imagine ˋ°•*⁀➷ 18+ mdni a bed rocking and slamming into a wall as the sound sound of sex plays in the background of in the closet wasn’t just some lewd sound design— michael had the idea to record y’all fucking (something he would come back to and watch while he was away on tour) but then he thought that you just sounded so good, he had to put it somewhere in a song
when he first played you the finished track, you were so embarrassed— and a little bit pleased. you were greedy when it came to him, and now the whole world knew you belong to each other (and that you had a habit of breaking furniture when it came to him running you through a mattress)
i got this idea because of the guns n’ roses song rocket queen (which has actual audio from the front man and his drummer’s gf fucking)
synopsis: you can't seem to get yourself off while michael's away on tour. so when he finally comes home, he decides to teach you himself (w/ the help of a mirror and a v hands-on lesson :p)
cw: smut, fingering (f!receiving), mirror sex (?), squirting, praise kink, teasing, size kink (lil tiny bit), dirty talk, hand kink, guided masturbation, established relationship, soft dom!michael, kinda nasty (oopsies)
the drapes of michael’s bedroom were drawn tight, sealing out the bright afternoon sun and leaving the space wrapped in a warm glow.
michael was finally home.
for months, he had belonged to the world, traveling from city to city, living out of hotel rooms that all blurred together, and spending night after night giving everything to the blinding stadium lights.
and for months, you had been left with nothing but long-distance phone calls.
you had lost count of how many nights you spent curled up in bed with the receiver pressed tightly against your ear, listening to his soft, rhythmic breathing long after the conversation had run out of words.
you missed him with a desperation that physically ached – and unfortunately, he had found out exactly how much a few nights ago.
it had happened sometime after midnight.
you were exhausted, half-asleep, and michael had been teasing you in that low, sleepy murmur of his.
before your defenses could catch up, you had admitted it.
you confessed that you’d tried getting yourself off while he was away, but it never worked.
it didn't feel the way his hands did.
without him there, you couldn't get yourself over the edge, and every single attempt while he was away had left you burning and frustrated.
michael let out a soft, breathless laugh.
"yeah?" he had murmured, his voice dropping lower, sending a shiver straight down your spine. "poor thing..." his voice softened. "i miss you so much. i hate bein' away from you."
you could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke again.
“tell you what… i’ll just have to teach you when i get home.”
by the time the call ended, the tone for his return had been set.
which was exactly how you ended up here.
you were sitting on the floor right between his legs, positioned directly in front of the full-length mirror across from his bed. your shorts and panties were gone, leaving you completely exposed to the reflective glass.
your back rested flush against his chest while his long legs stretched around either side of you, keeping your thighs spread wide so you couldn't close them if you tried. one of his arms was looped loosely around your waist, keeping you tucked securely against the heavy, throbbing hardness straining against his pants.
with only a skimpy pink tank top on, michael had you blushing and writhing in front of the mirror without even laying a finger on you yet.
you felt so exposed, so vulnerable, your chest rising and falling rapidly under the thin cotton of your top.
"mm, look at you." he caught his lower lip between his teeth, shaking his head slightly. "so pretty f’me," he murmured, his head tilted down so he could speak right against your ear.
heat rushed to your face. you turned your head away from the mirror, burying the side of your face against his chest instead.
you couldn't bear to look at your own reflection while michael sat behind you, whispering things like that into your ear.
"c'mon, be a good girl 'n look for me." one of the hands around your waist slid up your chest to grab ahold of your chin, turning it gently to bring your eyes back to the mirror. his other hand tickled at the skin below your navel, sending waves of goosebumps.
"'s embarrassing," you whined, your gaze drifting down to the plush carpet below you.
michael pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to your hair. "no 's not, sweet girl. 's to help teach you." his fingers trailed lower, the heat of his palm brushing your bare thighs.
"that's all y'gotta do. just watch."
in the reflection of the glass, your eyes were drawn to the sight of his hand against your body.
michael’s hands alone stirred something inside of you.
the sheer size of them made your stomach flip with a heavy, restless ache. his palms were broad, and his fingers were long and slender.
as his hand hovered over your center, you could see the faint lines of his knuckles and the subtle swell of the veins tracing down the back of his hand.
they were large enough to completely span your hip, yet precise enough to know exactly how to ruin you.
the hand against your stomach slid a little lower, teasing just above your clit. "'m not always gonna be here to do it for you."
you knew that. you knew that michael wouldn't always be around to take care of you like this. not with the second leg of the tour right around the corner.
so, you let your eyes skim over the floor, slowly inching up the glass of the mirror.
"that's my girl," he whispered, his voice soft against your ear. "if you take your eyes off yourself... i'll stop."
you were both aching with anticipation.
every nerve in your body felt wound tight. the promise hanging between you, the warmth of his body at your back, the sound of his voice against your ear – it all left you so worked up.
you wanted him to finger you the way you needed until you were cumming around his fingers.
you needed that release from him so badly.
and michael was desperate to have you squirming in his grasp, choking out moans for him as you gushed all over his fingers.
his fingers brushed over your clit softly, circling it slowly.
he could hear your breath hitch, your much smaller hands coming to the forearm that still had a hold on your chin.
you were so sensitive, all fidgety in front of him, your body growing even hotter at his touch.
"mikey–" you spoke no louder than a whisper, just enough for him to hear you.
he let his hand slip from your chin, his fingers sliding smoothly down to the bottom hem of your pink top, his palm cupping the soft underside of your right breast. you jerked a little at the sensation, your nipple instantly hardening under his palm.
"this okay, sweet girl?" he murmured. his low voice brushing so close that you can feel the slight curve of a smirk against your ear.
you nodded quickly, your chest heaving as you bit your bottom lip between your teeth to stifle a desperate whine.
but with his hand off your chin, your head dropped forward, your eyes instantly darting downward to watch his other hand hovering over your thighs.
"head, baby," he said softly, his tone was gentle but left no room for argument.
you lifted your head, your cheek brushing against his jaw as you rested back on his shoulder. his hair tickled your cheek as you settled against him.
in the reflection, you watched his fingers slide down past your navel, dipping right into the slick arousal gathered between your thighs.
"look how wet you are,” he chuckled, sliding the tips of his fingers through your heat, spreading the slick moisture. his bottom lip caught briefly between his teeth before a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "this all for me?”
his words made your face and neck grow warm, crinkling your nose, your legs attempting to close. but his own legs were in the way, keeping them pinned wide open.
"michael, this is humiliating," you muttered, pressing yourself farther back against his chest like you were trying to escape.
you weren’t.
and you knew that.
you were too riled up.
too desperate for him to fill you.
"take a lick, sweetheart," he teased, bringing his hand away from your heat and up to your face.
you tucked your head into the crook of his neck, your eyes flicking toward his hand for just a second. in the dim light, you could see the creamy, glistening slick coating his fingertips.
when you finally forced your eyes upward to meet his in the mirror, your eyes were wide and dazed.
"be a good girl 'n get my fingers nice 'n wet for you," he mumbled, a tender smile playing on his lips as he looked down at you with heavy, dark eyes.
wrapping both of your hands around his wrist, you guided his fingers toward your mouth. your tongue brushed against them before you drew them in, tasting the faint trace of yourself still lingering on his skin.
you let them rest there for a moment, coating them with your saliva while his gaze stayed fixed on you. when he finally told you to open your mouth, you obeyed without hesitation. he carefully pulled his fingers free, a thin strand of saliva stretched between them and your tongue before finally breaking.
the spit dripped off his fingers, trailing down your stomach before his hand found its way back between your thighs. his fingertips were still warm from your mouth, damp as they brushed teasingly against your entrance.
michael felt your pussy flutter against his fingertips.
"god, baby–" he muttered, beginning to tease his middle finger inside, "look at that."
"see how pretty she is? squeezin' me like that?"
your hands returned to his forearm, digging your blunt nails into the skin as his hand palmed heavily at your breast.
"please, please," you mewled, your breath catching sharply in your throat as the slick tips of his fingers parted your entrance.
your voice was all shaky as he nudged his way inside. he eased in just a little more, letting you feel the stretch until he was two full knuckles deep.
you were so tight around him, your walls clamping down on his fingers like a vice. every shift of his hand sent a jolt straight through you, causing your body to pulse helplessly around his fingers.
"shit, 'can feel you, sweetheart," he gasped out, his breath stuttering against your ear.
once he slid his finger all the way to the hilt, he kept his hand still for a moment, letting your body adjust to the thick stretch of him.
with agonizingly gentle precision, he hooked his finger upward, curling it slightly against your gummy walls and pressing it right against your sweet spot.
the sudden pressure hit you like a wave, making you let out a high, broken whimper as your head shook back and forth against his shoulder.
"michael," you whimpered, your legs beginning to tremble where they were hooked over his own.
it was pathetic.
he was only a finger deep inside you, yet you were falling apart, crumbling into a shaking mess right in his arms.
the hand cupping your breast glided upwards, his fingers grazing lightly over your raised nipple right through the thin fabric of your top.
the hit of pleasure sent your head falling back against his collarbone. your back arched off the floor into his touch, your ass grinding back ruthlessly against the rigid length of his hard cock.
"need more, please," you begged with a breathy moan.
any lingering thought of watching the mirror or trying to memorize his movements for later completely evaporated from your mind.
it didn’t matter anymore.
you knew that never, ever, would you be able to replicate the pleasure he was making you feel right now.
he slowly drew his finger out of you, making you cry out from the friction, before sliding it right back in easily.
you were sucking him back in, begging for more.
he started with languid pumps of a single finger, murmuring dirty, breathless praises against your ear as you trembled and shook in his arms.
a delicious heat coiled in your stomach at an intensity you’d never felt before.
every moment had you wound up so tight. he had you on such an edge that you truly thought you would explode.
and as he pulled back out once more, he returned with another finger.
"oh my god." you gasped, your legs clamping tightly around his own.
michael could feel your stomach tense up as he filled you even more. he could feel your breathing grow ragged and the volume of your cries become careless.
every push of his knuckles against you was sloppy and loud. you were gushing around him, slick running down his long fingers to coat his knuckles and wrist.
"makin' such a mess," he teased. "you’re close, aren’t you, sweet thing?" his lips brushed against the damp skin of your neck, his breath warm against you.
"michael! i–i’m–" your mouth fell open as your legs kicked helplessly over his thighs.
his fingers pressed deeper, curling into a spot that made you gasp out a frantic, “y-yeah–”
he adjusted his angle, pressing harder into your sweet spot until it drew a sudden burst of wetness right out of you. your walls clamped down around his fingers, his cock pulsing against you in response. he kept working that exact spot, pumping another burst out of you as he groaned against your neck.
"right there?" he murmured. "right there makes you squirt? i know it feels good right there, baby." he didn't let up, his voice soft against your ear as your thighs shook.
"uh huh...yeah?" he coaxed. "yeah, that's it. cum f’me," he murmured.
the hand on your breast slid higher beneath the hem of your top to grab your chin, gently turning your face toward him.
before you could think, he was kissing you, deep and sloppy, swallowing every sound that escaped you.
it was overwhelming.
the coil inside you finally gave way, crashing through you all at once as you gushed all over his fingers and hand.
the sudden rush of fluid soaked his fingers and stained the carpet beneath you. you moaned into his mouth as he kissed you. your body spasmed in his arms, your ass grinding up against him helplessly as he rode through his own orgasm.
just from watching you, watching how your pretty little pussy squeezed his fingers and leaked all over his hand, michael let out a deep, strangled groan into the kiss. his body locked up behind yours as he came in thick, hot spurts, soaking through his underwear as his own climax hit him.
───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───
his hands r just ugh
its always so funny talking down here normally like i didn't write allat up there
oh we need some more pervy bsf mike..like what he used to do before deflowering y/n
perv!bsf!mikey who, before reaching third base with you, would lift your shirt a little too high, to 'tickle' you (grope your cute waist) chuckling softly at your whiney protest when your pretty lacy bra would be exposed >⩊<.ᐟ
perv!bsf!mikey who hugs you a little to tight to feel the swell of your tits on him
perv!bsf!mikey who asked you to rate his cock, but you cant leave him all hard and leaky! so he has you wrap your hands around him "where'd you learn to be this good? hm?"
perv!bsf!mikey who doesnt want to make a mess when he cums, so he has you stick your wet tongue out. resting his pretty brown tip on it, shooting cum down your throat.
perv!bsf!mikey who grinds his morning wood on your perky ass in the morning, whilst you sleep, after a sleepover.
perv!bsf!mikey who grips your waist a little to tightly when you're talking to jackie for far to long
perv!bsf!mikey who has told you that its completely normal for best friends to change infront of each other!!
perv!bsf!mikey who rubs your puffy pussy to 'practice' for his future girlfriend.
perv!bsf!mikey who knows you said 'no fingers' when getting you off, but how is he supposed to make you feel good!! muffling your protests with deep kisses, as he slides two fingers in your poor little pussy.
perv!bsf!mikey whos gonna get touched by me
a/n: sorry for the inactivity!! im on vacation yayayay, but michaels still HEAVY on my mind, enough that im deadass on my way to see it for a 3rd time rn, glad to see it's the same for you all still!! please make more reqs!! im here to service you all!! ok love you byebyebye
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : you’re always so willing to be a helpful hand to bellamy. one day, he just can’t bear your graciousness without taking you right on the countertop!
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 : there is a serious shortage in bellamy fics on here, so here i come to the rescue ladies.
You liked following Bellamy around. There was always something he had to take care of, somewhere to be. His duties as a guard could mean he’d have to go on scouting missions, take watches, arrange sparring lessons for the younger kids — it didn’t matter what it was. What mattered, was that sometimes he needed assistance, or simply some company. That was when you always had eagerly stepped in.
He’d often joke about earning himself a shadow, a puppy that tags along wherever he wends. And you? You just giggled, feeling your insides twist in an overwhelming warmth when he’d teasingly ruffle your hair or squeeze your arm. There simply was no point in denying that nothing filled you with more satisfaction, than the feeling of being useful to him. You liked knowing he valued your presence, your input in things. You liked joking with him in the meantime of whatever task you two were managing together. You liked the way he’d praise you when you did something right. Or the way he’d sometimes tell you to come over to his quarters later. You liked when under the cover of nightfall, in the warmth of his sheets, he sometimes made you all his. Well, you simply liked everything that involved your best friend.
That’s why today when you saw him walking through the corridors with some boxes in his hands, you joined in on the task, as he had suggested your help would be appreciated. You were about to run a supply check in the armory.
Bellamy made his way through the cluttered room and stopped by a large counter where he set down the boxes he was holding. You quickly followed behind him and placed your hands on the cold surface to swiftly jump on top of it. He chuckled under his breath at the way your small body struggled but successfully settled on the countertop in the end. “Alright,” he sighed and looked into your eyes, as if letting you know to listen carefully. You watched as his hand dived into the pocket of his black cargo pants and proceeded to hand you a tablet with quite a long checklist of equipment on it’s screen. “You read, I find the stuff and check it, and you log it. ‘Kay?”
“‘Kay.” With a nod, you grabbed the device from him. Ready to get right on the job.
You worked fast together. Well, excluding the time you spent admiring the sight of his muscles flexing whenever he moved something heavier. Or when his beige t-shirt rode up when he reached to higher shelves, revealing his firm stomach and defined v-line.
But little did you know, he couldn’t help but steal glances at you as well. Way more frequently than it was appropriate. He delighted in the way you absentmindedly swung your pretty legs back and forth as you sat on the high counter, the way your slightly disheveled hair kept on falling over your eyes. Seeing you all focused, your brows adorably met together as you clicked on the device in your hold, was distracting as hell.
So as he was in the middle of stacking ammo boxes, he striked up a conversation again. “You sure I’m not keeping you from your own work? Thought you said Kane had you drowning in drawing maps for the scouting missions, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess I did say that,” you bit the inside of your cheek, smirk creeping upon your face as you let out a lazy sigh. “But I can use a break. It gets boring.”
“Hey, we’ve been over this. You don’t gotta drop everything you’re doing just cause I say I could use you by my side. Don’t do that.” he reminded you, his voice still soft but also bearing some sternness in it. Your eyelashes fluttered to look down at the way his palm squeezed your knee and began to knead further on the material of jeans that tightly hugged your thighs. His touch became firmer once he noticed the pink color blooming on the entirety of your cheeks, making him want to feel every inch of that heated skin of yours.
“But I just like helping you.” you mumbled softly, your eyes looking up to him in a way that always left his throat dry when he gazed at them for a second too long.
That sentence broke something within him. It slipped past your plump lips so effortlessly, so adorably, that he felt like he couldn’t not show you how much he cherished it. Cherished you — sitting there, all pretty in front of him, making such admissions right into his ear.
“Come on here,” he breathed out, patting the space on the counter exactly in front of him. He watched your eyes literally light up. If you had a tail, it would be wagging left and right in excitement now. You shifted your body towards him. “Don’t be shy,” he chuckled and coaxed you nearer, his tone warm and welcoming, as your legs were now bumping against his firm thighs. “Closer, make it easier for me, alright?” the alluring rumble already made heat pool in your belly. Once you were face to face, his head ducked down to watch as he parted your thighs further with one hand, in one taunting motion. “Yeah, like that.” after those words, both of his large palms grasped your backside and pressed you closer, to the very edge of the worktop. One of them then travelled up to your face, cupping your flaming hot cheek. You felt his thumb rubbing circles on your cheekbone, then sliding lower, until it reverently grazed your lower lip. The sensation made you suck in a sharp breath.
You were in a haze. You always were when you could feel how achingly hard he was, pressed right against you. The excitement radiating off you was palpable, you were aware of your thighs already trembling. All because you just couldn’t wait until he’d pound into you.
His thumb began to part your lips. Your mouth widened while your tongue welcomed him immediately. He literally just gave you something to play with, just to watch you. You started sucking on his finger and took another one too once he slid it down. “So pretty,” he encouraged your fond ministrations, all while the room quickly filled with your muffled groans. “God…”
As much as he loved the sight before him, he couldn’t prolong the moment you both craved so greatly. Wasting no time, his hand moved to grab the back of your neck, making your lips crash into his with immerse force. Your tongues met in an all-too-familiar dance, you exchanged spit and breaths alongside muffled wails that left your throats each time you grinded your hips against one another.
“I want you to help me with somethin’ else now, bunny.” he breathed into your neck between the kisses. You twitched as you felt his fingers tracing right in the middle between your thighs, teasing your clothed core into throbbing. “Could you?”
“I can. I will help.” you almost whined under his touch.
“Knew I could count on you.” his delectable praise landed into your mouth as he kissed you again. Slower this time, deeper. He unzipped your pants and, in one practiced motion, slid them down your velvety legs, managing to rub them fondly in the process. Spread before him, your eyes followed the action of his hands helping you out of your panties. “Oh God, baby,” he cooed while dragging his thumb over the damp material. “How’d you get like this, huh?”
