✦Read on a03! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦
✦summary: Dean's refusing any help to get over his sex curse, no matter how many women you find for him. If only he'd just tell you why✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, sex pollen, angst, pining, Dean being a dummy (it's okay we love him), big emotions (sex pollen does that), just the nastiest smut (praise kink, soft!dom Dean, finger sucking, fingering, some car sex, dirty talk, oral f!receiving, sex pollen appropriate stamina, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, creampie), love confessions during sex, light fluff at the end✦
✦wc: 10k✦
✦author's note: voted for my the people! this might be the horniest thing i've written ever like i got possessed plz enjoy✦
This room is going to suffocate you.
Outside, there’s a chilling breeze that bites at your ears, and you had to turn the heater off after an hour of Dean whining about it. You’re wearing a few layers and thick, fuzzy socks that slide on the floor. When you look at your fingers, they’re developing a purplish tint under the nails, and you’d think your nose was bleeding if you could feel it at all.
But you’re burning alive. Deep in your stomach with shame, and an arousal you’re not allowed to indulge. It’s wrong, right now, to have flushed cheeks and sweat gathering under your clothing. A tingling heat that’s hidden under the collar of your shirt, and restless fingers as you work, itching to touch something.
Yourself. Just a rub between your thighs for a little pressure of relief to help you focus.
Dean. Lying on the bed, moaning lewdly and humping the sheets like you’re not even in the room.
He’s apologized fifty times. He apologized when you left that old, moldy house and he started staring at you and palming himself in the car. Apologized when you’d been walking inside, and he’d doubled over in pain on the side walk. He’d grabbed your hip for support, and while you’d been trying to figure out if he was okay, his hand had slipped up to your inner thigh. Apologized when you went to get him some ice—he’d said he was warm, you’ d been worrying about a fever—and you had to come back to find him lying in your bed, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and groans slipping from his lips.
At least he hadn’t been touching himself. He’s managed not to do that at all, which you’d be impressed by if you weren’t so worried.
Sam says it’s a pretty basic sex curse. Maybe a pollen, from that mold. Nothing you need to worry about finding a magical cure for.
“We’ve seen these before.” Sam had said. “It’s run-of-the-mill. Dean knows what to do.”
Run of the mill.
Simple.
Sam had said it like you’d be clear in an hour. Nothing fancy required.
Dean gets laid, the fever goes down, everyone’s good.
And it might’ve been simple. You might’ve been done an hour ago, if Dean just got it over with and left when he was clear. You would’ve sat in your bed, running the sheets between your fingers while you read. Trying desperately not to think about Dean only a door over, about the sounds creaking through the wall as he railed someone else into oblivion, about how he’d look.
Probably just like this. Wrecked and hungry, his eyes blown out and skin slick with sweat. Every muscle in his body straining, hair stuck to his brow, mouth hanging open as he’d hover over some lucky girl, showing her a heaven even angels didn’t get to experience.
Your heart would’ve silently ached, a wound you’ve been letting fester opening wider and wider. Your hands would’ve tugged nervously at the sheets, trying to gather whatever he’d left over like a twisted little souvenir for your perverse brain.
The brain that won’t stop being in love with him, no matter how much logic you offer to counter it. You’ve spent nights staring at the ceiling, acting like love was a debate. Like if you reasoned with yourself enough, all the blood in your body would simply stop flowing in a song of his name. Your heart would shift into a new rhythm, no longer a war drum trying to call for him. Your eyes would stop looking for tiny bits of evidence he loved you too, in just as much silence as you love him.
He’s about ten years older than you. He opens doors for you, and that can be a secret desire thing. He’s not emotionally available. He talks to you, about his dad and complicated fights with Sammy and his past, and that has to mean something. He’s got anger issues. He’s stubborn, he’s reserved. You have issues too, and you’re more stubborn. He’s fucked up- You’re fucked up, and he’s also sweet and loyal and handsome and the best kind of stupid a man can be, where he’s a dumbass that never pretends to be incompetent. He’d probably be possessive. You’d like to be possessed. There’s no future there. Yet.
You’ve always lost the debate. You stay in love with Dean, because your heart wasn’t even kind enough to give you a crush. A brief and intense high of adoration and lust would’ve been manageable. You would’ve recovered.
Instead, it’s love. Not even love with a half-life, weaning off with just a little time. Deep, long love.
The kind of love that has you looking at him now, and crudely thinking that he’s being a bit of a pussy. It’s not a fair thought. He’s cursed, has a fever of a hundred and two, and his body is probably trying to convince him to do things that he’s not on board with.
But you live like that every day, and you don’t whine about it. You’ve felt like if he didn’t touch you now you’d die, you’ve gone sick with your own perverse thoughts about what you’d let him do to you, you’ve been delirious with adoration until Sam clears his throat, and mutters that you’re staring again. Maybe the mold should’ve crawled into you, or however this works.
You wouldn’t have been such a massive bitch about it.
You would’ve had nasty motel sex with a stranger an hour ago.
You wouldn’t have made Dean sit in a room with you while you pillow humped, forcing him to look for a sex partner to break your back.
You would’ve been home by now.
But Dean wants to be a little fucking bitch.
“You’re being a bitch.” You say it plainly, because maybe it will snap him out of whatever the fuck this is.
Instead he just chuckles, twisting to give you an amused look. “Ouch, sweetheart- Shit-“
The movement looks like it made his dick brush against something, and now he’s back to cowering in the sheets. Jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut, visibly pained, and what’s wrong with you that he’s never looked so hot-
“You’d be a bitch too.” He mutters, groaning as he rolls back onto his stomach. “I feel like I’m dying-“
“You’d stop feeling like that, if you’d just pick someone to fuck.”
“I’m tryin’-“
“Not hard enough.”
“Trust me, I’m plenty hard enough- Fuck-“
You throw one of his pillows at his face, and he makes a strangled noise like you hit him with a bullet.
“You’re gonna attack a dying man-“
“I can do whatever I want, when I’m helping you find a fuck buddy.” You stick your tongue out at his back, then return your attention to his phone. “How about Miranda? She’s thirty-six, she’s got really nice hair, and- Oo-“ You scroll a little further down the page. “She likes boats! Those are like water cars, you guys could bond over that.”
Dean laughs again, shaking his head. “Boats aren’t water cars.”
“They are. Think about it.“
“They don’t have a big engineering overlap, I don’t know shit about boats-“
“Then you can just fuck her stupid, you nerd.”
Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you hover your thumb over the screen, fully ready to subject yourself to the worst torture possible for Dean’s stupid, cursed sake.
“She looks nice.” You mumble, praying he doesn’t hear the exhausted, hopeless pain in your voice. “I think you’d like her.”
Dean grunts. “No. Next name.”
You sigh, and swipe left. Adding Miranda to the long, long pile of rejected applicants.
It’s been like this for two fucking hours. Dean lying in your bed, you cross-legged in his, absolutely no progress on curing the curse. He barely even looks at you anymore. He’s been facing the opposite wall since you sat down, burying his face in your pillow every time he moans, trying to hide the roll of his hips under the sheets and failing miserably.
The tingling pain between your legs is almost unbearable now. You’d call Sam and ask if the pollen was transferable, if you weren’t terrified of the answer being no. There’s no way it’s not just Dean anyway. His thick arms stretching up to grip the pillow, his broad, muscled shoulders and back bare, the fact that sometimes when he humps fast and rough, the sheets ride up and you swear you see the tip of his cock. It’s wrong. So fucking wrong, to be getting off to him like this.
But it’s your own personal hell, to have this responsibility. To have him right there, and not be allowed to touch him.
You’ll deal with your shame later in the shower, where you can wash it off and maybe cry from a few different places over your body.
Later. When he’s not dying, and doing absolutely nothing to help you save him.
“Hannah.” You read out the next profile, pulling your knees to your chest. “She’s got curly hair, really nice brown eyes. Looks like she’s a nail artist. That could be nice.”
Dean snorts. “What, you think I’m gonna have her get me a manicure after?”
“No, I just-“ You take a long breath. You’d rather have a living Dean that doesn’t love you, than a dead Dean, who also doesn’t love you.
Dean starts to twist—he’s going to try and look at you again—and you clear your throat.
“It might be nice to look at. Aesthetically. Or- arousing.”
He mutters your name, but you push on.
“For a handjob. Nice nails, going- Up and down your- Um- Your dick-“
Dean lets out the loudest moan yet, and your jaw snaps shut. That sounded like your name. He was probably just trying to warn you to shut up, but that still sounded like your name-
“Sorry-“
“Stop talking.” He snaps, and you nod.
Without him asking, you swipe left on Hannah. He seems to have forgotten about her, and you have no desire to let her and her perfect nails anywhere near his dick.
It takes a while for Dean to request the next candidate. Long minutes of him just panting and grunting, burying his face in the pillow and thrashing in the sheets like he’s having a nightmare.
You see the head of his cock again. It’s thick looking and red and shining with pre-cum. Angry and hard and Jesus fucking Christ-
“Emma!” You shout to the room. You need this to be done. “She’s a nurse, that can be a kink thing-“
“Stop.”
You sigh, turning down the phone screen. “Dean-“
“No. Don’t want Ella-“
“Emma-“
“Don’t fuckin’ care. We’re not doing more of this- Shit.”
“Are you just swearing, or is that an adjective-“
“Sweetheart.” He’s almost growling, a hand slipping out from the sheets to fist the mattress. “Stop. Talking.”
You close your mouth, bowing your head as shame floods your body. You’re trying to help. You’ve given your whole night just to help the man you’re hopelessly in love with have sex with someone else, and you’re tired. Tired of doing this to yourself, tired of him shooting everyone down like suddenly he’s got the highest sexual standard in the world, tired of acting like it’s not killing you and tired of watching him like this.
He’s in so much pain. You can hear it straining in every word, tensed in every movement. You’re not allowed to touch him, but the last time you made him check his own temperature, it had gone up again. With how he’s looking, how he’s muttering to himself under his breath, you’re willing to bet it’s gone up another handful of degrees.
Dean’s going to die, if he doesn’t deal with this. And if he dies, you’re not going to deal with it.
You don’t want to think about what you’ll become, if he goes. You might be the one that turns into a ghost, haunting this goddamn hotel room and growing up the walls like that mold. A shell of a person, caught in a million what-ifs, her heart ash in the wind with his body.
Dean wants to be done with this.
You’re not done with him.
You swipe right on Emma.
For an hour, you let him keep moping and groaning. You flirt with Emma for him, because you’re the best friend in the world, and pretend you can’t see him trying to move a pillow between his legs to offer extra pressure.
“Dean.” You say softly, and he grunts.
“Baby, I need you not to talk-“
“You can take it out.” You mutter, keeping your focus on Emma’s texts. “If you need that. I’m a big girl, I- I won’t mind.”
That’s a lie through more than just your teeth. If he starts touching himself in front of you, all the poetic fawning about how your love is killing you won’t be dramatic anymore. Your heart will beat right out of your ribs, your head will get so light you’ll float away, your need for him will become so consuming you’ll either fall to your knees and open your mouth for him to use, or simply just explode.
But if it helps him. You’ll do anything to help him, even if it’s searing the most sinful, impossible image into your head for the rest of your life.
