Summary: Adopted as a baby, she grew up never knowing anything about her biological family. Until she turned seventeen.
After all those years, her biological mother finally reaches out, hoping to explain the past and the reasons that forced her to give her up. She travels to Santa Cruz in search of answers about her family-especially about her father.
Santa Cruz, known for its beaches and surf culture, brings an unexpected twist into her life: a great love story.
In this series he is NOT a hunter.
Pairing: surfer!Dean Winchester x female!reader
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Supporting SPN Characters
Warnings: Sad | Emotional Vulnerability | Language | Smut
Status: Completed
Author's Note: Hi, my girly pops! So... fun fact: I live near the ocean, grew up surfing, with salt in my hair and everything ✨
Anyway...this morning I woke up and my brain said, "What if Dean Winchester... but surfer boy?" And I was like—excuse me?? Because now I can see it. The sun, the waves, the attitude... the man would look illegally hot.
So clearly I had no choice but to write it. A few quick things before we dive in:
This fanfic has 13 chapters, and I'll be posting one per day (yes, we are being consistent, who is she?).
Every chapter will have music, very vibey/cinematic, but totally your call if you actually listen to it.
I'll be posting this both here and on my Wattpad account, because I like options and also chaos.
Anywayyy, I hope you guys like it!! Please feel free to like, comment, or share <3
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List of Chapters:
1. Next Stop, Santa Cruz
2. Destiny
3. Connections
4. Pro Surfer
5. Beach Party
6. Surf Lessons
7. Girls Day
8. Nashville 18+Only!
9. I Hope You Think Of Me 18+Only!
10. When The Waves Break
11. All I Need
12. How Do I Know You Feel It?
13. Waves Between Us
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ TEN THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU ─ but make it supernatural.
dean winchester ⠀ as ⠀ patrick verona : leather jackets and gasoline ⠀ ⠀mysterious ⠀ cigarrettes ⠀ mouthful ⠀ charming ⠀ led zeppelin biggest fan ⠀ stanford's rudest boy ⠀ rentless and ruteless ⠀ motor oil ⠀ grey flannel ⠀ silver jewelery ⠀ oldest son ⠀
"well maybe you're not afraid of me but i'm sure you've thought about me naked, huh?"
reader ⠀ ⠀as ⠀ ⠀kat stratford : henious bitch ⠀ oldest daughter ⠀ gold jewelery ⠀ bookworm ⠀ indie rock ⠀ ⠀unapologetic ⠀ poems ⠀ black underwear ⠀ stanford's mutant ⠀ a bit whismical ⠀ bikini kill ⠀ sarah lawrence ⠀
"i warned him that if he told anyone, the cheerleading squad would find out how tiny his dick is!"
SUMMARY : dean moves into the house next door, just after you leave for college. during your time away, he becomes your dad’s best friend, and you couldn’t be less interested in meeting him, knowing so. when you return for summer break, you meet a handsome stranger at the bar and hit it off, but you have to leave before exchanging information. the next morning, you realize the stranger was dean, your dad’s best friend, and the man next door.
WARNING : age gap. pining. flirting. teasing. language. fluff. angst. smut. older!dean. younger!reader. dbf!dean. neighbor!dean. secret relationship. forbidden love. (each chapter will have it’s own warning. i would include more but i don’t wanna give anything away!)
A/N : you can call it an au but i’m calling it ‘the ending dean should've had,’ which means he didn't die and i’m writing a fun version of his happily ever after. and yes, i combined two tropes; you’re welcome.
CHAPTER ONE
DEAN WINCHESTER MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST | JOIN THE TAG LIST
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: do not steal, plagiarize, translate, and/or republish any of my works* on here or another platform
*beside my writing, my works include : all banners, dividers, and gifs that i use (which were made by me,) unless otherwise stated.
summary ﹏ It was supposed to be a quiet morning in bed but it quickly shifts into something darker and more controlling, as Ben takes charge of the situation and turns your teasing into a rough, possessive sexual encounter.
The first thing you notice when waking up is the silence all around; no TV blasting old porn or the clicking of rocks in Whiskey glasses. There’s no low, irritated whispers or boots tapping the floor. Ben is actually quiet, still asleep behind you with his warmth pressed against your back, naked skin against naked skin.
His arm is slung over your waist like it belongs there, hand resting low on your stomach, fingers flexing faintly in his sleep. Even like this, there’s weight to him—something grounded, immovable and dangerous. You can feel it in the way he holds you, like you’re not going anywhere. Like you’re more of a possession than a real person, like he’s making sure you can’t escape his grasp. You shift just slightly, testing it and his grip tightens instantly. “Don’t,” he mutters, voice rough with sleep, barely awake. “Stop moving so much.”
Your hand drifts down to where his rests on you, brushing your fingers lightly over his knuckles to feel the rough skin. He huffs, half-awake, and shifts closer again, burying his face somewhere near your shoulder.
“Christ,” he mumbles, voice thick. “You’re fuckin’ warm.” You smile faintly, turning just enough to look back at him. “Good morning to you too, I guess.”
He cracks one eye open, squinting at you like the light personally offended him by speaking. His hair’s a mess, jaw rough with stubble, expression somewhere between annoyance and something softer he’d never admit to. “Too early,” he mutters, groaning like you’re used to hear from him. “It’s not that early.”
“Yeah? Well it feels like it.” You huff a quiet laugh, and that seems to wake him a little more. His gaze sharpens, settling properly on your face now, taking you in in a way that feels more deliberate. There it is, that shift. His hand moves—slow at first, dragging up your side, thumb brushing under your ribs under it gets to your tit. Not gentle exactly, but not rough either. He mindlessly starts to roll his thumb around your areola, creating goosebumps onto your skin.
“You always talk this fuckin’ much in the morning?” he asks.
“Only when you’re grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy. Being grumpy is for old shit.”
“You kind of are.” His mouth twitches at your answer, just barely. Then his hand tightens on your breast, pulling you back into him fully, and suddenly you can feel everything—the heat of him, the solid press of his body, and the unmistakable hardness against your lower back. You go still for half a second at the feeling of his cock so hard against you; not the first time you feel it but it’s always so surprising.
Ben leans in, mouth brushing against your shoulder, then your neck—lazy at first, like he’s still waking up. His stubble scratches at your skin, making you hiss quietly, your eyes closing for a second or so before opening once more.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice lower now. “Don’t ignore that, doll.” Your breath catches a little at his words and how he realized. “I wasn’t—” You try to defend yourself, but no need. “Mm.” His hand slides down your stomach again, slower this time, more deliberate; the pad of his fingers teasing your skin as they get above your pubic area. “Feels like you were.”
There’s a quiet edge creeping in now, something heavier under the surface.
You shift, turning more fully toward him, and his hand immediately comes up to your jaw, guiding you the rest of the way. Not rough (yet) but firm enough that you don’t miss the intent behind it. “C’mere,” he mutters and then he kisses you.
It’s not rushed, not at first. A bit slow, warm, still carrying that sleepy softness as his mouth moves against yours, hand steady on your face. You melt into it easily, one hand coming up to rest against his chest, feeling the solid muscle there, the steady rise and fall of his breathing. His lips slot themselves against yours, his stubble scratching the skin of your face now, his nose hitting your own.
For a few moments, it stays like that almost too easy for Ben and who he truly is.
Your fingers curl slightly against him, and he exhales through his nose, deepening the kiss just a little. His thumb shifts along your jaw, pressing just enough to tilt your head the way he wants. But then, it changes. Subtle at first as his grip tightens and his kiss grows heavier, less patient, more insistent as his other hand drags down your side again until it grabs your ass, pulling you closer, pressing you into him so there’s no space left between your bodies. You can feel the warmth of his skin against yours, the hard muscles under your touch, the pectorals only begging to be groped.
You feel his cock again and harder now, a bit more obvious. And this time, he doesn’t let you ignore it. “Yeah,” he mutters against your mouth, voice rougher now, less sleep and more intent. “There it is, feel that? My cock’s fuckin’ hard because of you.” Your breath comes out uneven as you shift slightly, your thigh brushing against his fat cock without meaning to. You feel the length against your leg, the tip already leaking pre-cum, wanting to be touched and played with.
He reacts instantly.
A sharp inhale, a low, almost amused sound under his breath. “Careful doll,” he says, but there’s nothing careful about the way his hand slides down to your hip, gripping tighter, groping the fat of your flesh in his palm. “You’re gonna start something very fucking icky.”
You glance up at him, trying for innocence, big eyes looking at his face. “Maybe I already did.” That earns you a look; all dark, focused and fully awake now. “Yeah? Wanna play with my cock like candy? You like playing with your food, doll?” he murmurs. And then, without warning, his hand is back on your jaw, tilting your face up again—but this time it’s firmer, fingers pressing just enough into your cheeks to make your lips part in a pout.
“Then don’t half-ass it, got it?” Your stomach flips at the words coming from Ben, your pussy getting a tickling sensation from it. There it is; that shift from soft to something else entirely.
He kisses you again, harder now, less patient, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of lazy control that somehow feels more dangerous than anything rushed. His thumb presses into your chin slightly, holding you where he wants you as his tongue pushes against your lips, forcing the passage to lick at your teeth.
You respond instinctively, leaning into him, your hand sliding down his chest and then lower to his stomach; feeling the happy-trail meeting your fingers before you tease the base of his cock. The shaft twitches against the cold of your digits, veins pulsating with want before you end up wrapping your hand around him, and he’s all hardness and warmth.
Ben stills for half a second, not stopping you. You feel the heat of his gaze more than see it, the way his body tenses under your touch, the way his breathing shifts—deeper, heavier. His hips jerks toward your hand as you just leave it there, not moving one inch as he groans.
“Yeah,” he murmurs again, quieter this time. “That’s better, doll.” Your fingers move more deliberately now, slower, testing. You move it up and down his cock at a very slow pace, fingers rubbing at the veins along the length. He exhales sharply through his nose, head tipping back slightly as his grip on your jaw loosens just enough to let you move.
“Don’t fucking tease me,” he mutters. “I’m not—” You voice back at him but he interrupts you.
“You are, silly girl.” There’s no real argument in his tone, just certainty. And then his hand slides into your hair. The grip isn’t rough but it’s not gentle either. No, it’s actually guiding. “C’mon,” he says, voice low, edged with something unmistakably commanding now. “You started this, so finish it.”
Your breath catches again, but you don’t pull away, if anything, you lean in closer. Your body moves to lay on your stomach, chest pressed against his thigh and your free hand against his happy-trail. Your big eyes look up at his face, the hand you have around his cock is lazily stroking him up and down, thumb rubbing at his slit from time to time.
His grip tightens just slightly, fingers threading more firmly in your hair, and you feel the shift in him again—that growing impatience, that controlled kind of dominance that doesn’t need to rush to feel overwhelming. Your face moves closer to his shaft before you carefully wrap your lips around his bulbous tip, tasting the musk and salt of his pre-cum.
All you can do is keep your eyes on him as you do so, hollowing your cheek as you start to suck him off slowly. You pull away just to spit on his cock, the glob of saliva dripping all along his shaft to pool at his base, making his balls glisten. You wrap your lips around him once more, lowering your head as your tongue rolls around the girth. A hum escapes from your mouth, vibrating against Ben’s cock.
“Yeah, good girl,” he murmurs as you move your head up and down, voice rougher now. “That’s it, suck on your favorite lollipop. You like it, don’t you?” Your hands brace against him, and he watches you—really watches this time, eyes heavy-lidded but sharp, focused entirely on you. Your fingers move just to wrap around the base of his cock; the part you can’t take into your mouth due to the position. Saliva leaks all the way down his cock as you suck him off slowly, humming from time to time.
For a moment, there’s a flicker of something softer again, something almost fond into his eyes but it doesn’t last. Not when you move the way you do, not when you have your lips wrapped around his fat cock, drooling like that. Not when his grip in your hair tightens, enough to hurt and enough to guide—enough to remind you exactly who’s in control now. You hiss around his cock, eyebrows furrowing while looking at him.
“Good,” he mutters, voice dropping lower, rougher. “Just like that, don’t fucking stop. Take it deep, yeah… Go on, doll.” There’s something heavy in the way he speaks, his breathing already becoming labored. You feel it in the way he moves, the way his hand shifts from guiding to holding, the way his fingers curl into your hair, holding your head down.
“Yeah… there you go,” he says under his breath, more to himself than to you. “I love that tiny little throat of yours. So fucking tight.”
And then, when you hesitate just slightly to go deeper, he notices. Of course he does; his eyes watching you like a prey. “Told you,” he murmurs, tightening his grip just enough to make you look up at him, pulling your mouth off of his cock. “Don’t stop halfway.”
Your pulse jumps, body squirming and trying to go back at it. “I wasn’t going to—”
“You fuckin’ were. Need me to show you how to suck a cock, uh? You need me to use that little throat of yours and bury my cock inside it?” He leans back slightly, hazel eyes still locked on you, grip steady, presence overwhelming in that quiet, controlled way that makes it impossible to look anywhere else. His fingers tightens in your hair once more to push your face down against his cock again; you immediately wrap your lips around his pinkish, bulbous mushroom tip.
“Now,” he says, voice low, rough, unmistakably in charge. “Be a good girl and give him some attention, yeah?” Ben groans those words as you push his cock in your mouth, throat contracting at the intrusion; the muscle of your larynx closing around his tip. You gag, trying to pull away but he holds you firmly down, his hand on the back of your head now. Tears form at the corner of your eyes and you close them, thinking it would change anything.
Your hands move to brace against Ben’s lower-belly again, as if it would change anything. He’s nice to pull you away slightly so you can start to suck him off again, and you do. Your lips tighten their seal around his girth, feeling the veins twitching against your tongue, tasting his pre-cum on your taste buds.
“Such a good girl for me, relax that throat now, yeah?” You try to listen to him as he pushes you down once more, making you choke on his fat cock again. Ben groans at the feeling, his head hitting the headboard while his hazel eyes are locking on you. Your tongue is pressed against his base, lips wide around his shaft, his tip hitting the back of your throat. You think it wouldn’t be any worse but Ben suddenly starts to jerk his hips upward. You gasp around his shaft, eyes wide as he’s fucking your mouth.
He hiss, lifting one leg and his feet against the mattress to help him thrust his hips up. Your fingers scratch at the skin of his lower belly as he does that; his tip hitting all the way to the back of your throat. You gag, choke, feel so close to losing your breathing on his cock before he tug on your hair to pull you up. Drool immediately drips from the corner of your lips, tears have made their way to mix too.
“Goddamn it, look at you. Icky girl, making a fucking mess on my cock. Bet y’so wet from me fucking your mouth, yeah? How does your pussy feels right now?” He groans, watching you as you try to breathe again. “Ben—” You whine out at him, voice rougher than usual. Ben’s second hand moves to your face, smearing your drool over your lips, pulling down on your chin for your mouth to open.
Then, he presses his thumb against your tongue, making you sigh through your nose. “Such a pretty mouth. M’going to fuck it, got that?”
He doesn’t even let you reply to those words before moving a hand away to wrap it around the glistening base of his cock, moving the tip to your lips. Ben smears his pre-cum around, acting like lipgloss with a strong salty flavor. “Open that mouth f’me, pretty girl.” He groans, pushing his bulbous head past your lips. You immediately stuck your tongue to meet his length, pressing it against the veins twitching from the attention.
Ben doesn’t lose a second before thrusting in your mouth, burying his cock all the way down your throat. You gag, the muscles of your larynx closing around his shaft, squeezing him there. He hisses at the feeling, tugging onto your hair once more.
You try to accommodate to the size of him, breathing loudly through your nose as you keep drooling, saliva pooling at his base. “Fuck, good girl, keep relaxing.” He says, all the while his hips jerks up to fuck your throat. Your nails are stuck into his hips now, scratching lightly, creating red lines onto his skin.
You can feel his tip pulsating in the back of your throat, his pre-cum flowing out of his slit just for you to taste it. You gag once more around his cock as Ben starts to slowly thrust his cock in and out of your mouth. The feeling of him so big in your mouth makes you close your eyes, new tears forming at the corners. You almost hesitate to push him away, but his grip on your hair is so tight and strong, you have no other choice but to let him fuck your mouth.
The feeling of his bulbous head rubbing against your tongue makes you choke, and that’s only then that Ben picks up the pace. He starts to push your head down onto his shaft at the same time his hips thrust up, making you cry out.
Hisses and groans leave his mouth as your throat closes around his cock again, excess of saliva making a mess as it leaks from your wet cavern and down to his cock. Threads of drool connect your lips to his base, your tears mixing with the bodily fluid. The view of your face makes Ben’s cock throb inside your mouth, the length dragging against your tongue.
The back of your throat starts to burn slightly due to the friction against your larynx, your nose pressed against the musky bush of Ben each time he thrust up, burying himself inside your mouth. You start to feel dizzy now, your breathing labored as you try to keep up with him. Salty tears are rolling to the apple of your cheeks and down to mix with the pre-cum and saliva at your chin. There’s skin-slapping noises echoing to the entire room as his balls slap against your chin, sticking there.
Ben’s body shifts upward slightly, enough for his cock to hit deeper and you swear you can feel him down your lungs which is obviously impossible; but the dizziness makes you unable to think for a moment. Loud gagging and slurping noises are created by your throat, mixed with your crying, and Ben’s praise.
“Fuck, that’s a good girl. Look at that, your little throat takin’ all of me. You were made f’my cock, doll.” He groans, tip hitting the back of your throat once more before he forcefully pulls you away, tugging on your hair.
Saliva that was pooling inside your mouth leaks out, the bodily fluid drips from your chin and down to his throbbing cock. Your face is a mess now; with tears, a runny nose and drool everywhere. But the view of you, looking so depraved and messy makes Ben curse out. “What a pretty cockdrunk face you have here. All f’me, yeah? You like choking on my cock, don’t ya’?”
He grabs his cock with his free hand again, slowly starting to stroke himself up and down with your saliva coating his cock. The noises are disgusting, squelching each time he runs his hand over his cock. His thumb rubs on top of his wet slit, smearing pre-cum and drool around, a hiss leaving his mouth. All you can do is watch, teary and blurry eyes, as Ben plays with himself for a moment that feels too long. Your throat is raw now, hurting as you gulp.
“C’mere, suck.” He says in a hiss before pushing his shaft back inside your mouth, letting a gasp escape you. The pace is immediately vigorous, his hips thrusting up like he doesn’t want to let you think about it; like fucking your mouth is the only thing important in the world in that moment.
You gag, larynx contracting around his fat cock, a cough leaves you which makes your nose even more runny than before. All you can do in that moment is try to roll your tongue around his girth, rubbing at the veins pulsating there, waiting to be played with.
Ben pushes your head down until you have no choice but deep-throat him once more and you expect him to thrust up again, but he only keeps you there. Your nose is buried in his bush; smelling like sweat and musk altogether. Tears leave the corner of your eyes again, mixing in the bodily fluids mess on your face but you try to look up at Ben.
His eyebrows are furrowed, hazel orbs already looking at you, lips half-parted like he’s going to curse like he knows how to do so well. He licks his lips, brushing messy hair away from his forehead. “Fuck, doll—If only you could see yourself right now. ‘Bout to bust a nut inside your mouth and fill it up with my cum.” He groans, feeling your throat close around his cock, another loud gag leaving you. You try to stick your tongue out to rub it against his balls but it only makes you gag even more.
“Just relax that little mouth, let me fuck it.” He ends up saying when tugging on your hair again, a hiss of pleasure and pain escaping your mouth. But you do listen to what he says and try your best to relax your throat for him, his hips lifting up and thrusting back and forth in your mouth. Squelching noises are then created by your mouth, filled with drool, as Ben starts to fuck your throat once more.
You feel so dizzy, so disoriented now, letting him use your mouth like that.
His balls slap at your chin, sticky due to the saliva and pre-cum mixing from before. His cock is glistening with your saliva, threads of his connecting your lips, your chin and his balls. Glurp-glurp-glurp noises are loud in the room, echoing against the walls and coming back to your ears; reminding you of how perverted and icky Ben is as he fucks your mouth. His hips thrusts up faster after a moment, making you cry when his fat tip hits the back of your throat continually. All you can hear is the groans leaving Ben’s mouth after a moment.
His thrusts are uncoordinated now, a bit messy, his bush glistening with your drool and scratching your face. You look up to see him focused on your mouth and how his cock disappears inside it, how your lips tighten around his base when he buries himself all the way down your throat.
“Goddamn, s’fucking warm. You’re going to let cum down your throat, yeah? Want me to paint your mouth white, doll?” His words are mixed with panting, sweat dripping down his face from the effort of snapping his hips up to your mouth.
You want to reply, to tell him you want his cock down your throat, that you want his cum everywhere he’d let you have it, that you’d gladly let him fill your mouth. But you can’t even mutter a word back, his shaft making you gag once more.
But there’s a tremor in Ben’s hips now, a telltale of his orgasm being so close. He moves his free hand to your face, trembling as he tries to wipe a tear away from your cheek but to no avail, a new one follows soon enough.
“You’re so fucking pretty when you cry on my cock. That’s your favorite candy, isn’t it? Pretty girl just wants this old man’s cock.” He groans, head thrown back to the headboard for a second or so before he looks back at you, lips parted and a grunt leaving his mouth. Your tongue pushes against his girth then, trying to find a vein to tease.
It’s when Ben finally pushes both his hands on the back of your head, pushing you down on his cock all while thrusting up forcefully. You gag loudly, choke on his shaft, more tears appear at the corner of your eyes and flow out. Your hands lifts up, trying to grab at his forearms or anything but he doesn’t seem to care as he keeps fucking your mouth.
You drool, saliva making bubbles as you try your best to breathe through it all. A runny nose mixes through the bodily fluids, tears are salty on your tongue too. “Fuck, fuck—that’s it, good fucking girl. Y’gonna take it all, yeah? Swallow it for me.” You can hear the words clear, even if you feel cockdrunk now; throat raw as it keeps taking Ben down.
His hips are messy as they thrust up and it only takes a few more jerks before Ben pushes your head down onto his cock for you to deep-throat him again; this time, you feel the warmth of his seed as he comes down your throat.
There’s so much of it, your mouth soon filled with the white creamy semen, which makes you cough suddenly. It burns your pharynx and your nose cavity as the bodily fluids go up when you cough, some of it flowing out of your nose. Ben groans at the view, keeping you right where you are for a second.
Your orbs look up at him as you swallow what you can, some of it also leaks from the corner of your mouth just to drip to Ben’s base and balls.
When he feels like you have had enough, Ben finally tugs on your hair one last time to pull you away from his cock. You gasp, mouth wide open when you can finally breathe properly.
Your whole face is a mess; tears, runny nose, semen and drool mixing together. Two hands are moved to your cheeks, smearing everything around before you are pulled upward to meet Ben’s chest. You pant, closing your eyes for a second, brain fuzzy.
“Look at you, icky girl. Not used t’say shit like that but fuck, I’m proud of you.” You can only nod at those words, throat way too raw to speak up. Though, you look up at Ben and he is smirking, admiring the mess he made of you.
One of his thumbs moves to your lips, pushing it past them to rub at the rough texture of your tongue. You can feel the mess of your cunt inside your panties, the fabric all dampening and scratching at your puffy folds.
“At least, you’ll know to not fucking tease me anymore, right, doll? Get closer, m'going to take care of that pussy now.”
heyy! cld ya pls do innocentvirgin!reader experiencing sex pollen for the first time and dean being the only one to witness it. dean lwk has a corruption!kink but is still sweet to reader.
tyy!🫶🫶
| dean winchester dealing with an "infected" virgin!reader..
°˖➴ note; this was a fun request! thank you, anon.
so. it’s absolutely your fault that you get infected by it– sex pollen. something out of a porn dean’s watched, one he’s told you about (and then watched with pleasure as you squirm at how graphic he gets with it). but he’s also going to be sooo nice to you because your innocence to, well, all of this absolutely turns him on!
you can sense dean watching you from your bedroom door as you rut against your pillow, trying to relieve some of the tension that builds. you’ve never done this before, something so indecent and vulgar, but you’ve found it’s the only thing that makes you feel better– at least for a bit. you can worry about the guilt later.
you’re so hot and heavy, grinding furiously to create as much friction as you can. it feels nice, relieves you of that desperate, unidentifiable.. thing that consumes your entire being, and is a great distraction from being infected with that pollen. your lower abdomen cramps up, and your cunt feels strangely good. although, you’re going to have to wash your pillowcases because they’re all stained with this odd fluid that leaks out of you..
(he knows what it is, though; you’re like an animal in heat. you are an animal in heat, as he watches you fuck yourself into oblivion, because this clearly isn’t enough. god, he’s been able to smell your arousal on, well, everything in the bunker. you’ve quite literally fucked anything and everything– except him).
“you okay there, kid?” dean calls out from behind you, and you stop– only momentarily. your head whips around to face him, slightly embarrassed yet not embarrassed, as he can’t seem to decide whether he should be amused or concerned.
“dean?” you reply incorrectly, though, there’s a bit more of a whimper to your voice than you’d like; can’t have him getting the wrong impression, after all. your face feels all hot as you go back to rutting, that throbbing pain building in your cunt once again. however, you keep your eyes on dean. there’s something about him that makes you feel better. “what’re you doing here? i thought–”
dean slowly enters your room, just stopping short of you on the bed. he stares at your naked body, your stained bed. you shy away from his gaze. “don’t have to be like that, now,” he’s calm– seriously calm, given your current state– and his hand strokes your hair. you hold back a moan at that. “sammy isn’t even here, kid; still tryin’ to find you a cure. c’mon– it’s just us. you can talk to me.”
you stare back at him, confused. the heat’s getting to your head and it sounds like he’s speaking gibberish. “i can’t stop it,” you ramble, eyes silently pleading. you’re about two seconds away from getting him down on the bed and grinding on him. “everything just hurts.”
“need to cum that badly?” he taunts– just lightly– fingers now entangled in your hair and jerking your head up to meet his gaze. you nod, all pathetic and worn out, though you don’t understand what dean’s asking. hell, you don’t even know what “cum” is. “want me to take care of you? lemme fill you up?”
and whilst your head is all hazy, leaving you with barely half a mind to make a reasonable decision, you know one thing; you need to be filled. it makes you deeply ashamed, your face hotter than you feel and your body tingle all over, but what you need right now is to have your wet, tight cunt filled with his cock.
“kid, d’you want me to fuck it out of you?”
his bluntness alarms you. however, with how you feel, you need it. you really need him.
so when dean gets you pinned under him, there’s literally zero resistance from you. it’s surprising– to you– how quickly you give in. basically give yourself up like you’re a lamb to the slaughter, more than ready to accept your fate. and his own behaviour surprises you; you’d expected him to be all rough and mean, but he’s so nice to you, and so caring about you, that you’re pretty sure that you’ll go shamefully crawling back to him once you’re all better.
“so good f’me,” he coos, softly kissing your neck as his cock stretches you out. he’s all reassurances and praises as he treats you like you’re something that’s easy to break. handle with care should be written across your ass, you decide, as his stubble gently scrapes your face. “all fuckin’ pretty and patient. gonna be real gentle, okay?”
and even though you nod feverishly, more than eager to let him ravage and fuck you into oblivion– anything to distract you from your insatiable, shameful lust– but he doesn’t. he firmly, but gently, presses his hand against your lower abdomen, just where it bulges a little from his cock. “all for you, pretty girl. just gotta promise to take it, yeah?”
you don’t really register all dean’s reassuring– how he makes sure you’re comfortable because as much as he wants to be the one to fuck that goddamn innocence out of you, he can’t, he just fucking can’t, do it when you’re in such a vulnerable place– so you just babble some nonsense, writhe under his tender hold.
