✨It’s Like Supernatural✨

Born in the *early* 90’s This is my little corner of the internet for all the smutty SPN fandom related things I enjoy. 99.9% a Jensen blog but I won’t tolerate Jared hate, keep it moving! NOT a fan of Danneel or Misha I only ship Jensen/characters with myself(obvs) lol, sooo reader insert fics are my jam! (18+ content/Minors DNI) To all the fic writers out there, thank you! 🩷

[candy-coated-misery0731]

Absolutely begging new writers on this wonderful site to please, PLEASE include a "keep reading" feature on your fics 🙏🏼

It makes scrolling the dash AND saving fics so much easier 😘

Love you all and thank you so much for sharing your work with us! ❤️

[ceruleanheaven]

month starting on a monday we have no excuse guys lets get to work and lock the fuck in

[ceruleanheaven]

yk its actually very chic and avant garde to start on tuesday the second

[ceruleanheaven]

many claim theres nothing more subversive and revolutionary than starting on wednesday the third

[candy-coated-misery0731]

Patiently waiting to see if we got our shit together enough to start on the 4th or not 😅

[jensensgotyoudean]

Dean Winchester | 1.19 Provenance

[candy-coated-misery0731]

Lips made for sin. Fingers made to be inside me.

[mrsfitzgerald]

[candy-coated-misery0731]

Did they know there’d one day be GIF-makers on this very app, dissecting every frame of a shot like this?

Did they know where our minds would go when they shot it?

Did they know the whole world was hot for this man?

Surely they did…🥵

[your-fav-bratt]

Until my throat memorizes each and every vein..

[candy-coated-misery0731]

Mhmm, yes. Need that…

[candy-coated-misery0731]

Fuck…I need him to grip my jaw in his BIG hand and look at me like that 😮‍💨🔥

And the tongue/lip bite combo? OMGAHHH!

Mark Meachum…

More like- “Mark make meachum” amirite?🫦💦

🤫 shhh who said that?! 👀

(GIFS by: @losthavenmine)

COUNTDOWN 1.04 – “Bite 'Em Down”

Jensen Ackles as Mark Meachum

[spnhub]

JENSEN ACKLES as DEAN WINCHESTER SUPERNATURAL, PILOT

[candy-coated-misery0731]

The spiky hair and pouty lips will never not have me in a chokehold 😮‍💨

[sugardean]

also here’s dean moaning yw

[candy-coated-misery0731]

No offense to OP but GUYYYYYS this is how we lose the ancient texts!

The original(and much clearer) post was made right here on Tumblr circa 2013- well before my time here but still.

Link attached below👇🏼 contains the original post with several THOUSAND reblogs(including some delicious Dean pics/GIFS to go along with it) 😉❤️‍🔥

Enjoy this post, and the original as you wish! 🫶🏼

Tumblr is a place to express yourself, discover yourself, and bond over the stuff you love. It's where your interests connect you with your

[talltalesandbedtimestories]

Not Every Day (Dean x Reader)

My Idling co-host @sam-is-my-safe-word just can't keep our mouths shut. We should do another self-inflicted word count challenge, we said. It'll be fun, we said. But not right away, we said.

Sigh.

Anyway, not even a week later, we came up with the theme Big Things in Little Spaces, inspired by my Smut Closet Live Narrations.

But, when all was said and done, I actually wrote something under 1K! And it’s smutty! And it’s Dean Winchester/Reader!

~~~~~

Rated Explicit, under 1k

Dean Winchester/Reader

Wanna hear the PodFic version? Click here or the pic.

Not every day you got a Winchester in your backseat.

You just wished it was under better circumstances.

“You okay back there?”

Dean’s groan in response should not have gotten you wet, but, well, there you were: trying to smuggle Dean Winchester out of a little town in a complete mess of sexual arousal. 

Distracted by the slicking of your panties, you squirmed in the driver’s seat. “This is gonna work. And then, Dean Winchester, you owe me.”

“How exactly am I owing you?” You tilted the rearview mirror to stare at the lump that was Dean hiding under the blanket. “You almost served me to the FBI on a silver platter. Having me meet you at a bar, on an island, where there’s only one road on and off it.” His muffled voice sounded exasperated.

“Peninsula.”

“What?”

“Nahant’s on a peninsula.”

“You really giving me a geography lesson now?”

“Hey, at least I came to get you out of there when I got word.”

“My Baby’s back there.” He growled, deeper, a mix of threat and frustration.

“We’ll get her when they clear out.”

In a minute, either you would be the smuggest hunter in North America or the FBI would arrest one of the Winchester brothers on their Most Wanted list.

“Okay, hold your breath and cross those bow legs of yours.”

~~~

There’d been no tail to your rental: a townhome outside of the coastal and costly area. No sign of a stakeout around the property. You clicked the automatic door opener and slowly guided your compact car into the garage.

Loud and clinky, the motorized echo died down after a few seconds. You turned off the engine. “I think we’re in the clear.”

Dean grunted. So much flailing and jostling and cursing as he battled with the blanket. You could only catch glimpses of various limbs attempting to untangle and emerge upright in the rearview mirror. “How is this even street legal? It’s the size of a tricycle.”

“Hey, quit knocking my car.”

“Who needs to knock it? I could tip it over just blowin’ on it.” 

Something punched into the back of your seat. The car rocked on its axles, tiny squeaks rising from the floorboard. 

“It may not be flashy, but it’s functional.”

Dean scoffed. “It ain’t my Baby, that’s for damn sure.”

“Well, it’s mine. Show some respect. He got you out of there, didn’t he?”

Having managed to sit up, Dean’s gaze locked on yours in the mirror. Breath fumed from his nostrils, bathing the side of your neck with dragon-level heat. “It was you that got me out of there. I owe you, don’t I?”

You gasped at the sudden sear of fingers skimming your forearm. “W-we should do a sweep of the house, j-just to make sure.”

