AISLING

She/her, 20 Men fear me, fish love me

[cujja]

MASTERLIST

SUPERNATURAL

DEAN WINCHESTER SAM WINCHESTER

THE BOYS

SOLDIER BOY

[cujja]

hey!! i just binge read your dean fics and safe to say you are now one of my fav writers. sending love and support to you

Stop this is too sweet thank you much for supporting my silly little fics I can’t believe how much support ive gotten in like the few months I’ve been posting!! 😭

Pic of one of the squirrels in my garden watching me very suspiciously when I’m in my own bedroom?

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Any recommendations for other writers who write age gap dean i finished your masterlist and I am obsessed with your fics especially your age gap series it's scrumptious but I'm currently experiencing withdrawal symptoms and don't know where to look for more fics😔🙏🙏

Hello my lovely, thank you so, so much! ❤️ I assume you're talking about I wish I'd known you in your wilder days - I miss these two idiots so much, and I can't wait until I have the time to spend some time with them again!

I unfortunately do not have any recs for age gap stuff since - dramatic pause - it's something I usually really, really don't like to read. 😄 A lot of things that I enjoy writing, I don't enjoy reading (probably because when I'm writing it I have control and when I read I don't... actually, there's so many examples of this, it's kinda crazy).

Annnyyyhooo, the only fic I can think of is Spare the rod, spoil the child by @cujja, which I just checked and it's not even explicitly age gap. 😄 It does have a power dynamic though, and it reads very age gap-y - warning for some darker themes, but if that's something you're okay with, I highly recommend it, it's amazing.

Other than that, this is the call for anyone else to recommend Dean x reader age gap fics! Hear thee, hear thee! I hope we can find some good recs for you (and maybe for me?).

Smooches! ❤️

[cujja]

Literally one of my fav spn writers, fangirling so hard rn 🤭🤭

Def check out all of their stuff I cannot stress enough how top tier they all are!!!

[cujja]

Cuffing Season

Dean has always made things hard for you, so why would now be any different?

Part 1, Part 2 Warnings/tags: Everyone being in denial, Sam Winchester cries during sex but make it Dean crying during head, making it weird by almost saying L word, sloppiest of toppies, smidge of jealousy, Dean kinda being the only emotionally forward one in the relationship (first time ever), changed from the preview so there's another part in the works cuz im a rascal, reader is lowkey kinda mean but he kinda deserves it bc im rewatching s9, some references to Dean's internalised misogyny/manwhore-ness. Also, no one talk to me about s5 of the boys. it is a very sensitive topic for me....

You don't mention the Arizona incident. Or the car incident. Or the one after that. Or that other time.

Outwardly, nothing's changed. You and Dean still fight like cats and dogs. He goes left, you spitefully go right. Sam's still left playing arbitrator, he just doesn't know about the alternative mediation tactic you two have tucked up your sleeves: sex. A whole lot of it. 

Dean still flirts with anything alive and you still snark about him needing to get tested despite you both knowing he's not going to call the number the waitress slipped him and you've stopped bothering with condoms after he proudly presented you with a clean report. It only got weird in Washington when he didn't bite the bait thrown out by the gorgeous mechanic. 

Sam was so concerned he even asks you about it when Dean had slunk off to the bathroom at lunch. 

"I don't know, Sam, but I have better things to worry about than your brother's overactive sex-life." You'd lied convincingly through a mouthful of fries. Sam's eyes lag on the spot where Dean had ducked into the men's room, sparkling with concern. 

He pushes unenthusiastically at his yoghurt, "It's not like I enjoy thinking about it either, it's just..." He shrugs his shoulders and slumps his chin into his palm, "He's different. Not bad different. Just not himself. Don't tell me you haven't noticed it."

"Fine, I guess maybe a little, but different isn't a bad thing, right? No offence, but Dean definitely has room for improvement, personality-wise. It wouldn't kill him to think with his head rather than his dick for once." You muse, and it placates Sam enough to squeeze a perfunctory chuckle from him. 

He twirls his spoon, absorbed in thought. You sneak a look between him and your lunch, which has started to taste like chalk in your mouth. Dean's sliding of that clean test over to you was an implicit pledge of not dipping his wick in every candle that gave him a solicitous once over. You'd requited that by skipping condoms and working into conversation about your IUD. That was the extent of the commitment. There was no dates, no aftercare. Just fucking. 

Him passing up a leggy brunette who was also a mechanic didn't sit right with you, though. It felt too much like strings were being attached. 

You'd confronted him about it when he'd snuck into your room after lights out. Dean was lounging on your mattress, looking mightily pleased with himself, like he had a right to be there. He'd looked at you strangely when you broached the topic.

"Just wasn't feeling it, that's all," Dean had shrugged, ambling his deft fingers underneath the back of your shirt to tickle up your spine. You were perched at the foot of the bed with a respectable distance put between the two of you. He'd closed it within an instance, nosing against your jawline, "But, if you're sayin' you don't want me to pay you back for the blowjob in Portland, then just let me know..."

That drew the conversation to a grinding halt and Dean had spent the rest of the evening getting comfy between your thighs. 

The case in Idaho Falls was your tipping point, though. 

Sam lost shotgun privileges after choosing to eat something with beans in for lunch. It's not often you get the passenger seat, mostly because you're liable to jerk the wheel into oncoming traffic if Dean irritates you too much, so you make the most of it. 

Dean's mumbling along to the song playing, Sam's catching up on his eight-hours and you're reviewing the case. It was Dean's choice. He'd sprang it on you after barely wrapping up a poltergeist in Glendive. It was a suspected werewolf, and Dean loved hunting werewolves, so you were on the road within the hour. 

"Pretty gruesome, right?" 

You blink up from the page, looking at him a little dumbfounded, "Huh?"

Dean flicks the paper you're holding without taking his gaze off the interstate marker ahead, "The case, stupid. What else would I be talking about? Your face?" 

"Real mature. How long did that one take you to think up?" You mutter with a quirk of your brow, rustling through the newspaper clippings. For Dean, he'd done a commendable job pooling all of it together. He hadn't just blindly insisted he had a bad feeling about one of the headlines, like usual. 

It sounded like the start to one of those run-of-the-mill horror films Dean makes you and Sam watch where there's excessive gore and girls running without bras. A local lovers' lane was being terrorised by a series of mysterious and vicious attacks. More than three couples had been torn to shreds, each missing their hearts, and found a disturbing distance from their parked cars. 

You set the bundle down in the footwell, crossing your arms, "So, what's the plan when we get there? We going the animal control or FBI route?"

"Neither," He chucks a roughish grin over his shoulder that fills you with doubt. A Dean plan never goes according to plan, "Best course of action is taking Cujo down head on. We can go undercover as a couple, shoot the bastard and celebrate with mind-blowing sex for three hours. Win-win." 

You consult the rearview mirror. Sam's still soundly asleep. You don't think you'd hear the end of it if he found out about your fraternising. Dean isn't half as careful as you are, especially if he's had a few drinks and decides he wants his hand under your shirt right then and there. 

"Sounds risky. We should all go." 

Dean grimaces, "I don't want people thinkin' I'm in a thruple with Sammy, even if it is only to a werewolf. We're not bringing him." 

"Alright, what about me and Sam? I'd feel a lot safer with someone a lot less trigger happy." You snipe, ever the contrarian. He waves off your suggestion by throwing his head back with a loud laugh, slapping the steering wheel.

"You and Sam? Please. Like anyone's gonna buy that." He shakes his head as though that's truly the most facetious thing he's ever heard, his lips bent into a wide smile that brightens up his whole face. 

You harrumph, "But people will buy you and me?" 

Dean's hand abandons its post on the gear stick and squeezes your thigh. You frown down at it, debate shoving him off, but you'll allow it. Sam's not looking, so what does it matter? 

"Hell yeah, sweetheart. We've got chemistry. We can be like one of those couples that hates each other's guts but still screw like rabbits," He lowers his voice and gives you an absurd wink, "We've got good practise at both of those things." 

Despite yourself, you laugh. It's a small one, more of a scoff, but it validates Dean all the same, "Jesus Christ, fine, fine. I'll do it if it'll shut you up."

It does, and his hand remains a steady presence on your thigh up until Dubois, when Sam starts stirring.

The budget stretches to afford you your own room for a change. It's a rare treat, but without the recurrent warble of conversation flowing between Sam and Dean, you're left stewing in your own thoughts. And it's not a nice place to be, because you're mostly thinking about Dean.

You hadn't told anyone. Directly. Bobby knows, but Bobby doesn't count, because he'd come to the conclusion on his own. It'd been after the blizzard conundrum in Wyoming, and Dean had whipped up stuff from childhood in your head, and you were very, very lost. Bobby always gave you clarity.

In not so many words, he'd disapproved. Said that the guy you weren't seeing, but weren't not seeing, and who's definitely not Dean, was a good man but you'd fare well not to get attached. Not-Dean's fun and exciting in moderation, yet if you think you can fix him, you should cut your losses before someone gets hurt.

And you can't fault Bobby for any of it. So, it was decided. You'll give Dean a few months of fun then throw in the towel. Everyone wins. Things can go back to normal and you can find a more appropriate guy to have casual sex with rather than the guy who still thinks pulling on a girl's pigtails is an acceptable way to flirt.

It was like you'd conjured him. You'd just switched into pyjamas and made your mind up about him when Dean was inviting himself in, looking for trouble.

"You've showered and you're wearing a clean shirt. You going out?" You remark, hands on your hips as you make a big show of taking him in. He's clearly planning on staying for a while, though, because he hangs his leather jacket over the back of the chair.

"Nah, just had to sell it to Sammy that I was off out, chasin' tail, and not next-door." He shrugs, eyes twinkling. Dean collapses on the bed and snatches up the TV remote, flicking lazily through channels.

When you don't move from your spot at the vanity, observing him with a weird look, he lets out an impatient sigh and beckons you over, "If I wanted to watch TV alone, I coulda done that back at mine. Get over here, woman."

You're tempted to refuse on principle alone, but soon defer when grapples with his fly and tugs out soft cock, and you can't resist. As long as he's here for something sexual, you can handle that. Dean drapes his arm around your shoulders as you settle in beside him, chin stationed on top of your head.

Through the thin material of his t-shirt, you can feel Dean's muscles flexing when your hand travels across his abdomen. He's just the right amount of muscular, in your opinion. Enough thew to fuck you up against the wall, not too much that there's not some softness there too.

"You actually smell really nice. What is that? I know it's not motel shampoo." You prop yourself up a little and use his stomach as leverage, which makes him huff.

Grumbling, Dean pats his hair, which has turned spiky now that it's damp, "So shoot me, I put a bit of effort into my appearance. Don't chicks like that? Want me to go smear myself in pig shit, or something?"

"So long as you don't expect me to start tasting of daisies, scrub up all you like," You surrender, stifling a giggle on his behalf. You ruffle his hair yourself and Dean delivers a playful, reproving swat to your ass, "Hey, it's cute. Like a baby duckling, only grumpier."

He's offended by the comparison, you can tell by the way his lips press in a straight line, but he recovers quickly and has you swinging a leg over him with a hand to your hip. Dean's lap is a familiar spot to you now and it's intuitive the way you stabilise yourself on his chest while his palms rest over your parted thighs.

"Sweetheart, you taste way better than daisies," He drags his hands listlessly up the length of your thighs, just shy of massaging the muscles there. Dean's brow then cinches, "But that's not saying much 'cause Sam dared me to eat one once and it tasted awful. Worse than that green gunk he always has instead of fries."

You fluff up his hair again, but he indulges you with a grunt of permission, "You mean salad. Having some would probably do you some good, you know. Fruit cooked in sugar and wrapped in pastry doesn't count as one of your five a day."

"Now you tell me." Dean teases, canting his head to grant you better access to fuss with his hair. Momentarily, you pause, considering laying a boundary, because this is feeling borderline intimate. Once won't do you any harm. Your fingers venture to the nape of his neck, scratching the shorter scruff there.

And it definitely feels too intimate. Dean's looking at you, not your lips - you. His hands aren't straying to cop a feel, he's not labouring to get in your pants. Hell, he's not even fully hard yet. You're not behaving any better with your hands in his hair and smiling all coquettish. This doesn't feel sexual.

You wrench your hands to your side, burned, "So, how long do you think Sam will buy your 'going out' lie until he comes looking?"

Confused and maybe a little hurt, his smile goes a bit flat. It doesn't last long. Dean gives an indefinite wave of his hand and lets his head fall back against the bed frame, "Whole evening, if you're lucky."

"Like you could last an entire evening." You murmur in a low, provocative drawl and trail a finger over the waistband of his boxers peeking out from the undone zip of his jeans. His Adam's apple bobs, the fingers parked at your hips tightening their grip almost imperceptibly.

Dean sucks in a long breath that you can feel originates from the very bottom of his chest, "Gonna put your money where your mouth is, or are you gonna keep bein' a little cock-tease?"

"Bit of both, I reckon." You hum, grinning.

You more than take your time wriggling down his jeans. He can huff and puff all he likes, but Dean's eyes are the window to his soul, and they're more glazed than the pack of doughnuts he'd inhaled for dessert. The damp patch bleeding through his underwear is also a dead give away, too.

His hips ripple against the mattress uselessly, because you've already walked your hands back up his chest and press them into the cords of muscle all coiled up in his shoulders.

Dean's eyes briefly fall shut, "You're blue-balling me here."

"Thought you said you could last all evening?" You counter innocently as the pads of your thumbs bite into a particularly stubborn knot. His eyes open to slits.

"And I thought I told you to put your damn mouth to work." He removes a hand from white-knuckling your hip to spring himself free, his teeth gritting when the cold air of the motel greets the warm skin of his cock.

He's got a such a pretty dick. You haven't really had the chance to stop and admire it during the whirlwind of hookups the two of you have had. The curtains more than match the drapes; neatly trimmed but with a hint of rakish charm shining through. Just toeing the line of above average length maybe, but it's the width you'll be writing home about.

You don't need any more goading. You bend down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the flushed head of his cock, letting your tongue sweep a long stripe over the leaking slit. Dean's abdomen flexes as your lick disrupts the steadiness of his breathing.

His fingers loosely entangle in the back of your hair, not guiding, just resting. He's not one to let someone else take the reigns outside of the bedroom, so it's a nice change of pace for him to be at the mercy of your hands between the sheets, you've found. He deserves as much. Dean's many things, but selfish isn't one of them. You're happy to take a load off for him once in a while.

You continue to lathe his cockhead with kittenish laps of your tongue until the stubs of his nails are clawing at your scalp. His pre-cum tastes musky on your palate. Far from unpleasant. It's full-bodied, like sipping from a rich barrel aged whiskey. An acquired taste, but one you've grown to appreciate. You take just the tip of him between your lips and revel in the husky groan that rolls deliciously over your ears.

"Shit, sweetheart, you're a real sight down there," Dean's eyes are on you, unwavering, relishing in the sight of your mouth stretching to accommodate him. He makes a conscious effort to keep your hair from hanging over your face. Dean wants to see you. And it's feeling all too intimate again, "A good sight. The fuckin' best, actually. Only I get to see this, right?"

You mistakenly assume he's just talking through the haze of lust, but then he cups your chin, pausing you from taking him deeper. His eyes are insistent. He wants you to look at him, "Only me?"

Pulling off, with a glistening string of salvia connecting his cockhead to your lips, you satisfy him with a stiff nod. It seems to appease him, and even if it doesn't, he drops the subject the moment his dick is back resting against your tongue.

And, yeah, only he does. At least, at the moment. Blowjobs aren't your favourite, but when it comes to Dean, you're starting to think you judged them too rashly. You like the heft of him weighing down your jaw. You like eliciting all those noises from him, be them breathy whines or rasped moans. You like that his eyes don't stray from you for one minute, like it's not the simulation alone that drives him to spilling down your throat, but who the simulation is being delivered by. Talk about him making it personal; you're no better.

His fingers that keeps your hair parted glides down to splay over your cheek, thumb tracing the strained line of your jaw. There's a slight distension to your throat from the heft on him currently sitting on your tongue, and Dean's thumb veers down to brush it. It's done with the sort of obeisance you wouldn't expect from a casual hook-up. The tender movement sends a shiver down your spine.

He looks soft. Mushy. Something you'd label as fond, if you weren't familiar with his game. The Dean you've seen mete out dozens of sleazy pickup lines that shouldn't work, but somehow do, and proudly tout a double-digit body count doesn't sit happily alongside this version of him. The caricature of Dean you've grown to associate with him is one dimensional, impervious to change. You remember the little boy who chucked worms at you to see you squirm, or the teenager that juggled four girlfriends at once without either one finding out about the other, or the man who thought star signs and boob sizes were interchangeable.

A nicer, forgiving version of Dean throws a spanner in the works. This one seems worth a shot. Deserving of a second chance. Not all the rom-coms about taking a leap of faith with the fixer-upper can be wrong, can they? This one you can't dismiss as quickly.

You focus on his cock nudging the back of your throat instead. It's an easier thing to swallow. When your nose kisses the tamed thatch of his pubic hair, you sputter somewhat, and he seizes up, as though mindful to your enjoyment of this. You quash the concern by doubling down, willing your throat to loosen rather than reflexively fight against the intrusion. Through lowered, heavy lids, you glance up at him.

Dean very much seems to be a man who'd died happy. His eyes are reduced to slithers of green framed by dark lashes, fluttering, bewitched. His nose twitches, rabbit-like, and the perfect acuate of his jaw flexes. He's relaxed, for once. Unburdened. He prefers armour of the haughty variation and wears his lazy grin as a shield. There's a lot hidden underneath there, things no one could peel back, not even Sam. But here, it looks as though he's caught a much needed break between the lips of someone dear.

"Fuck, I love-" You both flinch. Dean's eyes fly open, a fat tear clinging to his lash line, and you can see his Adam's apple bob, "This. I love this."

Your mouth is full with him spilling down your throat, which is probably for the best, because a slew of expletives sounds off in your head. You have half a mind to repeat them into the silence of the room.

His head is tipped back, partly in pleasure, partly in shame. Even facing away from you, you spot the pink clawing its way over the expanse of his cheeks. Dean might have had the forbearance to correct himself, but it was fooling neither of you. You pull off him with a wet noise, swallow, and pull back. Pull into yourself.

Surprisingly, the cum shot isn't what settles unpleasantly in your stomach. It's the quiet that hurts. The noise of something unspoken, palpable in the air, too gruelling to speak into the world. Only Dean could make a blow-job feel like something other than sexual. It's disgustingly off-brand for him.

You don't think you'd believe him if he said it aloud anyways. You don't think either of the Winchesters understand the concept of non-transactional love. How you can give without chipping off a piece of yourself. How you can love, but not love. It's an all or nothing deal with them, and that's an exhausting way of living. Anything remotely affectionate would feel like devotion to a man who knew the cold metal of a gun before the warm hand, or mouth, of a friend.

He's spent, softened against his jeans. You keep your hands and eyes to yourself because touching him now is like touching something tainted. Seeing Dean in your peripheral is enough. He's desperate to catch your eye, get something out of you - positive or negative. He gets nothing as he works himself back into his boxers, wincing.

Dabbing your lips, you stand up, swaying a little, "I should probably get some sleep."

The announcement is a dismissal. You want him gone now. Your jaw aches, throat feels raw. Everything tied tight enough to snap. Dean doesn't move from the bed immediately. His hands spread on his thighs, fingertips twitching, and there's a cinch to his brows as though he wants to say something further. You nip it in the bud.

"Goodnight, Dean." You say, firmly. He moves at a lethargic place, almost expecting you to budge, to change your mind, but you're implacable. A maiden of stubborn stone and crossed arms, watching him down the slope of your nose as he gathers himself.

When he reaches your door, he turns once again, arms open and eyes still glossy. It tugs the softer side of you, but spite wins out. A collage of Dean's previous exploits flares behind your eyes, fuelling the fire more. You tilt your head, expectant and cruel.

"What? Expecting a parting kiss?" His head shakes slowly, hung a little, and he departs, closing the door softly behind him. The gesture incenses you more.

You flop to the bed and glare up at the popcorning pattern on the ceiling. If boys being mean means they like you, what does it mean when they're nice to you instead?

[lunexiax]

i want to bash their heads together!!!! loved this so much, you capture dean so perfectly every time. also want to take a sec to appreciate that usually in dean x reader, reader is the lovesick heartbroken one and dean is the one with the fear of commitment but you've turned it on its head and did so beautifully. i would read 10000 parts to this series 🤍

[cujja]

Ugh you’re too kind I’m blushing. I love Dean, but I just know that mf has diseases scientists haven’t even heard of and some of the bullshit he says??

I adore the typical yearning reader x Dean cuz let’s be real, who wouldn’t wanna ride that, but I like the idea of the inverse, and I’m glad you noticed!!

[cujja]

Cuffing Season

Dean has always made things hard for you, so why would now be any different?

Part 1, Part 2 Warnings/tags: Everyone being in denial, Sam Winchester cries during sex but make it Dean crying during head, making it weird by almost saying L word, sloppiest of toppies, smidge of jealousy, Dean kinda being the only emotionally forward one in the relationship (first time ever), changed from the preview so there's another part in the works cuz im a rascal, reader is lowkey kinda mean but he kinda deserves it bc im rewatching s9, some references to Dean's internalised misogyny/manwhore-ness. Also, no one talk to me about s5 of the boys. it is a very sensitive topic for me....

You don't mention the Arizona incident. Or the car incident. Or the one after that. Or that other time.

Outwardly, nothing's changed. You and Dean still fight like cats and dogs. He goes left, you spitefully go right. Sam's still left playing arbitrator, he just doesn't know about the alternative mediation tactic you two have tucked up your sleeves: sex. A whole lot of it. 

Dean still flirts with anything alive and you still snark about him needing to get tested despite you both knowing he's not going to call the number the waitress slipped him and you've stopped bothering with condoms after he proudly presented you with a clean report. It only got weird in Washington when he didn't bite the bait thrown out by the gorgeous mechanic. 

Sam was so concerned he even asks you about it when Dean had slunk off to the bathroom at lunch. 

"I don't know, Sam, but I have better things to worry about than your brother's overactive sex-life." You'd lied convincingly through a mouthful of fries. Sam's eyes lag on the spot where Dean had ducked into the men's room, sparkling with concern. 

He pushes unenthusiastically at his yoghurt, "It's not like I enjoy thinking about it either, it's just..." He shrugs his shoulders and slumps his chin into his palm, "He's different. Not bad different. Just not himself. Don't tell me you haven't noticed it."

"Fine, I guess maybe a little, but different isn't a bad thing, right? No offence, but Dean definitely has room for improvement, personality-wise. It wouldn't kill him to think with his head rather than his dick for once." You muse, and it placates Sam enough to squeeze a perfunctory chuckle from him. 

He twirls his spoon, absorbed in thought. You sneak a look between him and your lunch, which has started to taste like chalk in your mouth. Dean's sliding of that clean test over to you was an implicit pledge of not dipping his wick in every candle that gave him a solicitous once over. You'd requited that by skipping condoms and working into conversation about your IUD. That was the extent of the commitment. There was no dates, no aftercare. Just fucking. 

Him passing up a leggy brunette who was also a mechanic didn't sit right with you, though. It felt too much like strings were being attached. 

You'd confronted him about it when he'd snuck into your room after lights out. Dean was lounging on your mattress, looking mightily pleased with himself, like he had a right to be there. He'd looked at you strangely when you broached the topic.

"Just wasn't feeling it, that's all," Dean had shrugged, ambling his deft fingers underneath the back of your shirt to tickle up your spine. You were perched at the foot of the bed with a respectable distance put between the two of you. He'd closed it within an instance, nosing against your jawline, "But, if you're sayin' you don't want me to pay you back for the blowjob in Portland, then just let me know..."

That drew the conversation to a grinding halt and Dean had spent the rest of the evening getting comfy between your thighs. 

The case in Idaho Falls was your tipping point, though. 

Sam lost shotgun privileges after choosing to eat something with beans in for lunch. It's not often you get the passenger seat, mostly because you're liable to jerk the wheel into oncoming traffic if Dean irritates you too much, so you make the most of it. 

Dean's mumbling along to the song playing, Sam's catching up on his eight-hours and you're reviewing the case. It was Dean's choice. He'd sprang it on you after barely wrapping up a poltergeist in Glendive. It was a suspected werewolf, and Dean loved hunting werewolves, so you were on the road within the hour. 

"Pretty gruesome, right?" 

You blink up from the page, looking at him a little dumbfounded, "Huh?"

Dean flicks the paper you're holding without taking his gaze off the interstate marker ahead, "The case, stupid. What else would I be talking about? Your face?" 

"Real mature. How long did that one take you to think up?" You mutter with a quirk of your brow, rustling through the newspaper clippings. For Dean, he'd done a commendable job pooling all of it together. He hadn't just blindly insisted he had a bad feeling about one of the headlines, like usual. 

It sounded like the start to one of those run-of-the-mill horror films Dean makes you and Sam watch where there's excessive gore and girls running without bras. A local lovers' lane was being terrorised by a series of mysterious and vicious attacks. More than three couples had been torn to shreds, each missing their hearts, and found a disturbing distance from their parked cars. 

You set the bundle down in the footwell, crossing your arms, "So, what's the plan when we get there? We going the animal control or FBI route?"

"Neither," He chucks a roughish grin over his shoulder that fills you with doubt. A Dean plan never goes according to plan, "Best course of action is taking Cujo down head on. We can go undercover as a couple, shoot the bastard and celebrate with mind-blowing sex for three hours. Win-win." 

