Thea, She/Her, 21, unfortunately American. I write what I feel like, for better or worse. That means long (very long) series, but also one-shots or mini-series!
If you want to be added to/removed from a taglist, please click here!
For rules about requests, click here!
For the July fic schedule, click here!
Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)
Navigation: Each charater I write for has their own masterlist, where you can find any one-shots, miniseries, or primary series I have written for them! If you have any questions please reach out, and enjoy the stories!
✦summary: dean learns, slowly, that he's actually pretty good at being boyfriend material. it would be nice if you'd stop pining after him long enough to notice✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, friends with benefits to lovers, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love because it's the best way to be, dean's down so bad, shameless smut (facesitting, praise kink, big dick dean, fingering, pussy spanking, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, mean dean, dean has an orgasm rule and you. benefit. dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 12.5k✦
✦author's note: request! super normal about this one✦
You tell yourself, over and over again, that this is going to be the last time. It’s not something that’s meant to be held onto, so you can just… let go.
But then you find yourself here. Between tangled sheets with your legs spread wide, your nails digging into Dean’s bicep and his cock dragging through your wet, sensitive cunt.
“There you go,” he coos in your ear, every thrust deep and rough. “That’s my girl, takin’ me so good, so- Good-“
Dean moans, pressing up against the soft, gummy spot inside of you, and your eyes roll back in your head.
He always does this. He knocks on your door and grabs your face between big hands, and suddenly all that resolve and determination—never again—dissolves with your willpower. His hands are rough and calloused, but trace your hips and hold you down so gently, you can almost pretend he cares if you break. His cock is thick and impossibly long, and he always drags it between your soaked heat and bumps it against your clit before pushing himself in just right. His lips are chapped and soft, sucking possessive marks into your neck that he has no right to claim, but that doesn’t stop you from running your fingers through his hair and holding him right where he is. He wouldn’t dare to leave. Not in the middle of this. Not before you’ve both gotten what you want.
What Dean wants. You don’t let yourself pretend that this is everything you need anymore. It’s the only hope you have of one day telling him no, because the rest of you control rests on a thin rope, and it always slips from your hands the moment Dean touches you like you matter.
You never walk away from him with an aching, unsatisfied body. A few nights ago he put you on his face and made you ride until your thighs were shaking and tears were springing into your eyes. Before this, he spit on your cunt and scissored you open with thick, careful finger, kissing and nipping at your thighs as your greedy pussy swallowed him right up to the knuckle. Even now, as every roll of his hips becomes smaller—as his face twists in concentration and his mouth against your jaw becomes desperate—Dean’s thumbing at your clit, trying to get you over the edge with him.
“C’mon, baby, c’mon-“ He pushes himself up to his knees, forcing a deeper, rougher angle. “Show me what you’ve got, I know you can do it, come on-
You whimper, staring up at him under lidded, glazed eyes. The whole world is just a blur of color at this point, but Dean is bright and clear. The heave of his broad shoulder and chest, every muscle in his arm as he wraps it around your waist and makes you arch your back, the flex of his abdomen as he ruts forward like a feral dog. The sharp, unforgiving thrusts are making your head spin with pleasure, turning you into a boneless wreck of need. You grab his arm, trying to steady yourself against something, and Dean’s attention rips up.
He says he likes to watch himself fuck you, and you’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s spent whole sessions just staring at his cock or fingers splitting your cunt open. He likes putting you on his face because he can watch you react. You like it better like that, usually. The eye contact is too close. Too intimate. Too real.
But you grab him, and he looks at you, and it’s almost like a shot. His eyes are blown-out and so strangely soft, staring at your wrecked, open expression with too much, too much, too much-
“De- Deeean-“ You cry it out like a pray, because it is. Dean grunts, hips snapping, the wet sound filling up the air and his eyes never leaving yours. “Dean- Dean- Fuck, please- Please-“
You’re babbling. You never do that with anyone else, but Dean is Dean, and he makes you do things you never counted yourself capable of. He groans your name, and you squeal when he drags you up, off the mattress and straddling his thighs. Your clit drags against his abdomen, his cock bullies right against your g-spot, and Dean grabs your jaw with a single, painfully gentle hand.
“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, still holding your gaze, even as your eyes start to cross. “Soak this fuckin’ cock, baby, cum-“
You almost scream as your orgasm rips through you, and Dean crashes his mouth against yours, eating every whimper and moan with harsh lips and his tongue down your throat. You press into him, pussy gushing and fluttering around his dick, and he makes that deep, rumbling sound that always comes right before-
“Shit-“ Dean gasps against your mouth, pulling you so close you can’t feel anything but the heat of his bare chest, the sensation of his cock twitching and pumping in your cunt. “Fuuck-“
Dean moans your name, and a warm, pleasant heat starts to spread through your tummy and drip between your thighs. He doesn’t stop moving until his cock is softened, and you don’t try to stop him. You’re barely more than a limp doll right now, returning his kisses with tiny mewls, eyes crossed and body limp.
For a moment after it’s done, you stay tangled together. You always do. It’s the most dangerous part of the whole thing, because it feeds that tiny little fool in your chest, who refuses to believe that this is just sex. Who takes your heartstrings and weaves grand worlds where Dean loves you back, and you’re going to be just fine.
Dean kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter closed. There’s an advantage, to being a crybaby whenever he fucks you stupid. He never once has considered that the tears might be real.
“Think you can walk?” He mutters, still buried deep inside of you, still holding you like he cares.
You shake your head, and his mouth twitches against yours.
“Alright, pretty girl. I’ve got you.”
And you press your face into the crook of his neck, letting that fool take you over. She takes his words as gospel. My girl and I’ve got you and Baby, they’re exactly what he means and nothing more, nothing less.
When the logical part of your brain wakes back up—Dean’s always had this ability to hit a button in you, sliding his hand around the back of your neck and making all your thoughts just bubblegum feelings and electric colors—you’re going to remember why you always say this has to be the last time.
He’s perfect, and he’s not yours. He makes that perfectly clear, until he pulls these little stunts and ends up buried between your thighs. You agreed that he wasn’t yours, when this arrangement started.
Safer with someone you know, he’d told you, like he hasn’t fucked his way across the entire country. Easier. Nothing to worry about, when it’s you and me.
And you’d been a starry-eyed, gooey hearted fool who just wanted whatever part of Dean he was willing to show you. The burning love you kept tended in your ribs hadn’t seen a problem with adding fuel to the wildfire, even if Dean was never going to see it. But now he’s carrying you to the bathroom like a princess, and he’s going to be gone in the morning, and that wildfire is an inferno. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You can map out everything he’d ever say in response to your feelings, from the harsh sneer he would’ve given when he had the Mark of Cain, to the kinder let down you’d get now.
You’re too young, he’d say, like it was a consolation prize. And I like you, sweetheart, but I don’t do this kinda thing. Not with girls young enough to be my daughter. Not with kids that I hunt with. Not with you.
You press your face further into his neck. He’s always so warm and sturdy, a massive tree that’s offering you just as much shade crushing, unbearable weight and tangled roots that keep you pressed down. He smells like leather and whiskey and something perfectly, faintly spice. You want to drown in it. You want to drown in him.
“You good?” Dean asks, and his voice is too gentle. It rattles the little fool, screaming for the rest of you to listen and just accept that he loves you.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.
“You’re bein’ quiet, even for- Y’know-“ He chuckles, that low, insufferably charming pride crawling into his voice. “After I fuck you dumb.”
“You did not fuck me dumb,” you mumble against his skin, and you can hear his grin.
“Big words from the girl who couldn’t talk five minutes ago.”
“That was unrelated.”
“Unrelated,” he echoes, his thumb dragging a small circle against your spine. “Always forget how bratty you get after, sweetheart. Dangerous.”
You roll your eyes, and hug him tighter. He laughs, and kisses the side of your head, and he has the nerve to call you dangerous.
“You wanna watch a movie?” He asks, leaning down to run the water, still keeping you tucked so carefully against his chest, and all you can do is nod. Dean sighs. “C’mon, gimme a little more than that-“
“Yes, please,” you mumble, and he pauses.
It’s only a fraction of a second. You don’t understand it, and you don’t want to. Not when he feeds your delusions and kisses your brow again, then your cheek, then your lips. And you let him. You always let him, because you’re a foolish, stupid, lovesick idiot. You don’t want his affection, not like this. But you don’t want to lose him—it would be like ripping a vital organ out of your ribcage, even if you didn’t know you had it a year ago—and you can’t ever tell him to stop being so sweet without explaining yourself, and getting that gentle, horrible let down.
You don’t want it. You don’t want any of it. And this, this had to be the last time.
You hold the line. You don’t know how, but you hold that line with white knuckles and grit teeth and a taste like bile in the back of your throat.
Dean knocks on the door, only two nights later, and you don’t answer. He calls your name and you sink into the mattress, praying he just thinks you’re asleep.
“I just- Uh- I wanted to talk?” He says, and you press your face into the pillow like that can somehow shield you. “Really, that’s it. Just talking, so- If you could-“
Dean sighs. You can hear the please, hanging between every word, but Dean doesn’t really say please. He just begs with everything else in him, or gives up. And you can picture him running his hand over his face, the heavy look in his eyes, the defeated sag in his shoulders. It’s like a knife being driven through your gut, and you sit up, ready to open the door-
“Alright,” he mutters, and you freeze. “Night, baby. Sleep well.”
Footsteps retreat, and you stay there on the mattress, frozen and lost, adrift in a sea you dove into.
But you did it. You held the line.
And you keep it. It makes sweat bead and your skin burn, but you close the door and don’t open it back up. You’re done, and you’re going to keep it that way.
Dean doesn’t ask questions. You don’t know if you want him to or not, but it doesn’t matter, because you catch him staring and giving out signals, but he’s taken your no in stride, and doesn’t seem to have any plans to push back against it. When this started, you agreed to leave out a specific book on the war room table if either of you wanted something. Dean starts to leave it out every night, and you never go to his door, and one night, it vanishes.
And that’s fine. That’s exactly what you wanted.
And if it feels like you’re dying because of it, and if you spend an hour over the toilet dry heaving that night, that’s no one’s business but your own.
“Dean’s been grumpy lately,” Sam says one morning, and you blink at him over your coffee.
“Grumpy? Dean? That’s- Woah-“
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Sam gives you a flat look. “You know what I mean. Grumpier.”
You shrug, looking back to your mug. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”
“Uh huh.”
You can feel Sam’s stare. It makes you itchy and small, and you’re not sure if you want to punch him or run. You settle for staring at your coffee harder. It’s the easiest course of action.
“Dean needs to get laid,” Sam repeats your words, something strange—almost sharp—in his tone, and you nod.
“That’s what I said.”
“Dean-“
“What’s up?” Dean walks into the kitchen, stopping right behind you, and you hunch over like you can grow a shell to protect yourself.
Even just a few feet away, he’s always so warm.
“Uh- Hey, Dean-“
“Hey,” Dean mocks back, and Sam huffs.
“Dude-“
“Shut your face-“
“I didn’t say anything- I-“ Sam says your name, and you glance up. His brow is furrowed with worry, his eyes locked on Dean behind you. “We were just-“
“Just what?” Dean snaps. “Just talking? Shooting the shit, getting real comfortable?”
Sam sighs. “Dean-“
“I got a gun, Sammy,” Dean points firmly, and you stare at his finger like a woman driven mad with thirst. “Don’t forget that.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “We all have guns, that- That threat doesn’t do anything-“
“I’ll show you doing something- Hey-“
Dean says your name, and you freeze. You’d been trying to slip out while they fought, but Dean—goddamn him—had noticed. He always notices. You love him so much it’s going to make you cave in on yourself, and maybe take the whole bunker with you, like a dying star.
He catches your arm, and you can’t stop yourself from looking at him. His brow is knit, his jaw locked, and his handsome face has deep lines you only used to see when the world was ending. There are bags under his eyes. Deeper than usual. You want to smooth the lines with your thumb and kiss his jaw until he relaxes, but that’s not your ache to soothe.
Dean doesn’t say anything. You can’t say anything. He looks exhausted, and there’s a lump forming in your throat.
“You- You hungry?” Dean rasps, and you’re starving.
“No,” you breathe before you can think, and Dean swallows.
“Well, when you’re hungry- There’s a diner in town-“
“Henry’s?”
“No, uh- A new one. I- I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go, later, or something.”
“Or something?” You tilt your head, and Dean nods.
“Whatever you want.”
God, he’s cruel. He’s perfect and cruel, and you want to vomit on his flannel and kiss him until you pass out.
“Oh- Okay,” you say, because you’re only so strong.
The lines in Dean’s face relax. His grip loosens. Then Sam coughs, and Dean lets you go.
The diner is… nice. Nice and easy, in a way you haven’t felt in longer than you want to admit. Dean insists on driving you, and paying, and sitting in one of those booths with your feet bumping under the table.
He presses his knee forward, while he orders. You swallow and don’t allow yourself to think much of it. He’s warm through his jeans, but he’s always warm, and he hasn’t tried anything in a few weeks, so you allow it. Your love for him hasn’t been flickering out, but the harsh wind of his absence has made everything feel colder. It’s okay, to indulge yourself in something so small. You’re still keeping it together. You’re still holding the line.
“So, uh-“ Dean clears his throat, turning his bottle in his hands. “How are you?”
“How- Am I?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly. “I- I’m okay. How are you?”
“Good. Great.” He frowns at the table. “You know. Same as always.”
You almost laugh. “You’re always great?”
“I focus on the positives, sweetheart-“
“No, you don’t.”
He rolls his eyes, glancing up to hold your light, amused gaze. His mouth twitches. His fingers tap against the glass, and you try not to let yourself sink too deep into the attention.
It’s okay to drown a little. A long as you don’t drop the line.
“Maybe I’m turning a new leaf,” he says, and your face splits into a full smile.
“You?”
“Yeah, me. Why’d you say it like that-“
“Because you’ve never turned a leaf in your life-“
“Ah-“ He points the head of his bottle at you with a grin. “Not true. Remember when I started learning guitar?”
“Yeah, you smashed it on a werewolf’s head after a month.”
“That was a tactical choice, I would’ve kept playing if the wolf didn’t get in the way.”
“Uh huh.” You lean back in your seat, crossing your arms. “What songs had you learned to play?”
Dean’s nose wrinkles. “Hey, we don’t need to talk about that-“
“I think we do.”
“Nah, I mean- I only had a month-“
“You learned how to work a rocket launcher in a week.”
“That’s just buttons and triggers, sweetheart. Even you could work it.”
“Even I?” You raise your brows—trying not to let the delight shine too bright in your voice—and Dean freezes.
“I mean- uh- You’re not great with guns, and- I could teach you-“
“You could teach me.”
“Maybe? If you wanted- Or-“ Dean groans, slumping back. “Stop givin’ me that look.”
“I’m not giving you any look,” you tease, and Dean sighs.
“Will you stop if I say I’m an idiot?”
You soften slightly. “You’re not an idiot, Dean-“
“You sure?” He grumbles. “Kinda feeling like one right now.”
You laugh, but it’s gentle. You can almost see him pushing down into himself. It makes you heavy for him, like you’re trying to take that invisible weight off his shoulders, even if he can’t feel you helping the pain. “You’re a dork,” you say, bumping his knee under the table. “But you’re not an idiot.”
Dean grunts, watching you under hooded eyes, and you smile easily.
You missed this, more than you want to tell him. Just talking, without worrying that it’s going to end in world-changing, back-breaking, beautifully heart-aching sex. He feels like your friend again, closer to your fingertips than he’d been when he was balls deep inside of you.
“Wonderwall,” he grunts suddenly. “And Hallelujah.”
You blink. “What?”
“Those were the songs,” he mutters, picking at the label of his bottle. “That I got, before I smashed the guitar.”
“Oh,” you pause. “I love Hallelujah.”
“Yeah. I know.”
You stare at him, and he stares right back. A faint flush is threatening your cheeks, so you duck your head to hide it, and Dean lets out a soft laugh.
“You alright-“
“Yep. I- I’m good-“
“You look good.” Dean laughs again, when you shoot him a glare. “Don’t gimme that face, I’m saying something nice-“
“You’re being a butt,” you stick out your tongue, and his eyes dance with an easy kind of light that almost makes your heart stop.
“You’re the one who was callin’ me old earlier,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes.
“You are old.”
“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you, has it.”
Your mouth falls open, eyes going so wide it almost hurts, and Dean grins at you. If you weren’t shocked into static, you’d slap him or- or lunge across the table and kiss him-
Hold the line.
“Aged wine is supposed to be better,” you manage to say, somehow, and Dean laughs, loud and free.
“That all I am to you? Some wine?”
“No,” you smile at your plate. “You’re also very good cheese.”
“Good cheese, huh.”
“Mhm.” You point a stern finger at him. “No puns.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but dips his head. “Yes, ma’am.”
There’s the flush. You’d keep trying to hide it, if Dean didn’t start talking about something unimportant and easy, and suddenly you forgot to be embarrassed. He’s not trying to kiss you or get you back to the car. He’s just… Talking to you. Dropping that light, teasing praise like it’s nothing, then telling you a story about when he used a tuba to beat a poltergeist, grinning like a winner every time you laugh.
When lunch is over, he rests a hand lightly on your lower back, but doesn’t do much more. He kisses your cheek when you get back to the bunker, and asks if you want to watch a movie tomorrow night. You swallow, locking your hands together like they can force the line to stay firm. Dean says your name, almost panicked, and you blink up at him.
“Just a movie,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Out in town, at- Uh- That shitty theatre next to the coffee place. Or- I can try and find a drive-in, if those still exist-“
“They do,” you say softly, and he swallows. “There’s one out in Beloit.”
“Beloit,” Dean mutters. “Yeah- Yeah, okay. You wanna go there?”
You nod, and he grins. You smile back, and it feels… Different. Shy, in a way you haven’t been around him since he first started fucking you. Almost delicate. You weren’t supposed to let this feel like something delicate.
Dean jaw works, and you can almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes. He lurches slightly, brow furrowed, then pulls back up. You’re seconds from asking him what’s wrong when he just leans down and… does it.
His lips graze your cheek, his hand brushing against your waist, and you almost melt right into him.
But then he stands back up, and takes a large step away. You swallow, resisting the urge to reach up and brush your fingers over where he kissed. It’s not like he’s never done that before, but again.
It just feels different.
“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and you nod weakly.
If you had a mind that was thinking in more than bursts of glee and songs of Dean, Dean, Dean, you’d tell him that you live together, and he’s always going to see you tomorrow. But he walks away, and you let him, and it doesn’t hurt. There’s a space that he left, but something in you seems to think he’s going to come back. You can’t tell if it’s the fool or not.
For once, you decide not to try.
The movie is nice. Dean rests his hand on your knee, but doesn’t go any higher. You lean into his side, and his arm goes around your shoulders, but there’s no kissing or dragging into the back seat, and you didn’t know there could be a better way to be close to him. Sex is great. Looking up and finding him already watching you is better.
He brushes some hair from your face, and you half expect him to kiss you. His eyes dart down to your lips like he wants to. Your fingers curl in his shirt, and his throat bobs.
“You likin’ the movie?” He whispers, and you nod.
“Good find,” you breathe, and he grins.
“Thanks. Eat the popcorn, it cost me a billion bucks.”
You roll your eyes, and throw some of the over-buttered, half-burnt popcorn at his face. He laughs, catches a kernel in his mouth, and grabs your chin between two fingers. Your breath catches. He just turns your face back to the screen, and pulls you a little closer into his side.
The movie ends the same way the diner did. Dean walks you to your bedroom door like it’s the porch of your house, kisses your cheek, then walks away.
Then, after the movie, you play mini golf. You win, but you know he let you. He buys you a snow cone and licks it off his nose when he eats it like a rabid dog. You wipe a little extra off his cheek, and he stares at you, but still doesn’t kiss you. Not fully. His hand seems to always rest on your lower back, now, but that’s all the contact you get. All that you allow.
Hugs are on the table, too. They’re somehow more dangerous than the forehead kisses. After the hugs, he sometimes just stares at you and cups your cheek, and your heart moves into your throat until you think you’re going to spill it out all over his chest.
You manage to keep it together. For the sake of this new, slowly growing garden of what your friendship is becoming, you swallow your love with greater ease and more bile than you ever did while you were fucking. After the mini golf you get dinner and see another movie. You convince him to go on a walk with you, and he hates it less than he pretends to. You eat together in the bunker and call when he’s on a hunt with Sam and go to a car show and it all feels like breathing.
Sometimes he still looks at your mouth, and you freeze up, unsure if you want him to kiss you or not. You know you want him, but somehow you’ve found even more to lose than before, and if it slips through your fingers, you’re not sure they’re ever going to stop shaking and groping at the empty spaces again. You can take holding his hand in the bookstore while he peers over your shoulder, pretending to be interested for no real reason other than to make you smile.
“There are so many of them,” he mutters, and you giggle.
“There’s a lot of ways to write words, Dean.”
“Yeah, but- You’d think there would be repeats or something.”
“There probably are,” you shrug, running your fingers over the spines. “But they’re still all fun.”
Dean sighs, squeezing your upper arm. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and all his features relax.
“You want some coffee?” He brushes some hair from your face and you nod.
“There’s a shop next door, could you get me-“
“Hey,” Dean flicks your nose, grinning roguishly. “Trust me, I know what you want.”
You nod a little stupidly, and his smile falters. He looks to your lips again, then almost shakes himself, taking a small step.
“Don’t move,” he squeezes your arm again, then backs away. You watch him go, unable to help yourself, and smile when he looks back. He does that all the time now. And he always smiles back.
You turn back to the shelf, looking at the books without actually looking. You already miss him, and he told you not to move, but that can’t count if you’re going to stand next to him in the coffee line, can it-
“Hey.”
You fumble slightly, turning to find a man leaning against the shelf and smirking at you. You blink, and his smirk widens.
“What’s girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”
“The… Bookstore?” You frown, and he laughs. You don’t think you said anything all that funny.
“Look, I just- I saw you from over there,” he nods vaguely, and you frown. “And I thought you were cute. Can I get you some coffee or something?”
“My- My friend is already getting me coffee,” you say, and your voice sounds strangely far away.
The man nods, but doesn’t retreat. “Alright, then can I get your number? Maybe beat your friend to coffee next time?”
And you don’t want to say yes, but this is a chance. To hold onto this new friendship with Dean while also getting over him at the same time. This man isn’t ugly. Compared to Dean, no one really stands a chance anyway, and you have to get over him eventually.
So you give him your number, and try not to feel like you just did something wrong.
Dean clears his throat from behind you, and you spin around on your heels, a sour guilt twisting in your gut.
“You- You’re back,” you say, and he grunts.
He’s not look at you. He’s glaring at the man with the same, deadly glint that he gives monsters and demons before he cuts them in half. You touch his arm lightly, and he tenses. You feel sick.
“Hey, buddy,” he snaps at the man, who—not seeming to understand the gravity of Dean’s glare—grins back.
“Hey.” He winks at you, slowly backing away. “Have fun with your friend.”
Dean’s coffee spills over the top of it’s lid. He doesn’t look away from the man when he leaves the store. He shoves your drink into your hand, not meeting your gaze.
“Dean-“
“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he mutters, and you swallow.
“Oh- Okay.”
Your arm wraps around your stomach, and you press a little away from him, from the wrath seeming to wave off his body like a volcano. He glances down, jaw tight and a vein in his brow ticking. You stare at his neck, unable to hold the weight of his gaze. He lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.
“Get your book.”
You shake you head. “No- It- It’s okay-“
Dean says your name, and your mouth snaps shut. “Just- Get the damn book.”
He looks like he’s in pain, and you don’t know how to fix it, so you do as he says. You get a cheap one, that worm of guilt burrowing deeper and deeper into your gut until you can’t even drink your coffee without feeling like it’s going to come back up.
Dean’s fingers dig into your back, when he guides you out the door. He starts the engine by almost punching in the keys, and holds Baby’s wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. You can see all the anger brimming under the surface of his skin, and worried you’re just going to make it worse. You don’t even know where it came from. It’s not like you’re together, or the guy said something rude. You open and close your mouth too many times to count, then give up, shrinking back into your seat.
Dean looks over at you. You try to look out the window, and nowhere else.
A loud, sharp breath escapes him. “Son of a- Alright.”
You look over with a frown, then squeak when he yanks the wheel off to the side.
“Shit- Dean-“
“Just- Fuck-“ He bows he head, glaring down at his legs, and you swallow.
You fidget with your fingers, watching him nervously, waiting for him to break the silence. It takes while. So long you think about just getting out of the car to give him space.
But then he looks up, and your heart gets cleaved open. His face is twisted in pain, his lips parted and his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard.
“What-“ He takes a deep breath, scanning over your openly confused features. “What else am I supposed to be doin’?”
You blink at him, fingers curling in your lap. “What?” You ask softly, and his throat bobs.
“I- I’m really trying,” he mutters, looking back to his hands. “I swear to god, baby, I’m tryin’ my best, and- I know I ain’t amazing at this but- If you could throw a guy a rope when he’s never- I’ve never done this, alright.” He waves between your bodies, jaw clenched tight. “And I’m really givin’ it my best shot, but I’m still not allowed to kiss you, and you’re takin’ numbers right- Right in front of me- So just- Something.” He gives you a pleading, broken look, eyes shining on yours in the dark. “Anything.”
You open your mouth, but you can’t even figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to say. You know all the words he’s saying, but it’s like he’s speaking a language you never learned, spitting out a code you’re just supposed to magically understand. Dean’s jaw ticks, when you don’t answer, and you try to sputter out an answer, but he’s too loud to hear your confused whimper.
“Look, just- Whatever the hell you do need me to do, I’ll do it, I swear I’ll do it, but- You gotta tell me, sweetheart-“
“Tell you what?!” You almost shout, and Dean leans back in surprise. “Dean, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dean huffs a low laugh, looking back out to the road. “Yeah. Alright,” he grabs the keys, voice rough and pained. “Sure. Whatever-“
“No.” You grab his wrist before he can start to the engine. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”
“It doesn’t matter-“
“Yes, it does-“
“Nah.”
“Dean-“
“You wanna call that guy, call ‘im.” There’s an almost toxically bitter sound to the words, and Dean’s making a face like he just got shot. “Whatever. See if I care.”
Your nails dig into his wrist, when he tries to yank it away. He shoots you a glare, the bags—gone, after months of ease—already starting to form.
“C’mon, kid, just- let go-“
“Would you care?”
Your question is small, but it makes Dean recoil like it burned. He scoffs, but it’s too loud, and you hold him tighter.
“Would you care-“
“No, I fuckin’ love watching douchebags parade around with my girl, who would care about something like that?”
Something snaps, right at the base of your spine. You sit so tall you’d think someone is dragging you by the nape of your neck, and Dean blinks in something close to surprise.
“What-“
“Your girl,” you whisper. “That’s- I’m- Why would you say that?”
Dean blinks. “Why wouldn’t I say that?”
“Because you and I- We’re not- That’s-“ You lean back, letting go of his wrist, and when you look down, you’ve left little crescent marks in the skin. “No- No- You didn’t- You said no- No strings-“
“Yeah, and then you stopped fuckin’ me, and I-“ Dean says your name as you press back against the window, brow furrowed in worry. “Baby, it’s- It’s alright, I’m not that pissed-“
“You were yelling,” you choke out, and he swallow.
“Well, I was- Just- C’mere.”
He reaches out, cupping your cheek with the same gentle touch he used to use, right before he kissed you. You gape at him, head spinning, panting like you just ran a marathon.
“I’m not mad,” he rasps, almost pleading, and you shake your head.
“You were-“
“Sweetheart-“
“Why?” You whisper, grabbing his wrist, your nails sinking back into the marks. “Why- Why would you care?”
Dean swallows. He shakes his head, looks out the window, and chuckles.
“Dean-“
“I don’t want you goin’ out with him. And- Call it possessive, or stupid man shit, or- Whatever the hell you want,” he drags his thumb over your cheekbone, voice dropping to something tender, something soft. “You’re my girl. And I want you here, telling me what to do, how to- To be what you need.” His voice cracks. “Come on, baby. Just- Tell me what to be.”
You stare at him, a lot of pieces colliding into each other at once in your head. The diner and the movie and the touching and the caution and-
“Are we dating?” You choke out, and Dean frowns.
“What’d you mean, are we dating?”
“I mean are we dating, Dean, are you- Are you my boyfriend?”
“Uh- Boyfriend kinda makes it sound like we’re sixteen and necking-“
“What the fuck is necking?”
Dean groans, dropping his head. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. Makes me feel fuckin’ fifty.”
Your lips twitch. “You are almost fifty,” you say, and he chuckles.
“Yeah. Guess I am.” He looks back up to you, caution lining his features. “You always seemed to like it.”
You swallow. You did. You’d never been sure if it was the older thing itself, or the fact that it was just Dean, but you’d liked it. You always liked all of him, from the uglier wounds to the beautiful, glowing heart that almost managed to peak through, no matter how thick his steel and iron walls became.
He glides his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, and your breath hitches. He swallows, closes his eyes, and mutters your name.
“Did you… Not think we were dating?”
You shake your head, and Dean snorts dryly.
“Huh,” his mouth curves into a tight smirk. “Makes sense why you wouldn’t kiss me, I guess.”
“You guess?” You squeak, and Dean nods.
“Yeah, makes a lotta sense, actually-“
“How long have we been dating?!” You almost shriek, and he gives you an amused look.
“’Bout three months.”
“Three months?!”
“That’s what I said, baby-“
“Shut- Shut up-“ You plant a hand over his mouth, and he raises his brows. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me we were dating, you- You butt?!”
Dean’s eyes sparkle, looking pointedly down to your hand, and you release him with a scowl. He rubs his jaw, grinning at you like you’re some cute bunny, and you lean back in your seat with a huff.
“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I thought you knew.”
“How would I have known-“
“’Cause I asked you on a date? And you said yes?”
“That- That never happened.” You snap, and Dean frowns.
“Yes, it did. Sammy- He was there-“
“Sam was there-“
“Yeah, and- I said there was a new diner in town, and you said you’d go with me, and we started dating!”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open. Dean stares pointedly back, and you can’t help yourself. You bark out a loud, sharp laugh.
“That was not asking me on a date, you fucking- Oh my god!” You shake your head, and Dean’s frown becomes almost puppy like.
“Yes, it was-“
“You have to actually say it’s a date, Dean! You can’t just- Just ask me to do something, I thought we were just hanging out! As friends.”
He’s pouting now. If you weren’t pissed, it would be adorable. “I- Uh- I paid for everything. And got you gifts.”
“Friends do that-“
“Do friends kiss your face all the time?” Dean twists to fully glare at you, and you pause.
“Um- Maybe?”
Dean snorts. “No, they don’t-“
“But I thought that was just you!” You protest. “You- You’re always- You know-“
“I know?” He mocks, and you scowl.
“We were fucking for a year, Dean,” you snap, tipping up your chin. “I thought you were comfortable with me.”
“I am comfortable with you,” Dean shrugs, leaning slightly forward. “Real comfortable.”
Your nose twitches. He’s too close, now. Consuming your vision, making your vision all stupid and fuzzy. “You’re comfortable with everyone,” you sniff, and he laughs.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, running a hand slowly up your thigh. “We both know that ain’t true.”
You make a tiny, involuntary sound when his fingers dip under your skirt, teasing sensitive, neglected skin. He hasn’t touched you there in so long. Too long. You have to hug yourself to stop your body from flying at him.
“I haven’t fucked anyone else in eighteen damn months,” Dean mutters, holding your gaze. “I’ve been waiting around for you for months, wondering what the hell I was doin’ wrong, and you thought I was just being nice?!”
You swallow, your voice suddenly small. “You are nice,” you whisper, and Dean snorts.
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re nice to me-“
“Because I-“ He cuts himself off, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh. You grab his hand, holding it against you, and his eyes dart down. He heaves a long breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bows his head.
“Dean?” You whisper, and he shakes his head. “Dean, I- I’m sorry I didn’t- You said we were just going to be casual-“
“I know what I said,” he grunts, glaring at your hands. “But I- I didn’t- I thought it would help me.”
You swallow. “Help you?”
“Yeah.”
“With what-“
“You know what.” He finally looks at you, and you’ve never seen him this vulnerable. Almost bowing before you, holding onto your hand like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. “And I can’t- I don’t know how to-“ He takes another ragged breath, gives you another pleading look. “You stopped letting me pretend, you started- You started telling me no, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t.” He swallows. “I’m tryin’ to do this right, baby.” He squeezes your hand, leaning a little closer. “Please let me do this right.”
You blink at him, tears watering in your own eyes, and nod. Dean’s shoulders shudder, and he holds your hand so tight you think he’s trying to just mold you together. He glances at your lips, but doesn’t move. So you do it for him.
Dean stares at you, completely still as you lean forward, his chest so still you’re worried he’s not breathing. You rest your hand lightly on his chest and press the lightest kiss you can to his parted lips. He shakes, one hand flying to your waist, his touch still heartbreakingly delicate. You kiss him again, a little harder, and a low rumble starts in his chest.
You pull back, pressing your brows tight together. Dean stares at you, eyes glossy and blown out, the restraint ticking in his jaw, and you smile softly.
“I love you,” you breathe. “And I- I know you can’t- You know, say it back, but- I love you, Dean.”
His breathing his ragged, and he’s still gaping. You laugh nervously, looking down to your fingers, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.
“If- If you could say something, though, that would be- Um- Nice-“
Dean grunts, and your words fall off into a squeak as Dean drags you forward into his lap.
And this. This is a real kiss. Dean’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his arm wrapping fully around your lower back, his fingers digging into your hips and his other hand cradling the back of your head. He kisses you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, pushing his tongue down your throat and moaning against your mouth. You pull on his shirt and he gropes at your ass, dragging you further into his lap. The pressure of his thigh against your core makes your head spin, but that might just be the lack of oxygen. Neither of you seem to be willing to come up for air, taking sharp, tiny breaths between sloppy kisses.
You whimper, already going limp, and Dean leans back with darkened, shining eyes. You know that look. You used to pray for and dread it all at once. It always made you feel like something close to prey, paralyzed and unable to flee his spell.
But this time is different. This time, there’s nothing you’d rather do but fall into his charm.
Dean presses another, small kiss to your lips, dragging his thumb over the tingling swell. Your tongue flicks against the pad of the finger, and he groans, pushing it slowly between your lips.
You wrap around him, sucking lightly, giving him your best, sweetest Bambi eyes. Dean’s throat bobs, his fingers digging into your ass.
“We’re goin’ home,” he mutters. “Then I’m gonna fuck you.”
That’s a lovely plan. You smile around his thumb, and he says your name, pulling his thumb away with a small pop.
“Jesus, you- You gotta tell me yes-“
“Just fuck me here,” you whisper, pulling on the collar of his shirt.
Dean glances to the backseat, then to you. “Uh- I mean- That’s- If you’re sure-“
“Please,” you push a little further forward, dropping your hand to press against the bulge in his jeans. “I need you, Dean. Now.”
And for a second, you think he’s going to demand going all the way back home. Say something about you deserving a soft bed and gentle loving, when you just want him, filthy and raw and yours. You’re so busy giving him doe eyes, you don’t notice his hand dragging down your spine and your ass, right up until it dips under your skirt, and cups your pussy through your panties.
You gasp, and Dean smirks, slowly rubbing his hand back and forth.
“Need me?” He drawls, pushing his thumb against your clit. “Like this, baby? This how you need me?”
“Ye- yes-“ Your lips brush over his, your hips starting to grind down as he drags his thumb in tiny circle, his hand still rocking back and forth. “Just- Just like that, Dean- Shit-“
You push down, kissing him with a sloppy, uncontrolled mouth. Dean grunts, splaying his free hand against your neck and pushing you down. He’s massive and warm, the hand working your pussy offering just enough friction to work you up, but nothing more. You wrap your arms around his neck, panting against his lips and moving you hips to chase more friction.
“That feels good, doesn’t it,” he mutters, kissing you between every word.
You coo, trying to kiss over his face, and Dean slaps your pussy once, leaning back with a stern glare.
“Doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” you answer immediately, already getting heavy-eyed and dazed. “So- So good, Dean, feels so good, just- More-“ You claw at his shoulders, trying to at least get to some bare skin, and settle for pressing your mouth back over his. “More- Need some more, De, now-“
Dean silences you with a deep, rough kiss, and taps his thumb against your clit in quick, harsh movements, pushing his palm down hard against your aching pussy. You cry out, trying to force your hips further down against him, and Dean squeezes that back of your neck.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Few months without some cock and you get bossy, don’t you.”
“No- No,” you manage to protest. “You’re just- You’re being slow-“
“I’m being slow?” He mocks, running his fingers over the line of your panties. “Baby, I’ve barely fuckin’ started.”
You try to roll your eyes at him, but he uses his hold on your neck to turn your head, forcing your gaze back down to his. Your eyes widen, and he smirks slightly, raising his brows.
“You gonna break out some manners for me?” He asks, slowly dragging your panties to the side. “Or am I gonna need to teach you again?”
“Te- Teach me?” You choke out, and Dean hums.
His thumb drags down from your clit, parting the lips of your pussy and smearing your arousal. Your heart is trying to hammer out of your chest, every nerve in your body seeming to respond to the mockingly sweet touch.
“Dean,” you press your hands against his chest, unsure if you want to push him away or drag him closer. “Don’t- Don’t be mean-“
“I’m not bein’ mean,” he hum, the gleam in his eyes something else all together. “I’m giving my girl exactly what she wants, how she wants it.”
You blink at him hopelessly, and he chuckles, pulling you down into a long, slow kiss. It would be romantic and loving, if it wasn’t for his thumb pushing at your weeping entrance, refusing to dip even a fraction of the way inside.
“Remember how you used to beg for me?” He mutters, and your face burns with a mix of arousal and shame. “I sure as shit do. Spent hours thinkin’ about it lately, planning how I was gonna take you when you let me again. But,” he switches out his thumb for the very tips of his fingers, yanking slightly on your hair when you try to look down. “Jesus, baby, I’m worried I’m gonna break you.”
You shake your head frantically, and Dean raises his brows.
“Words, pretty girl,” he reminds you, pushing his fingers just a little big deeper. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got it, talk to me-“
“I can take it,” you breathe out, watching him under fluttering lashes. “I- I can take it. I promise.”
Dean works his jaw, his grip on your hair tightening. “Sweetheart-“
“Please,” you breathe, leaning down until your noses bump. “I need it. I need you.”
Those are the magic words. Dean stops trying to play noble, stops trying to hold back for the sake of romance. You loved him when he fucked you like a whore and gave you nothing soft, and you’re going to love him even more when he treats you like a toy, then kisses you everywhere after.
Dean smashes his lips against yours and eases his fingers into your waiting pussy, groaning under his breath when you clench down around him.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, scissoring them inside you. “Never gonna get over how fuckin’ tight you are, sweetheart, like you were made for me. Made to be mine.”
He almost snarls the last words against your lips, pushing himself fully up to the knuckle. You mewl as he finds your g-spot with that precision that makes it look easy, that’s always made you sure you couldn’t ever enjoy someone else if you tried.
Dean pumps his fingers slowly, crooking them so they drag against that spot, and pulls you back to watch your face contort with pleasure.
“That’s it,” he grunts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming them right back in and twisting to bully against that sensitive spot. “That’s just how you like it, huh? Already gettin’ like this from just my fingers,” he chuckles, grinding his hips up against your thighs. “Imagine how you’re gonna be on my cock, sweet girl, if you can barely fuckin’ take this?”
“That- That’s not fair-“ You choke out, every word breathy and weak, and Dean just smirks.
“Isn’t it?”
You try to protest, but Dean pushes your head back down, and his kiss knocks almost every thought from your head. It’s all just the familiar, perfect way his mouth moves against yours, rememorizing something that never stopped being his. The wet sound of his fingers working you open fills the car, and your whole body burns with desire and shame. He’s right. You’re already soaked and ready for him, your cunt clenching down and still begging for more. You need that full, impossible split of him. After months of nothing, you’re worried his cock is the only thing that’s going to be able to do it.
But Dean seems to like proving you wrong today. A coil, tight in your stomach, starts to wind tighter and tighter. He drops his grip on your hair for a second to push down on the base of your spine, forcing your cunt almost right over his bulge. He reangles his hand, forcing in another finger, and you make a strangled sound.
“De- Dean-“
“We’re gonna get you relaxed, baby,” he mutters, twisting his wrist so the drag against your g-spot almost rips through your body. “Nice and relaxed ‘f me, you can do it.”
You let out a shaky breath, trying to listen, and your clit pushes down against Dean’s cock, still tight in his jeans. The pressure is perfect, combined with the brutal thrusts of Dean’s hand, and you press your cheek to his.
“That- That’s good,” you pant, clinging to the hem of his shirt. “So- Soo good-“
You whimper, and Dean hums. He’s rubbing your back, and that’s somehow almost as good as the hand obliterating your cunt. “There she is,” he mutters. “Always so good at listening when I got my hands on you, aren’t you sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your head. “That’s my girl.”
That’s what does it. My girl.
The coil snaps, and your orgasm rips through you, making your eyes cross and your body curl limply into Dean’s arms. His hand coaxes you through it, his palm rubbing against your pussy as you mewl and clench around nothing, the light pressure helping you ride it like a long, easy wave.
Dean kisses your cheek when it’s done, then right under your eye, then your nose.
“That’s one,” he mutters, and you whine. He chuckles, hiking your skirt up with light touches. “Come on, you know the rule.”
“Stupid rule,” you grumble. “Never agreed to it.”
“Never heard you complaining before,” he points out, peeling your dress off, and you stick out your tongue.
“That’s because I always forget- Dean!”
He smacks your ass, and you squeak, pussy clenching around nothing. He’s forming a tent in his jeans as he looks up at you, and you narrow your eyes. You fingers brush against the head of him, and his groan falters, his head tipping back against the bench.
You smile, pushing your hand down against his cock, and he catches your wrist, shooting you a stern glare.
“Not at young as I used to be,” he warns, and you giggle.
“But I want to,” you try to pull your hand free, and roll you eyes when he won’t let you. “Oh- Come on-“
“Nope,” he grunts, even as his dick jumps against the fabric. “You know the rule-“
“Dean-“
“Three to one,” he mutters, a dare gleaming in his eyes. “You give me one, I give you six. That’s the fuckin’ deal.”
You laugh, but his mouth doesn’t even twitch, and slowly, your smile falls into something more serious. More determined.
Damn this stubborn beautiful man and his orgasm rules. Damn you, for thinking he ever wouldn’t want to fuck you when he made you orgasm rules that weren’t proportional or fair at all.
You yank your wrist away, stick out your tongue again, and pull your underwear fully off. Dean watches you with his hands tight on your waist, eyes shining with curiosity, but patient.
And you’ve never been good at riding him, but you’ve always been good at this. You climb over Dean’s lap so your ass is near his shoulder and your face in his crotch, your back arched like some animal in heat, your pussy bare and on full display.
Dean’s never been able to help himself. One hand immediately slides around the arch of your back, then the curve of your ass, then settles back against your pussy. The other slides in your hair, petting your hair while you fumble with his belt. He chokes out your name, and you shoot him a glare, pulling out his cock with light, careful hands.
He’s so hard you’re worried he’s going to hurt himself. Pre-cum is beading around his tip, his veins throbbing like a porno. You stroke him slowly, and he lets out a sharp breath between his teeth.
“I’m serious, baby-“
“Prove it,” you say, before licking a slow, teasing stripe up his shaft.
And you know how this game ends. You’ve played it a million times before. The beautiful thing about it is that—especially when Dean thinks he’s winning—you can never lose.
You take him into his mouth, and the sound that he makes is sinful. It’s a choked, rough version of your name that sounds holy from his mouth, and comes with his fingers dipping into your heat like it’s a comfort toy. You take him until he bumps against the back of your throat and hum, swirling your tongue. Dean grunts, and pushes your head a little further down. You wiggle your ass, pussy cold and throbbing, and Dean groans.
“Jesus, woman- Gonna kill me- Fuuuuck-“
You start to bob up and down, sucking with that perfect pressure you know he likes, getting what can’t fit in your mouth in your hand. You can take him better and better with every second, letting his push against your gag reflex, and you drop that hand to play with his balls. Dean’s already giving shallow uncontrolled microthrusts, repeating your name over and over until it’s more of a choked moan.
“Can’t- Shit, baby, I can’t- That damn mouth, you’re gonna- Shit-“
You squeeze his balls and suck as hard as you can, and Dean almost roars your name, his cock jumping as he shoots thick, white ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, licking the rest off your fingers as you rise back up. There’s going to be a handprint on your ass, from where he was holding onto you. You hope you feel it in the morning.
And when you smile at Dean, you know you’re in trouble. Naked and wet for him, crawling forward so your tits press into his face and kissing him as sweetly as possible. Dean grunts, one hand shooting up to cradle the back of your head, and his responding kiss is deceptively gentle. He lets you lead it, groaning when your tongues press together, tasting himself on your lips. He lets you pull his shirt over his head and lets you trace over the lines of his muscles. You smile against his lips and lean back, and there’s that predatory glint again.
Dean’s hand twitches on your back. He wipes your chin, gathering some stray cum and slowly pressing his against your lips. You clean it off obediently, and his jaw ticks.
“Back seat,” he grunts. “Now.”
You almost scramble to listen. Rolling off of him and trying to climb over, making it halfway before you feel massive hands wrapping around your waist, holding you in place. You swallow, trying to twist over your shoulder to look at him, but Dean blows a sharp breath over your clit, and you double over with a squeak.
“De- Dean-“ You plant your hand on the bench, blood rushing to your cheeks. “Dean- wait-“
“Hmmm.” He kisses one curve of your ass, then the other. “Wait for what?”
You’re not really sure. “This- I- I can’t hold myself up,” you fumble, and he chuckles, kissing right over your clit.
“That gonna be a problem?” He teases, pressing smaller, faster kisses over the sensitive button. “Or,” he spreads your ass cheeks, humming against your heat. “Do dirty girls get what they asked for?”
Shit. “It’s uncomfortable,” you whisper, and Dean pauses.
He sighs, then kisses your clit again. You squeak when he drags you back down, and melt into his chest as he kisses all over your face, rocking you back and forth in his arms.
“’S why I wanted the bed,” he mutters, and you sigh.
“’M sorry-“
“No,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, massaging your hips with steady hands. “I’ve got it, just- uh-“
He glances up, and you watch him frown around the car with an openly adoring expression. The work of his jaw and furrow of his brow as he thinks, how he holds you so tight in his arms, it’s impossible to not love him.
“Got it,” he mutters. “Trust me?”
You nod easily, and he glances back down. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and this kiss isn’t feral or brutal. It’s just… slow. Adoring, a silent promise of what you’ve sort of always known.
Dean is going to take care of you.
He lays you out in the backseat, rubbing your thighs as you settle into the cushioned bench. You watch him with your heart in your throat, arms wrapped tight around your stomach. Sometimes, under his attention, you’re not sure what to do with yourself. He’s too pretty, too big, too much in the best possible way.
“Getting’ shy on me?” He teases, pushing up your knee, and you flush.
“N- No.”
“Hm,” Dean pins your leg against the bench, guiding the other one so it hooks over his shoulders. “Sounds like you’re gettin’ shy.”
You swallow, hugging yourself tighter, and he chuckles.
“All that work to make you relax,” he mutters, kissing his way up your thigh. “And you’re already wound back up.”
“You took too long,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” He kisses just the side of your cunt, and your breath hitches as he sucks a small, firm bruise into the skin. “You know I’m gonna make it up to you, yeah?”
You nod weakly, then blurt, “Yes!”
Dean’s mouth twitches, and he grabs one of your wrists, guiding it down to his hair. You weave it between your fingers, your breathing already ragged, your whole body lit up with anticipation.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, kissing the other side of your cunt, massaging your thigh and pushing your leg a little higher. “Nice and easy, pretty girl.” He kisses you pussy, open-mouthed and wet, and you let out a high, shameless sound.
His mouth should be classified as a sex toy or something. It moves and works against you like a machine, kissing you with so much fervor you already start to see stars. You had some recovery from the fingering, but Dean’s already stripping it away with sharp, unrelenting kisses and grazes of his teeth against your clit.
“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against you, the word vibrating through your body. “Never wanna live without this pussy again, baby girl, shit-“
He groans and dives back down, starting to work you open like a man starved. You push on his head, silently begging for more, afraid to open your mouth. The sounds that leave you will be embarrassing, and you’re already too far gone for them.
But Dean likes you loud, and he won’t let you hold back. He hooks his arm fully around your leg, dragging you further down, giving him a better against your pussy. You mewl when he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking impossibly hard, and Dean laughs against your cunt.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ You grab at the front bench, yanking mindlessly on his short hair. “De- Dean- Oh my god-“
He groans, pushing his face impossibly further. His tongue is deliberate and thick, pumping in and out of your cunt before pressing flat on your clit and dragging back and forth. It’s enough to drive you mad, making the coil in your stomach burn and burn and burn until your whole body is shaking with the sensation.
“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “You- Fuck-“
He nips at your clit, dragging a long, slow stripe up your pussy. Your eyes lock, and you swallow, a broken moan falling from your lips. The first time he did this, he told you that he loved it. That there was nothing better than a woman, right on his face, dripping and sweet for him. It didn’t take you long to believe him.
Here, he looks at you like you’re some kind of heaven he’s been allowed to touch. His mouth never stops moving against you, his eyes lidded and almost drunk, and your arousal shining on his face whenever he reangles it to devour you a new way. It’s a sight that could knock you off your feet, if you had any left to stand on. Dean on his knees, his broad, freckled shoulders forcing your knees apart, his attention a drug you never want to bother being clean from again.
You start to shake, your stomach seizing up as you fight off your orgasm, but Dean doesn’t tolerate that either. His mouth goes back against your clit, his tongue darting up and down and back and forth in tiny motions, almost tickling it, making the little nerves light up and-
You cum with a loud, choked sound that’s really supposed to be Dean’s name, and push at his head. You expect him to stop, and finally get on top of you.
But you forgot about his stupid orgasm rule, and he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens and he starts to make out with your overstimulated pussy. You squeak, pushing weakly at his head, and his eyes gleam.
“De- Dean- Fuuuuck- That’s-“ Your eyes roll back, your body seizing up again, almost unable to take so much. “Oh- Oh my gooood-”
Dean groans against you again, and it’s worse than a vibrator. It’s warm and deep and Dean, mixed with his filthy mouth and stubble, scraping against soft skin.Your thighs lock around his head and he lets them, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulls you fully onto your back, pushing himself up onto his knees. His cock bounces against his stomach but he ignores it, using his now free hand to grope at your breast. You moan, clenching around nothing as he laps at your clit and pussy.
“I- I can’t-“ Tears spring at your eyes. “Dean- Please-“
He hums, rolling your nipple between deft fingers, and you throw your head back with a broken moan.
Warm, thick fingers weave through yours, and you blink at him under watery lashes. He’s let go of your breast to hold your hand. His thumb is dragging slowly back and forth, and his mouth isn’t slowing down, but you don’t want it to. You can see the challenge shining in his eyes. You take a ragged breath, give him the smallest nod, and he smiles against your pussy.
You didn’t know the human tongue could move that fast. You’re sure it’s not supposed to, but Dean’s never cared about things like that. He drinks you up like wine, rapidly toying with your clit—swirling and kissing and flicking and sucking like it’s candy—and your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm springs through your body like a geyser.
Dean lowers you down slowly, pressing one last kiss to your swollen kiss before rising back up, wiping his chin of your release and cleaning it off his fingers with a smug grin. His cock is at attention, and your mouth waters. He always gets it in. You’re a little afraid of it right now.
“Six?” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.
“You’re the one who pushed for it, princess.”
“It- It’s your stupid rule-“
“You love it,” he shrugs, slowly settling himself back between your legs. “And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you, baby.”
You wrinkle your nose, and Dean gives you a stern, amused look.
“Aren’t you?” He taps the head of his cock against your cunt, and you squeak.
“Dean-“
“You’re the one who got bratty and cocky, sweetheart,” he drawls, pushing your leg back down. “So you’re gonna take it, ‘cause I know you can.”
You swallow, giving him your best doe-eyes, and he just chuckles. Dean lowers himself down, presses a gentle kiss to your brow, and murmurs against your skin.
“That ain’t gettin’ you out of this.”
You press your face into the crook of his neck, and Dean smiles, kissing the side of your head.
“All shy again,” he mutters, dragging that massive cock between the lips of your pussy. “Let’s take care of that, huh?”
You cling to him as he rolls you both over, guiding your legs to straddle his torso and lining up his cock with your weeping, abused pussy. He pulls you gently up, rubbing your side and watching you a painfully adoring gaze. You try to cover yourself again, and he catches your hand, shaking his head.
“Come on,” he mutters, weaving your fingers together. “Let me see you.”
And damn him for being so soft and sweet, you don’t think you could tell him no if you wanted.
“Take it easy,” he says, wrapping both of his hands around your waist. “All you, baby. Show me what you want.”
“I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.”
You believe him, in a way you’d never believe anyone else. It might be how he looks at you. Like you’re an angel over him, like you’re really, truly letting him enter paradise as you sink down onto his cock.
He grunts, his fingers tightening against your body as his cock slowly splits you open. Even with how much he’s worked you open—your pussy so wet it’s already dripping onto his thighs—it’s a tight fit. You can feel every vein dragging inside of you, the hard curve pressing right into your g-spot and making you flutter around him.
Dean jerks his head up, squeezing his eyes shut, and you swallow.
“Sorry-“
“’S- ‘S alright,” he exhales sharply, relaxing back into the seat. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, baby. I’m good.”
A smile ghosts over your lips, even as you start to only breathe through your nose. “You look it,” you tease, and Dean gives you a half annoyed, half impressed look.
“You’re tight,” he grunts, and your smile widens.
“You’re big.”
He groans, throwing his head further back, and you giggle again. He’s sitting just right again, his chest rippling under your hands, and you feel like that angel. You feel like a goddess, with how his hands are dragging over your body, how your name falls from his lips.
“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, eyes raking over your body. “So perfect.”
You take a deep breath, and start to grind down onto his cock. Dean groans, one hand dragging down to squeeze your ass, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless you beg him, and you’re determined not to. You can ride him until your thighs give out. His cock bumps against your g-spot, and his abdomen drags near your clit, and it feels good. You rock back and forth a little faster, your breath catching, and Dean groans.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Pretty fuckin’ girl, riding my cock like the needy little thing you are, aren’t you. So fuckin’ wet for me, baby, so- so tight-“
He groans, and you push down on his chest, picking up your pace.
“So big, Dean,” you moan, pushing up your chest like a pornstar, trying to make him break first. “You’re so big, feels so- so good-“
You moan, tossing your hair, and Dean makes an almost feral sound.
But he doesn’t break. The bastard never breaks, and you’ve never been good at riding him. Your thighs are already sore, and they quickly start to ache, making your movements smaller and weaker. Dean watches you start to whine, your brow furrowing in concentration, and just smiles. You both know what he’s waiting for. You don’t want to give in.
“So quiet, sweetheart,” he coos, running his hand up to palm at your breast. “Someone drove by, they’d think I wasn’t fuckin’ you properly.”
You glare at him, unable to even speak, and he chuckles.
“You know what you gotta do, baby girl.”
“Fu- Fuck you-“
“I will,” he winks. “If my girl says please.”
Your eyes narrow. His grin widens, and you think you might be about to fly apart with how bad you need it. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid face that you love and his big cock that makes you all jelly and dazed thoughts and useless.
“Please-“
The word barely leaves your mouth before Dean moves. A single, well-aimed thrust up into your cunt that makes you fall apart. You fall forward onto his chest with a scream, and Dean groans, giving shallower, gentle thrusts to work you through the orgasm.
“I know,” he murmurs in you ear, his words painfully soft in comparison to the pleasure wracking your body. “I know, princess. Two more to go.”
You don’t think you can take two more. Four has been your max for a very long time, and that was with a lot more prep time and space between orgasms. But Dean doesn’t seem like he’s going to give you much of a choice.
You’re a doll in his arms again, when he hauls you up into his lap. His cock leaves you for a single second, just for the adjustment, and you whimper at the loss.
Dean hums, kissing all over your face as he slides back in.
“That’s my girl,” he starts to rock your hips back and forth with steady hands, picking you up then dropping your back down so his dick drags through every inch of your heat. “Takin’ me so good. Just like that, feel that, baby-“ He pushes on your lower back, making his cock slam against your g-spot, and you sob against his neck. “Feel how fuckin’ good we fit together, my girl.”
Dean’s voice is lined with something darker now. More possessive and hungry. He fucks up into your like an animal, dips drilling forward and mouth attached to your neck. All you can do is take it, over and over until your eyes are crossing and the only words you can remember are babbles of Dean and please.
The neck orgasm is slow, blooming from where he’s slamming against your cervix and spreading pleasantly through your body. Dean moans against your skin, mouthing at your jaw and neck, his tongue dragging and kisses messy. When you try to kiss him back, it’s mostly with a mewl and lips that follow his lead. Everything is humid and light in your body, everything is Dean around you, and there’s a new, strangely hot sensation in your core that’s demanding all of your attention.
It’s tighter than the usual coil, and gets hotter and hotter with every thrust of Dean’s cock. He’s getting uneven now, his own words falling into pants and moans, his balls slapping against your ass and hands leaving prints as he folds you fully over his chest.
“One- One more-“ His voice is gravelly, almost as wrecked as you feel. “Milk my fuckin’ cock, baby girl, cum for me-“
You open your mouth to warn him about the strange feeling, but it’s too late. Dean slams home, crashing his mouth against yours, and you cum with a hoarse scream. Hot cum shoots into your cunt, right as something gushes out of you in wet, burning waves. It feels good, so good you can’t think, so good your mouth hangs open and your moans turn into pathetic, weak babbles.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ Dean groans against your mouth. “Fuckin’- Yes-“
Your body seizes and twitches around him, but even when he’s done, Dean doesn’t pull out. The last of your release pushes itself out and her collapses backward, rubbing your back and craning his neck to grin at your cockdrunk expression.
“Gettin’ stupid?” He teases, and you can’t manage to raise an arm, so you just bite his nose. He laughs, leaning up to steal another, quick kiss from your lips before settling back down.
You curl over him, resting your head against his shoulder while he pets your head, both of you still panting and coming back down. You might be there for a hundred years, or just an hour. It doesn’t matter. The car is going to reek of sex for maybe a year. Sam might never agree to ride in it again. But it was worth it. More than worth it, when you look up at Dean, and find him—just as always—already looking back.
“We’re still dating, right?” You whisper, because you have to be sure.
Dean grins, and kisses you slowly. You hum, letting your eyes flutter shut. Letting him carry you, whenever he thinks is safe to go.
“Yeah,” he mutters, and you can hear it in his voice. All the love he’s been trying to show you, for who knows how long. “We are."
✦End note: if i write enough of these it's gonna happen to me guys trust ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦summary: dean learns, slowly, that he's actually pretty good at being boyfriend material. it would be nice if you'd stop pining after him long enough to notice✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, friends with benefits to lovers, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love because it's the best way to be, dean's down so bad, shameless smut (facesitting, praise kink, big dick dean, fingering, pussy spanking, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, mean dean, dean has an orgasm rule and you. benefit. dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 12.5k✦
✦author's note: request! super normal about this one✦
You tell yourself, over and over again, that this is going to be the last time. It’s not something that’s meant to be held onto, so you can just… let go.
But then you find yourself here. Between tangled sheets with your legs spread wide, your nails digging into Dean’s bicep and his cock dragging through your wet, sensitive cunt.
“There you go,” he coos in your ear, every thrust deep and rough. “That’s my girl, takin’ me so good, so- Good-“
Dean moans, pressing up against the soft, gummy spot inside of you, and your eyes roll back in your head.
He always does this. He knocks on your door and grabs your face between big hands, and suddenly all that resolve and determination—never again—dissolves with your willpower. His hands are rough and calloused, but trace your hips and hold you down so gently, you can almost pretend he cares if you break. His cock is thick and impossibly long, and he always drags it between your soaked heat and bumps it against your clit before pushing himself in just right. His lips are chapped and soft, sucking possessive marks into your neck that he has no right to claim, but that doesn’t stop you from running your fingers through his hair and holding him right where he is. He wouldn’t dare to leave. Not in the middle of this. Not before you’ve both gotten what you want.
What Dean wants. You don’t let yourself pretend that this is everything you need anymore. It’s the only hope you have of one day telling him no, because the rest of you control rests on a thin rope, and it always slips from your hands the moment Dean touches you like you matter.
You never walk away from him with an aching, unsatisfied body. A few nights ago he put you on his face and made you ride until your thighs were shaking and tears were springing into your eyes. Before this, he spit on your cunt and scissored you open with thick, careful finger, kissing and nipping at your thighs as your greedy pussy swallowed him right up to the knuckle. Even now, as every roll of his hips becomes smaller—as his face twists in concentration and his mouth against your jaw becomes desperate—Dean’s thumbing at your clit, trying to get you over the edge with him.
“C’mon, baby, c’mon-“ He pushes himself up to his knees, forcing a deeper, rougher angle. “Show me what you’ve got, I know you can do it, come on-
You whimper, staring up at him under lidded, glazed eyes. The whole world is just a blur of color at this point, but Dean is bright and clear. The heave of his broad shoulder and chest, every muscle in his arm as he wraps it around your waist and makes you arch your back, the flex of his abdomen as he ruts forward like a feral dog. The sharp, unforgiving thrusts are making your head spin with pleasure, turning you into a boneless wreck of need. You grab his arm, trying to steady yourself against something, and Dean’s attention rips up.
He says he likes to watch himself fuck you, and you’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s spent whole sessions just staring at his cock or fingers splitting your cunt open. He likes putting you on his face because he can watch you react. You like it better like that, usually. The eye contact is too close. Too intimate. Too real.
But you grab him, and he looks at you, and it’s almost like a shot. His eyes are blown-out and so strangely soft, staring at your wrecked, open expression with too much, too much, too much-
“De- Deeean-“ You cry it out like a pray, because it is. Dean grunts, hips snapping, the wet sound filling up the air and his eyes never leaving yours. “Dean- Dean- Fuck, please- Please-“
You’re babbling. You never do that with anyone else, but Dean is Dean, and he makes you do things you never counted yourself capable of. He groans your name, and you squeal when he drags you up, off the mattress and straddling his thighs. Your clit drags against his abdomen, his cock bullies right against your g-spot, and Dean grabs your jaw with a single, painfully gentle hand.
“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, still holding your gaze, even as your eyes start to cross. “Soak this fuckin’ cock, baby, cum-“
You almost scream as your orgasm rips through you, and Dean crashes his mouth against yours, eating every whimper and moan with harsh lips and his tongue down your throat. You press into him, pussy gushing and fluttering around his dick, and he makes that deep, rumbling sound that always comes right before-
“Shit-“ Dean gasps against your mouth, pulling you so close you can’t feel anything but the heat of his bare chest, the sensation of his cock twitching and pumping in your cunt. “Fuuck-“
Dean moans your name, and a warm, pleasant heat starts to spread through your tummy and drip between your thighs. He doesn’t stop moving until his cock is softened, and you don’t try to stop him. You’re barely more than a limp doll right now, returning his kisses with tiny mewls, eyes crossed and body limp.
For a moment after it’s done, you stay tangled together. You always do. It’s the most dangerous part of the whole thing, because it feeds that tiny little fool in your chest, who refuses to believe that this is just sex. Who takes your heartstrings and weaves grand worlds where Dean loves you back, and you’re going to be just fine.
Dean kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter closed. There’s an advantage, to being a crybaby whenever he fucks you stupid. He never once has considered that the tears might be real.
“Think you can walk?” He mutters, still buried deep inside of you, still holding you like he cares.
You shake your head, and his mouth twitches against yours.
“Alright, pretty girl. I’ve got you.”
And you press your face into the crook of his neck, letting that fool take you over. She takes his words as gospel. My girl and I’ve got you and Baby, they’re exactly what he means and nothing more, nothing less.
When the logical part of your brain wakes back up—Dean’s always had this ability to hit a button in you, sliding his hand around the back of your neck and making all your thoughts just bubblegum feelings and electric colors—you’re going to remember why you always say this has to be the last time.
He’s perfect, and he’s not yours. He makes that perfectly clear, until he pulls these little stunts and ends up buried between your thighs. You agreed that he wasn’t yours, when this arrangement started.
Safer with someone you know, he’d told you, like he hasn’t fucked his way across the entire country. Easier. Nothing to worry about, when it’s you and me.
And you’d been a starry-eyed, gooey hearted fool who just wanted whatever part of Dean he was willing to show you. The burning love you kept tended in your ribs hadn’t seen a problem with adding fuel to the wildfire, even if Dean was never going to see it. But now he’s carrying you to the bathroom like a princess, and he’s going to be gone in the morning, and that wildfire is an inferno. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You can map out everything he’d ever say in response to your feelings, from the harsh sneer he would’ve given when he had the Mark of Cain, to the kinder let down you’d get now.
You’re too young, he’d say, like it was a consolation prize. And I like you, sweetheart, but I don’t do this kinda thing. Not with girls young enough to be my daughter. Not with kids that I hunt with. Not with you.
You press your face further into his neck. He’s always so warm and sturdy, a massive tree that’s offering you just as much shade crushing, unbearable weight and tangled roots that keep you pressed down. He smells like leather and whiskey and something perfectly, faintly spice. You want to drown in it. You want to drown in him.
“You good?” Dean asks, and his voice is too gentle. It rattles the little fool, screaming for the rest of you to listen and just accept that he loves you.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.
“You’re bein’ quiet, even for- Y’know-“ He chuckles, that low, insufferably charming pride crawling into his voice. “After I fuck you dumb.”
“You did not fuck me dumb,” you mumble against his skin, and you can hear his grin.
“Big words from the girl who couldn’t talk five minutes ago.”
“That was unrelated.”
“Unrelated,” he echoes, his thumb dragging a small circle against your spine. “Always forget how bratty you get after, sweetheart. Dangerous.”
You roll your eyes, and hug him tighter. He laughs, and kisses the side of your head, and he has the nerve to call you dangerous.
“You wanna watch a movie?” He asks, leaning down to run the water, still keeping you tucked so carefully against his chest, and all you can do is nod. Dean sighs. “C’mon, gimme a little more than that-“
“Yes, please,” you mumble, and he pauses.
It’s only a fraction of a second. You don’t understand it, and you don’t want to. Not when he feeds your delusions and kisses your brow again, then your cheek, then your lips. And you let him. You always let him, because you’re a foolish, stupid, lovesick idiot. You don’t want his affection, not like this. But you don’t want to lose him—it would be like ripping a vital organ out of your ribcage, even if you didn’t know you had it a year ago—and you can’t ever tell him to stop being so sweet without explaining yourself, and getting that gentle, horrible let down.
You don’t want it. You don’t want any of it. And this, this had to be the last time.
You hold the line. You don’t know how, but you hold that line with white knuckles and grit teeth and a taste like bile in the back of your throat.
Dean knocks on the door, only two nights later, and you don’t answer. He calls your name and you sink into the mattress, praying he just thinks you’re asleep.
“I just- Uh- I wanted to talk?” He says, and you press your face into the pillow like that can somehow shield you. “Really, that’s it. Just talking, so- If you could-“
Dean sighs. You can hear the please, hanging between every word, but Dean doesn’t really say please. He just begs with everything else in him, or gives up. And you can picture him running his hand over his face, the heavy look in his eyes, the defeated sag in his shoulders. It’s like a knife being driven through your gut, and you sit up, ready to open the door-
“Alright,” he mutters, and you freeze. “Night, baby. Sleep well.”
Footsteps retreat, and you stay there on the mattress, frozen and lost, adrift in a sea you dove into.
But you did it. You held the line.
And you keep it. It makes sweat bead and your skin burn, but you close the door and don’t open it back up. You’re done, and you’re going to keep it that way.
Dean doesn’t ask questions. You don’t know if you want him to or not, but it doesn’t matter, because you catch him staring and giving out signals, but he’s taken your no in stride, and doesn’t seem to have any plans to push back against it. When this started, you agreed to leave out a specific book on the war room table if either of you wanted something. Dean starts to leave it out every night, and you never go to his door, and one night, it vanishes.
And that’s fine. That’s exactly what you wanted.
And if it feels like you’re dying because of it, and if you spend an hour over the toilet dry heaving that night, that’s no one’s business but your own.
“Dean’s been grumpy lately,” Sam says one morning, and you blink at him over your coffee.
“Grumpy? Dean? That’s- Woah-“
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Sam gives you a flat look. “You know what I mean. Grumpier.”
You shrug, looking back to your mug. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”
“Uh huh.”
You can feel Sam’s stare. It makes you itchy and small, and you’re not sure if you want to punch him or run. You settle for staring at your coffee harder. It’s the easiest course of action.
“Dean needs to get laid,” Sam repeats your words, something strange—almost sharp—in his tone, and you nod.
“That’s what I said.”
“Dean-“
“What’s up?” Dean walks into the kitchen, stopping right behind you, and you hunch over like you can grow a shell to protect yourself.
Even just a few feet away, he’s always so warm.
“Uh- Hey, Dean-“
“Hey,” Dean mocks back, and Sam huffs.
“Dude-“
“Shut your face-“
“I didn’t say anything- I-“ Sam says your name, and you glance up. His brow is furrowed with worry, his eyes locked on Dean behind you. “We were just-“
“Just what?” Dean snaps. “Just talking? Shooting the shit, getting real comfortable?”
Sam sighs. “Dean-“
“I got a gun, Sammy,” Dean points firmly, and you stare at his finger like a woman driven mad with thirst. “Don’t forget that.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “We all have guns, that- That threat doesn’t do anything-“
“I’ll show you doing something- Hey-“
Dean says your name, and you freeze. You’d been trying to slip out while they fought, but Dean—goddamn him—had noticed. He always notices. You love him so much it’s going to make you cave in on yourself, and maybe take the whole bunker with you, like a dying star.
He catches your arm, and you can’t stop yourself from looking at him. His brow is knit, his jaw locked, and his handsome face has deep lines you only used to see when the world was ending. There are bags under his eyes. Deeper than usual. You want to smooth the lines with your thumb and kiss his jaw until he relaxes, but that’s not your ache to soothe.
Dean doesn’t say anything. You can’t say anything. He looks exhausted, and there’s a lump forming in your throat.
“You- You hungry?” Dean rasps, and you’re starving.
“No,” you breathe before you can think, and Dean swallows.
“Well, when you’re hungry- There’s a diner in town-“
“Henry’s?”
“No, uh- A new one. I- I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go, later, or something.”
“Or something?” You tilt your head, and Dean nods.
“Whatever you want.”
God, he’s cruel. He’s perfect and cruel, and you want to vomit on his flannel and kiss him until you pass out.
“Oh- Okay,” you say, because you’re only so strong.
The lines in Dean’s face relax. His grip loosens. Then Sam coughs, and Dean lets you go.
The diner is… nice. Nice and easy, in a way you haven’t felt in longer than you want to admit. Dean insists on driving you, and paying, and sitting in one of those booths with your feet bumping under the table.
He presses his knee forward, while he orders. You swallow and don’t allow yourself to think much of it. He’s warm through his jeans, but he’s always warm, and he hasn’t tried anything in a few weeks, so you allow it. Your love for him hasn’t been flickering out, but the harsh wind of his absence has made everything feel colder. It’s okay, to indulge yourself in something so small. You’re still keeping it together. You’re still holding the line.
“So, uh-“ Dean clears his throat, turning his bottle in his hands. “How are you?”
“How- Am I?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly. “I- I’m okay. How are you?”
“Good. Great.” He frowns at the table. “You know. Same as always.”
You almost laugh. “You’re always great?”
“I focus on the positives, sweetheart-“
“No, you don’t.”
He rolls his eyes, glancing up to hold your light, amused gaze. His mouth twitches. His fingers tap against the glass, and you try not to let yourself sink too deep into the attention.
It’s okay to drown a little. A long as you don’t drop the line.
“Maybe I’m turning a new leaf,” he says, and your face splits into a full smile.
“You?”
“Yeah, me. Why’d you say it like that-“
“Because you’ve never turned a leaf in your life-“
“Ah-“ He points the head of his bottle at you with a grin. “Not true. Remember when I started learning guitar?”
“Yeah, you smashed it on a werewolf’s head after a month.”
“That was a tactical choice, I would’ve kept playing if the wolf didn’t get in the way.”
“Uh huh.” You lean back in your seat, crossing your arms. “What songs had you learned to play?”
Dean’s nose wrinkles. “Hey, we don’t need to talk about that-“
“I think we do.”
“Nah, I mean- I only had a month-“
“You learned how to work a rocket launcher in a week.”
“That’s just buttons and triggers, sweetheart. Even you could work it.”
“Even I?” You raise your brows—trying not to let the delight shine too bright in your voice—and Dean freezes.
“I mean- uh- You’re not great with guns, and- I could teach you-“
“You could teach me.”
“Maybe? If you wanted- Or-“ Dean groans, slumping back. “Stop givin’ me that look.”
“I’m not giving you any look,” you tease, and Dean sighs.
“Will you stop if I say I’m an idiot?”
You soften slightly. “You’re not an idiot, Dean-“
“You sure?” He grumbles. “Kinda feeling like one right now.”
You laugh, but it’s gentle. You can almost see him pushing down into himself. It makes you heavy for him, like you’re trying to take that invisible weight off his shoulders, even if he can’t feel you helping the pain. “You’re a dork,” you say, bumping his knee under the table. “But you’re not an idiot.”
Dean grunts, watching you under hooded eyes, and you smile easily.
You missed this, more than you want to tell him. Just talking, without worrying that it’s going to end in world-changing, back-breaking, beautifully heart-aching sex. He feels like your friend again, closer to your fingertips than he’d been when he was balls deep inside of you.
“Wonderwall,” he grunts suddenly. “And Hallelujah.”
You blink. “What?”
“Those were the songs,” he mutters, picking at the label of his bottle. “That I got, before I smashed the guitar.”
“Oh,” you pause. “I love Hallelujah.”
“Yeah. I know.”
You stare at him, and he stares right back. A faint flush is threatening your cheeks, so you duck your head to hide it, and Dean lets out a soft laugh.
“You alright-“
“Yep. I- I’m good-“
“You look good.” Dean laughs again, when you shoot him a glare. “Don’t gimme that face, I’m saying something nice-“
“You’re being a butt,” you stick out your tongue, and his eyes dance with an easy kind of light that almost makes your heart stop.
“You’re the one who was callin’ me old earlier,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes.
“You are old.”
“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you, has it.”
Your mouth falls open, eyes going so wide it almost hurts, and Dean grins at you. If you weren’t shocked into static, you’d slap him or- or lunge across the table and kiss him-
Hold the line.
“Aged wine is supposed to be better,” you manage to say, somehow, and Dean laughs, loud and free.
“That all I am to you? Some wine?”
“No,” you smile at your plate. “You’re also very good cheese.”
“Good cheese, huh.”
“Mhm.” You point a stern finger at him. “No puns.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but dips his head. “Yes, ma’am.”
There’s the flush. You’d keep trying to hide it, if Dean didn’t start talking about something unimportant and easy, and suddenly you forgot to be embarrassed. He’s not trying to kiss you or get you back to the car. He’s just… Talking to you. Dropping that light, teasing praise like it’s nothing, then telling you a story about when he used a tuba to beat a poltergeist, grinning like a winner every time you laugh.
When lunch is over, he rests a hand lightly on your lower back, but doesn’t do much more. He kisses your cheek when you get back to the bunker, and asks if you want to watch a movie tomorrow night. You swallow, locking your hands together like they can force the line to stay firm. Dean says your name, almost panicked, and you blink up at him.
“Just a movie,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Out in town, at- Uh- That shitty theatre next to the coffee place. Or- I can try and find a drive-in, if those still exist-“
“They do,” you say softly, and he swallows. “There’s one out in Beloit.”
“Beloit,” Dean mutters. “Yeah- Yeah, okay. You wanna go there?”
You nod, and he grins. You smile back, and it feels… Different. Shy, in a way you haven’t been around him since he first started fucking you. Almost delicate. You weren’t supposed to let this feel like something delicate.
Dean jaw works, and you can almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes. He lurches slightly, brow furrowed, then pulls back up. You’re seconds from asking him what’s wrong when he just leans down and… does it.
His lips graze your cheek, his hand brushing against your waist, and you almost melt right into him.
But then he stands back up, and takes a large step away. You swallow, resisting the urge to reach up and brush your fingers over where he kissed. It’s not like he’s never done that before, but again.
It just feels different.
“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and you nod weakly.
If you had a mind that was thinking in more than bursts of glee and songs of Dean, Dean, Dean, you’d tell him that you live together, and he’s always going to see you tomorrow. But he walks away, and you let him, and it doesn’t hurt. There’s a space that he left, but something in you seems to think he’s going to come back. You can’t tell if it’s the fool or not.
For once, you decide not to try.
The movie is nice. Dean rests his hand on your knee, but doesn’t go any higher. You lean into his side, and his arm goes around your shoulders, but there’s no kissing or dragging into the back seat, and you didn’t know there could be a better way to be close to him. Sex is great. Looking up and finding him already watching you is better.
He brushes some hair from your face, and you half expect him to kiss you. His eyes dart down to your lips like he wants to. Your fingers curl in his shirt, and his throat bobs.
“You likin’ the movie?” He whispers, and you nod.
“Good find,” you breathe, and he grins.
“Thanks. Eat the popcorn, it cost me a billion bucks.”
You roll your eyes, and throw some of the over-buttered, half-burnt popcorn at his face. He laughs, catches a kernel in his mouth, and grabs your chin between two fingers. Your breath catches. He just turns your face back to the screen, and pulls you a little closer into his side.
The movie ends the same way the diner did. Dean walks you to your bedroom door like it’s the porch of your house, kisses your cheek, then walks away.
Then, after the movie, you play mini golf. You win, but you know he let you. He buys you a snow cone and licks it off his nose when he eats it like a rabid dog. You wipe a little extra off his cheek, and he stares at you, but still doesn’t kiss you. Not fully. His hand seems to always rest on your lower back, now, but that’s all the contact you get. All that you allow.
Hugs are on the table, too. They’re somehow more dangerous than the forehead kisses. After the hugs, he sometimes just stares at you and cups your cheek, and your heart moves into your throat until you think you’re going to spill it out all over his chest.
You manage to keep it together. For the sake of this new, slowly growing garden of what your friendship is becoming, you swallow your love with greater ease and more bile than you ever did while you were fucking. After the mini golf you get dinner and see another movie. You convince him to go on a walk with you, and he hates it less than he pretends to. You eat together in the bunker and call when he’s on a hunt with Sam and go to a car show and it all feels like breathing.
Sometimes he still looks at your mouth, and you freeze up, unsure if you want him to kiss you or not. You know you want him, but somehow you’ve found even more to lose than before, and if it slips through your fingers, you’re not sure they’re ever going to stop shaking and groping at the empty spaces again. You can take holding his hand in the bookstore while he peers over your shoulder, pretending to be interested for no real reason other than to make you smile.
“There are so many of them,” he mutters, and you giggle.
“There’s a lot of ways to write words, Dean.”
“Yeah, but- You’d think there would be repeats or something.”
“There probably are,” you shrug, running your fingers over the spines. “But they’re still all fun.”
Dean sighs, squeezing your upper arm. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and all his features relax.
“You want some coffee?” He brushes some hair from your face and you nod.
“There’s a shop next door, could you get me-“
“Hey,” Dean flicks your nose, grinning roguishly. “Trust me, I know what you want.”
You nod a little stupidly, and his smile falters. He looks to your lips again, then almost shakes himself, taking a small step.
“Don’t move,” he squeezes your arm again, then backs away. You watch him go, unable to help yourself, and smile when he looks back. He does that all the time now. And he always smiles back.
You turn back to the shelf, looking at the books without actually looking. You already miss him, and he told you not to move, but that can’t count if you’re going to stand next to him in the coffee line, can it-
“Hey.”
You fumble slightly, turning to find a man leaning against the shelf and smirking at you. You blink, and his smirk widens.
“What’s girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”
“The… Bookstore?” You frown, and he laughs. You don’t think you said anything all that funny.
“Look, I just- I saw you from over there,” he nods vaguely, and you frown. “And I thought you were cute. Can I get you some coffee or something?”
“My- My friend is already getting me coffee,” you say, and your voice sounds strangely far away.
The man nods, but doesn’t retreat. “Alright, then can I get your number? Maybe beat your friend to coffee next time?”
And you don’t want to say yes, but this is a chance. To hold onto this new friendship with Dean while also getting over him at the same time. This man isn’t ugly. Compared to Dean, no one really stands a chance anyway, and you have to get over him eventually.
So you give him your number, and try not to feel like you just did something wrong.
Dean clears his throat from behind you, and you spin around on your heels, a sour guilt twisting in your gut.
“You- You’re back,” you say, and he grunts.
He’s not look at you. He’s glaring at the man with the same, deadly glint that he gives monsters and demons before he cuts them in half. You touch his arm lightly, and he tenses. You feel sick.
“Hey, buddy,” he snaps at the man, who—not seeming to understand the gravity of Dean’s glare—grins back.
“Hey.” He winks at you, slowly backing away. “Have fun with your friend.”
Dean’s coffee spills over the top of it’s lid. He doesn’t look away from the man when he leaves the store. He shoves your drink into your hand, not meeting your gaze.
“Dean-“
“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he mutters, and you swallow.
“Oh- Okay.”
Your arm wraps around your stomach, and you press a little away from him, from the wrath seeming to wave off his body like a volcano. He glances down, jaw tight and a vein in his brow ticking. You stare at his neck, unable to hold the weight of his gaze. He lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.
“Get your book.”
You shake you head. “No- It- It’s okay-“
Dean says your name, and your mouth snaps shut. “Just- Get the damn book.”
He looks like he’s in pain, and you don’t know how to fix it, so you do as he says. You get a cheap one, that worm of guilt burrowing deeper and deeper into your gut until you can’t even drink your coffee without feeling like it’s going to come back up.
Dean’s fingers dig into your back, when he guides you out the door. He starts the engine by almost punching in the keys, and holds Baby’s wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. You can see all the anger brimming under the surface of his skin, and worried you’re just going to make it worse. You don’t even know where it came from. It’s not like you’re together, or the guy said something rude. You open and close your mouth too many times to count, then give up, shrinking back into your seat.
Dean looks over at you. You try to look out the window, and nowhere else.
A loud, sharp breath escapes him. “Son of a- Alright.”
You look over with a frown, then squeak when he yanks the wheel off to the side.
“Shit- Dean-“
“Just- Fuck-“ He bows he head, glaring down at his legs, and you swallow.
You fidget with your fingers, watching him nervously, waiting for him to break the silence. It takes while. So long you think about just getting out of the car to give him space.
But then he looks up, and your heart gets cleaved open. His face is twisted in pain, his lips parted and his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard.
“What-“ He takes a deep breath, scanning over your openly confused features. “What else am I supposed to be doin’?”
You blink at him, fingers curling in your lap. “What?” You ask softly, and his throat bobs.
“I- I’m really trying,” he mutters, looking back to his hands. “I swear to god, baby, I’m tryin’ my best, and- I know I ain’t amazing at this but- If you could throw a guy a rope when he’s never- I’ve never done this, alright.” He waves between your bodies, jaw clenched tight. “And I’m really givin’ it my best shot, but I’m still not allowed to kiss you, and you’re takin’ numbers right- Right in front of me- So just- Something.” He gives you a pleading, broken look, eyes shining on yours in the dark. “Anything.”
You open your mouth, but you can’t even figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to say. You know all the words he’s saying, but it’s like he’s speaking a language you never learned, spitting out a code you’re just supposed to magically understand. Dean’s jaw ticks, when you don’t answer, and you try to sputter out an answer, but he’s too loud to hear your confused whimper.
“Look, just- Whatever the hell you do need me to do, I’ll do it, I swear I’ll do it, but- You gotta tell me, sweetheart-“
“Tell you what?!” You almost shout, and Dean leans back in surprise. “Dean, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dean huffs a low laugh, looking back out to the road. “Yeah. Alright,” he grabs the keys, voice rough and pained. “Sure. Whatever-“
“No.” You grab his wrist before he can start to the engine. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”
“It doesn’t matter-“
“Yes, it does-“
“Nah.”
“Dean-“
“You wanna call that guy, call ‘im.” There’s an almost toxically bitter sound to the words, and Dean’s making a face like he just got shot. “Whatever. See if I care.”
Your nails dig into his wrist, when he tries to yank it away. He shoots you a glare, the bags—gone, after months of ease—already starting to form.
“C’mon, kid, just- let go-“
“Would you care?”
Your question is small, but it makes Dean recoil like it burned. He scoffs, but it’s too loud, and you hold him tighter.
“Would you care-“
“No, I fuckin’ love watching douchebags parade around with my girl, who would care about something like that?”
Something snaps, right at the base of your spine. You sit so tall you’d think someone is dragging you by the nape of your neck, and Dean blinks in something close to surprise.
“What-“
“Your girl,” you whisper. “That’s- I’m- Why would you say that?”
Dean blinks. “Why wouldn’t I say that?”
“Because you and I- We’re not- That’s-“ You lean back, letting go of his wrist, and when you look down, you’ve left little crescent marks in the skin. “No- No- You didn’t- You said no- No strings-“
“Yeah, and then you stopped fuckin’ me, and I-“ Dean says your name as you press back against the window, brow furrowed in worry. “Baby, it’s- It’s alright, I’m not that pissed-“
“You were yelling,” you choke out, and he swallow.
“Well, I was- Just- C’mere.”
He reaches out, cupping your cheek with the same gentle touch he used to use, right before he kissed you. You gape at him, head spinning, panting like you just ran a marathon.
“I’m not mad,” he rasps, almost pleading, and you shake your head.
“You were-“
“Sweetheart-“
“Why?” You whisper, grabbing his wrist, your nails sinking back into the marks. “Why- Why would you care?”
Dean swallows. He shakes his head, looks out the window, and chuckles.
“Dean-“
“I don’t want you goin’ out with him. And- Call it possessive, or stupid man shit, or- Whatever the hell you want,” he drags his thumb over your cheekbone, voice dropping to something tender, something soft. “You’re my girl. And I want you here, telling me what to do, how to- To be what you need.” His voice cracks. “Come on, baby. Just- Tell me what to be.”
You stare at him, a lot of pieces colliding into each other at once in your head. The diner and the movie and the touching and the caution and-
“Are we dating?” You choke out, and Dean frowns.
“What’d you mean, are we dating?”
“I mean are we dating, Dean, are you- Are you my boyfriend?”
“Uh- Boyfriend kinda makes it sound like we’re sixteen and necking-“
“What the fuck is necking?”
Dean groans, dropping his head. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. Makes me feel fuckin’ fifty.”
Your lips twitch. “You are almost fifty,” you say, and he chuckles.
“Yeah. Guess I am.” He looks back up to you, caution lining his features. “You always seemed to like it.”
You swallow. You did. You’d never been sure if it was the older thing itself, or the fact that it was just Dean, but you’d liked it. You always liked all of him, from the uglier wounds to the beautiful, glowing heart that almost managed to peak through, no matter how thick his steel and iron walls became.
He glides his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, and your breath hitches. He swallows, closes his eyes, and mutters your name.
“Did you… Not think we were dating?”
You shake your head, and Dean snorts dryly.
“Huh,” his mouth curves into a tight smirk. “Makes sense why you wouldn’t kiss me, I guess.”
“You guess?” You squeak, and Dean nods.
“Yeah, makes a lotta sense, actually-“
“How long have we been dating?!” You almost shriek, and he gives you an amused look.
“’Bout three months.”
“Three months?!”
“That’s what I said, baby-“
“Shut- Shut up-“ You plant a hand over his mouth, and he raises his brows. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me we were dating, you- You butt?!”
Dean’s eyes sparkle, looking pointedly down to your hand, and you release him with a scowl. He rubs his jaw, grinning at you like you’re some cute bunny, and you lean back in your seat with a huff.
“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I thought you knew.”
“How would I have known-“
“’Cause I asked you on a date? And you said yes?”
“That- That never happened.” You snap, and Dean frowns.
“Yes, it did. Sammy- He was there-“
“Sam was there-“
“Yeah, and- I said there was a new diner in town, and you said you’d go with me, and we started dating!”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open. Dean stares pointedly back, and you can’t help yourself. You bark out a loud, sharp laugh.
“That was not asking me on a date, you fucking- Oh my god!” You shake your head, and Dean’s frown becomes almost puppy like.
“Yes, it was-“
“You have to actually say it’s a date, Dean! You can’t just- Just ask me to do something, I thought we were just hanging out! As friends.”
He’s pouting now. If you weren’t pissed, it would be adorable. “I- Uh- I paid for everything. And got you gifts.”
“Friends do that-“
“Do friends kiss your face all the time?” Dean twists to fully glare at you, and you pause.
“Um- Maybe?”
Dean snorts. “No, they don’t-“
“But I thought that was just you!” You protest. “You- You’re always- You know-“
“I know?” He mocks, and you scowl.
“We were fucking for a year, Dean,” you snap, tipping up your chin. “I thought you were comfortable with me.”
“I am comfortable with you,” Dean shrugs, leaning slightly forward. “Real comfortable.”
Your nose twitches. He’s too close, now. Consuming your vision, making your vision all stupid and fuzzy. “You’re comfortable with everyone,” you sniff, and he laughs.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, running a hand slowly up your thigh. “We both know that ain’t true.”
You make a tiny, involuntary sound when his fingers dip under your skirt, teasing sensitive, neglected skin. He hasn’t touched you there in so long. Too long. You have to hug yourself to stop your body from flying at him.
“I haven’t fucked anyone else in eighteen damn months,” Dean mutters, holding your gaze. “I’ve been waiting around for you for months, wondering what the hell I was doin’ wrong, and you thought I was just being nice?!”
You swallow, your voice suddenly small. “You are nice,” you whisper, and Dean snorts.
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re nice to me-“
“Because I-“ He cuts himself off, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh. You grab his hand, holding it against you, and his eyes dart down. He heaves a long breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bows his head.
“Dean?” You whisper, and he shakes his head. “Dean, I- I’m sorry I didn’t- You said we were just going to be casual-“
“I know what I said,” he grunts, glaring at your hands. “But I- I didn’t- I thought it would help me.”
You swallow. “Help you?”
“Yeah.”
“With what-“
“You know what.” He finally looks at you, and you’ve never seen him this vulnerable. Almost bowing before you, holding onto your hand like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. “And I can’t- I don’t know how to-“ He takes another ragged breath, gives you another pleading look. “You stopped letting me pretend, you started- You started telling me no, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t.” He swallows. “I’m tryin’ to do this right, baby.” He squeezes your hand, leaning a little closer. “Please let me do this right.”
You blink at him, tears watering in your own eyes, and nod. Dean’s shoulders shudder, and he holds your hand so tight you think he’s trying to just mold you together. He glances at your lips, but doesn’t move. So you do it for him.
Dean stares at you, completely still as you lean forward, his chest so still you’re worried he’s not breathing. You rest your hand lightly on his chest and press the lightest kiss you can to his parted lips. He shakes, one hand flying to your waist, his touch still heartbreakingly delicate. You kiss him again, a little harder, and a low rumble starts in his chest.
You pull back, pressing your brows tight together. Dean stares at you, eyes glossy and blown out, the restraint ticking in his jaw, and you smile softly.
“I love you,” you breathe. “And I- I know you can’t- You know, say it back, but- I love you, Dean.”
His breathing his ragged, and he’s still gaping. You laugh nervously, looking down to your fingers, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.
“If- If you could say something, though, that would be- Um- Nice-“
Dean grunts, and your words fall off into a squeak as Dean drags you forward into his lap.
And this. This is a real kiss. Dean’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his arm wrapping fully around your lower back, his fingers digging into your hips and his other hand cradling the back of your head. He kisses you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, pushing his tongue down your throat and moaning against your mouth. You pull on his shirt and he gropes at your ass, dragging you further into his lap. The pressure of his thigh against your core makes your head spin, but that might just be the lack of oxygen. Neither of you seem to be willing to come up for air, taking sharp, tiny breaths between sloppy kisses.
You whimper, already going limp, and Dean leans back with darkened, shining eyes. You know that look. You used to pray for and dread it all at once. It always made you feel like something close to prey, paralyzed and unable to flee his spell.
But this time is different. This time, there’s nothing you’d rather do but fall into his charm.
Dean presses another, small kiss to your lips, dragging his thumb over the tingling swell. Your tongue flicks against the pad of the finger, and he groans, pushing it slowly between your lips.
You wrap around him, sucking lightly, giving him your best, sweetest Bambi eyes. Dean’s throat bobs, his fingers digging into your ass.
“We’re goin’ home,” he mutters. “Then I’m gonna fuck you.”
That’s a lovely plan. You smile around his thumb, and he says your name, pulling his thumb away with a small pop.
“Jesus, you- You gotta tell me yes-“
“Just fuck me here,” you whisper, pulling on the collar of his shirt.
Dean glances to the backseat, then to you. “Uh- I mean- That’s- If you’re sure-“
“Please,” you push a little further forward, dropping your hand to press against the bulge in his jeans. “I need you, Dean. Now.”
And for a second, you think he’s going to demand going all the way back home. Say something about you deserving a soft bed and gentle loving, when you just want him, filthy and raw and yours. You’re so busy giving him doe eyes, you don’t notice his hand dragging down your spine and your ass, right up until it dips under your skirt, and cups your pussy through your panties.
You gasp, and Dean smirks, slowly rubbing his hand back and forth.
“Need me?” He drawls, pushing his thumb against your clit. “Like this, baby? This how you need me?”
“Ye- yes-“ Your lips brush over his, your hips starting to grind down as he drags his thumb in tiny circle, his hand still rocking back and forth. “Just- Just like that, Dean- Shit-“
You push down, kissing him with a sloppy, uncontrolled mouth. Dean grunts, splaying his free hand against your neck and pushing you down. He’s massive and warm, the hand working your pussy offering just enough friction to work you up, but nothing more. You wrap your arms around his neck, panting against his lips and moving you hips to chase more friction.
“That feels good, doesn’t it,” he mutters, kissing you between every word.
You coo, trying to kiss over his face, and Dean slaps your pussy once, leaning back with a stern glare.
“Doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” you answer immediately, already getting heavy-eyed and dazed. “So- So good, Dean, feels so good, just- More-“ You claw at his shoulders, trying to at least get to some bare skin, and settle for pressing your mouth back over his. “More- Need some more, De, now-“
Dean silences you with a deep, rough kiss, and taps his thumb against your clit in quick, harsh movements, pushing his palm down hard against your aching pussy. You cry out, trying to force your hips further down against him, and Dean squeezes that back of your neck.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Few months without some cock and you get bossy, don’t you.”
“No- No,” you manage to protest. “You’re just- You’re being slow-“
“I’m being slow?” He mocks, running his fingers over the line of your panties. “Baby, I’ve barely fuckin’ started.”
You try to roll your eyes at him, but he uses his hold on your neck to turn your head, forcing your gaze back down to his. Your eyes widen, and he smirks slightly, raising his brows.
“You gonna break out some manners for me?” He asks, slowly dragging your panties to the side. “Or am I gonna need to teach you again?”
“Te- Teach me?” You choke out, and Dean hums.
His thumb drags down from your clit, parting the lips of your pussy and smearing your arousal. Your heart is trying to hammer out of your chest, every nerve in your body seeming to respond to the mockingly sweet touch.
“Dean,” you press your hands against his chest, unsure if you want to push him away or drag him closer. “Don’t- Don’t be mean-“
“I’m not bein’ mean,” he hum, the gleam in his eyes something else all together. “I’m giving my girl exactly what she wants, how she wants it.”
You blink at him hopelessly, and he chuckles, pulling you down into a long, slow kiss. It would be romantic and loving, if it wasn’t for his thumb pushing at your weeping entrance, refusing to dip even a fraction of the way inside.
“Remember how you used to beg for me?” He mutters, and your face burns with a mix of arousal and shame. “I sure as shit do. Spent hours thinkin’ about it lately, planning how I was gonna take you when you let me again. But,” he switches out his thumb for the very tips of his fingers, yanking slightly on your hair when you try to look down. “Jesus, baby, I’m worried I’m gonna break you.”
You shake your head frantically, and Dean raises his brows.
“Words, pretty girl,” he reminds you, pushing his fingers just a little big deeper. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got it, talk to me-“
“I can take it,” you breathe out, watching him under fluttering lashes. “I- I can take it. I promise.”
Dean works his jaw, his grip on your hair tightening. “Sweetheart-“
“Please,” you breathe, leaning down until your noses bump. “I need it. I need you.”
Those are the magic words. Dean stops trying to play noble, stops trying to hold back for the sake of romance. You loved him when he fucked you like a whore and gave you nothing soft, and you’re going to love him even more when he treats you like a toy, then kisses you everywhere after.
Dean smashes his lips against yours and eases his fingers into your waiting pussy, groaning under his breath when you clench down around him.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, scissoring them inside you. “Never gonna get over how fuckin’ tight you are, sweetheart, like you were made for me. Made to be mine.”
He almost snarls the last words against your lips, pushing himself fully up to the knuckle. You mewl as he finds your g-spot with that precision that makes it look easy, that’s always made you sure you couldn’t ever enjoy someone else if you tried.
Dean pumps his fingers slowly, crooking them so they drag against that spot, and pulls you back to watch your face contort with pleasure.
“That’s it,” he grunts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming them right back in and twisting to bully against that sensitive spot. “That’s just how you like it, huh? Already gettin’ like this from just my fingers,” he chuckles, grinding his hips up against your thighs. “Imagine how you’re gonna be on my cock, sweet girl, if you can barely fuckin’ take this?”
“That- That’s not fair-“ You choke out, every word breathy and weak, and Dean just smirks.
“Isn’t it?”
You try to protest, but Dean pushes your head back down, and his kiss knocks almost every thought from your head. It’s all just the familiar, perfect way his mouth moves against yours, rememorizing something that never stopped being his. The wet sound of his fingers working you open fills the car, and your whole body burns with desire and shame. He’s right. You’re already soaked and ready for him, your cunt clenching down and still begging for more. You need that full, impossible split of him. After months of nothing, you’re worried his cock is the only thing that’s going to be able to do it.
But Dean seems to like proving you wrong today. A coil, tight in your stomach, starts to wind tighter and tighter. He drops his grip on your hair for a second to push down on the base of your spine, forcing your cunt almost right over his bulge. He reangles his hand, forcing in another finger, and you make a strangled sound.
“De- Dean-“
“We’re gonna get you relaxed, baby,” he mutters, twisting his wrist so the drag against your g-spot almost rips through your body. “Nice and relaxed ‘f me, you can do it.”
You let out a shaky breath, trying to listen, and your clit pushes down against Dean’s cock, still tight in his jeans. The pressure is perfect, combined with the brutal thrusts of Dean’s hand, and you press your cheek to his.
“That- That’s good,” you pant, clinging to the hem of his shirt. “So- Soo good-“
You whimper, and Dean hums. He’s rubbing your back, and that’s somehow almost as good as the hand obliterating your cunt. “There she is,” he mutters. “Always so good at listening when I got my hands on you, aren’t you sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your head. “That’s my girl.”
That’s what does it. My girl.
The coil snaps, and your orgasm rips through you, making your eyes cross and your body curl limply into Dean’s arms. His hand coaxes you through it, his palm rubbing against your pussy as you mewl and clench around nothing, the light pressure helping you ride it like a long, easy wave.
Dean kisses your cheek when it’s done, then right under your eye, then your nose.
“That’s one,” he mutters, and you whine. He chuckles, hiking your skirt up with light touches. “Come on, you know the rule.”
“Stupid rule,” you grumble. “Never agreed to it.”
“Never heard you complaining before,” he points out, peeling your dress off, and you stick out your tongue.
“That’s because I always forget- Dean!”
He smacks your ass, and you squeak, pussy clenching around nothing. He’s forming a tent in his jeans as he looks up at you, and you narrow your eyes. You fingers brush against the head of him, and his groan falters, his head tipping back against the bench.
You smile, pushing your hand down against his cock, and he catches your wrist, shooting you a stern glare.
“Not at young as I used to be,” he warns, and you giggle.
“But I want to,” you try to pull your hand free, and roll you eyes when he won’t let you. “Oh- Come on-“
“Nope,” he grunts, even as his dick jumps against the fabric. “You know the rule-“
“Dean-“
“Three to one,” he mutters, a dare gleaming in his eyes. “You give me one, I give you six. That’s the fuckin’ deal.”
You laugh, but his mouth doesn’t even twitch, and slowly, your smile falls into something more serious. More determined.
Damn this stubborn beautiful man and his orgasm rules. Damn you, for thinking he ever wouldn’t want to fuck you when he made you orgasm rules that weren’t proportional or fair at all.
You yank your wrist away, stick out your tongue again, and pull your underwear fully off. Dean watches you with his hands tight on your waist, eyes shining with curiosity, but patient.
And you’ve never been good at riding him, but you’ve always been good at this. You climb over Dean’s lap so your ass is near his shoulder and your face in his crotch, your back arched like some animal in heat, your pussy bare and on full display.
Dean’s never been able to help himself. One hand immediately slides around the arch of your back, then the curve of your ass, then settles back against your pussy. The other slides in your hair, petting your hair while you fumble with his belt. He chokes out your name, and you shoot him a glare, pulling out his cock with light, careful hands.
He’s so hard you’re worried he’s going to hurt himself. Pre-cum is beading around his tip, his veins throbbing like a porno. You stroke him slowly, and he lets out a sharp breath between his teeth.
“I’m serious, baby-“
“Prove it,” you say, before licking a slow, teasing stripe up his shaft.
And you know how this game ends. You’ve played it a million times before. The beautiful thing about it is that—especially when Dean thinks he’s winning—you can never lose.
You take him into his mouth, and the sound that he makes is sinful. It’s a choked, rough version of your name that sounds holy from his mouth, and comes with his fingers dipping into your heat like it’s a comfort toy. You take him until he bumps against the back of your throat and hum, swirling your tongue. Dean grunts, and pushes your head a little further down. You wiggle your ass, pussy cold and throbbing, and Dean groans.
“Jesus, woman- Gonna kill me- Fuuuuck-“
You start to bob up and down, sucking with that perfect pressure you know he likes, getting what can’t fit in your mouth in your hand. You can take him better and better with every second, letting his push against your gag reflex, and you drop that hand to play with his balls. Dean’s already giving shallow uncontrolled microthrusts, repeating your name over and over until it’s more of a choked moan.
“Can’t- Shit, baby, I can’t- That damn mouth, you’re gonna- Shit-“
You squeeze his balls and suck as hard as you can, and Dean almost roars your name, his cock jumping as he shoots thick, white ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, licking the rest off your fingers as you rise back up. There’s going to be a handprint on your ass, from where he was holding onto you. You hope you feel it in the morning.
And when you smile at Dean, you know you’re in trouble. Naked and wet for him, crawling forward so your tits press into his face and kissing him as sweetly as possible. Dean grunts, one hand shooting up to cradle the back of your head, and his responding kiss is deceptively gentle. He lets you lead it, groaning when your tongues press together, tasting himself on your lips. He lets you pull his shirt over his head and lets you trace over the lines of his muscles. You smile against his lips and lean back, and there’s that predatory glint again.
Dean’s hand twitches on your back. He wipes your chin, gathering some stray cum and slowly pressing his against your lips. You clean it off obediently, and his jaw ticks.
“Back seat,” he grunts. “Now.”
You almost scramble to listen. Rolling off of him and trying to climb over, making it halfway before you feel massive hands wrapping around your waist, holding you in place. You swallow, trying to twist over your shoulder to look at him, but Dean blows a sharp breath over your clit, and you double over with a squeak.
“De- Dean-“ You plant your hand on the bench, blood rushing to your cheeks. “Dean- wait-“
“Hmmm.” He kisses one curve of your ass, then the other. “Wait for what?”
You’re not really sure. “This- I- I can’t hold myself up,” you fumble, and he chuckles, kissing right over your clit.
“That gonna be a problem?” He teases, pressing smaller, faster kisses over the sensitive button. “Or,” he spreads your ass cheeks, humming against your heat. “Do dirty girls get what they asked for?”
Shit. “It’s uncomfortable,” you whisper, and Dean pauses.
He sighs, then kisses your clit again. You squeak when he drags you back down, and melt into his chest as he kisses all over your face, rocking you back and forth in his arms.
“’S why I wanted the bed,” he mutters, and you sigh.
“’M sorry-“
“No,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, massaging your hips with steady hands. “I’ve got it, just- uh-“
He glances up, and you watch him frown around the car with an openly adoring expression. The work of his jaw and furrow of his brow as he thinks, how he holds you so tight in his arms, it’s impossible to not love him.
“Got it,” he mutters. “Trust me?”
You nod easily, and he glances back down. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and this kiss isn’t feral or brutal. It’s just… slow. Adoring, a silent promise of what you’ve sort of always known.
Dean is going to take care of you.
He lays you out in the backseat, rubbing your thighs as you settle into the cushioned bench. You watch him with your heart in your throat, arms wrapped tight around your stomach. Sometimes, under his attention, you’re not sure what to do with yourself. He’s too pretty, too big, too much in the best possible way.
“Getting’ shy on me?” He teases, pushing up your knee, and you flush.
“N- No.”
“Hm,” Dean pins your leg against the bench, guiding the other one so it hooks over his shoulders. “Sounds like you’re gettin’ shy.”
You swallow, hugging yourself tighter, and he chuckles.
“All that work to make you relax,” he mutters, kissing his way up your thigh. “And you’re already wound back up.”
“You took too long,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” He kisses just the side of your cunt, and your breath hitches as he sucks a small, firm bruise into the skin. “You know I’m gonna make it up to you, yeah?”
You nod weakly, then blurt, “Yes!”
Dean’s mouth twitches, and he grabs one of your wrists, guiding it down to his hair. You weave it between your fingers, your breathing already ragged, your whole body lit up with anticipation.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, kissing the other side of your cunt, massaging your thigh and pushing your leg a little higher. “Nice and easy, pretty girl.” He kisses you pussy, open-mouthed and wet, and you let out a high, shameless sound.
His mouth should be classified as a sex toy or something. It moves and works against you like a machine, kissing you with so much fervor you already start to see stars. You had some recovery from the fingering, but Dean’s already stripping it away with sharp, unrelenting kisses and grazes of his teeth against your clit.
“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against you, the word vibrating through your body. “Never wanna live without this pussy again, baby girl, shit-“
He groans and dives back down, starting to work you open like a man starved. You push on his head, silently begging for more, afraid to open your mouth. The sounds that leave you will be embarrassing, and you’re already too far gone for them.
But Dean likes you loud, and he won’t let you hold back. He hooks his arm fully around your leg, dragging you further down, giving him a better against your pussy. You mewl when he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking impossibly hard, and Dean laughs against your cunt.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ You grab at the front bench, yanking mindlessly on his short hair. “De- Dean- Oh my god-“
He groans, pushing his face impossibly further. His tongue is deliberate and thick, pumping in and out of your cunt before pressing flat on your clit and dragging back and forth. It’s enough to drive you mad, making the coil in your stomach burn and burn and burn until your whole body is shaking with the sensation.
“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “You- Fuck-“
He nips at your clit, dragging a long, slow stripe up your pussy. Your eyes lock, and you swallow, a broken moan falling from your lips. The first time he did this, he told you that he loved it. That there was nothing better than a woman, right on his face, dripping and sweet for him. It didn’t take you long to believe him.
Here, he looks at you like you’re some kind of heaven he’s been allowed to touch. His mouth never stops moving against you, his eyes lidded and almost drunk, and your arousal shining on his face whenever he reangles it to devour you a new way. It’s a sight that could knock you off your feet, if you had any left to stand on. Dean on his knees, his broad, freckled shoulders forcing your knees apart, his attention a drug you never want to bother being clean from again.
You start to shake, your stomach seizing up as you fight off your orgasm, but Dean doesn’t tolerate that either. His mouth goes back against your clit, his tongue darting up and down and back and forth in tiny motions, almost tickling it, making the little nerves light up and-
You cum with a loud, choked sound that’s really supposed to be Dean’s name, and push at his head. You expect him to stop, and finally get on top of you.
But you forgot about his stupid orgasm rule, and he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens and he starts to make out with your overstimulated pussy. You squeak, pushing weakly at his head, and his eyes gleam.
“De- Dean- Fuuuuck- That’s-“ Your eyes roll back, your body seizing up again, almost unable to take so much. “Oh- Oh my gooood-”
Dean groans against you again, and it’s worse than a vibrator. It’s warm and deep and Dean, mixed with his filthy mouth and stubble, scraping against soft skin.Your thighs lock around his head and he lets them, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulls you fully onto your back, pushing himself up onto his knees. His cock bounces against his stomach but he ignores it, using his now free hand to grope at your breast. You moan, clenching around nothing as he laps at your clit and pussy.
“I- I can’t-“ Tears spring at your eyes. “Dean- Please-“
He hums, rolling your nipple between deft fingers, and you throw your head back with a broken moan.
Warm, thick fingers weave through yours, and you blink at him under watery lashes. He’s let go of your breast to hold your hand. His thumb is dragging slowly back and forth, and his mouth isn’t slowing down, but you don’t want it to. You can see the challenge shining in his eyes. You take a ragged breath, give him the smallest nod, and he smiles against your pussy.
You didn’t know the human tongue could move that fast. You’re sure it’s not supposed to, but Dean’s never cared about things like that. He drinks you up like wine, rapidly toying with your clit—swirling and kissing and flicking and sucking like it’s candy—and your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm springs through your body like a geyser.
Dean lowers you down slowly, pressing one last kiss to your swollen kiss before rising back up, wiping his chin of your release and cleaning it off his fingers with a smug grin. His cock is at attention, and your mouth waters. He always gets it in. You’re a little afraid of it right now.
“Six?” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.
“You’re the one who pushed for it, princess.”
“It- It’s your stupid rule-“
“You love it,” he shrugs, slowly settling himself back between your legs. “And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you, baby.”
You wrinkle your nose, and Dean gives you a stern, amused look.
“Aren’t you?” He taps the head of his cock against your cunt, and you squeak.
“Dean-“
“You’re the one who got bratty and cocky, sweetheart,” he drawls, pushing your leg back down. “So you’re gonna take it, ‘cause I know you can.”
You swallow, giving him your best doe-eyes, and he just chuckles. Dean lowers himself down, presses a gentle kiss to your brow, and murmurs against your skin.
“That ain’t gettin’ you out of this.”
You press your face into the crook of his neck, and Dean smiles, kissing the side of your head.
“All shy again,” he mutters, dragging that massive cock between the lips of your pussy. “Let’s take care of that, huh?”
You cling to him as he rolls you both over, guiding your legs to straddle his torso and lining up his cock with your weeping, abused pussy. He pulls you gently up, rubbing your side and watching you a painfully adoring gaze. You try to cover yourself again, and he catches your hand, shaking his head.
“Come on,” he mutters, weaving your fingers together. “Let me see you.”
And damn him for being so soft and sweet, you don’t think you could tell him no if you wanted.
“Take it easy,” he says, wrapping both of his hands around your waist. “All you, baby. Show me what you want.”
“I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.”
You believe him, in a way you’d never believe anyone else. It might be how he looks at you. Like you’re an angel over him, like you’re really, truly letting him enter paradise as you sink down onto his cock.
He grunts, his fingers tightening against your body as his cock slowly splits you open. Even with how much he’s worked you open—your pussy so wet it’s already dripping onto his thighs—it’s a tight fit. You can feel every vein dragging inside of you, the hard curve pressing right into your g-spot and making you flutter around him.
Dean jerks his head up, squeezing his eyes shut, and you swallow.
“Sorry-“
“’S- ‘S alright,” he exhales sharply, relaxing back into the seat. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, baby. I’m good.”
A smile ghosts over your lips, even as you start to only breathe through your nose. “You look it,” you tease, and Dean gives you a half annoyed, half impressed look.
“You’re tight,” he grunts, and your smile widens.
“You’re big.”
He groans, throwing his head further back, and you giggle again. He’s sitting just right again, his chest rippling under your hands, and you feel like that angel. You feel like a goddess, with how his hands are dragging over your body, how your name falls from his lips.
“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, eyes raking over your body. “So perfect.”
You take a deep breath, and start to grind down onto his cock. Dean groans, one hand dragging down to squeeze your ass, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless you beg him, and you’re determined not to. You can ride him until your thighs give out. His cock bumps against your g-spot, and his abdomen drags near your clit, and it feels good. You rock back and forth a little faster, your breath catching, and Dean groans.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Pretty fuckin’ girl, riding my cock like the needy little thing you are, aren’t you. So fuckin’ wet for me, baby, so- so tight-“
He groans, and you push down on his chest, picking up your pace.
“So big, Dean,” you moan, pushing up your chest like a pornstar, trying to make him break first. “You’re so big, feels so- so good-“
You moan, tossing your hair, and Dean makes an almost feral sound.
But he doesn’t break. The bastard never breaks, and you’ve never been good at riding him. Your thighs are already sore, and they quickly start to ache, making your movements smaller and weaker. Dean watches you start to whine, your brow furrowing in concentration, and just smiles. You both know what he’s waiting for. You don’t want to give in.
“So quiet, sweetheart,” he coos, running his hand up to palm at your breast. “Someone drove by, they’d think I wasn’t fuckin’ you properly.”
