HIIII idk if u remember me but i dm'ed u about ur 40s!dean bot couple of months ago or smth(TT) love ur works and bots queen!!!
so since ur reqs are open now i wanna ask if u have any thoughts on young jensen like in his late teens-early 20s because im wild about him in this era. fluff or smut doesn't matter I'll eat anything with this man on it
hi, sweet angel, i do remember you!! thank you so sooo much 🤍 since you gave me free will, i paired him up with model!reader, since i feel the 90s were very fashion and modeling centered (???) i don’t know lmaoo, but yeah <3
warnings 𓏵 smut | fluff | mentions of alcohol | industry pressures | struggling times | intimidation/nervousness around successful people | semi-public sex | period-typical 90s stuff (?) | oral sex (both f&m receiving) | overstimulation | car sex. (i’m definitely missing some, but i’m too tired to check)
[ cutesy type shit ]
you meet jensen at some industry mixer in a cramped west hollywood penthouse, the kind where everyone’s trying too hard to look like they’re not trying at all. he’s nursing the same beer all night because he can’s afford another one, wearing a dark flannel that’s seen better days over a white tee. when someone introduces you as “that girl from the guess campaign,” he gets this deer-in-headlights look before recovering with ”oh cool, i think i saw that on sunset boulevard.” (he definitely stared at that billboard every time he drove past it).
he’s so broke in those early days, like scary broke. you catch him at craft services during a modeling gig where he’s doing background work, loading up napkins with bagels and fruit “for later.” instead of calling him out, you just start inviting him to lunch after shoots. he always protests at first — “nah, i’m good, i got...” — until you say it’s your treat. his pride takes a hit but his empty stomach wins.
jensen’s got this beat-up toyota corolla that makes concerning noises when it turns left. you’re used to drivers and being driven around, but there’s something charming about him picking you up for dates in his piece of shit car, apologizing when he has to slam the door three times to get it to close properly. “sorry, she’s temperamental. like an old cat.” the radio only gets two stations clearly — classic rock and spanish — so you learn all the words to the songs that had a catchy tune or beat whether you wanted to or not.
he lives with three other aspiring actors in a two-bedroom apartment. the first time you come over, he spends twenty minutes frantically cleaning, which apparently just means shoving everything into closets and spraying an entire can of febreze. his roommate walks out in boxers halfway through your movie date and jensen looks like he wants to die. “dude, i told you she was coming over!” “oh shit, this is her? nice.”
watching him at auditions is painful in the sweetest way. he practices his lines in the car beforehand, running them over and over until you have them memorized too. when he comes out and you ask how it went, he always shrugs and says “probably terrible”even though you know he nailed it. the day he books his first real speaking role (two lines on sweet valley high), he picks you up and spins you around in the parking lot.
he intimidated by your modeling career at first, not in a macho way but in a “what are you doing with me?” way. you catch him looking at your magazine spreads with this expression like he can’t quite believe you’re real. “you know you could date like... actual famous people, right?” he says one night. you shut him up by kissing him senseless. he never brings up the topic again. and if he does, it’s because he loves when you slam your lips on his as a way of shutting him up.
jensen writes his parents these long letters every sunday, telling them he’s doing great, bookings are rolling in, everything’s perfect. you watch him carefully craft these lies with the sweetest intentions, not wanting them to worry. when he finally books days of our lives, the first person he calls is his mom. you can hear her crying in glee through the phone.
he’s weird about money in that prideful small-town texas boy way. when you try to pay for dinner at nice places, he gets this look like you’ve physically wounded him. you learn to be sneaky about it — “accidentally” leaving your card at the bar, telling him you have a gift certificate that’s “about to expire” he knows what you’re doing but eventually stops fighting it.
late nights at denny’s become your thing. 2am grand slams after you wrap a shoot, him coming from waiting tables at some beverly hills restaurant where they make him wear a lil’ bow tie. he does impressions of the customers, you tell him about the photographer who made everyone do nude yoga, and somehow these fluorescent-lit conversations feel more romantic than any fancy date ever.
the way he looks at your portfolio is different from how other guys in the industry do. instead of that calculating, “what can you do for me” gaze, he studies each photo like it’s art. asks about the locations, the photographers, if you were cold during that beach shoot. he remembers every detail you tell him!
when he’s learning lines, you help him run scenes. you’re terrible at it, of course, making him break character and laugh when you dramatically overact the nurse or secretary role. “baby, that’s not... i’ve never heard anybody talk like that.” “excuse me, i'm giving you range.” he starts requesting you specifically as his scene partner, swearing you’re his good luck charm. and he never ever criticizes your bad acting, always finding it amusing.
jensen gets star-struck in the weirdest ways. not by the big names but by working character actors he recognizes from childhood shows. “holy shit, that’s the guy from murder she wrote!” he’ll whisper-yell in your ear at catering, making you giggle. but when actual celebrities hit on you at parties, he just gets quiet and holds your hand a little tighter.
he keeps every magazine you’re in, even the random catalogs and newspaper inserts. you find them stacked neatly in his closet one day. “it’s not weird,” he defends, ears red. “i just... when you’re famous-famous, these’ll be worth something.” you both know that’s not why he keeps them.
summer days by his apartment complex’s questionable pool become your escape. he’s self-conscious about being pale (tv auditions always want that california tan), so you lie on cheap loungers and quiz him on lines while he slowly burns then freckles. the pool is probably 40% chlorine but it’s free and private-ish, minus the kids doing cannonballs
he practices his headshot poses on you, trying to find his “angles.” you teach him the modeling tricks — how to find his light, the tiny chin movements that make all the difference. he feels ridiculous but listens intently, and when his new headshots book him three auditions in a week, he credits you entirely.
