The Craving
Summary:Β Everyone is moving forward, only Dean is standing still. Sam leaves the bunker first, but when he fears to lose you as well, he knows he finally has to do something. Because, after all, all he really craves is you.
Pairing:Β Dean Winchester x Reader
Warnings: 18+ for language and smut, post S15, major angst, hurt, cheating, Reader x OMC (established), severe pining, jealousy, drinking, humor, idiots in love, friends to lovers, fluff
Word Count:Β 13.7k
Song Inspiration: The Craving (Jenna's Version) β twenty one pilots. Listen here! πΆ
Posten on Patreon March 1, 2025
A/N: Yay, finally this monster of a fic is here! There will be parts that hurt a lot, parts where you'll snort, parts where you might catch fire, and parts where you'll feel as fluffy as cotton candy. Hang in there π
Happy reading! π©΅
Main Masterlist || Dean Winchester Masterlist || Tag List
Deanβs not the jealous type. At least, he thinks he isnβt, considering heβs never really had opportunity to feel jealous before.
But then came you.
He knew he wanted to be with you β as in the oneΒ one β the minute Sam led you down the round, metal staircase after running into you during a hunt. Yup, it was instant. One of those βlove at first sightβ kinds of crap.
For quite some time, youβd been hunting on your own, but soon enough, you began to call the bunker your home and the brothers your family. And Dean would cockily smirk at you and throw flirtatious jokes your way all day long as if all he ever wanted was to simply get you for a drunk roll on the motel mattress and nothing more. But you crave more than a night of fun, not knowing he craves the same thing, too.
And it is moreΒ β more than a simple craving to kiss you, to touch you, or to fuck you. The craving wants to love you, to hold you, and to be with you endlessly, including all that other mushy, sappy shit that comes with it. And Deanβs not even sure itβs just all of that, either. Because all the craving ever screams is you. Nothing else.
You, you, you, you, youβ¦Β
You.
Thatβs all there is. And the more he has of you, the happier the craving is. The less he has of youβ¦ well, one gets the gist.
The craving is a feeling greater and stronger than the bloodlust heβs experienced during the Mark of Cain β not that heβs ever told anyone that out of fear of being called crazy. It is crazy.
Fucking crazy.Β
Nonetheless, itβs true. The craving for you only grows stronger and more relentless every day, causes him to lose both appetite and sleep, and never leaves him in peace.
But for years, Deanβs never entertained the craving for too long. Heβs never listened to his head, heart, or gut when either of those things urged him to ask you out. After all, you deserved better than him, deserved more than the darkness he could offer, deserved a life where you got everything you ever wanted and more.
He is sure, though, you donβt want him.
But then, finally, there was a dim, miniature, barely visible light at the end of his superΒ dark tunnel full of horrors. Chuck was squashed, monsters were scarce, and retirement was on the near horizon.
Sam started bringing Eileen around more and going on dates and being all nauseously cute, while Dean watched Netflix, Disney+, Amazon Prime, and a whole lot of other subscription services Sam wasnβt happy about when he went through the household bills. The main takeaway, though, is: Dean was never bored.
Nope, not at all.
Besides, you were there, too. For some of it. At least for a while.
Not long after Samβs βcourtingβ began, his kid brother finally left the nest, and then only you and him remained.
βWeβre kinda like full-on roommates now,β youβd said after Sam had grabbed his last box, and you had been entertaining Deanβs melancholic mood with whiskey in the kitchen.
Dean had only smiled into his glass. βWeβve been roommates for five years now.β
βYeah, but weβre finally rid of Monica and Chandler. This is the Joey and Rachel era!β you announced with a slightly slurred speech and toasted to the occasion by drinking straight from the bottle.
Dean, of course, had found it fucking adorable and pressed his lips very hard against the rim of his glass upon his next sip, trying his best not to grab you and kiss you right then and there.
Heβd already missed his fucking chanceβ¦
βWhoβs Monica and whoβs Chandler?β Dean had asked to distract himself from the craving.
βDuh, obviously Samβs Monica. Heβs a complete neat freak. And Eileenβs fucking funny,β youβd postulated. βThis is what I mean, though! Both of us are sloths! We can finally let chaos reign!β
Welp, that hadnβt helped to lessen the craving at all. It had been downright whining then. His heart had only pounded louder, yearned more.
βWhat kinda mess were you thinking of, sweetheart?β Dean had flirtatiously and daringly asked β he still liked to test the water from time to time, although he knew the lake was frozen.
You had chided him with a partially amused look and then musingly sipped on the bottle. βHmm, wanna throw wet paper towels against the wall?β
βSure thatβs a good idea? You know Samβs coming by tomorrow morning to come pick up more boxes. I seriously think heβs taking the whole library with him,β Dean had joked.
βEven better! Heβs gonna clean it up βcause heβs Monica!β
Drunk-you might have been evil in a mad but cute genius kind of way.
βNo way!β Dean had scoffed it off, mostly to encourage you to carry on. Heβd had feeling where this was heading.
βOh, yeah? How much you wanna bet, Winchester?β Youβd leaned forward with your elbows on the counter and a challenging look twinkling in your eyes.
And Dean had wanted nothing more than to bet a goddamn kiss. But he hadnβt been able to do that anymore, either.Β
As Dean grinds his brain about all of this, he stares at the reason why from the dark corner booth of the bar. He watches you with a gigantic lump in his throat as youβre in someone elseβs embrace, his grip white-knuckling around the tumbler of whiskey once more.
Deanβs greener than green eyes see it all. He sees the arms that tightly clasp your body from behind that arenβt his. He sees your laughs at jokes that he canβt hear. He sees the face nuzzling in your hair that he canβt feel. He sees the smiles you draw when kisses litter your neck, leaving fucking purple and blue permanent tattoos behind β and he canβt ink any of them.
Dean sees the fucking happiness shining in your eyes. Heβs never seen you happier than this before. And not any of it is caused by him. Nope.
βHey, you good?β
Sam slides back into the booth opposite him and draws Deanβs attention, finally steering the insatiable craving away from you. But Dean knows his little brother only asks because heβs worried about Deanβs declining state of mind, even though there is really no reason to. Samβs exaggerating as per usual.
If Samβs showing signs of concern, itβs only because he knows too damn well how catastrophically Dean has failed and ruined any future with you by not communicating his craving. And now all thereβs left is sulking and regretting. Then some more sulking and regretting. And oh, uh, more sulking and regretting till he drops for good, which is hopefully soon, considering the slow pace his life is currently going right now β just an agonizing crawl to the goddamn finish line.
See? No need for worries. Deanβs absolutely and completelyβ
βFine.β Dean scoffs the word into his drink, his eyes flickering back to you. Youβre making out now. Great.
Your boyfriendβs hands drift to your asscheeks and palm them. Dean wants to drown in his whiskey.
But itβs good. Itβs good you have someone. Someone who can give you everything. Everything you want. God knows Dean canβt give you that, can he? Not then. But now? Now he could, couldnβt he?
Whatβs he got going on right now thatβs so dangerous?
The only things that can kill him these days are the greasy food, alcoholism, and sheer boredom. Cancer. βCause that son of a bitch can get anyone. Maybe some freakish household accident β getting electrocuted by a faulty outlet, slipping in the shower, food poisoning, choking. Maybe even a fucking car runs him over when heβs simply crossing the street.
Well, now it just sounds like a list of things that angel-dick Gabriel wouldβve done to himβ¦
Heβs already been through it all. What more could go wrong?
βDeanβ¦β Samβs giving him a pointed look that says, βIβve known you all my life. Stop pretending and talk to me.β
But Dean doesnβt want to talk.
ββM good,β he repeats and forces the tightest smile known to mankind. It not even closely reaches the soft crinkles around his green eyes.
βI just talked to Trey at the bar,β Sam says then and tugs his bottom lip between his teeth.
Dean wants to scoff at the name.
In fact, heβs tried his hardest to hate the guy, but itβs impossible. Treyβs charming and funny and kind. Heβs also taller and broader and younger than the older Winchester, which only adds another painful thorn.
But the dude treats you with respect, holds open doors for you, and cares about your feelings and thoughts and dreams. He listens to you, consoles you when youβre sad, and comforts you when youβre lonely. Heβs even tried to become friends with the brothers, knowing how much they mean to you. And most of all, he not only shows you how much he craves you, but he also tells you so every day.
Deanβs been there a few times when it happened. It was fucking sickening.
And sure, Dean could still worry that some civilianΒ canβt take care of you and protect you the way he would, but the guy was a fucking Navy SEAL and a hunter of all things that go bump in the night. To top it all off, heβs now retired and owns a small carpentry in Michigan.