“don’t– just gotta be easy f’me..” dean’s voice sounds funny, like he’s having to restrain himself, as he pushes into you. it’s slow, agonisingly slow, until he all but bottoms out. you’re whining and squirming more than you were before. “gonna need you to stop doin’ that kid– won’t be able to last– can’t help my pretty girl if she’s doin’ all that.”
with each praise comes each thrust. your cunt tightens around him as he presses into you, wet teeth grazing against your neck as your moans get louder. all his loving words keep you whimpering and writhing, whilst your slick, that coats his cock and wets the sheets beneath you, creates the most vulgar noises you’ve ever heard. it’s hard not to flush at it. all of it.“gonna make you better,” he tells you, over and over like a mantra, as he pushes into you. “gonna make you all better before sammy even finds a cure. i’m all you need.”
Summary: With a birthday printed on your wrist that happened over a hundred years ago, you always thought that you were cursed to never meet your soulmate. But when you finally meet the man that's supposed to be the other half of your soul, you wonder if the stars were wrong, and wonder how this man was meant for you. Reader is Hughie's sister, is not a supe, and is a Literature Professor that gets dragged into the middle of things. This fic takes place in an AU set loosely after Season 3 and does deviate from the plot of The Boys
Tropes: Soulmate AU, Little bit of Grumpy vs. Sunshine, Age Difference (Reader is in her 20s), Protective Ben/ Soldier Boy
Playlist For Series!✨
Teaser
Chapter 1: I Need You Now But I Don't Know You Yet
Chapter 2: I'll Never Let You Go Again Like I Did
Chapter 3: But I Don’t Want To Carry On
Chapter 4: You Say I’ve Done A Lot Of Things
Chapter 5: I’m Crazy For Feeling So Lonely
Chapter 6: Can I Be Him?
In Progress!
Last Updated: 04/26/2026
(Pictures for mood board and picture for borders from pinterest)
✦summary: dean kisses you while he's drunk, and then the world keeps spinning. all you want to do is figure out if he remembers, if he meant it, and if he feels what you do in return. but he's not making it easy, until he does.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective dean, older dean, pining, dean being a stupid, lovable dork, some plot to get to the smut (dry humping, dean's dirty talk, car sex, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, fingering, begging, handjobs, nipple play, pussy slapping, fingering, mating press sex, creampie, big dick dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, light dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11k✦
✦author's note: every week i overtake myself for 'horniest thing i've ever made'. enjoy!✦
You don’t know what happened. You’re too afraid to ask.
You don’t want to live in a world where it gets taken back.
Dean isn’t acting like anything happened. He’s not draping himself around you or acting like you’re not there at all. There’s no slobbering man at your feet, acting like the ground you walk on turns to gold, but you’re also not curled up on the curb because Dean won’t look at you, and you can’t stand to be in room where he acts like you’re gum under his shoe.
You’ve always understood that as how this would go. How your little infatuation would end.
Either a miracle would hit like lightning, and Dean would return your feelings. Or he’d reject you, and never look you in the eyes again.
The data was leaning in favor of the former. Which is why you’ve been so very careful not to reveal your feelings under any circumstances. Witches have gaped about your sheer willpower. Sam’s made passing comments about never seeing someone who could fight demonic possession so well. Everyone around you seems to think you’re some kind of mind Titan, able to simply focus and drive off any monster or force that tries to take you over.
They don’t know that there’s always on common factor. One thing that they try to force you to reveal, that makes you pry your mind back from their bare hands.
When you got possessed by a demon, Sam and Dean had you tied to a chair. You’d still been able to see through your own eyes. Still been able to think, even if the demon had been using your internal monologue as a broadcast public radio, sharing every thought you had the mistake of thinking.
“Aw.” She’d used your mouth, you voice, and it had sounded twisted in your brain. “She’s worried about you two. Isn’t that adorable.”
Sam had frowned, shooting Dean a weary look. “Is there something we need to be worried about? Or-“ He’d said your name gently. “If you’re worried we can’t take this demon, we can.”
“She batting out of her league.” Dean had muttered, glaring down at the knife in his hands. “We’ve tangoed with the bosses and come out on top, sweetheart. No one needs to be worried but the bitch inside you.”
Whatever parts of your heart were still yours—most of it, as the demon had been able to sink her claws into everything but the organ that only played one, embarrassingly loud song—had fluttered at his words. He hadn’t been looking at you since they realized you were possessed. Sam had been doing all the talking, asking questions and trying to figure out what the demon wanted, how long she’d been in your brain. Dean had just sat on the edge of the mattress, fists curled on his knees, jaw clenched so tight you were worried about his teeth. If you were in control of yourself you would’ve told him to stop doing that. It made his headaches worse, and you bought him gum specifically so he could chew on something when he got pissed.
He would’ve smile to himself, shaking his head, and given you the look that always made your knees wobble. The one that had a silent affection behind it, that came with his hand grazing your lower back and teasing about how bossy you were.
You’d think I was dying, way you talk about my health.
I’m trying to avoid you dying, Dean-
Why? Happens to everyone eventually, and I’m further down the line than I thought I’d be-
You’re not a dinosaur. Stop talking like I’m putting you in a home, I just told you to drink some water.
If I drink some water, are you gonna stop circling me like a freakin’ shark?
I am not circling you like a shark-
Yeah, you are. You wanna take a bite outta me, sweetheart, I can see it.
You’d always blink at him, your heart in your ears and your jaw slack. He’d grin, drink his water slowly and dramatically, then boop the bottle on your nose and walk away. When you’d tell him to do something later, he’d roll his eyes and give you that look again.
That was how they figured out you were possessed. The demon had asked Dean to grab the artifact you’d been investigating, and when he’d whined that he wanted to go get pie, she’d smiled and said that was fine, as long as Dean told her where the artifact was first.
You would’ve told Dean that he could have his pie after he grabbed the artifact. You would’ve stood in front of him with your arms crossed and glared until he got up with a groan and let you drag him exactly where you needed him to be. That’s what you and Dean did. He pretended to be annoyed by it, but you wouldn’t ask anything of him unless you really needed it. You got him the pie after, and he teased you about being wound up and needing to breathe for a second. He’d feed you some of his pie like you were a baby, and you’d pretend to bite his fingers off.
But the demon had just bent for him. Dean had stared at her. And you’d know he’d seen it. Right through you, and to the ugly thing inside your body.
Ugly in a different way that you were. The demon was just cruel, but you were selfish.
Dean had told you not to go out alone, but you loved him and he’d been sitting so close. The love inside you had been threatening to pour out of you like a flood, and you’d needed to be anywhere but near him. The demon had found you while you were at the convenience store, buying Dean jerky. You’d been too slow, and now you were a burden to him and Sam again. Dean had been forced to knock you out to tie up the demon, and Sam had to burn you with holy water. You could feel it, the burn and blistering of you skin. You’d never tell them that, because the guilt would eat them alive.
You’d never tell Dean. He was already angry with you for going out as it was. You’re already more trouble than you’re worth, most of the time. Your worry hadn’t been for you.
It’s for him. That this was going to be too much for him to deal with, having to hurt another person he cared about.
The demon had plucked that thought from your head, and curved your lips into a smirk.
“Oh, she’s not worried about herself, Deanie.” It had drawled. “I know you see her as a woman of steel, but our lovely girl is just so sweet on the insides here. It’s like swimming through marshmallows. She’s just so perfectly worried about how this is going to effect you. It’s all she can think about, the pathetic little slut.”
Dean’s eyes had narrowed. “Don’t fuckin’ talk about her like that-“
“I’ll talk about her however I want.” The demon had purred. “She’s my meat toy. But if you want to share with me, Winchester, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind both of us inside of her. She-“
The demon had cut herself off. Dean had shot to his feet, looking ready to throw a punch. Sam had blocked him with an arm, and your body had started to convulse. The demon sputtering and choking on nothing as Dean shouted your name. Sam had let him get to you when it became clear this wasn’t the demon making a play, but you hadn’t needed the help.
She’d made her mistake already. You’d been able to feel her next words, building on your own tongue. She’d been sneering in your brain about how Dean would hate you after she revealed the truth, and you’d grabbed her by the throat.
You’d pushed her out of your body, no exorcism required. Sam and Dean had stared at you in awe for about a month after. Sam had even pulled you aside and lowly asked how you did it. You’d told him you had no idea.
It would’ve been insane, to say well, Samuel. It was the power of my love for your brother. Don’t tell him, or I’ll fucking kill you.
You would’ve been serious about that threat, too. You never wanted Dean to know. If Sam had ever found out and told him, there would’ve been a double murder suicide.
Which is why you don’t know what to do now.
Because Dean kissed you, and the world didn’t end.
Paradise didn’t come. Hell didn’t split through the Earth, and you didn’t have to go into hiding in Romania—your backup plan if Dean had ever found out and it wasn’t Sam’s fault.
The Earth had just kept spinning. Dean had gotten up the next morning and acted like nothing happened at all. Grumbling about his hangover and running a hand through his mussed hair. The same hand that had held the back of your neck last night, certain and possessive in his grip. Dean licked his lips, and you’d mirrored the motion, only able to think of that same tongue pressing into your mouth. ‘
He’d kissed you like he knew what he wanted. He’d tasted like whiskey and had a glazed expression—as if he was looking at the world through glass—but he’d kissed you. He’d lifted you off the ground with the force of it. He’d looked at you with blown out eyes, and been half-hard in his jeans, and begged you to come back to his room, and-
“You alright?” Dean asks, and you blink at him.
“Me?”
“Yeah, you.” His lips twitch. “You look like you spent the night getting run over by a truck.”
You frown, and Dean pauses.
“In a good way.”
“I look like I got run over by a truck in a good way?”
“Uh- Yeah?” He smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I’m not sayin’ you look bad. You’re just all spacey and tired, and-“
He waves a hand at you sheepishly, and normally you’d keep pushing him for how exactly you could be run over by a truck in a good way.
But today, you can only look at his dumb, handsome face and think about how his stubble brushed over your skin. How your noses bumped, how he’d help you to his chest like you were a doll and he was a worried child that needed you.
“I didn’t sleep well last night.” You mutter, and Dean chuckles.
“Me neither.”
“You got drunk.” You say, flat and low. “You passed out.”
“Yeah, but I had some dreams, and-“ He cuts himself off, eyes widening and grip on his mug slipping. He catches it with a curse, and looks at you like he’s seeing a ghost.
You raise your brow, not letting any emotion onto your face. Dean clears his throat, eyes dropping for the briefest second to your lips.
“Hey, uh-“ He runs a hand through his hair, shifting nervously on his feet. “If I did anything stupid while I was wasted, you’d tell me. Right?”
And maybe you should tell him. But he looks so worried, and you know, deep down.
He doesn’t really remember.
“Yeah.” You breathe, offering him a tiny smile. “I would.”
Dean’s silent. He studies you for a second, then shakes his head with a laugh. “Good. ‘Cause I get some, uh- Some crazy dreams.”
You pretend to laugh, but it echoes in the hollow of your chest until you feel sick. You have to excuse yourself to take a shower. To help you wake up, is what you tell Dean.
Really, you just sit on the floor and cry, letting your tears wash down the drain with the water. He doesn’t remember. He kissed you, and he’s chalking it up to a crazy dream.
You have to get over him. It’s a punch in your gut, knocking wind and snot out of you, but it’s what you needed. Dean’s never going to see you like that. He’s older, he’s a hero, he could have anyone he wanted and he’s not going to chose the bossy girl who watches cartoons with him and makes him do bar trivia with her, because he’s better than he thinks he is. He’ll find someone cooler and older. Someone who likes cars as much as he does, who can actually help him with the Impala instead of just sitting on the bench in the garage and bothering him. Someone who can cook as well as he does, and doesn’t make him try all the crazy soda flavors she sees.
Someone just as resolved and perfect as he is.
Not you.
You pick yourself up, and try to set a goal. Get over Dean.
The asshole doesn’t make it easy.
He makes it impossible.
“I’m gonna work on Baby this afternoon.” He says, and you hum. You’re curled up on the couch with your laptop, and he’s been leaning over your shoulder for the past hour, watching whatever you put on the screen. You don’t understand why. He’s got his own TV right in front of him, and he has to put his arm around your shoulders to comfortably be so close.
His fingers keep brushing the bare skin of your collarbone. His warmth is wrapped around you like a blanket, and it’s all impossible to deal with.
“I bought those snacks you like.” He adds, and you hum.
“Okay.”
“They’re gonna be with me. In the garage.”
“I’ll come get them later.”
Dean’s face twitches. You look over to find him staring at you, nostrils flaring and nose slightly wrinkled.
“Put it in the freezer.” You manage to whisper, and he shakes his head.
“Too far. Gotta focus on work.”
“I’m going to distract you from work-“
“That’s different.” He shrugs, and suddenly you’re being pulled to your feet.
“Dean-“
“C’mon.” He moves you in front of him, and all but herds you out of the Dean Cave. “I’ll even let you pick the music, alright?”
You can’t argue with him. He’s too cute, and always has a command over your body you’ve never been able to fight off. He doesn’t even know that if he asked you to walk over hot coals, you’d do it to reach his side. If he wanted to get away you’d drop everything and go with him. If he needed you to bring him the moon, you’d learn to grow taller enough to grab it in your hands, and shred yourself back down to stay at his side.
There’s no way you can get over him while being his friend. Being his friend alone is a trial that’s slowly wearing you down. Enough that soon, you think, you’ll just be crawling on your hands to lay at his feet. It’s all you’re going to be able to muster. All you’re going to want to do.
You need to get away from him.
You can’t get away from him. Because if he asks you to do something with him—which he always does—there’s no way you’re going to be able to say no.
Which leaves one solution.
Avoid Dean.
Avoid him like he’s the plague.
You wake up in the morning, and touch your lips. Touch them like you can push the feeling of his kiss further into them. Like it’s a sugar that you could gather on your fingers and taste, a tattoo you’re trying to make sure is permanent. You do it every morning now, because it’s the last thing of Dean you’re allowing yourself to have.
If you’re careful, you don’t see him through the day. You’re up before he is, you find a corner of the bunker to hide in, you go out, you stay on the move like you’re prey and Dean’s on a hunt. When you see Sam, he gives you an odd look. If you’re sloppy, and end up in the same room as Dean, you flee before he can say something. If he says something you’re going to crash right back into him. He’s gravity. And you don’t have the strength to pull away twice.
But it’s not working.
You haven’t been alone with Dean for a week, and you just miss him. You feel like you’re trying to carve out a vital artery from your chest. It just hurts. It just makes your love spill all over you, now that there’s nowhere for it to go. You watch something on your computer and hug yourself, because your body seems to think it’s missing a limb without Dean wrapped around you. You sneak out in the middle of the night to get food, and end up just staring at the pie and jerky and beer until you’re sick. You’ve started to hole up in your room with ice cream as if you’re going through a breakup.
It’s pathetic. You look in the mirror and see a husk, with tear stained cheeks and sunken features. You’re wearing one of his fucking shirts, but your skin burns every time you think about taking it off. You’d think you were cursed, if you didn’t know this was just the feeling of love dying.
Not dying.
You’re not strong enough to kill it.
This is the feeling of love being tortured.
Because you’re stupid and tired, you look up how to get over a crush. The internet says to list out all his faults, and logically you know Dean has those, but you can’t remember any right now. His teasing always makes you flush and giggle, his stupid jokes make everything feel lighter, you know he gets angry because he cares. You even miss the loud, sloppy way he chews. You’d always been able to reach over the table and wipe sauce from his cheek, and he’d smile at you after, and you miss his smile. You’d do anything to see it right now.
You scroll to the next step. Think about it logically. If they’d even be a good match. You skip that one. Dean’s always been the one thing you don’t bother to think about logically. Something about him makes all the common sense in your head go down the drain. Which is the same issue the next step—ask yourself why you have a crush on them—fails as well. Of course you have a crush on Dean. You could list out every reason, but they’d all just circle back to he’s Dean. And everything that he is demands that you love him.
Force yourself to move on, is the final step. Go out with someone else. Even if they’re not your soulmate, it will help you realize there are plenty of other fish in the sea.
There are many other fish. The world is filled with men.
That’s part of the problem.
None of them are Dean Winchester.
But this is the most actionable step. The only one you can try to take, even if it doesn’t work. So you get cleaned up, put on a nice dress, and do your makeup a little bit like a slut. The goal of this is to get laid, through, and it’s not like anyone you know is going to see-
“Where the hell are you going?”
You freeze, squeezing your eyes shut. He’s up. Why the fuck is he up. “Nowhere?”
“You’re going nowhere.” Dean drawls. “At eleven. Dressed like… That.”
“Mhm.” You turn slowly, trying to offer a winning smile.
He doesn’t look amused.
You haven’t seen him in person in a month. He kind of looks… awful.
He’s still handsome. You don’t think he’s capable of being anything else but amazing and desirable. But his hair is longer than he usually lets it grow, and there are heavy bags under his eyes. His shoulders are hunched, there’s a stain on his flannel, and when he rubs his jaw you can see grease stains on his hands.
“Were you in the garage?” You blurt, and he grunts.
“Maybe.”
“But-“ His gaze is lidded, his features pale in a way that only happens when he’s awake for too long. “Have you slept?”
His brow furrows. “Napped.”
“For how long.”
“Long enough.”
“That’s not an answer-“
“Where are you going.” He raises his voice over yours, and you swallow.
“Out.”
“Out where.”
You look down at your heels, fidgeting with the folds of your dress. “To a bar.”
Dean doesn’t respond. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you think you might be leaning forward. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid. You haven’t even been able to build up a flimsy wall against your feelings, and now they’re all crashing through you like an asteroid, slamming through your world.
He’s right there, and if you took a step forward you’d be able to touch him. Wipe the grease off his hands, pull off the flannel and order him to change into something clean. He needs a haircut, but you kind of like it longer. You could run your fingers through it, like this. Soothe the spots where it’s sticking out, help him wash it if he’d let you.
But you don’t think he will.
Because when you look up under your lashes, he’s staring at you with a pained, exhausted expression that makes you want to cry.
“You goin’ to meet someone?” He finally says, and you shake your head.
“N- No.”
“We got drinks here-“
“I know.”
He grunts. “It’s not safe for you to be out by yourself.”
“I’m bringing pepper spray.” You mumble. “And my gun.”
Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you think he’s going to give up and walk away. Everything will be easier, if he just leaves for you. It will splatter your heart all over the floor, but at least you won’t have the weight of holding onto it anymore. At least it won’t churn like something rotten, when a stranger who isn’t Dean lays his hands all over you.
But Dean doesn’t leave.
He takes a step forward, and suddenly the air is so hot it’s hard to breathe.
“I’m goin’ with you.”
Your head shoots up, eyes wide. “Dean-“
“You said you’re not meetin’ anyone.” He challenges, glaring down at you. “I need a drink. You come with me, or you don’t go at all.”
A scoff slips from your lips. “And how the fuck would you stop me-“
“I’d toss you over my shoulder and carry you back to your room.”
Oh.
He says it so casually. His voice a deep rumble as he stares at you. An ache demands attention between your thighs, and your cheeks burn as you laugh nervously, looking to the side.
Dean doesn’t even crack a grin.
So there’s nothing you can do, but let him walk with you to the car. You try to get in the backseat, but Dean snaps his fingers and points at shotgun with a scowl.
“I’m not a fuckin’ taxi. You sit up here, or we walk.”
You flush, and silently slide into the front bench. Dean drops behind the wheel, his gaze fixed firmly ahead as he starts the engine. You forgot how dangerous being close to him is. He’d grabbed his coat on the way out, tossing his dirty flannel to the side. He smells like leather and pine tree, and even across the bench you can feel the heat radiating from his body. He rolls up his sleeves, and you want to nuzzle close to him and have him put you in a headlock. His hand runs over his inner thigh, and you press your own together.
You’re staring at him. You can’t help it.
Dean must feel it, because he shoots you a look from the corner of his eye. You look away, and hear him let out a heavy breath.
And the game begins. Dean pulls out of the garage, and you’re both perfectly silent, daring the other to break first. You stare out the window, stealing glances whenever you think you can get away with it. Sometimes Dean catches your eye, and you curl further into yourself, twisting away. Once, Dean opens his mouth. He closes it just as fast.
You’ve been driving for thirty minutes, when you realize he’s not taking you to a bar. You’ve passed three bars, and he didn’t even slow down to check them out. You grab all the thin courage you posses, rooted deep in your stomach and sticky with nerves, and drag it to the surface.
“Dean, where are we-“
“You’ve been ignoring me.” He says, blatant and flat. “Past month. Don’t think I haven’t fuckin’ noticed.”
You swallow, pulling your knees to your chest. “I- I don’t-“
“Didn’t even say why.” He mutters, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “Thought you were sick at first, but you’ve been talkin’ to Sammy.”
“It’s-“
“And you run outta every room I walk into. Like I got cooties or something.” He’s scowling at the road, and you feel like the smallest thing in the world. “Didn’t even bother to tell me why. Just… Fuckin’ vanished.”
There’s a lump in your throat, and unearned tears stinging at your eyes. He sounds broken, and it’s your fault. You and your stupid, useless love for him. “Dean, it’s not like that-“
“So what’s it like, huh?” His words are harsh. You flinch back. “You start acting like I’m the goddamn devil and I’m supposed to take your word that it’s just not like that? There ain’t anything for it to be like, sweetheart-“
“No, I- I just-“ You lean forward, then curl back. You’d wanted to grab him. You don’t think you’re allowed. “I just needed- I needed-“
“Space?” He spits the word like it’s poison. “Go on. Tell me you just needed space from me.”
“Dean-“
“The hell did I do to you?” He sneers. “I know I ain’t perfect, but I- I thought you- I was so fuckin’ careful, and you promised you’d tell me if I did something stupid.”
You frown, not fully understanding what he means. “Dean, you- You didn’t do anything-“
“Don’t bullshit me!” He shouts, and you don’t think you can breathe anymore. “You promised me, you said you’d tell me, and the goddamn least you coulda done was tell me what the fuck I did-“
“Please- Please stop yelling.” You whisper, not even sure if he’s going to hear you.
But he does.
Dean cuts himself off with that clench of his jaw, and pulls over to the side of the road. You hug yourself tight, trying to shrink back into the seats. This is your fault. He’s angry because of you, and you stupidity. You’re barely a schoolgirl with a crush, and you let it hurt him, and there’s no possible world where he’d ever want you now.
You hide your face in your knees. Tears burn on your cheeks, and when you try to take a deep breath, it’s ragged and aching.
Dean’s silent. The whole car is silent. He’d turned off the radio, and the only sound hanging in the air is your sniffling. You think about climbing out of the car, but he’d just chase after you. It’s started to rain, and you don’t want him to catch a cold.
You wrap your coat tighter around you. Your dress feels too tight on your skin. Feels wrong. You think you’re going to be sick. When you risk a look at Dean, he’s still holding the wheel with white knuckles. Staring at you with a pained expression, eyes even heavier than before.
He leans forward like he’s going to reach for you. Your breath hitches. He pulls back.
For a second, you just watch each other. You wipe your cheeks with your palm, and it feels like a raw, open wound.
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it, and looks back to the road like he’s searching for something.
“I’m- I didn’t mean to yell.” He mutters, voice hoarse. “I just- I’m sorry.”
You nod—you didn’t blame him in the first place—but when he looks to you for a response, you can’t find one. Everything is lodged in your throat, behind a quiet confession you’ve worked far too hard to shove down.
“I’ll fix it.” Dean rasps, and you blink.
“What?”
“Whatever I did.” He’s staring at you, his voice cracking. “Whatever pissed you off or- Or hurt you. I’ll work on it, alright? You don’t have to do anything, I’ll fix me, and then you can stay.”
“I- I can stay?”
He nods, squeezing his eyes shut. As if the words hurt to stay. “If you can’t, I get it. I do. But you gotta give me a chance to set it right, before you give up. Just one chance, and if I screw it up a second time you can run off, but- One shot, it’s all I need. Don’t- Don’t leave.” His voice cracks, eyes shining in the dark. “Please.”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open. He looks broken. Lone tears stain his cheeks, and he’s not even wiping them away. When you shake your head—just trying to make sense of what he said—he cowers away like a kicked dog, and you split down the middle.
“I wasn’t going to leave, Dean.” Horror leaks through your voice. You couldn’t leave him if you tried. “I’d never leave you.”
He laughs dryly. “Yeah, like I didn’t just fuckin’ catch you-“
“I was going to the bar.”
“Without telling anyone?”
“No, because I knew you’d try to do this!” You wave around you, and Dean’s throat bobs. “No, I didn’t mean-“
“You didn’t wanna see me.” He mutters, looking back to the wheel. “’S alright. I get it.”
He doesn’t. He really doesn’t. And you can see him trying to drag himself back together, still refusing to wipe his tears and breathing through his nose. He’s just sitting there, hollow and angry, and he doesn’t understand.
“You kissed me.”
You say it without thinking, soft and weak. Dean goes rigid. He looks at you with bloodless, horrified features. You wrap your hand around your own throat, trying to hold yourself in one piece.
He shakes his head. You’re going to throw up.
“No, I- I’d remember that-“
“You were drunk.” You breathe. “I- I picked you up from the bar. And you kissed me.”
Dean looks like someone punched him in the face. He’s pallid, looking around the car like there’s a way out, fisting and unfisting his hands.
“That’s- That’s why you’ve been avoiding me.” He rasps, and you nod, fixing your gaze on his chest.
If you have to watch his face while he rejects you, there’s a chance you’ll just die.
Dean says your name, slow and broken, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Bracing for the knife about to be driven into your chest.
“I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”
That makes you look up. And it’s not rejection you find in Dean’s eyes.
It’s guilt.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you, and- Being drunk’s no damn excuse.”
“Dean-“
“If you want nothing to do with me, I- I understand.” He’s too lost in himself to hear you. “Hell, I’ll move out so you can stick with Sammy. You won’t have to deal with me anymore, you’re- It’s not your fault-“
“Dean-“
“I shouldn’t have forced you on that, my own- My own shit is mine to deal with, and you never gave me any kinda go and I damn well knew it- I’m so fuckin’ sorry-“
“Dean!” You shout, and he falls silent. Squeezes his jaw shut, gaze mournful and completely shattered.
You’re not entirety sure what’s happening. You say the only thing you can think.
“Stop grinding your teeth.”
Dean blinks, but his jaw loosens. He mutters your name, and you shake your head. You don’t think you can stand another apology.
“I- I’m not mad about you kissing me.” You whisper, and he snorts, empty and humorless.
“It’s not your job to make me feel better about hurting you, sweetheart-“
“You didn’t hurt me.” You snap, and Dean stills completely.
He opens his mouth, but you’re faster. Flushing furiously and too tired to fight the words.
“I- I liked it.” You whisper. “A lot.”
Dean sits a little taller, words low and cautious. “You didn’t tell me in the morning. Why wouldn’t you tell me, if-“
“You were drunk. I- I thought-“ You take a deep breath, face burning with shame. “I thought you didn’t mean it.”
“Ah.” He’s silent for a moment. “But- Why the hell would you avoid me-“
“I kissed you back.”
“Did you mean it?”
His question feels like the barrel of a gun, loaded and pressed to your temple. You nod weakly. Dean lets out a sharp breath, drumming his fingers on the wheel.
