๋࣭⭑ atlas : spencer's job is hard, and you're determined to ensure that whatever happens after he comes home is as easy and comforting as it can possibly be
๋࣭⭑ binary stars : spencer x reader (gn)
๋࣭⭑ classification : fluff + comfort
๋࣭⭑ stellar density : 4.5k
๋࣭⭑ omens : a lot of fluff, spencer crying because let's be honest he's got a lot of emotions to get out, non-sexual nudity/showering together, all the cosy things i could think of
๋࣭⭑ message in a bottle : so apparently i write for spencer now ??? i've had so many ideas for him floating around in my head bcs @ambiguous-avery and i keep yapping nonstop about him LMAO (and while you're here, PLEASE PRETTY PLEASE go check out their spencer fics !!!)
๋࣭⭑ taglist ༊彡 masterlist
The knock on your apartment door is gentle, almost hesitant, like whoever is knocking is afraid to disrupt some kind of silence. There’s a moment where it’s completely quiet, the air in and around the apartment holding it breath, giving it space to exist in the late evening hours. The next knock follows just a moment later, a lilting pattern that’s become your secret code. So that you know it’s really him and not something that’s followed him home from work and lives in the dark spaces between your light and his. Your voice is muffled by the heavy door, but Spencer knows what you’re saying, because it’s the same thing every time; door’s locked, come in. There’s a shuffling muffled by wood, a slide of metal on metal, and a quiet snick as the mechanisms inside the lock turn to open the door, gliding smoothly against each other.
The hinges perform their usual creaking dance as the door opens, their soft duet with the footsteps on the floor a familiar comfort to you now. Spencer has a specific rhythm he moves in after long cases, and tonight is like all the others. First, his bag is placed by the door, open and sorted through to assure the contents are ordered correctly. Next, his coat slides off his shoulders, forming an orderly ghost on the rack next to yours. Then, his converse come off, laces neatly tucked away and alighted with your own shoes, matching coloured laces reflecting the light. Finally, after he’s assured everything is in order, he moves from the hall to the main room, in search of you.
Tonight, you’re sitting at the kitchen counter, one leg crunched up in a position that looks painful but probably isn’t. You’re reading something on your phone, no doubt something you’ll tell him about later whether he’s interested in it or not; he’s always fascinated when it comes to your interests. There’s a pot on the stovetop, and Spencer can hear the faint bubbling of it like muted conversation. The stack of pages in his arms is deposited gently on the table, and your eyes finally drift up to meet his, soft meeting exhausted.
“Hi,” you murmur.
“Hi,” he replies, equally quiet.
“Tea or coffee?” you ask, smiling at the way his shoulders slump at the familiarity of the question.
It’s a litmus test you’d created together as an indirect way to check up on the other without giving away details you’re not ready to say aloud. Tea means a little time to decompress, and a quiet evening curled together, soaking in the warmth you bring each other. Coffee means everything is fine, and that you could go for a little more excitement in your evening by means of a new movie or new adventure. When his eyes turn melted and soft at the question, you know the reply before he even gives it.
“Tea, please,” he says, slouching even further.
“What kind?”
Your voice is kind in the way that almost brings tired tears to his eyes.
“Chamomile?” he asks weakly.
You stand from the chair, walking over to him and slinging your arms around his shoulders, guiding his head to the crook of your neck.
“I love you,” you whisper as he shuffles closer. “Go shower while I finish dinner. Take your time.”
“Okay,” he hums, making no motion to move.
“I can wash your hair,” you offer.
“I- I can do it.”
“I know.”
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
You step back just a half step, your hands planted firmly on his arms.
“Do you want me to?” you ask.
“To what?”
“To wash your hair.”
For a moment, he’s still, the only sounds being his breathing mixing in time with yours and the low boil of soup. His soft doe eyes flick to yours and away again, dropping to the floor as he nods shyly.
“Are you sure it’s okay?” he asks.
You softly kiss his cheek, turning it a soft pink.
“It’s always okay,” is your reply.
Spencer makes a soft noise, something that sounds like acceptance with the tiniest hint of guilt. You catch the guilt, soothing it away with another kiss, this time to the opposite cheek.
“Go get ready,” you say. “I’ll be right there.”
“Are you sure?” he asks again, because he needs to be absolutely certain he’s not burdening you with things you don’t want to handle.
“Mhm.” He can hear the smile in your tone. “Always.”
Spencer lingers for a moment longer, seemingly unwilling to part from you. He finally does after you squeeze his shoulder, muttering softly to yourself as you shut off the stove. You follow him down the hall, one of your hands resting firm on the small of his back, grounding him through his dress shirt. While he heads right into the bathroom, you make a quick stop in the laundry room, throwing a towel and Spencer’s sleep clothes into the dryer. It chimes happily as you feed it the clothing, the door locking with a determined click when you close it. Back in the bathroom, you bring your own pyjamas inside, setting them on the floor while Spencer meticulously folds his work clothes, a desperate attempt to regain whatever control he feels he’s lost. He hovers, watching you undress like you’ll disappear if he looks away for too long.
“Spencer?” you say.
“I- Yes. Hi.”
You offer a smile, so sweet and tender that the only word for it is loving.
“Where’d you go?”
He pauses, sorting his options and deciding on the truth, because you deserve to hear nothing but the truth.
“Just…” he trails off into a heavy silence, leaving you to fill in the planks.
“Okay,” you say, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “C’mon handsome.”
Spencer blushes pink at your compliment, and with his clothes off, you can see the blush moving down his neck that would normally be hidden. Luckily, you’re too focused on the waster temperature to tease him, your soft murmurs as you search for his preferred temperature; warm enough to remind him he’s safe, but cold enough to remind him he’s still alive. The shower rain is interrupted by you stepping under it, muffling a yelp when you realize the water is way too cold, and Spencer has to try very hard not to laugh at your misfortune. You peel back the curtain and beckon Spencer inside after a few more adjustments.
As soon as he’s inside, you move so that he’s under the water. He sighs audibly at the warmth on his back, pattering rainfall washing away his stress, eyes closed and shoulders curling ever inward. He looks impossible small, as close to a scared child as a grown man can be. You feel yourself melting at the sight, and he physically does when your fingers meet his hair and start working the water through his curls. Each press of your fingers to his scalp soothes him more, and by the time you’re reaching for his shampoo, he’s learning almost all of his weight on you, head resting on your shoulder. The opening of the bottle lid cracks like a firework, loud and unwelcome, but the flood of his shampoo scent makes up for it; warm, slightly sweet, smelling entirely like home and comfort. It’s blissfully comfortable in here, under your touch, under your loving hands.
The only sign Spencer is still conscious is the soft sob he bites back the moment it escapes.
“You’re okay,” you murmur into his ear. “’S okay Spence, you’re home.”
“I know,” he says, voice thick yet not entirely convinced.
“Yeah?” you say, adjusting his head.
He puffs a watery sigh, clearing his throat decisively. He’ll probably talk about it later, but words have no space in here right now. He settles instead of nodding and shuffling slightly closer, basking in your warmth. Each pas of your hands through his curls as you wash the soap out chokes him up a little further, and he’s painfully aware of how helpful the water is in hiding his tears.
When he’s fully cleaned off, you leave him a few minutes to himself for soaking while you go fetch his towel and clothes. You say his name with cautious care when you return to avoid spooking him, the only acknowledgement being the shower turning off and his hand peeling back the curtain before wrapping around himself again. Your arms are spread wide and he walks right into them, collapsing against you as you wrap him in the towel.
“It’s warm,” he comments.
“Mhm. Put it in the dryer for a moment.”
He makes another wounded noise, throat tight. The feeling of your arms around his body, warm and solid, drag and uneven breath out of him. You smile, laughing softly as you towel him dry, only stepping out in order to give him privacy as he changes.
You’re back at the stove when he returns, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon, the steam curling up around your face like a halo. The clean shirt and flannel pants you set out for him also carry the warmth of your dryer, achingly gentle in his heart as he envelops himself further in your domesticity. The stool creaks a little as he sits down, the wobbly leg slamming into the floor harder than he intended. If you’re mad about the sound, you don’t say anything, instead opting to grab the good bowls for the soup, placing one in front of him with a soft clink.
“Open,” you say, bringing the soup ladle toward him.
He’s about to ask why, but when he sees that you’ve made his favourite soup recipe he got for you from Rossi, he opens his mouth for you without question. It burns his tongue a little, but he’s so beyond grateful for the taste of something made with love that he barely even registers the discomfort. When it hits his stomach, a gooey warmth floods him, ocean waves of home tugging at his body until he gives in and floats away.
