You’re such a good boy, and you know it ⋆𐙚 ̊.
WARNINGS: smut. phone sex. dirty talk. masturbation. sub!dean. reader has a dick. it's not clarified if they're trans, futanari, or male. take it as you will. bottom!dean. breeding kink. i know. light angst. because it's me. i wrote this instead of sleeping. author regrets everything. not proof read. i just needed to get this out of my head. 3.6k
You’re already under the covers when your phone starts ringing, classic soft rock song breaking the perfect silence of the night. Knowing exactly who it is, you pick up the call without even glancing at the screen.
“Hi there, cutie. Trouble sleeping?”
Silence, overwhelmingly loud in the staticky line. Then, whispered and bruised: “Hi.”
Immediately, your eyebrows tug down into a worried frown, your voice softening as you murmur into the phone.
“Everything okay, sweetheart?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Dean’s voice is weary, low in a way that tells you he’s hiding from his father, maybe in the bathroom, maybe in an alleyway. “Everything’s fine, hunt’s going steady, we might even wrap up early.”
You raise an eyebrow, even if he can’t see you, staring off into the darkness and focusing on the small tremble of his voice. “What’s wrong, then?”
He snorts, but it sounds forceful, breath hitting his phone’s mic in a messy hiss.
“You wound me, sweetheart.” He tries for a snicker, it sounds more pained than he intended. “What? I can’t call without there being something wrong?”
“You could, but you don't. Not at three in the morning, not while you’re hunting with your father.”
More static, all traces of Dean vanishing in it. He’s holding his breath, biting down on his tongue like you’ve seen him do endless times, until the flesh gives in and he ends up with crimson-stained teeth. Listening closely, you catch the distant wail of a cop car driving by, stagnant water dripping from a rooftop, the distant hum of upbeat music.
“I’m sorry if I woke you up,” he finally whispers, and you can see it in the back of your eyelids, an image branded into your brain and soul—his flushed cheeks, his scrunched eyes, his bravado cracking and chipping away until the soft Dean only you’ve had the pleasure to meet is left behind. “I just—I needed—“
You hum as he struggles with his words, sitting up in bed and turning on the bedside lamp. You know Soft Dean all too well: Calling in the middle of the night, all breathy words and faraway fidgeting sounds, dark shadows crawling at the edges of his mind, shy and desperate for a distraction no one but you can provide.
You know exactly what he needs. Still, you’ll never miss the chance to make him say it.
“What's that, baby?” Dean makes a tiny noise on the other side of the line, embarrassed and defeated. “Tell me what you need.”
An order. He reacts well to those.
“You,” he finally spits out, like it’s hurting him. But then he sighs—and there it is, the relief. The weight off his shoulders, the fading of the compression of his lungs. “You. I need you.”
Your lips part, ready to correct him, when he quickly adds:
You can’t help but coo, smiling up at the ceiling like a madman, your chest exploding with something too warm to acknowledge.
You’ve trained your puppy well.
“God, aren’t you just adorable?” Dean lets out a little protest whine, but you click your tongue in reproach. “Be a good boy and don’t argue with me, hm?”
“Okay, okay. But—" he chokes on his own words, like he’s trying to catch them before they spill out. More fidgeting—fabric ruffling and metal clinking. “Please.”
You shush him, just because you love getting him all needy and worked up, even if your chest is already filling with that unbearable heat that only he seemed to ignite in you. “What's the rush, baby boy? Haven’t I always given you what you need? Don’t I always take good care of you?”
The only answer you get is another sweet little sound, deep in his throat where your fingers belong. You wish you could suck the noise out of his mouth, spread it on your tongue and make him swallow it whole.
“Answer me, sweet boy, or I’m going back to sleep.”
It’s an empty threat, Dean still whines as if you could ever leave him like this.
“Yes, you always take care of me.”
“That’s right, my little prince. That’s right.” You lick your lips slowly, your hand finding your crotch and rubbing yourself over the thin fabric of your pajama pants. “Why don’t you go find a bathroom for me, hm?”
A pause. And then, “...the alley is empty.”
It sends an electric flash through your body, to know that Dean is desperate enough for you that he’d risk a public indecency charge. Not that it would be his first criminal charge, but it’s the principle that counts.
“Oh, you dirty boy. You want people to see you stroking your pretty cock? Want to show off that beautiful face of you, when it’s all wet with tears and drool? Want them to watch as I make you feel good, make them wish they could touch?”
Dean moans, more metal clanking in the distance. His belt unbuckling, followed by his jeans unzipping. “No, no. ‘M yours, just yours.”
