~♡ꜝꜞ ❝ 𝓑ite me ❞ ( SAM'S VER )
────── · · Dean Winchester x fem ! vampire ! reader
a / n : DEAN VERSION FOR ALL OF MY HUNGRY LADIESSSS
character/s featured. dean winchester .ᐟ sam winchester .ᐟ
rating: smut .ᐟ
summary : it's not his fault that the sight of your fangs make him get a little horny, right?? definetely not if you keep flashing them at him as if you just want to drink him all up.
The Impala hummed beneath you, a low, familiar vibration that had become as natural as breathing. Not that you needed to breathe, not really. Fifty years of vampirism had taught you that much—the body continued its habits long after the heart stopped needing them.
You were curled in the backseat, legs tucked beneath you, watching the endless stretch of Kansas highway roll by through your thick sunglasses. The sun was setting, finally, the oppressive brightness fading to a warm orange glow that didn't make your skin prickle with irritation. Dean caught your reflection in the rearview mirror, as he had about twelve times in the last hour.
"You know," he said, voice deliberately casual, "most people take those things off when the sun goes down."
"Most people aren't me." You didn't look up from the book in your lap, though you hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes. You'd been too busy cataloging the way Dean's jaw tightened when he swallowed, the way his fingers drummed against the steering wheel, the way his scent had shifted over the past few days.
Need. It was a particular fragrance, a specific chemical signal that humans gave off when their bodies were craving something. Usually it was sex, sometimes food, occasionally violence. With Dean, lately, it had been all three, mingled together into something that made your gums ache.
Sam snorted from the passenger seat. "He's been weird all week. Don't take it personally."
"I'm not weird," Dean protested, too quickly. "I'm perfectly normal. I'm the most normal person in this car. You're the one with the whole—" he waved a hand vaguely in Sam's direction, "—demon blood thing going on."
"Nice deflection," Sam said dryly. "Really smooth."
"Shut up."
You smiled, slow and deliberate, letting your fangs catch the fading light. Dean's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror again, and you watched his pupils dilate. There it was. That particular flash of hunger that had nothing to do with food.
"Dean," you said, your voice dropping into something lower, silkier. "You're staring."
His eyes snapped back to the road. "Was not."
"Were too." Sam hummed.
"I said shut up!"
You laughed, a low, throaty sound that made Dean's knuckles go white on the steering wheel. "Relax, Winchester. I'm not going to bite you."
Yet.
You didn't say it aloud, but you watched the thought cross his face anyway. Watched his throat work as he swallowed. Watched his thighs shift beneath his jeans.
God, he was obvious.
You'd been traveling with the brothers for nearly four months now, ever since you'd saved Sam from a particularly nasty werewolf pack that had cornered him in an abandoned warehouse. Dean had been suspicious at first—rightfully so. You were a monster. A predator. Everything they'd been raised to hunt.
But you'd proven yourself useful. Your speed, your strength, your night vision, your ability to go without sleep. All of it made you invaluable on hunts. You could track scents for miles, hear a demon's whisper from three rooms away, sense danger before it manifested.
And you never, ever fed on humans.
Animals, mostly. Demons when you could get them, possessed humans when the demon was riding them and the vessel was already lost. You'd made a promise to yourself when you'd been turned in 1958, against your will, by a vampire who'd seen a pretty young thing and decided to make you his eternal companion. You'd killed him for it, eventually, after twenty five years of learning every single way to make a vampire die and choosing the most painful and agonizing one.
But you'd kept his lesson: You didn't have to be a monster.
You'd watched the sixties bloom and fade, the seventies burn bright, the eighties glitter and the nineties grunge. You'd adapted. You'd learned to live in the shadows, to pass as human, to hide the hunger that still gnawed at your belly even after all these years.
And now you were here, in the back of a '67 Chevy Impala, watching the most beautiful man you'd ever seen slowly lose his mind over the possibility of your fangs in his neck.
It was delicious.
It had started innocently enough. Dean had always been a tactile person, quick with a flirtatious comment or a lingering touch. And you'd matched his energy from day one, trading barbs and innuendos like they were currency. It was fun. It was easy. It was just the way things were between you.
But something had shifted recently.
Dean wasn't sure exactly when it had happened: maybe it was the night he'd watched you suck the blood straight off of a demon's vessel, your fangs gleaming in the moonlight as you tore through hm like he was made of paper. Maybe it was the night you'd pulled him out of the way of a bullet with that impossible speed of yours, your body pressed against his for just a moment too long. Or maybe it was just the accumulation of all those little moments, building and building until he couldn't ignore it anymore.
The fixation had started with your lips.
Dean was a simple man. He knew what he liked, and he liked pretty things—pretty women especially. And you were gorgeous. There was no getting around that. Those dark eyes that seemed to see right through him, that cascade of hair that fell around your shoulders like silk, the way your clothes always hugged your curves just right...
He'd wanted to kiss you from the moment he'd stopped wanting to kill you.
But then something had shifted, and he'd found himself staring at your mouth for entirely different reasons. Not just because he wanted to feel it pressed against his. But because every time you smiled, every time you laughed, every time you bared your teeth in a snarl of warning-
He couldn't look away from your fangs.
It was maddening. He'd lie awake at night in the motel room, listening to Sam's steady breathing from the bed across the room and to your silence from wherever you'd stationed yourself on watch, and he'd find himself replaying the day's events in his head. Every smile you'd given him. Every flash of those sharp, elegant points.
And his cock would twitch in his boxers, swelling with a heat that made him feel like a teenager again.
What the hell is wrong with me? he'd think, pressing the heel of his hand against his erection to try and get it to go away. They're FANGS. They're not... they're not sexy.
But even as he thought it, he knew he was lying to himself.
Because the thing was.. Dean had always been a little bit of a masochist. He liked it rough. He liked it when a woman took control, pushed him around a little, showed him who was boss. He'd never admit it out loud, of course, but it was true. He liked being pinned down. He liked being at someone else's mercy.
And there was no one better equipped to do that than you.
You were stronger than him. Faster. More resilient. If you ever decided to really put him in his place, there wouldn't be a damn thing he could do about it. The thought should have terrified him. It should have made him reach for a silver knife or a stake.
Instead, it made him hard.
And the thought of those fangs in his neck...
Dean groaned softly, rolling onto his side and pressing his face into the pillow. He could feel the heat building in his body, the familiar ache of need that had been plaguing him for days. He hadn't slept with anyone in weeks—too busy, too focused on the hunt, too distracted by a certain vampire who was currently sitting somewhere in the darkness watching over them.
His hand drifted down his body, palm pressing against his aching cock through his boxers. He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't. But the image was already forming in his mind: you, pinning him against a wall, your body pressed against his, your teeth grazing his throat-
"Fuck-" he breathed, his hips bucking up against his hand.
He could almost feel it. The sharp pinch of your fangs breaking skin. The heat of your mouth as you began to suck. The way your body would press against his, holding him in place, using that impossible strength of yours to keep him exactly where you wanted him-
Dean's hand moved faster, stroking himself through the thin cotton of his boxers. He could feel the wetness already spreading, pre-cum soaking through the fabric, and he bit his lip hard to keep from making a sound.
In his fantasy, you weren't just biting him. You were tasting him. Draining him. Taking everything he had to give and leaving him weak and helpless in your arms. And he loved it. He loved the thought of being so completely at your mercy, of having no choice but to submit to whatever you wanted to do to him-
His orgasm hit him like a freight train, his hips jerking wildly as he came in his boxers, the sticky wetness spreading across his stomach as he groaned into the pillow. His body shuddered through the aftershocks, his mind going blank with the force of it.
And when he finally came back to himself, lying in a pool of his own cum, he was left with one mortifying realization.
He'd just gotten off to the thought of you biting him. And he'd probably just made enough noise to wake up the entire motel.
Dean lay there for a long moment, breathing hard, trying to convince himself that no one had heard. Sam was still snoring softly—thank God for small mercies. And you...
Dean strained his ears, trying to hear any sign that you'd been paying attention. But the only sound was the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional creak of the building settling.
Maybe he was safe.
Maybe.
The cabin was exactly what you'd all expected: isolated, creepy, and absolutely crawling with residual psychic energy. The spirit had been particularly nasty, the kind that delighted in tormenting its victims before killing them, and it had taken all three of them working together to finally put it to rest.
Sam had been injured in the scuffle (nothing serious, just a gash on his arm that needed stitches) and Dean had sent him back to the motel with strict instructions to clean it properly and stay put. So now it was just the two of you, standing in the clearing outside the cabin, making sure no other evil spirits remained and casting a purifying spell just in case, the moon overhead casting silver light across the forest floor.
"That was fun," you said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. Your sunglasses were back in place despite the darkness, and Dean couldn't help but think it was a shame: he liked your eyes. "I haven't had a good hunt like that in a while."
"You call that a good hunt?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow. "Sam nearly got his arm ripped off."
"Sam will be fine." You shrugged, a playful smile curving your lips. "And you're a terrible liar, Dean. I know you enjoyed it."
He had enjoyed it. He enjoyed hunting with you. Enjoyed watching you move with that impossible grace, those fangs flashing in the moonlight as you'd taken down the spirit's physical manifestation. Enjoyed the way you'd thrown yourself in front of him to protect him from a blow, your body pressed against his for just a moment.
Enjoyed the way you were looking at him now, those dark eyes gleaming with something that made his heart race.
"Dean."
His name on your lips sent a shiver down his spine. "Yeah?"
"You've been staring at me all night." There was no accusation in your voice, just that teasing, knowing tone that drove him crazy. "And not in the usual way. You've been staring at my mouth."
Dean's throat went dry. "I have not."
"You have." You took a step closer, and Dean found himself rooted to the spot, unable to move. "Every time I smiled, every time I talked, you were watching my lips. Watching my fangs."
"I don't-"
"Don't lie to me." Your voice was soft, almost gentle, but there was something sharp underneath it. Something predatory. "I can hear your heart racing, Dean. I can smell the sweat on your skin. I can see the way you're looking at me right now."
Dean swallowed hard. His heart was pounding so loudly he was sure you could hear it, feel it, taste it in the air between you. "What do you want me to say?"
"The truth." You were close now, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from your body, smell the faint scent of your perfume. "Tell me what you've been dreaming about, Dean. Tell me what you've been thinking about when you're lying in bed at night."
"I don't-"
"Tell me," you repeated, and there was a command in your voice that made his knees feel weak. "Or I'll drag it out of you myself."
Dean's breath caught in his throat. There was no way you knew. No way you could have known about his dreams, his fantasies, the way he'd been waking up with sticky boxers and a burning need that wouldn't go away.
But you were looking at him like you knew everything.
"I've been thinking about you," he admitted, his voice rough. "About... about your fangs."
Your smile was slow, satisfied, like a cat who'd just caught a particularly delicious canary. "Oh, have you?"
"Don't." Dean's hands were shaking, and he shoved them into his pockets to hide it. "Don't make me say it."
"Say it anyway."
"Fine." The word came out as a growl, and Dean felt a surge of something reckless rush through him. "I've been thinking about you biting me. About those fangs in my neck. About you draining me dry while I can't do anything but take it."
You were silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, you reached up and pushed your sunglasses up into your hair, those dark eyes pinning him in place.
"Is that what you want, Dean?" you asked softly. "To be at my mercy? To have me take everything from you?"