He responded in silence, inspecting your reflection with a knowing smirk.

~~~

Not every day you got a Winchester in your bed.

Dean had worked you over for a good ten minutes with a thorough tongue inspection. Two fingers deep inside your slick hole and bee-stung lips adoring your clit with the most mind-blowing suction you’d ever experienced had you crying out his name. As you came down from the high, you could feel his smile crease against your folds, his hum of satisfaction reverberating through your body. 

Now, he hovered over you, clenching the top of the headboard, sweat beading up on his forehead. You sighed, every cell in your body tingling.

His sheathed cock pressed against your entrance. Dean cursed, meeting resistance at the push. “You’re gonna be a challenge for me, huh?”

You grinned. “You did a pretty good job filling up a small space earlier.”

Dean huffed and shook his head, dropped down to kiss you. His tongue memorized every inch of the wet and warmth of your mouth. The tip of his rock-hard length tapped at your opening in a steady rhythm. He swayed, propelled by clenched ass cheeks you grabbed by the fistful. He mumbled, chin poking into the crook of your neck, “Always so goddamn difficult.” His arm flexed and bent with the motion, keeping him aloft as he held onto the headboard.

“Nothing good comes easy,” you panted back.

He paused, mid-thrust, stared at you with eyes intent and hungry. “You already know how clever I am with this mouth of mine, darlin’. Trust me. I ain’t gonna do anything to hurt you. Relax.” His forehead rested against yours. “Let me in.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but he silenced you with another kiss. Words peppered in between his careful pecks. “Breathe, baby. Nice and slow.”

Sinking into the pillow and angling your head to meet his gaze, you watched him inhaling deeply through his nose, then releasing air out of his mouth. You couldn’t help but follow his lead.

“There you go.” He nodded with a proud smile. His breath hitched as he pushed against the restricted area. “So damn wet and tight,” he hissed. 

“I want–” You moaned.

“Whaddya want, sweetheart?” he begged.

“I want to be good for you.”

He nodded, sure. “Gonna be so good. Ain’t no way you could be anything but awesome.” 

You melted at his words and the smile of certainty he beamed down at you. A second later, you marveled at the look of victory on Dean’s face as he was permitted entry, even if only a fraction.

“That’s it.” Heavy lids with beautiful lashes fluttered. “Once I’m in, you might never let me leave.”

You sighed, in full agreement. You wanted to sass him back, but he made you gasp instead as you felt the unhurried forward momentum. A velvet heat ignited your core with the agonizingly beautiful stretch and fullness.

“Goddamn you feel good.” He moaned. “I may never wanna leave.”

Finally, balls deep, he smirked. “I got work to do. I owe you, after all.”

That’s when the real fun began.

Not every day you got a Winchester inside you.

[candy-coated-misery0731]

UHM...what the freaking fuck?! This was so goddamn HOT! 🥵🔥

I LOOOOVE the way he talks to her! Cocky and confident but also sweet and gentle. So very Dean Winchester.

I loved the "I got work to do" line tossed in there as well! 👏🏼

[meiplays-deactivated20260117]

“Those Plump Lips” 💋

Dean Winchester x Reader

Dean caught your gaze from across the room like a predator spotting his favorite prey. You tried to look anywhere but at him, but your eyes betrayed you every time they flicked down to those lips — full, soft, and plump in a way that made your heart stutter.

He saw it. Hell, he thrived on it.

Slowly, deliberately, Dean ran his tongue along his bottom lip, the slick motion catching the dim light just right. That small action made your breath hitch, cheeks burning. He knew exactly what he was doing.

“You’re obsessed with these lips,” Dean said with a low chuckle, voice thick with amusement. “I catch you staring every damn time.”

You swallowed, caught off guard by how honest and confident he was. There was no shame on his face — just that devilish smirk that said, I own you.

Dean stepped closer, the heat of his body wrapping around you like a cloak. His eyes locked onto yours, piercing and intense. “What if I told you these lips? They’re dangerous. You might not be able to resist.”

Before you could answer, he dipped his head, slow and sure, and brushed his lips over yours with the softest touch. His mouth was warm, plump, and textured — like velvet with just enough roughness from years of whiskey and fighting to keep it interesting.

Then he pulled back just enough to run his tongue over his bottom lip again — that wet, slow lick that made your insides tighten. It was a tease, a challenge, and a promise all at once.

Dean’s hand slid up the side of your face, fingers curling beneath your jaw as he tilted your head. “Tell me you don’t want more.”

You couldn’t.

When his lips met yours again, it was deeper, firmer, his plump bottom lip pressing between yours with a slight, tantalizing bite. You could feel the faint rasp of his stubble, the subtle swell of his lips molding perfectly to yours. Every second stretched out, heavy and electric.

His kiss was a slow burn—seductive and possessive. His tongue teased the seam of your lips before slipping inside, gentle and demanding. The way he moved was intoxicating — patient but charged with an undercurrent of raw hunger that sent shivers down your spine.

Dean’s hand moved from your jaw to the back of your neck, pulling you impossibly closer until you were pressed flush against him, breath mingling, hearts racing. He licked the corner of your mouth, then traced down your jawline with that same wet, teasing touch that had you trembling.

“See? Told you these lips were trouble,” he murmured, voice thick with heat.

You tried to speak, but Dean silenced you with another kiss, slower this time, letting his lips brush yours in delicate, teasing flicks. His thumb rubbed soothing circles against your cheek as if he was memorizing every inch of your face, every subtle reaction you had to his touch.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark, shimmering with mischief and something deeper — possession, affection, and the knowledge that you were completely his.

“Don’t think I’m ever gonna stop,” Dean said softly, voice low enough to be a growl. “These lips? They’re your favorite kink, and I plan to use that to my advantage.”

You couldn’t help but grin, breathless and dizzy, because honestly — you didn’t want him to stop.

Dean leaned in once more, pressing a feather-light kiss to your temple, then whispered, “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood.”

And with that, he pulled you into another heated kiss — slow, deliberate, and entirely addicting.

[candy-coated-misery0731]

Oh. My. Fucking. GOD!!! 🫠🫦

I need his lips on mine SO BAD!

[spitefulsatanfics]

✦ 𝓟𝓻𝓲𝓭𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓙𝓸𝔂 ✦

❝You know, I’ve been thinking… I’d die for her. I’d kill for her. And not just because I love her — because she’s my family.❞

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Hunter!Y/N (She/Her Reader) From: Supernatural (TV Series) Tones: soulmate-level sweetness, soft domesticity, lovesick Dean, injury angst, hunter x hunter banter, established relationship, fluffy romance, protectiveness, emotional vulnerability, one-bed trope vibes

Rating: 18+ (mild injury, swearing, heavy emotional intensity, physical intimacy — minors do not interact)

✎ 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥 ♡ written and published May 29, 2025™ Based on: Supernatural, Seasons 1–2 (no specific episode — canon-adjacent storyline) (Note: Show is rated 17+)

Synopsis: Y/N gets the honor of driving Dean’s most sacred possession: the Impala. But one drunk driver, one wrecked car, and one shaky phone call later, she realizes she was never just his passenger. She is the thing he treasures most.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

The call came at 9:27 PM.

Dean’s phone rang from inside his jacket pocket where it hung on the back of a rickety motel chair. He was halfway through cleaning his favorite sawed-off when the shrill buzz set his pulse on edge. There weren’t many people who had that number. Sam was in the next room, grabbing takeout. Bobby always called the landline. That left one person.

You.

And sure enough— Y/N was glowing across the screen in stark white letters.

He answered it in less than a second.

“Sweetheart?” he said immediately, already on alert. There was a siren wailing faintly in the background—far too close for his liking.

“Hey, I—uh…” your voice came through ragged, breathless, like you’d just been running or crying or both. “I need you to not freak out.”

Dean’s heart plummeted straight to the motel carpet. He was already out of his seat, boots hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

“Where are you?”

“I’m okay,” you rushed out, panicked and shaking. “I mean—I think I’m okay. Just scraped up. But Baby—Dean, I’m so sorry. The car—”

The line went blurry with static for a second, but he’d already heard everything he needed to.

A crash. An apology. The word “Baby.”