You glare at him, unable to even speak, and he chuckles.
“You know what you gotta do, baby girl.”
“Fu- Fuck you-“
“I will,” he winks. “If my girl says please.”
Your eyes narrow. His grin widens, and you think you might be about to fly apart with how bad you need it. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid face that you love and his big cock that makes you all jelly and dazed thoughts and useless.
“Please-“
The word barely leaves your mouth before Dean moves. A single, well-aimed thrust up into your cunt that makes you fall apart. You fall forward onto his chest with a scream, and Dean groans, giving shallower, gentle thrusts to work you through the orgasm.
“I know,” he murmurs in you ear, his words painfully soft in comparison to the pleasure wracking your body. “I know, princess. Two more to go.”
You don’t think you can take two more. Four has been your max for a very long time, and that was with a lot more prep time and space between orgasms. But Dean doesn’t seem like he’s going to give you much of a choice.
You’re a doll in his arms again, when he hauls you up into his lap. His cock leaves you for a single second, just for the adjustment, and you whimper at the loss.
Dean hums, kissing all over your face as he slides back in.
“That’s my girl,” he starts to rock your hips back and forth with steady hands, picking you up then dropping your back down so his dick drags through every inch of your heat. “Takin’ me so good. Just like that, feel that, baby-“ He pushes on your lower back, making his cock slam against your g-spot, and you sob against his neck. “Feel how fuckin’ good we fit together, my girl.”
Dean’s voice is lined with something darker now. More possessive and hungry. He fucks up into your like an animal, dips drilling forward and mouth attached to your neck. All you can do is take it, over and over until your eyes are crossing and the only words you can remember are babbles of Dean and please.
The neck orgasm is slow, blooming from where he’s slamming against your cervix and spreading pleasantly through your body. Dean moans against your skin, mouthing at your jaw and neck, his tongue dragging and kisses messy. When you try to kiss him back, it’s mostly with a mewl and lips that follow his lead. Everything is humid and light in your body, everything is Dean around you, and there’s a new, strangely hot sensation in your core that’s demanding all of your attention.
It’s tighter than the usual coil, and gets hotter and hotter with every thrust of Dean’s cock. He’s getting uneven now, his own words falling into pants and moans, his balls slapping against your ass and hands leaving prints as he folds you fully over his chest.
“One- One more-“ His voice is gravelly, almost as wrecked as you feel. “Milk my fuckin’ cock, baby girl, cum for me-“
You open your mouth to warn him about the strange feeling, but it’s too late. Dean slams home, crashing his mouth against yours, and you cum with a hoarse scream. Hot cum shoots into your cunt, right as something gushes out of you in wet, burning waves. It feels good, so good you can’t think, so good your mouth hangs open and your moans turn into pathetic, weak babbles.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ Dean groans against your mouth. “Fuckin’- Yes-“
Your body seizes and twitches around him, but even when he’s done, Dean doesn’t pull out. The last of your release pushes itself out and her collapses backward, rubbing your back and craning his neck to grin at your cockdrunk expression.
“Gettin’ stupid?” He teases, and you can’t manage to raise an arm, so you just bite his nose. He laughs, leaning up to steal another, quick kiss from your lips before settling back down.
You curl over him, resting your head against his shoulder while he pets your head, both of you still panting and coming back down. You might be there for a hundred years, or just an hour. It doesn’t matter. The car is going to reek of sex for maybe a year. Sam might never agree to ride in it again. But it was worth it. More than worth it, when you look up at Dean, and find him—just as always—already looking back.
“We’re still dating, right?” You whisper, because you have to be sure.
Dean grins, and kisses you slowly. You hum, letting your eyes flutter shut. Letting him carry you, whenever he thinks is safe to go.
“Yeah,” he mutters, and you can hear it in his voice. All the love he’s been trying to show you, for who knows how long. “We are."
✦End note: if i write enough of these it's gonna happen to me guys trust ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦summary: dean learns, slowly, that he's actually pretty good at being boyfriend material. it would be nice if you'd stop pining after him long enough to notice✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, friends with benefits to lovers, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love because it's the best way to be, dean's down so bad, shameless smut (facesitting, praise kink, big dick dean, fingering, pussy spanking, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, mean dean, dean has an orgasm rule and you. benefit. dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 12.5k✦
✦author's note: request! super normal about this one✦
You tell yourself, over and over again, that this is going to be the last time. It’s not something that’s meant to be held onto, so you can just… let go.
But then you find yourself here. Between tangled sheets with your legs spread wide, your nails digging into Dean’s bicep and his cock dragging through your wet, sensitive cunt.
“There you go,” he coos in your ear, every thrust deep and rough. “That’s my girl, takin’ me so good, so- Good-“
Dean moans, pressing up against the soft, gummy spot inside of you, and your eyes roll back in your head.
He always does this. He knocks on your door and grabs your face between big hands, and suddenly all that resolve and determination—never again—dissolves with your willpower. His hands are rough and calloused, but trace your hips and hold you down so gently, you can almost pretend he cares if you break. His cock is thick and impossibly long, and he always drags it between your soaked heat and bumps it against your clit before pushing himself in just right. His lips are chapped and soft, sucking possessive marks into your neck that he has no right to claim, but that doesn’t stop you from running your fingers through his hair and holding him right where he is. He wouldn’t dare to leave. Not in the middle of this. Not before you’ve both gotten what you want.
What Dean wants. You don’t let yourself pretend that this is everything you need anymore. It’s the only hope you have of one day telling him no, because the rest of you control rests on a thin rope, and it always slips from your hands the moment Dean touches you like you matter.
You never walk away from him with an aching, unsatisfied body. A few nights ago he put you on his face and made you ride until your thighs were shaking and tears were springing into your eyes. Before this, he spit on your cunt and scissored you open with thick, careful finger, kissing and nipping at your thighs as your greedy pussy swallowed him right up to the knuckle. Even now, as every roll of his hips becomes smaller—as his face twists in concentration and his mouth against your jaw becomes desperate—Dean’s thumbing at your clit, trying to get you over the edge with him.
“C’mon, baby, c’mon-“ He pushes himself up to his knees, forcing a deeper, rougher angle. “Show me what you’ve got, I know you can do it, come on-
You whimper, staring up at him under lidded, glazed eyes. The whole world is just a blur of color at this point, but Dean is bright and clear. The heave of his broad shoulder and chest, every muscle in his arm as he wraps it around your waist and makes you arch your back, the flex of his abdomen as he ruts forward like a feral dog. The sharp, unforgiving thrusts are making your head spin with pleasure, turning you into a boneless wreck of need. You grab his arm, trying to steady yourself against something, and Dean’s attention rips up.
He says he likes to watch himself fuck you, and you’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s spent whole sessions just staring at his cock or fingers splitting your cunt open. He likes putting you on his face because he can watch you react. You like it better like that, usually. The eye contact is too close. Too intimate. Too real.
But you grab him, and he looks at you, and it’s almost like a shot. His eyes are blown-out and so strangely soft, staring at your wrecked, open expression with too much, too much, too much-
“De- Deeean-“ You cry it out like a pray, because it is. Dean grunts, hips snapping, the wet sound filling up the air and his eyes never leaving yours. “Dean- Dean- Fuck, please- Please-“
You’re babbling. You never do that with anyone else, but Dean is Dean, and he makes you do things you never counted yourself capable of. He groans your name, and you squeal when he drags you up, off the mattress and straddling his thighs. Your clit drags against his abdomen, his cock bullies right against your g-spot, and Dean grabs your jaw with a single, painfully gentle hand.
“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, still holding your gaze, even as your eyes start to cross. “Soak this fuckin’ cock, baby, cum-“
You almost scream as your orgasm rips through you, and Dean crashes his mouth against yours, eating every whimper and moan with harsh lips and his tongue down your throat. You press into him, pussy gushing and fluttering around his dick, and he makes that deep, rumbling sound that always comes right before-
“Shit-“ Dean gasps against your mouth, pulling you so close you can’t feel anything but the heat of his bare chest, the sensation of his cock twitching and pumping in your cunt. “Fuuck-“
Dean moans your name, and a warm, pleasant heat starts to spread through your tummy and drip between your thighs. He doesn’t stop moving until his cock is softened, and you don’t try to stop him. You’re barely more than a limp doll right now, returning his kisses with tiny mewls, eyes crossed and body limp.
For a moment after it’s done, you stay tangled together. You always do. It’s the most dangerous part of the whole thing, because it feeds that tiny little fool in your chest, who refuses to believe that this is just sex. Who takes your heartstrings and weaves grand worlds where Dean loves you back, and you’re going to be just fine.
Dean kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter closed. There’s an advantage, to being a crybaby whenever he fucks you stupid. He never once has considered that the tears might be real.
“Think you can walk?” He mutters, still buried deep inside of you, still holding you like he cares.
You shake your head, and his mouth twitches against yours.
“Alright, pretty girl. I’ve got you.”
And you press your face into the crook of his neck, letting that fool take you over. She takes his words as gospel. My girl and I’ve got you and Baby, they’re exactly what he means and nothing more, nothing less.
When the logical part of your brain wakes back up—Dean’s always had this ability to hit a button in you, sliding his hand around the back of your neck and making all your thoughts just bubblegum feelings and electric colors—you’re going to remember why you always say this has to be the last time.
He’s perfect, and he’s not yours. He makes that perfectly clear, until he pulls these little stunts and ends up buried between your thighs. You agreed that he wasn’t yours, when this arrangement started.
Safer with someone you know, he’d told you, like he hasn’t fucked his way across the entire country. Easier. Nothing to worry about, when it’s you and me.
And you’d been a starry-eyed, gooey hearted fool who just wanted whatever part of Dean he was willing to show you. The burning love you kept tended in your ribs hadn’t seen a problem with adding fuel to the wildfire, even if Dean was never going to see it. But now he’s carrying you to the bathroom like a princess, and he’s going to be gone in the morning, and that wildfire is an inferno. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You can map out everything he’d ever say in response to your feelings, from the harsh sneer he would’ve given when he had the Mark of Cain, to the kinder let down you’d get now.
You’re too young, he’d say, like it was a consolation prize. And I like you, sweetheart, but I don’t do this kinda thing. Not with girls young enough to be my daughter. Not with kids that I hunt with. Not with you.
You press your face further into his neck. He’s always so warm and sturdy, a massive tree that’s offering you just as much shade crushing, unbearable weight and tangled roots that keep you pressed down. He smells like leather and whiskey and something perfectly, faintly spice. You want to drown in it. You want to drown in him.
“You good?” Dean asks, and his voice is too gentle. It rattles the little fool, screaming for the rest of you to listen and just accept that he loves you.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.
“You’re bein’ quiet, even for- Y’know-“ He chuckles, that low, insufferably charming pride crawling into his voice. “After I fuck you dumb.”
“You did not fuck me dumb,” you mumble against his skin, and you can hear his grin.
“Big words from the girl who couldn’t talk five minutes ago.”
“That was unrelated.”
“Unrelated,” he echoes, his thumb dragging a small circle against your spine. “Always forget how bratty you get after, sweetheart. Dangerous.”
You roll your eyes, and hug him tighter. He laughs, and kisses the side of your head, and he has the nerve to call you dangerous.
“You wanna watch a movie?” He asks, leaning down to run the water, still keeping you tucked so carefully against his chest, and all you can do is nod. Dean sighs. “C’mon, gimme a little more than that-“
“Yes, please,” you mumble, and he pauses.
It’s only a fraction of a second. You don’t understand it, and you don’t want to. Not when he feeds your delusions and kisses your brow again, then your cheek, then your lips. And you let him. You always let him, because you’re a foolish, stupid, lovesick idiot. You don’t want his affection, not like this. But you don’t want to lose him—it would be like ripping a vital organ out of your ribcage, even if you didn’t know you had it a year ago—and you can’t ever tell him to stop being so sweet without explaining yourself, and getting that gentle, horrible let down.
You don’t want it. You don’t want any of it. And this, this had to be the last time.
You hold the line. You don’t know how, but you hold that line with white knuckles and grit teeth and a taste like bile in the back of your throat.
Dean knocks on the door, only two nights later, and you don’t answer. He calls your name and you sink into the mattress, praying he just thinks you’re asleep.
“I just- Uh- I wanted to talk?” He says, and you press your face into the pillow like that can somehow shield you. “Really, that’s it. Just talking, so- If you could-“
Dean sighs. You can hear the please, hanging between every word, but Dean doesn’t really say please. He just begs with everything else in him, or gives up. And you can picture him running his hand over his face, the heavy look in his eyes, the defeated sag in his shoulders. It’s like a knife being driven through your gut, and you sit up, ready to open the door-
“Alright,” he mutters, and you freeze. “Night, baby. Sleep well.”
Footsteps retreat, and you stay there on the mattress, frozen and lost, adrift in a sea you dove into.
But you did it. You held the line.
And you keep it. It makes sweat bead and your skin burn, but you close the door and don’t open it back up. You’re done, and you’re going to keep it that way.
Dean doesn’t ask questions. You don’t know if you want him to or not, but it doesn’t matter, because you catch him staring and giving out signals, but he’s taken your no in stride, and doesn’t seem to have any plans to push back against it. When this started, you agreed to leave out a specific book on the war room table if either of you wanted something. Dean starts to leave it out every night, and you never go to his door, and one night, it vanishes.
And that’s fine. That’s exactly what you wanted.
And if it feels like you’re dying because of it, and if you spend an hour over the toilet dry heaving that night, that’s no one’s business but your own.
“Dean’s been grumpy lately,” Sam says one morning, and you blink at him over your coffee.
“Grumpy? Dean? That’s- Woah-“
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Sam gives you a flat look. “You know what I mean. Grumpier.”
You shrug, looking back to your mug. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”
“Uh huh.”
You can feel Sam’s stare. It makes you itchy and small, and you’re not sure if you want to punch him or run. You settle for staring at your coffee harder. It’s the easiest course of action.
“Dean needs to get laid,” Sam repeats your words, something strange—almost sharp—in his tone, and you nod.
“That’s what I said.”
“Dean-“
“What’s up?” Dean walks into the kitchen, stopping right behind you, and you hunch over like you can grow a shell to protect yourself.
Even just a few feet away, he’s always so warm.
“Uh- Hey, Dean-“
“Hey,” Dean mocks back, and Sam huffs.
“Dude-“
“Shut your face-“
“I didn’t say anything- I-“ Sam says your name, and you glance up. His brow is furrowed with worry, his eyes locked on Dean behind you. “We were just-“
“Just what?” Dean snaps. “Just talking? Shooting the shit, getting real comfortable?”
Sam sighs. “Dean-“
“I got a gun, Sammy,” Dean points firmly, and you stare at his finger like a woman driven mad with thirst. “Don’t forget that.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “We all have guns, that- That threat doesn’t do anything-“
“I’ll show you doing something- Hey-“
Dean says your name, and you freeze. You’d been trying to slip out while they fought, but Dean—goddamn him—had noticed. He always notices. You love him so much it’s going to make you cave in on yourself, and maybe take the whole bunker with you, like a dying star.
He catches your arm, and you can’t stop yourself from looking at him. His brow is knit, his jaw locked, and his handsome face has deep lines you only used to see when the world was ending. There are bags under his eyes. Deeper than usual. You want to smooth the lines with your thumb and kiss his jaw until he relaxes, but that’s not your ache to soothe.
Dean doesn’t say anything. You can’t say anything. He looks exhausted, and there’s a lump forming in your throat.
“You- You hungry?” Dean rasps, and you’re starving.
“No,” you breathe before you can think, and Dean swallows.
“Well, when you’re hungry- There’s a diner in town-“
“Henry’s?”
“No, uh- A new one. I- I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go, later, or something.”
“Or something?” You tilt your head, and Dean nods.
“Whatever you want.”
God, he’s cruel. He’s perfect and cruel, and you want to vomit on his flannel and kiss him until you pass out.
“Oh- Okay,” you say, because you’re only so strong.
The lines in Dean’s face relax. His grip loosens. Then Sam coughs, and Dean lets you go.
The diner is… nice. Nice and easy, in a way you haven’t felt in longer than you want to admit. Dean insists on driving you, and paying, and sitting in one of those booths with your feet bumping under the table.
He presses his knee forward, while he orders. You swallow and don’t allow yourself to think much of it. He’s warm through his jeans, but he’s always warm, and he hasn’t tried anything in a few weeks, so you allow it. Your love for him hasn’t been flickering out, but the harsh wind of his absence has made everything feel colder. It’s okay, to indulge yourself in something so small. You’re still keeping it together. You’re still holding the line.
“So, uh-“ Dean clears his throat, turning his bottle in his hands. “How are you?”
“How- Am I?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly. “I- I’m okay. How are you?”
“Good. Great.” He frowns at the table. “You know. Same as always.”
You almost laugh. “You’re always great?”
“I focus on the positives, sweetheart-“
“No, you don’t.”
He rolls his eyes, glancing up to hold your light, amused gaze. His mouth twitches. His fingers tap against the glass, and you try not to let yourself sink too deep into the attention.
It’s okay to drown a little. A long as you don’t drop the line.
“Maybe I’m turning a new leaf,” he says, and your face splits into a full smile.
“You?”
“Yeah, me. Why’d you say it like that-“
“Because you’ve never turned a leaf in your life-“
“Ah-“ He points the head of his bottle at you with a grin. “Not true. Remember when I started learning guitar?”
“Yeah, you smashed it on a werewolf’s head after a month.”
“That was a tactical choice, I would’ve kept playing if the wolf didn’t get in the way.”
“Uh huh.” You lean back in your seat, crossing your arms. “What songs had you learned to play?”
Dean’s nose wrinkles. “Hey, we don’t need to talk about that-“
“I think we do.”
“Nah, I mean- I only had a month-“
“You learned how to work a rocket launcher in a week.”
“That’s just buttons and triggers, sweetheart. Even you could work it.”
“Even I?” You raise your brows—trying not to let the delight shine too bright in your voice—and Dean freezes.
“I mean- uh- You’re not great with guns, and- I could teach you-“
“You could teach me.”
“Maybe? If you wanted- Or-“ Dean groans, slumping back. “Stop givin’ me that look.”
“I’m not giving you any look,” you tease, and Dean sighs.
“Will you stop if I say I’m an idiot?”
You soften slightly. “You’re not an idiot, Dean-“
“You sure?” He grumbles. “Kinda feeling like one right now.”
You laugh, but it’s gentle. You can almost see him pushing down into himself. It makes you heavy for him, like you’re trying to take that invisible weight off his shoulders, even if he can’t feel you helping the pain. “You’re a dork,” you say, bumping his knee under the table. “But you’re not an idiot.”
Dean grunts, watching you under hooded eyes, and you smile easily.
You missed this, more than you want to tell him. Just talking, without worrying that it’s going to end in world-changing, back-breaking, beautifully heart-aching sex. He feels like your friend again, closer to your fingertips than he’d been when he was balls deep inside of you.
“Wonderwall,” he grunts suddenly. “And Hallelujah.”
You blink. “What?”
“Those were the songs,” he mutters, picking at the label of his bottle. “That I got, before I smashed the guitar.”
“Oh,” you pause. “I love Hallelujah.”
“Yeah. I know.”
You stare at him, and he stares right back. A faint flush is threatening your cheeks, so you duck your head to hide it, and Dean lets out a soft laugh.
“You alright-“
“Yep. I- I’m good-“
“You look good.” Dean laughs again, when you shoot him a glare. “Don’t gimme that face, I’m saying something nice-“
“You’re being a butt,” you stick out your tongue, and his eyes dance with an easy kind of light that almost makes your heart stop.
“You’re the one who was callin’ me old earlier,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes.
“You are old.”
“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you, has it.”
Your mouth falls open, eyes going so wide it almost hurts, and Dean grins at you. If you weren’t shocked into static, you’d slap him or- or lunge across the table and kiss him-
Hold the line.
“Aged wine is supposed to be better,” you manage to say, somehow, and Dean laughs, loud and free.
“That all I am to you? Some wine?”
“No,” you smile at your plate. “You’re also very good cheese.”
“Good cheese, huh.”
“Mhm.” You point a stern finger at him. “No puns.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but dips his head. “Yes, ma’am.”
There’s the flush. You’d keep trying to hide it, if Dean didn’t start talking about something unimportant and easy, and suddenly you forgot to be embarrassed. He’s not trying to kiss you or get you back to the car. He’s just… Talking to you. Dropping that light, teasing praise like it’s nothing, then telling you a story about when he used a tuba to beat a poltergeist, grinning like a winner every time you laugh.
When lunch is over, he rests a hand lightly on your lower back, but doesn’t do much more. He kisses your cheek when you get back to the bunker, and asks if you want to watch a movie tomorrow night. You swallow, locking your hands together like they can force the line to stay firm. Dean says your name, almost panicked, and you blink up at him.
“Just a movie,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Out in town, at- Uh- That shitty theatre next to the coffee place. Or- I can try and find a drive-in, if those still exist-“
“They do,” you say softly, and he swallows. “There’s one out in Beloit.”
“Beloit,” Dean mutters. “Yeah- Yeah, okay. You wanna go there?”
You nod, and he grins. You smile back, and it feels… Different. Shy, in a way you haven’t been around him since he first started fucking you. Almost delicate. You weren’t supposed to let this feel like something delicate.
Dean jaw works, and you can almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes. He lurches slightly, brow furrowed, then pulls back up. You’re seconds from asking him what’s wrong when he just leans down and… does it.
His lips graze your cheek, his hand brushing against your waist, and you almost melt right into him.
But then he stands back up, and takes a large step away. You swallow, resisting the urge to reach up and brush your fingers over where he kissed. It’s not like he’s never done that before, but again.
It just feels different.
“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and you nod weakly.
If you had a mind that was thinking in more than bursts of glee and songs of Dean, Dean, Dean, you’d tell him that you live together, and he’s always going to see you tomorrow. But he walks away, and you let him, and it doesn’t hurt. There’s a space that he left, but something in you seems to think he’s going to come back. You can’t tell if it’s the fool or not.
For once, you decide not to try.
The movie is nice. Dean rests his hand on your knee, but doesn’t go any higher. You lean into his side, and his arm goes around your shoulders, but there’s no kissing or dragging into the back seat, and you didn’t know there could be a better way to be close to him. Sex is great. Looking up and finding him already watching you is better.
He brushes some hair from your face, and you half expect him to kiss you. His eyes dart down to your lips like he wants to. Your fingers curl in his shirt, and his throat bobs.
“You likin’ the movie?” He whispers, and you nod.
“Good find,” you breathe, and he grins.
“Thanks. Eat the popcorn, it cost me a billion bucks.”
You roll your eyes, and throw some of the over-buttered, half-burnt popcorn at his face. He laughs, catches a kernel in his mouth, and grabs your chin between two fingers. Your breath catches. He just turns your face back to the screen, and pulls you a little closer into his side.
The movie ends the same way the diner did. Dean walks you to your bedroom door like it’s the porch of your house, kisses your cheek, then walks away.
Then, after the movie, you play mini golf. You win, but you know he let you. He buys you a snow cone and licks it off his nose when he eats it like a rabid dog. You wipe a little extra off his cheek, and he stares at you, but still doesn’t kiss you. Not fully. His hand seems to always rest on your lower back, now, but that’s all the contact you get. All that you allow.
Hugs are on the table, too. They’re somehow more dangerous than the forehead kisses. After the hugs, he sometimes just stares at you and cups your cheek, and your heart moves into your throat until you think you’re going to spill it out all over his chest.
You manage to keep it together. For the sake of this new, slowly growing garden of what your friendship is becoming, you swallow your love with greater ease and more bile than you ever did while you were fucking. After the mini golf you get dinner and see another movie. You convince him to go on a walk with you, and he hates it less than he pretends to. You eat together in the bunker and call when he’s on a hunt with Sam and go to a car show and it all feels like breathing.
Sometimes he still looks at your mouth, and you freeze up, unsure if you want him to kiss you or not. You know you want him, but somehow you’ve found even more to lose than before, and if it slips through your fingers, you’re not sure they’re ever going to stop shaking and groping at the empty spaces again. You can take holding his hand in the bookstore while he peers over your shoulder, pretending to be interested for no real reason other than to make you smile.
“There are so many of them,” he mutters, and you giggle.
“There’s a lot of ways to write words, Dean.”
“Yeah, but- You’d think there would be repeats or something.”
“There probably are,” you shrug, running your fingers over the spines. “But they’re still all fun.”
Dean sighs, squeezing your upper arm. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and all his features relax.
“You want some coffee?” He brushes some hair from your face and you nod.
“There’s a shop next door, could you get me-“
“Hey,” Dean flicks your nose, grinning roguishly. “Trust me, I know what you want.”
You nod a little stupidly, and his smile falters. He looks to your lips again, then almost shakes himself, taking a small step.
“Don’t move,” he squeezes your arm again, then backs away. You watch him go, unable to help yourself, and smile when he looks back. He does that all the time now. And he always smiles back.
You turn back to the shelf, looking at the books without actually looking. You already miss him, and he told you not to move, but that can’t count if you’re going to stand next to him in the coffee line, can it-
“Hey.”
You fumble slightly, turning to find a man leaning against the shelf and smirking at you. You blink, and his smirk widens.
“What’s girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”
“The… Bookstore?” You frown, and he laughs. You don’t think you said anything all that funny.
“Look, I just- I saw you from over there,” he nods vaguely, and you frown. “And I thought you were cute. Can I get you some coffee or something?”
“My- My friend is already getting me coffee,” you say, and your voice sounds strangely far away.
The man nods, but doesn’t retreat. “Alright, then can I get your number? Maybe beat your friend to coffee next time?”
And you don’t want to say yes, but this is a chance. To hold onto this new friendship with Dean while also getting over him at the same time. This man isn’t ugly. Compared to Dean, no one really stands a chance anyway, and you have to get over him eventually.
So you give him your number, and try not to feel like you just did something wrong.
Dean clears his throat from behind you, and you spin around on your heels, a sour guilt twisting in your gut.
“You- You’re back,” you say, and he grunts.
He’s not look at you. He’s glaring at the man with the same, deadly glint that he gives monsters and demons before he cuts them in half. You touch his arm lightly, and he tenses. You feel sick.
“Hey, buddy,” he snaps at the man, who—not seeming to understand the gravity of Dean’s glare—grins back.
“Hey.” He winks at you, slowly backing away. “Have fun with your friend.”
Dean’s coffee spills over the top of it’s lid. He doesn’t look away from the man when he leaves the store. He shoves your drink into your hand, not meeting your gaze.
“Dean-“
“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he mutters, and you swallow.
“Oh- Okay.”
Your arm wraps around your stomach, and you press a little away from him, from the wrath seeming to wave off his body like a volcano. He glances down, jaw tight and a vein in his brow ticking. You stare at his neck, unable to hold the weight of his gaze. He lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.
“Get your book.”
You shake you head. “No- It- It’s okay-“
Dean says your name, and your mouth snaps shut. “Just- Get the damn book.”
He looks like he’s in pain, and you don’t know how to fix it, so you do as he says. You get a cheap one, that worm of guilt burrowing deeper and deeper into your gut until you can’t even drink your coffee without feeling like it’s going to come back up.
Dean’s fingers dig into your back, when he guides you out the door. He starts the engine by almost punching in the keys, and holds Baby’s wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. You can see all the anger brimming under the surface of his skin, and worried you’re just going to make it worse. You don’t even know where it came from. It’s not like you’re together, or the guy said something rude. You open and close your mouth too many times to count, then give up, shrinking back into your seat.
Dean looks over at you. You try to look out the window, and nowhere else.
A loud, sharp breath escapes him. “Son of a- Alright.”
You look over with a frown, then squeak when he yanks the wheel off to the side.
“Shit- Dean-“
“Just- Fuck-“ He bows he head, glaring down at his legs, and you swallow.
You fidget with your fingers, watching him nervously, waiting for him to break the silence. It takes while. So long you think about just getting out of the car to give him space.
But then he looks up, and your heart gets cleaved open. His face is twisted in pain, his lips parted and his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard.
“What-“ He takes a deep breath, scanning over your openly confused features. “What else am I supposed to be doin’?”
You blink at him, fingers curling in your lap. “What?” You ask softly, and his throat bobs.
“I- I’m really trying,” he mutters, looking back to his hands. “I swear to god, baby, I’m tryin’ my best, and- I know I ain’t amazing at this but- If you could throw a guy a rope when he’s never- I’ve never done this, alright.” He waves between your bodies, jaw clenched tight. “And I’m really givin’ it my best shot, but I’m still not allowed to kiss you, and you’re takin’ numbers right- Right in front of me- So just- Something.” He gives you a pleading, broken look, eyes shining on yours in the dark. “Anything.”
You open your mouth, but you can’t even figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to say. You know all the words he’s saying, but it’s like he’s speaking a language you never learned, spitting out a code you’re just supposed to magically understand. Dean’s jaw ticks, when you don’t answer, and you try to sputter out an answer, but he’s too loud to hear your confused whimper.
“Look, just- Whatever the hell you do need me to do, I’ll do it, I swear I’ll do it, but- You gotta tell me, sweetheart-“
“Tell you what?!” You almost shout, and Dean leans back in surprise. “Dean, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dean huffs a low laugh, looking back out to the road. “Yeah. Alright,” he grabs the keys, voice rough and pained. “Sure. Whatever-“
“No.” You grab his wrist before he can start to the engine. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”
“It doesn’t matter-“
“Yes, it does-“
“Nah.”
“Dean-“
“You wanna call that guy, call ‘im.” There’s an almost toxically bitter sound to the words, and Dean’s making a face like he just got shot. “Whatever. See if I care.”
Your nails dig into his wrist, when he tries to yank it away. He shoots you a glare, the bags—gone, after months of ease—already starting to form.
“C’mon, kid, just- let go-“
“Would you care?”
Your question is small, but it makes Dean recoil like it burned. He scoffs, but it’s too loud, and you hold him tighter.
“Would you care-“
“No, I fuckin’ love watching douchebags parade around with my girl, who would care about something like that?”
Something snaps, right at the base of your spine. You sit so tall you’d think someone is dragging you by the nape of your neck, and Dean blinks in something close to surprise.
“What-“
“Your girl,” you whisper. “That’s- I’m- Why would you say that?”
Dean blinks. “Why wouldn’t I say that?”
“Because you and I- We’re not- That’s-“ You lean back, letting go of his wrist, and when you look down, you’ve left little crescent marks in the skin. “No- No- You didn’t- You said no- No strings-“
“Yeah, and then you stopped fuckin’ me, and I-“ Dean says your name as you press back against the window, brow furrowed in worry. “Baby, it’s- It’s alright, I’m not that pissed-“
“You were yelling,” you choke out, and he swallow.
“Well, I was- Just- C’mere.”
He reaches out, cupping your cheek with the same gentle touch he used to use, right before he kissed you. You gape at him, head spinning, panting like you just ran a marathon.
“I’m not mad,” he rasps, almost pleading, and you shake your head.
“You were-“
“Sweetheart-“
“Why?” You whisper, grabbing his wrist, your nails sinking back into the marks. “Why- Why would you care?”
Dean swallows. He shakes his head, looks out the window, and chuckles.
“Dean-“
“I don’t want you goin’ out with him. And- Call it possessive, or stupid man shit, or- Whatever the hell you want,” he drags his thumb over your cheekbone, voice dropping to something tender, something soft. “You’re my girl. And I want you here, telling me what to do, how to- To be what you need.” His voice cracks. “Come on, baby. Just- Tell me what to be.”
You stare at him, a lot of pieces colliding into each other at once in your head. The diner and the movie and the touching and the caution and-
“Are we dating?” You choke out, and Dean frowns.
“What’d you mean, are we dating?”
“I mean are we dating, Dean, are you- Are you my boyfriend?”
“Uh- Boyfriend kinda makes it sound like we’re sixteen and necking-“
“What the fuck is necking?”
Dean groans, dropping his head. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. Makes me feel fuckin’ fifty.”
Your lips twitch. “You are almost fifty,” you say, and he chuckles.
“Yeah. Guess I am.” He looks back up to you, caution lining his features. “You always seemed to like it.”
You swallow. You did. You’d never been sure if it was the older thing itself, or the fact that it was just Dean, but you’d liked it. You always liked all of him, from the uglier wounds to the beautiful, glowing heart that almost managed to peak through, no matter how thick his steel and iron walls became.
He glides his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, and your breath hitches. He swallows, closes his eyes, and mutters your name.
“Did you… Not think we were dating?”
You shake your head, and Dean snorts dryly.
“Huh,” his mouth curves into a tight smirk. “Makes sense why you wouldn’t kiss me, I guess.”
“You guess?” You squeak, and Dean nods.
“Yeah, makes a lotta sense, actually-“
“How long have we been dating?!” You almost shriek, and he gives you an amused look.
“’Bout three months.”
“Three months?!”
“That’s what I said, baby-“
“Shut- Shut up-“ You plant a hand over his mouth, and he raises his brows. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me we were dating, you- You butt?!”
Dean’s eyes sparkle, looking pointedly down to your hand, and you release him with a scowl. He rubs his jaw, grinning at you like you’re some cute bunny, and you lean back in your seat with a huff.
“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I thought you knew.”
“How would I have known-“
“’Cause I asked you on a date? And you said yes?”
“That- That never happened.” You snap, and Dean frowns.
“Yes, it did. Sammy- He was there-“
“Sam was there-“
“Yeah, and- I said there was a new diner in town, and you said you’d go with me, and we started dating!”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open. Dean stares pointedly back, and you can’t help yourself. You bark out a loud, sharp laugh.
“That was not asking me on a date, you fucking- Oh my god!” You shake your head, and Dean’s frown becomes almost puppy like.
“Yes, it was-“
“You have to actually say it’s a date, Dean! You can’t just- Just ask me to do something, I thought we were just hanging out! As friends.”
He’s pouting now. If you weren’t pissed, it would be adorable. “I- Uh- I paid for everything. And got you gifts.”
“Friends do that-“
“Do friends kiss your face all the time?” Dean twists to fully glare at you, and you pause.
“Um- Maybe?”
Dean snorts. “No, they don’t-“
“But I thought that was just you!” You protest. “You- You’re always- You know-“
“I know?” He mocks, and you scowl.
“We were fucking for a year, Dean,” you snap, tipping up your chin. “I thought you were comfortable with me.”
“I am comfortable with you,” Dean shrugs, leaning slightly forward. “Real comfortable.”
Your nose twitches. He’s too close, now. Consuming your vision, making your vision all stupid and fuzzy. “You’re comfortable with everyone,” you sniff, and he laughs.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, running a hand slowly up your thigh. “We both know that ain’t true.”
You make a tiny, involuntary sound when his fingers dip under your skirt, teasing sensitive, neglected skin. He hasn’t touched you there in so long. Too long. You have to hug yourself to stop your body from flying at him.
“I haven’t fucked anyone else in eighteen damn months,” Dean mutters, holding your gaze. “I’ve been waiting around for you for months, wondering what the hell I was doin’ wrong, and you thought I was just being nice?!”
You swallow, your voice suddenly small. “You are nice,” you whisper, and Dean snorts.
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re nice to me-“
“Because I-“ He cuts himself off, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh. You grab his hand, holding it against you, and his eyes dart down. He heaves a long breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bows his head.
“Dean?” You whisper, and he shakes his head. “Dean, I- I’m sorry I didn’t- You said we were just going to be casual-“
“I know what I said,” he grunts, glaring at your hands. “But I- I didn’t- I thought it would help me.”
You swallow. “Help you?”
“Yeah.”
“With what-“
“You know what.” He finally looks at you, and you’ve never seen him this vulnerable. Almost bowing before you, holding onto your hand like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. “And I can’t- I don’t know how to-“ He takes another ragged breath, gives you another pleading look. “You stopped letting me pretend, you started- You started telling me no, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t.” He swallows. “I’m tryin’ to do this right, baby.” He squeezes your hand, leaning a little closer. “Please let me do this right.”
You blink at him, tears watering in your own eyes, and nod. Dean’s shoulders shudder, and he holds your hand so tight you think he’s trying to just mold you together. He glances at your lips, but doesn’t move. So you do it for him.
Dean stares at you, completely still as you lean forward, his chest so still you’re worried he’s not breathing. You rest your hand lightly on his chest and press the lightest kiss you can to his parted lips. He shakes, one hand flying to your waist, his touch still heartbreakingly delicate. You kiss him again, a little harder, and a low rumble starts in his chest.
You pull back, pressing your brows tight together. Dean stares at you, eyes glossy and blown out, the restraint ticking in his jaw, and you smile softly.
“I love you,” you breathe. “And I- I know you can’t- You know, say it back, but- I love you, Dean.”
His breathing his ragged, and he’s still gaping. You laugh nervously, looking down to your fingers, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.
“If- If you could say something, though, that would be- Um- Nice-“
Dean grunts, and your words fall off into a squeak as Dean drags you forward into his lap.
And this. This is a real kiss. Dean’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his arm wrapping fully around your lower back, his fingers digging into your hips and his other hand cradling the back of your head. He kisses you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, pushing his tongue down your throat and moaning against your mouth. You pull on his shirt and he gropes at your ass, dragging you further into his lap. The pressure of his thigh against your core makes your head spin, but that might just be the lack of oxygen. Neither of you seem to be willing to come up for air, taking sharp, tiny breaths between sloppy kisses.
You whimper, already going limp, and Dean leans back with darkened, shining eyes. You know that look. You used to pray for and dread it all at once. It always made you feel like something close to prey, paralyzed and unable to flee his spell.
But this time is different. This time, there’s nothing you’d rather do but fall into his charm.
Dean presses another, small kiss to your lips, dragging his thumb over the tingling swell. Your tongue flicks against the pad of the finger, and he groans, pushing it slowly between your lips.
You wrap around him, sucking lightly, giving him your best, sweetest Bambi eyes. Dean’s throat bobs, his fingers digging into your ass.
“We’re goin’ home,” he mutters. “Then I’m gonna fuck you.”
That’s a lovely plan. You smile around his thumb, and he says your name, pulling his thumb away with a small pop.
“Jesus, you- You gotta tell me yes-“
“Just fuck me here,” you whisper, pulling on the collar of his shirt.
Dean glances to the backseat, then to you. “Uh- I mean- That’s- If you’re sure-“
“Please,” you push a little further forward, dropping your hand to press against the bulge in his jeans. “I need you, Dean. Now.”
And for a second, you think he’s going to demand going all the way back home. Say something about you deserving a soft bed and gentle loving, when you just want him, filthy and raw and yours. You’re so busy giving him doe eyes, you don’t notice his hand dragging down your spine and your ass, right up until it dips under your skirt, and cups your pussy through your panties.
You gasp, and Dean smirks, slowly rubbing his hand back and forth.
“Need me?” He drawls, pushing his thumb against your clit. “Like this, baby? This how you need me?”
“Ye- yes-“ Your lips brush over his, your hips starting to grind down as he drags his thumb in tiny circle, his hand still rocking back and forth. “Just- Just like that, Dean- Shit-“
You push down, kissing him with a sloppy, uncontrolled mouth. Dean grunts, splaying his free hand against your neck and pushing you down. He’s massive and warm, the hand working your pussy offering just enough friction to work you up, but nothing more. You wrap your arms around his neck, panting against his lips and moving you hips to chase more friction.
“That feels good, doesn’t it,” he mutters, kissing you between every word.
You coo, trying to kiss over his face, and Dean slaps your pussy once, leaning back with a stern glare.
“Doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” you answer immediately, already getting heavy-eyed and dazed. “So- So good, Dean, feels so good, just- More-“ You claw at his shoulders, trying to at least get to some bare skin, and settle for pressing your mouth back over his. “More- Need some more, De, now-“
Dean silences you with a deep, rough kiss, and taps his thumb against your clit in quick, harsh movements, pushing his palm down hard against your aching pussy. You cry out, trying to force your hips further down against him, and Dean squeezes that back of your neck.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Few months without some cock and you get bossy, don’t you.”
“No- No,” you manage to protest. “You’re just- You’re being slow-“
“I’m being slow?” He mocks, running his fingers over the line of your panties. “Baby, I’ve barely fuckin’ started.”
You try to roll your eyes at him, but he uses his hold on your neck to turn your head, forcing your gaze back down to his. Your eyes widen, and he smirks slightly, raising his brows.
“You gonna break out some manners for me?” He asks, slowly dragging your panties to the side. “Or am I gonna need to teach you again?”
“Te- Teach me?” You choke out, and Dean hums.
His thumb drags down from your clit, parting the lips of your pussy and smearing your arousal. Your heart is trying to hammer out of your chest, every nerve in your body seeming to respond to the mockingly sweet touch.
“Dean,” you press your hands against his chest, unsure if you want to push him away or drag him closer. “Don’t- Don’t be mean-“
“I’m not bein’ mean,” he hum, the gleam in his eyes something else all together. “I’m giving my girl exactly what she wants, how she wants it.”
You blink at him hopelessly, and he chuckles, pulling you down into a long, slow kiss. It would be romantic and loving, if it wasn’t for his thumb pushing at your weeping entrance, refusing to dip even a fraction of the way inside.
“Remember how you used to beg for me?” He mutters, and your face burns with a mix of arousal and shame. “I sure as shit do. Spent hours thinkin’ about it lately, planning how I was gonna take you when you let me again. But,” he switches out his thumb for the very tips of his fingers, yanking slightly on your hair when you try to look down. “Jesus, baby, I’m worried I’m gonna break you.”
You shake your head frantically, and Dean raises his brows.
“Words, pretty girl,” he reminds you, pushing his fingers just a little big deeper. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got it, talk to me-“
“I can take it,” you breathe out, watching him under fluttering lashes. “I- I can take it. I promise.”
Dean works his jaw, his grip on your hair tightening. “Sweetheart-“
“Please,” you breathe, leaning down until your noses bump. “I need it. I need you.”
Those are the magic words. Dean stops trying to play noble, stops trying to hold back for the sake of romance. You loved him when he fucked you like a whore and gave you nothing soft, and you’re going to love him even more when he treats you like a toy, then kisses you everywhere after.
Dean smashes his lips against yours and eases his fingers into your waiting pussy, groaning under his breath when you clench down around him.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, scissoring them inside you. “Never gonna get over how fuckin’ tight you are, sweetheart, like you were made for me. Made to be mine.”
He almost snarls the last words against your lips, pushing himself fully up to the knuckle. You mewl as he finds your g-spot with that precision that makes it look easy, that’s always made you sure you couldn’t ever enjoy someone else if you tried.
Dean pumps his fingers slowly, crooking them so they drag against that spot, and pulls you back to watch your face contort with pleasure.
“That’s it,” he grunts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming them right back in and twisting to bully against that sensitive spot. “That’s just how you like it, huh? Already gettin’ like this from just my fingers,” he chuckles, grinding his hips up against your thighs. “Imagine how you’re gonna be on my cock, sweet girl, if you can barely fuckin’ take this?”
“That- That’s not fair-“ You choke out, every word breathy and weak, and Dean just smirks.
“Isn’t it?”
You try to protest, but Dean pushes your head back down, and his kiss knocks almost every thought from your head. It’s all just the familiar, perfect way his mouth moves against yours, rememorizing something that never stopped being his. The wet sound of his fingers working you open fills the car, and your whole body burns with desire and shame. He’s right. You’re already soaked and ready for him, your cunt clenching down and still begging for more. You need that full, impossible split of him. After months of nothing, you’re worried his cock is the only thing that’s going to be able to do it.
But Dean seems to like proving you wrong today. A coil, tight in your stomach, starts to wind tighter and tighter. He drops his grip on your hair for a second to push down on the base of your spine, forcing your cunt almost right over his bulge. He reangles his hand, forcing in another finger, and you make a strangled sound.
“De- Dean-“
“We’re gonna get you relaxed, baby,” he mutters, twisting his wrist so the drag against your g-spot almost rips through your body. “Nice and relaxed ‘f me, you can do it.”
You let out a shaky breath, trying to listen, and your clit pushes down against Dean’s cock, still tight in his jeans. The pressure is perfect, combined with the brutal thrusts of Dean’s hand, and you press your cheek to his.
“That- That’s good,” you pant, clinging to the hem of his shirt. “So- Soo good-“
You whimper, and Dean hums. He’s rubbing your back, and that’s somehow almost as good as the hand obliterating your cunt. “There she is,” he mutters. “Always so good at listening when I got my hands on you, aren’t you sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your head. “That’s my girl.”
That’s what does it. My girl.
The coil snaps, and your orgasm rips through you, making your eyes cross and your body curl limply into Dean’s arms. His hand coaxes you through it, his palm rubbing against your pussy as you mewl and clench around nothing, the light pressure helping you ride it like a long, easy wave.
Dean kisses your cheek when it’s done, then right under your eye, then your nose.
“That’s one,” he mutters, and you whine. He chuckles, hiking your skirt up with light touches. “Come on, you know the rule.”
“Stupid rule,” you grumble. “Never agreed to it.”
“Never heard you complaining before,” he points out, peeling your dress off, and you stick out your tongue.
“That’s because I always forget- Dean!”
He smacks your ass, and you squeak, pussy clenching around nothing. He’s forming a tent in his jeans as he looks up at you, and you narrow your eyes. You fingers brush against the head of him, and his groan falters, his head tipping back against the bench.
You smile, pushing your hand down against his cock, and he catches your wrist, shooting you a stern glare.
“Not at young as I used to be,” he warns, and you giggle.
“But I want to,” you try to pull your hand free, and roll you eyes when he won’t let you. “Oh- Come on-“
“Nope,” he grunts, even as his dick jumps against the fabric. “You know the rule-“
“Dean-“
“Three to one,” he mutters, a dare gleaming in his eyes. “You give me one, I give you six. That’s the fuckin’ deal.”
You laugh, but his mouth doesn’t even twitch, and slowly, your smile falls into something more serious. More determined.
Damn this stubborn beautiful man and his orgasm rules. Damn you, for thinking he ever wouldn’t want to fuck you when he made you orgasm rules that weren’t proportional or fair at all.
You yank your wrist away, stick out your tongue again, and pull your underwear fully off. Dean watches you with his hands tight on your waist, eyes shining with curiosity, but patient.
And you’ve never been good at riding him, but you’ve always been good at this. You climb over Dean’s lap so your ass is near his shoulder and your face in his crotch, your back arched like some animal in heat, your pussy bare and on full display.
Dean’s never been able to help himself. One hand immediately slides around the arch of your back, then the curve of your ass, then settles back against your pussy. The other slides in your hair, petting your hair while you fumble with his belt. He chokes out your name, and you shoot him a glare, pulling out his cock with light, careful hands.
He’s so hard you’re worried he’s going to hurt himself. Pre-cum is beading around his tip, his veins throbbing like a porno. You stroke him slowly, and he lets out a sharp breath between his teeth.
“I’m serious, baby-“
“Prove it,” you say, before licking a slow, teasing stripe up his shaft.
And you know how this game ends. You’ve played it a million times before. The beautiful thing about it is that—especially when Dean thinks he’s winning—you can never lose.
You take him into his mouth, and the sound that he makes is sinful. It’s a choked, rough version of your name that sounds holy from his mouth, and comes with his fingers dipping into your heat like it’s a comfort toy. You take him until he bumps against the back of your throat and hum, swirling your tongue. Dean grunts, and pushes your head a little further down. You wiggle your ass, pussy cold and throbbing, and Dean groans.
“Jesus, woman- Gonna kill me- Fuuuuck-“
You start to bob up and down, sucking with that perfect pressure you know he likes, getting what can’t fit in your mouth in your hand. You can take him better and better with every second, letting his push against your gag reflex, and you drop that hand to play with his balls. Dean’s already giving shallow uncontrolled microthrusts, repeating your name over and over until it’s more of a choked moan.
“Can’t- Shit, baby, I can’t- That damn mouth, you’re gonna- Shit-“
You squeeze his balls and suck as hard as you can, and Dean almost roars your name, his cock jumping as he shoots thick, white ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, licking the rest off your fingers as you rise back up. There’s going to be a handprint on your ass, from where he was holding onto you. You hope you feel it in the morning.
And when you smile at Dean, you know you’re in trouble. Naked and wet for him, crawling forward so your tits press into his face and kissing him as sweetly as possible. Dean grunts, one hand shooting up to cradle the back of your head, and his responding kiss is deceptively gentle. He lets you lead it, groaning when your tongues press together, tasting himself on your lips. He lets you pull his shirt over his head and lets you trace over the lines of his muscles. You smile against his lips and lean back, and there’s that predatory glint again.
Dean’s hand twitches on your back. He wipes your chin, gathering some stray cum and slowly pressing his against your lips. You clean it off obediently, and his jaw ticks.
“Back seat,” he grunts. “Now.”
You almost scramble to listen. Rolling off of him and trying to climb over, making it halfway before you feel massive hands wrapping around your waist, holding you in place. You swallow, trying to twist over your shoulder to look at him, but Dean blows a sharp breath over your clit, and you double over with a squeak.
“De- Dean-“ You plant your hand on the bench, blood rushing to your cheeks. “Dean- wait-“
“Hmmm.” He kisses one curve of your ass, then the other. “Wait for what?”
You’re not really sure. “This- I- I can’t hold myself up,” you fumble, and he chuckles, kissing right over your clit.
“That gonna be a problem?” He teases, pressing smaller, faster kisses over the sensitive button. “Or,” he spreads your ass cheeks, humming against your heat. “Do dirty girls get what they asked for?”
Shit. “It’s uncomfortable,” you whisper, and Dean pauses.
He sighs, then kisses your clit again. You squeak when he drags you back down, and melt into his chest as he kisses all over your face, rocking you back and forth in his arms.
“’S why I wanted the bed,” he mutters, and you sigh.
“’M sorry-“
“No,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, massaging your hips with steady hands. “I’ve got it, just- uh-“
He glances up, and you watch him frown around the car with an openly adoring expression. The work of his jaw and furrow of his brow as he thinks, how he holds you so tight in his arms, it’s impossible to not love him.
“Got it,” he mutters. “Trust me?”
You nod easily, and he glances back down. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and this kiss isn’t feral or brutal. It’s just… slow. Adoring, a silent promise of what you’ve sort of always known.
Dean is going to take care of you.
He lays you out in the backseat, rubbing your thighs as you settle into the cushioned bench. You watch him with your heart in your throat, arms wrapped tight around your stomach. Sometimes, under his attention, you’re not sure what to do with yourself. He’s too pretty, too big, too much in the best possible way.
“Getting’ shy on me?” He teases, pushing up your knee, and you flush.
“N- No.”
“Hm,” Dean pins your leg against the bench, guiding the other one so it hooks over his shoulders. “Sounds like you’re gettin’ shy.”
You swallow, hugging yourself tighter, and he chuckles.
“All that work to make you relax,” he mutters, kissing his way up your thigh. “And you’re already wound back up.”
“You took too long,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” He kisses just the side of your cunt, and your breath hitches as he sucks a small, firm bruise into the skin. “You know I’m gonna make it up to you, yeah?”
You nod weakly, then blurt, “Yes!”
Dean’s mouth twitches, and he grabs one of your wrists, guiding it down to his hair. You weave it between your fingers, your breathing already ragged, your whole body lit up with anticipation.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, kissing the other side of your cunt, massaging your thigh and pushing your leg a little higher. “Nice and easy, pretty girl.” He kisses you pussy, open-mouthed and wet, and you let out a high, shameless sound.
His mouth should be classified as a sex toy or something. It moves and works against you like a machine, kissing you with so much fervor you already start to see stars. You had some recovery from the fingering, but Dean’s already stripping it away with sharp, unrelenting kisses and grazes of his teeth against your clit.
“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against you, the word vibrating through your body. “Never wanna live without this pussy again, baby girl, shit-“
He groans and dives back down, starting to work you open like a man starved. You push on his head, silently begging for more, afraid to open your mouth. The sounds that leave you will be embarrassing, and you’re already too far gone for them.
But Dean likes you loud, and he won’t let you hold back. He hooks his arm fully around your leg, dragging you further down, giving him a better against your pussy. You mewl when he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking impossibly hard, and Dean laughs against your cunt.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ You grab at the front bench, yanking mindlessly on his short hair. “De- Dean- Oh my god-“
He groans, pushing his face impossibly further. His tongue is deliberate and thick, pumping in and out of your cunt before pressing flat on your clit and dragging back and forth. It’s enough to drive you mad, making the coil in your stomach burn and burn and burn until your whole body is shaking with the sensation.
“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “You- Fuck-“
He nips at your clit, dragging a long, slow stripe up your pussy. Your eyes lock, and you swallow, a broken moan falling from your lips. The first time he did this, he told you that he loved it. That there was nothing better than a woman, right on his face, dripping and sweet for him. It didn’t take you long to believe him.
Here, he looks at you like you’re some kind of heaven he’s been allowed to touch. His mouth never stops moving against you, his eyes lidded and almost drunk, and your arousal shining on his face whenever he reangles it to devour you a new way. It’s a sight that could knock you off your feet, if you had any left to stand on. Dean on his knees, his broad, freckled shoulders forcing your knees apart, his attention a drug you never want to bother being clean from again.
You start to shake, your stomach seizing up as you fight off your orgasm, but Dean doesn’t tolerate that either. His mouth goes back against your clit, his tongue darting up and down and back and forth in tiny motions, almost tickling it, making the little nerves light up and-
You cum with a loud, choked sound that’s really supposed to be Dean’s name, and push at his head. You expect him to stop, and finally get on top of you.
But you forgot about his stupid orgasm rule, and he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens and he starts to make out with your overstimulated pussy. You squeak, pushing weakly at his head, and his eyes gleam.
“De- Dean- Fuuuuck- That’s-“ Your eyes roll back, your body seizing up again, almost unable to take so much. “Oh- Oh my gooood-”
Dean groans against you again, and it’s worse than a vibrator. It’s warm and deep and Dean, mixed with his filthy mouth and stubble, scraping against soft skin.Your thighs lock around his head and he lets them, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulls you fully onto your back, pushing himself up onto his knees. His cock bounces against his stomach but he ignores it, using his now free hand to grope at your breast. You moan, clenching around nothing as he laps at your clit and pussy.
“I- I can’t-“ Tears spring at your eyes. “Dean- Please-“
He hums, rolling your nipple between deft fingers, and you throw your head back with a broken moan.
Warm, thick fingers weave through yours, and you blink at him under watery lashes. He’s let go of your breast to hold your hand. His thumb is dragging slowly back and forth, and his mouth isn’t slowing down, but you don’t want it to. You can see the challenge shining in his eyes. You take a ragged breath, give him the smallest nod, and he smiles against your pussy.
You didn’t know the human tongue could move that fast. You’re sure it’s not supposed to, but Dean’s never cared about things like that. He drinks you up like wine, rapidly toying with your clit—swirling and kissing and flicking and sucking like it’s candy—and your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm springs through your body like a geyser.
Dean lowers you down slowly, pressing one last kiss to your swollen kiss before rising back up, wiping his chin of your release and cleaning it off his fingers with a smug grin. His cock is at attention, and your mouth waters. He always gets it in. You’re a little afraid of it right now.
“Six?” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.
“You’re the one who pushed for it, princess.”
“It- It’s your stupid rule-“
“You love it,” he shrugs, slowly settling himself back between your legs. “And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you, baby.”
You wrinkle your nose, and Dean gives you a stern, amused look.
“Aren’t you?” He taps the head of his cock against your cunt, and you squeak.
“Dean-“
“You’re the one who got bratty and cocky, sweetheart,” he drawls, pushing your leg back down. “So you’re gonna take it, ‘cause I know you can.”
You swallow, giving him your best doe-eyes, and he just chuckles. Dean lowers himself down, presses a gentle kiss to your brow, and murmurs against your skin.
“That ain’t gettin’ you out of this.”
You press your face into the crook of his neck, and Dean smiles, kissing the side of your head.
“All shy again,” he mutters, dragging that massive cock between the lips of your pussy. “Let’s take care of that, huh?”
You cling to him as he rolls you both over, guiding your legs to straddle his torso and lining up his cock with your weeping, abused pussy. He pulls you gently up, rubbing your side and watching you a painfully adoring gaze. You try to cover yourself again, and he catches your hand, shaking his head.
“Come on,” he mutters, weaving your fingers together. “Let me see you.”
And damn him for being so soft and sweet, you don’t think you could tell him no if you wanted.
“Take it easy,” he says, wrapping both of his hands around your waist. “All you, baby. Show me what you want.”
“I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.”
You believe him, in a way you’d never believe anyone else. It might be how he looks at you. Like you’re an angel over him, like you’re really, truly letting him enter paradise as you sink down onto his cock.
He grunts, his fingers tightening against your body as his cock slowly splits you open. Even with how much he’s worked you open—your pussy so wet it’s already dripping onto his thighs—it’s a tight fit. You can feel every vein dragging inside of you, the hard curve pressing right into your g-spot and making you flutter around him.
Dean jerks his head up, squeezing his eyes shut, and you swallow.
“Sorry-“
“’S- ‘S alright,” he exhales sharply, relaxing back into the seat. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, baby. I’m good.”
A smile ghosts over your lips, even as you start to only breathe through your nose. “You look it,” you tease, and Dean gives you a half annoyed, half impressed look.
“You’re tight,” he grunts, and your smile widens.
“You’re big.”
He groans, throwing his head further back, and you giggle again. He’s sitting just right again, his chest rippling under your hands, and you feel like that angel. You feel like a goddess, with how his hands are dragging over your body, how your name falls from his lips.
“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, eyes raking over your body. “So perfect.”
You take a deep breath, and start to grind down onto his cock. Dean groans, one hand dragging down to squeeze your ass, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless you beg him, and you’re determined not to. You can ride him until your thighs give out. His cock bumps against your g-spot, and his abdomen drags near your clit, and it feels good. You rock back and forth a little faster, your breath catching, and Dean groans.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Pretty fuckin’ girl, riding my cock like the needy little thing you are, aren’t you. So fuckin’ wet for me, baby, so- so tight-“
He groans, and you push down on his chest, picking up your pace.
“So big, Dean,” you moan, pushing up your chest like a pornstar, trying to make him break first. “You’re so big, feels so- so good-“
You moan, tossing your hair, and Dean makes an almost feral sound.
But he doesn’t break. The bastard never breaks, and you’ve never been good at riding him. Your thighs are already sore, and they quickly start to ache, making your movements smaller and weaker. Dean watches you start to whine, your brow furrowing in concentration, and just smiles. You both know what he’s waiting for. You don’t want to give in.
“So quiet, sweetheart,” he coos, running his hand up to palm at your breast. “Someone drove by, they’d think I wasn’t fuckin’ you properly.”
You glare at him, unable to even speak, and he chuckles.
“You know what you gotta do, baby girl.”
“Fu- Fuck you-“
“I will,” he winks. “If my girl says please.”
Your eyes narrow. His grin widens, and you think you might be about to fly apart with how bad you need it. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid face that you love and his big cock that makes you all jelly and dazed thoughts and useless.
“Please-“
The word barely leaves your mouth before Dean moves. A single, well-aimed thrust up into your cunt that makes you fall apart. You fall forward onto his chest with a scream, and Dean groans, giving shallower, gentle thrusts to work you through the orgasm.
“I know,” he murmurs in you ear, his words painfully soft in comparison to the pleasure wracking your body. “I know, princess. Two more to go.”
You don’t think you can take two more. Four has been your max for a very long time, and that was with a lot more prep time and space between orgasms. But Dean doesn’t seem like he’s going to give you much of a choice.
You’re a doll in his arms again, when he hauls you up into his lap. His cock leaves you for a single second, just for the adjustment, and you whimper at the loss.
Dean hums, kissing all over your face as he slides back in.
“That’s my girl,” he starts to rock your hips back and forth with steady hands, picking you up then dropping your back down so his dick drags through every inch of your heat. “Takin’ me so good. Just like that, feel that, baby-“ He pushes on your lower back, making his cock slam against your g-spot, and you sob against his neck. “Feel how fuckin’ good we fit together, my girl.”
Dean’s voice is lined with something darker now. More possessive and hungry. He fucks up into your like an animal, dips drilling forward and mouth attached to your neck. All you can do is take it, over and over until your eyes are crossing and the only words you can remember are babbles of Dean and please.
The neck orgasm is slow, blooming from where he’s slamming against your cervix and spreading pleasantly through your body. Dean moans against your skin, mouthing at your jaw and neck, his tongue dragging and kisses messy. When you try to kiss him back, it’s mostly with a mewl and lips that follow his lead. Everything is humid and light in your body, everything is Dean around you, and there’s a new, strangely hot sensation in your core that’s demanding all of your attention.
It’s tighter than the usual coil, and gets hotter and hotter with every thrust of Dean’s cock. He’s getting uneven now, his own words falling into pants and moans, his balls slapping against your ass and hands leaving prints as he folds you fully over his chest.
“One- One more-“ His voice is gravelly, almost as wrecked as you feel. “Milk my fuckin’ cock, baby girl, cum for me-“
You open your mouth to warn him about the strange feeling, but it’s too late. Dean slams home, crashing his mouth against yours, and you cum with a hoarse scream. Hot cum shoots into your cunt, right as something gushes out of you in wet, burning waves. It feels good, so good you can’t think, so good your mouth hangs open and your moans turn into pathetic, weak babbles.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ Dean groans against your mouth. “Fuckin’- Yes-“
Your body seizes and twitches around him, but even when he’s done, Dean doesn’t pull out. The last of your release pushes itself out and her collapses backward, rubbing your back and craning his neck to grin at your cockdrunk expression.
“Gettin’ stupid?” He teases, and you can’t manage to raise an arm, so you just bite his nose. He laughs, leaning up to steal another, quick kiss from your lips before settling back down.
You curl over him, resting your head against his shoulder while he pets your head, both of you still panting and coming back down. You might be there for a hundred years, or just an hour. It doesn’t matter. The car is going to reek of sex for maybe a year. Sam might never agree to ride in it again. But it was worth it. More than worth it, when you look up at Dean, and find him—just as always—already looking back.
“We’re still dating, right?” You whisper, because you have to be sure.
Dean grins, and kisses you slowly. You hum, letting your eyes flutter shut. Letting him carry you, whenever he thinks is safe to go.
“Yeah,” he mutters, and you can hear it in his voice. All the love he’s been trying to show you, for who knows how long. “We are."
✦End note: if i write enough of these it's gonna happen to me guys trust ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦summary: dean learns, slowly, that he's actually pretty good at being boyfriend material. it would be nice if you'd stop pining after him long enough to notice✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, friends with benefits to lovers, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love because it's the best way to be, dean's down so bad, shameless smut (facesitting, praise kink, big dick dean, fingering, pussy spanking, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, mean dean, dean has an orgasm rule and you. benefit. dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 12.5k✦
✦author's note: request! super normal about this one✦
You tell yourself, over and over again, that this is going to be the last time. It’s not something that’s meant to be held onto, so you can just… let go.
But then you find yourself here. Between tangled sheets with your legs spread wide, your nails digging into Dean’s bicep and his cock dragging through your wet, sensitive cunt.
“There you go,” he coos in your ear, every thrust deep and rough. “That’s my girl, takin’ me so good, so- Good-“
Dean moans, pressing up against the soft, gummy spot inside of you, and your eyes roll back in your head.
He always does this. He knocks on your door and grabs your face between big hands, and suddenly all that resolve and determination—never again—dissolves with your willpower. His hands are rough and calloused, but trace your hips and hold you down so gently, you can almost pretend he cares if you break. His cock is thick and impossibly long, and he always drags it between your soaked heat and bumps it against your clit before pushing himself in just right. His lips are chapped and soft, sucking possessive marks into your neck that he has no right to claim, but that doesn’t stop you from running your fingers through his hair and holding him right where he is. He wouldn’t dare to leave. Not in the middle of this. Not before you’ve both gotten what you want.
What Dean wants. You don’t let yourself pretend that this is everything you need anymore. It’s the only hope you have of one day telling him no, because the rest of you control rests on a thin rope, and it always slips from your hands the moment Dean touches you like you matter.
You never walk away from him with an aching, unsatisfied body. A few nights ago he put you on his face and made you ride until your thighs were shaking and tears were springing into your eyes. Before this, he spit on your cunt and scissored you open with thick, careful finger, kissing and nipping at your thighs as your greedy pussy swallowed him right up to the knuckle. Even now, as every roll of his hips becomes smaller—as his face twists in concentration and his mouth against your jaw becomes desperate—Dean’s thumbing at your clit, trying to get you over the edge with him.
“C’mon, baby, c’mon-“ He pushes himself up to his knees, forcing a deeper, rougher angle. “Show me what you’ve got, I know you can do it, come on-
You whimper, staring up at him under lidded, glazed eyes. The whole world is just a blur of color at this point, but Dean is bright and clear. The heave of his broad shoulder and chest, every muscle in his arm as he wraps it around your waist and makes you arch your back, the flex of his abdomen as he ruts forward like a feral dog. The sharp, unforgiving thrusts are making your head spin with pleasure, turning you into a boneless wreck of need. You grab his arm, trying to steady yourself against something, and Dean’s attention rips up.
He says he likes to watch himself fuck you, and you’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s spent whole sessions just staring at his cock or fingers splitting your cunt open. He likes putting you on his face because he can watch you react. You like it better like that, usually. The eye contact is too close. Too intimate. Too real.
But you grab him, and he looks at you, and it’s almost like a shot. His eyes are blown-out and so strangely soft, staring at your wrecked, open expression with too much, too much, too much-
“De- Deeean-“ You cry it out like a pray, because it is. Dean grunts, hips snapping, the wet sound filling up the air and his eyes never leaving yours. “Dean- Dean- Fuck, please- Please-“
You’re babbling. You never do that with anyone else, but Dean is Dean, and he makes you do things you never counted yourself capable of. He groans your name, and you squeal when he drags you up, off the mattress and straddling his thighs. Your clit drags against his abdomen, his cock bullies right against your g-spot, and Dean grabs your jaw with a single, painfully gentle hand.
“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, still holding your gaze, even as your eyes start to cross. “Soak this fuckin’ cock, baby, cum-“
You almost scream as your orgasm rips through you, and Dean crashes his mouth against yours, eating every whimper and moan with harsh lips and his tongue down your throat. You press into him, pussy gushing and fluttering around his dick, and he makes that deep, rumbling sound that always comes right before-
“Shit-“ Dean gasps against your mouth, pulling you so close you can’t feel anything but the heat of his bare chest, the sensation of his cock twitching and pumping in your cunt. “Fuuck-“
Dean moans your name, and a warm, pleasant heat starts to spread through your tummy and drip between your thighs. He doesn’t stop moving until his cock is softened, and you don’t try to stop him. You’re barely more than a limp doll right now, returning his kisses with tiny mewls, eyes crossed and body limp.
For a moment after it’s done, you stay tangled together. You always do. It’s the most dangerous part of the whole thing, because it feeds that tiny little fool in your chest, who refuses to believe that this is just sex. Who takes your heartstrings and weaves grand worlds where Dean loves you back, and you’re going to be just fine.
Dean kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter closed. There’s an advantage, to being a crybaby whenever he fucks you stupid. He never once has considered that the tears might be real.
“Think you can walk?” He mutters, still buried deep inside of you, still holding you like he cares.
You shake your head, and his mouth twitches against yours.
“Alright, pretty girl. I’ve got you.”
And you press your face into the crook of his neck, letting that fool take you over. She takes his words as gospel. My girl and I’ve got you and Baby, they’re exactly what he means and nothing more, nothing less.
When the logical part of your brain wakes back up—Dean’s always had this ability to hit a button in you, sliding his hand around the back of your neck and making all your thoughts just bubblegum feelings and electric colors—you’re going to remember why you always say this has to be the last time.
He’s perfect, and he’s not yours. He makes that perfectly clear, until he pulls these little stunts and ends up buried between your thighs. You agreed that he wasn’t yours, when this arrangement started.
Safer with someone you know, he’d told you, like he hasn’t fucked his way across the entire country. Easier. Nothing to worry about, when it’s you and me.
And you’d been a starry-eyed, gooey hearted fool who just wanted whatever part of Dean he was willing to show you. The burning love you kept tended in your ribs hadn’t seen a problem with adding fuel to the wildfire, even if Dean was never going to see it. But now he’s carrying you to the bathroom like a princess, and he’s going to be gone in the morning, and that wildfire is an inferno. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You can map out everything he’d ever say in response to your feelings, from the harsh sneer he would’ve given when he had the Mark of Cain, to the kinder let down you’d get now.
You’re too young, he’d say, like it was a consolation prize. And I like you, sweetheart, but I don’t do this kinda thing. Not with girls young enough to be my daughter. Not with kids that I hunt with. Not with you.
You press your face further into his neck. He’s always so warm and sturdy, a massive tree that’s offering you just as much shade crushing, unbearable weight and tangled roots that keep you pressed down. He smells like leather and whiskey and something perfectly, faintly spice. You want to drown in it. You want to drown in him.
“You good?” Dean asks, and his voice is too gentle. It rattles the little fool, screaming for the rest of you to listen and just accept that he loves you.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.
“You’re bein’ quiet, even for- Y’know-“ He chuckles, that low, insufferably charming pride crawling into his voice. “After I fuck you dumb.”
“You did not fuck me dumb,” you mumble against his skin, and you can hear his grin.
“Big words from the girl who couldn’t talk five minutes ago.”
“That was unrelated.”
“Unrelated,” he echoes, his thumb dragging a small circle against your spine. “Always forget how bratty you get after, sweetheart. Dangerous.”
You roll your eyes, and hug him tighter. He laughs, and kisses the side of your head, and he has the nerve to call you dangerous.
“You wanna watch a movie?” He asks, leaning down to run the water, still keeping you tucked so carefully against his chest, and all you can do is nod. Dean sighs. “C’mon, gimme a little more than that-“
“Yes, please,” you mumble, and he pauses.
It’s only a fraction of a second. You don’t understand it, and you don’t want to. Not when he feeds your delusions and kisses your brow again, then your cheek, then your lips. And you let him. You always let him, because you’re a foolish, stupid, lovesick idiot. You don’t want his affection, not like this. But you don’t want to lose him—it would be like ripping a vital organ out of your ribcage, even if you didn’t know you had it a year ago—and you can’t ever tell him to stop being so sweet without explaining yourself, and getting that gentle, horrible let down.
You don’t want it. You don’t want any of it. And this, this had to be the last time.
You hold the line. You don’t know how, but you hold that line with white knuckles and grit teeth and a taste like bile in the back of your throat.
Dean knocks on the door, only two nights later, and you don’t answer. He calls your name and you sink into the mattress, praying he just thinks you’re asleep.
“I just- Uh- I wanted to talk?” He says, and you press your face into the pillow like that can somehow shield you. “Really, that’s it. Just talking, so- If you could-“
Dean sighs. You can hear the please, hanging between every word, but Dean doesn’t really say please. He just begs with everything else in him, or gives up. And you can picture him running his hand over his face, the heavy look in his eyes, the defeated sag in his shoulders. It’s like a knife being driven through your gut, and you sit up, ready to open the door-
“Alright,” he mutters, and you freeze. “Night, baby. Sleep well.”
Footsteps retreat, and you stay there on the mattress, frozen and lost, adrift in a sea you dove into.
But you did it. You held the line.
And you keep it. It makes sweat bead and your skin burn, but you close the door and don’t open it back up. You’re done, and you’re going to keep it that way.
Dean doesn’t ask questions. You don’t know if you want him to or not, but it doesn’t matter, because you catch him staring and giving out signals, but he’s taken your no in stride, and doesn’t seem to have any plans to push back against it. When this started, you agreed to leave out a specific book on the war room table if either of you wanted something. Dean starts to leave it out every night, and you never go to his door, and one night, it vanishes.
And that’s fine. That’s exactly what you wanted.
And if it feels like you’re dying because of it, and if you spend an hour over the toilet dry heaving that night, that’s no one’s business but your own.
“Dean’s been grumpy lately,” Sam says one morning, and you blink at him over your coffee.
“Grumpy? Dean? That’s- Woah-“
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Sam gives you a flat look. “You know what I mean. Grumpier.”
You shrug, looking back to your mug. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”
“Uh huh.”
You can feel Sam’s stare. It makes you itchy and small, and you’re not sure if you want to punch him or run. You settle for staring at your coffee harder. It’s the easiest course of action.
“Dean needs to get laid,” Sam repeats your words, something strange—almost sharp—in his tone, and you nod.
“That’s what I said.”
“Dean-“
“What’s up?” Dean walks into the kitchen, stopping right behind you, and you hunch over like you can grow a shell to protect yourself.
Even just a few feet away, he’s always so warm.
“Uh- Hey, Dean-“
“Hey,” Dean mocks back, and Sam huffs.
“Dude-“
“Shut your face-“
“I didn’t say anything- I-“ Sam says your name, and you glance up. His brow is furrowed with worry, his eyes locked on Dean behind you. “We were just-“
“Just what?” Dean snaps. “Just talking? Shooting the shit, getting real comfortable?”
Sam sighs. “Dean-“
“I got a gun, Sammy,” Dean points firmly, and you stare at his finger like a woman driven mad with thirst. “Don’t forget that.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “We all have guns, that- That threat doesn’t do anything-“
“I’ll show you doing something- Hey-“
Dean says your name, and you freeze. You’d been trying to slip out while they fought, but Dean—goddamn him—had noticed. He always notices. You love him so much it’s going to make you cave in on yourself, and maybe take the whole bunker with you, like a dying star.
He catches your arm, and you can’t stop yourself from looking at him. His brow is knit, his jaw locked, and his handsome face has deep lines you only used to see when the world was ending. There are bags under his eyes. Deeper than usual. You want to smooth the lines with your thumb and kiss his jaw until he relaxes, but that’s not your ache to soothe.
Dean doesn’t say anything. You can’t say anything. He looks exhausted, and there’s a lump forming in your throat.
“You- You hungry?” Dean rasps, and you’re starving.
“No,” you breathe before you can think, and Dean swallows.
“Well, when you’re hungry- There’s a diner in town-“
“Henry’s?”
“No, uh- A new one. I- I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go, later, or something.”
“Or something?” You tilt your head, and Dean nods.
“Whatever you want.”
God, he’s cruel. He’s perfect and cruel, and you want to vomit on his flannel and kiss him until you pass out.
“Oh- Okay,” you say, because you’re only so strong.
The lines in Dean’s face relax. His grip loosens. Then Sam coughs, and Dean lets you go.
The diner is… nice. Nice and easy, in a way you haven’t felt in longer than you want to admit. Dean insists on driving you, and paying, and sitting in one of those booths with your feet bumping under the table.
He presses his knee forward, while he orders. You swallow and don’t allow yourself to think much of it. He’s warm through his jeans, but he’s always warm, and he hasn’t tried anything in a few weeks, so you allow it. Your love for him hasn’t been flickering out, but the harsh wind of his absence has made everything feel colder. It’s okay, to indulge yourself in something so small. You’re still keeping it together. You’re still holding the line.
“So, uh-“ Dean clears his throat, turning his bottle in his hands. “How are you?”
“How- Am I?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly. “I- I’m okay. How are you?”
“Good. Great.” He frowns at the table. “You know. Same as always.”
You almost laugh. “You’re always great?”
“I focus on the positives, sweetheart-“
“No, you don’t.”
He rolls his eyes, glancing up to hold your light, amused gaze. His mouth twitches. His fingers tap against the glass, and you try not to let yourself sink too deep into the attention.
It’s okay to drown a little. A long as you don’t drop the line.
“Maybe I’m turning a new leaf,” he says, and your face splits into a full smile.
“You?”
“Yeah, me. Why’d you say it like that-“
“Because you’ve never turned a leaf in your life-“
“Ah-“ He points the head of his bottle at you with a grin. “Not true. Remember when I started learning guitar?”
“Yeah, you smashed it on a werewolf’s head after a month.”
“That was a tactical choice, I would’ve kept playing if the wolf didn’t get in the way.”
“Uh huh.” You lean back in your seat, crossing your arms. “What songs had you learned to play?”
Dean’s nose wrinkles. “Hey, we don’t need to talk about that-“
“I think we do.”
“Nah, I mean- I only had a month-“
“You learned how to work a rocket launcher in a week.”
“That’s just buttons and triggers, sweetheart. Even you could work it.”
“Even I?” You raise your brows—trying not to let the delight shine too bright in your voice—and Dean freezes.
“I mean- uh- You’re not great with guns, and- I could teach you-“
“You could teach me.”
“Maybe? If you wanted- Or-“ Dean groans, slumping back. “Stop givin’ me that look.”
“I’m not giving you any look,” you tease, and Dean sighs.
“Will you stop if I say I’m an idiot?”
You soften slightly. “You’re not an idiot, Dean-“
“You sure?” He grumbles. “Kinda feeling like one right now.”
You laugh, but it’s gentle. You can almost see him pushing down into himself. It makes you heavy for him, like you’re trying to take that invisible weight off his shoulders, even if he can’t feel you helping the pain. “You’re a dork,” you say, bumping his knee under the table. “But you’re not an idiot.”
Dean grunts, watching you under hooded eyes, and you smile easily.
You missed this, more than you want to tell him. Just talking, without worrying that it’s going to end in world-changing, back-breaking, beautifully heart-aching sex. He feels like your friend again, closer to your fingertips than he’d been when he was balls deep inside of you.
“Wonderwall,” he grunts suddenly. “And Hallelujah.”
You blink. “What?”
“Those were the songs,” he mutters, picking at the label of his bottle. “That I got, before I smashed the guitar.”
“Oh,” you pause. “I love Hallelujah.”
“Yeah. I know.”
You stare at him, and he stares right back. A faint flush is threatening your cheeks, so you duck your head to hide it, and Dean lets out a soft laugh.
“You alright-“
“Yep. I- I’m good-“
“You look good.” Dean laughs again, when you shoot him a glare. “Don’t gimme that face, I’m saying something nice-“
“You’re being a butt,” you stick out your tongue, and his eyes dance with an easy kind of light that almost makes your heart stop.
“You’re the one who was callin’ me old earlier,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes.
“You are old.”
“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you, has it.”
Your mouth falls open, eyes going so wide it almost hurts, and Dean grins at you. If you weren’t shocked into static, you’d slap him or- or lunge across the table and kiss him-
Hold the line.
“Aged wine is supposed to be better,” you manage to say, somehow, and Dean laughs, loud and free.
“That all I am to you? Some wine?”
“No,” you smile at your plate. “You’re also very good cheese.”
“Good cheese, huh.”
“Mhm.” You point a stern finger at him. “No puns.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but dips his head. “Yes, ma’am.”
There’s the flush. You’d keep trying to hide it, if Dean didn’t start talking about something unimportant and easy, and suddenly you forgot to be embarrassed. He’s not trying to kiss you or get you back to the car. He’s just… Talking to you. Dropping that light, teasing praise like it’s nothing, then telling you a story about when he used a tuba to beat a poltergeist, grinning like a winner every time you laugh.
When lunch is over, he rests a hand lightly on your lower back, but doesn’t do much more. He kisses your cheek when you get back to the bunker, and asks if you want to watch a movie tomorrow night. You swallow, locking your hands together like they can force the line to stay firm. Dean says your name, almost panicked, and you blink up at him.
“Just a movie,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Out in town, at- Uh- That shitty theatre next to the coffee place. Or- I can try and find a drive-in, if those still exist-“
“They do,” you say softly, and he swallows. “There’s one out in Beloit.”
“Beloit,” Dean mutters. “Yeah- Yeah, okay. You wanna go there?”
You nod, and he grins. You smile back, and it feels… Different. Shy, in a way you haven’t been around him since he first started fucking you. Almost delicate. You weren’t supposed to let this feel like something delicate.
Dean jaw works, and you can almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes. He lurches slightly, brow furrowed, then pulls back up. You’re seconds from asking him what’s wrong when he just leans down and… does it.
His lips graze your cheek, his hand brushing against your waist, and you almost melt right into him.
But then he stands back up, and takes a large step away. You swallow, resisting the urge to reach up and brush your fingers over where he kissed. It’s not like he’s never done that before, but again.
It just feels different.
“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and you nod weakly.
If you had a mind that was thinking in more than bursts of glee and songs of Dean, Dean, Dean, you’d tell him that you live together, and he’s always going to see you tomorrow. But he walks away, and you let him, and it doesn’t hurt. There’s a space that he left, but something in you seems to think he’s going to come back. You can’t tell if it’s the fool or not.
For once, you decide not to try.
The movie is nice. Dean rests his hand on your knee, but doesn’t go any higher. You lean into his side, and his arm goes around your shoulders, but there’s no kissing or dragging into the back seat, and you didn’t know there could be a better way to be close to him. Sex is great. Looking up and finding him already watching you is better.
He brushes some hair from your face, and you half expect him to kiss you. His eyes dart down to your lips like he wants to. Your fingers curl in his shirt, and his throat bobs.
“You likin’ the movie?” He whispers, and you nod.
“Good find,” you breathe, and he grins.
“Thanks. Eat the popcorn, it cost me a billion bucks.”
You roll your eyes, and throw some of the over-buttered, half-burnt popcorn at his face. He laughs, catches a kernel in his mouth, and grabs your chin between two fingers. Your breath catches. He just turns your face back to the screen, and pulls you a little closer into his side.
The movie ends the same way the diner did. Dean walks you to your bedroom door like it’s the porch of your house, kisses your cheek, then walks away.
Then, after the movie, you play mini golf. You win, but you know he let you. He buys you a snow cone and licks it off his nose when he eats it like a rabid dog. You wipe a little extra off his cheek, and he stares at you, but still doesn’t kiss you. Not fully. His hand seems to always rest on your lower back, now, but that’s all the contact you get. All that you allow.
Hugs are on the table, too. They’re somehow more dangerous than the forehead kisses. After the hugs, he sometimes just stares at you and cups your cheek, and your heart moves into your throat until you think you’re going to spill it out all over his chest.
You manage to keep it together. For the sake of this new, slowly growing garden of what your friendship is becoming, you swallow your love with greater ease and more bile than you ever did while you were fucking. After the mini golf you get dinner and see another movie. You convince him to go on a walk with you, and he hates it less than he pretends to. You eat together in the bunker and call when he’s on a hunt with Sam and go to a car show and it all feels like breathing.
Sometimes he still looks at your mouth, and you freeze up, unsure if you want him to kiss you or not. You know you want him, but somehow you’ve found even more to lose than before, and if it slips through your fingers, you’re not sure they’re ever going to stop shaking and groping at the empty spaces again. You can take holding his hand in the bookstore while he peers over your shoulder, pretending to be interested for no real reason other than to make you smile.
“There are so many of them,” he mutters, and you giggle.
“There’s a lot of ways to write words, Dean.”
“Yeah, but- You’d think there would be repeats or something.”
“There probably are,” you shrug, running your fingers over the spines. “But they’re still all fun.”
Dean sighs, squeezing your upper arm. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and all his features relax.
“You want some coffee?” He brushes some hair from your face and you nod.
“There’s a shop next door, could you get me-“
“Hey,” Dean flicks your nose, grinning roguishly. “Trust me, I know what you want.”
You nod a little stupidly, and his smile falters. He looks to your lips again, then almost shakes himself, taking a small step.
“Don’t move,” he squeezes your arm again, then backs away. You watch him go, unable to help yourself, and smile when he looks back. He does that all the time now. And he always smiles back.
You turn back to the shelf, looking at the books without actually looking. You already miss him, and he told you not to move, but that can’t count if you’re going to stand next to him in the coffee line, can it-
“Hey.”
You fumble slightly, turning to find a man leaning against the shelf and smirking at you. You blink, and his smirk widens.
“What’s girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”
“The… Bookstore?” You frown, and he laughs. You don’t think you said anything all that funny.
“Look, I just- I saw you from over there,” he nods vaguely, and you frown. “And I thought you were cute. Can I get you some coffee or something?”
“My- My friend is already getting me coffee,” you say, and your voice sounds strangely far away.
The man nods, but doesn’t retreat. “Alright, then can I get your number? Maybe beat your friend to coffee next time?”
And you don’t want to say yes, but this is a chance. To hold onto this new friendship with Dean while also getting over him at the same time. This man isn’t ugly. Compared to Dean, no one really stands a chance anyway, and you have to get over him eventually.
So you give him your number, and try not to feel like you just did something wrong.
Dean clears his throat from behind you, and you spin around on your heels, a sour guilt twisting in your gut.
“You- You’re back,” you say, and he grunts.
He’s not look at you. He’s glaring at the man with the same, deadly glint that he gives monsters and demons before he cuts them in half. You touch his arm lightly, and he tenses. You feel sick.
“Hey, buddy,” he snaps at the man, who—not seeming to understand the gravity of Dean’s glare—grins back.
“Hey.” He winks at you, slowly backing away. “Have fun with your friend.”
Dean’s coffee spills over the top of it’s lid. He doesn’t look away from the man when he leaves the store. He shoves your drink into your hand, not meeting your gaze.
“Dean-“
“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he mutters, and you swallow.
“Oh- Okay.”
Your arm wraps around your stomach, and you press a little away from him, from the wrath seeming to wave off his body like a volcano. He glances down, jaw tight and a vein in his brow ticking. You stare at his neck, unable to hold the weight of his gaze. He lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.
“Get your book.”
You shake you head. “No- It- It’s okay-“
Dean says your name, and your mouth snaps shut. “Just- Get the damn book.”
He looks like he’s in pain, and you don’t know how to fix it, so you do as he says. You get a cheap one, that worm of guilt burrowing deeper and deeper into your gut until you can’t even drink your coffee without feeling like it’s going to come back up.
Dean’s fingers dig into your back, when he guides you out the door. He starts the engine by almost punching in the keys, and holds Baby’s wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. You can see all the anger brimming under the surface of his skin, and worried you’re just going to make it worse. You don’t even know where it came from. It’s not like you’re together, or the guy said something rude. You open and close your mouth too many times to count, then give up, shrinking back into your seat.
Dean looks over at you. You try to look out the window, and nowhere else.
A loud, sharp breath escapes him. “Son of a- Alright.”
You look over with a frown, then squeak when he yanks the wheel off to the side.
“Shit- Dean-“
“Just- Fuck-“ He bows he head, glaring down at his legs, and you swallow.
You fidget with your fingers, watching him nervously, waiting for him to break the silence. It takes while. So long you think about just getting out of the car to give him space.
But then he looks up, and your heart gets cleaved open. His face is twisted in pain, his lips parted and his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard.
“What-“ He takes a deep breath, scanning over your openly confused features. “What else am I supposed to be doin’?”
You blink at him, fingers curling in your lap. “What?” You ask softly, and his throat bobs.
“I- I’m really trying,” he mutters, looking back to his hands. “I swear to god, baby, I’m tryin’ my best, and- I know I ain’t amazing at this but- If you could throw a guy a rope when he’s never- I’ve never done this, alright.” He waves between your bodies, jaw clenched tight. “And I’m really givin’ it my best shot, but I’m still not allowed to kiss you, and you’re takin’ numbers right- Right in front of me- So just- Something.” He gives you a pleading, broken look, eyes shining on yours in the dark. “Anything.”
You open your mouth, but you can’t even figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to say. You know all the words he’s saying, but it’s like he’s speaking a language you never learned, spitting out a code you’re just supposed to magically understand. Dean’s jaw ticks, when you don’t answer, and you try to sputter out an answer, but he’s too loud to hear your confused whimper.
“Look, just- Whatever the hell you do need me to do, I’ll do it, I swear I’ll do it, but- You gotta tell me, sweetheart-“
“Tell you what?!” You almost shout, and Dean leans back in surprise. “Dean, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dean huffs a low laugh, looking back out to the road. “Yeah. Alright,” he grabs the keys, voice rough and pained. “Sure. Whatever-“
“No.” You grab his wrist before he can start to the engine. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”
“It doesn’t matter-“
“Yes, it does-“
“Nah.”
“Dean-“
“You wanna call that guy, call ‘im.” There’s an almost toxically bitter sound to the words, and Dean’s making a face like he just got shot. “Whatever. See if I care.”
Your nails dig into his wrist, when he tries to yank it away. He shoots you a glare, the bags—gone, after months of ease—already starting to form.
“C’mon, kid, just- let go-“
“Would you care?”
Your question is small, but it makes Dean recoil like it burned. He scoffs, but it’s too loud, and you hold him tighter.
“Would you care-“
“No, I fuckin’ love watching douchebags parade around with my girl, who would care about something like that?”
Something snaps, right at the base of your spine. You sit so tall you’d think someone is dragging you by the nape of your neck, and Dean blinks in something close to surprise.
“What-“
“Your girl,” you whisper. “That’s- I’m- Why would you say that?”
Dean blinks. “Why wouldn’t I say that?”
“Because you and I- We’re not- That’s-“ You lean back, letting go of his wrist, and when you look down, you’ve left little crescent marks in the skin. “No- No- You didn’t- You said no- No strings-“
“Yeah, and then you stopped fuckin’ me, and I-“ Dean says your name as you press back against the window, brow furrowed in worry. “Baby, it’s- It’s alright, I’m not that pissed-“
“You were yelling,” you choke out, and he swallow.
“Well, I was- Just- C’mere.”
He reaches out, cupping your cheek with the same gentle touch he used to use, right before he kissed you. You gape at him, head spinning, panting like you just ran a marathon.
“I’m not mad,” he rasps, almost pleading, and you shake your head.
“You were-“
“Sweetheart-“
“Why?” You whisper, grabbing his wrist, your nails sinking back into the marks. “Why- Why would you care?”
Dean swallows. He shakes his head, looks out the window, and chuckles.
“Dean-“
“I don’t want you goin’ out with him. And- Call it possessive, or stupid man shit, or- Whatever the hell you want,” he drags his thumb over your cheekbone, voice dropping to something tender, something soft. “You’re my girl. And I want you here, telling me what to do, how to- To be what you need.” His voice cracks. “Come on, baby. Just- Tell me what to be.”
You stare at him, a lot of pieces colliding into each other at once in your head. The diner and the movie and the touching and the caution and-
“Are we dating?” You choke out, and Dean frowns.
“What’d you mean, are we dating?”
“I mean are we dating, Dean, are you- Are you my boyfriend?”
“Uh- Boyfriend kinda makes it sound like we’re sixteen and necking-“
“What the fuck is necking?”
Dean groans, dropping his head. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. Makes me feel fuckin’ fifty.”
Your lips twitch. “You are almost fifty,” you say, and he chuckles.
“Yeah. Guess I am.” He looks back up to you, caution lining his features. “You always seemed to like it.”
You swallow. You did. You’d never been sure if it was the older thing itself, or the fact that it was just Dean, but you’d liked it. You always liked all of him, from the uglier wounds to the beautiful, glowing heart that almost managed to peak through, no matter how thick his steel and iron walls became.
He glides his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, and your breath hitches. He swallows, closes his eyes, and mutters your name.
“Did you… Not think we were dating?”
You shake your head, and Dean snorts dryly.
“Huh,” his mouth curves into a tight smirk. “Makes sense why you wouldn’t kiss me, I guess.”
“You guess?” You squeak, and Dean nods.
“Yeah, makes a lotta sense, actually-“
“How long have we been dating?!” You almost shriek, and he gives you an amused look.
“’Bout three months.”
“Three months?!”
“That’s what I said, baby-“
“Shut- Shut up-“ You plant a hand over his mouth, and he raises his brows. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me we were dating, you- You butt?!”
Dean’s eyes sparkle, looking pointedly down to your hand, and you release him with a scowl. He rubs his jaw, grinning at you like you’re some cute bunny, and you lean back in your seat with a huff.
“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I thought you knew.”
“How would I have known-“
“’Cause I asked you on a date? And you said yes?”
“That- That never happened.” You snap, and Dean frowns.
“Yes, it did. Sammy- He was there-“
“Sam was there-“
“Yeah, and- I said there was a new diner in town, and you said you’d go with me, and we started dating!”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open. Dean stares pointedly back, and you can’t help yourself. You bark out a loud, sharp laugh.
“That was not asking me on a date, you fucking- Oh my god!” You shake your head, and Dean’s frown becomes almost puppy like.
“Yes, it was-“
“You have to actually say it’s a date, Dean! You can’t just- Just ask me to do something, I thought we were just hanging out! As friends.”
He’s pouting now. If you weren’t pissed, it would be adorable. “I- Uh- I paid for everything. And got you gifts.”
“Friends do that-“
“Do friends kiss your face all the time?” Dean twists to fully glare at you, and you pause.
“Um- Maybe?”
Dean snorts. “No, they don’t-“
“But I thought that was just you!” You protest. “You- You’re always- You know-“
“I know?” He mocks, and you scowl.
“We were fucking for a year, Dean,” you snap, tipping up your chin. “I thought you were comfortable with me.”
“I am comfortable with you,” Dean shrugs, leaning slightly forward. “Real comfortable.”
Your nose twitches. He’s too close, now. Consuming your vision, making your vision all stupid and fuzzy. “You’re comfortable with everyone,” you sniff, and he laughs.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, running a hand slowly up your thigh. “We both know that ain’t true.”
You make a tiny, involuntary sound when his fingers dip under your skirt, teasing sensitive, neglected skin. He hasn’t touched you there in so long. Too long. You have to hug yourself to stop your body from flying at him.
“I haven’t fucked anyone else in eighteen damn months,” Dean mutters, holding your gaze. “I’ve been waiting around for you for months, wondering what the hell I was doin’ wrong, and you thought I was just being nice?!”
You swallow, your voice suddenly small. “You are nice,” you whisper, and Dean snorts.
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re nice to me-“
“Because I-“ He cuts himself off, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh. You grab his hand, holding it against you, and his eyes dart down. He heaves a long breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bows his head.
“Dean?” You whisper, and he shakes his head. “Dean, I- I’m sorry I didn’t- You said we were just going to be casual-“
“I know what I said,” he grunts, glaring at your hands. “But I- I didn’t- I thought it would help me.”
You swallow. “Help you?”
“Yeah.”
“With what-“
“You know what.” He finally looks at you, and you’ve never seen him this vulnerable. Almost bowing before you, holding onto your hand like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. “And I can’t- I don’t know how to-“ He takes another ragged breath, gives you another pleading look. “You stopped letting me pretend, you started- You started telling me no, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t.” He swallows. “I’m tryin’ to do this right, baby.” He squeezes your hand, leaning a little closer. “Please let me do this right.”
You blink at him, tears watering in your own eyes, and nod. Dean’s shoulders shudder, and he holds your hand so tight you think he’s trying to just mold you together. He glances at your lips, but doesn’t move. So you do it for him.
Dean stares at you, completely still as you lean forward, his chest so still you’re worried he’s not breathing. You rest your hand lightly on his chest and press the lightest kiss you can to his parted lips. He shakes, one hand flying to your waist, his touch still heartbreakingly delicate. You kiss him again, a little harder, and a low rumble starts in his chest.
You pull back, pressing your brows tight together. Dean stares at you, eyes glossy and blown out, the restraint ticking in his jaw, and you smile softly.
“I love you,” you breathe. “And I- I know you can’t- You know, say it back, but- I love you, Dean.”
His breathing his ragged, and he’s still gaping. You laugh nervously, looking down to your fingers, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.
“If- If you could say something, though, that would be- Um- Nice-“
Dean grunts, and your words fall off into a squeak as Dean drags you forward into his lap.
And this. This is a real kiss. Dean’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his arm wrapping fully around your lower back, his fingers digging into your hips and his other hand cradling the back of your head. He kisses you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, pushing his tongue down your throat and moaning against your mouth. You pull on his shirt and he gropes at your ass, dragging you further into his lap. The pressure of his thigh against your core makes your head spin, but that might just be the lack of oxygen. Neither of you seem to be willing to come up for air, taking sharp, tiny breaths between sloppy kisses.
You whimper, already going limp, and Dean leans back with darkened, shining eyes. You know that look. You used to pray for and dread it all at once. It always made you feel like something close to prey, paralyzed and unable to flee his spell.
But this time is different. This time, there’s nothing you’d rather do but fall into his charm.
Dean presses another, small kiss to your lips, dragging his thumb over the tingling swell. Your tongue flicks against the pad of the finger, and he groans, pushing it slowly between your lips.
You wrap around him, sucking lightly, giving him your best, sweetest Bambi eyes. Dean’s throat bobs, his fingers digging into your ass.
“We’re goin’ home,” he mutters. “Then I’m gonna fuck you.”
That’s a lovely plan. You smile around his thumb, and he says your name, pulling his thumb away with a small pop.
“Jesus, you- You gotta tell me yes-“
“Just fuck me here,” you whisper, pulling on the collar of his shirt.
Dean glances to the backseat, then to you. “Uh- I mean- That’s- If you’re sure-“
“Please,” you push a little further forward, dropping your hand to press against the bulge in his jeans. “I need you, Dean. Now.”
And for a second, you think he’s going to demand going all the way back home. Say something about you deserving a soft bed and gentle loving, when you just want him, filthy and raw and yours. You’re so busy giving him doe eyes, you don’t notice his hand dragging down your spine and your ass, right up until it dips under your skirt, and cups your pussy through your panties.
You gasp, and Dean smirks, slowly rubbing his hand back and forth.
“Need me?” He drawls, pushing his thumb against your clit. “Like this, baby? This how you need me?”
“Ye- yes-“ Your lips brush over his, your hips starting to grind down as he drags his thumb in tiny circle, his hand still rocking back and forth. “Just- Just like that, Dean- Shit-“
You push down, kissing him with a sloppy, uncontrolled mouth. Dean grunts, splaying his free hand against your neck and pushing you down. He’s massive and warm, the hand working your pussy offering just enough friction to work you up, but nothing more. You wrap your arms around his neck, panting against his lips and moving you hips to chase more friction.
“That feels good, doesn’t it,” he mutters, kissing you between every word.
You coo, trying to kiss over his face, and Dean slaps your pussy once, leaning back with a stern glare.
“Doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” you answer immediately, already getting heavy-eyed and dazed. “So- So good, Dean, feels so good, just- More-“ You claw at his shoulders, trying to at least get to some bare skin, and settle for pressing your mouth back over his. “More- Need some more, De, now-“
Dean silences you with a deep, rough kiss, and taps his thumb against your clit in quick, harsh movements, pushing his palm down hard against your aching pussy. You cry out, trying to force your hips further down against him, and Dean squeezes that back of your neck.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Few months without some cock and you get bossy, don’t you.”
“No- No,” you manage to protest. “You’re just- You’re being slow-“
“I’m being slow?” He mocks, running his fingers over the line of your panties. “Baby, I’ve barely fuckin’ started.”
You try to roll your eyes at him, but he uses his hold on your neck to turn your head, forcing your gaze back down to his. Your eyes widen, and he smirks slightly, raising his brows.
“You gonna break out some manners for me?” He asks, slowly dragging your panties to the side. “Or am I gonna need to teach you again?”
“Te- Teach me?” You choke out, and Dean hums.
His thumb drags down from your clit, parting the lips of your pussy and smearing your arousal. Your heart is trying to hammer out of your chest, every nerve in your body seeming to respond to the mockingly sweet touch.
“Dean,” you press your hands against his chest, unsure if you want to push him away or drag him closer. “Don’t- Don’t be mean-“
“I’m not bein’ mean,” he hum, the gleam in his eyes something else all together. “I’m giving my girl exactly what she wants, how she wants it.”
You blink at him hopelessly, and he chuckles, pulling you down into a long, slow kiss. It would be romantic and loving, if it wasn’t for his thumb pushing at your weeping entrance, refusing to dip even a fraction of the way inside.
“Remember how you used to beg for me?” He mutters, and your face burns with a mix of arousal and shame. “I sure as shit do. Spent hours thinkin’ about it lately, planning how I was gonna take you when you let me again. But,” he switches out his thumb for the very tips of his fingers, yanking slightly on your hair when you try to look down. “Jesus, baby, I’m worried I’m gonna break you.”
You shake your head frantically, and Dean raises his brows.
“Words, pretty girl,” he reminds you, pushing his fingers just a little big deeper. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got it, talk to me-“
“I can take it,” you breathe out, watching him under fluttering lashes. “I- I can take it. I promise.”
Dean works his jaw, his grip on your hair tightening. “Sweetheart-“
“Please,” you breathe, leaning down until your noses bump. “I need it. I need you.”
Those are the magic words. Dean stops trying to play noble, stops trying to hold back for the sake of romance. You loved him when he fucked you like a whore and gave you nothing soft, and you’re going to love him even more when he treats you like a toy, then kisses you everywhere after.
Dean smashes his lips against yours and eases his fingers into your waiting pussy, groaning under his breath when you clench down around him.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, scissoring them inside you. “Never gonna get over how fuckin’ tight you are, sweetheart, like you were made for me. Made to be mine.”
He almost snarls the last words against your lips, pushing himself fully up to the knuckle. You mewl as he finds your g-spot with that precision that makes it look easy, that’s always made you sure you couldn’t ever enjoy someone else if you tried.
Dean pumps his fingers slowly, crooking them so they drag against that spot, and pulls you back to watch your face contort with pleasure.
“That’s it,” he grunts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming them right back in and twisting to bully against that sensitive spot. “That’s just how you like it, huh? Already gettin’ like this from just my fingers,” he chuckles, grinding his hips up against your thighs. “Imagine how you’re gonna be on my cock, sweet girl, if you can barely fuckin’ take this?”
“That- That’s not fair-“ You choke out, every word breathy and weak, and Dean just smirks.
“Isn’t it?”
You try to protest, but Dean pushes your head back down, and his kiss knocks almost every thought from your head. It’s all just the familiar, perfect way his mouth moves against yours, rememorizing something that never stopped being his. The wet sound of his fingers working you open fills the car, and your whole body burns with desire and shame. He’s right. You’re already soaked and ready for him, your cunt clenching down and still begging for more. You need that full, impossible split of him. After months of nothing, you’re worried his cock is the only thing that’s going to be able to do it.
But Dean seems to like proving you wrong today. A coil, tight in your stomach, starts to wind tighter and tighter. He drops his grip on your hair for a second to push down on the base of your spine, forcing your cunt almost right over his bulge. He reangles his hand, forcing in another finger, and you make a strangled sound.
“De- Dean-“
“We’re gonna get you relaxed, baby,” he mutters, twisting his wrist so the drag against your g-spot almost rips through your body. “Nice and relaxed ‘f me, you can do it.”
You let out a shaky breath, trying to listen, and your clit pushes down against Dean’s cock, still tight in his jeans. The pressure is perfect, combined with the brutal thrusts of Dean’s hand, and you press your cheek to his.
“That- That’s good,” you pant, clinging to the hem of his shirt. “So- Soo good-“
You whimper, and Dean hums. He’s rubbing your back, and that’s somehow almost as good as the hand obliterating your cunt. “There she is,” he mutters. “Always so good at listening when I got my hands on you, aren’t you sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your head. “That’s my girl.”
That’s what does it. My girl.
The coil snaps, and your orgasm rips through you, making your eyes cross and your body curl limply into Dean’s arms. His hand coaxes you through it, his palm rubbing against your pussy as you mewl and clench around nothing, the light pressure helping you ride it like a long, easy wave.
Dean kisses your cheek when it’s done, then right under your eye, then your nose.
“That’s one,” he mutters, and you whine. He chuckles, hiking your skirt up with light touches. “Come on, you know the rule.”
“Stupid rule,” you grumble. “Never agreed to it.”
“Never heard you complaining before,” he points out, peeling your dress off, and you stick out your tongue.
“That’s because I always forget- Dean!”
He smacks your ass, and you squeak, pussy clenching around nothing. He’s forming a tent in his jeans as he looks up at you, and you narrow your eyes. You fingers brush against the head of him, and his groan falters, his head tipping back against the bench.
You smile, pushing your hand down against his cock, and he catches your wrist, shooting you a stern glare.
“Not at young as I used to be,” he warns, and you giggle.
“But I want to,” you try to pull your hand free, and roll you eyes when he won’t let you. “Oh- Come on-“
“Nope,” he grunts, even as his dick jumps against the fabric. “You know the rule-“
“Dean-“
“Three to one,” he mutters, a dare gleaming in his eyes. “You give me one, I give you six. That’s the fuckin’ deal.”
You laugh, but his mouth doesn’t even twitch, and slowly, your smile falls into something more serious. More determined.
Damn this stubborn beautiful man and his orgasm rules. Damn you, for thinking he ever wouldn’t want to fuck you when he made you orgasm rules that weren’t proportional or fair at all.
You yank your wrist away, stick out your tongue again, and pull your underwear fully off. Dean watches you with his hands tight on your waist, eyes shining with curiosity, but patient.
And you’ve never been good at riding him, but you’ve always been good at this. You climb over Dean’s lap so your ass is near his shoulder and your face in his crotch, your back arched like some animal in heat, your pussy bare and on full display.
Dean’s never been able to help himself. One hand immediately slides around the arch of your back, then the curve of your ass, then settles back against your pussy. The other slides in your hair, petting your hair while you fumble with his belt. He chokes out your name, and you shoot him a glare, pulling out his cock with light, careful hands.
He’s so hard you’re worried he’s going to hurt himself. Pre-cum is beading around his tip, his veins throbbing like a porno. You stroke him slowly, and he lets out a sharp breath between his teeth.
“I’m serious, baby-“
“Prove it,” you say, before licking a slow, teasing stripe up his shaft.
And you know how this game ends. You’ve played it a million times before. The beautiful thing about it is that—especially when Dean thinks he’s winning—you can never lose.
You take him into his mouth, and the sound that he makes is sinful. It’s a choked, rough version of your name that sounds holy from his mouth, and comes with his fingers dipping into your heat like it’s a comfort toy. You take him until he bumps against the back of your throat and hum, swirling your tongue. Dean grunts, and pushes your head a little further down. You wiggle your ass, pussy cold and throbbing, and Dean groans.
“Jesus, woman- Gonna kill me- Fuuuuck-“
You start to bob up and down, sucking with that perfect pressure you know he likes, getting what can’t fit in your mouth in your hand. You can take him better and better with every second, letting his push against your gag reflex, and you drop that hand to play with his balls. Dean’s already giving shallow uncontrolled microthrusts, repeating your name over and over until it’s more of a choked moan.
“Can’t- Shit, baby, I can’t- That damn mouth, you’re gonna- Shit-“
You squeeze his balls and suck as hard as you can, and Dean almost roars your name, his cock jumping as he shoots thick, white ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, licking the rest off your fingers as you rise back up. There’s going to be a handprint on your ass, from where he was holding onto you. You hope you feel it in the morning.
And when you smile at Dean, you know you’re in trouble. Naked and wet for him, crawling forward so your tits press into his face and kissing him as sweetly as possible. Dean grunts, one hand shooting up to cradle the back of your head, and his responding kiss is deceptively gentle. He lets you lead it, groaning when your tongues press together, tasting himself on your lips. He lets you pull his shirt over his head and lets you trace over the lines of his muscles. You smile against his lips and lean back, and there’s that predatory glint again.
Dean’s hand twitches on your back. He wipes your chin, gathering some stray cum and slowly pressing his against your lips. You clean it off obediently, and his jaw ticks.
“Back seat,” he grunts. “Now.”
You almost scramble to listen. Rolling off of him and trying to climb over, making it halfway before you feel massive hands wrapping around your waist, holding you in place. You swallow, trying to twist over your shoulder to look at him, but Dean blows a sharp breath over your clit, and you double over with a squeak.
“De- Dean-“ You plant your hand on the bench, blood rushing to your cheeks. “Dean- wait-“
“Hmmm.” He kisses one curve of your ass, then the other. “Wait for what?”
You’re not really sure. “This- I- I can’t hold myself up,” you fumble, and he chuckles, kissing right over your clit.
“That gonna be a problem?” He teases, pressing smaller, faster kisses over the sensitive button. “Or,” he spreads your ass cheeks, humming against your heat. “Do dirty girls get what they asked for?”
Shit. “It’s uncomfortable,” you whisper, and Dean pauses.
He sighs, then kisses your clit again. You squeak when he drags you back down, and melt into his chest as he kisses all over your face, rocking you back and forth in his arms.
“’S why I wanted the bed,” he mutters, and you sigh.
“’M sorry-“
“No,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, massaging your hips with steady hands. “I’ve got it, just- uh-“
He glances up, and you watch him frown around the car with an openly adoring expression. The work of his jaw and furrow of his brow as he thinks, how he holds you so tight in his arms, it’s impossible to not love him.
“Got it,” he mutters. “Trust me?”
You nod easily, and he glances back down. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and this kiss isn’t feral or brutal. It’s just… slow. Adoring, a silent promise of what you’ve sort of always known.
Dean is going to take care of you.
He lays you out in the backseat, rubbing your thighs as you settle into the cushioned bench. You watch him with your heart in your throat, arms wrapped tight around your stomach. Sometimes, under his attention, you’re not sure what to do with yourself. He’s too pretty, too big, too much in the best possible way.
“Getting’ shy on me?” He teases, pushing up your knee, and you flush.
“N- No.”
“Hm,” Dean pins your leg against the bench, guiding the other one so it hooks over his shoulders. “Sounds like you’re gettin’ shy.”
You swallow, hugging yourself tighter, and he chuckles.
“All that work to make you relax,” he mutters, kissing his way up your thigh. “And you’re already wound back up.”
“You took too long,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” He kisses just the side of your cunt, and your breath hitches as he sucks a small, firm bruise into the skin. “You know I’m gonna make it up to you, yeah?”
You nod weakly, then blurt, “Yes!”
Dean’s mouth twitches, and he grabs one of your wrists, guiding it down to his hair. You weave it between your fingers, your breathing already ragged, your whole body lit up with anticipation.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, kissing the other side of your cunt, massaging your thigh and pushing your leg a little higher. “Nice and easy, pretty girl.” He kisses you pussy, open-mouthed and wet, and you let out a high, shameless sound.
His mouth should be classified as a sex toy or something. It moves and works against you like a machine, kissing you with so much fervor you already start to see stars. You had some recovery from the fingering, but Dean’s already stripping it away with sharp, unrelenting kisses and grazes of his teeth against your clit.
“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against you, the word vibrating through your body. “Never wanna live without this pussy again, baby girl, shit-“
He groans and dives back down, starting to work you open like a man starved. You push on his head, silently begging for more, afraid to open your mouth. The sounds that leave you will be embarrassing, and you’re already too far gone for them.
But Dean likes you loud, and he won’t let you hold back. He hooks his arm fully around your leg, dragging you further down, giving him a better against your pussy. You mewl when he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking impossibly hard, and Dean laughs against your cunt.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ You grab at the front bench, yanking mindlessly on his short hair. “De- Dean- Oh my god-“
He groans, pushing his face impossibly further. His tongue is deliberate and thick, pumping in and out of your cunt before pressing flat on your clit and dragging back and forth. It’s enough to drive you mad, making the coil in your stomach burn and burn and burn until your whole body is shaking with the sensation.
“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “You- Fuck-“
He nips at your clit, dragging a long, slow stripe up your pussy. Your eyes lock, and you swallow, a broken moan falling from your lips. The first time he did this, he told you that he loved it. That there was nothing better than a woman, right on his face, dripping and sweet for him. It didn’t take you long to believe him.
Here, he looks at you like you’re some kind of heaven he’s been allowed to touch. His mouth never stops moving against you, his eyes lidded and almost drunk, and your arousal shining on his face whenever he reangles it to devour you a new way. It’s a sight that could knock you off your feet, if you had any left to stand on. Dean on his knees, his broad, freckled shoulders forcing your knees apart, his attention a drug you never want to bother being clean from again.
You start to shake, your stomach seizing up as you fight off your orgasm, but Dean doesn’t tolerate that either. His mouth goes back against your clit, his tongue darting up and down and back and forth in tiny motions, almost tickling it, making the little nerves light up and-
You cum with a loud, choked sound that’s really supposed to be Dean’s name, and push at his head. You expect him to stop, and finally get on top of you.
But you forgot about his stupid orgasm rule, and he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens and he starts to make out with your overstimulated pussy. You squeak, pushing weakly at his head, and his eyes gleam.
“De- Dean- Fuuuuck- That’s-“ Your eyes roll back, your body seizing up again, almost unable to take so much. “Oh- Oh my gooood-”
Dean groans against you again, and it’s worse than a vibrator. It’s warm and deep and Dean, mixed with his filthy mouth and stubble, scraping against soft skin.Your thighs lock around his head and he lets them, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulls you fully onto your back, pushing himself up onto his knees. His cock bounces against his stomach but he ignores it, using his now free hand to grope at your breast. You moan, clenching around nothing as he laps at your clit and pussy.
“I- I can’t-“ Tears spring at your eyes. “Dean- Please-“
He hums, rolling your nipple between deft fingers, and you throw your head back with a broken moan.
Warm, thick fingers weave through yours, and you blink at him under watery lashes. He’s let go of your breast to hold your hand. His thumb is dragging slowly back and forth, and his mouth isn’t slowing down, but you don’t want it to. You can see the challenge shining in his eyes. You take a ragged breath, give him the smallest nod, and he smiles against your pussy.
You didn’t know the human tongue could move that fast. You’re sure it’s not supposed to, but Dean’s never cared about things like that. He drinks you up like wine, rapidly toying with your clit—swirling and kissing and flicking and sucking like it’s candy—and your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm springs through your body like a geyser.
Dean lowers you down slowly, pressing one last kiss to your swollen kiss before rising back up, wiping his chin of your release and cleaning it off his fingers with a smug grin. His cock is at attention, and your mouth waters. He always gets it in. You’re a little afraid of it right now.
“Six?” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.
“You’re the one who pushed for it, princess.”
“It- It’s your stupid rule-“
“You love it,” he shrugs, slowly settling himself back between your legs. “And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you, baby.”
You wrinkle your nose, and Dean gives you a stern, amused look.
