⊹₊ ⋆ 〔ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ part of my dean winchester, who… series. 〕
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he’s not really sure where it came from.
one minute, he’s above you, steadily thrusting into you, looking down at your eyes, then your hair on his pillow—the next, the words are spilling out of him faster than his brain can tell him to shut the fuck up. something that was holding him back is no longer there, so now his thoughts come tumbling off his tongue, the way he thinks about you all on display.
you’ve only just started actually dating now. you’ve known dean for years—but you knew a relationship was different. knew it was going to take some time for him to open up. and it did. but don’t get it twisted, dean did compliment you, very much so. all the damn time. but it was never to this extent. never with so much… emotion behind it. it feels like he’s bearing his soul to you—and shit.
maybe he is.
first, dean says how pretty you look, never once faltering his thrusts. gorgeous. beautiful. perfect. he says perfect at least half a dozen times—so much so that you actually believe it by the end of the night. your face is hot after the first time he tells you, the redness on your cheeks contrasting the white of dean’s sheets. but not because you’re embarrassed. just flustered, because dean’s never been one to say such things—especially during sex.
the next thing that comes out is how good you feel. he’s said that before during sex. it shouldn’t make your chest ache. but it does. he’s saying it over and over, like he needs you to believe it as much as he does. he’s saying you’re made for him, and he fits so perfectly inside you—like he doesn’t know what that does to you. like you wouldn’t cry at that had you been more in a wobbly state. you don’t cry, but a choked moan escapes you from trying to take a steadying breath when dean buries his face against the side of your head, bottoming out inside you once again like he’s been doing this whole time.
that’s what spurs the third thing: he tells you that you smell so so good. over and over again, just as before. like a row of beads following the other down a string with each thing he says. the o’s are dropping from his words: s’good coming out slurry after the fourth time he says it, like he’s drunk. he buries his nose in the strands of your hair closest to him, which happened to be by your ear, inhales deep like he needs it—needs you—to breathe. you open your mouth to try to say something, anything to reciprocate how much he means to you too, but the tip of his dick hits that spot deep inside you at that exact moment. so you’re more focused on that now, hiccuping in a breath from the way he stole it from you. your hands find his shoulders and the back of his head—holding him against you as he thrusts into you, over and over again. you’re surprised he hasn’t come yet. he’s surprised too, with how much he’s worked himself up.
the final thing he says is he loves you. he says it the most out of all the things by far. it’s like all the times he wanted to say it but didn’t have the courage to have been building up inside him for years now have all come out at once. he repeats it over and over as you both come, but he’s choking on the words like they’re getting stuck with how much he really does love you. or like his body’s punishing him for not saying it as much as he’s supposed to, as much as he wants to.
it’s usually the only time he says it for a long time. it becomes a habit for him to say it as he comes, or only when he’s inside you.
and you’ll always say it back.
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ׅ ׂ 𓂃 ⊹ 𓍼 a note for you : short and sweet! i wrote this knowing i have homework. sigh. yes i know i should be inactive (like i SAID i was gonna be) but i’m sticking around for a certain flannel-covered someone’s birthday. i hate going back on my word yet i’m insane in the membrane for my fictional character™️. that being said one more surprise in store for ya later this weekend before i hit the road for real hehe.
my regular taglist : @ambiguous-avery @maddie0101 @sunsbaby @deansposessive @snoopysnote @supernotnatural2005 @g0thamgirl @mostlymarvelgirl @amaris444 @kaz-2y5-spn @littlelamy @rottenbites @sophiaesthetic @eggggggggggggggggggggsblog @liiiilsss @doveblushed @angelblqde @vmiina @mahi-wayy @tinas111 @0ccvltism @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @lunaleah @saintfaux @kimxwinchester @bettystonewell @harlekin705 @megara0224 @ej13928 @pieandflannel @defnot-svnshine @fertilise-me @butterphii @halsteadwichester @jollyhunter @sturnsflirt & anyone else who wants to be on it! send an ask or comment <3
Simon Riley was a nightmare of a dad. One wrong move and he grounded his son for a whole week. No calls. No going out. No friends. Nothing but staying in and fucking studying.
You walked into your home after a soul-crushing day to find your only child, Tom, and his friends clustered in the living room, bags slung over shoulders, laughter too loud. They were heading out, again.