“You thought I didn’t mean it.” He finally echoes, and you nod again. “So you just-“
“That hurt.” Tears are falling again. Everything blurring except for Dean. “That’s the part that hurt, Dean, I just- I had to try and move on. And the internet said that’s how you do it.”
“The internet?”
“Yeah.” You mumble, and Dean huffs a low laugh.
“Sweetheart, why the hell would you check the internet for advice-“
“None of my ideas were working.” You hiss. “And I- I didn’t like avoiding you, it felt really bad-“
“You didn’t have to avoid me, you coulda just told me-“
“And you would’ve what, confessed your love and kissed me again-“
“Yeah!” He shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “I would’ve, if you’d just fuckin’ told me!”
Your heart stops, for a full second. You don’t think you heard him right. “What?” You whisper, and Dean sighs.
“I meant it, okay?” He mutters, looking up to the sky. As if he was praying. “Everything I do with you, I mean it.”
“And- And the love-“
“I mean that too.” He gives you a sad, tired smile. “I know I shouldn’t. God knows I tried not to, you’re- You’re young and you got a future and I’m just me-“
“I love you.” You blurt, and Dean’s jaw falls. “I love you just like… you. And-“ You bow your head shyly. He won’t stop staring. “If you- If you feel something too-“
Dean moves before you can think.
One second you’re rambling, trying to figure out how to say it. The next his lips are pressed against yours, kissing you like he’ll die if he doesn’t. Like you’ll die.
You grab his wrist when he cups your face, he turns you to deepen the kiss, and you’re both moving like you’re trying to breathe the other in. Your nails dig into his skin and he grunts, the sound vibrating against you. You roll onto your knees, moving over him without breaking the kiss, and he grabs you by the waist. Tight enough to bruise. To leave a mark.
It’s just a kiss. A hungry, hot kiss that’s making your head spin. It’s better than anyone else touching you. Better than being fucked, just because it’s Dean.
He picks you up, pulling you into his lap forcing you to straddle. You grab his shoulders for balance, letting out a sharp breath, and Dean chuckles. Sucks your lower lip with a tiny smirk, rubbing your hips as your finger brush the back of his neck. You let out a shuddering breath, sinking fully against his chest. One of his massive hands drags up your spine, callouses and teasing fingers dancing over bare skin and you arch, chasing the fuzzy, addictive sensation of Dean’s hands.
Your core presses against his bulge. He’s hard, twitching inside his jeans. You roll your hips once, unable to stop yourself, and Dean hisses against your lips.
“Careful.”
You don’t want to be careful. You want to be ruined. You grind down again, kissing him while you move, and he groans.
“Hey- Woah-“ He wraps his arm fully around your waist and pins you down. Forcing the outline of his cock against the thin panties you’d worn to go out.
There’s not a single regret in your head. You can feel him better like this. The thick curve, almost pushed between your pussy lips. Your underwear is bunched up, offering extra pressure, but Dean is holding you down so hard there’s not even space to wiggle. You almost whine, pouting at him under wet, fluttering lashes.
He just stares up at you like a man who’s lived underground his whole life, finally seeing the stars. You drag your nails down his chest, trying to spur him into action, but he just keeps staring. He even laughs under his breath, like something’s fucking funny.
You scowl, but don’t even get to provoke him before he’s rising back up.
Dean brushes hair from your face, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. A confusing, sharp contrast to how his erection is angled right against your heat. Your body doesn’t seem to know what to do with it, and just settles for going limp with overwhelmed, happily dizzy confusion. Dean chuckles again. If your body could listen to any whims but his right now, you’d punch him in the face.
“Stop laughing.” You manage to grumble, but that just makes him laugh again. “Dean-“
“Sorry.” He grins against your lips, rubbing your hips in soothing circles. “You’re just- You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re unbelievable-“
“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.” He mutters, dragging his hand up your side. As if he’s marveling in just the shape of you. “Never thought I’d get to have you like this, and- Look at you.” He draws back, whistling with a smug smirk. “They should let people touch the art, baby. You get even prettier.”
There’s nothing coherent you have to respond to that. Your brain is mostly a confusing garble of Dean and touch and more.
He kisses just under your jaw, and you gasp. Your eyes flutter as your head lolls to the side, and Dean chuckles.
“You-“ You bite back a moan as he sucks on a pulse point. “You’re pretty too.”
“Hm.” He nips at the sensitive skin, before flicking his tongue against the hurt. “Pretty, huh.”
You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck until he’s almost in a headlock. Dean doesn’t seem to mind, moving onto another, somehow more sensitive spot. You try to move against his clothed dick, your pussy starting to throb, but he’s holding you too tight. Dean hums against your skin, and you moan, right in his ear. It makes his cock jump, and you almost cry from the fleeting offer of friction.
“Come- Come on-“ You whine, wiggling uselessly in his arms. “You’re being an asshole- Dean-“
He pushes his lips back over yours, right as he grabs a handful of your ass and squeezes. It loosens his grip, letting your hips freely move against him, but you’re so pent up from making out that you can’t even work out what you want to do. You’re grabbing at his shirt and kissing him with spit and teeth, and he’s barely giving you anything in return.
“Dean- Just-“ You claw at his shirt. “Off, get it off-“
“That’s not a very polite way to ask, sweetheart-“
“Fuck you.” You breathe out, moaning when you get the thickest part of him to drag over your clit. “Take your shirt off, Dean, now-“
A strong hand wraps around your throat, pulling you back down into a mind numbing kiss. You’re still fucking down onto his crotch, but their angle offers less pressure. You might’ve burst into tears, if it wasn’t for the magnitude of Dean’s attention. His hands all over your body, one fisted in your hair while the other started to map every inch of you he can reach.
“De- Dean-“
“Not polite.” He mutters, kissing you between every word. “Not patient. What am I gonna do with you?”
Your heart stumbles, still a little bit bare from the fight and confused from the gentle way he’s suddenly touching you. No more grabbing or marking. Just soft, possessive but careful fingers, tracing your curves like he’s trying to memorize every inch.
“Can I tell you what I’ve wanted to do?” He rasps in your ear. “Since I first fuckin’ saw you?”
“Yes.” You breath, trying to just feel him. His strength all around you, his voice rolling through your chest.
Dean’s words are deep and rough in your ear, and you cling to every one like gospel.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since before you even said your name. Wanted to fuck you when you stood in front of me and threatened to shoot if I didn’t back off and leave you be. Decided I’d marry you when you called me a chicken butt ‘cause I told you to stay behind me. Then I thought I was insane, told myself I just needed to get laid. But I got laid. And you wanna know the only thing I could think about, the whole damn time?”
You nod, and Dean pulls back, dropping his brow tight against yours.
“You.” He rasps. “Closed my eyes and saw you under me. Got kicked outta bed for calling your name, felt sick after ‘cause some stupid thing in my head kept telling me I’d betrayed you. Then Sammy came and told me you’d be coming with us, and I knew I was a goner. If it wasn’t such a selfish freakin’ masochist I would’ve told him that I didn’t want you around.”
Your lip wobbles. “You didn’t want me-“
“I wanted you so much.” He grabs the back of your neck, the words a low growl. “Drove me out of my damn mind, how much I wanted you. Thought I’d need to be put down, like one of those dogs that humps every damn thing it sees.”
“You- You never-“
“What? Thought you’d be into something like me?” He laughs, and you frown.
You plant your hands, flat on his chest, and push up a little taller. Demanding he listen to every word you say.
“I’m into you.” You snap, and Dean’s sarcastic smile falters, slipping back into that awe. “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”
“No.” He answers without thought. “You’re perfect.”
Dean kisses you, slow and deliberate. Everything is suddenly controlled and delicate, like he’s weaving together a song.
You think you’re supposed to be the instrument. You don’t realize, though, until he’s already playing you as if you’re a toy.
Dean’s mouth trails down, leaving wet, open kisses over your neck and collarbone. The beard scrapes and tickles against you. You decide you like it. He’s not allowed to shave later.
You shiver, moving your hands to rest on his stomach. His abdomen flexes under your fingers, and you start to grind back down onto his crotch. When you press further forward, you can get that perfect friction from before. The one you needed so bad you almost screamed. Dean nips at your throat and you pick up your pace.
He grunts, and lifts you up like you weigh nothing. You squirm like animal, even as he handles you well. You’re moved backwards, your knees still knocked apart as Dean’s spreads his own legs. He pushes you back until your elbows are resting on the horn, and heat prickles over your skin when you realize the position he’s put you in.
Your barely clothed pussy, wet and on full display to Dean’s lust-blown expression. He traces over your inner thigh, teasing and teasing until you’re almost thrusting up to meet him.
“Remember what I said about patience?” He drawls, eyes sparkling on yours.
You just pant, making to grab his wrist and move it where you want. But he’s too strong, and you don’t even get a budge.
“I- I’ve been patient-“
“Nah. Not enough. But,” he lifts up your skirt, exposing you further. “Look at her. Just begging for some attention.”
Dean presses a single knuckle against your pussy, running it up until it hits your clit, and your elbow slips. Baby’s horn startles you, making you almost scramble back over Dean, and he just laughs. Kisses you sweetly while you pant in his ear, even nipping under the lobe as you try to control your heartbeat.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ Your eyes roll back as you realize what happened.
You’d trapped Dean’s hand between your bodies, and he’s taken full advantage of the situation. For every honeyed and light kiss he presses over your cheeks and lips, he rubs your pussy with light, deft touches. A graze of your clit, then his thumb teasing over your entrance. It’s torture, the touches too light to do anything but make you feel insane, but you’re certain if you move away he’s just going to remove his hand altogether. Leaving you no other choice but to whimper, take it, and plead for mercy.
“More- There-” You bury your face in Dean’s neck, when he rubs your clit back and forth in a frenzy, then simply moves away. “Dean- I- I need to come, please, just, up- No-“
You tremble when he moves away again, humping against his hand. It doesn’t do anything—he’s too good at this—but you don’t think you could stop if you wanted to.
“Please, please, please-”
“You’re real good at begging, sweetheart.” Dean kisses the side of your head, and you nod weakly. “You think I’m not give you what you need?”
“I- I don’t think you’re showing any signs of it.” You breathe, and he laughs.
“Can’t argue with that. But you’re kinda restricting my movements.” He splits his two fingers, placing them around your pussy lips and rubbing slowly up down. “And trust, I’d love to play with your wet little pussy until you were coming all over my hand, but you started something on my pants. Think you should finish it.”
You lean back in slow confusion, and Dean nods between your bodies. You flush when you see it.
The faint dark spot, on his still hard crotch. You can’t look away from it.
Dean pulls your panties forward, then snaps them back against your pussy. Your hips jerk, wild eyes flying up to his, and he grins.
“Keep them on.” He smirks, dragging you back to sit on his crotch. “And take what you want.”
You nod breathlessly, grabbing the bench behind his head and starting to fuck down against Dean’s bulge. You’re more deliberate than before, gaze locked onto Dean’s, knowing exactly where to move to get the best friction. Dean watches you as if you’re sent from Heaven, licking his lips and rubbing your ass. He’s hiked up your skirt, giving him full access to whatever he wants. You expect handprints, maybe more teasing touches to keep you on the edge.
Instead, he grabs the back of your neck, and just watches you move on him. His mouth falls open, and when you lean a little down, he doesn’t hesitate to close the space.
Your speed picks up. The ruined fabric of your panties only adds to the friction, almost completely letting you feel the rough, tantalizing sensation of the denim. When you get your clit, it’s like being rolled between two pinched fingers, and you start to hump that one spot.
Dean groans, and when you catch against something, you realize you’re hitting the head of his cock.
You reach between your bodies, grabbing for something of him to hold onto, and find what has to be his balls. They’re big, heavy even when you’re not really holding them, and when you squeeze softly Dean’s whole body jerks.
“Fuck- Son of a bitch, you can’t just-“ Dean’s words turn into a long moan of your name, when you squeeze again.
You smile to yourself, riding him faster and faster. Dean’s eyes flutter, his fingers weaving into your hair. You throw your head back, and he chases. Starts to bite and suck on your neck again, pushing further and further up until you can no longer get a grip on his balls.
For a second, you try to push back, but Dean’s a solid wall of muscle. You’re using all your energy to keep yourself moving against him, and every thought empties from your head as his lips travel down.
Dean rips the top of your dress open. You hadn’t been wearing a bra. It would’ve ruined the outfit.
He has a clear, direct line to wrap his lips around your peeked nipple, and start to suck.
A loud, uncontrollable sound escapes your lips. You don’t know how he can be so good at that. His tongue flicks and swirls, teeth grazing against the bud, and all you can think of is what he’d do between your legs.
You movements are becoming shorter. More desperate. You press your breasts up, trying to demand more attention. Dean obliges, giving a harshsuckle before a series of kitten licks. He lazily kisses over the valley of your breasts, taking the neglected bud between his lips and sucking even harder than before.
“Oh- Oh my god.” You pull at the short, soft hair on the nape of his neck. He moans, mouth wet and warm wrapped around you. “Yes, Dean- Oh- Oh fuck-“
Your eyes roll back in your head, the pressure in your lower tummy just needing a little more to snap. You’re barely even humping him anymore, just thrashing around and trying to find the right position to get you there.
“I- I can’t-“ You scratch Dean’s back, pressing your cheek to the side of his head as you almost sob. “Dean, I need to cum, need to cum so fucking bad, Deeaan-“
His hand shoves between you, shoving one finger into your dripping pussy. Even with how wet you are there’s a slight stretch, and it’s just the one finger. You slam down onto him, your clit getting plenty of attention against his jeans, and you’re getting lightheaded with the need to find release.
Dean finger crooks inside you. Right against your g-spot. He wiggles it, rubbing fast and firm. His tongue presses flat against your nipple, swirling as he moans, and your shriek with delight.
You cum, shaking and moaning right into Dean’s ear. His finger slowly fucks you through it, but the moment you make a broken sound of his name, his lips are back over yours to swallow it. You don’t think you’ve ever cum that hard before. You can feel it all the way to the tips of your fingers, electric on your tongue as Dean kisses you.
Your pussy is clenching around his finger, and he grunts, angling his head to kiss you deeper. He pulls out slowly, rubbing your cunt until your wetness is smeared all over your thighs.
“The back.” He grunts, words thick and strained. “Get in the back.”
You feel bubbly. You’ve never felt bubbly before. There’s a rough command in Dean’s words that’s probably going to make you melt in a matter of minutes. But right now, you just giggle.
Dean leans back, looking at you like you’re insane.
“Sweetheart.” He wipes the hair stuck to your brow, and you can feel the tension in his voice. He’s trying to be patient. “What’re you laughing at?”
You shake your head, beaming as you press back over him. Dean grunts when you kiss him, but kisses back immediately.
“I just came on your pants.” You breathe.
He hums, leaning back to give you an exasperated look. “And that’s funny?”
“Last week I was crying about how I was never going to hold your hand.”
“Ah.” That makes him smile. He kisses your cheek, squeezing his hold on you. “We can do that later.” He mutters. “After we get in the back.”
You hum, going back in to kiss him again. Dean gives you five seconds, before you’re being picked up like a sack of potatoes and tosses over the bench. You land with a squeal, scrambling up to your palms, and Dean laughs.
“What the fuck-“
“Told you.” He shrugs, pulling his shirt over his head. “But don’t worry. Was counting on you not giving a damn what I told you to do.”
You gape at him. “I- I do what you tell me-“
“No, you don’t.”
“What about when you told me to go grocery shopping, I did that-“
“You got everything wrong.” He gives you an amused look, and you scowl, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Your list was confusing. And when I tried to call, you didn’t pick up.”
“List works for Sammy.”
“I’m not Sam, I need you to make a list for me-“
“I did make a list for you.” Dean crawls over the bench, grinning down at you. “And you still bought that fuckin’ turkey meat.”
You swallow, unable to stop yourself from drinking him in. You’ve seen him shirtless before, but it’s always been quick glimpses you forced yourself to look away from, or in the context of a wound. But this, here, the car is filled with steam from your fun before, there’s only to golden halo of the streetlamp, and Dean is all yours to stare at, as much as you want.
His chest is broad, softer in some places than he’s probably been in his youth, but perfect. You’re going to be completely smothered in him, you could shove your face between his pecs, feel his thick biceps wrap tight around you as he fucks you like you’ve always dreamed. He’s covered in jagged scars and freckles. You want to touch every single one.
“Sam gave me twenty dollars not to get red meat.” You breathe.
Dean chuckles, pulling at his belt. “And you chose him over me?”
You meet his gaze again, sure you must look like a lost doe under all of him. You’re not sure what to do with yourself at all. “You didn’t give me twenty dollars.”
“And if I gave you twenty bucks?” He grins, pulling down his pants.
That’s your queue to say something smart. You can’t think anything smart.
Dean’s cock stands proud above you, and it’s pretty. Prettier than a porn cock, and those things look like they’re plastic. Dean’s thick and veiny. He’s well groomed, his balls heavier than they felt before—they could fit in your mouth, and you might choke, but would that really be so bad—and the tip of him nice and curved. Just the sight of him makes your pussy clench around nothing. Your legs spread wider.
Dean’s throat bobs, as he follows the movement. He’s slowly stroking himself, and you watch his grip get white knuckled as you spread your legs wider.
You need to touch him. He touched you. It’s only fair.
But you reach for him, and Dean catches your wrist. Pins your arm over your head, forcing him to lower down. He settles between your legs, giving you a stern look that makes your breath hitch.
“No.” He chastises, and you pout.
“I wanna put you in my mouth.”
“You- Jesus, woman.” He lets out a sharp breath, closing his eyes. “You can’t freakin’ say that-“
“Why not-“
“I ain’t as young as I used to be, alright?”
You frown. “I know that.”
He shakes his head. “No, I mean-“ He sighs, dropping his brow against yours.
You pull your hand carefully out of his hold, running your fingers through his hair. He lets out a low rumbling sound, almost like a purr, so you keep going. He makes nice sounds. You’d like to collect all of them, and keep them in little jars on your shelf you can listen to whenever you want.
“I like the hair.” You say, soft and casual. Like his cock isn’t pressed right against your cunt. “And the beard?”
Dean huffs a low laugh. “Yeah?”
“Mhm. Makes you look your age.”
“I am my age-“
“In a sexy way.” You blurt, and he sits up, brows raised.
“A sexy way?”
“Yeah.” You nod, suddenly wanting to hide your face. “I mean, you’re- You’re always sexy- I’ve always wanted to have sex with you, but- But I also think, if it’s- If you’re going to be kissing me all the time- I’d like this-“
Dean shuts you up with a deep, open-mouthed kiss. You hum, thankful for the mercy, and shiver when you feel him peeling away the scraps of your underwear and dress. You don’t think you’re going to haver anything to ride home in.
Something to worry about later. When Dean’s not rubbing his dick against your pussy. The large head of his presses against your clit, Dean’s beard tickling your neck as he kisses everywhere his mouth can find, and you feel the pressure starting to build again.
“Dean…” You mumble. “Oh- Oh-“
He sucks on a hickey from before, and the previous orgasm had already made you more sensitive. Your back arches, forcing your swollen button to rub against his shaft, and your mouth falls open in a loud, lewd moan.
“Easy,” he mutters, dropping his weight. Forcing you back down. “Tryin’ to tell you, sweetheart. I’m barely fuckin’ holding it together, and if I blow before I get inside of you, I’m gonna drive myself off a cliff.”
You giggle despite yourself, letting your body relax into his touch. You trust him, and the idea of him just having you is enough to make your pussy ache. “Aw.” You turn, smiling at him. “You care.”
He snorts. “You always a brat? Or just when I’m fuckin’ you.”
“Do you want the real answer to that?”
“Hm.” Dean tilts his head, gaze raking over your body. Over every mark he’s left, to the point that you’re mostly a map of his hands and lips.
A smirk curve on his lips, and you feel one strong hand grab under your knee, moving it up to your chest. Putting you on full, naked display.
“Nah.” He drawls. “I think I’m good.”
The air is knocked from your lungs, as he presses forward. His cock slides slowly into you, filling the car with the hottest, wettest sound you’ve ever heard. You grab his forearm, just trying to ground yourself, and he goes for your other knee.
Dean bends you in half under him, folding you into a pressed little ball. You can see yourself swallowing his cock. See every inch disappear into your pussy, every vein right before it bumps inside your gooey walls. Dean’s chest is heaving, his features open and slack.
“Fuck.” He grunts. Reverent and as wrecked as you feel. “Son of a bitch, you fit me like a goddamn glove. Takin’ me like a champ, sweetheart, c’mon- Just a little more-“
He spits on where you’re meeting, on your clit, and you try to arch up. He grunts, pushing the last few inches fully in.
You throw your head back, trying to adjust to the feeling of being so full. He feels even bigger than he looked, and you’d forget to breathe if he didn’t wrap his hand around your ribcage, and squeeze gently.
“Good?” Dean’s voice cracks, and you can almost see his chest rippling with the restraint to hold still.
You nod, opening your mouth, then closing it when words fail you. He’s just- He’s so big and everywhere. He’s pushed over your g-spot, and it’s making you feel like you’re being dragged through a pool of pleasure. There’s nothing else to think about.
Dean’s brow furrows. “Baby, I need you to talk to me-“
“Good.” You breathe out. “So- So good, Deaaaan-“
You tug on his wrist, trying to bring him down to your level. He immediately understands, bending over for a kiss. You relax as his lips move against yours, pushing your hips a little up to take in more of him. You might be able to cum just like this. Impaled on Dean’s cock. Usually you’d need something more, but you’re hypersensitive, and it’s like he was made to be inside you.
You smile at him, when he pulls back up. He swallows, slowly reaching up to grab your jaw.
“I’m gonna move, alright?”
You hum, still smiling, and Dean takes in a slow breath.
“Can you keep lookin’ at me?”
You nod, and his lips twitch.
“You really can’t talk right now, huh?”
Head shake. Dean’s eyes glint, and your mouth falls open as he thrusts. Once, harsh and short against your g-spot.
“So fuckin’ cockdrunk you can’t speak.” He drawls, grinding slowly into your pussy. Still too shallow to be anything. Just working your g-spot until tears prick at your eyes. “You think you can at least say my name, baby?”
“Deeean-“ You mewl out, gasping as he finally gives a full, deep thrust. “Dean- Dean-“
“That’s it.” He grunts, pulling almost fully out before slamming back in. “That’s my girl. Nice and dumb on this cock. Just letting it happen, aren’t you sweetheart.”
“Mmmm.” Is all you can manage, but it’s Dean’s fault.
He’s fucking you like a man possessed. Cock slipping in and out of your channel, drilling into your g-spot and cervix. You can see it, see the vein in his brow as he moans your name, see the mess forming around your pussy as you soak his dick.
“Dean.” You babble, a strange, tight heat forming deep inside you. “Deaan, ‘s- ‘s big-“
“I know.” He coos. “I know, baby, but- Shit- You’re takin’ it so well. Best thing I’ve ever fuckin’ felt-“
He grunts, balls slapping against your ass. His body is sticky and shining with sweat, and you can’t stop yourself from staring at how he moves as he fucks you. Each motion is so powerful, and there’s an impossibly good, perverted feeling you get from watching where you meet, and-
“Look.” He grunts, tapping your chin with his thumb. “Look at me, sweetheart, come on-“
You blink up at him, and he groans, bending over as he slams inside.
You don’t think. Your mouth opens, and you take his thumb between your lips, sucking softly. It’s nice to have something to do, when you’re too fucked out to even remember your own name.
And it does something to Dean. His thrusts stutter, and a deep, growling sound comes from his chest. You hum, blinking up at him from glossy eyes. He groans, chest heaving, and something snaps in his expression.
Dean fucks you so hard you could swear the car was shaking. His thumb pushes further between your lips, and you take it happily. You can feel the sensation between your legs building, a little different than your usual orgasm, but it’s good. Tingly and hot, almost like you’re being shot up with direct euphoria. Your lashes flutter, and you moan around Dean’s thumb as he starts to give sharp, abusing thrusts to your g-spot.
He bends like he’s trying to get his mouth on your pussy, only just remembering his body can’t move like that and pulling his hand away from your mouth. You’re about to whine in frustration, but then Dean finds your clit.
He gives it tight, back and forth rubs that make your hips buck up. He uses his cock to bully them back down, rubbing even harder, and the sensation explodes like fireworks.
It’s wet and messy, spilling out of your pussy with Dean still seated deep inside you. He moans, dropping over you as you milk his cock, dragging him into orgasm with you. You’re shaking, cumming and cumming harder than you can keep up with. You can feel the release—yours or Dean’s, doesn’t really matter—sticking inside of you and dribbling down your ass.
Dean kisses you, and you barely manage to kiss him back. You’re boneless and floaty again, your body so washed with pleasure you might be shaking from it. Like he’d struck you with lightning.
“You did so good.” Dean murmurs, pulling slowly out. “That was- Fuck, that was awesome.”
You smile in a dazed agreement, beaming up at him, and everything in Dean seems to soften. He presses a gentle kiss to your brow and pulls you upright, helping you settle in the bench before getting himself to work.
He tries to clean up the seats, but gives up fast and mumbles something about doing it back home. You were right in assuming your clothing was ruined, so Dean just gives you his shirt and wraps an arm around your shoulders, holding you against him for the drive home.
When you pull in to the garage, he doesn’t give you a chance to try and walk. You’re hauled into his arms like a princess and marched inside, Dean only pausing to wipe the back bench and stop a smell.
First stop is the bathroom. Then Dean offers to bring you to your bed—the words weighted and reluctant—but you shove your face into his neck and shake you head.
Dean. You need to be near Dean.
He carries you to his bed with a tall pride, and somehow manages to keep a hand on you as he changes into his own sweats. You cuddle into him, smiling when he presses a kiss to your brow.
“If I forget this,” he murmurs. “Remind me in the morning.”
You laugh softly, voice quiet but returned. “If you forget, I’m going to kill you.”
“And I woulda earned that.”
“Mh.” You curl further into his arms, and—unable to help it—whisper. “Don’t forget.”
Dean kisses the top of your head, words a lullaby as you drift off to slip.
“Never. I’m yours now, sweetheart. Like it or not.”
You like it.
You don’t think you could like it more if you tried.
✦End note: deeply unfair that he isn't real. we gotta talk to someone about that.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Pairing | Soldier Boy x reader
Summary | Your favorite pastime might be pushing Ben's buttons. Why wouldn't it be when the punishment afterward is too tempting to resist?
Warnings/tags | No spoilers for season five, MDNI (18+), established relationship, porn without plot, smut, doggystyle, manhandling, marking, biting, spanking, dirty talk, degradation, edging, smoking during sex, pet names (angel baby, angel, good girl, pretty girl), no use of y/n
Word Count | 1.2k
A/N | took one look at soldier boy in season five and wrote this immediately...can you blame me?? fucknsoabfbehjas...i also barely proofread, so i'm sorry for any mistakes
divider credit: @/andromeda-graphics
The sheets twisted in your grasp, your knuckles white with tension as you held on for dear life. The fingers firmly planted on your hips curled instinctively, gripping with a strength that would surely leave behind a mark. Ben's hips snapped forward relentlessly, eliciting a bubbling sob from your throat.
"Oh, angel baby," he rasped in that slightly condescending voice that drove you wild. "Ya sound so fuckin' sweet. Ya like gettin' split open on my cock?"
No words came. No matter how hard you tried, any noise that left your lips was either half words or broken moans.
How could you answer when your mind was blank? You were completely lost, utterly drunk on pleasure. Your neck whipped back, your face towards the ceiling as the knot in your stomach pulled taut. Releasing your hold on the pale sheets, you reached for his hand on your hip. You weren't even sure why; you just needed to feel his skin beneath your greedy fingertips.
