summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ after the case is over and sam is safe, you should be arresting him for impersonating an officer—not letting him talk your way into the backseat of the impala.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x police!reader ( f )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 1649 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ smut!!
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ explicit sexual content, car sex, dean being smug, nipple play, praise, dirty talk, safe sex team!!
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
gif credits to @/winchestergifs!!
you sit in the back of the impala with dean, the leather warm against your thighs. sam’s safe now—back at the motel, patched up and cranky as ever—and the case that dragged you into their orbit is done.
you should be pissed he lied about being a cop, impersonated an officer like it was nothing. the case is closed. technically. you still need to finish your report and explain the part where a fake cop with real weapons and a trunk full of illegal everything saved your life. instead your pulse kicks every time his green eyes flick to yours in the rearview.
“c’mon, officer,” he says, voice low and rough. “you gonna cuff me or have i been a good boy?”
you should arrest him on principle. still, the laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it. “you impersonated law enforcement, obstructed an active investigation, trespassed onto private property, and dragged me into the middle of a cannibal family nightmare without so much as a safety briefing.” you tilt your head. “so no, dean. you have not been a good boy.”
his mouth curves anyway. “yeah, but i did save your ass.”
“you assisted.”
“assisted,” he repeats, offended. “wow.”
“don’t pout. it’s unbecoming.”
“i don’t pout.”
“you’re doing it right now.” that gets him. a quiet huff of laughter leaves his lips, warm and unwilling.
he shifts closer, knee brushing yours, and the air in the car thickens. his hand finds your waist, thumb pressing just under the hem of your shirt. you want to push him away for the lies, for the danger that clings to him. you want him closer. both feelings tangle so tight it’s hard to breathe.
“careful,” you murmur, and it sounds weak even to your own ears.
his thumb presses once beneath the hem of your shirt. “always am.”
“that is the least convincing thing you’ve said all night.”
he leans in slow, giving you time to stop him. that’s the annoying part. the decent part. the part that makes it harder to stay angry, because he’s arrogant, reckless, allergic to the truth, and still somehow waiting for permission with his mouth an inch from your skin. you don’t stop him.
his lips find the side of your neck, hot and open, and your fingers curl against the seat. teeth graze just under your jaw, followed by the slow drag of his tongue, and your breath comes out quieter than you mean it to. “dean—”
“shh. just sayin’ thanks.” another kiss, wetter, right below your ear.
“that’s not how that works.”
“depends who’s sayin’ it.”
you turn your head then, catching his mouth before he can make another smug comment. your fingers fist in his flannel. heat pools low in your belly. the kiss turns filthy quick. his mouth claims yours, tongue sliding deep, tasting like cheap whiskey. dean groans when your hand slides into his hair and pulls. the sound goes straight through you. his grip tightens at your waist, but you’re the one who moves first, throwing one leg over his lap in the cramped backseat, settling your weight against him with enough purpose to wipe that lazy grin off his face.
his hands go to your hips. “well, damn—”
“talk less.”
“yes, ma’am.”
the car’s cramped, windows fogging already, but it doesn’t matter. you kiss him again, rougher this time, and feel him hard beneath you through his jeans. he’s thick, already pressing up against you. not nervous. not uncertain. just want, plain and inconvenient. his hands are everywhere—under your shirt, cupping your tits, thumbs circling your nipples until they tighten into aching peaks.
“fuck, these are perfect,” he murmurs against your lips, breaking just enough to yank your shirt up. his mouth closes over one nipple, hot and greedy, sucking hard while his hand kneads the other. you arch into it, a broken sound escaping you. he hums in approval, the vibration shooting straight between your legs. “that’s it, sweetheart. let me hear you.”
you’re grinding against the thick ridge in his jeans before you realize it. he hums against your skin. smug bastard. you grind down harder, and his smugness cracks into a groan. you do it again, slower this time, watching his jaw clench as pleasure pulls the control right out of his face.
“still feeling grateful?” you tease.
his laugh comes out rough. “you have no idea.”
“then show me.”
dean groans when you reach down to palm him through the denim. “yeah? you want that?”
