✨Female.She/Her.Straight.✨🎨🎸Like to hang out in groups of one.I love tons of men I can never get/meet. Only flavored water I like is coffee. Coffee is my blood🩸🔮 ⚰️🌜I am humanities voodoo doll.🌛🪦🪦🪦🪦 ❤️🔥🥵Chis Cerulli,Ronnie Radke, Ryan Sitkowski,Justin Morrow,Patrick Galante,Spencer Charnas and many other men that I’m a thirsty hoe for.❤️🔥🥵Fuck that noise, I’m all about that shit🧿🪬Save that Catholic Face. Funny & inappropriate ass shit is what I’m all about.Chronically sick and trying to live.☠️🎃Love Motionless In White,Ice Nine Kills,Falling In Reverse, and Fame On Fire🪓🔪They are the best bands ever.Hard rock to pop love it all.Music is life🎼🌌🎆🎇🌉🌁🌠Can’t judge this book, but it is quite the read that I promise you📚📖 😈👻Supernatural-4-Life!This is my passport/ticket to a front row seat in hell!👹See u kids there!😉😘😏🤘🖤
I would love an imagine where Dean grows out his hair and beard like Jensen’s is irl now and reader is just absolutely obsessed with it
𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ dirty blond curls
pairing: purgatory!dean winchester x fem!reader
summary: you might have found a way to stop dean from cutting his hair
cw: 18+ smut.ᐟ unprotected p in v [wrap it up kids].ᐟ hair pulling.ᐟ pre-est relationship [dating].ᐟ nicknames [baby, sweetheart].ᐟ
word count: 705
julia yaps: the show had it wrong. dean would have longer hair after coming back from purgatory, this is simple hair growth logic! fight me on that!
ever since dean came back from purgatory, you just couldn’t stop staring at him with his completely new look – a curtain mullet and a beard which he nicely trimmed after a long shower – and by god you honestly felt like a feral animal trying to restrain themselves.
the way he looked now simply awakened something deeply primal inside you. funny how a little change can make you feel huh?
“sweetheart can you help me cut my hair?” dean asked casually, scissors in his hand as he walked into the library.
he earned a reaction from you as if he just admitted to murdering your entire family.
“what?” he raised a brow, highly confused.
“wha- why would you wanna cut it?!” you tried to speak quick but it ended up coming out in a panicked stutter.
“it’s just too long” he replied as he twirled a piece of his lock with his finger. “gonna look like sammy soon if i don’t get this under control” he chuckled, but stopped as soon as he noticed the sadness in your eyes and the upset little pout, which you weren’t aware you were doing.
“what is it baby? you really like it that much?” dean stepped closer to you, grabbing a hold of your hand in his big one, his thumb caressing the back of your palm.
you were slightly embarrassed at how upset you felt, it is his hair after all and you wanted him to feel good in his own skin. his body his choice.
you nodded slowly, avoiding his gaze. “i do like it… a lot. but i don’t want you to feel uncomfortable so.. i’ll help” you explained, voice soft and low.
“can i just..” you looked up into his eyes, “can i say goodbye to it?” you asked shyly, his brow raised slightly at your question.
oh and you gave his haircut the proper goodbye it needed.
⋆˙ ⋆⭒˚.⋆
“oh god.. oh my god” you moaned out in pure ecstasy, your fingers deep in his dirty blond curls, tugging and pulling on it as dean’s hips met yours with every wet thrust, his thick length splitting you open.
he couldn’t help but let out a string of moans himself, dean didn’t expect hair pulling to be this fun, on the receiving side, that was.
but how can he not when he had his woman fall apart beneath him, acting completely like a bitch in heat that didn’t plan on letting him go until he was milked empty.
“dean i-i’m so close” you warned him, your legs shaking on either sides of his waist. your fingers weakly tugging at his locks as you saw stars.
the obscene sounds that came from your room were nothing short of erotic, pornographic even.
moans – high and low bounced off your bedroom walls, meeting with the squelching wet sounds your pussy made each time dean pushed his veiny cock back inside you.
sex between you never happened to be this sinful. never this loud, never this messy, never this animalistic – until this very moment now.
was he going to complain? of course not. he fuckin loved this.
“come for me sweetheart” he growled in your ear, his beard softly scratching your neck as his thrusts became sloppier, his climax catching up to yours.
his hand made it’s way down, in between your bodies. his thumb circling your swollen clit with enough pressure to make you scream his name out.
your gummy walls tightened around his thick size before gushing all over him, throwing your head back and letting out a high pitched cry.
dean’s orgasm coming right after yours from the way your pussy clamped down on his dick, trying to milk him dry. thick ropes of white cum shooting inside you, mixing in with your creamy finish.
both of you trying to catch your breaths as your bodies shake. “well that is certainly one way to say goodbye..”
you looked into dean’s eyes with a smile, you pushed a strand of hair that stuck to his sweat-covered forehead, earning a tired chuckle from him.
“might have to rethink that haircut if this is the sex we are talkin about” he smirked.
thank you so so much for reading! feedback and reblogs are always deeply appreciated <3
"Truly exciting because that hasn't been announced People's Magazine Sexiest Man Alive, Jensen Ackles" | World Premiere of The Boys, Rome, Italy, March 19, 2026 [x]
SUMMARY: Dean always thought the end of the world would come with exploding suns and the walking dead—not in the shape of his best friend suddenly flirting with him. 9.7k
WARNINGS: best friend!reader. friends to lovers. suggestive language. pining. fluff. humor. dean's self-deprecating shenanigans. masturbation. implied smut. dry humping. breeding kink if you squint really hard. this was very random but i ended up loving it. set somewhere mid s2.
Dean is scared. Like really, really fucking terrified.
He’s faced everything a person can be afraid of. Vampires, ghosts, weird one-of-a-kind monsters. He’s fought enough demons—both physical and metaphorical—to drive the strongest man crazy. He fucking had to build the pyre where his father’s body would eventually turn to ashes by himself, for God’s sake.
But nothing, nothing has scared the shit out of him more than you flirting with him.
The first time it happened, he didn’t even notice you were flirting. His mind was just so closed off to the possibility, the idea so far-fetched and insane that even now—weeks later, as he stares at the peeling painting on the wall, ruminating—it still blows his fucking mind.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You and Sam had been talking non-stop the whole ride from Tennessee to a dingy motel in rural Virginia, completely engrossed in your brainy shit. Dean caught bits and pieces of it every so often, when the thin but comforting fog that a long drive provides to his brain dissipates enough for him to actually register your words.
But it’s not like it mattered if he paid attention, it’s all Greek to him anyway.
It was only once he stopped at a gas station, leaning against Baby’s side while he waited for the tank to fill, that he actually tried to follow your conversation.
He opened the driver’s door and rested his arms on Baby’s roof, pressing his forehead against the crook of his elbow and peaking down at his baby brother and his best friend, the cold leather of his jacket a relief in the southern summer heat.
Sammy was leaning against the front seat’s backrest so he could meet your eyes, long limbs all twisted and his face still exhausted with everything that’s happened in the past year. His eyes were glittery as he nodded along to whatever you were saying, shaggy hair flopping around his head, and once again Dean has to wonder just how the fuck Dad pretended for Dean to kill the kid.
The memory of John’s words always leave him wilted and venomous, Dean tries so hard not to think about them. He turned his eyes to you instead. You were draped across the backseat—long legs bare thanks to your tiny shorts, socked feet pressed against the left door, your back resting against the right one.
You always make sure to take off your shoes before propping them up on the bench, without Dean even having to ask. You just seem to instinctively sense how much he cares for Baby, working as hard as he does to keep her clean and pretty. Dean doesn’t dwell on it.
He also didn’t dwell on how good you looked then, with the afternoon sun flaring behind you and making your hair glow, all sprawled out in his car. He’d gotten over the fantasies of climbing on top of you and kissing you until the two of you melted into the Impala long ago, around the time he’d gotten over any hope of you ever wanting him back.
Still, seeing your smooth skin against the black, shiny vinyl sent a shudder down his spine. If only.
His life lately has become nothing but just a long, boring list of cobweb-covered If-Only’s.
He quickly drew his attention to the words leaving Sammy’s mouth and away from your chest in that thin, translucent tank top.
“Blue eyes are genetic mutations to adapt to the sun.” The kid sounded the exact same as he had in middle school. Dean wondered if the reason why he didn’t get bullied more often was because two rogue teenage boys staying in the town’s cheapest motel was always a scary enough tale that kept most ruffians away. “Just like dark skin.”
“Yes! That’s also why people who live near deserts have longer, thicker eyelashes. It’s a mutation to protect their eyes,” you chimed in with an eager little smile. Dean almost saw you pushing phantom reading glasses up the bridge of your nose. “And, actually, lighter skin would be the mutation, since humanity originated in Africa.”
Sammy nodded enthusiastically, just like he did whenever he was presented with new information. Dean remembered then why, when you were younger, he used to memorize random fun facts in the library and then report them back to you two after a bad hunt or a nightmarish evening.
That pair of bright, dorky, always-too-wide eyes staring at him with that exact same awe always did wonders to keep the venom in his blood from spilling.
“How did you even get there?” he asked, voice dripping with laughter. “The last thing I heard from you was Halle Berry.”
“Of course it was, horndog.” You rolled your eyes, a wide smile tugging at your lips. The teenage instinct to puff up with pride at the sight stirred, he stomped on it until it stopped moving. “We were talking X-Men. Genetic mutations just kind of fell into place.”
“Right, obviously.” He scoffed. “You’re gonna infest my car with your nerd-virus, geeks.”
“May I remind you of all the Marvel Comics hidden in the trunk, under all your porn ones?”
“No, you may not.”
You snorted, crossing your arms and turning back to Sammy, widening your eyes as if saying: Can you believe this guy?
“I thought you’d be interested in the topic, Dean. Since you seem to try and prove Darwinism in every motel mini-fridge you find.”
Dean glared at his brother, one hand leaving Baby’s roof so he could flip him off. It only made you laugh harder. If Dean preened then, it’s between him and the voices in his head.
“I’d think you Winchesters have a genetic mutation that calls for trouble. The Winchester gene.” You pulled your knees closer to your chest, leaving him with a perfect view of your ever-bruised knees. He wanted to kiss them away, he wanted to leave more. The heat was getting to him. “Call Professor X, I’ve found a new mutation. Gene-W, which stands for Worst Fucking Luck in the Whole World.”
You’re such a fucking idiot.
How was Dean supposed to spend almost every waking moment with you, and not love you? It was impossible. Dad had to know he couldn’t do it, even when he yelled at Dean to get his head out of “some random chick’s cunt and man up. Focus on what’s important.”
God had to know as well, even when He made Dean fundamentally unlovable. It has to be divine punishment, sending him the perfect girl and making her so holy that she was untouchable, especially when Dean’s hands are coated with sacrilege.
“That’s three W’s.” It was the only thing his brain could spit out that wasn’t pleasepleaseplease.
Just once, just one time.
I need you so bad, it’s killing me.
Please.
“I’ll call it the 3W-gene, then.” You shrugged, wiggling in your place until you were sitting with your feet on the car floor. You stared at him then, eyes scanning his face with a nebulosity that he’d never seen before. They burned on his skin, hotter than the sun and more intoxicating than the scent of gasoline. Finally, your lips twisted upwards. “Which I’d have to guess makes up ninety percent of your DNA. Though it looks like you were made for the desert as well.”
Dean frowned, blinked down at you, wondered if you were having a heat stroke.
“But I’m… white? I mean, I know I don’t really get sunburnt, and I tan easily, but—”
“No, I mean—” You gaped at him, like you were trying to figure out if he was intentionally playing dumb. Dean didn’t realize what he was missing, the truth so far removed from every stone-set belief in his head that it seemed ridiculous to even go there. You had to sense his genuine confusion, because the disbelief vanished and left behind only giggling. “I was talking about your eyelashes, dummy.”
Ouch. Dean tried to hide the pang that traveled down his ribs, his lips pressed together in what he will never admit was a pout. “What’s wrong with my eyelashes?”
“Jesus Christ.” You sounded exasperated as you huffed, but also fond. Dean felt adrift. “Forget it, Dean.”
“No, no. Wait!” But you were already sliding out of the car, walking across scalding concrete and spilled oil toward the restrooms, too far away for him to stop you. He bent down and tried to read some answers out of Sammy's face, but all he got was a mocking smile.
He searched for you again, but by then you were already walking into the gas station’s Dunkin Donuts. Still, he yelled after you.
“What’s wrong with my lashes?!”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
He didn’t get it the second time either.
Actually, it took him until the third time you shamelessly flirted with him for Dean to catch up with the situation. But it was just so… unimaginable.
Dean spent every waking moment of his younger years trying to charm you. Well-trained grins and lingering hands, compliments spilling like honey from his lips and pick-up lines flying your way like perfectly-aimed bullets.
But Dean missed every time.
You used to laugh, hiding your smile behind your hand and shoving him back like he was just being silly. At first, he was. You were gorgeous, and Dean was nineteen and horny. He could tell there was something different about you, with the quick hammering of his heart and the fuzz that tingled his brain when you walked in the room, but he paid it no mind.
Being a hunter meant that knocking on love’s door would always be risky. Being a Winchester meant that door was closed and locked forever. Being Dean meant that there was no door at all.
Love wasn’t an option, but he could have sex. He took that small grace and ran with it.
He never expected more than a night with you, maybe a fortnight if he was lucky enough. Then you could leave, or stick around for a while and ditch them when you got tired of him, and Dean wouldn’t mop over it. He’d gotten what he wanted—or all he could afford to want—and you’d just be another speck of dust on his rearview mirror.
But then you’d turned every single one of his advances down, always with a teasing but sweet smile on your face, and you’d stayed.
Through his twenty-first birthday, through Sam’s escape to college, through Dad’s death. Dean has been rattled with grief a million times since then, breaking down into pieces and glueing himself back together with scotch tape and stale beer, and still you stay by his side.
Dean doesn’t get it, but once again, he takes the grace—miracle, he would call it—and does everything he can to keep it.
No more flirting, no more secret touches under tables, no more trying to sleep with you.
It soon became evident that having you in his life meant more than casual sex could ever mean, and so Dean buried all of his desire so deep down that he thinks it might’ve backfired and infused with his soul instead of disappearing. He pretends it did, though, never letting his sickness get in the way of your friendship.
He’s good at pretending. It’s all he’s ever done.
At some point in time, that desire began to transform, bubbling up and becoming syrupy—like tar. Dean keeps throwing dirt over it like a dog trying to hide the bones of his last meal, fangs still bloody. It’s barely enough.
All of this to say, you’ve had a million opportunities to make a move on him.
Back in that shack in Oregon when you were twenty, or ten months ago when Sam had just entered your lives again and Dean was getting sloppy, giving you sultry looks over diner menus, his bantering quickly taking on a seductive undertone whenever you went back and forth. He’d pulled himself together soon enough, but you had still brushed him off just as easily as you had back in ‘98.
Because that’s just how the universe works—Dean swallows it all down until something escapes him and then you turn it down. You don’t flirt, and you sure as fuck don’t call his eyelashes long and thick or his face pretty.
That time… yeah, Dean should’ve probably gotten it then.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You were sitting in the bed of a rusty-red pickup truck, parked in the middle of nowhere Virginia, just a week after the first incident.
You were already a quarter down your way to North Carolina when Sam remembered the witch’s shadow book he’d forgotten back in the motel. You’d all considered just leaving it, but the risk of some poor maid coming across it and wandering down a dark and dangerous path was too big. So Sam had left you in some ghost town in the middle of the woods, taking off with Baby before Dean could regret offering her to him.
Dean had stolen a truck, driving you out of the road and between the trees until you’d found a small clearing near a lake, far away enough from town that no locals would give you trouble.
It was still hot as fuck, the air thick and humid, leaving your hair frizzy and Dean’s throat dry. The sky was clear, a million stars winking down at you, and so you settled on the bed of the truck, desperate for as much fresh air as you could get.
Sam at least had the decency to let you pull a few things out of the trunk before he sped away, including a big blanket that you spread over the dirty metal before climbing inside, Dean following close by.
You laid on your back with a flashlight in one hand and a book propped up over your face in the other, bathing in the moonlight as your eyes hungrily absorbed every word in those pages. Dean lit up a cigarette and watched the smoke travel with the breeze, listening to the familiar buzz of the forest and fidgeting with his M1911.
His back was pressed against the bedside, leaving him with the perfect view of the tree line. And you.
You looked like an angel. Definitely divine punishment.
At some point your legs ended up tangled, blissfully-bare skin against stubborn denim. You knocked your knee with his but kept your eyes on the book, Dean watched you. The way you held the flashlight between your teeth when you needed to flip the page, the light that reflected on the paper and highlighted the curve of your throat, the scar on your cheek from when you jumped between Dean and a knife the witch had thrown at him.
“Watcha reading?” He couldn’t keep the words down, they swirl in the air along with the smoke. This time you spare him a glance.
“Gothic horror. Very Americana, fits the vibe perfectly.” With your hand still holding your book open, you gestured to your surroundings. Dean chuckled. “You’d like it, if you could read.”
“Hey!” He kicked you softly in the shin. “I know how to read, thank you very much!”
“You do? Woah, news to me.”
“I’d be the worst hunting partner if I didn’t. Research would take us ages.” Your eyes went back to the book. It was unbearable. “At least have the decency to look at me when you insult me, you little dweeb.”
You dropped the novel next to your head, getting up on one elbow so you could finally meet Dean’s gaze. The flashlight kept pointing up, enveloping everything in faint yellow light. Dean’s hair stuck to the back of his neck with sweat, his white ratty t-shirt suddenly too tight.
“Sam and I always do the research anyway.” You flexed your leg, your knee now hooked over his as you laid on your side. Dean was an adult, he could handle this.
“So what’s my job then, attack dog?”
A small frown crossed your face, it was quickly replaced by a teasing smirk. “Nah. Your job is to sit there and look pretty.”
The overwhelming quiet of the wilderness and the haziness of the tacky night made it all feel like a dream. Dean had to be hallucinating the slight tilt of your face, the warm glint in your irises, your teeth grazing your lip.
“What?”
“Every team needs The Pretty One. Makes it easier to be approachable, you know how a shining smile can do wonders.” Dean almost wanted to clear his ears with his fingers. What the fuck was happening? “Though you just had to be pretty and good at fighting, you could fill all the team’s positions if you wanted. I blame it on the 3W-gene.”
A lot was going on, Dean’s brain would start leaking out of his nose if you didn’t stop.
“You think I’m pretty?”
Not his smoothest moment. He’s not proud.
You scoffed, and if Dean was a little more certain of anything at this point, he’d thought you blushed. “Please, Dean, everyone thinks you’re pretty.”
No they don’t. They think he’s hot, or handsome, or badass. He’s heard beautiful a few times. Pretty… he doesn’t hear that one often. For some reason, it sent lightning down his spine.
“You have never said it, though,” he whispered, mellower than intended. He took one last drag of his cig and stubbed it out against the bedside. He quickly grabbed another one, if anything, just to keep his hands busy.
There was a slow, terrifying moment of silence before you spoke again, and Dean held his breath until the smoke burned in his lungs.
“Doesn’t mean I don’t see it.” Something haunted flashed on your eyes, Dean felt the need to float closer until he charred within it. “That I don’t know it.”
His world started to crumble, the ground under him shaking. You finding Dean attractive—pretty, even… it was life-ruining.
All of his defenses started to crack.
“You’ve seen me covered in enough fluids to make the toughest surgeon vomit.”
You giggled, the sound breaking through the still air like a bullet. Dean’s grip on his gun loosened, his whole body melting.
“It’s that freakin’ Winchester gene, I’m telling you. Good looks, bad luck, weird ass charm.”
“So you think Sammy’s pretty too?”
He wished his voice hadn’t been that bitter. You rolled your eyes before picking up your book, flopping back down on your back as your eyes left him. Dean shivered even though the air was stuffy, musk and salty heat filling his nose.
“You’re the prettiest, De. You should know that.”
Well, he knows now.
He smoked half his pack of reds and you got through another third of your novel before you decided to get some shut-eye. Dean agreed to lie down next to you after you plead with him, even if he knew he would stay up all night regardless. Your pouty expression was too much for him to resist, he’s only human.
You didn’t have any pillows, but Dean was stubborn and he took his jacket everywhere, even when it was a thousand degrees. He bundled it up and offered it for you to use. “It’s not the comfiest, but it’s something.”
This time, Dean was sure he saw your cheeks reddening.
He kept on watching the clouds and listening in for any dangers as you got ready to sleep, throwing a thin sheet over the two of you and curling into yourself at his side. He put out his last cigarette against the sole of his biker boots, refusing to take them off even after you nagged at him for it.
He’d learned long ago to always be ready to escape. Old habits die hard.
“I wish you’d put them out on me.”
The words barely reached him, getting lost in the whistling of the wind. He quickly turned his head toward you, eyes wide and breath ragged, but you had already fallen asleep by then.
Your face was hidden against his jacket. It stayed there all the way until morning.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The few days after that had been torture. Even now, Dean still isn’t sure that last part was even real, the words too good to be true.
If only you could be as sick as him, if only under your skin lived a beast as rabid as his, if only the immensity of his desire and obsession could be reciprocated instead of abhorred. If only.
But by the third incident, Dean had enough evidence to believe he heard right and he didn't need to get hooked on antipsychotics. And oh, what a thought that is.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean was working on Baby, two weeks or so after Virginia.
You’d driven to South Dakota a few days ago after ganking a vampire nest in northern Iowa, still waiting for Ash to get back to you with any demonic omens. Bobby had welcomed you with open arms and a cooler full of beer, and God knows Dean needed the break.
He didn’t know how long he could keep handling being locked in the Impala with you, your clothes getting skimpier and the days getting longer. Your head stuck out the window, your hair floating in the wind, your voice echoing in his head.
“You’re the prettiest, De.”
Even motel rooms didn’t serve as a relief. You’d still walk out of the shower with your skin flushed and bare, filling the boy-stinking room with your sugary smell and girlish sweat. It was hell, it was paradise. Dean had to rush into a cold shower every time.
He thought that being at Bobby’s would stop the avalanche of prohibited thoughts. That once there was a bit more space between you—other people around and open windows and air conditioner—he could go back to pretending that your strange confessions in the past few days hadn’t shattered all of his careful guards.
But it only took you flashing a smile across the dining table or your shape lounging by the bay window for all his pent-up frustration to claw at his throat. He was restless, fingers twitchy and temper irritable, his whiskey glass almost cracking under his hand when you strode down the stairs in a tiny skirt and a tight top, clearly not wearing a bra.
Before his head could explode, he grabbed a cold beer and dashed out the door and into the salvage yard, Baby’s keys in one hand and his crumbling sanity in the other.
He’d been at it for hours, tinkering here and there with the Impala’s undercarriage, the old car creeper he’d stolen from Bobby’s garage stiff and bumpy under him. He welcomed the distraction.
There was nothing to fix, really. Baby wasn’t up for an inspection for quite a while, and Dean knew exactly when she needed work done. She was golden.
Still, he fidgeted with the exhaust and turned a few screws uselessly, stalling. The sun beat down on him, his shirt was stained with oil and sweat, his vision was getting splotchy. The smell of metal and dirt was comforting, familiar, manly. No soft vanilla or flowery shampoo. Just Dean and his life on the road, no space for anything else.
But being trapped under an engine only made the heat even worse, his throat closing up and his eyes stinging. He finally decided to slide out and into the fresh air, sitting up with a gasp as he reached for his beer, the condensation dripping from the bottle a small heaven.
He chugged the drink down and threw the bottle on the ground, wiping his forehead with the hem of his dirty shirt before dropping back down on the creeper, his eyes scanning his arid surroundings. Big mistake.
Because there, stepping out of the house to his right, were you. The stupid skirt left him as breathless as it did the first time, the little perk of your nipples under the soft fabric of your top still filling his mouth with saliva. There were two beers in your hands, your skin glistening as you stepped in the sunlight, Dean’s grip on the wrench tightened.
“Brought you some libation, so you don’t pass out under that thing.”
“Hey! Put some respect on her name.” Dean petted the underside of Baby, your laugh washing over him like a waterfall.
You reached his side and handed him one of the beers, the caps already off. He took a long swig of it, mostly to keep that syrupy tar from spilling. He was still lying on his back, with you towering over him. Dean focused on the sharp dig of metal against his spine and not the way he could almost, almost peep under your flowy skirt.
“What are you working on, anyway?”
He didn’t have a real answer, so he spit out some bullshit excuse full of technical words that he knew you wouldn’t really understand, hoping it was enough to keep you from asking more questions.
“Uhm—right…” You nodded, like you’d understood anything Dean had just said. It made him smile, how you always tried to pay attention even when the topic couldn’t bore you any more.
The two of you stayed there for a few more moments, sipping on your beers and letting the seconds trickle by. You swayed to a phantom tune in your head, Dean could nearly hear it. It was nice to know you could still have moments like this, when your minds swirled into one and you didn’t need words to communicate, like tuning into the same radio station.
If Dean was a little cheesier, he’d say you’re soulmates.
Because he’s Dean, he says you’re just trauma-bonded.
A small but glorious breeze glided between you, making your skirt and hair twirl and lifting Dean’s shirt halfway up his chest, his torn-up jeans laying low on his hips like a good mechanic.
Dean watched as your eyes caught the movement, drinking in the sight of golden skin and scar tissue. You ogled shamelessly, from the ridges of his ribs down to the V of his hipbones, licking your lips as you followed the trail of faint hair that disappeared down the waistband of his boxers, the elastic peaking out of his jeans slightly.
Too much, it was too much. Your teasing had made him reckless, this was his last straw.
“Take a picture, darlin’. It’ll last you longer.”
Instead of snapping back into yourself and running back into the house, you just hummed mindlessly, gaze slowly moving up to Dean’s face. Your cheeks were pink, it could be just the incandescence. The darkness of your eyes differed.
“Left my phone inside. Such a shame.” He wasn’t expecting that. He laughed hoarsely, trying to pass it off as a weird joke. Friends could joke like that, it wasn't that crazy. Your expression remained consuming. “You shouldn’t stay out here for too long, De. You’re gonna roast under all that metal.”
Dean thought you sounded hungry, he finished his beer in one go.
“Hey, it’s a good way to go.” He gave you one of those relaxed, I’m-not-freaking-out-you-are smirks. “I’ve always wanted to die under a hot girl or a cool car.”
Okay, he walked right into that one. He was trying, okay?
This time, you laughed. It was velvety, stickier than summer and more addictive than any adrenaline rush. Dean became a junkie after just one hit.
