Having a binge eating disorder is so embarrassing... like what do you mean you are scared to eat food and wanna be as skinny as possible... but gorge and shove food down your mouth the moment the thought of food enter your brain.
summary ↬ while helping dean wash baby, you get a little wet
notice ↬ she is smuttyyy !! (mdni !), unprotected p!v, a lot of describing dean's muscles because goddamn, wrote this in class (per my other post), and i think i should do that more often, no use of y/n, lowercase intended !
wordcount ↬ 1.5k
it must be close to a hundred degrees outside, the heat of south dakota summers burning tanlines on your back. you’re sunbathing in the tall grass of bobby’s front yard, bathing suit top and shorts melting into your skin. the scratchy towel beneath you—one that’s definitely seen better days with questionable spots and stains—absorbs most of the sun, but as the rest of the warmth suffocates you, you question whether a good tan or an ice bath would be more beneficial.
luckily, the occasional mist from dean hosing down baby results in a little relief.
he’s clad in his favorite jeans, specks of dirt decorating the denim, and a black t-shirt, hugging his chest and curling tightly around his biceps. his hair is slicked back with sweat and water, shades sloping down the bridge of his nose as he scrubs the steel hood.
you squirm at the view, watching his taut muscles contract and stretch, and the occasional grunt as he reaches across the car to clean the other side sends an electric jolt down right where you need him.
“like what you see?” he calls out against the eagles tape playing from bobby’s old radio, smirking as he notices how your eyes haven’t moved from their fixation on him.
you pretend to be unbothered, “just trying to relax without getting splashed.”
“you look hot,” he says casually, making your stomach drop. you sit up quickly, propping yourself on your hands just as he clarifies, “i mean, you look like you’re sweating.”
the fog in your brain clears, and you scowl, laying back down, “asshole.”
he laughs, a deep rumble in his chest like the roar of the impala, and you’re dizzy again, “i say it cause i think you should come help me,” he points the hose at you and spritzes, “cool you off a little bit.”
you wipe the mist off your sunglasses and cave quickly, standing up and brushing off any grass shards sticking to the sweat on your legs; you’re almost positive the ‘tan’ you think you’re getting is, instead, a burn bordering sun poisoning.
“alright, i scrub, you wash off, got it?” he instructs, handing you the long green hose stretching across the yard from the house.
you nod, but as you fumble with the hose, you twist the setting on jet, drenching dean in cold water as droplets run down his face and clothes. his shades fly off his nose, and you’re quick to try to get the water turned off.
“shit, shit!” you squeak out, aiming the hose down as it spurts water into the grass.
“i told you to wash the car, not me,” dean teases, running a large hand through his wet hair.
you give a lopsided smile, “guess i got my baby’s mixed up.”
“yeah, yeah,” dean brushes off, sending a smirk that gets your knees weak, trailing his hands down to the hem of his soaked shirt before lifting it off his body and over his head, “no point in wearin’ this then is there?”
you almost collapse, his jeans resting right at the edge of his waist, v-line on full display and abs staring you dead in the face, begging to have your lips run across them.
“no,” you choke out, shaking yourself back to reality as he grabs the soapy sponge again, “not at all.”
his back muscles flex under the sunshine as he starts lathering soap onto the top of the car, the smell of clean, sweat, freshly mown grass, and dean’s signature cologne—his own musk—practically paralyzing you. when he cues you to start washing off the soap, your movements are robotic, an incessant thought becoming truly unbearable.
the music fades in your ears. suddenly, the only sound registered is his breaths as he pants under the heat.
you’re sure you haven’t gotten that much water on you after helping him for close to fifteen minutes—save for a refreshing mist here and there, and a little soap in your hair.
but, you can’t help but notice that the bathing suit bottoms you're wearing under your daisy dukes are soaked.
the impala begins to shimmer gorgeously under the hot midwestern sun, rivulets of water dripping off the slick black paint. dean stands proud, crossing his big arms over his chest as he admires his baby, expunged of any blood or dirt from the previous hunt, now a gleaming beauty—the popular girl amongst the other dingy cars in bobby’s lot.
dean sighs contently, a smile painted across his sharp features, “isn’t my baby beautiful.”
“yeah,” you agree, but you aren’t looking at the car, “yeah, she is.”
