In every sense, really, but mostly when it comes to you. Sam reminds him daily, how much of an idiot he is for you. Dean’s been head over heels for you as long as he can remember—just pathetic for you, honestly. He’d do anything you asked, anything you wanted him to do. He’d walk on hot coals, believe anything you told him. That’s dangerous, especially in his line of work. It’s a liability, a weakness to have someone you care about close. It’s almost a death sentence. And Dean knew it.
Dean also knew something was wrong when you’d abruptly left the bar last night without so much as a look in his or Sam’s direction. The waitress was talking his goddamn ear off, and he knew you were getting bristled. For God’s sakes, he was, too. He tried to put his heart into the flirting with her, but it’s been so difficult to lately, especially in front of you.
With flirting, it’s mostly reflex for him. It’s easy. He’s been doing it as long as he can remember having a conscious thought—whether it was to get information, to get a bed for the night, or just for fun. It was one of the few things he was good at in life. Dean could flirt with anything, if he tried hard enough, but the past few weeks, months, hell, maybe even years, Dean’s head hasn’t been in the game when it comes to flirting someone’s pants off. Even if you’re not sitting next to him, he still feels like he shouldn’t be doing it.
He’s actually turned down people, which isn’t how the night’s supposed to go. He’s supposed to chat up the bartender, waitress, or whoever, ask them what time they get off, then kick Sam and sometimes you out of the motel for the night. But Dean hasn’t done that in a really long time. He just can’t do it anymore, not with the way he feels about you. He knows how he feels, but he won’t let himself have it. Have you. Yet everything else feels half-assed. Empty. It’s a vicous cycle of self destruction only Dean knows how to do.
Now, it’s finally come to bite him in the ass with this case.
He’d almost blew it when that stupid sheriff’s officer was talking to you. Dean took one look at him, trying to talk to you in a non-professional manner, and wanted to strangle him. Wanted to kill him, for even looking in your direction. He could do it, too, no problem. He’d do it quick, get you safe, obviously, just so he could have you all to himself. He’d gank that son of a bitch into next week for even having the audacity to fucking breathe in your direction. Was that normal? No. Couldn’t be. But Dean would’ve shot him without another thought, in that moment. Then his nose started bleeding before his hand went to the butt of his gun. And he knew.
He was in the bathroom while you and Sam were waiting for him, trying to stop the nosebleed—and somehow, Dean got it under control. He doesn’t know how. But he knew he couldn’t let this happen to him, not right now. There was a case to be solved—even if he was the next killer. Even if he ended up shooting off the head of the next person that looked in your direction. He fought the urge, plugged his nose, and sucked it up, the way he’s always had to do things. No time for his own personal feelings. He’d figure it out after you guys went to the shithole house that is quite literally your only lead.
So now, you know, thanks to the demon from the bar, that Dean’s ass-up in love with you. But what he wasn’t expecting in his entire lifetime was for you to feel the same.
See, Dean knew he’d always love you. He’s been prepared this entire time to love you in silence, to push it down deep, even though it hurts. You deserved someone better, anyhow. It wasn’t his place to keep you from getting away from him. Even though he’d sell his soul, again, if it meant spending one more day with you. You’re in his Heaven, and you make his life seem like it means something more than just hunting monsters. You make life seem not so bad, even though Dean has spent the past 3 decades of his life living and believing otherwise.
He knows he doesn’t show it, these so-called feelings he has. He never shows the people he loves that he does, in fact, love them. He’s gotten reamed out by Sam, Bobby, and sometimes even you yourself when he disrespected you. The first time Dean saw you cry because of him, he wanted to take a swan dive off the nearest surface. Because you were crying over him. He wasn’t worth that. You’ve cried multitudes of times since then over him, over something he said, something he did. He doesn’t necessarily see it, but your face is all puffy and cute the next morning. It softens something inside him and stabs at him all at once. He didn’t deserve you. Not in this lifetime. Not in any fucking lifetime. And yet, you felt the same way about him that he felt about you. All this time.
So that’s why he was shell-shocked, when that demon told you that she’d been trying to get to both of you, but didn’t prevail. He was even more surprised when he kissed you the second time—all he wanted was to make you feel better. He thinks he did a good job, judging by the way you melted into him the second time. You just looked so nervous, so uncomfortable, and he hated that. So he wanted to fix it, like he always does.
But you did instead.
There’s steam rising from where Envy fell to the ground, the demon-trapping bullet putting her down for the count. Dean stands there, more useless than a sack of potatoes as you finish the job with the demon knife, just… staring. You really are his dream girl: ganking the demon after kissing him senseless, looking hot as fuck. Jesus. And all he did was just sit there and watch.
You don’t look back at Dean right away, don’t let him see you—because now, he knows. He knows that your feelings for him are strong enough to take advantage of, knows that there is not a single thing that is platonic about the way you feel about him. You killed the demon, and now? You have to deal with your feelings.
You’d take the demon any day.
Somehow, you finally get the courage to look at Dean. You don’t know how, but you do it. But he doesn’t look upset. Or mad. He just looks really, reallysurprised. Like you haven’t been tripping and falling for him since as long as you can remember.
He takes a step towards you after you rise up from the ground. You take a step towards him, too. Dean swallows hard, looking down, then up at you again. It’s like you’re magnets—because soon enough, you’re inches apart again, and not because of a demon this time. You just… click together, like you always do. It’s like your bodies can’t bear to be far from one another for too long, always wanting to be as close as possible. It seems like for as long as you’ve known him, it’s been like that.
Dean can’t think. Can’t fucking speak, can’t do anything but look at you, into your beautiful eyes that are looking right back at him. He thinks you’ve put him under a spell, half the time. You’re lulling him to you, but he’s going willingly, anyway.
He gets lost in your eyes often, and he’s well aware that he does, but he can’t seem to care. You’re looking at him like you did that one night when he asked you to stay with him, when the nightmares were just too bad. You came to check on him, and you looked at him not with pity, but you looked almost tortured that you couldn’t do anything to help him. You looked at him like you cared, like you saw him for the man he could be, cracked open against his will by his ghosts that lurk in the shadows. You stayed that night, and he’d held you so close and tight that he thought you might pop in his hands. But you didn’t. You just held him too, looking at him with those eyes.
The same ones looking back at him now.
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You look between Dean’s eyes, a million words to say, but none actually spoken aloud. You want to say how you’ve felt about him all this time, that ever since that night you stayed with him and even since before that, you want him. Even if he’s not perfect. It doesn’t matter to you. It feels like you’ve spent the entirety of you frindship with Dean trying to prove to him that maybe, just maybe, you like him for who he is.
Dean knows, too. Deep down, he knows that you’re the one for him, and some small, hopefull and goddamn childish part knows that you love him. He’s just been too scared to accept that. He’s been too terrified of the cost to admit it to himself—but now that it’s all out in the open, it’s all he wants to do. All he wants to say.
Sam’s muffled voice rings out before either of you are able to work up th courage to speak, calling you both back to the present. You don’t move right away, though. Neither does Dean. You stare at each other for what feels like houlrs, both unwilling to break apart, but eventually, you do.
You somehow silently agree on not telling Sam what happened. Just that the last demon of the Sins was killed. Sam is unusually quiet the entire ride back to the motel, too—and you’re too tired to ask why. Between running on a few hours of sleep and the emotional toll the case has taken on you, you’re dead on your feet as you slump in the Impala, but you can’t rest. Not really. Not with things left unsaid.
You’re still tossing and turning an hour after you said goodnight to Sam and Dean, then showered. It’s conflicting—because while every part of you screams to just go and talk to him, you know he’ll close up like a clam. It’s hopeless, and the other part of you knows that it is. A part of your brain believes that tomorrow, Dean won’t bring it up. Won’t look at you any differently, and just pretend like nothing happened. Like he’ll dissmiss his feelings for you simply because they’re too complicated to deal with—because you’re too complicated to deal with. So it’s easier to just bury it down, and to not even try to make the effort to love you.
That’s what sends you outside at 1:28am.
You’re sitting on the sorry excuse for a bench in the back of the motel—the mosaic of stones digging into the back of your thighs through your pajama pants. The entire charred-yellow lawn behind the building is filled with cigarette butts, strewn about among the weeds. The moon, however, is full and bright above you, high in the glittering starry sky—a dramatic contrast to the wasteland you’re sitting in. Your chest hurts, and it can’t seem to go away.
So you let yourself feel it. Just for tonight.
Dean can’t seem to sleep, either. He’s been listening to Sam’s quiet snoring for the past 45 minutes, unable to rest—but not because of the lawn mower-like noises coming from his brother. It’s because he’s thinking about you.
Not like that’s a new thing. He thinks about you all the time, especially when he can’t sleep and his mind wanders—but this is because of what happened earlier. How now, things can’t be the same between you two, no matter how much he pretends it hasn’t. And he can’t seem to get over it.
Usually, Dean’s been able to move on, for the sake of not only the person he cares about, but for him, too. He’s done it countless times, most of the time before the relationship even starts—yet it’s not coming as quickly this go around. You’re still in his mind, still making him debate if he wants this. Wants you. Dean Winchester doesn’t debate relationships. He doesn’t have them with anyone, period—but you’re changing his mind, somehow. You have captured him in a way no one else has been able to, and have been able to see him, understand him, love him in a way that he craves more than anything on this planet. It’s why he can’t move on or sweep it under the rug, he realizes—because you complete him.
That’s what sends him outside at 1:44am.
He stops in his tracks when he sees you sitting on the bench—and for a split second, he debates turning around and going back inside. Dean’s scared, terrified of what to say to you. What happens if it all goes wrong? What if you’re finally sick of him and his bullshit? It’s all he can think, but something inside him tells him to stay.
Dean makes his way to your side. You don’t notice him until he starts to sit down—and you look up at him, then look back down. You can’t face him, not like this. Not when your heart’s being ripped in half. He’s probably here to let you down easy. Probably here to say that what you heard ‘doesn’t matter, because he’s Dean Winchester, and he doesn’t do relationships, or love, or anything remotely’—
“Y’kinda remind me of the moon.”
Dean’s voice rings out, bringing you out of your thoughts, but somehow launching you back into them at the same time with his words.
“Huh?” You say intelligently, blinking up at him again.
“Y’heard me,” He mutters, leaning against the back of the bench as he sits next to you. “You remind me o’ her.”
“Her?” You echo, mostly in disbelief. Who knew Dean Winchester referred to the moon as a woman.
“Yeah, ‘her’,” He mocks back, almost daring you to question him again. He glances over at you before looking back at the moon. “Y’know, pretty, beautiful... jus’ the brightest one of ‘em all. She’s gotta lotta craters, but she’s the best thing in the sky.”
You look at Dean, your heart soaring, but he’s still looking up at the sky—and you think he’s doing it so he doesn’t have to look at you. He doesn’t look at you again, so you look at the sky, too.
“Yeah, but she’s all by herself,” You remark, noting the double entendre.
“Yeah,” Dean lements. That backfired. “But don’t think for a second that you are.”
You close your eyes, already starting to shake your head. “Dean—”
“Jus’— Just lemme get this out, alright?” He asks, not looking away from the sky. “Then y’can say whatever. I just… really needa do this.”
You bite back the words in your throat, nodding—and you know Dean sees it in his peripheral when he takes a deep breath in.
“I uh, don’t really like… feelings. I mean, that’s a helluva understatement, but, uh, yeah. I just… I can’t do ‘em. Not good, I mean. Y’know, not in the way I should. Or the— or the normal way. But, uh— Jesus, this is harder than I thought.” He sighs, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. “Uhm. You make me… feel things. Yeah. Good things, obviously, but it kinda sorta scares the crap outta me. But, uh, I like it. I like bein’ around you. I like seein’ ya everyday. S’just… I dunno. It’s hard. S’like I’m bein’ pulled in two different directions. Part’a me wants to, y’know, feel those things, and the other part wants me to bail. Y’know, run for the hills. Am I makin’ sense?”
Dean finally turns to you—and his face is so vulnerable, so honest, it makes you want to kiss him. You’d been looking at him for a while now, watching him fidget with nothing. He looks smaller, in the moonlight. Reduced to just him, now that there’s no one to perform for. No one to galavant for.
You nod.
“Good. Uh. Well, y’know, I usually let the bailin’ thing win. Jeez, what the hell am I sayin’. S’not usually— ‘s all the time. Every time,” Dean chuckles coldly, the self-deprication dripping from his words. “I bail on everyone. ‘Cause I can’t let ‘em bail on me first. But you… y’stuck with us. With me. All this time. And I… I can’t ignore that.”
“Dean—”
“What I’m tryna say is, you make me feel things that scare the hell outta me,” he says again. “But I… wanna keep feelin’ ‘em. I like bein’ around you. Y’make it better, bein’ here. Make me better. So I wanna keep bein’ around you. I wanna… well, I dunno.” He shakes his head, scratching at his jaw before straightening, a newfound sense of confidence overtaking him. “No, yeah, I do know. I wanna be with you,” He nods to himself, then looks at you. “I wanna…”
Dean trails off when his eyes lay fully upon you, his gaze softening completely. You’re looking right back at him, no judgement in your face. No annoyance. No anger. You’re just listening to him.
And it is then Dean needs to say it.
“I love you.”
Your lips part open, his words crashing into you like a wave breaking on a rock. He said it. He said it, and he really means it, because he’s looking at you, searching your face a little frantically now as you stare at him.
You’re frozen, looking at Dean. You blink once, stuck in the same position you’d been looking at him in. You think you’re dreaming, because you haven’t heard those words ever leave Dean’s mouth in the entire time you’ve known him—and now, he just said them to you. After blinking again, you scoot closer to him on the bench, the warmth from his body soaking into your skin. He glances down at your lips when you lean in a little more.
“I love you, too.”
Now it’s Dean’s turn to blink at you, his mouth parting, too. He short-circuts much like you did, swallowing when he’s able to, then looks down between you before scooting closer to you, a dopey grin spreading on his face when his nose brushes yours.
“Awesome.”
Your own smile appears on your lips, your forehead pressing against his—and he sighs, melting a little into you at the contact. Dean’s hand finds yours when he looks at you again, his eyes glancing down to your lips.
“I, uhm.” He starts, and you take it upon yourself to scoot closer to him until your legs are touching. “Hey.”
“Hi,” you murmur back, your free hand finding his shirt—not pulling, just resting your hand on his chest.
“Hey,” He repeats again, getting a little more nervous once more. “You— uh.” He stutters, eyes flicking down to your mouth again.
“Can I have a kiss, Dean?” You ask, lifting your head off his just enough.
“Y— yeah,” he nods, leaning in fully now. “‘Course y’can.”
Dean’s lips are soft. Warm. And soft. Softer than you’d imagined them to be—and he kisses you gently, holding you against him. You expected him to be a little rougher, but this is much better. You like Dean kissing you like this. Gentle, but still possessive. Like you’re his.