“Good?” you ask, watching him.
“Very,” he replies, blinking. “It’s hot.”
You giggle. “Well, yeah. It’s boiling.”
You side a cup of water across the counter that he drinks gratefully, soothing his burned tongue and throat.
“Eat here or out there?” you ask, jutting your thumb to the couch.
Spencer evaluates his options with the kind of serious calculation he leaves only for your questions. Eating on the couch means he can wrap up in blankets and keep you tucked close, your head a grounding weight. But, eating on the couch means you’re both more likely to spill, given the liquid nature of soup and the uneven surface properties of your thrift store couch and wonky coffee table. Sitting at the counter guarantees a safter surface, dramatically reducing the chances of a spill. He’ll just have to settle for the only physical touch being your knees resting together under the countertop.
“Here,” he finally answers, still uncertain. “It’s more stable and I don’t want your couch to have soup spilled all over it.”
You nod, accepting. “Get cozy.”
The soup is ladled into bowls and placed in your spots, two spoons following, and two crumpled napkins ending the setup. Then, decisively like you’d read his mind and planned this all along, you slide your chair next to his.
“Scootch over,” you say, nudging him with your hip.
Immediately, his chair scrapes clumsily on the floor to make room, his hand pulling your chair close enough to be content. As soon as you sit, he curls into you, resting his head on your shoulder, damp hair tickling your neck. Your hum reverberates in Spencer’s chest, and he’s fairly certain if kept up long enough, it would have healing properties like a cat’s purr.
“Y’okay?” you ask, ruffling his hair.
“Mhm.” He sighs, heavily, the stress melting from him bit by bit until the knot in his chest feels just a little looser.
“Bad case?”
He shrugs. “Guess so.”
“Nothing wrong with saying that.”
“I know. Saying it just makes it more real, I suppose.”
You kiss the top of his head. “Wanna talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Is there a happy ending?”
His silence says everything and more. The heavy pause fills the room wall to wall, leaving barely any space for anything else. It crowds you and him out, pressing against his skin until it aches, and until the reminder of his failure is settled heavily in his soul.
“’S not your fault, y’know,” you say as you take a spoonful of soup.
“I was meant to talk him down.”
“And did you?”
“…Not well.”
You frown. “What’s that mean?”
Spencer’s fingers leave the spoon and opt to twist with each other in his lap, nails starting to pick at his cuticles. You give him a few minutes to collect his thoughts before your hands grab his, intertwining his fingers with yours and squeezing tightly.
“I- I did talk. For a while, actually.”
When you say nothing, he continues.
“It was just- his mental barriers are- were very strong. He was able to keep it all locked up tight, and breaking that resulted in a breakdown. I pushed too hard.”
Your hand tightens reassuringly in his.
“It just didn’t matter, in the end. It wasn’t enough for him.”
“Spence?”
“Hm?”
Your hands cup his face, thumbs stroking cheekbones, dipping into dark circles and sweeping along rosy warmth. One thumb passes over a silvery scar, and you smile fondly.
“Did he listen? When you spoke?”
Spencer pauses. “For a while.”
“Then it meant something.”
“He still-.”
“Sweetheart,” you say. “Sometimes people decide they’re going to do something no matter what.”
“I know.”
“And sometimes,” you interrupt kindly. “Someone talking in their last moments makes them feel alive. You don’t have to change everyone’s mind, Spence. You just have to remind them they’re human.”
Spencer goes quiet, the kind where he’s internalizing something, making it rational and real, something more than just a string of words.
“Look,” you say. “All you can offer is comfort. Something to remind them they’re not alone. I know you can do that.”
“Even if it didn’t change the outcome?”
“Especially then.”
You lean closer, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, lips brushing the furrow in his brow.
“Whatever happened today changes nothing to me. I still love you, I know you did your best, and I’m still right here.”
Spencer heaves a shuddering breath, hands trembling faintly in his lap. You tilt his head up to find his bottom lip trapped between his teeth in an effort to keep it from trembling too. Another forehead kiss and a half-choked sob breaks free, his body crunching in on itself like he’s recoiling from a shot. You lean his body into yours just like in the shower; one hand on his back, the other buried in his hair as his head rests in the crook of your neck. You rock slowly side to side, stroking his hair that’s still slightly damp and slides nicely through your fingers.
“You’re okay,” you murmur.
“I’m okay.”
You nod, squeezing the hug tighter. “You’re okay, you’re home, you’re safe.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then, so soft you barely hear it, he whispers one word into the skin of your neck.
“Promise?”
Your heart shatters, pulling him tighter to you so that you can envelop as much of him as possible. Your smell surrounds him, warm and safe and you.
“Promise. Always promise.”
Spencer breaks quietly, a rock sinking gracefully to the sea floor, the ripples only big enough for you to see them and follow them to him. You cradle him to your chest, feeling his tears wet your skin as he clings tighter.
“I gotcha,” you murmur, soft and safe and so tender it hurts his chest more than his quiet sobs do.
He nuzzles closer to you, noes pressing to your neck and mouth muffled in your shirt, quieting the last dregs of already quiet sobs. With each slow movement of your body’s pendulum motion, your voice is whispering reassurances, and your lips are pressing gentle kisses to his teary cheeks and his hair. You don’t rush him, and he doesn’t make nay indication he’s moving; you just exist in each other’s orbits, lines of yourself molding into one being, the best part of the both of you tangling together. His empathy and your sympathy. Your rationality to his emotionality. Everything that makes him cry meeting every part of your comfort. Spencer feels softer than he ever has before, because nowhere will ever be as safe as home in your arms.
Finally, after what was several minutes and only felt like half a moment, Spencer’s head tilts up from its burrow in your neck. You hum lightly at the feeling of his weight leaving, letting him pull as far out of your arms as he wants. He sniffles heavily, taking the tissue you hand him and wiping his nose. He uses the backs of his hands to wipe his eyes, knuckles scraping on rough, red skin. Spener clears his throat a few times as your hands finish wiping stray tears, and he laughs a little in embarrassment.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes.
“God, Spence, don’t apologize.”
“I- okay.”
He sniffs again, looking at his shoes.
“You needed that, hm?” you ask, rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb.
“Actually, crying releases hormones that help with emotional regulation. Many people report fewer negative emotions after crying.”
You’re watching him, fond and soft, listening to every word just to dissipate it all with one statement.
“So yes, you did need that.”
He blushes. “Yea, I did.”
“C’mere,” you say, tugging at his hands until he follows you to your feet. He’s standing a little taller now, like the weight compressing his spine as been lifted.
“What are you doing?” he asks as you loop your arms around his middle.
“That thing,” you offer unhelpfully. “Deep…uh. Deep something, I forget.”
Spencer laughs low in his throat, soft as ever. “Deep pressure therapy?”
“Yeah, that.”
“You know, it’s actually-.”
He’s cut off abruptly by your arms spreading over as much of his back as you can, squeezing him tight to your chest. He’s stiff for a moment, taken aback by the pressure and the abruptness of it all. Slowly, his arms land on your waist, resting there as you scoop him up into the biggest bear hug of his entire life. You eventually part with one last squeeze and a soft kiss to his lips that make them tingle pleasantly.
“Better?” you ask, turning to the table and grabbing his bowl.
“Much.” He goes to sit and take a spoonful of soup, finding both his bowl and spoon are gone. “What’re you doing?”
“Reheating your soup,” you say easily, sticking both bowls in the microwave and setting the timer, the hum loud in the kitchen space.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
You shrug, leaning on your elbows. “I know. I wanted to.”
“Why?”
“For you.”
“Why-.”
“Because you’ve had a right day and because I love you.”
Another pause follows, the air hesitating.
“Why…”
You sigh in mock exasperation, grinning widely. “Do you ever stop asking questions?”
Spencer returns your grin, brighter than he’s looked all evening. “No.”
Just then, your eyes light up like you’ve discovered some secret he doesn’t know about. “I know what you can do, though.”
“What?” he says, excitedly.
“Sit down,” you say, pushing him into the chair. “Let yourself be cared for,” you say with a kiss. “And let me love you like you deserve.”
He gives you a weak glare. “You could just tell me to stop talking.”
“I don’t want you to stop talking, I want you to stop pretending you feel perfectly normal.”
That shuts him up quick, because you are right and there’s only so long he can argue before giving in and letting you win. Before he can think of more to say, the microwave beeps and you’re sliding soup in front of him again, spoon in his hand as he eyes it. The soup is gone in minutes, Spencer not quite realizing how hungry he really was until he finally started eating. Normally, you’d make a joke about slowing down, but tonight doesn’t feel like the night for it.
