ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

⌗⠀، [ dean’s angel ] ࿁ ⠀ ⠀ 🤍

[deans4ngel]

an·gel / ˈeɪndʒəl / noun

a luminous entity woven from starlight and silence. one who inhabits the peripheral spaces between the mundane and the infinite. who watches over the man who watches over the world.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ god's words ๋ ࣭ ⭑ angel radio

cr. dividers by @uzmacchiato

[deans4ngel]

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ 𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒑

prophecy in prose ⭑ sam leaves you a voicemail while jerking off to thoughts of you vessels ⭑ sam winchester x reader (f) celestial count ⭑ 690 ℘ essence ⭑ smut (mdni) what even angels whisper about ⭑ explicit sexual content, dirty talk kink, male solo masturbation, phone sex, emotional vulnerability mixed with filth

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒎𝒔 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 ⭑ 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤 ⭑ 𝐬.𝐰.

you see the missed call at 1:42 a.m. sam’s name lighting up the screen. no text. just one voicemail. 3:17 duration.

your thumb hovers. heart already picking up because sam never leaves messages unless it’s urgent. or unless he’s been drinking. or unless he’s been thinking about you too hard to wait.

you hit play. put it on speaker. lie back on your bed in the dark.

his voice fills the room first—rough exhale, like he’s already touching himself. the faint rustle of sheets. a low groan that vibrates straight down your spine.

“hey… fuck. it’s me.”

a pause. wet sound—his hand moving slow. you can picture it: long fingers wrapped around himself, thumb swiping over the tip, smearing precome.

“i tried calling. you didn’t pick up. probably asleep. or out. or… god, i hope you’re alone right now.”

his breath hitches. the rhythm picks up—just a little. slick. rhythmic.

“i can’t stop thinking about you. been hard for hours. tried to ignore it. jerked off once already in the shower. came thinking about your mouth. still wasn’t enough.”

a soft curse under his breath. the bed creaks—he’s shifting, spreading his legs wider maybe. you swallow hard. thighs pressing together without thinking.

“i keep seeing you on your knees. looking up at me with those eyes. the way your lips stretch around me. fuck—your tongue. the little hum you make when you take me deeper.”

his voice drops lower. gravel. wrecked.

“i’m so fucking hard for you. leaking all over my hand. wish it was your pussy instead. tight. hot. dripping. you always get so wet when i talk like this, don’t you? bet you’re touching yourself right now. listening to me fall apart.”

a sharp inhale. his strokes get louder—faster. wet slaps echoing through the speaker.

“i want to fuck your mouth first. hold your hair. watch you choke on me a little. then flip you over. spread you open. slide in slow. feel every inch disappear inside you. you’d clench so hard around me. whimper my name. beg for it harder.”

he moans—long, broken. the sound punches you right between the legs. your hand slips under your waistband before you can think.

“god, baby. i’m close already. just from thinking of you. from imagining you listening. replaying this. touching that pretty clit while my voice fills your room.”

his breathing turns ragged. desperate. words tumbling faster.

“i need you to come with me. please. fuck—please touch yourself. circle your clit the way i do. two fingers inside. curl them. pretend it’s me stretching you. pretend i’m there. pounding into you. telling you how good you feel. how tight. how fucking perfect.”

a choked sound—like he’s biting his lip. trying to hold back. failing.

“i’m gonna come thinking about filling you up. pumping you full. watching it drip out. then pushing it back in with my fingers. making you taste us. fuck—i want that. want you marked. claimed. mine.”

his rhythm stutters. hips jerking into his fist—you can hear it. the wet frantic slide.

“say my name when you come. please. whisper it. scream it. i don’t care. just—fuck—come for me. now. i’m—shit—”

a long, guttural groan rips out of him. deep from his chest. his breath catches—sharp, punched-out gasps. the slick sounds slow. then stop. just heavy panting. a soft, wrecked laugh.

“jesus. came so hard. thinking about you.”

silence for a second. like he’s catching his breath. coming down.

then quieter. softer. almost shy.