Your lips pull into a wide grin, your eyelashes fluttering at the mumbled words. It’s hard to remember that they’re not true, just dirty talk, just Dean allowing himself to say out loud everything he desires so deeply, but won’t ever let himself have.
“That’s right, baby boy.” You allow yourself to indulge as well. If this is all you can have, you’ll milk it—milk Dean—for all he’s got. “All mine. They can watch, their greedy eyes can follow you through every room and every street. But at the end of the day, only I get to fuck your pretty brains out.”
Maybe if you speak it into the universe enough times, it’ll become true.
Dean whimpers your name, his boots stomping against the pavement, like he’s throwing a little tantrum. “Please, I can’t—can’t wait.”
You sigh, as if inconvenienced, like the heel of your palm isn't digging into the bulge between your legs. It stays lazy, though, mindless. This isn’t for you, it’s never really been.
“So fucking needy.” You wait for a few more seconds, waiting for Dean to get edgy enough to whine your name again. “Touch yourself for me, cutie. Over your briefs.”
Commands, your pretty puppy has always been so good at following them.
You hear it when he fists himself over his boxers, a shaky breath leaving his lips, skin against fabric against skin.
“I bet you look so beautiful right now. You always do.” You close your eyes, letting your imagination recall the paintings you’ve made of Dean every time you get to watch him come undone. Big hand against thin cloth, long fingers clutching his long shaft, his hips rotating in little circles. “Bet those doll lips are all glossy and bruised from biting, cheeks blushy and eyes wet. Wide shoulders almost bursting from those old henleys, tiny little waist begging to be grabbed. You were made for it, little prince.”
Dean agrees, if the way his moans get louder is anything to go by. You wonder if John Winchester, drinking himself half to death somewhere in that bar, knows how much his perfect soldier enjoys being babied, what a subby little thing he is.
“I love watching you walk around shirtless, it haunts me at night. That huge, muscled back dipping into that waist, the little dimples you’ve got there, the swell of your perky ass.” You grind your crotch against your palm, hard, painfully so. “Damnit, baby, the things I’d do to you.”
“Tell me,” he gasps, a hollow thump filtering through the line. He just smacked his skull against the wall, your careless boy, always collecting bruises and scars like trophies. “What’d you do to me?”
A low, sardonic laugh spills out of you, your eyes flashing open and finding a water stain on the ceiling, tongue licking over your teeth. Dean’d promised to fix it the next time he came over. You haven’t seen him in almost six months.
“What wouldn’t I do to you?” if I could have you, is left unsaid. “Tear your shirt off, lick you all over, worship that perfect body of yours.”
Dean makes another tiny noise of complaint, but all it takes is a warning grunt for him to shut up and take it.
“I’d start with your neck. Fuck, I love your neck. Kiss my way down your throat, bruise you up a little. You always bruise up so stunningly. I’d find your pulse, get my teeth on it, suck it into my mouth so I feel every beat of your heart.”
You listen as his hand speeds up, his breath growing ragged, his head hitting the wall again.
“Are you arching up for me, baby? Showing the pretty slope of your throat?”
“Ngh,” he whines in agreement. “Keep—keep going, please.”
“Once you’re all marked up, I’d move down to your collarbones. They always stick out, makes me want to bury my tongue in the hollow of them, gnaw on the bone until I can taste it.” Your mouth waters at the thought. Tragically, you’re forced to slurp it all back instead of spitting it into Dean’s eager mouth. “Then I’d get to your nipples.”
Dean lets out a little cry. More ruffling comes, his shirt being pulled up. He must have left his phone between his ear and shoulder, his sly fingers surely tugging at the sweet nub you crave to pull between your teeth.
“Those cute little things, dusty and pink like freaking champagne. I could drink you down whole, sweetheart. They’re always so perky, sticking out of your full chest, like they’re calling for me. Want me to put them in my mouth, bite them a bit?”
“Mmhm,” is all Dean can say.
“Good boy.” Your hips jerk at the whimper that the praise rips out of Dean. “I’ll pull them between my teeth, suck them until they’re all flushed, hard enough to hurt. But not too much, gonna be careful with you. I’ll take care of you.”
It feels important to remind him. This is all for him.
“After, I’ll find your ribs.” Your whole being throbs with unabashed desire, hellfire that consumes you whole. “Gotta get more meat in those bones, pretty boy, but damn it do I love to see the ridges of your ribs and your spine. I’ll leave kisses all over your chest and tummy, chew on those pretty bones, stick my tongue in your belly button. Give those gorgeous hip bones the same treatment, get them all red and purple, show everyone who you belong to.”