Some part of you knew from upon first laying eyes on Dean tonight that you wouldn’t be so ending the rest of the night alone. You take him back to your room to stay with you, even though Sam’ll be asking all kinds of questions in a few hours when you all get up to pack and leave. But for tonight, you’ll stay with Dean beside you.
hi :] as promised i have come with The Request !!! i'm really playing into our convos with this one LMAO so here we go
i request; older sub!dean + car sex <3 we have yapped so much about this and i feel like you will absolutely NAIL it, so this is my request !!!! situation can be up to you but i'm totally getting the vibes of like...reader driving them back to the bunker after a case and dean's just too god damn needy to wait the whole time so he makes reader pull over LMAO n e ways this is my request :] you're amazing ily
@aseafullofstars :]
ohhh k. you’re killing me. sub!dean i missed you terribly. yes, although technically he never left my mind… but. i’m dusting off the keyboard for FULL-ON sub!dean. haven’t written him in a minute. AND older dean… ohh. we have chatted so much. the fic’s not the only thing getting nailed (wink wink). ily <3
⧼ older sub ! dean x fem ! reader . . . sex in the impala. ⧽
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it’s raining as you drive the impala back to the bunker.
you insisted on driving, since dean had been doing all the driving for the two of you the entirety of the hunt. he’s been acting a little needy since you both finished up. both of you decided to go back to the bunker tonight since your own bed in your own… somewhat house couldn’t compare to anything a motel had to offer.
as he’s gotten older, you’ve noticed, dean has somehow gotten simultaneously more shamless and more reserved. he’s still horny as fuck a lot—he’ll basically hump you like a dog in public sometimes with no reservations, or he’ll blush like a schoolgirl when you squeeze his bicep at a bar before sitting down next to him. it’s a tightrope that dean balances on daily, how much he can get away with, but also how much he can take.
dean’s been keeping his hands to himself so far—but before you’d both gotten in the car, he begged for a quickie before you left. almost got down on his knees in the motel room, too. you hadn’t had a chance to have sex this entire hunt, which is rare, but it comes with the job.
so dean’s needy.
for you.
you’d coaxed him enough, you’d thought, to last until you both got home. but even though you’re focusing on the road, you can still feel him. looking at you, shifting on the impala’s bench every so often. he’s already closer to you, because that’s just who dean is—always wanting to be as close as possible to you. he’s much further away from the passenger side window than he was before when you initially started driving, and you can feel the heat eminatng off his body.
you want to say something, but the truth is, you want dean to be close to you, too. maybe just as much as he does with you.
you haven’t been talking much. dean’s dozed off a couple times since you started driving, but he doesn’t sleep for long. you steal glances at him when you hear his breathing get deeper, more slow. sleep breathing. most of the times you look over, his lips are parted just a little.
he looks younger like this, with all his lines on his face smoothed out, his brows only a little furrowed instead of being deeply set like they seem to be permanently stationed at when he’s awake. you imagine a younger dean when you see him, imagine what he looked like when it was just him and his brother back in the day. you wonder if he preferred being young over the life he’s living now. it was probably easier, you think. maybe not easier, but less of a toll.
you’ll never know the answer.
dean’s chin rests on your shoulder, at some point. he relaxes into you, slumping into your side. you take your right hand off the wheel and wrap your arm around him, which causes him to further nuzzle himself into you, too. he sighs softly, but he’s not annoyed. he’s just safe. he dozes off again, the rain hitting the top of the car lulling him under. he snores, but just a little—it sounds more like a cat purring on you than anything else. you sometimes call him your ‘little personal lawn mower’.
he stirs once more, and his hand rests on your thigh after a little bit of him being awake. it’s not too high up on your jeans that you’re raising a brow, but you know he’s getting ansty from being so close to you. he lets his mind wander, especially when you’re alone together, or just when he’s alone. you assume he’s doing that right now.
and he is.
dean fantasizes often about you, sometimes and most of the time when you’re literally right in front of him. it’s a little humiliating for him, though, because you’d coaxed the information out of him a while ago, and he was so embarrassed telling you that he daydreams about you when you’re right next to him he almost ran out into traffic. now, he’s still aware he’s pathetic for it, but he just doesn’t really care all that much.
the most recent daydream he’s been fixating on lately is you in a dress. the dress changes color and fabric type often, since you look good in anything, but what doesn’t change is you sitting on his car, waiting for him. sometimes he takes you right on the hood of the impala, right out in the open. sometimes it’s in the backseat, sometimes it’s in the front—but it always starts the same. the sun’s behind you, and you look like a dream, looking back at him. well, obviously, it is a dream—but dean knows one day, it’ll be real: just you, him, baby, and an open road.
kind of like now, actually.
minus the dress.
he’s mostly wanting to kiss you, currently, he thinks. just a few pecks. and maybe a little tounge. okay, maybe some over-the-clothes action, too. okay, maybe he just wants you to pull the car over and ride him into next week. whatever. he shifts his legs, trying to ignore what his thoughts are doing to his body, but it’s not really working. he nuzzles his face further into your neck, breathing you in. his hand on your thigh moves up a little higher, and he lifts his head off your shoulder just enough so his nose brushes your neck.
dean doesn’t say anything. you freeze up when his nose grazes on a sensitive spot, shivering a little as his hand simultaneously gets closer to the inside seam of your jeans. you almost say something to him, but you don’t. you just tighten your grip on the steering wheel, trying not to melt in a puddle. dean notices, of course. he nudges his nose against your neck a little more, inhaling deeply. it sends another, more heated shiver down your spine.
he murmurs your name into your neck, while his hand reaches the seam of your waistband, tugging on it gently. you shiver again, leaning into dean subconsciously—and he takes advantage of it, the bastard, mouthing at the sensitive spot behind your ear he knows makes you dizzy.
“baby,” he almost moans into your neck, shifting against the leather of the seat. “…need ya.”
“dean, we—”
“please.”
and dean winchester doesn’t say please. not to anyone.
except you.
so after an embarrassingly short amount of time contemplating, you glance in the rearview mirror before pulling off the main road, taking the dirt road running parallel to it until you reach a more secluded spot. you don’t think twice after you put the car in park, the windshield wipers pausing halfway through the motion—because you know he’s really going through it to be this needy.
dean’s on you before you can turn to face him, making it his personal mission to kiss your breath away, it seems. his lips mold over yours immediately, your hands going to his face and the back of his head as he pulls you into his lap. you let him deepen the kiss, straddling him. he’s getting squeamish already, you can tell—because he’s fumbling for your waistband.
dean makes quick work of your clothes—probably the quickest he’s ever been, and that’s saying something—and soon enough, your bra is the last to go. he mouths at your left breast, then shoves his face in your chest, kissing whatever skin his lips reach first. his rough, warm hands trail up your waist, sending tingles throughout your skin. he nuzzles his face further in between your boobs before kissing up your chest and neck, finally finding your lips again briefly before pulling you closer to him.
“can’t believe y’re mine,” dean murmurs quietly. he says it just for you. he looks up at you—and you can’t see him very well due to the rain and it being pitch-black outside the impala, but you can see the way his eyes shine at you, even now.
and you know what he means by that.
you know it means dean doesn’t believe he actually deserves you. you know it means he feels like he has to prove himself to you, over and over again, in order to be worthy of your love and attention. it’s just how he’s wired. how he compartmentalizes things, how he deals with everything. and it won’t change.
but you won’t stop trying to make it change.
you take dean’s face in your hands, and he immediately softens more, sighing and melting between your palms like you’re a warm pan. your thumbs brush his cheeks, and you press a quick kiss to his lips before tugging at his shirt. dean buffers for a second, still caught up in the kiss before realizing you want his flannel off. he pauses after you remove his flannel, almost hesitating before putting his arms up for his shirt underneath.
you know why. the past few years, dean had been… more filled out, recently, in his torso. nothing crazy, but you noticed. some punk-ass kid said something stupid to him on a case a few weeks ago, nothing worth repeating. and you know despite his gruff, uncaring exterior, he takes those things to heart. you know he’s been spiraling over it, over the fear of losing you not because of something out of his control—but because he wasn’t good enough, wasn’t fit enough to make you stay.
after tugging his shirt off, you don’t let dean shy away from you, even though you know that’s where his instinct goes. he looks down almost immediately, but your hands return to his face, keeping him steady. keeping him looking at you.
“m’yours,” you assure dean. and you know he needed to hear it, based on the way his entire body shakes when he closes his eyes.
you know it’s not an ownership thing, at least not completely. you know dean just needs to hear that something, someone is just his to keep for his own, and no one else’s. he nods once, then buries his face in bewteen your boobs again, inhales like he needs you to breathe. he sighs, pulling you flush against him, and your hands leave his face to wrap around his shoulders. you stay like that in his lap, holding each other for what feels like a century.
eventually, dean pulls away—just enough to look up at you again. his hands brush their way down to your hips, and you know where they’re going: to get you ready. your own hands find his wrists, stop them in their tracks. he tilts his head back up to you, confused.
“not tonight,” you murmur to him, releasing your grip as you shake your head. your hands go to his jeans that are unfortunately still on and start to undo his belt.
dean wants to protest. usually, he always gets you ready. it almost feels weird to not eat you out, or at least finger you. not do something. he really wants to say something—jesus, he needs to get you ready before he can be inside you—but you’re already tugging down his jeans enough so that his dick springs out, so all his attention is immediately focused on the throbbing in his lower region. he almost forgot how hard he was. up until now.
it is then that it dawns on him that you’re doing this for him. he was so needy for you all this time, and you’re not teasing him about it, or making him suffer. not that you ever did, but dean willingly suffers in silence with pretty much everything else. he always expects you to do the same, but you never do. you almost always give him what you want.
he thought you might give him a handjob. but you don’t—you just stroke him a few times, and notch him to where he’s been dying to go for the past two weeks. no teasing, no witholding. dean could cry, from how it feels to just be inside you. and he has cried, more than once, while buried deep inside you.
he can’t belive that you just let him have you like this. he would’ve been proud to get you ready, get you soaking, dripping wet for him like you always are after he’s through with you. but you don’t let him, this time. he didn’t have to really do much to get you, even though that’s how he’s lived his life all this time. he’s always had to sacrifice something, always had to give something up in order to get what he wants. and more than half the time, it’s not even what he wants at all. but he’s never done that with you—or never had to, that is. you always just… give him what he wants when it comes to you. sometimes it’s sex, but it’s really just you he wants. just to be near you, to see you, to hold you.
just like he’s doing now.
you found out dean was a whimperer on beleive it or not, the first sexual encounter you both had together. he’d been eating you out, humping the mattress like a dog in heat, and whimpering right into your pussy. his eyes were all glazed over, and he looked a little drunk—but most importantly, he looked at peace. like this was what he was meant to do his whole life: lick and suck on your folds and clit for the rest of his days.
he spends so much time down there, worshipping you, night after night, day after day—and you know that while it comes from a place of devotion, it also stems from needing to provide you with something so you’ll have a reason to stay. you also know that while you are unable to rewire dean’s brain, it won’t stop you from keeping him close to your heart. it won’t stop you from loving him right back, the way you know he craves to be loved.
dean’s face is buried in your chest as you start to slowly grind down on him, and he lets out his first whimper. it’s gotten a little deeper, rougher over the years you’ve been together, but it still sounds natural. it sounds like dean. his big arms tighten around your waist, then unloosen again so he can look up at you. he gets like this sometimes—like he’s unsure where to look or put his hands when you’re in control like this. he settles on your hips, not guiding, just holding as you move them. you take the oppurtunity to lean down just a little as you grind again, kissing a few freckles dusting on his cheeks. they’re starting to show more, with the sun being out longer. a broken, beautiful sound leaves him, and you know he’s already close, just from a few passes of your hips.
he feels like a young man again sometimes, already so close to blowing his load this early, but his age is also daunting on him, looming in the darkness like a bunch of clothes over a chair. he’s nearing his father’s age when he died—and in a few years, he’ll be older than his father ever was. older than most hunters ever came to be. it’s a terrifying thought—but knowing that you’ll be there beside him is a comfort no one else can satiate. nothing could come close.
because dean feels safest with you. it’s a known fact—it’s like his body can relax a little. like he can hang up whatever he’s dealing with at the door, and dive into the warmth and comfort that is you, and actually feel like the weight’s off him, just for a brief moment. even in sex, he’s safest with you.
it’s indescribable, how he’s able to just let go when he’s with you. he doesn’t have to put on a show, even though he usually does—and he doesn’t have to worry about sounding ‘manly’ when you’re milking him for all he’s worth. he can let himself be as loud as he wants, as shameless as he wants, and he knows you won’t judge him. he knows you’ll just hold him like he’s always wanted to be held. like he’s one of a kind. like he actually matters.
like he’s actually loved by someone.
it’s astonishing, really, how dean has given up on love so many times, yet continues to have hope in it. he had his reservations, when first getting with you. the usual: that you’ll finally peek behind the curtian and see the real dean, then leave once you figure out who he truly is inside. or maybe that you’ll realize he’s too much work. yet, he still wanted to know. what if this thing with you worked out? so once more, he decided to try and love again. he decided to stay instead of go, and it seemed like it worked in his favor. you’re still here beside him. he has those doubts, of course, and the fear that one day, you’ll be taken from him by something that’s out of his control—but the love, finally, finally outweighs the pain. it’s worth being with you now, than have never been with you at all.
dean’s holding off on coming. he wants this heavenly feeling to last as long as possible, but it’s starting to hurt now. he’s holding you in spurts—your hips, then your waist, then the curve of your back. you notice, obviously, that he’s holding back.
your hands find his face once more, leaning down to kiss his freckles on the bridge of his nose this time, clenching around him as you do so. dean whines, nuzzling his face into yours as you continue to press kisses to wherever your lips land. your hands remain on his face, keeping up your rythym as dean slowly starts to unravel below you.
he finally comes, loudly—but the sound is buried in your skin as you ride him over the edge. his arms had found their way around you again, holding on for dear life, whimpering and panting and groaning into your damp skin as he spills into you.
he blinks hard a few times, still breathing heavy as he moves his head to look up at you, eyes hazy and half-lidded from his orgasm. usually, he’d stay close, face nuzzled into you—but he needs to look at you right now. the impala’s windows are all fogged up from your activities, but dean can still make out your face in the dark. not that he needs to really see your face—he’s memorized it, by this point. he knows every dip and curve of your face and your entire body. he can name every scar, every divot.
he knows his home.
he knows every part of you he can hide away in, just for a little while. just enough to keep his head above water.
you look down at dean, too, and you want to be somehow closer to him, even though it’s not possible. you’re as close as can be—he’s literally inside you. so you settle for nudging his nose with yours, then wrapping your arms around his shoulders.
⊹₊ ⋆ 〔ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ the final part of my dean winchester, who… series. 〕
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dean’s always been admant on making you come first.
it’s always been like that and always will be. and no matter what you say, no matter how much you tell him that he’s allowed to come whenever he wants, he never does. not before you. never lets himself, never allows it. it’s like there’s a deep part of him that’s hardwired inside his brain and won’t let him come—not until you orgasm at least once.
even on his birthday for the past few years you’ve been together, he’s made you come before him. you don’t like that he does that, but he’s told you multiple times that seeing you come gets him going. seeing your pleasure is almost, if not greater than the pleasure you give him. it’s not a you thing. you’re not doing anything wrong—it’s because all his life, dean’s been one thing: a giver. it’s coded into his DNA. there’s a deep and uncontollable urge to give and give and give everything he has until there’s nothing left—because that’s all he’s ever done. and that’s all he’ll ever do.
you’re getting really fucking sick of it.
obviously, you love dean. and you love having sex with him—but for just once, you want to see him come before you do. usually, you’re too fucked-out or still being swept up in the tide that is your post-orgasm to notice or pay attention to dean when he finally comes. you think maybe he does it on purpose. that, or his other excuse besides getting off on seeing you come is that he’s usually one-and-done. he wants it to last longer, even if he won’t. but you know he can go multiple rounds—because you’ve done it together mutliple times.
you decide to do it at the bunker.
you knew dean would never fully let his guard down, ever—but the bunker’s where he hangs up parts of his suit of armor for at least a little while. you may never see the real him, truly, fully—but the glimpses of under his spiky shell you get to see are when dean’s home, and only when dean’s home.
this night was quiet, and pretty boring—but you never take boring for granted anymore. now, it’s a luxury. now, it’s sacred. dean made dinner tonight, since you made it last night. sam’s off somewhere, with elieen, or chasing a lead, or… well, you actually aren’t 100% sure what he’s doing, since when the words “back in 2 days” left his mouth, all you could think about was carrying out your plan for dean you’d been coniving for at least a month.
the dishes are all washed and the kitchen’s clean, closed for the night when you go to shower after dean had. dean’s been quiet, but not a concerning amount of quiet. he gets like this sometimes. sometimes when he’s building up the courage to ask you something, other times, it’s just his thoughts taking up what attention he’d have on you. he’s usually pretty in your face, adamant when he’s unabashedly horny—but sometimes, it seems like he’s almost ashamed of needing you. like he doesn’t even have the right to ask you. like you haven’t been together all this time. you know it’s not because he doesn’t want you—you know it’s instead rooted in his decades-long supression of his own feelings and insecurity. but it still breaks your heart every time. you’ve come a long way—but you know that there’s still quite a hike to get dean to stop acting like he doesn’t deserve you or your love.
he hasn’t made any advances on you tonight like he usually does when he’s about to hump a chair—so you hope that when you make a move, he’ll be down for sex. otherwise, this’ll have to wait, since you don’t want to force dean into sex if he doesn’t want to tonight. you’re done showering, but you don’t put on your clothes when you step back into your shared room.
he’s sitting against the headboard, legs stretched out and ankles crossed, head lolled a little to the side. he dozed off at some point while waiting for you, you realize—and you almost chicken out right then and there.
dean stirs a little when you walk in, inhaling deeply and blinking slowly at you. he raises his brows slightly when he sees you still in your towel. usually you’re changed into clothes before you come into the room. a little wave of heat shivers down your spine when he does, the intensity of his gaze having its usual effect. you shut his door before you look at him again.
he doesn’t say anything—probably waiting for you to say something, considering that you’re the one still in a towel. but you don’t—at least, not until you get to the foot of his bed.