Dean with his cock in his hand, head thrown back, beating himself right next to you. Maybe moaning under his breath, thrusting up into his fist, accidentally looking at you as he cums, mouth hanging open and eyes hooded as thick white ropes paint the sheets-
“No.” He grunts, and you blink.
“It’s okay-“
“No. I‘m not doin’ that to you.”
You swallow, heated shame rushing through you. “I- I could leave the room-“
“No, don’t-“ He almost shouts your name, flipping over suddenly.
Looking at you.
His eyes are almost black with lust, his face red and slack, expression desperate. He hisses—the movement likely too much—but still reaches out a shaking hand, like he’s going to try and grab you.
“Don’t go, just- Fuckin’-“ His words trail off, eyes locked on your face, and another moan escapes his lips.
You push up on your knees, fear clenching at your heart. “Dean-“
“’m fine-“
“You’re not fine-“
“I’m- Son of a bitch-“ His eyes widen on yours then slam shut. His hand curls into a taut fist, face pulling in pain, and that’s enough.
“Fine. Don’t masturbate, see if I care.”
He says your name, low and rough, and you shake your head.
“You’re not fine, you fucking idiot. You’re dying.” You push to your feet, grabbing his phone from the bed.
Emma’s very nice. Nice in the kind of way that’s going to make you hate her, and you feel sort of bad. She was doomed to your loathing from the moment she swiped right.
But she’s going to help. She’s going to save Dean, and you’ll offer her grace for that.
Dean’s eyes had opened, when he heard you moving. He’s looking at you like a lost street dog, opening his mouth to say something that only comes out in a panting groan of your name.
Whatever protests he has, you won’t hear them. He’s not allowed to die.
“Get up.” You snap, tossing his clothing onto his face. “Get dressed. I’m starting the car in ten minutes, and if you’re not there, I’m coming back and you’re having sex with me.”
You don’t look over your shoulder to see his reaction. The sounds of torment leaving his chest are bad enough.
It hurts. It cuts deeper than a blade, the idea that he detests the idea of sex with you that much. You’re good at sex. You’ve gotten raving reviews, you’re batting a hundred, flawless reports and a hundred percent customer satisfaction rate, even if you don’t really enjoy most of it yourself. Most people you have sex with don’t manage to make you cum, and when they do it’s a tiny little shudder through your body that you forget about in five minutes.
Dean witDean would be lucky to have sex with you. You’d worship him. You’d get on your knees and let him use you until he was leaking out of every hole. You’d let him fuck himself back into you, you’d let him throw you around, you’d do anything-
It’s probably a good thing your threat works. Dean stumbles out of the motel right at the nine-minute mark, pallid and flushed all at once, hunched in pain and wearing a massive raincoat over his jacket to hide the boner.
You never would’ve forgiven yourself, for taking advantage of him like that. It’s better like this, no matter how much it hurts.
You smile when he gets into the car. “Nice fashion statement-“
“Shut up.” He grumbles, glaring out at the road. “Where’re we goin’.”
“A bar.”
He makes a sour expression. “Why.”
“Because you have a date. With Emma the nurse.”
Dean goes dead quiet. He tenses next to you—your elbows brushing for a split second, before he recoils like your skin is coated in toxins—works his jaw, then shakes his head.
You sigh. ‘Dean-“
“No. I told you, I’m not doin’ that.“
“Yes, you are.”
“No-“
“Yes!” You slam the brakes harder than you mean to, as you approach a stop sign.
You expect Dean to snap about you being careful with his baby. Maybe try to make a joke about how maybe the frustration is rubbing off on you, or argue about how this is his dumb choice to make.
And it is. But he made the wrong choice, and you are not letting him die.
He mutters your name, and it’s the same way he said it earlier. Soft. Almost pleading.
You take a deep breath, and twist to look him in his pretty, glazed and dilated eyes.
“You’re going into that bar. You’re going to flirt with Emma. If she asks if you have a fever, you tell her you work construction or something, and you’d just been at a shift. You run hot. Nothing for her to worry about.” You drum your fingers on the wheel, forcing down the lump in your throat. “You’re going to tell her she’s pretty. You’re going to call a fake uber, and I’m going to drive you to the motel. You’re going to fuck Emma until you’re cured, and then we can go home. Understand?”
Dean’s throat bobs. He opens his mouth, a glint in his eyes like he’s going to argue. You don’t give him the chance.
“No. You’re doing this. If you don’t, you’ll-“ You cut yourself off, pressing your lips in a tight line. You won’t cry. You won’t.
Dean says your name, and he has to stop doing that. It’s too gentle. Too close to something real.
“You’re not allowed to- To go.” You look out at the empty road, praying the night is hiding the glossy tears, pricking at your eyes. “I can’t- I won’t- You’re not allowed to.”
You raise your chin, your breathing too shaky to speak for a moment. The silence hangs in the car, even the sound of Baby’s engine not enough to drown out your thoughts.
“Okay?” You snap, trying to sound stronger than you are.
Dean lets out a low sound, but nods. “Okay.” Then, under his breath. “For you.”
You pretend you don’t hear. There’s too much weight in those words, and you don’t have the time to pick them apart, don’t have the energy to ask him what the fuck that means.
Instead, you just give yourself the easiest out. Dean does love you as a friend. You’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s doing it for you because you’re the one demanding he go have sex.
What a horrible friend you are, making him get laid so he doesn’t die.
You huff a dry, pitiful, laugh to yourself. Your drink swirls in its glass, untouched and mocking. You ordered it when you got here, about thirty minutes ago. Made Dean take a possibly dangerous dose of Advil and Tylenol to make him lucid, then hidden yourself in a booth on the other side of the bar. Where you can see Dean and Emma, but only Dean can see you. He’s supposed to give you a thumbs up, when he’s about to call the ride. Right now, he seems so engrossed in her that you’re worried he’s going to forget.
Emma’s pretty. Just as pretty as her pictures. She lit up, when she spotted Dean, and you’d felt a sickening, loud hatred take root in your chest.
Everyone should be happy to see Dean, but none of them are happy like you’re happy. You know him. He’s the love of your life, and your joy is born of that, not just seeing a pretty man. You love seeing him because you know you’re going to be safe. Because he’s going to smile and the world is going to be alright, you’re going to talk and he’ll listen and look at you like there’s no one else in the world, he’s going to make jokes and you’re going to laugh.
But he’s making Emma laugh right now. She’s got one of those high, insufferable giggles, and you’re being needlessly mean but you hate her. You have a giggle like that. It comes out for Dean all the time, and it has a little snort on the end that you hated until Dean casually mentioned that he liked it, and you’ve felt like the most beautiful thing in the world.
It doesn’t really matter though, whose laugh Dean likes more.
Emma’s the one going home with him. You’re being left here.
You focus on ignoring their laughter and voices from the bar. You can’t drink, but you sulk and focus on the music floating through the bar. Your fingers drum on the table, pull at your sleeves, shred three napkins before gripping the cold of the glass like a lifeline. Your vision is going unfocused with envy. Every second you feel the wound in your heart tearing open, an infection of jealousy taking root, and you might actually be about to throw up-
Dean grunts your name, and your eyes shoot up.
He’s standing outside your both, hands in his pockets and a deep scowl on his face. Emma’s not with him. Or at the bar.
“Where-“
“She left.”
Your mouth falls open. “She left? I- What the fuck happened-“
“I told her to. Wasn’t gonna work out.”
“Dean, you-“ Your voice cracks, every thought in your head getting louder. He’s dying, he’s dying, he’s dying. “You promised-“
“Couldn’t what? Couldn’t fuck her? What the hell was wrong with her that somehow doesn’t meet Dean Winchester’s if it’s got a hole standards?”
Dean flinches, and it was a low blow, but right now you don’t care. He’s going to die. Why doesn’t he fucking care that he’s going to die and leave you.
“Come on.” You snap, slamming a few bills on the table and shooting up. “We’re chasing her. You’re apologizing.”
He frowns. “No, I’m not-“
“Then we’re going back on the dating app, and finding someone else.”
“I don’t want someone else.”
You roll your eyes, shoving the bar door open and marching to the car. You have Emma’s number. You’ll do the apology yourself if you have to.
Dean’s stumbling after you into the parking lot, and you can’t stop yourself from looking over your shoulder every few seconds. Just to be sure he hasn’t hurt himself. He calls your name, voice pained, and you freeze. Turn slowly, your arms crossed over your chest.
“I’m not doin’ this.” He snaps, stalking towards you in uneven steps. “You can bitch and whine about it all you want, sweetheart, I’m not fucking that girl.”
“I’m bitching and whining?” You laugh, the sound crude even to your ears. “I’m not the one who decided the best time to become a fucking celibate was when he got hit with a sex curse. You’re the one acting like a fucking child here-“
“I’m not acting like a child-“
“Then you’re acting like an idiot!” You scream, taking a large step forward.
Dean goes rigid. Takes a long step back, like you’re poisonous. It just fuels the burning, exhausted fire, kindled by every bit of fear, of love, of fury that he’s putting you through this with almost no remorse.
“It’s not like you have to marry her!” You shout, barbed wire tightening around your throat. “It’s just sex! Fuck, you don’t even have to look at her, it’s- I don’t understand why this is so fucking hard for you all of a sudden, it’s not like you’re some virgin fucking pussy-“
He mutters your name, a low warning, and you ignore it.
“I’ve spent all day trying to save you, Dean! I was going to be your- Your fucking sex chauffer, and I haven’t been complaining, but you can’t do me one fucking favor and have sex with a pretty girl?”
You take another step forward, and this time he isn’t fast enough. You jab his chest, and he stumbles back like you shot him, eyes panicked and wide on yours.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” You shriek, shoving him again. “Do you want to die? Are you trying to fucking kill me? Do you hate me, Dean? Is that what this is?”
He rasps your name, and you shake your head.
“I’ve been trying so- So hard to save you. I- I told you that I can’t- If you-“ Your words are getting choked, and the pain is too heavy to just shake off. “You’re not allowed to go! I told you, I won’t let you, but you- You fucking hate me-“
You try to shove him again, hot tears burning down your face, but this time Dean’s ready. He catches your wrist, and you try to pull back but he’s got more strength left than you thought.
He squeezes his hold on you, stalking forward. A fire lights in your core, at the intensity of his gaze. Unyielding and hot, searing into you as your back hits the Impala. He towers over you, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he takes in your open mouth and slack expression. You don’t know how you expected him to react, but it wasn’t this. This makes your knees weak, your heart hitting a dangerous pace at the top of your chest.
You can smell his cologne, smell his. A salt, deep musk that’s just Dean, that might as well be a drug for how it’s making you freeze. Your free hand moves to press flat against his chest, but you don’t push.
He grunts, his muscles rippling like you just threw a rock into water. He seizes up, head bowing, and there’s nowhere for you to hide from him.
Dean’s tongue darts over his lips, and your breath hitches.
“Don’t do that.” He grunts, and you just nod.
Lean a little closer, until the heat of your breath is fanning over your cheeks. Your eyes flutter, and when you risk meeting his gaze he looks almost predatory. The hunger in his eyes sends a pleasant shiver down your spine, your thighs pressing together, and it’s hot, so hot-
“I don’t hate you.”