“Great philosophy, really.” You chugged half of your beer, stepped a little closer, stood with your legs parted. Dean kept his eyes firmly on your face. “Well, you can choose now. Which one will it be?”
For a second, Dean wondered if he’d drink more than he remembered. Only when he was really, really hammered did he daydreamed this vividly. But he’d barely had three beers today and half a glass of whiskey, he was nowhere near wasted.
His breath hitched, he gaped up at you. His brain racked for excuses, for another explanation to this that wasn’t your best friend who you’re inescapably in love with is making a move on you.
There wasn’t any. There’s only so much you can lie to yourself before the truth becomes imminent.
“I’m just a hardworking mechanic, ma’am. I’m trying to do my job here.” It was so easy, to just fall back into the playfulness that’s been dying to crawl out of his mouth and wrap all over you for years.
“Mhm.” You grinned foxily—which was new—and then stepped even closer, a foot on each side of his extended leg—which was even newer. You were still too far away for him to actually see anything, but the scene was still too familiar, from grainy videos in Sam’s laptop and raunchy magazines. Oh god. “I think I have a problem for you to check out, Mister Mechanic. Don’t worry, I can pay you well.”
You winked at him, and Dean’s breath grew ragged. The line of just-friends had started to blur long ago, but this was definitely stepping over it. He wanted it so badly, that was always a sign that it shouldn’t happen.
He tried to convince himself you were just joking around, making fun of his cliche porn indulgences, calling him out for being a little freak.
“You can’t just come into my workshop and demand to be served, ma’am. That’s no way to treat a humble, blue-collar man.”
Another one of those laughs, Dean relished in the ecstasy of it. “I think I know how this blue-collar man likes to be treated after all these years.”
His mouth was full of spit and tar, he swallowed it all down. It still spilled.
"You’re gonna let me take a look, then?”
Surely, this is where you drew the line. It was all fun and games up to here, just a little healthy flirting between best friends with a broken silent understandment—nothing unfixable.
This, this is where everything could go up in flames. Dean was delirious, frothing at the mouth and begging to be put down. To be woken up from this dream, to go back to when everything ached but was familiar, to have you snap his neck in mercy.
Instead, you drenched everything in kerosene.
With a wicked smirk that screamed danger, you crept higher up his body. Your foot resting between his legs moved and installed itself next to his shoulder, until you were completely straddling his frame, right over his head.
Shadows covered his face, the ruffles of your skirt fluttered, that musky smell of vanilla and salty skin enveloped him. Dean panicked.
There was no coming back from this. He wasn’t ready to ruin the best thing that had ever happened to him. He wasn’t sure this was even happening in the first place.
He shoved himself back under Baby, a yelp logged in the back of his throat, his eyes still shut closed even when all he could sense around him was rusty metal and motor oil.
That laugh again, vivid and electric, now muffled by the car shielding Dean from the demon that's taken the shape of his best friend.
“I thought I—I heard a rattle.” He’s not sure his words even reached you with how scattered they were. You sighed in delight.
“Of course, Mister Mechanic. I’ll stop bothering you.” You softly kicked his boot in goodbye, even that made Dean’s breath stutter. “Don’t stay here too long, or you’re actually going to faint.”
“Sure.” He sounded wrecked. Goddamnit he can be pathetic.
You giggled, this time tender and almost… enamored. Dean seriously needed to go see a shrink.
He listened closely as you walked away, waiting until the back door of Bobby’s house clicked shut before rushing out from under Baby. He got on his feet so fast that his head spinned, his vision blurring as he made his way between the maze of broken-down cars and hills of old tires.
He found a sun-bleached school bus that looked like it had been there for ages, big enough to conceal his form as he leaned against its side, fumbling at his belt with shaky hands.
He came a few minutes later, with his back against scalding, yellow-painted steel and his dick fisted furiously in his hand. He kicked dirt over his cum on the ground, still trying to catch his breath and process what the hell just happened.
His cock twitched at the memory of you climbing over him, he pulled his jeans back up and darted into the house, locking himself in his room until he was able to function again.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean had been able to bury the cum well-enough that day, but you’ve done irreparable damage to his desire’s grave. No matter how hard he scratches at the earth and tries to cover the bones, you’ve resuscitated something invincible.
He’s doomed, even more than before.
Because it’s not just desire anymore. Now it’s also a sunrise on the beach, quiet mornings in a suburban kitchen, soft kisses that promise more than just a good time. Now Dean wants more, he wants everything.
Oh, what have you done?
It was hard, moving on from that day. After a lot of self-reflection and many, many jerk-off sessions, he’d gotten to the conclusion that you were, indeed, flirting.
He knows, he knows. Give him a Nobel prize.
The knowledge is almost impossible to live with. He wants to put his head through the wall, he wants to scream until his lungs give in, he wants to kneel at your feet and ask you why.
Why now, why not before, why not never. Why when he was finally getting the hang of it, why when he had just gotten used to the ache of longing, why when he’d ultimately made his peace with never having you.
He didn’t know how to act after that, not when he was holding his guts inside his body with trembling hands and he didn’t know exactly what you needed. Because that’s the scariest part of all.
Just to what extent do you want him?
At first, he assumed you wanted the same he did at nineteen—to fool around.
Maybe you’re lonely. Dean hasn’t seen you leave the bar with anyone in months, hasn’t caught you sneaking out of your motel rooms, hasn’t heard you talking about that college boy you became friends with during your Hook Man case in Iowa.
Maybe you’re wired, and needy, and Dean is a safe choice. No awkward introductions or dangerous meetings. Just the pleasure of skin against skin and the haven of being with someone you know like the back of your hand.
Dean isn’t sure if he could handle casual, after all these years, after you’ve wiped away his dumbest tears and patched up his ugliest wounds. For once, Dean might not be able to muzzle the beast under his skin.
So he panicked, and tried to put some distance between the two of you. But his line of work doesn’t accept mental health leaves, and you were back in the Impala just a few days after. You didn’t mention Mister Mechanic again and Dean didn’t quite look you in the eye, but everything went virtually swimmingly, aside from Sammy’s occasional side-eyes.
Still, the taste of worry lingered on his tongue and the beast wailed with every glimpse of you in the rearview mirror. More if-only’s made it to the list.
If only he was a better man, maybe you’d want all of him.
If only the yellow-eyed demon had never existed—that one wasn’t new, but it always stung like it was.
If only you could love him, the way he loves you.
That one was the most terrifying of them all. It made Dean want to throw up all of his innards and flush them down the toilet. He wondered if he’d even be able to focus on the case with your face hovering over him flashing behind his eyelids every time he blinked.
But then, incident four happened.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean was struggling with his necktie.
He fucking hated dressing up as FBI. Even the priest costume had been more comfortable than this cheap rental suit and too-small dress shoes. It was still way too hot for a suit jacket, and the white shirt buttoned all the way up made him feel like he was choking. The stupid tie wasn’t helping.
He stood in front of the mirror, clammy fingers tugging at the fabric fruitlessly. Dean had known how to tie a necktie since he was six, when Dad was too drunk or hungover to do it himself. By the time he’d gotten old enough to start wearing the disguises himself, he’d been pretty fucking good at it.
But his hands hadn’t stopped shaking since that day in the salvage yard, and he really, really didn’t want to go deal with useless small town sheriffs and sobbing widows. Especially not when you’d be staying behind, deciding to take over research while Sam and Dean collected as much information as they could on the five married men who’d shot themselves within the past week.
Sammy was out getting all of you some coffee, everyone exhausted after the drive all the way down to Berthoud, Colorado. So when the door creaked open, Dean scoffed without turning away from the closet mirror.
“I can’t tie this stupid thing, Sammy. C’mere and help me.”
He was expecting the ribbing chuckle that followed his words, but he didn’t expect it to be so high-pitched and lovely.
He spun around on his heels as the door closed, messy knot making the collar of his shirt pop around his neck, eyes wide as he took you in.
“Hello there, Agent Dracula.” You were leaning back on the wooden door, hands behind your back and a little smile on your face. You hadn’t been alone in the same room since Sioux Falls, Dean secretly started to pray to any deity that would listen.
“Hey.” He hoped he didn’t sound as sulky as he thought he did. “How did you get in?”
You stared at him for a few seconds, long lashes fluttering—and Dean wished he could turn back time and tell you that no, you were made for the desert. But once again, he was too late.
You chuckled, seemingly incredibly amused by a silent joke that Dean missed, and knocked your knuckles twice on the door behind you before walking toward him.
“Sammy gave me the second key, just in case.” Dean stayed frozen in place as you approached him, wondering if this is how deer felt when they heard the snap of the trigger. Your fingers latched onto his collar, and you grinned at him as you started to fix his tie.
“The little fucker told me nothin’.” Your fingers were swift and delicate as you twisted the navy blue fabric around them. Dean swallowed harshly, your thumb brushed against his Adam’s apple. “You should knock, y’know. I could’ve been changing.”
You hummed, your smile widening. Dean wanted to lick behind your teeth, he wanted to rip all of his out. “And we wouldn’t want me seeing that, would we?”
He didn’t dignify that with an answer. Whatever game you were playing, Dean knew he’d lose. He might as well give up now.
Of course, you couldn’t even give him that.
You finished with his necktie, adjusting it against the base of his throat before fixing his collar. You tugged on the fabric, hard, until his chest was almost pressed to yours and your faces were just inches apart.
“There you go, agent. Handsome and ready to go dazzle all those poor mourning widows.” You ran your hands across his shoulders and down his biceps, smoothing out the wrinkles of his button-up. Dean bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.
“What better pillow talk than all the gory details of your past husband’s suicide, am I right?” At least he could still joke. That was a relief. “You might wanna give that key back, so you don’t walk into one of my private investigation sessions.”
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for with that. He hadn’t brought back a girl in years, always keeping his encounters in dark alleyways or the chick’s home. Encounters which, he’d never admit, were starting to happen less and less.
It was hard, keeping your name off his tongue when all he could think about was you, even when he was balls-deep inside someone else. It had gotten him kicked out a few times, he never took it personal. It was all a distraction, one that was barely working now.
You frowned, your fingers around his arms twitching. Your eyes stayed fixated on his tie for a long moment before they flickered up to his, swirling with something that made the tar start to boil.
“You don’t need to do all that. You’re smart, you’ll find another way to make them talk.”
Your voice was too solemn for the comment to be brushed off as a joke. Sweat started to bead up on his hairline, he’d have to turn on the ceiling fan as soon as you left.
If you left. Dean wasn’t sure if he wanted you to.
“I thought I didn’t know how to read?”
You giggled, leaning closer until your bodies were flattened against each other and Dean could feel the warmth of your skin through your clothes.
“You can be an idiot sometimes. You can also be a genius when you want to.” Your breath brushed against his lips with every word, his lips parted on instinct. Another beat passed by, your hands slid up to cup the back of his neck. “Don’t fuck any widows, Winchester.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to.”
The words were barely audible, Dean tried to close the distance between you, hands wrapping around your waist. His lips just grazed yours before you tilted your head back, shaking it almost imperceptibly. He had to bite down the urge to whine.
He whispered your name, pained.
“Not now,” you whispered back. Outside the room, Baby’s engine roared before shutting down. You pulled him closer again, turning your face until your lips were pressed against his cheek, leaving a feathery kiss against his just-shaven skin. It was still sensitive, Dean exhaled harshly. “Just—come back to me tonight, mh?”
Before he could say anything, the door opened and you took a step back. His arms awkwardly stayed in the air long after you’d made your way to the door, still holding the shape of you. Sammy walked in after you beelined out of the room, giving him a suspicious look.
Dean was just as lost.
But one thing was for sure, whatever this was, it wasn’t casual. You were right, Dean could be smart when he wanted to, and he knew damn well you couldn’t fake that look in your eyes.
He came back that night, alone, as soon as interviews were over. Sammy was left behind getting copies of the mortuary reports and at least two ladies ended up alone and kindly rejected in their homes—all for you.
He knocked on your motel door, your pretty head popped up after a second. You quietly gave him an up and down look, eyes glistening under the streetlights as a satisfied beam made its way into your mouth.
“Good.” You nodded before winking at him, already retreating back inside your room. “Good night, De.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
And so that leaves him here, the morning after, lying shirtless on scratchy motel sheets and staring at the water-stained ceiling in search for answers. Sammy is deep asleep in the bed next to him, the kid’s soft, familiar snores doing nothing to keep Dean anchored in time.
He feels like a teenager, he feels a million years old. He wants to barge into your room and childishly demand an explanation, he wants to retire to a monk monastery and find divine wisdom. He wants to tear his own heart out and for you to keep it in a glass vial forever.
If-only’s start to spiral into maybe’s. Fears turn to hopes and hopes to fears. He tosses against the pillows and the cheap mattress springs dig into his back.
With an agonizing groan, he leaps out of bed.
His boots are still on his feet, of course, so it’s easy to pull on his dirty jeans and dart out of the motel room. The early morning sun welcomes him with a wave of warm air and a brief second of blindness, his skin already growing damp as he sits on the curb of the lonely parking lot.
He’s already reaching for a smoke before his vision even gets used to the sunlight, the torrid pavement burning his skin through thick denim. He blinks back white spots as he takes a long drag, letting the taste of tobacco erase the traces of angst clinging to the corners of his mouth.
The parking lot is almost empty, barely any cars waiting for their owners to be done with whatever they were doing on a Wednesday at eight in the morning inside a pay-by-the-hour motel. So when footsteps start to slowly get closer, light and measured, he knows exactly who it is. His eyes stay glued to a far away billboard with a generic anti-smoking slogan printed in the center.
The first thing he sees is your boots, stepping down the curb right next to him. Then your bare calves, miles of smooth skin, the muffled sound of fabric dropping. Purple-peppered knees bend as you lower yourself on his right side, that soft smell of sugar and sun-kissed skin mixing with marlboro and mildew. And then, when his eyes flicker just a little closer but not quite land on your shape, he sees white cotton and lacy edges.
He chokes on the smoke gliding up his throat.
“Jesus Christ.” He coughs, finally turning his head to take you in completely. A tiny cup of coffee held in your hands, thin white tank top hugging your bare chest, soft cotton panties, boots. Nothing else. “What the hell?”
“It’s hot as fuck.” You shrug, gazing toward the same billboard. You’d dropped one of the motel towels over the spot you’re sitting on, the fabric frayed but thick enough to keep your skin from burning in the concrete. “You’re naked too, you know?”
“I’m more modest than you, that’s for sure.”
With languid movements, you set the porcelain cup down between the two of you and reach for his cigarette, your fingers stroking over his as you steal it and press it against your mouth. Your eyes meet his as your lips wrap around the filter, just where Dean’s were a second ago.
“I was using that, you know?” Maybe one day he’ll be able to talk to you again without his voice failing him. You chuckle. “I could’ve just handed you a new one.”
“But where’s the fun in that?”
“Give it back.” You smile lazily, tilting your head and taking a long drag, goading. “Fucking—whatever.”
His hand fishes into his front pocket for the pack smokes. You lean closer, again, just enough for Dean to feel your skin reflecting the warmth of the sun. Your hand wraps around his thigh, making him halt. Delicate fingers pull the cig away from your perfect mouth, and suddenly your parted lips are brushing his.
“Stop being a baby. Open up if you want it so badly.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
His answer comes in smoke being blown into his mouth. He breathes it in, starving for the slightest taste of you between all the earthy bitterness.
“Why do you think?”
He’s way too dizzy to process the words, and it isn’t until you’ve pulled away enough for Dean to see your whole face that his brain starts to work again.
“Because you want me dead?”
You laugh, so fucking sweet and heavenly. Dean allows himself to revel in it this time.
“I love you, Dean. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” The way you’re looking at him makes him feel even more naked than he is. Dean stutters.
In concept, yes, he knows you love him. As a friend, as a partner, as family. In the lives you lead, there’s only so many people you can trust, and when you finally find them—yes, it’s easy to love them. Especially when the rest of the world is either too ignorant to feel real or too cruel to keep close.
“I know.” He gulps, the words stinging on his tongue. “I—I love you too.”
He’s said so very few times in his lifetime. Kneeling by your hospital bed after a rugaru left you bloody and with a raging concussion, on the phone the night Sammy left for Stanford and he got hammered by the seaside, the day Dad died. It was always secretive—with the shadow of sorrow hiding the severity of the words, protecting him from their consequences.
But here, when he’s shirtless under the brightest, hottest sun of the year, there’s nowhere to hide.
You drop the cigarette to the ground, cupping his cheek in your palm instead. Dean leans into the touch like a stray puppy, heart pounding against his ribcage.
“How do you love me?”
He murmurs your name dejectedly. “Don’t make me say it.”
“Please, Dean. I—” You take in a trembling breath, and for the first time, the confident mask you’ve been wearing since this whole thing started falters. “I need you to say it.”
“I love you more than anything. I love you like a best friend, I love you like family, I love you like a piece of myself. You’re part of me, darling. The better, lovelier part of me, the part I would go insane without. I love you like I dream of spending my last days on earth with you. I love you like I have never loved anyone before, and it scares the crap out of me. But fuck, I don’t care, because I fucking love you.”
Tears glint in the corner of your eyes. Before Dean can blow his brains out for making you cry, you lunge yourself into his lap, knees hitting the pavement on each side of his hips hard enough to scrape skin.
“Fuck, fuck.” You sound crazed as you cradle his face in your hands. Dean can barely follow what’s happening. “I love you too. I love you so fucking much, Dean. Goddamnit.”
Dean’s hands have barely landed on your thighs when you’re already engulfing his mouth with yours. It’s desperate, feral, long-awaited. Teeth clashing and hands groping, years and years of longing spilling from the seams and sealing the two of you together.
“What the fuck—” His words are licked away, he bites down on your tongue in retaliation. It only makes your hips grind down onto his. Instant karma. “—is happening?”
Your laughter this time is low and fevered. Dean’s hands can’t stop mapping all the exposed skin offered to him—calloused fingers wrapping around barely-clothed hipbones and slipping under flimsy fabric and drawing shapes against silky forearms. Your flesh dips under his fingertips, he finds scars he didn’t know of before, his mouth waters.
“I’m in love with you, Winchester. So in love I’m fucking dumb with it. That’s what’s happening.”
Dean drags you closer and drapes himself around you, arms encircling your middle and face buried in your hair, taking the moment in. Just a second to breathe, and make sure he isn’t dreaming.
“What changed your mind?”
You chew on his question, your hands doing some exploring of their own. His back pricks with the scorch of the sun and your adoring touch, your bodies stick together with sweat and Dean’s tar, now flowing freely from his chest and coating all of him.
“I’ve always loved you. I think I was born loving you.” Your nails trace every dip of his muscles. Dean flexes for you, you smack his shoulder with a giggle. He nuzzles his nose against the line of your jaw. “But when you used to flirt with me—well, you know your reputation, De.”
He does, he spent decades crafting it. He leaves a kiss on your cheek before pulling away enough to look into your eyes.
“It wasn’t like that, not with you. Maybe at first, but now… I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”
“I know,” you whisper, your lips pressing against his in a chaste peck. “I know now.”
“How?”
It’s hard to focus on talking when you’re sitting on his lap in nothing but sheer undergarments, but his curiosity is slightly stronger than his craving.
“Do you remember that time Sam got cursed? The truth spell you tried to convince me was a contagious diarrhea curse?”
Dean remembers, unfortunately. Sammy couldn’t stop spitting out every thought that crossed his head, and Dean knew that if the kid was in the same room as you for even a second, his meticulously-concealed love would be bared before you quicker than Dean could knock his brother out.
So he’d made up a lame excuse as to why you shouldn’t go back to the motel until Dean had a cure, and prayed that taking Sam’s phone and locking him in their room would be enough to keep everything from falling apart.
Until a second ago, he was sure it had been.
“You’re a good liar, Winchester, but you can’t lie to me. I knew something was up.” Your hands find their way to his hair, Dean represses a grunt when you tug on it softly. “So I picked the lock to your motel door and had a very… insightful conversation with your brother.”
“You really took advantage of the poor kid, baby?”
The endearment brings a beautiful flush to your cheeks, he’s rewarded with another smoky kiss.
“He looked quite eager to share, actually. Told me all about you keeping a picture of me in your wallet and calling other girls my name.”
Dean plops his forehead down on your shoulder, groaning. “I’m gonna gut him.”
“No, you’re not.” You thumb at his sideburn. Dean grumbles unintelligibly against your skin, teeth grazing the spot right beside the strap of your top. “Because without him, we wouldn’t be here.”
He hums in the back of his throat, getting lost in the enchanting sensation of having you all around him. “What was all the torture about, then?”
“Well, I had to test you first. Make sure you actually feel the same way.” You drag him back by the hair, until your noses are brushing and Dean can count every mole in your face. “Because I love you so much it kills me, Dean. Does it kill you, too?”
Dean takes a slow breath, his arms tightening around you. “Not anymore.”
You kiss him again, this time slow and deep. No more rushing, no more fear. There’s nowhere to be, nothing to escape. For as long as you’re with him, sitting on his lap and holding his bleeding heart in your hands, never letting go—you’ll be okay.
“You know,” He sucks your lower lip into his mouth, you whine lowly. Dean should really get you off the dirty curb and into your room. “I demand a redo in the whole Mister Mechanic thing. That wasn’t fair.”
You giggle breathlessly, your clothed crotch rubbing against his lower stomach. Dean grips the back of your thighs hard enough to bruise. “I still can’t believe you freaked out so bad.”
“I can.” He leaves featherlike kisses down your neck, already obsessed with the way you squirm in his arms. “Look at you, of course I freaked out. Still, I’m ready for it now.”
“Calm down, cowboy. Patience is a virtue, and we have plenty of time for that.”
“Do we?” He reaches the hollow of your throat, lips sliding lower over your tanktop, the fabric now translucent and sticking to your skin with perspiration. “Because I might have a list of things I want to try.”
“Of course you do, horndog.” Your mouth hovers over his ear, making his eyes flutter shut. “We can try whatever you want. I’m yours, De. I’ve been yours for a while.”
“That’s a dangerous offer, baby girl.” His hands find your ass, fondling the tender flesh before he squeezes, making your pretty cunt grind against his torso again. “You’d really let me do anything I want to you?”
“It’s—A-ahh. It’s that 3W-gene. You could charm me into anything.”
Dean chuckles, low and husky, still guiding your hips down on his.
“You’re really obsessed with that.”
Your lips brush the shell of his ear, gnawing on his lobe before you whisper. “What can I say, I want my kids to have it. Though it’d be good to dial back on the bad luck.”
Dean’s brain stopped working after kids. Your kids, with his genes, because they’d be both your kids. You, carrying his baby. Him, putting a baby in you.
“That’s it.”
With a guttural growl, Dean jumps to his feet, taking you with him. You shriek when he throws you over his shoulder, nails clawing at his sides and feet flailing in the air. He smacks your ass once, a warning to stay still. You bite down on his lower back in revenge.
Thankfully, you’d left your room’s door open. Dean kicks it shut behind him and makes sure to lock it before he throws you onto the bed, crawling over your giggling form and shutting you up with his tongue.
Baby’s keys get thrown somewhere on the floor when he kicks off his jeans, Dean doesn’t bother picking them up. He doesn’t plan on leaving this room any time soon.
Suicidal husbands can wait, Dean’s been waiting for too damn long.
Now, when you whisper filthy words in his ear that make his cock weep, he doesn’t feel scared anymore.
The door he thought didn’t exist at all swings wide open, and Dean will never be terrified again for as long as you hold the key to it.
NOTES: this literally originated from me and my cousin talking about genetic mutations to adapt to different environments. you can tell why i'm a virgin loser. I MISS THIS FICTIONAL MAN SO BAD.
my classes have been cancelled because we're snowed in, so I had time to finish and edit this quicker than I expected. YAY!
anyway, thank you sm for reading, and I love you all!!! mwah<3
~Alone and unprepared, Y/N goes to collect Dean from the bar and convince him to come home. Sam says he has a cure, and she'll be damned if she doesn't at least try to get Dean on board...~
Demon!Dean x Reader, Sam, Castiel
6,331 Words
Warnings: NSFW, Angst, Smut, Demonic Charm, Fingering and Fucking, Mild Violence, Canon Everything, Choking During Sex, Choking not during sex, Lose of consciousness, Yada Yada
A/N: So basically, I took S10 E2 & 3 and smushed this in there. Please enjoy. I did. Published to Patron June 5, 2023
Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist ~ Patreon ~ Published Works
The Flamingo Lounge was filthy. The parking lot was fenced in, littered with trash; its brick walls covered in graffiti as if the city’s youth used it as a canvas. Luckily, though, it seemed empty.
Y/N parked her car in the lot, not caring to lock the doors behind her. She double checked the syringes stashed in her jacket, made sure her gun clip was full. Really, there was no way to know what she was walking into, but she had to try, had to do something.
And she had to do it quick. If she knew where he was, so did Sam, and God only knew what Sam would be planning.
She walked in through the side door, letting her heavy boots thud and announce her presence. There was no reason to hide, anyway. Sneak attacks were never her speciality.
Soft piano notes filled the air, a half plucked melody that never quite turned into a song.
The room smelled of lingering cigarette smoke and stale beer, whiskey and maraschino cherries. The bar stools were vacant, the room empty save for the bartender and her target. She stopped by the counter; blue neon light shining down on her face. She grit her teeth and cleared her throat.
The music stopped and he looked up with a smile.
“Hey, Y/N.”
Dean. Her pulse quickened.
“Didn’t expect to see you.” His jaw twitched as he looked her over. “Thought it’d be Sammy who came callin’.” He cocked his head to the side, cracking his neck unnaturally.
Not Dean.
“Yeah, well, I thought I’d come see you first. Save him a trip.” Her voice felt so small. It crackled in her ears as fear welled up inside. She’d been tracking Dean for months and now, standing half a room away, she felt unprepared and severely out matched.
Dean chuckled under his breath and spun on the piano bench. His legs spread as he straddled the cushioned wood and he rubbed a hand down his thigh. Green eyes were piercing through her and Y/N shivered. She hadn’t felt his stare in forever, hadn’t known she’d feel it ever again.
He stood and she instinctively reached for her pistol.
“You know you can’t just shoot me, Y/N.”
He blinked. Blackness overtook the green and her heart sank. He could see it in her face, smell it pulsing off of her like thick perfume. She was terrified, disappointed, intrigued.
He laughed and made his way to the bar. “Oh. You weren’t sure, were you?”
She swallowed hard. “Sure about what?”