You consult the rearview mirror. Sam's still soundly asleep. You don't think you'd hear the end of it if he found out about your fraternising. Dean isn't half as careful as you are, especially if he's had a few drinks and decides he wants his hand under your shirt right then and there. 

"Sounds risky. We should all go." 

Dean grimaces, "I don't want people thinkin' I'm in a thruple with Sammy, even if it is only to a werewolf. We're not bringing him." 

"Alright, what about me and Sam? I'd feel a lot safer with someone a lot less trigger happy." You snipe, ever the contrarian. He waves off your suggestion by throwing his head back with a loud laugh, slapping the steering wheel.

"You and Sam? Please. Like anyone's gonna buy that." He shakes his head as though that's truly the most facetious thing he's ever heard, his lips bent into a wide smile that brightens up his whole face. 

You harrumph, "But people will buy you and me?" 

Dean's hand abandons its post on the gear stick and squeezes your thigh. You frown down at it, debate shoving him off, but you'll allow it. Sam's not looking, so what does it matter? 

"Hell yeah, sweetheart. We've got chemistry. We can be like one of those couples that hates each other's guts but still screw like rabbits," He lowers his voice and gives you an absurd wink, "We've got good practise at both of those things." 

Despite yourself, you laugh. It's a small one, more of a scoff, but it validates Dean all the same, "Jesus Christ, fine, fine. I'll do it if it'll shut you up."

It does, and his hand remains a steady presence on your thigh up until Dubois, when Sam starts stirring.

The budget stretches to afford you your own room for a change. It's a rare treat, but without the recurrent warble of conversation flowing between Sam and Dean, you're left stewing in your own thoughts. And it's not a nice place to be, because you're mostly thinking about Dean.

You hadn't told anyone. Directly. Bobby knows, but Bobby doesn't count, because he'd come to the conclusion on his own. It'd been after the blizzard conundrum in Wyoming, and Dean had whipped up stuff from childhood in your head, and you were very, very lost. Bobby always gave you clarity.

In not so many words, he'd disapproved. Said that the guy you weren't seeing, but weren't not seeing, and who's definitely not Dean, was a good man but you'd fare well not to get attached. Not-Dean's fun and exciting in moderation, yet if you think you can fix him, you should cut your losses before someone gets hurt.

And you can't fault Bobby for any of it. So, it was decided. You'll give Dean a few months of fun then throw in the towel. Everyone wins. Things can go back to normal and you can find a more appropriate guy to have casual sex with rather than the guy who still thinks pulling on a girl's pigtails is an acceptable way to flirt.

It was like you'd conjured him. You'd just switched into pyjamas and made your mind up about him when Dean was inviting himself in, looking for trouble.

"You've showered and you're wearing a clean shirt. You going out?" You remark, hands on your hips as you make a big show of taking him in. He's clearly planning on staying for a while, though, because he hangs his leather jacket over the back of the chair.

"Nah, just had to sell it to Sammy that I was off out, chasin' tail, and not next-door." He shrugs, eyes twinkling. Dean collapses on the bed and snatches up the TV remote, flicking lazily through channels.

When you don't move from your spot at the vanity, observing him with a weird look, he lets out an impatient sigh and beckons you over, "If I wanted to watch TV alone, I coulda done that back at mine. Get over here, woman."

You're tempted to refuse on principle alone, but soon defer when grapples with his fly and tugs out soft cock, and you can't resist. As long as he's here for something sexual, you can handle that. Dean drapes his arm around your shoulders as you settle in beside him, chin stationed on top of your head.

Through the thin material of his t-shirt, you can feel Dean's muscles flexing when your hand travels across his abdomen. He's just the right amount of muscular, in your opinion. Enough thew to fuck you up against the wall, not too much that there's not some softness there too.

"You actually smell really nice. What is that? I know it's not motel shampoo." You prop yourself up a little and use his stomach as leverage, which makes him huff.

Grumbling, Dean pats his hair, which has turned spiky now that it's damp, "So shoot me, I put a bit of effort into my appearance. Don't chicks like that? Want me to go smear myself in pig shit, or something?"

"So long as you don't expect me to start tasting of daisies, scrub up all you like," You surrender, stifling a giggle on his behalf. You ruffle his hair yourself and Dean delivers a playful, reproving swat to your ass, "Hey, it's cute. Like a baby duckling, only grumpier."

He's offended by the comparison, you can tell by the way his lips press in a straight line, but he recovers quickly and has you swinging a leg over him with a hand to your hip. Dean's lap is a familiar spot to you now and it's intuitive the way you stabilise yourself on his chest while his palms rest over your parted thighs.

"Sweetheart, you taste way better than daisies," He drags his hands listlessly up the length of your thighs, just shy of massaging the muscles there. Dean's brow then cinches, "But that's not saying much 'cause Sam dared me to eat one once and it tasted awful. Worse than that green gunk he always has instead of fries."

You fluff up his hair again, but he indulges you with a grunt of permission, "You mean salad. Having some would probably do you some good, you know. Fruit cooked in sugar and wrapped in pastry doesn't count as one of your five a day."

"Now you tell me." Dean teases, canting his head to grant you better access to fuss with his hair. Momentarily, you pause, considering laying a boundary, because this is feeling borderline intimate. Once won't do you any harm. Your fingers venture to the nape of his neck, scratching the shorter scruff there.

And it definitely feels too intimate. Dean's looking at you, not your lips - you. His hands aren't straying to cop a feel, he's not labouring to get in your pants. Hell, he's not even fully hard yet. You're not behaving any better with your hands in his hair and smiling all coquettish. This doesn't feel sexual.

You wrench your hands to your side, burned, "So, how long do you think Sam will buy your 'going out' lie until he comes looking?"

Confused and maybe a little hurt, his smile goes a bit flat. It doesn't last long. Dean gives an indefinite wave of his hand and lets his head fall back against the bed frame, "Whole evening, if you're lucky."

"Like you could last an entire evening." You murmur in a low, provocative drawl and trail a finger over the waistband of his boxers peeking out from the undone zip of his jeans. His Adam's apple bobs, the fingers parked at your hips tightening their grip almost imperceptibly.

Dean sucks in a long breath that you can feel originates from the very bottom of his chest, "Gonna put your money where your mouth is, or are you gonna keep bein' a little cock-tease?"

"Bit of both, I reckon." You hum, grinning.

You more than take your time wriggling down his jeans. He can huff and puff all he likes, but Dean's eyes are the window to his soul, and they're more glazed than the pack of doughnuts he'd inhaled for dessert. The damp patch bleeding through his underwear is also a dead give away, too.

His hips ripple against the mattress uselessly, because you've already walked your hands back up his chest and press them into the cords of muscle all coiled up in his shoulders.

Dean's eyes briefly fall shut, "You're blue-balling me here."

"Thought you said you could last all evening?" You counter innocently as the pads of your thumbs bite into a particularly stubborn knot. His eyes open to slits.

"And I thought I told you to put your damn mouth to work." He removes a hand from white-knuckling your hip to spring himself free, his teeth gritting when the cold air of the motel greets the warm skin of his cock.

He's got a such a pretty dick. You haven't really had the chance to stop and admire it during the whirlwind of hookups the two of you have had. The curtains more than match the drapes; neatly trimmed but with a hint of rakish charm shining through. Just toeing the line of above average length maybe, but it's the width you'll be writing home about.

You don't need any more goading. You bend down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the flushed head of his cock, letting your tongue sweep a long stripe over the leaking slit. Dean's abdomen flexes as your lick disrupts the steadiness of his breathing.

His fingers loosely entangle in the back of your hair, not guiding, just resting. He's not one to let someone else take the reigns outside of the bedroom, so it's a nice change of pace for him to be at the mercy of your hands between the sheets, you've found. He deserves as much. Dean's many things, but selfish isn't one of them. You're happy to take a load off for him once in a while.

You continue to lathe his cockhead with kittenish laps of your tongue until the stubs of his nails are clawing at your scalp. His pre-cum tastes musky on your palate. Far from unpleasant. It's full-bodied, like sipping from a rich barrel aged whiskey. An acquired taste, but one you've grown to appreciate. You take just the tip of him between your lips and revel in the husky groan that rolls deliciously over your ears.

"Shit, sweetheart, you're a real sight down there," Dean's eyes are on you, unwavering, relishing in the sight of your mouth stretching to accommodate him. He makes a conscious effort to keep your hair from hanging over your face. Dean wants to see you. And it's feeling all too intimate again, "A good sight. The fuckin' best, actually. Only I get to see this, right?"

You mistakenly assume he's just talking through the haze of lust, but then he cups your chin, pausing you from taking him deeper. His eyes are insistent. He wants you to look at him, "Only me?"

Pulling off, with a glistening string of salvia connecting his cockhead to your lips, you satisfy him with a stiff nod. It seems to appease him, and even if it doesn't, he drops the subject the moment his dick is back resting against your tongue.

And, yeah, only he does. At least, at the moment. Blowjobs aren't your favourite, but when it comes to Dean, you're starting to think you judged them too rashly. You like the heft of him weighing down your jaw. You like eliciting all those noises from him, be them breathy whines or rasped moans. You like that his eyes don't stray from you for one minute, like it's not the simulation alone that drives him to spilling down your throat, but who the simulation is being delivered by. Talk about him making it personal; you're no better.

His fingers that keeps your hair parted glides down to splay over your cheek, thumb tracing the strained line of your jaw. There's a slight distension to your throat from the heft on him currently sitting on your tongue, and Dean's thumb veers down to brush it. It's done with the sort of obeisance you wouldn't expect from a casual hook-up. The tender movement sends a shiver down your spine.

He looks soft. Mushy. Something you'd label as fond, if you weren't familiar with his game. The Dean you've seen mete out dozens of sleazy pickup lines that shouldn't work, but somehow do, and proudly tout a double-digit body count doesn't sit happily alongside this version of him. The caricature of Dean you've grown to associate with him is one dimensional, impervious to change. You remember the little boy who chucked worms at you to see you squirm, or the teenager that juggled four girlfriends at once without either one finding out about the other, or the man who thought star signs and boob sizes were interchangeable.

A nicer, forgiving version of Dean throws a spanner in the works. This one seems worth a shot. Deserving of a second chance. Not all the rom-coms about taking a leap of faith with the fixer-upper can be wrong, can they? This one you can't dismiss as quickly.

You focus on his cock nudging the back of your throat instead. It's an easier thing to swallow. When your nose kisses the tamed thatch of his pubic hair, you sputter somewhat, and he seizes up, as though mindful to your enjoyment of this. You quash the concern by doubling down, willing your throat to loosen rather than reflexively fight against the intrusion. Through lowered, heavy lids, you glance up at him.

Dean very much seems to be a man who'd died happy. His eyes are reduced to slithers of green framed by dark lashes, fluttering, bewitched. His nose twitches, rabbit-like, and the perfect acuate of his jaw flexes. He's relaxed, for once. Unburdened. He prefers armour of the haughty variation and wears his lazy grin as a shield. There's a lot hidden underneath there, things no one could peel back, not even Sam. But here, it looks as though he's caught a much needed break between the lips of someone dear.

"Fuck, I love-" You both flinch. Dean's eyes fly open, a fat tear clinging to his lash line, and you can see his Adam's apple bob, "This. I love this."

Your mouth is full with him spilling down your throat, which is probably for the best, because a slew of expletives sounds off in your head. You have half a mind to repeat them into the silence of the room.

His head is tipped back, partly in pleasure, partly in shame. Even facing away from you, you spot the pink clawing its way over the expanse of his cheeks. Dean might have had the forbearance to correct himself, but it was fooling neither of you. You pull off him with a wet noise, swallow, and pull back. Pull into yourself.

Surprisingly, the cum shot isn't what settles unpleasantly in your stomach. It's the quiet that hurts. The noise of something unspoken, palpable in the air, too gruelling to speak into the world. Only Dean could make a blow-job feel like something other than sexual. It's disgustingly off-brand for him.

You don't think you'd believe him if he said it aloud anyways. You don't think either of the Winchesters understand the concept of non-transactional love. How you can give without chipping off a piece of yourself. How you can love, but not love. It's an all or nothing deal with them, and that's an exhausting way of living. Anything remotely affectionate would feel like devotion to a man who knew the cold metal of a gun before the warm hand, or mouth, of a friend.

He's spent, softened against his jeans. You keep your hands and eyes to yourself because touching him now is like touching something tainted. Seeing Dean in your peripheral is enough. He's desperate to catch your eye, get something out of you - positive or negative. He gets nothing as he works himself back into his boxers, wincing.

Dabbing your lips, you stand up, swaying a little, "I should probably get some sleep."

The announcement is a dismissal. You want him gone now. Your jaw aches, throat feels raw. Everything tied tight enough to snap. Dean doesn't move from the bed immediately. His hands spread on his thighs, fingertips twitching, and there's a cinch to his brows as though he wants to say something further. You nip it in the bud.

"Goodnight, Dean." You say, firmly. He moves at a lethargic place, almost expecting you to budge, to change your mind, but you're implacable. A maiden of stubborn stone and crossed arms, watching him down the slope of your nose as he gathers himself.

When he reaches your door, he turns once again, arms open and eyes still glossy. It tugs the softer side of you, but spite wins out. A collage of Dean's previous exploits flares behind your eyes, fuelling the fire more. You tilt your head, expectant and cruel.

"What? Expecting a parting kiss?" His head shakes slowly, hung a little, and he departs, closing the door softly behind him. The gesture incenses you more.

You flop to the bed and glare up at the popcorning pattern on the ceiling. If boys being mean means they like you, what does it mean when they're nice to you instead?

[bitchinwallabyfaves]

Ooo here come the feels. Ouchie. ♥︎ Praying for a happy ending for them, please let there be a happy ending for them!!

Wow your writing blows me away and I think this is my favorite part so far, in terms of that. I'm not big on angst but when it's written this gorgeously, it's hard not to see the appeal. Beautiful, beautiful torture. ♥︎♥︎

[cujja]

Thank you sm I was lowkey kinda critical of this part, but I’m v glad you enjoyed it!! 💞

I will def do part four and feel free to chase me up on it cuz I’m a #procrastinator and forget I enjoy writing sometimes

[cujja]

i love the dirtbag version of dean you write so so much. something i can picture so clearly is him telling reader who is determined not to fuck him: 'it's not fucking if i don't put it in' to 'it's not fucking if it's just the tip' to 'it's not fucking if i just don't move' to 'it's not fucking if i don't come inside' and of course he can't help but fail at them all bc he has no self restraint and probably doesn't care that much anyway. what are your thoughts!!! the floor is yours!!!

Wait this is kinda evil but hot asf….and I kinda got carried away…..

Def picturing older, more jaded Dean. He’s seen some shit. Seen that shit chew up and spit out nice, good people like you. So he’s made a vow to himself that he will never, under any circumstances, fuck you. You wouldn’t want anything to do with a dirty old man like him anyways, so he’s pretty sure he can keep this promise.

Then maybe you start hanging around the bunker more, or need some pointers to polish up on your shooting, or maybe it’s divine fucking intervention, but you’re suddenly still here. Yeah, you stick with Sammy and his dusty old books and grimace at the smell of gunpowder, but you’re within his four walls. You’re in his domain.

So Dean starts giving himself little crafty loopholes. Well, it’s not fucking if it’s his dick in his hand and only to the thought of you, is it? Technically, he’s not doing anything to you, just dream you. By god does he do everything to dream you, though.

Starts out tame-ish. Porno set-ups; you’re step-siblings, you’ve got to fuck to save the world, strict teacher and naughty school girl. As he gets to know you, and your lip, it shifts. Less plot, more desperation. You’re always begging for it, in his dreams. All wide, wet, blown out eyes and a pouty, kiss-bitten mouth. You like it rough, hard and crushing. Any hole, any where.

Dean’s actually started doing his own laundry he’s woken up with wet sheets so many times now. Once, your underwear got stuck in one of his pillow cases and fell out while he was mid-making the bed. Finders keepers.

Dreams start to not be enough and spill out into the waking world. You’ll do something innocuous, like nibble your lip or wear a lower cut top than usual, and he’s popping a stiffy like some fucking spotty teenager seeing boobs for the first time. If you catch him, he plays it off, makes a crass joke that scrunches up that little nose of yours. It only gets him harder.

The chase is fun and all, but Dean starts wanting you to want him. You don’t have to like him, you can even hate him if you want, but he needs you to acknowledge him. He’ll sleep around more. Make it obvious. The walls of the bunker may well dampen most noises, but from the darkened rings under your eyes and scowl to your brown, Dean’s sure you got the gist of it.

He flirts with you more too. More openly, more crassly. You shrug him off usually but you’re not immune; he relishes in the slight stutter of your breath before answering or the exaggerated look of disgust on your face. Dean gets you familiar with him. Familiar with casual touches - his knee against yours under the table, hand to your back when walking together, leaning too close during conversation. It’s exposure therapy.

It’s probably been a bad day. Tough case or something. It doesn’t matter, what’s important is that your defences are down. Dean’s hoping you’ll feel shitty enough about yourself to let him cop a feel. Copping a feels not fucking, so that’s allowed, he’s told himself.

You’ve had a drink and Dean’s had five. Sam’s locked away in the library, pouring over lore, so he’s out of the way. You’re looking particularly adorable and hard done by today, and you’ve got his favourite colour on with that nice bra that really accentuates your cleavage.

Dean makes the first move, obviously. You shove him away, chagrined, utterly irate at his audacity, then you pull him back by your fist balled in his shirt. You’re more recalcitrant in real life than in his dreams. As he kisses you, firm hand to the back of your head and tongue lashing with yours, you don’t melt into a subservient puddle. You push back, bite his lip, dig your fingernails into the meat of his shoulders. He kinda prefers it.

When he starts moving under the clothes, you slap his grabby hands away. Shake your head, all indignant. You don’t want to sleep with him, you say. He’s probably disease riddled, you argue. Dean’s well-versed in finding loopholes, though.

“It’s not sleeping together if it’s just hand stuff.”

So you do hand stuff. He makes you cum twice on the sofa that night and you leave him blue-balled, because you say he should learn restraint, and you skip off to your room with a smug smile and a bit of a hobble to your gait. Your restraint doesn’t last long, which is lucky for him because his was waning too, and you give him a hand-job while Sam dips in to interview one of the witnesses.

The sneaking around is fun, and so is the random groping you dole out to each other, but man. Dean wants to try another loophole. Surely it also isn’t fucking if he doesn’t enter anything, so pushing your thighs together and putting his dick there isn’t entering jack-shit. You don’t disagree.

And that scratches that itch for a bit, but now he’s felt the drag of your cunt against him, he’s tweaking for more.

“It’s also not fucking if it’s just the tip. You can’t half do something, can you? So that’s not half-fucking. It’s just hand stuff with extra steps.”

You sigh, unconvinced, but happily lead him to your bedroom by the loops of his jeans. He goes happily, too. And goddamn he is a satisfied man when he’s nudged himself the first few inches into you. You’re wet enough that, if he wanted, if he wasn’t keeping to the no-fucking rule, he could just slide right in with no resistance.

You sound as though you wouldn’t object to that either. He’s got you face down in the pillow, head to the side to gulp down lungfuls of air, hair askew and moans reaching a new pornographic sounding symphony. It’s also really fucking hard to keep his thrusts shallow enough to not feed in more than just the tip. It’s actually harder than just full on fucking, and wasn’t the whole point of this was so that it wasn’t hard or complicated?

“Okay, new rule; it’s not fucking if I pull out. The whole part of sex is cumming together, so if I don’t finish inside, it doesn’t count.”

Dean takes your twitching hips and muffled moans as agreement. He wants to just shove all the way in like a bull in a china shop but he knows you’ll probably kick him in the face and he’ll probably cum immediately if he does that. So, through gritted teeth, he builds up to it. Let’s you feel every inch before situating himself inside of you completely.

He knew all the loopholes would be worth it. You’re warm, and moulding around him so sweetly, so invitingly. He really, really likes this. Each snap of his hips chips away at the logic behind his no-finishing-inside rule. Can you narrow the definition of sex solely down to the exchange of bodily fluids? No, you can’t, because that’s gross. And if Dean’s already here, already buried all nice and cosy inside, what more is a little bit of semen? It’s just biology, after all.

He doesn’t pull out. Couldn’t even if he wanted to. You were no help resisting either, because when he withdrew (with the full intention of pushing right back in) you let out a pitiful whine and threw a hand back wildly to coax him. Little minx. Dean doesn’t even have the wherewithal to pull out after he’s spent, just manoeuvres you in bed to sprawl atop him.

“Yeah, fine, we broke the no-fucking rule. Who cares? Do you care?”

You shake your head. Good, because he sure as shit didn’t.

[cujja]

Cuffing Season

Dean has always made things hard for you, so why would now be any different?

Part 1, Part 2 Warnings/tags: Everyone being in denial, Sam Winchester cries during sex but make it Dean crying during head, making it weird by almost saying L word, sloppiest of toppies, smidge of jealousy, Dean kinda being the only emotionally forward one in the relationship (first time ever), changed from the preview so there's another part in the works cuz im a rascal, reader is lowkey kinda mean but he kinda deserves it bc im rewatching s9, some references to Dean's internalised misogyny/manwhore-ness. Also, no one talk to me about s5 of the boys. it is a very sensitive topic for me....

You don't mention the Arizona incident. Or the car incident. Or the one after that. Or that other time.

Outwardly, nothing's changed. You and Dean still fight like cats and dogs. He goes left, you spitefully go right. Sam's still left playing arbitrator, he just doesn't know about the alternative mediation tactic you two have tucked up your sleeves: sex. A whole lot of it. 

Dean still flirts with anything alive and you still snark about him needing to get tested despite you both knowing he's not going to call the number the waitress slipped him and you've stopped bothering with condoms after he proudly presented you with a clean report. It only got weird in Washington when he didn't bite the bait thrown out by the gorgeous mechanic. 

Sam was so concerned he even asks you about it when Dean had slunk off to the bathroom at lunch. 

"I don't know, Sam, but I have better things to worry about than your brother's overactive sex-life." You'd lied convincingly through a mouthful of fries. Sam's eyes lag on the spot where Dean had ducked into the men's room, sparkling with concern. 

He pushes unenthusiastically at his yoghurt, "It's not like I enjoy thinking about it either, it's just..." He shrugs his shoulders and slumps his chin into his palm, "He's different. Not bad different. Just not himself. Don't tell me you haven't noticed it."

"Fine, I guess maybe a little, but different isn't a bad thing, right? No offence, but Dean definitely has room for improvement, personality-wise. It wouldn't kill him to think with his head rather than his dick for once." You muse, and it placates Sam enough to squeeze a perfunctory chuckle from him. 

He twirls his spoon, absorbed in thought. You sneak a look between him and your lunch, which has started to taste like chalk in your mouth. Dean's sliding of that clean test over to you was an implicit pledge of not dipping his wick in every candle that gave him a solicitous once over. You'd requited that by skipping condoms and working into conversation about your IUD. That was the extent of the commitment. There was no dates, no aftercare. Just fucking. 

Him passing up a leggy brunette who was also a mechanic didn't sit right with you, though. It felt too much like strings were being attached. 

You'd confronted him about it when he'd snuck into your room after lights out. Dean was lounging on your mattress, looking mightily pleased with himself, like he had a right to be there. He'd looked at you strangely when you broached the topic.

"Just wasn't feeling it, that's all," Dean had shrugged, ambling his deft fingers underneath the back of your shirt to tickle up your spine. You were perched at the foot of the bed with a respectable distance put between the two of you. He'd closed it within an instance, nosing against your jawline, "But, if you're sayin' you don't want me to pay you back for the blowjob in Portland, then just let me know..."

That drew the conversation to a grinding halt and Dean had spent the rest of the evening getting comfy between your thighs. 

The case in Idaho Falls was your tipping point, though. 

Sam lost shotgun privileges after choosing to eat something with beans in for lunch. It's not often you get the passenger seat, mostly because you're liable to jerk the wheel into oncoming traffic if Dean irritates you too much, so you make the most of it. 

Dean's mumbling along to the song playing, Sam's catching up on his eight-hours and you're reviewing the case. It was Dean's choice. He'd sprang it on you after barely wrapping up a poltergeist in Glendive. It was a suspected werewolf, and Dean loved hunting werewolves, so you were on the road within the hour. 

"Pretty gruesome, right?" 

You blink up from the page, looking at him a little dumbfounded, "Huh?"

Dean flicks the paper you're holding without taking his gaze off the interstate marker ahead, "The case, stupid. What else would I be talking about? Your face?" 

"Real mature. How long did that one take you to think up?" You mutter with a quirk of your brow, rustling through the newspaper clippings. For Dean, he'd done a commendable job pooling all of it together. He hadn't just blindly insisted he had a bad feeling about one of the headlines, like usual. 

It sounded like the start to one of those run-of-the-mill horror films Dean makes you and Sam watch where there's excessive gore and girls running without bras. A local lovers' lane was being terrorised by a series of mysterious and vicious attacks. More than three couples had been torn to shreds, each missing their hearts, and found a disturbing distance from their parked cars. 

You set the bundle down in the footwell, crossing your arms, "So, what's the plan when we get there? We going the animal control or FBI route?"

"Neither," He chucks a roughish grin over his shoulder that fills you with doubt. A Dean plan never goes according to plan, "Best course of action is taking Cujo down head on. We can go undercover as a couple, shoot the bastard and celebrate with mind-blowing sex for three hours. Win-win." 

You consult the rearview mirror. Sam's still soundly asleep. You don't think you'd hear the end of it if he found out about your fraternising. Dean isn't half as careful as you are, especially if he's had a few drinks and decides he wants his hand under your shirt right then and there. 

"Sounds risky. We should all go." 