The dudeβs fucking Jesus, and Dean knows he stands no chance. So, yeah, maybe heβs a little jealous of the guy.
He has everything Dean wants.
βThereβs something you should know, Dean,β Sam continues when the older brotherβs lost in his craving again and hasnβt said anything for a full minute.
βHm, what?β Dean can tell by Samβs tight expression and slightly furrowed brows that itβs not good. His heart is already constricting. It knows why.
It was almost a year ago, a few months after Chuckβs reign of playing Sims had ended, that Dean had finally gathered enough courage to ask you out (with a lot of pushing from Sam and Eileen). So, while youβd been out on a small, two-day-long ghost hunt on your own, Dean had prepared a whole speech in his head.
Hunts were not only rare these lonely days, but they were also kind of⦠meh. Mostly your friendly neighborhood Caspers. Since Sam had dipped out, Dean and you resorted to coin tosses, drawing straws and matches, and the occasional paper-rock-scissors.
Dean still sucks at it.
Which is why you went alone. And he wasnβt even worried, just grateful for some space to get his head straight. Heβd surprise you with somethingβ¦ romanticΒ when you got back. He wasnβt sure what yet.
But two days turned into three, four, five and six. Youβd give him regular updates, assuring him you were safe, sane, and healthy. The hunt was done β youβd decided to take a quick vacation.
The sceneryΒ had been so inviting.
On day eight, he questioned if he should follow you. Maybe youβd been kidnapped and held against your will, and heβd been texting with your tormentor this whole time. He barely ever caught you on the phone, and if he did, it was only briefly and you were always out of breath.
Hiking. That had been your explanation.
Yes, Dean shouldβve put two and two together at that point, but he just couldnβt seeΒ beyond his own craving. It left him blindsided, even though he knew damn well you hated walking through nature as much as he did.
On the evening of day eight, you then called and told him you were coming home. His heart had swelled in his chest at the word.
Dean was your home. That was all he had heard.
Late on day nine, you finally returned to the bunker. Dean had prepared a movie night in the cave β heβd picked your favorite, nothing fancy, just the way you like it. But by the end of it β when youβd lie snuggled against his side like you usually did with his arm wrapped around your middle β heβd tell you about the craving.
Heβd tell you he was in love with you. That you were all he was ever thinking about. That he couldnβt get enough of you. That he craved you day and night. That he couldnβt stop.
βSo, how was the hunt?β heβd asked as you both stood in the war room, and youβd placed your duffel bag down on the table. βAnd the vacation?β
Until then, Dean hadnβt really questioned it. He knows you like to catch a wave and ride it out. Itβs one of the things he loves about you, always hoping youβll drag him with you into the sunset at some point.
βI-, uhβ¦βΒ
Dean had noted the subtle bite of your lower lip, the smile that was itching to break free underneath.
βI met someone,β youβd finally confessed.
Deanβs still sure those are the three most horrible words of the English language. Nothing has ever torn apart his heart more.
βMet someone, huh?β He had swallowed heavily but played it off with a teasing smile. βYouβre not usually one for hook-upsβ¦β
βIβm not,β youβd confirmed. The secretive smile that flashed across your lips almost killed him. βI-, uh, I think it might be more than that.β
βMore, huh?β
βYeah, more,β youβd said softly and bit your lip again. Your cheeks had been glowing. Youβd been so fucking happy and yet tried to hide it from him to spare his feelings β not that you had a clue. Youβd only known Dean hated change and strangers and abandonment.
βYou, uh, wanna watch a movie with me?β heβd still tried. Heβd been sure one night or one week with some stranger couldnβt trump what he had with you. If he said something now, maybe he could still turn it around.
βIβm honestly kinda beat. Raincheck?β
βSure.β Heβd nodded and forced a painful smile. Luckily, he knew how to hide his pain well.Β
At first, Dean hoped the guy wouldnβt call you again. Sure, heβd hate to see you broken-hearted, but heβd be there to pick up the pieces. One by one. Dean could satiate your craving.
But perfect fucking Trey called you that same night. Asked if you got home safely. Oh, Dean wanted to be mad about it. How dare this fucker, right? But how?
βStop caring about the girl I pretended not to care about for fucking years?βΒ
Yeah, no, thereβs no excuse. Deanβs the fucker, really.
So, come next morning, Dean made sure all traces of his romantic plans were erased in the cave. You were none the wiser when you woke up.
Dean then resorted to waiting. And waiting and waiting and waiting. And he figured if he waited long enough, your relationship with fucking Steve Rogers would run its natural course. Something would happen. It was long distance after all and not that threatening.
Yet.
It started with rare, brief visits. Youβd stay in Michigan or a hotel in Kansas City for a weekend every once in a while, and Deanβs craving could deal with the temporary separation from you, although it was far from happy.
Yeah, alright, it was being a suicidal dickhead. He even preferred you staying in Michigan over the idea of you fucking your brains out in the hot tub of some fancy hotel.
Well, shit, like he said: The craving was being a complete dick about it and clearly not taking it so well.
The expensive whiskey you got him for his 42nd birthday, though, always quieted it enough to pass out till Sunday evening when youβd return.
But a weekend slowly turned into a full week and then into a whole goddamn month. Now, you werenβt just fucking your brains out anymore but playing house. Somehow, that was even fucking worse. The craving protested and screamed inside of him, urging him to keep you close.
Closer. Closer. Closer.
Youβd still call him every few days to check up on him, but hearing your voice only turned the craving more violent, more needy.
It was a whiny fucking bitch most days.
And now, well, youβre celebrating your first anniversary this fucking weekend. Your boyfriend has a whole goddamn romantic getaway planned. Youβve talked about it nonstop, looked forward to it for weeks.
Dean doesnβt know if heβs still waiting or if heβs given up. Feels a little like giving up.
His green eyes flick to you and Trey on the small dance floor of the dingy bar once again. Someone as breathtakingly beautiful as you is truly a juxtaposition in a place like this β in his life, really.
You have your arms locked tightly around your boyfriendβs neck, his hands enclose your hips as you sway to the rhythm of the live music. You laugh wholeheartedly and throw your head back. He runs his face through your hair and surely whispers something dirty into your ear the way your grasp tightens on him, too.
βDean?β Samβs voice snaps him out of his trance once more.
βHmm, what?β Dean blinks at his little brother and sees the heartbreak shimmering in his hazel eyes. He knows itβs unavoidable by now.
βLook, uhm, Trey told me he was planing to propose to her this weekend.β Sam gets it out in one breath but then pauses. He watches his older brother closely as if Dean would break down at any second.
But Deanβs seen it coming for a while now. Itβs been undeniable.
βHe-, uh, he asked for our blessing.β Sam chuckles a little at the unnecessary gesture and scratches the mop of hair, but Dean can tell a part of his little brother feels honored at the consideration.
βYou said no, right?!β Dean snaps too harshly, no control over the wild furrowing of his brow. The craving is taking over. It wants to fight. It wants to defend whatβs his.
βDean...β Sam frowns with a look that says the older Winchester was being ridiculous. βItβs not my place to give. Thatβs what I told him, too.β
βGood.β Dean huffs bitterly into his whiskey and empties the glass.
βI still told him weβd be happy for them, though,β Sam adds with reluctance and caution.
βSam, cβmon, man!β Exasperatedly, Dean shakes his head. His glare is biting. βBad day to play middle man! How about youβre on my side for once, huh? Pick your fucking battles, dude!β
βDean, Iβm always on your side,β Sam assures with that puppy dog look of his.
Dean scoffs at it. βCouldβve fooled meβ¦β
But he knows Sam would give his soul to make this situation better for him. Itβs just the alcohol and sadness talking. He has to let it out somewhere. Sam knows that, too.
βMaybe you should tell her,β his little brother suggests then, and Deanβs not even sure heβs heard him right because itβs so fucking insane.
βWhat, are you nuts?!β
βJust think about it,β Sam urges, nearly insists even. βLook, I know youβre scared she wonβt feel the same way and reject youββ
βDuh.β Dean scoffs, wishing his tumbler would magically refill for this conversation.
βBut if she says yesβ,β Sam continues, ββyouβll lose her anyway. You know she wonβt stay with you forever, right? I donβt think theyβll move into the bunker with you.β
And thank fucking GodΒ for that. Dean would probably hang himself in his room after three days of watching and hearingΒ you honeymoon like newlyweds. Any chances Hell would take him back?