“would you, uh,” you start intelligently, looking down at nothing in particular, “like to see what’s under here?”
it’s cheesy, and it makes you cringe inside—but dean’s sleepy gaze completely softens when the words leave your mouth. you can see the gears turning in his mind—almost can hear them clanking. for one painstaking second, you think that he might say no.
“y’know i’d never turn you down,” the corners of his mouth twitch as he looks you up and down, most definitely imaging you without that towel when he sits up a little straighter.
“y’know you can, right?” you murmur back after a pause, rounding the corner of his bed to come closer to him.
it takes dean longer to answer this time. he looks away from you briefly, a little bristled by your question. you’ve brought it up before, and were met with the same reaction. you think it’s because dean’s spent his entire adult life throwing himself into one-night stands and never once turning a girl down, even when he didn't exactly feel like having sex. you’ve assured him that if he doesn’t want to have sex, you don’t have to. it doesn’t happen often—but you’ll never make him feel bad when it does.
“i know,” he finally says, looking back up at you. “just… don’t wanna…”
he doesn’t finish his sentence. but you know what he’s trying to say.
don’t wanna lose this. don’t wanna lose you.
you step closer, hand still holding up your towel—but the other aches to reach for him. touch him.
“i know,” you nod a little, looking down too. you didn’t need to say anything other than that. because you did know. more than anyone.
dean sits up a little more again, looking less tired than before. having a newfound sense of confidence, maybe? motivation? whatever it is, he fully sits up off of the headboard this time, just… looking at you. like you fell out of the sky and into his life. like he didn’t deserve you, or deserve the way everything you touched turned to light. turned him to light. he blinks once, twice, then beckons you to come closer—but doesn’t get very far, because you’re already moving towards him, anyway, and then you’re kissing him.
dean still remembers the first time he kissed you. and there’s been multitudes of other kisses since then, but you still feel the same pull to him. he’s somehow never kissed you in a towel before though, and he’s already starting to get antsy at the fact that you’re completely naked under there.
you seem to know that he’s a little on edge, a little tense—but when is he not? he’s already starting to melt into his bed as you kiss him, his hands running up your towel-covered sides of your hips. in tandem, your hand finds its way into his hair, the other still holding the towel up against yourself. dean wants to tug it away, but he doesn’t make a move to. he doesn’t know why.
you tug a specfic part of his hair that also tugs a moan deep from dean’s throat—it vibrates what feels like your entire body and ignites a pooling heat inside your stomach that only dean can hold the match to. you can almost taste the shame dean felt from making a noise like that—but you don’t let him hide away. your fingers run over the spot your tugged in his hair before holding the back of his head, not letting him pull back from kissing you: telling him without words that you liked the noise he made. you don’t separate your mouth from his once, so he’s starting to breathe heavier through his nose, and in turn, getting more and more worked up.
your plan’s working.
dean moans once again. it’s quieter this time, so you feel it more than actually hear it. his hands get more grabby, more insistent—not rough, but his patience is waning. good. he pulls you into his lap with a few tugs, your hand finally dropping from holding up the towel when you straddle his thighs.
dean breaks the kiss, to your dissapointment, but it’s only to look at you. his hands move up your sides again, gently pulling the towel the rest of the way off of you. and he’s just… staring. at you. his lips part as his eyes flick over you, and despite the fact that he’s seen you, touched you, worshipped you more times than you can count, his gaze somehow still makes you feel the need to blush. you look down between you and him as you feel the heat spread on your face. dean notices, obviously. he moves his head forward to look at you as you’re looking down, eyes searching your face. he hates the fact you felt the need to shy away from him.
he doesn’t say anything, though. just stares at you as his hands rest on your hips for a second more. then, he leans forward, pressing his face against the skin between your breasts. kisses you there once, twice. your hand snakes automatically into his hair, and you almost forget what you're supposed to be doing. almost forget that you’re trying to make him come first.
you regrettably move his head away from you, leaning down to kiss the side of his face, then his neck. he tenses up—but it’s the tense you know and love. the tense that tells you he’s trying to keep his head on his shoulders, to resist making a noise.
you want him to make noise.
dean’s hands finally manage to move, no doubt wanting you to pause your ministrations so he could get you over the edge first. sure, he loves the buildup—but he loves seeing you come more. you don’t stop, though. you keep your lips on him, moving to the spot by the back of his ear where you know he’s the most sensitive. he immediately tenses up even more.
“w— woah,” he murmurs your name, voice strained, finally pulling your mouth off of him, his face coming into focus again. “baby, y’gotta gimme a sec.”
you hope dean doesn’t say anything about your advances, and he doesn’t. not in so many words. he just looks at you for a second, eyes raking over your face. you can see on his own that he wants to flip you over, to give everything he has, like he’s always done.
instead, he hesitates for a second.
you take that second to plead your case.
you scoot more into dean’s lap, your chest now fully pressed to his, lips a breath away from his own—and dean immediately goes a little cross-eyed when you leaned in.
“lemme make you feel good,” you whisper, your hands resting briefly on his shoulders before trailing down, down, down, towards the hem of his shirt.
“y’always do,” dean replies right back, glancing down momentarily at where your hands are tugging at his shirt. he brings his arms up without any more protest, rests them back on your thighs this time.
“you know what i mean,” you murmur, pressing a softer kiss to his lips.
and dean did.
he knew exactly what you meant—you probably meant well, you always did. but to him, something like that was scary. terrifying. he’s never, never been the first to let himself go—save for a time or a few. but for the most part, he gave his all to pleasuring the other first. took pride in it.
it’s been the one thing he can count on: that even if he does let himself go like that, there’s a good chance whoever’s below him would be too fucked-out to see him at his most vulnerable. he usually buries his face in whatever’s closest, lying and saying he just doesn’t want to get a noise complaint—but the reality is no one’s seen dean when he comes. and he wanted it to stay that way.
until now.
now, he’s actually considering it. almost close to shutting his thoughts off and just letting it happen. he opens his mouth, and nothing comes out. he looks over your face again—and he’s filled with this sense of warmth he hasn’t felt in decades. this sense, this feeling, it feels unnatural.
it’s trust.
dean almost can choke on it, this feeling. he trusts you. wholly, completely. he has for a long time.
so he nods.
you start with kissing him all over the place—resuming your path down his neck, then going to his shoulders, kissing the freckles there, too. it’s now that dean is regretting letting you take control, because he has been rock hard since… well. since he saw you in the towel.
you reach his waistband, and dean has to take a deep breath. he knows what’s going to happen. he doesn’t try to brace himself—it never works. he knows he’s going to lose it regardless, so he doesn’t even attempt.
you don’t take long to take his boxers off, thank god—and you don’t take long to start touching him, either. you stroke him gently, then wrap your lips around him. dean takes a second to look down at you, to memorize you looking back at him with his dick in your mouth, save it for later when he has a lonely night, then drops his head back. for once, he lets himself feel. feel you, feel the way he feels not only the ripples of pleasure coursing through him, but also the way he’s able to actually enjoy it for once. not that he didn’t before, but he was so caught up in how he looked, how he sounded, how he was holding you that there was never any room for him to actually feel what you’ve wanted him to feel all this time.
you can’t look up at him, regardless—but the times you sneak a glance at dean, his eyes are screwed shut and you can see his chest rising and falling. you can hear the sounds he’s making—the panting and grunts and moans leaving his mouth and filling the room, and after a while, you can tell he’s close. his hand had found its way to the back of your head—not pushing, just holding. he tugs on you only a little when you know he needs a minute to stop from falling over the edge.
you lick your lips when your mouth releases dean, going back to straddle him again. you look down at him, and his eyes are still closed. his hair is messed up from your hand earlier, and his lips are parted as he takes in some heavy breaths. he sighs after a few steadying ones, blinking up at you. you’re already looking at him, your hands finding his own and putting them back on you. dean lets you, like he’s made of putty or clay. he lets you guide yourself on top of him, watching as you sink down on him. another visual to memorize, he thinks.
and that’s about the last coherent thought he has.
you adjust yourself and dean so you’re chest-to-chest again, your boobs pressed against him as you start to slowly move. dean wraps his arms around your torso and has the urge to bury his face in your neck or on your shoulder, but he holds off for now. now, he wants to look at you, just for a little while. your pussy sucks him in with a noise every time you move—but he knows he could’ve gotten you wetter if he let himself say no. and there it is. even now, there’s just a little part of his brain not letting him fully enjoy it. but he knows it’s shrunk, that little part. he knows you’re chipping away at it with a ice pick. every time you look at him like he’s worth knowing, worth loving. every time you have sex. every time you grind your hips into his own, it gets a little smaller. someday, somehow, it may never be there at all. but he knows that’s wishful thinking. he knows there’s parts of him he needs to fix on his own. and you make him want to.
he’s getting close again. it didn’t take much, since he was another stroke of your mouth sucking on him from coming, but instead of trying to prolong his release like he always does, dean just… lets himself fall off the edge. his moans get louder, and louder—and for once, he doesn’t feel nearly as embarassed like he usuallly does whenever he lets a moan slip. now, he doesn’t care. can’t care, because your hands are holding him and you’re looking at him like you want to see him come. he can only look up at you as you ride him, your face soft, and filled with pleasure, but it’s not for you right now.
it’s for him.
his eyes flutter, and he’s gone. dean’s face scrunches up, and he looks like he’s in pain, but he’s not. his whole body tenses, and he leans his forehead into yours when you move your head down to meet him, moans and gasps and a few whimpers leaving his mouth as you feel his warmth spread through you. he falls a little more into your body like a ragdoll, despite being under you. takes a shuddering breath in, then another. wraps his arms tighter around you, holding you. he’s never felt more safe than right now—despite the fact that he’s completley naked and just had what some would call a pathetic sounding orgasm. dean knows it’s because of you. because you’re holding him right back, not letting him go. it makes his head fuzzy sometimes. just like now. his entire skull feels like it was stuffed with cotton. it feels like being wrapped in a warm blanket. for once, he can finally feel the things he’s wanted for so long, fully, with no regret or embarassment, with no regard for anyone else’s feelings. it feels like centuries he’s been without this feeling. maybe he’s never felt it at all.
OR the seven deadly sins are humanized once again—and it goes about how you’d expect (when you’re in love with dean winchester).
⌞ CHAPTER II. ⌝
dean winchester x fem reader ∣ 3.4 k words
content & warnings ➝ swearing, guns, yearning / heavy emotions. canon-compliant violence, angst, non-consensual kissing. no smut, but 18+ as always.
the masterlist.
𖤐 ────────────────────────
You’ve made the executive decision that you’re screwed.
This house smells too dusty, too overworn. Like a stuffy Goodwill on a hot summer day with no AC—but instead of finding a glass dish that you’d been looking for the top of your dresser to hold your knickknacks, the dish is still in the house, on the grimoire of an old lady who passed away almost a decade ago.
You glance to the side, stealing a look at Dean for what felt like the millionth time in 30 seconds. His figure’s enveloped by the sunlight coming through the stained glass window in the front, coating him in pink, blue, green, and yellow—and in that moment, it’s hard to believe that he’s a hunter, a man who’d shoot at anything that breathed wrong around him.
But he is.
You try not to stare—you really try, but it’s getting harder not to.
You’re no closer to figuring out a plan of attack for the Sins. Last night after Sam left, you spent most of your time, well… crying. It wasn’t just because of the fact that you’re probably going to end up killing the man you love—well, that was most of it. But it’s also just… everything else. Not only just the fact that you’re probably going to kill the man you’ve wanted for years.
It’s the fact that you know Dean doesn’t love you back.
It’s been the most constant thing for your entire life, feelings not being reciprocated, so what could possibly be different now? It’s the same old story all over again. You never get back the love you give out so freely. It’s never been a two-way street in any kind of interaction with people.
It’s one of the reasons you believe you’re unlovable, unwanted. You can’t hold down friends for too long without them leaving you completley in the dust, or just ghosting you entriely—and then never getting a response when you try to reach out. You try to give them the benefit of the doubt: they’re busy, they have their own things going on, their own lives—but you know the truth. They’re either dead, found out what you actually do for a living, or worst of all:
They just got sick of you.
And that’s the most terrible part. Your shortness of friends is not because of your chosen career path. Not because your face is definitley on a WANTED: FOR QUESTIONING poster in police stations all over the country. It’s solely because you scared them off. Your personality. Your feelings. Just you. Not because you assosiate yourself with known felons that you call family, but because some part of you made them think that you’re not worth their time or effort anymore. You don’t know what you did, but you know it’s something.
Something is wrong with you to make people want to leave you, but you don’t know what it is. And that thought eats you alive, consumes your thoughts when it’s late at night and there’s nothing left to think about but the things you’ve done. No one could love that. No one could excuse whatever the hell is wrong for the only purpose of loving you.
So you know. Deep down, in your darkest thoughts.
You will never be the girl Dean wants. And you never will.
You’ll be alone forever, and you’ll die that way, too. Probably killing Dean in the process, if you don’t shake this curse.
You’re still thinking that once you get to the diner after finding nothing at the house. The diner, coincidentally, is located behind the bar from last night. It’s like the universe is laughing at you, making this entire hunt some sort of sick joke of torturing your psyche. You stare down at yout coffee mug—still steaming, wafting into the air between you, Dean, and Sam.
Dean’s talking about something with Sam—but you’re too busy trying not to freak out. The nosebleeds had stopped around 4 AM, but you can still feel something inside your mind that is definitley the curse, or spell, or whatever it is. It’s not the demon representing Envy—because you’re still mostly in control of yourself, minus the dissasociation that you’re currently expirencing. Maybe you could call Rowena. Or maybe Cas. Cas could probably see what was wrong with you with just a glance. Yeah. You could call Cas. Or pray to Cas. Or maybe—?
Dean says your name—and you foolishly, foolishly look up out of pure instinct, meeting his eyes. They’re much more green than usual due to two reasons: the daylight coming in through the windows, and because he’s wearing a green shirt.
Double homicide.
“Y’good?” His eyes are raking over you, trying to see what was wrong, already trying to decipher why you’re not talking, not being active in their conversation.
Trying to see if he could fix it.
He probably could. Definitely could. In fact, this could probably all be fixed if you weren't such a wuss. If you could look him in the eyes and say ‘Yeah, everything’s good. I’m just in love with you, and I’m pretty sure I’m gonna kill you if you look at another woman today, then kill her, too. But that’s it, nothing else.’ Then, Dean being Dean, would do his Dean Thing ™ and be able to find a way to kill the Sins, and everything would be fine again. You could go back to normal.
Normal enough, at least. You still wouldn’t be able to have him.