Dean grimaces, "I don't want people thinkin' I'm in a thruple with Sammy, even if it is only to a werewolf. We're not bringing him." 

"Alright, what about me and Sam? I'd feel a lot safer with someone a lot less trigger happy." You snipe, ever the contrarian. He waves off your suggestion by throwing his head back with a loud laugh, slapping the steering wheel.

"You and Sam? Please. Like anyone's gonna buy that." He shakes his head as though that's truly the most facetious thing he's ever heard, his lips bent into a wide smile that brightens up his whole face. 

You harrumph, "But people will buy you and me?" 

Dean's hand abandons its post on the gear stick and squeezes your thigh. You frown down at it, debate shoving him off, but you'll allow it. Sam's not looking, so what does it matter? 

"Hell yeah, sweetheart. We've got chemistry. We can be like one of those couples that hates each other's guts but still screw like rabbits," He lowers his voice and gives you an absurd wink, "We've got good practise at both of those things." 

Despite yourself, you laugh. It's a small one, more of a scoff, but it validates Dean all the same, "Jesus Christ, fine, fine. I'll do it if it'll shut you up."

It does, and his hand remains a steady presence on your thigh up until Dubois, when Sam starts stirring.

The budget stretches to afford you your own room for a change. It's a rare treat, but without the recurrent warble of conversation flowing between Sam and Dean, you're left stewing in your own thoughts. And it's not a nice place to be, because you're mostly thinking about Dean.

You hadn't told anyone. Directly. Bobby knows, but Bobby doesn't count, because he'd come to the conclusion on his own. It'd been after the blizzard conundrum in Wyoming, and Dean had whipped up stuff from childhood in your head, and you were very, very lost. Bobby always gave you clarity.

In not so many words, he'd disapproved. Said that the guy you weren't seeing, but weren't not seeing, and who's definitely not Dean, was a good man but you'd fare well not to get attached. Not-Dean's fun and exciting in moderation, yet if you think you can fix him, you should cut your losses before someone gets hurt.

And you can't fault Bobby for any of it. So, it was decided. You'll give Dean a few months of fun then throw in the towel. Everyone wins. Things can go back to normal and you can find a more appropriate guy to have casual sex with rather than the guy who still thinks pulling on a girl's pigtails is an acceptable way to flirt.

It was like you'd conjured him. You'd just switched into pyjamas and made your mind up about him when Dean was inviting himself in, looking for trouble.

"You've showered and you're wearing a clean shirt. You going out?" You remark, hands on your hips as you make a big show of taking him in. He's clearly planning on staying for a while, though, because he hangs his leather jacket over the back of the chair.

"Nah, just had to sell it to Sammy that I was off out, chasin' tail, and not next-door." He shrugs, eyes twinkling. Dean collapses on the bed and snatches up the TV remote, flicking lazily through channels.

When you don't move from your spot at the vanity, observing him with a weird look, he lets out an impatient sigh and beckons you over, "If I wanted to watch TV alone, I coulda done that back at mine. Get over here, woman."

You're tempted to refuse on principle alone, but soon defer when grapples with his fly and tugs out soft cock, and you can't resist. As long as he's here for something sexual, you can handle that. Dean drapes his arm around your shoulders as you settle in beside him, chin stationed on top of your head.

Through the thin material of his t-shirt, you can feel Dean's muscles flexing when your hand travels across his abdomen. He's just the right amount of muscular, in your opinion. Enough thew to fuck you up against the wall, not too much that there's not some softness there too.

"You actually smell really nice. What is that? I know it's not motel shampoo." You prop yourself up a little and use his stomach as leverage, which makes him huff.

Grumbling, Dean pats his hair, which has turned spiky now that it's damp, "So shoot me, I put a bit of effort into my appearance. Don't chicks like that? Want me to go smear myself in pig shit, or something?"

"So long as you don't expect me to start tasting of daisies, scrub up all you like," You surrender, stifling a giggle on his behalf. You ruffle his hair yourself and Dean delivers a playful, reproving swat to your ass, "Hey, it's cute. Like a baby duckling, only grumpier."

He's offended by the comparison, you can tell by the way his lips press in a straight line, but he recovers quickly and has you swinging a leg over him with a hand to your hip. Dean's lap is a familiar spot to you now and it's intuitive the way you stabilise yourself on his chest while his palms rest over your parted thighs.

"Sweetheart, you taste way better than daisies," He drags his hands listlessly up the length of your thighs, just shy of massaging the muscles there. Dean's brow then cinches, "But that's not saying much 'cause Sam dared me to eat one once and it tasted awful. Worse than that green gunk he always has instead of fries."

You fluff up his hair again, but he indulges you with a grunt of permission, "You mean salad. Having some would probably do you some good, you know. Fruit cooked in sugar and wrapped in pastry doesn't count as one of your five a day."

"Now you tell me." Dean teases, canting his head to grant you better access to fuss with his hair. Momentarily, you pause, considering laying a boundary, because this is feeling borderline intimate. Once won't do you any harm. Your fingers venture to the nape of his neck, scratching the shorter scruff there.

And it definitely feels too intimate. Dean's looking at you, not your lips - you. His hands aren't straying to cop a feel, he's not labouring to get in your pants. Hell, he's not even fully hard yet. You're not behaving any better with your hands in his hair and smiling all coquettish. This doesn't feel sexual.

You wrench your hands to your side, burned, "So, how long do you think Sam will buy your 'going out' lie until he comes looking?"

Confused and maybe a little hurt, his smile goes a bit flat. It doesn't last long. Dean gives an indefinite wave of his hand and lets his head fall back against the bed frame, "Whole evening, if you're lucky."

"Like you could last an entire evening." You murmur in a low, provocative drawl and trail a finger over the waistband of his boxers peeking out from the undone zip of his jeans. His Adam's apple bobs, the fingers parked at your hips tightening their grip almost imperceptibly.

Dean sucks in a long breath that you can feel originates from the very bottom of his chest, "Gonna put your money where your mouth is, or are you gonna keep bein' a little cock-tease?"

"Bit of both, I reckon." You hum, grinning.

You more than take your time wriggling down his jeans. He can huff and puff all he likes, but Dean's eyes are the window to his soul, and they're more glazed than the pack of doughnuts he'd inhaled for dessert. The damp patch bleeding through his underwear is also a dead give away, too.

His hips ripple against the mattress uselessly, because you've already walked your hands back up his chest and press them into the cords of muscle all coiled up in his shoulders.

Dean's eyes briefly fall shut, "You're blue-balling me here."

"Thought you said you could last all evening?" You counter innocently as the pads of your thumbs bite into a particularly stubborn knot. His eyes open to slits.

"And I thought I told you to put your damn mouth to work." He removes a hand from white-knuckling your hip to spring himself free, his teeth gritting when the cold air of the motel greets the warm skin of his cock.

He's got a such a pretty dick. You haven't really had the chance to stop and admire it during the whirlwind of hookups the two of you have had. The curtains more than match the drapes; neatly trimmed but with a hint of rakish charm shining through. Just toeing the line of above average length maybe, but it's the width you'll be writing home about.

You don't need any more goading. You bend down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the flushed head of his cock, letting your tongue sweep a long stripe over the leaking slit. Dean's abdomen flexes as your lick disrupts the steadiness of his breathing.

His fingers loosely entangle in the back of your hair, not guiding, just resting. He's not one to let someone else take the reigns outside of the bedroom, so it's a nice change of pace for him to be at the mercy of your hands between the sheets, you've found. He deserves as much. Dean's many things, but selfish isn't one of them. You're happy to take a load off for him once in a while.

You continue to lathe his cockhead with kittenish laps of your tongue until the stubs of his nails are clawing at your scalp. His pre-cum tastes musky on your palate. Far from unpleasant. It's full-bodied, like sipping from a rich barrel aged whiskey. An acquired taste, but one you've grown to appreciate. You take just the tip of him between your lips and revel in the husky groan that rolls deliciously over your ears.

"Shit, sweetheart, you're a real sight down there," Dean's eyes are on you, unwavering, relishing in the sight of your mouth stretching to accommodate him. He makes a conscious effort to keep your hair from hanging over your face. Dean wants to see you. And it's feeling all too intimate again, "A good sight. The fuckin' best, actually. Only I get to see this, right?"

You mistakenly assume he's just talking through the haze of lust, but then he cups your chin, pausing you from taking him deeper. His eyes are insistent. He wants you to look at him, "Only me?"

Pulling off, with a glistening string of salvia connecting his cockhead to your lips, you satisfy him with a stiff nod. It seems to appease him, and even if it doesn't, he drops the subject the moment his dick is back resting against your tongue.

And, yeah, only he does. At least, at the moment. Blowjobs aren't your favourite, but when it comes to Dean, you're starting to think you judged them too rashly. You like the heft of him weighing down your jaw. You like eliciting all those noises from him, be them breathy whines or rasped moans. You like that his eyes don't stray from you for one minute, like it's not the simulation alone that drives him to spilling down your throat, but who the simulation is being delivered by. Talk about him making it personal; you're no better.

His fingers that keeps your hair parted glides down to splay over your cheek, thumb tracing the strained line of your jaw. There's a slight distension to your throat from the heft on him currently sitting on your tongue, and Dean's thumb veers down to brush it. It's done with the sort of obeisance you wouldn't expect from a casual hook-up. The tender movement sends a shiver down your spine.

He looks soft. Mushy. Something you'd label as fond, if you weren't familiar with his game. The Dean you've seen mete out dozens of sleazy pickup lines that shouldn't work, but somehow do, and proudly tout a double-digit body count doesn't sit happily alongside this version of him. The caricature of Dean you've grown to associate with him is one dimensional, impervious to change. You remember the little boy who chucked worms at you to see you squirm, or the teenager that juggled four girlfriends at once without either one finding out about the other, or the man who thought star signs and boob sizes were interchangeable.

A nicer, forgiving version of Dean throws a spanner in the works. This one seems worth a shot. Deserving of a second chance. Not all the rom-coms about taking a leap of faith with the fixer-upper can be wrong, can they? This one you can't dismiss as quickly.

You focus on his cock nudging the back of your throat instead. It's an easier thing to swallow. When your nose kisses the tamed thatch of his pubic hair, you sputter somewhat, and he seizes up, as though mindful to your enjoyment of this. You quash the concern by doubling down, willing your throat to loosen rather than reflexively fight against the intrusion. Through lowered, heavy lids, you glance up at him.

Dean very much seems to be a man who'd died happy. His eyes are reduced to slithers of green framed by dark lashes, fluttering, bewitched. His nose twitches, rabbit-like, and the perfect acuate of his jaw flexes. He's relaxed, for once. Unburdened. He prefers armour of the haughty variation and wears his lazy grin as a shield. There's a lot hidden underneath there, things no one could peel back, not even Sam. But here, it looks as though he's caught a much needed break between the lips of someone dear.

"Fuck, I love-" You both flinch. Dean's eyes fly open, a fat tear clinging to his lash line, and you can see his Adam's apple bob, "This. I love this."

Your mouth is full with him spilling down your throat, which is probably for the best, because a slew of expletives sounds off in your head. You have half a mind to repeat them into the silence of the room.

His head is tipped back, partly in pleasure, partly in shame. Even facing away from you, you spot the pink clawing its way over the expanse of his cheeks. Dean might have had the forbearance to correct himself, but it was fooling neither of you. You pull off him with a wet noise, swallow, and pull back. Pull into yourself.

Surprisingly, the cum shot isn't what settles unpleasantly in your stomach. It's the quiet that hurts. The noise of something unspoken, palpable in the air, too gruelling to speak into the world. Only Dean could make a blow-job feel like something other than sexual. It's disgustingly off-brand for him.

You don't think you'd believe him if he said it aloud anyways. You don't think either of the Winchesters understand the concept of non-transactional love. How you can give without chipping off a piece of yourself. How you can love, but not love. It's an all or nothing deal with them, and that's an exhausting way of living. Anything remotely affectionate would feel like devotion to a man who knew the cold metal of a gun before the warm hand, or mouth, of a friend.

He's spent, softened against his jeans. You keep your hands and eyes to yourself because touching him now is like touching something tainted. Seeing Dean in your peripheral is enough. He's desperate to catch your eye, get something out of you - positive or negative. He gets nothing as he works himself back into his boxers, wincing.

Dabbing your lips, you stand up, swaying a little, "I should probably get some sleep."

The announcement is a dismissal. You want him gone now. Your jaw aches, throat feels raw. Everything tied tight enough to snap. Dean doesn't move from the bed immediately. His hands spread on his thighs, fingertips twitching, and there's a cinch to his brows as though he wants to say something further. You nip it in the bud.

"Goodnight, Dean." You say, firmly. He moves at a lethargic place, almost expecting you to budge, to change your mind, but you're implacable. A maiden of stubborn stone and crossed arms, watching him down the slope of your nose as he gathers himself.

When he reaches your door, he turns once again, arms open and eyes still glossy. It tugs the softer side of you, but spite wins out. A collage of Dean's previous exploits flares behind your eyes, fuelling the fire more. You tilt your head, expectant and cruel.

"What? Expecting a parting kiss?" His head shakes slowly, hung a little, and he departs, closing the door softly behind him. The gesture incenses you more.

You flop to the bed and glare up at the popcorning pattern on the ceiling. If boys being mean means they like you, what does it mean when they're nice to you instead?

[cujja]

Once An Addict

The consequences of demon blood and denial.

Heavily inspired by this ask! Warnings/tags: 5x14, effects of famine, addiction/withdrawal issues, Sam's got hella insecurities, he's also a munch (canon), cumming untouched & in pants, oral sex (f receiving), body worship, kinda subby Sammy cuz he's basically in heat, a bit sappy.

Sam's cuffed himself to the sink for your safety just as much as for his own.

He's pulled the bathroom door to. Not locked, because he couldn't stomach that. The only thing worse than having you see him in such a pitiful state is not seeing you at all. A year and a half in the cage was enough separation from you to last him a lifetime.

Just as friends, though. Only friends. Sam only wants to burrow between your thighs, risk suffocation, as friends only. It's for the best, really. Sam's carcinogenic; anything he touches atrophies, withers, wilts. He can't do that to you. You deserve much more out of life than fusty motel rooms and mattresses that feel like cinderblock.

He's already put you through enough. Dean stays because he's his brother, Castiel stays because it's his duty - but you stay because you want to. That's the difference; that's special. Sam's not going to fuck that up because his heart does that stupid little sputter around you.

And he's content with being your friend, honestly and truly. Sam has self-control. He's not Dean, who pops a boner if the wind blows in the wrong direction. Sam's schooled himself: he keeps the giddiness to a minimum when you lean in closer to squint at the computer, tamps down his envy after a man at the bar pays for your drink, and politely diverts his eye if he walks in on you changing, even though he really, really doesn't want to.

In normal circumstances, he'd be fine. But famine's not normal. Nothing about his life is normal. That'd be too easy, too predictable. Sam wants you. It's not the usual pang of desire he'll get every so often when you do something particularly endearing, it's a debilitating hunger. A gaping void of emptiness rending him in two, clawing its way up his ribcage until it leaves his mouth in anguished and miserable groans.

The demon blood withdrawal has taken a backseat. It's definitely not helping Sam's situation, but it's a pain he's used to. It's the devil he knows. This omnivorous, unfettered lust for you is vibrating at a frequency he didn't know he possessed.

"Sam?" You call, concerned, from behind the drawn door, "You've been quiet in there for a while. Are you okay?"

Sam's drooped against the wall, legs kicking out unproductively every so often to physically vent the appetite he can't sate. His hairs clinging to his forehead, slicked with sweat, and sticking up at odd angles from how many times he's restlessly ran his fingers through it.

Maybe worst of all is the way his dick is practically bursting through his jeans. It's been like that since you helped fasten him to the pipes and wiped at his forehead with a devastating look of reassurance. That little gesture you'd probably already forgotten you'd done has seared itself into the forefront of Sam's mind.

His head sags, eyes squeezing shut as a nasty twinge of arousal knots his stomach, "M'fine. Just...just don't come in."

You don't answer immediately. It wears at his already wafer-thin resolve. Sam wants you to come in, he wants you to come in and dab at his forehead again, or smooth down the mess of his hair, or let him rabidly hump your leg. Either, or.

"Are you sure?" You say quietly, ruefully.

"Please..." He manages through gritted teeth. Sam doesn't think you heard him at first, thinks the chip in his armour of self-denial will go unnoticed, but he hears you move closer to the door.

"Please what?" You press. You're worried. You only use that low, steady tone when something's gone drastically awry, "Please leave, or please come in?"

His arm flexes against the cuff, the rattling of metal against metal deafening amidst the tense silence. Sam stifles a whine unbefitting for a man who's done a stint in Hell.

"I don't know."

He sounds pathetic, all croaky and hoarse. He looks even worse. You open the door slowly, like one would to the enclosure of a feral animal, and lower yourself to his side. Sam opens his eyes to somnolent slits to greet you.

"Oh, Sam," You whisper, hand raising to smooth the strands of hair out of his scrunched up face. He keens into your touch, no matter how fleeting it is, and nuzzles at your palm, "Let me help."

You guide him to rest against you; Sam goes willingly. His arms clamber to wrap around you with the dedication of a boa constrictor, hands balling into fists around the fabric of your shirt. He crumples, face-first to your chest, sprawling the rest of himself out in an ungainly manner.

Sam shivers and shakes in your arms. Mindlessly, his fingernails will bite in tighter as he rides out a wave of withdrawal, but ease off when you murmur sweet nothings of consolation in his ear. You tell him things he doesn't deserve to hear, like how strong he's being, how brave he is, how proud of him you are.

Your proximity fixes some of his problems by creating new ones. Now that you're in arm's reach, Sam's getting his hopes up along with his cock. He noses at the column of your throat, shamelessly inhaling the warmth sitting where your clavicles meet. It's where the scent of your perfume and musk have coalesced into one bouquet that's making all of his muscles strain.

He's gone. Surrendered. Mouthing at your throat at an asinine pace, hands scrabbling for any inch of skin it can get, body thrumming with unspent energy. You exclaim something, notably not of rejection, but the actual syllables are lost in translation. Sam's whimpering, snivelling, against the reddened patches of skin his lips are leaving behind.

"I need this. Need you. I-I can't..." He garbles, fingers finding anchorage in your hips and clasping them like a lifeline. His squirming has leveraged your outstretched leg to be positioned just strategically enough for him to nudge his conspicuous bulge against your knee, "M'sorry. You're just - shit - you're so perfect."

Tears, big, fat unmanly ones, well up at his waterline. Sam's so hard it's gone past the point of feeling good, it just hurts. The gentleness of your fingers combing through the length of his hair only encourages the inchoate stuttering of his hips. He can feel the dampness of his pre-cum smearing the front of his boxers. It only makes everything that bit more uncomfortable. Unbearable.

You shush him, "I told you I'd help. Just show me how."

Clarity fizzles in fleetingly. Sam cranes his neck back enough to meet your eyes, gauge your commitment to helping him whatever the cost. You seem pretty dedicated. It's as green of a light he's going to get.

Sam nearly connects with your chin with the velocity of which his head jerks up to devour your lips. The hungers not surfeited, but it does lessen the weight bearing down on his chest. Kissing you was long anticipated and it didn't disappoint. He can't get enough. Sam's nose knocks yours as he deepens the kiss, his tongue darting out to run over the pout of your mouth.

When your experimentally presses up against his crotch, he moans. Ragged and adenoidal. Sam's hand retaliates by gripping your inner thigh and tugging, opening you up to make room for him. This type of hunger can only be solved in one way.

He pulls away from your lips, diving back in only once more to make sure he's got his fill for the time being, and hunkers down between your parted thighs. Above, you're a bit dazed, breathless, but you cotton on quick when Sam twiddles with the button of your jeans. You raise your hips enough for him to get the pesky things down.

Sam doesn't bother prying your cute striped panties down too, just latches his mouth over where he knows your cunt lies concealed. Your legs clamp lightly against the sides of his head, startled.

"You surprised me." You exclaim, chest heaving, a wisp of a smile crinkling the inviting corners of your lips.

He drags the bridge of his nose up the length of you and prods more earnestly at the top, at your clit. Sam feels the muscles in your thighs tense against him in response. It's a proud moment. He winds an arm underneath the arc of your leg and braces a hand to your leg, holding you steady.

He laves his tongue over the gusset. After a few ardent licks, the slick of his spit has coaxed your wetness through the fabric. The taste is like a sacrosanct sip of water in the desert. Sam groans, nipping the material between his teeth and letting it snap back down with a squelch. You shudder.

He rubs his cheek to your thigh, glancing up with hazy eyes and shiny lips, "S'perfect. You're perfect. You're everything."

He says such nonsense with such veneration. To Sam, in this moment, it's the closest he can muster to a proclamation of love. You get the gist, and brush his overgrown fringe out of his eyes. Yours is a proclamation too.

Sam peels back the soddened gusset enough to let his tongue run over your entrance uninhibited. You're so warm, and damp, and soft. So heady as the taste glides over his palate. The tip of his cock is weeping in his underwear, tumescent and throbbing. He's confident you finishing in his mouth would have him shooting helplessly into nothing.

Testing his theory, Sam tugs your panties a little further, giving his lips more real estate. He suckles at your puffed up clit until your fingers fly to knot in the roots of his hair. The delectable scratch of your fingernails to his scalp coupled with the fortunate placing of the seam on his jeans is dizzying.

His attention to your clit melts into kisses down the stretch of your cunt, stopping at your entrance. Sam had rather hoped the first time he got to do something so special with you wasn't in a motel bathroom, but the location tends not to matter when you're with the right person - and Sam knew you were always the right person for him.

He dips inside. Shallow, at first, testing the waters. Your tremulous exhale is a good start. Sam gets braver, lapping at you with joyful abandon, his fingers biting crescent moons into your thighs. His tongue's a piston; programmed and honed to pleasure.

Your hand to the back of his head is guiding him nowhere. Sam was already flat against you anyways, nose jostling your clit with every nudge of his head. Underneath tear-matted lashes, he peers up, delighted at the sight of your eyes only not meeting his because they're forced shut in bliss.

When you cum, loud and glorious, it's his turn to shut his eyes. You quiver against Sam's mouth, walls pulsing at the lash of his tongue, an added trickle of arousal straight from the source overwhelming his tastebuds. He doesn't stop, he can't stop.

"Sam..." You paw at his shoulder, a weak plea for recovery. Your convulsing is kept to a minimum by the grip he has on your thighs as he perseveres in making out with your cunt.

It burns behind the back of his eyes when it hits. Sam feels it ripping its way up from his toes to his hairline, culminating in a guttural sob interrupting the smack of his lips. His hips twitch, abdomen tightens. He came in his fucking pants.

Your fingertips grazing his cheek wrench him from his post-nut reverie, "Sam." You repeat, still short-breathed, but much more lucid than before.

Timidly, he lugs himself upright, wincing as his sensitive cockhead catches. Your arms loop around his neck and breezily collide his lips with yours. The kiss lacks the swelter of the first, instead it's charged with something Sam might categorise as affection.

"I needed that as much as you did." You confess, head bowing to the side as you size him up. A unique glimmer of intimacy has glossed your eyes and pinned an infectious, beatific smile on your face.

Sam exhales, relieved, his forehead going slack to yours, "I'm glad."

[roadhousearchivesstacks]

Hot damn. I'm usually careful with addiction/withdrawal themes, but this was worth throwing caution to the wind.

The balance of desperation, depravity and devotion in this is absolutely delicious.

[cujja]

Tysm withdrawal sam n actively dying sam r very near and dear to me he deserves so much better 🥹🥹

[ambiguous-avery]

All We Have Are Glory Days

Mister Marathon x fem!Supe!Reader | WC: 5239

Summary: It’s 2014. Mister Marathon’s starting to slip a little, but he’s not ready to give up the spotlight just yet. What better way to stay in the public’s eye than to try and orbit Centerfold’s gravity and call it a strategy?

Tags/Warnings: SMUT 18+ MDNI, male masturbation, drug use, Mister Marathon only thinks with his dick, enemies-to-?, canon-typical depravity, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men

A/N: My disappointment in how they used JarPad’s cameo in The Boys is absolutely immeasurable. So how do I cope with it? By creating an entire backstory and character to pair with him so that I can write his character better. Am I devoting all this time and energy into a side character solely because he’s played by JarPad? Yes. Am I ashamed? Absolutely the fuck not. Gimme my speedster boy. I’ll make him plenty pathetic by the end of this. Also, yeah, this is gonna be a multi-parter. But I don’t have any idea how many parts or when I’ll upload more pieces of this.

The studio was already humming by the time he stepped onto the set, all warm lights and overworked assistants scrambling around with lint rollers and clipboards like the world would end if a single wrinkle made it into frame. Standard Vought production. He could appreciate it. At least there was decent scenery. One of the assistants – an intern, from how young she looked – kept glancing his way, and he wondered if he could sneak a quickie in before the photoshoot started. Wouldn’t need any oil if he worked up a real sweat.

He spotted you the second you walked in. It was impossible not to.

Every head in the room tilted towards you in some subtle, little way, like gravity actually bent around you. For all he knew, it did. Fitting name with a fitting power. Centerfold. You moved like you already knew everyone was looking and couldn’t be bothered enough to acknowledge it. No rush. No nervous energy. No overeager smile like most people got around him. Interesting.