βSamββ
βWhat dβyou have to lose at this point, Dean?β Sam reiterates. This time, more forcefully. βThis might be your last chance, man. You seriously wanna live with that regret for the rest of your life?β
Well, Dean isnβt planing on sticking around for that much longer anyway. Heβs sure a monster will get him one of these days on those solo hunts if he upped the recklessness enough and got a little more careless. But obviously, he doesnβt tell his little brother that. Sam would only unnecessarily worry again.
Dean shakes his head once more, and it pains him to do so. βI-, I canβt, Sam. Canβt do it.β
βDeanββ
βI donβt wanna mess with her head, alright?β he finally says. His gaze drifts back to you; tears blur his vision and threaten to spill. βLook at her, man. Sheβs fucking happy. I donβt wanna ruin that for her.β
Sam lets out a deep sigh, his gaze flickering from you back to Dean. Then, he licks his lips, and Dean can tell his little brother just thought of a new argument to put forth. He really wouldβve made a good lawyer.
βListen, if that really messes with her head, then maybe she wouldβve never been as happy with him to begin with,β Sam counters.
Admittedly, itβs a good theory. Dean almost buys it.
βNah, itβs too late,β Dean brushes the sliver of hope away. He pulls out his wallet and slaps enough cash on the table to close his tab as he slides out of the booth. βI should go home.β
βHey, are you guys leaving already?β
Suddenly, there you are, with a smile sparkling so bright Dean could confuse it for diamonds in the sky. His eyes then torturously follow your arm, down to your intertwined fingers and the tall man in tow behind you.
βYeah, uh, kinda exhausted,β Dean says as casually as possible. He hopes you canβt see the torment in his heart.
βOh, alright.β You nod, and Dean imagines even a hint of disappointment in your voice. The craving probably plays pretend to guard his heart.
You give him a hug goodbye and kiss his cheek. But your lips on his skin are only a quick fix for the craving. It wants more. Itβs a beast thatβs always ravenous and never satiated.
Leaving the bar hasnβt stopped Dean from drinking, however. Heβs determined to drown his sorrows and continues to pour whiskey after whiskey, finding solace in his haze as he sulks and regrets at the kitchen island in the dark, empty bunker. He supposes he has to get used to that feeling β loneliness.
His mindβs still reeling, his skull functioning as a bathtub for cheap booze. He should probably switch to something more bubblyβ¦
He snorts at his own joke, the sound echoing through the emptiness. Great, now heβs the weirdo hermit who laughs to himself.
Maybe Samβs got a point. Maybe this is his last chance. Thereβs still a spark of hope β or so the craving believes.
And then, after two in the morning, you finally stagger home and tumble into the kitchen with a goofily drunk smile on your face that causes Deanβs breath to halt. His heart almost shoots out of his chest, wanting to jump straight into your warm embrace.
βHey, youβre still up,β you say with a small yawn and round the corner to the island, grabbing yourself a glass of water by the sink. βCanβt sleep again, huh?β
Itβs not unusual for you to find Dean roaming the bunker in the middle of the night like the ghosts he hunts. Most of the time, your strongest bonds were forged by the late-night, deep-talks youβd shared in here. You keep them close to your heart.
βNah, not really,β Dean says casually and sips on his drink as if it were just a fluke β a one-time occurrence. But you know better than that.
βIs it about Sam?β you ask almost knowingly and watch Deanβs brow raise with his gaze.
Oh, that. He has completely forgotten about that β the whole reason theyβve gone out to celebrate tonight in the first place.
βYeah, uh, was a lot tonight, yβknow?β Dean deflects. He figures itβs at least a good excuse.
A soft smile spreads on your lips. βYouβre gonna be an uncle, though. Thatβs gotta be exciting, right?β
Youβre trying so hard to help him find the silver lining, to give him comfort and drag him out of his misery. But Deanβs sure heβs stuck at rock bottom.
βYeah, βm happy for him,β Dean replies but doesnβt say more. Doesnβt say that heβs envious of his little brother, doesnβt say he craves the same thing, too.
βDean,β you sigh his name and clasp his hand on the counter. Your touch burns his skin. The craving boils his blood. βI know you hate change, but itβs gonna be okay.β
βIβm sure it will, sweetheart,β Dean says but doesnβt mean it. He knows itβs not true. It wonβt be okay without you. So, he forces a wry smile. Itβs almost bitter. βStill got you, though, right?β
βYeah, you got me,β you say softly and send him a smile. It doesnβt reach your eyes, however. Dean knows why.
βThought you were spending the night out,β Dean notes then and disturbs the silence that has consumed the kitchen.
βUh, Treyβs got an early flight,β you explain. βIβll see him on the weekend, though. I suppose Iβll survive.β
Deanβs not sure he will, though, and doesnβt laugh at your joke.
At least, you barely ever bring your boyfriend around the bunker. You mostly spend the nights at a hotel whenever he comes to visit. Deanβs not entirely sure why. It might be the vibe heβs giving off when heβs near you two. Youβve had several talks with him about his attitude.
βBe nicer. Try a little harder to get along with him. I really like this guy,β youβd said.Β
And Dean tried for your sake, even though he didnβt really mean it. Moreover, he got the strange sense that Trey knew Dean was harboring feelings for you and was nice enough not to rub it in, keeping his distance. Like Dean stated earlier: It was fucking impossible to hate the guy.
The dude was not nice enough to back off and let you go, though. Dean supposes that also means Trey is smarter than him, too. Awesome.
βYou know, uhmβ¦β You chew on your lip. Your heart begins to sting. βTrey asked me to move in with him. Inβ¦ in Michigan.β
Deanβs silent for a beat. His ears are ringing as if a doctor had just told him heβs got prostate cancer and only a few months left to live. Honestly, it sounds more pleasant than this.
βHmm,β Dean hums and takes a bigger gulp of his whiskey.
He refills once more, the glass and bottle only blurry shapes in his vision at this point. He ponders if thereβs something stronger to numb his pain. Maybe itβs time to pick up a heroin addiction β die cool like Morrison and Cobain.
βDeanβ¦β
You see the devastation on his face. You donβt want to hurt him, but you know him well enough to know that you do. What are you supposed to do, though? Sacrifice your whole happiness and future for his? Never expect to get anything in return? You couldnβt keep living like this.
βYouβre my best friend. You know Iβm not gonna leave you, right?β
βSo, youβre staying?β His look is hopeful, and it kills you.
You swallow lightly. βSure, yeah,β you say with a weak smile and shrug. βIβm not moving out tomorrow.β
The hope deflates, his face drops, and his look turns crestfallen.
βIβll stay as long as you need me, okay? Itβs no problem, I promise,β you add comfortingly. You know he hates being alone. βIβm sure Trey and I can do long distance a little while longer. I mean, it worked fine so far. Donβt worry, alright?β
Dean hears you. He doesnβt want to drag you down, keep you from living your life. He supposes he has to set you free now.
βLook, Iβll be fine, alright?β he states and forces a cool, carefree, lazy smile with the utmost sincerity β as much as he can find at least. It might have been the worst lie he ever told, and he told a lot of lies over the decades. βIf you wanna move out, you should. Donβt take my feelings into account.β
βDeanβ¦β
Your heart stings. You canβt leave him like this. At the same time, you fight your own anger and push it down. If he really didnβt want you to leave, then why had he never done anything, said anything to make you stay? Youβd waited years for him to see you, to take your hand, to love you and run toward the sunset with you. But he never did, not even when the big bads were all defeated and gone.
Instead, you watched him flirt with strange women in even stranger bars. You watched him lead them to his precious car with his hand on their backs (or their asses) and a wide, goofy, all-teeth grin on his punchable, freckled face. You watched him disappear for entire nights and return to the bunker, to the endless motels, in the mornings with his latest conquestβs marks on his skin.
A row of tattoos heβd gotten just for you that all read the same message: Fuck you.
And it fucking hurts every single time. Sometimes more, sometimes less. Sometimes, you thought you couldnβt take any more and would just grow numb to the pain. But you never did. It all mars your heart the same.
Some days, it felt like you were dying inside.
And then, after the hunting life slowed, you wanted to keep moving, explore what other wonders life had to offer aside from exterminating monsters and living underground. Sam felt the urge, too. So, you both set sail into the world β but Dean didnβt. He stood still at the docks.
βWhatβs going on with you?β You step closer, worry shimmering in your eyes. βI know itβs been hard on you since Samβs moved out. But youβre the best guy I know. Thereβs great things out there for you, too. I just know it. Donβt give up hope now.β
Dean wants to scoff, cry, and laugh hysterically. He doesnβt look at you, just stares at the whiskey in his grasp.
βIβm in love with you.β
The words are out. Deanβs astonished they finally left his lips. He canβt quite believe it, even clasps his mouth with a hand and runs it across his face. Itβs been his best guarded secret for so long. Someone should slap him. Whereβs Sam when he needs him the most?