Dean didn’t even need directions. He’d find you—if he had to rip up every road sign in Kansas to do it.

He was gone before Sam even made it back with dinner.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

The car was barely recognizable.

She lay crooked at the shoulder of the road, one headlight blinking like a dying firefly. The passenger door was warped in on itself, hood twisted open like a jawbone snapped mid-scream. And then there was you—sitting on the bumper of the ambulance, legs swinging like a schoolgirl trying to pretend she wasn’t bleeding through her jeans.

Dean didn’t speak. He just jogged across the gravel, dropped to his knees in front of you, and cupped your face in his calloused hands like you were spun from smoke and starlight.

You tried to joke. “Didn’t even dent the paint, right?”

His hands trembled. His jaw clenched. His lips parted like he wanted to say something that wasn’t a prayer.

But all he managed was, “Are you hurt?”

You shook your head. “No. I mean, not really. Just bruised, maybe a cracked rib. EMTs checked me out. Said I was lucky.”

Lucky.

God. He’d never hated a word more. Because you weren’t lucky. You were a damn miracle. Breathing, warm, alive in front of him. That car could be rebuilt. But you?

You weren’t replaceable.

“I thought you’d be mad,” you admitted softly. The sentence cracked at the end, a jagged edge slicing through all your bravery. “About the Impala. I know how much she means to you.”

Dean’s thumb brushed over your cheek, sweeping away a streak of blood you hadn’t noticed. His eyes—green like a stormy coast, wild and wide—locked on yours with so much force it almost hurt to look back.

“Y/N,” he said, voice raw, “I love that car. You know I do. But if it was you or her…”

His throat caught. He looked down, like the truth was too big to stare in the face.

“She’s just steel,” he whispered. “You’re everything else.”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

It was quiet in the motel room that night. You sat on the edge of the bed in one of Dean’s old t-shirts, the smell of leather and motor oil cocooning you like armor. Your ribs ached, your body throbbed in patches of dull heat and yellowed bruises. But you’d never felt safer.

Dean returned from the bathroom with a warm cloth, kneeling beside the bed like he couldn’t stand being even an inch higher than you right now. His fingers moved with reverence—cleaning your scrapes, pressing bandages, whispering apologies into the dips of your skin like your body was holy.

“Y’know,” he said, half-smiling, “I only let you drive her ‘cause I trust you more than anyone else.”

You gave a wobbly smirk. “Guess I broke that trust, huh?”

His hand froze on your thigh. His eyes darkened—not angry, but gutted.

“No,” he said. “Never.”

You blinked. “Dean…”

He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. His voice was gravel and gravity all at once.

“I could’ve lost you,” he murmured. “And you’re sitting here worried about my car.”

You swallowed. The truth hit you like a tidal wave.

“You really mean that?”

He pulled back, just enough to look at you clearly. His hand slipped to the back of your neck.

“Y/N,” he said, slow and certain, “you’re not just some girl I date. You’re not a partner in the field. You’re…” He laughed under his breath, almost bitter. “You’re the thing I pray to when I’m bleeding out. You’re what I see when I close my eyes. You are my home.”

You didn’t say anything. You just kissed him—long, slow, desperate.

It tasted like grief and gasoline and relief all tangled into one. It tasted like everything he thought he lost, now found again.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Later, with the light off and the storm moving in through the windows, Dean wrapped himself around you like a shield. His hand was splayed over your ribs, gently, as if he could take the pain into himself. His breath was warm against your hair.

“I’ll fix her,” he murmured. “She’ll run again.”

You nodded sleepily. “And me?”

He chuckled softly, kissed the nape of your neck.

“You don’t need fixing,” he said. “You’re my pride and joy.”

You turned over to face him, voice low and teasing. “Isn’t that your car’s title?”

His smile was so soft, it felt like a sunrise.

“Used to be.”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

[candy-coated-misery0731]

Oh my gosh this is so sweet and fluffy! Felt like I was getting a comforting hug reading this! ❤️

Poor Baby all battered up 😭

“She’s just steel,” he whispered. “You’re everything else.”

But like…why am I teary-eyed over this line?

And then-

"Y/N," he said, slow and certain, "you're not just some girl I date. You're not a partner in the field. You're..." He laughed under his breath, almost bitter. "You're the thing I pray to when I'm bleeding out. You're what I see when I close my eyes. You are my home."

Ah! That is so beautiful and soft! I really loved this!

[mostly10]

[☼]

with bonus epiderp/tongue porn and a reaction gif also… because why not?

[candy-coated-misery0731]

Mouth made for sin…I can never get enough 🫠

[phantomyaa]

[candy-coated-misery0731]

Gahhh! Need them both to take me over that desk 🥵

[prettyinpeaches]

Lilac Cotton

Dean Winchester x Reader | Supernatural

NOTES: Rhonda Hurley, the woman that you are <3 this might be a little cracky but I don’t care because I love it

TW: smut, grinding, cumming in pants/panties, dirty talk, Dean tries on your panties, and then makes you wear them (dirty), jealousy, discussion of an ex/past sexual experiences, no Sam in sight, Dean being his charming sexy self

It’s stupid.

You know it’s stupid. Just one of those throwaway things people say—especially Dean. Especially when the night’s gotten long and the beer’s kicked in. A dumb, drunken anecdote tossed out like candy, all swagger and no filter.

“This chick, Rhonda Hurley, made me wear her panties once.”

It was funny. Really. You’d even laughed—at least, something that sounded like a laugh. Tight, maybe. A little delayed. But it passed.

Dean hadn’t thought twice about it, grinning like an idiot, cracking jokes about pink satin and “breezy ventilation,” waving the memory around like a lighter flame at a concert. Just another ridiculous chapter in his endless book of stories. Not serious. Not romantic. Just stupid and nineteen and high on hormones.

And you’re not mad. Not at him. Not even at her, really.

It’s just… stuck.

It crawled into your brain and sat there, humming quietly under your skin for days. Not because of what happened, but because of what it meant—that some girl, way back when, got to see that side of him. That goofy, reckless, willing-to-do-anything version. The one who hadn’t been so jaded yet. Who could still be embarrassed. Who maybe didn’t think about how things would sound later.

That part gets to you. The part where he just did it. Because she asked. Because she dared him. Because it didn’t matter.

And now you’re here—years later, folding laundry on a lumpy motel bed, trying not to remember how casually he’d said it. How easy it was for him to let it go. How hard it’s been for you to stop thinking about it.

You haven’t brought it up. Didn’t want to sound nagging like some crazy, jealous girlfriend.

But somewhere along the way, something shifted. Something small, but noticeable. A pause in the way your hands reached for him. A little more space between your bodies in bed. A silence that didn’t used to be there.

You didn’t mean to change. It just… happened.

And it’s not about whether he loves you—because you know he does. It’s not about her being special—because she wasn’t. It’s just that weird, stupid ache that creeps in sometimes, when you realize someone else got a piece of the person you love. A piece you didn’t know you wanted until it was already gone.

And now you’re here, matching up socks like your life depends on it, trying not to say her name.

Trying not to let it slip.

But it already has.

Dean’s across the room in the battered armchair that looks like it’s seen a few bar fights and lost all of them. He’s nursing a beer, flipping through channels like there might be something new on TV despite knowing damn well it's the same midday reruns of Judge Judy and Walker, Texas Ranger.

“I’ve been thinking about Rhonda Hurley.”

Dean doesn’t look up right away. He’s mid-sip. “Jesus. What’d she do now?”

You hesitate, fingers curling too tightly around the edge of a faded graphic tee as you fold it with mechanical precision.

“You.”

That gets his attention.

His head turns slowly, one brow lifting in a familiar, skeptical arch. “Come again?”

You focus on the shirt in your lap like it holds the secrets of the universe. “The thing you said the other night. About her making you wear her underwear.”

Dean squints like he’s trying to replay the moment in his head, then huffs out a short breath, almost disbelieving. “That was, like, four motels ago.”

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, folding the shirt with surgical focus, “it stuck.”

There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again, voice more curious than anything. “You mad about that?”

“I’m not mad,” you say immediately—too fast. Too defensive.

Dean snorts behind his bottle. “Well, you’re something.”