You blink at him. You’d forgotten about that. “Dean-“
“I don’t.” He snaps. “Don’t fuckin’- Never think that, alright? I don’t hate you.”
“Then why are you doing this to me?” You whisper desperately. “Why couldn’t you just go have sex with Emma-“
He shakes his head. “I don’t want Emma.”
“Then let me find you someone you want, please-“
“No.”
“Why-“
“Cause I don’t want any of them.” He hisses, your foreheads bumping as he leans further down. “I don’t want some random fuckin’ chick you pull for me, I don’t want to fuck her, don’t wanna touch her, hell, I don’t even want to goddamn look at her.”
You take a shaking breath, a haze overtaking your head. “Dean, you need someone-“
“You think I don’t know that?” He pushes his hips forward, and you can feel it.
His cock, straining through his jeans, pressing against your thigh. You bite down a moan, completely still in his arms, trying to make him understand with just your eyes. It’s not fair for him to do this to you. He doesn’t understand, this is all you’ve ever wanted and he’s just taunting you with it-
“I can feel it, sweetheart.” He mutters, rolling slightly against you, making that fire in your core threaten to sweep you away. “I feel myself dyin’. My muscles are hurting like I ran a mile, I’m sweating through ten damn layers, think the fever is getting me so bad I might be about to go fucking crazy. But I didn’t even notice ‘till you started getting all worried. You know why?”
It takes you a second to realize you’re supposed to answer. You barely shake your head, before he’s squeezing your wrist, leaning down to whisper in your ear.
“’Cause of you.” He breathes, voice soft and dangerous. “I always feel like an animal when I see you. Spent the whole car ride back from that damn house wanting to hump your leg and didn’t think twice. You just do that to me, and you got no fuckin’ idea.”
You gasp slightly, turning your head to look him in the eyes. They’re hooded, almost feral on yours. You’re so dizzy, you’re worried you might be walking through a dream.
“De- Dean-“
“You can keep looking for some random girl for me, if it’s gonna make you feel better. But I won’t fuck ‘em. I can’t.” His lips ghost over yours, and you lean forward.
“Dean-“
“Sex barely even works for me anymore, baby.” He mutters, tongue flicking over his lips. “Nothin’ does. I get kicked out of bed ‘cause I call your name. So just fuckin’-“ He squeezes your wrist again, drawing slowly back. “Stop. If you wanna give me a dying wish, cut it out and let me go in some damn peace.”
You gape at him as he pulls away, his grip going slack on your wrist.
Dying wish.
He still thinks he’s allowed to die.
“What- What if you fuck me?” You say, so quiet you barely even hear yourself.
Dean’s head jerks up, and he says your name with a harsh, unforgiving snap. “No. I’m not askin’ you to do that just because I’m some perv who can’t get it up-“
“You’ve got it up.” You smile at up, pressing your knee up into his crotch.
He groans, doubling back down so you’re caged against the Impala again. “Baby, don’t fuckin’- I’m not bending on this shit, alright. I’m not gonna be some pity fuck-“
“It’s not a pity fuck, I’m saving your life-“
“I told you, no-“
“Do you not want to have sex with me?” You challenge, and Dean gives you a pleading, wrathfully frustrated look.
“Don’t ask stupid questions, course I wanna have- Fuck-“ He groans, eyes fluttering as his brow presses against yours. “Yeah. Yeah I want to. But- I won’t ask you to. So no.”
You swallow. It’s probably the fever making his tongue so loose. He’s so hot it almost burns to be this close, but that might just be Dean.
It’s always just Dean. And he has to know that.
“What if I want to have sex with you?”
Dean grunts, shaking his head. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it-“
“I mean it.” You fist your hand in his shirt, dragging him a little closer. “Do you?”
He stares at you again. Scans over your face like he’s looking for one clue that you’re just indulging him, that there’s a single doubt running through your head.
There isn’t. Your breathing is uneven, but your heart is going too fast for it to be anything else. You’re flushed with an unending, arduous hunger to just have him, however he needs you.
Slowly, testing the waters, Dean slides a hand onto your neck. You raise your chin, holding his gaze. He squeezes slightly, and you lean into him, tugging on his shirt for more.
His thumb moves up, dragging over your lower lip. You part your lips, and his nostrils flare.
Dean pushes his thumb slowly between your lips, and you close them obediently around him. Your eyes flutter as you suck, letting your tongue circle around the thick finger, tilting your head and letting your eyes flutter. He pushes a little deeper and you moan. Your hand flies up to grab his wrist, holding him against you, and Dean groans. His eyes are clearer than they’ve been all night, shining with something like awe.
You smile, grinding up into his torso and humming with pleasure.
Dean mouth hangs slack.
“Jesus fuckin’-“
He cuts himself off, pulling his thumb out with a pop and grabbing your jaw. You giggle happily for a second, and Dean swallows the sound, crashing his mouth against yours.
You’ve pictured this kiss a million times, a million ways, almost every night since you met him. Somehow, this is better than any slow, fairytale kiss with swelling music and sunlight hitting both your faces like a spotlight.
Dean’s not taking his time. He’s kissing you like you’re the last thing he knows, the only thing he’s ever wanted. Like a man who’s been starving himself, finally allowed a feast and wasting no precious seconds on manners. It’s urgent and forceful, words he can’t say being pushed down your throat with his tongue and spit. You kiss him back with everything you have, your fingers digging into his chest through his shirts, your head spinning as you neglect breath just to taste a little bit more whiskey and salt on his tongue. But nothing you throw at him Dean can’t seem to double.
You yank at his shirt, and he pulls your hair back. You try to grind up again, and he grabs your leg, hiking it over his hip. You grab his face, trying to kiss harsher, give more, and Dean slams down like a tidal wave, dominating your mouth with unforgiving need.
A moan escapes your throat, your body going limp in his arms, and he grunts. Ruts up into your core once, making your legs spread in a shameless invitation.
Dean grunts, yanking back like someone pulled him on a leash.
He stares at you for a long moment, his thumb finding its way back to your cheek. He smears a bit of spit over your cheek, and you tilt your head into the touch.
“You’re sure-“
“Yes.”
He nods tightly, takes a heavy breath, and leans away. “Get in the car.”
It’s a short, curt order. You don’t think twice before you obey.
You scramble into the driver’s seat, fumbling with the keys and slamming them into the port like you’re about to enter a car chase. Dean’s barely in the car before the engine is rumbling and you’re reversing out of the spot, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. It’s happening. It’s happening.
“Easy, baby.” He chuckles, the sound raspy and sending more shivers through your body. “You that eager-“
“Yes.” You snap, and Dean hums.
A light, almost taunting hand lands on your thigh. You glance over and find him palming at his crotch, his eyes wholly black and mouth hanging open. It’s an animalistic expression, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, and when you murmur his name he barely seems to hear.
His fingers dance up the inside of your leg, and you take an unsteady breath, spreading your legs wider. A deep, rumbling sound leaves Dean’s chest, those infernal fingers curling on the sensitive spot where your leg meets your core. Little electric shock rush through your body, and that’s just through the jeans.
“Dean.” You whisper, not even managing to make your voice firm. “I- I’m driving-“
“So look at the road.” He growls, knuckles brushing against your groin.
You bite your lower lip, and nod. It’s not worth arguing with him, and if you don’t think you can focus, you’ll just pull over. You told him you were sure. Told yourself that whatever he gave you, you’d be happy.
You just didn’t expect him to be borderline feral. The palming you could deal with. You expected.
This is different.
Dean scoots further, and you’re about to mumble something about a seatbelt when his lips brush the curve of your neck. You inhale sharply, gripping the wheel for dear life. Dean hums, his tongue flicking over a pulse point. His fingers start to crawl up to your abdomen, his mouth getting more insistent on your neck.
He nips at a pulse point before sucking on his, his tongue flat on your skin and a low sound leaving his chest when you lean back to grant him further access. He kisses a sloppy line up your throat as his fingers dance on your stomach, and you’re starting to get a little dizzy.
“De, be- Be careful-“
You cut yourself off with a breathy gasp, as his mouth latches behind your ear and he pulls down your zipper. He bites softly before sucking another bruise, popping the button open and slipping his hand into your pants.
“I- Fuck-” You tip your head back, hopelessly trying to keep your eyes on the road, and this is not a safe way to drive. You really should be shoving him away, but there’s no one on the road.
And with how he’s barely even speaking—just touching—you’re a little worried it might take extra effort to drag him out of the haze of the curse and push him away. He seems to be blinded to anything that isn’t you. His mouth drags back down your jaw as his fingers brush over your clothed pussy, and your whole body shakes.
He hums, leaving open kisses on your cheek and hairline. “Sensitive, sweetheart. Been a long time?”
You flush, and Dean starts to gather the fabric of your panties best he can through your pants. He drags it up, bunching it around your pussy, and another moan slips out from the pressure.
“Answer me-“
“Maybe.” You mumble, forcing yourself not to grind into his hand. “You- You know I don’t do that-“
“Do what?” He presses the fabric deeper between your pussy lips. “Don’t fuck?”
“Dean-“
“How long’s it been.” His words are hot against your neck, demanding and possessive. “Who touched you last, baby, who shoved their fingers in this pussy-“
“I- I don’t remember-“
“That’s fuckin’ right.” He pulls your panties tighter against your clit. “’Cause they don’t’ fuckin’ matter, sweet girl. No one else is ever gonna touch you like this. I’m gonna make you soak my fingers, my face, my cock, and it’s gonna feel so good in that smart, pretty mouth,” he kisses the corner of your lips, and only the wheel in your hands stops you from turning and claiming his mouth again. “That’s always fucking teasing me, it ain’t gonna remember a single word but my name. You want that, baby? Wanna be my perfect fuckin’ slut?”
Jesus Christ, this is worse than the not speaking. If this is a dream—because you’ve had them like this before—you never want to wake up.
He yanks his hand away, leaving your underwear bunched up in your cunt, and slaps your pussy over the jeans. Your mouth falls open and you lean forward, lightning surging through your whole body.
“Oh my- Dean-“
“I told you, answer-“
“Yes, I- Yes, please-“ Your words fall off into a moan, as Dean shoves his hand back against you, this time dragging the panties away and plunging two fingers deep into your pussy. “Dean-“
“That’s right.” He mutters, crooking them deep against a sensitive spot. “That’s my girl, you’re so fuckin’ wet- This all for me?”
“Mmm- Mhm-“
“Fuck yeah it is.” He starts his attack on your neck again, only speaking between kisses, his fingers scissoring inside your pussy. “So damn tight, know you’re gonna take my cock so good, bet you taste like heaven- Fuck, I wanna taste this pussy, wanted to taste it for years-“
His own words fall into a moan, and for a second you think he’s just out of dirty talk, but he’s still mumbling incoherently against your skin.
Then you risk another look at his body, and the hand that isn’t in your pants has pulled out his cock.
And fuck, if it isn’t the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Thick and long, but not painful looking. Throbbing and twitching as he jerks himself, the tip leaking and slick with pre-cum. It takes effort to look at the road and not just stare at the rock-hard, veiny marvel of a specimen between his legs.