Your head tilted eagerly as he leaned down to you, wanting to get the most out of the hungry kiss he suddenly served you. You needed to feel him all over yourself. Now. Your hands dived in the mane of his dark curls, tugging at a few strands lightly, just to earn some extra reactions from him. His hand has quit kneading on your thigh in order to travel towards the zipper of his pants. He shoved his boxers just low enough to free his thick, reddened cock. Your head got a tiny bit dizzy when it grazed the inside of your leg, letting you feel his weight. Letting you recognize how starved you truly have been.
“C’mere, baby.” he murmured before nudging his tip against your entrance. You couldn’t help but look down to where your bodies were now connected. Just a second later, a breathy whine from your lips came unasked when he pushed his length inside you, his balls now resting against the softness of your ass. He knew he had to cover your mouth with his before you could let out a sinisterly loud cry.
Your thighs clamped at either sides of his hips and your eyes sealed shut the moment your walls swallowed him whole. He was warm and throbbing. Everything about him was always so warm, so intense and inviting. You’d like him fucking you anywhere he’d wish. Even in the cold armory, with the door half open.
“Missed this cock, didn’t you, baby?” he warbled and then moaned at the heavenly feeling of the pulsing squeeze of your walls. You always took him so good and deep, and he could never get enough of the way your face turned rosy while he was inside you. His heart felt achingly full. His face had to drop to your shoulder to press tender pecks over the crook of your neck.
“Ugh, Bell!” you couldn’t not yelp out when he slowly pulled out with a wet squelch, just to push himself all the way back in. The steady rhythm of his hips left you shaken up as you greedily gathered pleasure from every single stroke. “F-fuck!”
“Yeah I know, baby, I know. I missed you too,” he softly ribboned out against your scalp. “So fucking much.”
Your back arched, making your body angle differently against him. Suddenly he was hitting even deeper. The change was drastic – your whole frame shuddered, you threw your head back in pure bliss.
“There we go,” You felt how his thumb tweaked your clit with practiced ease, knowing exactly how to make you fall apart with every loving rub. “No one else’s gonna fuck you this good, bunny.” with those words, he smeared a kiss to your forehead. All you could do was nod and whine – cause you perfectly knew he spoke nothing but the truth.
All this was getting too much for your body to take on. The pressure building tight in your gut was agonizing. “Bellamy – mngh! I’m close…”
“Just a lil more, sweetheart,” he growled lowly. “Gonna wait for me, yeah?” The sound of his cracked voice sank into your sweat-covered skin, as you fiercely held back the overwhelming urge for him, knowing how much he’ll appreciate that.
He eventually shoved inside you one last time, hips stuttering and jerking with each pulse. You both gasped as waves of pleasure overtook you, release dripping down his and your own legs. You didn’t feel like moving at all. You’d secretly like for him to stay buried inside you for a while, you’d like to feel that kind of warmth for way longer than appropriate.
His calloused fingers combed through your messed up hair, making you look into his eyes. “Toughest girl.” he praised.
You supposed that’s how friends help each other out.
summary : nothing riles bellamy up more, than you making fun of him. sadly, him taking up the challenge of fixing the rover is the perfect opportunity for you to do so.
warnings : softdom!bellamy x fem!reader, banter, heated making out, but nothing too explicit, slight roughness, dry humping, on the hood of the rover, in the middle of nowhere, aka my dream.
word count : 1.6k.
“Damn it!”
Your head perked up at Bellamy’s voice coming from underneath the chassis of the rover. „You know, usually when the mechanic lets out ten ‚damn its’ within 5 minutes, it’s not a good sign.”
“You havin’ fun here?” he mumbled with a sigh.
“Absolutely. How about you?” you asked, twirling some unknown tool in your hands.
“I’m having an absolute–” A loud thunk. “–blast.”
It was getting harder not to laugh at his struggling with each minute passing. The thing is, Raven insisted on quickly getting the small malfunction in the rover fixed for him the other day. But Bellamy, being the stubborn man he is, assured that he was fully capable of doing that himself. And once he got his hands on something? He could never admit defeat. Especially not when you and Raven were already making bets on how many hours it would take until he would storm out of the mechanic bay, cussing out the rover.
“Pliers, please. The big ones,” He outstreached his muscled arm to you with marks of grease on it. You grabbed the tool hopping off the worktop. “Thank you.” he mumbled, reaching for the implement.
You gave him an encouraging pat on the leg in response. “Anything else?”
“Pliers and your insufferable jokes should be enough for now, thanks doll.”
•
“Alright,” After a few more curse words of his and even more teasing comments from you, he finally rolled out from under the chassis. Wiping sweat from his brow, he stood up and looked up to you with a wide grin. “See? All done.”
“Really?” Seeing traces of dirt covering his freckled cheeks, you fondly rubbed them away. He didn’t seem to care about them though — he was way too proud of himself to notice anything other than the fixed rover.
“Really,” The keys jostled in his hand as he was already holding the passenger door open for you. ”C’mon. You up for a test drive?”
You jumped into your seat and just couldn’t get enough of the childlike beam on his face. He was so eager to prove himself, to rub it in your face - but you didn’t mind. Not when it meant seeing him so damn happy.
The trees flashed before your eyes as Bellamy pressed the gas harder, getting a bit bolder. Your eyes met at the exact moment when the engine rumbled louder, causing the steering wheel to shudder under his grasp.
“Go easy! What if…” you scoffed as the dust from under the tires covered half the window.
“What if what? You have that little faith in me?” The expression you made was a clear response. He shook his head and let out a sigh. “Face it — it runs like a dream!” His palm patted the dusty dashboard.
Then as if on command - a faint whine rose beneath the noise of the engine. Steady and sharp. As if something was straining to hold on.
“What was that?”
“Maybe it’s just…” Bellamy really wanted to believe it was nothing to fuss about. Unfortunately, the following jolt sygnalized otherwise. “Oh shit.” That tone couldn’t bear good news. The engine fell silent as he pocketed the keys.
Your legs swung back and forth as you sat on the hood. You were waiting for the final diagnosis while Bellamy dived underneath the chassis again. Once he got up with a pathetic, resignated sigh, you needed to bite your tongue to hold back your amusement.
You watched him lean against the hood right by your side, run his hand through his messy curls and finally speak up. “Call for…”
“Raven’s on her way.” you finish his sentence with a fond look.
“Good.” He nodded. He looked so deep in thought, as if he was still going over what could have possibly gone wrong. You couldn’t take it any longer. The burst of laughter came unbidden.
“Yeah, sure, laugh. You jinxed it!”
“I didn’t!” you managed to slip out between the chuckles.
He shook his head and slowly closed the distance between you. Looking up to you, he positioned himself between your legs and decided to openly address your viciousness. “You’re cruel,” he mumbled with feigned reproach, cupping your knees with his large palms. His grasp was firm, obviously conveying how deeply your lack of faith ‚angered’ him. “Be nicer to me. You could have at least pretended I was doing well as a mechanic.”
“I’ll stick to my ways,” Your fingers reached up to brush some strands of black hair from his eyes, hoping the tender gesture could placate him. But only a few seconds later, your cruelty got the best of you after all. “I’d say you should stay away from the mechanic bay. For the sake of public safety.”
“How dare you.” he groaned and before you could let out another one of your signature smartass remarks, his hands were already at your waist, giving you a warning pinch. You felt his whole body lean onto you, while clutching at your midsection. A small chuckle slipped through your throat, as his words, said in that rugged tone, landed deep in your stomach. His breath tickled your neck, making your skin feverish even from the smallest contact. He was more than aware of how fast your body was to respond. He knew how to push your buttons. Leaving you completely at his mercy way too easily. Now — he got to be the cruel one.
Playful giggling morphed into gasps. His palms endlessly kneading at your thighs were a punishment. His teeth sinking into your lower lip - a teasing disciplining. As if that was a perfect retaliation for making fun of him and injuring his pride.
Your body hummed with anticipation while you ached for a proper touch, not just a playful one. You needed his mouth, your hands desperately reached for his neck to guide his lips to yours. When he finally decided to go for your mouth, he almost lunged forward. His right palm grabbed your cheek, squeezed it, slipped down your jaw, your neck, and gave a rougher squeeze there as well. Drawing a deep sigh out of you, his lips curled in a smile while his chest rumbled with chuckle as sweet as honey.
You both have long forgotten about where you were and why.
You felt his hips jerk forward, enough to make you tremble when you felt his hardness. Enough to make you mouth a quiet whimper into his shoulder. A taunting move ended too soon, leaving you deprived of a proper sensation. Again.
Then his damned hands. Every time his fingers got closer to where you wanted them the most, they retreated. He sucked on your collarbone slowly, letting his teeth experience your skin there too. Occasionaly letting out deep, satisfied sighs. Making you weak. He caressed your inner thigh, brushing against your core, rubbing with only the lightest pressure. You tried to lean in closer, slide further on top of the cold hood. Seeking more friction, you moved your thighs, causing him to just laugh against your skin. “Easy, okay?” he whispered. “Cruel, impatient…what else, huh?” he softly summed you up before focusing on marking your neck. You let out a small, pained sound of pleasure when his bites were temporarily distracting from the blooming heat in you.
Your legs wrapped around his waist, riding up his t-shirt, rubbing against the holster at his belt. “Damn it, doll-” He went crazy at the sensation. Losing all the power he used for holding himself in check, he lowered himself down on you, making your back hit the steel. You grunted with a smile, sick from anticipation and hunger. His breath grew shallow as he adjusted his position. His mouth was not taking a smallest break from devouring you. He rubbed himself against your core while his warm fingers stroked your untamed hair behind your ear.
“Bell…” Your pulse was in your throat. His hands were everywhere. The buckle of his belt loosened with your help. Just a moment and you could feel him, he would give you what you crave, and then…
He stopped. Fucking stopped.
You tried to catch your breath. You tugged on his belt, looking up to him pleadingly, unaware of anything around you. Just when you were about to scold him and let out a needy whine…a rumble of an engine in a near distance reached your ears, and your eyes finally registered what he saw too.
Of course. You called for Raven.
“Shit.” His trembling with need hands travelled to his belt, jumping off you.
You fixed your hair, with embarassment trying to ignore the banging of your heartbeat, trying to calm down. Cursing yourself for making the fucking radio call so soon…
Raven jumped out of her rover wordlessly. Bearing a smirk too wide to mean nothing.
Of course she saw.
As soon as she approached you two, your head turned towards Bellamy, whose face was all red. You fought with everything within you not to laugh. “I’m gonna go get the…toolbox.” he mumbled with an awkward smile, immediately heading towards Raven’s rover.
“Yeah, okay.” You nodded with unnecessary enthusiasm. After letting out a deep breath, you took up the courage to face Raven.
She eyed the rover up and down. Then you. Then she scoffed. “Well, no wonder the truck’s broken if you two do that often...”
summary : nothing riles bellamy up more, than you making fun of him. sadly, him taking up the challenge of fixing the rover is the perfect opportunity for you to do so.
warnings : softdom!bellamy x fem!reader, banter, heated making out, but nothing too explicit, slight roughness, dry humping, on the hood of the rover, in the middle of nowhere, aka my dream.
word count : 1.6k.
“Damn it!”
Your head perked up at Bellamy’s voice coming from underneath the chassis of the rover. „You know, usually when the mechanic lets out ten ‚damn its’ within 5 minutes, it’s not a good sign.”
“You havin’ fun here?” he mumbled with a sigh.
“Absolutely. How about you?” you asked, twirling some unknown tool in your hands.
“I’m having an absolute–” A loud thunk. “–blast.”
It was getting harder not to laugh at his struggling with each minute passing. The thing is, Raven insisted on quickly getting the small malfunction in the rover fixed for him the other day. But Bellamy, being the stubborn man he is, assured that he was fully capable of doing that himself. And once he got his hands on something? He could never admit defeat. Especially not when you and Raven were already making bets on how many hours it would take until he would storm out of the mechanic bay, cussing out the rover.
“Pliers, please. The big ones,” He outstreached his muscled arm to you with marks of grease on it. You grabbed the tool hopping off the worktop. “Thank you.” he mumbled, reaching for the implement.
You gave him an encouraging pat on the leg in response. “Anything else?”
“Pliers and your insufferable jokes should be enough for now, thanks doll.”
•
“Alright,” After a few more curse words of his and even more teasing comments from you, he finally rolled out from under the chassis. Wiping sweat from his brow, he stood up and looked up to you with a wide grin. “See? All done.”
“Really?” Seeing traces of dirt covering his freckled cheeks, you fondly rubbed them away. He didn’t seem to care about them though — he was way too proud of himself to notice anything other than the fixed rover.
“Really,” The keys jostled in his hand as he was already holding the passenger door open for you. ”C’mon. You up for a test drive?”
You jumped into your seat and just couldn’t get enough of the childlike beam on his face. He was so eager to prove himself, to rub it in your face - but you didn’t mind. Not when it meant seeing him so damn happy.
The trees flashed before your eyes as Bellamy pressed the gas harder, getting a bit bolder. Your eyes met at the exact moment when the engine rumbled louder, causing the steering wheel to shudder under his grasp.
“Go easy! What if…” you scoffed as the dust from under the tires covered half the window.
“What if what? You have that little faith in me?” The expression you made was a clear response. He shook his head and let out a sigh. “Face it — it runs like a dream!” His palm patted the dusty dashboard.
Then as if on command - a faint whine rose beneath the noise of the engine. Steady and sharp. As if something was straining to hold on.
“What was that?”
“Maybe it’s just…” Bellamy really wanted to believe it was nothing to fuss about. Unfortunately, the following jolt sygnalized otherwise. “Oh shit.” That tone couldn’t bear good news. The engine fell silent as he pocketed the keys.
Your legs swung back and forth as you sat on the hood. You were waiting for the final diagnosis while Bellamy dived underneath the chassis again. Once he got up with a pathetic, resignated sigh, you needed to bite your tongue to hold back your amusement.
You watched him lean against the hood right by your side, run his hand through his messy curls and finally speak up. “Call for…”
“Raven’s on her way.” you finish his sentence with a fond look.
“Good.” He nodded. He looked so deep in thought, as if he was still going over what could have possibly gone wrong. You couldn’t take it any longer. The burst of laughter came unbidden.
“Yeah, sure, laugh. You jinxed it!”
“I didn’t!” you managed to slip out between the chuckles.
He shook his head and slowly closed the distance between you. Looking up to you, he positioned himself between your legs and decided to openly address your viciousness. “You’re cruel,” he mumbled with feigned reproach, cupping your knees with his large palms. His grasp was firm, obviously conveying how deeply your lack of faith ‚angered’ him. “Be nicer to me. You could have at least pretended I was doing well as a mechanic.”
“I’ll stick to my ways,” Your fingers reached up to brush some strands of black hair from his eyes, hoping the tender gesture could placate him. But only a few seconds later, your cruelty got the best of you after all. “I’d say you should stay away from the mechanic bay. For the sake of public safety.”
“How dare you.” he groaned and before you could let out another one of your signature smartass remarks, his hands were already at your waist, giving you a warning pinch. You felt his whole body lean onto you, while clutching at your midsection. A small chuckle slipped through your throat, as his words, said in that rugged tone, landed deep in your stomach. His breath tickled your neck, making your skin feverish even from the smallest contact. He was more than aware of how fast your body was to respond. He knew how to push your buttons. Leaving you completely at his mercy way too easily. Now — he got to be the cruel one.
Playful giggling morphed into gasps. His palms endlessly kneading at your thighs were a punishment. His teeth sinking into your lower lip - a teasing disciplining. As if that was a perfect retaliation for making fun of him and injuring his pride.
Your body hummed with anticipation while you ached for a proper touch, not just a playful one. You needed his mouth, your hands desperately reached for his neck to guide his lips to yours. When he finally decided to go for your mouth, he almost lunged forward. His right palm grabbed your cheek, squeezed it, slipped down your jaw, your neck, and gave a rougher squeeze there as well. Drawing a deep sigh out of you, his lips curled in a smile while his chest rumbled with chuckle as sweet as honey.
You both have long forgotten about where you were and why.
You felt his hips jerk forward, enough to make you tremble when you felt his hardness. Enough to make you mouth a quiet whimper into his shoulder. A taunting move ended too soon, leaving you deprived of a proper sensation. Again.
Then his damned hands. Every time his fingers got closer to where you wanted them the most, they retreated. He sucked on your collarbone slowly, letting his teeth experience your skin there too. Occasionaly letting out deep, satisfied sighs. Making you weak. He caressed your inner thigh, brushing against your core, rubbing with only the lightest pressure. You tried to lean in closer, slide further on top of the cold hood. Seeking more friction, you moved your thighs, causing him to just laugh against your skin. “Easy, okay?” he whispered. “Cruel, impatient…what else, huh?” he softly summed you up before focusing on marking your neck. You let out a small, pained sound of pleasure when his bites were temporarily distracting from the blooming heat in you.
Your legs wrapped around his waist, riding up his t-shirt, rubbing against the holster at his belt. “Damn it, doll-” He went crazy at the sensation. Losing all the power he used for holding himself in check, he lowered himself down on you, making your back hit the steel. You grunted with a smile, sick from anticipation and hunger. His breath grew shallow as he adjusted his position. His mouth was not taking a smallest break from devouring you. He rubbed himself against your core while his warm fingers stroked your untamed hair behind your ear.
“Bell…” Your pulse was in your throat. His hands were everywhere. The buckle of his belt loosened with your help. Just a moment and you could feel him, he would give you what you crave, and then…
He stopped. Fucking stopped.
You tried to catch your breath. You tugged on his belt, looking up to him pleadingly, unaware of anything around you. Just when you were about to scold him and let out a needy whine…a rumble of an engine in a near distance reached your ears, and your eyes finally registered what he saw too.
Of course. You called for Raven.
“Shit.” His trembling with need hands travelled to his belt, jumping off you.
You fixed your hair, with embarassment trying to ignore the banging of your heartbeat, trying to calm down. Cursing yourself for making the fucking radio call so soon…
Raven jumped out of her rover wordlessly. Bearing a smirk too wide to mean nothing.
Of course she saw.
As soon as she approached you two, your head turned towards Bellamy, whose face was all red. You fought with everything within you not to laugh. “I’m gonna go get the…toolbox.” he mumbled with an awkward smile, immediately heading towards Raven’s rover.
“Yeah, okay.” You nodded with unnecessary enthusiasm. After letting out a deep breath, you took up the courage to face Raven.