“Yeah,” you say automatically, looking between Dean and Sam. This whole pretending thing is starting to get really, really old. But you’ll suck it up, for Dean. For the sake of not ruining the perfectly-built friendship that has stood the test of time, apocolypses, and dying one too many times. “All good. Just hungry.”
Wasn’t completely a lie.
That satiates Dean enough to get him off your case almost entirely. He knows women—well, he thought he did. Then he met you, and learned that about 62% of women’s problems could be solved if they just had something to eat first. The other 38% is either a nap, a drink, or a good fuck. It’s eerily similar to his line of reasoning when he has a problem, too.
So Dean doesn’t ask any more questions after that. Just nods with both his brows raised, goes back to talking to Sam, who’s doing a very good job at keeping this a secret.
It’s not like you’re surprised at that—but usually he’s more vocal about hinting at the fact that you’re in love with his brother. Just jokes mostly, but there’s none today from Sam. You make a mental note to buy him a case of the lemon-lime sparkling water you know he likes as a thanks for sparing you. Or maybe he thinks if he jokes about it, you’d kill Dean right then and there.
The food comes—and now you don’t have an excuse to be in a non-talkative mood, or have the means to be dissociative. So you play the part: laugh when you're supposed to, throw in a few one-liners, nod when you can. It’s the same part you’ve been playing for years when Dean chats up a bartender, or a waitress, or the chick at the front desk—only now, you’re doing it just to get through this… whatever this is.
You’re stopping at the sheriff’s office again—because there were reports of power outages in the little downtown area here. You know it’s from whatever made your nose bleed, and so does Sam. But Dean’s in the dark about that. You hate that he is, but the alternative is telling him… well, everything.
And that’s not an option.
One of the officers says something to you as you’re all walking to the station’s archives—and you look back over at him, scrunching your brows together. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“Well, I— I just said you have nice eyes,” he sheepishly explains, like he was embarrassed to repeat it out loud. “That’s all.”
“Oh.” is all you get out at first. Was that really what he said? Maybe you should be paying more attention to this guy. “Uh. Thanks.”
“Sorry if that’s weird—” He immediately backtracks, but you shake your head to stop him.
“No, no, I just… it’s been a weird day. But, uh… thanks. Really.” You try to play the frazzled-but-making-it work routine. It seems to convince this guy that you’re the personality hire for the FBI to balance out the two 6-foot-something men behind you, which is enough for now. Enough to make him not suspicious.
You get some more information regarding the victims—but none of the pieces of the puzzle fit together yet. You wonder if they ever will as you wait for Sam and Dean outside—but Sam’s the only one that’s walking out of the double doors.
“Where’s Dean?” You question—not because you’re a lovesick idiot this time, but because Dean never leaves anywhere without Sam first.
“Bathroom,” Sam shrugs, then gets in the passenger seat with the creak of Baby’s door. That’s weird. You furrow your brows again, unconvinced. You’re not sure why you’re second guessing, but it’s not going away. Something’s wrong. You have an urge to check on him, and you war with it for a while—but just as you build up the courage to take a step towards the office, Dean comes out, wiping at his nose. Makes eye contact with you, then drops his gaze just as fast.
Okay.
Also weird.
You blink, then get in the backseat. You’re going insane. Dean’s fine. Sam’s fine. Everything’s fine.
Everything except you.
The information has lead you to yet another dusty Victorian house tonight—only this one’s been foreclosed on and condemned. Completely run-down, and definitely a million different health code violations on the first floor alone. You’re looking at a dust-covered mirror when you hear a distant shout—and it sounded like Sam.
“Sam?!" You shout back—and he immediately responds with an “I’M OK!” somewhere from the floor below. You sigh out the breath you were holding in, go back to snooping around.
But then you hear your name.
It’s not Dean or Sam saying it. You’d know if it was. This is something different. It’s a taunt. Your body runs cold. You turn towards the sound—and nothing’s there until a swirl of black smoke appears, sliding past your feet and materializing in front of you.
It’s the waitress from last night.
You gape at her—because that means that the demon, the Sin, was her. Envy. Was it her the whole time? Or did the demon take her over after the fact?
“When I first heard that you guys were coming to town, I was expecting, well… not you.” She sneers, eyes flicking black before going back to normal. “I mean, rolling with the Winchesters? I was expecting a badass of a woman, a real bitch, y’know? Larger than life, takes no shit. Not… whoever the hell you think you are.”
You don’t say anything at first—but then your mouth works again. “What do you want?”
“A million dollars. Earth’s destruction, death to my enemies,” she cackles, actually cackles, like a 80s villain. “Honey, there's a lotta things I want. I’m Envy, after all. But there’s only one thing you want.”
You don't ask for clarification. You know what she’s talking about. Or rather, who.
“Yeah, you know who I’m talking about,” she grins, raising her brows at you. “Oh, Dean?” She calls out—and suddenly, Dean appears right next to her, stumbling like he’d been walking somewhere. He most definitely was, since he was on the floor above you. He immediately raises his gun, loaded with demon-trapping bullets—but Envy snatches it out of his hand simply by raising her own, flashes the metal in the light in her hands.
“You boys have gotten smarter since last time,” she tuts. “Good thing you’ll never be as smart as me. Get over by her.” She orders, waving the gun at you.
“SAM!” Dean roars out without breaking eye contact with Envy.
“Oh, c’mon Dean, really? You’d think I’d let him hear you? This isn't my first day on the job, y’know. Kinda insulting you think I’d make a rookie mistake.”
“If you hurt her—” Dean starts immediately, and you want to kiss him and punch him at the same time. Damn him.
“No one cares about your chivalry right now, pretty boy. Now, get.” She waves her other hand, consequently pretty much tossing Dean the rest of the distance to you. He stumbles again at the motion, reluctantly stands by your side rather than in of in front of you, protecting you from danger. Instead, he’s next to you all the same.
“Good,” she sickenly grins once again, still holding the gun while looking over at you. “I can see why you like him. He follows orders very nicely… when he’s properly motivated.” Dean’s jaw ticks just a little.
“So, what’s your plan, huh?” Dean raises his brows, always the deflector extraordinaire. “Just nosebleed me into killin’ her? Kinda waste ‘o time, you ask me. Didn't work.”
Didn't work? You think. But how did he—
“Actually, no, Lumberjack’s Digest,” Envy looks pointedly between you both. “Because my little trusty dusty mind games didn’t work on either of you. I’d figure at least one of you would crack. But you didn’t. Special case, apparently. So I’m here to kill you both myself.”
Oh.
Oh.
That is true—why didn't her mind games work on you last night? You’d like to think about it, but Dean’s looking at you now with that bewildered look on his face. Like he just figured something out.
Like he put the puzzle together.
Shit.
“I know, right? I can’t believe it either!” Envy exclaims, throwing her hands up. You can tell it bothered her more than she was letting on, though. “Look, I get you two are good hunters and all that righteous nonsense, but no one—and I mean no one—can outdo me on my own turf. Not even you two. So, you have to die. Regardless of what Crowley or Heaven has to say.”
You get a sick feeling in your stomach—because you know she’s gonna kill you both. She’s not bluffing, and there's nothing you can say or do to make her change her mind.
But maybe you can sway it.
“Kill me,” the words are out of your mouth before you can take them back.
“What?” Both Dean and Envy say at the same time—and it’d be funny if it wasn't this situation.
“Just kill me,” you repeat again, stepping closer to Envy and away from Dean at the same time he says “No”. You ignore him, and continue on. “And not him. You’ll die if you kill him. That’s signing your life away. You know that.”
Envy actually takes a second—huffs a little as she debates it. You knew she would. Killing a Winchester—a vessel is pretty much illegal in the supernatural world, especially for demons.
“You can’t—” Dean says your name, but gets cut off by the demon.
“Shut up,” then she looks at you, tilting her head slightly.
“Think about it,” You say, even though she already is. “You’ll still get a kill. Still be a Sin.” She looks down, then up again.
“Huh,” Envy says after a beat, eyes mischievous, aiming the gun at you. “You’re dumber than I thought, too.”
You can feel the protest from Dean behind you—the way you've been feeling it since you stepped away from him. You’re ready to die, or at least starting to accept it. It’s better than watching him die. But then he speaks again.
“No, no, no,” he starts immediately when Envy points the gun at you, stepping at your side and standing more in front of you. “Kill me instead. Not her.”
“Dean—”
“Both of you, shut up,” Envy drawls. “Enough of this bullshit. I’m killing you both, and that’s that. No noble deaths for either of you. But first…” her grin almost stretches to her eyes when she nods at you. “…Kiss him.”
You blink. Blink again. Swallow down a lump in your throat, because surely she didn't just tell you to do that. She’s sicker than you thought.
“You heard me!” She exclaims, waving the gun at you, then aiming it at Dean. “Do it. Or I kill him first.”
You feel sick to your stomach. This wasn't how your first kiss with Dean was supposed to go, if it even happened in this lifetime. Not even close. You can barley get the courage to look over at him right now. How are you supposed to kiss him?
You turn to face Dean, somehow. He instinctively turns toward you, too. Meets your eyes. Usually, you’re able to read them so well. This time, all you can see is panic. Like he doesn't know how to get out of this. Neither do you.
“DO IT!” You flinch as Envy screeches, and you step closer to Dean again, grabbing his hand to buy you some time. Your face is all screwed up, uncomfortable and unbelievably nauseous. Not from the fact that you have to kiss Dean. No. Of course you wanted to kiss Dean, but not like this. Not when he doesn't get a choice. Not when he doesn't get a say.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper to Dean, and you think you could cry. You might, since both of you could die tonight.
“It’s OK,” Dean says in the same breath with a shake of his head. He could just be trying to calm you down, and nothing else—but something in his gaze makes you think otherwise. Then he squeezes your hand, tugs you a little closer. Like maybe he wanted to kiss you just as bad. His eyes are continuously looking all over your face, pausing at your lips every so often.
It’s after you see that you decide to think the latter.
Because it’ll probably be the last thought you have.
You let go of Dean’s hand, only to hold his face instead, looking at his face one last time—then press your lips to his, keep them there for a second. They’re as soft as you’d thought they be. You can feel his hand that was holding yours find your waist—not pushing away, just holding. You still want to throw up from how wrong this feels to be doing it this way, but you take a steadying breath in once you pulk away, look at Dean again as your hand drops from his face.
If you're being honest, he looks a little out of it. Dazed, almost. Your eyes rake over his face, checking to make sure he doesn't hate you—but all you can see is him. He blinks, looks down at your lips again. Like he misses them already.
“Oh, come on, really?” Envy almost whines, and you’re surprised she doesn't stomp her foot as she waves Dean’s gun between you both again. “You call that a kiss? That was pathetic! Do it again. I wanna see passion this time. You think you can swing that, huh?”
You want to kill this thing. For making you want to kill someone else. For making you kiss Dean purely for her enjoyment. You want to cry. You want to scream. But you don't. You choke down on another lump in your throat, shakily taking a breath in. You don't know if you can do this. But if you can’t do this, then you both die.
Dean’s hand finds yours this time. Tugs you back to Earth, back to him. His eyes rove over your face again, trying to calm you down. You can see he’s trying to make you feel better about this, to reassure you that it’s fine.
“S’okay,” he again. says your name, and he’s looking right at you. It’s the same look he had when he wanted you to stop crying after that one hunt when he and Sam almost died. It was a close call, and you blamed yourself.
Just like you’re doing now.
Dean kisses you instead—and you have to remember to take a breath in, because you haven't in a while, judging by how dizzy you felt. You close your eyes again, drop Dean’s hand to hold his face yet another time, tugging him closer than before, turning you both around as you continue to kiss him. Your other hand snakes down between you both, and it surprises Dean, because you can feel it in his mouth, in the little intake of breath he does. You’d drop to your knees to hear it again—but for now, you have a job to do.
You need to kill this thing. Now.
So you take your own gun out of your waistband and fire.
𖤐 464 words. requested. MDNI. all angst, no comfort.
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━ DEAN WINCHESTER wants three things. just three. he’s not allowed to want any of them, obviously. but of course, he still aches for them to be real. still dreams about them on the off-chance he doesn’t have a nightmare one night. still wishes that in some fucked-up timeline, they’d be his to keep. his to have all to himself. they are as follows:
⁰¹ no more hunting.
the first thing dean wants is to stop fucking hunting. it’s a ridiculous thing to want, considering that he’d never rest knowing something’s lurking out there in the dark—but he still does. he’s been tired of it. been so exhausted from being on the road since he was 4 years old. he can never actually take a break, can never fully relax—yet he wants to. needs to. he just can’t seem to obtain it. it just slips away through his fingers instead. and he can’t feel this way. he can’t. he shouldn’t. he’s not permitted to. yet it happens anyway. dean reminisces to a fake life where he doesn’t have to watch his back 24/7. where he could just be. he doesn’t even know what he’d do for a living, besides hunting. and he’ll never know. not as long as there’s something to kill.
⁰² you.
possibly more stupid than the last. yeah, dean wants you. you’ve been in his life forever, but he wants more. wants more always. he thinks about you always, about how you’d love him. because you do, he knows that. but he won’t act on it. won’t ever be the one to say that he loves you back. won’t tell you how he really feels—because he’d rather die. also because he knows that it won’t work out. that someone, something would find you both, and use the love between you to their advantage. so he’ll suffer. and he’ll only touch you, love you the way he really wants when he sees you in his dreams.
⁰³ happiness.
the most stupid, saved for last. dean, god forbid, wants to be happy. does he know how? no. is it obtainable? no. does he deserve it? fuck no. he deserves to rot in a pine box or spend the rest of eternity in hell for what he’s done in his life. but for some reason, he’s still breathing. still here. and he hates it. hates the fact that so many good, deserving people have died, yet he still somehow still gets to be here, living. it’s unfair. it’s cruel—and definitely a punishment, because dean could die as easy as breathing, but living is hard. having to look himself in the mirror is harder than slipping away and out of this world. so yes, he wants to be happy. but it’ll only come when he takes his final breath.
