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Dean finds out about the calendar after they talk—for real this time. It took them long enough, both terrified of what they were feeling but in completely different ways.
For Allie, the feelings she developed for Dean created a pit in her stomach because they were all too familiar. That same warm glow, invisible strings pulling her consciousness in his direction, were sensations she had experienced with her schoolyard crush, her high school boyfriend, with Sean.
But Dean was entirely unfamiliar with how all-consuming his infatuation with Allie Hayes had become. Women had always neatly occupied a specific place in his brain, non-exclusively and well contained. They were nice, could be fun and funny, but sex served a very specific purpose.
It wasn’t accompanied by flirty texts about play rehearsals, or intense games of chess disguised as foreplay. Keeping an eye on her behind the bar, just in case she needed him. Not that she can’t fend off the gross regulars who linger past their welcome—Dean will freely admit that he’s scared of the wrath of Allie Hayes—but because she shouldn’t have to.
And most importantly for Dean, casual sex is never accompanied by jealousy.
The way his stomach sank when Allie gave him that assignment wasn’t something he cared to examine at the time. Talking to Beau was terrifying enough, even though his jackass of a best friend had clearly noticed more than he let on.
Hearing Allie’s protestations when Dean tried to tell her that he didn’t want to complete the assignment nearly killed him.
They finally do talk, though, and he starts to put together the puzzle pieces that make up the one and only Allie Hayes.
Her words from their encounter in the cramped Malone’s photo booth echo through his head.
“I have to think about what everyone else feels before I can figure out what I'm feeling.” Without realizing it, she’d given him a pretty big hint.
As he learned about Allie’s family background—her mom’s illness and death, her dad’s stubbornness in the face of MS—and coupled it with what she’d drunkenly rambled about Sean on karaoke night, Dean saw how she contorted herself into whatever box was most convenient for her loved ones.
Hooking up with him seemed to be one of the first times in her adult life that Allie put herself first. Or, at least, that she tried to.
So Dean filed that bit of information away, knowing that putting a spotlight on that particular habit would only drive Allie deeper into her own head.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t actively looking for roundabout ways to put Allie first. Despite his spoiled, rich boy facade and propensity for selfish decision making, Dean has high standards for boyfriends.
Years of watching his dad bring “just because” flowers home for his mom, or meeting her at the door after a long deposition with a glass of wine, leading her to a steaming bath, weren’t wasted on Dean. He just never had anyone to exercise that particular skill set on.
Damn if he wasn’t going to flex that muscle for Allie fucking Hayes.
He’ll flex any of them for her. Frequently.
Now, though, he isn’t sure if he has the wherewithal to flex anything, after what she just did to him.
Time has minimal meaning when it’s just the two of them in Allie’s bedroom with the door closed, but Dean’s pretty sure that her tongue just spent the better part of an hour getting thoroughly acquainted with his cock.
“Fuck baby,” he’d murmured when Allie pushed him back onto her bed and wrestled with his belt, draping herself over his lower body.
He took the hint from her quick glance up, pulling his sweater over his head while she yanked his jeans down.
But then she paused at his boxers. Desperately—he’d rather die than admit it to anyone else—he pushed his hips up slightly.
With a shake of her head, Dean knew he was in one.
She pressed open-mouthed kisses to the ridge of him through grey fabric, darkening the path she’d already traveled, until he was pleading with her.
“Please, Allie,” he moaned, after she began sucking on the head of his cock where it tented the wet cotton. Dean could feel the fever under his skin at the sight of her, looking up at him through thick lashes with a mischievous glint in her eye.
“Why?” Her response was deceptively simple and she tilted her head to the side, fixing him with an inquisitive gaze as she palmed him with her small hand.
Marshaling the verbal capacity for response took too long for Dean’s liking, but his neurons were firing at reduced capacity thanks to the lack of blood circulating in his brain—it was being put to good use elsewhere.
“Because fuck, it feels so good.” He was fully babbling as she increased the pressure of her hand and teasingly kissed up his length. “You feel so good, baby, and fuck, it’s all I can think about. Can’t think about anything else.”
Allie smirked and took some pity on him, rolling his boxers down off his hips so she he could truly feel her tongue. Dean cursed under his breath at the feeling of how wet she was.
Then she wrapped her lips around the head of his cock, for real this time, and he nearly blacked out.
“Jesus Christ Allie,” he gasped, on hand tangling itself in the hair at the nape of her neck, seemingly of its own volition. “Holy shit.”
