munched and crunched gave him all the incentive he needed to pull free one of his wrists. Blood splattered up as Heather’s nose was bitten clean off her face. The zombie raised her head, the bones of her jaw clicking as she chewed.

Dean scooted up the bed, using his free hand to find the key on the nightstand. His fingers wrapped around it and a second later, he was free. He jumped off the bed, grabbed his clothes and boots, giving one last look in the room as he ran out, pulling on his pants.

He made it to the Impala and had the trunk open in a matter of minutes. He was bare-chested, amulet swinging against his chest as he pulled out a sawed-off shotgun and pumped two shells into the chamber. Two would probably be all he needed.

How many men had Heather lured to her house with the promise of sex? How many men had gone missing and ended up being fed to that thing?

“Never ever again,” he mumbled as he pushed his bare feet into his untied boots. Why the hell was Sammy always right? Never again was he going to let his dick think for him. No more anonymous sexual encounters with strangers.

Dean looked down at his right hand. “It’s just you and me from now on, baby.”

With the thoughts of Sammy’s voice filling his head, he pushed four more shells into his jean pockets, just to be on the safe side.

He had a kill to complete.

Tags: dean winchester, fic, obeetaybee, supernatural, zombies
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