"You poor, needy lil' thing," Ben tutted, and you could hear the smirk in his tone. "Can't even talk, can ya? That mean you're close?"
You nodded frantically, whimpering every time he managed to deepen his thrusts. "That so?" he hummed lowly.
Then, too quickly, everything came to an abrupt stop. Your cunt clamped down around his dick at the loss of that heavenly penetration. Your hands found purchase back in the covers, clutching them with impatience. The once-building pleasure soured in your gut, leaving you a blubbering mess.
"Quit your whinin'," he scolded. One of his massive palms flattened between your shoulder blades, forcing you down. You folded without another thought, falling forward until your back was arched, ass up, with your chest flush to the mattress.
"There's my good girl," he praised, brushing his knuckles over your spine in gentle strokes. As his heated lips found your flesh, you trembled from the light contact. "Where was she earlier when you were bein' a fuckin' brat, and startin' shit with me?"
He left a trail of kisses down your spine, each kiss more scorching than the last. Leaning back, he scanned your body language, stiffened posture, but otherwise relatively compliant. Before you could blink, a smack landed on your ass. You jolted with a squeal, the sound reverberating off the walls of your cramped apartment. It wasn't to hurt you, but rather to capture your attention.
"I asked you a question." His voice was a deep growl, not angry, just annoyed from your lack of response. "Did I fuck ya stupid, pretty girl? 'Cause if you're wantin' to give me the silent treatment, I have a few ideas for that mouth'o yours."
"I said I was sorry, Benny," you said, turning your head against the mattress so you could see the supe from the corner of your eye. You watched the bead of sweat drip down his temple before taking in his unreadable expression. A stubborn piece of hair hung in his eyes, and it made you think of the many times that you'd brush those same dark strands from his vision to kiss the creased space between his brows. That rough exterior would soften ever so slightly any time you did that; you took pride in that.
But you knew you were in too deep to crack that solid shell of his—none of your gentle touches or velvety words would dig you out of this hole.
Yet, your determination wouldn't allow you to give up trying.
"Why did you stop, baby?" you purred, soft and sultry, wiggling your ass in that tantalizing way he liked.
He chuckled darkly, grabbing a handful of your ass and squeezing aggressively. "Try all ya like, but I already told ya, you're not coming 'til I say so."
Gripping your hips harshly, he steadied you once more, positioning you how he wanted. "Stay just like that. Lemme look at ya." he pulled back, his arms falling to his sides before he reached over to the bedside table. The pack of Marlboros and olive lighter were plucked off the surface. He eagerly extracted a cigarette and stuck it between his lips.
"Fuck, love seein' that cute lil' ass like that," He muttered around the unlit, white stick. You felt a single digit graze your skin, causing goosebumps to rise in its wake. "It's even turnin' red right 'ere. Didn't even spank ya that hard. Guess I gotta be more careful with ya. Ain't that right, angel?"
Shaking your head, you batted your lashes innocently, though you were anything but. "No, I deserve it."
He tilted his head curiously, then flicked the lighter. It sparked to life on the second attempt, and he lifted the flame to his lips until the end of the cigarette ignited. Breathing the smoke in steadily, his eyelashes fluttered closed, content.
Intense eyes met yours again as he pulled the cigarette away. "Ya damn right," he agreed, the smoke swirling in front of his face and obstructing his features momentarily. When the clouds cleared, you saw the corners of his lips lift into a sinful smile.
He rolled his hips into yours, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your cunt clenched as you choked out a groan. "That pussy's just begging for relief, huh? " You wanna come?" he asked arrogantly.
"Please, Benny," you begged shamelessly. "Let me come all over your cock, please. I'll be good. I'll be so good. Promise."
Releasing a low, proud hum, he leaned forward. Ben pressed a kiss right below your shoulder blade, sweet and tender. His mouth opened directly after, baring his teeth, before sinking them into your flesh. Surprised by the sudden aggression, you hissed, your fingers curling into the fabric at your sides.
He freed you from his teeth, leaving small indents where each tooth had dug in. His tongue darted out, licking away the sting. "Oh, I know ya will, angel."
Straightening his spine, he placed the smoldering Marlboro back in his mouth. One of his palms pressed into your skull, pinning you in place. It practically covered the entirety of the side of your face, his fingers splayed so he could still see those glittering eyes.
His opposite hand came down, securing your forearm and hooking it behind your back to restrain you. He stretched your arm closer to your upper back, just until you could feel the ache, as if he was demonstrating how much power he had over you.
The slow retreating of his hips had let you feel every inch of his thick cock, sliding against your fluttering walls. Ben pulled out until just the tip stretched your weeping hole. Impatience gnawed at you. He knew what he was doing; he always did. He liked to see how far he could go until you eventually broke. Until you were whining and whimpering beneath him.
Without warning, he slammed back into you. The sound of skin against skin echoed in your skull. You cried out, your muscles tensing under him. He lowered his mouth until it was near your ear, his voice full of authority. "Gonna fuck ya so hard, ya see stars. 'til your whole body is shakin' and the only thing comin' outta that mouth is the one who's fuckin' this pretty, tight cunt. And even then, I won't stop."
You shivered at the promise, your teeth chattering lightly as you inhaled a shaky breath.
Because the one thing about Soldier Boy, regardless of the years that dragged by, or the years he slept in cryogenic stasis, he would always keep a damn promise.
warnings: voyeurism/agoraphilia, unspecified age gap (reader is 18+), slight coercion, ben being a munch AGAIN!!, fauxcest (uncle/niece, implied)
wc: 3.3k
note: this is relatively tame compared to the others tbh.. but not lame. i swear! shoutout to all the other dbf!ben lovers!!! also don’t have sex in the same room as your family. for the love of god
Movies. Good past times; something enjoyable and relatively family friendly.
You loved movies. Man, if you had a stronger word you’d use it. A cinephile, you’d go as far as calling yourself. Your parents would tease you for it when you were younger, your cousins too. It got so bad that at some point they stopped taking you to movies because they were spending over $500 a month on just tickets alone. Ridiculous.
The most vivid memory you had of going to a movie was when you were probably 8 years old.
You’d wanted to see Wall-E so, so bad. It was an absolute top contender on your list compared to any other movie that year (aside from Horton Hears a Who and Bolt). Your parent’s seemingly indispensable income had become dispensable all of a sudden, much to your dismay.
That’s where he came in.
Ben always had money. Always, always. You never questioned it. He also never said ‘no’ to you as a kid, just gave you his sickeningly charming smile and ruffled your hair with his wallet between his fingers.
“I’ll take ‘er. Don’t worry.” Ben waved it off, pulling you by the shoulder to hug you against his hip. Your teeth had started falling out by that point, and you gave your parents this gummy, cheerful smile, the kind that makes your cheeks hurt for hours after.
“Yeah! Uncle Ben’s gonna take me because he’s the best!”
But now you were an adult.
You didn’t have that kind of time to watch movies outside—not that there were many good ones anyways—and you didn’t have the motivation either. You were stuck watching them in the living room.
Your dad was near you on the opposite leg of the couch. An L-shaped couch your mom begged him to purchase for no reason in particular. You were sitting at the edge, head lying against the arm rest and a blanket covering yourself. You were watching Men In Black for the millionth time, eyes droopy as sleep came over you for a moment like a wave.
And then there was a loud banging on the screen door. Some kind of yelling or shouting was occuring, and it startled you awake.
“Y’wanna go and get that, ma?” Your dad asked.
‘Ma’ was his affectionate nickname for you ever since you were little. Now it sounded weird because.. well, times had changed. But, in his heart, you’d always be his little girl.
Reluctantly you shifted and got up. “Yeah.. sure.” You murmured, throwing the blanket off and shuffling your slippers on while heading to the door.
Man, you’ll never guess who was there.
Ben smiled at your sudden appearance. Unexpected, but always welcome to him. “Baby, I didn’t think you’d be up so late tonight. Came’ta talk to your dad.” You smiled somewhat as well.
Your hands fidgeted with the door to open it up for him. “He’s in the living room. We’re watching Men In Black.” You giggled softly at the feeling of his hands at your waist, a gentle, intimate kiss eventually pressed to your lips. The familiar scratching of his beard making your face tingle. It’d been a while since you’d seen each other, in all honesty. Or at least it felt like it had been.
Your bodies were hidden from view of the living room, but you were positive your dad wasn’t that worried about whatever small talk he thought you two were making.
“Yeah, whatever.” He gave you one last kiss. Your eyes fluttered shut until it was over. “What’s with the kisses all of a sudden?” Your voice was all hushed, just barely audible over the TV. “I gotta have a reason t’kiss my girl now?” He rolled his eyes hard, then let go and walked past you into the living room where he greeted your dad, making himself comfortable on the couch.
You came back with a beer for him, handing it over and settling back under the blanket. It was an unspoken gesture you’d been accustomed to since you could remember. “So hospitable, she is.” Ben joked. He pat your thigh gently, sliding his hands under your legs and pulling them up over his lap. It seemed fine enough, really.
You huffed. “I’m being nice. You could go and get one yourself, y’know?” He bit the beer open and put the cap on the coffee table. “Tastes better when someone else gets it for ya.” He took a long sip of it, your dad laughing pretty loudly and whacking his shoulder. You rolled your eyes in a way that mimicked the way Ben did earlier, eyelashes fluttering and lips pressing together in a line. “Oh, whatever. Go to a freakin’ bar then.”
He laughed and pat your leg. “Nah, not unless you wanna become a server or somethin’. It’s just not as fun.”
Ben had this weird way of sounding vulgar without actually saying anything vulgar. It always made your hair stick up even before you and him started messing around, especially right around the time you hit puberty. You were grateful you weren’t a hormonal teenager anymore.
Somehow you managed to muster up a laugh, nudging his hand away. “Whatever. I’m fine where I work now, thanks..”
“Suit yourself.”
Other than that short conversation, Ben didn’t pay any more mind to you. Him and your dad talked so damn loud the next two hours that the movie was entirely inaudible. His hand did slide under the blanket to rub at your leg a bit, but otherwise that was it. It was just enough to fall asleep.
You were awoken eventually, though you’d hoped to stay right there longer. What could you say? Comfortable spot.
Hands were rubbing your bikini line through your shorts, fingertips brushing just where you typically needed them most. It was a bit disorienting to feel after just waking up. Scrunching your face up at the light, you turned to lay on your back and face him—you already knew who it was.
“What’s wrong with you?” You rasped.
Ben hushed you. “Shh, your dad’s sleeping.” He murmured, smiling a bit. Your eyes went wide. “He’s still here? What the fuck’re you doing then?!” You yelled quietly, sitting up and rubbing your face. He shrugged. “Dunno. He fell asleep a bit ago.” His fingers were tracing the hem of your shorts now, desperate to crawl in. “Heavy sleeper.”
“I-I’m not fucking you next to my dad.”
“Oh, c’mon. You’ll do it while he’s home, you’ll do it outside, you’ll do it in the damn kitchen in midday, but not here.”
You were a bit embarrassed that he’d remembered so dutifully, face turning pink and legs pressing together. “Yeah, okay, but he- he’s never been around! You’re crazy. What if he wakes up?” You grabbed at his hands from under the blanket, moving them away once they started to slide up. “Seriously, Ben!”
To your misfortune, he didn’t stop. His hands grabbed at your waist, gently slinging you onto his lap. You turned your head away from him in upset.
“Awh, don’t be like that.” He crooned. “Y’scared daddy’s gonna wake up, I know. Just trust me for once.” He slid his hands up and down your waist, the pads of his fingers tickling you through your clothes.
You frowned again, turning to look at your dad’s sleeping face. He was facing somewhat away, arms crossed over his chest in that familiar way he’d always done. He was snoring, too, deep in his sleep cycle. Then you looked back at Ben.
“..Just this once.”
He took that as an invitation to kiss you, tongue parting your lips open as his hands flew to grasp your ass. You yelped at the feeling of his hands curling into your skin, eyes squeezing shut while he kissed you.
Your breathing was heavy and your heart was racing from anxiety, the thought of being caught heavy in your mind. Ben didn’t care, guiding your body to grind against his own. The only thing covering you both from the world was the blanket from earlier
“Trust me, for god’s sake.” Ben whispered, pupils blown as he stared at you. His beard scratched your chin as he spoke lowly. You nodded. “Words, honey.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, bucking his hips up against yours to maximize the experience. His boner was pressing right into your clit, smushing the bundle of nerves up against the seam of your shorts perfectly. Your head leaned into his shoulder, soft whimpers wiggling their way out of your throat. “I.. trust you. I trust you, I swear.”
A hand lifted your head back up to face him, soon crushing his lips against yours. His breath was suddenly just as hot and heavy as your own, saliva was all over your lips just the way he liked. It formed strings when he finally broke the kiss.
“So pretty, angel.” He murmured. He gave a few more rolls of his hips. “Can feel how wet she is f’me, sweetheart.” Another kiss was forced upon your mouth in that instant. Your lips trembled against his. “Mhm, yeah..”
He bit back a laugh, finally reeling back to face you. Your face was reddened and your eyes glazed over with lust, a look he’d seen many, many times earlier. “Finally feelin’ good?” He asked, rubbing your back somewhat with his fingertips. You could only nod and shrink into yourself. “Mhm.. feels good.” Ben kissed your cheek lovingly. “See? I told you to trust me.”
He flipped you to lie back against the couch, sliding down onto his knees in between your legs. You would’ve said something if not for the way he spread you over his shoulders, a longing kiss pressed right where he assumed your clit was (he was right, of course—he had every inch of your body memorized by now).
You covered your face with your hand, breathing heavily into your palm. He looked so concentrated right there; his eyes just as lidded and lustful as your own. His tongue pressed flat against the fabric of your shorts, the hairs of his beard finding their way to poke through the threads. They pinched at your skin in an annoyingly addictive way.
“Ben..” You whinged softly, hands coming to push his head away. He hummed against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves up your spine. “Christ on a cross, you’re always fucking complaining about something. What now?”
You faltered somewhat, lowering your arms and glancing between your father on the opposite couch and back to him. “Y-You’re not.. really gonna.. y’know..” He could only groan and frown. “Y’don’t want me to? Don’t trust me now, huh? Fuck, sweetheart. Make up your mind.” You shook your head. “I do! I swear, ‘m sorry. I-I trust you. I’m sorry..”
He smiled at that. Your immediate submission never ceased to amused him. He gave your cunt another kiss through your cotton shorts like a reward. His hands slid under your ass, grabbing at the band of your shorts to yank them down off your legs. You anchored the backs of your feet onto his shoulders.
“God, you’re so wet.” He murmured, passing his thumb through your folds, watching the slick coat the digit thoroughly. “And you were so worried about daddy seeing you.” He kissed at your clit gently, spreading you open with his hands. He dipped his tongue inside you, groaning at the feeling of your insides squeezing him. Your hands covered your mouth. These soft, sweet whimpers escaped you as he started eating you out.
His breaths were overstimulating as ever, his nose settled between your folds and rubbing your clit every time he licked a stripe up and down you.
This was his favorite position to be in: right between your legs, his hands grasping your thighs and letting you squeeze them against his face.
You whined and threw your head back into the couch, hands hugging your shoulders. Your lip was pressed between your teeth, stopping it from trembling like a small child who got their candy stolen.
Ben nudged his mouth as close as humanly possible into you, mouth sucking and licking anything he could get in it. The noises were so obscenely loud that you kept consistently glancing over to see if your dad was waking up.
Him, however? Not a single care in the world.
He was holding your legs tightly so he could lap at your pussy like he’d been starved for years. At some point your legs were squeezing him so tight you thought you’d make his head pop.
You sobbed softly, rolling your hips up into his mouth when you felt your orgasm appear. Ben took this as his sign to stop. He stood up, eliciting a loud groan from your end.
“What? Why’d you stop?” You asked, staring at him in a daze. Your eyes were glossed over, head lolled to the side. You watched him dutifully as he pulled down his jeans, freeing his cock. It bounced against his stomach, his hand sliding up to lift his shirt and expose his happy trail. Your legs clenched automatically, cunt pulsating around nothing.
You were leaking onto the couch—surely you’d have to clean it out thoroughly before your dad saw anything.
“You didn’t trust me, sweetheart. Y’know I can always tell when you do that little.. fuck, that thing with your face.” Ben grabbed your hips, pulling you off the couch. Your legs wrapped around his waist instantly, feet curling upon the feeling of his length against your folds.
You’d been dying—fucking dying—to feel him inside you for the last few weeks. He was off doing god knows what, and you’d been exchanging photos and videos so neither of you would lose your minds.
“Y’want it?” He rubbed your waist, rocking his hips against you. You nodded dutifully, swallowing a lump in your throat. “Please. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean’ta be distrusting.. M’just worried, I swear. I didn’t mean anything by it..”
“But you were. You don’t really deserve me inside you, do you?” He purred. He grasped your ankle and brought it up to kiss your foot. You shook your head. “I do. I’ve been good. I’ve been trying!” Angling your hips up, you desperately ground yourself against him. Your wetness coated his shaft, the skin glistening. “Alright, fuck, you convinced me. Needy thing y’are.”
He slid your leg back around his waist, hands grasping the skin of your stomach. He guided your opening to press against the tip of his cock, slowly pressing himself into you until he was balls deep.
You covered your mouth again, eyes watering and twitching from the stretch. You’d never get used to how massive he was. No matter how much you tried you just.. couldn’t. It’s almost comical how ginormous his dick is.
“Oh my god.” You cried out, spit dribbling from the corner of your mouth. Ben groaned and threw his head back, bottoming out once his tip hit your cervix. You clenched around him, legs enclosing his waist. “Fuck, you’re so tight.” He groaned, pulling out some to thrust right back into you. You yelped, grasping behind you at the cushions, nails digging into the soft fabric to anchor yourself. “I should make a mold of my cock and make you keep it in all the time while I’m gone, yeah? Maybe that’ll help.”
You nodded mindlessly.
The moment he started thrusting into you, you were gone as the wind. You sobbed softly, attempting not to make too much noise but struggling desperately. Ben noticed, only smiling at you the whole way. He was drilling into you at an insane rhythm, those long days apart seemingly affecting him all of a sudden.
“Aw, you can’t be quiet?” He droned. You nodded your head, eyes focused on the way he slid in and out of you. Ben pulled himself out of you, a loud wail leaving your throat. “Stop complaining. M’trying to help.” You nodded again.
He flipped you over to face the couch, moving you until your head was buried in the crevice of the arm rest. “Knees, sweetheart. Don’t got all night for this shit.” He tapped your leg, watching as you went face down ass up for him just how he liked; head buried in your arms and back arched.
His hand pressed against the small of your back as he slid himself back in, the stretch seeming way worse in this position. You kicked your legs a bit, soft moans and whinges being swallowed by your arms and the cushions. “Perfect. That’s better baby.” He cooed.
He went back to pounding into you all over again, fingers digging into your hips. You were so, so fucking loud it was escaping the cushions by now, tears being soaked up as they flowed. His balls were slapping against your clit, the friction building up that beautiful fullness of an orgasm pressing against your nerves.
Ben leaned forward, digging his hands between your face and the couch to cover your mouth himself. You gasped when he lifted you up somewhat in that position; you felt like you were floating.
Ben groaned, thrusting inside you short and fast. His tip hit your cervix and rubbed against your g-spot every time. Somehow his hands were better at quieting your noises, though your jaw was almost entirely slack against his palms and the breaths from your nostrils bounced back against your face uncomfortably.
Your legs pressed together, brows furrowing when you were at the tip of your orgasm. “Mmf.. fuckin’.. s-so close..” You sobbed, voice almost inaudible.
He laughed, sliding his arms down around your chest to hug you against him. His muscles bulged, and all you could do was be hypnotized by them. He pressed your back against his chest. With the way your knees were rubbing against the couch, you were sure you’d have some form of carpet burn.
Ben pulled his hips back, slamming back inside you. You screamed when he started fucking you just like that, the upright position making his cock curve backwards into your organs.
“Holy fuck, sweetheart. Thought you wanted to be quiet?” He managed, sliding a hand to your pussy. His fingers found your clit, circling them flawlessly. You sniveled and blubbered soft moans out, an orgasm slowly flowing out of your body like shocks of electricity.
You were squeezing him so tight he couldn’t take it anymore, burying himself inside you as he came. “Fuckin’—shit!” He growled, pressing his head onto your shoulder. You whimpered and writhed for a minute, his fingers still circling you through your orgasm.
Your face was all sticky with your own saliva and tears, jaw aching from screaming and moaning non-stop for god knows how long.
Ben let you fall forward onto the couch, sliding his cock out of you. He leaned over, chest pressed to your back still, soft kisses being pressed to your neck. “So good, baby.” He praised, grabbing at your face and turning it back to kiss you gently. You nodded against him, blinking slowly while he pulled away.
He sat back onto the couch, lifting you onto his lap, rubbing at your legs. You couldn’t help but melt into him tiredly.
“Y’know,” He started softly. “Your dad’s still asleep.”
You turned and looked up at him, brows furrowed in confusion. He motioned his head, grinning widely when you looked over to the side.
There he was still—asleep and snoring, arms still crossed in that familiar position. You gasped and perked up, looking back at Ben’s smug face. You’d entirely forgotten he was there.
“I told you to trust me.” He whispered, entrapping you in another kiss. “We could go one more, yeah?” You slapped his arm. “Ben!”
warnings: infidelity, briefly mentioned age gap, outdoor sex, cream pie (wrap it up guys)
wc: 2.7k
note: thanks for 1 follower guys i hope whoever it is likes this! kisses :3 also i don’t condone cheating don’t cheat on your partners guys! unless their dads are dean winchester ig, which i doubt will be… wink
You’d been dating your boyfriend for almost a year. He was sweet, kind. Perfect in every way. You’d never been treated so well by anyone before. Compared to your exes, he was a goddamn angel.
So where did that leave you?
The hunt ended almost half an hour ago. You were sitting on the steps of the old, run down house. The wood was rotting, termites had eaten most of the foundation. The cold air was making your skin freeze up beneath your sweater, the adrenaline having wore off a while ago. The ghoul wasn’t too bad, only took about a week to get everything set through and through.
You hugged yourself tightly, staring out at the forest surrounding you. The moonlight shone through the brush of trees just enough to illuminate your vision.
Adam had gone out a while ago. Something about getting snacks from the gas station, though the nearest one was about an hour away. “Anything for my princess”, he’d said, kissing your cheek before his father reluctantly let him take the Impala.
His father.
Dean was nice. He was handsome, incredibly so. No one could match that charm. His short, ivy league hair and bright green eyes that could pull you in for a loop if one weren’t careful. You weren’t proud of it, but there’d been countless times that you’d zoned off on trips thinking about him instead. What it’d be like to drive in the Impala with Dean, not his son. To have Dean’s hand on your thigh, to have Dean’s fingers inside you, to have Dean’s skin on your skin at night.
“You doin’ alright, kid?”
Your thoughts were broken apart by a deep, familiar voice. Instantly you were perked up and looking over at him. Your lips parted like you were going to say something, and you really were if it hadn’t been for how beautiful he looked standing there with a beer in his hand. He always kept a cooler with them in the trunk and had taken it out before Adam left.
You smiled and straightened up, wiping your palms on your jeans. “Yeah, I’m fine. No worries around here.” You chimed. Dean gave you his familiar, lopsided smile. Charming as ever. “Need company?” A nod. “Sure.” The wood creaked beneath your bodies as he walked over and sat down on the stairwell beside you. He did that man-spreading thing he always did, beer dangling idly in his grasp.
He made a face of realization, cursing under his breath. “Shit. Should’ve asked if you wanted one.” A sigh. His body tensed as he prepared to stand. “D’ya want one?” You sheepishly shook your head, squaring your feet together and smiling as your boots knocked against one another. “Oh! No, I’m fine. Thank you, though, Mr. Winchester.”
Dean groaned and rolled his eyes, the formality setting him off on the same tirade he always went on. “Damn it. You don’t haf’ta call me that, sweetheart. Just Dean. You never learn, do you?” He joked, taking a swig of his beer. He was still staring at you the whole way, and you stared back, heat rising up your neck. You watched the way his adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.
He was really fucking hot.
And so was hell, actually, which is where you’d be going if you kept lusting over your sweet boyfriend’s dad.
You blinked back to your senses and laughed nervously, turning your head away from him to keep staring back at the trees as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. “Yeah. I know. Sorry, I’m just- y’know- it feels weird.” You stammered, cheeks brushed a sweet shade of pink now. It definitely wasn’t from the cold, but you hoped he didn’t notice.
Your eyes wandered back towards him and he was staring right back at you. It was probably, no, definitely just because you were talking. You looked away.
The silence stretched on between you two for the good part of five minutes before you opened your mouth to speak. It was awkward, yes, but you felt worse just sitting in silence, especially when he was so close.
“So, um, ghouls.. ghosts..” You managed. You sounded like a dying mouse, voice cracking from dehydration. You winced at yourself when he laughed. Dean leaned back on one arm and offered his beer up. “Drink. You sound like a dying cat, yeah?” Your fingers wearily outstretched towards the glass, fingertips brushing against each other as you grabbed it from him.
You took one sip, eyes squeezed tightly while it went down your throat. It was a bit warm and bitter now, but not horrible. He smiled. “Better?” He took the glass back from you and watched your expression, from the little circular indent on your lips to the crease between your brows as you stared at him. He really shouldn’t’ve been staring, but he was.
“So, ghosts, you asked?” He knocked back the rest of the beer. You felt a little buzz in your chest at the thought of the indirect kiss you’d just shared, although that was childish. You weren’t a teenager, damnit. You were 23 years old, for crying out loud! Four years rid of the -teen suffix. You nodded. “What about them?”
You shrugged your shoulders. “Dunno. Do you encounter them often?” You asked, outstretching your hands on your knees until you were hunched forward again. “Just curious. Unless you’ve got other interesting small talk?”
“Nah. They’re fine.” Dean set the glass behind him. “I mean, I’ve encountered enough of them. One time, me and my brother, we thought these people had one in their house. Turned out to be these inbred kids. Sad shit, y’know?”
The corner of his eyes creased at the memory. It was indicative of some fondness towards that memory. You nodded alongside him, staring dutifully at his side profile. He looked like a dream.
“Ghosts and stuff are all sad, vengeful things. Need’ta pass on. Hold on too hard. They go bump in the night.. crawling up on you when you’re sleeping, showering, doing whatever you do. Next thing you know it’s got you.”
His voice was getting off into some sultry territory now, the low rasp coming out unconsciously. He didn’t know it, but you’d started shifting uncomfortably because of it. The pleasure that his voice brought you was more sinful than anything you’d experienced before.
You let out a breath. “Yeah?”
Dean glanced back at you, turning his head. “Yeah. Definitely.”
Something about his demeanor changed. You couldn’t place it, but it did. A smile formed on your face to encourage him to continue.
“I mean, shit. There’s ghosts and ghouls and everything you can think of anywhere. Except unicorns.”
“Unicorns? Really?”
“Seriously.”
You snorted in amusement. Your body scooted closer to him as the wind blew harder, his warmth radiating off onto you like a heater. It drew you in. He didn’t move away. You squeezed your fingertips in the palm of your hands before making any kind of other moves.
You were going to hell for this one. That was for sure.
You leaned over, allowing your head to rest on his shoulder. Your cheek pressed against his arm, a tingle running up your spine from the closeness. He still didn’t move. He did smile, though, a bit nervously, but it was a smile. “Cold?” He mused, shifting stiffly to accommodate your body against his. You hummed softly. “..Cold.”