"Tom, baby, no" you said, setting your bag down. "It’s too late. It’s ten already."
"Ma, it’s fine" he said easily. Too easily. "I’ll be back in an hour. And if not, I’ll just crash at Ric’s -"
"No. Absolutely not. Nuh-uh."
He groaned. "Mom, I’m seventeen."
You turned slowly and looked him dead in the eye. "Exactly."
He scoffed and stood up - and Christ, he was already almost Simon’s height. Broad shoulders. Long limbs. Too big, too fast. Your chest tightened. You’d always been scared shitless of big men.
You remembered the first time you met Simon - bumping into him on your way back from partying with friends, freezing when you looked up and saw just how massive he was. Towering over you. You’d panicked and sprinted across the street like your life depended on it.
And yet years go by and he’d been the only man who ever mattered.
The only one who sat when you entered a room. The only one who shifted his stance to seem smaller at crowded dinners. The one who always knelt down to hear you better as you rambled on about your day.
You didn't even know he was in special forces when you started dating him. Yet he was the only one who bent the world around you instead of the other way around.
"Tom" you said sharply as his friends grabbed their things.
"I said no. You aren’t leaving. It’s dangerous, and have you even seen the news? That psycho killer still hasn’t been caught-"
"Ma, move" His voice dropped. Firm, just like his dad. "I’m goin."
He nudged past you.
Your hand shot out on instinct, fingers wrapping around his wrist. "I said no baby it's not safe. And you're not going."
He turned and looked down at you. God...
Your body betrayed you.
Your breath hitched. Your limbs locked. Too tall. Too close. Your heart slammed violently against your ribs.
"Ma" he muttered, irritation creeping in. "Let go."
You didn’t. Hell you couldnt even hear him. It's like your system had a shut down.
He shoved your hand away - not hard. Barely anything at all.
But it was enough.
Your foot slipped. Pain exploded up your ankle as you stumbled and went down with a sharp cry.
"F..fuck..uh.." You hit the floor, clutching your ankle.
"Oh shit - no no, mum" Tom dropped to his knees, panic flashing. "I didn’t mean, God-"
He glanced back at his friends. "Just - just go."
They didn’t hesitate. Because Simon had seen everything.
The way your body froze.
The way your breathing shattered.
The way his son, your son, had stood over you - unknowing, careless, dangerous.
The house changed. Heavy footsteps came down the hall - slow. Deliberate.
"What happened."
Not a question. A sentence.
Tom swallowed hard. "Dad, I - she just tripped."
Simon stopped in front of him.
Didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t need to.
"No" he said quietly. "You step back. Now."
"Dad-"
"Back." One word. Final.
Tom moved instantly.
Simon knelt beside you, massive frame blocking the room, eyes flicking over your ankle, your shaking hands, your face.
"Look at me" he said. Low. Commanding. "You with me, love?"
"I’m fine, Si" you breathed. “Just give me a second- "
"No" he said.
"Arms round my shoulders" he said. "Now"
"Si, I can walk-"
"No" he cut in. "You can’t. And I’m not asking."
"Dad, I didn’t-"
You wrapped your arms around him as he lifted you effortlessly, like he always does.
"I’ll get the ice pack" Tom said, desperate.
Simon didn’t even look at him.
"No" he said. "You stay exactly where you are."
He carried you down the hall, voice calm - but lethal as he passed his son.
Later that night you see Simon pacing back and forth as Tom sat on couch terrified.
"You don’t get to grow into the kind of man who scares women" he said quietly. "Not in my house. Not with my name."
"She might be yer mum but she's my wife first."
Tom nods looking anyway but his dad.
"I'll tell you where you learnt that size from hmm? You're a big boy I get it. I was the biggest kid growing up too. But you know what, I saw how people around me hesitated to even ask for me help."
"Dad I didn't mean to scare her" Tom mumbles .
"But you did scare her. All her life she's known big men who didn't realise just how much space they took" he groans pointing at Tom.
"I'm sorry, it wasn't my intention"...
"No. Intent doesn't change impact". You peek through the bedroom door to see Simon towering over Tom as he sat on couch.