You don’t know why you’re surprised. Dean’s a specimen himself.
He’s somehow already figured out how to finger you in such a confining position. His wrist has twisted, letting his thumb drag lazy circles around your clit, his fingers giving shallow, rough thrusts that make his fingers taunt your g-spot. Never really fully touching it, but sending shivers through your whole body.
“Oh- Oh-“ You have to take deep breaths to keep your head clear, your whole body winding tight with the arousal he’s pulling out of you, more and more every second. “Dean-“
“Shh.” He grunts, biting right under your jaw, and you squeak. “Just feel it. Sweet fuckin’ pussy, gushing around my fingers-“
You moan, loud and lewd, his deep voice not doing anything to help you keep it together.
It’s a miracle you make it to the motel. It’s a shit parking job—you’re definitely over the lines—but you’re both alive.
You barely shift the gears before Dean’s pouncing on you like an animal. Whatever the ride was, he still seemed to be showing restraint. Now that you’re safe, all bets are off.
A squeal leaves you, as he flips your body. Pressing your back to the window and prowling over your body, slamming his mouth over yours and kissing until you’re slumping against the glass. Your hand flies up to grab the back of his neck, your hips rolling up to where his knee is pressed between your thighs. Your eyes dart down when you pull apart for a single, ragged breath—Dean pulling your lip between his teeth, and kissing your nose and cheek like breathing is really no longer his concern—and you whimper at the sight of him, still erect and hanging out of his pants.
Dean drags your chin back up, searing his lips over yours, and you melt. He’s a good kisser. And you knew that, but it’s not like anything you’ve felt before. It’s like you’re trading souls, like he’s trying to brand you with wandering hands and lips.
When you pull away again, your dizzy from the pleasure and force of him. You whine at the loss as he leans away, but Dean just squeezes your waist and smirks.
You hear a rip, as he claws your pants and underwear down your legs. You don’t get a chance to adjust before he’s shoving your knee up against the bench, dragging the other one over his shoulder as he ducks between your legs.
“Dean- Shit-“ Your breathing gets shallow as his breath fans over your pussy. “We- We’re supposed to be doing things that are- Like blowjobs-“
It’s so hard to argue with him when he’s between your legs. The sight alone is almost enough to tip you into a frenzy. His shining eyes looking up at you, his full lips grazing your inner thigh, leaving teasing kisses everywhere but where you’re aching for him. You run your fingers through his short, soft hair, trying to get his attention. He just makes a low sound like a purr, and presses his mouth over your clit.
You almost fly out of your skin. He’s making out with the sensitive nerve like they’re your mouth, his tongue dragging and pressing, his hands on your thighs kneading with every suck and graze of his teeth. All you can do is cover your mouth and try to stifle your moan.
Dean withdraws, and you make a strangled sound of frustration. He can’t just do that, it’s not fair-
“No doin’ that.” He grunts, dragging your hand from your mouth. “Wanna hear it.”
You nod weakly, but still try one more time to remind him who this is about. “Dean, it- it’s supposed to be stuff that’s good for you-“
“This is good for me.” He mutters, letting go of your thigh over his shoulder to let his fingers drag back over your fluttering pussy. “Look at you.” He mutters with pure awe. “Responsive, wet little pussy. Bet you’d like it when I do this.”
He pushes one finger knuckle-deep inside you, and you yank on his hair with delight.
“Yeah, you do. How about,” he drags it out, then shoves it back in, and your head tips back against the window, eyes screwing shut.
“Dean, Dean, please-“
He groans, adding a second finger and repeating the slamming motion. Once, twice, a third time. His tongue flicks against your clit on that last one, and your eyes roll back in your head.
“Dean-“
Another deep sound, another flick, and you’re seconds from begging like a whore when he snaps.
Dean wraps his mouth back around your clit, resuming his ministrations from before with twice the fervor. His fingers pick up their pace, wet sounds filling the car as he finger-fucks you into oblivion.
The curse seems to have it’s full hold on him. He’s borderline feral. You’ve never had a man who eats pussy like he’s having a five-star meal, like it really is good for him. Sometimes he just pulls his fingers out and drags his tongue down your cunt, angling his head to press his tongue deep inside you and working his jaw until your toes are curling. His nose bumps your clit and his stubble scrapes your thighs, his free hand squeezing your thigh as he devours.
“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You let out a vulgar, lustful sound as he drags you further forward against his mouth, the pleasure rushing through your body. “Dean- God, just like that-“
He drags his mouth back up to your swollen, neglected clit, and those two fingers pump back into your hole. It’s somehow better and worse, and a shriek rips from your mouth as he spanks your pussy, then resumes his rhythm.
“Dean, please- Please, fuck- please-“
You’re already babbling, the tension in your lower abdomen so tight it’s almost painful. Your body is shaking with the stimulation, and Dean’s working you like an instrument. He finds every hyper-needy spot that makes you moan his name and playing it like a professional. You’re kept right on the edge for what feels like a million years, his fingers and mouth switching in and out, begging and begging as he turns you into an empty-headed, drooling wound-up mess.
Then he finally lets you over the edge.
Dean pushes his fingers right against your g-spot, and rubs. Your body seizes up, eyes crossing as his tongue flicks against your clit, and the heat built up in your gut explodes.
You shake as your orgasm rips through your pussy, your spine, every nerve in your body glowing with a deep, sex-addled bliss. Your clit is swollen between Dean’s lip as he drags you through it, your pussy gushing around his fingers and fingers yanking at his hair.
“Fuck, yes- Yes-“ You moan, legs locking around Dean’s head, and he groans against your pussy.
When it pulls another lewd sound from your chest, he does it again, slowly easing his fingers out and starting to clean up the mess between your thighs. He licks and hums, the sensation making your oversensitive body spasm every time he finds one of those spots.
It’s not certain you’re going to be able to walk to the motel room, when he finally pulls away.
But there’s a gleaming light in his eyes, that makes you think it’s really not going to matter.
Dean’s a wreck. His face is flushed, chest heaving, cock still hard but coated in a white stain that tells you he’s not close to working off the curse.
“Oh, you’re gonna be so mad about that when you’re better.” You mumble, seeing the stains on his precious bench, and Dean chuckles.
“I’ll get over it.”
You giggle, and Dean leans over you again, kissing you slow and deep. One orgasm seems to have cleared his head for a seconds, enough that he’s gently rubbing your bare, tender pussy, a soothing touch that’s really only working you up more.
“Love that sound.” He mutters, and you frown against his lips.
“Wha-“
“Your laugh.” He sucks on your upper lip, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Love it so much. Don’t think I’ve told you that before.”
He hasn’t. It somehow makes you flush more than any of the dirty things he’d been hissing in your ear before.
“You’re telling me a lot of new things.” You manage to mumble, and he huffs in amusement.
“Blame it on the curse.”
You giggle again, and his face shines like he won a prize.
“Son of a bitch,” his eyes are already darkening again, voice getting thick with the curse-driven hunger. “I love you, you know that?”
You can only gape at him. He must not have said what you thought he said. “What?”
“You heard me.” He presses his brow against yours, reaching up to cup your cheek. “I love you.”
He rasps your name, and you blink away tears.
“Dean, if it’s just the curse-“
“It’s not. It’s-“
He slides his mouth against yours and this is the romantic kiss you always pictured. Slow and devoted as he takes the time to memorize you, to bask in the glow of your heart as you shine with love beneath him.
“You know it, right?” His voice is gravelly, his body pressing firmer over yours. He’s going back under. He can probably feel it. “That I mean it?”
He’s still asking—almost begging—you to tell him that you know.
“I know.” You mumble. “I- I love you too.”
Dean goes rigid over your body, and you blink up at him, as nervous as a doe in headlights. Just like the kiss, you’ve dreamed of saying it. Pictured it somewhere romantic, your makeup perfect and the breeze running through your hair. Dean falling to his knees after, kissing your hands before sweeping you off your feet.
Instead you’re lying in the car, cum staining your tangled legs, everything in you ruined from being eaten out by the sinful mouth that haunts your dreams. Dean’s hovering over you, tongue darting over those same lips—shining with your arousal, making your thighs rub together under him—and your holding onto his flannel, both your clothing stuck to your skin from sweat.
He doesn’t fall to his knees. He just looks at you like he’s not sure it’s a dream either.
At least he still sweeps you off your feet.
Dean moves like a machine. You’re not even sure what’s happening until you’re being hit by the wind, dragged down the bench by your ankles and wrapped in one of his jackets to preserve your modesty. His dick has been hastily shoved back into his pants—the fly still fucking down—and you’re about to tell him you’d at least like your underwear before he’s picking it up and shoving it into his pocket.
“Dean!” You gasp, and he just grunts, sweeping you fully into his arms.
“Mine.” He mutters under his breath, looking around the parking lot like he’s still trying to orient himself. “I- I gotta, fuck-“
Gently, you reach up and turn his chin in the direction of your motel room. “Over there, De.” You mumble, and he nods tightly.
He’s fully back under. You don’t bother to struggle or try and convince him that you can walk, because you’re not even sure you could. It’s not worth distressing Dean over anyway.
Despite his fever soaring and gaze being fogged by the curse, he manages you gently. When you get into the room you’re tossed on the bed and pinned back down for his mouth to work you open again, but the brusing grip is full of care, his mouth worshipful on your pussy. After that he’s rising over your body, ripping clothing like it’s a personal offense on his sensibilities and descending over you with another feral growl.
Your legs are shoved apart, but he rubs a hand over your calves almost reverently. Staring at your glistening, abused pussy with a look of pride and affection, gaze slowly dragging up your flushed breasts and thoroughly marked neck to meet yours.
You give him a honeyed, coaxing smile. You’re his to take, if he wants it.
He makes a low sound from his chest, and starts to kiss up your body. You gasp when his lips wrap around one of your peaked nipples, sucking gently until your grinding up into him. His hand splays over your stomach, gently guiding you back down, and you whine desperately.
“Patience.” He hums, kissing over your breast before switching to the other nipple. “Gonna take care of you. Fuck- You’re so beautiful, so fuckin’-“
Dean moans to himself, and you whimper his name, yanking on his hair.
But there’s no rushing him. He plays with your tits until he’s had his fill—when they’re swollen and you’re arching into every touch—then works back down to your pussy. Tasting your arousal, soaked and messy and almost shamefully dripping down his hand when he touches you.
He doesn’t seem to mind it at all though.
“Messy girl.” He grunts, twisting one finger inside of you. “Think you’re ready for some cock, aren’t you. Gonna take me, princess? Show me how much you love me?”
You blink at him through tears, on the brink of screaming his he doesn’t let you cum again soon. When you nod it’s like a bobblehead, and you only remember his orders from before at the last second.
“Yes.” You gasp. “Yes, Dean, please-“
Again, he moves.
You’re almost a ragdoll in his arms. A ragdoll that he moves like you’re threaded from gold, tossing you around and gripping your hips so hard you’ll have a handprint in the morning, but kissing over every hickey on your neck and muttering words of low, tender praise every second.