“i miss you. more than i should. call me back when you wake up. just know i’m thinking about you. always.”

the voicemail ends. beep.

the room feels too quiet after. your pulse thundering in your ears. your fingers still between your legs—slick. aching. you didn’t even realize you’d started moving to his voice.

you hit replay.

once.

twice.

each time his groans hit deeper. each time you clench harder around your own fingers. chasing the ghost of him.

by the third listen you’re shaking. coming hard. his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. like a promise.

the ache stays. warm. insistent. everywhere.

like his voice never really left the room.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ god's words ๋ ࣭ ⭑ angel radio

cr. images and gif from pinterest

[deans4ngel]

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒔𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒅

prophecy in prose ⭑ dean’s got you flipped over his lap in the impala backseat, spanking you raw until you’re both shaking and coming untouched, marked up and claimed. vessels ⭑ dean winchester x reader (gender neutral) celestial count ⭑ 1055 ℘ essence ⭑ smut (mdni) what even angels whisper about ⭑ explicit sexual content, spanking/marking kink, heavy spanking / impact play, marking kink (hickeys + handprints), grinding / dry humping in the impala, no actual sex but orgasm from grinding & spanking alone

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒎𝒔 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 ⭑ 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 / 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⭑ 𝐝.𝐰.

rain taps lazy against the impala’s roof like it’s trying not to interrupt.

inside it’s warmer—your breath fogging the windows already, leather seats creaking under every shift of weight. dean’s got you straddling his lap in the backseat, knees bracketing his hips, your hands buried in his hair.

the makeout started slow. teasing. his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you opened for him. now it’s deeper. hungrier. teeth catching your bottom lip. his hands sliding up under your shirt, palms rough and warm against your back, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

he’s hard under you. has been since you climbed in here twenty minutes ago whispering “missed you” against his mouth. the thick line of him presses up through his jeans, right against the seam of your pants. every roll of your hips drags a low groan out of him. you grind down harder—slow circles—and he bucks up to meet you. the friction sparks hot behind your eyes.

you break the kiss to breathe. trail your mouth down his jaw. the stubble scrapes your lips in the best way. lower. to the soft spot under his ear. you suck there—gentle at first. then harder. teeth grazing. tongue soothing the sting. his fingers dig into your hips. hard enough to bruise.

“fuck, baby,” he mutters. voice wrecked. “gonna leave a mark.”

that’s the point.

you pull back just enough to admire it: a dark, wet bloom already forming on the side of his neck. perfect. possessive. yours.

dean’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror—catching his own reflection. the purple-red stain stands out stark against his skin. something shifts in his face. pupils blow wide. jaw tightens. the cocky smirk he usually wears drops away, replaced by something darker. hungrier.

he looks back at you. slow. predatory.

“you marked me,” he says. low. rough. like the words taste good.

you swallow. nod. heart hammering. “yeah.”

his hands slide down. cup your ass. squeeze once—hard. then he flips you. fast. one second you’re facing him; the next you’re sprawled chest-down across his lap, cheek pressed to the cool leather, ass up. the sudden shift steals your breath.

“dean—”

“shh.” one hand presses between your shoulder blades. holding you down. the other smooths over the curve of your ass—almost gentle. almost. “you wanted to play. so we’re playing.”

his palm comes down. sharp. loud crack echoing in the tight space of the car. heat blooms instant and fierce across your left cheek. you gasp—jerk forward—but his arm keeps you pinned.

“count,” he orders. voice gravel.

“one,” you manage. shaky.

another slap. harder. on the right side this time. the sting races straight to your core. you clench around nothing. thighs trembling.

“two.”

he doesn’t rush. lets each one land deliberately. alternating sides. building the heat. the burn. your skin feels alive—every nerve singing. by five you’re rocking back into his hand without thinking. chasing the next one.

“look at you,” he murmurs. thumb tracing the edge of a fresh handprint. “taking it so good. getting off on my hand on your ass.”

you whimper. can’t help it. the words hit as hard as the slaps.

he spanks again—lower this time, where thigh meets cheek. the angle makes it sting sharper. deeper. you cry out. muffled against the seat.

“six.”

his cock twitches under you. thick and straining against his zipper. every time you squirm it drags against him. he groans—low, broken.

“fuck. you feel that? how hard you got me just from marking my neck?” he leans down. lips brushing your ear. breath hot. “one little hickey and i’m ready to wreck you.”

another slap. seven. you arch. push back. desperate. the denim of your pants rubs rough against you with every movement. not enough. too much. perfect.

“please,” you gasp.

“please what, sweetheart?” his hand pauses. cups the hot skin. squeezes. the pressure makes you moan. “want more? want me to keep going till you come like this? humping my lap like a needy little thing?”

yes. god yes.

“yes,” you breathe. “more. please.”

he growls—pleased. possessive. the next slap lands harder. faster. he doesn’t stop after that. builds a rhythm. steady. punishing. the sound of skin on denim fills the car. the rain outside picks up—covering the noise but not the wet gasps you can’t hold back.

your ass is on fire. throbbing. every smack sends a fresh wave of heat straight to your core. you grind down harder—desperate little rocks of your hips. chasing friction against his thigh. against his cock. the denim scrapes just right.