⊹₊ ⋆ 〔ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ part of my dean winchester, who… series. 〕
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dean was an absolute god at sex. you knew that. everyone on the planet probably knew that.
every single girl that’s ever left his motel room that you’ve seen has had a smile on their face that could light up a small country—and obviously, that didn’t come from not doing a good job of dicking down a woman.
you should’ve known he’d be just as good at the aftercare, too. you really should've.
and sure, you wondered what it would be like, to be with him. of course you did. and you let yourself ponder and fantasize, but never acted on your urges. sure, you flirted back with dean when he flirted with you, because it was just make-believe. it was funny. it was a joke, and it was easy.
and it was a joke between you for a long time. yet somewhere along the way, that changed.
that’s how you got yourself to right now: laying in dean’s bed. on dean’s sheets.
in dean’s arms.
he’s never brought a girl back to the bunker—so that’s gotta count for something, you think as you lay in his bed. you’ve never seen a girl walking out of dean’s room in the bunker like you see when you stay at motels, so maybe you did matter more to him like he said you did. you let yourself believe it, even if it really wasn’t exactly true. let yourself believe that maybe this wouldn't end tonight, maybe you’d have something more with dean.
but you can’t really even think about that—or anything else, for that matter, because in your time together, dean made you come 4 times. you’d never been able to do that in one sitting—by yourself or otherwise, at least not without breaks in between—but dean was wringing you out for all you were.
and you gave it to him. willingly. truly.
you were barely making coherent noises by the end, on your last orgasm. and you were loud. and it sounded like you were in pain—thank god sam was gone, because you felt embarrassed, so goddamn embarrassed to be making such noises. but dean quite literally fucked the self-consciousness right out of you. he pressed his nose to your cheek like the tip of his dick pressed deep inside you—and when you poorly stifiled a moan that was coming out of you, he just shook his head against yours and said to let him hear it.
dean told you that he could hear your thoughts from here. he told you to just enjoy it. told you that you could say stop if you felt too overwhelmed, and he would. he said most of that while he pounded into you, so it was hard to focus on his words.
but you still heard him.
yet you didn’t tell him to stop.
he also shushed you when you tried to apologize for essentially being a ragdoll instead of an engaging member of sex with him after the third time you came. he didn't mind, he said. said he got off on it, watching you come undone, over and over, getting drunk on him. and you should've expected this kind of reassurance from him, you really should've. he provides in every other possible way, in every sense—so how could sex be any different?
you’re close to dozing off now, though. you can distinctly feel dean’s body still on top of yours—he’d also gone full ragdoll after holding off his own orgasm for so long—but that’s about all you can feel, besides the throbbing from your lower region, which is still wrapped around dean.
you're wet in every sense—sweat, fluids, basically a puddle of yourself. you’re starting to feel sticky from yours and dean’s fluids mixed together as your senses come back, but you don’t move. you’re too tired. your eyes are just so heavy, so you just close them. allow the aftermath of the experience you just had to wash over you completely, leaving you all floaty-like and celestial. your hands are still resting on dean’s back, somewhere by his shoulder blades, no longer hanging on for dear life, now just holding him. you still don't move, save for breathing.
then, it could've been seconds, it could've been hours—but dean finally stirs enough to look up at you from where he lay on top of you, rests his chin on your chest right bewteen your boobs. the movement makes you look down at him, too—but don't get it twisted, you just open your eyes enough to look at dean. you’re still wiped.
and dean just looks at you, doesn't say anything right away. he blinks a few times, then reaches up to your face, brushes his fingers against your cheek. the corner of his mouth twitches up a little, and if you were the tinest bit more coherent, you’d probably feel embarrassed—but you aren’t coherent.
now, you're too tired to care if he thinks you’ve lost all your appeal, now that the sex is over. now that there’s nothing new to discover, now that he’s scratched the itch. too tired to care if he’s gonna kick you out back to your room, because now you’re all sweaty and gross and sticky, no longer a shining star, no longer something to be conquered.
but he doesn't do that.
instead, his fingers continue to gently caress the side of your face, over and over. like he was trying to memorize it. then he lifts his chin and places a kiss on your chest. then another kiss before he lifts himself up off and completely out of you with a small grunt—and for a split second you think he’s gonna leave you here, but then his face comes completely into view above you, his nose brushing yours again.
“y’got any idea how perfect y’are?”
the slurred words catch you off-guard—but that’s a severe understatement. you don't hear the word ‘perfect’ from dean often, and certainly not after he was just balls-deep inside of you, moaning your name over and over again. touching you. wanting you. needing you.
dean doesn’t let you answer his question, though. he just kisses the side of one of your cheeks, murmuring a ‘b’right back’ against your face, inking the reassurance in your skin before you can even attempt to say anything or reach for him. then he moves, and you hear a squeak of the sink in the corner of his room, hear his footsteps padding back over to you against the concrete a few beats later.
dean’s hand touches you first—sliding up your leg gently, and you’re certain he’s making sure he doesn’t scare you, since you’re laying there deader than a sack of potatoes. you hum when he does, moving a little—or at least trying to, but he shakes his head at you, his other hand pressing you down on his bed.
his bed.
jesus. his bed. the pillow smells like him, everything fucking smells like him. it’s invading every pore of your body. your heart’s still pounding, but it’s slowing down when dean moves away from your face again. you feel warmth between your thighs, and look down, squinting in the dim light to see what dean was wiping you with.
it’s his shirt he was wearing, the one you yanked off of him earlier. he’d gotten it wet in his sink with warm water, and was currently wiping at the creases of your thighs, slick and sticky with dampess up with his shirt.
you don’t know why he was doing this. did he do this with everyone he hooked up with? you tried not to think about it, but now that the fog was finally starting to clear in your mind, it was hard not to. the gesture, the view of him in front of you on his bed? it puts a lump in your throat.
you’re in love with him.
you’ve been in love with him for a long time.
and you know he’s probably just as tired as you—he’d done pretty much all the work sex-wise, but you noticed and knew he liked it, being the giver. always giving, never asking for anything. taking care of you.
and you let him.
four times.
but you also noticed he was getting tired at the end. he almost tuckered out, tossed in the towel, and didn’t come at all. he was panting as hard as you were on the last round, and he was just as sweaty. held it off until it almost hurt, like he didn't want it to end. he was speaking all sorts of rambles too, his words stringing together.
you can still see, even in just the dim, barely-there golden light of his room that his face is red. not pink. not blushing. beet fucking red. you can see his shoulders rising and falling quickly with each breath, and you want to reach up to touch him. but you’re not sure about doing it, so you resort to blindly grabbing at him until your hand makes contact with him.
your hand ends up somewhere on his arm—and he looks at your hand on his skin, then looks up at you with those green eyes.
“come up here,” you murmur, tugging his arm—and he moves like there’s an anvil attached him that you pulled on, rising over you just enough to not squish you with his body weight.
your hand on dean’s arm finds purchase on his face as you rise and turn—and dean molds to you like a slab of clay, letting you do what you want. he lets himself lay down next to you instead of over you, like before. your body’s moving him mindlessly without barely touching him—and you just look at him when his head hits his pillow, both your chests rising and falling slower now.
you wish you could tell him he doesn’t have to take care of you. tell him that he’s allowed to rest here with you, allowed to not be… dean winchester. the sex god, the caretaker, always having to be on. you wish you could say that he’s allowed to just be dean instead. you don’t know how to tell him that.
but the thing is: dean already knows.
he knows that he’s allowed to shell out his own little part of you to hide out inside when things get too bad. he knows that you’ll always be there for him—for every nightmare, every apocalypse, every angel and demon that has a hitlist. he knows you’ll hug him without him having to ask, and even patch him up if you come across him drinking by himself in the bunker instead of getting the first aid kit. you’ll gently coax him awake when he falls asleep at the library’s table and quite literally drag him to his own bed, muttering about how this is why his back hurts all the time and other righteous, nice things—because you care about him.
and he cares about you.
he’s been a goner for you.
he’s in love with you, too.
that’s why he’ll take everything you have to offer him, over and over. he’ll let you hold him until the sun inevitably comes up again after a nightmare, let your hands touch him when he fall asleep with his laptop and a bunch of books open—and why he barely flinches when he hears your voice in his ears, waking him up, and he’ll let you tow him to his bedroom.
your hands move, reaching for something—dean looks up out of his thoughts to see what it is.
it’s his shirt.
you sit up more, hair sticking up, bunched and messy from dean’s hands running through it—and he’s never seen anything more beautiful. anything more perfect. he’s distracted by your face, your body, so he doesn't really register what you’re doing until he feels his wet shirt on his skin. you’re wiping him off, like he did for you. that’s when it hits him.
you’re trying to take care of him, too.
he looks down at his shirt that’s wiping his own skin, wiping away his own fluids mixed with yours. he’s unable to move or look away from the sight. unable to breathe. in all his years, no one’s done this for him: taken the time to take care of him. to let him be the one taking a break.
your other hand’s gently brushing his skin at his hipbone, almost as softly as his shirt. he blinks, blearily. it’s hard to keep his eyes open, and he can feel his body slowly starting to succumb to sleep under your touch, your care, just laying here in the warmth of you laying by his side—albeit propped up next to him.
he wants to tell you that you don’t have to do this. that he’s perfectly okay with being the caretaker, the one who carries it all. he’s been cast aside like a used tissue after sex—and he’s done the same too, so really, he shouldn’t feel so empty about that when it happens to him, but he does. he’ll take it. take it and bury it deep instead of letting himself feel it. that’s all he knows, all he can do. because he can’t try to unpack everything, not now.
truly, he doesn’t mind if no one ever took care of him—because he’s not allowed to mind. he’s not allowed to feel any sort of way about taking care of others, he just has to do it. no questions, no talkback, no lip. because that’s his job. most of the time, he just ends up pushing people away. he’s not good at showing anything other than anger. but he has everyone taken care of, in the end. at least he has that.
dean doesn’t tell you to stop doesn’t tell you to get off him, or make a joke as you wipe at him. he doesn’t do anything, actually. not a damn thing. he’s not sure why, either. he’s pretty sure he blacked out, instead of being present in the moment. he’s been doing that a lot recently—not knowing what he’s doing, lost in his own thoughts, brain on autopilot. he almost walked into a sign in front of a restaurant in the middle of the sidewalk the other day. a goddamn sign. what the hell was wrong with him lately?
dean finally snaps back into the moment, slowly blinking his eyes at you like an owl. he swallows the words that never came, that never even formed into a thought as looks at you. you're still naked—and that is a sight dean could get used to, that’s for damn sure.
you turn and lean over the edge of his bed a little, and dean immediatley siezes up, a sinking, deveastating feeling weighing on his chest like a dumbell, because this is it. you’re leaving. you got what you wanted, just his body, just to get off, and now you’re leaving. he’s given you everything and more and you’re leaving, leaving him like a toy you don’t want to play with anymore, leaving him like everything and everyone in his life. you’ve already grown bored of him, and now this thing between you is over before it even began.
but then you turn back to face him, your entire expression soft.
you were just putting his shirt you were using on the floor.
oh.
dean tries to look like he didn’t just get scared, but he knows some part of you noticed. he’s vulnrable right now, a easy target. you could walk out his bedroom door right now and he’d probably just cry instead of going after you. he actually feels like he could cry on the spot right now. he hopes you won’t say anything. you usually don’t—just hold him, hug him, touch him without a word.
and oh, how dean loved to be touched by you.
he’d take 40 more years in hell if it meant your hand could brush his face one last time. he’d take an eternity of torture, or he himself doing the torturing in the pit for your arms around him again. he’d kill anyone, steal anything, do whatever it took if it meant being near you.
but he has to act like he wouldn’t do that for you. he’d burn down anything for you to even look in his direction, for your touch on his flannel-clad shoulder, for your kiss on his cheek, an embrace from your arms. yet he had to act normal about it. but you were the only one who knew how to hug him correctly. sam, knew too, by default. but that was different—that’s his brother. his blood.
but you touched him like you’d spent your whole life learning to.
and you even hugged him like second nature, but still molded to the moment, still exactly what he needed. because you always knew where to squeeze, where to rest your head on him, no matter the situation. no matter if you won a hunt, a fight, an apocolaypse, or if you lost, you fit his body like a puzzle piece. like a lock and key. he’d known that—but it was carved into him forever after tonight, and he’d never forget.
because earlier, when he first slid inside you, it’s like the whole world had been off-kilter until he found his way inside you, the way he’s wanted to be inside you for so long. once he’d bottomed out, it’s like the world was right, for once in his life. like everything made sense after so long of it being chaos.
dean knows it’s ridiculous to feel such a thing, especially during sex, but in that moment, he did. he fit so snug, so perfect inside you that it felt like he’d gotten chucked into one of his dreams again, where he was watching you below him, you touching him the way he’s wanted you to touch him for so long. moaning his name, bringing him closer to you with your hands. just for the sake of being close, touching.
he’s been waiting for it. since forever, it feels like. since the moment he laid eyes on you. since the moment he had even an idea of what love was.
he must’ve been staring pretty hard, because one of your hands had made its way up to the side of his face, your eyes searching his expression. you’re looking to see what he’s thinking about. dean hopes it’s not written all over his face, but you seem to know what he’s thinking regardless if his expression shows it or not.
your thumbs brush his cheeks once, twice—still searching. still wanting him. he honestly still can't believe it. he’s not sure he ever will. you being here with him, he’s sure to wake up from this dream at any moment.
but he doesn't. you’re still in front of him. touching him.
and you want him there.
that’s why he lays down and rests his head on your chest with no complaints, no pushback when you tug him towards you after you lay down yourself. he doesn't protest partly because he actually really was fucking tired, but mostly because eventually, you’ll leave him—and dean will have nothing but the memoty of you, of your touch. maybe that’ll be changed, now that you’ve crossed the line he’s wanted to cross for so long now.
your hand finds his way into his hair, gently running your fingers through it and tugging dean out of his thoughts—and he has to bite back a noise from how good it feels. he sighs softly instead, relaxing more on top of you. he wonders if he’s making it hard for you to breathe. it’s happened before.
but you don’t move.
and now he can die happy.
dean would die for anything. it was damn near inevitable in this line of work—and shit, it already happened. he’d die for you, for his brother, his father, or some random person he doesn’t even know. he’ll lay it all down, if it meant saving the world, or even just saving one life. he’d do it. he has done it, over and over.
but you don’t say anything. you just hold him. dean can feel your heartbeat, feel your chest rising and falling. and in that piece of sunlight and everything warm and good, dean knows. he’s always known the terrifying truth about you.
your writing is insanely good!! got any tips and tricks ? ♡♡♡
hey! so sorry for the late response. thank you for your kind words <3 i’ve never been asked this, but hopefully i can give some good advice :)
⁰¹ write it down literally immediately.
i am a full-time college student and also have a job! so consequently, i have very little free time to write. or usually none. like at all. yay. so if i have an idea, i need to write it down immediately—even if it’s just one sentence, a blurb of words, or making a new document with a title. just so it’s out of my brain and on the page, in something other than my thoughts. then i can come back to it later! it helps tremendously.
⁰² collaborate / talk it out ( sustainably ).
one thing i like/need to do is talk out a writing idea with a real person (NOT ai !!!). it helps make the storyline clearer, and also usually gets me through any writer’s block i have! my amazing dear friend @aseafullofstars and i yap all the time about the fics we’re writing / potential ideas because we are definitely normal about the tv show supernatural. yes we are. anyways he is amazing and neither me nor my writing would survive without him. just the facts. :)
⁰³ don’t pressure yourself.
arguably the most important! writing is supposed to be fun, not draining, not a chore. don’t burn yourself out trying to finish something. take breaks. come back to it later. it’ll be there when you return to it. give yourself grace and don’t be too hard on yourself! you got this! <3
when i'm sad, i look through my inbox to reread your asks. you make me so very grateful to be alive and i fear if we lived closer to one another, the world would be over. nobody would stand a chance <3
oh smin you sweet sweet angel. i missed you so dearly and i’m so grateful to be alive at the same time you are. i’m glad i can bring you happiness, even when i’m not always on here 🥹 bless your heart my love, just know you cross my mind so so frequently. we’d be unstoppable if we lived in the same hemisphere. love ya to pieces and dust <3
Also no pressure!!!!! Are you planning on continuing it (the seven deadly sins )
hiii! first of all, thank you so so much for the kind words, i appreciate it (and love ya too MWAH). just know you’re contributing to my will to live with your words. also apologies for the late response, thank you for being patient with me. i 100% do plan on continuing royals! sorry again to keep you waiting. the next chapter should be out soon :)
⧼ post - s15 ! dean winchester’s birthday smut (& fix-it fic). ⧽
word total : 6 k (whoops.) ⋮⟢ masterlist.
MDNI.