“Good girl.” He mutters as he drags his cock between your pussy lips. “Good fuckin’ girl, already cockdrunk and stupid for me, aren’t you. Love taking you like this, looking at you all pretty and dumb-“
You whine, head lolling to the side. Dean slides two fingers into your mouth and you suck on them like candy, taking anything he’ll offer.
He growls, dick catching on your entrance, and you shiver, looking up at him under fluttering eyes.
Dean drags you up like you weigh nothing, slowly sitting you down on his massive cock, and every thought but his name is driven from your head.
He’s thick. So think you almost don’t think you can take it, but your whine of protest is only met by cooing, filthy praise in your ears and careful circles around your clit. You don’t know how he can still be so far into the curse and able to restrain himself from rutting you like a beast.
Probably because it’s Dean. That feels like explanation enough.
It takes a moment for him to bottom out, and when he does you’re sure you’ve never been this full. He’s hitting places inside of you that you hadn’t known existed, dropping you into a pool of pleasure that makes your breathing stuttered, your nails scratching over his shoulders as you try to keep yourself from floating away.
Dean kisses you, hot and deep. You moan against him and he grabs your hips, starting to roll you up and down on his cock. You can tell he’s experimenting again, trying to figure out where he hits the deepest, working you open until you’re riding his cock smoothly your head falling back as pants of his name leave your mouth.
It’s paradise. Your toes are curling with every twitch of his cock inside you, every rush of heat when he slams extra hard and hits your cervix. It takes him takes him some time to decide how he wants you , and you’d laugh at what he settles on if the air wasn’t being fucked from your lungs.
Dean cums while holding you in his lap, his thrusts getting short and a groan of your name falling from his mouth when he ruts up, his cock pumping hot release inside of you and your own orgasm rolling through your body like an electrical storm. But then you’re being picked up and flipped around so your back is pressed to his chest, his arm locking around your neck and his hand returning to your clit as his fucks up into you. Then you’re moved forward onto the mattress, Dean turning your face so he can hear your moans and keeping your ass into the air as he slams from behind, his balls slapping against your clit and bringing you back up to the edge.
You’re in his lap again, folded under him with your knees to your chest, rolled on top of him so he can play with your tits and watch you ride.
Every time he cums, you’re thrown into a new position and held there until you both fall back over the edge. You’ve never been wrecked like this before, your head empty, pussy drenching his cock as he spills and claims every spot on your body.
“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he growls into your ear from below you, dragging his fingers down your inner thigh, gathering his release on his fingers. “So pretty, bouncing on this cock, my pretty fuckin’ baby-“
“Dean.” You whine, scraping at his chest. “Dean, feels so good, so fucking good-“
“I know.” He coos. “Made for me, getting so fucking stupid on my cock- Open.”
He slaps your cheek lightly, and your lips part. Dean feeds you his cum, other hand rubbing up and down your spine, and you grind down onto him with need.
“Good girl, fuckin’- Christ you’re so good-“ His thrusts get shorter, brutal and uneven. “You’re mine, this sweet pussy is mine, gonna- Gonna fuckin’ worship you, fuck-“
He drills up into you, taking his hand away to bounce you how he likes.
You both cum, Dean calling your name and throwing his head back, watching you under hooded, still hungry eyes.
There’s a second to catch your breath, as he palms your breast. Pinches a nipple, rolling it between his fingers, watching how you arch into his touch.
“You like that?” He grunts, and you hum.
“Feels good.”
“Damn right it does.” He grabs the other one, working them in tandem.
You whine his name, looking at him under pleading lashes.
Dean groans. “Fuck, baby…”
He’s hard again, and you’re being moved into another position.
By the time he finds one he wants to keep, you’re a disaster of a woman. Making sounds that are supposed to be his name, boneless below him and still trying to chase more, even as your body turns into a raw, live nerve.
Dean’s got you under him again, his body pressed over yours, cock plunging in and out of your pussy at a lazy, torturous pace. You’ve been like this for what must be an hour, maybe a day, maybe fifty years. Tears of pleasure are stained on your cheeks, there’s a wet sound with every thrust as his cum leaks out of your stuffed hole, and Dean’s praise is becoming more and more lucid.
“I love you.” He mutters, and you moan, turning your head to try and kiss him.
“Dean…”
“I know.” He mutters. “I know, baby, but you’re doin’ so good. Feeling better, almost done, just gotta-“
He kisses over your face, finally capturing your lips as he starts to rut, pounding into your swollen g-spot over and over.
You barely have the energy to arch up, when you cum. You breathe out his name, pussy clenching as you feel that last bit of his cum squirt into you, and a wet, hot feeling floods your pussy as your vision goes white.
“Love you.” Dean’s still muttering as you float through the haze, his lips pressed over yours. “Loved you forever, never- Never thought-“
His voice cracks, and you know the curse is over. He’s not getting hard again inside of you, not trying to chase more.
Just pressing his face into the crook of your neck and holding you tight, words muffled against your skin.
“Thank you.” He mutters. “Thank you for- For sayin’ it back, even if that wasn’t-“
“It was,” you breathe out. He needs to know. “I love you, Dean. Have for longer.”
He chuckles, squeezing your body, and you smile into the air.
You find the strength to thread your fingers through his hair, and he hums, pressing a sweet kiss to your sensitive skin. You shiver, whining softly, and he chuckles again. Both of you too fucked out to move. You’re not sure you’re going to be able to walk in a straight line for a month.
But it was worth it.
Holding Dean here, so peacefully, was more than worth it.
✦End note: please tell me if you enjoyed it i think i started my own ovulation so. oops.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦
tags-> voyerisum (consensual), perv dean winchester, masturbation, lingerie, no use of y/n
authors notes -> this is my first time writing x reader so i hope you enjoy!! very fade to black though
dean winchester who watches you from across the room, admiring the curves of your body and the way your hair flows down your back
maybe you know that he’s watching, maybe you don’t, but it doesn’t matter, not when he’s staring at you with such intensity that it practically burns into your back
his eyes stay trained on you, even as you slowly begin to unclip your bra and slide your panties down your legs, they stay trained on you as you shuffle into bed and slowly drag your fingers down to your wet heat
he only slinks back into the darkness when you’ve finished, savouring the memory of your voice heightening and eyebrows furrowing together before you slump back down in bliss
the rest of the night is spent with one hand fisted tightly around his cock and the other clamped over his mouth in a poor attempt to muffle his moans, but secretly he hopes you can hear him
thank you for reading angels!!! this is just a drabble as i explore x reader<3
Would like to thank you for representing lesbians who write about men 🙏🙏 the amount of people (at least I've met) who automatically assume u can't have both is crazy
aw, thank you! :') this means a lot to me. again, thank you.
and it's honestly so weird when people make that assumption; that you can't write one thing or another because it doesn't fit with their beliefs on how you should act/behave. people shouldn't be put into boxes based on what their sexuality/gender is and told to stick to writing only what they know. i still like men (well, fictional ones. lol), i just have no interest in dating them or anything!
summary: Sam left for Stanford and Dean calls you.
pairing: pre series!dean x worm!reader (f, civilian, no physical descriptions)
tags: non-canon. ex lovers. idiots in love. angst. slight smut at the end so mdni. no y/n, only pet names. Ham and Bean. John mentioned. we love Sammy here, no bashing my boy. scars. nightmare. praise kink. unprotected sex. slight aftercare. new format-ish. lemme know if i missed anything!
wc: 6.8k
“It’s over. Damn it!”
Dean’s voice carries through the speaker, pulling you out of your slump. You glance at the clock on your nightstand, one hand rubbing your eyes, the other pressing the phone against your ear.
“Dean?” you ask, sleepy and confused. “What are you talking about? What’s wrong?”
“Sam,” he chokes out, his voice shaking. “It’s… Everything’s screwed. Damn it. I have to– I can’t–”
Your brain scrambles to catch up with his slurring words, but the fog of sleep is too thick. Besides, Dean’s always dramatic when he’s had too many, probably letting out all the things he keeps bottled up when he’s sober. You’ve done this dance way too many times before.
“Oh god,” you groan, rolling onto your side. “Slow down, Skippy. Are you drunk?”
“I’m not drunk,” he scoffs, the sound of glass clinking softly over the line. “I’ve had like… two, three beers. Basically nothing. I’m fine.”
“Uh huh. Are you in jail?”
“Excuse me?”
“What?” you grumble, flipping back onto your stomach and burying your face into the pillow while keeping the phone against your ear. “It’s almost one, you’re wasted–”
“I said I’m fine,” he mumbles.
“You’re wasted, and you called me,” you continue, words muffled by the cotton. “That means either you’re bleeding somewhere or you’ve finally gotten arrested.”
“Jesus. Straight to the punch, aren’t we?” He huffs a dry laugh. “Can’t a man call and check up on his ex?”
“Not in the middle of the night panicking like that,” you retort. “So which one is it? Are you in jail, bleeding, or both?”
Dean exhales. “No, Sherlock. My guts are in tact. I’m not calling from the county jail. And I’m definitely not panicking. It’s… it’s been a long day. That’s all.”
“So you called me? Out of all people?”
“Hey, you’re the one who picked up.”
“My thumb slipped. I was trying to turn my phone off.”
“Riiight. Because you’re totally the kind of person who answers unknown numbers in her sleep,” he drawls. “Keep telling yourself that if it helps you sleep tonight.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m gonna go back to sleep, alright.”
Dean doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, and you don’t try to fill the silence, either. Warm and comfortable, you almost drift back to dreamland.
There’s something weirdly comforting about this. Baby’s distant rumble in the background, Dean’s breathing in your ear, the soft sheets against your skin.
For a moment, you’re in the back of the Impala again, wrapped up in your boyfriend’s arms, talking about your day, his life on the road, and the possibility of him staying. You used to think you were the luckiest girl in the whole world.
“Did I wake you?” His voice cuts through your sleepy, wandering thoughts.
“Pfft. No,” you snort, rolling onto your back again. “Been up for hours. Was waiting for you to call me, actually.”
There’s that silence again before he speaks up. “Sorry. I didn’t know who else to call.”
The incoming joke dies on your tongue immediately. Dean’s never one to talk about feelings or all the “chick flick crap” he always tries to file them into. Come to think of it, he’d never called you after you two broke up. Not even once.
“Dean,” you slowly sit up, fingers tightening around the phone. “Are you hurt? Don’t lie to me. I’ll know if you do.”
“‘course not,” he scoffs again. “You think a couple of fangs and claws got my ass, Wormie?”
You roll your eyes at the old nickname, though quickly shaking off the tingling in your stomach before you can put a name to it.
“Then what happened?”
Dean doesn’t answer for so long that you have to check if he has passed out. “Dean?”
You can hear him take a long swig of his drink before he starts.
“Sam’s… gone. He left. Said he’s going to Stanford.” A bitter laugh slips out over the line. “Gonna be a college boy. Get a degree in… law or something them nerds do. Can you believe that?”
“Dad didn’t help either,” he continues. “Said if he walks out, then he’s dead to us, and Sammy just packed his little backpack, took the first bus, and… and just poof. Like that.”
“Oh.”
“Oh? That’s what you have to say? Oh?”
“I don’t know, Dean.” You run your fingers through your hair.