“Aren’t you?” He taps the head of his cock against your cunt, and you squeak.
“Dean-“
“You’re the one who got bratty and cocky, sweetheart,” he drawls, pushing your leg back down. “So you’re gonna take it, ‘cause I know you can.”
You swallow, giving him your best doe-eyes, and he just chuckles. Dean lowers himself down, presses a gentle kiss to your brow, and murmurs against your skin.
“That ain’t gettin’ you out of this.”
You press your face into the crook of his neck, and Dean smiles, kissing the side of your head.
“All shy again,” he mutters, dragging that massive cock between the lips of your pussy. “Let’s take care of that, huh?”
You cling to him as he rolls you both over, guiding your legs to straddle his torso and lining up his cock with your weeping, abused pussy. He pulls you gently up, rubbing your side and watching you a painfully adoring gaze. You try to cover yourself again, and he catches your hand, shaking his head.
“Come on,” he mutters, weaving your fingers together. “Let me see you.”
And damn him for being so soft and sweet, you don’t think you could tell him no if you wanted.
“Take it easy,” he says, wrapping both of his hands around your waist. “All you, baby. Show me what you want.”
“I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.”
You believe him, in a way you’d never believe anyone else. It might be how he looks at you. Like you’re an angel over him, like you’re really, truly letting him enter paradise as you sink down onto his cock.
He grunts, his fingers tightening against your body as his cock slowly splits you open. Even with how much he’s worked you open—your pussy so wet it’s already dripping onto his thighs—it’s a tight fit. You can feel every vein dragging inside of you, the hard curve pressing right into your g-spot and making you flutter around him.
Dean jerks his head up, squeezing his eyes shut, and you swallow.
“Sorry-“
“’S- ‘S alright,” he exhales sharply, relaxing back into the seat. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, baby. I’m good.”
A smile ghosts over your lips, even as you start to only breathe through your nose. “You look it,” you tease, and Dean gives you a half annoyed, half impressed look.
“You’re tight,” he grunts, and your smile widens.
“You’re big.”
He groans, throwing his head further back, and you giggle again. He’s sitting just right again, his chest rippling under your hands, and you feel like that angel. You feel like a goddess, with how his hands are dragging over your body, how your name falls from his lips.
“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, eyes raking over your body. “So perfect.”
You take a deep breath, and start to grind down onto his cock. Dean groans, one hand dragging down to squeeze your ass, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless you beg him, and you’re determined not to. You can ride him until your thighs give out. His cock bumps against your g-spot, and his abdomen drags near your clit, and it feels good. You rock back and forth a little faster, your breath catching, and Dean groans.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Pretty fuckin’ girl, riding my cock like the needy little thing you are, aren’t you. So fuckin’ wet for me, baby, so- so tight-“
He groans, and you push down on his chest, picking up your pace.
“So big, Dean,” you moan, pushing up your chest like a pornstar, trying to make him break first. “You’re so big, feels so- so good-“
You moan, tossing your hair, and Dean makes an almost feral sound.
But he doesn’t break. The bastard never breaks, and you’ve never been good at riding him. Your thighs are already sore, and they quickly start to ache, making your movements smaller and weaker. Dean watches you start to whine, your brow furrowing in concentration, and just smiles. You both know what he’s waiting for. You don’t want to give in.
“So quiet, sweetheart,” he coos, running his hand up to palm at your breast. “Someone drove by, they’d think I wasn’t fuckin’ you properly.”
You glare at him, unable to even speak, and he chuckles.
“You know what you gotta do, baby girl.”
“Fu- Fuck you-“
“I will,” he winks. “If my girl says please.”
Your eyes narrow. His grin widens, and you think you might be about to fly apart with how bad you need it. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid face that you love and his big cock that makes you all jelly and dazed thoughts and useless.
“Please-“
The word barely leaves your mouth before Dean moves. A single, well-aimed thrust up into your cunt that makes you fall apart. You fall forward onto his chest with a scream, and Dean groans, giving shallower, gentle thrusts to work you through the orgasm.
“I know,” he murmurs in you ear, his words painfully soft in comparison to the pleasure wracking your body. “I know, princess. Two more to go.”
You don’t think you can take two more. Four has been your max for a very long time, and that was with a lot more prep time and space between orgasms. But Dean doesn’t seem like he’s going to give you much of a choice.
You’re a doll in his arms again, when he hauls you up into his lap. His cock leaves you for a single second, just for the adjustment, and you whimper at the loss.
Dean hums, kissing all over your face as he slides back in.
“That’s my girl,” he starts to rock your hips back and forth with steady hands, picking you up then dropping your back down so his dick drags through every inch of your heat. “Takin’ me so good. Just like that, feel that, baby-“ He pushes on your lower back, making his cock slam against your g-spot, and you sob against his neck. “Feel how fuckin’ good we fit together, my girl.”
Dean’s voice is lined with something darker now. More possessive and hungry. He fucks up into your like an animal, dips drilling forward and mouth attached to your neck. All you can do is take it, over and over until your eyes are crossing and the only words you can remember are babbles of Dean and please.
The neck orgasm is slow, blooming from where he’s slamming against your cervix and spreading pleasantly through your body. Dean moans against your skin, mouthing at your jaw and neck, his tongue dragging and kisses messy. When you try to kiss him back, it’s mostly with a mewl and lips that follow his lead. Everything is humid and light in your body, everything is Dean around you, and there’s a new, strangely hot sensation in your core that’s demanding all of your attention.
It’s tighter than the usual coil, and gets hotter and hotter with every thrust of Dean’s cock. He’s getting uneven now, his own words falling into pants and moans, his balls slapping against your ass and hands leaving prints as he folds you fully over his chest.
“One- One more-“ His voice is gravelly, almost as wrecked as you feel. “Milk my fuckin’ cock, baby girl, cum for me-“
You open your mouth to warn him about the strange feeling, but it’s too late. Dean slams home, crashing his mouth against yours, and you cum with a hoarse scream. Hot cum shoots into your cunt, right as something gushes out of you in wet, burning waves. It feels good, so good you can’t think, so good your mouth hangs open and your moans turn into pathetic, weak babbles.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ Dean groans against your mouth. “Fuckin’- Yes-“
Your body seizes and twitches around him, but even when he’s done, Dean doesn’t pull out. The last of your release pushes itself out and her collapses backward, rubbing your back and craning his neck to grin at your cockdrunk expression.
“Gettin’ stupid?” He teases, and you can’t manage to raise an arm, so you just bite his nose. He laughs, leaning up to steal another, quick kiss from your lips before settling back down.
You curl over him, resting your head against his shoulder while he pets your head, both of you still panting and coming back down. You might be there for a hundred years, or just an hour. It doesn’t matter. The car is going to reek of sex for maybe a year. Sam might never agree to ride in it again. But it was worth it. More than worth it, when you look up at Dean, and find him—just as always—already looking back.
“We’re still dating, right?” You whisper, because you have to be sure.
Dean grins, and kisses you slowly. You hum, letting your eyes flutter shut. Letting him carry you, whenever he thinks is safe to go.
“Yeah,” he mutters, and you can hear it in his voice. All the love he’s been trying to show you, for who knows how long. “We are."
✦End note: if i write enough of these it's gonna happen to me guys trust ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist - Series Masterlist - prologue✦
✦summary: TUNE IN AT 12 EST SEE THE ONLY REAL, UNBIASED, PATROTIC COVERAGE OF HOMELANDER'S TRIAL FOR THE TRUTH, ONLY ON VNN.
✦warnings/tags: series rewrite, Soldier Boy x supe!reader, past Homelander x reader and it ain't pretty, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, no ben or reader in this chapter, eventual happy ending, Hughie, Homelander, Butcher, A-Train, Annie, and Kimiko POV
✦wc: 13.2k✦
✦author's note: homelander's pov is too fun to write. i might be going crazy.✦
“And we’re back, live from New York City in the trial of the century, the United States vs. Homelander. Since we last saw you there haven’t been any major updates or sightings of Homelander, but we have word from inside the courtroom that a new witness will be taking the stand soon. Mike, what can you tell us about the energy you’re feeling, from the defense?”
Hughie watched the TV with tired, hooded eyes. It had been droning all morning. It would be droning all night. If he didn’t put it on, Butcher would, and if he didn’t it would be MM, and if no one was around—even though she told the rest of them it was unhealthy and useless to obsess—Annie would pick up the remote and curl up on the couch, hoping for just one casual, meaningless word of hope.
“Well, Amy, it’s not getting better.” Mike, with his hundred-dollar haircut and his pinstripe tie, smiled at the camera like he wasn’t reporting on the doom of America. Hughie ran his fingers through his own hair. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a cut at all. “Vought’s certainly pouring everything they have into this defense, but that’s exactly what we expected. Homelander isn’t just their hero, he’s their money-maker. I mean, over the past fifteen years, have you been able to even hear the word ‘Vought’ without thinking of Homelander right after?” Mike laughed. “I didn’t think so.”
“They got anything new?” MM materialized on the sofa arm, and Hughie yelped.
“Holy- How are you so quiet-“
“I move like the wind, Hughie. I’m one with the sky, sky’s one with me.”
Hughie blinked. “Really?”
“No.” MM jerked his head at the TV. “News?”
“Right, I- Sorry.” Hughie looked back to Amy and Mike, both smiling so wide it must’ve hurt their faces. “Amy, she- She says there are rumors. About a new witness.”
MM’s jaw tightened. “Our side, or theirs?”
“They don’t know yet.”
“Shit,” MM ran a hand over his face, glaring at the TV. “Well, you text me when you know. Our best hope is that it’s just another fuckin’ Homelander fanatic, they discredit him to the jury, just- Getting up on that stand and kissing his ass and being useless.”
Hughie nodded. His chest felt hollow. “Or it doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “Because all of our guys are just- Starlighters. Doing the same thing.” He glanced up nervously, meeting MM’s sharp gaze. “I mean- To them. I don’t think our guys are the same, but- You know.”
For a second, they just started at each other. MM looked back to the TV. His lips pressed in a thin line.
“Yeah. I know.” MM stood back up, giving Hughie that half-smile none of them ever had energy to back up in their voices. “Text me.”
“Yeah, I- I will.”
MM grunted, and wandered away. Hughie looked back to the TV, but they’d moved on to banter about Amy’s new porch. Her husband was building it for her. Their dog liked the darker wood they’d chosen, for sunbathing. Amy was laughing about it now, but she’d get frustrated with something about the development soon. Just like with the kitchen renovation. Hughie knew the anchors pretty well, by now. It was what happened, when their voices basically lived full-time in his house.
“Amy is talking about her kitchen again?” Frenchie slid next to him, and Hughie bit his tongue. He needed to stop jumping.
“Actually, it’s the porch now.”
“Ah. Are they using a smoothed wood, or a-“
“I- I don’t know. It’s dark.”
“Oak, or cherry, or-“
“Frenchie. I don’t know.”
Frenchie shrugged it off, leaning further back in the couch. Hughie coughed, settling back into the cushions, his hands braced on his knees. Better, he supposed, to lose it a little at Frenchie. He never let it stick anyways.
The TV kept playing. Kimiko moved to sit near Frenchie’s feet, and Annie came out of the bathroom to perch at Hughie’s side. She ran her fingers through his hair in a silent greeting, and Hughie offered her a small smile. She returned it, something that had been heavy over her features softening. He grabbed her hand, and she squeezed it in return.
“Where’s-“
“I don’t know.”
Annie glanced back to the door. “Do you think he’s-“
“Yeah. Probably,” Hughie sighed, and he knew it didn’t matter, but he looked anyway. Save for them at the couch, and MM at his desk, it was all quiet. No press outside, like at their apartment. No Mallory pacing, or blaring phone calls just so Singer could yell at them for being useless.
No Butcher.
They hadn’t seen him in a day or two, but that wasn’t anything new. Not over the past few months. Hughie rolled out of bed, and people were already yelling at him for a comment about the trial. He got to work and MM clapped him on the shoulder and Kimiko smiled at him and gave him coffee and when he asked where Butcher was, everyone went quiet. He went through the day, and people yelled at him about not finding the thing. The one that would bring Homelander down, no space for Vought paying their way around it, no excuses. Just death, or downfall. He got home, another day with nothing in his hands but a phone he was afraid to look at, and the silence yelled at him for not doing more.
“He’s obsessed,” Annie murmured. “I’m worried about him.”
Hughie gave her a half-amused look. “You’re worried? About- Butcher?”
Annie sighed. “It’s- I don’t like him, but- He’s still a person.”
“He is a person,” Frenchie said, not looking away from the TV. “An obsessive, angry, bastard of a person.”
Kimiko gestured something, and Frenchie hummed an agreement.
“She says he is so far into his own arse, he will not see when the answer walks right,” Frenchie whistled, mocking a walk with his fingers. “In front of him. And I agree.”
Hughie gave them an incredulous look, but couldn’t seem to find an agreement that didn’t taste like sandpaper. Butcher had been obsessive, ever since Maeve told him that thing about the supe. She’d claimed—at least to Butcher, who was never the most reliable source—that it wouldn’t be like Soldier Boy. This supe would be stronger than Homelander, more willing to fight him, and easier to control. Hughie, privately, thought Soldier Boy had been all those things, except maybe the stronger than Homelander part. He’d been close, though. Close enough that it didn’t matter. But all they’d had to do was wave some weed and burgers under his nose, and he’d listened. He’d even ended up being so willing to fight Homelander, it was a problem. That’s how they’d lost.
Butcher said this supe—the Anomaly—wouldn’t lose.
“She’s gonna see it like I see it,” he’d said, smiling with teeth and a glint in his eyes. “And we’re gonna kill ‘im, once and for all.”
They’d all looked at each other, worried and silent. Killing Homelander wouldn’t fix everything. Another supe never fixed anything. But that didn’t stop Butcher. They still hadn’t found something that could.
“This just in,” Amy told the camera. “New poll numbers show that 37% of the American public believe Vought, that Homelander acted in self-defense. 43% favor some form of guilty charge, although the split among their answered varied from the death penalty, to a hundred dollar fine. 20% remain unsure, and are waiting to hear more evidence as it’s presented.”
“Thirty-seven.” Hughie breathed. “That’s- There are videos, of him lasering that guy in half! People can’t actually believe this, can they?!”
MM grunted, setting down his gun on the desk. “Yes, they can.”
Hughie swallowed, and Annie’s grip on his hand tightened. This was their last shot. The last way to do it right, clean and easy, before-
He could still hear the crackle of wires and cracks of bone, from Vought Tower. It was one of the many things, he still heard, when it was a little too quiet. He didn’t want to hear anything like it, for the rest of his life. If this didn’t work, he didn’t see a world where that was the only kind of sound he heard, ever again.
The door cracked open, and their heads all shot up.
“Mornin’ cunts!” Butcher walked into the office, holding a big paper bag that was either bagels, or a bomb. “Anyone put the coffee on yet?”
“It’s 2pm, Butcher,” MM said, hands fisting on the desk. “Where the hell have you been.”
“Out. Around. Under, just a tad. Bagel?”
MM’s face didn’t turn any less sour, but he paused. “You got-“
“Cinnamon raisin and schmear. Fuckin’ disgusting, but only the best for my best.”
MM grunted, and took the bagel. Butcher smiled, smug and pleased with it, and turned to the rest of them on the couch.
“Bloody hell, you lot ain’t moved since I left-“
“We’re watching the trial,” Hughie said, scanning over Butcher for any bullet wound or serration. He always tended to come back with those and not say anything. “What have you been doing?”
“Don’t worry about me,” Butcher waved him off, and Hughie only worried more. “You got any progress, on trackin’ the Anomaly.”
Annie crossed her arms. “No. Because we haven’t been doing that.”
Butcher stiffened. The mock merriment stuttered and twisted on his face. “Why not. I fuckin’ told you-“
“You’re not my boss, Butcher-“
“I am now, sweetheart,” he tossed the bag off to the side, and Kimiko crawled over to poke around inside. “You want to come play cowboy, that’s the deal, though I done made myself clear-“
“You did,” Annie tipped her chin. “That doesn’t mean I have to agree.”
Butcher’s lip curled, and Annie’s hands fisted. Not again.
“We’re just not sure she’s real, Butcher.” Hughie tried, putting a hand on Annie’s knee. Silently begging her not to do anything, to rock the boat. “We’ve been looking- You’ve been looking- I mean, everywhere. There’s nothing. Not a trace.”
Butcher grunted. “Soldier Boy wasn’t supposed to be around and kickin’ either.”
“Well, that was Soldier Boy,” MM muttered. “And I’m glad he ain’t up anymore.”
“Of course you are glad,” Frenchie said, taking the bagel Kimiko passed him. “He killed your family.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“I am just saying, it makes sense that you are sensitive-“
“I am not sensitive, I just don’t like working with coked-up egomaniacs-“
“Did we give him coke?” Hughie frowned. “I don’t think we gave him coke.”
“I mighta given ‘im coke,” Butcher said, waving them off. “But that ain’t the point. This isn’t gonna be another Soldier Boy, MM. It’ll be different, I swear.”
MM took a deep breath, leaning back in his seat and glaring at Butcher down the bridge of his nose. Hughie was never sure how he did that. The man was sitting down.
“It ain’t ever different, Butcher.”
“But it will be. This time.”
MM shook his head. “We need other options-“
“No- No.” Butcher’s mouth worked, his body getting loose the way Hughie saw predators relax on the Nature channel. Like he was going to pounce. “We ain’t got the time. Homelander’s out there, right now, about to cheat the system in front of the whole world, and no one is liftin’ a damn finger to stop it. They won’t lift a finger when he wins either. It’s us, or nothing.”
“It’s never nothing-“
“It’s always nothin’, Starlight,” Butcher sneered. “So we find the Anomaly, we fuckin’ make her if we have to, but I ain’t walkin’ into the new regime without a weapon to tear it apart.”
None of them had an answer. There was never, really, a good thing to say. Butcher was right, and wrong, and they’d been in this cycle for three years, and Hughie was getting tired. Annie got him the bagel. Plain, with blueberry cream cheese. He looked back to the TV, and Amy was talking about how she was worried her dog was eating the new wood. Nothing changed.
They really needed something to change.
Hughie wished that he had any clue, what the hell that was.
The clerk of court told the room to rise. Homelander stayed seated, his legs crossed and gaze fixed on his gloves. There was something gray there, on the leather, and no matter how he scrubbed at it, it wasn’t just going away. His face pushed down, and a pressure of heat built behind his eyes. It was unprofessional, noticeable, dirty-
“Homelander,” Ashley hissed. “Please stand up.”
Homelander rolled his eyes, but stood at the last second. This judge—balding, thin, wearing glasses for fucks sake—didn’t deserve his attention. None of these people did. Ashley’s little sigh of relief grated into his brain, the scribble of pencil and clack of typewriters made his skin itch, and everyone in this room was breathing so loudly. He could feel their eyes, trying to bore through him. Trying to see something he wasn’t going to offer them.
Guilt. Remorse. All those stupid buzzwords Ashley had been feeding him, since the trial started. He’d gotten out of interviews by just taking off whenever the trial was called for the day, but then there had been the helicopter. Trying to follow him around, a vulture, whirring blades and a grinding engine that he could cut through like butter if he wanted.
“Please,” Ashley begged every morning. “Nothing today.”
She said please too much. Looked at him with those beady little bug eyes and her bald head and always looked seconds from getting on her knees and kissing his boots. Pathetic.
But he didn’t do anything. He was being a good little show dog, smiling at the cameras and grinding his teeth to stop the shoot of lasers. Maybe they’d give him an ugly metal for it. He’d take it with a smile.
He always took everything with a smile.
Homelander sat back down, when the trial started back up again. They had another one of his supporters on the stand—Vought lawyers, good for fucking something—and the testimony was going to be the exact same as the last one. The Starlighter assaulted Ryan. Homelander dealt with it. Self-defense, protecting a little boy from a crazed, anti-American revolutionary. Homelander didn’t bother to listen to it. It was hollow, all of this was fucking hollow. Everyone in this courtroom should be rising for him. He should be the only witness they needed, he should just take the stand and tell the judge he was innocent, and this would all be over. No more trial of the century bullshit. He wasn’t even on real trial, he was playing dollhouse to please the Vought Board, he was a fucking puppet again and this piece of dirt wouldn’t get off his fucking glove-
The gavel banged, cleaving through the ringing in his ears, and Homelander looked up. It was over. The judge was walking off. Finally. That had taken a million years.
He stood up, rolling his shoulders and starting for the exit, and Ashley’s head shot up from her phone.
“Sir- Homelander, just- Sir, please wait-“
“Stop saying please, Ashley,” he called, not looking back. “Follow me or keep making out with your little fucking phone.”
He heard the scramble of boots and fabric. Ashley was shoving away her phone and following him. Homelander rolled his eyes. Kissass.
“Sir, we have a meeting with the lawyers-“
“No, you have a meeting with the lawyers.” He smiled at the reporters, bowing his head. They all started barking and shouting, like starved fucking wolves in a cage. Homelander didn’t let his plastered smile drop from his face. “I am going home. Back to my son.”
“Your- Ryan is at school, sir-“
“Then I’ll take him out of school.”
“Of- Of course, but-“ Ashley tripped over the ledge of the door, boots clacking on the wooden floor. “If you could just- Do the meeting, then take him out of school-“
“I don’t need to do the meeting.”
“I- I know that. But- Sir, the Board would really feel better if I could reassure them that you’re sticking to the plan-“
“The plan?” Homelander spat, whipping in a circle.
Ashley scrambled back, steadying herself on a water fountain. Homelander braced his hands on his hips, taking a deep breath through his nose. He wouldn’t kill her. Not here. The floor was too polished, it would be a waste.
“Ashley,” he said slowly. Controlled. Nicely. “I do not care about the plan.”
“I- I know, but-“
“Shh.” He held a finger up to his lips. “I’m talking right now.”
Ashley nodded, her heart racing so fast it might burst. Homelander’s lip curled. Maybe it would drop right to her stomach, and she’d finally grow something fucking balls.
“I am not going to that meeting. You are going to go for me, and anything actually important, you will tell me about immediately. But anything else, anything stupid or- Or anything? I do not care.”
Ashley swallowed, and nodded. Her jaw worked. Homelander rolled his eyes.
“Speak.”
“The Deep is taking the stand!” She blurted. “Tomorrow. This is a strategy meeting for that, they- They want him to be a character witness-“
“For me?” Homelander scoffed. “Tell them I don’t need a character witness. My character is the only thing keeping this fucking shit-show afloat, Ashley, and- Actually, tell me who thinks it isn’t.” He nodded to himself. “They should know better. You should know better.”
Everyone should know better. He was Vought, the Tower was his tower, this trial was more a test of who he was going to slice in half by the end of it. The people who’d doubted. Who’d thought he could possibly ever fucking lose.
“And tell them I want to testify,” he added, waving a hand at Ashley’s frozen body. “We can just get it over with.”
“O- Over with?” Ashley blinked. “Sir, you- You can’t rush justice- Not that it’s justice you’re going to lose, but- We have to do it the right way-“
“No, you have to do it the right way. I do it whatever fucking way I want.”
He turned again, making his way towards the doors. Ashley followed. She always did. Sometimes, Homelander wondered if one of his powers had secretly always been keeping women on a leash.
It wasn’t. His mouth ticked, a chill pushing through his spine. If it was, you wouldn’t have lost her.
He didn’t lose her. She died. Big difference. He would’ve saved her, if Butcher and his team and Soldier Boy hadn’t been pulling him in fifty different directions. They killed her. They killed her.
“Tell me if we have anything on Butcher, too,” he called back to Ashley, shoving open the courtroom door. “And tell the Deep that if he wants to testify, he better not mention a single fucking tentacle or fish, or I’ll cut off his dick and feed it to his fuckbuddy sharks.”
The crowd roared at the sight of him. Cameras flashed, people reached over the barricade to try and touch him, Starlighters booed but he didn’t let it make anything but his jaw twitch. They’d be set right soon. They’d see. Everyone always fucking saw, that he wasn’t the problem, he was the solution. They’d fucking see.
He glanced at his glove. The smudge was still there. He tucked his arm behind his back.
“Go- Got it- Sharks and- Butcher, and-“ Ashley stopped next to him, panting and sweating and smelling horrible. “Sir, I really would appreciate it if you could just come to this one meeting-“
“It’s not just this one meeting, Ashley! It’s this one, then another, then another,” Homelander said through his toothy smile, waving his clean hand at the crowd. “I’m not doing it.”
“But-“
“But?”
He gave her a sharp look, and she balked immediately. His nose twitched, and he looked back to the crowd.
“Please let us try and handle this,” she whispered. Homelander could fucking taste her fear. “The Deep- I know he’s stupid, but people love him for- some reason.” She took a long inhale, inching closer. Homelander considered swatting her like a fly. “If we get even a whiff that our way isn’t working, I’ll tell them you’re going on the stand, but- But-“
Don’t fucking say it.
“Please,” Ashley breathed. “You’re doing perfect, sir. You have enough on your plate. We can finish this, for you.”
Homelander shot her a look. She was flushed and pale, her wig starting to get askew, her eyes wide and flicking over his face, like he was some bomb she expected to go off.
He did have enough on his plate. He had more than they could possibly imagine. The world was a heavy thing, to carry, even with all his strength.
He didn’t bother to give Ashley an answer. She wasn’t worthy of any more words. He took off into the sky, leaving the roaring crowd behind and getting high enough that they couldn’t be heard.
The world was even bigger, that humans were able to fathom. But he could fathom it. He could see from the ocean to the deep woods, he could look over all of it and understand exactly what it needed. What all those people, smaller than ants, deserved. He was the judge. He was the jury. This trial wouldn’t matter, when they all saw that.
And everyone was going to see it.
And if they didn’t, well.
Ants were quite easy, to be stomped under larger feet.
There it was. That pretty woosh of air, that was William Butcher’s favorite sound in the world. It meant Homelander was out there. Meant he was close, and too stupid and arrogant to think to look down. He was going to cherish it, that last time he heard the sound. When it was a fall right into the ugly mud with the rest of them, and there was nothing to catch him. No one who cared enough to try. Just Butcher, waiting. Ready.
He’d be ready. He was always ready. And if Homelander looked down, he’d see it. Butcher would smile. He always smiled, when he thought of Homelander’s ugly face marred and bloody and twisted in pain.
One day.
One day he’d smile, and Homelander would be too fucking dead to smile back.
“We’re clear,” he jerked his head to MM and Kimiko, waiting behind him in the ally. “Let’s move it, cunts.”
Kimiko rolled her eyes, and marched past him with her tongue sticking out. Butcher made a face at the back of her head, and MM sighed.
“Y’know, maybe if you said please every once in a fuckin’ while-“
“Please is for schoolgirls and alter boys, Mate. You waitin’ for one, be my guest. I hear they got supe patrolin’ the alleys, take your chances with them.”
MM glared at him, and Butcher laughed. He clapped him on the shoulder, spun his crowbar in his hand, and walked after Kimiko. They stuck to the walls, as they slipped past the crowd outside the courthouse. Bunch of braindead sheep, screaming about the glory of their great leader and his fun little cape. Whatever kind of happy pills they were taking, to make them that fucking stupid, Butcher wanted one. What he wouldn’t give, to have an empty head and smile on his face.
“Hughie givin’ you anything on that new witness?” He muttered to MM, sighing when he shook his head. “The fuck’s the point of sittin’ in front of the box all day, if they ain’t gonna figure anythin’ out-“
“They’re worried, Butcher,” MM said flatly. “Hell, I’m worried. There’s no way this trial is clean, and if he wins-“
“He’s gonna win, MM. Don’t worry your pretty head ‘bout that.”
MM scowled, and Butcher held up a hand for silence. They were getting close to the backdoor. If they were going in and out, they had to be quiet. Vought got word they were sneaking around their computers, they’d get their heads mounted in Times Square like it was London fucking Bridge.
“I’m not worried,” MM hissed. “Hughie’s right, there’s video, this should be cut and fucking clean-“
“Never is, though. You know better than to think anythin’ else.” Butcher glanced down the alley to Kimiko, typing some shit on her phone. “Oi!”
She flipped him off, not looking up. Butcher shot MM an exasperated look, and only got a the fuck am I supposed to do about it shrug in return.
“You wanna give us a fuckin’ hand?” He called again, and Kimiko huffed, tucking her phone back in her jacket.
She marched over, kicked the door open, and gave Butcher one of those you’re welcome, dickhead looks. Butcher smirked in return.
“You textin’ Frenchie? Tellin’ him all about you day?”
Kimiko’s nose wrinkled in disgust, and she walked through the door without another look back. She was lucky she was useful, and more amusing than Butcher would ever admit. One of the better ones. A good tool, willing to do what it took.
She’d scored some extra favor, by agreeing to this. Butcher had been sure he was heading in alone, but MM had muttered something about not having the time to attend a funeral, and Kimiko had—according to Frenchie, although Butcher was pretty fucking sure that sometimes the man just lied about what she was saying—been open to looking for the Anomaly.
“She’d like to find someone, stronger than Homelander. And a woman,” Frenchie had smiled. “Girl power, no?”
Kimiko had signed something else, and Frenchie had nodded.
“She is hoping this one isn’t a Nazi.”
Butcher was hoping that too. Stormfront had been a pain in the ass to deal with. Whatever the Anomaly was, she’d have to be easier. Butcher imagined some angry cunt like Maeve, all teeth and sharp smiles and fisted hands. He’d tell her to get Homelander, and she would without blinking. Hell, even if she did have some psycho tendencies, all the better. More willing. Easier to control.
Soldier Boy had been too far up his own little dick, to listen. That had been Butcher’s mistake, last time. Getting involved with someone who was self-righteous. The Anomaly wouldn’t be.
She better fucking not be. Or Butcher was going to have another Supe to kill, and the Boys were going give him their sad we told you so puppy faces. They were all already running around the city, trying something stupid and soft and downright fucking foolish. Talking about their feelings, thinking if they said please and got on their knees, someone would listen. They should know better by now. No one ever listened. If something was going to change, they had to do it with their own two, doomed, blood-caked hands.
“Butcher,” MM hissed behind him. “You’re tracking mud on the fucking floor-“
“They got maids to clean it up,” Butcher shrugged, and MM sighed, all dramatic and loud.
“You’re leaving tracks, asshole.”
Ah. Butcher looked over his shoulder, and he had, in fact, left a clean map of where he was walking. Oops.
He smiled at MM, though. No weakness. Everything was part of the plan, and when it wasn’t, yes, it was. “Then we better move fuckin’ fast, eh?”
MM looked like he was going to sock him, but he looked like that most days. It hadn’t bothered Butcher in years.
“You wanna kiss me, or keep your eye on the prize?”
MM shook his head, shouldering past him into. “You’re such a fucking dick.”
“Aww. Hurtin’ my feelings, mate. Here I was, thinkin’ we were about to go steady.”
MM ignored him, and Butcher laughed. That had always been something he loved about the man. The mission got done, dicking and twirling around or not.
Vought lawyers were just as arrogant as the people that paid them. They used public Wi-Fi, left their laptops unattended while they got coffee, and didn’t sweep their fancy meeting rooms for bugs. It wasn’t that hard to plant something that—if Hughie had done his job—would let them poke around in some poor cunt’s drive for the files they needed.
“I still think we should just ask Mallory for the Supe records,” MM muttered. “Vought has to register all of them, like guns-“
“And like guns, a few always slip between their tight little cracks.” Butcher examined the table. All it’s leather briefcases and sleek computers and-
He smirked. He was getting lucky today.
“That one,” he nodded to the head of the table. The computer with the Vought logo and ugly striped blazer over the back of the seat. “Put it in that one.”
Kimiko nodded, pulling the drive out of her pocket, and MM frowned.
“Butcher-“
“Vought logo. Ain’t a contractor.” Butcher shoved his hands in his pockets. “More than just a couple fuckin’ emails on that thing.”
MM sighed, but when Kimiko gave him a questioning look, he nodded. “Just- Do it.”
Butcher grinned, leaning out the door. It was quiet. Everyone was still out on the lawn, simpering and fawning over Vought.
“You think you’ll look for Ryan?”
Butcher’s head whipped back around. MM was staring at him, arms crossed over his chest, and Butcher narrowed his eyes. “Fuck you on about.”
“Ryan-“
“What about ‘im?”
MM shrugged, not even blinking. “That computer might have something on him.”
“Something on ‘im?” Butcher scoffed. “What, you think we’re gonna fuckin’ try to off him or something?”
“Jesus, Butcher, no-“
“I ain’t pokin’ around for info on the lad. He wants to talk, he can fly, just like his daddy.”
MM gave him one of those tired, almost pitying looks. Butcher tolerated them, from Hughie. From anyone else, he was seconds from throwing a punch.
“You got something you wanna say to me?” He spat, and MM just shook his head.
“Nope. Not a thing.”
Butcher grunted, looking back to the hall. This wasn’t therapy. Ryan had gone with Homelander. That had been his fucking choice, and Butcher wasn’t about to drag the kid back by his ear. Wasn’t even his fucking kid. It was Becca’s. Becca’s boy. No blood. Nothing to pull him back.
Just his smile. Always looked more like Becca’s than Homelanders. He’d talked like Becca, too. Laughed like Becca. Liked the same cereal and bounced on his feet like she used to.
He’d made a promise. Wasn’t much good, a promise did a dead person. He didn’t even have the means to protect Ryan. The boy wouldn’t be safe until he was away from Homelander. This was what would get Ryan safe. Ending this, once and for all.
Shoes sounded down the hall. MM stiffened, and Butcher looked to Kimiko.
“You think you wanna hurry it up, before we get turned into lawyer chow?”
Kimiko closed the laptop, stuck her tongue out at him, and gave MM a thumbs up.
“Done?” He said, clapping his hands when she nodded. “Alright. Let’s get the fuck outta here.”
They walked out, but Butcher lingered. He looked at the crowbar in his hands. Heard his heartbeat in his ears, mixing in time with the clack of expensive heels and loafers. They could play spy, or he could just get what he needed out of their big mouths, quick and easy, bloody and fast-
“Butcher.” MM hissed. “Move.”
Butcher grit his jaw, and moved. He’d play nice, until they all realized what he already knew. What he’d known from the start.
This ended one way. This elevator only went down, and Butcher was already at the bottom. Waiting for them to catch up. Ready.
When he finally had his supe, to get Homelander on his knees, he was going to be fucking ready, whether he clawed out of the pit after or not.
Homelander pulled Ryan out of school. It wasn’t really school anyways, just some tutoring thing Vought had arranged. Homelander had thought about pushing against it—he’d never gone to any kind of school, and he’d turned out perfect—but Ryan had asked him not to. Something about liking learning, which was boring, and strange, but Homelander would allow it for now. He’d just spent too much time with his mother speaking Spanish and reading books. He’d grow out of it, once he was shown the better way. The good way.
“I got us ice cream,” he announced, pushing through the doors of his apartment. “And I got you a new ga ming… thingy.”
He swept a hand to the console he’d had marketing drop off. Ryan blinked at it, then Homelander.
“It’s a Voughtbox.” He prompted, when Ryan just kept staring at him. “Voughtbox six. It has more games and- Shiny buttons, and- I don’t fucking know. It’s the new one.”
Ryan nodded slowly, shifting in that nervous way Homelander was trying to work out of him. They weren’t babyish mortals who needed to be nervous. The Sun didn’t get nervous about the Earth. It didn’t even think about the Earth. And when the Earth got to cocky and close, the Sun would just fucking eat it.
Homelander opened his mouth to share that bit of wisdom—he was good at it, maybe he should write book—when Ryan finally managed to remember how to speak.
“Does it have a Kindle function?”
“A- What?!”
“Kindle. Or- Any e-book.” Ryan looked down to his shoes. “All my books are just- Vought stories now. I miss reading.”
“Books.” Homelander muttered, his jaw twitching. “You- You want books. All the things in the world in this tower and you want a book.”
“I- I’m sorry-“
“Don’t.” He pointed at Ryan firmly. “Say sorry. We don’t say sorry. We,” he gestured between them. “Are never sorry for anything. You- You want books, you get books. My son gets whatever he wants, even-“ His nose wrinkled, his voice dropping under his breath. “Weird, nerdy things.”
“Oh- Okay.” Ryan’s ears turned red, but a smile pulled on his face. “Thank you, Dad.”
Homelander’s shoulder relaxed. Dad. That was right. He was a father. He had to be patient, because that’s what parents did. Probably. He was working it out, but whatever his instinct was would end up being the right call. He’d thought about what he’d want from a father his whole life. It had prepared him for this. For being exactly what Ryan needed.
The only thing that was missing was a mother, but he’d tried. He’d really fucking tried, to bring Ryan a good, self-respecting, sweet mother. It would’ve been perfect.
They’d be fine on their own. Homelander would mourn, and Ryan would never have to know what they’d lost. He still had a father. A good father. Was more than Homelander had ever gotten, so he should be fucking grateful.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “You are very welcome, Ryan. Let’s- Ice cream.”
He clapped his hands together, and turned for the freezer. Ryan liked ice cream. At least that part of him wasn’t awkward and fucking weird.
“You going to open the Voughtbox?” Homelander asked while they ate. “I heard it has Hero-Fighter 5000.”
Ryan frowned. “What’s Hero-Fighter 5000?”
“I don’t know. I never played it,” Homelander shrugged. “I just remember that they made me do voices, for my character.”
Ryan’s eyes widened. “You have a character? In the game?”
“I have a character in every game.”
“That’s so cool.”
Homelander’s mouth ticked up, and he hummed in approval. Ryan smiled at him, with big, blue eyes. His eyes. Ryan was his son, of course he understood that was cool. Maybe Ryan was finally starting to see, how amazing and perfect their lives were when the ants didn’t get brave and bite at their ankles-
“Dad?” Ryan poked at his ice cream with his spoon. “Can I ask you something? Please?”
Homelander leaned back in his seat. “Of course. Anything, son.”
Ryan smiled again, a little smaller. Homelander returned it, raising his brows in question, and Ryan cleared his throat.
“What was my- My mom like? When you knew her?”
Homelander hand curled into a fist. He kept fucking asking this. Poking around it, trying to get Homelander to reminisce about some sort of love story that had never existed. As a woman, Becca Butcher had been next to nothing. Pretty and feisty and there. As a lover, Homelander had wanted her, and he’d gotten what he wanted, and it hadn’t even been that good. He hadn’t even thought about her again, until Butcher showed up, getting loud and dramatic about everything. As a mother, she’d been annoying, and breeding his son to be weak.
He’d never loved her. Ryan wanted him to have, though, he could see it in that soft, gooey part of the kids face that was still too human. He’d hoped Stormfront would’ve helped him understand that gods loved gods, before she’d been burnt to a crisp. But Homelander hadn’t loved Stormfront either. Not really. She’d been too much like Stillwell. Tricking him. Trying to control him.
Homelander had only loved one woman. And you were gone.
“Dad?” Ryan said softly, and Homelander blinked.
“What- Becca?” He laughed, loud and sharp. “Oh, we didn’t really know each other. Not really. I had fun- We both had fun,” he said quickly, at the confused look on Ryan’s face. “And of course she- She meant something to me. She gave me you,” he grabbed Ryan’s hand over the table, smiling wide. “And that is all that really matters.”
Ryan’s throat bobbed. He looked to Homelander’s hand over his, and slowly held it back. Homelander’s smile widened.
Progress-
“So you didn’t- Love her?” Ryan whispers, and Homelander jaw ticked. “Not like- Like Butcher-“
“Butcher doesn’t know how to love anything,” Homelander spat. “Not you, not heroes, certainly not a- a woman. The woman I loved, he never could’ve-“
“The woman you loved?” Ryan cut him off, and Homelander went rigid.
There was a ringing in his ears. A loud, loud ringing that was turning into slow music. There was a sweet smell and glowing haze, your sharp eyes that fawned and batted and the coyest, prettiest smile he’d ever seen. Hair blowing in the wind and a shy, endearing bow of a slender neck. It fit like it was meant to be in his hand. Your voice blended with the music. You fought him before getting on your knees, then watched him like he was the only star in the sky as he grinned down on you.
The counter cracked. Homelander’s fist had gone right through it.
Ryan winced and leaned back, but Homelander yanked him forward with their hands locked together.
“Let’s play Hero-Fighter 5000,” he said firmly. “Now.”
Ryan nodded, and Homelander smiled. He guided them to the couch, never letting go of his sons elbow.
He wasn’t going to let anyone else go.
“I’ve known Homelander forever, bro.” The Deep stuck out his chest, grinning around the courtroom. “Give me that Bible back, I’ll swear on it again-“
“That is not how it works, Mr. Moskowitz,” the Judge said. “As we have told you, many times.”
“Well, I’ve told you not to call me that, and you keep doing it anyways-“
“It is your name, in the eyes of the law. Please answer Mr. Goodman’s question.”
“Ugh.” The Deep rolled his eyes, looking back to the seedy, thin Vought lawyer in front of him. “What am I supposed to be answering again?”
A-Train slumped in his seat, fighting the sigh pushing up his throat. “Does Homelander have violent tendencies,” he said under his breath. “The question is does Homelander have violent fucking tendencies-“
“Stop muttering,” Ashley hissed, shoving his arm. “It’s rude.”
A-Train gave her a flat look. She still had that crazed, stiff look of focus, that she wore in meetings about new brand pitches and everyone’s various fuck ups. Like she wanted to tear out her how eyes but couldn’t bring herself to look away from the car crash. Like she thought the train barreling off the cliff might suddenly just grow wings and fly back to the track.
“You can’t seriously think this is working,” A-Train said, and she shot him a tight glare.
“I think he’s doing his best-“
“His best is shit-“
“Well it’s all we fucking have, okay? Unless you want to get up there and talk about how good and generous a person-"
“Ashley.” A-Train sat a little taller, glancing over his shoulder.
He wasn’t here. He’d fucked off to hang out with his kid, and he probably wasn’t going to be back for the day. He hated these things—more than the rest of them, probably, which was a real feat because they were soul-draining and mind numbing—and liked to leave everyone else to suffer through them without him. Even though it was his fault. A-Train hadn’t killed that Starlighter. He hadn’t even been around when it happened, and somehow he was the one stuck in this stupid courthouse, listening to the Deep test the limits of perjury.”
“We’re best friends,” he was telling the jury, that big, white-toothed smile on his face. “Homelander and I, we go way back-“
“We have established,” Goodman muttered, running a hand over his face. “That you and Homelander go way back. Could you please tell me if he has violent tendencies.”
“Right. Sorry, bro, I just-“ He waved a hand at his head. “I keep forgetting. Probably not sleeping enough, you know. I’ve been trying these melatonin gummies, but they might be the ones laced with weed- Not that I smoke weed,” he looked at the judge with wide eyes. “And- If I do- I’m not the one on trial right now-“
“Mr. Moskowitz,” Goodman snapped. “Does Homelander have violent tendencies.”
“Um….”
The Deep looked at Ashley. She shook her head frantically, turning it into fixing her hair when the judge followed the Deep’s gaze.
“No!” The Deep said confidently, and Ashley almost seemed to shudder in relief.
“Nice one,” A-Train muttered, and she flipped him off under the bench.
“Shut up,” she tugged her phone out of her pants pocket, eyeing the bailiff. She’d already been yelled at about phones in the courtroom five times.
“Where’s your blazer?” A-Train frowned. “I’ve never seen you without one, it’s like a- A naked turtle-“
“All turtles are naked, asshole,” she muttered. “I left it in the meeting room, it’s too hot in here, and- Where the fuck is Homelander? He was supposed to be back for this, a character witness doesn’t work if he’s not here, he has to show that they’re actually friends-“’
“They’re not actually friends.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t matter, he doesn’t even have to touch Deep, he just- He said he’d be here-“
“Ashley, it’s fine.” A-Train shrugged. It was actually pretty nice to not have Homelander here. The whole room didn’t feel like a bomb, about to go off. “We’re winning right now-“
“Are we?!” She hissed, voice rising to more than a whisper. “Are you sure we’re winning? Because we have to be sure we’re winning, we- We have to win- You don’t understand what happens if we don’t win-“
A-Train leaned back a little. She was spitting on him again. “Jesus, calm down-“
“No, you calm down-“
“We’re going to win, we always win-“
“Until we don’t,” Ashley hissed. “What the fuck happens when we don’t?”
A-Train blinked. He didn’t think about that, ever. It wasn’t something that needed to be thought about. That was one of the things that kept him here, even when everything felt like chains wrapping around his bones. They had the money, they had the people, they had everything. They always won. A few loud dissenters like Annie and Hughie and their little gang were nothing, compared to the might of the empire.
They had to win. That was just how it worked. So A-Train stayed on the winning side.
“I have to go get him,” Ashley muttered. “I- I have to. Stay here.”
She slipped out of the courtroom, and A-Train slumped back into his seat.
Stay here.
Like he had a fucking choice.
Hughie’s knee was bouncing. Annie put a gentle hand on it, and gave him a smile.
“It’s going to be fine,” she said softly, and Hughie nodded.
“Right- Right. It’s going to be fine.”
Annie wished, in the very delicate fibers of her heart, that either of them sounded convincing at all.
This plan wasn’t their best, but she’d learned after a few months of working with the Boys that when Hughie had sheepishly told her this plan isn’t our best, okay, he’d been a liar. These people didn’t have best and worst plans. They had plans that were either going to get them all killed, or plans that should get them all killed, but somehow didn’t.
Annie really hoped this was one of those last plans. Especially because she’d come up with it, and if she had to go back to Butcher with head down and Hughie’s limp body in her arms, she might as well just turn herself into Homelander.
She’d thought she’d be good at this. She thought that she’d come in and show them the right way to do things, and then they’d do them, and everything would go back to being fine. But everything was in shades of gray that she couldn’t turn white, and it was complicated and difficult and exhausting.
Which didn’t mean she’d give up. But she also wasn’t going to tell Butcher he was right. Giving up would come before that.
No one was worried enough, for Annie’s tastes. About Butcher’s infatuation with the Anomaly. At least with Soldier Boy, Annie had MM in her corner. But now he was off chasing ghosts, and she was stuck with Hughie and Frenchie.
Not stuck with. She loved Hughie, and Frenchie could be fun. She needed them both, if this was going to work. Just like they needed her, if it went sideways. Not that she’d be able to do much.
“Do you think they’re going to find anything,” Hughie mumbled, eyeing the door. “Or- You know. Another dead end.”
Annie shrugged, letting out a slow breath. “I don’t know. I just- I hope that if she is real, Butcher’s right. And it’s different.”
Hughie gave her a confused look. “Different like…”
“Not like another weapon.”
“Oh.” Hughie nodded slowly. “You think she’ll be like- a pacifist or something? I- I don’t think supes are pacifist - You’re not a pacifist-“
“I’m careful.” Annie said smoothly. “And I don’t hurt people.”
Hughie hummed, and she squeezed his knee.
“It doesn’t matter, Hughie. This is going to work.”
Annie needed to practice her convincing voice in the mirror. She’d been so good at it, when she was lying to a camera. But Hughie, with his big, trusting, puppy eyes and affectionate smile, it was harder. She wondered sometimes, if he was disappointed in how bad a liar she was too. If he’d noticed how quiet and dim she’d been lately, and was getting sick of it. Getting sick of her.
“You’re right,” he squeezed her hand, and she felt a little sick. “It’s a good plan, Annie. It’ll work.”
Annie smiled, and it hurt her cheeks. Hughie had always been a much better liar.
“Any word from Butcher?” Hughie asked Frenchie, who hummed, drumming his fingers on the wheel.
“Non. Which is either very good, or-“
“Very, very bad.” Hughie ran a hand over his face. “Can you text MM? Make sure they haven’t- I don’t know. Been kidnapped?”
Frenchie nodded, pulling out his phone, right as Hughie’s buzzed.
“Oh- Shit,” he glanced up at Annie. “It’s her, I have to-“
“It’s okay. Go.”
Annie scooted back, making room for him to move past. Hughie kissed her cheek before he went, and Annie caught his arm.
“Be careful.”
“I will be.” Hughie smiled tightly. He shifted on his feet. “She won’t hurt me. I- She won’t.”
Annie nodded, and let him go. He was less convincing that time.
“MM says they’re still alive,” Frenchie told her, after a few minutes of the van being empty. Annie nodded, pressing her lips in a tight line.
The silence was sticky. It pressed on her chest and wound in her stomach, tighter than she knew how to handle. Frenchie had lit up a cigarette and opened the window, and she watched the smoke fade into nothing. Careless. Free. Must be nice.
“Why didn’t you go with them?” She asked Frenchie, and he tilted his head, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth.
“Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t want to use Butcher’s weapon.”
“Ah. Wise.” Frenchie huffed, something close to amusement. “He is not good at controlling them, ever.”
Annie hummed in agreement, looking down at her shoes and pulling at the laces. Hughie was taking too long, maybe she should-
“I’d like less people,” Frenchie said suddenly. “To… Be hurt.” He met her gaze in the mirror, something tired in his voice that reached his eyes. “It is getting hard, isn’t it. To clean up all the blood.”
It was. A lot of things were getting very, very hard.
“Do you miss it?” Frenchie asked. “Not knowing what a human bone looked like?”
Annie swallowed, and nodded. “Every day.”
Frenchie nodded, putting out his cigarette on the window, and the door swung open.
“Sorry that took so long- Oh, Jesus.” Hughie pinched his nose, climbing back into the vehicle. “Frenchie, were you smoking in here again?”
“Non?”
“No-“ Hughie huffed, giving Frenchie an exasperated expression—hands on his hips and face loose—that made him look like a disappointed mother. “It’s still in your hand, dude.”
Frenchie flicked it out the window, and gave Hughie a winning smile. Hughie ran a hand through his hair and sighed.
“You know what, whatever.” He stepped to the side. “I found her.”
Victoria Neuman rolled her eyes, stepping past him into the van. “Found me,” she scoffed. “He got lost. I found him.” She smiled at Annie. “Hey. Long time, no see. You guys- You’re always avoiding me. It’s actually pretty rude.”
Annnie returned the smile, and it felt cold on her face. “Sorry, we’ve been busy-“
“No, you haven’t been. You’re afraid, I get it- It’s just-“ She looked between Annie and Hughie with a long sigh. “You two. Of all people. I thought you’d get it.”
“Well, we- We didn’t-“ Hughie shot Annie a nervous look, and she gave him a what am I supposed to do look. She wasn’t friends with Neuman. Hughie was. He was the one who believed she’d be helpful.
Annie wondered sometimes, against her will, if Hughie would still believe in her if she turned into something darker than she was supposed to be. If his kindness and hope would extend to her, if she stopped being the light.
“Oh- We don’t have time for this. I’m on a schedule.” Neuman sat down on the van bench, then froze. She looked down at her hand, horror creeping over her face. “Is this sticky?”
“Um- Yeah.” Hughie grimaced. “Please don’t ask why, because I don’t know.”
Neuman blinked at him for a second, mouth open and brows knit. She looked at Annie, then Frenchie, and let out a sharp breath.
“Jesus,” she glanced over her shoulder, leaning slowly back. “You people- How are you still alive?”
“We’re not sure,” Hughie mumbled, fidgeting with his sleeves. “Listen, Vicki, we really appreciate you meeting with us-“
“Yeah, I know you do. You want to actually tell me what I’m doing here?”
Hughie looked at Annie, and she just nodded. Neuman wasn’t her friend.
“We were hoping,” Hughie said slowly. “That you might have something that could help us? With taking down Homelander?”
Neuman snorted. She grinned at him, then Annie, then paused. Her smile twitched down. She blinked, shook her head, and laughed again. “You- You’re fucking serious.”
“We’re at a dead end,” Annie said, leaning forward. “And we know it’s a big ask, but you know how dangerous he is-“
“Yeah, I know how dangerous he is!” Neuman’s voice raised to something harsh. “Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I’ve just- Had a way to kill him this whole time and just not used it?”
Frenchie hummed, giving her a pointed look. “You did work with him, no? To send away your own father-“
“I didn’t have a choice,” Neuman snapped. “He- He was threatening my-“ She held up a hand, as if to physically stop herself. “You know what, no. I don’t have to explain myself to a bunch of- Unemployed idiots-“
“Technically we still work for the CIA-“
“Do you?!” Neuman rolled her eyes. “You could’ve fooled me, with how you’re dressed and- Smell, and-“ She looked around the van. “This.”
Hughie’s ears turned red. “Well, they- They’ve never really paid us a lot.”
“No shit. They must really value your services-“
“Vicki, please,” Annie said, pressing her hands together and trying not to balk under Neuman’s gaze. They were both supes. Annie was no less, than the shaper, cleaner woman across from her.
She needed to get better at lying to herself, too.
“We just need anything,” she tried to keep her voice steady. Like delivering lines. She was just delivering lines. “Anything you can give us at all, no matter how small. If you really want him gone, just- Just this once. Not for us,” she paused, watching Neuman carefully. “For Zoe.”
Neuman sat taller. A strange shadow crossed her face, and her fingers flexed on her phone. She sighed, looked up to the ceiling, and shook her head.
“You people are like- Like fucking ants,” she said. “You just- You keep coming back.”
“Oh,” Frenchie tipped his head. “That is good, I am going to use that-“
“Shut up.”
He swallowed, and nodded quickly. Neuman let out a slow breath, her tongue flicking over her lips, and a taut smile pushed at her lips.
“Tell you what,” she sat up, adjusting her coat. “I’ll give you a little snack to- To fucking choke or whatever, and you leave me alone. You leave my daughter alone, and you don’t tell anyone I told you. Deal?”
Annie’s throat was tight. She exchanged looks with Hughie and Frenchie, and got tiny, reluctant nods in return. What other choice did they have. Annie looked back to Neuman, opened her mouth, and-
“Can we tell Butcher?” Frenchie asked, frowning at the air. “And Kimiko, and-“
“Obviously you can fucking tell your team,” Neuman snapped. “It would be insane if you didn’t.”
Frenchie shrugged, slumping fully over his seat and raising his hands, palms up. “I was only checking. No need to pop any heads.”
Neuman’s eyes narrowed. Annie quickly cleared her throat.
“We won’t tell anyone else. We promise, just- Anything.”
Neuman’s mouth worked. She drummed her fingers, looking around like she was expecting cameras, and for a second, Annie thought she wasn’t going to say anything at all.
When she did speak, it was quiet. Slow. Careful.
“About three years ago,” she murmured. “Stan- He asked me to bury something. And I mean really bury it. Kill even the thought of an investigation, any kind of evidence, any story- All of it. Not a word, even in their own heads. That’s what he said.”
Hughie swallowed, crossing his arms. “What- Was it like flight 37? Or-“ He went pallid, as Neuman’s jaw tightened, her eyes getting almost sad. “What? Worse?”
“I- I don’t know.” Neuman sighed. “When he came to me, I expected that. I- I expected Herogasm, I was ready to clean up a massacre, a disaster, a- a fucking nightmare. But-“ She shook her head, her voice getting quieter. “It was just one girl.”
Silence hung in the van. The lump in Annie’s throat was like a rock, and it was sinking down to her stomach. None of them seemed brave enough to speak, even Frenchie’s mouth in a thin, worried line.
Neuman breathed your name, brows knitting tight. “Twenty-four. Smart girl. PhD candidate, actually. Saw a picture- Pretty. Really pretty.”
The rock hit Annie’s gut, and the bile of her lunch was pushed up her throat.
“Official story- The one Stan gave me, to make official, was that she killed herself. And I- I don’t know what actually happened, he didn’t’ tell me, but-“ Neuman swallowed. “I know the night before she vanished- A few weeks before Stan came to me- She was at a Vought party. A few people- They saw him near her. And they won’t remember now, but if… If there’s anything…”
She trailed off, and Hughie swallowed, his words tight and choked.
“The trial. If Homelander, if- he-“ He looked to Annie. “That’s- If it is that, and we can prove it-“
“But that is what happened with Becca, no?” Frenchie cut in. “We could use Becca-“
“No,” Hughie shook his head. “Ryan. And- Butcher would never let us. But, this girl-“ Hughie’s voice wavered. “Is she dead?”
"Is she dead?”
“Legally? Completely.” Neuman straightened her jacket, moving to her feet. “But that’s all I know. The rest is-“ She smiled between them. “All you. Good luck. Try not to die.”
She smiled at Hughie, before she left. Nodded at Annie.
But Annie’s head was spinning. Her vision was blurred, and she was still fighting that vomit. A girl. A dead girl. That was all Neuman could offer them. And Annie-
She wasn’t even shocked anymore. Just sick, and tired, and frozen.
She couldn’t bring herself to nod back.
When Butcher was angry, he got loud. Kimiko hated it. It was like the bark of the war dogs, right into her skull.
They’d been in this bathroom for almost two hours. MM was on his phone, watching the trial coverage with the subtitles. He’d turn it to Kimiko, when she leaned closer. Butcher had been ignoring them both, leering at the laptop and slamming on keys. Hughie said that never made computers work faster. Butcher never seemed to care.
“Fuckin’- Fuckin’ hell,” Butcher hissed, slapping the tilted back screen. “They got files on files ‘bout supes who can grow their nails and shit glitter, but not a single mention of a supe stronger than Homelander?”
Kimiko would think that was on purpose. If she had a secret weapon to kill her other weapon, she wouldn’t keep information about it on a laptop. She looked at MM and his pinched expression, and wondered if he thought the same thing. If he did, he wasn’t saying anything. If Kimiko could get words out, she’d be saying so very many things to Butcher all the time. She didn’t understand how the rest of them didn’t, sometimes.
“Maybe she doesn’t exist, Butcher,” MM muttered, and Butcher’s lip curled.
“Nah. That ain’t it.”
MM glanced up, face heavy with exhaustion. “Man, come on-“
“She’s out there,” Butcher snapped, slamming on the laptop again. “Somewhere. Fuckin’- Somewhere, there’s somethin’- They’re just- Hidin’ it-“
“Or we should stop wasting time, and look for other options-“
“I swear to the fuckin’ lord and his sweet little bloody lamb,” Butcher hissed, everything on his face filled with venom. “You mention other options again, I’m smashin’ your precious phone through the wall and flushin’ the pieces down the toilet.”
MM didn’t look impressed. None of them ever were anymore, expect maybe Hughie. But they backed off. They always backed off with sighs and annoyed grunts. Kimiko glared at Butcher. She wouldn’t back off. He was wasting everyone’s time, looking for another supe to try and control, and it made something in her chest burn.
“Don’t gimme that look,” Butcher said, shooting her a smirk. “Frenchie’ll start gettin’ jealous.”
She flipped him off. It was the best thing she’d ever learned how to do. There was a lot of white-hot, atomic fury—the kind that swirled in her chest and tightened her muscles and made it hard to breathe sometimes—that she could put into the gestures. And Butcher never flinched, but his lips twitched and he took the tiniest step back. He thought she didn’t see it. She always did.
“I think they put the Deep on the stand,” MM muttered, peering at his screen. “Either means their floundering, or they’re just- Real fuckin’ confident.”
“That one,” Butcher grunted. “The don’t flounder. Not with their million dollar floaties.”
MM sighed, rubbing his jaw, and Kimiko raised her brows. She didn’t understand how American trials worked. Frenchie had tried to explain it to her, but it had all been very confusing and contradictory. Couldn’t be that good a system anyway, if they had to spend months figuring out that Vought was evil.
Frenchie said it was more complicated than that. Kimiko didn’t think it should be. It was one of those things she found herself agreeing with Butcher about, which was always sticky and crawling on her skin.
She tapped MM’s shoulder, and nodded to the door. They were on the floor of the big stall of the men’s room, because Butcher said Men didn’t shit in public. Kimiko believed that. She was starting to think men just swallowed all their shit, and then spewed it back out their throat with words.
Maybe she should try that, to speak.
No, too gross.
MM gave her a questioning look, and she sighed, cupping her hands and pretending to drink from them.
“Ah.” He glanced at Butcher, still glowering at the screen. “Be fast.”
Kimiko nodded, and bounced off the toilet. She didn’t really need a drink. The area was just starting to smell like sweat and salt and spit, and it reminded her of wet, toxic gasses that used to sting her nose. She slipped into the women’s room and washed her hands, keeping an ear on the hallway. Everyone should be in the trial. She’d be fine, just stretching a bit. Fixing her hair, her jacket, using the lip gloss Annie gave her.
She liked it. She liked having Annie around—and her lip gloss, and knowledge of reality television, the best thing America had to offer—even if she seemed very concerned every time Kimiko came into the office with blood on her knuckles.
“We don’t have to do it like this, you know,” she’d said last time, touching Kimiko’s shoulder like they were both made of glass. “You don’t have to do it like this.”
Kimiko had smiled, but known those were the words of a woman who had been in the light for so much of her life, it took the shadows creeping over her skin for her to notice the dark. Kimiko would like there to be another way. She’d like to be made of glass, if they didn’t like in a world where anything weaker than concrete broke.
At least the lip gloss made her mouth shiny. That was a little bit of light she’d never been able to have to herself.
Heels clacked in the hallway, and Kimiko’s head shot up. She grabbed the sink, ready to rip it off and throw it and run. The door pushed open.
“I don’t care that you don’t know where he is, I don’t pay you to just- Think about it and give up, you have to find him.” The red-headed Vought lady marched into the bathroom, and Kimiko froze, grip on the sink tightening. “No- No- Don’t guess. Look. I swear to God, Tyler, if you say the Tower one more time-“
The lady’s looked at Kimiko, as if she trying to share the exasperation. Then she looked away. Kimiko blinked. Her grip slacked.
The lady froze. She looked back, eyes slowly getting wider and wider. A strangled sound escaped her throat, and her phone clattered to the tile.
“Holy- Holy- Fuck no-“
She turned back to the door, heels clacking, and Kimiko lunged.
The woman was bigger than her, but felt small in her hands. She went down easy, but screamed and kicked her way into the men’s room. It was pretty rude, in Kimiko’s opinion. She could’ve just killed her, but she was very nice and Hughie said killing was bad.
Butcher and MM stared at her, when she presented the lady. Butcher mouth curved into that crude, kind of ugly smirk. MM grabbed the bar against the wall to stay up right.
“Where the fuck did you find her?”
Kimiko shrugged vaguely. It didn’t really matter. They had her now.
“Motherfuckin’- This means we have to go-“
“Ah, hold on,” Butcher closed the laptop, taking a slow step forward. “Not so fast now. This is a gift, mate. Let’s not be idiot cunts and throw it back.”
MM crossed his arms, giving Butcher a flat look. “How the fuck is this,” he jerked his head at Ashley, who had started to tremble like a baby. “A gift.”
“Good question,” Butcher said, almost alight with glee. “Guess who’s computer I’ve got, livestreamin’ right into ours?”
Ashley went almost limp, a weak sound escaping her throat. MM’s jaw ticked.
“You- Fucker.” He turned to Ashley. “No screaming, alright? Or she snaps your neck. Got it?”
Ashley glanced back at Kimiko, and she tried to give her a reassuring smile. No necks would be snapped. She’d just knock her out a little.
She probably needed to work on her smile more. Ashley made a sound like a cornered animal, and nodded frantically to MM. He nodded at Kimiko, and she let her hand go from Ashley’s mouth.
“Oh- Oh fuck-“ Ashley coughed, glaring around the bathroom stall. She was still shaking in Kimiko’s grip. “You- You psycho’s, you’re going to get us all killed-“
“Awww,” Butcher drawled. “You’re worried about us, ain’t that sweet. We’re worried ‘bout you too.”
“I- I’m not-“ Ashley swallowed, hands pressing against Kimiko uselessly. “You- You’re going to kill me-“
“Not yet-“
“Butcher,” MM grunted, and Butcher chuckled.
“I’m just bein’ honest with the lass, ain’t my fault she sided herself with the blood suckin’ cunt team-“
“You’re the blood sucker’s,” Ashley spat. “At least I don’t actually hurt people-“
“Yeah, you just get out the fuckin’ Mr. Clean and scrub the street when your moneybags do-“
“Hey,” MM clapped his hands. “Focus. They’ll notice she’d missing, Butcher. Ask her what you want, or we need to start running, now.”
Butcher’s smile tightened—it reminded Kimiko of Kenji, when she told him to stop playing with his toys before dinner—and he sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. He looked Ashely up and down, titled his head, and took another step forward. Kimiko could smell that fruity vodka he’d always used as perfume. Sickly sweet and stifling.
“Tell us every fuckin’ thing you now,” Butcher hissed. “’Bout a supe called the Anomaly.”
Ashley paused. Her heart stuttered under Kimiko’s hands, and for a second, she thought Butcher might’ve been right the whole time. Ashley was going to tell them where to look. They’d be given the weapon, they’d have the way out, this could be over-
“The what?”
MM sighed. Butcher stiffened.
“The Anomaly,” he spat. “Vought secret, female supe, powers bigger than Homelander-“
Ashley laughed nervously. “Are you crazy? There- There’s no one stronger than Homelander for- For fucks sake, Vought designed him to be unstoppable, he’s unstoppable-“
“Everything is stoppable when you got the machinery, love,” Butcher sneered. “And I don’t know what you think is happenin’ right now, but company secrets ain’t gonna matter when we smash your head through this fuckin’ wall-“
“What secrets!” Ashley shrieked, her heart pounding. Kimiko could almost hear it in her own skull. “There- There are no secrets, there are no secrets-“
“Don’t you fuckin’ lie, you Vought suckin’ little cunt-“
“Butcher,” MM grabbed his shoulder, his grip on his phone making his wrist flex. “Just- Look.”
He shoved his phone under Butcher’s nose, and Butcher paused. His eyes narrowed on the screen. He grabbed the screen, eyes darting back and forth.
“Hm,” Butcher grunted. “You really trust-“
“It’s from Annie.”
Butcher’s jaw ticked. “Well, if it’s real, it ain’t enough-“
“But it’s something. And-“ MM glanced at Ashley. “Even this Anomaly thing is real, they clearly don’t tell her fucking shit.”
Ashley’s face fell, and Kimiko smiled. She’d laugh if she could.
“They- They tell me things- I’m the CEO-“
“You really think braggin’ about your clearance to us is gonna help you right now?” MM said, and Ashley swallowed. Kimiko didn’t know someone could be that pale, and she hung out with Hughie all the time.
“We’ll- Bloody hell,” Butcher shoved the phone back to MM. “Let’s get eyes on that shit, but- I ain’t givin’ this up-“
“I know you’re not.” MM muttered. “You stubborn fucking bastard.”
Butcher smiled and spread his arms. “Hey, you don’t love me for my pretty face.”
MM rolled his eyes, and jerked his head at Kimiko. “Let her go.”
Butcher stiffened. “Now, hold on-“
Kimiko held Butcher’s gaze as he raised a hand to stop her, and let go of Ashley.
She stumbled forward, right up to Butcher’s chest. His eyes narrowed. He lurched forward, and Kimiko almost dived forward. She didn’t like Ashley, but she liked her clothing and didn’t want to burn it to hide another murder, and she was really trying to murder less overall-
Ashley scrambled back. She hit the sink next to Kimiko, breathing fast and shallow like a deer. Butcher’s sneer curled, eyes glinting, and Ashley made a weak sound. She turned, and sprinted out the door. MM caught Butcher’s arm before he could follow.
“Not worth it.”
Butcher grunted, but didn’t look like he agreed. That dark, predatory look turned to Kimiko, but she didn’t flinch. She’d been on the other side of it too many times to care anymore.
“Let’s move,” MM said, and they did. The laptop got smashed. They slipped out the bathroom window, and took off.
MM gave Kimiko his phone in the car. She pulled her knees up to her chest, and scanned over the screen. Something, MM had called it. But Butcher was right. It didn’t seem like enough.
What was another victim, in a world built on bodies. Not much. Never much. All that usually remained was anger. Anger like hers. Like Butchers. He was still glaring Kimiko her in the mirror, but she didn’t get afraid of things. Not anymore. Not the way Butcher seemed to want her to. The wrath of a war dog scared her as a child. Now it was just an annoying sound, as the anger built and built and built in her own chest. She wouldn’t bite on his word. She wouldn’t do anything on his word. Not when she was made of so much anger it pushed her eyes open at night, and Butcher—filled with so much more wrath, she sometimes saw it simmering off his skin—seemed to be filled with more.
Homelander waited until the sun was down. Ryan had gone to bed, and he was an impossibly obedient child. He was supposed to ask to stay up late, instead of just agreeing. Homelander had even offered another ten minutes—for them to be together, to bond, to make up for all that time Becca Butcher had stolen from them—and Ryan had refused it.
“I- I think I’m tired,” he’d said, yawning wide. Homelander had almost rolled his eyes. The yawn was overkill, as if Ryan didn’t think he’d believe him.
But Homelander hadn’t pushed. He’d have other ways, later, to test if Ryan was still harboring some kind of secret hatred. If he was just waiting for the right moment to stab Homelander in the back, like everyone else had before him. He’d remind Ryan in the morning, that they were family. A real family. Blood. Homelander made Ryan, and they had the same V running through their veins, and there was nothing—fucking nothing—that meant more than that.
He hovered in the air, outside the red-brick building. His cape was supposed to catch the wind, but there wasn’t enough of it. The lights of the city didn’t reach this part of town, and Homelander liked it like that. Everything that glowed was his. His empire, his legacy, his world. Everywhere humans—real, meat and bone humans that bowed like sheep to the wolf—were, was Homelander’s.
This place was all rats and sewage in the streets. Of course, it belonged to Butcher.
A light flicked on in the apartment, and Homelander adjusted his gloved. That goddamn speck still hadn’t come off, but he’d make it. His will wasn’t about to be defeated by a bit of fucking dirt.
He landed on the fire escape, his hands behind his back, and waited. Butcher let his shoulders slump, when he was alone. His features etched in exhaustion, his shirt unbuttoned and hands slower than Homelander ever saw, anywhere else.
Butcher started boiling water, probably for tea.Homelander huffed. British people.
“You waitin’ for me slip into somethin’ for you?” Butcher said, not looking away from the stove. “Or are you comin’ in?”
Homelander’s jaw ticked. He slid open the window and ducked inside, trying to keep his spine as straight as possible. “You look,” he looked Butcher up and down. “Tired.”
Butcher grunted, and didn’t answer. Homelander scowled, bracing his hands on his hips.
“How do I look?”
“Like a cunt.”
Butcher hadn’t even looked up. Homelander shifted on his feet and cleared his throat, and still nothing.
“You know, I haven’t seen you and your little team in a while,” he started. “I’m starting to think you’ve given up on killing me, William. Which isn’t very nice of you, we made each other promises.”
Butcher’s lips twitched. Homelander leaned around, trying to figure out what the fuck that smug, bored expression meant.
“Do you have something for me soon? Is it a surprise? If it’s a surprise, you have to tell me.”
Butcher gave him another strange look, eyes gleaming like coal in the dark. Cold and heavy but—if scratch and sparked right, the way Homelander was fucking trying to do—dangerous and bright.
“If it’s a surprise,” Homelander said. “Don’t say anything-“
“Ah,” Butcher grinned, brows raised, and said your name. “Who’s she?”
Homelander stumbled back. The words settled into his chest like shrapnel, aching and ripping at his heart. He’d never heard her name aloud. Not from another mouth. From Butcher’s mouth. The pain curled. It rubbed against the steel of his ribs and burned.
“What.” Homelander kept his voice slow and cold. All the heat was building in his chest. Behind his eyes. Butcher wasn’t allowed to see it. She’d been too elegant, too holy, too sacred, for Butcher’s dirty fucking hands to touch.”
Butcher repeated your name, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter. “Young girl. ‘Bout mid-twenties, real fuckin’ knockout, even in just a pervy photo.” Butcher whistled, and Homelander grinded his teeth.
He didn’t know what the fuck he what the fuck he was talking about, he didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, he didn’t know what the fuck-
“You heard of her?” Butcher asked, and Homelander swallowed. He didn’t let his face twitch, didn’t let his legs move back.
Steam was pouring out of the kettle, fanning around Butcher’s smirk. He was stronger than this. Stronger than Butcher’s mind games. Stronger than the shriek of the kettle in his ears, the ghost in his skull, the sound of her name.
“Who? Nike?” He scoffed. “I don’t know every supe on the planet, Butcher, that’s- It’s very bigoted of you to assume-“
Butcher cut him off with your name again, grabbing a mug from his sink without breaking Homelander’s gaze, and Homelander rolled his eyes.
“Whatever, that’s still- I expected better-“
“Never said she was a supe, either.” Butcher hummed, reaching for the kettle. “What kinda powers she got?”
Homelander took a long, slow breath through his nose. He’d come here to have fun. To distract himself, with something that mattered even less than this stupid trial. And Butcher- Butcher wasn’t playing nice.
But he was still asking. Homelander shoved down the thick, smoldering anger Butcher had dragged from the base of his neck. He stretched it out, nose twitching, and didn’t entertain this. Butcher just knew a name. Anyone could know a name. If he knew everything—if he knew what she’d been, what she’d meant—he’d be saying that. He’d be aiming for Homelander’s heart, not his throat.
“Ryan’s asking about his mother.” Homelander said, and Butcher stopped pouring his tea. “He wants to know if I loved her.”
Butcher looked up slowly, and Homelander smiled.
There it was. That hatred. That burning flame that they shared, that was going to consume the world. And when Homelander stood in the ashes alone, he’d miss it. He’d miss them.
“I tell him the truth, of course. Becca was just- a fling to me. Nothing real. You’re the one she really loved, for-“ His nose wrinkled. “Some reason.”
Butcher wasn’t moving. His heartbeat was slower than a turtle, but that was something Homelander had always admired about him. The anger. How it outweighed the fear, just like him.
“I think I should be going, before you break your jaw brooding all over me,” he waved, taking a step back to the window. “Don’t wait up for me, tomorrow. And- Remember. I’d like the surprise.”
And Butcher’s lips curled back up. And Homelander froze.
“Trust me,” Butcher said, low enough that only Homelander would ever be able to hear. “We got one.”
Homelander laughed and nodded and waved it off, but he couldn’t hear his own dismissal and mockery. Not over the whistle of the kettle, although the steam had stopped minutes ago. When he stepped out into the fire escape, it wasn’t even drowned out by the wind. And when he flew and flew and flew, it only got louder and louder. Instruments swelled behind it. Strings and the clash of cymbals and the croon of an angel. A glowing angel.
His glowing angel. Higher in the clouds than he could reach, now. Than anyone could.
Homelander landed in a crater of ash, far in the upstate of New York. There wasn’t a living thing for miles, to see him staring with hollow eyes at the wreckage. Any bit of the burned rubble could be her bones. That pressure, that boiling wrath, it pushed up Homelander’s throat. His eyes flickered and his hands curled and uncurled and his breathing turned short.
The roar split the sky, and red beams of light carved into the already dead ground. The world didn’t move. Didn’t care. The ground should be shaking, it should be afraid, Homelander had lost and so the world should be afraid, should be blooming with new offerings, new songbirds, new angels. But it didn’t understand.
It would. Homelander would make sure it did, and then he’d have it. Everything that was left, he’d have it all.
A bit of ash, floated up and landed on the lapel of his suit. He brushed it off, but didn’t look back to see that it stuck. He flew back to the tower, with it graying into his suit. And the rest of the world was quiet. The daisies and weeds that had been pushing through the ashes of the crater had been missed by the slice of Homelander’s laser, but still been buried in the ash of the aftermath.
There was going to be wind tomorrow. There usually was, after a while. And it would blow away the ash, and something would always, always grow.
✦chapter 2
✦End note: butcher got a single w today with his ragebaiting but guys i dont think it's going to last ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist - Series Masterlist - prologue✦
✦summary: TUNE IN AT 12 EST SEE THE ONLY REAL, UNBIASED, PATROTIC COVERAGE OF HOMELANDER'S TRIAL FOR THE TRUTH, ONLY ON VNN.
✦warnings/tags: series rewrite, Soldier Boy x supe!reader, past Homelander x reader and it ain't pretty, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, no ben or reader in this chapter, eventual happy ending, Hughie, Homelander, Butcher, A-Train, Annie, and Kimiko POV
✦wc: 13.2k✦
✦author's note: homelander's pov is too fun to write. i might be going crazy.✦
“And we’re back, live from New York City in the trial of the century, the United States vs. Homelander. Since we last saw you there haven’t been any major updates or sightings of Homelander, but we have word from inside the courtroom that a new witness will be taking the stand soon. Mike, what can you tell us about the energy you’re feeling, from the defense?”
Hughie watched the TV with tired, hooded eyes. It had been droning all morning. It would be droning all night. If he didn’t put it on, Butcher would, and if he didn’t it would be MM, and if no one was around—even though she told the rest of them it was unhealthy and useless to obsess—Annie would pick up the remote and curl up on the couch, hoping for just one casual, meaningless word of hope.
“Well, Amy, it’s not getting better.” Mike, with his hundred-dollar haircut and his pinstripe tie, smiled at the camera like he wasn’t reporting on the doom of America. Hughie ran his fingers through his own hair. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a cut at all. “Vought’s certainly pouring everything they have into this defense, but that’s exactly what we expected. Homelander isn’t just their hero, he’s their money-maker. I mean, over the past fifteen years, have you been able to even hear the word ‘Vought’ without thinking of Homelander right after?” Mike laughed. “I didn’t think so.”
“They got anything new?” MM materialized on the sofa arm, and Hughie yelped.
“Holy- How are you so quiet-“
“I move like the wind, Hughie. I’m one with the sky, sky’s one with me.”
Hughie blinked. “Really?”
“No.” MM jerked his head at the TV. “News?”
“Right, I- Sorry.” Hughie looked back to Amy and Mike, both smiling so wide it must’ve hurt their faces. “Amy, she- She says there are rumors. About a new witness.”
MM’s jaw tightened. “Our side, or theirs?”
“They don’t know yet.”
“Shit,” MM ran a hand over his face, glaring at the TV. “Well, you text me when you know. Our best hope is that it’s just another fuckin’ Homelander fanatic, they discredit him to the jury, just- Getting up on that stand and kissing his ass and being useless.”
Hughie nodded. His chest felt hollow. “Or it doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “Because all of our guys are just- Starlighters. Doing the same thing.” He glanced up nervously, meeting MM’s sharp gaze. “I mean- To them. I don’t think our guys are the same, but- You know.”
For a second, they just started at each other. MM looked back to the TV. His lips pressed in a thin line.
“Yeah. I know.” MM stood back up, giving Hughie that half-smile none of them ever had energy to back up in their voices. “Text me.”
“Yeah, I- I will.”
MM grunted, and wandered away. Hughie looked back to the TV, but they’d moved on to banter about Amy’s new porch. Her husband was building it for her. Their dog liked the darker wood they’d chosen, for sunbathing. Amy was laughing about it now, but she’d get frustrated with something about the development soon. Just like with the kitchen renovation. Hughie knew the anchors pretty well, by now. It was what happened, when their voices basically lived full-time in his house.
“Amy is talking about her kitchen again?” Frenchie slid next to him, and Hughie bit his tongue. He needed to stop jumping.
“Actually, it’s the porch now.”
“Ah. Are they using a smoothed wood, or a-“
“I- I don’t know. It’s dark.”
“Oak, or cherry, or-“
“Frenchie. I don’t know.”
Frenchie shrugged it off, leaning further back in the couch. Hughie coughed, settling back into the cushions, his hands braced on his knees. Better, he supposed, to lose it a little at Frenchie. He never let it stick anyways.
The TV kept playing. Kimiko moved to sit near Frenchie’s feet, and Annie came out of the bathroom to perch at Hughie’s side. She ran her fingers through his hair in a silent greeting, and Hughie offered her a small smile. She returned it, something that had been heavy over her features softening. He grabbed her hand, and she squeezed it in return.
“Where’s-“
“I don’t know.”
Annie glanced back to the door. “Do you think he’s-“
“Yeah. Probably,” Hughie sighed, and he knew it didn’t matter, but he looked anyway. Save for them at the couch, and MM at his desk, it was all quiet. No press outside, like at their apartment. No Mallory pacing, or blaring phone calls just so Singer could yell at them for being useless.
No Butcher.
They hadn’t seen him in a day or two, but that wasn’t anything new. Not over the past few months. Hughie rolled out of bed, and people were already yelling at him for a comment about the trial. He got to work and MM clapped him on the shoulder and Kimiko smiled at him and gave him coffee and when he asked where Butcher was, everyone went quiet. He went through the day, and people yelled at him about not finding the thing. The one that would bring Homelander down, no space for Vought paying their way around it, no excuses. Just death, or downfall. He got home, another day with nothing in his hands but a phone he was afraid to look at, and the silence yelled at him for not doing more.
“He’s obsessed,” Annie murmured. “I’m worried about him.”
Hughie gave her a half-amused look. “You’re worried? About- Butcher?”
Annie sighed. “It’s- I don’t like him, but- He’s still a person.”
“He is a person,” Frenchie said, not looking away from the TV. “An obsessive, angry, bastard of a person.”
Kimiko gestured something, and Frenchie hummed an agreement.
“She says he is so far into his own arse, he will not see when the answer walks right,” Frenchie whistled, mocking a walk with his fingers. “In front of him. And I agree.”
Hughie gave them an incredulous look, but couldn’t seem to find an agreement that didn’t taste like sandpaper. Butcher had been obsessive, ever since Maeve told him that thing about the supe. She’d claimed—at least to Butcher, who was never the most reliable source—that it wouldn’t be like Soldier Boy. This supe would be stronger than Homelander, more willing to fight him, and easier to control. Hughie, privately, thought Soldier Boy had been all those things, except maybe the stronger than Homelander part. He’d been close, though. Close enough that it didn’t matter. But all they’d had to do was wave some weed and burgers under his nose, and he’d listened. He’d even ended up being so willing to fight Homelander, it was a problem. That’s how they’d lost.
Butcher said this supe—the Anomaly—wouldn’t lose.
“She’s gonna see it like I see it,” he’d said, smiling with teeth and a glint in his eyes. “And we’re gonna kill ‘im, once and for all.”
They’d all looked at each other, worried and silent. Killing Homelander wouldn’t fix everything. Another supe never fixed anything. But that didn’t stop Butcher. They still hadn’t found something that could.
“This just in,” Amy told the camera. “New poll numbers show that 37% of the American public believe Vought, that Homelander acted in self-defense. 43% favor some form of guilty charge, although the split among their answered varied from the death penalty, to a hundred dollar fine. 20% remain unsure, and are waiting to hear more evidence as it’s presented.”
“Thirty-seven.” Hughie breathed. “That’s- There are videos, of him lasering that guy in half! People can’t actually believe this, can they?!”
MM grunted, setting down his gun on the desk. “Yes, they can.”
Hughie swallowed, and Annie’s grip on his hand tightened. This was their last shot. The last way to do it right, clean and easy, before-
He could still hear the crackle of wires and cracks of bone, from Vought Tower. It was one of the many things, he still heard, when it was a little too quiet. He didn’t want to hear anything like it, for the rest of his life. If this didn’t work, he didn’t see a world where that was the only kind of sound he heard, ever again.
The door cracked open, and their heads all shot up.
“Mornin’ cunts!” Butcher walked into the office, holding a big paper bag that was either bagels, or a bomb. “Anyone put the coffee on yet?”
“It’s 2pm, Butcher,” MM said, hands fisting on the desk. “Where the hell have you been.”
“Out. Around. Under, just a tad. Bagel?”
MM’s face didn’t turn any less sour, but he paused. “You got-“
“Cinnamon raisin and schmear. Fuckin’ disgusting, but only the best for my best.”
MM grunted, and took the bagel. Butcher smiled, smug and pleased with it, and turned to the rest of them on the couch.
“Bloody hell, you lot ain’t moved since I left-“
“We’re watching the trial,” Hughie said, scanning over Butcher for any bullet wound or serration. He always tended to come back with those and not say anything. “What have you been doing?”
“Don’t worry about me,” Butcher waved him off, and Hughie only worried more. “You got any progress, on trackin’ the Anomaly.”
Annie crossed her arms. “No. Because we haven’t been doing that.”
Butcher stiffened. The mock merriment stuttered and twisted on his face. “Why not. I fuckin’ told you-“
“You’re not my boss, Butcher-“
“I am now, sweetheart,” he tossed the bag off to the side, and Kimiko crawled over to poke around inside. “You want to come play cowboy, that’s the deal, though I done made myself clear-“
“You did,” Annie tipped her chin. “That doesn’t mean I have to agree.”
Butcher’s lip curled, and Annie’s hands fisted. Not again.
“We’re just not sure she’s real, Butcher.” Hughie tried, putting a hand on Annie’s knee. Silently begging her not to do anything, to rock the boat. “We’ve been looking- You’ve been looking- I mean, everywhere. There’s nothing. Not a trace.”
Butcher grunted. “Soldier Boy wasn’t supposed to be around and kickin’ either.”
“Well, that was Soldier Boy,” MM muttered. “And I’m glad he ain’t up anymore.”
“Of course you are glad,” Frenchie said, taking the bagel Kimiko passed him. “He killed your family.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“I am just saying, it makes sense that you are sensitive-“
“I am not sensitive, I just don’t like working with coked-up egomaniacs-“
“Did we give him coke?” Hughie frowned. “I don’t think we gave him coke.”
“I mighta given ‘im coke,” Butcher said, waving them off. “But that ain’t the point. This isn’t gonna be another Soldier Boy, MM. It’ll be different, I swear.”
MM took a deep breath, leaning back in his seat and glaring at Butcher down the bridge of his nose. Hughie was never sure how he did that. The man was sitting down.
“It ain’t ever different, Butcher.”
“But it will be. This time.”
MM shook his head. “We need other options-“
“No- No.” Butcher’s mouth worked, his body getting loose the way Hughie saw predators relax on the Nature channel. Like he was going to pounce. “We ain’t got the time. Homelander’s out there, right now, about to cheat the system in front of the whole world, and no one is liftin’ a damn finger to stop it. They won’t lift a finger when he wins either. It’s us, or nothing.”
“It’s never nothing-“
“It’s always nothin’, Starlight,” Butcher sneered. “So we find the Anomaly, we fuckin’ make her if we have to, but I ain’t walkin’ into the new regime without a weapon to tear it apart.”
None of them had an answer. There was never, really, a good thing to say. Butcher was right, and wrong, and they’d been in this cycle for three years, and Hughie was getting tired. Annie got him the bagel. Plain, with blueberry cream cheese. He looked back to the TV, and Amy was talking about how she was worried her dog was eating the new wood. Nothing changed.
They really needed something to change.
Hughie wished that he had any clue, what the hell that was.
The clerk of court told the room to rise. Homelander stayed seated, his legs crossed and gaze fixed on his gloves. There was something gray there, on the leather, and no matter how he scrubbed at it, it wasn’t just going away. His face pushed down, and a pressure of heat built behind his eyes. It was unprofessional, noticeable, dirty-
“Homelander,” Ashley hissed. “Please stand up.”
Homelander rolled his eyes, but stood at the last second. This judge—balding, thin, wearing glasses for fucks sake—didn’t deserve his attention. None of these people did. Ashley’s little sigh of relief grated into his brain, the scribble of pencil and clack of typewriters made his skin itch, and everyone in this room was breathing so loudly. He could feel their eyes, trying to bore through him. Trying to see something he wasn’t going to offer them.
Guilt. Remorse. All those stupid buzzwords Ashley had been feeding him, since the trial started. He’d gotten out of interviews by just taking off whenever the trial was called for the day, but then there had been the helicopter. Trying to follow him around, a vulture, whirring blades and a grinding engine that he could cut through like butter if he wanted.
“Please,” Ashley begged every morning. “Nothing today.”
She said please too much. Looked at him with those beady little bug eyes and her bald head and always looked seconds from getting on her knees and kissing his boots. Pathetic.
But he didn’t do anything. He was being a good little show dog, smiling at the cameras and grinding his teeth to stop the shoot of lasers. Maybe they’d give him an ugly metal for it. He’d take it with a smile.
He always took everything with a smile.
Homelander sat back down, when the trial started back up again. They had another one of his supporters on the stand—Vought lawyers, good for fucking something—and the testimony was going to be the exact same as the last one. The Starlighter assaulted Ryan. Homelander dealt with it. Self-defense, protecting a little boy from a crazed, anti-American revolutionary. Homelander didn’t bother to listen to it. It was hollow, all of this was fucking hollow. Everyone in this courtroom should be rising for him. He should be the only witness they needed, he should just take the stand and tell the judge he was innocent, and this would all be over. No more trial of the century bullshit. He wasn’t even on real trial, he was playing dollhouse to please the Vought Board, he was a fucking puppet again and this piece of dirt wouldn’t get off his fucking glove-
The gavel banged, cleaving through the ringing in his ears, and Homelander looked up. It was over. The judge was walking off. Finally. That had taken a million years.
He stood up, rolling his shoulders and starting for the exit, and Ashley’s head shot up from her phone.
“Sir- Homelander, just- Sir, please wait-“
“Stop saying please, Ashley,” he called, not looking back. “Follow me or keep making out with your little fucking phone.”
He heard the scramble of boots and fabric. Ashley was shoving away her phone and following him. Homelander rolled his eyes. Kissass.
“Sir, we have a meeting with the lawyers-“
“No, you have a meeting with the lawyers.” He smiled at the reporters, bowing his head. They all started barking and shouting, like starved fucking wolves in a cage. Homelander didn’t let his plastered smile drop from his face. “I am going home. Back to my son.”
“Your- Ryan is at school, sir-“
“Then I’ll take him out of school.”
“Of- Of course, but-“ Ashley tripped over the ledge of the door, boots clacking on the wooden floor. “If you could just- Do the meeting, then take him out of school-“
“I don’t need to do the meeting.”
“I- I know that. But- Sir, the Board would really feel better if I could reassure them that you’re sticking to the plan-“
“The plan?” Homelander spat, whipping in a circle.
Ashley scrambled back, steadying herself on a water fountain. Homelander braced his hands on his hips, taking a deep breath through his nose. He wouldn’t kill her. Not here. The floor was too polished, it would be a waste.
“Ashley,” he said slowly. Controlled. Nicely. “I do not care about the plan.”
“I- I know, but-“
“Shh.” He held a finger up to his lips. “I’m talking right now.”
Ashley nodded, her heart racing so fast it might burst. Homelander’s lip curled. Maybe it would drop right to her stomach, and she’d finally grow something fucking balls.
“I am not going to that meeting. You are going to go for me, and anything actually important, you will tell me about immediately. But anything else, anything stupid or- Or anything? I do not care.”
Ashley swallowed, and nodded. Her jaw worked. Homelander rolled his eyes.
“Speak.”
“The Deep is taking the stand!” She blurted. “Tomorrow. This is a strategy meeting for that, they- They want him to be a character witness-“
“For me?” Homelander scoffed. “Tell them I don’t need a character witness. My character is the only thing keeping this fucking shit-show afloat, Ashley, and- Actually, tell me who thinks it isn’t.” He nodded to himself. “They should know better. You should know better.”
Everyone should know better. He was Vought, the Tower was his tower, this trial was more a test of who he was going to slice in half by the end of it. The people who’d doubted. Who’d thought he could possibly ever fucking lose.
“And tell them I want to testify,” he added, waving a hand at Ashley’s frozen body. “We can just get it over with.”
“O- Over with?” Ashley blinked. “Sir, you- You can’t rush justice- Not that it’s justice you’re going to lose, but- We have to do it the right way-“
“No, you have to do it the right way. I do it whatever fucking way I want.”
He turned again, making his way towards the doors. Ashley followed. She always did. Sometimes, Homelander wondered if one of his powers had secretly always been keeping women on a leash.
It wasn’t. His mouth ticked, a chill pushing through his spine. If it was, you wouldn’t have lost her.
He didn’t lose her. She died. Big difference. He would’ve saved her, if Butcher and his team and Soldier Boy hadn’t been pulling him in fifty different directions. They killed her. They killed her.
“Tell me if we have anything on Butcher, too,” he called back to Ashley, shoving open the courtroom door. “And tell the Deep that if he wants to testify, he better not mention a single fucking tentacle or fish, or I’ll cut off his dick and feed it to his fuckbuddy sharks.”
The crowd roared at the sight of him. Cameras flashed, people reached over the barricade to try and touch him, Starlighters booed but he didn’t let it make anything but his jaw twitch. They’d be set right soon. They’d see. Everyone always fucking saw, that he wasn’t the problem, he was the solution. They’d fucking see.
He glanced at his glove. The smudge was still there. He tucked his arm behind his back.
“Go- Got it- Sharks and- Butcher, and-“ Ashley stopped next to him, panting and sweating and smelling horrible. “Sir, I really would appreciate it if you could just come to this one meeting-“
“It’s not just this one meeting, Ashley! It’s this one, then another, then another,” Homelander said through his toothy smile, waving his clean hand at the crowd. “I’m not doing it.”
“But-“
“But?”
He gave her a sharp look, and she balked immediately. His nose twitched, and he looked back to the crowd.
“Please let us try and handle this,” she whispered. Homelander could fucking taste her fear. “The Deep- I know he’s stupid, but people love him for- some reason.” She took a long inhale, inching closer. Homelander considered swatting her like a fly. “If we get even a whiff that our way isn’t working, I’ll tell them you’re going on the stand, but- But-“
Don’t fucking say it.
“Please,” Ashley breathed. “You’re doing perfect, sir. You have enough on your plate. We can finish this, for you.”
Homelander shot her a look. She was flushed and pale, her wig starting to get askew, her eyes wide and flicking over his face, like he was some bomb she expected to go off.
He did have enough on his plate. He had more than they could possibly imagine. The world was a heavy thing, to carry, even with all his strength.
He didn’t bother to give Ashley an answer. She wasn’t worthy of any more words. He took off into the sky, leaving the roaring crowd behind and getting high enough that they couldn’t be heard.
The world was even bigger, that humans were able to fathom. But he could fathom it. He could see from the ocean to the deep woods, he could look over all of it and understand exactly what it needed. What all those people, smaller than ants, deserved. He was the judge. He was the jury. This trial wouldn’t matter, when they all saw that.
And everyone was going to see it.
And if they didn’t, well.
Ants were quite easy, to be stomped under larger feet.
There it was. That pretty woosh of air, that was William Butcher’s favorite sound in the world. It meant Homelander was out there. Meant he was close, and too stupid and arrogant to think to look down. He was going to cherish it, that last time he heard the sound. When it was a fall right into the ugly mud with the rest of them, and there was nothing to catch him. No one who cared enough to try. Just Butcher, waiting. Ready.
He’d be ready. He was always ready. And if Homelander looked down, he’d see it. Butcher would smile. He always smiled, when he thought of Homelander’s ugly face marred and bloody and twisted in pain.
One day.
One day he’d smile, and Homelander would be too fucking dead to smile back.
“We’re clear,” he jerked his head to MM and Kimiko, waiting behind him in the ally. “Let’s move it, cunts.”
Kimiko rolled her eyes, and marched past him with her tongue sticking out. Butcher made a face at the back of her head, and MM sighed.
“Y’know, maybe if you said please every once in a fuckin’ while-“
“Please is for schoolgirls and alter boys, Mate. You waitin’ for one, be my guest. I hear they got supe patrolin’ the alleys, take your chances with them.”
MM glared at him, and Butcher laughed. He clapped him on the shoulder, spun his crowbar in his hand, and walked after Kimiko. They stuck to the walls, as they slipped past the crowd outside the courthouse. Bunch of braindead sheep, screaming about the glory of their great leader and his fun little cape. Whatever kind of happy pills they were taking, to make them that fucking stupid, Butcher wanted one. What he wouldn’t give, to have an empty head and smile on his face.
“Hughie givin’ you anything on that new witness?” He muttered to MM, sighing when he shook his head. “The fuck’s the point of sittin’ in front of the box all day, if they ain’t gonna figure anythin’ out-“
“They’re worried, Butcher,” MM said flatly. “Hell, I’m worried. There’s no way this trial is clean, and if he wins-“
“He’s gonna win, MM. Don’t worry your pretty head ‘bout that.”
MM scowled, and Butcher held up a hand for silence. They were getting close to the backdoor. If they were going in and out, they had to be quiet. Vought got word they were sneaking around their computers, they’d get their heads mounted in Times Square like it was London fucking Bridge.
“I’m not worried,” MM hissed. “Hughie’s right, there’s video, this should be cut and fucking clean-“
“Never is, though. You know better than to think anythin’ else.” Butcher glanced down the alley to Kimiko, typing some shit on her phone. “Oi!”
She flipped him off, not looking up. Butcher shot MM an exasperated look, and only got a the fuck am I supposed to do about it shrug in return.
“You wanna give us a fuckin’ hand?” He called again, and Kimiko huffed, tucking her phone back in her jacket.
She marched over, kicked the door open, and gave Butcher one of those you’re welcome, dickhead looks. Butcher smirked in return.
“You textin’ Frenchie? Tellin’ him all about you day?”
Kimiko’s nose wrinkled in disgust, and she walked through the door without another look back. She was lucky she was useful, and more amusing than Butcher would ever admit. One of the better ones. A good tool, willing to do what it took.
She’d scored some extra favor, by agreeing to this. Butcher had been sure he was heading in alone, but MM had muttered something about not having the time to attend a funeral, and Kimiko had—according to Frenchie, although Butcher was pretty fucking sure that sometimes the man just lied about what she was saying—been open to looking for the Anomaly.
“She’d like to find someone, stronger than Homelander. And a woman,” Frenchie had smiled. “Girl power, no?”
Kimiko had signed something else, and Frenchie had nodded.
“She is hoping this one isn’t a Nazi.”
Butcher was hoping that too. Stormfront had been a pain in the ass to deal with. Whatever the Anomaly was, she’d have to be easier. Butcher imagined some angry cunt like Maeve, all teeth and sharp smiles and fisted hands. He’d tell her to get Homelander, and she would without blinking. Hell, even if she did have some psycho tendencies, all the better. More willing. Easier to control.
Soldier Boy had been too far up his own little dick, to listen. That had been Butcher’s mistake, last time. Getting involved with someone who was self-righteous. The Anomaly wouldn’t be.
She better fucking not be. Or Butcher was going to have another Supe to kill, and the Boys were going give him their sad we told you so puppy faces. They were all already running around the city, trying something stupid and soft and downright fucking foolish. Talking about their feelings, thinking if they said please and got on their knees, someone would listen. They should know better by now. No one ever listened. If something was going to change, they had to do it with their own two, doomed, blood-caked hands.
“Butcher,” MM hissed behind him. “You’re tracking mud on the fucking floor-“
“They got maids to clean it up,” Butcher shrugged, and MM sighed, all dramatic and loud.
“You’re leaving tracks, asshole.”
Ah. Butcher looked over his shoulder, and he had, in fact, left a clean map of where he was walking. Oops.
He smiled at MM, though. No weakness. Everything was part of the plan, and when it wasn’t, yes, it was. “Then we better move fuckin’ fast, eh?”
MM looked like he was going to sock him, but he looked like that most days. It hadn’t bothered Butcher in years.
“You wanna kiss me, or keep your eye on the prize?”
MM shook his head, shouldering past him into. “You’re such a fucking dick.”
“Aww. Hurtin’ my feelings, mate. Here I was, thinkin’ we were about to go steady.”
MM ignored him, and Butcher laughed. That had always been something he loved about the man. The mission got done, dicking and twirling around or not.
Vought lawyers were just as arrogant as the people that paid them. They used public Wi-Fi, left their laptops unattended while they got coffee, and didn’t sweep their fancy meeting rooms for bugs. It wasn’t that hard to plant something that—if Hughie had done his job—would let them poke around in some poor cunt’s drive for the files they needed.
“I still think we should just ask Mallory for the Supe records,” MM muttered. “Vought has to register all of them, like guns-“
“And like guns, a few always slip between their tight little cracks.” Butcher examined the table. All it’s leather briefcases and sleek computers and-
He smirked. He was getting lucky today.
“That one,” he nodded to the head of the table. The computer with the Vought logo and ugly striped blazer over the back of the seat. “Put it in that one.”
Kimiko nodded, pulling the drive out of her pocket, and MM frowned.
“Butcher-“
“Vought logo. Ain’t a contractor.” Butcher shoved his hands in his pockets. “More than just a couple fuckin’ emails on that thing.”
MM sighed, but when Kimiko gave him a questioning look, he nodded. “Just- Do it.”
Butcher grinned, leaning out the door. It was quiet. Everyone was still out on the lawn, simpering and fawning over Vought.
“You think you’ll look for Ryan?”
Butcher’s head whipped back around. MM was staring at him, arms crossed over his chest, and Butcher narrowed his eyes. “Fuck you on about.”
“Ryan-“
“What about ‘im?”
MM shrugged, not even blinking. “That computer might have something on him.”
“Something on ‘im?” Butcher scoffed. “What, you think we’re gonna fuckin’ try to off him or something?”
“Jesus, Butcher, no-“
“I ain’t pokin’ around for info on the lad. He wants to talk, he can fly, just like his daddy.”
MM gave him one of those tired, almost pitying looks. Butcher tolerated them, from Hughie. From anyone else, he was seconds from throwing a punch.
“You got something you wanna say to me?” He spat, and MM just shook his head.
“Nope. Not a thing.”
Butcher grunted, looking back to the hall. This wasn’t therapy. Ryan had gone with Homelander. That had been his fucking choice, and Butcher wasn’t about to drag the kid back by his ear. Wasn’t even his fucking kid. It was Becca’s. Becca’s boy. No blood. Nothing to pull him back.
Just his smile. Always looked more like Becca’s than Homelanders. He’d talked like Becca, too. Laughed like Becca. Liked the same cereal and bounced on his feet like she used to.
He’d made a promise. Wasn’t much good, a promise did a dead person. He didn’t even have the means to protect Ryan. The boy wouldn’t be safe until he was away from Homelander. This was what would get Ryan safe. Ending this, once and for all.
Shoes sounded down the hall. MM stiffened, and Butcher looked to Kimiko.
“You think you wanna hurry it up, before we get turned into lawyer chow?”
Kimiko closed the laptop, stuck her tongue out at him, and gave MM a thumbs up.
“Done?” He said, clapping his hands when she nodded. “Alright. Let’s get the fuck outta here.”
They walked out, but Butcher lingered. He looked at the crowbar in his hands. Heard his heartbeat in his ears, mixing in time with the clack of expensive heels and loafers. They could play spy, or he could just get what he needed out of their big mouths, quick and easy, bloody and fast-
“Butcher.” MM hissed. “Move.”
Butcher grit his jaw, and moved. He’d play nice, until they all realized what he already knew. What he’d known from the start.
This ended one way. This elevator only went down, and Butcher was already at the bottom. Waiting for them to catch up. Ready.
When he finally had his supe, to get Homelander on his knees, he was going to be fucking ready, whether he clawed out of the pit after or not.
Homelander pulled Ryan out of school. It wasn’t really school anyways, just some tutoring thing Vought had arranged. Homelander had thought about pushing against it—he’d never gone to any kind of school, and he’d turned out perfect—but Ryan had asked him not to. Something about liking learning, which was boring, and strange, but Homelander would allow it for now. He’d just spent too much time with his mother speaking Spanish and reading books. He’d grow out of it, once he was shown the better way. The good way.
“I got us ice cream,” he announced, pushing through the doors of his apartment. “And I got you a new ga ming… thingy.”
He swept a hand to the console he’d had marketing drop off. Ryan blinked at it, then Homelander.
“It’s a Voughtbox.” He prompted, when Ryan just kept staring at him. “Voughtbox six. It has more games and- Shiny buttons, and- I don’t fucking know. It’s the new one.”
Ryan nodded slowly, shifting in that nervous way Homelander was trying to work out of him. They weren’t babyish mortals who needed to be nervous. The Sun didn’t get nervous about the Earth. It didn’t even think about the Earth. And when the Earth got to cocky and close, the Sun would just fucking eat it.
Homelander opened his mouth to share that bit of wisdom—he was good at it, maybe he should write book—when Ryan finally managed to remember how to speak.
“Does it have a Kindle function?”
“A- What?!”
“Kindle. Or- Any e-book.” Ryan looked down to his shoes. “All my books are just- Vought stories now. I miss reading.”
“Books.” Homelander muttered, his jaw twitching. “You- You want books. All the things in the world in this tower and you want a book.”
“I- I’m sorry-“
“Don’t.” He pointed at Ryan firmly. “Say sorry. We don’t say sorry. We,” he gestured between them. “Are never sorry for anything. You- You want books, you get books. My son gets whatever he wants, even-“ His nose wrinkled, his voice dropping under his breath. “Weird, nerdy things.”
“Oh- Okay.” Ryan’s ears turned red, but a smile pulled on his face. “Thank you, Dad.”
Homelander’s shoulder relaxed. Dad. That was right. He was a father. He had to be patient, because that’s what parents did. Probably. He was working it out, but whatever his instinct was would end up being the right call. He’d thought about what he’d want from a father his whole life. It had prepared him for this. For being exactly what Ryan needed.
The only thing that was missing was a mother, but he’d tried. He’d really fucking tried, to bring Ryan a good, self-respecting, sweet mother. It would’ve been perfect.
They’d be fine on their own. Homelander would mourn, and Ryan would never have to know what they’d lost. He still had a father. A good father. Was more than Homelander had ever gotten, so he should be fucking grateful.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “You are very welcome, Ryan. Let’s- Ice cream.”
He clapped his hands together, and turned for the freezer. Ryan liked ice cream. At least that part of him wasn’t awkward and fucking weird.
“You going to open the Voughtbox?” Homelander asked while they ate. “I heard it has Hero-Fighter 5000.”
Ryan frowned. “What’s Hero-Fighter 5000?”
“I don’t know. I never played it,” Homelander shrugged. “I just remember that they made me do voices, for my character.”
Ryan’s eyes widened. “You have a character? In the game?”
“I have a character in every game.”
“That’s so cool.”
Homelander’s mouth ticked up, and he hummed in approval. Ryan smiled at him, with big, blue eyes. His eyes. Ryan was his son, of course he understood that was cool. Maybe Ryan was finally starting to see, how amazing and perfect their lives were when the ants didn’t get brave and bite at their ankles-
“Dad?” Ryan poked at his ice cream with his spoon. “Can I ask you something? Please?”
Homelander leaned back in his seat. “Of course. Anything, son.”
Ryan smiled again, a little smaller. Homelander returned it, raising his brows in question, and Ryan cleared his throat.
“What was my- My mom like? When you knew her?”
Homelander hand curled into a fist. He kept fucking asking this. Poking around it, trying to get Homelander to reminisce about some sort of love story that had never existed. As a woman, Becca Butcher had been next to nothing. Pretty and feisty and there. As a lover, Homelander had wanted her, and he’d gotten what he wanted, and it hadn’t even been that good. He hadn’t even thought about her again, until Butcher showed up, getting loud and dramatic about everything. As a mother, she’d been annoying, and breeding his son to be weak.
He’d never loved her. Ryan wanted him to have, though, he could see it in that soft, gooey part of the kids face that was still too human. He’d hoped Stormfront would’ve helped him understand that gods loved gods, before she’d been burnt to a crisp. But Homelander hadn’t loved Stormfront either. Not really. She’d been too much like Stillwell. Tricking him. Trying to control him.
Homelander had only loved one woman. And you were gone.
“Dad?” Ryan said softly, and Homelander blinked.
“What- Becca?” He laughed, loud and sharp. “Oh, we didn’t really know each other. Not really. I had fun- We both had fun,” he said quickly, at the confused look on Ryan’s face. “And of course she- She meant something to me. She gave me you,” he grabbed Ryan’s hand over the table, smiling wide. “And that is all that really matters.”
Ryan’s throat bobbed. He looked to Homelander’s hand over his, and slowly held it back. Homelander’s smile widened.
Progress-
“So you didn’t- Love her?” Ryan whispers, and Homelander jaw ticked. “Not like- Like Butcher-“
“Butcher doesn’t know how to love anything,” Homelander spat. “Not you, not heroes, certainly not a- a woman. The woman I loved, he never could’ve-“
“The woman you loved?” Ryan cut him off, and Homelander went rigid.
There was a ringing in his ears. A loud, loud ringing that was turning into slow music. There was a sweet smell and glowing haze, your sharp eyes that fawned and batted and the coyest, prettiest smile he’d ever seen. Hair blowing in the wind and a shy, endearing bow of a slender neck. It fit like it was meant to be in his hand. Your voice blended with the music. You fought him before getting on your knees, then watched him like he was the only star in the sky as he grinned down on you.
The counter cracked. Homelander’s fist had gone right through it.
Ryan winced and leaned back, but Homelander yanked him forward with their hands locked together.
“Let’s play Hero-Fighter 5000,” he said firmly. “Now.”
Ryan nodded, and Homelander smiled. He guided them to the couch, never letting go of his sons elbow.
He wasn’t going to let anyone else go.
“I’ve known Homelander forever, bro.” The Deep stuck out his chest, grinning around the courtroom. “Give me that Bible back, I’ll swear on it again-“
“That is not how it works, Mr. Moskowitz,” the Judge said. “As we have told you, many times.”
“Well, I’ve told you not to call me that, and you keep doing it anyways-“
“It is your name, in the eyes of the law. Please answer Mr. Goodman’s question.”
“Ugh.” The Deep rolled his eyes, looking back to the seedy, thin Vought lawyer in front of him. “What am I supposed to be answering again?”
A-Train slumped in his seat, fighting the sigh pushing up his throat. “Does Homelander have violent tendencies,” he said under his breath. “The question is does Homelander have violent fucking tendencies-“
“Stop muttering,” Ashley hissed, shoving his arm. “It’s rude.”
A-Train gave her a flat look. She still had that crazed, stiff look of focus, that she wore in meetings about new brand pitches and everyone’s various fuck ups. Like she wanted to tear out her how eyes but couldn’t bring herself to look away from the car crash. Like she thought the train barreling off the cliff might suddenly just grow wings and fly back to the track.
“You can’t seriously think this is working,” A-Train said, and she shot him a tight glare.
“I think he’s doing his best-“
“His best is shit-“
“Well it’s all we fucking have, okay? Unless you want to get up there and talk about how good and generous a person-"
“Ashley.” A-Train sat a little taller, glancing over his shoulder.
He wasn’t here. He’d fucked off to hang out with his kid, and he probably wasn’t going to be back for the day. He hated these things—more than the rest of them, probably, which was a real feat because they were soul-draining and mind numbing—and liked to leave everyone else to suffer through them without him. Even though it was his fault. A-Train hadn’t killed that Starlighter. He hadn’t even been around when it happened, and somehow he was the one stuck in this stupid courthouse, listening to the Deep test the limits of perjury.”
“We’re best friends,” he was telling the jury, that big, white-toothed smile on his face. “Homelander and I, we go way back-“
“We have established,” Goodman muttered, running a hand over his face. “That you and Homelander go way back. Could you please tell me if he has violent tendencies.”
“Right. Sorry, bro, I just-“ He waved a hand at his head. “I keep forgetting. Probably not sleeping enough, you know. I’ve been trying these melatonin gummies, but they might be the ones laced with weed- Not that I smoke weed,” he looked at the judge with wide eyes. “And- If I do- I’m not the one on trial right now-“
“Mr. Moskowitz,” Goodman snapped. “Does Homelander have violent tendencies.”
“Um….”
The Deep looked at Ashley. She shook her head frantically, turning it into fixing her hair when the judge followed the Deep’s gaze.
“No!” The Deep said confidently, and Ashley almost seemed to shudder in relief.
“Nice one,” A-Train muttered, and she flipped him off under the bench.
“Shut up,” she tugged her phone out of her pants pocket, eyeing the bailiff. She’d already been yelled at about phones in the courtroom five times.
“Where’s your blazer?” A-Train frowned. “I’ve never seen you without one, it’s like a- A naked turtle-“
“All turtles are naked, asshole,” she muttered. “I left it in the meeting room, it’s too hot in here, and- Where the fuck is Homelander? He was supposed to be back for this, a character witness doesn’t work if he’s not here, he has to show that they’re actually friends-“’
“They’re not actually friends.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t matter, he doesn’t even have to touch Deep, he just- He said he’d be here-“
“Ashley, it’s fine.” A-Train shrugged. It was actually pretty nice to not have Homelander here. The whole room didn’t feel like a bomb, about to go off. “We’re winning right now-“
“Are we?!” She hissed, voice rising to more than a whisper. “Are you sure we’re winning? Because we have to be sure we’re winning, we- We have to win- You don’t understand what happens if we don’t win-“
A-Train leaned back a little. She was spitting on him again. “Jesus, calm down-“
“No, you calm down-“
“We’re going to win, we always win-“
“Until we don’t,” Ashley hissed. “What the fuck happens when we don’t?”
A-Train blinked. He didn’t think about that, ever. It wasn’t something that needed to be thought about. That was one of the things that kept him here, even when everything felt like chains wrapping around his bones. They had the money, they had the people, they had everything. They always won. A few loud dissenters like Annie and Hughie and their little gang were nothing, compared to the might of the empire.
They had to win. That was just how it worked. So A-Train stayed on the winning side.
“I have to go get him,” Ashley muttered. “I- I have to. Stay here.”
She slipped out of the courtroom, and A-Train slumped back into his seat.
Stay here.
Like he had a fucking choice.
Hughie’s knee was bouncing. Annie put a gentle hand on it, and gave him a smile.
“It’s going to be fine,” she said softly, and Hughie nodded.
“Right- Right. It’s going to be fine.”
Annie wished, in the very delicate fibers of her heart, that either of them sounded convincing at all.
This plan wasn’t their best, but she’d learned after a few months of working with the Boys that when Hughie had sheepishly told her this plan isn’t our best, okay, he’d been a liar. These people didn’t have best and worst plans. They had plans that were either going to get them all killed, or plans that should get them all killed, but somehow didn’t.