He sits with his head on your shoulder while he waits for you to finish, the heat of the soup in his stomach and the emotional drain of crying starting to lull him into a half-asleep state. He doesn’t even realize you’re done until you’re tapping his shoulder and he’s stirring with a soft groan.
“Still with me?” you ask lightly.
“Mhm,” he sighs, sitting up and rubbing at his puffy eyes.
“Bed?”
He nods, stretching out like a cat and curling back in. His next question, asked so softly you almost miss it, makes your heart burst in light.
“Read to me?”
You hesitate, not because you don’t want to, but because it’s him. “Haven’t you memorized every book we own?”
He shrugs, starting into your eyes so tenderly they need to make a new word for it.
“Not in your voice.”
The admission makes your soul feel important for the first time in way too long. Spener, the boy with the eidetic memory, who knows every word to every line of every book he’s ever read, thinks having them read to him by you means more than his perfect memory of the pages. You can feel your cheeks flush hot at the knowledge, but if he sees it or not is lost on you.
“Pick something then,” you say instead, gesturing to the shelf. “I’ll clean up.”
“Love you,” he mumbles, kissing your cheek before hopping out of his chair and scurrying to the bookshelf.
The faint sounds of your movement in the kitchen perfectly fill in the stillness between Spencer’s own movements. The clink of spoon on bowl in the pauses as he thinks, the soft hush of water under his breathing as he mutters to himself about each book. Eventually, quiet conversation fills the space, two separate ones who’s answers flood together until the commentary sounds like two people talking to each other. You’re commentating the dishes, chastising the water that flies off the spoons and hushing the bowls that touch too loudly. Spencer is relaying the plot of the book to you, knowing you’re listening just to hear the sound of his voice. He digs through his shelves, unsatisfied, until he finds something tucked behind a copy of The Odyssey; a collection of children’s stories, with a foreword about the history of illustrated novels, gifted to him by his mother. It features her careful handwriting noting his childhood commentary on the margins of almost every page.
“Find something?” you say, startling him a little.
“Jesus, you scared me.”
“Sorry.” You peer closer at the tan cover in his hands, reading the title. “Is that Beatrix Potter?”
He’s quiet, face flushed a deep red, turning the book away in his arms to hide it from your gaze.
“Spencer, these are great. What’s up?”
He shrugs, trying to be casual and landing somewhere in the realm of petrified.
“They’re children’s stories,” he says like that changes everything.
“So?”
“So…I’m not a child.”
“I know.”
He makes a frustrated noise in his chest. It’s not at you, it never is. Rather, it’s t he fact that for all his might he can’t figure out how to put it into words that he should be past the children’s story phase. Yet the fact you’ve still offered to read something he holds such fond memories of makes every argument he had disappear from his mind.
“DO you want to read it?”
Your voice snaps hm back. “What?”
“Do you want me to read it to you?”
Spener swallows anxiously, though he’s not sure why he’s afraid.
“Would you?” he asks softly.
“’Course I would. They’re good stories. Bedisdes, you need something lighter tonight.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Spencer hands you the book, rising to his feet and clearing his throat.
“Just don’t make it weird. Please. I’m not a kid.”
You smile reassuringly. “I know, sweetheart. It won’t be weird.”
Spencer takes your free hand in his, his thumb tracing over the mountain ranges of your knuckles. His footsteps pad lightly down the hall in time with yours, socked feet whispering in rhythm the way they only do because you’ve spent so long around each other. His flannel pyjama pants hush soft too, reeds in the water of your apartment’s oasis. The hall feels both endless and barely a step long, Spencer getting lost in his thoughts as you walk the few steps to your bedroom.
Cracking the door open, you let him in first, watching as he climbs into bed, throwing the sheets over his legs and sighting when he gets comfortable. You close the blinds over your window, lighting the bedside lamp and taking note of how kindly the light caresses Spencer’s face. The edge of his nose is lit up gold, soft eyes reflecting it back too. When he smiles at you, his eyes light up with love amidst the hazel, reminding you exactly why you love him.
“Scootch over,” you say, crawling into bed beside him.
He’s adjusted the pillows your for already, learning them against the headboard so that you can comfortably read. You already know where he’ll move before he does; you register his pillow right in place for your head at the exact moment he throws an arm over you and rests his head on your chest.
“Are you comfy?” he asks when you’re settled in.
“Mhm,” you reply. “Are you?”
Spener answers by snuggling closer with a satisfied groan.
“Good,” you say, ruffling his hair.
You’re about to flip past the foreword when Spencer’s eyes ask you to read it without his voice saying the words. You adjust seamlessly, clearing your throat as you start with the foreword. With your hand carding through his curls and your voice vibrating in his ears, spencer falls asleep faster than he has in years; before you’re finished the foreword, he’s already snoring impossibly soft against your chest, fingers twined carefully in your shirt. You finish the entire first section just in case, but when he doesn’t wake, you set it on the table and turn out the lamp, slowly easing yourself down the mattress until you’re lying comfortably. Spencer doesn’t stir, and it’s not long before you drift off with him after pressing a final kiss to the top of his head.
tags : use the taglist form or send me a comment/ask/dm to be added to spencer reid taglist !!
First time smut writer: Um. Hope this is OK? It's only a bit of smut at the very end of the epilogue and you can skip it, it's ok. So sorry, um. Oh dear me. Please don't judge me. Nobody read this omg what have I done 😳
Seasoned smut writer: *ringing bell* Come get uR PORNOGRAPHY! 10k pwp, it's KINKY AS HECK so share it with all your friends!!! If you've got any suggestions for my Kinktober just drop it in the comments, I will write whatever wet, messy & DOWNRIGHT FILTHY fic about these two idiots 👏
First time smut reader: I'd better read this as a guest so it's not in my history. I'm never telling anyone about this. Oh my god, how do people dare to comment, I could never.
✧･ﾟ:dean finds it, less than hidden in your bedside drawers. He turns it in his hands a few times, at first offended. You don’t need a damn toy when you’ve got a perfectly good boyfriend right here. He’s made you cum with just his mouth countless times, his cock so much he worries you’re going to break it, that one time with the single finger, and the other time with just his voice. If he needs to step it up to a damn object, he’s gonna be pissed.
✧･ﾟ:but then he remembers.
✧･ﾟ:you’re just so fun to play with.
When you get home, you don’t stand a chance. He’s sitting on the bed with his legs spread and the vibrator in his hands, a cocky smirk on his handsome face.
“Right here, sweetheart.” He beckons you with two fingers, and you swallow. You can’t help but obey. Dean’s got a hold on you that he still doesn’t fully understand, and if he told you to fall to your knees, you press your cheek against his thick thigh and beg him to put himself in your mouth.
Instead, tonight, he holds you right above him, one massive hand on your waist and the other pressing the head of the vibrator between your thighs. You tremble, clinging to broad, thick shoulders, panting his name as the pleasurable sensation becomes too much to bear. Dean smirks, dragging the toy back and forth, drawing slow, grounding circles on your hip with his thumb.
“That’s it, baby girl,” he coos, watching your every nervous reaction, drinking up your every moan with a smug grin. “Feels so good, doesn’t it? Makes you just wanna fall apart, get really messy, standing up and beggin’ for some more.”
You moan, face burning and body alight with need. Dean drags your panties to the side, pressing the vibrator against your bare clit. You almost jump, but he tugs you right up to his chest, splaying his free hand on your lower back. The feeling is almost too much to bear. You can’t speak, can’t move, can’t do anything but stare at Dean with teary eyes and try not to let your knees give out.
“You’re gettin’ close,” he grunts, because he always knows. “You gonna cum for me, baby?”
You whimper and pull at his hair. He grunts, pressing his face into your neck, and sucks and kisses his way over the soft skin. Up your throat, along your jaw, right to your ear. He nips softly, and whispers in a low, rough voice.
“Let go, pretty girl. Cum all over my fuckin’ hand.”
The orgasm crashes through you, white-hot and wet. You pussy gushes, your eyes roll, and your legs finally give, sending you right into Dean’s lap. He catches you easily, keeping the vibrator pressed against your overstimulated cunt. You writhe and push at his chest, almost unable to take another second, but still grinding down into the overwhelming pleasure. Dean kisses you, deep and bruising, and finally pulls the vibrator away.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, leaving light kisses all over your face. “Never gonna get enough of watchin’ you fall apart, baby. Fuckin’ never.”
✦Dean Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦
✦Author's Note: this one is very specfically self-indulgant i fear but i hope you enjoyed it as well
Summary: Porn creates unrealistic expectations. Dean wants to show you how much he loves your body in a brand new way.
Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader
CW: 18+ MDNI, body image issues, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, soft!dom Dean, reader's first time receiving oral, established relationship, marking
WC: 1K
A/n: I randomly thought of this while I've been nesting, figured I'd leave you a parting gift before my maternity leave <3
“I promise you’ll love it, sweetheart, but if you don’t, I’ll stop.”
It was hard to deny the shirtless man kneeling between your thighs. Dean looked like the god of sex appeal—perfectly toned body, emerald green eyes that you wanted to drown in, and the loving gaze that you melted beneath. The way his warm, rough hands lightly dragged across your soft thighs felt electrifying.
You’d accidentally stumbled across some of his porn (seeing as he never closed his browser tabs) and you didn’t look anything like those women. Dean, on the other hand, had a body that was made to be admired. You knew that female porn stars got bleached and waxed, and that it created an unrealistic expectation for women.
Still, you were self-conscious of your body.
Dean had been begging you to let him eat you out. When he found out you’d never let anyone before, his eyes lit up. He wanted to be the one who showed you how good it feels to have all the attention on you. That, and Dean loved eating pussy.
He wanted to watch your back arch off the bed and feel your fingers in his hair, pulling gently. He imagined how sweet you would taste, even sweeter when you came.
You could feel his thick cock pressing against your leg through his boxers, making your mouth water. You closed your eyes and nodded, feeling your cheeks blush.
“You want me to?” He needed your consent, and he wanted to hear you say it.
“I want you to—um…” you stammered, feeling embarrassed to say it out loud.
“You want me to eat that sweet pussy, baby?”
You blushed and covered your face.
“Dean—“
He laughed softly before gently moving your hands and kissing you sweetly.
“It’s gonna feel so good, sweetheart, trust me.”
You were already in your bra and panties as he started to trail his mouth down your body. He stopped at your breasts, grazing his teeth over your hardening peaks underneath the thin fabric. You whimpered and arched into his touch making him smile against your skin.
Dean sucked marks into the soft skin of your belly and dragged his tongue over the small bruises. By the time he got to your panty line, you were soaked with a small wet spot developing on the cotton fabric. When he hooked his fingers into your panties to pull them down, you pressed your thighs together and blushed, causing him to glance up at you.
“Just relax, sweetheart. Can you open up for me?”
You slowly relaxed your legs, but he didn’t pull your panties off yet. He lowered himself between your thighs and you felt his warm breath on your clothed core making you shudder.
The sweet aroma of your arousal made his cock twitch.
He placed a kiss on your clothed pussy to get you used to the contact. Then he licked a long strip from your entrance to your clit. His thumb started rubbing your clit, the extra sensation from the fabric made your hips buck slightly. He noticed every time your breath hitched, every time you twitched. He felt like you were ready.
“Can I take these off now?”
“Please,” you begged, gently nodding your head.
His heart swelled seeing you open up to him.
Finally pulling your underwear down, you were nervous again. When his eyes landed on your bare pussy, he stifled a groan in his chest.
“So fucking pretty, sweetheart.”
“No I’m not,” you said quietly, covering your face with your hands.
Dean frowned, looking up at you. “What are you talking about?”
“I dunno…I’ve seen what girls look like…in pornos…and I’m nothing like that…” you trailed off.
His face softened and he tilted his head slightly.
“That ain’t real life, baby. They might get all that work done, but I bet they don’t feel as perfect as you do.” His gaze fell to your core and his voice got low and gravely. “I love this pussy. So warm and tight, feels like you were made for me.”
His praise made you blush and smile nervously.
He placed another kiss to your clit, making you flinch from the sensitivity. Dean pushes forward and lightly drags his tongue against your glistening folds.
“And you taste so sweet,” he growls. “So perfect.”
Using his thumbs, he gently parted your folds and tongued your entrance causing you to clench. It still felt unnatural, but you laid your head back and relaxed into the new sensations.
He slid one finger inside you to give you a familiar feeling to focus on while he continues to work on you.
He hears a tiny moan making his hips rut against the mattress.
“Does that feel good?”
You hummed in response.
His mouth settles around your clit and he starts to suck rhythmically, and slides another finger inside you. He continues to thrust them, hooking his long fingers to rub against your g-spot.
The intensity of his ministrations leave you desperate for something to grab onto and ground yourself. Your hands settle on his head, gently gripping his hair and applying the perfect amount of pressure at his roots. He moans around your clit, causing you to clench hard around his fingers, triggering one of the most intense orgasms you’ve ever had.
“Fuck—Dean! Oh my god—“
He laps up your increasing wetness while he continues to gently thrust his fingers, feeling your walls flutter around him.
After a few moments you pull back— the sensitivity was overwhelming.
Your thighs were soaked and the stubble on his face was glistening with your wetness. He felt incredibly proud of himself.
Your gaze was still focused on the ceiling while your breathing slowed. Crawling up towards you, Dean scanned your face for signs of discomfort.
“You okay?”
You huffed out a tired laugh, a sweet smile spreading across your face.
“Uh…yeah. That was…amazing,” you said, still looking blissed out.
Dean just gazed down at you. Seeing you like this definitely fueled his ego, but he also loved making you happy.
His cock was aching in his boxers and he desperately wanted relief, but he wasn’t done with you yet.
“Good—you’re about to give me another one, sweetheart.”
summary. a spell goes wrong and cas is tiny. so, while trying to reserve it, he gets tucked into the pocket of your flannel.
pairing. tiny!castiel x reader ( gn )
wordcount. 723 genre. super fluff attack
warnings. accidental spell shenanigans, soft banter, gentle touching, the image of an itty-bitty trench coat, found-family warmth
When you agreed to help Castiel with “a minor ritual,” you didn’t expect to end up staring at him from roughly eight feet above his head.
Or, more accurately—eight feet above his tiny, doll-sized head.
He’s standing in the middle of the bunker’s library table, all fifteen centimeters of him, trench coat and tie perfectly proportioned like some kind of angelic action figure.
“Cas?” you breathe.
His voice—still deep, still gruff—echoes up, smaller but no less serious. “It appears the spell has had… unintended consequences.”
You blink down at him. “You think?”
He looks up at you, hands clasped neatly in front of his miniature coat. “I would appreciate your assistance in reversing it.”
“Right, yeah, no kidding. Uh, okay, hang on—don’t move.”
You grab a book, flipping through the pages for the counter-spell, but your eyes keep darting back to him because—come on. He’s adorable.
Like, devastatingly cute in a way you’d never tell him. Not just because he’s an angel of the Lord, but because he’d take it as an insult.
He crosses his tiny arms. “You’re staring.”
“Am not.”
“You are.”
“…Okay, maybe a little. You’re just—really small, Cas.”
“I am aware.” He sighs, tilting his head like he always does when he’s exasperated. It’s the same expression, just pocket-sized now, and you swear your heart makes a noise.
You’ve been flipping through lore for ten minutes when you realize the bunker’s draft keeps blowing him over. One particularly strong gust from the air vent sends him tumbling onto his back like a tiny, trench-coated turtle.
“Oh my God!” You gently scoop him up with both hands, trying not to laugh. “You okay?”
“I am unharmed,” he says stiffly, though his pride looks severely bruised.
“Alright, that’s it. You’re staying somewhere safe.”
“Safe?”
“Yeah.” You tug open your flannel pocket and grin. “Right here.”
He blinks up at you, suspicious. “That doesn’t seem dignified.”
“Neither does getting blown off the table every thirty seconds, Feathers.”
He opens his mouth to argue—but then you very gently set him inside the front pocket of your shirt, and he just… freezes.
It’s warm. It’s soft. It smells like you—soap and maybe a hint of coffee. His little hands clutch the edge of the fabric as he peers up at you from the pocket’s rim, expression unreadable.
“See?” you say, smiling. “Perfect. Cozy, protected, portable angel.”
“I do not require portability,” he mutters, but you can feel the faint weight of him settling in.
You wander around the bunker, gathering ingredients for the reversal spell, trying not to think about how weirdly comforting it feels—his tiny presence against your chest, the faint rustle of his coat when he shifts.
Every now and then, he peeks up to offer unhelpful commentary.
“That’s not the correct sigil.”
“Cas, it literally is.”
“It’s missing a cross-stroke.”
You glance down. “You can’t even see it from there!”
“I have excellent vision.”
“Tiny and smug,” you mutter.
“I heard that.”
You grin. “Good.”
By the time you’ve finished setting up the spell circle, you’re almost sad it’s working. The energy hums, the lights flicker—and when the smoke clears, Cas stands in front of you at his full height again, trench coat wrinkled but intact.