Dean downs the whiskey in his hand and looks up at you. He feels like he cursed you. Youβre frozen in place, petrified by the spell he cast. But your lower lip and eyelids are quivering, so he supposes youβre still alive in there somewhere.
βSay something. Please... Anything,β he begs. He wants to drink more but fears you might think of him as a drunk, although heβs pretty sure youβre already aware. That train has left the station, so he might as well make its final destination his mouth.
On shaky legs, you grasp the edge of the counter for support. A βbrace yourself, you might wanna sit down for this oneβΒ wouldβve been greatly appreciated.
βI-, uhβ¦ I have to sit down,β you force the words out with a clear of your very dry fucking throat because youβre still rather speechless β and drunk.
Judging by the almost empty bottle of whiskey on the counter, so is Dean, it seems.
Dean heroically jumps from his seat to offer it to you but watches you simply lower to the cool tiles of the floor instead. Youβd love nothing more than to lie there and curl in the fetal position right now.
Slowly, Dean crouches down and joins you, careful not to touch you, ignoring the cravingβs persistent screams to do exactly that. His hands are shaking from holding back.
Your lips part and shut, your eyes are lost, your brows tremble as you try to understand and think of something to say. But your mind is overflowing. Your gaze stays fixed on the ground and the cracks in the grout between the old tiles.
βIf this is some prank, Deanβ¦β
You donβt really think heβs this cruel or moronic. You can always hope, though.
βItβs-, itβs not,β he assures you and tries not be offended. He knows youβre still processing. Besides, he may have overdone it with the pranks a little since Sam is gone. He's put that extra energy into you. βIβve felt this way for a long timeβ¦ Knew you were special the second I saw youβ¦ Knew I-β¦ I loved you when we watched Shawshank RedemptionΒ together your first week here. Remember that? You quoted the whole movie. I guess, I-β¦ Iβve been craving you since then.β
A fond smile flashes on his lips at the memory, but his jade green eyes flicker with insecurity.
You gasp for air and find your voice. βWhy did you never say anything?β
βI-β¦ I tried. Not hard enough, I guess.β He chuckles self-consciously, scratching the nape of his neck. But you donβt share his humor. βLast time I tried was when you told me you metββ
He stops himself from saying the name. His mouth twitches with a bitter taste. He doesnβt want to say the name you scream when you cum.
Oof, he wonders which of the many whiskeys was the one that has finally crossed the threshold to pathetic.
βI actually wanted to watch Shawshank RedemptionΒ with you that night when you came home, tell you then,β he continues, his tongue swiping over his chapped lips. Itβs just his luck, isnβt it? He truly found out how unlucky he was once Chuck was gone. To think the guy actually protected him from some of it almost makes him scoff out loud. βBut, uhβ¦β
βI went to bed early,β you finish his thought.
He cocks a brow at you. A drop of resentment sneaks into his voice. βDid you, though? Your roomβs right next to mine, sweetheart. I knew you were on the phone withββ¦ I could hearΒ you.β
You scoff darkly and stare straight into his eyes, and for the first time, Dean can see the real hurt in yours. Was he responsible for this?
βYeah, trust me. Iβve been there,β you reply cynically.
Oh, Dean knows he has messed up.
βWhy the fuck now, Dean? Whatβs changed, huh?β You rise from the floor and begin to frantically pace the kitchen. Dean follows you. βIs it because I told you I was leaving? What, you just decided nowβs a good time?!β
βLook, uhm, Sam doesnβt want me to tell you this, but thereβs something you should know, alright? IΒ think you should know,β he insists but rubs a hand over his mouth. He knows heβs being selfish. He fucking knows he shouldnβt say it, shouldnβt tell you.
But he fucking wants you a lot more, cost what it will. Heβd sell his goddamn soul all over again for you. The craving is not backing down now.
You look at him like heβs kidding. He must be. How could there be more?
βYour boyfriendβs gonna propose to you this weekend,β Dean tells you and slaps you right across the face with the news.
You think he might as well be joking and playing a prank on you again. His face is deadly serious, however, his green eyes dark, stern and unwavering. You can tell he hates the thought of it, the mere suggestion you could be someone elseβs, and heβs probably stirred in that hatred all night. So, thatβs what truly motivated his ship to leave the harbor.
βButββ Dean pauses, considering his next words carefully, but his eyes remain fixed on you, drillΒ into you. βBut if thereβs a chance you donβt want that, just a sliverβ¦ I-β¦ I need to know, alright? I need to know if it could be me. I canβt let you go without knowingβ¦ without trying.β
You think youβre close to fainting. You feel lightheaded, dizzy. Itβs too much. Itβs all too fucking much.
βAre you fucking serious right now?! Why the fuck are you doing this to me? Why didnβt you say it earlier?β The tears of desperation sting your eyes as you shove at his chest. βWhy didnβt you fucking moveΒ sooner?!β
Itβs not a question as much as it is an accusation. Dean grabs your hands that still press against his chest and holds them still on his heart. His gaze locks with yours.
And then, Dean recognizes the familiar anger in your eyes. He knows itβs the craving. Not his, but yours.
For him.
βDo you love me?β he dares to ask. He might as well, considering this is the end and heβs putting all his cards on the table tonight. He knows heβll lose you, so why not do it with a bang? Winchesters are known to go down swinging.
You fight for words. Your heart twists. βItβs too late,β you whisper, tears rolling down your hot cheeks freely.
βItβs not a no,β Dean says softly, his heart swelling a tiny bit more in his chest. Itβs almost cute, like a little kid arguing about bedtime, asking for one more glass of water before he has to go down for good.
βItβs not a yes, either,β you counter quite spitefully. You canβt reward this behavior, can you? The man just took a wrecking ball to your life, to your current relationship, to your future β something youβve carefully crafted and cared for and grown for close to a year.
A year.
And he thinks of this now? When you have one foot out the door? Thatβs when he fucking realizes?!
Youβre furious and want to yell at him till youβre blue in the face. Mostly, though, youβre furious with yourself. Maybe you shouldβve known, shouldβve suspected. After all, you know him well. You know his insecurities and his deepest, darkest fantasies. What Sam has now, what youβre about to have β the apple pie life.
βSo, itβs aβ¦ maybe?β
You want to sigh and pray heavenward. Is anyone listening to this? Hello?!
βDo you love him?β
This time, you sigh out loud. βYou know I do.β
Your words are sharp, and you can tell that they sting. He flinches when you say them. But something weird tugs at you when you do.
βYou love me, too?β
Youβre silent for a moment. You donβt know if the truth makes it worse or better.
βI do,β you admit through more painful tears that blur your already hazy vision. His piercingly green eyes find you, and you note the soft, upward curve of his lips.
βYou love me more?β
βDean!β
Yeah, he was pushing itβ¦
Pensively, his tongue swipes slowly over his upper lip before he tucks the lower one between his teeth. Then, he clicks his tongue when heβs thought of something to say, something to give him an advantage, anything.
You love him. Thereβs a chance.
βLook, itβs not too late, okay? If you wanna get out, just say the word,β Dean says. Thereβs urgency in the deep timbres of his voice. This is his last shot. He canβt keep watching from the window looking in as everyone eats dinner without him. He has to move.
βSo, what? So I can live here with you and watch you hook up with strangers for eternity?β Frustratedly, you wipe the tears from your cheeks and look at him. You can tell your little comment caused a paper cut.
Bobbing his head, Dean rubs his lips with his fingers. He knows he deserves that snide comment. Those distractions from the craving certainly havenβt done him any favors.
βI get it. I screwed up. I came a little late to the party,β Dean admits. Tears threaten to drown the green in his eyes, but he fights to keep them behind the dam. He needs to get this out first. βBut Iβm here now. Iβm yours. AllΒ yours. Iβm not going anywhere,β he vows, and you believe him with your breaking heart. βI swear to you, to anyone who will fucking listenβ¦ I wonβt screw this up again. Just tell me what you want, and Iβll give it to you. You wanna get married? Have kids? Iβd do it right now with you. You wanna go see the world? Go skydiving? Then knock me out and drag me onto a plane. Just tell me. Iβd give you everything I have, sweetheart.β
His voice chokes on the last few words, barely pushing them out. His heart roars; his lungs wring for air. Every muscle, every vein, every nerve feels like its being electrocuted. Tenses, twists, and constricts under the pressure of the craving.
Youβre speechless, your mouth agape. You look at him, stare. You see the desperation, the pain, the fear, the need, the love, the craving. But you canβt think of anything to say. You donβt know what to do, except wait for an ice age to come and freeze you both in time, so you get more time to think.