“that’s it,” he encourages. voice thick. “ride it. show me how bad you want to come from my hand.”

eight. nine. ten.

by eleven you’re shaking. tears prick your eyes—not from pain. from how close you are. how full-body the pleasure feels. every nerve ending tuned to his palm.

“dean—” your voice cracks.

“come on, baby.” he spanks once more—hardest yet. the crack echoes. “let go. mark me up and i’ll mark you right back.”

the orgasm hits like a slap itself. sudden. brutal. you seize up—whole body locking—then shatter. pulsing waves ripping through you. throbbing against his thigh. ass clenching with every aftershock. you cry out—his name, broken and raw.

he doesn’t stop spanking right away. draws it out. lighter now. coaxing every last tremor from you. his other hand strokes down your spine—a gentle contrast to the sting.

when you finally go limp he flips you again. careful. sits you back on his lap facing him. your ass meets leather—hot. sore. delicious. you hiss. he soothes it with both hands. rubbing slow circles over the handprints he left.

his eyes are dark. wrecked. cock still rock-hard under you. a wet spot darkening the front of his jeans from where you came.

you lean in. kiss him slow. deep. tasting salt and want. your hand slides down—palms him through the denim. he jerks. groans into your mouth.

“your turn?” you whisper against his lips.

he laughs—ragged. pulls you closer. buries his face in your neck. breathes you in.

“we’re not done,” he murmurs. promise. threat. both. “not even close.”

rain keeps falling. windows fogged so thick no one could see in even if they tried. the impala rocks just a little when you shift—settling deeper into his lap. sore. marked. claimed.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ god's words ๋ ࣭ ⭑ angel radio

cr. images and gif from pinterest

[deans4ngel]

umm not to be a smartass but I study linguistics and angel's phonetic transcription is /ˈeɪndʒl/, actually. Thought you might wanna know 💖

you were totally a smartass but a cute smartass, so you are still allowed into heaven. thank you for letting me know, sweet thing. i corrected it + i will definitely never trust google again🤍

[deans4ngel]

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ 𝒆𝒙𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒔

prophecy in prose ⭑ three weeks after sam's cold "don't call unless you're dying" goodbye, he's at your door begging for you back. vessels ⭑ sam winchester x reader (f) celestial count ⭑ 1328 ℘ essence ⭑ smut (mdni) what even angels whisper about ⭑ explicit sexual content, begging kink, rough sex, angsty sex, unprotected, post-break up

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒎𝒔 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 ⭑ 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⭑ 𝐬.𝐰.

you told yourself three weeks was enough. enough to stop checking your phone for a text that never comes. enough to sleep through the night without waking up reaching for him. enough to believe the last words he said—low, brutal, like a door slamming—actually meant something. "you can't see me again. don't text me. don't call unless you're in danger. i won't come for less."

sam's voice had been steady then. too steady. the kind of steady that hides how much it costs him to say it. you stared at his chest instead of his eyes because looking up would've broken you faster. you nodded once. said "okay." watched him walk out into the rain without looking back.

three weeks.

the knock comes at 2:17 a.m. sharp, insistent. too frantic, too personal. you know it's him before you even reach the door. your stomach drops like it remembers every time he left and every time he came back anyway.

you open it just a crack. chain still on.

sam stands there soaked—rain dripping from his hair, darkening the shoulders of his jacket. his eyes are red-rimmed, wild in a way you've only seen after a bad hunt. he looks smaller than he should for someone so tall.

"let me in," he says. voice cracked. "please."

you don't move. your hand tightens on the door. "you said you wouldn't come unless—"

"i know what i said." he cuts you off, desperate. steps closer so the chain pulls taut. "i know. and i'm here anyway. because i can't—fuck, i can't do this without you."

the words hit like a slap. you want to laugh. want to slam the door. want to drag him inside and never let go. the contradiction burns in your chest.

"three weeks, sam." your voice shakes. "you made it very clear."

"i was wrong." he leans his forehead against the doorframe. eyes squeezing shut. "i was so fucking wrong. every day without you feels like dying slower. please. just—let me in. let me fix it. i need you. i need you so bad it hurts."

begging. actual begging. from sam winchester, the man who carries the world like it's his job. your throat closes. you hate how much you still love the sound of him unraveling.

the chain rattles when you slide it off. the door swings open. he steps inside fast—like he's afraid you'll change your mind. the door shuts behind him with a soft click.

he doesn't give you time to think. just crowds you back against the wall. hands on either side of your head. breathing hard. rain drips from his hair onto your collarbone. cold. shocking.