Annie really hoped this was one of those last plans. Especially because she’d come up with it, and if she had to go back to Butcher with head down and Hughie’s limp body in her arms, she might as well just turn herself into Homelander.
She’d thought she’d be good at this. She thought that she’d come in and show them the right way to do things, and then they’d do them, and everything would go back to being fine. But everything was in shades of gray that she couldn’t turn white, and it was complicated and difficult and exhausting.
Which didn’t mean she’d give up. But she also wasn’t going to tell Butcher he was right. Giving up would come before that.
No one was worried enough, for Annie’s tastes. About Butcher’s infatuation with the Anomaly. At least with Soldier Boy, Annie had MM in her corner. But now he was off chasing ghosts, and she was stuck with Hughie and Frenchie.
Not stuck with. She loved Hughie, and Frenchie could be fun. She needed them both, if this was going to work. Just like they needed her, if it went sideways. Not that she’d be able to do much.
“Do you think they’re going to find anything,” Hughie mumbled, eyeing the door. “Or- You know. Another dead end.”
Annie shrugged, letting out a slow breath. “I don’t know. I just- I hope that if she is real, Butcher’s right. And it’s different.”
Hughie gave her a confused look. “Different like…”
“Not like another weapon.”
“Oh.” Hughie nodded slowly. “You think she’ll be like- a pacifist or something? I- I don’t think supes are pacifist - You’re not a pacifist-“
“I’m careful.” Annie said smoothly. “And I don’t hurt people.”
Hughie hummed, and she squeezed his knee.
“It doesn’t matter, Hughie. This is going to work.”
Annie needed to practice her convincing voice in the mirror. She’d been so good at it, when she was lying to a camera. But Hughie, with his big, trusting, puppy eyes and affectionate smile, it was harder. She wondered sometimes, if he was disappointed in how bad a liar she was too. If he’d noticed how quiet and dim she’d been lately, and was getting sick of it. Getting sick of her.
“You’re right,” he squeezed her hand, and she felt a little sick. “It’s a good plan, Annie. It’ll work.”
Annie smiled, and it hurt her cheeks. Hughie had always been a much better liar.
“Any word from Butcher?” Hughie asked Frenchie, who hummed, drumming his fingers on the wheel.
“Non. Which is either very good, or-“
“Very, very bad.” Hughie ran a hand over his face. “Can you text MM? Make sure they haven’t- I don’t know. Been kidnapped?”
Frenchie nodded, pulling out his phone, right as Hughie’s buzzed.
“Oh- Shit,” he glanced up at Annie. “It’s her, I have to-“
“It’s okay. Go.”
Annie scooted back, making room for him to move past. Hughie kissed her cheek before he went, and Annie caught his arm.
“Be careful.”
“I will be.” Hughie smiled tightly. He shifted on his feet. “She won’t hurt me. I- She won’t.”
Annie nodded, and let him go. He was less convincing that time.
“MM says they’re still alive,” Frenchie told her, after a few minutes of the van being empty. Annie nodded, pressing her lips in a tight line.
The silence was sticky. It pressed on her chest and wound in her stomach, tighter than she knew how to handle. Frenchie had lit up a cigarette and opened the window, and she watched the smoke fade into nothing. Careless. Free. Must be nice.
“Why didn’t you go with them?” She asked Frenchie, and he tilted his head, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth.
“Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t want to use Butcher’s weapon.”
“Ah. Wise.” Frenchie huffed, something close to amusement. “He is not good at controlling them, ever.”
Annie hummed in agreement, looking down at her shoes and pulling at the laces. Hughie was taking too long, maybe she should-
“I’d like less people,” Frenchie said suddenly. “To… Be hurt.” He met her gaze in the mirror, something tired in his voice that reached his eyes. “It is getting hard, isn’t it. To clean up all the blood.”
It was. A lot of things were getting very, very hard.
“Do you miss it?” Frenchie asked. “Not knowing what a human bone looked like?”
Annie swallowed, and nodded. “Every day.”
Frenchie nodded, putting out his cigarette on the window, and the door swung open.
“Sorry that took so long- Oh, Jesus.” Hughie pinched his nose, climbing back into the vehicle. “Frenchie, were you smoking in here again?”
“Non?”
“No-“ Hughie huffed, giving Frenchie an exasperated expression—hands on his hips and face loose—that made him look like a disappointed mother. “It’s still in your hand, dude.”
Frenchie flicked it out the window, and gave Hughie a winning smile. Hughie ran a hand through his hair and sighed.
“You know what, whatever.” He stepped to the side. “I found her.”
Victoria Neuman rolled her eyes, stepping past him into the van. “Found me,” she scoffed. “He got lost. I found him.” She smiled at Annie. “Hey. Long time, no see. You guys- You’re always avoiding me. It’s actually pretty rude.”
Annnie returned the smile, and it felt cold on her face. “Sorry, we’ve been busy-“
“No, you haven’t been. You’re afraid, I get it- It’s just-“ She looked between Annie and Hughie with a long sigh. “You two. Of all people. I thought you’d get it.”
“Well, we- We didn’t-“ Hughie shot Annie a nervous look, and she gave him a what am I supposed to do look. She wasn’t friends with Neuman. Hughie was. He was the one who believed she’d be helpful.
Annie wondered sometimes, against her will, if Hughie would still believe in her if she turned into something darker than she was supposed to be. If his kindness and hope would extend to her, if she stopped being the light.
“Oh- We don’t have time for this. I’m on a schedule.” Neuman sat down on the van bench, then froze. She looked down at her hand, horror creeping over her face. “Is this sticky?”
“Um- Yeah.” Hughie grimaced. “Please don’t ask why, because I don’t know.”
Neuman blinked at him for a second, mouth open and brows knit. She looked at Annie, then Frenchie, and let out a sharp breath.
“Jesus,” she glanced over her shoulder, leaning slowly back. “You people- How are you still alive?”
“We’re not sure,” Hughie mumbled, fidgeting with his sleeves. “Listen, Vicki, we really appreciate you meeting with us-“
“Yeah, I know you do. You want to actually tell me what I’m doing here?”
Hughie looked at Annie, and she just nodded. Neuman wasn’t her friend.
“We were hoping,” Hughie said slowly. “That you might have something that could help us? With taking down Homelander?”
Neuman snorted. She grinned at him, then Annie, then paused. Her smile twitched down. She blinked, shook her head, and laughed again. “You- You’re fucking serious.”
“We’re at a dead end,” Annie said, leaning forward. “And we know it’s a big ask, but you know how dangerous he is-“
“Yeah, I know how dangerous he is!” Neuman’s voice raised to something harsh. “Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I’ve just- Had a way to kill him this whole time and just not used it?”
Frenchie hummed, giving her a pointed look. “You did work with him, no? To send away your own father-“
“I didn’t have a choice,” Neuman snapped. “He- He was threatening my-“ She held up a hand, as if to physically stop herself. “You know what, no. I don’t have to explain myself to a bunch of- Unemployed idiots-“
“Technically we still work for the CIA-“
“Do you?!” Neuman rolled her eyes. “You could’ve fooled me, with how you’re dressed and- Smell, and-“ She looked around the van. “This.”
Hughie’s ears turned red. “Well, they- They’ve never really paid us a lot.”
“No shit. They must really value your services-“
“Vicki, please,” Annie said, pressing her hands together and trying not to balk under Neuman’s gaze. They were both supes. Annie was no less, than the shaper, cleaner woman across from her.
She needed to get better at lying to herself, too.
“We just need anything,” she tried to keep her voice steady. Like delivering lines. She was just delivering lines. “Anything you can give us at all, no matter how small. If you really want him gone, just- Just this once. Not for us,” she paused, watching Neuman carefully. “For Zoe.”
Neuman sat taller. A strange shadow crossed her face, and her fingers flexed on her phone. She sighed, looked up to the ceiling, and shook her head.
“You people are like- Like fucking ants,” she said. “You just- You keep coming back.”
“Oh,” Frenchie tipped his head. “That is good, I am going to use that-“
“Shut up.”
He swallowed, and nodded quickly. Neuman let out a slow breath, her tongue flicking over her lips, and a taut smile pushed at her lips.
“Tell you what,” she sat up, adjusting her coat. “I’ll give you a little snack to- To fucking choke or whatever, and you leave me alone. You leave my daughter alone, and you don’t tell anyone I told you. Deal?”
Annie’s throat was tight. She exchanged looks with Hughie and Frenchie, and got tiny, reluctant nods in return. What other choice did they have. Annie looked back to Neuman, opened her mouth, and-
“Can we tell Butcher?” Frenchie asked, frowning at the air. “And Kimiko, and-“
“Obviously you can fucking tell your team,” Neuman snapped. “It would be insane if you didn’t.”
Frenchie shrugged, slumping fully over his seat and raising his hands, palms up. “I was only checking. No need to pop any heads.”
Neuman’s eyes narrowed. Annie quickly cleared her throat.
“We won’t tell anyone else. We promise, just- Anything.”
Neuman’s mouth worked. She drummed her fingers, looking around like she was expecting cameras, and for a second, Annie thought she wasn’t going to say anything at all.
When she did speak, it was quiet. Slow. Careful.
“About three years ago,” she murmured. “Stan- He asked me to bury something. And I mean really bury it. Kill even the thought of an investigation, any kind of evidence, any story- All of it. Not a word, even in their own heads. That’s what he said.”
Hughie swallowed, crossing his arms. “What- Was it like flight 37? Or-“ He went pallid, as Neuman’s jaw tightened, her eyes getting almost sad. “What? Worse?”
“I- I don’t know.” Neuman sighed. “When he came to me, I expected that. I- I expected Herogasm, I was ready to clean up a massacre, a disaster, a- a fucking nightmare. But-“ She shook her head, her voice getting quieter. “It was just one girl.”
Silence hung in the van. The lump in Annie’s throat was like a rock, and it was sinking down to her stomach. None of them seemed brave enough to speak, even Frenchie’s mouth in a thin, worried line.
Neuman breathed your name, brows knitting tight. “Twenty-four. Smart girl. PhD candidate, actually. Saw a picture- Pretty. Really pretty.”
The rock hit Annie’s gut, and the bile of her lunch was pushed up her throat.
“Official story- The one Stan gave me, to make official, was that she killed herself. And I- I don’t know what actually happened, he didn’t’ tell me, but-“ Neuman swallowed. “I know the night before she vanished- A few weeks before Stan came to me- She was at a Vought party. A few people- They saw him near her. And they won’t remember now, but if… If there’s anything…”
She trailed off, and Hughie swallowed, his words tight and choked.
“The trial. If Homelander, if- he-“ He looked to Annie. “That’s- If it is that, and we can prove it-“
“But that is what happened with Becca, no?” Frenchie cut in. “We could use Becca-“
“No,” Hughie shook his head. “Ryan. And- Butcher would never let us. But, this girl-“ Hughie’s voice wavered. “Is she dead?”
"Is she dead?”
“Legally? Completely.” Neuman straightened her jacket, moving to her feet. “But that’s all I know. The rest is-“ She smiled between them. “All you. Good luck. Try not to die.”
She smiled at Hughie, before she left. Nodded at Annie.
But Annie’s head was spinning. Her vision was blurred, and she was still fighting that vomit. A girl. A dead girl. That was all Neuman could offer them. And Annie-
She wasn’t even shocked anymore. Just sick, and tired, and frozen.
She couldn’t bring herself to nod back.
When Butcher was angry, he got loud. Kimiko hated it. It was like the bark of the war dogs, right into her skull.
They’d been in this bathroom for almost two hours. MM was on his phone, watching the trial coverage with the subtitles. He’d turn it to Kimiko, when she leaned closer. Butcher had been ignoring them both, leering at the laptop and slamming on keys. Hughie said that never made computers work faster. Butcher never seemed to care.
“Fuckin’- Fuckin’ hell,” Butcher hissed, slapping the tilted back screen. “They got files on files ‘bout supes who can grow their nails and shit glitter, but not a single mention of a supe stronger than Homelander?”
Kimiko would think that was on purpose. If she had a secret weapon to kill her other weapon, she wouldn’t keep information about it on a laptop. She looked at MM and his pinched expression, and wondered if he thought the same thing. If he did, he wasn’t saying anything. If Kimiko could get words out, she’d be saying so very many things to Butcher all the time. She didn’t understand how the rest of them didn’t, sometimes.
“Maybe she doesn’t exist, Butcher,” MM muttered, and Butcher’s lip curled.
“Nah. That ain’t it.”
MM glanced up, face heavy with exhaustion. “Man, come on-“
“She’s out there,” Butcher snapped, slamming on the laptop again. “Somewhere. Fuckin’- Somewhere, there’s somethin’- They’re just- Hidin’ it-“
“Or we should stop wasting time, and look for other options-“
“I swear to the fuckin’ lord and his sweet little bloody lamb,” Butcher hissed, everything on his face filled with venom. “You mention other options again, I’m smashin’ your precious phone through the wall and flushin’ the pieces down the toilet.”
MM didn’t look impressed. None of them ever were anymore, expect maybe Hughie. But they backed off. They always backed off with sighs and annoyed grunts. Kimiko glared at Butcher. She wouldn’t back off. He was wasting everyone’s time, looking for another supe to try and control, and it made something in her chest burn.
“Don’t gimme that look,” Butcher said, shooting her a smirk. “Frenchie’ll start gettin’ jealous.”
She flipped him off. It was the best thing she’d ever learned how to do. There was a lot of white-hot, atomic fury—the kind that swirled in her chest and tightened her muscles and made it hard to breathe sometimes—that she could put into the gestures. And Butcher never flinched, but his lips twitched and he took the tiniest step back. He thought she didn’t see it. She always did.
“I think they put the Deep on the stand,” MM muttered, peering at his screen. “Either means their floundering, or they’re just- Real fuckin’ confident.”
“That one,” Butcher grunted. “The don’t flounder. Not with their million dollar floaties.”
MM sighed, rubbing his jaw, and Kimiko raised her brows. She didn’t understand how American trials worked. Frenchie had tried to explain it to her, but it had all been very confusing and contradictory. Couldn’t be that good a system anyway, if they had to spend months figuring out that Vought was evil.
Frenchie said it was more complicated than that. Kimiko didn’t think it should be. It was one of those things she found herself agreeing with Butcher about, which was always sticky and crawling on her skin.
She tapped MM’s shoulder, and nodded to the door. They were on the floor of the big stall of the men’s room, because Butcher said Men didn’t shit in public. Kimiko believed that. She was starting to think men just swallowed all their shit, and then spewed it back out their throat with words.
Maybe she should try that, to speak.
No, too gross.
MM gave her a questioning look, and she sighed, cupping her hands and pretending to drink from them.
“Ah.” He glanced at Butcher, still glowering at the screen. “Be fast.”
Kimiko nodded, and bounced off the toilet. She didn’t really need a drink. The area was just starting to smell like sweat and salt and spit, and it reminded her of wet, toxic gasses that used to sting her nose. She slipped into the women’s room and washed her hands, keeping an ear on the hallway. Everyone should be in the trial. She’d be fine, just stretching a bit. Fixing her hair, her jacket, using the lip gloss Annie gave her.
She liked it. She liked having Annie around—and her lip gloss, and knowledge of reality television, the best thing America had to offer—even if she seemed very concerned every time Kimiko came into the office with blood on her knuckles.
“We don’t have to do it like this, you know,” she’d said last time, touching Kimiko’s shoulder like they were both made of glass. “You don’t have to do it like this.”
Kimiko had smiled, but known those were the words of a woman who had been in the light for so much of her life, it took the shadows creeping over her skin for her to notice the dark. Kimiko would like there to be another way. She’d like to be made of glass, if they didn’t like in a world where anything weaker than concrete broke.
At least the lip gloss made her mouth shiny. That was a little bit of light she’d never been able to have to herself.
Heels clacked in the hallway, and Kimiko’s head shot up. She grabbed the sink, ready to rip it off and throw it and run. The door pushed open.
“I don’t care that you don’t know where he is, I don’t pay you to just- Think about it and give up, you have to find him.” The red-headed Vought lady marched into the bathroom, and Kimiko froze, grip on the sink tightening. “No- No- Don’t guess. Look. I swear to God, Tyler, if you say the Tower one more time-“
The lady’s looked at Kimiko, as if she trying to share the exasperation. Then she looked away. Kimiko blinked. Her grip slacked.
The lady froze. She looked back, eyes slowly getting wider and wider. A strangled sound escaped her throat, and her phone clattered to the tile.
“Holy- Holy- Fuck no-“
She turned back to the door, heels clacking, and Kimiko lunged.
The woman was bigger than her, but felt small in her hands. She went down easy, but screamed and kicked her way into the men’s room. It was pretty rude, in Kimiko’s opinion. She could’ve just killed her, but she was very nice and Hughie said killing was bad.
Butcher and MM stared at her, when she presented the lady. Butcher mouth curved into that crude, kind of ugly smirk. MM grabbed the bar against the wall to stay up right.
“Where the fuck did you find her?”
Kimiko shrugged vaguely. It didn’t really matter. They had her now.
“Motherfuckin’- This means we have to go-“
“Ah, hold on,” Butcher closed the laptop, taking a slow step forward. “Not so fast now. This is a gift, mate. Let’s not be idiot cunts and throw it back.”
MM crossed his arms, giving Butcher a flat look. “How the fuck is this,” he jerked his head at Ashley, who had started to tremble like a baby. “A gift.”
“Good question,” Butcher said, almost alight with glee. “Guess who’s computer I’ve got, livestreamin’ right into ours?”
Ashley went almost limp, a weak sound escaping her throat. MM’s jaw ticked.
“You- Fucker.” He turned to Ashley. “No screaming, alright? Or she snaps your neck. Got it?”
Ashley glanced back at Kimiko, and she tried to give her a reassuring smile. No necks would be snapped. She’d just knock her out a little.
She probably needed to work on her smile more. Ashley made a sound like a cornered animal, and nodded frantically to MM. He nodded at Kimiko, and she let her hand go from Ashley’s mouth.
“Oh- Oh fuck-“ Ashley coughed, glaring around the bathroom stall. She was still shaking in Kimiko’s grip. “You- You psycho’s, you’re going to get us all killed-“
“Awww,” Butcher drawled. “You’re worried about us, ain’t that sweet. We’re worried ‘bout you too.”
“I- I’m not-“ Ashley swallowed, hands pressing against Kimiko uselessly. “You- You’re going to kill me-“
“Not yet-“
“Butcher,” MM grunted, and Butcher chuckled.
“I’m just bein’ honest with the lass, ain’t my fault she sided herself with the blood suckin’ cunt team-“
“You’re the blood sucker’s,” Ashley spat. “At least I don’t actually hurt people-“
“Yeah, you just get out the fuckin’ Mr. Clean and scrub the street when your moneybags do-“
“Hey,” MM clapped his hands. “Focus. They’ll notice she’d missing, Butcher. Ask her what you want, or we need to start running, now.”
Butcher’s smile tightened—it reminded Kimiko of Kenji, when she told him to stop playing with his toys before dinner—and he sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. He looked Ashely up and down, titled his head, and took another step forward. Kimiko could smell that fruity vodka he’d always used as perfume. Sickly sweet and stifling.
“Tell us every fuckin’ thing you now,” Butcher hissed. “’Bout a supe called the Anomaly.”
Ashley paused. Her heart stuttered under Kimiko’s hands, and for a second, she thought Butcher might’ve been right the whole time. Ashley was going to tell them where to look. They’d be given the weapon, they’d have the way out, this could be over-
“The what?”
MM sighed. Butcher stiffened.
“The Anomaly,” he spat. “Vought secret, female supe, powers bigger than Homelander-“
Ashley laughed nervously. “Are you crazy? There- There’s no one stronger than Homelander for- For fucks sake, Vought designed him to be unstoppable, he’s unstoppable-“
“Everything is stoppable when you got the machinery, love,” Butcher sneered. “And I don’t know what you think is happenin’ right now, but company secrets ain’t gonna matter when we smash your head through this fuckin’ wall-“
“What secrets!” Ashley shrieked, her heart pounding. Kimiko could almost hear it in her own skull. “There- There are no secrets, there are no secrets-“
“Don’t you fuckin’ lie, you Vought suckin’ little cunt-“
“Butcher,” MM grabbed his shoulder, his grip on his phone making his wrist flex. “Just- Look.”
He shoved his phone under Butcher’s nose, and Butcher paused. His eyes narrowed on the screen. He grabbed the screen, eyes darting back and forth.
“Hm,” Butcher grunted. “You really trust-“
“It’s from Annie.”
Butcher’s jaw ticked. “Well, if it’s real, it ain’t enough-“
“But it’s something. And-“ MM glanced at Ashley. “Even this Anomaly thing is real, they clearly don’t tell her fucking shit.”
Ashley’s face fell, and Kimiko smiled. She’d laugh if she could.
“They- They tell me things- I’m the CEO-“
“You really think braggin’ about your clearance to us is gonna help you right now?” MM said, and Ashley swallowed. Kimiko didn’t know someone could be that pale, and she hung out with Hughie all the time.
“We’ll- Bloody hell,” Butcher shoved the phone back to MM. “Let’s get eyes on that shit, but- I ain’t givin’ this up-“
“I know you’re not.” MM muttered. “You stubborn fucking bastard.”
Butcher smiled and spread his arms. “Hey, you don’t love me for my pretty face.”
MM rolled his eyes, and jerked his head at Kimiko. “Let her go.”
Butcher stiffened. “Now, hold on-“
Kimiko held Butcher’s gaze as he raised a hand to stop her, and let go of Ashley.
She stumbled forward, right up to Butcher’s chest. His eyes narrowed. He lurched forward, and Kimiko almost dived forward. She didn’t like Ashley, but she liked her clothing and didn’t want to burn it to hide another murder, and she was really trying to murder less overall-
Ashley scrambled back. She hit the sink next to Kimiko, breathing fast and shallow like a deer. Butcher’s sneer curled, eyes glinting, and Ashley made a weak sound. She turned, and sprinted out the door. MM caught Butcher’s arm before he could follow.
“Not worth it.”
Butcher grunted, but didn’t look like he agreed. That dark, predatory look turned to Kimiko, but she didn’t flinch. She’d been on the other side of it too many times to care anymore.
“Let’s move,” MM said, and they did. The laptop got smashed. They slipped out the bathroom window, and took off.
MM gave Kimiko his phone in the car. She pulled her knees up to her chest, and scanned over the screen. Something, MM had called it. But Butcher was right. It didn’t seem like enough.
What was another victim, in a world built on bodies. Not much. Never much. All that usually remained was anger. Anger like hers. Like Butchers. He was still glaring Kimiko her in the mirror, but she didn’t get afraid of things. Not anymore. Not the way Butcher seemed to want her to. The wrath of a war dog scared her as a child. Now it was just an annoying sound, as the anger built and built and built in her own chest. She wouldn’t bite on his word. She wouldn’t do anything on his word. Not when she was made of so much anger it pushed her eyes open at night, and Butcher—filled with so much more wrath, she sometimes saw it simmering off his skin—seemed to be filled with more.
Homelander waited until the sun was down. Ryan had gone to bed, and he was an impossibly obedient child. He was supposed to ask to stay up late, instead of just agreeing. Homelander had even offered another ten minutes—for them to be together, to bond, to make up for all that time Becca Butcher had stolen from them—and Ryan had refused it.
“I- I think I’m tired,” he’d said, yawning wide. Homelander had almost rolled his eyes. The yawn was overkill, as if Ryan didn’t think he’d believe him.
But Homelander hadn’t pushed. He’d have other ways, later, to test if Ryan was still harboring some kind of secret hatred. If he was just waiting for the right moment to stab Homelander in the back, like everyone else had before him. He’d remind Ryan in the morning, that they were family. A real family. Blood. Homelander made Ryan, and they had the same V running through their veins, and there was nothing—fucking nothing—that meant more than that.
He hovered in the air, outside the red-brick building. His cape was supposed to catch the wind, but there wasn’t enough of it. The lights of the city didn’t reach this part of town, and Homelander liked it like that. Everything that glowed was his. His empire, his legacy, his world. Everywhere humans—real, meat and bone humans that bowed like sheep to the wolf—were, was Homelander’s.
This place was all rats and sewage in the streets. Of course, it belonged to Butcher.
A light flicked on in the apartment, and Homelander adjusted his gloved. That goddamn speck still hadn’t come off, but he’d make it. His will wasn’t about to be defeated by a bit of fucking dirt.
He landed on the fire escape, his hands behind his back, and waited. Butcher let his shoulders slump, when he was alone. His features etched in exhaustion, his shirt unbuttoned and hands slower than Homelander ever saw, anywhere else.
Butcher started boiling water, probably for tea.Homelander huffed. British people.
“You waitin’ for me slip into somethin’ for you?” Butcher said, not looking away from the stove. “Or are you comin’ in?”
Homelander’s jaw ticked. He slid open the window and ducked inside, trying to keep his spine as straight as possible. “You look,” he looked Butcher up and down. “Tired.”
Butcher grunted, and didn’t answer. Homelander scowled, bracing his hands on his hips.
“How do I look?”
“Like a cunt.”
Butcher hadn’t even looked up. Homelander shifted on his feet and cleared his throat, and still nothing.
“You know, I haven’t seen you and your little team in a while,” he started. “I’m starting to think you’ve given up on killing me, William. Which isn’t very nice of you, we made each other promises.”
Butcher’s lips twitched. Homelander leaned around, trying to figure out what the fuck that smug, bored expression meant.
“Do you have something for me soon? Is it a surprise? If it’s a surprise, you have to tell me.”
Butcher gave him another strange look, eyes gleaming like coal in the dark. Cold and heavy but—if scratch and sparked right, the way Homelander was fucking trying to do—dangerous and bright.
“If it’s a surprise,” Homelander said. “Don’t say anything-“
“Ah,” Butcher grinned, brows raised, and said your name. “Who’s she?”
Homelander stumbled back. The words settled into his chest like shrapnel, aching and ripping at his heart. He’d never heard her name aloud. Not from another mouth. From Butcher’s mouth. The pain curled. It rubbed against the steel of his ribs and burned.
“What.” Homelander kept his voice slow and cold. All the heat was building in his chest. Behind his eyes. Butcher wasn’t allowed to see it. She’d been too elegant, too holy, too sacred, for Butcher’s dirty fucking hands to touch.”
Butcher repeated your name, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter. “Young girl. ‘Bout mid-twenties, real fuckin’ knockout, even in just a pervy photo.” Butcher whistled, and Homelander grinded his teeth.
He didn’t know what the fuck he what the fuck he was talking about, he didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, he didn’t know what the fuck-
“You heard of her?” Butcher asked, and Homelander swallowed. He didn’t let his face twitch, didn’t let his legs move back.
Steam was pouring out of the kettle, fanning around Butcher’s smirk. He was stronger than this. Stronger than Butcher’s mind games. Stronger than the shriek of the kettle in his ears, the ghost in his skull, the sound of her name.
“Who? Nike?” He scoffed. “I don’t know every supe on the planet, Butcher, that’s- It’s very bigoted of you to assume-“
Butcher cut him off with your name again, grabbing a mug from his sink without breaking Homelander’s gaze, and Homelander rolled his eyes.
“Whatever, that’s still- I expected better-“
“Never said she was a supe, either.” Butcher hummed, reaching for the kettle. “What kinda powers she got?”
Homelander took a long, slow breath through his nose. He’d come here to have fun. To distract himself, with something that mattered even less than this stupid trial. And Butcher- Butcher wasn’t playing nice.
But he was still asking. Homelander shoved down the thick, smoldering anger Butcher had dragged from the base of his neck. He stretched it out, nose twitching, and didn’t entertain this. Butcher just knew a name. Anyone could know a name. If he knew everything—if he knew what she’d been, what she’d meant—he’d be saying that. He’d be aiming for Homelander’s heart, not his throat.
“Ryan’s asking about his mother.” Homelander said, and Butcher stopped pouring his tea. “He wants to know if I loved her.”
Butcher looked up slowly, and Homelander smiled.
There it was. That hatred. That burning flame that they shared, that was going to consume the world. And when Homelander stood in the ashes alone, he’d miss it. He’d miss them.
“I tell him the truth, of course. Becca was just- a fling to me. Nothing real. You’re the one she really loved, for-“ His nose wrinkled. “Some reason.”
Butcher wasn’t moving. His heartbeat was slower than a turtle, but that was something Homelander had always admired about him. The anger. How it outweighed the fear, just like him.
“I think I should be going, before you break your jaw brooding all over me,” he waved, taking a step back to the window. “Don’t wait up for me, tomorrow. And- Remember. I’d like the surprise.”
And Butcher’s lips curled back up. And Homelander froze.
“Trust me,” Butcher said, low enough that only Homelander would ever be able to hear. “We got one.”
Homelander laughed and nodded and waved it off, but he couldn’t hear his own dismissal and mockery. Not over the whistle of the kettle, although the steam had stopped minutes ago. When he stepped out into the fire escape, it wasn’t even drowned out by the wind. And when he flew and flew and flew, it only got louder and louder. Instruments swelled behind it. Strings and the clash of cymbals and the croon of an angel. A glowing angel.
His glowing angel. Higher in the clouds than he could reach, now. Than anyone could.
Homelander landed in a crater of ash, far in the upstate of New York. There wasn’t a living thing for miles, to see him staring with hollow eyes at the wreckage. Any bit of the burned rubble could be her bones. That pressure, that boiling wrath, it pushed up Homelander’s throat. His eyes flickered and his hands curled and uncurled and his breathing turned short.
The roar split the sky, and red beams of light carved into the already dead ground. The world didn’t move. Didn’t care. The ground should be shaking, it should be afraid, Homelander had lost and so the world should be afraid, should be blooming with new offerings, new songbirds, new angels. But it didn’t understand.
It would. Homelander would make sure it did, and then he’d have it. Everything that was left, he’d have it all.
A bit of ash, floated up and landed on the lapel of his suit. He brushed it off, but didn’t look back to see that it stuck. He flew back to the tower, with it graying into his suit. And the rest of the world was quiet. The daisies and weeds that had been pushing through the ashes of the crater had been missed by the slice of Homelander’s laser, but still been buried in the ash of the aftermath.
There was going to be wind tomorrow. There usually was, after a while. And it would blow away the ash, and something would always, always grow.
✦chapter 2
✦End note: butcher got a single w today with his ragebaiting but guys i dont think it's going to last ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
good people (oc): episode 1 - down the rabbit hole
✦Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist - Series Masterlist - prologue✦
✦summary: TUNE IN AT 12 EST SEE THE ONLY REAL, UNBIASED, PATROTIC COVERAGE OF HOMELANDER'S TRIAL FOR THE TRUTH, ONLY ON VNN.
✦warnings/tags: series rewrite, Soldier Boy x fem!supe!oc, past Homelander x fem!supe!oc and it ain't pretty, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, no ben or oc in this chapter, eventual happy ending, Hughie, Homelander, Butcher, A-Train, Annie, and Kimiko POV
✦wc: 13.3k✦
✦author's note: homelander's pov is too fun to write. i might be going crazy.
“And we’re back, live from New York City in the trial of the century, the United States vs. Homelander. Since we last saw you there haven’t been any major updates or sightings of Homelander, but we have word from inside the courtroom that a new witness will be taking the stand soon. Mike, what can you tell us about the energy you’re feeling, from the defense?”
Hughie watched the TV with tired, hooded eyes. It had been droning all morning. It would be droning all night. If he didn’t put it on, Butcher would, and if he didn’t it would be MM, and if no one was around—even though she told the rest of them it was unhealthy and useless to obsess—Annie would pick up the remote and curl up on the couch, hoping for just one casual, meaningless word of hope.
“Well, Amy, it’s not getting better.” Mike, with his hundred-dollar haircut and his pinstripe tie, smiled at the camera like he wasn’t reporting on the doom of America. Hughie ran his fingers through his own hair. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a cut at all. “Vought’s certainly pouring everything they have into this defense, but that’s exactly what we expected. Homelander isn’t just their hero, he’s their money-maker. I mean, over the past fifteen years, have you been able to even hear the word ‘Vought’ without thinking of Homelander right after?” Mike laughed. “I didn’t think so.”
“They got anything new?” MM materialized on the sofa arm, and Hughie yelped.
“Holy- How are you so quiet-“
“I move like the wind, Hughie. I’m one with the sky, sky’s one with me.”
Hughie blinked. “Really?”
“No.” MM jerked his head at the TV. “News?”
“Right, I- Sorry.” Hughie looked back to Amy and Mike, both smiling so wide it must’ve hurt their faces. “Amy, she- She says there are rumors. About a new witness.”
MM’s jaw tightened. “Our side, or theirs?”
“They don’t know yet.”
“Shit,” MM ran a hand over his face, glaring at the TV. “Well, you text me when you know. Our best hope is that it’s just another fuckin’ Homelander fanatic, they discredit him to the jury, just- Getting up on that stand and kissing his ass and being useless.”
Hughie nodded. His chest felt hollow. “Or it doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “Because all of our guys are just- Starlighters. Doing the same thing.” He glanced up nervously, meeting MM’s sharp gaze. “I mean- To them. I don’t think our guys are the same, but- You know.”
For a second, they just started at each other. MM looked back to the TV. His lips pressed in a thin line.
“Yeah. I know.” MM stood back up, giving Hughie that half-smile none of them ever had energy to back up in their voices. “Text me.”
“Yeah, I- I will.”
MM grunted, and wandered away. Hughie looked back to the TV, but they’d moved on to banter about Amy’s new porch. Her husband was building it for her. Their dog liked the darker wood they’d chosen, for sunbathing. Amy was laughing about it now, but she’d get frustrated with something about the development soon. Just like with the kitchen renovation. Hughie knew the anchors pretty well, by now. It was what happened, when their voices basically lived full-time in his house.
“Amy is talking about her kitchen again?” Frenchie slid next to him, and Hughie bit his tongue. He needed to stop jumping.
“Actually, it’s the porch now.”
“Ah. Are they using a smoothed wood, or a-“
“I- I don’t know. It’s dark.”
“Oak, or cherry, or-“
“Frenchie. I don’t know.”
Frenchie shrugged it off, leaning further back in the couch. Hughie coughed, settling back into the cushions, his hands braced on his knees. Better, he supposed, to lose it a little at Frenchie. He never let it stick anyways.
The TV kept playing. Kimiko moved to sit near Frenchie’s feet, and Annie came out of the bathroom to perch at Hughie’s side. She ran her fingers through his hair in a silent greeting, and Hughie offered her a small smile. She returned it, something that had been heavy over her features softening. He grabbed her hand, and she squeezed it in return.
“Where’s-“
“I don’t know.”
Annie glanced back to the door. “Do you think he’s-“
“Yeah. Probably,” Hughie sighed, and he knew it didn’t matter, but he looked anyway. Save for them at the couch, and MM at his desk, it was all quiet. No press outside, like at their apartment. No Mallory pacing, or blaring phone calls just so Singer could yell at them for being useless.
No Butcher.
They hadn’t seen him in a day or two, but that wasn’t anything new. Not over the past few months. Hughie rolled out of bed, and people were already yelling at him for a comment about the trial. He got to work and MM clapped him on the shoulder and Kimiko smiled at him and gave him coffee and when he asked where Butcher was, everyone went quiet. He went through the day, and people yelled at him about not finding the thing. The one that would bring Homelander down, no space for Vought paying their way around it, no excuses. Just death, or downfall. He got home, another day with nothing in his hands but a phone he was afraid to look at, and the silence yelled at him for not doing more.
“He’s obsessed,” Annie murmured. “I’m worried about him.”
Hughie gave her a half-amused look. “You’re worried? About- Butcher?”
Annie sighed. “It’s- I don’t like him, but- He’s still a person.”
“He is a person,” Frenchie said, not looking away from the TV. “An obsessive, angry, bastard of a person.”
Kimiko gestured something, and Frenchie hummed an agreement.
“She says he is so far into his own arse, he will not see when the answer walks right,” Frenchie whistled, mocking a walk with his fingers. “In front of him. And I agree.”
Hughie gave them an incredulous look, but couldn’t seem to find an agreement that didn’t taste like sandpaper. Butcher had been obsessive, ever since Maeve told him that thing about the supe. She’d claimed—at least to Butcher, who was never the most reliable source—that it wouldn’t be like Soldier Boy. This supe would be stronger than Homelander, more willing to fight him, and easier to control. Hughie, privately, thought Soldier Boy had been all those things, except maybe the stronger than Homelander part. He’d been close, though. Close enough that it didn’t matter. But all they’d had to do was wave some weed and burgers under his nose, and he’d listened. He’d even ended up being so willing to fight Homelander, it was a problem. That’s how they’d lost.
Butcher said this supe—the Anomaly—wouldn’t lose.
“She’s gonna see it like I see it,” he’d said, smiling with teeth and a glint in his eyes. “And we’re gonna kill ‘im, once and for all.”
They’d all looked at each other, worried and silent. Killing Homelander wouldn’t fix everything. Another supe never fixed anything. But that didn’t stop Butcher. They still hadn’t found something that could.
“This just in,” Amy told the camera. “New poll numbers show that 37% of the American public believe Vought, that Homelander acted in self-defense. 43% favor some form of guilty charge, although the split among their answered varied from the death penalty, to a hundred dollar fine. 20% remain unsure, and are waiting to hear more evidence as it’s presented.”
“Thirty-seven.” Hughie breathed. “That’s- There are videos, of him lasering that guy in half! People can’t actually believe this, can they?!”
MM grunted, setting down his gun on the desk. “Yes, they can.”
Hughie swallowed, and Annie’s grip on his hand tightened. This was their last shot. The last way to do it right, clean and easy, before-
He could still hear the crackle of wires and cracks of bone, from Vought Tower. It was one of the many things, he still heard, when it was a little too quiet. He didn’t want to hear anything like it, for the rest of his life. If this didn’t work, he didn’t see a world where that was the only kind of sound he heard, ever again.
The door cracked open, and their heads all shot up.
“Mornin’ cunts!” Butcher walked into the office, holding a big paper bag that was either bagels, or a bomb. “Anyone put the coffee on yet?”
“It’s 2pm, Butcher,” MM said, hands fisting on the desk. “Where the hell have you been.”
“Out. Around. Under, just a tad. Bagel?”
MM’s face didn’t turn any less sour, but he paused. “You got-“
“Cinnamon raisin and schmear. Fuckin’ disgusting, but only the best for my best.”
MM grunted, and took the bagel. Butcher smiled, smug and pleased with it, and turned to the rest of them on the couch.
“Bloody hell, you lot ain’t moved since I left-“
“We’re watching the trial,” Hughie said, scanning over Butcher for any bullet wound or serration. He always tended to come back with those and not say anything. “What have you been doing?”
“Don’t worry about me,” Butcher waved him off, and Hughie only worried more. “You got any progress, on trackin’ the Anomaly.”
Annie crossed her arms. “No. Because we haven’t been doing that.”
Butcher stiffened. The mock merriment stuttered and twisted on his face. “Why not. I fuckin’ told you-“
“You’re not my boss, Butcher-“
“I am now, sweetheart,” he tossed the bag off to the side, and Kimiko crawled over to poke around inside. “You want to come play cowboy, that’s the deal, though I done made myself clear-“
“You did,” Annie tipped her chin. “That doesn’t mean I have to agree.”
Butcher’s lip curled, and Annie’s hands fisted. Not again.
“We’re just not sure she’s real, Butcher.” Hughie tried, putting a hand on Annie’s knee. Silently begging her not to do anything, to rock the boat. “We’ve been looking- You’ve been looking- I mean, everywhere. There’s nothing. Not a trace.”
Butcher grunted. “Soldier Boy wasn’t supposed to be around and kickin’ either.”
“Well, that was Soldier Boy,” MM muttered. “And I’m glad he ain’t up anymore.”
“Of course you are glad,” Frenchie said, taking the bagel Kimiko passed him. “He killed your family.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“I am just saying, it makes sense that you are sensitive-“
“I am not sensitive, I just don’t like working with coked-up egomaniacs-“
“Did we give him coke?” Hughie frowned. “I don’t think we gave him coke.”
“I mighta given ‘im coke,” Butcher said, waving them off. “But that ain’t the point. This isn’t gonna be another Soldier Boy, MM. It’ll be different, I swear.”
MM took a deep breath, leaning back in his seat and glaring at Butcher down the bridge of his nose. Hughie was never sure how he did that. The man was sitting down.
“It ain’t ever different, Butcher.”
“But it will be. This time.”
MM shook his head. “We need other options-“
“No- No.” Butcher’s mouth worked, his body getting loose the way Hughie saw predators relax on the Nature channel. Like he was going to pounce. “We ain’t got the time. Homelander’s out there, right now, about to cheat the system in front of the whole world, and no one is liftin’ a damn finger to stop it. They won’t lift a finger when he wins either. It’s us, or nothing.”
“It’s never nothing-“
“It’s always nothin’, Starlight,” Butcher sneered. “So we find the Anomaly, we fuckin’ make her if we have to, but I ain’t walkin’ into the new regime without a weapon to tear it apart.”
None of them had an answer. There was never, really, a good thing to say. Butcher was right, and wrong, and they’d been in this cycle for three years, and Hughie was getting tired. Annie got him the bagel. Plain, with blueberry cream cheese. He looked back to the TV, and Amy was talking about how she was worried her dog was eating the new wood. Nothing changed.
They really needed something to change.
Hughie wished that he had any clue, what the hell that was.
The clerk of court told the room to rise. Homelander stayed seated, his legs crossed and gaze fixed on his gloves. There was something gray there, on the leather, and no matter how he scrubbed at it, it wasn’t just going away. His face pushed down, and a pressure of heat built behind his eyes. It was unprofessional, noticeable, dirty-
“Homelander,” Ashley hissed. “Please stand up.”
Homelander rolled his eyes, but stood at the last second. This judge—balding, thin, wearing glasses for fucks sake—didn’t deserve his attention. None of these people did. Ashley’s little sigh of relief grated into his brain, the scribble of pencil and clack of typewriters made his skin itch, and everyone in this room was breathing so loudly. He could feel their eyes, trying to bore through him. Trying to see something he wasn’t going to offer them.
Guilt. Remorse. All those stupid buzzwords Ashley had been feeding him, since the trial started. He’d gotten out of interviews by just taking off whenever the trial was called for the day, but then there had been the helicopter. Trying to follow him around, a vulture, whirring blades and a grinding engine that he could cut through like butter if he wanted.
“Please,” Ashley begged every morning. “Nothing today.”
She said please too much. Looked at him with those beady little bug eyes and her bald head and always looked seconds from getting on her knees and kissing his boots. Pathetic.
But he didn’t do anything. He was being a good little show dog, smiling at the cameras and grinding his teeth to stop the shoot of lasers. Maybe they’d give him an ugly metal for it. He’d take it with a smile.
He always took everything with a smile.
Homelander sat back down, when the trial started back up again. They had another one of his supporters on the stand—Vought lawyers, good for fucking something—and the testimony was going to be the exact same as the last one. The Starlighter assaulted Ryan. Homelander dealt with it. Self-defense, protecting a little boy from a crazed, anti-American revolutionary. Homelander didn’t bother to listen to it. It was hollow, all of this was fucking hollow. Everyone in this courtroom should be rising for him. He should be the only witness they needed, he should just take the stand and tell the judge he was innocent, and this would all be over. No more trial of the century bullshit. He wasn’t even on real trial, he was playing dollhouse to please the Vought Board, he was a fucking puppet again and this piece of dirt wouldn’t get off his fucking glove-
The gavel banged, cleaving through the ringing in his ears, and Homelander looked up. It was over. The judge was walking off. Finally. That had taken a million years.
He stood up, rolling his shoulders and starting for the exit, and Ashley’s head shot up from her phone.
“Sir- Homelander, just- Sir, please wait-“
“Stop saying please, Ashley,” he called, not looking back. “Follow me or keep making out with your little fucking phone.”
He heard the scramble of boots and fabric. Ashley was shoving away her phone and following him. Homelander rolled his eyes. Kissass.
“Sir, we have a meeting with the lawyers-“
“No, you have a meeting with the lawyers.” He smiled at the reporters, bowing his head. They all started barking and shouting, like starved fucking wolves in a cage. Homelander didn’t let his plastered smile drop from his face. “I am going home. Back to my son.”
“Your- Ryan is at school, sir-“
“Then I’ll take him out of school.”
“Of- Of course, but-“ Ashley tripped over the ledge of the door, boots clacking on the wooden floor. “If you could just- Do the meeting, then take him out of school-“
“I don’t need to do the meeting.”
“I- I know that. But- Sir, the Board would really feel better if I could reassure them that you’re sticking to the plan-“
“The plan?” Homelander spat, whipping in a circle.
Ashley scrambled back, steadying herself on a water fountain. Homelander braced his hands on his hips, taking a deep breath through his nose. He wouldn’t kill her. Not here. The floor was too polished, it would be a waste.
“Ashley,” he said slowly. Controlled. Nicely. “I do not care about the plan.”
“I- I know, but-“
“Shh.” He held a finger up to his lips. “I’m talking right now.”
Ashley nodded, her heart racing so fast it might burst. Homelander’s lip curled. Maybe it would drop right to her stomach, and she’d finally grow something fucking balls.
“I am not going to that meeting. You are going to go for me, and anything actually important, you will tell me about immediately. But anything else, anything stupid or- Or anything? I do not care.”
Ashley swallowed, and nodded. Her jaw worked. Homelander rolled his eyes.
“Speak.”
“The Deep is taking the stand!” She blurted. “Tomorrow. This is a strategy meeting for that, they- They want him to be a character witness-“
“For me?” Homelander scoffed. “Tell them I don’t need a character witness. My character is the only thing keeping this fucking shit-show afloat, Ashley, and- Actually, tell me who thinks it isn’t.” He nodded to himself. “They should know better. You should know better.”
Everyone should know better. He was Vought, the Tower was his tower, this trial was more a test of who he was going to slice in half by the end of it. The people who’d doubted. Who’d thought he could possibly ever fucking lose.
“And tell them I want to testify,” he added, waving a hand at Ashley’s frozen body. “We can just get it over with.”
“O- Over with?” Ashley blinked. “Sir, you- You can’t rush justice- Not that it’s justice you’re going to lose, but- We have to do it the right way-“
“No, you have to do it the right way. I do it whatever fucking way I want.”
He turned again, making his way towards the doors. Ashley followed. She always did. Sometimes, Homelander wondered if one of his powers had secretly always been keeping women on a leash.
It wasn’t. His mouth ticked, a chill pushing through his spine. If it was, you wouldn’t have lost her.
He didn’t lose her. She died. Big difference. He would’ve saved her, if Butcher and his team and Soldier Boy hadn’t been pulling him in fifty different directions. They killed her. They killed her.
“Tell me if we have anything on Butcher, too,” he called back to Ashley, shoving open the courtroom door. “And tell the Deep that if he wants to testify, he better not mention a single fucking tentacle or fish, or I’ll cut off his dick and feed it to his fuckbuddy sharks.”
The crowd roared at the sight of him. Cameras flashed, people reached over the barricade to try and touch him, Starlighters booed but he didn’t let it make anything but his jaw twitch. They’d be set right soon. They’d see. Everyone always fucking saw, that he wasn’t the problem, he was the solution. They’d fucking see.
He glanced at his glove. The smudge was still there. He tucked his arm behind his back.
“Go- Got it- Sharks and- Butcher, and-“ Ashley stopped next to him, panting and sweating and smelling horrible. “Sir, I really would appreciate it if you could just come to this one meeting-“
“It’s not just this one meeting, Ashley! It’s this one, then another, then another,” Homelander said through his toothy smile, waving his clean hand at the crowd. “I’m not doing it.”
“But-“
“But?”
He gave her a sharp look, and she balked immediately. His nose twitched, and he looked back to the crowd.
“Please let us try and handle this,” she whispered. Homelander could fucking taste her fear. “The Deep- I know he’s stupid, but people love him for- some reason.” She took a long inhale, inching closer. Homelander considered swatting her like a fly. “If we get even a whiff that our way isn’t working, I’ll tell them you’re going on the stand, but- But-“
Don’t fucking say it.
“Please,” Ashley breathed. “You’re doing perfect, sir. You have enough on your plate. We can finish this, for you.”
Homelander shot her a look. She was flushed and pale, her wig starting to get askew, her eyes wide and flicking over his face, like he was some bomb she expected to go off.
He did have enough on his plate. He had more than they could possibly imagine. The world was a heavy thing, to carry, even with all his strength.
He didn’t bother to give Ashley an answer. She wasn’t worthy of any more words. He took off into the sky, leaving the roaring crowd behind and getting high enough that they couldn’t be heard.
The world was even bigger, that humans were able to fathom. But he could fathom it. He could see from the ocean to the deep woods, he could look over all of it and understand exactly what it needed. What all those people, smaller than ants, deserved. He was the judge. He was the jury. This trial wouldn’t matter, when they all saw that.
And everyone was going to see it.
And if they didn’t, well.
Ants were quite easy, to be stomped under larger feet.
There it was. That pretty woosh of air, that was William Butcher’s favorite sound in the world. It meant Homelander was out there. Meant he was close, and too stupid and arrogant to think to look down. He was going to cherish it, that last time he heard the sound. When it was a fall right into the ugly mud with the rest of them, and there was nothing to catch him. No one who cared enough to try. Just Butcher, waiting. Ready.
He’d be ready. He was always ready. And if Homelander looked down, he’d see it. Butcher would smile. He always smiled, when he thought of Homelander’s ugly face marred and bloody and twisted in pain.
One day.
One day he’d smile, and Homelander would be too fucking dead to smile back.
“We’re clear,” he jerked his head to MM and Kimiko, waiting behind him in the ally. “Let’s move it, cunts.”
Kimiko rolled her eyes, and marched past him with her tongue sticking out. Butcher made a face at the back of her head, and MM sighed.
“Y’know, maybe if you said please every once in a fuckin’ while-“
“Please is for schoolgirls and alter boys, Mate. You waitin’ for one, be my guest. I hear they got supe patrolin’ the alleys, take your chances with them.”
MM glared at him, and Butcher laughed. He clapped him on the shoulder, spun his crowbar in his hand, and walked after Kimiko. They stuck to the walls, as they slipped past the crowd outside the courthouse. Bunch of braindead sheep, screaming about the glory of their great leader and his fun little cape. Whatever kind of happy pills they were taking, to make them that fucking stupid, Butcher wanted one. What he wouldn’t give, to have an empty head and smile on his face.
“Hughie givin’ you anything on that new witness?” He muttered to MM, sighing when he shook his head. “The fuck’s the point of sittin’ in front of the box all day, if they ain’t gonna figure anythin’ out-“
“They’re worried, Butcher,” MM said flatly. “Hell, I’m worried. There’s no way this trial is clean, and if he wins-“
“He’s gonna win, MM. Don’t worry your pretty head ‘bout that.”
MM scowled, and Butcher held up a hand for silence. They were getting close to the backdoor. If they were going in and out, they had to be quiet. Vought got word they were sneaking around their computers, they’d get their heads mounted in Times Square like it was London fucking Bridge.
“I’m not worried,” MM hissed. “Hughie’s right, there’s video, this should be cut and fucking clean-“
“Never is, though. You know better than to think anythin’ else.” Butcher glanced down the alley to Kimiko, typing some shit on her phone. “Oi!”
She flipped him off, not looking up. Butcher shot MM an exasperated look, and only got a the fuck am I supposed to do about it shrug in return.
“You wanna give us a fuckin’ hand?” He called again, and Kimiko huffed, tucking her phone back in her jacket.
She marched over, kicked the door open, and gave Butcher one of those you’re welcome, dickhead looks. Butcher smirked in return.
“You textin’ Frenchie? Tellin’ him all about you day?”
Kimiko’s nose wrinkled in disgust, and she walked through the door without another look back. She was lucky she was useful, and more amusing than Butcher would ever admit. One of the better ones. A good tool, willing to do what it took.
She’d scored some extra favor, by agreeing to this. Butcher had been sure he was heading in alone, but MM had muttered something about not having the time to attend a funeral, and Kimiko had—according to Frenchie, although Butcher was pretty fucking sure that sometimes the man just lied about what she was saying—been open to looking for the Anomaly.
“She’d like to find someone, stronger than Homelander. And a woman,” Frenchie had smiled. “Girl power, no?”
Kimiko had signed something else, and Frenchie had nodded.
“She is hoping this one isn’t a Nazi.”
Butcher was hoping that too. Stormfront had been a pain in the ass to deal with. Whatever the Anomaly was, she’d have to be easier. Butcher imagined some angry cunt like Maeve, all teeth and sharp smiles and fisted hands. He’d tell her to get Homelander, and she would without blinking. Hell, even if she did have some psycho tendencies, all the better. More willing. Easier to control.
Soldier Boy had been too far up his own little dick, to listen. That had been Butcher’s mistake, last time. Getting involved with someone who was self-righteous. The Anomaly wouldn’t be.
She better fucking not be. Or Butcher was going to have another Supe to kill, and the Boys were going give him their sad we told you so puppy faces. They were all already running around the city, trying something stupid and soft and downright fucking foolish. Talking about their feelings, thinking if they said please and got on their knees, someone would listen. They should know better by now. No one ever listened. If something was going to change, they had to do it with their own two, doomed, blood-caked hands.
“Butcher,” MM hissed behind him. “You’re tracking mud on the fucking floor-“
“They got maids to clean it up,” Butcher shrugged, and MM sighed, all dramatic and loud.
“You’re leaving tracks, asshole.”
Ah. Butcher looked over his shoulder, and he had, in fact, left a clean map of where he was walking. Oops.
He smiled at MM, though. No weakness. Everything was part of the plan, and when it wasn’t, yes, it was. “Then we better move fuckin’ fast, eh?”
MM looked like he was going to sock him, but he looked like that most days. It hadn’t bothered Butcher in years.
“You wanna kiss me, or keep your eye on the prize?”
MM shook his head, shouldering past him into. “You’re such a fucking dick.”
“Aww. Hurtin’ my feelings, mate. Here I was, thinkin’ we were about to go steady.”
MM ignored him, and Butcher laughed. That had always been something he loved about the man. The mission got done, dicking and twirling around or not.
Vought lawyers were just as arrogant as the people that paid them. They used public Wi-Fi, left their laptops unattended while they got coffee, and didn’t sweep their fancy meeting rooms for bugs. It wasn’t that hard to plant something that—if Hughie had done his job—would let them poke around in some poor cunt’s drive for the files they needed.
“I still think we should just ask Mallory for the Supe records,” MM muttered. “Vought has to register all of them, like guns-“
“And like guns, a few always slip between their tight little cracks.” Butcher examined the table. All it’s leather briefcases and sleek computers and-
He smirked. He was getting lucky today.
“That one,” he nodded to the head of the table. The computer with the Vought logo and ugly striped blazer over the back of the seat. “Put it in that one.”
Kimiko nodded, pulling the drive out of her pocket, and MM frowned.
“Butcher-“
“Vought logo. Ain’t a contractor.” Butcher shoved his hands in his pockets. “More than just a couple fuckin’ emails on that thing.”
MM sighed, but when Kimiko gave him a questioning look, he nodded. “Just- Do it.”
Butcher grinned, leaning out the door. It was quiet. Everyone was still out on the lawn, simpering and fawning over Vought.
“You think you’ll look for Ryan?”
Butcher’s head whipped back around. MM was staring at him, arms crossed over his chest, and Butcher narrowed his eyes. “Fuck you on about.”
“Ryan-“
“What about ‘im?”
MM shrugged, not even blinking. “That computer might have something on him.”
“Something on ‘im?” Butcher scoffed. “What, you think we’re gonna fuckin’ try to off him or something?”
“Jesus, Butcher, no-“
“I ain’t pokin’ around for info on the lad. He wants to talk, he can fly, just like his daddy.”
MM gave him one of those tired, almost pitying looks. Butcher tolerated them, from Hughie. From anyone else, he was seconds from throwing a punch.
“You got something you wanna say to me?” He spat, and MM just shook his head.
“Nope. Not a thing.”
Butcher grunted, looking back to the hall. This wasn’t therapy. Ryan had gone with Homelander. That had been his fucking choice, and Butcher wasn’t about to drag the kid back by his ear. Wasn’t even his fucking kid. It was Becca’s. Becca’s boy. No blood. Nothing to pull him back.
Just his smile. Always looked more like Becca’s than Homelanders. He’d talked like Becca, too. Laughed like Becca. Liked the same cereal and bounced on his feet like she used to.
He’d made a promise. Wasn’t much good, a promise did a dead person. He didn’t even have the means to protect Ryan. The boy wouldn’t be safe until he was away from Homelander. This was what would get Ryan safe. Ending this, once and for all.
Shoes sounded down the hall. MM stiffened, and Butcher looked to Kimiko.
“You think you wanna hurry it up, before we get turned into lawyer chow?”
Kimiko closed the laptop, stuck her tongue out at him, and gave MM a thumbs up.
“Done?” He said, clapping his hands when she nodded. “Alright. Let’s get the fuck outta here.”
They walked out, but Butcher lingered. He looked at the crowbar in his hands. Heard his heartbeat in his ears, mixing in time with the clack of expensive heels and loafers. They could play spy, or he could just get what he needed out of their big mouths, quick and easy, bloody and fast-
“Butcher.” MM hissed. “Move.”
Butcher grit his jaw, and moved. He’d play nice, until they all realized what he already knew. What he’d known from the start.
This ended one way. This elevator only went down, and Butcher was already at the bottom. Waiting for them to catch up. Ready.
When he finally had his supe, to get Homelander on his knees, he was going to be fucking ready, whether he clawed out of the pit after or not.
Homelander pulled Ryan out of school. It wasn’t really school anyways, just some tutoring thing Vought had arranged. Homelander had thought about pushing against it—he’d never gone to any kind of school, and he’d turned out perfect—but Ryan had asked him not to. Something about liking learning, which was boring, and strange, but Homelander would allow it for now. He’d just spent too much time with his mother speaking Spanish and reading books. He’d grow out of it, once he was shown the better way. The good way.
“I got us ice cream,” he announced, pushing through the doors of his apartment. “And I got you a new ga ming… thingy.”
He swept a hand to the console he’d had marketing drop off. Ryan blinked at it, then Homelander.
“It’s a Voughtbox.” He prompted, when Ryan just kept staring at him. “Voughtbox six. It has more games and- Shiny buttons, and- I don’t fucking know. It’s the new one.”
Ryan nodded slowly, shifting in that nervous way Homelander was trying to work out of him. They weren’t babyish mortals who needed to be nervous. The Sun didn’t get nervous about the Earth. It didn’t even think about the Earth. And when the Earth got to cocky and close, the Sun would just fucking eat it.
Homelander opened his mouth to share that bit of wisdom—he was good at it, maybe he should write book—when Ryan finally managed to remember how to speak.
“Does it have a Kindle function?”
“A- What?!”
“Kindle. Or- Any e-book.” Ryan looked down to his shoes. “All my books are just- Vought stories now. I miss reading.”
“Books.” Homelander muttered, his jaw twitching. “You- You want books. All the things in the world in this tower and you want a book.”
“I- I’m sorry-“
“Don’t.” He pointed at Ryan firmly. “Say sorry. We don’t say sorry. We,” he gestured between them. “Are never sorry for anything. You- You want books, you get books. My son gets whatever he wants, even-“ His nose wrinkled, his voice dropping under his breath. “Weird, nerdy things.”
“Oh- Okay.” Ryan’s ears turned red, but a smile pulled on his face. “Thank you, Dad.”
Homelander’s shoulder relaxed. Dad. That was right. He was a father. He had to be patient, because that’s what parents did. Probably. He was working it out, but whatever his instinct was would end up being the right call. He’d thought about what he’d want from a father his whole life. It had prepared him for this. For being exactly what Ryan needed.
The only thing that was missing was a mother, but he’d tried. He’d really fucking tried, to bring Ryan a good, self-respecting, sweet mother. It would’ve been perfect.
They’d be fine on their own. Homelander would mourn, and Ryan would never have to know what they’d lost. He still had a father. A good father. Was more than Homelander had ever gotten, so he should be fucking grateful.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “You are very welcome, Ryan. Let’s- Ice cream.”
He clapped his hands together, and turned for the freezer. Ryan liked ice cream. At least that part of him wasn’t awkward and fucking weird.
“You going to open the Voughtbox?” Homelander asked while they ate. “I heard it has Hero-Fighter 5000.”
Ryan frowned. “What’s Hero-Fighter 5000?”
“I don’t know. I never played it,” Homelander shrugged. “I just remember that they made me do voices, for my character.”
Ryan’s eyes widened. “You have a character? In the game?”
“I have a character in every game.”
“That’s so cool.”
Homelander’s mouth ticked up, and he hummed in approval. Ryan smiled at him, with big, blue eyes. His eyes. Ryan was his son, of course he understood that was cool. Maybe Ryan was finally starting to see, how amazing and perfect their lives were when the ants didn’t get brave and bite at their ankles-
“Dad?” Ryan poked at his ice cream with his spoon. “Can I ask you something? Please?”
Homelander leaned back in his seat. “Of course. Anything, son.”
Ryan smiled again, a little smaller. Homelander returned it, raising his brows in question, and Ryan cleared his throat.
“What was my- My mom like? When you knew her?”
Homelander hand curled into a fist. He kept fucking asking this. Poking around it, trying to get Homelander to reminisce about some sort of love story that had never existed. As a woman, Becca Butcher had been next to nothing. Pretty and feisty and there. As a lover, Homelander had wanted her, and he’d gotten what he wanted, and it hadn’t even been that good. He hadn’t even thought about her again, until Butcher showed up, getting loud and dramatic about everything. As a mother, she’d been annoying, and breeding his son to be weak.
He’d never loved her. Ryan wanted him to have, though, he could see it in that soft, gooey part of the kids face that was still too human. He’d hoped Stormfront would’ve helped him understand that gods loved gods, before she’d been burnt to a crisp. But Homelander hadn’t loved Stormfront either. Not really. She’d been too much like Stillwell. Tricking him. Trying to control him.
Homelander had only loved one woman. And she was gone.
“Dad?” Ryan said softly, and Homelander blinked.
“What- Becca?” He laughed, loud and sharp. “Oh, we didn’t really know each other. Not really. I had fun- We both had fun,” he said quickly, at the confused look on Ryan’s face. “And of course she- She meant something to me. She gave me you,” he grabbed Ryan’s hand over the table, smiling wide. “And that is all that really matters.”
Ryan’s throat bobbed. He looked to Homelander’s hand over his, and slowly held it back. Homelander’s smile widened.
Progress-
“So you didn’t- Love her?” Ryan whispers, and Homelander jaw ticked. “Not like- Like Butcher-“
“Butcher doesn’t know how to love anything,” Homelander spat. “Not you, not heroes, certainly not a- a woman. The woman I loved, he never could’ve-“
“The woman you loved?” Ryan cut him off, and Homelander went rigid.
There was a ringing in his ears. A loud, loud ringing that was turning into slow music. There was a sweet smell and glowing haze, sharp eyes that fawned and batted and the coyest, prettiest smile he’d ever seen. Hair blowing in the wind and a shy, endearing bow of a slender neck. It fit like it was meant to be in his hand. Her voice blended with the music. She fought him before getting on her knees, then watched him like he was the only star in the sky as he grinned down at her.
The counter cracked. Homelander’s fist had gone right through it.
Ryan winced and leaned back, but Homelander yanked him forward with their hands locked together.
“Let’s play Hero-Fighter 5000,” he said firmly. “Now.”
Ryan nodded, and Homelander smiled. He guided them to the couch, never letting go of his sons elbow.
He wasn’t going to let anyone else go.
“I’ve known Homelander forever, bro.” The Deep stuck out his chest, grinning around the courtroom. “Give me that Bible back, I’ll swear on it again-“
“That is not how it works, Mr. Moskowitz,” the Judge said. “As we have told you, many times.”
“Well, I’ve told you not to call me that, and you keep doing it anyways-“
“It is your name, in the eyes of the law. Please answer Mr. Goodman’s question.”
“Ugh.” The Deep rolled his eyes, looking back to the seedy, thin Vought lawyer in front of him. “What am I supposed to be answering again?”
A-Train slumped in his seat, fighting the sigh pushing up his throat. “Does Homelander have violent tendencies,” he said under his breath. “The question is does Homelander have violent fucking tendencies-“
“Stop muttering,” Ashley hissed, shoving his arm. “It’s rude.”
A-Train gave her a flat look. She still had that crazed, stiff look of focus, that she wore in meetings about new brand pitches and everyone’s various fuck ups. Like she wanted to tear out her how eyes but couldn’t bring herself to look away from the car crash. Like she thought the train barreling off the cliff might suddenly just grow wings and fly back to the track.
“You can’t seriously think this is working,” A-Train said, and she shot him a tight glare.
“I think he’s doing his best-“
“His best is shit-“
“Well it’s all we fucking have, okay? Unless you want to get up there and talk about how good and generous a person-"
“Ashley.” A-Train sat a little taller, glancing over his shoulder.
He wasn’t here. He’d fucked off to hang out with his kid, and he probably wasn’t going to be back for the day. He hated these things—more than the rest of them, probably, which was a real feat because they were soul-draining and mind numbing—and liked to leave everyone else to suffer through them without him. Even though it was his fault. A-Train hadn’t killed that Starlighter. He hadn’t even been around when it happened, and somehow he was the one stuck in this stupid courthouse, listening to the Deep test the limits of perjury.”
“We’re best friends,” he was telling the jury, that big, white-toothed smile on his face. “Homelander and I, we go way back-“
“We have established,” Goodman muttered, running a hand over his face. “That you and Homelander go way back. Could you please tell me if he has violent tendencies.”
“Right. Sorry, bro, I just-“ He waved a hand at his head. “I keep forgetting. Probably not sleeping enough, you know. I’ve been trying these melatonin gummies, but they might be the ones laced with weed- Not that I smoke weed,” he looked at the judge with wide eyes. “And- If I do- I’m not the one on trial right now-“
“Mr. Moskowitz,” Goodman snapped. “Does Homelander have violent tendencies.”
“Um….”
The Deep looked at Ashley. She shook her head frantically, turning it into fixing her hair when the judge followed the Deep’s gaze.
“No!” The Deep said confidently, and Ashley almost seemed to shudder in relief.
“Nice one,” A-Train muttered, and she flipped him off under the bench.
“Shut up,” she tugged her phone out of her pants pocket, eyeing the bailiff. She’d already been yelled at about phones in the courtroom five times.
“Where’s your blazer?” A-Train frowned. “I’ve never seen you without one, it’s like a- A naked turtle-“
“All turtles are naked, asshole,” she muttered. “I left it in the meeting room, it’s too hot in here, and- Where the fuck is Homelander? He was supposed to be back for this, a character witness doesn’t work if he’s not here, he has to show that they’re actually friends-“’
“They’re not actually friends.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t matter, he doesn’t even have to touch Deep, he just- He said he’d be here-“
“Ashley, it’s fine.” A-Train shrugged. It was actually pretty nice to not have Homelander here. The whole room didn’t feel like a bomb, about to go off. “We’re winning right now-“
“Are we?!” She hissed, voice rising to more than a whisper. “Are you sure we’re winning? Because we have to be sure we’re winning, we- We have to win- You don’t understand what happens if we don’t win-“
A-Train leaned back a little. She was spitting on him again. “Jesus, calm down-“
“No, you calm down-“
“We’re going to win, we always win-“
“Until we don’t,” Ashley hissed. “What the fuck happens when we don’t?”
A-Train blinked. He didn’t think about that, ever. It wasn’t something that needed to be thought about. That was one of the things that kept him here, even when everything felt like chains wrapping around his bones. They had the money, they had the people, they had everything. They always won. A few loud dissenters like Annie and Hughie and their little gang were nothing, compared to the might of the empire.
They had to win. That was just how it worked. So A-Train stayed on the winning side.
“I have to go get him,” Ashley muttered. “I- I have to. Stay here.”
She slipped out of the courtroom, and A-Train slumped back into his seat.
Stay here.
Like he had a fucking choice.
Hughie’s knee was bouncing. Annie put a gentle hand on it, and gave him a smile.
“It’s going to be fine,” she said softly, and Hughie nodded.
“Right- Right. It’s going to be fine.”
Annie wished, in the very delicate fibers of her heart, that either of them sounded convincing at all.
This plan wasn’t their best, but she’d learned after a few months of working with the Boys that when Hughie had sheepishly told her this plan isn’t our best, okay, he’d been a liar. These people didn’t have best and worst plans. They had plans that were either going to get them all killed, or plans that should get them all killed, but somehow didn’t.
Annie really hoped this was one of those last plans. Especially because she’d come up with it, and if she had to go back to Butcher with head down and Hughie’s limp body in her arms, she might as well just turn herself into Homelander.
She’d thought she’d be good at this. She thought that she’d come in and show them the right way to do things, and then they’d do them, and everything would go back to being fine. But everything was in shades of gray that she couldn’t turn white, and it was complicated and difficult and exhausting.
Which didn’t mean she’d give up. But she also wasn’t going to tell Butcher he was right. Giving up would come before that.
No one was worried enough, for Annie’s tastes. About Butcher’s infatuation with the Anomaly. At least with Soldier Boy, Annie had MM in her corner. But now he was off chasing ghosts, and she was stuck with Hughie and Frenchie.
Not stuck with. She loved Hughie, and Frenchie could be fun. She needed them both, if this was going to work. Just like they needed her, if it went sideways. Not that she’d be able to do much.
“Do you think they’re going to find anything,” Hughie mumbled, eyeing the door. “Or- You know. Another dead end.”
Annie shrugged, letting out a slow breath. “I don’t know. I just- I hope that if she is real, Butcher’s right. And it’s different.”
Hughie gave her a confused look. “Different like…”
“Not like another weapon.”
“Oh.” Hughie nodded slowly. “You think she’ll be like- a pacifist or something? I- I don’t think supes are pacifist - You’re not a pacifist-“
“I’m careful.” Annie said smoothly. “And I don’t hurt people.”
Hughie hummed, and she squeezed his knee.
“It doesn’t matter, Hughie. This is going to work.”
Annie needed to practice her convincing voice in the mirror. She’d been so good at it, when she was lying to a camera. But Hughie, with his big, trusting, puppy eyes and affectionate smile, it was harder. She wondered sometimes, if he was disappointed in how bad a liar she was too. If he’d noticed how quiet and dim she’d been lately, and was getting sick of it. Getting sick of her.
“You’re right,” he squeezed her hand, and she felt a little sick. “It’s a good plan, Annie. It’ll work.”
Annie smiled, and it hurt her cheeks. Hughie had always been a much better liar.
“Any word from Butcher?” Hughie asked Frenchie, who hummed, drumming his fingers on the wheel.
“Non. Which is either very good, or-“
“Very, very bad.” Hughie ran a hand over his face. “Can you text MM? Make sure they haven’t- I don’t know. Been kidnapped?”
Frenchie nodded, pulling out his phone, right as Hughie’s buzzed.
“Oh- Shit,” he glanced up at Annie. “It’s her, I have to-“
“It’s okay. Go.”
Annie scooted back, making room for him to move past. Hughie kissed her cheek before he went, and Annie caught his arm.
“Be careful.”
“I will be.” Hughie smiled tightly. He shifted on his feet. “She won’t hurt me. I- She won’t.”
Annie nodded, and let him go. He was less convincing that time.
“MM says they’re still alive,” Frenchie told her, after a few minutes of the van being empty. Annie nodded, pressing her lips in a tight line.
The silence was sticky. It pressed on her chest and wound in her stomach, tighter than she knew how to handle. Frenchie had lit up a cigarette and opened the window, and she watched the smoke fade into nothing. Careless. Free. Must be nice.
“Why didn’t you go with them?” She asked Frenchie, and he tilted his head, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth.
“Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t want to use Butcher’s weapon.”
“Ah. Wise.” Frenchie huffed, something close to amusement. “He is not good at controlling them, ever.”
Annie hummed in agreement, looking down at her shoes and pulling at the laces. Hughie was taking too long, maybe she should-
“I’d like less people,” Frenchie said suddenly. “To… Be hurt.” He met her gaze in the mirror, something tired in his voice that reached his eyes. “It is getting hard, isn’t it. To clean up all the blood.”
It was. A lot of things were getting very, very hard.
“Do you miss it?” Frenchie asked. “Not knowing what a human bone looked like?”
Annie swallowed, and nodded. “Every day.”
Frenchie nodded, putting out his cigarette on the window, and the door swung open.
“Sorry that took so long- Oh, Jesus.” Hughie pinched his nose, climbing back into the vehicle. “Frenchie, were you smoking in here again?”
“Non?”
“No-“ Hughie huffed, giving Frenchie an exasperated expression—hands on his hips and face loose—that made him look like a disappointed mother. “It’s still in your hand, dude.”
Frenchie flicked it out the window, and gave Hughie a winning smile. Hughie ran a hand through his hair and sighed.
“You know what, whatever.” He stepped to the side. “I found her.”
Victoria Neuman rolled her eyes, stepping past him into the van. “Found me,” she scoffed. “He got lost. I found him.” She smiled at Annie. “Hey. Long time, no see. You guys- You’re always avoiding me. It’s actually pretty rude.”
Annnie returned the smile, and it felt cold on her face. “Sorry, we’ve been busy-“
“No, you haven’t been. You’re afraid, I get it- It’s just-“ She looked between Annie and Hughie with a long sigh. “You two. Of all people. I thought you’d get it.”
“Well, we- We didn’t-“ Hughie shot Annie a nervous look, and she gave him a what am I supposed to do look. She wasn’t friends with Neuman. Hughie was. He was the one who believed she’d be helpful.
Annie wondered sometimes, against her will, if Hughie would still believe in her if she turned into something darker than she was supposed to be. If his kindness and hope would extend to her, if she stopped being the light.
“Oh- We don’t have time for this. I’m on a schedule.” Neuman sat down on the van bench, then froze. She looked down at her hand, horror creeping over her face. “Is this sticky?”
“Um- Yeah.” Hughie grimaced. “Please don’t ask why, because I don’t know.”
Neuman blinked at him for a second, mouth open and brows knit. She looked at Annie, then Frenchie, and let out a sharp breath.
“Jesus,” she glanced over her shoulder, leaning slowly back. “You people- How are you still alive?”
“We’re not sure,” Hughie mumbled, fidgeting with his sleeves. “Listen, Vicki, we really appreciate you meeting with us-“
“Yeah, I know you do. You want to actually tell me what I’m doing here?”
Hughie looked at Annie, and she just nodded. Neuman wasn’t her friend.
“We were hoping,” Hughie said slowly. “That you might have something that could help us? With taking down Homelander?”
Neuman snorted. She grinned at him, then Annie, then paused. Her smile twitched down. She blinked, shook her head, and laughed again. “You- You’re fucking serious.”
“We’re at a dead end,” Annie said, leaning forward. “And we know it’s a big ask, but you know how dangerous he is-“
“Yeah, I know how dangerous he is!” Neuman’s voice raised to something harsh. “Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I’ve just- Had a way to kill him this whole time and just not used it?”
Frenchie hummed, giving her a pointed look. “You did work with him, no? To send away your own father-“
“I didn’t have a choice,” Neuman snapped. “He- He was threatening my-“ She held up a hand, as if to physically stop herself. “You know what, no. I don’t have to explain myself to a bunch of- Unemployed idiots-“
“Technically we still work for the CIA-“
“Do you?!” Neuman rolled her eyes. “You could’ve fooled me, with how you’re dressed and- Smell, and-“ She looked around the van. “This.”
Hughie’s ears turned red. “Well, they- They’ve never really paid us a lot.”
“No shit. They must really value your services-“
“Vicki, please,” Annie said, pressing her hands together and trying not to balk under Neuman’s gaze. They were both supes. Annie was no less, than the shaper, cleaner woman across from her.
She needed to get better at lying to herself, too.
“We just need anything,” she tried to keep her voice steady. Like delivering lines. She was just delivering lines. “Anything you can give us at all, no matter how small. If you really want him gone, just- Just this once. Not for us,” she paused, watching Neuman carefully. “For Zoe.”
Neuman sat taller. A strange shadow crossed her face, and her fingers flexed on her phone. She sighed, looked up to the ceiling, and shook her head.
“You people are like- Like fucking ants,” she said. “You just- You keep coming back.”
“Oh,” Frenchie tipped his head. “That is good, I am going to use that-“
“Shut up.”
He swallowed, and nodded quickly. Neuman let out a slow breath, her tongue flicking over her lips, and a taut smile pushed at her lips.
“Tell you what,” she sat up, adjusting her coat. “I’ll give you a little snack to- To fucking choke or whatever, and you leave me alone. You leave my daughter alone, and you don’t tell anyone I told you. Deal?”
Annie’s throat was tight. She exchanged looks with Hughie and Frenchie, and got tiny, reluctant nods in return. What other choice did they have. Annie looked back to Neuman, opened her mouth, and-
“Can we tell Butcher?” Frenchie asked, frowning at the air. “And Kimiko, and-“
“Obviously you can fucking tell your team,” Neuman snapped. “It would be insane if you didn’t.”
Frenchie shrugged, slumping fully over his seat and raising his hands, palms up. “I was only checking. No need to pop any heads.”
Neuman’s eyes narrowed. Annie quickly cleared her throat.
“We won’t tell anyone else. We promise, just- Anything.”
Neuman’s mouth worked. She drummed her fingers, looking around like she was expecting cameras, and for a second, Annie thought she wasn’t going to say anything at all.
When she did speak, it was quiet. Slow. Careful.
“About three years ago,” she murmured. “Stan- He asked me to bury something. And I mean really bury it. Kill even the thought of an investigation, any kind of evidence, any story- All of it. Not a word, even in their own heads. That’s what he said.”
Hughie swallowed, crossing his arms. “What- Was it like flight 37? Or-“ He went pallid, as Neuman’s jaw tightened, her eyes getting almost sad. “What? Worse?”
“I- I don’t know.” Neuman sighed. “When he came to me, I expected that. I- I expected Herogasm, I was ready to clean up a massacre, a disaster, a- a fucking nightmare. But-“ She shook her head, her voice getting quieter. “It was just one girl.”
Silence hung in the van. The lump in Annie’s throat was like a rock, and it was sinking down to her stomach. None of them seemed brave enough to speak, even Frenchie’s mouth in a thin, worried line.
The rock hit Annie’s gut, and the bile of her lunch was pushed up her throat.
“Official story- The one Stan gave me, to make official, was that she killed herself. And I- I don’t know what actually happened, he didn’t’ tell me, but-“ Neuman swallowed. “I know the night before she vanished- A few weeks before Stan came to me- She was at a Vought party. A few people- They saw him near her. And they won’t remember now, but if… If there’s anything…”
She trailed off, and Hughie swallowed, his words tight and choked.
“The trial. If Homelander, if- he-“ He looked to Annie. “That’s- If it is that, and we can prove it-“
“But that is what happened with Becca, no?” Frenchie cut in. “We could use Becca-“
“No,” Hughie shook his head. “Ryan. And- Butcher would never let us. But, this girl- Psyche?”
He looked to Neuman, and she shrugged. “I didn’t name her.”
Hughie sighed. “Well- That’s not my- Is she dead?”
“Legally? Completely.” Neuman straightened her jacket, moving to her feet. “But that’s all I know. The rest is-“ She smiled between them. “All you. Good luck. Try not to die.”
She smiled at Hughie, before she left. Nodded at Annie.
But Annie’s head was spinning. Her vision was blurred, and she was still fighting that vomit. A girl. A dead girl. That was all Neuman could offer them. And Annie-
She wasn’t even shocked anymore. Just sick, and tired, and frozen.
She couldn’t bring herself to nod back.
When Butcher was angry, he got loud. Kimiko hated it. It was like the bark of the war dogs, right into her skull.
They’d been in this bathroom for almost two hours. MM was on his phone, watching the trial coverage with the subtitles. He’d turn it to Kimiko, when she leaned closer. Butcher had been ignoring them both, leering at the laptop and slamming on keys. Hughie said that never made computers work faster. Butcher never seemed to care.
“Fuckin’- Fuckin’ hell,” Butcher hissed, slapping the tilted back screen. “They got files on files ‘bout supes who can grow their nails and shit glitter, but not a single mention of a supe stronger than Homelander?”
Kimiko would think that was on purpose. If she had a secret weapon to kill her other weapon, she wouldn’t keep information about it on a laptop. She looked at MM and his pinched expression, and wondered if he thought the same thing. If he did, he wasn’t saying anything. If Kimiko could get words out, she’d be saying so very many things to Butcher all the time. She didn’t understand how the rest of them didn’t, sometimes.
“Maybe she doesn’t exist, Butcher,” MM muttered, and Butcher’s lip curled.
“Nah. That ain’t it.”
MM glanced up, face heavy with exhaustion. “Man, come on-“
“She’s out there,” Butcher snapped, slamming on the laptop again. “Somewhere. Fuckin’- Somewhere, there’s somethin’- They’re just- Hidin’ it-“
“Or we should stop wasting time, and look for other options-“
“I swear to the fuckin’ lord and his sweet little bloody lamb,” Butcher hissed, everything on his face filled with venom. “You mention other options again, I’m smashin’ your precious phone through the wall and flushin’ the pieces down the toilet.”
MM didn’t look impressed. None of them ever were anymore, expect maybe Hughie. But they backed off. They always backed off with sighs and annoyed grunts. Kimiko glared at Butcher. She wouldn’t back off. He was wasting everyone’s time, looking for another supe to try and control, and it made something in her chest burn.
“Don’t gimme that look,” Butcher said, shooting her a smirk. “Frenchie’ll start gettin’ jealous.”
She flipped him off. It was the best thing she’d ever learned how to do. There was a lot of white-hot, atomic fury—the kind that swirled in her chest and tightened her muscles and made it hard to breathe sometimes—that she could put into the gestures. And Butcher never flinched, but his lips twitched and he took the tiniest step back. He thought she didn’t see it. She always did.
“I think they put the Deep on the stand,” MM muttered, peering at his screen. “Either means their floundering, or they’re just- Real fuckin’ confident.”
“That one,” Butcher grunted. “The don’t flounder. Not with their million dollar floaties.”
MM sighed, rubbing his jaw, and Kimiko raised her brows. She didn’t understand how American trials worked. Frenchie had tried to explain it to her, but it had all been very confusing and contradictory. Couldn’t be that good a system anyway, if they had to spend months figuring out that Vought was evil.
Frenchie said it was more complicated than that. Kimiko didn’t think it should be. It was one of those things she found herself agreeing with Butcher about, which was always sticky and crawling on her skin.
She tapped MM’s shoulder, and nodded to the door. They were on the floor of the big stall of the men’s room, because Butcher said Men didn’t shit in public. Kimiko believed that. She was starting to think men just swallowed all their shit, and then spewed it back out their throat with words.
Maybe she should try that, to speak.
No, too gross.
MM gave her a questioning look, and she sighed, cupping her hands and pretending to drink from them.
“Ah.” He glanced at Butcher, still glowering at the screen. “Be fast.”
Kimiko nodded, and bounced off the toilet. She didn’t really need a drink. The area was just starting to smell like sweat and salt and spit, and it reminded her of wet, toxic gasses that used to sting her nose. She slipped into the women’s room and washed her hands, keeping an ear on the hallway. Everyone should be in the trial. She’d be fine, just stretching a bit. Fixing her hair, her jacket, using the lip gloss Annie gave her.
She liked it. She liked having Annie around—and her lip gloss, and knowledge of reality television, the best thing America had to offer—even if she seemed very concerned every time Kimiko came into the office with blood on her knuckles.
“We don’t have to do it like this, you know,” she’d said last time, touching Kimiko’s shoulder like they were both made of glass. “You don’t have to do it like this.”
Kimiko had smiled, but known those were the words of a woman who had been in the light for so much of her life, it took the shadows creeping over her skin for her to notice the dark. Kimiko would like there to be another way. She’d like to be made of glass, if they didn’t like in a world where anything weaker than concrete broke.
At least the lip gloss made her mouth shiny. That was a little bit of light she’d never been able to have to herself.
Heels clacked in the hallway, and Kimiko’s head shot up. She grabbed the sink, ready to rip it off and throw it and run. The door pushed open.
“I don’t care that you don’t know where he is, I don’t pay you to just- Think about it and give up, you have to find him.” The red-headed Vought lady marched into the bathroom, and Kimiko froze, grip on the sink tightening. “No- No- Don’t guess. Look. I swear to God, Tyler, if you say the Tower one more time-“
The lady’s looked at Kimiko, as if she trying to share the exasperation. Then she looked away. Kimiko blinked. Her grip slacked.
The lady froze. She looked back, eyes slowly getting wider and wider. A strangled sound escaped her throat, and her phone clattered to the tile.
“Holy- Holy- Fuck no-“
She turned back to the door, heels clacking, and Kimiko lunged.
The woman was bigger than her, but felt small in her hands. She went down easy, but screamed and kicked her way into the men’s room. It was pretty rude, in Kimiko’s opinion. She could’ve just killed her, but she was very nice and Hughie said killing was bad.
Butcher and MM stared at her, when she presented the lady. Butcher mouth curved into that crude, kind of ugly smirk. MM grabbed the bar against the wall to stay up right.
“Where the fuck did you find her?”
Kimiko shrugged vaguely. It didn’t really matter. They had her now.
“Motherfuckin’- This means we have to go-“
“Ah, hold on,” Butcher closed the laptop, taking a slow step forward. “Not so fast now. This is a gift, mate. Let’s not be idiot cunts and throw it back.”
MM crossed his arms, giving Butcher a flat look. “How the fuck is this,” he jerked his head at Ashley, who had started to tremble like a baby. “A gift.”
“Good question,” Butcher said, almost alight with glee. “Guess who’s computer I’ve got, livestreamin’ right into ours?”
Ashley went almost limp, a weak sound escaping her throat. MM’s jaw ticked.
“You- Fucker.” He turned to Ashley. “No screaming, alright? Or she snaps your neck. Got it?”
Ashley glanced back at Kimiko, and she tried to give her a reassuring smile. No necks would be snapped. She’d just knock her out a little.
She probably needed to work on her smile more. Ashley made a sound like a cornered animal, and nodded frantically to MM. He nodded at Kimiko, and she let her hand go from Ashley’s mouth.
“Oh- Oh fuck-“ Ashley coughed, glaring around the bathroom stall. She was still shaking in Kimiko’s grip. “You- You psycho’s, you’re going to get us all killed-“
“Awww,” Butcher drawled. “You’re worried about us, ain’t that sweet. We’re worried ‘bout you too.”
“I- I’m not-“ Ashley swallowed, hands pressing against Kimiko uselessly. “You- You’re going to kill me-“
“Not yet-“
“Butcher,” MM grunted, and Butcher chuckled.
“I’m just bein’ honest with the lass, ain’t my fault she sided herself with the blood suckin’ cunt team-“
“You’re the blood sucker’s,” Ashley spat. “At least I don’t actually hurt people-“
“Yeah, you just get out the fuckin’ Mr. Clean and scrub the street when your moneybags do-“
“Hey,” MM clapped his hands. “Focus. They’ll notice she’d missing, Butcher. Ask her what you want, or we need to start running, now.”
Butcher’s smile tightened—it reminded Kimiko of Kenji, when she told him to stop playing with his toys before dinner—and he sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. He looked Ashely up and down, titled his head, and took another step forward. Kimiko could smell that fruity vodka he’d always used as perfume. Sickly sweet and stifling.
“Tell us every fuckin’ thing you now,” Butcher hissed. “’Bout a supe called the Anomaly.”
Ashley paused. Her heart stuttered under Kimiko’s hands, and for a second, she thought Butcher might’ve been right the whole time. Ashley was going to tell them where to look. They’d be given the weapon, they’d have the way out, this could be over-
“The what?”
MM sighed. Butcher stiffened.
“The Anomaly,” he spat. “Vought secret, female supe, powers bigger than Homelander-“
Ashley laughed nervously. “Are you crazy? There- There’s no one stronger than Homelander for- For fucks sake, Vought designed him to be unstoppable, he’s unstoppable-“
“Everything is stoppable when you got the machinery, love,” Butcher sneered. “And I don’t know what you think is happenin’ right now, but company secrets ain’t gonna matter when we smash your head through this fuckin’ wall-“
“What secrets!” Ashley shrieked, her heart pounding. Kimiko could almost hear it in her own skull. “There- There are no secrets, there are no secrets-“
“Don’t you fuckin’ lie, you Vought suckin’ little cunt-“
“Butcher,” MM grabbed his shoulder, his grip on his phone making his wrist flex. “Just- Look.”
He shoved his phone under Butcher’s nose, and Butcher paused. His eyes narrowed on the screen. He grabbed the screen, eyes darting back and forth.
“This- what kinda name is Psyche-“
“Greek, I think.” MM sighed. “But that’s not the- Look at the other shit-“
“I’m lookin’. You really trust-“
“It’s from Annie.”
Butcher’s jaw ticked. “Well, if it’s real, it ain’t enough-“
“But it’s something. And-“ MM glanced at Ashley. “Even this Anomaly thing is real, they clearly don’t tell her fucking shit.”
Ashley’s face fell, and Kimiko smiled. She’d laugh if she could.
“They- They tell me things- I’m the CEO-“
“You really think braggin’ about your clearance to us is gonna help you right now?” MM said, and Ashley swallowed. Kimiko didn’t know someone could be that pale, and she hung out with Hughie all the time.
“We’ll- Bloody hell,” Butcher shoved the phone back to MM. “Let’s get eyes on that shit, but- I ain’t givin’ this up-“
“I know you’re not.” MM muttered. “You stubborn fucking bastard.”
Butcher smiled and spread his arms. “Hey, you don’t love me for my pretty face.”
MM rolled his eyes, and jerked his head at Kimiko. “Let her go.”
Butcher stiffened. “Now, hold on-“
Kimiko held Butcher’s gaze as he raised a hand to stop her, and let go of Ashley.
She stumbled forward, right up to Butcher’s chest. His eyes narrowed. He lurched forward, and Kimiko almost dived forward. She didn’t like Ashley, but she liked her clothing and didn’t want to burn it to hide another murder, and she was really trying to murder less overall-
Ashley scrambled back. She hit the sink next to Kimiko, breathing fast and shallow like a deer. Butcher’s sneer curled, eyes glinting, and Ashley made a weak sound. She turned, and sprinted out the door. MM caught Butcher’s arm before he could follow.
“Not worth it.”
Butcher grunted, but didn’t look like he agreed. That dark, predatory look turned to Kimiko, but she didn’t flinch. She’d been on the other side of it too many times to care anymore.
“Let’s move,” MM said, and they did. The laptop got smashed. They slipped out the bathroom window, and took off.
MM gave Kimiko his phone in the car. She pulled her knees up to her chest, and scanned over the screen. Something, MM had called it. But Butcher was right. It didn’t seem like enough.
What was another victim, in a world built on bodies. Not much. Never much. All that usually remained was anger. Anger like hers. Like Butchers. He was still glaring Kimiko her in the mirror, but she didn’t get afraid of things. Not anymore. Not the way Butcher seemed to want her to. The wrath of a war dog scared her as a child. Now it was just an annoying sound, as the anger built and built and built in her own chest. She wouldn’t bite on his word. She wouldn’t do anything on his word. Not when she was made of so much anger it pushed her eyes open at night, and Butcher—filled with so much more wrath, she sometimes saw it simmering off his skin—seemed to be filled with more.
Homelander waited until the sun was down. Ryan had gone to bed, and he was an impossibly obedient child. He was supposed to ask to stay up late, instead of just agreeing. Homelander had even offered another ten minutes—for them to be together, to bond, to make up for all that time Becca Butcher had stolen from them—and Ryan had refused it.
“I- I think I’m tired,” he’d said, yawning wide. Homelander had almost rolled his eyes. The yawn was overkill, as if Ryan didn’t think he’d believe him.
But Homelander hadn’t pushed. He’d have other ways, later, to test if Ryan was still harboring some kind of secret hatred. If he was just waiting for the right moment to stab Homelander in the back, like everyone else had before him. He’d remind Ryan in the morning, that they were family. A real family. Blood. Homelander made Ryan, and they had the same V running through their veins, and there was nothing—fucking nothing—that meant more than that.
He hovered in the air, outside the red-brick building. His cape was supposed to catch the wind, but there wasn’t enough of it. The lights of the city didn’t reach this part of town, and Homelander liked it like that. Everything that glowed was his. His empire, his legacy, his world. Everywhere humans—real, meat and bone humans that bowed like sheep to the wolf—were, was Homelander’s.
This place was all rats and sewage in the streets. Of course, it belonged to Butcher.
A light flicked on in the apartment, and Homelander adjusted his gloved. That goddamn speck still hadn’t come off, but he’d make it. His will wasn’t about to be defeated by a bit of fucking dirt.
He landed on the fire escape, his hands behind his back, and waited. Butcher let his shoulders slump, when he was alone. His features etched in exhaustion, his shirt unbuttoned and hands slower than Homelander ever saw, anywhere else.
Butcher started boiling water, probably for tea.Homelander huffed. British people.
“You waitin’ for me slip into somethin’ for you?” Butcher said, not looking away from the stove. “Or are you comin’ in?”
Homelander’s jaw ticked. He slid open the window and ducked inside, trying to keep his spine as straight as possible. “You look,” he looked Butcher up and down. “Tired.”
Butcher grunted, and didn’t answer. Homelander scowled, bracing his hands on his hips.
“How do I look?”
“Like a cunt.”
Butcher hadn’t even looked up. Homelander shifted on his feet and cleared his throat, and still nothing.
“You know, I haven’t seen you and your little team in a while,” he started. “I’m starting to think you’ve given up on killing me, William. Which isn’t very nice of you, we made each other promises.”
Butcher’s lips twitched. Homelander leaned around, trying to figure out what the fuck that smug, bored expression meant.
“Do you have something for me soon? Is it a surprise? If it’s a surprise, you have to tell me.”
Butcher gave him another strange look, eyes gleaming like coal in the dark. Cold and heavy but—if scratch and sparked right, the way Homelander was fucking trying to do—dangerous and bright.
“If it’s a surprise,” Homelander said. “Don’t say anything-“
“Who’s Psyche Meyers?”
Homelander stumbled back. The words settled into his chest like shrapnel, aching and ripping at his heart. He’d never heard her name aloud. Not from another mouth. From Butcher’s mouth. The pain curled. It rubbed against the steel of his ribs and burned.
“What.” Homelander kept his voice slow and cold. All the heat was building in his chest. Behind his eyes. Butcher wasn’t allowed to see it. She’d been too elegant, too holy, too sacred, for Butcher’s dirty fucking hands to touch.”
“Psyche Meyers,” Butcher crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter. “Young girl. ‘Bout mid-twenties, real fuckin’ knockout, even in just a pervy photo.” Butcher whistled, and Homelander grinded his teeth.
He didn’t know what the fuck he what the fuck he was talking about, he didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, he didn’t know what the fuck-
“You heard of her?” Butcher asked, and Homelander swallowed. He didn’t let his face twitch, didn’t let his legs move back.
Steam was pouring out of the kettle, fanning around Butcher’s smirk. He was stronger than this. Stronger than Butcher’s mind games. Stronger than the shriek of the kettle in his ears, the ghost in his skull, the sound of her name.
“Who? Nike?” He scoffed. “I don’t know every supe on the planet, Butcher, that’s- It’s very bigoted of you to assume-“
“Psyche,” Butcher cut him off, grabbing a mug from his sink without breaking Homelander’s gaze, and Homelander rolled his eyes.
“Whatever, that’s still- I expected better-“
“Never said she was a supe, either.” Butcher hummed, reaching for the kettle. “What kinda powers she got?”
Homelander took a long, slow breath through his nose. He’d come here to have fun. To distract himself, with something that mattered even less than this stupid trial. And Butcher- Butcher wasn’t playing nice.
But he was still asking. Homelander shoved down the thick, smoldering anger Butcher had dragged from the base of his neck. He stretched it out, nose twitching, and didn’t entertain this. Butcher just knew a name. Anyone could know a name. If he knew everything—if he knew what she’d been, what she’d meant—he’d be saying that. He’d be aiming for Homelander’s heart, not his throat.
“Ryan’s asking about his mother.” Homelander said, and Butcher stopped pouring his tea. “He wants to know if I loved her.”
Butcher looked up slowly, and Homelander smiled.
There it was. That hatred. That burning flame that they shared, that was going to consume the world. And when Homelander stood in the ashes alone, he’d miss it. He’d miss them.
“I tell him the truth, of course. Becca was just- a fling to me. Nothing real. You’re the one she really loved, for-“ His nose wrinkled. “Some reason.”
Butcher wasn’t moving. His heartbeat was slower than a turtle, but that was something Homelander had always admired about him. The anger. How it outweighed the fear, just like him.
“I think I should be going, before you break your jaw brooding all over me,” he waved, taking a step back to the window. “Don’t wait up for me, tomorrow. And- Remember. I’d like the surprise.”
And Butcher’s lips curled back up. And Homelander froze.
“Trust me,” Butcher said, low enough that only Homelander would ever be able to hear. “We got one.”
Homelander laughed and nodded and waved it off, but he couldn’t hear his own dismissal and mockery. Not over the whistle of the kettle, although the steam had stopped minutes ago. When he stepped out into the fire escape, it wasn’t even drowned out by the wind. And when he flew and flew and flew, it only got louder and louder. Instruments swelled behind it. Strings and the clash of cymbals and the croon of an angel. A glowing angel.
His glowing angel. Higher in the clouds than he could reach, now. Than anyone could.
Homelander landed in a crater of ash, far in the upstate of New York. There wasn’t a living thing for miles, to see him staring with hollow eyes at the wreckage. Any bit of the burned rubble could be her bones. That pressure, that boiling wrath, it pushed up Homelander’s throat. His eyes flickered and his hands curled and uncurled and his breathing turned short.
The roar split the sky, and red beams of light carved into the already dead ground. The world didn’t move. Didn’t care. The ground should be shaking, it should be afraid, Homelander had lost and so the world should be afraid, should be blooming with new offerings, new songbirds, new angels. But it didn’t understand.
It would. Homelander would make sure it did, and then he’d have it. Everything that was left, he’d have it all.
A bit of ash, floated up and landed on the lapel of his suit. He brushed it off, but didn’t look back to see that it stuck. He flew back to the tower, with it graying into his suit. And the rest of the world was quiet. The daisies and weeds that had been pushing through the ashes of the crater had been missed by the slice of Homelander’s laser, but still been buried in the ash of the aftermath.
There was going to be wind tomorrow. There usually was, after a while. And it would blow away the ash, and something would always, always grow.
✦chapter 2
✦End note: butcher got a single w today with his ragebaiting but guys i dont think it's going to last ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Just read the "Leave You Alone" bonus chapter for btg, and dude, fucking nowhere whatsoever has one ever read something that's so accurate to how school was for me. Minus the chemical explosion and all that ofc lmao. But holy, I'm actually crying it's beautiful. That like deep-rooted feeling of being off in a way that no one would understand cause you don't even know what's wrong yourself. And the need to put up a show/facade both to hide ones weird true self, and also cause maybe if you fake it long enough it will stop feeling fake and just turn into how you are and you'll finally be normal. Maybe it's, umm, cause of some diagnoses one has, cough cough... But still it's so good and I've seen posts on Tumblr about how writers like comments so uhh I'm writing this because of that. ok thank you for an awesome story and I can't wait for today's chapter yay bye bye
☆⌒ヽ(*'､^*)
thank you so so much!!! glad we all had that experince lmao😭 Princess, she's just like us (we all need therapy)
and writers DO like comments ! they're kind of like crack to us, because posting is kind of like singing in front of a bunch of random strangers, and sure polite applause after is nice, but having someone go out of their way to find you after and say "wow you did a good job!" is the best feeling in the world. like this literally made my day seeing it in my inbox, so thank you again <3
✦summary: dean learns, slowly, that he's actually pretty good at being boyfriend material. it would be nice if you'd stop pining after him long enough to notice✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, friends with benefits to lovers, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love because it's the best way to be, dean's down so bad, shameless smut (facesitting, praise kink, big dick dean, fingering, pussy spanking, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, mean dean, dean has an orgasm rule and you. benefit. dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 12.5k✦
✦author's note: request! super normal about this one✦
You tell yourself, over and over again, that this is going to be the last time. It’s not something that’s meant to be held onto, so you can just… let go.
But then you find yourself here. Between tangled sheets with your legs spread wide, your nails digging into Dean’s bicep and his cock dragging through your wet, sensitive cunt.
“There you go,” he coos in your ear, every thrust deep and rough. “That’s my girl, takin’ me so good, so- Good-“
Dean moans, pressing up against the soft, gummy spot inside of you, and your eyes roll back in your head.
He always does this. He knocks on your door and grabs your face between big hands, and suddenly all that resolve and determination—never again—dissolves with your willpower. His hands are rough and calloused, but trace your hips and hold you down so gently, you can almost pretend he cares if you break. His cock is thick and impossibly long, and he always drags it between your soaked heat and bumps it against your clit before pushing himself in just right. His lips are chapped and soft, sucking possessive marks into your neck that he has no right to claim, but that doesn’t stop you from running your fingers through his hair and holding him right where he is. He wouldn’t dare to leave. Not in the middle of this. Not before you’ve both gotten what you want.
What Dean wants. You don’t let yourself pretend that this is everything you need anymore. It’s the only hope you have of one day telling him no, because the rest of you control rests on a thin rope, and it always slips from your hands the moment Dean touches you like you matter.
You never walk away from him with an aching, unsatisfied body. A few nights ago he put you on his face and made you ride until your thighs were shaking and tears were springing into your eyes. Before this, he spit on your cunt and scissored you open with thick, careful finger, kissing and nipping at your thighs as your greedy pussy swallowed him right up to the knuckle. Even now, as every roll of his hips becomes smaller—as his face twists in concentration and his mouth against your jaw becomes desperate—Dean’s thumbing at your clit, trying to get you over the edge with him.
“C’mon, baby, c’mon-“ He pushes himself up to his knees, forcing a deeper, rougher angle. “Show me what you’ve got, I know you can do it, come on-
You whimper, staring up at him under lidded, glazed eyes. The whole world is just a blur of color at this point, but Dean is bright and clear. The heave of his broad shoulder and chest, every muscle in his arm as he wraps it around your waist and makes you arch your back, the flex of his abdomen as he ruts forward like a feral dog. The sharp, unforgiving thrusts are making your head spin with pleasure, turning you into a boneless wreck of need. You grab his arm, trying to steady yourself against something, and Dean’s attention rips up.
He says he likes to watch himself fuck you, and you’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s spent whole sessions just staring at his cock or fingers splitting your cunt open. He likes putting you on his face because he can watch you react. You like it better like that, usually. The eye contact is too close. Too intimate. Too real.
But you grab him, and he looks at you, and it’s almost like a shot. His eyes are blown-out and so strangely soft, staring at your wrecked, open expression with too much, too much, too much-
“De- Deeean-“ You cry it out like a pray, because it is. Dean grunts, hips snapping, the wet sound filling up the air and his eyes never leaving yours. “Dean- Dean- Fuck, please- Please-“
You’re babbling. You never do that with anyone else, but Dean is Dean, and he makes you do things you never counted yourself capable of. He groans your name, and you squeal when he drags you up, off the mattress and straddling his thighs. Your clit drags against his abdomen, his cock bullies right against your g-spot, and Dean grabs your jaw with a single, painfully gentle hand.
“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, still holding your gaze, even as your eyes start to cross. “Soak this fuckin’ cock, baby, cum-“
You almost scream as your orgasm rips through you, and Dean crashes his mouth against yours, eating every whimper and moan with harsh lips and his tongue down your throat. You press into him, pussy gushing and fluttering around his dick, and he makes that deep, rumbling sound that always comes right before-
“Shit-“ Dean gasps against your mouth, pulling you so close you can’t feel anything but the heat of his bare chest, the sensation of his cock twitching and pumping in your cunt. “Fuuck-“
Dean moans your name, and a warm, pleasant heat starts to spread through your tummy and drip between your thighs. He doesn’t stop moving until his cock is softened, and you don’t try to stop him. You’re barely more than a limp doll right now, returning his kisses with tiny mewls, eyes crossed and body limp.
For a moment after it’s done, you stay tangled together. You always do. It’s the most dangerous part of the whole thing, because it feeds that tiny little fool in your chest, who refuses to believe that this is just sex. Who takes your heartstrings and weaves grand worlds where Dean loves you back, and you’re going to be just fine.
Dean kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter closed. There’s an advantage, to being a crybaby whenever he fucks you stupid. He never once has considered that the tears might be real.
“Think you can walk?” He mutters, still buried deep inside of you, still holding you like he cares.
You shake your head, and his mouth twitches against yours.
“Alright, pretty girl. I’ve got you.”
And you press your face into the crook of his neck, letting that fool take you over. She takes his words as gospel. My girl and I’ve got you and Baby, they’re exactly what he means and nothing more, nothing less.
When the logical part of your brain wakes back up—Dean’s always had this ability to hit a button in you, sliding his hand around the back of your neck and making all your thoughts just bubblegum feelings and electric colors—you’re going to remember why you always say this has to be the last time.
He’s perfect, and he’s not yours. He makes that perfectly clear, until he pulls these little stunts and ends up buried between your thighs. You agreed that he wasn’t yours, when this arrangement started.
Safer with someone you know, he’d told you, like he hasn’t fucked his way across the entire country. Easier. Nothing to worry about, when it’s you and me.
And you’d been a starry-eyed, gooey hearted fool who just wanted whatever part of Dean he was willing to show you. The burning love you kept tended in your ribs hadn’t seen a problem with adding fuel to the wildfire, even if Dean was never going to see it. But now he’s carrying you to the bathroom like a princess, and he’s going to be gone in the morning, and that wildfire is an inferno. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You can map out everything he’d ever say in response to your feelings, from the harsh sneer he would’ve given when he had the Mark of Cain, to the kinder let down you’d get now.
You’re too young, he’d say, like it was a consolation prize. And I like you, sweetheart, but I don’t do this kinda thing. Not with girls young enough to be my daughter. Not with kids that I hunt with. Not with you.
You press your face further into his neck. He’s always so warm and sturdy, a massive tree that’s offering you just as much shade crushing, unbearable weight and tangled roots that keep you pressed down. He smells like leather and whiskey and something perfectly, faintly spice. You want to drown in it. You want to drown in him.
“You good?” Dean asks, and his voice is too gentle. It rattles the little fool, screaming for the rest of you to listen and just accept that he loves you.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.
“You’re bein’ quiet, even for- Y’know-“ He chuckles, that low, insufferably charming pride crawling into his voice. “After I fuck you dumb.”
“You did not fuck me dumb,” you mumble against his skin, and you can hear his grin.
“Big words from the girl who couldn’t talk five minutes ago.”
“That was unrelated.”
“Unrelated,” he echoes, his thumb dragging a small circle against your spine. “Always forget how bratty you get after, sweetheart. Dangerous.”
You roll your eyes, and hug him tighter. He laughs, and kisses the side of your head, and he has the nerve to call you dangerous.
“You wanna watch a movie?” He asks, leaning down to run the water, still keeping you tucked so carefully against his chest, and all you can do is nod. Dean sighs. “C’mon, gimme a little more than that-“
“Yes, please,” you mumble, and he pauses.
It’s only a fraction of a second. You don’t understand it, and you don’t want to. Not when he feeds your delusions and kisses your brow again, then your cheek, then your lips. And you let him. You always let him, because you’re a foolish, stupid, lovesick idiot. You don’t want his affection, not like this. But you don’t want to lose him—it would be like ripping a vital organ out of your ribcage, even if you didn’t know you had it a year ago—and you can’t ever tell him to stop being so sweet without explaining yourself, and getting that gentle, horrible let down.
You don’t want it. You don’t want any of it. And this, this had to be the last time.
You hold the line. You don’t know how, but you hold that line with white knuckles and grit teeth and a taste like bile in the back of your throat.
Dean knocks on the door, only two nights later, and you don’t answer. He calls your name and you sink into the mattress, praying he just thinks you’re asleep.
“I just- Uh- I wanted to talk?” He says, and you press your face into the pillow like that can somehow shield you. “Really, that’s it. Just talking, so- If you could-“
Dean sighs. You can hear the please, hanging between every word, but Dean doesn’t really say please. He just begs with everything else in him, or gives up. And you can picture him running his hand over his face, the heavy look in his eyes, the defeated sag in his shoulders. It’s like a knife being driven through your gut, and you sit up, ready to open the door-
“Alright,” he mutters, and you freeze. “Night, baby. Sleep well.”
Footsteps retreat, and you stay there on the mattress, frozen and lost, adrift in a sea you dove into.
But you did it. You held the line.
And you keep it. It makes sweat bead and your skin burn, but you close the door and don’t open it back up. You’re done, and you’re going to keep it that way.
Dean doesn’t ask questions. You don’t know if you want him to or not, but it doesn’t matter, because you catch him staring and giving out signals, but he’s taken your no in stride, and doesn’t seem to have any plans to push back against it. When this started, you agreed to leave out a specific book on the war room table if either of you wanted something. Dean starts to leave it out every night, and you never go to his door, and one night, it vanishes.
And that’s fine. That’s exactly what you wanted.
And if it feels like you’re dying because of it, and if you spend an hour over the toilet dry heaving that night, that’s no one’s business but your own.
“Dean’s been grumpy lately,” Sam says one morning, and you blink at him over your coffee.
“Grumpy? Dean? That’s- Woah-“
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Sam gives you a flat look. “You know what I mean. Grumpier.”
You shrug, looking back to your mug. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”
“Uh huh.”
You can feel Sam’s stare. It makes you itchy and small, and you’re not sure if you want to punch him or run. You settle for staring at your coffee harder. It’s the easiest course of action.
“Dean needs to get laid,” Sam repeats your words, something strange—almost sharp—in his tone, and you nod.
“That’s what I said.”
“Dean-“
“What’s up?” Dean walks into the kitchen, stopping right behind you, and you hunch over like you can grow a shell to protect yourself.
Even just a few feet away, he’s always so warm.
“Uh- Hey, Dean-“
“Hey,” Dean mocks back, and Sam huffs.
“Dude-“
“Shut your face-“
“I didn’t say anything- I-“ Sam says your name, and you glance up. His brow is furrowed with worry, his eyes locked on Dean behind you. “We were just-“
“Just what?” Dean snaps. “Just talking? Shooting the shit, getting real comfortable?”
Sam sighs. “Dean-“
“I got a gun, Sammy,” Dean points firmly, and you stare at his finger like a woman driven mad with thirst. “Don’t forget that.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “We all have guns, that- That threat doesn’t do anything-“
“I’ll show you doing something- Hey-“
Dean says your name, and you freeze. You’d been trying to slip out while they fought, but Dean—goddamn him—had noticed. He always notices. You love him so much it’s going to make you cave in on yourself, and maybe take the whole bunker with you, like a dying star.
He catches your arm, and you can’t stop yourself from looking at him. His brow is knit, his jaw locked, and his handsome face has deep lines you only used to see when the world was ending. There are bags under his eyes. Deeper than usual. You want to smooth the lines with your thumb and kiss his jaw until he relaxes, but that’s not your ache to soothe.
Dean doesn’t say anything. You can’t say anything. He looks exhausted, and there’s a lump forming in your throat.
“You- You hungry?” Dean rasps, and you’re starving.
“No,” you breathe before you can think, and Dean swallows.
“Well, when you’re hungry- There’s a diner in town-“
“Henry’s?”
“No, uh- A new one. I- I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go, later, or something.”
“Or something?” You tilt your head, and Dean nods.
“Whatever you want.”
God, he’s cruel. He’s perfect and cruel, and you want to vomit on his flannel and kiss him until you pass out.
“Oh- Okay,” you say, because you’re only so strong.
The lines in Dean’s face relax. His grip loosens. Then Sam coughs, and Dean lets you go.
The diner is… nice. Nice and easy, in a way you haven’t felt in longer than you want to admit. Dean insists on driving you, and paying, and sitting in one of those booths with your feet bumping under the table.
He presses his knee forward, while he orders. You swallow and don’t allow yourself to think much of it. He’s warm through his jeans, but he’s always warm, and he hasn’t tried anything in a few weeks, so you allow it. Your love for him hasn’t been flickering out, but the harsh wind of his absence has made everything feel colder. It’s okay, to indulge yourself in something so small. You’re still keeping it together. You’re still holding the line.
“So, uh-“ Dean clears his throat, turning his bottle in his hands. “How are you?”
“How- Am I?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly. “I- I’m okay. How are you?”
“Good. Great.” He frowns at the table. “You know. Same as always.”
You almost laugh. “You’re always great?”
“I focus on the positives, sweetheart-“
“No, you don’t.”
He rolls his eyes, glancing up to hold your light, amused gaze. His mouth twitches. His fingers tap against the glass, and you try not to let yourself sink too deep into the attention.
It’s okay to drown a little. A long as you don’t drop the line.
“Maybe I’m turning a new leaf,” he says, and your face splits into a full smile.
“You?”
“Yeah, me. Why’d you say it like that-“
“Because you’ve never turned a leaf in your life-“
“Ah-“ He points the head of his bottle at you with a grin. “Not true. Remember when I started learning guitar?”
“Yeah, you smashed it on a werewolf’s head after a month.”
“That was a tactical choice, I would’ve kept playing if the wolf didn’t get in the way.”
“Uh huh.” You lean back in your seat, crossing your arms. “What songs had you learned to play?”
Dean’s nose wrinkles. “Hey, we don’t need to talk about that-“
“I think we do.”