Silence once more.
You almost didn’t catch it, but you swore his breathing was getting shallower with every passing moment you stayed planted just like this. You bit your bottom lip, hands sliding up his arm until you hugged it to your body. Dean couldn’t help himself, not when you were being so sweet all of a sudden. He moved his arm over, allowing his hand to rest on your knee.
“Dean?” You murmured, lifting your chin and propping it on his muscle. He looked over at you, cheeks a little flushed. “Yeah, sweetheart?”
“..Do you want me?”
The world froze. The wind stopped, and so did the sound of his breathing. You swore your heart stopped beating, too, for just that short moment.
He almost laughed it off, and he’d always been fine with lying, but you were just.. he didn’t know how to describe it. You were looking at him with these sweet puppy eyes that he could never seem to turn away from. So he answered honestly. “Maybe.” He murmured, hand squeezing your kneecap gently. “But we shouldn’t. You know why.”
There was no way you’d turn away from this opportunity right now. X was marking the damn spot right now, the red sea was parting for your boat! Dean Winchester, the sexiest man alive, was right there at your fingertips. You’d be stupid to turn away. God was presenting you with an offer you couldn’t refuse.
“I know.” You squeezed at his arm in turn, sliding one hand down towards his at your leg. “But, I mean, we have time, right?” You murmured, brows creasing. You turned your body towards him. “I-It’s not.. so bad.. Family shares stuff, yeah?” You smiled sheepishly. Mentally you were knocking yourself upside the head for saying something so stupid. Dean laughed at that. He could tell you were nervous as hell, could practically feel it radiating off your body and seeping out of all your pores.
“Family shares? That’s your pick-up line?” He joked. He mimicked you, turning his body towards yours. His hand slid up your leg, brushing against your upper thigh and the waistband of your jeans. His hand was large and hot like a fire, the warmth spreading throughout your body. “Luckily it’s working, you fuckin’ minx.”
You felt his mouth on you immediately, lips warm and soft. Your whole body locked up with excitement. His hands rode up your waist, squeezing the skin of your stomach and sliding his hands up towards your ribcage. His thumbs pressed against the underside of your breasts, squeezing the soft mounds over your clothes. Your arms lifted around his neck, squeezing him and clawing at his shirt.
This is what you needed. The warmth of his body on yours, feeling him lift you up and over onto his lap. The way his hands groped at your ass through your jeans. Your clit was throbbing through your pants, every time he rolled you forward against his hard-on it rubbed against the seam.
“Damn, sweetheart, you’re like a rabbit.” Dean groaned against your lips, lolling his head to the side when he felt your mouth trail down to his neck. Your breath was hot and your tongue lapped at his skin, nails anchored against his back as you rutted on his bulge. He was extra appreciative of that gesture, your sweet kisses pulling these extra soft moans from his lips.
You looked up at him doe-eyed and sweet all over again. “Feels good?” Dean nodded half-lidded, immediately reeling you back in for another kiss.
He felt like he’d waited ages for this. To feel your everything on his everything, to experience the excitement of kissing you and absorbing your being. And yes, it was wrong. The worst thing he’d ever done in his life, the worst sin to ever commit: to betray his own son, his flesh and blood, just to feel your soft skin on his. Not that it felt horrible.
A squeal left your mouth when you were lifted and flipped onto the porch, back pressed against the cold wood with your legs around his waist. One hand fumbled at the buckle of your jeans while the other held your hip down. You smiled at him coyly, allowing him to maneuver your legs every which way to peel your jeans off and toss them behind you.
Dean rubbed your bare thigh gently, admiring your smooth skin. Unblemished, untouched. Soft as cotton or silk. You stared at his expression. He looked like he’d just discovered gold. He kissed the inside of your thigh, biting down softly at the flesh. “Wish we were in a bed or somethin’, y’know that?” He murmured. “God, you deserve so much more than this right now.”
“I-I don’t care.” You exclaimed, lifting yourself up on your elbows. He looked at you so sweetly. If you weren’t absolutely soaked before, you absolutely were now. “I want you, Dean. Please. Now. I can’t take it anymore..”
He didn’t need to be told twice.
A sweet young thing like you staring at him with stars in your eyes and your legs spread for him like that? He was gone.
Dean unbuckled his jeans quickly, still holding onto your leg with one hand. His hand slid under your knee and pressed it against your chest as he pulled his cock out, pants and underwear down just enough to free it. He was beautiful. Pale and pink at the tip, one crooked vein going up the side and it curved a little to the right. You were salivating just looking at it.
“Y’like what you see?” He mused, grabbing the base of his cock and rubbing it against your folds. It slid up and down easily, you were so incredibly wet from grinding on him earlier. “Please, Dean, hurry, stop doing that..” You whined, whipping your hair out of your face. You looked down between your bodies, biting your bottom lip at the sight. “You need it? Yeah?” He was mocking your desperation now, angling the tip right at your hole. Gently, he pushed it in, choosing not to go all the way until you were begging.
It was a slice of heaven, just feeling that inside you. You begged softly, arching your lower back, desperately trying to suck him in. “Please! You- you’re such an ass!” You moaned. He didn’t succumb although he desperately wanted to. You just looked so cute, he didn’t want it to end yet. “Dean, for fuck’s sake—!” You choked on your words with a gasp, rolling your head back when he finally thrusted his hips all the way and immediately bottomed out once he was inside you.
Dean moved his hands to hold onto the side of your thighs, using them as an anchor to thrust into you. You were sucking him in so hard he could barely even pull out at first. His tip kissed your cervix like it was trying to makeout with it, hitting it expertly every time. He groaned and started thumbing at your clit, rubbing soft circles against your needy little bud. Your toes curled inside your boots, body dropping back onto the floor. Your head rolled to the side, cheek pressed on the cold wood and your hair splayed out around you.
Dean leaned atop of you, his thrusts slow but heavy. You sobbed with pleasure, brows furrowing from the sensations. They were all new and beautiful—you’d never felt like this with anyone else. He kissed your cheek and trailed down to your neck, one hand pressed down beside your head. “Feel’s so good, sweetheart. ‘m I making you feel good? He ever made you feel this good, baby?” He murmured, nipping at the skin of your neck until there was a soft reddening mark. You lousily shook your head. “N-No, no, feels so, so good. Wanna.. wanna cum so bad..” Your hips rolled to match his thrusts, but they faltered with every circle to your clit. You became a blubbering mess.
“M’gonna cum, okay?” Dean groaned, sitting up and sliding his hands to your hips. You cried out with frustration at the loss of pleasure, all that built up tension in your clit was just about to snap before he stopped. “Y’re gonna cum with me, sweetheart. Gonna put it deep inside you so you feel me all the way home.” He managed. His voice became more and more strained with every thrust, his own orgasm reaching its climax.
He gave a few final thrusts until he spilled inside you fully. “Holy fuck!” You sobbed, back lifting off the floor as you came. Your body tensed until it was over, his thumb reaching over to rub you through it comfortingly.
He splayed his hand over your stomach, pressing down while he pulled out. His focus was on the way his cum dripped out of you and onto the stairs below. “Y’look so good.” He murmured, leaning over and kissing you gently. You blinked up at him, staring at his loving expression.
“We’re fucked, aren’t we?” You whispered, biting your lips and licking the dryness away. He just nodded. “I know.”
✦summary: everything was fine between you and dean until you moved into the bunker. everything is tolerable until you get hurt on a hunt. dean loses his mind. and when you try to apologize, dean tells you exactly why.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, pining, average dean winchester emotional intelligance, shameless smut (dry humping, knee riding, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, oral f!reciving, pussy slapping, fingering, breif mentions of spanking, dean's dirty talk, big dick dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, crying, creampie, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 10.3k✦
✦author's note: old dean you've done nothing wrong ever. murder? what murder? i can't hear you over how fine he is.✦
“She should stay in the car.”
“I’m not staying in the car-“
“It’s a small nest.” Dean doesn’t even acknowledge you, tapping his thumb on the wheel as he addresses Sam. “She’d just be an extra block, you know we can clean that place up blindfolded and ball-gagged-“
Your nose wrinkles. “Why would you be ball gagged-“
“We leave her with a knife.” He keeps ignoring you. “Lock the doors, crack the windows, and we’re in and out like-“
You slam your feet into the back of Dean’s seat, cutting him off with a grunt. He whips around to shoot you a glare, and you stick out your tongue.
“What the hell was that.”
“I’m not a dog, dipshit.” You snap, and he scowls.
“I know you’re not good at listening, sweetheart, but I didn’t call you one-“
“It was implied.”
Dean rolls his eyes, giving Sam a you see what I gotta deal with expression, like he’s not the one making the whole fucking issue.
“I’m not staying in the car.” You repeat, louder than before, and Dean chuckles dryly.
“Yeah. You are.”
“I’m not-“
“You are-“
“You lock me in here, I’ll start screaming-“
He gives you an unimpressed look. “I’ll gag you.”
You grin at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “Kinky.”
Dean jaw clenches. You beam. Somewhere in the background, Sam sighs.
“Guys…”
“You’re staying here.” Dean snaps. “That’s that.”
“You’re not the boss of me, Winchester-“
“The hell I’m not-“
“You don’t offer me health insurance-“
“None of us get health insurance, sweetheart, that’s why I’m telling you to stay in the car-“
“Guys.” Sam sighs, looking between you with the same, exhausted expression as usual. “We only have until the sunrise, and it’s already 4am. Can you please do this after?”
You don’t look away from Dean. He doesn’t look away from you. You raise your brows mockingly.
“He’s talking to you, Dean. Can you do this after?”
Dean narrows his eyes, and he opens his mouth to bark something at you that you probably would’ve deflected now—using taunting words and matching his harsh tone—then cried about later. In the safety of your bedroom, where Dean can’t see you. The only place that you can go to let everything out. It’s safe in your room. Dean never even knocks on your door, always sending Sam in his stead. But you don’t go to his room either. It’s an unspoken rule that you’ve never had steady enough feet on the ground to bother breaking. You’re pretty sure that if Sam doesn’t kill you both over this, he’s going to strangle you later for making him a messenger pigeon.
But you need that solace. That quiet, where Dean can’t shake your world with sneers and glowers. It hits something raw in you, a wound that you’ve never bothered to stich up or cauterize because you love the bleeding too much. It pours all over your hands when you hug your stomach, out of your mouth like bile when you try to defend yourself—to make him stop just seeing you as some stupid, naive civilian girl he needs to heard around—and out of your eyes when you cry over all of it.
The things that do make you that naïve civilian girl. The things that make you barely any better than a teenager with a crush, wandering around after the boy you like and pulling at his sleeve for just an ounce of attention.
No one can blame you for falling for the hero who saved your life and swept you off your feet. Offered you a new life, taught you how to shoot a gun with his arms around your body—you can still feel him sometimes, when you rub your shoulders—and told you that he’ d always keep you safe.
Dean had been straight out of a romance book. You’d let yourself get starry eyed, you’d daydreamed that he lingered around you out of affection rather than obligation. You’d been an idiot, and you’d gotten comfortable, and when Sam said you had a knack for the lore and were more than welcome to stay, you’d said yes without a thought.
You’d thought Dean would’ve been happy.
But you’d told him, and he’d looked like he was going to put his fist through a wall.
Everything had shifted, like a picture into the negative. Dean stopped seeking you out for anything, stopped training you, almost stopped looking at you all together. In the first months, he’d walked out of a room the moment you entered. At one point, you’d overheard him having a very loud fight with Sam about letting you stick around.
He hadn’t been speaking to Sam either. They’d gotten over it, because they always seemed to. Your second foolish fantasy was that Dean would get over whatever you’d done to him—you’re still not all that sure—and decide that he actually did like you. That he’d remember how good things had been at the start, and if you proved yourself to him, everything would go back to normal.
But it’s been a year.
And normal is this now.
Dean hates you. He must hate you. There’s no other reason he’d argue with Sam about bringing you on hunts, even when they need the extra hands or your research. And even when Sam wins the fight—which is always, you think he might have a cheat code that makes Dean always agree with him, and you’d very much like access to it please—Dean still acts like you don’t exist. Or worse, like you do, and it’s the bane of his entire life. For the whole fifteen hour drive, and you get handed snacks without eye contact and checked on like you’re a dog he’s making sure didn’t piss all over his precious car.
For the entire hunt, you’ve been able to feel his attention burning through you. Whenever you’d look over, he would’ve already looked away, but you could feel it. And you’re the one who tracked the nest and identified the mutation in these vamps that made them daywalkers, but when you’d looked to Dean with a hopeful smile for approval, he’d looked away again.
You might’ve sat in the bathtub with the water burning yours shoulders and useless tears sliding down your cheeks after. Clawing at your face like you could remove the pain, remove all the love you felt for him with all the brutal precision of a hungry animal. But if you did, it’s none of his fucking business.
And you might not want to join in on the actual hunt—that sounds gross, and bloody, and kind of scary—but Dean doesn’t get to win. You can handle it, and if you can’t he’s there.
It makes you feel safer than it should. Dean always makes you feel safer, and you hate him for it.
The thing about loving him is that it’s not so much a choice as something that slammed into you like a comet. Dean left a massive depression in something so vital you think it might be your soul, and now it blooms all the time. Alone and in the dark, finding sunshine in every piece of him that’s worthy of such a feral, unyielding devotion.
It’s most of him. He’s still that hero who saved you, and your body knows it better than your head sometimes. He opens doors for you even when he keeps his gaze fixed firmly over your head. He makes you coffee in the mornings before stalking out of the room like you make the whole place reek.
He’s going to keep you safe, even if he bitches about it and shouts at you the whole time.
And it’s so easy to love him for all of that. In the end, most of your desperation isn’t really to stop loving him.
It’s to scream loud enough that he stops pretending he can’t hear it. That he saves you again, even if it’s from yourself.
You win the argument about going into the house. For all his postering and deep, commanding grunts and threats, Dean’s not actually that good at telling you know. You’ve told Sam it’s because you have the numbers against him. Sam always gives you a strange look and says uh huh, like you’re supposed to know what that means.
“You stick with me.” Dean snaps, pulling out his dainty little baby gun and passing it into your hands. “You wanna speak, think five times, then don’t say it. These things are noise-sensitive, they hear you breathe, they rip you up.”
“I know.” You grumble. “I discovered them.”
Dean sighs heavily, just loud enough for you to know he heard you. “I don’t want you out of my sight.” He mutters, and you give him a flat look.
“So you’re planning to look at me today?”
He shoots you a glare, saying your name in a low warning, and you roll your eyes.
“Never mind.” You mutter under your breath, like a petulant child. “Guess it’s easier to look at ugly things when they’re in the dark.”
That makes him flinch back, like you punched him in the gut. He’s going to say something again, and you really don’t want to hear it.
You stalk over to Sam, leaving Dean gaping and rigid at Baby’s truck. Sam looks between you, but doesn’t bother to ask what you’re fighting about. He rarely does, and it’s always followed by an annoyed now, like it’s somehow your fault Dean thinks everything you do is a sin. What are you two doing now. Why are you mad at him now. Why is Dean being an idiot now.
He’s always an idiot. A handsome, insufferable idiot you want to sucker punch, then make out with until you can’t breathe. If you tried to hit him, maybe he’d catch your wrist and pin you to something. His massive body crowded over yours, his face inches away, lips brushing as he shouted at you, then gave up when you moaned—he’d be too close, his crotch pressing you down, you’d probably moan—and started touching and kissing you until your legs gave out and you were putty in his hands and he worshipped you with the same soft attention he used to offer-
“Stop flirting and fall in.” Dean snaps at you and Sam, standing in complete silence.
Sam rolls his eyes, and hisses something to Dean when they walk past each other that makes Dean look murderous. You flush—thankfully hidden in the dark—and grip your baby-gun tight as you follow.
“Stay with me-“
“I know.” You snap, not looking him in the eyes. “I’m not an idiot.”
Dean grunts, and you can’t tell if it’s an agreement or dismissal. You’re not sure which would be worse.
The moment you’re in the nest, you remember why you don’t usually do this. Why you actually prefer waiting at the motel for them to come back, or just staying in the car with an anxiously bouncing knee. You always ask to go with them because you hate the dread. Hate watching them—both of them, because you might not be in love with Sam but he’s sort of your only friend anymore—walk out the door for what always might be the last time. They never think it will be.
You do. Every time, Dean pulls out of the parking lot with your heart in his dumb, big hands, and you know it could stop beating any second. That you won’t even know until you get a phone call, and a part of you withers that’s never going to be reborn.
So you ask to go with them. To help. Do first aide, be extra hands, anything so you don’t just have to wonder if they’re okay.
But then you actually get here, and you hate it.
It’s scary. Scary and quiet and loud all at once. You have to physically yank yourself back from grabbing Dean’s forearm and clinging to him. He radiates heat, and this barn is so fucking cold, and you’d like to go back to the car now, thank you very much-
Everything happens so fast. It always does, on a hunt.
You find the vamps. Sam offs one, Dean gets another two, and your fingers tremble but you manage to kick a third back into Dean’s machete. He gives you an approving look, and you feel like you’ve grown wings.
Then another on comes out of nowhere. Slams into Dean and starts driving him backwards.
You scream, and shoot. It won’t kill them, but it’ll distract.
And it does.
The vamp stumbles when you hit his calf, dropping Dean to the floor. It turns on you with glinting eyes, and lunges.
You’re thrown to the ground with teeth gnashing near your throat. There’s a roar in the background, and you feel a rush of pain through your stomach as the vamp hits you. Heat burns over your neck, and your arms are starting to get weak, and-
All the noise stops. The body over you slumps.
You open your eyes to find Dean standing over you, just like that first time he saved you.
Only now, he looks like he wants to cut off your head next.
He’s staring at you a strangely furious and pallid expression all at once. There’s something glinting in his eyes that you can’t place. His breath is heavy through his nose, and he’s not even blinking as he scans over you.
His eyes widen, when he sees the blood blooming through your shirt. He drops his machete, bends down, and scoops you up into his arms.
The rest of the night is a little hazy.
Dean carries you to the Impala. He smells good, like leather and pine trees and something a little spicy. He looks really good, too. Covered in blood and grease and so angry he’s almost feral. His hands are warm, and make you feel fuzzy when they brush over your stomach, checking the wound.
The whole thing feels like a dream. Especially after he coaxed some painkillers down your throat, and the world all becomes just color and Dean’s undivided attention, pressing over you.
He doesn’t speak to you the whole time. He’s humming something, fingers brushing over your bare skin, and the feel oddly light. Almost shaky.
You breathe out his name. You don’t know why. Through the drugs, it’s sort of the only word you know.
His hands still for a heartbeat, then grab you a little tighter.
Before you pass out, your vision swimming and thoughts covered in a fog, you could swear you see him bow his head against your chest. He holds your hips tight, lips brushing against your exposed stomach.
Your weak fingers reach up, brushing through his hair. A deep sound rumbles from his chest, and it’s soothing.
The world goes peacefully dark, and Dean stays wrapped around you all the way into your dreams.
He hasn’t spoken to you.
It’s been three weeks, and Dean hasn’t said a single word.
It’s worse than before. Worse than it’s even been. Even those first months after you moved in permanently, he’d at least acknowledge your existence. It had been via avoiding you like the plague and snipping and glaring, but at least you’d known he could still see you. That he still thought of you.
Now, he’s treating you like a ghost.
The first week you’d expected. The drive back from the hunt had been tense, everyone dead silent. Rest stops happened when Dean decided they would. Sam never once asked him to turn down the music. You turned your face into the window and hid behind your jacket, hoping to hide the shame burning through you.
Dean had been right. You couldn’t handle that hunt.
But he hadn’t even rubbed it in your face. Hadn’t done an I told you so.
When you got back to the bunker, he’d shoved the door open and marched inside without looking back. Sam had rubbed a hand over his face, given you an apologetic look in the mirror, and you’d just shaken your head.
“He’ll get over it-“
“It’s fine, Sam.” You’d muttered. “I’m fine.”
You were not fine.
You hadn’t even been able to sit up without Sam’s help. He’d half carried you out of the car, a hiss of pain escaping your with every movement, and when you’d finally gotten on your feet you’d looked up to find Dean standing in the doorway.
His hands had been fisted at his sides. He’d been staring at you like he wanted to say something, jaw clenched so tight you could see a vein.
You hadn’t quipped. Hadn’t pushed. You’d just watched him, praying he’d do anything but just stand there. Part of you had wanted him to yell. To let out all the anger you could see simmering behind his gaze, so you could all move on.
But Dean had turned, and stalked back into the bunker.
The ignoring had begun. And you didn’t think you could last a day of it, let alone almost a month.
When you’re in the same room, he pretends you’re not even there. If you’re talking to Sam, he cuts you off like he didn’t hear. If you pass each other in the hall, he looks firmly ahead and bumps your shoulder. If you’re blocking him from getting something in the kitchen, he just reaches over you like you’re part of the room.
His chest presses against your back, and your breath hitches. You bow your head, fighting the instinct to moan and push back into him. He’s so warm, a secure and unwavering pillar of resolve that you want to worship at the feet of forever. He’s sturdy, he’s safe, his muscles flex around you and his breath is warm on your neck and he’s acting like you don’t even exist.
It’s cold when he pulls away.
You retreat to your room, and lie on the floor until you’re out of tears.
Part of you wonders if Dean even knows what he’s doing to you. He can’t. He thinks you hate him with all the fever and loathing he hates you. There’s no possible way for him to understand that every second he ignores you, something in you cowers and whines. That you’ve been passing the door to his room just to try and run into him, even though that breaks the unspoken rule of never invading such a sacred space. That this is killing you more than the injury did, because at least that was allowed to heal.
Dean fixed you, there.
Here, he’s just clawing you wider and wider, until there’s a gaping pit in the cavity of your chest, and you’re about to fall through.
He’d been going out drinking every night. He comes back reeking of liquor and perfume, but he comes back. Every single night, he’s back around 1am.
You know, because you stay up waiting.
Dean always walks past your room, when he gets home. His shadow lingers under your doorway, and sometimes you swear you hear a thud against your door. As if he’s knocking, or just leaning there.
Breaking the rule himself.
It’s the only way you still know you’re not a ghost. That he still knows you exist.
But that’s it.
Otherwise, you’re nothing to him at all.
You can’t take it anymore. Sam says you haven’t been eating as much, but you barely even noticed. You’re too tired, from losing sleep. And everything tastes like ash, anyway.
Sam also says that Dean’s being a dick, but he’ll get over it. They went on a hunt a few days ago—they’re talking again, although from what you’ve seen it’s clipped, and they’re both still pretty pissed—and Sam told you he’d try to talk some sense into Dean and his silent treatment. You have no faith it will work. Sometimes living in the bunker feels like a pissing contest of who can be the most stubborn, if every contestant had an infinite bladder and thought they’d die if they lost.
You’ve been checking your phone for updates every ten minutes. You’re getting itchy and restless, and you can hardly breathe. What if this is it, and foul voice reminds you. What if he dies, and he dies angry at you, and you can’t even remember the last thing he said to you because it was a month ago.
The seams in you are coming apart. Sam sends you a brief text, saying the hunt is over and they’ll be back tonight. You don’t bother to ask how the talk went. If Sam even went through with it, you already know the answer.
But you can’t. You can’t keep living like this. That voice is only going to get louder, and you’re only going to waste away, and Dean won’t even notice with how determined he is to make you nothing at all.
You’ve been crying too much. Your eyes are red when you look in the mirror, and your lips are swollen.
Maybe you shouldn’t stay here. Maybe Dean’s right, and you never belonged here at all.
He once acted like you did. And you still don’t know what made him change his mind.
And you don’t want to leave. This is home. Dean is home, because despite everything you still think of him, and you feel safe.
You know that’s why it hurts so much. You’re not weak. You can stand to be ignored, and you’ve certainly had louder and more violent and cruel fights with people you’d actually been dating. But Dean being so mad feels like your heart is trying to eat itself. And you can’t take it.
It takes all night, but that’s the perfect amount of time. You go out to the grocery store and get everything you need, then haul up in the kitchen and bake like your life depends on it. A fairly big fraction of it does.
You think about writing I’m sorry or You were right on the pie with whipped cream. That feels like a little too much. Hopefully, that part will speak for itself.
When they get home, it’s with a slam of a door. There’s no shouting, but you have a feeling it’s because the fight already passed. You watch Sam give you a tight smile before slumping off to his room, and you know he tried. You appreciate it. But only you can fix this now.
“Dean.” You force your voice to be steady. It doesn’t work that well. “Dean.”
He looks up at you with a heavy, tired glare. He doesn’t speak, but he looks at you, and it makes you sit a little taller. You can do this.
“I’m sorry.” You push the pie forward, and he blinks.
“You’re sorry.” He echoes, like he doesn’t believe what he’s hearing. “You’re sorry?”
You nod, chewing your lip nervously. “Yeah. For- For the hunt. And anything else I did to you.”
“Anything else you did.”
“Um- mhm.”
Dean stares at you, and you push the pie again. Look down to it, then back to him, swallowing the nerves in your throat.
“I- I made you pie.”
“Yeah. I can see that.”
“Oh- Okay.”
The silence is suffocating. Your face is starting to burn, and you’ve never cried in front of him before, but the tears are insistent. The ache of loneliness, of just missing him, it’s insistent. Like a hurricane, devastating and impossible to ignore. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold them back, and that usually works.
It’s useless now. The first tears burn on your cheeks, and you wipe them away with trembling, frantic hands.
Dean rasps your name, taking a lurching step forward. As if someone shoved him, his hand reaching out before he yanks it back.
You swallow, and find a painful, barbed lump in your throat. You shake your head, and look to the side.
Dean repeats your name, his voice thick and strained.
You realize this is the first time he’s said it in a month.
A damn breaks in your chest. Something snaps near your ribs, and a pathetic, choked sob rips from your throat. You can’t stay here.
“I- I’m sorry.” You shoot to your feet, pushing the pie roughly forward. “It’s- It’s cherry.”
“Sweetheart-“
“The pie.” You clarify, staring at Dean’s knees.
“Yeah, I know-“
He takes a step forward. You take a step back, and he freezes.
When you look up, he’s watching you like you’d just smacked him in the face. You swallow, lip wobbling as you keep losing the battle against your own tears.
“I- I’m sorry.” You choke out, wrapping your arms around your stomach.
Dean works his jaw, shaking his head. “You said that already-“
“I- I know. I’m sorry-“
“Stop saying sorry!”
He takes a larger, firmer step forward. His voice echoes off the walls, and you bite the inside of your cheek until it stings.
Dean rubs his face, lowering back down to rough, low words as he says your name. “Just- Fuck- I don’t want a sorry.”
“I-“ You cut yourself off, shrinking further into your body.
He doesn’t want an apology. He doesn’t want you.
“I’ll go.” You whisper, looking down to his shoes.
Dean makes a choked sound. “You’ll- What-“
“I’m going to go.” You can’t be here right now. Can’t break down when you’re really not sure if he’ll pick you back up. “I- I’m-“
You swallow another apology, and duck past him. Dean shouts after you, so you walk faster. Almost running to the safety of your room, to the one place he won’t follow. Where you can fall apart alone, and wrap yourself in blankets you pretend are his arms, because you’re the exact, pathetic, stupid girl he thinks you are. You’re crying so hard you can’t breathe, and you hate him, and you hate yourself more for knowing you’ll still love him once the tears dry out.
There’s a knock on the door. The fight must have been that loud.
“Go away, Sam.” Your voice is muffled through the sheets.