“I’m not.”

“You haven’t touched me since Nebraska,” he points out, voice light but unmistakably edged with concern. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. And you’ve been balling socks over there like they stole your lunch money.”

You glare at him, sock still clenched in your fist. “Don’t make fun of me.”

His smirk fades. “I’m not,” he says, quieter now. “I’m just tryin’ to figure out why the hell you’re jealous of something that happened when I wasn’t even old enough to legally drink.”

You don’t answer. Your hands have gone still in your lap, the soft rhythm of folding clothes broken. That’s what tips him off.

Dean sets the beer down on the side table with a quiet clink and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Hey,” he says gently. “Talk to me.”

You take a deep breath, staring at the half-packed duffel in front of you. “I just didn’t expect it,” you murmur, finally. “You. Doing something like that.”

Dean lifts a brow again. “Like what? Wearing panties?”

You wrinkle your nose. “D, it’s just—”

“What?” he shrugs, all unbothered bravado. “It was a dare. She said she’d tell everyone I had whiskey dick if I didn’t. I was nineteen, full of testosterone and bad decisions. You think I was gonna say no?”

“I know, it was forever ago,” you say softly. “It’s not even about her.”

“Then what?”

You swallow. “It’s that you did it for her. You barely even liked her, and you still—” You break off, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. “Never mind.”

There’s a long pause, then a quiet huff of a laugh—one that sounds more fond than mocking.

“Sweetheart,” Dean says, rising to his feet. The floorboards groan under his boots as he crosses the room. “You think I’d rather put on her panties than take yours off?”

Your cheeks flush hot. “I'm being serious—”

“I am being serious,” he says, eyes glittering. “If you left a pair out for me right now? I’d wear the shit out of ‘em. Hell, I’d walk around this whole dumpy motel in ‘em just to see the look on your face. Do a twirl for you and everything.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. You try not to smile. You fail.

He reaches you in two steps, crouches a little to meet your eyes. “Baby,” he murmurs. “You really sat on that for almost a week?”

“I didn’t mean to,” you mutter, voice small. “It just kinda… festered.”

Dean exhales through his nose, warm and steady. He lifts his hand, cups your jaw, brushing his thumb along the apple of your cheek with that rough softness only he has. It’s gentle. Familiar. Safe.

“You know you can tell me when something’s eatin’ at you, right?” he murmurs. “You don’t have to wait until you’re muttering about my exes over laundry.”

“I didn’t want to sound crazy.”

Dean deadpans, “Too late for that,” and you smack his chest with the balled-up sock, but you’re laughing now. He catches your wrist, presses a kiss to the inside of it before letting you go.

“Look—was it dumb? Yeah. But so was I. That was long before I ever had you. And now?” He leans in close, voice dropping to that low, warm rasp that always unspools something deep in your chest. “I don’t want anyone else. Haven’t even looked at anyone else since the first time I laid eyes on that pretty face of yours.”

You bite your lip in an attempt to tamp down on the smile that's winning out on breaking across your face. “Even if I don’t wear pink satin?”

Dean’s grin could light a match. “Especially because you don’t. I like the stuff you wear. Smells like you. Fits you better,” he says, kissing your temple, then wrapping his arms around you like he’s afraid you’ll melt away.

You sink into him, your arms winding around his back as you rest your cheek against his chest.

“And if it helps,” he adds after a beat, “I’m pretty sure Rhonda’s married to some dentist in Ohio now.”

“Good,” you mutter into his shirt. “Hope he makes her floss ‘til her gums bleed.”

Dean snorts, burying a laugh in your hair. “That’s my girl.”

And just like that, the ache in your chest starts to ease.

You don’t do it right away.

You almost chicken out, honestly.

But something about the way Dean held you last night—firm and steady and just smug enough to make you want to smack him—gives you a little push.

So the next morning, while he’s in the shower, you do it.

You leave them on the bed. Right on top of the flannel and denim he’d laid out for the day.

You don’t make a show of it. Don’t say a word. Just fold them neatly—soft lilac cotton, simple and sweet—and set them down like they belong there, like this isn’t a challenge you’re daring him to meet.

He notices the second he stumbles out of the shower, still towel-damp and sleepy, scrubbing at his hair with the hem of a ragged motel hand towel. He’s mid-yawn when he freezes, looking down at the little pile of fabric like it might bite.

You keep your eyes on the ceiling. The silence stretches.

Then, soft and lazy: “Seriously?”

You hum. “Something wrong?”

Dean turns toward you, one brow raised, mouth already tugging into a lopsided smirk. “You left these out for me?”

“Depends,” you murmur, not quite looking at him. “You gonna wear ‘em?”

He huffs, steps closer. “You really still thinkin’ about that?”

“I think it’s burned into my brain, so yeah.”

Dean sits at the edge of the bed, still holding them. “Baby. I told you, it was a one-time thing. I was a dumbass. She dared me. She laughed, I went with it. It’s not like I—”

“You said you kind of liked it,” you say quietly.

That shuts him up.

He glances over his shoulder, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “You still mad?”

You hesitate, then shake your head. “Wasn't ever mad. M'still not."

“Jealous?”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t look so proud of yourself.”

He grins anyway, like it’s cute. Like you’re cute.

“Kinda hard not to, when you’re jealous over somethin’ that happened before the dinosaurs died.”

“I’m not jealous of her,” you mutter.

Dean stretches out beside you, one arm tucked behind his head. The other still holds the lace trimmed cotton.

“I know,” he says. “You’re jealous she got to see me like that. To have something you didn’t.”

You swallow, shrugging half heartedly. “Maybe.”

There’s a beat. Then, quietly: “You know you don’t have to fight me to prove something, right?” he murmurs. “You coulda just said you wanted me to wear ‘em.”

You glance at him, startled. “That’s not what this is.”

“No?” he asks, smirking as he dangles the pastel fabric off his finger. “’Cause I gotta be honest—kind of feels like you want me to put these on and let you get it outta your system.”

You go very still.

Dean holds the panties up between two fingers, giving them a quick little snap.

“Guess there’s only one way to fix this,” he says, and before you can stop him, he’s pushing up from the bed and dropping his towel.

You don’t even try to pretend you’re not looking.

He slips them on, careful and casual, like this is a completely normal part of his morning routine.

And damn it all if they don’t actually fit.

A little more than snug, sure, and absolutely ridiculous, but there’s something about the way he owns it—hips cocked, bare chest on full display, smirk firmly in place—that hits you somewhere deep and low.

And then?

Then he turns around and shoots you a look says that’s right. Still got it.

You laugh—can’t help it. Hide your face in your hands. “Oh my god.”

Dean flops back onto the bed beside you, stretching like a cat. “They’re actually kinda comfy.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Yeah, but I’m yours,” he says, nudging your knee with his. “C’mere.”

You do. Slowly, like you’re not totally sure what’s happening.

Dean pulls you into his lap, your thighs straddling his, that lilac cotton warm under your legs.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod, cheeks flushed.

“Good,” he says. Then lowers his voice. “Now sit real pretty on my lap and ruin ‘em for me.”

You blink. “What?”

Dean grins, impossibly fond. “Figure if I’m wearing your panties, might as well let you mark your territory.”

Your breath catches. And just like that—you’re not jealous anymore.

You’re breathless, not quite sure if you’re blushing from embarrassment or arousal. Probably both.

Dean leans back on the pillows, one arm draped lazily behind his head, like this is the most natural thing in the world—like he isn’t half-naked in a pair of your underwear, looking at you like he’s about to ruin your whole afternoon.

“Well?” he drawls, voice low and rough, like gravel warmed in whiskey. “Gonna sit still up there all day or you gonna move, sweetheart?”

You blink. “You’re actually—this is actually happening.”

Dean smirks, eyes flicking over your face, your chest, your thighs tucked around him. “Sure is. And I gotta admit… kinda diggin’ the view.”

Your hands press lightly to his bare shoulders, and you can feel the heat of him, the muscle, the slow flex under your fingers as he shifts beneath you. His breath catches when your hips shift—just a little.

Not enough.

You do it again, slower this time. A soft drag of your center against the washed soft material stretched across him.

Dean hisses through his teeth. “Yeah. That’s it.”