She eyed the rover up and down. Then you. Then she scoffed. “Well, no wonder the truck’s broken if you two do that often...”
if anyone were to walk into bellamy blake’s tent, the image before them would appear innocent - a messy haired boy curled up with his girlfriend, his arm drawn across your waist. what they wouldn’t see is his cock stuffed deep into your cunt beneath the covers, still as a statue. the hand so ‘eloquently’ around your waist is instead dipping to rub tight circles against your clit whilst he tells you that he’ll only move when you’ve already come once.
bellamy blake, who tries his damn hardest to keep to his word, to prevent himself from driving into the girl before him with a pace so bruising you’d fear he might pierce through your tummy. every soft mewl you let out fuels the fire burning in his core to take you, to claim you, to fuck you until all you know is his name and the shape of his cock inside of you.
his patience is thin, and bellamy blake has never been one to hold back. he moves his fingers hastily until your jaw is dropping in a near silent screech, the digits of his free hand stuffing deep into the warm crevice of your mouth to silence you. he doesn’t want anyone else hearing how you writhe for him, and only him.
all bellamy blake knows by now is how to please you, to make it known that if you ever leave, nobody will bring you to the heights he does. nobody would position themselves behind you and imprint their cock quite so deep within you, deeming a thrust incomplete if his tip hasn’t smacked against the wall of your womb, if he hasn’t felt your cunt attempt to milk him dry before he’s even sheathed by an inch.
now if someone were to walk into bellamy blake’s tent, they would get a show.
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
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.
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
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.
pairing: sam winchester x fem!reader
summary: Sam is focused when he fucks, possessive, obsessive, hand-on-your-back, mouth-in-your-ear focused. You're face-down and loud and not even trying to be quiet. Everything's going great until Dean walks in. Mid-thrust. Mid-you. He freezes. You don’t. Sam definitely doesn’t.
disclaimer: english is not my first language!
warnings: basically porn without plot, caught!!!, sam is filthy, dean is done, p in v (unprotected sex, doggystyle, dirty talk, little sammy fucks you stupid!! voyerism kinda), mentions of threesome but it gets shut down, second person, no use of y/n, no explicit physical descriptions.
word count: 1.2k+
chye's corner: my first request! based on this ask. i tried to be as fast as i could, but this weekend i was on holiday! i'm back on track tho! hopefully, this is to your liking. im considering a part two! let me know if that's something you guys might want <3 pls consider a reblog, a like, or a comment! thank you for choosing to read my words (((:
chye's grimoire (masterlist)
requests are open!
Sam is so devoted when he fucks. Intense, laser-focused, like your body is a code he is trying to crack with his mouth and hands and hips and cock. But you, oh you, you are not quiet at all.
Sam has you face-down, back arched, thighs trembling where they grip the edge of the mattress. His palm presses flat between your shoulder blades, holding you in place like he's claiming territory, like if he lets go, you’ll float out of your skin and into the ceiling.
He’s deep, grinding slow and mean inside you, his other hand wrapped around your wrist, stretched tight behind your back like you belong to him, and maybe you do, at least in this moment. You’re a mess beneath him: mouth open, drooling against the pillow, moaning like you forgot what shame sounds like. Every movement drags more of him over that devastating spot inside you, the one that turns your bones to smoke.
Sam is not gentle. Not tonight. Not with the way your body keeps pulling him in, greedy and clenching. He’s panting above you, his hair sticking to his forehead, low growls vibrating through his chest like thunder just before a storm breaks.
“You feel that?” he grits out. “Every inch of me. Right. Fucking. There.” He punctuates each word with a thrust, slow, deep, deliberate, until you’re clawing at the sheets. His hand slides lower, trails over your hip, down your belly, between your thighs, and the sound you make when his fingers circle your clit is filthy. It echoes off the walls. You can’t even think. There’s just the ache, the drag, the wet slap of his hips against yours, his voice in your ear.
“Been thinking about this all day,” he mutters, biting at your shoulder. “How you’d sound. How you’d look, split open for me like this.”
Your breath stutters from the overwhelming, unbearable stretch of him. From the way Sam doesn’t just fuck you, he uses you. Like your body is his favorite instrument and tonight, he’s playing it raw.
Your cheek sticks to the pillow, flushed and damp. You’re gasping now, needy, greedy, chasing the rhythm of his hips as he picks up speed, deeper, rougher, still grinding against that sweet, swollen spot inside you that has you seeing stars behind your eyelids. He leans in closer, the heat of his chest blanketing your back, his breath ghosting over your ear. “So fucking tight. So wet for me. I could stay in this pussy for hours.”
His fingers tighten around your wrist. You twist under him, trying to push back, trying to take more, more of him, more of the pressure, the weight, the filth he pours into your skin with every thrust. The bed creaks beneath you, loud and shameless, the headboard tapping the wall in rhythm. Your thighs are shaking uncontrollably, overstimulated and slick. Sam feels it. Sees it.
“Fuck, look at you,” he grits, angling his hips just right, his cock dragging deep and slow through the mess he’s already made of you. “Look at how you take it. Like you were made for me.”
You sob into the pillow, mouth open, drooling again. You can’t even form words. Just sounds... pathetic, high-pitched, wrecked.
His fingers slide back down to your clit, rubbing in tight, deliberate circles that make your back arch like a live wire. The tension coils, sharp and hot in your belly, and you know it’s coming, fast, unstoppable. You moan something that might be “fuck yes” or “please marry me”, who knows. You’ve gone stupid. All you can feel is his cock buried inside you, thick and perfect, the slide vulgar, your body wet and open and begging.
His hands grab your ass cheeks, forcing them wider, his grip bruising, until he’s fucking you rough, hips slapping against you with obscene, wet sounds. He leans down, tongue sliding across your jaw before he whispers, “I’m gonna ruin you, baby. Make you forget every man but me.”
You moan, loud and wanton and completely gone. There’s nothing in your world but the stretch of him, the heat of his skin against yours, the way he sinks in so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat. His thrusts are ruthless now, frantic, each one dragging sparks up your spine like he's trying to fuck the light out of you.
And you don’t hear it. You don’t hear the creak of the doorknob.
You don’t hear the faint, confused footstep just inside the room. You don’t even notice the way the air shifts with someone else’s presence.
Because Sam is wrecking you.
He’s moaning now, low and sharp and almost desperate, his voice cracking as your body tightens around him. “Fuck... fuck, love, just like that. God, I can feel you. You’re milking my cock. You gonna come for me again? Yeah? Make a mess on me?”
You nod frantically into the pillow, lips swollen and slick with spit, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes from how good it feels, how full you are, how completely destroyed he's made you. Your legs are jelly. Your thoughts are static. Your voice is a breathy, whimpering wreck of his name.
And that’s when Dean speaks.
“Oh, fuck me sideways.”
You both turn your heads like two busted teenagers mid-makeout. Except instead of kissing, there’s Sam’s cock buried in your soaked, trembling pussy and your ass in the air, red from being gripped so hard it’s basically branded.
Dean's there, standing in the doorway, holding a mug that says “#1 Hunter” and looking like he just stepped into his own personal Hell. His gaze tracks the scene like he’s trying to figure out what position this even is, and what spiritual trauma he’s just absorbed.
Sam blinks. “Dean.”
Dean blinks back. “... Sam.”
You and Sam still don't move, not really. Because, and this is important, Sam is still inside you. And not just inside. Deep. Bent-over-the-bed, legs-spread, zero-doubt-about-what’s-happening deep. Dean makes a sound like a dying animal, just now realizing what he walked in on, slams the mug down on the hallway shelf, and gestures wildly. “Dude! What the fuck?!”
Sam twitches inside you. You gasp, the sound broken and breathless, your body traitorously arching into his touch. Your skin is flushed, damp, your legs shaking with overstimulation, and your ass still high in the air, bare and glistening, perfectly framed by Sam’s bruising grip. You turn your head on the pillow, breath ragged, voice shaky but sharp. “Either you stop looking, Winchester,” you rasp, eyes meeting his with heat, “or you join us.”
Dean makes a sound so high-pitched you’re not sure if it came from his mouth or his soul. He stumbles backward like you physically hit him with a dick-shaped baseball bat. “I—I—WHAT THE HELL,” he sputters. “I came in for Tylenol! Not to witness... this! I’m getting visual PTSD! I am too old and too emotionally fragile for this level of incest-adjacent bullshit! I'm already in therapy, man," he drags one hand down his face "you know how expensive that shit is?"
Sam chuckles low in his chest, still not pulling out. If anything, his fingers now begin to move a little faster between your legs, just to prove a point. You writhe under him, unable to stop the soft, helpless moan that escapes your lips. Dean’s jaw drops even lower.
“I swear to God,” Dean snaps, backing down the hallway, “if you make her come while I’m still in earshot, I’m calling Cas. I don’t care if he’s in Heaven. I will summon him.”
Sam smirks over his shoulder. “You might want to move faster, then.”
a/n - aaah hi !! it’s been so long since i’ve written a full fic im sorry for disappearing off the face of the earth. life has sucked but i’m back!! it’s been far too long since i’ve posted a sam smut so hehe i hope you guys like this. took me way too long to write a sex curse fic lmao. but i hope you enjoy !! leaving feedback on fics is the world to fic writers :)
cws - fem!reader, 8k words, friends to lovers, smut, sex curse, witchcraft, wet dream, brief jacking off, p in v, riding, missionary, size kink ish, a lot of cum, needy and kinda whiny sam, flirty rowena, big brother dean, feverish sam, brief cage/lucifer mentions
other fics can be found on my masterlist
“Shit- ah fuck,” Sam grunted with the next roll of his hips, the warmth around his cock so euphoric it was a wonder he didn’t cum right then. There was a haziness in the room, a strange atmosphere that in the moment he hadn’t thought to question. A bed he didn’t recognise, sheets too plain and walls even plainer, but his focus was solely on her beneath him.
Which led to the other strange thing he hadn’t thought to question — they hadn’t done this before. But his best friend was underneath him and the tight warmth of her cunt sucking him back in with every thrust just felt so right.
“So good, that’s so good, honey.”
Her fingers were in his hair and she just kept whimpering his name in a tone that made his cock throb harder, arousal curling deeper. His hands were tight around her hips as his own rolled again and again, pressing harder inside of her in a way that made both of their breaths shudder.
“Sam- m’so close,” she whined, her breath hot against his cheek, her grip tighter in his hair. The smell of her skin was addictive, his head tipped forwards to nose his way up her throat, her pulse throbbing in the side of her neck. “Gonna cum- Sam-”
A low groan left his throat as his hips rolled forwards into the lumpy mattress beneath him, spilling into his boxers.
It took him a moment to grow coherent enough to realise exactly what predicament he was in. Breathing heavily into the pillow Sam blinked a few times, eyes adjusting to the sight of his motel room, the empty bed he was in. There was a burning tingling shame that spread right down to his stomach when he realised he’d had a wet dream about his best friend.
“What the fuck?” He breathed out hard as he sat up, and was relieved as he glanced across the room to see that Dean’s bed was empty and that he hadn’t been caught doing… whatever that was.
Sam wasn’t stupid, he was painfully aware of the feelings he had for her, the feelings that had been simmering for years. But what was he supposed to do? Even in the extremely unlikely case that she did feel the same, it wasn’t like acting on those feelings was a good idea. Nothing ever went well for him, it’d just be another thing he ended up losing one way or another. So he’d tried to shove it as far down as he could.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried to deal with it before. There had been a few times that he’d had his fist around his cock after a long day of trying to ignore how close they’d been throughout the day when he’d thought of her, jacked off and thought of what she’d feel like or sound like beneath him, but each time he’d grown so shameful of what he’d been doing that he’d turned himself off completely and went to bed hard and uncomfortable.
But this? This was so much worse than that.
Sam grimaced as he pushed the covers off and felt the now cooling cum in his boxers, the fabric sticking to his skin, and so fucking embarrassed he quickly got up and went into the bathroom, once again glad that his brother wasn’t in the room.
He pulled off his shirt and stepped out of his boxers, a mental note to go to the laundromat later that day appearing in his head as he caught sight of the mess in his pants, then started the shower and stepped in beneath the spray of water.
What the fuck was wrong with him? Sure, he was a guy, he’d had wet dreams before, but not since he was a teenager and certainly never about her.
It had seemed so real. Her panted breaths against his neck with each thrust of his hips, the way her pussy had clenched so deliciously tight around his cock anytime his tip kissed her cervix, the way she’d moaned his name.
Sam huffed out a sharp breath through his nose when he realised he was already hard again.
“What the fuck?” He hissed, voice hidden beneath the sound of water hitting the tile. “Jesus Christ. Cut it out.”
His hand found his cock anyways, so hard he was fucking aching, and he took a few minutes to jack himself off to the memory — the not even real memory — of her beneath him until he was groaning deep in his throat and cumming onto the shower floor.
His hand reached up to turn the temperature dial all the way around to cold and he finished up in there as quick as he could, heart still thumping.
Pull it together.
It didn’t take long to pack up his stuff after his shower, but by the time Dean returned with coffee for the three of them Sam was hot. Not hot like he’d worked up his temperature by moving around the room, but like the warmth was sitting beneath his skin like a fever. The back of his neck was sweaty and his hair was sticking to his forehead, and as he took one of the to-go cups from his brother Dean frowned at him.
“You okay, Sammy?” He asked. “Looking a little pale.”
“Fine,” Sam waved him off as he grabbed his bags and moved towards the door. He was hard again, which was all he could focus on, frustration simmering with the heat. “Just wanna get on the road—”
He pulled the door open and stood face to face with her, and his jaw clenched as his cock throbbed.
“Hey,” she smiled sweetly, dodging past him to take one of the cups from Dean too. “My stuff’s in the car. Are we going?”
Sam hadn’t moved, shoulders stiff and throat dry as he stared at her. She looked like she usually did, if not a little worn down from yesterday's hunt, and maybe that was the worst part — nothing was different so what the hell was wrong with him? He’d become an expert at shoving away his feelings. There had been multiple occasions where she literally had her shirt off in front of him so he could patch up an injury and his eyes had never wandered further than necessary, respectful in the way he touched her and looked at her and thought of her. So now? He felt like a fucking pervert. She was his best friend.
“Hello? Earth to Sam?” Dean waved a hand so close to his face that he flinched and glared at his brother. “You get out the wrong side of the bed or something?”
At the mention of the bed and the thought of what he’d done that morning Sam glared harder, her eyes on him like a red hot laser and he didn’t dare look at her then. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of his neck and he felt so uncomfortable and so fucking hard that he just wanted the ground to open up beneath him and swallow him whole.
“I’m fine,” he grit out. “Can we just go?”
Being in the car made everything so much worse.
The only saving grace was that he didn’t have to look at her, but her voice floating up from the backseat and the smell of her perfume was enough. Each bump in the road made him shift in his seat, achingly hard and pressed against the zipper of his jeans. He’d had to discreetly palm himself through the denim just to try and get some sort of relief a few times when Dean wasn’t looking.
When the heat didn’t die down he’d come to the conclusion that he must’ve been harbouring a fever. Since getting in the car he’d shed his flannel to just be left in his t-shirt and rolled the window all the way down, and though the wind blowing his hair back was nice he was still fucking hot.
“Dude,” Dean knocked his knee against his and he flinched, glancing up at his face. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look…”
“Like shit?” Sam scoffed when his brother nodded. “Yeah. I’m fine.” His eyes flickered up to the mirror and his jaw clenched at the sight of her in the back.
“Are you sure? You don’t look fine,” his brother pushed. “I told you we should’ve double checked what that witch did yesterday.”
For the past few days they’d been tracking a coven of witches across three separate towns. Ten different murders, all husbands, all mysteriously died in front of their partners. It hadn’t taken all that long to figure out that it was witchcraft when they’d found hexbags in most of the houses. Bitter with the loss of their own lovers they’d gone on a killing spree and caught too much attention.
The last of the witches they’d put down in the basement of the house they’d been camped out in had at one point shoved Sam up against the wall, gripped his throat so tightly he couldn’t breathe, and had murmured an incantation he hadn’t been able to make out through the ringing in his ears. There had been a hot pressure in his chest that started spreading outwards, but a moment later Dean had shot her in the back and she’d died right in front of him. The magic couldn’t have lingered if she was dead, could it?
“She died, Dean, you killed her,” Sam murmured, clenched his teeth tight when Baby hit a pothole and his cock was momentarily pressed harder against his zipper as he was jerked slightly in his seat. “Just feel a little hot. I’m fine.”
His head tipped to the side to watch out of the window as he did his best to ignore it, ignore how it felt — the simmering beneath his skin was a heat he’d only felt once, and he wasn’t eager to think about his time in the cage.
The heat only continued to get worse somehow. The only rational explanation he could think of was that he’d run himself down after back-to-back cases and was a little under the weather. He did not, however, have an explanation for the way the heat seemed to simmer worse whenever he looked at her, heart thumping and arousal curling deeper into his gut whenever she spoke.
They got to their next motel just before sunset, with the intent of getting a good night’s sleep before either finding another case in the morning or just heading back to the bunker. If he was being honest Sam just wanted his bed at home, but he didn’t really have the energy to argue with his brother, not when every single thought in his head was swirling over how he felt, over her.
The other two were talking as Sam forced himself to get out of the car, too focused on the drumming pulse in his ears to listen to what they were saying, so when he rounded the car towards the trunk and a hand landed on his arm he jumped at the burn. White hot like electricity. He flinched and his eyes shot up to meet her eyes, which were quickly growing concerned.
“Sam?” She frowned, and his eyes locked onto the plush of her lips. He knew they’d feel good against his, soft and warm, the little ‘o’ shape they’d make as she moaned underneath him— “Sam? Are you okay?”
Guilt flooded him immediately and he forced his gaze away. What was wrong with him? He couldn’t just think about her like that, it was disgusting.
He didn’t even utter an excuse, just quickly rushed into the room before he could make things worse.
“Sam?” Dean had followed him in and Sam grit his teeth. He’d been planning on sorting himself out in the shower again, at this point it was legitimately a necessity. “What the hell is up with you? You ignored her the whole drive-“ he cut himself off when Sam turned to face him. “What’s wrong?”
There wasn’t even any point in insisting he was fine anymore. The heat just kept getting hotter, he felt sweaty and weird and still thinking about that dream. “I just… have a fever.”
Dean scowled as he stepped forwards and reached up to touch Sam’s forehead, even as he tried to bat his hand away. “Why didn’t you say anything in the car? You’re burning up, man,” there was a pause before he sighed. “Call Rowena.”
“Huh? Why?”
“Because what happened yesterday isn’t sitting right with me and if anyone can make sure that witch didn’t do something to you it’s her.”
Even through the simmering beneath his skin Sam’s lips twitched. “You’re willingly asking me to call Rowena?”
“She’s still a bitch but she can be useful sometimes,” Dean rolled his eyes. “Just call her.”
Much to Sam’s dismay and an I told you so from Dean, Rowena also suspected that something was wrong after Sam called and explained his symptoms — well, not all of them, he didn’t dare mention the dream or his problem — and cut the call off with a chirpy confirmation that she’d get to him as quickly as she could.
It was dark out by the time Rowena got there. All of the windows in the room had been opened as wide as they could in hopes that the cold night air would do something to help the fire in his veins, but nothing was helping. His chest had tightened with the rising heat, there was absolutely no doubt that something was wrong.