"Yes," he breathed. "God, yes."
You smirked.
"C'mon, hotstuff." He drawled, though it came out edged with a whinyness that gave away how much he was at your mercy. "Tell me, what's your blood type? Is it mine?"
“Come find out.”
Dean didn't even think. He just surged forward, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that was all teeth and need and desperate hunger. You met him with equal intensity, your hands fisting in his jacket as you pushed him backward, not away, but against the rough bark of the nearest tree.
The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, and Dean groaned into your mouth as you pressed your body against his, pinning him in place. Your strength was incredible, holding him immobile with what seemed like no effort at all, and Dean felt his cock stir to life in his jeans.
"Fuck," he gasped, breaking the kiss to drag in air. "Fuck, you're so strong-"
"Shut up." you murmured, and then your mouth was on his again, your tongue sliding against his in a way that made his head spin.
Dean's hands found your hips, gripping them hard as he ground up against you. He could feel the heat of your body through your clothes, the press of your curves against his chest, and he wanted more. He wanted everything. He wanted to tear your clothes off and bury himself inside you and feel those fangs in his throat.
You pulled back, your lips red and swollen, your eyes dark with desire. "You're desperate," you observed, and there was a note of surprise in your voice. "You're really, really desperate."
"Fucking hell, yes," Dean panted. "It's been weeks. And you—you're all I can think about. All I dream about."
"All you dream about, mn?" You tilted your head, a smirk curving your lips. "What happens in these dreams, Dean? Tell me."
"You-" He swallowed hard, trying to find the words. "You're chasing me. Hunting me. And when you catch me, you-"
"I what?"
Dean's face flushed, but he couldn't stop himself. "You sink your teeth into my neck and you don't stop. You drink everything I have, and I just- I just take it. I let you. I want you to."
Your eyes darkened, and Dean felt a thrill of fear and excitement rush through him. "And you come from that," you said softly. "From the thought of me feeding from you."
"Yes."
You were quiet for a moment, studying him. Then, slowly, you smiled.
"Well, Dean Winchester," you said, your voice dropping to a purr. "I think you might be the most interesting human I've ever met."
"Please," Dean begged, his hips grinding uselessly against your thigh. You'd been making out for what felt like forever, his body pressed against the tree, your hands all over him. But every time he tried to escalate, you pulled back, denying him. "Please, just—just bite me. Drink from me. I need it, I need it."
"What do you need, Dean?" Your voice was a whisper against his ear, and he shuddered. "Tell me exactly what you need."
"You. Your fangs. Your—" He broke off with a groan as your hand slid down his chest, over his stomach, and came to rest on the waistband of his jeans. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please bite me." The words came out as a whimper, and Dean was beyond caring how pathetic he sounded. "Please, sweetheart, I need it so bad, I need to feel you-"
"You have such a way with words." You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your expression playful. "What if I don't want to bite you? What if I just want to watch you squirm?"
Dean groaned, his head falling back against the tree. "That's not fair."
"Life's not fair, Winchester." You smirked, and then you stepped back, giving him space.
Dean slumped against the tree, his body aching with unfulfilled need. "Where are you going?"
"Nowhere." Your smile turned sharper, more predatory. "But you said you liked to be hunted, right? Wanted to be chased?"
His heart stuttered. "You're—you're joking."
"I never joke about food." You took another step back, putting distance between you. "I'll give you a head start. I'm nice like that."
"You're insane," Dean breathed, but there was no heat in the words. Just awe. Just desperate, aching desire.
"Probably." You gestured with your hand, a casual wave that sent a shiver down his spine. "Go on. Run. I don't bite... unless."
That "unless" hung in the air between them, and Dean felt something primal awaken in his chest. The fear of being hunted. The thrill of being prey. The desperate, stupid hope that you'd catch him.
He didn't wait for you to change your mind. He just turned and ran.
The forest blurred past him, branches whipping at his face as he crashed through the undergrowth. He didn't know where he was going, didn't care. All that mattered was putting distance between you and him, making you work for it.
But even as he ran, he knew he was no match for you.
He heard your laugh before he saw you, a low, dark sound that seemed to come from everywhere at once. His heart slammed against his ribs, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he pushed himself harder, faster—
And then his foot caught on a root, and he went down hard.
Dean hit the ground with a grunt, dirt and leaves filling his mouth as he tried to scramble back to his feet. But before he could push himself up, there was a boot pressing down on his back, forcing his elbows to give out. He collapsed onto his stomach, face pressed into the dirt, his hips twitching wildly as he realized what was happening.
"Found you," you cooed above him, and Dean's cock throbbed in his jeans. "Found such a cute little deer running through the woods."
"Fuck," he gasped, trying to push himself up again. But you pressed down harder, and he couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but lie there, helpless, as you removed your boot and grabbed him by his jacket.
You hoisted him up with that impossible strength, spinning him around and pressing him against another tree. Dean's head spun as he was manhandled into place, your body pressing against his, your hands gripping his shoulders to keep him in place.
"Please," he gasped, even as he pushed weakly at your shoulders like he was trying to get away. You both knew he wasn't. "Please, just—"
"Just what, Dean?" you murmured, your nose nuzzling at his throat. "Just what do you want me to do?"
"I want-" He broke off with a whimper as you pressed a kiss to his neck, your lips warm and soft against his skin. "I want you to bite me. Please. I need it, I need-"
Your mouth descended on his neck, and Dean's breath caught in his throat as your tongue traced a path over his pulse point. He could feel the edge of your fangs grazing his skin, teasing, threatening, and his hips bucked involuntarily against you.
"Please," he begged, his voice breaking. "Please, just do it. I can't—I can't take it anymoreee.."
"You're so easy," you murmured against his throat, and there was a laugh in your voice. "So desperate for me. It's almost pathetic."
"I don't care." Dean's hands found your hips, gripping them hard as he ground against you. "don't care. I need you to show me who's in charge. I need you to hold me down and take what you want and make me yours-"
"Make you mine?"
"Yes." He was so close to begging, so close to saying anything just to get what he wanted. "Please, I want to be yours. I want to be your fucking snack."
You laughed, a dark sound that made his cock throb. "You know, for a hunter, you're really not very good at this whole 'avoiding being prey' thing."
"I don't want to avoid it." Dean's voice was raw, desperate. "I want to be yours. I want to be your prey. I want you to hunt me and catch me and—"
You cut him off with a kiss, your mouth crashing against his with a hunger that made his head spin. Dean melted into you, his hands gripping your hips as you pressed him harder against the tree.
When you pulled back, you were smiling.
"Okay, Dean," you said softly. "You win."
And then you kissed him again, and everything else faded away.
The make-out session was fierce, desperate, all teeth and tongue and needy sounds. Dean's hands roamed your body, gripping your ass, your thighs, your tits, like he couldn't get enough of you. And you let him, even as you kept him pinned against the tree with your superior strength.
"Fuck," he gasped against your mouth, grinding his hips against yours. "Fuck, you feel so good.."
"Shut up," you murmured, and slammed him back against the tree.
The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, and Dean gasped, his vision going white for a moment. When he blinked back to reality, you were kissing down his throat, and he could feel your fangs grazing his skin again.
"Please," he begged. "Please, sweetheart, please just bite me-"
"Not yet." Your voice was a purr against his skin. "I'm not done playing yet."
"You're gonna kill me.” he whined.
"That's the idea." You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, and Dean felt a chill run down his spine at the hunger in your gaze. "But not today. Today, I just want to taste you."
"Then taste me," he urged. "I'm right here, I'm yours, just—"
You smiled, and it was all teeth. "You're so eager."
"Fuck yes I'm eager." Dean was grinding against you now, his hips moving of their own accord. "I've been dreaming about this for weeks. Fantasizing about it. I've come in my boxers more times than I can count thinking about you biting me-"
"That often, huh?"
"Every night," he admitted, shame and arousal warring in his chest. "And I've been waking up with sticky boxers and thinking about you. About what it would feel like to have you drain me dry."
Your eyes darkened at that, your breath coming a little faster. "And you've been keeping this from me?"
"I didn't think you'd want to know!"
"Dean." You laughed, a genuine laugh that caught him off guard. "I've known for weeks. I could smell your arousal every time you looked at me."
"You could???"
"I could." you confirmed, your smile turning smug. "But I wanted to see how long it would take for you to break."
"Fuck." Dean's head fell back against the tree, his chest heaving. "You're evil."
"I'm a vampire." You nipped at his throat, just the edge of your fangs catching his skin. "It comes with the title."
"You're going to be the death of me." he groaned.
"That's the idea." And then you were kissing him again, deep and hungry, and Dean lost himself in the sensation.
Your hand slid down his body, over his chest, down his stomach, and came to rest on the bulge in his jeans. Dean gasped into your mouth as you squeezed him, his hips bucking involuntarily.
"Look at that," you murmured, pulling back to look down at where your hand was gripping him. "At this point, I should just take the bite right down here since all your blood's gone to your dick."
"Fuck-" Dean moaned out, his face flushing.
"No wonder you're so stupid, baby." You squeezed him again, and he whimpered. "And here I was being all mean about it, awh... I'm sorry... I thought you were being dense on purpose! Turns out you're just a horny little bitch, that's all."
"I am-" Dean agreed desperately. "I'm a horny little bitch, I'm yours, I'm whatever you want me to be-"
And then you bit him.
The pain was sharp and sweet, a shock that radiated through his entire body as your fangs sank into his neck. Dean cried out, his hips jerking against you as the feeling washed over him. It was like nothing he'd ever experienced before: a rush of heat and pleasure and a strange, floating sensation that made his head spin.
And then you began to drink.
The sensation of your mouth on his throat, the pull of his blood leaving his body, was intoxicating. Dean groaned, his hands fisting in your jacket as you pressed him harder against the tree. He could feel himself growing weaker, his body going limp in your arms, and he loved it. He loved the feeling of being so completely at your mercy.
"Fuck," he gasped, his vision swimming. "Fuck, fuck—"
Dean's orgasm hit him without warning, a tidal wave of pleasure that crashed through his body and left him gasping. He came in his jeans, his hips bucking wildly against you as he spilled into the fabric. It was the most intense orgasm he'd ever experienced, and he cried out your name like a fucking pornstar as he rode it out.
"Fuck-" he gasped, his body shuddering. "Fuck, I-"
You pulled back slowly, licking the blood from your lips. "That," you said softly, "was perfect."
"I came," Dean said dumbly, looking down at the wet patch spreading across his jeans. "I came in my pants."
"I know." You smiled, sharp and satisfied. "I could feel it."
"Fuck." His face flushed, but he couldn't bring himself to feel embarrassed. Not when he'd just had the best orgasm of his life. "That was- that was amazing."
"I know." You kissed him softly, your lips tasting like copper. "You taste amazing, by the way."
"I taste like O Negative."
"You taste like Dean Winchester." You nipped at his lower lip. "It's a good taste. Very addictive."
"Addictive, huh?"
"Very." You pulled back, your eyes gleaming. "I might have to keep you around."
Dean laughed, the sound weak and breathless. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Good." You kissed him again, and Dean melted into you. "Because I'm not done with you yet."
You made it back to the motel room eventually, Dean's legs still shaky and his jeans uncomfortably wet. Sam took one look at them and raised an eyebrow, but wisely chose not to comment.
"I'm going to take a shower," Dean announced, and fled to the bathroom.