You’re trying not to come undone just from this—just from the look in his eyes. It’s half-devotion, half-filth, like he can’t decide whether to tease you or worship you.

“You’re insane,” you whisper.

“Maybe,” he murmurs, leaning up to kiss your collarbone. “But you’re the one grindin’ on me while I’m wearin’ your panties.”

He’s not wrong.

You roll your hips again, testing. The friction’s not perfect, but it’s enough to send a flush down your spine. You feel how hard he’s getting beneath the fabric, how it’s already too tight, how his hands tighten against your hips like he’s holding himself back.

“Gonna leave a mark if you keep this up,” he mutters against your throat.

“Maybe I want to,” you breathe.

Dean groans, like the idea of you soaking the front of your own underwear while he’s wearing them is about to break him.

“I gotcha, sweetheart,” he murmurs, dragging a slow hand down your back.

You try to respond, but your brain’s still short-circuited. Your thighs twitch around his waist, breath hitching when you realize he’s still hard beneath you—still grinding up, slow and deep, like he can’t stop.

Each lazy thrust drags the soaked fabric between you in slick, filthy friction, the ruined lace slipping over your clit just right—just enough. You cry out, legs tightening around him instinctively, hips jerking down to meet his.

“Dean,” you gasp, voice breaking. “I—I can’t—”

“Oh, baby,” he groans, voice raw with praise. “Yes, you can. You’re so close. I can feel it—fuck, you’re right there.”

He’s not wrong. Every roll of his hips pushes you closer, heat coiling tighter and tighter in your belly, your thighs trembling uncontrollably as your slick makes a mess of both of you. The pressure’s sharp now—hot and aching and impossible to ignore.

Then he shifts—just barely—but it’s enough.

The angle changes, and the thick, soaked fabric presses flush to your clit, catching it perfectly. Once. Twice.

You shatter.

Your whole body seizes, thighs clamping around his waist, hips grinding down wildly as the orgasm tears through you, sudden and explosive. You gasp, eyes wide and unfocused, mouth falling open with a soft, desperate sound that borders on a sob. It pulses through you in waves—deep and devastating—your hips jerking helplessly against the friction until you’re almost whimpering from the overstimulation.

Dean’s voice is in your ear, gentle and awestruck. “That’s it. That’s my girl. Goddamn, look at you—fuckin’ perfect.”

You collapse against him, boneless and shaking, your skin damp with sweat, nerves still firing like live wires.

“You feel what you do to me?” he rasps against your ear. “You soakin’ through em—fuck, baby…”

Your breath stutters. You shift your hips just barely and he groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“I’m gonna come,” he pants. “Shit—shit—you ride me like that, all wet and needy—“

You lift your head just enough to meet his eyes. He looks wrecked. Flushed. So damn ruined.

You kiss him—hot, messy, teeth and tongue—while your hips roll again, deliberately slow. The soaked cotton between you clings with every movement, slick and tight and filthy.

Dean’s hands clamp hard at your hips, pulling you down just as his body tenses, every muscle locking up beneath you.

“Fuck—fuck—baby, I’m gonna—”

And then he breaks.

With a strangled groan, Dean comes hard, jerking up into you as the wet heat floods between you, mixing with yours, soaking the cotton through.

You feel it—all of it. The way he shudders. The mess of it. How it clings to both of you, hot and sticky and everywhere.

Dean’s breathing like he ran a mile, chest heaving under your hands. His eyes flutter shut as he pulls you close again, burying his face in your neck.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, hoarse and raw.

You laugh weakly against him, dazed and limp. “Not sorry.”

He chuckles, deep and low, pressing lazy kisses to your throat. Then his hand drifts down—palming the ruined fabric still clinging to his hips.

“Gonna have to peel these off,” he murmurs, almost in awe. “Cant say I've ever come in someone else's underwear, but there’s a first for everything.”

He shifts, breath warm against your cheek. “Good job, baby.”

You bury your face in his neck, half-embarrassed, half turned on all over again. “Shut up.”

He grins. You can feel it against your skin.

“Nah,” he says, voice thick and warm. “You oughta be proud. That was a scene straight out a goddamn porno.”

You groan, squirming in his lap, but his hands tighten at your hips—holding you steady.

Then he leans back, just a little, and looks down between you.

“Well,” he says, breath catching, “they’re not completely destroyed, might as well put em to good use.”

You glance down and flush immediately. The underwear is soaked through—his cum, your slick, all tangled up in the delicate cotton. It’s obscene.

He starts peeling them down slowly, carefully, and you gasp as the fabric pulls away, sticky and warm against his skin.

“Dean, don’t—” you start, but he’s already grabbing a corner of the sheet and wiping at them—gently, even with a smug smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Relax, don’t wanna let this go to taste,” he murmurs, swiping away the worst of the mess. “But I’m not lettin’ you wear ‘em if they’re squishing’ every time you move, sweetheart.”

Your whole body heats up. “That’s disgusting.”

“Yeah?” He lifts his eyes to yours, slow and smug. “Didn’t seem to mind when you were grinding down on me in ‘em like your life depended on it.”

You make a sound—half protest, half whimper—and he just laughs, soft and fond, like he can’t help himself.

Then, after a beat, he shifts again—slipping a hand around you, guiding you gently to lie back. His touch is reverent now. Slow. Almost tender.

“C’mon,” he says softly. “Let me. Please?”

You make a soft, mortified sound, and he just laughs—quiet and pleased, the sound of someone completely smitten with their own bad behavior.

Then he moves—leaning over you again, hand sliding around the back of your thigh, guiding it up. You tremble under his touch, still oversensitive, but the look in his eyes is so tender it knocks the breath from your lungs.

When he gets them into place, snug against your hips, he smooths his hands along your thighs, adjusting them like he’s dressing something delicate.

He leans down, kisses your stomach. Your hip. The inside of your knee.

“There,” he murmurs, pleased. “Now you get to walk around all day knowin’ I came in your panties.”

You flinch when his palm cups you again through the panties—instinctive, oversensitive—and he grins, wolfish.

“Still twitchy,” he murmurs, dragging his hand away slow. “God, that’s hot.”

You groan, cover your face. “You’re disgusting.”

Dean chuckles low in his throat and leans in, nose brushing along your cheek. “Yeah, well. So are you, sweetheart. You just hide it better.”

You shove at his shoulder, half-hearted. “Stop.”

“I mean it,” he says, and there’s something softer beneath the teasing now. “You act like I don’t know you, baby. I can read you like a book, I know you liked it.”

You pout without meaning to. “You liked it too.”

“Damn right I liked it,” Dean grins, full of sin. “And now I like this—you, squirmy as hell, wearin’ ‘em sticky ‘cause I made you come so hard, you forgot your own name and you rode me hard like a bat outta hell. ”

Your breath hitches. “Dean—”

“Shhh,” he soothes, brushing your hair back, but there’s mischief in his eyes. “You let me do this, remember? My girl made me feel fuckin’ awesome and now I wanna take care of her.”

You’re already flushed, but when he dips down again—tongue peeking out to catch a little spot he missed before—you practically levitate off the bed.

“Dean!”

He laughs, actually laughs, and finally wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before he reaches for the panties again.

Dean must see it in your face, because he slows down, his fingers gentler now as they smooth across the waistband, thumbs pressing into your hipbones.

“Too much?” he asks softly.

You swallow hard. Shake your head.

He smiles again, softer this time. “You’re somethin’ else, baby.”

You squint at him. “That a compliment?”

“Hell yeah it is,” he says. “Only girl I know who could turn a hissy fit into the hottest damn afternoon of my life.”

You groan again, drop your head back to the pillow.

Dean leans in, presses a warm kiss to your stomach, then one to your thigh. His voice is low, reverent.

“Kind of love that you get to walk around wearin’ me all day, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Bet you’ll think about me every time you move. Every time you feel em against you, you’ll know I put em there.”

You make a soft, broken sound. He just grins wider.

“Good,” he says. “I hope it drives you crazy.”

And the worst part?

You know it will.

TAGLIST @spxideyver @tendertulip @n-o-p-e-never @suckitands33 @lunaleah @fandomchik @tinas111 @0ccvltism @cupidzbunny @losers-clvb @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @thatg8rl

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[candy-coated-misery0731]

Oh this is SO good! I loved it! 🙌🏼

It has a little bit of everything; a tiny bit of angst, humor, fluff, Dean’s filthy mind and of course, a delicious bit of smut 🥵💦

[legalmente-loca]