“Well aren’t you a… sight.” Rowena hummed as soon as she stepped through the door, taking her time like she was just there for tea. The silk of her dress caught in the draft from the open door, blowing forwards with a harshness that should have been brought with cold. Sam didn’t feel it, the wind that hit his skin did nothing to soothe the burn. If not for the fact that she was visiting he would’ve stripped down to his boxers already.
He stood from where he’d been perched on the edge of his bed, fists clenched tight. “Rowena-”
“Calm down,” she raised a hand as she closed the door behind her. “I’m here to help, aren’t I?” Another gust of wind blew through the open windows and she pulled a face. “My it’s cold in here, isn’t it?”
“No,” Sam grit out, chest heaving with heavy breaths as he watched her step forwards. It had become harder to ignore the worse it got, the memory of the cage, what Lucifer had done to him. Burned his skin until it was all gone and then healed him to start all over again. The smell of his own flesh was something he was never going to forget, part of him kept expecting to look down and see his arms on fire. But they weren’t, like some cruel trick on his mind. If not for Dean noticing that something was wrong he would’ve been convinced that he was going crazy again. “It’s hot, I’m hot, I can’t fucking cool down it feels like I’m on fire.”
Rowena’s tongue clicked against the roof of her mouth as she came to a stop directly in front of him. “Hm. Take your shirt off.”
“Huh?”
Her eyes rolled. “I need to see if you have any magic attached to you, and it’s easier without your clothes in the way,” perfectly manicured nails dragged against the fabric of his t-shirt before she smirked. “Trust me, I don’t mind.”
Maybe he wouldn’t have been so quick to agree on a regular day, especially with her looking at him like that, but he was both desperate for this to be over and also used to Rowena being Rowena, so there wasn’t much hesitation as he reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it up and over his head, dropping it down onto the floor.
Rowena made a show of looking him over, lips curled upwards at the corners.
“Rowena-”
“Alright, Samuel,” she sighed. “Forgive me for finding some enjoyment in the situation. Sit.” Her hand pressed to his chest and he flinched, expecting to feel the same burn that he’d felt from her earlier that day when she’d touched his arm, but Rowena’s palm felt cool against his flushed skin. It was actually nice, and he breathed out shakily as he allowed himself to be pushed backwards until he was seated on the edge of the mattress.
Rowena stepped forwards until she was stood between his legs, and then her hand was on his chest again. A pressure pushed through his ribs and he stiffened in the effort to keep still and let her search for any lingering magic attached to him. His eyes lifted to her face and he watched as her expression went from focused, to shocked, to… amused?
“Your symptoms,” she met his eyes as she pulled her hand back. “Tell me.”
“I’ve already told you-”
“Tell me again.”
Sam huffed out a frustrated breath and pushed a hand through his hair. “I’m hot, it feels like I’m burning from the inside out.”
She just continued to watch him.
“What?” He didn’t mean to snap but he was seriously losing his patience.
“Your other symptoms?” He opened his mouth to protest but she held up a hand. “Just be honest, Samuel. I think I know what the curse is.”
His jaw clenched. He’d never actually vocalised his crush to anybody before. Sure, maybe Dean wasn’t completely oblivious to have not noticed, but he’d never outright admitted it.
“I had this… dream, uh,” he ran a hand over his face, the heat in his cheeks now from embarrassment. “And it kinda stuck with me.”
Rowena was smirking. “And what was the nature of this wee dream, hm?”
He glowered at her. “I’m sure you know.”
“Oh I do, but it’s way more fun if you tell me,” he just continued glaring and she sighed. “You boys just have to suck the fun out of everything, don’t you?” She moved to sit on the bed beside him, and after adjusting her dress over her legs she turned to face him. “It’s called mali desiderii.”
“What does that mean?”
Her lips twitched again, like she was really trying to be serious. “It’s a curse that attaches itself to your deepest desire and makes you, well, want it.”
Sam swallowed around the dryness in his throat. “How dangerous is it?”
Rowena lifted a hand to gently circle her fingers around his wrist, her cool fingertips pressed against his pulse point felt nice. “You’re already burning up, and it’s only going to get worse. Unless you sate the desire, you’ll completely burn up from the inside out.”
He felt his stomach drop. “It’ll kill me?”
“Mhm, in a day or so, unless you deal with your little… problem,” She gestured to his jeans with a wicked smirk that made him want the ground to open up beneath him, before she sighed, a more genuine expression settling on her features. “Sam… she’s next door.” Her hand laid on his arm though that time he stiffened.
“I can’t just—”
“It doesn’t matter if you can’t. You’re going to have to,” she told him firmly, before her lips curved upwards again. “You never know, it might be something the both of you need. She’s smart, Samuel. If a big strong man came knocking on my door asking me to help him out, I’d… well, like I said, she’s smart.”
He grit his teeth and breathed out sharply. This was so stupid. She was his best friend, he couldn’t just turn up at her door and demand to have sex with her. “Isn’t there a cure or something?”
“This is the only way,” Rowena didn’t give him much time to think on it before her hand was on her knee, squeezing, then she stood up. “You’ll be fine. Trust me, out of all the things you could’ve been cursed with, this is definitely the most… pleasurable.”
At her smirk his stomach twisted uncomfortably, but still he stood up to let her out of the room. He didn’t bother to put his shirt back on, stood in the doorway as he watched Rowena climb into her car — a Porsche that he was certain didn’t belong to her the last time they spoke — the breeze of the night doing absolutely nothing to cool him down. As she pulled out of the parking lot he’d had a mind to go and tell Dean what was wrong, but he paused when his eyes landed on her door next to his.
Sate the desire, Rowena had said. Maybe on a typical day he wouldn’t have wanted to even approach the topic with her, save himself a lifetime of embarrassment when she inevitably turned him down, but this was his only shot. And the thought of finally having her was enough for his body to roll with another wave of aroused heat.
“Fucking crazy,” he breathed, hand lifting to knock on the door once he was stood in front of it. “This is fucking crazy.”
The door opened relatively quick and then there she was. She’d changed into her pyjamas since getting to the motel, a t-shirt and shorts that left him unable to help his gaze dragging up the length of her legs, imagining dipping between them. She really wasn’t making this fucking easy for him, was she?
“Sam?” She blinked, worried eyes widening as her gaze dragged downwards, and embarrassed he remembered he hadn’t put his shirt back on. Christ, this probably looked like the opening to a shitty porno. By the sounds of it, that’s how it was going to end up. Either that or he was going to die.
“Sorry,” he quickly blurted out, chest heaving with heavy breaths as his eyes fell down away from her face, before he caught himself staring at her legs and he had to look back up digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. Get a grip. “Sorry, uh… can I talk to you?”
Instantly she stepped aside. “Are you okay? Why was Rowena here?”
His teeth ground together with the realisation that Dean hadn’t told her that anything was wrong, either not to worry her or because he was just leaving it to Sam he wasn’t sure. He stepped into her room and exhaled sharply. The heat was getting bad, hands trembling as he pushed sweaty hair out of his face and turned back to face her.
“Sam you don’t look so good,” her eyebrows were pinched together in such worry. “Can I get you anything? Do you want some water? You look a little sick, you sit down and I’ll just-”
“It’s a curse,” he just got out. “One of the witches yesterday cursed me. That's why Rowena was here.”
She looked… god, the look on her face, she looked so devastated for him. “I- cursed? How bad is it? Are you okay?” She rushed forwards and touched his arm sympathetically, and usually it would’ve been nice — she was sweet, she was always physically affectionate but always more so with him than Dean. There had been many times they’d held hands on a hunt when either one of them was unnerved, or on nights where they could only get a motel with two beds or had to sleep in the car she always chose to sleep with him. Curled up with no choice but to hold each other in a small twin bed or the backseat of the Impala he’d always felt comfortable with her.
But her touch then on his arm, it felt like being singed. He jerked backwards and hated the way she looked at him when he did it. “Sorry,” he breathed her name like a plea, the last thing he wanted was to make her feel bad with what he was about to ask of her. “I’m… hot. The curse is burning me up and if I don’t do something about it then I’ve… got a day.”
“A day?” Her voice broke and it shattered something deep in his soul. “Sam, I… Rowena has a cure right?”
His eyes squeezed shut tightly and he took in a sharp breath. This was it. “It’s a, uh… well, there’s one thing I can do but it’s- I’d be asking a lot of you.”
Her response was immediate. “Anything.”
Steeling himself he finally just pushed out, “it’s a sex curse.”
She blinked at him. “What?”
“It’s a- god, this is so stupid. It’s a sex curse. If I don’t have sex in the next day then I’ll die.” Saying it out loud he realised just how ridiculous it was, how this really was just some fucking stupid porno, something he’d catch Dean quickly shutting off in the motel whenever he got back. “It really is stupid huh? Fuck, I don’t even-”
“Okay.”
It was his turn to blink at her. “What?”
“I said okay,” she hesitated before stepping forwards, like she was expecting him to jerk away from her again. “I’m not gonna let you… the curse isn’t gonna take over, okay? Of all the ways we’ve dealt with curses before this is actually a pretty easy fix.”
He was just staring at her. “But I can’t ask you to-”
“You aren’t asking, I’m offering,” the control in her voice made his cock throb in his jeans and he bit back a groan. It’d be nice to finally get some fucking relief. “This is gonna be easier than you going out to a bar and finding someone, Sam, and I trust you,” a pause then, her voice went softer. “And you trust me. Or at least I hope so.”
“‘Course I do,” he breathed. “But-”
“Sam,” she stepped forwards until she was right in front of him then, until he could smell her perfume and feel her breath hit his chest. “Let me. Please.”
Any restraint he’d been clinging onto snapped in that moment.
Giving in to the curse, at first, felt like being possessed, like watching from inside his body as he acted upon it. His hands cupped her jaw as he stepped closer, tipping down until he caught her mouth with his, hard, all desperation and lust as he licked and sucked at her bottom lip only just hesitating enough to not slip his tongue into her mouth immediately. She was making soft breathy sounds through her nose and it was making everything worse, his veins burned hotter and his cock was so achingly hard that he couldn’t help his hands sliding down to her hips and gripping hard as he started walking them back to her bed.
But he was shaking, his breathing all heavy and hot in his throat, the fever was still clinging to his bones and the curse made it hard to think about anything. His hands had just slipped beneath her shirt when she leaned back with a huff of breath, her palm pressed flat against his chest.
“Sam.” She breathed, heavy but concerned, eyes all soft and crinkled at the corners as she looked up at him.
“Yeah?”
Her fingers travelled down to gently start threading the leather of his belt through his buckle. The sight of her hands so close to where he needed them was almost enough to just cum in his boxers thinking about her. Again.
“Let me… let me take care of you, okay?” She breathed, pulling the belt free and then working open his zipper. “You’re shaking, let me do this,” she leaned forwards and kissed his chest and he shuddered. “Let me help you.”
All he could do was nod dumbly, hands squeezing at her hips as she unzipped his jeans and pushed them down his legs until he could step out of them. She hesitated as he fingers touched the waistband of his boxers, but he nodded, and she pulled those down too.
For a moment he was too distracted by the curse to really take much in, just panting softly as he waited for the inevitable relief. But when he did catch sight of her face, the way her eyes drifted down to his cock, hard and leaking like it had been all day, the way she swallowed, fuck.
“Come here.” He breathed, lustful and needy and possessive all in one, and then his mouth was on hers again as he took the final two steps back to her bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress. Sam moved to pull her in immediately but she paused to quickly slip her shorts and underwear down her legs, and only then did she let him pull her onto his lap, straddling his thighs.
If he was a little more with it, he’d have felt bad. In all the times he’d thought of being able to finally have her, it had gone differently. He’d been sweet and kissed her softly, taken her to dinner or for some drinks, they’d dressed nice and he’d complimented how pretty she was. He’d been gentle with her, taken his time, hadn’t wanted to rush it. She deserved better than the rushed desperation coursing through his veins, but he couldn’t help himself.
Sam was kissing her again once she was close enough. A hand slid up her back, soft skin beneath his palm, before he gripped her shirt and panted out, “can I take this off?”
Only when she nodded did he grip the hem and lift it up and over her head, dropping it on the floor with the rest of their clothes.
He allowed himself one moment to stare and take her in; chest rising and falling heavily, hardened nipples, soft thighs slotted over his like they belonged, her lips kiss-bitten and wet with their spit. Sam wasn’t entirely sure which part was the most devastating.
“God-” he choked, fingers curling around her hipbones again. “Look at you.”
Her chin tucked towards her chest all bashfully, and for a moment the flicker of guilt touched him. She deserved better than this.
But then her fingers wrapped around his cock and through the white-hot pleasure any other thoughts were wiped from his mind.
A grunt escaped his throat and his eyes squeezed shut, his grip on her hips tightening. “Shit-”
She shifted on top of him, lifting up on her knees to line his cock up with her entrance, and even if the feeling of his tip kissing her folds was enough for his head to spin a little he still stopped her with a squeeze of her hips.
“Are you ready? I mean…” Sam wasn’t stupid. He knew he was big, bigger than most. When he’d been with Jess he’d learned exactly how many fingers he needed to stretch her out before she could comfortably take him. He needed to feel her more than anything but he didn’t want to hurt her.
“It’s okay,” she breathed, and leaned down to kiss him again. “I can take it.”
Her tongue pushed past his lips and he moaned into her mouth as she slowly sank down onto him.
Nothing he had ever felt compared to that moment.
Charged, sparking pleasure exploded in his gut, shooting through his veins making every nerve ending tingle. Fuck. This was the relief he’d been craving, the lust he hadn’t been able to sort out himself with his hand or how much he could imagine in his head.
Her pussy squeezed tightly around him as she sank down slowly and for a moment all he could do was pant into the skin of her neck as he held onto her, grunting into her throat the deeper she took him and the tighter she clenched around him. Once he was sheathed all the way inside of her his breath punched out of him heavily. Somehow he hadn’t blown his load right then.
“You feel-” he whined as she shifted, rubbing against her gummy walks and spending more sparks of pleasure through him, “so fucking good, that’s- yeah, that’s it.”
She shifted again and that time it was her who whined, her palms hot on his shoulders as they grabbed at the muscle there. “Sam,” she breathed his name against his ear. “You’re so deep.”
He had a feeling he’d be getting hard over that sentence for the rest of his life.
“Can I-” her voice was trembling, and when he glanced up at her she looked a fucking picture — eyes all blown out, lips parted and panting, expression pinched in pleasure. “Can I keep moving?”
He couldn’t find his voice so he just nodded, and at the first shift of her hips his eyes rolled back and he moaned.
Time seemed to blur. He found himself able to release the death grip on her hips and instead smoothed his palms over her back, as his head tipped forwards to lick and suck at her neck. He’d never felt anything like this, it was like being high. Each squeeze of her cunt around his cock stole the breath from his lungs, made the magic from the curse flare inside of him in a way that had his hairs standing on end and his cock throbbing where it was held deep inside of her.
Noises were pulled from him without any of his say so. Keening whined and gasps of her name whenever she shifted. Her fingers tangled in his hair at one point and pulled and he almost completely lost it then.
She didn’t seem to be in a different state to him, if he knew any better he’d have said she was cursed from the way she was clinging onto him, panting his name and squeezing his cock inside of her.
This completely blew his dream out of the water.
“Hah- I’m-” It took an embarrassingly short time to get there, but given the heat bubbling inside of him he really did need the release sooner rather than later. “Fuck honey m’gonna cum-”
Her breath was hot on his cheek as her temple pressed to his, hips rolling and cunt squeezing along with her whimpered, “please Sammy.”
Sam watched as her hand dipped between them to rub at her clit with each roll of her hips and with the next time his tip brushed against her cervix he was gone.
He was certain that the sound that left him then he had never made before. Almost animalistic, in any other situation he would’ve found himself embarrassed, but the way pleasure shot up his spine, through his veins, made him shudder and gasp into her throat as his orgasm literally whitened his vision, he wasn’t in control of anything he was doing. It literally took his breath away, made his ears ring, one moment he was holding the back of her neck and kissing at her throat and the next he had his forehead pressed to her shoulder as he heaved breaths against her chest.
She must’ve cum too, not that he’d been able to even realise in the moment, but she’d also slumped into him, arms draped over his shoulders as she melted into him.
For one long moment, it was the best he’d ever felt.
“Hey,” she eventually whispered, leaned back to meet his eyes with hers, all soft and caring. “How do you feel? Did it work?”
“I think so.” He murmured, still trying to catch his breath.
His hands were more gentle on her hips as he helped her move off of him, hissing through his teeth as his cock slipped out of her, though he rubbed her back once she was sat on the bed beside him.
There was a flare inside of his chest, and then it hit him. That time it was almost unbearable, left him breathless with the fire that rolled through him. His eyes squeezed shut and his fists curled up as he winced in pain.
It hadn’t worked.
“Sam?” Her hand burned against his back. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
He couldn’t help it, tears stung in his eyes then. “It didn’t fucking work.”
His breathing was sharp as he looked back up at her then, and the way her expression dropped made everything else sink in. What the fuck was the point of that? Sure, he’d wanted her for a long time, but not like that. She deserved to be taken care of, treated like an angel and kissed sweetly and loved on. Instead she’d had him like that — sweaty and gross and needy — and she’d had to do all the work. Let alone the fact it was all pointless anyways, he was still going to die.
“I thought you said Rowena said it’d work,” she breathed, voice so soft and scared. “What did she say to you? Maybe we did it wrong or something.”
Sam pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes hard, hands shaking. “She said I need to sate my desire.”
She frowned at him then. “That doesn’t mean sex, Sam.”
“Hm?”
“Your… desire, that doesn’t have to mean sex,” she turned to face him a little more. Their lack of clothes and post-orgasm exhaustion was momentarily ignored as her hand found his and squeezed. The heat made his fingers tingle. “It just means what you want the most. And I mean it obviously wasn’t sex with me,” her fingers squeezed his. “So what is it?”
His breath left him in a rush. “You.”
She blinked at him. “But it didn’t-”
“Not the sex,” his hand squeezed hers tightly. “You. You’re my best friend and I… I’m in love with you. I don’t even know when it happened but you’re all I can think about all the time.”
She was just staring at him with those wide eyes of hers, mouth opening and closing a few times before she could actually form a response. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” She eventually pressed, soft.
A bitter laugh left him then. “What would be the point? I care more about you than what I want. I was happy to just stay friends- I am happy to do that,” he pushed out a sharp breath and dragged his fingers through his hair. “But it doesn’t fucking matter anymore. Because it’s not going to happen and I’m going to die.”
“Sam,” her hand gripped his tightly and when he looked up at her face she was scowling. “You’re an idiot.”
Before he could even think of a response she’d leaned in and then her mouth was on his. The kiss was soft, more gentle than their lust fuelled kisses from before, the plus warmth of her lips against his making his gut curl tighter than when she’d been grinding on his cock.
Her forehead pressed to his as she pulled away and her whispered words hit his ears, “I love you too.”