“About me.” He nodded at the bartender and Harv took a walk, dropping his drying rag on the bartop. “You knew what happened, that I’m… different now. Better. But you didn’t really believe it, did you?”
Shit.
Y/N dropped her hand to her side, dug her nails into her palm to steady herself. “Not really, no.”
Another little laugh left his lips as he leaned over the bar and grabbed a bottle of whiskey. He cast a glance back at her, his eyes green again, his gaze hungry.
“Well, believe it. I’m new and improved, babydoll.”
His tone washed over her. There was a new grit in his voice, a different confidence that was so unlike him but so very much Dean that it made her head hurt.
“You’re a demon.”
He shrugged and plucked two glasses from the drying rack, turning them over. “Yeah. Cool, ain’t it?”
Y/N bit her tongue hard, hoping the quick flash of pain would clear her head a bit. “Not cool, Dean,” she spat. “Evil.”
One elbow on the bar, he turned to face her and grinned. “Sweetheart, you wouldn’t know evil if you were stuck in Hell with it. Which…” He looked around at the empty room and laughed. “I guess you kinda are.”
The emptiness of the room suddenly weighed down on her and Y/N took in a deep breath to steady her shaking hands.
Dean filled both glasses and then slid one across the bar for her. “Drink up. You’ll need it.”
Nervously, she stepped up to the bar and took the glass between her fingers. “Why? You gonna kill me?”
He sucked his teeth and let his gaze fall down her body, remembering, enjoying. “Maybe.”
Her heart thudded in her ears. “You haven’t decided yet?”
Dean knocked back his drink. “Nope.”
“That’s bullshit.” She took a sip and it burned down her throat.
“What?”
“You decided the second I walked in here.”
Dean refilled his glass while keeping one eye on her. “Actually, I didn’t. I was too curious to worry about what I’m gonna do to you.”
Y/N held the tumbler to her lips, breathed in the oaky fumes. “Curious?”
“Well, you walked in here, alone…” He licked his lips. “Lookin’- mighty tasty if you don’t mind me sayin’.”
Fuck.
Her blood sizzled. “I do mind. Asshole.”
Dean smirked and took a long drink. “And I thought to myself, Y/N’s a smart girl. She’s gotta have some kinda plan. Wouldn’t just walk in here by herself with no backup, no weapons, no nothing. She’s not an idiot.”
He paused to watch her reaction and found her stronger than he thought. She held his gaze without faltering and he moved closer.
“So, tell me, Y/N, was I right? Are you smarter than you look?” He licked a drop of whiskey from the corner of his mouth. “What’s the big plan?”
She refused to look at him lest she lose her nerve. She finished the last sip of whiskey and then pulled her weapons from her jacket. On the bar, she laid down her gun and three syringes filled with a harsh sedative. The smooth, eternally cool handle of the angel blade pressed into her side, but she kept it hidden beneath her shirt.
“There. There’s my plan.” She turned to face him and swept her hand over the weapons.
“You were gonna- what? Force me to OD?” He grinned, flashing perfectly white teeth and the pink tip of his tongue.
Y/N shook her head. “It wouldn’t kill you. Just knock you out.”
“And then?”
Her shoulders rose and fell in a confessional shrug. “Honestly, Dean, I didn’t think I’d even get this far, so… there’s no and then. Bring you home, I guess.”
“What if I don’t wanna go home?” he asked, taking a step closer. “What if I don’t have a home anymore?”
She held her breath. “You do. You’ll always have a home, Dean. Whether you want it or not.”
He laughed. “Lemme guess. Home is wherever you and Sam are. Where we chose to hang our hats.” He shook his head and sighed. “Home is dead, Y/N.”
Her heart ached. “It doesn’t have to be. If you come back with me, maybe we can-”
“What?” He cut her off. “Maybe we can pretend everything’s good? Play house? Oh, you wanna try being boyfriend and girlfriend again, act like we have a future?”
His words were a knife, but she bit her tongue again, refusing to give him a reaction. “Don’t be cruel, Dean. I’m trying to help you.”
He sucked in a breath and turned away. “See, I don’t really care about being helped. I’m fine. You’re the one who’s gonna need help in a minute.”
She pressed her arm down against the blade, reassuring herself that it was there and ready.
“You’re not gonna kill me, Dean.”
He looked back over his shoulder. “We’ll see.”
“Whatever happened to you,” she said, hope burning on her lips. “Whatever this is… It can be undone. You’re still you. You’re still Dean Winchester. You’re still-”
“Still what?” He spun on his heel and towered over her. “The man you love?”
Pain twitched around her eyes. “Yes.”
“You know what you are? You’re a sad little girl playing with shit she don’t understand.”
She stood up tall, finding strength in the marrow of her bones. “Sam has the cure. He can-”
Dean laughed and backed up, cocky and amused. “Sam’s probably dead right about now. I don’t know how much good his cure will do.”
Y/N froze. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, you don’t know?” Dean clicked his tongue and smiled. “Some assclown called me from his phone. Got baby Sammy all tied up in a shed somewhere doing… something. I don’t know, I wasn’t really listening. But, that was a while ago. I assume he’s…” He slit his throat with a single finger and stuck his tongue out, mocking Sam’s apparent death.
Y/N shuddered, unable to hide the truth from him.
“So you didn’t know.” He spun back to the bad. “Sorry. Don’t shoot the messenger.”
She cleared her throat, pushed the worry aside. “That’s exactly what I came to do.”
She took a chance, lunging for the gun on the bar, but Dean got to it first, expertly disarming it and tossing it aside.
“You’re too slow, Y/N. Always have been.”
He poured them another drink while she regrouped.
“Tell me, how is it you don’t know where Sam is? You two’ve been attached at the hip forever.”
A bit of whiskey sloshed out of her glass and flooded the bar. She went to it, lifting her cup from the mess. “Yeah, not so much anymore.”
Dean leaned in, condescendingly. “Wanna talk about it?”
Y/N took a drink. “No.”
A month ago, Sam was losing his mind to grief and obsession, pushing Y/N aside at every turn as he tried to find his brother. The last straw was a torture session in a barn in Kentucky. Sam was slicing up a demon, carving into its stolen flesh, and when Y/N protested, he hit her, knocking her back against the rotting walls. They tumbled, fighting, screaming at each other while the demon watched, cackling from the center of the Devil’s Trap. When the dust cleared and Y/N came up bloody and bruised, she spat in Sam’s direction and told him to go to Hell. That was the last she’d seen or heard from him. He was on the same mission, but going about it in all the wrong ways.
She stared at the neon sign behind the bar. “We’re not exactly speaking anymore.”
Dean hummed and refilled his glass. “Funny. You and me in the same boat.”
Y/N huffed. “I chose this boat, Dean. You didn’t.”
He grinned. “You don’t think so? You don’t know all the fun I’ve had this summer, all the trouble I’ve gotten into. All the tail I’ve chased… and gotten.” She flinched, but he kept going. “All the drugs, the fights, the booze. It’s been a great time. You should join me.”
She laughed bitterly and downed her drink. “Pass.”
He frowned, mockingly. “I’m sorry. Does hearing all that hurt your feelings? All those chicks I’ve banged, dudes I’ve nailed… makes ya jealous don’t it?”
Y/N sighed and turned to look at him. “No. Just sad for you. And them.”
He took a step and she balked, moving away from the bar, her defenses on edge.
“Come on, now. I’m the best you’ve ever had. And I’ve only gotten better.”
“You’re an asshole.”
Dean grinned. “Baby, you have no idea.”
He moved closer, stalking towards her, forcing her to back up. His eyes were fixed on her face, intent obvious. His mouth parted gently as his tongue came forth to tease her, wet his plump lips. A strange mix of panic and arousal swelled in her gut and she reached into her jacket, pulling the angel blade free.
“Stop!” She twirled the blade in her hand and held it out in warning.
Dean laughed. “Really?”
“This kills anything, right? Human, angel… demon. If you’re two outta three, I got a fighting chance.”
Her voice was shaking as hard as her hand and Dean kept coming, boots thumping the stained carpet.
“Stay back!” she yelled, spreading her feet and bending her knees, taking a fighting stance.
Dean swept forward in a flash and grabbed her wrist. He twisted hard and she held back a scream as the bones threatened to snap.
The blade fell to the floor.
“Get off me,” she snarled.
Dean’s right hand curled against her lower back and he leaned in close, breathing in her scent. “You don’t mean that.”
Frozen, caught and confused, she gasped as he bent to kiss her. Squirmed as his tongue poked between her lips, thrashed as his fingers tensed on her ass. Swooned as the kiss lingered.
Fuck.
It was warm and wet and so Dean. She hummed despite herself and freaked out when he pulled away. She slapped his chest, shoved him hard.
Again, he pulled her close and his lips found hers. He licked at her mouth and exhaled into her, flooding her brain with desire, washing her body in lust filled memory.
“Stop it!”
Once more, she shoved him back with all her might, but it only made him angry. He stumbled back a pace and dipped his chin, daring her, enticing her, tugging on every string.
Oh god…
“Just- stay back!”
Dean’s upper lip twitched and he bared his teeth, advancing on her like a wolf in the wilderness. He wrapped himself around her, pushing her back until she hit the piano. Nowhere to go, she melted in his arms, let him probe her hot mouth, let him slip his knee hard between her thighs.
She gasped, hating herself for loving him. Hating her love for getting in the way.
“Stop.”
He pulled back an inch, burning into her with familiar green eyes. “If you really want me to stop, I will. Just say it.”
His breath struck her face, that dreamlike mix of whiskey and smoke and long faded mint. Her eyes fluttered and her pussy clenched. “No.”
He grinned, let his fingers trail down her cheek to wrap loosely around her throat. “No you want me to stop or no, you don’t won’t say it?”
Unable to think, to speak, to reason herself out of the moment, Y/N grabbed at his flannel with both hands and tugged him down. She licked at his lips, sucked on his tongue until he growled against her, thrust his hips into her.
“Knew you were good to go,” he moaned, fumbling with the zipper of her jeans.
Y/N clawed a hand through his hair and tugged, yanking his head to the side and licking at the sacred vein. She pressed her lips there and felt his heart beating steady. He still had a heart.
“Miss you so much,” she whispered, half gasping as he tore at her bottoms, tearing the denim from her hips.
“Oh, I know you did.”
He grabbed at her sides, slid his hands up beneath her arms and lifted. Her bare ass squeaked on the piano lid and Dean closed in on her, pushing her onto her back with a heavy kiss. She spread her knees around him, tugged him closed with her heels on his ass. He snuck a hand between them and grinned against her lips.
“You did miss me, huh?”
She nodded, breathless as he shoved a finger into her.
“So tight.” He added another and she gasped. “Thought you’d be runnin’ around like a cat in heat without me, but looks like you’ve been a good girl. Kept yourself all tight and virginal for me.”
Her nails scraped at his scalp. “I don’t know about virginal…”
A third finger jammed into her and Y/N bit her lip as the stretch burned.
“You been fucking other guys behind my back?”
His ring finger barely made it inside and her pussy clenched down hard on him.
“Nah.” He grinned and nipped at her lips. “You ain’t been doing nothing but dreaming about me, have you?”
She wanted to scream, to push him off, to run, but there was no escape. Not when he had his lips on her throat and his body pressed so hard against her.
“Yes…”
He pulled his hand away and pressed two fingers to her clit, watching in delight as he eyes lit up and a silent scream filled her mouth.
“You could come with me, you know.”
She snapped her jaw shut tight. “No.”
Drawing his left hand firmly down her body, he stopped at her hip and tugged her shirt up, exposing the blank protective ink over the bone. His thumb ran over the tattoo. “Sure you could,” he explained. “I’ll just cut this off… drag some bitch outta Hell… stuff her into you.”
Her body jerked as he forced his hand back into her cunt and Y/N grit her teeth. “Wouldn’t be me then, would it?”
He paused and shrugged. “Yeah, I guess not.” He tugged the shirt up higher and smiled as the thin cotton of her bra did little to hide her pert nipple. “I like you like this anyway. All scared and confused.” He dropped down and sealed his lips around the bud, tugging hard.
Y/N squirmed and let out a cry that rang like music in his ears.
“Fuck, I missed that sound.” He sucked again and bit down. “The whores I’ve been picking up lately, they just- it ain’t the same.” He straightened up and looked down at her. “Sex is just sex until you learn someone’s body. You can’t really fuck someone the right way until you learn how. You gotta pay attention… learn what makes them… squirm. What makes them scream...” He crooked his fingers and Y/N squealed, her thighs slamming shut around his arm. “See? Just like that.”
“Fuck, please!”
Her lips were burning from his kisses, stubbled lips leaving the ghost of his touch behind. Her body was aching, throbbing from his fingers, dripping down onto the piano.
“Dean-”
He bit his bottom lip and let it fall slowly away. “Love hearing my name like that. Never gets old.”
He pulled away before she could cum, leaving her struggling and needy. She reached for him, but he slapped her hands away and unbuckled his jeans.
“Lay still,” he grit.
Y/N sealed her lips shut and clutched the hem of her shirt. She eyed the exit, thought about jumping down and taking her chances outrunning him, but before she could take a deep enough breath, Dean jutted his hips against her and his cock slipped between her swollen lips.
Her shoulders jolted upright and Dean grabbed the back of her neck, tugging her down toward the edge of the piano. Her ass was hanging, teetering off the side, and she grabbed at his shirt, holding on as he fucked deep into her.
“That’s it,” he grunted, one hand on her hip, the other on her throat. “Fuck, I remember this cunt. So fucking wet for me. So tight.”
She gasped, eyes wide, heart racing. His thumb covered her pulse and he pushed down just enough to blur the edges of her vision.
“D-Dean!”
His hips snapped upwards, his breath quickened. He squeezed her throat tighter and watched as the color drained from her lips.
“That’s it, babydoll,” he urged. “Gonna get you nice and dizzy so you cum hard. I know you like that…”
She could feel it building, that tightness inside as he hit every spot she’d been unable to reach herself.
Green eyes blurred in her vision and then with a grin, he snapped them to black.
Y/N came instantly, her cunt pushing and pulling on his thick cock; a flood of warmth slicking down his thighs.
“Yes…” He thrust harder. “Yes… Just like that!” His roar was intense and Y/N’s eyes began to roll, her heart struggling to beat. “Yes!”
The room was fading to white; her head was spinning. Still throbbing, her cunt was the only thing responding as Dean finished with a grunting cry. Just before her eyes rolled back, he released his grip and oxygen flooded her brain.
Y/N gasped and caught herself, falling back onto her elbows on the polished wood. “Fuck!”
Dean flashed a cocky grin and tucked himself away, uncaring of the mess. “You still got it, Y/N/N.”
His wink was uncalled for and aggravating, but Y/N had no energy to clap back at him. Carefully, she rolled onto her belly and slid off the piano. Her muscles were aching, her flesh on fire.
Dean headed back to the bar and poured another round. He walked a little slower, his voice rolled a little smoother off his devilish tongue.
“Can’t say I’m mad you stopped by,” he joked, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Turned out pretty good after all.”
Y/N yanked her jeans up and grimaced as the seam scraped at her raw pussy. “Just think how much better it would be at home, in the Bunker, where you belong.”
He laughed. “Really? After all that, you’re gonna try again?”
She stumbled forward, grabbing the bar for support. “I gotta keep trying, Dean. You need help.”
Sighing, he knocked back his glass. “See, that’s where you’re still wrong.”
Behind him, the door creaked open and Y/N’s eyes went towards the light.
Dean didn’t have to turn around, he knew.
“Hiya, Sam.”
Shit.
Sam let the door shut behind him and he walked in, arm held in a sling, face cut up and bruised.
He locked eyes with Y/N and her stomach tensed. They hadn’t spoken in weeks, and seeing him now, it all rushed back to her.
“Sam.”
He nodded at her and moved to stand equidistant from her and Dean. The triangle was a familiar one, but strange altogether.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, eyes flickering between them.
Y/N swallowed down her anger and swept the sweaty hair from her eyes. “Same as you, I guess.”
Dean laughed. “I highly doubt he’s here for that, Sweetheart.” He brought his right hand to his lips and licked her taste from his fingers. “Unless…”
She shuddered and Sam’s brow creased.
“We’re gonna take you home, Dean,” Sam said, ignoring the obvious sexual confession. He turned his back on Y/N and focused on his brother.
Dean rolled his eyes. ”Yeah, I don’t think so. I told you to let me go.”
Sam’s shoulders tensed. “You know I can’t do that.”
Dean pursed his lips and nodded. “Yeah. Well…” Reaching behind him, he pulled the First Blade from his belt and showed it to them both. “Sucks to be you, don’t it?”
For a moment, Y/N felt calm. Almost as if her soul had decided to give up all hope and accept the fact that Death was on His way. She exhaled slowly and imagined what it would feel like, that sharp jaw bone splitting her in half, gouging through her chest with one quick sweep of Dean’s hand. Would he be quick or let her linger? Would he weep for her in the end? Would he care?
Sam held up a hand, begging for patience. “Dean, you don’t have to do this. We can cure demons-”
Glass shattered behind Y/N and she turned to see the window break. A smoking canister landed by her feet and she looked at Dean, confused and flooded with panic. As her brain and feet got themselves together, the smoke rose around her and she covered her mouth and nose, too late. She started to choke her and beside her, Sam coughed loudly, waving at the smoke to push it away. He inhaled too deeply and stumbled forward, grabbing her shoulder for support. She buckled under his weight and fell to her knees in the cloud. It strangled her from every side, burning her lungs, stinging her eyes. She crawled towards the door and felt Sam’s big hand on her back, pulling her to her feet.
“Come on!”
He hit the door, pushing it open and knocking fresh air into the room, but it was already inside of them.
Y/N staggered out behind him, barely able to stay on her feet.
Confused and bleary-eyed she saw Sam fall, knocked out by a stranger’s fist.
She rushed out of the bar, leaving the smoke behind and slamming into the arms of Sam’s kidnapper.
“Who the hell are you?”
Blue eyes and a crew cut stared back at her and Y/N coughed, expelling poison from her lungs.
“Me?” she swayed on her feet and swatted at him. “Who the fuck are you!”
Cole grit his teeth and pulled a gun from his thigh holster, easily spinning to take Y/N in his arms and aim the muzzle at her temple.
From the back of the parking lot, Dean appeared, cool and seemingly unaffected by the attack. He held out his arms, cocked a brow as he looked at Cole, wondering who the fuck was bothering him now.
Y/N held still but seethed, nostrils flaring, anger sloshing about in her dizzy head.
Cole’s forearm pressed hard against her throat and he pointed the gun at Dean.
“Wow. It’s really you.”
Dean clicked his tongue. “We met?”
“Talked on the phone.”
“Right.” Dean laughed under his breath. “You’re the guy who’s supposed to put a bullet in Sammy’s brain.” He dipped his chin and smirked, cocky and unimpressed. “Did you miss?”
Dean took a step and Cole tightened up. Y/N clawed at his arm but didn’t have the strength to fight him off.
“Dean-” Her voice was shattered and weak.
Cole pressed the gun against her head again. “You stay there or I’ll-”
“What?” Dean leaned in casually. “You’ll put a bullet in her too? You don’t exactly have a great track record for that.”
Cole growled. She could feel it rumble through his chest and into her. “I’ll do it.”
Y/N blinked up at Dean, begging, but for what, she wasn’t sure. The calm of Death approaching had settled over her once more.
Dean shrugged, his eyes locked on Y/N’s. “Do it,” he said. “I don’t care.”
She drew in a breath and everything changed. Cole’s grip on her loosened and she ducked from his arm, ready to rush forward and out of the line of fire. He grabbed her arm and brought the butt of the gun down hard on the back of her head. She saw sparks, heard a yell, felt the rough gravel of pavement scrape her face.
When she woke, she was back in her bed in the Bunker, blanket smooth beneath her, boots still on. She’d been carried inside but not tucked in.
Sam.
Her head was pounding, mouth somehow dry and wet at the same time. She swallowed down the guck and rubbed her eyes as she climbed out of bed.
The halls were quiet, the lights bright as always. She peeked into Sam’s room, but it was empty, dared a chance at Dean’s, but he was nowhere to be found either.
What the hell?
A pained, demonic roar echoed down the hallway and Y/N pushed off of her backfoot, breaking into a run.
The dungeon door was open, the decoy shelving pushed aside.
She looked in to see Dean tied to a chair, his face covered in thick sweat, right arm bloody from needle punctures. Sam stood to the side, watching his brother writhe in pain.
“Sam?”
She stepped into the room and both men looked up.
Dean grinned through his strangled panting. “Heya, Sweetheart.”
She rushed forward and Sam stopped her, stepping in her way. He towered over her and looked down, hazel eyes filled with hurt and purpose. “Don’t.”
Dean sucked in a hard breath, lungs burning, blood boiling.
Y/N tried to circle Sam, but he barred her with his good arm.
“What are you doing to him? You’re killing him- look!”
Sam shook his head and gave her shoulder a shove. “Out. Now.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her to the door.
Dean watched her leave, struggling with consciousness. “Good to see ya, Y/N/N!”
Outside, she ripped her arm from Sam’s giant paw and growled up at him. “What are you doing in there?”
He sucked a breath through his teeth. “Curing my brother.”
“Looks more like you’re killing him! Can’t you hear him screaming? That can’t be good.” She turned to the door and again, Sam blocked her.
He softened, lowering his voice and easing his stance. “Look, I know you’re worried but-”
“But what? You’ve got it all under control as usual?”
He dropped his head. “He has to go through this. He’ll survive.”
She looked up, tears wetting the corners of her eyes. “How do you know? How do you know this won’t actually rip his soul apart and kill him?”
He let his head fall back against the door, resting for a split second. “I don’t.”
Hours ticked by with Y/N pacing the halls, listening as Dean’s wretched voice echoed through her, tearing at her heart.
Sam wouldn’t let her inside, but she caught glimpses of Dean when Sam came out for air. He was dripping in sweat, slumped down in the chair.
“Are you sure about this?”
He brushed past, barely holding on himself. “Honestly, Y/N… I don’t know anymore. But we’re almost done. He’ll either come out of this cured or-”
She held her tongue. “Yeah.”
Sam turned left and headed towards his room.
“Sam?”
He paused before rounding the corner.
“Should you and I- I mean, we should probably-”
He held up his hand, but was kind when he turned. “I know. We need to talk. I need to apologize. I just need- I gotta finish this first. I need to save him.”
Y/N nodded. “I know, Sam. I know.”
Sam had been gone for a while, so she took a chance.
Y/N slipped into the dungeon with a bottle of water and a damp cloth, her heart in her throat, her head in a vice.
Dean was limp in the chair, his chin tucked to his chest, eyes gently closed. She toed the Devil’s Trap, watching, praying to see a breath.
“Dean?”
He stirred and she sighed. “Thank God.”
A chuckle lifted his face to hers. “God ain’t got shit to do with this, babydoll.” He smiled and then coughed, heavy, painfully. His chest heaved, his mouth fell open as he strained for air.
“Dean… fuck.”
Before she knew it, she was inside the sigil and kneeling at his feet. She pressed the cool washcloth to his forehead and he sighed gratefully as she wiped the sweat from his brow.
“That’s… that’s nice.” His voice was cracked, throat raw from screaming.
She patted his cheeks, his throat, lay the cloth across the back of his neck.
“Are you OK?”
She looked him over, certain he was near to fading. His arm was torn from the needles and she could swear The Mark looked paler, as if Sam’s cure was pulling the evil from it. Maybe it was working…
Dean smiled. “Oh, sure. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” A cough shook him badly and Y/N held his cheek, unable to help.
“I’m so sorry, Dean. It’ll be over soon. I promise.”
She cracked open the bottle of water and held it to his lips, urging him to drink.
He managed a tiny sip and then pulled back.
“I’m dying, Y/N/N.” His head lolled to the side and her heart ached.
“No.” She grabbed at his flannel and shook him gently. “You’re gonna be fine. You’re Dean Fucking Winchester. You are going to be fine. You hear me?”
Green eyes rolled back to white and Y/N set her hand on his chest, rubbing hard.
“Hey! Hey! Dean! No. Wake up!”
She slapped his cheek and he sucked in a heavy breath, gasping loudly as his eyes snapped open.
“Oh, Jesus, Dean!”
Before relief could set in, Dean’s fingers wrapped tightly around her wrist and his pained smile turned into a devilish grin. He squeezed and her pulse quickened.
“What’re you doing? How?”
She looked down to see the ropes that had held his arms frayed and broken. “Dean?”
A blink shattered his beautiful green eyes and only black remained. He laughed. “You showed up just in time…”
It was like a rush of wind inside her head and all around.
In a flash, Dean had her up off the floor, her feet dangling, throat clutched in his big hand. He slammed her against the wall and held her there, lungs screaming, eyes bulging. He traced a hand down her body and tilted his head to the side, watching the blood rise to the surface of her skin. Aroused even as her breath died away.
“See, I don’t get you.” He let her slide down the wall until her toes scraped the floor. “Sammy warns you not to come looking for me by yourself and you do. He tells you not to come in here, and not only do you ignore him again, but you bring me a bottle of water. You came in here to take care of me. And for what?” His fingers squeezed and she felt her heart strain to pump. “You think you can ease my pain? Make it all better?” He brushed a hand over her breast and grinned. “Or maybe you think I’ll fuck you again.”
He tossed his head back and laughed.
“You’re a stupid little girl.” He blinked away the black and dipped his lips to hers, kissing her sweetly. “But I do enjoy watching you suffocate… I never told you that before, but it’s beautiful. Your eyes get real wide and the color starts to drain from your mouth. This sweet, delicious mouth.”
He forced his tongue inside and Y/N’s eyes rolled back. She clawed at his arm, but the strength was gone, the will fading close behind. Her vision ebbed and her fingers slid from his arm, falling limp at her sides.
“Do me a favor, babydoll,” he whispered, licking at her lips one final time. “Wait for me right here.”
With a flick of his wrist, she was on the floor, falling like a ragdoll at his feet. Air filled her lungs but she was already too far gone to wake fully. She tried to move, but everything was a struggle, everything ached.
“I’ve gotta go take care of my baby brother.” He ran a hand through his hair and she watched in horror as he stepped out of the Devil’s Trap. “Then I’ll be back for you."
Kind blue eyes were there when she woke and soft hands were helping her to sit up.
Castiel smiled sadly and lay his palm across her forehead like a mother would.
“How are you feeling?”
Y/N blinked rapidly, clearing the haze from her eyes. She squinted up at the angel and then panicked.
“Dean!” She scrambled to her feet, leaping from her bed and grabbing his arm for balance. “Where’s Dean!”