He stood under the hot spray for a long time, letting the water wash away the evidence of what had happened. But even as he scrubbed his skin clean, he couldn't stop thinking about you. About the feeling of your fangs in his neck. About the taste of his blood on your lips.
He was addicted.
And as he stepped out of the shower and caught sight of his reflection, he saw the marks on his throat—two perfect puncture wounds, already beginning to heal. A brand. A claim.
He belonged to you now.
And he was okay with that.
When he emerged from the bathroom, you were sitting on the edge of his bed, your dark eyes watching him with that same predatory gleam. Sam was already in his own bed, earbuds in, pointedly ignoring the two of you.
"You marked me," Dean said softly, sitting down beside you.
"I did." There was no apology in your voice. "You wanted me to."
"I did." He reached up and touched the wounds, feeling the slight ache of them. "I do."
summary: based on the s4 ep14 episode "Sex and Violence." Sam and Dean find a case related to a Siren in a town in Iowa. The doctor Sam finds intriguing is definitely not the Siren they're hunting.
warnings: 18+ mdni, mentions of violence, usual supernatural stuff, pwp, smut, Sam 'freak in bed' Winchester, semi-public sex, wall/window sex, unprotected pinv, swear words.
wc: 4k
main masterlist. Sam winchester masterlist
The morgue at Concordia General smelled the way every morgue you had ever worked in smelled, a mixture of formaldehyde and bleach and something colder underneath that no amount of ventilation ever quite scrubbed out, and you had long since stopped noticing it except on days like this one, when three men in the space of a week had beaten their wives to death with their bare hands and you were the one who had to explain why. You were bent over the file cabinet in the corner of your office, pulling the last of the blood work you had drawn from the third man, Teddy Vaughn, when you heard the knock on your doorframe, two knuckles against wood, polite in a way that most cops in this county had stopped bothering to be with you months ago.
You turned around and found a man standing there who did not belong in Concordia, Iowa, not with a suit that fit him like it had been tailored somewhere with better tailors and a face that looked like it belonged on a recruitment poster for a university you couldn't afford. He was tall enough that he'd had to duck slightly coming through your doorway, and he held out a leather badge wallet before you'd even asked, which told you either he was very good at his job or he had done this so many times it had become reflex.
"Agent Stiles," he said. "FBI. I know it's late, I called ahead, your secretary said you'd still be here."
"My secretary is a temp who's been here two weeks and thinks every appointment ends at five, so I wouldn't put much stock in what she promised you." You set the folder down and crossed your arms. "What can I do for the Bureau tonight, Agent Stiles?"
"I'm looking into the Vaughn case. Same as the Peterson case, and the Wilkins case before that." He said the names like he'd memorized the file on the drive over, which, you'd learn later, he had. "Three men, no history of violence, no priors, and all three beat their wives to death within days of each other. That's not really an FBI pattern. That's a local nightmare. So I'm curious what brought you people down from Washington for it."
He smiled, and it was a good smile, easy, a little tired around the edges like he hadn't slept properly in longer than he'd admit to. "We go where the pattern goes. Three unrelated men, same MO, same week, same small town — that gets flagged. I heard you did the tox screens on all three."
"I did the autopsies and I drew the blood, yeah. You want to sit down? This is going to take a minute if you want it done right, and I don't do the abbreviated version for people who show up after visiting hours."
"I've got time," he said, and folded himself into the chair across from your desk like a man who meant it.
You pulled up the results on your monitor and turned the screen so he could see it too, close enough that you caught the smell of a shampoo that was too nice for a Bureau per diem. "All three men had abnormally high levels of oxytocin in their bloodstream. Way outside anything you'd see naturally, even in new parents, even in people who just had spectacular sex. We're talking levels I've only ever seen written about in academic papers about pair-bonding in voles."
"Voles."
"Prairie voles specifically. It's the classic study, oxytocin and vasopressin regulate monogamous bonding behavior in them almost exactly the way it seems to in humans, just more measurable because you can dissect a vole's brain without an ethics board getting involved." You caught yourself and huffed a short laugh. "Sorry. I default to lecture mode when I'm tired."
"No, I like it," he said, and he meant it, you could tell, because his eyebrows had gone up in real interest and not the polite kind men usually faked around you. "So high oxytocin. That's the hormone tied to love, right? Bonding, trust, all of that."
"Colloquially, sure, people call it the love hormone. Attachment hormone is more accurate. It's what surges when a mother nurses, when people cuddle, when they orgasm, when they fall for someone so hard they'd do anything for them." You tapped the screen. "These men had levels ten, twelve times higher than that. If oxytocin makes you feel bonded to somebody, whatever these three had running through their systems didn't just make them feel bonded. It made them feel like their lives depended on it."
Sam's jaw had gone tight, just slightly, the muscle working like he was chewing over something he didn't want to say out loud yet. "You said they were all married five years or less."
"You've done your homework, Agent Stiles."
"Sam," he said. "You can call me Sam. Agent Stiles makes me feel like I'm about to get audited."
"Fine. Sam." You liked the way it sat on your tongue more than you expected to. "Yeah, all three marriages under five years. All three men described by neighbors as devoted, a little intense about their wives, the kind of guys who'd cancel a work trip because their wife had a cold. And all three of them, without warning, beat the women they loved to death and then couldn't explain why when they were arrested. Wilkins actually said, and I'm quoting the police report here, 'I don't know why I did it, I just knew she didn't love me back the way I loved her, and I couldn't stand it.'"
"That's not the kind of thing normal jealousy does to a person," Sam said quietly, mostly to himself.
"No," you agreed. "It's really not."
The door swung open before either of you could say anything else, and a second man walked in without knocking, shorter than Sam, broader through the shoulders, wearing a suit that fit slightly worse and an expression that shifted the second he clocked how close together you and Sam were sitting.
"Sam. There you are. You weren't answering your phone." His eyes flicked to you, then back to his partner, doing the math out loud without saying a word of it. "Agent Murdock, FBI. And you'd be the coroner."
"Medical examiner," you corrected, "but close enough for government work. You two want to compare notes, or is this a tag-team interrogation?"
"Dean," Sam said, standing, "she was just walking me through the tox screens. All three men had oxytocin levels off the charts."
"Huh." Dean's mouth curled into something that was trying very hard to look casual. "So we've got a case that involves husbands going psycho in love and — didn't dispatch also mention something about strippers?"
"That's a different case file, Dean."
"Same case, I bet you money. This town's got a real theme going." Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder, hard enough that it was half a warning. "You about done here, Agent Stiles? I think we've got a stakeout to plan and I hear the local gentlemen's club does two-for-one on Tuesdays."
"We're not going to the club for the coupons, Dean."
"No, we're going for the science."
You watched the two of them bicker their way toward the door with the specific, worn-in rhythm of people who had been doing this exact routine for years, and something about it made you like Sam more rather than less, the way he rolled his eyes instead of getting embarrassed, the way his partner's teasing didn't land anywhere close to a nerve. Sam paused in the doorway and looked back at you.
"Can I call you if I have follow-up questions? About the blood work?"
"You have my number already, Agent Stiles, it's on the report you're holding." You allowed yourself the smallest smile. "But sure. Call anytime."
He called two days later, which was faster than you expected and slower than you'd hoped, though you would not have admitted that second part to anyone, least of all yourself. His voice on the phone was tight in a way it hadn't been in your office, clipped and urgent.
"I need those blood samples again. All three of them, if you've still got them stored."
"They're in the lab fridge, same as always, why —"
"Just — can you meet me there? Tonight?"
You met him in the hospital's basement lab an hour later, the fluorescent lights humming overhead the way they always did after visiting hours, and the two of you stood in front of an open refrigerator unit that should have held three sealed vials and instead held nothing but three empty slots and a faint smear of condensation where the labels had been.
"They're gone," you said, mostly to hear yourself say it, like saying it out loud might make it less true. "I logged them in myself. Nobody signs out samples from this lab without going through me or Deb at the front desk, and Deb's out sick."
"Cameras," Sam said, already moving toward the security office down the hall, and you followed him because there was nothing else productive to do, because your hands had started to feel cold in a way that had nothing to do with the refrigeration units around you.
The security guard, a heavyset man named Curtis who you'd shared exactly four conversations with in the eleven months he'd worked there, cued up the footage from the lab hallway without much protest once Sam flashed the badge again. You leaned in over Sam's shoulder to watch the grainy black-and-white feed, the timestamp ticking forward in the corner, the lab door sitting perfectly still and undisturbed for hour after hour after hour.
"There's nothing here," you said. "The door never opens. Nobody comes in or out all night."
"Rewind it again," Sam said, and Curtis did, and the two of you watched it a second time, and a third, and each time the door simply sat there, closed, untouched, while somehow the vials inside had vanished like they'd never existed at all.
"That's not possible," you said, and you heard how thin your own voice sounded saying it. "Sam, that door has one working camera and one card-swipe lock, and both of them say nobody was ever here."
"I know," he said, and something about the way he said it, careful and not remotely as surprised as a person should be, made you look at him a little differently than you had in your office two days before.
You walked back to your office in silence, the kind that wasn't uncomfortable so much as it was full, both of you turning something over that neither of you had said out loud yet. Once you were behind your closed door again you dropped into your chair and exhaled hard enough to blow a strand of hair off your face.
"Okay," you said. "I'm going to ask you something and I want an actual answer, not the FBI answer. What do you think is going on with these men?"
Sam hesitated, and you watched him decide something, watched the careful math of it cross his face before he spoke. "I think somebody drugged them. Something that could spike oxytocin that high, artificially, something that doesn't show up as a standard toxin because nobody's looking for it. I think whoever did it wanted them out of their minds in love, past the point where they could think straight, and I think whoever did it took those samples tonight because they didn't want anyone finding out what it was."
"That's insane," you said, "and it's also the only theory that fits, which honestly is the worst part of my week so far." You pulled two glasses and a half-full bottle of bourbon out of your bottom desk drawer, poured without asking if he wanted any, and slid one across to him. "You look like a man who could use a drink after that."
"You keep bourbon in your desk?"
"I'm a medical examiner in a county with a population of eleven thousand people and three unsolved murders in one week. I keep a lot of things in this desk." You raised your glass an inch. "To whatever the hell is happening in this town."
He clinked his glass against yours, and the smile he gave you then was different from the one in the doorway two days ago, less careful, more real, and you found yourself leaning back in your chair to actually look at him properly for the first time since he'd walked in.
"Can I ask you something?" you said. "And you don't have to answer if it's too personal for federal business hours."
"Go ahead."
"A guy like you — smart, easy to talk to, actually listens when someone explains hormone receptor binding instead of glazing over — how are you not married? Not engaged, not even seeing anybody, unless I'm wrong."
Something crossed his face, quick and complicated, gone before you could fully read it. "It's — complicated. The job doesn't really leave room for it. People I've been with, it never really — it doesn't end well. Usually it ends really badly, actually."
"That's a very specific kind of bad you're not elaborating on."
"Trust me, you don't want the details." But he said it with a small, rueful laugh instead of the flat deflection you expected, and something about the honesty underneath the joke made you want to keep pulling at the thread.
"Fair enough. What about you," he said. "Doctor, works nights in a morgue in the middle of Iowa, keeps bourbon in her desk for exactly this kind of night. I'm guessing there's not a line of men handling that well."