Pairing: Dark!Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Tags/Warnings: +18, smut, masturbation (male receiving), harassment, breaking in your house, panties kink, Pervert!Dean

Dean couldn't stop thinking about you. Before he closed his eyes, he'd see you in his mind's eye, beautiful. When he slept, he'd dream of you, and when he woke up, he'd follow you like a vulture following a dead body. He'd even managed to get into your house through your broken bedroom window.

Dean didn't even think twice. He went straight to your wardrobe and looked at your underwear. But no, it was no good. They didn't smell like you. So he went to the dirty clothes hamper and rummaged through them like a starved man until he finally found a pair of panties that satisfied him. He lifted them up with two fingers and inspected them; there was a white stain in the center, and he buried his nose in it, breathing deeply. He let out a slow exhale, his eyes quivering. It was perfect. He pulled his jeans down enough to let his cock slide out and rubbed your panties against him. He moaned, throwing his head back. He stroked himself slowly up and down, the fabric ripping against his skin feeling exquisite. He moved your panties faster, but something was missing.

It wasn't quite where he wanted it to be.

He looked around and spotted your bed, a mischievous smile spreading across his face. He lay on his stomach, his face against your pillow, smelling your shampoo. He inhaled as he moved his hips against your sheets and the panties around his cock, imagining it was the friction of your insides he was experiencing at the moment.

He moaned against the pillow, a bit of saliva leaking from his mouth. The wet sounds his cock, already lubricated by his precum, was making could be heard throughout the room. And then he heard the front door keys, but to say he didn't mind was an understatement. Quite the opposite... It turned him on even more.

Knowing you were nearby, that you might catch him masturbating in your bed, made his movements quicken. He wished you would find him, that he would be forced to grab you and hold you against the bed to finish what he'd started. With that thought in mind, he let out a loud moan, muffled by the pillow. His hips stuttered, and his cum spurted against the bed and your panties. He took a few moments to himself, slowly rubbing his face against your pillow. He turned over and took a deep breath, a bead of sweat running down his forehead. He inspected the hand still wrapped around his cock and watched as his cum clung to your panties as if they wanted to belong there. Your footsteps grew closer, and he sat up. He considered it, fighting with himself whether to stay still and watch what was happening or get up and leave.

He shook his head and chose the latter. Not yet, it wasn't the time.

Dean climbed out the window he came in through, panties in the back pocket of his jeans and took one last look at the stain on your sheets and smiled, knowing that now you would sleep with a part of him every night.

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[candy-coated-misery0731]

Holy fucking shit! Dean, you NAUGHTY boy! This really shouldn’t be as hot as it is but WOW 🥵💦

[taraschof]

Under the hood

👥Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

📖Word count: ~4000

‼️Rating: Explicit (18+)

⚠️Content warnings: Explicit sexual content, rough sex, choking (light/breathplay), degradation (verbal), praise kink, fingering, oral (f receiving and m receiving), unprotected sex, mild possessiveness, emotional vulnerability, aftercare.

🔞Minors DNI.

📍Summary: Unable to sleep after a hunt, you find Dean in the garage. One thing leads to another, and the tension between you finally boils over.

The bunker was quieter than usual.

You padded barefoot through the cool stone corridors, hoodie sleeves pulled down over your hands, fingers tucked in your palm like they might warm themselves. It was late — well past midnight — but sleep wasn't coming tonight, not after the hunt. Blood still sang in your veins, your muscles twitching from the echo of adrenaline, and your brain refused to power down.

You'd tried everything: hot shower, whiskey, even lying in bed with your phone screen turned low, scrolling through old texts like nostalgia might lull you to sleep. Nothing worked.

Eventually, you gave up and wandered.

The metallic scent hit you first — oil, steel, and something darker, something so distinctly him. A song drifted down the hall from the garage, low and gravelly: Bob Seger's "Night Moves." You didn't even need to look.

Dean.

You should've turned around. You didn't.

Your feet took you closer without asking permission, your pulse tapping against your ribs. You paused at the threshold. There he was — shirtless, his broad back glistening with sweat under the soft, golden light. He was leaning over the Impala's open hood, one hand buried in the engine, the other wiping at his brow with a grease-streaked rag.

He hadn't noticed you yet.

Or maybe he had, and he was just letting you look.

Your eyes traced the lines of his back — powerful shoulders, the dip of his waist, the sharp V that vanished into worn jeans riding low on his hips. His body was all tension, coiled muscle and quiet control, like a wolf half-asleep in the grass, but ready to pounce.

"Can't sleep?" he asked, voice rougher than gravel, pulling you from the stare you didn't know you'd let linger.

You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to play it cool. "Neither can you apparently."

Dean glanced over his shoulder, smirking without turning fully. "You know me. Never really learned how to sleep unless I'm half-dead or half-drunk."

You stepped inside the garage, drawn to him like iron to a magnet. "Baby acting up again?"

"She's just being temperamental," he said, patting  the hood fondly. "Needs a patient hand."

You cocked a brow. "Didn't realize you were the patient type."

He straightened and turned toward you fully, rag in hand. The sight hit you square in the chest — sun-kissed skin dusted with freckles and old scars, pecs slick with sweat, a glint of amusement in those green eyes. The towel dragged across his collarbone slow, deliberate, like he knew what he was doing.

"You offering to help?" he asked, the words casual, but there was something loaded beneath.

You took a step closer. "Sure. I'm not bad with my hands."

His grin curled higher on one side. "Yeah? I remember."

That memory wasn't about engines.

You hadn't crossed the line — not fully — but things had danced along it. Too many near-misses. Too many "accidental" touches. Too many nights pressed shoulder to shoulder on motel beds, pretending the tension wasn't thick enough to choke on. But neither of you had been stupid — or brave — enough to take it further.

Until maybe now.

"I could use a second pair of hands," he said, backing away from the hood and tossing the rag to the side. "Come on."

You approached slowly, drawn to the scent of him — leather, sweat, and a trace of whiskey. He handed you a flashlight and gestured toward the engine.

"I'll hold this," you offered, angling the beam. Your arm brushed his as you moved in. He didn't flinch, didn't move away.

His voice dropped low. "You're good at this. Getting in places you shouldn't be."

You angled your head, letting your breath hit his shoulder. "You saying you don't want me here?"

Dean didn't answer right away. He turned slightly, meeting your eyes, and the air between you charged like a live wire. For a long moment, nothing moved except his fingers, idly tightening a bolt that probably didn't need fixing.

Then he said, voice rougher than before, "That's the problem. You're always where I want you."

Your breath hitched.

There it was. The line. Clear as day.

And neither of you were stepping back. Not this time.

He was still so close — close enough that when you exhaled, it ghosted across his lips. Close enough that the heat rolling off his body made your skin ache. His eyes dipped to your mouth, lingered, then dragged back up.

You moved first — or maybe it was him — but suddenly the space between you vanished.

His mouth was on yours, not soft, not sweet. Hungry. Desperate. You kissed him back like you'd been starving too long, and maybe you had. His hands found your waist, pulling you in until you collided chest to chest. The sweat on his skin dampened your hoodie, but you didn't care. Your fingers tangled in the back of his neck, tugging, grounding yourself in the heat of him.

You weren't sure who started moving first, but suddenly your hips were rolling up into his, slow and needy. His jeans were rough against your thighs; your leggings did nothing to mute the heat where you ground against him. Every motion made your clit throb, each pass of friction building pressure that felt criminal to hold back.

Dean growled against your mouth. "You trying to make me lose my mind, sweetheart?"

"I thought that was mutual," you breathed.

His hands gripped your hips tighter, guiding you — no, pulling you — into each thrust. You rocked together, bodies fully clothed but desperate, lips colliding, teeth catching. You could feel how hard he was through the denim, thick and unrelenting, grinding right against the bundle of nerves that had you gasping with every pass.