Castiel took both of her hands in his and forced her to calm down. “He’s fine. He’s…” A smile turned his pink lips. “It worked, Y/N. Dean’s back with us.”
It felt like the walls were crumbling inside of her. Everything slid downwards and she went with it, falling against Castiel, her body exhausted, her mind a mess of relief and worry.
He sank to the floor with her and held her close.
“He’s going to be fine,” he whispered. “You are too.”
The summer rushed through her head, ups and downs, horrors and worse. She saw black eyes and blood, felt every bruise, every strike against her flesh.
She wiped her eyes and sat back. “How?”
Castiel looked down, eyes sad but clear. “Time.”
Dean was sitting on the edge of his bed, fresh from a shower. His hair still damp, gray flannel a little dark around the collar from collecting the drippings. He was hunched over, elbows on his knees, head in his hand.
She knocked gently and he looked up.
“Hey, Dean.”
He turned as he stood and started to go to her, but something stopped him. Flashes of what he’d done played on the empty space between them and he lingered over the bruises on her throat, the cut on her forehead. His fingers were twitching and he shoved his hands in his pockets to hide the unwanted movements.
“Hey.”
She wanted to run to him, to wrap her arms around him and hold him close, but he looked nervous to have her there, scared almost.
She cleared her throat and wrung her hands. “You feeling OK?”
Eyes on the floor, he nodded. “Yeah. All good.” He looked up through his lashes, afraid to face her fully. “You?”
She sniffed back a wave of tears and swallowed hard. “Yeah. I’m- I’m good.”
The lies hung like an iron curtain between them, massive and unbreachable.
She turned to go. “Well, if you need anything, just holler.”
He was on her before she reached the door, shaking fingers wrapping around her wrist and pulling her back. She spun and crashed into his chest, burying her face in his shirt, clinging to him. He was warm and alive. He was safe. He was home.
She could feel him trembling, hear the shaky intake of air. He held her tight, his big hand on the back of her head, the other slung around her middle. He pressed his cheek to the top of her head.
“Y/N, I can’t- I- I’m so sorry-”
His heart was racing against her ear and she snuck her arms around him, locking him to her.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “We don’t have to do that yet. Just… just be here.”
A tear escaped his eye and fell, landing on her arm.
“OK.” His hug grew a little tighter. “I’m here.”
She sighed and let the tears go. “That’s all I ever needed…”
summary: Dean teaches his shy girlfriend how to ride him, and she’s a quick learner.
warnings: SMUT!, dirty talk, praise kink, mild embarrassment / first-time riding, unprotected sex (wrap it irl pls), Dean being smug and sweet at the same time, motel sex
The motel room smelled faintly of old coffee and Dean’s leather jacket, the kind of place they always ended up in after a hunt—cheap, anonymous, perfect for not thinking too hard about tomorrow.
They were already half-undressed on the bed, her straddling his thighs, his hands lazy and possessive on her hips while she rocked against the hard line of him through his boxers. The teasing had started innocently enough: her mocking the way he’d groaned when she bit his earlobe, him retaliating by sliding two fingers inside her and curling them just right until she was panting curses against his mouth.
Then he’d murmured, voice gravel-rough and smug, “You know what I really want tonight? You riding me. Slow at first. Then fast. Till you can’t even remember your own name.”
Her whole body had gone still for half a second—long enough that he noticed.
She laughed it off, too quick, too bright. “Yeah, uh—let’s just keep doing this. This is good. This is great.” She rolled her hips again, trying to distract him with the slick heat of her cunt dragging along his cock through the thin fabric.
Dean’s hands tightened, holding her still. Green eyes narrowed, amused and suspicious at the same time. “You just changed the subject. Again.”
“Did not.”
“Baby.” He tilted his head, lips curling. “That’s the third time this month I’ve brought up you on top and you’ve suddenly remembered you need to… what was it last time? Check the salt lines?”
She squirmed, cheeks heating. “It’s not—”
He waited. Patient. The bastard knew exactly how to pin her with silence.
She blew out a breath, looking somewhere over his shoulder. “Fine. I… don’t really know how.”
Dean blinked. Then barked a short, surprised laugh.
She immediately tried to climb off him. “Forget I said anything. Jesus. Forget the whole—”
“Hey, hey, hey.” His arms locked around her waist, dragging her back down so her chest pressed to his. He was still grinning, but it had softened around the edges. “I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing because you’re the same girl who beheaded a vamp with a machete last week without blinking, and you’re blushing over cowgirl.”
“It’s not the same thing,” she muttered, mortified.
“It kinda is.” He brushed her hair behind her ear, thumb lingering on her cheek. “You’re sexy as hell when you’re confident. And you’re sexy as hell when you’re shy. So either way I win.”
She glared at him half-heartedly. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Guilty.” He kissed the corner of her mouth, then the other, coaxing. “Let me teach you.”
Her eyes flicked to his, wary but curious. “You’re not gonna make fun of me the whole time?”
“Only a little. Gotta keep your ego in check.” He grinned when she pinched his nipple in retaliation. “C’mere.”
He helped her sit up properly, knees bracketing his hips. His hands slid up her thighs, slow and reassuring.
“First thing—you don’t have to bounce like some bad porno. That’s the fastest way to kill your thighs and make both of us laugh.” He guided her hands to his chest for balance. “Start with grinding. Roll your hips. Like you’re trying to rub your clit against me without actually moving up and down yet.”
She hesitated, then tentatively rocked forward.
The thick head of his cock nudged right against her entrance through the boxers he still hadn’t taken off. She sucked in a breath.
“There you go,” he murmured, voice dropping lower. “Just like that. Feel how deep that hits already? You control the angle. Tilt your pelvis a little more… yeah, fuck, exactly like that.”
Her nails dug into his pecs as she found the rhythm—slow, filthy circles that dragged her clit along his shaft and made her eyelids flutter.
Dean groaned, head tipping back against the pillow. “Christ. See? You’re a natural.”
“Shut up,” she breathed, but there was a smile in it now.
He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers and shoved them down just enough to free himself. Thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip. He gave himself one slow stroke, eyes locked on hers.
“Now—line me up. Take what you want. No rush.”
She reached down, fingers wrapping around him—hot, velvet-hard—and guided him to her entrance. The first inch was always a stretch, even after all this time. She sank down slowly, breath hitching as he filled her, thick and perfect.
Dean’s hands flexed on her hips, fighting the urge to thrust up. “Fuck, baby… you feel that? That’s all you. You’re taking me so goddamn good.”
She experimentally rolled her hips again—and oh. Oh. The angle let him press right against that spot inside that made her toes curl.
“There?” he asked, voice wrecked.
“Yeah,” she gasped. “There.”
“Then ride it.” He slid one hand up to palm her breast, thumb brushing her nipple. “Use me. Grind on that spot till you’re shaking. Then—if you want—you can start lifting up and dropping back down. But only when you’re ready.”
She started slow, rocking, grinding, chasing that bright spark every time he nudged her g-spot. Her thighs trembled but she didn’t stop. Sweat beaded between her breasts; Dean leaned up to lick it off, filthy and reverent at the same time.
When her rhythm started to falter—when she needed more—he growled low in his throat.
“Hold on to me.”
She braced her hands on his shoulders. He planted his feet on the mattress and gave one shallow, testing thrust up into her.
Her head snapped back on a broken moan.
“Like that?” he rasped.
“Yes—fuck—again—”
He did it again. And again. Controlled, deep, letting her feel every inch while she ground down to meet him. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, obscene and perfect.
She was close—dangerously close—and he could tell by the way her thighs shook, the way her nails bit into his shoulders, the way she started to babble.
“Dean—oh god—I don’t—I can’t—”
“You can,” he said fiercely. “You’re doing it right now. Ride me through it. Come all over my cock like a good girl.”
That did it.
Her whole body locked up, then shattered—hips jerking erratically as she came hard, pulsing around him so tightly he nearly lost it right then. He gritted his teeth, hands bruising her hips, holding her down so she could grind through every aftershock.
When she finally collapsed forward onto his chest, trembling and panting, he kissed her temple, her cheek, her mouth—slow and filthy.
“Told you,” he murmured against her lips. “Natural.”
She laughed breathlessly, still clenching around him. “You’re still hard.”
“Very observant.” He rolled them so she was underneath him now, still buried deep. “My turn to show you how much I liked the lesson.”
Her legs hooked around his waist instantly. “Show me.”
He pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in—hard.
Her back arched off the bed with a choked cry.
Dean grinned against her throat. “We’re just getting started, sweetheart.”
And then he fucked her like he’d been dying to all night—deep, relentless, whispering filthy praise in her ear until she came again, and again, and finally dragged him over the edge with her.
After, when they were sweaty and wrecked and tangled in cheap motel sheets, she traced lazy circles on his chest.
“So… we doing that again tomorrow?”
Dean chuckled, low and satisfied, already half-hard against her thigh.
“Baby, we’re doing that every damn night till you’re riding me like you own me.”
She smiled against his skin. “Challenge accepted.”
⊹ ࣪ ˖ summary: After three long months of stolen kisses and zero privacy thanks to Sam’s constant presence, Dean finally snaps—kicks his brother out of the motel room with zero subtlety, and spends every overdue second making up for lost time with his girl.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ warnings: SMUTT, oral sex (m & f receiving), light dom/sub vibes, possessive!Dean, no plot just porn-with-feelings
The motel room in some nowhere town outside Omaha smelled like old coffee and cheap pine cleaner. Same as always. Sam was sprawled on one of the beds, long legs hanging off the end, scrolling through yet another ancient lore site on his laptop. Dean stood at the tiny kitchenette counter, popping the cap off his third beer in twenty minutes, jaw tight.
She sat cross-legged on the other bed in Dean’s old Zeppelin tee and sleep shorts, pretending to read a battered paperback she’d found in the Impala’s glovebox. She wasn’t reading. She could feel the restless heat rolling off Dean in waves.
Three months. Three months of stolen kisses in the front seat when Sam ran into gas stations, of hands sliding under shirts in dark corners of bars, of promises whispered against necks that never got kept because Sammy was always there—researching, eating, existing.
Dean set the bottle down harder than necessary. The clink made Sam look up.
“Alright,” Dean said, voice low and final. “Get out.”
Sam blinked. “What?”
“You heard me. Out. Now.”
Sam’s eyebrows climbed. He glanced at her, then back at his brother. “Dude, it’s like… nine-thirty. Where am I supposed to go?”
“Don’t care. Library. Bar. Impala. Walk around the parking lot and count the fucking cracks in the asphalt. I don’t care. Just go.”
She felt her face heat. She knew exactly where this was headed; Dean’s patience had been fraying for weeks.
Sam stared at him for a long beat. “You’re serious.”
“As a heart attack.”
Another pause. Sam’s gaze slid to her again—lingering just long enough for her stomach to flip—then he closed the laptop with a soft click.
“Jesus, Dean,” he muttered, standing up. He was already reaching for his jacket. “You couldn’t have… I don’t know, texted me? Given me a heads-up?”
“Didn’t want a heads-up. Wanted you gone five minutes ago.” Dean’s voice dropped, rougher. “I’ve been waiting three months to fuck my girl without an audience. So move.”
Sam’s ears went pink. He shoved his feet into boots without another word, grabbed his keys and phone, and headed for the door. Right before he pulled it open he threw over his shoulder, “You two are disgusting.”
“Love you too, Sammy,” Dean called back, already crossing the room.
The door shut. The deadbolt clicked.
Silence—real silence—for the first time in months.
Dean turned to her. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, mouth set in a hungry line.
She set the book aside. Slowly. Deliberately.
“C’mere,” he said.
She didn’t make him ask twice.
He met her halfway, hands sliding around her waist, yanking her flush against him. His mouth crashed down on hers—hard, messy, three months of pent-up want in every swipe of tongue. She made a small, helpless sound into his kiss and he groaned like he’d been punched.
“Fuck, I’ve missed this,” he muttered against her lips. His hands were already under the Zeppelin shirt, rough palms skating up her ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts. “Missed touching you. Missed hearing you.”
She tugged at his henley, desperate for skin. “Then stop talking.”
He laughed—low, dark—and shoved the shirt up and over her head in one impatient motion. Her shorts followed a second later, leaving her in only panties. Dean’s gaze raked down her body like he was starving.
He backed her toward the bed, shedding his own layers as they went—boots kicked off, belt clattering to the floor. When he shoved his jeans and boxers down his thighs, his cock sprang free—thick, hard, already leaking at the tip.
She dropped to her knees before he could stop her.
Dean sucked in a sharp breath. “Baby—”
“Shut up,” she said, voice husky. “Three months, Dean. Let me.”
His hand fisted in her hair—not pulling, just holding—as she wrapped her fingers around the base of him. He was hot, velvet-hard, pulsing against her palm. She licked a slow stripe from root to tip, tasting salt and skin, and his hips jerked forward on instinct.
“Fuck—” The word came out strangled.
She took him into her mouth, slow at first, letting her tongue swirl around the head, sucking lightly. His thighs tensed under her hands. She hollowed her cheeks and slid down further, taking as much of him as she could until he hit the back of her throat. Dean’s grip tightened in her hair, a low, guttural sound ripping from his chest.
She bobbed her head, setting a rhythm—wet, sloppy, deliberate—her hand stroking what her mouth couldn’t reach. Spit slicked her chin; she didn’t care. Every time she swallowed around him he cursed under his breath, hips rocking in shallow, helpless thrusts.
“Look at me,” he rasped.
She tilted her head up, eyes watering slightly, meeting his gaze. His pupils were blown wide, jaw slack, lips parted. The sight of her—lips stretched around him, cheeks flushed—seemed to wreck him.
“Goddamn, you’re perfect,” he groaned. “So fucking good at this.”
She hummed around him in response; the vibration made his knees buckle slightly. He started fucking her mouth in earnest then—careful but deep—watching himself disappear between her lips over and over.
When his breathing turned ragged and his abs clenched, she pulled off with a wet pop, stroking him fast with her hand while she sucked hard on the head.
“Fuck—gonna come if you keep—”
She didn’t let up. Took him deep again, swallowed around him, and he broke—hips snapping forward, spilling hot and thick down her throat with a choked moan of her name. She worked him through it, swallowing every pulse until he was shuddering, oversensitive, tugging her off gently.
He hauled her up immediately, kissing her filthy and desperate, tasting himself on her tongue.
“Jesus Christ,” he panted against her mouth. “You’re gonna kill me one day.”
She smirked, still catching her breath. “Good way to go.”
He shoved her back onto the bed, following immediately. His mouth found her throat, teeth scraping, then lower—hot, open kisses over her collarbone, her breasts. When he sucked a nipple into his mouth she arched hard, fingers twisting in his hair.
“Dean—”
“Say it again,” he growled against her skin. “Say my name like that.”
“Dean.”
He rewarded her by sliding a hand between her thighs, cupping her through the damp cotton. She was soaked; he groaned at the discovery.
“Jesus Christ, baby.” Two fingers slipped under the edge of her panties, stroking through slick folds. “This all for me?”
“Been like this for weeks,” she gasped. “Every time you touch me and then… nothing.”
His jaw clenched. “Not nothing anymore.”
He yanked the panties down her legs, tossed them somewhere behind him. Then he was settling between her thighs, broad shoulders spreading her open, mouth on her before she could catch her breath.
She cried out—sharp, surprised—hips jerking up. Dean pinned her with one forearm across her pelvis and licked into her like a man who’d been dreaming about this exact taste for months. Slow at first, savoring, then faster, hungrier, sucking at her clit until her thighs shook.
“Dean—fuck—please—”
He pulled back just long enough to rasp, “Come on my tongue first. Then I’ll fuck you.”
She shattered less than a minute later, back bowing, his name torn out of her throat. He didn’t stop—kept licking, kept sucking—until she was whimpering, oversensitive, tugging at his hair to pull him up.
He crawled back up her body, kissing her hard so she could taste herself on him. His cock—already hardening again—was heavy against her thigh, leaking, throbbing.
“Condom?” she managed.
“Wallet. Nightstand. But I’m clean. Haven’t touched anyone since you.”
She swallowed. “Me neither.”
That was all he needed.
He notched himself at her entrance, pushed in slow—inch by torturous inch—until he was buried to the hilt. They both froze for a second, breathing ragged.
“Goddamn,” he choked out. “So fucking tight.”
She clenched around him on purpose. He swore, hips snapping forward involuntarily.
Then he started moving—deep, deliberate thrusts that made the cheap headboard thump against the wall. She wrapped her legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass, urging him harder, faster.
He gave it to her.
The rhythm turned brutal—skin slapping, wet sounds, broken moans. His hand found hers, fingers lacing tight, pinning it beside her head. The other slid between them, thumb circling her clit in time with every thrust.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
She did. Green eyes locked on hers, fierce and tender at the same time.
“Mine,” he growled.
“Yours,” she gasped.
He fucked her harder, deeper, pace relentless. Sweat slicked their skin, breaths mingling in harsh pants. She could feel the coil tightening again, impossibly fast.
“Dean—I’m gonna—”
“Yeah, you are,” he rasped. “Give it to me. Let me feel you come all over my cock.”
She broke—harder this time, a full-body shudder, walls pulsing around him in rhythmic waves. A broken cry ripped from her throat. Dean kept thrusting through it, drawing it out until she was trembling, gasping, nails raking down his back.
Only when her spasms started to ease did he let himself go—hips stuttering, burying himself as deep as he could as he came with a guttural groan, pulsing hot inside her.
They stayed locked together for long minutes—sweaty, panting, tangled. His forehead dropped to hers.
“Next time Sammy tries to cockblock us,” he muttered, still catching his breath, “I’m locking him in the trunk.”
She laughed weakly, turning to kiss his jaw. “Deal.”
Outside, somewhere down the block, Sam was probably sitting in a diner pretending he wasn’t scarred for life.
✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦
✦summary: Dean says he can't be with you. That he's too much of a risk, too old, too tired, too whatever. But then he doesn't stop acting like he wants you. It’s probably because he does.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (20s - 40s) angst, pining, rejection but it's not real rejection he wants us, Dean being a dummy (it's okay we love him), big emotions, shameless and proud smut (praise kink, soft!dom Dean, thigh riding, light masturbation, dean's dirty talk (that's it's own warning), blowjob, face riding, big dick dean, cowgirl, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, crying, creampie), he’s a little bit of an ass during sex too but in a hot way, love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 10.7k✦
✦author's note: love him raw and older (who said that).✦
It’s cold outside, and you’re not going to be the one to break first.
Dean is drumming his fingers on the wheel, and you can feel his gaze every few moments. It sears on your skin like a burn, and lingers long after he clears his throat and looks away. You can see him run a hand through his hair, from the very corner of your eyes. His knee is bouncing like a restless child.
You just keep staring ahead, forcing everything in you to be made of marble.
If you break first, that defeats the whole point. You didn’t do anything wrong.
You didn’t.
You’ve played it over and over again in your head. You’d looked at yourself in a mirror after, to check if you’d had something smeared on your cheek, or your clothing had been too baggy, or if there was maybe just something sharp in your features Dean didn’t want to cut himself on. But there had been nothing. And you’d been so, so sure.
There had been months, of wanting it and saying nothing. Wanting Dean and sewing your mouth shut. He’d call you sweetheart and you’d pull yourself to the level of a waitress who brought him his pie. He brought you snacks from the corner store without asking, and you go to be something that occupied his mind, a parasite that didn’t ask for more than attention. His hand would grace your lower back as he walked past, and you’d stand taller. Promote yourself to maybe a soft body he could find warmth in.
“What do you call a group of owls?” You’d asked him over breakfast, and he’d grinned up at you.
“I don’t know, a hoot?”
“No, that doesn’t fit.”
“Fit what?” He’d leaned to the side, squinting at your computer. “Oh. I, uh- Thought you were asking me a riddle or something.”
You’d snorted, turning the screen for him to read. The crossword was almost fully done, but there were always three or four you couldn’t get until the very end. Usually you ask Sam, but Dean had been there. And you’d liked how close he had to be, to read the screen. His knee bumping yours under the table, his breath on your neck. Your vison had gotten a little blurred and vivid. Everything in you had narrowed down to Dean.
Somehow, you’d managed to keep your voice steady. “What kind of riddle would that be?”
“I dunno, you asked it.”
“But I didn’t.”
“That’s why it was so lame, sweetheart.” He’d drawled, and you’d bitten the inside of your cheek to try and stop a flush. “Maybe it’s parchment.”
“Parchment-“
“Fancy paper-“
“I know what parchment is.” You’d snapped, and his grin had widened. “But it doesn’t fit, there’s no l in parchment. And a parchment of owls doesn’t make any sense.”
“Well, a parliament of owls doesn’t sound any better.”
You’d blinked at the screen, then Dean’s slightly grumpy, mostly teasing expression.
He’d raised his brows. “You thinking something?”
“I- No, but-“ He’d been so close. If you’d tripped sitting, you wouldn’t fallen right into a kiss. “How’d you get parliament?”
“I can see the other clues.” Dean had shrugged, reaching past you to tap the screen. “This one’s gotta be an accord, ‘s a kinda car that’s pretty shit, but it’s got that exact axel and horsepower. Then this,” he’d looked at you, eyes shining, and you’d blinked at him a little like a baby deer seeing the sun for the first time. “Rocket ball rifle. That’s a Winchester, sweetheart.”
You’d laughed, but it had been weak and breathy. “Good work.”
Dean had sat up, looking back to his pancakes with a grin. “Thanks. Not just a pretty face, y’know.”
He’d said it like a joke, so you’d bumped his shoulder. You’d kept your words light, because he needed them like that.
But you’d been dead fucking serious.
“I know. You’re the whole package in a very handsome bow.”
Dean had laughed, but you’d felt his gaze for a while after. When you’d glanced over, he’d looked away and coughed. There had been a blush creeping up his neck, and you’d smiled to yourself.
You’d made him feel good, just as his friend. And that’s enough. Had been enough.
Then the baby slipped.
It hadn’t been dramatic. You’re sure he’d never even noticed.
I’ve got it, baby.
He’d patted your leg and stood up. You’d gaped after him, your whole world wiping and rewiring and adjusting to new code with each passing heartbeat, pounding in your ears.
Dean didn’t call anyone baby. You’d never heard it in a low drawl for some bar hookup, all the gorgeous women you’d envied until it made you sick. When he used to bring them back to motels and you’d pretend you needed a walk, you’d never hear it moaned or whispered in dirty talk.
Not that you were listening.
But he’s loud. And it used to be the only line to sanity you had.
It’s easy to fall for Dean. It’s magnetic. You think you felt it the first time he offered you a hand, and your whole body had started to warm and blister like you’d been shoved into an oven. It had faded the first few weeks of knowing him, burning up fast, a wildfire of desire that swept through you until you spent every night with hair stuck to your brow and the sheets stained with sweat.
When it had faded, you’d hoped it would be nothing more than a pile of shameful ash. Dean wouldn’t never have to know that the kid he’d taken under his wing was a little pervert who listened to him have sex, then cried in the shower after. Nobody would ever have to know.
But there’s this thing. Where sometimes the fire ripping through the world isn’t to destroy. It’s to help grow. The flames curl into tightly locked seed pods, open them up, and make room for a new forest to grow.
And Dean is kind. And funny. And handsome, and strong, and loyal, and sometimes you want to punch him in his perfect, stupid face because you never stood a chance.
Loving him in silence was harder than wanting him. Wanting him could be satisfied with makeshift men. The right height and build, similar hair and a few scars, their faces Dean’s when you close your eyes.
Dean used to mutter that he didn’t like you sleeping with so many older creeps. That they only wanted one thing from you.
“I only want one thing from them.” You’d told him, and his jaw had ticked.
“You shouldn’t be looking for it there.”
“Why not-“
“They could be your father,” he’d snapped your name, glaring up from his beer bottle. The label had been picked clear off and crumpled in his hand.
You’d leaned back a little, brows raised, and he’d let out a slow breath. Shook his head, mouth pressed in a thin line.
“Dean-“
“There are plenty of-“ His brow had furrowed. He’d glared at the bottle, like your taste in men was it’s fault. “Lotta other options. You don’t have to settle for some creep that’s eyeing you up like fuckin’ meat.”
You’d wanted to laugh. You might’ve, if Dean hadn’t looked like he was one word from breaking his own teeth.
“It’s a two way road, Deano.” You’d hummed, and he’d looked like you punched him in the gut.
You don’t know if he noticed. How you stopped sleeping around after that. Phantoms of attention were nothing, compared to the tiniest hit of Dean’s concern.
There was no dare to fool yourself. Nothing you were clinging to, about having a chance. Dean didn’t see you like that. How could he.
You were a little bit of a devoted heretic. You’d made your alter at the foot of a god, and you just liked that you were allowed to stay. If he kicked you, you’d tumble down and crawl back up until he crushed you completely. A single scrape of his touch was more than most were offered.
Being Dean’s friend was enough. Something he cared about was a rush of it’s own.
And you’d been ready to sleep alone for a long, long time. To keep all your love gathered in your chest, and let it bleed into every little thing you did. It wasn’t angry love. Wasn’t bitter for being left to fester.
Mold grows. Weeds can be beautiful flowers.
You covered every little thing in your love for Dean, until you were sure it stained over your skin like a tattoo. Everyone seemed to see it but him. Sam knew after you screamed for him on a hunt, when he’d gotten driven onto some rebar and you’d felt your own chest split open. Jack gives you strange looks whenever he visits, and when he asked you just waved him off. Even his fucking dog looks at you like you’re some sad, pitiable little fool.
But Dean was happy with you. As his friend.
Then he called you baby.
And the world stopped, and rewound. A cassette tape reaching the end of a track and flipping itself over, letting you listen to the song one more time.
Letting you notice what you’d missed, too absorbed in your own love—it was a loud, consuming thing—to look outside your head.
Dean had stopped sleeping around too.
He touched you, maybe more than you touch him. Bumping your shoulder, thighs pressed under the table, a hand brushing through your hair when he walked past.
You’d counted them as nothing. You’d drowned in the luck of his thoughtless motions, but baby.
He kissed your forehead before he split off from you on a hunt. He knocked on your door when he had a nightmare, like he had nowhere else to go. At the grocery store, he’d linger a step behind you like he was guarding you from the peanut butter on the shelf and the slabs of beef in the butcher’s display. Close enough you could feel the heat from his body. Too close to be an accident.
You’d asked Sam.
Sam had coughed, and told you to talk to Dean.
You’d asked Sam again.
He’d begged you not to.