“Nah, I mean- I only had a month-“
“You learned how to work a rocket launcher in a week.”
“That’s just buttons and triggers, sweetheart. Even you could work it.”
“Even I?” You raise your brows—trying not to let the delight shine too bright in your voice—and Dean freezes.
“I mean- uh- You’re not great with guns, and- I could teach you-“
“You could teach me.”
“Maybe? If you wanted- Or-“ Dean groans, slumping back. “Stop givin’ me that look.”
“I’m not giving you any look,” you tease, and Dean sighs.
“Will you stop if I say I’m an idiot?”
You soften slightly. “You’re not an idiot, Dean-“
“You sure?” He grumbles. “Kinda feeling like one right now.”
You laugh, but it’s gentle. You can almost see him pushing down into himself. It makes you heavy for him, like you’re trying to take that invisible weight off his shoulders, even if he can’t feel you helping the pain. “You’re a dork,” you say, bumping his knee under the table. “But you’re not an idiot.”
Dean grunts, watching you under hooded eyes, and you smile easily.
You missed this, more than you want to tell him. Just talking, without worrying that it’s going to end in world-changing, back-breaking, beautifully heart-aching sex. He feels like your friend again, closer to your fingertips than he’d been when he was balls deep inside of you.
“Wonderwall,” he grunts suddenly. “And Hallelujah.”
You blink. “What?”
“Those were the songs,” he mutters, picking at the label of his bottle. “That I got, before I smashed the guitar.”
“Oh,” you pause. “I love Hallelujah.”
“Yeah. I know.”
You stare at him, and he stares right back. A faint flush is threatening your cheeks, so you duck your head to hide it, and Dean lets out a soft laugh.
“You alright-“
“Yep. I- I’m good-“
“You look good.” Dean laughs again, when you shoot him a glare. “Don’t gimme that face, I’m saying something nice-“
“You’re being a butt,” you stick out your tongue, and his eyes dance with an easy kind of light that almost makes your heart stop.
“You’re the one who was callin’ me old earlier,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes.
“You are old.”
“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you, has it.”
Your mouth falls open, eyes going so wide it almost hurts, and Dean grins at you. If you weren’t shocked into static, you’d slap him or- or lunge across the table and kiss him-
Hold the line.
“Aged wine is supposed to be better,” you manage to say, somehow, and Dean laughs, loud and free.
“That all I am to you? Some wine?”
“No,” you smile at your plate. “You’re also very good cheese.”
“Good cheese, huh.”
“Mhm.” You point a stern finger at him. “No puns.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but dips his head. “Yes, ma’am.”
There’s the flush. You’d keep trying to hide it, if Dean didn’t start talking about something unimportant and easy, and suddenly you forgot to be embarrassed. He’s not trying to kiss you or get you back to the car. He’s just… Talking to you. Dropping that light, teasing praise like it’s nothing, then telling you a story about when he used a tuba to beat a poltergeist, grinning like a winner every time you laugh.
When lunch is over, he rests a hand lightly on your lower back, but doesn’t do much more. He kisses your cheek when you get back to the bunker, and asks if you want to watch a movie tomorrow night. You swallow, locking your hands together like they can force the line to stay firm. Dean says your name, almost panicked, and you blink up at him.
“Just a movie,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Out in town, at- Uh- That shitty theatre next to the coffee place. Or- I can try and find a drive-in, if those still exist-“
“They do,” you say softly, and he swallows. “There’s one out in Beloit.”
“Beloit,” Dean mutters. “Yeah- Yeah, okay. You wanna go there?”
You nod, and he grins. You smile back, and it feels… Different. Shy, in a way you haven’t been around him since he first started fucking you. Almost delicate. You weren’t supposed to let this feel like something delicate.
Dean jaw works, and you can almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes. He lurches slightly, brow furrowed, then pulls back up. You’re seconds from asking him what’s wrong when he just leans down and… does it.
His lips graze your cheek, his hand brushing against your waist, and you almost melt right into him.
But then he stands back up, and takes a large step away. You swallow, resisting the urge to reach up and brush your fingers over where he kissed. It’s not like he’s never done that before, but again.
It just feels different.
“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and you nod weakly.
If you had a mind that was thinking in more than bursts of glee and songs of Dean, Dean, Dean, you’d tell him that you live together, and he’s always going to see you tomorrow. But he walks away, and you let him, and it doesn’t hurt. There’s a space that he left, but something in you seems to think he’s going to come back. You can’t tell if it’s the fool or not.
For once, you decide not to try.
The movie is nice. Dean rests his hand on your knee, but doesn’t go any higher. You lean into his side, and his arm goes around your shoulders, but there’s no kissing or dragging into the back seat, and you didn’t know there could be a better way to be close to him. Sex is great. Looking up and finding him already watching you is better.
He brushes some hair from your face, and you half expect him to kiss you. His eyes dart down to your lips like he wants to. Your fingers curl in his shirt, and his throat bobs.
“You likin’ the movie?” He whispers, and you nod.
“Good find,” you breathe, and he grins.
“Thanks. Eat the popcorn, it cost me a billion bucks.”
You roll your eyes, and throw some of the over-buttered, half-burnt popcorn at his face. He laughs, catches a kernel in his mouth, and grabs your chin between two fingers. Your breath catches. He just turns your face back to the screen, and pulls you a little closer into his side.
The movie ends the same way the diner did. Dean walks you to your bedroom door like it’s the porch of your house, kisses your cheek, then walks away.
Then, after the movie, you play mini golf. You win, but you know he let you. He buys you a snow cone and licks it off his nose when he eats it like a rabid dog. You wipe a little extra off his cheek, and he stares at you, but still doesn’t kiss you. Not fully. His hand seems to always rest on your lower back, now, but that’s all the contact you get. All that you allow.
Hugs are on the table, too. They’re somehow more dangerous than the forehead kisses. After the hugs, he sometimes just stares at you and cups your cheek, and your heart moves into your throat until you think you’re going to spill it out all over his chest.
You manage to keep it together. For the sake of this new, slowly growing garden of what your friendship is becoming, you swallow your love with greater ease and more bile than you ever did while you were fucking. After the mini golf you get dinner and see another movie. You convince him to go on a walk with you, and he hates it less than he pretends to. You eat together in the bunker and call when he’s on a hunt with Sam and go to a car show and it all feels like breathing.
Sometimes he still looks at your mouth, and you freeze up, unsure if you want him to kiss you or not. You know you want him, but somehow you’ve found even more to lose than before, and if it slips through your fingers, you’re not sure they’re ever going to stop shaking and groping at the empty spaces again. You can take holding his hand in the bookstore while he peers over your shoulder, pretending to be interested for no real reason other than to make you smile.
“There are so many of them,” he mutters, and you giggle.
“There’s a lot of ways to write words, Dean.”
“Yeah, but- You’d think there would be repeats or something.”
“There probably are,” you shrug, running your fingers over the spines. “But they’re still all fun.”
Dean sighs, squeezing your upper arm. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and all his features relax.
“You want some coffee?” He brushes some hair from your face and you nod.
“There’s a shop next door, could you get me-“
“Hey,” Dean flicks your nose, grinning roguishly. “Trust me, I know what you want.”
You nod a little stupidly, and his smile falters. He looks to your lips again, then almost shakes himself, taking a small step.
“Don’t move,” he squeezes your arm again, then backs away. You watch him go, unable to help yourself, and smile when he looks back. He does that all the time now. And he always smiles back.
You turn back to the shelf, looking at the books without actually looking. You already miss him, and he told you not to move, but that can’t count if you’re going to stand next to him in the coffee line, can it-
“Hey.”
You fumble slightly, turning to find a man leaning against the shelf and smirking at you. You blink, and his smirk widens.
“What’s girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”
“The… Bookstore?” You frown, and he laughs. You don’t think you said anything all that funny.
“Look, I just- I saw you from over there,” he nods vaguely, and you frown. “And I thought you were cute. Can I get you some coffee or something?”
“My- My friend is already getting me coffee,” you say, and your voice sounds strangely far away.
The man nods, but doesn’t retreat. “Alright, then can I get your number? Maybe beat your friend to coffee next time?”
And you don’t want to say yes, but this is a chance. To hold onto this new friendship with Dean while also getting over him at the same time. This man isn’t ugly. Compared to Dean, no one really stands a chance anyway, and you have to get over him eventually.
So you give him your number, and try not to feel like you just did something wrong.
Dean clears his throat from behind you, and you spin around on your heels, a sour guilt twisting in your gut.
“You- You’re back,” you say, and he grunts.
He’s not look at you. He’s glaring at the man with the same, deadly glint that he gives monsters and demons before he cuts them in half. You touch his arm lightly, and he tenses. You feel sick.
“Hey, buddy,” he snaps at the man, who—not seeming to understand the gravity of Dean’s glare—grins back.
“Hey.” He winks at you, slowly backing away. “Have fun with your friend.”
Dean’s coffee spills over the top of it’s lid. He doesn’t look away from the man when he leaves the store. He shoves your drink into your hand, not meeting your gaze.
“Dean-“
“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he mutters, and you swallow.
“Oh- Okay.”
Your arm wraps around your stomach, and you press a little away from him, from the wrath seeming to wave off his body like a volcano. He glances down, jaw tight and a vein in his brow ticking. You stare at his neck, unable to hold the weight of his gaze. He lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.
“Get your book.”
You shake you head. “No- It- It’s okay-“
Dean says your name, and your mouth snaps shut. “Just- Get the damn book.”
He looks like he’s in pain, and you don’t know how to fix it, so you do as he says. You get a cheap one, that worm of guilt burrowing deeper and deeper into your gut until you can’t even drink your coffee without feeling like it’s going to come back up.
Dean’s fingers dig into your back, when he guides you out the door. He starts the engine by almost punching in the keys, and holds Baby’s wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. You can see all the anger brimming under the surface of his skin, and worried you’re just going to make it worse. You don’t even know where it came from. It’s not like you’re together, or the guy said something rude. You open and close your mouth too many times to count, then give up, shrinking back into your seat.
Dean looks over at you. You try to look out the window, and nowhere else.
A loud, sharp breath escapes him. “Son of a- Alright.”
You look over with a frown, then squeak when he yanks the wheel off to the side.
“Shit- Dean-“
“Just- Fuck-“ He bows he head, glaring down at his legs, and you swallow.
You fidget with your fingers, watching him nervously, waiting for him to break the silence. It takes while. So long you think about just getting out of the car to give him space.
But then he looks up, and your heart gets cleaved open. His face is twisted in pain, his lips parted and his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard.
“What-“ He takes a deep breath, scanning over your openly confused features. “What else am I supposed to be doin’?”
You blink at him, fingers curling in your lap. “What?” You ask softly, and his throat bobs.
“I- I’m really trying,” he mutters, looking back to his hands. “I swear to god, baby, I’m tryin’ my best, and- I know I ain’t amazing at this but- If you could throw a guy a rope when he’s never- I’ve never done this, alright.” He waves between your bodies, jaw clenched tight. “And I’m really givin’ it my best shot, but I’m still not allowed to kiss you, and you’re takin’ numbers right- Right in front of me- So just- Something.” He gives you a pleading, broken look, eyes shining on yours in the dark. “Anything.”
You open your mouth, but you can’t even figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to say. You know all the words he’s saying, but it’s like he’s speaking a language you never learned, spitting out a code you’re just supposed to magically understand. Dean’s jaw ticks, when you don’t answer, and you try to sputter out an answer, but he’s too loud to hear your confused whimper.
“Look, just- Whatever the hell you do need me to do, I’ll do it, I swear I’ll do it, but- You gotta tell me, sweetheart-“
“Tell you what?!” You almost shout, and Dean leans back in surprise. “Dean, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dean huffs a low laugh, looking back out to the road. “Yeah. Alright,” he grabs the keys, voice rough and pained. “Sure. Whatever-“
“No.” You grab his wrist before he can start to the engine. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”
“It doesn’t matter-“
“Yes, it does-“
“Nah.”
“Dean-“
“You wanna call that guy, call ‘im.” There’s an almost toxically bitter sound to the words, and Dean’s making a face like he just got shot. “Whatever. See if I care.”
Your nails dig into his wrist, when he tries to yank it away. He shoots you a glare, the bags—gone, after months of ease—already starting to form.
“C’mon, kid, just- let go-“
“Would you care?”
Your question is small, but it makes Dean recoil like it burned. He scoffs, but it’s too loud, and you hold him tighter.
“Would you care-“
“No, I fuckin’ love watching douchebags parade around with my girl, who would care about something like that?”
Something snaps, right at the base of your spine. You sit so tall you’d think someone is dragging you by the nape of your neck, and Dean blinks in something close to surprise.
“What-“
“Your girl,” you whisper. “That’s- I’m- Why would you say that?”
Dean blinks. “Why wouldn’t I say that?”
“Because you and I- We’re not- That’s-“ You lean back, letting go of his wrist, and when you look down, you’ve left little crescent marks in the skin. “No- No- You didn’t- You said no- No strings-“
“Yeah, and then you stopped fuckin’ me, and I-“ Dean says your name as you press back against the window, brow furrowed in worry. “Baby, it’s- It’s alright, I’m not that pissed-“
“You were yelling,” you choke out, and he swallow.
“Well, I was- Just- C’mere.”
He reaches out, cupping your cheek with the same gentle touch he used to use, right before he kissed you. You gape at him, head spinning, panting like you just ran a marathon.
“I’m not mad,” he rasps, almost pleading, and you shake your head.
“You were-“
“Sweetheart-“
“Why?” You whisper, grabbing his wrist, your nails sinking back into the marks. “Why- Why would you care?”
Dean swallows. He shakes his head, looks out the window, and chuckles.
“Dean-“
“I don’t want you goin’ out with him. And- Call it possessive, or stupid man shit, or- Whatever the hell you want,” he drags his thumb over your cheekbone, voice dropping to something tender, something soft. “You’re my girl. And I want you here, telling me what to do, how to- To be what you need.” His voice cracks. “Come on, baby. Just- Tell me what to be.”
You stare at him, a lot of pieces colliding into each other at once in your head. The diner and the movie and the touching and the caution and-
“Are we dating?” You choke out, and Dean frowns.
“What’d you mean, are we dating?”
“I mean are we dating, Dean, are you- Are you my boyfriend?”
“Uh- Boyfriend kinda makes it sound like we’re sixteen and necking-“
“What the fuck is necking?”
Dean groans, dropping his head. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. Makes me feel fuckin’ fifty.”
Your lips twitch. “You are almost fifty,” you say, and he chuckles.
“Yeah. Guess I am.” He looks back up to you, caution lining his features. “You always seemed to like it.”
You swallow. You did. You’d never been sure if it was the older thing itself, or the fact that it was just Dean, but you’d liked it. You always liked all of him, from the uglier wounds to the beautiful, glowing heart that almost managed to peak through, no matter how thick his steel and iron walls became.
He glides his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, and your breath hitches. He swallows, closes his eyes, and mutters your name.
“Did you… Not think we were dating?”
You shake your head, and Dean snorts dryly.
“Huh,” his mouth curves into a tight smirk. “Makes sense why you wouldn’t kiss me, I guess.”
“You guess?” You squeak, and Dean nods.
“Yeah, makes a lotta sense, actually-“
“How long have we been dating?!” You almost shriek, and he gives you an amused look.
“’Bout three months.”
“Three months?!”
“That’s what I said, baby-“
“Shut- Shut up-“ You plant a hand over his mouth, and he raises his brows. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me we were dating, you- You butt?!”
Dean’s eyes sparkle, looking pointedly down to your hand, and you release him with a scowl. He rubs his jaw, grinning at you like you’re some cute bunny, and you lean back in your seat with a huff.
“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I thought you knew.”
“How would I have known-“
“’Cause I asked you on a date? And you said yes?”
“That- That never happened.” You snap, and Dean frowns.
“Yes, it did. Sammy- He was there-“
“Sam was there-“
“Yeah, and- I said there was a new diner in town, and you said you’d go with me, and we started dating!”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open. Dean stares pointedly back, and you can’t help yourself. You bark out a loud, sharp laugh.
“That was not asking me on a date, you fucking- Oh my god!” You shake your head, and Dean’s frown becomes almost puppy like.
“Yes, it was-“
“You have to actually say it’s a date, Dean! You can’t just- Just ask me to do something, I thought we were just hanging out! As friends.”
He’s pouting now. If you weren’t pissed, it would be adorable. “I- Uh- I paid for everything. And got you gifts.”
“Friends do that-“
“Do friends kiss your face all the time?” Dean twists to fully glare at you, and you pause.
“Um- Maybe?”
Dean snorts. “No, they don’t-“
“But I thought that was just you!” You protest. “You- You’re always- You know-“
“I know?” He mocks, and you scowl.
“We were fucking for a year, Dean,” you snap, tipping up your chin. “I thought you were comfortable with me.”
“I am comfortable with you,” Dean shrugs, leaning slightly forward. “Real comfortable.”
Your nose twitches. He’s too close, now. Consuming your vision, making your vision all stupid and fuzzy. “You’re comfortable with everyone,” you sniff, and he laughs.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, running a hand slowly up your thigh. “We both know that ain’t true.”
You make a tiny, involuntary sound when his fingers dip under your skirt, teasing sensitive, neglected skin. He hasn’t touched you there in so long. Too long. You have to hug yourself to stop your body from flying at him.
“I haven’t fucked anyone else in eighteen damn months,” Dean mutters, holding your gaze. “I’ve been waiting around for you for months, wondering what the hell I was doin’ wrong, and you thought I was just being nice?!”
You swallow, your voice suddenly small. “You are nice,” you whisper, and Dean snorts.
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re nice to me-“
“Because I-“ He cuts himself off, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh. You grab his hand, holding it against you, and his eyes dart down. He heaves a long breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bows his head.
“Dean?” You whisper, and he shakes his head. “Dean, I- I’m sorry I didn’t- You said we were just going to be casual-“
“I know what I said,” he grunts, glaring at your hands. “But I- I didn’t- I thought it would help me.”
You swallow. “Help you?”
“Yeah.”
“With what-“
“You know what.” He finally looks at you, and you’ve never seen him this vulnerable. Almost bowing before you, holding onto your hand like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. “And I can’t- I don’t know how to-“ He takes another ragged breath, gives you another pleading look. “You stopped letting me pretend, you started- You started telling me no, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t.” He swallows. “I’m tryin’ to do this right, baby.” He squeezes your hand, leaning a little closer. “Please let me do this right.”
You blink at him, tears watering in your own eyes, and nod. Dean’s shoulders shudder, and he holds your hand so tight you think he’s trying to just mold you together. He glances at your lips, but doesn’t move. So you do it for him.
Dean stares at you, completely still as you lean forward, his chest so still you’re worried he’s not breathing. You rest your hand lightly on his chest and press the lightest kiss you can to his parted lips. He shakes, one hand flying to your waist, his touch still heartbreakingly delicate. You kiss him again, a little harder, and a low rumble starts in his chest.
You pull back, pressing your brows tight together. Dean stares at you, eyes glossy and blown out, the restraint ticking in his jaw, and you smile softly.
“I love you,” you breathe. “And I- I know you can’t- You know, say it back, but- I love you, Dean.”
His breathing his ragged, and he’s still gaping. You laugh nervously, looking down to your fingers, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.
“If- If you could say something, though, that would be- Um- Nice-“
Dean grunts, and your words fall off into a squeak as Dean drags you forward into his lap.
And this. This is a real kiss. Dean’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his arm wrapping fully around your lower back, his fingers digging into your hips and his other hand cradling the back of your head. He kisses you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, pushing his tongue down your throat and moaning against your mouth. You pull on his shirt and he gropes at your ass, dragging you further into his lap. The pressure of his thigh against your core makes your head spin, but that might just be the lack of oxygen. Neither of you seem to be willing to come up for air, taking sharp, tiny breaths between sloppy kisses.
You whimper, already going limp, and Dean leans back with darkened, shining eyes. You know that look. You used to pray for and dread it all at once. It always made you feel like something close to prey, paralyzed and unable to flee his spell.
But this time is different. This time, there’s nothing you’d rather do but fall into his charm.
Dean presses another, small kiss to your lips, dragging his thumb over the tingling swell. Your tongue flicks against the pad of the finger, and he groans, pushing it slowly between your lips.
You wrap around him, sucking lightly, giving him your best, sweetest Bambi eyes. Dean’s throat bobs, his fingers digging into your ass.
“We’re goin’ home,” he mutters. “Then I’m gonna fuck you.”
That’s a lovely plan. You smile around his thumb, and he says your name, pulling his thumb away with a small pop.
“Jesus, you- You gotta tell me yes-“
“Just fuck me here,” you whisper, pulling on the collar of his shirt.
Dean glances to the backseat, then to you. “Uh- I mean- That’s- If you’re sure-“
“Please,” you push a little further forward, dropping your hand to press against the bulge in his jeans. “I need you, Dean. Now.”
And for a second, you think he’s going to demand going all the way back home. Say something about you deserving a soft bed and gentle loving, when you just want him, filthy and raw and yours. You’re so busy giving him doe eyes, you don’t notice his hand dragging down your spine and your ass, right up until it dips under your skirt, and cups your pussy through your panties.
You gasp, and Dean smirks, slowly rubbing his hand back and forth.
“Need me?” He drawls, pushing his thumb against your clit. “Like this, baby? This how you need me?”
“Ye- yes-“ Your lips brush over his, your hips starting to grind down as he drags his thumb in tiny circle, his hand still rocking back and forth. “Just- Just like that, Dean- Shit-“
You push down, kissing him with a sloppy, uncontrolled mouth. Dean grunts, splaying his free hand against your neck and pushing you down. He’s massive and warm, the hand working your pussy offering just enough friction to work you up, but nothing more. You wrap your arms around his neck, panting against his lips and moving you hips to chase more friction.
“That feels good, doesn’t it,” he mutters, kissing you between every word.
You coo, trying to kiss over his face, and Dean slaps your pussy once, leaning back with a stern glare.
“Doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” you answer immediately, already getting heavy-eyed and dazed. “So- So good, Dean, feels so good, just- More-“ You claw at his shoulders, trying to at least get to some bare skin, and settle for pressing your mouth back over his. “More- Need some more, De, now-“
Dean silences you with a deep, rough kiss, and taps his thumb against your clit in quick, harsh movements, pushing his palm down hard against your aching pussy. You cry out, trying to force your hips further down against him, and Dean squeezes that back of your neck.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Few months without some cock and you get bossy, don’t you.”
“No- No,” you manage to protest. “You’re just- You’re being slow-“
“I’m being slow?” He mocks, running his fingers over the line of your panties. “Baby, I’ve barely fuckin’ started.”
You try to roll your eyes at him, but he uses his hold on your neck to turn your head, forcing your gaze back down to his. Your eyes widen, and he smirks slightly, raising his brows.
“You gonna break out some manners for me?” He asks, slowly dragging your panties to the side. “Or am I gonna need to teach you again?”
“Te- Teach me?” You choke out, and Dean hums.
His thumb drags down from your clit, parting the lips of your pussy and smearing your arousal. Your heart is trying to hammer out of your chest, every nerve in your body seeming to respond to the mockingly sweet touch.
“Dean,” you press your hands against his chest, unsure if you want to push him away or drag him closer. “Don’t- Don’t be mean-“
“I’m not bein’ mean,” he hum, the gleam in his eyes something else all together. “I’m giving my girl exactly what she wants, how she wants it.”
You blink at him hopelessly, and he chuckles, pulling you down into a long, slow kiss. It would be romantic and loving, if it wasn’t for his thumb pushing at your weeping entrance, refusing to dip even a fraction of the way inside.
“Remember how you used to beg for me?” He mutters, and your face burns with a mix of arousal and shame. “I sure as shit do. Spent hours thinkin’ about it lately, planning how I was gonna take you when you let me again. But,” he switches out his thumb for the very tips of his fingers, yanking slightly on your hair when you try to look down. “Jesus, baby, I’m worried I’m gonna break you.”
You shake your head frantically, and Dean raises his brows.
“Words, pretty girl,” he reminds you, pushing his fingers just a little big deeper. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got it, talk to me-“
“I can take it,” you breathe out, watching him under fluttering lashes. “I- I can take it. I promise.”
Dean works his jaw, his grip on your hair tightening. “Sweetheart-“
“Please,” you breathe, leaning down until your noses bump. “I need it. I need you.”
Those are the magic words. Dean stops trying to play noble, stops trying to hold back for the sake of romance. You loved him when he fucked you like a whore and gave you nothing soft, and you’re going to love him even more when he treats you like a toy, then kisses you everywhere after.
Dean smashes his lips against yours and eases his fingers into your waiting pussy, groaning under his breath when you clench down around him.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, scissoring them inside you. “Never gonna get over how fuckin’ tight you are, sweetheart, like you were made for me. Made to be mine.”
He almost snarls the last words against your lips, pushing himself fully up to the knuckle. You mewl as he finds your g-spot with that precision that makes it look easy, that’s always made you sure you couldn’t ever enjoy someone else if you tried.
Dean pumps his fingers slowly, crooking them so they drag against that spot, and pulls you back to watch your face contort with pleasure.
“That’s it,” he grunts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming them right back in and twisting to bully against that sensitive spot. “That’s just how you like it, huh? Already gettin’ like this from just my fingers,” he chuckles, grinding his hips up against your thighs. “Imagine how you’re gonna be on my cock, sweet girl, if you can barely fuckin’ take this?”
“That- That’s not fair-“ You choke out, every word breathy and weak, and Dean just smirks.
“Isn’t it?”
You try to protest, but Dean pushes your head back down, and his kiss knocks almost every thought from your head. It’s all just the familiar, perfect way his mouth moves against yours, rememorizing something that never stopped being his. The wet sound of his fingers working you open fills the car, and your whole body burns with desire and shame. He’s right. You’re already soaked and ready for him, your cunt clenching down and still begging for more. You need that full, impossible split of him. After months of nothing, you’re worried his cock is the only thing that’s going to be able to do it.
But Dean seems to like proving you wrong today. A coil, tight in your stomach, starts to wind tighter and tighter. He drops his grip on your hair for a second to push down on the base of your spine, forcing your cunt almost right over his bulge. He reangles his hand, forcing in another finger, and you make a strangled sound.
“De- Dean-“
“We’re gonna get you relaxed, baby,” he mutters, twisting his wrist so the drag against your g-spot almost rips through your body. “Nice and relaxed ‘f me, you can do it.”
You let out a shaky breath, trying to listen, and your clit pushes down against Dean’s cock, still tight in his jeans. The pressure is perfect, combined with the brutal thrusts of Dean’s hand, and you press your cheek to his.
“That- That’s good,” you pant, clinging to the hem of his shirt. “So- Soo good-“
You whimper, and Dean hums. He’s rubbing your back, and that’s somehow almost as good as the hand obliterating your cunt. “There she is,” he mutters. “Always so good at listening when I got my hands on you, aren’t you sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your head. “That’s my girl.”
That’s what does it. My girl.
The coil snaps, and your orgasm rips through you, making your eyes cross and your body curl limply into Dean’s arms. His hand coaxes you through it, his palm rubbing against your pussy as you mewl and clench around nothing, the light pressure helping you ride it like a long, easy wave.
Dean kisses your cheek when it’s done, then right under your eye, then your nose.
“That’s one,” he mutters, and you whine. He chuckles, hiking your skirt up with light touches. “Come on, you know the rule.”
“Stupid rule,” you grumble. “Never agreed to it.”
“Never heard you complaining before,” he points out, peeling your dress off, and you stick out your tongue.
“That’s because I always forget- Dean!”
He smacks your ass, and you squeak, pussy clenching around nothing. He’s forming a tent in his jeans as he looks up at you, and you narrow your eyes. You fingers brush against the head of him, and his groan falters, his head tipping back against the bench.
You smile, pushing your hand down against his cock, and he catches your wrist, shooting you a stern glare.
“Not at young as I used to be,” he warns, and you giggle.
“But I want to,” you try to pull your hand free, and roll you eyes when he won’t let you. “Oh- Come on-“
“Nope,” he grunts, even as his dick jumps against the fabric. “You know the rule-“
“Dean-“
“Three to one,” he mutters, a dare gleaming in his eyes. “You give me one, I give you six. That’s the fuckin’ deal.”
You laugh, but his mouth doesn’t even twitch, and slowly, your smile falls into something more serious. More determined.
Damn this stubborn beautiful man and his orgasm rules. Damn you, for thinking he ever wouldn’t want to fuck you when he made you orgasm rules that weren’t proportional or fair at all.
You yank your wrist away, stick out your tongue again, and pull your underwear fully off. Dean watches you with his hands tight on your waist, eyes shining with curiosity, but patient.
And you’ve never been good at riding him, but you’ve always been good at this. You climb over Dean’s lap so your ass is near his shoulder and your face in his crotch, your back arched like some animal in heat, your pussy bare and on full display.
Dean’s never been able to help himself. One hand immediately slides around the arch of your back, then the curve of your ass, then settles back against your pussy. The other slides in your hair, petting your hair while you fumble with his belt. He chokes out your name, and you shoot him a glare, pulling out his cock with light, careful hands.
He’s so hard you’re worried he’s going to hurt himself. Pre-cum is beading around his tip, his veins throbbing like a porno. You stroke him slowly, and he lets out a sharp breath between his teeth.
“I’m serious, baby-“
“Prove it,” you say, before licking a slow, teasing stripe up his shaft.
And you know how this game ends. You’ve played it a million times before. The beautiful thing about it is that—especially when Dean thinks he’s winning—you can never lose.
You take him into his mouth, and the sound that he makes is sinful. It’s a choked, rough version of your name that sounds holy from his mouth, and comes with his fingers dipping into your heat like it’s a comfort toy. You take him until he bumps against the back of your throat and hum, swirling your tongue. Dean grunts, and pushes your head a little further down. You wiggle your ass, pussy cold and throbbing, and Dean groans.
“Jesus, woman- Gonna kill me- Fuuuuck-“
You start to bob up and down, sucking with that perfect pressure you know he likes, getting what can’t fit in your mouth in your hand. You can take him better and better with every second, letting his push against your gag reflex, and you drop that hand to play with his balls. Dean’s already giving shallow uncontrolled microthrusts, repeating your name over and over until it’s more of a choked moan.
“Can’t- Shit, baby, I can’t- That damn mouth, you’re gonna- Shit-“
You squeeze his balls and suck as hard as you can, and Dean almost roars your name, his cock jumping as he shoots thick, white ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, licking the rest off your fingers as you rise back up. There’s going to be a handprint on your ass, from where he was holding onto you. You hope you feel it in the morning.
And when you smile at Dean, you know you’re in trouble. Naked and wet for him, crawling forward so your tits press into his face and kissing him as sweetly as possible. Dean grunts, one hand shooting up to cradle the back of your head, and his responding kiss is deceptively gentle. He lets you lead it, groaning when your tongues press together, tasting himself on your lips. He lets you pull his shirt over his head and lets you trace over the lines of his muscles. You smile against his lips and lean back, and there’s that predatory glint again.
Dean’s hand twitches on your back. He wipes your chin, gathering some stray cum and slowly pressing his against your lips. You clean it off obediently, and his jaw ticks.
“Back seat,” he grunts. “Now.”
You almost scramble to listen. Rolling off of him and trying to climb over, making it halfway before you feel massive hands wrapping around your waist, holding you in place. You swallow, trying to twist over your shoulder to look at him, but Dean blows a sharp breath over your clit, and you double over with a squeak.
“De- Dean-“ You plant your hand on the bench, blood rushing to your cheeks. “Dean- wait-“
“Hmmm.” He kisses one curve of your ass, then the other. “Wait for what?”
You’re not really sure. “This- I- I can’t hold myself up,” you fumble, and he chuckles, kissing right over your clit.
“That gonna be a problem?” He teases, pressing smaller, faster kisses over the sensitive button. “Or,” he spreads your ass cheeks, humming against your heat. “Do dirty girls get what they asked for?”
Shit. “It’s uncomfortable,” you whisper, and Dean pauses.
He sighs, then kisses your clit again. You squeak when he drags you back down, and melt into his chest as he kisses all over your face, rocking you back and forth in his arms.
“’S why I wanted the bed,” he mutters, and you sigh.
“’M sorry-“
“No,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, massaging your hips with steady hands. “I’ve got it, just- uh-“
He glances up, and you watch him frown around the car with an openly adoring expression. The work of his jaw and furrow of his brow as he thinks, how he holds you so tight in his arms, it’s impossible to not love him.
“Got it,” he mutters. “Trust me?”
You nod easily, and he glances back down. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and this kiss isn’t feral or brutal. It’s just… slow. Adoring, a silent promise of what you’ve sort of always known.
Dean is going to take care of you.
He lays you out in the backseat, rubbing your thighs as you settle into the cushioned bench. You watch him with your heart in your throat, arms wrapped tight around your stomach. Sometimes, under his attention, you’re not sure what to do with yourself. He’s too pretty, too big, too much in the best possible way.
“Getting’ shy on me?” He teases, pushing up your knee, and you flush.
“N- No.”
“Hm,” Dean pins your leg against the bench, guiding the other one so it hooks over his shoulders. “Sounds like you’re gettin’ shy.”
You swallow, hugging yourself tighter, and he chuckles.
“All that work to make you relax,” he mutters, kissing his way up your thigh. “And you’re already wound back up.”
“You took too long,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” He kisses just the side of your cunt, and your breath hitches as he sucks a small, firm bruise into the skin. “You know I’m gonna make it up to you, yeah?”
You nod weakly, then blurt, “Yes!”
Dean’s mouth twitches, and he grabs one of your wrists, guiding it down to his hair. You weave it between your fingers, your breathing already ragged, your whole body lit up with anticipation.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, kissing the other side of your cunt, massaging your thigh and pushing your leg a little higher. “Nice and easy, pretty girl.” He kisses you pussy, open-mouthed and wet, and you let out a high, shameless sound.
His mouth should be classified as a sex toy or something. It moves and works against you like a machine, kissing you with so much fervor you already start to see stars. You had some recovery from the fingering, but Dean’s already stripping it away with sharp, unrelenting kisses and grazes of his teeth against your clit.
“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against you, the word vibrating through your body. “Never wanna live without this pussy again, baby girl, shit-“
He groans and dives back down, starting to work you open like a man starved. You push on his head, silently begging for more, afraid to open your mouth. The sounds that leave you will be embarrassing, and you’re already too far gone for them.
But Dean likes you loud, and he won’t let you hold back. He hooks his arm fully around your leg, dragging you further down, giving him a better against your pussy. You mewl when he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking impossibly hard, and Dean laughs against your cunt.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ You grab at the front bench, yanking mindlessly on his short hair. “De- Dean- Oh my god-“
He groans, pushing his face impossibly further. His tongue is deliberate and thick, pumping in and out of your cunt before pressing flat on your clit and dragging back and forth. It’s enough to drive you mad, making the coil in your stomach burn and burn and burn until your whole body is shaking with the sensation.
“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “You- Fuck-“
He nips at your clit, dragging a long, slow stripe up your pussy. Your eyes lock, and you swallow, a broken moan falling from your lips. The first time he did this, he told you that he loved it. That there was nothing better than a woman, right on his face, dripping and sweet for him. It didn’t take you long to believe him.
Here, he looks at you like you’re some kind of heaven he’s been allowed to touch. His mouth never stops moving against you, his eyes lidded and almost drunk, and your arousal shining on his face whenever he reangles it to devour you a new way. It’s a sight that could knock you off your feet, if you had any left to stand on. Dean on his knees, his broad, freckled shoulders forcing your knees apart, his attention a drug you never want to bother being clean from again.
You start to shake, your stomach seizing up as you fight off your orgasm, but Dean doesn’t tolerate that either. His mouth goes back against your clit, his tongue darting up and down and back and forth in tiny motions, almost tickling it, making the little nerves light up and-
You cum with a loud, choked sound that’s really supposed to be Dean’s name, and push at his head. You expect him to stop, and finally get on top of you.
But you forgot about his stupid orgasm rule, and he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens and he starts to make out with your overstimulated pussy. You squeak, pushing weakly at his head, and his eyes gleam.
“De- Dean- Fuuuuck- That’s-“ Your eyes roll back, your body seizing up again, almost unable to take so much. “Oh- Oh my gooood-”
Dean groans against you again, and it’s worse than a vibrator. It’s warm and deep and Dean, mixed with his filthy mouth and stubble, scraping against soft skin.Your thighs lock around his head and he lets them, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulls you fully onto your back, pushing himself up onto his knees. His cock bounces against his stomach but he ignores it, using his now free hand to grope at your breast. You moan, clenching around nothing as he laps at your clit and pussy.
“I- I can’t-“ Tears spring at your eyes. “Dean- Please-“
He hums, rolling your nipple between deft fingers, and you throw your head back with a broken moan.
Warm, thick fingers weave through yours, and you blink at him under watery lashes. He’s let go of your breast to hold your hand. His thumb is dragging slowly back and forth, and his mouth isn’t slowing down, but you don’t want it to. You can see the challenge shining in his eyes. You take a ragged breath, give him the smallest nod, and he smiles against your pussy.
You didn’t know the human tongue could move that fast. You’re sure it’s not supposed to, but Dean’s never cared about things like that. He drinks you up like wine, rapidly toying with your clit—swirling and kissing and flicking and sucking like it’s candy—and your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm springs through your body like a geyser.
Dean lowers you down slowly, pressing one last kiss to your swollen kiss before rising back up, wiping his chin of your release and cleaning it off his fingers with a smug grin. His cock is at attention, and your mouth waters. He always gets it in. You’re a little afraid of it right now.
“Six?” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.
“You’re the one who pushed for it, princess.”
“It- It’s your stupid rule-“
“You love it,” he shrugs, slowly settling himself back between your legs. “And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you, baby.”
You wrinkle your nose, and Dean gives you a stern, amused look.
“Aren’t you?” He taps the head of his cock against your cunt, and you squeak.
“Dean-“
“You’re the one who got bratty and cocky, sweetheart,” he drawls, pushing your leg back down. “So you’re gonna take it, ‘cause I know you can.”
You swallow, giving him your best doe-eyes, and he just chuckles. Dean lowers himself down, presses a gentle kiss to your brow, and murmurs against your skin.
“That ain’t gettin’ you out of this.”
You press your face into the crook of his neck, and Dean smiles, kissing the side of your head.
“All shy again,” he mutters, dragging that massive cock between the lips of your pussy. “Let’s take care of that, huh?”
You cling to him as he rolls you both over, guiding your legs to straddle his torso and lining up his cock with your weeping, abused pussy. He pulls you gently up, rubbing your side and watching you a painfully adoring gaze. You try to cover yourself again, and he catches your hand, shaking his head.
“Come on,” he mutters, weaving your fingers together. “Let me see you.”
And damn him for being so soft and sweet, you don’t think you could tell him no if you wanted.
“Take it easy,” he says, wrapping both of his hands around your waist. “All you, baby. Show me what you want.”
“I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.”
You believe him, in a way you’d never believe anyone else. It might be how he looks at you. Like you’re an angel over him, like you’re really, truly letting him enter paradise as you sink down onto his cock.
He grunts, his fingers tightening against your body as his cock slowly splits you open. Even with how much he’s worked you open—your pussy so wet it’s already dripping onto his thighs—it’s a tight fit. You can feel every vein dragging inside of you, the hard curve pressing right into your g-spot and making you flutter around him.
Dean jerks his head up, squeezing his eyes shut, and you swallow.
“Sorry-“
“’S- ‘S alright,” he exhales sharply, relaxing back into the seat. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, baby. I’m good.”
A smile ghosts over your lips, even as you start to only breathe through your nose. “You look it,” you tease, and Dean gives you a half annoyed, half impressed look.
“You’re tight,” he grunts, and your smile widens.
“You’re big.”
He groans, throwing his head further back, and you giggle again. He’s sitting just right again, his chest rippling under your hands, and you feel like that angel. You feel like a goddess, with how his hands are dragging over your body, how your name falls from his lips.
“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, eyes raking over your body. “So perfect.”
You take a deep breath, and start to grind down onto his cock. Dean groans, one hand dragging down to squeeze your ass, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless you beg him, and you’re determined not to. You can ride him until your thighs give out. His cock bumps against your g-spot, and his abdomen drags near your clit, and it feels good. You rock back and forth a little faster, your breath catching, and Dean groans.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Pretty fuckin’ girl, riding my cock like the needy little thing you are, aren’t you. So fuckin’ wet for me, baby, so- so tight-“
He groans, and you push down on his chest, picking up your pace.
“So big, Dean,” you moan, pushing up your chest like a pornstar, trying to make him break first. “You’re so big, feels so- so good-“
You moan, tossing your hair, and Dean makes an almost feral sound.
But he doesn’t break. The bastard never breaks, and you’ve never been good at riding him. Your thighs are already sore, and they quickly start to ache, making your movements smaller and weaker. Dean watches you start to whine, your brow furrowing in concentration, and just smiles. You both know what he’s waiting for. You don’t want to give in.
“So quiet, sweetheart,” he coos, running his hand up to palm at your breast. “Someone drove by, they’d think I wasn’t fuckin’ you properly.”
You glare at him, unable to even speak, and he chuckles.
“You know what you gotta do, baby girl.”
“Fu- Fuck you-“
“I will,” he winks. “If my girl says please.”
Your eyes narrow. His grin widens, and you think you might be about to fly apart with how bad you need it. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid face that you love and his big cock that makes you all jelly and dazed thoughts and useless.
“Please-“
The word barely leaves your mouth before Dean moves. A single, well-aimed thrust up into your cunt that makes you fall apart. You fall forward onto his chest with a scream, and Dean groans, giving shallower, gentle thrusts to work you through the orgasm.
“I know,” he murmurs in you ear, his words painfully soft in comparison to the pleasure wracking your body. “I know, princess. Two more to go.”
You don’t think you can take two more. Four has been your max for a very long time, and that was with a lot more prep time and space between orgasms. But Dean doesn’t seem like he’s going to give you much of a choice.
You’re a doll in his arms again, when he hauls you up into his lap. His cock leaves you for a single second, just for the adjustment, and you whimper at the loss.
Dean hums, kissing all over your face as he slides back in.
“That’s my girl,” he starts to rock your hips back and forth with steady hands, picking you up then dropping your back down so his dick drags through every inch of your heat. “Takin’ me so good. Just like that, feel that, baby-“ He pushes on your lower back, making his cock slam against your g-spot, and you sob against his neck. “Feel how fuckin’ good we fit together, my girl.”
Dean’s voice is lined with something darker now. More possessive and hungry. He fucks up into your like an animal, dips drilling forward and mouth attached to your neck. All you can do is take it, over and over until your eyes are crossing and the only words you can remember are babbles of Dean and please.
The neck orgasm is slow, blooming from where he’s slamming against your cervix and spreading pleasantly through your body. Dean moans against your skin, mouthing at your jaw and neck, his tongue dragging and kisses messy. When you try to kiss him back, it’s mostly with a mewl and lips that follow his lead. Everything is humid and light in your body, everything is Dean around you, and there’s a new, strangely hot sensation in your core that’s demanding all of your attention.
It’s tighter than the usual coil, and gets hotter and hotter with every thrust of Dean’s cock. He’s getting uneven now, his own words falling into pants and moans, his balls slapping against your ass and hands leaving prints as he folds you fully over his chest.
“One- One more-“ His voice is gravelly, almost as wrecked as you feel. “Milk my fuckin’ cock, baby girl, cum for me-“
You open your mouth to warn him about the strange feeling, but it’s too late. Dean slams home, crashing his mouth against yours, and you cum with a hoarse scream. Hot cum shoots into your cunt, right as something gushes out of you in wet, burning waves. It feels good, so good you can’t think, so good your mouth hangs open and your moans turn into pathetic, weak babbles.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ Dean groans against your mouth. “Fuckin’- Yes-“
Your body seizes and twitches around him, but even when he’s done, Dean doesn’t pull out. The last of your release pushes itself out and her collapses backward, rubbing your back and craning his neck to grin at your cockdrunk expression.
“Gettin’ stupid?” He teases, and you can’t manage to raise an arm, so you just bite his nose. He laughs, leaning up to steal another, quick kiss from your lips before settling back down.
You curl over him, resting your head against his shoulder while he pets your head, both of you still panting and coming back down. You might be there for a hundred years, or just an hour. It doesn’t matter. The car is going to reek of sex for maybe a year. Sam might never agree to ride in it again. But it was worth it. More than worth it, when you look up at Dean, and find him—just as always—already looking back.
“We’re still dating, right?” You whisper, because you have to be sure.
Dean grins, and kisses you slowly. You hum, letting your eyes flutter shut. Letting him carry you, whenever he thinks is safe to go.
“Yeah,” he mutters, and you can hear it in his voice. All the love he’s been trying to show you, for who knows how long. “We are."
✦End note: if i write enough of these it's gonna happen to me guys trust ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦summary: dean learns, slowly, that he's actually pretty good at being boyfriend material. it would be nice if you'd stop pining after him long enough to notice✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, friends with benefits to lovers, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love because it's the best way to be, dean's down so bad, shameless smut (facesitting, praise kink, big dick dean, fingering, pussy spanking, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, mean dean, dean has an orgasm rule and you. benefit. dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 12.5k✦
✦author's note: request! super normal about this one✦
You tell yourself, over and over again, that this is going to be the last time. It’s not something that’s meant to be held onto, so you can just… let go.
But then you find yourself here. Between tangled sheets with your legs spread wide, your nails digging into Dean’s bicep and his cock dragging through your wet, sensitive cunt.
“There you go,” he coos in your ear, every thrust deep and rough. “That’s my girl, takin’ me so good, so- Good-“
Dean moans, pressing up against the soft, gummy spot inside of you, and your eyes roll back in your head.
He always does this. He knocks on your door and grabs your face between big hands, and suddenly all that resolve and determination—never again—dissolves with your willpower. His hands are rough and calloused, but trace your hips and hold you down so gently, you can almost pretend he cares if you break. His cock is thick and impossibly long, and he always drags it between your soaked heat and bumps it against your clit before pushing himself in just right. His lips are chapped and soft, sucking possessive marks into your neck that he has no right to claim, but that doesn’t stop you from running your fingers through his hair and holding him right where he is. He wouldn’t dare to leave. Not in the middle of this. Not before you’ve both gotten what you want.
What Dean wants. You don’t let yourself pretend that this is everything you need anymore. It’s the only hope you have of one day telling him no, because the rest of you control rests on a thin rope, and it always slips from your hands the moment Dean touches you like you matter.
You never walk away from him with an aching, unsatisfied body. A few nights ago he put you on his face and made you ride until your thighs were shaking and tears were springing into your eyes. Before this, he spit on your cunt and scissored you open with thick, careful finger, kissing and nipping at your thighs as your greedy pussy swallowed him right up to the knuckle. Even now, as every roll of his hips becomes smaller—as his face twists in concentration and his mouth against your jaw becomes desperate—Dean’s thumbing at your clit, trying to get you over the edge with him.
“C’mon, baby, c’mon-“ He pushes himself up to his knees, forcing a deeper, rougher angle. “Show me what you’ve got, I know you can do it, come on-
You whimper, staring up at him under lidded, glazed eyes. The whole world is just a blur of color at this point, but Dean is bright and clear. The heave of his broad shoulder and chest, every muscle in his arm as he wraps it around your waist and makes you arch your back, the flex of his abdomen as he ruts forward like a feral dog. The sharp, unforgiving thrusts are making your head spin with pleasure, turning you into a boneless wreck of need. You grab his arm, trying to steady yourself against something, and Dean’s attention rips up.
He says he likes to watch himself fuck you, and you’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s spent whole sessions just staring at his cock or fingers splitting your cunt open. He likes putting you on his face because he can watch you react. You like it better like that, usually. The eye contact is too close. Too intimate. Too real.
But you grab him, and he looks at you, and it’s almost like a shot. His eyes are blown-out and so strangely soft, staring at your wrecked, open expression with too much, too much, too much-
“De- Deeean-“ You cry it out like a pray, because it is. Dean grunts, hips snapping, the wet sound filling up the air and his eyes never leaving yours. “Dean- Dean- Fuck, please- Please-“
You’re babbling. You never do that with anyone else, but Dean is Dean, and he makes you do things you never counted yourself capable of. He groans your name, and you squeal when he drags you up, off the mattress and straddling his thighs. Your clit drags against his abdomen, his cock bullies right against your g-spot, and Dean grabs your jaw with a single, painfully gentle hand.
“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, still holding your gaze, even as your eyes start to cross. “Soak this fuckin’ cock, baby, cum-“
You almost scream as your orgasm rips through you, and Dean crashes his mouth against yours, eating every whimper and moan with harsh lips and his tongue down your throat. You press into him, pussy gushing and fluttering around his dick, and he makes that deep, rumbling sound that always comes right before-
“Shit-“ Dean gasps against your mouth, pulling you so close you can’t feel anything but the heat of his bare chest, the sensation of his cock twitching and pumping in your cunt. “Fuuck-“
Dean moans your name, and a warm, pleasant heat starts to spread through your tummy and drip between your thighs. He doesn’t stop moving until his cock is softened, and you don’t try to stop him. You’re barely more than a limp doll right now, returning his kisses with tiny mewls, eyes crossed and body limp.
For a moment after it’s done, you stay tangled together. You always do. It’s the most dangerous part of the whole thing, because it feeds that tiny little fool in your chest, who refuses to believe that this is just sex. Who takes your heartstrings and weaves grand worlds where Dean loves you back, and you’re going to be just fine.
Dean kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter closed. There’s an advantage, to being a crybaby whenever he fucks you stupid. He never once has considered that the tears might be real.
“Think you can walk?” He mutters, still buried deep inside of you, still holding you like he cares.
You shake your head, and his mouth twitches against yours.
“Alright, pretty girl. I’ve got you.”
And you press your face into the crook of his neck, letting that fool take you over. She takes his words as gospel. My girl and I’ve got you and Baby, they’re exactly what he means and nothing more, nothing less.
When the logical part of your brain wakes back up—Dean’s always had this ability to hit a button in you, sliding his hand around the back of your neck and making all your thoughts just bubblegum feelings and electric colors—you’re going to remember why you always say this has to be the last time.
He’s perfect, and he’s not yours. He makes that perfectly clear, until he pulls these little stunts and ends up buried between your thighs. You agreed that he wasn’t yours, when this arrangement started.
Safer with someone you know, he’d told you, like he hasn’t fucked his way across the entire country. Easier. Nothing to worry about, when it’s you and me.
And you’d been a starry-eyed, gooey hearted fool who just wanted whatever part of Dean he was willing to show you. The burning love you kept tended in your ribs hadn’t seen a problem with adding fuel to the wildfire, even if Dean was never going to see it. But now he’s carrying you to the bathroom like a princess, and he’s going to be gone in the morning, and that wildfire is an inferno. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You can map out everything he’d ever say in response to your feelings, from the harsh sneer he would’ve given when he had the Mark of Cain, to the kinder let down you’d get now.
You’re too young, he’d say, like it was a consolation prize. And I like you, sweetheart, but I don’t do this kinda thing. Not with girls young enough to be my daughter. Not with kids that I hunt with. Not with you.
You press your face further into his neck. He’s always so warm and sturdy, a massive tree that’s offering you just as much shade crushing, unbearable weight and tangled roots that keep you pressed down. He smells like leather and whiskey and something perfectly, faintly spice. You want to drown in it. You want to drown in him.
“You good?” Dean asks, and his voice is too gentle. It rattles the little fool, screaming for the rest of you to listen and just accept that he loves you.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.
“You’re bein’ quiet, even for- Y’know-“ He chuckles, that low, insufferably charming pride crawling into his voice. “After I fuck you dumb.”
“You did not fuck me dumb,” you mumble against his skin, and you can hear his grin.
“Big words from the girl who couldn’t talk five minutes ago.”
“That was unrelated.”
“Unrelated,” he echoes, his thumb dragging a small circle against your spine. “Always forget how bratty you get after, sweetheart. Dangerous.”
You roll your eyes, and hug him tighter. He laughs, and kisses the side of your head, and he has the nerve to call you dangerous.
“You wanna watch a movie?” He asks, leaning down to run the water, still keeping you tucked so carefully against his chest, and all you can do is nod. Dean sighs. “C’mon, gimme a little more than that-“
“Yes, please,” you mumble, and he pauses.
It’s only a fraction of a second. You don’t understand it, and you don’t want to. Not when he feeds your delusions and kisses your brow again, then your cheek, then your lips. And you let him. You always let him, because you’re a foolish, stupid, lovesick idiot. You don’t want his affection, not like this. But you don’t want to lose him—it would be like ripping a vital organ out of your ribcage, even if you didn’t know you had it a year ago—and you can’t ever tell him to stop being so sweet without explaining yourself, and getting that gentle, horrible let down.
You don’t want it. You don’t want any of it. And this, this had to be the last time.
You hold the line. You don’t know how, but you hold that line with white knuckles and grit teeth and a taste like bile in the back of your throat.
Dean knocks on the door, only two nights later, and you don’t answer. He calls your name and you sink into the mattress, praying he just thinks you’re asleep.
“I just- Uh- I wanted to talk?” He says, and you press your face into the pillow like that can somehow shield you. “Really, that’s it. Just talking, so- If you could-“
Dean sighs. You can hear the please, hanging between every word, but Dean doesn’t really say please. He just begs with everything else in him, or gives up. And you can picture him running his hand over his face, the heavy look in his eyes, the defeated sag in his shoulders. It’s like a knife being driven through your gut, and you sit up, ready to open the door-
“Alright,” he mutters, and you freeze. “Night, baby. Sleep well.”
Footsteps retreat, and you stay there on the mattress, frozen and lost, adrift in a sea you dove into.
But you did it. You held the line.
And you keep it. It makes sweat bead and your skin burn, but you close the door and don’t open it back up. You’re done, and you’re going to keep it that way.
Dean doesn’t ask questions. You don’t know if you want him to or not, but it doesn’t matter, because you catch him staring and giving out signals, but he’s taken your no in stride, and doesn’t seem to have any plans to push back against it. When this started, you agreed to leave out a specific book on the war room table if either of you wanted something. Dean starts to leave it out every night, and you never go to his door, and one night, it vanishes.
And that’s fine. That’s exactly what you wanted.
And if it feels like you’re dying because of it, and if you spend an hour over the toilet dry heaving that night, that’s no one’s business but your own.
“Dean’s been grumpy lately,” Sam says one morning, and you blink at him over your coffee.
“Grumpy? Dean? That’s- Woah-“
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Sam gives you a flat look. “You know what I mean. Grumpier.”
You shrug, looking back to your mug. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”
“Uh huh.”
You can feel Sam’s stare. It makes you itchy and small, and you’re not sure if you want to punch him or run. You settle for staring at your coffee harder. It’s the easiest course of action.
“Dean needs to get laid,” Sam repeats your words, something strange—almost sharp—in his tone, and you nod.
“That’s what I said.”
“Dean-“
“What’s up?” Dean walks into the kitchen, stopping right behind you, and you hunch over like you can grow a shell to protect yourself.
Even just a few feet away, he’s always so warm.
“Uh- Hey, Dean-“
“Hey,” Dean mocks back, and Sam huffs.
“Dude-“
“Shut your face-“
“I didn’t say anything- I-“ Sam says your name, and you glance up. His brow is furrowed with worry, his eyes locked on Dean behind you. “We were just-“
“Just what?” Dean snaps. “Just talking? Shooting the shit, getting real comfortable?”
Sam sighs. “Dean-“
“I got a gun, Sammy,” Dean points firmly, and you stare at his finger like a woman driven mad with thirst. “Don’t forget that.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “We all have guns, that- That threat doesn’t do anything-“
“I’ll show you doing something- Hey-“
Dean says your name, and you freeze. You’d been trying to slip out while they fought, but Dean—goddamn him—had noticed. He always notices. You love him so much it’s going to make you cave in on yourself, and maybe take the whole bunker with you, like a dying star.
He catches your arm, and you can’t stop yourself from looking at him. His brow is knit, his jaw locked, and his handsome face has deep lines you only used to see when the world was ending. There are bags under his eyes. Deeper than usual. You want to smooth the lines with your thumb and kiss his jaw until he relaxes, but that’s not your ache to soothe.
Dean doesn’t say anything. You can’t say anything. He looks exhausted, and there’s a lump forming in your throat.
“You- You hungry?” Dean rasps, and you’re starving.
“No,” you breathe before you can think, and Dean swallows.
“Well, when you’re hungry- There’s a diner in town-“
“Henry’s?”
“No, uh- A new one. I- I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go, later, or something.”
“Or something?” You tilt your head, and Dean nods.
“Whatever you want.”
God, he’s cruel. He’s perfect and cruel, and you want to vomit on his flannel and kiss him until you pass out.
“Oh- Okay,” you say, because you’re only so strong.
The lines in Dean’s face relax. His grip loosens. Then Sam coughs, and Dean lets you go.
The diner is… nice. Nice and easy, in a way you haven’t felt in longer than you want to admit. Dean insists on driving you, and paying, and sitting in one of those booths with your feet bumping under the table.
He presses his knee forward, while he orders. You swallow and don’t allow yourself to think much of it. He’s warm through his jeans, but he’s always warm, and he hasn’t tried anything in a few weeks, so you allow it. Your love for him hasn’t been flickering out, but the harsh wind of his absence has made everything feel colder. It’s okay, to indulge yourself in something so small. You’re still keeping it together. You’re still holding the line.
“So, uh-“ Dean clears his throat, turning his bottle in his hands. “How are you?”
“How- Am I?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly. “I- I’m okay. How are you?”
“Good. Great.” He frowns at the table. “You know. Same as always.”
You almost laugh. “You’re always great?”
“I focus on the positives, sweetheart-“
“No, you don’t.”
He rolls his eyes, glancing up to hold your light, amused gaze. His mouth twitches. His fingers tap against the glass, and you try not to let yourself sink too deep into the attention.
It’s okay to drown a little. A long as you don’t drop the line.
“Maybe I’m turning a new leaf,” he says, and your face splits into a full smile.
“You?”
“Yeah, me. Why’d you say it like that-“
“Because you’ve never turned a leaf in your life-“
“Ah-“ He points the head of his bottle at you with a grin. “Not true. Remember when I started learning guitar?”
“Yeah, you smashed it on a werewolf’s head after a month.”
“That was a tactical choice, I would’ve kept playing if the wolf didn’t get in the way.”
“Uh huh.” You lean back in your seat, crossing your arms. “What songs had you learned to play?”
Dean’s nose wrinkles. “Hey, we don’t need to talk about that-“
“I think we do.”
“Nah, I mean- I only had a month-“
“You learned how to work a rocket launcher in a week.”
“That’s just buttons and triggers, sweetheart. Even you could work it.”
“Even I?” You raise your brows—trying not to let the delight shine too bright in your voice—and Dean freezes.
“I mean- uh- You’re not great with guns, and- I could teach you-“
“You could teach me.”
“Maybe? If you wanted- Or-“ Dean groans, slumping back. “Stop givin’ me that look.”
“I’m not giving you any look,” you tease, and Dean sighs.
“Will you stop if I say I’m an idiot?”
You soften slightly. “You’re not an idiot, Dean-“
“You sure?” He grumbles. “Kinda feeling like one right now.”
You laugh, but it’s gentle. You can almost see him pushing down into himself. It makes you heavy for him, like you’re trying to take that invisible weight off his shoulders, even if he can’t feel you helping the pain. “You’re a dork,” you say, bumping his knee under the table. “But you’re not an idiot.”
Dean grunts, watching you under hooded eyes, and you smile easily.
You missed this, more than you want to tell him. Just talking, without worrying that it’s going to end in world-changing, back-breaking, beautifully heart-aching sex. He feels like your friend again, closer to your fingertips than he’d been when he was balls deep inside of you.
“Wonderwall,” he grunts suddenly. “And Hallelujah.”
You blink. “What?”
“Those were the songs,” he mutters, picking at the label of his bottle. “That I got, before I smashed the guitar.”
“Oh,” you pause. “I love Hallelujah.”
“Yeah. I know.”
You stare at him, and he stares right back. A faint flush is threatening your cheeks, so you duck your head to hide it, and Dean lets out a soft laugh.
“You alright-“
“Yep. I- I’m good-“
“You look good.” Dean laughs again, when you shoot him a glare. “Don’t gimme that face, I’m saying something nice-“
“You’re being a butt,” you stick out your tongue, and his eyes dance with an easy kind of light that almost makes your heart stop.
“You’re the one who was callin’ me old earlier,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes.
“You are old.”
“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you, has it.”
Your mouth falls open, eyes going so wide it almost hurts, and Dean grins at you. If you weren’t shocked into static, you’d slap him or- or lunge across the table and kiss him-
Hold the line.
“Aged wine is supposed to be better,” you manage to say, somehow, and Dean laughs, loud and free.
“That all I am to you? Some wine?”
“No,” you smile at your plate. “You’re also very good cheese.”
“Good cheese, huh.”
“Mhm.” You point a stern finger at him. “No puns.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but dips his head. “Yes, ma’am.”
There’s the flush. You’d keep trying to hide it, if Dean didn’t start talking about something unimportant and easy, and suddenly you forgot to be embarrassed. He’s not trying to kiss you or get you back to the car. He’s just… Talking to you. Dropping that light, teasing praise like it’s nothing, then telling you a story about when he used a tuba to beat a poltergeist, grinning like a winner every time you laugh.
When lunch is over, he rests a hand lightly on your lower back, but doesn’t do much more. He kisses your cheek when you get back to the bunker, and asks if you want to watch a movie tomorrow night. You swallow, locking your hands together like they can force the line to stay firm. Dean says your name, almost panicked, and you blink up at him.
“Just a movie,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Out in town, at- Uh- That shitty theatre next to the coffee place. Or- I can try and find a drive-in, if those still exist-“
“They do,” you say softly, and he swallows. “There’s one out in Beloit.”
“Beloit,” Dean mutters. “Yeah- Yeah, okay. You wanna go there?”
You nod, and he grins. You smile back, and it feels… Different. Shy, in a way you haven’t been around him since he first started fucking you. Almost delicate. You weren’t supposed to let this feel like something delicate.
Dean jaw works, and you can almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes. He lurches slightly, brow furrowed, then pulls back up. You’re seconds from asking him what’s wrong when he just leans down and… does it.
His lips graze your cheek, his hand brushing against your waist, and you almost melt right into him.
But then he stands back up, and takes a large step away. You swallow, resisting the urge to reach up and brush your fingers over where he kissed. It’s not like he’s never done that before, but again.
It just feels different.
“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and you nod weakly.
If you had a mind that was thinking in more than bursts of glee and songs of Dean, Dean, Dean, you’d tell him that you live together, and he’s always going to see you tomorrow. But he walks away, and you let him, and it doesn’t hurt. There’s a space that he left, but something in you seems to think he’s going to come back. You can’t tell if it’s the fool or not.
For once, you decide not to try.
The movie is nice. Dean rests his hand on your knee, but doesn’t go any higher. You lean into his side, and his arm goes around your shoulders, but there’s no kissing or dragging into the back seat, and you didn’t know there could be a better way to be close to him. Sex is great. Looking up and finding him already watching you is better.
He brushes some hair from your face, and you half expect him to kiss you. His eyes dart down to your lips like he wants to. Your fingers curl in his shirt, and his throat bobs.
“You likin’ the movie?” He whispers, and you nod.
“Good find,” you breathe, and he grins.
“Thanks. Eat the popcorn, it cost me a billion bucks.”
You roll your eyes, and throw some of the over-buttered, half-burnt popcorn at his face. He laughs, catches a kernel in his mouth, and grabs your chin between two fingers. Your breath catches. He just turns your face back to the screen, and pulls you a little closer into his side.
The movie ends the same way the diner did. Dean walks you to your bedroom door like it’s the porch of your house, kisses your cheek, then walks away.
Then, after the movie, you play mini golf. You win, but you know he let you. He buys you a snow cone and licks it off his nose when he eats it like a rabid dog. You wipe a little extra off his cheek, and he stares at you, but still doesn’t kiss you. Not fully. His hand seems to always rest on your lower back, now, but that’s all the contact you get. All that you allow.
Hugs are on the table, too. They’re somehow more dangerous than the forehead kisses. After the hugs, he sometimes just stares at you and cups your cheek, and your heart moves into your throat until you think you’re going to spill it out all over his chest.
You manage to keep it together. For the sake of this new, slowly growing garden of what your friendship is becoming, you swallow your love with greater ease and more bile than you ever did while you were fucking. After the mini golf you get dinner and see another movie. You convince him to go on a walk with you, and he hates it less than he pretends to. You eat together in the bunker and call when he’s on a hunt with Sam and go to a car show and it all feels like breathing.
Sometimes he still looks at your mouth, and you freeze up, unsure if you want him to kiss you or not. You know you want him, but somehow you’ve found even more to lose than before, and if it slips through your fingers, you’re not sure they’re ever going to stop shaking and groping at the empty spaces again. You can take holding his hand in the bookstore while he peers over your shoulder, pretending to be interested for no real reason other than to make you smile.
“There are so many of them,” he mutters, and you giggle.
“There’s a lot of ways to write words, Dean.”
“Yeah, but- You’d think there would be repeats or something.”
“There probably are,” you shrug, running your fingers over the spines. “But they’re still all fun.”
Dean sighs, squeezing your upper arm. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and all his features relax.
“You want some coffee?” He brushes some hair from your face and you nod.
“There’s a shop next door, could you get me-“
“Hey,” Dean flicks your nose, grinning roguishly. “Trust me, I know what you want.”
You nod a little stupidly, and his smile falters. He looks to your lips again, then almost shakes himself, taking a small step.
“Don’t move,” he squeezes your arm again, then backs away. You watch him go, unable to help yourself, and smile when he looks back. He does that all the time now. And he always smiles back.
You turn back to the shelf, looking at the books without actually looking. You already miss him, and he told you not to move, but that can’t count if you’re going to stand next to him in the coffee line, can it-
“Hey.”
You fumble slightly, turning to find a man leaning against the shelf and smirking at you. You blink, and his smirk widens.
“What’s girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”
“The… Bookstore?” You frown, and he laughs. You don’t think you said anything all that funny.
“Look, I just- I saw you from over there,” he nods vaguely, and you frown. “And I thought you were cute. Can I get you some coffee or something?”
“My- My friend is already getting me coffee,” you say, and your voice sounds strangely far away.
The man nods, but doesn’t retreat. “Alright, then can I get your number? Maybe beat your friend to coffee next time?”
And you don’t want to say yes, but this is a chance. To hold onto this new friendship with Dean while also getting over him at the same time. This man isn’t ugly. Compared to Dean, no one really stands a chance anyway, and you have to get over him eventually.
So you give him your number, and try not to feel like you just did something wrong.
Dean clears his throat from behind you, and you spin around on your heels, a sour guilt twisting in your gut.
“You- You’re back,” you say, and he grunts.
He’s not look at you. He’s glaring at the man with the same, deadly glint that he gives monsters and demons before he cuts them in half. You touch his arm lightly, and he tenses. You feel sick.
“Hey, buddy,” he snaps at the man, who—not seeming to understand the gravity of Dean’s glare—grins back.
“Hey.” He winks at you, slowly backing away. “Have fun with your friend.”
Dean’s coffee spills over the top of it’s lid. He doesn’t look away from the man when he leaves the store. He shoves your drink into your hand, not meeting your gaze.
“Dean-“
“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he mutters, and you swallow.
“Oh- Okay.”
Your arm wraps around your stomach, and you press a little away from him, from the wrath seeming to wave off his body like a volcano. He glances down, jaw tight and a vein in his brow ticking. You stare at his neck, unable to hold the weight of his gaze. He lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.
“Get your book.”
You shake you head. “No- It- It’s okay-“
Dean says your name, and your mouth snaps shut. “Just- Get the damn book.”
He looks like he’s in pain, and you don’t know how to fix it, so you do as he says. You get a cheap one, that worm of guilt burrowing deeper and deeper into your gut until you can’t even drink your coffee without feeling like it’s going to come back up.
Dean’s fingers dig into your back, when he guides you out the door. He starts the engine by almost punching in the keys, and holds Baby’s wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. You can see all the anger brimming under the surface of his skin, and worried you’re just going to make it worse. You don’t even know where it came from. It’s not like you’re together, or the guy said something rude. You open and close your mouth too many times to count, then give up, shrinking back into your seat.
Dean looks over at you. You try to look out the window, and nowhere else.
A loud, sharp breath escapes him. “Son of a- Alright.”
You look over with a frown, then squeak when he yanks the wheel off to the side.
“Shit- Dean-“
“Just- Fuck-“ He bows he head, glaring down at his legs, and you swallow.
You fidget with your fingers, watching him nervously, waiting for him to break the silence. It takes while. So long you think about just getting out of the car to give him space.
But then he looks up, and your heart gets cleaved open. His face is twisted in pain, his lips parted and his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard.
“What-“ He takes a deep breath, scanning over your openly confused features. “What else am I supposed to be doin’?”
You blink at him, fingers curling in your lap. “What?” You ask softly, and his throat bobs.
“I- I’m really trying,” he mutters, looking back to his hands. “I swear to god, baby, I’m tryin’ my best, and- I know I ain’t amazing at this but- If you could throw a guy a rope when he’s never- I’ve never done this, alright.” He waves between your bodies, jaw clenched tight. “And I’m really givin’ it my best shot, but I’m still not allowed to kiss you, and you’re takin’ numbers right- Right in front of me- So just- Something.” He gives you a pleading, broken look, eyes shining on yours in the dark. “Anything.”
You open your mouth, but you can’t even figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to say. You know all the words he’s saying, but it’s like he’s speaking a language you never learned, spitting out a code you’re just supposed to magically understand. Dean’s jaw ticks, when you don’t answer, and you try to sputter out an answer, but he’s too loud to hear your confused whimper.
“Look, just- Whatever the hell you do need me to do, I’ll do it, I swear I’ll do it, but- You gotta tell me, sweetheart-“
“Tell you what?!” You almost shout, and Dean leans back in surprise. “Dean, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dean huffs a low laugh, looking back out to the road. “Yeah. Alright,” he grabs the keys, voice rough and pained. “Sure. Whatever-“
“No.” You grab his wrist before he can start to the engine. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”
“It doesn’t matter-“
“Yes, it does-“
“Nah.”
“Dean-“
“You wanna call that guy, call ‘im.” There’s an almost toxically bitter sound to the words, and Dean’s making a face like he just got shot. “Whatever. See if I care.”
Your nails dig into his wrist, when he tries to yank it away. He shoots you a glare, the bags—gone, after months of ease—already starting to form.
“C’mon, kid, just- let go-“
“Would you care?”
Your question is small, but it makes Dean recoil like it burned. He scoffs, but it’s too loud, and you hold him tighter.
“Would you care-“
“No, I fuckin’ love watching douchebags parade around with my girl, who would care about something like that?”
Something snaps, right at the base of your spine. You sit so tall you’d think someone is dragging you by the nape of your neck, and Dean blinks in something close to surprise.
“What-“
“Your girl,” you whisper. “That’s- I’m- Why would you say that?”
Dean blinks. “Why wouldn’t I say that?”
“Because you and I- We’re not- That’s-“ You lean back, letting go of his wrist, and when you look down, you’ve left little crescent marks in the skin. “No- No- You didn’t- You said no- No strings-“
“Yeah, and then you stopped fuckin’ me, and I-“ Dean says your name as you press back against the window, brow furrowed in worry. “Baby, it’s- It’s alright, I’m not that pissed-“
“You were yelling,” you choke out, and he swallow.
“Well, I was- Just- C’mere.”
He reaches out, cupping your cheek with the same gentle touch he used to use, right before he kissed you. You gape at him, head spinning, panting like you just ran a marathon.
“I’m not mad,” he rasps, almost pleading, and you shake your head.
“You were-“
“Sweetheart-“
“Why?” You whisper, grabbing his wrist, your nails sinking back into the marks. “Why- Why would you care?”
Dean swallows. He shakes his head, looks out the window, and chuckles.
“Dean-“
“I don’t want you goin’ out with him. And- Call it possessive, or stupid man shit, or- Whatever the hell you want,” he drags his thumb over your cheekbone, voice dropping to something tender, something soft. “You’re my girl. And I want you here, telling me what to do, how to- To be what you need.” His voice cracks. “Come on, baby. Just- Tell me what to be.”
You stare at him, a lot of pieces colliding into each other at once in your head. The diner and the movie and the touching and the caution and-
“Are we dating?” You choke out, and Dean frowns.
“What’d you mean, are we dating?”
“I mean are we dating, Dean, are you- Are you my boyfriend?”
“Uh- Boyfriend kinda makes it sound like we’re sixteen and necking-“
“What the fuck is necking?”
Dean groans, dropping his head. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. Makes me feel fuckin’ fifty.”
Your lips twitch. “You are almost fifty,” you say, and he chuckles.
“Yeah. Guess I am.” He looks back up to you, caution lining his features. “You always seemed to like it.”
You swallow. You did. You’d never been sure if it was the older thing itself, or the fact that it was just Dean, but you’d liked it. You always liked all of him, from the uglier wounds to the beautiful, glowing heart that almost managed to peak through, no matter how thick his steel and iron walls became.
He glides his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, and your breath hitches. He swallows, closes his eyes, and mutters your name.
“Did you… Not think we were dating?”
You shake your head, and Dean snorts dryly.
“Huh,” his mouth curves into a tight smirk. “Makes sense why you wouldn’t kiss me, I guess.”
“You guess?” You squeak, and Dean nods.
“Yeah, makes a lotta sense, actually-“
“How long have we been dating?!” You almost shriek, and he gives you an amused look.
“’Bout three months.”
“Three months?!”
“That’s what I said, baby-“
“Shut- Shut up-“ You plant a hand over his mouth, and he raises his brows. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me we were dating, you- You butt?!”
Dean’s eyes sparkle, looking pointedly down to your hand, and you release him with a scowl. He rubs his jaw, grinning at you like you’re some cute bunny, and you lean back in your seat with a huff.
“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I thought you knew.”
“How would I have known-“
“’Cause I asked you on a date? And you said yes?”
“That- That never happened.” You snap, and Dean frowns.
“Yes, it did. Sammy- He was there-“
“Sam was there-“
“Yeah, and- I said there was a new diner in town, and you said you’d go with me, and we started dating!”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open. Dean stares pointedly back, and you can’t help yourself. You bark out a loud, sharp laugh.
“That was not asking me on a date, you fucking- Oh my god!” You shake your head, and Dean’s frown becomes almost puppy like.
“Yes, it was-“
“You have to actually say it’s a date, Dean! You can’t just- Just ask me to do something, I thought we were just hanging out! As friends.”
He’s pouting now. If you weren’t pissed, it would be adorable. “I- Uh- I paid for everything. And got you gifts.”
“Friends do that-“
“Do friends kiss your face all the time?” Dean twists to fully glare at you, and you pause.
“Um- Maybe?”
Dean snorts. “No, they don’t-“
“But I thought that was just you!” You protest. “You- You’re always- You know-“
“I know?” He mocks, and you scowl.
“We were fucking for a year, Dean,” you snap, tipping up your chin. “I thought you were comfortable with me.”
“I am comfortable with you,” Dean shrugs, leaning slightly forward. “Real comfortable.”
Your nose twitches. He’s too close, now. Consuming your vision, making your vision all stupid and fuzzy. “You’re comfortable with everyone,” you sniff, and he laughs.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, running a hand slowly up your thigh. “We both know that ain’t true.”
You make a tiny, involuntary sound when his fingers dip under your skirt, teasing sensitive, neglected skin. He hasn’t touched you there in so long. Too long. You have to hug yourself to stop your body from flying at him.
“I haven’t fucked anyone else in eighteen damn months,” Dean mutters, holding your gaze. “I’ve been waiting around for you for months, wondering what the hell I was doin’ wrong, and you thought I was just being nice?!”
You swallow, your voice suddenly small. “You are nice,” you whisper, and Dean snorts.
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re nice to me-“
“Because I-“ He cuts himself off, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh. You grab his hand, holding it against you, and his eyes dart down. He heaves a long breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bows his head.
“Dean?” You whisper, and he shakes his head. “Dean, I- I’m sorry I didn’t- You said we were just going to be casual-“
“I know what I said,” he grunts, glaring at your hands. “But I- I didn’t- I thought it would help me.”
You swallow. “Help you?”
“Yeah.”
“With what-“
“You know what.” He finally looks at you, and you’ve never seen him this vulnerable. Almost bowing before you, holding onto your hand like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. “And I can’t- I don’t know how to-“ He takes another ragged breath, gives you another pleading look. “You stopped letting me pretend, you started- You started telling me no, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t.” He swallows. “I’m tryin’ to do this right, baby.” He squeezes your hand, leaning a little closer. “Please let me do this right.”
You blink at him, tears watering in your own eyes, and nod. Dean’s shoulders shudder, and he holds your hand so tight you think he’s trying to just mold you together. He glances at your lips, but doesn’t move. So you do it for him.
Dean stares at you, completely still as you lean forward, his chest so still you’re worried he’s not breathing. You rest your hand lightly on his chest and press the lightest kiss you can to his parted lips. He shakes, one hand flying to your waist, his touch still heartbreakingly delicate. You kiss him again, a little harder, and a low rumble starts in his chest.
You pull back, pressing your brows tight together. Dean stares at you, eyes glossy and blown out, the restraint ticking in his jaw, and you smile softly.
“I love you,” you breathe. “And I- I know you can’t- You know, say it back, but- I love you, Dean.”
His breathing his ragged, and he’s still gaping. You laugh nervously, looking down to your fingers, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.
“If- If you could say something, though, that would be- Um- Nice-“
Dean grunts, and your words fall off into a squeak as Dean drags you forward into his lap.
And this. This is a real kiss. Dean’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his arm wrapping fully around your lower back, his fingers digging into your hips and his other hand cradling the back of your head. He kisses you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, pushing his tongue down your throat and moaning against your mouth. You pull on his shirt and he gropes at your ass, dragging you further into his lap. The pressure of his thigh against your core makes your head spin, but that might just be the lack of oxygen. Neither of you seem to be willing to come up for air, taking sharp, tiny breaths between sloppy kisses.
You whimper, already going limp, and Dean leans back with darkened, shining eyes. You know that look. You used to pray for and dread it all at once. It always made you feel like something close to prey, paralyzed and unable to flee his spell.
But this time is different. This time, there’s nothing you’d rather do but fall into his charm.
Dean presses another, small kiss to your lips, dragging his thumb over the tingling swell. Your tongue flicks against the pad of the finger, and he groans, pushing it slowly between your lips.
You wrap around him, sucking lightly, giving him your best, sweetest Bambi eyes. Dean’s throat bobs, his fingers digging into your ass.
“We’re goin’ home,” he mutters. “Then I’m gonna fuck you.”
That’s a lovely plan. You smile around his thumb, and he says your name, pulling his thumb away with a small pop.
“Jesus, you- You gotta tell me yes-“
“Just fuck me here,” you whisper, pulling on the collar of his shirt.
Dean glances to the backseat, then to you. “Uh- I mean- That’s- If you’re sure-“
“Please,” you push a little further forward, dropping your hand to press against the bulge in his jeans. “I need you, Dean. Now.”
And for a second, you think he’s going to demand going all the way back home. Say something about you deserving a soft bed and gentle loving, when you just want him, filthy and raw and yours. You’re so busy giving him doe eyes, you don’t notice his hand dragging down your spine and your ass, right up until it dips under your skirt, and cups your pussy through your panties.
You gasp, and Dean smirks, slowly rubbing his hand back and forth.
“Need me?” He drawls, pushing his thumb against your clit. “Like this, baby? This how you need me?”
“Ye- yes-“ Your lips brush over his, your hips starting to grind down as he drags his thumb in tiny circle, his hand still rocking back and forth. “Just- Just like that, Dean- Shit-“
You push down, kissing him with a sloppy, uncontrolled mouth. Dean grunts, splaying his free hand against your neck and pushing you down. He’s massive and warm, the hand working your pussy offering just enough friction to work you up, but nothing more. You wrap your arms around his neck, panting against his lips and moving you hips to chase more friction.
“That feels good, doesn’t it,” he mutters, kissing you between every word.
You coo, trying to kiss over his face, and Dean slaps your pussy once, leaning back with a stern glare.
“Doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” you answer immediately, already getting heavy-eyed and dazed. “So- So good, Dean, feels so good, just- More-“ You claw at his shoulders, trying to at least get to some bare skin, and settle for pressing your mouth back over his. “More- Need some more, De, now-“
Dean silences you with a deep, rough kiss, and taps his thumb against your clit in quick, harsh movements, pushing his palm down hard against your aching pussy. You cry out, trying to force your hips further down against him, and Dean squeezes that back of your neck.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Few months without some cock and you get bossy, don’t you.”
“No- No,” you manage to protest. “You’re just- You’re being slow-“
“I’m being slow?” He mocks, running his fingers over the line of your panties. “Baby, I’ve barely fuckin’ started.”
You try to roll your eyes at him, but he uses his hold on your neck to turn your head, forcing your gaze back down to his. Your eyes widen, and he smirks slightly, raising his brows.
“You gonna break out some manners for me?” He asks, slowly dragging your panties to the side. “Or am I gonna need to teach you again?”
“Te- Teach me?” You choke out, and Dean hums.
His thumb drags down from your clit, parting the lips of your pussy and smearing your arousal. Your heart is trying to hammer out of your chest, every nerve in your body seeming to respond to the mockingly sweet touch.
“Dean,” you press your hands against his chest, unsure if you want to push him away or drag him closer. “Don’t- Don’t be mean-“
“I’m not bein’ mean,” he hum, the gleam in his eyes something else all together. “I’m giving my girl exactly what she wants, how she wants it.”
You blink at him hopelessly, and he chuckles, pulling you down into a long, slow kiss. It would be romantic and loving, if it wasn’t for his thumb pushing at your weeping entrance, refusing to dip even a fraction of the way inside.
“Remember how you used to beg for me?” He mutters, and your face burns with a mix of arousal and shame. “I sure as shit do. Spent hours thinkin’ about it lately, planning how I was gonna take you when you let me again. But,” he switches out his thumb for the very tips of his fingers, yanking slightly on your hair when you try to look down. “Jesus, baby, I’m worried I’m gonna break you.”
You shake your head frantically, and Dean raises his brows.
“Words, pretty girl,” he reminds you, pushing his fingers just a little big deeper. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got it, talk to me-“
“I can take it,” you breathe out, watching him under fluttering lashes. “I- I can take it. I promise.”
Dean works his jaw, his grip on your hair tightening. “Sweetheart-“
“Please,” you breathe, leaning down until your noses bump. “I need it. I need you.”
Those are the magic words. Dean stops trying to play noble, stops trying to hold back for the sake of romance. You loved him when he fucked you like a whore and gave you nothing soft, and you’re going to love him even more when he treats you like a toy, then kisses you everywhere after.
Dean smashes his lips against yours and eases his fingers into your waiting pussy, groaning under his breath when you clench down around him.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, scissoring them inside you. “Never gonna get over how fuckin’ tight you are, sweetheart, like you were made for me. Made to be mine.”
He almost snarls the last words against your lips, pushing himself fully up to the knuckle. You mewl as he finds your g-spot with that precision that makes it look easy, that’s always made you sure you couldn’t ever enjoy someone else if you tried.
Dean pumps his fingers slowly, crooking them so they drag against that spot, and pulls you back to watch your face contort with pleasure.
“That’s it,” he grunts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming them right back in and twisting to bully against that sensitive spot. “That’s just how you like it, huh? Already gettin’ like this from just my fingers,” he chuckles, grinding his hips up against your thighs. “Imagine how you’re gonna be on my cock, sweet girl, if you can barely fuckin’ take this?”
“That- That’s not fair-“ You choke out, every word breathy and weak, and Dean just smirks.
“Isn’t it?”
You try to protest, but Dean pushes your head back down, and his kiss knocks almost every thought from your head. It’s all just the familiar, perfect way his mouth moves against yours, rememorizing something that never stopped being his. The wet sound of his fingers working you open fills the car, and your whole body burns with desire and shame. He’s right. You’re already soaked and ready for him, your cunt clenching down and still begging for more. You need that full, impossible split of him. After months of nothing, you’re worried his cock is the only thing that’s going to be able to do it.
But Dean seems to like proving you wrong today. A coil, tight in your stomach, starts to wind tighter and tighter. He drops his grip on your hair for a second to push down on the base of your spine, forcing your cunt almost right over his bulge. He reangles his hand, forcing in another finger, and you make a strangled sound.
“De- Dean-“
“We’re gonna get you relaxed, baby,” he mutters, twisting his wrist so the drag against your g-spot almost rips through your body. “Nice and relaxed ‘f me, you can do it.”
You let out a shaky breath, trying to listen, and your clit pushes down against Dean’s cock, still tight in his jeans. The pressure is perfect, combined with the brutal thrusts of Dean’s hand, and you press your cheek to his.
“That- That’s good,” you pant, clinging to the hem of his shirt. “So- Soo good-“
You whimper, and Dean hums. He’s rubbing your back, and that’s somehow almost as good as the hand obliterating your cunt. “There she is,” he mutters. “Always so good at listening when I got my hands on you, aren’t you sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your head. “That’s my girl.”
That’s what does it. My girl.
The coil snaps, and your orgasm rips through you, making your eyes cross and your body curl limply into Dean’s arms. His hand coaxes you through it, his palm rubbing against your pussy as you mewl and clench around nothing, the light pressure helping you ride it like a long, easy wave.
Dean kisses your cheek when it’s done, then right under your eye, then your nose.
“That’s one,” he mutters, and you whine. He chuckles, hiking your skirt up with light touches. “Come on, you know the rule.”
“Stupid rule,” you grumble. “Never agreed to it.”
“Never heard you complaining before,” he points out, peeling your dress off, and you stick out your tongue.
“That’s because I always forget- Dean!”
He smacks your ass, and you squeak, pussy clenching around nothing. He’s forming a tent in his jeans as he looks up at you, and you narrow your eyes. You fingers brush against the head of him, and his groan falters, his head tipping back against the bench.
You smile, pushing your hand down against his cock, and he catches your wrist, shooting you a stern glare.
“Not at young as I used to be,” he warns, and you giggle.
“But I want to,” you try to pull your hand free, and roll you eyes when he won’t let you. “Oh- Come on-“
“Nope,” he grunts, even as his dick jumps against the fabric. “You know the rule-“
“Dean-“
“Three to one,” he mutters, a dare gleaming in his eyes. “You give me one, I give you six. That’s the fuckin’ deal.”
You laugh, but his mouth doesn’t even twitch, and slowly, your smile falls into something more serious. More determined.
Damn this stubborn beautiful man and his orgasm rules. Damn you, for thinking he ever wouldn’t want to fuck you when he made you orgasm rules that weren’t proportional or fair at all.
You yank your wrist away, stick out your tongue again, and pull your underwear fully off. Dean watches you with his hands tight on your waist, eyes shining with curiosity, but patient.
And you’ve never been good at riding him, but you’ve always been good at this. You climb over Dean’s lap so your ass is near his shoulder and your face in his crotch, your back arched like some animal in heat, your pussy bare and on full display.
Dean’s never been able to help himself. One hand immediately slides around the arch of your back, then the curve of your ass, then settles back against your pussy. The other slides in your hair, petting your hair while you fumble with his belt. He chokes out your name, and you shoot him a glare, pulling out his cock with light, careful hands.
He’s so hard you’re worried he’s going to hurt himself. Pre-cum is beading around his tip, his veins throbbing like a porno. You stroke him slowly, and he lets out a sharp breath between his teeth.
“I’m serious, baby-“
“Prove it,” you say, before licking a slow, teasing stripe up his shaft.
And you know how this game ends. You’ve played it a million times before. The beautiful thing about it is that—especially when Dean thinks he’s winning—you can never lose.
You take him into his mouth, and the sound that he makes is sinful. It’s a choked, rough version of your name that sounds holy from his mouth, and comes with his fingers dipping into your heat like it’s a comfort toy. You take him until he bumps against the back of your throat and hum, swirling your tongue. Dean grunts, and pushes your head a little further down. You wiggle your ass, pussy cold and throbbing, and Dean groans.
“Jesus, woman- Gonna kill me- Fuuuuck-“
You start to bob up and down, sucking with that perfect pressure you know he likes, getting what can’t fit in your mouth in your hand. You can take him better and better with every second, letting his push against your gag reflex, and you drop that hand to play with his balls. Dean’s already giving shallow uncontrolled microthrusts, repeating your name over and over until it’s more of a choked moan.
“Can’t- Shit, baby, I can’t- That damn mouth, you’re gonna- Shit-“
You squeeze his balls and suck as hard as you can, and Dean almost roars your name, his cock jumping as he shoots thick, white ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, licking the rest off your fingers as you rise back up. There’s going to be a handprint on your ass, from where he was holding onto you. You hope you feel it in the morning.
And when you smile at Dean, you know you’re in trouble. Naked and wet for him, crawling forward so your tits press into his face and kissing him as sweetly as possible. Dean grunts, one hand shooting up to cradle the back of your head, and his responding kiss is deceptively gentle. He lets you lead it, groaning when your tongues press together, tasting himself on your lips. He lets you pull his shirt over his head and lets you trace over the lines of his muscles. You smile against his lips and lean back, and there’s that predatory glint again.
Dean’s hand twitches on your back. He wipes your chin, gathering some stray cum and slowly pressing his against your lips. You clean it off obediently, and his jaw ticks.
“Back seat,” he grunts. “Now.”
You almost scramble to listen. Rolling off of him and trying to climb over, making it halfway before you feel massive hands wrapping around your waist, holding you in place. You swallow, trying to twist over your shoulder to look at him, but Dean blows a sharp breath over your clit, and you double over with a squeak.
“De- Dean-“ You plant your hand on the bench, blood rushing to your cheeks. “Dean- wait-“
“Hmmm.” He kisses one curve of your ass, then the other. “Wait for what?”
You’re not really sure. “This- I- I can’t hold myself up,” you fumble, and he chuckles, kissing right over your clit.
“That gonna be a problem?” He teases, pressing smaller, faster kisses over the sensitive button. “Or,” he spreads your ass cheeks, humming against your heat. “Do dirty girls get what they asked for?”
Shit. “It’s uncomfortable,” you whisper, and Dean pauses.
He sighs, then kisses your clit again. You squeak when he drags you back down, and melt into his chest as he kisses all over your face, rocking you back and forth in his arms.
“’S why I wanted the bed,” he mutters, and you sigh.
“’M sorry-“
“No,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, massaging your hips with steady hands. “I’ve got it, just- uh-“
He glances up, and you watch him frown around the car with an openly adoring expression. The work of his jaw and furrow of his brow as he thinks, how he holds you so tight in his arms, it’s impossible to not love him.
“Got it,” he mutters. “Trust me?”
You nod easily, and he glances back down. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and this kiss isn’t feral or brutal. It’s just… slow. Adoring, a silent promise of what you’ve sort of always known.
Dean is going to take care of you.
He lays you out in the backseat, rubbing your thighs as you settle into the cushioned bench. You watch him with your heart in your throat, arms wrapped tight around your stomach. Sometimes, under his attention, you’re not sure what to do with yourself. He’s too pretty, too big, too much in the best possible way.
“Getting’ shy on me?” He teases, pushing up your knee, and you flush.
“N- No.”
“Hm,” Dean pins your leg against the bench, guiding the other one so it hooks over his shoulders. “Sounds like you’re gettin’ shy.”
You swallow, hugging yourself tighter, and he chuckles.
“All that work to make you relax,” he mutters, kissing his way up your thigh. “And you’re already wound back up.”
“You took too long,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” He kisses just the side of your cunt, and your breath hitches as he sucks a small, firm bruise into the skin. “You know I’m gonna make it up to you, yeah?”
You nod weakly, then blurt, “Yes!”
Dean’s mouth twitches, and he grabs one of your wrists, guiding it down to his hair. You weave it between your fingers, your breathing already ragged, your whole body lit up with anticipation.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, kissing the other side of your cunt, massaging your thigh and pushing your leg a little higher. “Nice and easy, pretty girl.” He kisses you pussy, open-mouthed and wet, and you let out a high, shameless sound.
His mouth should be classified as a sex toy or something. It moves and works against you like a machine, kissing you with so much fervor you already start to see stars. You had some recovery from the fingering, but Dean’s already stripping it away with sharp, unrelenting kisses and grazes of his teeth against your clit.
“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against you, the word vibrating through your body. “Never wanna live without this pussy again, baby girl, shit-“
He groans and dives back down, starting to work you open like a man starved. You push on his head, silently begging for more, afraid to open your mouth. The sounds that leave you will be embarrassing, and you’re already too far gone for them.
But Dean likes you loud, and he won’t let you hold back. He hooks his arm fully around your leg, dragging you further down, giving him a better against your pussy. You mewl when he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking impossibly hard, and Dean laughs against your cunt.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ You grab at the front bench, yanking mindlessly on his short hair. “De- Dean- Oh my god-“
He groans, pushing his face impossibly further. His tongue is deliberate and thick, pumping in and out of your cunt before pressing flat on your clit and dragging back and forth. It’s enough to drive you mad, making the coil in your stomach burn and burn and burn until your whole body is shaking with the sensation.
“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “You- Fuck-“
He nips at your clit, dragging a long, slow stripe up your pussy. Your eyes lock, and you swallow, a broken moan falling from your lips. The first time he did this, he told you that he loved it. That there was nothing better than a woman, right on his face, dripping and sweet for him. It didn’t take you long to believe him.
Here, he looks at you like you’re some kind of heaven he’s been allowed to touch. His mouth never stops moving against you, his eyes lidded and almost drunk, and your arousal shining on his face whenever he reangles it to devour you a new way. It’s a sight that could knock you off your feet, if you had any left to stand on. Dean on his knees, his broad, freckled shoulders forcing your knees apart, his attention a drug you never want to bother being clean from again.
You start to shake, your stomach seizing up as you fight off your orgasm, but Dean doesn’t tolerate that either. His mouth goes back against your clit, his tongue darting up and down and back and forth in tiny motions, almost tickling it, making the little nerves light up and-
You cum with a loud, choked sound that’s really supposed to be Dean’s name, and push at his head. You expect him to stop, and finally get on top of you.
But you forgot about his stupid orgasm rule, and he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens and he starts to make out with your overstimulated pussy. You squeak, pushing weakly at his head, and his eyes gleam.
“De- Dean- Fuuuuck- That’s-“ Your eyes roll back, your body seizing up again, almost unable to take so much. “Oh- Oh my gooood-”
Dean groans against you again, and it’s worse than a vibrator. It’s warm and deep and Dean, mixed with his filthy mouth and stubble, scraping against soft skin.Your thighs lock around his head and he lets them, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulls you fully onto your back, pushing himself up onto his knees. His cock bounces against his stomach but he ignores it, using his now free hand to grope at your breast. You moan, clenching around nothing as he laps at your clit and pussy.
“I- I can’t-“ Tears spring at your eyes. “Dean- Please-“
He hums, rolling your nipple between deft fingers, and you throw your head back with a broken moan.
Warm, thick fingers weave through yours, and you blink at him under watery lashes. He’s let go of your breast to hold your hand. His thumb is dragging slowly back and forth, and his mouth isn’t slowing down, but you don’t want it to. You can see the challenge shining in his eyes. You take a ragged breath, give him the smallest nod, and he smiles against your pussy.
You didn’t know the human tongue could move that fast. You’re sure it’s not supposed to, but Dean’s never cared about things like that. He drinks you up like wine, rapidly toying with your clit—swirling and kissing and flicking and sucking like it’s candy—and your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm springs through your body like a geyser.
Dean lowers you down slowly, pressing one last kiss to your swollen kiss before rising back up, wiping his chin of your release and cleaning it off his fingers with a smug grin. His cock is at attention, and your mouth waters. He always gets it in. You’re a little afraid of it right now.
“Six?” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.
“You’re the one who pushed for it, princess.”
“It- It’s your stupid rule-“
“You love it,” he shrugs, slowly settling himself back between your legs. “And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you, baby.”
You wrinkle your nose, and Dean gives you a stern, amused look.
“Aren’t you?” He taps the head of his cock against your cunt, and you squeak.
“Dean-“
“You’re the one who got bratty and cocky, sweetheart,” he drawls, pushing your leg back down. “So you’re gonna take it, ‘cause I know you can.”
You swallow, giving him your best doe-eyes, and he just chuckles. Dean lowers himself down, presses a gentle kiss to your brow, and murmurs against your skin.
“That ain’t gettin’ you out of this.”
You press your face into the crook of his neck, and Dean smiles, kissing the side of your head.
“All shy again,” he mutters, dragging that massive cock between the lips of your pussy. “Let’s take care of that, huh?”
You cling to him as he rolls you both over, guiding your legs to straddle his torso and lining up his cock with your weeping, abused pussy. He pulls you gently up, rubbing your side and watching you a painfully adoring gaze. You try to cover yourself again, and he catches your hand, shaking his head.
“Come on,” he mutters, weaving your fingers together. “Let me see you.”
And damn him for being so soft and sweet, you don’t think you could tell him no if you wanted.
“Take it easy,” he says, wrapping both of his hands around your waist. “All you, baby. Show me what you want.”
“I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.”
You believe him, in a way you’d never believe anyone else. It might be how he looks at you. Like you’re an angel over him, like you’re really, truly letting him enter paradise as you sink down onto his cock.
He grunts, his fingers tightening against your body as his cock slowly splits you open. Even with how much he’s worked you open—your pussy so wet it’s already dripping onto his thighs—it’s a tight fit. You can feel every vein dragging inside of you, the hard curve pressing right into your g-spot and making you flutter around him.
Dean jerks his head up, squeezing his eyes shut, and you swallow.
“Sorry-“
“’S- ‘S alright,” he exhales sharply, relaxing back into the seat. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, baby. I’m good.”
A smile ghosts over your lips, even as you start to only breathe through your nose. “You look it,” you tease, and Dean gives you a half annoyed, half impressed look.
“You’re tight,” he grunts, and your smile widens.
“You’re big.”
He groans, throwing his head further back, and you giggle again. He’s sitting just right again, his chest rippling under your hands, and you feel like that angel. You feel like a goddess, with how his hands are dragging over your body, how your name falls from his lips.
“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, eyes raking over your body. “So perfect.”
You take a deep breath, and start to grind down onto his cock. Dean groans, one hand dragging down to squeeze your ass, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless you beg him, and you’re determined not to. You can ride him until your thighs give out. His cock bumps against your g-spot, and his abdomen drags near your clit, and it feels good. You rock back and forth a little faster, your breath catching, and Dean groans.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Pretty fuckin’ girl, riding my cock like the needy little thing you are, aren’t you. So fuckin’ wet for me, baby, so- so tight-“
He groans, and you push down on his chest, picking up your pace.
“So big, Dean,” you moan, pushing up your chest like a pornstar, trying to make him break first. “You’re so big, feels so- so good-“
You moan, tossing your hair, and Dean makes an almost feral sound.
But he doesn’t break. The bastard never breaks, and you’ve never been good at riding him. Your thighs are already sore, and they quickly start to ache, making your movements smaller and weaker. Dean watches you start to whine, your brow furrowing in concentration, and just smiles. You both know what he’s waiting for. You don’t want to give in.
“So quiet, sweetheart,” he coos, running his hand up to palm at your breast. “Someone drove by, they’d think I wasn’t fuckin’ you properly.”
You glare at him, unable to even speak, and he chuckles.
“You know what you gotta do, baby girl.”
“Fu- Fuck you-“
“I will,” he winks. “If my girl says please.”
Your eyes narrow. His grin widens, and you think you might be about to fly apart with how bad you need it. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid face that you love and his big cock that makes you all jelly and dazed thoughts and useless.
“Please-“
The word barely leaves your mouth before Dean moves. A single, well-aimed thrust up into your cunt that makes you fall apart. You fall forward onto his chest with a scream, and Dean groans, giving shallower, gentle thrusts to work you through the orgasm.
“I know,” he murmurs in you ear, his words painfully soft in comparison to the pleasure wracking your body. “I know, princess. Two more to go.”
You don’t think you can take two more. Four has been your max for a very long time, and that was with a lot more prep time and space between orgasms. But Dean doesn’t seem like he’s going to give you much of a choice.
You’re a doll in his arms again, when he hauls you up into his lap. His cock leaves you for a single second, just for the adjustment, and you whimper at the loss.
Dean hums, kissing all over your face as he slides back in.
“That’s my girl,” he starts to rock your hips back and forth with steady hands, picking you up then dropping your back down so his dick drags through every inch of your heat. “Takin’ me so good. Just like that, feel that, baby-“ He pushes on your lower back, making his cock slam against your g-spot, and you sob against his neck. “Feel how fuckin’ good we fit together, my girl.”
Dean’s voice is lined with something darker now. More possessive and hungry. He fucks up into your like an animal, dips drilling forward and mouth attached to your neck. All you can do is take it, over and over until your eyes are crossing and the only words you can remember are babbles of Dean and please.
The neck orgasm is slow, blooming from where he’s slamming against your cervix and spreading pleasantly through your body. Dean moans against your skin, mouthing at your jaw and neck, his tongue dragging and kisses messy. When you try to kiss him back, it’s mostly with a mewl and lips that follow his lead. Everything is humid and light in your body, everything is Dean around you, and there’s a new, strangely hot sensation in your core that’s demanding all of your attention.
It’s tighter than the usual coil, and gets hotter and hotter with every thrust of Dean’s cock. He’s getting uneven now, his own words falling into pants and moans, his balls slapping against your ass and hands leaving prints as he folds you fully over his chest.
“One- One more-“ His voice is gravelly, almost as wrecked as you feel. “Milk my fuckin’ cock, baby girl, cum for me-“
You open your mouth to warn him about the strange feeling, but it’s too late. Dean slams home, crashing his mouth against yours, and you cum with a hoarse scream. Hot cum shoots into your cunt, right as something gushes out of you in wet, burning waves. It feels good, so good you can’t think, so good your mouth hangs open and your moans turn into pathetic, weak babbles.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ Dean groans against your mouth. “Fuckin’- Yes-“
Your body seizes and twitches around him, but even when he’s done, Dean doesn’t pull out. The last of your release pushes itself out and her collapses backward, rubbing your back and craning his neck to grin at your cockdrunk expression.
“Gettin’ stupid?” He teases, and you can’t manage to raise an arm, so you just bite his nose. He laughs, leaning up to steal another, quick kiss from your lips before settling back down.
You curl over him, resting your head against his shoulder while he pets your head, both of you still panting and coming back down. You might be there for a hundred years, or just an hour. It doesn’t matter. The car is going to reek of sex for maybe a year. Sam might never agree to ride in it again. But it was worth it. More than worth it, when you look up at Dean, and find him—just as always—already looking back.
“We’re still dating, right?” You whisper, because you have to be sure.
Dean grins, and kisses you slowly. You hum, letting your eyes flutter shut. Letting him carry you, whenever he thinks is safe to go.
“Yeah,” he mutters, and you can hear it in his voice. All the love he’s been trying to show you, for who knows how long. “We are."
✦End note: if i write enough of these it's gonna happen to me guys trust ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦summary: dean learns, slowly, that he's actually pretty good at being boyfriend material. it would be nice if you'd stop pining after him long enough to notice✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, friends with benefits to lovers, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love because it's the best way to be, dean's down so bad, shameless smut (facesitting, praise kink, big dick dean, fingering, pussy spanking, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, mean dean, dean has an orgasm rule and you. benefit. dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 12.5k✦
✦author's note: request! super normal about this one✦
You tell yourself, over and over again, that this is going to be the last time. It’s not something that’s meant to be held onto, so you can just… let go.
But then you find yourself here. Between tangled sheets with your legs spread wide, your nails digging into Dean’s bicep and his cock dragging through your wet, sensitive cunt.
“There you go,” he coos in your ear, every thrust deep and rough. “That’s my girl, takin’ me so good, so- Good-“
Dean moans, pressing up against the soft, gummy spot inside of you, and your eyes roll back in your head.
He always does this. He knocks on your door and grabs your face between big hands, and suddenly all that resolve and determination—never again—dissolves with your willpower. His hands are rough and calloused, but trace your hips and hold you down so gently, you can almost pretend he cares if you break. His cock is thick and impossibly long, and he always drags it between your soaked heat and bumps it against your clit before pushing himself in just right. His lips are chapped and soft, sucking possessive marks into your neck that he has no right to claim, but that doesn’t stop you from running your fingers through his hair and holding him right where he is. He wouldn’t dare to leave. Not in the middle of this. Not before you’ve both gotten what you want.
What Dean wants. You don’t let yourself pretend that this is everything you need anymore. It’s the only hope you have of one day telling him no, because the rest of you control rests on a thin rope, and it always slips from your hands the moment Dean touches you like you matter.
You never walk away from him with an aching, unsatisfied body. A few nights ago he put you on his face and made you ride until your thighs were shaking and tears were springing into your eyes. Before this, he spit on your cunt and scissored you open with thick, careful finger, kissing and nipping at your thighs as your greedy pussy swallowed him right up to the knuckle. Even now, as every roll of his hips becomes smaller—as his face twists in concentration and his mouth against your jaw becomes desperate—Dean’s thumbing at your clit, trying to get you over the edge with him.
“C’mon, baby, c’mon-“ He pushes himself up to his knees, forcing a deeper, rougher angle. “Show me what you’ve got, I know you can do it, come on-
You whimper, staring up at him under lidded, glazed eyes. The whole world is just a blur of color at this point, but Dean is bright and clear. The heave of his broad shoulder and chest, every muscle in his arm as he wraps it around your waist and makes you arch your back, the flex of his abdomen as he ruts forward like a feral dog. The sharp, unforgiving thrusts are making your head spin with pleasure, turning you into a boneless wreck of need. You grab his arm, trying to steady yourself against something, and Dean’s attention rips up.
He says he likes to watch himself fuck you, and you’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s spent whole sessions just staring at his cock or fingers splitting your cunt open. He likes putting you on his face because he can watch you react. You like it better like that, usually. The eye contact is too close. Too intimate. Too real.
But you grab him, and he looks at you, and it’s almost like a shot. His eyes are blown-out and so strangely soft, staring at your wrecked, open expression with too much, too much, too much-
“De- Deeean-“ You cry it out like a pray, because it is. Dean grunts, hips snapping, the wet sound filling up the air and his eyes never leaving yours. “Dean- Dean- Fuck, please- Please-“
You’re babbling. You never do that with anyone else, but Dean is Dean, and he makes you do things you never counted yourself capable of. He groans your name, and you squeal when he drags you up, off the mattress and straddling his thighs. Your clit drags against his abdomen, his cock bullies right against your g-spot, and Dean grabs your jaw with a single, painfully gentle hand.
“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, still holding your gaze, even as your eyes start to cross. “Soak this fuckin’ cock, baby, cum-“
You almost scream as your orgasm rips through you, and Dean crashes his mouth against yours, eating every whimper and moan with harsh lips and his tongue down your throat. You press into him, pussy gushing and fluttering around his dick, and he makes that deep, rumbling sound that always comes right before-
“Shit-“ Dean gasps against your mouth, pulling you so close you can’t feel anything but the heat of his bare chest, the sensation of his cock twitching and pumping in your cunt. “Fuuck-“
Dean moans your name, and a warm, pleasant heat starts to spread through your tummy and drip between your thighs. He doesn’t stop moving until his cock is softened, and you don’t try to stop him. You’re barely more than a limp doll right now, returning his kisses with tiny mewls, eyes crossed and body limp.
For a moment after it’s done, you stay tangled together. You always do. It’s the most dangerous part of the whole thing, because it feeds that tiny little fool in your chest, who refuses to believe that this is just sex. Who takes your heartstrings and weaves grand worlds where Dean loves you back, and you’re going to be just fine.
Dean kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter closed. There’s an advantage, to being a crybaby whenever he fucks you stupid. He never once has considered that the tears might be real.
“Think you can walk?” He mutters, still buried deep inside of you, still holding you like he cares.
You shake your head, and his mouth twitches against yours.
“Alright, pretty girl. I’ve got you.”
And you press your face into the crook of his neck, letting that fool take you over. She takes his words as gospel. My girl and I’ve got you and Baby, they’re exactly what he means and nothing more, nothing less.
When the logical part of your brain wakes back up—Dean’s always had this ability to hit a button in you, sliding his hand around the back of your neck and making all your thoughts just bubblegum feelings and electric colors—you’re going to remember why you always say this has to be the last time.
He’s perfect, and he’s not yours. He makes that perfectly clear, until he pulls these little stunts and ends up buried between your thighs. You agreed that he wasn’t yours, when this arrangement started.
Safer with someone you know, he’d told you, like he hasn’t fucked his way across the entire country. Easier. Nothing to worry about, when it’s you and me.
And you’d been a starry-eyed, gooey hearted fool who just wanted whatever part of Dean he was willing to show you. The burning love you kept tended in your ribs hadn’t seen a problem with adding fuel to the wildfire, even if Dean was never going to see it. But now he’s carrying you to the bathroom like a princess, and he’s going to be gone in the morning, and that wildfire is an inferno. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You can map out everything he’d ever say in response to your feelings, from the harsh sneer he would’ve given when he had the Mark of Cain, to the kinder let down you’d get now.
You’re too young, he’d say, like it was a consolation prize. And I like you, sweetheart, but I don’t do this kinda thing. Not with girls young enough to be my daughter. Not with kids that I hunt with. Not with you.
You press your face further into his neck. He’s always so warm and sturdy, a massive tree that’s offering you just as much shade crushing, unbearable weight and tangled roots that keep you pressed down. He smells like leather and whiskey and something perfectly, faintly spice. You want to drown in it. You want to drown in him.
“You good?” Dean asks, and his voice is too gentle. It rattles the little fool, screaming for the rest of you to listen and just accept that he loves you.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.
“You’re bein’ quiet, even for- Y’know-“ He chuckles, that low, insufferably charming pride crawling into his voice. “After I fuck you dumb.”
“You did not fuck me dumb,” you mumble against his skin, and you can hear his grin.
“Big words from the girl who couldn’t talk five minutes ago.”
“That was unrelated.”
“Unrelated,” he echoes, his thumb dragging a small circle against your spine. “Always forget how bratty you get after, sweetheart. Dangerous.”
You roll your eyes, and hug him tighter. He laughs, and kisses the side of your head, and he has the nerve to call you dangerous.
“You wanna watch a movie?” He asks, leaning down to run the water, still keeping you tucked so carefully against his chest, and all you can do is nod. Dean sighs. “C’mon, gimme a little more than that-“
“Yes, please,” you mumble, and he pauses.
It’s only a fraction of a second. You don’t understand it, and you don’t want to. Not when he feeds your delusions and kisses your brow again, then your cheek, then your lips. And you let him. You always let him, because you’re a foolish, stupid, lovesick idiot. You don’t want his affection, not like this. But you don’t want to lose him—it would be like ripping a vital organ out of your ribcage, even if you didn’t know you had it a year ago—and you can’t ever tell him to stop being so sweet without explaining yourself, and getting that gentle, horrible let down.
You don’t want it. You don’t want any of it. And this, this had to be the last time.
You hold the line. You don’t know how, but you hold that line with white knuckles and grit teeth and a taste like bile in the back of your throat.
Dean knocks on the door, only two nights later, and you don’t answer. He calls your name and you sink into the mattress, praying he just thinks you’re asleep.
“I just- Uh- I wanted to talk?” He says, and you press your face into the pillow like that can somehow shield you. “Really, that’s it. Just talking, so- If you could-“
Dean sighs. You can hear the please, hanging between every word, but Dean doesn’t really say please. He just begs with everything else in him, or gives up. And you can picture him running his hand over his face, the heavy look in his eyes, the defeated sag in his shoulders. It’s like a knife being driven through your gut, and you sit up, ready to open the door-
“Alright,” he mutters, and you freeze. “Night, baby. Sleep well.”
Footsteps retreat, and you stay there on the mattress, frozen and lost, adrift in a sea you dove into.
But you did it. You held the line.
And you keep it. It makes sweat bead and your skin burn, but you close the door and don’t open it back up. You’re done, and you’re going to keep it that way.
Dean doesn’t ask questions. You don’t know if you want him to or not, but it doesn’t matter, because you catch him staring and giving out signals, but he’s taken your no in stride, and doesn’t seem to have any plans to push back against it. When this started, you agreed to leave out a specific book on the war room table if either of you wanted something. Dean starts to leave it out every night, and you never go to his door, and one night, it vanishes.
And that’s fine. That’s exactly what you wanted.
And if it feels like you’re dying because of it, and if you spend an hour over the toilet dry heaving that night, that’s no one’s business but your own.
“Dean’s been grumpy lately,” Sam says one morning, and you blink at him over your coffee.
“Grumpy? Dean? That’s- Woah-“
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Sam gives you a flat look. “You know what I mean. Grumpier.”
You shrug, looking back to your mug. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”
“Uh huh.”
You can feel Sam’s stare. It makes you itchy and small, and you’re not sure if you want to punch him or run. You settle for staring at your coffee harder. It’s the easiest course of action.
“Dean needs to get laid,” Sam repeats your words, something strange—almost sharp—in his tone, and you nod.
“That’s what I said.”
“Dean-“
“What’s up?” Dean walks into the kitchen, stopping right behind you, and you hunch over like you can grow a shell to protect yourself.
Even just a few feet away, he’s always so warm.
“Uh- Hey, Dean-“
“Hey,” Dean mocks back, and Sam huffs.