It was Allie’s turn to moan at the light pressure he used, not yanking but gently grasping for purchase. Something to tie Dean down to reality because it was quickly escaping him. But she was so fucking good at this.
“You’re so good, make me feel so good. Fucking love when you suck my cock, baby.” Allie hummed around him at that, sending sparks up his spine and making him throw his head back.
Dean slowly started rocking his hips up into her hot, wet mouth, alternating between staring at the way he disappeared between her swollen red lips and closing his eyes because it was all too much.
“Fucking hell you’re gonna kill me, Allie-cat.” He soon became nearly incoherent, stuttering out clipped phrases between heaving breaths. “So good. You’re gonna make me cum, baby.”
At this, Allie’s eyes shot up to meet his and she pulled off him. “Yeah? You wanna cum?” she purred, breathless in her own right.
Waiting for his response, she kept her steady rhythm stroking him with a firm grip.
Dean nodded his head vigorously. “Please.”
He’d had a lot of sex, but no woman had reduced him to such a pathetic state like Allie Hayes and he was fucking obsessed with it.
She kissed a trail across his hip bone, holding his gaze and arching her brow. He pleaded again and tightened his grip on her hair.
“Tell me.” Allie leveled Dean with a severe gaze and tightened her grip, eliciting a tortured groan from deep within his chest. “Tell me what you want me to do, what it feels like.”
She licked a stripe from root to tip, smirking at the grunt that slipped past his lips. “Tell me when you’re gonna cum.” And then she dove back in, sucking him down as far as she could while gripping the remainder of his length that just wouldn’t fit.
“Mmh—oh god Allie,” Dean spluttered, flexing his hand in her hair so as not to rip the strands when his tip hit the back of her throat. He jolted to look at her face, making sure it wasn’t too much for her, but met that same look in her eyes just framed by her watery lashes.
She looked like a fallen angel, Dean just didn’t know if he was corrupting her or vice versa.
Allie let the hand that wasn’t aiding her mouth wander to his hip, her nails finding purchase in the thick muscle where his ass met strong thighs.
Dean turned his head, burying the side of his face in the duvet as she gripped his flank tighter and increased the suction engulfing him.
“G’na make me cum, baby. Wanna come f’r you.” It was a throaty whisper, smothered by the covers and the lust clouding his senses.
Allie just hummed, acknowledging his words but keeping the same fearsome pace. She swirled her tongue around his tip and squeezed his hip, encouraging shallow thrusts into her mouth and down her throat.
That was what did it, the sounds of her mouth around him that were downright obscene fanning the flames licking up his spine, igniting the first stars behind eyelids he had to close.
“Allie, ‘m g’na cum. F-fuck baby, can’t stop—I,” Dean tried to warn her, the gentlemanly thing to do even though he knew what she wanted.
Or he thought he did.
Because as soon as his words registered, Allie pulled off him and planted her hands on the bed next to his hips.
Too many seconds ticked by as Dean sat there, dazed, trying to interpret her expression in the glow of string lights.
The only sound in the room was his heavy panting, animalistic as his lungs gasped for air, the rest of his senses grasping for the orgasm that eluded him.
With a smirk, Allie stood up and turned away from him.
“Wha—baby,” Dean whined, pushing up onto his forearms to level her with his best puppy-dog eyes. He knew the power of those baby blues and fuck if he wasn’t going to use them. This was damn near a national emergency.
But Allie just pulled her top over her head and looked at him over her shoulder, gaze flirting between Dean’s helpless expression and his hard, leaking cock.
“You’re a big boy,” she teased. “I think you can wait.” He let out a frustrated grunt and ran a hand through his sweaty blonde hair. She was absolutely infuriating, and the fact that she knew it made the whole thing even more hot.
Next came her jeans, which she unbuttoned and eased down her legs. He was glued to the trail of skin she slowly revealed, the black lace of boyshort panties cupping her ass where Dean desperately wanted his own hands.
“Please, Allie. I’ll do whatever you want.” He watched as her shoulders froze, the admission startling her as much as it did him.
If she was caught off guard, though, Allie hid it well. When she turned back to face him, he feasted on the image before him of tanned skin interrupted by her matching balconette bra and panties—black lace Dean now realized was sheer.
Confidently, she sauntered over to him, gripping his chin and tilting it up so he met her eyeline from where he sat on the bed. Admittedly Allie was barely taller than him, even arranged as they were, but that realization just sent another jolt of arousal down his spine.