“Dean will kill me,” he’d whined like a child. “And I kind of like life now? Like, we’ve got really good things going, and I don’t want to die over Dean’s stupid secrets-“
“So Dean has secrets.” You’d crossed your arms over your chest. Sam had flinched.
“Um- Yeah. Which you should talk to him about, because I know nothing about them.”
“Sam-“
“Just- Whatever you’re thinking, that’s it. You’re right.” He’d sighed. “Please don’t make me say it. You’re both grownups. Make him use his words.”
You’d snorted. “Make Dean use his words-“
“You have more power over him than you think.” Sam had shrugged, voice dropping under his breath. “Like, a lot more.”
“What are we talkin’ about?” Dean had walked into the kitchen, looking between you and Sam, and you’d coughed.
“Nothing.”
“Relationships.”
You and Sam had spoken at the same time. Dean had raised his brows.
“Alright, what’s goin’ on-“
“Are you seeing anyone?” Sam had shouted, before you could gut punch him hard enough to shut him up. “Or, you know- Thinking about anyone, or anything with anyone, or- What the fuck-“
A spoon had gone flying, hitting Sam square in the jaw. He’d rubbed the hurt, gaping at his brother, and Dean had just shrugged.
“Oops.” He’d said flatly. “Hand slipped.”
His eyes had been narrowed. Sam had dropped it.
And the loop playing in your head had become obsessive.
He felt something. The more you played back and analyzed, the more certain you’d become. It might not be the concrete, resolved adoration you felt for everything that even stemmed slightly from Dean, but it was something. Something big enough he’d go to you first, in any room. That he’d hug you like he was trying to pull you into his chest, and breathe you in so heavily you felt a little stupid for missing it.
Enough you’d been willing to take the risk.
But not enough for him to say yes.
That day plays in a blur now. Your confession. His expression, like you’d shot him pointblank.
His head, shaking, and every color in the world inverting as he told you no.
You were wrong. He didn’t want that.
Just the night before you’d fallen asleep on his shoulder, but still been lucid enough to feel him pull you closer. He’d kissed your brow. Whispered something you hadn’t been able to make out, but had sounded soft. Affectionate. It was the same tone you used, when you told his sleeping form that you loved him, just to try and offer yourself a little bit of control.
It’s gone now, though.
Not the love. That’s boiling and bubbling over the edges, an ocean put under a flame. There’s so much of it you might be about to choke, because you can’t let it show anymore.
Dean told you no, and you tried to shove it into the cavity of your chest and lock it up.
But it was too big. Too much, to have your heart broken and all your love just… stalled. No where left for it to go.
And you didn’t do anything wrong.
Dean sent the mixed signals. Dean told you no, then expected everything to be fine. He said he wasn’t into you like that, then followed you to the bar the next night and stopped you from numbing the pain in another man’s body.
So he earned this silent treatment.
And you’re not going to be the first to break.
Your fingers fidget in your lap, and it’s the only movement you allow your body to have. It’s more for warmth, than anything else. Dean doesn’t get to see your discomfort. How ever cell in your body is trying to drag you into him, to forgo dignity for his touch. For the heat rolling off his body, that would cure you of this cold fever in a few seconds.
Dean coughs, stretching too causally to be natural, and his arm ends up around the back of the bench.
He’s like a radiator. Your shoulder almost slumps into the slight brush of his fingers, into the comfort they offer.
You lean forward, forcing a distance. You won’t break.
Dean can be stubborn. You’re going to give him a run for his stolen money.
“You think this is the guy?” He asks, withdrawing his arm.
You just shrug. Dean sighs.
“If you don’t, we can just go get a drink. Night’s almost over anyway, isn’t much he’d be able to do-“
“I want to wait.” You say, and you didn’t know your voice could sound that cold.
Dean tenses up at your side, then nods. “Alright. Guess we’re waiting.”
You huff, and neither of you try to speak again. When the guy comes out, you track him to the vamp nest and make quick work. It’s barely a hunt worth breaking a sweat over, not with Dean swinging his machete and your dead man’s blood bullets. When you’re done, there’s some dirt and guts on your jacket. Your nose wrinkles, and you feel Dean’s presence before you hear him.
“You alright?” Dean sounds worried. You just wave him off.
“Yeah.” You mutter, tossing the stained jacket in the trunk. “Just cold.”
“You can take my jacket-“
“I’m good.”
Dean already had his jacket half off, and he pauses. You turn away, not wanting to see whatever look was on his face.
You climb into the car, waiting for him to catch up. When he opens the door, his jacket is fully gone.
He shoves it into your hands without a glance. It’s warm like a blanket. It’s going to smell like him, and your fingers curl into the fabric against your will.
“Dean, I don’t want this-“
“Well, you got it.” He snaps, and you hold it tighter.
“I’m not going to wear it-“
“Don’t care.” He starts the car, shooting you a glare. “Toss it, burn it, see if I give a shit. It’s yours.”
You don’t answer. You don’t have anything to say that isn’t a curse or a plea.
The air feels like it’s getting more and more wired, with every passing second. It waves with heat, and starts to clog up your throat. You can breathe, but everything is sticky. The tension resting in your throat, swelling to keep words from spilling out of your throat.
Dean keeps looking at you. You wish he’d stop. Wish he’d make this easier on you, by not flexing his hands every three seconds and seeming like he’s going to reach out. To touch you, when your skin has gotten so, so cold.
When you get back to the motel, Dean goes right to the bathroom, and you stand uselessly in the center of the room. You still haven’t let go of the goddamn jacket.
You look at the door, and hear the water running. He’s taking a shower, and Dean takes long showers.
You shrug on the jacket. And you were right.
It smells just like Dean.
Leather and amber, something a little spicy and a deep, comforting, unnamable scent that’s just Dean. It’s even stronger than the lingering musk of his cheap aftershave and cologne. You don’t even know why he bothers with that stuff, when he’s a natural aphrodisiac.
You wrap your arms around your stomach, staring at the bathroom door. It almost feels like he’s there. Like he’s hugging you and telling you everything is going to be okay.
And you sway on your feet, tears pricking at your eyes for the first time since he told you no. You’d shut it all down, refused to let yourself cry over it, and now-
He was your best friend. He’d acted like you lingered in all his dreams, the same way he lingered in yours.
And he told you no, and wouldn’t even give you the space to let your love die.
You don’t think it can die. But you’re not strong enough to leave him. Even with all this pain, you don’t want to. You refuse to be another person who leaves Dean, just because he won’t sleep with you.
But you can’t be here right now. Not while the wound is open and raw.
There’s a bar, just down the street. You text Dean that where you’re headed, and leave with his jacket still wrapped tight around your body.
It’s a fairly crowded bar. Enough people that the noise in your head can be drowned out, enough business that they keep good stuff in stock. You drink, but not enough to lose control. That’s not the goal.
You’re trying to get yourself to the point that you can return the smile of the man down the bar. He’s not bad looking. Dark hair and eyes, warm looking skin, a casualness to his stance that’s welcoming. He’s got broad shoulders. Big hands.
He’d be a good night.
But he’s not Dean.
You need to be just tipsy enough to pretend that he is.
And it’s pathetic. You should be trying to get over him, but it’s like trying to drag your feet out of quicksand. The more you struggle against it, the more you think about every reason to stay in love with him. The way he sings loudly in the car, grinning at you the whole time. His dumb little bow-legged walk, and how he never breaks pace when he’s carrying you to the car after a bad hunt. His jokes, how safe you feel when he’s next to you, how even when he turned you down he hadn’t been cruel.
He’d just said no. You got it wrong. That’s- I’m not doing that to you.
You take another drink, breathing heavy through your nose. Wearing the jacket was a mistake. You can smell him all around you, and it’s a tantalizing, sadistic way to torture yourself. You swallow, looking up to the yellowed bar lights like they can offer you some strength.
They just stare back, and your eyes burn.
Maybe you should just go home. Call it a night, wallow in the bathtub until you either get it together, or sink under the water. Dean could save you. He’d bring you to bed and comfort you, then just leave you again. You’d be naked, and he’d have no interest, and you rub your eyes because you won’t cry in a public bar, you won’t-
Dean says your name, and you freeze.
“What the hell are you doing?” He’s not shouting, but it’s worse. “I come out and you’re just gone, you got any idea how much that freaked me out-“
“I texted you.” You don’t turn around. He doesn’t get to see the tears, still stinging at your vision.
Dean scoffs. “That’s not enough and you know it. Your phone coulda been stolen, you could’ve gone out then gotten grabbed, you- Son of a bitch, sweetheart, you damn near gave me a heart attack-“
“Sorry.” There’s a stone-like lump, settling in your throat. “But I’m fine, Dean. And you could’ve called.”
He grunts, and you see him move into your periphery. You bow your head lower. You don’t want to see him. It will only make the pain worse.
Dean mutters, your name. You don’t look up.
“How many drinks have you had?”
You shrug, and he sighs.
“Are you… feelin’ okay?”
“I feel amazing.” You mutter, not bothering to hide the bitterness in your tone.
Dean swallows. “Alright. Let’s go.”
Neither of you move. You take another drink, and Dean’s voice becomes strained.
“Look, I- I didn’t mean to yell, just- Come on-“
His hand lands on your shoulder, and you shove it off.
“Sweetheart, I’m sorry-“
“I don’t care.” You spit, finally letting your gaze turn on him.
He leans back, eyes widening slightly, and it immediately hurts. You don’t want to hurt him. But you’re too tired to stop.
“I was just- You worried me-“
“I’m fine.”
“You’re getting drunk-“
“You get drunk all the time.”
“That’s- It’s not the same- I’m not-“ He runs a hand over his face. “We can fight about this back at the room, okay, let’s go-“
“No.” You hiss, and something tight flashes over his face.
He says your name, and you shake your head, looking back to your glass.
“Leave me alone, Dean.”
And you want him to fight. You want him to tell you he’s not going anywhere without you, because you never want to go anywhere without him. You’d sew your hands together, stick your shoulders together with glue, wrap around his back like a growth just to remind him how amazing he is, all the time.
You’d fight for him.
But Dean doesn’t. He nods.
“Sorry.” He mutters, his voice lower than you’ve ever heard. Not the deep drawl that he uses to tease and joke with you.
Just… Heavy.
Defeated.
And he apologizes, and walks away. You look over your shoulder, and find him staring back. His throat bobs, his hands fist at his sides, and he leaves.
Leaves you. Alone.
You down another shot, and it burns your throat with your eyes. You won’t cry over this. He’s allowed to not want you, and you’re going to be mature about it, and go sleep with someone else.
It takes another drink, but you walk over to the man on the other end of the bar. It feels like you’ve been moved into an autopilot, all your smiles too tight on your face and your voice far away. You bat your eyelashes, and lean forward without recoiling at how not Dean he is. He tells you you’re pretty. You laugh, and tell him he’s not so bad himself.
He puts his hand on your lower back as you walk to the parking lot. He’s a local, with a house not too far he’d like to show you. If he notices how you arch away from the touch, he doesn’t say anything.
And under the parking lot lamps, you can just see his silhouette and pretend it’s Dean.
But then he brushes your hair from your face, and leans in for a kiss. It’s an instinct, to turn your cheek. You’ve made it all the way to the car, and his heater is running, but the burning feeling over your skin isn’t from desire.
It’s prickly and sore.
Shame.
You mumble a sorry, the world moving so fast everything turns to a blur, but it might just be the tears pricking in your eyes. You try to take off your jacket, to cool down and collect yourself.
But the smell of Dean is gone, and now you’re sick, and you-
You can’t.
You just can’t.
It’s with scrambled apologies and a flushed face, that you run out of the car. There’s no excuse for it. Nothing that you can say to rationalize fleeing the moment like it’s a crime scene, running from a kiss like it threatened death. But you feel sick.
He’s not Dean.
When you get back to the motel room you’re out of breath. Your fingers are numb and there’s bile in your throat. The shame burns under your face, and your lips are wobbling pathetically. You’d rip the love out of you, if it wouldn’t feel like carving out a piece of your soul. You’d stay away the whole night, if you didn’t know the world would slow back down the moment you saw him.
He told you no, but he’s still your Dean. The world is safe with him. And you like loving him, you do, but right now you just…
You hate yourself. Blame yourself.
Wish you were anything else, that you loved him a little less, so the wound could be cauterized without splitting itself open.
Every movement just splits it open. And Dean isn’t going to come and stich it back up.
You take a ragged breath. Collect yourself by your throat, refusing to let your guts just spill all over the ground for Dean to see. For him to think he has to clean up, when you’re trying so hard not to blame him. He didn’t know what he was doing to you. He told you to stop. And you can’t.
All the mixed signals earned your silence, but not your wrath. You’re grabbing your heart and throttling it, because you don’t want to be mad.
But you open the door, and Dean is still up. He’d sprawled on his bed, watching TV, eyes locking onto yours before you’re even in the room. You try to ignore him, and kick off your shoes. He pauses his show.
“You have fun?”
You shoot him a glare, but his expression is unreadable. There are long shadows on his face that only make him more handsome, and you can feel the anger clawing up your chest.
He raises his brows in slight challenge, and you’re too exhausted to ignore the bait.
“No.” You snap, tossing off the jacket. “I didn’t.”
If Dean has a reaction, he doesn’t show it. “Sorry.”
You snort, and his lips twitch down.
“What’s so funny-“
“You’re not sorry.” The words fall out of you, lined in venom.
And he shrugs.
Dean just shrugs, like that’s all your love is worth, and something inside you snaps.
How dare he. How dare he stomp on your heart and treat you like a child, and how dare he make you keep loving him by putting water on your beside table for your hangover and staying up just to make sure you get home safe. He’s a good man but he’s being so cruel and it’s only just to you. Like you deserve some punishment for loving him. Like he’s daring you to bite him back.
You can bite.
You can rip something in him, and make it almost half as deep as he’s buried himself into you.
“It’s your fault, you know.” You cross your arms, glaring at him across the room.
He chuckles, looking back to the TV. “Yeah, whatever sweetheart-“
“Don’t call me that.”
That makes him go rigid. His eyes fly back to yours, and you mimic his challenging look.
“What,” he stares at you, like he doesn’t understand what you’re saying. “Don’t call you sweetheart-“
“Yes.” You raise your chin, and he sits up.
“I- Why?”
“Why?” You laugh, rolling your eyes. “Why do you think, Dean? Why on Earth wouldn’t I want you to call me sweetheart, when you fucking- You-“
He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach.
“No, you- You keep-“
“Is this about you askin’ me to-“
“Of course it’s about that!” You scream, and Dean’s hand fists on his leg. “You turned me down, Dean, you said no, and that’s- That’s fine, you’re allowed to- To not want me-“
Dean moves slowly to his feet, watching you carefully. “Sweetheart-“
“Don’t call me that!” You scream, taking a large step back. “Don’t talk to me like that when you don’t mean it, Dean, it- It’s awful-“
“I wasn’t tryin’ to make you-“ He swallows, reaching a hand for you before yanking it back. “Look, I just- I didn’t think-“
“You didn’t think? You’re not stupid, Dean, how could you not think that you rejecting me when I- I’d been so sure, when I love you-“
“Don’t.” His voice raises suddenly. You flinch a step back, pressing your back to the wall.
Dean’s face falls in second, and he moves forward, arms flexing like he’s trying to control every movement.
“Baby, I-“
“Don’t yell at me.” You whisper, blinking away your tears.
He swallows, voice strained. “I know, I didn’t mean to-“
“You’re the one who said no, Dean.” You mutter, staring down at his knees. “You told me I was wrong, but- You follow me to bars and you call me sweetheart, and- and Baby-“ You wipe your nose, sniffing through the words, all your anger just evaporating into hurt. “You can’t do both. You can’t. It’s not fair.”
“I know.” He says immediately, taking another step forward. “I know, I’m sorry, just- Don’t cry. Don’t, I’m not worth that-“
“Yes, you are.”
Dean falls completely silent, and you look up to find him barely a foot away. Every muscle in his body flexes, his chest heaving like the air is thin. He’s staring at you like he’s not sure you’re there. You tip your head back against the door, and give him a tired smile.
“You’re worth everything.” You whisper. “I- I still love you, Dean, and you don’t have to feel it back, but- I love you, and you-“
“No.” He almost chokes out the word, face twisting like he’s in pain. “You had a crush. That’s not love, it’s-“ he shakes his head. “You got rose colored glasses, alright? I’m not some kinda hero that’s gonna live up to the fuckin’ fantasy-“
“It’s not a fantasy.” You snap. “I love you, I know I do-“
“I promise you don’t.” He grunts. “I drink too much, I don’t go to the doctor and I got no plans, I’m an old ass who sleeps with a gun, hell, I’m old enough to be your dad, that’s not love-“
“Stop telling me that!”
Dean blinks at the certainty in your shout, and you push up on the wall, eyes narrowing.
“I’m not a fucking idiot, I know what a crush feels like, and I know what love feels like, and I- I feel better around you, Dean!” Your voice cracks. “You make everything better, you make me feel- Feel wanted, you make me smile and you make me happy, and I- I love seeing you because it tells me I’m going to be okay.” The tears are falling again, and Dean looks like he’s seen a ghost. “You’re being such a dick but I still love you, and I- I think- I think I need space because you can’t- You don’t have to want me but you can’t act like I don’t know what I want, because I know, and it’s you, it’s just you-“
Your voice breaks fully, and Dean moves.
He crashes forward, grabbing your face between his hands and kissing you like he thinks you’re going to disappear. You squeak, grabbing the collar of his shirt, and he presses closer.
His body is draped over yours, warm and sturdy. His mouth is certain, moving against yours like a wave. Pulling at your lower lip then sucking, open and passionate. You’re trapped between him and the wall, and your knees get weak from the force but he wraps an arm around you, keeping you afloat as your head starts to spin.
“De- Dean-“
“It’s just you,” he grunts your name, speaking between frenzied, wet kisses. “It’s only you, been you since the first time you smiled at me and it was like the sun was finally fuckin’ shining, there’s nothin’ else, no one else- Son of a bitch, you’re the only thing that gets my ass outta bed in the morning some days, just fuckin’ you.”
He kisses the corner of your mouth, drags his lips in a hot line down your neck. You shiver, pulling him closer and trying, so desperately, to be sure this isn’t a dream.
“You- You said-“
“I know what I said.” He pulls back, taking your face between his hands. “Thought-“ He laughs dryly. “Hell, I still think, you’re better off running around with someone your own age. Someone who’s got a future, who can give you things-“
“You can give me things.” You whisper, staring up at him. He swallows.
“I told you, I’m old with ten bucks to my name, and I don’t think I’m hittin’ the lottery any time soon-“
“But you have you.” You smile at him, reaching carefully up to cup his cheek. “That’s all I want, Dean. That’s all you need to give.”
Dean’s eyes close, screwed shut as he breathes through his nose. He grabs your hand on his cheek, holding it there with a crushing grip.
“Do you want me?” You breathe out, still not fully trusting that this is real.
He nods, and tears slide down your cheeks.
“I- I need you to say it, please-“
“I want you.” He rasps, eyes locking onto yours. “And I don’t just want you, sweetheart, I- I-“ His jaw flexes, like he’s gagging on his own words.
You wait, and he presses further over you, consuming your whole vision. Your hand is guided over your head, and when you reach with it’s opposite to wrap around his neck, he takes that one too. You’re caged between his massive chest and the wall, your fingers scraping at the back of his hand, and he looks at you like the stars have been poured into his bathtub. Like he’s being offered the universe to drown in, and he’s just trying to build the courage to drive.
“I can’t stop calling you.” He mutters, and your breath hitches. “I call for you in my sleep, call for you when I think I’m running outta luck and I gotta start saying my prayers. Call for you on every hunt, even when I know you’re gonna be okay. Think about shouting for you when you leave the room, stare at my phone when you go away and hope you call me, so I’m not being a fuckin’ pervert.”
“You- You’re not a-“
“Yes, I am.” Dean brushes his lips over yours, and you gasp softly. “Things I think about doin’ to you aren’t winning me any sainthoods. Call for you there, too. When I got an hour to myself, just me and my imagination, and you.” He kisses your cheek, then under your ear. “Sometimes I get so loud I think you’re gonna hear. You don’t look at me after and I worry I’ve lost you forever. Can’t lose you, sweetheart. Can’t.” His voice falters slightly, and he draws back.
Drops his brow back against yours, all the teasing confidence waning in a second. His voice is raw. Pleading and hopeless.
“You- You don’t have to forgive me, alright? I thought you’d be better, thought you just got swept up in something, I didn’t- I’m sorry.” His expression is bare, filled with so much pain you feel it echo in your chest. “I’m so sorry, baby, but don’t- Don’t go. Please.” He grabs your hip like it’s his last anchor in a storm. “Don’t leave me. I’ll do anything, give you anything, please-“
You can’t stand it anymore. The pain in his voice.
So you press up, and kiss him.
It’s a little faster than Dean’s kiss. More chaste, too. A tiny press of your lips over his, and an attempt to draw back. But Dean is faster, and strong. He grabs the back of your head, ducking down to meet you and kissing you with such a fervor your legs give out.
He catches you. His grip squeezes on your hands, and he pulls you upright in a second, his mouth managing to never leave yours. You gasp, rising up to trying and meet every bit of heat he can offer. You open your mouth, and he takes full advantage, pushing his tongue over yours as his knee slides between your legs.
You moan, rolling your hips, and Dean squeezes your wrists. He rubs his thumb in small, soothing circles as he tugs on your hair gently. Just enough to tip your head back, and allow him further access.
Dean kisses you like he’s done it a million times before. Your head is spinning with the passion, but he never breaks pace. When you start to run out of air—whining against his lips and straining at his hold on your wrists—he drops his lips to your neck, sucking and nipping gently as you try to collect yourself.
It’s a pointless endeavor. Every brush of Dean’s teeth, every flick of his tongue, they send a bolt of lightning through your body. You’ve never been taken this high with just kissing, but it’s Dean. He could be taking about diseases and you’d want to climb him like a tree.
You’re not doing much climbing right now, though. There’s a pressure building between your thighs, and you’re mostly just fighting yourself from humping him like an animal.
It’s hard, when he’s making out with a sensitive spot under your jaw. You’re not even sure how you manage to speak.
“Oh- Oh god-“
“Not God.” He teases. “Just me. Call my name, sweetheart, let me hear it-“
You try to, but it turns into a strangled moan when Dean’s hand drops from your head to your hips. The firm squeeze of the skin, his fingers dancing over your inner thigh, it’s too much. You start to rut against his jeans in tiny, uncontrolled movements, and it only makes all that building need worse.
Dean groans, pushing his knee further up. It’s overwhelming, the mix of relief and desperation the motion brings. You squeak, grinding down onto him, chasing more, more, more-
“That’s it.” He mutters, encouraging and low. “That’s a girl, fuck my leg, come on-“
You moan, and Dean molds his lips back over yours. It feels like where he’s supposed to be. How he’s supposed to be.
So completely with you.
Almost yours.
And it gnaws at the back of your head, even as release builds in your core. He apologized, he said he wants you, but- But-“
“Dean,” you bite down another moan, the coil wound too tight. About to snap, when he starts to push his knee up in time with every roll of your hips. “Oh- Dean- We- We still need to talk-“
He stops immediately, and you almost whine.
“Right.” He grunts, wiping his mouth with his free hand. Your thighs clench around his knee, core still throbbing, and he smirks. “Talk about what, baby?”
You scowl. He knows what he’s doing, the asshole. “We- We can’t just sleep together-“
“Who said we were sleeping together?”
You flush, your eyes going wide, and Dean sighs.
“No, sweetheart, I was just teasing, come on-“
You turn your face, flushed with embarrassment. Dean leans forward, kissing up your jaw gently.
“I wanna sleep with you,” he murmurs in your ear, and you press your lips in a thin line. “I do, Christ- You got no idea, but if you’re not ready I’m not rushing anything.”
He presses his brow against the side of your head, lips brushing under your ear.
“I don’t wanna ruin this,” he rasps. “It’s the first good thing I got, you- You’re the only thing I’ve never-“ He shakes his head. “I still got you, alright? I got you. We can talk if you wanna talk, and I’ll keep my mouth shout. But I want you. Want you so much it hurts.” He rolls his hips up, and your eyes dart to his as you feel the proof.
Hard and thick through his jeans. Rubbing on your inner thigh, making your thoughts run away with all kinds of ideas. With the image of him sliding in and out of you, your pussy clenching around nothing. Your nails dig into his wrists, your breath picking up, and Dean notices.
His eyes soften, even as his tongue flicks over his lips.
“Tell me what you want.” He mutters, and you drag the words from the molten pit of your stomach.
“You.”
Dean’s face flashes, his voice getting hoarse. “How.”
And you know. He’s not just asking about this. About your bodies woven together, or his hand gliding under your shirt.
So you smile, and turn your head to fully kiss him. Slow and soft, enough to soothe the tension in both your bodies. Dean lets you lead this kiss, dropping your wrists to weave his fingers through your head.
Your voice is gentle and soft, when you speak into his mouth.
“However you want.” You whisper. “I’m yours.”
Dean doesn’t hesitate. A deep sound rumbles through his chest, and before you know what’s happening you’re being picked up off the ground. Dean carries you to your bed like you weigh nothing, muscled arms wrapped tight around your body and kissing you with less and less control each second.
You’re not tossed onto the bed, but placed down like something precious. Your arms rise, trying to hold on as Dean stands up, and he doesn’t seems all that willing to let go either. When you yank on his hair, scratching at his neck, he groans.
Falls back over you, herding you up the bed with desperate, unrelenting kisses.
“Brat.” He grunts, bullying you back against the headboard. “I was gonna get undressed, gonna take my time, but you’re just that needy, huh? Need me so bad you can’t give a man five seconds?”
You shake your head, his every dirty word shooting right to your already dripping cunt.
You’re sure you’ve ruined this pair of underwear. Dean certainly isn’t helping, with his wandering hands. Squeezing your hips and thighs, teasing your sides with featherlight touches and knuckles grazing your breasts. He presses his tongue flat on your neck as he sits you up against the headboard, and your legs fall open at the sheer display of strength. He’s folding you and moving you like you’re a doll, all while touching you like you’re a diamond.
“Too long.” You gasp, grinding up against his knee. It’s moved back between your thighs, as Dean grabs your face between his hands and rises over your body.
He stares at you in wonder, lips swollen and eyes shining.
You blink at him, core still dragging against him. You’d been so close before, so so close, and you might be about to cry from desperation.