Sam leaned back enough to look at her. “What?” He breathed. “I- don’t just say that because I want to hear it.”
“Sam,” her fingers were gentle as they cupped his face. “I love you.”
The fire disappeared with a tingling hiss like he’d been dunked in ice water. Each heated nerve ending and muscle was instantly soothed with a coolness that made him groan as she kissed him again. Soothing cold ran up the length of his spine, down his arms, into his fingertips as he cupped her face and kissed her, lovingly, his tongue sweeping over her lips and pressing into her mouth saying everything that in that moment he couldn’t.
“God,” he breathed, all shaky, fingers stroking through her hair. “You- how long?”
She giggled as she looked up at him, eyes all crinkled at the corners as she smiled. “A while,” her hand lifted and laid flat on his chest. “How do you feel?”
“Better,” he sighed, fingertips gentle on her skin. “I think it broke it. I think you… you’re incredible.”
Her smile was like the sun. “Ditto.”
Sam laughed, the lightest he’d felt all day, both of them smiling too much when he went to kiss her again and he ended up kissing her teeth. “Ditto? All of that just to get a ditto?”
She was giggling against his mouth as his hands smoothed over soft skin, fingers tracing down her spine as he leaned over her, cupping the backs of her thighs so he could manoeuvre her onto her back. Laid beneath him like that, her pretty eyes and her pretty mouth and all of her that loved him, the feeling pressing against his ribs was no longer a heat, a curse, it was something much more magical.
His head dipped to kiss along her throat as her thighs pressed against his hips, drawing him closer. “I love you,” he whispered into her skin, a promise. “I love you.”
She was still wet from before, her chest brushing against his with each needy pant she made, so it was like second nature for his hand to reach between them until he could press his cock up against her, dragging the tip through her wetness until he caught her entrance and sank in slowly, the grip of her cunt around him making him moan into her throat as his hand found hers, fingers lacing through hers and pressing it down onto the mattress.
“Sam,” she moaned as his hips rolled, his cock nudging that soft spongy spot on the inside of her walls that made her whine when he hit it right. “Oh- fuck that’s-”
His tongue soothed over bruises he was sucking into the skin of her neck as he fucked her into the mattress gently, hands carressing and worshiping her. She deserved better than him, he knew that, deep down he knew she deserved everything he couldn’t give her and more.
But she wanted him. She wanted him. How could he deny her?
He moaned against her ear as he started fucking her a little deeper. His hand slid down her side to cup the back of one of her thighs, bringing it up and over his hip to press further into her slick cunt with each thrust.
There was a haziness in the room, not caused by a veil of a dream or curse, but the kind of desire that made somebody’s head spin with it. The bed beneath them a bare, plain motel standard, wales just as plain, but his focus was solely on her beneath him.
This wasn’t a dream. It was real. He had her.
“Sam I’m-” her voice trembled with each gasp she let out. Her nails dug into his shoulders that sent delicious sparks of pain down his spine where they dug in. Her cunt was clenched tightly around him, he could tell she was close, the way her gummy walls fluttered around his cock each time he sank himself back inside of her. “Please.”
He would do anything for her if she begged him like that.
“You’re okay, honey,” he breathed into her throat with another kiss. The image of their last round briefly flashed in his mind, her fingertips pressed to her clit when she got close, and he removed his hand from her thigh to dip between them. They were both soaked with leftover cum from before and new aroused slick that collected at the base of his cock. His fingers dragged through the wetness briefly before the pads of his fingers pressed against her clit where he started rubbing small circles that made her clench tighter around him, a whine punching up and out of her throat that made his gut clench. Fuck. “That's it, good girl, just feel it.”
Her hands gripped tight to his shoulders and she whined right in his ear. He almost came right then. “I’m- Sam-”
She shuddered against him as she came and Christ. The feeling of her pussy pulsing around his cock in waves as her orgasm dragged a breathless moan out of her throat was too much for him to handle. He only managed two more thrusts before he followed her, groaning into her skin as he rutted twice more into her before finally stilling on top of her.
For a moment, time didn’t move.
His fingers stroked feather-light up and across her ribs as he dotted kisses against her neck and jaw, until he finally lifted his head to press a soft kiss to her mouth.
“Hi.” She whispered when he leaned back and he smiled, a sweet loving thing.
“Hi, you,” he murmured, stroking her ribs. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, all flushed as she stole another kiss, her fingers stroking his hair made him relax. A thought nagged at him that he was sweaty and gross and he sighed, expression shifting to something a little more serious.
“I’m sorry.”
She frowned at him. “For what? Sam that was… that was great.”
He shook his head. “You should’ve had something better. I’m… I’m gross and sweaty and it was so rushed and I should’ve taken my time with you and… I’m just sorry.”
Her hand lifted to cup his cheek. “Don’t say that,” she leaned up and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead and he just about melted. “We broke the curse. I just saved your life, mister, I think that’s pretty great to me.”
He was still frowning. “I know but-”
“Sam,” Her finger pressed to his lips. “It was good. I promise.”
She kissed him again, soft and slow and gentle, and time melted again.
Eventually they pulled away from each other, and since he hadn’t taken care of her in the moment, he made sure to completely care for her in the aftermath. He got a wet cloth from the bathroom and gently wiped her clean before himself, and kissed her forehead before he left again to run the shower for her so that the water would be nice and warm by the time she stepped in. There was a relaxing domesticity to the way they stepped around each other with gentle shared kisses and whispered comforts until she took up the shower first.
Once the room was full of the scent of her shampoo and the gentle pitter of the shower on the other side of the bathroom door he found his phone and thought it was best he told Rowena it had worked.
“Samuel,” she greeted in that delighted tone of hers she had whenever they spoke. “How's the heat?”
“The uh, the curse is broken. I’m fine now.”
He could picture her grin through the phone. “Marvellous. I knew you could do it. It hasn’t been that long since I left, dearie, she must’ve been quite eager to help.”
He ignored the heat that rose to his face. “Yeah, well… thanks for your help, Ro.”
“You’re welcome, pet. I got started on the cure just in case you didn’t have it in you so I’ll send it your way once I’m finished in case you happen to ever need it.”
Sam stilled. “You told me there wasn’t a cure.”
“Aye, I suppose I did. It’s a pretty simple potion, actually. I just thought this way would be a little more… beneficial for you and your love.”
“Rowena-”
“I’ve got to go now, Samuel, but I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
The line went dead and he lowered his phone, sitting with what she’d just told him for a moment, that there had been a cure, a simple one. But then his eyes trailed up to the closed bathroom door, the soft humming behind it reaching his ears, and he just laughed.
if you’d like to be added to my tag list pls send me an ask letting me know what fics you’d like to be tagged for <3
Summary: Sam Winchester doesn’t do quickies. But after spending far too much time with nothing more than a couple lingering touches—you’re getting a little frustrated. Too bad Dean can’t seem to take a hint.
CW: Barely any plot, quickies, unprotected PIV, hot library sex (mmm), reader is a little a lot frustrated, Dean’s a major cock block, getting caught (so, accidental voyeurism? I guess?), and no, they’re not into it… sorry!
WC: 4.6K
Based on this request!
Sam Winchester doesn’t do quickies.
It’s a fact that you’ve, rather unfortunately, become painfully aware of over the past year. One that can make you melt one moment, and lose your mind the next.
Because when it comes to you, Sam takes his time.
If he had it his way, every night spent with you would stretch long past midnight, bodies tangled beneath motel sheets while the rest of the world seems to fade into nothing. He’d kiss you so slow that your lungs would run out of air, and you’d have to drag it back in between gasps as he touches every inch of your skin with careful hands. There’s nothing rushed about the way Sam loves you, and nothing careless, either. He makes damn sure that you’re nothing less than spoiled, left boneless and worshipped against his chest, drifting in the hazy bliss of exhaustion as his heart thumps beneath your cheek.
And God, you love him for it. Most of the time.
But the downside of dating Sam is that his life comes with a permanent, trauma-bonded punishment attached at the hip, who goes by the name of Dean Winchester.
You love Dean. You really, really do. He’s family, always has been, and always will be—that’s just a fact of life. But there’s moments, usually when you haven’t spent more than five uninterrupted minutes alone with your gorgeous boyfriend in over a week, that fantasizing about wringing out the older man’s neck like a dish towel becomes your go to form of stress relief.
The two of you need to run some errands? Dean has the impalas keys in his hand before either of you can speak.
Need to interview some witnesses for a case? Well, apparently, the only thing better than two fake FBI agents is three.
Want to stop at some cute diner you noticed for a bite to eat? Oh, you’ve just read Dean’s mind, because he’s been dreaming about pie since last week.
It’s endless, and it’s starting to become unbearable. Especially when you’ve spent the last two weeks with nothing more than a little heavy petting, and it’s starting to feel like some forced dry spell. By day fifteen, you’re pretty sure Dean’s doing it on purpose.
Maybe not meticulously, or even consciously, but either way, you’re going a little insane. For a man so sex-oriented, you’d think he’d be less oblivious about how much of a cock block he’s become; and there’s only so many interrupted moments and unwanted third-wheeling a woman can take before she starts making up conspiracy theories.
Like tonight, for example.
You and Sam had finally managed to peel away after dinner under the excuse of breaking into the local library past close, and digging through some lore archives for your case of the week. Your plan to jump your adorably clueless boyfriend, and climb him like a fucking tree, was in full swing.
And God, it almost worked. It should have worked. Dean had barely looked at you over his burger as he waved the two of you off, mumbling something about not wanting to join in on your little nerd club.
But, of course, fate had other plans. Because not ten minutes later, he’d had some stupid change of heart. And coupled with Sam’s inability to say no, your sweet little library date had turned into a three-person job.
So, you sit wedged beside Sam in an old rickety chair, pressed close enough to rest your shoulder against his, as Dean slouches across from you looking bored out of his skull. Honestly, you’re just grateful he’s finally stopped bragging about his alarm disarming abilities after the three of you busted in through the back door. The silence that’s settled in in the aftermath, though, only makes you twitchy.
Sam’s warm at your side, his thigh brushing against yours every time his leg bounces against the dusty floor. To his credit, he really is researching, which doesn’t surprise you one bit. There’s that familiar, deep furrow in his brow, accompanied by a look of intense focus lighting up his hazel eyes as he scans each page. You, on the other hand, haven’t flipped a single page of your copy of ‘Daemonologie’ in over twenty minutes.
Because Christ, it’s pretty damn hard to focus on mind numbing lore when Sam’s so close, and smells like fucking heaven.
It’s a little stupid, really, how a few dry weeks have managed to wound you up so tight, that you’re vibrating in your seat like a bitch in heat. But that revelation sure as hell doesn’t stop your foot from tapping restlessly against the floor, or do a damn thing about the way you’re practically salivating over the scent of Sam’s shampoo. But, hey, you’d thrown away subtle nearly ten minutes ago, the moment Sam’s beautifully long fingers started tracing the faded ink of some demonic sigil, and you had to resist every primal urge to lick the veins on his hand.
You’re about five seconds from drooling when you break the silence.
“Alright.” You slam your hands down on the table, spooking an unsuspecting Dean, who’d just laid his head down over his forearms—Sam’s head snapping towards you. “This is getting us nowhere.”
Dean groans his agreement, shoving away the book that he hadn’t touched since he’d sat down. “…Thank God. Y’know, I saw a dive a few blocks over. We should—”
“—There’s a microfilm reader in the back,” you interrupt smoothly. “We can flip through old newspapers, look for an actual, visible pattern.”
Dean’s mouth clicks shut at your words, and you swear you’ve never seen him look quite so betrayed. He blinks at you, before throwing his head back like he’d just been sentenced to life in prison.
Sam, on the other hand, folds his book closed with silent care, tilting his head towards you in silent question.
“Microfilm?” he echos, raising a brow, before offering a shrug. “I mean. Beats sifting through physicals, but…”
You shoot him a less than friendly look, one he must some-what understand (bless his soul), because his mouth snaps closed before he can finish his sentence.
“…Right,” he amends.
“Whatever, sweetheart,” Dean grumbles, already moving to stand. “Let’s all go stare at some ancient newspaper clippings ‘til our eyes start to bleed.”
And oh. Oh, absolutely not.
“Dean,” you say flatly, “you hate microfilm.”
He freezes halfway to standing, argument already on the tip of his tongue, but you’re faster.
“Last time, you almost smashed the damn thing before Sam took over.”
You stand quickly, too quickly, knee thumping against the table in your haste, your hand falling to plant firmly on Sam’s shoulder.
“You stay here, Dean. Keep watch, take a nap, or whatever the hell it is you’ve been doing for the past half an hour. We won’t be long.” You give Sam a soft squeeze. “Right, Sammy?”
Sam lifts his head to meet your gaze, staring at you with those big, earnest puppy eyes, wide and slightly confused. He looks unfairly pretty in this light, all messy hair, sleepy focus, pink lips slightly parted in silent question.
He glances at your hand on his shoulder briefly, then back to your face, like he’s trying to piece together why you’re suddenly so intent on getting him alone. Which, unfortunately, is a fair question. Not that you care.
“Uh,” he buffers quietly. “Yeah. ‘Course.”
Dean plops back down in his chair with an exaggerated sigh, kicking up both his feet. He doesn’t even pretend to read this time, just watches you with narrowed eyes full of suspicion, and, well. Maybe mild annoyance.
You spare him one last mostly well natured smile as Sam stands, but you don’t let him get another word in before you’re practically herding his brother across the library with far too much enthusiasm to be casual. The back room is quiet, dimly lit, and just far enough from the main library to fall out of earshot. Perfect. The door groans in protest as you pull it shut behind you, creaking loud enough to make you wince. And then you notice it.
No lock.
The realization gives you pause for exactly half a second before it’s buried beneath need so thick you have to swallow it down to keep it momentarily contained. Because honestly, now that you finally have Sam alone… a flimsy detail like that is nothing but an afterthought.
Sam, the sweetheart, who somehow still hasn’t managed to connect the dots, moves instinctively towards one of the desks in a few short strides. He leans over the tabletop, bangs falling lazily over his forehead, his hand moving for the knob.
“What are you doing?” you ask, unable to keep amusement from creeping into your tone. His finger hovers halfway over the microfilm reader’s power switch, eyes flicking from it to you. That big, Stanford brain of his trying so hard to decipher where he’s missed a cue.
“What?”
The question comes out a little croaked, and the puppy-eyed sincerity of it damn near brings you to your knees.
“Sam.” You take one slow step forward, tilting your head with an almost innocent smile. “I thought my eye-fucking was getting a little obvious.”
He freezes. Not dramatically, no, more like a slow, dawning realization washing over him like a wave. That sweet, dumb face of his finally cracks into something else, something warm. Something darker. The kind of look that makes your stomach flip, and heat coil low in your core.
His hand slides away from the switch in a slow, teasing drag, as he pushes himself back up to his full height, stalking towards you in a few measured steps. Shadows fall over his features, catching on the sharp angle of his jaw, the perfect slope of his nose—and that gorgeous dimple that’s just begun to show itself with the heated smirk that spreads across his lips.
“Oh?” he breathes, voice rougher now. “Really? Here?”
“Yeah,” you purr, and there’s nothing subtle about the way your gaze drops to his lips before flicking back up. “Here.”
You don’t let him think too hard about it before your fist is curling around his collar, and his lips are crashing against yours.
It’s not slow, or testing, or soft. No, it’s immediate hunger. It’s you pouring weeks of desperation and need into a single action, mouth devouring his with every ounce of frustration you’ve bottled up tight enough to burst. He exhales into it, a warm puff against your cheek, as those big hands that have been haunting your fantasies slide up to cradle your jaw with infinite levels of care. His fingers splay over your cheeks, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes as he tilts your face closer to his like he can’t get enough.
He pulls back just long enough to drag in a breath, the taste of him still heavy on your tongue.
“We’re in a library,” he reasons, your noses brushing, breaths mingling.
“We are.”
“Dean’s just outside.”
“He is.”
His mouth finds yours again, slower this time, and you can tell he wants to drag this out. Make it last. Take you apart so slow that you’ll be shaking in his grasp, and the only word left on your tongue is his name.
But right now? That… that just won’t do. You part again with a slick pop.
“…And you’re sure about this?” he asks, of course he does, and your heart squeezes tight in your chest.
You raise a brow, moving for another kiss, but he dodges you with a chuckle. You can’t help but glare.
“That’s not an answer, baby.”
“Been soakin’ wet since you bitched out that asshole cop earlier,” you tease, raising one palm to trace down his chest. “That an answer?”
He pauses for a moment, considering, then his expression breaks out into a sweet, cocky grin, and then he’s crushing his lips back on yours. He kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re the surface. Like he wants nothing more than to drink you down and swallow you whole. One arm loops around your waist, cradling you closer, spinning you until you’re caged between him and one of the cold, veneer-lined desks. His tongue slips between parted lips, exploring your mouth with a hunger that belies the tenderness of his touch.
“Up,” he murmurs between licks, tapping your hip with two calloused fingers, before hooking his hands under your thighs and lifting. You squeak, a sound that earns you the world’s most panty-dropping snicker, your ass hitting the desk with a thud. The heat of your core contrasted by the cool surface sends a new spark of want through your system, left sizzling beneath layers of pesky fabric.
Hot, feverish kisses pepper your throat not a moment later, as he splays his palms over your thighs, nudging them apart until they bracket his hips. Massive hands hold you in place, heavy and warm and so damn close to where you’re aching for him. A shiver rips through you like lightning as his lips trail up your neck, soft and wet against heated skin. He finds that sensitive spot, the one just below your ear, lingering on it with slow, open-mouthed kisses, nipping gently before soothing the sting with a lap of his tongue. Sparks climb up your spine like a kindling fire, a poorly-stifled moan whirling from your lips.
You’re already panting, heart slamming against your chest, your fingers sliding to tangle in his messy hair to keep him right where you want him. Your other hand drags swiftly down his front, pressing into the butter-soft expanse of his chest, finally palming at his belt with fingers that have already begun to tremble.
His lips disconnect with your neck with a sharp inhale as he straightens up, meeting your darkened gaze. You almost fucking whine at the loss.
“Woah, hey.” His large hand covers your wrist, not pushing you away—thank God—but turning it over gently in his grasp, thumb sliding to rest over your racing pulse point. Even that simple touch has you squirming. “Easy, baby. ‘M gonna take real good care of you first, yeah?”
It’s sweet. Really sweet.
In fact, it’s so sweet, that your pussy clenches around nothing, and that simply won’t cut it. The only thing it really does is make you want him even more. As in, like, as soon as fucking possible. You pinch your eyes shut, forehead thumping against his chest, before looking back up at him with the most pleading look you can muster.
“Sam. Sweetheart. We’ve got about fifteen minutes before Dean barges in here ‘cause he’s bored,” you argue, and the tight-lipped, almost shy look he gives you almost has you melting right there. “Just need you. Right now. Please.”