"i'm sorry," he whispers. mouth brushing your temple. "i'm so fucking sorry. i thought keeping you away would protect you. but it's killing me. please forgive me."

you turn your face away. "sam—"

"please." his voice breaks on the word. one hand slides to your jaw, gentle, turning you back. thumb stroking your cheek. "i'll beg all night if that's what it takes. on my knees. anything. just—don't tell me to leave."

your resolve cracks. you grab his wet jacket. pull him down. kiss him like you're punishing both of you. he groans into your mouth—relief, hunger, shame all tangled up. tongue desperate. teeth clashing. like he's trying to crawl inside you through the kiss.

"i missed you," he mumbles against your lips. "missed this. missed the way you taste. the way you feel. please let me have you again."

his hands are already moving. shoving your sleep shirt up. calloused palms sliding over your ribs, cupping your breasts. thumbs circling your nipples until they pebble. you arch into him. hate how fast your body remembers.

"bedroom," you gasp. because the hallway floor suddenly feels too exposed. too real.

he nods. frantic. scoops you up like you weigh nothing—legs around his waist, arms around his neck. he still knows the way. still navigates your dark apartment without turning on a light. still kisses your neck the whole way—open-mouthed, sucking marks he'll apologize for later.

"i need to feel you," he says between kisses. voice rough. "need to be inside you. need to know you're mine again. please. please say yes."

you should say no. should make him suffer more. but your fingers are already in his hair, tugging. "yes," you breathe. traitor. "yes."

he drops you on the bed. gentle despite everything. strips his jacket. shirt. jeans. boxers last. cock already hard, flushed, leaking at the tip. he looks wrecked. beautiful. yours.

you pull your shirt off. shimmy out of your panties. spread your thighs just enough. invitation. challenge.

sam crawls over you. settles between your legs. doesn't push in yet. just looks at you—like he's memorizing every inch in case you disappear again.

"tell me you still want me," he whispers. forehead pressed to yours. "even after what i did. please."

"i hate that i do." the truth slips out. raw. too honest. "but i do. always have."

relief floods his face. he kisses you softer this time. slower. one hand guiding himself to your entrance. nudging. teasing.

"can i?" he asks. voice trembling. "please let me inside you. i need it so bad. need to feel how wet you are for me. need to—"

"sam." you cut him off. hips lifting. "fuck me. now."

he pushes in on a broken moan. slow. deep. no condom. just him. thick. stretching. filling. the burn so good it makes your eyes water.

"fuck," he chokes. hips stuttering once he's seated. "so tight. so perfect. missed this. missed you." he pulls back. thrusts again. harder. "please don't hate me. please let me make it right."

you wrap your legs around him. nails digging into his back. urging him deeper. faster. "harder," you demand. because words are failing. because the only thing that makes sense right now is the slap of skin. the wet slide. the way he hits that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes.

he obeys. pounds into you. bed creaking. headboard thumping the wall. every thrust punctuated by another plea.

"come for me," he begs. mouth at your ear. "please. let me feel you come on my cock. need to feel it. need to know i can still make you feel good."

his hand slips between you. fingers finding your clit. rubbing fast. messy. perfect.

the orgasm builds too fast. coils tight. snaps. you cry out—his name, a sob, something wordless. walls fluttering. pulsing. milking him.

"yes—fuck—thank you," he groans. hips slamming erratic. "gonna come inside you. gonna fill you up. mark you. please let me. please."

"do it," you gasp. clinging. "come in me. sam—"

he buries deep. comes with a broken sound. hips jerking. heat flooding you. pulse after pulse. he keeps moving through it—slow, shallow thrusts—like he can't bear to stop.

when he finally stills, he collapses over you. careful not to crush. face buried in your neck. breathing ragged.