Dean’s is muffled through the door. “Not Sam, sweetheart.”
You sit up, still holding your blanket to your face. As if he might somehow see you. There’s a long silence—he’s not supposed to be here, why is he here—and Dean coughs.
“It’s, uh- It’s Dean-“
“I know.”
“Oh. Okay.” He pauses, then, “Are you gonna open the door?”
You shake your head, then remember he can’t see you. “No.”
Dean grunts your name, and you raise your voice a little.
“Leave me alone-“
“No. We gotta- There’s stuff I have to- Fuck.” There’s a thump on the door. You think he’s leaning against it. “You’re crying, alright? Just let me in so I can fix it-“
“I’m fine.” You snip, and he laughs dryly.
“I can hear you. I know you’re still upset, and-“
“Why do you care?”
Dean goes silent, and you glare at where you think he’s standing.
“Why do you care, Dean. You never cared before-“
“That’s not true.” He snaps, and you roll your eyes.
“Don’t lie-“
“I’m not lyin’, I just-“ He cuts himself off. “Just open the door, alright-“
“Not until you tell me why you give a shit-“
“I just do, alright?”
“No, you don’t-“
“Stop- Stop saying that.” He’s not shouting, but you can hear him fighting against the urge. “Stop telling me what I care about, you don’t get to decide that-“
“I’m not deciding.” You push the words out, even as they burn on your tongue. “You just don’t get to act like you care about me when you wish I didn’t exist.”
The silence falls again. It’s thicker than before. So heavy it pulls your heart down to your stomach. You’re so sure he’s going to walk away, just leave you there to finally, fully break.
Instead, when he speaks, his voice is rough.
“Don’t say that.” He grunts. “I’ve never wished that. Not once.”
Your heart flutters. You want to smack it, remind it that it’s only hurting because of him. “Whatever.”
The door shakes again, as Dean’s shadow shifts.
Despite yourself, you lean closer.
“Open the door.” He says your name again, the tone a command.
You raise your chin. “No.”
“Come on, just open it-“
“Go away, Dean-“
“No.” It’s shockingly firm. You sit up in surprise. “No, I’m not- I’m not just gonna leave and let you go, no. That’s not fuckin’ happening, sweetheart, just- Open the door-“
His voice is getting louder, every word sounding more and more strangled. You shift to your knees, saying his name softly through your tears, but he doesn’t seem to hear.
“You can’t leave me, alright? You win, you fuckin’ win, I’m the idiot. You can stay and run me into shape, whatever the hell you want, just- just open the door, please-“
You’ve never heard him like this before. Rambling like a broken record. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was crying.
“I’m sorry for being a dumbass.” He’s not pushing the door anymore, but his voice is muffled and loud all at once. He’s leaning against it. “Sorry for being a dick, sorry for- For whatever the hell you’re cursing my name with, I know I deserve it, I was a douchebag and if you wanna hate me you got every right, but-“ His voice breaks. “Don’t leave me. Fuck- Please don’t leave me, please-“
You slide off the bed, gliding across the room like you’re in a trance, and open the door.
Dean stumbles forward, catching himself against the doorframe. He’s only inches away, and you can read it all over his face. How much he means every strangled word.
His hair is disheveled, his eyes red as he scans over your open, sad features, his jaw clenched so tight you think he might break his teeth. His arm flexes over your head, hand fisting and unfisting at his side. There’s a stain of a tear on his cheek, gleaming in his stubble like he’d half wiped it away.
He watches you like he’s a dog, bracing to be kicked.
You hold his gaze, letting your voice stay small. You have a feeling he’d cling to every word if you only breathed it out.
“You’re sorry.”
He nods. You swallow.
“Why-“
“All of it.” Dean mutters. His eyes are locked onto yours. It’s almost too much, making you feel molten when you need to be unmovable.
You look down to your fingers. “What you said?”
“And did. And-“
“Being a douchebag.”
He chuckles, but it’s more of a rasp. “Yeah.”
“For how long?” You look at him under your lashes, and maybe it’s a bit of a test, but you need to be sure he understands. The sheer magnitude of how this—all of this—has hurt you.
“The whole year.” He says immediately. “From when Sammy told me you were staying to- Shit, five freakin’ seconds ago. I’m sorry.”
You hear it again, even if he doesn’t say it.
Don’t go.
“You didn’t want me to stay here.” You say lightly.
Dean shakes his head. “That’s not true-“
“You told Sam he never should’ve asked me.” With all the bravery in your body, you meet his gaze. “You said you wanted me far away from here.”
Shame almost pours from Dean’s expression. He bows his head, as if he’s trying to make himself smaller. “I- Uh- I didn’t know you heard that-“
“You’re both very loud.”
“Ah.” He pauses, shifting on his feet. His handsome features twist into a tight frown. “But- That’s not what I said.”
“Yes, it is-“
“I said you should be far away from here.” He mutters. “Not that I wanted you there.”
“That’s the same thing-“
“No, it’s not.” Dean gives you a firm look, his voice dropping impossibly lower. “What I want and what’s right?” He chuckles dryly. “Ain’t ever really the same thing.”
For a long moment, you just watch each other. And he means it. Every inch of you knows that, right into your bones. But you’re still fragile from a year of him acting like you were nothing. And you want that to be enough, you want that so desperately. To just give Dean all of you to freely break, and trust that he won’t. But-
“What about me.”
Dean blinks. “What?”
“Am I right?” You raise your chin, crossing your arms over your chest. Dean’s frown deepens.
“Are you-“
“You’re sorry. You said you don’t me to leave.”
“I don’t.”
“So I was right.” You challenge. “I was right to stay.”
Dean swallows. You don’t waver.
“Do you care, Dean. If you don’t want me to leave then you have to tell me why you’d even fucking care-“
“I care.” He grunts, pressing further over you. “I care more than you can imagine.”
You snort. “I don’t know about that-“
“I can’t imagine it, sweetheart.” Dean reaches down slowly, cupping your jaw. You freeze. “Sometimes I- I can’t even work it out in my head. Can’t measure it, can’t justify it, can barely even understand how it’s possible.” His thumb drags over your cheek. “How much I fuckin’ love you.”
Oh.
Oh.
“Love is different than care.” You whisper, and Dean’s lips twitch.
“Yeah. But not by that much.”
You stare at him. He stares back, and when you don’t move away he drops his brow. Presses it against yours, his voice lowering gently.
“You don’t gotta forgive me. Just-“
“I love you, too.” You blurt, and Dean’s eyes shoot open. “And I’m not leaving.”
Dean swallows. Searches your gaze, like he’s trying to find the a tell that you’re lying. “You don’t have to-“
“Shut up.”
You grab his neck, and drag him down. You’re tired of talking. Of fighting and crying and being so far away. Even an inch feels like too much right now.
Dean must feel the same way.
When you pull him into a kiss, he’s rigid for a second. The brief, electric brush of your lips. Your noses bump, and your nails dig into his neck. He grunts, his hand on your doorway sliding down. You flush and try to pull away, but he’s not having it.
Dean melts over you so fast your brain can’t keep up.
He grabs your hip, blunt nails digging into your shirt, and tugs your head gently back as his lips work over yours. It’s so sudden you don’t immediately kiss him back, just grabbing the collar of his shirt for balance. Dean grunts, the hand on your hip sliding around your lower back. Grounding you against him as he almost bends you backwards, never once breaking the kiss.
His lips are softer than you dreamt of. Plush and a little chapped, but still so soft. He moves them slowly but insistently over yours, tasting and letting his tongue brush slightly. When you shiver and try to rise up a little higher, he meets you immediately. He kisses like he already somehow knows exactly how you like it. Easy but a little messy. Close, so close he’s almost eating your face while you try and claw closer. He tastes like salt from the tears, but under that is a little bit of cherry.
“You-“ You speak between kisses, dizzy from desire. “You ate the pie-“
“Tasted it.” He grunts, walking you back into your room. “Checkin’ it wasn’t poison.”
You lean back, glaring up at him. “I would not poison you-“
“I know.” He grins, kissing your pouted lips. “But I woulda deserved it if you did.”
You want to argue with that, too, but Dean’s faster. He kicks the door closed behind him, grabs your waist, and picks you up with barely a grunt. Your arms fly around his neck as you yelp in surprise, but the sound quickly falls into a loud, long moan when he pins you against the door.
His kisses are turning more frantic. Hungry and bruising, but still restrained. His hands stay politely on your clothing, his lips pressed over yours with only small grazes of his tongue.
You open your mouth in a long, shaky moan. Dean takes the permission, grabbing your jaw and tipping it a little further back. His tongue brushes over your teeth, and you wrap an arm around his neck. His chest is pressed right against yours, and it’s secure and sweet and hot. You’ve never been this hot just from a few kisses.
Passionate, messy kisses. With Dean. His broad fingers on your soft skin, and his solid body right against yours. You comb your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and he groans. The noise vibrates through you, and you shudder with that burning, needy heat.
Dean notices. Of course he does. He’s Dean.
“Do you want-“
“Yes.” You moan against his lip, trying to spread your legs. “God, Dean- Fuck-“
He sucks on your lower lip before releasing it with a wet pop. Licks over the hurt before travelling down. Over your cheeks, then your jaw, repeating the same motion. Your arms wrap tight around him, your hips bucking mindlessly up.
“Oh- Dean-“ Your nails scratch his neck, and he hums. “You- You can’t just- Holy shit-“
He shoves his knee right between your thighs, the sudden pressure a curse and a relief. Your hips roll like they have a mind of their own, and head dropping against Dean’s shoulder as you cry his name. He moans, his hand on your waist tugging at your shirt.
You grab it and move it under the fabric, moaning at the feeling of his rough callouses, his warm palms, how possessive just a light touch can be. His fingers splay, the tips pressing into your skin, and you’re fully humping him now. He hisses when your knee bumps into his hard crotch, and you giggle, dragging a hand down his spine.
Dean pulls back, watching you ride his thigh with hooded eyes and a lazy grin. “Something funny, pretty girl?”
You giggle again, pressing purposefully against the bulge in his jeans. He groans, pressing his brow to the top of your chest.
“Shit- You’re tryin’ to fucking kill me-“
“Nuh uh.” You breathe out, not caring how convincing it is. You can feel the pressure building in your core, but it’s not quite enough. You need him to give you more. “De- Dean-“
You grab his wrist again, trying to pull it to your ass, but he resists. He yanks his hand from your grip, sliding it up your ribs slowly. His thumb brushes under your breast, and you bow into the touch with another loud moan.
“Jesus.” He mutters. “You look fuckin’ gorgeous like this, sweetheart. Think putting you on my cock might turn me into a religious man.”
You grab his shirt, yanking desperately, and he clicks his tongue. His voice is deep and taunting, and he leans forward so his lips brush yours with every word.
“Easy, baby girl.” He coos, his thumb grazing over the curve of your breast. “Thought about this for so long. Wanna take my time with you, show you that I mean what I’m saying. Love these pretty tits,” he palms it as he speaks, grinning as you moan like a shameless whore. “And this smart fucking mouth.” He nips your lower lip. “And your whole, sexy fuckin’ body. Love it almost as much as that impossible, pretty head you got. And I’m not wasting my shot on making you mine.”
You shake your head, the wet heat becoming almost unbearable. “Al- Oh-“
Dean’s mouth attacks your neck and shoulders, and you have to take a deep breath to remember how to speak.
“Already yours, Dean, always been yours, always- Fuuuuck-“
He grabs you hips and moves them so your clit is always dragging against him, the friction from his jeans and your panties making your head spin.
“I know.” He mutters, breath warm against your ear. “You think I didn’t know, princess? That I didn’t see every time you’d give me those Bambi eyes and beat my cock in the shower that night, thinkin’ about what you’d let me do to you?”
You moan as shock and surprise burns on your cheeks, but it also floods south. Right to your core, making you squirm in his arms. Dean chuckles, watching you with a dangerous smirk.
“Thought it was just a crush, at first. Thought you’d get over it, move onto someone better-“
“No- No one better.” You breathe out despite yourself, and Dean’s eyes flash. “No one better, Dean, just you, just you-”
He grabs your jaw, kissing you long and rough. You whimper, pressing your tongue into his mouth. He pushes you further back against the door, kissing you with teeth and spit. You give in immediately, just trying to chase anything, anything he can give you at all.
“De- Dean-“
“Always someone better for you.” He growls against your lips, grabbing under your knee. He squeezes it tight before hiking it up, offering even more friction.
You moan, dropping your head back against the door. He’s almost fucking you through your clothing, his bugle pressed right against your throbbing pussy. Dean’s mostly just letting you grind down onto him, but every few moments he gives a shallow thrust of his hips, grinning when the pleasure shakes through your whole body.
“Look at you.” He coos, reaching up to smear some of his spit on your cheek. “You deserve the fuckin’ world, sweetheart. Deserve a guy with his shit all in order, someone half as sweet as you are-“
“You- You’re sweet-“ You gasp when he shoves his hips up, slamming right against your clit. “Holy shit- Dean-“
“I’m sweet.” He mocks, and it shouldn’t make you feel as needy and light as it does. “I treated you like shit, baby. Thought it would help you get over it, but look at you. You like this. Like bein’ my pretty fuckin’ slut.”
You let out a guttural, strangled noise of desire, and Dean taps his thumb against your lips. When you open them, he slides his thumb inside. You suck obediently, watching him under dazed eyes. His throat bobs, eyes blown out with lust.
“Good girl.” He mutters, lips twitching when you hum happily around him. “Oh, you like that, too. My good girl.”
He leans forward, whispering into your ear, and your eyes flutter hopelessly.
“You’re such a fuckin’ brat, sweetheart. You’d sass me and I’d think about kissing you nice and stupid, then giving you the whole fuckin’ world.”
You whine, and Dean pulls his thumb out to let you speak.
“Don’t- Don’t want the world.” You gasp. “Just want you, Dean, please-“
He hauls you off the bed, and your legs wrap around his middle. This time when he kisses you, he’s holding you over his body like you’re something for him to worship. He’s slow and sweet, just like you know he is. He tosses you down onto your bed before pulling off his shirt and prowling over your body. He pulls your pants down, kissing back up your ankle, your knee, your hipbone. He sucks your clit lightly through the fabric of your ruined panties, pinning your pelvis to the bed when your hips slam up.
You fist a hand in the sheets. “De- Dean-“
He hums, pressing you down harder. His tongue flicking, and you pant, desperately trying to wiggle out of his grip, to chase release.
Dean stops suddenly, chuckling when you whine like a spited child. Two fingers hook around the center of your panties, and he yanks away the ruins fabric like it was made of paper.
“So wet.” He mutters, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips. “You’re like a fuckin’ dream, baby, son of a bitch.”
He slaps your clit once, grinning when the reaction shakes through your whole body. You can almost see him making the metal note, before moving on. Dean grabs the hem of your shirt and tugs it over your head, kissing your tummy, your sides, the valley of your breasts and a tiny mark he’d left on your neck.
His lips meet yours, lazy and gentle. He palms at your exposed breasts, slowly kneeing your legs apart.
When he settles between them, he slows down even more, his breathing ragged and voice low and almost desperate.
“Say it again.” He mutters, and you hum.
“I want you.”
Dean kisses the corner of your mouth. “And- The other thing.”
“I love you.” You say, easy as breathing. “Love you, Dean.”
He grunts, planting a kiss on your nose. “Thank you, my love.”
You smile, letting your hands wander over the broad planes of his back. You’re still so close to the edge, tingly and aching, and maybe he’s just going to fuck you stupid like he promised right now-
Dean pulls away.
He sits up on his knees, one hand pressing you into the mattress. His thumb lingers just above your clit, capable of reaching it if he reaches. But instead he just watches you, shuffling out of his own pants and tossing them off to a corner of the room.
You swallow, salivating at the sight. He’s thick. Long and thick in every way you’d imagined. Broad and angry at the top, leaking with pre-cum that he swipes with his thumb. You’ve only see cocks like that made of silicone with a vibrator built in. You bought one once, feeling pretty brave. You’d given up very fast.
“De- Dean-“
“Yeah, baby?”
He squeezes your thigh, and you look up to him with wide eyes. “I- I can’t take that.”
“Yeah, you can.”
“No, I-“
“Shh.” He coos, thumb grazing over your clit. You shudder, grabbing his wrist.
“Dean-“
“I’m gonna help, princess.” He says. “You’re gonna take it.”
He says it so certainly, you fucking believe him. He’s got a goddamn monster-porn cock, but his rich, deep tone has you convinced you can somehow fit it easy.
“Guess that’s why you’re so confident all the time, right?” You giggle nervously, and Dean raises his brows.
“Excuse me?”
“Just if- If I had- That-“
“You mean a big dick?” He drawls, and you flush.
“Um. Yeah.” You turn your face into the pillow, trying to hide. “Shut up.”
He laughs, guiding your face back up as he leans down. Dean kisses you slowly, and you hum dazedly into his lips. He starts to drag his thickness up and down your soaked cunt, and your mouth falls open in a loud moan.
“You’re so fuckin’ cute.” He mutters. “My girl.”
“Yours.” You echo, and he grins.
“Can we try something, baby? You trust me?”
“Mmmm,” you mumble, mostly thinking about the friction he’s giving, the pleasurable shock every time his dick bumps your clit.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You breathe, and Dean smirks.
“Good girl.”
Then he’s gone again. Your fluttering eyes shoot open, and you try to reach up but he slams you right back down. Pinning you to the mattress as he sits on his knees, watching you drink him in a slowly stroking his cock.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do.” He drawls, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “You’re gonna tell me exactly what you want me to do to you, then I’m gonna make you cum until you can’t even talk.”
You gape at him. “Wha- What-“
“You’re so smart, princess.” He taps your clit, and your breath hitches. “Talk.”
“Dean, don’t tease-“
“Not teasing. I’m dead fuckin’ serious.” He gives you a stern look. “You don’t tell me what you want, you don’t cum.”
You glare at him, and he just shrugs. He’s still pumping himself with thick, long strokes, and you’d kill him if you didn’t feel like a firework only he could set off.
“Touch me.” You grumble, and he gives you a flat, amused look.
“How.”
“I- I don’t know- With your hands- Oh-“
Dean’s thumb starts to rub around your clit, and your let out a shaky breath. The gleam in his eyes tells you all you need to know. You listen, you get a reward.
“Touch me there.” You breathe, nervous and breathy. “Keep- Keep doing that, Dean- Ooh-“
He snorts as you hug yourself, pressing his thumb directly down and making you squeak.
“Fuck-“
“You’re bad at this.” He observes, and you reach up to whack his forearm.
“I’ve never done it before, dick-“
“So I’m givin’ you a new skill-“
“You’re making me insane.” You whine. “Just- Just fuck me, Dean, it shouldn’t be that hard!”
“Yeah?” He grins down at you, letting go of his dick to rub your thigh. “Big words from the girl who’s not gonna do any of the work.”
You stick out your tongue, and he laughs.
“I knew you liked being a little cockslut, dripping just thinkin’ about taking me, probably gonna call me daddy and beg-“
“Shut up-“ Face burning, you kick his chest, and Dean catches your ankle, kissing it before moving it back to the bed.
“Well if it’s so easy, I should be guessing right-“
“I just want you to fuck me stupid, Dean!” You shout, the words desperately pouring out of you. “Just- Just take your hands and toss me around, use me and- and kiss me and touch me- Fuck-“
He’s rubbing your clit again, eyes almost black with desire. You push on, grabbing his arm to keep focus.
“Use- Use your fingers and make me cum on your hand.” You breathe out. “Then- Then flip me over and fuck me- Fuck me until I can’t talk, fuck me stupid, Dean, please-“
Your words fall off in a moan as Dean rubs faster, leaning down over your body.
“You want me to talk?” He rumbles, and you nod.
“Talk- Talk the whole time- Oh my god-“
“Tell you how good you’re doing for me?” He mutters, a finger teasing over your entrance. “How good your pussy feels, how crazy you make me, what a perfect fuckin’ girl you’re being when you take my cock-“
“Yes.” You whine, pussy squeezing as he presses that finger slowly inside of you. “Yes, fuck, yes-“
“You want it rough?” He pumps slowly in and out, his thumb still working your clit. “Wanna feel me? Be fucked like you deserve?”
You nod, babbling agreements. He drags lightly against your g-spot and you let out a shuddering gasp, scratching at his shoulders. Dean groans, adding a second one, pushing them knuckle deep and scissoring the thick digits inside you.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ He’s kneading that gooey spot, and you’d already been wound so tight. “Dean, oh my god- Yes-“
“And where am I gonna cum, princess?” He coos in your ear, setting a shallow, deep pace with his fingers. They open you up and massage your pussy until it’s fluttering, until there’s a fuse burning your tummy that needs to be lit, that needs Dean to light it-
“Inside.” You breathe. You need more of him. All of him. “Want you to cum inside Dean, God, please-“
He moans—fully moans—and rubs your clit in furious, tight circles as he kisses you.
“Knew you could do it.” His thumb flicks as he presses your g-spot, and you whine. “Cum for me, baby girl, show me what you’ve got-“
Your release hits you with a scream of Dean’s name, making your toes curl and your back arch off the bed. Dean groans, twisting his hand so his palm is flat against your clit, rubbing and pressing down until you’re trembling and trying to shove him away.
“Look at you.” He says under his breath, like he’s admiring some sort of art. “Look at you, so goddamn sexy, making such a mess on my hand. Bet you’re gonna look even better, getting wrecked on my dick.”
“De- Dean-“
“I know.” He mutters, pulling his fingers fully out. “Soon. I’ll fill you up nice and pretty, fuck you ‘till you can’t think. It’s gonna feel so good, sweetheart. This tight fuckin’ pussy, strangling me while you beg.”
He lands a sharp hit on your pussy, and you barely get out a broken plea before he’s grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your stomach. You squeal, scrambling for a grip on the sheets as Dean drags your ass into the air.
“Such a mess.” He hits your pussy again, and you press your cheek into the mattress, panting as heat floods your body. “Greedy little pussy, don’t even gotta do much to get you ready for me. No,” he pushes his fingers back inside of you, the angle letting his knuckles massage your g-spot. “Basically fuckin’ begging for it, trying to fuck yourself on my fingers. Dirty girl.”
You hadn’t even realized you were doing that. Fucking back onto Dean’s hand, ass wiggling in the air as his free hand soothes down your spine. You’re shaking, but already ready for more, the sensitivity from the first orgasm building you back up.
“Deeean-“ You whine, spreading your knees wider. “More, need more, please-“
“Ah. Just feel this.” He yanks his fingers out, spanking your clit three sharp times before shoving his fingers back in. “You asked me to touch you, I’m touchin’. Touching you real good.”
He starts to knead your g-spot again, kissing slowly up and down your spine.
“Want you to come for me again, baby girl.” He mutters, lips wandering over the curve of your ass, then your thighs. “You’re gonna cum until you can’t stay up, then I’m gonna fuck you. Alright.”
You nod, but there isn’t something he could ask you that you’d say no to right now. “Oh- Okay.”
“Awesome.” Dean sucks on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, pushing you higher in the air. “Hold onto something.”
Your hands fist in the sheets, right before his sinful mouth latches onto your clit.
You almost scream. Dean starts to make out with the bundle of nerves like it can kiss him back, shifting below you until you’re almost sitting on his face. His fingers keep grinding down onto your g-spot as his tongue flicks back and forth, your button sucked between his soft lips, and you push your hands into the sheets, almost unable to take the pleasure.
“Dean- Dean- I- I’m gonna- Fuck-“
A sharp spank lands on your ass before grabbing a handful of the fat and shoving you fully down. You cum with a scream of Dean’s name, the pleasure rolling through your body like a wave.
But he doesn’t stop.
Dean keeps you trapped against his face, working you so hard you see starts, then other universe. His stubble burns against you and it’s perfect, his tongue moving so relentlessly—in tight little kitten licks, working you into a blind frenzy—and the feeling to overwhelming you can’t even remember how to close your mouth. Dean drags you on his face when you try to pull away, chuckling against your pussy, and the vibration is too much.
This time when you cum, you’re shaking and boneless. You think you might be about to cry, but maybe that’s just how hot this is.
He still isn’t stopping, and you might be in heaven. Blissful and dumb from pleasure, just a fuck doll in Dean’s big, careful hands.
You’re about to cum again, and you didn’t know you could do twice, let alone four times.
“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “Can’t- Can’t do it again-“
Dean grunts, lifting you over his head. “Yes, you can.”
He yanks his fingers out, rubbing your clit quickly before flipping you back over. You blink up at him, the coil in your stomach burning to snap. You’re so cockdrunk and dazed you almost don’t feel it at first.
Dean’s cock, slowly pushing into you.
When it hits you, he’s already got the thick head inside. You mewl, trying to cover your chest as he presses in deeper, but Dean grabs your wrists and pins them next to your head.
“Let me see you.” He mutters, sounding just as wrecked as you are. “Wanna watch you. So pretty, fucking crying for me.” He leans down, kissing your cheek, and you sob with delight. “Feels good, doesn’t it. So- Shit-“ You clench around him, and he hisses. “So fuckin’ good.”
“Good.” You repeat, just trying to stay conscious as Dean drags through your oversensitive, abused pussy. “So, so good, Dean, so fucking- Ooooh-“
He bottoms out, and you could swear you feel him up your spine and in your mouth. You’ve never been so full before, never had someone hit so many sensitive spots inside of you, and it lights you up like a summer sky.
Your eyes cross, as the almost peaceful orgasm blooms from your womb to your lips. You smile up at Dean, twisting to tangle your fingers together, and he swallows.
There’s a soft shine in his eyes. Pure, utter affection as he watches you come undone around him. It even moves into his voice, all the teasing and dominant command coated in devotion.
“You’re so beautiful.” He murmurs, bowing over you until there’s no telling where you stop, and he ends. “Feel that, baby?” He gives a long, lazy roll of his hips, and you gasp. “Yeah, that’s right. That’s you, takin’ my cock. Just like I said you could.” He kisses you, repeating the motion. “Good girl.”
You pant, grabbing his bicep as he fucks slowly into you. He mutters low praise in your ear, bullying your pussy open with every thrust. You’d asked for it rush, but this is better. You feel priceless. You feel like Dean’s.
“Breathe.” He reminds you, and you take a stuttered gasp. “Good job, princess. Don’t want you passing out on me. Need to see those pretty eyes when I cum inside of you,”
You moan, body moving in a mindless rhythm with his, and Dean grins.
“Yeah, I’m gonna fill you up, sweetheart. Make this pussy mine, let it drip out, show everyone who fucks you so good.”
“You.” You whimper out. “You, Dean, ‘s you- Fuck-“
“Damn right it is.” He grunts, dropping his hips so he hits your g-spot even better. “You’re my girl, never gonna let you think anything else again.”
You nod, your breathing getting short and desperate. The room is filled with the wet sound of his dick sliding in and out of you. Your body is slick with heat and Dean’s kissing every inch of it he can reach. Grabbing and squeezing soft skin until you’re sure you’ll be covered in handprints and finger-shaped bruises in the morning, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
Not as his cock drives deep into your with every, precise thrust.
Dean kisses you, dragging his tongue over your upper lip, and your pussy flutters.
Oh. God. “Dean, I- I think-“
“I know.” He grunts, like he’s just attuned to that. “You can do it, baby girl.”
“No- No-“
“Yes.” Dean kisses the tears, streaming down your cheeks from overstimulation. “Do it for me, come on. Just feel it, let it happen. Bet it’s good, isn’t it. Nice and sweet, right here.”
He presses down on your pelvis, right over where the fire is building. You sob with pleasure, and Dean grins.