Sam swallows hard, pulse thumping so hard in his throat that you can practically see it. The man is quite literally vibrating with need, a shaky breath escaping him as his eyes drop from yours, traveling back to your kiss-bitten lips. If he was attempting to be nobly subtle, he unfortunately fails. Miserably.
“…I don’t wanna hurt you,” he lands on, and it’s so Sam that you have to fight the primal urge to shut him up with another kiss.
“You won’t.”
He opens his mouth again, probably to argue, or say something far too responsible for your liking, but instead, he loses. His mouth surges firmly back onto yours with such force that your head gets tilted back, and you let out your second embarrassing sound of the night, but he doesn’t seem to mind one bit. His tongue shoves right back through the seam of your lips, licking hot against yours with such fever that the situation in your jeans starts to become a little unbearable.
“Okay,” he concedes, mostly to himself, tugging his belt open in one sharp movement that probably shouldn’t make you nearly as stupid-horny as it does. You want to complain about not being able to do it yourself—but you forget every word of protest the second he tugs down his zipper, and your gaze lands on the throbbing bulge in his boxers.
Yup. You’re going to be wet for fucking weeks.
“C’mere,” he purrs, his big, grabby hands scooping around your thighs, dragging you to the edge of the desk until you have to white-knuckle his shoulders to stay upright. He chuckles, the sound vibrating straight through you, his nimble fingers popping the button of your jeans, helping you to shimmy them away. You wiggle and squirm until they fall somewhere beneath Sam’s feet, and he kicks them aside, taking a greedy handful of your now bare ass. “So fuckin’ pretty.”
He latches his lips back just below the curve of your jaw, licking and suckling at your skin as his fingers squeeze hot over your thigh. Your eyes flutter closed, consumed by the arousal flooding your senses, and finally, fucking finally, you feel two thick fingers pull your ruined panties to the side.
The fabric peels from your core, sticking to your drenched pussy as Sam’s fingers replace it swiftly, and oh, it’s electric. His breath comes faster than before, warm against your neck in punched-out puffs as your body reacts to him, arching into his touch. Two tough finger pads glide easily as he parts your folds, applying a ghost of pressure over your clit for one heavenly second before he’s circling your entrance. You’re dripping. Clenching around fucking nothing. And still—he’s teasing you slow with those unfairly hot dimples popping on his cheeks.
“Sam,” you scold, but God, it’s weak. Real fucking weak. And when one finger dips into your weeping cunt, you damn near cry. “Please, baby. C’mon...”
“Shhh…” he croons, sneaking a quick, mean kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Just makin’ sure you’re ready f’me.”
You don’t get to complain before he’s adding another digit, curling just right, dragging across that spongy, fluttery spot inside you that has your eyes rolling back, and has a broken gasp tearing from your lips. It’s like he intended to shut you up, and it absolutely worked.
“You weren’t kiddin’ about the cop thing, huh?” he teases, and you squeeze his fingers like some sort of warning. He full body shudders like you’ve just done it around his dick. “Soaking wet. Musta’ been a little uncomfortable, baby.”
“You have no idea.”
Your twitchy fingers snake right back between the two of you, this time dipping below his waistband. Your fist circles around his thick cock, and you relish in the very sexy groan he spills into your ear. He’s hard enough to hurt, leaking onto your palm, and he drags his fingers out of you just to help you free his throbbing dick in one quick movement. You can’t help but ogle as you pump him once, twice, nudging that fat cockhead between your folds, his thumb holding the soaked gusset of your panties to the side.
“Ready?” he asks, just one more time, those dark, blown pupils studying yours, glittering with arousal.
“Shut up n’ fuck me already.”
Whatever hesitation he was holding onto snaps like a rubber band pulled too tight. He kisses you hard, a rough collision of teeth and tongue. One hand braces on the edge of the desk while the other guides his dick through your dripping pussy, collecting the slick that’s practically caked to your core. When he finally presses forward, it’s slow. So damn slow.
So slow that you feel every bit of the delicious stretch, and his pulse pounds against you in more ways than one. Your back bows into the feeling as your chest presses against his, heat exploding through every nerve ending.
You’re panting by the time you take half of him, and when he’s fully seated, you have to suck saliva back in through your teeth before you drool dumbly. Sam’s thumb slides off from your panties, opting to splay his full hand along the expanse of your inner thigh, holding you as wide as you can go. The pressure in your belly coils so hot that for a moment, you wonder how the hell you’ve survived over two weeks without this.
A groan rips out of him, unfiltered and raw, and the second it hits your ears, it’s already vibrated through his chest and yours alike. Sam’s eyes slam shut for half a second like he’s just been electrocuted by the tight squeeze of your walls so perfectly around him. It’s beautiful, really, a sight that would have you dripping if you weren’t already. His jaw clenches hard, tendons standing out on his sweat-slick neck, fighting for control. His hips shift just slightly then, a gentle, testing rock that has fire licking up your spine.
“Fuck, yes,” you gasp, fingers curling around his strong forearm. And oh, that’s all he needed.
He pulls back gently, before snapping forward in a deep, enthusiastic roll. The desk creaks beneath you like it’s threatening to break, and suddenly, he’s not being so careful anymore.
You wiggle in his grasp, a plea for more, and he doesn’t spare a single moment. He scoops one leg up high over his waist, hips canting into you with a new kind of fever. The pace he sets is dizzying, desperate, damn-near sob worthy, his thick cock splitting you in half so fucking perfectly that stars explode behind your eyelids. Each thrust presses you harder into the desk, his breath huffing ragged against your neck. You reach for him instinctively, fingers splaying everywhere you can reach, taking greedy fistfuls of Sam.
“Y’take me so well,” he chokes, as he leans back to fuck you in powerful, measured strokes, driving you higher and higher with every slap of skin. His muscled abdomen clenches taut as arousal pulls at his belly, and you can feel the tension beneath your palm. “So—so fuckin’ good, just for me.”
White-hot pleasure crashes through you in waves with every ruthless pound. You barely have it in you to hold yourself upright, raising your hands so your fingers can dimple hard into the meat of Sam’s shoulder for even the slightest lick of leverage. Your cunt sucks him in like it was made to, the heavy upward curve of his cock brushing right fucking there, over and over and oh fuck, you can only hope the room is soundproof.
“S-Sam, don’ stop, p-please—”
Gasps and moans and pleas tear from deep in your chest, ecstasy bubbling through you so hot, that you have to bury your face in the crook of Sam’s neck before you wake up the entire city.
He hums into your hair, a smooth, comforting rumble, such a contrast to the way his cock bullies your sweet spot with every brutal thrust. Your lips find his throat, sucking sloppy kisses to his heated skin, but busying your mouth sure as hell doesn’t stop the string of cries from spilling into his ear.
“Oh, baby,” he coos, one arm slipping around your back to tangle in your hair, holding you tight to his chest. It leaves little space between you, if any at all—his hips snapping in quick, short thrusts that hit so deep that you swear you can taste it. “Feels so good, doesn’ it? So full? Tha’s what you needed, huh?”
“Mmm-hmm,” you manage, but it’s broken. So broken. It’s hard to remain coherent when you’re being fucked dumb, and Sam isn’t exactly leaving room for mercy. He squeezes his hand between you, thumb finding your clit with expert-level accuracy, and suddenly, you’re done.
You’re right there. Right fucking there. You tumble closer, closer, closer, until you’re teetering on the edge, dangling off, Sam’s perfect fingers and his perfect cock about to push you over, and—
“What the hell?!”
The sharp, deep voice of Dean-fucking-Winchester stops your orgasm cold like a silver blade slicing through flesh. Shock tears through you as you squeeze Sam tighter than a vice. His hips snap forward hard, way too fucking hard, his body enveloping yours as his palm slaps over your mouth to muffle your forced-out cry.
Sam’s torso practically crushes yours, sparing most of your dignity (thank God for those damn shoulders), your forehead thumping against his chest as his hand slips from your face. Your heart pounds like a snare drum against your ribcage, the strangest combination of sexual frustration and utter mortification washing through your veins.
“Get. Out,” Sam barks, quick, his strained voice sharp as he turns his head towards his brother. You’re suddenly incredibly thankful for your haste—because, hey, at least Sam’s jeans never made it below his waist—but yours sure as hell did, and your only cover is Sam’s body. You tilt your head just enough to peek through the sliver between Sam’s arm and his side, and oh. Oh God.
You’ve never seen Dean look like that before.
He’s white as a fucking sheet, and if you weren’t completely horrified, it would probably be hilarious. Standing in the doorway, he looks entirely scandalized, jaw hanging wide open, eyes threatening to pop right out of his skull, before he snaps out of it long enough to throw a hand over his eyes, turning his head away.
“Yeah, I—don’t you think I’d freakin’ love to?” he spits, shaking his head like he’s seconds away from losing his mind completely. “I mean, Jesus, what are you two, high schoolers? You’d think—”
“Dean,” you choke, and Sam flinches like he’d forgotten you were there entirely. Which, well, is unlikely, considering the fact that he’s still buried to the hilt inside of you.
“We’ve gotta go. Now. Apparently my, uh, alarm disarming skills are pretty rusty,” he stammers, the hand that isn’t covering his eyes reaching for the door. “Put your freakin’ pants on, and go. There’s goddamn cops outside.”
Well, shit.
If that isn’t just worst case scenario, you’re not entirely sure what is.
He finally stomps out of the room, muttering an irritated “seriously!” as he goes, and the second he does, a long puff of air floods from your lungs in a ragged sweep. Every cell in your body is practically vibrating for you just crawl in a hole, and never return—but there’s another part of you that’s just pissed. Because Christ, after waiting so fucking long, is a little bit of relief really that much to ask for?
You’re busy wallowing in your newfound despair, attempting to shuffle your ass backwards to get up, when two warm palms plant firmly on your cheeks, tilting your face up to look at his. Sam’s eyes are wide, undoubtedly panicked, brows pinched so hard that a sharp crease has formed between them.
“Fuck—‘m so sorry. Are you—you okay?” His thumbs swipe at the sweat beading at your temples, touch gentle now, fingers shaking where they cradle your face. “Did I hurt you?”
“What? I’m fine, Sam,” you grumble, but that sure as hell doesn’t ease the look of pure concern on his sweet face. Still, you push yourself back just a little more, and he takes the hint, pulling out so tenderly that you barely even hiss at the feeling. “…Physically, anyway.”
“You’re sure? I just, Jesus, just fuckin’ manhandled you, baby.”
Somehow, that makes you laugh despite everything. “Pass me my jeans,” you snicker, and he moves quickly, following your command without another word. His free hand fumbles with the zipper of his pants, and you hop off the table on wobbly legs.
But that fire in your core?
Apparently, a two-week dry spell turns you completely insatiable.
Sam stands again, passing you your now wrinkled jeans. But instead of taking them back right away, your hand lifts, curling around his collar again, pulling him close until only a lick of distance remains between your lips.
“We’re not done,” you whisper, and God, you watch his pupils swallow all colour in his eyes in real time.
“…Later?” he purrs.
“Later.”
AN: So, I’d actually planned to post something else, and then got distracted and wrote this in a couple of hours. My bad. Needed something fun 🤣
I’m going to take this opportunity to apologize for my very, very slow writing skills… there is so much going on in my life right now, it’s driving me crazy, and I can’t focus on my word porn as much as I’d love to. But hey, gimme a couple weeks, trust the process!
SUMMARY: Dean always thought the end of the world would come with exploding suns and the walking dead—not in the shape of his best friend suddenly flirting with him. 9.7k
WARNINGS: best friend!reader. friends to lovers. suggestive language. pining. fluff. humor. dean's self-deprecating shenanigans. masturbation. implied smut. dry humping. breeding kink if you squint really hard. this was very random but i ended up loving it. set somewhere mid s2.
Dean is scared. Like really, really fucking terrified.
He’s faced everything a person can be afraid of. Vampires, ghosts, weird one-of-a-kind monsters. He’s fought enough demons—both physical and metaphorical—to drive the strongest man crazy. He fucking had to build the pyre where his father’s body would eventually turn to ashes by himself, for God’s sake.
But nothing, nothing has scared the shit out of him more than you flirting with him.
The first time it happened, he didn’t even notice you were flirting. His mind was just so closed off to the possibility, the idea so far-fetched and insane that even now—weeks later, as he stares at the peeling painting on the wall, ruminating—it still blows his fucking mind.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You and Sam had been talking non-stop the whole ride from Tennessee to a dingy motel in rural Virginia, completely engrossed in your brainy shit. Dean caught bits and pieces of it every so often, when the thin but comforting fog that a long drive provides to his brain dissipates enough for him to actually register your words.
But it’s not like it mattered if he paid attention, it’s all Greek to him anyway.
It was only once he stopped at a gas station, leaning against Baby’s side while he waited for the tank to fill, that he actually tried to follow your conversation.
He opened the driver’s door and rested his arms on Baby’s roof, pressing his forehead against the crook of his elbow and peaking down at his baby brother and his best friend, the cold leather of his jacket a relief in the southern summer heat.
Sammy was leaning against the front seat’s backrest so he could meet your eyes, long limbs all twisted and his face still exhausted with everything that’s happened in the past year. His eyes were glittery as he nodded along to whatever you were saying, shaggy hair flopping around his head, and once again Dean has to wonder just how the fuck Dad pretended for Dean to kill the kid.
The memory of John’s words always leave him wilted and venomous, Dean tries so hard not to think about them. He turned his eyes to you instead. You were draped across the backseat—long legs bare thanks to your tiny shorts, socked feet pressed against the left door, your back resting against the right one.
You always make sure to take off your shoes before propping them up on the bench, without Dean even having to ask. You just seem to instinctively sense how much he cares for Baby, working as hard as he does to keep her clean and pretty. Dean doesn’t dwell on it.
He also didn’t dwell on how good you looked then, with the afternoon sun flaring behind you and making your hair glow, all sprawled out in his car. He’d gotten over the fantasies of climbing on top of you and kissing you until the two of you melted into the Impala long ago, around the time he’d gotten over any hope of you ever wanting him back.
Still, seeing your smooth skin against the black, shiny vinyl sent a shudder down his spine. If only.
His life lately has become nothing but just a long, boring list of cobweb-covered If-Only’s.
He quickly drew his attention to the words leaving Sammy’s mouth and away from your chest in that thin, translucent tank top.
“Blue eyes are genetic mutations to adapt to the sun.” The kid sounded the exact same as he had in middle school. Dean wondered if the reason why he didn’t get bullied more often was because two rogue teenage boys staying in the town’s cheapest motel was always a scary enough tale that kept most ruffians away. “Just like dark skin.”
“Yes! That’s also why people who live near deserts have longer, thicker eyelashes. It’s a mutation to protect their eyes,” you chimed in with an eager little smile. Dean almost saw you pushing phantom reading glasses up the bridge of your nose. “And, actually, lighter skin would be the mutation, since humanity originated in Africa.”
Sammy nodded enthusiastically, just like he did whenever he was presented with new information. Dean remembered then why, when you were younger, he used to memorize random fun facts in the library and then report them back to you two after a bad hunt or a nightmarish evening.
That pair of bright, dorky, always-too-wide eyes staring at him with that exact same awe always did wonders to keep the venom in his blood from spilling.
“How did you even get there?” he asked, voice dripping with laughter. “The last thing I heard from you was Halle Berry.”
“Of course it was, horndog.” You rolled your eyes, a wide smile tugging at your lips. The teenage instinct to puff up with pride at the sight stirred, he stomped on it until it stopped moving. “We were talking X-Men. Genetic mutations just kind of fell into place.”
“Right, obviously.” He scoffed. “You’re gonna infest my car with your nerd-virus, geeks.”
“May I remind you of all the Marvel Comics hidden in the trunk, under all your porn ones?”
“No, you may not.”
You snorted, crossing your arms and turning back to Sammy, widening your eyes as if saying: Can you believe this guy?
“I thought you’d be interested in the topic, Dean. Since you seem to try and prove Darwinism in every motel mini-fridge you find.”
Dean glared at his brother, one hand leaving Baby’s roof so he could flip him off. It only made you laugh harder. If Dean preened then, it’s between him and the voices in his head.
“I’d think you Winchesters have a genetic mutation that calls for trouble. The Winchester gene.” You pulled your knees closer to your chest, leaving him with a perfect view of your ever-bruised knees. He wanted to kiss them away, he wanted to leave more. The heat was getting to him. “Call Professor X, I’ve found a new mutation. Gene-W, which stands for Worst Fucking Luck in the Whole World.”
You’re such a fucking idiot.
How was Dean supposed to spend almost every waking moment with you, and not love you? It was impossible. Dad had to know he couldn’t do it, even when he yelled at Dean to get his head out of “some random chick’s cunt and man up. Focus on what’s important.”
God had to know as well, even when He made Dean fundamentally unlovable. It has to be divine punishment, sending him the perfect girl and making her so holy that she was untouchable, especially when Dean’s hands are coated with sacrilege.
“That’s three W’s.” It was the only thing his brain could spit out that wasn’t pleasepleaseplease.
Just once, just one time.
I need you so bad, it’s killing me.
Please.
“I’ll call it the 3W-gene, then.” You shrugged, wiggling in your place until you were sitting with your feet on the car floor. You stared at him then, eyes scanning his face with a nebulosity that he’d never seen before. They burned on his skin, hotter than the sun and more intoxicating than the scent of gasoline. Finally, your lips twisted upwards. “Which I’d have to guess makes up ninety percent of your DNA. Though it looks like you were made for the desert as well.”
Dean frowned, blinked down at you, wondered if you were having a heat stroke.
“But I’m… white? I mean, I know I don’t really get sunburnt, and I tan easily, but—”
“No, I mean—” You gaped at him, like you were trying to figure out if he was intentionally playing dumb. Dean didn’t realize what he was missing, the truth so far removed from every stone-set belief in his head that it seemed ridiculous to even go there. You had to sense his genuine confusion, because the disbelief vanished and left behind only giggling. “I was talking about your eyelashes, dummy.”
Ouch. Dean tried to hide the pang that traveled down his ribs, his lips pressed together in what he will never admit was a pout. “What’s wrong with my eyelashes?”
“Jesus Christ.” You sounded exasperated as you huffed, but also fond. Dean felt adrift. “Forget it, Dean.”
“No, no. Wait!” But you were already sliding out of the car, walking across scalding concrete and spilled oil toward the restrooms, too far away for him to stop you. He bent down and tried to read some answers out of Sammy's face, but all he got was a mocking smile.
He searched for you again, but by then you were already walking into the gas station’s Dunkin Donuts. Still, he yelled after you.
“What’s wrong with my lashes?!”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
He didn’t get it the second time either.
Actually, it took him until the third time you shamelessly flirted with him for Dean to catch up with the situation. But it was just so… unimaginable.
Dean spent every waking moment of his younger years trying to charm you. Well-trained grins and lingering hands, compliments spilling like honey from his lips and pick-up lines flying your way like perfectly-aimed bullets.
But Dean missed every time.