“Dude-“
“Shut your face-“
“I didn’t say anything- I-“ Sam says your name, and you glance up. His brow is furrowed with worry, his eyes locked on Dean behind you. “We were just-“
“Just what?” Dean snaps. “Just talking? Shooting the shit, getting real comfortable?”
Sam sighs. “Dean-“
“I got a gun, Sammy,” Dean points firmly, and you stare at his finger like a woman driven mad with thirst. “Don’t forget that.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “We all have guns, that- That threat doesn’t do anything-“
“I’ll show you doing something- Hey-“
Dean says your name, and you freeze. You’d been trying to slip out while they fought, but Dean—goddamn him—had noticed. He always notices. You love him so much it’s going to make you cave in on yourself, and maybe take the whole bunker with you, like a dying star.
He catches your arm, and you can’t stop yourself from looking at him. His brow is knit, his jaw locked, and his handsome face has deep lines you only used to see when the world was ending. There are bags under his eyes. Deeper than usual. You want to smooth the lines with your thumb and kiss his jaw until he relaxes, but that’s not your ache to soothe.
Dean doesn’t say anything. You can’t say anything. He looks exhausted, and there’s a lump forming in your throat.
“You- You hungry?” Dean rasps, and you’re starving.
“No,” you breathe before you can think, and Dean swallows.
“Well, when you’re hungry- There’s a diner in town-“
“Henry’s?”
“No, uh- A new one. I- I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go, later, or something.”
“Or something?” You tilt your head, and Dean nods.
“Whatever you want.”
God, he’s cruel. He’s perfect and cruel, and you want to vomit on his flannel and kiss him until you pass out.
“Oh- Okay,” you say, because you’re only so strong.
The lines in Dean’s face relax. His grip loosens. Then Sam coughs, and Dean lets you go.
The diner is… nice. Nice and easy, in a way you haven’t felt in longer than you want to admit. Dean insists on driving you, and paying, and sitting in one of those booths with your feet bumping under the table.
He presses his knee forward, while he orders. You swallow and don’t allow yourself to think much of it. He’s warm through his jeans, but he’s always warm, and he hasn’t tried anything in a few weeks, so you allow it. Your love for him hasn’t been flickering out, but the harsh wind of his absence has made everything feel colder. It’s okay, to indulge yourself in something so small. You’re still keeping it together. You’re still holding the line.
“So, uh-“ Dean clears his throat, turning his bottle in his hands. “How are you?”
“How- Am I?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly. “I- I’m okay. How are you?”
“Good. Great.” He frowns at the table. “You know. Same as always.”
You almost laugh. “You’re always great?”
“I focus on the positives, sweetheart-“
“No, you don’t.”
He rolls his eyes, glancing up to hold your light, amused gaze. His mouth twitches. His fingers tap against the glass, and you try not to let yourself sink too deep into the attention.
It’s okay to drown a little. A long as you don’t drop the line.
“Maybe I’m turning a new leaf,” he says, and your face splits into a full smile.
“You?”
“Yeah, me. Why’d you say it like that-“
“Because you’ve never turned a leaf in your life-“
“Ah-“ He points the head of his bottle at you with a grin. “Not true. Remember when I started learning guitar?”
“Yeah, you smashed it on a werewolf’s head after a month.”
“That was a tactical choice, I would’ve kept playing if the wolf didn’t get in the way.”
“Uh huh.” You lean back in your seat, crossing your arms. “What songs had you learned to play?”
Dean’s nose wrinkles. “Hey, we don’t need to talk about that-“
“I think we do.”
“Nah, I mean- I only had a month-“
“You learned how to work a rocket launcher in a week.”
“That’s just buttons and triggers, sweetheart. Even you could work it.”
“Even I?” You raise your brows—trying not to let the delight shine too bright in your voice—and Dean freezes.
“I mean- uh- You’re not great with guns, and- I could teach you-“
“You could teach me.”
“Maybe? If you wanted- Or-“ Dean groans, slumping back. “Stop givin’ me that look.”
“I’m not giving you any look,” you tease, and Dean sighs.
“Will you stop if I say I’m an idiot?”
You soften slightly. “You’re not an idiot, Dean-“
“You sure?” He grumbles. “Kinda feeling like one right now.”
You laugh, but it’s gentle. You can almost see him pushing down into himself. It makes you heavy for him, like you’re trying to take that invisible weight off his shoulders, even if he can’t feel you helping the pain. “You’re a dork,” you say, bumping his knee under the table. “But you’re not an idiot.”
Dean grunts, watching you under hooded eyes, and you smile easily.
You missed this, more than you want to tell him. Just talking, without worrying that it’s going to end in world-changing, back-breaking, beautifully heart-aching sex. He feels like your friend again, closer to your fingertips than he’d been when he was balls deep inside of you.
“Wonderwall,” he grunts suddenly. “And Hallelujah.”
You blink. “What?”
“Those were the songs,” he mutters, picking at the label of his bottle. “That I got, before I smashed the guitar.”
“Oh,” you pause. “I love Hallelujah.”
“Yeah. I know.”
You stare at him, and he stares right back. A faint flush is threatening your cheeks, so you duck your head to hide it, and Dean lets out a soft laugh.
“You alright-“
“Yep. I- I’m good-“
“You look good.” Dean laughs again, when you shoot him a glare. “Don’t gimme that face, I’m saying something nice-“
“You’re being a butt,” you stick out your tongue, and his eyes dance with an easy kind of light that almost makes your heart stop.
“You’re the one who was callin’ me old earlier,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes.
“You are old.”
“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you, has it.”
Your mouth falls open, eyes going so wide it almost hurts, and Dean grins at you. If you weren’t shocked into static, you’d slap him or- or lunge across the table and kiss him-
Hold the line.
“Aged wine is supposed to be better,” you manage to say, somehow, and Dean laughs, loud and free.
“That all I am to you? Some wine?”
“No,” you smile at your plate. “You’re also very good cheese.”
“Good cheese, huh.”
“Mhm.” You point a stern finger at him. “No puns.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but dips his head. “Yes, ma’am.”
There’s the flush. You’d keep trying to hide it, if Dean didn’t start talking about something unimportant and easy, and suddenly you forgot to be embarrassed. He’s not trying to kiss you or get you back to the car. He’s just… Talking to you. Dropping that light, teasing praise like it’s nothing, then telling you a story about when he used a tuba to beat a poltergeist, grinning like a winner every time you laugh.
When lunch is over, he rests a hand lightly on your lower back, but doesn’t do much more. He kisses your cheek when you get back to the bunker, and asks if you want to watch a movie tomorrow night. You swallow, locking your hands together like they can force the line to stay firm. Dean says your name, almost panicked, and you blink up at him.
“Just a movie,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Out in town, at- Uh- That shitty theatre next to the coffee place. Or- I can try and find a drive-in, if those still exist-“
“They do,” you say softly, and he swallows. “There’s one out in Beloit.”
“Beloit,” Dean mutters. “Yeah- Yeah, okay. You wanna go there?”
You nod, and he grins. You smile back, and it feels… Different. Shy, in a way you haven’t been around him since he first started fucking you. Almost delicate. You weren’t supposed to let this feel like something delicate.
Dean jaw works, and you can almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes. He lurches slightly, brow furrowed, then pulls back up. You’re seconds from asking him what’s wrong when he just leans down and… does it.
His lips graze your cheek, his hand brushing against your waist, and you almost melt right into him.
But then he stands back up, and takes a large step away. You swallow, resisting the urge to reach up and brush your fingers over where he kissed. It’s not like he’s never done that before, but again.
It just feels different.
“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and you nod weakly.
If you had a mind that was thinking in more than bursts of glee and songs of Dean, Dean, Dean, you’d tell him that you live together, and he’s always going to see you tomorrow. But he walks away, and you let him, and it doesn’t hurt. There’s a space that he left, but something in you seems to think he’s going to come back. You can’t tell if it’s the fool or not.
For once, you decide not to try.
The movie is nice. Dean rests his hand on your knee, but doesn’t go any higher. You lean into his side, and his arm goes around your shoulders, but there’s no kissing or dragging into the back seat, and you didn’t know there could be a better way to be close to him. Sex is great. Looking up and finding him already watching you is better.
He brushes some hair from your face, and you half expect him to kiss you. His eyes dart down to your lips like he wants to. Your fingers curl in his shirt, and his throat bobs.
“You likin’ the movie?” He whispers, and you nod.
“Good find,” you breathe, and he grins.
“Thanks. Eat the popcorn, it cost me a billion bucks.”
You roll your eyes, and throw some of the over-buttered, half-burnt popcorn at his face. He laughs, catches a kernel in his mouth, and grabs your chin between two fingers. Your breath catches. He just turns your face back to the screen, and pulls you a little closer into his side.
The movie ends the same way the diner did. Dean walks you to your bedroom door like it’s the porch of your house, kisses your cheek, then walks away.
Then, after the movie, you play mini golf. You win, but you know he let you. He buys you a snow cone and licks it off his nose when he eats it like a rabid dog. You wipe a little extra off his cheek, and he stares at you, but still doesn’t kiss you. Not fully. His hand seems to always rest on your lower back, now, but that’s all the contact you get. All that you allow.
Hugs are on the table, too. They’re somehow more dangerous than the forehead kisses. After the hugs, he sometimes just stares at you and cups your cheek, and your heart moves into your throat until you think you’re going to spill it out all over his chest.
You manage to keep it together. For the sake of this new, slowly growing garden of what your friendship is becoming, you swallow your love with greater ease and more bile than you ever did while you were fucking. After the mini golf you get dinner and see another movie. You convince him to go on a walk with you, and he hates it less than he pretends to. You eat together in the bunker and call when he’s on a hunt with Sam and go to a car show and it all feels like breathing.
Sometimes he still looks at your mouth, and you freeze up, unsure if you want him to kiss you or not. You know you want him, but somehow you’ve found even more to lose than before, and if it slips through your fingers, you’re not sure they’re ever going to stop shaking and groping at the empty spaces again. You can take holding his hand in the bookstore while he peers over your shoulder, pretending to be interested for no real reason other than to make you smile.
“There are so many of them,” he mutters, and you giggle.
“There’s a lot of ways to write words, Dean.”
“Yeah, but- You’d think there would be repeats or something.”
“There probably are,” you shrug, running your fingers over the spines. “But they’re still all fun.”
Dean sighs, squeezing your upper arm. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and all his features relax.
“You want some coffee?” He brushes some hair from your face and you nod.
“There’s a shop next door, could you get me-“
“Hey,” Dean flicks your nose, grinning roguishly. “Trust me, I know what you want.”
You nod a little stupidly, and his smile falters. He looks to your lips again, then almost shakes himself, taking a small step.
“Don’t move,” he squeezes your arm again, then backs away. You watch him go, unable to help yourself, and smile when he looks back. He does that all the time now. And he always smiles back.
You turn back to the shelf, looking at the books without actually looking. You already miss him, and he told you not to move, but that can’t count if you’re going to stand next to him in the coffee line, can it-
“Hey.”
You fumble slightly, turning to find a man leaning against the shelf and smirking at you. You blink, and his smirk widens.
“What’s girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”
“The… Bookstore?” You frown, and he laughs. You don’t think you said anything all that funny.
“Look, I just- I saw you from over there,” he nods vaguely, and you frown. “And I thought you were cute. Can I get you some coffee or something?”
“My- My friend is already getting me coffee,” you say, and your voice sounds strangely far away.
The man nods, but doesn’t retreat. “Alright, then can I get your number? Maybe beat your friend to coffee next time?”
And you don’t want to say yes, but this is a chance. To hold onto this new friendship with Dean while also getting over him at the same time. This man isn’t ugly. Compared to Dean, no one really stands a chance anyway, and you have to get over him eventually.
So you give him your number, and try not to feel like you just did something wrong.
Dean clears his throat from behind you, and you spin around on your heels, a sour guilt twisting in your gut.
“You- You’re back,” you say, and he grunts.
He’s not look at you. He’s glaring at the man with the same, deadly glint that he gives monsters and demons before he cuts them in half. You touch his arm lightly, and he tenses. You feel sick.
“Hey, buddy,” he snaps at the man, who—not seeming to understand the gravity of Dean’s glare—grins back.
“Hey.” He winks at you, slowly backing away. “Have fun with your friend.”
Dean’s coffee spills over the top of it’s lid. He doesn’t look away from the man when he leaves the store. He shoves your drink into your hand, not meeting your gaze.
“Dean-“
“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he mutters, and you swallow.
“Oh- Okay.”
Your arm wraps around your stomach, and you press a little away from him, from the wrath seeming to wave off his body like a volcano. He glances down, jaw tight and a vein in his brow ticking. You stare at his neck, unable to hold the weight of his gaze. He lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.
“Get your book.”
You shake you head. “No- It- It’s okay-“
Dean says your name, and your mouth snaps shut. “Just- Get the damn book.”
He looks like he’s in pain, and you don’t know how to fix it, so you do as he says. You get a cheap one, that worm of guilt burrowing deeper and deeper into your gut until you can’t even drink your coffee without feeling like it’s going to come back up.
Dean’s fingers dig into your back, when he guides you out the door. He starts the engine by almost punching in the keys, and holds Baby’s wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. You can see all the anger brimming under the surface of his skin, and worried you’re just going to make it worse. You don’t even know where it came from. It’s not like you’re together, or the guy said something rude. You open and close your mouth too many times to count, then give up, shrinking back into your seat.
Dean looks over at you. You try to look out the window, and nowhere else.
A loud, sharp breath escapes him. “Son of a- Alright.”
You look over with a frown, then squeak when he yanks the wheel off to the side.
“Shit- Dean-“
“Just- Fuck-“ He bows he head, glaring down at his legs, and you swallow.
You fidget with your fingers, watching him nervously, waiting for him to break the silence. It takes while. So long you think about just getting out of the car to give him space.
But then he looks up, and your heart gets cleaved open. His face is twisted in pain, his lips parted and his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard.
“What-“ He takes a deep breath, scanning over your openly confused features. “What else am I supposed to be doin’?”
You blink at him, fingers curling in your lap. “What?” You ask softly, and his throat bobs.
“I- I’m really trying,” he mutters, looking back to his hands. “I swear to god, baby, I’m tryin’ my best, and- I know I ain’t amazing at this but- If you could throw a guy a rope when he’s never- I’ve never done this, alright.” He waves between your bodies, jaw clenched tight. “And I’m really givin’ it my best shot, but I’m still not allowed to kiss you, and you’re takin’ numbers right- Right in front of me- So just- Something.” He gives you a pleading, broken look, eyes shining on yours in the dark. “Anything.”
You open your mouth, but you can’t even figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to say. You know all the words he’s saying, but it’s like he’s speaking a language you never learned, spitting out a code you’re just supposed to magically understand. Dean’s jaw ticks, when you don’t answer, and you try to sputter out an answer, but he’s too loud to hear your confused whimper.
“Look, just- Whatever the hell you do need me to do, I’ll do it, I swear I’ll do it, but- You gotta tell me, sweetheart-“
“Tell you what?!” You almost shout, and Dean leans back in surprise. “Dean, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dean huffs a low laugh, looking back out to the road. “Yeah. Alright,” he grabs the keys, voice rough and pained. “Sure. Whatever-“
“No.” You grab his wrist before he can start to the engine. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”
“It doesn’t matter-“
“Yes, it does-“
“Nah.”
“Dean-“
“You wanna call that guy, call ‘im.” There’s an almost toxically bitter sound to the words, and Dean’s making a face like he just got shot. “Whatever. See if I care.”
Your nails dig into his wrist, when he tries to yank it away. He shoots you a glare, the bags—gone, after months of ease—already starting to form.
“C’mon, kid, just- let go-“
“Would you care?”
Your question is small, but it makes Dean recoil like it burned. He scoffs, but it’s too loud, and you hold him tighter.
“Would you care-“
“No, I fuckin’ love watching douchebags parade around with my girl, who would care about something like that?”
Something snaps, right at the base of your spine. You sit so tall you’d think someone is dragging you by the nape of your neck, and Dean blinks in something close to surprise.
“What-“
“Your girl,” you whisper. “That’s- I’m- Why would you say that?”
Dean blinks. “Why wouldn’t I say that?”
“Because you and I- We’re not- That’s-“ You lean back, letting go of his wrist, and when you look down, you’ve left little crescent marks in the skin. “No- No- You didn’t- You said no- No strings-“
“Yeah, and then you stopped fuckin’ me, and I-“ Dean says your name as you press back against the window, brow furrowed in worry. “Baby, it’s- It’s alright, I’m not that pissed-“
“You were yelling,” you choke out, and he swallow.
“Well, I was- Just- C’mere.”
He reaches out, cupping your cheek with the same gentle touch he used to use, right before he kissed you. You gape at him, head spinning, panting like you just ran a marathon.
“I’m not mad,” he rasps, almost pleading, and you shake your head.
“You were-“
“Sweetheart-“
“Why?” You whisper, grabbing his wrist, your nails sinking back into the marks. “Why- Why would you care?”
Dean swallows. He shakes his head, looks out the window, and chuckles.
“Dean-“
“I don’t want you goin’ out with him. And- Call it possessive, or stupid man shit, or- Whatever the hell you want,” he drags his thumb over your cheekbone, voice dropping to something tender, something soft. “You’re my girl. And I want you here, telling me what to do, how to- To be what you need.” His voice cracks. “Come on, baby. Just- Tell me what to be.”
You stare at him, a lot of pieces colliding into each other at once in your head. The diner and the movie and the touching and the caution and-
“Are we dating?” You choke out, and Dean frowns.
“What’d you mean, are we dating?”
“I mean are we dating, Dean, are you- Are you my boyfriend?”
“Uh- Boyfriend kinda makes it sound like we’re sixteen and necking-“
“What the fuck is necking?”
Dean groans, dropping his head. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. Makes me feel fuckin’ fifty.”
Your lips twitch. “You are almost fifty,” you say, and he chuckles.
“Yeah. Guess I am.” He looks back up to you, caution lining his features. “You always seemed to like it.”
You swallow. You did. You’d never been sure if it was the older thing itself, or the fact that it was just Dean, but you’d liked it. You always liked all of him, from the uglier wounds to the beautiful, glowing heart that almost managed to peak through, no matter how thick his steel and iron walls became.
He glides his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, and your breath hitches. He swallows, closes his eyes, and mutters your name.
“Did you… Not think we were dating?”
You shake your head, and Dean snorts dryly.
“Huh,” his mouth curves into a tight smirk. “Makes sense why you wouldn’t kiss me, I guess.”
“You guess?” You squeak, and Dean nods.
“Yeah, makes a lotta sense, actually-“
“How long have we been dating?!” You almost shriek, and he gives you an amused look.
“’Bout three months.”
“Three months?!”
“That’s what I said, baby-“
“Shut- Shut up-“ You plant a hand over his mouth, and he raises his brows. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me we were dating, you- You butt?!”
Dean’s eyes sparkle, looking pointedly down to your hand, and you release him with a scowl. He rubs his jaw, grinning at you like you’re some cute bunny, and you lean back in your seat with a huff.
“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I thought you knew.”
“How would I have known-“
“’Cause I asked you on a date? And you said yes?”
“That- That never happened.” You snap, and Dean frowns.
“Yes, it did. Sammy- He was there-“
“Sam was there-“
“Yeah, and- I said there was a new diner in town, and you said you’d go with me, and we started dating!”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open. Dean stares pointedly back, and you can’t help yourself. You bark out a loud, sharp laugh.
“That was not asking me on a date, you fucking- Oh my god!” You shake your head, and Dean’s frown becomes almost puppy like.
“Yes, it was-“
“You have to actually say it’s a date, Dean! You can’t just- Just ask me to do something, I thought we were just hanging out! As friends.”
He’s pouting now. If you weren’t pissed, it would be adorable. “I- Uh- I paid for everything. And got you gifts.”
“Friends do that-“
“Do friends kiss your face all the time?” Dean twists to fully glare at you, and you pause.
“Um- Maybe?”
Dean snorts. “No, they don’t-“
“But I thought that was just you!” You protest. “You- You’re always- You know-“
“I know?” He mocks, and you scowl.
“We were fucking for a year, Dean,” you snap, tipping up your chin. “I thought you were comfortable with me.”
“I am comfortable with you,” Dean shrugs, leaning slightly forward. “Real comfortable.”
Your nose twitches. He’s too close, now. Consuming your vision, making your vision all stupid and fuzzy. “You’re comfortable with everyone,” you sniff, and he laughs.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, running a hand slowly up your thigh. “We both know that ain’t true.”
You make a tiny, involuntary sound when his fingers dip under your skirt, teasing sensitive, neglected skin. He hasn’t touched you there in so long. Too long. You have to hug yourself to stop your body from flying at him.
“I haven’t fucked anyone else in eighteen damn months,” Dean mutters, holding your gaze. “I’ve been waiting around for you for months, wondering what the hell I was doin’ wrong, and you thought I was just being nice?!”
You swallow, your voice suddenly small. “You are nice,” you whisper, and Dean snorts.
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re nice to me-“
“Because I-“ He cuts himself off, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh. You grab his hand, holding it against you, and his eyes dart down. He heaves a long breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bows his head.
“Dean?” You whisper, and he shakes his head. “Dean, I- I’m sorry I didn’t- You said we were just going to be casual-“
“I know what I said,” he grunts, glaring at your hands. “But I- I didn’t- I thought it would help me.”
You swallow. “Help you?”
“Yeah.”
“With what-“
“You know what.” He finally looks at you, and you’ve never seen him this vulnerable. Almost bowing before you, holding onto your hand like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. “And I can’t- I don’t know how to-“ He takes another ragged breath, gives you another pleading look. “You stopped letting me pretend, you started- You started telling me no, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t.” He swallows. “I’m tryin’ to do this right, baby.” He squeezes your hand, leaning a little closer. “Please let me do this right.”
You blink at him, tears watering in your own eyes, and nod. Dean’s shoulders shudder, and he holds your hand so tight you think he’s trying to just mold you together. He glances at your lips, but doesn’t move. So you do it for him.
Dean stares at you, completely still as you lean forward, his chest so still you’re worried he’s not breathing. You rest your hand lightly on his chest and press the lightest kiss you can to his parted lips. He shakes, one hand flying to your waist, his touch still heartbreakingly delicate. You kiss him again, a little harder, and a low rumble starts in his chest.
You pull back, pressing your brows tight together. Dean stares at you, eyes glossy and blown out, the restraint ticking in his jaw, and you smile softly.
“I love you,” you breathe. “And I- I know you can’t- You know, say it back, but- I love you, Dean.”
His breathing his ragged, and he’s still gaping. You laugh nervously, looking down to your fingers, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.
“If- If you could say something, though, that would be- Um- Nice-“
Dean grunts, and your words fall off into a squeak as Dean drags you forward into his lap.
And this. This is a real kiss. Dean’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his arm wrapping fully around your lower back, his fingers digging into your hips and his other hand cradling the back of your head. He kisses you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, pushing his tongue down your throat and moaning against your mouth. You pull on his shirt and he gropes at your ass, dragging you further into his lap. The pressure of his thigh against your core makes your head spin, but that might just be the lack of oxygen. Neither of you seem to be willing to come up for air, taking sharp, tiny breaths between sloppy kisses.
You whimper, already going limp, and Dean leans back with darkened, shining eyes. You know that look. You used to pray for and dread it all at once. It always made you feel like something close to prey, paralyzed and unable to flee his spell.
But this time is different. This time, there’s nothing you’d rather do but fall into his charm.
Dean presses another, small kiss to your lips, dragging his thumb over the tingling swell. Your tongue flicks against the pad of the finger, and he groans, pushing it slowly between your lips.
You wrap around him, sucking lightly, giving him your best, sweetest Bambi eyes. Dean’s throat bobs, his fingers digging into your ass.
“We’re goin’ home,” he mutters. “Then I’m gonna fuck you.”
That’s a lovely plan. You smile around his thumb, and he says your name, pulling his thumb away with a small pop.
“Jesus, you- You gotta tell me yes-“
“Just fuck me here,” you whisper, pulling on the collar of his shirt.
Dean glances to the backseat, then to you. “Uh- I mean- That’s- If you’re sure-“
“Please,” you push a little further forward, dropping your hand to press against the bulge in his jeans. “I need you, Dean. Now.”
And for a second, you think he’s going to demand going all the way back home. Say something about you deserving a soft bed and gentle loving, when you just want him, filthy and raw and yours. You’re so busy giving him doe eyes, you don’t notice his hand dragging down your spine and your ass, right up until it dips under your skirt, and cups your pussy through your panties.
You gasp, and Dean smirks, slowly rubbing his hand back and forth.
“Need me?” He drawls, pushing his thumb against your clit. “Like this, baby? This how you need me?”
“Ye- yes-“ Your lips brush over his, your hips starting to grind down as he drags his thumb in tiny circle, his hand still rocking back and forth. “Just- Just like that, Dean- Shit-“
You push down, kissing him with a sloppy, uncontrolled mouth. Dean grunts, splaying his free hand against your neck and pushing you down. He’s massive and warm, the hand working your pussy offering just enough friction to work you up, but nothing more. You wrap your arms around his neck, panting against his lips and moving you hips to chase more friction.
“That feels good, doesn’t it,” he mutters, kissing you between every word.
You coo, trying to kiss over his face, and Dean slaps your pussy once, leaning back with a stern glare.
“Doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” you answer immediately, already getting heavy-eyed and dazed. “So- So good, Dean, feels so good, just- More-“ You claw at his shoulders, trying to at least get to some bare skin, and settle for pressing your mouth back over his. “More- Need some more, De, now-“
Dean silences you with a deep, rough kiss, and taps his thumb against your clit in quick, harsh movements, pushing his palm down hard against your aching pussy. You cry out, trying to force your hips further down against him, and Dean squeezes that back of your neck.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Few months without some cock and you get bossy, don’t you.”
“No- No,” you manage to protest. “You’re just- You’re being slow-“
“I’m being slow?” He mocks, running his fingers over the line of your panties. “Baby, I’ve barely fuckin’ started.”
You try to roll your eyes at him, but he uses his hold on your neck to turn your head, forcing your gaze back down to his. Your eyes widen, and he smirks slightly, raising his brows.
“You gonna break out some manners for me?” He asks, slowly dragging your panties to the side. “Or am I gonna need to teach you again?”
“Te- Teach me?” You choke out, and Dean hums.
His thumb drags down from your clit, parting the lips of your pussy and smearing your arousal. Your heart is trying to hammer out of your chest, every nerve in your body seeming to respond to the mockingly sweet touch.
“Dean,” you press your hands against his chest, unsure if you want to push him away or drag him closer. “Don’t- Don’t be mean-“
“I’m not bein’ mean,” he hum, the gleam in his eyes something else all together. “I’m giving my girl exactly what she wants, how she wants it.”
You blink at him hopelessly, and he chuckles, pulling you down into a long, slow kiss. It would be romantic and loving, if it wasn’t for his thumb pushing at your weeping entrance, refusing to dip even a fraction of the way inside.
“Remember how you used to beg for me?” He mutters, and your face burns with a mix of arousal and shame. “I sure as shit do. Spent hours thinkin’ about it lately, planning how I was gonna take you when you let me again. But,” he switches out his thumb for the very tips of his fingers, yanking slightly on your hair when you try to look down. “Jesus, baby, I’m worried I’m gonna break you.”
You shake your head frantically, and Dean raises his brows.
“Words, pretty girl,” he reminds you, pushing his fingers just a little big deeper. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got it, talk to me-“
“I can take it,” you breathe out, watching him under fluttering lashes. “I- I can take it. I promise.”
Dean works his jaw, his grip on your hair tightening. “Sweetheart-“
“Please,” you breathe, leaning down until your noses bump. “I need it. I need you.”
Those are the magic words. Dean stops trying to play noble, stops trying to hold back for the sake of romance. You loved him when he fucked you like a whore and gave you nothing soft, and you’re going to love him even more when he treats you like a toy, then kisses you everywhere after.
Dean smashes his lips against yours and eases his fingers into your waiting pussy, groaning under his breath when you clench down around him.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, scissoring them inside you. “Never gonna get over how fuckin’ tight you are, sweetheart, like you were made for me. Made to be mine.”
He almost snarls the last words against your lips, pushing himself fully up to the knuckle. You mewl as he finds your g-spot with that precision that makes it look easy, that’s always made you sure you couldn’t ever enjoy someone else if you tried.
Dean pumps his fingers slowly, crooking them so they drag against that spot, and pulls you back to watch your face contort with pleasure.
“That’s it,” he grunts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming them right back in and twisting to bully against that sensitive spot. “That’s just how you like it, huh? Already gettin’ like this from just my fingers,” he chuckles, grinding his hips up against your thighs. “Imagine how you’re gonna be on my cock, sweet girl, if you can barely fuckin’ take this?”
“That- That’s not fair-“ You choke out, every word breathy and weak, and Dean just smirks.
“Isn’t it?”
You try to protest, but Dean pushes your head back down, and his kiss knocks almost every thought from your head. It’s all just the familiar, perfect way his mouth moves against yours, rememorizing something that never stopped being his. The wet sound of his fingers working you open fills the car, and your whole body burns with desire and shame. He’s right. You’re already soaked and ready for him, your cunt clenching down and still begging for more. You need that full, impossible split of him. After months of nothing, you’re worried his cock is the only thing that’s going to be able to do it.
But Dean seems to like proving you wrong today. A coil, tight in your stomach, starts to wind tighter and tighter. He drops his grip on your hair for a second to push down on the base of your spine, forcing your cunt almost right over his bulge. He reangles his hand, forcing in another finger, and you make a strangled sound.
“De- Dean-“
“We’re gonna get you relaxed, baby,” he mutters, twisting his wrist so the drag against your g-spot almost rips through your body. “Nice and relaxed ‘f me, you can do it.”
You let out a shaky breath, trying to listen, and your clit pushes down against Dean’s cock, still tight in his jeans. The pressure is perfect, combined with the brutal thrusts of Dean’s hand, and you press your cheek to his.
“That- That’s good,” you pant, clinging to the hem of his shirt. “So- Soo good-“
You whimper, and Dean hums. He’s rubbing your back, and that’s somehow almost as good as the hand obliterating your cunt. “There she is,” he mutters. “Always so good at listening when I got my hands on you, aren’t you sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your head. “That’s my girl.”
That’s what does it. My girl.
The coil snaps, and your orgasm rips through you, making your eyes cross and your body curl limply into Dean’s arms. His hand coaxes you through it, his palm rubbing against your pussy as you mewl and clench around nothing, the light pressure helping you ride it like a long, easy wave.
Dean kisses your cheek when it’s done, then right under your eye, then your nose.
“That’s one,” he mutters, and you whine. He chuckles, hiking your skirt up with light touches. “Come on, you know the rule.”
“Stupid rule,” you grumble. “Never agreed to it.”
“Never heard you complaining before,” he points out, peeling your dress off, and you stick out your tongue.
“That’s because I always forget- Dean!”
He smacks your ass, and you squeak, pussy clenching around nothing. He’s forming a tent in his jeans as he looks up at you, and you narrow your eyes. You fingers brush against the head of him, and his groan falters, his head tipping back against the bench.
You smile, pushing your hand down against his cock, and he catches your wrist, shooting you a stern glare.
“Not at young as I used to be,” he warns, and you giggle.
“But I want to,” you try to pull your hand free, and roll you eyes when he won’t let you. “Oh- Come on-“
“Nope,” he grunts, even as his dick jumps against the fabric. “You know the rule-“
“Dean-“
“Three to one,” he mutters, a dare gleaming in his eyes. “You give me one, I give you six. That’s the fuckin’ deal.”
You laugh, but his mouth doesn’t even twitch, and slowly, your smile falls into something more serious. More determined.
Damn this stubborn beautiful man and his orgasm rules. Damn you, for thinking he ever wouldn’t want to fuck you when he made you orgasm rules that weren’t proportional or fair at all.
You yank your wrist away, stick out your tongue again, and pull your underwear fully off. Dean watches you with his hands tight on your waist, eyes shining with curiosity, but patient.
And you’ve never been good at riding him, but you’ve always been good at this. You climb over Dean’s lap so your ass is near his shoulder and your face in his crotch, your back arched like some animal in heat, your pussy bare and on full display.
Dean’s never been able to help himself. One hand immediately slides around the arch of your back, then the curve of your ass, then settles back against your pussy. The other slides in your hair, petting your hair while you fumble with his belt. He chokes out your name, and you shoot him a glare, pulling out his cock with light, careful hands.
He’s so hard you’re worried he’s going to hurt himself. Pre-cum is beading around his tip, his veins throbbing like a porno. You stroke him slowly, and he lets out a sharp breath between his teeth.
“I’m serious, baby-“
“Prove it,” you say, before licking a slow, teasing stripe up his shaft.
And you know how this game ends. You’ve played it a million times before. The beautiful thing about it is that—especially when Dean thinks he’s winning—you can never lose.
You take him into his mouth, and the sound that he makes is sinful. It’s a choked, rough version of your name that sounds holy from his mouth, and comes with his fingers dipping into your heat like it’s a comfort toy. You take him until he bumps against the back of your throat and hum, swirling your tongue. Dean grunts, and pushes your head a little further down. You wiggle your ass, pussy cold and throbbing, and Dean groans.
“Jesus, woman- Gonna kill me- Fuuuuck-“
You start to bob up and down, sucking with that perfect pressure you know he likes, getting what can’t fit in your mouth in your hand. You can take him better and better with every second, letting his push against your gag reflex, and you drop that hand to play with his balls. Dean’s already giving shallow uncontrolled microthrusts, repeating your name over and over until it’s more of a choked moan.
“Can’t- Shit, baby, I can’t- That damn mouth, you’re gonna- Shit-“
You squeeze his balls and suck as hard as you can, and Dean almost roars your name, his cock jumping as he shoots thick, white ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, licking the rest off your fingers as you rise back up. There’s going to be a handprint on your ass, from where he was holding onto you. You hope you feel it in the morning.
And when you smile at Dean, you know you’re in trouble. Naked and wet for him, crawling forward so your tits press into his face and kissing him as sweetly as possible. Dean grunts, one hand shooting up to cradle the back of your head, and his responding kiss is deceptively gentle. He lets you lead it, groaning when your tongues press together, tasting himself on your lips. He lets you pull his shirt over his head and lets you trace over the lines of his muscles. You smile against his lips and lean back, and there’s that predatory glint again.
Dean’s hand twitches on your back. He wipes your chin, gathering some stray cum and slowly pressing his against your lips. You clean it off obediently, and his jaw ticks.
“Back seat,” he grunts. “Now.”
You almost scramble to listen. Rolling off of him and trying to climb over, making it halfway before you feel massive hands wrapping around your waist, holding you in place. You swallow, trying to twist over your shoulder to look at him, but Dean blows a sharp breath over your clit, and you double over with a squeak.
“De- Dean-“ You plant your hand on the bench, blood rushing to your cheeks. “Dean- wait-“
“Hmmm.” He kisses one curve of your ass, then the other. “Wait for what?”
You’re not really sure. “This- I- I can’t hold myself up,” you fumble, and he chuckles, kissing right over your clit.
“That gonna be a problem?” He teases, pressing smaller, faster kisses over the sensitive button. “Or,” he spreads your ass cheeks, humming against your heat. “Do dirty girls get what they asked for?”
Shit. “It’s uncomfortable,” you whisper, and Dean pauses.
He sighs, then kisses your clit again. You squeak when he drags you back down, and melt into his chest as he kisses all over your face, rocking you back and forth in his arms.
“’S why I wanted the bed,” he mutters, and you sigh.
“’M sorry-“
“No,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, massaging your hips with steady hands. “I’ve got it, just- uh-“
He glances up, and you watch him frown around the car with an openly adoring expression. The work of his jaw and furrow of his brow as he thinks, how he holds you so tight in his arms, it’s impossible to not love him.
“Got it,” he mutters. “Trust me?”
You nod easily, and he glances back down. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and this kiss isn’t feral or brutal. It’s just… slow. Adoring, a silent promise of what you’ve sort of always known.
Dean is going to take care of you.
He lays you out in the backseat, rubbing your thighs as you settle into the cushioned bench. You watch him with your heart in your throat, arms wrapped tight around your stomach. Sometimes, under his attention, you’re not sure what to do with yourself. He’s too pretty, too big, too much in the best possible way.
“Getting’ shy on me?” He teases, pushing up your knee, and you flush.
“N- No.”
“Hm,” Dean pins your leg against the bench, guiding the other one so it hooks over his shoulders. “Sounds like you’re gettin’ shy.”
You swallow, hugging yourself tighter, and he chuckles.
“All that work to make you relax,” he mutters, kissing his way up your thigh. “And you’re already wound back up.”
“You took too long,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” He kisses just the side of your cunt, and your breath hitches as he sucks a small, firm bruise into the skin. “You know I’m gonna make it up to you, yeah?”
You nod weakly, then blurt, “Yes!”
Dean’s mouth twitches, and he grabs one of your wrists, guiding it down to his hair. You weave it between your fingers, your breathing already ragged, your whole body lit up with anticipation.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, kissing the other side of your cunt, massaging your thigh and pushing your leg a little higher. “Nice and easy, pretty girl.” He kisses you pussy, open-mouthed and wet, and you let out a high, shameless sound.
His mouth should be classified as a sex toy or something. It moves and works against you like a machine, kissing you with so much fervor you already start to see stars. You had some recovery from the fingering, but Dean’s already stripping it away with sharp, unrelenting kisses and grazes of his teeth against your clit.
“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against you, the word vibrating through your body. “Never wanna live without this pussy again, baby girl, shit-“
He groans and dives back down, starting to work you open like a man starved. You push on his head, silently begging for more, afraid to open your mouth. The sounds that leave you will be embarrassing, and you’re already too far gone for them.
But Dean likes you loud, and he won’t let you hold back. He hooks his arm fully around your leg, dragging you further down, giving him a better against your pussy. You mewl when he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking impossibly hard, and Dean laughs against your cunt.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ You grab at the front bench, yanking mindlessly on his short hair. “De- Dean- Oh my god-“
He groans, pushing his face impossibly further. His tongue is deliberate and thick, pumping in and out of your cunt before pressing flat on your clit and dragging back and forth. It’s enough to drive you mad, making the coil in your stomach burn and burn and burn until your whole body is shaking with the sensation.
“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “You- Fuck-“
He nips at your clit, dragging a long, slow stripe up your pussy. Your eyes lock, and you swallow, a broken moan falling from your lips. The first time he did this, he told you that he loved it. That there was nothing better than a woman, right on his face, dripping and sweet for him. It didn’t take you long to believe him.
Here, he looks at you like you’re some kind of heaven he’s been allowed to touch. His mouth never stops moving against you, his eyes lidded and almost drunk, and your arousal shining on his face whenever he reangles it to devour you a new way. It’s a sight that could knock you off your feet, if you had any left to stand on. Dean on his knees, his broad, freckled shoulders forcing your knees apart, his attention a drug you never want to bother being clean from again.
You start to shake, your stomach seizing up as you fight off your orgasm, but Dean doesn’t tolerate that either. His mouth goes back against your clit, his tongue darting up and down and back and forth in tiny motions, almost tickling it, making the little nerves light up and-
You cum with a loud, choked sound that’s really supposed to be Dean’s name, and push at his head. You expect him to stop, and finally get on top of you.
But you forgot about his stupid orgasm rule, and he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens and he starts to make out with your overstimulated pussy. You squeak, pushing weakly at his head, and his eyes gleam.
“De- Dean- Fuuuuck- That’s-“ Your eyes roll back, your body seizing up again, almost unable to take so much. “Oh- Oh my gooood-”
Dean groans against you again, and it’s worse than a vibrator. It’s warm and deep and Dean, mixed with his filthy mouth and stubble, scraping against soft skin.Your thighs lock around his head and he lets them, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulls you fully onto your back, pushing himself up onto his knees. His cock bounces against his stomach but he ignores it, using his now free hand to grope at your breast. You moan, clenching around nothing as he laps at your clit and pussy.
“I- I can’t-“ Tears spring at your eyes. “Dean- Please-“
He hums, rolling your nipple between deft fingers, and you throw your head back with a broken moan.
Warm, thick fingers weave through yours, and you blink at him under watery lashes. He’s let go of your breast to hold your hand. His thumb is dragging slowly back and forth, and his mouth isn’t slowing down, but you don’t want it to. You can see the challenge shining in his eyes. You take a ragged breath, give him the smallest nod, and he smiles against your pussy.
You didn’t know the human tongue could move that fast. You’re sure it’s not supposed to, but Dean’s never cared about things like that. He drinks you up like wine, rapidly toying with your clit—swirling and kissing and flicking and sucking like it’s candy—and your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm springs through your body like a geyser.
Dean lowers you down slowly, pressing one last kiss to your swollen kiss before rising back up, wiping his chin of your release and cleaning it off his fingers with a smug grin. His cock is at attention, and your mouth waters. He always gets it in. You’re a little afraid of it right now.
“Six?” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.
“You’re the one who pushed for it, princess.”
“It- It’s your stupid rule-“
“You love it,” he shrugs, slowly settling himself back between your legs. “And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you, baby.”
You wrinkle your nose, and Dean gives you a stern, amused look.
“Aren’t you?” He taps the head of his cock against your cunt, and you squeak.
“Dean-“
“You’re the one who got bratty and cocky, sweetheart,” he drawls, pushing your leg back down. “So you’re gonna take it, ‘cause I know you can.”
You swallow, giving him your best doe-eyes, and he just chuckles. Dean lowers himself down, presses a gentle kiss to your brow, and murmurs against your skin.
“That ain’t gettin’ you out of this.”
You press your face into the crook of his neck, and Dean smiles, kissing the side of your head.
“All shy again,” he mutters, dragging that massive cock between the lips of your pussy. “Let’s take care of that, huh?”
You cling to him as he rolls you both over, guiding your legs to straddle his torso and lining up his cock with your weeping, abused pussy. He pulls you gently up, rubbing your side and watching you a painfully adoring gaze. You try to cover yourself again, and he catches your hand, shaking his head.
“Come on,” he mutters, weaving your fingers together. “Let me see you.”
And damn him for being so soft and sweet, you don’t think you could tell him no if you wanted.
“Take it easy,” he says, wrapping both of his hands around your waist. “All you, baby. Show me what you want.”
“I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.”
You believe him, in a way you’d never believe anyone else. It might be how he looks at you. Like you’re an angel over him, like you’re really, truly letting him enter paradise as you sink down onto his cock.
He grunts, his fingers tightening against your body as his cock slowly splits you open. Even with how much he’s worked you open—your pussy so wet it’s already dripping onto his thighs—it’s a tight fit. You can feel every vein dragging inside of you, the hard curve pressing right into your g-spot and making you flutter around him.
Dean jerks his head up, squeezing his eyes shut, and you swallow.
“Sorry-“
“’S- ‘S alright,” he exhales sharply, relaxing back into the seat. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, baby. I’m good.”
A smile ghosts over your lips, even as you start to only breathe through your nose. “You look it,” you tease, and Dean gives you a half annoyed, half impressed look.
“You’re tight,” he grunts, and your smile widens.
“You’re big.”
He groans, throwing his head further back, and you giggle again. He’s sitting just right again, his chest rippling under your hands, and you feel like that angel. You feel like a goddess, with how his hands are dragging over your body, how your name falls from his lips.
“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, eyes raking over your body. “So perfect.”
You take a deep breath, and start to grind down onto his cock. Dean groans, one hand dragging down to squeeze your ass, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless you beg him, and you’re determined not to. You can ride him until your thighs give out. His cock bumps against your g-spot, and his abdomen drags near your clit, and it feels good. You rock back and forth a little faster, your breath catching, and Dean groans.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Pretty fuckin’ girl, riding my cock like the needy little thing you are, aren’t you. So fuckin’ wet for me, baby, so- so tight-“
He groans, and you push down on his chest, picking up your pace.
“So big, Dean,” you moan, pushing up your chest like a pornstar, trying to make him break first. “You’re so big, feels so- so good-“
You moan, tossing your hair, and Dean makes an almost feral sound.
But he doesn’t break. The bastard never breaks, and you’ve never been good at riding him. Your thighs are already sore, and they quickly start to ache, making your movements smaller and weaker. Dean watches you start to whine, your brow furrowing in concentration, and just smiles. You both know what he’s waiting for. You don’t want to give in.
“So quiet, sweetheart,” he coos, running his hand up to palm at your breast. “Someone drove by, they’d think I wasn’t fuckin’ you properly.”
You glare at him, unable to even speak, and he chuckles.
“You know what you gotta do, baby girl.”
“Fu- Fuck you-“
“I will,” he winks. “If my girl says please.”
Your eyes narrow. His grin widens, and you think you might be about to fly apart with how bad you need it. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid face that you love and his big cock that makes you all jelly and dazed thoughts and useless.
“Please-“
The word barely leaves your mouth before Dean moves. A single, well-aimed thrust up into your cunt that makes you fall apart. You fall forward onto his chest with a scream, and Dean groans, giving shallower, gentle thrusts to work you through the orgasm.
“I know,” he murmurs in you ear, his words painfully soft in comparison to the pleasure wracking your body. “I know, princess. Two more to go.”
You don’t think you can take two more. Four has been your max for a very long time, and that was with a lot more prep time and space between orgasms. But Dean doesn’t seem like he’s going to give you much of a choice.
You’re a doll in his arms again, when he hauls you up into his lap. His cock leaves you for a single second, just for the adjustment, and you whimper at the loss.
Dean hums, kissing all over your face as he slides back in.
“That’s my girl,” he starts to rock your hips back and forth with steady hands, picking you up then dropping your back down so his dick drags through every inch of your heat. “Takin’ me so good. Just like that, feel that, baby-“ He pushes on your lower back, making his cock slam against your g-spot, and you sob against his neck. “Feel how fuckin’ good we fit together, my girl.”
Dean’s voice is lined with something darker now. More possessive and hungry. He fucks up into your like an animal, dips drilling forward and mouth attached to your neck. All you can do is take it, over and over until your eyes are crossing and the only words you can remember are babbles of Dean and please.
The neck orgasm is slow, blooming from where he’s slamming against your cervix and spreading pleasantly through your body. Dean moans against your skin, mouthing at your jaw and neck, his tongue dragging and kisses messy. When you try to kiss him back, it’s mostly with a mewl and lips that follow his lead. Everything is humid and light in your body, everything is Dean around you, and there’s a new, strangely hot sensation in your core that’s demanding all of your attention.
It’s tighter than the usual coil, and gets hotter and hotter with every thrust of Dean’s cock. He’s getting uneven now, his own words falling into pants and moans, his balls slapping against your ass and hands leaving prints as he folds you fully over his chest.
“One- One more-“ His voice is gravelly, almost as wrecked as you feel. “Milk my fuckin’ cock, baby girl, cum for me-“
You open your mouth to warn him about the strange feeling, but it’s too late. Dean slams home, crashing his mouth against yours, and you cum with a hoarse scream. Hot cum shoots into your cunt, right as something gushes out of you in wet, burning waves. It feels good, so good you can’t think, so good your mouth hangs open and your moans turn into pathetic, weak babbles.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ Dean groans against your mouth. “Fuckin’- Yes-“
Your body seizes and twitches around him, but even when he’s done, Dean doesn’t pull out. The last of your release pushes itself out and her collapses backward, rubbing your back and craning his neck to grin at your cockdrunk expression.
“Gettin’ stupid?” He teases, and you can’t manage to raise an arm, so you just bite his nose. He laughs, leaning up to steal another, quick kiss from your lips before settling back down.
You curl over him, resting your head against his shoulder while he pets your head, both of you still panting and coming back down. You might be there for a hundred years, or just an hour. It doesn’t matter. The car is going to reek of sex for maybe a year. Sam might never agree to ride in it again. But it was worth it. More than worth it, when you look up at Dean, and find him—just as always—already looking back.
“We’re still dating, right?” You whisper, because you have to be sure.
Dean grins, and kisses you slowly. You hum, letting your eyes flutter shut. Letting him carry you, whenever he thinks is safe to go.
“Yeah,” he mutters, and you can hear it in his voice. All the love he’s been trying to show you, for who knows how long. “We are."
✦End note: if i write enough of these it's gonna happen to me guys trust ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦summary: dean learns, slowly, that he's actually pretty good at being boyfriend material. it would be nice if you'd stop pining after him long enough to notice✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, friends with benefits to lovers, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love because it's the best way to be, dean's down so bad, shameless smut (facesitting, praise kink, big dick dean, fingering, pussy spanking, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, mean dean, dean has an orgasm rule and you. benefit. dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 12.5k✦
✦author's note: request! super normal about this one✦
You tell yourself, over and over again, that this is going to be the last time. It’s not something that’s meant to be held onto, so you can just… let go.
But then you find yourself here. Between tangled sheets with your legs spread wide, your nails digging into Dean’s bicep and his cock dragging through your wet, sensitive cunt.
“There you go,” he coos in your ear, every thrust deep and rough. “That’s my girl, takin’ me so good, so- Good-“
Dean moans, pressing up against the soft, gummy spot inside of you, and your eyes roll back in your head.
He always does this. He knocks on your door and grabs your face between big hands, and suddenly all that resolve and determination—never again—dissolves with your willpower. His hands are rough and calloused, but trace your hips and hold you down so gently, you can almost pretend he cares if you break. His cock is thick and impossibly long, and he always drags it between your soaked heat and bumps it against your clit before pushing himself in just right. His lips are chapped and soft, sucking possessive marks into your neck that he has no right to claim, but that doesn’t stop you from running your fingers through his hair and holding him right where he is. He wouldn’t dare to leave. Not in the middle of this. Not before you’ve both gotten what you want.
What Dean wants. You don’t let yourself pretend that this is everything you need anymore. It’s the only hope you have of one day telling him no, because the rest of you control rests on a thin rope, and it always slips from your hands the moment Dean touches you like you matter.
You never walk away from him with an aching, unsatisfied body. A few nights ago he put you on his face and made you ride until your thighs were shaking and tears were springing into your eyes. Before this, he spit on your cunt and scissored you open with thick, careful finger, kissing and nipping at your thighs as your greedy pussy swallowed him right up to the knuckle. Even now, as every roll of his hips becomes smaller—as his face twists in concentration and his mouth against your jaw becomes desperate—Dean’s thumbing at your clit, trying to get you over the edge with him.
“C’mon, baby, c’mon-“ He pushes himself up to his knees, forcing a deeper, rougher angle. “Show me what you’ve got, I know you can do it, come on-
You whimper, staring up at him under lidded, glazed eyes. The whole world is just a blur of color at this point, but Dean is bright and clear. The heave of his broad shoulder and chest, every muscle in his arm as he wraps it around your waist and makes you arch your back, the flex of his abdomen as he ruts forward like a feral dog. The sharp, unforgiving thrusts are making your head spin with pleasure, turning you into a boneless wreck of need. You grab his arm, trying to steady yourself against something, and Dean’s attention rips up.
He says he likes to watch himself fuck you, and you’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s spent whole sessions just staring at his cock or fingers splitting your cunt open. He likes putting you on his face because he can watch you react. You like it better like that, usually. The eye contact is too close. Too intimate. Too real.
But you grab him, and he looks at you, and it’s almost like a shot. His eyes are blown-out and so strangely soft, staring at your wrecked, open expression with too much, too much, too much-
“De- Deeean-“ You cry it out like a pray, because it is. Dean grunts, hips snapping, the wet sound filling up the air and his eyes never leaving yours. “Dean- Dean- Fuck, please- Please-“
You’re babbling. You never do that with anyone else, but Dean is Dean, and he makes you do things you never counted yourself capable of. He groans your name, and you squeal when he drags you up, off the mattress and straddling his thighs. Your clit drags against his abdomen, his cock bullies right against your g-spot, and Dean grabs your jaw with a single, painfully gentle hand.
“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, still holding your gaze, even as your eyes start to cross. “Soak this fuckin’ cock, baby, cum-“
You almost scream as your orgasm rips through you, and Dean crashes his mouth against yours, eating every whimper and moan with harsh lips and his tongue down your throat. You press into him, pussy gushing and fluttering around his dick, and he makes that deep, rumbling sound that always comes right before-
“Shit-“ Dean gasps against your mouth, pulling you so close you can’t feel anything but the heat of his bare chest, the sensation of his cock twitching and pumping in your cunt. “Fuuck-“
Dean moans your name, and a warm, pleasant heat starts to spread through your tummy and drip between your thighs. He doesn’t stop moving until his cock is softened, and you don’t try to stop him. You’re barely more than a limp doll right now, returning his kisses with tiny mewls, eyes crossed and body limp.
For a moment after it’s done, you stay tangled together. You always do. It’s the most dangerous part of the whole thing, because it feeds that tiny little fool in your chest, who refuses to believe that this is just sex. Who takes your heartstrings and weaves grand worlds where Dean loves you back, and you’re going to be just fine.
Dean kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter closed. There’s an advantage, to being a crybaby whenever he fucks you stupid. He never once has considered that the tears might be real.
“Think you can walk?” He mutters, still buried deep inside of you, still holding you like he cares.
You shake your head, and his mouth twitches against yours.
“Alright, pretty girl. I’ve got you.”
And you press your face into the crook of his neck, letting that fool take you over. She takes his words as gospel. My girl and I’ve got you and Baby, they’re exactly what he means and nothing more, nothing less.
When the logical part of your brain wakes back up—Dean’s always had this ability to hit a button in you, sliding his hand around the back of your neck and making all your thoughts just bubblegum feelings and electric colors—you’re going to remember why you always say this has to be the last time.
He’s perfect, and he’s not yours. He makes that perfectly clear, until he pulls these little stunts and ends up buried between your thighs. You agreed that he wasn’t yours, when this arrangement started.
Safer with someone you know, he’d told you, like he hasn’t fucked his way across the entire country. Easier. Nothing to worry about, when it’s you and me.
And you’d been a starry-eyed, gooey hearted fool who just wanted whatever part of Dean he was willing to show you. The burning love you kept tended in your ribs hadn’t seen a problem with adding fuel to the wildfire, even if Dean was never going to see it. But now he’s carrying you to the bathroom like a princess, and he’s going to be gone in the morning, and that wildfire is an inferno. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You can map out everything he’d ever say in response to your feelings, from the harsh sneer he would’ve given when he had the Mark of Cain, to the kinder let down you’d get now.
You’re too young, he’d say, like it was a consolation prize. And I like you, sweetheart, but I don’t do this kinda thing. Not with girls young enough to be my daughter. Not with kids that I hunt with. Not with you.
You press your face further into his neck. He’s always so warm and sturdy, a massive tree that’s offering you just as much shade crushing, unbearable weight and tangled roots that keep you pressed down. He smells like leather and whiskey and something perfectly, faintly spice. You want to drown in it. You want to drown in him.
“You good?” Dean asks, and his voice is too gentle. It rattles the little fool, screaming for the rest of you to listen and just accept that he loves you.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.
“You’re bein’ quiet, even for- Y’know-“ He chuckles, that low, insufferably charming pride crawling into his voice. “After I fuck you dumb.”
“You did not fuck me dumb,” you mumble against his skin, and you can hear his grin.
“Big words from the girl who couldn’t talk five minutes ago.”
“That was unrelated.”
“Unrelated,” he echoes, his thumb dragging a small circle against your spine. “Always forget how bratty you get after, sweetheart. Dangerous.”
You roll your eyes, and hug him tighter. He laughs, and kisses the side of your head, and he has the nerve to call you dangerous.
“You wanna watch a movie?” He asks, leaning down to run the water, still keeping you tucked so carefully against his chest, and all you can do is nod. Dean sighs. “C’mon, gimme a little more than that-“
“Yes, please,” you mumble, and he pauses.
It’s only a fraction of a second. You don’t understand it, and you don’t want to. Not when he feeds your delusions and kisses your brow again, then your cheek, then your lips. And you let him. You always let him, because you’re a foolish, stupid, lovesick idiot. You don’t want his affection, not like this. But you don’t want to lose him—it would be like ripping a vital organ out of your ribcage, even if you didn’t know you had it a year ago—and you can’t ever tell him to stop being so sweet without explaining yourself, and getting that gentle, horrible let down.
You don’t want it. You don’t want any of it. And this, this had to be the last time.
You hold the line. You don’t know how, but you hold that line with white knuckles and grit teeth and a taste like bile in the back of your throat.
Dean knocks on the door, only two nights later, and you don’t answer. He calls your name and you sink into the mattress, praying he just thinks you’re asleep.
“I just- Uh- I wanted to talk?” He says, and you press your face into the pillow like that can somehow shield you. “Really, that’s it. Just talking, so- If you could-“
Dean sighs. You can hear the please, hanging between every word, but Dean doesn’t really say please. He just begs with everything else in him, or gives up. And you can picture him running his hand over his face, the heavy look in his eyes, the defeated sag in his shoulders. It’s like a knife being driven through your gut, and you sit up, ready to open the door-
“Alright,” he mutters, and you freeze. “Night, baby. Sleep well.”
Footsteps retreat, and you stay there on the mattress, frozen and lost, adrift in a sea you dove into.
But you did it. You held the line.
And you keep it. It makes sweat bead and your skin burn, but you close the door and don’t open it back up. You’re done, and you’re going to keep it that way.
Dean doesn’t ask questions. You don’t know if you want him to or not, but it doesn’t matter, because you catch him staring and giving out signals, but he’s taken your no in stride, and doesn’t seem to have any plans to push back against it. When this started, you agreed to leave out a specific book on the war room table if either of you wanted something. Dean starts to leave it out every night, and you never go to his door, and one night, it vanishes.
And that’s fine. That’s exactly what you wanted.
And if it feels like you’re dying because of it, and if you spend an hour over the toilet dry heaving that night, that’s no one’s business but your own.
“Dean’s been grumpy lately,” Sam says one morning, and you blink at him over your coffee.
“Grumpy? Dean? That’s- Woah-“
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Sam gives you a flat look. “You know what I mean. Grumpier.”
You shrug, looking back to your mug. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”
“Uh huh.”
You can feel Sam’s stare. It makes you itchy and small, and you’re not sure if you want to punch him or run. You settle for staring at your coffee harder. It’s the easiest course of action.
“Dean needs to get laid,” Sam repeats your words, something strange—almost sharp—in his tone, and you nod.
“That’s what I said.”
“Dean-“
“What’s up?” Dean walks into the kitchen, stopping right behind you, and you hunch over like you can grow a shell to protect yourself.
Even just a few feet away, he’s always so warm.
“Uh- Hey, Dean-“
“Hey,” Dean mocks back, and Sam huffs.
“Dude-“
“Shut your face-“
“I didn’t say anything- I-“ Sam says your name, and you glance up. His brow is furrowed with worry, his eyes locked on Dean behind you. “We were just-“
“Just what?” Dean snaps. “Just talking? Shooting the shit, getting real comfortable?”
Sam sighs. “Dean-“
“I got a gun, Sammy,” Dean points firmly, and you stare at his finger like a woman driven mad with thirst. “Don’t forget that.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “We all have guns, that- That threat doesn’t do anything-“
“I’ll show you doing something- Hey-“
Dean says your name, and you freeze. You’d been trying to slip out while they fought, but Dean—goddamn him—had noticed. He always notices. You love him so much it’s going to make you cave in on yourself, and maybe take the whole bunker with you, like a dying star.
He catches your arm, and you can’t stop yourself from looking at him. His brow is knit, his jaw locked, and his handsome face has deep lines you only used to see when the world was ending. There are bags under his eyes. Deeper than usual. You want to smooth the lines with your thumb and kiss his jaw until he relaxes, but that’s not your ache to soothe.
Dean doesn’t say anything. You can’t say anything. He looks exhausted, and there’s a lump forming in your throat.
“You- You hungry?” Dean rasps, and you’re starving.
“No,” you breathe before you can think, and Dean swallows.
“Well, when you’re hungry- There’s a diner in town-“
“Henry’s?”
“No, uh- A new one. I- I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go, later, or something.”
“Or something?” You tilt your head, and Dean nods.
“Whatever you want.”
God, he’s cruel. He’s perfect and cruel, and you want to vomit on his flannel and kiss him until you pass out.
“Oh- Okay,” you say, because you’re only so strong.
The lines in Dean’s face relax. His grip loosens. Then Sam coughs, and Dean lets you go.
The diner is… nice. Nice and easy, in a way you haven’t felt in longer than you want to admit. Dean insists on driving you, and paying, and sitting in one of those booths with your feet bumping under the table.
He presses his knee forward, while he orders. You swallow and don’t allow yourself to think much of it. He’s warm through his jeans, but he’s always warm, and he hasn’t tried anything in a few weeks, so you allow it. Your love for him hasn’t been flickering out, but the harsh wind of his absence has made everything feel colder. It’s okay, to indulge yourself in something so small. You’re still keeping it together. You’re still holding the line.
“So, uh-“ Dean clears his throat, turning his bottle in his hands. “How are you?”
“How- Am I?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly. “I- I’m okay. How are you?”
“Good. Great.” He frowns at the table. “You know. Same as always.”
You almost laugh. “You’re always great?”
“I focus on the positives, sweetheart-“
“No, you don’t.”
He rolls his eyes, glancing up to hold your light, amused gaze. His mouth twitches. His fingers tap against the glass, and you try not to let yourself sink too deep into the attention.
It’s okay to drown a little. A long as you don’t drop the line.
“Maybe I’m turning a new leaf,” he says, and your face splits into a full smile.
“You?”
“Yeah, me. Why’d you say it like that-“
“Because you’ve never turned a leaf in your life-“
“Ah-“ He points the head of his bottle at you with a grin. “Not true. Remember when I started learning guitar?”
“Yeah, you smashed it on a werewolf’s head after a month.”
“That was a tactical choice, I would’ve kept playing if the wolf didn’t get in the way.”
“Uh huh.” You lean back in your seat, crossing your arms. “What songs had you learned to play?”
Dean’s nose wrinkles. “Hey, we don’t need to talk about that-“
“I think we do.”
“Nah, I mean- I only had a month-“
“You learned how to work a rocket launcher in a week.”
“That’s just buttons and triggers, sweetheart. Even you could work it.”
“Even I?” You raise your brows—trying not to let the delight shine too bright in your voice—and Dean freezes.
“I mean- uh- You’re not great with guns, and- I could teach you-“
“You could teach me.”
“Maybe? If you wanted- Or-“ Dean groans, slumping back. “Stop givin’ me that look.”
“I’m not giving you any look,” you tease, and Dean sighs.
“Will you stop if I say I’m an idiot?”
You soften slightly. “You’re not an idiot, Dean-“
“You sure?” He grumbles. “Kinda feeling like one right now.”
You laugh, but it’s gentle. You can almost see him pushing down into himself. It makes you heavy for him, like you’re trying to take that invisible weight off his shoulders, even if he can’t feel you helping the pain. “You’re a dork,” you say, bumping his knee under the table. “But you’re not an idiot.”
Dean grunts, watching you under hooded eyes, and you smile easily.
You missed this, more than you want to tell him. Just talking, without worrying that it’s going to end in world-changing, back-breaking, beautifully heart-aching sex. He feels like your friend again, closer to your fingertips than he’d been when he was balls deep inside of you.
“Wonderwall,” he grunts suddenly. “And Hallelujah.”
You blink. “What?”
“Those were the songs,” he mutters, picking at the label of his bottle. “That I got, before I smashed the guitar.”
“Oh,” you pause. “I love Hallelujah.”
“Yeah. I know.”
You stare at him, and he stares right back. A faint flush is threatening your cheeks, so you duck your head to hide it, and Dean lets out a soft laugh.
“You alright-“
“Yep. I- I’m good-“
“You look good.” Dean laughs again, when you shoot him a glare. “Don’t gimme that face, I’m saying something nice-“
“You’re being a butt,” you stick out your tongue, and his eyes dance with an easy kind of light that almost makes your heart stop.
“You’re the one who was callin’ me old earlier,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes.
“You are old.”
“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you, has it.”
Your mouth falls open, eyes going so wide it almost hurts, and Dean grins at you. If you weren’t shocked into static, you’d slap him or- or lunge across the table and kiss him-
Hold the line.
“Aged wine is supposed to be better,” you manage to say, somehow, and Dean laughs, loud and free.
“That all I am to you? Some wine?”
“No,” you smile at your plate. “You’re also very good cheese.”
“Good cheese, huh.”
“Mhm.” You point a stern finger at him. “No puns.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but dips his head. “Yes, ma’am.”
There’s the flush. You’d keep trying to hide it, if Dean didn’t start talking about something unimportant and easy, and suddenly you forgot to be embarrassed. He’s not trying to kiss you or get you back to the car. He’s just… Talking to you. Dropping that light, teasing praise like it’s nothing, then telling you a story about when he used a tuba to beat a poltergeist, grinning like a winner every time you laugh.
When lunch is over, he rests a hand lightly on your lower back, but doesn’t do much more. He kisses your cheek when you get back to the bunker, and asks if you want to watch a movie tomorrow night. You swallow, locking your hands together like they can force the line to stay firm. Dean says your name, almost panicked, and you blink up at him.
“Just a movie,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Out in town, at- Uh- That shitty theatre next to the coffee place. Or- I can try and find a drive-in, if those still exist-“
“They do,” you say softly, and he swallows. “There’s one out in Beloit.”
“Beloit,” Dean mutters. “Yeah- Yeah, okay. You wanna go there?”
You nod, and he grins. You smile back, and it feels… Different. Shy, in a way you haven’t been around him since he first started fucking you. Almost delicate. You weren’t supposed to let this feel like something delicate.
Dean jaw works, and you can almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes. He lurches slightly, brow furrowed, then pulls back up. You’re seconds from asking him what’s wrong when he just leans down and… does it.
His lips graze your cheek, his hand brushing against your waist, and you almost melt right into him.
But then he stands back up, and takes a large step away. You swallow, resisting the urge to reach up and brush your fingers over where he kissed. It’s not like he’s never done that before, but again.
It just feels different.
“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and you nod weakly.
If you had a mind that was thinking in more than bursts of glee and songs of Dean, Dean, Dean, you’d tell him that you live together, and he’s always going to see you tomorrow. But he walks away, and you let him, and it doesn’t hurt. There’s a space that he left, but something in you seems to think he’s going to come back. You can’t tell if it’s the fool or not.
For once, you decide not to try.
The movie is nice. Dean rests his hand on your knee, but doesn’t go any higher. You lean into his side, and his arm goes around your shoulders, but there’s no kissing or dragging into the back seat, and you didn’t know there could be a better way to be close to him. Sex is great. Looking up and finding him already watching you is better.
He brushes some hair from your face, and you half expect him to kiss you. His eyes dart down to your lips like he wants to. Your fingers curl in his shirt, and his throat bobs.
“You likin’ the movie?” He whispers, and you nod.
“Good find,” you breathe, and he grins.
“Thanks. Eat the popcorn, it cost me a billion bucks.”
You roll your eyes, and throw some of the over-buttered, half-burnt popcorn at his face. He laughs, catches a kernel in his mouth, and grabs your chin between two fingers. Your breath catches. He just turns your face back to the screen, and pulls you a little closer into his side.
The movie ends the same way the diner did. Dean walks you to your bedroom door like it’s the porch of your house, kisses your cheek, then walks away.
Then, after the movie, you play mini golf. You win, but you know he let you. He buys you a snow cone and licks it off his nose when he eats it like a rabid dog. You wipe a little extra off his cheek, and he stares at you, but still doesn’t kiss you. Not fully. His hand seems to always rest on your lower back, now, but that’s all the contact you get. All that you allow.
Hugs are on the table, too. They’re somehow more dangerous than the forehead kisses. After the hugs, he sometimes just stares at you and cups your cheek, and your heart moves into your throat until you think you’re going to spill it out all over his chest.
You manage to keep it together. For the sake of this new, slowly growing garden of what your friendship is becoming, you swallow your love with greater ease and more bile than you ever did while you were fucking. After the mini golf you get dinner and see another movie. You convince him to go on a walk with you, and he hates it less than he pretends to. You eat together in the bunker and call when he’s on a hunt with Sam and go to a car show and it all feels like breathing.
Sometimes he still looks at your mouth, and you freeze up, unsure if you want him to kiss you or not. You know you want him, but somehow you’ve found even more to lose than before, and if it slips through your fingers, you’re not sure they’re ever going to stop shaking and groping at the empty spaces again. You can take holding his hand in the bookstore while he peers over your shoulder, pretending to be interested for no real reason other than to make you smile.
“There are so many of them,” he mutters, and you giggle.
“There’s a lot of ways to write words, Dean.”
“Yeah, but- You’d think there would be repeats or something.”
“There probably are,” you shrug, running your fingers over the spines. “But they’re still all fun.”
Dean sighs, squeezing your upper arm. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and all his features relax.
“You want some coffee?” He brushes some hair from your face and you nod.
“There’s a shop next door, could you get me-“
“Hey,” Dean flicks your nose, grinning roguishly. “Trust me, I know what you want.”
You nod a little stupidly, and his smile falters. He looks to your lips again, then almost shakes himself, taking a small step.
“Don’t move,” he squeezes your arm again, then backs away. You watch him go, unable to help yourself, and smile when he looks back. He does that all the time now. And he always smiles back.
You turn back to the shelf, looking at the books without actually looking. You already miss him, and he told you not to move, but that can’t count if you’re going to stand next to him in the coffee line, can it-
“Hey.”
You fumble slightly, turning to find a man leaning against the shelf and smirking at you. You blink, and his smirk widens.
“What’s girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”
“The… Bookstore?” You frown, and he laughs. You don’t think you said anything all that funny.
“Look, I just- I saw you from over there,” he nods vaguely, and you frown. “And I thought you were cute. Can I get you some coffee or something?”
“My- My friend is already getting me coffee,” you say, and your voice sounds strangely far away.
The man nods, but doesn’t retreat. “Alright, then can I get your number? Maybe beat your friend to coffee next time?”
And you don’t want to say yes, but this is a chance. To hold onto this new friendship with Dean while also getting over him at the same time. This man isn’t ugly. Compared to Dean, no one really stands a chance anyway, and you have to get over him eventually.
So you give him your number, and try not to feel like you just did something wrong.
Dean clears his throat from behind you, and you spin around on your heels, a sour guilt twisting in your gut.
“You- You’re back,” you say, and he grunts.
He’s not look at you. He’s glaring at the man with the same, deadly glint that he gives monsters and demons before he cuts them in half. You touch his arm lightly, and he tenses. You feel sick.
“Hey, buddy,” he snaps at the man, who—not seeming to understand the gravity of Dean’s glare—grins back.
“Hey.” He winks at you, slowly backing away. “Have fun with your friend.”
Dean’s coffee spills over the top of it’s lid. He doesn’t look away from the man when he leaves the store. He shoves your drink into your hand, not meeting your gaze.
“Dean-“
“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he mutters, and you swallow.
“Oh- Okay.”
Your arm wraps around your stomach, and you press a little away from him, from the wrath seeming to wave off his body like a volcano. He glances down, jaw tight and a vein in his brow ticking. You stare at his neck, unable to hold the weight of his gaze. He lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.
“Get your book.”
You shake you head. “No- It- It’s okay-“
Dean says your name, and your mouth snaps shut. “Just- Get the damn book.”
He looks like he’s in pain, and you don’t know how to fix it, so you do as he says. You get a cheap one, that worm of guilt burrowing deeper and deeper into your gut until you can’t even drink your coffee without feeling like it’s going to come back up.
Dean’s fingers dig into your back, when he guides you out the door. He starts the engine by almost punching in the keys, and holds Baby’s wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. You can see all the anger brimming under the surface of his skin, and worried you’re just going to make it worse. You don’t even know where it came from. It’s not like you’re together, or the guy said something rude. You open and close your mouth too many times to count, then give up, shrinking back into your seat.
Dean looks over at you. You try to look out the window, and nowhere else.
A loud, sharp breath escapes him. “Son of a- Alright.”
You look over with a frown, then squeak when he yanks the wheel off to the side.
“Shit- Dean-“
“Just- Fuck-“ He bows he head, glaring down at his legs, and you swallow.
You fidget with your fingers, watching him nervously, waiting for him to break the silence. It takes while. So long you think about just getting out of the car to give him space.
But then he looks up, and your heart gets cleaved open. His face is twisted in pain, his lips parted and his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard.
“What-“ He takes a deep breath, scanning over your openly confused features. “What else am I supposed to be doin’?”
You blink at him, fingers curling in your lap. “What?” You ask softly, and his throat bobs.
“I- I’m really trying,” he mutters, looking back to his hands. “I swear to god, baby, I’m tryin’ my best, and- I know I ain’t amazing at this but- If you could throw a guy a rope when he’s never- I’ve never done this, alright.” He waves between your bodies, jaw clenched tight. “And I’m really givin’ it my best shot, but I’m still not allowed to kiss you, and you’re takin’ numbers right- Right in front of me- So just- Something.” He gives you a pleading, broken look, eyes shining on yours in the dark. “Anything.”
You open your mouth, but you can’t even figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to say. You know all the words he’s saying, but it’s like he’s speaking a language you never learned, spitting out a code you’re just supposed to magically understand. Dean’s jaw ticks, when you don’t answer, and you try to sputter out an answer, but he’s too loud to hear your confused whimper.
“Look, just- Whatever the hell you do need me to do, I’ll do it, I swear I’ll do it, but- You gotta tell me, sweetheart-“
“Tell you what?!” You almost shout, and Dean leans back in surprise. “Dean, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dean huffs a low laugh, looking back out to the road. “Yeah. Alright,” he grabs the keys, voice rough and pained. “Sure. Whatever-“
“No.” You grab his wrist before he can start to the engine. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”
“It doesn’t matter-“
“Yes, it does-“
“Nah.”
“Dean-“
“You wanna call that guy, call ‘im.” There’s an almost toxically bitter sound to the words, and Dean’s making a face like he just got shot. “Whatever. See if I care.”
Your nails dig into his wrist, when he tries to yank it away. He shoots you a glare, the bags—gone, after months of ease—already starting to form.
“C’mon, kid, just- let go-“
“Would you care?”
Your question is small, but it makes Dean recoil like it burned. He scoffs, but it’s too loud, and you hold him tighter.
“Would you care-“
“No, I fuckin’ love watching douchebags parade around with my girl, who would care about something like that?”
Something snaps, right at the base of your spine. You sit so tall you’d think someone is dragging you by the nape of your neck, and Dean blinks in something close to surprise.
“What-“
“Your girl,” you whisper. “That’s- I’m- Why would you say that?”
Dean blinks. “Why wouldn’t I say that?”
“Because you and I- We’re not- That’s-“ You lean back, letting go of his wrist, and when you look down, you’ve left little crescent marks in the skin. “No- No- You didn’t- You said no- No strings-“
“Yeah, and then you stopped fuckin’ me, and I-“ Dean says your name as you press back against the window, brow furrowed in worry. “Baby, it’s- It’s alright, I’m not that pissed-“
“You were yelling,” you choke out, and he swallow.
“Well, I was- Just- C’mere.”
He reaches out, cupping your cheek with the same gentle touch he used to use, right before he kissed you. You gape at him, head spinning, panting like you just ran a marathon.
“I’m not mad,” he rasps, almost pleading, and you shake your head.
“You were-“
“Sweetheart-“
“Why?” You whisper, grabbing his wrist, your nails sinking back into the marks. “Why- Why would you care?”
Dean swallows. He shakes his head, looks out the window, and chuckles.
“Dean-“
“I don’t want you goin’ out with him. And- Call it possessive, or stupid man shit, or- Whatever the hell you want,” he drags his thumb over your cheekbone, voice dropping to something tender, something soft. “You’re my girl. And I want you here, telling me what to do, how to- To be what you need.” His voice cracks. “Come on, baby. Just- Tell me what to be.”
You stare at him, a lot of pieces colliding into each other at once in your head. The diner and the movie and the touching and the caution and-
“Are we dating?” You choke out, and Dean frowns.
“What’d you mean, are we dating?”
“I mean are we dating, Dean, are you- Are you my boyfriend?”
“Uh- Boyfriend kinda makes it sound like we’re sixteen and necking-“
“What the fuck is necking?”
Dean groans, dropping his head. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. Makes me feel fuckin’ fifty.”
Your lips twitch. “You are almost fifty,” you say, and he chuckles.
“Yeah. Guess I am.” He looks back up to you, caution lining his features. “You always seemed to like it.”
You swallow. You did. You’d never been sure if it was the older thing itself, or the fact that it was just Dean, but you’d liked it. You always liked all of him, from the uglier wounds to the beautiful, glowing heart that almost managed to peak through, no matter how thick his steel and iron walls became.
He glides his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, and your breath hitches. He swallows, closes his eyes, and mutters your name.
“Did you… Not think we were dating?”
You shake your head, and Dean snorts dryly.
“Huh,” his mouth curves into a tight smirk. “Makes sense why you wouldn’t kiss me, I guess.”
“You guess?” You squeak, and Dean nods.
“Yeah, makes a lotta sense, actually-“
“How long have we been dating?!” You almost shriek, and he gives you an amused look.
“’Bout three months.”
“Three months?!”
“That’s what I said, baby-“
“Shut- Shut up-“ You plant a hand over his mouth, and he raises his brows. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me we were dating, you- You butt?!”
Dean’s eyes sparkle, looking pointedly down to your hand, and you release him with a scowl. He rubs his jaw, grinning at you like you’re some cute bunny, and you lean back in your seat with a huff.
“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I thought you knew.”
“How would I have known-“
“’Cause I asked you on a date? And you said yes?”
“That- That never happened.” You snap, and Dean frowns.
“Yes, it did. Sammy- He was there-“
“Sam was there-“
“Yeah, and- I said there was a new diner in town, and you said you’d go with me, and we started dating!”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open. Dean stares pointedly back, and you can’t help yourself. You bark out a loud, sharp laugh.
“That was not asking me on a date, you fucking- Oh my god!” You shake your head, and Dean’s frown becomes almost puppy like.
“Yes, it was-“
“You have to actually say it’s a date, Dean! You can’t just- Just ask me to do something, I thought we were just hanging out! As friends.”
He’s pouting now. If you weren’t pissed, it would be adorable. “I- Uh- I paid for everything. And got you gifts.”
“Friends do that-“
“Do friends kiss your face all the time?” Dean twists to fully glare at you, and you pause.
“Um- Maybe?”
Dean snorts. “No, they don’t-“
“But I thought that was just you!” You protest. “You- You’re always- You know-“
“I know?” He mocks, and you scowl.
“We were fucking for a year, Dean,” you snap, tipping up your chin. “I thought you were comfortable with me.”
“I am comfortable with you,” Dean shrugs, leaning slightly forward. “Real comfortable.”
Your nose twitches. He’s too close, now. Consuming your vision, making your vision all stupid and fuzzy. “You’re comfortable with everyone,” you sniff, and he laughs.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, running a hand slowly up your thigh. “We both know that ain’t true.”
You make a tiny, involuntary sound when his fingers dip under your skirt, teasing sensitive, neglected skin. He hasn’t touched you there in so long. Too long. You have to hug yourself to stop your body from flying at him.
“I haven’t fucked anyone else in eighteen damn months,” Dean mutters, holding your gaze. “I’ve been waiting around for you for months, wondering what the hell I was doin’ wrong, and you thought I was just being nice?!”
You swallow, your voice suddenly small. “You are nice,” you whisper, and Dean snorts.
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re nice to me-“
“Because I-“ He cuts himself off, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh. You grab his hand, holding it against you, and his eyes dart down. He heaves a long breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bows his head.
“Dean?” You whisper, and he shakes his head. “Dean, I- I’m sorry I didn’t- You said we were just going to be casual-“
“I know what I said,” he grunts, glaring at your hands. “But I- I didn’t- I thought it would help me.”
You swallow. “Help you?”
“Yeah.”
“With what-“
“You know what.” He finally looks at you, and you’ve never seen him this vulnerable. Almost bowing before you, holding onto your hand like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. “And I can’t- I don’t know how to-“ He takes another ragged breath, gives you another pleading look. “You stopped letting me pretend, you started- You started telling me no, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t.” He swallows. “I’m tryin’ to do this right, baby.” He squeezes your hand, leaning a little closer. “Please let me do this right.”
You blink at him, tears watering in your own eyes, and nod. Dean’s shoulders shudder, and he holds your hand so tight you think he’s trying to just mold you together. He glances at your lips, but doesn’t move. So you do it for him.
Dean stares at you, completely still as you lean forward, his chest so still you’re worried he’s not breathing. You rest your hand lightly on his chest and press the lightest kiss you can to his parted lips. He shakes, one hand flying to your waist, his touch still heartbreakingly delicate. You kiss him again, a little harder, and a low rumble starts in his chest.
You pull back, pressing your brows tight together. Dean stares at you, eyes glossy and blown out, the restraint ticking in his jaw, and you smile softly.
“I love you,” you breathe. “And I- I know you can’t- You know, say it back, but- I love you, Dean.”
His breathing his ragged, and he’s still gaping. You laugh nervously, looking down to your fingers, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.
“If- If you could say something, though, that would be- Um- Nice-“
Dean grunts, and your words fall off into a squeak as Dean drags you forward into his lap.
And this. This is a real kiss. Dean’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his arm wrapping fully around your lower back, his fingers digging into your hips and his other hand cradling the back of your head. He kisses you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, pushing his tongue down your throat and moaning against your mouth. You pull on his shirt and he gropes at your ass, dragging you further into his lap. The pressure of his thigh against your core makes your head spin, but that might just be the lack of oxygen. Neither of you seem to be willing to come up for air, taking sharp, tiny breaths between sloppy kisses.
You whimper, already going limp, and Dean leans back with darkened, shining eyes. You know that look. You used to pray for and dread it all at once. It always made you feel like something close to prey, paralyzed and unable to flee his spell.
But this time is different. This time, there’s nothing you’d rather do but fall into his charm.
Dean presses another, small kiss to your lips, dragging his thumb over the tingling swell. Your tongue flicks against the pad of the finger, and he groans, pushing it slowly between your lips.
You wrap around him, sucking lightly, giving him your best, sweetest Bambi eyes. Dean’s throat bobs, his fingers digging into your ass.
“We’re goin’ home,” he mutters. “Then I’m gonna fuck you.”
That’s a lovely plan. You smile around his thumb, and he says your name, pulling his thumb away with a small pop.
“Jesus, you- You gotta tell me yes-“
“Just fuck me here,” you whisper, pulling on the collar of his shirt.
Dean glances to the backseat, then to you. “Uh- I mean- That’s- If you’re sure-“
“Please,” you push a little further forward, dropping your hand to press against the bulge in his jeans. “I need you, Dean. Now.”
And for a second, you think he’s going to demand going all the way back home. Say something about you deserving a soft bed and gentle loving, when you just want him, filthy and raw and yours. You’re so busy giving him doe eyes, you don’t notice his hand dragging down your spine and your ass, right up until it dips under your skirt, and cups your pussy through your panties.
You gasp, and Dean smirks, slowly rubbing his hand back and forth.
“Need me?” He drawls, pushing his thumb against your clit. “Like this, baby? This how you need me?”
“Ye- yes-“ Your lips brush over his, your hips starting to grind down as he drags his thumb in tiny circle, his hand still rocking back and forth. “Just- Just like that, Dean- Shit-“
You push down, kissing him with a sloppy, uncontrolled mouth. Dean grunts, splaying his free hand against your neck and pushing you down. He’s massive and warm, the hand working your pussy offering just enough friction to work you up, but nothing more. You wrap your arms around his neck, panting against his lips and moving you hips to chase more friction.
“That feels good, doesn’t it,” he mutters, kissing you between every word.
You coo, trying to kiss over his face, and Dean slaps your pussy once, leaning back with a stern glare.
“Doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” you answer immediately, already getting heavy-eyed and dazed. “So- So good, Dean, feels so good, just- More-“ You claw at his shoulders, trying to at least get to some bare skin, and settle for pressing your mouth back over his. “More- Need some more, De, now-“
Dean silences you with a deep, rough kiss, and taps his thumb against your clit in quick, harsh movements, pushing his palm down hard against your aching pussy. You cry out, trying to force your hips further down against him, and Dean squeezes that back of your neck.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Few months without some cock and you get bossy, don’t you.”
“No- No,” you manage to protest. “You’re just- You’re being slow-“
“I’m being slow?” He mocks, running his fingers over the line of your panties. “Baby, I’ve barely fuckin’ started.”
You try to roll your eyes at him, but he uses his hold on your neck to turn your head, forcing your gaze back down to his. Your eyes widen, and he smirks slightly, raising his brows.
“You gonna break out some manners for me?” He asks, slowly dragging your panties to the side. “Or am I gonna need to teach you again?”
“Te- Teach me?” You choke out, and Dean hums.
His thumb drags down from your clit, parting the lips of your pussy and smearing your arousal. Your heart is trying to hammer out of your chest, every nerve in your body seeming to respond to the mockingly sweet touch.
“Dean,” you press your hands against his chest, unsure if you want to push him away or drag him closer. “Don’t- Don’t be mean-“
“I’m not bein’ mean,” he hum, the gleam in his eyes something else all together. “I’m giving my girl exactly what she wants, how she wants it.”
You blink at him hopelessly, and he chuckles, pulling you down into a long, slow kiss. It would be romantic and loving, if it wasn’t for his thumb pushing at your weeping entrance, refusing to dip even a fraction of the way inside.
“Remember how you used to beg for me?” He mutters, and your face burns with a mix of arousal and shame. “I sure as shit do. Spent hours thinkin’ about it lately, planning how I was gonna take you when you let me again. But,” he switches out his thumb for the very tips of his fingers, yanking slightly on your hair when you try to look down. “Jesus, baby, I’m worried I’m gonna break you.”
You shake your head frantically, and Dean raises his brows.
“Words, pretty girl,” he reminds you, pushing his fingers just a little big deeper. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got it, talk to me-“
“I can take it,” you breathe out, watching him under fluttering lashes. “I- I can take it. I promise.”
Dean works his jaw, his grip on your hair tightening. “Sweetheart-“
“Please,” you breathe, leaning down until your noses bump. “I need it. I need you.”
Those are the magic words. Dean stops trying to play noble, stops trying to hold back for the sake of romance. You loved him when he fucked you like a whore and gave you nothing soft, and you’re going to love him even more when he treats you like a toy, then kisses you everywhere after.
Dean smashes his lips against yours and eases his fingers into your waiting pussy, groaning under his breath when you clench down around him.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, scissoring them inside you. “Never gonna get over how fuckin’ tight you are, sweetheart, like you were made for me. Made to be mine.”
He almost snarls the last words against your lips, pushing himself fully up to the knuckle. You mewl as he finds your g-spot with that precision that makes it look easy, that’s always made you sure you couldn’t ever enjoy someone else if you tried.
Dean pumps his fingers slowly, crooking them so they drag against that spot, and pulls you back to watch your face contort with pleasure.
“That’s it,” he grunts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming them right back in and twisting to bully against that sensitive spot. “That’s just how you like it, huh? Already gettin’ like this from just my fingers,” he chuckles, grinding his hips up against your thighs. “Imagine how you’re gonna be on my cock, sweet girl, if you can barely fuckin’ take this?”
“That- That’s not fair-“ You choke out, every word breathy and weak, and Dean just smirks.
“Isn’t it?”
You try to protest, but Dean pushes your head back down, and his kiss knocks almost every thought from your head. It’s all just the familiar, perfect way his mouth moves against yours, rememorizing something that never stopped being his. The wet sound of his fingers working you open fills the car, and your whole body burns with desire and shame. He’s right. You’re already soaked and ready for him, your cunt clenching down and still begging for more. You need that full, impossible split of him. After months of nothing, you’re worried his cock is the only thing that’s going to be able to do it.
But Dean seems to like proving you wrong today. A coil, tight in your stomach, starts to wind tighter and tighter. He drops his grip on your hair for a second to push down on the base of your spine, forcing your cunt almost right over his bulge. He reangles his hand, forcing in another finger, and you make a strangled sound.
“De- Dean-“
“We’re gonna get you relaxed, baby,” he mutters, twisting his wrist so the drag against your g-spot almost rips through your body. “Nice and relaxed ‘f me, you can do it.”
You let out a shaky breath, trying to listen, and your clit pushes down against Dean’s cock, still tight in his jeans. The pressure is perfect, combined with the brutal thrusts of Dean’s hand, and you press your cheek to his.
“That- That’s good,” you pant, clinging to the hem of his shirt. “So- Soo good-“
You whimper, and Dean hums. He’s rubbing your back, and that’s somehow almost as good as the hand obliterating your cunt. “There she is,” he mutters. “Always so good at listening when I got my hands on you, aren’t you sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your head. “That’s my girl.”
That’s what does it. My girl.
The coil snaps, and your orgasm rips through you, making your eyes cross and your body curl limply into Dean’s arms. His hand coaxes you through it, his palm rubbing against your pussy as you mewl and clench around nothing, the light pressure helping you ride it like a long, easy wave.
Dean kisses your cheek when it’s done, then right under your eye, then your nose.
“That’s one,” he mutters, and you whine. He chuckles, hiking your skirt up with light touches. “Come on, you know the rule.”
“Stupid rule,” you grumble. “Never agreed to it.”
“Never heard you complaining before,” he points out, peeling your dress off, and you stick out your tongue.
“That’s because I always forget- Dean!”
He smacks your ass, and you squeak, pussy clenching around nothing. He’s forming a tent in his jeans as he looks up at you, and you narrow your eyes. You fingers brush against the head of him, and his groan falters, his head tipping back against the bench.
You smile, pushing your hand down against his cock, and he catches your wrist, shooting you a stern glare.
“Not at young as I used to be,” he warns, and you giggle.
“But I want to,” you try to pull your hand free, and roll you eyes when he won’t let you. “Oh- Come on-“
“Nope,” he grunts, even as his dick jumps against the fabric. “You know the rule-“
“Dean-“
“Three to one,” he mutters, a dare gleaming in his eyes. “You give me one, I give you six. That’s the fuckin’ deal.”
You laugh, but his mouth doesn’t even twitch, and slowly, your smile falls into something more serious. More determined.
Damn this stubborn beautiful man and his orgasm rules. Damn you, for thinking he ever wouldn’t want to fuck you when he made you orgasm rules that weren’t proportional or fair at all.
You yank your wrist away, stick out your tongue again, and pull your underwear fully off. Dean watches you with his hands tight on your waist, eyes shining with curiosity, but patient.
And you’ve never been good at riding him, but you’ve always been good at this. You climb over Dean’s lap so your ass is near his shoulder and your face in his crotch, your back arched like some animal in heat, your pussy bare and on full display.
Dean’s never been able to help himself. One hand immediately slides around the arch of your back, then the curve of your ass, then settles back against your pussy. The other slides in your hair, petting your hair while you fumble with his belt. He chokes out your name, and you shoot him a glare, pulling out his cock with light, careful hands.
He’s so hard you’re worried he’s going to hurt himself. Pre-cum is beading around his tip, his veins throbbing like a porno. You stroke him slowly, and he lets out a sharp breath between his teeth.
“I’m serious, baby-“
“Prove it,” you say, before licking a slow, teasing stripe up his shaft.
And you know how this game ends. You’ve played it a million times before. The beautiful thing about it is that—especially when Dean thinks he’s winning—you can never lose.
You take him into his mouth, and the sound that he makes is sinful. It’s a choked, rough version of your name that sounds holy from his mouth, and comes with his fingers dipping into your heat like it’s a comfort toy. You take him until he bumps against the back of your throat and hum, swirling your tongue. Dean grunts, and pushes your head a little further down. You wiggle your ass, pussy cold and throbbing, and Dean groans.
“Jesus, woman- Gonna kill me- Fuuuuck-“
You start to bob up and down, sucking with that perfect pressure you know he likes, getting what can’t fit in your mouth in your hand. You can take him better and better with every second, letting his push against your gag reflex, and you drop that hand to play with his balls. Dean’s already giving shallow uncontrolled microthrusts, repeating your name over and over until it’s more of a choked moan.
“Can’t- Shit, baby, I can’t- That damn mouth, you’re gonna- Shit-“
You squeeze his balls and suck as hard as you can, and Dean almost roars your name, his cock jumping as he shoots thick, white ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, licking the rest off your fingers as you rise back up. There’s going to be a handprint on your ass, from where he was holding onto you. You hope you feel it in the morning.
And when you smile at Dean, you know you’re in trouble. Naked and wet for him, crawling forward so your tits press into his face and kissing him as sweetly as possible. Dean grunts, one hand shooting up to cradle the back of your head, and his responding kiss is deceptively gentle. He lets you lead it, groaning when your tongues press together, tasting himself on your lips. He lets you pull his shirt over his head and lets you trace over the lines of his muscles. You smile against his lips and lean back, and there’s that predatory glint again.
Dean’s hand twitches on your back. He wipes your chin, gathering some stray cum and slowly pressing his against your lips. You clean it off obediently, and his jaw ticks.
“Back seat,” he grunts. “Now.”
You almost scramble to listen. Rolling off of him and trying to climb over, making it halfway before you feel massive hands wrapping around your waist, holding you in place. You swallow, trying to twist over your shoulder to look at him, but Dean blows a sharp breath over your clit, and you double over with a squeak.
“De- Dean-“ You plant your hand on the bench, blood rushing to your cheeks. “Dean- wait-“
“Hmmm.” He kisses one curve of your ass, then the other. “Wait for what?”
You’re not really sure. “This- I- I can’t hold myself up,” you fumble, and he chuckles, kissing right over your clit.
“That gonna be a problem?” He teases, pressing smaller, faster kisses over the sensitive button. “Or,” he spreads your ass cheeks, humming against your heat. “Do dirty girls get what they asked for?”
Shit. “It’s uncomfortable,” you whisper, and Dean pauses.
He sighs, then kisses your clit again. You squeak when he drags you back down, and melt into his chest as he kisses all over your face, rocking you back and forth in his arms.
“’S why I wanted the bed,” he mutters, and you sigh.
“’M sorry-“
“No,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, massaging your hips with steady hands. “I’ve got it, just- uh-“
He glances up, and you watch him frown around the car with an openly adoring expression. The work of his jaw and furrow of his brow as he thinks, how he holds you so tight in his arms, it’s impossible to not love him.
“Got it,” he mutters. “Trust me?”
You nod easily, and he glances back down. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and this kiss isn’t feral or brutal. It’s just… slow. Adoring, a silent promise of what you’ve sort of always known.
Dean is going to take care of you.
He lays you out in the backseat, rubbing your thighs as you settle into the cushioned bench. You watch him with your heart in your throat, arms wrapped tight around your stomach. Sometimes, under his attention, you’re not sure what to do with yourself. He’s too pretty, too big, too much in the best possible way.
“Getting’ shy on me?” He teases, pushing up your knee, and you flush.
“N- No.”
“Hm,” Dean pins your leg against the bench, guiding the other one so it hooks over his shoulders. “Sounds like you’re gettin’ shy.”
You swallow, hugging yourself tighter, and he chuckles.
“All that work to make you relax,” he mutters, kissing his way up your thigh. “And you’re already wound back up.”
“You took too long,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” He kisses just the side of your cunt, and your breath hitches as he sucks a small, firm bruise into the skin. “You know I’m gonna make it up to you, yeah?”
You nod weakly, then blurt, “Yes!”
Dean’s mouth twitches, and he grabs one of your wrists, guiding it down to his hair. You weave it between your fingers, your breathing already ragged, your whole body lit up with anticipation.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, kissing the other side of your cunt, massaging your thigh and pushing your leg a little higher. “Nice and easy, pretty girl.” He kisses you pussy, open-mouthed and wet, and you let out a high, shameless sound.
His mouth should be classified as a sex toy or something. It moves and works against you like a machine, kissing you with so much fervor you already start to see stars. You had some recovery from the fingering, but Dean’s already stripping it away with sharp, unrelenting kisses and grazes of his teeth against your clit.
“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against you, the word vibrating through your body. “Never wanna live without this pussy again, baby girl, shit-“
He groans and dives back down, starting to work you open like a man starved. You push on his head, silently begging for more, afraid to open your mouth. The sounds that leave you will be embarrassing, and you’re already too far gone for them.
But Dean likes you loud, and he won’t let you hold back. He hooks his arm fully around your leg, dragging you further down, giving him a better against your pussy. You mewl when he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking impossibly hard, and Dean laughs against your cunt.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ You grab at the front bench, yanking mindlessly on his short hair. “De- Dean- Oh my god-“
He groans, pushing his face impossibly further. His tongue is deliberate and thick, pumping in and out of your cunt before pressing flat on your clit and dragging back and forth. It’s enough to drive you mad, making the coil in your stomach burn and burn and burn until your whole body is shaking with the sensation.
“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “You- Fuck-“
He nips at your clit, dragging a long, slow stripe up your pussy. Your eyes lock, and you swallow, a broken moan falling from your lips. The first time he did this, he told you that he loved it. That there was nothing better than a woman, right on his face, dripping and sweet for him. It didn’t take you long to believe him.
Here, he looks at you like you’re some kind of heaven he’s been allowed to touch. His mouth never stops moving against you, his eyes lidded and almost drunk, and your arousal shining on his face whenever he reangles it to devour you a new way. It’s a sight that could knock you off your feet, if you had any left to stand on. Dean on his knees, his broad, freckled shoulders forcing your knees apart, his attention a drug you never want to bother being clean from again.
You start to shake, your stomach seizing up as you fight off your orgasm, but Dean doesn’t tolerate that either. His mouth goes back against your clit, his tongue darting up and down and back and forth in tiny motions, almost tickling it, making the little nerves light up and-
You cum with a loud, choked sound that’s really supposed to be Dean’s name, and push at his head. You expect him to stop, and finally get on top of you.
But you forgot about his stupid orgasm rule, and he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens and he starts to make out with your overstimulated pussy. You squeak, pushing weakly at his head, and his eyes gleam.
“De- Dean- Fuuuuck- That’s-“ Your eyes roll back, your body seizing up again, almost unable to take so much. “Oh- Oh my gooood-”
Dean groans against you again, and it’s worse than a vibrator. It’s warm and deep and Dean, mixed with his filthy mouth and stubble, scraping against soft skin.Your thighs lock around his head and he lets them, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulls you fully onto your back, pushing himself up onto his knees. His cock bounces against his stomach but he ignores it, using his now free hand to grope at your breast. You moan, clenching around nothing as he laps at your clit and pussy.
“I- I can’t-“ Tears spring at your eyes. “Dean- Please-“
He hums, rolling your nipple between deft fingers, and you throw your head back with a broken moan.
Warm, thick fingers weave through yours, and you blink at him under watery lashes. He’s let go of your breast to hold your hand. His thumb is dragging slowly back and forth, and his mouth isn’t slowing down, but you don’t want it to. You can see the challenge shining in his eyes. You take a ragged breath, give him the smallest nod, and he smiles against your pussy.
You didn’t know the human tongue could move that fast. You’re sure it’s not supposed to, but Dean’s never cared about things like that. He drinks you up like wine, rapidly toying with your clit—swirling and kissing and flicking and sucking like it’s candy—and your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm springs through your body like a geyser.
Dean lowers you down slowly, pressing one last kiss to your swollen kiss before rising back up, wiping his chin of your release and cleaning it off his fingers with a smug grin. His cock is at attention, and your mouth waters. He always gets it in. You’re a little afraid of it right now.
“Six?” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.
“You’re the one who pushed for it, princess.”
“It- It’s your stupid rule-“
“You love it,” he shrugs, slowly settling himself back between your legs. “And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you, baby.”
You wrinkle your nose, and Dean gives you a stern, amused look.
“Aren’t you?” He taps the head of his cock against your cunt, and you squeak.
“Dean-“
“You’re the one who got bratty and cocky, sweetheart,” he drawls, pushing your leg back down. “So you’re gonna take it, ‘cause I know you can.”
You swallow, giving him your best doe-eyes, and he just chuckles. Dean lowers himself down, presses a gentle kiss to your brow, and murmurs against your skin.
“That ain’t gettin’ you out of this.”
You press your face into the crook of his neck, and Dean smiles, kissing the side of your head.
“All shy again,” he mutters, dragging that massive cock between the lips of your pussy. “Let’s take care of that, huh?”
You cling to him as he rolls you both over, guiding your legs to straddle his torso and lining up his cock with your weeping, abused pussy. He pulls you gently up, rubbing your side and watching you a painfully adoring gaze. You try to cover yourself again, and he catches your hand, shaking his head.
“Come on,” he mutters, weaving your fingers together. “Let me see you.”
And damn him for being so soft and sweet, you don’t think you could tell him no if you wanted.
“Take it easy,” he says, wrapping both of his hands around your waist. “All you, baby. Show me what you want.”
“I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.”
You believe him, in a way you’d never believe anyone else. It might be how he looks at you. Like you’re an angel over him, like you’re really, truly letting him enter paradise as you sink down onto his cock.
He grunts, his fingers tightening against your body as his cock slowly splits you open. Even with how much he’s worked you open—your pussy so wet it’s already dripping onto his thighs—it’s a tight fit. You can feel every vein dragging inside of you, the hard curve pressing right into your g-spot and making you flutter around him.
Dean jerks his head up, squeezing his eyes shut, and you swallow.
“Sorry-“
“’S- ‘S alright,” he exhales sharply, relaxing back into the seat. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, baby. I’m good.”
A smile ghosts over your lips, even as you start to only breathe through your nose. “You look it,” you tease, and Dean gives you a half annoyed, half impressed look.
“You’re tight,” he grunts, and your smile widens.
“You’re big.”
He groans, throwing his head further back, and you giggle again. He’s sitting just right again, his chest rippling under your hands, and you feel like that angel. You feel like a goddess, with how his hands are dragging over your body, how your name falls from his lips.
“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, eyes raking over your body. “So perfect.”
You take a deep breath, and start to grind down onto his cock. Dean groans, one hand dragging down to squeeze your ass, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless you beg him, and you’re determined not to. You can ride him until your thighs give out. His cock bumps against your g-spot, and his abdomen drags near your clit, and it feels good. You rock back and forth a little faster, your breath catching, and Dean groans.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Pretty fuckin’ girl, riding my cock like the needy little thing you are, aren’t you. So fuckin’ wet for me, baby, so- so tight-“
He groans, and you push down on his chest, picking up your pace.
“So big, Dean,” you moan, pushing up your chest like a pornstar, trying to make him break first. “You’re so big, feels so- so good-“
You moan, tossing your hair, and Dean makes an almost feral sound.
But he doesn’t break. The bastard never breaks, and you’ve never been good at riding him. Your thighs are already sore, and they quickly start to ache, making your movements smaller and weaker. Dean watches you start to whine, your brow furrowing in concentration, and just smiles. You both know what he’s waiting for. You don’t want to give in.
“So quiet, sweetheart,” he coos, running his hand up to palm at your breast. “Someone drove by, they’d think I wasn’t fuckin’ you properly.”
You glare at him, unable to even speak, and he chuckles.
“You know what you gotta do, baby girl.”
“Fu- Fuck you-“
“I will,” he winks. “If my girl says please.”
Your eyes narrow. His grin widens, and you think you might be about to fly apart with how bad you need it. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid face that you love and his big cock that makes you all jelly and dazed thoughts and useless.
“Please-“
The word barely leaves your mouth before Dean moves. A single, well-aimed thrust up into your cunt that makes you fall apart. You fall forward onto his chest with a scream, and Dean groans, giving shallower, gentle thrusts to work you through the orgasm.
“I know,” he murmurs in you ear, his words painfully soft in comparison to the pleasure wracking your body. “I know, princess. Two more to go.”
You don’t think you can take two more. Four has been your max for a very long time, and that was with a lot more prep time and space between orgasms. But Dean doesn’t seem like he’s going to give you much of a choice.
You’re a doll in his arms again, when he hauls you up into his lap. His cock leaves you for a single second, just for the adjustment, and you whimper at the loss.
Dean hums, kissing all over your face as he slides back in.
“That’s my girl,” he starts to rock your hips back and forth with steady hands, picking you up then dropping your back down so his dick drags through every inch of your heat. “Takin’ me so good. Just like that, feel that, baby-“ He pushes on your lower back, making his cock slam against your g-spot, and you sob against his neck. “Feel how fuckin’ good we fit together, my girl.”
Dean’s voice is lined with something darker now. More possessive and hungry. He fucks up into your like an animal, dips drilling forward and mouth attached to your neck. All you can do is take it, over and over until your eyes are crossing and the only words you can remember are babbles of Dean and please.
The neck orgasm is slow, blooming from where he’s slamming against your cervix and spreading pleasantly through your body. Dean moans against your skin, mouthing at your jaw and neck, his tongue dragging and kisses messy. When you try to kiss him back, it’s mostly with a mewl and lips that follow his lead. Everything is humid and light in your body, everything is Dean around you, and there’s a new, strangely hot sensation in your core that’s demanding all of your attention.
It’s tighter than the usual coil, and gets hotter and hotter with every thrust of Dean’s cock. He’s getting uneven now, his own words falling into pants and moans, his balls slapping against your ass and hands leaving prints as he folds you fully over his chest.
“One- One more-“ His voice is gravelly, almost as wrecked as you feel. “Milk my fuckin’ cock, baby girl, cum for me-“
You open your mouth to warn him about the strange feeling, but it’s too late. Dean slams home, crashing his mouth against yours, and you cum with a hoarse scream. Hot cum shoots into your cunt, right as something gushes out of you in wet, burning waves. It feels good, so good you can’t think, so good your mouth hangs open and your moans turn into pathetic, weak babbles.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ Dean groans against your mouth. “Fuckin’- Yes-“
Your body seizes and twitches around him, but even when he’s done, Dean doesn’t pull out. The last of your release pushes itself out and her collapses backward, rubbing your back and craning his neck to grin at your cockdrunk expression.
“Gettin’ stupid?” He teases, and you can’t manage to raise an arm, so you just bite his nose. He laughs, leaning up to steal another, quick kiss from your lips before settling back down.
You curl over him, resting your head against his shoulder while he pets your head, both of you still panting and coming back down. You might be there for a hundred years, or just an hour. It doesn’t matter. The car is going to reek of sex for maybe a year. Sam might never agree to ride in it again. But it was worth it. More than worth it, when you look up at Dean, and find him—just as always—already looking back.
“We’re still dating, right?” You whisper, because you have to be sure.
Dean grins, and kisses you slowly. You hum, letting your eyes flutter shut. Letting him carry you, whenever he thinks is safe to go.
“Yeah,” he mutters, and you can hear it in his voice. All the love he’s been trying to show you, for who knows how long. “We are."
✦End note: if i write enough of these it's gonna happen to me guys trust ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦summary: dean learns, slowly, that he's actually pretty good at being boyfriend material. it would be nice if you'd stop pining after him long enough to notice✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, friends with benefits to lovers, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love because it's the best way to be, dean's down so bad, shameless smut (facesitting, praise kink, big dick dean, fingering, pussy spanking, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, mean dean, dean has an orgasm rule and you. benefit. dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 12.5k✦
✦author's note: request! super normal about this one✦
You tell yourself, over and over again, that this is going to be the last time. It’s not something that’s meant to be held onto, so you can just… let go.
But then you find yourself here. Between tangled sheets with your legs spread wide, your nails digging into Dean’s bicep and his cock dragging through your wet, sensitive cunt.
“There you go,” he coos in your ear, every thrust deep and rough. “That’s my girl, takin’ me so good, so- Good-“
Dean moans, pressing up against the soft, gummy spot inside of you, and your eyes roll back in your head.
He always does this. He knocks on your door and grabs your face between big hands, and suddenly all that resolve and determination—never again—dissolves with your willpower. His hands are rough and calloused, but trace your hips and hold you down so gently, you can almost pretend he cares if you break. His cock is thick and impossibly long, and he always drags it between your soaked heat and bumps it against your clit before pushing himself in just right. His lips are chapped and soft, sucking possessive marks into your neck that he has no right to claim, but that doesn’t stop you from running your fingers through his hair and holding him right where he is. He wouldn’t dare to leave. Not in the middle of this. Not before you’ve both gotten what you want.
What Dean wants. You don’t let yourself pretend that this is everything you need anymore. It’s the only hope you have of one day telling him no, because the rest of you control rests on a thin rope, and it always slips from your hands the moment Dean touches you like you matter.
You never walk away from him with an aching, unsatisfied body. A few nights ago he put you on his face and made you ride until your thighs were shaking and tears were springing into your eyes. Before this, he spit on your cunt and scissored you open with thick, careful finger, kissing and nipping at your thighs as your greedy pussy swallowed him right up to the knuckle. Even now, as every roll of his hips becomes smaller—as his face twists in concentration and his mouth against your jaw becomes desperate—Dean’s thumbing at your clit, trying to get you over the edge with him.
“C’mon, baby, c’mon-“ He pushes himself up to his knees, forcing a deeper, rougher angle. “Show me what you’ve got, I know you can do it, come on-
You whimper, staring up at him under lidded, glazed eyes. The whole world is just a blur of color at this point, but Dean is bright and clear. The heave of his broad shoulder and chest, every muscle in his arm as he wraps it around your waist and makes you arch your back, the flex of his abdomen as he ruts forward like a feral dog. The sharp, unforgiving thrusts are making your head spin with pleasure, turning you into a boneless wreck of need. You grab his arm, trying to steady yourself against something, and Dean’s attention rips up.
He says he likes to watch himself fuck you, and you’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s spent whole sessions just staring at his cock or fingers splitting your cunt open. He likes putting you on his face because he can watch you react. You like it better like that, usually. The eye contact is too close. Too intimate. Too real.
But you grab him, and he looks at you, and it’s almost like a shot. His eyes are blown-out and so strangely soft, staring at your wrecked, open expression with too much, too much, too much-
“De- Deeean-“ You cry it out like a pray, because it is. Dean grunts, hips snapping, the wet sound filling up the air and his eyes never leaving yours. “Dean- Dean- Fuck, please- Please-“
You’re babbling. You never do that with anyone else, but Dean is Dean, and he makes you do things you never counted yourself capable of. He groans your name, and you squeal when he drags you up, off the mattress and straddling his thighs. Your clit drags against his abdomen, his cock bullies right against your g-spot, and Dean grabs your jaw with a single, painfully gentle hand.
“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, still holding your gaze, even as your eyes start to cross. “Soak this fuckin’ cock, baby, cum-“
You almost scream as your orgasm rips through you, and Dean crashes his mouth against yours, eating every whimper and moan with harsh lips and his tongue down your throat. You press into him, pussy gushing and fluttering around his dick, and he makes that deep, rumbling sound that always comes right before-
“Shit-“ Dean gasps against your mouth, pulling you so close you can’t feel anything but the heat of his bare chest, the sensation of his cock twitching and pumping in your cunt. “Fuuck-“
Dean moans your name, and a warm, pleasant heat starts to spread through your tummy and drip between your thighs. He doesn’t stop moving until his cock is softened, and you don’t try to stop him. You’re barely more than a limp doll right now, returning his kisses with tiny mewls, eyes crossed and body limp.
For a moment after it’s done, you stay tangled together. You always do. It’s the most dangerous part of the whole thing, because it feeds that tiny little fool in your chest, who refuses to believe that this is just sex. Who takes your heartstrings and weaves grand worlds where Dean loves you back, and you’re going to be just fine.
Dean kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter closed. There’s an advantage, to being a crybaby whenever he fucks you stupid. He never once has considered that the tears might be real.
“Think you can walk?” He mutters, still buried deep inside of you, still holding you like he cares.
You shake your head, and his mouth twitches against yours.
“Alright, pretty girl. I’ve got you.”
And you press your face into the crook of his neck, letting that fool take you over. She takes his words as gospel. My girl and I’ve got you and Baby, they’re exactly what he means and nothing more, nothing less.
When the logical part of your brain wakes back up—Dean’s always had this ability to hit a button in you, sliding his hand around the back of your neck and making all your thoughts just bubblegum feelings and electric colors—you’re going to remember why you always say this has to be the last time.
He’s perfect, and he’s not yours. He makes that perfectly clear, until he pulls these little stunts and ends up buried between your thighs. You agreed that he wasn’t yours, when this arrangement started.
Safer with someone you know, he’d told you, like he hasn’t fucked his way across the entire country. Easier. Nothing to worry about, when it’s you and me.
And you’d been a starry-eyed, gooey hearted fool who just wanted whatever part of Dean he was willing to show you. The burning love you kept tended in your ribs hadn’t seen a problem with adding fuel to the wildfire, even if Dean was never going to see it. But now he’s carrying you to the bathroom like a princess, and he’s going to be gone in the morning, and that wildfire is an inferno. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You can map out everything he’d ever say in response to your feelings, from the harsh sneer he would’ve given when he had the Mark of Cain, to the kinder let down you’d get now.
You’re too young, he’d say, like it was a consolation prize. And I like you, sweetheart, but I don’t do this kinda thing. Not with girls young enough to be my daughter. Not with kids that I hunt with. Not with you.
You press your face further into his neck. He’s always so warm and sturdy, a massive tree that’s offering you just as much shade crushing, unbearable weight and tangled roots that keep you pressed down. He smells like leather and whiskey and something perfectly, faintly spice. You want to drown in it. You want to drown in him.
“You good?” Dean asks, and his voice is too gentle. It rattles the little fool, screaming for the rest of you to listen and just accept that he loves you.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.
“You’re bein’ quiet, even for- Y’know-“ He chuckles, that low, insufferably charming pride crawling into his voice. “After I fuck you dumb.”
“You did not fuck me dumb,” you mumble against his skin, and you can hear his grin.
“Big words from the girl who couldn’t talk five minutes ago.”
“That was unrelated.”
“Unrelated,” he echoes, his thumb dragging a small circle against your spine. “Always forget how bratty you get after, sweetheart. Dangerous.”