"i love you," he whispers. too quiet. too late. too everything. "i never stopped. i'm sorry i pretended i could."

tears slip down your temples. you don't wipe them away. just hold him tighter. because saying it back feels too big. too soon. too dangerous.

but your body says it anyway—arms locked around him, legs still wrapped, keeping him inside.

you don't know if this fixes anything. don't know if tomorrow he'll leave again. don't know if you'll let him.

all you know is his heartbeat against yours. steady now. the faint ache between your legs. the sticky warmth trickling out. the way he trembles just a little—like he's still scared you'll push him away.

you press a kiss to his damp hair. soft. unspoken.

and for tonight, that's enough.

almost.

the quiet stretches. heavy. unresolved. like the space between "don't come back" and "stay."

you close your eyes. feel him soften inside you. feel the mess. feel everything.

and wonder how long it'll take before he breaks your heart again.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ god's words ๋ ࣭ ⭑ angel radio

cr. images and gif from pinterest

[ambiguous-avery]

I’ve been behind on reading stuff and THIS is what I start off with? Oh dear. Oh my. I am so in love with everything about this. The heartbreak, the pining, the begging, the smut 😍 I really need to get my ass back in gear and get back to my oneshots.

Thank you so much for sharing this art 💜

[deans4ngel]

well, heavens! if this isn't blush worthy, i don't know what is. thank you so much for reading! you're an absolute angel 🤍

[deans4ngel]

OBSESSED with your blog theme oh my god !!!! especially how you've done "summary, pairing" etc. all angel themed. SO. FUCKING. SMART. im lowkey thinking I might do a little changing around on my blog to incorporate that on mine....(obviously not the same titles, and only if youre okay with that !!). n e ways thats all, im just obsessed with the blue and the angel theme <33

- @aseafullofstars !!

hello, k! oh, thank you so much! you're honestly too kind! and please, feel free to take the inspo and run with it. i do not mind at all 😌

[deans4ngel]

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ 𝒆𝒙𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒔

prophecy in prose ⭑ three weeks after sam's cold "don't call unless you're dying" goodbye, he's at your door begging for you back. vessels ⭑ sam winchester x reader (f) celestial count ⭑ 1328 ℘ essence ⭑ smut (mdni) what even angels whisper about ⭑ explicit sexual content, begging kink, rough sex, angsty sex, unprotected, post-break up

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒎𝒔 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 ⭑ 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⭑ 𝐬.𝐰.

you told yourself three weeks was enough. enough to stop checking your phone for a text that never comes. enough to sleep through the night without waking up reaching for him. enough to believe the last words he said—low, brutal, like a door slamming—actually meant something. "you can't see me again. don't text me. don't call unless you're in danger. i won't come for less."

sam's voice had been steady then. too steady. the kind of steady that hides how much it costs him to say it. you stared at his chest instead of his eyes because looking up would've broken you faster. you nodded once. said "okay." watched him walk out into the rain without looking back.

three weeks.

the knock comes at 2:17 a.m. sharp, insistent. too frantic, too personal. you know it's him before you even reach the door. your stomach drops like it remembers every time he left and every time he came back anyway.

you open it just a crack. chain still on.

sam stands there soaked—rain dripping from his hair, darkening the shoulders of his jacket. his eyes are red-rimmed, wild in a way you've only seen after a bad hunt. he looks smaller than he should for someone so tall.

"let me in," he says. voice cracked. "please."

you don't move. your hand tightens on the door. "you said you wouldn't come unless—"

"i know what i said." he cuts you off, desperate. steps closer so the chain pulls taut. "i know. and i'm here anyway. because i can't—fuck, i can't do this without you."

the words hit like a slap. you want to laugh. want to slam the door. want to drag him inside and never let go. the contradiction burns in your chest.

"three weeks, sam." your voice shakes. "you made it very clear."

"i was wrong." he leans his forehead against the doorframe. eyes squeezing shut. "i was so fucking wrong. every day without you feels like dying slower. please. just—let me in. let me fix it. i need you. i need you so bad it hurts."

begging. actual begging. from sam winchester, the man who carries the world like it's his job. your throat closes. you hate how much you still love the sound of him unraveling.

the chain rattles when you slide it off. the door swings open. he steps inside fast—like he's afraid you'll change your mind. the door shuts behind him with a soft click.

he doesn't give you time to think. just crowds you back against the wall. hands on either side of your head. breathing hard. rain drips from his hair onto your collarbone. cold. shocking.

"i'm sorry," he whispers. mouth brushing your temple. "i'm so fucking sorry. i thought keeping you away would protect you. but it's killing me. please forgive me."

you turn your face away. "sam—"

"please." his voice breaks on the word. one hand slides to your jaw, gentle, turning you back. thumb stroking your cheek. "i'll beg all night if that's what it takes. on my knees. anything. just—don't tell me to leave."

your resolve cracks. you grab his wet jacket. pull him down. kiss him like you're punishing both of you. he groans into your mouth—relief, hunger, shame all tangled up. tongue desperate. teeth clashing. like he's trying to crawl inside you through the kiss.