You’ve only met Sam a couple of times when Dean brought him along on your dates, and you don’t know John personally. But from the way he used to talk about them, you know this is not the usual rebel-teen-left-home-to-prove-something issue. This is bigger.
“Um... Are you driving?” you ask. Baby purrs in the background. “Where are you?”
“Out.”
“Out where?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m outside, okay? Communicating with nature.”
“Do you see a gas station?”
“Stop asking, or I’ll hang up.”
“A sign?”
“Wormie.”
“Bean.”
A small pause, static buzzing through the speaker.
“I told you to stop calling me that.”
“And I told you to tell me where you are.”
“Why do you care?”
That makes you stop short. The engine growls louder on his end. You stare at your bedroom wall, looking for an answer that is not there as your brain works overtime. It’s too late, or too early, for… whatever this is.
With a small sigh, you answer. “Because you called.”
On the other end, his breathing seems to stop.
“C’mon, Dean,” you try again. “Tell me where you are.”
Another sip of his drink, and the silence snares at you.
“Your town,” he says quietly. “I just hit the county line.”
“You’re here?”
You stumble out of bed to peek through the curtains, hoping to see the familiar headlights cutting through the darkness of your street. But nothing. Not yet, at least.
Dean, again, zips his mouth shut.
“See, my town doesn’t have any tunnels, Bean.”
You turn around, kicking the half-blanket pooling on the floor and making your way toward the kitchen.
He barks a small, surprised laugh, and you hate that you still miss that sound.
“Can you not? I’m having a crisis here.”
“I know. That’s why I’m trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help.” His tone turns serious and defensive. “Mind your business.”
“Uh huh. Sure you don’t.”
You reach for the fridge, opening it aimlessly to have something to do with your hands when an idea pops into your head.
“Why don’t you come over, Bean? I have… some cold egg rolls and half a bag of marshmallows. I need someone to finish them before they expire.”
A small snort comes from his end.
“Really, Wormie? You need me over to finish your food?”
“Yep,” you gather the leftovers onto the counter, sounding way too casual. “Why else would I ask you to come over? Okay. Cool. Drive safe!”
Then you hang up, not giving him a chance to refuse. Or accept. You don’t wanna know.
The sleepy fog finally clears, reality takes its place, and you move around your apartment like a storm. Your living room is a mess of clutter while the kitchen sink is filled with unwashed dishes you keep putting off.
As you clean up the place, your mind spins around Dean’s words from earlier. Your jaw clenches when you rub the stubborn stain on the plate. It’s happening again. The familiar gravelly voice echoes in your ear.
“It was Flagstaff,” Dean murmurs against your skin. “Dad was on a hunting trip, and Sam… kid ran away on my watch.”
He tightens his arms around you, burying his face into your hair. “Two weeks. For two weeks, baby, I thought…” His voice cracks, just above a whisper. “I thought I failed him. I thought I failed Dad.”
You clear your throat, shaking that memory away as you scrub the dish harder to swallow the muffled, breaking sound of him.
When everything seems less chaotic, you settle onto the couch and stare at the black phone screen. What’s taking him so long? Is he coming or not? Oh, no. Did he get into an accident? Why does he keep drinking and driving all the time?
Then you look down at your sleep shirt, wondering if you should change, like putting on a clean shirt is somehow gonna make this any better.
Three sharp knocks cut through the quiet night when you’re in the middle of the wardrobe debate with yourself. You jump a little, looking at the wood like your worst nightmare is waiting on the other side instead of the man you’ve been missing for two years.
You cross the hall to the door, and your throat suddenly goes dry when you yank the door open. Your fingers curl around the doorknob like a lifeline when your eyes finally meet. He’s not the one in the photos you keep under the bed. Not the one you see in your dreams.
He’s here. Really here.
Dean’s standing at your door, broad shoulders wrapped in a leather jacket and worn jeans, looking exactly the same but entirely different. His face is more refined. His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle ticking under his stubble. He looks completely hollowed out, like a ghost from your past. In a way, he is.
“Hey,” Dean’s the first to break the silence. The same old half grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Hey,” you return with a small smile, hyperaware of the proximity. You can just reach out and–
“Come in,” you step aside, gesturing to the couch. “Uh… have a seat. I’ll get the food.”
Dean walks in, his eyes scanning the apartment, a habit honed over years of always having to watch his shoulder.
The windows are locked. Shoes are kicked by the door. Magazines are stacked neatly on the coffee table, right next to the monkey lamp he used to hide away whenever he came over. The corner of his mouth twitches.
“You still have that thing?” he notes, shrugging off his jacket as the couch groans under his weight. He leans forward, elbows resting on his thighs as his gaze follows you into the kitchen.
“What thing?” you call out, your back turned to the living room.
“Alvin… and the gang.”
Your hands freeze, hovering over the bowl as a memory flashes through your mind.
“Why are there three monkeys under your lamp, Weirdo?”
“Because they’re adorable.”
“They’re fugly.”
“Don’t be rude. Alvin and the gang can hear you.”
“As in Alvin and the Chipmunks?”
“Uh huh. Come say hi. This is Alvin, Simon, and Theodore!”
The memory arrives uninvited, and you have to bite back a smile when you pad into the living room, where Dean is slouched against the couch cushion, staring at nothing.
“Of course I still have it. They still sing me to sleep, if you’re wondering.”
The ceramic clicks against the wooden table, louder than it should be.
“Wow,” Dean whistles, unimpressed with the lukewarm egg rolls and a sad pile of stale marshmallows. “You really know how to woo a guy, don’t you?”
“Oh, please. This is basically a five-star meal.” You finally look at him, but quickly look over your shoulder to the kitchen again. “You want anything to drink? Tea? Coffee? I don’t have any beer... Okay. Water it is.”
Before Dean can answer, you return with two glasses of water.
“Wait, napkins! We need napkins.”
And you’re gone again.
Dean narrows his eyes, pushing himself up from the couch. His footsteps are so light that you don’t even notice him stepping up behind you.
“What are you doing in here?” You almost slam into him when you turn. “Get back out there.”
“The napkins are out there. In the living room.”
You glance at the napkin-free counter you’ve been staring at.
“Oh.” A breathless, defensive laugh escapes you. “That explains it. I was about to call a search party. C’mon.”
You sidestep around Dean, heading straight back to the couch, twisting the hem of your shirt into a tight knot. Then the cushion dips next to you, his shoulder brushing your sleeve. The bitter scent of beer and something distinctively Dean settles around you.
“Breathe, Jumpy,” Dean mumbles, his voice rough and low. A tired smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Or you’re gonna pass out before we even get to the cold egg rolls.”
You scrunch your nose and snatch a marshmallow from the bowl.
“I’m not jumpy. Just… shut up and eat.”
A dry laugh rumbles in Dean’s throat, but it dies quickly. He shakes his head and reaches for an egg roll. His movement is mechanical, eyes fixed on the blank spot of your dark TV screen as he chews.
Dean finishes the last roll, wiping his hands on a napkin as his head drops back against the cushion, his eyes closed.
In the dim light of your living room, he doesn’t look like Dean the hunter. Right now, he’s Bean. One who used to sneak into your room, just like tonight, to steal a few kisses before a long hunt.
Your gaze roams over his face, desperately trying to remind yourself of the two years of distance between you. Despite your best attempt, all those endless nights when you cried yourself to sleep, praying for the phone to ring, suddenly don’t hurt as much.
Watching the soft rise and fall of his shoulders, you wonder if he’d spent the last two years missing you, too.
Then his lips move.
“He packed everything,” Dean whispers before a bitter laugh slips out. “Didn’t even hesitate. Nope. Just packed his crap and left.”
You stay still, fingers digging into your thighs, trying to keep yourself from reaching out to him.
“And you know what the worst thing is?” Dean finally opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling. “Dad gave him a damn ultimatum. Stay or never come back. Like you can force someone to stay like that.”
Your breath hitches. The word ‘ultimatum’ hangs in the air, ugly and poisonous.
“Why does everyone do that?” He snaps, moving his gaze to you, and your stomach churns. “Why does everyone just fucking leave, huh? Am I not enough?”
The question echoes in the small room, stinging just like the first time you heard it.
In a split second, it’s like nineteen-year-old Dean is sitting right next to you. The boy who choked back tears into your pillow after a hunt went terribly wrong and let you rub his back until he could breathe again. He’s asking the same thing now, but you doubt that you can fix it this time.
“Dean, that’s not–”
“Every fucking time,” he sits right up, his green eyes flashing with anger, and his voice cracks. “First you. Now Sammy. Seriously, what is it?”
You blink.
“Is there a… a… support group for people who ditch me?” He raises his voice. “Do you guys get matching t-shirts, too? Is staying with me really that miserable? What did I ever do to deserve all this shit?”
You just stare at him like he just grew a second head. Oh, he did not.
“Oh, absolutely. We meet on Tuesdays, and I’m the fucking president!” You finally snap back, irritation bleeding into sarcasm. “Look around, Dean. You’re sitting on my couch. At one in the morning. I literally fed you, and you want to blame me for what I didn’t do? A thank you would be nice.”
“What you didn’t do?” He scoffs, anger flaring up as he jabs a finger at you in the air. “You left me. I don’t see why I should thank you for that.”
“I didn’t leave you!”
“Yes, you did!”
“No. I didn’t! Let’s get the facts straight, Dean. I gave you a choice. And we both know you didn’t choose me.”
“What was I supposed to do?” He stands up and starts pacing around. “I got a job to do. Dad needed me. Sam needed me. People were dying out there. I couldn’t just leave them like that.”
You roll your eyes, crossing your arms like a shield.
“You sure didn’t have any problem leaving me.”
“Hey. Don’t.” Dean snaps his head right back at you. “Don’t you fucking say that. It’s unfair, and you know it.”
“I know!” You rise after him. “It’s unfair that you chose a death wish over me!”
“Oh, here we go again. Forgive me for doing my job, your majesty.” He bites back, walking up to you. “I didn’t choose a death wish over you. I didn’t choose anything. That wasn’t even a choice, sweetheart.”
You huff a humorless laugh, shaking your head.
“Right. You didn’t have a choice. Family business. That’s what you said, wasn’t it?”
“Damn right I said it because it was true.” He tilts his head, his eyes searching yours. “And it still is.”
“Well, guess what, Dean? I didn’t give a damn about your family business.” You point at yourself. “I just wanted you to be safe. I just wanted you to stay for dinner.”
His jaw ticks.
“Oh, I’m sorry my ‘cross-country monster-hunting schedule’ didn’t fit into your neat little planner,” he air quotes. “Next time a werewolf is eating someone, I’ll tell them I can’t help because my girlfriend wants to go to the movies!”
“Don’t you dare twist my words, Dean! I didn’t say that your job isn’t important.” You glare at him, fingernails digging into your palms. “Fine! Enough about what I want. You obviously don’t care anyway.”
“Hey, I never said I–”
“Let’s talk about what you want.” You talk over him, and his breath catches visibly. “Two years ago, right on this couch, you said you wanted out. You did. So why are you always coming back when your dad calls? Why?”
Time seems to freeze after the words leave your lips, and Dean looks like he’d been slapped.
“Oh, silly me.” You wave him off, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s always what your dad wants, isn’t it?”