"Fuck, look at you," he rasped, pulling back to watch your face. "So goddamn needy... rubbing that pretty little cunt on me like it's all you know how to do."

A sound escaped your throat — something between a whimper and a moan.

He smirked. "That's it. Let me hear it."

You rolled harder into him, chasing the friction like it might save your soul. Dean dipped his head to your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point, tongue following.

"I could keep you like this all night," he murmured against your skin. "Just grinding on me, soaking through your clothes while I hold you down and tell you what a good girl you are."

Your hips bucked at the praise. "Dean..."

He nipped at your earlobe. "Yeah? That what you need? To be told how fuckin' good you are for me?"

His hand slipped between your bodies and cupped you through the fabric — firm and full-palmed. You gasped, legs tensing.

"Jesus, you're wet. Bet you've been like this all damn night."

"Dean—" It came out like a cry, more plea than name.

Then — just as abruptly — he stepped back a half-pace, his breathing ragged.

For a split second, you thought he was going to stop. Thought maybe sanity had clawed its way back in.

But he reached above your head and slammed the Impala's hood shut with one clean motion. The sound echoed through the garage like a gunshot, final and sharp. His gaze never left yours.

That wasn't a goodbye.

It was a green light.

Before you could speak, he was on you again, one hand fisting in your hoodie to pull you forward, the other bracing behind your thigh as he lifted you effortlessly, guiding your ass back against the warm metal of the car. The Impala's steel groaned softly beneath you, but Dean didn't stop. He kissed you hard, devouring your mouth with his, before pulling back just enough to say, "Take your hoodie off. Let me see you."

You obeyed without hesitation, peeling it off, revealing nothing but bare skin underneath. His eyes darkened.

"No bra?" His voice was low, reverent.

You smiled. "Didn't think I'd need one in the garage."

He made a guttural sound that barely resembled a word. "You're gonna kill me."

He bent and took your breast in his mouth, tongue swirling over a nipple as his hand toyed with the other. You arched under the attention, crying out, thighs clenching around his hips.

"Fucking perfect," he muttered between licks. "You know that?"

Your hands fumbled at his belt, needing more, everything. But Dean caught your wrists.

"Not yet," he said, voice rough. "I'm not done watching you beg."

Then he dropped to his knees.

The shift in power made your breath catch. Dean Winchester — hunter, hero, man who could end gods — was on the ground in front of you, spreading your legs with his big hands, kissing the inside of your thigh through your leggings.

He looked up, voice hoarse. "Can I?"

You nodded, lifting your hips to help him, already unraveling.

He pulled your leggings and panties down in one motion, tossing them somewhere behind him. The cold air on your soaked skin made you shiver — or maybe it was just the heat in his eyes when he saw how wet you were.

"Fuck me," he whispered. "Look at this. Look what I do to you."

Dean didn't dive in.

He took his time.

He kissed the inside of your thighs like he had all night — long, slow licks that barely touched your heat, teasing you until you trembled. His thumbs stroked soft circles along your skin as he spread you wider, his breath ghosting over your center.

"You're shaking," he murmured.

"I'm aching,"

Dean looked up at you — pupils blown wide with lust. "Good. I want you strung so tight you'll beg me to let you come."

You let your head fall back, breathless. "Cocky."

"No, baby. Hungry."

Then his mouth finally met your pussy — slow, reverent, and intentional. He started with one long stroke, tongue flat and firm, dragging from your entrance up to your clit. You gasped so sharply your body arched off the Impala.

Dean groaned against you. "Fuck, you taste like heaven."

And then — he devoured you.

He didn't let up, didn't pause, just sucked and licked and fucked you with his tongue like he was trying to memorize the way you felt. His hand gripped your thigh hard, thumb brushing your clit when his mouth needed a second to breathe — not for himself, but to watch you come undone.

He traced every inch of you with his tongue — the soft folds, the slick entrance, the aching bundle of nerves he only touched with maddeningly light flicks. Each time you bucked, he backed off. Each time you moaned, he hummed like he was savoring it.

Two fingers slid inside you, slow at first, letting you feel the stretch. He curled them just right — right there — and your hips jumped, a cry tearing from your throat. His fingers worked you in tandem with his tongue, perfectly in sync, perfectly cruel.

Every flick. Every curl. Every pulse of suction pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

"Already so close," he murmured against you. "You gonna come on my face, sweetheart?"

You nodded frantically, hips canting up into his mouth. "Dean—please—don't stop—"

He didn't. In fact, he doubled down — fingers curling right where you needed them, tongue flicking quick and steady until the pressure snapped.

You cried out his name as your orgasm hit — loud, shuddering, thighs clenched around his head. Dean held you through every wave, drinking you in, not stopping until you twitched with oversensitivity.

He pulled back, jaw slick, eyes half-lidded. "Jesus. You're fuckin' unreal."

Before you could answer, you were sliding off the hood and onto your knees in front of him.

His cock strained hard and thick against the front of his jeans, the fabric darkened where he was leaking. You palmed him through the denim first — slowly, deliberately — pressing your cheek to the bulge just to feel the heat of him, to breathe him in.

Dean groaned low. "Fuck, sweetheart..."

You looked up at him through your lashes as you undid his fly. "Let me, Dean."

He didn't stop you. Couldn't. His jaw was tight, fists clenched at his sides as you pulled him free — flushed and heavy, already twitching in your hand. He was big, thick, the kind of full that made your mouth water.

You wrapped your fingers around the base, gave a slow stroke just to feel the weight of him, and he growled.

"Look at you," he rasped. "Down there like it's where you belong."

You licked a slow stripe from base to tip, teasing, tongue dragging just enough to make him curse under his breath. Then you smiled up at him, lips brushing his crown. "Maybe it is."

Dean hissed, hips bucking instinctively into your mouth. "Fuck. You're gonna be the death of me."

You took him into your mouth, slow at first — tongue swirling, lips tight, hand stroking the rest. He pulsed on your tongue, already so hot, so hard you could feel him fighting the urge to fuck into your mouth. His thighs tensed under your palms. His stomach jumped when you hollowed your cheeks and sucked him deep.

"Just like that," he groaned, one hand tangling in your hair, guiding. "You suck cock like you need it."

You moaned around him, letting the vibrations travel straight through him. Spit dripped down your chin, slicking your hand as you twisted it at the base. You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, then pushed deeper again, throat stretching, eyes watering with the effort — and the need.

Dean was panting now, watching you with a look that was half-worship, half-wrecked. "Fuck, baby... You keep this up and I'm not gonna fucking last."

You pulled off with a messy pop, hand still stroking him as you caught your breath. "Then stop me."

And that snapped something in him.

He hauled you to your feet with one hand under your arm, the other fisting in your hair as he kissed you — deep, filthy, open-mouthed. He tasted like sweat and salt and you, and he didn't seem to care, groaning into your mouth like he couldn't get enough.

Then he turned you roughly, spinning you until your stomach hit the Impala's hood. His hand splayed over your back, pressing you down just enough to make you feel it — the weight, the heat, the control he was barely hanging onto.

"Gonna fuck you now," he growled, voice wrecked. "You ready for me?"

You pushed your ass back into his hips, hips with a slow roll, arching just enough to drive him wild. "I've been ready since you opened the hood."

That earned you a slap to your ass — not too hard, just enough to sting and make you gasp.

"Smart mouth," he muttered behind you. "Let's see if I can fuck it shut."

Then he pushed in.

Not all at once — slowly, deliberately, like he wanted to savor every second of your tight heat wrapping around him. You felt every thick inch stretch you open, every ridge drag against your walls until he was seated deep, buried to the hilt. Your mouth fell open on a silent cry as your forehead hit the cool metal of the Impala.

"Jesus, you're tight," he said through gritted teeth. "So fuckin' wet for me."

He gave you a second — one breath, maybe two — before pulling back and slamming forward, the impact rocking you up onto your toes. He set a brutal rhythm, fast and deep, like he was trying to carve his name into your body with every thrust.