Mister Marathon straightened a little where he was standing center stage, smoothing a hand down the front of his mesh tank. The assistant beside him was still talking, – lighting adjustments or something – but he didn’t hear her anymore. His attention locked onto you as you crossed the studio floor.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Vought knew what they were doing with you. He’d seen plenty of your spreads before. All of them were prime fap material. He’d know. They could probably put you in a burlap sack, and he’d get a chub at the very least. But the outfit they had on you? Fucking criminal. It was the kind of thing that made men fall to their knees and women reconsider their life choices. He was already picturing it on the dressing room floor. He whistled, quickly adjusting himself in the track pants that left very little to the imagination. Especially now.

“Centerfold!” he called, spreading his arms wide with an easy grin. “Big fan.” Your eyes landed on him, flicked down to his dick, then back up to his face.

“Of yourself?” A few crew members laughed under their breath. He grinned wider. There it was. Attitude. All for show, of course. Nobody talked to him like that, unless they wanted his attention. He knew the game. Sharp tongue, cold exterior, the whole too good for you act. Usually, it lasted right up until he had them bent over and was railing them into next week.

“Of you,” he corrected, stepping towards you and offering his hand. “Queen Maeve’s threatening to slash your tires if you beat her in another popularity poll. Figured I’d finally get to see what the hype’s about.” Your gaze dropped to his hand. Didn’t take it.

“Mm,” you hummed. “Disappointed yet?”

You brushed past him. It almost made him laugh. Not because it bothered him – though it caught him off guard – but because it was a bold move. Cocky. Like you thought you could ice him out and he’d lose interest. If anything, it made you hotter. He pivoted, following after you.

“You always this friendly on set, or am I just getting special treatment?”

“Special?” You glanced back over your shoulder. “You’re not a Make-A-Wish kid.”

Mister Marathon popped his neck. Cute. The thing about banter, about chemistry, was that if someone didn’t want to engage, they didn’t. They shut it down. Walked away. Kept things polite and cold. You kept answering him. Kept turning back. Kept giving him ammunition to keep the conversation going.

“Oh, wow,” he said with a low whistle. “So the rumors are true..”

“Hm?” You paused, glancing at your phone.

“You’re a fucking bitch.” He let his eyes drag down your body while he said it, deliberate and unapologetic. Women liked that look. Straightened up a little. Pushed their tits out. Played offended while secretly liking the attention. You scowled at him, and his cock twitched as he imagined painting those lips white. “Guess that’s one way to stay relevant when you’re not in The Seven,” he added.

Your response? Nothing. No defensive reaction. No irritation. No wounded ego. In fact, you smiled. Slow. Almost pitying as you turned to face him fully.

“Oh sweetheart,” you drawled. “Every star collapses under enough pressure.” Something sharp flickered behind his ribs. Not anger, exactly. More like a challenge. He stepped closer, his polished grin sharpening.

“Pressure just makes stars like me shine brighter.”

“That supposed to impress me?”

“No. Just means I don’t have to try as hard.”

“And yet,” you gestured vaguely at him, “here you are. Trying.”

The intern he’d been eyeing earlier snickered across the way, and he cleared his throat, adjusting his shirt. He exhaled through his nose, smile tightening before me smoothed it back into place. His voice dropped an octave as he crowded you more.

“You know, most people would kill to be in your position.”

“Most people,” you echoed.

“Yeah.” He flashed you an easy smirk. “Paired with me? National campaign? That kind of exposure doesn’t come around often.”

“I’ve had better offers.”

He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. Jesus, you were relentless. But honestly? It was kinda doing it for him.

“You mean sucking off execs?” he asked. “Didn’t realize that was the better career move these days.”

“Well,” you said, picking at your fingernails, “it’s more action than you’re seeing.” That got an actual laugh out of him. It wasn’t funny (okay, it kinda was), but you said it like you genuinely expected it to hit him. Like you thought that he’d be rattled by it.

“I could leave if I wanted. I don’t have to stand here taking this shit from you.”

“No, you don’t,” you agreed. “But you want to.” You laughed at him, and there it was again, that tiny little sting right under his skin. Damn, you knew exactly where to aim, and you weren’t pulling any punches. Before he could answer, the photographer clapped loudly from behind the camera.

“Alright! Positions! Let’s get some push and pull energy going on here!” You and him were already three steps ahead. You moved towards your mark without another glance at him. He watched the sway of your hips as you walked away, shamelessly staring at your ass and wondering how many handprints he could fit on it.

“Try to keep up,” he muttered as he stepped in behind you.

“Don’t need to. You can’t outrun gravity.” 

“Perfect! Hold that!” The photographer practically lit up behind the camera, the shutter snapping in quick succession. Mister Marathon slid a hand to your waist, fingers running along the thin fabric of your outfit. He didn’t miss the way your gaze flicked down for a brief second.

“Careful,” you murmured. “Grip any tighter and people might think you’re compensating.” He flexed his hand against your side, blunted nail digging in.

“Oh, I am,” he shot back. “Compensating for someone who thinks brooding is a personality.” You shifted against him, not away but closer, aligning yourself perfectly with him for the camera. The way your body fit against his sent another pulse of heat straight to his cock. No doubt you could feel it pressed against your thigh. For all the attitude and snapping and little hooks you kept trying to sink into him, you were still leaning into him. Still touching him. Still playing the game.

“Centerfold, chin down – yes, perfect. Marathon, lean in a little more. Pretend you’re telling her a secret.” He did as instructed, his lips ghosting along the shell of your ear.

“I give it ten years before you’re a dry, crusty has-been that no one remembers.”

“That’s ten more years than you’ve got,” you whispered back, voice honey-warm. “People are already saying you’re slowing down, big boy.” His hold on you tightened before he could stop it. “People’ll still be getting off to my photos long after your limp dick stops working. How’s that for being remembered?”

His expression almost slipped. Almost. Not because of the insult – there was absolutely nothing limp about his dick – but because holy fuck, you could flirt. Sure, he’d snuck some real sassy ones into Vought Tower before, but goddamn, college girls couldn’t hold a candle to the kind of heat that was building between the two of you.

“Getting off to photos? How fucking vanilla. You think you’re real special, don’t you?” He took the opportunity to slip his hand lower to where your hip curved into your ass. You batted his hand away, purposefully moving it as your chest brushed against his when you turned to face him fully.

“Haven’t you read the papers? I am special.” You leaned in close, fingers sliding along the back of his neck and tangling in his hair. For a split second, he thought you might kiss him. “And I don’t need you to stay relevant.” The photographer made a strangled noise somewhere behind the camera, but Mister Marathon barely heard it. He was already lost in how fucking awesome the sex after this was going to be.

The dressing room was the quiet reprieve you needed. Away from the flashing lights. Away from the photographer’s incessant demands. And most importantly, away from him. You slumped into the chair in front of the vanity, kicking off your heels and grabbing one of the make up removal wipes. The makeup artist had done her job well. You looked flawless in the photos, all smoky eyes and pouty lips, but at the end of the day, it was always a mask you couldn’t wait to remove. The door opened without a knock, and you scowled, already knowing who it was without looking.

“You make a habit of walking into people’s private spaces, Marathon?” you asked, beginning the process of removing your makeup.

“Just yours,” he replied, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “Figured we should talk. Away from all the cameras.” You glanced at him in the mirror, finding him leaning against the door and looking far too comfortable in your space. His eyes met yours in the mirror. He had ditched the smile meant for the papers, but his ego was still fully intact and encroaching on your limited space. You frowned.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you said. “We got the shots. They’ll be great. Vought will be thrilled. End of story.”

“Y’know,” he said like he was continuing a conversation you never agreed to have, “for someone who ‘doesn’t need this,’ you really leaned into it out there.”

“It’s called acting.”

“Is it?” He perched himself on the edge of your vanity table, watching you with eyes that reminded you of a rat’s. “Because it felt pretty damn real to me.”

“Maybe that’s because your ego can’t handle rejection,” you said, dabbing at your eyeliner with careful precision. He laughed like it was the funniest joke he’d heard all day, and the sound grated against your already-frayed nerves.

“Maybe,” he said in a tone that suggested he didn’t think that was the case at all. “Or maybe I’m ready to see what happens when we finally stop pretending.” You paused, the makeup wipe hovering halfway to your face.

“Pretending what?”

“That we don’t want this.” He gestured between you both. “The tension’s good for the cameras, yeah, but it’s better in private.” His voice dropped to a register that might’ve been seductive if it wasn’t so obviously rehearsed. You arched a perfectly drawn eyebrow.

“That’s your move? Really?”

“I don’t need a move.” He leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees. “I’m just giving you permission to openly admire.”

A beat passed between you. Then, you laughed. Not a mean one, exactly, though it certainly wasn’t kind. It wasn’t as sharp as a mocking laugh, though. But you had to admit that you were amused.

“Oh, that’s got to be so embarrassing for you.” His expression tightened, but he pushed through it, leaning back and rolling his shoulders like he was settling in.

“I’m serious. You don’t get that kind of chemistry if there’s nothing there.” You set the makeup wipe down and finally gave him your full attention.

“Chemistry?” you echoed. “No, that’s gravitational pull. You can’t resist it, but I don’t notice that it’s there.”

“God, you are–” He cut himself off and scrubbed a hand over his jaw, fingers running through his beard. “Look, are we gonna fuck already or are you one of those ‘dinner first’ kind of people?” You just stared at him.

“Where do you get it?” you asked. His brow furrowed in confusion, clearly not expecting that sort of response.

“What?”

“Where do you get the fucking audacity to think that after all of that out there,” you motioned in the direction of the set, “that I would want to have sex with you?” He didn’t flinch. Didn’t miss a beat.

“I think you’re just playing hard to get,” he said with a smirk that you were severely tempted to slap right off of his face. “And I’ve got the stamina to wait you out.” He winked. 

“Stamina?” You scoffed. “From what I’ve heard, you’re all flash and no follow-through.” Your eyes narrowed to slits, the last remnants of your professional facade crumbling away. “Get out,” you said, voice low and dangerous. “Now.” Mister Marathon didn’t move. Instead, he had the gall to sigh and shake his head, that goddamn smirk unshaken.

“Fine, you want follow-through?” He held up his hands like he was surrendering as he pushed away from your vanity counter and drew closer. “Let’s do dinner first.” He seemed entirely unfazed by your demand, moving on with whatever rehearsed script he had like this was the next natural step. “There’s a place downtown – impossible to get into unless you’ve got a name – but–”

“No.” The word was immediate. Your tone was flat with zero hesitation behind it. He stopped short.

“…No?” he repeated, like maybe he had misheard you.

“No,” you confirmed, staring him down. “I’m not interested.” He huffed a laugh, but it wasn’t the same, confident one from before. There was uncertainty laced through it.

“C’mon,” he said, his tone faltering. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“This,” he gestured vaguely at you. “The whole ice queen thing. It worked for the shoot, but you don’t have to keep it up off-camera.” You met his beady little eyes, and this time, there was absolutely nothing performative in your expression.

“No,” you said again. “You’re fucking dense. That wasn’t a bit. None of this is.”

That landed. Really landed. You could see it in the way his perfectly polished mask shattered. Mister Marathon didn’t have a comeback or a pivot. Just the realization that he had been reading from an entirely different script than you.

“You’re serious,” he said at last.

“I usually am.” He studied you, really studied you this time like he was trying to recalibrate everything he thought he knew about the situation. You watched his throat work around a hard swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly.

“Christ, make some actual use of your power and lighten the fuck up,” he spat back finally. “Your pictures put out more than you.” There was a rush of air beside you, and in an instant, he was gone from your vanity, the door to your dressing room left wide open in his wake. You righted your chair with a sigh, collapsing back into it and returning to your methodical removal of your makeup.

It didn’t fully hit him until ten minutes after he was back in his apartment at Vought Tower. At first, he did what he always did. Scoffed. Rolled his shoulders. Ran a hand through his hair like he was shaking it off.

“Whatever,” he muttered to the empty room, grabbing a bottle of sparkling water off the kitchen counter. “Her loss.” He had said that line a hundred times. A thousand, even. Usually, it worked. Usually, he could turn around, find some other warm cunt to sink his dick into, and fuck it out of his system. But the second he even tried to think about some other pretty little thing wrapping her lips around him, his brain replayed it.

No.

Flat. Easy. Worse than that, though, was what it wasn’t. You weren’t angry or disgusted even. You gave him absolutely nothing. The lint on your sleeve got more of a rise out of you than he did. And it fucking grated.

The bottle remained unopened in his hands as he paced the length of his living room, the afternoon light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows and casting long shadows across the polished marble floor. His reflection caught in the glass as he passed by, and he stopped, examining himself. The same face that had graced billboards and magazine covers for the past three years stared back at him. Still handsome. Still powerful. Still worth millions.

And yet you had looked at him like he was nothing.

And that’s what stung.

People didn’t look at him like that. They looked at him like he was someone. Like he was a surefire thing. Like all they had to do was wait for him to notice them. But you didn’t wait. You didn’t care. That flipped something ugly and electric in his chest. He hurled the sparkling water across the room, the glass bottle shattering against the wall. It fizzed as it slid down, dripping onto his collection of Playboy magazines and soaking into the pages like the world’s saddest fucking money shot. 

He showered. Changed into something with his branding on it. Checked his phone. He had three missed messages. Two from PR and one from someone named Kinleigh, whoever the fuck that was. Normally, he’d answer. Normally he’d want to. But now, he swiped all of them away. “Fuck,” he hissed, tossing his phone onto the couch beside him. It bounced once before landing face down.

Several volumes of Vought Monthly were scattered across the coffee table in front of him, the most recent issues that featured him on the front page. No slowing down: Mister Marathon’s road so far. Carry On, Marathon: The speedster who never backs down. Marathon, Interrupted: One of the Seven injured during heroic rescue! He snatched one of them up and flipped through it without thinking.

And there you were.

Centerfold.

Exactly where your namesake said you would be.

“Of-fucking-course.” He let out a short humorless laugh and rolled his eyes as he reached up to turn the page. His hand hesitated. You looked like the perfect sex icon. You always did. The lighting sculpted you just right, shadows deepening right at the junction of your thighs. Your expression was balanced on that razor-thin edge between inviting and untouchable, though your ‘fuck me’ eyes were enough to make people think they had a chance. It was the kind of image that was manufactured to make people think they were getting something without actually giving them anything real. He’d seen photos of you hundreds of times before.

But this was different.

Now, he had seen you off the page. And suddenly, the version of you in the magazine felt incomplete. His thumb dragged across the glossy image, mentally cursing as he caught sight of your name printed in the lower corner. Centerfold: Get caught in her orbit. God-fucking-dammit. The camera hadn’t caught the way your mouth looked when you talked down to him. It hadn’t been a bit. Then why had it made him so fucking hard? He tossed the magazine aside, thought twice about it, then grabbed it out of the air before it could hit the ground and crease the pages. He heaved a sigh, dragging his hand down his face.

He was too keyed up. Restless. Wired. His thoughts were a whirlwind that even he was struggling to keep up with. Comebacks that would’ve been nice to have a few hours earlier. Better lines. Sharper ones. Ones that would’ve landed and cut into you. Ones that might’ve gotten you to look at him with something. Anger. Disgust. Spite. Hell, he’d thought he would’ve at least gotten a hate-fuck out of you. Anything more than just sheer indifference.

“Jesus Christ, shut up,” he grumbled. He pushed himself off the couch abruptly, like he could physically outrun the noise in his head. It didn’t work. It never did. His thoughts kept pace, darting ahead of him before looping back. Picking apart every second in the damn dressing room, every look you’d given him, every lack of a reaction. He paced around his apartment. Once. Twice. A third time. Too fast. He was a caged animal.

This was fucking stupid. 

He moved without thinking, crossing the room in half a breath and yanking open the drawer where the answer to his problem sat. A small baggie. Familiar. Reliable. He shook it between his fingers. It was lighter than he remembered it, but that didn’t matter. It was still enough to do the trick. He nodded to himself, feeling the anticipation of relief building behind his ribs. The one that promised to smooth everything out and wrap him in that warm, numb nothing that had gotten him through plenty of times before. Calm settled over him as he cut himself a line, practiced precision of card on glass. He bent. Rolled bill. Sharp inhale.

Bitter. Chemical. Fucking finally.

The noise in his head didn’t stop. Rather it just... dropped out. Like someone had yanked the cord on a speaker mid-song. The constant chatter, the looping what-ifs, the sharp edges of it all – gone, just like that. He sniffed and breathed a sigh of relief. His shoulders loosened. The tension in him unwound in a rush, like a coiled spring finally just giving up. The world felt smoother. Manageable again. He dragged a hand through his hair, beginning his pacing once more, but this time, it wasn’t frantic. It was easy and controlled. 

He was Mister Marathon again.

The thing about being the fastest man alive was that nothing could keep up with him, not even drugs. But they did give him just a few blessed minutes where his thoughts finally moved at the same speed as the rest of the world. Some armchair therapist online had said something about stimulants and some mental illness interacting differently or shit. He didn’t care about the why or the how. Only that it fucking worked.

His gaze flicked to the coffee table, eyes darting from one image to another. And this time, it didn’t sting. He scoffed, a hint of that polished arrogance sliding back into place. What the hell had he been thinking? He was one of The Seven. Thousands of people wanted him. Wanted to be him. There was no reason to be so hung up on one stuck up bitch.

Better. This was better.

He moved back to the couch and dropped down onto it, stretching his arms along the back and spreading his legs like he owned the world. His foot started bouncing again, but it felt good this time. Energizing. Like he was plugged back in. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the cushions, reveling in the peace of feeling in control. Hell, maybe he’d even text that Keyleigh girl back. He was fairly confident that she was the one who had sucked him off right after he fucked her ass. God, he loved college freshmen.

He straightened up and reached for his phone. Your photos taunted him in his peripheral vision, and before he knew it, his eyes had been dragged back to the centerfold spreads on the table. It was just a glance. Just a– 

Mister Marathon shifted, rolling his neck and trying to shake it off. He pulled his confidence closer to himself, trying to wrap it around his shoulders like a comfortable blanket. It didn’t stay. It slid off. His foot bounced faster. The silence didn’t feel clean anymore. It felt thin. Like the quiet that came before something terrible happened. His stomach twisted, that brief, artificial calm fracturing all at once as the noise came rushing back in, louder than before. Like it had been building up and waiting just outside the door. 

He groaned as his thoughts raced again, this time with more teeth. Every second replayed in high definition. Every missed opportunity. Every look. Every word you hadn’t said. The silence couldn’t have lasted more than thirty seconds. Probably less.

The realization dawned on him slowly. This wasn’t complicated. None of this was about you. It was just... residual energy. Leftover adrenaline. The kind of thing that stuck under his skin when he didn’t burn it off properly. He knew how this all worked. He’d dealt with it plenty of times before. Bad nights. Bad press. Bad fucking moods that wouldn’t let go.

And there was an easy fix to all of it.

He looked at the glossy spreads of you. Frozen in perfect lighting. Perfectly posed. Perfectly manageable. That was his problem. He had been giving you way too much power and sway. You were fucking nothing next to him. None of this meant anything. The only reason this bothered him was because you’d fucking blue balled him. He just needed to get it out of his system, and he’d be right as rain again. 

He picked up one of the issues that had you leaning seductively over the edge of a pool, tits pushed up and cleavage on full display. His gaze dragged over it, slower this time, as he finally let go of his thoughts. They bolted back to you, and it took very little convincing to get them to circle around the memory of your hands at the nape of his neck. Of the way your chest felt pressed against his. It took even less coaxing to get his cock on board.

He leaned back against the cushions, the magazine in his hand feeling less like a source of frustration and more like the tool it was meant to be. His hand slid into his pants, fingers wrapping around himself and stroking a few times, eyes fixed on your image. The curve of your hip. The arch of your back. The way your lips were parted just slightly as if you were waiting for something he could give you. In his mind, you were on your knees, looking up at him with that same defiant expression, but now with something else mixed in. Want. Need. A hunger that he could satisfy.

“That’s more like it,” he muttered, his grip tightening as his thumb traced the swollen head of his cock. He groaned, low and throaty, as he let his imagination run away with his fantasy. “Something you wanna say?”

“I was wrong,” you said, pouting up at him. “I shouldn’t have brushed you off like that. I didn’t– I didn’t realize.” 

“Didn’t realize what?” he prompted in the emptiness of his apartment. He pushed his pants down just enough to free himself and positioned the magazine so you looked up at him from between his legs. He dragged the head of his cock against the page, smearing pre-cum across your lips. 

“How amazing you are. How much I…” you faltered for a second but pushed through it. “How much I want you.”

He should’ve grabbed a bottle of baby oil from his room before starting, but he couldn’t be bothered now. He paused just long enough to spit in his hand to ease the drag of his palm against his length. His lips curled into a smirk. 

“Took you long enough,” he said, his tone bored.

“I’m sorry.” You leaned closer to him, and he could feel your breath ghost against his cock. “I should’ve said yes.” Your chest heaved, eyes fixated on him. Begging him to let you have a taste. His gaze raked over you, like he was trying to decide if you were even worth the effort anymore. Like you were the one who needed to impress him now. 

“Yeah, you should’ve.” 

His hand moved faster, the fantasy burning through his veins, better than anything he snorted earlier. He rolled his fingers over the head of his cock with every upstroke, groaning at the mental image of you looking at him like you were finally seeing him for who he was. The Mister Marathon. The one who could have anyone he wanted, but he deigned to spare you an ounce of his attention. 

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Let me make it up to you. I’ll do anything.” You wet your lips in anticipation, waiting for his command. “Please, I need you.”

There was a beat. A long one. 

He let it stretch, watching the way you waited for him. The way you hovered there, caught between confidence and uncertainty. That was the best part of the whole moment. The reversal. The control. He leaned forward just enough to make it seem like he might just close the distance. To give you the permission to beg for forgiveness by choking him down.

Then, he grinned, all teeth and spite.

“Nah, not interested.”

He came, hard, all over the glossy image of your face, eyes screwed shut as he held onto the mental image of your shocked expression. The rush hit him like a freight train, better than any high he’d ever chased before. Better than coke. Hell, better than the fucking orgasm itself. The feeling of power that surged through him as he imagined rejecting you – watching your face crumple with disbelief – was intoxicating. 

He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t known that it was even possible. This was a fucking high he needed more of. He slumped back against the couch cushions, watching his release drip down the page, obscuring your face like some sort of symbolic victory.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, catching his breath. The feeling stayed, lingering longer than the drugs could ever hope to last. It was a different high than he was used to. Better. More potent. 

He stared up at the ceiling, a slow grin spreading across his face. God, if he could get that just from his imagination, he couldn’t even fathom what it would be like in person. Hell, he could probably ride that high till he fucking died. The idea coiled in his gut like a snake, and for the first time since the photoshoot, he felt a semblance of himself return. He sat up, wiping his hand on his pants. This was a game he could play. And he was going to fucking win.

He reached for his phone. Not to text you – he didn’t have your number. Not yet, at least. His thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before he opened up his messages with his PR team, ignoring whatever they had sent him. He typed his message, fast and decisive. He already had everything he needed to make this work. He just needed to play it right.

Set me up with Centerfold again. Another photoshoot. An interview. I don’t care. Make it happen. Make it public.

He tossed his phone aside again, leaning back with a quiet exhale. There was that feeling in his chest again, sitting just behind his ribs. Restless. Charged. “Not interested,” he muttered, echoing you. His grin widened, just a fraction, his cock still half-hard in his lap. “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

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[cujja]

Ugh he’s such a piece of shit I’m obsessed

[cujja]

Cold Snap

You're giving Dean the cold shoulder, but circumstance forces you to thaw.

Part 2 of Dog Days Warnings/tags: Enemies-to-fuckers, John's amazing parenting, Dean epitomising 'he's only teasing you because he likes you' philosophy, so toxic masculinity, teasing, sex for warmth (but not actually), pinch of humiliation, unprotected sex, Dean being a shithead (affectionately)

You hadn't liked Dean since you were kids.

He was loud and disruptive. Boisterous. Would needle you incessantly until big, fat tears welled up in your eyes. He'd jeer, call you a baby, to which you'd fiercely object with a pitchy, tight voice and run over to tell tall tales to uncle Bobby. Dean'd get all sulky and kick your shin under the table at dinner, or hide your favourite teddy under the basement stairs he knew you were afraid of, or sneak bugs down the collar of your shirt.

You were often carted off to uncle Bobby in the holidays. He was uncle by association, not blood, but same difference. And sometimes, while you were there, the Winchesters would be in town. John would only ever go as far as the welcome mat and he left his car engine running. He never stayed for long. Only long enough to drop off his sons, then he was off without so much as a kiss goodbye.

Sam was a few years younger, quite shy, but you liked him. You spent a lot of time parked at the kitchen table, drawing together side by side. Dean didn't draw. He dismissed it as too girly. He grubbed about in the dirt, and rough-housed, and ate worms, and was always sporting some kind of bruise. The quietest you'd ever seen Dean was when John caught him pulling your hair, and he'd thwacked him round the back of his head.

You didn't like Dean as an adult either, and you certainly didn't like him right now.

"You're such an idiot, Dean," You bristle as he fumbles haplessly with the ignition. Baby's engine sputters, coughs, then falls dead silent. He turns the key again, and this time, the car doesn't even bother spitting out a wheezy noise, "I told you it was going to snow, but no, you just had to tempt fate, didn't you?"

He sneers at you, "Oh, talkin' now, are we? Thought you were ignoring me."

You purse your lips together, sour-faced. Dean's been on the receiving end of your cold shoulder since Arizona. So much so that Sam felt an intervention was needed, like when you were kids and Bobby would make you hug it out. Instead, he'd handed you two a case and told you to sort not only it out, but also whatever issues you had as well.

It hadn't worked so far. Without Sam playing mediator, your investigation was sluggish. Your stakeout seemed promising, until Dean forgot to check the forecast, and now the car wouldn't budge an inch. Baby wasn't built to drive through blizzards.