He looks down at himself, then at you. “It appears the effects have been reversed.”
You smile, a little wistfully. “Yeah. Back to normal.”
He studies you for a beat, head tilting. “You are… disappointed.”
“Me? No. I just—” You shrug. “Kinda got used to having you in my pocket, that’s all.”
His brows furrow in that way that makes him look painfully sincere. “I see.”
A pause. Then, softly—“I appreciated the warmth.”
You blink, caught off guard. “You what?”
“I… found it comforting.”
You feel your cheeks heat up, and before you can respond, he adds, very solemnly, “Perhaps next time, we could simply share a blanket instead.”
You blink again. “Cas. Did you just flirt with me?”
“I don’t believe so,” he says, perfectly deadpan. “Was that flirting?”
You bite back a smile. “Maybe just a little.”
He considers this. Then, with that tiny head tilt, murmurs, “Then yes. I was flirting.”
And honestly? You think you preferred him tiny—because this version of him? This confident, quietly fond angel standing inches away with that look in his eyes? He’s somehow even more dangerous.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; support my work .ᐟ
girl dad dean fluff where reader walks in to him singing to his daughter??:3
⋆˚꩜｡ little star,
pairing. dad!dean winchester x mom!reader ft. baby girl
wordcount. 425 genre. melting fluff
warnings. pure sweetness, singing + domestic warmth, your ovaries may combust
The house is too quiet.
Suspiciously quiet.
The kind of quiet that usually means your toddler has climbed on something she shouldn’t… and Dean has let her.
You wipe your hands on a dish towel, following the faintest hum drifting down the hallway. A low, warm voice—soft, unguarded, almost shy in a way Dean never admits to.
You peek around the doorway of your daughter’s room.
And your heart does a full somersault.
Dean Winchester, legendary hunter, savior of the world, resident tough guy… is sitting cross-legged on the rug with your daughter cradled on his knee. She’s got one chubby fist wrapped in the front of his flannel, head tucked under his chin like she was carved to fit there.
And he’s singing to her.
Quiet, gentle, swaying a little as he rubs small circles on her back.
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star…” His voice dips, softer than moonlight. “How I wonder what you are…”
Your daughter is blinking slow and sleepy, lashes brushing his chest, her tiny fingers relaxing against his shirt as the lullaby washes over her.
You lean against the doorframe, warmth blooming in your chest. Dean doesn’t notice you at first—he’s too wrapped up in her, too lost in that soft-dad haze he swears he doesn’t have.
When he finally catches you staring, he flushes instantly. “Hey—uh, she couldn’t sleep.”
“I see that,” you whisper, a smile tugging at your lips. “Since when do you sing?”
He huffs, embarrassed. “Since somebody”—he nudges your daughter’s cheek with the gentlest knuckle—“decided she only knocks out for this one stupid song.”
Your daughter stirs, letting out a tiny sigh, and Dean’s whole expression melts like butter on a hot skillet. His hand cups the back of her head, protective without thinking, instinct woven into muscle and bone.
You move closer, brushing a hand over her little foot—covered in those tiny socks she insists on pulling off. “She looks pretty out.”
Dean smiles, small and soft. The kind he only gives you and her. “Yeah. Guess she’s my little star, huh?”
Your heart cracks in the sweetest way. You lean down, kiss the top of his head, then your daughter’s.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“You look perfect like this.”
He goes pink. Actually pink. “Aw, c’mon…”
But his free hand reaches for yours anyway, fingers lacing through yours as he keeps singing under his breath.
And the room feels full—of love, of warmth, of something you never thought either of you would get to have.
Your little family. Your little star. And Dean, shining just as bright.
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𖤓 Summary: When Dean comes back after a hunt that resulted in a fight, he finds you, walled up and pushing him away. Fuck.
𖤓 Warnings: miscommunication (!!!), angst, self doubt ish, Dean's bad at feelings and relationships but he tries, crying, comfort, fluffish, comedy
𖤓 Word Count: 800
꧁ Read my rules and send in a request! ꧂
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It was late, like late late. Somewhere around three.
Dean had gone on a solo hunt, much to your dismay. You tried to convince him to let you come, or at least Sam, but he wouldn't budge. You even asked Cas to pop in and check on him, but Dean prayed to him not to listen to you. That fuckin' profound bond always managed to be a profound pain in your ass.
He finally made it back, barely speaking to you the entire time he was gone, he always did that after fights. He stumbled around in the dark, trying to make it to the bed but being stopped by something on the floor....his boots? And, a flannel. And the hoodie he never wears. What the fuck?
He finally made it to the bed with minimal damage, tugging up the blanket and rolling onto his side. He tried not to wake you but after he settled, he realised how much he missed you now that you were within arm's length. He reached over to you, hoping to wrap an arm around you and hold you close, when he was met with a pillow. Or rather, a wall of pillows.
He furrowed his brow, sitting up a little and peeking over the divide to see you sleeping soundly, blanket tucked up around your face.
He slowly leaned back, head hitting the pillow heavy, the soft thud landing heavy in the dead quiet room. You've never done this before. Was the fight really this bad? What did he say? What did he do? How could he fix this?
He spent the next few hours staring at the ceiling, hands fidgeting, mind racing with everything he could've done differently. He didn't want you to get hurt, but maybe he should've let you come. Or at least Sam, even though he'd been wanting a few days off for years now. He could've let Cas check on him, but he was too busy with Heaven stuff to be worrying about something that meaningless.
His heart stopped when you shuffled in place.
The whole drive home he prayed you weren't mad at him, not too mad, but he'd never seen you like this before.
After a moment, you let out a soft, half whimper, followed by his name, high pitched and hurt.
"'m here baby, right here" He murmured, still not daring to take down the wall.
You sat up instantly "Dean? You're back?"
"Yeah, I-"
Before he could finish, you threw the pillows across the room, linking your arms around his neck and burying your face against his shoulder.
"Missed you"
Your voice was muffled against him but he could hear the strain, hear how hard it was for you to say the words.
His arms encircled you, tightening and curling around your back, holding you close.
"I'm sorry baby, whatever it is, I'm so sorry" The words came out like he was begging, begging you to forgive him for all the ways he didn't know he hurt you.
"Check your fucking phone" You cried against his shoulder, half a chuckle sneaking in at the same time.
"What? Y-you're not mad?"
"Wh- no Dean, I was worried"
"You were?"
"Of course I was you dumbass" You pressed a few kisses along his jaw, relishing in the fact that he was here, he made it back "You wouldn't answer your phone"
"Baby" His hand came up to your hair "It died"
You laughed, face still buried, tears still heavy.
"But" He started, cautious "If you're not mad, what's with the great wall of pillows?"
You let out an amused sigh, he always jumped to the worst possible outcome, every time.
"Dean, I missed you"
"I missed you too, Sweetheart, but I still don't get the pillows"
"God this is so dumb" You half groaned, embarrassed by how needy you'd seem if you told him, but you had to "I can't sleep without you, so I put the pillows behind my back, like you were there" You muttered the last part, just barely audible.
"A-and the clothes?"
He was so quiet you thought he could barely stand how pathetic you were.
"I um, I-I- your shirt. It, smelled like you. The hoodie too"
"The boots?"
"I cleaned them while you were gone. Wanted to keep busy"
His arms squeezed even further around you, knocking the air from your lungs.
"'m sorry baby, so fucking sorry. I'll charge my phone- fuck the phone, I'll carry you out to the car with me, not takin' no for an answer"
You laughed, pulling him as close to you as you could, head tucked against you. Your fingers combed through the short little hairs on the nape of his neck and he let out a soft, special little sound he only let slip with you.
hey guys !! i have a ko-fi now :] the link is right here, and will be linked in my pinned post, as well as the descriptions to all future fics <3
i'm setting this up in light of a lotta stuff happening in my personal life, and while i do have a job for now, i want to get what i can from this to help me start being able to cover my own tuition fees while i navigate an iffy at-home situation :]
posting will stay exactly the same, and as always, there is never any obligation to tip me. if you don't want to or can't afford to, your support on tumblr means everything to me anyway !!! also as a note, i am using paypal for this so be aware that if you dont use paypal, you may run into some issues or extra fees that i have no control over :]
@tootiredmotel’s 500 follower celebration day three: handwrite
They’ve slept in. Granted, they don’t have anything planned for the day, so there’s no real reason to get up yet. And Dean can think of plenty of reasons to stay in bed. It’s well past sunrise, but the warm pile of blankets around them do well to make staying in bed too tempting to pass up. That and the angel laying beside him.