"i missed you," he mumbles against your lips. "missed this. missed the way you taste. the way you feel. please let me have you again."

his hands are already moving. shoving your sleep shirt up. calloused palms sliding over your ribs, cupping your breasts. thumbs circling your nipples until they pebble. you arch into him. hate how fast your body remembers.

"bedroom," you gasp. because the hallway floor suddenly feels too exposed. too real.

he nods. frantic. scoops you up like you weigh nothing—legs around his waist, arms around his neck. he still knows the way. still navigates your dark apartment without turning on a light. still kisses your neck the whole way—open-mouthed, sucking marks he'll apologize for later.

"i need to feel you," he says between kisses. voice rough. "need to be inside you. need to know you're mine again. please. please say yes."

you should say no. should make him suffer more. but your fingers are already in his hair, tugging. "yes," you breathe. traitor. "yes."

he drops you on the bed. gentle despite everything. strips his jacket. shirt. jeans. boxers last. cock already hard, flushed, leaking at the tip. he looks wrecked. beautiful. yours.

you pull your shirt off. shimmy out of your panties. spread your thighs just enough. invitation. challenge.

sam crawls over you. settles between your legs. doesn't push in yet. just looks at you—like he's memorizing every inch in case you disappear again.

"tell me you still want me," he whispers. forehead pressed to yours. "even after what i did. please."

"i hate that i do." the truth slips out. raw. too honest. "but i do. always have."

relief floods his face. he kisses you softer this time. slower. one hand guiding himself to your entrance. nudging. teasing.

"can i?" he asks. voice trembling. "please let me inside you. i need it so bad. need to feel how wet you are for me. need to—"

"sam." you cut him off. hips lifting. "fuck me. now."

he pushes in on a broken moan. slow. deep. no condom. just him. thick. stretching. filling. the burn so good it makes your eyes water.

"fuck," he chokes. hips stuttering once he's seated. "so tight. so perfect. missed this. missed you." he pulls back. thrusts again. harder. "please don't hate me. please let me make it right."

you wrap your legs around him. nails digging into his back. urging him deeper. faster. "harder," you demand. because words are failing. because the only thing that makes sense right now is the slap of skin. the wet slide. the way he hits that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes.

he obeys. pounds into you. bed creaking. headboard thumping the wall. every thrust punctuated by another plea.

"come for me," he begs. mouth at your ear. "please. let me feel you come on my cock. need to feel it. need to know i can still make you feel good."

his hand slips between you. fingers finding your clit. rubbing fast. messy. perfect.

the orgasm builds too fast. coils tight. snaps. you cry out—his name, a sob, something wordless. walls fluttering. pulsing. milking him.

"yes—fuck—thank you," he groans. hips slamming erratic. "gonna come inside you. gonna fill you up. mark you. please let me. please."

"do it," you gasp. clinging. "come in me. sam—"

he buries deep. comes with a broken sound. hips jerking. heat flooding you. pulse after pulse. he keeps moving through it—slow, shallow thrusts—like he can't bear to stop.

when he finally stills, he collapses over you. careful not to crush. face buried in your neck. breathing ragged.

"i love you," he whispers. too quiet. too late. too everything. "i never stopped. i'm sorry i pretended i could."

tears slip down your temples. you don't wipe them away. just hold him tighter. because saying it back feels too big. too soon. too dangerous.

but your body says it anyway—arms locked around him, legs still wrapped, keeping him inside.

you don't know if this fixes anything. don't know if tomorrow he'll leave again. don't know if you'll let him.

all you know is his heartbeat against yours. steady now. the faint ache between your legs. the sticky warmth trickling out. the way he trembles just a little—like he's still scared you'll push him away.

you press a kiss to his damp hair. soft. unspoken.

and for tonight, that's enough.

almost.

the quiet stretches. heavy. unresolved. like the space between "don't come back" and "stay."

you close your eyes. feel him soften inside you. feel the mess. feel everything.

and wonder how long it'll take before he breaks your heart again.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ god's words ๋ ࣭ ⭑ angel radio

cr. images and gif from pinterest

[deans4ngel]

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ 𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒓𝒖𝒏

prophecy in prose ⭑ dean can’t keep it in his pants with sam still awake, so he pulls you out for ice and makes a show against the snack machine. vessels ⭑ dean winchester x reader (f) celestial count ⭑ 1701 ℘ essence ⭑ smut (mdni) what even angels whisper about ⭑ explicit sexual content, exhibitionism kink, public sex in a motel hallway, unprotected, dirty talk, risk of being caught, slight come play