βI-I-β¦ I should go. Iβll stay at a motel,β you manage to say, your voice trembling like the rest of your body. You canβt feel your legs, your hands, or your head. Most of all, you canβt feel your heart.
You donβt have to say yes or no. You donβt have to make a decision right now β wasted and sleep-deprived. You do the smart thing, the wise thing, the rightΒ thing.
But why does it feel so wrong and stupid then?
βYouβre leaving?β Deanβs disbelief seeps into every syllable. He canβt understand. He figured this would fix it.
βIβm sorry.β The sniffled apology is quiet as you try to push past him. His skin brushes yours. A wildfire inflames inside of you that vaporizes all tears and fears.
Dean feels it, too.
All rational thought dissipates from his mind then. He grabs hold of your arm and spins you flush against his warm and inviting body. His lips collide with yours β hungry, wild, and fervent.
The craving wins.
You donβt fight it. You melt into the kiss, into him, into feeling instead of thinking. You lick the whiskey from his tongue, drink till youβre drunk on him, and Dean savors the minty Mojitos heβs watched you sip all night.
Your hands donβt find a place, neither can his. Thereβs too much to discover, new territory youβre both unfamiliar with but always wanted to see, feel, explore. So, he roams your soft curves and you his taut muscles. Squeezing, scratching, trailing.
Your fingers card and tug at the soft hair in the nape of his neck, lock tightly around him as you push yourself closer. He groans and sends vibrations through you.
Deanβs grip on your hips is bruising as he molds you to his frame. He really tries to achieve the impossible here. He wonβt let go now. This is it, and with that thought, he cages you between his body and the kitchen island.
The two of you never dare to break the kiss, knowing that if you gave yourselves enough time to think, youβd stop this madness and come to your senses. Neither of you wants that. Not really. Not now.
The craving silenced everything else. It takes what it needs. It needs you. It needs him.
Youβve wanted this for so long β him and you, exactly like this. And now, itβs all so wrong but so fucking right, too.
You whimper into his mouth, your core flooding with desperate need when you feel his growing dick strain against his jeans and press between your legs. Your fingers work on autopilot as they unbutton his flannel and slide it over his broad shoulders.
Dean tosses your top over your head, and your legs wrap around his middle. He hoists you into his arms, and you fling his shirt somewhere when heβs on the move. Your bra follows, landing in the hallway, a trail of clothes marking the path of sin through the bunker.
Youβre not sure the two of you will make it to a room, anyΒ room, as Dean stops and bumps you against walls, only to ravage more parts of your skin. He bites, he marks, and he grips your flesh so roughly youβre sure youβll be more than blue in the morning. You know he wants to leave his impression on every inch of you. You donβt stop him because, God have mercy, you want that, too.
You feel him everywhere and still crave fucking more.
And Dean somehow still seems to make it to room 11 because when your eyes blink open the next time, you suddenly find yourself there. Of course itβs there. He needs your impressions to haunt him, too β your noises inside his four walls, your indentations in his mattress, your scent on his pillow, your arousal soaking his sheets.
He wants to lower you to his bed, to the memory foam, but your legs unravel around his waist, bare feet landing on the floor.
You canβt remember when you kicked off your shoes, but Dean isnβt wearing his boots anymore either and only one sock, so you figure theyβre somewhere in the bunker with the rest of your lost items.
Your lips leave his but not him. They lick, suck, and bite down the scruffy column of his throat, his solid and freckled chest, all the way down his softly defined abs as you fall to your knees in front of him like heβs an altar youβre about to worship at.
Your fingers hastily unbuckle belt and lower zipper, pushing jeans to his ankles. You donβt bother long with his boxers, still strapped around his knees when you free him and wrap a hand around his throbbing cock as if to shield it from the sudden chill that creeps along your own skin. You donβt even manage a full pump before your lips seal around his red and swollen head. You swallow him whole.
You donβt wait. You donβt think. You give yourself fully to the craving.
Itβs a greedy bitch.
A βshitβ escapes him when you welcome him into your hot mouth till he hits the back of your throat, the first word that cuts through the moans and heavy breathing since this cataclysmic gluttony began.
You donβt pull back. You stay, hold on. Your tongue massages the thick vein. Your moans vibrate around him and send shivers up his spine, tighten his balls. Your mouth fills with saliva till it threatens to drool out. Your hand canβt even fully grasp his thickness, thumb out of reach from your other fingertips. You havenβt even noticed how big he truly is till tears sting your eyes, and you feel the aches in your jaw from trying to accommodate all of him. Luckily, the burning alcohol numbs some of it.
You both still and know thereβs no fucking way back now when your eyes meet. Thereβs only forward and more.
A massive hand reaches to cradle your head, brushes your hair from your face, massages your jaw, and caresses your chin. Fuck. You drool more and press your thighs together while your pussy whines around nothing.
You slowly pull back, suck with hollowed cheeks and swirl around his tip and dip into his slit. He leaks precum onto your tongue, a tang of salt and sweetness and Dean.
Youβre sucking his cock. Youβre sucking Dean's cock. Youβre fucking sucking Dean Winchesterβs fucking cock.
βFuck, that mouthβ¦β Deanβs hips buck in rhythm with your bobbing head. The fist in your hair tightens, tugs harder, deliciously stings your scalp.
You want him to spill down your throat. You want to taste and drink and swallow all of him.
But Deanβs got other ideas. He raises you back to your feet with a strong grip of your upper arms. You barely catch a breath before he claims your swollen and soaking lips, kisses you truly, madly, deeply. He licks the taste of him from your tongue, his dick standing spit-wet and aching by your belly.
βDean,β you whimper against his lips, thighs rubbing together. You can feel your arousal dripping down. You need friction, you need to get rid of your goddamn jeans and underwear, you need him.
ββM take care of you,β he mumbles and nods like agreeing to a decision he just made, and you know he doesnβt just mean your climax or your craving. He means heβll take care of you forever. Thatβs the promise heβs just made.
His fingers toy with your waistband and pull down your zipper. He pushes you back and leads you till you lie back onto the mattress, feet dangling over the edge. He shimmies you out of your confining denim, and then heβs on you, hovering above, kneeling between your spread legs.
Dean leaves you with one blazing kiss on your lips, but, fuck, those tits. Heβs had dreams about them, day and night β about groping and squeezing and burying his entire face in them. He canβt resist and bites and tongues and sucks, and by the time his hands get to them, pinch and roll and tweak your stiff nipples, his mouth descends down your tummy.
Plush lips passing below your belly button is the imaginary line when he decides to deliver your sinfully throbbing clit from its misery and slides a hand inside your panties.
Ugh, fucking God, his large hand covers your entire cunt.
He could make you come with his fucking pinky alone by the sheer size and girth of his digits, youβre sure. Youβve observed their length and thickness over the years often enough, mostly from the backseat of Baby when he drives, always careful not to get caught in your shameful leering, always wondering what theyβd feel like curling inside of you. And God, the things he does with those ten weapons while they linger on the steering wheel drive you insane with wanton need during most trips. Even short ones to the grocery store have become a solid method of torture for you.
And you knowΒ they could reach that spongey, sensitive spot inside of you oh-so easily. But itβs his middle and pointer finger that glide through your drenched folds first.
Dean hums against your skin, right by your hip bone. Oh God, he fucking hums and groans β deep and rich and desperate. Desperate for you.
He steals a glance at your face, your beautifully contorted face of glowing pleasure, and he flashes you an appreciative smile of surprise, like he hadnβt fucking anticipated you being so wet for him β so ready.
All you manage is barely a nod before your eyes roll back into your head. You donβt have the energy to argue about his weird insecurities right now. And yes, they areΒ weird, considering how the guy looks, but itβs more than just the mesmerizingly green eyes that cause you to feel lost among tall pines, the faint and golden freckles that dance on his skin, twinkling from the tip of his nose down to soft dips and dents of his chest, or the way his smile carries you home like the beam of a lighthouse without fail each time youβre lost.
No, itβs the things you canβt (and he canβt) see in a mirror that award him the title of the greatest man who ever lived. Itβs the kindness, itβs the sweetness, itβs the caring. Itβs his heart of gold, his courage, and his warmth.
So, how come Dean canβt ever see any of that? You always could because youβve loved him since he laughed through your Shawshank quotes that very first week.
And now⦠Fuck.
Not even the inebriated double-vision makes up for the amount of hands and fingers and mouths and tongues you feel on you. How does he do that? Are there six of them or just the two you see?
Your head is spinning. You donβt know up from down anymore; itβs all one blurry swirl. Is it sideways?