“Dean, please.” You beg without caring, and his fingers dig a little into your neck. Your head spins with desire, and you grab his wrists, fucking up into his leg. “Please, it- It’s been so long, I’ve needed you so bad, fuck- Dean-“
Your whining is cut off with one, long and searing kiss. It’s shockingly sweet, for what a wreck you are below him. Dean grins against your lips, swaying you back and forth, unmoved by your little whimpers and squirming. When he pulls back, it’s with the control of a man who knows what he wants.
You.
Dean’s seen the world, and he wants you.
“Take off your clothes.” He mutters, smiling at you as he pulls away. His voice is deep and dangerous. It sends a thrill of desire through your heat.
Then he leans back, and you try to follow, but he doesn’t let you. Dean press a hand flat over your stomach, and gently pushes you back against the headboard.
“Ah,” he smirks, dragging his fingers slowly down your stomach. “No touchin’ right now, baby girl. Want you to show me.”
You swallow, voice small and breathy. “Show you?”
“How much you want it.” He mutters, those fingers dragging right over your core. “How much you want me.”
Then, right as he’s pressing at your core through your pants, he pulls back.
Dean sits on the bed, thick thighs spread, watching you expectantly.
“Strip.” He reminds you, and you nod.
And you don’t know how you find the confidence, under the intensity of his gaze, but you move. You peel off your shirt, then unclip your bra.
“Good girl.” He grunts, and you shine under the praise, sitting up a little taller. Dean jaw tightens, and he rubs his thigh as he stares at your breasts. His tongue flicks over his lips, and he looks almost feral.
That’s how you find it. Dean wants you, wants to see you, and he looks at you like you’re beautiful. You feel beautiful.
Watching Dean nostrils flare, watching him palm himself and hearing his low groans, you’ve never felt more beautiful in your life.
You peel off your pants, then your underwear. Lean back against the headboard and watch Dean seem to fight himself. He strains, leaning forward like he can’t help himself. He’s still trapped in his jeans, but you can see the hard outline of his cock, and your pussy flutters at the sight. Slowly, watching his thick hand move back and forth on his length, you drag two fingers through your pussy lips.
“Oh.” You gasp, tipping your head back. “Dean-“
He makes a sound close to a growl, and your fingers dip into your heat. They pump slowly, and you look under your lashes at the tent in Dean’s pants. You clench, hips pushing up to offer yourself a better angle. Dean groans, croaking your name, and you move a little faster.
“Fuck, Dean-“ You moan, words pouring wantingly from your mouth. “I- I want your cock so bad. Want you to fuck me, make me stupid, want to feel you-“
He hisses, eyes flashing as he scrambles with his belt. “Jesus, you can’t just fuckin’ say that shit, baby-“
“But I want you.” You pout at him, pulling your fingers out to rub your clit in slow, teasing circles. “Want you to fill me up, Dean, please-“
You push up and start to crawl across the bed. Dean freezes, watching you with wide eyes as you settle between his legs. You press your face into his thigh, right against his half-pulled down pants. He grunts, his hand shooting into your hair, and you let your body sink into the mattress. You kiss over the seam of his pants, along his hips, over his cock.
He hisses, twitching under your touch. You snake your hand down your body, pushing your ass in the air as you start to finger yourself again.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean groans, and you hum, pressing your nose into his balls as you fuck your hand. “You’re killin’ me, you’re- Chist-“
You lick him through his underwear, moaning as you rub your clit back and forth. Dean’s hand fists, but he doesn’t push you further. You can tell he wants to. That he’s still trying to be respectful and loving.
But that’s not what you want. Dean’s a marvel of a man, and you want all his attention. You want to choke on it, to be covered in his marks, to never have to doubt what you mean to him again.
You moan against him, wiggling your ass and pressing your own face down. Your lips graze under his balls, and you roll onto your back. Spread your legs, rubbing your clit and letting your legs spread wide for Dean to see your mess of arousal. He grabs your breast, kneading and rolling your nipple, and you giggle with an almost dizzying pleasure.
Dean’s hips jerk forward, and you use your free hand to pull at his boxers. You need to feel more of him, need to have as much as him as he’ll let you take while you’re in control. Dean’s hips slam forward, when your fingers wrap around the base of his thick cock, squeezing your tits tight enough you squirm.
You need two hands, to get him fully out. One to move the fabric, the other to try and guide him where you want. When he’s fully freed, you grab his knee for support and like as firm stripe up the underside of his dick. He’s beautiful, right down to the thickness in your hands. You didn’t know someone could be beautiful like this. You’ve certainly never seen a cock you wanted to worship.
But it’s Dean. It’s always Dean.
You squirm, tipping your head back so you can lick his head. Dean pushes further up on his knees to accommodate you, moaning your name. His hand slides down your body, the other bracing him somewhere near your ass.
“Fuckin’- Fuck-“ He groans, and it gives you a little extra push. You wraps your lip around him, flicking your tongue over his weeping slit.
His hand grabs your inner thigh, and you feel his whole body tense as he seems to fully realize how turned on your are. You squeak around him, when his thumb drags over your clit, and he jerks into your mouth.
“Sorry.” He grunts, voice thick with hunger. “Fuck, I’m- You’re so wet.” He sounds wrecked, fucking shallowly into your mouth, and you moan happily. Grab his thighs, as his thumb starts to circle your clit in tiny, fast strokes.
You hum, unhinging your jaw, and Dean groans. He bumps against the back of your throat, and you feel your eyes roll back with pleasure.
Then he shifts slightly. Leans down, his warm breath fanning over the heat of your cunt. Your nails dig into him, and you think you’d scream if your voice wasn’t being stolen by his cock. You’re only breathing out of your nose, lightheaded from the way he’s using your mouth.
Dean kisses over your clit. Wet and open mouthed, lips moving like he’s in a trance.
He moans, and repeats the motion. His arms lock around your legs as he spits on your pussy, spreading them wider before his whole face presses into your core.
And you’ve heard about him. Even just rumors, of how he’s learned to play a body over the years.
The stories do him no justice. This might be better than heaven.
Dean eats your pussy like he’s been training for it. Like it’s a sport and he’s trying to win. His tongue drags, his beard scraping your thighs, and his hands splay on your ass to keep you exactly where he wants. His tongue licks, fast and tight on your clit. His nose rubs against your entrance, his hands squeezing as he pulls you up, hits deeper, and you can feel that heat in your, about to explode.
He feels it too.
And he pulls back.
“Hold it.” He kisses your clit lightly, then spanks your pussy. “Gonna make it good, sweetheart, but you gotta hold it.”
You moan around him, but it’s a sound of desperate agreement. You trust him.
Holding it feels almost impossible, but fuck if you aren’t going to try.
“Good girl.” He slaps your pussy again, pulls himself out of your mouth and rolls you both over with a small grunt. Suddenly he’s flat on his back, and you’re being manhandled up and around.
Onto the top of his chest.
You push at his shoulders, and he just chuckles, catching your hands easily.
“Dean, what are you-“
“Having you sit on my face.” He kisses the inside of your wrist. “You’re gonna love it, baby, trust me.”
You swallow. “I- I might crush you-“
“Noble death.” He shrugs, grinning when you glare.
“Dean, I’m serious-“
“I’m serious. You’re not gonna hurt me, I know what I’m doing. If you don’t want to, that’s another conversation, but don’t hide from me just cause you’re worried I can’t handle some good fuckin’ pussy on my face.”
Jesus Christ, that almost makes you cum on it’s own. Dean beams when you nod nervously, starting to crawl further up. He guides you further, a playful glint in his eyes, and kisses the very inside of your thigh.
“Remember.” He winks, and your fingers shoot into his hair. “Don’t cum.”
Your mouth falls open, and Dean yanks you down.
Any snapping words you had are driven from your mind in a second. He was right. You do like it.
It’s even better than being under him. He’s still got you in a tight hold, pinning you on his face as you try to wriggle away, but the pleasure is so overwhelming you can’t do anything else. It’s like a warm, sentient vibrator has been trapped against your pussy. Dean groans and kisses you with a wet open mouth, the sound rolling through your body. Even as your writhe over him, gasping his name and making loud, choked sounds you didn’t know your body was capable of, you’re pulling at his hair trying to get closer.
You don’t know how you’re supposed to stop yourself from coming. He’s keeping you on his face, but not restricting your movements. Every time you try to chase more, he moans. You look over your shoulder and find his cock still at attention, fucking the air like he can’t help it.
That almost tips you over. You gasp, eyes rolling, and-
Dean pulls you off. Sits you back on his chest, reaching up to play with your tits while you gape uselessly.
“Dean-“
“Soon.” He promises, pinching your nipple gently. “You’re doin’ great, baby girl. Doin’ so good for me.”
That does exactly what he wants. The burning need in your core wanes, but not enough to kill anything. You’re just pulled a little off the edge, grinding onto his broad, thick chest as he plays with your breasts.
Then, again, Dean picks you up and sits you back on his face. This time one hand doesn’t leave your breast, continuing to tease a nipple while Dean groans against your pussy. You shove at the arm locked around your back, but his fingers just tickle your side, and make you drop right back down with a scream. He laughs as your thighs start to tremble, and you stop fighting it, even for play. You’re wound too tight, you need it too much-
Dean stops again. Smiles at you, and kisses your knee near his head as you try to shake yourself out of the daze. Then, again, when you’re settled, he pulls you forward.
This time you’re limp over him, grinding desperately down on his mouth. He groans, letting his hands wander. Dragging up your spine, one cupping the back of your neck as the other splays possessively on your lower back. You get to the edge faster that time.
And Dean stops again.
You don’t know how long he does that. You lose track somewhere around the fifth, when you’re a sobbing mess of desire.
“Dean, please-“ You whimper, pulling at his hair as he guides you back down. “I- I can’t- Can’t hold it, I need to cum, please-“
“Soon, sweet girl.” He reaches up, wiping a few tears from your cheeks.
You lean into his warm, calloused hand, and he smiles. Something reverent and soft settles on his features, almost jarring in the mix of sweat and sin filling the room.
“You have no idea.” He mutters. “How beautiful you are.”
You swallow, lips parting. Dean drags his finger over your lower lip, rubbing a calming circle on your lower back.
“You need to come?” He asks gently, and you nod.
“Please.”
“Alright.” He picks you up again, moving you further down his chest. To his dick, big and dripping with pre-cum, pressing against your ass as you stare at him. “Take what you want.”
You stare at him, and finally see the tiny smirk on his lips. He’s still playing with you. And when you pout, he laughs, dragging your down into a long, deep kiss.
“I’m not young anymore, baby.” He teases, kissing your nose. “This is what happens when you decide you wanna fuck a dinosaur.”
You glare at him, shoving his chest. “You’re no a dinosaur-“
“And you’re not coming till you ride my cock.”
A new, heavy determination fills you. You stick your tongue out at him, pushing up on his chest, and he just smiles at you like you’re an angel.
“You’re such an ass.” You mutter, letting a little affection drip over your words as you sit up on your knees.
Dean laughs, grinning easily up at you. “Yeah, but I’m your ass now. You said you love me. No take backs- Fuck-“
There’s a jolt of pride, as you line Dean up with your hole and sink onto him in one movement. It’s only because he’s prepped you to the point of near ruin, but it’s working in your favor now. Dean grabs your waist, tipping his head back with a long moan as you just sit on him for a second.
The stretch burns a little, but it’s perfect. You didn’t know you could be this full, feel someone so everywhere. The sensation darts from your pussy to your toes, your lips, your fingers sinking into his chest as you just try to breath. It’s not too much, but it’s more. Enough that you think you could come just by being filled with him, if he let you stay there long enough.
But you’ve been teased too much, tonight. You need release, or you might start crying for real.
You swivel your hips in experiment, and Dean groans.
“Jesus, woman-“
“’S big.” You mumble, repeating the movement. Every thought is slowly draining from your head, leaving only an instinct of Dean. “Oh- Oh my god-“
You find a good angle that drives right into your g-spot, and start to grind down. Dean says your name through his teeth, grabbing at you in a way that’s going to bruise in the morning.
It goads you on. You pick up your pace, trying to drag yourself back up to that edge Dean brought you to like it was nothing.
His cock is dragging and pressing inside of you, and it’s too much for you to let go of him. You moan, staring down at Dean, and that helps a little more. His muscles ripple below you, his head tipped back and lips gently parted as he watches you move on him. You can see his restraint again, as he just rubs your body and mutters low, rumbling encouragement.
“That’s it, baby girl.” He squeezes under your ribs, that awe shining in his eyes. “So fuckin’ tight on my cock, taking me perfectly. Never felt this good, sweetheart, never fuckin’-“
You drag forward, clenching around him, and he moans. Tips his head back with fluttering eyes, but still doesn’t just rut up into you. You whine in frustration, movements becoming short and uncontrolled as you get closer and closer.
But it’s not enough. Your thighs feel like jelly, and you can’t quite get yourself there. You’re trying, you’re trying so hard, but your mouth his hanging open and you can barely breathe through the feeling of Dean buried inside your cunt-
Dean grabs your jaw, forcing your glazed eyes onto his. His mouth twitches as you blink, and his voice is only sweet, as he murmurs your name.
“Sweetheart, you having some trouble?” He coos, and you’re mostly just shaking above him now. “Need some help.”
You can only nod, clawing at his chest hopefully.
Dean grins, and drags you down. Your mouth falls over his, and you moan openly, collapsing totally into his embrace.
His arm slides around your lower back, and you squeal as he rolls you over one more time. You’re pressed into the pillows, your legs nudged open, and Dean thrusts slowly, giving you a pace to adjust to the shift.
He’s deeper like this. Folding you under him to hit spots you couldn’t, kissing you so lovingly the whole time. You’d expected him to drill you through the mattress, but there’s no rush to his movements at all.
Dean’s fucking you like he’s got all the time in the world, and he knows exactly how he wants to spend it. Buried in your pussy, dragging everything out of you like a professional. His cock slides in and out of you, and it’s an even more lewd picture than you’d managed to imagine before. He presses all the way down to his balls, circles his hips, then pulls almost all the way out. It’s not slow, but it’s not rough. And it makes you only putty in his hands, staring up at him as he starts to pull a burning, powerful feeling from deep in your gut that no one else has ever been able to give you.
Stars dance at your vision, and Dean kisses you lazily. Firm, but slow, tasting your every moan and whimper like it’s his favorite pie. You grab his face and he hums. His thrusts start to get a little uneven, pressing deeper every time you clench around him. He moves one hand between your bodies, rising up to watch you below him with an adoring gaze.
You’re beyond words, when he starts to rub your clit. You don’t think you remember how to speak.
Dean leans down, his head pressed into your cheek as he kisses your neck, watching you start to roll below him. He groans as your pussy flutters again, that heat getting impossible to hold down.
He kisses you, words gentle but firm against your mouth.
“Now, baby, soak my cock like a good girl, cum for me, come on-“
Your orgasm hits you so hard your vision goes white. Your body spasms, Dean’s name falling from your lips like a prayer. He groans as you gush around his cock, fucking you through it with shorter and shorter thrusts until he’s kissing you with teeth and spit, pumping his release into your abused, oversensitive pussy.
You make a tiny sound of protest, as the feeling of him overflowing in your cunt forces a tiny, mind-numbing orgasm through your body. Dean kisses you gently, moving you with light hands onto your side. For a second, you think he’s going to try and leave. You grab his arm, twisting to give him a pleading expression.
He frowns. “Sweetheart, you gotta clean up-“
You shake your head, giving him your best doe eyes. He sighs, and lies back down, huffing in a amusement at your wide smile.
“Can’t even smile and still bossing me around,” he mutters, kissing your neck.
You wrinkle your nose, and he laughs, kissing that too.
Then he pauses. Leans up, something serious shadowing his eyes.
“You, uh-“ He clears his throat. “You know, right? What you mean to me? That I…”
He trials off, swallowing, and you smile. Reach over to cup his cheek, beaming at him with everything you have. Every bit of love in you, finally able to just flood into him.
Dean mouth twitches, and he nods. Bows his head, wrapping an arm tight around your stomach.
“Good.” He mutters, and you know.
He’s never meant anything more in his life.
“Cause I mean it.” He rasps, kissing your cheek. “It’s only you.”
✦End note: toxic trait i think i could pull dean winchester but i could you guys plz understand.✦
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summary: You know Dean and you know he's not exactly boyfriend material. But maybe he could be good for you, if you'd only give him a chance.
cw: mutual pining, miscommunication, idiots in love, hurt / comfort, jealousy, smut (unprotected p in v, mentions of oral - f receiving, dirty talk), cursing, reader is a hunter and had the same kind of upbringing / family dynamic as sam & dean
word count: 8.1k words
a/n: woww another dean hurt / comfort miscommunication fic. literally nobody is surprised. also i cannot tell if this is bad sorry lol
You’re in love with Dean but it’s just one of those things you’re going to have to work through, like a flu or a nasty head cold. It has consumed your life since the outbreak, but you’ll shake it off soon enough.
You don’t really have much of a choice. Because there’s no chance in hell or earth that you will let yourself fall in deep for someone like Dean Winchester.
It would be easy, though. It would be so, unbelievably easy to give him everything.
Especially if he keeps looking at you like this. Eyes glossed and starry, partially because of the whiskey and partially just because of you. That slanted smile, the little half-wrinkle by his eyes. The way you could swear his whole world has narrowed itself to just the sight of you.
“Tell me again.”
You laugh. “Dean, I’ve already told you twice-”
“And I wanna hear it again. S’that a crime?”
He winks at you and tilts his chin up, taking a swig from the dark brown bottle in front of him. He switched to beer two rounds ago.
You narrow your eyes at him but he meets you head-on, brazen grin plastered across his face. You sigh with no real exasperation.
“So I’m eleven years old and I’m on a hunt. I’m at the hospital and I’m told to walk in by myself and ask to see my mother-” You make air quotes around the word ‘mother’. Dean’s eyes droop down to your fingers before sliding lazily back to your mouth. “- in hospital. She’s in a coma. At this point we’re pretty sure this lady had been possessed by a demon and later exorcised so I’m being sent in just to look for signs, search through her belongings, check her injuries - that kinda thing.”
He is glowing with amusement. “So you’re brought into the room-”
“So I’m brought into the room and I’m trying to do what I can while all the doctors and nurses are there giving me those sad eyes you give a kid whose mom might not make it. And y’know - I’m only eleven but I know what to look for and how to be subtle. Except five minutes in, the lady wakes up.”
He’s already smiling, teetering on the edge of a laugh. “And you-”
“And I panic. I have no idea what to do because this lady is looking at me like I’ve got four heads and all the doctors and nurses are waiting for a heartfelt moment. So I burst into tears, screaming ‘Mommy you’re awake’, hugging her, the works. Poor lady is horrified, thinking she has amnesia and forgot her own daughter.”
He laughs now - hearty and full breasted. His eyes are glistening, crinkled at the corners. He takes another swing of his beer when he catches his breath. “Can’t believe I’m hearing that one for the first time tonight. Fuckin’ gold. I can picture it too, y’know.”
“Yeah?” You smile, leaning in across the table.
“Yeah. Bet you had the same nervous, twitchy face you get when you’re panicked. Just on a little thing with pigtails.”
You laugh. “Nope. Didn’t exactly have my hair braided for me every morning. Wasn’t that kinda family dynamic.” You pause. “I’m not twitchy.”
“Yeah y’are. Sometimes.”
“You’re so full of shit. I’m more cool and collected than you and Sam put together.”
“The coolest,” he says, a hint sardonic.
You’re in rocky territory. Both of you leaned forward, elbows pressed to the sticky table in the booth. The way he’s grinning at you - heated and shameless, eyes tilted up through his long lashes - is warming your stomach. You’re trying to convince yourself it’s just the two drinks.
Sam dipped almost an hour ago to sit at the bar. Dropped some teasing line about not wanting to third-wheel anymore. You’ve stopped telling him off for it because it only makes him worse. You see him glance at the two of you over his shoulder every now and again.
Dean reaches an arm down to take up your drink - some red girly concoction with cranberry juice and vodka in it. His eyes don’t leave yours while he takes a sip, fingers clutching the glass by the rim. You wonder if his lips are touching the same spot that yours did.
“Shit, that’s good,” he says, sucking his teeth at the tartness. “Why the hell didn’t I order that?”
You laugh. “You just don’t wanna be seen with it. Not manly enough for a big, bad hunter.”
He smiles. “You’re drinkin’ it. You not a big, bad hunter?”
“C’mon, Dean,” you say, scoffing, but you can’t force the corners of your lips down. “Not trying to get on my soapbox here but it’s pretty hard to get people to respect you when you’re a woman hunter as it is. I’m not worried about people seeing me with a cocktail.”
He shrugs in a ‘fair enough’ fashion. He’s about to say something else.
“Hi, um.” You look up to see a pretty, tall girl around your own age or maybe a few years older. Dark curls frame her face. She brushes a strand behind her right ear in an almost theatrical show of shyness. “I’m sorry - this is so weird of me but, um.” She brushes her hair behind her left ear now. “Are you guys on a date?”
You pause briefly, feeling as though you’re coming out of some sort of daze, and then give her a smile. “No, we’re just friends.”
Her face lights up. She’s not looking at you - she’s looking at Dean. “Oh! Okay. That’s good, because, um, I just wanted to see if I could maybe give you my number or something?”
You don’t wait for Dean to respond. You slip out of the booth and wink, mouthing ‘have fun’ to him. You’re not too bothered about whether or not she sees you. She takes your place without so much as a word or even a glance in your direction, eyes only for Dean. You can’t find it in you to blame her.
He is gaping at you as you turn away - eyebrows scrunched together and mouth in a firm pout. Possibly - probably - because he thought tonight would be the night he would finally be able to bring you to bed. He might have been right until this girl came by and screwed everything up by reminding you of yourself.
Sam jolts a bit when you climb up next to him onto the red stool with its fabric torn and its guts spilling out. His head un-cranes itself from a book you recognise about Celtic fairies. He frowns, confused, and then looks behind him towards the booth where Dean is now engaged in conversation. The confused frown turns into a displeased one. He dog-ears a page and closes the book.
“He get ambushed again?” he says.
You huff a laugh. “The word ‘ambushed’ implies he’s not in his element.”
Sam frowns again and looks like he wants to say something - maybe object - but he doesn’t. You’re glad. There’s nothing he could say on this subject that you would want to hear. Instead, he tucks his books into his bag and fishes out a deck of cards from his jacket pocket. He deals them out silently but Dean has approached you before you can pick up your hand.
“Hit the road?” he asks, voice the slightest bit gruff.
You’re mildly surprised to see him again so soon. You had expected him to slip out the back with his company, but you’re just glad that the night is ending before he has enough drinks to start waxing poetic about how pretty you are and how he would kill any man for ‘just one chance with you’.
“Sure,” you say, standing up. Sam sighs and begins to scrape the cards back up from the grimy counter.
You don’t want the answer, but - “You get her number?”
You’re not sure if your voice comes across as teasing as you intend.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Dean gives you a sideways glance, almost perplexed. “Not my type.”
You’re not sure he has a type. The only prerequisite has always just been ‘pretty’, and he plays fast and loose with that rule too sometimes. You don’t say that, though. You don’t say anything.
The motel is far from the worst you’ve stayed in, but that doesn’t take the sting out of the broken shower. You get into a wrestle with it for a good thirty minutes, pulling the front cover off and fiddling around, before finally submitting.
You’re not sure that it’s an option to get front desk to call an electrician in. Not with salt scattered on the ground and pages of information about fairies and demons strewn across the room. So you end up outside Room 14 in your flip flops.
Sam gets the door. He glances down at the towel in your hand and smiles with amusement, opening the door wider for you to step inside. Their room is like yours - small and hot, with bland aspen furniture and an overhead fan that does very little to stave off the sticky closeness. The only difference is the cluster of empty beer bottles and the two single-beds rather than one.
“This place is a dump, huh.”
“It sure ain’t the Ritz.” you say. “Where’s Dumber?”
Sam sits down into a small wooden chair. It’s always funny to see him do that. He’s so tall, it looks almost like he’s folding himself in half. “He’s getting that address we’re after. He should be back in a few. I’m gonna go check it out at the town recorder’s office.”
“Want a hand?”
“I got it,” he says. “You go take your shower.”
You could argue and he would probably fold and accept your help. But the truth is, you’re sweaty and tired and would really rather save your energy for something more important than poring over housing records. You nod and head into the bathroom, towel in-hand.
The shower you take is hot. You use whatever products are already out on the tray. They’re probably Sam’s, because Dean is most likely the sort of person to have a 4-in-1 shampoo-conditioner-body wash-shaving gel combo. Your hair feels a little dry afterwards - you’re not sure whether to attribute that to the hot water or Sam’s all-natural shampoo - but you’re clean. Your muscles are loose and you feel good.
You spend a bit of time in front of the mirror once you’re out of the shower, scraping your fingers through your hair, scrubbing your fingernails with a brush, and thinking. Thinking about the job you’re on and then - reluctantly - thinking about Dean. Thinking about how he looked in the bar last night. Thinking about how he left without working up some action with that girl. He has been doing that a lot lately.
More than just lately, if you really wanted to think about it. You couldn’t say you remember the last time he had picked someone up - that you had seen, anyway. He’s been keeping it all out of sight. Either he’s become a born-again Christian, or he’s got some angle here. You don’t like thinking about it. It makes some twisted, hurt thing curl in your stomach.
Even so, you feel good. You really do. Your hair is wet and soaking through your white t-shirt, but at least it’s clean. And you got a decent sleep last night too so it’s shaping up to be a good day.
The good feelings evaporate once you open up the bathroom door.
“Goddamnit, Jesus f-”
Sam is gone. It’s just Dean in the room now, naked as the day he was born. You avert your eyes, but not fast enough. He dives for the towel on the bed and holds it over his crotch while your face swims with heat.
“Christ, Dean,” you choke.
“You’re in my room, angel. Can’t a man get naked within the safety of his own four walls?”
“Yeah- um. That’s fair. Sorry.” You’re still looking away, uneasy.
He cocks a humorous eye at you. “What you doin’ in here? You miss me?”
“I- Shower. Mine’s broken.”
“That so?”
You look at him then - you don’t really have a choice, his slow drawl doesn’t give you one - and have to stop yourself from hissing in a breath. You have seen glimpses of his bare torso here and there, but never in a setting where there was enough time to admire. Always with something bleeding out or infected or cursed. You have enough time to admire it now - the muscle built from dirty work and necessity rather than vanity, the scars and scratches painted across his chest. There are a few there for which you could name the source.
His muscles shift the slightest bit under your gaze and you realise you’ve forgotten what he’s asked you. “What?”