[ freaks come out at night type shit ]
that texas boy thing extends to the bedroom — all “yes ma’am” and polite restraint until you make it clear what you want. then something shifts. he’s got this whole southern gentleman act that dissolves the second you climb into his lap, his hands gripping your hips like he’s been thinking about it all day (news flash, he has).
car sex becomes a necessity when you both have roommates. his Toyota’s backseat is barely big enough but you make it work, windows fogging up in some lonely parking garage at 1am. he jokes about feeling like a teenager until you do that thing with your tongue that makes him forget how to speak.
he’s got a praise kink a mile wide, even if he doesn’t know that’s what it’s called. the first time you tell him how good he feels, how perfect he is, he actually whimpers. gets this desperate look like he needs to hear more, so you tell him exactly what he does to you, how he’s ruining you for anyone else, and he loses it completely.
jensen’s possessive in this quiet, intense way. not jealous of your job — he’d never — but when photographers get too handsy or male models hit on you, you see that jaw clench. that night he fucks you like he’s trying to mark you, sucking bruises low on your hips where they won’t show on camera, making you say his name until your throat turns hoarse.
hotel rooms after your out-of-town shoots become your paradise. he drives hours to meet you in random cities when he can scrape together gas money. shows up tired and scruffy from the road, but the second that door closes, he’s all over you. months of sexual tension worked out on random hotel sheets.
he’s absolutely obsessed with going down south on you, could spend hours between your thighs if you’d let him. gets actually upset when you try to pull him up, mumbling “not done yet, darlin’” against your skin. you learn to just let him have his way, gripping his hair while he takes you apart for the third time.
the first time you blow him in his car after an audition, he nearly puts his fist through the window. “fuck, fuck, baby you can’t— ‘m gonna—” barely gets the words out before he’s coming everywhere, then apologizes for like twenty minutes after. you shut him up by climbing onto his lap and riding him until he stops talking entirely.
he’s surprisingly dominant once he gets comfortable, that whole ‘yes ma’am’ thing morphing into him calling the shots. pins your wrists above your head and makes you beg for what you want. “that’s not very specific, sweetheart. tell me exactly where ya need me.” makes you spell it out while he smirks down at you.
quickies in your agency’s bathroom become risky routine. you on the counter, legs wrapped around his waist, his hand over your mouth to keep you quiet. the thrill of maybe getting caught, ruining both your reputations, only makes it hotter. he always fixes your hair after, makes sure you look perfect before you go back out.
phone sex while he’s working late shifts at that fancy beverly hills restaurant. he huddles in the back alley on his break, whispering filthy things while you touch yourself in your empty apartment. “wish i could see you right now, bet you look so pretty falling apart.” his voice gets rougher when he’s close, forgetting to be quiet. he almost got caught once by his boss who stepped out for a smoke and he played it off as if he were trying to scare away a raccoon he’d found digging in the trash cans outside.
that texas stamina is no joke. young and eager and so focused on making you feel good. recovers stupid fast, ready to go again while you’re still catching your breath. “just gimme five minutes,” you pant. “i can wait,” he says, then proceeds to kiss down your spine until you’re begging for more and more rounda.
he’s got this thing about marking you where others can’t see. loves leaving bruises on your inner thighs, bite marks on your ribs, fingerprints on your hips. gets off on you being at some fancy shoot, knowing what’s hidden underneath all the designer clothes you wore. “think about that when they’re posing you,” he murmurs, admiring his handiwork.
hotel balconies at golden hour become your favorite risk. you in his lap on some tiny chair, sundress hiked up, him trying to keep quiet as you ride him slowly. the city spread out below, chance of being seen from other buildings, his hands bruising your thighs as he fights not to thrust up into you.
he starts getting more confident as pilot season approaches, that nervous energy manifesting in the best ways. fucks you against his apartment door when his roommates are home, hand over your mouth, daring you to stay quiet. takes you in casting office bathrooms, in his car in broad daylight, anywhere he can get you alone for ten minutes.
the night he books his first series regular role, you celebrate in every room of your quiet apartment. kitchen counter, shower wall, living room floor — he’s insatiable, high on success and possibility. keeps saying your name like a prayer, like you’re his breath of fresh air, like he plans to keep you forever. “gonna move us somewhere better,” he promises between kisses. “gonna give you everything.”
you believe him. because in your eyes, jensen can do anything.
warnings: smut, afab!reader, no usage of y/n, dean being pathetic, masturbation (m!receiving), unprotected p in v (don't try at home done by professionals), english's not my first language
REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED
you loooove it when dean whines. or when he whimpers. or when his moans get hoarse and breathy.
i mean-- who wouldn't like these sounds he always makes as your hands travel over his skin, covered in these scars he has from years of hunting all the paranormal creatures of the earth?
you love touching him, feeling him shiver underneath your fingers when you maps his body, like you always do. it always feels like the first time.
you love making him beg for it. love watching him all needy, laying under you, whispering your name like a prayer. well, your name is a prayer on his lips.
"baby... ooohh, god fucking damn it" dean's tongue tangles more and more with each touch of your lips to his skin, and your bites speed up the process.
his hands will always find place on your hips — not that you mind it, anyway. not when he's so sweet begging you for at least touch his needy and painfully hard pink cock, head already glistening in precum.
"sweet, hun... pleaase, it fucking hurts already, love ya s'much, don't torture me.." tears start welling on his pretty eyes, lashes stuck together with moisture, he's so pathetic for you.
only for you to touch it. it's the whole different talk about you actually fucking him. he needs to work harder for that one.
"well, sweet boy... if you want it that much-"
"i need you, babe, please..."
and you give in after all and place your hand on his cock, thumb sticking out to rub his precum all over the tip, making dean arch in his back like some kinda puppy whose belly is being rubbed. that's probably one of the closest things to heaven he ever felt in this life, considering he's been to heaven.
he'll clench sheets in his fists, whining your name and some curses. his shaft twitches the second your hand actually starts moving, more stroking than pumping it... so gentle. for now.
doesn't mean you'll stop your caresses though. you kiss him all over, licking over some of the hickeys and lovebites that were made earlier. he looks pretty being marked. like some of your property. he probably can be considered one.
"come on, baby, open your eyes. beauty, so beautiful, my good boy. look at me" you kiss him for just a moment and his breathy moan muffles against the plush of your lips, as his arms come up to circle your waist--- but you pull up.
he obeys — he's a good boy, after all. and right after that you finally start pumping him, making dean gasp and his moan is louder now. god, he's so weak for you. wrapped 'round your finger. you both love it
"gonna come now? look at you, so pretty f' me. my sweet boy. gonna come in my hand, not even trying to get something more?" you'll tease him, and his fingers grip your waist, nails leaving little marks on your skin.
"honey, ngh... please, please, please... aah, so good, sweetheart, i love you" dean's desperate, hips bucking up to your touch, his cock twitches in your hand. you press your thumb to his tip again, and he cries with pleasure for the second time already, your name's the only thing on his mind
"baby, baby, baby-! gon...—gonna-aah!"
dean doesn't have time to ask twice as you finally push your panties to the side and sink on his length, stroking his stomach and chest. his moans are hoarse, hips jerking forward to fill you more, ans your name stretches from his pink lips.
for once, you'll let him do it himself, and god, isn't he needy. his thrusts are sharp, grip on your thighs is desperate, moans so loud but breathy that sam could probably hear them, being on the other floor of the bunker— doesn't matter.
not like he or you cared about that. not when he finally lets go and his seed fills your walls, paints your insides that pretty milky white color.
you move your hips, riding him of his high. you even wanna get up, but he didn't loose his grip on you. one hand coming to your wetness, thumb sloppily circling your clit, making you smile and ride him slowly. you lay on his chest, kissing his neck for the hundredth time today probably...