When Dean told Garrett to “try all the things,” he meant it, and fuck if he wasn’t going to enjoy Allie Hayes telling him what to do. If she’d just fucking let him cum.
He searched her eyes for any indication of what she was thinking but came up blank. Right now, he’d get lost in her swirling brown irises before he found anything resembling an answer.
Allie ran her thumb against his lower lip, then chased it with her lips. Gently, she brushed her swollen lips against his bottom one, barely ghosting over him before pulling away.
It was entirely predictable, but he chased her anyway as she pulled back, giggling. Dean raised his eyebrow, more a question than a challenge, and closed his eyes as she leaned in again.
This time she nipped at his lip before pulling back, soothing him with her thumb. “Whatever you want,” he murmured, eyes still closed.
Dean finally looked up at her when she backed away slightly. Allie flipped her hair over one shoulder—fuck he wanted to bury his hands in her curls—and planted a hand on his. He lifted one hand to meet it, but she shook it off and looked at him pointedly.
“Hands off.” She nodded to his hands and Dean planted them by his sides on the bed.
Then, Dean was pretty sure his heart nearly gave out. Allie sank slowly to her knees, hand trailing down his torso from his shoulder to his thigh.
All the while, her eyes were locked on his. For a second, they flitted down to the juncture of his thighs where he still stood ready for her, but then regained his attention. Dean wasn’t sure whether he was still breathing.
“Hands off,” she repeated. Allie leaned in and closed her lips around his aching tip, wrenching a moan from his mouth that probably violated several noise ordinances and had Dean throwing his head back. She pulled away, just barely, breath still teasing his sensitive skin. “And don’t stop looking at me.”
She dove in again without abandon, spit mixing with precum as lubricant for the hand that jerked him in tandem with her mouth.
Dean bit his lip so hard he accepted it would bleed. The pain mixed with pleasure helped him keep his eyes on hers, even as he felt himself hurtling toward the edge.
Time suspended as, twice more, Allie brought him to the brink with her lips, her hand, her tongue.
The outer bounds of Dean’s consciousness were hazy when, for the thousandth time that night, he told her how close he was.
Instead of pulling back, though, Allie groaned around him and gripped his thigh to hold him in place.
Heat pooled in his abdomen, forcing Dean to grip the covers until his knuckles were white, lest he accidentally grip her hair and start this vicious cycle over again. The heat crept up and out slowly, then all at once as he fell apart under her ministrations.
Dean felt his hips jerk as the waves of pleasure overcame him, entirely out of his control. Heady gasps fought their way out of his mouth, the only vocalization his body seemed to be capable of at that point.
He emptied himself down her throat, the sting of her nails and short breaths not even registering to him while she swallowed around his cock. Every sensation blurred into a static behind his eyes and he collapsed back onto the bed with an arm thrown over his face.
Reality broke back into his consciousness in bits—the rush of blood in his ears overpowering everything, then the duvet stuck to his sweat-slicked back and shudder of his chest, lungs still trying to right the ship after passing through a hurricane.
Some time before all of his senses came back online, Allie had crawled up and nestled herself into his side. One smooth leg was thrown over his thigh, her head propped up by her hand as she traced the contours of his face with the other. Her presence was the final thing that snapped all of his senses back together.
“Mmph, h’ly shit,” Dean slurred, still drunk on her. “I think I’m dead.”
That was the first coherent sentence he’d put together in at least half an hour, which was saying something.
Tenderly, Allie raked her fingers through his sweaty blond locks. It felt so fucking good, so grounding, and Dean preened under her touch as he turned his head towards her. Eyes still closed, he could have sworn her lips brushed against his forehead.
“You killed me,” Dean murmured. Something in his voice must have sounded more conscious, prompting an actual response from Allie in the form of an uncontrolled giggle.
“No way a little blow job takes down the Dean Di Laurentis.”
That pulled a chuckle from him too, and he wrapped one arm around her waist to pull her closer. Dean traced a finger across the small of her back, across the scalloped edge of her panties plastered to warm skin.
“Yes, way,” he replied petulantly, with so little bite that it barely sufficed as a whine. “Or, at least, you killed Little Dean.”
The comment earned him an actual laugh from Allie, and he caught her eye roll when he cracked an eye to squint up at her.
“I think you’ll survive,” she mollified him, running her thumb over his brow and fixing him with a small smile.
Intimate.
Maybe even loving.
For a few minutes they laid there, soaking in each other’s company as their breathing slowly started to sync up.
Mindlessly, Dean keeps rubbing his thumb over the small of her back.