You could see your breath start condensing in the air. Shivering, you cram your gloved hands deeper into your pockets, but it does little to combat the chill seeping in. Dean's bent over, head shoved in the footwell, trying to spark some electricity by tampering with the wires.

"You'll electrocute yourself. Stop doing that," You chide from your seat, looking rather skeptically at him. Dean doesn't listen to you, because he never has, so why would he start now. You yank him back by his shoulder, "Dean, stop it. We're stuck, okay? We'll have to...I don't know, wait it out? We'll go looking for help when the snow eases off.”

Reluctantly, he obeys. The wind howls, whipping through the trees with enough force that the car quivers. That's not as bad as the cold, though. It's fucking arctic. You bring your knees up to your chest, flouting Dean's rule about no shoes on Baby's leather.

He slumps in his seat. Defeated. He likes to keep active, stay preoccupied. Dean's never been good at sitting in silence. His fingers reach up to pull absently at the amulet around his neck before he lets out a loud, agonised sigh.

"I'm freezing my balls off here," He whines, shifting to be lounging against the driver's door, arms crossed. Dean rubs his hands together in a bid to generate some warmth, "You're cold too, I can see your nipples."

You self-consciously scramble with your zip until it's tugged all the way up to the top and shoot a glower his way, "You're such a fucking perv."

Dean sniffs, unconcerned, "I was just sayin'. And what's the big deal? You've let me touch 'em, but you draw the line at me looking at 'em? How's that work?"

You wince. You hadn't talked about the Arizona incident. Dean got the hint it was off limits when you'd said as much by hastily leaving the bed once the moment passed and sleeping on the sofa. There wasn't much to say, anyways. It'd been a flash in the pan, a one time thing.

You had no interests in being Dean's hunting partner by day, fleshlight by night. Even with his stupid gorgeous face and rough-hewn hands, he was still Dean. The very same Dean that'd given all your barbies atrocious bowl-cuts when you were ten and ripped them apart limb by limb.

Other, braver women were welcome to him. You weren't even going to touch that basket of snakes. Dean's complicated enough as a tenuous friend, but as a boyfriend? Perish the thought.

Stubbornly, you cast your gaze out the window, staring daggers at something unfocused in the distance. You weren't even going to dignify that with an answer. Plus, your teeth were chattering too much from the cold to speak, and your brain was focused on retaining warmth than formulating a facetious comeback.

"C'mere," Dean's hand loosely wraps around your wrist, trying to coax you towards him over the console. You're more confused than exasperated by his antics now and frown at him. He huffs, as though you're being the difficult one, and pats his thigh, "Come sit. We can, you know, share body heat and all that."

You scoff, but you don't pull your arm away just yet, "Share body heat? Yeah, I can guess what that's code for. I'm not falling for that one."

Dean's lip wobble with a smirk, but he wrestles it down, shaking his head and refusing to drop your wrist, "Usually it would be, but I mean it literally this time."

You remain firmly in the passenger seat. Dean lets your wrist rest across the console, but his fingers remain. He swipes a thumb over your knuckles and even through the thick material of your gloves, it prickles your skin. Dean gives you a surprisingly meek smile. Not a grin, or a smirk. A smile, and it's a rare sight.

"No strings. Just keepin' each other warm, I promise. I'll keep my mucky paws to myself."

Contemplatively, you run your tongue over your teeth. Dean's always ran hotter than you. In torrential downpour, he'll still have one of Baby's windows cracked, insisting the car's too stuffy without it. You know you'll probably regret it once you've warmed up, but you relent.

You carefully manoeuvre yourself over the console with Dean's hands supporting you. They didn't stray, didn't steal a chance to brush your ass. They just kept to your waist, tentative and there for balance. You don't know whether you wanted him to keep his word or not now.

Just because you haven't spoken about the Arizona incident doesn't mean you haven't thought about it. You have. Ceaselessly, shamefully. For as cursory as it was, it was good sex. The best, even. You'd known he was a good lay from his roster of girlfriends, but word of mouth didn't do him justice.

You don't usually bother taking the risk in getting yourself off on the road. Every time your hand snuck its way down your stomach and to the crevice of your thigh, one of the boys would make a noise in their sleep and it would throw the moment. Since Arizona, with the promise of Dean being so close, that ache between your legs became impossible to ignore.

It was flaring up now as you, sheepishly, let Dean position you on his lap. You'd alighted yourself as far from him as you could get at first, but he'd merely tutted and scooted you closer. Til you were chest to chest, stomach to stomach, crotch to crotch. You couldn't think about the last one. It'd make you do something silly.

"Can't keep you warm if you're all the way over there," He grunts, a hand settling at your hip and the other coming to the back of your head to lightly encourage you against his shoulder. You conform with little protest, "There. Comfy, comfy. Warmer already."

You wouldn't go as far as comfy given the fact you were as tense as a coiled spring, but it wasn't awful. The smooth leather of his jacket's collar tickles your cheek. Dean smells like a man, like how you'd expect one to smell. It's not an aftershave either, because he thinks the whole industry's a scam, it's just Dean. Something smoky and sharp. Like vetiver or cedar.

And you're resigning before your pride can stop you. Your arms wind around him, nose finding a home for itself at the slant of his neck. He smells most potent there, and its heady. You can tell he's startled, but Dean's versatile and he quickly takes it in his stride, chin perching on the crown of your head.

Something virulent rears its head as you feel his breathing slow, content in your presence. How many other women have been in your stead like this with him? Sharing body heat - what a line. Bet he read it in some sleazy tabloid somewhere. No way that's an original line, and if it is, that makes it even worse.

You're locking up, preparing to shrink away. Dean's the picture boy for emotional unavailability. You don't need to be getting involved with him anyways, even if it's just sex. People can pretend they won't attach strings, but someone always ends up getting hurt, and you're not letting yourself be that someone at the hands of Dean Winchester.

As you try to pull back, hands on his shoulders for leverage, he only clings tighter. It's like he can sense your train of thought, "S'only weird if we make it weird, right? Nothin' wrong with two friends keeping each other warm. It's just...practical." He clears his throat.

Practical. You turn the word over in your head. You can stomach practical, "Yeah. Yeah, practical. I'd do the same for Sam."

Dean makes a funny noise. You're staring at the seat's headrest, so you can't get a good read on his expression. If the flexing of his fingers at your hips is anything to go off, though, you'd be inclined to believe he wasn't all that fond of the thought of you and Sam like this. Dangerous thought.

"Mhm, just practical." He echoes, hushed.

You don't know whose hands wander first. Whether it's his fingertips ambling underneath the bottom of your coat, up your spine, or yours sailing over the broad plane of his chest. Dean's got a good chest, after all. You're only human. It's warm, and solid, but still with enough give to make him feel safe. Because at the end of the day, you do feel safe with Dean.

Even when you were little. He'd tease you unremittingly, but was always the first to jump in if anyone else had the same idea. He'd kick your shin under the dinner table, but patch up the scuff after. He'd hide your favourite teddy, but come with you to fetch it in the dark. He'd put bugs down your collar, but would apologise wordlessly by sharing his chocolate with you.

You maintain the idea that if you don't kiss him, and don't look him directly in the eye, it doesn't count. It's fallible logic, but it's a loophole you're willing to exploit.

Dean snags your hand that was roaming over his chest, and for a split second, you dread he's got more of a backbone than you and that'll he'll stop this in it's tracks, but he directs your palm to cup the bulge straining in his jeans. He's only half hard, and yet he's still sporting an impressive package already.

With his hand atop yours, you press down, grinding the heel of your palm against his cock. Accompanied by a twitch, he lets out a gravelly moan, "Yeah, shit, just like that."

You withdraw from the crook of his neck, eyes traveling from his lap to his face. You really, really like him like this. Blinking down at you through his lashes, eyes hooded, the fledging of a grin twisting over his pretty, pink, pouty lips. And you want to kiss him. You cover his mouth and hold up a finger.

"I'm only going to kiss you 'cause my lips are cold, okay?" You preface, and while Dean's not given enough time to process it, it covers your back. You kiss him. Hard.

Of course he's a good kisser. He plays tonsil tennis with just about every woman who'll give him the light of day. You don't want to think about that, not when he's requiting with such tender ferocity. Not when his fingers knot in your hair, clutching at it like man does his raft at sea. Not when he's so eager to keep your lips to his, he's barely taking any breathers.

"Whatever you say," Dean murmurs, grin burgeoning against yours. He drags you closer and, even through denim, you can feel the head of his cock notch your inner thigh. His hand migrates from your head to your cheek, angling you to his liking and deepening the kiss, "Anything to let me feel that sweet, lil' pussy of yours again."

He punctuates that with a buck of his hips that, somehow, hits his mark perfectly. It provides some delicious, frustrating friction to your drippy cunt. Whereas before you would've killed for some heat, but as it gathers, syrupy and muggy between your thighs, you're wishing he'd just strip you of your jeans already.

You both surface for air, lips brushing, as though loathing to be apart even for a moment.

"Just for warmth." You clarify. Dean's eyebrows furrow, cynical, but he nods eventually.

"Just for warmth." He reiterates. You're both big, fat fibbers.

His mouth relocates to your jaw, peppering sloppy kisses down the gradient of it. You yelp when his teeth make an appearance to nip the lobe of your ear. While he's absorbed with sucking bruises you'll worry about later into your clavicle, you're pawing at his belt, ripping it open like it's personally offended you.

Right now, it had. It was keeping you from the fuck of your life - which was strictly for warmth. You tear his underwear down far enough to wrap your fist around his length. You feel and see him jerk aimlessly in your grip.

"Fuckin' - gentle, woman," Dean hisses, head flagging against the headrest, eyes fluttering. His hands clumsy as he smooths back the stray hairs that have stuck to your sweaty forehead, "Gotta treat Dean junior gently, alright? Not like a fuckin' matador on a mission. He needs some sweet loving."

You cant your head, amused, "He's gonna get no loving if he's not careful."

His cock pulses underneath your fingertips again. Dean's got a petulant rumple to his lip, but his dick can't lie. He likes you bossy. The steady rivulet of pre-cum can attest to that, "We'll see how fuckin' cocky you still are when I'm balls-deep in that cunt of yours, won't we?"

That reminds you. He jumps to protest when your hand retracts from his cock, but is soon clambering to assist you in peeling off your jeans and underwear. It's a bind in such an enclosed space, and you almost set off the horn, but your jeans are discarded in the backseat soon enough.

You don't have long to worry about the chill nipping at your thighs before Dean's palms splay across them, jaw tensing with the remnants of restraint as his thumbs stroke over the crease of your hips. Crudely, and without so much as a hint to his intention, he prods three fingers to your entrance. Not breaching, not poking, simply gliding over the spongy skin there in a way that has you writhing.

"Dean." You breathe, bracing yourself with a hand to his bicep. His gaze isn't diverted, it's honed in on your cunt like he's transfixed. His fingertips are agonising in their traversal. He's purposeful in the way he avoids bumping over your clit, or past the ring of muscle of your entrance.

Once Dean's satisfied, he draws his fingers away and holds them up, victorious. He's got that shit-eating look on his face, "You're wetter than you were in Arizona," You're glistening all over his skin. You swallow, more than a little embarrassed at his recollection, and a fresh throb of arousal surges down to your pussy. He sedulously coats your slick over the length of him until his pre-cum and your wetness coagulates as one at the rosy head of his cock, "I haven't been able to stop thinkin' about it. Thinkin' about you."

The admission hits you smack bang in the chest. Dean's not finished, and his voice is only getting hoarser and hoarser when slides his tip over your entrance, "And it's annoying. You're such a bitch to me, but even that get's me fuckin' rock hard."

Winded, you edge closer, so his cock is pinned against your clit, "You annoy me too." You add insipidly, torn between watching him feed you the first few inches of him or the strained twinge befalling his features.

Dean exhales, "Yeah? How?"

You can't really think straight while he's skimming the underside of his cock over your cunt, the wet noise a fierce contender over the tumult of the blizzard outside. His free fingers squirrel up your front and jaggedly undo your coat, hand kneading over your breast, undeterred by your shirt in his way. You clench around nothing, much to your dismay.

"C'mon, sweetheart. You were so chatty earlier. Ain't even balls-deep yet and you're already fucked dumb." Dean croons, saccharine sweet. You aren't surprised when he deftly reaches around under your shirt to unclasp your bra. He doesn't even bother lifting your shirt before wrapping his lips around your peaked nipple.

The added layer of fabric scratching against you feels devastating. Your hand shoots to the back of his to keep him tucked close, chest heaving under the attention, "Does this annoy you? Teasin'? You always got so pissy when I flirted with you when we were little."

Your nails scrape over his scalp, "That wasn't flirting. You were just being a dick."

"Duh. How else was I s'posed to get your attention?" You feel a chuckle reverberate against your chest as he lathers spit over your nipple, pinching it between his lips. Shallowly, the head of his cock delves past your entrance, but it's hardly enough to scratch that internal itch. He keeps you there to relish in what little he's giving you, and how you're still dripping around him already, "That's just what little boys do. They tug on little girls' pigtails instead'a saying they like 'em."

Your fingers that were trawling through his hair teeter. Dean cranes his neck, still very much compressed against your breasts, but you can see enough of him. It makes your stomach lurch.

"That's not an excuse." You whisper, bringing a finger to ghost over his damp bottom lip. He cocks his head, much like a dog, and nuzzles into your sternum.

"You don't seem to be complaining now." Dean points out and emphasises his point by driving another inch deeper. He's not wrong, you aren't complaining, but that's mostly because you're stifling whimpers instead. You square your jaw, a clever retort evading you.

He waits until your mouth unhinges to kick up a fuss before filling your cunt entirely. You don't spew the profanities you were intending; a wanton whinge escapes your lungs in its place. He keeps you there, impaled and palpitating around him, while an arm wraps around you.

Dean noses your cheek, which has grown warm to the touch, "That's a cute fuckin' moan. Gonna make it again for me?" The thatch of his neatly trimmed pubic hair chafes your skin he's pushed so close. Dean's abdomen flinches as you try your hand at grinding against him. He's hasty to put a stop to that with a hand to the back of your neck, "Ah, ah, ah. My car, my rules. Moan again and you ride me. Go on."

You hate how he's cooing at you like you're a fucking unruly mutt. You hate it so much that it's come back the wrong way and is making you flutter around his girth.

"Touch me properly, then." You contend. You tried to come off as authoritative, but the wobble undermines you. Dean's teeth are bared as he smiles.

He cradles a cheek, thumb petting over the delicate skin underneath your eye, "Sweetheart, I am touching you. Gotta tell me where else you want me."

You harrumph, aggrieved, "You know where."

He's being more bull-headed than usual on purpose. You abhor the fact that it's working, too. That its lured enough slick from you to form a glossy ring around the base of his cock. Dean sucks his teeth, shaking his head, an aggravating simper brightening his face.

"Hm, alright, I'll bite," His hand travels down your cheek to engulf one of your breasts, giving it a toying knead. You wail and clasp at his wrist, trying to tug him down to your thighs, but he's stronger than you, "Not here? Okay, sweetheart, okay. How about here?" His next stop is not the right one either, but he knows that going off the haughty smirk on his lips. He pinches the muscle of your thigh.

"Wrong spot here too, huh?" Dean muses, savouring the pained and fucked-out veneer covering your eyes. Finally, at long last, he strokes over your clit. You, unwittingly, make that plaintive noise he was fishing for again, "There we go. There she is, there's my girl. Take what you need, baby, you've earned it."

You'd said something tangentially similar in Arizona. Your minds too fuzzy to appreciate it because he's just given you the green light. Graceless and frantic, you wrench his lips to yours. Anything to kiss away that impudent, pompous, handsome grin of his.

Dean's hands are stiff around your hips as he facilities your incoherent undulations. His fingers are liable to leave indentations, but you can't find it within you to care. All you can concentrate on is the thrust of his cock inside of you, catching on every divot and ridge, rousing every nerve, hitting every spot. He's everywhere.

Tongue lapping over yours, noses slitted together, fingers roaming any part of you he can get. Dean's all you can see, feel, hear and taste. From the shine in those striking eyes of yours and bassy groaning bouncing off the compact walls of the car, it's safe to say Dean's feeling the same way.

"You can't, fuck," He struggles as he retreats his cock far enough to kiss the puffed up lips of your pussy. Self-restraint has long since bypassed the two of you, though, because Dean's plunging back in before he can get another word out, "Don't pull an Arizona on me after this. It's a crime to keep this all to yourself."

Your forehead sags to lounge against his, lips parted and breath mingling with his, "...Okay."

You acquiesce so easily Dean narrows his eyes at you, wary, "Just like that?"

Maybe it's the oxycontin talking, maybe it's something subconscious, but you dip your head in affirmation, "Just like that."

His mouth overruns yours in an instant. You're both getting imprecise and lousy, breath staggering in your throats as it all becomes too much. You don't even need to sneak a hand down to your clit bump yourself over the edge. Dean's angle coupled with the deepness of his thrusts has you cumming together almost in synchrony.

If you weren't warm yet, your cunt definitely was now. His cum felt scorching. It was probably your active, concupiscent imagination, but you swore up and down you could feel him smearing over every crevice.

As he, with palpable unwillingness, detaches from your lips, Dean looks at you. Really looks at you.

"You gonna keep your word? Or you gonna go all frosty on me again?" He tangles a hand in your hair to keep you facing him. Good shout, because you were planing on turning, lest your eyes spoke more than you could ever admit to.

You squirm above his softening cock, which elicits a grunt from him. You wouldn't mind hearing it again, every so often, "Sam did tell us to work something out..." Shrugging, you trail off, insinuation clear.

Dean snickers, "I don't think this is quite what he was picturin'. Least, I hope not," He mouths at the hollow of your throat, murmuring onto your skin, "But, hey, if it works, it works. If all it takes to calm you down is a good fucking, I'm game."

And you were game too. You think.

[bitchinwallabyfaves]

Dear author, you said you welcome pestering for updates so consider this my very respectful, loving pestering. ♥︎

I need more of these two, so much more! ♥︎♥︎

[cujja]

I pinkie swear I haven’t abandoned writing 😭😭

Finished all my exams for this semester so I will get my shit out even if it kills me 💞💞💞💞

[velvourne]

Important reminder that my blog is not for minors. Thank you.

I think I've been reading fanfiction for too many years considering I even noticed this. But. A few years ago (I started like? 2016ish? 2014ish? My nose is scrunching up at even the thought of that being a decade ago) smut 🍋 fics were focused on the g-spot when it comes to hetero penetrative sex. A nice spot, truly. And then I think 2023 ? Came around and there was a rather sudden shift from the g-spot, to cervix fucking. (Or cervix touching ?? Cervix thrusting? I shouldn't be writing this at 4am but here we are, vocabulary-less and kinda lost.) I'm assuming it's because kinks have changed and more are being explored especially with the rise of hentai and the ever vast porn sites. But I am still confused! Cervix is painful. Like ugh, ew, not-sexy painful. The kind of painful that makes you squeal, shut your legs, and possibly cry. And sure, it can be pleasurable if you're like super extremely aroused (allegedly) but generally? It hurts so bad. Even the gentle thrusts = pain. It can also cause intense cramping, nausea, bleeding, and even fainting!! It's very serious! The vagina is NOT never ending, it stops, there's a wall, and the cervix is a STOPPING POINT. Not a goal!!

So, the shift? Very concerning to me. From focusing on the pleasure spot to the pain-except-in-rare-circumstances spot? Umm?

It definitely points to the fact that most schools do not provide proper education for our anatomy and how our bodies work. But, the thing that concerns me is the underlying, screaming-so-loud-you-learn-to-live-with-it misogyny of society. In general.

Very bothersome. Very concerning.

And of course, fiction is fiction. You can explore kinks in fics without being a weirdo irl. Is that a sufficient disclaimer? I absolutely suck at speaking about topics like this. Not here to offend anyone.

HOWEVER. I've seen too many women CONVINCED that they have to bend over backwards to make a man stay with them, love them, cherish them. CONVINCED that pain is okay if it's for love. Because love is more valuable if you earn it.

WRONG. DING DING DING. YOU DO NOT WORK FOR LOVE. YOU DO NOT WORK FOR A MAN'S APPROVAL.

Once you meet a man that is genuine and good and loving, then you work WITH the man to uphold the relationship TOGETHER. You do NOT, I repeat, DO NOT work to make HIM stay. He is not "the prize" BECAUSE YOU ARE THE PRIZE. You're both supposed to be the prize! It's a mutual thing!! Girls please please please understand this!!!

I ran into a text post from what I assume is a kink blog the other day and it really made me stop for a second and stare. I need to find it and add it to the post, because it was excellent commentary (even if it wasn't the original poster's intention. Which, maybe it was? Man i gotta find this post).

I am so tired. We persist. So I don't lose my thought.

The post was like, a male saying something like "oh wow, she's letting me do this to her? What a slut" and the female was just happy to be there essentially. The disrespect is loud. Ringing, even. Echoing.

Where am I going with this? How is this related?

The rise of cervix focus in fanfiction (especially written by women) ties back to those expectations and disrespect. Again, totally fine to have certain kinks. (Consent is VITAL regardless). But pain is not a general goal. Pain is not ok. You deserve to be loved without pain. You deserve to receive pleasure without pain. The fact that cervix fucking is so mainstream in fics, without acknowledging ANY of the very painful real-life consequences? Terrifying! It makes readers believe that it's something that they SHOULD enjoy, because it's so normal. Guys, no! It's NATURALLY PAINFUL, not naturally enjoyable!!

Also men CAN control themselves. They understand boundaries (try stealing a man's car keys, they know what 'no' means). They can control their penises to NOT hurt you. They can control the ANGLE, the force, the pace. No, he was not "lost in pleasure", he likes watching you be in pain. He likes watching you cry. That is not a safe man. That is not the man for you. You deserve it all painlessly, and it's the BARE MINIMUM. Actually. Screw that. It's not the bare minimum. It's common decency!! Hell. Even the manly men mister patriarchy males, with their traditions, say that a man should "protect his woman". Keep her safe. THAT INCLUDES SEX AND LOVE.

Going back to the cervix point. I think one point writers are trying to convey with that is that you're "really full". Of cock. Like deep sex. Deepest. Join our bodies and souls type shit. And again I say it can be done painlessly!! You can be super full without someone hammering at your poor cervix!!! Angles, people, angles!

Of course! Different strokes for different folks. Kinks and all that crap. But I am bringing this up because it is suddenly overly common. (I am also not intending to insinuate that anyone is a bad writer, this is merely a social commentary, concern for women, and what we are teaching young girls who inevitably find that fanfiction, like we did. I learned sex and kissing through reading fanfiction. I became curious about anatomy thanks to fanfiction. Yet I only found out where the urethra is a few years ago. TMI!! Venus why not just use a mirror? SHAME. WE ARE OVERRUN WITH SHAME and too many of us are victims of that!!) Oh boy I'm gonna get a reality slap in the face in the morning, or a few days later. I am generally shy when it comes to posting. But we persist.

SEX IS NOT PAINFUL. SEX DOES NOT NEED TO BE PAINFUL. SEX CAN BE LOVING BUT INTENSE. IT CAN BE ROUGH WITHOUT CAUSING CERVIX BRUISING. IT CAN BE FULFILLING WITHOUT MAKING YOU HAVE CRAMPS FOR DAYS AFTERWARDS BECAUSE SOME IDIOT KEPT HAMMERING INTO YOU.

Thanks for reading. Now it's almost 5am and I have a severe urge to insert this gif. It's hardly related. Take it as a token of my affection I suppose

If you like/agree with this in any way, please reblog so we can spread this! I would also love to hear your additions/thoughts on this topic ❤️

[cujja]

Endverse Dean & prone bone coming soon bbs, trust 🙏

[cujja]

Intend to finish it up by tomorrow night, hotties. Here's a sneakity peakity:

"You drive me up the goddamn wall, sometimes." He murmurs. You respond with a faint scoff, "Same here." A pause. Then a long-suffering sigh. He wrests the blanket off him once again and slips past the makeshift barrier of his backpack, stopping short of your sleeping bag, a knee brushing yours. "You - fuck," Dean's scowl returns full frontal, though not directed at you for a change, instead it was more of a self-admonishment. His hand, surprisingly warm and astonishingly tentative, snakes up to perch feather-light over the expanse of your thigh, "This is a bad idea." He's not backing off, and you're not about to be the one to take the high road. Humming, with a touch of haughtiness to your demeanour, you tip-toe your fingertips up his strained forearm, "Probably." "You fucked up today. Big time." You tut, finding his didacticism unbelievable when paired with the sight of his erection, "God, you're like a broken fucking record." "And you're an impulsive fucking madam." Dean retorts, like he had that one locked and loaded for a while now. You'd take offence, but he's the sharper one, and he throws you off by biting the bullet, planting a hand to the back of your head to tug your mouth to his.

[theedaythatnevercomes]

Revelations ᢉ𐭩

(Sam Winchester x fem!Singer!reader)

Summary: After a hunt leaves Dean with only one functional leg, the boys crash at the Singer house for two weeks until he’s back on his feet. Which means dealing with a needy Dean—and a sweet Sam, who can’t seem to stop staring at you like you’ve hung the moon.

CW: None? I think? Just so. Much. Pining. Childhood friends to lovers, literally all fluff and yearning, sweet confessions, grumpy Dean, light drinking, some awkward Sam, slow burn!

WC: 9.3K

Based on this request!

Fourteen days.

Fourteen days that Dean Winchester has to be off his feet. Fourteen days that he can’t walk, can’t run, and can’t drive Baby around like a maniac. Fourteen days that he can’t hunt. 