"You'd be surprised how few men want to hear about liver mottling over dinner," you said, and he laughed, actually laughed, low and warm, and the sound of it did something to the room that the bourbon hadn't managed on its own. "It's fine. I like the work. I like being good at something that matters, even if it means going home to an empty apartment most nights. I stopped waiting around for it to look like anybody else's life a long time ago."
"That's not a bad way to live," Sam said, quieter now, "figuring out what you actually want instead of what you're supposed to want."
"You sound like you've had that conversation with yourself a few times."
"More than a few." He looked down at his glass, then back up at you, and the air in the office had shifted into something denser, something with weight to it, the kind of silence that exists right before somebody says the thing they've been holding back all night.
His phone buzzed against the desk, the screen lighting up with a name — Dean — and he glanced at it, and then, very deliberately, turned it face-down without answering.
"You're not going to get that?"
"No," Sam said, and he did not look away from you when he said it. "I don't think I am."
The sterile, sharp scent of antiseptic in the office fades, replaced by the intoxicating musk of Sam's cologne and the heat pouring off his body. You close the distance between you, the low hum of the hospital's ventilation system seems to fade into the background, leaving only the sound of your own quickening heartbeat.
When you confess that parts of him— his lips have been a distraction, you see a spark ignite in Sam's hazel eyes something raw and hungry that contradicts his usual gentle demeanor.
"Just parts?" he echoes, his voice dropping an octave, rougher than before. A crooked, almost shy smile tugs at the corner of his mouth before it vanishes entirely. When you admit you can't stop thinking about kissing him, Sam doesn't hesitate. He closes the remaining space between you, his large hands finding your waist with surprising urgency. His touch is warm through your clothes, grounding you even as your head begins to swim.
The world blurs as he presses you back against the cool glass of the office window. The contrast between the chilled pane against your spine and the furnace like heat of Sam's chest makes you gasp. His mouth crashes against yours, not with the hesitant tenderness of a first kiss, but with a desperate, claiming hunger. You find yourself tangling your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, needing to erase every millimeter of air separating your bodies.
"Fuck," Sam breathes against your lips, the curse muffled by another kiss. His hands slide down to grip your thighs, lifting you effortlessly to meet his rhythm. As you navigate the frantic undressing, it leaves only the friction of skin on skin and the intoxicating reality of Sam's weight pressing you against the window.
The cool glass of the window bites into your back as Sam's weight presses you flush against it, but you barely notice the chill. Your mind is a whirlwind of adrenaline and desire, the stolen moment feeling dangerously illicit. Between ragged breaths and the wet sounds of your mouths connecting, you manage to find your voice, though it comes out as a breathless, frustrated murmur against his jaw.
"Fuck Agent Stiles," you tell him, the words tumbling out in a rush of pent up tension. "So impatient..."
Sam lets out a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrates through your chest, his lips dragging along the sensitive column of your throat. "Tell me about it," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. "But right now? I don't give a shit about anyone else." His hands, large and calloused, slide upward from your thighs to cup your face, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with a hunger that makes your stomach flip.
The impatience you feel isn't just about the external chaos; it's the way your own body is demanding satisfaction, aching for the friction of him. Sam seems to read you perfectly. The fbi agent who was sharing drinks with you moments ago has been replaced by something far more primal. He nips at your earlobe, a sharp sting that sends electricity shooting straight down to your core, before his teeth graze the shell of your ear.
"You want to stop being patient?" he whispers hoarsely, his hips grinding deliberately against yours through the thin barrier of your clothes. "Because I'm done waiting."
The word tears from your throat before you can even think to restrain it, raw and unfiltered. "Fuck yes," you gasp, the words vibrating between you as you arch your back against the window, seeking more of that delicious friction. The sound of your own surrender seems to snap something final in Sam's restraint. The gentle giant of a man who had been listening to your stories is gone, replaced by someone whose movements are suddenly deliberate, heavy, and demanding.
Sam's response is immediate and physical. His hands slide from your face down to your hips, his fingers digging into your skin with enough pressure to leave marks marks you know you'll want to remember tomorrow. He kisses you again, but this time there is no hesitation, no softness. It is a bruising, possessive claim that tastes of whiskey and desperation. You can feel the heat of his breath as he moves to the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that makes your toes curl against the linoleum floor.
"Good girl," he growls against your pulse point, the praise sending a fresh wave of heat crashing through you. His hands work with surprising efficiency, tugging at your clothes, desperate to remove every barrier between your bodies. The sounds of the hospital the distant squeak of rubber soles, the hum of machinery are nothing compared to the wet slap of skin and the ragged noise of your shared breathing.
As he positions you, your eyes catch the reflection in the darkened window: two silhouettes fused together against the backdrop of the sleeping town. Sam's muscles tense beneath your touch as he prepares to give you exactly what you asked for, his focus entirely consumed by the way you react to him. The world outside, the case, the missing blood samples it all ceases to exist. There is only the pressure of his body, the sting of his teeth, and the overwhelming need to lose yourself in him.
His fingers find you, slick and warm, testing to see if you're ready and when you are, he finally pushes inside, the sensation is so overwhelming you have to bite your own lip to keep from crying out loud enough to alert the entire hospital floor. Sam groans against your neck, a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through your entire frame as he settles between your thighs. He doesn't hold back; his movements are steady, powerful, and relentless, each thrust driving you harder against the glass until the window rattles faintly in its frame.
"Look at me," he pants, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. When you open your eyes, you find his gaze locked onto yours, intense and unblinking. He wants to see every flicker of pleasure, every moment of surrender written across your face. His hands slide up to grip yours, pinning them against the glass beside your head, forcing you to feel the full force of his strength as he picks up the pace.
The friction builds to an unbearable crescendo, a building storm of sensation that makes your vision blur. Sam's breathing becomes erratic, his teeth finding the sensitive skin where your shoulder meets your neck, nipping hard enough to make you whimper. That sharp sting only fuels the fire, sending you spiraling toward the edge. When the climax finally crashes over you, it's violent and all consuming, leaving you gasping for air as your muscles spasm around him. Seconds later, Sam follows, his body tensing as he buries his face in your hair, letting out a long, shuddering exhale as he spills into you, completely undone by the raw intensity of the moment.
The aftermath leaves you both panting, your foreheads pressed together as the adrenaline slowly ebbs away, leaving behind a pleasant, heavy ache. Sam doesn't pull away immediately; instead, he holds you close, his heartbeat thudding against your own in a steady, grounding rhythm. The cool air of the office seeps back in, but you barely feel it against your flushed skin.
"Fuck," Sam breathes out, a rough laugh escaping him as he finally unwinds from you. His usual composure is nowhere to be found his hair is a mess, his lips are swollen, and there's a dazed, satisfied look in his eyes that makes your heart flutter. "I think I owe you an apology for that... but I'm not sorry."
He steps back just enough to gather your discarded clothes, his movements surprisingly tender now that the storm has passed. The transformation back to the gentle Sam is almost jarring, but the way he glances at you with genuine warmth and a hint of something deeper tells you he hasn't forgotten the fire that just burned between you. He helps you dress, his fingers lingering on your waist as he tucks a stray strand of dark brown hair behind your ear.
"You okay?" he asks softly, his voice returning to that soothing register. "I didn't... I didn't go too rough, did I?" His concern is genuine, that empathic nature resurfacing as he searches your brown eyes for any sign of discomfort. You nod but before you can even answer with words, his phone buzzes on the desk again Dean, undoubtedly. Sam glances at it, then back at you, a small, crooked smile playing on his lips. "That's my cue."
He gathers his coat and leaves, giving you one last look. You stand there a smile playing on your lips thinking. Well, that was not how the usual shift at the hospital goes.
Sam praying for a sign after Jess dies, he just wants reassurance that it wasn’t his fault. But the next church they pass has a sign that reads “jes s died for your sins” and. Well obviously the u just fell out, it must be a coincidence.. But he did ask for a sign. And here it is: a house of God directly telling him it was his fault she died. He doesn’t think it’s a coincidence.
⊹₊ ⋆ 〔ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ part of my dean winchester, who… series. 〕
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dean was an absolute god at sex. you knew that. everyone on the planet probably knew that.
every single girl that’s ever left his motel room that you’ve seen has had a smile on their face that could light up a small country—and obviously, that didn’t come from not doing a good job of dicking down a woman.
you should’ve known he’d be just as good at the aftercare, too. you really should've.
and sure, you wondered what it would be like, to be with him. of course you did. and you let yourself ponder and fantasize, but never acted on your urges. sure, you flirted back with dean when he flirted with you, because it was just make-believe. it was funny. it was a joke, and it was easy.
and it was a joke between you for a long time. yet somewhere along the way, that changed.
that’s how you got yourself to right now: laying in dean’s bed. on dean’s sheets.
in dean’s arms.
he’s never brought a girl back to the bunker—so that’s gotta count for something, you think as you lay in his bed. you’ve never seen a girl walking out of dean’s room in the bunker like you see when you stay at motels, so maybe you did matter more to him like he said you did. you let yourself believe it, even if it really wasn’t exactly true. let yourself believe that maybe this wouldn't end tonight, maybe you’d have something more with dean.
but you can’t really even think about that—or anything else, for that matter, because in your time together, dean made you come 4 times. you’d never been able to do that in one sitting—by yourself or otherwise, at least not without breaks in between—but dean was wringing you out for all you were.
and you gave it to him. willingly. truly.
you were barely making coherent noises by the end, on your last orgasm. and you were loud. and it sounded like you were in pain—thank god sam was gone, because you felt embarrassed, so goddamn embarrassed to be making such noises. but dean quite literally fucked the self-consciousness right out of you. he pressed his nose to your cheek like the tip of his dick pressed deep inside you—and when you poorly stifiled a moan that was coming out of you, he just shook his head against yours and said to let him hear it.
dean told you that he could hear your thoughts from here. he told you to just enjoy it. told you that you could say stop if you felt too overwhelmed, and he would. he said most of that while he pounded into you, so it was hard to focus on his words.
but you still heard him.
yet you didn’t tell him to stop.
he also shushed you when you tried to apologize for essentially being a ragdoll instead of an engaging member of sex with him after the third time you came. he didn't mind, he said. said he got off on it, watching you come undone, over and over, getting drunk on him. and you should've expected this kind of reassurance from him, you really should've. he provides in every other possible way, in every sense—so how could sex be any different?
you’re close to dozing off now, though. you can distinctly feel dean’s body still on top of yours—he’d also gone full ragdoll after holding off his own orgasm for so long—but that’s about all you can feel, besides the throbbing from your lower region, which is still wrapped around dean.
you're wet in every sense—sweat, fluids, basically a puddle of yourself. you’re starting to feel sticky from yours and dean’s fluids mixed together as your senses come back, but you don’t move. you’re too tired. your eyes are just so heavy, so you just close them. allow the aftermath of the experience you just had to wash over you completely, leaving you all floaty-like and celestial. your hands are still resting on dean’s back, somewhere by his shoulder blades, no longer hanging on for dear life, now just holding him. you still don't move, save for breathing.
then, it could've been seconds, it could've been hours—but dean finally stirs enough to look up at you from where he lay on top of you, rests his chin on your chest right bewteen your boobs. the movement makes you look down at him, too—but don't get it twisted, you just open your eyes enough to look at dean. you’re still wiped.
and dean just looks at you, doesn't say anything right away. he blinks a few times, then reaches up to your face, brushes his fingers against your cheek. the corner of his mouth twitches up a little, and if you were the tinest bit more coherent, you’d probably feel embarrassed—but you aren’t coherent.
now, you're too tired to care if he thinks you’ve lost all your appeal, now that the sex is over. now that there’s nothing new to discover, now that he’s scratched the itch. too tired to care if he’s gonna kick you out back to your room, because now you’re all sweaty and gross and sticky, no longer a shining star, no longer something to be conquered.
but he doesn't do that.
instead, his fingers continue to gently caress the side of your face, over and over. like he was trying to memorize it. then he lifts his chin and places a kiss on your chest. then another kiss before he lifts himself up off and completely out of you with a small grunt—and for a split second you think he’s gonna leave you here, but then his face comes completely into view above you, his nose brushing yours again.