“That’s right, there it is, come on-“
You cum like you were struck by lighting. Every muscle in your body seizes, the pressure where Dean’s pressing breaking like a damn. You gush and squeeze around his cock, arching off the bed like you’re trying to take flight, and Dean drops over you with a shameless moan.
“Fuck- Fuck yeah-“ He presses his face into your neck as you milk his dick. “Holy- Christ-“
Thick spurts of Dean’s release fill you up. They’re hot, and you hug Dean’s head, whimpering in his ear as you take them. He’s kissing your shoulder, but it’s unmeasured and desperate, and you’re sure you’re having the same control issue right now.
The feeling is so consuming you can’t think of anything but Dean. You’re saying his name like a prayer, as he ruts into you, sloppy and desperate. Neither of you really come back to earth, as your orgasms fade. Dean just slumps over you, cradling your body in his arms, and you smile at the ceiling, completely fucked out.
“Shit.” Dean rasps, and you giggle.
“Yeah.”
“You know you could squirt?”
You shake your head, and he grins against your neck.
“Awesome.”
His cock twitches inside of you, and you hit his shoulders.
“Dean, oh my god-“
“Not now.” He groans, rolling onto his back and hauling you with him. “But later, right?” He gives you a hopeful, almost boyish look.
Like you might reject him while he’s still fucking inside of you.
“Cause I meant it.” He adds quickly. “Everything before, uh- This. Meant every word, promise, and- You can hit me or something, if that makes you feel better-“
You lean down, taking his sweet, dumb face between your hands and kissing him. Dean hums in surprise, but kisses you back immediately. One hand slides through your hair, the other up your spine, but he lets you lead. Looks up at you with a drunken smile when you pull away, like you’re some kind of god.
“I don’t want to hit you.” You say, tracing his tattoo.
He nods quickly. “Good. I mean- for me-“
“But you have to ask me out for real.” You give him a firm look. “And take me on a nice date.”
“I can do that.” He grins. “And then… You’re my…”
He trails off. Lets you fill in the space.
You think he got it right, just like that.
“Yeah,” you smile. “But you’re mine, too.”
And there’s nothing on Dean’s face that tells you he’s going to argue with that.
✦End note: im drooling. i know most of you prob dont read my main dean series, but every day i dream about getting to the end and just making him old and happy. very normal about how i want this old ass man.✦
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A/N: Tw. For death and blood. This is not twilligh. We just got inspired by first twillight movie. Also this is a crossover of Twillight with supernatural.
Charlie Swan wasn’t exactly having the best day of his life. To be honest, it was seven in the morning and he felt more tired than ever. He hadn’t slept much that night, constantly wondering if it had been a good idea to try to reconnect with his introverted daughter after their relationship had grown distant. The older she got, the less she resembled her mother and the more she took after him. That scared him a little. One Charlie in the world is enough, he thought bitterly, as he made himself a cup of cheap instant coffee in a battered mug labeled “Best Cop.”
He sat down at the desk in his small office and shuffled through a few new files. A mugging at the grocery store. A stolen bike. A dog had soiled someone’s carefully manicured lawn. Are people around here really that boring?
Everything around him annoyed him. He turned off the radio, then turned it back on. He kept tapping his pencil on the desk; his thoughts were running wild. He needed a little distraction; he’d stick it out until noon and then go home. He’d just kill some time here. He wouldn’t stay a minute longer.
“Charlie! Charlie, are you there?”
“Come in.” Charlie sighed deeply when he heard his colleague’s annoying voice behind the door. The man burst into his office, out of breath, clutching an old green notebook to his chest and looking absolutely terrified. Oh God, not that—let me guess; some confused old lady put her money in the wrong drawer again? Charlie just had enough.
“What the hell is going on?”
“An animal… some guy at the shipyard was attacked by an animal. They say it’s absolutely terrible, but they’re not ruling out human involvement either… for God’s sake.”
His colleague dramatically slumped into the chair across from Charlie
That’s how it goes in a town where nothing ever happens. And then you end up with wimps like this working here.
Yet John Frank—whom everyone called nothing but Frankie—was a recent college graduate, well-built, and seemed to Charlie like a strong addition to the team. He’d known him since Frankie’s childhood and had always helped him out. Now he’d love nothing more than to tell him to get lost.
“Could you repeat that a little more clearly?” His colleague swallowed loudly and nodded. Finally, he started over from the beginning, his voice trembling like a little child’s.
Great. Maybe next time something will kill me, Charlie thought, as he tried not to get lost in his colleague’s long-winded and breathless story.
“Nice. That’s what I wanted to hear.” He took a sip of coffee and looked again at his frantic colleague. “And get a grip. I’m leaving in ten minutes, and you’re coming with me.”
Two hours earlier
It was incredibly quiet down by the water that day. The water was still, with a few boats bobbing on its surface to the rhythm of a light morning breeze. The landscape was shrouded in thick fog, through which the occasional tree emerged, its branches were dusted with a snow. Wylon was the only person for miles around, but he had long since grown accustomed to the solitude of his work at the boathouse. He didn’t mind getting up early or the cold. His only problem was the morning twilight, in which he could barely see, and sometimes the water’s surface blurred together with the surrounding forest. “You’re going to drown one day anyway; it’s hopeless with you,” his wife always scolded him. He smiled at the memory of her. It wasn’t easy to talk him out of anything.
Three figures appeared at the edge of the forest. Of course, Wylon had no chance of seeing them from such a distance.
One of the figures was a tall, pale woman. She had fiery red curls, a long coat, and a strange, wild look on her face. She was accompanied by two men; one was elegant, with dreadlocks, and the other was so inconspicuous that he almost disappeared into the thick fog.
“So we’ve finally made it here? Forks, Washington? "What a great place."
"They should be here. There are suspiciously too many people living here for my taste." The woman’s hideous laughter cut through the surrounding silence.
"I bet there aren’t any vampires living here. We’ve been heading this way for days, and we haven’t heard a single word from them. I don’t even smell them.”
“Someone was lying to us.” One of the men complained.
“Shut up, James. You need to have a little patience.”
“And what do I get in return?” he asked defiantly.
The woman smiled again and pointed with her slender finger at the shipyard on the other side of the river.
“Breakfast.”
7:30
“I’ve never seen or investigated anything like this in my life. Oh my God, I can’t handle this. I knew Mr. Forge.”
Charlie was already getting seriously annoyed with his colleague. He was sitting in the passenger seat, constantly changing the radio station and acting like an idiot.
“Listen, Frankie, I knew him too. That’s why we’re going there today, okay? We’re going to find out what happened to him. That’s the best thing we can do for him.” His colleague nodded, but he didn’t look convinced.
They parked on the muddy road by the boathouse next to Wylon’s lone vehicle. He was always here alone; Charlie felt sorry for him. He was a likable, older man. He treated everyone with respect. And now he was dead. Charlie suddenly found it harder to breathe, but he tried to stay calm. A strange feeling lingered, and he couldn’t shake it off.
They entered the boathouse. Charlie ran his fingers over the wooden door. The mud squelched under his feet. He sensed he wasn’t fully prepared for the scene that followed. They crossed the boathouse, looking like a macabre funeral procession.
Wylon Forge’s body lay on the shore next to a small wooden boat. He was ashen and completely lifeless. Yet he looked peaceful. As if he were sleeping.
Several people were rushing around him—technicians, paramedics—obviously to no avail. Charlie stepped closer and had to cover his face with his hand. That nice guy from the shipyard was lying there now, looking so small and pale. Charlie knelt down next to the secured body and stared at the man’s neck. There was a large, unidentifiable wound there, faintly covered in dried, brownish blood. It looked as if the animal had bitten through his neck. That was unusual.
“Was he injured only like this on his neck?” he asked, standing up again. His head spun, and he leaned on his colleague, who was staring blankly at the scene infront him. He was holding on, but Charlie could see that he would have preferred to run away. His first murder, he thought fleetingly.
“That’s exactly what’s strange. He has no other injuries. He bled to death; his carotid artery was severed.” The man he didn’t like but respected, replied. It was Dr. Cullen. He stood across from him, once again completely calm and matter-of-fact. How Charlie hated his utter calm and arrogance! He always felt like he was missing something in his presence, so he kept asking questions.
“You say he bled to death. So where’s the blood?” Charlie asked suspiciously. It really was clean all around. Not a trace of blood in the boat. Not a single drop anywhere.
“Come with me, Chief,” the doctor said simply, taking Charlie by the shoulder. He led him around the lake while a confused Frankie and the rest of the people stood by the boat.
“This can’t be explained yet. I would strongly ask you not to mention this to anyone.” He looked him straight in the eye, and his icy calm was gone.
“How am I not supposed to talk about it? We have to investigate this. Are you planning to obstruct the police investigation?” Charlie snapped. The doctor smiled grimly and fixed his gaze on the calm surface of the water. Far on the horizon, the sun was already rising, coloring the sky gold and glistening on the lake. The morning fog was slowly dissipating.
“All right, then. I know you, Charlie. You can be persistent. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you any more.”
“Then go to hell!” He suppressed the urge to shove the serious doctor into the lake, but he didn’t do it. He walked toward Frankie without even looking back. He’ll figure it out, no matter what it takes.
I hope Bella has a better first day than I do.
Forks Post
January 17, 2008
It is with great sadness that we announce the passing of Wylon Forge, local shipyard manager and proud father of two and husband, at the age of fifty-one. We extend our sincere condolences to the family.
According to a spokesperson for the Forks Police Department, Forge died as a result of a wild animal attack. However, unusual events occurred at the scene that do not rule out foul play. The entire case is currently still under investigation.
“We found the body completely drained of blood. That certainly does not suggest an animal attack, as we originally thought. However, we urge the citizens of Forks to remain calm. There is no immediate danger to them,” said Forks Police Department Chief, Lieutenant Charlie Swan.
𓍯𓂃 all the things i wish i could do if i could have you || dean winchester x fem!reader 𓍯𓂃
➶ warnings: 18+, MOC!Dean, angst, pining and possessiveness and perversion, jealously, unprotected p in v (quip your dick before you pip), oral sex (mentions of f! + m!receiving), masturbation (m!), sexual fantasies, dean grappling with actually feeling emotions, misuse of underwear (I’m so sorry) (no I’m not), light alcohol consumption, violent/dark imagery, best friends to (technically) lovers, slow burn, porn with plot -- please let me know if i miss anything!
➶ summary: it’s Dean’s birthday. He knows he’s meant to be having a good time and focusing on all his friends and family celebrating him, but all he can seem to think about or see is you. Especially what he would do if you were his.
➶ word count: 9.7k words
quick note: so i gave up trying to write this fic as a one-shot because there was just too damn much i wanted to say, so i decided to split it (despite the poll) because otherwise it's nearly 30k (i know. what the fuck). p.s. peep a reference to that little speech of Dean’s in s9ep8 somewhere in here <333
(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ read part two here
It’s a Thursday night in the bunker.
Some shitty pop song with a bass so deep it rattles the balustrades of the bunker’s war room is blasting. Long coloured streamers are hanging off the handrails, balloons littered everywhere across the cement floor. The bunker’s big lights are off, but the room is lit softly by the yellow glow of a few lamps. Voices are chatting lively. Someone’s laughing. A ginormous ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAN <3’ sign, handwritten in big bold lettering, is taped to the wall opposite him.
Dean would hate it all if it wasn’t your doing.
“Your life is something worth celebrating!” you had beamed at him during Christmas dinner a month ago, a green paper crown hanging low over your forehead as you punched his left arm. Sure it is, sweetheart.
Birthdays as a hunter aren’t something to celebrate, in Dean’s honest (and indisputable) opinion. They are an egregious and inescapable reminder of the person you were a year ago. Of the people you once had around you that now lay stiff six-feet under, buried in the cold hard earth, or burnt into dark grey ashes lost in the wind. Of the stupid wishes you made as you blow out the burning candles that things will change, be different, be better this time round. They never are.
Another birthday, another year of losing yourself. Piece by piece is ripped from you until nothing remains. A gaping void threatening to suck anything and everything in.
There are many ways to patch over the deep, ugly empty spaces left behind, though. Sam fills his with exercise, disgusting smoothies, and taciturn suffering. For Dean, they’re replaced by copious amounts of booze, self-loathing, and women.
But Dean couldn’t say no to you. He never wants to. So here he was, a cold beer bottle stinging his right hand, and a dark look on his face as Sam and Garth chatted heartily on each side of him about their favourite ‘close call’ hunts – no, now they’re talking about the best way to kill a ghost. It doesn’t matter. Dean’s not listening.
He knew since the Mark had buried itself in his body – stuck its thorns in and latched onto every single atom – that you, Sam, everyone was trying to be nicer and more patient with him. You all worried about him. Pitied him. It made his skin crawl. Not with disgust, but something close to it.
Maybe last year, last birthday, he would’ve actually really enjoyed himself. Being surrounded by friends, family, everyone laughing and smiling, dancing, talking. He takes a swig of his beer, the bottle’s rim wetting his lips as the sharp sour liquor lulls his taste buds. Yeah, he thinks, old him would be over the fucking moon to see everyone he loves happy and together like this. For him. It would’ve made his heart glow.
But the Mark’s changed Dean. Changing Dean. More and more every day. It nests deep in his bones, knotting itself between even the tiniest of crevices and ligaments and tissues; courses violently through his thick, hot blood and burns his chest.
When Dean agreed to you throwing him a birthday party, he’d had one condition. No presents. You’d huffed at that, rolling your eyes with an annoyed smile.
“Come on, Dean,” you’d tilted your head to your right shoulder, “what about if we all get you a joint present?” Dean had shaken his head. Said “there’s nothing I want.”
He had lied, though. Dean did want something for his birthday. He wanted you.
You’ve been a part of the Winchester brothers’ lives for four years now. On a mission from Crowley to find an Alpha Arachne, they’d wandered upon you separating the head of the monster-of-the-week from its body with a particularly sharp blade you named ‘The Fairy Godmother’.
Why?
“Because she grants their wish for death after I’m done with them.”
Dean had rolled his eyes, smirking. Scoffed a sharp laugh at your words – undecided if you were too smart for your own good like most young hunters are, but in all honesty, a little turned on at your sureness. After you swiftly split one newborn vamp from head to chest and another from shoulder to breastbone, however, during an accidental team-up when the three of you were ambushed two weeks later in what you had all thought was an abandoned mansion with maybe five or six – not nineteen – vampires, Dean realised that you were right. He never questioned your abilities again.
You were like a stray cat back then. Surviving on nothing and anything. Smart, self-dependent, and sceptical. You still are those things, just a little more... settled, now. Like a well-loved, but still slightly feral, house cat.
They didn’t see you again after that night until one of the very few times where you’d bitten off more than you could chew a couple months later in a few states west.
It took Sam knifing a demon in the back about to perform biokinesis on you – hanging upside from the ceiling, bound by your feet – and Dean carrying your pummelled and bruised body, limp from exhaustion and bone-deep pain, back to their motel room and tending to your wounds for you to consider their friendship.
But you’d slotted so quickly and easily into their lives after that moment that the three of you didn’t know how you’d ever lived without each other.
And friendship had blossomed just as swiftly and effortlessly – a genuine buckle your knees from gut-punching laughter; look for first in a crowded room; always have your back, front, and side; and tell your deepest, darkest secrets to but maybe not the type of secret that ruins a friendship secret friendship.
And Dean’s deepest, darkest secret?
He’s fucking in love with you. Despite his damn hardest attempts at suffocating the feeling, smothering it with a pillow over the face and burying in the mud that tiniest glimmer of hope that you could like him – because he didn’t want to ruin something good with something bad like him – he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help being in love with you. In every humanly and unearthly way possible.
And he really shouldn’t be. He’s completely and utterly undeserving. At least, that’s what he tells himself.
But man, he couldn’t help trying to impress you. It made him a bit dorky, drowning in emotion rather than confidently swimming in his usual womaniser swagger.
He practically always opens Baby’s door for you (barking at Sam to get in the back when you’re under the weather and need to see the road ahead, and sometimes even when you’re not sick and he just wants to sit next to you), he’ll get you your favourite snack from every Gas-N-Sip without you ever having to ask because “you need to have your energy, gorgeous”, and he pinches you affectionately when he tries to compliment you and tell you that you’re beautiful (you’ll shoot him a suffering look, squirm, tell him “shut up, Dean”).
He always asks if you’d like the last chip to his burger meal (even if he’s still a little hungry) – but you also do the same for him, so that’s just a little thing that you do for each other that Dean thinks is just what best friends do.
He’ll puff out his chest and stand a little taller when you’re near (because maybe you’ll look his way again), make sure he’s walking your pace to keep in time with your steps just so he can maybe bump your arm or leg or hip; he has your favourite hangover drink prepped and ready for you in his bedroom the next morning after a night of always well-earnt drinking (he’s totally not Pavlov-ing you, at least not intentionally), and he lets (read: welcomes when) you lean on him while he rubs your back to help you fall asleep. He really likes doing the last one.
But he was sure you thought he was joking, just messing around with you or something. Being friendly. He didn’t know how to show you he meant everything he did. But maybe you did know he was being more than just friendly. You just simply weren’t interested. And he never wanted you to feel pressured to be with him – romantically or platonically or familial-ly. After all, he was poison. Everything he touches turns rotten or gets hurt and dies.
You’re giggling with Charlie over by the large wooden table that you’ve pulled from somewhere and set in the middle of the room. She’s closest to Dean while you stand over on the side of the ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAN <3’ sign, moving this and that on the table to make room for more things, animatedly talking and bustling, smiling broadly. A mountain of bowls is filled with Dean’s favourite snacks, party ha– is that liquorice?
Dean sighs. Fuck, you really do know him.
A soft black top is fitted across you. The neck cuts just below where the line of your breasts begins, the curve of your chest contoured sensually yet delicately. He’s seen this one before, once on a hunt when you had to flirt with a local greasy cop to get much needed information on some Djinn victims after Sam and Dean had blown their FBI cover before they’d even been able to use it there.
Dean’s jaw tics at the memory of the cop’s eyes gliding over your clothed breasts at the front of the small country town station while him and Sam had sat in the car, two sets of binoculars out. You’d smiled, before slowly and calculatedly sliding your right hand across your collarbone to move your hair behind your shoulder so that the cop’s eyes would be drawn to your chest unobstructed.
It had worked.
He’d glanced down, Adam’s apple bobbing as he took a gulp, and peeked at your bare, beautiful skin and the swell of your breasts while you were asking him about any possible leads he had. Jackass. But who could blame him – Dean does it himself all the time. When his eyes had returned back to yours, you’d tilted your head in the exact same way you had when you begged to please get Dean a birthday present.
Dean couldn’t hear what the cop had said to you, but he made out the words “copy”, “file”, and “just for you”. The sleasebag had smirked and winked slyly at you, walking inside the station – a disgusting bile of venom and detest crawling up from Dean’s stomach or some other sordid, rotting dark hole from within him, an almost snarl twitching across his mouth – while you turned quickly to the car to give them a covert grin with a thumbs up – before the cop came back out with a copy of the investigation file and gave it to you. When he handed over the file, Dean had noticed a little piece of torn paper accompanying it. You’d noticed it, too, looking down at it with your mouth slightly gaping, eyebrows raising gently. Sam had chuckled, impressed, but Dean had scoffed and rolled his eyes hard; he knew without so much as even seeing what was on that shitty little piece of paper that the douchebag was telling you to call him. When you had looked back up at the cop, it was with a small shy smile as you nodded and pocketed it. It had looked like a genuine smile, too... When you got back to the car, Sam hadn’t even let you buckle your seatbelt before he jumped you from the front passenger seat and interrogated you about what was on the paper. You’d flushed bright, not meeting either of their eyes as you handed Sam the file and shuffled a little in your seat. “Nothing important”, you had muttered, but unable to hide the bashful upturn of your lips.
Dean hadn’t been able to show the same enthusiasm as his moose of a little brother had, keeping his face emotionless (or at least he had tried to) and frozen to the front as Baby’s engine roared into start. Extra loud just to piss off the jerk still standing at the landing of the station’s cement entry steps. His grip on the steering wheel was bone-breaking all the way back to the motel as Sam flicked through the file’s pages, reading out key bits of information. Dean hadn’t dared turn to look at you, he knew it would carve a cavity into his heart that would tar beyond recognition, but his eyes flicked between the road and the rearview mirror to still see you. Watch you. You just stared out the window, head forward but jaw resting on the palm of your right hand, left arm tucked across your waist, eyes almost unfocused with an odd expression on your face Dean couldn’t decipher, occasionally adding a quick hmm or a soft that’s interesting to Sam’s monologue.
Dean was in a foul mood for the rest of that day as a result – couldn’t wait to leave the shitty town and its stupid slimy cop in a blast of dust torn up from Baby’s back wheels – but the three of you managed to chop the monster’s head off with a silver knife and lamb’s blood that very night. He’d had no right to be mad – not at you, just mad in general – because after all, you’d saved the day with your breasts. And he’d never had the guts to make a genuine move on you before then. Because he didn’t deserve you.
If that had happened while Dean had the Mark, though, that wouldn’t have mattered; he would’ve flung open the car door long before that ugly piece of paper had even been passed to you or thought of – as soon as the cop’s salacious gaze had dropped to ravage your chest even though that was the whole point of what you were doing – stalked silently over to you both while you were still talking, seized the cop’s left arm and snapped it so quickly, so effortlessly – like it was a pathetic matchbox stick and the only thing that would light and torch that stupid scribble of his out of existence – that the jackass’ collar bone would tear right through his skin with a scream.
A low burning sensation on Dean’s right forearm pulls him back to the present. He absentmindedly scratches at the Mark, taking another swig of his souring beer and refocusing on you.
Dean can’t hear what you and Charlie are talking about – the music and close-by chatter blocks his ears – but whatever you say to her makes her grip her stomach and keel over laughing, hard. You lean back, hips shifting forwards in a laugh that echoes Charlie’s.
He can tell you’ve had three, maybe four drinks by the way all your movements, reactions, sounds are amplified. Eased.
Dean likes when you’re tipsy. You get this soft rosy glow on your cheeks that makes you look otherworldly, if that was even more possible; your body moves in loose rolls, hips swaying in a way that makes Dean’s head so dizzy. Your head will lean back impossibly further than usual when you laugh, just like it is now, and your eyes and nose crinkle sweetly where they meet. And man, you giggle at everything. It makes Dean’s chest go all warm and fuzzy.
You also flirt with him more.
Is flirt the right word? Dean thinks.
Hmm, maybe not.
But you’re definitely different. You touch him more, differently. You laugh at him more, differently. You look at him more, differently.
He knows he has some sort of sexual effect on you. A quiet part of him thinks you might feel the same way about him as he does for you, but the fear that maybe you’re just being nice to him, or that maybe you are attracted to him but wouldn’t want all of him – the dark, ugly, putrid parts that are the true him, the true Dean – keeps him sober enough from getting drunk on any thought of love. After all, life was never that good to Dean – it would give him small, flickering good, like you holding his hand with a soft smile, laughing at his crappy jokes, leaning into his chest with a sweet sigh – but never something good like you loving him. So he holds his breathe in those moments, hoping that when he does die, again, it will be during one of those good.
And maybe he does indulge just a little in the moments where he can get you... bothered.
Dean wishes you had come with him earlier in the day when Sam and Cas had forced him out the front door of the bunker for an “obligatory birthday drink”. Maybe he could’ve sat next to you, thigh-to-thigh, in the booth of the shitty little bar a town over they had driven him to and whispered in your ear about the particularly nasty and detailed dream he’d had the night before about you cumming with his face shoved in between your plush thighs just from him moaning into your sopping wet folds. He would have simpered it hotly into your ear just low enough so that Sammy and Cas wouldn’t – no, couldn’t have heard him, right? The reaction you would give Dean at the mere thought they had heard him would be worth it all if they had. Just to see you blush. Hear your breath catch in your throat. Whine. Maybe see you press your legs together to find some friction. Would your eyes have rolled back? Gone black with hunger, desperation, need for him?
But you and Charlie had needed Dean out of the bunker so that you had full range to decorate the place in all sorts of loud and obnoxious ornaments that reminded him yet another year had taken yet another piece of him with it. So, in spite of the Mark just to please you, Dean had pushed down the displeasure festering from the infliction and left.
When you pass a plate to Charlie and walk around the table to her side, he can see that you’re wearing a dark burgundy skirt. It finishes midthigh. His breath hitches, painfully.
It’s a rare look from you. You’re normally all blood and grime. Filth plastered across your full cheeks, splattered down your forearms where your sleeves are pulled up and shading all the dips and curves, staining your jeans fitted tight over your ass. If Dean’s being honest, though, seeing you like that gets him going in ways that it really shouldn’t. It wouldn’t be a problem if you didn’t end up looking like that after nearly every hunt...
Your bare legs are a new sight, however. Of course, Dean’s seen your legs before; when you’re sitting all comfy and warm in your sleep shorts just before bed on the couch next to him (you’ve got this one pair that gapes deliciously in between your thighs – and the amount of times he’s fisted his throbbing cock in the darkness of his bedroom to the idea of sliding them and your underwear to the side so he could drive his thick cock in and out of your pulsing and gushing core over the couch arm...), or first thing in the morning in the kitchen when you yawn and stretch the sleep out so hard that your bed shirt rises just a little, and he can see your stomach extend (he has this idea that you’re most sensitive on your left side and so when he does open-mouth kiss and suck and bite at it, that’s where you would moan and whimper the most and loudest), or when you’re fresh out of the shower, goosebumps rising and water still clinging to your skin here and there (he’s growled at the thought of how you would actually feel when you’re wet and covered in slick).
But the finish of your skirt showing off the gentle lines of muscles and softness of your legs is making Dean want to slowly, messily, teasingly lick all the way up the inside of your warm thighs. He wonders how many times he’d have to do it until you begged him to fill every inch of you up with him and his cock, his cum.
And then there’s your ass. What he wouldn’t do t– well, fuck. You’re bending over the table to grab, what, a camera? that you’ve left on the other side, mindlessly lifting your right leg to give yourself some extra reach, tiptoeing on your left foot, and your skirt rides up. Just a little. But it’s enough to make him question if you’re wearing any underwear. Dean has to stifle a groan. Almost chokes. His eyelids closing briefly as his eyes roll back in absolute need. An ache is building in his balls, dick already hard against his left thigh.
The Mark is telling, demanding him to just walk over to you, grab the back of your neck and turn you so that you face him, and take you right there on the table. The bowls and plates you’ve set so neatly and precisely would smash into millions of pieces on the floor as he shoved them to make room for your back, his mouth latched to yours as he kissed you hard and wet, teeth clashing and hot spit drooling. The wooden table would rattle, scratching the floor with every grind and rut of his hips into yours.
He wouldn’t tear your clothes – he knows how attached you are to them, even if the Mark wants them obliterated – but they’d be snatched from your body within seconds.
And that sweet slide of him into you? Fuck. He can feel you clenching and vibrating around his thick cock, wet squelching every time he bottoms out. The most pornographic moans spilling from your mouth shattering in the air of the war room. Your legs would fold around Dean, heels digging into the flexing muscles of his ass to spur him on and keep him close. Inside you.
Oh how scandalised everyone would be. Let them see. See how fucking badly he wants you. Needs to be buried deep within your soaked heat. How good he would be at fucking you until you were sobbing and screaming his name. Cumming hard again and again around his dick like it was the last thing you’d ever be able to do. Fucked stupid. And Dean – Dean would just keeping fucking your ruined pussy through each and every one of his own orgasms because he doesn’t think he’d ever be able to stop once he started. Your beautiful, hot collective mess dripping onto the floor.