Hell, that’s fourteen whole days that he’ll need crutches to even go piss without assistance.

Sam had called you early in the evening, his voice tight, but clearly trying to sound casual, the familiar rumble of the impala cutting through every pause. You could hear the hesitation between every word. The way his voice dipped low, undoubtedly apologetic, almost mumbled like a kid waiting to be scolded. The way he repeated his ‘sorry’s far too many times to count, and how the line went uncharacteristically silent for a moment after you’d picked up on the third ring.

He explained Dean’s little problem—nothing dramatic, he’d insisted, just a bad fall after tripping over a footstone—but enough to make getting around just about impossible, and to put hunting on hiatus until further notice. It really didn’t come as a surprise when he’d ended his ramble session with a question, one spoken through a sigh: can we crash with you?

For fourteen days.

Of course, you’d said yes without wasting a breath. You’ve never quite had a back bone when it came to the Winchester brothers, and, hey, the company could be nice. Maybe. As long as you can survive the bickering.

It’s nearing eleven when the impala’s tires crunch over the long, twisty gravel driveway of the Singer’s house. You hear it before you see it, purring low like a cat (or, as Dean would say, a lion), sleek black frame blending into the twilight. 

You’d just finished tucking the corners of the stubborn new sheets on your fathers bed when the sound finds your ears, and you slip from the room just in time to hear the engine go idle, one hand swinging the door open before either man can even slide out of the car. 

Sam rounds the impala first, slamming the door to the driver’s side shut with a bang, helping a grumbling Dean out the other side. He looks, put lightly, absolutely miserable. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen the older Winchester look so defeated, which is really saying something—not to mention the silly looking cast on his right foot, and the too-short crutches that he practically throws off the impalas bench. 

“Took ya’s long enough,” you call, leaning against the doorframe, the humid night air already clinging uncomfortably to your skin, cicadas buzzing in the tall sea of grass. You hear Sam huff a laugh, and Dean shoots you a look, just as he slaps Sam’s outstretched hand out of the way. 

Miraculously, he manages to hobble towards the deck without tripping, but once he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he accepts defeat long enough to sling an arm over Sam’s broad shoulders.

“That’s ‘cause Sam drives like a freakin’ grandma in a school zone,” he complains, and Sam sends you a tired look, one that both says ‘please help’ and ‘I’m so sorry’ at the same time. You can’t help but snicker. 

Once all three Winchester boots hit the worn wood of the porch, Dean practically shoves Sam off of him like a petulant child. You have to fight off a snort. “How’re you, uh. How’re you feeling, Dean-o?”

“Peachy,” the man gripes, limping past you when you step back from the doorframe, appearing about two inches shorter from just how hunched over those damn crutches he is. He manages to make his way to a chair, some old leather thing that’s peeling on the arms, and he plops himself onto it gracelessly. An irritated huff of air escapes his chest as he props his foot up on the coffee table.

“Just… peachy.” He glares at the offending appendage like it’s personally insulted him, and you grimace, before redirecting your attention back to the door, where Sam’s hauling two duffels up the stairs that probably weigh about as much as a small child. 

Sam, the sweetheart, lingers there for a moment like he’s afraid of tracking mud on the floor. He gives you that lopsided smile of his, soft, tired, and just a touch apologetic, before stepping inside. He scuffs his boots on the mat, setting the bags by the door, his arm brushing your shoulder as he moves past you.

He stands… closer than he usually does. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off of him, and you can practically taste his scent. Not in an overwhelming, cool-it-with-the-axe way, but in a holy-shit-you-smell-like-heaven way. 

You’re not sure which is worse.

He bows his head towards you, hair falling over his eyes. It’s longer again, parted in the middle, tousled from travel or sleepless nights or Dean clunking him on the head for ‘hovering’. His flannel is unbuttoned too far at the top, probably because of the blistering heat that’s been plaguing the country for the past week, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms dusted with faint freckles and old scars. 

“Hey,” he says, gentle, simple. Quiet just for you to hear, like anything louder would cause you to shatter. “I’m sorry about… uh,” he gestures towards Dean, “…yeah. Sorry.”

You snort, shrugging, and you look towards Dean again: a stupid little pout on his face that reminds you of when you were kids. 

“Don’t be sorry. Things are quiet around here. I could use the entertainment,” you tease, turning back to Sam. He’s still looking at you. His expression is a little hard to decipher; warm, tired, and so agonizingly soft that your stomach just about flips. 

“You’ll be sick of it by tomorrow. Trust me,” he tells you, face cracking into a grin. It’s one of those rare, unrestrained ones that crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and makes his dimples pop adorably.

“Probably. Can’t throw him out now, though. I did up Dad’s room for him, since he’s away on a hunt. Said he won’t be back for a few weeks.” You nod your head towards the hall, before glancing up at him with an expression that’s nothing short of mischievous. “…He even has shower rails in the bathroom. Planning to tell Dean I installed them just for him.”

Sam tries to hide his snicker by coughing into his hand, a soft sound that’s more adorable than it has any right to be. He nudges you, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he leans in, just a little closer than probably necessary.

 Interesting.

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll have plenty of colourful ways to say thanks,” he murmurs, amusement thick in his tone. He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his lips quirking again when he catches your smile. He stares, then must realize it, because you swear his cheeks turn a shade of pink. He swallows a little awkwardly, almost like he’s gone all nervous—his palms sliding against the denim of his jeans.

Dean’s groan cuts through the moment like a freshly sharpened blade.

“Alright, what’re you two whispering about?” he demands, squinting suspiciously between the two of you. Sam straightens up, still smiling, but he clears his throat, holding his hands up in mock surrender. You flick your attention to him, raising a brow.

“You’re bunking in my dad’s room. Bathrooms attached, close to the kitchen, Sam and I only a yell away. Sound good?”

Dean’s expression flickers, green eyes narrowing with a funny mixture of irritation and resignation, before he slumps back with an exaggerated sigh.

“Yeah, yeah. Sounds fantastic,” he mutters, before gesturing vaguely at his plaster-covered foot. “Just gotta figure out how to get there.” He shoots Sam a pointed look.

Sam, who was still hovering close enough for his elbow to brush your arm, rolls his eyes, exhaling through his nose. How he’s so patient, you have no damn clue.

“C’mon,” he deadpans, crossing the short distance to his brother, and hauling him up with a grunt. He grabs the crutches, which Dean had tossed to the side like they aren’t a hundred goddamn dollars, pushing them against his chest. “Let’s get you to bed before you get us kicked to the streets for being a smartass.”

You watch them bicker for a moment, face twisted in a look of pure amusement, as Sam begins to guide him down the hall. 

You busy yourself by poking through the linen closet, yanking out a blanket that doesn’t smell like dust and death, tossing it onto the long, worn couch. You even slip up to your room just long enough to grab a pillow, one that’s not lumpy on one side, chucking it onto the makeshift bed. 

In the back of your mind… you hope it smells like you.

You make your way to the kitchen, pouring a glass of water, just as Sam’s finished wrestling Dean into the bed. He joins you with a sigh that sounds a lot like a father who’s just talked down his toddler from a tantrum. His palms together, a soothing gesture, and he leans against the counter with a tight-lipped smile that says ‘see what I have to deal with?’

The look you shoot him then is a little sympathetic, but mostly delighted.

“Sounds like you’ve had a fun week,” you tease, lifting the glass to your lips for a quick sip. “Can’t say I blame you for wanting to enlist some help.”

Sam exhales sharply through his nose, not quite a laugh, born out of sheer exhaustion, and he scrubs a hand over his face.

“Fun,” he echoes, voice low, tired, and fond all at once. His eyes flick towards the closed door, Dean’s quarters for the next two weeks, before settling back on you. The way he softens is visible. “Yeah. That’s one word for it.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, buttons of his shirt straining (not that you’re looking, or anything), and his shoulders slump, like he’s finally letting himself relax. Really relax. The kitchen light catches the earthy green flecks in his eyes when he tilts his head at you, gaze gentle in a way that almost makes you squirm.

It’s warm. Steady. He looks at you like he’s tracing the shape of your face, and burning it into his memory. Not in a greedy, or outwardly obnoxious way; but in a way that makes your stomach swirl, and your throat feel strangely dry, and has you taking another sip from your glass. Silence stretches, and when he breaks it, it almost looks like he has to force himself out of his own head.

“…I owe you for this. Really,” he murmurs, voice low, thick like sticky-sweet honey. “It means a lot. I don’t know how to—”

“Sam. You don’t need to thank me,” you cut him off, maybe a little too quickly, but his expression remains sheepish. Like he doesn’t quite believe you. Like it’s been trained into his soul that being there for him is a burden, not a blessing. “I miss having you guys around. Just like the old times.”

That earns you a smile.

“…Yeah. Like the old times.”

By day three, you’ve already adapted to your new routine.

Dean’s still whiny. He still yells for Sam every time he has to move so much as an inch, despite the crutches, which he insists were invented by the devil himself. He complained to you about the water pressure on day two, then again because his cast got a little wet, even though he’d wrapped it in some plastic bag you found under the sink. He even tried to scold you for feeding him ‘rabbit food’ after you’d put some tomato in his burger.

As for Sam… if anything, he’s only gotten sweeter.

It’s grown impossible for you to perform any household task without the younger Winchester offering his assistance. He’s got his hands full with Dean, that much is clear, and yet? The second you step into the kitchen to wash up the dishes, he’s placing a big, warm hand on your wrist, and insisting you go sit down.

He helps with laundry. He sets the table before you eat. He wakes up extra early to brew coffee exactly the way you like it, and he apologizes each time Dean makes a snarky comment. 

Even when Dean shoots him a look, one that you can’t quite decipher, and he turns an adorable shade of pink. 

The day had gone by quick. It rained, for the first time in nearly a week; meaning you spent most of it inside, with some old book open over your thighs, your legs kicked up on the edge of the couch. Dean stayed in his room—probably watching some stupid movie (one that hopefully wasn’t erotic, for your sanity)—while Sam kept you company. 

And by keeping you company, you mean stealing glances at you over a book of his own every thirty seconds.

It was nice. Comfortable. Almost domestic, in a way. You’d slipped away to your room around ten, tucking yourself in bed with a racing heart and buzzing mind… only to be woken up at a quarter to two by the obnoxious sound of your phone ringing.

Unfortunately, for both you and your old man, he’d found himself in a rut on his hunt. The irritation in his tone was palpable as he described the sigil he’d found carved into the floor of some abandoned factory. You’d done up a quick sketch in your notebook as he spoke, his words painting a picture, just as he shoots you a blurry image with the instruction of ‘it’s in one of my books, go find it.’

Great. Just great.

You migrate to the dining room, sitting at the table with eye bags that would make a raccoon jealous, a lukewarm cup of coffee, and a stack of lore books taller than you. One second, you’re squinting at the faded ink of some obscure Enochian ward, pen tapping on the page. The next? There’s warmth at your back, and a big shadow leaning over your shoulder. 

“You always up this late?”

“Jesus—!” Your entire body jolts, your pen clattering to the table, hair on your neck standing tall, heart pounding a mile a minute, the whole nine yards. But the second you turn your head, finding the tired, worried, (and apologetic) puppy eyes of Sam Winchester, you relax.

Completely.

You laugh, an embarrassed sound, dragging a clammy hand over your face, like that’ll do anything to scrape off the exhaustion. “Sorry, didn’t mean to… ‘m not used to company while Dad’s away.”

“No, I’m sorry,” he smiles, sheepish now, eyes laced with sincerity. “Didn’t realize you were so jumpy. Bobby doesn’t sneak up on you enough, huh?”

“You say that like he could. He walks like his feet are made of lead.”

Sam snickers, taking your newfound relaxation as a sign he can lean in closer. Close enough that you can smell the faded, masculine scent of his soap, the hint of minty toothpaste in his breath, and feel the warmth of his skin radiating through his thin t-shirt. 

“What’re you doing, anyway?” His hand settles lightly on the back of your chair, fingers brushing your shoulder by accident (or not), as he squints at the page, a frown pulling at his lips. “You’re not… you’re not hunting, are you?”

You cock your head to the side, just enough to look at him.

“No. Well, not me. My dad called. He’s at a dead end, n’ wants my help figuring out the origin of these sigils.” You nudge your journal towards him with your index finger, and he hums. He’s so close you can almost feel the vibration. “…Only problem is that he’s a fuckin’ lore hoarder. I don’t even know where to start.” 

“Oh.”

His brow furrows, silence falling between you for a fleeting moment. His eyes narrow.

“That’s… not Enochian,” he murmurs, shifting his weight, his chest pressing against your back for just a second before he catches himself, and pulls back. “…Uh. Sorry.”

His fingers tap absently against the chair, restless, thinking, maybe a little indecisive, before he exhales sharply, dragging a chair up beside you. His knee bumps yours as he folds himself next to you, elbows braced on the table, eyes scanning the symbols with quiet intensity. 

You tilt your head, opening your mouth to speak, but he’s faster.

“These letters look more like Latin to me. Maybe even some Hebrew,” he muses, turning to look at you. That sharpness in his gaze seems to soften almost immediately. “…You need some help?”

His voice is soft, careful, like it’s not just an offer. Like he wants to stay.

“You sure? It’s late. You don’t have to—”

“I’m sure,” he states, thumb skimming the edge of those yellowing pages of the book spread open in front of him like he needs something to fidget with. His voice drops, quiet, warm, into something so gentle that your heart just about skips a beat. “…You’re exhausted. Let me help. Please.”

Yeah.

It’s not quite possible for you to say no to that. 

You don’t respond right away, not with words, at least. If the conflict shows on your face, Sam doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t scoff, or even look annoyed. No, instead, he simply… watches you. His eyes are soft, encouraging, expression warm with lingering sleep. 

And when you finally nod, leaning back in your chair, he smiles. Not wide, or with teeth—more of a quiet, gentle thing, that makes his face light up in the best way, and displays those sweet dimples when the light hits his face just right.

He moves slowly, turning your journal back towards you, his shoulder brushing yours as he leans in.

It’s electric. 

“See how the letters curve here? It’s more like a hook, rather than a smooth arc.” He traces the shape lightly, his fingertip just hovering over your work, like he’s afraid to smudge the ink. “…That tells me it’s not Enochian. The Enochian alphabet is more… round. I’m thinking this is ancient Hebrew—” he points at a letter, “—and see these circles? There’s even some Malachim script.”

You hover as he explains, nodding, and… yeah. He’s right. Of course he is. Your lips part in an inaudible ‘ohhh’, your own hand moving to follow his in its silent trace, fingers brushing his. 

He pauses. You see it, or, more accurately, you feel it. The way his breathing seems to freeze for a moment, before coming out in a jagged exhale that fans over your cheek, his body pressed so close to yours. He shifts, knee brushing yours again; to move away? To get closer?

You can’t be sure. 

“…So, not Enochian. A combination of other things. You’re thinking, what… The Lesser Key?” 

“Yeah. Maybe,” he murmurs, “or some kind of interpretation. Mind if I…” He trails off, long arm stretching over you to brush the worn leather spine of a book stacked next to you. His touch is careful. Thoughtful. And when you nod, he hums gratefully. 

You watch as he pulls the book from the pile, already flipping ahead to the intended section like he’s read it a thousand times before. Two long fingers trace the faded ink over each page, each one silverfish bitten, bleached with time, his soft eyes searching. And when he finds what he’s looking for, he stops abruptly, pressing his fingertips over a pale illustration. 

“There.”

And there it is.

Maybe not exactly. Some of the letters look reversed, like they were intended to be written backwards. A couple of the symbols etched into the sigil are written cleaner, sharper, but… yeah. The main idea is there, and that’s enough for you.

“Well, holy shit.” You huff an impressed laugh, settling just a little closer to him. “Thanks, Sam. You’re good. Really good,” you nudge him with your shoulder, “I see why Dean keeps you around.”

He chokes out a laugh of his own, soft and surprised, and ducks his head, rubbing at the back of his neck like he’s suddenly shy. His fingers linger there, tapping over his nape, but he’s not looking at the book anymore.

He’s looking at you.

“Yeah, uh. Anytime,” he murmurs, simple, but sincere. His eyes flicker over your face, lingering on the tired shadows under your eyes, before he finally moves, extending his free hand out to hold the back of your chair. Those pretty fingers twitch, like he wants to go further. Be bolder. Run his palm over your back, touch, comfort you the way he’s wanted for years. 

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

“It’s not an exact match. But I’d guess it’s the same demon, or same category, at least,” he adds, a sweet flush creeping up his neck, like your sudden silence is suffocating him. “I can keep digging if you want. Find something more accurate.”

“No.” You cut him off quickly, and he frowns, face twisting into an expression that reminds you far too much of a kicked puppy. It’s both adorable, and a little heartbreaking. “You’ve just saved me about six hours of staring at lore until my eyes fall out of my skull. It’s two in the morning. Go to bed, Sammy.”

The corner of his mouth quirks, and you swear he looks even more embarrassed than before. Of course, though, because he’ll never quite let it go, he still mumbles out a near-silent, “it’s Sam.” 

He lingers like he’s seconds away from arguing with you. Fortunately, you win in the end, and he pushes up from the table, stretching his arms behind his back with a quiet groan. His shirt rides up just slightly, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of skin above his waistband (again, not that you’re looking), and when he lowers his arms—he places his palm on your shoulder. Squeezes. Even when his face heats up, and his pulse races so quick, he wonders if you can feel it.

“Fine. But… get some sleep, okay?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he pads silently back towards the couch in the other room, leaving that undeniable warmth to prickle beneath your skin. 

It takes until day six for Dean’s constant complaining to claw its way beneath your skin, and in your defence, half of it was because of the heat.

As it turns out, the rain had served to be nothing but a short-lived sense of false relief, because not a day later, another blistering heatwave hit. Full force.

More than hot enough to make your shirt cling to your body like a second skin, for the horizon to look all hazy like you’re staring at it through clear water, and to make the older Winchester’s whining just that much more irritating. Thankfully, both for your well being and Deans, you’d plotted your escape to the junkyard—because that way, you could strangle the fucked-up wiring in your old Trans Am, instead of his sweaty throat.

You stand half hunched over the open hood of the car, damp tank top rubbing uncomfortably against your sticky skin. Your sweaty hands fumble with the socket wrench as it slips from your grasp, hot metal heating your palms like it just wants you to snap. Your molars dig into your cheek, knuckles white, fingers already grease stained, a string of curses slipping out between irritated puffs of breath. Nothing about it should be difficult, you’ve disconnected a thousand batteries before, but there’s something about the goddamn heat that has your jaw tensing and your fist tightening.

“You sound just like your father.”

You hadn’t even heard Sam approach, curse his stealth, his voice cutting through your exasperation with a jolt. Luckily for you, you don’t startle quite as hard as the other night (and if you had, you surely would’ve clunked your head on the hood), but you still let out a groan, bowing your head with an exaggerated shake.

“Do you take pride in your ability to scare the living hell out of me, Winchester?” you tease, cocking your head towards him, pointing the offending socket wrench in his direction.

Sam grins, bright and very unapologetic, the bastard, as he comes just a little closer. He leans against the fender, his arms crossed over his chest. He has the sleeves of his flannel rolled up to mid forearm, revealing freshly sun-kissed skin, and a glittery sheen of sweat.

“Maybe,” he admits shamelessly, tilting his head, which earns him a playful glare. His hair sticks to his forehead slightly, damp from the heat, and he shakes his head absently to swipe it back. “You’re the one who keeps letting me sneak up on you, though.”

You roll your eyes, finally laying down that stupid wrench, and Sam takes the opportunity to just… look at you. Really look at you. His gaze flicks over your face, lingering at the sweat beading at your temple, before dropping to the way your tank top clings to your shoulders, the smudges of grease that stain your arms. 

The moment you catch him, though, you swear his cheeks turn just a little more red, his brows furrowing into something almost sheepish.

“I, uh. Here,” he chokes the words out, extending his arm towards you in a stiff, mechanical motion, a cold plastic water bottle clutched in his hand. 

The sight damn near brings you to your knees.

You take the bottle with a blissful ‘thank you’, the icy condensation soothing your overheated palm like balm to a wound. Still, you don’t drink right away. The water has a faint sheen to it, almost cloudy, and you lift a brow, amused.

“You druggin’ me?”

Sam’s eyes shoot open comically wide, his head shaking before your words even fully land, and you can’t help but laugh at the look of sheer horror on his face. 

“What? No—God, no,” he blurts, just as you twist the cap open with a quiet snicker. “It’s… electrolytes. That powder stuff, y’know? It’s hot, ‘n I figured you wouldn’t be drinking enough ‘cause you’re so damn stubborn. I thought about making you something else, like, a smoothie, since you love fruit, but I didn’t know where you kept the blender—”

“Sam.” You cut him off gently, taking a swig. “Thank you. You’re sweet.”

For a moment, he just blinks at you, like he’s unsure of how to respond to the praise. Then he clears his throat, an awkward, punched out sound, before he jerks his head towards the engine.

“…Need a hand?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before stepping up beside you, nudging your knee with his as he peers under the hood. His arm brushes yours, warm and solid, as he hums thoughtfully, like he has any clue what he’s looking at.

He doesn’t.

You take another sip of your drink before setting it to the side.

“Y’ever replace an alternator, Sam?” you ask, and the crooked smile you receive is answer enough. Dean? Sure. He knows his way around an engine. And as for you, you’ve been tearing your way through your father’s junkyard since you could walk. But Sam?

Yeah. No. 

“I mean, uh. Y’know, I’ve...” He tilts his head, considering the mess of bolts and wiring before him, before shooting you a sidelong glance, pretty eyes crinkling at the corners. “…No.”

You snicker, picking the socket wrench back up, tightening your grip on the hot metal with slippery fingers.

“But I’ve been told I’ve got a real talent for holding a flashlight,” he offers, voice dropping into that low, teasing tone that never fails to make your stomach flip. “And I won’t complain like a certain individual back in the house. Promise.”

A soft smile tugs at your lips, and for the first time in hours, you don’t feel two seconds away from strangling someone. 

“Ah. There’s your real motive. Trying to avoid your brother so you don’t bite his head off,” you joke, and he shrugs noncommittedly, telling you all you need to know. “No need for a light, though. Not at this time of day.”

His smile falters.

You regret your words instantly. You didn’t mean it like that—God, no, not like you were brushing him off—but he looks almost hurt, and those puppy eyes are just lethal.

“Why don’t I teach you?” you suggest quickly. Surprise flickers across his face, and the sight makes your heart stutter. “It’s pretty easy,” you add, softer now, “and you’re a real quick learner.”

“…Yeah?” he questions gently, almost like he’s expecting you to take it back, before the corners of his lips quirk right back up in a quietly pleased grin. He shifts closer, hovering over the engine, his hand sliding from the fender to rest just above the grille. 

He doesn’t look back at the car right away, though, no; he just… watches you for a second. He lingers on the small smudge of grease on your cheek, the little crease between your brows that always forms whenever you’re focused, the way your tongue swipes across your lower lip… before ducking his head with a nod.

“Okay.”

He exhales, almost a laugh, like he’s shaking off nerves. Rolling his sleeves up just a little higher over his elbows, he exposes the lean muscle of his forearms when he braces his palms back on the edge of the engine bay. The sun catches his tan skin, warm and shining under the golden light.

You swallow. Hard.

“…Walk me through it?” he adds after a moment, breaking your trance, and you have to shake your head lightly to refocus, before nodding as your confidence slips back in place. You tilt your wrist forward, pointing at the battery. 

“Alright. We’ve just gotta take out the battery first. Don’t wanna fuck up the electrical, or give yourself a nasty shock. You just have to disconnect the cables. This one first—” you gesture towards the back cable, Sam humming thoughtfully, “—negative. That’ll break the ground circuit. Then you can take off the red one next, remove the hold-down clamp, and lift it out. You with me?”

Sam makes a low, affirmative sound, his brows drawing together in concentration. He follows along, he really does—but when his eyes drift, he seriously can’t help it. He takes in the cables first, committing them to memory, but his eyes wander to trace your fingers, up to the soft angle of your wrist before he can catch them. 

And then he’s just looking at you. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I think so.”

You smile before continuing. “Once the battery’s out, you’ve got to remove the serpentine belt. That’s not too bad. Loosening it can be a bitch, though.” The metal wrench tinks against the tensioner as you point, your head tilting towards him. “Then you can start working on the alternator. But that’s hands-on work. Can’t really explain it.”

You don’t move to demonstrate. No, instead, you extend the socket wrench out in your overheated palm. An offer.

“Have at ‘er.”

Sam hesitates, a brief moment of almost-panic flickering over his face, breaking through his newfound ease. For a second, he just stares at the tool, at your outstretched hand, like he can’t quite believe that you’re handing him the task. Like it’s some sort of test.

“Me?” he questions, stunned, and when you nod, he takes an extra beat to move. 

His fingers close around the handle tentatively, warm and calloused, and you swear he has the slightest tremor. His thumb brushes yours as he takes it, a fleeting touch that sends a spark up your arm despite the sweltering heat; and this time, he lets it linger. Just a little. 

He clears his throat softly before turning back to the mess of cables, rolling his shoulders like a pitcher getting ready to throw.

“You’ve got a lot of faith in me, I mean, if you ever want this thing on the road again.” He laughs, but the hesitation is still present, threaded with just a touch of Sam-Winchester-self-depreciation that twists at your heart. 

You don’t entertain it. Not this time. Instead, your hip drops to lean against the bumper as you turn your body towards him, arms folded across your chest.

“Nah. I trust you.”