"that's what i love you for"
"... only for that? sweetheart, you're hurting me"
doesn't seem like y'all are gonna move from this position any time soon. doesn't seem like it.
p. s. that was actually my oc x dean drubble buuuut i rlly wanted to post something ALREADY to break through my longterm hiatus. actually gone wild on medieval!au w/ knight!dean x knight!fem!reader might actually write smth on it...
summary: it’s breaking dean’s heart to see you wilting away in his bed, suffering from a depressive episode.
warnings: depression (symptoms, behaviours, thoughts, etc.), non-sexual nudity, angsty fluff, angsty/sad dean, pure comfort, loverboy!dean, depressed!reader, set in the bunker/later seasons (bf!dean x gf!reader)
wc: 4.28k
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dean winchester had never been a stranger to letting dark feelings consume him; he knew what it was like to feel like you’re drowning from the inside with thoughts that made your soul crumble piece by piece.
he knows.
he gets it.
but with you? it was different.
you weren’t like him—you allowed yourself to wallow in your sadness, letting it suffocate you like a weighted blanket until one day it magically lifts and you’re back to being yourself. it was routine at this point, something you just accepted as part of your life.
dean, however, spent his days existing alongside his depression, running through life like a bulldozer, never allowing himself to rot in the sadness—because deep down he knew he wouldn’t be able to get back out—but instead using it as a means to keep himself going through the challenges he faced.
his heart ached as he watched you spend day after day in his bed, withering away amongst the sheets, letting your unspoken thoughts and feelings eat at you, draining the usual light in your eyes into dull lifeless voids.
each morning was the same routine.
“you want some breakfast, baby?” dean asks, sitting on the side of the bed with his hand carefully threading through your greasy unkempt hair.
you shake your head. again.
and dean sighs. it’s like clockwork.
“you sure? i can bring you something.”
“just wanna sleep,” you mutter, your quiet croaky voice barely louder than a whisper.
dean’s heart breaks in his chest. you look so sad. so broken. so absent.
he looks away, not wanting you to see his frown. “alright. i’ll– uhh… i’ll leave you be then,” he sighs and wipes a hand down his face. “i’ll be in the library with sam if you need me, okay?”
and with a creak of the mattress and another soft sigh, he’s out of the room, and you’re back in the quiet solitude of his bunker bedroom, blanketed by the dull smell and thick air that seems all-consuming.
back in it.
back in the midst of your own tired brain, spewing out things you’d never dare say aloud.
things you’d never share with dean.
but dean’s not an idiot. he knows depression like the back of his hand, and he’s seen your episodes before—though it doesn’t make it any less painful whenever you enter one.
you spend your days in and out of consciousness, swimming in the dire thoughts that plague your mind and leave you feeling empty.
and you perhaps look even worse than you feel. you should be embarrassed, you think, letting dean see you like this—the unwashed hair, the unbrushed teeth, the crinkled pyjamas you’ve been wearing for days that are starting to smell.
but you don’t care.
it’s hard to care.
you’re so wrapped up in your own brain, trying to fight the onslaught of grim thoughts, that you don’t even see the impact you’re having on dean.
he’s tried everything.
he was gentle at first—the soft-spoken words and tender touches that just made you feel worse.
guilty… maybe.
and when his soft love didn’t help, he moved onto bringing you things, like a meal or your toothbrush, but every time he tried, he was met with a grunt or hum of disinterest.
and it broke his fucking heart.
even sam could see the stress that your dynamic was having on dean. he watched his brother wallow in despair, going days without a smile and the usual bite of confidence that he walked around with. he was losing himself in worry, but yet, the pair of them were clueless when it came to helping you; they didn’t know what to do.
they’d grown up just coexisting in their shared anguish, not letting their afflictions get in the way of life. they couldn’t afford to let it get in the way, no matter how much they were struggling.
but you were different.
and to them it was different.
so as the days of you rotting in his bed went by, dean’s own light began to fade. he walked around the bunker dejected and heavy-hearted, just existing with a sad level of apathy. he didn’t care for the cases sam would bring up; he couldn’t find it in himself to worry about the potential victims or the entities that were no doubt wreaking havoc.
not when he was worrying about you.
you were lying in his bed, half asleep, as you heard dean’s footsteps patter down the hallway. you pulled the blanket further up under your chin, almost shielding yourself from him and whatever he was going to say to you.
the door opened with a creak, the light from the hallway illuminating the dark room. dean popped his head in, letting his eyes land on you. “sweetheart?” he asked quietly, letting his gentle voice float through the stagnant air that reeked of you.
when you didn’t respond, he sighed, opening the door wider and stepping into the room. you felt his weight pull down the mattress as he sat, and his hand met your side over the blanket, gently rubbing, trying to coerce a response out of you.
“it’s 4 o’clock,” dean murmured, studying your face and the way you hid it in the pillow. “you don’t wanna get up? you’re not hungry?”
he knew his questions were redundant. he’d asked them every day since you’d first fallen into this depression.
you shook your head against the pillow. “m’tired,” you muttered.
“i know, sweetheart. i just–” dean sighed, “i’d just like you to eat something. it’s late… and i’m sure you’re hungry.”
he waited.
but you didn’t respond.
“i can make you a sandwich. some toast?” he offered, still rubbing your side over the sheets.
you shook your head again, silently pleading for him to give up like he usually does with these conversations.
“baby, please,” dean’s voice wavered, his usual gruff tone wobbling with emotion as he looked down at you. “please,” he begged again.
“not hungry,” you muttered, finally giving him a reply with words.
dean sighed. his hand moved up to your head, brushing some hair out of your face. his touch was gentle and reverent, like you were something that’d break if he wasn’t careful.
cause perhaps you were.
“i know you’re not, sweetheart, but i want you to eat something. you need to.”
the stale air around you felt thicker as the moments of silence grew, and you felt it suffocating you.
“please, dean,” you tried.
“no… i’m gonna make you something, and you’re gonna eat it for me, okay?”
your eyes finally fluttered open and hesitantly looked up to his. dean’s eyes immediately softened. there you were.
“baby…”
the look of hopelessness on his face made your chin tremble—it was beyond your control. the way his eyes looked sunken in was a reflection of your own misery.
he moved his hand to rest against your cheek. his touch was warm, and you found yourself swimming in the contact.
“c’mon, angel. please…” his voice was strained, tight with emotion that he was trying to keep from spilling out all over you; he didn’t need to make you feel any worse. “let me get you up. come sit in the kitchen. just you and me.”
he didn’t give you time to argue with his words. instead, he gently peeled the blanket away and slid his hands under your body.
a groan of protest left your throat, but your body melted into his as he pulled you up off the mattress.