You used to laugh, hiding your smile behind your hand and shoving him back like he was just being silly. At first, he was. You were gorgeous, and Dean was nineteen and horny. He could tell there was something different about you, with the quick hammering of his heart and the fuzz that tingled his brain when you walked in the room, but he paid it no mind.
Being a hunter meant that knocking on love’s door would always be risky. Being a Winchester meant that door was closed and locked forever. Being Dean meant that there was no door at all.
Love wasn’t an option, but he could have sex. He took that small grace and ran with it.
He never expected more than a night with you, maybe a fortnight if he was lucky enough. Then you could leave, or stick around for a while and ditch them when you got tired of him, and Dean wouldn’t mop over it. He’d gotten what he wanted—or all he could afford to want—and you’d just be another speck of dust on his rearview mirror.
But then you’d turned every single one of his advances down, always with a teasing but sweet smile on your face, and you’d stayed.
Through his twenty-first birthday, through Sam’s escape to college, through Dad’s death. Dean has been rattled with grief a million times since then, breaking down into pieces and glueing himself back together with scotch tape and stale beer, and still you stay by his side.
Dean doesn’t get it, but once again, he takes the grace—miracle, he would call it—and does everything he can to keep it.
No more flirting, no more secret touches under tables, no more trying to sleep with you.
It soon became evident that having you in his life meant more than casual sex could ever mean, and so Dean buried all of his desire so deep down that he thinks it might’ve backfired and infused with his soul instead of disappearing. He pretends it did, though, never letting his sickness get in the way of your friendship.
He’s good at pretending. It’s all he’s ever done.
At some point in time, that desire began to transform, bubbling up and becoming syrupy—like tar. Dean keeps throwing dirt over it like a dog trying to hide the bones of his last meal, fangs still bloody. It’s barely enough.
All of this to say, you’ve had a million opportunities to make a move on him.
Back in that shack in Oregon when you were twenty, or ten months ago when Sam had just entered your lives again and Dean was getting sloppy, giving you sultry looks over diner menus, his bantering quickly taking on a seductive undertone whenever you went back and forth. He’d pulled himself together soon enough, but you had still brushed him off just as easily as you had back in ‘98.
Because that’s just how the universe works—Dean swallows it all down until something escapes him and then you turn it down. You don’t flirt, and you sure as fuck don’t call his eyelashes long and thick or his face pretty.
That time… yeah, Dean should’ve probably gotten it then.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You were sitting in the bed of a rusty-red pickup truck, parked in the middle of nowhere Virginia, just a week after the first incident.
You were already a quarter down your way to North Carolina when Sam remembered the witch’s shadow book he’d forgotten back in the motel. You’d all considered just leaving it, but the risk of some poor maid coming across it and wandering down a dark and dangerous path was too big. So Sam had left you in some ghost town in the middle of the woods, taking off with Baby before Dean could regret offering her to him.
Dean had stolen a truck, driving you out of the road and between the trees until you’d found a small clearing near a lake, far away enough from town that no locals would give you trouble.
It was still hot as fuck, the air thick and humid, leaving your hair frizzy and Dean’s throat dry. The sky was clear, a million stars winking down at you, and so you settled on the bed of the truck, desperate for as much fresh air as you could get.
Sam at least had the decency to let you pull a few things out of the trunk before he sped away, including a big blanket that you spread over the dirty metal before climbing inside, Dean following close by.
You laid on your back with a flashlight in one hand and a book propped up over your face in the other, bathing in the moonlight as your eyes hungrily absorbed every word in those pages. Dean lit up a cigarette and watched the smoke travel with the breeze, listening to the familiar buzz of the forest and fidgeting with his M1911.
His back was pressed against the bedside, leaving him with the perfect view of the tree line. And you.
You looked like an angel. Definitely divine punishment.
At some point your legs ended up tangled, blissfully-bare skin against stubborn denim. You knocked your knee with his but kept your eyes on the book, Dean watched you. The way you held the flashlight between your teeth when you needed to flip the page, the light that reflected on the paper and highlighted the curve of your throat, the scar on your cheek from when you jumped between Dean and a knife the witch had thrown at him.
“Watcha reading?” He couldn’t keep the words down, they swirl in the air along with the smoke. This time you spare him a glance.
“Gothic horror. Very Americana, fits the vibe perfectly.” With your hand still holding your book open, you gestured to your surroundings. Dean chuckled. “You’d like it, if you could read.”
“Hey!” He kicked you softly in the shin. “I know how to read, thank you very much!”
“You do? Woah, news to me.”
“I’d be the worst hunting partner if I didn’t. Research would take us ages.” Your eyes went back to the book. It was unbearable. “At least have the decency to look at me when you insult me, you little dweeb.”
You dropped the novel next to your head, getting up on one elbow so you could finally meet Dean’s gaze. The flashlight kept pointing up, enveloping everything in faint yellow light. Dean’s hair stuck to the back of his neck with sweat, his white ratty t-shirt suddenly too tight.
“Sam and I always do the research anyway.” You flexed your leg, your knee now hooked over his as you laid on your side. Dean was an adult, he could handle this.
“So what’s my job then, attack dog?”
A small frown crossed your face, it was quickly replaced by a teasing smirk. “Nah. Your job is to sit there and look pretty.”
The overwhelming quiet of the wilderness and the haziness of the tacky night made it all feel like a dream. Dean had to be hallucinating the slight tilt of your face, the warm glint in your irises, your teeth grazing your lip.
“What?”
“Every team needs The Pretty One. Makes it easier to be approachable, you know how a shining smile can do wonders.” Dean almost wanted to clear his ears with his fingers. What the fuck was happening? “Though you just had to be pretty and good at fighting, you could fill all the team’s positions if you wanted. I blame it on the 3W-gene.”
A lot was going on, Dean’s brain would start leaking out of his nose if you didn’t stop.
“You think I’m pretty?”
Not his smoothest moment. He’s not proud.
You scoffed, and if Dean was a little more certain of anything at this point, he’d thought you blushed. “Please, Dean, everyone thinks you’re pretty.”
No they don’t. They think he’s hot, or handsome, or badass. He’s heard beautiful a few times. Pretty… he doesn’t hear that one often. For some reason, it sent lightning down his spine.
“You have never said it, though,” he whispered, mellower than intended. He took one last drag of his cig and stubbed it out against the bedside. He quickly grabbed another one, if anything, just to keep his hands busy.
There was a slow, terrifying moment of silence before you spoke again, and Dean held his breath until the smoke burned in his lungs.
“Doesn’t mean I don’t see it.” Something haunted flashed on your eyes, Dean felt the need to float closer until he charred within it. “That I don’t know it.”
His world started to crumble, the ground under him shaking. You finding Dean attractive—pretty, even… it was life-ruining.
All of his defenses started to crack.
“You’ve seen me covered in enough fluids to make the toughest surgeon vomit.”
You giggled, the sound breaking through the still air like a bullet. Dean’s grip on his gun loosened, his whole body melting.
“It’s that freakin’ Winchester gene, I’m telling you. Good looks, bad luck, weird ass charm.”
“So you think Sammy’s pretty too?”
He wished his voice hadn’t been that bitter. You rolled your eyes before picking up your book, flopping back down on your back as your eyes left him. Dean shivered even though the air was stuffy, musk and salty heat filling his nose.
“You’re the prettiest, De. You should know that.”
Well, he knows now.
He smoked half his pack of reds and you got through another third of your novel before you decided to get some shut-eye. Dean agreed to lie down next to you after you plead with him, even if he knew he would stay up all night regardless. Your pouty expression was too much for him to resist, he’s only human.
You didn’t have any pillows, but Dean was stubborn and he took his jacket everywhere, even when it was a thousand degrees. He bundled it up and offered it for you to use. “It’s not the comfiest, but it’s something.”
This time, Dean was sure he saw your cheeks reddening.
He kept on watching the clouds and listening in for any dangers as you got ready to sleep, throwing a thin sheet over the two of you and curling into yourself at his side. He put out his last cigarette against the sole of his biker boots, refusing to take them off even after you nagged at him for it.
He’d learned long ago to always be ready to escape. Old habits die hard.
“I wish you’d put them out on me.”
The words barely reached him, getting lost in the whistling of the wind. He quickly turned his head toward you, eyes wide and breath ragged, but you had already fallen asleep by then.
Your face was hidden against his jacket. It stayed there all the way until morning.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The few days after that had been torture. Even now, Dean still isn’t sure that last part was even real, the words too good to be true.
If only you could be as sick as him, if only under your skin lived a beast as rabid as his, if only the immensity of his desire and obsession could be reciprocated instead of abhorred. If only.
But by the third incident, Dean had enough evidence to believe he heard right and he didn't need to get hooked on antipsychotics. And oh, what a thought that is.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean was working on Baby, two weeks or so after Virginia.
You’d driven to South Dakota a few days ago after ganking a vampire nest in northern Iowa, still waiting for Ash to get back to you with any demonic omens. Bobby had welcomed you with open arms and a cooler full of beer, and God knows Dean needed the break.
He didn’t know how long he could keep handling being locked in the Impala with you, your clothes getting skimpier and the days getting longer. Your head stuck out the window, your hair floating in the wind, your voice echoing in his head.
“You’re the prettiest, De.”
Even motel rooms didn’t serve as a relief. You’d still walk out of the shower with your skin flushed and bare, filling the boy-stinking room with your sugary smell and girlish sweat. It was hell, it was paradise. Dean had to rush into a cold shower every time.
He thought that being at Bobby’s would stop the avalanche of prohibited thoughts. That once there was a bit more space between you—other people around and open windows and air conditioner—he could go back to pretending that your strange confessions in the past few days hadn’t shattered all of his careful guards.
But it only took you flashing a smile across the dining table or your shape lounging by the bay window for all his pent-up frustration to claw at his throat. He was restless, fingers twitchy and temper irritable, his whiskey glass almost cracking under his hand when you strode down the stairs in a tiny skirt and a tight top, clearly not wearing a bra.
Before his head could explode, he grabbed a cold beer and dashed out the door and into the salvage yard, Baby’s keys in one hand and his crumbling sanity in the other.
He’d been at it for hours, tinkering here and there with the Impala’s undercarriage, the old car creeper he’d stolen from Bobby’s garage stiff and bumpy under him. He welcomed the distraction.
There was nothing to fix, really. Baby wasn’t up for an inspection for quite a while, and Dean knew exactly when she needed work done. She was golden.
Still, he fidgeted with the exhaust and turned a few screws uselessly, stalling. The sun beat down on him, his shirt was stained with oil and sweat, his vision was getting splotchy. The smell of metal and dirt was comforting, familiar, manly. No soft vanilla or flowery shampoo. Just Dean and his life on the road, no space for anything else.
But being trapped under an engine only made the heat even worse, his throat closing up and his eyes stinging. He finally decided to slide out and into the fresh air, sitting up with a gasp as he reached for his beer, the condensation dripping from the bottle a small heaven.
He chugged the drink down and threw the bottle on the ground, wiping his forehead with the hem of his dirty shirt before dropping back down on the creeper, his eyes scanning his arid surroundings. Big mistake.
Because there, stepping out of the house to his right, were you. The stupid skirt left him as breathless as it did the first time, the little perk of your nipples under the soft fabric of your top still filling his mouth with saliva. There were two beers in your hands, your skin glistening as you stepped in the sunlight, Dean’s grip on the wrench tightened.
“Brought you some libation, so you don’t pass out under that thing.”
“Hey! Put some respect on her name.” Dean petted the underside of Baby, your laugh washing over him like a waterfall.
You reached his side and handed him one of the beers, the caps already off. He took a long swig of it, mostly to keep that syrupy tar from spilling. He was still lying on his back, with you towering over him. Dean focused on the sharp dig of metal against his spine and not the way he could almost, almost peep under your flowy skirt.
“What are you working on, anyway?”
He didn’t have a real answer, so he spit out some bullshit excuse full of technical words that he knew you wouldn’t really understand, hoping it was enough to keep you from asking more questions.
“Uhm—right…” You nodded, like you’d understood anything Dean had just said. It made him smile, how you always tried to pay attention even when the topic couldn’t bore you any more.
The two of you stayed there for a few more moments, sipping on your beers and letting the seconds trickle by. You swayed to a phantom tune in your head, Dean could nearly hear it. It was nice to know you could still have moments like this, when your minds swirled into one and you didn’t need words to communicate, like tuning into the same radio station.
If Dean was a little cheesier, he’d say you’re soulmates.
Because he’s Dean, he says you’re just trauma-bonded.
A small but glorious breeze glided between you, making your skirt and hair twirl and lifting Dean’s shirt halfway up his chest, his torn-up jeans laying low on his hips like a good mechanic.
Dean watched as your eyes caught the movement, drinking in the sight of golden skin and scar tissue. You ogled shamelessly, from the ridges of his ribs down to the V of his hipbones, licking your lips as you followed the trail of faint hair that disappeared down the waistband of his boxers, the elastic peaking out of his jeans slightly.
Too much, it was too much. Your teasing had made him reckless, this was his last straw.
“Take a picture, darlin’. It’ll last you longer.”
Instead of snapping back into yourself and running back into the house, you just hummed mindlessly, gaze slowly moving up to Dean’s face. Your cheeks were pink, it could be just the incandescence. The darkness of your eyes differed.
“Left my phone inside. Such a shame.” He wasn’t expecting that. He laughed hoarsely, trying to pass it off as a weird joke. Friends could joke like that, it wasn't that crazy. Your expression remained consuming. “You shouldn’t stay out here for too long, De. You’re gonna roast under all that metal.”
Dean thought you sounded hungry, he finished his beer in one go.
“Hey, it’s a good way to go.” He gave you one of those relaxed, I’m-not-freaking-out-you-are smirks. “I’ve always wanted to die under a hot girl or a cool car.”
Okay, he walked right into that one. He was trying, okay?
This time, you laughed. It was velvety, stickier than summer and more addictive than any adrenaline rush. Dean became a junkie after just one hit.
“Great philosophy, really.” You chugged half of your beer, stepped a little closer, stood with your legs parted. Dean kept his eyes firmly on your face. “Well, you can choose now. Which one will it be?”
For a second, Dean wondered if he’d drink more than he remembered. Only when he was really, really hammered did he daydreamed this vividly. But he’d barely had three beers today and half a glass of whiskey, he was nowhere near wasted.
His breath hitched, he gaped up at you. His brain racked for excuses, for another explanation to this that wasn’t your best friend who you’re inescapably in love with is making a move on you.
There wasn’t any. There’s only so much you can lie to yourself before the truth becomes imminent.
“I’m just a hardworking mechanic, ma’am. I’m trying to do my job here.” It was so easy, to just fall back into the playfulness that’s been dying to crawl out of his mouth and wrap all over you for years.
“Mhm.” You grinned foxily—which was new—and then stepped even closer, a foot on each side of his extended leg—which was even newer. You were still too far away for him to actually see anything, but the scene was still too familiar, from grainy videos in Sam’s laptop and raunchy magazines. Oh god. “I think I have a problem for you to check out, Mister Mechanic. Don’t worry, I can pay you well.”
You winked at him, and Dean’s breath grew ragged. The line of just-friends had started to blur long ago, but this was definitely stepping over it. He wanted it so badly, that was always a sign that it shouldn’t happen.
He tried to convince himself you were just joking around, making fun of his cliche porn indulgences, calling him out for being a little freak.
“You can’t just come into my workshop and demand to be served, ma’am. That’s no way to treat a humble, blue-collar man.”
Another one of those laughs, Dean relished in the ecstasy of it. “I think I know how this blue-collar man likes to be treated after all these years.”
His mouth was full of spit and tar, he swallowed it all down. It still spilled.
"You’re gonna let me take a look, then?”
Surely, this is where you drew the line. It was all fun and games up to here, just a little healthy flirting between best friends with a broken silent understandment—nothing unfixable.
This, this is where everything could go up in flames. Dean was delirious, frothing at the mouth and begging to be put down. To be woken up from this dream, to go back to when everything ached but was familiar, to have you snap his neck in mercy.
Instead, you drenched everything in kerosene.
With a wicked smirk that screamed danger, you crept higher up his body. Your foot resting between his legs moved and installed itself next to his shoulder, until you were completely straddling his frame, right over his head.
Shadows covered his face, the ruffles of your skirt fluttered, that musky smell of vanilla and salty skin enveloped him. Dean panicked.
There was no coming back from this. He wasn’t ready to ruin the best thing that had ever happened to him. He wasn’t sure this was even happening in the first place.
He shoved himself back under Baby, a yelp logged in the back of his throat, his eyes still shut closed even when all he could sense around him was rusty metal and motor oil.
That laugh again, vivid and electric, now muffled by the car shielding Dean from the demon that's taken the shape of his best friend.
“I thought I—I heard a rattle.” He’s not sure his words even reached you with how scattered they were. You sighed in delight.
“Of course, Mister Mechanic. I’ll stop bothering you.” You softly kicked his boot in goodbye, even that made Dean’s breath stutter. “Don’t stay here too long, or you’re actually going to faint.”
“Sure.” He sounded wrecked. Goddamnit he can be pathetic.
You giggled, this time tender and almost… enamored. Dean seriously needed to go see a shrink.
He listened closely as you walked away, waiting until the back door of Bobby’s house clicked shut before rushing out from under Baby. He got on his feet so fast that his head spinned, his vision blurring as he made his way between the maze of broken-down cars and hills of old tires.
He found a sun-bleached school bus that looked like it had been there for ages, big enough to conceal his form as he leaned against its side, fumbling at his belt with shaky hands.
He came a few minutes later, with his back against scalding, yellow-painted steel and his dick fisted furiously in his hand. He kicked dirt over his cum on the ground, still trying to catch his breath and process what the hell just happened.
His cock twitched at the memory of you climbing over him, he pulled his jeans back up and darted into the house, locking himself in his room until he was able to function again.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean had been able to bury the cum well-enough that day, but you’ve done irreparable damage to his desire’s grave. No matter how hard he scratches at the earth and tries to cover the bones, you’ve resuscitated something invincible.
He’s doomed, even more than before.
Because it’s not just desire anymore. Now it’s also a sunrise on the beach, quiet mornings in a suburban kitchen, soft kisses that promise more than just a good time. Now Dean wants more, he wants everything.
Oh, what have you done?
It was hard, moving on from that day. After a lot of self-reflection and many, many jerk-off sessions, he’d gotten to the conclusion that you were, indeed, flirting.
He knows, he knows. Give him a Nobel prize.
The knowledge is almost impossible to live with. He wants to put his head through the wall, he wants to scream until his lungs give in, he wants to kneel at your feet and ask you why.
Why now, why not before, why not never. Why when he was finally getting the hang of it, why when he had just gotten used to the ache of longing, why when he’d ultimately made his peace with never having you.
He didn’t know how to act after that, not when he was holding his guts inside his body with trembling hands and he didn’t know exactly what you needed. Because that’s the scariest part of all.