He laughs and the low sound sends a fresh wave of arousal flooding through you. Your thighs clench together tight. He’s watching you fight yourself, eyes dark. Your own eyes are currently fixed on his face but they’re a flight risk. “Y’know, I didn’t even know you were in there. A matter of five minutes and I could’ve been walkin’ in on you.”
Heat claws up your neck at the image. “I’m sorry. I figured Sam would have said something.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it. You’re welcome to take a shower here any time. In fact, f’you fancy another, I was just about to-”
“Shut up,” you groan. You try to look annoyed, but you’re truthfully relieved at the return to his usual cheeky forwardness. That’s easier to brush off.
But you do need to get the hell out of the room before you’re tempted into looking at anything but his face again. You bundle up your towel in your arms and tell him you’ll see him later. You don’t miss the disappointment that flashes there when you do.
“So ah…” Sam sucks in a breath, tucking the flashlight under his arm to slot little silver slugs into his gun. “What’s going on with you and Dean, huh?”
You’re tempted to act like you don’t know what he’s talking about, but it would just prolong the conversation.
“Sam,” you sigh. “Can we not?”
“What?” he laughs. “You don’t wanna talk about it?” He flicks his flashlight around the bedroom haphazardly - too fast to see very much of anything. You reach a hand out and clasp it over his to steady it.
“Not a good time.”
“When is a good time? When we get back to the motel? You wanna do this in front of Dean?”
You give him a thin stare that you’re not sure he can see in the dark - irritation pricking at you.
Sam has known how to grave-dig in a time crunch since he was twelve years old, but somehow has really never known when to leave well enough alone. This is the third time he’s tested this subject in the last week - albeit never this straightforward. You’re still working out whether this is something you can worm your way out of.
“Why don’t you check this room out and I’ll go downst-”
“Hey,” he says, voice still amused. “You’re not getting out of this. I will bring it up in front of Dean if I need to.”
You study him for a second longer.
He smiles. “Call my bluff, if you want. Your choice.”
You make an ugly noise that seems to start in your stomach, considering your words carefully for what feels like a long time. Little specks of dust float around in the beam of light leading from the flashlight to a little girl’s jewellery box. “There’s nothing going on with me and Dean.”
Sam barks a laugh - loud and seemingly involuntary. “Y’know, I really thought we weren’t gonna have to do the whole ‘playing dumb’ thing-”
“I’m not playing dumb.” You throw him a flat look, opening the jewellery box. You wind it up and some dainty, tinkling tune you don’t recognise begins to play. The ballerina in the box spins around jerkily and mechanically. “There’s nothing going on between the two of us.”
“He admitted it. Multiple times-”
“He was drunk.”
He scoffs, a harsh noise from the back of his throat. “I mean I’m sorry but that’s just bullshit. Even if he was drunk, I’ve got eyes.”
“And what do your eyes tell you, Sam?” you ask him shortly.
“That you guys are into each other. Very into each other.”
“He’s been trying to get me to sleep with him since I first met you guys in Louisiana. This isn’t breaking news.”
“But it’s different now than it ever was before. He’s been diff-”
“Stop.”
“I’m serious! He’s different. And so are you. You never used to give him the time of day before and now you look at him all starry-eyed. It’s been months of this.”
“And?”
He looks over at you from the child-sized vanity table where he has found a small oil lamp, the glass cracked. He takes a lighter out of his pocket and jerks his thumb over it three times until a weak flame bursts out. When a dim brightness swims into the room, you can clearly make out the childlike befuddlement on Sam’s features.
“And,” he stresses, “you’re clearly lying when you say there’s nothing there.”
“I didn’t say there’s nothing there.”
He frowns. “Yes you did-”
“I said there’s nothing going on.”
He rolls his eyes. “Okay, if you wanna be a stickler. There could be something going on.”
“No, there couldn’t.”
Sam turns to face you - the search paused for now. A twitch of uncharacteristic impatience flashes across his face, glowing with the illumination of the lamp. “Why are you talking in riddles-”
“Sam - I don’t know if there’s ‘something there’ between myself and Dean. I don’t know. You say we’re into each other. Okay. Say we are. I don’t know. What can you see happening between us? You think he’s gonna suddenly decide to settle down? That he’ll just- go the distance with one girl for the rest of his life? Be serious.”
He wasn’t expecting you to say that. His eyes dart around your face for a moment, then quickly away. You continue.
“What’s far more likely is that something happens one night and everything gets awkward and I have to find new hunting partners which would really suck. Or worse, we try to make it work and it fails after two weeks, because we both know he’s not exactly a one-woman kinda guy. And I might not exactly be a traditionalist in most senses, but I-” You surprise yourself by choking on your words slightly, throat closing up. “But I still can’t share him. I’d rather not have him at all.”
You probably didn’t need to say that much. Sam is looking around the room like a guilty puppy, face flushed. You can still read a sliver of doubt there, like he is tempted to argue. He decides against it.
“Can we drop it now?” you ask. Your own voice echoes in your skull - weak and defeated. He nods, finally looking back at you with an apologetic smile.
You return it but you know it’s wavering. “I’ll check downstairs.”
You reckon you can spot the signs before anyone else does. It’s always somewhere with a relatively young population - doesn’t have to be a city, but it’s never an ageing, rural town where the only bar regulars are older men with beer bellies and shotguns.
It starts with a group of girls that look a bit too young to be there. They never approach, but their eyes flicker over far too often to be considered the standard ‘checking out a hottie’ once-over. Then it’s the barmen who give your table cold, assessing glances. And then it’s the attention of any and all single women in the bar - the way they size you up, the way they monitor every single arm movement, every twitch of your face to see whether you’re the lucky girl who has managed to take someone like Dean - handsome, mysterious, new - off the market.
Those are the signs that there is about to be a gold rush. And you’d really rather not be there to see it, but there aren’t many exit options when Sam is across the booth from yourself and Dean with a map open, dragging his pointer finger along it while he expounds on the folklore of the area in excruciating detail.
“-but obviously these fairies are different. And it didn’t make sense until I saw this. Look - the tree was in the exact location of the Stewart family home. My best guess is that the Stewarts cut it down to build their home. That’s what they’re avenging.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Dean interjects. “What about the other families? if it’s just about the tree, why wouldn’t they just quit after the Stewarts?”
“That’s the thing - I think the cutting down of the tree unlocked something. I think the tree was their home. And now their only motive now is chaos.”
“Well shit,” you sigh. “That makes it a lot more difficult.”
“How?” Dean says.
You frown at the apathy in his voice. “Well we can’t exactly exterminate them for that, right? I mean, they lost their home. They might not have anywhere else to go.”
“They’re destroying people’s homes.”
“But they haven’t killed anyone-”
“Yet.”
You sigh. “And who’s to say they will? You can’t punish them for stuff they haven’t done.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “What- you wanna buy a condo for them? Put them up in a fairy hotel?”
You try to look vexed. “Don’t piss me off.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, angel.”
Your smile breaks but you change course quickly because Sam is starting to look like he is proving a point. “I just think- Maybe if we figured out whether we could get them to inhabit another tree, it would be better for everyone.”
Sam shrugs. “Worth a try. I’ll look into it.”
You give him a grateful smile.
Dean nudges you with an elbow. “Soft touch.”
You scoff. “C’mon, you can’t tell me you don’t see where they’re coming from. I’d be pretty pissed off if someone flattened my home with no warning.”
“Good thing you’ve been on the road since you were ten then-”
“Low blow.”
He’s giving you that fucking lopsided smile again, wrinkles appearing beside his lips and eyes. He’s gone all hazy and lovelorn again, and this time he hasn’t even had half of his drink. And you’ve been trying really fucking hard not to picture him naked like you had seen him in the motel just yesterday but you’re failing. He leans in, opening his mouth to speak, but-
“Excuse me.”
This girl is more confident than the last and even prettier too. She’s in all-black with brunette hair that falls to her waist. She purses her lips into a shrewd smile, eyes laser focused on Dean. “I just wanted to see if you’re single?”
You know your cue when you see it. You’re halfway out the booth when Dean’s strong arm over your shoulder pulls you back. He tucks you in close under his arm, body pressed against his, your thigh finding its way over his own inadvertently. You look up at him, questioning, but he doesn’t look back.
Instead, he shoots a tight smile to the girl standing at the booth. “No. Sorry.”
Sam’s head snaps up from his book. A beat passes.
To give her credit, she takes it in her stride. She nods, smiles a bit uncomfortably at the two of you and makes her way back to her own table where her friends are pretending not to be looking over. You’ve gone stiff under Dean’s arm and there’s a sticky sort of dryness sitting in your throat, but he doesn’t release you. You wonder if it’s the kind of night where he gets too drunk and tells you how bad he wants you to be his while yourself and Sam jostle him back to the motel.
You want to hate him. You really want to hate him for doing this to you. And if you can’t hate him, you would settle for just feeling indifferent or just feeling friendly things towards him. But you don’t know how when he has you tucked under his arm like this, smile on his pretty face like he won some goddamn prize. You don’t know how to not want this all the time.
You don’t want to look at Sam, but you do. He’s got a surprised amusement playing on his face, coupled with a very distinct ‘I’m-trying-not-to-look-too-satisfied’ smile. You speak only because it seems like nobody else is about to.
“Never thought I’d see the day Dean Winchester opts out of a hook-up,” you laugh. It falls flat. Sam stays silent. Dean only frowns down at you for a split-second before his eyes dart away again. His expression is hard to read, but he doesn’t seem pleased.
You can’t help but feel you made a misstep - like that was the wrong thing to say. Thirty seconds go by and then a full minute. Sam is back to poring over the journal. Dean doesn’t say anything. You clear your throat, as if planning to speak, but you can’t think of much to say. You feel a helpless sort of trepidation. It’s all very pointless and stupid.
“I’m, um, I’m gonna get a drink,” you say, unweaving yourself from Dean. Your glass is far from being empty and you see Dean glance at it for just a second. “Anyone want anything?”
Dean still says nothing, but Sam taps his empty bottle twice with a smile. You’re relieved to find that you’re not deliberately being given the silent treatment. You nod at him and make your way up to the bar.
There aren’t many people waiting to be served, but you don’t immediately try to make eye contact with the barman. You’d rather have a moment away from whatever the hell that atmosphere was anyway.
Word must have gotten around, or maybe everyone had been watching Dean’s arm curling itself over your shoulder in response to the pretty girl who had approached, because nobody else goes up to the table. The gold rush is over.
Dean and Sam are deep in conversation, leaned forward and speaking intensely. It’s hard to get a read on either of them - they’re doing that push-and-pull thing they always do - but you have the distinct impression that they’re talking about you. You’re glad that you can’t hear what they’re saying.
You build the image of Dean in your mind again, when you joked about him uncharacteristically rejecting a hook up. His brows pulled low, a slight pout on his lips. Had you offended him? Or is he starting to get frustrated at your unwavering commitment to not sleeping with him?
You can admit that you have been giving him mixed signals. It’s not an intentional thing. But he looks at you with his bright green eyes and it's alluring and tender and it feels like it’s just for you. And you can’t help yourself. Your stomach goes warm and your lips get loose and all you can focus on is keeping that look on his face for as long as possible. So maybe you are to blame for all of this.
“Can I get you a drink?”
You almost sigh in response, turning around to look at the man who has lodged himself against the bar to your right. He has his elbow perched on the bar, leaned against it in a way that could look casual and cool if he were a little bit shorter. But he’s stretching himself awkwardly to reach it. He’s got black hair, slicked back but is otherwise fairly nondescript. Just another face. Just like anyone else.
“I’m ok, thanks. I’m buying two.”
He smiles, shrugging. “Let me buy you two.”
You look at him closer now, suspiciously. You raise an eyebrow and he smiles wider. “What you wanna do that for?”
“Call it an act of kindness.”
You huff a laugh. “I’m not in the habit of accepting those. Doesn’t tend to work out well in my line of work.”
“What’s your line of work?”
You don’t answer, finally catching the eye of the barman instead. You give him your order and the guy to your right makes a gesture for him to put it on his tab.
“You here with anyone?”
You point to the booth behind you where Sam and Dean are seated without looking away from the barman fixing your drink. He looks behind him and then back.
“Either of them your boyfriend?”
You hesitate, an uncomfortable feeling clawing its way around your gut. “Yes.”
You’re not always averse to flirting. Any other day you might even give this guy the time of day. He’s no Dean but he’s not bad looking. He’s dressed pretty well, in a crisp white shirt and a well-fitting pair of vintage Levis. You just don’t see any point in it right now. Not when Dean is unoccupied and you can take up some more of his attention. Not when you can feed that ugly, cruel thing in your brain and stomach. You’re doing a terrible job of shaking off this sickness.
“Which one?”
“Blonde.”
“Damn,” he smiles. “Well if you get tired of him…”
“I’m good,” you say with a tight smile, grabbing the glass and bottle the barman had placed in front of you. “Thanks for the drinks.”
It’s only when you turn to walk back to the table that you notice that Sam and Dean have seemingly finished their conversation. All of their focus is now on you.
Sam thanks you when you put the bottle down in front of him. You slide in beside Dean once again, but keep a safe foot or so of space between you.
“I swear all these honky tonk bars have the same damn playlist or jukebox or whatever,” Sam says. “If I have to hear Sweet Caroline one more time I’m gonna-”
“Have fun up there?” Dean interrupts with a cutting look at you. Sam licks his lips and heaves a tired sigh, like he knew this was coming.
“Not particularly…” you start slowly.
“No? Sure looked like it.”
You should probably feel a bit defensive at his tone, but you’re mostly just fascinated. Dean’s eyes are bulging - the way they bulge when he’s feeling really frantic while on a job. His face has gone fire-engine red. You look him over, then at Sam, questioningly.
Sam looks between the two of you. “I think maybe it’s time we turn in-”
“Not ready yet,” Dean says punchily. “Knock yourself out.”
Sam gives you a look - an offer to go with him - and you hesitate. It’s probably the better idea to go back to the motel with Sam. Let Dean blow off some steam with whatever girl is morally ok with banging some guy that, as far as she’s concerned, has a girlfriend. But the idea of it doesn’t sit right with you.
You shake your head and Sam nods. You can’t help but feel that it’s the kind of nod that indicates you made the right decision. Whatever the hell that might mean. He picks up his jacket and mutters something about getting one of the cabs nearby.
Dean takes up Sam’s untouched drink. He still isn’t looking at you.
You’re not stupid. You know that Dean’s sudden bad mood likely has something to do with the guy chatting you up unsuccessfully at the bar. His chances of getting laid were under threat. He probably wouldn't have reacted half as bad if he hadn’t turned down a pretty girl a few minutes prior.
And you don’t really have anyone that you can blame for this except yourself. Because you’re the one who set those expectations, even if you didn’t mean to. You’re the one who is dragging this on longer than it has any business being, because you’re selfish and you know that the minute you make those clarifications, he will accept defeat. He will change his behaviour out of respect for your decision, which should be a good thing.
But those little bits of him that you can clasp onto - the flirty back-and-forth, the not-so-accidental touches, the longing stares - are things that would hurt to lose. They’re things that your day would be much greyer without. You’ve prioritised them over your friendship with Dean, your job, your sanity. But it’s coming to a head now and you’re not sure how much longer you can wait before things start to collapse around you.
Dean clears his throat awkwardly, eyes still straight ahead. “Sorry.”
You blink. “That’s okay. Do you wanna…”
“Talk about it?” he asks sardonically. “I’m good.”
You nod, a short pause settling between the two of you. You tap on the glass of your drink just to fill the silence with something, but your mind is still on Dean.
He huffs a breathy laugh. “What’d I say? Twitchy. S’how I can tell you’re thinking.”
“Not twitchy. And of course I’m thinking.”
“‘Bout what?”
“Thought you said you didn’t wanna talk.”
“Yeah, I don’t wanna talk. Never said I didn’t want you to.”
You giggle and his mouth breaks into a smile. “Well, that’s just too bad. I’m not in the monologuing kinda mood.”
“C’mon, sweetheart. Help me out here.”
You frown. Dean just keeps on looking ahead. It had seemed like a good idea to talk about everything a few moments ago but somehow the idea of vocalising your thoughts is a little repulsive now. “You first.”
He sighs and it’s more than exasperation or any leftover frustration from the man at the bar. He sounds tired. “I was thinkin’ about you.”
You hesitate. “Oh?”
“Yeah.”
You’re ready for a bite of sarcasm or teasing or some ridiculously, outlandishly flirty remark but it doesn’t come. Just a long, thoughtful pause. You’re terrified and fascinated but you don’t bother wondering what he’s going to say. You need to give up wondering about things. There’s no point in it anymore. It just makes your head spin.
“I’d like to give you what you want,” he says finally. “I just don’t know what that is.”
“What do you mean?” you ask, even though you’re pretty sure you know exactly what he means.
“I can’t tell if you’d like me to leave you alone or if you want…” he trails off.
“I don’t want you to leave me alone,” you say, nervously. “I’d never want that.”
He looks at you now, eyes half-lidded and sleepy. He is wearing some beaten down expression. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“But you don’t… want me.”
It’s not quite put as a question, but it’s more uncertain than a statement - somewhere in between. You look at him with your mouth just slightly open for one very still, silent moment, before a loud click from the pool table makes you jump.
“I…”
You’re hoping that he’ll make this easier for you by brushing it off, but he is not letting you escape this. His eyes are soft and open, almost pained, but his mouth is set in a resolute line.
You could lie. You could tell him you don’t want him. You could keep it all to yourself - how you want him in every way possible, how you wake up every morning with his voice in your ears and his face in your eye-line, even when he’s not there. It doesn’t seem fair, but you entertain the possibility for just a moment. It would be awkward, but Dean’s a big boy and he has gotten over rejection before. You’ve seen it.
But you’d have to be stronger to do that. You’d have to be able to stop looking at him like he has sunshine pouring out of the pores on his skin. You’d have to stop taking his side in every debate with Sam and you’d have to stop sniffing around like a dog for scraps of his attention. It’s not something you could do. It’s selfish, but you’d rather put the responsibility on Dean of severing whatever the hell you have going on. He would know how to do it much better than you ever would.
“That’s not true,” you choke, just as you see the light beginning to die in Dean’s hopeful gaze. Something flashes there now, brighter than ever. “It’s not that I don’t- That’s not it.”
“Then what?”
“It’s just that I wouldn’t only want that. I would want more.”
His face shifts, mouth downturned. “You- uh, you not into the whole monogamy thing?”
You hiss in a breath. “No! That’s not what I mean-”
“It’s- uh. I mean, I-”
“Dean.” You give him a flat look before turning away. “That’s not what I meant.”
He sighs after a brief, silent suspension. “Sweetheart, I’m no good at riddles. That’s more Sammy’s thing.”
You look back at him with a sort of forced gravity when all you feel is desperation. “I don’t think you know what you’re asking for. Because I don’t just want-” you sigh. “I am into the whole monogamy thing. That’s the problem.”
“Why’s that gotta be a problem?” The way he’s speaking is almost indecently gentle.
“Because I love you.” You force yourself not to look at him when you say it, staring directly ahead at the old jukebox in the corner. “Which is a problem in itself. But you don’t need to- I mean, I’m not expecting-”
Why is this so fucking hard? You’re bumbling around with your words and you might be on the verge of tears.
“You’re not expecting what?”
“For it to mean anything.”
“Why wouldn’t it mean anything?” He sounds urgent now, almost desperate.
“Because it’s not realistic. C’mon Dean, you’re you.”
The silence stretches between you. When it hits a certain point, you hazard a look at his face. He’s like a hurt animal. Like you had just torn open a wound.
“And what the hell does me being me have anything to do with it? I could do it. The whole thing, I could do it with you.” He’s giving you a controlled look but his jaw is clenching and his voice is trembling.
“Dean-”
“I love you too, angel.”
It hits you like a bullet, but you try not to let it show. It would be so easy to forego all your reasonable doubts, let yourself fall into the childish fantasy that Dean could love you and it might actually end well. He’s still looking at you with wide, hurt eyes. It would be so easy, when you know that one word from you could wipe the look from his face
You shake your head, ignoring the way he grabs your hand. Ignoring how it feels in your own, rough fingers brushing over your knuckles. “It’s not going to work.”
“Why not?”
“The women, Dean-”
“No women. There’s no women.”
You smile but there’s nothing behind it. “There’s always women.”
“Not for a damn long time.”
You look at him steadily. “That’s not true,” you say, but you don’t say it well. You sound weak and uncertain. It only occurs to you after saying it that you might also feel that way.
His eyes are blazing now and you feel a bit like an insect, trapped under a glass. He’s watching you try to wiggle your way out.
“You really haven’t noticed? Sweetheart, I haven’t touched a woman in months. My balls look like a Smurf’s.”
Your mouth goes dry. “How many months?”
“I dunno. Since before Tulsa.”
It has been many months since then. Many, many months. “Wh-what happened in Tulsa?”
“You started lookin’ at me different. Like, all smiley and cute. Made me think I had a chance so I got my ass on the straight and narrow.”
You look at him. You’re trying to figure out if he’s fucking with you. You can’t tell, but you also don’t think Dean would lie to you about this. Maybe a lie to protect you, or maybe a white lie about why you can’t use his laptop right now because he has to ‘um, send an email first’… but not a lie about this. And his eyes are so soft on yours. He can’t be lying.
And if you want to think about it - you really hadn’t seen him take anyone home in a very long time. You had just assumed he was. You think back to the girl who approached the table earlier. And then about the one from two days ago. And then the one from the last town over. And the one that looked like a damn supermodel a month or two ago. All were turned away by Dean and you had thought that was strange at the time - you just didn’t know it was because of you.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I did.”
You roll your eyes. “Sober.”
He breathes in. “You look at me sometimes like you want me but whenever I try to do somethin’ about it, you get all twitchy and clear off before I can blink.”
You pout, but a smile is threatening to break. “I’m not-”
“Yeah y’are,” he say, looking at you with so much affection that it warms your skin. He smiles as if he just gave you a compliment. “I didn’t know what you wanted. I still don’t.”
You look back at him, nervous, hesitant. “I want you. But only if I never have to share you with anyone.”
Sun spills out of his smile. He puts a gentle hand over your jaw and brings your face to his. You spend a few short seconds waiting, breathing each other’s air. “Angel. That won’t be a problem.”
Dean kisses you.
“What were you thinkin’, huh?”
You don’t have enough breath in your lungs to reply. You make a strained noise at the back of your throat instead. Dean shifts above you, pressing in harder, and you gasp. Your fingers grip his bare shoulders, trying to get some sort of leverage. The skin is damp with sweat under your touch.
“You’re crazy for thinkin’ I want any other pussy but this one for the rest of my damn life. Fuck- sweetheart, knew you’d feel this good.”
“You thought about this?” It comes out a bit too breathy to be teasing, but you are smiling up at him and he huffs a soft laugh back. He thrusts in hard, tip of his cock hitting a soft, pleasurable spot inside you, and you gasp at the overwhelming fullness of him.
“Shit, angel,” he grunts. “Haven’t thought about anything else since I met you. Can’t get your pretty face outta my damn head. Drives me up the fuckin’ wall every single day when you go to another room, knowing I’m not gonna be able to fuck you like I want to. Or when you stretch out all cute in the backseat and I’m just- shit, I’m hard as a fuckin’ rock, waiting to get back to the motel or to some service station toilet so I can rub one out.”
Your voice catches in your throat. Tears prickle behind your eyes. “Thought about you too.”
“Yeah?” You see his eyes shining above you. His movements are hard and slow - you’re sure it’s at least in some part down to the fact that he’s trying to stave off his own orgasm after months of no action - but it makes it much more intense. Your heart is aching pleasantly in your chest.
“Yeah.” You nod. “All the time. Wanted you so bad, Dean, but I didn’t-“
“Y’didn’t think I was serious,” he finishes. You nod.
He leans down to give you a filthy kiss, hips still rolling into your own. His mouth is hungry against your own - one hand perched beside your head to hold him up and the other clasping your jaw. “Sweetheart, I’m dead fuckin’ serious.” Your body arches into his when he hits particularly deep, tits pressing up against his chest. “Never gonna get enough of you. So fuckin’ gorgeous. Feel so good around my cock. Finally lettin’ me give you what you deserve.”
You sigh, bliss spilling into every inch of your body. Dean backs up, putting both hands under your knees and pulling your legs up, hitting an unfamiliar spot. The muscles in your legs quiver at the foreign sensation - the immense pleasure of it. Dean’s eyes droop down to them and he smiles lazily. “Twitchy.”
You’re about to say something sarcastic, but he starts driving his hips forward and any cohesive thought you might have previously had evaporates. He’s so much deeper like this. You moan, eyes rolling back into your head.
“Fuck. That’s right baby, lemme feel it,” he grunts. “Tight cunt pullin’ me in. S’like I belong in here, huh.”
You nod at him, face twisted up and body squirming around him.
He breathes a light laugh which you can only assume is aimed at your fucked-out expression. “Can’t believe you’ve been keepin’ this away from me, sweetheart. Should be fuckin’ illegal. S’okay though, I’ll make up for it. Gonna fuck you six ways to Sunday. Just keep lookin’ at me like that, sweet girl.”
You should have known that Dean would be like this in bed. It’s not enough that he’s the funniest, most charismatic person you know. Or that he’s the love of your life, whose face you had tried and failed to evict from its residence in your brain for almost a year - more, if you want to be completely honest with yourself. No - he has to have a stupidly big cock and a filthy mouth too. You’ve never in your life been this wet, but then you’ve never in your life been eaten out and fucked by Dean Winchester.
“Fuck me-” he chokes out. “You’re so gorgeous, sweetheart. Y’look so beautiful like this. All pretty and ruined for me while I pound that tight, wet fucking pussy. Gonna bust early. You gonna let me come inside?”
You should probably should be ashamed of the fact that you don’t even think about it. One of Dean’s hands leaves your leg to rub against your clit - already swollen from his tongue earlier. The tight ball of need is growing in your lower stomach again. “Please, Dean-” you whine. “Need it. Need to feel you, please. I love you.”
He kisses you again - hot and deep. “Knew you’d let me fill you up, sweetheart. Such an angel, y’know that? My good girl lettin’ me fill her up and make her mine. I love you too, baby. Love you so much it makes me crazy.”
A whimper breaks out of your lips when you lock eyes. His gaze is locked on you intensely and you’re not sure how you never saw it before - all the soft love and awe and devotion written there. His breath has gone short, eyes boring into your own. It almost feels silly now. How could Dean ever want anyone else when he looks at you like that?