“there we go,” dean muttered, letting you sit against him. your tired eyes blinked at him, conveying all the words you couldn’t find the energy to speak. “i know, sweetheart, i know. just for ten minutes, yeah?”
you blinked slowly, watching his face search yours. his expression was a mixture of concern and empathy, and you felt your heart lurch at the sight, knowing you were the cause.
his hand stroked your cheek as the silence grew once more. “you’re… you’re a bit ripe, baby,” dean finally spoke, his tone gentle and a little reluctant.
you swallowed. you knew those words should embarrass you, but… you couldn’t find the energy to care. “i know,” you whispered.
dean nodded. “c’mere…”
his big arms wrapped around you, caging you against his chest. his hand rubbed your back, attempting to soothe away the sadness he could feel emanating off you.
you melted into his embrace, his warmth alleviating some of the tension in your body.
“i love you, baby. let me look after you… please. it kills me to see you like this,” he whispered into your hair.
you let out a soft noise, one that left your throat without your permission.
“i know,” dean murmured. he pulled back and looked down at your face, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. his eyes softened as he met your tired gaze. “i’m gonna run you a bath, okay? i’m gonna help you.”
he nodded along with his words, almost reassuring you with his actions.
you wanted to argue. you wanted to tell him to go away, that you didn’t want a bath, that you just wanted to sleep.
but the pain in dean’s expression stopped you. the way the frown tugged down on his lips and the way his eyes silently pleaded with you had your chest tightening.
“okay.”
dean let out a shaky breath. “yeah, okay. good… that’s my girl.” he placed a tender kiss on your forehead, letting his lips stay against your skin for a few moments before pulling back. “you stay here. i’ll be right back.”
he pulled away from you, your body instantly feeling cold at the absence of his touch. he ducked out into the hallway and down to the bunker bathroom, ready to fill the tub for you and wash off your layer of grime.
you slumped back down into the mattress, your heart beating faster in resigned anticipation. you didn’t want to get up. you didn’t want a bath. you just wanted to fall back into sleep and avoid being awake, like you’d been doing all week.
but dean’s face appeared in your mind, and you knew how much this meant to him. your heart ached knowing you were the cause of his sadness, and so you sat back against the sheets, waiting with a heavy heart for him to return.
dean entered the room again only moments later. he stood beside the bed looking down at you, a cautious yet glum smile pulling at his lips. “bath’s running. you just– you just wait there.”
you watched him pull out the drawers of his dresser, grabbing an old shirt and a pair of his boxers, before dipping back out of the room in a rush.
a few minutes passed before dean returned again. he approached your sad state on the bed and loomed over you with a steady presence. “okay, sweetheart. bath’s full. c’mere.”
he bowed down and slipped his hands under your lifeless body, pulling you away from the warm sheets of the bed and into him. your head instinctively ducked into his neck, searching for closeness as he began carrying you out to the bathroom.
“it's gonna be okay, baby,” dean murmured into your hair. “i’m gonna look after you, okay?”
his gentle words made your heart flutter, the first sign of life in your chest in days. a warmth spread, and you sighed, nodding in response.
dean walked you into the bathroom, closing the door with his foot before setting you down in front of him. the tiles were cold against your feet, and the fresh air of the bathroom invaded your nose. it was a lot, after being surrounded by the stale air of his bedroom for so long, but dean’s presence somehow made it all feel okay.
you looked at him, waiting to see what he’d do, but his eyes were already on you—round and wide with that same glimmer of concern, but still full of so much love.
“let’s get you undressed,” he said softly, his hands already moving to the pyjama shirt you’d been marinating in for the past few days.
you nodded, wordlessly, and let him pull it over your head, your arms slipping out of the fabric and covering your bare chest. dean’s eyes flickered down to the covered skin, and a small smile grew on his lips. “s’nothing i haven’t seen before, baby. you’re alright.”
you felt a smile threaten to tug on your own lips at his small remark—another beat of life returning to you momentarily.
dean pulled down your pyjama shorts and underwear in another careful movement, gently lifting your feet to slip them out of the leg holes.
“there we go,” he huffed softly, throwing your soiled clothes into the laundry basket.
dean’s face softened as his gaze returned to you, and his eyes swept over your form reverently. “my beautiful girl,” he breathed out, the love seeping from his words. your sad heart soaked it up as he cupped your cheek with his palm, the contact almost electrifying for a moment, waking you up from your slightly hazy state.
“let’s get you in the tub, yeah?” he murmured once again, his green eyes flickering between yours in assurance.
you nodded.
and dean nodded in return before leaning down and pressing a kiss to your forehead, “that’s my girl.”
he guided you to the bathtub. bubbles floated on top of the water, and steam plumed up into the air. the sweet scent of your body wash filled your nostrils as you stood in front of it.
dean watched your eyes take in the sight, a small smile gracing his face. “i did alright, didn’t i?” he let out a soft laugh.
you glanced up at him, your heart skipping a beat at his beautiful face. god, you loved him. “yeah,” you replied softly, your voice nothing more than a mere whisper.
but still, dean smiled.
he was pulling more words from you in fifteen minutes than he had been for the past week.
“hop in, baby. it’s nice and warm.”
you tentatively dipped a foot in, testing the temperature, before committing and taking a seat in the water.
the warm water surrounded you, gently lapping at your skin like gentle kisses on an ocean shore. it felt nice, and you were already feeling better than you had been all week.
“good?” dean asked as he lowered himself beside the tub, sitting on his knees.
you relaxed back against the porcelain. “good.”
dean smiled once more, taking in the sight of you. “i’m glad,” he murmured. he let his hand reach over the tub and dip under the water, meeting your knee. he gave it a gentle squeeze.
you let out a deep sigh, a long sound that seemed to escape your lungs without your consent. dean just nodded. “i know, baby,” he said, squeezing your knee again. “i'm gonna wash you and get you back to bed. i know you’re feeling rough, my baby. just let me do this for you.”
his tender words struck at your heart, your heartstrings tightening as a frown grew on your lips. as little as his words seemed at face value, they meant the world. he saw you. he saw the pain that existed within you, and yet, he was okay with it. he understood it, and you could see he was more than willing to help you shoulder it. that much was clear.
and so you nodded once more, words seeming too daunting for you to handle. dean hummed and picked up your shampoo bottle from beside the tub. “can you wet your hair for me?” he asked, his soft eyes falling over your face.
you swallowed and slipped down, dipping your head into the water.
you found yourself falling back into a hazy state as dean began washing your hair, his gentle hands massaging the suds into your scalp—the motion tender and careful, like he was touching you for the first time again, cautious that you’d pull away.
your eyes fluttered shut, your wet lashes draped over your warm cheeks as he rinsed and conditioned your hair. emotions bubbled in your chest at the feeling of being looked after, cared for like your soul had been aching for. dean took care of you with such love, and your fragile soul soaked it up, revelling in his presence for the first time in days instead of feeling repulsed by it.
the salty tears escaped your eyes while dean began scrubbing your body clean.
dean saw them.