“y’got any idea how perfect y’are?”
the slurred words catch you off-guard—but that’s a severe understatement. you don't hear the word ‘perfect’ from dean often, and certainly not after he was just balls-deep inside of you, moaning your name over and over again. touching you. wanting you. needing you.
dean doesn’t let you answer his question, though. he just kisses the side of one of your cheeks, murmuring a ‘b’right back’ against your face, inking the reassurance in your skin before you can even attempt to say anything or reach for him. then he moves, and you hear a squeak of the sink in the corner of his room, hear his footsteps padding back over to you against the concrete a few beats later.
dean’s hand touches you first—sliding up your leg gently, and you’re certain he’s making sure he doesn’t scare you, since you’re laying there deader than a sack of potatoes. you hum when he does, moving a little—or at least trying to, but he shakes his head at you, his other hand pressing you down on his bed.
his bed.
jesus. his bed. the pillow smells like him, everything fucking smells like him. it’s invading every pore of your body. your heart’s still pounding, but it’s slowing down when dean moves away from your face again. you feel warmth between your thighs, and look down, squinting in the dim light to see what dean was wiping you with.
it’s his shirt he was wearing, the one you yanked off of him earlier. he’d gotten it wet in his sink with warm water, and was currently wiping at the creases of your thighs, slick and sticky with dampess up with his shirt.
you don’t know why he was doing this. did he do this with everyone he hooked up with? you tried not to think about it, but now that the fog was finally starting to clear in your mind, it was hard not to. the gesture, the view of him in front of you on his bed? it puts a lump in your throat.
you’re in love with him.
you’ve been in love with him for a long time.
and you know he’s probably just as tired as you—he’d done pretty much all the work sex-wise, but you noticed and knew he liked it, being the giver. always giving, never asking for anything. taking care of you.
and you let him.
four times.
but you also noticed he was getting tired at the end. he almost tuckered out, tossed in the towel, and didn’t come at all. he was panting as hard as you were on the last round, and he was just as sweaty. held it off until it almost hurt, like he didn't want it to end. he was speaking all sorts of rambles too, his words stringing together.
you can still see, even in just the dim, barely-there golden light of his room that his face is red. not pink. not blushing. beet fucking red. you can see his shoulders rising and falling quickly with each breath, and you want to reach up to touch him. but you’re not sure about doing it, so you resort to blindly grabbing at him until your hand makes contact with him.
your hand ends up somewhere on his arm—and he looks at your hand on his skin, then looks up at you with those green eyes.
“come up here,” you murmur, tugging his arm—and he moves like there’s an anvil attached him that you pulled on, rising over you just enough to not squish you with his body weight.
your hand on dean’s arm finds purchase on his face as you rise and turn—and dean molds to you like a slab of clay, letting you do what you want. he lets himself lay down next to you instead of over you, like before. your body’s moving him mindlessly without barely touching him—and you just look at him when his head hits his pillow, both your chests rising and falling slower now.
you wish you could tell him he doesn’t have to take care of you. tell him that he’s allowed to rest here with you, allowed to not be… dean winchester. the sex god, the caretaker, always having to be on. you wish you could say that he’s allowed to just be dean instead. you don’t know how to tell him that.
but the thing is: dean already knows.
he knows that he’s allowed to shell out his own little part of you to hide out inside when things get too bad. he knows that you’ll always be there for him—for every nightmare, every apocalypse, every angel and demon that has a hitlist. he knows you’ll hug him without him having to ask, and even patch him up if you come across him drinking by himself in the bunker instead of getting the first aid kit. you’ll gently coax him awake when he falls asleep at the library’s table and quite literally drag him to his own bed, muttering about how this is why his back hurts all the time and other righteous, nice things—because you care about him.
and he cares about you.
he’s been a goner for you.
he’s in love with you, too.
that’s why he’ll take everything you have to offer him, over and over. he’ll let you hold him until the sun inevitably comes up again after a nightmare, let your hands touch him when he fall asleep with his laptop and a bunch of books open—and why he barely flinches when he hears your voice in his ears, waking him up, and he’ll let you tow him to his bedroom.
your hands move, reaching for something—dean looks up out of his thoughts to see what it is.
it’s his shirt.
you sit up more, hair sticking up, bunched and messy from dean’s hands running through it—and he’s never seen anything more beautiful. anything more perfect. he’s distracted by your face, your body, so he doesn't really register what you’re doing until he feels his wet shirt on his skin. you’re wiping him off, like he did for you. that’s when it hits him.
you’re trying to take care of him, too.
he looks down at his shirt that’s wiping his own skin, wiping away his own fluids mixed with yours. he’s unable to move or look away from the sight. unable to breathe. in all his years, no one’s done this for him: taken the time to take care of him. to let him be the one taking a break.
your other hand’s gently brushing his skin at his hipbone, almost as softly as his shirt. he blinks, blearily. it’s hard to keep his eyes open, and he can feel his body slowly starting to succumb to sleep under your touch, your care, just laying here in the warmth of you laying by his side—albeit propped up next to him.
he wants to tell you that you don’t have to do this. that he’s perfectly okay with being the caretaker, the one who carries it all. he’s been cast aside like a used tissue after sex—and he’s done the same too, so really, he shouldn’t feel so empty about that when it happens to him, but he does. he’ll take it. take it and bury it deep instead of letting himself feel it. that’s all he knows, all he can do. because he can’t try to unpack everything, not now.
truly, he doesn’t mind if no one ever took care of him—because he’s not allowed to mind. he’s not allowed to feel any sort of way about taking care of others, he just has to do it. no questions, no talkback, no lip. because that’s his job. most of the time, he just ends up pushing people away. he’s not good at showing anything other than anger. but he has everyone taken care of, in the end. at least he has that.
dean doesn’t tell you to stop doesn’t tell you to get off him, or make a joke as you wipe at him. he doesn’t do anything, actually. not a damn thing. he’s not sure why, either. he’s pretty sure he blacked out, instead of being present in the moment. he’s been doing that a lot recently—not knowing what he’s doing, lost in his own thoughts, brain on autopilot. he almost walked into a sign in front of a restaurant in the middle of the sidewalk the other day. a goddamn sign. what the hell was wrong with him lately?
dean finally snaps back into the moment, slowly blinking his eyes at you like an owl. he swallows the words that never came, that never even formed into a thought as looks at you. you're still naked—and that is a sight dean could get used to, that’s for damn sure.
you turn and lean over the edge of his bed a little, and dean immediatley siezes up, a sinking, deveastating feeling weighing on his chest like a dumbell, because this is it. you’re leaving. you got what you wanted, just his body, just to get off, and now you’re leaving. he’s given you everything and more and you’re leaving, leaving him like a toy you don’t want to play with anymore, leaving him like everything and everyone in his life. you’ve already grown bored of him, and now this thing between you is over before it even began.
but then you turn back to face him, your entire expression soft.
you were just putting his shirt you were using on the floor.
oh.
dean tries to look like he didn’t just get scared, but he knows some part of you noticed. he’s vulnrable right now, a easy target. you could walk out his bedroom door right now and he’d probably just cry instead of going after you. he actually feels like he could cry on the spot right now. he hopes you won’t say anything. you usually don’t—just hold him, hug him, touch him without a word.
and oh, how dean loved to be touched by you.
he’d take 40 more years in hell if it meant your hand could brush his face one last time. he’d take an eternity of torture, or he himself doing the torturing in the pit for your arms around him again. he’d kill anyone, steal anything, do whatever it took if it meant being near you.
but he has to act like he wouldn’t do that for you. he’d burn down anything for you to even look in his direction, for your touch on his flannel-clad shoulder, for your kiss on his cheek, an embrace from your arms. yet he had to act normal about it. but you were the only one who knew how to hug him correctly. sam, knew too, by default. but that was different—that’s his brother. his blood.
but you touched him like you’d spent your whole life learning to.
and you even hugged him like second nature, but still molded to the moment, still exactly what he needed. because you always knew where to squeeze, where to rest your head on him, no matter the situation. no matter if you won a hunt, a fight, an apocolaypse, or if you lost, you fit his body like a puzzle piece. like a lock and key. he’d known that—but it was carved into him forever after tonight, and he’d never forget.
because earlier, when he first slid inside you, it’s like the whole world had been off-kilter until he found his way inside you, the way he’s wanted to be inside you for so long. once he’d bottomed out, it’s like the world was right, for once in his life. like everything made sense after so long of it being chaos.
dean knows it’s ridiculous to feel such a thing, especially during sex, but in that moment, he did. he fit so snug, so perfect inside you that it felt like he’d gotten chucked into one of his dreams again, where he was watching you below him, you touching him the way he’s wanted you to touch him for so long. moaning his name, bringing him closer to you with your hands. just for the sake of being close, touching.
he’s been waiting for it. since forever, it feels like. since the moment he laid eyes on you. since the moment he had even an idea of what love was.
he must’ve been staring pretty hard, because one of your hands had made its way up to the side of his face, your eyes searching his expression. you’re looking to see what he’s thinking about. dean hopes it’s not written all over his face, but you seem to know what he’s thinking regardless if his expression shows it or not.
your thumbs brush his cheeks once, twice—still searching. still wanting him. he honestly still can't believe it. he’s not sure he ever will. you being here with him, he’s sure to wake up from this dream at any moment.
but he doesn't. you’re still in front of him. touching him.
and you want him there.
that’s why he lays down and rests his head on your chest with no complaints, no pushback when you tug him towards you after you lay down yourself. he doesn't protest partly because he actually really was fucking tired, but mostly because eventually, you’ll leave him—and dean will have nothing but the memoty of you, of your touch. maybe that’ll be changed, now that you’ve crossed the line he’s wanted to cross for so long now.
your hand finds his way into his hair, gently running your fingers through it and tugging dean out of his thoughts—and he has to bite back a noise from how good it feels. he sighs softly instead, relaxing more on top of you. he wonders if he’s making it hard for you to breathe. it’s happened before.
but you don’t move.
and now he can die happy.
dean would die for anything. it was damn near inevitable in this line of work—and shit, it already happened. he’d die for you, for his brother, his father, or some random person he doesn’t even know. he’ll lay it all down, if it meant saving the world, or even just saving one life. he’d do it. he has done it, over and over.
but you don’t say anything. you just hold him. dean can feel your heartbeat, feel your chest rising and falling. and in that piece of sunlight and everything warm and good, dean knows. he’s always known the terrifying truth about you.
summary ⌗ after a brutal hunt leaves you bruised and tangled in dean’s motel bed, a slow morning together draws out the three words neither of you has been brave enough to say.
pairing ⌗ dean winchester x reader ( f )
wordcount ⌗ 3451 genre ⌗ soft smut [mdni]
warnings ⌗ explicit sexual content, p in v, fingering, handjob, riding, praise, pet names, light competitive teasing, post-hunt soreness and minor injuries, mentions of bruising and stitches.
notes ⌗ the lovely @deansfreckledtummy commissioned this piece and i might’ve fallen a little bit harder in love with dean (which i didn’t entirely know was possible 🙂↕️) thank you so much for trusting me with this piece, baby. you're incredible 🩷
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morning arrives in pieces.
first, it’s the motel heater clicking beneath the window. then, the thin stripe of sunlight pressing through the gap in the curtains, landing directly across your closed eyes. somewhere outside, tires drag over wet pavement, followed by the heavy clunk of someone shutting a car door too hard.
your entire body hurts. nothing sharp enough to make you reach for the gun on the nightstand or check whether the stitches along your side have opened again. it’s the deep, stubborn soreness that follows a hunt gone bad and then somehow worse. the reminder of running through the woods in soaked jeans, getting thrown into the wall of an abandoned farmhouse, and spending nearly an hour digging a grave because dean insisted burning the body where you found it would attract attention.
you shift beneath the motel blanket, trying to find a position that doesn’t pull at every bruise you own.
the arm around your waist tightens before you get very far.
dean makes a rough sound behind you, something between a grunt and a protest, and pulls you back against him. his face presses into your hair. he’s still half asleep, his palm spread low across your stomach beneath the hem of your shirt.