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒎𝒔 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 ⭑ 𝐞𝐱𝐡𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐦 ⭑ 𝐝.𝐰.

another job, another town, another rundown shitty motel.

this one was at full capacity, so you, dean, and sam had to share a room—two beds. okay. done before.

the air hangs thick with stale cigarettes and that cheap pine cleaner that never quite covers the damp. the carpet is worn thin under your boots, and the air conditioner rattles like it’s fighting for its life.

you drop your duffel by the chair, kick your boots off—the sound too loud in the cramped space. sam already claiming the bed closest to the door, his long legs stretched out, a dusty lore book cracked open on his chest like sleep is a suggestion he refuses to take.

dean takes the other bed. his eyes find you the moment the door clicks shut—that half-smirk tugging at his mouth, the one that always means trouble. the kind you crave, even when your brain screams caution.

his leg bounces restless under the thin sheet, and you catch the way his hand drifts low, adjusting himself when he thinks no one is looking. your stomach tightens because you know that look. you know what it does to your body—the slow heat building low, even as you tell yourself: not here. not with sam two feet away, flipping pages like the case is the only thing that matters.

the lamp between the beds casts everything in a sick yellow glow. you lie back on your mattress; the sheets scratchy against your bare thighs, your tank top riding up just enough to catch dean’s gaze again. he doesn’t hide it this time. his eyes drag over the strip of skin at your waist, and you feel it like fingers. the ache between your legs already starting to pulse—soft, insistent. you turn your face to the ceiling, trying to breathe steady, but your pulse is loud in your ears.

minutes crawl. sam mutters something about sigils, his eyes never leaving the book. the air conditioner clunks off, leaving only the buzz of the lamp and the heavy sound of three people pretending they aren’t aware of each other.

dean sits up suddenly—the mattress creaking. “this room’s a fucking oven,” his voice comes out rough, edged with that impatience he gets when the hunt adrenaline hasn’t burned off. “ice machine’s down the hall, right? i’m not sleeping like this.” his stare locks on you—direct, no subtlety at all. “come with me. don’t want to wander this dump alone. you never know.”

sam grunts without looking up. “whatever.” he turns another page like the whole conversation is background noise. but your heart is already hammering because you hear what dean isn’t saying. the real reason. the way his eyes flick down to your mouth, then lower. the invitation is so not-subtle it makes your cheeks burn.

you hesitate for half a second—your mind whispering bad idea, sam will notice, sam will hear—but your body is already moving. sliding off the bed, slipping your flip-flops on. the cool plastic between your toes. “yeah, okay,” you manage. the words come out too breathy.

the door shuts behind you with a soft click, and the hallway air hits different—cooler, damper. the long stretch of faded wallpaper and thin carpet stretching out under the fluorescent lights that buzz overhead like they’re alive and watching every step. the big window at the end frames the parking lot perfectly: cars scattered under the same harsh glow, a truck idling at the far end, someone stepping out, stretching their legs. the possibility of eyes on you sends a shiver racing down your spine, but you keep walking. dean’s shoulder brushing yours, the heat of him cutting through the chill.

halfway down he stops—turning so fast you almost bump into him. his hands find your waist, backing you against the snack machine. the cool metal ridges press into your back through your thin tank; the rows of chips and candy rattling softly behind you.

“ice was just an excuse, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth already close to your ear—breath hot and ragged. “sam’s never gonna sleep, and i’ve been hard since the car ride. couldn’t stop thinking about you.” his hips roll forward, pressing the thick line of his cock against your hip through his sweats. the proof right there—solid, insistent.

you glance sideways at the window. the parking lot staring back. headlights sweeping across the asphalt every few seconds. “dean, someone could see us. right there.” the protest slips out, but your hands are already fisting his shirt, pulling him closer. the words feel weak against the way your thighs press together, chasing friction.

the push and pull inside you is dizzying. you hate how much you love this—the danger, the exposure, the way it makes dean’s touch feel like the only real thing in a life that keeps trying to take everything else.

he chuckles low—the sound vibrating against your neck. “that’s the point, baby. the thought of them watching you fall apart for me.” his fingers slip under your tank, palms rough and warm, sliding up to cup your breasts. thumbs brushing your nipples until they tighten, almost painfully. you gasp—the sound too loud in the empty hall.

he kisses you then—messy and urgent. tongue sliding against yours, teeth nipping your lip. the taste of him: salt and mint and pure need. you kiss back just as hungry, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

“fuck, you’re soaked already,” he groans when his hand dives into your shorts, pushing the fabric aside. two fingers sliding through your slick folds, circling your clit once, twice—the pressure perfect and immediate. your hips jerk; the machine shakes behind you. the fluorescent light above casts everything in sharp, unforgiving white—making every detail too bright: the flush on your chest, the way your lips part, the bead of sweat sliding down dean’s temple.