“oh, sweetheart,” his voice wavered. his free hand came up and cupped your cheek, almost guiding your face to meet his gaze. “it’s okay. you’re okay.”
you looked at him through your blurry vision, the tears still spilling down your cheeks and your throat closing up from how much his touches were forcing up emotions that suffocated your airways.
you whimpered.
“i know, baby, i know. i’m so sorry you feel like this,” dean murmured. he leaned forward and placed a kiss on your forehead, letting his lips linger a few seconds longer than necessary, as if he was trying to kiss away some of the hurt from inside of you.
your lips trembled, and your chin quivered. it felt too much. it all felt too much.
you let out a sob—a quiet one, the sound broken and pained.
dean felt his heart rip. there was no other way to describe it. he felt your pain evaporate from your insides and expel itself into the air in the form of sobs.
maybe your tears were good, and maybe your sobs too.
he kept gently scrubbing your body clean, his heart twisting at every cruel sound that escaped you. “i know, angel, i know. i’m so sorry. i wish i could make it better.”
you cried.
for the first time in weeks.
you felt the floodgates open, and you had no way of closing them. the sounds were almost guttural, ravaging your insides and tearing out of your mouth.
but as painful as it all seemed, your sobs lightened it—lessened the load of what you were carrying inside, lightened the heavy feeling that had manifested itself into the dull ache in your chest.
you couldn’t see through your tears by the time dean had drained the bath and managed to wrap you in a towel and pull you into his arms.
“i wish i could take away your pain. i’d take all of it, every last drop, baby, just so you’d never have to feel like this again,” he whispered into your hairline. his voice was so soft, so raw, and so sincere. “i’m so sorry.”
he kept his strong arms around you, holding onto you like a vice, feeling like you’d shatter into a million pieces if he were to let go. you just collapsed into him, your body seeking his comfort after days of stubbornly rejecting it.
when really
it was all that you’d needed.
you couldn’t say how long you stood in the bathroom together, just letting him hold you. but it didn't matter. you felt your internal turmoil lessen with each second that passed, like dean alone was sucking out the oxygen that kept your pain’s flame alight.
your heart beat in your chest; a steady rhythm gently pounding under your skin. you could feel dean’s too, right under your ear as you rested your head against him, neither of you caring about soaking his shirt with your wet hair or the droplets of water that were landing on the floor.
it didn’t matter.
dean finally pulled his head back, a gentle sigh escaping his lips. his gaze flickered down to your face still buried in his chest, searching for solace in his touch, in his presence.
“i love you so much,” he muttered, his voice low and delicate, not wanting to break the moment. “i want you to get better… and i want you to talk to me, okay? i want to help with whatever’s going on in here.”
he gently poked at your temple.
you swallowed down the lump in your throat. it felt scratchy from how badly you’d sobbed your throat raw.
but you looked up at him, blinking. you nodded.
dean nodded back.
he was gentle as he pressed you against the counter, the back of your legs hitting the edge. and he was even gentler as he rubbed in your moisturiser and towel-dried your hair.
he was so beautiful. so patient. so understanding.
and though your insides were turning inside out, practically screaming at you to back away and hide in the comfort of his dark bedroom, you stayed put, allowing dean’s presence to mute the constant array of dark thoughts from bouncing around in your mind.
he soothed you. inside and out.
and part of you hated yourself for rejecting this for so long, denying yourself his comfort.
dean thought you looked vacant as he dressed you, pulling up his old boxers over your legs and covering you in one of his shirts. his chest hurt, but again, this was more from you than you’d given him in a week.
and that meant something.
he didn't let go of you the entire walk back to his bedroom. his hand was wrapped around yours, tight, almost like he was trying to remind you of the devotion he felt for you.
the smell of his bedroom air hit your nose as you walked back in. was it really this bad before? it was like your innermost thoughts were hung in the air, polluting the room with a foul stench that reeked of misery.
you frowned.
dean let his hand run up your arm, wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you into him again. you let him, melting into his warm embrace.
“you hungry? don’t say no.”
you glanced up at his face, taking in his softened expression. you allowed yourself to nod.
“okay, yeah. good,” he murmured. he pulled away, reaching over to his desk. you saw the plate in his hand. two pieces of toast sat on top of the ceramic dish.
“i texted sam…” he explained, trailing off as he passed you the plate.
you nodded again. “thank you,” you returned, a quiet muttering.
“i– i’m gonna change the sheets, sweetheart. i can’t– i can’t sleep another night in them… and that’s saying something… you know, coming from me,” he said, his humour lightening up the heavy mood of the room. he smiled gently. “you sit. eat.”
dean pulled out his desk chair and gestured for you to take a seat. you slumped down into it, letting out a soft sigh.
he kept his eyes on you as he pulled the dirty sheets off his bed, stripping it bare as he watched you take small hesitant bites of the toast that sam had made. you looked tired, practically fusing back into the chair, but at least you were up. that's what dean told himself.
“gonna grab some new sheets, okay? finish your toast, baby. i'll be back in a sec.” he spoke to you like how someone speaks to a toddler—gentle and soft like the wrong word or tone would send you spiralling back into bed for another week, but he couldn’t afford that, not when he had managed to get this far with you.
you nodded, and he left the room with the dirty sheets in hand, returning only moments later with the fresh linen that immediately lifted the room’s scent.
you had finished your toast by the time dean was done pulling the sheets onto the bed. you put the empty plate back onto his desk and looked up at him with wide tired eyes.
dean came over, standing in front of your legs. “all done?”
you nodded. “yeah.”
his hand made contact with your head, brushing some of your damp hair back and petting you. his movements were gentle, like he had to be extra delicate with you in your fragile state, but his touch sent a surge of love and affection through you—something that jolted you awake for what felt like the first time in days.
you looked up at his face, like really looked up.
“i love you,” you muttered out, no louder than a whisper.
dean’s hand paused in your hair. his face softened. “i know, baby. i love you too… more than anything in the world.”
his hand slipped down to your cheek, cupping it tenderly. his palm was warm, almost searing against your skin with unspoken words of affection. his thumb rubbed along your cheekbone.