Just to what extent do you want him?
At first, he assumed you wanted the same he did at nineteen—to fool around.
Maybe you’re lonely. Dean hasn’t seen you leave the bar with anyone in months, hasn’t caught you sneaking out of your motel rooms, hasn’t heard you talking about that college boy you became friends with during your Hook Man case in Iowa.
Maybe you’re wired, and needy, and Dean is a safe choice. No awkward introductions or dangerous meetings. Just the pleasure of skin against skin and the haven of being with someone you know like the back of your hand.
Dean isn’t sure if he could handle casual, after all these years, after you’ve wiped away his dumbest tears and patched up his ugliest wounds. For once, Dean might not be able to muzzle the beast under his skin.
So he panicked, and tried to put some distance between the two of you. But his line of work doesn’t accept mental health leaves, and you were back in the Impala just a few days after. You didn’t mention Mister Mechanic again and Dean didn’t quite look you in the eye, but everything went virtually swimmingly, aside from Sammy’s occasional side-eyes.
Still, the taste of worry lingered on his tongue and the beast wailed with every glimpse of you in the rearview mirror. More if-only’s made it to the list.
If only he was a better man, maybe you’d want all of him.
If only the yellow-eyed demon had never existed—that one wasn’t new, but it always stung like it was.
If only you could love him, the way he loves you.
That one was the most terrifying of them all. It made Dean want to throw up all of his innards and flush them down the toilet. He wondered if he’d even be able to focus on the case with your face hovering over him flashing behind his eyelids every time he blinked.
But then, incident four happened.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean was struggling with his necktie.
He fucking hated dressing up as FBI. Even the priest costume had been more comfortable than this cheap rental suit and too-small dress shoes. It was still way too hot for a suit jacket, and the white shirt buttoned all the way up made him feel like he was choking. The stupid tie wasn’t helping.
He stood in front of the mirror, clammy fingers tugging at the fabric fruitlessly. Dean had known how to tie a necktie since he was six, when Dad was too drunk or hungover to do it himself. By the time he’d gotten old enough to start wearing the disguises himself, he’d been pretty fucking good at it.
But his hands hadn’t stopped shaking since that day in the salvage yard, and he really, really didn’t want to go deal with useless small town sheriffs and sobbing widows. Especially not when you’d be staying behind, deciding to take over research while Sam and Dean collected as much information as they could on the five married men who’d shot themselves within the past week.
Sammy was out getting all of you some coffee, everyone exhausted after the drive all the way down to Berthoud, Colorado. So when the door creaked open, Dean scoffed without turning away from the closet mirror.
“I can’t tie this stupid thing, Sammy. C’mere and help me.”
He was expecting the ribbing chuckle that followed his words, but he didn’t expect it to be so high-pitched and lovely.
He spun around on his heels as the door closed, messy knot making the collar of his shirt pop around his neck, eyes wide as he took you in.
“Hello there, Agent Dracula.” You were leaning back on the wooden door, hands behind your back and a little smile on your face. You hadn’t been alone in the same room since Sioux Falls, Dean secretly started to pray to any deity that would listen.
“Hey.” He hoped he didn’t sound as sulky as he thought he did. “How did you get in?”
You stared at him for a few seconds, long lashes fluttering—and Dean wished he could turn back time and tell you that no, you were made for the desert. But once again, he was too late.
You chuckled, seemingly incredibly amused by a silent joke that Dean missed, and knocked your knuckles twice on the door behind you before walking toward him.
“Sammy gave me the second key, just in case.” Dean stayed frozen in place as you approached him, wondering if this is how deer felt when they heard the snap of the trigger. Your fingers latched onto his collar, and you grinned at him as you started to fix his tie.
“The little fucker told me nothin’.” Your fingers were swift and delicate as you twisted the navy blue fabric around them. Dean swallowed harshly, your thumb brushed against his Adam’s apple. “You should knock, y’know. I could’ve been changing.”
You hummed, your smile widening. Dean wanted to lick behind your teeth, he wanted to rip all of his out. “And we wouldn’t want me seeing that, would we?”
He didn’t dignify that with an answer. Whatever game you were playing, Dean knew he’d lose. He might as well give up now.
Of course, you couldn’t even give him that.
You finished with his necktie, adjusting it against the base of his throat before fixing his collar. You tugged on the fabric, hard, until his chest was almost pressed to yours and your faces were just inches apart.
“There you go, agent. Handsome and ready to go dazzle all those poor mourning widows.” You ran your hands across his shoulders and down his biceps, smoothing out the wrinkles of his button-up. Dean bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.
“What better pillow talk than all the gory details of your past husband’s suicide, am I right?” At least he could still joke. That was a relief. “You might wanna give that key back, so you don’t walk into one of my private investigation sessions.”
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for with that. He hadn’t brought back a girl in years, always keeping his encounters in dark alleyways or the chick’s home. Encounters which, he’d never admit, were starting to happen less and less.
It was hard, keeping your name off his tongue when all he could think about was you, even when he was balls-deep inside someone else. It had gotten him kicked out a few times, he never took it personal. It was all a distraction, one that was barely working now.
You frowned, your fingers around his arms twitching. Your eyes stayed fixated on his tie for a long moment before they flickered up to his, swirling with something that made the tar start to boil.
“You don’t need to do all that. You’re smart, you’ll find another way to make them talk.”
Your voice was too solemn for the comment to be brushed off as a joke. Sweat started to bead up on his hairline, he’d have to turn on the ceiling fan as soon as you left.
If you left. Dean wasn’t sure if he wanted you to.
“I thought I didn’t know how to read?”
You giggled, leaning closer until your bodies were flattened against each other and Dean could feel the warmth of your skin through your clothes.
“You can be an idiot sometimes. You can also be a genius when you want to.” Your breath brushed against his lips with every word, his lips parted on instinct. Another beat passed by, your hands slid up to cup the back of his neck. “Don’t fuck any widows, Winchester.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to.”
The words were barely audible, Dean tried to close the distance between you, hands wrapping around your waist. His lips just grazed yours before you tilted your head back, shaking it almost imperceptibly. He had to bite down the urge to whine.
He whispered your name, pained.
“Not now,” you whispered back. Outside the room, Baby’s engine roared before shutting down. You pulled him closer again, turning your face until your lips were pressed against his cheek, leaving a feathery kiss against his just-shaven skin. It was still sensitive, Dean exhaled harshly. “Just—come back to me tonight, mh?”
Before he could say anything, the door opened and you took a step back. His arms awkwardly stayed in the air long after you’d made your way to the door, still holding the shape of you. Sammy walked in after you beelined out of the room, giving him a suspicious look.
Dean was just as lost.
But one thing was for sure, whatever this was, it wasn’t casual. You were right, Dean could be smart when he wanted to, and he knew damn well you couldn’t fake that look in your eyes.
He came back that night, alone, as soon as interviews were over. Sammy was left behind getting copies of the mortuary reports and at least two ladies ended up alone and kindly rejected in their homes—all for you.
He knocked on your motel door, your pretty head popped up after a second. You quietly gave him an up and down look, eyes glistening under the streetlights as a satisfied beam made its way into your mouth.
“Good.” You nodded before winking at him, already retreating back inside your room. “Good night, De.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
And so that leaves him here, the morning after, lying shirtless on scratchy motel sheets and staring at the water-stained ceiling in search for answers. Sammy is deep asleep in the bed next to him, the kid’s soft, familiar snores doing nothing to keep Dean anchored in time.
He feels like a teenager, he feels a million years old. He wants to barge into your room and childishly demand an explanation, he wants to retire to a monk monastery and find divine wisdom. He wants to tear his own heart out and for you to keep it in a glass vial forever.
If-only’s start to spiral into maybe’s. Fears turn to hopes and hopes to fears. He tosses against the pillows and the cheap mattress springs dig into his back.
With an agonizing groan, he leaps out of bed.
His boots are still on his feet, of course, so it’s easy to pull on his dirty jeans and dart out of the motel room. The early morning sun welcomes him with a wave of warm air and a brief second of blindness, his skin already growing damp as he sits on the curb of the lonely parking lot.
He’s already reaching for a smoke before his vision even gets used to the sunlight, the torrid pavement burning his skin through thick denim. He blinks back white spots as he takes a long drag, letting the taste of tobacco erase the traces of angst clinging to the corners of his mouth.
The parking lot is almost empty, barely any cars waiting for their owners to be done with whatever they were doing on a Wednesday at eight in the morning inside a pay-by-the-hour motel. So when footsteps start to slowly get closer, light and measured, he knows exactly who it is. His eyes stay glued to a far away billboard with a generic anti-smoking slogan printed in the center.
The first thing he sees is your boots, stepping down the curb right next to him. Then your bare calves, miles of smooth skin, the muffled sound of fabric dropping. Purple-peppered knees bend as you lower yourself on his right side, that soft smell of sugar and sun-kissed skin mixing with marlboro and mildew. And then, when his eyes flicker just a little closer but not quite land on your shape, he sees white cotton and lacy edges.
He chokes on the smoke gliding up his throat.
“Jesus Christ.” He coughs, finally turning his head to take you in completely. A tiny cup of coffee held in your hands, thin white tank top hugging your bare chest, soft cotton panties, boots. Nothing else. “What the hell?”
“It’s hot as fuck.” You shrug, gazing toward the same billboard. You’d dropped one of the motel towels over the spot you’re sitting on, the fabric frayed but thick enough to keep your skin from burning in the concrete. “You’re naked too, you know?”
“I’m more modest than you, that’s for sure.”
With languid movements, you set the porcelain cup down between the two of you and reach for his cigarette, your fingers stroking over his as you steal it and press it against your mouth. Your eyes meet his as your lips wrap around the filter, just where Dean’s were a second ago.
“I was using that, you know?” Maybe one day he’ll be able to talk to you again without his voice failing him. You chuckle. “I could’ve just handed you a new one.”
“But where’s the fun in that?”
“Give it back.” You smile lazily, tilting your head and taking a long drag, goading. “Fucking—whatever.”
His hand fishes into his front pocket for the pack smokes. You lean closer, again, just enough for Dean to feel your skin reflecting the warmth of the sun. Your hand wraps around his thigh, making him halt. Delicate fingers pull the cig away from your perfect mouth, and suddenly your parted lips are brushing his.
“Stop being a baby. Open up if you want it so badly.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
His answer comes in smoke being blown into his mouth. He breathes it in, starving for the slightest taste of you between all the earthy bitterness.
“Why do you think?”
He’s way too dizzy to process the words, and it isn’t until you’ve pulled away enough for Dean to see your whole face that his brain starts to work again.
“Because you want me dead?”
You laugh, so fucking sweet and heavenly. Dean allows himself to revel in it this time.
“I love you, Dean. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” The way you’re looking at him makes him feel even more naked than he is. Dean stutters.
In concept, yes, he knows you love him. As a friend, as a partner, as family. In the lives you lead, there’s only so many people you can trust, and when you finally find them—yes, it’s easy to love them. Especially when the rest of the world is either too ignorant to feel real or too cruel to keep close.
“I know.” He gulps, the words stinging on his tongue. “I—I love you too.”
He’s said so very few times in his lifetime. Kneeling by your hospital bed after a rugaru left you bloody and with a raging concussion, on the phone the night Sammy left for Stanford and he got hammered by the seaside, the day Dad died. It was always secretive—with the shadow of sorrow hiding the severity of the words, protecting him from their consequences.
But here, when he’s shirtless under the brightest, hottest sun of the year, there’s nowhere to hide.
You drop the cigarette to the ground, cupping his cheek in your palm instead. Dean leans into the touch like a stray puppy, heart pounding against his ribcage.
“How do you love me?”
He murmurs your name dejectedly. “Don’t make me say it.”
“Please, Dean. I—” You take in a trembling breath, and for the first time, the confident mask you’ve been wearing since this whole thing started falters. “I need you to say it.”
“I love you more than anything. I love you like a best friend, I love you like family, I love you like a piece of myself. You’re part of me, darling. The better, lovelier part of me, the part I would go insane without. I love you like I dream of spending my last days on earth with you. I love you like I have never loved anyone before, and it scares the crap out of me. But fuck, I don’t care, because I fucking love you.”
Tears glint in the corner of your eyes. Before Dean can blow his brains out for making you cry, you lunge yourself into his lap, knees hitting the pavement on each side of his hips hard enough to scrape skin.
“Fuck, fuck.” You sound crazed as you cradle his face in your hands. Dean can barely follow what’s happening. “I love you too. I love you so fucking much, Dean. Goddamnit.”
Dean’s hands have barely landed on your thighs when you’re already engulfing his mouth with yours. It’s desperate, feral, long-awaited. Teeth clashing and hands groping, years and years of longing spilling from the seams and sealing the two of you together.
“What the fuck—” His words are licked away, he bites down on your tongue in retaliation. It only makes your hips grind down onto his. Instant karma. “—is happening?”
Your laughter this time is low and fevered. Dean’s hands can’t stop mapping all the exposed skin offered to him—calloused fingers wrapping around barely-clothed hipbones and slipping under flimsy fabric and drawing shapes against silky forearms. Your flesh dips under his fingertips, he finds scars he didn’t know of before, his mouth waters.
“I’m in love with you, Winchester. So in love I’m fucking dumb with it. That’s what’s happening.”
Dean drags you closer and drapes himself around you, arms encircling your middle and face buried in your hair, taking the moment in. Just a second to breathe, and make sure he isn’t dreaming.
“What changed your mind?”
You chew on his question, your hands doing some exploring of their own. His back pricks with the scorch of the sun and your adoring touch, your bodies stick together with sweat and Dean’s tar, now flowing freely from his chest and coating all of him.
“I’ve always loved you. I think I was born loving you.” Your nails trace every dip of his muscles. Dean flexes for you, you smack his shoulder with a giggle. He nuzzles his nose against the line of your jaw. “But when you used to flirt with me—well, you know your reputation, De.”
He does, he spent decades crafting it. He leaves a kiss on your cheek before pulling away enough to look into your eyes.
“It wasn’t like that, not with you. Maybe at first, but now… I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”
“I know,” you whisper, your lips pressing against his in a chaste peck. “I know now.”
“How?”
It’s hard to focus on talking when you’re sitting on his lap in nothing but sheer undergarments, but his curiosity is slightly stronger than his craving.
“Do you remember that time Sam got cursed? The truth spell you tried to convince me was a contagious diarrhea curse?”
Dean remembers, unfortunately. Sammy couldn’t stop spitting out every thought that crossed his head, and Dean knew that if the kid was in the same room as you for even a second, his meticulously-concealed love would be bared before you quicker than Dean could knock his brother out.
So he’d made up a lame excuse as to why you shouldn’t go back to the motel until Dean had a cure, and prayed that taking Sam’s phone and locking him in their room would be enough to keep everything from falling apart.
Until a second ago, he was sure it had been.
“You’re a good liar, Winchester, but you can’t lie to me. I knew something was up.” Your hands find their way to his hair, Dean represses a grunt when you tug on it softly. “So I picked the lock to your motel door and had a very… insightful conversation with your brother.”
“You really took advantage of the poor kid, baby?”
The endearment brings a beautiful flush to your cheeks, he’s rewarded with another smoky kiss.
“He looked quite eager to share, actually. Told me all about you keeping a picture of me in your wallet and calling other girls my name.”
Dean plops his forehead down on your shoulder, groaning. “I’m gonna gut him.”
“No, you’re not.” You thumb at his sideburn. Dean grumbles unintelligibly against your skin, teeth grazing the spot right beside the strap of your top. “Because without him, we wouldn’t be here.”
He hums in the back of his throat, getting lost in the enchanting sensation of having you all around him. “What was all the torture about, then?”
“Well, I had to test you first. Make sure you actually feel the same way.” You drag him back by the hair, until your noses are brushing and Dean can count every mole in your face. “Because I love you so much it kills me, Dean. Does it kill you, too?”
Dean takes a slow breath, his arms tightening around you. “Not anymore.”
You kiss him again, this time slow and deep. No more rushing, no more fear. There’s nowhere to be, nothing to escape. For as long as you’re with him, sitting on his lap and holding his bleeding heart in your hands, never letting go—you’ll be okay.
“You know,” He sucks your lower lip into his mouth, you whine lowly. Dean should really get you off the dirty curb and into your room. “I demand a redo in the whole Mister Mechanic thing. That wasn’t fair.”
You giggle breathlessly, your clothed crotch rubbing against his lower stomach. Dean grips the back of your thighs hard enough to bruise. “I still can’t believe you freaked out so bad.”
“I can.” He leaves featherlike kisses down your neck, already obsessed with the way you squirm in his arms. “Look at you, of course I freaked out. Still, I’m ready for it now.”
“Calm down, cowboy. Patience is a virtue, and we have plenty of time for that.”
“Do we?” He reaches the hollow of your throat, lips sliding lower over your tanktop, the fabric now translucent and sticking to your skin with perspiration. “Because I might have a list of things I want to try.”
“Of course you do, horndog.” Your mouth hovers over his ear, making his eyes flutter shut. “We can try whatever you want. I’m yours, De. I’ve been yours for a while.”
“That’s a dangerous offer, baby girl.” His hands find your ass, fondling the tender flesh before he squeezes, making your pretty cunt grind against his torso again. “You’d really let me do anything I want to you?”
“It’s—A-ahh. It’s that 3W-gene. You could charm me into anything.”
Dean chuckles, low and husky, still guiding your hips down on his.
“You’re really obsessed with that.”
Your lips brush the shell of his ear, gnawing on his lobe before you whisper. “What can I say, I want my kids to have it. Though it’d be good to dial back on the bad luck.”
Dean’s brain stopped working after kids. Your kids, with his genes, because they’d be both your kids. You, carrying his baby. Him, putting a baby in you.
“That’s it.”
With a guttural growl, Dean jumps to his feet, taking you with him. You shriek when he throws you over his shoulder, nails clawing at his sides and feet flailing in the air. He smacks your ass once, a warning to stay still. You bite down on his lower back in revenge.
Thankfully, you’d left your room’s door open. Dean kicks it shut behind him and makes sure to lock it before he throws you onto the bed, crawling over your giggling form and shutting you up with his tongue.
Baby’s keys get thrown somewhere on the floor when he kicks off his jeans, Dean doesn’t bother picking them up. He doesn’t plan on leaving this room any time soon.
Suicidal husbands can wait, Dean’s been waiting for too damn long.
Now, when you whisper filthy words in his ear that make his cock weep, he doesn’t feel scared anymore.
The door he thought didn’t exist at all swings wide open, and Dean will never be terrified again for as long as you hold the key to it.
NOTES: this literally originated from me and my cousin talking about genetic mutations to adapt to different environments. you can tell why i'm a virgin loser. I MISS THIS FICTIONAL MAN SO BAD.
my classes have been cancelled because we're snowed in, so I had time to finish and edit this quicker than I expected. YAY!
anyway, thank you sm for reading, and I love you all!!! mwah<3
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