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ׅ ׂ 𓂃 ⊹ 𓍼 you’re invited ! 📬 : happy dean day! and don’t worry guys, he’s still alive and well in the big 2026. it’s true ‘cause i wrote it. right? right. 🙂↕️
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dean’s back hurts.
and his knees, too. and something in his shoulder’s not right, either. and last night, he went to bed at 7:30pm. when you raised a brow at him for going to bed so early, he grumbled something incoherent and waved you off. he actually slept through the night, snoring like a monsoon. got up the next day, had breakfast with you. made a few calls to some ex-hunters to give him updates on things. they’re probably chasing down leads that very much may well be nothing, but he can’t take that chance. he worked on baby for a little bit, sat out on the porch for pretty much the rest of the day until dinner. a successful day, he thinks.
and then it dawned on him.
dean winchester is getting really fucking old.
it was hard to make the transition to living a somewhat normal life. really hard. after everyhing, everyone he’s lost, he was a shell of himself for a long time. a shadow in his own house. so were you. you weren’t quite sure when you started to get better—and maybe that’s not even the right word for it. not ‘better’, but more towards ‘okay’. but you both know that the feeling, whatever the hell that feeling is, won’t go away fully. the feeling of grief, guilt, loss, devastation. it’ll stay buried deep in your bones until you die.
you don’t make the decision to get married right away. that kind of commitment, no matter how much dean wanted it deep down, always scared him. yet you do everything a married couple would do. he loves you like a husband would. at some point between too many questions from your neighbors and after you’d smiled at him from the other side of the table one night, dean decides to pull the trigger on something that wasn’t a gun for once. he gets a good price on a ring at the jewelry store in town. proposes the way he should, on one knee and says your full name and everything. he can’t really believe it himself. him in a relationship, and now him married. jesus. who the hell is he?
you don’t have a big wedding, because everyone’s you would’ve invited to it is pretty much dead, in hiding, or missing. sam and eileen are your witnesses down at the courthouse. you all got pancakes afterwards. it’s uncharacteristically normal. simple. and you wouldn’t have had it any other way. dean carried you in the house bridal-style, because it was bad luck not to. the sex you had that night had you both in tears, but they finally weren’t sad ones.
sometimes dean wonders if he even actually has made the transition to whatever this life is now. because even though the gates of hell closed shut for good almost 6 years ago, something deep inside him still thinks that this will all be gone when he opens his eyes the next morning. he wakes up sometimes still reaching for his knife or his gun that’s no longer under his pillow. still stiffens up at every creak in the house when it’s late at night. sees ghosts—but not spirits. sometimes it’s people he’s killed, people he’s failed. either way, they haunt him a worse way than a spirit would. and they can’t disappear with the swing of an iron crowbar.
a part of him also still believes some monster that slipped through the cracks of rowena’s spell will pop out again, hunt him and you down. tear this slice of peace from him forever. you know all this too, obviously—because you feel the same way. after almost 2 decades of being on your toes, it’s weird to stand flat-footed. in the same place. but you try and make it work. it’s the hardest thing you’ve done in your entire lives.
on sundays, you both go to the shooting range that’s an hour away. you say it’s for practice, so that you don’t get rusty—but you’re going less and less nowadays. so is dean. your guns spend more time inside a case now then they do in your hands.
there’s certain things you do together each week, things that have made their mark and have become so much of a routine you probably could do it with your eyes closed. it’s essentially errands. but it still feels special all the same.
the first is going downtown. it’s not necessarily much of a downtown to be honest, but it’s enough for the both of you. there’s a antique store there you both go to—not just because you know the owner, but because dean’s found a couple old chevy signs for the garage and you found a bench for next to the front door in the hall so you could sit to put on your shoes. next is the library across the street from the store. you and dean return books and check out new ones. your current kick is reading as many goosebumps books the library has to offer—and there’s only 3 left. next is nancy drew. dean’s reading, believe it or not: war and peace. after that, you get breakfast, or lunch, or dinner, depending on the time you’re down there. there’s a brunch place and a burger joint two stores apart, and you pick based on a game of rock paper scissors. it doesn’t matter who wins.
a successful day way back when would mean no one died or got hurt. that you were all safe, for at least a little while. now, it means if the bakery has chocolate chip muffins instead of blueberry. if dean’s able to patch a hole in baby’s interior. a good day now is when the weather’s good. when the sun’s out. or when it’s raining, and you both have an excuse to stay inside, not go anywhere. to be with each other.
it rains on dean’s birthday.
it’s january, so it’s bizarre that it rains instead of snows—but you both like it more than you care to admit. so you don’t complain. you and dean never really complain about inconveniences that seemed impossible once upon a time.
his day starts like most now. gray daylight filters in through the tiny crack in the blackout curtains you got for the bedroom—because you both hate being woken up earlier than you have to, and that includes daylight. dean’s arm is somewhere under you, the other buried underneath his pillow. his arm under your back is going numb. he won’t move it, though. not as long as you’re above it.
he can feel something on his face, but he’s still too asleep to tell if it’s you, or his almost bieber-esque hair falling on his cheeks. in all honesty, he doesn’t really care too much. he used to sleep so little. sometimes he still does, even now—but when he can, he’ll sleep 14 hours instead of 4. and he doesn’t want to wake up yet. he doesn’t need to.
dean huffs out a breath into the pillow, sputtering his lips like a bothered horse—technically, he was one currently. he hears a poorly-stifled giggle, almost a snort, so he knows what’s touching his face isn’t his overgrown, almost-as-long-as-sam’s hair this time.
it’s you.
“whaddya doin’.” he grunts out, not moving an inch as he lay—and he feels your fingertips grazing his face more now that you know he’s awake.
“…nothin’,” you say in return after a beat. dean can hear the smile in your voice.
“…don’t sound like nothin’.” he retorts, still unmoving—the only thing he does is instinctively pull you closer to him, but you’re already pressed against him. you adjust anyways, always trying to be as close as possible.
“can’t i just look at ya?” you murmur back, having just woken up yourself, fingers going to the side of his jaw not buried in the pillow. “dunno if no one’s told ya, but y’gotta nice face, y’know.”
“shush,” dean grunts again, gruff but soft. he knows you won’t shush. he’s just grumpy. he’s always grumpy in the mornings. his eyes are still closed, and he’s still unmoving, still trying to sleep—jesus, he was an old man. “s’my goddamn birthday. i can do what i want.”
“so you don’t wanna hear my plans for the day, then?”
that gets you one single crack of an eye opening.
victory.
since you’d moved into this too-quiet neighborhood, you’d each planned the other’s birthday. it didn’t have to be extravagant, or too expensive—it never really was anyway, because you didn’t need all that attention from your unbelievably nosy neighbors. and that was perfectly fine, according to you both. just as long as you both were together, that’s what mattered. he knows last year’s gonna be hard to top, but you seem to surpass your own efforts every year anyway.
last year for dean’s birthday, you’d taken him to a steakhouse for dinner, his favorite one. then he spent the night between your thighs for his second dessert after you’d both eaten some slices of the pie you made him, had glorious sex. pretty damn good birthday, if you ask him. he doesn’t know how you’ll top that—but you will, somehow.
so he’s curious.
you grin upon seeing his one eye opening—then move your face into the few inches between you, pecking him on the cheek for his troubles due to your pestering. that gets you a more satiated grunt than the last.
“…was thinkin’ bacon and pancakes for breakfast,” you say without skipping a beat, but dean knows you’re not just thinking. he knows it’s already going to happen, already in motion. you’ve made it so. he knows that you’ve already bought everything down to the maple syrup from the farmer’s market. it’s the one infused with bourbon—and it’s also dean’s favorite. he knows you made a trip to the butcher shop that’s a 20 minute ride away just for the huge thick-cut applewood smoked bacon, the kind you know he likes the best. you peck him again as you continue. “…then we’re goin’ somewhere.”
that gets you an eyebrow raise.
“and d’y’wanna clue me in on the ‘where’?” dean asks, still not moving, apart from the side of his face that’s not shoved into his pillow. what a grump.
the where ended up being a all-inclusive cowboy reenactment town a few hours away. it reminded him of that hunt he went on when he played sheriff, and when he visited tombstone—but without all the supernatural stuff. he got a mug, a hat, a t-shirt, and a coaster set in the gift shop—and he kept the cowboy outfit. he’s still currently wearing most of it, minus the bulky parts for the drive back. you insisted on driving. you always did on his birthday—so now dean was free to do nothing. but doing nothing meant being alone with his thoughts. and that sucked.
a song’s playing on baby’s radio—it’s something by foreigner, but dean can’t make the effort to recognize the actual song. usually he could, but he’s not fully here. he’s too lost in his own mind, staring out the glass.
he gets like this sometimes. a lot, actually. now that there’s no monster to hunt, no apocalypse to stop, no fight to be part of, no bad guy—dean’s purpose seems… no longer there anymore. what is he, if not a weapon? what’s life for him even supposed to be now, if there’s no case? no ghost? no monster? no brother to protect? no people to save? he’s not sure. and he’s not sure that he’ll ever be sure. but then he looks over at you, driving his car and humming along to the song in the golden sun shining through the window.
and maybe the ‘no purpose’ thing isn’t really that bad anymore.
dean believes he doesn’t deserve it. he doesn’t think his mind will ever be changed on the matter, either. he doesn’t deserve it. this life, this peace, you. it feels artificial sometimes. like he’s in a dream, created by his deepest wants. like a djinn got ahold of him again. it’s hard to believe that he’s almost considered normal now, taking into account the things he’s done. he doesn’t deserve a house, doesn’t deserve you being by his side. but he has it anyway. has you anyway.
dean should’ve died a long time ago—and a long time ago, he couldn’t even fathom being the age he is now, couldn’t see it. but he is. he stopped running, put some roots in the ground he walks—it’s what he always wanted deep down, but he can’t help but miss the thrill sometimes. sure, it was fucking terrible, and he still has nightmares. wakes up with his entire shirt wet and screaming at something, someone that’s no longer there. but he still misses it.
or maybe he just misses being young.
but he’ll never say which.
dean has a lot of guilt too, now that he’s been forced to think about everything he’s ever done wrong in his life. he used to be able to shove it all in a box, save it for later. it wasn’t the time to dwell on most things a lot of the time, because he can’t be sad when there’s a vampire nest terrorizing a small town. could never unpack how traumatizing some situations were, not when there was an apocalypse to stop. but the thing was, it wasn’t really a box he was shoving it all in. it was more like hitting snooze, or pushing a prospected date for something.
and the day has come.
now that there’s nothing better to do, there’s a lot he has to think about. now that all he has to do in the mornings is brush his teeth, it’s always there, this guilt. decades of it. he suspects he’ll have this soul-crushing feeling the rest of his life, because he finds new things to beat himself up over every day.
sometimes dean calls sam and tells him he’s sorry for something he did decades ago. tells him that he’s sorry for everything he had to go through. tells him he should’ve left him in peace at stanford, then gone to find john on his own. then maybe none of the things that happened to them wouldn’t have happened at all, he says. maybe jessica would still be alive, even. it’s a silly thought. a unrealistic one. the apologies don’t fix what did happen, though. dean knows this. but sometimes he wishes it would.
sometimes he tries to get in contact with people, too. he rarely actually does, though. mostly it’s relatives or children of people he’s lost, people he couldn’t save. or people he did save, or just cases that stuck with him, or crossed his mind, and now can’t get out of his thoughts. if he’s bored enough, he can find anyone he wants. he usually chickens out, though. and with the internet, he can usually tell how someone’s doing without ever so much as hitting the ‘call’ button or trying to find an address. so he doesn’t involve himself. just makes sure they’re doing okay through a screen.
the talk of kids has always come and inevitably gone between you. having children is becoming less and less of a possibility. dean is not, by a long shot, getting any younger. neither are you. and truth is, dean’s scared. you’re scared. you don’t want to mess up a whole new human being just because you can’t parent right. can’t figure it out. and dean’s terrified to end up like his father. but in many ways, he already is. and always will be. he can’t pass that behavior off to another child—this time, his own child. he just can’t. and all the parents in the neighborhood with kids tell you that children are such a blessing—but what they don’t know is that it’s a blessing you’re both even still alive to go to a cornhole night. it’s a blessing to wake up in a bed that’s your own. it’s a blessing to be free.
dean cries a lot more now. it’s usually because sometimes he’ll remember something that happened years ago, something that his mind had blocked out subconsciously for him, but then it hits him in the most random ways. then he’s down for the count. it’s a little pathetic and most definitely a problem, but he lets you hold him, talks enough with you that he feels a little lighter afterwards. you’ve tried to get him to go to therapy. he’s not to that point yet. you hope he will be someday. all you want for him is to be happy. to be okay.
he almost starts crying on the drive back home. he doesn’t. instead he dozes off for a little, just barely. you aren’t spending the night at the cowboy town—there’s no point when you have a king-size memory foam mattress waiting for you at home. he holds your hand as he lets his eyes stay closed, and your entwined hands rest on the leather of the seat as you drive.
later, you might have sex. maybe. earlier when he was fully awake, you’d asked dean if he’d wanted to tonight. probably so you could change into something just for him before the time came, no doubt. he knows if he says yes, you’ll put on that blue silk thing he’s seen hanging in the closet for the past month, the one buried behind everything like you didn’t want him to see it. you haven’t worn it yet, even though you’ve had sex since then. it’s for his eyes only regardless, but he appreciates the effort of hiding it. the effort to surprise him, the efforts you make to do something nice for him.
but he hadn’t really answered your question after you’d asked it, though. his gut hesitated. why did he hesitate? dean loves sex with you. but he feels weird saying no to sex. always has felt like that. why should he say no? yet you’ve told him countless times that he’s allowed to say no—but it feels wrong to, even if he truly doesn’t want to get intimate with you that certain night.
and that’s the thing—why doesn’t he, though? shouldn’t he always be rearing to go? you assured him dozens of times that you know that he still loves you, that sex isn’t the only form of love you both have. but it still feels wrong. what kind of man doesn’t want to have sex? that’s like the one thing you can count on. you’ve said over and over that he doesn’t have to have sex with you every night. or at all, if he’s not in the mood that week. how is it that you still want him, then? if he’s not a sex machine? if he can’t pleasure you all hours of the day, at any given time? it’s like you only need him, and nothing else. you don’t need him to do anything for you to make you stay. he’ll never understand it.
he’ll enjoy ripping it off you later, if he does say yes. on his birthday, you always say that he always comes first—in every sense. so much so that you will not let him do a single thing to you until he’s seen stars at least once, until he makes a mess inside you, or on your hand or down your throat, or wherever he so chooses. you say it’s because it’s your only chance to make him come before you, and you’d be right.
hell, now that he thinks about it, he’d very much like to see that silk thing on you and not on a hanger. love to see you on your knees, one of the straps slipping off your shoulder as you laugh at something he said. love to see you whisper ‘happy birthday’ in his ear, your hands all over his body as you make him come for the third time that night. maybe you could ride him. something in his hip’s been pinching at him lately, so he might not be able to sustain regular missionary. riding him sounded good, though. he liked watching you on top. and in that silk number? yeah, he wouldn’t stand a chance.
fuck.
he wakes up hard as a rock when you park the car, squeezing his hand gently—and he twitches even at that, too. guess little dean answered that doubt, then.
you get home by dinnertime. you’d ‘stepped out’ to get you both some barbecue from the spot a few towns away you and dean frequent—extra bread, no coleslaw. while you were gone, his annual birthday pie was cooking in the oven—snd it’s sickeningly perfect when you both have a slice.
you always cut a slice of pie for him first, then yourself. always light a striped candle with one of your old shared zippos and stick it in his slice, tell him to make a wish. he blows the candle out, yet he has nothing to wish for. everything he’s ever wanted is already his own, to keep forever.
it has been for a long time now.
you ended up having sex. in fact, you almost didn’t make it to the bedroom upstairs. you’d kissed dean on the cheek when you went to grab his plate, but then he pulled you in for a real kiss, and… well. you’d asked him once again if he was wanting to have sex, and oh. he was wanting to. he was wanting to since he woke up harder than he’d been in a long time in the impala. at the kitchen table, he’d pulled you into his lap before you could get the question all the way out for the second time that day, and you’d regrettably had to force yourself off of him, saying something about getting his second dessert ready. so of course dean sat on the edge of your shared bed as you… got ready in the bathroom. dean wasn’t really sure what that meant besides putting on that silky thing, but he didn’t mind waiting. you were the only one he didn’t mind waiting for.
you stepped out of the bathroom into the bedroom—and if dean wasn’t stitting down, he would’ve fell to the floor. he almost did upon seeing you, despite the fact he was sitting. his eyes were so unfocused on you that you’d thought he had those little cartoon birds floating around his head. he was right: you changed into that blue silk… whatever it was. it was covering too much and nothing at all. dean can see your brastrap and a little bit of your underwear—which both match the blue silk. oh. dean didn’t see that in the closet, nor the laundry. damn.
you don’t make too much of a big show, walking over to him. he’s glad, because he can’t focus on literally anything but you, anyway. if you talked, he’d take 3 business days for him to form a thought. then your hand reaches for his, and he’s back. his head snaps up to look up at you, blinking. you take his hand in yours, your thumb gently brushing the back of his hand.