“That’s enough,” he grunts, his voice dropping lower, like the calm before the storm. “You don’t get to talk about my dad.”
“Why not? Because it’s the truth?”
He scoffs, rubbing his jaw, his other hand on his hip.
“You’re twenty-two years old, Dean. But the second your dad snaps his fingers, you’ll turn right back into a scared little kid. He did it to us once, and he just did it again to Sam.”
“I said enough,” he grumbles.
“No.” You gesture at the door as if John Winchester is right outside.
“You see what your dad did? He dragged you across the country since you two were kids. Then he kicked Sam out when your brother wanted to do something for himself. You’re just too scared to admit your dad is a tyrant!”
“He’s not a tyrant!” Dean barks, towering over you. “He keeps us alive. He keeps people alive. You wouldn’t get that, would you? Because you’re too busy sitting in your cozy little apartment, talking to your stupid lamp, and judging a life you couldn’t handle for five minutes!”
“Oh, I couldn’t handle it?” You scoff, jabbing a finger at his chest. The touch is barely there, but it makes him flinch.
“I handled you, Dean. The blood, the nightmares, the days I didn’t know if you were still alive. I was always there. I handled it all until you decided I wasn’t enough to stay for.”
“Don’t you put words into my mouth,” he narrows his eyes. “I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to say it. You showed me!”
You’re both breathing heavily now, jaws tight enough to crack teeth. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The apartment feels too small for your staring contest. Suddenly, Dean brushes your hand away and turns to the couch.
“You ruined it,” he mutters, almost sounding like he’s pouting if you listen close enough. “We were happy. Everything was fine before you ruined it all with that stupid ultimatum.”
“That’s not–”
“Stop.” He holds a hand up, cutting you off, shoulders slumping. “Just stop. I don’t even know why I came here tonight.”
“To eat my egg rolls and be a jerk, apparently.” You double down, rolling your eyes.
He barks out a humorless laugh and grabs his jacket, clumsily sliding into it as if he’s shaking. “Wow. Truly. The hospitality is breathtaking, sweetheart.”
“You know what?” he says, fetching his keys out of his pocket, heavy footsteps trailing towards the entryway. “I’m gonna go.”
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Anywhere but here.” He keeps his back to you, reaching for the doorknob. “Seriously, I’m tired of getting kicked when I’m already down.”
You tug at his jacket sleeve, stopping him from opening the door.
“Hey, don’t be like that. It’s two in the morning, and you’re exhausted. You’re not going anywhere tonight.”
Dean looks down at your hand on his jacket, then looks back at you, his face hardens. “Watch me.”
“No.” You pull on his jacket until he’s facing you.
“I’ve watched you step out of this door too many times. And the last time I did, you never came back. So no. I’m not watching you leave again. Not tonight.”
Dean stares at you. The anger is still simmering behind his eyes, but it’s buried beneath something heavier now.
“Let go,” he grumbles, though making no move to remove your hand.
“No.”
“I’m serious.”
“Good. That makes it two of us.”
With a long, weary sigh, he drops his hand from the doorknob.
“You’re the most annoying person I’ve ever met.”
“Right back at you.” You pull him back to the couch. “Now, sit.”
“You can’t order me around.”
“Sit.”
He glares at you for a few seconds before flopping onto the couch, though not before shrugging off the jacket and mumbling something you can’t quite make out.
“Be right back.” You walk down the hallway and disappear into your bedroom.
“What are you doing?”
“Just a sec.” Your voice carries through the room before you return with a blanket and two pillows.
Dean arches a brow, judging. “What are those?”
“What do you think, genius?” You drop them into his lap. “You’re not in any state to drive or to win any argument tonight. Take the couch.”
“Your couch sucks,” he huffs, rough hands feeling the cotton.
“You’re lucky I’m offering.”
“I don’t need your pity,” though he’s setting up his little cocoon right against the cushions. One pillow draped over the armrest, the other one tucked neatly against the back of the couch.
“Never said it was.”
He kicks off his boots and smooths the blanket over his knees, avoiding your eyes. “Five minutes.”
“What?”
“I’m staying for five minutes.”
You bite back a smile, eyeing the dirty boots on your carpet. “Of course you are.”
“I mean it,” he continues, fluffing his pillow. “I’m just resting my eyes. And then, I’m going.”
“Uh huh.”
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought really loud.”
You scoff, though it’s more amused than annoyed. The frustration is still there, but looking at him tucked in on your couch like that, you can’t help but recall the simpler times.
After gathering the plates into the sink, you pad back into the living room and find Dean “I’m just resting my eyes” Winchester snoring under the blanket, his mouth slightly open and his arm hanging off the couch.
You stand there for a long time, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Even though your body is exhausted, you can’t bring yourself to go to bed. The harsh, cruel words you threw at each other earlier, the screaming match, the old wounds, everything seems to be amplified in the late night.
You decide to settle in the armchair next to the couch instead. Curling up, you wrap your arms around your legs as you slowly drift off. Dean’s soft snore blends with the hum of the fridge, a lullaby you never thought you’d miss. But here you are.
The sky outside is starting to lighten. In the slumber, you hear sharp hitches replace Dean’s steady breathing. The couch creaks softly as his body jerks.
“Sam…” he chokes out, muffled by the pillow. “Sammy… Don’t…”
You jolt awake, and your eyes snap right in his direction. His head lolls back, shoulders shaking under the cover.
“Wait… Don’t go! No!”
You slip out of the armchair, kneeling next to the couch.
“Bean, hey, wake up.”
He’s drowning in it. Short breaths crawl out of his throat, raw and aching. You reach out, carefully pressing your hand against his shoulder.
“Wake up, Dean.” Your voice stays soft and low. “You’re dreaming. Wake up.”
Dean snaps his eyes open, wide and unfocused. His hand instinctively slides under the pillow, where his Colt should be. But it’s not there.
“Dean, look at me.” You try again. “You’re at my place. You’re safe.”
He gasps, grabbing your collar as his fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, his chest heaving. “Sammy?”
“Easy,” you whisper, your eyes searching his. Your hand stays warm against his shoulder instead of yanking his wrist away. “It’s me. You’re safe, Dean. Just breathe.”
Dean blinks, his gaze darting across your features when reality finally catches up. The shift is instant, and you can feel it immediately.
His face hardens, fingers loosening on your shirt as he gathers himself to sit up.
“Sorry.”
You sit back on your heels, watching Dean drag a hand across his face, his jaw working tightly under the stubble.
“I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”
“You’re not fine.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“You’re shaking.”
He clutches at the blanket pooling around his waist, rubbing his eyes with his other hand. “I’m just cold.”
You pause before your voice turns firmer. “Dean. Look at me.”
“I said I’m fine. Goddamn it!”
“Then why don’t you look at me?”
The sunlight peeks through the curtains, warm and bright. So different from the raging storm inside your living room.
“Because…” he starts, picking at the invisible threads on the blanket. “If I do, I’m gonna say something stupid.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
That earns you a look. Sharp and annoyed.
“Well?” you prompt.
Dean swallows hard, his green eyes hollow as he looks down again.
“I saw him. Sam. I was standing there, screaming at him. But he… he didn’t hear me.” A harsh laugh escapes him. “Or he just ignored me. I don’t know.”
“So… I watched him pack his bags,” he continues. “I kept waiting for him to stop, to turn around and tell me it was a joke. But nah. I blinked and he just… just disappeared.”
You chew on your lower lip. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you place your hand on his over the blanket. He freezes, his eyes fixed on your hands, but he doesn’t pull back.
“I’m sorry, Dean.” You tilt your head, trying to catch his gaze. “I get it. I really do.”
A low scoff curls up in his throat.
“No, you don’t. You’re a civilian. You have a life. You have your friends. Your job. You don’t know what it’s like to stand there and realize you weren’t enough to make people stay.”
“Dean, I...” Your fingers curl around his, hard enough to make his jaw tick. “I watched you leave two years ago.”
Dean just stops breathing altogether when he finally looks at you. He opens his mouth, then closes it, and he does it again.
“I was standing right there, by that window.” Your voice shakes slightly. “I watched your taillights disappear down the street. I kept waiting for you to turn around, too. For days. Weeks, even. I know exactly what it feels like.”
“That’s not the same,” he protests, though he sounds unsure.
“Isn’t it?” you press. “Tell me how it’s different.”
For a few minutes, neither of you says anything. Dean looks at your joined hands again, thinking. Then, to your surprise, he turns his hand and tangles his fingers with yours.
“I never turned around because I knew if I did…” A small pause, his eyes softening. “There’s no chance of me getting into that car.”
Your heart skips a beat.
“You’re lying.” You shake your head, but your fingers are curling into his anyway. “You can’t… you can’t say that to me and act like everything’s fine.”
“I’m not lying, Wormie. You know I’m not.”
You shake your head again, eyes burning. “You don’t get to do that.”
Dean looks at your hands, then at the tears gathering in your eyes. “Hey…”
You let out a shaky laugh. “I hated you so much, you know that? I tried so hard to hate you.”
“I know.” His hand tightens around yours, his free hand cupping your face to brush the tears away. “I don’t wanna do this anymore.”
You sniffle, looking up at him.
“I don’t wanna fight anymore,” he rasps.
Something in you finally gives out. It’s been two years. Two years of anger and pretending you didn’t look for his car every time one ran down your street. Two years of you longing for these exact words, though you’d convinced yourself those would never come.
For a second, everything blurs, and you’re her again. She laughs too hard at his unfunny jokes and steals fires off his plates. She doesn’t know distance or heartbreak. She’s just happy.
You lean into his hand, your face crumbling as you sob.
“Hey...” His voice softens, giving your hand a gentle tug. “C’mere.”
You let him pull you closer until you’re sitting sideways across his lap, and only then you realize how badly you’d been craving this feeling. Dean buries his face in your shoulder and exhales like he’s been holding his breath since he left.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
Your brain short-circuits. Did Dean Winchester just apologize? Him?
“Yeah,” he huffs an awkward, self-deprecating laugh against your skin. “Guess I made a mess of things. Wasn’t trying to hurt you, Spiky. I just… I really thought it was for the best.”
“Best for who?” You pull back slightly, a frown forming between your brows.
“You,” he admits, his hand settling at your waist out of habit. “You deserve the normal life, sweetheart. And me, hey, I’m just a guy who chases monsters for a living with a blind faith in his dad.”
“Dean.” You sigh, pulling him closer until your foreheads touch. “I didn’t mean to say what I said last night. I was just angry.”
“But you weren’t wrong, sweetheart.”
Silence settles between you again, but it feels more like a truce. You take a deep breath, wiping your tears away with one hand before settling it back around his neck.
“No, Dean. I shouldn’t have said that. I was out of line, and I’m sorry.”
He studies you for a few seconds, then a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Guess we’re both idiots, huh?”
A small, shaky laugh from you. “Speak for yourself.”
The smile lingers, but he doesn’t throw a joke back at you this time.
Outside, the sun rises higher, and a bird chirps somewhere.
“It’s morning,” you murmur, nuzzling closer to him until there’s no space between you.
Dean shifts on the couch, keeping you tucked into him as he pulls the thin cover over both of you. “That so? I didn’t notice, Sherlock.”