But you know where you are and you can count again when his tongue dives into your channel and his lips seal around your bundle of nerves and fucking suck hard.
A taste of your own medicine, youβre sure.
You cry out at the intensity and almost come right there, especially with his delighted chuckles against your center, but you actually come when two of those long, thick, admirable fingers spreads your tight walls. He manages three or four pumps maximum before you fall apart at his mercy.
You scream his name as your frame shakes, and he kisses your pulsing center softly as if to soothe your aches. But as his heavy erection presses against the inside of your thigh, you know you want more.
The craving never stops.
Heaving chest meeting his, his glistening lips lower upon yours, and your tongue tastes what his did just seconds ago. He hovers above, his nose nudging your cheek forcing your eyes to open, encountering an insecure glint in his gaze.
βYou sure about this?β His voice is so quiet, so raspy, the words are almost inaudible as if he doesnβt want to say them at all because heβs afraid of the answer.
Luckily, so are you.
In the darkest, most isolated depths of your mind, thereβs still someone else. A guy you claim to love, and yet, youβve tied his hands with ropes, muzzled him with duct tape, locked him in a dungeon, and somehow found your way into Deanβs bed. Your best friend and roommate Dean.
Yeah, no, thereβs no excuse, no justification. But thereβs no way back, either. Whatβs done is done. Youβve already done unspeakable things to each other β all of them rule-breaking. Sucking his cock? Fully your idea! God knows Dean surely didnβt fall dick-first into your mouth.
No, you wantΒ this. And moreover, you need to see it through.
Life isnβt just black and white, is it? Itβs not a straight road. Thereβs sharp curves, and hunters are known to ignore the odd dangerous bend symbol.
So you kiss him deep and hard, because your answer wouldβve been a shallow and soft uncertainty. You donβt know if itβs right, you assume itβs not, but you follow the craving and cave to its needs.
It needs Dean. Not anyone else. Dean. Not Dean Martin or James Dean, no. Dean Winchester.
Your hand snakes between heated and damp bodies and wraps around the forbidden fruit, lets his cockhead catch at your more-than-ready entrance.
Is it really all Eveβs fault? Probably. Now, though, itβs very much on Adam.
Dean pushes in.
Well, they call it a sin for a reason. The craving clearly doesnβt give a fuck, though.
When his tip taps your cervix, you gasp. Your pussy clenches around him, he groans into your neck, and you moan at that little jitter that runs through his body.
He kisses a path down to your tits as he slowly pulls out to his dickhead and thrusts back into you. Fuck. And well, from there on out, it all blends into a foggy whirl of limbs, bodily fluids, and an obscene soundtrack.
It all comes slowly back, however, when you wake in the morning. You feel the remnants of a wild night, the sheer soreness between your thighs, instantly.
You remember it started slow and tender when your eyes finally flutter open barely a few hours later, just at the break of dawn. It started with good, olβ missionary β the βgetting to know each otherβ phase. You both learned what made the other tick, while his cock moved pleasantly inside of you like calm ocean waves, whispering sweet nothings into each otherβs ears.
When you carefully slide out under his arm for a simple pee break, panic begins to creep in, recalling how you eventually rolled him onto his back and rode him like his goddamn name was Larry. Shit.
And Dean lovedΒ it. His freckled face and the huge grin, staring up at you in awe, is branded into your mind. Thereβs no way to unseeΒ it now.
As you collect clothes strewn throughout the bunker like they are scavenger hunt items, you remember how things took a turn for the worse then β or for the better, depending oneβs perspective on the subject, you suppose.
Eventually, you found your way onto all fours, Dean giving his goddamn everything behind you, pounding relentlessly into you with a bruising grip on your flesh.
Your fingers subconsciously touch your hips, your eyes follow and see bruises there. You hurry into the bathroom, glimpse at the mirror, and immediately see more. Theyβre everywhere β your throat, your collarbone, your tits, your waist, hips, arms, and thighs. Oh shit, even your ass got some.
Thereβs no way of hiding a sin this big.
You came five times. You fucking remember that. Never happened with anyone before, either.
Fucking assholeβ¦
With a sobering (but heavily hungover) mind, your anger at your roommate returns. Why did he have to do it this way? Why put you in this awful position in the first place? Did he have to wait till you both were close to blackout drunk and an almost engagement to someone else?
No discussion of anything. No feelings. No future. No plans. No protection. No checking in. No responsibility. No sobriety. No brains.
Naturally, all of this was a decision made by two completely sane people. Why would you do any of that? Talking is overrated. No, this clusterfuck was obviously the best choice.
Shit, shit, shitβ¦
Beating hearts in their purest form. That was there.
You remember how he looked at you, both spent, lying next to each other with your heads by the foot of the bed, feet resting where pillows go. No clue where they went.
His smile was so warm and happy, fingers still caressing skin and never losing touch. You gazed and smiled at each other like idiots till your eyes closed, knowing without words that this was forever now.
Dean still wakes up alone that morning.
Oh, his goddamn brain is buzzing. Without opening his eyes, Dean twists his face into the darkness of his mattress, hands searching for the pillow underneath his head.
Waitβ¦Β Where is his fucking pillow?
His brow furrows slightly, his head pounding louder as if to try to rattle him awake and alert him to something. If he could only remember what that something isβ¦
The only reason heβs somewhat awake is because his own snore woke him up after he almost choked on his damn spit. God, what a night. He probably should make a mental note to drink less. Those hangovers arenβt getting easier to handle with progressing age.
Little goosebumps spread on his skin when a soft, cool breeze hits the exposed parts of his body. Something is odd, though. Why is it so damn cold? And why is his blanket only barely covering his bottom half?
And why the fuck is he naked? Heβs not usually a birthday suit sleeper. A purple nightgown, a shirt and boxers, maybe even a pair of sweats, sure, but he only ever sleeps naked when heβs had seβ
Shit!
Dean jolts up in bed, pupils wide and head swirling. He stretches his heavy and tired eyes with strain, forcing them to stay open. Jesus, he feels like a truck ran over him, only realizing then that said truck carried yourΒ goddamn license plates.
Shaking his head vigorously, he tries to find his orientation. He almost thinks heβs in a different room before realizing heβs slept upside down in his own bed. He rolls onto his back and sits up, blinking his eyes awake a little further.
The whole night comes crashing back to him then, but he starts to doubt the realness of it all when he canβt find you next to him. Thereβs just an empty spot.
Looking for evidence, he scans the room. He only finds some of his own clothes strewn across the floor, but none of yours till he feels something tangled around his ankle. Are those his boxers?
Nope! Thatβs yourΒ underwear. How did it getβ Never mind. There are more important things to figure out now. First and foremost, where the hell are you?
With a groan, he swings his legs off the bed, bare feet landing on the cold ground. He runs a palm through his hair and rubs his face, even patting his own cheeks to wake up more. His head is fucking killing him. But itβs not the only thing aching.
Lifting the sheet slightly from his lap, he takes a quick peek. Oh, poor guyβs been certainly through a lot last night. Is that a bruise? How did that haβ Nope, never mind that, either. Heβs surprised at his own stamina, though. A guy his age? Drunk? He mentally pats himself on the back for it, although he knows the craving did most of the work for him.
Nonetheless, his pride is quickly overshadowed by your absence.
His hand grabs his watch on the nightstand. Almost noon.
Well, your French leave makes a little more sense now. You probably had to pee. His own bladder feels goddamn full, the bottle of whiskey finally finding its exit again. His stomach is growling, too. Maybe you were hungry? Dean knows you practically wake up starving every morning and are unbearable till he stuffs that first stripe of bacon into your mouth.
However, he notices the eerie quiet of the bunker. Thereβs no smell of awaiting breakfast in the kitchen wafting down the long hallways. There are no sounds of clattering dishes, clinking cutlery, a running shower, or the flush of a toilet.
Silence.
And if you really got up for a bathroom and food break, why are your jeans gone? He knows he took them off in thisΒ room and not anywhere else. A perfectly fine and fresh flannel is hung over the chair by his small desk.
Not to complain, but wouldnβt it have been easier if youβd just thrown that one on instead of forcing yourself back into something skin-tight?
Deanβs not a complete idiot, however. He knows those arenβt good signs, and his chest starts to constrict, squeezing the air from his lungs. His mind races, green and red eyes flickering around desperately for answers.
You wouldnβt leave like that, would you? Not afterβ
βI love you,β Dean whispered, his forehead resting against yours when he spilled into you, your walls still gripping him tight.
βI love you, too,β you replied and could barely finish your answer before his lips claimed yours again.Β Β Β Β
No, you wouldnβt do that. Itβs not the version of you he knows like the back of his hand. Thatβs not his best friend.