And for a heartbeat, Sam just freezes. The wrench hovers in his grip like he’s suddenly forgotten what to do with it. His lips part slightly, like he’s going to say something. But for once? He doesn’t have a smart remark. He doesn’t have a dumb joke to deflect with. He just blinks once, twice, gaze so damn soft it makes something deep in your chest ache. 

Then, without a word, he leans forward, and gets to work. 

The wrench clicks into place on the first bolt, his grip steadying, instinct taking over. He ratchets in careful yet powerful strokes, confidence surfacing, piece by piece. You watch closely: the way his bangs fall over his forehead, each quiet puff of his breath, the way the tendon in his forearm jumps with each back-and-forth pull. Sam’s in his element, working, learning, and if it gives you a bit of a show?

Well, that’s just a bonus. 

On day ten, you finally crack open your first beer.

The living room glows with the soft light of a single lamp in one corner, the one that’s bulb has gone a faded shade of orange, and that flickers every few moments. Empty glass bottles and half-full longnecks scatter the coffee table, Dean’s cast covered foot thrown haphazardly next to them, one good kick from sloshing foam onto plaster.

The three of you are sprawled out easily in the room, Dean in that old chair he’s claimed as his own, tipsy fingers picking leather from the armrest, while you and Sam share the tiny couch, close enough to feel the brush of his knee every time his leg bounces restlessly. Laughter flows freely through loose lips, paired with the heavy bass of some old rock track booming through your ancient speaker, filling the usually quiet room with a new kind of comfort.

“Oh, come on, Dean. Load is good!” you manage between snickers with impressive seriousness, your heated debate about Metallica albums becoming equally as important as monster talk to your intoxicated mind. 

“Good?” Dean drawls, who’s already had double yet is somehow half as tipsy, voice thick with playful disdain. “That shit is not Metallica. They went mainstream, I’m telling you.”

He takes another swig from his bottle (his eighth? Ninth? Who even knows), and levels a glare at you like you’ve just taken Baby for a joyride.

Sam, meanwhile, is slumped against the loveseat, warm and heavy in that almost-drunk Sam way where he leans into you just a little more than usual, like it’s as simple as breathing. One arm is thrown along the backside of the couch, fingertips tapping along to the beat, brushing your shoulder every so often when his hand slips limply. The other stays in his lap, fingers idly twisting around the neck of an open bottle. 

He almost looks a little lost. Happy lost, you note, if that dimpled smile is saying anything. 

“Seriously?” you groan, albeit dramatically, but there’s no mistaking the way the corner of your lips curve upwards.

You take a sip of your beer, the liquid fizzing pleasantly on your tongue. The cold stings your teeth in a way that should be uncomfortable, but instead, seems to be just right. 

“You’re only sayin’ that ‘cause it’s newer. You’re blinded by the classics,” you accuse, jutting out one finger from around the neck of your bottle, pointing it in the older Winchester’s direction, before sparing a glance at Sam. “Help me out here, would ya?”

Sam blinks, slow, buzzed, like the words take a moment to travel from his ears to his brain. 

For a second, he just stares, lips slightly parted like he’s forgotten what the argument was about. His cheeks are flushed a pretty pink from the beer, warm from the golden glow of the lamp, his hair a little messy from running his fingers through it all night.

When he snaps out of it, finally, a lazy grin spreads across his face, and your stomach seems to flip even more than usual. He lifts his beer in some sort of salute, before taking a swig.

“It’s not… bad,” he says carefully, ever the mediator, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. 

His eyes flick to yours as he says it, as if searching for some sort of approval, and he sure as hell gets it—you flashing him a triumphant smile, landing your obnoxious ‘aha!’. Dean rolls his eyes so hard, you think they might fall out of his skull.

“Dude, you always take her side,” he complains, hardening his gaze into something that’s probably supposed to be scrutinizing.

“No I don’t,” Sam defends, sounding almost pouty, but it’s weak. Really weak.

“It’s ‘cause I’m always right,” you butt in, giggling all over again, Sam’s soft smile growing at the sound alone.

“Yeah, no,” Dean decides, eyes flicking between you and his brother. “That’s not why. Wanna know why? It’s just ‘cause he…” he trails off, slowly, voice dipping into something uncharacteristically quiet, and you feel the way Sam stiffens by your side. Hard. 

They exchange a look, one you don’t quite understand. Sharp, quick, silent Winchester communication—like they know something you don’t. And when Dean speaks again, he waves his arm as if to brush you off.

“…Whatever. His opinions invalid, anyway. He likes freakin’ Bon Jovi.”

For a beat too long, you don’t respond. Long enough to make the air in the room feel slightly unnatural, like it’s suddenly gotten thicker, grown from an easy flow to something a little suffocating. Dean’s words still hang between you, unfinished in a way that somehow makes them worse. He left space, too much space, leaving room for you to fill in blanks that you don’t quite understand.

Your mind should be racing to reach it. Should be grabbing onto something, anything, but instead, every thought drifts lazily past, tangled and unhelpful, like puzzle pieces that almost fit together but never quite click.

And God, Sam… Sam looks a little like he’s about to bolt.

That snaps you out of it, quick, your brain catching a thought, flipping it over, and blurting out a response before it really settles. 

“Dean, even I like Bon Jovi.”

Dean’s gaze flicks back to you, thrown off just enough for some of that smothering tension to crack, even just a fraction. He looks at you, then Sam, then back to you—like he’s trying to gauge if opening his mouth will get him punched or not—before giving you another scowl.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck in an attempt to shake off some of the pressure. “That’s his influence.”

He sticks the neck of his bottle in Sam’s direction, who seems to have relaxed a little, but just barely. 

“His poor, poor influence.”

“Poor? You could argue that Bon Jovi’s classic, too,” you challenge, tilting your head, a half-smile tugging at your lips again. You’re still trying to keep it light, even if something in the room still feels a little off.

Even if that something is right next to you, knee to knee, and radiating an intense amount of heat that you have to fight yourself not to lean into.

Dean opens his mouth, closes it, then huffs. 

“Very poor,” he lands on, weakly. “Jovi is the pop of rock. Nothing about that is classic, ‘n you know it.”

You scoff, which almost earns you a smirk, but it doesn’t stick. Not really.

Because Sam still hasn’t said anything.

You glance over at him, and yeah. Definitely off. He’s stiff, posture tight like his muscles are locked in place, his shoulders just a touch too taut. His jaw’s set hard enough to hurt, and his eyes are fixed somewhere past Dean like he’s trying to become one with the couch, or maybe just disappear entirely.

“Sammy.” You nudge him with your elbow, a quick, gentle motion, and he startles like you’d jammed a knife between his ribs. He bows his head to look at you, loopy-eyed from that alcohol induced haze, cheeks still a flustered red. 

He doesn’t even correct you this time.

“…Hm?”

“Are y’going to defend yourself,” you ask, voice tipping into a more teasing register, watching him just a little closer, “or just let him slander you?”

Sam doesn’t respond right away. His grip on his bottle loosens just a touch, thumb dragging lazily along the peeling label as his gaze flickers down, then back to you. Then he huffs. Shakes his head. And suddenly, a small, familiar smile tugs at his lips again, dimples creating pretty little indents on his still pink cheeks.

“…You love ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’, Dean.”

You snicker, Dean groans, and Sam seems to relax in a way that helps you breathe easy again. The tension doesn’t disappear, not entirely anyway, but it loosens, unwinding like a knot pulled in the right direction. And when Sam takes another sip of his beer, eyes flicking to you, there’s something softer in it now. Something that wasn’t there a moment ago—or maybe something he just couldn’t quite hide this time. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean concedes, waving both of you off, planting his now empty bottle on the coffee table with a heavy thud. “You’re both still wrong. I’m just outnumbered.”

“Right…” you drawl, still giggling, and Sam lets out a real laugh this time. The kind that lights up his entire face, and makes your chest tighten without even realizing it. 

The music hums into another solo, the room settling back into something familiar. Sam shifts, just slightly, and his fingertips brush your shoulder in soft, rhythmic circles where his arm’s draped along the back of the couch.

And this time, he doesn’t pull away at all. 

On day fourteen, it’s your turn to scare the soul clean out of Sam’s body.

You wake up early, too early for most, before the sun has even fully breached the horizon. The sky is still a faded pink, the world sitting quietly, where everything feels as though it’s paused and waiting. The air’s already warm, already heavy, but it’s not suffocating yet; it’s gentle. The kind of warmth that settles over your skin just right, or glows through your kitchen blinds as you brew a pot of rich coffee.

When you shake Sam awake, he startles. Of course he does. Hunters never quite wake easy. There’s a flash of immediate alertness in his eyes, maybe a little bit of panic, before it fades into soft recognition. And as it turns out, it doesn’t take much convincing, if any at all, to get him to follow.

And so your short journey begins.

You walk side by side in an easy, peaceful quiet, the kind that doesn’t really need any filling. The fields stretch endlessly around you, overgrown grass tickling your legs, the odd car or rusted-out part scattered around every corner. Remnants of old memories, of laughter-fueled moments that you hold oh so close to your heart. 

Then the trees cast cool shadows as you move through the woods, ducking under low branches that force Sam to practically fold himself in half, step over fallen logs, and push through bushes that scrape your knees, practiced like you’ve done it a thousand times before.

Because you have.

Eventually, you reach it. The two of you lie out the old blanket you’d packed, right where the trees clear out, a quiet lake opens up, and the land dips into something almost hidden just for you. It’s the kind of place no one would ever find unless they really went looking. The place that was always just… yours. Yours and Sam’s. 

You lean back into the blanket, your hair fanning across worn fabric as you let yourself relax, flipping open your journal, graphite smudging against the curve of your palm as you begin to sketch. Sam settles beside you, the movement quiet, unhurried, and so damn familiar. Neither of you speak, not at first, and neither of you really have to. 

The lake is still, in that glassy, undisturbed sort of way, except from the occasional ripple from a fish breaching the surface, or a leaf falling from a nearby tree. Morning light cascades over it in pretty golds and soft blues, shining in a way that makes everything feel a little softer around the edges.

It’s all so… familiar.

Every rock, every tree, every incline in the field has a memory attached. It’s the place you used to go all the time as kids, after school or when the pressure at home got too heavy. Escaping out to the hills like you weren’t the children of hunters, but two regular kids who liked skipping stones and splashing water, or two teenagers who would sneak a couple beers from your fathers fridge. The place that held all of your goodbyes, before John would snatch the boys away for months, and you wouldn’t hear a thing until they returned just a little older, a little rougher. 

It makes this feel like goodbye all over again.

Next to you, it seems Sam might be thinking just the same thing. He doesn’t say it out loud yet, but he just breathes it all in, mapping the space around him like a trail he knows better than the back of his hand. He watches the birds fly from tree to tree, takes in the scent of damp earth and wild flowers, listens to the way your pencil scratches lightly against your paper. 

Eventually though, he turns to look at you instead. 

His gaze lingers in a way that shouldn’t feel as heavy as it does. He doesn’t look at your journal, or the way your hands grip your pencil. No, he stares at your profile. Your relaxed expression. The way your hair frames your face, the slope of your nose, the soft bow of your lips. A soft smile tugs at his own as he quietly slips down to his elbow beside you, closing some of that space so naturally it could be framed as unintentional.

But now, you know better than that.

Your pencil glides across the paper in deep strokes, before your fingertip darts out to smudge the graphite, blending it into something softer. You try to ignore his gaze. You really do. But you can feel it—and it makes your heart thump like a drum against your ribs, flutter in a way you can feel up in your throat. 

Slowly, so slowly as to not break the quiet, your pencil lowers to rest between the pages, as you turn your head gently to the side. 

“…You okay there, Sam?”

His expression does something a little complicated when you speak. It softens into something sweet, the way it always does when you meet his gaze, but at the same time, it almost gets heavier. He gives you that damn look, that puppy-eyed stare, the one that makes your chest warm with affection so intense, it’s near impossible to stifle.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice still a little rough from sleep, or maybe just emotion he hasn’t quite faced. “Just… thinking.”

His knee brushes yours as he shifts, bending it where it rests over the blanket so he can look at you more fully. It doesn’t feel like an accident, not this time, and he certainly doesn’t rush to pull it away. 

“Thinking?” you echo. “About what?”

Sam exhales, a quiet, shaky breath, like the question weighs on him.

“About… this. Staying here. How it’s coming to an end.” His voice comes out careful and almost measured, too measured, like he’s trying to mask that undercurrent of sadness that’s already starting to ache. “I could’ve sworn two weeks felt so much longer when we were kids.”

Fourteen days was never meant to last forever. You knew that. And yet, sitting by the lake, surrounded by old memories, it feels a little like time has slipped through your fingers like the sunrise melting into noon. 

Your relaxed smile fades into something a little more sullen, even as warmth clings to your skin, both from the sun, and the barely-there touch of his knee.

“Yeah. It did.” You swallow, forcing yourself to look away briefly, like that’ll do anything to loosen the pressure in your chest. You sit up a little further, pushing onto your elbows, and your journal slides off your lap, pencil rolling into the overgrown grass. 

“…You know you don’t need a reason to just… visit, right?”

For a moment, the words just… sit. And you’d expected just that.

Because the Winchesters don’t do things like that. They don’t go on hunt-free road trips, or lazy Sunday afternoons, or spontaneous visits unless blood is involved. Their lives are simple, that of a hunter’s: case files, salt rounds, and constant movement from crisis to crisis with no room for reunions. 

And you know that. You really do. And yet…

“I just mean… you don’t need to be hunting. Or injured.” Your fingers curl into the blanket below as you find his eyes again. “You don’t need to justify it. You can just… come.”

His throat works as he swallows hard, and he turns towards the water for a fleeting second, like he’s anchoring himself against a wave of emotion threatening to spill over all at once.

“I don’t want to impose,” he lands on, slowly, spelling out the syllables. Bracing for rejection. “This is Bobby’s place. Your place. It’s safe. I’m not… Dean and I can’t just…”

He huffs, frustrated, shaking his head. 

“Sam,” you start again, still gentle, voice so low, it almost gets lost in the passing breeze. “I’m saying I want you guys here.”

Silence falls. The trees sway with a soft gust of wind, and the pages of your journal flip by your side, but you don’t worry yourself about losing your place. You don’t tear your gaze away. You can’t. And when you speak again, your voice comes out more firm than before.

“I’m saying I want you here.”

He doesn’t respond right away, barely even blinks. Your own gaze finally slips away from his, dropping to your lap, then back out to the lake ahead—and you let out a breath that’s almost as frustrated as his own.

“I meant what I said when you first got here. I miss having you guys around. So much,” you whisper, and the words seem to catch in your throat, shaky and thick enough to ache. “I don’t… I don’t want this to be goodbye for the next six months. I don’t want to watch the impala pull onto the road and wonder when I’ll see your face again. I don’t—God, Sam, I don’t… I can’t—”

“Hey.” His voice slices through your words like the world’s softest blade.  

“Yeah?”

“…Can I kiss you?”

You don’t answer right away. You think you do—your brain sends the signal, your lips part—but nothing actually comes out. The moment hangs there, frozen, like you’d pressed pause on the world, and forgot to press play again. 

The words seem to replay in your head on repeat. Not once, not twice, but over and over and over, as you stare at him like if you look hard enough, the universe will rewind like some cruel joke. Because this is Sam. 

This is Sam, and he’s just asked if he could kiss you. 

You’re not sure how long your hesitation lasts, but it’s long enough for Sam’s eyes to widen. For his muscles to go tense. For his face to crumble like he’s just fucked up, really fucked up, and for him to lean away like he’s about to pull back. You don’t let him. 

Because when your response finally comes, it has nothing to do with words. 

You surge forward, capturing his lips with so much intensity that you get the brick wall that is Sam Winchester to sway. He inhales into it like he wasn’t expecting it, like it takes a moment to register, but once it does, he melts. Completely.

It’s like every nerve lights up all at once. Warm and electric and so damn right that your head spins, and your stomach flips.

It’s sweet. So damn sweet.

He kisses you back slowly, cautiously, like he’s terrified of messing things up; but with so much tenderness that it steals the air straight out of your lungs. There’s no rush, no urgency, just quiet wonder. Like the moment is fragile, and all either of you want to do is preserve it forever.

And when he finally pulls back, just enough to suck in a deep, lingering breath, he rests his forehead against yours. His eyes half lidded, and so full of adoration that it would bring you to your knees if you weren’t already so reclined. 

“…You okay?” he questions, voice barely above a breath, as he searches your face for even the smallest ounce of doubt. He doesn’t find any.

“Perfect.”

He nods, and then he’s leaning in this time. Every muscle in your body relaxes the moment his lips slot against yours again, giving way to something warm and almost pliant. His hands rise, slow and tentative at first, before he cups your jaw with infinite gentleness. Two warm palms brush your cheeks as he tilts you impossibly closer, his fingers spanning the length of your face, his thumbs brushing sweetly over the delicate curve of your cheekbone in a clingy way that just about makes your eyes water.

And for a while, that’s all there is. You, him, the quiet rhythm of your breathing as your lips collide, the breeze ruffling through the field, and the soft rippling waves in the lake.

When you pull back again, it’s not that either of you want to, and you can feel it in the way he hesitates. The way his thumb traces your face, the way his lips linger a fraction too long before parting from yours. He doesn’t go far. He stays close enough for your noses to brush, for his bangs to tickle your forehead, and one of his hands never leaves your cheek.

There’s a faint, disbelieving huff of a laugh that comes from him, and after a moment of shock—one of your own follows.

“Okay,” he murmurs, like he’s trying the words out, testing his reality. Testing if this is all real. “Okay.”

Your lips curve into a smile despite yourself. “…Yeah?” you whisper, and you don’t say much else, at least not for the moment. Because if you do, you almost worry you’ll say something cheesy. Something cliché, like ‘you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.’

Because it’s true.

Your hand shifts where it rests between you, brushing against his wrist. He stills for a second at the contact, instinctive, and you feel his hesitation in his breath. But then he softens. Turns his hand. And finally, he slides his palm just enough so his fingers can lace between yours. Careful, so careful, like he’s still not quite sure if he’s allowed.

You squeeze, and he squeezes back.

“I’m not… good at this,” he admits, gaze dropping briefly to stare at your interlocked fingers, and his thumb brushes gently over your knuckles. “Showing up just because. Having a life off the road.”

Your smile lingers, but your gaze searches his, just for a second. “You don’t have to be good at it. But… I’ll say it a thousand times if I have to. I just want you here. I want… all of it.”

“All of it,” he echoes, and he lifts his head again, expression so warm, you feel like you could melt. His hand lifts from your cheek, only to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, holding just a moment longer than necessary. “…I’m not good at this, but I want to try. For you.”

“For us,” you correct, and he smiles so hard, the golden shine of the sun catches on his dimples. 

“Yeah. For us.”

AN: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO SAMMY 🎉🥳 as a gift to all the Sam lovers, here is almost 10K words of pure fluff.

This one is pretty different from my other work, honestly, lol, and I made up some demonology here that’s definitely inaccurate, so enjoy being thoroughly confused there (I was too). But I hope everyone’s had a great Sam day 🖤

(Dividers from @cursed-carmine)

[cujja]

NEVER MISSES 💯💯💯💯

[cujja]

This is in no way trying to put pressure on you! BUT I will say that if you ever were inclined to do a pt 3 for dog days... I would be very very interested

Dw hottie I am absolutely planning another part for dog days, it’s in my drafts and half written 🫡

Feel free to lambast me and pester me for updates cuz I am prone to falling off the face of the planet at times 😭 I know some authors like to write at their own pace and not feel pressured (and rightly so), but I lowkey can only work under pressure so do not hesitate to call me out for disappearing!!!

My schedule rn is pretty shitty cuz I’ve got exams (😟) but I’ve got multiple wips in the works gradually cooking including:

Endverse Dean n prone bone

Soldier boy n socialist co-star

Soldier boy n ex that sold him out

Soulless Sam series

Also pic of my boy cat looking like a baby bear cub

[theedaythatnevercomes]

Cherry Waves 𑣲

(Stanford!Sam Winchester x f!reader)

Summary: When cramps are really kicking your ass, and a hot bath with your sweet boyfriend isn’t doing the trick… he offers a far more fun solution. (Even if things get a little messy.)

CW: Period sex/blood kink (this is Sam, guys. Are we surprised?), soft dom!Sam, fingering, oral (f!rec), no piv, praise kink, hurt/comfort, Sam’s a nerd, a really sweet nerd, caring Sammy turned filthy Sammy (this is really explicit. I’m not sure if I should apologize for that or not…)

WC: 4.2k

Based on this request!

Steam curls lazily towards the ceiling, softening the edges of the small bathroom in a way that makes everything look a little fuzzy, like you’re floating through a dream. The water’s hot, almost too hot, but you don’t complain. Heat helps. 

Or, heat is supposed to help. That’s how it works. And maybe, if you keep telling yourself it’s helping, it actually will.

You sink further into the tub, or, more accurately, further into Sam, your knees tucked up in a way that has them poking out from beneath the lavender-scented bubbles. You lean back into him, letting your head tilt to rest on his shoulder, your back pressed against the hard plains of his muscled chest, that still manage to be so soft. 

He smells like your shampoo. It’s comforting, in a way. Distracting, too. Distracting enough that for one blissful second, you’re not lost in the dull, twisting ache low in your abdomen, that drums and pulses in slow waves. It feels like a gut punch—if a gut punch involved those metaphorical fingers curling around your uterus, and clenching it hard enough to burst.

The thought makes you grimace. 

“…You okay?”

His soft voice cuts through the silence, warm, dripping with syrupy-thick concern, his chin tucked around your neck. Behind you, he shifts, careful to not let water slosh over the edge, trailing the palm that was stationed on your ribs across your body in a steady caress. One strong arm drapes around your middle, hesitant at first, like he’s trying to gauge where it hurts, or if his touch could make it worse.

It doesn’t. The pressure is nothing but welcome. You hum, a quiet sound, and he responds by rubbing slow, methodical circles over your abdomen.

“Could be better,” you say, letting out a sullen exhale that tells Sam everything he needs to know. His thumb presses into your side, right where the ache sits its deepest. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low with sympathy. Sympathy that would usually make you scowl, or maybe even deck someone, but coming from him? It just feels sweet. “I know, baby.”

The pain seems to pause for a second with those soft, rhythmic motions; before rearing its ugly head right when you start to think you’ve caught a break. It’s small at first. Easy to ignore.

Then it deepens.

You’re pretty sure day two is designed to find out who the strongest links are, and kill off the rest. ‘Aunt Flo’ must’ve been a bitch. The pressure builds, coiling inwards, slow, almost like some kind of warning, before sharpening in a way that makes you hiss. 

You try to shift, to breathe, Sam’s hand pausing on your abdomen. Pain radiates towards your back, settling at the tail of your spine, rippling in wince-inducing waves. You stretch one leg out, tucking the other further in, like your body can’t decide whether it needs space, or to be curled in so tight that it’s just about impossible for your lungs to contract. 

Behind you, Sam sits frozen. Unsure. His palm is warm on your lower belly, his brows furrowed into a worried frown. He feels your muscles clench, then relax, then squeeze again in a way that he can almost feel, and suddenly, he’s massaging you all over again.

“Hey, shh…” he whispers, a gentle coo, peppering a kiss to your shoulder that’s so soft it just about makes you want to cry. “Do you want me to grab you some ibuprofen? Or… I can make you some tea.” Another kiss. Your throat tightens. “Made that ginger stuff last time. You said it wasn’t half bad.”

His question, while thoughtful, has the opposite effect than he intended, resulting in a frown pulling at your lips.

“No. I’m sick of tea. And pills. And heating pads, and chocolate, and everything else that’ll just disappoint me.” It comes out as a grumble, and you know you’re being a bit of a bitch. But you can’t help it. And Sam, the sweetheart, doesn’t hold it against you. He never does. “I just want you. Here.”

“Okay.” His mouth curves into a gentle smile despite himself, just as he shifts, placing a hot, hard kiss to the column of your throat. Then another. And another. “That’s okay, honey.”

Those kisses, while simply affectionate, manufactured to soothe, have your heart fluttering in your chest. One hand stays heavy on your stomach, fingertips pressing against aches, the other dispatching on its own mission. His palm trails down your side, across the dip of your hip, smoothing along your thigh. So soft, so gentle.

Everything feels slower beneath the water. Warmer. Your body is already so sensitive all over, so when his thumb swipes innocently in a sweet circle on the inside of your thigh, you have to bite back a whine.

But Sam hears it. 

And oh, does he love it.

His eyes widen, not that you can see, but the picture of his face in the back of your mind is one of Sam-Winchester-curiosity, his careful exploration stopping as he studies you. That smart, law-boy brain of his working hard, gears turning, deciding just how much to push. How you’re feeling. What you’re feeling. Because if there’s one thing Sam will never do, it’s make your discomfort worse. 

For a moment, you’re both quiet. Quiet enough that the only sound filling the room is the drip of the faucet you never quite turned all the way off. But when you shift, letting out a shaky sigh, he speaks, voice dropping an octave. “I could… take your mind off things. If you want.”

It takes you an embarrassingly long moment to realize what he’s hinting at, and when it clicks, your brain seems to short circuit. 

Oh.

You can’t say you hate the idea. Not at all. In fact, if anything, your hormones fluctuating like some fucked-up seesaw only has you craving Sam like goddamn oxygen. And the way he’s been smoothing those greedy hands all over you in that stupidly comforting way for the last half an hour is certainly not helping your case.

But the blood…

“…What?” you whisper, voice coming out in a barely audible squeak.