You scrunch your nose and give him a light swat. A laugh rumbles against your ear where your head rests.
“Ow. That hurts.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“It totally does.”
“Why do you always need to have the last word, Bean?”
“Why do you always need to have the last word, Bean?” he mimics you.
“Stop it.”
“Stop it.”
“Dean!”
He just laughs, more relaxed than you’ve seen since he stepped into your apartment last night. You let your gaze caress his features. The crinkles around his eyes when he laughs. The stubble he hasn’t had time to manage. The faint scar near his chin.
“I missed you,” you blurt out, more honest than you intend to.
Dean goes completely still, and the laughter dies down. You see the corner of his mouth twitch again. It’s not amusement. It’s another sarcastic remark waiting to be presented to the world, and you almost want to take it back.
“I missed you, too,” he says, finally. “Every day, sweetheart. You have no idea.”
Then, before tears can sting your eyes again, he pivots.
“Hell, it’s like I got your stupid grin burned into the inside of my eyelids.”
“What did you just say?”
“Shut up. I’m having a moment here,” he shushes you. “Listen. Every time I close my eyes, you’re there. Giving me that look. Yelling at me. It’s scary as hell.”
You groan, hiding your face in his chest. “What are you even talking about?”
“It’s true, baby.” He feigns annoyance even when his arms tighten around you. “Hey, look at me.”
He waits until you do, then pulls the most ridiculous, all-teeth smile across his face.
“See? Exactly like this. You see how much I had to suffer for two years, Wormie?”
You give him a look, unamused and no less affectionate.
“You’re paying my therapy bills,” he adds, his eyes gleaming. “Just so you know.”
“God! You need to shut the hell up, Bean.”
He pulls you closer when you try to squirm in his lap. “Make me.”
His grin slowly fades, the playful spark in his eyes shifting into something darker when his gaze drops to your mouth.
“Don’t tempt me. I swear I’m gonna…” You blink. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Just looking.”
“At what?”
He shrugs. “You.”
The annoying little thing in your chest does a violent flip as he leans closer, his forehead pressed against yours. “You’re really pretty.”
His lips brush yours hesitantly, testing the water. When you don’t pull back, he kisses you for real, large hands pressing your hips against his. Two years doesn’t seem too long anymore.
Your head spins, all of your senses are filled with him and him only. You only break the kiss for a second, both of you gasping for air.
“Tell me to stop,” Dean rasps even though he looks terrified that you actually will.
“No,” is all you give him. Your hands slide down to grip the hem of his t-shirt, then you pull it up over his head, tossing it blindly onto the floor.
The sudden sight of his bare torso makes your breath quicken. Your eyes map out the muscles before fingertips trace along the faint line along his chest, then the small, rounded puckered skin near his ribs. A few smaller scars scattered along his skin.
Every single one of them is a night he almost didn’t make it back. Back here. Back to you.
Dean flinches slightly at the contact, his grip tightening on you. Before he can try to joke again, you lean down and place a soft kiss on the scariest-looking one.
“Sweetheart…” he murmurs, his voice tight.
Then another kiss. Then another. And another. You don’t miss any spot, even kissing the small mark along his jaw.
“Let me take care of you,” you breathe, leaning down to plant another kiss at the junction of his neck and shoulder.
He blinks up at you, surprised, but a heavy heat flashes in his eyes the second you push him down and straddle his lap. His hands, still on your waist, start tracing the skin beneath your sleep shirt as you hike it up. Dean helps you to get rid of the rest of your clothes. Yours and his.
When you settle back on his hips, the hard length of him is brushing against your aching center. He’s vibrating now, jaw clenched tight, knuckles turning white on the cushion.
Dean chews on his lower lip as you slowly guide him toward your core, gathering slick before sinking down until he fills you up completely. You let out a small moan, your head dropping onto his shoulder, trying to adjust to the fullness of him.
“God…” Dean chokes out, his hands sliding up your back, pressing you flush against him. “Taking me so good… You okay?”
You hum, nodding lightly as you lift your head to kiss him again. When you tilt your hips to start moving, Dean gasps into your mouth, eyes rolling to the back of his head.
“Oh, fuuuck. Like that. Take what you need, pretty girl. Yeah… That’s it.”
You take the lead, rocking against him slowly at first. The wet, messy sound of skin against skin fills the small room. He tilts his head back against the pillow, his eyes closed as the couch groans under you two.
“I miss this.” He slides one hand into your hair, pulling you down to nip at your earlobe, making your skin tingle. “I miss you.”
Suddenly, he sits straight up, lifting you off him. Confused, your eyes wide, your chest heaving as you cling to him.
“What’s wrong? Did I do something?” Your mind is a whirlwind of emotions as Dean lays you on your back. “You… you didn’t like it? Are you–”
“No, no, baby. You’re doing so good for me.” He pats your thigh gently, though his expression says he would lose it right there if you keep asking questions. “I just… Let me, okay?”
Dean presses a kiss at the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, and the top of your nose as if to say “I’m sorry,” “I’m here,” “Don’t worry.”
A small, awkward huff escapes you as you sink back onto the couch, pillow folded under your hips. One arm of his braces on the cushion next to your head, the other one pushing your thigh wider to give him more access.
“Just relax. I got you.” Dean slides into you again, his eyes closing tight as he buries his face in your hair. “There we are…”
The new angle allows him to reach your deepest, most sensitive part. His pace turns brutal and rhythmic in a heartbeat, driving you closer and closer to the edge. Before long, you cry out his name, thighs shaking around his waist as the first wave of pleasure crashes over you.
“Atta girl,” he coos, his hips never slowing as you writhe under him. “That’s my girl. Ride it out, baby. I got you.”
His hand leaves your leg, reaching down between your bodies while the other one guides you into a faster rhythm. His fingers find your swollen core, circling right where you need the most. You arch your back against the cushion, fingers clawing into his back.
“Dean, wait, I just– I can’t–”
“Shh… shh…” he whispers into your ear, his hips thrusting forward again, chasing the high as he presses his thumb harder against you.
“Almost there, baby. Just a little more. One more. I promise. Can you do that for me?”
You whine as your thighs tense up, the familiar heat curling up in your lower stomach. Then, your vision goes entirely white as the second orgasm rolls through you, your internal muscles clamping tightly around him.
Dean lets out a loud grunt before his entire body goes rigid. He shakes violently, spilling himself into you as his mouth crashes against yours, hungrily swallowing your delicious cries.
You’re basically limp beneath him as the kiss slowly fades. Carefully, Dean rolls onto his back, letting you drape over him like a heavy blanket, his arms locking around your waist.
“You good?” he murmurs into your hair, breathing you in.
“No.”
He pulls back so fast you almost laugh, his eyes wide as they search your face.
“What? Did I hurt you? Why didn’t you say something?”
A breathless laugh escapes you as you nuzzle against his jaw, the stubble scratching at your skin.
“I’m just messing with you, baby.” You press a quick kiss at the corner of his mouth. “I’m okay.”
Dean rolls his eyes, half annoyed, half defeated, before nipping the tip of your nose.
“What is wrong with you?”
“Gotta keep you on your toes, Winchester.” A tiny smile tugs at your lips as you bury your face into the crook of his neck. “Consider it payback for ditching me.”
He lets out the most dramatic sigh you’ve ever heard, and another soft kiss is planted on the top of your head. The room falls quiet again, filled with your uneven breathing, the shared warmth of your bodies, and the morning light.
“You should probably go back to sleep,” he says after a while.
You hum as his fingers wander lazily across your back, tracing slow, absent circles against your skin.
“Are you gonna be here when I wake up?”
His hand stills for a second. Then he rolls onto his side, shifting until you’re tucked nicely between his chest and the back of your couch. Calloused fingertips glide over your back while he pulls you impossibly closer.
soldier boy x pussy inspections 😵💫 ouuu shit im getting dizzy 🥴 imagine him forcefully getting you high or turned up off that drank and commending you to lay back down… you spread your legs, hook your arms under your thighs so that you could be as stretched as possible, and then it’s just him playing with your pussy, creating ‘v’ shapes, basically talking to your pussy, referring to ‘her’… maybe even filming the whole process……… IM THINKING….. AND IM GETTING DIZZY
Oh to be turned up off that drank with soldier boy!!
♱ ... SOLDIER BOY ... ♱
18+ MDNI
soldier boy m. list
I think he would want you just tipsy enough to not complain, not really realize how gross he’s being. He has you hold your knees by your ears, pushing them up until you feel a deep stretch in your hamstrings. If you falter he’s landing a smack on your pussy, telling you how bad he feels about how red you’re forcing him to make her. When you’re being good, not needing any correction, he’s pulling you apart with his thumbs, dragging a pinkie through your slit, being sure to touch every bit of surface area. When he’s circling your clit he’s being all gentle, watching the way it folds and stiffens while he holds you wide open.
“Such a cute cunt,” he whispered reverently, never stopping his ministrations. “She’s all needy for her daddy. Pumpin’ open and shut like she’s trying to suck me in.”
He spat on you, using the new slick to mash his thumb against your clit. He hummed when you flinched, the bullying stimulation snapping you out of the daze he had put you in.
“She’s gonna cum real hard like this, right, doll? Greedy little pussy on a greedy little girl," he said, sticking his middle finger in your cunt to the first knuckle, almost like a thermometer.
“Squeeze nice and hard for me, doll. If I feel you relax I’m gonna stop until she’s wrapped around me all tight again.”
His thumb never let up, swirling and tugging at your skin hard enough to make you clench around him involuntarily. Not wanting to give him any excuse to toy with you, you kept your stomach and cunt clenched tight.
“Good girl. Nice and obedient even when she’s three drinks deep.”
His thumb pulled your orgasm closer like a freight train, and you let out a little moan like you were sick to your stomach.
“Keep squeezin’ me baby. Don’t let your lazy little cunny ruin this for you.”
You nodded, eyebrows pinched in exertion.
“She’s twitching, doll. Gonna cum so hard it's all the way up in your guts.”
The deep pressure of his thumb stayed relentless, forcing your flesh out of the way with each circle. His gaze stayed locked on you, eyes catching every squeeze and drip he wrung out of you.
"Daddy." Your voice was high and tight, only capable of warning him that you were about to crash over the edge.
"Hold," he instructed, his tone low and leaving no room for argument. "Keep 'er tight, doll. Don't make me ruin this for you."
You nodded stupidly, every joule of brainpower going towards staying tensed around his finger, even as you felt the wave threaten to break. Before you felt the pleasure, your cunt clamped around him in a spasm that was more intense than you'd ever felt before. His free hand spread open your cunt, his gaze riveted on the way you sucked in his finger while a deep warmth in your gut spread through your limps. Your core clenched and pulsed in a way that was exhausting, both pumping waves of pleasure through your body.
"Strong little cunny you've got down here," ben praised, not giving you a moment of reprieve or silence. "Bet she'd get a cock shaped bruise inside 'er if I kept her full. Squeezin' like she's trainin' to be a meat grinder."
That ‘comment on your a03 work’ email hits like a line of cocaine every time. unmatched dopamine increase. shoutout to everyone who leaves a comment on fics. you deserve the world
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