It’s so vivid. Your tongue fights to escape your mouth, your lips search for skin that isn’t there, your heart swells like it means something more.
“Then I’ll turn you around, laying on your front, and I’ll make my way down your spine.” You remember the last time you got Dean on his tummy, the red lines you’d left all over the stiff muscle, the way you’d prodded at every bump of bone and licked every bead of blood that bloomed. “I’ll lick every scar, make it all better. Every part of you is perfect, puppy, both scar tissue and golden skin. I’ll swallow it all down.”
Dean always tries to turn the lights off when he walks into your room, afraid to let them bleed all over him, afraid you’ll see too much and stop wanting him. Nuts. You’ve never allowed him to. He’s too much of a masterpiece to risk missing any detail.
It continues to affect Dean as much as it did the first time. He murmurs your name like a prayer, over and over again, the friction over his underwear clearly not enough.
Good thing you’ve trained him to wait for your permission.
“Your thighs—God, your thighs.” You throw your head back, still lazily rubbing at the pulsing bulge in your pants. “All thick and firm, so pale, begging to be marked up. I’ll leave teeth marks all over them, show you just how much I want you, how I want to chew you up. Tease you with the tip of my fingers, get you all giggly and squirmy.”
In response, Dean squirms at the other side of the line.
“Yeah, that's it. I’ll lick the back of your knees, those hollow crevices, that smooth skin. I’ll kiss the scar on your calf, from that ricochet you caught. Give some love to that cut on your ankle, the one you hate so much.”
“Sweetheart—” Dean chokes out, struggling to breathe. “Need more, need more. Please.”
“It’s okay, baby boy. I got you.” He always begs so sweetly, it makes both your eyes and cock weep. “Get your hand around that pretty dick, stroke yourself for me.”
You can hear it when skin touches skin. Dean groans, tries to bite it back, and ends up letting a dragged out whimper instead.
“That’s it, my prince.” The noises that filter through the static are wet and sticky. Your hand picks up its movements. “You’re always so wet, baby. Little cock so eager to be touched, crying for someone to give it some attention. Oh, I’ll lay you down on your back, get it down my throat, get the taste of you everywhere, until I can’t wash you away.”
More squelching noises. His briefs must be soaked with it. Drool threats to spill from the corner of your lips.
“But I wouldn’t let you come, no matter how much I want your cum on my tongue. No, I’d stop, and impale you on my cock instead.”
The moan Dean lets out is so loud that you worry someone will actually call the cops on him. He doesn’t seem to care, though, chanting your name instead.
“Yeah, baby boy. I’ll fill that pretty little hole with my dick, ram inside in one thrust, get you all full from the start. You barely need prep anyways, always so needy for it. I told you, cutie, you were made to take it. Your body was made for dick, made for me.”
You grunt, fingers tightening around your shaft, still barely allowing yourself any stimulation.
“You’re always so tight around me, no matter how many times I fuck you open. Like heaven around my cock, warm and velvety and perfect. I could live and die inside you, baby. What a fucking way to die.”
Dean’s hand picks up, groaning with the pleasure and effort of it. You know his hole must be clenching around nothing, craving to be filled.
“I’ll drill you into the fucking matress, baby. Get that little dick bouncing, dripping pearly white on your lower stomach,” you continue, voice growing gravelly. “Reach so deep inside of you, until you can feel it in your fuckin’ tummy. Get you all dumb on my cock, a babbling and drooling mess, a good sweet boy just for me, mhm?”
“Yesyesyesyes.” It’s frantic, desperate. You wonder what lucky bastard will have the chance to actually fuck him in the next town over, once he’s done here and ready to pretend again.
“I’ll shove my fingers in your mouth, ‘cause you’re such a loud puppy. Make you choke on them, let you imagine it’s my dick. Then I’ll go harder. Bruise up your insides, carve into your body until it holds the shape of me, just me. Find your sweet spot, pound into it until tears roll down your cheeks.”
You thrust against your hand, screwing your eyes shut and trying to remember the heat of Dean’s body.
“Then I’ll come inside of you. But only once you’ve come first, untouched, pretty cock spilling all over your chest.”
“Ah, fucking—” Dean gasps your name, cursing over and over again as his climax starts to build.
“Yeah, baby, just like that. I’ll fill you up with with my cum, paint your walls white, so full you can fucking see it.” The rock of your hips starts to pick up, feet propping up on the mattress as if you were fucking up into someone. “You love it when I cum inside, right, puppy? When I make you all warm, when I claim you like that, letting everyone else know that you’re spoken for. Maybe I should break the laws of nature, get you fucking pregnant—”
That’s all it takes. Dean comes with a broken cry of your name, a loud thud following the sound. His knees must have given up, leaving him trembling and cracked open on the pavement, his back against the wall and no one there to pick him up.