"Every time you walked into a room," he grunted, hand gripping your hip tight, "every time you smiled at me, wore those tight little leggings, I thought about this. About bending you over this car and wrecking you."

You moaned, grabbing the edge of the hood. "You're doing a hell of a job at that."

Dean chuckled darkly, thrusting harder. "You like that? Like being used like this? Stuffed full of my cock?"

"Yes," you gasped. "Fuck, yes, I love it. Love how you feel inside me."

His hand came up and wrapped lightly around your throat, guiding your body back against his. His chest was slick with sweat, breath hot against your ear.

"Then take it," he growled. "Take every inch. Be a good girl and take what I give you."

He kept pounding into you — rough, relentless — and you felt yourself climbing fast, too fast, the heat coiling deep in your belly. Every drag of his cock along your walls lit you up. His thumb found your clit, slick from your arousal, and you shattered with a cry — body spasming, thighs shaking, pussy clenching so hard around him that he groaned and nearly lost it right there.

"Shit. I feel that," he hissed. "You're squeezing the hell out of me. You gonna let me come inside this perfect little pussy?"

"Yes," you moaned. "Want it. Want you to come inside me."

His thrusts turned ragged, desperate. He slammed in once, twice, then cursed and came with a roar, hips stuttering, cock pulsing deep inside you. He stayed there, breathing hard, chest pressed to your back, arms braced on either side of your body like he needed to hold himself up — or maybe like he couldn't let go.

Slowly, he pulled out, your slick and his dripping between your thighs. He exhaled shakily, forehead pressed to your shoulder, before turning you gently, catching your waist and lifting you onto the Impala's hood, this time facing him.

"I'm not done with you."

You blinked, wrecked. "What?"

His grin was wolfish. "You think I only had one round in me? Sweetheart, I've been waiting months for this."

You laughed softly, shaky, but there was something warm blooming in your chest.

Then his fingers drifted between your legs — slow, featherlight touches that made you twitch. He dragged two fingers through your folds, coated in both of you, and brought them to his mouth, licking them clean with a moan.

"Still so sweet," he murmured. "You want more?"

You nodded, hips instinctively tilting forward.

He let his hand drift lower again — stroking over your swollen clit, slow and deliberate, while his other hand gripped your thigh and spread you open. He watched the way your body responded, the way your breath hitched.

"I wanna see you fall apart again first," he said. "Wanna watch you come one more time before I fuck you full again."

His fingers slid into you — two, thick, curling right where you needed them — and you cried out, already so sensitive, so raw. But it built fast, sharper this time, pressure curling like a fist in your gut. Dean kissed your inner thigh, then your hip, then your mouth — kissing through your moans as he coaxed another orgasm from your trembling body.

You came with a cry, hips jerking, his name on your lips like a prayer.

And he was hard again.

You felt it when he pressed against you — his cock stiff, hot, pressing against your entrance. This time, he didn't slam in. He took his time, sliding deep with a low groan, keeping his eyes on yours the whole time.

It wasn't rough now — it was intimate.

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, legs tight around his waist, grounding yourself in the heat of his body and the way he filled you so completely.

His pace was slow, deep — hips grinding into you in long strokes that made your breath catch. Between each thrust, he whispered things against your skin. Not just filthy, but honest.

"Always wanted you."

"Didn't know how bad until now."

"Wanna wake up with you."

You held him closer, forehead pressed to his, overwhelmed by the connection crackling between you — all heat and heart, all need and something dangerously close to love.

When it started to build again, it felt different. Sweeter. Softer. Like coming home.

He kissed you through it — your mouth, your jaw, your throat. "Come with me," he whispered. "Let me feel it."

You did — together, bodies trembling, breath tangled, everything melting into a perfect, breathless hush.

Dean was still half on top of you, the curve of your body cradled against his. Your legs had slid from around his waist, but his arms hadn't moved an inch. One was beneath you, palm splayed across your back, the other resting protectively across your stomach, fingers curled just under your ribs like he couldn't quite stop holding on.

His chest was still rising fast against yours, each exhale hot where it hit your collarbone.

Neither of you spoke for a moment. Just the ticking of cooling engine metal and the shared space where sweat met skin.

Then Dean let out a breath — low, steady, not quite a sigh. He shifted just enough to nuzzle his nose along your jaw, stubble rasping gently across your skin.

"You good?" he asked, voice quieter than you'd ever heard it.

You nodded, the movement brushing your cheek against his. "Yeah. You?"

He gave a soft hum, chest rumbling where it pressed against you. "Yeah. Just..." He paused. "Still here. With you."

You smiled, and nudged your nose into his hair. It was damp and smelled like sweat and skin and his cologne — sharp and familiar and entirely him.

His hand started moving again — slow, absent circles along the small of your back, grounding you both. You melted into it, the warmth of him, the safety in the quiet.

After a long beat, he spoke again. "Didn't mean for it to go like that."

Your fingers twitched where they were resting near his heart. "Go like what?"

"I dunno." He shifted slightly, adjusting the way he held you, like he wasn't ready to stop touching. "Didn't mean to... lose it."

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. They were soft in the dim garage light, his lashes casting shadows across his cheekbones. His vulnerability wasn't loud — but it was there, in the tightness around his mouth, the subtle clench of his jaw.

"You didn't lose it," you said gently. "You found something."

He stared at you, eyes flicking across your face like he was trying to memorize it. Then he huffed — a sound halfway between disbelief and surrender.

"You always talk like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you see through all my bullshit."

You reached up and brushed damp hair from his forehead. "Only yours."

That pulled a real smile from him — lopsided, boyish, cracking through the weight of everything like sunlight through clouds.

He leaned in and kissed you — not with hunger, but with something deeper. It was slow, deliberate, and full of care. When he pulled back, he lingered, brushing your nose with his.

"Don't move," he murmured. "Be right back."

He slid off the hood and disappeared into the corner of the garage, digging through supplies. You watched him, legs still trembling slightly, the ache between your thighs a tender reminder of everything you'd just shared. He came back with a clean rag and your hoodie, already wetting the cloth with water from a bottle.

His touch between your legs was gentle — reverent. He wiped you clean with careful strokes, and not once did he make a joke or get cocky about it. When he helped you sit up and pulled your hoodie over your head, your throat tightened unexpectedly.

Then, with a quiet kind of affection, he wrapped his own flannel around your shoulders like a blanket — tugging it closed over your chest, adjusting the collar like he didn't even realize he was doing it.

"You're kind of a sap, Winchester."

"Shut up," he muttered, but there was no heat behind it. He took the seat next to you on the Impala's hood, pulling you into his side like you were his. You didn't resist.

You sat like that for a while — bare thighs against cold metal, arms wrapped in worn cotton, Dean's scent everywhere. His hand never stopped moving, stroking your shoulder, your hip, your thigh.

"I don't know what this is," he said eventually.

You looked up at him.

"But I want more of it. More of you."

That was as close to vulnerable as Dean Winchester got. You didn't make him say more.

Instead, you leaned your head on his shoulder and whispered, "Good. Because I'm not done with you either."

He kissed the top of your head. "Damn right you're not."

And under the dim garage lights, bare legs swinging off the hood of the Impala, the two of you stayed like that — quiet, wrecked, and completely changed. It was the start of something real.

Dividers by @easytiger-xo

[candy-coated-misery0731]

Oh my god! I loved EVERYTHING about this! 👏🏼

The way that you put so much thought into their dialogue and how they spoke and interacted with each other was brilliant! It was a perfect blend of her sass and his cockiness. The back and forth between them made this such a fun read! The degradation/praise was SO believable and the details you put into the “love scene”…🥵🔥

And ending it with a little sweet, sappy, fluff was just 🤌🏼

[lemondropsonice]

N°9 - JIB15 - 2025 - Jensen

[candy-coated-misery0731]

Nnnngh! Need that…🥵💦