You roll your eyes, and hug him tighter. He laughs, and kisses the side of your head, and he has the nerve to call you dangerous.
“You wanna watch a movie?” He asks, leaning down to run the water, still keeping you tucked so carefully against his chest, and all you can do is nod. Dean sighs. “C’mon, gimme a little more than that-“
“Yes, please,” you mumble, and he pauses.
It’s only a fraction of a second. You don’t understand it, and you don’t want to. Not when he feeds your delusions and kisses your brow again, then your cheek, then your lips. And you let him. You always let him, because you’re a foolish, stupid, lovesick idiot. You don’t want his affection, not like this. But you don’t want to lose him—it would be like ripping a vital organ out of your ribcage, even if you didn’t know you had it a year ago—and you can’t ever tell him to stop being so sweet without explaining yourself, and getting that gentle, horrible let down.
You don’t want it. You don’t want any of it. And this, this had to be the last time.
You hold the line. You don’t know how, but you hold that line with white knuckles and grit teeth and a taste like bile in the back of your throat.
Dean knocks on the door, only two nights later, and you don’t answer. He calls your name and you sink into the mattress, praying he just thinks you’re asleep.
“I just- Uh- I wanted to talk?” He says, and you press your face into the pillow like that can somehow shield you. “Really, that’s it. Just talking, so- If you could-“
Dean sighs. You can hear the please, hanging between every word, but Dean doesn’t really say please. He just begs with everything else in him, or gives up. And you can picture him running his hand over his face, the heavy look in his eyes, the defeated sag in his shoulders. It’s like a knife being driven through your gut, and you sit up, ready to open the door-
“Alright,” he mutters, and you freeze. “Night, baby. Sleep well.”
Footsteps retreat, and you stay there on the mattress, frozen and lost, adrift in a sea you dove into.
But you did it. You held the line.
And you keep it. It makes sweat bead and your skin burn, but you close the door and don’t open it back up. You’re done, and you’re going to keep it that way.
Dean doesn’t ask questions. You don’t know if you want him to or not, but it doesn’t matter, because you catch him staring and giving out signals, but he’s taken your no in stride, and doesn’t seem to have any plans to push back against it. When this started, you agreed to leave out a specific book on the war room table if either of you wanted something. Dean starts to leave it out every night, and you never go to his door, and one night, it vanishes.
And that’s fine. That’s exactly what you wanted.
And if it feels like you’re dying because of it, and if you spend an hour over the toilet dry heaving that night, that’s no one’s business but your own.
“Dean’s been grumpy lately,” Sam says one morning, and you blink at him over your coffee.
“Grumpy? Dean? That’s- Woah-“
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Sam gives you a flat look. “You know what I mean. Grumpier.”
You shrug, looking back to your mug. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”
“Uh huh.”
You can feel Sam’s stare. It makes you itchy and small, and you’re not sure if you want to punch him or run. You settle for staring at your coffee harder. It’s the easiest course of action.
“Dean needs to get laid,” Sam repeats your words, something strange—almost sharp—in his tone, and you nod.
“That’s what I said.”
“Dean-“
“What’s up?” Dean walks into the kitchen, stopping right behind you, and you hunch over like you can grow a shell to protect yourself.
Even just a few feet away, he’s always so warm.
“Uh- Hey, Dean-“
“Hey,” Dean mocks back, and Sam huffs.
“Dude-“
“Shut your face-“
“I didn’t say anything- I-“ Sam says your name, and you glance up. His brow is furrowed with worry, his eyes locked on Dean behind you. “We were just-“
“Just what?” Dean snaps. “Just talking? Shooting the shit, getting real comfortable?”
Sam sighs. “Dean-“
“I got a gun, Sammy,” Dean points firmly, and you stare at his finger like a woman driven mad with thirst. “Don’t forget that.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “We all have guns, that- That threat doesn’t do anything-“
“I’ll show you doing something- Hey-“
Dean says your name, and you freeze. You’d been trying to slip out while they fought, but Dean—goddamn him—had noticed. He always notices. You love him so much it’s going to make you cave in on yourself, and maybe take the whole bunker with you, like a dying star.
He catches your arm, and you can’t stop yourself from looking at him. His brow is knit, his jaw locked, and his handsome face has deep lines you only used to see when the world was ending. There are bags under his eyes. Deeper than usual. You want to smooth the lines with your thumb and kiss his jaw until he relaxes, but that’s not your ache to soothe.
Dean doesn’t say anything. You can’t say anything. He looks exhausted, and there’s a lump forming in your throat.
“You- You hungry?” Dean rasps, and you’re starving.
“No,” you breathe before you can think, and Dean swallows.
“Well, when you’re hungry- There’s a diner in town-“
“Henry’s?”
“No, uh- A new one. I- I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go, later, or something.”
“Or something?” You tilt your head, and Dean nods.
“Whatever you want.”
God, he’s cruel. He’s perfect and cruel, and you want to vomit on his flannel and kiss him until you pass out.
“Oh- Okay,” you say, because you’re only so strong.
The lines in Dean’s face relax. His grip loosens. Then Sam coughs, and Dean lets you go.
The diner is… nice. Nice and easy, in a way you haven’t felt in longer than you want to admit. Dean insists on driving you, and paying, and sitting in one of those booths with your feet bumping under the table.
He presses his knee forward, while he orders. You swallow and don’t allow yourself to think much of it. He’s warm through his jeans, but he’s always warm, and he hasn’t tried anything in a few weeks, so you allow it. Your love for him hasn’t been flickering out, but the harsh wind of his absence has made everything feel colder. It’s okay, to indulge yourself in something so small. You’re still keeping it together. You’re still holding the line.
“So, uh-“ Dean clears his throat, turning his bottle in his hands. “How are you?”
“How- Am I?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly. “I- I’m okay. How are you?”
“Good. Great.” He frowns at the table. “You know. Same as always.”
You almost laugh. “You’re always great?”
“I focus on the positives, sweetheart-“
“No, you don’t.”
He rolls his eyes, glancing up to hold your light, amused gaze. His mouth twitches. His fingers tap against the glass, and you try not to let yourself sink too deep into the attention.
It’s okay to drown a little. A long as you don’t drop the line.
“Maybe I’m turning a new leaf,” he says, and your face splits into a full smile.
“You?”
“Yeah, me. Why’d you say it like that-“
“Because you’ve never turned a leaf in your life-“
“Ah-“ He points the head of his bottle at you with a grin. “Not true. Remember when I started learning guitar?”
“Yeah, you smashed it on a werewolf’s head after a month.”
“That was a tactical choice, I would’ve kept playing if the wolf didn’t get in the way.”
“Uh huh.” You lean back in your seat, crossing your arms. “What songs had you learned to play?”
Dean’s nose wrinkles. “Hey, we don’t need to talk about that-“
“I think we do.”
“Nah, I mean- I only had a month-“
“You learned how to work a rocket launcher in a week.”
“That’s just buttons and triggers, sweetheart. Even you could work it.”
“Even I?” You raise your brows—trying not to let the delight shine too bright in your voice—and Dean freezes.
“I mean- uh- You’re not great with guns, and- I could teach you-“
“You could teach me.”
“Maybe? If you wanted- Or-“ Dean groans, slumping back. “Stop givin’ me that look.”
“I’m not giving you any look,” you tease, and Dean sighs.
“Will you stop if I say I’m an idiot?”
You soften slightly. “You’re not an idiot, Dean-“
“You sure?” He grumbles. “Kinda feeling like one right now.”
You laugh, but it’s gentle. You can almost see him pushing down into himself. It makes you heavy for him, like you’re trying to take that invisible weight off his shoulders, even if he can’t feel you helping the pain. “You’re a dork,” you say, bumping his knee under the table. “But you’re not an idiot.”
Dean grunts, watching you under hooded eyes, and you smile easily.
You missed this, more than you want to tell him. Just talking, without worrying that it’s going to end in world-changing, back-breaking, beautifully heart-aching sex. He feels like your friend again, closer to your fingertips than he’d been when he was balls deep inside of you.
“Wonderwall,” he grunts suddenly. “And Hallelujah.”
You blink. “What?”
“Those were the songs,” he mutters, picking at the label of his bottle. “That I got, before I smashed the guitar.”
“Oh,” you pause. “I love Hallelujah.”
“Yeah. I know.”
You stare at him, and he stares right back. A faint flush is threatening your cheeks, so you duck your head to hide it, and Dean lets out a soft laugh.
“You alright-“
“Yep. I- I’m good-“
“You look good.” Dean laughs again, when you shoot him a glare. “Don’t gimme that face, I’m saying something nice-“
“You’re being a butt,” you stick out your tongue, and his eyes dance with an easy kind of light that almost makes your heart stop.
“You’re the one who was callin’ me old earlier,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes.
“You are old.”
“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you, has it.”
Your mouth falls open, eyes going so wide it almost hurts, and Dean grins at you. If you weren’t shocked into static, you’d slap him or- or lunge across the table and kiss him-
Hold the line.
“Aged wine is supposed to be better,” you manage to say, somehow, and Dean laughs, loud and free.
“That all I am to you? Some wine?”
“No,” you smile at your plate. “You’re also very good cheese.”
“Good cheese, huh.”
“Mhm.” You point a stern finger at him. “No puns.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but dips his head. “Yes, ma’am.”
There’s the flush. You’d keep trying to hide it, if Dean didn’t start talking about something unimportant and easy, and suddenly you forgot to be embarrassed. He’s not trying to kiss you or get you back to the car. He’s just… Talking to you. Dropping that light, teasing praise like it’s nothing, then telling you a story about when he used a tuba to beat a poltergeist, grinning like a winner every time you laugh.
When lunch is over, he rests a hand lightly on your lower back, but doesn’t do much more. He kisses your cheek when you get back to the bunker, and asks if you want to watch a movie tomorrow night. You swallow, locking your hands together like they can force the line to stay firm. Dean says your name, almost panicked, and you blink up at him.
“Just a movie,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Out in town, at- Uh- That shitty theatre next to the coffee place. Or- I can try and find a drive-in, if those still exist-“
“They do,” you say softly, and he swallows. “There’s one out in Beloit.”
“Beloit,” Dean mutters. “Yeah- Yeah, okay. You wanna go there?”
You nod, and he grins. You smile back, and it feels… Different. Shy, in a way you haven’t been around him since he first started fucking you. Almost delicate. You weren’t supposed to let this feel like something delicate.
Dean jaw works, and you can almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes. He lurches slightly, brow furrowed, then pulls back up. You’re seconds from asking him what’s wrong when he just leans down and… does it.
His lips graze your cheek, his hand brushing against your waist, and you almost melt right into him.
But then he stands back up, and takes a large step away. You swallow, resisting the urge to reach up and brush your fingers over where he kissed. It’s not like he’s never done that before, but again.
It just feels different.
“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and you nod weakly.
If you had a mind that was thinking in more than bursts of glee and songs of Dean, Dean, Dean, you’d tell him that you live together, and he’s always going to see you tomorrow. But he walks away, and you let him, and it doesn’t hurt. There’s a space that he left, but something in you seems to think he’s going to come back. You can’t tell if it’s the fool or not.
For once, you decide not to try.
The movie is nice. Dean rests his hand on your knee, but doesn’t go any higher. You lean into his side, and his arm goes around your shoulders, but there’s no kissing or dragging into the back seat, and you didn’t know there could be a better way to be close to him. Sex is great. Looking up and finding him already watching you is better.
He brushes some hair from your face, and you half expect him to kiss you. His eyes dart down to your lips like he wants to. Your fingers curl in his shirt, and his throat bobs.
“You likin’ the movie?” He whispers, and you nod.
“Good find,” you breathe, and he grins.
“Thanks. Eat the popcorn, it cost me a billion bucks.”
You roll your eyes, and throw some of the over-buttered, half-burnt popcorn at his face. He laughs, catches a kernel in his mouth, and grabs your chin between two fingers. Your breath catches. He just turns your face back to the screen, and pulls you a little closer into his side.
The movie ends the same way the diner did. Dean walks you to your bedroom door like it’s the porch of your house, kisses your cheek, then walks away.
Then, after the movie, you play mini golf. You win, but you know he let you. He buys you a snow cone and licks it off his nose when he eats it like a rabid dog. You wipe a little extra off his cheek, and he stares at you, but still doesn’t kiss you. Not fully. His hand seems to always rest on your lower back, now, but that’s all the contact you get. All that you allow.
Hugs are on the table, too. They’re somehow more dangerous than the forehead kisses. After the hugs, he sometimes just stares at you and cups your cheek, and your heart moves into your throat until you think you’re going to spill it out all over his chest.
You manage to keep it together. For the sake of this new, slowly growing garden of what your friendship is becoming, you swallow your love with greater ease and more bile than you ever did while you were fucking. After the mini golf you get dinner and see another movie. You convince him to go on a walk with you, and he hates it less than he pretends to. You eat together in the bunker and call when he’s on a hunt with Sam and go to a car show and it all feels like breathing.
Sometimes he still looks at your mouth, and you freeze up, unsure if you want him to kiss you or not. You know you want him, but somehow you’ve found even more to lose than before, and if it slips through your fingers, you’re not sure they’re ever going to stop shaking and groping at the empty spaces again. You can take holding his hand in the bookstore while he peers over your shoulder, pretending to be interested for no real reason other than to make you smile.
“There are so many of them,” he mutters, and you giggle.
“There’s a lot of ways to write words, Dean.”
“Yeah, but- You’d think there would be repeats or something.”
“There probably are,” you shrug, running your fingers over the spines. “But they’re still all fun.”
Dean sighs, squeezing your upper arm. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and all his features relax.
“You want some coffee?” He brushes some hair from your face and you nod.
“There’s a shop next door, could you get me-“
“Hey,” Dean flicks your nose, grinning roguishly. “Trust me, I know what you want.”
You nod a little stupidly, and his smile falters. He looks to your lips again, then almost shakes himself, taking a small step.
“Don’t move,” he squeezes your arm again, then backs away. You watch him go, unable to help yourself, and smile when he looks back. He does that all the time now. And he always smiles back.
You turn back to the shelf, looking at the books without actually looking. You already miss him, and he told you not to move, but that can’t count if you’re going to stand next to him in the coffee line, can it-
“Hey.”
You fumble slightly, turning to find a man leaning against the shelf and smirking at you. You blink, and his smirk widens.
“What’s girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”
“The… Bookstore?” You frown, and he laughs. You don’t think you said anything all that funny.
“Look, I just- I saw you from over there,” he nods vaguely, and you frown. “And I thought you were cute. Can I get you some coffee or something?”
“My- My friend is already getting me coffee,” you say, and your voice sounds strangely far away.
The man nods, but doesn’t retreat. “Alright, then can I get your number? Maybe beat your friend to coffee next time?”
And you don’t want to say yes, but this is a chance. To hold onto this new friendship with Dean while also getting over him at the same time. This man isn’t ugly. Compared to Dean, no one really stands a chance anyway, and you have to get over him eventually.
So you give him your number, and try not to feel like you just did something wrong.
Dean clears his throat from behind you, and you spin around on your heels, a sour guilt twisting in your gut.
“You- You’re back,” you say, and he grunts.
He’s not look at you. He’s glaring at the man with the same, deadly glint that he gives monsters and demons before he cuts them in half. You touch his arm lightly, and he tenses. You feel sick.
“Hey, buddy,” he snaps at the man, who—not seeming to understand the gravity of Dean’s glare—grins back.
“Hey.” He winks at you, slowly backing away. “Have fun with your friend.”
Dean’s coffee spills over the top of it’s lid. He doesn’t look away from the man when he leaves the store. He shoves your drink into your hand, not meeting your gaze.
“Dean-“
“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he mutters, and you swallow.
“Oh- Okay.”
Your arm wraps around your stomach, and you press a little away from him, from the wrath seeming to wave off his body like a volcano. He glances down, jaw tight and a vein in his brow ticking. You stare at his neck, unable to hold the weight of his gaze. He lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.
“Get your book.”
You shake you head. “No- It- It’s okay-“
Dean says your name, and your mouth snaps shut. “Just- Get the damn book.”
He looks like he’s in pain, and you don’t know how to fix it, so you do as he says. You get a cheap one, that worm of guilt burrowing deeper and deeper into your gut until you can’t even drink your coffee without feeling like it’s going to come back up.
Dean’s fingers dig into your back, when he guides you out the door. He starts the engine by almost punching in the keys, and holds Baby’s wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. You can see all the anger brimming under the surface of his skin, and worried you’re just going to make it worse. You don’t even know where it came from. It’s not like you’re together, or the guy said something rude. You open and close your mouth too many times to count, then give up, shrinking back into your seat.
Dean looks over at you. You try to look out the window, and nowhere else.
A loud, sharp breath escapes him. “Son of a- Alright.”
You look over with a frown, then squeak when he yanks the wheel off to the side.
“Shit- Dean-“
“Just- Fuck-“ He bows he head, glaring down at his legs, and you swallow.
You fidget with your fingers, watching him nervously, waiting for him to break the silence. It takes while. So long you think about just getting out of the car to give him space.
But then he looks up, and your heart gets cleaved open. His face is twisted in pain, his lips parted and his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard.
“What-“ He takes a deep breath, scanning over your openly confused features. “What else am I supposed to be doin’?”
You blink at him, fingers curling in your lap. “What?” You ask softly, and his throat bobs.
“I- I’m really trying,” he mutters, looking back to his hands. “I swear to god, baby, I’m tryin’ my best, and- I know I ain’t amazing at this but- If you could throw a guy a rope when he’s never- I’ve never done this, alright.” He waves between your bodies, jaw clenched tight. “And I’m really givin’ it my best shot, but I’m still not allowed to kiss you, and you’re takin’ numbers right- Right in front of me- So just- Something.” He gives you a pleading, broken look, eyes shining on yours in the dark. “Anything.”
You open your mouth, but you can’t even figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to say. You know all the words he’s saying, but it’s like he’s speaking a language you never learned, spitting out a code you’re just supposed to magically understand. Dean’s jaw ticks, when you don’t answer, and you try to sputter out an answer, but he’s too loud to hear your confused whimper.
“Look, just- Whatever the hell you do need me to do, I’ll do it, I swear I’ll do it, but- You gotta tell me, sweetheart-“
“Tell you what?!” You almost shout, and Dean leans back in surprise. “Dean, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dean huffs a low laugh, looking back out to the road. “Yeah. Alright,” he grabs the keys, voice rough and pained. “Sure. Whatever-“
“No.” You grab his wrist before he can start to the engine. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”
“It doesn’t matter-“
“Yes, it does-“
“Nah.”
“Dean-“
“You wanna call that guy, call ‘im.” There’s an almost toxically bitter sound to the words, and Dean’s making a face like he just got shot. “Whatever. See if I care.”
Your nails dig into his wrist, when he tries to yank it away. He shoots you a glare, the bags—gone, after months of ease—already starting to form.
“C’mon, kid, just- let go-“
“Would you care?”
Your question is small, but it makes Dean recoil like it burned. He scoffs, but it’s too loud, and you hold him tighter.
“Would you care-“
“No, I fuckin’ love watching douchebags parade around with my girl, who would care about something like that?”
Something snaps, right at the base of your spine. You sit so tall you’d think someone is dragging you by the nape of your neck, and Dean blinks in something close to surprise.
“What-“
“Your girl,” you whisper. “That’s- I’m- Why would you say that?”
Dean blinks. “Why wouldn’t I say that?”
“Because you and I- We’re not- That’s-“ You lean back, letting go of his wrist, and when you look down, you’ve left little crescent marks in the skin. “No- No- You didn’t- You said no- No strings-“
“Yeah, and then you stopped fuckin’ me, and I-“ Dean says your name as you press back against the window, brow furrowed in worry. “Baby, it’s- It’s alright, I’m not that pissed-“
“You were yelling,” you choke out, and he swallow.
“Well, I was- Just- C’mere.”
He reaches out, cupping your cheek with the same gentle touch he used to use, right before he kissed you. You gape at him, head spinning, panting like you just ran a marathon.
“I’m not mad,” he rasps, almost pleading, and you shake your head.
“You were-“
“Sweetheart-“
“Why?” You whisper, grabbing his wrist, your nails sinking back into the marks. “Why- Why would you care?”
Dean swallows. He shakes his head, looks out the window, and chuckles.
“Dean-“
“I don’t want you goin’ out with him. And- Call it possessive, or stupid man shit, or- Whatever the hell you want,” he drags his thumb over your cheekbone, voice dropping to something tender, something soft. “You’re my girl. And I want you here, telling me what to do, how to- To be what you need.” His voice cracks. “Come on, baby. Just- Tell me what to be.”
You stare at him, a lot of pieces colliding into each other at once in your head. The diner and the movie and the touching and the caution and-
“Are we dating?” You choke out, and Dean frowns.
“What’d you mean, are we dating?”
“I mean are we dating, Dean, are you- Are you my boyfriend?”
“Uh- Boyfriend kinda makes it sound like we’re sixteen and necking-“
“What the fuck is necking?”
Dean groans, dropping his head. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. Makes me feel fuckin’ fifty.”
Your lips twitch. “You are almost fifty,” you say, and he chuckles.
“Yeah. Guess I am.” He looks back up to you, caution lining his features. “You always seemed to like it.”
You swallow. You did. You’d never been sure if it was the older thing itself, or the fact that it was just Dean, but you’d liked it. You always liked all of him, from the uglier wounds to the beautiful, glowing heart that almost managed to peak through, no matter how thick his steel and iron walls became.
He glides his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, and your breath hitches. He swallows, closes his eyes, and mutters your name.
“Did you… Not think we were dating?”
You shake your head, and Dean snorts dryly.
“Huh,” his mouth curves into a tight smirk. “Makes sense why you wouldn’t kiss me, I guess.”
“You guess?” You squeak, and Dean nods.
“Yeah, makes a lotta sense, actually-“
“How long have we been dating?!” You almost shriek, and he gives you an amused look.
“’Bout three months.”
“Three months?!”
“That’s what I said, baby-“
“Shut- Shut up-“ You plant a hand over his mouth, and he raises his brows. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me we were dating, you- You butt?!”
Dean’s eyes sparkle, looking pointedly down to your hand, and you release him with a scowl. He rubs his jaw, grinning at you like you’re some cute bunny, and you lean back in your seat with a huff.
“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I thought you knew.”
“How would I have known-“
“’Cause I asked you on a date? And you said yes?”
“That- That never happened.” You snap, and Dean frowns.
“Yes, it did. Sammy- He was there-“
“Sam was there-“
“Yeah, and- I said there was a new diner in town, and you said you’d go with me, and we started dating!”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open. Dean stares pointedly back, and you can’t help yourself. You bark out a loud, sharp laugh.
“That was not asking me on a date, you fucking- Oh my god!” You shake your head, and Dean’s frown becomes almost puppy like.
“Yes, it was-“
“You have to actually say it’s a date, Dean! You can’t just- Just ask me to do something, I thought we were just hanging out! As friends.”
He’s pouting now. If you weren’t pissed, it would be adorable. “I- Uh- I paid for everything. And got you gifts.”
“Friends do that-“
“Do friends kiss your face all the time?” Dean twists to fully glare at you, and you pause.
“Um- Maybe?”
Dean snorts. “No, they don’t-“
“But I thought that was just you!” You protest. “You- You’re always- You know-“
“I know?” He mocks, and you scowl.
“We were fucking for a year, Dean,” you snap, tipping up your chin. “I thought you were comfortable with me.”
“I am comfortable with you,” Dean shrugs, leaning slightly forward. “Real comfortable.”
Your nose twitches. He’s too close, now. Consuming your vision, making your vision all stupid and fuzzy. “You’re comfortable with everyone,” you sniff, and he laughs.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, running a hand slowly up your thigh. “We both know that ain’t true.”
You make a tiny, involuntary sound when his fingers dip under your skirt, teasing sensitive, neglected skin. He hasn’t touched you there in so long. Too long. You have to hug yourself to stop your body from flying at him.
“I haven’t fucked anyone else in eighteen damn months,” Dean mutters, holding your gaze. “I’ve been waiting around for you for months, wondering what the hell I was doin’ wrong, and you thought I was just being nice?!”
You swallow, your voice suddenly small. “You are nice,” you whisper, and Dean snorts.
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re nice to me-“
“Because I-“ He cuts himself off, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh. You grab his hand, holding it against you, and his eyes dart down. He heaves a long breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bows his head.
“Dean?” You whisper, and he shakes his head. “Dean, I- I’m sorry I didn’t- You said we were just going to be casual-“
“I know what I said,” he grunts, glaring at your hands. “But I- I didn’t- I thought it would help me.”
You swallow. “Help you?”
“Yeah.”
“With what-“
“You know what.” He finally looks at you, and you’ve never seen him this vulnerable. Almost bowing before you, holding onto your hand like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. “And I can’t- I don’t know how to-“ He takes another ragged breath, gives you another pleading look. “You stopped letting me pretend, you started- You started telling me no, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t.” He swallows. “I’m tryin’ to do this right, baby.” He squeezes your hand, leaning a little closer. “Please let me do this right.”
You blink at him, tears watering in your own eyes, and nod. Dean’s shoulders shudder, and he holds your hand so tight you think he’s trying to just mold you together. He glances at your lips, but doesn’t move. So you do it for him.
Dean stares at you, completely still as you lean forward, his chest so still you’re worried he’s not breathing. You rest your hand lightly on his chest and press the lightest kiss you can to his parted lips. He shakes, one hand flying to your waist, his touch still heartbreakingly delicate. You kiss him again, a little harder, and a low rumble starts in his chest.
You pull back, pressing your brows tight together. Dean stares at you, eyes glossy and blown out, the restraint ticking in his jaw, and you smile softly.
“I love you,” you breathe. “And I- I know you can’t- You know, say it back, but- I love you, Dean.”
His breathing his ragged, and he’s still gaping. You laugh nervously, looking down to your fingers, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.
“If- If you could say something, though, that would be- Um- Nice-“
Dean grunts, and your words fall off into a squeak as Dean drags you forward into his lap.
And this. This is a real kiss. Dean’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his arm wrapping fully around your lower back, his fingers digging into your hips and his other hand cradling the back of your head. He kisses you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, pushing his tongue down your throat and moaning against your mouth. You pull on his shirt and he gropes at your ass, dragging you further into his lap. The pressure of his thigh against your core makes your head spin, but that might just be the lack of oxygen. Neither of you seem to be willing to come up for air, taking sharp, tiny breaths between sloppy kisses.
You whimper, already going limp, and Dean leans back with darkened, shining eyes. You know that look. You used to pray for and dread it all at once. It always made you feel like something close to prey, paralyzed and unable to flee his spell.
But this time is different. This time, there’s nothing you’d rather do but fall into his charm.
Dean presses another, small kiss to your lips, dragging his thumb over the tingling swell. Your tongue flicks against the pad of the finger, and he groans, pushing it slowly between your lips.
You wrap around him, sucking lightly, giving him your best, sweetest Bambi eyes. Dean’s throat bobs, his fingers digging into your ass.
“We’re goin’ home,” he mutters. “Then I’m gonna fuck you.”
That’s a lovely plan. You smile around his thumb, and he says your name, pulling his thumb away with a small pop.
“Jesus, you- You gotta tell me yes-“
“Just fuck me here,” you whisper, pulling on the collar of his shirt.
Dean glances to the backseat, then to you. “Uh- I mean- That’s- If you’re sure-“
“Please,” you push a little further forward, dropping your hand to press against the bulge in his jeans. “I need you, Dean. Now.”
And for a second, you think he’s going to demand going all the way back home. Say something about you deserving a soft bed and gentle loving, when you just want him, filthy and raw and yours. You’re so busy giving him doe eyes, you don’t notice his hand dragging down your spine and your ass, right up until it dips under your skirt, and cups your pussy through your panties.
You gasp, and Dean smirks, slowly rubbing his hand back and forth.
“Need me?” He drawls, pushing his thumb against your clit. “Like this, baby? This how you need me?”
“Ye- yes-“ Your lips brush over his, your hips starting to grind down as he drags his thumb in tiny circle, his hand still rocking back and forth. “Just- Just like that, Dean- Shit-“
You push down, kissing him with a sloppy, uncontrolled mouth. Dean grunts, splaying his free hand against your neck and pushing you down. He’s massive and warm, the hand working your pussy offering just enough friction to work you up, but nothing more. You wrap your arms around his neck, panting against his lips and moving you hips to chase more friction.
“That feels good, doesn’t it,” he mutters, kissing you between every word.
You coo, trying to kiss over his face, and Dean slaps your pussy once, leaning back with a stern glare.
“Doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” you answer immediately, already getting heavy-eyed and dazed. “So- So good, Dean, feels so good, just- More-“ You claw at his shoulders, trying to at least get to some bare skin, and settle for pressing your mouth back over his. “More- Need some more, De, now-“
Dean silences you with a deep, rough kiss, and taps his thumb against your clit in quick, harsh movements, pushing his palm down hard against your aching pussy. You cry out, trying to force your hips further down against him, and Dean squeezes that back of your neck.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Few months without some cock and you get bossy, don’t you.”
“No- No,” you manage to protest. “You’re just- You’re being slow-“
“I’m being slow?” He mocks, running his fingers over the line of your panties. “Baby, I’ve barely fuckin’ started.”
You try to roll your eyes at him, but he uses his hold on your neck to turn your head, forcing your gaze back down to his. Your eyes widen, and he smirks slightly, raising his brows.
“You gonna break out some manners for me?” He asks, slowly dragging your panties to the side. “Or am I gonna need to teach you again?”
“Te- Teach me?” You choke out, and Dean hums.
His thumb drags down from your clit, parting the lips of your pussy and smearing your arousal. Your heart is trying to hammer out of your chest, every nerve in your body seeming to respond to the mockingly sweet touch.
“Dean,” you press your hands against his chest, unsure if you want to push him away or drag him closer. “Don’t- Don’t be mean-“
“I’m not bein’ mean,” he hum, the gleam in his eyes something else all together. “I’m giving my girl exactly what she wants, how she wants it.”
You blink at him hopelessly, and he chuckles, pulling you down into a long, slow kiss. It would be romantic and loving, if it wasn’t for his thumb pushing at your weeping entrance, refusing to dip even a fraction of the way inside.
“Remember how you used to beg for me?” He mutters, and your face burns with a mix of arousal and shame. “I sure as shit do. Spent hours thinkin’ about it lately, planning how I was gonna take you when you let me again. But,” he switches out his thumb for the very tips of his fingers, yanking slightly on your hair when you try to look down. “Jesus, baby, I’m worried I’m gonna break you.”
You shake your head frantically, and Dean raises his brows.
“Words, pretty girl,” he reminds you, pushing his fingers just a little big deeper. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got it, talk to me-“
“I can take it,” you breathe out, watching him under fluttering lashes. “I- I can take it. I promise.”
Dean works his jaw, his grip on your hair tightening. “Sweetheart-“
“Please,” you breathe, leaning down until your noses bump. “I need it. I need you.”
Those are the magic words. Dean stops trying to play noble, stops trying to hold back for the sake of romance. You loved him when he fucked you like a whore and gave you nothing soft, and you’re going to love him even more when he treats you like a toy, then kisses you everywhere after.
Dean smashes his lips against yours and eases his fingers into your waiting pussy, groaning under his breath when you clench down around him.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, scissoring them inside you. “Never gonna get over how fuckin’ tight you are, sweetheart, like you were made for me. Made to be mine.”
He almost snarls the last words against your lips, pushing himself fully up to the knuckle. You mewl as he finds your g-spot with that precision that makes it look easy, that’s always made you sure you couldn’t ever enjoy someone else if you tried.
Dean pumps his fingers slowly, crooking them so they drag against that spot, and pulls you back to watch your face contort with pleasure.
“That’s it,” he grunts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming them right back in and twisting to bully against that sensitive spot. “That’s just how you like it, huh? Already gettin’ like this from just my fingers,” he chuckles, grinding his hips up against your thighs. “Imagine how you’re gonna be on my cock, sweet girl, if you can barely fuckin’ take this?”
“That- That’s not fair-“ You choke out, every word breathy and weak, and Dean just smirks.
“Isn’t it?”
You try to protest, but Dean pushes your head back down, and his kiss knocks almost every thought from your head. It’s all just the familiar, perfect way his mouth moves against yours, rememorizing something that never stopped being his. The wet sound of his fingers working you open fills the car, and your whole body burns with desire and shame. He’s right. You’re already soaked and ready for him, your cunt clenching down and still begging for more. You need that full, impossible split of him. After months of nothing, you’re worried his cock is the only thing that’s going to be able to do it.
But Dean seems to like proving you wrong today. A coil, tight in your stomach, starts to wind tighter and tighter. He drops his grip on your hair for a second to push down on the base of your spine, forcing your cunt almost right over his bulge. He reangles his hand, forcing in another finger, and you make a strangled sound.
“De- Dean-“
“We’re gonna get you relaxed, baby,” he mutters, twisting his wrist so the drag against your g-spot almost rips through your body. “Nice and relaxed ‘f me, you can do it.”
You let out a shaky breath, trying to listen, and your clit pushes down against Dean’s cock, still tight in his jeans. The pressure is perfect, combined with the brutal thrusts of Dean’s hand, and you press your cheek to his.
“That- That’s good,” you pant, clinging to the hem of his shirt. “So- Soo good-“
You whimper, and Dean hums. He’s rubbing your back, and that’s somehow almost as good as the hand obliterating your cunt. “There she is,” he mutters. “Always so good at listening when I got my hands on you, aren’t you sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your head. “That’s my girl.”
That’s what does it. My girl.
The coil snaps, and your orgasm rips through you, making your eyes cross and your body curl limply into Dean’s arms. His hand coaxes you through it, his palm rubbing against your pussy as you mewl and clench around nothing, the light pressure helping you ride it like a long, easy wave.
Dean kisses your cheek when it’s done, then right under your eye, then your nose.
“That’s one,” he mutters, and you whine. He chuckles, hiking your skirt up with light touches. “Come on, you know the rule.”
“Stupid rule,” you grumble. “Never agreed to it.”
“Never heard you complaining before,” he points out, peeling your dress off, and you stick out your tongue.
“That’s because I always forget- Dean!”
He smacks your ass, and you squeak, pussy clenching around nothing. He’s forming a tent in his jeans as he looks up at you, and you narrow your eyes. You fingers brush against the head of him, and his groan falters, his head tipping back against the bench.
You smile, pushing your hand down against his cock, and he catches your wrist, shooting you a stern glare.
“Not at young as I used to be,” he warns, and you giggle.
“But I want to,” you try to pull your hand free, and roll you eyes when he won’t let you. “Oh- Come on-“
“Nope,” he grunts, even as his dick jumps against the fabric. “You know the rule-“
“Dean-“
“Three to one,” he mutters, a dare gleaming in his eyes. “You give me one, I give you six. That’s the fuckin’ deal.”
You laugh, but his mouth doesn’t even twitch, and slowly, your smile falls into something more serious. More determined.
Damn this stubborn beautiful man and his orgasm rules. Damn you, for thinking he ever wouldn’t want to fuck you when he made you orgasm rules that weren’t proportional or fair at all.
You yank your wrist away, stick out your tongue again, and pull your underwear fully off. Dean watches you with his hands tight on your waist, eyes shining with curiosity, but patient.
And you’ve never been good at riding him, but you’ve always been good at this. You climb over Dean’s lap so your ass is near his shoulder and your face in his crotch, your back arched like some animal in heat, your pussy bare and on full display.
Dean’s never been able to help himself. One hand immediately slides around the arch of your back, then the curve of your ass, then settles back against your pussy. The other slides in your hair, petting your hair while you fumble with his belt. He chokes out your name, and you shoot him a glare, pulling out his cock with light, careful hands.
He’s so hard you’re worried he’s going to hurt himself. Pre-cum is beading around his tip, his veins throbbing like a porno. You stroke him slowly, and he lets out a sharp breath between his teeth.
“I’m serious, baby-“
“Prove it,” you say, before licking a slow, teasing stripe up his shaft.
And you know how this game ends. You’ve played it a million times before. The beautiful thing about it is that—especially when Dean thinks he’s winning—you can never lose.
You take him into his mouth, and the sound that he makes is sinful. It’s a choked, rough version of your name that sounds holy from his mouth, and comes with his fingers dipping into your heat like it’s a comfort toy. You take him until he bumps against the back of your throat and hum, swirling your tongue. Dean grunts, and pushes your head a little further down. You wiggle your ass, pussy cold and throbbing, and Dean groans.
“Jesus, woman- Gonna kill me- Fuuuuck-“
You start to bob up and down, sucking with that perfect pressure you know he likes, getting what can’t fit in your mouth in your hand. You can take him better and better with every second, letting his push against your gag reflex, and you drop that hand to play with his balls. Dean’s already giving shallow uncontrolled microthrusts, repeating your name over and over until it’s more of a choked moan.
“Can’t- Shit, baby, I can’t- That damn mouth, you’re gonna- Shit-“
You squeeze his balls and suck as hard as you can, and Dean almost roars your name, his cock jumping as he shoots thick, white ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, licking the rest off your fingers as you rise back up. There’s going to be a handprint on your ass, from where he was holding onto you. You hope you feel it in the morning.
And when you smile at Dean, you know you’re in trouble. Naked and wet for him, crawling forward so your tits press into his face and kissing him as sweetly as possible. Dean grunts, one hand shooting up to cradle the back of your head, and his responding kiss is deceptively gentle. He lets you lead it, groaning when your tongues press together, tasting himself on your lips. He lets you pull his shirt over his head and lets you trace over the lines of his muscles. You smile against his lips and lean back, and there’s that predatory glint again.
Dean’s hand twitches on your back. He wipes your chin, gathering some stray cum and slowly pressing his against your lips. You clean it off obediently, and his jaw ticks.
“Back seat,” he grunts. “Now.”
You almost scramble to listen. Rolling off of him and trying to climb over, making it halfway before you feel massive hands wrapping around your waist, holding you in place. You swallow, trying to twist over your shoulder to look at him, but Dean blows a sharp breath over your clit, and you double over with a squeak.
“De- Dean-“ You plant your hand on the bench, blood rushing to your cheeks. “Dean- wait-“
“Hmmm.” He kisses one curve of your ass, then the other. “Wait for what?”
You’re not really sure. “This- I- I can’t hold myself up,” you fumble, and he chuckles, kissing right over your clit.
“That gonna be a problem?” He teases, pressing smaller, faster kisses over the sensitive button. “Or,” he spreads your ass cheeks, humming against your heat. “Do dirty girls get what they asked for?”
Shit. “It’s uncomfortable,” you whisper, and Dean pauses.
He sighs, then kisses your clit again. You squeak when he drags you back down, and melt into his chest as he kisses all over your face, rocking you back and forth in his arms.
“’S why I wanted the bed,” he mutters, and you sigh.
“’M sorry-“
“No,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, massaging your hips with steady hands. “I’ve got it, just- uh-“
He glances up, and you watch him frown around the car with an openly adoring expression. The work of his jaw and furrow of his brow as he thinks, how he holds you so tight in his arms, it’s impossible to not love him.
“Got it,” he mutters. “Trust me?”
You nod easily, and he glances back down. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and this kiss isn’t feral or brutal. It’s just… slow. Adoring, a silent promise of what you’ve sort of always known.
Dean is going to take care of you.
He lays you out in the backseat, rubbing your thighs as you settle into the cushioned bench. You watch him with your heart in your throat, arms wrapped tight around your stomach. Sometimes, under his attention, you’re not sure what to do with yourself. He’s too pretty, too big, too much in the best possible way.
“Getting’ shy on me?” He teases, pushing up your knee, and you flush.
“N- No.”
“Hm,” Dean pins your leg against the bench, guiding the other one so it hooks over his shoulders. “Sounds like you’re gettin’ shy.”
You swallow, hugging yourself tighter, and he chuckles.
“All that work to make you relax,” he mutters, kissing his way up your thigh. “And you’re already wound back up.”
“You took too long,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” He kisses just the side of your cunt, and your breath hitches as he sucks a small, firm bruise into the skin. “You know I’m gonna make it up to you, yeah?”
You nod weakly, then blurt, “Yes!”
Dean’s mouth twitches, and he grabs one of your wrists, guiding it down to his hair. You weave it between your fingers, your breathing already ragged, your whole body lit up with anticipation.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, kissing the other side of your cunt, massaging your thigh and pushing your leg a little higher. “Nice and easy, pretty girl.” He kisses you pussy, open-mouthed and wet, and you let out a high, shameless sound.
His mouth should be classified as a sex toy or something. It moves and works against you like a machine, kissing you with so much fervor you already start to see stars. You had some recovery from the fingering, but Dean’s already stripping it away with sharp, unrelenting kisses and grazes of his teeth against your clit.
“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against you, the word vibrating through your body. “Never wanna live without this pussy again, baby girl, shit-“
He groans and dives back down, starting to work you open like a man starved. You push on his head, silently begging for more, afraid to open your mouth. The sounds that leave you will be embarrassing, and you’re already too far gone for them.
But Dean likes you loud, and he won’t let you hold back. He hooks his arm fully around your leg, dragging you further down, giving him a better against your pussy. You mewl when he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking impossibly hard, and Dean laughs against your cunt.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ You grab at the front bench, yanking mindlessly on his short hair. “De- Dean- Oh my god-“
He groans, pushing his face impossibly further. His tongue is deliberate and thick, pumping in and out of your cunt before pressing flat on your clit and dragging back and forth. It’s enough to drive you mad, making the coil in your stomach burn and burn and burn until your whole body is shaking with the sensation.
“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “You- Fuck-“
He nips at your clit, dragging a long, slow stripe up your pussy. Your eyes lock, and you swallow, a broken moan falling from your lips. The first time he did this, he told you that he loved it. That there was nothing better than a woman, right on his face, dripping and sweet for him. It didn’t take you long to believe him.
Here, he looks at you like you’re some kind of heaven he’s been allowed to touch. His mouth never stops moving against you, his eyes lidded and almost drunk, and your arousal shining on his face whenever he reangles it to devour you a new way. It’s a sight that could knock you off your feet, if you had any left to stand on. Dean on his knees, his broad, freckled shoulders forcing your knees apart, his attention a drug you never want to bother being clean from again.
You start to shake, your stomach seizing up as you fight off your orgasm, but Dean doesn’t tolerate that either. His mouth goes back against your clit, his tongue darting up and down and back and forth in tiny motions, almost tickling it, making the little nerves light up and-
You cum with a loud, choked sound that’s really supposed to be Dean’s name, and push at his head. You expect him to stop, and finally get on top of you.
But you forgot about his stupid orgasm rule, and he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens and he starts to make out with your overstimulated pussy. You squeak, pushing weakly at his head, and his eyes gleam.
“De- Dean- Fuuuuck- That’s-“ Your eyes roll back, your body seizing up again, almost unable to take so much. “Oh- Oh my gooood-”
Dean groans against you again, and it’s worse than a vibrator. It’s warm and deep and Dean, mixed with his filthy mouth and stubble, scraping against soft skin.Your thighs lock around his head and he lets them, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulls you fully onto your back, pushing himself up onto his knees. His cock bounces against his stomach but he ignores it, using his now free hand to grope at your breast. You moan, clenching around nothing as he laps at your clit and pussy.
“I- I can’t-“ Tears spring at your eyes. “Dean- Please-“
He hums, rolling your nipple between deft fingers, and you throw your head back with a broken moan.
Warm, thick fingers weave through yours, and you blink at him under watery lashes. He’s let go of your breast to hold your hand. His thumb is dragging slowly back and forth, and his mouth isn’t slowing down, but you don’t want it to. You can see the challenge shining in his eyes. You take a ragged breath, give him the smallest nod, and he smiles against your pussy.
You didn’t know the human tongue could move that fast. You’re sure it’s not supposed to, but Dean’s never cared about things like that. He drinks you up like wine, rapidly toying with your clit—swirling and kissing and flicking and sucking like it’s candy—and your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm springs through your body like a geyser.
Dean lowers you down slowly, pressing one last kiss to your swollen kiss before rising back up, wiping his chin of your release and cleaning it off his fingers with a smug grin. His cock is at attention, and your mouth waters. He always gets it in. You’re a little afraid of it right now.
“Six?” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.
“You’re the one who pushed for it, princess.”
“It- It’s your stupid rule-“
“You love it,” he shrugs, slowly settling himself back between your legs. “And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you, baby.”
You wrinkle your nose, and Dean gives you a stern, amused look.
“Aren’t you?” He taps the head of his cock against your cunt, and you squeak.
“Dean-“
“You’re the one who got bratty and cocky, sweetheart,” he drawls, pushing your leg back down. “So you’re gonna take it, ‘cause I know you can.”
You swallow, giving him your best doe-eyes, and he just chuckles. Dean lowers himself down, presses a gentle kiss to your brow, and murmurs against your skin.
“That ain’t gettin’ you out of this.”
You press your face into the crook of his neck, and Dean smiles, kissing the side of your head.
“All shy again,” he mutters, dragging that massive cock between the lips of your pussy. “Let’s take care of that, huh?”
You cling to him as he rolls you both over, guiding your legs to straddle his torso and lining up his cock with your weeping, abused pussy. He pulls you gently up, rubbing your side and watching you a painfully adoring gaze. You try to cover yourself again, and he catches your hand, shaking his head.
“Come on,” he mutters, weaving your fingers together. “Let me see you.”
And damn him for being so soft and sweet, you don’t think you could tell him no if you wanted.
“Take it easy,” he says, wrapping both of his hands around your waist. “All you, baby. Show me what you want.”
“I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.”
You believe him, in a way you’d never believe anyone else. It might be how he looks at you. Like you’re an angel over him, like you’re really, truly letting him enter paradise as you sink down onto his cock.
He grunts, his fingers tightening against your body as his cock slowly splits you open. Even with how much he’s worked you open—your pussy so wet it’s already dripping onto his thighs—it’s a tight fit. You can feel every vein dragging inside of you, the hard curve pressing right into your g-spot and making you flutter around him.
Dean jerks his head up, squeezing his eyes shut, and you swallow.
“Sorry-“
“’S- ‘S alright,” he exhales sharply, relaxing back into the seat. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, baby. I’m good.”
A smile ghosts over your lips, even as you start to only breathe through your nose. “You look it,” you tease, and Dean gives you a half annoyed, half impressed look.
“You’re tight,” he grunts, and your smile widens.
“You’re big.”
He groans, throwing his head further back, and you giggle again. He’s sitting just right again, his chest rippling under your hands, and you feel like that angel. You feel like a goddess, with how his hands are dragging over your body, how your name falls from his lips.
“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, eyes raking over your body. “So perfect.”
You take a deep breath, and start to grind down onto his cock. Dean groans, one hand dragging down to squeeze your ass, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless you beg him, and you’re determined not to. You can ride him until your thighs give out. His cock bumps against your g-spot, and his abdomen drags near your clit, and it feels good. You rock back and forth a little faster, your breath catching, and Dean groans.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Pretty fuckin’ girl, riding my cock like the needy little thing you are, aren’t you. So fuckin’ wet for me, baby, so- so tight-“
He groans, and you push down on his chest, picking up your pace.
“So big, Dean,” you moan, pushing up your chest like a pornstar, trying to make him break first. “You’re so big, feels so- so good-“
You moan, tossing your hair, and Dean makes an almost feral sound.
But he doesn’t break. The bastard never breaks, and you’ve never been good at riding him. Your thighs are already sore, and they quickly start to ache, making your movements smaller and weaker. Dean watches you start to whine, your brow furrowing in concentration, and just smiles. You both know what he’s waiting for. You don’t want to give in.
“So quiet, sweetheart,” he coos, running his hand up to palm at your breast. “Someone drove by, they’d think I wasn’t fuckin’ you properly.”
You glare at him, unable to even speak, and he chuckles.
“You know what you gotta do, baby girl.”
“Fu- Fuck you-“
“I will,” he winks. “If my girl says please.”
Your eyes narrow. His grin widens, and you think you might be about to fly apart with how bad you need it. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid face that you love and his big cock that makes you all jelly and dazed thoughts and useless.
“Please-“
The word barely leaves your mouth before Dean moves. A single, well-aimed thrust up into your cunt that makes you fall apart. You fall forward onto his chest with a scream, and Dean groans, giving shallower, gentle thrusts to work you through the orgasm.
“I know,” he murmurs in you ear, his words painfully soft in comparison to the pleasure wracking your body. “I know, princess. Two more to go.”
You don’t think you can take two more. Four has been your max for a very long time, and that was with a lot more prep time and space between orgasms. But Dean doesn’t seem like he’s going to give you much of a choice.
You’re a doll in his arms again, when he hauls you up into his lap. His cock leaves you for a single second, just for the adjustment, and you whimper at the loss.
Dean hums, kissing all over your face as he slides back in.
“That’s my girl,” he starts to rock your hips back and forth with steady hands, picking you up then dropping your back down so his dick drags through every inch of your heat. “Takin’ me so good. Just like that, feel that, baby-“ He pushes on your lower back, making his cock slam against your g-spot, and you sob against his neck. “Feel how fuckin’ good we fit together, my girl.”
Dean’s voice is lined with something darker now. More possessive and hungry. He fucks up into your like an animal, dips drilling forward and mouth attached to your neck. All you can do is take it, over and over until your eyes are crossing and the only words you can remember are babbles of Dean and please.
The neck orgasm is slow, blooming from where he’s slamming against your cervix and spreading pleasantly through your body. Dean moans against your skin, mouthing at your jaw and neck, his tongue dragging and kisses messy. When you try to kiss him back, it’s mostly with a mewl and lips that follow his lead. Everything is humid and light in your body, everything is Dean around you, and there’s a new, strangely hot sensation in your core that’s demanding all of your attention.
It’s tighter than the usual coil, and gets hotter and hotter with every thrust of Dean’s cock. He’s getting uneven now, his own words falling into pants and moans, his balls slapping against your ass and hands leaving prints as he folds you fully over his chest.
“One- One more-“ His voice is gravelly, almost as wrecked as you feel. “Milk my fuckin’ cock, baby girl, cum for me-“
You open your mouth to warn him about the strange feeling, but it’s too late. Dean slams home, crashing his mouth against yours, and you cum with a hoarse scream. Hot cum shoots into your cunt, right as something gushes out of you in wet, burning waves. It feels good, so good you can’t think, so good your mouth hangs open and your moans turn into pathetic, weak babbles.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ Dean groans against your mouth. “Fuckin’- Yes-“
Your body seizes and twitches around him, but even when he’s done, Dean doesn’t pull out. The last of your release pushes itself out and her collapses backward, rubbing your back and craning his neck to grin at your cockdrunk expression.
“Gettin’ stupid?” He teases, and you can’t manage to raise an arm, so you just bite his nose. He laughs, leaning up to steal another, quick kiss from your lips before settling back down.
You curl over him, resting your head against his shoulder while he pets your head, both of you still panting and coming back down. You might be there for a hundred years, or just an hour. It doesn’t matter. The car is going to reek of sex for maybe a year. Sam might never agree to ride in it again. But it was worth it. More than worth it, when you look up at Dean, and find him—just as always—already looking back.
“We’re still dating, right?” You whisper, because you have to be sure.
Dean grins, and kisses you slowly. You hum, letting your eyes flutter shut. Letting him carry you, whenever he thinks is safe to go.
“Yeah,” he mutters, and you can hear it in his voice. All the love he’s been trying to show you, for who knows how long. “We are."
✦End note: if i write enough of these it's gonna happen to me guys trust ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
I feel so bad for her, trying to protect her heart and keeping her distance. And for Dean, who'd finally found a woman he loves, only for her to withdraw when he 's actually trying to be a decent boyfriend
✦summary: dean learns, slowly, that he's actually pretty good at being boyfriend material. it would be nice if you'd stop pining after him long enough to notice✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, friends with benefits to lovers, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love because it's the best way to be, dean's down so bad, shameless smut (facesitting, praise kink, big dick dean, fingering, pussy spanking, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, mean dean, dean has an orgasm rule and you. benefit. dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 12.5k✦
✦author's note: request! super normal about this one✦
You tell yourself, over and over again, that this is going to be the last time. It’s not something that’s meant to be held onto, so you can just… let go.
But then you find yourself here. Between tangled sheets with your legs spread wide, your nails digging into Dean’s bicep and his cock dragging through your wet, sensitive cunt.
“There you go,” he coos in your ear, every thrust deep and rough. “That’s my girl, takin’ me so good, so- Good-“
Dean moans, pressing up against the soft, gummy spot inside of you, and your eyes roll back in your head.
He always does this. He knocks on your door and grabs your face between big hands, and suddenly all that resolve and determination—never again—dissolves with your willpower. His hands are rough and calloused, but trace your hips and hold you down so gently, you can almost pretend he cares if you break. His cock is thick and impossibly long, and he always drags it between your soaked heat and bumps it against your clit before pushing himself in just right. His lips are chapped and soft, sucking possessive marks into your neck that he has no right to claim, but that doesn’t stop you from running your fingers through his hair and holding him right where he is. He wouldn’t dare to leave. Not in the middle of this. Not before you’ve both gotten what you want.
What Dean wants. You don’t let yourself pretend that this is everything you need anymore. It’s the only hope you have of one day telling him no, because the rest of you control rests on a thin rope, and it always slips from your hands the moment Dean touches you like you matter.
You never walk away from him with an aching, unsatisfied body. A few nights ago he put you on his face and made you ride until your thighs were shaking and tears were springing into your eyes. Before this, he spit on your cunt and scissored you open with thick, careful finger, kissing and nipping at your thighs as your greedy pussy swallowed him right up to the knuckle. Even now, as every roll of his hips becomes smaller—as his face twists in concentration and his mouth against your jaw becomes desperate—Dean’s thumbing at your clit, trying to get you over the edge with him.
“C’mon, baby, c’mon-“ He pushes himself up to his knees, forcing a deeper, rougher angle. “Show me what you’ve got, I know you can do it, come on-
You whimper, staring up at him under lidded, glazed eyes. The whole world is just a blur of color at this point, but Dean is bright and clear. The heave of his broad shoulder and chest, every muscle in his arm as he wraps it around your waist and makes you arch your back, the flex of his abdomen as he ruts forward like a feral dog. The sharp, unforgiving thrusts are making your head spin with pleasure, turning you into a boneless wreck of need. You grab his arm, trying to steady yourself against something, and Dean’s attention rips up.
He says he likes to watch himself fuck you, and you’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s spent whole sessions just staring at his cock or fingers splitting your cunt open. He likes putting you on his face because he can watch you react. You like it better like that, usually. The eye contact is too close. Too intimate. Too real.
But you grab him, and he looks at you, and it’s almost like a shot. His eyes are blown-out and so strangely soft, staring at your wrecked, open expression with too much, too much, too much-
“De- Deeean-“ You cry it out like a pray, because it is. Dean grunts, hips snapping, the wet sound filling up the air and his eyes never leaving yours. “Dean- Dean- Fuck, please- Please-“
You’re babbling. You never do that with anyone else, but Dean is Dean, and he makes you do things you never counted yourself capable of. He groans your name, and you squeal when he drags you up, off the mattress and straddling his thighs. Your clit drags against his abdomen, his cock bullies right against your g-spot, and Dean grabs your jaw with a single, painfully gentle hand.
“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, still holding your gaze, even as your eyes start to cross. “Soak this fuckin’ cock, baby, cum-“
You almost scream as your orgasm rips through you, and Dean crashes his mouth against yours, eating every whimper and moan with harsh lips and his tongue down your throat. You press into him, pussy gushing and fluttering around his dick, and he makes that deep, rumbling sound that always comes right before-
“Shit-“ Dean gasps against your mouth, pulling you so close you can’t feel anything but the heat of his bare chest, the sensation of his cock twitching and pumping in your cunt. “Fuuck-“
Dean moans your name, and a warm, pleasant heat starts to spread through your tummy and drip between your thighs. He doesn’t stop moving until his cock is softened, and you don’t try to stop him. You’re barely more than a limp doll right now, returning his kisses with tiny mewls, eyes crossed and body limp.
For a moment after it’s done, you stay tangled together. You always do. It’s the most dangerous part of the whole thing, because it feeds that tiny little fool in your chest, who refuses to believe that this is just sex. Who takes your heartstrings and weaves grand worlds where Dean loves you back, and you’re going to be just fine.
Dean kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter closed. There’s an advantage, to being a crybaby whenever he fucks you stupid. He never once has considered that the tears might be real.
“Think you can walk?” He mutters, still buried deep inside of you, still holding you like he cares.
You shake your head, and his mouth twitches against yours.
“Alright, pretty girl. I’ve got you.”
And you press your face into the crook of his neck, letting that fool take you over. She takes his words as gospel. My girl and I’ve got you and Baby, they’re exactly what he means and nothing more, nothing less.
When the logical part of your brain wakes back up—Dean’s always had this ability to hit a button in you, sliding his hand around the back of your neck and making all your thoughts just bubblegum feelings and electric colors—you’re going to remember why you always say this has to be the last time.
He’s perfect, and he’s not yours. He makes that perfectly clear, until he pulls these little stunts and ends up buried between your thighs. You agreed that he wasn’t yours, when this arrangement started.
Safer with someone you know, he’d told you, like he hasn’t fucked his way across the entire country. Easier. Nothing to worry about, when it’s you and me.
And you’d been a starry-eyed, gooey hearted fool who just wanted whatever part of Dean he was willing to show you. The burning love you kept tended in your ribs hadn’t seen a problem with adding fuel to the wildfire, even if Dean was never going to see it. But now he’s carrying you to the bathroom like a princess, and he’s going to be gone in the morning, and that wildfire is an inferno. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You can map out everything he’d ever say in response to your feelings, from the harsh sneer he would’ve given when he had the Mark of Cain, to the kinder let down you’d get now.
You’re too young, he’d say, like it was a consolation prize. And I like you, sweetheart, but I don’t do this kinda thing. Not with girls young enough to be my daughter. Not with kids that I hunt with. Not with you.
You press your face further into his neck. He’s always so warm and sturdy, a massive tree that’s offering you just as much shade crushing, unbearable weight and tangled roots that keep you pressed down. He smells like leather and whiskey and something perfectly, faintly spice. You want to drown in it. You want to drown in him.
“You good?” Dean asks, and his voice is too gentle. It rattles the little fool, screaming for the rest of you to listen and just accept that he loves you.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.
“You’re bein’ quiet, even for- Y’know-“ He chuckles, that low, insufferably charming pride crawling into his voice. “After I fuck you dumb.”
“You did not fuck me dumb,” you mumble against his skin, and you can hear his grin.
“Big words from the girl who couldn’t talk five minutes ago.”
“That was unrelated.”
“Unrelated,” he echoes, his thumb dragging a small circle against your spine. “Always forget how bratty you get after, sweetheart. Dangerous.”
You roll your eyes, and hug him tighter. He laughs, and kisses the side of your head, and he has the nerve to call you dangerous.
“You wanna watch a movie?” He asks, leaning down to run the water, still keeping you tucked so carefully against his chest, and all you can do is nod. Dean sighs. “C’mon, gimme a little more than that-“
“Yes, please,” you mumble, and he pauses.
It’s only a fraction of a second. You don’t understand it, and you don’t want to. Not when he feeds your delusions and kisses your brow again, then your cheek, then your lips. And you let him. You always let him, because you’re a foolish, stupid, lovesick idiot. You don’t want his affection, not like this. But you don’t want to lose him—it would be like ripping a vital organ out of your ribcage, even if you didn’t know you had it a year ago—and you can’t ever tell him to stop being so sweet without explaining yourself, and getting that gentle, horrible let down.
You don’t want it. You don’t want any of it. And this, this had to be the last time.
You hold the line. You don’t know how, but you hold that line with white knuckles and grit teeth and a taste like bile in the back of your throat.
Dean knocks on the door, only two nights later, and you don’t answer. He calls your name and you sink into the mattress, praying he just thinks you’re asleep.
“I just- Uh- I wanted to talk?” He says, and you press your face into the pillow like that can somehow shield you. “Really, that’s it. Just talking, so- If you could-“
Dean sighs. You can hear the please, hanging between every word, but Dean doesn’t really say please. He just begs with everything else in him, or gives up. And you can picture him running his hand over his face, the heavy look in his eyes, the defeated sag in his shoulders. It’s like a knife being driven through your gut, and you sit up, ready to open the door-
“Alright,” he mutters, and you freeze. “Night, baby. Sleep well.”
Footsteps retreat, and you stay there on the mattress, frozen and lost, adrift in a sea you dove into.
But you did it. You held the line.
And you keep it. It makes sweat bead and your skin burn, but you close the door and don’t open it back up. You’re done, and you’re going to keep it that way.
Dean doesn’t ask questions. You don’t know if you want him to or not, but it doesn’t matter, because you catch him staring and giving out signals, but he’s taken your no in stride, and doesn’t seem to have any plans to push back against it. When this started, you agreed to leave out a specific book on the war room table if either of you wanted something. Dean starts to leave it out every night, and you never go to his door, and one night, it vanishes.
And that’s fine. That’s exactly what you wanted.
And if it feels like you’re dying because of it, and if you spend an hour over the toilet dry heaving that night, that’s no one’s business but your own.
“Dean’s been grumpy lately,” Sam says one morning, and you blink at him over your coffee.
“Grumpy? Dean? That’s- Woah-“
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Sam gives you a flat look. “You know what I mean. Grumpier.”
You shrug, looking back to your mug. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”
“Uh huh.”
You can feel Sam’s stare. It makes you itchy and small, and you’re not sure if you want to punch him or run. You settle for staring at your coffee harder. It’s the easiest course of action.
“Dean needs to get laid,” Sam repeats your words, something strange—almost sharp—in his tone, and you nod.
“That’s what I said.”
“Dean-“
“What’s up?” Dean walks into the kitchen, stopping right behind you, and you hunch over like you can grow a shell to protect yourself.
Even just a few feet away, he’s always so warm.
“Uh- Hey, Dean-“
“Hey,” Dean mocks back, and Sam huffs.
“Dude-“
“Shut your face-“
“I didn’t say anything- I-“ Sam says your name, and you glance up. His brow is furrowed with worry, his eyes locked on Dean behind you. “We were just-“
“Just what?” Dean snaps. “Just talking? Shooting the shit, getting real comfortable?”
Sam sighs. “Dean-“
“I got a gun, Sammy,” Dean points firmly, and you stare at his finger like a woman driven mad with thirst. “Don’t forget that.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “We all have guns, that- That threat doesn’t do anything-“
“I’ll show you doing something- Hey-“
Dean says your name, and you freeze. You’d been trying to slip out while they fought, but Dean—goddamn him—had noticed. He always notices. You love him so much it’s going to make you cave in on yourself, and maybe take the whole bunker with you, like a dying star.
He catches your arm, and you can’t stop yourself from looking at him. His brow is knit, his jaw locked, and his handsome face has deep lines you only used to see when the world was ending. There are bags under his eyes. Deeper than usual. You want to smooth the lines with your thumb and kiss his jaw until he relaxes, but that’s not your ache to soothe.
Dean doesn’t say anything. You can’t say anything. He looks exhausted, and there’s a lump forming in your throat.
“You- You hungry?” Dean rasps, and you’re starving.
“No,” you breathe before you can think, and Dean swallows.
“Well, when you’re hungry- There’s a diner in town-“
“Henry’s?”
“No, uh- A new one. I- I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go, later, or something.”
“Or something?” You tilt your head, and Dean nods.
“Whatever you want.”
God, he’s cruel. He’s perfect and cruel, and you want to vomit on his flannel and kiss him until you pass out.
“Oh- Okay,” you say, because you’re only so strong.
The lines in Dean’s face relax. His grip loosens. Then Sam coughs, and Dean lets you go.
The diner is… nice. Nice and easy, in a way you haven’t felt in longer than you want to admit. Dean insists on driving you, and paying, and sitting in one of those booths with your feet bumping under the table.
He presses his knee forward, while he orders. You swallow and don’t allow yourself to think much of it. He’s warm through his jeans, but he’s always warm, and he hasn’t tried anything in a few weeks, so you allow it. Your love for him hasn’t been flickering out, but the harsh wind of his absence has made everything feel colder. It’s okay, to indulge yourself in something so small. You’re still keeping it together. You’re still holding the line.
“So, uh-“ Dean clears his throat, turning his bottle in his hands. “How are you?”
“How- Am I?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly. “I- I’m okay. How are you?”
“Good. Great.” He frowns at the table. “You know. Same as always.”
You almost laugh. “You’re always great?”
“I focus on the positives, sweetheart-“
“No, you don’t.”
He rolls his eyes, glancing up to hold your light, amused gaze. His mouth twitches. His fingers tap against the glass, and you try not to let yourself sink too deep into the attention.
It’s okay to drown a little. A long as you don’t drop the line.
“Maybe I’m turning a new leaf,” he says, and your face splits into a full smile.
“You?”
“Yeah, me. Why’d you say it like that-“
“Because you’ve never turned a leaf in your life-“
“Ah-“ He points the head of his bottle at you with a grin. “Not true. Remember when I started learning guitar?”
“Yeah, you smashed it on a werewolf’s head after a month.”
“That was a tactical choice, I would’ve kept playing if the wolf didn’t get in the way.”
“Uh huh.” You lean back in your seat, crossing your arms. “What songs had you learned to play?”
Dean’s nose wrinkles. “Hey, we don’t need to talk about that-“
“I think we do.”
“Nah, I mean- I only had a month-“
“You learned how to work a rocket launcher in a week.”
“That’s just buttons and triggers, sweetheart. Even you could work it.”
“Even I?” You raise your brows—trying not to let the delight shine too bright in your voice—and Dean freezes.
“I mean- uh- You’re not great with guns, and- I could teach you-“
“You could teach me.”
“Maybe? If you wanted- Or-“ Dean groans, slumping back. “Stop givin’ me that look.”
“I’m not giving you any look,” you tease, and Dean sighs.
“Will you stop if I say I’m an idiot?”
You soften slightly. “You’re not an idiot, Dean-“
“You sure?” He grumbles. “Kinda feeling like one right now.”
You laugh, but it’s gentle. You can almost see him pushing down into himself. It makes you heavy for him, like you’re trying to take that invisible weight off his shoulders, even if he can’t feel you helping the pain. “You’re a dork,” you say, bumping his knee under the table. “But you’re not an idiot.”
Dean grunts, watching you under hooded eyes, and you smile easily.
You missed this, more than you want to tell him. Just talking, without worrying that it’s going to end in world-changing, back-breaking, beautifully heart-aching sex. He feels like your friend again, closer to your fingertips than he’d been when he was balls deep inside of you.
“Wonderwall,” he grunts suddenly. “And Hallelujah.”
You blink. “What?”
“Those were the songs,” he mutters, picking at the label of his bottle. “That I got, before I smashed the guitar.”
“Oh,” you pause. “I love Hallelujah.”
“Yeah. I know.”
You stare at him, and he stares right back. A faint flush is threatening your cheeks, so you duck your head to hide it, and Dean lets out a soft laugh.
“You alright-“
“Yep. I- I’m good-“
“You look good.” Dean laughs again, when you shoot him a glare. “Don’t gimme that face, I’m saying something nice-“
“You’re being a butt,” you stick out your tongue, and his eyes dance with an easy kind of light that almost makes your heart stop.
“You’re the one who was callin’ me old earlier,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes.
“You are old.”
“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you, has it.”
Your mouth falls open, eyes going so wide it almost hurts, and Dean grins at you. If you weren’t shocked into static, you’d slap him or- or lunge across the table and kiss him-
Hold the line.
“Aged wine is supposed to be better,” you manage to say, somehow, and Dean laughs, loud and free.
“That all I am to you? Some wine?”
“No,” you smile at your plate. “You’re also very good cheese.”
“Good cheese, huh.”
“Mhm.” You point a stern finger at him. “No puns.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but dips his head. “Yes, ma’am.”
There’s the flush. You’d keep trying to hide it, if Dean didn’t start talking about something unimportant and easy, and suddenly you forgot to be embarrassed. He’s not trying to kiss you or get you back to the car. He’s just… Talking to you. Dropping that light, teasing praise like it’s nothing, then telling you a story about when he used a tuba to beat a poltergeist, grinning like a winner every time you laugh.
When lunch is over, he rests a hand lightly on your lower back, but doesn’t do much more. He kisses your cheek when you get back to the bunker, and asks if you want to watch a movie tomorrow night. You swallow, locking your hands together like they can force the line to stay firm. Dean says your name, almost panicked, and you blink up at him.
“Just a movie,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Out in town, at- Uh- That shitty theatre next to the coffee place. Or- I can try and find a drive-in, if those still exist-“
“They do,” you say softly, and he swallows. “There’s one out in Beloit.”
“Beloit,” Dean mutters. “Yeah- Yeah, okay. You wanna go there?”
You nod, and he grins. You smile back, and it feels… Different. Shy, in a way you haven’t been around him since he first started fucking you. Almost delicate. You weren’t supposed to let this feel like something delicate.
Dean jaw works, and you can almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes. He lurches slightly, brow furrowed, then pulls back up. You’re seconds from asking him what’s wrong when he just leans down and… does it.
His lips graze your cheek, his hand brushing against your waist, and you almost melt right into him.
But then he stands back up, and takes a large step away. You swallow, resisting the urge to reach up and brush your fingers over where he kissed. It’s not like he’s never done that before, but again.
It just feels different.
“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and you nod weakly.
If you had a mind that was thinking in more than bursts of glee and songs of Dean, Dean, Dean, you’d tell him that you live together, and he’s always going to see you tomorrow. But he walks away, and you let him, and it doesn’t hurt. There’s a space that he left, but something in you seems to think he’s going to come back. You can’t tell if it’s the fool or not.
For once, you decide not to try.
The movie is nice. Dean rests his hand on your knee, but doesn’t go any higher. You lean into his side, and his arm goes around your shoulders, but there’s no kissing or dragging into the back seat, and you didn’t know there could be a better way to be close to him. Sex is great. Looking up and finding him already watching you is better.
He brushes some hair from your face, and you half expect him to kiss you. His eyes dart down to your lips like he wants to. Your fingers curl in his shirt, and his throat bobs.
“You likin’ the movie?” He whispers, and you nod.
“Good find,” you breathe, and he grins.
“Thanks. Eat the popcorn, it cost me a billion bucks.”
You roll your eyes, and throw some of the over-buttered, half-burnt popcorn at his face. He laughs, catches a kernel in his mouth, and grabs your chin between two fingers. Your breath catches. He just turns your face back to the screen, and pulls you a little closer into his side.
The movie ends the same way the diner did. Dean walks you to your bedroom door like it’s the porch of your house, kisses your cheek, then walks away.
Then, after the movie, you play mini golf. You win, but you know he let you. He buys you a snow cone and licks it off his nose when he eats it like a rabid dog. You wipe a little extra off his cheek, and he stares at you, but still doesn’t kiss you. Not fully. His hand seems to always rest on your lower back, now, but that’s all the contact you get. All that you allow.
Hugs are on the table, too. They’re somehow more dangerous than the forehead kisses. After the hugs, he sometimes just stares at you and cups your cheek, and your heart moves into your throat until you think you’re going to spill it out all over his chest.
You manage to keep it together. For the sake of this new, slowly growing garden of what your friendship is becoming, you swallow your love with greater ease and more bile than you ever did while you were fucking. After the mini golf you get dinner and see another movie. You convince him to go on a walk with you, and he hates it less than he pretends to. You eat together in the bunker and call when he’s on a hunt with Sam and go to a car show and it all feels like breathing.
Sometimes he still looks at your mouth, and you freeze up, unsure if you want him to kiss you or not. You know you want him, but somehow you’ve found even more to lose than before, and if it slips through your fingers, you’re not sure they’re ever going to stop shaking and groping at the empty spaces again. You can take holding his hand in the bookstore while he peers over your shoulder, pretending to be interested for no real reason other than to make you smile.
“There are so many of them,” he mutters, and you giggle.
“There’s a lot of ways to write words, Dean.”
“Yeah, but- You’d think there would be repeats or something.”
“There probably are,” you shrug, running your fingers over the spines. “But they’re still all fun.”
Dean sighs, squeezing your upper arm. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and all his features relax.
“You want some coffee?” He brushes some hair from your face and you nod.
“There’s a shop next door, could you get me-“
“Hey,” Dean flicks your nose, grinning roguishly. “Trust me, I know what you want.”
You nod a little stupidly, and his smile falters. He looks to your lips again, then almost shakes himself, taking a small step.
“Don’t move,” he squeezes your arm again, then backs away. You watch him go, unable to help yourself, and smile when he looks back. He does that all the time now. And he always smiles back.
You turn back to the shelf, looking at the books without actually looking. You already miss him, and he told you not to move, but that can’t count if you’re going to stand next to him in the coffee line, can it-
“Hey.”
You fumble slightly, turning to find a man leaning against the shelf and smirking at you. You blink, and his smirk widens.
“What’s girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”
“The… Bookstore?” You frown, and he laughs. You don’t think you said anything all that funny.
“Look, I just- I saw you from over there,” he nods vaguely, and you frown. “And I thought you were cute. Can I get you some coffee or something?”
“My- My friend is already getting me coffee,” you say, and your voice sounds strangely far away.
The man nods, but doesn’t retreat. “Alright, then can I get your number? Maybe beat your friend to coffee next time?”
And you don’t want to say yes, but this is a chance. To hold onto this new friendship with Dean while also getting over him at the same time. This man isn’t ugly. Compared to Dean, no one really stands a chance anyway, and you have to get over him eventually.
So you give him your number, and try not to feel like you just did something wrong.
Dean clears his throat from behind you, and you spin around on your heels, a sour guilt twisting in your gut.
“You- You’re back,” you say, and he grunts.
He’s not look at you. He’s glaring at the man with the same, deadly glint that he gives monsters and demons before he cuts them in half. You touch his arm lightly, and he tenses. You feel sick.
“Hey, buddy,” he snaps at the man, who—not seeming to understand the gravity of Dean’s glare—grins back.
“Hey.” He winks at you, slowly backing away. “Have fun with your friend.”
Dean’s coffee spills over the top of it’s lid. He doesn’t look away from the man when he leaves the store. He shoves your drink into your hand, not meeting your gaze.
“Dean-“
“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he mutters, and you swallow.
“Oh- Okay.”
Your arm wraps around your stomach, and you press a little away from him, from the wrath seeming to wave off his body like a volcano. He glances down, jaw tight and a vein in his brow ticking. You stare at his neck, unable to hold the weight of his gaze. He lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.
“Get your book.”
You shake you head. “No- It- It’s okay-“
Dean says your name, and your mouth snaps shut. “Just- Get the damn book.”
He looks like he’s in pain, and you don’t know how to fix it, so you do as he says. You get a cheap one, that worm of guilt burrowing deeper and deeper into your gut until you can’t even drink your coffee without feeling like it’s going to come back up.
Dean’s fingers dig into your back, when he guides you out the door. He starts the engine by almost punching in the keys, and holds Baby’s wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. You can see all the anger brimming under the surface of his skin, and worried you’re just going to make it worse. You don’t even know where it came from. It’s not like you’re together, or the guy said something rude. You open and close your mouth too many times to count, then give up, shrinking back into your seat.
Dean looks over at you. You try to look out the window, and nowhere else.
A loud, sharp breath escapes him. “Son of a- Alright.”
You look over with a frown, then squeak when he yanks the wheel off to the side.
“Shit- Dean-“
“Just- Fuck-“ He bows he head, glaring down at his legs, and you swallow.
You fidget with your fingers, watching him nervously, waiting for him to break the silence. It takes while. So long you think about just getting out of the car to give him space.
But then he looks up, and your heart gets cleaved open. His face is twisted in pain, his lips parted and his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard.
“What-“ He takes a deep breath, scanning over your openly confused features. “What else am I supposed to be doin’?”
You blink at him, fingers curling in your lap. “What?” You ask softly, and his throat bobs.
“I- I’m really trying,” he mutters, looking back to his hands. “I swear to god, baby, I’m tryin’ my best, and- I know I ain’t amazing at this but- If you could throw a guy a rope when he’s never- I’ve never done this, alright.” He waves between your bodies, jaw clenched tight. “And I’m really givin’ it my best shot, but I’m still not allowed to kiss you, and you’re takin’ numbers right- Right in front of me- So just- Something.” He gives you a pleading, broken look, eyes shining on yours in the dark. “Anything.”
You open your mouth, but you can’t even figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to say. You know all the words he’s saying, but it’s like he’s speaking a language you never learned, spitting out a code you’re just supposed to magically understand. Dean’s jaw ticks, when you don’t answer, and you try to sputter out an answer, but he’s too loud to hear your confused whimper.
“Look, just- Whatever the hell you do need me to do, I’ll do it, I swear I’ll do it, but- You gotta tell me, sweetheart-“
“Tell you what?!” You almost shout, and Dean leans back in surprise. “Dean, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dean huffs a low laugh, looking back out to the road. “Yeah. Alright,” he grabs the keys, voice rough and pained. “Sure. Whatever-“
“No.” You grab his wrist before he can start to the engine. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”
“It doesn’t matter-“
“Yes, it does-“
“Nah.”
“Dean-“
“You wanna call that guy, call ‘im.” There’s an almost toxically bitter sound to the words, and Dean’s making a face like he just got shot. “Whatever. See if I care.”
Your nails dig into his wrist, when he tries to yank it away. He shoots you a glare, the bags—gone, after months of ease—already starting to form.
“C’mon, kid, just- let go-“
“Would you care?”
Your question is small, but it makes Dean recoil like it burned. He scoffs, but it’s too loud, and you hold him tighter.
“Would you care-“
“No, I fuckin’ love watching douchebags parade around with my girl, who would care about something like that?”
Something snaps, right at the base of your spine. You sit so tall you’d think someone is dragging you by the nape of your neck, and Dean blinks in something close to surprise.
“What-“
“Your girl,” you whisper. “That’s- I’m- Why would you say that?”
Dean blinks. “Why wouldn’t I say that?”
“Because you and I- We’re not- That’s-“ You lean back, letting go of his wrist, and when you look down, you’ve left little crescent marks in the skin. “No- No- You didn’t- You said no- No strings-“
“Yeah, and then you stopped fuckin’ me, and I-“ Dean says your name as you press back against the window, brow furrowed in worry. “Baby, it’s- It’s alright, I’m not that pissed-“
“You were yelling,” you choke out, and he swallow.
“Well, I was- Just- C’mere.”
He reaches out, cupping your cheek with the same gentle touch he used to use, right before he kissed you. You gape at him, head spinning, panting like you just ran a marathon.
“I’m not mad,” he rasps, almost pleading, and you shake your head.
“You were-“
“Sweetheart-“
“Why?” You whisper, grabbing his wrist, your nails sinking back into the marks. “Why- Why would you care?”
Dean swallows. He shakes his head, looks out the window, and chuckles.
“Dean-“
“I don’t want you goin’ out with him. And- Call it possessive, or stupid man shit, or- Whatever the hell you want,” he drags his thumb over your cheekbone, voice dropping to something tender, something soft. “You’re my girl. And I want you here, telling me what to do, how to- To be what you need.” His voice cracks. “Come on, baby. Just- Tell me what to be.”
You stare at him, a lot of pieces colliding into each other at once in your head. The diner and the movie and the touching and the caution and-
“Are we dating?” You choke out, and Dean frowns.
“What’d you mean, are we dating?”
“I mean are we dating, Dean, are you- Are you my boyfriend?”
“Uh- Boyfriend kinda makes it sound like we’re sixteen and necking-“
“What the fuck is necking?”
Dean groans, dropping his head. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. Makes me feel fuckin’ fifty.”
Your lips twitch. “You are almost fifty,” you say, and he chuckles.
“Yeah. Guess I am.” He looks back up to you, caution lining his features. “You always seemed to like it.”
You swallow. You did. You’d never been sure if it was the older thing itself, or the fact that it was just Dean, but you’d liked it. You always liked all of him, from the uglier wounds to the beautiful, glowing heart that almost managed to peak through, no matter how thick his steel and iron walls became.
He glides his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, and your breath hitches. He swallows, closes his eyes, and mutters your name.
“Did you… Not think we were dating?”
You shake your head, and Dean snorts dryly.
“Huh,” his mouth curves into a tight smirk. “Makes sense why you wouldn’t kiss me, I guess.”
“You guess?” You squeak, and Dean nods.
“Yeah, makes a lotta sense, actually-“
“How long have we been dating?!” You almost shriek, and he gives you an amused look.
“’Bout three months.”
“Three months?!”
“That’s what I said, baby-“
“Shut- Shut up-“ You plant a hand over his mouth, and he raises his brows. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me we were dating, you- You butt?!”
Dean’s eyes sparkle, looking pointedly down to your hand, and you release him with a scowl. He rubs his jaw, grinning at you like you’re some cute bunny, and you lean back in your seat with a huff.
“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I thought you knew.”
“How would I have known-“
“’Cause I asked you on a date? And you said yes?”
“That- That never happened.” You snap, and Dean frowns.
“Yes, it did. Sammy- He was there-“
“Sam was there-“
“Yeah, and- I said there was a new diner in town, and you said you’d go with me, and we started dating!”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open. Dean stares pointedly back, and you can’t help yourself. You bark out a loud, sharp laugh.
“That was not asking me on a date, you fucking- Oh my god!” You shake your head, and Dean’s frown becomes almost puppy like.
“Yes, it was-“
“You have to actually say it’s a date, Dean! You can’t just- Just ask me to do something, I thought we were just hanging out! As friends.”
He’s pouting now. If you weren’t pissed, it would be adorable. “I- Uh- I paid for everything. And got you gifts.”
“Friends do that-“
“Do friends kiss your face all the time?” Dean twists to fully glare at you, and you pause.
“Um- Maybe?”
Dean snorts. “No, they don’t-“
“But I thought that was just you!” You protest. “You- You’re always- You know-“
“I know?” He mocks, and you scowl.
“We were fucking for a year, Dean,” you snap, tipping up your chin. “I thought you were comfortable with me.”
“I am comfortable with you,” Dean shrugs, leaning slightly forward. “Real comfortable.”
Your nose twitches. He’s too close, now. Consuming your vision, making your vision all stupid and fuzzy. “You’re comfortable with everyone,” you sniff, and he laughs.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, running a hand slowly up your thigh. “We both know that ain’t true.”
You make a tiny, involuntary sound when his fingers dip under your skirt, teasing sensitive, neglected skin. He hasn’t touched you there in so long. Too long. You have to hug yourself to stop your body from flying at him.
“I haven’t fucked anyone else in eighteen damn months,” Dean mutters, holding your gaze. “I’ve been waiting around for you for months, wondering what the hell I was doin’ wrong, and you thought I was just being nice?!”
You swallow, your voice suddenly small. “You are nice,” you whisper, and Dean snorts.
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re nice to me-“
“Because I-“ He cuts himself off, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh. You grab his hand, holding it against you, and his eyes dart down. He heaves a long breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bows his head.
“Dean?” You whisper, and he shakes his head. “Dean, I- I’m sorry I didn’t- You said we were just going to be casual-“
“I know what I said,” he grunts, glaring at your hands. “But I- I didn’t- I thought it would help me.”
You swallow. “Help you?”
“Yeah.”
“With what-“
“You know what.” He finally looks at you, and you’ve never seen him this vulnerable. Almost bowing before you, holding onto your hand like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. “And I can’t- I don’t know how to-“ He takes another ragged breath, gives you another pleading look. “You stopped letting me pretend, you started- You started telling me no, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t.” He swallows. “I’m tryin’ to do this right, baby.” He squeezes your hand, leaning a little closer. “Please let me do this right.”
You blink at him, tears watering in your own eyes, and nod. Dean’s shoulders shudder, and he holds your hand so tight you think he’s trying to just mold you together. He glances at your lips, but doesn’t move. So you do it for him.
Dean stares at you, completely still as you lean forward, his chest so still you’re worried he’s not breathing. You rest your hand lightly on his chest and press the lightest kiss you can to his parted lips. He shakes, one hand flying to your waist, his touch still heartbreakingly delicate. You kiss him again, a little harder, and a low rumble starts in his chest.
You pull back, pressing your brows tight together. Dean stares at you, eyes glossy and blown out, the restraint ticking in his jaw, and you smile softly.
“I love you,” you breathe. “And I- I know you can’t- You know, say it back, but- I love you, Dean.”
His breathing his ragged, and he’s still gaping. You laugh nervously, looking down to your fingers, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.
“If- If you could say something, though, that would be- Um- Nice-“
Dean grunts, and your words fall off into a squeak as Dean drags you forward into his lap.
And this. This is a real kiss. Dean’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his arm wrapping fully around your lower back, his fingers digging into your hips and his other hand cradling the back of your head. He kisses you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, pushing his tongue down your throat and moaning against your mouth. You pull on his shirt and he gropes at your ass, dragging you further into his lap. The pressure of his thigh against your core makes your head spin, but that might just be the lack of oxygen. Neither of you seem to be willing to come up for air, taking sharp, tiny breaths between sloppy kisses.
You whimper, already going limp, and Dean leans back with darkened, shining eyes. You know that look. You used to pray for and dread it all at once. It always made you feel like something close to prey, paralyzed and unable to flee his spell.
But this time is different. This time, there’s nothing you’d rather do but fall into his charm.
Dean presses another, small kiss to your lips, dragging his thumb over the tingling swell. Your tongue flicks against the pad of the finger, and he groans, pushing it slowly between your lips.
You wrap around him, sucking lightly, giving him your best, sweetest Bambi eyes. Dean’s throat bobs, his fingers digging into your ass.
“We’re goin’ home,” he mutters. “Then I’m gonna fuck you.”
That’s a lovely plan. You smile around his thumb, and he says your name, pulling his thumb away with a small pop.
“Jesus, you- You gotta tell me yes-“
“Just fuck me here,” you whisper, pulling on the collar of his shirt.
Dean glances to the backseat, then to you. “Uh- I mean- That’s- If you’re sure-“
“Please,” you push a little further forward, dropping your hand to press against the bulge in his jeans. “I need you, Dean. Now.”
And for a second, you think he’s going to demand going all the way back home. Say something about you deserving a soft bed and gentle loving, when you just want him, filthy and raw and yours. You’re so busy giving him doe eyes, you don’t notice his hand dragging down your spine and your ass, right up until it dips under your skirt, and cups your pussy through your panties.
You gasp, and Dean smirks, slowly rubbing his hand back and forth.
“Need me?” He drawls, pushing his thumb against your clit. “Like this, baby? This how you need me?”
“Ye- yes-“ Your lips brush over his, your hips starting to grind down as he drags his thumb in tiny circle, his hand still rocking back and forth. “Just- Just like that, Dean- Shit-“
You push down, kissing him with a sloppy, uncontrolled mouth. Dean grunts, splaying his free hand against your neck and pushing you down. He’s massive and warm, the hand working your pussy offering just enough friction to work you up, but nothing more. You wrap your arms around his neck, panting against his lips and moving you hips to chase more friction.
“That feels good, doesn’t it,” he mutters, kissing you between every word.
You coo, trying to kiss over his face, and Dean slaps your pussy once, leaning back with a stern glare.
“Doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” you answer immediately, already getting heavy-eyed and dazed. “So- So good, Dean, feels so good, just- More-“ You claw at his shoulders, trying to at least get to some bare skin, and settle for pressing your mouth back over his. “More- Need some more, De, now-“
Dean silences you with a deep, rough kiss, and taps his thumb against your clit in quick, harsh movements, pushing his palm down hard against your aching pussy. You cry out, trying to force your hips further down against him, and Dean squeezes that back of your neck.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Few months without some cock and you get bossy, don’t you.”
“No- No,” you manage to protest. “You’re just- You’re being slow-“
“I’m being slow?” He mocks, running his fingers over the line of your panties. “Baby, I’ve barely fuckin’ started.”
You try to roll your eyes at him, but he uses his hold on your neck to turn your head, forcing your gaze back down to his. Your eyes widen, and he smirks slightly, raising his brows.
“You gonna break out some manners for me?” He asks, slowly dragging your panties to the side. “Or am I gonna need to teach you again?”
“Te- Teach me?” You choke out, and Dean hums.
His thumb drags down from your clit, parting the lips of your pussy and smearing your arousal. Your heart is trying to hammer out of your chest, every nerve in your body seeming to respond to the mockingly sweet touch.
“Dean,” you press your hands against his chest, unsure if you want to push him away or drag him closer. “Don’t- Don’t be mean-“
“I’m not bein’ mean,” he hum, the gleam in his eyes something else all together. “I’m giving my girl exactly what she wants, how she wants it.”
You blink at him hopelessly, and he chuckles, pulling you down into a long, slow kiss. It would be romantic and loving, if it wasn’t for his thumb pushing at your weeping entrance, refusing to dip even a fraction of the way inside.
“Remember how you used to beg for me?” He mutters, and your face burns with a mix of arousal and shame. “I sure as shit do. Spent hours thinkin’ about it lately, planning how I was gonna take you when you let me again. But,” he switches out his thumb for the very tips of his fingers, yanking slightly on your hair when you try to look down. “Jesus, baby, I’m worried I’m gonna break you.”
You shake your head frantically, and Dean raises his brows.
“Words, pretty girl,” he reminds you, pushing his fingers just a little big deeper. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got it, talk to me-“
“I can take it,” you breathe out, watching him under fluttering lashes. “I- I can take it. I promise.”
Dean works his jaw, his grip on your hair tightening. “Sweetheart-“
“Please,” you breathe, leaning down until your noses bump. “I need it. I need you.”
Those are the magic words. Dean stops trying to play noble, stops trying to hold back for the sake of romance. You loved him when he fucked you like a whore and gave you nothing soft, and you’re going to love him even more when he treats you like a toy, then kisses you everywhere after.
Dean smashes his lips against yours and eases his fingers into your waiting pussy, groaning under his breath when you clench down around him.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, scissoring them inside you. “Never gonna get over how fuckin’ tight you are, sweetheart, like you were made for me. Made to be mine.”
He almost snarls the last words against your lips, pushing himself fully up to the knuckle. You mewl as he finds your g-spot with that precision that makes it look easy, that’s always made you sure you couldn’t ever enjoy someone else if you tried.
Dean pumps his fingers slowly, crooking them so they drag against that spot, and pulls you back to watch your face contort with pleasure.
“That’s it,” he grunts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming them right back in and twisting to bully against that sensitive spot. “That’s just how you like it, huh? Already gettin’ like this from just my fingers,” he chuckles, grinding his hips up against your thighs. “Imagine how you’re gonna be on my cock, sweet girl, if you can barely fuckin’ take this?”
“That- That’s not fair-“ You choke out, every word breathy and weak, and Dean just smirks.
“Isn’t it?”
You try to protest, but Dean pushes your head back down, and his kiss knocks almost every thought from your head. It’s all just the familiar, perfect way his mouth moves against yours, rememorizing something that never stopped being his. The wet sound of his fingers working you open fills the car, and your whole body burns with desire and shame. He’s right. You’re already soaked and ready for him, your cunt clenching down and still begging for more. You need that full, impossible split of him. After months of nothing, you’re worried his cock is the only thing that’s going to be able to do it.
But Dean seems to like proving you wrong today. A coil, tight in your stomach, starts to wind tighter and tighter. He drops his grip on your hair for a second to push down on the base of your spine, forcing your cunt almost right over his bulge. He reangles his hand, forcing in another finger, and you make a strangled sound.
“De- Dean-“
“We’re gonna get you relaxed, baby,” he mutters, twisting his wrist so the drag against your g-spot almost rips through your body. “Nice and relaxed ‘f me, you can do it.”
You let out a shaky breath, trying to listen, and your clit pushes down against Dean’s cock, still tight in his jeans. The pressure is perfect, combined with the brutal thrusts of Dean’s hand, and you press your cheek to his.
“That- That’s good,” you pant, clinging to the hem of his shirt. “So- Soo good-“
You whimper, and Dean hums. He’s rubbing your back, and that’s somehow almost as good as the hand obliterating your cunt. “There she is,” he mutters. “Always so good at listening when I got my hands on you, aren’t you sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your head. “That’s my girl.”
That’s what does it. My girl.
The coil snaps, and your orgasm rips through you, making your eyes cross and your body curl limply into Dean’s arms. His hand coaxes you through it, his palm rubbing against your pussy as you mewl and clench around nothing, the light pressure helping you ride it like a long, easy wave.
Dean kisses your cheek when it’s done, then right under your eye, then your nose.
“That’s one,” he mutters, and you whine. He chuckles, hiking your skirt up with light touches. “Come on, you know the rule.”
“Stupid rule,” you grumble. “Never agreed to it.”
“Never heard you complaining before,” he points out, peeling your dress off, and you stick out your tongue.
“That’s because I always forget- Dean!”
He smacks your ass, and you squeak, pussy clenching around nothing. He’s forming a tent in his jeans as he looks up at you, and you narrow your eyes. You fingers brush against the head of him, and his groan falters, his head tipping back against the bench.
You smile, pushing your hand down against his cock, and he catches your wrist, shooting you a stern glare.
“Not at young as I used to be,” he warns, and you giggle.
“But I want to,” you try to pull your hand free, and roll you eyes when he won’t let you. “Oh- Come on-“
“Nope,” he grunts, even as his dick jumps against the fabric. “You know the rule-“
“Dean-“
“Three to one,” he mutters, a dare gleaming in his eyes. “You give me one, I give you six. That’s the fuckin’ deal.”
You laugh, but his mouth doesn’t even twitch, and slowly, your smile falls into something more serious. More determined.
Damn this stubborn beautiful man and his orgasm rules. Damn you, for thinking he ever wouldn’t want to fuck you when he made you orgasm rules that weren’t proportional or fair at all.
You yank your wrist away, stick out your tongue again, and pull your underwear fully off. Dean watches you with his hands tight on your waist, eyes shining with curiosity, but patient.
And you’ve never been good at riding him, but you’ve always been good at this. You climb over Dean’s lap so your ass is near his shoulder and your face in his crotch, your back arched like some animal in heat, your pussy bare and on full display.
Dean’s never been able to help himself. One hand immediately slides around the arch of your back, then the curve of your ass, then settles back against your pussy. The other slides in your hair, petting your hair while you fumble with his belt. He chokes out your name, and you shoot him a glare, pulling out his cock with light, careful hands.
He’s so hard you’re worried he’s going to hurt himself. Pre-cum is beading around his tip, his veins throbbing like a porno. You stroke him slowly, and he lets out a sharp breath between his teeth.
“I’m serious, baby-“
“Prove it,” you say, before licking a slow, teasing stripe up his shaft.
And you know how this game ends. You’ve played it a million times before. The beautiful thing about it is that—especially when Dean thinks he’s winning—you can never lose.
You take him into his mouth, and the sound that he makes is sinful. It’s a choked, rough version of your name that sounds holy from his mouth, and comes with his fingers dipping into your heat like it’s a comfort toy. You take him until he bumps against the back of your throat and hum, swirling your tongue. Dean grunts, and pushes your head a little further down. You wiggle your ass, pussy cold and throbbing, and Dean groans.
“Jesus, woman- Gonna kill me- Fuuuuck-“
You start to bob up and down, sucking with that perfect pressure you know he likes, getting what can’t fit in your mouth in your hand. You can take him better and better with every second, letting his push against your gag reflex, and you drop that hand to play with his balls. Dean’s already giving shallow uncontrolled microthrusts, repeating your name over and over until it’s more of a choked moan.
“Can’t- Shit, baby, I can’t- That damn mouth, you’re gonna- Shit-“
You squeeze his balls and suck as hard as you can, and Dean almost roars your name, his cock jumping as he shoots thick, white ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, licking the rest off your fingers as you rise back up. There’s going to be a handprint on your ass, from where he was holding onto you. You hope you feel it in the morning.
And when you smile at Dean, you know you’re in trouble. Naked and wet for him, crawling forward so your tits press into his face and kissing him as sweetly as possible. Dean grunts, one hand shooting up to cradle the back of your head, and his responding kiss is deceptively gentle. He lets you lead it, groaning when your tongues press together, tasting himself on your lips. He lets you pull his shirt over his head and lets you trace over the lines of his muscles. You smile against his lips and lean back, and there’s that predatory glint again.
Dean’s hand twitches on your back. He wipes your chin, gathering some stray cum and slowly pressing his against your lips. You clean it off obediently, and his jaw ticks.
“Back seat,” he grunts. “Now.”
You almost scramble to listen. Rolling off of him and trying to climb over, making it halfway before you feel massive hands wrapping around your waist, holding you in place. You swallow, trying to twist over your shoulder to look at him, but Dean blows a sharp breath over your clit, and you double over with a squeak.
“De- Dean-“ You plant your hand on the bench, blood rushing to your cheeks. “Dean- wait-“
“Hmmm.” He kisses one curve of your ass, then the other. “Wait for what?”
You’re not really sure. “This- I- I can’t hold myself up,” you fumble, and he chuckles, kissing right over your clit.
“That gonna be a problem?” He teases, pressing smaller, faster kisses over the sensitive button. “Or,” he spreads your ass cheeks, humming against your heat. “Do dirty girls get what they asked for?”
Shit. “It’s uncomfortable,” you whisper, and Dean pauses.
He sighs, then kisses your clit again. You squeak when he drags you back down, and melt into his chest as he kisses all over your face, rocking you back and forth in his arms.
“’S why I wanted the bed,” he mutters, and you sigh.
“’M sorry-“
“No,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, massaging your hips with steady hands. “I’ve got it, just- uh-“
He glances up, and you watch him frown around the car with an openly adoring expression. The work of his jaw and furrow of his brow as he thinks, how he holds you so tight in his arms, it’s impossible to not love him.
“Got it,” he mutters. “Trust me?”
You nod easily, and he glances back down. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and this kiss isn’t feral or brutal. It’s just… slow. Adoring, a silent promise of what you’ve sort of always known.
Dean is going to take care of you.
He lays you out in the backseat, rubbing your thighs as you settle into the cushioned bench. You watch him with your heart in your throat, arms wrapped tight around your stomach. Sometimes, under his attention, you’re not sure what to do with yourself. He’s too pretty, too big, too much in the best possible way.
“Getting’ shy on me?” He teases, pushing up your knee, and you flush.
“N- No.”
“Hm,” Dean pins your leg against the bench, guiding the other one so it hooks over his shoulders. “Sounds like you’re gettin’ shy.”
You swallow, hugging yourself tighter, and he chuckles.
“All that work to make you relax,” he mutters, kissing his way up your thigh. “And you’re already wound back up.”
“You took too long,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” He kisses just the side of your cunt, and your breath hitches as he sucks a small, firm bruise into the skin. “You know I’m gonna make it up to you, yeah?”
You nod weakly, then blurt, “Yes!”
Dean’s mouth twitches, and he grabs one of your wrists, guiding it down to his hair. You weave it between your fingers, your breathing already ragged, your whole body lit up with anticipation.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, kissing the other side of your cunt, massaging your thigh and pushing your leg a little higher. “Nice and easy, pretty girl.” He kisses you pussy, open-mouthed and wet, and you let out a high, shameless sound.
His mouth should be classified as a sex toy or something. It moves and works against you like a machine, kissing you with so much fervor you already start to see stars. You had some recovery from the fingering, but Dean’s already stripping it away with sharp, unrelenting kisses and grazes of his teeth against your clit.
“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against you, the word vibrating through your body. “Never wanna live without this pussy again, baby girl, shit-“
He groans and dives back down, starting to work you open like a man starved. You push on his head, silently begging for more, afraid to open your mouth. The sounds that leave you will be embarrassing, and you’re already too far gone for them.
But Dean likes you loud, and he won’t let you hold back. He hooks his arm fully around your leg, dragging you further down, giving him a better against your pussy. You mewl when he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking impossibly hard, and Dean laughs against your cunt.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ You grab at the front bench, yanking mindlessly on his short hair. “De- Dean- Oh my god-“
He groans, pushing his face impossibly further. His tongue is deliberate and thick, pumping in and out of your cunt before pressing flat on your clit and dragging back and forth. It’s enough to drive you mad, making the coil in your stomach burn and burn and burn until your whole body is shaking with the sensation.
“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “You- Fuck-“
He nips at your clit, dragging a long, slow stripe up your pussy. Your eyes lock, and you swallow, a broken moan falling from your lips. The first time he did this, he told you that he loved it. That there was nothing better than a woman, right on his face, dripping and sweet for him. It didn’t take you long to believe him.
Here, he looks at you like you’re some kind of heaven he’s been allowed to touch. His mouth never stops moving against you, his eyes lidded and almost drunk, and your arousal shining on his face whenever he reangles it to devour you a new way. It’s a sight that could knock you off your feet, if you had any left to stand on. Dean on his knees, his broad, freckled shoulders forcing your knees apart, his attention a drug you never want to bother being clean from again.
You start to shake, your stomach seizing up as you fight off your orgasm, but Dean doesn’t tolerate that either. His mouth goes back against your clit, his tongue darting up and down and back and forth in tiny motions, almost tickling it, making the little nerves light up and-
You cum with a loud, choked sound that’s really supposed to be Dean’s name, and push at his head. You expect him to stop, and finally get on top of you.
But you forgot about his stupid orgasm rule, and he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens and he starts to make out with your overstimulated pussy. You squeak, pushing weakly at his head, and his eyes gleam.
“De- Dean- Fuuuuck- That’s-“ Your eyes roll back, your body seizing up again, almost unable to take so much. “Oh- Oh my gooood-”
Dean groans against you again, and it’s worse than a vibrator. It’s warm and deep and Dean, mixed with his filthy mouth and stubble, scraping against soft skin.Your thighs lock around his head and he lets them, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulls you fully onto your back, pushing himself up onto his knees. His cock bounces against his stomach but he ignores it, using his now free hand to grope at your breast. You moan, clenching around nothing as he laps at your clit and pussy.
“I- I can’t-“ Tears spring at your eyes. “Dean- Please-“
He hums, rolling your nipple between deft fingers, and you throw your head back with a broken moan.
Warm, thick fingers weave through yours, and you blink at him under watery lashes. He’s let go of your breast to hold your hand. His thumb is dragging slowly back and forth, and his mouth isn’t slowing down, but you don’t want it to. You can see the challenge shining in his eyes. You take a ragged breath, give him the smallest nod, and he smiles against your pussy.
You didn’t know the human tongue could move that fast. You’re sure it’s not supposed to, but Dean’s never cared about things like that. He drinks you up like wine, rapidly toying with your clit—swirling and kissing and flicking and sucking like it’s candy—and your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm springs through your body like a geyser.
Dean lowers you down slowly, pressing one last kiss to your swollen kiss before rising back up, wiping his chin of your release and cleaning it off his fingers with a smug grin. His cock is at attention, and your mouth waters. He always gets it in. You’re a little afraid of it right now.
“Six?” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.
“You’re the one who pushed for it, princess.”
“It- It’s your stupid rule-“
“You love it,” he shrugs, slowly settling himself back between your legs. “And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you, baby.”
You wrinkle your nose, and Dean gives you a stern, amused look.
“Aren’t you?” He taps the head of his cock against your cunt, and you squeak.
“Dean-“
“You’re the one who got bratty and cocky, sweetheart,” he drawls, pushing your leg back down. “So you’re gonna take it, ‘cause I know you can.”
You swallow, giving him your best doe-eyes, and he just chuckles. Dean lowers himself down, presses a gentle kiss to your brow, and murmurs against your skin.
“That ain’t gettin’ you out of this.”
You press your face into the crook of his neck, and Dean smiles, kissing the side of your head.
“All shy again,” he mutters, dragging that massive cock between the lips of your pussy. “Let’s take care of that, huh?”
You cling to him as he rolls you both over, guiding your legs to straddle his torso and lining up his cock with your weeping, abused pussy. He pulls you gently up, rubbing your side and watching you a painfully adoring gaze. You try to cover yourself again, and he catches your hand, shaking his head.
“Come on,” he mutters, weaving your fingers together. “Let me see you.”
And damn him for being so soft and sweet, you don’t think you could tell him no if you wanted.
“Take it easy,” he says, wrapping both of his hands around your waist. “All you, baby. Show me what you want.”
“I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.”
You believe him, in a way you’d never believe anyone else. It might be how he looks at you. Like you’re an angel over him, like you’re really, truly letting him enter paradise as you sink down onto his cock.
He grunts, his fingers tightening against your body as his cock slowly splits you open. Even with how much he’s worked you open—your pussy so wet it’s already dripping onto his thighs—it’s a tight fit. You can feel every vein dragging inside of you, the hard curve pressing right into your g-spot and making you flutter around him.
Dean jerks his head up, squeezing his eyes shut, and you swallow.
“Sorry-“
“’S- ‘S alright,” he exhales sharply, relaxing back into the seat. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, baby. I’m good.”
A smile ghosts over your lips, even as you start to only breathe through your nose. “You look it,” you tease, and Dean gives you a half annoyed, half impressed look.
“You’re tight,” he grunts, and your smile widens.
“You’re big.”
He groans, throwing his head further back, and you giggle again. He’s sitting just right again, his chest rippling under your hands, and you feel like that angel. You feel like a goddess, with how his hands are dragging over your body, how your name falls from his lips.
“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, eyes raking over your body. “So perfect.”
You take a deep breath, and start to grind down onto his cock. Dean groans, one hand dragging down to squeeze your ass, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless you beg him, and you’re determined not to. You can ride him until your thighs give out. His cock bumps against your g-spot, and his abdomen drags near your clit, and it feels good. You rock back and forth a little faster, your breath catching, and Dean groans.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Pretty fuckin’ girl, riding my cock like the needy little thing you are, aren’t you. So fuckin’ wet for me, baby, so- so tight-“
He groans, and you push down on his chest, picking up your pace.
“So big, Dean,” you moan, pushing up your chest like a pornstar, trying to make him break first. “You’re so big, feels so- so good-“
You moan, tossing your hair, and Dean makes an almost feral sound.
But he doesn’t break. The bastard never breaks, and you’ve never been good at riding him. Your thighs are already sore, and they quickly start to ache, making your movements smaller and weaker. Dean watches you start to whine, your brow furrowing in concentration, and just smiles. You both know what he’s waiting for. You don’t want to give in.
“So quiet, sweetheart,” he coos, running his hand up to palm at your breast. “Someone drove by, they’d think I wasn’t fuckin’ you properly.”
You glare at him, unable to even speak, and he chuckles.
“You know what you gotta do, baby girl.”
“Fu- Fuck you-“
“I will,” he winks. “If my girl says please.”
Your eyes narrow. His grin widens, and you think you might be about to fly apart with how bad you need it. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid face that you love and his big cock that makes you all jelly and dazed thoughts and useless.
“Please-“
The word barely leaves your mouth before Dean moves. A single, well-aimed thrust up into your cunt that makes you fall apart. You fall forward onto his chest with a scream, and Dean groans, giving shallower, gentle thrusts to work you through the orgasm.
“I know,” he murmurs in you ear, his words painfully soft in comparison to the pleasure wracking your body. “I know, princess. Two more to go.”
You don’t think you can take two more. Four has been your max for a very long time, and that was with a lot more prep time and space between orgasms. But Dean doesn’t seem like he’s going to give you much of a choice.
You’re a doll in his arms again, when he hauls you up into his lap. His cock leaves you for a single second, just for the adjustment, and you whimper at the loss.
Dean hums, kissing all over your face as he slides back in.
“That’s my girl,” he starts to rock your hips back and forth with steady hands, picking you up then dropping your back down so his dick drags through every inch of your heat. “Takin’ me so good. Just like that, feel that, baby-“ He pushes on your lower back, making his cock slam against your g-spot, and you sob against his neck. “Feel how fuckin’ good we fit together, my girl.”
Dean’s voice is lined with something darker now. More possessive and hungry. He fucks up into your like an animal, dips drilling forward and mouth attached to your neck. All you can do is take it, over and over until your eyes are crossing and the only words you can remember are babbles of Dean and please.
The neck orgasm is slow, blooming from where he’s slamming against your cervix and spreading pleasantly through your body. Dean moans against your skin, mouthing at your jaw and neck, his tongue dragging and kisses messy. When you try to kiss him back, it’s mostly with a mewl and lips that follow his lead. Everything is humid and light in your body, everything is Dean around you, and there’s a new, strangely hot sensation in your core that’s demanding all of your attention.
It’s tighter than the usual coil, and gets hotter and hotter with every thrust of Dean’s cock. He’s getting uneven now, his own words falling into pants and moans, his balls slapping against your ass and hands leaving prints as he folds you fully over his chest.
“One- One more-“ His voice is gravelly, almost as wrecked as you feel. “Milk my fuckin’ cock, baby girl, cum for me-“
You open your mouth to warn him about the strange feeling, but it’s too late. Dean slams home, crashing his mouth against yours, and you cum with a hoarse scream. Hot cum shoots into your cunt, right as something gushes out of you in wet, burning waves. It feels good, so good you can’t think, so good your mouth hangs open and your moans turn into pathetic, weak babbles.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ Dean groans against your mouth. “Fuckin’- Yes-“
Your body seizes and twitches around him, but even when he’s done, Dean doesn’t pull out. The last of your release pushes itself out and her collapses backward, rubbing your back and craning his neck to grin at your cockdrunk expression.
“Gettin’ stupid?” He teases, and you can’t manage to raise an arm, so you just bite his nose. He laughs, leaning up to steal another, quick kiss from your lips before settling back down.
You curl over him, resting your head against his shoulder while he pets your head, both of you still panting and coming back down. You might be there for a hundred years, or just an hour. It doesn’t matter. The car is going to reek of sex for maybe a year. Sam might never agree to ride in it again. But it was worth it. More than worth it, when you look up at Dean, and find him—just as always—already looking back.
“We’re still dating, right?” You whisper, because you have to be sure.
Dean grins, and kisses you slowly. You hum, letting your eyes flutter shut. Letting him carry you, whenever he thinks is safe to go.
“Yeah,” he mutters, and you can hear it in his voice. All the love he’s been trying to show you, for who knows how long. “We are."
✦End note: if i write enough of these it's gonna happen to me guys trust ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦summary: dean learns, slowly, that he's actually pretty good at being boyfriend material. it would be nice if you'd stop pining after him long enough to notice✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, friends with benefits to lovers, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love because it's the best way to be, dean's down so bad, shameless smut (facesitting, praise kink, big dick dean, fingering, pussy spanking, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, mean dean, dean has an orgasm rule and you. benefit. dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 12.5k✦
✦author's note: request! super normal about this one✦
You tell yourself, over and over again, that this is going to be the last time. It’s not something that’s meant to be held onto, so you can just… let go.
But then you find yourself here. Between tangled sheets with your legs spread wide, your nails digging into Dean’s bicep and his cock dragging through your wet, sensitive cunt.
“There you go,” he coos in your ear, every thrust deep and rough. “That’s my girl, takin’ me so good, so- Good-“
Dean moans, pressing up against the soft, gummy spot inside of you, and your eyes roll back in your head.
He always does this. He knocks on your door and grabs your face between big hands, and suddenly all that resolve and determination—never again—dissolves with your willpower. His hands are rough and calloused, but trace your hips and hold you down so gently, you can almost pretend he cares if you break. His cock is thick and impossibly long, and he always drags it between your soaked heat and bumps it against your clit before pushing himself in just right. His lips are chapped and soft, sucking possessive marks into your neck that he has no right to claim, but that doesn’t stop you from running your fingers through his hair and holding him right where he is. He wouldn’t dare to leave. Not in the middle of this. Not before you’ve both gotten what you want.
What Dean wants. You don’t let yourself pretend that this is everything you need anymore. It’s the only hope you have of one day telling him no, because the rest of you control rests on a thin rope, and it always slips from your hands the moment Dean touches you like you matter.
You never walk away from him with an aching, unsatisfied body. A few nights ago he put you on his face and made you ride until your thighs were shaking and tears were springing into your eyes. Before this, he spit on your cunt and scissored you open with thick, careful finger, kissing and nipping at your thighs as your greedy pussy swallowed him right up to the knuckle. Even now, as every roll of his hips becomes smaller—as his face twists in concentration and his mouth against your jaw becomes desperate—Dean’s thumbing at your clit, trying to get you over the edge with him.
“C’mon, baby, c’mon-“ He pushes himself up to his knees, forcing a deeper, rougher angle. “Show me what you’ve got, I know you can do it, come on-
You whimper, staring up at him under lidded, glazed eyes. The whole world is just a blur of color at this point, but Dean is bright and clear. The heave of his broad shoulder and chest, every muscle in his arm as he wraps it around your waist and makes you arch your back, the flex of his abdomen as he ruts forward like a feral dog. The sharp, unforgiving thrusts are making your head spin with pleasure, turning you into a boneless wreck of need. You grab his arm, trying to steady yourself against something, and Dean’s attention rips up.
He says he likes to watch himself fuck you, and you’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s spent whole sessions just staring at his cock or fingers splitting your cunt open. He likes putting you on his face because he can watch you react. You like it better like that, usually. The eye contact is too close. Too intimate. Too real.
But you grab him, and he looks at you, and it’s almost like a shot. His eyes are blown-out and so strangely soft, staring at your wrecked, open expression with too much, too much, too much-
“De- Deeean-“ You cry it out like a pray, because it is. Dean grunts, hips snapping, the wet sound filling up the air and his eyes never leaving yours. “Dean- Dean- Fuck, please- Please-“
You’re babbling. You never do that with anyone else, but Dean is Dean, and he makes you do things you never counted yourself capable of. He groans your name, and you squeal when he drags you up, off the mattress and straddling his thighs. Your clit drags against his abdomen, his cock bullies right against your g-spot, and Dean grabs your jaw with a single, painfully gentle hand.