“dean, please,” you whisper. the words break, messy. “what if someone—”

but he doesn’t let you finish. just yanks your shorts and panties down to your ankles in one motion. the cool air hitting your bare pussy makes you shiver. he shoves his own sweats low enough—his cock springs free, heavy and flushed, the tip already glistening. he strokes himself once, eyes locked on yours. “gonna fuck you raw right here. no rubber, nothing. just you taking every inch while the whole lot watches.”

you nod because words are gone. the leg he lifts hooks over his hip. the head of him nudging your entrance—hot and blunt—then he pushes in. slow at first. the stretch burning so good, so full. just the thick drag of him filling you completely. your nails dig into his back—hard enough to leave marks.

“so full,” you breathe. the fragment slipping out, broken and honest. “too much. perfect.”

he bottoms out with a groan, forehead dropping to yours for one second. the tenderness there—soft and real in the middle of all this heat. “you okay, baby?” he whispers, the question too open, too vulnerable. it makes your chest tighten even as your walls flutter around him.

“yes. more,” you manage. and he gives it. the rhythm starting deep and steady, then building—harder, faster. the snack machine rattles louder with every snap of his hips; the wet slap of skin on skin echoing down the hall—obscene and loud under the buzzing lights.

outside, another car pulls in. the engine rumbling closer. you freeze for a split second—eyes wide on the window—but dean doesn’t stop. if anything, he fucks you harder. one hand gripping your ass, holding you open; the other sliding between you to rub your clit—fast and firm. “let them look,” he growls against your throat. “let them see how pretty you look creaming on my cock.”

the pleasure coils tight and vicious. your thighs start to shake. the fluorescent light blurring above you. the short, sharp sentence hits you again. “harder,” you gasp. and he delivers—pounding into you so deep it steals your breath.

the orgasm crashes—sudden and violent. ripping through you white-hot and overwhelming. your vision spots; your mouth opens in a silent cry. nails raking down his back. he follows right after—hips stuttering, burying himself to the hilt with a low, broken groan. the heat of him spilling deep and raw inside you. the sensation so intimate it makes tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

for a moment he just holds you there—arms wrapped tight, breathing hard against your neck. the roughness fading into something softer. his lips brush your temple—gentle, almost reverent. “god, i love you like this.” the line comes out too honest, too awkward in the afterglow. it makes your cheeks burn even as you cling to him.

the mess of him starts to drip down your thigh—warm and sticky. he pulls out slow, careful—using the hem of his shirt to wipe you clean. tender in a way that twists something deep in your chest.

you tug your shorts back up—legs shaky. the hallway feels brighter now; the risk settling heavy in your stomach. but the ache between your legs is already humming again—soft and insistent. you grab a bucket of ice on the way back because you have to at least pretend.

the keycard beeps too loud when you slip back into the room. sam glances up from his book, eyebrow raised. “no ice?”

dean shrugs—easy as ever. “machine was slow.” but his eyes flick to you with that secret little wink. the air between the three of you suddenly thicker.

you crawl into bed—the sheets cool against your heated skin. but sleep stays far away. the buzz of those hallway lights still echoes in your head. the feel of dean still inside you. the memory of the parking lot. the possibility of eyes on you.

it all swirls into this quiet, unresolved pull—low in your chest. you want more. you want him again. right now. you want the safety of four walls, but the danger calls to you like it always does with dean.

and you lie there staring at the ceiling—the faint ache a personal little reminder that nothing in this life ever really settles. not the hunts. not the rooms. not the way your heart keeps reaching for him, even when it knows better.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ god's words ๋ ࣭ ⭑ angel radio

cr. images and gif from pinterest

[deans4ngel]

𐔌 . ⋮ 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒎𝒔 .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫

praise kink ⋆ spanking / marking ⋆ breeding kink ⋆ exhibitionism ⋆ bondage play

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ 𝐬𝐚𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫

dirty talk ⋆ edging / orgasm control ⋆ role-play ⋆ sensory play ⋆ begging

cr. gif from @tswiftw, images from pinterest.