MASTERLIST
SUPERNATURAL
DEAN WINCHESTER SAM WINCHESTER
THE BOYS
SOLDIER BOY
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Show & Tell
Peter Solarz
Xuebing Du

titsay

ellievsbear
Cosimo Galluzzi
Sweet Seals For You, Always

Product Placement

oozey mess
sheepfilms
dirt enthusiast

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
YOU ARE THE REASON
d e v o n

Andulka
Sade Olutola
Misplaced Lens Cap
Not today Justin

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seen from Botswana
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seen from United States
seen from Germany

seen from Malaysia
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@cujja
MASTERLIST
SUPERNATURAL
DEAN WINCHESTER SAM WINCHESTER
THE BOYS
SOLDIER BOY
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?
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! ❤️
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!!!
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?
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 🤍
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!!
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?
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. ♥︎♥︎
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
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.
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?
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."
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.
Tysm withdrawal sam n actively dying sam r very near and dear to me he deserves so much better 🥹🥹
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.
Ugh he’s such a piece of shit I’m obsessed
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.
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! ♥︎♥︎
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 💞💞💞💞
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.
Endverse Dean & prone bone coming soon bbs, trust 🙏
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.
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!
NEVER MISSES 💯💯💯💯
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
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!
So hot my period started after reading and im being so serious 😋
Endverse Dean & prone bone coming soon bbs, trust 🙏
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.
NEW CUJJA DROP FAM
and it’s dirtbag—angst Dean.
Early seasons Dean n stubble Dean actually genuinely awake something feral in me