But when she shivers, ever so slightly, and her hips twitch against his thigh, Dean notices.
Sometimes, he’s noticed, she won’t ask for what she wants. Not when they’re out of the moment, when another guy—a douche—would get up to leave her without a second thought.
This seems like one of those moments. Allie just spent an hour teasing him within an inch of his life, and the fact that she’s so turned on by it isn’t entirely surprising.
It’s still fucking hot.
The issue is, Dean isn’t sure if he’s ever come that hard in his life, and he doesn’t know if his anatomy is up for a second round. Of course, that’s not actually an issue at all because no one can claim that Dean Di Laurentis is a one trick pony.
And even if he might not be able to fuck Allie into the mattress like he might like, there’s quite literally nothing he’d rather do than watch her fall apart right now. So he turns to face her fully, propping himself up on an elbow and caressing her hip with the other hand.
Allie zones back in, looking up at him with a dreamy film over her eyes, raising her eyebrows playfully in question.
“Yes?” she whispers.
He can’t help it—like medically, maybe he needs a doctor’s note—so he leans in and captures her mouth with his.
There’s no urgency from either of them, the kiss is lazy in the best way. Dean’s fingers flex over her ass and he kneads her flesh delicately.
His touch draws a soft moan out of her mouth, caught by his, and Allie deepens the kiss. It’s still slow, but heavier now as their tongues trace one another. Dean senses himself on her, faint saltiness cutting through the taste of Allie that he’s grown so accustomed to.
Coaxed on by his guiding grip, Allie starts to slowly grind against Dean’s thigh.
The little whimpers she makes as his tongue tangles with hers, fingers pressing into her flesh and thigh meeting her clothed center, are enough to drive him crazy. When she lets out a slight gasp, Dean pulls away from her mouth and starts tracing messy kisses down her throat.
“Dean,” she whispers, voice wrecked from his cock in her throat and the anticipation of teasing him.
He squeezes her ass in response and pulls her into him, her hand tightens where it’s found a home at his bicep. The curve of her neck is so enticing, he wants to just bury himself in the scent of her skin and her hair, so he charts a path upward toward her ear.
Nips are interspersed with sloppy kisses until he reaches her earlobe.
“Hey, baby,” Dean murmurs, knowing the vibration more than anything will get to her. He’s rewarded with a shiver down her spine and the hitch of her breath. “I think Little Dean is out of commission tonight.”
She huffs a sigh that marries lust with exasperation, met with his teeth worrying the delicate skin of her ear.
“But we’ve got other options.” Dean's statement is punctuated by his hand, tightening on her ass and his finger gliding under the edge of black lace that covers it.
All he gets is another gasp. “Do you want my mouth? My tongue?” he asks when Allie doesn’t answer. After another moment, he continues. “Winston?”
Immediately, Dean notices a shift in her body language. She tenses, and not in the fun way like when he’s going down on her but doesn’t let up after her peak.
This is discomfort, insecurity, things he doesn’t think Allie Hayes should ever experience because, well, she’s basically fucking perfect. For him at least. But he wasn’t the first person to be with Allie like this, and Dean is coming to understand how deeply the parts of Allie those men tried to cage are buried under her confidence and bubbly attitude.
A grimace is painted across her face, accenting the bashfulness radiating off of her.
“Can we please not talk about that?” Allie asks timidly, biting her lip and refusing to look him in the eye.
It takes him a moment to process what she said because of how she said it—something ugly settles in his gut with her tone. An auditory indicator of how she’s retreating into herself.
Dean is proud of the progress he’s made recently, on the general human being front, but everyone has flaws and deflection is his.
“You don’t want to remember our little menage à trois in the bathtub, Allie-cat?” he jokes. “Or, with Tucker I guess, menage à—quatre?” Dean thinks if they were talking about literally anything else, he’d get serious brownie points for working his expanding French vocabulary into a sentence, but the usage is just unfortunate here.
“No,” Allie huffs. “We can forget about that. I know—.” She bites her lip again, cutting herself off.
Dean searches her face but she won’t meet his eye. “You know what?” The question isn’t exactly abrupt, but he’s serious now.
“I know…” Allie laughs a little, but there’s no humor in it. She settles on an eye roll, like whatever she’s about to say is just general knowledge, completely obvious to everyone but him. “I know guys don’t really like… that.”
Finally she looks up at him, expression more sober.
And Dean’s just genuinely fucking confused. “What?”