“quit movin’,” he mumbles.
“everything hurts.”
“yeah. me too.”
“you’re crushing me.”
“you’d complain if i let go.”
a laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, small and scratchy from sleep. dean’s mouth brushes the back of your head. then, when you turn carefully in his arms, he lifts his face enough to press a kiss to your forehead. it’s quick. barely awake. the kind of thing he does when he isn’t paying enough attention to stop himself.
you settle facing him, your knee sliding between his under the tangled blanket. his chest is bare beneath your hand. there are fresh marks from last night—a purple bruise near his ribs, a shallow scrape across his collarbone—but your eyes catch on the older ones. the uneven scar near his shoulder. the pale line beneath his sternum. little pieces of history he doesn’t offer unless you ask, and sometimes not even then.
dean watches you through heavy eyelids as you trace one with your thumb. “what’re you doing?”
“nothing.” you lean in and press your mouth to the scar near his shoulder.
you kiss the next one, lower this time, feeling his skin shift beneath your lips when he takes a slow breath. his hand moves along your back, sliding beneath your shirt, but not pulling you closer yet. just resting there. waiting to see what you’ll do.
“you’re being weird,” he says, voice rougher now.
“you kissed my forehead.”
“so?”
“so, this is what you get.”
“punishment?”
you glance up at him. “maybe.”
his eyes are properly open now. green, tired, fixed on your face with an attention that makes the room feel smaller.
you kiss the scar beneath his ribs. then another, closer to his stomach, your mouth lingering until the hand beneath your shirt presses more firmly against your back.
dean exhales through his nose. “you planning on working your way through all of ’em?”
“mmhm.”
“yeah?” his thumb moves in a slow line along your spine. “might take a while.
you lift your head. “we got time.”
you push the blanket down and shift over him before he can say anything else, settling across his lap with one knee on either side of his hips. dean’s eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t make a joke. his hands find your legs instead, palms sliding from your knees to your thighs, steadying you while you get comfortable. the movement puts you directly over him.
you rock your hips once, softly enough that it could almost be an accident. dean’s mouth parts.
you lean forward and kiss the scar near his collarbone again. his hands travel higher, following the outside of your thighs until they reach your ass. he squeezes, slow and firm, drawing you closer as you move against him a second time.
he’s beginning to harden beneath you. you can feel every gradual inch of it through the thin fabric separating you, the way his body responds before his voice catches up.
dean tips his head back against the pillow, eyes closing for half a second when you roll your hips again. “shit.” the curse comes out quietly, almost embarrassed by how quickly you’re getting to him.
you smile against his chest.
his hands leave your ass and slip beneath your shirt, palms spreading over your back. there’s nothing hurried in the way he touches you. his fingertips trace over your skin, avoiding the worst of the bruises without needing to look, caressing each uninjured stretch he finds.
you press another kiss over his heart, then glance up. he’s already watching you. his eyes move across your face with sleepy, open admiration, no smirk to hide behind.
“so pretty,” he says, so low you nearly miss it.
your hips press down harder. dean’s breath hitches. his fingers flex against your back, and the corner of his mouth lifts.
“love waking up to you like this,” he admits. “all sweet, pretending you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”
“i know what i’m doing.”
“yeah, sugar. i noticed.”
you kiss the edge of his jaw, grinding against him in another slow pass. his head turns, mouth brushing your temple while his hands pull you flush to his chest.
“we’re gonna miss check-out,” he murmurs.
“you care?”
“not even a little.” his lips drag against your cheek. “but you keep looking that pretty while you’re grinding on my dick, they’re gonna charge us for another night.”
his hands slip farther beneath your shirt, moving up your sides until his thumbs graze the underside of your breasts. you press down against him again.
dean’s mouth opens against your cheek, a quiet breath leaving him as his hips shift beneath yours. he’s fully hard now, thick against you through his boxers, and the knowledge settles low in your stomach. you do it again just to feel the way his grip changes: his fingers digging into your back before he catches himself and eases them loose.
“you’re trouble in the morning,” he murmurs.
“only in the morning?”
“don’t fish for compliments, sweetheart.”
you pull back enough to look at him. “thought you said i was pretty.”
“you are pretty.” his gaze drops to your mouth. “still trouble.”
you kiss him before he can add anything else.
he meets you lazily at first, lips warm and dry from sleep, one hand sliding behind your neck while the other stays spread across your back. the kiss deepens without either of you rushing it. his tongue brushes yours when you rock against him again.
dean groans into your mouth, the sound low and caught somewhere in his chest. you drag your hands over him as you kiss, across the broad shape of his shoulders and down the firm planes of his stomach, following old scars with your fingertips.
you kiss one near his collarbone when his mouth leaves yours. then another.
“still doing inventory?” he asks.
“you keep distracting me.”
his fingers hook into the hem of your shirt and you raise your arms. dean drags the shirt over your head and tosses it somewhere near the end of the bed.
cool air moves over your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms, but his hands follow quickly. his palms cup your breasts. his thumbs brush over your nipples once, watching the way your body answers him, before circling them again.
“fuck,” he says quietly. there’s no smirk behind it. no teasing bite. he looks at you with sleepy concentration, hair flattened on one side and eyes fixed on every change in your expression. “look at you…”
dean’s eyes close for a beat when you grind down harder against him; hands tighten around your breasts, thumbs pressing over your nipples until the small sting makes you do it again. he mutters something under his breath, too low to catch, and lets one hand travel down your stomach.
his fingers slip beneath the waistband of your panties.
the first touch is light. barely there. two fingers passing through the wetness and warmness between your thighs, spreading it over you without giving you the pressure you want.
you shift impatiently, trying to guide his hand, but he follows the movement and keeps his touch maddeningly shallow. “dean.”
“what?” he glances between your bodies with false innocence, fingertips tracing around your entrance before sliding back toward your clit. “use your words, sweetheart.”
“you know what i want.”
“probably.” he gives you one slow circle, just enough to make your hips jerk. “still wanna hear you say it.”
you reach between you and palm him through his boxers. his next breath comes out uneven. “touch me properly.”
he presses two fingers into you. the stretch pulls a moan from your mouth. your thighs tighten around his hips, and dean’s attention snaps back to your face while he works them deeper, slow enough to make you feel each inch. his thumb settles over your clit, rubbing with steady pressure as his fingers curl.
you grab the waistband of his boxers and tug. they catch beneath your knees, and dean lifts his hips enough to help you drag them down. his cock rests against his stomach, flushed and already wet at the tip.
you stroke from the base to the head, spreading the bead of precum with your thumb before tightening your grip on the way back down. his hips twitch upward into your hand.
“easy,” he says, though he pushes into your fist again.
“can’t handle it?”
his eyes narrow. “cute.”
you stroke him slower. dean retaliates by curling his fingers inside you, pressing against the place that makes your hand falter around him. you let out a rough little sound and rock down against his palm, giving him exactly the reaction he’s after.
his mouth pulls into a smug half-smile. “who can’t handle it?”
“shut up.”
“make me.”
you lean down and kiss him hard enough to knock the satisfaction from his face. your hand keeps working over his cock. his fingers keep working inside you. neither of you gives the other enough room to recover.
the morning stays quiet around you. springs shifting beneath your knees. the wet sound of his fingers moving inside you. dean’s breathing growing rougher each time your thumb passes over the head of his cock.
when your bruised side pulls, you flinch before you can hide it. his hand leaves your neck and slides over your ribs, supporting you while you settle at a different angle.
“you okay?”
“yeah.”
“sweetheart.”
“i’m fine.” you roll your hips experimentally. the bruising protests, but not enough to make you stop. “just sore.”
his thumb brushes over your clit again, gentler this time. “tell me if it’s too much.”
you kiss the corner of his mouth. “i will.”
you push yourself upright and lift your hips enough to pull your panties aside. dean withdraws his hand, the loss making you clench around nothing.
you take him in your hand and guide the head of his cock through your slickness.
his hands settle on your hips. “slow,” he says, softer than an order.
you sink down carefully, taking him a little at a time. the stretch burns pleasantly at first, your body opening around the thickness of him while dean holds you steady. his thumbs press into the soft curve of your hips, keeping you from dropping too quickly.
dean curses under his breath. his face draws tight with the effort of staying still, eyes fixed on where your body takes him. when you finally settle all the way into his lap, his hands slide around to your ass and hold you there.
for a few seconds, neither of you moves. you feel him everywhere. deep enough that the smallest shift sends a pulse through you, his cock held tightly inside your body, his thighs hard beneath yours.
“fuck, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “you feel…”
he doesn’t finish. you rock your hips forward. dean’s grip tightens.
“good?” you ask.
he lets out a breath that turns into a laugh, then you lift yourself and sink back down.
the first few movements stay slow. your body’s still sore from the hunt, and dean lets you find the angle that doesn’t pull at your side. his hands move over your thighs, your hips, the curve of your ass, never forcing your rhythm. he watches you ride him with a heavy, unguarded stare, his lips parted each time you take him to the base.
you place one hand on his chest for balance. his heartbeat works fast beneath your palm.
“you’re staring,” you accuse.
“i am.”
“why?”
“you really need me to explain?”
you clench around him deliberately. dean’s answer breaks apart into a curse. you smile.
“oh, you think that’s funny?”
“little bit.”
one hand leaves your hip and slides between your bodies. his thumb finds your clit, pressing down while you lower yourself onto him again.
your smile slips.
“yeah,” dean murmurs. “that’s what i thought.”
he rubs slow, tight circles in time with your hips. the pressure draws everything closer, each drag of his cock through you feeding into the touch between your legs. you lean over him again, your breasts brushing his chest, and kiss him because you need somewhere to put the sound threatening to leave you.
dean swallows it greedily.
his free arm wraps around your back, holding you close while you move. the position gives you less room, but it lets him thrust up into you in small, measured movements that meet every roll of your hips.
he keeps one hand on your clit and the other spread over your spine, careful around every bruise created last night.