“You’re hurting,” he says, simply, in that ‘duh’ tone of his that usually has you rolling your eyes. “And… I’ve done some research. Endorphins, oxytocin, dopamine… the best natural pain killers, baby. It can help blood flow, too. Lots of benefits.” He pitches the idea in that passionate way he explains his case studies, all smiles and a sweet, hushed tone. You feel a wave of warmth in your chest.  “And, y’know. I just happen to know a really great way to get ‘em flowing…”

“You’ve done.. research? When, between Economics and Criminal Justice?”

“I have my priorities.”

His hand wanders, just a little lower, skimming along the sensitive expanse of your inner thigh, and the way you squirm is entirely involuntary. Still, it does nothing to melt that tense expression on your face (that, let’s be honest, hasn’t left since the moment you saw the first spot of red on your favourite panties), your next breath coming out shaky.

“Don’t you—I don’t know. Think that’s… gross?”

His fingers stop their path immediately, curling lightly against your soft flesh. It’s a gentle press, just enough to leave pretty dimples, and if it’s designed to distract you, it absolutely works. His hand is big, so damn big, the heel of his palm to the tips of his fingers covering most of your thigh. He huffs, which you’re sure is meant to sound scrutinizing, but the Sam equivalent is so stupidly soft that it just makes your chest hurt instead. He certainly doesn’t sound disgusted, but, almost… offended? 

“Gross?” His voice comes out rough, incredulous. “Honey.” He scoffs, lips pressing hard against your shoulder, once, twice, before he trails up to press a kiss to your temple. Softer than the rest. “No. There’s not one thing about you that’s gross, ‘specially not this.”

“Are you sure? I mean, that sounds… it’s messy, Sam.” You tilt your head from where it’s fallen against his shoulder, and his expression is nothing short of sincere. 

“I brought it up. I’m more than sure,” he says, just a touch cheeky, but you know it’s only to soothe your nerves. And, well. It works. “…‘M not gonna make you do anything you don’t want. But… I love you. I love makin’ you feel good. And if it’s going to help…” he trails off, shrugging, bubbles fizzing beneath his elbows. “…Tell me why I wouldn’t want to.”

You can’t quite argue with that.

Not that you’d really want to, anyway. Little pulses of arousal prickle in your lower belly, sparking like embers in a fire that’s just begun to burn. You bite your lip, the rational part of your brain rivaling the more primitive parts, but in the end: the latter wins.

“…Okay. Yeah.”

“Yeah?” he presses, a little surprised, but you don’t miss the hint of excitement there. Cute. 

“Please.”

His hand shifts, far less innocent now, nudging your legs apart carefully, and you suck in a breath. “Just maybe not, y’know. Here.”

He stops, immediately, huffing a laugh against your neck, the sound low enough to have a shiver racing down your spine. He presses one last kiss to your shoulder, then pulls away, hands sliding across your body as he holds you in a sweet embrace.

“Okay,” he murmurs, breath hovering by your ear. “Bed. I’ll grab a towel.”

All that newfound confidence dissipates the second you watch Sam place that dark, navy blue towel over the covers, slow and careful, like he’s not just protecting the sheets, but setting a stage. 

The movement pulls at his shoulders just right, every shift of those perfect muscles in his back catching in the dim light. He’s broad, beautiful, like he’s sculpted from the Gods in a way that’s downright unfair. You stare, of course you do—ogle, even—and the heat that pools low in your stomach dances right along with those insistent nerves, and that uncomfortable twisting feeling that won’t quite give you a rest.

By the time he’s finished smoothing the corners of that damned towel just right, your heart feels about ready to beat out of your chest. Your legs carry you to the bed without a lick of help from your brain, and when you finally sit, you almost feel… stiff. Not because of him. Never because of him. But because of, well. Everything else.

Still, you stay where you are. Reclined, waiting, and acutely aware of everything.

Like the way the sheets are cool under your back when you shift, lying reclined against the plush covers. Or the way the towel is softer beneath your hips, warmer where it brushes your bare skin. Your still-damp hair fans out across the pillow like a halo, ends tickling your shoulders, making every tiny movement send a spark down your spine. Your knees stay drawn in, thighs pressing together like that’ll do anything to quiet the pulse between them.

It doesn’t. Not when Sam turns, and looks at you like that.

He exhales, slow and measured, his gaze dragging over you in a quiet, almost languid way, like he’s savouring the view. There’s nothing rushed in it, and absolutely nothing careless. He takes his time, committing every detail to memory, filing back the way your fingers curl nervously into the blankets, the subtle tremble to your thighs.

His fingers flex at his sides like he’s fighting some internal battle to hold himself back, before he finally steps closer. The mattress dips beneath his weight as he leans in, the shift subtle, but enough to make your breath stutter. 

Then his eyes find yours, and they soften.

Maybe not completely. The hunger is still there, unmistakable, burning just beneath the surface, but it slows. It turns careful in a way that makes your chest ache, and has your muscles releasing tension you weren’t even aware was present.

“Still okay?” he asks, quiet, hovering over you, his bangs tickling your forehead, and there’s something about the sound of his voice that has arousal twisting in your core like a cord about to snap. You swallow, nodding; more to keep yourself from letting out an embarrassingly blissful whine than anything. But oh, that’s not enough for him. He tuts at you, a slow exhale and ridiculous shake of his head, but his expression stays sweet enough to drown in.

“Words.”

“Yes, Sam. More than okay,” you breathe, and that’s the A-plus answer. One of his hands comes to rest over your knee, large and warm and oh so grounding. His thumb moves absentmindedly at first, soothing little circles over the swell of your thigh. Slowly, so damn slowly, it becomes more deliberate, dipping into the crease between your legs, fingertips brushing your inner thighs. Each pass is lighter than the last, like he’s coaxing you to melt, rather than just pulling them apart.

“Just relax…” he croons, his voice low, threaded with something so sweet, so him, that it just about hurts.

He bends over you then, careful of his weight, his body enveloping you completely, but without crowding. His lips press to your forehead first, gentle and lingering. Then to your temple. Your cheek. The tip of your nose. 

And when he finally reaches your lips, it isn’t rushed. It’s slow. Almost restrained at first, just the faintest brush, before deepening in a way that feels inevitable.

His lips slot against yours like they were made to, his free hand coming up to cup your jaw, long fingers spanning over the expanse of your cheek. Sam’s kisses never feel confined to his lips, when he kisses: you feel it everywhere. That massive hand tilting your head back to give him more access, his nose smushing against your cheek when he presses you into the pillows, his bare chest brushing against yours as his lips move with a slow kind of fever. His hot tongue swipes at the seam of your lips, asking permission, and when you open up for him, he groans like it’s tearing him apart.

When your legs fall open, it’s of their own accord, your body melting into the kiss entirely, and it’s about the most ‘yes please’ response Sam could’ve asked for. His hand slips, dipping from your thighs to the pretty jut of your hip, shifting to your belly to take a needy handful of the softness there. He lets out a panty dropping hum of approval against your lips, sucking spit back through his teeth. “That’s it, beautiful. Openin’ up for me,” he murmurs, dropping an open-mouthed kiss to your neck, hot and wet with just a touch of perfect suction.

He pulls away only enough to blow a cool puff of air over that shiny little circle his lips left behind, making your body give a happy jolt, a gasp tumbling from your lips at the prickling sensation. He snickers at your shiver, the bastard, but then his fingers are wandering again. Lower this time. 

The first brush over the swell of your mound is featherlight, testing, but you’re so sensitive, that it already feels like you’re seconds away from falling apart (pathetic? Maybe. Not that he minds). His thumb brushes your clit, the softest of circles, and you’re pretty sure every coherent thought you’ve ever had falls straight out of your head. You must look a little stupid, going slack jawed, eyes glazed over, brows pulled in silent pleasure, but he doesn’t tease. Those thick fingers glide through your folds, spreading you open with his middle and index digits, his eyes trained on your cunt like it’s the prettiest view he’s ever seen.

You’re wet. Real fucking wet. A string of slick connects your pussy to his fingers as he pulls away just to shuffle himself back, and… oh. That pale, milky red hue clings to his fingers, glistening in the low light, your face growing hot in an instant. It’s just as mortifying as it is, put lightly, completely fucking erotic. Your expression twists into that of an embarrassed frown, just as Sam exhales roughly. But his expression… yeah. Not repulsed. Not even close. 

His jaw seems to tighten at the sight of that pink-streaked slick on his fingers, and you swear his pupils only dilate even further. His thumb finds your clit again, thick ripples of pleasure sparking from your core, rubbing precise and firm as his gaze finds yours. And when he sees that less than amused expression, you swear he bites back a grin. 

“It’s natural, baby.” His voice comes out butter-smooth, dripping with lust, damn near sultry. 

“It’s blood.”

Sam simply mm-hmm’s at that, unphased, free hand moving to splay over your thigh, nudging your legs further apart. Spreading you open for him, wide open, just as he goes right back to practically eye-fucking your dripping cunt. His fingers slide back through your folds, gathering more slick, spreading it slow and filthy. Coating you in your own wetness like he just needs to feel how soaked you really are. “Just makes you even more wet for me. So needy.”

You don’t get to think, let alone respond, before he dips lower and slides one thick finger inside, stretching you out just right, the heel of his palm pressing against your clit when he reaches the last knuckle. Your lashes flutter, eyes fighting to not roll straight back into your head as fire sparks and pulls at your core. “You think I give a damn about a little mess?” he pulls back, letting out a huff, just to thrust right back home with a second long digit to stuff you full. “Y’don’t gotta be nervous, honey. ‘M just gonna take good care of you, yeah? Make you feel alll better...”

You let out a whine at that, one that comes entirely involuntarily, slipping through parted lips. And oh, Sam loves it so much—he makes it his personal mission to hear a thousand more. Your legs fall further apart, knees thumping against the soft towel below, his tongue darting out to lick his lips like the sight of you spread before him has his mouth watering. His fingers pump in slow, rhythmic thrusts that squelch in the quiet room, just as he drags himself back just enough to lower himself between your parted thighs like he’s been waiting to do so all damn day.

His mouth drops to your ribs first, lips tickling just beneath your breasts, before drifting lower, lower, lower, until he’s smudging a sloppy-wet kiss below your navel. He groans, his breath hot and ragged against your belly, butterflies twisting deep in your core. “Fuck… look at you,” he rasps, smushing his lips against the inside of your thighs, sucking sweet red splotches, his shoulders spreading you impossibly wider. 

Those perfect, leather tough fingertips drag over that spot deep inside your pussy that makes your vision go white, your back bowing with a euphoric: “oh God, Sam!” 

Your own fingers thread through his hair, silky and still a tad damp, and there’s a part of your brain that screams at you to just pull him back up to your lips before he can reach his destination: but it’s damn near impossible to care about taboo when his tongue swipes its first long, deep lick from his fingers to your clit. 

It’s so good. Too good. Your hips jerk, chasing the feeling and shying away and oh God another pass comes, timed with a curl of his fingers that almost makes you sob. His free hand pins your hips down hard, keeping you from squirming away, and you’re sure that if he had it in him to come up for air: he’d probably be scolding you again.

Luckily for you, though, he’s addicted the second he gets that first taste. 

A low, appreciative noise rumbles from his chest as he laps at you, his tongue broad and hot and filthy, laving over your folds in wet circles that have you rattling out choked moans and pleas. His fingers pump steadily inside you, matching the flow of his mouth with Stanford-levels of accuracy, until your thighs tremble around his head and his name spills from your lips in a broken gasp.

The cramps that twisted and pulled at your core like they were trying to tear you apart? Forgotten. It’s hard to focus on pain when Sam dives right into your cunt like he’s starving, making wet, lewd slurping sounds that have your cheeks heating up and your stomach flipping. His fingers stuff you full, pausing their thrusts just to zero in on that spot—wrist rolling in circles as he presses again and again right fucking there. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Sam, Sammy—ah, don’t stop,” you curse, and you don’t think once about pushing him away anymore. Instead? You only pull him closer. Your fist curls in his hair as you sling one leg over his shoulder, soft skin meeting the broad, hard muscle of his back.

He grunts approvingly in response, the vibration shooting through you like an electrical current, and you swear he almost sounds drunk. Like that tangy, coppery-taste he sucks from your core is the finest wine he’s ever gotten his greedy hands on. His tongue laps at you feverishly, swirling around your puffy clit, before sealing around it with those swollen lips like he’s trying to drink you down.

He doesn’t stop. Can’t. Not when his chin drips a shimmery red, not when your thighs squeeze by his ears, not when your voice breaks on his name. The rich combination of blood and slick slides down your thighs, soaking the towel beneath, staining the fabric with evidence of your need.

He smushes his face against you, so damn close that his nose scrunches against your mound, his lips suckling hard against your sensitive bundle, like even a lick of space is far too much. Inevitably, he has to part for a breath—but Sam doesn’t waste a single one.

“Wanna fuck y’like this, baby,” he babbles, curling his fingers, peppering an almost urgent kiss to your pussy between words. “Fuckin’ slippery wet. So good for me.” Kiss. “You’d let me?” Kiss. “Like me fuck you so good? Take all that pain away?” Kiss kiss. 

“Mmph… y-yeah,” you croak, thighs shaking so hard, you wonder if he’s already fucked you dumb. 

“Yeah? Yeah what?” he urges.

“Want—wan’ you to fuck me, Sammy, just like this. Please.”

He doesn’t answer at first, but he sure as hell groans, muffled, guttural, kitten licking your clit, tonguing at your folds to keep you spread open the way he wants you. One hand is still bruising on your hip, the other hooking talented fingers so perfectly against your sweet spot. His breath punches out in rough grunts, eyes closed like he’s savouring your taste. 

“I will,” he promises, sealing it with a broad lick that steals your breath. “Maybe not tonight, baby, but I will.”

His jaw flexes as he swallows around your clit, and you know it must be aching. You’re close, so fucking close, and he knows it: doubling down on his efforts like he wasn’t already one good vibration away from making you pass out into a messy puddle of ecstasy. 

“C’mon. Come f’me. Forget all ‘bout the pain, sweet girl.”

He finds that abused bud again. Sucks. Hums a moan like he’s seconds away from falling apart, just enough to make you jolt.

It doesn’t take much more than that.

Your climax washes over you, crashing down in wave after wave of pure, overwhelming pleasure. You writhe, sob, squirms pinned by his big hand still splayed over your hip, every word you try to speak dissolved into a slurred moan. Sam rides it out with you, fingers buried to the last knuckle, tongue swirling tight, until your body sags against the sheets, boneless and spent.

His fingers slip free after a moment, but apparently, Sam hasn’t quite gotten his fill. Because the second he does, he’s dragging his tongue right back through your oversensitive cunt, dipping into your weeping hole to really get a proper taste, right from the source.

You whine, stumbling out a ‘too much’, and it’s only then that he draws back. Slow, languid, licking his lips clean with a satisfied hum.

And oh. Oh God.

His chin, his fingers, God, even sliding down his neck—it’s all slick. Dripping. Stained a glistening reddish-pink, that seriously shouldn’t make you stupid levels of horny, and yet, somehow? It really fucking does.

“S-Sammy, you look… oh, fuck.”

He grins, shamelessly, looking a little more than proud, as he follows your eyes to his fingers, coated in red, shimmering as he raises them to his mouth. Without hesitation, his tongue swipes once, slowly, over his stained fingers, humming at the coppery-sweet flavour with a pleased hum.

Well, fuck.

You’re barely able to swallow back your moan when he leans in, boxing you against the pillows, hands skimming over your still-trembling thighs (and… yeah. He definitely left fingerprints).

“You taste real good, y’know,” he soothes, breath ghosting over yours. You can almost smell the metallic tang in his breath. “And… it looks like you’re feelin’ better, yeah?” he shifts, hands following a path across your body. So damn gentle, a featherlight touch. And when you nod, he smiles. “Good.”

You can’t even pretend to be surprised when he starts lowering himself right back down between your thighs. 

“Though… one trial’s never actually enough. Right, honey?”

AN: So, I asked for fluffy requests, because I thought maybe I wouldn’t end up writing way too much… just for me to start writing way too much. So, hopefully, I’ll finish that soon! I’d just started this one a while ago, and finally got around to finishing it.

Side note, sorry for not posting for almost a month. Life is kicking my ass… but! Hopefully I’ll finish up some more drafts.

Also! I figured out how to do the gradient thing, and will be overusing it now 😆

Dividers from @/cursed-carmine

TAG LIST: @spectralgalaxygauntlet @vfwwm

[cujja]

So hot my period started after reading and im being so serious 😋

[cujja]

Endverse Dean & prone bone coming soon bbs, trust 🙏

[cujja]

Might be a good idea if you feel like writing it 💖

Reader is Sam's established girlfriend, but Dean fell for her first. Now he's mostly grumpy and silent around her, which makes her feel insecure about whether she's done something or not. The shot is reader being left alone with Dean and confronting him about what is it that makes him hate her. He knows better than to say it's far from hate, so he calls her things (young, naive, extra person to carry for, discomfort). It's up to you whether that is the wrap or he breaks and takes his words back and ends up spilling the truth. I'd love a good old angst with sharp edges, thank you very much 🙏❤️

Losers Weepers

Warnings/tags: Unrequited love, Dean simultaneously being the best & worst big brother, giving very much s3 Dean vibes but feel free to tell me im wrong, jealousy, angsty!! Make no mistake, cheating irl is AWWWWWFUL but I'm lowkey a sucker for the trope in fanfic...

Dean's no stranger to dipping his fingers into other people's pies.

The impiety of it all makes everything taste so much sweeter. A little corruption of the soul weathers a man, puts some hair on his chest. There are few things worthwhile in this life that don't infringe on cardinal sin.

And Dean's not a religious man. Hopes and prayers didn't get him through childhood under John's iron fist; Dean himself did. Where was divine intervention when the family home was reduced to cinders? Where were the angels Mary spoke so fondly of when her skin blistered and burned over the crib of her youngest?

He overeats. He drinks. He sleeps around. He lies, cheats, and steals. Dean's still yet to be smited. There's no glory in self-denial. It doesn't decimate the inclination, just smothers it under a plating of self-righteousness. What's repressed is always bound to come out, one way or another - so Dean doesn't bother. He likes what he likes, and he likes it unapologetically.

He likes you apologetically, though. It'd probably always been there. Latent. Dormant. Only stirring when you became off-limits. He hadn't really thought of what he didn't have until it was taken from him, because between clinked beer bottles and stolen looks, Dean grew to appreciate you in a whole different way.

You were somewhere safe to land when the going got tough. Had a space carved out for him in the crook of your neck to rest his weary head. As surely as the sun rises in the east, you were bound to be, at the most, only a phone call away.

Dean hadn't realised love could grow out of reassurance rather than mind-blowing, hot and heavy sex. To him, the path of true love very much did run smooth. It was linear, easy to chart. That physical connection trumped emotional attachment. There'd been no close calls or romantic crackles of tension between you two prior to his realisation. There'd only been comfort. Effortless companionship.

An attraction born from something more delicate, more intimate than superficial desire. Something volatile and prone to shattering.

It splintered when Sam gave you that smile. Dean knew his brother, and more importantly, he knew what remained unspoken behind that smile. It's a smile he's recognised worming its way up onto his own lips in your presence. It was a smile of admiration, utter adoration. On Sam, it was more unguarded. Freely given. Unburdened.

Dean's smile always weighed heavy with deceit. There was always something he was hiding, some lie he was spinning, some ugly truth he was smothering. His smile was a rampart erected for defence; Sam's was a gateway of honesty.

So, for both yours and Sam's benefit, Dean denied himself. Corked his feelings for you and placed it on the highest, dustiest shelf within. After all, coveting what his brother had was far from a new concept for Dean. He had spent most of his life living in envy of the protection and normalcy, however fleeting, Sam got. Dean had wanted someone to do what he did for Sam for him. With no John, no higher authority above the clouds, Dean was left to fend for himself and his younger brother.

It had left a lasting scar on him, John's militarism. He grew to be more machine than man, and things outside of familial duty were mere defects in his code. Dean's purpose was always, and had always, been to protect Sam. Be that protection from things that go bump in the night, or his own brother's infatuation with his girlfriend.

Self-denial was a vicious cycle. The more he drowned his affections for you, the stronger they returned, the more he loathed himself for it. Dean did what he always did when things got to be too much; he withdrew. He drank more, hit harder, solicited more. Anything to fill the you-sized void slowly consuming him.

What set him off this time was pathetic. A testament to Dean's brittle ego, more than anything. When the situation got hairier than expected, instead of defecting to Dean for protection, as usual, you'd flinched into Sam. It was a split second choice - not even a choice, a reflex - but it hurt nonetheless. If Sam met your emotional, physical and safeguarding needs, what did you need Dean for?

He couldn't give you anything. Nothing valuable. Nothing Sam couldn't give and then some. He was damaged goods. Something to use and kick out of bed the next morning. Dean wouldn't be the type you'd proudly introduce to your parents. Sam was the better choice; the better brother.

Dean didn't speak on the ride back to the motel. Upon splitting off to your respective rooms for the night, he'd simply grunted in response to your goodnight. The ripple of confusion on your face at the dismissal smarted but he didn't back track. He shut the door. Locked it. Fell to the bed with his hands over his face.

He doesn't drift off until around midnight and awakes soon after, disoriented, with a jolt. You're knocking at the door. Dean knows it's you because Sam doesn't bother with the preamble. He's had daydreams with this premise: you arriving in the dead of night, distraught, in need of comfort, in need of him. He's not naive enough to think there's a serious possibility of that happening, though.

"Your lights still on. I know you're awake." You call out, faintly exasperated. Dean still doesn't budge. He's stubborn. You knock again, "Come on, Dean. It's cold out here."

He buckles under your whiney tone. Sighing, Dean drags himself from the sheets and invites you into the warmth. You're shivering, skin prickled from the cold, and rub your hands up your arms. You've got Sam's shirt on, just to rub salt into the wound. Dean's jaw squares.

"What is it? Spider in the bathroom?"

You narrow your eyes, unamused, "Funny, but no," You pause, as though sizing him up, and a frown befalls your face, "You're different. Something's changed, and I don't know what it is."

Dean blows out a puff of air through his nose, "Yeah, something's changed. You're hooking up with my brother; that doesn't mean things are bad now."

"I never said they were bad, I said they were different." You calmly counter. You're doing that thing where you walk on eggshells around him. It's not out of fear, but it's out of something Dean doesn't like.

You talk to him like there's an invisible barrier between the two of you. Like you understand him, but there's always something keeping you from clicking perfectly. Conversation used to flow gracefully, now it was more like passing a kidney stone. Blame can't rest squarely on Dean's shoulders, though, because the distance hadn't attempted to be closed by you either.

Dean shrugs, scratching the slant of his jaw, "What, you wanna braid hair and gossip, or somethin'? Get all sentimental on me?"

Your frown hardens at his words. Flippancy doesn't suit him and he doesn't play it off well. He tuts, leaning heavily against the dresser with folded arms and shakes his head to himself. His head is partially bowed, not so much with shame, more to do with the acuity of your stare. Dean's skin crawls, writhes over bone, cringes at his aloofness.

"I just want things to be like how they were." You say quietly, scowl melting into a softer bearing that pulls at his heart.

He scoffs. A mirthless, cruel sneer gnarls his expression. It's a defensive mechanism, designed to push away others before they can get up and leave on their own. Your eyes widen, taken-aback.

"I don't. I don't wanna go back to how things were," His thumb swipes at his bottom lip absently as his temper threatens to rise. Dean can't think of anything worse than going back deep into the friend zone. Outright rejection would be kinder than this limbo he's stuck in, so his tether snaps. The floodgates open. The repression resurges, "I want more."

You sway on the balls of your heels, a leaf clinging to a rotted branch, and Sam's shirt hugging your shoulders, "More?"

"Yeah, more. God, you drive me fuckin' crazy." He darts forward to snag you by the forearms, fingers clinging on with an intense surge of desperation. Dean's eyes are frantic, frenzied by what he'd tried to keep down for so long, "Sam'll fuckin' kill me for it, but shit, baby, you're important to me. I wanna be the one that keeps you safe, and that you want to keep you safe. I wanna - I don't know - see you in my stuff. I wanna be more."

You're stiff in his grip, but it doesn't deter him. One of his hands, against the ever-present urge of fraternal loyalty, fumbles up to catch your cheek. It's warm to the touch. Soft, "I'm an asshole for sayin' this, I know, but I can't do it," Dean's fingers are clumsy as they thread through the askew layers of your hair, smoothing it down with tremulous motions, "I can't act like I'm happy for you and Sammy, 'cause I'm not. I hate it. I hate that I hate it. I'm a selfish, selfish man."

You, uncertainty, place a hand atop his chest. You don't push him away, you don't tug him closer. He's surprised his heart doesn't sunder his chest and claw its way into your palm. It belongs to you either way. You shake your head, slowly at first, but then with more assurance.

"You're not selfish." You whisper, and Dean snorts, the noise throaty.

Your fist curls around the fabric of his shirt, "You're not selfish," You repeat, declaring it in such a way that leaves no room for doubt. His lips thin, he's skeptical, "I just wish you would've told me sooner."

And he could kiss you. You're close enough, eyes shimmering with some sensitive, susceptible varnish he's seen you get when Sam's lips brush your forehead. Dean could slide his hand from your cheek to the back of your head, could easily replace any and all traces of his brother with marks of his own. You could hike yourself up on your tip toes and meet him halfway. Dean could have you.

You slip away. He lets you.

But Dean is a big brother before he is a man. There is nothing more important than his birthright, nothing more important than the role his father delegated to him. Blood is always thicker than water.

[aniresrene]

NEW CUJJA DROP FAM

and it’s dirtbag—angst Dean.

[cujja]

Early seasons Dean n stubble Dean actually genuinely awake something feral in me