“can i hold you?” he asked, his twinkling green eyes searching yours, rounded like he was bracing himself for you to say no.
but you nodded, leaning into his touch. “please.”
dean let out a breath. “mmkay, up you get then, angel.”
you stood up from the chair. he pulled the sheets back, helping guide you back into the warmth and safety of his bed. dean slipped in after you, the mattress dipping under his weight. his arms immediately wrapped around your waist, pulling you into him.
you felt your body relax for the first time in days, releasing all the tension from your muscles and melting against him almost innately. you sighed, closing your eyes.
dean pulled you closer. “i got you, sweetheart. you know i’ve always got you.”
fig yaps: first time doing proper angst !!!!!! i hope it’s not cringe omf i’m hiding away after i post this !!!! BUT comfort fic ??? hopefully !!! i started writing this when i took my lil break bc i was sad as hell and all i wanted was for dean to look after me LMAOOO i hope u enjoyed <3
warnings: smut, afab!reader, no usage of y/n, dean being pathetic, masturbation (m!receiving), unprotected p in v (don't try at home done by professionals), english's not my first language
REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED
you loooove it when dean whines. or when he whimpers. or when his moans get hoarse and breathy.
i mean-- who wouldn't like these sounds he always makes as your hands travel over his skin, covered in these scars he has from years of hunting all the paranormal creatures of the earth?
you love touching him, feeling him shiver underneath your fingers when you maps his body, like you always do. it always feels like the first time.
you love making him beg for it. love watching him all needy, laying under you, whispering your name like a prayer. well, your name is a prayer on his lips.
"baby... ooohh, god fucking damn it" dean's tongue tangles more and more with each touch of your lips to his skin, and your bites speed up the process.
his hands will always find place on your hips — not that you mind it, anyway. not when he's so sweet begging you for at least touch his needy and painfully hard pink cock, head already glistening in precum.
"sweet, hun... pleaase, it fucking hurts already, love ya s'much, don't torture me.." tears start welling on his pretty eyes, lashes stuck together with moisture, he's so pathetic for you.
only for you to touch it. it's the whole different talk about you actually fucking him. he needs to work harder for that one.
"well, sweet boy... if you want it that much-"
"i need you, babe, please..."
and you give in after all and place your hand on his cock, thumb sticking out to rub his precum all over the tip, making dean arch in his back like some kinda puppy whose belly is being rubbed. that's probably one of the closest things to heaven he ever felt in this life, considering he's been to heaven.
he'll clench sheets in his fists, whining your name and some curses. his shaft twitches the second your hand actually starts moving, more stroking than pumping it... so gentle. for now.
doesn't mean you'll stop your caresses though. you kiss him all over, licking over some of the hickeys and lovebites that were made earlier. he looks pretty being marked. like some of your property. he probably can be considered one.
"come on, baby, open your eyes. beauty, so beautiful, my good boy. look at me" you kiss him for just a moment and his breathy moan muffles against the plush of your lips, as his arms come up to circle your waist--- but you pull up.
he obeys — he's a good boy, after all. and right after that you finally start pumping him, making dean gasp and his moan is louder now. god, he's so weak for you. wrapped 'round your finger. you both love it
"gonna come now? look at you, so pretty f' me. my sweet boy. gonna come in my hand, not even trying to get something more?" you'll tease him, and his fingers grip your waist, nails leaving little marks on your skin.
"honey, ngh... please, please, please... aah, so good, sweetheart, i love you" dean's desperate, hips bucking up to your touch, his cock twitches in your hand. you press your thumb to his tip again, and he cries with pleasure for the second time already, your name's the only thing on his mind
"baby, baby, baby-! gon...—gonna-aah!"
dean doesn't have time to ask twice as you finally push your panties to the side and sink on his length, stroking his stomach and chest. his moans are hoarse, hips jerking forward to fill you more, ans your name stretches from his pink lips.
for once, you'll let him do it himself, and god, isn't he needy. his thrusts are sharp, grip on your thighs is desperate, moans so loud but breathy that sam could probably hear them, being on the other floor of the bunker— doesn't matter.
not like he or you cared about that. not when he finally lets go and his seed fills your walls, paints your insides that pretty milky white color.
you move your hips, riding him of his high. you even wanna get up, but he didn't loose his grip on you. one hand coming to your wetness, thumb sloppily circling your clit, making you smile and ride him slowly. you lay on his chest, kissing his neck for the hundredth time today probably...
"that's what i love you for"
"... only for that? sweetheart, you're hurting me"
doesn't seem like y'all are gonna move from this position any time soon. doesn't seem like it.
p. s. that was actually my oc x dean drubble buuuut i rlly wanted to post something ALREADY to break through my longterm hiatus. actually gone wild on medieval!au w/ knight!dean x knight!fem!reader might actually write smth on it...
warnings: smut, afab!reader, no usage of y/n, dean being pathetic, masturbation (m!receiving), unprotected p in v (don't try at home done by professionals), english's not my first language
REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED
you loooove it when dean whines. or when he whimpers. or when his moans get hoarse and breathy.
i mean-- who wouldn't like these sounds he always makes as your hands travel over his skin, covered in these scars he has from years of hunting all the paranormal creatures of the earth?
you love touching him, feeling him shiver underneath your fingers when you maps his body, like you always do. it always feels like the first time.
you love making him beg for it. love watching him all needy, laying under you, whispering your name like a prayer. well, your name is a prayer on his lips.
"baby... ooohh, god fucking damn it" dean's tongue tangles more and more with each touch of your lips to his skin, and your bites speed up the process.
his hands will always find place on your hips — not that you mind it, anyway. not when he's so sweet begging you for at least touch his needy and painfully hard pink cock, head already glistening in precum.
"sweet, hun... pleaase, it fucking hurts already, love ya s'much, don't torture me.." tears start welling on his pretty eyes, lashes stuck together with moisture, he's so pathetic for you.
only for you to touch it. it's the whole different talk about you actually fucking him. he needs to work harder for that one.
"well, sweet boy... if you want it that much-"
"i need you, babe, please..."
and you give in after all and place your hand on his cock, thumb sticking out to rub his precum all over the tip, making dean arch in his back like some kinda puppy whose belly is being rubbed. that's probably one of the closest things to heaven he ever felt in this life, considering he's been to heaven.
he'll clench sheets in his fists, whining your name and some curses. his shaft twitches the second your hand actually starts moving, more stroking than pumping it... so gentle. for now.
doesn't mean you'll stop your caresses though. you kiss him all over, licking over some of the hickeys and lovebites that were made earlier. he looks pretty being marked. like some of your property. he probably can be considered one.