“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, still holding your gaze, even as your eyes start to cross. “Soak this fuckin’ cock, baby, cum-“
You almost scream as your orgasm rips through you, and Dean crashes his mouth against yours, eating every whimper and moan with harsh lips and his tongue down your throat. You press into him, pussy gushing and fluttering around his dick, and he makes that deep, rumbling sound that always comes right before-
“Shit-“ Dean gasps against your mouth, pulling you so close you can’t feel anything but the heat of his bare chest, the sensation of his cock twitching and pumping in your cunt. “Fuuck-“
Dean moans your name, and a warm, pleasant heat starts to spread through your tummy and drip between your thighs. He doesn’t stop moving until his cock is softened, and you don’t try to stop him. You’re barely more than a limp doll right now, returning his kisses with tiny mewls, eyes crossed and body limp.
For a moment after it’s done, you stay tangled together. You always do. It’s the most dangerous part of the whole thing, because it feeds that tiny little fool in your chest, who refuses to believe that this is just sex. Who takes your heartstrings and weaves grand worlds where Dean loves you back, and you’re going to be just fine.
Dean kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter closed. There’s an advantage, to being a crybaby whenever he fucks you stupid. He never once has considered that the tears might be real.
“Think you can walk?” He mutters, still buried deep inside of you, still holding you like he cares.
You shake your head, and his mouth twitches against yours.
“Alright, pretty girl. I’ve got you.”
And you press your face into the crook of his neck, letting that fool take you over. She takes his words as gospel. My girl and I’ve got you and Baby, they’re exactly what he means and nothing more, nothing less.
When the logical part of your brain wakes back up—Dean’s always had this ability to hit a button in you, sliding his hand around the back of your neck and making all your thoughts just bubblegum feelings and electric colors—you’re going to remember why you always say this has to be the last time.
He’s perfect, and he’s not yours. He makes that perfectly clear, until he pulls these little stunts and ends up buried between your thighs. You agreed that he wasn’t yours, when this arrangement started.
Safer with someone you know, he’d told you, like he hasn’t fucked his way across the entire country. Easier. Nothing to worry about, when it’s you and me.
And you’d been a starry-eyed, gooey hearted fool who just wanted whatever part of Dean he was willing to show you. The burning love you kept tended in your ribs hadn’t seen a problem with adding fuel to the wildfire, even if Dean was never going to see it. But now he’s carrying you to the bathroom like a princess, and he’s going to be gone in the morning, and that wildfire is an inferno. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You can map out everything he’d ever say in response to your feelings, from the harsh sneer he would’ve given when he had the Mark of Cain, to the kinder let down you’d get now.
You’re too young, he’d say, like it was a consolation prize. And I like you, sweetheart, but I don’t do this kinda thing. Not with girls young enough to be my daughter. Not with kids that I hunt with. Not with you.
You press your face further into his neck. He’s always so warm and sturdy, a massive tree that’s offering you just as much shade crushing, unbearable weight and tangled roots that keep you pressed down. He smells like leather and whiskey and something perfectly, faintly spice. You want to drown in it. You want to drown in him.
“You good?” Dean asks, and his voice is too gentle. It rattles the little fool, screaming for the rest of you to listen and just accept that he loves you.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.
“You’re bein’ quiet, even for- Y’know-“ He chuckles, that low, insufferably charming pride crawling into his voice. “After I fuck you dumb.”
“You did not fuck me dumb,” you mumble against his skin, and you can hear his grin.
“Big words from the girl who couldn’t talk five minutes ago.”
“That was unrelated.”
“Unrelated,” he echoes, his thumb dragging a small circle against your spine. “Always forget how bratty you get after, sweetheart. Dangerous.”
You roll your eyes, and hug him tighter. He laughs, and kisses the side of your head, and he has the nerve to call you dangerous.
“You wanna watch a movie?” He asks, leaning down to run the water, still keeping you tucked so carefully against his chest, and all you can do is nod. Dean sighs. “C’mon, gimme a little more than that-“
“Yes, please,” you mumble, and he pauses.
It’s only a fraction of a second. You don’t understand it, and you don’t want to. Not when he feeds your delusions and kisses your brow again, then your cheek, then your lips. And you let him. You always let him, because you’re a foolish, stupid, lovesick idiot. You don’t want his affection, not like this. But you don’t want to lose him—it would be like ripping a vital organ out of your ribcage, even if you didn’t know you had it a year ago—and you can’t ever tell him to stop being so sweet without explaining yourself, and getting that gentle, horrible let down.
You don’t want it. You don’t want any of it. And this, this had to be the last time.
You hold the line. You don’t know how, but you hold that line with white knuckles and grit teeth and a taste like bile in the back of your throat.
Dean knocks on the door, only two nights later, and you don’t answer. He calls your name and you sink into the mattress, praying he just thinks you’re asleep.
“I just- Uh- I wanted to talk?” He says, and you press your face into the pillow like that can somehow shield you. “Really, that’s it. Just talking, so- If you could-“
Dean sighs. You can hear the please, hanging between every word, but Dean doesn’t really say please. He just begs with everything else in him, or gives up. And you can picture him running his hand over his face, the heavy look in his eyes, the defeated sag in his shoulders. It’s like a knife being driven through your gut, and you sit up, ready to open the door-
“Alright,” he mutters, and you freeze. “Night, baby. Sleep well.”
Footsteps retreat, and you stay there on the mattress, frozen and lost, adrift in a sea you dove into.
But you did it. You held the line.
And you keep it. It makes sweat bead and your skin burn, but you close the door and don’t open it back up. You’re done, and you’re going to keep it that way.
Dean doesn’t ask questions. You don’t know if you want him to or not, but it doesn’t matter, because you catch him staring and giving out signals, but he’s taken your no in stride, and doesn’t seem to have any plans to push back against it. When this started, you agreed to leave out a specific book on the war room table if either of you wanted something. Dean starts to leave it out every night, and you never go to his door, and one night, it vanishes.
And that’s fine. That’s exactly what you wanted.
And if it feels like you’re dying because of it, and if you spend an hour over the toilet dry heaving that night, that’s no one’s business but your own.
“Dean’s been grumpy lately,” Sam says one morning, and you blink at him over your coffee.
“Grumpy? Dean? That’s- Woah-“
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Sam gives you a flat look. “You know what I mean. Grumpier.”
You shrug, looking back to your mug. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”
“Uh huh.”
You can feel Sam’s stare. It makes you itchy and small, and you’re not sure if you want to punch him or run. You settle for staring at your coffee harder. It’s the easiest course of action.
“Dean needs to get laid,” Sam repeats your words, something strange—almost sharp—in his tone, and you nod.
“That’s what I said.”
“Dean-“
“What’s up?” Dean walks into the kitchen, stopping right behind you, and you hunch over like you can grow a shell to protect yourself.
Even just a few feet away, he’s always so warm.
“Uh- Hey, Dean-“
“Hey,” Dean mocks back, and Sam huffs.
“Dude-“
“Shut your face-“
“I didn’t say anything- I-“ Sam says your name, and you glance up. His brow is furrowed with worry, his eyes locked on Dean behind you. “We were just-“
“Just what?” Dean snaps. “Just talking? Shooting the shit, getting real comfortable?”
Sam sighs. “Dean-“
“I got a gun, Sammy,” Dean points firmly, and you stare at his finger like a woman driven mad with thirst. “Don’t forget that.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “We all have guns, that- That threat doesn’t do anything-“
“I’ll show you doing something- Hey-“
Dean says your name, and you freeze. You’d been trying to slip out while they fought, but Dean—goddamn him—had noticed. He always notices. You love him so much it’s going to make you cave in on yourself, and maybe take the whole bunker with you, like a dying star.
He catches your arm, and you can’t stop yourself from looking at him. His brow is knit, his jaw locked, and his handsome face has deep lines you only used to see when the world was ending. There are bags under his eyes. Deeper than usual. You want to smooth the lines with your thumb and kiss his jaw until he relaxes, but that’s not your ache to soothe.
Dean doesn’t say anything. You can’t say anything. He looks exhausted, and there’s a lump forming in your throat.
“You- You hungry?” Dean rasps, and you’re starving.
“No,” you breathe before you can think, and Dean swallows.
“Well, when you’re hungry- There’s a diner in town-“
“Henry’s?”
“No, uh- A new one. I- I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go, later, or something.”
“Or something?” You tilt your head, and Dean nods.
“Whatever you want.”
God, he’s cruel. He’s perfect and cruel, and you want to vomit on his flannel and kiss him until you pass out.
“Oh- Okay,” you say, because you’re only so strong.
The lines in Dean’s face relax. His grip loosens. Then Sam coughs, and Dean lets you go.
The diner is… nice. Nice and easy, in a way you haven’t felt in longer than you want to admit. Dean insists on driving you, and paying, and sitting in one of those booths with your feet bumping under the table.
He presses his knee forward, while he orders. You swallow and don’t allow yourself to think much of it. He’s warm through his jeans, but he’s always warm, and he hasn’t tried anything in a few weeks, so you allow it. Your love for him hasn’t been flickering out, but the harsh wind of his absence has made everything feel colder. It’s okay, to indulge yourself in something so small. You’re still keeping it together. You’re still holding the line.
“So, uh-“ Dean clears his throat, turning his bottle in his hands. “How are you?”
“How- Am I?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly. “I- I’m okay. How are you?”
“Good. Great.” He frowns at the table. “You know. Same as always.”
You almost laugh. “You’re always great?”
“I focus on the positives, sweetheart-“
“No, you don’t.”
He rolls his eyes, glancing up to hold your light, amused gaze. His mouth twitches. His fingers tap against the glass, and you try not to let yourself sink too deep into the attention.
It’s okay to drown a little. A long as you don’t drop the line.
“Maybe I’m turning a new leaf,” he says, and your face splits into a full smile.
“You?”
“Yeah, me. Why’d you say it like that-“
“Because you’ve never turned a leaf in your life-“
“Ah-“ He points the head of his bottle at you with a grin. “Not true. Remember when I started learning guitar?”
“Yeah, you smashed it on a werewolf’s head after a month.”
“That was a tactical choice, I would’ve kept playing if the wolf didn’t get in the way.”
“Uh huh.” You lean back in your seat, crossing your arms. “What songs had you learned to play?”
Dean’s nose wrinkles. “Hey, we don’t need to talk about that-“
“I think we do.”
“Nah, I mean- I only had a month-“
“You learned how to work a rocket launcher in a week.”
“That’s just buttons and triggers, sweetheart. Even you could work it.”
“Even I?” You raise your brows—trying not to let the delight shine too bright in your voice—and Dean freezes.
“I mean- uh- You’re not great with guns, and- I could teach you-“
“You could teach me.”
“Maybe? If you wanted- Or-“ Dean groans, slumping back. “Stop givin’ me that look.”
“I’m not giving you any look,” you tease, and Dean sighs.
“Will you stop if I say I’m an idiot?”
You soften slightly. “You’re not an idiot, Dean-“
“You sure?” He grumbles. “Kinda feeling like one right now.”
You laugh, but it’s gentle. You can almost see him pushing down into himself. It makes you heavy for him, like you’re trying to take that invisible weight off his shoulders, even if he can’t feel you helping the pain. “You’re a dork,” you say, bumping his knee under the table. “But you’re not an idiot.”
Dean grunts, watching you under hooded eyes, and you smile easily.
You missed this, more than you want to tell him. Just talking, without worrying that it’s going to end in world-changing, back-breaking, beautifully heart-aching sex. He feels like your friend again, closer to your fingertips than he’d been when he was balls deep inside of you.
“Wonderwall,” he grunts suddenly. “And Hallelujah.”
You blink. “What?”
“Those were the songs,” he mutters, picking at the label of his bottle. “That I got, before I smashed the guitar.”
“Oh,” you pause. “I love Hallelujah.”
“Yeah. I know.”
You stare at him, and he stares right back. A faint flush is threatening your cheeks, so you duck your head to hide it, and Dean lets out a soft laugh.
“You alright-“
“Yep. I- I’m good-“
“You look good.” Dean laughs again, when you shoot him a glare. “Don’t gimme that face, I’m saying something nice-“
“You’re being a butt,” you stick out your tongue, and his eyes dance with an easy kind of light that almost makes your heart stop.
“You’re the one who was callin’ me old earlier,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes.
“You are old.”
“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you, has it.”
Your mouth falls open, eyes going so wide it almost hurts, and Dean grins at you. If you weren’t shocked into static, you’d slap him or- or lunge across the table and kiss him-
Hold the line.
“Aged wine is supposed to be better,” you manage to say, somehow, and Dean laughs, loud and free.
“That all I am to you? Some wine?”
“No,” you smile at your plate. “You’re also very good cheese.”
“Good cheese, huh.”
“Mhm.” You point a stern finger at him. “No puns.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but dips his head. “Yes, ma’am.”
There’s the flush. You’d keep trying to hide it, if Dean didn’t start talking about something unimportant and easy, and suddenly you forgot to be embarrassed. He’s not trying to kiss you or get you back to the car. He’s just… Talking to you. Dropping that light, teasing praise like it’s nothing, then telling you a story about when he used a tuba to beat a poltergeist, grinning like a winner every time you laugh.
When lunch is over, he rests a hand lightly on your lower back, but doesn’t do much more. He kisses your cheek when you get back to the bunker, and asks if you want to watch a movie tomorrow night. You swallow, locking your hands together like they can force the line to stay firm. Dean says your name, almost panicked, and you blink up at him.
“Just a movie,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Out in town, at- Uh- That shitty theatre next to the coffee place. Or- I can try and find a drive-in, if those still exist-“
“They do,” you say softly, and he swallows. “There’s one out in Beloit.”
“Beloit,” Dean mutters. “Yeah- Yeah, okay. You wanna go there?”
You nod, and he grins. You smile back, and it feels… Different. Shy, in a way you haven’t been around him since he first started fucking you. Almost delicate. You weren’t supposed to let this feel like something delicate.
Dean jaw works, and you can almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes. He lurches slightly, brow furrowed, then pulls back up. You’re seconds from asking him what’s wrong when he just leans down and… does it.
His lips graze your cheek, his hand brushing against your waist, and you almost melt right into him.
But then he stands back up, and takes a large step away. You swallow, resisting the urge to reach up and brush your fingers over where he kissed. It’s not like he’s never done that before, but again.
It just feels different.
“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and you nod weakly.
If you had a mind that was thinking in more than bursts of glee and songs of Dean, Dean, Dean, you’d tell him that you live together, and he’s always going to see you tomorrow. But he walks away, and you let him, and it doesn’t hurt. There’s a space that he left, but something in you seems to think he’s going to come back. You can’t tell if it’s the fool or not.
For once, you decide not to try.
The movie is nice. Dean rests his hand on your knee, but doesn’t go any higher. You lean into his side, and his arm goes around your shoulders, but there’s no kissing or dragging into the back seat, and you didn’t know there could be a better way to be close to him. Sex is great. Looking up and finding him already watching you is better.
He brushes some hair from your face, and you half expect him to kiss you. His eyes dart down to your lips like he wants to. Your fingers curl in his shirt, and his throat bobs.
“You likin’ the movie?” He whispers, and you nod.
“Good find,” you breathe, and he grins.
“Thanks. Eat the popcorn, it cost me a billion bucks.”
You roll your eyes, and throw some of the over-buttered, half-burnt popcorn at his face. He laughs, catches a kernel in his mouth, and grabs your chin between two fingers. Your breath catches. He just turns your face back to the screen, and pulls you a little closer into his side.
The movie ends the same way the diner did. Dean walks you to your bedroom door like it’s the porch of your house, kisses your cheek, then walks away.
Then, after the movie, you play mini golf. You win, but you know he let you. He buys you a snow cone and licks it off his nose when he eats it like a rabid dog. You wipe a little extra off his cheek, and he stares at you, but still doesn’t kiss you. Not fully. His hand seems to always rest on your lower back, now, but that’s all the contact you get. All that you allow.
Hugs are on the table, too. They’re somehow more dangerous than the forehead kisses. After the hugs, he sometimes just stares at you and cups your cheek, and your heart moves into your throat until you think you’re going to spill it out all over his chest.
You manage to keep it together. For the sake of this new, slowly growing garden of what your friendship is becoming, you swallow your love with greater ease and more bile than you ever did while you were fucking. After the mini golf you get dinner and see another movie. You convince him to go on a walk with you, and he hates it less than he pretends to. You eat together in the bunker and call when he’s on a hunt with Sam and go to a car show and it all feels like breathing.
Sometimes he still looks at your mouth, and you freeze up, unsure if you want him to kiss you or not. You know you want him, but somehow you’ve found even more to lose than before, and if it slips through your fingers, you’re not sure they’re ever going to stop shaking and groping at the empty spaces again. You can take holding his hand in the bookstore while he peers over your shoulder, pretending to be interested for no real reason other than to make you smile.
“There are so many of them,” he mutters, and you giggle.
“There’s a lot of ways to write words, Dean.”
“Yeah, but- You’d think there would be repeats or something.”
“There probably are,” you shrug, running your fingers over the spines. “But they’re still all fun.”
Dean sighs, squeezing your upper arm. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and all his features relax.
“You want some coffee?” He brushes some hair from your face and you nod.
“There’s a shop next door, could you get me-“
“Hey,” Dean flicks your nose, grinning roguishly. “Trust me, I know what you want.”
You nod a little stupidly, and his smile falters. He looks to your lips again, then almost shakes himself, taking a small step.
“Don’t move,” he squeezes your arm again, then backs away. You watch him go, unable to help yourself, and smile when he looks back. He does that all the time now. And he always smiles back.
You turn back to the shelf, looking at the books without actually looking. You already miss him, and he told you not to move, but that can’t count if you’re going to stand next to him in the coffee line, can it-
“Hey.”
You fumble slightly, turning to find a man leaning against the shelf and smirking at you. You blink, and his smirk widens.
“What’s girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”
“The… Bookstore?” You frown, and he laughs. You don’t think you said anything all that funny.
“Look, I just- I saw you from over there,” he nods vaguely, and you frown. “And I thought you were cute. Can I get you some coffee or something?”
“My- My friend is already getting me coffee,” you say, and your voice sounds strangely far away.
The man nods, but doesn’t retreat. “Alright, then can I get your number? Maybe beat your friend to coffee next time?”
And you don’t want to say yes, but this is a chance. To hold onto this new friendship with Dean while also getting over him at the same time. This man isn’t ugly. Compared to Dean, no one really stands a chance anyway, and you have to get over him eventually.
So you give him your number, and try not to feel like you just did something wrong.
Dean clears his throat from behind you, and you spin around on your heels, a sour guilt twisting in your gut.
“You- You’re back,” you say, and he grunts.
He’s not look at you. He’s glaring at the man with the same, deadly glint that he gives monsters and demons before he cuts them in half. You touch his arm lightly, and he tenses. You feel sick.
“Hey, buddy,” he snaps at the man, who—not seeming to understand the gravity of Dean’s glare—grins back.
“Hey.” He winks at you, slowly backing away. “Have fun with your friend.”
Dean’s coffee spills over the top of it’s lid. He doesn’t look away from the man when he leaves the store. He shoves your drink into your hand, not meeting your gaze.
“Dean-“
“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he mutters, and you swallow.
“Oh- Okay.”
Your arm wraps around your stomach, and you press a little away from him, from the wrath seeming to wave off his body like a volcano. He glances down, jaw tight and a vein in his brow ticking. You stare at his neck, unable to hold the weight of his gaze. He lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.
“Get your book.”
You shake you head. “No- It- It’s okay-“
Dean says your name, and your mouth snaps shut. “Just- Get the damn book.”
He looks like he’s in pain, and you don’t know how to fix it, so you do as he says. You get a cheap one, that worm of guilt burrowing deeper and deeper into your gut until you can’t even drink your coffee without feeling like it’s going to come back up.
Dean’s fingers dig into your back, when he guides you out the door. He starts the engine by almost punching in the keys, and holds Baby’s wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. You can see all the anger brimming under the surface of his skin, and worried you’re just going to make it worse. You don’t even know where it came from. It’s not like you’re together, or the guy said something rude. You open and close your mouth too many times to count, then give up, shrinking back into your seat.
Dean looks over at you. You try to look out the window, and nowhere else.
A loud, sharp breath escapes him. “Son of a- Alright.”
You look over with a frown, then squeak when he yanks the wheel off to the side.
“Shit- Dean-“
“Just- Fuck-“ He bows he head, glaring down at his legs, and you swallow.
You fidget with your fingers, watching him nervously, waiting for him to break the silence. It takes while. So long you think about just getting out of the car to give him space.
But then he looks up, and your heart gets cleaved open. His face is twisted in pain, his lips parted and his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard.
“What-“ He takes a deep breath, scanning over your openly confused features. “What else am I supposed to be doin’?”
You blink at him, fingers curling in your lap. “What?” You ask softly, and his throat bobs.
“I- I’m really trying,” he mutters, looking back to his hands. “I swear to god, baby, I’m tryin’ my best, and- I know I ain’t amazing at this but- If you could throw a guy a rope when he’s never- I’ve never done this, alright.” He waves between your bodies, jaw clenched tight. “And I’m really givin’ it my best shot, but I’m still not allowed to kiss you, and you’re takin’ numbers right- Right in front of me- So just- Something.” He gives you a pleading, broken look, eyes shining on yours in the dark. “Anything.”
You open your mouth, but you can’t even figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to say. You know all the words he’s saying, but it’s like he’s speaking a language you never learned, spitting out a code you’re just supposed to magically understand. Dean’s jaw ticks, when you don’t answer, and you try to sputter out an answer, but he’s too loud to hear your confused whimper.
“Look, just- Whatever the hell you do need me to do, I’ll do it, I swear I’ll do it, but- You gotta tell me, sweetheart-“
“Tell you what?!” You almost shout, and Dean leans back in surprise. “Dean, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dean huffs a low laugh, looking back out to the road. “Yeah. Alright,” he grabs the keys, voice rough and pained. “Sure. Whatever-“
“No.” You grab his wrist before he can start to the engine. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”
“It doesn’t matter-“
“Yes, it does-“
“Nah.”
“Dean-“
“You wanna call that guy, call ‘im.” There’s an almost toxically bitter sound to the words, and Dean’s making a face like he just got shot. “Whatever. See if I care.”
Your nails dig into his wrist, when he tries to yank it away. He shoots you a glare, the bags—gone, after months of ease—already starting to form.
“C’mon, kid, just- let go-“
“Would you care?”
Your question is small, but it makes Dean recoil like it burned. He scoffs, but it’s too loud, and you hold him tighter.
“Would you care-“
“No, I fuckin’ love watching douchebags parade around with my girl, who would care about something like that?”
Something snaps, right at the base of your spine. You sit so tall you’d think someone is dragging you by the nape of your neck, and Dean blinks in something close to surprise.
“What-“
“Your girl,” you whisper. “That’s- I’m- Why would you say that?”
Dean blinks. “Why wouldn’t I say that?”
“Because you and I- We’re not- That’s-“ You lean back, letting go of his wrist, and when you look down, you’ve left little crescent marks in the skin. “No- No- You didn’t- You said no- No strings-“
“Yeah, and then you stopped fuckin’ me, and I-“ Dean says your name as you press back against the window, brow furrowed in worry. “Baby, it’s- It’s alright, I’m not that pissed-“
“You were yelling,” you choke out, and he swallow.
“Well, I was- Just- C’mere.”
He reaches out, cupping your cheek with the same gentle touch he used to use, right before he kissed you. You gape at him, head spinning, panting like you just ran a marathon.
“I’m not mad,” he rasps, almost pleading, and you shake your head.
“You were-“
“Sweetheart-“
“Why?” You whisper, grabbing his wrist, your nails sinking back into the marks. “Why- Why would you care?”
Dean swallows. He shakes his head, looks out the window, and chuckles.
“Dean-“
“I don’t want you goin’ out with him. And- Call it possessive, or stupid man shit, or- Whatever the hell you want,” he drags his thumb over your cheekbone, voice dropping to something tender, something soft. “You’re my girl. And I want you here, telling me what to do, how to- To be what you need.” His voice cracks. “Come on, baby. Just- Tell me what to be.”
You stare at him, a lot of pieces colliding into each other at once in your head. The diner and the movie and the touching and the caution and-
“Are we dating?” You choke out, and Dean frowns.
“What’d you mean, are we dating?”
“I mean are we dating, Dean, are you- Are you my boyfriend?”
“Uh- Boyfriend kinda makes it sound like we’re sixteen and necking-“
“What the fuck is necking?”
Dean groans, dropping his head. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. Makes me feel fuckin’ fifty.”
Your lips twitch. “You are almost fifty,” you say, and he chuckles.
“Yeah. Guess I am.” He looks back up to you, caution lining his features. “You always seemed to like it.”
You swallow. You did. You’d never been sure if it was the older thing itself, or the fact that it was just Dean, but you’d liked it. You always liked all of him, from the uglier wounds to the beautiful, glowing heart that almost managed to peak through, no matter how thick his steel and iron walls became.
He glides his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, and your breath hitches. He swallows, closes his eyes, and mutters your name.
“Did you… Not think we were dating?”
You shake your head, and Dean snorts dryly.
“Huh,” his mouth curves into a tight smirk. “Makes sense why you wouldn’t kiss me, I guess.”
“You guess?” You squeak, and Dean nods.
“Yeah, makes a lotta sense, actually-“
“How long have we been dating?!” You almost shriek, and he gives you an amused look.
“’Bout three months.”
“Three months?!”
“That’s what I said, baby-“
“Shut- Shut up-“ You plant a hand over his mouth, and he raises his brows. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me we were dating, you- You butt?!”
Dean’s eyes sparkle, looking pointedly down to your hand, and you release him with a scowl. He rubs his jaw, grinning at you like you’re some cute bunny, and you lean back in your seat with a huff.
“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I thought you knew.”
“How would I have known-“
“’Cause I asked you on a date? And you said yes?”
“That- That never happened.” You snap, and Dean frowns.
“Yes, it did. Sammy- He was there-“
“Sam was there-“
“Yeah, and- I said there was a new diner in town, and you said you’d go with me, and we started dating!”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open. Dean stares pointedly back, and you can’t help yourself. You bark out a loud, sharp laugh.
“That was not asking me on a date, you fucking- Oh my god!” You shake your head, and Dean’s frown becomes almost puppy like.
“Yes, it was-“
“You have to actually say it’s a date, Dean! You can’t just- Just ask me to do something, I thought we were just hanging out! As friends.”
He’s pouting now. If you weren’t pissed, it would be adorable. “I- Uh- I paid for everything. And got you gifts.”
“Friends do that-“
“Do friends kiss your face all the time?” Dean twists to fully glare at you, and you pause.
“Um- Maybe?”
Dean snorts. “No, they don’t-“
“But I thought that was just you!” You protest. “You- You’re always- You know-“
“I know?” He mocks, and you scowl.
“We were fucking for a year, Dean,” you snap, tipping up your chin. “I thought you were comfortable with me.”
“I am comfortable with you,” Dean shrugs, leaning slightly forward. “Real comfortable.”
Your nose twitches. He’s too close, now. Consuming your vision, making your vision all stupid and fuzzy. “You’re comfortable with everyone,” you sniff, and he laughs.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, running a hand slowly up your thigh. “We both know that ain’t true.”
You make a tiny, involuntary sound when his fingers dip under your skirt, teasing sensitive, neglected skin. He hasn’t touched you there in so long. Too long. You have to hug yourself to stop your body from flying at him.
“I haven’t fucked anyone else in eighteen damn months,” Dean mutters, holding your gaze. “I’ve been waiting around for you for months, wondering what the hell I was doin’ wrong, and you thought I was just being nice?!”
You swallow, your voice suddenly small. “You are nice,” you whisper, and Dean snorts.
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re nice to me-“
“Because I-“ He cuts himself off, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh. You grab his hand, holding it against you, and his eyes dart down. He heaves a long breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bows his head.
“Dean?” You whisper, and he shakes his head. “Dean, I- I’m sorry I didn’t- You said we were just going to be casual-“
“I know what I said,” he grunts, glaring at your hands. “But I- I didn’t- I thought it would help me.”
You swallow. “Help you?”
“Yeah.”
“With what-“
“You know what.” He finally looks at you, and you’ve never seen him this vulnerable. Almost bowing before you, holding onto your hand like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. “And I can’t- I don’t know how to-“ He takes another ragged breath, gives you another pleading look. “You stopped letting me pretend, you started- You started telling me no, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t.” He swallows. “I’m tryin’ to do this right, baby.” He squeezes your hand, leaning a little closer. “Please let me do this right.”
You blink at him, tears watering in your own eyes, and nod. Dean’s shoulders shudder, and he holds your hand so tight you think he’s trying to just mold you together. He glances at your lips, but doesn’t move. So you do it for him.
Dean stares at you, completely still as you lean forward, his chest so still you’re worried he’s not breathing. You rest your hand lightly on his chest and press the lightest kiss you can to his parted lips. He shakes, one hand flying to your waist, his touch still heartbreakingly delicate. You kiss him again, a little harder, and a low rumble starts in his chest.
You pull back, pressing your brows tight together. Dean stares at you, eyes glossy and blown out, the restraint ticking in his jaw, and you smile softly.
“I love you,” you breathe. “And I- I know you can’t- You know, say it back, but- I love you, Dean.”
His breathing his ragged, and he’s still gaping. You laugh nervously, looking down to your fingers, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.
“If- If you could say something, though, that would be- Um- Nice-“
Dean grunts, and your words fall off into a squeak as Dean drags you forward into his lap.
And this. This is a real kiss. Dean’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his arm wrapping fully around your lower back, his fingers digging into your hips and his other hand cradling the back of your head. He kisses you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, pushing his tongue down your throat and moaning against your mouth. You pull on his shirt and he gropes at your ass, dragging you further into his lap. The pressure of his thigh against your core makes your head spin, but that might just be the lack of oxygen. Neither of you seem to be willing to come up for air, taking sharp, tiny breaths between sloppy kisses.
You whimper, already going limp, and Dean leans back with darkened, shining eyes. You know that look. You used to pray for and dread it all at once. It always made you feel like something close to prey, paralyzed and unable to flee his spell.
But this time is different. This time, there’s nothing you’d rather do but fall into his charm.
Dean presses another, small kiss to your lips, dragging his thumb over the tingling swell. Your tongue flicks against the pad of the finger, and he groans, pushing it slowly between your lips.
You wrap around him, sucking lightly, giving him your best, sweetest Bambi eyes. Dean’s throat bobs, his fingers digging into your ass.
“We’re goin’ home,” he mutters. “Then I’m gonna fuck you.”
That’s a lovely plan. You smile around his thumb, and he says your name, pulling his thumb away with a small pop.
“Jesus, you- You gotta tell me yes-“
“Just fuck me here,” you whisper, pulling on the collar of his shirt.
Dean glances to the backseat, then to you. “Uh- I mean- That’s- If you’re sure-“
“Please,” you push a little further forward, dropping your hand to press against the bulge in his jeans. “I need you, Dean. Now.”
And for a second, you think he’s going to demand going all the way back home. Say something about you deserving a soft bed and gentle loving, when you just want him, filthy and raw and yours. You’re so busy giving him doe eyes, you don’t notice his hand dragging down your spine and your ass, right up until it dips under your skirt, and cups your pussy through your panties.
You gasp, and Dean smirks, slowly rubbing his hand back and forth.
“Need me?” He drawls, pushing his thumb against your clit. “Like this, baby? This how you need me?”
“Ye- yes-“ Your lips brush over his, your hips starting to grind down as he drags his thumb in tiny circle, his hand still rocking back and forth. “Just- Just like that, Dean- Shit-“
You push down, kissing him with a sloppy, uncontrolled mouth. Dean grunts, splaying his free hand against your neck and pushing you down. He’s massive and warm, the hand working your pussy offering just enough friction to work you up, but nothing more. You wrap your arms around his neck, panting against his lips and moving you hips to chase more friction.
“That feels good, doesn’t it,” he mutters, kissing you between every word.
You coo, trying to kiss over his face, and Dean slaps your pussy once, leaning back with a stern glare.
“Doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” you answer immediately, already getting heavy-eyed and dazed. “So- So good, Dean, feels so good, just- More-“ You claw at his shoulders, trying to at least get to some bare skin, and settle for pressing your mouth back over his. “More- Need some more, De, now-“
Dean silences you with a deep, rough kiss, and taps his thumb against your clit in quick, harsh movements, pushing his palm down hard against your aching pussy. You cry out, trying to force your hips further down against him, and Dean squeezes that back of your neck.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Few months without some cock and you get bossy, don’t you.”
“No- No,” you manage to protest. “You’re just- You’re being slow-“
“I’m being slow?” He mocks, running his fingers over the line of your panties. “Baby, I’ve barely fuckin’ started.”
You try to roll your eyes at him, but he uses his hold on your neck to turn your head, forcing your gaze back down to his. Your eyes widen, and he smirks slightly, raising his brows.
“You gonna break out some manners for me?” He asks, slowly dragging your panties to the side. “Or am I gonna need to teach you again?”
“Te- Teach me?” You choke out, and Dean hums.
His thumb drags down from your clit, parting the lips of your pussy and smearing your arousal. Your heart is trying to hammer out of your chest, every nerve in your body seeming to respond to the mockingly sweet touch.
“Dean,” you press your hands against his chest, unsure if you want to push him away or drag him closer. “Don’t- Don’t be mean-“
“I’m not bein’ mean,” he hum, the gleam in his eyes something else all together. “I’m giving my girl exactly what she wants, how she wants it.”
You blink at him hopelessly, and he chuckles, pulling you down into a long, slow kiss. It would be romantic and loving, if it wasn’t for his thumb pushing at your weeping entrance, refusing to dip even a fraction of the way inside.
“Remember how you used to beg for me?” He mutters, and your face burns with a mix of arousal and shame. “I sure as shit do. Spent hours thinkin’ about it lately, planning how I was gonna take you when you let me again. But,” he switches out his thumb for the very tips of his fingers, yanking slightly on your hair when you try to look down. “Jesus, baby, I’m worried I’m gonna break you.”
You shake your head frantically, and Dean raises his brows.
“Words, pretty girl,” he reminds you, pushing his fingers just a little big deeper. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got it, talk to me-“
“I can take it,” you breathe out, watching him under fluttering lashes. “I- I can take it. I promise.”
Dean works his jaw, his grip on your hair tightening. “Sweetheart-“
“Please,” you breathe, leaning down until your noses bump. “I need it. I need you.”
Those are the magic words. Dean stops trying to play noble, stops trying to hold back for the sake of romance. You loved him when he fucked you like a whore and gave you nothing soft, and you’re going to love him even more when he treats you like a toy, then kisses you everywhere after.
Dean smashes his lips against yours and eases his fingers into your waiting pussy, groaning under his breath when you clench down around him.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, scissoring them inside you. “Never gonna get over how fuckin’ tight you are, sweetheart, like you were made for me. Made to be mine.”
He almost snarls the last words against your lips, pushing himself fully up to the knuckle. You mewl as he finds your g-spot with that precision that makes it look easy, that’s always made you sure you couldn’t ever enjoy someone else if you tried.
Dean pumps his fingers slowly, crooking them so they drag against that spot, and pulls you back to watch your face contort with pleasure.
“That’s it,” he grunts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming them right back in and twisting to bully against that sensitive spot. “That’s just how you like it, huh? Already gettin’ like this from just my fingers,” he chuckles, grinding his hips up against your thighs. “Imagine how you’re gonna be on my cock, sweet girl, if you can barely fuckin’ take this?”
“That- That’s not fair-“ You choke out, every word breathy and weak, and Dean just smirks.
“Isn’t it?”
You try to protest, but Dean pushes your head back down, and his kiss knocks almost every thought from your head. It’s all just the familiar, perfect way his mouth moves against yours, rememorizing something that never stopped being his. The wet sound of his fingers working you open fills the car, and your whole body burns with desire and shame. He’s right. You’re already soaked and ready for him, your cunt clenching down and still begging for more. You need that full, impossible split of him. After months of nothing, you’re worried his cock is the only thing that’s going to be able to do it.
But Dean seems to like proving you wrong today. A coil, tight in your stomach, starts to wind tighter and tighter. He drops his grip on your hair for a second to push down on the base of your spine, forcing your cunt almost right over his bulge. He reangles his hand, forcing in another finger, and you make a strangled sound.
“De- Dean-“
“We’re gonna get you relaxed, baby,” he mutters, twisting his wrist so the drag against your g-spot almost rips through your body. “Nice and relaxed ‘f me, you can do it.”
You let out a shaky breath, trying to listen, and your clit pushes down against Dean’s cock, still tight in his jeans. The pressure is perfect, combined with the brutal thrusts of Dean’s hand, and you press your cheek to his.
“That- That’s good,” you pant, clinging to the hem of his shirt. “So- Soo good-“
You whimper, and Dean hums. He’s rubbing your back, and that’s somehow almost as good as the hand obliterating your cunt. “There she is,” he mutters. “Always so good at listening when I got my hands on you, aren’t you sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your head. “That’s my girl.”
That’s what does it. My girl.
The coil snaps, and your orgasm rips through you, making your eyes cross and your body curl limply into Dean’s arms. His hand coaxes you through it, his palm rubbing against your pussy as you mewl and clench around nothing, the light pressure helping you ride it like a long, easy wave.
Dean kisses your cheek when it’s done, then right under your eye, then your nose.
“That’s one,” he mutters, and you whine. He chuckles, hiking your skirt up with light touches. “Come on, you know the rule.”
“Stupid rule,” you grumble. “Never agreed to it.”
“Never heard you complaining before,” he points out, peeling your dress off, and you stick out your tongue.
“That’s because I always forget- Dean!”
He smacks your ass, and you squeak, pussy clenching around nothing. He’s forming a tent in his jeans as he looks up at you, and you narrow your eyes. You fingers brush against the head of him, and his groan falters, his head tipping back against the bench.
You smile, pushing your hand down against his cock, and he catches your wrist, shooting you a stern glare.
“Not at young as I used to be,” he warns, and you giggle.
“But I want to,” you try to pull your hand free, and roll you eyes when he won’t let you. “Oh- Come on-“
“Nope,” he grunts, even as his dick jumps against the fabric. “You know the rule-“
“Dean-“
“Three to one,” he mutters, a dare gleaming in his eyes. “You give me one, I give you six. That’s the fuckin’ deal.”
You laugh, but his mouth doesn’t even twitch, and slowly, your smile falls into something more serious. More determined.
Damn this stubborn beautiful man and his orgasm rules. Damn you, for thinking he ever wouldn’t want to fuck you when he made you orgasm rules that weren’t proportional or fair at all.
You yank your wrist away, stick out your tongue again, and pull your underwear fully off. Dean watches you with his hands tight on your waist, eyes shining with curiosity, but patient.
And you’ve never been good at riding him, but you’ve always been good at this. You climb over Dean’s lap so your ass is near his shoulder and your face in his crotch, your back arched like some animal in heat, your pussy bare and on full display.
Dean’s never been able to help himself. One hand immediately slides around the arch of your back, then the curve of your ass, then settles back against your pussy. The other slides in your hair, petting your hair while you fumble with his belt. He chokes out your name, and you shoot him a glare, pulling out his cock with light, careful hands.
He’s so hard you’re worried he’s going to hurt himself. Pre-cum is beading around his tip, his veins throbbing like a porno. You stroke him slowly, and he lets out a sharp breath between his teeth.
“I’m serious, baby-“
“Prove it,” you say, before licking a slow, teasing stripe up his shaft.
And you know how this game ends. You’ve played it a million times before. The beautiful thing about it is that—especially when Dean thinks he’s winning—you can never lose.
You take him into his mouth, and the sound that he makes is sinful. It’s a choked, rough version of your name that sounds holy from his mouth, and comes with his fingers dipping into your heat like it’s a comfort toy. You take him until he bumps against the back of your throat and hum, swirling your tongue. Dean grunts, and pushes your head a little further down. You wiggle your ass, pussy cold and throbbing, and Dean groans.
“Jesus, woman- Gonna kill me- Fuuuuck-“
You start to bob up and down, sucking with that perfect pressure you know he likes, getting what can’t fit in your mouth in your hand. You can take him better and better with every second, letting his push against your gag reflex, and you drop that hand to play with his balls. Dean’s already giving shallow uncontrolled microthrusts, repeating your name over and over until it’s more of a choked moan.
“Can’t- Shit, baby, I can’t- That damn mouth, you’re gonna- Shit-“
You squeeze his balls and suck as hard as you can, and Dean almost roars your name, his cock jumping as he shoots thick, white ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, licking the rest off your fingers as you rise back up. There’s going to be a handprint on your ass, from where he was holding onto you. You hope you feel it in the morning.
And when you smile at Dean, you know you’re in trouble. Naked and wet for him, crawling forward so your tits press into his face and kissing him as sweetly as possible. Dean grunts, one hand shooting up to cradle the back of your head, and his responding kiss is deceptively gentle. He lets you lead it, groaning when your tongues press together, tasting himself on your lips. He lets you pull his shirt over his head and lets you trace over the lines of his muscles. You smile against his lips and lean back, and there’s that predatory glint again.
Dean’s hand twitches on your back. He wipes your chin, gathering some stray cum and slowly pressing his against your lips. You clean it off obediently, and his jaw ticks.
“Back seat,” he grunts. “Now.”
You almost scramble to listen. Rolling off of him and trying to climb over, making it halfway before you feel massive hands wrapping around your waist, holding you in place. You swallow, trying to twist over your shoulder to look at him, but Dean blows a sharp breath over your clit, and you double over with a squeak.
“De- Dean-“ You plant your hand on the bench, blood rushing to your cheeks. “Dean- wait-“
“Hmmm.” He kisses one curve of your ass, then the other. “Wait for what?”
You’re not really sure. “This- I- I can’t hold myself up,” you fumble, and he chuckles, kissing right over your clit.
“That gonna be a problem?” He teases, pressing smaller, faster kisses over the sensitive button. “Or,” he spreads your ass cheeks, humming against your heat. “Do dirty girls get what they asked for?”
Shit. “It’s uncomfortable,” you whisper, and Dean pauses.
He sighs, then kisses your clit again. You squeak when he drags you back down, and melt into his chest as he kisses all over your face, rocking you back and forth in his arms.
“’S why I wanted the bed,” he mutters, and you sigh.
“’M sorry-“
“No,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, massaging your hips with steady hands. “I’ve got it, just- uh-“
He glances up, and you watch him frown around the car with an openly adoring expression. The work of his jaw and furrow of his brow as he thinks, how he holds you so tight in his arms, it’s impossible to not love him.
“Got it,” he mutters. “Trust me?”
You nod easily, and he glances back down. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and this kiss isn’t feral or brutal. It’s just… slow. Adoring, a silent promise of what you’ve sort of always known.
Dean is going to take care of you.
He lays you out in the backseat, rubbing your thighs as you settle into the cushioned bench. You watch him with your heart in your throat, arms wrapped tight around your stomach. Sometimes, under his attention, you’re not sure what to do with yourself. He’s too pretty, too big, too much in the best possible way.
“Getting’ shy on me?” He teases, pushing up your knee, and you flush.
“N- No.”
“Hm,” Dean pins your leg against the bench, guiding the other one so it hooks over his shoulders. “Sounds like you’re gettin’ shy.”
You swallow, hugging yourself tighter, and he chuckles.
“All that work to make you relax,” he mutters, kissing his way up your thigh. “And you’re already wound back up.”
“You took too long,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” He kisses just the side of your cunt, and your breath hitches as he sucks a small, firm bruise into the skin. “You know I’m gonna make it up to you, yeah?”
You nod weakly, then blurt, “Yes!”
Dean’s mouth twitches, and he grabs one of your wrists, guiding it down to his hair. You weave it between your fingers, your breathing already ragged, your whole body lit up with anticipation.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, kissing the other side of your cunt, massaging your thigh and pushing your leg a little higher. “Nice and easy, pretty girl.” He kisses you pussy, open-mouthed and wet, and you let out a high, shameless sound.
His mouth should be classified as a sex toy or something. It moves and works against you like a machine, kissing you with so much fervor you already start to see stars. You had some recovery from the fingering, but Dean’s already stripping it away with sharp, unrelenting kisses and grazes of his teeth against your clit.
“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against you, the word vibrating through your body. “Never wanna live without this pussy again, baby girl, shit-“
He groans and dives back down, starting to work you open like a man starved. You push on his head, silently begging for more, afraid to open your mouth. The sounds that leave you will be embarrassing, and you’re already too far gone for them.
But Dean likes you loud, and he won’t let you hold back. He hooks his arm fully around your leg, dragging you further down, giving him a better against your pussy. You mewl when he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking impossibly hard, and Dean laughs against your cunt.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ You grab at the front bench, yanking mindlessly on his short hair. “De- Dean- Oh my god-“
He groans, pushing his face impossibly further. His tongue is deliberate and thick, pumping in and out of your cunt before pressing flat on your clit and dragging back and forth. It’s enough to drive you mad, making the coil in your stomach burn and burn and burn until your whole body is shaking with the sensation.
“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “You- Fuck-“
He nips at your clit, dragging a long, slow stripe up your pussy. Your eyes lock, and you swallow, a broken moan falling from your lips. The first time he did this, he told you that he loved it. That there was nothing better than a woman, right on his face, dripping and sweet for him. It didn’t take you long to believe him.
Here, he looks at you like you’re some kind of heaven he’s been allowed to touch. His mouth never stops moving against you, his eyes lidded and almost drunk, and your arousal shining on his face whenever he reangles it to devour you a new way. It’s a sight that could knock you off your feet, if you had any left to stand on. Dean on his knees, his broad, freckled shoulders forcing your knees apart, his attention a drug you never want to bother being clean from again.
You start to shake, your stomach seizing up as you fight off your orgasm, but Dean doesn’t tolerate that either. His mouth goes back against your clit, his tongue darting up and down and back and forth in tiny motions, almost tickling it, making the little nerves light up and-
You cum with a loud, choked sound that’s really supposed to be Dean’s name, and push at his head. You expect him to stop, and finally get on top of you.
But you forgot about his stupid orgasm rule, and he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens and he starts to make out with your overstimulated pussy. You squeak, pushing weakly at his head, and his eyes gleam.
“De- Dean- Fuuuuck- That’s-“ Your eyes roll back, your body seizing up again, almost unable to take so much. “Oh- Oh my gooood-”
Dean groans against you again, and it’s worse than a vibrator. It’s warm and deep and Dean, mixed with his filthy mouth and stubble, scraping against soft skin.Your thighs lock around his head and he lets them, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulls you fully onto your back, pushing himself up onto his knees. His cock bounces against his stomach but he ignores it, using his now free hand to grope at your breast. You moan, clenching around nothing as he laps at your clit and pussy.
“I- I can’t-“ Tears spring at your eyes. “Dean- Please-“
He hums, rolling your nipple between deft fingers, and you throw your head back with a broken moan.
Warm, thick fingers weave through yours, and you blink at him under watery lashes. He’s let go of your breast to hold your hand. His thumb is dragging slowly back and forth, and his mouth isn’t slowing down, but you don’t want it to. You can see the challenge shining in his eyes. You take a ragged breath, give him the smallest nod, and he smiles against your pussy.
You didn’t know the human tongue could move that fast. You’re sure it’s not supposed to, but Dean’s never cared about things like that. He drinks you up like wine, rapidly toying with your clit—swirling and kissing and flicking and sucking like it’s candy—and your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm springs through your body like a geyser.
Dean lowers you down slowly, pressing one last kiss to your swollen kiss before rising back up, wiping his chin of your release and cleaning it off his fingers with a smug grin. His cock is at attention, and your mouth waters. He always gets it in. You’re a little afraid of it right now.
“Six?” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.
“You’re the one who pushed for it, princess.”
“It- It’s your stupid rule-“
“You love it,” he shrugs, slowly settling himself back between your legs. “And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you, baby.”
You wrinkle your nose, and Dean gives you a stern, amused look.
“Aren’t you?” He taps the head of his cock against your cunt, and you squeak.
“Dean-“
“You’re the one who got bratty and cocky, sweetheart,” he drawls, pushing your leg back down. “So you’re gonna take it, ‘cause I know you can.”
You swallow, giving him your best doe-eyes, and he just chuckles. Dean lowers himself down, presses a gentle kiss to your brow, and murmurs against your skin.
“That ain’t gettin’ you out of this.”
You press your face into the crook of his neck, and Dean smiles, kissing the side of your head.
“All shy again,” he mutters, dragging that massive cock between the lips of your pussy. “Let’s take care of that, huh?”
You cling to him as he rolls you both over, guiding your legs to straddle his torso and lining up his cock with your weeping, abused pussy. He pulls you gently up, rubbing your side and watching you a painfully adoring gaze. You try to cover yourself again, and he catches your hand, shaking his head.
“Come on,” he mutters, weaving your fingers together. “Let me see you.”
And damn him for being so soft and sweet, you don’t think you could tell him no if you wanted.
“Take it easy,” he says, wrapping both of his hands around your waist. “All you, baby. Show me what you want.”
“I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.”
You believe him, in a way you’d never believe anyone else. It might be how he looks at you. Like you’re an angel over him, like you’re really, truly letting him enter paradise as you sink down onto his cock.
He grunts, his fingers tightening against your body as his cock slowly splits you open. Even with how much he’s worked you open—your pussy so wet it’s already dripping onto his thighs—it’s a tight fit. You can feel every vein dragging inside of you, the hard curve pressing right into your g-spot and making you flutter around him.
Dean jerks his head up, squeezing his eyes shut, and you swallow.
“Sorry-“
“’S- ‘S alright,” he exhales sharply, relaxing back into the seat. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, baby. I’m good.”
A smile ghosts over your lips, even as you start to only breathe through your nose. “You look it,” you tease, and Dean gives you a half annoyed, half impressed look.
“You’re tight,” he grunts, and your smile widens.
“You’re big.”
He groans, throwing his head further back, and you giggle again. He’s sitting just right again, his chest rippling under your hands, and you feel like that angel. You feel like a goddess, with how his hands are dragging over your body, how your name falls from his lips.
“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, eyes raking over your body. “So perfect.”
You take a deep breath, and start to grind down onto his cock. Dean groans, one hand dragging down to squeeze your ass, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless you beg him, and you’re determined not to. You can ride him until your thighs give out. His cock bumps against your g-spot, and his abdomen drags near your clit, and it feels good. You rock back and forth a little faster, your breath catching, and Dean groans.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Pretty fuckin’ girl, riding my cock like the needy little thing you are, aren’t you. So fuckin’ wet for me, baby, so- so tight-“
He groans, and you push down on his chest, picking up your pace.
“So big, Dean,” you moan, pushing up your chest like a pornstar, trying to make him break first. “You’re so big, feels so- so good-“
You moan, tossing your hair, and Dean makes an almost feral sound.
But he doesn’t break. The bastard never breaks, and you’ve never been good at riding him. Your thighs are already sore, and they quickly start to ache, making your movements smaller and weaker. Dean watches you start to whine, your brow furrowing in concentration, and just smiles. You both know what he’s waiting for. You don’t want to give in.
“So quiet, sweetheart,” he coos, running his hand up to palm at your breast. “Someone drove by, they’d think I wasn’t fuckin’ you properly.”
You glare at him, unable to even speak, and he chuckles.
“You know what you gotta do, baby girl.”
“Fu- Fuck you-“
“I will,” he winks. “If my girl says please.”
Your eyes narrow. His grin widens, and you think you might be about to fly apart with how bad you need it. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid face that you love and his big cock that makes you all jelly and dazed thoughts and useless.
“Please-“
The word barely leaves your mouth before Dean moves. A single, well-aimed thrust up into your cunt that makes you fall apart. You fall forward onto his chest with a scream, and Dean groans, giving shallower, gentle thrusts to work you through the orgasm.
“I know,” he murmurs in you ear, his words painfully soft in comparison to the pleasure wracking your body. “I know, princess. Two more to go.”
You don’t think you can take two more. Four has been your max for a very long time, and that was with a lot more prep time and space between orgasms. But Dean doesn’t seem like he’s going to give you much of a choice.
You’re a doll in his arms again, when he hauls you up into his lap. His cock leaves you for a single second, just for the adjustment, and you whimper at the loss.
Dean hums, kissing all over your face as he slides back in.
“That’s my girl,” he starts to rock your hips back and forth with steady hands, picking you up then dropping your back down so his dick drags through every inch of your heat. “Takin’ me so good. Just like that, feel that, baby-“ He pushes on your lower back, making his cock slam against your g-spot, and you sob against his neck. “Feel how fuckin’ good we fit together, my girl.”
Dean’s voice is lined with something darker now. More possessive and hungry. He fucks up into your like an animal, dips drilling forward and mouth attached to your neck. All you can do is take it, over and over until your eyes are crossing and the only words you can remember are babbles of Dean and please.
The neck orgasm is slow, blooming from where he’s slamming against your cervix and spreading pleasantly through your body. Dean moans against your skin, mouthing at your jaw and neck, his tongue dragging and kisses messy. When you try to kiss him back, it’s mostly with a mewl and lips that follow his lead. Everything is humid and light in your body, everything is Dean around you, and there’s a new, strangely hot sensation in your core that’s demanding all of your attention.
It’s tighter than the usual coil, and gets hotter and hotter with every thrust of Dean’s cock. He’s getting uneven now, his own words falling into pants and moans, his balls slapping against your ass and hands leaving prints as he folds you fully over his chest.
“One- One more-“ His voice is gravelly, almost as wrecked as you feel. “Milk my fuckin’ cock, baby girl, cum for me-“
You open your mouth to warn him about the strange feeling, but it’s too late. Dean slams home, crashing his mouth against yours, and you cum with a hoarse scream. Hot cum shoots into your cunt, right as something gushes out of you in wet, burning waves. It feels good, so good you can’t think, so good your mouth hangs open and your moans turn into pathetic, weak babbles.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ Dean groans against your mouth. “Fuckin’- Yes-“
Your body seizes and twitches around him, but even when he’s done, Dean doesn’t pull out. The last of your release pushes itself out and her collapses backward, rubbing your back and craning his neck to grin at your cockdrunk expression.
“Gettin’ stupid?” He teases, and you can’t manage to raise an arm, so you just bite his nose. He laughs, leaning up to steal another, quick kiss from your lips before settling back down.
You curl over him, resting your head against his shoulder while he pets your head, both of you still panting and coming back down. You might be there for a hundred years, or just an hour. It doesn’t matter. The car is going to reek of sex for maybe a year. Sam might never agree to ride in it again. But it was worth it. More than worth it, when you look up at Dean, and find him—just as always—already looking back.
“We’re still dating, right?” You whisper, because you have to be sure.
Dean grins, and kisses you slowly. You hum, letting your eyes flutter shut. Letting him carry you, whenever he thinks is safe to go.
“Yeah,” he mutters, and you can hear it in his voice. All the love he’s been trying to show you, for who knows how long. “We are."
✦End note: if i write enough of these it's gonna happen to me guys trust ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Biggest, dumbest idiots and I'm here for it!!! Dean is just the absolute perfect mix of sweet and dominant while also being his dumb-beautiful self. If you keep writing him like this, then I'm never leaving this delicious table of offerings. Just.So.Good. 🥵🫠🥰
✦summary: dean learns, slowly, that he's actually pretty good at being boyfriend material. it would be nice if you'd stop pining after him long enough to notice✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, friends with benefits to lovers, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love because it's the best way to be, dean's down so bad, shameless smut (facesitting, praise kink, big dick dean, fingering, pussy spanking, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, mean dean, dean has an orgasm rule and you. benefit. dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 12.5k✦
✦author's note: request! super normal about this one✦
You tell yourself, over and over again, that this is going to be the last time. It’s not something that’s meant to be held onto, so you can just… let go.
But then you find yourself here. Between tangled sheets with your legs spread wide, your nails digging into Dean’s bicep and his cock dragging through your wet, sensitive cunt.
“There you go,” he coos in your ear, every thrust deep and rough. “That’s my girl, takin’ me so good, so- Good-“
Dean moans, pressing up against the soft, gummy spot inside of you, and your eyes roll back in your head.
He always does this. He knocks on your door and grabs your face between big hands, and suddenly all that resolve and determination—never again—dissolves with your willpower. His hands are rough and calloused, but trace your hips and hold you down so gently, you can almost pretend he cares if you break. His cock is thick and impossibly long, and he always drags it between your soaked heat and bumps it against your clit before pushing himself in just right. His lips are chapped and soft, sucking possessive marks into your neck that he has no right to claim, but that doesn’t stop you from running your fingers through his hair and holding him right where he is. He wouldn’t dare to leave. Not in the middle of this. Not before you’ve both gotten what you want.
What Dean wants. You don’t let yourself pretend that this is everything you need anymore. It’s the only hope you have of one day telling him no, because the rest of you control rests on a thin rope, and it always slips from your hands the moment Dean touches you like you matter.
You never walk away from him with an aching, unsatisfied body. A few nights ago he put you on his face and made you ride until your thighs were shaking and tears were springing into your eyes. Before this, he spit on your cunt and scissored you open with thick, careful finger, kissing and nipping at your thighs as your greedy pussy swallowed him right up to the knuckle. Even now, as every roll of his hips becomes smaller—as his face twists in concentration and his mouth against your jaw becomes desperate—Dean’s thumbing at your clit, trying to get you over the edge with him.
“C’mon, baby, c’mon-“ He pushes himself up to his knees, forcing a deeper, rougher angle. “Show me what you’ve got, I know you can do it, come on-
You whimper, staring up at him under lidded, glazed eyes. The whole world is just a blur of color at this point, but Dean is bright and clear. The heave of his broad shoulder and chest, every muscle in his arm as he wraps it around your waist and makes you arch your back, the flex of his abdomen as he ruts forward like a feral dog. The sharp, unforgiving thrusts are making your head spin with pleasure, turning you into a boneless wreck of need. You grab his arm, trying to steady yourself against something, and Dean’s attention rips up.
He says he likes to watch himself fuck you, and you’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s spent whole sessions just staring at his cock or fingers splitting your cunt open. He likes putting you on his face because he can watch you react. You like it better like that, usually. The eye contact is too close. Too intimate. Too real.
But you grab him, and he looks at you, and it’s almost like a shot. His eyes are blown-out and so strangely soft, staring at your wrecked, open expression with too much, too much, too much-
“De- Deeean-“ You cry it out like a pray, because it is. Dean grunts, hips snapping, the wet sound filling up the air and his eyes never leaving yours. “Dean- Dean- Fuck, please- Please-“
You’re babbling. You never do that with anyone else, but Dean is Dean, and he makes you do things you never counted yourself capable of. He groans your name, and you squeal when he drags you up, off the mattress and straddling his thighs. Your clit drags against his abdomen, his cock bullies right against your g-spot, and Dean grabs your jaw with a single, painfully gentle hand.
“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, still holding your gaze, even as your eyes start to cross. “Soak this fuckin’ cock, baby, cum-“
You almost scream as your orgasm rips through you, and Dean crashes his mouth against yours, eating every whimper and moan with harsh lips and his tongue down your throat. You press into him, pussy gushing and fluttering around his dick, and he makes that deep, rumbling sound that always comes right before-
“Shit-“ Dean gasps against your mouth, pulling you so close you can’t feel anything but the heat of his bare chest, the sensation of his cock twitching and pumping in your cunt. “Fuuck-“
Dean moans your name, and a warm, pleasant heat starts to spread through your tummy and drip between your thighs. He doesn’t stop moving until his cock is softened, and you don’t try to stop him. You’re barely more than a limp doll right now, returning his kisses with tiny mewls, eyes crossed and body limp.
For a moment after it’s done, you stay tangled together. You always do. It’s the most dangerous part of the whole thing, because it feeds that tiny little fool in your chest, who refuses to believe that this is just sex. Who takes your heartstrings and weaves grand worlds where Dean loves you back, and you’re going to be just fine.
Dean kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter closed. There’s an advantage, to being a crybaby whenever he fucks you stupid. He never once has considered that the tears might be real.
“Think you can walk?” He mutters, still buried deep inside of you, still holding you like he cares.
You shake your head, and his mouth twitches against yours.
“Alright, pretty girl. I’ve got you.”
And you press your face into the crook of his neck, letting that fool take you over. She takes his words as gospel. My girl and I’ve got you and Baby, they’re exactly what he means and nothing more, nothing less.
When the logical part of your brain wakes back up—Dean’s always had this ability to hit a button in you, sliding his hand around the back of your neck and making all your thoughts just bubblegum feelings and electric colors—you’re going to remember why you always say this has to be the last time.
He’s perfect, and he’s not yours. He makes that perfectly clear, until he pulls these little stunts and ends up buried between your thighs. You agreed that he wasn’t yours, when this arrangement started.
Safer with someone you know, he’d told you, like he hasn’t fucked his way across the entire country. Easier. Nothing to worry about, when it’s you and me.
And you’d been a starry-eyed, gooey hearted fool who just wanted whatever part of Dean he was willing to show you. The burning love you kept tended in your ribs hadn’t seen a problem with adding fuel to the wildfire, even if Dean was never going to see it. But now he’s carrying you to the bathroom like a princess, and he’s going to be gone in the morning, and that wildfire is an inferno. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You can map out everything he’d ever say in response to your feelings, from the harsh sneer he would’ve given when he had the Mark of Cain, to the kinder let down you’d get now.
You’re too young, he’d say, like it was a consolation prize. And I like you, sweetheart, but I don’t do this kinda thing. Not with girls young enough to be my daughter. Not with kids that I hunt with. Not with you.
You press your face further into his neck. He’s always so warm and sturdy, a massive tree that’s offering you just as much shade crushing, unbearable weight and tangled roots that keep you pressed down. He smells like leather and whiskey and something perfectly, faintly spice. You want to drown in it. You want to drown in him.
“You good?” Dean asks, and his voice is too gentle. It rattles the little fool, screaming for the rest of you to listen and just accept that he loves you.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.
“You’re bein’ quiet, even for- Y’know-“ He chuckles, that low, insufferably charming pride crawling into his voice. “After I fuck you dumb.”
“You did not fuck me dumb,” you mumble against his skin, and you can hear his grin.
“Big words from the girl who couldn’t talk five minutes ago.”
“That was unrelated.”
“Unrelated,” he echoes, his thumb dragging a small circle against your spine. “Always forget how bratty you get after, sweetheart. Dangerous.”
You roll your eyes, and hug him tighter. He laughs, and kisses the side of your head, and he has the nerve to call you dangerous.
“You wanna watch a movie?” He asks, leaning down to run the water, still keeping you tucked so carefully against his chest, and all you can do is nod. Dean sighs. “C’mon, gimme a little more than that-“
“Yes, please,” you mumble, and he pauses.
It’s only a fraction of a second. You don’t understand it, and you don’t want to. Not when he feeds your delusions and kisses your brow again, then your cheek, then your lips. And you let him. You always let him, because you’re a foolish, stupid, lovesick idiot. You don’t want his affection, not like this. But you don’t want to lose him—it would be like ripping a vital organ out of your ribcage, even if you didn’t know you had it a year ago—and you can’t ever tell him to stop being so sweet without explaining yourself, and getting that gentle, horrible let down.
You don’t want it. You don’t want any of it. And this, this had to be the last time.
You hold the line. You don’t know how, but you hold that line with white knuckles and grit teeth and a taste like bile in the back of your throat.
Dean knocks on the door, only two nights later, and you don’t answer. He calls your name and you sink into the mattress, praying he just thinks you’re asleep.
“I just- Uh- I wanted to talk?” He says, and you press your face into the pillow like that can somehow shield you. “Really, that’s it. Just talking, so- If you could-“
Dean sighs. You can hear the please, hanging between every word, but Dean doesn’t really say please. He just begs with everything else in him, or gives up. And you can picture him running his hand over his face, the heavy look in his eyes, the defeated sag in his shoulders. It’s like a knife being driven through your gut, and you sit up, ready to open the door-
“Alright,” he mutters, and you freeze. “Night, baby. Sleep well.”
Footsteps retreat, and you stay there on the mattress, frozen and lost, adrift in a sea you dove into.
But you did it. You held the line.
And you keep it. It makes sweat bead and your skin burn, but you close the door and don’t open it back up. You’re done, and you’re going to keep it that way.
Dean doesn’t ask questions. You don’t know if you want him to or not, but it doesn’t matter, because you catch him staring and giving out signals, but he’s taken your no in stride, and doesn’t seem to have any plans to push back against it. When this started, you agreed to leave out a specific book on the war room table if either of you wanted something. Dean starts to leave it out every night, and you never go to his door, and one night, it vanishes.
And that’s fine. That’s exactly what you wanted.
And if it feels like you’re dying because of it, and if you spend an hour over the toilet dry heaving that night, that’s no one’s business but your own.
“Dean’s been grumpy lately,” Sam says one morning, and you blink at him over your coffee.
“Grumpy? Dean? That’s- Woah-“
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Sam gives you a flat look. “You know what I mean. Grumpier.”
You shrug, looking back to your mug. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”
“Uh huh.”
You can feel Sam’s stare. It makes you itchy and small, and you’re not sure if you want to punch him or run. You settle for staring at your coffee harder. It’s the easiest course of action.
“Dean needs to get laid,” Sam repeats your words, something strange—almost sharp—in his tone, and you nod.
“That’s what I said.”
“Dean-“
“What’s up?” Dean walks into the kitchen, stopping right behind you, and you hunch over like you can grow a shell to protect yourself.
Even just a few feet away, he’s always so warm.
“Uh- Hey, Dean-“
“Hey,” Dean mocks back, and Sam huffs.
“Dude-“
“Shut your face-“
“I didn’t say anything- I-“ Sam says your name, and you glance up. His brow is furrowed with worry, his eyes locked on Dean behind you. “We were just-“
“Just what?” Dean snaps. “Just talking? Shooting the shit, getting real comfortable?”
Sam sighs. “Dean-“
“I got a gun, Sammy,” Dean points firmly, and you stare at his finger like a woman driven mad with thirst. “Don’t forget that.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “We all have guns, that- That threat doesn’t do anything-“
“I’ll show you doing something- Hey-“
Dean says your name, and you freeze. You’d been trying to slip out while they fought, but Dean—goddamn him—had noticed. He always notices. You love him so much it’s going to make you cave in on yourself, and maybe take the whole bunker with you, like a dying star.
He catches your arm, and you can’t stop yourself from looking at him. His brow is knit, his jaw locked, and his handsome face has deep lines you only used to see when the world was ending. There are bags under his eyes. Deeper than usual. You want to smooth the lines with your thumb and kiss his jaw until he relaxes, but that’s not your ache to soothe.
Dean doesn’t say anything. You can’t say anything. He looks exhausted, and there’s a lump forming in your throat.
“You- You hungry?” Dean rasps, and you’re starving.
“No,” you breathe before you can think, and Dean swallows.
“Well, when you’re hungry- There’s a diner in town-“
“Henry’s?”
“No, uh- A new one. I- I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go, later, or something.”
“Or something?” You tilt your head, and Dean nods.
“Whatever you want.”
God, he’s cruel. He’s perfect and cruel, and you want to vomit on his flannel and kiss him until you pass out.
“Oh- Okay,” you say, because you’re only so strong.
The lines in Dean’s face relax. His grip loosens. Then Sam coughs, and Dean lets you go.
The diner is… nice. Nice and easy, in a way you haven’t felt in longer than you want to admit. Dean insists on driving you, and paying, and sitting in one of those booths with your feet bumping under the table.
He presses his knee forward, while he orders. You swallow and don’t allow yourself to think much of it. He’s warm through his jeans, but he’s always warm, and he hasn’t tried anything in a few weeks, so you allow it. Your love for him hasn’t been flickering out, but the harsh wind of his absence has made everything feel colder. It’s okay, to indulge yourself in something so small. You’re still keeping it together. You’re still holding the line.
“So, uh-“ Dean clears his throat, turning his bottle in his hands. “How are you?”
“How- Am I?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly. “I- I’m okay. How are you?”
“Good. Great.” He frowns at the table. “You know. Same as always.”
You almost laugh. “You’re always great?”
“I focus on the positives, sweetheart-“
“No, you don’t.”
He rolls his eyes, glancing up to hold your light, amused gaze. His mouth twitches. His fingers tap against the glass, and you try not to let yourself sink too deep into the attention.
It’s okay to drown a little. A long as you don’t drop the line.
“Maybe I’m turning a new leaf,” he says, and your face splits into a full smile.
“You?”
“Yeah, me. Why’d you say it like that-“
“Because you’ve never turned a leaf in your life-“
“Ah-“ He points the head of his bottle at you with a grin. “Not true. Remember when I started learning guitar?”
“Yeah, you smashed it on a werewolf’s head after a month.”
“That was a tactical choice, I would’ve kept playing if the wolf didn’t get in the way.”
“Uh huh.” You lean back in your seat, crossing your arms. “What songs had you learned to play?”
Dean’s nose wrinkles. “Hey, we don’t need to talk about that-“
“I think we do.”
“Nah, I mean- I only had a month-“
“You learned how to work a rocket launcher in a week.”
“That’s just buttons and triggers, sweetheart. Even you could work it.”
“Even I?” You raise your brows—trying not to let the delight shine too bright in your voice—and Dean freezes.
“I mean- uh- You’re not great with guns, and- I could teach you-“
“You could teach me.”
“Maybe? If you wanted- Or-“ Dean groans, slumping back. “Stop givin’ me that look.”
“I’m not giving you any look,” you tease, and Dean sighs.
“Will you stop if I say I’m an idiot?”
You soften slightly. “You’re not an idiot, Dean-“
“You sure?” He grumbles. “Kinda feeling like one right now.”
You laugh, but it’s gentle. You can almost see him pushing down into himself. It makes you heavy for him, like you’re trying to take that invisible weight off his shoulders, even if he can’t feel you helping the pain. “You’re a dork,” you say, bumping his knee under the table. “But you’re not an idiot.”
Dean grunts, watching you under hooded eyes, and you smile easily.
You missed this, more than you want to tell him. Just talking, without worrying that it’s going to end in world-changing, back-breaking, beautifully heart-aching sex. He feels like your friend again, closer to your fingertips than he’d been when he was balls deep inside of you.
“Wonderwall,” he grunts suddenly. “And Hallelujah.”
You blink. “What?”
“Those were the songs,” he mutters, picking at the label of his bottle. “That I got, before I smashed the guitar.”
“Oh,” you pause. “I love Hallelujah.”
“Yeah. I know.”
You stare at him, and he stares right back. A faint flush is threatening your cheeks, so you duck your head to hide it, and Dean lets out a soft laugh.
“You alright-“
“Yep. I- I’m good-“
“You look good.” Dean laughs again, when you shoot him a glare. “Don’t gimme that face, I’m saying something nice-“
“You’re being a butt,” you stick out your tongue, and his eyes dance with an easy kind of light that almost makes your heart stop.
“You’re the one who was callin’ me old earlier,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes.
“You are old.”
“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you, has it.”
Your mouth falls open, eyes going so wide it almost hurts, and Dean grins at you. If you weren’t shocked into static, you’d slap him or- or lunge across the table and kiss him-
Hold the line.
“Aged wine is supposed to be better,” you manage to say, somehow, and Dean laughs, loud and free.
“That all I am to you? Some wine?”
“No,” you smile at your plate. “You’re also very good cheese.”
“Good cheese, huh.”
“Mhm.” You point a stern finger at him. “No puns.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but dips his head. “Yes, ma’am.”
There’s the flush. You’d keep trying to hide it, if Dean didn’t start talking about something unimportant and easy, and suddenly you forgot to be embarrassed. He’s not trying to kiss you or get you back to the car. He’s just… Talking to you. Dropping that light, teasing praise like it’s nothing, then telling you a story about when he used a tuba to beat a poltergeist, grinning like a winner every time you laugh.
When lunch is over, he rests a hand lightly on your lower back, but doesn’t do much more. He kisses your cheek when you get back to the bunker, and asks if you want to watch a movie tomorrow night. You swallow, locking your hands together like they can force the line to stay firm. Dean says your name, almost panicked, and you blink up at him.
“Just a movie,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Out in town, at- Uh- That shitty theatre next to the coffee place. Or- I can try and find a drive-in, if those still exist-“
“They do,” you say softly, and he swallows. “There’s one out in Beloit.”
“Beloit,” Dean mutters. “Yeah- Yeah, okay. You wanna go there?”
You nod, and he grins. You smile back, and it feels… Different. Shy, in a way you haven’t been around him since he first started fucking you. Almost delicate. You weren’t supposed to let this feel like something delicate.
Dean jaw works, and you can almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes. He lurches slightly, brow furrowed, then pulls back up. You’re seconds from asking him what’s wrong when he just leans down and… does it.
His lips graze your cheek, his hand brushing against your waist, and you almost melt right into him.
But then he stands back up, and takes a large step away. You swallow, resisting the urge to reach up and brush your fingers over where he kissed. It’s not like he’s never done that before, but again.
It just feels different.
“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and you nod weakly.
If you had a mind that was thinking in more than bursts of glee and songs of Dean, Dean, Dean, you’d tell him that you live together, and he’s always going to see you tomorrow. But he walks away, and you let him, and it doesn’t hurt. There’s a space that he left, but something in you seems to think he’s going to come back. You can’t tell if it’s the fool or not.
For once, you decide not to try.
The movie is nice. Dean rests his hand on your knee, but doesn’t go any higher. You lean into his side, and his arm goes around your shoulders, but there’s no kissing or dragging into the back seat, and you didn’t know there could be a better way to be close to him. Sex is great. Looking up and finding him already watching you is better.
He brushes some hair from your face, and you half expect him to kiss you. His eyes dart down to your lips like he wants to. Your fingers curl in his shirt, and his throat bobs.
“You likin’ the movie?” He whispers, and you nod.
“Good find,” you breathe, and he grins.
“Thanks. Eat the popcorn, it cost me a billion bucks.”
You roll your eyes, and throw some of the over-buttered, half-burnt popcorn at his face. He laughs, catches a kernel in his mouth, and grabs your chin between two fingers. Your breath catches. He just turns your face back to the screen, and pulls you a little closer into his side.
The movie ends the same way the diner did. Dean walks you to your bedroom door like it’s the porch of your house, kisses your cheek, then walks away.
Then, after the movie, you play mini golf. You win, but you know he let you. He buys you a snow cone and licks it off his nose when he eats it like a rabid dog. You wipe a little extra off his cheek, and he stares at you, but still doesn’t kiss you. Not fully. His hand seems to always rest on your lower back, now, but that’s all the contact you get. All that you allow.
Hugs are on the table, too. They’re somehow more dangerous than the forehead kisses. After the hugs, he sometimes just stares at you and cups your cheek, and your heart moves into your throat until you think you’re going to spill it out all over his chest.
You manage to keep it together. For the sake of this new, slowly growing garden of what your friendship is becoming, you swallow your love with greater ease and more bile than you ever did while you were fucking. After the mini golf you get dinner and see another movie. You convince him to go on a walk with you, and he hates it less than he pretends to. You eat together in the bunker and call when he’s on a hunt with Sam and go to a car show and it all feels like breathing.
Sometimes he still looks at your mouth, and you freeze up, unsure if you want him to kiss you or not. You know you want him, but somehow you’ve found even more to lose than before, and if it slips through your fingers, you’re not sure they’re ever going to stop shaking and groping at the empty spaces again. You can take holding his hand in the bookstore while he peers over your shoulder, pretending to be interested for no real reason other than to make you smile.
“There are so many of them,” he mutters, and you giggle.
“There’s a lot of ways to write words, Dean.”
“Yeah, but- You’d think there would be repeats or something.”
“There probably are,” you shrug, running your fingers over the spines. “But they’re still all fun.”
Dean sighs, squeezing your upper arm. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and all his features relax.
“You want some coffee?” He brushes some hair from your face and you nod.
“There’s a shop next door, could you get me-“
“Hey,” Dean flicks your nose, grinning roguishly. “Trust me, I know what you want.”
You nod a little stupidly, and his smile falters. He looks to your lips again, then almost shakes himself, taking a small step.
“Don’t move,” he squeezes your arm again, then backs away. You watch him go, unable to help yourself, and smile when he looks back. He does that all the time now. And he always smiles back.
You turn back to the shelf, looking at the books without actually looking. You already miss him, and he told you not to move, but that can’t count if you’re going to stand next to him in the coffee line, can it-
“Hey.”
You fumble slightly, turning to find a man leaning against the shelf and smirking at you. You blink, and his smirk widens.
“What’s girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”
“The… Bookstore?” You frown, and he laughs. You don’t think you said anything all that funny.
“Look, I just- I saw you from over there,” he nods vaguely, and you frown. “And I thought you were cute. Can I get you some coffee or something?”
“My- My friend is already getting me coffee,” you say, and your voice sounds strangely far away.
The man nods, but doesn’t retreat. “Alright, then can I get your number? Maybe beat your friend to coffee next time?”
And you don’t want to say yes, but this is a chance. To hold onto this new friendship with Dean while also getting over him at the same time. This man isn’t ugly. Compared to Dean, no one really stands a chance anyway, and you have to get over him eventually.
So you give him your number, and try not to feel like you just did something wrong.
Dean clears his throat from behind you, and you spin around on your heels, a sour guilt twisting in your gut.
“You- You’re back,” you say, and he grunts.
He’s not look at you. He’s glaring at the man with the same, deadly glint that he gives monsters and demons before he cuts them in half. You touch his arm lightly, and he tenses. You feel sick.
“Hey, buddy,” he snaps at the man, who—not seeming to understand the gravity of Dean’s glare—grins back.
“Hey.” He winks at you, slowly backing away. “Have fun with your friend.”
Dean’s coffee spills over the top of it’s lid. He doesn’t look away from the man when he leaves the store. He shoves your drink into your hand, not meeting your gaze.
“Dean-“
“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he mutters, and you swallow.
“Oh- Okay.”
Your arm wraps around your stomach, and you press a little away from him, from the wrath seeming to wave off his body like a volcano. He glances down, jaw tight and a vein in his brow ticking. You stare at his neck, unable to hold the weight of his gaze. He lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.
“Get your book.”
You shake you head. “No- It- It’s okay-“
Dean says your name, and your mouth snaps shut. “Just- Get the damn book.”
He looks like he’s in pain, and you don’t know how to fix it, so you do as he says. You get a cheap one, that worm of guilt burrowing deeper and deeper into your gut until you can’t even drink your coffee without feeling like it’s going to come back up.
Dean’s fingers dig into your back, when he guides you out the door. He starts the engine by almost punching in the keys, and holds Baby’s wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. You can see all the anger brimming under the surface of his skin, and worried you’re just going to make it worse. You don’t even know where it came from. It’s not like you’re together, or the guy said something rude. You open and close your mouth too many times to count, then give up, shrinking back into your seat.
Dean looks over at you. You try to look out the window, and nowhere else.
A loud, sharp breath escapes him. “Son of a- Alright.”
You look over with a frown, then squeak when he yanks the wheel off to the side.
“Shit- Dean-“
“Just- Fuck-“ He bows he head, glaring down at his legs, and you swallow.
You fidget with your fingers, watching him nervously, waiting for him to break the silence. It takes while. So long you think about just getting out of the car to give him space.
But then he looks up, and your heart gets cleaved open. His face is twisted in pain, his lips parted and his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard.
“What-“ He takes a deep breath, scanning over your openly confused features. “What else am I supposed to be doin’?”
You blink at him, fingers curling in your lap. “What?” You ask softly, and his throat bobs.
“I- I’m really trying,” he mutters, looking back to his hands. “I swear to god, baby, I’m tryin’ my best, and- I know I ain’t amazing at this but- If you could throw a guy a rope when he’s never- I’ve never done this, alright.” He waves between your bodies, jaw clenched tight. “And I’m really givin’ it my best shot, but I’m still not allowed to kiss you, and you’re takin’ numbers right- Right in front of me- So just- Something.” He gives you a pleading, broken look, eyes shining on yours in the dark. “Anything.”
You open your mouth, but you can’t even figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to say. You know all the words he’s saying, but it’s like he’s speaking a language you never learned, spitting out a code you’re just supposed to magically understand. Dean’s jaw ticks, when you don’t answer, and you try to sputter out an answer, but he’s too loud to hear your confused whimper.
“Look, just- Whatever the hell you do need me to do, I’ll do it, I swear I’ll do it, but- You gotta tell me, sweetheart-“
“Tell you what?!” You almost shout, and Dean leans back in surprise. “Dean, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dean huffs a low laugh, looking back out to the road. “Yeah. Alright,” he grabs the keys, voice rough and pained. “Sure. Whatever-“
“No.” You grab his wrist before he can start to the engine. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”
“It doesn’t matter-“
“Yes, it does-“
“Nah.”
“Dean-“
“You wanna call that guy, call ‘im.” There’s an almost toxically bitter sound to the words, and Dean’s making a face like he just got shot. “Whatever. See if I care.”
Your nails dig into his wrist, when he tries to yank it away. He shoots you a glare, the bags—gone, after months of ease—already starting to form.
“C’mon, kid, just- let go-“
“Would you care?”
Your question is small, but it makes Dean recoil like it burned. He scoffs, but it’s too loud, and you hold him tighter.
“Would you care-“
“No, I fuckin’ love watching douchebags parade around with my girl, who would care about something like that?”
Something snaps, right at the base of your spine. You sit so tall you’d think someone is dragging you by the nape of your neck, and Dean blinks in something close to surprise.
“What-“
“Your girl,” you whisper. “That’s- I’m- Why would you say that?”
Dean blinks. “Why wouldn’t I say that?”
“Because you and I- We’re not- That’s-“ You lean back, letting go of his wrist, and when you look down, you’ve left little crescent marks in the skin. “No- No- You didn’t- You said no- No strings-“
“Yeah, and then you stopped fuckin’ me, and I-“ Dean says your name as you press back against the window, brow furrowed in worry. “Baby, it’s- It’s alright, I’m not that pissed-“
“You were yelling,” you choke out, and he swallow.
“Well, I was- Just- C’mere.”
He reaches out, cupping your cheek with the same gentle touch he used to use, right before he kissed you. You gape at him, head spinning, panting like you just ran a marathon.
“I’m not mad,” he rasps, almost pleading, and you shake your head.
“You were-“
“Sweetheart-“
“Why?” You whisper, grabbing his wrist, your nails sinking back into the marks. “Why- Why would you care?”
Dean swallows. He shakes his head, looks out the window, and chuckles.
“Dean-“
“I don’t want you goin’ out with him. And- Call it possessive, or stupid man shit, or- Whatever the hell you want,” he drags his thumb over your cheekbone, voice dropping to something tender, something soft. “You’re my girl. And I want you here, telling me what to do, how to- To be what you need.” His voice cracks. “Come on, baby. Just- Tell me what to be.”
You stare at him, a lot of pieces colliding into each other at once in your head. The diner and the movie and the touching and the caution and-
“Are we dating?” You choke out, and Dean frowns.
“What’d you mean, are we dating?”
“I mean are we dating, Dean, are you- Are you my boyfriend?”
“Uh- Boyfriend kinda makes it sound like we’re sixteen and necking-“
“What the fuck is necking?”
Dean groans, dropping his head. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. Makes me feel fuckin’ fifty.”
Your lips twitch. “You are almost fifty,” you say, and he chuckles.
“Yeah. Guess I am.” He looks back up to you, caution lining his features. “You always seemed to like it.”
You swallow. You did. You’d never been sure if it was the older thing itself, or the fact that it was just Dean, but you’d liked it. You always liked all of him, from the uglier wounds to the beautiful, glowing heart that almost managed to peak through, no matter how thick his steel and iron walls became.
He glides his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, and your breath hitches. He swallows, closes his eyes, and mutters your name.
“Did you… Not think we were dating?”
You shake your head, and Dean snorts dryly.
“Huh,” his mouth curves into a tight smirk. “Makes sense why you wouldn’t kiss me, I guess.”
“You guess?” You squeak, and Dean nods.
“Yeah, makes a lotta sense, actually-“
“How long have we been dating?!” You almost shriek, and he gives you an amused look.
“’Bout three months.”
“Three months?!”
“That’s what I said, baby-“
“Shut- Shut up-“ You plant a hand over his mouth, and he raises his brows. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me we were dating, you- You butt?!”
Dean’s eyes sparkle, looking pointedly down to your hand, and you release him with a scowl. He rubs his jaw, grinning at you like you’re some cute bunny, and you lean back in your seat with a huff.
“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I thought you knew.”
“How would I have known-“
“’Cause I asked you on a date? And you said yes?”
“That- That never happened.” You snap, and Dean frowns.
“Yes, it did. Sammy- He was there-“
“Sam was there-“
“Yeah, and- I said there was a new diner in town, and you said you’d go with me, and we started dating!”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open. Dean stares pointedly back, and you can’t help yourself. You bark out a loud, sharp laugh.
“That was not asking me on a date, you fucking- Oh my god!” You shake your head, and Dean’s frown becomes almost puppy like.
“Yes, it was-“
“You have to actually say it’s a date, Dean! You can’t just- Just ask me to do something, I thought we were just hanging out! As friends.”
He’s pouting now. If you weren’t pissed, it would be adorable. “I- Uh- I paid for everything. And got you gifts.”
“Friends do that-“
“Do friends kiss your face all the time?” Dean twists to fully glare at you, and you pause.
“Um- Maybe?”
Dean snorts. “No, they don’t-“
“But I thought that was just you!” You protest. “You- You’re always- You know-“
“I know?” He mocks, and you scowl.
“We were fucking for a year, Dean,” you snap, tipping up your chin. “I thought you were comfortable with me.”
“I am comfortable with you,” Dean shrugs, leaning slightly forward. “Real comfortable.”
Your nose twitches. He’s too close, now. Consuming your vision, making your vision all stupid and fuzzy. “You’re comfortable with everyone,” you sniff, and he laughs.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, running a hand slowly up your thigh. “We both know that ain’t true.”
You make a tiny, involuntary sound when his fingers dip under your skirt, teasing sensitive, neglected skin. He hasn’t touched you there in so long. Too long. You have to hug yourself to stop your body from flying at him.
“I haven’t fucked anyone else in eighteen damn months,” Dean mutters, holding your gaze. “I’ve been waiting around for you for months, wondering what the hell I was doin’ wrong, and you thought I was just being nice?!”
You swallow, your voice suddenly small. “You are nice,” you whisper, and Dean snorts.
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re nice to me-“
“Because I-“ He cuts himself off, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh. You grab his hand, holding it against you, and his eyes dart down. He heaves a long breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bows his head.
“Dean?” You whisper, and he shakes his head. “Dean, I- I’m sorry I didn’t- You said we were just going to be casual-“
“I know what I said,” he grunts, glaring at your hands. “But I- I didn’t- I thought it would help me.”
You swallow. “Help you?”
“Yeah.”
“With what-“
“You know what.” He finally looks at you, and you’ve never seen him this vulnerable. Almost bowing before you, holding onto your hand like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. “And I can’t- I don’t know how to-“ He takes another ragged breath, gives you another pleading look. “You stopped letting me pretend, you started- You started telling me no, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t.” He swallows. “I’m tryin’ to do this right, baby.” He squeezes your hand, leaning a little closer. “Please let me do this right.”
You blink at him, tears watering in your own eyes, and nod. Dean’s shoulders shudder, and he holds your hand so tight you think he’s trying to just mold you together. He glances at your lips, but doesn’t move. So you do it for him.
Dean stares at you, completely still as you lean forward, his chest so still you’re worried he’s not breathing. You rest your hand lightly on his chest and press the lightest kiss you can to his parted lips. He shakes, one hand flying to your waist, his touch still heartbreakingly delicate. You kiss him again, a little harder, and a low rumble starts in his chest.
You pull back, pressing your brows tight together. Dean stares at you, eyes glossy and blown out, the restraint ticking in his jaw, and you smile softly.
“I love you,” you breathe. “And I- I know you can’t- You know, say it back, but- I love you, Dean.”
His breathing his ragged, and he’s still gaping. You laugh nervously, looking down to your fingers, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.
“If- If you could say something, though, that would be- Um- Nice-“
Dean grunts, and your words fall off into a squeak as Dean drags you forward into his lap.
And this. This is a real kiss. Dean’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his arm wrapping fully around your lower back, his fingers digging into your hips and his other hand cradling the back of your head. He kisses you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, pushing his tongue down your throat and moaning against your mouth. You pull on his shirt and he gropes at your ass, dragging you further into his lap. The pressure of his thigh against your core makes your head spin, but that might just be the lack of oxygen. Neither of you seem to be willing to come up for air, taking sharp, tiny breaths between sloppy kisses.
You whimper, already going limp, and Dean leans back with darkened, shining eyes. You know that look. You used to pray for and dread it all at once. It always made you feel like something close to prey, paralyzed and unable to flee his spell.
But this time is different. This time, there’s nothing you’d rather do but fall into his charm.
Dean presses another, small kiss to your lips, dragging his thumb over the tingling swell. Your tongue flicks against the pad of the finger, and he groans, pushing it slowly between your lips.
You wrap around him, sucking lightly, giving him your best, sweetest Bambi eyes. Dean’s throat bobs, his fingers digging into your ass.
“We’re goin’ home,” he mutters. “Then I’m gonna fuck you.”
That’s a lovely plan. You smile around his thumb, and he says your name, pulling his thumb away with a small pop.
“Jesus, you- You gotta tell me yes-“
“Just fuck me here,” you whisper, pulling on the collar of his shirt.
Dean glances to the backseat, then to you. “Uh- I mean- That’s- If you’re sure-“
“Please,” you push a little further forward, dropping your hand to press against the bulge in his jeans. “I need you, Dean. Now.”
And for a second, you think he’s going to demand going all the way back home. Say something about you deserving a soft bed and gentle loving, when you just want him, filthy and raw and yours. You’re so busy giving him doe eyes, you don’t notice his hand dragging down your spine and your ass, right up until it dips under your skirt, and cups your pussy through your panties.
You gasp, and Dean smirks, slowly rubbing his hand back and forth.
“Need me?” He drawls, pushing his thumb against your clit. “Like this, baby? This how you need me?”
“Ye- yes-“ Your lips brush over his, your hips starting to grind down as he drags his thumb in tiny circle, his hand still rocking back and forth. “Just- Just like that, Dean- Shit-“
You push down, kissing him with a sloppy, uncontrolled mouth. Dean grunts, splaying his free hand against your neck and pushing you down. He’s massive and warm, the hand working your pussy offering just enough friction to work you up, but nothing more. You wrap your arms around his neck, panting against his lips and moving you hips to chase more friction.
“That feels good, doesn’t it,” he mutters, kissing you between every word.
You coo, trying to kiss over his face, and Dean slaps your pussy once, leaning back with a stern glare.
“Doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” you answer immediately, already getting heavy-eyed and dazed. “So- So good, Dean, feels so good, just- More-“ You claw at his shoulders, trying to at least get to some bare skin, and settle for pressing your mouth back over his. “More- Need some more, De, now-“
Dean silences you with a deep, rough kiss, and taps his thumb against your clit in quick, harsh movements, pushing his palm down hard against your aching pussy. You cry out, trying to force your hips further down against him, and Dean squeezes that back of your neck.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Few months without some cock and you get bossy, don’t you.”
“No- No,” you manage to protest. “You’re just- You’re being slow-“
“I’m being slow?” He mocks, running his fingers over the line of your panties. “Baby, I’ve barely fuckin’ started.”
You try to roll your eyes at him, but he uses his hold on your neck to turn your head, forcing your gaze back down to his. Your eyes widen, and he smirks slightly, raising his brows.
“You gonna break out some manners for me?” He asks, slowly dragging your panties to the side. “Or am I gonna need to teach you again?”
“Te- Teach me?” You choke out, and Dean hums.
His thumb drags down from your clit, parting the lips of your pussy and smearing your arousal. Your heart is trying to hammer out of your chest, every nerve in your body seeming to respond to the mockingly sweet touch.
“Dean,” you press your hands against his chest, unsure if you want to push him away or drag him closer. “Don’t- Don’t be mean-“
“I’m not bein’ mean,” he hum, the gleam in his eyes something else all together. “I’m giving my girl exactly what she wants, how she wants it.”
You blink at him hopelessly, and he chuckles, pulling you down into a long, slow kiss. It would be romantic and loving, if it wasn’t for his thumb pushing at your weeping entrance, refusing to dip even a fraction of the way inside.
“Remember how you used to beg for me?” He mutters, and your face burns with a mix of arousal and shame. “I sure as shit do. Spent hours thinkin’ about it lately, planning how I was gonna take you when you let me again. But,” he switches out his thumb for the very tips of his fingers, yanking slightly on your hair when you try to look down. “Jesus, baby, I’m worried I’m gonna break you.”
You shake your head frantically, and Dean raises his brows.
“Words, pretty girl,” he reminds you, pushing his fingers just a little big deeper. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got it, talk to me-“
“I can take it,” you breathe out, watching him under fluttering lashes. “I- I can take it. I promise.”
Dean works his jaw, his grip on your hair tightening. “Sweetheart-“
“Please,” you breathe, leaning down until your noses bump. “I need it. I need you.”
Those are the magic words. Dean stops trying to play noble, stops trying to hold back for the sake of romance. You loved him when he fucked you like a whore and gave you nothing soft, and you’re going to love him even more when he treats you like a toy, then kisses you everywhere after.
Dean smashes his lips against yours and eases his fingers into your waiting pussy, groaning under his breath when you clench down around him.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, scissoring them inside you. “Never gonna get over how fuckin’ tight you are, sweetheart, like you were made for me. Made to be mine.”
He almost snarls the last words against your lips, pushing himself fully up to the knuckle. You mewl as he finds your g-spot with that precision that makes it look easy, that’s always made you sure you couldn’t ever enjoy someone else if you tried.
Dean pumps his fingers slowly, crooking them so they drag against that spot, and pulls you back to watch your face contort with pleasure.
“That’s it,” he grunts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming them right back in and twisting to bully against that sensitive spot. “That’s just how you like it, huh? Already gettin’ like this from just my fingers,” he chuckles, grinding his hips up against your thighs. “Imagine how you’re gonna be on my cock, sweet girl, if you can barely fuckin’ take this?”
“That- That’s not fair-“ You choke out, every word breathy and weak, and Dean just smirks.
“Isn’t it?”
You try to protest, but Dean pushes your head back down, and his kiss knocks almost every thought from your head. It’s all just the familiar, perfect way his mouth moves against yours, rememorizing something that never stopped being his. The wet sound of his fingers working you open fills the car, and your whole body burns with desire and shame. He’s right. You’re already soaked and ready for him, your cunt clenching down and still begging for more. You need that full, impossible split of him. After months of nothing, you’re worried his cock is the only thing that’s going to be able to do it.
But Dean seems to like proving you wrong today. A coil, tight in your stomach, starts to wind tighter and tighter. He drops his grip on your hair for a second to push down on the base of your spine, forcing your cunt almost right over his bulge. He reangles his hand, forcing in another finger, and you make a strangled sound.
“De- Dean-“
“We’re gonna get you relaxed, baby,” he mutters, twisting his wrist so the drag against your g-spot almost rips through your body. “Nice and relaxed ‘f me, you can do it.”
You let out a shaky breath, trying to listen, and your clit pushes down against Dean’s cock, still tight in his jeans. The pressure is perfect, combined with the brutal thrusts of Dean’s hand, and you press your cheek to his.
“That- That’s good,” you pant, clinging to the hem of his shirt. “So- Soo good-“
You whimper, and Dean hums. He’s rubbing your back, and that’s somehow almost as good as the hand obliterating your cunt. “There she is,” he mutters. “Always so good at listening when I got my hands on you, aren’t you sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your head. “That’s my girl.”
That’s what does it. My girl.
The coil snaps, and your orgasm rips through you, making your eyes cross and your body curl limply into Dean’s arms. His hand coaxes you through it, his palm rubbing against your pussy as you mewl and clench around nothing, the light pressure helping you ride it like a long, easy wave.
Dean kisses your cheek when it’s done, then right under your eye, then your nose.
“That’s one,” he mutters, and you whine. He chuckles, hiking your skirt up with light touches. “Come on, you know the rule.”
“Stupid rule,” you grumble. “Never agreed to it.”
“Never heard you complaining before,” he points out, peeling your dress off, and you stick out your tongue.
“That’s because I always forget- Dean!”
He smacks your ass, and you squeak, pussy clenching around nothing. He’s forming a tent in his jeans as he looks up at you, and you narrow your eyes. You fingers brush against the head of him, and his groan falters, his head tipping back against the bench.
You smile, pushing your hand down against his cock, and he catches your wrist, shooting you a stern glare.
“Not at young as I used to be,” he warns, and you giggle.
“But I want to,” you try to pull your hand free, and roll you eyes when he won’t let you. “Oh- Come on-“
“Nope,” he grunts, even as his dick jumps against the fabric. “You know the rule-“
“Dean-“
“Three to one,” he mutters, a dare gleaming in his eyes. “You give me one, I give you six. That’s the fuckin’ deal.”
You laugh, but his mouth doesn’t even twitch, and slowly, your smile falls into something more serious. More determined.
Damn this stubborn beautiful man and his orgasm rules. Damn you, for thinking he ever wouldn’t want to fuck you when he made you orgasm rules that weren’t proportional or fair at all.
You yank your wrist away, stick out your tongue again, and pull your underwear fully off. Dean watches you with his hands tight on your waist, eyes shining with curiosity, but patient.
And you’ve never been good at riding him, but you’ve always been good at this. You climb over Dean’s lap so your ass is near his shoulder and your face in his crotch, your back arched like some animal in heat, your pussy bare and on full display.
Dean’s never been able to help himself. One hand immediately slides around the arch of your back, then the curve of your ass, then settles back against your pussy. The other slides in your hair, petting your hair while you fumble with his belt. He chokes out your name, and you shoot him a glare, pulling out his cock with light, careful hands.
He’s so hard you’re worried he’s going to hurt himself. Pre-cum is beading around his tip, his veins throbbing like a porno. You stroke him slowly, and he lets out a sharp breath between his teeth.
“I’m serious, baby-“
“Prove it,” you say, before licking a slow, teasing stripe up his shaft.
And you know how this game ends. You’ve played it a million times before. The beautiful thing about it is that—especially when Dean thinks he’s winning—you can never lose.
You take him into his mouth, and the sound that he makes is sinful. It’s a choked, rough version of your name that sounds holy from his mouth, and comes with his fingers dipping into your heat like it’s a comfort toy. You take him until he bumps against the back of your throat and hum, swirling your tongue. Dean grunts, and pushes your head a little further down. You wiggle your ass, pussy cold and throbbing, and Dean groans.
“Jesus, woman- Gonna kill me- Fuuuuck-“
You start to bob up and down, sucking with that perfect pressure you know he likes, getting what can’t fit in your mouth in your hand. You can take him better and better with every second, letting his push against your gag reflex, and you drop that hand to play with his balls. Dean’s already giving shallow uncontrolled microthrusts, repeating your name over and over until it’s more of a choked moan.
“Can’t- Shit, baby, I can’t- That damn mouth, you’re gonna- Shit-“
You squeeze his balls and suck as hard as you can, and Dean almost roars your name, his cock jumping as he shoots thick, white ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, licking the rest off your fingers as you rise back up. There’s going to be a handprint on your ass, from where he was holding onto you. You hope you feel it in the morning.
And when you smile at Dean, you know you’re in trouble. Naked and wet for him, crawling forward so your tits press into his face and kissing him as sweetly as possible. Dean grunts, one hand shooting up to cradle the back of your head, and his responding kiss is deceptively gentle. He lets you lead it, groaning when your tongues press together, tasting himself on your lips. He lets you pull his shirt over his head and lets you trace over the lines of his muscles. You smile against his lips and lean back, and there’s that predatory glint again.
Dean’s hand twitches on your back. He wipes your chin, gathering some stray cum and slowly pressing his against your lips. You clean it off obediently, and his jaw ticks.
“Back seat,” he grunts. “Now.”
You almost scramble to listen. Rolling off of him and trying to climb over, making it halfway before you feel massive hands wrapping around your waist, holding you in place. You swallow, trying to twist over your shoulder to look at him, but Dean blows a sharp breath over your clit, and you double over with a squeak.
“De- Dean-“ You plant your hand on the bench, blood rushing to your cheeks. “Dean- wait-“
“Hmmm.” He kisses one curve of your ass, then the other. “Wait for what?”
You’re not really sure. “This- I- I can’t hold myself up,” you fumble, and he chuckles, kissing right over your clit.
“That gonna be a problem?” He teases, pressing smaller, faster kisses over the sensitive button. “Or,” he spreads your ass cheeks, humming against your heat. “Do dirty girls get what they asked for?”
Shit. “It’s uncomfortable,” you whisper, and Dean pauses.
He sighs, then kisses your clit again. You squeak when he drags you back down, and melt into his chest as he kisses all over your face, rocking you back and forth in his arms.
“’S why I wanted the bed,” he mutters, and you sigh.
“’M sorry-“
“No,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, massaging your hips with steady hands. “I’ve got it, just- uh-“
He glances up, and you watch him frown around the car with an openly adoring expression. The work of his jaw and furrow of his brow as he thinks, how he holds you so tight in his arms, it’s impossible to not love him.
“Got it,” he mutters. “Trust me?”
You nod easily, and he glances back down. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and this kiss isn’t feral or brutal. It’s just… slow. Adoring, a silent promise of what you’ve sort of always known.
Dean is going to take care of you.
He lays you out in the backseat, rubbing your thighs as you settle into the cushioned bench. You watch him with your heart in your throat, arms wrapped tight around your stomach. Sometimes, under his attention, you’re not sure what to do with yourself. He’s too pretty, too big, too much in the best possible way.
“Getting’ shy on me?” He teases, pushing up your knee, and you flush.
“N- No.”
“Hm,” Dean pins your leg against the bench, guiding the other one so it hooks over his shoulders. “Sounds like you’re gettin’ shy.”
You swallow, hugging yourself tighter, and he chuckles.
“All that work to make you relax,” he mutters, kissing his way up your thigh. “And you’re already wound back up.”
“You took too long,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” He kisses just the side of your cunt, and your breath hitches as he sucks a small, firm bruise into the skin. “You know I’m gonna make it up to you, yeah?”
You nod weakly, then blurt, “Yes!”
Dean’s mouth twitches, and he grabs one of your wrists, guiding it down to his hair. You weave it between your fingers, your breathing already ragged, your whole body lit up with anticipation.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, kissing the other side of your cunt, massaging your thigh and pushing your leg a little higher. “Nice and easy, pretty girl.” He kisses you pussy, open-mouthed and wet, and you let out a high, shameless sound.
His mouth should be classified as a sex toy or something. It moves and works against you like a machine, kissing you with so much fervor you already start to see stars. You had some recovery from the fingering, but Dean’s already stripping it away with sharp, unrelenting kisses and grazes of his teeth against your clit.
“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against you, the word vibrating through your body. “Never wanna live without this pussy again, baby girl, shit-“
He groans and dives back down, starting to work you open like a man starved. You push on his head, silently begging for more, afraid to open your mouth. The sounds that leave you will be embarrassing, and you’re already too far gone for them.
But Dean likes you loud, and he won’t let you hold back. He hooks his arm fully around your leg, dragging you further down, giving him a better against your pussy. You mewl when he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking impossibly hard, and Dean laughs against your cunt.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ You grab at the front bench, yanking mindlessly on his short hair. “De- Dean- Oh my god-“
He groans, pushing his face impossibly further. His tongue is deliberate and thick, pumping in and out of your cunt before pressing flat on your clit and dragging back and forth. It’s enough to drive you mad, making the coil in your stomach burn and burn and burn until your whole body is shaking with the sensation.
“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “You- Fuck-“
He nips at your clit, dragging a long, slow stripe up your pussy. Your eyes lock, and you swallow, a broken moan falling from your lips. The first time he did this, he told you that he loved it. That there was nothing better than a woman, right on his face, dripping and sweet for him. It didn’t take you long to believe him.
Here, he looks at you like you’re some kind of heaven he’s been allowed to touch. His mouth never stops moving against you, his eyes lidded and almost drunk, and your arousal shining on his face whenever he reangles it to devour you a new way. It’s a sight that could knock you off your feet, if you had any left to stand on. Dean on his knees, his broad, freckled shoulders forcing your knees apart, his attention a drug you never want to bother being clean from again.
You start to shake, your stomach seizing up as you fight off your orgasm, but Dean doesn’t tolerate that either. His mouth goes back against your clit, his tongue darting up and down and back and forth in tiny motions, almost tickling it, making the little nerves light up and-
You cum with a loud, choked sound that’s really supposed to be Dean’s name, and push at his head. You expect him to stop, and finally get on top of you.
But you forgot about his stupid orgasm rule, and he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens and he starts to make out with your overstimulated pussy. You squeak, pushing weakly at his head, and his eyes gleam.
“De- Dean- Fuuuuck- That’s-“ Your eyes roll back, your body seizing up again, almost unable to take so much. “Oh- Oh my gooood-”
Dean groans against you again, and it’s worse than a vibrator. It’s warm and deep and Dean, mixed with his filthy mouth and stubble, scraping against soft skin.Your thighs lock around his head and he lets them, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulls you fully onto your back, pushing himself up onto his knees. His cock bounces against his stomach but he ignores it, using his now free hand to grope at your breast. You moan, clenching around nothing as he laps at your clit and pussy.
“I- I can’t-“ Tears spring at your eyes. “Dean- Please-“
He hums, rolling your nipple between deft fingers, and you throw your head back with a broken moan.
Warm, thick fingers weave through yours, and you blink at him under watery lashes. He’s let go of your breast to hold your hand. His thumb is dragging slowly back and forth, and his mouth isn’t slowing down, but you don’t want it to. You can see the challenge shining in his eyes. You take a ragged breath, give him the smallest nod, and he smiles against your pussy.
You didn’t know the human tongue could move that fast. You’re sure it’s not supposed to, but Dean’s never cared about things like that. He drinks you up like wine, rapidly toying with your clit—swirling and kissing and flicking and sucking like it’s candy—and your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm springs through your body like a geyser.
Dean lowers you down slowly, pressing one last kiss to your swollen kiss before rising back up, wiping his chin of your release and cleaning it off his fingers with a smug grin. His cock is at attention, and your mouth waters. He always gets it in. You’re a little afraid of it right now.
“Six?” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.
“You’re the one who pushed for it, princess.”
“It- It’s your stupid rule-“
“You love it,” he shrugs, slowly settling himself back between your legs. “And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you, baby.”
You wrinkle your nose, and Dean gives you a stern, amused look.
“Aren’t you?” He taps the head of his cock against your cunt, and you squeak.
“Dean-“
“You’re the one who got bratty and cocky, sweetheart,” he drawls, pushing your leg back down. “So you’re gonna take it, ‘cause I know you can.”
You swallow, giving him your best doe-eyes, and he just chuckles. Dean lowers himself down, presses a gentle kiss to your brow, and murmurs against your skin.
“That ain’t gettin’ you out of this.”
You press your face into the crook of his neck, and Dean smiles, kissing the side of your head.
“All shy again,” he mutters, dragging that massive cock between the lips of your pussy. “Let’s take care of that, huh?”
You cling to him as he rolls you both over, guiding your legs to straddle his torso and lining up his cock with your weeping, abused pussy. He pulls you gently up, rubbing your side and watching you a painfully adoring gaze. You try to cover yourself again, and he catches your hand, shaking his head.
“Come on,” he mutters, weaving your fingers together. “Let me see you.”
And damn him for being so soft and sweet, you don’t think you could tell him no if you wanted.
“Take it easy,” he says, wrapping both of his hands around your waist. “All you, baby. Show me what you want.”
“I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.”
You believe him, in a way you’d never believe anyone else. It might be how he looks at you. Like you’re an angel over him, like you’re really, truly letting him enter paradise as you sink down onto his cock.
He grunts, his fingers tightening against your body as his cock slowly splits you open. Even with how much he’s worked you open—your pussy so wet it’s already dripping onto his thighs—it’s a tight fit. You can feel every vein dragging inside of you, the hard curve pressing right into your g-spot and making you flutter around him.
Dean jerks his head up, squeezing his eyes shut, and you swallow.
“Sorry-“
“’S- ‘S alright,” he exhales sharply, relaxing back into the seat. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, baby. I’m good.”
A smile ghosts over your lips, even as you start to only breathe through your nose. “You look it,” you tease, and Dean gives you a half annoyed, half impressed look.
“You’re tight,” he grunts, and your smile widens.
“You’re big.”
He groans, throwing his head further back, and you giggle again. He’s sitting just right again, his chest rippling under your hands, and you feel like that angel. You feel like a goddess, with how his hands are dragging over your body, how your name falls from his lips.
“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, eyes raking over your body. “So perfect.”
You take a deep breath, and start to grind down onto his cock. Dean groans, one hand dragging down to squeeze your ass, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless you beg him, and you’re determined not to. You can ride him until your thighs give out. His cock bumps against your g-spot, and his abdomen drags near your clit, and it feels good. You rock back and forth a little faster, your breath catching, and Dean groans.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Pretty fuckin’ girl, riding my cock like the needy little thing you are, aren’t you. So fuckin’ wet for me, baby, so- so tight-“
He groans, and you push down on his chest, picking up your pace.
“So big, Dean,” you moan, pushing up your chest like a pornstar, trying to make him break first. “You’re so big, feels so- so good-“
You moan, tossing your hair, and Dean makes an almost feral sound.
But he doesn’t break. The bastard never breaks, and you’ve never been good at riding him. Your thighs are already sore, and they quickly start to ache, making your movements smaller and weaker. Dean watches you start to whine, your brow furrowing in concentration, and just smiles. You both know what he’s waiting for. You don’t want to give in.
“So quiet, sweetheart,” he coos, running his hand up to palm at your breast. “Someone drove by, they’d think I wasn’t fuckin’ you properly.”
You glare at him, unable to even speak, and he chuckles.
“You know what you gotta do, baby girl.”
“Fu- Fuck you-“
“I will,” he winks. “If my girl says please.”
Your eyes narrow. His grin widens, and you think you might be about to fly apart with how bad you need it. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid face that you love and his big cock that makes you all jelly and dazed thoughts and useless.
“Please-“
The word barely leaves your mouth before Dean moves. A single, well-aimed thrust up into your cunt that makes you fall apart. You fall forward onto his chest with a scream, and Dean groans, giving shallower, gentle thrusts to work you through the orgasm.
“I know,” he murmurs in you ear, his words painfully soft in comparison to the pleasure wracking your body. “I know, princess. Two more to go.”
You don’t think you can take two more. Four has been your max for a very long time, and that was with a lot more prep time and space between orgasms. But Dean doesn’t seem like he’s going to give you much of a choice.
You’re a doll in his arms again, when he hauls you up into his lap. His cock leaves you for a single second, just for the adjustment, and you whimper at the loss.
Dean hums, kissing all over your face as he slides back in.
“That’s my girl,” he starts to rock your hips back and forth with steady hands, picking you up then dropping your back down so his dick drags through every inch of your heat. “Takin’ me so good. Just like that, feel that, baby-“ He pushes on your lower back, making his cock slam against your g-spot, and you sob against his neck. “Feel how fuckin’ good we fit together, my girl.”
Dean’s voice is lined with something darker now. More possessive and hungry. He fucks up into your like an animal, dips drilling forward and mouth attached to your neck. All you can do is take it, over and over until your eyes are crossing and the only words you can remember are babbles of Dean and please.
The neck orgasm is slow, blooming from where he’s slamming against your cervix and spreading pleasantly through your body. Dean moans against your skin, mouthing at your jaw and neck, his tongue dragging and kisses messy. When you try to kiss him back, it’s mostly with a mewl and lips that follow his lead. Everything is humid and light in your body, everything is Dean around you, and there’s a new, strangely hot sensation in your core that’s demanding all of your attention.
It’s tighter than the usual coil, and gets hotter and hotter with every thrust of Dean’s cock. He’s getting uneven now, his own words falling into pants and moans, his balls slapping against your ass and hands leaving prints as he folds you fully over his chest.
“One- One more-“ His voice is gravelly, almost as wrecked as you feel. “Milk my fuckin’ cock, baby girl, cum for me-“
You open your mouth to warn him about the strange feeling, but it’s too late. Dean slams home, crashing his mouth against yours, and you cum with a hoarse scream. Hot cum shoots into your cunt, right as something gushes out of you in wet, burning waves. It feels good, so good you can’t think, so good your mouth hangs open and your moans turn into pathetic, weak babbles.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ Dean groans against your mouth. “Fuckin’- Yes-“
Your body seizes and twitches around him, but even when he’s done, Dean doesn’t pull out. The last of your release pushes itself out and her collapses backward, rubbing your back and craning his neck to grin at your cockdrunk expression.
“Gettin’ stupid?” He teases, and you can’t manage to raise an arm, so you just bite his nose. He laughs, leaning up to steal another, quick kiss from your lips before settling back down.
You curl over him, resting your head against his shoulder while he pets your head, both of you still panting and coming back down. You might be there for a hundred years, or just an hour. It doesn’t matter. The car is going to reek of sex for maybe a year. Sam might never agree to ride in it again. But it was worth it. More than worth it, when you look up at Dean, and find him—just as always—already looking back.
“We’re still dating, right?” You whisper, because you have to be sure.
Dean grins, and kisses you slowly. You hum, letting your eyes flutter shut. Letting him carry you, whenever he thinks is safe to go.
“Yeah,” he mutters, and you can hear it in his voice. All the love he’s been trying to show you, for who knows how long. “We are."
✦End note: if i write enough of these it's gonna happen to me guys trust ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