“did you have a good birthday?” you ask him quietly. you both don’t talk loud much anymore during times like these—there wasn’t a point, since there was no more loud AC from the motel room or random white noise from the bunker to talk over. just you and him, and sometimes the crickets outside, if you both are silent enough to hear them.
“yeah,” dean nods, something soft all out on his face for you to see. honestly, it’s been on his face pretty much since he opened that first eye this morning. “‘course i did. you outdid yourself. again.” he points out, and that gets an endlessly gentle smile out of you. “…and somethin’ tells me you’re about to make it even better.”
you huff a soft laugh at that one, your free hand going to the side of dean’s face. you’re standing between his legs now as you hold his hand—and his own free hand goes up to yours on his face, holding your wrist. you almost melt into a big puddle at the gesture. he’s done it before, probably millions of times, but tonight’s different. tonight’s special. dean stops you from doing anything else with a squeeze of his hand in yours.
“you look like y’stepped out from one ‘a my dreams,” he murmurs—and you wonder if he meant to say that aloud, because you’re so close to him that you can see every little part of his face. it looked like he almost did, just for a split second. you know it wasn’t because he didn’t think you looked beautiful. you know it’s because he still feels weird about saying things like that. but yet, he continues on when he sees the unbelievably melted, soft look on your own face after his first remark: “…can’t believe you did all ‘a this. for me.”
“‘course i did,” is your immediate response, thumb brushing on dean’s cheek instead of his hand. “‘s your birthday.”
dean sighs, but it isn’t one of weariness, or annoyance. it’s more like taking your shoes off after a long day, or laying down in your bed under the covers. relief. taking a load off. he closes his eyes, pushes pretty much his entire face into your hand, leans forward to rest his forehead on your tummy. you feel his lips twitch against your palm—and you don’t need to bring his face back out of the silk you’re wearing to know that he’s either about to cry, or say something stupidly charming. stupidly dean.
“…can i unwrap my present now?”
that gets another huff of a laugh—but this one’s more off-guard, so you double over just a fraction, the smile still on your face as you nod, even though dean can’t see you. and your answer was yes.
dean’s hands had caught on about every single part of the silk you were wearing after he’d let go of you—his callouses scratching and catching on the material as he pulled it off you. his hands then slide up your sides, his eyes raking over you like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again. you smile down at him. his weakness, his kryptonite.
you start to sink down on your knees, and his dick twitches sharply, once again reminding him how painfully hard he is. he rumbles when your hands go to his pants he’d changed into while you were getting ready—like a purr. you’ve noticed as he’s gotten older his sounds have resembled more engine-y sounds: deep, vibrating in your chest more than you can hear it. your hands found his dick instantly, not wanting to tease him.
it was his birthday, after all.
you suck dean off without ever breaking eye contact—and you’re glad the only source of light is coming from the nightstand, because if the ceiling light was on, you wouldn’t be able to see him. dean’s hand’s buried in your hair, and you can see he’s trying not to rock his hips too hard into your mouth, biting down on his bottom lip to stop the noises leaving him. you hate that. his hand in your hair tightens, and a sound gets stuck in his throat before he releases his tight grip on your hair. tells you he’s gonna be down for the count if you keep doing that.
you want this to last, plus you know dean’s stamina’s not what it used to be—as well as the fact that you’d been on the road for a big chunk of the day. not ideal for three or four rounds. so you regrettably pull your mouth off him, get up off your knees. it’s barely a second of you being away from him when dean tugs you into his lap. you yelp quietly in surprise, grasping his shoulders for balance, but he doesn’t do anything right away. you take this time to speak your mind.
“y’know i don’t like it when you don’t make noise,” you murmur, nudging your nose against dean’s. “makes me think i’m not doin’ a good job.”
“force ‘a habit,” dean mutters back. he’s not lying, it is—but you’ve been trying to get him to change that habit that makes him think that he’s taking up space all the time, that his own pleasure wasn’t worth it. “was great. like always.” and that satisfies you enough to let it go for now.
dean’s hands had found their way behind your back as you straddled his lap, his fingers unclasping your bra, leaning down just enough to place it on the floor instead of tossing it. the gesture simultaneously makes you wetter than a waterpark and your heart gooier than hot tar. the bra was unbelievably expensive—and dean knew that without you ever having to tell him. his mouth goes to your boobs immediately, kissing all over them as he attempts to maintain eye contact with you while doing so.
usually, you’d’ve stopped him by now, but he seems to enjoy this almost as much as you. his hands have now found the band of your underwear, his fingertips slipping under the hem as he sucks a nipple into his mouth, the arousal flooding your senses and making your head tip back. you force yourself to look back down, to get back on task. you start to take off his shirt, drop it to the floor next to your bra. get his sweatpants and boxers completely off next, nudge him further onto the bed. he obeys, looking up at you all the while. it’s almost intimidating, if dean wasn’t looking at you like an old dog waiting for its owner. he reaches for you almost immediately after his back hits the pillows, wanting to always be close. you’re pulled toward him like a ship coming back to port.
your underwear are the only thing keeping you from fucking—but you want to take a second to admire the view below you. not only is this your husband, but this is your home, all within your line of sight. your bed, your sheets you spent an hour debating over. your hands find dean’s shoulders, your right hand pausing at his anti-possession tattoo. it’s a little faded, but he’s gotten it touched up over the years so its protection wouldn’t waver. you’ve done the same for your own tattoo, too.
your hands continue their journey down, fingertips brushing on dean’s old scars and uneven skin. you can tell he’s getting squeamish under your touch, the way he always does—he never has and never will get used to you admiring him the way he’s always wanted to be admired.
dean gets emotional again, can feel the lump in his throat when you pass by his scar from the rebar, linger on it for just a moment. it should’ve killed him, but it didn’t. should’ve at least paralyzed him, but it didn’t. why must he live, even after all this? it’s a question you can’t really answer—and neither can he. maybe it’s life playing its last cruel trick on him, or maybe it’s the blessing he’s been hoping for all his life. your hands keep going, linger at his softened tummy. he hasn’t let himself go necessarily, but no longer hunting and running for his life every single day has filled him out more. he looks away when your fingers stay there, just touching him. your hand reaches out to his chin, turning his face back to you. it’s only after that you lift a leg to take your underwear off.
you sink down on dean with a sigh, and he sits up a little to adjust himself so his back won’t hurt later, eyes fluttering at the motion when he nestles inside you. his hands find your waist, palms running up and down your bare skin. you don’t move yet, just feel. your breathing’s already starting to pick up, and so is dean’s—even though you haven’t done much yet. you both have the like-mindedness to start moving at the same time, which invokes a quiet but sharp intake of breath shared in the inches between your mouth and dean’s—the roll of your hips meeting his tiny thrust upwards.
you don’t go fast, but it’s not necessarily slow going, either. it’s somewhere in the middle—because you’re rolling your hips, and dean’s thrusting upwards, but it’s not frantic, or rushed. you clench down on dean—and much to your liking, something resembling a whimper gets caught inside his throat. one of your arms had found its way around dean’s shoulders, keeping yourself sitting upright in his lap and pressed against his body, the other hand resting on his chest by his tattoo.
he moans wantonly when you clench down on him—and it must catch him by surprise as much as you, because he immediately tries to bury his face into your chest. you don’t let him, make him keep looking at you instead. he moans again, eyes going hazy as he looks up at you, mouth parted just a little.
dean only comes once—and he wants to keep his eyes open to look at you, but he just can’t. you won’t make him, so he closes them, wraps his arms around you in a hug before he thrusts up one last time and spills into you. he’s breathing heavy, almost gasping for air when he has enough oxygen to his brain to lift his head from your chest and untighten his grip on you just a little.
then, he just stares at you for a while. could’ve been 5 minutes or 5 hours. you’ll never know. dean’s hands are on your back, still hugging you—and you’re hugging him back, chest now touching his as he looks up at you, mesmerized, entranced.
“i love you,” he whispers in the dim light, whispers it as he looks up at you and doesn’t look away. you knew this was true, yet dean didn’t say it often. every time he did felt like seeing a unicorn. special. unreal. like a dream. one of your hands goes to the side of dean’s face again, and you open your mouth to say you love him, too, but then he’s starting to thrust up into you once more, so all the critical thinking leaves your mind immediately. he had to have done that on purpose.
you moan when dean angles you to touch the spot only he can reach inside you—and your hand never leaves dean’s face as you look down at him from his lap. his pace isn’t letting up, but it’s not hurried, or too forceful. he’s slowly bringing you up the mountain of your orgasm, like a ski mount.
you close your eyes when you come, too, moaning an “i love you” in response back—and you’re not sure if dean comes again, but his body does a little shiver as you flutter on top of him, your upper body jerking as pleasure wracks through you. you slump against dean’s shoulder, resting your head on the top of it as you continue to sit in his lap with him still inside you.
you can feel drowsiness taking over as dean lays back with you in tow with a groan that has more to do with having to move rather than pleasure. he’s still deep inside you, but his eyes are already closed once his head hits the pillow. you still whisper a ‘happy birthday’ in his ear regardless. you get a soft, dozy grumble and nuzzle against the side of your face in return, a tightening of his arms around you.
maybe you’ll go again later, maybe you won’t. maybe you’ll sleep in tomorrow, or maybe you’ll get up early instead. whatever happens, it doesn’t really matter to him.
just as long as you’re by dean’s side through it.
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ׅ ׂ 𓂃 ⊹ 𓍼 a message for you 📨 : in case you were wondering, the foreigner song was waiting for a girl like you.
looking for more fics ? check out @bejeweledinterludes if you haven’t already !
⊹₊ ⋆ 〔ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ part of my dean winchester, who… series. 〕
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he’s not really sure where it came from.
one minute, he’s above you, steadily thrusting into you, looking down at your eyes, then your hair on his pillow—the next, the words are spilling out of him faster than his brain can tell him to shut the fuck up. something that was holding him back is no longer there, so now his thoughts come tumbling off his tongue, the way he thinks about you all on display.
you’ve only just started actually dating now. you’ve known dean for years—but you knew a relationship was different. knew it was going to take some time for him to open up. and it did. but don’t get it twisted, dean did compliment you, very much so. all the damn time. but it was never to this extent. never with so much… emotion behind it. it feels like he’s bearing his soul to you—and shit.
maybe he is.
first, dean says how pretty you look, never once faltering his thrusts. gorgeous. beautiful. perfect. he says perfect at least half a dozen times—so much so that you actually believe it by the end of the night. your face is hot after the first time he tells you, the redness on your cheeks contrasting the white of dean’s sheets. but not because you’re embarrassed. just flustered, because dean’s never been one to say such things—especially during sex.
the next thing that comes out is how good you feel. he’s said that before during sex. it shouldn’t make your chest ache. but it does. he’s saying it over and over, like he needs you to believe it as much as he does. he’s saying you’re made for him, and he fits so perfectly inside you—like he doesn’t know what that does to you. like you wouldn’t cry at that had you been more in a wobbly state. you don’t cry, but a choked moan escapes you from trying to take a steadying breath when dean buries his face against the side of your head, bottoming out inside you once again like he’s been doing this whole time.
that’s what spurs the third thing: he tells you that you smell so so good. over and over again, just as before. like a row of beads following the other down a string with each thing he says. the o’s are dropping from his words: s’good coming out slurry after the fourth time he says it, like he’s drunk. he buries his nose in the strands of your hair closest to him, which happened to be by your ear, inhales deep like he needs it—needs you—to breathe. you open your mouth to try to say something, anything to reciprocate how much he means to you too, but the tip of his dick hits that spot deep inside you at that exact moment. so you’re more focused on that now, hiccuping in a breath from the way he stole it from you. your hands find his shoulders and the back of his head—holding him against you as he thrusts into you, over and over again. you’re surprised he hasn’t come yet. he’s surprised too, with how much he’s worked himself up.
the final thing he says is he loves you. he says it the most out of all the things by far. it’s like all the times he wanted to say it but didn’t have the courage to have been building up inside him for years now have all come out at once. he repeats it over and over as you both come, but he’s choking on the words like they’re getting stuck with how much he really does love you. or like his body’s punishing him for not saying it as much as he’s supposed to, as much as he wants to.
it’s usually the only time he says it for a long time. it becomes a habit for him to say it as he comes, or only when he’s inside you.
early or late seasons of spn?!i was debating this wifh my sister lol
i <3 older dean and sam and the plots they made during the last seasons,but remember how at first they just wanted to find their dad 😭😭and the most complicated thing they had to hunt was a demon.
anyways i also feel maternal towards fetus dean, that version of him is just three apples tall
HEYYYY!!! omg pookie i was just thinking about this the other day.
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⟡ my short answer : i really can’t decide! i believe both the early and later seasons were good—in their own way.
actually, for the same reasons you said! (great minds think alike hehe) i just LOVED how simple the first seasons were. it definitely felt more realistic in terms of plot. plus i yearn for the early 2000’s americana-esque and dark vibes that seasons 1-2 brought. since those were when they were using film cameras to shoot the show before they switched to digital, it was so beautiful. so amazing. i actually start to rewatch spn every autumn, just for the nostalgia 🥹. plus you are so right: dean and same WERE three apples tall in the early seasons! untraumatized and pocket-sized. i’m very maternal towards them too.
on the other hand, i like the later seasons for the plot, too (and i also love older dean and sam hehe). even if it wasn’t the most realistic, they still had some great episodes / moments! plus so many of the characters they introduced in the later seasons are some of my faves (aside from dean and sam, of course). the plot lines were still good for the most part, and i also believe that much of sam and dean’s character development was pioneered more throughout the later seasons, which is another reason i love them as much as the early seasons.
thank you so much for the ask! i appreciate you bringing this up because it is important (at least to me). i would love to know if you have any other thoughts on this (or anyone else!) <3
it’s yours, dean lies to himself. since you were the one who absentmindedly kissed that spot on the back part of his jawbone that’s right under his earlobe. he’d woken you up from getting back from a solo hunt early in the morning before the sun had come up—and then he’d kissed you back for real, and then his hands went to your hair, and then…
well, after that, it’s all a little fuzzy for both of you.
and it still is now.
you’re both barely awake, barely cognitive enough to do anything but blindly grab for each other, trying to get as close as possible with the most minimal effort. you need him, he needs you. it’s a cycle you know well—so much so that you don’t even need to be fully awake for it.
and you’re so warm, dean thinks, because you’re still half-wrapped up in the blankets of your shared bedroom, half-being smothered by his weight on top of you after he’d spent the first 25 minutes after walking in the door eating you out. he’d actually almost fallen asleep there—after you’d came the first time and squeezed his head, he’d muttered something about how your thighs were his favorite pillows (aside from your boobs, of course) while trying to keep his eyes open.
now, he’s sliding home into you, something cracking inside him and mending together all at once when he can feel that spot deep inside you. the one only he knew how to reach. the only one he got to touch.
and he doesn’t know how you do it. how you, your soul, your body, whatever the fuck’s in the water you’re drinking that can break him down and build him up brand-spankin’ new again within the span of a few seconds—
but he can’t even try and think about that right now.
because he’s barely holding himself up over you—and yes, it is barely. your breasts are pressed into his chest as his lower body is slowly snapping into you. it’s as fast as he can go—not just because he’s older now and his joints get sore after way shorter periods of time, but because he’s so damn tired from driving all night he can barely keep his eyes open to watch you.
and that sucks.
because dean loved watching you.
but your eyes are closed, too—and if you wanted to, you’d tell him to stop, that you’re both too tired, to just wait until you both woke up later in the morning. and you would. and he’d respected that. he’d assured you multiple times over the years that it’s okay to say no, that you’re not always obligated to give him the gift that is you.