You flutter around him, the tight ball in your stomach beginning to loosen.
“Give it to me, baby - I got you,” Dean grunts, face pinched in a sort of pained bliss, eyes half-lidded.
You clench down on him as you become undone and he moans at the sensation, beginning to spill himself inside. The idea of him filling you up makes you crash harder.
“Got you, angel. Fuck, so good to me, lettin’ me give you all my cum. I love you. My best girl.” Dean talks you through it, body going tense around you, movements dogged and rough, eventually pattering out into shallow thrusts.
His eyes are bleary and confused when he finally stops spilling his load into you. He drops down beside you, pulling you onto your side with one hand so he does not immediately have to pull out of you. You end up with one leg over his hip - positioned in a way that is awkward but not uncomfortable. He presses kisses around your face lazily, holding your body close against his own.
Your body begins to twitch tiredly from exertion, legs quivering. “Don’t,” you grunt. He laughs and your body vibrates with the force of it.
Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Demon Dean, Mark of Cain Dean, love confessions, angst with a happy ending, smut
Summary/Warnings: Dean's been avoiding you since he stopped being a demon, and it's not for the reason you think.
Author's Note: Request from an anon! The Demon Dean haircut haunts all my dreams. Let that man be blond.
Word Count: 5.4k
“Dean?” You slam your fist on the door, pausing before you call out again. “Dean Winchester, I know you’re in there.”
Nothing. You let out a long slow, breath, but he still doesn’t open the goddamn door.
“Dean, I just want to talk. I brought you pie.” You pause, taking a deep breath. “Please open the door.”
You keep knocking, some tiny part of you still expecting him to open it. He won’t. You know he won’t.
But you’re going to keep trying.
At least until he looks you in the eyes, and says it to your face.
He needs to say that he’s done with you. Admit that he’s either avoiding you because of some curse Sam is keeping secret, or just trying to get out of the conversation. The one that’s been due since he got turned back into a human, the one he’s been running around corners and hightailing it out of the garage to have.
It’s crueler, though. If he ever felt anything for you at all, he’d just tell you. That you did something wrong, or you did nothing, but he just simply doesn’t feel it anymore. And that might rip you in half, but at least you’ll know this is over.
This.
This unnamed thing, that had been growing before the Mark, then bloomed into something real the moment Dean showed up in your room and begged you to help him feel something good.
You had. There was no world where you turned him away. Where, whenever he gave you that look after—raised brows and a small smirk, making heat flood between your thighs and your cheeks flush—you didn’t stumble after him into the nearest closet or bathroom or private corner of the room.
It was an easy task, making Dean feel good. You’d been studying from the moment you met him, and a stupid joke made him laugh. It had been the best fucking sound in the world, and you might have sold the most critical parts of your soul and body just to keep hearing it. It had become some sort of hymn, where you fell to your knees and worshipped at the alter, letting him give you whatever he wanted back.
And he gave.
Dean gave you kisses and whispered praise in the dark, his hand when you walked through bars and then his chest, pressed to you back while you watch a movie. He gave you everything except that last piece—the one that told you what this was—and then he gave you nothing at all.
It didn’t start when he died, though. Dean as a demon had given you the time of day more than Dean now did. Demon Dean—Deanmon?—had been harsher, and didn’t even hold you like he thought you were going to run, but he held you. And you’d been a foolish, lovesick dumbass, and let him.
“Can’t believe I ever fucking thought you’d leave me,” he’d drawled, hovering open you on the bed, two fingers buried deep in your cunt. “Nobody else touches you like this, do they, baby? Nobody makes you stupid on their cock like I do, you couldn’t leave me if you fucking tried.”
You stared up at him, mouth permanently slack with pleasure and all the energy long gone from your body. You’d been here for hours, and every dirty word out of Dean’s mouth had only made you come more and more apart. ‘
“Can’t fucking answer me, pretty girl?” He’d been mocking, and when you’d just stared at him, he’d grabbed your chin and spat into your mouth. “Fucking answer me-“
“Nobody.” You’d whispered, arching off the bed with a whine as he started to rub furious circle on your clit. “Just you- Dean-“
“I know,” he’d cooed, slapping your cheek as he slammed his cock back into you, without warning. “Such a good fucking slut, taking my dick like you should. Christ, it’s like you made to be my whore, pussy feels so fucking tight-“
You’d moaned, eyes rolling back in your head as he dragged out your tenth orgasm of the night, and you wish you could regret it. You’d went there to try and talk him into coming back, but then he’d kissed you and everything had just melted into Dean. Kissing you like he owned you, sneering possessive words in your ear and coaxing you back into his bed with barely a few words.
So you couldn’t regret it. He’d been at his darkest point, but he’d wanted you. And you were supposed to be there for him, when he needed, so your dignity as he painted your whole body with his release—over and over until Sam had decided you were taking a worrying amount of time—had been a small price to pay when Dean might want you.
Maybe you’d lost him right there. Dean didn’t want you around because you’d taken advantage of him, when he wasn’t himself. That was why, the moment he’d been human, he’d stopped talking to you in more than grunts. Why he left the room whenever you entered. Why he wouldn’t pick up the phone, answer any of your texts, or even tell Sam what was going on.
You might have to leave the bunker, if it was that. He needed to feel safe in his own home, and you’d survived without him before. You’d never be able to go back to not loving him, but at least you could make him feel better, if leaving was what he needed from you.
You fucking prayed it wasn’t.
But at this point, you just wanted to know.
“Dean,” you sigh, dropping your brow against the door. “Please. I’ll leave after, if that’s what you want-“
You cut yourself off with a yelp, as the door is yanked open. Stumbling forward with the pie tight in your hands, everything happening too fast for you to brace your fall-
Strong arms catch you. Move you upright slowly, before big hands take the pie and set it off to the side.
You look up, and Dean is staring at you, eyes wide and face pale.
You haven’t really seen him, since he stopped being the demon.
He looks so fucking tired. But when you reach up to trace his jaw, you have to yank your hand back.
If the way his jaw clenches is any sign, Dean doesn’t want you to touch him at all.
And now, as he clears his throat and stares at the floor, you have to hear him say it.
“Don’t leave.” He grunts, and- That’s not what he’s supposed to say. “I’ll go, if I gotta. But this is your home. You shouldn’t leave it, just ‘cause of me.
“Dean, I- I don’t want to leave.” You frown, tilting your head at him. “But I’m only here because you and Sam let me-“
He lets out a dry snort. “Please, we’d be running around like freakin’ chickens without you. Sammy can’t cook. I can’t decorate-“
“I can’t clean.” You mumble, staring down at your hands. “I need you, too, Dean. But- If you need me to go-“
“I don’t.” He grunts, and when you glance up, he won’t look you in the eyes. “Need you.”
There it is.
That’s it. Dean doesn’t need you. It’s better if you go, because Dean doesn’t need you.
“Oh- Okay.” You sniff, shoving down the pain in your chest until you can get back to your room. You’ll collapse on the floor, then start packing once it passes.
The pain.
The pain will have to pass.
Loving Dean simply won’t.
But you’ve loved and lost him before.
“I- I’m sorry.” You whisper, and it’s hard to speak over the lump in your throat. “I’ll give Sam my keys.”
Dean’s head shoots up, and before you can walk away, he’s grabbing your wrist with a panicked expression. “Wait, that’s not what I-“
“Dean.” You sigh, giving him the best sweet smile you can drag together right now. “It’s okay.”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s not-“
“I get it-“
“Son of bitch,” he hisses your name. “You don’t, don’t leave, I- I don’t give a shit if it’s selfish, I don’t want you to goddamn leave-“
“You don’t have to justify it.” You mutter, and this hurts more than if he just kicked you out onto the street. “I know what I did-“
“What you did?” He gapes at you, and you frown.
“Yeah?”
“No, you- You’re perfect, baby- Fuck-“
God, he hasn’t called you baby since the Demon thing. And it makes you feel sort of high , but he looks like he’s tearing himself apart from the inside out. You want to help him. But you’re frozen. It’s all moving too fast, and you don’t have a single fucking idea what he’s talking about. “Dean-“
“No, I- I’m the one who should leave.” He squares his shoulders, giving you a determined look. “I’ll leave. Just tell me to damn leave, sweetheart, and I’ll go.”
It’s your turn to gape, your voice becoming barely a breath. “No.”
“Don’t feel bad about it, I know what I did, just damn say it-“
“What you did?”
Dean nods, then suddenly released your wrist like it’s burning through his skin. “Fuck- I- I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be touchin’ you-“
No. No. He needs to keep touching you, now. Needs to keep looking at you like you’re made of stardust, and he’s trying to keep you from slipping through his fingers. Nothing he’s saying is making sense, though. It’s as if he doesn’t understand that you’re already stuck to his skin. That he couldn’t lose you if he tried.
“Dean.” You force your voice to be firm, and he looks up at you with a hopeless weight in his eyes.
You’d like to share it with him. If he’s still going to let you.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He recoils like you’re trying to bite him, and fuck, maybe you said the wrong thing-
“Don’t say that.” He mutters your name, and you frown.
“You didn’t, I’m the one that-“
“I hurt you.” He pushes the words between his teeth, and you freeze. “Even more than I hurt Sam and Cas, and- Christ, baby, I know you didn’t want to see me, I shouldn’t have opened the door-“
“No!” That one was allowed, and Dean stared up at you. “Dean, I- I’m the one that hurt you-
He snorts. “You know, that not your fault shit doesn’t work when you try to act like your the one who did something wrong-“
“I did.” You whisper. “You weren’t yourself, and I- I let you touch me-“
Dean grunts your name. “I was myself. I remember every goddamn second of that, I treated you like shit-“
“I liked it.” You whisper, and he blinks at you, jaw clenching tighter. “I really liked it, Dean. I- I liked feeling like I was yours.”
He’s looking at you like you’ve grown a third head. “But you’re not mine.”
You flush, the painful truth of that slamming right into your chest, and a weak noise leaves your throat as you take a step back.
“Shit- Wait-“
“I-“ You swallow. You won’t cry in front of him. “I’m sorry, I’ll go-“
“No, I- Fuck, baby-“ Dean lurches forward, grabbing your face between his hand.
And he’s touching you so softly again. It only makes the tears fall faster.
“Don’t cry,” he mutters, almost sounding desperate. “It’s not you, sweet girl, I meant- Goddamnit-“
You sniff, shaking your head. “It- It’s okay-“
“No, it’s not. You are mine, baby, but I- I got no right to call you that- Please stop crying, sweetheart, it’s alright-“
“Dean, I-“ You’re leaning into him, and at this point, it’s just masochism. “I am yours-“
“No, you’re not.” There’s that fucking weight again. Moved into his voice, sounding almost painful. “I hurt you, I don’t- You-“
“Don’t say I deserve better.” You whisper, forcing yourself to meet his gaze, and it’s fogged. Glazed with adoration and pain. Like this might be hurting him as much as you. Like maybe you’ve gotten something wrong, and Dean doesn’t want you to go.
And if there’s any chance to salvage this, you’re going to grab it by your fucking teeth.
“Well, you do,” he mutters, trying to pull back, but you grab him. Keep him right against you.
He could shove you off, easily.
He doesn’t.
“I don’t.”
He grunts your name, and you shake your head.
“No, Dean. If- I loved it. I loved being yours, I- loved you wanting me, and I took advantage of that, because I-” Your grip tightens against him. “I love you.”
Dean stares at you, and all you can hear is your own heavy, ragged breath and heartbeat. You said it. Aloud. There’s no going back, and at least if you read this wrong, you’ll know there was never any hope anyway. That you’d been right from the start, and Dean could never really be yours.
But his hands are still holding you softly. And his voice is hoarse when he speaks.
“Please don’t say that, baby.”
You shake your head. It’s the only thing you know, you have to say it. “Dean, I love you-“
“Don’t say that,” his grip tightens, grip tightening slightly. “You don’t mean it-“
“Yes, I do. You don’t have to love me back-“
“Of course I fuckin’ love you back.” It falls out of him in a second, and everything in the world seems to be floating.
He loves you. Dean loves you, and this isn’t over.
It’s barely even really begun.
“I love you,” he repeats, dropping his brow against yours. “I can’t stop, baby, I’ve tried, just to save you- But I can’t. Even when I was just some scum of the earth demon, still managed to love you- It’s the only goddamn thing I’m sure of-“
“Dean-“
“But you can’t love me.” He rasps, tugging you a little closer. “If you love me, I’m gonna lose you. I’m never gonna give you the life you deserve, and you should never have even given me the time of day. Talking to me puts a bounty on your freakin’ head, baby. Loving me is going to put a mark on your back.”
There are too many things for you to say to him about them. You’ve had a target on your back, just from knowing him and living this life, so loving him is going to be a reward. There’s no bounty on your head you couldn’t outrun, outsmart, outlive, in order to stay by his side. There isn’t such thing as a life you deserve, only a dark and lonely one without Dean, and a good one with him.
But they all start and end the same way.
With Dean.
So it’s easier to say that.
“You’re allowed to have good things, Dean.” You let your lips brush over his, and his eyes squeeze shut. “And even if you’re not, I want you. I want to be yours.” You let your voice go soft and pleading, your fingers curling on his chest. “Please let me be yours.”
You can watch the words sink into him. He opens his eyes—darkened and blown out with lust—as he slowly scans you over, running his thumb over your lower lip.
“Say it again.”
You open your mouth again, just enough for his thumb to slip between your lips, and you suck on him slowly until releasing it with a pop.
“I love you,” you say, making your voice as confident as you can, and Dean’s eyes flash. “And I’m yours.”
His throat bobs. “Are you-“
“I’m sure.” You pause. “Dean, if you’re not-“
Your words turn into a long moan as he slams his mouth over yours, the kiss hot and rough and desperate as he walks you back against the wall. One hand grabs your throat to tip your head back, offering him further, deep access, and the other grabs your wrists and pins them over your head. He unforgiving, in the depth of the kiss. His tongue is claiming your mouth like you’re going to vanish under his touch, his body pressed to yours until it’s all you can feel. Fingers drop down to dancing up your side, until he’s palming at your breaths, the vibration of his chest as you grind up into him, moaning his name.
And this is what you’ve been starved for. What you’ve dreamt about with your hand between your thighs and his name on your lips.
Dean.
All of him.
In whatever way he’ll allow you to have, even if it’s back to only long glances and frozen moment you play over and over.
But he’s giving you the best way of all right now.
And you’re not going to let that slip by.
“Dean,” you gasp, and he grunts as you try to pry your wrists from his grip. “Let- Let me touch you-“
“No.” He grunts, mouth slowly working its way over your jaw with little bites. “Hands to yourself.”
“But- Oh-“ You whimper, bucking up as he pinches your nipple and rolls it between two finger. “I- I missed you- It’s been so long-“
“I know.” He murmurs, leaning back up to give you a softer kiss. “But I gotta to take care of you, baby. Tell me I can take care of my girl.”
“Whatever you want, I- Just wanna feel you-“
He flicks your nipple before dropping back down to suck a dark mark on your throat.
“Dean- I’m-“ You moan as he drops to angle your hips, letting them roll so your core is rubbing against his bugle. “Touch me, I need you to touch me-“
“You gotta say it, sweetheart, you know that-“
“Please, touch me, Dean, please-“
Your eyes roll back into your head as his hand shoves into your pants, rubbing over your pussy as he pulls back to watch you with a grin.
He’s got you exactly where he wants you, and the asshole fucking knows it. You’re writhing and squirming under his teasing fingers, but it’s never enough. Dean’s always been strong, but the Mark of Cain makes it like trying to part the ocean. And it feels so good, whenever he presses the lightest touch to your clit and a tiny shock of lightning rushes through your body.
It’s like he’s stringing you on a tightrope, seeing just how long you can balance on the wire before you fall.
“Dean- I- More-“
“Wait, pretty girl,” He mutters, rubbing to strong circles around your clit with his thumb. “Trust me, it’ll feel good.”
You trust him, but you’re going to snap in half if he doesn’t touch you. If he doesn’t give you what you’ve been starved for while he was gone, if he keeps fucking playing with your pussy and never once offering any sort of release. His fingers teasing over your entrance as he brushes against your clit, all while planting deep, claiming kisses all over your neck and face. You’re going to be marked, when he’s done. And he’s barely even begun.
This is why you’re ruined for him. Nobody can bring you right to this edge so fast, give you exactly what you need while holding everything back. Your nails are digging into his arm as he rubs tight circles around your clit, your pussy fluttering and clenching around nothing as he nips on your ear.
“So wet for me,” he mutters, and you throw your head back with a squeak. “Always so wet. Do you think about me, whenever I’m not here to make you feel good. Use these pretty fingers to fuck yourself and scream my name?”
Your mouth falls open, and you blink at him through the haze of the pleasure he’s drawing out of you. “I- How’d you know-“
Any words fall back into a moan as Dean presses down on your clit, eyes darkened with lust.
“Dean-“
“You do?” He’s starting at you with what seems to be awe, lips brushing right over yours, and you nod desperately. “Tell me with your words, baby, say that you think about me touchin’ you like this-“
“I think about it,” you gasp. “All the time- I need you, Dean, need you so bad-“
Two rough fingers suddenly shove inside of you, crooking and rubbing against that sweet spot, and Dean kisses you with so much power it topples you right over.
He holds you up. Kisses and fingerfucks you through the sudden orgasm, until you’re panting and whimpering down his throat.
“There’s my good girl,” he mutters, and you can only squeak a sound meant to be his name. “Get on the bed, baby, I’m not done with you until you can’t remember your own name.”
You almost fall over yourself, trying to get to the bed. Shedding your clothing like it’s burning before scrambling onto Dean’s mattress, all dignity long gone in favor of this. Spreading your legs and blinking innocently up at Dean, his features blown out with adoration and eyes flashing as he peels off his own shirt and stands over you.
He barely spares a glance at your pussy, though. He’s mostly scanning over your features with an unreadable intensity, brows furrowed slightly. You’re about to second guess, to ask if this is really what he wants, when he shakes his head.
“You really did miss me.” He mutters, and you frown.
“Of course I missed you, Dean. I- I was really worried you were never going to speak to me again.”
He bows his head, letting out a slow breath. “I’m sorry, I didn’t- Couldn’t possibly have guessed that you were running around thinking you were taking of me. I didn’t-“ His words choke slightly, and you push fully up on your elbows.
When you extend your arms, he crawls into them in a second. Holding you tight to his chest and burying his face in your neck, not quite crying but breathing heavy, shaking slightly in your arms.
“I did a lot of this I’m not-“ He lets out a dry laugh. “Proud’s not even a strong enough word. Hell, I’m surprised you and Sammy didn’t just fucking kill me-“
“We love you, Dean.” You whisper, combing your fingers through his hair. “We couldn’t kill you.”
He shakes his head. “Shoulda-“
“No.” You don’t have to make your voice firm. He’s not allowed to think that, not when you spent so many empty months just praying for him to come back. “I didn’t just miss this, Dean, I missed you. I missed talking to you and laughing with you and having you here-“
“Baby, the things I did-“
“You weren’t you, Dean. We all forgave you.” You sigh, leaning slightly back down. “I didn’t think you’d forgiven me.”
He angles his head up, resting his chin between your breasts, his voice deep and rough. “Can I tell you somethin’?”
You nod, keeping your fingers in his hair, and he grunts.
“I thought of you,” he mutters, holding your gaze. “All the goddamn time. And not like I thought of Sammy, only the worse shit about Dad and Ruby and Purgatory. Just- You. And they weren’t pure thoughts, baby, but I never wanted to hurt you. Just-“ He takes a deep breath. “I didn’t feel like a human, but I still loved you. And I didn’t feel guilt or shame about loving you, it just- Was. And I was willing to do damn near anything to have you. Never would’ve hurt you though. I thought I wouldn’t hurt you, but I didn’t think what we were doing was hurting, and-“
“It wasn’t.” You cut in, and he blinks at you. “I told you, Dean. I liked it. I- I didn’t care that it wasn’t you. I just, I wasn’t thinking straight, you looked at me like you wanted me-“
“I do.” He grunts. “Always have. Loved you from the moment I saw you, baby. You’re the best fuckin’ part of me, and it’s always- It’s been deeper than my heart. Didn’t think you’d want me around, but not talking to you- It felt like- Shit-“
“Something was missing?” You offer softly, and he nods.
“Yeah. That.”
You swallow, tracing your hand over his face.
He leans into it, pressing a kiss to your palm.
“You would’ve done anything to have me?” Your question is soft, and Dean gives you a tight nod.
“Still would.” He mutters. “If you’ll have me-“
“I’ll have you.”
He pauses, his voice dropping impossibly deeper. “What do you want me to do?”
“Anything you want, Dean.” You whisper, and his nostrils flare slightly.
“How about making good on that promise?” He kisses your breast, and you feel the heat starting to spread back through your core. “You wanna forget your name, baby?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, the sound hitching as Dean takes one nipple into his mouth. “Do- Dean, do that-“
You moan as he obliges, his free hand comes up to palm at your other breast, tongue flicking and teasing over your nipple until your dizzy with pleasure.
“Dean-“ You squeak as he groans around you, your nails sinking into his back as you grind against the sheets. “Dean-“
“You want something, sweetheart?” He looks up at you with a smug grin, and you nod weakly.
“I can’t wait, Dean, just I- I need you-“
He grabs your neck again, pressing you gently back down into the mattress with another deep kiss, and you don’t know how he can make a kiss feel this good. Every nerve in your body buzz, your legs spread as wide as you can get them as you relax beneath him, making weak noises of desperation.
“Oh-“ You moan as he starts to rub his hard cock between your pussy folds. “Dean, please-“
“Tell me that you want me.” He grunts against your lips, and you nod stupidly.
“I- I want you, Dean, just you- God, please-“
You make a soft noise of good as he slowly pushes into you, and he always makes you so full. His thumb rubs slow circles on your clit, trying to help you relax into him, but you’re wound so tight.
“You gotta relax, baby.” He grunts, head dropping to your neck as you flutter around. “Shit- C’mon, sweetheart, please work with me-“
It’s like a spell. Dean’s words get to your head, and you go limp below him.
He groans right in your ear as he bottoms out, and you moan.
“Good girl,” he mutters, kissing your cheek. “Already so cockdrunk you can’t talk, huh?”
You make an undignified nose, and Dean chuckles.
“Alright,” he draws up, and before you can make a noise of complaint from the loss of your warmth, Dean’s grabbing your angles and pulling them right over his shoulders.
He’s so deep at this angle. Pressed right against your g-spot, his thumb flicking against your clit as you try to wrap your arms around your stomach, the feeling mind numbing and right on the edge of too much.
“No.” He grabs your wrists, dragging them away. “Wanna see all of you. Watch my girl go stupid while I fuck her, see how pretty you look cumming on my cock. Can I watch you, baby?”
You nod, and Dean grins down at you, his thumb moving back down to your clit as he folds you in half.
“Love you,” He mutters your name, and you whine. “Always loved you. Never gonna let you think anythin’ else again.”
You open your mouth to tell him that he’s not allowed to think anything else either, but any possible mumbled words die as Dean starts to fuck you.
It’s not rough, but it’s not slow, either. He draws almost all the way out before pushing back into you, balls slapping against your ass as his free hand plays with your tits, and you try to anchor yourself in the sheets. It’s the fucking of someone who’s been studying how to give you that perfect amount of attention and care to bring you back to the edge, without letting you fall over. His fingers roll your nipple as he draws his hips in a circle, that needy spot inside of you feeling every inch of his cock it drags through you.
His pace picks up, until the lewd, wet sound his cock is filling the room, and you grab his hand on your tits.
Dean raises his brows at you, a low sound escaping his throat as your pussy clenches around him, and it turns into a full moan as you take his finger into your mouth. Sucking on them as you hold his gaze, moaning as his hips jerks and he hits the deepest spot inside of you.
His eyes flashes, and he drags his fingers aways before pulling almost all the way out, slamming back in, and planting them on your clit.
It’s immediate. Stars glow behind your eyes as you cum with a gasp of his name, and Dean picks up his pace. He rearraigning your insides, lighting you on fire from your core out, and you never fucking want him to stop. The first orgasm crests up and up as he presses on your clit, but he doesn’t stop. Dean starts to rub it back and forth with firm, powerful pressure, and the second orgasm slams into you like a train.
“There you go,” he growls your name, and you wiggle under him, too far gone to think of anything but the fire he’s sweeping through you, still fucking you into the mattress. “That’s it, baby, feels good, doesn’t it-“
“Yes,” you gasp, and suddenly it’s not nearly enough. “More, Dean- So fucking big-“
He groans, moving your legs off his shoulder to rut deep into your cunt, and a third orgasm crashes through you. Shakes your whole body as Dean falls over you, holding you tight to his chest as his thrusts become uncontrolled and desperate.
You’re not sure where the heat in your body stops and Dean ends. It’s only warmth and good, the strength of his body and smell of his shampoo drowning you in a heavenly daze, your body almost burning with pleasure as your orgasms roll and crest over each other, and you’re turned into nothing but a mess of ecstasy. The only sound in the world is his perfect grunts of praise, then the sinful sound of him moaning your name as you find the strength to bite his lower lip and squeeze around his cock, and you can feel him everywhere as he fucks you through his orgasm.
You’re still a little high, when leans down to kiss you gently. It makes everything a daze that isn’t Dean. You can hear him murmuring something in your ear and pulls out with a grunt, feel him move you up to your feet and guide you to the shower. It’s long and warm, the water soothing over your body as Dean washes your hair, and you press light kisses to his neck.
He chuckles, tipping your head back with a grin. “You’re sorta out of it, aren’t you, baby.”
You only hum, blinking up at him, and he shakes his head.
“Don’t worry,” he says, kissing the tip of your nose. “I’ll take care of you.”
Of course he will.
He’s Dean.
He gets you out of the shower, helps dry you off, then guides you back to bed. Pulls you up into his chest when you lie on the bed, letting you drawn mindless shapes on his skin as he runs his fingers through your hair. Time moves into something meaningless, in the afterglow of it all. It’s just you and Dean in the whole universe, trapped in this tiny world without pain, and if you could you’d never leave.
“Are you-“ Dean clears his throat, and when you glance up, he’s watching you so carefully. “You still good? With- Us?”
You nod, unable to stop your ditzy smile.
Us.
This thing is now us.
“Do I get to love you now?” You whisper, and Dean grins. A wide, handsome grin that’s become so fucking rare. That means the whole fucking world.
“Yeah.” He hums, kissing the top of your head. “Long as you let me love you, too.”
End Note: Mr. Winchester if you're reading this I am free whenever you want.
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