"If you ever use your size to push past her, dismiss her, scare her - by accident or otherwise, you’ll learn real fast what restraint looks like. Because right now, the only reason you’re still sitting comfortable is because she’s hurt. And she matters more" he snaps hauling Tom up by his shirt.
"Now grab that damn ice pack and go up and apologize. Kneel if you must. You'll stay at home this week cooking, cleaning, washing dishes and what not but make sure my wife doesn't lift a single finger".
Tom nods as he feels Simon press his forehead against him.
"You'll be a better man than me son. But you'll learn how to be small..and use that size to protect, never to harm. And never ever try to scare a woman. Especially my woman. Got it?"
"Aye sir". Tom bolted upstairs grabbing the icepack. He needed to make things right.
Simon took an oath to never let anyone hurt what he loved. And he'll be damned if his wife was scared in her own house. He'll teach Tom how to be gentle even if it takes months.
⊹₊ ⋆ 〔ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ part of my dean winchester, who… series. 〕
ׅ ׂ 𓂃 ⊹ 𓍼 a note for you : *sighs and takes drag of cigarette* new year, but same billionth time i’m thinking about dean crying his eyes out during sex. so i wrote about it. naturally.
PS: i’ve written about this before, and so has my dear @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth in a smutmas fic she has—take a look at that piece of art if you haven’t (and her other ones too, of course). it’s beautiful. it’s dean winchester.
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you knew dean cried.
he had to. of course he did, he was human. but you’d only seen the close calls: the wobble of his lip, the wetness pooling in his eyes when he was trying to keep his emotions under control. never full-blown, actual meltdown crying.
until the other night.
you’d immediately noticed that dean wasn’t acting himself. of course, you’d known better than to outright ask what was wrong with him. this ain’t your first rodeo. it may be only a couple months you guys have officially been together, but you’ve known dean for years. he wasn’t going to just spill the beans if you asked.
he’s been overwhelmed lately (let’s be real, when has he not), but the hunt had gone good, so it wasn’t that. and no close calls with you, him or sam—shit, you’d think he’d be celebrating, not acting like this. like something did go wrong. closing in on himself, shuttering the blinds. he’s putting on the face he always does—the ‘yes, i’m fine, of course i am, why would you think anything otherwise’ one—but it might as well be cling wrap on his stupid pretty face to what lingers beneath. you can see something’s bothering him, but you don’t know what.
you don’t find out on the drive back to the bunker. you don’t find out at the bar—because dean said he didn’t want to go to the bar after you’d all finished up the hunt. you and sam had exchanged looks, but his brother didn’t know what was wrong with dean, either. he had left a bit ago—a book signing he was going to with eileen.
you honestly forgot about it for a little. you and dean both were tired from the hunt and showered (not together, unfortunately) before getting into bed, not bothering with much discussion about anything. you’d talk about it tomorrow, you promised yourself. whatever it was that was wrong, you’re glad he hadn’t turned to a whiskey bottle to quiet it like he usually did.
he’s been trying to be better about that for you.
you didn’t outright ask him to do anything. he realized on his own that maybe he should stop destroying himself now that you’re with him—because you plan to be for a while. he still can’t believe it. but he’s been trying to be better about a lot of things. you notice it, of course. you always do.
dean’s arm shifts you around for you to face him at some point. you hadn’t fallen asleep yet, just sort of laying there instead—it was more that phase of laying in your bed and being so unbelievably comfortable wrapped up in dean, his whole body behind yours—not nearly close to being sleepy. you try to meet his eyes when he moves you around—but it’s just a little too dark for you to see anything except the main parts of his face: the angle of his jaw and nose, a bit of his eyes glimmering off the light shining in from the vent in the door.
he doesn’t say anything. just looks at you, his eyes raking down your face, like this was a dream. like he’d made you up in his head. you open your mouth to say something—anything, but he leans in the short distance and presses his lips to yours before you can.
it’s soft, sweet—like most kisses between you are nowadays. but there’s something else there, too. you assume, you know it’s the same something he’s not telling you. and he knows you know something’s up, of course—but dean would rather cut grass with a pair of nail scissors before admitting that.
your lips snap apart with a wet pop when air becomes a necessity again—but dean’s lips are still brushing on yours as you breathe into each other’s mouths. your hands had found their way around him—on his shoulder and on his free side of his face as you’re laying down. one of his hands have made its way to your wrist that’s holding his face, keeping your hand there—and he simultaneously melts into your hand and the pillow at the same time before he kisses you again.