No.
He doesn’t want anybody else to see you like that – naked, desperate, wanting – ever again. Only him.
Dean never used to allow himself to think too long about you in that way. You were one of his best friends. And you had been for years. With him and Sam through the thick and thin.
You had your own bedroom in the bunker, decorated with all these things that were just so uniquely you; brushed your teeth together with Dean every night (which Sam had aptly – but not without a teasing edge – named “your special night time routine”, which you both always rolled your eyes at); watched reruns of both yours and his favourite tv shows (no matter how many times he refuses to say he enjoys it and was actually invested in your trashy guilty-pleasure one); patched each other up carefully and tenderly after particularly bad and painful hunts; and did each other’s laundry because “that just makes your life easier that way”. Dean hates reading, but he’d listen to you read aloud a book, an encyclopedia, the back of a fucking Betty Crocker cake mix, any day.
The outlandish and the mundane. Anything and everything just to be in your presence.
And best friends don’t think about each other like that – naked and skin on skin, grinding and rolling into each other, biting and panting and licking, marking one another as theirs – right? That’s how Dean used to think.
But sometimes, when he was deep in sleep, and his mind bypassed any sort of humanly control he had over himself, he’d dream about kissing you. It would usually be in different places; maybe the bunker’s kitchen, in the backseat of Baby, at a low-lit bar, or during an intense hunt because you just finally couldn’t keep your hands off of him for any longer – but his favourite setting was definitely in your bed. Where the soft sheets and fluffy pillows exuded your perfume, your shampoo, and simply you, and enveloped all Dean’s senses. There would be careful touching and heated grabbing, the soft and rough feeling of all over each other. His hands would be everywhere, tracing every inch and curve of your body. Yours would be tangled in his hair and clawing up his back or down his arms. The two of you moving together, pressing, pulling, grinding. And then there were the sounds you both would make when he’d hit that sweet spongey spot deep inside your clenching walls – the one where your stomach would go hot and gooey and his cock would twitch violently and desperately – everything just building, building, building until it all just...
He would wake up messy and ashamed the next morning. Whenever he saw you that day, a suffocating heat would sprout in his chest, sit heavy in his stomach, vine up his spine, prickle on his face, and grow – despite his hardest objections – in his groin.
But that was before the Mark.
Now, Dean spends most nights groaning into a pillow and cumming into his hand or on his lower stomach at least once, maybe twice before bed to all the obscene positions he could have you in. He had to move onto toilet paper to clean himself up after an off-handed comment from his brother about how quickly the three of you seemed to be going through tissue boxes despite no one being sick.
Around two months ago, while you and Dean were doing your laundry together, you’d cursed and bent over the washing machine to reach down its side to pick up a fallen sock. He’d already been watching you from behind your back, fantasising about you on your knees and desperately gagging on his thick cock and clawing at his thighs while the washing machine rattled, begging desperately Dean Dean please cum down my throat, when he spotted a dirty pair of your underwear on top of your laundry basket by your feet. They were black, with a little flower pattern and lace trim, also black. He hadn’t even thought twice or blinked before moving silently like he was hunting a monster to grab and stuff them in the back pocket of his jeans. Poor, sweet you hadn’t noticed – too busy groping blindly and huffing after your runaway clothing – then returning the heels of your feet to solid ground and turning to Dean with a huff, your brows pulled and eyes soft, a little pout as you asked if he could reach it. He’d given you a casual smile, with a sure, princess, before he’d effortlessly fished out your sock and thrown it in the machine.
Later that day, after you had brushed your teeth together and gone to bed, Dean had walked very quickly to his room – his dick already straining against his jeans and leaking with pre-cum – and locked the door with sacrilegious precision. He didn’t think anyone would be coming in, but he wanted to make sure that he would definitely not be interrupted. He’d practically jumped onto the bed, lust and impatience discarding all his clothing in a path of destruction and hunger to the mattress, and reached into the bedside table to take out your dirty underwear that it’d been safeguarding since that morning. His erect cock taut against his lower abdomen had jerked at the mere sight of them again. The soft lacing an almost unbearable texture as he rubbed them in between his index finger and thumb, making a low tension blossom in his stomach.
Fucking hell.
His right hand had tentatively gripped his cock, stilling for a second. Something in the back of his horny-filled brain had banged on the door to his self-control and respectability centre and screamed at him hey, this is weird. This is really fucking wrong. That shame he knew all too well had started to prickle the nape of his neck, seeping down each vertebrae of his spine.
But then another voice spoke, from somewhere inside his mind’s control room.
I don’t care. I want it, the voice had hummed. It was one much lower, sinister, indiscernible – like it was floating in the air, infecting anything and everything inside that room. He knew it was the Mark.
With a shaky breath, Dean’s left hand had pushed the inner gusset into his face, specifically his nose and mouth, so that he could breathe you in in every possible way. They’d smelt so good; a heady euphoric mixture of your lotion, a little bit of sweat, and the light musky but sweet warm scent of your cunt – and the kick it gave him? Went straight to his fucking head and balls.
A deep groan shattered in the darkness of the bedroom, his mouth watering, brows scrunching, and his right hand began slowly jerking and twisting his slickening cock.
And with the first uncontrolled thrust of his hips into his hand, Dean forgot that dying voice of reason and sensibility.
He’d pictured you. Above him. Sitting on his face; the inner part of warm, lush thighs pressing firm against the sides of his face and scratching along his stubble with every grind down and roll of your hips, knees spread wide apart. His large, rough hands were looped around your thighs, holding you secure to his hot and pooling tongue and mouth, his solid nose and jaw. His fingers gripping into the soft fat, moving muscles. Whines and huffs of air spilling from your lungs, eyes rolling back not in the cute way you do when you scold him or he tells a particularly bad (but charming) joke, but in utter pleasure. Ethereal in every aspect.
Man, it had been the best orgasm of his life. The Mark had made his blood burn in ecstasy, pumping the drug-like sensation through every nerve running from his toes to his fingertips to his head. His hot spendings splattering across his hand and heavily heaving stomach and chest – a bit even reaching the hollow of his neck – ruining the bedsheets below him as his hips had bucked uncontrollably and he’d moaned your name repeatedly, unashamedly loud, and a little pathetically into the crotch of your underwear. A burning rush coursing his lungs that felt not like he was weightless and flying, but backflipping off a cliff into open ocean. Only when he had finally resurfaced, gasps subsiding into full breaths, and turned to grab some toilet paper to clean himself of his mess, did he realise he’d been so eager to cum that he’d forgotten to get a new roll.
He’d paused. Right hand and arm hung mid-air. Then he looked down at your soft used black underwear, still in his left hand. The voice that used to be in charge of his self-control and respectability centre was nowhere to be seen or heard as he’d slowly moved your clothing across his stomach and chest to wipe away the drying white liquid. It had sent a new hot wave of arousal straight to his stomach and balls, his dick already hardening again and a groan clawing from his throat as he savoured the view of his cum mixing with your dirty underwear. You and him. Together.
He’d been chasing that feeling again every night since. But no pornographic fantasy could match or even come close to it. He knew then it would only happen again when you finally let him inside you.
Maybe Dean’s not changing. Maybe he’s always been this perverted for you. He just needed the Mark to show him who he really was.
Dean raises his right hand to neck the remainder of his beer as you, camera in-hand, start towards where he, Sam, and Garth are standing together by the wall. You’ve got an off-kilter bounce, swaying a little side to side with each step, and a big rich smile on your face. A quiet grin tugs on Dean’s face and he can feel a warm glow dancing across his heart and lungs and ribcage. The Mark also tingles. That’s one thing that neither the hunter lifestyle nor the Mark has taken away from him – you. Yet. He hopes it never will. He’ll have to wait until his next birthday to find out, though.
The conversation between Sam and Garth peters off as they both notice you approaching. When you reach them, Dean realises you’re holding something behind your back with your left hand, but he can’t see it.
“Hi, boys,” you chime, your eyes darting to all of their faces in greeting. Garth happily nods his head in an upwards motion as an acknowledgment. Sam returns your smile and says your name.
“Hey there, gorgeous.” Dean replies gravelly, tilting his head a little to the left. Your eyes dip to the floor. There’s that beautiful blush.
From the corner of his left eye, Dean can see his younger brother give him a weird, almost inquisitive look – eyes narrowing, brows creasing a little, mouth slightly parting as if he’s about to say something but decides against it.
Sammy had once – maybe two and a bit years ago – tried to ask Dean (key word: tried) if he had feelings for you. Dean had almost punched him in the jaw for even suggesting such a thing, the glare alone warning the younger brother he’d done something he probably shouldn’t have.
Dean was glad Sam was a university-educated man and knew not to ask him about it again. And he never did.
But in all honest truth, he did actually have feelings for you then. Dean just hadn’t known himself that he did, or maybe he was just figuring it out and didn’t want to put a name to it. He’s never been very good with letting people in. Or allow himself to feel anything beyond self-disgust.
So that night, in true Dean-fashion, he’d gone to a local dive bar and made out with some chick in the disabled bathroom to forget about the whole situation – Sammy asking, and the whole idea that he maybe liked, or even wanted, you in more than just a best friend way. It just so happened, a total coincidence, that the girl Dean had chosen looked like you.
But he doesn’t like to think about that night. Dean knows now that nobody could compare to you.
And now, he wants everyone – especially you – to know how much he wants you. Needs you. He can thank the Mark for that possessive flare.
“I, uh,” you stutter, pulling your left arm from behind your back, “forgot to give you guys these earlier.” Three party hats stacked like a matryoshka doll appear in front of you.
With a cheeky smile, you move your hand in front of Garth for him to take a purple one, then to Sam for the blue one, “and a sparkly green one for the special birthday boy”. As you hand the final one to Dean, he deliberately glides his left hand over your own. He can feel the softness and warmth of your backhand with his calloused fingertips as he runs them smoothly from underneath your hand to the tips of your fingers along the bones, before slowly grabbing the angular hat from you. Your eyes meet Dean’s green ones, holding his gaze. He notices you’re not as flushed now, but a rosy air still floats on your cheeks.
God, he thinks, if only you knew what I’d do to have you.
Not just in the biblical sense. Not a hot one night tangle of legs and grinding of bodies where you wake up the next morning filled with embarrassment or regret or that was fun, but I don’t want anything serious with you. He knows that would cauterise him so severely he’d never able to feel anything ever again.
He needs to be more than a body that could comfort you for a few hours during the dark of night. He needs you for the whole night. And for the next morning, the day, and evening, too.
He would do anything you asked him to, if he hadn’t already made that abundantly clear.
He’d fight – no, slaughter every demon, angel, monster, and human to have you be his and he be yours. Tear not just every limb from limb, but snap every single bone as easily as a rotten branch in the middle of winter.
Dean stares so intensely into your eyes like he’s trying to communicate that through some hoodoo or something. The way you’re looking back at him, as if you’re also trying to tell him that – that you would do all that for him – makes him feel like a summer wind is sweeping through his chest to feed the bushfire sparking there, his veins carrying the embers across and throughout his body to ignite and be entirely engulfed by you.
He’s sure you can feel it, too. Or maybe it's the Mark’s doing.
Garth is already sporting the purple decoration – visibly excited – and Sam is just pulling back the elastic of his own blue one under his chin and sliding the hat over his forehead when your eyes leave Dean’s, and he’s so sure that your pupils are a little bit bigger, eating at the colour of your irises. You take a big inhale through your nose before your mouth parts and you suck in air. Your chest moves with the breath, and Dean watches your clothed breasts also rise.
Oh, sweetheart.
He shifts a little in his jeans, his dick throbbing between the soft cotton of his briefs and his muscular thigh. He can’t help that he likes seeing the ways something he says or does affects you. It makes him feel high. Indomitable. Yours.
“Dean, don’t grumble,” you start as if you’re approaching a wild animal that could rip your throat out in a blink, your right hand holding the camera and raising it to your chest with a repeated twist of your wrist, “but I’m going to be taking some photos now.” Sam chuckles, giving his brother a knowing side glance before turning around and taking a few steps to his left to bend down and put his beer bottle on the floor away from their feet. Garth does the same to the right of Dean.
But Dean’s still looking at you.
Impossible to look away, turn away. Not that he wants to.
It’s just you and him in that moment.
No noise. No smell or taste. No background and no foreground. Simple.
And then, there’s that tilt again to your right shoulder, a sweet smile flowering.
Anything for you, he thinks.
With a fake exasperated huff and roll of his eyes – a quiet smirk threatening to give away his irritated and tough guy persona – Dean turns his back to you briefly and follows Sam and Garth’s movements, his empty beer bottle clinking twice on the cement, before returning to face you and shuffling back in between the other two to pose.
Dean places his right arm around Garth’s shoulder while his left settles across Sam’s back. He pulls them both in tight so that they sit in the pit of his shoulder and arm joints, and for a second, he feels Sam freeze, then relax and return the gesture by placing his right arm along Dean’s shoulders and neck. Sam’s right hand just reaches Garth, whose left arm pulls Dean into a firm side hug. Dean notices the tension still vaguely emanating from Sam, his back muscles stiff against Dean’s forearm and bicep, breath stilled almost completely like he’s worried he’ll scare off Dean if he so much as thinks too loudly. Sam attempts to regain his composure with a small exhale he tries to shelter.
But Dean doesn’t react. He’s sure that Sam is probably taken aback by the unexpected show of brotherly love and something he hopes might mean the Mark’s dark hold is dwindling and Dean is finally coming back to himself.
How wrong poor Sammy is.
You grin at the scene of your friends together, then take a few steps back, closing one eye and squinting with the other as you raise the camera to your face. You take a step forward, then half a step back. “Ah! There we go.” You hum, clearly happy and satisfied with the framing of the scene in front of you.
The two boys on either side of Dean smile broadly, genuinely. And it’s not that Dean’s faking it – his smile is just as big – but he’s definitely putting some of it on for you.
“Okay, guys. Here we go. 3...2...1...aaaand...”
The camera makes an electronic beep as your index finger pushes down on the button.
You exhale quick. “Okay, okay, I’m gonna also take one with the flash – ‘s that alright?”. Your face stays covered behind the viewfinder as you flip the camera between landscape and portrait to figure out the best angle.
You’re so cute when you’re focused.
The three boys all respond with a variation of yes, and you count down again. The electronic beep sounds, and then there’s a flash.
“Ohhh perfect!” you gush, bouncing on your toes as you pull the camera down to flick between the two photos. You’re so giddy with excitement. Pure elation. “Really perfect, guys. You all look great.” Your eyes shift up to look at the three of them, and a warmth glides across Dean’s chest again and melts into his lungs to dissolve any air that keeps him upright.
The Mark makes it all finally clear at that moment. Dean knows then that he has to do something. Tonight. No more questioning. No more holding back.
He’s allowed to have you.
An idea – simple, easy to execute – pops into his mind. “Can we see it, sweetheart?” Dean calls, voice dripping in honey. Sure, he wants to see a photo of the people he cares about smiling and happy, but in honest reality? He’s really plotting to get you close to him.
Your mouth opens in an ahh as if it was the most obvious thing in the world that the boys would want to see the photo.
You shuffle over with a happy wiggle, hair swaying side to side behind your back with each quick step, and stop right in front of Dean so that the three boys can all see the camera. Your back is but a few centimetres away from his chest.
Perfect.
Sam and Garth both lean in over each one of your shoulders, a small section of muscle or bone or maybe a piece of clothing touching you in a reasonable, close friendship way. A rush of searing jealously and anger surges through Dean’s veins, an acrid tang to his mouth, his right arm stiffening and hand flexing suddenly and painfully, and he knows it’s the Mark. A violent scene of brown beer bottles smashing, jaggered glass piercing pink skin, and thick, red blood trickling down Dean’s hands and fingers onto the bunker’s harsh grey cement floor flashes in front of his eyes.
Pure corruption of even the most innocuous.
But Dean inhales, steady and quietly. Closes his eyes for just a second and focuses on you. He will not let himself be consumed by the Mark. For you, he can’t afford to. But he will listen to it when it tells him he’s allowed to want, love, have you. He’s forbidden himself from you for far too long.
Dean can feel the warmth rippling from your body, and it calls to him like he’s a ship lost at sea; dark, crashing waves tearing him apart piece by piece and swallowing him into the cold unknown abyss, and you – a lighthouse, his lighthouse – are a glowing, warm light, the only thing that could guide him to safety. Come to me, Dean, you call. Come home.
It’s like the Mark wants you to save him.
Dean opens his eyes, then closes the tiny space between you and him by calculatedly pressing his solid frame firm to your softer body. Your heat is heavenly. Intoxicating. It makes the blood flowing to the Mark thrum loud with each heartbeat.
The new lack of space between you both means Dean’s chin is now angled at the crown of your head. He’s never been quite this close to you in this way before and his head starts to swim. He shifts his face a little, tilting his jaw to brush the left side of your own face so that it rests just above your ear. His stubble makes a scratching sound against your hair, and a tingle runs over his nose, spreading across his cheeks and running down his neck before flowing out to his fingertips through his arms. His nostrils flare at the scent of your shampoo as it hits his lungs like smoke. Or maybe it’s your conditioner. Whatever it is, it smells good. He needs more.
Dean’s right hand has relaxed now, and he moves it from his side to place it on the clothed curve of your waist, the triangle hollow between his index finger and thumb shaping to the dip. The pad of his thumb nestles against a lower bone of your rib set, his other fingers splaying across your front. He fits like he belongs there. Because he does.
This wouldn’t be the first time he’s touched or grabbed your waist, but those times have never been quite this intimate. This good.
You lean back into him, your lower back arching a little to shape to him, mindlessly. You try to hold the camera still for the boys behind you to look at the first photo, but it shakes a little in your grip.
From this new angle where you’re resting against each other, Dean can see the way your eyelashes dust your rosy cheeks as you pulse and breathe. A wave of tenderness he’s still learning to feel, to understand, floods his brain and heart, and he wants to feel them against his fingertips when he touches your face, or watch them flutter with each claiming thrust of his cock gliding in and out of your dripping and tightening cunt, burying himself so deeply inside you before pulling out almost all the way, just to the swollen ridge of his cock head, before driving himself into your heat again and watching your pretty eyes roll back with your pretty eyelashes.
The fabric of your shirt is soft against Dean’s rough fingers. He begins to rub your side with his thumb. Slow. Certain. Claiming.
A small, sharp sound escapes you. It’s the type of deep inhale you take to fill in your lungs when you’ve forgotten to take a proper breath in a while. Automatic. Natural.
After all, you’ve been running around like a headless chicken for the last four hours, setting up decorations, preparing food and booze, and doing everything else in your quiet devoted way for the party. Never demanding or even expecting Dean’s attention, but always receiving it. Never wanting anything from him like everybody else did. But even if you did, he’d give you anything and everything you ever wanted.
That would make sense in Sam and Garth’s brains, Dean rationalises – your breathing being wonky after making sure that everyone, especially Dean, was having a good time.
But Dean knows that isn’t what made you reset your nervous system.
It was him.
A deep heat pools lowly in Dean’s groin at this divine knowledge, his dick stiffening impossibly harder between his left jean leg and thigh, and he suddenly realises he’s started leaking as his briefs wet with pre-cum. His hand petting your waist flexes and he bites back a groan that almost chokes him.
“Alrighty”, you hum with a rising inflection at the end, “here’s the first photo”, and your head lulls back onto Dean’s right shoulder as you turn to look from Sam to Garth to see their faces and gauge their reactions. Dean almost breaks his spine fighting the urge to grind his hips into your ass.
“...aaand here’s the second one.” Your head tilts forward to look back at the camera, and it guts Dean to feel your warmth and weight leave his chest. He almost follows you forward, chasing your body. But then you return as quickly as you left, and there’s this proud smile on your face as you look at the photo that makes any pain Dean could ever battle wash away.
Your head turns quickly from left to right again to look at Sam and Garth, but then you glide your head to the edge of Dean’s right shoulder and look up at him.
“What do you think, Birthday Boy?” Your left cheek rests into Dean’s chest, the question vibrating through your body, and Dean can feel it ripple in his chest and fingers, and he knows he’s meant to be looking at the camera, but you’re so beautiful like this. He should just lean down and kiss you there. He will kiss you there.
He goes to move, but stops himself almost immediately. A sharp sting cracks across his right forearm, and his lungs constrict.
The Mark is screaming at him. Do it. Take her here. Take her now.
But Dean knows he won’t be able to stop himself once his mouth is on your skin. He wants to worship every single part of you and draw out all your holy sounds in every way possible. And he needs a bed for that.
So instead, he tightens his grip on your right side and drops his voice, gravel smothered in honey, “Perfect.” Dean’s green eyes lock onto your soft lips, pausing for a breath before moving to your left eye – a pause again, slightly shorter, though – then across to your right, and he’s not talking about the photos.
You blink up at him, a little dumbly, mouth parting slightly, and now your breathing is really wonky.
A satisfied smirk curves on his face at your reaction. Good.
Someone’s calling your name, but you don’t respond. You’re still staring up at him, dropping your gaze to Dean’s plush lips as he wets the bottom part with the tip of his tongue. He applies more pressure to your waist as his thumb begins to rub deeper, and he can see a dark, needy look growing in your eyes. The air between you two feels like it’s disappearing, pulling your bodies together as if the other was the only source of oxygen to fill your collapsing lungs.
Sam clears his throat, a dry cough climbing from his chest, and Dean knows without looking that his brother is pressing his lips to a thin line, eyes flickering awkwardly around the room and rubbing the skin between his left cheek and nose bridge with his left thumb nail. Neither of you seem to actually notice him – well, Dean consciously chooses to ignore him.
Your name echoes through the war room again, and your eyes leave Dean’s to find the source of sound. Dean follows your gaze, not before he takes in a maybe not-so-subtle glance at the exposed flesh of your clavicle and the top of your breasts, and he sees Charlie beckoning you with her left hand in rapid movements to come over to the other group where she’s handing out more party hats.
You take in a breath, nodding. “Coming, I’m coming!” you shout over the music, waving quickly in acknowledgement. You pull your head away from Dean’s shoulder – the Mark clawing at the bones and muscles in Dean’s chest to make you stay – and turn your head upwards, smiling warmly at the three boys to show your gratitude at letting you capture the memory.
Dean doesn’t immediately remove his hand from your waist, instead letting the palm of his hand and splayed fingers drag slowly down your hip, past your thighbone, to reach the end of your skirt. He considers slipping his index finger under the hem to graze your bare thigh, oh how warm and soft you’ll be...what sweet little sound will you make when my fingers touch you there?
His palm starts to prickle. Sweat. Just like the Mark is. And now his breath wavers. Goes wonky.
But before Dean acts on the thought, you start walking over to the other group, along with all the air that was just in his lungs.
And Dean’s not quite sure, but there might just be a sway in your hips that’s just for him.
Maybe you do know the affect you have on him. Maybe you do want him the way he wants you.
And man, Dean feels as though he’s run a marathon. Not that he’s ever done that, but still.
His eyes track you as his hand returns to the side of his jean-cladded thigh, and the growing wet patch in his briefs where the swollen tip of his dick is pulsing is ruining.
Dean can feel Sam’s stare singeing the hair and burning the skin on the left side of his face – did Sam see the way he was watching you? Maybe his fingers skirting the flesh of your bare thigh? Or was it his breathing? – before the younger brother turns around to grab both his own and Garth’s unfinished beer bottles on the ground.
Dean doesn’t answer the look, though. You’re far too captivating.
Your body is bopping unrhythmically to Blondie’s Rapture playing on the speakers as you cross the bunker’s floor. Dean chuckles lowly at the sight, his eyebrows scrunching and heart imploding, and the feeling seems to cool the burn of the Mark like a balm. If you turned back and saw him laughing at you ‘dancing’, you’d blame it on the alcohol in your system, but Dean knows better – you just move like that when you’re happy. You pass the wooden table, grabbing a handful of chips and stuffing them into your mouth, before continuing over to a congregated group of Charlie, Cas, Sonny, Jody, Rudy, and Donna, who are all laughing at something Cas has said. Probably his new (attempt at a) joke about a box of antique coins that were so worn out he couldn’t make heads or tails of them. Funny.
As you reach the other group, there’s a sudden movement in front of Dean’s chest, fracturing his fixation on you. He looks down slightly, and Garth is holding out a cold and freshly opened beer bottle for him. Dean’s eyes meet Garth’s, who gives him a closed but warm smile, tilting the bottle towards Dean. He takes it with a quick nod and a thanks.
The bottle is wet and icy against Dean’s heated palm and fingers. He can feel his pulse, each long thrum, against the numbing cool. He raises the bottle’s finish to his lips and takes a long swig, rolling his shoulders back with a relaxing shudder as he swallows the cold liquid and briefly closes his eyes.
Sam and Garth have resumed their chatting and positions on each of Dean’s sides when his eyes reopen. Dean looks towards the other group in search of you, but can’t find any inch. His brows crease.
“Think we’ll be summoned for a group photo?”, and Dean’s hunting gaze is broken, turning to look questioningly at his brother, who motions to the left of him with a jolt of his head.
Dean follows the movement and spots a tripod set up on the other side of the room, facing the wall of the ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAN <3’ sign.
Garth does a full body rock on his toes, nodding his head several times in quick succession, “Yes. Yes, that’s very smart of you, Sam.”
Dean and Sam look back towards Garth, brows raised.
“Garth, are you drunk?” Sam interrogates with an astounded tone and smile.
The string bean rolls his eyes, shrugging his shoulders, “Dudes, I’ve drunk two whole beers. Of course I’m drunk.”
And Dean, old Dean, without the grip of the Mark Dean, would have let out a hearty laugh.
He did laugh after the first time Garth got drunk. Remembers it well.
But it won’t feed the Mark, so Dean forces a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, shakes his head in a ‘disbelief’ manner, and pulls his jaw to his chest so that neither Sam nor Garth can actually read his face.
When Dean lifts his head back up, he sees Rudy, Donna, and Jody walking over. Donna has her classic broad grin, dragging an eye-rolling but smiling Jody along with her, while Rudy follows, playing with the white elastic of his red party hat.
“Hiya, boys!” Donna bubbles, coming to a stop in front of Dean with Jody on her left and Rudy to her right, “thought we’d come over and see what you rascals were up to.” She wiggles her eyebrows at the three of them in front of her.
This is good.
Dean slides his arm to half hug, half clap Sam’s back, and looks at him with a sly, promising smile. “Sammy here was just telling Garth about the time we kicked ass at a Plucky Pennywhistle’s Magical Menagerie in good ol’ Kansas.”
Sam’s head snaps towards Dean in confusion, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Donna gasps in excitement, “Oh geez, that sounds scary!”
It definitely was for Sam.
“Go on, then!”
Yes, Sammy, do go on.
Everyone’s eyes are completely locked on Sam. Dean can tell he’s still clearly confused, but because he’s Sam, he’ll play it off. He knows his brother too well. And Sam does, with a somewhat composed exhale and a squint of his eyes back at Dean, before starting the story.
Dean’s left arm returns to his own body as he takes another sip of his warming but still refreshing beer and smirks in triumph. He can finally plan tonight, now. With no interruptions.
oh guys i SOOO hope you like this one!! feedback and thoughts are ALWAYS welcome so please let me know <333333 can't wait for yall to read the next part - she is juicy juicy, genuinely just pure smut for like 10k of it.
and a MASSIVE MASSIVE thank you to my best friend @m3owdypartner for listening to all my dramas with this fic and being my sounding board - I LOVE YOU!!!