but you’re not saying stop.
and dean doesn’t want to either—he really, really fucking doesn’t. but his body is shutting down on him, little by little. he can feel his orgasm on his tongue, his whole lower abdomen burning up—but he can barely think straight, his mind clouded from exhaustion and fatigue as he thrusts into you, over and over. you’re surrounding him in every way possible: your pussy enveloping him, your arms wrapped around his bare shoulders, your legs around his hips—and dean’s so unbelievably out of it, as are you. you’re moaning, but it’s quieter, as if it takes too much energy to open your mouth, to do anything but hold onto him as he drives into you.
dean needs to make you come first—it’s something wired in his brain, who he is, how he’s programmed. make you feel good first, and only then is he allowed to feel good. you already have come, a lot, which is why you think you can’t really tell what’s real and what’s a dream anymore right now. it feels like you’re floating, but not. you can obviously feel dean slowly pounding inside you, can feel his breaths panting against your neck and chest—but that’s about it. anything else is miles and miles away right now. some distant part of you knows that your throat’s still dry—from the moaning or the sleeping you’d been busy with before dean came home, you’re not sure.
you don’t even care anyway, because dean’s fingers go to your clit and you’re gone, having your… fourth? fifth? orgasm before the sun’s fully risen. it’s not a pretty sight, you’re sure. because you’re too fucked-out already to restrain yourself, to worry about how you looked, to make it look good for dean. but dean doesn’t care, he’s assured you—he thinks you look beautiful every time he’s able to make you come. yet you know he can’t see your entire face right now anyway, because his head is currently buried somewhere in your chest and neck, where you’re sure he’s fighting to keep his eyes open, too. and he is.
dean almost forgets to come. some far-off part of his mind is a little surprised he hasn’t, since your orgasm usually initiates his own—but your hands go to his hair, burying your fingers in the strands, and that’s what does him in, of all things. he whimpers out a pathetic sounding moan, spilling inside you before collapsing completely on top of you, letting his entire body weight go in the process. the pressure wasn’t that much different than before when he was fucking you, but you can feel the weight that’s lifted off of him. the weight that only you can lift off of him.
he falls asleep like that, still buried inside of you—and you can feel the tufts of his hair on your cheek when you doze off, too. he’ll probably wake you both up later, when he’s hard again, needing you like he always will. you’ll take care of each other, just like you always do. but that’s not right now. now, the sun’s rising soon. now, you’re both taken care of.
⊹₊ ⋆ 〔ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ part of my dean winchester, who… series. 〕
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you knew dean cried.
he had to. of course he did, he was human. but you’d only seen the close calls: the wobble of his lip, the wetness pooling in his eyes when he was trying to keep his emotions under control. never full-blown, actual meltdown crying.
until the other night.
you’d immediately noticed that dean wasn’t acting himself. of course, you’d known better than to outright ask what was wrong with him. this ain’t your first rodeo. it may be only a couple months you guys have officially been together, but you’ve known dean for years. he wasn’t going to just spill the beans if you asked.
he’s been overwhelmed lately (let’s be real, when has he not), but the hunt had gone good, so it wasn’t that. and no close calls with you, him or sam—shit, you’d think he’d be celebrating, not acting like this. like something did go wrong. closing in on himself, shuttering the blinds. he’s putting on the face he always does—the ‘yes, i’m fine, of course i am, why would you think anything otherwise’ one—but it might as well be cling wrap on his stupid pretty face to what lingers beneath. you can see something’s bothering him, but you don’t know what.
you don’t find out on the drive back to the bunker. you don’t find out at the bar—because dean said he didn’t want to go to the bar after you’d all finished up the hunt. you and sam had exchanged looks, but his brother didn’t know what was wrong with dean, either. he had left a bit ago—a book signing he was going to with eileen.
you honestly forgot about it for a little. you and dean both were tired from the hunt and showered (not together, unfortunately) before getting into bed, not bothering with much discussion about anything. you’d talk about it tomorrow, you promised yourself. whatever it was that was wrong, you’re glad he hadn’t turned to a whiskey bottle to quiet it like he usually did.
he’s been trying to be better about that for you.
you didn’t outright ask him to do anything. he realized on his own that maybe he should stop destroying himself now that you’re with him—because you plan to be for a while. he still can’t believe it. but he’s been trying to be better about a lot of things. you notice it, of course. you always do.
dean’s arm shifts you around for you to face him at some point. you hadn’t fallen asleep yet, just sort of laying there instead—it was more that phase of laying in your bed and being so unbelievably comfortable wrapped up in dean, his whole body behind yours—not nearly close to being sleepy. you try to meet his eyes when he moves you around—but it’s just a little too dark for you to see anything except the main parts of his face: the angle of his jaw and nose, a bit of his eyes glimmering off the light shining in from the vent in the door.
he doesn’t say anything. just looks at you, his eyes raking down your face, like this was a dream. like he’d made you up in his head. you open your mouth to say something—anything, but he leans in the short distance and presses his lips to yours before you can.
it’s soft, sweet—like most kisses between you are nowadays. but there’s something else there, too. you assume, you know it’s the same something he’s not telling you. and he knows you know something’s up, of course—but dean would rather cut grass with a pair of nail scissors before admitting that.
your lips snap apart with a wet pop when air becomes a necessity again—but dean’s lips are still brushing on yours as you breathe into each other’s mouths. your hands had found their way around him—on his shoulder and on his free side of his face as you’re laying down. one of his hands have made its way to your wrist that’s holding his face, keeping your hand there—and he simultaneously melts into your hand and the pillow at the same time before he kisses you again.
you’d gotten yourself worked up—well, maybe dean had done most of the work with that, considering he was kissing you with the intent of sucking your face clean off—but pj’s and underwear come off eventually, and soon enough, he slides into you with a breath that sounded like relief.
not a moan, or a groan, or a swear. a breath. a sigh. like he was sinking himself into a warm, soapy bath instead of your pussy. like he needed to be inside you in order to let go, to feel better, to relax.
that’s new. or maybe you just haven’t noticed it. either way, something about it makes your heart break and mend all at the same time. you’re helping—just by this. just by you being here.
he feels good inside you, as he always does—but you’re not gonna let him hide away and lose himself to forget everything in his brain, like his instincts tell him to. your hands go to his shoulders, fingers trailing over the barely-there freckles that dust the tops of his skin. you sigh too when he fully bottoms out inside you—and it’s hard to keep your eyes open, but you do.
because you have work to do.
dean’s already trying to distract himself when his hips meet yours with the first of his thrusts—he’s not looking at you, and his hand not holding himself up slips under your shirt hem, tugging on it. you help him get it off, but then your hands find his face this time when he immediately tries to go to your breasts that have now hit the air. dean always tries to make you come first—but you don’t want him to do that this time.
maybe that’s what starts it, his unraveling. dean’s been hanging on like a stringed-out piece of floss since he…well, he’s not sure about that. a damn long time, he supposes. weeks. maybe months. maybe years. and when your thumbs brush his cheeks, he almost loses it right there, almost buries himself away, almost sobs. he continues to thrust into you, but you can feel his hand trembling just a little as it rests on your bare hip. he can now feel that sudden urge to cry again when your hands tilt his face to look at you again, but he’s not going to.
he should be happy—the hunt went great, you’re okay, and he gets to have sex with you. he should be over the moon, should be grinning and cracking jokes while he’s inside you like he sometimes does.
but he’s not.
dean clenches his jaw, swallows down and bites the inside of his cheek—he just needs to get through this, make you both come, then he can go to the bathroom and get himself together, then clean you up. a perfect plan. he can do this. and he can’t lose it now—he’s close, he can feel it. but he can feel the ache in his chest becoming stronger now, can feel the lump fighting its way back up, too. he stutters a little in his movements, blinking as he looks at your nose instead of your eyes.
“dean,” your murmur and hands make him look back up at you—and you’re not looking at him with pity, or disgust, or annoyance. you’re looking at him like you always do—like he’s a person, like he means something, which is somehow worse. your eyes are a little half-lidded, and something is eased in dean once he sees that. at least he can still make you feel good even when he’s falling apart.
you don’t ask if he’s okay—even though he’s most certainly not. you don’t treat him like he’s some little fragile thing that’s gonna break—even though he most certainly is.
dean’s lip wobbles when he meets your eyes—fucking dammit. you didn’t notice, he hopes. he thinks. he shakes his head at nothing, thrusts into you once more—and you say his name again, but he doesn’t stop. if he comes inside you, he’ll feel better. he’ll forget about all of it, lose himself inside you like he he always does, so he starts to speed up, feverishly slamming himself into you—but not so hard that it hurts you. obviously, you notice. and dean hopes you won’t say anything, that you’ll just let him do what he wants—but deep down, he knows you’re concerned, and he hates it. hates that you have to worry about him. he doesn’t want you to waste time on that, on him.
but you do.
“dean,” you say again—and dean knows it’s not in an “oh, fuck, dean” way. you’re trying to get his attention, trying to stop him—but if he stops now, he might die. or cry, which is inherently more worse. “wait, d— dean—”
“just lemme—” come? feel good? do this? but before he can finish, dean lets out this broken, strangled sound. it gets caught in his throat, and before you can try and say anything, his thrusts go faster than before, but his arms buckle simultaneously from holding him up.
jesus, was he seriously gonna cry, while he was balls-deep inside of you? how humiliating, he thinks. he’s dean winchester. so no. no fucking way was he doing that—but his lips were wobbling again, and he almost chokes on his next breath from trying to hold it all in. you notice that immediately too.’not only because you know him, know his tells, but because he’s so close to you.
your hands are still on dean’s face, and it’s too much. it’s been too much for almost 4 goddamn decades. he hadn’t stopped thrusting in and out of you this whole time—and he speeds up even more, over and over as he looks away. it doesn’t hurt. but it doesn’t necessarily feel the same, like he always feels, the way you know he feels inside you. he’s getting desperate, like he’s trying to hold on to nothing—and your arousal isn’t exactly fading, but it hadn’t really ever came to it’s high like it always did. because you knew something was up from the moment he kissed you—and consequently, most of your concern right now was focused on dean, not yourself.
“dean,” you’re not sure what else to say besides his name, and your hands on his face go to his shoulders and chest instead, trying to stop his movements. “just— dean, look at me.”
and it takes everything in his power to do so. he’s a man, for christ’s sake. and winchester men don’t cry. he’s been told that since he was four. so dean doesn’t cry. no. he can’t. it would be pathetic, humiliating. and you’ve already stopped feeling good, because you’re too busy focusing on him. god, this was so fucking embarrassing—can he seriously not keep it together enough to make his girl feel good? to make himself feel good? what kind of a man was he? his body was betraying him. he couldn’t cry now, while he was still inside you.
but his lip wobbles again anyway.
then the dam breaks.
maybe it was the look on your face as you held him still above you. maybe it was the love he felt for you becoming overwhelming—or maybe it was because dean didn’t know how to regulate his emotions for shit.
either way, that was it. he breaks apart into a million little pieces above you. another choked noise escapes him once more, then suddenly he’s collapsing on top of you like a bag of bones.
it’s pathetic. dean knows it is. of course it is. so is everything he’s ever done in his goddamn life. he’s a drunk, a psycho, a control freak, an idiot, an asshole, a broken, chipped, half-assed excuse for a brick wall with daddy issues laced in the cracks. he shouldn’t be here, but he his. he should’ve been dead a long time ago, but he’s not. he should’ve been suffering in hell until the end of time, but he hasn’t. he should be all alone, drowning in nothing but his own failures and bleeding out in a ditch somewhere, but he’s not.
for some reason.
dean’s body is violently shaking in your arms—his dick now fully softened inside you and all attempts of fucking you long gone, lost in the hot tears spilling out of his eyes with the sobs that leave him. he’s a kindness-sucking vaccum, a scrappy stray dog desperate for approval, for attention—and you’re giving it to him.
like you always do.
he’s completely and 100% sobbing in a heap on top of you, still inside you—loud and broken noises he hasn’t let escape his lips since… he can’t remember. can’t remember the last time he cried like this. can’t remember the last time someone held him while he cried. can’t remember the last time he let himself feel everything, even if it hurt. because as much as dean’s breaking apart, something inside him is slowly being stitched back together, jagged shard by jagged shard.
the snowball of a lifetime of self-hating and bottling up emotions has rolled into an avalanche of sobs and tears, falling faster and more frequently with each tremble of his shoulders. your arms are tight around him—because he’s moving so much and also because some little tiny, ridiculously optimistic part of you believes that you can hold the broken pieces of dean together solely from pure will.
you can’t.
you know you can’t.
but you try anyway.
dean’s arms had found their way around you, too—they’re starting to hurt, since they’re under your back as you’re laying down, but the ache in his chest is more painful. and his face hurts—his head feels like there’s pounds of pressure pushing on his skull, and he can feel the snot dripping onto your chest. his face is still buried in your neck and part of your shoulder—and there’s something resembling a puddle accumulating on your skin. he can feel it, but he doesn’t say anything.
and neither do you.
you just hold him as he continues to cry—and the bed’s creaking from how much his body shakes with each sob that echoes off the walls. you hold him—tighter than he’s ever been held in a long time.
you know he needs it, know he craves it. even after every bad thing he’s ever done. he doesn’t deserve it—deserve you. deserve your kindness, your respect, your patience, your love. not by a long shot. he’s a terrible influence, an even worse brother, and a pathetic excuse for a son. he’s not a good partner. not a good boyfriend. he won’t be a good husband. a good father. he knows that. he’ll never be, in his eyes.
but he tries to be.
and that is why you give dean all the love you have to offer. why you don’t let him drown all by himself—because right now, he is in fact drowning, but it’s easier when someone’s there with him.
you’re saving him, every time you let him show the real him without judgement—the side that’s locked behind decades of trauma and horrors he never wants to relive. the side desperate for love, desperate for someone to understand. for someone to justify his feelings. it’s the very core of him. the reason he’s the way he is. because for everything that dean winchester is, under all the muscle and unwavering bravado:
is a scared little boy.
that’s his big secret. the thing that people can’t get even remotely close to. his weakness, his downfall.
inside, he’s just a scared 4 year old kid all over again, helpless and terrified. he’s scared most the time now—and you can see it. in everything he does. he’s scared to lose the people he loves, because he already has. he’s scared to lose everything and everyone that’s ever mattered and meant something to him, because he already has.
and he cannot lose you.
because you’re putting him back together with every night that ends with him in your arms like a baby. after every nightmare, after every shitty hunt. you’re there for him—and you’re making it better somehow. he’s not quite sure how you’re able to do that. he’s not even sure you’re aware you’re doing it.
but you’re gluing the pieces of him back together regardless.
just like you are now.
dean’s sobs have subsided into sniffles, slightly shaking shoulders and the occasional shuddering breath—the kind you can’t control after a breakdown like that. he doesn’t know when your hand had started tracing on his back across his skin, but it’s lulling him into a haze that makes his head feel like it’s been shoved between two pillows. almost suffocating, but oddly bearable.
he doesn’t look up at you when you wipe at the parts of his face you can reach, trying to clean him up at least a little. and you haven’t said anything this entire time—but what the fuck could you say to dean that you haven’t already said? reassure what’s already been reassured? comfort what’s currently being comforted?
so you don’t say a word.
you just hold dean like that—until the trembling of his body ceases, and exhaustion takes him under, your fingers still caressing the slope of his back. he passes out still buried inside of you—the snot and tears making your skin tight where they lay, now dried up. but you don’t move, and neither does he. you don’t say anything, and neither does he.
eventually you fall asleep like that, too, holding dean—your legs tangled together as he lay on top of you. he’ll be awkward about it tomorrow, you expect. if not awkward, then embarrassed, humiliated. but you won’t let him feel like that for long. you never did—so you’ll talk him off the hypothetical edge of his overthinking tomorrow.
but for now you’ll just hold him until he wakes up.
germansingergirl
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