“that’s it,” he says against your mouth. “keep going.”
your thighs are starting to burn. you sit up, changing the angle, and dean slides deeper. the next downward roll hits somewhere that makes your vision blur for half a second.
“right there.”
“yeah?”
you do it again instead of answering.
his eyes stay on yours while you ride him faster. there’s nothing sleepy left in them now. his gaze tracks every broken movement of your mouth, every time your concentration slips. when your pace begins to turn uneven, he plants his feet against the mattress and starts meeting you from below.
the bedframe knocks quietly against the wall.
“dean—”
“i know, babe.”
his thumb keeps working over you. his other hand grips your ass, helping you move, giving your aching thighs enough support to keep going. the pressure builds low and deep. you feel it in each stroke, in the friction of his body beneath yours, in the rough praise he mutters when you tighten around him.
“so fucking pretty.”
his voice is strained now.
“look at me.”
you do.
dean thrusts up as you sink down, his cock dragging over the place that sends the first hard ripple through your stomach. your rhythm stutters. you brace both hands on his chest, trying to hold yourself together while everything starts coming apart.
“there you go,” he murmurs. “i’ve got you, sweetheart.”
your orgasm rolls through you before you can answer. your thighs lock around him, hips jerking out of rhythm while your body clenches tight around his cock. a broken sound catches in your mouth. dean keeps rubbing you through it, slower once you start shaking, his eyes never leaving your face.
“fuck, sweetheart.”
the way he says your name pushes another shudder through you.
you’re still coming when his control finally gives. his hands grab your hips and hold you down against him, cock buried deep as he spills inside you. his groan catches against your shoulder when you fold over him, his mouth pressing to your skin while his body jerks beneath yours.
afterward, you stay where you are. neither of you seems interested in dealing with the rest of the room.
dean’s hands move slowly over your back. long strokes from your shoulders to your waist, then up again, avoiding the tender places without needing direction.
you rest your cheek against his chest. his heart takes a while to settle.
“we really are gonna miss check-out,” you mumble.
“mm-hm.” his mouth presses to your hair, then your temple. the kiss lingers this time, awake enough that he can’t pretend it happened by accident.
his hand drifts down your back again. fingertips following the curve of your spine, palm flattening at your waist before starting over. there’s no hurry in it. no expectation that you’ll get up and shower or find your clothes or leave.
you draw a lazy line through the faint freckles across his chest. dean watches your finger move.
“i love you,” he says, and the words are quiet enough that, for one strange second, you think you’ve put them there yourself. something your tired brain’s slipped into the space between the heater clicking off and a truck groaning past on the road outside.
your hand stops. dean’s does too.
you lift your head slowly. “what?”
he stares at the ceiling. “you heard me.”
“i’m not sure i did.”
the tips of his ears are turning red. it’d be funny under almost any other circumstances. dean winchester naked beneath you and suddenly unable to look anywhere near your face, except your mind’s still trying to catch up.
you’ve known how he feels. or you thought you did.
it’s there when he hands you the first cup of coffee without asking how you take it. when he changes the radio station before a song you hate reaches the chorus. when he checks your seat belt with a quick tug after a bad hunt, pretending he only reached across you for something in the glove compartment. it’s there every night he chooses your bed instead of his own and every morning he stays longer than he needs to.
but he’s never said it.
dean clears his throat. “look, you don’t have to—”
“you don’t get to say something like that and then immediately give me an escape route.”
his mouth closes.
“fine.” his hand settles against your lower back again, though there’s a new uncertainty to it. “forget i said anything.”
“that’s worse.”
“yeah, well, this is going great.”
you push yourself up enough to see him properly. his expression’s gone defensive around the edges, but he still won’t quite meet your eyes.
there’s no apocalypse waiting outside. no demon deal running out, no blood on the walls, no desperate reason to say everything before one of you loses the chance. just an overdue check-out, cooling sheets, and dean looking more frightened now than he had with a monster’s claw around his throat last night.
“say it again,” you whisper.
his gaze finally finds yours. “sweetheart—”
“again.”
he studies your face for a moment, searching for the joke or the trap or whatever else might let him retreat. when he doesn’t find it, his thumb moves once against your back.
“i love you.”
this time, each word lands cleanly.
your surprise must show because his jaw tightens. “i know the timing’s kinda—”
you kiss him.
dean makes a startled sound against your mouth, then catches you by the waist and pulls you closer. the kiss isn’t hungry now. it’s clumsy and lingering, his lips moving over yours while one hand cups the back of your head.
when you pull away, he follows for half an inch before stopping himself.
“i love you too,” you tell him.
dean blinks.
you almost laugh. “did you hear me?”
“yeah.”
“you sure?”
“shut up.” his hand slides into your hair, bringing you down for another kiss before you can tease him any further.
you feel his smile eventually, small and uneven against your mouth. when the kiss ends, neither of you moves far. dean’s forehead rests against yours, his hand still tangled in your hair. he looks almost embarrassed by the happiness creeping across his face, trying to press it down before you can make too much of it.
“we should probably get up,” he says after a while.
“probably,” your thumb brushes over the freckle near the corner of his mouth. dean catches your wrist, but instead of moving your hand away, he turns his head and presses a kiss into your palm.
you settle back over him carefully, your cheek returning to the place above his heart. you stay tangled together beneath the thin blanket, your joined hands resting against his chest while his thumb keeps passing over your knuckles, learning how the words feel now that they’ve finally been said.
.⛥ ݁ ˖ writing guidelines ⌗ posting schedule ⌗ all works
The Sims would like to interrupt this program introducing you to Part I of 🌟|| The Daily Bugle || 🌟a comic book store that is a 30x20 lot located in Copperdale✨
so excited to be apart of the Sim Community and show my builds to you guys<3
summary ⌗ after a brutal hunt leaves you bruised and tangled in dean’s motel bed, a slow morning together draws out the three words neither of you has been brave enough to say.
pairing ⌗ dean winchester x reader ( f )
wordcount ⌗ 3451 genre ⌗ soft smut [mdni]
warnings ⌗ explicit sexual content, p in v, fingering, handjob, riding, praise, pet names, light competitive teasing, post-hunt soreness and minor injuries, mentions of bruising and stitches.
notes ⌗ the lovely @deansfreckledtummy commissioned this piece and i might’ve fallen a little bit harder in love with dean (which i didn’t entirely know was possible 🙂↕️) thank you so much for trusting me with this piece, baby. you're incredible 🩷
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morning arrives in pieces.
first, it’s the motel heater clicking beneath the window. then, the thin stripe of sunlight pressing through the gap in the curtains, landing directly across your closed eyes. somewhere outside, tires drag over wet pavement, followed by the heavy clunk of someone shutting a car door too hard.
your entire body hurts. nothing sharp enough to make you reach for the gun on the nightstand or check whether the stitches along your side have opened again. it’s the deep, stubborn soreness that follows a hunt gone bad and then somehow worse. the reminder of running through the woods in soaked jeans, getting thrown into the wall of an abandoned farmhouse, and spending nearly an hour digging a grave because dean insisted burning the body where you found it would attract attention.
you shift beneath the motel blanket, trying to find a position that doesn’t pull at every bruise you own.
the arm around your waist tightens before you get very far.
dean makes a rough sound behind you, something between a grunt and a protest, and pulls you back against him. his face presses into your hair. he’s still half asleep, his palm spread low across your stomach beneath the hem of your shirt.
“quit movin’,” he mumbles.
“everything hurts.”
“yeah. me too.”
“you’re crushing me.”
“you’d complain if i let go.”
a laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, small and scratchy from sleep. dean’s mouth brushes the back of your head. then, when you turn carefully in his arms, he lifts his face enough to press a kiss to your forehead. it’s quick. barely awake. the kind of thing he does when he isn’t paying enough attention to stop himself.
you settle facing him, your knee sliding between his under the tangled blanket. his chest is bare beneath your hand. there are fresh marks from last night—a purple bruise near his ribs, a shallow scrape across his collarbone—but your eyes catch on the older ones. the uneven scar near his shoulder. the pale line beneath his sternum. little pieces of history he doesn’t offer unless you ask, and sometimes not even then.
dean watches you through heavy eyelids as you trace one with your thumb. “what’re you doing?”
“nothing.” you lean in and press your mouth to the scar near his shoulder.
you kiss the next one, lower this time, feeling his skin shift beneath your lips when he takes a slow breath. his hand moves along your back, sliding beneath your shirt, but not pulling you closer yet. just resting there. waiting to see what you’ll do.
“you’re being weird,” he says, voice rougher now.
“you kissed my forehead.”
“so?”
“so, this is what you get.”
“punishment?”
you glance up at him. “maybe.”
his eyes are properly open now. green, tired, fixed on your face with an attention that makes the room feel smaller.
you kiss the scar beneath his ribs. then another, closer to his stomach, your mouth lingering until the hand beneath your shirt presses more firmly against your back.
dean exhales through his nose. “you planning on working your way through all of ’em?”
“mmhm.”
“yeah?” his thumb moves in a slow line along your spine. “might take a while.
you lift your head. “we got time.”
you push the blanket down and shift over him before he can say anything else, settling across his lap with one knee on either side of his hips. dean’s eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t make a joke. his hands find your legs instead, palms sliding from your knees to your thighs, steadying you while you get comfortable. the movement puts you directly over him.
you rock your hips once, softly enough that it could almost be an accident. dean’s mouth parts.
you lean forward and kiss the scar near his collarbone again. his hands travel higher, following the outside of your thighs until they reach your ass. he squeezes, slow and firm, drawing you closer as you move against him a second time.
he’s beginning to harden beneath you. you can feel every gradual inch of it through the thin fabric separating you, the way his body responds before his voice catches up.
dean tips his head back against the pillow, eyes closing for half a second when you roll your hips again. “shit.” the curse comes out quietly, almost embarrassed by how quickly you’re getting to him.
you smile against his chest.
his hands leave your ass and slip beneath your shirt, palms spreading over your back. there’s nothing hurried in the way he touches you. his fingertips trace over your skin, avoiding the worst of the bruises without needing to look, caressing each uninjured stretch he finds.
you press another kiss over his heart, then glance up. he’s already watching you. his eyes move across your face with sleepy, open admiration, no smirk to hide behind.
“so pretty,” he says, so low you nearly miss it.
your hips press down harder. dean’s breath hitches. his fingers flex against your back, and the corner of his mouth lifts.
“love waking up to you like this,” he admits. “all sweet, pretending you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”
“i know what i’m doing.”
“yeah, sugar. i noticed.”
you kiss the edge of his jaw, grinding against him in another slow pass. his head turns, mouth brushing your temple while his hands pull you flush to his chest.
“we’re gonna miss check-out,” he murmurs.
“you care?”
“not even a little.” his lips drag against your cheek. “but you keep looking that pretty while you’re grinding on my dick, they’re gonna charge us for another night.”
his hands slip farther beneath your shirt, moving up your sides until his thumbs graze the underside of your breasts. you press down against him again.
dean’s mouth opens against your cheek, a quiet breath leaving him as his hips shift beneath yours. he’s fully hard now, thick against you through his boxers, and the knowledge settles low in your stomach. you do it again just to feel the way his grip changes: his fingers digging into your back before he catches himself and eases them loose.