But then, his stomach overflows with guilt, the hows and whys of the night seeping into every corner of his mind and settling in his bones.
Fuck.
Oh, there had to have been another way, right? He shouldnβt have done what he did, shouldnβt have given into the craving so recklessly. He knew it was wrong. Everything was wrong. This was never supposed to happen this way.
It was supposed to be magical and memorable. The start of something great.
It still was for Dean, although your disappearance makes him unsure. Maybe it wasnβt all that magical for you.
Dean kissed you, which was a forgivable offense. And sure, you kissed him back. But was either of you in the right state of mind? Probably not.
And Dean knows he shouldβve stopped it all there, shouldβve slowed down, looked at you, and talked to you about it. About next steps, futures, plans. None of that happened.
Last night, after his confession, he could see you needed time to think, a night to sleep it over, gather your bearings with a sober mind. But Dean was scared of letting go. What would he have done if you hadnβt come back? But he didnβt listen to the warning.
The craving didnβt want to risk losing you and clearly didnβt give a damn about consequences.
But Dean does. He cares a fucking lot. And moreover, now he has to live with the damn consequences of itsΒ actions and not the stupid craving.
Right now, itβs achingly empty. Dean knows it means youβre not around.
Still, he rises from the bed and starts to pad down the hallways of the bunker in search of you. He needs to talk to you, find you, do whatever it takes to fix this mess. He wants to call you, but his phone is missing, too.
It happens sometimes. Usually, either you or Sam call him to find it, but no oneβs here anymore. Heβs all alone and realizes then that heβll probably die this way β slipping pathetically in the bathroom with a disturbing alcohol level in his blood, his phone out of reach, lost somewhere between couch cushions. You or Sam will probably stumble upon his corpse weeks, maybe months later, and only find the flesh rotting from his bones.
Yup, heβs sure thatβs it. Lovely end to a shitty life.
With a deep sigh stuck in his throat, Dean follows the path of destruction, a trail of lost clothing items leading him toward the kitchen before he picks up your bra from the floor.
He stops in his tracks when he hears the heavy thud of the garage door. His heart sings in relief. Food run! You probably went to fetch breakfast. Yeah, that must be it.
βDean? Y/N?β
Sam.
Deanβs shoulders slump, the hopeful smile on his face faltering. He rubs his mouth with his fingers, his mind spinning. Not a minute later, Sam rounds the corner and meets him in front of the kitchen.
βDean?β Sam then freezes and instantly squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head exasperatedly. βDude! Why are you naked?!β
βOh.β Dean blushes with a slight fluster, but his usual shameless grin is missing. Heβs too fucking depressed for a witty response. βHang on.β
Even Sam notices the tension and somber atmosphere when he hears Dean plodding back to his room, but he chalks it off to last nightβs news. He slowly opens his hazel eyes and takes a quick scan of the kitchen.
Empty bottle of whiskey on the counter, flannel on the floor, boots in the hallway.
But wait⦠Is that one of your shoes?
Dean then comes back in a pair of gray sweats and a black henley, still carrying your bra in his hand as if it would help him find you like a dowsing rod.
βRough night?β Sam quirks a brow at his older brother, a small smile of amusement on his face. Itβs not the first time he found Dean like this, after all.
βGood night. Rough morning,β the older Winchester replies soberly.
βDude, what happened? When did you have time to meet a hook-up after I drove you home last night?β Sam creases his brow, but the sinking feeling in his gut already confirms it. He knows those are your shoes, just like he knows thatβs your bra in his brotherβs hand. Samβs been your laundry buddy for close to five years.
βI-Iβ¦ I slept with her, Sam,β Dean confesses and claps his mouth like heβs done the last time heβs confessed something. He expects it to go about the same.
But Sam surprises him with calmness. βYeah, I-I figured,β he admits, nodding, and takes another glimpse down the hall behind Dean. βWhere is she? Still sleeping? Did she break up with Trey?β
Deanβs mouth opens and closes. Leave it to Sam to dive right into the uncomfortableness. Solely mentioning the name burns a hole into his heart. What if you went back to him?
βNo, uh, I donβt know where she is. I just woke up,β Dean says slowly and licks his chapped lips. βI-β¦ I think she left. For good. I think she-β¦ you know.β
Dean swallows the thick lump in his dry throat, while Sam sits with the information for a minute.
βDean, whyββ Sam shakes his head, collecting his thoughts. βWhy didnβt you guys just talk? I mean, what happened?β
βOh, yeah, great idea, Sammy!β Dean scoffs with a voice full of bark. βYou think I havenβt thought about that? Does anything about this look planned to you? I mean, hell! Youβre the one who told me to use my last chance and tell her in the first place!β
βI didnβt mean this,β Sam counters, exasperated. βI meant, use your mouth, idiot, not yourββ He frowns when he notices the rising smirk on his older brotherβs face. βDude, donβt even say it.β
βFine.β Dean rolls his eyes a little and sighs. βLook, I need to find her and talk to her. Can you call my cell? I lost it somewhere.β
βDude, again?β
βJust-β¦ Would you call?β Dean massages his aching temples.
βYou know, my worst nightmare is finding you dead down here one day, just rotting away,β Sam mutters wryly as he makes the call.
βYeah, you and me both,β is all Dean says.
His ears then pick up the faint buzzing noises of his phone, only growing louder as the brothers follow it all the way to the library. His cell rests neatly on the wooden table, but he knows he hasnβt put it there.
Besides, underneath it is a folded piece of yellow, legal-pad paper that smells like you.
Dean grabs both phone and letter, his eyes fixing on the only two words there. The corners of his mouth quirk to a faint smile, but itβs sad in nature. Heβs only laughing to cope with the loss of you. His black soul is rejoicing β itβs been right all along. Hallelujah!
Iβm sorry.
Youβre sorry. But Dean doesnβt know for what exactly. For sleeping with him? For telling him you loved him? For leaving?
Or is it all of the above?
βWhat does it say?β Samβs voice keeps him from jumping straight into a spiral of sorrow.
βThat she left,β Dean replies and crumples the paper in his hand, tossing it on the floor.
He tries calling you, but thereβs no answer. And even when Sam tries, you donβt pick up.
βVoicemail again,β Sam says after his third try and clears his throat with lacking subtleness. βShe-, uh, she probably forgot to charge it again.β
βYeah, Iβm sure thatβs itβ¦β Dean pats his little brotherβs shoulder as he saunters past him.
βDean, where are you going?β
βLook, I just wanna be alone right now,β Dean says, his voice laden with emotion he tries to hold back. βIβve got a raging headache, I smell like a liquor storeβ¦β
βYeah, uh, sure.β Sam nods with understanding. He knows Deanβs shutting down now. βCan I do anything?β
βYeah, leave,β Dean huffs bitterly, the door to his room slamming shut soon after.
The bunker is cold and dark when you trudge down the metal steps.
Thereβs just blackness, not a light on except for a small table lamp in the library. Your gaze lands on the giant table, both phone and your note gone. You know he mustβve found it by now; you assumedΒ he wouldβve.
Still, your heart cracks at the thought.
You shouldβve been clearer with your message. But there was no time, and your head had been spinning. Now, though, the cravingβs gone.
Thereβs finally clarity.
It replaces the feverish longing. It tells you exactly what your heart needs β Dean. Not in a carnal, all-consuming way but in the purest form of love. Heβs the air you breathe.
You find the door of his room ajar, but itβs dark inside, too β and empty. Youβve checked the garage, though, and saw Baby parked in her usual spot, so you know its green-eyed owner canβt be far.
And of all places he couldβve been β the shooting range to take his anger out, the kitchen to eat his feelings, or the cave to drown his sorrows β you find him in your room.
He sits on the freezing floor by the foot of your bed like a sad pile of forgotten laundry. When his gaze lifts to you in the doorframe, his brow furrows a tiny bit as if not sure heβs seeing a ghost.
βHey,β you say softly, your voice close to a croak, but Dean averts his eyes as if seeing you pains him. And, well, that pains you.
βYou-, uh, you forgot something?β He clears his throat to clear his feelings and seem casual. You donβt know who he thinks heβs fooling with that mask β again, sadly sitting on the floor in yourΒ room β but it sure ainβt you.
βYeah, you,β you reply, a faint smile curving your lips. You step closer and kneel down in front of him, cupping his confused face in your palms as you brush your lips tentatively against his.