“shut up and fuck me.”
that does it. his wallet comes out fast. condom between his fingers. jeans shoved down just enough because the backseat gives neither of you space nor dignity, and honestly, that feels about right for him. your pants are worked down one leg, underwear following, your boot catching briefly against the seat until you curse and dean laughs under his breath.
“not a word,” you warn.
“wouldn’t dare.”
“you’re smiling.”
“i’m happy to be alive.”
“you’re happy to be getting laid.”
“also that.”
you almost laugh, but he touches you then, fingers sliding between your thighs, and the sound turns into a breath instead. his expression shifts when he feels how wet you are, the humor thinning into something heavier. he touches you once, then again, watching your face with too much focus.
“dean—”
“yeah,” he says, voice lower now. “i know.”
he rolls the condom on, then grips your hip with one hand and guides himself with the other. the head of his cock nudges against you, thick and hot, and you brace one hand on his shoulder.
“easy,” he breathes as you sink down.
you take him inch by inch, and the stretch burns deep enough to steal the next breath out of you. he’s big. no getting around it. your body has to work for every bit of him, and dean feels it too—his head falling back, throat tight, hands flexing against your hips like he’s trying very hard not to lose his mind.
you start moving. slow at first, because there is barely enough room and because rushing would be a waste. every roll of your hips drags him deep, the angle sharp enough to make your stomach tighten. dean watches you as if he’s trying to commit it to memory: your hands on his shoulders, your hair falling loose, your badge still clipped to your belt somewhere under the mess of clothing.
the whole thing is obscene. the whole thing is exactly what you choose.
“fuck, you’re tight. takin’ me so well.”
his mouth finds your chest again, kissing and sucking wherever he can reach while you ride him, but you keep the rhythm. you keep control. when his hips start to push up too eagerly, you press a hand to his chest and slow him with one look. “behave.”
his breath catches. then he grins, ruined and beautiful and irritating. “yes, officer.”
your body clenches around him before you can help it.
his grin fades. “oh,” he says, voice rough. “you liked that.”
you roll your hips harder, and the joke dies in his throat. his hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with an accuracy that makes your nails dig into his shoulder. he rubs tight, steady circles, matching your pace instead of stealing it, and heat rushes through you so quickly it almost makes you angry.
“right there?” he murmurs.
you don’t answer. you ride him harder. the car rocks beneath you, windows fogged white, the night outside reduced to shadows and streetlight. dean’s free hand grips your hip, guiding only when you let him, and his mouth brushes your jaw as his breath starts to break.
he keeps talking—filthy, sweet, messy. “so wet for me… look at you, ridin’ me like you own it. fuck, you feel incredible.”
“i said talk less.”
“can’t help it,” his fingers press firmer, dragging a sharp sound from you. “you feel too good.”
your orgasm builds hot and fast, coiling low, tightening with every deep stroke of his cock and every movement of his fingers. you feel it coming and chase it without shame, hips rolling harder, breath turning uneven. you clench around him, moaning his name, thighs trembling as waves of pleasure rip through you. dean curses, hips snapping up to fuck you through it, but he keeps his hand exactly where you need it until you’re shaking above him.
“that’s it,” he rasps. “fuck, that’s it.”
you’re still pulsing around him when he loses the last of his control. his hands lock on your hips, pulling you down as he thrusts up once, twice, then buries himself deep with a broken groan against your throat. his body goes tense beneath yours, breath hot on your skin as he comes, the condom catching everything.
for a minute, neither of you moves. not because it is romantic. because the car is small, your legs are useless, and dean winchester is still inside you with his arms locked around your waist like he forgot this was supposed to end.
eventually, his hand drifts up your back. gentler than it has any right to be. you glance down at him. his eyes are half-closed, his mouth soft, the cocky mask slipped just enough to show the tired man underneath it. blood at his hairline. bruised knuckles. fake badge somewhere in the front seat.
you shouldn’t want to stay. you do anyway.
his lips brush your shoulder. “stay a little longer?”
the question lands quietly between you. you consider making a joke. you consider reminding him that you still know at least six charges you could bring against him by morning.
instead, you rest your hand against his chest, right over the steady thud of his heart. “five minutes.”
dean’s arms tighten around you. “yes, ma’am.”
and the worst part is that you know none of you will count.
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