Dean keeps drifting in and out of consciousness, watching through hooded eyes as Cas traces slow fingers over his chest, tracing each rib. The warm light cuts through the curtains enough to light up the angel’s sleep-ruffled hair, blue eyes wandering along the path of his touch over bare skin, mouth turned up in a faint smile.
Even though the touch is soft, featherlight, threatening to coax Dean back to sleep, Cas’s eyes are focused, soft but purposeful.
Dean hums under the ministrations, blinking slowly as he shifts closer, one hand drifting up to run over Cas’s knuckles.
“Tell me what it says,” he murmurs, “What you wrote.”
Cas pauses, tangling their fingers together for a moment to give them a squeeze. Dean already knows what’s carved into his ribs, what it says, and Cas knows that he knows.
The angel still smiles, crow’s feet creasing at the edges. “It’s not very elegant in English,” he says, voice warm and rough from sleep, “It was never meant to be spoken aloud.”
Cas slips his hand out of Dean’s grasp and reaches to brush fingertips up near his collarbone. “This is about you. Your form,” he says, voice reverent, his touch more so, “How I saw it. How I reformed it.”
He leans down to press his lips where his hand had been, leaves a slow trail down to Dean’s heart. “Even then I thought you were beautiful. Your soul was unlike anything I had ever seen. Returning it to your body, remolding it, was a privilege.”
Dean shivers under his touch, his face growing hot. His mouth shakes, but he tries to crack a smile. “What, you don’t think I’m as hot now?”
Cas stretches up to kiss him, quick and chaste. “I’m not done reading yet.” And he goes back down, running both hands up Dean’s sides. “The next part is protection. To hide you from heaven.”
His thumb runs a slow swipe over a rib, and he grows quiet. “It was…unsettling for me, when I first did this. To not be able to feel you or know where you were. I spent a considerable amount of time afterward fearing for you.”
Dean settles a hand over his, a dull ache in his chest, thinking about how things were back then. Everything had seemed so new and scary and beyond anything he could really understand.
After a beat, Cas presses in another kiss to his sternum, resting his forehead there, breath fanning over warm skin. “Even then, I would have given anything to keep you safe,” he murmurs.
Dean swallows, blinking away tears. “I know. You did. You have.” He runs a hand through Cas’s hair, taking care not to grip it tight.
Clearing his throat, Cas lifts his head, eyes still tracking over his writing. “The rest is a warning.” His hard voice a sharp contrast to the gentle murmurings before. “A threat to any creature that would dare touch you.”
His gaze flickers, and he glances away, cheeks flushing. “I thought to include words to honor my father then…” His lip twitches up at the corner. “But I couldn’t. My praise was only for you.”
The room falls silent as Cas goes back to tracing over ribs. Dean fights to steady his breathing, to blink away tears, but a few slip down the side of his face.
Huffing out a sigh, he reaches up to take Cas’s face in his hands and pull him in. “Come here, you idiot,” he chokes out, and he kisses him.
It’s not a gentle touch. He’s trembling and his breath is hitching, and he can’t manage that right now, after everything Cas said. He presses into him fiercely, gripping him close.
Cas’s words are handwritten on his chest. A shield, a prayer, a vow. The same words burn from inside Dean’s chest, trying to claw their way out, but they catch in his throat, and he’s left gasping.
So he pulls back, still close enough to breathe Cas in, lips brushing with every word. “I love you.”
I just got broken up with:( He was really good to me, but I saw it coming for a while😔
Could you please write a comfort fic with Dean? Where he comforts her after the breakup?
Its hard even though we came to an understanding and ended it on good terms😣 could really do with a long hug from Dean right about now
oh I'm so sorry!!!!! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ I hope this is okay and a little pick me up!
Dean hasn't seen you for three days.
Normally that wouldn't bother him- you're a busy lady, he knows that! You have things to do, places to go, people to see! Except you'd promised him almost a week ago you'd help him with Baby's engine- and while he doesn't really need your help, he still wants your company while he tears her insides out. It'll certainly make the whole thing less painful.
He's yet to come to your room with his tail between his legs and ask you to come hang out, half because he doesn't want to feel like a lovesick teenager, and half because he knows if he bothers you when you're busy, there's a good chance you'll stab him.
But he's held out long enough, he's decided. And after an hour of restless tapping he finally decides he's going to break his own dignity and just go knock.
It takes until he's already tapping his knuckles to realize he isn't even sure you're in there. He fidgets awkwardly, feeling like a doofus.
"Just a minute!"
It feels nice to hear your voice, though it doesn't sound completely like you. You take just long enough that he's able to start considering the possibility of shapeshifters before the door opens, the real you standing on the other side.
You're trying to hold it together- a broken smile on your face, eyes puffy, eyelashes sticking together in clumps. You've been crying, and what's worse is he's clearly not supposed to know.
But he knows you- and he notices in an instant, sucking in a sharp breath, "Sweetheart, what's wrong-"
You don't say anything, just gesture awkwardly as another set of tears start to spill over.
He pulls you into a hug without thinking, resting his chin on your head. You hug him back, waiting for a moment before you go to pull back- he doesn't let you, keeping his arms wrapped around you tight.
He already knows what must've happened, "You want me to cut his dick off?"
You laugh, shaking your head with a small sniffle.
"Punch him?"
You shake your head again, pulling him in tighter.
"Blow his brains out?"
You laugh properly, face pressed against his chest, "Stop threatening violence."
He kisses the top of your head, voice soft, "Come on sweetheart, there must be something I can do."
The budding domesticity is everything to me. More, more!
I love how Dean got to take care of Cas so much in this chapter. He wants so badly to be useful all the time, so that people won't leave him. He doesn't allow himself to want anything, all service and sacrifice. It breaks my heart so much because I can relate a little too well.
Their shopping trip made me cry. Adam and Dean's relationship is just so dear to me. And Dean just tries so hard all the time and still thinks he's not good enough. God.
Try all the flavors: Blueberry • Pecan • Cherry • Pumpkin • Rhubarb • Salted Maple • Strawberry • Lemon Meringue • Peach • Cranberry • Apple
🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧
Summary: Exhausted and broken, Dean's not doing great- the perfect time to get him to spill his secrets.
Warning: smut, unprotected sex
A/N: he's been happy for too damn long (one chapter)
For The Filling
1 stick unsalted butter
1 cup dark robust maple syrup
¾ cup packed light brown sugar
½ teaspoon kosher salt
4 large eggs, at room temperature
¾ cup heavy cream
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧🥧
You wish you could dream of Dean. You never do. Some part of your brain won't let you- it's only ever fragments when you're waking, that liminal space that lets him envelop your mind, just for a moment.
You picture his hands, this time, fingers wrapped around something metal. They're covered in scars, rough callouses, oil stains under his nails. His fingerprints are worn down- you think about that often, how much he must use them for his whole identity to almost be scrubbed. Your mind fixates on the image for as long as you'll let it, before it starts to become clearer, sharpening as you focus. It takes you a second to really see it, to hold onto the idea long enough to make sense of what you're picturing. You realize he's holding a gun.
You wake with a jolt, your phone ringing on your bedside table. You wipe your hand over your face, pulling yourself into sitting. You can't have been asleep long, it's still nighttime, the room almost pitch black.
You reach for your phone, only hazily reading his name before you pick up, "Dean?" You croak out, your voice still catching up to your body.
"Did I wake you?" He speaks softly down the line. You can hear white noise in the background, the sound of tyres on asphalt.
"No- no-" you slump your head against the back wall, "-I'm up- I'm awake-"
He gives a hesitant laugh, "Look, I'm only a couple hours away, honey- I- you free tonight?"
You state the obvious, "You're already driving."
So does he, "I'm already driving."
"Then yeah- yeah I'm free-" you suck in a small breath, "-you on a hunt?"
"Just got done with one-" he speaks quieter, "-Sammy can take care of the cleanup."
You don't even want to start to understand what cleanup refers to in this case, "Did it go alright?"
"Yeah- yeah look I've gotta go- just don't wait up, okay? I'll call when I get there- go back to sleep-" He hangs up- you don't take it personally, he's always blunt on the phone.
Despite his request you don't sleep. You wouldn't be able to even if you tried. Instead you pull yourself together, slowly, as slow as you'll let yourself. It's always exciting knowing Dean's coming, you get a secret giddy feeling- it's not supposed to be such a big thing. He's said it from the beginning, it's supposed to be easy, relaxed, no commitment. As much as you tell yourself that, you'll never truly believe it.