you’d gotten yourself worked up—well, maybe dean had done most of the work with that, considering he was kissing you with the intent of sucking your face clean off—but pj’s and underwear come off eventually, and soon enough, he slides into you with a breath that sounded like relief.
not a moan, or a groan, or a swear. a breath. a sigh. like he was sinking himself into a warm, soapy bath instead of your pussy. like he needed to be inside you in order to let go, to feel better, to relax.
that’s new. or maybe you just haven’t noticed it. either way, something about it makes your heart break and mend all at the same time. you’re helping—just by this. just by you being here.
he feels good inside you, as he always does—but you’re not gonna let him hide away and lose himself to forget everything in his brain, like his instincts tell him to. your hands go to his shoulders, fingers trailing over the barely-there freckles that dust the tops of his skin. you sigh too when he fully bottoms out inside you—and it’s hard to keep your eyes open, but you do.
because you have work to do.
dean’s already trying to distract himself when his hips meet yours with the first of his thrusts—he’s not looking at you, and his hand not holding himself up slips under your shirt hem, tugging on it. you help him get it off, but then your hands find his face this time when he immediately tries to go to your breasts that have now hit the air. dean always tries to make you come first—but you don’t want him to do that this time.
maybe that’s what starts it, his unraveling. dean’s been hanging on like a stringed-out piece of floss since he…well, he’s not sure about that. a damn long time, he supposes. weeks. maybe months. maybe years. and when your thumbs brush his cheeks, he almost loses it right there, almost buries himself away, almost sobs. he continues to thrust into you, but you can feel his hand trembling just a little as it rests on your bare hip. he can now feel that sudden urge to cry again when your hands tilt his face to look at you again, but he’s not going to.
he should be happy—the hunt went great, you’re okay, and he gets to have sex with you. he should be over the moon, should be grinning and cracking jokes while he’s inside you like he sometimes does.
but he’s not.
dean clenches his jaw, swallows down and bites the inside of his cheek—he just needs to get through this, make you both come, then he can go to the bathroom and get himself together, then clean you up. a perfect plan. he can do this. and he can’t lose it now—he’s close, he can feel it. but he can feel the ache in his chest becoming stronger now, can feel the lump fighting its way back up, too. he stutters a little in his movements, blinking as he looks at your nose instead of your eyes.
“dean,” your murmur and hands make him look back up at you—and you’re not looking at him with pity, or disgust, or annoyance. you’re looking at him like you always do—like he’s a person, like he means something, which is somehow worse. your eyes are a little half-lidded, and something is eased in dean once he sees that. at least he can still make you feel good even when he’s falling apart.
you don’t ask if he’s okay—even though he’s most certainly not. you don’t treat him like he’s some little fragile thing that’s gonna break—even though he most certainly is.
dean’s lip wobbles when he meets your eyes—fucking dammit. you didn’t notice, he hopes. he thinks. he shakes his head at nothing, thrusts into you once more—and you say his name again, but he doesn’t stop. if he comes inside you, he’ll feel better. he’ll forget about all of it, lose himself inside you like he he always does, so he starts to speed up, feverishly slamming himself into you—but not so hard that it hurts you. obviously, you notice. and dean hopes you won’t say anything, that you’ll just let him do what he wants—but deep down, he knows you’re concerned, and he hates it. hates that you have to worry about him. he doesn’t want you to waste time on that, on him.
but you do.
“dean,” you say again—and dean knows it’s not in an “oh, fuck, dean” way. you’re trying to get his attention, trying to stop him—but if he stops now, he might die. or cry, which is inherently more worse. “wait, d— dean—”
“just lemme—” come? feel good? do this? but before he can finish, dean lets out this broken, strangled sound. it gets caught in his throat, and before you can try and say anything, his thrusts go faster than before, but his arms buckle simultaneously from holding him up.
jesus, was he seriously gonna cry, while he was balls-deep inside of you? how humiliating, he thinks. he’s dean winchester. so no. no fucking way was he doing that—but his lips were wobbling again, and he almost chokes on his next breath from trying to hold it all in. you notice that immediately too.’not only because you know him, know his tells, but because he’s so close to you.
your hands are still on dean’s face, and it’s too much. it’s been too much for almost 4 goddamn decades. he hadn’t stopped thrusting in and out of you this whole time—and he speeds up even more, over and over as he looks away. it doesn’t hurt. but it doesn’t necessarily feel the same, like he always feels, the way you know he feels inside you. he’s getting desperate, like he’s trying to hold on to nothing—and your arousal isn’t exactly fading, but it hadn’t really ever came to it’s high like it always did. because you knew something was up from the moment he kissed you—and consequently, most of your concern right now was focused on dean, not yourself.