“Dean, fuck—” You can feel your own release getting closer, the fire growing and growing until your whole body is ablaze. “That’s it, baby boy. So good for me, coming so beautifully. Want you so bad, fucking hell. My good boy. My, ah, Dean—”
It’s you who ends up coming in your pants, hot and sticky and gross. No one needs to know.
It takes you a while to catch your breath, small shivers still traveling down your spine, your whole body twitchy like a raw nerve. It’s only the soft sound of sniffling that brings you back to reality.
It takes a few seconds for Dean to answer, but when he does, it brings a smile to your face. “Yes, yes. ‘M good, really good. Thank you.”
You hum, too enamored for comfort.
“No need to thank me, baby boy. You were so good for me, such an obedient puppy. I—” The three words that'd been trying to slip off your tongue for the past year get shoved down again. “You wanna talk for a while, cutie?”
He agrees with a sleepy rumble, curling further into himself and somehow managing to make his voice sound even closer. You wonder if he’s cradling the phone close to his face, and the mental image is enough to shatter your heart into a million pieces.
Dean always needs a bit of coddling after something like this. He’s not used to being so vulnerable, to peeling himself raw and letting someone else take a look. It leaves him floaty, exhausted, mellow and malleable like you wish he could always be.
Aftercare through the phone is kind of bullshit, you make it work either way.
It’s mostly you who talks. About your job, about the news, about the weather—anything to distract Dean from the guilt and shame that are surely trying to resurface already. Whenever you feel him slipping too far into his own evil mind, you pull him back with a question about one of his favorite movies, or a reference to some rock album, or some silly joke that wouldn’t be funny if you weren’t both high in the afterglow.
You have him giggling in no time. Well, not quite giggling. He only giggles when you have him under you, your whole body weight on him, your hands in his hair and your lips peppering kisses all over his pretty face.
But he’s chucking, at the very least.
You’re not sure how long it takes, but soon he starts speaking in full sentences again, sounding a bit more present and absolutely less wired than at the start of the call. You wish he wasn’t in a dirty alleyway but in your bed instead. Still, you’ll take what you can get.
By the time you’re listening to him rant about some new cowboy space movie he watched recently, the phone now on speaker as you tug down your pants and underwear before the drying cum on them gets too gross, he’s back to the cheery, cocky boy you’ve grown to love so much.
Because you love him. God-fucking-damnit, you love Dean Winchester.
“I don’t think horses can gallop on Mars, De.”
Dean scoffs, still sitting on that dank street, his fingers drumming against the brick wall along with the muffled pop song from the bar.
“They’re mechanical horses, sweetheart,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “Have you been paying attention at all?”
“I’m gonna be honest, baby.” You plop back down on the mattress, now clad in a clean pair of PJs, bouncing slightly as you land on your front. “You kind of lost me with the cowboy hat inside the spacesuit helmet.”
He sighs, indignant. “You’re so mean to me.”
“It just doesn’t make sense!”
“It doesn’t need to make sense! It just needs to look badass—” Dean’s voice cuts off with eerie precision. You don’t hear anything aside from his steady breath, but you know exactly who’s talking to him. “No, sir. Just got a bit woozy, but I’ll be fine. I’ll meet you at the car, gotta take a leak. Yes, sir.”
A long, tense moment of silence.
You close your eyes, chewing on your inner cheek. The fairytale is over, the dragon’s entered the tower.
“Gotta go now, sweetheart,” Dean murmurs hesitantly, getting up from the ground and clearing his throat, fingers finding the back of his neck, their scratching loud enough for you to catch.
“Of course you do,” you whisper, quiet enough for him not to hear.
“I’ll—I’ll call you tomorrow, alright?”
But you know better. You know Dean will go on without calling for another six months, forcing himself to be the bulletproof, thick-skinned hunter his dad demands him to be. No space for sweet talk, or coddling, or submission.
Just Big Bad Hunter Dean Winchester, annihilating monsters and luring chicks into his bed. Never thinking of himself, never letting himself be taken care of, never getting what he wants.
Except once every few months, when he comes back to you. It’s pathetic, heartbreaking, slightly insulting.
“No, you won’t,” you murmur into the mic, hanging up before he can answer.
Still, you know that the next time he calls or shows up at your doorstep, you’ll welcome him with open arms.
Because, Jesus Christ, you love him.
NOTES: i sincerely apologize. i wish i had a dick sometimes.
title from the song "Good Boy" by ethel cain.
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