You have a shower, scrubbing yourself clean, dousing yourself in the scents of your bathroom, your shampoo, your soap. You're not sure if he ever notices things like that, he certainly never says it, but do it anyway, just in case.
The time ticks on, you start feeling nervous as you tidy away your apartment. You don't know why, Dean's never given you a reason to feel like that- maybe it's because you're starting to realize this means a lot more to you than you previously thought.
You tuck yourself back in to bed, staving off sleep for as long as you can. You pull an old movie up on your laptop, something you're barely watching as your eyes fall heavy. But you don't let yourself sleep, not even when you have to switch to a different movie. Four hours without a call- if it was anyone else you'd start to worry, but you know how Dean is.
You want to picture him again, that way you only can when you're just waking up. But you refuse to let yourself get to that point, even if it is tempting. You don't want to miss a second once he arrives.
Your phone goes, you don't even let it ring once, picking up straight away, "You here?"
He laughs, "Downstairs"
"I'll buzz you up."
You can hear him on the stairs as you head towards your door, that excitement's back- pumping through your body.
You open the door, Dean drops his duffel, dragging you into a hug before you even get a look at him, "Oh there's my girl-" his arms wrap around you tight, over your shoulders keeping you close, "Fuck, honey- missed you like you wouldn't believe-"
He sinks into you, relaxing against your body- a comfort he's been seeking since the last time he saw you. Your arms wrap around his waist, palms smoothing over his back.
After a moment- longer than either of you have an excuse for- he pulls back, a slow blink as he finally gets his look at you.
You suck in a small breath as you take him in, he looks wrecked, utterly wrecked. The first thing you notice are the deep circles under his eyes, the creases in the corners just begging for sleep. Then you see the bruising, the cuts.
"You wanna wash up?" You prompt, the same routine as always.
He shakes his head, "Let's just go to bed."
You give a small nod, picking his duffle up from the floor and carrying it through to your bedroom. He trails behind, watching you carefully, taking in everything he's been missing. You drop it once you get in the room, hesitating to wonder what it's filled with.
Dean looks at you, meak. You don't see him like this often- you're not sure you've ever actually seen him quite like this. You push yourself up onto your toes, pressing your lips against his. He's soft against you, a small smile.
You pull back, reaching your hands up and pressing your palms onto his chest, "You okay?"
He smiles, "I'm just glad I'm here."
Your hands move over each other slowly, first his t-shirt- you tug at the bottom of it, pulling it up as he stretches his arms up for you. You're thankful that his body seems to be in a better condition than his face- though not by much. There's still a scattering of bruises across his chest and stomach, thick gauze on his abdomen you imagine must cover a deeper cut. Then it's his turn, he reaches out for your own t-shirt, dragging it up, exposing your bare chest to him. He smiles at you, taking you in, eyes washing over you with a look of admiration.
He deals with his own belt, you reach out to the waistband, both of you working to shuffle him out of his pants. More bruising, another gauze on his outer thigh- maybe Sam bandaged him up, maybe he did it himself.
He reaches out to your waist, both of you left in only your underwear as he pulls you towards the bed. The back of his knees hit the mattress, he collapses against it, sinking down onto the edge as he tugs you on top of him. You follow, both of you sitting, his legs hanging off the end, your legs either side of his hips.
Your hand moves instinctively, up to his face, cupping one cheek. He closes his eyes, head tilting into you, a quiet hum as he feels you. You lean forward, kissing his forehead, then his cheekbone, working your way over his face. You press kisses against bruises, brush your lips against the cuts. He keeps his eyes closed, letting you follow through the process.
Finally you pull back, a soft voice, "Tough hunt?"
He glances at you, a small smile, "I'm alright, these cuts are old, honey."
These cuts are old. - You don't know how bad I missed you.
You laugh slightly- it sounds forced, "Can't be that old."
"They're from a couple weeks ago- had a hunt that was- fuck it was something else- really thought you were gonna get your phonecall for a minute there-"
You know the deal- you've always known the deal. Sam has your number, tucked away somewhere safe, waiting for the day he'll need to ring- the day he's going to tell you Dean's dead.
It had started as a joke- a sick, twisted thing both of you laughed about- when Dean dies you'll lose your best customer- who would eat your leftover pie if not him? But then the thought dwelled, more than either of you pretended it did. How would you know?
Dean couldn't stand the idea of you thinking he'd run off without telling you, and you couldn't stand the idea of never knowing what happened. So he made the deal, Sam will call- he'll keep it simple 'Dean's dead, bullet through the temple, died quickly.' And that will be that.
You've met Sam before- right at the beginning- you know he won't keep it simple, but you have to commend Dean for trying.
You press your lips back against his cheek, staying there as you speak, like you're afraid to see his face when you do, "You've been getting worse."
He swallows hard, "I know."
"You need to stop."
"I can't." One hand moves up to settle on your thigh, the other on your waist, thumb rubbing small circles against you.
"You're gonna die-" It's more blunt than you normally are.
He pulls back to look at you. You watch him carefully, his eyes jut between your own, then fall down to your lips, just for a moment, before they settle back up again, "I can't just quit, honey. It's not how it works. Ain't got nothing else."
"You've got more. You've got Sam." You don't say the obvious. That he has you. It feels like you've had enough candor for the night.
"This kind of life-" he shakes his head, "-it's not something you can turn your back on."
You brush your thumb against the bruise on his jaw, pressing another gentle kiss against it. You speak quietly, "What would you do instead? If you weren't doing this?"
"Those are dangerous thoughts to have, sweetheart."
"We both know you're never gonna leave it, I just wanna pretend."
He considers for a moment, eyes glossing over you, more thoughts in his mind than he's willing to let on, then he takes a careful breath, "Maybe I'd fix up cars."
You smile, "Yeah? Old ones like your baby?"
"She's not that old-"
"Older than you- and you're pretty old-" you laugh.
He shakes his head, face breaking into a smile, "Shut up-"
You kiss the tip of his nose, "Go on, what else?"
"I'd- uh- I'd want a house, with a yard. Somewhere I could have a dog, maybe even a couple kids- treat 'em right-" he takes a deep breath, "-read 'em stories before bed, eat at the table- like a family's supposed t'. Maybe I'd grow a beard out- finally let myself get fat-"
"Get a dad bod?" You laugh.
He grins at you, "With all the pies you bake I wouldn't get a choice!" He joins your laugh, "Just think, honey, we could fuck ourselves silly every night with no hunts to stop us."
You laugh back, "That sounds good-"
He pauses for a moment, let's his fingers tap against your skin as he thinks, "How did I get you, pretty girl?"
You smile, "Who said you've got me?"
He swallows hard, "Don't tease- not tonight-"
You nod, voice quieter, "You've got me-" you lean forward, pressing your lips against his, "-you've always got me."
He pulls your body closer, sinking into a kiss, your chest against his, your hands moving to his shoulders, running along them, feeling the shallow muscles that frame his body. One of his hands moves to your back, the tips of his fingers gliding up your spine, a gentle pattern against your skin.
He shifts, lifting you slightly, his arms still wrapped around you as he lowers you to the mattress. His body finds its place against yours, lips pressed against your own, his hands moving to cup your cheeks, your own hands smoothing down his chest, your legs wrapped around his waist.
He kisses you deeper, mouth opening slightly, then moves his lips, kissing along your cheek, across your jaw. He nestles his face into the crook of your neck, hiding himself away, his lips still against your skin, "I've got you-" he says it more to himself than to you.
He trails lower, kissing down your neck, your collarbone. He's being messy with it- leaving a trail of saliva against your skin as you smile down at him, your fingers tangling into his hair. He keeps going, across the top of your chest, the valley between your breasts, down to your stomach. He grins up at you from your abdomen, his worries dissolving as he explores your body.
You reward him with the only thing you know he wants, hooking your fingers around the sides of your underwear and starting to drag them down. His eyes widen slightly, wetting his lips in anticipation as he looks down at you. You shuffle awkwardly, laughing as you get them down past your knees- Dean takes over, pulling them off the end of your legs, throwing them to one side as he looks back at you, naked and stretched out beneath him.
He thinks you look gorgeous- a sight he'll never get used to- he'll never get the chance. Not when he only visits once every few months, when he only sees you on random nights scattered between hunts. You're his reward for not dying, a pretty moment of peace between so much blood. You don't deserve that- he knows- but he can't imagine letting you go.
He kisses up the inside of your thigh, hooking his arms around your legs as he pulls you into him. You relax against the mattress, pushing one hand down into his hair, the other tangling behind your head into the pillow. He doesn't tease, tonight isn't the night to make you beg, he can barely hold back long enough to make sure you're comfortable before he's diving in.