“you’re trouble in the morning,” he murmurs.
“only in the morning?”
“don’t fish for compliments, sweetheart.”
you pull back enough to look at him. “thought you said i was pretty.”
“you are pretty.” his gaze drops to your mouth. “still trouble.”
you kiss him before he can add anything else.
he meets you lazily at first, lips warm and dry from sleep, one hand sliding behind your neck while the other stays spread across your back. the kiss deepens without either of you rushing it. his tongue brushes yours when you rock against him again.
dean groans into your mouth, the sound low and caught somewhere in his chest. you drag your hands over him as you kiss, across the broad shape of his shoulders and down the firm planes of his stomach, following old scars with your fingertips.
you kiss one near his collarbone when his mouth leaves yours. then another.
“still doing inventory?” he asks.
“you keep distracting me.”
his fingers hook into the hem of your shirt and you raise your arms. dean drags the shirt over your head and tosses it somewhere near the end of the bed.
cool air moves over your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms, but his hands follow quickly. his palms cup your breasts. his thumbs brush over your nipples once, watching the way your body answers him, before circling them again.
“fuck,” he says quietly. there’s no smirk behind it. no teasing bite. he looks at you with sleepy concentration, hair flattened on one side and eyes fixed on every change in your expression. “look at you…”
dean’s eyes close for a beat when you grind down harder against him; hands tighten around your breasts, thumbs pressing over your nipples until the small sting makes you do it again. he mutters something under his breath, too low to catch, and lets one hand travel down your stomach.
his fingers slip beneath the waistband of your panties.
the first touch is light. barely there. two fingers passing through the wetness and warmness between your thighs, spreading it over you without giving you the pressure you want.
you shift impatiently, trying to guide his hand, but he follows the movement and keeps his touch maddeningly shallow. “dean.”
“what?” he glances between your bodies with false innocence, fingertips tracing around your entrance before sliding back toward your clit. “use your words, sweetheart.”
“you know what i want.”
“probably.” he gives you one slow circle, just enough to make your hips jerk. “still wanna hear you say it.”
you reach between you and palm him through his boxers. his next breath comes out uneven. “touch me properly.”
he presses two fingers into you. the stretch pulls a moan from your mouth. your thighs tighten around his hips, and dean’s attention snaps back to your face while he works them deeper, slow enough to make you feel each inch. his thumb settles over your clit, rubbing with steady pressure as his fingers curl.
you grab the waistband of his boxers and tug. they catch beneath your knees, and dean lifts his hips enough to help you drag them down. his cock rests against his stomach, flushed and already wet at the tip.
you stroke from the base to the head, spreading the bead of precum with your thumb before tightening your grip on the way back down. his hips twitch upward into your hand.
“easy,” he says, though he pushes into your fist again.
“can’t handle it?”
his eyes narrow. “cute.”
you stroke him slower. dean retaliates by curling his fingers inside you, pressing against the place that makes your hand falter around him. you let out a rough little sound and rock down against his palm, giving him exactly the reaction he’s after.
his mouth pulls into a smug half-smile. “who can’t handle it?”
“shut up.”
“make me.”
you lean down and kiss him hard enough to knock the satisfaction from his face. your hand keeps working over his cock. his fingers keep working inside you. neither of you gives the other enough room to recover.
the morning stays quiet around you. springs shifting beneath your knees. the wet sound of his fingers moving inside you. dean’s breathing growing rougher each time your thumb passes over the head of his cock.
when your bruised side pulls, you flinch before you can hide it. his hand leaves your neck and slides over your ribs, supporting you while you settle at a different angle.
“you okay?”
“yeah.”
“sweetheart.”
“i’m fine.” you roll your hips experimentally. the bruising protests, but not enough to make you stop. “just sore.”
his thumb brushes over your clit again, gentler this time. “tell me if it’s too much.”
you kiss the corner of his mouth. “i will.”
you push yourself upright and lift your hips enough to pull your panties aside. dean withdraws his hand, the loss making you clench around nothing.
you take him in your hand and guide the head of his cock through your slickness.
his hands settle on your hips. “slow,” he says, softer than an order.
you sink down carefully, taking him a little at a time. the stretch burns pleasantly at first, your body opening around the thickness of him while dean holds you steady. his thumbs press into the soft curve of your hips, keeping you from dropping too quickly.
dean curses under his breath. his face draws tight with the effort of staying still, eyes fixed on where your body takes him. when you finally settle all the way into his lap, his hands slide around to your ass and hold you there.
for a few seconds, neither of you moves. you feel him everywhere. deep enough that the smallest shift sends a pulse through you, his cock held tightly inside your body, his thighs hard beneath yours.
“fuck, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “you feel…”
he doesn’t finish. you rock your hips forward. dean’s grip tightens.
“good?” you ask.
he lets out a breath that turns into a laugh, then you lift yourself and sink back down.
the first few movements stay slow. your body’s still sore from the hunt, and dean lets you find the angle that doesn’t pull at your side. his hands move over your thighs, your hips, the curve of your ass, never forcing your rhythm. he watches you ride him with a heavy, unguarded stare, his lips parted each time you take him to the base.
you place one hand on his chest for balance. his heartbeat works fast beneath your palm.
“you’re staring,” you accuse.
“i am.”
“why?”
“you really need me to explain?”
you clench around him deliberately. dean’s answer breaks apart into a curse. you smile.
“oh, you think that’s funny?”
“little bit.”
one hand leaves your hip and slides between your bodies. his thumb finds your clit, pressing down while you lower yourself onto him again.
your smile slips.
“yeah,” dean murmurs. “that’s what i thought.”
he rubs slow, tight circles in time with your hips. the pressure draws everything closer, each drag of his cock through you feeding into the touch between your legs. you lean over him again, your breasts brushing his chest, and kiss him because you need somewhere to put the sound threatening to leave you.
dean swallows it greedily.
his free arm wraps around your back, holding you close while you move. the position gives you less room, but it lets him thrust up into you in small, measured movements that meet every roll of your hips.
he keeps one hand on your clit and the other spread over your spine, careful around every bruise created last night.
“that’s it,” he says against your mouth. “keep going.”
your thighs are starting to burn. you sit up, changing the angle, and dean slides deeper. the next downward roll hits somewhere that makes your vision blur for half a second.
“right there.”
“yeah?”
you do it again instead of answering.
his eyes stay on yours while you ride him faster. there’s nothing sleepy left in them now. his gaze tracks every broken movement of your mouth, every time your concentration slips. when your pace begins to turn uneven, he plants his feet against the mattress and starts meeting you from below.
the bedframe knocks quietly against the wall.
“dean—”
“i know, babe.”
his thumb keeps working over you. his other hand grips your ass, helping you move, giving your aching thighs enough support to keep going. the pressure builds low and deep. you feel it in each stroke, in the friction of his body beneath yours, in the rough praise he mutters when you tighten around him.
“so fucking pretty.”
his voice is strained now.
“look at me.”
you do.
dean thrusts up as you sink down, his cock dragging over the place that sends the first hard ripple through your stomach. your rhythm stutters. you brace both hands on his chest, trying to hold yourself together while everything starts coming apart.
“there you go,” he murmurs. “i’ve got you, sweetheart.”
your orgasm rolls through you before you can answer. your thighs lock around him, hips jerking out of rhythm while your body clenches tight around his cock. a broken sound catches in your mouth. dean keeps rubbing you through it, slower once you start shaking, his eyes never leaving your face.
“fuck, sweetheart.”
the way he says your name pushes another shudder through you.
you’re still coming when his control finally gives. his hands grab your hips and hold you down against him, cock buried deep as he spills inside you. his groan catches against your shoulder when you fold over him, his mouth pressing to your skin while his body jerks beneath yours.
afterward, you stay where you are. neither of you seems interested in dealing with the rest of the room.
dean’s hands move slowly over your back. long strokes from your shoulders to your waist, then up again, avoiding the tender places without needing direction.
you rest your cheek against his chest. his heart takes a while to settle.
“we really are gonna miss check-out,” you mumble.
“mm-hm.” his mouth presses to your hair, then your temple. the kiss lingers this time, awake enough that he can’t pretend it happened by accident.
his hand drifts down your back again. fingertips following the curve of your spine, palm flattening at your waist before starting over. there’s no hurry in it. no expectation that you’ll get up and shower or find your clothes or leave.
you draw a lazy line through the faint freckles across his chest. dean watches your finger move.
“i love you,” he says, and the words are quiet enough that, for one strange second, you think you’ve put them there yourself. something your tired brain’s slipped into the space between the heater clicking off and a truck groaning past on the road outside.
your hand stops. dean’s does too.
you lift your head slowly. “what?”
he stares at the ceiling. “you heard me.”
“i’m not sure i did.”
the tips of his ears are turning red. it’d be funny under almost any other circumstances. dean winchester naked beneath you and suddenly unable to look anywhere near your face, except your mind’s still trying to catch up.
you’ve known how he feels. or you thought you did.
it’s there when he hands you the first cup of coffee without asking how you take it. when he changes the radio station before a song you hate reaches the chorus. when he checks your seat belt with a quick tug after a bad hunt, pretending he only reached across you for something in the glove compartment. it’s there every night he chooses your bed instead of his own and every morning he stays longer than he needs to.
but he’s never said it.
dean clears his throat. “look, you don’t have to—”
“you don’t get to say something like that and then immediately give me an escape route.”
his mouth closes.
“fine.” his hand settles against your lower back again, though there’s a new uncertainty to it. “forget i said anything.”
“that’s worse.”
“yeah, well, this is going great.”
you push yourself up enough to see him properly. his expression’s gone defensive around the edges, but he still won’t quite meet your eyes.
there’s no apocalypse waiting outside. no demon deal running out, no blood on the walls, no desperate reason to say everything before one of you loses the chance. just an overdue check-out, cooling sheets, and dean looking more frightened now than he had with a monster’s claw around his throat last night.
“say it again,” you whisper.
his gaze finally finds yours. “sweetheart—”
“again.”
he studies your face for a moment, searching for the joke or the trap or whatever else might let him retreat. when he doesn’t find it, his thumb moves once against your back.
“i love you.”
this time, each word lands cleanly.
your surprise must show because his jaw tightens. “i know the timing’s kinda—”
you kiss him.
dean makes a startled sound against your mouth, then catches you by the waist and pulls you closer. the kiss isn’t hungry now. it’s clumsy and lingering, his lips moving over yours while one hand cups the back of your head.
when you pull away, he follows for half an inch before stopping himself.
“i love you too,” you tell him.
dean blinks.
you almost laugh. “did you hear me?”
“yeah.”
“you sure?”
“shut up.” his hand slides into your hair, bringing you down for another kiss before you can tease him any further.
you feel his smile eventually, small and uneven against your mouth. when the kiss ends, neither of you moves far. dean’s forehead rests against yours, his hand still tangled in your hair. he looks almost embarrassed by the happiness creeping across his face, trying to press it down before you can make too much of it.
“we should probably get up,” he says after a while.
“probably,” your thumb brushes over the freckle near the corner of his mouth. dean catches your wrist, but instead of moving your hand away, he turns his head and presses a kiss into your palm.
you settle back over him carefully, your cheek returning to the place above his heart. you stay tangled together beneath the thin blanket, your joined hands resting against his chest while his thumb keeps passing over your knuckles, learning how the words feel now that they’ve finally been said.
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