"come on, baby, open your eyes. beauty, so beautiful, my good boy. look at me" you kiss him for just a moment and his breathy moan muffles against the plush of your lips, as his arms come up to circle your waist--- but you pull up.
he obeys — he's a good boy, after all. and right after that you finally start pumping him, making dean gasp and his moan is louder now. god, he's so weak for you. wrapped 'round your finger. you both love it
"gonna come now? look at you, so pretty f' me. my sweet boy. gonna come in my hand, not even trying to get something more?" you'll tease him, and his fingers grip your waist, nails leaving little marks on your skin.
"honey, ngh... please, please, please... aah, so good, sweetheart, i love you" dean's desperate, hips bucking up to your touch, his cock twitches in your hand. you press your thumb to his tip again, and he cries with pleasure for the second time already, your name's the only thing on his mind
"baby, baby, baby-! gon...—gonna-aah!"
dean doesn't have time to ask twice as you finally push your panties to the side and sink on his length, stroking his stomach and chest. his moans are hoarse, hips jerking forward to fill you more, ans your name stretches from his pink lips.
for once, you'll let him do it himself, and god, isn't he needy. his thrusts are sharp, grip on your thighs is desperate, moans so loud but breathy that sam could probably hear them, being on the other floor of the bunker— doesn't matter.
not like he or you cared about that. not when he finally lets go and his seed fills your walls, paints your insides that pretty milky white color.
you move your hips, riding him of his high. you even wanna get up, but he didn't loose his grip on you. one hand coming to your wetness, thumb sloppily circling your clit, making you smile and ride him slowly. you lay on his chest, kissing his neck for the hundredth time today probably...
"that's what i love you for"
"... only for that? sweetheart, you're hurting me"
doesn't seem like y'all are gonna move from this position any time soon. doesn't seem like it.
p. s. that was actually my oc x dean drubble buuuut i rlly wanted to post something ALREADY to break through my longterm hiatus. actually gone wild on medieval!au w/ knight!dean x knight!fem!reader might actually write smth on it...
HEY fiiig i missed you SO. MUCH. I've used to check ur blog with every post giiiirl ur so cool
also--- really wanna know if you have any headcanons for 40s-50s SB??? omg i love him and his silly helmet
omg hiiii ily wtf !!! these are lowkey generic asf and non-specific to the time period bc idk that much about the 40s / 50s but i brainstormed with the lovely @honeyyxxbee <3
⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆
✮ you already know post-war!ben goes around bragging about his wartime achievements just to get into women’s pants. and he’s so annoying and blatant with it. “you don’t want the man who saved the world to fuck your pussy? you don’t want these fingers inside you, the same ones that killed those fuckin’ nazi bastards? c’mon, pretty lady, let’s not play pretend. we both know you want me.”
✮ i think 40s!ben probably dressed quite flash—waistcoats, pocket watches, personalised pocket squares, maybe even cufflinks with ‘sb’ engraved. everything tailored to perfection for him with his newfound fame. @honeyyxxbee brought up ben chewing on toothpicks and i can’t unsee it !!! that man chewing on something all slow and sexy just to tease the pretty lady in front of him??? i think yes!
✮ i think he would’ve taken his newfound stardom and used it to his advantage in terms of meaningless one night stands. and i’d like to think because he had a quick stint in hollywood, he took every chance to sleep with the starlets of that era. i think the idea of marilyn monroe turning him down is funny though. you know that bruised his ego.
✮ he probably put his helmet on loan to museums around the country, furthering the “soldier boy saved the world” propaganda after the war. and i think the idea of him doing a ‘sexy soldier’ calendar is funny too. they probably titled it “the man who saved america.” (edit: this incredible artwork popped up on my timeline, and it was exactly what i was picturing in the calendar.)
✮ @honeyyxxbee was a genius with this and came up with ben saying shit like “sweetheart, war changes a man. it makes you appreciate the little things. and i fuckin’ missed having my cock sucked.” just guilt-tripping women because he wanted a fucking blowjob. he defs took every opportunity to weasel his way into women’s beds, playing up the whole ‘war was real tough. woe is me’ bullshit.
i lowkey can’t think of any more, but i believe he just partied around, drank and did hella drugs, and fucked about every starlet and big shot in the 50s hollywood era. amen.
ALEC’s used to doing all the work, pistoning his dick into you quickly with the force of his enhanced dna, making you squirm and mewl underneath him while he works you open with an arrogant smirk plastered on his face.
but on days when you insist on riding him, alec’s just simply not one to argue.
his eyes lock on where you two connect, your pretty pink folds wrap around his cock as you grind down into his lap at your own pace, stretching snugly around him. “atta girl, that’s it. keep going,” he praises, feeling his tip gently kiss your cervix.
alec’s girthy cock throbs inside you, and his breath hitches at every firm squeeze from your walls and the pathetic look on your face, and that’s when he decides he loves it—watching his girl do her thing, making herself feel good with his dick, using him however she pleases to get herself off.
his fingers meet your swollen clit, rubbing at the sensitive nerves, driving you closer to your orgasm. “shit, squeezing me tight there, baby,” he breathes out, winded from just looking at you, watching your pretty little face scrunch up.
the coil in your stomach snaps, sending a wave of ecstasy crashing over your body, your pussy vigorously fluttering and squeezing his cock, stealing the breath from his lungs.
alec’s eyes nearly roll back into his head at the sight of you gushing down his length, watching you wet his abdomen and pelvis with your sticky release, making his abs glisten in the dim light of the room. the filthy sight makes alec’s head spin.
“that’s my girl,” he moans, squeezing at your thighs, barely holding off his own release, “using me so well, baby.”
i don’t know if i will be able to do more before Valentine’s Day, but i wanted to drop this at least. :> it’s a smol extension of my animated lines series, but in hearts ! ( I may or may not have stared at this in dark mode for a long time HAHAH )
adding a tw for eyestrain because of the colours, but I hope you enjoy 🤍
naturally, he goes around opening doors for you and pulling out chairs, offering to pay for every meal and buying you flowers whenever he can.
but he’s also a loverboy in bed.
dean takes his time with his pretty baby, kissing over every inch of your body, worshipping you like you’re the most precious thing on the planet— cause in his eyes, you are.
his plump pink lips brush past all your little scars and freckles, as if he’s learning your body for the first time again, treating you with such a deep tenderness that makes your heart race and your mind all fuzzy.
he’s so delicate with you, taking the time to leave little pink marks across your skin. he’s definitely leaving hickeys in the shape of a heart on your hip or inner thigh, something just for you and him to see— a visual reminder of how deeply he cares for you whenever you look at it.
he’s just a loverboy like that.
his soft reverent murmurs against your skin give you butterflies, “so pretty, baby. taste so sweet, just f’me” his words are spoken quietly against your soft skin as he embellishes your body with his pretty little marks.
and he’s taking his time to really please you, pulling orgasm after orgasm straight from your core with just his fingers and mouth. you can forget about touching him for the time being, not until he’s decided he’s pleased you enough— if you’re not swollen, pink and panting, he’s not finished yet.
and when he’s finally got you boneless and spent, after making you finish for the umpteenth time, he’s holding you against his chest; his fingers massaging your scalp while he mumbles soft praises against your temple, adorning your flushed face with innocent little kisses.