“I’ve never… you’ve always… that’s not something I need. With you. It’s never been a problem.” She’s blushing hard now, picking at her cuticle and pretending like she’s not waiting for his response.
He’s totally lost, and he might as well admit it.
“Allie, I actually have no idea what you’re talking about right now.” Blunt? Yes. Effective… probably?
But Allie huffs again, like she hates to have to spell it out. She rubs her hands over her eyes, claps them together, and looks at him straight on.
“I finish, when we have sex. That’s not a problem. So we don’t need to talk about that.”
Dean’s pretty sure this is the same tone second grade teachers use when they have to demonstrate, again, how to tie a shoe. Clearly, though, there’s a disconnect, because Allie seems to think the fact he’s proficient in summoning the female orgasm means that her vibrator needs to stay in her sock drawer.
And he says as much. “I literally told you to bring Winston over that night, with the bath. We would’ve had an amazing time if Tuck hadn’t forgotten his wallet,” Dean continues.
Allie giggles, resembling a real one this time, and he leans down to kiss her neck. He can’t see her face, and he thinks that’s why she confesses like she does. “I just didn’t want to make things weird.”
It’s soft but Dean can hear her crystal clear.
“I didn’t want to make you, like, mad or anything.”
That last part is even quieter. Dean freezes, which is probably the exact wrong thing to do at the moment because her body mirrors his. He pulls back and tries to look at her, ducks down so she has to meet his eye.
“Why would I ask you to bring it if I didn’t want to use it?” he asks, patiently. A little piece of his heart breaks when she gives a meek shrug.
“I thought maybe you were trying to be funny, or it was some part of the Life of Dean, down for anything any time.” The attempt at joking falls flat and he’s silent, processing all of that.
Evidently he takes too long to respond because she starts to pull away, plastering a casual smile on her face like a knight shrugging on armor.
That’s not what this is, though, not to Dean. Now, when things get awkward or sad or fuzzy, they talk about it. Take a problem head on, together.
Too much time has been wasted skirting the important stuff.
“Allie, I don’t ask for things I don’t want to do. I don’t do things I don’t want to do. And that goes both ways, that’s how sex works.”
The conciliatory smile she gives him suggests that, at least for her, this is not how sex works—has worked, past tense, because he’s here now.
But something in the implication makes him a little sick, so he needs to clarify. “Have you… uh, have you done things you didn’t want to?”
There’s probably a more delicate way to ask that. Any other way likely is, but Dean’s no wordsmith.
Thankfully, Allie isn’t offended. A laugh actually escapes her, like the question is genuinely surprising, but she gets a hold of herself. “No—uh, no that’s never happened. Which is good...” She trails off for a moment then laughs to herself again. “Kind of the opposite, really.”
She says it quietly, and Dean's ming is reeling so it takes an extra moment for her meaning to hit him.
Oh.
“Like, you mean—” he just needs to confirm. “You wanted… but they… didn’t?”
It’s genuinely mind boggling to Dean. Sure, everyone has their limits and boundaries, their kinks and preferences, but this seems like something else entirely. Something deeper, with shame baked in.
“Uh, yeah.” Her voice is small. She’s small, hunched over slightly on the bed tucking a piece of hair, in a way that Dean thinks ought to be criminal. Not for Allie—he learned long ago that women deserve to feel how they feel and he can shut the fuck up about it, thank you very much Summer—but for whoever made her feel like even asking was pushing too far. That even raising the conversation was overstepping, that her wants weren’t important enough to merit the conversation in the first place.
“Well that’s fucking bullshit.” It startles him as much as it startles her, and then she breaks out into incredulous laughter.
Dean really has no other choice but to join in. It is funny, the thought that a man could fathom not wanting to try to whole fucking Kama Sutra with Allie Hayes, then start all over.
And this, too, he says out loud.
Allie’s laughing so hard now, hand braced against her mouth as tears gather in her eyes.
“Am I missing something?” Dean’s never been one who didn’t want to be in on the joke.
Allie just shakes her head, seemingly having a hard time forming words. So he just sits there, baffled, as she pulls herself together.
Finally, heaving a sigh, she’s done.
Dean’s about to say something—he’s not entirely sure what, and it’s not usually a good choice to bank on finding the point along the way—when Allie dives towards her nightstand.
He thinks, for a second, that maybe Winston will make an appearance.
“Sean was completely against this,” Allie says over her shoulder, rummaging through the drawer. Now Dean has no clue what she’s talking about.
Then a book thumps down on the bed.
No, not a book. A calendar.