βI-β¦ I donβt understand,β Dean says, the surprise still visible in the wrinkles of his brow when you pull back an inch. βLook, if youβve changed your mind againββ
βNo, Deanβ¦β You shake your head and kiss the creases on his forehead. βI never changed my mind, okay? I meant what I said last night. I love you.β
His mouth is agape for a heartbeat, knitted brow ironing out with realization. βSo, youβre staying?β
βYeah. It's you. No contest.β You smile softly, the happiness in your veins almost forcing you to beam, but your other half doesnβt seem to be quite there yet.
βThen why did you leave?β
With a heavy sigh, you slump back against the footboard, taking a seat next to him. βI know. Iβm sorry. I panicked when I woke up,β you explain. βI just-β¦ I had to end it, you know?β
Deanβs brow raises with understanding. Oh.
βYou broke up with him?β
You nod, swallowing. It hasnβt exactly been a fun day for you, either.
βI went to his hotel, but heβd already checked out. So, I went to the airport, but his flight was gone too,β you tell him. βI wanted to call you, but I forgot to charge my phone. My battery was dead.β
Dammit. Of course Sam was right.
βAnd, uhm, thatβs when I bought a ticket and flew there.β
βYou flew to Michigan?!β
Well, of all the scenarios that swirled around his head the past twenty-four hours, this hadnβt exactly been one of them. Sure, heβd buy you going after your boyfriend to be with him, but to break upΒ with him?
βWouldnβt a text done it?β
βDean!β Gasping, you slap his arm scoldingly. βI know you donβt mean that. Look, I had to, okay? The guy wanted to propose to me, the least I could do is be honest and face him. I didnβt want to start somethingβ¦ newΒ without ending it first, you know? Not that any of this was good, to begin withβ¦β
Dean lifts a brow, pursing his lips. βSo, last night wasnβtβ¦ good?β
You fix him with a glare. βNot the point, dude!β You shake your head at him. βLook, last night wasββ¦ You wereββ¦ It wasββ
βMagical?β Dean offers with a small, puckish smile.
βSure,β you relent, smiling internally at his childishness. Or is it cute? βI just meant it wasnβt ideal.β
βYeah, uhm, I know. Iβm sorry. Really. I am,β Dean says and meets your eyes. βSo, did you tell him? Aboutβ¦ you know?β
You exhale a long sigh. βWell, I didnβt want to. Not because Iβm a coward and didnβt want to face the consequences, I just figured I was already cutting a wound. No need to pour salt into it, right?β
βMakes sense,β Dean agrees quietly.
βYeah, well, that plan kinda went out the window thanks to your artwork on my neck,β you mutter a bit reproachfully, but a small smile still flashes on your lips. You know damn well he made it a point last night to mark you.
βRight, yeah. Sorry βbout that, too,β he says and clears his throat, but itβs the apology he doesnβt really mean. Heβs not even a little bit sorry about that. The only thing he feels sorry for is making you go through all of that.
βPlease, like you mean that.β You snort, giggling. Dean clicks his tongue, his cheeks reddening guiltily. βAnyways, that whole thing then led to a five-hour break-up talk.β
βFive hours?!β Dean wildly furrows his brow. βWhatβs taking so long? I mean, you tell them you donβt love them, and you leave.β
You frown slightly and deadpan, βRight, forgot youβre the relationship expert. Have you ever actually broken up with someone?β
Wellβ¦ Cassie broke it off with him. Lisa, too. But to be fair, both of those break-ups combined didnβt last more than ten minutes β tops.
βThought so.β You smirk winningly.
βAlright, congrats. Youβre a saint,β Dean huffs jokingly.
βHardly,β you scoff and find his gaze. βDean, I still cheated. Thatβs not a good thing.β
βNo, I know. Butββ
βYou know I wouldnβt do that to you, right?β
Stumped, Dean arches an eyebrow. βYeah, of course not. Wait, is that something youβre actually worried about? That I would think that?β
You meekly shrug your shoulders, playing with your fingers in your lap. βWell, yeahβ¦β
Dean wets his lips for a brief moment of contemplation before his palm cups the back of your head and pulls you to him for a searing kiss. Itβs deep and soft and hungry all the same. Most of all, itβs pure. It feels like the first kiss that isnβt controlled by the craving.
Itβs just love now.
βI love you,β Dean says breathlessly as soon as he draws back from your lips, offering you one of his charming smiles full of mischief. He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. βAnd I know, alright? Donβt you worry about that.β
You nod and claim his lips again.
βSo, uh, what dβyou say? Wanna hit Vegas tomorrow? Stop by a chapel?β Dean suggests, causing your brow to raise significantly.
βOh, you were actually serious about that?β
Dean chuckles. Yeah, he wouldnβt have necessarily believed him either, but itβs still true. Heβs not even a little bit afraid of the commitment. In fact, he craves it.
βYeah, I was. Meant every word I said,β he confirms with a big grin. βYou wanna get married? Weβll do it. Hell, anything you want, just tell me, and I make it happen, sweetheart.β
βHuhβ¦ Anything?β A tiny smirk curves your lips.
Dean sighs playfully and rolls his eyes. βJesus, stepped right into that one, didnβt I? So, you wanna get married? What is it? Atlantic City? You know that place is a shithole, right? Even Jersey thinks soβ¦β
βNo, Dean, nothing like that.β You laugh, shaking your head with pink cheeks. βLook, donβt take this the wrong way, but Iβm not sure I wanna get married.β
Dean nods, rubbing his chin with his fingers. βOkay, just figured youβd-, you know, sinceβ¦β
βNo, I mean, I wouldβve said yes.β
βHuh.β Dean scratches the back of his head a little too anxiously. βGotta say, kinda hard not to take it the wrong way here.β
You stifle a chuckle. βI promise itβs not that. Iβd marry you in a heartbeat, okay? Iβm just telling you itβs not a priority. You wanna get married tomorrow, weβll get married. What dβyou want? Elvis? You know they do weddings without him there too, right? I heard they even have a drive-through chapel. We could get married in the Impala.β
Dean blinks at you for a minute before he shakes his head clear. βOkay, first of all, loveΒ that idea. Secondβ¦ you know, maybe youβre right. Letβs slow down a little. I donβt wanna go on a first date with my wife.β
You laugh, nodding. βKinda my point.β
βAlright, what dβyou wanna do, huh? We could look for a place topside, like Sammy and Eileen,β Dean proposes, but you wrinkle your nose.
βI donβt wanna leave the bunker,β you state. βDo you know how much rent weβd pay for a place this size topside?β
Dean chuckles a little. βWe could downsize, you know? I mean, itβs just the two of us.β
βYeah, but where would we play hall ball? Do I need to remind you this place has a bowling alley andΒ a shooting range? I canβt downsize. Iβm used to luxury now.β
A deep laugh rumbles through Deanβs chest at that, remembering only more reasons why he loves you β why youβre the one. βAlright, weβll stay, princess.β
βLook, all I want is to be with you and have fun adventures. Weβre pretty good at that, you know?β you tell him with a teasing smile, seeing Dean nod in agreement. βSoβ¦ how serious were you about me knocking you out and dragging you on a plane?β
Groaning, Dean throws his head back, pounding it softly against the wooden bed frame. βOh, cβmon! You sure I canβt just knock you up? We do have enough rooms for a couple of βemβ¦β
You snort a laugh at his theatrical reaction. βA, Iβm sure. And B, howβs that slowing down, huh? Besides, I already booked the tickets. Our plane leaves tomorrow at eight. Pack your bathing suit βcause weβre going to Hawaii.β
Slinging your arms around his shoulders, you peck his scruffy cheek, while Dean rubs a palm across his face, but he can hardly hide the smile underneath it, although his heart is fluttering quite nervously.
βOkay, letβs do it, I guess. Better call Sam for a strong spell to knock me out, though.β Dean laughs a little.
βHow about we just go to the pharmacy before we pull out the hex bags, huh?β you suggest gently, smiling in amusement. Only a Winchester would propose such a ridiculous thing. βAnd you also have me by your side, okay? I think itβs about time Dean Winchester joins the mile high club, donβt you?β
Dean purses his lips but canβt stop the smirk from splitting his cheeks. βWell, speaking ofββ He cradles your head and leans closer, gently pushing you down till your back touches the floor and your giggles fill the room. βYou left a hickey on my dick. How about I repay the favor?β
Without another word, his lips find yours, and you cave to craving once more. Dean hopes he can satiate it for the rest of his life.
Quite a ride, but we got to our HEA ππ Let me know all your precious thoughts. Feedback is very appreciated!
I've already written a follow-up one-shot for these two and may have been thinking of a Hawaii-themed miniseries (after all, the Winchesters never hunted in that state, so there surely might be something supernatural there π)
π Join Patreon for more stories & read ahead on current series
Tag List Pt. 1:
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