“no need to dry her off since the sun will—”
his words are harshly cut as you press your lips hard onto his, wasting no time slipping your tongue between his teeth, sucking on his mouth like a deprived leech.
he melts into it for a moment before pushing you back gently, eyes now hooded with confusion and lust, “what was that for?”
“it’s a thank you for keeping me cool,” you respond quickly, another heat besides the sun’s pulsing through your body as your hunger refuses to be contained, and your lips are locked once more.
immediately, he’s taken, hands gripping the back of your thighs as he lifts you easily onto the impala’s hood, your mouths never parting—too much need and want soaking into the kiss while your hands fist and tug his stringy locks.
the hot steel scorches your skin, and the moan that slides off your tongue and into his mouth at the feeling has him pressing into you harder, responding with a grunt of his own as he trails his lips down your jaw, your neck, and eventually the space between your cleavage as he licks, nips, and sucks.
“god, you have me so crazy for you right now,” he groans into your collarbone, nimble fingers reaching around to untie your sultry bathing suit top and wasting no time popping the buttons of your shorts right after.
you drag your nails between the ridges of his abs before you fumble his belt off, tugging his jeans all the way down his legs as he captures your mouth again, stepping out of his soaked pants, bulge causing you to salivate with only a single barrier left between the two of you.
“here? outside?” he pants, eyes flickering to the house where sam and bobby are indoors, doing god knows what, hopefully not looking outside any windows.
despite the fleeting moment of hesitancy, you both know there’s no way either of you are stopping.
“outside,” you respond breathlessly, squeaking as he lifts you to shimmy off your drenched bathing suit bottoms, wet with your primal desire for him.
and, god, does he deliver.
in one, slick motion, he slides effortlessly into your wetness, a mutual gasp escaping both your lips. his forehead comes to rest onto yours, sweat sticking, skin slapping. as he starts to pump into you with more effort, the impala starts to shake underneath you, moving harder and faster as he takes you right there on his precious baby.
“shit,” he grunts as you drag your nails across his back, definitely leaving scratches but he just feels so damn good, muscles flexing under your touch, hardness filling every inch of you as you stick together under the swelter.
your stomach begins to knot as he thrusts harder, and you whimper when he attaches his lips to your chest, sucking harshly on the pointed nub as you squirm in his firm hold.
“dean,” you whine, gripping his hair so tightly he squeezes his eyes shut in ecstasy, “f-fu-”
“feel so damn good,” he breathes into your skin, like he’s feasting off your lifeline, desperate for every inch of you, savoring your taste as it runs down your body.
you can tell he’s starting to fall apart just as you are; thrusts getting sloppier, more breathy, whimper-y moans instead of hard-ass grunts and groans escaping his lips before he can even attempt to hold them back. your own mewls mirror his, legs crossed around his waist as you feel the knot twisting and tightening at each sound, each pump, each lick.
then, his fingers, calloused and rough, sneak their way between your bodies. you inhale sharply at the intense sensation, rugged pads circling right there, and you’re certain it isn’t long until—
a gush of euphoria explodes in your lower stomach. your eyes roll back, and your body naturally falls against the hot impala as you shake and whimper because dean isn’t stopping, only going harder at the view of you completely falling apart for him.
“oh, fuck,” he drawls, your warmth tightening and squeezing around him as he’s pushed over the edge. he quickly pulls out before spilling himself all down your chest and stomach, head thrown back, soft, swollen lips trapped between his teeth as he bites down a moan.
you both pant as you try and recover from your highs, now even sweatier than before, and probably desperate for a shower and aloe gel.
when he finally opens his eyes, they instantly skim over your figure, covered in his cum as it drips down your body.
he lets out a breathy laugh, “guess i need to clean my other baby now.”
you give a tired smile, letting your head fall against the hood again in exhaustion, “yeah, i guess you do.”
im not sure how i feel about the fact charlie kirk got shot. of course, america claims to be the country of free speech, but he got shot over the things he said. i dont feel empathy for him, or his wife, i do for his children. crying over him passing away because 'he has a family', makes no sense, you have selective empathy because he's a white man. what about the families in gaza? what about the immigrants families being ripped apart? what about the children being shot at schools families? honestly, the man wouldn't have cared about me if i got shot and murdered, why should i care about him? he claims empathy is woke and something the new aged people made up. people are sitting here defending him but he's looking above and calling them slurs.
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