“dean,” you’re not sure what else to say besides his name, and your hands on his face go to his shoulders and chest instead, trying to stop his movements. “just— dean, look at me.”
and it takes everything in his power to do so. he’s a man, for christ’s sake. and winchester men don’t cry. he’s been told that since he was four. so dean doesn’t cry. no. he can’t. it would be pathetic, humiliating. and you’ve already stopped feeling good, because you’re too busy focusing on him. god, this was so fucking embarrassing—can he seriously not keep it together enough to make his girl feel good? to make himself feel good? what kind of a man was he? his body was betraying him. he couldn’t cry now, while he was still inside you.
but his lip wobbles again anyway.
then the dam breaks.
maybe it was the look on your face as you held him still above you. maybe it was the love he felt for you becoming overwhelming—or maybe it was because dean didn’t know how to regulate his emotions for shit.
either way, that was it. he breaks apart into a million little pieces above you. another choked noise escapes him once more, then suddenly he’s collapsing on top of you like a bag of bones.
it’s pathetic. dean knows it is. of course it is. so is everything he’s ever done in his goddamn life. he’s a drunk, a psycho, a control freak, an idiot, an asshole, a broken, chipped, half-assed excuse for a brick wall with daddy issues laced in the cracks. he shouldn’t be here, but he his. he should’ve been dead a long time ago, but he’s not. he should’ve been suffering in hell until the end of time, but he hasn’t. he should be all alone, drowning in nothing but his own failures and bleeding out in a ditch somewhere, but he’s not.
for some reason.
dean’s body is violently shaking in your arms—his dick now fully softened inside you and all attempts of fucking you long gone, lost in the hot tears spilling out of his eyes with the sobs that leave him. he’s a kindness-sucking vaccum, a scrappy stray dog desperate for approval, for attention—and you’re giving it to him.
like you always do.
he’s completely and 100% sobbing in a heap on top of you, still inside you—loud and broken noises he hasn’t let escape his lips since… he can’t remember. can’t remember the last time he cried like this. can’t remember the last time someone held him while he cried. can’t remember the last time he let himself feel everything, even if it hurt. because as much as dean’s breaking apart, something inside him is slowly being stitched back together, jagged shard by jagged shard.
the snowball of a lifetime of self-hating and bottling up emotions has rolled into an avalanche of sobs and tears, falling faster and more frequently with each tremble of his shoulders. your arms are tight around him—because he’s moving so much and also because some little tiny, ridiculously optimistic part of you believes that you can hold the broken pieces of dean together solely from pure will.
you can’t.
you know you can’t.
but you try anyway.
dean’s arms had found their way around you, too—they’re starting to hurt, since they’re under your back as you’re laying down, but the ache in his chest is more painful. and his face hurts—his head feels like there’s pounds of pressure pushing on his skull, and he can feel the snot dripping onto your chest. his face is still buried in your neck and part of your shoulder—and there’s something resembling a puddle accumulating on your skin. he can feel it, but he doesn’t say anything.
and neither do you.
you just hold him as he continues to cry—and the bed’s creaking from how much his body shakes with each sob that echoes off the walls. you hold him—tighter than he’s ever been held in a long time.
you know he needs it, know he craves it. even after every bad thing he’s ever done. he doesn’t deserve it—deserve you. deserve your kindness, your respect, your patience, your love. not by a long shot. he’s a terrible influence, an even worse brother, and a pathetic excuse for a son. he’s not a good partner. not a good boyfriend. he won’t be a good husband. a good father. he knows that. he’ll never be, in his eyes.
but he tries to be.
and that is why you give dean all the love you have to offer. why you don’t let him drown all by himself—because right now, he is in fact drowning, but it’s easier when someone’s there with him.