“did so well for me, sweetheart. i’m yours forever, baby. and you’re mine.”
⎯⎯ DEMON!DEAN decides to keep your soaked lace panties, because it drives his heightened senses wild for you. and the guy is not one bit shameful about it.
♡ KARI YAPS! god, hes such a freak && i love it sm. i thought of this idea w @titsout4nicholas @a1ecmcdowell @jasvtsc earlier in the day bc i fear demon!dean's corrupted my mind entirely.
♡ WARNING(S) filthy smut | oral sex (f!receiving) | possessive!dean | overstimulation | power dynamics | dom!dean | praise kink | lace panties kink (?) | explicit language | little bit of manhandling. mdni ♱ 18 plus. adult content.
sex with dean has always been intense, but now that he's a demon, it's on a whole other level—like everything about him, his hunger for you has amplified tenfold. every time he touches you, it's like he's trying to ruin you, to mark you in a way that'll never fully fade. and when it's over, he's always got that cocky, unbothered smirk that drives you insane. tonight's no different.
you're sprawled out on the bed, still catching your breath, your body a trembling mess from what he just put you through. he's leaning against the wall now, shirtless, his jeans hanging low on his hips. his hair is a mess, his lips still swollen from kissing every inch of you, and yet he looks like the devil himself—because, well, technically he is.
you roll onto your side, groaning softly as you reach out for your panties, the pretty black lace pair you'd been wearing before he tore them off of you like they'd offended him.
except… they're not there.
"dean," you say, your voice sharp despite how wrecked you feel. "where the hell are my panties?"
he raises an eyebrow, looking at you like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. "what panties?"
"don't play dumb, winchester," you huff, sitting up on the bed and glaring at him. "the black lace ones. the ones you just ripped off me."
a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face, and your stomach sinks. "oh, those," he says, pushing off the wall and heading for the door. "yeah, those are mine now."
your jaw drops. "what the fuck do you mean 'yours'?"
he shrugs, completely unfazed. "i mean i'm keepin' 'em. they're soaked, sweetheart. absolutely drenched. you think i'm just gonna let you throw those in the laundry like they're not a fuckin' work of art?"
you grab a pillow and chuck it at him, but he dodges it easily, laughing as he disappears out the door. "un-fucking-believable," you mutter, shaking your head. luckily, you're home—so you grab another clean pair of panties from your dresser and slip them on, grumbling to yourself about how ridiculous he is.
you think that's the end of it. you really do. but then, over the next few days, you start to notice something… weird. for one, the black lace panties are nowhere to be found in your dirty laundry, even though you were sure he'd just been messing with you. and two, dean's been acting a little… off. not in a bad way! but in a way that makes your face flush whenever he looks at you. like he knows something you don't.
it's not until one night that you catch him red-handed. you're heading down the hallway, on your way to grab some water, when you spot him leaning against the wall, his back to you. at first, you don't think much of it—until you see what he's holding in his hand.
your fucking panties.
you stop dead in your tracks, your mouth falling open as you watch him lift them to his nose and take a deep, slow inhale, his eyes fluttering shut like he's savoring the scent.
"are you kidding me?" you blurt out before you can stop yourself.
he doesn't even flinch. instead, he turns to you, completely unabashedly, holding the panties up like a trophy. "nah," he says, smirking. "not kidding."
"dean," you groan, your voice low but stern as you stalk toward him. "you've kept those this whole time? what is wrong with you?"
"what's wrong with me?" he repeats, his grin widening as he tucks the panties into his back pocket like they belong there. "what’s wrong with you? you're the one who smells like that."
you gape at him, heat flushing down the back of your neck. "i don't even—what does that even mean?"
he steps closer, crowding into your space, and you can feel the heat rolling off him, thick and heavy. "it means, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice low and rough, "that every time i get a whiff of these"—he pats his pocket—"i wanna fuck you all over again. so, yeah, i kept 'em. you got a problem with that?"
you're speechless, torn between being upset and… turned on. because of course you're turned on. he's DEAN WINCHESTER, and he's looking at you like he's seconds away from devouring you.
"you're insane," you manage, shaking your head.
"yeah?" he drawls, his hand curling around your waist. "well, you're about to be."
before you can respond, he's grabbing you and throwing you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. you yelp, your palms against his back to steady yourself, but he doesn't even slow down, carrying you straight to the bedroom.
"dean! put me down!" you protest, but he just chuckles, slapping your ass hard enough to make you gasp.
"not a chance, baby," he says, tossing you onto the bed like a rag doll.
you barely have time to sit up before he's on you, yanking at your jeans with a single-minded determination that has your heart racing. "dean—"
"shut up," he growls, his voice dark and commanding as he strips you down, practically ripping your panties off in the process. "you've been walkin' around all day with this fuckin' scent, drivin' me insane. you think i'm just gonna let that slide?"
before you can answer, his mouth is on you, his tongue dragging through your folds like he's starved. he grips your thighs, holding you open as he devours you, his light stubble scratching against your sensitive skin.
"fuck," he groans, pulling back just enough to look at you, his lips glistening. "you taste good, babydoll. could do this for hours."
your head falls back against the bed, a moan slipping from your lips as he plunges back in, licking and sucking like he's on a mission. his grip tightens when you try to squirm away, his fingers digging into your thighs as he holds you in place.
"dean—mmm, fuck, shit—" you whimper, your hands tugging at his hair.
"you can do it," he growls against you, the vibrations making you shudder. "and you fuckin' will."
he doesn't stop, doesn't let up, and soon you're trembling beneath him, the pressure building low in your belly until it snaps, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave.
he doesn't pull away, even as you try to push at his shoulders, too sensitive to handle the way his tongue keeps teasing your clit. "oh, fuck! dean—s'too much—"
"nah," he mutters, his voice muffled against you. "not done yet."
and he means it. by the time he's finished with you, you're a wreck—sweaty, breathless, and completely at his mercy. he finally pulls back, his lips curled into a satisfied smirk as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
"told you," he says, leaning down to kiss you, slow and filthy. "you're fuckin' addictive, sweetheart."
you're too exhausted to respond, but the look in his eyes tells you this isn't the last time he't pulling a stunt like this. and honestly? you don't really mind.