He laps at you like he's starved, eyes fluttering shut, a deep groan pushed out of him. You gasp, hips lifting into him for more, gripping his hair tighter, pulling him closer. He pushes his tongue into you, a glazed look across his face as he tastes you.
He's slower than he wants to be, but he needs you to feel all of it- the way his tongue curls around your clit, already swelling under his touch, the way his stubble rubs against you, harsher than you're used to. He wraps his mouth over you, sucking at your pussy, dragging his tongue through your folds, face buried between your thighs.
Your back arches off the mattress, body grinding against him without meaning to. You tug hard at his hair, he lets out a quiet moan- you don't mention it, too consumed by your own feelings.
You're soaking over him- he's in fucking paradise. His cock is strained against his boxers, so hard it almost hurts- taking in every second he can of you wrapped around his face.
"De-" you stutter out nothing, your mind too overwhelmed to get out anything else.
You feel him grin against you, he pulls back only slightly, "Pretty girl?"
You look down at him, pulling on his hair to get him to ease up, "Dean- seriously-"
He draws back further, raising an eyebrow.
"Come fuck me-"
He doesn't need to be told twice. He moves quickly, tugging his boxers off while you pull yourself back up the bed slightly, regaining some composure as you let your eyes wash over him. He looks back at you, watching you watching him, your eyes meet as you give each other a small smile, safe.
He shifts up next to you, one hand running along your cheek, pushing a hair out of your face. He wets his lips as he pulls you closer, your legs tangling slightly, your hand finding his chest. He's half on top of you, half next to you, your legs caught around each other. He can't pull himself up to get properly above you, his leg too damaged to hold himself up for long enough. Even if he could, he doesn't want to, doesn't even want to turn you over, he wants to see you. He spreads your legs apart with his knee, moving to fill the gap between them.
It's awkward, the sort of position he'd never normally let himself get into. He's supposed to be laying under you so you can see his abs, or above you so you can watch him fuck into you. And sure when his body's busted he doesn't want you seeing him at all- but this is different, this feels clumsy.
But you don't care, he realizes. You're just happy to be here with him, your bodies meeting, faces so close. He pushes into you slowly, your face breaks into a dazed smile, eyelids fluttering shut. He leans forward to kiss you, lips staying hesitant against yours as he lets out his own soft noises, breathy and desperate as he starts to roll his hips.
"Fuck honey- you're too sweet to me-"
You run your hand down his chest until you reach his stomach- you press it flat against the bandage holding him together, not firm, just feeling the damage under your palm. He takes a shaky breath, rubbing his thumb across your jaw as he kisses you again. You take his lips between yours, fitting together perfectly as you hold him there for a moment, breaking apart only so you can both rest your cheeks against the pillow again.
He looks exhausted, you can't look much better, both of you too tired to care, too desperate to do anything but feel the way your bodies react to each other. Dean fucks you deep, pushing his whole length in every time, forcing a breathy gasp out of you on every thrust. He's only just managing to hold back his own sounds, a whimper stuck in his throat he's refusing to let out.
You're stretched out around him, he feels bigger at this angle, maybe you're just not used to it, or maybe you're not used to him going so slow. The way he's moving sends your mind dizzy, you can feel every careful inch, every steady moment.
Your lips land back against his jaw, planting a light kiss against his skin. You draw in a breath, speaking quiet, "Tell me what you want-"
He goes to what he knows, "I wanna fuck you 'til you can't walk-"
You smile but shake your head, "No- no honey tell me what you want-"
He thinks for a moment. It must be a trick, an impossible question he can't answer- he wants to fuck you senseless, wants to make you scream, wants to leave hickeys on your neck to mark you for the next man.
But that's not right. That's not what you want to hear. And he realizes, maybe tonight that's not what he wants either, maybe tonight he can ask for more, "I- jesus I want you- wanna make you mine-"
You give a subtle nod, kissing his stubble again, your own hips rolling in time with his, helping him hit that sweet spot that's sending your thoughts tumbling.
He keeps going, he can't stop himself now "-want to make you breakfast in the morning- every fuckin' morning-"
He feels an ache in his chest he'd blame on the hunt if he was more lucid- he's not in control enough to do anything right now though, too exhausted and too overwhelmed to have any tangible thoughts, "-want us to spend Sunday's in the yard- watching our kids play, getting covered in dirt-"
He says it like he can't imagine not saying it, like it's all he's ever wanted. It is all he's ever wanted.
"-want to sit on the grass with those tiny little yellow flowers sprouting up all around us-" He can't believe he's saying this. He feels like a fucking idiot, too tired to stop himself. He knows it's too much. He knows he shouldn't. God this is more than he's ever said to you. More than he's ever even said to himself. He knows you won't look at him the same after, it's fucking shameful.
"Buttercups." You murmur, your eyes still half lidded.
"What?" He swallows hard, part of his brain wondering if this is some safe-word he's forgotten about.
You offer a small smile, kissing the tip of his nose, "Those flowers- they're buttercups."
"Buttercups?" He can only repeat it, confused that you're going along with his crazed ramblings.
You murmur in affirmation, too focused on the way he's pushing into you to realize how much weight your reply seemed to hold. Your fingers trickle over his skin, light, feeling your way up his side.
"Those are some pretty flowers, pretty boy." You say it like praise- it makes him giddy.
He kisses you again, deeper, lips holding onto yours, keeping you close. He tugs your lower lip between his teeth, making you gasp into his mouth. He feels like he might come right now, but he focuses on your lips, trying to stave off the feeling in his core.
He pushes in harder, filling you deep. Your mouth stays hesitant against his, breath shared- fingers tangling into your hair, holding you steady as he speeds up.
"Just- fuck- just like that-" you mumble against his lips.
"Yeah?" He murmurs, missing you again.
"Don't stop- I'm so close De-" you whimper out, nails digging into his skin, "I'm so- jesus-"
He moves faster, tugging you into him, his hips bucking into you. Your legs tangle into his, your whole body shaking with pleasure. You grip hold of him tighter, desperate for him, desperate to feel him.
He kisses you gently, voice quiet, "I want you, honey- want you every damn day-"
Your orgasm floods through you, filling your body with silky pleasure. You keep him close, your hands on his body, your lips against his. It feels like honey in your body, sticky and sweet and delicious.
He can't hold back any longer, his hips buck as he spills deep into you. He groans out, quietened only by your lips, his body overwhelmed with everything he's been begging for, his breath stuttering as he squeezes his eyes shut.
You stay like that for a long time, your legs tangled up, your hearts pounding in your chests. He feels a drowsy fog overtake him, but staves it off just long enough to pull out of you. You whine quietly, head relaxing against the pillow, too dazed to get any real expression out.
He's so exhausted he thinks he might wipe out before he manages to move any more, but he still wants to check you're okay before he sleeps, still needs that moment of careful consideration. He drags himself up, stumbling his way to your bathroom in the dark, dragging his hand along the wall to work out where he is. He wets a washcloth, then makes the journey back the way he came, your bedroom easier to find.
You're still stretched out across the mattress when he walks back in, your dozing body just as gorgeous when you don't realize he's looking. He makes his way back towards the bed, you stir only slightly as he settles beside you, opening your eyes only when he presses the washcloth between your legs.
"Shit- that's cold, Dean-"
He laughs slightly, "Sorry, sorry I'm done-" he moves it away again, throwing it to the floor next to the bed.
You smile at him, pulling him back towards you and planting a small kiss against his lips. You pull back to look at him- it seems like you're going to say something- but then you stop yourself, pulling him back into you so he can lay his body against yours.
You drag your hand down him, fingertips across his skin, rippling against the muscles on his back. You find the gauze at his abdomen again, just for a moment, then pull away, back to your patterns across his body.
He settles, finally, breath falling slower, mind lethargic. He wants to talk to you, wants to explain all the stupid things he was saying, wants to defend his exhausted state and confused mind and insane thoughts. But he can't right now, his body won't let him, too tired to even picture opening his eyes.
You run your fingers over his arms, just slowly, glancing across the scars that cut deep. You take a slow breath, falling into the same state as him, your night finally catching up with you. You crease your eyes open to take one final look at him, his body pressed against yours. He looks smaller like this, delicate.
"Sleep, honey-" you kiss the top of his head, "-sleep and dream of buttercups."
This poor fella. ♥︎♥︎ Luckily we're taking very good care of him. We'll give him everything he longs for, I'm sure of it. If he'd just take his head out of his ass, first.
"You're his reward for not dying, a pretty moment of peace between so much blood."