you’re saving him, every time you let him show the real him without judgement—the side that’s locked behind decades of trauma and horrors he never wants to relive. the side desperate for love, desperate for someone to understand. for someone to justify his feelings. it’s the very core of him. the reason he’s the way he is. because for everything that dean winchester is, under all the muscle and unwavering bravado:
is a scared little boy.
that’s his big secret. the thing that people can’t get even remotely close to. his weakness, his downfall.
inside, he’s just a scared 4 year old kid all over again, helpless and terrified. he’s scared most the time now—and you can see it. in everything he does. he’s scared to lose the people he loves, because he already has. he’s scared to lose everything and everyone that’s ever mattered and meant something to him, because he already has.
and he cannot lose you.
because you’re putting him back together with every night that ends with him in your arms like a baby. after every nightmare, after every shitty hunt. you’re there for him—and you’re making it better somehow. he’s not quite sure how you’re able to do that. he’s not even sure you’re aware you’re doing it.
but you’re gluing the pieces of him back together regardless.
just like you are now.
dean’s sobs have subsided into sniffles, slightly shaking shoulders and the occasional shuddering breath—the kind you can’t control after a breakdown like that. he doesn’t know when your hand had started tracing on his back across his skin, but it’s lulling him into a haze that makes his head feel like it’s been shoved between two pillows. almost suffocating, but oddly bearable.
he doesn’t look up at you when you wipe at the parts of his face you can reach, trying to clean him up at least a little. and you haven’t said anything this entire time—but what the fuck could you say to dean that you haven’t already said? reassure what’s already been reassured? comfort what’s currently being comforted?
so you don’t say a word.
you just hold dean like that—until the trembling of his body ceases, and exhaustion takes him under, your fingers still caressing the slope of his back. he passes out still buried inside of you—the snot and tears making your skin tight where they lay, now dried up. but you don’t move, and neither does he. you don’t say anything, and neither does he.
eventually you fall asleep like that, too, holding dean—your legs tangled together as he lay on top of you. he’ll be awkward about it tomorrow, you expect. if not awkward, then embarrassed, humiliated. but you won’t let him feel like that for long. you never did—so you’ll talk him off the hypothetical edge of his overthinking tomorrow.
but for now you’ll just hold him until he wakes up.
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my regular taglist : @ambiguous-avery @maddie0101 @sunsbaby @deansposessive @snoopysnote @supernotnatural2005 @g0thamgirl @mostlymarvelgirl @amaris444 @kaz-2y5-spn @littlelamy @rottenbites @sophiaesthetic @eggggggggggggggggggggsblog @liiiilsss @doveblushed @angelblqde @vmiina @mahi-wayy @angeliiccals @tinas111 @0ccvltism @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @lunaleah @saintfaux @kimxwinchester @bettystonewell @honeyyxxbee @harlekin705 @megara0224 @ej13928 @pieandflannel @defnot-svnshine @fertilise-me @butterphii @halsteadwichester @jollyhunter & anyone else who wants to be on it! send an ask or comment <3
being dean's best friend is fun, because it means you get to ride around in baby late at night when you both can't sleep. or dean can't sleep, and in the middle of the night he shakes you awake. you might grumble at first, but then he jingles he keys in your face with a shit eating grin, and find yourself sleepily stumbling to your shoes. and every time watches you and shakes his head, too easy.
and it's fun because he drums on the steering wheel and sings loudly and off tune and it makes you giggle, and he'll stop at a gas station and buy you snacks and a big cherry slushy, and his mouth runs like a goddamn faucet cus he's so comfortable with you, and he's been waiting to ramble and tell you every little thought and feeling he's held in today with his dean winchester facade. and you happily listen n nod, because you love that you get this side of dean, all silly and soft smiles and stupid jokes, relaxed and free.
and you're a damn good listener, but maybe sometimes when you look at him your attention is focused less on words coming out his mouth and more on... his mouth. his plump lips. n his freckles are cute. and wow, have his lashes always been so long? dean's real pretty isn't he?
"hey! you with me?" oh. what. "hm?" he looks over at you with a teasing smile, and you notice the way your heart is thumping rather fast. "i said i'm starving and i need food now. you fallin' asleep on me, doll?" free breakfast. more dean. score. "nuh uh."
